#Awfully Cheerful Engine

[pastryfication]

vamos com tudo — gabriel bortoleto

the spanish grand prix was always special for you. watching your father race in your home country, spending time with your family in the paddock and this year, someone else makes it even more special.

3.2k words

my little comeback baby <3 please show it some love

The space around you is filled with noise; footsteps in every direction, voices overlapping, and the bustling sound of engineers making last-minute adjustments on the shiny cars. 

Your grandmother’s hand is clutched tightly in yours, your fingers twined together as you walk through the paddock at a brisk pace. Just ahead, your grandfather is in deep conversation with your father, and a couple of paces behind is your aunt and her husband, also holding hands as they take it all in. 

It’s nothing new to you, walking around amongst the cars and chaos, shadowing your father in his element, but it’s always nicer like this. When you’re surrounded by the comforting sound of your family’s chatter.

When you aren’t alone. 

In front of you, the family patriarchs suddenly stop. The Aston Martin hospitality stands tall next to you. Glass sliding doors let you peek into the sleek room, in front of where a few potted plants stand, presumably to make it seem more inviting, but the grey interior fools no one. It’s not supposed to be cozy. It’s supposed to exude business and professionalism. 

Fernando turns to his mother first, kissing her cheeks and muttering a few words, too quiet for you to hear, before he turns to you.

“Be good for your grandparents, mija,” he leans down to press a lingering kiss in your hair. “I’ll see you after qualifying, yeah?” 

You nod obligingly, smiling at your father’s serious face. “Of course, Papa. I love you.”

“I love you too.” He presses another kiss to your head, this time closer to your temple, shooting you a comforting smile over his shoulder, before he leaves you, walking with determined steps towards the team garage. 

He likes to be alone before sessions. It makes it easier for him to get into the headspace he needs to race. As long as you can remember, he’s left you at the hospitality, saying he can’t race when you’re too close to his mind. 

You were his weakness--his Achilles heel--had been since you first opened your big, glassy eyes and looked up at him, and he had never hidden it from anyone. 

You were his everything. His favourite in the whole world, *just not on race days*. Not when he had to be in the car.

And so, you watch as he jogs down the pathway to the moss painted garage while you let yourself be dragged along by your grandparents as you enter the building you’re way too familiar with. 

—

Your eyes are glued to the screen in front of you, your eyes following the small green dot representing your father. 

Your family is once again engaged in lively chatter, but your focus is elsewhere. Qualifying always has you on edge, but today more than usual. Because as much as you try to deny it, your eyes are following another green dot as well. An awfully ugly, bright neon green dot. The dot belonging to car 05. Gabi.

Your lips involuntarily turn upwards at the thought of the Brazilian, a boy—young man—that you had made acquaintances with the year before, when the seriousness of his racing career became more apparent and your father had decided to take him under his wing, signing him to A14 Management. 

Flashes of trips in private planes, busy Formula 2 races and late-night dinners concealed as meetings cross your mind. You would be lying if you said you hadn’t followed him just as closely as you followed your dad, cheering on him in silence whenever you watched the races at home with your friends. 

You would also be lying if you said that the sight of his sweaty face in post-race interviews hadn’t caused butterflies to erupt in your stomach on multiple occasions. 

And maybe, just maybe, you have a hidden agenda with your paddock appearance this weekend. *Maybe* you’re hoping to catch a glimpse of the boy you had so bravely suppressed your crush on for way too long. 

That’s why you so sneakily slip out of the Aston Martin garage once the qualifying session comes to an end, hoping to find the driver in P12 to congratulate him. 

You know your way around the Spanish paddock, not surprisingly, since you’d been attending since you were a tiny baby with big innocent eyes and no teeth, so the walk is quick. 

The media pen is filled to the brim with drivers, PR-assistants and media personnel, so you keep yourself away, not wanting to be unknowingly caught in the shot of an interview, but your father’s hawkeyed gaze spot you either way, and once he’s finished up with the reporter, he makes his way over to you, sweaty arms open in expectancy of a hug.

“Congratulations, Papa!” You leap into his arms, pressing a kiss to his cheek. 

When you pull back, he’s grinning widely. “Thank you, mija. Did you watch?” 

“I always watch.” His smile turns impossibly wider before he leans down to kiss your temple for a lingering moment.

“Have you talked to Gabi?” He looks around as if in search for his mentee. “He’s alone this weekend, so he might like a familiar face.”

In his hurried search, you think he completely misses the way your cheeks redden in a warm blush, and you’re quick to lower your face in an attempt to hide it. He doesn’t, though. Your father never misses anything.

“I see him over there!” Fernando suddenly takes off, pulling you behind him with a tight hold on your hand, so you have no choice but to follow him. 

“Gabi!” You father’s booming voice catches the attention of the 20-year-old, and he looks over from where he’s standing. 

“Hola, Gabi,” He pulls the younger man into a half hug, clapping his back with camaraderie. “Well done on Q2!”

“Thank you, Fernando.” His face breaks into a smile. “And hi,” his eyes turn to you when you’re pushed forward by your eager father. 

You smile back, and he reaches out to pull you into a quick hug. When your face gets close to his neck, your nose sniffs up his scent. It’s a mix of sweat and something else, something surprisingly pleasant and manly that warms your cheeks once again. 

“It’s been a while.” You meet his eyes and in a short moment, the world closes in to just the two of you, looking at each other as something unspoken passes between you. Your lips quirk up in a familiar smile that has him smiling as well, before you both look away. 

“Do you want to join us for dinner tonight? We were thinking of going out, right mija?” 

You nod sweetly at him, and Gabriel quickly agrees. “Yes, I would like that, thank you.”

—

That night, you take extra care when applying your makeup and spend an extra minute when brushing through your hair, causing your father to loudly call out his complains to you from the other side of the door. 

The drive to the restaurant in your father’s fancy car is quiet. You don’t turn on the radio, and neither does he, but the silence is comfortable, filled with a nice familiarity.

You love Barcelona. It’s home, a place you hadn’t spent much time in your childhood, but a place that held a special place in your heart nonetheless. 

The restaurant your father had chosen is your usual one, the one you always visit when you’re home, and when you enter through the doors, Gabriel is already waiting. 

He’s standing a bit awkwardly, hands bunched together tightly in front of him, while his eyes wander around the room. He smiles when he spots you and pulls you both into half hugs before leading you towards a table near the back of the room, where a group of your father’s personal entourage is already waiting. They’re a friendly bunch, people you’ve known your entire life, but still, you take a step in on yourself, putting on your best polite smile and trying your best to avoid eye contact. 

Maybe if you had looked up, you would have seen the way Gabriel’s eyes lingered on your face with a small frown, but you didn’t, instead your eyes stay focused on the ground.

A friend of your father’s, his “personal assistant”, who you honestly don’t know the official job description of, does catch the look, however, and with a barely concealed smirk he suggests: “Why don’t we let the young people sit together, let them escape from us boring old men.”

You blush for the thousandth time that day, and the man winks conspiratorially at you as you’re ushered toward the end of the table.

Gabriel smiles politely at you as he pulls out your chair, and you carefully pull down your skirt as you sit, your hands immediately landing in your lap to nervously twist together.

You end up sitting between your father’s personal photographer, Pedro, a young brunette who you consider a nice acquaintance, and Gabriel.

The three of you hold polite conversation while you wait for the food, bland topics like the weather, the track conditions and your different schoolings. 

The conversation is smooth; you laugh numerous times, and even when Pedro turns around to the other conversations, you and Gabriel keep talking. Nothing deep, nothing special, just funny, polite talk that made the night go by way too fast, and before you know it, the bill is being delivered to the table, and your father quickly snatches it up, promising to pay for everyone. 

You smile, coming to a stand along with everyone else, but before you can slither away to the safety of your father’s side, you feel a hand gently touch your arm. 

You turn around and look. 

It’s Gabriel. 

Suddenly your heart starts beating twice as fast and the skin where his hand rests feel possibly glowing. 

“Hey,” he utters, quiet as though he’s sharing a secret no one else can know. “I’m going out to drinks with a few of my friends now, maybe you’d like to join?”

You suck in a breath, your eyes flickering to your father for a second too long, and Gabriel takes it as a bad sign.

“You don’t have to, of course.” He’s quick to assure you. “Only if you want to! I just thought it could be fun.”

You turn to look at him again, and the hope shining brightly through his eyes make you do a double take. “Oh, um,” you suddenly forget how to speak, his deep eyes boring into your soul and removing all words from your brain. “Yeah, um, I’d like that. I mean, that could be fun.”

You nod, and he nods back, and then you’re both standing to the side of the group, nodding like two complete idiots till you realise what you’re doing and awkwardly stop, immediately breaking the eye contact with a giggle. 

—

The bar is loud, filled to the brim with people who stink of alcohol and sweat. You keep yourself close to Gabriel and his mates—who turn out to be Ollie, Dino and Kimi, three faces you’re luckily already familiar with—trying desperately not to get lost in the crowd. 

“You alright?” It’s Gabi. He’s looking down at you with those warm eyes, making it impossible to concentrate on anything else, so the only response you can muster is a nod. “Just tell if it becomes too loud, yeah?” 

You nod once again, taken back by his obvious care. 

Dino seems to notice it as well, because he looks at the two of you conspiratorially before whispering something in Ollie’s ear. They both laugh loudly before Gabriel nudges them hardly in the ribs, effectively shutting up his friends, and ushering you forward towards a table. 

Once you’re sat, he doesn’t waste a second before getting seated himself, shooting a dirty look at Ollie, who had cheekily tried to slither in between you. 

When the table has clearly been claimed as yours, Ollie and Kimi rise again, pointing towards the bar. 

“We’ll order,” the Brit promises. “Just say what you’ll like.”

Once you’ve given your order to the boys, they fight their way through the busy crowd towards the bar, and you’re left sitting in the middle of the other two.

Gabriel is sitting close to you, closer that he needs to, perhaps, but you aren’t going to comment on it. Instead, you enjoy the way your thighs rest so close together that you can feel the heat radiating from his body, making you suddenly aware of how sweaty you’re becoming yourself.

Dino starts leaning over you, saying something to his friend about car set-ups that you don’t even try to understand, so instead, you lean back in your seat, letting them steer the conversation wherever they want to.

You’re so engrossed in trying to look interested in what they’re saying that you almost don’t notice when Gabriel casually rests his arms behind your seat, his hand dangling dangerously close to your bare shoulder. 

Your breath hitch in your throat, and you cough lightly to cover it up, looking discreetly to the side.

To your disappointment, he doesn’t seem to be bothered at all, keeping the talk going all the same, even when Ollie and Kimi loudly come back with six drinks clutched in their hands. 

You all look questionably at them, wondering the same. *Had they really failed mathematics that bad?* But they only laugh at your expressions. 

“Two for the lady!” Kimi exclaims. “We can’t drink too much with the race tomorrow, so you’ll have to do it for us.”

He eagerly pushes two drinks your way, and you accept them with a laugh. It was going to be a fun night.

—

Five drinks in and you’re beginning to let yourself loose. The boys are not far behind, having seemingly forgotten their promise to hold back as they holler at one another to finish off their drinks and buy more. 

They’re a rowdy bunch, you come to discover, once the small edge of PR-training was drunken away, they go absolutely ballistic, and you very much enjoy watching the show unfold. 

Though it seemed every time they went into the crowd, Gabriel very quickly found his way back to you. At first, you had excused it, reminding yourself that he probably felt a responsibility to protect you for your father, but as his hand finds place on your back for the second time that night, you decide to allow your thoughts to wander. Allow yourself to become a bit foolish.

Because as you stumble home, all five of you struggling to walk straight, he still makes sure to stay right beside you, keeping you on the inside of the sidewalk, even when it means clumsily dragging you to the other side. And when you reach the hotel, he insists on walking you all the way to your room, even though he’s staying in a completely different hotel and the boys are standing outside, threatening to walk on without him.

So, when he hesitates in the opening of your room, leaning his weight against the door, you want to do more than kiss his cheek briefly and thank him for a great night. You want to do more than promise to text the next morning. 

But alas, you don’t. And when you go to sleep that night, warm and cozy beneath the many duvets, but still feeling a small coldness in your beating chest, you can’t help but wonder about what might have happened if you had done it.

—

The next morning comes early and bright with a sickening headache and a deep-rooted nausea pulsing through your body. 

When your father comes pounding on your door to fetch you, you had just dragged yourself to the shower, trying to wash away the lingering proofs of the night before.

“You know,” your father starts once you are finally seated in his car. “I was young once too.” He glances sideways at you. “But I was far better at hiding a hangover than you. You know your abuela is going to see you like this?”

You groan at your father’s words, leaning your pounding head against the cold window. “I know. I’m sorry, Papa.”

“No, no, don’t apologise. I’m glad you had fun. Just think about it, mija. You’re going to feel terrible today.”

And as much as you hate to admit it, he’s right.

Not even thirty minutes into the race day, and you already want to go home. The constant smell of food wafting in from the cafeteria makes your uneasy stomach churn, and your grandparents loud chatter turns out to not be so comforting when your head is feeling like exploding from noise. 

So when a small knock on the door to the small area reserved for your family startle you, you’re just about ready strangle the culprit. At least that’s until your eyes lock on Gabriel standing hesitantly outside, a sheepish look on his face. 

“Hey,” his eyes flits nervously between you and your family members, who are all intensely staring at him. “Can we talk for a moment?”

You’re on your feet in a matter of seconds, stalking towards the door where he’s standing, and when you start walking briskly down the hallway, he follows you blindly. 

“What’s up?” When you finally reach your destination of a small meeting room where no one ever goes, you turn around to look at him, your stomach flipping even more when you notice the nervous look on his face. 

“I had a great time yesterday,” he admits.

“Yeah, me too.”

He smiles, a wide teeth smile that send your body into overdrive, a blush covering your cheeks as usual when he’s nearby.

“You’re really fun to be around.” He scratches his neck awkwardly. “I hadn’t realised how much I missed being around you. So, yeah, I guess I was just wondering-“

You don’t give him a chance to finish. You don’t even give yourself a chance to finish your thoughts before you’re moving forward, your hand delicately moving to hold his cheek. He immediately freezes, a blush now covering his cheeks as well.

“Oh, um,” It seems as though that’s as far as your confidence goes, because now you’re stuck as well, standing completely still while looking into his eyes.

“Can I,” he clears his throat awkwardly. “Can I kiss you now?”

You barely have time to nod before his lips lower onto yours and you feel yourself melting beneath his touch. One hand on your hips, the other hesitantly placing itself on your neck to lead you closer towards him. 

It’s intense. Gentle but so intense, and when you pull away, you’re a little dazed. It’s everything you’ve dreamed off and so much more. 

He seems to think the same, staring at you through wide, glazed eyes, and you can’t help but let out a small laugh. He’s quick to follow, and then the two of you are standing together in an abandoned meeting room, with only a short time till he has to be on the track, hangover and maybe still a bit influenced by the alcohol from the night before, laughing between kisses like you’re in middle school. 

It's magical, and for once in your life, you’re all in.

[saintsroww]

TITLE. All I Have IN SHORT. clingy!jinx X reader "I Can't lose you too." | made with WLW in mind. CROSSOVER. Arcane: League of Legends X Cyberpunk 2077 WC. 1,555 CR. official art [ Arcane: League of Legends ] this is the outside of jinx's place that i tried my best to describe lmao TALKING. first ever fanfic. send any healthy criticism, i'd love that! at first it was ripperdoc!jinx but i had no idea where i was going with this tbh so i just went with clingy jinx lmao. and apparently jackie died differently in this teehee. might seem ooc, yikes. did I eat with this one yall? lmk :( PROJECT BEGUN. 11/30/2024 this took me awhile HAH! ACT. iii

Night City was bustling with people cheering and yelling, the disruptive revving of car engines speeding down the wide streets, the cool night air whispering past your skin, your hands comfortably resting in the pockets of your pants, your right hand holding onto your keys hidden inside the pocket, and your head slightly lowered as you stride past other people on the packed sidewalk. Your knuckles carry a faint throbbing ache that you're awfully familiar with. The night sky makes the ads displayed practically on every building look more vibrant than in the daytime. Your heart felt heavy, burdened by an overwhelming wave of sorrow and distress, while your composure dangled precariously, clinging on by the slightest thread.

You slip past multiple distracted spectators watching the race in Little China, occasionally bumping into others as you make your way through the other side of the crowd. Headlights whipping by, the smell of body sweat and alcohol invaded your nostrils. Your left-hand rises from your pocket to push a bystander to the side, finally making it out of the crowd to the other side, your main focus on reaching out to someone you held dear after a hot minute of your absence.

The street life drained you in ways you knew you'd be in if it meant you'd stay afloat in Night City. As the days went by including you sending little to no messages to Jinx, backstabbers were left sniffling the ground you walk after you're done with them, biz dealing with individuals where you can't always put your guard down, foolish gangoons pushing their luck with you. Being protective of what's rightfully yours, or taking from the more fortunate, getting to the top meant having every advantage you could get, and then you'll have a better chance to get far in this line of dangerous work.

After another minute of walking alone, the sounds of the people's voices faded as you made a right turn, chip bags, bottles, garbage bags, and papers lightly blown about, all this junk on the ground was a normal sighting in this inescapable city. As you walked further into a narrow alleyway, you stood in front of a gate that stopped you from moving forward, cyberpunk lighting coming from the street lamp behind it brought the otherwise dreary alleyway into.. something somewhat lively, and homey. You can give it that.

At the end of the alleyway were colorful chalk drawings of angry cartoonish monkeys and smack dab in the middle of the wall was a portrait of a little girl beautifully drawn by You and Jinx's hands on the brick wall. Pink wires as the background, and the two words "POW POW!" written above her head were drawn in a sprite shadow font. A soft smile touched your lips, the drawing carried a heavier purpose of memorabilia after little Isha's passing, and the relationship you three shared, you and Jinx cherished it. Pulling your right hand out from its pocket, multiple keys held together by a ring jingled from your hand movements, eyes scanning over all of them to land on a basic, silver key.

Holding it between your thumb and index finger, you insert the key into the slot and steadily turn it to unlock the gate. Shoving the keys back into your right pocket, you push it open with your forearm, stepping through the gate door, you close it behind you and quickly move toward the steps, the soles of your worn-out shoes softly thud against the concrete as you walk up the short set of stairs. You halt all your movement when you stand right in front of the entrance to Jinx's place. Rock music booming in the confines of the room's four walls was muffled by the metal door firmly standing in your way.

Letting out a barely audible breath, anticipating the argument you're going to walk yourself into. You swiftly repeat your actions by unlocking the door to her place. As you step through the threshold of the doorframe, slamming the door behind your back, your eyes are immediately met with a woman's slender figure in the middle of the room, aiming a gun your way that'd gradually lower to her left side as your recognizable appearance instantly brought her eyebrows to rest from its tight frown, her wide stare softened faintly. Her expression gradually faded into something resembling ease and a drip of irritation. The lightly worn-out leather chair behind her spun, showing the urgency and haste in her movement when met with anything that could quickly lead to life or death.

"Ah, Y/N." Drawing your name out with false unenthusiasm and unrestrained annoyance that had an underlying sense of harmlessness to it. "Popping in after ghosting me for three days?" Her voice was raspy, her upper lip subtly curling upwards. Violet-red eyes holding you in your place, her head tilting a little to the side, her jagged side bang obscuring her right eye, making her dark eyebags more notable because of the pink lighting in the room. She placed the gun in her left hand on the metal table beside her, turning down the rock music playing through the phone with the same hand without delay. Her hands clasped together behind her back as she sauntered over to you, stopping her movement when she was just a foot away from you, her head leaning in a tad bit, her right hand rising to roughly press her index finger against your chest.

"Why were you gone for so long? You know I don't like it when you're gone for that long." It was heavy, the unblinking stare and the want simmering in her heart urging her to close the gap between the both of you.

"Fixer hooked me up with a job that included insane amounts of eddies but- a lot went wrong. And I…" You held it together in the first half of your sentence but you couldn't hold it together forever. Every single second you were left alone with your thoughts the morning after the job was finished, losing Jackie that night, the man who earnestly stood by you since you started doing biz, a man you trusted, the gunfight following as soon as the brief, intense, and loud burst of noise of a pistol going off, the bullet hole left in his forehead, blood seeping from it. He was gone, in such a short time-frame. You'd spent time outside of work with him, fought together, and saved each other from sticky situations- This loss on top of Isha's was a pierce to your solid heart harder than you prepared for.

Just speaking on anything relating to losing someone important to you, first Isha, now Jackie.. You had to see Jinx, after going through that, you couldn't sit alone in your apartment that felt so void without anyone occupying it other than you, and being alone with your thoughts wasn't ideal. "Ahh… I just can't lose you too, Jinx. I'd rather it'd be me in harm's way, y'know?" Your eyes heat up. Darting, staring anywhere but at the woman standing right in front of you. Your bottom lip curls in for your upper teeth to bite down on it for a moment. Tears threaten to spill out.

She's all you have left.

A palm, warm to the touch, cups one side of your face, tenderly ushering you to look at her, tugging you out of the deep pit that is the fear consuming you. Her eyes meet yours head-on, a weak, close-lipped smile adorning her lips, her bottom lip vaguely trembling, her face expressing the same pain you held, understanding well how you feel at this very moment. Her thumb moves in smooth, circular motions upon your cheekbone. You gently grasp Jinx's upper arm, the arm using the same hand that tenderly strokes your cheek.

Neither of you could stall it any longer; both of you sought solace in the only person left willing to offer an hour of reprieve: each other. It was Jinx who moved first, ending the last shred of space left between you two to wrap her arms around you into a hug. Her nails digging into the back part of your shirt, Jinx's nostrils flare when she deeply inhales the scent of your vanilla fragrance with a hint of sweat, nestling her face further into your neck. "Just… Don't do that again, Y/N…" She spoke in a hushed tone, her lips slightly parted as the tension in her body melted from the comfort of your body heat.

"It was like.. I had no one when you were gone. You didn't even send me a message."

You couldn't bring yourself to respond, skeptical that your voice would shatter if you were to utter another word again. Your arms are wounded around her waist leaving Jinx's mind empty of anything negative leaving only tranquility you unknowingly bring to her already deteriorating soul. Choosing to gently nod your head as an alternative, your right hand slithering up to lay upon the shaved side of Jinx's head, your other hand moving up to plant itself on the small of her back. "Ha… 'msorry." Your voice was feeble, your breath tickling Jinx's nape.

"Heh, deep down, you're still a softie." A full smile graced her lips, her hold on you unyielding.

[parfaitblogs]

so high school ❀ s. reid x reader

in which you're a little too drunk, and your boyfriend is here to help.

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader genre: fluff tags: established relationship. idiots in love. alcohol/drinking. reader is wearing makeup and a dress. reader's bsf referred to by she/her if that means anything? fade to black (no literally. they fall asleep. "awwww" the crowd says). semi nudity but it isn’t sexual, he’s just changing her clothes. word count: 1.6k a/n: shoutout to the affectionate yapper drunks we're the best. this was in fact written whilst i was intoxicated like two weeks ago at a party. the sober proofreading clean up was BRUTAL. but i did it. "we're proud of you lia!" we all say in unison. this was the fluff i was talking about in this post. i still don’t remember all of that night but i remembered enough to finish this fic!

You had too much to drink. Way too much.

Not that you'd admit that out loud — you just haven't eaten a lot! you protested when your friends had scolded you. But they saw the sixth drink of the night get downed in mere minutes, on top of the drinks you had all drank before even leaving the house. That's when your protests turned into pregaming too hard, which turned into, okay maybe you're right, which eventually led to you sitting on the curb outside the club you had gone to.

Your knees tucked to your chest, your fingers fiddling with the phone charm hanging off the device, head leaning on your best friend's shoulder, who was waiting with you for the real thing you were scared of. 

Your boyfriend. 

Not actually scared of him, but he was very aware of how much you have had to drink — courtesy of your awfully typed drunk messages throughout the night that consisted of hiiii and i love youuuu and an incredulous amount of blurry photos of you and your friends.

He had indulged in your antics for an hour or two, amused by your attitude. But you said something briefly about being tired, and he had realised that you had had one too many, and offered to pick you up. Which, as your friends slowly started agreeing that they too were tired. you decided it was for the better.

You were rubbing your eyes — despite the makeup on them, successfully resulting in raccoon eyes, as you so graciously called it every time it happened (Spencer had adopted the phrase too, and loved to say it whenever you were crying with mascara on. It was a good way to cheer you up, usually). 

You heard his car before you saw it — the God awful sound of his 1965 Volvo engine was loud, even over the music from the bustling clubs around you and your friend.

Then you saw it pull to a stop half a block away, and your lips pushed out into a pout as you — very awkwardly — pulled yourself up to a standing position. Thankfully, Spencer had already made it to you by the time you felt prepared enough to take a step, because his arm was slipping around your waist and keeping you upright milliseconds before you could fall. 

"Hi," you chirped, grinning up at him. 

"Hey there," he said, brushing the hair that had stuck to your face back, glancing over you, assessing your condition. "Do you remember how much you've had?"

"Yes, wait," you huffed, holding our hands out in front of you. "I had the tequila shots at home, then the vodka sunrise when I got here, then we all did a round of shots, then—"

"—So, you've had too much," he cut you off, and you solemnly nodded your head. He looked past you at your friend, who was in just as much of a state as you. "Does she need a ride home too?"

If you were any less intoxicated, you would've smiled at the offer, as you usually did. Probably the best part about dating Spencer Reid — he was so likeable, he was close with your own friends. 

You called her name, asked the question, and confirmed you had heard her answer with a nod when she explained she was waiting for an Uber home. 

"I can drop her home," he pressed, eyebrows furrowing. "She's on the way. It's no problem."

But her Uber had arrived soon after he spoke, and both of you knew she'd just be losing money if she cancelled it now.

"I guess you're stuck with me," you said, at the same time he began to tug you along in the direction of his car. 

"How terrible," he mused.

"Agreed."

He helped you into the passenger's seat, pulling the seatbelt over your body — despite your insistence that you could do it, clicking it into place. He wound down the window with the handle, which you graciously leaned your head against once the door had been closed for you.

You didn't really register the time between being in the car and getting to Spencer's apartment, the final drink you had drank settling into your body and disengaging you from the world around you until he was leading you in past his door (you hadn't even noticed he unlocked it?) and towards the bathroom. 

"This isn't your bed," you had complained when he helped you up onto the counter, rummaging in the cabinets behind your head — his hand on the back of it so you wouldn't accidentally lean back and hit them. 

"You're very observant," he replied, leaning back and nudging your legs apart so he could stand between them. 

"Thank you."

You felt his breath on your face as he laughed, eyes following his each and every movement whilst he wet a cotton pad with micellar water. You smiled at that.

You had told him — in passing — a month ago that you could never go to bed in your makeup. No matter how exhausted you were. You were usually quite good with it, though you hadn't been in a state since then where you might've forgotten it until now. 

And he remembered.

"Close your eyes," he said, and you obeyed immediately, your tongue poking out between your teeth as you grinned. "Why're you smiling?"

"You're taking my makeup off."

He hummed, silent for a few seconds as he pressed the cotton pad to your eye. "I should get you drunk more often. You seem to notice things a lot better."

"Shut it."

He laughed, again, and you found yourself joining as he pulled the cotton pad away from your eye, allowing you to blink it open. 

"Oh, you look so pretty like this," he mused, and you knew your makeup was everywhere around your eye. He forced your eyelid closed again, so he could keep wiping the smudged makeup off. 

"You're so mean to me," you grumbled.

"Why do you say that?"

"Just 'cause."

"Just 'cause?" he repeats back to you, and you nodded your head, providing no other explanation. He seemed to accept that, because he didn't say anything else as he moved to wipe off your other eye.

Eventually your makeup was off, and he helped you off the sink, turning you around so he could find the zipper of your dress. 

Which had you laughing and turning around to face him. 

"Take me on a date first, Dr. Reid," you said, catching his hands, and he stared at you in disbelief for a few moments.

He was stronger than you were, and while he usually didn't make a show of proving it, when he did, you were a swooning mess. 

Like currently, as he didn't say anything, a sigh escaping his lips whilst his hands found your hips and turned you back around. One hand held you firmly in place, as the other tugged down the zipper of your dress.

"I'm getting you some clothes. Please, stay here," he said, his voice so close to your ear your knees wobbled for more than just your lowered control over your bodily functions. 

Despite the want to defy him, like usual, you stayed put, eyes flickering around the bathroom you had been in so many times before, your dress pooling at your feet. 

He returned with a t-shirt, resting it on the sink as his fingers found your bra and unclasped it, ignoring the way you danced your shoulders, wickedly grinning at him through the mirror. 

"What?"

"I think we're moving awfully fast," you said. "I would like you to take me on a date first."

"I have seen you naked plenty times before," he answered.

"I held my tongue all the other times."

"I'm sure you did."

He tugged the shirt over your head, manoeuvring your arms through the holes, considering you were an expert at going limp in the worst of times, it seemed. 

"And," he added, spinning you back around. "I have taken you on a date. Many. Thirty-three, to be exact." 

"Thirty-four is the magic number I make my boyfriend's wait until they see me naked for the first time," you replied.

"I see. I will work on making it thirty-four, then."

"I think you just want to see me naked."

"You've figured me out," he poked your side again, causing you to crunch your body out of the way with a laugh. "C'mon, let's get you into bed."

You were incredibly complicit, nodding your head and bouncing on your heels in front of him, taking a dive into his bed and finding refuge in the side you always slept on — decorated by the (singular) silk pillow case you had forced onto his bed. Because it is so much better for your hair, as you had argued when he denied you of purchasing him one as well. 

He thought it was stupid. You had the evidence to back you up. So then, he didn't like being wrong and threw a tantrum about it. Or something like that. 

You stared up at the ceiling, staring at the constellation above your head, that was resting comfortably on his chest. He had rearranged them six months into your relationship, Orion mapped out on his ceiling with glow in the dark stars after you had briefly mentioned liking the constellation a lot. He said it took him a week to get it right, but he wanted to do it for you. 

You tear up a little every time you see it. Which is perhaps too often. 

"Did you have fun tonight?" he murmured, fingers entangling in your hair.

"I did," you responded, voice overwhelmed with exhaustion, followed by a quiet yawn, that he caught too. "You're tired."

"You're giving Sherlock Holmes a run for his money tonight," he said, and you huffed a singular laugh. "I am tired," he then added. "So are you."

"I am," you agreed. 

"Goodnight, angel."

your reblogs and replies are always appreciated dearly ♡

[til-all-are-loved]

{This Charming Man Part 4}

MTMTE Megatron x Reader

SFW

Parts 1, 2, 3

You woke to the low hum of the Lost Light’s engines, a sound so constant that you rarely noticed it anymore. The night hadn’t been kind; sleep had come in fits, broken by an unrelenting loop of awkward memories with ex-lovers and longing for home.

Dragging yourself out of bed, you shuffled through your morning routine mechanically. Wash up. Get dressed. Try to look more put-together than you felt. Yet as you glanced at the inappropriately sized enormous mirror installed in your hab-suite, you couldn’t shake the nagging sense of unease clinging to you like a second skin.

The ship felt colder this morning, though it was probably just your imagination. The corridors were quieter, too, as you stepped out of your hab-suite, the usual bustle of the crew subdued in the early hour. You’d barely rounded the corner when a voice broke the silence.

“Ambassador! There you are!”

You turned to see Swerve bounding toward you, his frame somehow managing to convey both unbridled enthusiasm and the complete disregard for personal space that you’d come to associate with him. Behind him trailed Tailgate, waving at you with a cheerfulness that felt downright offensive at this hour.

“What’s up?” you asked, trying to sound more awake than you felt.

“Not much, not much!” Swerve said, skidding to a stop. “Except, oh, I don’t know, you’ve been summoned to the bridge. By the big guy himself.”

You blinked. “Megatron?”

“Is there another ‘big guy’ on this ship?” Swerve grinned, then leaned in conspiratorially. “I mean, Magnus is tall, but he doesn’t have that presence, you know?”

Tailgate elbowed him, though it was more symbolic than effective. “Ignore him. We’re headed that way anyway, so we figured we’d drive you there. Save you the trouble.”

Tsch-tch-tch-tchu-tchu-tsch

You hesitated for a moment, still feeling the fog of last night clinging to your thoughts. But their energy was infectious, and before you could think better of it, you found yourself clicking the seatbelt.

As he drove, Swerve launched into a rapid-fire monologue about the latest Lost Light gossip—something about Rung's glasses being stolen—while Tailgate chimed in with occasional interjections. It was hard not to get caught up in their banter, even as your mind kept drifting back to the bridge and the man—no, the bot—waiting there.

“You’re being awfully quiet,” Tailgate noted, glancing down at you as you approached the lift.

“Just tired,” you said, forcing a smile.

“Don’t worry,” Swerve said as the doors slid open. “Megatron’s bark is worse than his bite. Actually no, I wouldn't want to be you in this position at all squishy. Well uh... good luck!”

“Swerve!” Tailgate hissed.

You couldn’t help but let out a single dry laugh as you exited Swerve's small car alt mode.

You hovered near the entrance to the bridge, suddenly hyperaware of every small noise you made. Megatron hadn’t fully turned, his attention fixed on the glowing projections in front of him. The rest of the bridge crew carried on with their work, an air of quiet efficiency filling the space.

It was only after a long moment of hesitation that you stepped forward, your boots clicking faintly against the polished floor. If he noticed your arrival, he didn’t show it.

“Captain,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady.

“Ambassador,” he replied without looking up. His tone was clipped, polite, but devoid of warmth.

You waited for him to say more, but the silence stretched uncomfortably. Feeling the stares of a few nearby crew members, you cleared your throat. “I understand you wanted to see me?”

“I did,” he said, still not turning. His optics flicked over the display in front of him, one massive hand adjusting a control on the console. “There’s a matter of logistics I’d like your perspective on. Sit.”

You obeyed, sliding into a chair near one of the secondary stations. The datapad in your lap felt like an anchor, its weight oddly comforting as you opened it to take notes.

Megatron began speaking—something about supply routes and the allocation of resources to specific departments. His words were clear and precise, but they felt rehearsed, as though his mind was elsewhere.

Yours certainly was.

Sitting here, mere feet away from him, you couldn’t stop replaying last night’s interaction in your head. The way his optics had lingered on you, the strange, fleeting moment of connection that had left you spiraling. Now, with him so close yet so deliberately distant, it was almost unbearable.

“Are you listening, Ambassador?”

His voice cut through your thoughts like a blade. Your head snapped up, and you realized you hadn’t written a single word.

“Y-yes,” you stammered. “Sorry. Could you repeat that last part?”

For the first time, he turned to face you fully. His expression was unreadable, his optics narrowing just slightly.

“Perhaps this was ill-timed,” he said, his tone carefully neutral. “You seem... preoccupied.”

Your face burned. “No, I’m fine. Really.”

He studied you for a moment longer before turning away again, his attention returning to the console. “In that case, you’re dismissed. We’ll reconvene when you’re feeling more focused.”

Dismissed. The word stung, but you rose quickly, not wanting to press your luck.

“Ambassador.”

You froze, halfway to the door, and turned back. Megatron held something in his hand, extending it toward you.

“This is for you,” he said.

It was a small datapad, unassuming but pristine. You stepped closer and took it from him, your fingers brushing against the cool metal.

“What is it?”

“Something I believe you’ll find thought-provoking,” he said, his voice lower now, almost a murmur. “That will be all.”

He turned away again, leaving you standing there with the gift in your hands.

--

The datapad felt impossibly heavy as you made your way back to your quarters. Megatron’s parting words echoed in your mind, the weight of his gaze still lingering on your skin. Thought-provoking, he had said. What could that mean?

Curiosity gnawed at you, but there wasn’t time to linger on it. A message from Ultra Magnus pinged your communicator as you stepped through your door, calling you to the communication center for a scheduled check-in with Earth. The datapad would have to wait.

The communication center was quieter than usual when you arrived. Only a skeleton crew was present, and the room carried a strange tension, like the air before a storm.

“Ambassador,” one of the techs greeted you. “We’re just about ready for your transmission.”

You nodded, taking your usual seat at the console. The screen in front of you flickered to life, displaying the logo of your home organization on Earth. It was routine by now—discuss your last report, answer a few questions, assure them that everything was under control.

But as you began to settle in, a faint but sharp smell hit you—something acrid, burning.

“Is that... smoke?” one of the techs muttered, glancing around.

The answer came in an instant: an alarm blared, and the lights in the room flickered wildly. A plume of smoke erupted from one of the side consoles, sparks showering the floor as the crew scrambled to contain it.

“Fire suppression—now!” someone shouted.

You stumbled back from your station, coughing as the smoke thickened. The emergency systems kicked in moments later, flooding the room with a cold, dense mist designed to suffocate the flames. The fire was extinguished quickly, but the damage was already done. You were drenched in the liquid, soaked to the bone. Thankfully your modest uniform was layered. 

“Systems are down,” one of the techs said, frantically typing at a terminal. “We’ve lost the connection to Earth.”

Your stomach sank. “How bad is it?”

“Hard to say,” they replied, their voice strained. “The relay equipment is fried. We’ll need hours—maybe days—to repair it.”

You glanced at the remains of your console, the screen now dark and lifeless. YOu stood there . If Earth wasn’t receiving your reports, then who would be?

Unbeknownst to you, a shadow loomed at the edge of the room just beyond the residual smoke. Megatron stood just beyond the doorway, his red optics glowing as he took in the scene.

“Efficient response,” he said, his voice cutting through the chaos like a knife. His sudden presence startled you, but the crew barely reacted—they were used to his quiet, watchful nature by now.

You turned toward him, unsure whether to feel relieved or uneasy.

“Captain,” you began, but he held up a hand to silence you.

“I’ll ensure the necessary resources are allocated for repairs,” he said, his tone measured. “In the meantime, Ambassador, I suggest you return to your quarters and focus on your written reports. The Lost Light’s internal systems are more than capable of storing them before transmitting them where they need to go.”

There was something in his voice—calm, reassuring, yet final. The typical tone he spoke to you with. You nodded, not trusting yourself to speak, and left the room quickly.

--

As the crew worked to repair the damage, Megatron lingered behind, his optics scanning the charred remains of the relay equipment. A small smile ghosted across his face—a rare and fleeting thing—as he tapped a command into his wrist-mounted console.

In the quiet hum of the Lost Light’s systems, a rerouted connection established itself, discreet and undetectable. From this moment on, every word the Ambassador wrote would find its way to him before anyone else.

[lizzy019]

𝒮𝑜𝓇𝑒 𝐿𝑜𝓈𝑒𝓇.

Dallas Winston x Brat!Fem!Reader

cw -> drug intake (cigarettes), degradation, missionary (?), forced submission is implied, minor injuries, overstimulation

Word Count -> 2.3K

This is such a toxic idea 🤤🤤 I got a lil carried away too 0.0

The dingo was packed tonight, and Dally had plans to go and hang out with some of his other friends so he wouldn’t be left out of all the fun.. plus drinks and money. So when he alerted you on his hangout and when he’d come home, you immediately pounced on the idea of joining him for drinks and fun. It wasn’t like you had anything spectacular you wanted to do in the evening anyway.

Dally had a hard time saying no to you, and with your persistence and aggressive attitude toward the subject, inevitably he caved in. Soon you both were dressed and ready to leave, and that’s when everything kicked in. Your competitive nature sprung forward when you arrived at the Dingo, a group of rugged greasers playing poker alongside you and Dallas.

It was silent most of the time, the occasional disappointed grunt or angry huff was all that was to be heard for the longest time. Until you found yourself internally cheering when you found out a way to win. It was then when you placed the card down when your turn circled by, winning the game while smirking ferociously at your victory. The money was handed to you, and the total had come to about $145.

Dally was practically hollering out in joyousness that you’d won, what an amazing champ you were, and all in all acting like a sweet idiot with the way you had gotten the money. Fair and square too! You split it in half with him, $72.50 each.

Excited with your luck, you presumed that you’d win another round if you played again. So that was what you did. The cards were shuffled and handed out, the player on your left started the game and everyone had taken their rightful turns. A card here, an annoyed huff in response, another card, on and on. You were sure you were going to win, and with the cards you had, you didn’t doubt yourself in the least!

Until.. someone else had placed down their cards and smirked, taking the money on the table rightfully and counting it gleefully. Smugly, almost. You were enraged, your cards were slapped down onto the table before you paid your portion and stomped out in disbelief. You almost had it!

Dally followed you shortly, chuckling when he saw you flail to pull out a cigarette. He couldn’t lie, seeing you angry was one of the things he enjoyed most. It brought him a sense of direction, how your thought process was and how he could maneuver it to get an advantage out of it.

“Aw, come on, sweetheart, it was just a little game. We still got money outta it.” He tried to coax you, tease you to further aggravate you. Luckily for him, it worked out in his favor.

A grumpy expression graced your features, the money in your hand becoming rather futile to aid in your anger and disdain as you walked swiftly to his vehicle. Maybe it was your over competitive nature, or maybe it was just the fact that you lost the opportunity to get a good chunk of money, but you tried to mask your discontentment with “I don’t care.”

The car ride to Buck’s was awfully silent, the only noise heard was Dally’s breathing and the sound of the car’s engine pushing to drive you both to your destination. Once you had arrived where you were supposed to be, you hopped out of the car first and stomped your way in, not really waiting for Dally as you entered past Buck.

Dallas had to apologize for you, following behind in a light jog before his hand cupped your waist to stop you from running away further. He had started to find your disappointment for losing rather annoying as time passed, but he tried not to make you angrier by putting you on the spot about it.

“Sweetheart, stop runnin’, I don’t like cardio.” Dally hummed, giving your rear a soft squeeze as he led you upstairs to where his apartment was.

The place reeked of alcohol and cigarettes, all of Buck’s place did. Regardless of it, you found yourself being forcefully seated onto Dally’s mattress as he changed out of his regular jeans and shirt to some lounge clothing, your eyes watching the sight with rapt attention. From his lean body to the way his cock so effortlessly showed through his boxers, you knew he’d call you some kind of pervert for looking, so your gaze shifted back to your lap.

Dally had finished dressing, taking out a cigarette and lighting it before offering you a drag. You happily accepted, taking a small drag and huffing out the excess while handing it back to him. Tobacco always soothed you.

With tender hands, Dally gestured for you to lift your arms so he could take your sweatshirt off.

You did as instructed, hands raised as he lifted the fabric off of you to leave you in a simple tank top. It was out of comfort, and outside was always cold anyway during the nights in Tulsa. You always tried to act tuff and not fear the cold, and yet every night you went out, you went back to Dally’s shivering. But what could he tell you? You were stubborn anyway.

With a tired expression, you found yourself getting into Dally’s bed to sleep on for the night. Not like he’d mind anyway. And with that, you nestled yourself into his bed, cheek pressed to the mattress as you let him sleep on the one pillow he had. Sure, you were his girlfriend and typically were more greedy, but he was just as tired, if not more than you were.

Dallas had plopped himself beside you, face on his pillow as he squished out the cigarette bud of his since it was redesignated useless, and his arm draped over your waist to bring you closer. It was comfy, and oddly warm with his body heat crossing over to mingle with your own.

Soft kisses were pressed to your facial features, nose, forehead, lips, cheekbones, and wherever else was available for him to gently peck his lips. You reciprocated gladly, a hand of yours moving to gently hold his abdomen and making sure he didn’t pull away too early.

Your lips had found his in your haze, gently pressing and molding around his until your lips seemed to fit perfectly together. Your hand that rested upon his abdomen was used as leverage to push his back to the mattress, your own body crawling atop his until your legs straddled his hips. The kiss continued on, engulfing your senses until you were simply fuelled on Dally’s taste.

While Dally wasn’t quite used to being dominated before, he let you have this one. His hands quickly found your asscheeks, gripping them through the fabric of your jeans and squeezing like they were his lifeline. In a way, it felt like they were.

Tongues began to entwine and twirl around each other’s, creating a symphony of soft hums escaping you both while you both greedily grabbed at each other. You had to break the kiss so you could take off your shirt, tantalizingly slow, before your bra was unclipped and your supple breasts were shown to him as his prize for waiting.

Dally’s hands immediately found their way to them, using his palms to rub their entirety while his fingers squeezed gently at the soft flesh, making his indulgent grasp only further cling to you. You could only smirk with faux malice, your body shifting away from his greedy hands as you found yourself teasing the cock hidden in his jeans from the exterior. Your nimble fingers traced across the small bulge forming in the confines of the denim, a small smirk gracing your lips as you slowly, agonizingly slowly unzipped his jeans.

“Excited for me just from some kissing? You little bitch, I didn’t think you were so desperate for me.” You chided, taking his half erect cock into your palm, fingers wrapping around it with a good pressure before bobbing your hand up and down to pump his needy cock.

Dally had soft moans escaping his puffy pink lips, his hips trying to meet yours as the small puff of pubic hair grinded against your hand. It was a desperate attempt to get the pleasure he seeked from you, and he knew how pathetic he looked.

“Sweetheart, you were jus’ so pretty when angry. So hot when you were fumin’ over losin’ the stupid game..” He moaned softly, watching your hand move and glide so effortlessly on his cock. Well, maybe the reason it was so effortless was because his poor urethra was oozing precum and aiding your ministrations.

This had caught your attention, his reasoning for why he was all over you. However, your pause was enough for him to make your world flip over, your back being heavily pressed into the mattress as he adjusted himself on top of you. Soon, you felt hands fumbling over your jeans and its button, the noise of the zipper being quite loud in the now rather silent room as he chucked off your pants and undergarments in one motion.

Dally’s fingers had found their way to your exposed pussy, fingers pushing past your vulva and penetrating into your awaiting core. This pulled a moan from your chest, head being thrown back onto the pillow as your hips lazily tried to meet his hand.

“Oh, Dally! Fuck yeah, put those fingers in me!” You ululated, a soft mewl stringed with your last few words as you tried to be that power bottom your ego said you were.

His expression turned a little solemn, and he almost instantly pulled out to smear your arousal liquid onto his mouth. It was a silent way of showing how he was in control, and how he wanted you to listen to him now.

You whimpered quietly when his cock was angled at your entrance, your features becoming more furrowed and nervous until his tip pressed against your labia until he pushed with enough force to get the head of his cock into your awaiting cunt.

With sloppy, uncaring thrusts, Dally began his little journey with you to see if you could find heaven on Earth. His cock thoughtlessly kissed your cervix as if trying to find its way inside, only to be forced back out when your body reacted instinctively and pushed him out. This caused a sinister grin to form on Dally’s lips, his teeth showing in a vicious manner.

He adjusted his position, hovering overtop you in a half plank with one hand in your hair and the other stabilizing himself as he rutted his hips into yours. Little memories repeated in his head of your anger-filled tone, the way your eyebrows furrowed when you got angry or the way your attitude flew up every time you got too frustrated with his teasing or something else. He loved when you got upset, the way you handled your anger had him losing his ever-loving mind.

Your nails dug thin roads into his back and shoulders, your legs swung around his hips and made sure he couldn’t pull away. The cord in your lower tummy began to tighten so gleefully, as if expecting some grand surprise at a finish line. No, your poor pussy was getting its hopes up.

“Dal- oh Dally! Fuck, there! Yes!” You whined and mewled, thrashing as your body found itself right on the edge of sweet toe-curling release.

Dally couldn’t help but move his hips a tad faster, watching your body squirm and writhe from his movements, the helpless sounds escaping you were all too pretty for him to stop. Soon enough, he felt your pussy walls pulsating with your rapid heartbeat, it was a signal that you were right there at that ecstasy level and just needed a push to send you over.

So what did he do?

His rough hand came down to find your clit and he captured the sweet hard bud in between the pads of his index and thumb, tweaking it just right until you came. Like a vice grip, your walls seized onto his cock, holding onto him for dear life as your fingertips dug little crescent shapes into his back.

Dallas didn’t stop there however, no. He needed his release too, sweetheart.

So with overstimulated whines and cries, he kept pistoning his hips to yours, pelvic bones hitting each other’s until after a good few moments, he ended up shooting his seed into your welcoming womb.

His body weight dropped atop you in his haze, arms curling slowly around you as he let his cum simmer in your hole for a bit before pulling out. The overstimulation had a soft whimper escaping him, but he found himself too relaxed with your arms around his back to quite care.

“Ahh, sweetheart, that was amazin’. We gotta do that more often, yeah?” He hummed happily in your embrace, face finding purchase in your warm neck and he pressed the softest kiss to your warm flesh.

“Yeah, I like that idea. It’s the best one you’ve ever had, Dal!” You teased, hearing him scoff. You smiled, bringing the blanket to cover you both.

“Anyways, you get some sleep, y’hear?” You murmured, gently scratching his scalp to ease him some more until he nodded and proceeded to succumb to the strengths of his exhaustion.

Not long after, you found your own eyes fluttering shut and all the noises around you to become quiet until it was just Dally’s rhythmic breathing keeping you soothed. The blackness of sleep was comforting with Dallas, you’d come to realize.

But it wasn’t like your ego would admit it.

[deepreviewvoid]

- The Fortress' Power Couple! -

wriothesly x gn reader!

Genre : Crack, Fluff, Tea.

Synopsis : a collection of scenarios as the couple of The Fortress of Meropide, don't forget our Sigewinne!

Background : You managed to steal the Duke's heart even on Sigewinne's watch, and now you three depict a happy family, happy, but still armed~!

Scenario #1 : The Fortress' Clock

You were standing right in the middle of the administrative area, observing the new giant clock that has been hanged from the ceiling. The clock's hand movement is a little off, so it's been bothering you.

This little idea was implemented by you and Wrio, due to the increasing complaints by the workers about sleep deprivation; which Sigewinne has picked up and analysed that the 'lack of time awareness' was the true casual factor because not everyone had access to a stop watch.

"Hey~ What are you doing?" Your significant other has appeared! ( as expected!) Casually, Wrio asked in a friendly tone, "Watching the clock" you replied in a semi- serious tone, indicating that your current entire attention and thoughtfulness was invested on simply watching the clock as it goes. . .

Tick

Tock

Tick

Tock

he noticed how the matter consumed your interest, hence, he fixated his eyes on the clock as well, trying to navigate through your source of current interest, soon, the 'What are you doing?' Became 'What are we doing?' Ever so casually, but for the prisoners who were watching, they were really dying to know: 'What are they doing?!'

Minutes passed, Wrio was still standing, by now his arms were crossed lazily, he stared at you, hoping that at any moment now, he'd hear you speak. Wrio knows that when something catches your interest, he has to devote part of his interest unto the topic as well, it's the way the Fortress has been on its feet ever since your appearance has made impact on the decision making, and likewise is true, you devote part of your interest if Wrio were to ever discuss a new topic.

He has a certain charisma in the prison, but you are able to navigate around it. The Wrio you know will stand with you till eternity . . .

Even if its about a clock.

A few onlookers were now whispering in confusion, but the old inmates weren't surprised as they refuted their confusion, 'its just the Duke and his lover! Casual stuff really' they knew how bizzare of a pair these two are, so when the clock's hour hand finally struck the hour one, you giggled in anticipation, here it comes!

'Your Grace! It's time for your afternoon tea, please, do not disturb the Duke's office for the upcoming hour!'

A voice rang through the entire area, Wrio was caught off guard, correction: everyone in the hall was caught off guard by the sudden noise.

The Duke's haze like state disappeared as he looked around for the source of the familiar voice, he soon realised it came from the newly hanged clock.

He met his beloved's mischievous face.

"Tadaa~! This clock can indeed speak! I've asked the engineers to add customised lines for each tea time! Voiced by Sigewinne!" Your voice was cheerful, satisfied with the outcome, even clapping like a child at how it this feature was finally executed.

It didn't take long for the cheeky smile to appear on his face, "How adorable" playing emphasis on adorable, Wrio meant to say 'cute and thoughtful but no thanks' and you knew that full well as his eyebrows twitched.

If you had blinked, you would have missed that second a blush of embarssement crept on his face. It's a public like announcement! But Wrio clearly prefers to keep you to himself in private, he also thinks it'll provide a nuisance for the prisoners if this were to be permanently implemented.

You knew all that too well, yet went on further in pestering him "it even has voice lines for morning tea, lucky day meals, 'night night snacks' and Sigewinne specialty shakes time!" you happily exclaimed in an awfully cheerful manner that Wrio couldn't refuse/deny/resist or utter any possible means of saying no. You were provoking him.

But..

He shook his head and proceeded to drag you into his office. Initially, he scolded you in a friendly, bickery manner as he prepared the afternoon tea.

"Darling, it's adorable but we can't keep it permanently, I really appreciate your thoughtfulness"

"Please! We worked so hard on it! Even Sigewinne had to go over the lines a couple of times!"

It seemed hopeless at first, but then you were quickly reminded that nothing could ever feel that way when it's about Wrio; and it was true, He soon succumbed into your request and you made a truce 'to atleast keep this feature for one week!' Because he couldnt resist the moment you flashed him those innocent soft eyes.

He groaned, placing a hand on his face and waving his hand "fine! fine!" and with that, your work paid off even if for a little while, you poured the tea victoriously into the matching pair of tea cups.

Soon, Sigewinne appeared from the stairs, you immediately flashed her a knowing glance and a thumbs up 'we got him!'. Wrio just smiled at how obvious your communication was with Siegwinne, but he found himself unable to stop smiling as he's reminded of the deep bond you've formed with her. His beloved Melusine!

"Pound it!" You and Sigewinne fist bumped as you sat on the two chairs across from Wrio's desk, he subconsciously rolled his eyes, settling down his hot chamomile cup gently on the table. "So, who's idea was it to reveal the term 'night night snacks' to the entire Fortress?"

He chuckled heartily even if he received no reply, because you and Siegwinne were pointing a finger at each other at the same time.

~~~~~ Later that Night

That night, Wrio, secretly kissed your cheek in your sleep, whispering words of gratitude that he has you on his side, you add the perfect mix of chaotic energy in his life, the one that reminds him of his olden days when he used to be an inmate himself.

That night, he understood the truth of your intention; the purpose of this clock is not only to aid the prisoners in time perception, but to also serve as a reminder that it's the Duke's peaceful time, because sometimes, it gets disturbed, yet he never complained.

What a humble Wrio!

------------------------------------

Scenario #2 : Neuvillette's Visit

Even if we're practically underwater, the gossip here spreads like wildfire, the entire fortress was aware that today, the Iudex, Chief Justice of Fontaine, Neuvillete is visiting! He's a Fontaine Celebrity, some argue that his fame exceeds the Archon her self!

Everyone, even the inmates wanted to be in good shape and manners, lest he remembers their trials, or them after after they've been redeemed.

'Quick, drop the red carpets everybody!' said the entire fortress.

'Le Gasp' - also the entire fortress as Wriothesley just patted Neuvillete's back, extremely informally, as if they're childhood friends that have been playing in the mud under the sun since the morning.

"Good to see you! You finally decided to visit, looking very responsible-y in spirits as per usual!"

Neuvillette's eyebrows burrowed as he sighed and muttered 'to you as well' his face fixated on yours as if inquiring for 'help', you just smirked and gave him two thumbs up, truth is, you shared this habit with Wriothesley, this habit of informally annoying Neuvillete and completely, if not completely, destroying the formal decorum.

You and Wrio, both agreed that it indirectly influences his mood, it's sort of like an unwinding mechanism as he decends from the ever so formal world above and its harsh duties.

Neuvillette's patience was wearing out, but he immediately seemed to 'forgive and forget' everything once he saw little Sigewinne making her way to him, his tight facial expressions were let lose as she adorably hugged Neuvillete (only able to hug one of his legs!), immediately trying to offer him all the surprises (and shakes) that she's prepared for this special day.

Wrio smiled at the two, giving them a little space as he backed to your side, leaning down to whisper in your ear "Did you prepare the tea?" Wrio is a tea enthusiast, we all know that, but this tea, he meant was not only actual tea, but it was a code for asking: if everything else is set?.

You nodded, reassuringly giving him a gentle smile, whispering back all the basic preparations "Tea collection organised, Documents prepared, Lucky meal day is set, Pipes are clean, Workers are free for the day"

"Perfect, thanks darling" he hastily kissed one of your cheeks, his gaze softening for a moment, then he turns to Neuvillete who's still 'very seriously' listening to each word Sigewinne has to say.

Out of his very special kindness, Wriothesley let the prisoners inquire Neuvillete (with his permission) about the over world affairs. Some asked if their families are okay, others asked if certain unclosed cases have finally been solved? Few praised his work and thanked him, saying that they'll behave better once redeemed.

Wrio was always proud of this under city that he's worked hard to organise and improve, and seeing that some of the prisoner's had such kind words made him smile, like: hell yeah those are my people!

Furthermore, watching Wrio's geniune happiness warmed your heart, everyday, the Duke makes you fall harder in love with his extremely noble intentions every single day.

After Neuvillette's little celebatory rendezvous with the prisoners, you four left for the Duke's office, and once we're in, that's when business starts.

Wrio usually negotiates with Neuvillete regarding new plans, and these negotiations are pretty much the only time when the power couple actually wears the serious mask, because this concerns Fontaine's future political environment, even if the Fortress is a separate jurisdiction, it remains tied with Fontaine's justice system in one way or another, it also serves as a secret for a history long forgotten. . .

"Negotations with the South have been going smoothly, however, i worry that with an increased immigration rate, the crime rate also follows suit, most are not accustomed with Fontaine's 'extra-ordinary laws'" Neuvillete spoke, so eloquently, yet so gently because Sigwinne was on his lap, enjoying her little shake. Neuvillete had no objections as he drank his shake too, meanwhile you and Wriothesley held your matching pair of cups, it was your turn to speak as Wrio gave you a knowing glance 'go on', he occasionally likes to test your negotation skills, it boosts his admiration for you seeing that you're able to rule with finess. (By his side)

"I think that's on the court, the laws are seriously jumbled up, you've got to compromise with Lady Furina, perhaps inquire that the laws not be so harsh with foreigners?" you spoke, and Wriothesley's lips faintly projected his pride in you as he agreed "I think so too, we, as the Fortress of Meropide serve as a haven for exiles, however, taking on such a number of short notice inmates provides burdens in the efficiencies of the funding and resource chain management of the Fortress"

"I think so too! Foreigner inmates are more likely to be careless and unfamiliar with the fortess, they'll surely cramp my schedule as the head nurse" little Sigewinne added.

Just like Wrio, Neuvillette also showed signs of pride in Siegwinne, "All of these arguments are extremely valid" (he made sure to include Sigewinne's opinion) "Very well, I will speak with Lady Furina upon my return, this result was much expected before my arrival, in pure intention, I must confide in the fact that I've wanted to meet all of you once more"

After that heartfelt note of Neuvillete's confession, the office burst into laughter mostly Sigewinne, who's finally reunited with with her favourite dragon. This time, Wrio wrapped an arm around your shoulder, giving you the tough treatment of children who've been playing in the mud all day long, he didn't hesitate to show Neuvillete his confidence in your ability, his confidence in your companionship together.

"Wrio, Darling, I can't breathe" you laughed awkwardly as the air is squeezed out of your lungs, he has too much pride in you!

This time, it was your turn to inquire Neuvillete for 'help', but upon meeting his gaze, he was sipping rather innocently from his shake, giving you a subtle wink.

He acted ignorant as he returned his attention to Sigewinne, listening to her stories once more.

~~~~ Later that Night

"It was like a literal crime scene infront of the Iudex! I couldn't breathe!" You complained to Sigewinne as you sat on Wrio's seat which was vacant, he was yet to return from his night duties.

Sigewinne giggled, "I believe that's his declaration of love, his grace is extremely hearty in actions, worry not that's just his way of confessing pride!"

"Oh little Sigewinne, you've come so far into understanding human emotions too, can I declare my love to you as well?"

No sooner had you spoke, she was already running down the office stairs upon understanding your intentions.

What a quick goodnight!

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Scenario #3 : 'That's my darling!'

The Pankration ring often holds weekly tournaments, you and Wrio, and pretty much the entire Fortress (save for a few shy inmates and Sigewinne) enjoy watching the battles.

As an ex-prisoner, Wrio spent most of his time here, as the Duke, he doesn't participate as much due to his strength, unless an inmate has specifically requested for a spar, in which he delightfully agreed to fulfill their request. He liked to entertain the fort, even when he's not in the ring, he still entertains the fort, how?

He let's you fight, and you frankly enjoy it. Sigewinne worried at first, but soon, she understood why Wrio allowed his companion to join, Wrio had full confidence in your capabilities and he simply liked to see his darling as a bad ass.

You weren't as powerful as him, but powerful enough to make the fights you participated in very interesting. The prisoners loved you as well, just as they admire the Duke, they admired how his significant other also slays.

Tonight, the Pankration ring held out an all out fight with you! After months of training by Wrio for this grand game, this was the greatest challenge that you were about to undertake. The arena is open, for anyone to fight untill you're knocked down.

"You're ready, just remember, focus, think, breathe..." Wrio had both of his palms on your shoulder, saying naught but sweet words as he towered behind you. You both were facing a mirror, seeing his face brim full of his love towards you gave you the boost you needed.

"Thank you" you placed a hand on one of his palms, giving it a squeeze of appreciatation. Even little Sigewinne assured you that she was going to stand on the backline to aid you right away, but you gave her a confident smile, "The only wounds you'll be treating are that of the inmate's" you sassily replied, Wrio chuckled and patted your head gently.

And with that, it was time!

Everyone was eager, the fighters were all excited to get a chance aganist your prowess, Wrio was the formal commentator for this fight, and soon, he announced the commencement of the showdown.

You saw his smile from across the crowds, the little nod he gave, you remembered his words as the different participants joined the stage. Its show time!

One after another, you sent the men down, successfully multitasking both defense and offense. Everything was going smoothly, as soon as they climbed, they would get knocked off stage.

But you only got so far when one of the infamous inmate fighter got a blow in your guts, you tried your hardest to stand your ground but soon, you've depleted all your stamina in defending yourself from all the blows that soon arrived after you've been weakned.

"And they're down!" Wriothesley officially announced the end of the game, everybody cheered for your efforts, even if they were in pain, the Fort acknowledged your prowess just as much as you cheered for everybody who's participated, you offered your hand to them, and together, everyone batteled aganist the physique of mortality to stand up together.

The entire Fort that night celebrated with a free Lucky Meal at the cafeteria, everyone was seated at the busy cafeteria, a crowd surrounded your table with Wrio.

"What a great sportsmanship from y/n!"

"Right? This was the most impressing tournament this year no doubt"

"Your Grace! Thank you for the opportunity!"

Multiple comments were picked up by Wrio, he was proud, of his people and of his significant other, he gave you a knowing glance in the light of all these lovely comments.

"That's my darling" he whispered as he teasingly elbowed your stomach, you jolted in pain that was quickly subdued by his kind smile, you seemed to forget it all because right infront of you, is the reason everything will always be alright in this life.

~~~~ Later that night

That night, Wrio couldn't compress his love for you, he was proud of you everyday, but tonight you stirred something new in him, even more love in you that he didn't know was possible. You fill his heart and soul.

That night, he kissed you gently on the lips before tucking you comfortably in your shared bed, the next morning, you had the finest tea, and biscuits, hand fed by yours truly. (He insisted)

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Bonus!Scenario : Where is Sigewinne?

Wrio asked, you replied:

"Nursery?"

"Not there"

"The Cafeteria?"

"Already Checked"

"Reception Lobby?"

"Nope, she hasn't been sighted there"

"The production zone?"

"Nay"

"Where could she possibly be!" He settled down his morning tea with a thud, worry already clouding his face, but he quickly reassures himself, there's no way Sigewinne would get herself in trouble, not in his domain.

"Don't worry, she's smart as hell and . . armed" you reassured him, with a gentle hand over his "the guards are on alert, we'll be notified of her sighting at once" the moment you mentioned it, one of the special access guards entered the office "Your Grace! We found her!" their voice ringed from bellow.

You and Wrio shared a glance, then you both sprinted into that said location, following the guard into the reception zone.

Wrio looked around, but there was no Sigewinne in sight, and you just confirmed to him that the reception area is clear, 'is this some kind of joke?' He was about to ask.

The guard immediately noticed the Duke's distress, they awkwardly pointed their hands "Y-Your grace, she's right over there!"

Your gaze followed the guards gesture, they were pointing at. . . the glass panel that overlooked the waters?

Barely, if you squeeze your eyes, you can make out her shape in the waters, the panel was dirty but you slammed yourself into the glass for better vision.

"Sigewinne!" You laughed, "You little prick!"

Wrio did the same, wiping a small part just barely enough for his eyes, Sigewinne was. . . swimming, carrying a few nets filled with Tidalya which you assumed, she uses in her shakes.

She waved at the both of you, mouthing the words "Your Grace!" Slightly embarssed that she's been caught.

Wrio sighed, but he still gave her an intimidating look, to which she mouthed the word "Sorry!"

You were still giggling "Don't worry, I'll cover for you Siegwinne!" To which she gracefully smiled at your kind words.

Wrio lightly and playfully punched your shoulder, "Don't encourage her" to which you quickly refuted, "She's a melusine remember?"

He turned away with a sigh of relief, "have this glass panel cleaned" he ordered the guard, you turned your attention to Wrio, "you're right, she's a melusine" he said, his pride never letting his judgement be clouded.

---------------------------------------------------

A/N : I've never had so much fun in writing before, this Wrio fanfic is seriously my favourite now! (He's amazing, the quest left me impressed)

I do have a Lyney fiction on my profile with similar style :)

Have a great day!

[redandrew52]

OC plots for Ghost council, Runaway, 444, and Future Gadgets!

yo so this post is just a little introduction to the plots of my four main stories as requested by y’all :3 I would like to emphasize that my stories are constantly changing (ESPECIALLY WORLD BUILDING ELEMENTS/NAMES OF THINGS) but typically the main storyline stay the same. So keep in mind things on this post might change over time because it is all a work in progress! Thank you for understanding 

ghost council

The Ghost Council is a story that follows the 10 main characters on the ghost council as they deal with a break out of what I am for now calling the “Super Six” (which is a stupid name but trust me it the amount of times I’ve explained this and not given them a name it has been super confusing). The Super Six are ancient spirits who have been locked away to prevent taking over the ghost world and turning it into a hell hole. Their motive at the time isn’t well known by anybody, so they keep them locked away in another dimension from which they can’t escape. One night, it is reported that the gate has been opened, letting out the Super Six. As the council investigates, the two people reported to be at the gate are no other than Jökull Arason and Hibiki Ishii, two of the councils most important members. Now the scramble is on to figure out what happened, who did it, and how to get the Super Six contained before they take over their world. 

Runaway

One morning Kostya Kotov and Will Bellerose, two brothers as well as business partners, are out on their morning walk in the forest near their village. All of a sudden they are attacked by a ravenous woman- or man? They can’t tell. After the encounter they threaten the two brothers to bring them money or they’ll find them and kill them. What happens after that is a spiral into a situationship between Kostya and the androgynous man in question, Petrov Kuznetsov, as he tries to make his life better despite his troublesome behavior and (unbeknownst to Kostya) criminal activity. Kostya also has to juggle his relationship with his brother as it becomes fragile.

444

This story follows two highschoolers in their senior year, Hamilton Ashmore and Worthen Shoemaker. Worthen is openly flamboyant and seen as extreme by most of their class. Meanwhile, Hamilton is very popular amongst their class but awfully quiet. He is also one of the school’s baseball prodigies. The two are pretty much polar opposites, other than their blonde hair and blue eyes, but is that really the case? Turns out it’s not. After a fight for an introduction they end up making up, kind of. Worthen, being the guy he is gets Hamilton’s number from his sister to bother him. What started as a curiosity emerges into a strange friendship between the two as they attempt to help one another stay alive.

Future Gadgets

Rin Shin’ichi is a rebellious junior at Sacred Springs Highschool (weirdest name ever I’ll probably workshop that later(also younger me had absolutely no awareness for world building)). Picking fights, smoking his lungs to death, skipping classes, cussing out teachers, etc. Despite his reputation, he is an academic genius with a passion for robotics and science. As one of his punishments he is forced to give a guide to a new student, Yuki Wakabyashi (he hates talking to people). He immediately hates her loud, cheerful personality. Meanwhile she takes a special interest in him for his mysterious nature. Yuki begins to follow Rin around to bother him.

Unbeknownst to everybody, Rin isn’t a typical 17 yr old. He is a well known robot assassin under his pin name “I.” He works with two partners, Yuu Hideyo and Tilio Nev, along with his mother, Emy. Each of them have different jobs in their operation, Yuu working the logistics, Tilio as the main tank, Emy as the distraction, and Rin as the engineer. 

Over the past ten years there have been robots planted into society as apart of a “cleansing” process of the population. They’re made to be a “superior race” and built to be “perfect.” The goal is to create a perfect society ran by robots and have the people living below them or crafting them to be cyborgs. Of course, the person running this is the exception. Let’s just say he’s a little crazy. In summary: guy trying to start robot apocalypse, rin and his crew trying to stop the robot apocalypse. Upon the general population, this is a crazy conspiracy theory and not thought to be real. But there has been a rise of people dying of mysterious circumstances for the past decade, but many tend to ignore the numbers. A lot of times it is swept under the rug as well. 

Last major plot point of this story is honestly a major plot hole because I keep going “ehhh I’ll worry about that later”(pssst, it is now later and you haven’t done anything about it) but basically something will happen where these other rich kids join the plot and Yuki befriends them but Rin doesn’t like them but he’s kinda forced to be around them bc of Yuki but since he is now surrounded by so many people its becoming harder for him to hide his double life due to it taking up 99% of his “free time”

If you took the time to read this...THANK YOU SO MUCH! If you have any questions I would be very happy to answer! (I love answering questions about my ocs!) Also if y’all want maybe like character breakdowns I can do that too just lmk X3

[disneyprincemuke]

chasing their tails trying to track us down * milo+rocky vault

notes: lol hi guys i seriously COULD NOT get them out of my mind i seriously apologise

(series masterlist) | (📁 the milo + rocky vault)

every year in the season, there’s a race weekend notorious for being a touch too chaotic. at this point, there is now a long list to her name of the craziest things to happen in vegas.

and if you asked her friends, they’ve just been waiting for it to all blow over all weekend.

surprisingly, they’ve made it to saturday evening, after their several days spent here, completely unscathed. on the contrary, it’s left everyone on the edge.

just waiting, anticipating for something to happen.

yet the girl saunters into the garage, hair neatly bundled in a clip as she sips from her water bottle. “good afternoon.”

sebastian lifts his head, popping up from behind the car. he puts the headphones down and grins. “you’re awfully cheerful today,” he lifts an eyebrow with a soft laugh.

“it’s just the vegas weekend,” she shrugs with a giddy smile, continuing her way deeper into the garage and towards her car.

a moment passes, her race engineer staring at her with squinted eyes and a slight scowl. “what did you do?”

“what do you mean?” she takes a step back as sebastian leaps at her.

he grabs her face and moves it around, eyes scanning her skin. he shoves the sleeves of her jacket up — left and then the right — and then presses the back of his hand to her forehead.

“seb, what are you doing?” she shrieks, cowering back as she tries to swat his hands away in an attempt to dodge. “you’re being weird!”

“what did you do?” sebastian repeats, taking a step back. he has his hands on his hips, eyes staring into hers firmly while he demands an explanation. “you’re too happy and we’re in vegas. something must have already happened for you to be this way.”

she presses her lips together and shakes her head. “nothing happened.”

she looks over at liam, already shaking his head in a disapproving manner and rolls her eyes. “whatever.”

“where’s your shadow, anyway?” liam mutters, passing her with a snort. “why are you here by yourself?”

“my shadow’s in the hotel sleeping in until sabrina’s performance,” she explains with a shrug. “we stayed up a little too late for his liking, i believe.”

liam hums, “that’s suspicious.”

she waves him off and scoffs, approaching the pitlane. “you’re suspicious.”

“i’m surprised you’re not in headlines yet!” max jokes with a smug smile, slowly approaching her at the end of the paddocks. “it must come with running for the championship. don’t you think, charles?”

the ferrari driver simply shrugs with a soft laugh. “leave me out of this conversation please.”

“take the piss,” the girl scoffs as she takes her spot between the older drivers. “have i really been that notorious in vegas?”

charles blinks. “you married mick in 2023.”

“tried,” she corrects, “we didn’t actually get married.”

“2024, you popped up with a boyfriend out of nowhere,” max mutters. “and then you got in an accident off track in 2025.”

she hums softly and tilts her head. “i don’t think i’d consider showing up with a boyfriend a headliner. the accident… maybe.”

max finally turns his body, resting a leg on the couch as he faces her. “and didn’t you show up at some random car meet the morning of the race in 2026?”

“and last year?” charles prompts with a giggle, remembering how she’d come into the paddocks with a story on her lips.

she shakes her head. “attending the car meet last year was part of a marketing thing for cadillac.”

“fine,” max rolls his eyes, “then what about the way you street-raced some idiot after our sprint last year?”

“my team paid off the media not to run that story,” she shakes her head with her lips pressed, wagging a finger in the air. “technically, not headlines.”

“either way, something always happens to you in vegas.” max turns his body back towards the floor of the conference room and folds his arms over his chest. “headliner worthy or not. we’re all just waiting.”

she snorts. “keep waiting for nothing, mate.”

“rocks!” as she pulls her balaclava down her head, she’s reeled into a side hug with lips pressed against her temple. “sorry i’m late.”

“well, one of us had to get enough sleep after staying up til 7 in the morning,” she jokes, throwing her arms around milo. “did you find the ice cream i left for you in the freezer?”

“i did. how thoughtful.”

“i’m not. i’m trying to get you fat.”

“oh, you’re here this weekend!” sebastian laughs, approaching them. headphones sit comfortably on his head, tapping the top of his pen on his clipboard. “i haven’t seen you a lot.”

the younger man sighs, resting his hands on his hips. “i would’ve been here earlier, but i was kept up late,” he side-eyes the girl standing next to him, “by someone.”

sebastian raises an eyebrow. “i didn’t need to know that.”

the driver blinks. a scowl forms on her face as she grabs her helmet from the table behind her and shakes her head. “no, seb. we were just hanging out at the strip as normal vegas visitors do.”

“hanging out at the strip,” sebastian trails off, “sounds like you were up to no good.”

“hey! what’s that mean?” she reaches out and smacks sebastian on the shoulder.

she’s definitely had her fair share of scandals throughout her time in f1. which is why she doesn’t exactly see the commotion about laying low in the weekend — it’s not all happened in vegas.

though, to come to their defences, her most notable insanity always comes in the form of vegas weekends.

“like–”

“mate! you made it!” liam cheers, patting the actor on his back. “we’ve been looking for you all day.”

milo grins, turning on his feet to turn to the other driver. “sorry. i was in bed all afternoon.”

“yeah, well– wait.” liam stops in his tracks and drops his hands to his side. he tilts his head, furrowing his eyebrows. he points a finger at milo. “something looks different. did you get a haircut?”

the latter shakes his head and shoves his hands into the pockets of his jacket. “no.” he looks down at himself. “i think i look exactly the way i did yesterday when you last saw me at the hotel lobby.”

liam hums. he taps his finger on his lips and shakes his head. “no, i think you’re lying to me.”

“why would i be lying to you about getting a haircut?” milo furrows his eyebrows. “seems a bit petty, don’t you think?”

“i swear,” liam mumbles. he turns away to fix his race suit. he taps the girl and points over his shoulder back at milo. “did he really not change anything?”

the girl shakes her head. “why would he? i left the hotel and he’s looked the same way.”

“i told you.”

“no, something’s different about him,” liam furrows his eyebrows. he turns around to scan the younger man. he tries to pinpoint what’s been the eyesore in the few minutes he’s laid his eyes upon milo. he swears it’s changed. “but what is it?” he turns. “seb?”

sebastian is already walking away, shaking his hand to signal his refusal to be included in this mess. “don’t.”

“i’m telling you, man,” milo laughs, shaking his head. “nothing’s changed.”

the girl hums, patting the kiwi’s back as she passes him. “better yet, start getting to your car for the sprint instead of stressing over this. you won’t be satisfied with any of his bleak answers.”

mick hikes his backpack up his shoulder with a wide smile. it’s easy to identify the pair in the half-empty paddocks, cleared up from their second day coming to an end.

he approaches with a wave of his hand and a cheer. but as his friend waves back at him, he realises something.

the girl taps away on her phone as she’s tucked away under milo’s arm. slightly further from them is liam, previously in conversation with milo before his arrival.

he grabs milo’s wrist as he comes to a stop. “what is that? you got a new ring.”

milo follows his stare and immediately retracts his hand. “what? no.”

“i swear!” mick insists. he reaches forward and grabs his wrist again, raising it in the air. “you added something new to your outfit and i swear it’s that ring.”

“i told you!” liam says triumphantly, pointing at milo. “you gaslit me, mate!”

“i didn’t!” milo exclaims. he tries to tug his hand out of mick’s grip, but the mercedes driver has a firm hold on him. “i literally didn’t change anything! why do you keep insisting so?”

oscar passes mick and milo. she steps away from milo and is pulled into an embrace with a kiss to her cheek. “what are you guys doing?”

“he changed his look and we can’t figure it out,” liam grunts.

oscar glances at his best friend, who simply shrugs. he backpedals and stands behind mick. he tears mick’s hand off of milo’s hand and takes one look. “yeah, idiot,” oscar laughs, “he has a new ring.”

mick squints his eyes. “what? where?”

“this one,” oscar mutters casually, pointing at the sole ring on milo’s ring finger. “see?”

“oh.”

silence falls on them and oscar turns to milo with a grin. “nice ring, mate,” he says with a nod. he finally lets go of his hand.

“wait,” liam starts, looking down at the floor. “wait a second.”

oscar steps back and folds his arms over his chest. “what’s up with the ring? i don’t– oh, you little shits!”

she glances at milo before turning to oscar, batting her eyelashes with an innocent smile. “what?”

“yeah, what is it?” mick tilts his head.

“they,” oscar pauses. he reaches out and yanks her toward him, grabbing her hand hidden in the pockets of her jacket and then milo’s hand and lifts them. “got married.”

in the air, right in front of everybody with cold plain evidence, a pair of rings on the couple’s ring fingers. it couldn’t have been any more obvious than the fact that there is an extra ring sitting on top of her lonesome engagement ring that’s been a staple item for months.

“oh!” liam scowls, face contorting into disbelief. “seriously?”

“aw, rocky!” mick whines, throwing his arms into the air. “getting married in vegas was our thing!”

“hey!” milo frowns. “not cool!”

“we didn’t know you when we tried to get married!” mick scolds, hands on his hips. “not even an invite? seriously? this isn’t how we set the scene, mate!”

“i can hear all the ruckus from williams hospitality,” logan grumbles, patting oscar on the back as he stops next to him. “what’s going on?”

“they got married.”

“what?” logan throws his head back. he turns to the girl and grabs her shoulders. “you married him?”

she blinks. “logan, you were there when we got engaged!”

logan shrugs and steps back. “i didn’t actually think you would go through with it.”

“ouch,” milo mutters, rubbing a hand over his chest. “we’ve been together 4 years, man.”

“eh,” logan waves a hand in the air to dismiss him. “i can’t believe you didn’t invite us, mate. you got married!”

“congratulations?” oscar raises an eyebrow as he drops their hands. “why didn’t you tell us?”

she hums, clasping her hands behind her back. “you guys made such a big deal in 2023. besides, we were planning an actual wedding with everyone else anyway.”

“we made a big deal because you were 20,” liam points out, turning to oscar in confusion. “is she serious?”

“and you weren’t even with mick,” logan sighs, shaking his head. “i can’t believe you got married and didn’t invite us! i’m holding this grudge on you forever. i invited you to my wedding.”

she scowls, “yeah, and the divorce.”

“stop!”

“congratulations!” liam claps. “we should celebrate!”

— bonus

the girl lies on her stomach on the hotel bed. she swings her feet in the air, chin in her palm with her elbow propped against the mattress.

she sighs loudly and glances at milo, laid back on the bed with his arm over his eyes.

“but i’m not sleepy,” she whines, poking her finger into his arm. he stays silent. “come on.”

“rocks,” he cries, shaking his head. he rests his hand on the top of her head. “please try what i’m doing — close your eyes.”

she rolls her eyes. “i know how to sleep. i just don’t want to yet.” she traces shapes on his arm, now loosely draped on her shoulder. “we should go and hang at the strip.”

“we’re not built for that life anymore, my love,” he mumbles, words slurring the further he slips into his sleep again. “let’s just lay here. we’re too old to be outside at this time of day.”

“it’s only 3.”

“am. it’s 3am.”

she sighs exasperatedly and drops her back on the mattress. she throws a heavy hand over milo’s stomach, prompting a grunt of pain. “it’s still early.”

“rocks,” milo cries. he sits up and towers over her face, grabbing her cheeks. “please, for the love of god, go to sleep. i’m fighting for my life trying to stay awake. i love you, but please.”

truthfully, she’s way over the days where she doesn’t think without speaking. it’s rare these days that her emotions get the better of her.

but in the dim of the hotel room and the bustling nightlife they can barely make out, she feels overwhelmed by the feeling in her chest. he squishes her cheeks, eyes drooping as he awaits a response.

“we should go and get married,” she whispers, blinking up at him.

he lifts his hands from her and sits up slightly straighter. “what did you just say?”

she’s not even sure where that came from. perhaps she’s reminiscing of her younger days too much?

she scrambles from her laid-back position. she sits on her knees and grabs his hands, bringing them up to her lips as her smile grows.

“we really should, you know? just you and me,” she whispers against his knuckles, her lips grazing his skin with every word. “right here, right now.”

a small smile plays on his lips. “are you asking me to elope with you in vegas?”

she nods. she clears her throat and drops their hands on her knees. “milo manheim, will you marry me?”

“i’d marry you anytime, anywhere.”

@angsthology lolsie

[uniquexusposts]

Her || Charles

Main characters: Charles Leclerc x OC Genre: fanfiction, fluff  Story type: novel  Part: 24/45 Word count: 3006 Co writer: @mistrose23

Story summary: Matilde Jørgensen, the new Scuderia Ferrari team principal, faced the nerve-wracking challenge of reviving the team's fortunes and aiming for a championship. Leading a historic team as a 'newbie' and separating her work and personal opinions posed a significant challenge. The big question: is she capable to do so?

Previous chapter

Chapter 22. Out Of Sight, But On Your Mind

Charles parked his car close to the factory. Besides meeting fans and taking photos with them at the gate, he received a few gifts for his team principal. It was his first day back at the factory after Silverstone. He collected all the gifts and got out of the car. He looked at them. There were a few handwritten notes and a few stuffed animals. A soft smile grew on his face. He thought it was cute from the fans.

As he walked through the gates, the atmosphere shifted from the enthusiastic cheers from the fans to the more subdued workplace ambience. Charles couldn't help but wonder how Matilde was doing. It has been four days since he last saw her.

Deciding to leave the gifts in Matilde's office, Charles approached her office, which wasn't empty. He hesitated for a moment, contemplating whether to leave the gifts behind or not. He decided to go with the first option since he didn't know where else to leave them.

"Hello, can I leave this in Matilde's office?" Charles politely asked the woman behind Galileo's desk. Where was Galileo?

The woman looked up, showing some arrogance. "You can ask Mister Verratti."

Oh, right, Narciso Verratti was the interim team principal for now. Charles showed a small smile and nodded. He knocked on the glass door and waited until he got a response. Narciso looked up from his work and gave him a nod. Charles opened the door and stepped inside. "Hello," he smiled.

"Buongiorno, Charles," the businessman said. "It's good to see you. What can I do for you?"

"I have some gifts for Matilde," Charles said and looked at the gifts. He looked back up to Narciso, who looked at Charles like he was stupid. "Can I leave them here for when she comes back?"

Narciso took a deep breath and looked back at his computer screen. "Sure," he breathed. "You're not the first one. You can leave them in the corner," he said, pointing to the corner. "She's very loved, isn't she?" he mumbled.

Charles stepped towards the corner, but stopped walking when he heard those words. "Come again?" He turned around.

"Hmm, what?" Narciso looked at Charles again. "I was talking to myself, sorry."

"Ha," Charles replied, squinting his eyes while scanning the man. He placed the gifts alongside the other gifts on a cabinet and left the office. Charles walked through the engineer's department, finding it awfully quiet. The exchanged greetings lacked the usual energy. Did they all miss Matilde so much? How much influence did she have?

"Hey," Charles greeted the team. He sat down next to Xavi. Oh, shit, the golden birthday box in Matilde's desk drawer. His eyes shot to the glass office; he didn't want to disturb Narciso again.

"Hello," Xavi replied.

More engineers greeted Charles.

"Everything okay here?" Charles asked.

Xavi nodded. "Hmm-hmm, just as usual."

Charles nodded, leaning back in his chair. "Narciso seems very enthusiastic to be here," he sarcastically said. "It looks like his mood is affecting the entire building," he observed.

Looks were shared, but no words were exchanged.

The topic shifted to work-related things, and the past weekend was summarised. The collected data had already been processed, and they quickly began to talk about the setup for the Hungarian Grand Prix. Carlos also joined the talk with his team, just like a few others who were important to a race weekend. The things that they usually discuss during a meeting with Matilde are discussed during a spontaneous desk meeting without the interim team principal.

After an hour, they called in a break. Charles looked at the TP's office again, observing if Narciso noticed anything about the desk meeting. And it wasn't the case since he was still very focused on his computer screen. That was until his assistant called him, and they both left. Charles saw the perfect opportunity to get the golden birthday box.

"I will be right back," he said, quickly walking towards Matilde's office. He walked to her desk and opened the drawer. And there it was: the golden box. He grabbed it and quickly walked away. It was like he was completing a secret mission. And his team thought that as well, when they saw Charles sneakily entering and leaving the office. A reassuring smile rested on his face, and he went to look for Galileo. "Where can I find Galileo?" Charles asked a woman from HR.

"Marketing and PR, probably."

"Alright, thanks." Charles smiled and walked to the next department on the top floor. And indeed, Galileo was moved to this floor. He was sitting in the corner, facing the wall; an improvised work corner. "Demoted?"

Galileo dramatically swung around, sighed and looked unamused at Charles. "Boss is not there, I'm not there," he said. "If you need Matilde, good luck contacting her family." He showed a fake smile and turned around.

"It's Good to see you, too," Charles said. I came here to ask you a favour—well, Matilde did." He placed the golden box on the desk.

"What is this?"

"The birthday box," Charles replied and opened the box. "With birthday cards. Matilde asked to deliver these around the office when there is a birthday."

Galileo flipped through the cards and noticed a list. "I never knew she did this." He opened the list, and all the birthdays of the employees of the month of July were noted there. His eyebrows raised, he never knew about this. "She missed a few days."

"Yeah, she's not here," Charles shot back. "Look, I am not here every day and you are, she specifically asked for you to do this." He looked at the assistant. "Can you take care of it? I'm sure everyone will appreciate it."

Galileo nodded. "Absolutely." He got up. "I will deliver these straight away." He shuffled through the cards.

"I will help you," Charles offered.

Galileo raised his eyebrow and looked impressed. "That is kind of you."

They walked through the different departments and buildings to deliver the birthday cards to the destined people. They obviously wished them a happy birthday as well. For the ones who weren't present, they left a card on their desk or in their locker.

As they walked around, Charles and Galileo engaged in a conversation, discussing various topics and occasionally sharing anecdotes about their experiences with Matilde. It was starting to become evident that despite the different roles they played in the team, Matilde's influence had touched each member in unique ways.

"I've got to admit," Galileo said with a chuckle. "You are the last person I ever thought I'd be walking through the office with delivering birthday cards."

"How the tables have turned," Charles replied.

They continued their task, stopping by different workstations to wish team members a happy birthday. The expressions of surprise and gratitude on their colleagues' faces hinted at the positive impact of Matilde's thoughtful tradition.

They stumbled across the night shift manager as they approached the final department. Galileo and Charles walked over to him with grins on their faces. Mario looked up from his desk and gave the two young lads a side-eye.

"What do you need?" Mario sighed and annoyedly removed the glasses from his face.

"It's your birthday delivery service," Charles said and widely smiled. "Buon compleanno, Mario."

Galileo stuck out the card. "Happy birthday," he smiled. "Matilde wanted to give this to you herself, but unfortunately, she couldn't be here."

"Thank you, kids," Mario replied and smiled gratefully. He accepted the card and opened the envelope, taking the card out of it. It was a white card with a small red car in the middle. He smirked and read what was written inside: a simple birthday message. Mario looked up, noticing Galileo and Charles desperately trying to see what the card looked like. "Wait until it's your turn," he said, shaking his head. He placed the card on his desk. "Thank you. How is she doing?" He leaned back on his chair.

Charles and Galileo shared a quick glance, to see who would answer the question. "Fine," Galileo then said. "Recovering, but fine, I think. I haven't spoken to her since Tuesday." It was now Friday.

Mario nodded. "It's just bad luck that it happened to her, nothing that would have prevented it. Anyway, I will send her a quick message and then prepare for the meeting," he breathed.

"Shouldn't you be at home?" Galileo then asked, realising it was weird to see Mario.

"Yes, but Mister Narcissist wants me to be at a meeting, even though I'm completely not needed."

Charles squinted his eyes. He knew who Narciso Verratti was, but he had barely met him. And he started to see and understand that not everyone liked the businessman. "It's a shame," he shared.

"It is what it is," Mario shrugged.

Then Galileo and Charles said bye, wishing Mario good luck with his work. Their mission was complete, and the two walked back to the office, satisfied with the positive and grateful reactions their co-workers shared. Plus, the two finally started to connect with each other. They were engaged in a casual conversation. The weight of the birthday delivery mission seemed to have lifted some of the initial tension between them. Charles began to see Galileo as more than just the 'annoying' and 'heartless' assistant, and Galileo started to appreciate Charles beyond the race track instead of the grumpy dickhead. They had one thing in common: they highly respected Matilde, and she highly respected her team.

Charles returned to his engineers. "Sorry, it took longer than expected," he apologised.

"What were you doing with Galileo?" Carlos asked and raised his eyebrows, being aware of the relationship between Charles and Galileo.

"Something Matilde asked us to take care of."

When it was time to go to the meeting, everybody got something to drink first and made their way to the meeting room. Once everyone was present - on time - they had to wait for Narciso. The people in the meeting room were lively and sharing things. Until... until two people walked in. The room fell silent and the entire atmosphere changed on the spot.

"Buon pomeriggio a tutti," Narciso greeted the team and sat down on Matilde's spot. His assistant sat across the room, which was not Galileo's spot. It was different. "Cominciamo," he called, saying that they could begin.

Laurent Mekkies got up and walked over to the presentation screen, ready to present the recap and upcoming events. "Good afternoon, everyone. Last week was an intense and weird week, I hope everyone recovered from it and has found new energy for the upcoming races. It's gonna be tough, especially because it is the last doubleheader before the summer break-"

"Mi scusi, perché parliamo inglese?" Narciso asked why everyone was talking in English. "We are in Italy, we are an Italian team, everyone in this room speaks and understands Italian."

No one dared to answer. Looks were shared.

"Matilde understands Italian to a certain level," Mario backed Matilde up. "She is still learning it, and it's going well, but the racing terms are still difficult. We are practising every now and then, but we like to keep it accessible to everyone in this team."

Narciso took a deep, disappointing breath and looked around the room; everyone seemed to agree with Mario by the looks on their faces. "Now it makes sense why every document is in English, even the internal documents that used to be Italian," he mentioned. "Anyway, let's continue in English then."

The meeting continued in English, but the tension lingered. Narciso's entry had disrupted the harmonious atmosphere that Matilde had cultivated within the team. Slowly, some members began to see what kind of culture Ferrari had before Matilde joined; old, traditional, stiff, a hierarchical culture, barely open communication. It worked for a couple of years, but... It wasn't something for now. When Matilde joined the team, the communication became open and modern; she had an open-door policy, and the lines slightly faded in the hierarchy. Of course, there were boundaries, but the culture became open. And just the way Matilde approached things; she smiled a lot, wasn't afraid to make a joke and allowed funny and light moments. Matilde had an influence on the team, and people have begun to notice it.

You know what you're missing when you don't have it anymore.

* * *

"Matilde, don't stress and don't get overhyped. It's not good for your recovery," her father mentioned. "Don't wind yourself up."

Matilde looked at her father and rolled her eyes, ignoring the comment. The pre-race show just ended, and they were ready to watch the race in Budapest, Hungary. It had been two weeks since the surgery, and Matilde had recovered well; however, she still wasn't allowed to work for another week - or travel, so she was still in the cottage in England. It didn't take her away from the Grand Prix because she lived for it. It was weird to watch the pre-race show, weird because people discussed Matilde's team, the changes and her performances so far. Plus, she hadn't watched a pre-race show in years.

"Matilde and not winding herself up over F1?" Linnea, Matilde's best friend, smirked.

"It's not possible, but we will still try it, don't we?" her father said strictly.

"Yes," Matilde briefly said and smiled, running her hand through her blown-out hair. "If they don't fuck it up."

Sven, also a good friend of Matilde, sat next to Matilde on the couch and padded her shoulder. "Don't be negative. If they fuck it up, it is not your fault."

"Instead, everybody will see how great of a team principal you are," Kai added, another friend.

"Yes, and if everything goes flawless, I am the failure," Matilde shot back. "And if they fuck it up, if Narciso fucks it up, I have to fix it all over again."

"No stress," Dagmar said, and she smiled.

The friends Matilde had over for the Hungarian Grand Prix were friends from England. Long story short: they met over Facebook while looking for Danish people in England. They all lived in the same area, and they became close friends. One of the advantages now Matilde was stuck in England to recover, was that she could see her friends more than once. The disadvantage: no Grand Prix. But in this case: she preferred the advantage.

"Alright, the predictions. Linnea," Sven said. "We're just going to do like we used to do." He pointed at Linnea.

Linnea took a deep breath. "It's not fair. Matilde can predict these things much more easily. She literally is F1," she whined.

Laughter filled the living room.

"One bad start or yellow flag, and things are changing," Matilde replied and smiled.

"Fine. Verstappen, Russell, Perez."

Matilde huffed.

Linnea looked at Matilde. "See!"

"Matilde, shut up. Ferrari is rubbish this weekend, I'm sorry," Sven rubbed the reality in Matilde's face; Charles managed to qualify in P6 and Carlos P7 after some terrible sessions. "Kai?"

"Same as Linnea," Kai answered.

"Dagmar?"

"I think Verstappen, Perez, Alonso."

"Viggo?"

"I don't think Verstappen will win. I think Perez, Verstappen, Leclerc," Matilde's father replied.

Matilde nodded. "Thank you," she said. She made eye contact with Sven, who was waiting for her prediction. "Max, Checo, Hamilton." Everybody began to laugh. "I don't know what Narciso is doing, but he can't lead a team. And Sven, what about you?"

"Verstappen, Checo, Piastri," he replied.

"Bold prediction," everyone said.

"That's F1," Sven proudly said.

Matilde's father moved to the kitchen to prepare some snacks.

"Did you wish your team good luck, or are you throwing it on the I'm-not-working treatment," Sven asked Matilde.

"I'm on medical leave, not literal leave," Matilde replied with a smirk. "I need to let them know that I'm thinking of them, I've got to keep up appearances-"

"Like poison," Dagmar concluded.

"Leave that girl alone," Linnea said. "Being part of Ferrari and being forced to be at home and see your team fail is... Meh, not so fun."

The formation lap began. Even though Matilde wanted to watch the show without any data, she opened her laptop and put the statistics on F1TV. Cheers filled the living room; they had a small bet about when Matilde would pull out the data for this race. After a few minutes, all the cars lined up.

Matilde couldn't ignore the subtle racing heartbeat within her chest. The familiar roar of the engines was hearable through the speakers, creating a symphony of sound that enveloped the room. Matilde's eyes were fixed on the screen, but her mind was also on the grid, imagining the strategic discussions. She straightened her back and sat on the edge of the couch.

The lights went out, and away they went.

"I swear, the first thirty seconds after the start are just nerve-wracking," Dagmar said and observed all the cars.

"Shh," Kai and Sven hushed.

Matilde got up, stood in front of the TV, and watched the start carefully. She was just hoping for a decent start. Initially, she didn't want this to be a good race because then it meant she didn't do a good job at Ferrari—or she did, because then it meant she led the team well. But she wanted a good race for the team, for them, so they could enjoy the good performances.

"Hey, hey, you pushed him off the track!" Matilde said when Stroll pushed Carlos off the track. "Jeez, man. Calm down." Carlos dropped back to P18. Her eyes searched for Charles, who gained two positions. "What the fuck," she responded to the incident and placed her hands on her hips.

"It's gonna be a racing incident," Sven reminded everyone.

"No, shit, Sherlock," Kai responded.

Matilde gave Sven a side eye but kept her mouth shut. She sat down on the couch again and scanned the data on the laptop. So far, so good—well, semi-good.

Snacks were passed around, and the living room was filled with the sounds of laughter, cheers and analyses. It felt like they were ten years back in time; watching F1 and just spending the Sunday together. 

Next chapter

Taglist: @itsjustkhaos@crashingwavesofeuphoria@maryvibess @chocolatefartstrawberry @snzleclerc @ironmaiden1313 @blodwyn4u

[jamesdavisnicoll]

Bundle of Holding: Awfully Cheerful Engine

The complete Omnibus with the rules and eight settings for Awfully Cheerful Engine, the cinematic action-comedy tabletop roleplaying game.

[canyonkingdom]

i have a writing request!

royber! just imagine amber taking care of roy while hes sick (for the 100th time) (he doesnt want to admit it)

broken toy

It was another day in Broomstown. The idiots were squirming, the construction workers were hoarding,

Amber worries herself in the headquarters.

“Helly, have you seen Roy?” she asked.

“Roy? He just went to Spooky’s house to help him carry some tires.”

Amber’s eyes widened in shock. “What? But I told him not to-”

"Calm down!” Helly said in a feeble attempt to cheer her up. “I’m sure Roy’s gonna be fine! He’s a strong guy.”

“I know that, Helly! It’s just…” Amber paused, sighing. “He’s been working overtime for the past few weeks. Something might happen-”

“It’ll be fine! He’s done that before.” Helly replied in a joking manner, but it pissed off Amber more than it should. “But he has been looking rough for the past few days.”

“One of these days Jin won’t be able to fix him…”

“Don’t worry too much.”

Amber sighed in defeat, but grateful for the anything but wise words of her friend. At least he was trying, but Helly didn't realize how much it scared her to see Roy in a coma, or suffering in general. The fire truck had been working and working for weeks on end, something not even Poli could withstand.

Everyone else passed it off as hard work, but Amber didn't see a hardworking guy, she saw an insomniac in the making just waiting for his engine to fail.

She was, in fact, right.

Amber heard the incessant banging of metal at the front door. She sighed in annoyance before checking it out.

...

“Dude, what have you got yourself into?” Helly’s voice screamed worry, metal scraped against the floor.

“It’s…” Roy’s voice was weak.

When Amber entered the room, time seemed to stop. Roy looked awfully redder than usual, his arms were scraped in gray and his usual cheery demeanor diminished into a sad-eyed glimmer. Helly carried him like a weak trainee.

She felt like something snapped in her.

This happened many times before, yet she still felt as if her gas pressure ran high.

“Roy!” Amber rushed to the firetruck’s side, completely ignoring Helly, even pushing his helping arms aside, shocking the latter.

“He fainted while carrying tires,” Helly replied to compensate, but Amber didn’t seem to care. “Get Jin.” Amber hollered at the helicopter.

Helly shrugged. “Right now or-”

“Now.”

Helly flinched. “Okay, okay!” he flew away from the room, leaving the two lovers alone.

Amber sighed, looking at Roy straight in the eyes. “I told you not to take that offer." she said sternly. Anger boiled.

"I told you not to worry," Roy replied, his voice still calm and collected in comparison to Amber's rage-inducing fit of a voice.

"Not to worry?" Amber scoffed. "Of course I will worry, you're my boyfriend! You matter to me than anyone in this damn headquarters. For once, can you listen to what I say to you?"

Roy's face was becoming redder by the second. "It's not my fault I want to help the town. And I am listening, I just think it's wrong for you to-"

"It's wrong for me to worry about my own boyfriend? I can't believe your pettiness-"

"I'm not even that sick! Helly worried for no fucking reason-"

"You're literally redder than your own paint! Stop denying and just lay down-"

"I still have to finish-"

"LISTEN TO ME AND FUCKING REST, WILL YOU?"

...

It was silent.

"Uh, guys?" Helly's frail voice spoke up. Jin was next to him, shaking her head in dismay.

"Oh, it's you guys." Amber said, attempting to put up a happy façade.

"Let's talk later." Jin said bluntly. "Roy, c'mere. I'll patch you up."

Helly awkwardly watched the two lovers getting separated. Roy drove to Jin groggily, and they left the room.

"What happened?" he asked Amber, who was silent the entire time.

"I don't know." she answered, her voice was cracking. "I just- I just snapped at him."

"Yeah, that was scary! I've never seen you so angry."

Amber felt like she wanted to cry. "I only wanted him to be... better. I just want him to look out for himself. He barely listens to anything I say and runs off into another rescue. It's just..."

"Don't worry, Amber. Roy will probably understand. He's not gonna stay angry at you forever. You guys always make up after a fight. Poli said you're inseparable." Helly smiled into his words, calming Amber by the tiniest bit.

"Thank you, Helly."

Jin was waiting by the garden.

Amber gulped.

She drovd up to their manager. "Hi."

"Cut the bullshit, Amber. I wanna know why you snapped at Roy like that." Jin was always straight to the point, something Amber apprieciated. But she was looking down at Jin's words.

"I was only worrying for his safety." she admitted.

Jin sighed sympathetically. "I understand where you're coming from. But... there are other ways to look out for someone without outright shouting at them."

"I'm just... so angry, Jin. He doesn't listen to anything I say and gets into this... shit. And he still insists on-"

"Calm down." Jin's soothing voice tamed the anger within. "I want you to talk to Roy and resolve this. He's been dying inside all day after your outburst."

Amber nodded, smiling.

The infirmary felt a little too cold.

Amber stopped Roy, with an ice pack abover his ehad and a thermometer in his mouth.

"Hi." she said, "How are you feeling-"

"I'm sorry."

Amber's mouth formed an "o" shape after the sudden sentence. The thermometer dropped to the ground.

"I'm sorry." she repeated. "For getting angry like that." she moved next to Roy.

"It's fine. You were just looking out for my wellbeing." Roy sighed, "I'm sorry for not listening to you when all you wanted was for me to rest."

Amber didn't know what she would do without Roy. She felt like an empty shell of herself when he didn't exist. All she wanted was to keep him safe, out of danger. Despit all the horrifying rescues they went through, the grave injuries all of them had, she always prioritized Roy first.

She didn't want to lose him.

"I don't want to see you suffer." Amber said.

"Isn't that what our job is all about?" Roy looked at her with glowing eyes despite his weak frame. "It's normal for us to get injuries, into dire accidents, but we all fix it together."

Amber couldn't help but chuckle. "You're always like this."

"I love you, Amber." Roy aid, blushing in a red brighter than his. "I know you love me, because you look out for me."

"I love you too." Amber rplied back, and a small kiss on the cheek.

Everything was finally resolved.

Well, Roy's sickness isn't.

Amber clung to him like a leech. Not leaving his side, even for rescue missions. She only prayed that Helly could handle Posty and Cap's bullshit by himself.

"What do you think he will do?" Amber asked Roy, who was staring into oblivion.

"He can't do it. We taught him so much, but he's a child." Roy replied, yawning. "I can't believe it's nighttime."

"It's time to replace the ice." Amber transformed into her robocar and removed the ice pack on Roy's head. "So you'll get better."

"I'm not that sick." Roy insisted, his voice obviously croaking.

"Stop being an idiot." Amber sighed, grabbing more ice. "You're red all over and your temperature is high."

"It's just a cold, I swear."

Amber placed the ice pack back. "Don't start. You need to rest."

"But what if Helly-"

"Roy," Amber clammored, turning back into a car and her back facing's Roy. "We are not having this talk again, please just let Helly do his job. He's more capable than you think."

"I'm sorry." Roy lamented.

"Don't be."

"Let's just play a song."

Amber went to the CD player, once again turning into a robocar, searching through the handfuls of CDs they have collected. "Play anything." Roy said.

One random CD later, Amber went back to Roy's side, touching his forehead. "You're so hot."

Roy looked at her with all the subtlty of a korean film. "What?"

"I meant your fever." Amber was blushing in a red hue. "Your fever."

Roy smiled. "You clearly meant something else-"

"The music's playing." Amber cut off.

The record started spinning,

No i'll never look back in anger

No i'll never find me an answer

You promised me we'd keep in touch

I read your letter and it hurt me so much

I said i'll never, never be angry with you

"What a fun song."

They slept through the night leaning against each other's frame.

-///-

this is for anonymous user

i'm rlly sorry lol the plot diverted from a sick fic to 50% argument resolving 49% sickfic and 1% songfic hope its fine

btw poli's not here bc he's dealing with camp and politics (request crossover??)

[avareiahgt]

So, this is my first writing in order to explain a bit of my world. I'm so sorry for my English, i hope you can at least understand what I'm trying to say hehe.

I would love to post some pictures of my characters but I'm not the artist type, to my disgrace.

No more waiting, I know this chapter isn't the most interesting, but it's our introduction and I think it's important.

Warnings: mentions of death, mentions of violence, human experimentation

Next part

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

PROLOGUE

I guess you’re wondering what everything of this is about. Well, I’m going to tell you an ancient story:

History books say, a lot of centuries ago, one and only kind of humans inhabited this planet. They were all the same, they were born with the same abilities and possibilities, paying some mind to little differences: skin color, religion or sexuality were some of them…

But one day marked the future and all those things that kept them separated stopped matter anymore.

First offspring met daylight crushing the mother form the insides. Four months forward, that baby had the stature of an adult, normal human. Emergency interventions by the responsible scientists were actually useless, letting the breaking news slip into radio and TV, the project of a giant baby that made its mother explode due to the fetus’s abnormal size and development.

It would be a wonderful terror story if it weren’t because it wasn’t an isolated case. A lot of incidents like the previous one peaked some weeks after that. Who knows if the rich and privileged knew about this before the rest of us…

Strong investigations started in every country. What could it be? Toxins, viroides, mutations… Nothing seemed to make sense, they couldn’t find the reason. Sadly, some predacious people put their eye on it looking for a unique opportunity. New test tube babies. They weren’t genetically engineered but, once fertilized and showed an excessive growth, they were extracted from the belly and maintained on enormous tanks that emulated placenta.

First years were met with failures and the deafening fall in the world birth rate. Just a few babies were born with normal conditions, with human proportions. Anyways, the discouraging perspective for couples to keep trying to be parents made it collapse. No one wanted to give birth. Chances were low, only 12% of pregnancies found the four-leaf clover and went awfully normal. The horror of the remaining 88% meant an overdeveloped not-born crushed the mother form the inside without enough development to eat, breath of merely live without a machine. They were trying to maintain a giant one or two-month fetus. It would never work.

Babies kept growing in size while time passed but not a single one survived. One decade went by a number of deaths and lost inversions until… a baby girl was born. Healthy, pretty and gigantic. While the clinics and labs halls were full of cheers, streets were full of hate. What to do with a baby that no one could properly attend? Who would teach, feed and handle her? And, the least and worst, who was going to deal with her when she was adult enough? Who were supposed to go against her wishes?

Sooner than later, some of the brightest minds found a conclusion: if we couldn’t stop nor fix whatever mutation that afflicts them, we would improve it. We would learn and work for a new human generation. Opposition and admiration became enemies to death. Cities burned, complains were massacred and, of course, entire governments and countries fell. From time to time, the first fights were replaced for some with new values. Nevertheless, there was something that anybody could kill… human scientific curiosity.

More than a million new human failures were the first stone for the future path: to replicate the original mutation on adults became a reality. Shifting was slow, painful and irreversible, but compulsory. First of all, it was a progressive change, they were bigger each time holding their morality and intelligence, which only resulted in more experiments, cheerfully this time. Even so, it all was a unique question: why would you want -and keep- 90 feet human guinea pigs if you weren’t enough strong nor competent to even control them? Like every human being, those experiments also became ambitious. Finally, an important 72% of population reacted positive to the mutation, it seemed that the new designed virus acclimated itself slow but unstoppable. From that initial 72% only the half made it through. Which was the position the old generation was holding in now? A minority, so small at number and size both.

There were multiple tries for coexistence thanks to equality factions, none of them worked. There wasn’t a single person in the whole world that didn’t know the REM implications. It started as an integrative association for the new -old- minority for them to live in big cities, just so oversized for them. Unfortunately, soon the cover went down: it was a military special branch focused in infiltrations and information seekers. They had never stopped those experiments. The main director, Avery Dorens, showed his face without doubt when his name appeared on every media. Visionary, he called himself, who had been fighting in order to find a cure for the Older’s involution problem. His followers were ex-military agents, spies and even ex-convicted. All of them strong people with weak or broken ideals. Nothing could stop him and, some years later, even with his expedient still opened, Dorens’s project received tons of support and financing.

That’s how war started. A war my side lost. Giants versus humans. Step by step, giants replaced us. Some of us were immune, I don’t know why, so we saw ourselves as the resistance. We were the ones loyal to the human race. This meant a rupture with society. Most of knowledge became lost or destroyed because of the war. Giants called themselves Newman, the new improved human race, since my kind was baptized as Older, the old, outdated, weak that had to disappear in order to favor the specie’s development. Newman versus Older.

Older were expelled after losing the Size War. They hid themselves into the most rural places, out of reach from Newman. It wasn’t an easy task since nature seemed to grow with them, grass strands were the size of a person. A lot of species disappeared along the Size War, some others integrated the mutation.

Nowadays, here we are. It’s been 200 years and, theoretically, Older are all dead. We are a fantasy creature that only appear on kid’s tales and history books. We have been forgotten and my generation is being prepared to guide our little world, the one they let us without knowing it.

Who would believe that creepy story? It was a horror tale to tell the children to sleep. Real world was there waiting for me to conquer it. I wasn’t supposed to waste my life yearning for something interesting to happen in Berhem, was I? It was a beautiful and small city with a familiar atmosphere. It was perfect for breeding kids and living a peaceful, long live. It was placed in a long-lost forest, protected by some hundreds of natural, green barriers that kept us from the ugly outside. None of the young knew how to go through it neither we had permission. Where was the sea? Snow? Dessert? Legends, that’s all it was. And I wasn’t one to keep dreaming and waste my time wondering. I needed to know the truth.

What was outside those green walls?

—Don’t stop running, Walker! — the trainer’s voice resonated through the pavilion’s walls. I knew she wasn’t expecting an answer, so I didn’t. I kept my usual rhythm. Resistance test was the one I was focused now, it took me time to get the trick, but I got it at least.

Sooner than later, my life was going to change. I was training for the Military Force, Exterior Initiative -MFEI abbreviated - section. I’d always been a curious child. Reckless and shameless, my mother used to say. Me joining MFEI was completely opposite to her beliefs but she had understood it would be the only way for me to be happy: finding answers to my never-ending questions.

I could have started my own little company, study abroad, learn a profession or even just stay at home with a good husband who would keep me fed and healthy, but that wasn’t my deal after all. I dreamt about exploring new areas, look for whatever land that was our so far in the past. I wanted to find a time where we weren’t Older, just human.

And that time would come when I was accepted at MFEI.

[sanvirtheobserver]

Taking Flight, Chapter 51: Now Hiring

The afternoon sun bears down as Tari and Pomni face each other in the courtyard, both standing on the opposite ends of a large circle drawn on the ground. From the sidelines we see Meggy, Mario, Ragatha, and Shiro cheering them on as they both steel themselves for what comes next.

Ragatha: Alright, let's keep this simple. First one to knock the other out of the ring wins.

Tari's Glaive blinks into her palm with a shower of blue sparks. In her offhand, a blue ball of flame ignites as her gauntlet forms.

Tari: Just as we practiced. You ready?

Pomni: You kidding?

A pair of prisms begin to form around Pomni hands, creating a formittable set of gauntlets. She clashes the knuckles together with a crystaline spark.

Pomni: I've been waiting all week to test these out!

The air crackles with anticipation as Shiro raises his hand into the air.

Shiro: FIGHTERS READY!

Meggy: Give it all you got, Tari!

Shiro: THREE........

Ragatha: I believe in you, Pomni!

Shiro: TWO.......

Mario: Can I have a hotdog please?

Shiro: ONE.......

SMG3: LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, MAY I HAVE YOUR ATTENTION PLEASE?

Anticipation gives way to confusion as they all turn to SMG3 flashing the biggest smile on his face.

Clench: Dude, really?

Meggy: Ugh. This better be important, Three.

SMG3: Oh, it is! With the success of the Café (and our "supplementary" financial efforts) I have been working on the next big step for the past week and am proud to present said next big step to all of you. FOLLOW ME!

Pomni and Tari just shrug. It seems as though their sparring session will have to wait. The group now stands before the result of SMG3's weeklong project. The building itself looked noticeably larger. Two single-story extensions on each side and a three story extension at the back form a "throne" around the central Café. A new name now sits atop the massive bomb prop on its roof.

SMG3: Welcome........to THREE'S LUSTROUS LAIR!!!!

The group now seems at least somewhat interested in what SMG3 has to say as they step inside. Everything feels so much bigger now. To the sides of the Café counter we now have a fancy diner and kitchen to the right, and to the left we have a pub setup with a drink bar. And of course, you can't forget the barrels of plushies and the racks of various weapons he has for sale.

SMG3: This marvelous venture now provides much greater amenities that'll help expand upon my brand. Along with our signature Coffee and Bombs, we now have a Devious Diner for lunch and dinner, and there's always the option of happy hour specials for the "legally" ambitious over at the Graveyard Shift Bar.

Mario: OH, does that mean you make.......?

SMG3: *sigh* Yes Mario, we now serve Spaghetti.

Mario: YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!

Tari: Hm..........

SMG3: What? Too impressed to speak?

Meggy: As impressive as it is......... this place seems awfully big for one guy to run. Especially since he's usually out gallavanting for ill gotten gains.

Tari: Yeah, you aren't exploiting those poor Echidnas again, are you?

SMG3: Oh god no! I'd never do such a thing to Terrance's friends and family! Besides, I'm not necessarily alone on this one. While I am still the boss, it's about time I had a more efficient system for running this place. A new manager will help things run a little more smoothly.

The rumbling of engines can be heard at the back of the complex.

SMG3: Oh! That must be the crew coming back with our new employees!

He heads over to the back door and leads the way into the back of the complex. The first floor appears to be a workshop, complete with a working forge, several worktables, and a variety of machines meant for maintenance and construction. The second floor is a lounging area with a large projector screen and............ a double decker couch. Awesome. There's also a small bar that Rob is currently tending to.

Rob: Corn Colada?

The top floor is where things get interesting. SMG3 flips a switch and a large gate opens in the back of the building, revealing a custom made Airship dock. A bridge unfolds onto the ship's top deck where several new faces are waiting. One was a mighty tall Boo Woman in a seafoam green dress, with a much smaller Boo in a green vest and hat by her side. A pair of blue-in-black eyes peer from beneath her wide brimmed hat as she makes her way across the bridge where SMG3 is waiting. She was quite the imposing presence as she looked down upon the crew before her.

SMG3: Everyone please give a bow for Mrs. Martha Mildenhall. Pleasure to have you here, ma'am.

Martha: The Pleasure is all mine, Mr. Three. And you must be his....... companions. I must say you are quite the colorful bunch.

Mario: Are you calling Mario gay?

Meggy pulls his hat down over his head to shut him up.

Tari: It's a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Mildenhall.

Martha: Oh please, call me Martha.

Three more figures make their way across the bridge. Two young women and one young man. They looked like triplets, all bearing the same pale skin tone, ivory white hair, radiant yellow eyes, and thin arrowtipped tails. There was also these circlets on their heads bearing a set of glowing bulbs, as well as these metallic talon-like arms and legs. The boy dawned a pilot's jacket and hat with a pair of cargo pants. One girl wore a blouse with a variety of pens in its pockets, and her hair was tied into two neat pigtails. The other wore a winter coat that extended all the way down to her calfs, with most of her face obscured by a collar that covers her mouth and nose.

Martha: And these are my three little helpers. Why don't you introduce yourselves.

The young man came first. He was positively BEAMING as he greeted the crew with a salute.

???? Salutations new neighbors! My name is Noah, and I'm THRILLED to be working here with you guys! Over here is my antisocial sister Vale.......

The sister with the coat just waves.

Noah: ........and over here is my beloved big sis Julia!

The sister with the pigtails does her best to look presentable.

Julia: Ready to serve.

Tari: What about her?

She points towards one more figure making its way across the bridge. She had all the same traits shared among the other three, but appeared much younger with a maid's dress and bonet. She ignores the crowd and rushes straight to Noah's side.

Noah: Oh, Hey there, Cyn. Didn't think you wanted to come out.

SMG3: Now, if you would follow me, I'd LOVE to give you a tour of our newly refurbished establishment.

SMG3 and Martha head back down to the Café, leaving the rest of the group with the siblings.

Pomni: So......... um........., I was gonna say I like......... whatever it is you have going on here.

Noah cocks his head in confusion.

Meggy: I think she's talking about your look, like the circlets.

Noah: Oh, this little thing? It's actually an auxiliary optics array, but thank you for noticing.

Pomni: Then there's your matching gloves and boots........ wait, is that a knife?

He looks down and notices the switchblade-like claw hinged between his knuckles.

Noah: Oh! I'm so sorry about that.

He quickly and hurriedly folds it back into his hand with a nervous smile.

Noah: The hinges get loose sometimes.

Tari: Are those......... prosthetics?

Noah: Well, yeah. It's......... it's a long story.

She can notice the somber look in his eyes as he says that, same as the other two.

Tari: I'm sorry. I didn't mean to strike any nerves.

Noah: Oh no no no no no. It's fine. Just.......... um.....

Julia: We should get going. We're likely overdue for orientation.

Noah: Right! What She said.

And so the four head downstairs for their "orientation," leaving the rest of the group in the hangar.

Pomni: Well they were certainly....... interesting.

[racingliners]

So, in my many emotions at seeing these beautiful pieces by @aphrostiel, I ended up writing a ficlet about it (because how could I not indulge myself in writing the Seb and Schumi podium we deserved).

I may polish it up further and put it on ao3 for prosperity but I really wanted to just get it out there, I hope you like it!!

(Thank you so much to Jules for both their blessing to post this for for sharing such incredibly beautiful art!!)

Golden

The sun cast warm, golden rays in the widening breaks though the pale clouds as they walked out onto the podium together. Seb, being the young gentleman in training, suggested that Michael have his day and walk out alone. Michael, almost too overwhelmed to speak, insisted they walk out together.

They would both argue that Hockenheim looked beautiful no matter the weather, but today after a race that went from dry to pouring rain to dry again, it felt like no sight would ever come close to how the track looked right then in that moment.

Ross Brawn stood proudly on the constructors step of the podium, and was barely containing his tears as the German anthem was introduced over the tannoy. Seb couldn’t help it as he looked up at Michael, his mentor, his friend, and today probably the most fierce driver he had ever raced against, and watched as tears streaked down his face after the first few notes.

The Mercedes mechanics and engineers gathered below let out al almighty roar as Michael raised both fists triumphantly in the air at the end. There was something awfully poetic about him netting his ninety second win at Germany in a Mercedes, and the worlds press were already hard at work at their keyboards and notepads trying to figure out just how they could talk about the Red Baron’s triumphant return when no suitable adjectives really seemed to exist.

Right as the trophies were about to be presented, Michael clapped a heavy hand on Sebastian’s shoulder and beamed at him with a proud smile before fixing his winner’s cap back onto his head.

The crowd were beside themselves even before Michael was presented with the winner’s trophy – a 3D Santander logo that was painted with the colours of the German flag on in the inside but chrome silver on the outside. A fitting prize for a silver arrow. The sun glinted off the surface as the crowd and Mercedes team roared so loud it was a wonder they weren’t heard cheering for miles.

Sebastian, who still couldn’t quite believe that his childhood dream of sharing a podium with Michael had finally come true, accepted his second place trophy with a wide schoolboy grin. All he could think about was that day in Kerpen when he’d met Michael for the first time with wide eyes and a stunned smile. Seb was pretty sure that he was wearing the exact same expression on his face, and for once he didn’t care.

With the trophies presented, the dignitaries were quickly escorted off the podium and Seb let out a shaky sigh as he leaned down to grab the neck of his champagne bottle.

“Shall we get Ross first?” He asked with a cheeky smile. Michael looked at him with a familiar glint in his eye as he picked up his bottle with ease, and really he certainly was a professional in the art of spraying champagne as he popped the cork, jumped down from the top step, and ran over to Ross before the long-suffering Team principle had a chance to run away. The two men laughed as Ross was soaked through, and only when Michael was happy did he go over to the very edge of the podium platform in the hope some of the droplets of spray would reach his beloved colleagues.

Sebastian grinned as he sprayed champagne over Michael’s right side. Fernando, who had finished in third place eventually joined in and deposited the bulk of his bottle’s contents over Michael’s head.

When they piled onto the top step of the podium Seb gestured for Ross to stand between himself and Michael for the official photograph. Before he had a chance to respond Michael hooked an arm round his shoulder and pulled him in so they were stood side by side, brothers in arms complete with matching grins even if Ross still looked quite astounded with the events of the past two hours. Seb was still smiling brightly as the picture was taken, and when he took off his Pirelli cap to swap it for his Red Bull one, Michael reached over to ruffle his hair with a hearty laugh.

The crowd hadn’t relented in their cheers once, and they only hushed when Michael spoke during the podium interview. He tearfully thanked the crowd in German for all their support throughout the years – and especially since his comeback two years ago, before expressing gratitude just as heartfelt to his race engineer Bono for getting him to the end, and Mercedes head of strategy James for his cool-headed decisions that led him back to the top step of the podium once more.

He then turned to Sebastian, and looked at him with a proud smile.

“You know, I remember meeting a young kid in Kerpen many years ago, I never in my life thought I would get to race against him let alone for a race win. But we had a good fight, I’d forgotten how much I enjoyed racing against someone. I hope that we can do it again sometime.” There was a warm ferocity to Michael’s smile, not in the malicious sense but the kind of a true competitor. One that would never, ever give up without leaving anything on the table.

Seb said as such when the interviewer turned to him, adding that he knew going against Michael he would have to give everything, and while he was disappointed to lose the race he would always be honoured to say that he got to battle it out on track against his hero.

“Don’t worry Seb,” Michael said with a warm pat on the shoulder when they walked off the podium and back into the cool down room, arm in arm. “You’ll get your turn next year.”

Sure enough, almost exactly twelve months later, Sebastian took to the top step on the podium at the Nürburgring. Michael, now retired, apparently doubled up as a psychic. He sent Seb a text congratulating him on his first home race win, and in the week off between the races in Germany and Hungary he greeted Sebastian with a thumbs up and a bright grin when he and Hanna happily accepted an invitation to dinner at the Schumacher home.

Sat proudly in the living room, wrapped in thin white frames, hung two pictures from that day in Hockenheim. The first was of Michael with his trophy, the second of himself and Sebastian spraying champagne wearing the brightest of smiles. Mick couldn’t help himself when he asked his father and his friend just what it was like to race each other in such difficult conditions, and both Sebastian and Michael reeled off in great technical detail exactly how everything unfolded.

Seb couldn’t help himself as he glanced at the pictures as he left, the sun now set and the sky filled with twinkling silver stars, and he felt nothing but pride as he knew he would carry that day in his heart for the rest of his life.

[7r0773r]

String Theory by David Foster Wallace

Midwest junior tennis was also my initiation into true adult sadness. I had developed a sort of hubris about my Taoistic ability to control via noncontrol. I'd established a private religion of wind. I even liked to bike. Awfully few people in Philo bike, for obvious wind reasons, but I'd found a way to sort of tack back and forth against a stiff current, holding some wide book out at my side at about 120° to my angle of thrust—Baynes and Pugh's The Art of the Engineer and Cheiro's Language of the Hand proved to be the best airfoils—so that through imagination and verve and stoic cheer I could not just neutralize but use an in-your-face gale for biking. Similarly, by thirteen I'd found a way not just to accommodate but to employ the heavy summer winds in matches. No longer just mooning the ball down the center to allow plenty of margin for error and swerve, I was now able to use the currents kind of the way a pitcher uses spit. I could hit curves way out into cross-breezes that'd drop the ball just fair; I had a special wind-serve that had so much spin the ball turned oval in the air and curved left to right like a smart slider and then reversed its arc on the bounce. I'd developed the same sort of autonomic feel for what the wind would do to the ball that a standard-trans driver has for how to shift. As a junior tennis player, I was for a time a citizen of the concrete physical world in a way the other boys weren't, I felt. And I felt betrayed at around fourteen when so many of these single-minded flailing boys became abruptly mannish and tall, with sudden sprays of hair on their thighs and wisps on their lips and ropy arteries on their forearms. My fifteenth summer, kids I'd been beating easily the year before all of a sudden seemed overpowering. I lost in two semi-finals, at Pekin and Springfield in '77, of events I'd beaten Antitoi in the finals of in '76. My dad just about brought me to my knees after the Springfield loss to some kid from the Quad Cities when he said, trying to console me, that it had looked like a boy playing a man out there. And the other boys sensed something up with me, too, smelled some breakdown in the odd détente I'd had with the elements: my ability to accommodate and fashion the exterior was being undercut by the malfunction of some internal alarm clock I didn't understand. (Derivative Sport in Tornado Alley, pp. 13-14)

***

Michael Joyce—whose realness and approachability and candor are a big reason why he's whom I end up spending the most time watching and talking to—will later say, in response to my dry observation that a rather disproportionate number of unranked Canadians seem to have gotten wild cards into the Montreal Qualies, that Brakus "had a big serve, but the guy didn't belong on a pro court." Joyce didn't mean this in an unkind way. Nor did he mean it in a kind way. It turns out that what Michael Joyce says rarely has any kind of spin or slant on it; he mostly just reports what he sees, rather like a camera. You couldn't even call him sincere, because it's not like it seems ever to occur to him to try to be sincere or nonsincere. For a while I thought that Joyce's rather bland candor was a function of his not being very bright. This judgment was partly informed by the fact that Joyce didn't go to college and was only marginally involved in his high school academics (stuff I know because he told me it right away).(24) What I discovered as the tournament wore on was that I can be kind of a snob and an asshole, and that Michael Joyce's affectless openness is a sign not of stupidity but of something else.

24. Something else that's hotly debated by tennis authorities is the trend of players going pro at younger and younger ages and skipping college and college tennis and plunging into the stress and peripatetic loneliness of the Tour, etc. Michael Joyce skipped college and went directly onto the pro tour because at eighteen he'd just won the U.S. National Juniors, and this created a set of overwhelming inducements to turn pro. The winner at the National 18-and-Under Singles automatically gets a wild card into the U.S. Open's main draw for that year. In addition, a year's top junior comes to the powerful but notoriously fickle and temporary attention of major clothing and racket companies. Joyce's victory over the 128-man National field at Kalamazoo MI in 1991 resulted in endorsement offers from Fila and Yonex worth around $100,000. $100,000 is about what it takes to finance three years on the Tour for a very young player who can't reasonably expect to earn a whole lot of prize-money.

Joyce could have turned down that offer of a three-year subsidy and gone to college, but if he'd gone to college it would have been primarily to play tennis. Coaches at major universities apparently offered Joyce inducements to come play for them so literally outrageous and incredible that I wouldn't repeat them here even if Joyce hadn't asked me not to.

The reason why Michael Joyce would have gone to college primarily to play tennis is that the academic and social aspects of collegiate life interest him about as much as hitting 2,500 crosscourt forehands while a coach yells at you in foreign languages would interest you. Tennis is what Michael Joyce loves and lives for and is. He sees little point in telling anybody anything different. It's the only thing he's devoted himself to, and he's given massive amounts of himself to it, and as far as he understands it it's all he wants to do or be. Because he started playing at age two and competing at age seven, however, and had the first half-dozen years of his career directed rather shall we say forcefully and enthusiastically by his father (who Joyce estimates spent probably around $250,000 on lessons and court-time and equipment and travel during Michael's junior career), it seemed reasonable to ask Joyce to what extent he "chose" to devote himself to tennis. Can you "choose" something when you are forcefully and enthusiastically immersed in it at an age when the resources and information necessary for choosing are not yet yours?

Joyce's response to this line of inquiry strikes me as both unsatisfactory and marvelous. Because of course the question is unanswerable, at least it's unanswerable by a person who's already—as far as he understands it—"chosen". Joyce's answer is that it doesn't really matter much to him whether he originally "chose" serious tennis or not; all he knows is that he loves it. He tries to explain his feelings at the Nationals in 1991: "You get there and look at the draw, it's a 128 draw, there's so many guys you have to beat. And then it's all over and you've won, you're the National Champion—there's nothing like it. I get chills even talking about it." Or how it was just the previous week in Washington: "I'm playing Agassi, and it's great tennis, and there's like thousands of fans going nuts. I can't describe the feeling. Where else could I get that?"

What he says aloud is understandable, but it's not the marvelous part. The marvelous part is the way Joyce's face looks when he talks about what tennis means to him. He loves it; you can see this in his face when he talks about it: his eyes normally have a kind of Asiatic cast because of the slight epicanthic fold common to ethnic Irishmen, but when he speaks of tennis and his career the eyes get round and the pupils dilate and the look in them is one of love. The love is not the love one feels for a job or a lover or any of the loci of intensity that most of us choose to say we love. It's the sort of love you see in the eyes of really old people who've been happily married for an incredibly long time, or in religious people who are so religious they've devoted their lives to religious stuff: it's the sort of love whose measure is what it has cost, what one's given up for it. Whether there's "choice" involved is, at a certain point, of no interest... since it's the very surrender of choice and self that informs the love in the first place. (Michael Joyce's Professional Artistry, pp. 57-58)

***

The idea that there can be wholly distinct levels to competitive tennis—levels so distinct that what's being played is in essence a whole different game—might seem to you weird and hyperbolic. I have played probably just enough tennis to understand that it's true. I have played against men who were on a whole different, higher plateau than I, and I have understood on the deepest and most humbling level the impossibility of beating them, of "solving their game." Knowle is technically entitled to be called a professional, but he is playing a fundamentally different grade of tennis from Michael Joyce's, one constrained by limitations Joyce does not have. I feel like I could get on a tennis court with Julian Knowle. He would beat me, perhaps badly, but I don't feel like it would be absurd for me to occupy the same 78' x 27' rectangle as he. But the idea of me playing Joyce—or even hitting around with him, which was one of the ideas I was entertaining on the flight to Montreal, to hit around with a hot young U.S. pro—is now revealed to me to be absurd and in a certain way obscene, and during this night match I resolve not even to let Joyce(47) know that I used to play competitive tennis, to play seriously and (I'd presumed) rather well. This makes me sad.

47. Who is clearly such a fundamentally nice guy that he would probably hit around with me for a little while just out of politeness, since for him it would be at worst somewhat dull. For me, though, it would be obscene. (Michael Joyce's Professional Artistry, pp. 70-71)

***

Michael Joyce in close-up person, like eating supper or riding in a courtesy car, looks slighter and younger than he does on-court. From close up he looks his age, which to me is basically a fetus. He's about 5'9" and 160; he's muscular but quietly so, without much definition. He likes to wear old T-shirts and a backwards cap. His hairline is receding in a subtle young-man way that makes his forehead look a little high. I forget whether he wore an earring. Michael Joyce's interests outside tennis consist mostly of big-budget movies and genre novels of the commercial paperback sort that one reads on planes. In other words, he really has no interests outside tennis. He has a tight and long-standing group of friends back home in LA, but one senses that most of his personal connections have been made via tennis. He's dated some. It's impossible to tell whether he's a virgin. It seems staggering and impossible, but my sense is he might be. Then again, I tended to idealize and distort him, I know, because of how I felt about what he could do on the court. His most revealing sexual comment is made in the context of explaining the odd type of confidence that keeps him from freezing up in a match in front of large crowds or choking on a point when there's lots of money at stake. Joyce, who usually needs to pause about five beats to think before he answers a question, thinks the confidence is partly a matter of temperament and partly a function of hard work:

"If I'm in like a bar, and there's a really good-looking girl, I might be kind of nervous. But if there's like a thousand gorgeous girls in the stands when I'm playing, it's a different story. I'm not nervous then, when I play, because I know what I'm doing. I know what to do out there." Maybe it's good to let these be his last quoted words.

Whether or not he ends up in the top ten and a name anybody will know, Michael Joyce will remain a figure of enduring and paradoxical fascination for me. The restrictions on his life have been, in my opinion, grotesque; and in certain ways Joyce himself is a grotesque. But the radical compression of his attention and self has allowed him to become a transcendent practitioner of an art—something few of us get to be. It's allowed him to visit and test parts of his psyche that most of us do not even know for sure we have, to manifest in concrete form virtues like courage, persistence in the face of pain or exhaustion, performance under wilting scrutiny and pressure.

Michael Joyce is, in other words, a complete man (though in a grotesquely limited way). But he wants more. Not more completeness; he doesn't think in terms of virtues or transcendence. He wants to be the best, to have his name known, to hold professional trophies over his head as he patiently turns in all four directions for the media. He is an American and he wants to win. He wants this, and he will pay to have it—will pay just to pursue it, let it define him—and will pay with the regretless cheer of a man for whom issues of choice became irrelevant long ago. Already, for Joyce, at twenty-two, it's too late for anything else: he's invested too much, is in too deep. I think he's both lucky and un-. He will say he is happy and mean it. Wish him well. (Michael Joyce's Professional Artistry, pp. 84-85)

[biteyoubiteme]

You dont get how excited i was seeing that you posted this fic ive read it like three times and i realized i never reblogged it im sorry ;--;; but i LOVE this fic okay i love it sm you have no idea The engine roars in your ears as you bolt across the finish line, your car skidding and screeching to a halt. The cheers and claps of the crowd rise to an almost deafening crescendo, and you grip the steering wheel tight with furrowed brows, being able to feel how sweaty your forehead had become, adrenaline still surging through your veins as you pant heavily. A quick glance at the leaderboard tells you the result: Second. Fucking. Place. Like just from the start im so hooked- 

“Hardwork, my ass. His daddy got him connections and sponsorships, that’s why. He thinks he can just waltz in with that stupid smile and—oh my god, he’s winking at me. I’m going to fucking kill him.” Sure enough, Beomgyu catches your eye roll and winks your way before saying something to the reporters that makes them hysterically laugh. When i tell you i giggle and love love love love love rivals to lovers so much like the cockieness that can only be reached with rivals just heals something in me and this did just that i love it uuuuuggghhh

Taehyun shrugs, “He grows on you. I guess.” “Yeah, like a nasty mould.” im giggling and kicking my feet over this i love them ><

There is one thing you’ve never told anyone about. Not your teammates, not taehyun, and that is when you, of all people, made out with Choi Beomgyu one awfully unlucky night. Jumping around my room rn you cant see it but believe it- 

What you do remember though was looking at him, really looking at him, in the shifting, almost epileptic lights of the club. How big and brown his eyes were, how long and thick his eyelashes were and how they fluttered like a doll every time he blinked. How plump and pouty his lips were, especially now that he was drunk, he just kept on pouting his lips and his cheeks were flushed all rosy from all the alcohol he’d had. His long wolfcut was messy by now, bangs falling into his eyes. I LOVE HOW YOU WRITE ABOUT HOW PRETTY BEOMGYU IS 

The final lap is chaos, the audience on their feet now. You’re so incredibly angry, but you can’t let that get to you and hinder your focus, you clench your teeth, gripping your steering wheel so tight your knuckles are white, you’re even more determined to win than before. Okay but im on the edge of my seat over this race like its irl and i dont know whats going to happen like i love it sm

"You fucking cheated!" You shout, jabbing a finger at his chest. He blinks innocently, tilting his head in a puppy like way. "Me? Cheat? That’s a very serious accusation to make. I’d never." There’s a slight smugness to him, almost mocking, he’s not even pissed he didn’t win like you’d wanted him to be, just calm and collected and being a bitch. It makes you even more livid with him. THE RIVALS ARE BEING RIVALS AND I LOVE IT ITS MAKING MY BITE MY FIST AND KICK MY FEET BEHIND ME LIKE IM SO SAT AND OBSESSED WITH THEM- 

Something inside you just snaps. It infuriates you how you’re the one who won and yet, you feel small. Why is he the one sneering at you? That should be you! You want to have the upper hand over him, some semblance of control— just like that night again when he was putty in your hands. And so, before you can even register what you yourself are about to do, you grab him by his jacket, smashing your lips against his. He melts almost instantly, kissing you back so fervently and eagerly, as if he’d been waiting this whole time for this to happen. And you can’t lie, it felt almost euphoric to have his soft lips back on yours again. Almost like an addict getting their fix after a long withdrawal. EEEEEEEEEEEEEKKKKKK ><

but there’s a look of almost, somewhat hurt on his face. APOLOGIZE TO HIM AND ME FOR THIS ENDING EVIL!!! (i love this fic sm) 

☆ Drive you mad !

genre: racer au, smut, e2l, rivals , crack

Pairings: sub ! race car driver ! beomgyu x dom ! gn race car driver reader (afab when comes to smut)

Warnings: kinda public sex, bratty beomgyu, sub beomgyu, grinding/palming, edging, creampie, riding, hand job, degrading, sex in a car, clubbing, alcohol, hair pulling, tit sucking, use of names ‘good boy’, ‘whore’

Word count: 4.7k

The engine roars in your ears as you bolt across the finish line, your car skidding and screeching to a halt. The cheers and claps of the crowd rise to an almost deafening crescendo, and you grip the steering wheel tight with furrowed brows, being able to feel how sweaty your forehead had become, adrenaline still surging through your veins as you pant heavily. A quick glance at the leaderboard tells you the result:

Second. Fucking. Place.

You grit your teeth, rather aggressively slamming the door shut, and getting out of the car. Yanking off your helmet, you storm over to where Kang Taehyun, your ever-calm, teammate, was leaning casually against the pit wall, sipping on his water bottle from the last round he had just raced himself. You on the other hand, are seconds away from combusting.

“Fuck him.” You seethe and grumble, arms crossed as both of your gazes switch to focus on Choi Beomgyu in the centre, soaking up the spotlight a few metres away, gesturing animatedly for the cameras with sparkling eyes, a stupid smirk and very satisifed look on his face as he tucked his helmet under one arm. He’s surrounded and swarmed by reporters with god knows how many microphones shoved in his face who hang onto his every single word like he was some goddamn deity.

He basks in it, always loved the attention. You wouldn’t be surprised if he tried to win every race solely for the purpose of being met with cameras and praises at the end. It’s like he got off on that shit. Attention seeker.

“What a fucking nepo baby.” You scoff and taehyun laughs, always amused for your hate towards Choi Beomgyu. But it was true, he was only here because his father was a famous legendary racer back in the day, his racing career practically gift wrapped by him at a young age. Choi Beomgyu had everything handed to him on a silver platter whilst you had to claw your way through to get where you are now. But, it seems to be that you’re the only one who has a problem with him. Everyone else adores him, the 'golden boy'.

“Oh—hehe. Stop it. Thank you! Yeah, honestly it’s all about hard work.” You hear him gush and chuckle in faux shyness and humbleness, waving his hand dismissively, eyes shaped into little crescent moons and running a hand through his long soft brown hair. “But I don’t think I’m that good personally heh.”

You can’t help how hard your eyes roll at that, muttering more insults under your breath only taehyun can hear who's certainly more than entertained. “Hardwork, my ass. His daddy got him connections and sponsorships, that’s why. He thinks he can just waltz in with that stupid smile and—oh my god, he’s winking at me. I’m going to fucking kill him.”

Sure enough, Beomgyu catches your eye roll and winks your way before saying something to the reporters that makes them hysterically laugh. The audacity. You have half the mind of walking over there and strangling him right in front of the cameras. That surely wouldn’t end your career right? Or worse yet, put you in prison.

As the crowd around him finally disperses and fizzles out, Beomgyu confidently saunters over to you and taehyun, helmet still tucked under his arm and still grinning annoyingly.

“Oh no.” Taehyun chuckles, throwing a knowing look your way and nodding to the direction of beomgyu, “Incoming.”

“Fuck my life.” You mutter, taking a big breath in, bracing yourself for the worst.

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t my favourite fan.” Beomgyu’s grin widens as he reaches you, snickering. He ignores your scoff in return, turning to taehyun instead with a smile and clapping his back. “Hey, Tae. Drinks after this? A bunch of us are going.”

“Yeah, I’m in. Congrats on first place today by the way.” Taehyun replies giving him a bro hug. To this day, you still can’t understand how taehyun can stand him. But Beomgyu has a lot of friends, and like you said, you really are the only one who dislikes him.

“How can you even hang out with him?” You make the most disgusted face you can muster towards Beomgyu to show the pure utter hatred you feel to him.

Beomgyu practically puffs out his chest, already expecting to be backed up and stood up against by taehyun.

Taehyun shrugs, “He grows on you. I guess.”

“Yeah, like a nasty mould.”

Beomgyu deflates, taking great offence, mouth hanging open and frowning, pouting at the both of you now laughing and high-fiving each other.

Beomgyu’s intense gaze then returns back to you. Taehyun, addressing the situation, and knowing how both your bantering can escalate, sees it’s best to leave, walking away to leave you alone with the cockroach. “Right, so as entertaining as this has been, I’m going to go now…preferably anywhere else...”

“What about you, y/n? No congratulations?” Beomgyu mocks and sighs boastfully once Taehyun has left. His voice dripping with that sickeningly playful lilt that always makes your blood boil. “No heartfelt speech on how I inspire you to be better? But hey, second place isn’t so bad.”

You narrow your eyes, standing up straight. “You won by, like,” you scoff, “a millisecond at best. Don’t get all cocky. It was just pure luck.”

He laughs, raising an eyebrow at you. “Oh, come on, I didn’t think you were such a sore loser. It’s called strategy.”

“Strategy?” you repeat incredulously, “The only strategy you have is relying on your last name to get you ahead.”

“God, you’re still on that? I feel like you’re just using that as an excuse to use still. Just admit I’m as good as you. Better, even. I’ve won one more race than you now~”

The two of you kept a tally of how many races you both have won, you’ve had the same exact score as him for ages now, obviously, not anymore. But you’ll win next time, just he waits.

He takes a step closer to you, waiting and expecting you to make a snarky comeback at him like you always do as you angrily stare him down and he does the same.

For a second, just one second, your eyes flicker down to his lips and suddenly, you’re brought back to an incident that occurred a few months ago. A memory you’ve tried—and failed—to forget.

There is one thing you’ve never told anyone about. Not your teammates, not taehyun, and that is when you, of all people, made out with Choi Beomgyu one awfully unlucky night.

⸝⸝

THE SAID AWFULLY UNLUCKY NIGHT YOU AND CHOI BEOMGYU MADE OUT:

The nightclub was packed with racers, sponsors, and fans celebrating the after party of a big end of season race, air heavy with the scent of alcohol and sweat. You nursed your drink, leaning against the bar.

Of course, Beomgyu was at the centre of the dance floor, surrounded by a group of admirers, his laughter ringing out over the music. He was never hard to spot, the centre of attention always.

"Ugh," you muttered under your breath, taking another sip of your drink.

“And you’re still staring?” Taehyun had teased, sitting beside you.

"I’m not staring.” You snapped, rolling your eyes. "I’m wondering how he manages to be so insufferable and stupid all the time."

“Sure,” Taehyun stifles a laugh, raising his glass to you. “Just don’t kill each other before the next race.”

You down the last of your drink, slamming it on the bar counter and ordering another, “Can’t promise that.”

The rest of the night is a blur to you. Too many drinks, too many spinning lights, and far too much proximity to Beomgyu.

You’re not one to get shitfaced drunk. You prefer the comfortable state of slight tipsiness and anything other than that is not fun for you, because why would someone want to be so drunk off their ass to the point of throwing up and not being aware of their surroundings? Usually, you’d chastise people like that, wondering how they can’t even manage how much they drink. But on that night, you’d had one too many to count, you were drunk, too drunk. Not the comfortable tipsiness that you’re used to.

You know that at one point, either you or Beomgyu had come up to the other and the normal bickering had ensued. You know he was just as drunk as you so whatever you both were arguing about probably made no sense at all.

What you do remember though was looking at him, really looking at him, in the shifting, almost epileptic lights of the club.

How big and brown his eyes were, how long and thick his eyelashes were and how they fluttered like a doll every time he blinked. How plump and pouty his lips were, especially now that he was drunk, he just kept on pouting his lips and his cheeks were flushed all rosy from all the alcohol he’d had. His long wolfcut was messy by now, bangs falling into his eyes.

He looked different that night, too. Not the usual racing suit and helmet, but a stylish black suit with his shirt unbuttoned just enough to reveal a silver necklace glinting against his skin.

All in all, beomgyu was a pretty boy. You get why he had a lot of fans.

He was still going on about something to you, slurring his words, probably insulting you, and the only logical solution to shut him up in your inebriated state at that moment, was to kiss his pouty lips. Luckily, you both were at the very corner of the nightclub shrouded in darkness, everyone else too busy dancing and whatnot to see you both.

You remember him gasping when you grabbed the collar of his black shirt, yanking him down and pressing your lips aggressively against his, but he kissed you back almost instantly, without a second thought.

You weren’t very gentle with him, pushing him forcefully against the wall even further and tugging at his necklace. The way you were making out with him was just pouring out all your anger you’ve felt towards him for years. But, he just let you. He let you do anything to him and you were surprised, so different to the cocky and confident beomgyu you knew. And that sheer control he let you have over him for once felt so good, you didn’t want to stop.

That, and the fact Choi Beomgyu was also just really good at kissing, he made it so difficult to pull away at all, lips so soft and plump and addictive, making you want more and more and more.

But, you never spoke an utterance of it afterwards, he never brought it up, neither did you. And honestly, it felt so surreal, making out with the Choi Beomgyu, the one who you no doubtedly hate his guts and him kissing you back so pliantly? You’d believe it more if it was all just a hallucination. You were so drunk you wouldn’t be surprised if you made it all up, dreamt it even. Maybe it was someone else you made out with and you were so drunk you can’t remember. It’d make more sense than Choi Beomgyu.

Although, you do find yourself thinking about the makeout session often times than not, his lips on yours just felt so good. Too good. It was like, the best makeout you’ve had in your life and you curse it for being him. Why he had to be the one whose lips you still thought about? you don’t know. You’re certain he had forgotten and you wish you could have just like he seemed to.

But anyway, fuck that and fuck him.

⸝⸝

"What? Cat got your tongue?" Beomgyu is still sneering at you, awaiting your comeback but you can’t think well at the moment.

Your face heats, and you shove past him. “Go to hell, Choi.”

And his laughter follows behind you as you walk away. Oh, how he infuriates you.

You have one goal: beat Choi Beomgyu. Today is the day you finally get to race against him again. He’d held that last victory over your head, taunting you endlessly, with that invigorating, stupid smirk of his and you’d had more than enough. Today was your chance to shut him up and kick his ass. You’ll put him in his place and win. You’d been waiting for this.

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to another thrilling showdown! All eyes are on the two front runners y/n and Choi Beomgyu. These rivals have been neck and neck all season. Beomgyu won the last race but will he win again? Will today decide who’s truly on top?” The commentator’s voices boom over the loudspeakers.

The flagman waves the green flag, you slam on the gas pedal and you’re off, surging forward.

It wasn’t an easy race, beomgyu seemed motivated to win too. He was always either just ahead or just behind, not far enough for it be satisfactory, but nail bitingly tense, as anything could happen any moment. And right now, ahead, just barely, was him, blocking every attempt you made to overtake him.

“Y/n’s looking for an opening,” the commentators shout. “But Beomgyu’s defensive driving is flawless so far. Look at that precision!”

Loud noises of the engines are all you can hear, filling your ears as you manoeuvre around sharp turns, tires screeching against the asphalt. The laps all blur together but you’re nearing the end now.

You managed to get alongside him on the straight, your cars almost touching, crowd going wild as you both enter the next corner side by side, dangerously close.

“Neither driving is moving an inch!”

Suddenly, beomgyu’s car swerves towards yours, bumping and hitting at yours with such force, a dirty, blatant attempt at running you off the track and then he overtakes you. You gasp, fighting to stabilise your car, narrowly avoiding a spin. That was a new low, even for Choi Beomgyu. He’d never cheated like that before and you’re absolutely enraged.

The final lap is chaos, the audience on their feet now. You’re so incredibly angry, but you can’t let that get to you and hinder your focus, you clench your teeth, gripping your steering wheel so tight your knuckles are white, you’re even more determined to win than before.

The last stretch looms ahead and he’s just razor thin ahead of you, in the last second, you see your opening. Beomgyu had oversteered slightly on the turn, just enough for you to slip past him, you speed ahead.

“AND Y/N TAKES THE WIN IN A SPECTACULAR FINISH! THEY’VE DONE IT! WHAT A RACE!”

You crossed the line first. By a hair.

Everyone erupts, but your satisfaction is short-lived. Beomgyu’s cheating had completely soured your victory. The fucking nerve of him.

You barely register the reporters swarming you, bombarding your face with microphones. “Y/n! how does it feel to take first place?!”

“An incredible performance today, what was going through your mind?!”

The post race interview is a haze of forced smiles and generic answers. You’re barely listening as the reporters barrage you with questions. You’re still so pissed off at Beomgyu.

When it’s finally over, you make your way to the garage and that’s where you spot him leaning casually against his car, arms crossed in a nonchalant way. You clench your fists, blood boiling as you storm over to him. He’d crossed the line, well, not literally this time, but definitely fucking figuratively.

"You fucking cheated!" You shout, jabbing a finger at his chest.

He blinks innocently, tilting his head in a puppy like way. "Me? Cheat? That’s a very serious accusation to make. I’d never." There’s a slight smugness to him, almost mocking, he’s not even pissed he didn’t win like you’d wanted him to be, just calm and collected and being a bitch. It makes you even more livid with him.

“You intentionally tried to cause a collision with me. You should have been penalised. I don’t know how you weren’t!”

“Yeah, and you still won. So why are you even mad?” He crosses his arms and shrugs, ridiculing you. “If you can’t handle that maybe you should switch to something lighter like go karting instead.”

"Can’t handle?!" You splutter, looking at him in pure disbelief, your voice rising. "You arrogant, nepotistic, spoilt brat!-” Each insult punctuated with a sharp poke to his chest and, yet he still finds it all funny, bursting out into laughter at you.

Something inside you just snaps. It infuriates you how you’re the one who won and yet, you feel small. Why is he the one sneering at you? That should be you! You want to have the upper hand over him, some semblance of control— just like that night again when he was putty in your hands.

And so, before you can even register what you yourself are about to do, you grab him by his jacket, smashing your lips against his. He melts almost instantly, kissing you back so fervently and eagerly, as if he’d been waiting this whole time for this to happen. And you can’t lie, it felt almost euphoric to have his soft lips back on yours again. Almost like an addict getting their fix after a long withdrawal.

The kissing becomes heated fast, sounds of your mouths smacking filling the echoing garage as he lets you take over his mouth completely, letting you bite and pull at his bottom lip, emitting soft little gasps at this.

Even for the second time, it was disorienting seeing Beomgyu like this, nothing like the beomgyu you knew on the track or in the spotlight, and now with no alcohol in your system, neither of you could even blame whatever was going on right now on that. It’s all too intoxicating. It takes everything in you to pull back for air.

You push him against his car with more force than necessary, and Beomgyu stumbles slightly before sitting down on the top of the hood. His eyes are blown wide, flustered as you stand between his splayed legs, cupping his cheek and kissing him again, him responding immediately. This is how you like him. Your kisses trail down his jaw and the column of his neck, when you suck on his adam’s apple, he lets out a sharp intake and gasp, tilting his head back to give you more access, he already seems worked up from just a few kisses. Was his neck really that sensitive?

When your hand slides down to palm him through his trousers, his breath hitches and his jaw goes slack. “Oh…b-but we’re in public…” his cheeks flush a deep red and he protests weakly, plump lips all swollen and glossy and wet from the intense making out.

You raise a brow. “So you want me to stop?” You keep grinding your palm against his very hard length now, sucking on his neck and he shudders and whines cutely, very clearly enjoying it.

“W-wait no….” So you continue, he’s panting as you palm him, rutting into your hand himself. You pull back just enough to look at him, so dumb and lost in pleasure, lips parted with soft breathy moans and gasps as he chases the small friction you give him, his brows knitting together.

You roll your eyes at the sight of him, “Trying to run me off the track? You’re pathetic, beomgyu.”

“Pathetic?” He scoffs, still having the nerve to act like a brat when it’s all crumbling. “h-hah, if anyone’s pathetic it’s you—s-shit y/n—please. I need more, please.” Completely contradicting himself, because if there was only one word to describe him exactly right now, it would be pathetic.

“Admit it. Say you’re nothing but a dirty cheater first.”

“You wish.”

“Okay. I’ll leave you like this. All hard and horny.”

He hesitates, scowling, debating whether or not to challenge you, but when you stop all contact of palming and kissing his neck, starting to step away, he caves in.

“Wait!” He blurts, grasping at your wrist, eyes wide and pleading. “I’m…fine. Fine! I’m nothing but a dirty a cheater...” His face burns, embarrassed, humiliated, his pride hurt. The admission sends a thrill through you, he’s always been so full of himself, but now he’s just a needy pathetic mess for you. You’re having so much fun.

You grin. “Aw. What a good boy.” You coo sarcastically. The words have an instant effect on him though, whole body tensing and cheeks blooming into an even more impossibly vivid red and he whines, hands clutching at your hips to bring you back as he still sits pliantly on the hood of his car.

You unzip his pants, flushed pretty cock already leaking, slapping at his tummy and you brush your thumb over his sensitive tip, spreading the bead of pre-cum that gathered there slowly, watching his reaction and he looks down at the action himself, drawing out a helpless shudder and whimper from him. He groans, eyes half lidded when you wrap your hand around his cock, moving up and down with a deliberate slowness that makes his breath hitch every few seconds and whine.

“God, you’re so easy, beomgyu. Are you this much of a whore all the time?” You murmur and tease, dragging your teeth over his cute earlobe, ears all red, feeling him shiver.

“Shut”, he whimpers cutely, “up. I-i could…ah…fuck you stupid right now.” He retaliates or attempts to, but his hands grip the edge of the hood like he’s barely holding himself upright.

You laugh. “Oh, really? Because you look pretty wrecked already.” He was so fucked out right now, you wonder if he’d even be able to take it when you actually fuck him.

He’s still trying to keep up the pretense of resistance. “I’m not wrecked. You’re—” You pump his cock at a ruthless pace, jerking him off fast, occasionally toying with the slit on the head of cock and his body goes limp under you touch, moaning out prettily and loudly, eyes squeezing shut and panting, chest heaving. He clings to you now, head buried in your neck, practically drooling, body jerking with every stroke. He still attempts to bite back at you but they come out as dumb babbles and mumbles of nonsense, mewling and gasping, completely at your mercy.

Beomgyu whines and moans deliriously. “F-fuck! Oh—need to cum. C-can’t.” He removes his head from your neck to look up at you with glossy doe eyes, so wrecked and hanging on by a thread. You move your hand up and down his dick unrelentingly and before he’s just about to cum, you pull your hand off him.

The pained, frustrated cry that escapes him is deliciously pathetic. His hips jerk into the air desperately to chase the sensation, but it’s long gone now. He looks at you in shock, eyes wide in utter betrayal and devastation, and now wet with tears of frustration. But then he frowns and scowls, annoyed he didn’t get to cum. “What the fuck was that for?” He pouts.

“I could think of a lot honestly. But, don’t you want to cum inside me?”

His jaw hangs open. “Please. Yes.” Beomgyu breathes out, nodding fervently and looking at you with puppy eyes, pupils dilating and dazed at the thought alone.

Sliding off the hood, beomgyu takes your hand like an obedient puppy, and you open the car door. He sits in his driver’s seat, his flushed face tilted up to watch you as you climb onto his lap. You rid yourself of your own clothes, watching as his gaze drops immediately to your bare tits, breath catching and lips parting as he stares, seemingly captivated. He’s so stupid.

You grab his dick and use the head to rub your clit, making him let out little stuttered gasps, sliding him over your entrance and folds a few times before you sink slowly down completely. The feeling of your warm tight pussy making him go cross eyed as he groans, sucking in air and throwing his head back, grasping at your waist, furrowing his brows and mouth in an ‘o’ shape, you beginning to ride him.

It’s so hot and cramped and sweaty in the car now as you bounce on his dick continuously, being able to hear the obscene slapping and sticky noises so loudly. Beomgyu looks in a state of absolute, pure bliss, moaning like a bitch, mind all fogged up and mushy at the feeling of your pussy, his messy damp bangs falling into his eyes so all you can see is his very glistening round lips, still in that sustained ‘o’ shape, just so dumbed and fucked out.

He’s a gorgeous wreck, thick doll-like lashes fluttering. If only everyone else could see Choi Beomgyu like this right now. It feels so empowering and satisfying after all these years of him being so infuriating. You love how, despite his attempts at being bratty, he’s so docile and such a simple whore.

You tangle your hands in his hair and tug and pull every so often, which he clearly very likes if the high and strained moans are anything to show for this. His hands squeeze at your tits when it feels too good for him. His lips latch onto one of your nipples, tongue flicking over it and sucking and kissing as he looks up at you with his big brown eyes. When you deliberately clamp your pussy tightly around him, he moans out your name in response, muffled from him still sucking your tits needily, body slightly jerking.

“You remember, don’t you?—at the club?” You ask, although it was probably obvious by now.

Beomgyu pauses for a moment, popping his wet droolly mouth off your boobs, eyes darting away for a moment before returning to look at you, nodding vigorously, “of course I remember…l-liked it.” You cup his cheek again, kissing beomgyu hard, hands still tangled in his hair, tugging, fucking him mercilessly as he moans softly against your lips. “Oh god, m’ sso close. Can I cum?”

You nod, kissing him some more, “Cum for me, beomie.”

“Holyy s-shitt—” Beomgyu’s eyes roll to the back of his head, squeezing one of your tits as if for support, his back arches, his tongue lolling out dumbly, whole body trembling and shaking. You bring one of your hands to your clit, rubbing and riding yourself on him harder. With a choked off scream, he spills so much of his cum inside you, and the gorgeous sight brings you over the edge too, cumming as well.

He doesn’t pull out though, burying his face in your neck, gasping for air, groaning and clinging to you tightly, he’s still shuddering and you can feel little spurts of his cum still dribbling in you, pussy completely milking him.

The two of you sat in the car still afterwards in a slightly awkward silence. Both of you panting, trying to come down from your highs, left to fully take in what had just happened and also how thoughtless it was. Fucking Choi beomgyu in the garage? You’re incredibly lucky no one walked in. It wasn’t even like both of you were trying to be quiet either, none of that running through your mind at that moment. What if someone had heard?

Beomgyu, for once, was quiet, his usual smirk replaced with a dazed expression, so far gone. He leans slowly towards you though, looking as if he was about to kiss you again.

“This…this doesn’t mean anything by the way.” You mutter, beginning to button up your shirt.

Beomgyu scoffs, running a hands through his hair. “Doesn’t feel like nothing.”

“Yeah, well, it doesn’t. At all.” You roll your eyes, trying not to freak out, you open the car door, wanting more than anything to just get out. You walk away, leaving him there, disheveled and barely clothed, still slumped in the driver’s seat. And you don’t see it, but there’s a look of almost, somewhat hurt on his face.

A/n: happy new year !!<3 please give this lots of love it was such a bitch to write idk why but I really struggled with this 😭 also I’m so sorry to all the racing fans if makes no sense, I just made up my own kind of racing competition thing. Also the cars do not look anything like f1 cars 😭 more kind of like the nascar ones so they can actually fuck in it 😭 idk bro. I know no nothing about cars or racing. Also I’m sorry if the smut seems rushed and messy, I haven’t edited it and I was lowkey rushing to get this out

Please actually reblog !!!!!! and leave comments !!!! guys if you like the fic. It’s really appreciated and so nice tysm !<3🙏💕🌷🌷! It’s incredibly discouraging and disappointing when fics have such little reblogs ☹️👎🤨. At least send an anon in the inbox if you don’t want to rb, don’t just like. Feedback is always appreciated it makes writers want to actually write more :)