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loves4ge · 6 months ago

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celebrity!au cw: swearing, gojo is disgustingly in love

gojo satoru is thoroughly and utterly fucked. there are only ten minutes left until he has to go live for an interview—promotional material for his new movie. the only problem is you, his sweet costar; you had him wrapped around your finger.

despite being each other's on-screen love interests, your schedules hadn't matched until now to do an interview together. and gojo fucking satoru, one of the biggest celebrities to ever set foot in the hall of fame, is nervous. because he knows when gets out there, you'll be waiting for him. you've always been early to places (not really, he's just late).

it's not just the thought of you that has his stomach twisting in knots, it's his obsessive—and frankly, scary—fangirls who hang onto his every look, every glance, every word. even if no one finds out about his itsy bitsy crush, they will. and they will ruin you.

and he can't do that to you! this is your big break after slaving away in minor roles with a no-name cast. you're in the spotlight too much after only have seen the light being shone on other people, there's already too much pressure on you. the sudden onslaught of fans can be overwhelming, but the critics? they're so much harsher than what you expected.

"gojo, get out." it's his manager. deep breaths, he advises himself as he lifts out of the chair and to the set. where you are. god.

"so, i hear the set can get pretty crazy?" the interviewer smiles as he says it. he has that mall santa vibe; a little bit jolly and just slightly discomfort inducing.

your laugh slips out and gojo swears he almost died there. but he makes a conscious effort to not look at your lips. he sneaks a glance anyway.

"that's right! you should see the mess this man makes," you say, nodding your head towards the white-blond man. he should've worn his sunglasses, at least that way he could've stared at you in peace.

"hey! i'm not at fault here," gojo defends himself, guffawed. he crosses his arms as if he was trying to protect his chastity. or defend his honor, i suppose.

"mm, that's what they all say." your playful tone has him weak in the knees and he's thanking the gods that he's sitting down otherwise he would've folded right then and there.

"so geto suguru was here earlier and he mentioned that there was some steam in the movie, eh?"

stay professional, stay professional, stay professional.

"oh yeah. there are a couple of scenes for sure. it wouldn't have turned out as well as they did if it wasn't for satoru. i've never done an intimate scene before and he was just so comforting and really, a strong source of support for me."

fuck.

gojo breaks into a grin, his hand platonically (he hopes) pats your shoulder.

"it actually wouldn't have gone so well if it wasn't for our earth shattering chemistry. and our intimacy coordinator. yep, you heard it here first guys. bridgerton isn't the only show that gets one!" he's not entirely sure if the comedic route was the one to take after your heartfelt confession but he can't seem to respond as sincerely as he wants on television.

your giggle makes up for it though. and the light slap against his thigh. god. he has to resist the urge to ask you to do it again.

---

10 MINUTE COMPILATION OF GOJO BEING DOWN BAD FOR HIS COSTAR (ft. geto)

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pickingupmymercedes · 20 days ago

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Salt and Starlight - Lewis Hamilton

Lewis's 40th birthday special part 1

warnings: none

genre: fluff

wordcount: +2k

a/n: It's a '3 times y/n's made Lewis feel like a teenager (on the brink of turning 40) and the one time he did' (except that last bit is the part 2 coming later)

As always, I'm open for feedback, come say hi!

______________________________________________________________

What do you give someone who has it all? He is Lewis Hamilton, after all.

I’d been asking myself that question for weeks.

Lewis isn’t exactly the kind of guy who needs another watch, another car, or another piece of art for his collection.

He’s got it all—trophies, fame, money, and a closet full of designer clothes that probably cost more than my first car.

So, what do you give that man ?

The answer came to me one night when we were lying in bed, talking about nothing and everything.

I’d been reminiscing about growing up by the beach, about the stupid, reckless things I did as a teenager that made me feel alive. Lewis had laughed, that deep, warm laugh of his, and said, “God, it’s been years since I’ve felt anything that… teenagery.”

And there it was. My gift to him.

“Are you sure this isn’t just an elaborate ploy to embarrass me?” Lewis asks, tugging the brim of his bucket hat lower over his sunglasses. The hoodie he’s wearing makes him look like a man trying to sneak out of a high school reunion unnoticed.

Which, okay, is kind of the vibe I was going for.

The drive to Santa Barbara was… well, let’s just say Lewis loved being a passenger princess, most times, and that wasn’t one of them.

He kept fidgeting, adjusting the seat, and asking if I was sure I knew where I was going. (Spoiler: I did. Mostly.)

But by the time we pulled up to the boardwalk, the sun was setting, casting the sky in shades of pink and orange, and he finally stopped asking questions.

The amusement park was exactly how I remembered it—bright lights, the smell of cotton candy and fried food, the sound of laughter and screams from the thrill rides. It was chaos, but the good kind.

The kind that makes you feel alive.

“You’re not serious,” Lewis said, staring at the roller coaster like it might bite him.

“Oh, I’m very serious,” I said, grabbing his hand and pulling him toward the line. “Come on, old man. Let’s see if you’ve still got it.”

He glances down at me, a boyish smile breaking through his mock-suspicious expression. “Always.”

And there it is—the grin I was waiting for.

The one that reminds me of the Lewis who still feels like a kid sometimes, who loves the thrill of life just as much as his achievements.

For once, Lewis doesn’t have an itinerary. No obligations, no pressures. Just us.

We hit every ride that promises to throw us around like ragdolls. Rollercoasters that make my stomach drop (and Lewis laugh at my shrieking), bumper cars where I play dirty and spin him into the wall, and that spinning thing that got me questioning my life choices.

By the time we got to the Ferris wheel, the sky was dark, the stars just starting to peek through.

The Ferris wheel was… different. Slower. Quieter.

As we climbed higher, the noise of the park faded away, and it was just us, suspended in the air. Lewis was quiet, staring out at the ocean, and for a moment, I wondered if I’d pushed him too far with this.

“This was the plan all along, wasn’t it?” he says as he leaned into me. His voice is light, but there’s that knowing look in his eyes.

I feign innocence. “What plan?”

“The Ferris wheel. The whole night was a setup for this.”

I smirk, settling into the seat beside him. “You’re giving me way too much credit.”

The wheel begins to turn, the car gently rocking as we rise above the chaos below. The lights from the boardwalk blurring, and for a moment, neither of us speaks.

The world feels smaller up here, quieter.

He shifts closer, and I can feel his gaze on me, warm and intent. “This was a good idea.”

I smiled, leaning into him. “I have those sometimes.”

And then he leans in, his lips brushing against mine.

It starts softly, like he’s savoring the moment, but it deepens quickly, and suddenly the air feels electric. My mind goes blissfully blank, except for the thought that this—this might’ve been what I wanted all along.

When we finally break apart, his forehead rests lightly against mine, and he’s grinning like a teenager who’s just stolen his first kiss. “This feels straight out of a cheesy rom-com.”

“Good,” I manage, still catching my breath. “It’s meant to.”

He laughs, and it’s the kind that bubbles out of him, genuine and unguarded. And I think, there it is again.

That boyish smile I’d give anything to keep seeing.

“You know,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper, “this is exactly how I imagined love when I was a teenager.”

He chuckled, his breath warm against my skin. “Yeah? Did you imagine me too?”

I rolled my eyes, but I was smiling. “Shut up.”

And then the Ferris wheel started moving again, and we were laughing, and for the first time in a long time, Lewis looked… free.

We were still laughing as we stumbled off the Ferris wheel, my hand in his, the cool ocean breeze brushing against our skin.

Lewis had that look in his eyes—the one he gets when he’s trying to play it cool but is secretly having the time of his life.

It’s rare, these days, to see him so unguarded.

“You know,” he said, pulling me closer as we walked, “I haven’t done anything like this in… I don’t even know how long.”

“What, ridden a Ferris wheel?” I teased, bumping my shoulder against his. “Yeah, I can tell.”

He rolled his eyes, but he was smiling. “No, I mean… this. Just… being spontaneous. Letting go.”

I stopped walking and turned to face him, raising an eyebrow. “Lewis Hamilton, are you telling me you’ve never been spontaneous? Because I find that hard to believe.”

He shrugged, that infuriatingly charming smirk playing on his lips.

“What?” I ask, bumping my shoulder against his as we weave through the crowd.

He gives me a sideways glance, lips twitching like he’s holding back a laugh. “Nothing. Just you, scheming. Don’t think I don’t know you planned that whole Ferris wheel moment.”

I roll my eyes but can’t help the small smile that sneaks out. “Oh, please. Like I can predict what’s going to happen in the heat of the moment.”

He hums noncommittally, but the way his hand slides into mine, fingers lacing tightly, tells me he’s not buying my act. And I’m not about to argue with him on that. Ever

We walk aimlessly for a while, the neon lights of the boardwalk fading behind us as we drift toward the quieter streets. It’s one of those perfect in-between moments—neither here nor there, where everything feels suspended, and nothing needs to make sense.

That’s when he says it.

“You know,” he starts slowly “you were right earlier. About the Ferris wheel. It did feel… teenagey.”

I smirked. “Told you.”

He hesitated, then said, “So… what’s next?”

I blinked at him, surprised. “What do you mean, what’s next?”

He shrugged, but there was a glint in his eye that made me suspicious. “You’re the one who planned this whole thing. What’s the next stop on the nostalgia train?”

I stared at him for a moment, then grinned. “Well… there is one thing” and before I can stop myself, the words tumble out. “We should get that tattooed. Like, right now.”

For a split second, I expect him to laugh, to brush it off with a comment about how I’m clearly delirious from all the carnival food. But instead, he just raises an eyebrow, intrigued. “What, the ferries wheel?”

“No, ‘40,’” I say, half-joking, half-serious. “Something simple. For this moment, for you.”

To my surprise, he doesn’t immediately shut it down. Instead, he tilts his head, considering. “You’re serious about this?”

“I mean… why not?” I shrug, suddenly feeling a little self-conscious under his gaze. “You’ve got plenty. One more won’t kill you.”

He hesitated, and I could see the wheels turning in his head.

Lewis doesn’t do things on a whim—not anymore. His tattoos are works of art, carefully planned and executed by the best artists in the world. The idea of walking into some random parlor and getting inked on a whim was probably giving him hives.

He looks at me for a moment, his expression unreadable. And then he smiles, that slow, deliberate smile that makes me feel like he’s about to say something I’m not ready for. “Alright. Let’s do it.”

“Wait, what?”

“You said it yourself. Why not?”

And just like that, we’re standing outside a tattoo parlor that looks like it hasn’t seen a renovation since the early 2000s. The buzzing sound of the needle greets us as we step inside, along with the unmistakable scent of disinfectant and a tattoo artist who looks thoroughly unimpressed with our arrival.

“What are we doing?” I whisper as Lewis fills out the paperwork, his calmness somehow making me more nervous.

“Living like teenager, apparently” he says simply, handing me the pen to fill out my form. “You know, like… spontaneous, stupid, matching tattoos. The kind you get when you’re young and dumb and think it’s a good idea.”

The design we settle on is simple: the number 40, styled in a subtle, abstract way that could mean anything to anyone else. It’s perfect.

Mine goes on my wrist, tucked just under my watch strap. His ends up near his elbow, seamlessly blending into his sleeve, the one he’s spent years building.

When it’s my turn, I flinch at the first touch of the needle, earning a quiet chuckle from Lewis. “Don’t start,” I warn, gritting my teeth as the artist works.

“I wasn’t going to say anything,” he says, his voice entirely too amused.

When it’s done, we step back to admire our matching tattoos. They’re small, subtle, and utterly reckless in a way that feels right.

“40,” he says, his voice soft but laced with meaning as he looks at the ink.

I glance at him, my chest tightening in a way I wasn’t expecting. “The big four-oh.” I echo.

His lips twitch, but he doesn’t look at me. “Here we go.”

I grin, nudging his arm with my shoulder. “What? It’s a big deal. A milestone. People throw whole festivals for this kind of thing. They buy sports cars.” I pause, then laugh. “Well, I guess you’ve already got the cars covered.”

“Funny,” he says, finally glancing at me. There’s a glint of amusement in his eyes, but it fades quickly, replaced by something softer, more reflective. “It doesn’t feel like a big deal. Not really. It’s just… a number.”

“Uh-huh.” I tilt my head, studying him. “And how many times have you told yourself that the past month?”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “Too many.”

By the time we’ve grabbed more food—a greasy basket of fries—it’s late. The boardwalk is still buzzing behind us, but we’ve drifted to the sand, away from the crowds.

The ocean stretches out before us, vast and dark, lit only by the moon and the occasional flicker of a far-off boat.

Lewis sits beside me, his hands occasionally finding their way onto my back his hoodie pulled up against the chill of the night. I watch as he unwraps his burger with careful precision, like the fate of the world rests on not spilling ketchup.

“Not bad for a last-minute dinner date,” I say, popping a fry into my mouth.

He looks at me, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Not bad at all.”

We eat in comfortable silence for a while, the sound of the waves filling the gaps. I can feel him thinking, though.

The way his fingers drum lightly against his knee, the slight furrow in his brow—it’s all there if you know where to look.

“You’re being suspiciously quiet,” I say, nudging him lightly with my elbow.

He glances at me, a small smile playing on his lips. “Just thinking.”

“About?”

He takes a bite of his burger, chewing slowly as if buying time to form an answer. Finally, he swallows and looks out at the water. “About this. About everything, really.”

“Everything?” I echo, raising an eyebrow. “That’s… vague.”

He chuckles softly, shaking his head. “My birthday. Turning 40.”

I pause, the fry I was about to eat halfway to my mouth. “Oh, you’re having a midlife crisis?” I grin, trying to lighten the mood.

He gives me a look—half amused, half exasperated. “I’m not having a midlife crisis.”

“Sure sounds like one.”

He laughs, but it’s softer this time, his gaze still fixed on the ocean. “It’s not that I’m worried about turning 40. I just… I don’t know. It’s a lot to think about.”

I stay quiet, letting him take his time. You don’t rush these kinds of conversations.

“It’s funny,” he continues. “I’ve spent my whole life in this sport. Every year, every decision—it’s all been about racing. And now I’m here, about to hit 40, and…” He trails off, shaking his head.

“Hm?” I prompt gently, not pushing, just giving him space.

“And I thought I’d feel more certain about where I am.” He exhales, a long, slow breath that seems to carry years of weight. “I’ve told myself so many times I wouldn’t still be racing at this age. But here I am, and I don’t want to stop. Not yet. And now, with Ferrari…”

His voice breaks off again, and I see his hand flex slightly, like he’s trying to grasp something just out of reach.

“You’re scared,” I say quietly, not as an accusation, just an observation.

He laughs, but it’s more bitter than lighthearted. “Terrified…. Not of the racing—I know I can still do that. But of… everything else. Of failing, of not being enough. Of proving the people right who think I’m too old or that I should have stopped like Nico.”

I set my burger down, leaning toward him. “You’re not afraid of proving them right, Lewis. You’re afraid you might believe them.”

That gets his attention and his gaze snaps to mine, something flashing in his eyes.

“It’s not that I doubt myself completely,” he says after a moment. “But it’s there, in the back of my mind. This little voice asking if I’m trying to hold onto something that’s already slipping away.”

I take a breath, my heart tightening at the vulnerability in his words. “You’re not just holding on. You’re still building something. And you’re allowed to want that, even at 40.”

He looks down, his jaw tightening briefly. “I want to believe that. I really do… But then I think about all the things I’ve given up along the way—time with family, relationships, moments I’ll never get back. And I wonder if it’s selfish to keep chasing a dream.”

I nod, my chest tightening. “I get it. And I think it’s good that you’re thinking about these things. It means you care.”

His head tilts slightly, the corner of his mouth twitching. “You make it sound so simple.”

“It’s not simple. It’s messy, and ugly, and complicated, and terrifying. But it’s worth it. You’re worth it.”

For a moment, he doesn’t say anything, just watches me with an intensity that makes my chest ache.

“I’ve never been good at slowing down,” he admits finally. “Even now, there’s so much I want to do. So many dreams I’ve had since I was a kid that I’ve never had time for. And part of me wonders if I ever will.”

“You will,” I say softly. “Maybe not all of them at once. But you will. We will.”

He sighs, his shoulders relaxing slightly as he leans back on his hands, staring up at the stars. “Sometimes I wish I still had that recklessness, but with everything I know now.”

“I don’t think that’s how it works; you know that don't you, grandpa?” I tease, trying to lighten the mood.

He chuckles, the sound warmer this time. “Fair point.”

After a beat, he smirks, glancing at me. “You keep calling me old though, but I don’t remember you complaining last night.”

I burst out laughing, shaking my head. “Oh, shut up. You’re ruining the moment.”

He grins, and just like that, the heaviness of the conversation lifts slightly, replaced by something lighter but no less real.

As we get up to leave, I brush the sand off my hands and glance at him. “For the record, I like vintage Ferraris better anyway.”

“Now that you’ve mentioned it. There’s another teenager dream I’ve always had.”

He laughs as he reaches for my waist, and this time, it’s full and unrestrained. The sound carries over the waves, as he turns me around on the sand and captures my lips with his once again.

There, under the moonlight I know how much I love this man—even when he’s scared, even when he’s uncertain.

Especially then.

_____________________________________________________________

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