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maretinelli · 16 days ago

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YOUR LOVE HURTS

Lando Norris X paramedic!fem!reader

Summary: Years of friendship bind Y/N and Lando, but also prevent them from confessing the love they feel. He tries to escape his feelings by getting involved with other women, while she finds herself in frustrating dates that were secretly sabotaged by her best friend. However, some secrets cannot be hidden forever.

Words: 7.7K+

Warnings: Anguish, best friends to lovers, mentions of Y/n's work, bottled up feelings, fights between best friends (and physical aggression, but nothing too specific and serious) and of course, happy ending because I can't handle myself hahaha

Author: English is not my first language, so apologies for any mistakes that may occur throughout the story. I don't know where this idea came from, but it's definitely meant to be written for Lando hahaha I hope you like it, as always❤️🇧🇷

MASTERLIST

Y/N and Lando's friendship began unexpectedly during her first few months at McLaren. She was a young, newly qualified paramedic, full of determination but still learning to deal with the fast pace of the Formula 1 world.

Their first interaction happened after a small incident on the track during training. Although it wasn't serious, Lando needed assistance, and Y/N, even though she was still in training, was assigned to help him. He, with his relaxed and playful manner, tried to ease her nervousness with jokes, while she focused on her work, responding with a shy smile.

It was a simple moment, but it marked the beginning of something special.

As time went by and because they worked on the same team, casual meetings in the paddocks and quick conversations became more frequent.

Lando found in Y/N a person he could trust, someone who listened to his concerns without judging him, while she found in him a friend who made her feel comfortable and at ease in such a competitive environment.

They started sharing little everyday things - inside jokes, advice, secrets. It was easy to be around each other, as if they had always been a part of each other's lives. Therefore, it was not uncommon to see them together between runs or even outside of work, laughing and joking as if the rest of the world didn't exist.

However, behind the laughter and complicity, there were looks that lasted a second longer, subtle touches that awakened unexpected sensations and a feeling of emptiness whenever they were away from each other.

Y/N began to notice that Lando's smile made her heart race in a way she couldn't explain. Lando, in turn, found himself thinking about her more than he should, feeling restless when he saw her with other men.

It was a mixture of passion and love that scared them, something so intense that they preferred to keep it a secret, afraid of destroying the friendship they valued so much.

It was a hot and busy day at Silverstone Circuit, the traditional venue for the British Grand Prix. It was free practice day, and McLaren was focused on fine-tuning Lando and Oscar's car to ensure a good performance over the weekend.

Y/N, meanwhile, was in the VIP room reserved for team members and special guests, enjoying a rare moment of tranquility. The room was practically empty, with only the low sound of the television broadcasting the training sessions and the soft noise of the coffee machine in operation.

The paramedic was focused, holding the cup with one hand while adjusting the amount of coffee with the other. However, her peace was interrupted when she felt firm hands land on her shoulders, making her jump a little in fright.

Turning quickly, eyes wide and heart racing, she came face to face with Lando.

He was smiling, with his jumpsuit half open and the black team t-shirt underneath, still sweaty from training.

"Hey, who are you running away from to scare yourself like that?" He joked, with that relaxed tone that only he knew how to use.

She sighed in relief, but soon smiled, now more relaxed. "Shh," she said, leaning slightly towards him as if she were going to tell him a big secret. "I'm hiding from my department head. She wants me to tidy up the entire dressing room. But honestly, that's not my job. Put the newbies to it, I'm not one anymore."

Lando laughed, throwing his head back. "Classic! You're the only person who can get out of work during a Grand Prix."

"Oh come on, I deserve a coffee at least," she replied, lifting the cup like it was a trophy. "And you? What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be analyzing data or something?"

"Maybe I just came to look for you," Lando said with a smirk, but quickly added, "Or maybe I came to get you some coffee too. But I'll let you decide which one sounds more interesting."

Y/N shook her head, laughing, as she finished preparing her drink and moved out of the way so he could help himself as well.

Between teasing and smiles, what was supposed to be a brief pause ended up becoming another moment that both would cherish, without realizing that, deep down, it was in these small moments that the feeling between them grew even more.

Lando poured himself some coffee as Y/N watched him, leaning against the counter. He turned to her with the cup in his hand, taking a sip before casually asking,

"What's up, paramedic? Any interesting stories today? Have you saved anyone's life or was it all smooth sailing?"

"Nothing too exciting. I just saw one of the mechanics earlier, he cut his hand while working on something on the car. And one of the engineers called me because he thought he was having an 'allergic reaction.'" She made air quotes with her fingers, laughing. "Actually, he just ate too much chili at lunch and got really upset."

Lando laughed out loud, nearly spilling his coffee.

"This is the kind of drama you expect from engineers, isn't it? They're always exaggerating."

"Yes, and of course, it was up to me to calm him down," she replied, crossing her arms. "But other than that, nothing major. I think my job only gets exciting when you or Oscar decide to do something stupid on the floor."

"Hey!" Lando feigned offense, pointing at her with his cup. "I'm an extremely careful pilot, I'll remind you of that."

"Of course it is," Y/N replied sarcastically as she gave his shoulder a light shove.

They laughed together and then decided to leave the VIP room.

The paddock was busy as usual, but there was a good vibe in the air, typical of a race weekend. As they walked by, people greeted them, waving or exchanging a few quick words.

They walked side by side through the paddock, enveloped in a comfortable silence. The noise around them—the distant sound of engines, the excited chatter of the teams, the hum of the fans—seemed to blend into an indistinct backdrop.

They were close to the garage of the team they worked in, where the movement was even greater, but even so, Norris seemed oblivious to everything, lost in his own thoughts as he looked at Y/N.

She paused for a moment, leaning her elbow on the railing overlooking the track and resting her head on her hand. Her eyes were fixed on the straightaway, as if she were thinking about something far away. Lando stood beside her, but his attention was not on the track or the commotion around them.

It was in her.

A slight smile appeared on his lips. He didn't know exactly why, but he always felt this way around her, as if the whole world could stop, and none of it would matter as long as she was there. It was something that scared him and, at the same time, comforted him. He tried to look away, but, as always, he failed.

"So, Norris," she began, breaking the silence as she still stared out at the track. A smile forming on her face. "Which woman did you bring to this weekend's GP?"

The question took him by surprise, and he let out a short laugh, trying to hide his discomfort. "Ah, Y/N, straight to the point, aren't you?"

"I'm just curious," she said, turning to him with a mischievous smile. "There's always one, isn't there? I thought you were going to be modeling some model today. Or maybe a cheap actress."

He laughed again, but this time it was more nervous.

"Well, this time, no one. Maybe I gave my charm a break."

"Impressive" Y/N replied, still smiling. "Could it be that the world is ending and no one told me?"

Lando shook his head, laughing, but his smile soon faded as the thoughts he had been trying so hard to avoid began to surface.

He knew why he dated so many women, why he threw himself into relationships that meant nothing. It was to forget. To try, somehow, to silence what he felt for her.

But it didn't work. It never worked. And it never would.

He remembered the nights he went out with someone, the times he tried to convince himself that this girl was what he needed. And then, every time, without fail, Y/N's image would appear. It was as if his mind betrayed him.

During kisses that should have been passionate, he thought about her. When he was alone in bed with some girl next to him, he imagined it was her. And it consumed him, because, no matter how much he tried to deny it, he knew the truth. None of them were her.

"You're quiet all of a sudden," Y/N commented, turning to face him with an arched eyebrow. As she sipped the rest of her coffee from the cup.

Lando blinked, shaking off his thoughts and regaining his smile. "I'm just enjoying the moment, Miss 'Too Curious'."

Y/N rolled her eyes with a smile, looking back at the track. He, however, continued to look at her, with a heavy heart, trying to hide what he felt behind yet another joke. As he always did.

She continued to stare at the track, the light wind blowing a few loose strands of her hair, while Lando stood beside her, leaning against the barrier. He was watching her discreetly again, but this time she turned, as if she had sensed something, and her eyes widened as she saw someone approaching in the middle of the paddock flow.

"Oh no" The paramedic muttered, turning to Lando with a mischievous smile and a gleam of urgency in her eyes. "My boss is coming. We have to escape."

Lando arched an eyebrow, clearly amused by her drama. "We? No, no. You have to run away. I did my job well today."

She rolled her eyes, pushing his shoulder lightly. "Don't be ridiculous, help me!"

Before she could say anything else, Lando was already pulling her by the hand. "Okay, let's go, runaway paramedic." He said with a huge smile, starting to run across the paddock.

The two of them ran down the busy hallway, laughing like they were teenagers running away from a teacher in the school hallway. Y/N glanced back on reflex, and there was her boss, trying to get past people and clearly looking for her.

"She's going to kill me" Y/N said between laughs, trying to keep up with Lando's pace.

"That's because you're always running away from work, Y/N!" Lando joked, looking back to check if her boss was still away.

"I work harder than you, Norris!" Y/N replied, unable to contain her laughter.

They turned a corner, passing members of other teams who gave the pair confused looks. Lando, still holding Y/N's hand, made sure to pick up the pace, making sure her boss lost track.

Finally, they stopped in a quieter area, hiding next to some crates near the garage.

The two were panting, trying to catch their breath as they laughed softly.

"Right" Lando said between breaths. "That was the most exciting thing that happened all day."

“Definitely” Y/N replied, leaning against one of the boxes, still laughing. She looked at Norris, her expression relaxed and genuinely happy. “You’re terrible, you know that?”

"Hey, I saved your life just now" he snapped, raising his hands in defense.

She just shook her head, the smile still plastered on her face. "You did, but only because you like to meddle in my problems."

"Oh, maybe" the pilot said, leaning against the wall with his hands in his pockets. "But I guess that's one of my duties as your best friend."

She opened her mouth to respond, but before she could, Lando flashed her that smile that always made her heart flutter. Even after so many years, he still had that effect on her.

She looked away, trying to hide the blush rising in her face as he watched her, his expression soft and his heart beating a little faster than he cared to admit.

••••••••••••••••••••••••

The sun shone down on the paddock on the second day of action at Silverstone Circuit. The atmosphere was as frenetic as ever, with mechanics, drivers and team members rushing around.

Y/N walked quickly across the paddock, holding some first aid supplies in one hand and some papers in the other. Oscar had been slightly injured during training, and she was going to meet him to check if he was okay.

She was walking so quickly, her mind focused on her work, that she didn't notice someone turning the corner at the same time. The impact was inevitable. Y/N stumbled backwards, but before she could fall, she felt firm hands holding her by the waist, stabilizing her.

"Hold on" Lando said, smirking as he held her.

Y/N clutched the items in her hands, making sure nothing fell out, and looked up, meeting Lando's eyes. His face softened when he saw his best friend there.

They were so close that she could feel the heat of his body and hear his soft breath against her face. His gaze seemed different this time, more intense, as if he were seeing something beyond what he was used to. Her heart raced, and she swallowed hard, realizing that he was still holding her.

"Lando, if you wanted to hug me, you just had to ask, you didn't have to run me over" Y/N joked, trying to lighten the moment and hide her nervousness.

He let out a humorless laugh, removing his hands from her waist in one quick movement and crossing his arms, clearly uncomfortable.

"Yeah, well... you were the one who bumped into me, but it's okay, I'll let it go this time," he replied, looking away for a moment.

Y/N smiled, still trying to ignore the blush on her cheeks as she rearranged the items she was carrying.

"So, where were you going in such a hurry?" Lando asked, changing the subject to diffuse the tension.

"I was on my way to see Oscar," she explained, waving the papers in her hand. "He got hurt a little in practice, but nothing serious. I'm just going to make sure he doesn't make a big deal out of it."

Lando chuckled, shaking his head. "How typical of him."

"Now it's your turn," she said, narrowing her eyes with a curious smile. "And you, where were you going?"

He hesitated for a moment, his fingers itching in the pocket of his overalls. The truth was that he was going to meet a woman he had been casually involved with, yet another attempt to stifle the feelings he had for Y/N.

But now, standing there, with her looking at him like that, it seemed almost impossible to say it.

"Oh, I..." Norris began, scratching the back of his neck and looking away. "I was going to... meet someone."

"A person?" Y/N asked, arching an eyebrow, but already knowing what he was talking about.

"Yeah, you know, just... someone." He smiled awkwardly, trying to lighten the weight of the words.

Y/N felt discomfort growing in her chest, but forced herself to keep her tone light. "Oh, sure, Lando Norris and his lucky fans," she said with a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "I hope she knows she's competing with her best friend as the most amazing person you know."

Lando heard the tone in her voice, something she was clearly trying to hide, and for a moment he was speechless. Her smile seemed less genuine, and he knew the conversation had changed the mood between them.

Before he could respond, a voice called out to Y/N in the distance. "Y/N! Come!"

She turned toward the sound, seeing one of the engineers waving at her. “I have to go,” she said, turning her gaze back to Lando. “Don’t be late for qualifying, Norris.” She smiled again, but this time it was more of a mask than anything else.

Lando nodded, watching her walk quickly away across the paddock, disappearing into the crowd.

The pilot stood there for a few seconds, still processing what had just happened. He looked at the path he should follow, where the woman was waiting for him, but the idea of meeting her now seemed completely wrong.

Without much thought, he turned and began walking back to the garage.

He wasn't going to meet her. He didn't need to. He didn't want to.

Instead, he decided to focus on what really mattered: The race, and maybe, who knows, the chance to resolve what he felt for Y/N before it was too late.

The day passed slowly, but the atmosphere between Y/N and Lando seemed heavier than usual. Ever since their conversation in the paddock in the morning, she had kept herself busy, always finding something to do, avoiding any opportunity to be alone with him.

Lando, for his part, tried to ignore the discomfort he felt, but every moment their eyes met and she quickly looked away made everything seem worse.

It was late afternoon, and Lando was in the McLaren garage, sitting in a corner, lost in thought. He stared at a spot on the floor, his arms crossed and his mind restless. The morning's conversation kept replaying in his head, and he couldn't shake the discomfort he felt.

Oscar appeared at her side, casual as always, with a bottle of water in his hand and the bandage that Y/N applied to his face as soon as he left training.

He looked at his teammate, immediately realizing what was going on. "You know this is a terrible idea, right?" Piastri said bluntly, catching Lando's attention.

The Brit raised his eyebrows, surprised by the direct approach. "What?"

"Staying in this stupid cycle of dating women to try to forget Y/N. Everyone knows you like her. Even she knows, probably."

Lando let out a sarcastic laugh, shaking his head. "Thank you, Doctor Piastri, but I don't think my love life is any of your business."

Oscar ignored the defensive tone and rolled his eyes, taking a sip of water before continuing. "Seriously, Lando. You need to stop running away from this. Tell her what you're thinking, just get it over with. Everyone sees the way you look at her. And honestly, I think she has feelings for you too."

Lando was silent, processing his friend's words. He knew Oscar was right, but admitting it to himself was another story. He sighed, rubbing his face with his hands.

Before he could answer, they both saw Y/N in the distance, walking quickly towards the garage, seeming focused on her cell phone and a little rushed.

Oscar elbowed Lando lightly, leaning in to speak softly. "Now's a good time. Go for it."

"No way" Lando replied, looking at the ground and pretending not to hear.

Y/N was so focused that she didn't notice the two. Oscar, however, didn't miss the chance to call out to her. "Y/N! Where are you going in such a hurry?"

She stopped abruptly and turned around, surprised to see them there. "Oh, hi, boys" she said, with a slightly nervous smile.

Oscar raised his eyebrows, clearly curious. "Are you running away from something? Or someone?"

Y/N laughed, but her nervousness was evident. She began to fiddle with the bag she was carrying, avoiding their gazes.

"Actually, I... was leaving early."

"Leaving early?" Lando asked, raising an eyebrow, his voice carrying a hint of curiosity.

She bit her lip, looking down at her feet before finally confessing, "Yeah, I... have dinner."

Oscar and Lando exchanged quick glances, and it was Lando who broke the silence, his voice now more serious and emotionless.

"You didn't tell me anything."

The paramedic fiddled with the hem of McLaren's blouse, clearly uncomfortable.

"Yeah, well... He works at Mercedes. He's a close friend of George's, and he helped set up the meeting. He's a really nice guy, you know? We're going out tonight."

The words hit Lando like a punch to the gut. He tried to maintain his composure, but his chest felt tight, as if the air had been sucked out of the room. Lando forced a smile that didn’t reach his eyes and gave a slight nod.

"I see. Good for you."

As Y/N spoke, he couldn't help but think about how wrong it felt. The idea of Y/N with another guy, someone other than him, was unbearable. He knew he had no right to feel jealous, but it was impossible not to feel that way.

What he didn't know, however, was that Y/N was only dating that guy because he had something that reminded her of Lando.

A smile, the slightly curly hair, the relaxed way of speaking, even the tone of the voice. She was trying to convince herself that she could move on, that she didn't need to keep harboring feelings for someone who would clearly never see her the same way.

She was wrong. Clearly wrong.

Oscar noticed their discomfort, but remained silent, pretending he wasn't there and waiting to see how the situation would unfold.

"Well, I have to go" she said, finally looking up. "Wish me luck."

She smiled before turning and walking towards the paddock exit, leaving Lando standing there, feeling like the ground had collapsed beneath his feet.

Oscar looked at him, waiting for a reaction. "What now?"

"Now I'm going to solve this!" Lando starts walking and Oscar follows him for a moment.

"What are you going to do? Are you going to confess to her?" Oscar asks a little loudly, as Lando comes out into the paddock.

"No, I'm going to do something else." He walks faster, trying to be faster than Y/N, going another way so she doesn't see him.

Oscar runs his hand through his hair, fearing what his friend might do.

•••••••••••••••••••

Y/N was in the hotel room, finishing the last details of her hair, while looking at her reflection in the mirror. A genuine smile lit up her face, something rare lately.

Every movement, every small preparation, made her mind wander. She couldn’t help but imagine what it would be like if, instead of meeting someone else, it was with Lando. The fluid conversation, the jokes that only they understood, the comfort he brought so effortlessly.

He sighed, returning to reality as he looked at the delicate watch on his wrist. The hand indicated that there were only a few minutes left until the agreed time in the hotel lobby.

She grabbed her bag and, after one last look in the mirror, left the room, locking the door behind her.

The elevator took her down to the ground floor in silence. As the doors opened and she began walking toward the reception, her cell phone vibrated in her hand. Unlocking the device, she read the message:

"Y/N, I'm sorry, but I won't be able to make it. Something unforeseen happened here and we can schedule it for another day. Good night"

What do you mean unexpected? What? And why now at the last minute?

She stopped in her tracks, reading the message over and over again. She huffed in frustration as she rolled her eyes. She put her phone back in her bag, irritated by the setback, but she also couldn't ignore the feeling of relief that began to grow in her chest.

She didn't know what she would do if this meeting went beyond her expectations. After all, four years ago, her heart already had an owner. And he didn't even know it.

Still absorbing the mix of feelings, Y/N looked around. Her eyes landed on the hotel bar, a cozy and elegant space, and she decided that since she was ready, she wouldn't go back to her room any time soon.

She walked over and sat down on one of the high stools. The waiter approached, and she didn't hesitate.

"What's the strongest drink you have here?"

The waiter raised an eyebrow and gave a small smile before walking away. A few minutes later, he returned with a strong, aromatic cocktail garnished with a minimalist touch. Y/N took the glass, nodding in thanks, and took a long sip, feeling the warmth of the drink run down her throat.

It was then that he heard a familiar, hoarse voice beside him.

“Y/N?”

She turned her head and found him standing there beside her, a look of mild surprise on his face. Lando Norris. He ordered a beer from the waiter before continuing.

"What are you doing here? I thought you had a date."

Y/N let out a short laugh, shaking her head. "I did. But he canceled. Something unexpected, it seems." She rolls her eyes.

Lando frowned slightly, seeming to feel sorry for her. But happy inside, after all, his plan had worked.

"Seriously? He stood you up like that?"

"Yeah, it seems so," she replied, shrugging and trying to keep her tone casual. "What about you? Shouldn't you be resting for tomorrow?"

"I should have, but..." He shrugged with a carefree smile. "...Let's just say I needed a beer. I guess it was a good decision, since I found you here."

On the outside, Lando seemed calm, but on the inside, he was filled with relief. The idea of Y/N dating another man had bothered him more than he wanted to admit. And now that his plan was in place, he could breathe a sigh of relief.

He leaned against the counter, looking at her with a soft smile.

"Well, since your date is canceled, I might as well sacrifice myself and stay here drinking with you."

Y/N let out a genuine laugh, raising her glass towards him. "You're sacrificing yourself for me? That's a new one."

"Someone has to do the hard work." Lando raised his beer bottle and clinked it, the two of them laughing together.

The relaxed atmosphere took hold of them, and before long they were laughing, talking and sharing stories just like old times.

Even forgetting the tense atmosphere they experienced in the paddock that morning.

••••••••••••••••••••••

The night before, the hotel bar was the scene of laughter, stories and a mood that the two had not felt in a long time. Y/N and Lando started with light conversations, but the drink seemed to release the words that were kept deep in their hearts.

Lando, beer in hand, looked at her as if every word mattered, as if every laugh she gave was precious. The warmth of the drink made him feel lighter, but also more vulnerable.

In a moment of silence between the two, he looked at her, feeling the urge to finally say what had been kept inside him for so long.

"Y/N..." He began, his voice lower, almost hesitant.

She looked at him curiously, a soft smile on her lips. "What is it, dear Lando?"

He knew he was drunk, he knew that if he said something there, she might not take it seriously. Maybe she would even think it was the drink talking and not him.

"Oh, nothing. Forget it. I think I've had too much to drink."

Y/N laughed, taking another sip of her drink. "That's a new one. You admitting you crossed the line."

The next morning, Y/N was near the garage, close to her room where she was organizing some medical equipment, arranging the clipboards and supplies to use that day, in case there was an accident on the track.

As she finished organizing her things, she saw the man she was supposed to have gone out with the night before walking by. Ever the kind person, he approached her with a polite smile.

"Hey!" She greeted him, catching his attention. He turned and smiled when he saw her, pausing for a moment.

"Y/N! Good morning! How are you?"

"Yes, everything is great. And you?"

He nodded, but before he could continue, she raised an eyebrow, looking at him with a half-playful smile. "You know, I was thinking about your 'unforeseen' incident yesterday. Was it serious? Is everything resolved now?"

In fact, she didn't think about it, she was just trying to understand why he had canceled.

He gave a nervous laugh, scratching the back of his neck as he looked at her. "Well, about that... It's kind of complicated."

Y/N crossed her arms, below the stethoscope hanging around her neck, tilting her head slightly, curious.

"Complicated how? You've got me curious now."

He took a deep breath, seeming to choose his words carefully. "It wasn't really an 'unforeseen' incident. It was more... a person. Someone kind of thought it best that I didn't go."

Y/N remained standing, staring at the man with curiosity mixed with a hint of concern. He looked uncomfortable, struggling with something he clearly didn't want to reveal.

"What?"

He sighed deeply, running a hand through his hair. "Look, I didn't want to say anything because... well, this person asked me to keep quiet about it."

Y/N arched an eyebrow, tilting her head slightly for him to continue.

"...But I see you're worried and curious right now. So, I think you deserve to know."

And then he told her everything. The words came out hesitantly, but enough to paint a clear picture in Y/N's mind: someone had directly interfered. Confronting and intimidating.

As he spoke, Y/N felt a rising wave of anger. Her heart began to beat faster, her hands began to shake, and heat rose to her face. Her mind could barely process the details; all she knew was that someone had dared to interfere in her personal life, manipulating things behind her back.

When he finished speaking, Y/N stood still, the words echoing in her head. Her breathing was heavy, and her eyes began to fill with tears that she couldn't hold back.

They weren't tears of sadness, but of pure anger. Anger at having been treated like a pawn in a game, at having someone else decide for her.

"Y/N, calm down," He said, raising his hands as if to calm her down. "Don't do anything impulsive. Please. I don't want to cause problems between anyone."

She looked at him with the sharpest gaze he had ever seen. "You're asking me to stay calm? After telling me this? Seriously?"

He hesitated, but continued. "Look, I'm really sorry. But maybe it's best if you just let this go. And honestly, I'm sorry...but I don't think we can hang out anymore..."

Y/N shook her head, determined, her eyes shining with pent-up anger. "I'll settle this now." Ignoring the last sentence from the kind, sweet, gentlemanly man she was supposed to have dated last night.

Before he could say anything else, the paramedic turned on her heel and began walking away. He watched her walk away, knowing he couldn't stop her.

As Y/N marched toward the McLaren garage, her fury was palpable. Her footsteps were steady, almost heavy, echoing against the paddock floor. The stethoscope around her neck shook violently with every sudden movement. Her fists were clenched, and her shoulders were tense.

Adrenaline ran through his veins as his mind was fixed on the objective: finding the person responsible for this.

When she entered the McLaren garage, the usual bustle of mechanics and engineers seemed irrelevant. She searched with her eyes, ignoring everything around her.

His chest rose and fell rapidly, while anger still pulsed strongly.

"Where is he?" She muttered to herself, her eyes burning with determination. She was willing to go to any lengths to get the answers she needed.

One of the engineers saw Y/N standing in the middle of the garage looking for someone, and decided to help. "Hey, looking for one of the pilots? They must be in their respective rooms."

Her head turned toward the engineer, who was standing near Oscar's car. She smiled friendly and thanked him. "Thank you!"

She went back, walking through the hallways until she reached where Lando's room and Oscar's were in the garage, her mind boiling with the words and her veins ready to gush out her blood that ran violently because of the adrenaline.

Before Y/N could even reach Lando's bedroom door, it suddenly opened. There he was, casually walking out, the usual smile on his face as he saw her figure at the end of the hallway.

"Y/N! What a nice surprise to see you here." He began to say, with a soft tone and a sparkle in his eyes.

She walked toward him with purposeful, almost furious steps, the stethoscope swinging violently around her neck. Her eyes did not shine with joy, but with an anger that seemed ready to explode.

But he didn't notice, and instead, he continued talking. "I was just going to call you, sweetie, so we could go get some coffee.

And then, the instant they were face to face, the sound echoed through the hallway.

The slap was loud, strong and accurate.

Y/N's hand would definitely be drawn on Norris's cheek for at least a week.

Lando froze. His hand automatically went to his now burning cheek. He blinked a few times in shock, staring at her as if he had been struck by lightning.

Without thinking twice, she began to beat his chest with her closed fists, not caring about the looks that could appear at any moment in the hallway. Her anger overflowed in every word that came out of her mouth, loud, almost screaming.

Lando simply defended himself by putting his arms in front of him as a shield. And Oscar, who was in the front room, heard all the paramedic's screams. But he didn't dare to leave the room he was in.

"HOW DARE YOU? Who do you think you are, Lando Norris?" She shoved him lightly in the chest, but the force of adrenaline made the impact seem greater. "You think you can decide who I date or don't date? You think you have that right over me?"

Lando backed away one step at a time, his hands raised as if he were trying to calm her, but her words were like gunshots fired into his chest.

"YOU'RE AN IDIOT, Lando! A complete scoundrel!" Her words were laced with frustration, tears of anger streaming down her face, but she continued without hesitation. "You're worthless! NOTHING! Neither are the whores you date! And yet you want to stick your nose into my relationship?"

"Y/N, wait, please," he tried, but she interrupted him again, her voice firm and filled with an intensity he'd never seen in her before.

"I'm not one of your disposable girls, Lando. I'm not one of those people you can manipulate and play with as you please!" She shoved him again, harder this time, as he leaned against the hallway wall, speechless. "You think that just because we're best friends, you can control everything that happens in my life?" She asked. "AND I DON'T EVEN KNOW IF I SHOULD CALL YOU THAT!"

When she raises her hand, Lando catches it in the air, clearly holding it lightly. And then, he pulls her into his room in the garage, locking the door and pulling her into his chest. Hugging her tightly.

Y/N began to cry more. The sobs made her chest shake violently.

He knew there were no words to justify what he had done, and the guilt seemed to weigh more heavily with each tear that ran down her face.

After a while, she pulled away abruptly, pushing him away with her hands as she took steps back, creating distance between them.

There was anger in her eyes, but also a glimpse of deep pain, something Lando never wanted to cause, but which was now written all over the face of the person he loved most.

"Do you think you can control my life, Lando?" She asked, her voice cracking as she hurriedly wiped her face, even as tears insisted on falling. "I know what you did yesterday. He told me everything. How you went after him, how you forced him to cancel the date... You manipulated him like he was a puppet! Why? Why would you do this to me?"

She paused, taking a deep breath to try to maintain her composure, but her emotions were running high. "You know what's worse, Lando? That you did this without even thinking about what I wanted, what I felt. You acted like you OWNED my life!"

Lando lowered his head, her words hitting him like blows. He knew he had done wrong, but what hurt more was seeing how hurt she was. The pilot finally looked up to meet her eyes, and although he wanted to deny it, he couldn’t. He wouldn’t.

"It's true," he confessed, his voice low and hoarse. "I did it."

Y/N shook her head in disbelief. She let out a sarcastic, bitter laugh as she crossed her arms. The stethoscope around her neck nearly fell to the floor.

"Of course you did. And why, Norris? What's your brilliant excuse this time?"

He took a step toward her, but stopped when he saw her gaze harden. Lando knew he couldn't run from this. Not anymore.

"Because I couldn't stand the thought of you with someone else," he began, his voice firm but thick with emotion. "I did it because... because I love you, Y/N. More than I should, more than a best friend should."

Her eyes widened, but the tears continued to fall, now at a slower pace. She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Lando took advantage of the moment of silence to continue, approaching her slowly.

"I've tried to hide this for so long," he said, his voice shaking. "I tried to pretend that everything was okay, that we were just friends. But every time I saw you with another guy, every time you smiled at someone who wasn't me... it destroyed me. And yesterday, I just lost control. I knew I had no right to interfere, but I couldn't. Because the truth is, I can't see you with anyone, Y/N. I can't live with that idea."

She took a deep breath, trying to process what he was saying. But there was still anger mixed in with the tears. "So, to deal with your feelings, you decide to ruin my choices?" Y/N asked, her tone acidic.

Lando stepped closer, and this time she didn't flinch. He lifted his hands, cupping her face gently, as if he was afraid she might slip away.

"I know I messed up, Y/N. I know I was selfish. But everything I did... I did it because I love you. Because you're the only person I think about when I wake up, and the last person I think about before I go to sleep. And I know I dated other women, I tried to forget you, but none of it worked. They were never you."

"Uh huh, you love me." She laughs, making fun of his face. "You love me and how many other women?" Her tone was acidic, sarcastic and rude.

But Lando didn't let it get to his heart, instead he tucked a strand of her unruly hair behind her ear and smiled.

"You and however many daughters we have!"

That was the end. A new wave of tears invaded Y/N's face, but unlike the previous ones, these were of sadness, anguish and a little fear. The paramedic rests her head on his chest, without hugging or anything, just allowing the tears to fall.

Lando also had his own teardrops falling down his cheeks.

"I hate loving you!" Y/N finally confessed, her voice muffled. She lifted her head from Lando's chest, her eyes red and puffy, but still filled with the full intensity of her feelings. "You have no idea how hard it is, Lando," she began, her voice low, almost a whisper. "How much it hurts...to love you."

Lando remained silent, watching her every move, every word that came out as if it were a confession that had been forced out.

"I hate how vulnerable you make me feel," Y/N continued, wiping her tears with the back of her hands. "How you can make me happy and ruin my day at the same time. I hate every time I see you walking around the paddock with another woman, pretending you don't care when, in reality, you destroy me inside. I hate how every smile you give to someone who isn't me seems to steal a piece of me." The words came out fast, as if she was pouring out everything she had been holding in for years. "And the worst part of it all? I always come back. I always come back to you, even when I know I shouldn't. Even when I know this is all torture. Because, deep down, I love you. I always have...and I always will."

Lando tried to speak, but she held up her hand, stopping him. "Do you know what it's like to get this close, Lando? This close to someone you love and not be able to kiss them? Not be able to touch them? Not be able to be everything you want to be to them? It's bittersweet, it's frustrating, and yet... I've never been able to stop loving you."

She took a deep breath, the words sounding softer now, though still heavy with emotion. "But... I love you. As much as it hurts, as much as it is hard, as much as I hate it sometimes. I love you. And I hate it even more because, even after everything, you're still my favorite idiot."

Lando chuckled softly, even with tears still streaking his face. He reached out, holding her face tenderly as his thumbs wiped away the tears that were stubbornly falling.

"I promise I'll never hurt you like that again, Y/N. Never again. I just want to make you happy.

She let out a shaky laugh, shaking her head. “You’ve hurt me enough, Norris. Now it’s your turn to make up for it.”

He smiled, bringing his face closer slowly, unhurriedly, as if he was waiting for any sign from her to stop.

When she didn't pull away, he closed the distance, sealing his lips to hers in a kiss.

The kiss began hesitantly, as if they were both still getting used to the idea of finally being there, together, after so long holding unspoken feelings. Lando's lips met Y/N's with a softness that seemed to contradict the entire intensity of the moment, but soon the gesture gained strength and emotion.

He held her firmly, his hands still holding her face, his thumbs lightly caressing her cheeks, as if he wanted to convey everything he felt through that touch. Y/N, in turn, brought her hands to his chest, initially hesitantly, but soon slid them to his shoulders, pulling him closer, as if she needed to make sure he wouldn't leave.

The kiss was a mixture of relief and contained passion, an explosion of everything they had repressed for years. It was sweet and at the same time passionate, full of promises that didn't need to be said in words.

Y/N's heart was beating fast, as if it wanted to burst out of her chest, and she felt the same energy coming from Lando, as if he was also trying to convey all the love he couldn't express before.

When the two finally pulled away, just enough to breathe, Lando rested his forehead against hers, his eyes still closed, while a small but sincere smile formed on his lips.

"You have no idea how long I've waited for this."

"I know, I was there!" Y/N opened her eyes, still panting, and replied softly, smiling slightly.

Y/N felt the comforting warmth of Lando's hands still on her face as he watched her with a mixture of tenderness and relief.

She took a deep breath, trying to calm the whirlwind of emotions that still took over her, but it was his voice that made her finally lose herself in the moment.

"I love you, Y/N!" He said, with a firmness that made her believe every word. "I've loved you for all these four years. Ever since the day I realized you were so much more than my best friend. I just didn't know how to deal with it... and I did everything wrong."

She bit her lip, feeling the tears burn again, but this time they were soft, like a release of everything she had bottled up inside.

"I love you, Lando," she finally said, her voice cracking. "I've loved you from the beginning. And it was so hard... so painful to see you so close, yet so far away. It hurt me more than you can imagine."

He nodded, squinting his eyes for a moment as if he was also holding himself back from crying more.

"I know. And I'm sorry for being so blind, for letting you go through this alone. But now..." He held her hands tightly, intertwining their fingers. "Now everything is clear. Finally. We don't need anyone else, Y/N. No failed dates, no other people in between... Just the two of us. You and me against the world."

A small, genuine smile formed on her lips, and she nodded, as if absorbing his every word.

"You and me against the world, huh?" Y/N repeated, her voice slightly playful but thick with emotion.

"That's right" he confirmed, leaning down to touch his forehead to hers. "I won't make any more mistakes. You're everything I've ever wanted, and now that we're here, I won't let anything or anyone come between us. And I'm not going anywhere without you, either."

She sighed, finally feeling the weight of the past few years begin to lift. "All I ever wanted was this, Lando. You. The two of us."

The pilot pulled her closer, enveloping her in a hug that felt as right as breathing. “So this is it. It’s you and me. Just the two of us,” he murmured, clutching her to his chest as if sealing a promise.

Y/N smiled against his chest, her heart finally at ease. "Just the two of us," she repeated softly, as if those words were a prayer that would bind them together forever. "And however many daughters we have in the future... According to you, a few minutes ago."

He chuckles, nodding and kissing the top of her head.

And there, in that moment, in the small room of the McLaren garage, with the distant sound of engines in the background, they finally found what they were looking for.

Each other. A new chance. A love that, even after four years of silence and pain, was strong enough to face anything. Just the two of them. Against the world.

#fanfiction #y/n #imagines #one shot #formula 1 #formula one #fem reader #romance #lando norris #lando x reader #lando norris x reader #lando norris x y/n

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spinelessdemsandwhinyrepublicans · 1 month ago

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"In my life, I have watched John Kennedy talk on television about missiles in Cuba. I saw Lyndon Johnson look Richard Russell squarely in the eye and and say, "And we shall overcome." I saw Richard Nixon resign and Gerald Ford tell the Congress that our long national nightmare was over. I saw Jimmy Carter talk about malaise and Ronald Reagan talk about a shining city on a hill. I saw George H.W. Bush deliver the eulogy for the Soviet bloc, and Bill Clinton comfort the survivors of Timothy McVeigh's madness in Oklahoma City. I saw George W. Bush struggle to make sense of it all on September 11, 2001, and I saw Barack Obama sing 'Amazing Grace' in the wounded sanctuary of Mother Emanuel Church in Charleston, South Carolina.

"These were the presidents of my lifetime. These were not perfect men. They were not perfect presidents, god knows. Not one of them was that. But they approached the job, and they took to the podium, with all the gravitas they could muster as appropriate to the job. They tried, at least, to reach for something in the presidency that was beyond their grasp as ordinary human beings. They were not all ennobled by the attempt, but they tried nonetheless.

"And comes now this hopeless, vicious buffoon, and the audience of equally hopeless and vicious buffoons who laughed and cheered when he made sport of a woman whose lasting memory of the trauma she suffered is the laughter of the perpetrators. Now he comes, a man swathed in scandal, with no interest beyond what he can put in his pocket and what he can put over on a universe of suckers, and he does something like this while occupying an office that we gave him, and while endowed with a public trust that he dishonors every day he wakes up in the White House.

"The scion of a multigenerational criminal enterprise, the parameters of which we are only now beginning to comprehend. A vessel for all the worst elements of the American condition. And a cheap, soulless bully besides. We never have had such a cheap counterfeit of a president* as currently occupies the office. We never have had a president* so completely deserving of scorn and yet so small in the office that it almost seems a waste of time and energy to summon up the requisite contempt.

"Watch how a republic dies in the empty eyes of an empty man who feels nothing but his own imaginary greatness, and who cannot find in himself the decency simply to shut up even when it is in his best interest to do so. Presidents don't have to be heroes to be good presidents. They just have to realize that their humanity is our common humanity, and that their political commonwealth is our political commonwealth, too.

Watch him behind the seal of the President of the United States. Isn't he a funny man? Isn't what happened to that lady hilarious? Watch the assembled morons cheer. This is the only story now."

- Charles Pierce

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nanivinsmoke · 11 months ago

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Rated-R

saw this art from @/yunonoai on twitter and i cannot stop thinking about it. enjoy ya freaks

roommate!Choso x F!reader

summary ~ when the movie is a little bit more than you both could handle.

warnings and tags ~ porn, mentions of drinking, fingering, oral, sexual tension, nervous choso, teasing, semi-pussyjob, facial, cream pie, degradation, rough sex, squirting, etc~

“what about this one?” you asked, holding up a dvd and showing it to the raven haired male who nodded in approval at your movie selection. popping it into the dvd player, you pressed play and got up from your position on the floor to sit next to choso on the couch.

every friday night the two of you planned to do something with each other, being that it was your only free night out of the week. with you being busy with work and school, and him being busy with work; this was the only time the two of you had for each other.

thanking him for handing you your glass of wine, you relaxed onto the couch and watched the flat screen tv in front of you as it played the movie. The movie starred your favorite actor, satoru gojo. anything he was in automatically became your favorite movie of all time and if he was shirtless, trust you’d go back to the store to get three more copies.

this time it was a romantic comedy and Gojo played the part of the funny charming crush pretty well. while your eyes were glued the to screen, choso couldn’t help but to keep glancing at you from his peripheral.

you were the most beautiful girl that stepped foot on campus, he knew it and everyone sure damn well knew it too. it was no doubt that he had such a huge crush on you. the first time you spoke to him nearly made him cream his pants right there in the study hall.

from that moment on he tried so hard to avoid you, but it’s like fate kept pushing him to you. be it work or school, he was always around you. and when you asked him to be roommates with you because rent was too high, he immediately gave you his half of the rent.

even though you two got closer, he couldn’t help but be still so shy around you. he was in love with you and you knew it too. walking around in your panties and a small shirt that made nipples stand at attention, just to tease him only made it harder for him to not want to feel your soft gummy walls.

choso didn’t care about watching the movie anymore, so he pulled out his phone and turned the volume down; scrolling on instagram to look at your page. he could look at you for hours and if he’d brush up on his art skills, his whole sketch pad would be filled with you.

you glanced over at him, blushing as you caught a glimpse of the video he watched of you. he quickly double tapped it before moving onto the next one. you turned to look at him, he was shirtless—his abs chiseled and defined. and then you took in his features. the sharpness of his jawline, the way the bags underneath his eyes brung them out and his hair that’s usually pulled into two high ponies, sat low on on his shoulders. oh how you imagine tugging on it as he sucked on your pussy like it—.

you whipped your head around towards the television, hearing loud moans and skin slapping coming from it. you had no idea that there was going to be a sex scene, a long and raunchy one at that. your eyes were glued to the screen and you only moved to place your empty glass on the table next to you.

choso had to put his phone down and when he heard the lewd noises coming from the the screen, he couldn’t look away and he couldn’t look at you either. imagining that him and you were on the screen instead, had him rock hard in his pants and he had to grab one of the couch’s pillows to hide his boner from you.

neither of you said anything, not able to look away—your minds clouded with lewd images. choso slipped one of his hands underneath the pillow and into his sweatpants, stroking his boner—the stiffness and the hardness caused him to stifle a moan. precum leaked from his thick mushroom tip the more he slowly rubbed himself to the thought of you cumming around his cock.

hearing soft moans and whimpers on the side of the couch, he turned his tired eyes towards you—blushing when he saw you clutching your boob and your thighs pressing and rubbing together. he couldn’t believe the sight, you were doing that right next to him? he couldn’t stop looking as you pinched your nipple through your t-shirt, your mouth turned in a slight frown—too aroused from watching gojo fuck the woman in the movie.

and when you finally lock eyes with him and softly moan his name, his cock nearly ripped out his pants. “please, choso~,” your voice low—a soft moan following behind. his nervousness left his body the moment he leaned up and hover over you, laying back on the couch—spreading your legs for him. he took a good look at your body, your nipples standing at attention and the wet stain on your panties made it damn near impossible for him to not cum right on the fabric.

his rough hands traced your inner thigh, sending flutters to your pussy. you grabbed his hand, making him pull your panties to the side—unable to bare the overwhelming sensation. “please touch me~” you begged and he leaned down to kiss you for the first time, his lips soft against yours. his hand rubbed up and down against your folds, covering them in your slick—causing you to whimper in between the kiss.

he back away from your addictive lips, leaning down to be eye level with your dripping cunt; his tongue meeting your clit. you gasped and clutched the side of the couch, his tongue swirling and sucking on your sensitive bud. choso had been dreaming about this moment; tasting you, slurping up your fluids to satisfy his thirst. this felt all too surreal for him, but he wasn’t going to stop. not now, not ever.

the more he tongue fucked you the more you desired to cum all over his pretty face. and when he finally pushed in his middle and ring finger, those soft moans of yours became louder; drowning out from what was still playing on the television. you manicure now tangled in his deep brown locks, pushing his head further into your slick; grinding on his face—building up your orgasm.

“you taste so good” his words vibrated against your cunt, causing your back to arch off the bed. it felt so good, you were so so close and he could feel it too. his pace quickened, dipping in and out of your walls with precision. your toes curled and the grip on his hair got tighter as you came right there on his tongue. moaning his name as you ride out your orgasm, while grinding sloppily against his face.

he still pumped his fingers inside of you and didn’t detach himself from your sensitive clit either, working on another orgasm out of you. this one more intense than the last. “oh my fuck! ch-choso~” a stream of clear fluid splashed out and onto his face, catching you both by surprise. he had made you squirt, lapping up the sweet liquid that dripped down his face. you had never squirted before, none of your exes could ever pleasure you that good.

leaning down to kiss you again, you happily accepted his tongue inside your mouth—tasting yourself. gasping when you felt something hard poke you, you pulled away and looked down to see his cock standing up through his sweatpants. ‘there’s no way…’ you knew he wasn’t going to fit inside of you either, but damn were you going to try your hardest.

a smirk etched on your face as you began to grind against his clothed cock, earning a low gasp from him. his eyes planted down on your pussy teasing his cock, your slick mixing with his precum had created a huge stain on his pants. the friction earned a moan from both of your lips, the sensation sending waves of pleasure through your bodies.

“can i….please..?” he asked, his tone coming off more as a beg—his dark purple eyes connecting to yours while he pushed himself more onto your pussy. you nod and quickly slid your soaked panties off, throwing them to the far end of your living room, while he did the same with his sweatpants.

‘oh my fu—so big~’ you thought, eyes widening at the sight of his cock. it was so pretty too, couldn’t stop yourself from staring at it. his tip was so pink and had so much pre-cum pooling out of it and from his tip to base he had vein running from it and he was neatly trimmed. you could feel yourself getting even more wetter the more you stared at it, you were gonna have so much fun with him.

getting closer to you again, his angled his cock at your little entrance before he paused and looked at you. “do we need cond—shit, y/n~” he moaned breathlessly as you pushed yourself down onto his girth, answering his question before he could even get it out. “i want to feel all of you cho~,” a whimper leaving your mouth as he began to fill you up.

he thumbed your clit and held your other leg up, easing the pressure as he pushed in you. when all of him was finally inside, he didn’t move and allowed you to get used to his size. the feeling of you clenching around him made him slowly move his hips, stroking in and out of your tight little cunt.

he was so so so fat—he was stretching you out with each stroke with his tip brushing over your spot, clit throbbing as a result. oh you knew you made the right decision when you asked him to be your roommate. choso moved slow, but hit all of the right spots—not wanting to hurt you. “choso, you could be rough with me….i can take it,~” he looked at you wide eyes, hesitant to do anything further until you gave your nod of approval.

all the air was sucked from your lungs when he slammed his hips into yours, his tip making out with your cervix. this is exactly what you wanted, to be fucked like a whore. he grabbed you by the hair, making you watch as he begun to tear your pussy in half, stretching you completely. “look at how good you’re fucking taking me. cunt’s so fucking wet.”

nothing played on the tv, but all that was on your mind was cumming for you roommate and have your belly full of his cum. balls slapping your cunt hard, cream coating his dick with each stroke and his hands now at your throat, fucking you so hard into the soft burgandy couch cushions.

“you love this shit, don’t you? mhm—I knew you were a slut, teasing me with those little ass panties. fuck, gonna let me breed this cunt?” his hand was still wrapped around your throat, only allowing you to nod. he strokes became faster and harder, your little cunt would be sore the next day. he let out a loud groan, his load panting your walls in long thick ropes.

he knew you were going to cum that way you were squeezing and milking his cock as he came. “hold it. don’t cum, yet” you whined as he pulled out of you, halting your orgasm. He sat back on the couch and pulled you on top of him, entering you with ease and pushing your head down as he proceeded to pound the shit out of you.

choso jackhammered you like his life depended on it, grunting in your ear while you moaned softly into his. the sounds of your slick made it harder for him to not bust inside of you again, not before he made you cum again. “daddy, please don’t stop—pound me harder!” hearing the name you called him made his dick twitch, he held your waist and slapped your ass as he pounded you harder.

you couldn’t hold it anymore. his cock became drenched when you squirted, wetting up the couch cushions underneath you. pulling you off of him in a swift motion, he got up and began jerking himself off in front of your face—spurting out thick white loads, covering your pretty face completely.

a wave of nervousness fell over him again and he quickly began apologizing for cumming too much on your face, but when he saw your finger glide on your face and dip into your mouth; he calmed down. a smirk etched into your face as you continued to lick the load off your face.

“mhm, we need to do more movie nights. especially if it’s going to end like this~”

#choso kamo #jjk choso #choso smut #choso x reader #roommate choso #nervous choso #based off fan art #jujutsu kaisen choso #choso x y/n #choso x you #choso x female reader #kamo choso #choso kamo smut #jjk smut #jujutsu kaisen smut #jujutsu kaisen choso kamo #jjk x reader #jjk x you

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blindmagdalena · 3 months ago

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Center Stage in a Gilded Cage (chapter seven)

18+ 7k. homelander x f!reader. stalking, kidnapping, imprisonment, abuse, forced relationship, slow burn, heavy dubcon, fingering, clothed/unclothed, dry humping. gif credit | fic directory | AO3

As promised, Homelander allows you an opportunity to say goodbye to the life you knew. After which, he does what he must to prove that you belong with—and to—him.

Days spent with Homelander are simultaneously long and yet strangely fluid, hours blending seamlessly into one another. Every day that he comes home, you endure the flip into what you’ve privately begun to refer to as “performance mode,” in which you’re playing the role of doting girlfriend.

So long as you maintain the idea that it’s a performance, you don’t have to think too much about how good the heat of his body feels against yours. You don’t have to question the ease with which you’ve taken to toying with his hair while the two of you watch television, or why you don’t mind it so much when he rests his head in your lap.

There was a day he came home early and caught you absently dancing in the living room while you tidied. That alone was embarrassing, but it was mundane enough of a thing to be brushed aside, to forget. Except that he wouldn’t. He’d fixated on it like a dog with a bone, and you’d had to endure his relentless teasing about it for the rest of the day.

“You act like you’ve never seen anyone dance before,” you’d said.

“I haven’t,” he said. “Not here.”

Your role here has many names: girlfriend, cook, therapist, maid, lover, and reinventor. It’s about more than just romance. It's a complete transformation of his empty, lonely world.

It’s what you must do to survive.

You learn quickly that he’s a creature of habit, favoring the same routine each day. He gets out of bed at the same time every day, showers for the same amount of time, and asks for the same breakfast that he does not eat.

It drives you crazy to cook a breakfast only to find yourself emptying it into the garbage not an hour later, but the drastic and often unpredictable fluctuations in Homelander’s moods have made you reluctant to question or criticize him.

Besides, what do you care if he eats your food?

Caring is a creature with sharp teeth. It sinks its fangs into the deepest part of you and opens you up to deeper infection. Caring can hurt more than a punch, more than broken bones, more than anything that bleeds. Caring doesn’t break you clean. It’s a bone that doesn’t set, a cut that doesn’t close. Caring is to be vulnerable, to live as an open wound, and one thing you’re entirely certain of is that Homelander cannot be trusted with your vulnerability.

Yet you could not bring yourself to turn away from him. Not after he snapped at you, not after he screwed his eyes shut, not even as he began folding in on himself like a dying star readying to implode. Even though every primal instinct in you told you to run, your feet remained rooted.

You took him into your arms for the same reason you smother a flame rather than blow on it. In doing so, part of you has caught fire, embers continuing to burn.

The way he kissed you lingers on your lips like a ghost. His touches haunt every part of your tingling body, your fingertips numb with adrenaline as you pick up the containers from the coffee table. You can still feel the trail his hot mouth seared down your throat, branding your skin with the memory of his hunger.

He hadn’t embraced you so much as he’d clung to you, his hands testing every inch of the reality of you. He disappeared somewhere so deep in his own mind that it had shocked him stiff when you held him.

A panic attack…?

Strong hands settling on your hips break you out of your daze. Looking over your shoulder, you see Homelander’s smiling face. His eyes are bright and clear, his cheeks no longer streaked with tears. If you didn’t know better–know how easily and abruptly he can switch gears–you’d think you had hallucinated the entire thing.

“Oh, sorry,” you say, recognizing that expectant look on his face. Whatever he said, you didn’t hear it. “I was just thinking. What did you say?”

He huffs a little laugh. “Geeze, talk about a space cadet. C’mon, let’s get you airborne!”

Though your stomach flips, you nod.

I’ll take you flying again. You’ll be conscious this time around.

As soon as you have the containers of food safely tucked into a bag, he wastes no time scooping you up into his arms. The ease with which he lifts you is jarring; it’s less like being picked up by a person, and more like being strapped into a rollercoaster. There’s no sense of give in his strength, and all at once you’re shunted back to the memory of the night you were abducted.

It had felt the same way then, too. His arms coiled around you like steel, his chest a brick wall at your back. He’d held you then as gently as he holds you now. No matter how hard you thrashed, there was no give.

No escape.

Your heart beats hard against your chest, apprehension tightening around your throat like a collar being pulled tight.

When will it stop feeling like this when he touches me?

The derangement of the thought strikes your addled mind belatedly. Never, you remind yourself. His touch should never evoke anything but the fear he’s earned

A sudden rush of cool air from the door opening hits your face, the shift in pressure briefly paralyzing your lungs, halting your shallow breaths. You turn your face from it, nestling instead into the thick, textured fabric of his suit while you fight to catch your breath.

Somewhere over the furious drumming of your heart, you hear him laugh, feel the rumble of his chest against your cheek.

He adjusts you higher up, bringing your face to the crook of his neck. You’re more secure in his grasp this way, and admittedly, you’re grateful for it.

“Relax,” he purrs in your ear. “I won’t let you go.”

Yes, he’s made that abundantly clear.

In an effort to gain some modicum of control, you slip your fingers into the front of his suit collar, gripping the fabric tight. It’s stiffer than you expected it to be, but it at least serves as a good handhold that way. His pulse can be felt in his throat, the beat of it fluttering against the backs of your fingers. It’s quicker than you expected it to be.

You wonder what in the world he has to be nervous about.

“Just give me a warning before you take off, okay?” you ask, focusing on steadying your breathing.

“Before I take off?”

There’s a particular playful lilt to his tone that makes you uneasy.

“Yes.”

“Hm. Can we pretend I did that thirty seconds ago?”

You rear back to look at him, and before you can think better of it, you turn to look down. Your vision tunnels, the edges of it blurring as your eyes fight to adjust to the sudden distance between you and the earth.

The reality of it sets in. It was one thing to understand his capacity for flight in theory, what it would be like to fly with him, but nothing could have prepared you for this. There’s nothing stabilizing you but him, the plummet below a nauseating hundred storey drop. Against your every wish, your stomach starts to churn violently.

Tucking back against him, eyes screwed tightly shut, you mumble, “I’m gonna throw up.”

Homelander sucks in a breath through his teeth. “That’s really gonna ruin someone’s day down there.”

“Shhh’up,” you slur, white-knuckling his collar with one hand, the other clutching the bag of food to your chest. “I changed my mind, take me back, take me back. Can we please just take the elevator and drive? I really don’t want to–”

“Hey, hey, relax,” he coos, tilting backwards, bringing more of your weight against his body. The movement only makes you feel sicker. ”Closing your eyes only makes it worse. Y’gatta adjust.”

You shake your head and swear you can feel water sloshing back and forth in your skull. “Take me back, please take me back.”

Warm lips press against your forehead, his breath wafting over your scalp.

“It’ll pass,” he says with the certainty of experience. “It’s worth it. Trust me.”

Trust him? The audacity of the ask is enough to make you temporarily forget your peril and look up at him through narrowed glassy eyes.

“Why in the world would I trust you?” you ask through your teeth, emboldened by your incredulity despite the way the tension in your body makes your muscles tremble faintly.

His grin doesn’t falter as he asks in turn, “What’s your alternative?”

Your lips part on an incredulous breath, disbelieving that he would be so blatant about it.

In the three days you’ve spent with Homelander, there have been both ambiguous and unambiguous moments of cruelty. Moments where you were certain he was rubbing your captivity in your face, mocking you.

Other times he seems so desperately lost you can almost understand the way he clings to you. Times where his cruelty comes not from an understanding of what will hurt you, but a complete inability to comprehend that you’re a living, breathing person with your own complicated innerworkings.

“You’re unreal,” you say, mystified by the enigma he presents.

“And you’re flying,” he says in your same tone, those ocean blue eyes glinting with self-satisfaction.

You take in a breath to retort, but pause. Though your grip on his collar remains tight, you’re no longer shaking. For a moment there, you’d honestly forgotten where you were. Leaning against him like this, with more of your weight supported on his wrought iron frame, you don’t feel quite so much like you’re precariously dangling.

Though your heart is still racing, and your mouth's as dry as sand, you don’t feel immediately ready to eject your lunch anymore.

“Don’t look down this time,” he tells you, towards the horizon. “Look out.”

Hesitantly, you turn your head to follow his gaze.

The view is surreal.

The afternoon sky is a clear and vibrant blue that the maze of steel buildings below reflect, giving the entire city an oceanic hue. Hundreds upon hundreds of windows lit with warm lights dot the way like fireflies in a field.

In the distance, the sun has fallen low enough that it casts a golden glow across the water. It refracts the light in endless shimmering waves. The spectacle of it is enough to make you forget that this isn’t some fantastical world, that you live here.

Never could you have fathomed seeing the world like this with your own eyes.

“Fuck me,” you murmur, slightly dazed.

Homelander barks a laugh. “What, now?”

Ignoring him, you tentatively let your gaze drift lower. From this distance, all you can see of the lives below you are faint black dots, the flow of them reminiscent of an ant colony. The same loud bustling streets that you used to walk every day are silent from this vantage point, giving the city an uncharacteristic sense of calm. It’s the world–your world–as you’ve never seen it before.

“See?” You feel the heat of the word against your temple as much as you hear it, his lips brushing along your hairline. “I told you it was worth it.”

You tear your attention from the cityscape and bring it back to Homelander.

While you’ve always distantly acknowledged that he’s attractive, he’s undeniably beautiful like this. Bathed in the glow of golden hour, his skin looks Midas touched, and the blue of his eyes is even more vibrant, the light giving them an almost crystalline appearance.

All over again you’re struck by the fact that, whether you want him or not, he’s inexplicably yours. Your captor, your roommate, your warden, your boyfriend, your gilded cage. You’re only where you are now–soaring above the city beyond the confines of that penthouse–because you found it in yourself to be all the things he wants you to be. The more you give, the more you get.

Play your part. Reap the reward.

This is survival.

“You were right. It’s beautiful,” you say, relinquishing your grip on his collar to instead slip your arm around his neck, leaning in to press your cheek to his in a make-shift embrace. You feel his surprise in the slight hitch of tension in his body before he relaxes back into you.

“Can I ask you something? Something about us. Or… about me, I guess,” you say, staring at the world from over his shoulder. Only now has your pulse begun to calm enough that you can properly hear yourself over the rush of your own blood.

His flag of a cape billows in the wind behind him as he flies languidly through the air, giving you something near to focus on.

“Sure you can,” he says, feigning ease that doesn’t quite ring sincere.

He doesn’t like it when you ask too many questions, or start poking holes in the idyllic little fantasy you’ve been living for him.

“Why did you choose me?”

There’s a pause while he mulls over the question, the droning winds around you filling the empty space. Your stomach gives a small flip as he shifts, changing his flight path, making you wonder if you’ve made a mistake, said the wrong thing.

You draw back to meet his gaze, but his expression doesn’t betray any kind of upset.

“I’ll show you,” he says, the words punctuated by a wink, though the gesture doesn’t exude his usual self assured bravado. Based on the tension in his jaw, you get the sense he’s actually masking a buried nervousness.

Within minutes, you’re soaring over a part of the city you recognize with stark familiarity. Seeing your route to work from this angle has a surreal quality to it, like remembering a dream in vivid detail. It’s difficult to fathom that less than a week ago, this was your life.

Drifting to the ledge of a nearby building, he sits on the edge of it, adjusting you on his lap. While the height remains dizzying if you think too much about it, you can’t deny that the warm strength of his arms have given you a firm sense of security.

“I used to come here a lot during my downtime. Between meetings and location work,” he explains, taking in a deep breath.

You do the same, cool air filling your lungs. It’s warm out, but the altitude brings in enough of a chill from the ocean to offset the late afternoon summer heat.

“I got familiar with this spot. The people, their routines,” he says, head lightly bobbing side to side.

“You saw me,” you fill in as understanding dawns.

“Yeah. I saw you,” he echoes, following the walkways below as if he’s tracing your path to work in the same way you are. “Every day.”

“You were really out here every day?” you ask with a lilt of surprise, looking at him. “I never saw you before.”

“People almost never do. You’d be surprised how rarely people ever look up.”

You hum quietly. Already you feel isolated from the world below. Nothing more than an observer. Knowing him as you do now, you can only imagine how outside of it all he really feels.

“Do you ever… go down there? Not as Homelander, but just as yourself.”

“I am Homelander.”

“No, no, I know, but…” You falter, wanting to be delicate. “You were someone else first, weren’t you?”

His gaze turns distant, no longer focusing on the streets below. “No.”

You think again of the young boy in the empty room holding back tears, and your heart grows heavy in your chest. That child–and the man he grew into–had to have had a name once, didn’t he? It’s unfathomable to think he didn’t. Homelander isn’t really a name. It’s a persona, a product patented and sold by Vought.

To have a name is to exist in people’s minds and hearts as a whole person. Whether the name is a gift or a choice, there is soul in a name. More than just an identity, a name is a love language. Be it a given name, nicknames, pet names, to name something is to love it.

Names begin in the heart, form on the tongue, become shaped by lips and cradled by voice. They're an intimacy not only of the body, but of the mind and soul.

Surely he has a name beyond the hero’s title of Homelander.

Project Odessa.

You take in a breath, the question poised on your tongue, but Homelander speaks first.

“I don’t remember when, but you started to stand out. Couldn’t take my eyes off you. I wanted to know more, so… I learned more. And I saw that you were lonely,” he says, but you’ve learned to read between the lines when he tells you things about yourself.

I was lonely.

“You needed someone.”

I needed someone.

“Someone to take care of.”

Someone to take care of me.

“I wanted to save you.”

I wanted you to save me.

“And I did.”

He looks at you then, his expression difficult to parse. There’s a challenge in his gaze, as if he’s daring you to contradict him, but that defiance isn’t enough to cancel out the fragility that always seems to linger when he admits to any sort of genuine feeling.

“I saved you,” he reinforces, voice quieter, firmer.

Sitting hundreds of feet in the air, you’re reminded that this isn’t a normal conversation.

This is a matter of survival.

Play your part. Reap the reward.

“Thank you.”

The tight line of his lips relaxes, spreading into a smile. It radiates the same sort of satisfied pride that he always gets when you show him gratitude for all he’s done for you.

To me, you correct yourself, fighting to keep those lines from blurring. When you look at your life through his eyes, you cannot deny that it looks small. Inconsequential. Lonely. Sad.

None of that changes the fact that it was yours. That it is yours. That he had no right to take it from you when he had every opportunity to ask to be part of it.

The worst part is that, given the choice, you’re starting to feel like you would have said yes.

It’s a conflicted kind of relief when he closes his eyes and presses his lips lightly to yours. The heat of his mouth–the instant memory of his tongue, his teeth, his roaming hands–sends a hot rush through you, but unlike last time the kiss is fleeting and chaste.

“Aaaalrighty,” he says, his voice suddenly full of vigor and performative boom. It’s a wonder he doesn’t give himself a headache with how quickly he’s prone to switching gears. “Let’s get this grubhub goin’.”

He pushes off of the ledge and your stomach lurches the way it would at the start of a rollercoaster, a drop followed by a sudden lift. Your arm tightens around his neck while his smile lingers, clearly pleased by the clinginess this has imposed on you.

You don’t have to tell him where to go. He knows exactly the alley to land in, sinking between buildings to the very back, as not to be observed by the bustling crowd below. You’d grown used to the noise of the crowds, but after several days of quiet, the clamor of New York is borderline deafening. It makes you wince and reflexively press on one ear, plugging it while you adjust.

Regardless of the noise, you feel an instant relief when your feet hit the ground. Homelander’s hands linger on your hip and your elbow, steadying you.

“Well?” he prompts. “You glad we flew?”

“Let’s not get carried away,” you say, huffing a quiet laugh. “I very much almost lost my lunch, but… yeah, I’ll admit it was worth it,” you say, checking on the containers of food packed away.

You’d considered hiding some kind of message amidst the food, but it felt too risky. There was too good of a chance that Homelander would check, and if he did, you wouldn’t have made it this far at all.

For all you know, he did check. You’re still not certain if he really has x-ray vision, or if that’s an invention of Vought’s for the movies. Better safe than sorry.

Maybe you won’t need a hidden message. Maybe you’ll be able to get across to John, without saying a word, that something isn’t right.

“If you wait here, I’ll be–”

“What, I’m not allowed to meet your friends?” he interrupts, hands on his hips.

“Oh, uh.” You blink, holding his gaze uncertainly. “I didn’t… think you’d want to.”

Homelander waves his hand dismissively.

“If he’s important to you, he’s important to me,” he says, slipping an arm around your shoulder and squeezing lightly.

“Besides, next to children, the unhoused are our most vulnerable population,” he says, sounding entirely too much like a politician with a list of talking points. “Anything could happen to him. I can keep a close eye on him for you, make sure he doesn’t get into any unnecessary trouble.”

His smile is too wide, too wolfish, and with a terrible chill you understand the words for the threat that they are.

If John causes problems for him, Homelander will remedy them.

Am I making a mistake?

Swallowing thickly, you nod. “Okay… Sure.”

Despite how heavily Homelander’s words hang over your head, you very nearly take flight yourself with the swell relief that hits you when you see John sitting at the end corner of the alleyway, hands busy with a Rubik’s Cube. He’s an imposing looking man in his late thirties, bearded and tall, but he’s never made you feel unsafe. He’s kind, and most importantly, he’s familiar.

You take in a sharp breath of excitement, his name on the tip of your tongue, but a crimson leather clad hand clamps over your mouth and pulls you back into the shadow of the building. Homelander pins you back against him, one hand keeping you quiet while the other slips around your middle, locking you in place.

Did he change his mind, or was this all just a game from the start? Your wide eyes prickle with tears.

“Ground rules,” he says, voice low in your ear. “We’ve been together for a couple of weeks, but for your own safety, it’s been kept a secret. You quit your dead-end job and traveled to Europe with me, from which we’ve just recently returned. Got it?”

Huffing shallow little breaths from your nose, heart racing, you nod.

“If I see any funny business, I’ll break his neck.”

You close your eyes, every beat of your heart a painful jab. His voice has the same cool hollowness it did when he warned you not to lie to him. It’s him, and yet simultaneously sounds like an entirely different person.

“Nod if you understand.”

A beat, and then you nod.

“Good girl,” he says, his smile audible in his praise. His hand slips away from your mouth and he kisses your temple, straightening out your clothes. His arm slinks around your waist, hand settling heavily on your hip. “Now, let’s get this over with.”

Rattled, you rub the tears from your eyes and take in a steadying breath, trepidation replacing your excitement. Dread pools in your stomach, the tide of it rising with every step, but you still manage to smile once you’re in earshot of your friend.

“Hey, John,” you call gently, lifting a hand to wave when he meets your gaze.

John does a double take, glancing up once, then twice, recognition flipping to confusion, and then rounding back to delight. He smiles broadly from beneath his wiry beard, pushing off of the wall he’d been leaning against.

“I’ll be damned,” he says as he approaches you. “You had me worried! I was beginning to think y–” he stops himself, belatedly noticing Homelander at your side. His eyes widen a fraction, and then his brows furrow.

In his myriad of expressions, you recognize yourself. That first night you woke up, how confused you were by where you were and who you were with. The whole thing felt like a dream, and John looks as though he’s wondering if this is one, too.

As a New Yorker, seeing Homelander–or any member of the Seven–in the flesh typically means one of two things: you’ve stumbled onto a promotional event, or trouble is close at hand.

“Is everything alright?” he settles on asking, the priority of his concern for you instantly warming your chattering heart.

“More than alright,” Homelander answers when you take too long, flashing a winning smile. He gives your hip a squeeze, prompting you.

You clear your throat, lifting the bag off of your shoulder. “Yeah, yeah, yes, I’ve just–I’ve been away,” you say, already tripping over the lies catching in your throat.

If I see any funny business, I’ll break his neck.

Thanks to you, John’s life rides on this conversation, and he has no clue. You kick yourself internally, desperate to get your shit together for both your sakes.

“It was really impromptu, but, uhm, I didn’t want you to worry, and I have news, so I–” you flash Homelander a look, as if to say let me sell this, and he reluctantly withdraws his arm. “I asked Homelander if he’d come along, because I honestly didn’t think you’d believe me,” you say, forcing out a little laugh.

John hesitantly takes the bag when you offer it, but he’s looking at you like you’ve grown a second head, his eyes occasionally darting over to Homelander, who continues to stand akimbo behind you. “Believe you…?”

“That I’m dating Homelander,” you say, pulling your lips back in what you can only hope is a convincing smile, and not just a manic show of teeth.

“Oh,” he says, looking no less puzzled.

The whole situation is bizarre beyond words. That you would come to him, an acquaintance that you’ve known only through habit, through the quick conversations you’ve had in the transitional spaces between work and home, seems insane. That you would care that he knows or that he believes you’re dating New York’s premium hero.

Of course he won’t see that you’re a hostage. Why the hell would he?

You feel out of your mind the same way you did sitting on that stupid couch, punching in website after website after website. It’s futile. You’re outside, you’re right in front of another person, someone who would be just as horrified as you are to know the truth, and yet you can’t say a damn thing.

This will always be true. Whether you’re standing in front of a stranger, an acquaintance, or your dearest loved ones, your truth will put them in danger.

All because of one lonely little boy.

Your smile holds firm, but your eyes well with tears.

“I quit my job,” you say, fighting back the sob threatening to choke you. “So I won’t see you anymore. But I, uhm–I just wanted to say goodbye. So, goodbye,” you say, moving to turn away before your emotions betray you any further, but John catches you by the shoulder, his touch light and painfully human.

“Hey, you take care of yourself,” he says, looking to be shaking off the shellshock from what you’ve presented. “Y’always seem to be taking care of other people and their problems, so… Take care of you, too. If not for yourself, you’ll do that for me, yeah? For old time’s sake,” he says with a smile, giving the bag a little shake.

You stare at him, the confession of it all sitting heavily on the tip of your tongue.

Help me! you want to shout. I can’t do this alone. I can’t take care of this myself. I need help. It’s too much. I’m scared.

You start to move towards him, and his opposite arm opens, as if ready to embrace you.

“Lucky for her,” Homelander interrupts, hoisting you suddenly into his arms and out of John’s reach, shattering any potential illusions. “She’s got me to take care of her now,” he says, his Hollywood smile stretched instead into a thin sneer.

“Great to meet’cha, pal,” he spits, voice devoid of any actual camaraderie. Tears burn in your eyes as his fingertips dig into you, his grip like a vice, like chains slipping back around your limbs. “Enjoy the food.”

Anything John might have said in response is swallowed up by the rush of air parting around him as Homelander shoots up into the sky, leaving your world in the dust, and any hope you had with it.

The flight back to the penthouse is quiet.

Homelander flies faster than he did on the way out, itching to be back within the safe, predictable confines of home. You’re tense in his hold, but both of your arms are wrapped around his neck, your face tucked in under his jaw, and he takes pleasure in that, at least.

It’s a miracle he didn’t rip that filthy fuckers arm off for the way he grabbed you, for the way he tried to pull you into his arms.

God damn pervert is what he is.

You’re too naive to see it, but he isn’t, and there wasn’t a fucking chance he was going to let the guy cop one last feel before you were spirited away for good. The thought alone is enough to set his teeth on edge, to make him consider paying the son of a bitch a little visit anyways.

He grits his teeth.

No one touches his things.

It sets off something primal in him. A gnawing, feverish compulsion to claim you so thoroughly there could be no doubt that you’re his. He wants to fuck you, to mark you so obviously that no other man will ever touch you like that again.

By the time he lands on the concrete slab of his balcony, you’re shaking up a storm. He maneuvers inside without putting you down, as you’ve made no move to let go of him.

Something isn’t right.

He rubs your back, mimicking the patterns you make when you rub his, pausing when you suddenly make a choked noise that sounds suspiciously close to a sob.

What the hell? He did exactly what you asked him to. You’re supposed to be happy.

He carries you to his bed, a dozen versions of the two of you reflected back in the surrounding mirrors, and sets you down gently. Your arms slide loose from his neck and fall limply to your sides. Bending down, he cups either side of your face and brings your gaze up to meet his, perplexed to find your eyes brimming with tears.

“Hey,” he says softly, swiping a tear from your cheek with his thumb as it falls. “You got what you wanted, didn’t you?”

You shut your eyes and make a sound he can’t make sense of, something between exasperation and agony. Though you try to pull out of his grip, he holds you in place, refusing to let you run from this.

From him.

“No, no. Look at me. I did what you asked,” he says, impatience slowly wringing the gentleness from his voice.

Your eyes are red and glassy, fat tears rolling down your cheeks and over his thumbs.

Christ.

This is a far cry from what he had in mind when he thought earlier about how you’d make it up to him.

“I can’t do this anymore,” you sob, taking hold of his wrists. “I just want to go home.”

His expression falls, brows furrowed in confusion, dismay, anger.

“What’re you talking about? You are home. You’re happy here. You have everything, you–I’ve given you everything,” he says, though a voice in the back of his mind reminds him that isn’t true.

He hasn’t given everything. Not yet. He’s been holding back. You both have, and now you’re both suffering.

Enough, he thinks. Hasn't he been deprived long enough?

Haven't you?

You try again to pull away, but this time he pulls you forward, pressing his lips to yours. You make a sound against his mouth that sounds like surprise, but all that matters now is the thrum of your skin against his.

“Doesn’t have to be like this,” he says between kisses, following you as you pull backwards, his knee hitting the bed as he crawls over top of you. He lets his hands roam, learning you in the way he’s been aching to since the day he decided that you would be his, and that he would be yours.

“You have no idea how fucking good I can make you feel.”

Pleasure has always been his greatest comfort. The ability to shut down his brain, to quiet the voices and focus solely on the physical. He needs it, and now more than ever, he can see that you need it, too.

He kisses your jaw, your cheek, kisses the wet streaks from your skin and licks the salt of them from his lips.

“I can make it go away,” he murmurs, undeterred by your hands pushing against his chest. You have a nasty habit of fighting what’s good for you.

“I’ll make you happy if you’d just let me.”

Your clothes put up less resistance than you do, the designer material tearing with ease. He swallows up your gasp with another kiss, slips his tongue into your mouth and grazes your teeth with it, daring you to bite.

Your pulse thunders in his ears, but not even the acridity of the fear coursing through you can hide the sweet heat of arousal seeping from between your thighs.

His own body aches in kind, cock throbbing needily behind his cup. His mind has already started to fog, the sting of rejection soothed by the need he can feel building in every part of your body.

You want him. You do. He can feel it in the drumming of every climbing throb he hears your body give.

“All this teasing, this tension, it can all end. We’re so close to what we both want now, what we both need.” His hand slips lower, forcing your legs apart enough to drag his middle finger over your cunt through the satiny fabric of your panties, savoring the way it makes you shudder.

“I don’t want this,” you say, hardly sounding convinced of it yourself.

“You can lie to yourself all you want, but you can’t lie to me, ” he says, taking his hand away only to bite the tip of his middle finger, tugging his glove off with his teeth and tossing it aside. He moves it right back to your pussy, pressing in firmly to finally feel the hot, soaked patch of fabric against his bare skin.

“Look who’s all wet.”

“Why are you doing this?” There’s a tremble running through your voice, through your body.

He huffs an incredulous little breath.

“I’m doing this for you. For us. I’m doing this because you don’t know how to let yourself be happy,” he says, drawing back to look at you. You’re beautiful like this. Eyes glassy and vibrant, skin hot under his touch. “All you have to do is let go, and I’ll make all the bad stuff go away.”

You don’t respond, but he knows by the look of you that he’s struck a chord. He kisses you again, and this time, you don’t try to turn away. Instead, both of your hands slip into his hair, and to his elation, you kiss him back.

He moans against your lips, shifting onto his side next to you so that he can better maneuver his hand, bringing his fingers up to slip them into your underwear, letting out a low sound for the feel of your velvety wet cunt under his bare fingers.

“Keep breathing,” he reminds you, acutely attuned to every inch of you, including when your breath catches. “That’s it… Good girl.”

The last thing he needs now is for you to pass out.

He kisses a trail down from your shoulder to your chest, nipping at the swell of your breasts before he kisses an apology into the soft skin, only to suck a mark at that same spot. He spreads your own slick from your cunt to your clit, massaging it between his middle and index finger.

You suck in a ragged breath, you whimper, and in that sound he knows he finally has you hook, line and sinker.

That’s when you catch sight of yourself in the mirror above. You shudder, turning your head away as if ashamed, but he won’t let you hide from this.

“Ah, ah, none of that. No shame in this. It’s a tale as old as time, sweetheart,” he says, pressing his middle finger slowly into the silky clench of your pussy.

“Boy meets girl… Girl falls for boy… Boy fucks her brains out,” he half laughs, half rasps, hooking his leg over yours both to pull your legs wider apart, and to give himself your thigh to grind against.

He angles his thumb to rub your clit while his finger crooks, stroking inside you until he finds that delicate, puffy little bundle of nerves he’s been taught to look for. More than just by the feel of it, he knows he’s found it when your hips jerk suddenly, and you look at him as though he’s just invented the spot.

“I told you,” he rumbles, kissing you slow, wet, hungry, “that I would make you feel good.”

He adds another finger, fucking you with them slowly, his pace building gradually. He imagines how it’ll feel to have his cock where his fingers are, and he nearly comes in his pants at the thought alone, his hips jerking against you.

“Look at yourself,” he sighs, his other hand cupping the back of your neck. “Look at yourself,” he says again, harsher this time, and your eyes snap up to the mirror above you.

You’re a mess, clothes torn apart and splayed under and around you, hickeys forming where he’s abused your skin with his lips. You’re fucking yourself down on his hand entirely of your own accord now, one hand fisted in his hair, the other in the sheets. Your tears have dried and there’s only sweet, mindless pleasure left in your eyes.

He’s never known a pain he couldn’t fuck away. He knew you’d be the same.

“So fucking perfect for me,” he coos, breath hitching on his own mounting pleasure. Your pussy squeezes his fingers, the lewd cacophony of pleasure filling the room the closer you get to the brink.

“Homelander,” you keen, voice fractured and sweet as sugar.

He kisses his name from your lips, licks up the honied taste of it while he fucks you deeper, faster, his pace never once faltering, not even as you begin to thrash against him. He can’t tell if you’re trying to get closer or further, but he holds you tightly in place, gritting his teeth against the pleasure while he shamelessly humps your leg.

Your shallow breaths take on a pitchy sound as you writhe, as if part of you is still fighting him, fighting your pleasure, but in the end, it’s a battle you lose. Your cunt locks up like a vice around his fingers, your orgasm throbbing inside and out, your clit fluttering against his thumb.

You’re robbed of breath, of sound, and of sense as you come, capable of nothing more than a silent cry as pleasure–the pleasure he gave you–wracks your body.

He fucks you through it, relishing the way your quivering cunt squeezes his fingers, greedily pulling him back in on every thrust. It’s too much–you’re too much–and he loses himself to it, giving a ragged gasp as he comes shortly after. His eyes roll back, pulse after pulse of sweet pleasure filling his cup with liquid heat.

“I love you,” he gasps, nearly choking on the words, rocking against your still-trembling form. “I–fffuck, I love you, I love you so much.”

He’s languid but no less ravenous in the way he kisses your chest, your throat, your jaw, your mouth, all while his fingers rock lazily in and out of your cunt. Still coming down from his own high, he doesn’t stop until you’re grabbing his wrist and pushing his hand away, pleading your overstimulation with nothing but soft noises.

He licks his fingers clean, intoxicated by the feel, taste and smell of you. A shiver runs through you, and it’s only then that he realizes he forgot to shut the balcony door behind him.

Too enraptured to move, to risk breaking the spell your bodies have cast over one another, he drapes his cape over your naked body, tucking you in against his chest.

Satisfied that he’s made his point, that you finally understand the gift he’s wanted to give you all along, he wraps both arms around you and nuzzles against the top of your head, pressing a kiss to the crown.

While ending your first tryst sticky and wet in his pants wasn't his ideal scenario, he'll take it. The weight of you in his arms, the taste of you on his lips, more than makes up for it.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, the words slurring together slightly. He strokes your back, holding you close as the tremors subside. He gladly takes credit for the way your breaths even out, for the way you sink into his arms, the resistance wrung from your muscles.

All that’s left now is bliss.

“That’s my girl.” And you are, without a shadow of a doubt, his.

( chapter eight )

#i did it!!! 😭#i'm not ENTIRELY sure all the correct ways to tag this chapter but it's a heavy one #homelander x reader #homelander x you #homelander #x reader #yandere x reader #my writing #homelander fanfiction #center stage in a gilded cage

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stellerssong · 9 months ago

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update: they did not let lady ochiba be a horrid evil murderess cunt.

like 99% of the time i WILL be like "actually as a woc participating in fandom the LET WOMEN BE HORRID EVIL MURDERESS CUNTS conversation does nothing for me, because in general that conversation revolves around taking female characters of color who have been portrayed as nothing but good-to-heroic in canon and applying totally revisionist readings to their characterizations that play on stereotypical views of women of color as sexual aggressors/morally suspect/uniquely untrustworthy and uphold fandom's priors regarding the victimization and overwhelming narrative value of white men" because that is almost without exception the behavior i see in fandom

the other 1% of the time fumi nikaido is being so so compellingly evil on my teavee screen so never mind all that i guess. let lady ochiba be a horrid evil murderess cunt.

#chatter #dear reader i had been feeding myself such potent and convincing lies throughout my viewing of this television programme #that by episode ten i was genuinely astonished and more than a little disappointed to discover that shogun fx is a show about men.#congratsyouplayedyourself.jpg #like on the one hand yes. the power of toxic yuri can do anything including win your team a whole additional army #in the (fictionalized) battle of sekigahara and obtain for your team captain the shadow backing of the heir by way of his very evil mother #but like. i would've appreciated a nod to ''well we definitely cannot trust her going forward. but for now i will accept her aid because #ummm. otherwise we are all gonna die. and we'll deal with that fallout in another book''#and ochiba being like ''i am doing this in memory of my ex girlfriend but the second your back is turned LASERS''#but like. i guess they had to make sure toranaga's villain monologue had enough screen time. so ok #i think the real takeaway of this show is that shows should have the correct number of episodes to convey their narrative's #emotional depth of field. and sometimes that number is not 8–10. and we should try to be okay with that #because TRULY. WHEN I THINK OF THE B-PLOTS THAT OCHIBA COULD HAVE HAD.......#WHEN I THINK OF WHAT A FAN FAVORITE LADY KIRI COULD HAVE BECOME GIVEN SCREENTIME......#anyway [through gritted teeth] i enjoyed fx shogun a show about women very much

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r0-boat · 6 months ago

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May I request some Yandere Von lycaon headcanons please? Thank you! 💗

Hot wolf headcanons coming right up

Yandere Von Lycaon Headcannons

Cw: Yandere, possessive, excessive,and overprotective behavior, super controlling, super toxic, kidnapping.

Von Lycaon knows every little thing about you down to the last beauty mark on your skin. He is a hyperstalker, MF has a leather notebook filled with meticulous notes on you. Along with pictures photos or sketches to go with it. He takes such great pride into knowing every little thing about you.

He wants to know your likes your dislikes everyone you hang out with your family members, He will know you down to what soap you use.

First he was just happy with stalking you knowing everything about you but after a while he would want more. You would start bumping into you on the street slowly starting to hang out with you. And as a handsome and very charismatic wolfman you will be in tranced too much so to even notice what's going on before it's too late.

You will be kidnapped, He had to do it as soon as he could and it's not like it was hard either He had stolen things before. He was rusty but once he knew your schedule and how to get you alone it was so easy to lead you with stray.

Lycaon is not stupid. He knows what he's doing is wrong. You are his guilty pleasure and he cannot help himself. at first he was very conflicted and holding his feelings back but now he does not care.

he assures you that him being your captor is a better option than literally anything else out in the world. With his salary he could easily provide for you then when he is not working you are his one and only. If you know your place, he will happily serve you and give you anything you wish.

Just because he serves you that doesn't mean he's a pushover. Far from it He's only like this because he wants to serve you However he is not afraid to take back what little control you thought you had.

Of course, obedience is not without punishment, and as a strict wolf, he must uphold his rules. And there are a lot of them.

-Supervise internet for 1 hour only, of course certain social medias are blocked and restricted.

-Going outside without his chaperoning is prohibited

-wondering around the house when he is at work is prohibitive However once you're good you will get this privilege.

-You must eat meals by him and him alone Von lygon will provide three meals a day along with snacks and dessert He shall leave warm breakfast out for you before he leaves for work. His Bangboo shall provide you with lunch.

-no tempering with the Bangboo, it's there for your safety surveillance and to provide You with any necessities while he's away.

-television for no more than 2 hours a day. Anymore then 1 hour over this limit and you'll get a scolding. More hours maybe negotiated.

-any books or TV series you want to watch or read must be checked and green lit with von Lycaon first

-hanging out with friends is out of the question unless greenlit by Von Lycaon.

-when he calls you must pick up immediately.

-do not feel yourself up on snacks and sweets. You'll spoil your dinner.

Honestly he doesn't think he's that controlling.

Von Lycaon had a connection set up cameras in your room and everywhere around the house, which was attached to an app on his phone so he could see what you're doing at all times.

Von Lycaon Will cook for you cloth you, bathe with you, He would even goddamn brush your damn teeth for you.

Your Butler by force may look common collected but internally he has no chill when it comes to you and will clear out grocery stores when you even mention you have a craving for any snack or dish.

He is self-aware but he is still delulu from the fact that he wants to get married to you someday. It will happen You just have to trust him more. In one of your many fights with him You yell at him that "You can't force someone to fall in love" and with a straight face looking you dead in the eye he answers " you can love someone by force that's called Stockholm syndrome. I researched that extensively"... You never had that argument with him again.

#zzzero #zzzero von Lycaon #zzz #von lycaon #lycaon x reader #yandere #yandere zzz #yandere von Lycaon #zenless zone zero #zzz von lycaon

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literaryvein-reblogs · 1 month ago

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Hey there!

I have something I haven't worked on in almost a year and I hadn't written the chapters in order. As a result, I'm left with plot holes.

Do you have any tips on getting back to work after a long time and how to deal with plot holes?

Love your work, by the way :)

Writing Notes: Plot Holes

Plot Holes - inconsistencies or gaps in the storyline or character development.

They are formed when a narrative stops following its own logic.

Viewers and readers only have the details you’ve provided to immerse themselves in a believable world.

If you present a narrative without thinking through the implications of each plot point, you may create an unsatisfying and incomplete story, which can lose your audience quickly.

Types of Plot Holes

Plot holes betray your audience’s trust and can lower the quality of literature, film, or television shows. Examples of plot holes include:

Factual errors: Factual errors—like incorrect dates or wrong information—can lose your audience (especially in historical fiction). For example, if you’re writing a romance set during the Civil War and your hero escapes in a jet, that would be a factual error that would create a logical plothole for the audience.

Impossible events: Any occurrence that defies laws of physics or science is an impossible event—like a character who becomes a professional dancer overnight to win a big competition, or a person who can hold their breath underwater for 20 minutes to escape a monster. Impossible events remind audiences of real life logic, which can distract and remove them from the story. Of course, as the author, you can build a world where impossible things do occur and seem logical.

Illogical plot developments: Events that upset the flow of logic can create huge plot holes. If you’ve built a world without magic, a character cannot suddenly be capable of magic to get themselves out of a jam. An all-powerful bad guy bent on world destruction won’t suddenly have a change of heart or point of view for no apparent reason. Audiences want the narrative you’re weaving to track with the details you’ve provided. They want to know that they are emotionally investing in a story that is going to make sense and pay off.

Contradictions: Introducing a rule and then breaking it for convenience later on is an example of a contradictory plot problem and produces inconsistencies within your writing. For example, if you establish in the beginning of a book that characters cannot come back from the dead, but then you suddenly have a deceased character return for story purposes, that creates a big plot hole. Contradicting your own rules destabilizes your narrative, depriving audiences of the grounded sense of information that they need to immerse themselves fully.

Unresolved storylines: Even your subplots should have their own story arcs—too many loose ends can make a story feel incomplete. Leaving loose ends can also lower the stakes of your story, since there are no real consequences to anything that happens outside the main plot. For example, a character who is introduced with a storyline that conveniently influences the plot or protagonist but is forgotten about later would be an unresolved storyline.

Tips for Fixing Plot Holes

When you reach the end of the film or book you’re writing and suddenly discover major plot holes, it can take a lot of hard work to write yourself out of a jam. One of the easiest ways to fix plot holes you come across is to identify potential ones early on in your writing process (like during the outline or first draft) and prevent them from occurring in the first place.

However, it can be nearly impossible to anticipate every avenue for your narrative, and sometimes your story needs tweaking. Your job as a writer is to do as much as you can in order to tell the most complete, understandable story for your audience.

Here are some tips for doing just that:

Think things through. Spend time worldbuilding in order to give your story structure and somewhere real to live. Establish the rules and boundaries of your imaginary world and how everything exists within it. Figure out the power dynamics, setting, backstory of your narrative. Think about how you want your story to develop, the cause and effect of each plot point, and where you want your main character arcs to go. Keep track of those details as you write to keep your world consistent.

Research your topic. If you’re writing a book about a hospital, you should be aware of all the common medical terms and how to use them. If you’re writing a movie about airplane pilots, you should know everything you can about being and becoming one. Common advice is to “write what you know,” but you can expand on what you know by doing the proper research. Research from reputable sources is the best way to avoid factual errors and can save you the headache of having to rewrite with new or different information later.

Provide setup. By establishing certain guidelines for your universe, you, in turn, establish them for yourself as a writer. When an easy solution to an impossible problem comes out of nowhere, it’s considered an example of “deus ex machina,” and is generally frowned upon by critics and audiences. Provide proper setup of your world by describing earlier events and characters—enough information to foreshadow an occurrence later (so that it doesn’t seem unwarranted) but not so much you drown your readers or viewers in exposition.

Pay off the information you set up. As the creator, you must find the balance between giving your audience too much information and giving them little enough so they’re intrigued for more. You’re also responsible for making your readers or viewers understand why certain elements of a story are important. This is one of the purposes of the Chekhov’s gun plot device: If you’ve written a scene where a particular element or object is introduced at the beginning, that element or object needs to be used by the end of the story. Otherwise, your readers may feel like they’ve wasted their time or like the writer forgot about their own details. Introduce things and provide enough information so that it pays off in a satisfying way by the end of your story.

Take a break. If you find yourself drowning in illogical plot points, walk away from your writing. Sometimes, an author can be too close to their writing project in order to see it objectively. Revisiting your writing later with fresh eyes may offer you a different perspective or new strategy that could possibly help solve any issues you’ve come across.

How to Get Back Into Writing

When you first return to writing after a long hiatus, you should have a plan for building up your writing practice and getting creative juices flowing the way they once did. Here are some tips to get you back to the craft you love:

Read a lot. Nothing can jumpstart a return to writing quite like some inspiration. It doesn’t matter what you choose to read, but you may find more relatable inspiration in contemporary authors like Stephen King and Dan Brown than in classics from a past era.

Make a schedule to establish writing habits. Any published author will tell you that the secret to becoming a better writer is getting into a routine. In order to establish a writing groove, most authors write at the same time every day. Some aim for a specific word count or page count, while others simply write for a fixed amount of time. If you have a day job to balance, you can schedule your own writing session at any time of day. The key is to keep writing at the same time over a prolonged period.

Assign yourself creative writing exercises. If you want to build up your writing muscle after a long time away, you simply need practice. Creative writing prompts can be a great way to kickstart a writing practice.

Start a journal or digital document for story ideas. Nothing derails a return to writing quite like writer’s block. But you can stave this off by keeping a running list of novel, short story, and even nonfiction book ideas. The process will depend on how you work best. Maybe you prefer to jot down broad ideas, or perhaps you’re the type to sketch out ideas in great detail before you start the actual writing process. Either is fine; the main goal is to not find yourself staring at a blank page and unable to think of an idea.

Get ideas from real life. Your actual life is full of sources for writing projects. Base your main character on a family member or your best friend and use their real-life changes to guide your story’s character development. Use details about your hometown to build the world of your fictional story. Or, if you don’t want to invoke any person or place that’s too connected to you personally, take it upon yourself to do some people watching. Sit in cafes or libraries and see who comes in. You never know who might provide you with that spark of inspiration.

Comb through old writing projects. Revisit the works of your younger self and see if there’s an old work-in-progress that might be worth revisiting. Perhaps fresh eyes will give you a thousand ideas as to how to develop what’s currently on the page, or perhaps you’ll remember why you abandoned the project in the first place and turn your attention to a new book project instead.

Get ideas in unorthodox ways. If you’re still short on ideas, try random idea generation to get yourself going. For instance, pick up a great book you admire and start the first draft of your novel with the same first word. Or start your draft with a totally random word and then write a first line that puts that word in context. Try freewriting without an outline—but perhaps only as an exercise since it’s really hard to freewrite an entire book without meandering. Don’t be too precious about the story you make up. If it’s your first time back in several years, no one is expecting you to write a Pulitzer Prize winner.

Brush up your creative work as a content writer. Content writing tends to fall into two categories: marketing (particularly branding-based writing for the Internet) and technical writing that explains how to do something. Compared to fiction writing, there are a lot more paid jobs for content writers. If you can get one of these jobs, you can brush up on the mechanics of your writing—from grammar to syntax to clear explanations—and later apply that to your creative work. You can also rebuild your writing skills by blogging or just keeping a private diary.

Write for writing’s sake. The sobering reality is that most story ideas will not be published, much less end up on a bestseller list. So rather than invest a lot of time triangulating your writing for commercial appeal, be true to yourself. Write about what excites you, give it a strong point of view, and invest in the art of writing fiction for no other reason than that you love it.

Sources: 1 2 ⚜ More: Notes & References ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

Plot Holes & Other Structural Issues

Structural Edit ⚜ Book Editing Checklist

Thanks so much for your kind words! Glad to hear you're getting back into writing. Hope these notes and tips help :)

#anonymous #plot holes #plot #editing #writing tips #writeblr #literature #writers on tumblr #writing reference #dark academia #spilled ink #writing prompt #creative writing #writing advice #light academia #on writing #writing inspiration #writing ideas #writing resources

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kujakumai · 5 months ago

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On the subject of being good with children, which characters do you think WOULD be good babysitters?

YUGIOH CHARACTERS AS BABYSITTERS, RANKED

TOP PICKS:

Seto Kaiba runs an entire company dedicated exclusively to safely entertaining children, and unless his parks are getting continually sued I believe he knows how. Your kindergartner is not only safe with him but will probably leave knowing how to play chess and write in C++. He may allow them to play with knives, but only if they're 9 or over, plus he has all the emergency numbers on speed-dial.

Hiroto Honda babysits his niblings on the regular. Can warm a bottle and change a diaper. A level-headed and practical guy. He’ll be fine as long as his friends don't drag him into a horrible game-themed deathtrap. Don't ask why that caveat exists.

Rishid Ishtar is safe, experienced, has dad energy, however he will crumple like wet paper at the first sign of conflict re: ice cream for dinner / no bedtime / blood-soaked cross-country quest for revenge / an extra episode of cartoons over the screentime limit.

Ishizu Ishtar would make a great babysitter. I don't really have a quirky joke here she just would.

"MAYBE"S

Jonouchi used to watch his little sister and I think he'll do about as well as any other teenager you're paying minimum wage, and with a lot of earnest enthusiasm. Your child will be fine at the end of the night, though they will probably have eaten some junk food and played a T rated videogame.

I do not think Atem would know what to do with a baby, and may panic about it, though if you have an older child he will be happy to offer a rousing speech and some deep-voiced mentorlike advice while teaching them to play board games. Not a bad choice, just try not to leave him with anyone under seven.

Yugi knows zilch about kids and often appears a little annoyed by them. Same general rules as Atem--do not leave him with a baby, but he'll probably just teach an older kid to play shogi or something.

Mai Kujaku will put the kid in front of the television and order pizza while she paints her nails. Honestly, though, what more are you paying her for?

Listen, I love Anzu. I do. She’s smart, driven, and big-hearted, but she is also sort of short-tempered and impatient, and patience is like 90% of child-rearing. Please do not ask Anzu Mazaki to watch your children. She WILL say yes because she needs the money, and she WILL go into it with optimism and gumption, and yes, both she and your child will both be in one piece at the end of the night, but it will be clear from both of their frazzled expressions that she lost most of her sanity an hour in after the fifth "Why?"

DEFINITELY NOT

Ryou Bakura would in theory be a perfectly good, if kind of spacey, babysitter, but you cannot trust him to remain Ryou Bakura, and the other guy is definitely not someone you want anywhere near your children.

I don't think Marik Ishtar has ever interacted with a child for very long and the number of people he talks to that are even his own age is in the single digits. And he is definitely not getting spat on or dealing with any bathroom stuff. I'm not saying he can't figure it out but the learning curve is going to be steep.

I have to put Yami Bakura here in principle and yet for some reason I think it wouldn't go that bad? I mean he definitely doesn't care about the safety of your child. And he may enlist them to the armies of darkness. And he's not cleaning anything up. But he's like, a weird socially awkward over-the-top guy? And children love those? Honestly I think they would both have fun. For at least an hour until everything goes horribly wrong.

Please do not summon Zork Necrophades to babysit your child.

#lmao. that got long. sorry

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akajustmerry · 11 months ago

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I genuinely think rick and michonne are the greatest love story and romance ever told on television. there's just no notes. they're perfect, stunning, outstanding. it's not just the fucking journey of it, of 2 people meeting at the lowest point in humanity and in their lives and dragging each other back up season after season. it's not just the genuine time it takes for the humanity, trust and love to build between them. it's....the tenderness of it when it does. rick and michonne are just 2 people who accepted that life and being alive would just mean violence and loss, but then when they finallyyyyyy realise how much they love each other it's so tender, it's this little haven that's actually living. and like,,,,, all of that would be enough for any on screen love story but the chemistry danai gurira and andrew lincoln have is just unparalleled, lightening in a bottle. Season 7, episode 12 of twd where rick and michonne are just fucking, scavenging, wasting walkers, road tripping, rinse and repeat is literally one of the most romantic sexiest episodes of tv ever made. that's how I know richonne naysayers are just losers suffering from antiblackness and misogynoir. I cannot imagine watching this and thinking anything other than wow this is literally the greatest love story on television ❤️

#richonne #the walking dead #the Misogynoir in the twd fandom back when they were first getting together.... Traumatising #/

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vetteltea · 1 year ago

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Love Will Always Show | CL16 & CS55

Summary: The choice of a lifetime is yours to make, your husband and lover both longing for your heart. They face conflict, choices and most importantly, one another.

Word Count: 8.4K [& a bit more]

Warnings: angst, mentions of cheating and dishonesty, manipulation, hospital talk.

Note: The fact I was a newbie to F1Blr when this started and now...here we are. I want to thank each and EVERY person who has ever read this series. It's changed everything for me, it is truly my love letter to you all and I hope you enjoy the finale. You are all forever in my heart and I cannot thank you all enough.

PART 1: A House, A Home | PART 2: Where Do We Go? | PART 3: ‘You Think, You Know’ | PART 4: 'Love Will Always Show'

Love is a gentle hand cradling your back.

Time had suspended when your body had collapsed onto the rough floor outside of the Scuderia Ferrari hospitality. Immediately, several scarlet-clad personnel were running over, shouts echoing across the open space, somebody mumbling that they needed to get you somewhere safe and warm before your body temperature dropped dangerously.

There’s a question of who to call; your father wasn’t in the country, ever since your mother’s funeral, he’s become silent, your siblings having been lovingly sent to stay with a close aunt. He had been absent from the previous Ferrari meeting, his assistant having sent a message to say he would be absent for a little longer. Clearly, the death of your mother was taking a toll.

The next obvious choice of course, was your husband. However, with the win that he had been craving for oh-so-long, he was currently wrapped up in press, endless ‘congratulations’ messages from celebrities and presenters alike. Nobody would know where to find the monegasqué right now, let alone how to tell him of his wife’s status whilst surrounded by endless television cameras and sly reporters.

There’s no need for him, anyway. Leaving the media pen after vigorous questioning of his loyalty to the team and his current emotions on a premature end to the race, Carlos’ dark eyes quirk to the side, registering the crowd of bodies circling the hospitality area. They only widen when the realization dawns on his clouded mind that it’s you, your body is the one thing they are all crowding around.

His steps break into a run, no signal being given to his media manager nor his cousin. He speaks a few sharp, spanish words, creating a break in the circle, able to insert his toned body into the sea of red, immediately squatting, one hand coming out to elevate the back of your head. He knows how particular you could be with your hair, how you insisted on now sleeping on silk pillowcases to keep it healthy. Asphalt ground was not comfortable nor hygienic.

There’s talk; talk about whether to take you to the hospital, whether to wait for your husband to return and make the decision. Carlos feels his blood curdle at the use of marital status. His teammate, the man who had treated you no better than the way he had treated bonds of trust, was the one to make a choice of your health and wellbeing.

He simply cannot stand for that.

“We need to take her to the hospital.” He interrupts the commotion, the strong tone settling over the panicked employees. “Surely that is the best place for her if she is unconscious, no?” The whispers and mumbles which echo the surrounding members of the team signify agreement.

There’s a discussion of how to bring you in without drawing attention to the media. Surely, if a giant ambulance or even a medical car was to storm through the paddock, no doubt endless media outlets would be creating headlines before even bothering to speak to anybody present. The Spaniard is already making his own choice, using his arms to gently adjust your body.

He shouldn’t; he really shouldn’t be moving you, not when you haven’t been checked for broken bones or concussion. Yet, the idea of the most beautiful girl, Mariposa, lying on a hard floor with no form of comfort or safety sickens him to his stomach. Carlos is still gentle with the movements, letting your head lean into his stomach, one hand is supporting your back, tanned fingers digging gentle patterns into the curve of your skin. The other one traces once, twice, three times around your cheekbone, dark eyes transfixed on your features.

You must have hit your skin when falling to the ground; there’s a graze dancing across your cheekbone, specks of dirt resting in between each knock. The man cradling you is gentle, moving his shirt just enough up his body that he’s able to take the hemmed end, feather it across your cheek in an attempt to remove the offending chunks.

Someone nudges Carlos’s shoulder, more in an attempt to tell him somebody was just outside the Paddock; that they could drive you to the hospital right now. He…he can’t bring himself to leave you. A strong grasp lifts you from the ground, holding you close to his chest, murmuring that he would get you there, and he supposed somebody would have to find Charles.

The area grows quiet; Carlos’ pace draws away from the Paddock and to the back entry. He was thankful that the entirety of the drivers were still either trapped in the media or with their own teams, celebrating or commiserating. He had enough of that for one day; an entire six laps was barely worth speaking about.

You’re still unconscious, still limp in his arms. However, there’s a rise and fall of your chest, you’re still breathing. That’s all he could ask for at this present time. He silently promises himself there and then that when you wake up, he’s making his final move. Where Charles has been playing chequers, he is playing chess; he had proven that even whilst you were stuck with your estranged husband, he would love you regardless.

There’s a people carrier in the car park, he’s certain he’s seen various drivers use it before; a built-in stretcher lies in the back, it’s ideally a discreet ambulance. The media could be brutal with gossiping when any driver had to leave the track. It would look worse if Charles Leclerc’s wife was seen leaving the paddock with his teammate. The driver of the vehicle nods when seeing the two get closer, stepping to sit in the driver’s seat whilst Carlos adjusted his grasp.

He lays you down onto the stretcher; it’s secured, you’ll be safe for the drive. The man can’t help but feel a draw of protectiveness over you. What on earth had caused it to collapse? Had he done something? Blood boiled, if your husband had done anything to cause this, he could personally guarantee that Charles would not be finishing any races for the remainder of the season. He would make sure of that.

His attention is caught by the glimmer of silver on your left hand; your wedding band. When he reaches the car, tucks you into the seat carefully and makes sure the seatbelt is secure around your frame, his fingers glide over your hand, removing the band and putting it in his own pocket.

‘It’s for your own good,’ he tells himself. ‘If your fingers swell up, they may need to cut it off.’ He could tell himself this story a thousand times; it doesn't hide the fact that his true intention in this moment is simple; for once, he could be the devoted husband, taking his wife to be nursed back to health.

The Spainard leans down, pressing a soft kiss to the top of your forehead, murmuring that you were going to be okay, that he would stay with you the entire time. The driver shouts, telling him to take a seat so they could get there before the press figured out something was wrong. He kisses your skin once more, before closing the doors, sprinting to the backseat, throwing his body in carelessly.

Angst overtakes his senses, shouting at the driver to start the car, he doesn't care about being strapped in. This way, he’s able to lean over the backseat, one hand reaching out to clasp at your own. You need to know that somebody is there, that he is there for you. He’s always been there for you. The car pivots out of the parking space, beeling for the main road and to the hospital.

Love is a scream for your name.

“Charles, tu dois ralenir!” Joris is insisting he needs to slow down the car; turning the current Leclerc in hospital into a duo would not be a satisfying outcome.

Ever since he’s been told, all your husband can see is red mist. One Ferrari employee had sprinted up to him whilst he was in the midst of cameras, the grin on his face as he’s finally able to seek his wife out, wanting nothing more than to skip on the Scuderia celebrations and take you instead, your beaming smile radiating the energy he had been bathed in.

It’s funny how life can change in the matter of a few moments; one second, he’s on top of the world, the next, Charles is pushing through every media outlet, fan and celebrity, barging himself into his driver’s room. He doesn't have time to remove his fireproofs, to pick up any of his belongings apart from his car keys. He isn’t communicating, french profanities fall from his lips, shaking his head in rage that nobody could find him to tell him. Tell him that his wife had been taken to hospital.

Joris had been the one to sprint after him; he knew better than most, when Charles saw nothing but mist, there was no getting to him, not whilst he was determined to do something. The driver knew in his heart his best friend was not to blame; after all, he had no idea of your disappearance, he had been with Charles almost the entire time. And yet…he can’t bring himself to even speak to Joris. Not until the duo make it to his rented car, Charles is adamant he is driving.

He only starts speaking when his best friend tells him to slow down. The driver barely does, only drawing to a slower pace when he sees the traffic lights start to build in front of him. Even in a panic, he respects road rulings. Drawing to a stop, the man finally has a second to take a shaky, unbalanced breath, angry tears pooling at the bottom of his eyes.

“Why did nobody tell me my wife was at the hospital?” His voice is strained, he’s clearly holding back tears, whether they’re angry or fearful is a different question. “She’s my- she’s my wife!” He can’t stop repeating it, as if it’s a prayer. His wife. His wife.

“She’ll be okay.” Joris knows that’s quite possibly the worst thing he could say to his best friend, but it’s the only thing he can bring himself to say. “She will be. C’est juste par précaution.”

“Putain!” Charles’ words are sharp, immediately pressing on the acceleration as the light switches to green, overtaking three cars in a matter of moments. He’s a man of regret, he has been ever since he realized how much he adores you. In that moment, he can’t help but think of everything he could have done differently that afternoon. He could have come and found you right after the podium, could have given you his jacket and told you to stay in his driver’s room, he would come and get you after. He could- he could of-

He could of waited with you after the funeral. He could have come and picked you up from Milan when you went to spend time with Carlos. He could have deleted his mistress’ number, and told her he was married.

“Tourner à gauche.” Joris tells his best friend to turn left, the Hospital Car Park coming into view. Charles turns the car, immediately eyes are roaming for any space, anywhere he could put the car. A sharp whistle and point from his best friend shows him a space right by the Emergency Department, parking the vehicle in possibly the worst way he ever has done. Within three seconds, the engine is switched off, seatbelts are unbuckled, and he’s shouting to Joris to pay for the parking, he needs to get inside.

For a driver, his sense of direction is becoming worse. It takes him a solid minute to read a sign, before his legs break into a sprint, skidding into a bustling Emergency Room. There’s old men, leant over in pain, convinced they’re dying. A child snuffling, masses of paper towels on her head. A woman with a twisted ankle, her attention engrossed by the magazine in her grasp. It smells of hand sanitiser and bleach, the yellow walls are hurting his eyes.

A woman behind the desk taps the counter, drawing his attention. “Hey- Sir!” She snaps. You can’t blame her; it’s hour thirteen of her fifteen hour shift. “You can’t be in here unless you’re hurt-”

He shouts your name. It’s as if he completely forgets he’s in a building. Charles is embedded in a maze, even if a lady in front of him can pull up your immediate location, he needs to find you himself, and he needs to find you now.

It isn’t until Joris comes in, having heard his best friend scream your name, that he overtakes Charles so overcome that he’s now hiding his head in his hands, unable to say anything that wasn’t your name. His ears prick up when the second man starts speaking, giving the woman your first name, your last name- Leclerc- and when you had been bought in. There’s a light tapping of the keyboard, she tells Joris you are in the department round the corner, room ten-

Charles is gone before she can finish her sentence, catapulting down the hallway, dodging round endless people, frantically searching for doors with numbers, not names. He sees the number four. Six. Eight.

Number Ten rolls into view. Without a single word, his hand latches around the door handle, pushing so violently the door smacks onto the inside wall. His eyes immediately fly to the bed, you’re lying there, so unconscious, still so beautiful, some strips over the graze on your cheek. Still, arms to either side, one hand connected to an IV, clearly in an attempt to rehydrate you. His first question is the location of your wedding ring, where on earth was it? Has it been taken away? It’s a question he completely forgets about when his gaze travels further.

The other hand is being held by a Spanish man he knows all too much about.

Love is notes left on a coffee cup.

Both men stood, silently hovering over your body whilst the nurse came in to run a course of tests, check your blood pressure, the IV line, make sure you were being cared for in the best capacity. Each held a coffee cup, Charles’ still primarily full, he couldn’t stomach anything; he felt sick from seeing you lie here, not laughing, smiling, speaking. Carlos had downed the drink bought in by Joris in a matter of moments; to him, it was fuel. Something to keep him awake until you woke up.

Whilst Charles was the one to ask questions; ‘Do you know what caused this? Is she going to have any long-term issues? Does she need any assistance when she wakes up?’ Carlos has captured the marker which has rested alongside the clipboard of your notes, his tongue poked out in concentration. The marker grazes along the cup, leaving a note, drawing a tiny picture of a butterfly- Mariposa- and placing the cup on your table, a silent message for if you woke up and god forbid- he wasn’t there.

The nurse draws away from your body, diverting her next task to the two men.

“I need to continue the examination but…” She looks to the door. “I cannot have you both in here. You need to wait outside, the Doctor will come in for further tests-”

“Can one of us wait here?” Carlos is the first to interrupt, the look on the woman’s face tells him he’s made a mistake.

“Both.” She clarifies, pointing at himself, then at his teammate. “One and two. You need to wait outside. If she wakes up or there’s any…issues, we will let you know.”

It turns out, both men are hesitant to leave you; Charles moves first, crouching by your side, running a gentle hand over your hairline, pressing his lips carefully to your temple. He’s murmuring, french words of adoration and comfort, that he will be right there when you need him.

When one steps away, the other comes forward. Carlos doesn't say anything, instead tracing a gentle finger across your cheek. His touch tells you everything, it speaks volumes. He loves you, he’ll be outside, don’t be afraid to come running into his arms like you had done once before. The nurse begins to lose her patience, ushering both men out into the corridor, telling them to sit in the plastic chairs provided or go somewhere else; she really didn’t care.

The scene is reminiscent of two boys sitting outside of the principal’s office; Charles’ head hides in his hands, leaning forward, still dressed in his fireproofs. He’s tied the sleeves around his waist, the dark undershirt now drenched in sweat from the driving, both on track and to the hospital.

He feels movement next to him, Carlos’ hand dips into his pocket, pulling out something small, silvery. Her wedding ring. He supposes Carlos means it as a sign of goodwill, that he kept it safe. In the Monégasques mind, it’s the fuel to light the fire. Scoffing, he snatches the jewelry off of his teammate, placing the band onto his pinky finger, it’s the only one it would fit on, the only way he could keep it safe.

“Funny. You took it off her.” He’s growing mad, aggravated that Carlos wouldn’t just go away and leave him and his wife alone. Hadn’t he done enough already? “Why don’t you go back to Natasha?” The blonde ex-media woman for their team is referenced. Carlos opens his mouth, ready to snap back, it was a low blow for Charles to reference his history with the woman.

“I know what you did.” He huffs. There’s something…different. Different in the way he speaks to Carlos now compared to every other day. The polite, civil conversation is gone, the fact he couldn’t pass judgment because of his own actions has evaporated. “I know you invited her to Madrid just to make a move.” He remembers seeing the instagram stories, how your eyes were wide, full of life. He made you remember life is beautiful. “You kept her close. You wanted her and didn’t like that she was mine.”

“Yours?” He scoffs. “She’s not your property, Charles.”

“No. But she’s my wife. I’m the one she lies next to every night, I’m the one who will care for her in sickness and health, who’s shoulder was leant on through every bad time.” He pauses. “Who picked her up after you coaxed her into your bed.” He laughs. Actually, laughs. The memory replayed in his head, how sleepy you looked as he guided you back into the SUV, how your heart sank when seeing the blonde approach his front door. In that moment, you had convinced yourself you meant nothing to Carlos apart from lust.

Charles was a jealous man; he had taken pride in stripping off his teammates' clothing, wrapping you in his own, soft hoodie. You were his. Carlos wouldn’t care for you the way he did, he was a man too full of lust. He was convinced the Spainard didn’t make you laugh, didn’t make you smile, didn’t make you come-

“You corrupted her, Carlos.” He finishes. “I know what you did-”

“-And I know what you did.” Carlos snarls. He doesn't care about anything more; he knows all too well that his teammate could go crying to the Ferrari bosses, have him removed from the team in a blink of an eye, throwing some false information out which he would have to comply with. But he doesn't care. His affection has grown too strong for that.

“I know everything, Charles.” He’s monotone, he’s stating facts. “I know how she waited at home for you on her birthday, whilst you were in your mistress’ bed.” Carlos remembers asking you about your plans the previous week, how you had brushed them off. “I know how she made you dinner every night, how you refused to eat it.” Charles feels his stomach drop, the endless leftovers stacked neatly in the fridge, the meals he had never bothered to try. “I know on your wedding night, you came into the hotel room drunk, covered in bites and she slept on the sofa-”

“Enough!” Charles’ voice shouts, standing up from the plastic chair in the corridor. He doesn't have to hear this, he can’t bear to hear this. One mistake a day was something he was always able to brush off. Hearing each and every one of his infidelities laid out in front of him sent his mind into overdrive. “You have no right to comment on-”

“On what?” The Spainard is standing up now, chest out and arms folded. “On your marriage?” He laughs, he smirks. “Can you call it that? A marriage is a bond between two people who love one another-”

“I love her!” Charles cuts him off, stepping closer. “I love her.” He repeats himself. Carlos looks gobsmacked, shaking his head in denial.

“You have a really weird way of showing her you love her.” He continues to poke, to prod. “Sharing a bed with another woman is not how you show love-”

“I admitted to my mistakes!” He’s quick to defend himself, how the restraining order was placed and a lawsuit filed, how he promised if you wanted to know anything, see anything, he would let you. How he would spend the rest of his days always feeling dread and regret. “I fixed them-”

“Who says she still loves you?” Carlos has snapped.

Charles hates to admit that he may be right. Is it really fair for him to expect your love after everything that has happened in the past year? It didn’t matter how many times he begged, he pleaded or promised. The man you had married had spent the better part of 365 days in the arms of another woman, a woman that as he stood here, clinging onto any hope of his marriage, meant absolutely nothing to him.

His slim fingers trail down, circling the cool band which rested on his left finger. He had decided there and then, he would keep it on, always. There would be no more reasoning, none. If Lewis could wear his earrings, Charles would wear his wedding ring. He looks back up, Carlos still boring into him with dark eyes, the anger he radiated almost entirely visible.

“Do you love her?” He presses. He needs to know; he doesn't bring himself to care that you had spent a night in his arms, not when he had done it to you a thousand times over. The idea makes him sick, but nothing compared to the idea that you are in love with somebody that isn’t him, not when he needs nothing but for you to come home, back to your home with him.

Charles swears he feels vomit rise into his mouth when Carlos nods. He’s not stupid, not really. He knows how he fell for you properly in the past few weeks, how for Carlos who has been in awe of your affection and attention, the center of every race weekend you had reluctantly attended. It may have been to support him, but you could still enjoy the fact that Carlos would be there, too.

Your husband isn’t sure what he wants to do anymore. If there wasn’t an examination happening, he would have run into your private room and locked the door. Instead, his glassy eyes gaze up, catching Carlos’ dark ones. It hits him at once; his teammate, somebody who he once considered a close- no, best friend, was the one who had taken his wife away from him. His brain can’t catch up with his body movements, the red mist clouds over once more.

Charles Leclerc punches Carlos Sainz in the nose.

He doesn't intend for it to be a strong punch; Formula One drivers are a lot stronger than they realize, and the contact not only causes the Spaniard to knock back, shouting out in pain, but a sharp sensation rockets through Charles’ clenched fist, wiggling his fingers as they relax. Carlos’ nose is immediately red, becoming scarlet by the moment, though no blood has fallen. Your husband’s immediate reaction is ‘Should have punched him harder.’

He doesn't have time to think about anything else, not before he has two strong hands on his chest, shoving him harshly. The sudden sensation causes him to lose balance, falling to the floor and landing on his back. A shock radiates through his body, Carlos looming over him, clearly ready for a second punch.

That thought is drawn away when the door to your room opens, both men immediately staring at the nurse, her hair worn and eyes tired. Before either man can throw a question at her, she speaks.

“She’s still not awake, we’re going to bring her around in an hour, but she’s going to have to stay overnight for observation. If one of you could get her some overnight things-”

“I can.” Charles immediately cuts off the nurse, pulling himself to sit up and stand from the floor. “I’m her husband. I will get them.” It’s a subtle jab to the man in front of him, Carlos still holding his nose, convinced it was about to start bleeding any moment. He would have gone and sought out attention for himself, if he hadn’t felt a sharp vibration in his back pocket, a phone call. In any other time, he would have ignored it. But he knows who it is, he knows how important it is.

Without a word, Carlos answers the call, rapidly speaking in Spanish as he walks down the hall.

Love is a pocket square at the bottom of a suitcase.

The contrast of Charles leaving the hospital was night and day to him arriving. He hadn’t spoken a word to Joris, apart from expressing that he needed to go back to the hotel to get your overnight items. Although it was barely a ten minute drive away, every minute felt like a century; he wanted nothing more than to go back to the hotel, sit by your side and hold your hand until you woke up.

He could have sent Joris back, given him the room key and told him to grab some things, but it didn’t seem right. The idea of his best friend going through your suitcase didn’t sit comfortably with him. Moreover, he didn’t know. Charles knew; he knew what pajamas you found the most comfortable, what outfit would be easiest for you to travel back in, how you wanted your panties and socks paired together and how your phone charger had to loop clockwise.

The ornate hotel room looks dull without you; your suitcase still rests in the bottom of the wardrobe; you had hung up evening wear, dresses for the inevitable after-parties. Folded in your suitcase remained your other clothing. Charles is quick to select his items; the tropical cotton pajamas. You had bought him a pair in the same fabric, telling him that they would be the comfiest thing to sleep in. Your stitched jumper and comfiest jeans. You had worn those jeans when you had tagged along to his photoshoot for the Ferrari livery, holding his water and the APM Monaco jewelry he couldn’t wear. Your outrageously expensive hairbrush. You had brushed his hair through after a particularly bad race, whispering promises that it would get better, that the car was going to evolve for him, the best driver on the grid.

Bile rises to Charles’ stomach and with no warning, he sprints to the bathroom, dropping to his knees by the toilet and throwing up the barely-there contents of his stomach. He had barely eaten, barely drank any water, but couldn’t help the sickness in his tummy.

He pulls away from the toilet basin, eyes watery, breath trying to catch up with the speed and cries.

Charles doesn't realize it’s happening at first, he hasn’t cried like this in so long; the kind of crying where you can’t fathom words, you don’t make a sound because you’re crying so deeply. The kind where your chest is exploding and your heart feels like it’s going to explode. The kind where all he wants is for his mother to cradle him like she did when he was five, run her hands through his hair and whisper him words of comfort.

This time, he doesn't want his mother, he wants you.

It’s selfish, it’s so incredibly selfish and it hurts to know that it’s taken him until now to realize what you mean to him. It would never happen, but his wound-up head can only close his eyes and visualize you running in, pulling his head into your chest and running your hands through his dark tufts, pressing cool lips to his forehead and promising him over and over that it was going to be okay. You were going to be okay.

He lets himself cry for five minutes; he times it because he wants to collect your things and make his way back, Joris was waiting in the car. When the five minutes are over, he pinches his nose, taking short, ugly gasps until his eyes remain bloodshot but not blurred. The sound of the toilet flushing echoes through the hotel room, making his way out of the bathroom and to the items he had hurriedly dropped atop of your suitcase.

Nimble fingers cradle each item, carefully rolling and tucking them into a pillowcase; he didn’t have a bag big enough to suffice each item and couldn’t bring himself to bring your entire suitcase along, it almost seemed as if once you had it, you could disappear from his life. At least this way, he could have one final farewell if you chose to leave. The items are almost secure, until his grip on the pillowcase folds, glassed eyes catching a glimmer of blue hidden at the bottom of the case. With no hesitation, he pulls on the fabric. His heart drops on the realization of the item.

It’s a pocket square. More specifically, it’s his pocket square from your wedding.

You don’t know when you had started packing it, but you supposed it was from your mother’s own doings. After her wedding to your father, she had always carried around her ‘something blue,’ as a gesture of good luck, of safety. After the first time you had found out about Charles’ mistress, you had discreetly tucked the fabric into your bag, carrying it around, a silent hope your husband would return to you.

It hadn’t worked in Jeddah. In Imola. In Spa. In Monaco. You had reluctantly taken it from your bag one evening, on the plane home from consoling your family, using your pen to doodle in the very corner ‘Mr and Mrs Leclerc,’ a silent fantasy of the loving marriage you had dreamed of.

That night was the first time you and Charles ever shared a bed.

The fabric lingers between his fingers, the blue contrasting against the silver of your ring, still resting on his pinky finger. Now changed into his own clothes, he slides the ring off, wrapping it gently in the pocket square and sliding it into his trouser pocket. As he does, he recognises your handwriting, the titles printed in the bottom of the fabric.

He can’t help the tears rolling down his cheeks once again.

Love is a desperate telephone call.

Carlos is still pacing around the outside courtyard of the hospital, having been on hold for a grand total of seventeen minutes. He is not a man of patience, he is not a man of quiet.

The phone buzzing in the corridor had been a welcome call, despite the situation. His lawyer, finally ringing him back after what felt like days of apprehension. He had dipped from the public eye to try and grab hold of some privacy, slipping in his wireless headphone so as not to hold the device to his ear for hours upon hours.

Almost thirty minutes ago, his lawyer had called him, confirming his thoughts of the previous days.

"You're not wrong." His lawyer has already clarified it once, twice, three times. "If there is evidence beyond a shadow of a doubt, then it is the correct term for a divorce.

Carlos feels his blood run cold. He loves her, he's as certain as that as he is of the fact that the sky is blue and his win in Silverstone. The man wants nothing more than to make her feel cherished, adored. Taking a bite out of his teammate was just a bonus feature.

That had been a few days ago, when the anger had surpassed him after Natasha’s return, how that made him look as bad, if not worse than Charles. He’d immediately sent her packing, blocked her on every form of media, gone as far as to insist if she ever came for a visit, he wouldn’t be present.

The second part, the evidence, had been laid out all too perfectly.

The line suddenly clicks, signaling his lawyer had returned. Carlos doesn't wait for a verbal queue, the audible sign of his return is more than enough.

“Do you have it?” He asks, barely any time to let the man on the other end of the phone respond. “You must have it, no? It should have been sent. I made sure it was sent.”

“I have it.” He clarifies. “I have them right here.” A rustle of paper is heard from the other end of the telephone, content of an envelope being spilled onto his desk. “Are you sure you want me to send these to be confirmed as evidence? That the women in the photographs will not retaliate?”

Carlos had not been entirely honest with you. Not about his knowledge of Charles’ situation. Ever since the confession all those months ago, the understanding that you knew of Charles’ affair, he had been playing a long, patient game. He had photographs, evidence of the mistress’ appearance at each paddock, her arms snaking around Charles’ body, kisses between the duo. How he could continue to do so, whilst you, the epitome of beauty, sat in his drivers’ room, playing the doting wife. At one point, he had considered going directly to the press, directly to Ferrari themselves to out their ‘Golden Boy.’

And then…he had seen you with him in the Paddock that one race, looking through the window of his driver’s room. How your fingers latched onto one another, how genuinely shattered you looked when she had shown up yet again, lingering outside of the hospitality area. The guilt snuck through him, how he had seen her arrive, and yet failed to mention to you, give you any warning of her presence.

Even if he had been the one to invite her. Even if he had been the one to press her about sending the photographs to Charles, not blackmail. Merely a reminder of his actions, how much he supposedly missed his mistress.

“She wouldn’t.” He’s quick to respond. “She wouldn’t care.” He’s not wrong, his mistress being in the limelight would only elevate her status, with the way his teammates’ brain worked, it would more than likely draw them back to one another.

“And Mrs. Leclerc?”

It’s the first time Carlos has hesitated. Even if he couldn’t admit it to himself, he knew that your relationship with Charles had grown, that ambient it was made paper-thin, the trust was slowly beginning to come back. He thinks about how your eyes blinked widely, in awe of your husband on the podium earlier that day, how it supposedly didn’t matter he had spent most of your marriage wrapped in her arms, you still looked at him like that. Did you look at him like that? Like the way he looked at you.

This action could draw out a multiverse of reactions but at the end of the day, he had settled with two. The first was that you understood, that you would see the evidence, and understand the case. Divorce Charles and marry him, even if it meant he would give up everything.

The second is that you would see the chaos he caused and you would never speak to him again.

“Mr. Sainz?” The voice at the end of the telephone draws him from his questioning, running a hand across his red, swollen nose. It wasn’t broken, but god it was hurting. Bruised, most likely. “I need an answer.”

He needed to speak to you.

“Can you just-” He huffs, running a hand through his dark hair, his fingers almost getting caught in the strands. Of course his hair was tangled, he’d been doing nothing but pulling on it ever since he arrived at the hospital. “Let me speak to her. Hold it for 24 hours. You can do that, yes?” It’s not even a question now, nor a request. It’s a demand. He can’t do this, he can’t openly destroy your marriage for his own sake without speaking to you, without knowing for a fact that you love him.

Your name is carved onto his soul, onto his skin. The first thing he thinks about in the morning, and the last thing he would think about at night. There is no life he wishes to live in if you’re not there. Even as his friend.

There’s suddenly a light tap against glass, snapping the man’s attention from his device. He mumbles something in Spanish, telling his lawyer he would call him back, dreading who was coming out into the private courtyard.

He visibly relaxes when he sees it’s just a man, sneaking out whilst tears pool on his lower lashline, giving Carlos a warming nod.

“You don’t mind if I join you, do I?” The Spainard shakes his head. “My wife- she’s just being induced and wanted some space. She’s…” He gestures, trying to explain to a complete stranger how a few minutes ago, his wife wanted to cry and shake her head, but wanted nothing to do with him. It was all his fault.

Carlos offers a warm hand on his back, patting him firmly. “Congratulations. Do you know what you're having?” He’s invested, anything to distract him from his previous phone call, the weight of a decision on his shoulders.

The stranger grins. “A girl.” He smiles harder. “I don’t mind, as long as they arrive happy and healthy. But god- a girl, just like her.” He thinks. Carlos thinks. In an alternative universe, he’s sat by your side, pressing kisses and praises to your skin, holding you tighter as your daughter enters the world, ready to meet her mother and father. She would be like you; your eyes, hair, smile. It would be another you to love, to adore.

“Your first?” Carlos presses his question. The man sighs, shaking his head, shoving his hands into his pockets as he looks into the polished corridor.

“No. She’s…” He pauses. “We got together after hiding how we felt for so long, how we wanted to be with one another.” He looks to Carlos, clearly ashamed and embarrassed of the situation. “I know how it sounds, but sometimes you can’t help it. I- I love her.”

A band snaps in Carlos’ stomach; love knows no bounds.

Love is waking up to think of your person.

The first thing you register when you come around is brightness. You’re not in the soft glow of the luxurious hotel room you and your husband had been given, nor the candle-lit bedroom of Carlos’ apartment. No, the light is bright, blinding. An off-white which made your eyes squint.

Your senses are heightened; the only scent which flares through your nostrils is hand sanitiser and overpowering lilies. Nose scrunched, you attempt to wiggle your body upwards, aware of the IV line pinned into your hand. Panic immediately settled through your tummy, until your eyes flickered to the bag, realizing it was just water, they just wanted to rehydrate you.

Hesitantly, you wiggle each part of your body. Arms, hands, fingers. You’re able to move, though you couldn’t…you couldn’t remember why you got here. Memories are hazy, you remember Charles’ podium, the way he kissed you so deeply, so lovingly. Carlos’ hand on your waist, pulling you back to stop you from the champagne trickling over your body. You were overwhelmed, overworked and…you guessed it just all became too much.

You just about manage to turn your body, the first thing you’re aware of is that your cushion smells familiar. Warm nodes, sandalwood and seasalt. It’s a smell you’ve grown all too accustomed to, burying your face into their chest whilst you took refuge in his arms, in a hotel room. Charles had been there, already. His celebrations had clearly been cut short, whether or not it was for show or because he cared.

The second thing is the coffee cup. Cardboard, the contents clearly already drained, but handwriting etched onto the side in a thick, black marker. The handwriting, the doodle of a tiny butterfly. Carlos had been there, too.

There’s a sharp pinch on your cheek, fingers reach up to your skin and feel the butterfly strips against you. Immediately, a thousand questions come back to your mind, none of them being answered through your own memory. Instead, the door opens, a nurse in clean, bright uniform walking in, closing the door behind her. She beams at the realization you’re awake, shoulders relaxing.

“You’re awake!” Her tone is incredibly warm, seemingly very happy you’ve decided to wake up on your own terms. She’s quick to move to your bedside, pressing the back of her hand to your forehead. “How are you feeling? Have you warmed up?” You’re not sure what she’s referencing, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. She takes the look on your face as unknowingness, able to fill in the gaps.

“You collapsed on the track.” She’s trying to get through everything she needs to tell you. “We did some tests, you’re incredibly dehydrated for a start, you need to try and get some rest.” She pauses. “It’s nothing to be concerned about, we have collapses from dehydration every so often, more than you would realize.” Her eyes flicker down, finding it hard on how to phrase the next part of the question. “You also seem…incredibly worried.” You’re not sure how she could tell that from simply examining you, but you nod in confirmation. “Your blood pressure, it’s incredibly low. That’s why you fainted.”

“Yes.” You pause. How on earth were you about to explain the past twelve months to a nurse, a complete stranger? “There’s been some…reasons. You know, for the stress.” Her eyes soften, but the questioning continues.

“Are you trying for a baby?” You shake your head. “Moving house?” A shake. “Have you…lost somebody recently.”

You freeze, memory flickering to your mother, how in the midst of fixing your marriage, discovering your affection towards another, she had disappeared from the world. This time, you nod your head, drawing your knees up to your body, shivering. The nurse is quick to wrap a blanket over your shoulders, closer to the answer.

“I lost my mother.” You breathe out, shaking your head. “I lost my mother, and she’s the only one I can go to.” Now you’ve started speaking, you can’t finish. “I want to make them happy. I want to make him happy.” There’s tears glassing over your eyes.

You want him. You want him right now.

She sympathizes, she understands. “Sometimes, all you need is for them to tell you it’s going to be okay, right?” She lets her words trail off, turning to the door of your room. “He’s outside. He’s been waiting to see you.”

Your blood freezes.

“Would you like me to get him?”

You nod before you’ve even realized, your body clearly knows better than your mind. The nurse stands up straight, pacing towards the door as you feel your heart begin to race harder, frantically. She steps out of the room, a minute mumble on the other side, clearly a warning to be incredibly careful. It’s barely a minute before the door swings back open, dark hair and frantic panting.

You glance up, your heart softens at those eyes.

The eyes that you, the reader, wanted to see as you glanced to the door.

GREEN EYES [CL16 Ending]

BROWN EYES [CS55 Ending]

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seresinhangmanjake · 1 year ago

Text

The One I Want: Part 3

Jake "Hangman" Seresin x Plus size!reader

Summary: You're new in town and some guy named Jake is about to be your roommate. Being skeptical of new people keeps you lonely and uninterested in any entanglements, but Jake is desperate to change that.

Notes/Warnings: cursing, maybe. I don't think anything else. Sorry if there are typos.

Words: 1720

The One I Want Masterlist

---

Jake Seresin is a wizard. Or a mind-reader. Or some creature with wildly sensitive hearing. You’re sure of it.

In the month since you moved into the apartment, your only moments alone come when you lock yourself in your bedroom. Otherwise, Jake is near you—sitting next to you, looking at you, talking to you. If your door opens, he follows not five seconds later. If you sit down at the island with your breakfast of bland cereal, he enters the kitchen within two minutes to prepare his own meal; the same meal every morning. Eggs, Canadian bacon, and a protein shake. If you dare to switch the television on, turns out he’s been meaning to watch that show for weeks. You had no idea he was into movie special effects competitions.

It isn’t irritating, exactly—though, it wouldn’t shock you if others experiencing similar treatment would feel that way. You just can’t figure him out. He’s unfigure-outable. You’re pretty sure that’s a thing. If not, Jake Seresin just brought it into existence. And here you thought you were the mystery.

“So I was thinking,” he says.

You close your book without a second thought, having barely read and retained a line in the last fifteen minutes anyway. From the moment he came out of his room and plopped down on the couch—his leg bouncing and eyes trained ahead on nothing—you’ve been waiting for him to snap the tense band of silence between you.

His fingers clasp together, thumbs subtly twiddling when he finally looks over to you. “Maybe you could meet my friends. They’ve asked about you, and you’ve already met Nat so it’s really only the guys.”

That was perhaps one of the last things you imagined he would say. You’ve heard very little of his friends. They’re also pilots. His team. They all have weird nicknames. Half of those nicknames are animals.

There are other tidbits Jake casually mentioned as well. Coyote is his closest friend. There’s a Rooster who recently found himself a chick. A Bob and a Phoenix—who you learned is Nat—are particularly attached.

But every bit of that information you figured he was simply spilling to fill moments where you were in the same room but not speaking. Or perhaps it’s some method to draw out feelings of trust so you might participate in his little game of show and tell. In his eyes is always the hope that you’ll share something of your own, but you have yet to find the courage or need to do so.

“Oh,” you reply, trying to gather the correct words to turn him down. “Look, don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m not really up to meeting a group of people today.”

You hate the way his face falls. Like a puppy denied a treat. But it lasts only a second as another thought brightens the green hue of his irises.

“What if we went somewhere? You and me.”

“What?”

His body shifts on the couch, more of him now facing you. He’s wearing a shirt today. He’s been wearing shirts around you since you made the request weeks ago, but they’re weak at disguising the body underneath. Thin fabric pulled tight like a second skin.

“You said no bars,” he continues. “How do you feel about diners?”

—

It’s an odd image—Jake framed in this setting. He’s all lean muscle and neatly styled hair with a clean-shaven jawline surrounded by greasy food and booths so old their plastic seats are cracking. As others watch him—particularly the hostess who cannot for her life keep from glancing his way every thirty seconds—he watches you. Says nothing; just watches until the waitress returns to set a few plates and mugs in front of you both.

“There you go, kids,” she says. She’s older, and her hair is done up in a style that hasn’t followed the turning of the decades, but you like that it suits her; that she hasn’t paid attention to the change around her, or simply doesn’t care. With her hands on her hips, she says, “Now Jake, if I knew you were bringing a girlfriend I would’ve set aside some of that pie you like.”

Your eyes bug so much they could’ve fallen right onto the table, but Jake chuckles, smiling at you before directing it to the waitress. “Don’t spook her, Mags,” he teases. Then, “This is my new roommate.”

Her lips form an ‘O’ that holds for a few seconds too long before she blinks and tilts her head to the side. “Didn’t work out with the other one, honey?”

“Not so much, no.”

“Well, that’s just fine. I wasn’t a fan.” Mags takes a breath and straightens out her little apron; a costume element you’d rather die than wear, but much like her hair, Mags seems to take pride in it. You can’t fault her for that. You wish you could find a job you enjoy. Or a job at all. She shoots you a grin; nothing like the rehearsed smiles from someone in a customer service job, but a genuine curve of the lips that creates a warm little ball in your chest. “You, on the other hand, look like such a sweetheart. So be good to my Jake here.”

You don’t have the opportunity to disappoint her because she doesn’t wait for a response. Be good to her Jake. Not an ask. A demand. An unspoken ‘or else’ hanging in the air. And though she’s got at least forty years on you, you’re pretty sure she’s spry enough to follow through on her sneaky threats.

Mags squeezes Jake’s shoulder and departs, leaving you in a confused state of mixed energies. Shock and discomfort radiate off of you like heat waves, meeting the cool calmness emanating from a beaming Jake.

“Will you tell me more about yourself now?” he asks.

Shaking off the questionable tone of the older woman, you reconnect yourself to the man in front of you. His words soak in; another unexpected curveball Jake has thrown you within one day. His friends want to meet you, and now your personal details are on his mind. What would come next? Does he want to know the last time you were thoroughly kissed? Your high school GPA? Height and weight? If so, he’s going to be terribly disappointed.

Steaming, wispy tendrils invade your vision, and you finally register the blueberry hint hitting your nostrils. Jake had whispered the order to Mags with the explanation that he already knew what you wanted. And being the mind-reading wizard you’re convinced he is, on a menu of nearly one hundred items he magically happened to pick something you enjoy.

You hold yourself back from digging in, instead meeting his eyes as you cross your arms over your chest. “You think free pancakes are a good trade for my life story?”

He slowly slides a mug closer to you. “I got you coffee as well.”

When you raise an unenthused brow, Jake sighs.

“Fine. You’re leaving me no other choice than to guess,” he says. “But if I get it right, will you be honest?”

With a snort, you pick up your fork and take your first bite of the sweet fluffy cake. It’s undeniably delicious. Fucking wizard. “Sure,” you say, and akin to a child, Jake’s eyes light up like a Christmas tree.

He ignores his own food and drink to once again watch you. Observing. Your eyes to your lips to your neck and back again. When he comes to a conclusion, he leans back in the booth. “You are a fan of the beach and before you die you intend to live in every beach town this country has to offer for at least two months each.”

Your fork pauses halfway to your mouth. “Are you kidding?”

“Well, since it appears that I am wrong, I’m going to say yes I am kidding because I’m very funny like that.” He stares some more, eyes narrowing. “You’re searching for a long-lost family member.”

“No.”

“You are only attracted to Navy men and thought you’d travel to a hub.”

Again, as he likes to do, he leaves you lacking words for a moment. “That better be another one of your ‘I’m very funny like that’ attempts,” you eventually manage to say. “And you know I wasn’t aware this was a Navy town.”

Jake nods and then leans forward in his seat, arms overlapping on the linoleum tabletop. You can sense the sudden shift; a new energy. The glint in his eye doesn't quite go with the steady seriousness of his voice. Like mismatched puzzle pieces. “So you’re not attracted to Navy men?” he asks.

Your head jerks back to regain the distance he lessened. “Not exclusively.”

“Damn,” he replies, full playful tone back in place. “I wanted to at least get that part right.”

There’s another bright smile from him. A wink. You look to your right to find Mags' watchful gaze; motherly and hopeful.

After another swallow of pancake, you say, “Alright, you’re done for the day.”

“Oh, come on,” he whines.

When you shake your head, he picks up his fork and begins to poke at the eggs on his plate, and you bask in the silence of his disappointment. Peace and quiet, with the exception of the diners surrounding you. No questions. No attempted agonizing small talk. You have a moment to breathe.

It’s not until you’re halfway through your food and the coffee is nearly drained that Jake lifts his head.

“I’m going to figure you out,” he says with an unwelcome note of determination.

Your eyes snap up.

The feeling behind his statement is hard to nail down. You would’ve said delving into your history was something fun for him to do. Something to pass the time with the new person in his home. But now it comes off more like a need. A little prick in his side that he can’t shake.

You so badly want to be wrong in your interpretation. You want him to give up; to surrender to your stubbornness. Ideally, sooner rather than later.

“You really don’t have to,” you say.

Jake doesn’t miss a beat. Nothing about him—not his breath, not his stare—stutters at your response. Instead, he returns with, “But I want to.”

---

A/N: Sorry it's a little short. Next chapter will be labeled 3.5 and will be from Jake's POV.

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