#and get him a better publicist

[syluses]

fuck me like i’m famous

popstar! rafayel x female reader

in theory, attending your favorite popstar’s after party seems a dream come true. for you, it certainly is. in reality, though? it doesn’t live up to it- at least not innocently.

content popstar! rafayel, nsfw, smut, dubcon, fingering, disillusion, mc learns why idolizing celebrities isn’t wise (by being banged by one during his afterparty), yandere & obsessive undertones, 18+ characters

sidenote hrm… was supposed to be a lil drabble but it snowballed into almost 5k words. hopefully the fishie girlies will like this lil meal tho since he’s kinda a rare sight on the blog 💔 rafayel is freaked the fuck out in this deadass... also i literally had nothing better to name this but i believe chase atlantic kinda fits raf’s vibes here so :,] OH & THANK U FOR 600 FOLLOWERS I LOVE YALL ♡♡♡

Lights glitter on his face in the after party.

You don’t know what you did to earn God’s favor in this life, but whatever the reason, you’re thankful for scoring yourself that ticket. He’s all you listen to; a staple to each of your playlists. And so for what Thomas did- gifting you a special pass he had as an extra to your favorite popstar’s show- you’re ever in his debt.

He might be his publicist; that spare ticket may mean nothing to him. Alright, but-

It might as well mean the whole world to you.

Girls crowd his spot on the couch. It’s decadent: the room bathed in dim, yellow lights as the drinks, generously taken from, sparkle on the table before it. He kicks his long legs out on it and stretches an arm behind the woman at his side. She’s beautiful, scantily clad, all of them are- some curled up to his shoulder, others drunkenly twirling around the room- and because of it, you feel a little out of place.

In jeans and a band tee, you weren’t prepared.

Not for this.

One part of you is positively gushing at the scene that unfolds around you, deciding you could die in peace now that you’d finally experienced one of his concerts, especially in such an exclusive way. Still, another part of you, dwelling low in your belly, twisting like a bad gut feeling, quietly thinks, Has Thomas mistaken me for a whore? Perhaps it’s wrong to think that of those girls... But you also don’t believe they’d take any real offense to that if they were to hear your internal back-and-forth, because they seem delighted to put on their shows for him.

They can’t be blamed, right? I mean… It’s him. Rafayel. Everybody and their mom would trip over their own two feet trying to get an audience with him.

Still.

You ball your fists in your lap.

A-Are you even meant to be here?

Rafayel was always bold on camera, yes; flirtatious to a fault. Sure, he was a playboy and you were aware of that, the whole community was. Really, it was integral to his charm.

But this—

One of the girls giggles when she stumbles over her high heels and into Rafayel’s lap. It’s convenient. Too convenient: even if she’s only half aware of her surroundings, in for a bad hangover tomorrow morning, she still manages to go flying right towards him. You know the purple-haired man must be aware of it too, her frolicking stunts.

Nonetheless, he catches her in his arms before she topples, and he laughs, too.

It’s a pretty sound. Then again, everything about him is. With his dyed, lavender curls and the softness to his otherwise coy face, the little moles dusting it and his glossy, pink lips— he’s beautiful. All the more in that outfit. Cheeky but not enough as to be scandalous. His stylist and his designer have your applause. Clearly, they know what they’re doing.

On stage, he’d seemed playful, but was able to keep his gallivanting at bay. With a wink, though, all that sex appeal just oozes out, and—

It’s weird. How you can spend so much weeks and months and years idolizing somebody, and then suddenly have all that worshipful intent collapsing in a breath. Within the span of not even an hour, you’ve become so disillusioned with this celebrity- your all time favorite- that you can hardly bear to look at him and his wanton display.

Sat on the armchair opposite of it all as it takes place, deathly quiet, you begin to feel sick.

Is this really him?

You knew he was a flirt, yes, but- but what the hell is even this? Is this what he demeans himself to after each show? Just some cheap manwhore with his hand-selected throng of groupies, sipping away at an expensive wine just moments after he set the mic aside after a love song you’d thought to be heartfelt—

Your glass, the one a suited man offered on a tray and you took only to mimic the others, remains untouched before you.

This is startling. And far from your preferred scene.

M-Maybe you ought to go home. And soon. Is what you’ve been thinking for closer to thirty minutes now, and yet you’re too nervous to speak on it. I mean, maybe if you just stood up and left, nobody would notice your slipping out— the room is far from bright and everybody’s buzzed on something, anyway—

Marbled, coral-blue eyes stare at you over the rim of his glass, and they glint with something you think is mirth.

Curiosity, alongside it.

It makes you second guess yourself. Taking your leave.

He’s been watching you for a while now. Even when the stunning women gather in a flurry around him, tugging on his hair and teasing with whispering breaths in his ear, his attention doesn’t remain on them for long. It drags back to you and, for all the distractions occuring around you (the stereo playing an all too familiar song, the drunken chatter, the unease in your chest), he’s impressively focused.

It’s unnerving. It’s divine. He’s all you listen to in the car and in the shower and in your bedroom when you’re dancing to his newest album in an oversized sleep shirt and panties. You’ve cried to him and laughed to him and now he’s here, in shocking clarity, and you were so so excited, rambling about it to your girlfriends for months, but now you’re not so sure of what you’re seeing. If you like it.

He seems less god to you, now; oh, still heavenly, still angelic, for sure, but he toes more along the line of something wicked— like a cherub fallen.

And you can’t find it in you to get up and scurry out even when that’s all you can picture yourself doing in your head, escaping.

When you catch his eye again, you dip your chin (not out of reverence, no longer, but rather unease) and bite on your lip until you taste blood.

So when he lifts his hand with a snap then, the girls pouting as they crawl off him, dissipating no different than fog- you’re ever thankful for the opportunity to finally get up and leave, too—

A voice chimes over itself, layering over the familiar song playing in the background.

“Hey- wait up, cutie.”

You pause when you belatedly realize it’s calling for you.

As if your legs are stilts, you turn around hesitantly (strange: because really, shouldn’t you be happy he’s noticed you?) and try to lessen the shock on your face- even though his amused little smile tells you it’s as clear as day.

He laughs pleasantly, playful to a fault.

“What’s that silly face for? Oh, IIIIIII see, you’re feeling a lil left out, is my guess. Here,” he pats the cushion beside him and you actually blanche. For a moment you think your heart has stopped beating and those thumps you hear are the drum beats in his song as it drifts through the now empty room.

Save for you and Rafayel, it’s completely barren; the better part of its energy has left with the dancing girls but whatever remains of it, he holds.

You eye the spot beside him, unmoving.

An excuse, you realize right then— you can still spit out an excuse.

“I-I’m not one of the girls,” you stammer with a wince before clearing your throat, “I- I don’t even think I’m really supposed to be here.”

Another laugh, and a dismissive wave of his hand. You try to make yourself laugh too if only to appease him, your idol- endlessly nervous.

“Oh, well that’s just untrue,” he teases. “C’mon, don’t be shy~! I was just playing around with the others. It’s just you and me now, so no need to feel all nervous,” he assures, the image of harmless as he crosses his leg over the other and waits.

You blink rapidly. “I—“

You’re about to spew out a feeble rejection and that’s when his face drops.

You’re not sure, for all the records and posters and billboards you’ve seen of his face, if he’s ever made that expression. Not on camera, at least.

He lowly murmurs, “Aren’t you a fan?”

“I-…. Well-….”

A fan? For years now! His number one! A stupid girlish voice in the corner of your mind shrieks, and you almost dredge some joy out of this whole thing.

Letting out a shaky sigh, defeated, you creep over to him on equally shaky legs and take the spot beside him— all with great hesitance, though.

His pretty face alights again. Some of the pressure loosens up, even if only by a little, and your shoulders relax by a smidge.

Maybe it’s fine. Maybe you’re crazy and this is how he interacts with all his listeners no, no it’s not. Or maybe this is just a normal, celebrity thing and you’re blowing this way out of proportion here.

Just like he did with that other woman- that other likeminded fan or plaything or- or you don’t know- he loops an arm around the back of the couch behind you.

…What’s different, though, is that, unlike with her, he rests his hand on your shoulder and hugs you closer to his side. Clinging.

Rafayel smiles. Charming. Frivolous. With a glint in his eye, intense and engrossed, that’s weirdly sober when taking the half empty drink he sets down on the table into consideration.

“There. Good girl. So tell me, pretty,” he starts thoughtfully, fingertips twirling your hair as he leans into you. For the popstar that takes very little seriously, you think he appears awfully interested in some no-name girl who happened to score herself a limited-time lanyard to see him sing.

You swallow thickly. In the back of your mind, thoughts race. So does your heart. You might explode.

H-He didn’t act like this with the others— did you somehow present yourself in a way that made him think he could take more than what the others let him? More than what the others practically begged him to, but for some fucking reason he wouldn’t—

“Did you like the show?”

“Y-Yeah.” You don’t mean to whisper, but a certain, resigned silence is what you’ve been reduced to. His other hand stretches across his body to rest on your thigh.

Rafayel hums. But before he can speak, you- rudely, might he add- cut in. “I- I have to go home soon, so-“

Amused, he snorts. “Relax, alright? Tonight, you’re a very important person, aren’t you? Home can wait,” he muses, so close he’s near nuzzling your cheek.

A very important person? Funny. You’re just another fool bouncing around amongst the nosebleeds- a face he’ll be hard-pressed to catch and certain to forget. Honestly? This whole facade of his is as cruel as it is unbelievable.

Gradually, he’s letting you down.

Your throat bobs. Almost a bit bitterly, you remind, “I- I know you’re a popstar, but we’re still strangers. You don’t have to feel like you need to entertain me or be nice to me.”

“Huh. You’re one smart cookie,” he wryly comments before giving his head a tiny shake, almost more to himself than to you. “Um, look, cutie, you’re definitely no stranger to me,” his words leave you dazed because they sound genuine. You snap your head up to look at him, needing to gauge his expression and fish for deceit. You… find none.

He smoothly continues. “But I guess I’m no stranger to you either, huh? And tonight, you’ll be like, extra acquainted with me.”

���

It’s difficult.

-When he’s hovering over you and gently pushing you onto the plush cushions into a half-lying position, to not only push him off but find the strength to.

Physically, Rafayel’s no hulking display of power, but he’s intimidating all the same. Mentally, he’s more or less your idol and although he may not hold too much weight in stature (still, he’s stronger than you), he still holds enough golden trophies to decorate a shelf— and too much influence for you to really comprehend.

Or try to toy with.

…You should want this. Should want to lie down and offer yourself up to him with eagerness— it should be like a blessing and yet you’re hesitating.

…Why are you hesitating? A voice in the back of your head, the one that had raved endlessly to her friends about the upcoming concert, asks perplexedly. You’ve no answer. But the man atop you seems to wonder much of the same, too; his brow twitching just slightly with what you think to be dejection before he tilts your chin with long, slim fingers to kiss you and it’s gone.

He moans into that first kiss. Prettily and soft.

Heat flutters in the core of you, your body involuntarily responding to him even as your eyes snap open and shift to where the door is- or where you think it is (have the lights gotten dimmer? or is he just all you see?)- his palm tugging at your hair softly to lie you down.

His lips are plump, pink, just as gentle as they look as they meld against yours— definitely aroused, there’s no doubt there, his warm breaths tinged with needy whines- but there’s an odd affection in them, too. Something personal and doting.

When he tries to slip in tongue, you reel away but there’s nowhere to go. Not really. Not when your head finally touches the cushion and he lets out a small, disapproving sound before giving up on that goal- for now- and attacking your neck instead.

It’s good. Delicious; that perfect mouth knows its way around a mic and a lover, you suppose- suckling and kissing and nipping with the barest amount of teeth as if he’s intent on leaving a mark.

You can’t hold back on it anymore— you drop your hands that had been hovering awkwardly on his broad shoulders, mewling in response, and he shivers.

“Yeah, cutie, make some noise,” he chuckles mildly. You think back to the auditorium. The roaring cheers and shrieks, the phone lights waving in the air and the mist rolling beneath his feet as he sang.

His hand descends down your belly, and you’re brought back to now.

It’s more instinct than anything that has you clamping your legs shut as soon as his fingers reach the denim. He tuts at you, and yet the glimmer in his eye is… endeared, almost.

“Nuh-uh. Don’t shut me away now,” Rafayel scolds, thought it lacks any real bite. Still, your lashes flutter and you stare agog at him.

Like this, he’s positively gorgeous as he props himself up mere inches away- albeit his little grin can almost be considered vulpine. “Didn’t I put on a great show for you out there? Don’t tell me I get nothing in return,” he pouts, tone light but what lies under it is a layer of desire. Opaque and thick.

Hesitantly, you mull over his words. I mean, you just really want this to be over- so to hell to with it, maybe you should just submit yourself. The sooner you appease the playboy with what he wants— that is, some nameless girl he perceives as cheap enough to get on her back for him— the sooner you can leave and pretend Thomas never gave you his special ticket.

The popstar’s words turn comforting as he watches you carefully. “If you’re shy, don’t worry. I’ve seen it plenty’a times before, you know.”

Bigheaded, you think then. Bigheaded but he has every right to be.

Maybe if it was any other guy bragging about the chicks he fucked and scrutinized, you’d throw up in your mouth— and you’d be lying if you said you didn’t cringe a little on the inside— but it’s embarrassment for yourself above all that stirs in your stomach. It joins the butterflies as your cheeks warm over.

“Now,” he continues, his familiar lilt flattening into heavy, breathy lust, “All I want is to see yours. I’m sure your pussy is pretty, cutie- really,” he convinces.

A tremble. “So pretty.”

Oh, you’re erupting on the inside— heart snapping like a snare drum in your chest, overpowering the faint music and drowning it out- your hand shaking where it weakly closes over the back of his own, now only half trying to drag it away.

He hammers the last nail into your coffin. With a ragged, but gentle breath and- as he leans in- a surprisingly chaste peck to your lips, appreciative of what he has before him.

“Won’t you show me it?”

But jaw slack, you hesitate. And- Of course you hesitate. The reasons for your deliberation, that weird gut feeling, become clearer and clearer as seconds progress:

Firstly, he’s the image of fame- and if you were to deny him, if he said the smallest word over it, your whole entire social life as you knew it would backfire on you. The possibility of his saying mean things on the internet hangs in your mind. Rumors circulating, as untrue as they are vivid, coming to bite you in the ass. For as many hours as you’ve spent watching and listening to Rafayel, you don’t know his true colors (as evidenced by right now); that includes what a wounded ego would look like if you rejected him.

Secondly, you hesitate because—

Because he’s perfect. Much like an idol on a pedestal, carefully set there with a singular light overhead to define him and him alone.

In a dark room, all look to him.

Once- an hour ago- you did, too.

Maybe you still do. You don’t know. There’s a whole bunch of feelings (confusion, awe, a betrayal that makes you question just how parasocial your relationship with him was) swirling inside you, none able to be grazed or grasped, and it shakes a part within.

“Please?” He breathes, ever headstrong.

…Your rationale is headlong, falling into the abyss with a word.

“O-Okay,” you all but squeak out. It’s the best you can manage. Rafayel’s breath hitches at that, though, your given assent, no matter how feeble, planting satisfaction deep in his chest.

And so with that he’s swiftly undoing your jeans and rucking them down your thighs.

It’s less out of good will that you help him shimmy them off you, to a bunch above your shoes, and more so eagerness to be done with this whole thing.

When he tucks his knuckles beneath the waistband of your panties- cutesy cotton put on full display for him, perched above pretty thighs- he curses under his breath.

His hands are as big as a man’s but as soft as a woman’s. His fingertips are dutiful as they brush along your folds, as singleminded, hungry, as the former.

…But when they nudge between your pussy lips and at your tight hole, his thumb prodding expertly at your clit, it’s like he has all the awareness of the latter.

“Ah, you’re so wet…” he muses aloud. Very pleased with his discovery.

His eyelids, dazzling with some glittery shade his makeup artist applied prior to his show, droop and don’t meet your flustered stare as he focuses on the space between your legs. And he takes it upon himself to rid you of your panties, too: for as adorable as they are, Rafayel knows it’ll be ten times better for you both if he can just-

Finally fucking see for himself what you’ve got goin’ on down there—

Undies midway down your leg, he comments, “you’re really hyped up after the show, huh?” His exhale is a shaky sound. His gaze is utterly fascinated (and perhaps a touch unnerving, what with its intensity) when it bounces back to that soft dip below your belly.

You’ll give him this much credit— for as wild as that glint in his unblinking stare becomes, he’s fortunately gentle with you.

He wets his lip absently. “Yeah… it gets me going, too. All the lights and cheering faces... Feeling the bass vibrate up from the floor. Can I be honest, though, cutie? When Thomas- oh, shit-“ he shivers when he inserts a digit in- his pointer one- and your hole instinctively clamps down around it, juices glistening to the base of his knuckle as you try not to squirm.

Y-You can’t believe this is happening. Your clothes are all in a disarray- the only piece intact, actually, is your tee that just so happens to be merchandise of the popstar that hovers over you now with his hand between your legs—

You blink back to real life when he sharply inhales.

“…When Thomas told me you were comin’, I made absolute sure to know your standing. That way, I could find you easily in the crowd. I was gettin’ so worked up just looking at you. Could you hear it-? My voice began to shake.” he chuckles, voice euphony to your ears. Familiar in its lilt but not in its timber.

His words stun you. They don’t make sense- is this is all some cruel, sick game after all-? Or- Or maybe he’s mistaking you for someone else? or he’s just choosing a really weird, admittedly screwed up way to let off some steam. God knows, what with his recent album built on the back of unrequited love, he needs the stress relief—

But no. He continues on like nothing is amiss, like your heart doesn’t plummet to the tips of your toes at his offhanded admission, and you forget how to breathe.

“When our eyes met- you looked like you were doubting yourself, but I really was staring at you, you silly girl.” Again, he’s fucking laughing, albeit this time, it takes on a more self-deprecating tone. You witness, almost unseeing, as his facade crumbles in increments. More and more he undoes it by the seams- much like he is with you.

“I was… Hm. I was even singing about you. All those stupid pining love songs— who do you think they’re for, princess?”

A gasp punches out from your lungs. You don’t know what it’s for- his nonsensical confessions, or his handling as he stuffs in another finger (you could’ve used some more working up to it, sure, he knows, but he’s a little impatient tonight) and scissors you open.

Wet shlicks ring in between guitar riffs. Your essence flows all over his knuckles and the numerous- horrifically expensive, you realize- jewels lining them. Rafayel doesn’t seem nearly as appalled as you do, though... If anything, aroused.

It feels so good. He’s hitting that spongey spot inside you just right. It’s a surreal experience, so much so you almost feel like you’ll coalesce into a dream at any moment. The melody playing in the background, the opulent couch as it groans beneath you with every piston of his arm, the twinkling, but dim lights and his face. That picturesque, idol face.

“Here, I’ll tell you the answer…” he leans over you to whisper in your ear, subjecting you to all the charm of a siren. You’re helpless to it ‘cause you’re just a girl.

“You. Always you.”

You’re dizzy. Your head is light but your lower half is heavy, the inner portion of your thighs numbed and sticky. Your limbs tingle but all you can feel is his lips tenderly suckling at your neck and your gushing walls as they constrict around their intruder.

Though they, too, ease up on him. He’s good at disarming you. That’s how you were walking in here, anyway, disarmed and beyond yourself with excitement.

Rafayel moans over you, finding a great amount of pleasure in the whole ordeal.

“You gonna cum? yeah?” He’s sweet, purring in your ear, making sounds as pretty as a girl- maybe even more so. His voice has won awards for a reason. You recall binging musical ceremonies on the internet and shrieking as soon as his name was called to stage, his seeming nonchalance as he accepted an accolade…

Yet you saw his ears, too, the tips of them red under the resounding applause, and wondered just what or who it was that had him bowing his head to the camera—

“A-Ah, mmph- Rafayel, please—!” You choke, fingers curling into his shoulder. In response, he lets out a pleasured, breathy sound, all encouragement and delight in his eyes.

“Mhm. Go ahead. Cum. Cum, pretty girl, all over my fingers. Oh- I really wanna taste you- will y’let me taste you afterwards?” He’s moaning unabashed as you come undone at warp speed. It’s shameful and your cheeks toast over but you clamp your eyes shut and choose to bask in the feeling of it all as it overwhelms you.

He’s good. So good. Masterful with it, really. Not like any of the bungling guys who courted you for all of one date (the more patient: two) before ripping your pants off and sticking their fingers inside without prompting or even half the skill to back their confidence.

No- he’s every bit qualified and then some.

Your nails dig into his clavicle. Rafayel doesn’t care- if that pinch of pleasure between his brow is the least bit credible, maybe he even likes the sting.

“Good girl. There, good girl.”

It’s building inside you. He works you up progressively, rapidly, and it shows in the little gasps you make that fall back to back, the L shape you make with either of your legs as they hitch up around his hips and quake, the ball in your gut that suddenly hardens before—

“Ngh— Rafayel-!”

You scream. Louder than the music. Louder than his words of encouragement, sugar-sweet, hungry, susurrating as they spill in your ear. He sensually nibbles on it and wraps his free hand around your head- with a misplaced affection, you think- to anchor you throughout your climax. He manages to keep you grounded there on the couch but only barely.

Your mind does slip off to another place, though, floating in white oblivion for a number of seconds as your limbs offer small trembles.

Rafayal takes close to nothing serious. So the light, but bubbly laugh that draws you back to consciousness with a sigh is fairly appropriate.

What isn’t is his touchiness as he drags you to sit on his lap— boneless; your skin damp with heat, your damned pants still cuffed awkwardly around your ankles— and croons into your neck. Holding you close like a lover would in the after glow. But this isn’t the after glow, this is the after show. But then again, if his earlier words were true- the ones that barrel back into you with clarity, the haze dissipating- then…

But no. No, how could that be? Those songs aren’t about you— and when you met his eye during the opening, and all the times afterward, you were sure it was just your imagination, especially after the fan beside you threw up her arms and cheered as if his stare was for her instead—

You might know Thomas (very vaguely- more of a friend of a friend you’ve seen at a few get-togethers; you follow him on insta), but that doesn’t mean Rafayel, the man he works for, should know you... I mean, you doubt they hang out often, anyway. Especially not since Thomas would more or less be viewed as the king of no-fun in the popstar’s eyes.

His whole job is to assure that Rafayel keeps his lips sealed tight: you can’t imagine that he’d be loose with his own by chatting with him about you, a girl he’s not all too familiar with but knows just enough to throw a spare ticket at.

So there’s just no way any of this is true.

Half of you expects Rafayel to shove you off his lap at any second, snap back to the reality that you’re not the woman he mistook you for, and flusteredly point you to the door. The other half of you is like it’s waiting for him to pull out his cock (it stirs underneath your ass, hard and by the feel of it, very excited) and take all that’s left to.

He moves your hair aside your shoulder and rubs along your back, instead.

And he whispers in your ear (or into your neck, really), his warm breath fanning there as he says like it’s a vow:

“Wanna see you at my next show. Better be there.”

Your throat bobs. As he speaks, you try not to focus too much on the fluid that oozes from your pussy lips and onto his expensive, designer slacks- but that’s no easy task when he seems to want for that, slightly lifting his hips up.

“No. Before that, even—“ he pauses for a moment, seemingly deep in thought before smiling, resolved. “Oh, I know- I’ll have Thomas help get you settled in with the tour bus. That way, you can just be on the road with me.”

You gawk. Whatever he’s saying doesn’t reach you; you’re only receiving that garbled bits of it, like a radio interpolated by static between voices. Your palms lift to his chest and push there softly.

Smoothly, he takes them in his own and kisses the knuckles, peering up at you like you’ve hung the stars in the sky, giggling.

“Doesn’t that sound just great, cutie?”

“I- wait, you-?”

“I’ll name my next song after you- my next album, even!- and then we can go public immediately.” You can recognize it for what it is, even coming from someone as frivolous as him.

A promise.

“The fans will love you,” he says excitedly before leaning in and smushing a kiss to your damp hairline, murmuring there with a fiery tinge of what you think is devotion. “But not as much as I already do.”

He fishes into his pocket, then, one hand still securing your waist.

“Lemme give Thomas a call… I guess he kinda deserves my ‘thank you’, too, huh?”

𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒔, 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒔, + 𝒓𝒆𝒃𝒍𝒐𝒈𝒔 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚 𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒄𝒊𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒅 ♡

[ovadzs]

you are in love ᥫ᭡.

✄you’re not in love with Oscar Piastri, and you’re getting pretty sick of everyone thinking you are. come on, you’re just best friends (since like, forever) and yes you maybe used to be head over heels but you’re not now, seriously! and definitely the rumours and the photos you post and the way you’re sort of kind of living together isn’t confusing at all! just friends, really.

✄mcs: oscar piastri x fashiondesigner! reader

✄trope: childhood best friends to… something?

✄cw: fluff, yearning (?) you’re both idiots, landos annoying (as usual) smau! so posts/messages etc! NOT PROOF READ.

✄word count: 10k

✄notes from me??: hi everyone !! exams are finally over, everyone cheer now. so strange to work towards something like that and then it be done, though. anyway,! in all honesty? i hate this fic. i honestly don’t think it’s very good, or logical, or fluid, and i actually can barely bring myself to post this. i’d really appreciate any feedback or anything! and PLEASE, any ideas of fics im DESPERATE. like genuinely !! have no ideas but so much motivation to write! also, this smau kicked my ass like genuinely i was tweaking on getting the photos in place and then they all DELETED? horrifying. never (definitely will do it) again. i hope you like this a LITTLE more than i do! ‪‪❤︎‬

You don’t believe in soulmates, not like that, anyway. But sometimes, the way life works out, seems to test your obstinance. You’d met Oscar Piastri when you could only waddle around, and now here you are, sketching him in the corner of your sketchbook affectionately.

Although you’re a designer, you are still an avid doodler. You had pages upon pages of stupid comics and sketches, mainly centered around him, and Lissie, and Lando. Funny, that was the universe shouting at you again. Out of all three of you, Oscar was the one who had always dreamed of Formula One, and yet you’d all been pulled into its orbit. You, stitching together the outfits on the drivers’ backs, and Lissie, flouncing around Lando, finally becoming a publicist of sorts.

You and Lissie had always been so close, that you knew it hadn’t mattered when she’d left to go pursue a career on the other side of the world. But when Oscar had left, you hadn’t been so sure. You truly thought that was it, that he’d go off and drive and you’d be in that same town, watching your fingers bleed from pinpricks from needles.

You had been in love with him, obviously. Who could blame you? He was quiet, thoughtful, and caring, and you knew him. Truly. Inside and out.

But once he left, you let it go. Let him go. That night, tears welling in your eyes. His rueful smile and messy hair, arms extended. You’d hugged him so hard, certain that was it. And when you’d whispered those stupid three words, and he still got on the plane, you decided maybe it was better, that it was over. Childhood love wasn't real, anyway. Your brain hadn’t even finished developing yet.

But still, it was weird to be back with him. As adults, professional and different. You didn’t laugh as much now, but it was louder when you did. He looked the same, but just, sort of bigger? And he still looked at you, just as he had then. But actually, he laughed more. It was nice to see him happier. He’d been so focused, determined, when you were younger. Desperate. And he’d made it.

You finish your sketch, unsatisfied with the shape of his nose, before Lando comes crashing in.

“Good morning, mate.” he says cheerfully, trying not to trip on his undone shoelaces.

You raise an eyebrow at him hesitantly. “You seem cheerful. What’s up?”

He just beams back. “What, am I not allowed to be happy?” he replies, and you roll your eyes at him.

“It’s Clara, isn’t it?” you ask suspiciously, and he nods enthusiastically.

“She’s coming with me to the gala thing. And you know, I explained to her that it will be pretty public, and people will assume things, or make comments, and I understood if she didn't want that, but she said yes anyway. Like, seriously. Like she was willing to go through it, cause she’d rather be with me publicly than secretly, like being with me is the only option anyway.” he boasts proudly, evidently cheesing, and you can’t help but grin back supportively.

You were glad Clara was coming. You hadn’t met her yet, but he was gushing about her so often that you were desperate to make up your own mind about her. She sounded brilliant, but Lando had sometimes made questionable choices before.

“That’s great, Lando. Genuinely. Do you know what she’s wearing? I could like, incorporate it into your suit, if you wanted. That would be cute.” you say pensively, scrunching your nose at him, and he bursts into laughter.

“I forget that's literally all you think about.” he responds, and you mock being offended.

“Yeah, kind of my job. Anyway, stand straight.” you fire back, walking over to him and pulling your green measuring tape against his torso.

“So, I was going to go for a 1960’s theme for your suit, to celebrate when McLaren was established, sort of? It would be subtle, but that sort of style. Although, I want to try and add a 70’s kind of flare on the bottom, but I can’t tell if that’ll look shit. The sketch looked cool, but you know-” you ramble, scribbling down numbers as you instruct him to raise various limbs.

“Actually, I don't know. But for the record, I would’ve fired you by now as my designer if you weren't good at it, no matter how much Oscar would protest. Funny, you know I actually sent Lissie one of your designs first, so you wouldn’t have needed your boyfriend or your sister to get here.” he murmurs, trying to sound sarcastic.

“Yeah, I know. I wouldn’t have accepted the job if I only got it through them anyway. And for the record, you know he isn’t my boyfriend. You can stop joking about it now.” you reply firmly, and he throws his arms up in innocence, making you curse.

“Lando, stay STILL.” you sigh, exasperated, and you hear a familiar chuckle from your studio doorway.

“Yeah, Lando. Stay still.” comes Oscar’s gentle voice, and you smile instinctively.

“Morning, Osc.” waves Lando, and you catch Oscar wave back in the corner of your eye. You nod at Lando, withdrawing back to your desk, and swiftly close your open sketchbook.

Oscar makes his way towards you, placing down a drink by your arm.

“Careful, it’s hot.” he mutters, before turning back to face Lando. You smile at him absentmindedly, focused on comparing your measurements with the design you’d been working on. You hear them chatter, the sound muffled, until Lando shouts out.

“You guys smell the same.” he practically shrieks, and you look up at him incredulously.

“Um, what?” asks Oscar blankly, and you copy his expression.

“You smell the same. Like, your clothes. Well, you smell like her.” he accuses, like he just figured out some deep, ugly secret.

You inhale deeply. “Yep, my bad. I’m staying at his place at the moment, but I hate using any other laundry detergent, hence the smell of the clothes.” you state simply, surprised by his grin.

“Oh, finally! Lissie and I have been waiting for this for forever. Does she know?” he asks excitedly, pulling out his phone.

Oscar coughs awkwardly. “She’s just staying until she finishes the work here.” he explains, gesturing to the piles of boxes and wiring exposed around the room, and Lando sulks.

“Moving in together would be an insane thing to just, like, do, Lando. We’re not even together. You’re such an idiot.” you hiss awkwardly, trying not to think about a strangely domestic life with the Australian to your right.

He laughs quietly in agreement. “You are such an idiot. I’ve been saying this for a while.” he adds, wisely, and you look up at him gratefully.

“Yeah, okay. Whatever. You’re still practically married, doing laundry together.” Lando mutters, dropping his voice to barely a whisper. But it’s still loud enough that you both hear it, even though neither of you even blink.

“Alright, Lando. I think we’re done for today. I’ll text you when to drop back round to try some stuff on, okay?” you mumble firmly, waving him away with a calculated flick of your wrist.

“Touched a nerve?” he jokes, but his eyes are uncomfortably serious. And he did touch a nerve. You grit your teeth and smile angrily at him, nodding your head to the door.

“Bye, mate.” chimes Oscar, raising an arm as Lando slowly ducks out the door.

There's an uncomfortable silence, but it's momentary, because you’re suddenly too concentrated on what Lando mentioned- he really does smell like you. He’s close now, his head peering over your hunched shoulder. And it shouldn’t matter, and you shouldn't even notice, but you do. And it's pretty simple why.

Textures, smells, sounds. Colours. The way patterns jumped at you. They made you part of who you were, part of how your mind worked. And you had your own specific smell, your own style, the colours you used in your work and the textures you liked best. And here he was, straying from his usual familiar scent, and into yours instead. And maybe it was weird, for you to obsess over it so much. But it was like a form of identification. It was how you’d found your jumper, when it was thrown among all the others at the school. Stupid, little things like that.

But the worst part was that it wasn’t offputting, like when something wasn't matching up to how you thought it should be. Instead, you didn’t mind it. And you knew full well, if it was anyone else, you would.

“Do you like it?” you ask suddenly, breaking the silence, and you watch him lean further, admiring the detailed design in front of you.

“Its so obviously, like, you. But also so obviously him. That's brilliant, really. It will look amazing, I’m sure.” he replies earnestly, but you huff a little.

“You can be honest. No one's ever honest with my designs, but I need it now. This is a big deal.” you mumble, stressing the importance of the outfit, and he smiles gently.

“I am being honest. It’s seriously impressive. I don’t know how you managed to come up with a suit so unique? He’ll be better dressed than me, that's for sure. I’ll try not to take it personally that you requested him instead of me, by the way.” he responds, and you wince.

“Yeah, sorry. Didn’t realise you found out about that. Frankly, I had this sort-of idea for a while, and like you said, it’s very him and…” you start, but you trail off slightly.

“... and he's more likely to have people talking about his outfit than me, right?” he chuckles, clearly unoffended, and you nod back quickly.

“You got it. Sorry though, seriously-”

“Will you be my date?” he bursts out, interrupting you mid sentence.

“Um, sorry?” you ask, startled, and he just blinks back at you.

“To the gala. Unless someone’s already asked you, like Lando, because that would make sense. You know, design and designer, good marketing. Or if you don’t want to go, that's fine. But if you do, and no one-” he explains, and you decide to return the favour and cut him off.

“That would be nice, yeah. I’d love to. And for the record, Lando asked Clara. I’m so excited to meet her, really. How is she?” you reply simply, and Oscar exhales, relieved.

“She’s brilliant. Truly, you’ll love her. You’re sort of alike, really. Bubbly. She reminded me of you, when I first met her.” he answers honestly, and you scowl at him.

“I’d rather not know that Lando's dating someone that reminded you of me. That’s gross. But hey, you think I’m bubbly?” you tease, and he looks away, trying to hide a grin.

“Not my finest adjective, I know. But don’t worry, she’s still very different from you. You’ll see what I mean.” he sighs, before asking a simple question.

“So, what are you going to wear?” he asks, and you freeze.

Shit. You’d agreed so quickly, forgetting that very very important factor.

“Oh. I hadn’t thought about that. Well, I can’t copy this, because I don't want to match with Lando. Wait, what are you wearing?” you fire back, eyebrows raised expectantly.

He quickly pulls out his phone, showing you a picture of his suit. It was fairly standard, but had some interesting shapes and creases you admired carefully.

“Okay, who are you wearing?” you rephrase, and he looks at you guiltily.

“Honestly? I don’t know. I’ll find out. I just got sent this photo by Anna this morning.” he explains quickly, and you nod sharply.

“I like the shape. Harsh where it should be soft, but it doesn't look uncomfortable. And the subtle blue is intriguing. I can work with that. I just need to find out who designed it, so I can ask about the fabric.” You ramble, unfocused on him, but he’s grinning.

“What, you’re going to match with me, instead?” he smiles, and you roll your eyes.

“Good marketing, obviously.”

“Oh, obviously.” he bemuses, and you shake your head, suppressing a laugh.

***

Other than Lando being a dickhead, the night went incredibly. Your designs had gone down insanely well. An endless stream of compliments flooded you, about Lando but also about your own attire. And as usual, Oscar was right. Clara was brilliant. You loved her, like, immediately. You’d both ran off, leaving the boys, and you’d spent most of the night flouncing around fancy guests and trying to act a lot more important than you were.

She was creative, funny, and absolutely bubbly. It was actually the perfect adjective.

You were leaning against the edge of the stairs, deep in conversation about your upcoming collection, when you felt a familiar hand rest on your shoulder.

“Hi, Osc.” you whispered, not even bothering to look up.

“How'd you know it was me? Could’ve been a different dashing young man, asking you to do something crazy like dance. To this song. Which he would somehow know you very much love.” he grins, and you turn to face him, pulling that reflexive scrunched face.

“I always know when it's you.” you mumble back, and it sounds way more serious than you’d intended. “But for the record, you know dancing is reserved for the kitchen only. Or if I feel like winning in Just Dance, like usual.” you respond, hoping your subtle rejection doesn't land too seriously. He rescinds his extended hand back into his pockets, shrugging casually.

“So, how long have you been together?” comes Clara’s gentle voice, watching you both carefully.

“Oh, no, we’re not-”

“Together? No, it’s-”

You quickly talk over each other, in a blatant panic, hands flapping, but Clara just laughs, sharp and clear.

“Wow, sorry. Must’ve severely misread Lando’s message, when he said I could finally meet his best friend's girlfriend tonight.” she giggles, and you want to laugh with her, but Lando’s stupid toothy grin gleams at you, emerging beside her.

“Must’ve been autocorrect. I meant best friend’s best friend. Or a friend that's a girl, you decide. Sorry for any confusion.” he smirks, sounding annoyingly sincere.

“It’s alright, Lando-we know you didn’t go to school. Grammar is hard.” you say calmly, smiling back at him. He flashes a scowl at you before taking Clara’s arm and whisking her away, much to your annoyance.

“She didn’t protest against dancing.” comes Oscar’s hurt voice, and you snap your neck up to face him, but he’s already laughing at you.

“I’m joking. Just came to check you’re alright. You disappeared.” he states matter of factly, and you just rest your head on his shoulder, giving yourself a moment of quiet.

“Yeah, I’m fine. I’m actually quite tired. And this dress is too tight.” you groan, suddenly feeling overwhelmed and uncomfortable.

“You made it.” he chuckles, and you whack him affectionately.

“Yeah, I know. Whatever.” you pause, listening to the music.

“So, imagine I’m a different bubbly, um, dashing, woman or whatever. Who happens to know that this is kind of the only song that isn’t house music that you listen to.” you beam, holding out your right hand, raising your eyebrows.

He laughs, and takes it, and you follow the pathway conveniently made from Lando and Clara towards the middle of the floor.

***

yourusername

yourusername too fancy for me lol, but the clothes seemed to suit it. (get it?)

oscarpiastri claranelson landonorris

View more comments

user8 blown me away, as usual

user12 so cute

user21 oscar has a gf?

↳ user42 you’re new here arent you

claranelson mclaren garage is going to get real sick of us soon

↳ landonorris didnt realise we were hard laucning in yourusernames comments

↳ claranelson oscar has this girl in the garage every weekend and they arent together so actually you just hard launched us

oscarpiastri you looked better than you danced

↳ yourusername well im a good dancer so thanks

↳ user36 please get a room, thanks guys!

user36 can we please talk about clara and lando for a sec??

↳ user59 lmfao wait are u the mf that dedicated a whole blog to proving they were together

↳ user36 i dont play about my niche pink haired influencers bro

↳ claranelson wait i remember this ahahh well done

You switch your phone off and flop onto your bed, sighing. It was so bizarre to you, staying here. Calling it your bed, like you owned it. Like it wasn’t in Oscar’s house. It had been generous of him to offer so quickly to let you stay, and he clearly didn’t care about how long your studio would take. Sure, you’d spent many hours in this house, but it felt so different now. Your mess, all over the carpet. Scraps of fabrics and sketches and clothes strewn around. You, bringing colour all over the plain walls. It was genuinely like you lived here. In this room, at least. You’d never even seen Oscar’s bedroom.

But he wasn’t here right now, probably training, and you’d always been curious.

Huffing, you trail to his door, pushing it open. It was pretty boring- as expected. He had an interesting simulator stuffed in a corner, but the room seemed so devoid of character. Almost like a hotel room. You’d been there for two weeks and you’d already made it seem lived in, while his was just so plain.

You scan the shelves for something interesting, and you pause when you see a long row of photos. Various frames and sizes jump out at you, the irregularity of it all making you uncomfortable. It’s cute though, an endless array of baby Oscar next to overly large karts, or his sisters grinning, or his mum and his dogs. Then you see yourself, face scrunched as usual, scowling at the camera. You were so tiny, pointing awkwardly at Oscar’s shirt, while he beamed. You remembered it well, that photo. It was the first garment you’d ever made, and you hated how obvious you thought the clumsy seams were, even though both him and his family had thought it was inspired. They’d always supported you, even when your own hadn’t. Hesitantly, you pick it up to study it, and you watch a large pile of polaroids fall out the back.

You inhale deeply, recognising them. Lissie and Hattie had been obsessed with polaroid cameras, constantly taking picture after picture. You’d kept a couple of Lissie’s, somewhere in a shoebox, but they were mainly of you and her, or relatives. Hattie had always been the one who took snapshots of you and Oscar.

There were so many. An endless stream of different poses. Back to back, in your embarrassingly shiny prom dress, and his slightly-too-small suit with a tie that matched your pink look. A couple more from that night, including some with Lissie and her boyfriend at the time. Then a cute one, of just you and your sister, grinning. Considering they’d been hidden behind the back of the picture frame, you figure he wouldn’t mind if you took that one. So you do. You stuff it silently into your pocket and continue wading through the polaroids, feeling that familiar sense of nostalgia.

They all blur, grins and scowls and arms over shoulders, and you try to not get too upset. It’s sickening, how sweetly you’re looking at him, in the more candid ones. How he didn’t know, you’ll always wonder. Sure, social cues are often wasted on him, but you were so obvious. The proof was in front of you.

You get to the last one, almost wishing you’d never picked them up in the first place. It was a bittersweet sensation, watching years flash by. Watching you grow up all over again.

But this one's the worst. Both of you, evidently no older than sixteen. Your left hand, gently holding his chin. A wide-eyed grin spread across his face. Your lips, barely pressed against his pink cheeks. It’s adorable and disgusting and you want to rip it up and frame it simultaneously. No context could save that, explain the look on your faces. No excuse could make that seem friendly, and you honestly think it's more intimate than if you’d actually properly kissed him. But you can't even remember the context. It must’ve been a joke, or something. Because you know full well the idea of that would’ve made you want to throw up- not from disgust but from pure panic.

And it’s making you feel a bit sick now, something you haven’t felt since he walked away, that brutal rejection. Well, it wasn’t truly a rejection. It was a conclusion, an understanding. But a painful one. It’s a sharp, clear memory.

“I love you.” you whispered, clinging onto his neck.

“I know. I love you too.” he whispered back, into your hair.

You paused. “You need to go, don’t you?”

“I do.” he replied quietly, but he didn’t pull away from the tight embrace.

And although your brain was screaming at you to rephrase, to tell him not to go, to say you were IN love with him, to not release your grip, you stepped back. You watched his resolve falter slightly, in time with your heartbeat, but you couldn’t leave it like this.

“Bye, Osc. Good luck, yeah?” you grinned, mustering up any joy you could find, like the world wasn't collapsing on you.

He laughed lightly, scanning your fake expression.

“Thank you. But this isn’t really bye, is it?” he murmured back, his tone wavering between genuinity and sarcasm. Back then, you’d thought he was just being nice, and he hadn’t meant it.

Now you realised he was right. And you’re so lost in thought, so unfocused, you don't notice you are still holding that photo. So unfocused, you don’t notice he’s leaning against the doorframe, watching, until he speaks.

“You’re not usually in here.” comments Oscar, eyebrows raised inquisitively.

You jump, and turn to face him, a somewhat guilty expression painting your face.

“Ah. Hi, Osc. Yeah, you’re right. Sorry, I was just-” you begin, but he chuckles at you, walking forwards.

“-Curious? Yeah, not unlike you. What did you find?” he asks, eyes crinkling.

“Um, I found these polaroids. Hattie’s, I assume?” you reply, shielding the one intertwined in your fingers.

“Uh-huh. I meant to give them to you, when I found them, but I forgot. You’re welcome to take any you want, obviously.”

“I already did. Took one, I mean. One of me and Lissie, you know?” you respond, breathing slowly. He’s not looking at you, instead he’s studying the array of photos beside you.

“I know the one. Are you planning on taking the one of us you’re trying to hide now, or what?” he jokes, still not looking up.

“I’m not hiding anything. I’m just holding it. Anyway, how did you know which one I’ve got?” you mutter, rolling your eyes.

“It’s my favourite.” he says casually, and you almost explode.

You blink awkwardly, unsure on how to reply.

“Oh! Well, obviously you can keep it then, I was just looking at it. I don’t remember taking it.” you babble, handing it to him, but he just shakes his head.

“Funny, I barely remember any of these, but that one. But no, you can keep it. Put it somewhere more visible, maybe?” he jokes, but he doesn't seem to be that light-hearted. He’s sort of awkward, and vulnerable, and you don’t really know what to do.

So you nod, seriously, but don’t stuff it into your pocket. Instead, you pull off your phonecase and slip it inside, making sure it's central before clipping it back on.

“Alright?” you question, and he smiles at you.

“Perfect.”

***

Social media went wild at that simple gesture. Who knew a photo could cause so much speculation? Well, Lando did. Someone had caught a picture of Clara in his wallet a while back, and that's how his rumours had started. But he wasn’t being particularly sympathetic, and neither was Lissie.

“Frankly, this is entirely your fault. You’re just prancing around with Oscar, practically attached at the hip, attending all his races. And then, suddenly, you show up with a polaroid of you two kissing in the back of your phone. I'd even think you were together. Or like some of the theories, that you used to be and broke up, or something. If you really wanted to lay low, you wouldn’t be doing all this.”critiques Lissie, pausing only to sip from her obnoxiously sweet coffee, and Lando nods along approvingly.

“First off, we’re obviously children in that photo. Secondly, why should I have to pretend he’s not my best friend for the sake of the cameras?” you fire back, sulking, and Lando just laughs at you.

“You need to recheck what a child is. Also, calling him your best friend is such nonsense. It’s getting ridiculous now, truly. Look, it sucks. We all know it sucks. But if you keep going the way you’re going, it’s going to explode.” he preaches, trying to sound wise, but you just scowl at him.

“You know I rarely say this, but Lando’s right. Before, it was only the races that had events after. That you were dressing him for. Then it became every other one. Then he brought you TO these events, you’re at every single grand-prix, and you don’t even try to shut down anything anyone says.” adds Lissie, scrutiny painting her face.

“It’s not my place to do that. I’m allowed to be close to my best friend of like, twenty fucking years.” you reply obstinately, and they both sigh angrily at you.

“But are you really just friends?” comes a thoughtful whisper. And it’s not Lissie’s sharp voice, or Lando’s mocking tone. It’s gentler, lighter, and genuine. It’s got an apologetic melody.

“Morning, ‘Ra.” mumbles Lando, smiling widely as she presses a gentle kiss to his forehead.

“Sorry to intrude, everyone.” grins Clara, sitting firmly down on a seat nearby, clearly unbothered if she actually is an intrusion.

“No, it’s all good. I’m trying to seek some moral support from these two, and they are hopeless. Too much unsolicited advice.” you explain, stuffing your hands aggressively into your pockets.

“If I may?” she asks, but she’s not really asking for permission. She’s asking for you to listen, so you do.

“Like I said, are you really just friends?”

You pause. Not long enough for it to be awkward, or for anyone to shout ‘I told you so’, but just long enough to wrap your head around how to phrase your answer.

“No, I wouldn’t say we’re just friends. He means more to me than that. But it’s the same sort of dependency I have on Lissie. He’s just like, part of my life. He’s part of me. But it’s not-” you begin, but she cuts in with another question.

“Do you love him?”

You don’t need to hesitate on this one. “Of course. I always have.”

Now Lissie decides to interject. “That’s a lie. You found him properly annoying, until about five. You despised him, truly. ‘We are only friends because we have to be.’ You said it, so loudly, so confidently, that we all believed you. He didn’t talk to you for a week after that. Walking to school was painful.”

You laugh quietly, remembering the reprimanding you had received for being so mean.

“Yeah, and then I drew him a card to say sorry, and we were fine after that.” you finish, and the whole table smiles at the story.

“I’ve got this one!” calls Lando, winking at Clara slowly. “Are you IN love with him?”

You knew this was coming. It was obvious. Obvious enough that even Lando knew what to ask. So you use the same prepared answer you have stored in the back of your mind.

“No. No, I’m not. And before you say anything, yeah, I used to be. A long time ago. But genuinely, I’m not anymore. Which is why it's so infuriating that I can’t just go to his races. Or hang out with him. Without being hounded with accusations and speculation. It makes me want to leave him alone, even though that's not his fault, and I can’t let them win. I can’t let them take him away.” ‘again,’ you add mentally. But you just watch the sullen expressions stretch across their faces.

Clara speaks first, which you didn't expect.

“Does he know? Like, did you ever tell him? Maybe you should. Just, I don’t know, mention it one time? Tell him that you’re over it now, but it’s hard, with the media and all. He’s understanding. Maybe you can work something out?” she says optimistically, and you just smile hopefully back at her.

Lissie beams at you both. “That’s a good idea. You seemed confident in that, ‘No.’ So, you should be fine. I’m glad you’ve figured it out. Anyway, I’m gonna head out.”

Lando pauses. “I’ll meet you in a minute Clara, kay? I have some, uh, fashion questions.” he mutters, and Clara dutifully leaves, trailing behind Lissie.

He turns to face you, a strange expression on his face.

“You’re lying. You are. I can see it.” he accuses, but you don’t even flinch.

“Norris, stay in your lane. I came for sympathy, and your girlfriend provided much better advice than you ever have. I told the truth.” you reply back calmly, but your words are aggressive.

“You can’t convince me this is like, fucking, casual? Do you see the way you look at each other? This is nonsense, seriously. So stop being a coward, and at least admit it to me that you’re still in love with him. Because you’re lying to us all, and we can’t help you.” he whispers bitterly, and you try not to blink.

“You can’t help me anyway. It pisses me off that we can’t just be friends. But I’d rather it be like this, and that’s how it ends, than I push him away because I can't handle some instagram posts.” you fire back, trying to tell him so much with so few words.

“For fucks sake!” he recoils, exasperated. “You’re both truly idiots. Why haven’t you just considered, asking him out? It’s not unrequited, come on. It’s obvious.”

You never had a short temper. You were cool, and calm, things that rubbed off from the Australian. He’d withered his way into your very own personality. But he wasn’t here now, even in your head. All you saw was some privileged prick, asking you questions you’d been asking yourself for over ten years.

“You’re the only fucking idiot here. I told you, I’m over it. It’s done. I don’t want that with him, not like that, not anymore. Look at what’s real, what’s here, not what you want to see. It’s not going to happen.” you whisper-scream, all too aware of the other people in the cafe.

“You won’t even try?” he asks, seriously now.

“I did. I told him. That last night. And he left anyway. Because it was never going to be enough. I can’t go back there, can’t think of it like, ‘oh, if he knew. Oh, if I told him.’ Because I did. And like I said, this works, now. And I’d rather we spend less time together, because of some idiots on the internet, than because me loving him wasn’t enough again. Because he has other commitments. Whatever, I don’t know.” you mumble, truly quiet now. Pensive. Painful.

You feel him touch your arm. It’s alien, and weird. And you’d rather he just jokingly punched you instead, like usual. ‘You’re such a sap, mate.’ But this weird attempt at comfort made it so much worse, and so much realer.

“I’m sorry.” he says genuinely, but something isn’t right. There’s a level of determination on his face, a drive for success in his eyes, and it's something you’ve only seen before sessions.

“Lando, please drop it. I don’t want-” you begin, but he just smirks at you gleefully, and you hate how visibly the cogs are turning in his head.

“Goodbye.” he sings, and you watch him excitedly sling his arm around Clara as soon as he makes it through the door, whispering something in her ear.

***

You throw yourself into your work for the next week. It’s relentless, and exhausting, but a good distraction. You spend as little time at Oscar’s as possible, even occasionally falling asleep amongst piles of fabric and scraps. On the nights you do huddle in his guest bed, trying not to think of him down the corridor, he seems to tread extra carefully around you. Like he recognises your change in behaviour, but doesn't want to talk about it.

You’re being absent because of Lando, because you think he’s up to something. That’s at least what you tell yourself.

It’s definitely not because you’re overthinking all of it.

Your phone blinds you slightly, as you check the time. 02:33. ‘Brilliant,’, you think, knowing the exhaustion will truly settle in soon. But you just can’t sleep. It’s hot, and your brain is whirring faster than those stupid cars that haunt your life.

Begrudgingly you get up, and blunder your way to his kitchenette, cursing as you accidentally slam a cupboard door way too loudly. He emerges instantaneously, and guilt floods your face.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you. I was just thirsty.” you whisper, nodding to the glass in your hand. You can’t really see him, because the cooker hood’s light is so dim, but you hear him yawn.

“Don’t worry. I can’t sleep either, to be honest. I was just checking you’re okay.” he mumbles, and he steps towards you so you can see him.

He’s wearing odd socks and strange green shorts, which don’t go at all with the oversized top he’s wearing with an odd depiction of a croissant on it.

“Hi. Nice outfit.” you giggle, and he looks at himself, like he’d forgotten what he was wearing.

“You weren't meant to see me like this.” he groans dramatically. “Hi.”

You shrug, unsure of what else to do. “I’ve seen you a lot worse.”

That’s true, you have. You’d seen him with chickenpox, chasing you around on grassy fields as you ran for your life. You’d seen him with tear-strickened eyes after falling surprisingly hard off his bike. Mud, all over his face, as you tried to build a ‘bug hotel.’ When he’d got food poisoning at a sleepover one night, and you had to look after him. When he’d been the donkey in the school nativity. The list was somewhat endless.

He smiles at you, like he’s read your mind. “Very true.”

Silence hangs around you. You loved your silence- it was special. A silence that only worked in the peace you created together. The understanding, the thoughts you shared without saying a word. You always knew what he was thinking, and vice versa.

But this silence was different. You couldn’t hear him, hear him thinking. It was like a barrier had been put up, and you couldn’t see through it.

‘Can you hear me, Osc?’

‘Ask me, this time. Ask me what's wrong. Don’t assume it will work itself out.’

‘Ask me where I’ve been. Tell me what you think about me. Tell me what Lando did.’

“So, how’s the collection going?” he asks hesitantly, like you’re a colleague.

You purse your lips, and wonder what the actual fuck is going on.

“I’m almost done. Been working tirelessly, you know. That’s why I haven’t been around.” you reply honestly, chewing on your lip anxiously.

“Huh. Nice. I’m so proud of you, truly.” he responds awkwardly, like he has more to say, so you let him. You just stare expectantly.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, furrowing his eyebrows at you.

“Nothing. I’m fine. Just tired, you know? Like you are, I’m sure.” you mumble weakly, watching water fill your glass. You watch it reach the top, and then shimmy around the counter, back to your door.

“Goodnight, Oscar.” you whisper, slipping inside. But you linger, for a second, and that’s all he needs.

“Um, sorry, but like, can you come back?” he calls, and you turn around, placing down your glass and walking towards him.

He looks confused, and somewhat upset, and you want to laugh and joke and tell him to go to bed because it's fine, but you can’t. Because some indescribable emotion is drowning you, and you don’t know what to do. You feel suffocated, like you just want to hide from him, and also like you’re going to be sick. You’ve never wanted to run from him before, ever. You’ve only ever craved his tight hugs, and his soothing slow breaths.

“What is it, Piastri?” you whisper, your throat drying. He strides towards you, studying your paling face.

“Did I do something? What’s going on?” he asks firmly, searching your eyes for an answer but letting his gaze linger on your slightly shaky hands.

“No, you didn’t do anything.” you mutter, and you’re telling the truth. But you want to scream at him, shout until your throat burns. You want him to leave you alone, like before. You don’t want to see his stupid beautiful annoying mole-covered face ever again.

He exhales, relieved, and hugs you tightly, crushing you a bit.

“Good. I missed you.” he murmurs into your hair, and you shiver.

“It was a week.” you reply into his shoulder, but he just chuckles quietly.

“Yeah, but it's been a while since I haven’t seen you in a week. You’ve been so, like, constant recently. In the best way.” he stumbles over his words, but you get the point.

And you give yourself one more breath in his arms before you hurriedly pull away.

“Mhm. About that. I don’t think I can be around so much anymore. It’s just exhausting.” you stammer, and he looks bewildered.

“So I did do something. Come on, you can be honest.” he says, clearly exasperated at the back and forth.

“No,” you reply quickly. “It’s just, like the media side of it all. I make clothes. I’m not meant to be all on camera. And I want to be there for you, and spend as much time as possible with you, but I just can’t because of everything that comes with it. You can understand that, right?” you ask, and he nods.

“Of course I can. But, please don't push me away because of some instagram posts. Don’t disappear on me, we can make it work, yeah?” he responds, and you smile, although your heart is breaking a little bit.

Because that's exactly what you said to Lando, and here you are, letting it happen

And you know something Oscar doesn’t- you still meant what you said then. You weren’t pushing him away because of the media. You were pushing him away because if someone asked you now, if you were in love with him, that ‘no’ would be much shakier.

***

A month later

yourusername

yourusername hi everyone! Long time no see. Studio finally done, ive moved in and everything! Working on a lot recently, and im almost there. So excited to share my clothes with you guys- because im launching eightynine!! More info to come, love you

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user89 wait ive been waiting for this one hello

user12 oh my god. Oh my god oh my god

user8 so does this mean we can like, buy her designs?? Yay

user76 call me crazy but oscars number is 81 and her lucky number is 8…

↳ user36 wait ur onto something..

↳ user59 blind leading the blind

user42 why havent we seen you at a race in a while? Are you still friends with oscar?

↳ yourusername ofc, still friends with the mclaren boys, just busy

↳user21 oh my god ynosc divorce is confirmed im gonna sob

claranelson cannot wait to wear everything

↳ yourusername ur my top model

lissiematthews so proud of you, always. Love you

↳ yourusername best friend and sister we interlinked

landonorris can i model too

↳ yourusername umm maybe?? (not)

oscarpiastri well done.

↳ yourusername thank you,osc

↳ user42 user21, maybe theyre fine?

You smile slightly as you switch your phone off, and hate yourself for it. It had actually been quite nice, to get away from it all for a bit. You’d seen Lando for some more outfit stuff, but he hadn’t said anything about Oscar. Maybe it was because he realised you actually were keeping a distance. At first, it was awful. Horrific. Then slowly it got better, and you stopped seeing him every time you blinked.

And you realised it was indefinitely easier to have space, and breathing room, than to hide feelings and curse social media. There was nothing to question, nothing to confront. Just you, and drawings, and fabric. The true definition of home for you.

That’s when the door swings open, and you immediately become irritable.

“Hello, Lando. Unless Clara’s with you, why are you here?” you ask coldly, and he rolls his eyes.

“I knew you’d like her more than me!” he pouts, and you scowl.

“Not hard, is it?” you fire back, and he laughs sharply.

“Ouch. Anyway, glad you’re talking to Oscar again. He was getting mopey.” he coos, and you wave him away.

“Please don’t. You’ll give me a headache.” you bark, and he blinks, slightly surprised.

“Why’d you say yes if you don’t want to see him?” he asks, quietly. It’s serious, and you don’t like it.

“I do want to see him. I’ve been busy.” you reply back quickly.

“I’m sick of your bullshit. Look, Oscar means a lot to me. You’re messing with his head. And you're messing with mine. And clearly, your own. He came to me, fuckin’ like, distraught. Saying he felt so guilty, that you were so impacted by all the rumours and shit, and that you had to leave him alone. And I had to sit there and tell him you’d come around, and you’d work it out. That he should follow his gut. And he just looked like someone had died the whole time.” he explains quickly, and you pause awkwardly.

“Well, I did need space. It wasn’t his fault.” you respond, shrugging.

“What happens next time? When you get that close again, and then you get scared. Scared to admit you’re not over it? Scared of being rejected? Scared of finding out that maybe it’s fucking one sided? You’re both scared. You’re gonna keep hurting each other if you do this. So either cancel, or confess.” he stated loudly, his tone unnecessarily harsh.

“Lando, you keep overstepping. You need to get the fuck out of my business. I’m not a teenager anymore. I can deal with this. I did what I needed to do.”

“Here! Exactly that. Defensive shit. Because you love him just as much now as you did WHEN you were a teenager. Please, just say it.” he pleads, but you stare at him adamantly.

“You asked him, didn’t you? You asked him the same thing. And he said no, too. And you’re clinging to delusions and preying on vulnerability to make whatever the fuck you’ve got in your head a reality. We had our chance. We had our entire childhood. I told him, and maybe it was too late, but he left anyway. Why reopen that wound? It helps neither of us.” You respond aggressively, but he shakes his head.

“You said no, and you were lying. He’s doing the same.” rambled Lando, and you want him to just fall through a menacing crack in the floor.

“You’re a dickhead, you know that? He said no, ‘cause he doesn't love me. He never did. Not in the way I did. He said it back, in the same way he said it to his sisters. I heard it, I knew it. It was a rejection, and it was a kind one. And that’s all I needed- a rejection. I’m not going through that again for feelings I’m not even sure are there.” you admit, letting your words hang in the air.

Lando sighs. “He didn’t know.”

“What?”

“I asked him, if you two were ever together. A long time ago. He said no, that you’d never even entertained the notion. And once you told me about that night, at the airport, I asked about it. Like, in general. If he regretted anything. He said he would’ve liked to tell you something, but that he chickened out. He thought it would be best to leave it unspoken, leave it as a ‘what if?’” he explains.

“I don’t understa-”

“He thought you were letting him go. Saying goodbye. He didn’t know.”

***

Oscar was punctual. Not late, not early. On time. So as you accidentally arrive at your aforementioned dinner way earlier than you were meant to, you’re surprised to see Piastri sitting there already.

“You look nice.” you say thoughtfully, sitting down opposite him, and he smiles ruefully.

“Thanks.” he replies, scanning the menu.

“So, race weekend. Are you excited?” you ask awkwardly, like it’s not a stupid question. It’s like you’re on a pathetic first date, not someone you used to sit next to in Chemistry.

“Of course. Are you, coming, maybe?” he questions hopefully, and you purse your lips.

“Um, I don’t know. Probably not, with the launch soon. I’m sorry, if Lando was a dick to you, or something.” you mumble, and he grins appreciatively.

“No, he was fine. Just worried. I don’t think anyone other than Lissie has ever seen us argue- it’s not a common occurrence.” he jokes, but it’s sad.

“Hey, we didn't argue. I’m sorry, how abrupt I was. I was just overwhelmed.” you respond, but he just nods.

There’s silence again, and it's that offputting kind, that you’ve never really associated with him.

“This is so weird. What happened to us?” he asks quietly, and it’s so genuine and so full of hurt that you want to cry.

“We stopped being kids a while back, if that's what you mean.”

“You were living with me two months ago. And now we’re sitting here pretending we have things to talk about, like we don’t know everything about each other.” he mumbles, and you don’t know what to do, because he's right. And you feel like it's your fault.

“Nah, you don’t know everything.” you reply snarkily, and he looks up.

“I don’t? Everything from before I left, surely?” he suggests, but you shake your head.

“Nope, not quite. Do you remember my first ever sketchbook?” you mutter, trying to ignore the anxiousness in your chest.

“Yep, pink. Of course! You guarded that with your life.” he laughs, and you watch carefully as his cheeks flush.

“It was because you were in it. Sketches of you, of us, all over. Pages and pages of it. And when Lissie saw, she called me by your last name for weeks. So much, I used to scribble it down near the drawings, to see if I liked it. And she explained we’d have to be married, and I didn't understand that, so I just went with it.” you confess quietly, watching him try to suppress an evident smile.

“Well, what if I told you I had the exact same thing? Do you remember when my cousin came from Australia? The old one, with his girlfriend? He said he was going to marry her, and I asked him what that meant. And he said it was just making sure the person you loved the most was stuck with you, forever, basically. So I marched around declaring I’d marry you so we’d be friends forever.” he responds, his voice breaking slightly, and it's your turn to try not to laugh.

“Wow, we were hopeless.”

“We were.”

Then the silence is back, and it's warm, and familiar, and you feel that gravitational pull back into Oscar Piastri again. And for some reason, that emboldens you. Just enough to say something small. A few, insignificant words, that weren’t insignificant at all.

“You never said anything.”

“We were what, six? Of course I didn’t. I didn’t understand it.”

“Was that it, though? Did it really go away, just like that?”

“No. Did it go away for you?”

“No, but you knew that.”

You wait for another quick response, wait for him to prove Lando wrong. But his slow blinking, his confusion, makes your heart soar and your stomach churn.

“I didn’t know that. How was I meant to know that?”

“I told you, I said I love you. What else did you want me to say?” you ask, your heartbeat accelerating.

“Oh come on, that's not fair. You used to say, ‘thanks, love you’ practically every day. I bought you a croissant once, and you acted like I’d just proposed. I couldn’t ever tell what you felt about me, ever. I just assumed you said ‘I love you’, like because you did. Like family. We were that close.”

“Right, so shaky hands and tears in my eyes was no accurate indication. You’re an idiot.”

“Oh. Then. I am. That is fair, although, when I said it back, you just reminded me that I had to go.”

“Yeah, because YOU said it back so normally. I practically felt you shrug while you said it. I could hear the reflexiveness of the response, genuinely.” you mumble, and he laughs.

“That also makes you an idiot.”

***

Lando never leaves you on read. He always made an effort to not do that, because he hated being left on read himself. So watching him ignore a message he definitely should not have ignored is concerning.

You’re not concerned for very long though, because suddenly a cluster of limbs and pink hair crash into your studio, disturbing your calculated mess.

Lissie and Clara babble over eachother, flinging themselves at you, with a flurry of words that seem to be ‘congratulations’ and ‘condolences’ simultaneously.

“Guys, please relax. Me being in love with Oscar is not a new concept.” you joke, but you’re obviously overwhelmed. And it’s scary, admitting something you’ve been hiding for so long. Fighting for so long. But you were tired, and you were beat. And before you realised, you were crying. Just a little bit.

‘We were hopeless.’

You were. And you realised what you’d felt in that silence, every time. That warmth, that comfort, it was love. It was you both saying how much you loved eachother, because you couldn’t actually make a sound about it. And you really did feel like a fucking idiot. A true, silly, hopeless, idiot, teenager

But you didn’t have to be that again, did you?

You feel hugs and ‘it’s okay, let it out’ whispers, and you let yourself have this moment of vulnerability. You let yourself mourn what could’ve been, and you hoped he was doing the same.

“So, let’s talk about this, yeah? What do you want to do?” asks Lissie, and Clara nods enthusiastically. And you think about Lando and wonder how on earth he’s managed to make her fall in love with him. So you look at them both, and pause.

“What would you do?”

The question is heavy, and serious, and you watch them stiffen.

“I would go for it,” and “I’d let him go,” are their simultaneous answers, and you groan.

“Great, thanks. Super helpful.”

Lissie speaks first. “Look, I watched you go through this before. I know how deep this runs. It’s in your very nature. If you don’t do this, you’ll regret it. More than you already do.” she warns, and you know she’s right.

“You could get over it. For real this time, if you tried. It’s clearly taken so much from you already, and maybe if it was meant to be, it would’ve been by now. If you just left, focused on your clothes and stuff, idk. You’ll let yourself love someone else, and it will be okay,” advises Clara, and you pause at her words. Because somehow, she’s right too.

And you’re so torn, you don’t know what to do. Because you’re so disgustingly horribly obsessed with Oscar Piastri, and you have been for over a decade. You could conjure him perfectly in your mind, every freckle in place. Imagine his voice, his smell, immediately. Your heart almost explodes when you think too hard about him.

Your phone dings, a loud, ugly noise, and you sigh, assuming a range of messages from Lando.

You pack up your stuff, gesturing wildly to the girls beside you. “I’m going to see him, like now.” you reveal, biting your lip again.

“So, what are you going to do then? What are you going to tell him?” Clara asks carefully, and you smile. It’s small, and subtle, but it’s there. The only sign she needed to know you made the right choice, whatever that choice was.

“I’ll let you know how it goes.”

***

You arrive, slightly flushed, at his door, and he opens before you can knock.

“You came!” He announces, like he’s surprised.

“Uh, yeah. Obviously. What did you want to talk about?” You ask, even though you both know the answer.

“We made it a joke earlier, but is it? Is it a joke?” He replies sullenly, and you shake your head.

“No, it’s not a joke to me. I was like, head over heels, insanely in love with you. And I just don’t know how to cope with the idea of what we lost without even knowing we were losing it.” You admit honestly, and he sighs.

“You’re right. I feel the same way. And this might sound pathetic but I want to make up for it. I mean, it can’t feel much different to how we already are, sur-“ and you laugh. A horrible explosive outburst of giggles.

His face collapses, like you’ve just ripped out his heart and jumped on it.

“-I’m sorry, obviously that was back then. If you’re over it now, or whatever else, or the media and so on, that’s totally fine.” He mumbles sadly, clearly reeling from your cackles.

“Oh, Oscar, I’m not laughing at you. It’s just, ridiculous. After all this. You’re not pathetic, not now. You were back then. So was I.”

“We were scared.”

“We didn’t have to be.” You mutter, and he smiles knowingly.

“No, we didn’t have to be. But we were.” He steps towards you, slowly, bringing his hands gently to your face.

He pauses, then says, “Look, you were my best friend. Still are.”

“I was scared to touch your face, in case you flinched.” He murmurs, brushing the hair from your eyes. “I could barely even hold eye contact sometimes. You’d look at me like I was saving you from drowning, when I was actually the one drowning. I used to forget how to breathe when you’d pull my blazer collar down. When our knees brushed in the car. When you’d press your arms against mine and scribble down numbers. I was so scared of you.”

You can feel him breathing on you now, as you study each other’s faces, daring the other person to find something new, something they haven’t seen before. But that’s an impossible task, because you know every mole, and he knows every smile line. You know exactly what his teeth look like, and he can imagine the small scar on your forehead even though he can’t see it.

And there it is again. That silence that screams words louder than your voice ever could. You can hear it in the silence. You are in love, it says. He is in love.

“Are you scared now?” You ask tentatively, and he grins.

“No.”

And that’s when it all comes crashing down, and you throw away any doubt you had about soulmates, because yours is right here. And he’s kissing you so gently, his lips so soft against yours, that you can’t help but sigh. It’s alien and familiar at the same time and you wrap your arms around him subconsciously, carefully playing with the back of his hair.

His cheeks are flushed when you both breathe, and you press your forehead against his.

“Hi.”

“Hi. Are you my girlfriend now?”

“That’s a rubbish way to ask. But yeah, I am.”

He beams, like he’s finally found something precious that he had spent eternity looking for.

“Okay. Nice. Cool. Okay.”

“Are you freaking out a bit right now, baby?” You tease, and he laughs.

“Yeah, a bit. Can you tell?”

“I can. Now, are you going to tell Lando or should I?”

***

yourusername

yourusername hi everyoneee! sorry, it’s been a while again. Anyway. Here’s some news! Took us a while to announce this, because we wanted some time to ourselves, but I’m sure this isn’t a massive surprise to anyone. oscarpiastri

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user46 DONT PLAY RN

user12 wowwow

user23 i KNEW IT

↳ user46 we all knew it??

landonorris lame Oscars post was better

↳ yourusername only saying that cause ur in it bruh

claranelson yay, so so happy for you

lissiematthews oscarpiastri adoptive brother to actual brother soon?

↳ yourusername bit early for that maybe

↳ oscarpiastri is it really too early?

You switch off your phone, and flip it over to admire the new Polaroid hidden in your phonecase. Identical to the other, truly, but older and newer at the same time. The love in your eyes is the same, but your face is matured, and the frame cleaner.

And you open your sketchbook and you doodle it, lingering on his features that you could draw blind.

[scuderiahoney]

Fluorescent

• Max Verstappen x driver!reader •

Summary: Motorsport is a dog eat dog world, and you know that better than most. It’s not often you meet someone who understands, who shines a light on all the darkness, but Max might just be the perfect person for it. 8.8k words

Warnings: mentions of alcohol, misogyny (both external and internal, not by Max), mild suggestive content, my only vague knowledge of motorsport in general

The first time you come face to face with Max Verstappen, you already know his name. But when he says your name before you even introduce yourself, you’re a little surprised. Maybe a lot surprised.

“Hi, Max,” you say, scraping yourself back together. “It’s nice to meet you.”

Honestly, you hate that you’re so starstruck by him. Sure, he’s a two time F1 world champion. You respect the hell out of him, partially because you know how hard he’s worked to get there. You’ve been in the Motorsport world nearly as long as he has, just in a different way. In different circles- or ovals, or dirt tracks, in whatever kind of car you can get your hands on, mainly Indycar and endurance racing. You’ve been watching his career from afar, though. He likely only recognizes you from the Red Bull jacket you’re wearing, the company being one of your main sponsors. Which is fine. But then he asks how your last race went, and names the actual event without missing a beat, and you start to wonder.

“It was good,” you say, feeling the grin break out across your face. “That last lap, turn-“

“Turn two!” Max says excitedly, eyes lighting up.

You don’t have time to question the fact that he’s seen at least part of your race before he’s off on a tangent, hands dancing through the air as he talks. In his element, suddenly, lit up bright like he is when he talks to his fellow drivers, in the background on tv broadcasts during race weekends. Max is impressive at all times, but Max talking about racing is bright and electric. He draws you in like a current.

At some point, the two of you sit down at a nearby table, electing to ignore the rest of the guests Red Bull invited for you to sweet talk. At some point, Max flags someone down and asks for drinks- a gin and tonic for him, your favorite for you. At some point, you realize it’s been nearly an hour, the party is winding down, and a person you think is probably Max’s publicist is headed your way.

You nod towards her, brows raised at Max. “I think we might be in trouble.”

Max is halfway through explaining his racing team side project. He turns, hands mid air, and frowns, shaking his head at the woman. She nods in response. He waves a hand in your direction, brows raised, and you hide a laugh behind your hand. He’d rather talk to you than whatever she wants him to do. Probably not saying much, but an honor nonetheless.

She walks closer, and they talk quietly for a few seconds. Max sighs heavily, slumping in his chair before he turns to you. She’s smiling politely at you while he pouts.

“I have to go,” he says.

You nod in understanding. “I probably should, too. I’m sure I’m supposed to be schmoozing some big wig exec and batting my eyelashes. You know.”

He nods solemnly and picks up his glass. You do the same, clinking them together.

“To all the eyelash batting we can handle,” he says, giving you half a grin. “I’ll see you soon.”

“Yeah, see you soon,” you say, even if it isn’t true.

…..

Max Verstappen may be electric, but his car is absolutely on fire. You see it for the first time from across the Red Bull garage in Miami, all sleek lines and navy blue, every part so perfectly engineered. There’s a flurry of activity around it, and you crane your neck to catch glimpses- of the front wing, of the seat, of the steering wheel. You want to see it all, but you don’t dare move any closer.

“He doesn’t bite, you know,” Max says, suddenly at your side.

You blink at him, startled. “Who doesn’t?”

“The car,” he says, with a smile. “Rocky.”

“Your car is a boy,” you state. It’s actually quite unsurprising.

“Yeah. The whole sexy girl name for a car thing was weird,” he shrugs. “So. Rocky.”

You smile softly. “Well, Rocky is a sexy car.”

Max’s smile widens. “Yeah. Come closer.”

He hooks his hand in the crook of your elbow for just a second, just to nudge you closer. You go willingly. The crowd of people in Red Bull attire part like the Red Sea for him. He’s right, it’s even better up close. You lean to peek into the cockpit, at the complicated steering wheel and the footwells.

You squint at the gap between the halo. “You know, Indycars have the aeroscreen. Not sure I could get used to things flying at my face again.”

He nods, eyes lighting up. “I was going to ask you- how do you like that? You drove before they added them too, of course. The halo was an adjustment for us-“

“We were against it, at first,” you say, nodding. “But the safety of it-“

“Sure, sure- doesn’t it get hot? We have a race in Qatar this year-“

And it’s just like the night you met- like a match in grass, off and running like a wildfire. And you realize what the difference is between him and most of the other guys you interact with in this world when you jokingly ask if you can take Rocky out for a spin.

“No,” he says, eyes lit up. “I’m afraid you’d beat me, and then I’d be out of a job.”

He means it, is the thing. You’re sure you wouldn’t beat him, at least not on your first lap in the car. But he thinks that highly of you, of your skill. It makes your stomach twist in the best way.

There are a lot of guys out there who think women don’t have a place in motorsport. But Max, who got half his racing passion from his mother, who used to tweet Susie Wolff, who’s always shown support for the women in the series… Max is different.

“You can sit in it, though,” he says, nodding towards the car.

You tilt your head. “Nah. The first time I sit in one of these cars, I wanna drive it.”

Max laughs, bumps his shoulder against yours. “Yeah. It’s a good moment. Save it for then.”

He asks you for your number before you leave Miami, standing in the hotel lobby waiting for a shuttle to the airport. You save his number and figure he’ll forget he has yours by the time he gets on the plane. But he texts you when he gets back to Monaco, a picture of his two cats, curled up on his lap. In the background, the TV is on, and a Red Bull YouTube video is playing. You know what it is because it’s one you’re featured in, taking one of their show cars for a few laps around a track, showing off for the cameras.

Your new biggest fans, he’s captioned it. Then a second text comes through. I’m still number one, though.

…..

Max calls you for the first time the night after the Indianapolis 500. You almost don’t answer, because you’re bone tired and not looking to speak to anyone, but it’s Max. You swipe to pick up.

“Hello?” You say, sitting up slightly against the headboard.

“Hi,” he says, bright and cheery. Like this is a completely normal occurrence. “How are you feeling?”

You laugh. “Like I just drove 500 miles without power steering.”

He laughs at that, and the noise makes your heart stir. You check the time- it’s nearly 9 pm. Which means-

“Why are you up so early?” You ask, frowning. “Or still up so late? It’s got to be, what-“

“3am,” he answers. “Don’t know. Probably all the Red Bulls I drank after the race.”

You sigh in commiseration. “Been there.”

Max hums. “Congrats, by the way.”

You scoff. “I barely made the top ten.”

“But you did,” he says. “10th from 18th. Impressive.”

“You won Monaco today.”

“Yesterday, technically, so it’s old news.” he says, dismissively. “Besides, you can’t pass there. I would have had to really mess up to lose. I watched your race. It was impressive.”

“You watched?” You ask, sitting up a little straighter, some weird jolt of adrenaline running down your spine.

“Of course,” he says. You hear him muffle a yawn, and you and smile softly. “It was a good race.”

“You sound bored,” you tease.

“You sound like you’re deflecting,” he retorts. “I mean it, you know.”

You sigh, running your finger over the mountains and valleys of the comforter. The TV is playing in the background, something mindless and boring that was supposed to put you to sleep an hour ago. Maybe you can put on a replay of Monaco, fall asleep to the sound of Max winning.

“I know,” you answer him. “I am proud. It’s just. It’s over now.”

The Indy 500 isn’t just a race- it’s a spectacle. They call it the Month of May, with events leading up the race spread over the weeks before it. It’s all been building- the tension, the adrenaline, the electricity. And now, 250 laps later, it’s over. And while many of your competitors will be back in a racecar next week, you won’t. Just a guest driver for the biggest spectacle, left to try and leverage this into a full time seat for next year. It hurts.

He blows out a breath. “Yeah. That’s tough.”

Tough. That’s an understatement, but you’re sure he knows it. He just doesn’t know how to say it. Max has spent his career getting every chance possible. He skipped a whole feeder series. And here you are, stuck clawing for every opportunity to drive a racecar. Two drastically different lives, and yet-

“You didn’t go out to celebrate,” he says.

“Celebrate 10th place?” You ask.

“No,” he says. “Celebrate the end. Even when you’re sad it’s over, you can be happy it happened.”

“‘Max Verstappen, you cheesy motherfucker,” you giggle. “Did you steal that from a motivational sign?”

He laughs right back. “No. I would never. I am a poet, you know. Secret side job.”

You laugh at that- a full laugh that shakes your shoulders and chest. The two of you talk for a little longer, but Max’s pauses get longer and his words softer and rounder. You know he’s falling asleep, so you say goodnight.

You stare at the ceiling for a couple minutes after he hangs up, and then you pick up the phone again. This time, you’re the one to make the call. Max is right- you can celebrate the end. You’re sure someone’s hosting a party, somewhere, whether it’s in celebration or in pity. Besides, a bit of tequila fixes everything.

…..

You spend your time between sponsor appearances and endurance races doing a mix of things- training, asking sponsors, calling race teams, calling your management to see if they’ve heard back from race teams. The whole nine yards. You spend what time you have leftover after that posting bullshit on social media that has your fans- despite your frustrations, you do have fans- highly entertained. You post about gym workouts, about the sand still stuck in your shoes after a video shoot driving a car across dunes for Red Bull, and about a glitch you had while playing iRacing that sent you careening across one of the tracks. An hour after the iRacing tweet, you get a text from Max.

Max: You have a sim?

You: yeah! was a covid thing & I kept it around.

Max: Are you busy Tuesday?

You’re not, so he sets up a private iRacing group, and the two of you add each other on Discord, because, in Max’s words, it’s more fun when you can talk shit. He answers the call, but seems to struggle with something- there’s a lot of static, some typed out expletives in the chat, some of them in Dutch, leaving you to google the meaning. But finally, after a few minutes of microphone feedback-

“— hear me now?” he says, raspy voice spilling through your headphones.

You jump, a bit startled. “Oh, yeah! There you are!”

“There you are,” Max echoes. You swear you can hear the smile in his voice. “Sorry. Technical difficulties.”

“Cat chew the wire?” You ask.

“No, they would never,” Max replies. “This one was all on me. Anyways. Where should we race?”

The two of you pick a level playing ground- a track you’ve both raced at before, Circuit of the Americas. He tells you about one trip to Austin while the race screen loads, something about cowboy hats and boots that were too tight. You hum in sympathy as you fidget with the buttons on your sim steering wheel.

“Nervous?” He asks. When you make a questioning noise, he laughs. “I can hear you messing with the wheel.”

“You’re too perceptive,” you grumble. “But yeah, of course I am. I’m racing Max Verstappen.”

He hums. “And I’m racing you. Good news is, we’re the only ones who’ll see any of it.”

“So I could send you into the wall turn one and you wouldn’t have any proof,” you suggest.

“Sure,” Max answers. You swear his voice drops an octave on the next sentence. “But you won’t.”

The cars appear on the screen before you have a second to reply. You swallow down your words and your nerves and steel yourself for the start, finding you’re more nervous for this than any recent race start you can remember.

When the lights go out, though, it disappears. It’s not about Max anymore, not about his voice in your headphones, not about the way he yelps when he nearly bottles it at the start. It’s about you and the steering wheel in front of you, the -albeit fake- course on the screen. It’s about keeping the rear end of Max’s car in your sights.

Until lap 10, when he speaks up again. “How’s the dirty air?”

You’ve left your mic open. You know he hears your scoff. You roll your eyes a little bit, but you have to focus back on the track for the next turn. “You mean the dirty pixels?”

“That sounds like something different,” he echoes back. “It’s not that kind of game.”

“Should’ve put you in the wall when I had the chance,” you snark, shifting gears, eyes narrowed.

“You wouldn’t, though,” he says, firmly.

It’s a side of him you haven’t seen much, having interacted with him at events before this. He’s confident, sure, but this is different. So open. Easy. You wish you could see his face. Could see the look in his eye, the raised brow, the part of his lips when you-

“Fuck!” He yelps, and you break into laughter as you nudge the nose of your car past his. “Where the fuck did you-“

“Hey, pixel COTA is pretty accurate!” You say, feeling the excitement buzz in your bones.

“How did you-“ he huffs. “I’ve never made a pass work on that turn!”

“I’ll teach you later,” you promise. “After I beat you.”

The Max that everyone talks about would be fuming mad, driving angry, chasing you down. But this Max- your Max, you catch yourself thinking- is anything but. He’s happy. He’s laughing. The love of racing. You know the feeling.

Two laps later, he figures out your trick and passes you back for the lead. You trade off a couple times, but in the end he sees the checkered flag first- of course he does, it’s Max. When you log off it’s nearing midnight, even later for him.

“Past my bedtime,” he says, and you laugh.

“Nothing a little morning Red Bull won’t fix,” you suggest.

“Yeah. Hey,” he says. Then pauses. Like he’s unsure- the first time he’s been unsure all night. “Are you busy the weekend of June 30th?”

The weekend of the Austrian GP. You flip through the calendar on your nearby desk, but you’re pretty sure you’re free.

You fiddle with the paddles again. “No. Are you?”

He laughs. “A little. In Spielberg, you know. Wanna come?”

You’ve been to races before. You’ve been at one earlier this year. As a guest of Red Bull. Which is different, right? It’s definitely different. Those have been scheduled appearances and promotional opportunities and a publicist reaching out to your publicist. This is… this is Max, inviting you.

“Yeah,” you say, not bothering to hide your grin. He can’t see it anyways. “Sounds like fun.”

“Lovely,” he says. “I’ll text you, then.”

“Cool,” you agree. “Talk soon.”

…..

If the race in Miami was a cool experience, Austria is ten times the excitement. You step off the plane on Wednesday, grab your luggage, and find a man waiting for you with a sign with your name on it. Then there’s a fancy car ride to an even fancier hotel near the track. Max texts halfway through your drive from the airport, asking if you’re in yet. You reassure him that you’re on the way. He apologizes for the long trek from the airport, and you send him back a picture of the glass of wine you’d been handed, and a message that says: endurance driver, remember?

The drive there is beautiful. The racetrack is nestled in the green hills just outside of Spielberg. You gaze out the window the entire time, enamored with the countryside. As you near the hotel, you catch a glimpse of the iconic bull statue, and it makes your smile grow. It’s weekends like these that make you thrilled about racing all over again.

You step out of the car at the hotel and someone is already rushing over to unload your luggage. It feels strange. You stretch a bit, breathe in the fresh air, and when you turn around Max is standing there, waiting, hands in his pockets. He’s smiling, too. You can’t help but smile back.

He greets you with a hug and a kiss brushed against each cheek- how European of him, you think. His cheeks are flushed rosy pink, from sun or something else, you’re not sure. His hair glitters golden in the sunlight. It’s only been a little over a month since you last saw him, but he looks different- more tan, maybe. You ask what he’s been up to.

“Had a week off,” he tells you a few seconds later, “between Canada and here. Spent a lot of it on a boat.”

“Fancy,” you tease. “I was in New York. Watkins Glen.”

“I saw the race,” he says. Your heart flutters when you look up at him, at the eagerness in his gaze. “Bullshit move that other team pulled in the last stint.”

You let out a stream of air through pursed lips. “Mhm. But we’d have lost it anyways.”

Max shakes his head. “Not if you’d been behind the wheel at the end.”

You laugh, shake your head at him, and turn to grab your bags. They’re gone. You blink, perplexed.

“They’ve taken them up to your room for you,” Max explains, nudging your side. “I know you’d probably like to get settled in, but would you want to get dinner after? With me, I mean?”

When you turn back to look at him, you’re a little bit surprised. Max Verstappen looks nervous. He’s rocking back and forth from one foot to the other, hands shoved in his pockets. Like he’s unsure. You’ve never known him to be unsure. You’ve watched him make calculated move after calculated move on the track and off it, too. It’s your first sign that he feels it too- the butterflies in your gut, swirling up into your chest, threatening to choke up your throat.

“That would be really nice,” you say, softly.

The grin that breaks across his face is infectious.

Max is still nervous in the lobby an hour later, still hesitant when he offers you his arm and walks you towards the hotel restaurant. But one gin and tonic and a couple appetizers later, he’s the Max you’ve come to recognize again- lit up, bright, electric. He’s animated and funny and his cheeks are even redder than before.

By the time the entrees show up- which look delicious, of course- he’s different. Easy, you think again. Like when the two of you raced against each other. His guard is down. He’s open- it shows on his face. This is the Max not many people get to see. The biting comebacks and confident remarks are gone, replaced with such a genuine curiosity it nearly knocks you breathless.

“What’s your goal, for racing?” He asks, softly.

He’s moved his chair halfway around the round table, just to be a little closer to you. So the two of you can talk quietly and be heard. So he can nudge his shoulder against yours when you say something funny.

You smile. “I’ve got a lot of them.”

“What’s next?” He asks. “Besides stealing Rocky from me.”

“That’s actually why I’m here this weekend, you know.”

“I do, I’m one step ahead of you,” he says, pointing at your nearly empty second glass of wine. “You’d never drive drunk.”

“I’m not drunk!” You squeak, though you wonder if the looseness of your syllables gives you away a little bit.

“Tipsy, then.”

“Sure.”

“Your next goal,” he reminds you. “After Rocky.”

You hum, shoving a bit of pasta around on your plate. “Trying to get a permanent seat in Indycar next year.”

He nods. “Instead of just for the 500 and a couple extra races here and there.”

“Yeah,” you nod.

“Is it hard?” He asks. Your gaze flickers up to meet his, and he chews on his lower lip. “I mean. You are a good driver. Very good. They should be flocking to you, of course.”

“I’m a good driver, for a woman,” you say, softly. Max’s brows furrow. “That’s what someone said in a meeting last week. For a woman.”

Max sinks lower in his seat. You rub your thumb against the silky fabric of the tablecloth. Suddenly, you feel out of place. It’s nothing Max did. It’s just a reminder of how he’s at the top of his game, at the top of your shared sport, while you fight tooth and nail for every opportunity. Max has overcome his own hardships to get there, you know it. But it doesn’t take the sting away from yours.

“I did the feeder series, but there just wasn’t a seat available to make the jump,” you explain. “So for a bit it’s just been all about getting drive time whenever I possibly can.”

“I know some of the other drivers, you know. I would offer to try and pull some strings,” he says, “but I get the feeling you wouldn’t like that.”

You smile at him, because despite it all, he really does get you. “I would not.”

He nods. You nod back.

And then you sigh. “Sorry. I brought down the mood.”

He shakes his head. “I asked. Because I wanted to know.”

Still, you change the subject. He lets you. The ease seeps back in. You forget that the two of you are drivers- for a while, it’s just you and Max in that warm, comfortable bubble. And maybe that means more than he really knows.

You order another drink after dinner- Max switches to water but insists he’s fine to hang out, just needs to not be hungover the next day. You venture out onto the open patio behind the hotel. Down the hill, you can see the racetrack, lit up in the dark night. The Bull, the logo you share with Max, seems to float above it, silhouetted. You kick your heels off, pull your feet up onto the chair. Max sinks down next to you, dragging his chair closer.

If it was easy on the sim and even easier at dinner, here, it’s like you’ve known him forever. The night chill makes you shiver. He slips his jacket off, drapes it over your shoulders. You lean into him, your head against his upper arm, bridging the gap. He sighs happily.

“What’s your goal?” You ask. “Just gonna drive F1 cars until you’re old and grey?”

His responding laugh shakes his shoulders. “God, no.”

He tells you, then, what his plan is. All the other things he wants to get the chance to do. He tells you about that crash, Silverstone, 2021. How he’d seen others crash but never understood until that moment- that there is more to life than Formula 1, that even though he’d worked his whole life to get there, there was more he wanted to do after it. You’re amazed that someone who’s two championships in, barreling headfirst towards a third, still wants more. When you tell him that, he laughs again.

“I also just want to retire and play iRacing and let myself get fat and old,” he says.

“And spend more time on the boat,” you suggest.

He hums. “Maybe. If I could spend it with the right people. Person. You know.”

You wonder, for a fleeting moment, if he means you. If you could fit into that puzzle. If he really is feeling it the way you are. But the moment feels so nice, so comfortable, that you’d hate to say the wrong thing and ruin it.

“Sounds perfect,” you say.

You nearly fall asleep there, leaning on him. But he laughs when your head starts to slip, walks you up to your room, carrying your heels for you like a real gentleman. He kisses your cheeks again, bids you goodnight. He has to be at the track early tomorrow. You wonder, really, how much you’ll actually see of him the rest of the weekend before you leave for home. But maybe tonight will be enough to hold you over.

You spend most of the rest of the weekend being wined and dined by Red Bull hospitality, which is honestly hilarious to you, considering that they already pay you- though you suppose it’s a different marketing branch, different budgets. You watch the practices with eager eyes, taking in one from the viewing area and one from down in the garage. There’s something electric about watching them zip around on track, something adrenaline spiking about the quiet of the garage until the cars come rolling back in.

Max has a team dinner that night, but he texts you when he’s done, and asks if you’re still up. You’re at the pool for a late night swim, the only person still daring to even be in the water. He joins you ten minutes later, not dressed for a swim. You grin up at him from the edge of the water, your arms on the pavement.

“How’s the car feel?” You ask.

He grins. “Feels good.”

He must be right- qualifying goes well for him. He puts it on pole. You celebrate after with salads and electrolyte drinks. It’s nice to go to a race with no obligations, no media duties. To enjoy motorsport for the love of motorsport. Watching Max, cheering for Max, makes it all the more fun.

You find out just before the race starts that your pass will get you pretty much anywhere, so you sneak into the grandstands, up at the highest level, to watch the start. It brings you back to the very beginning. Suddenly, you’re a wide eyed little kid again, sitting in the grass at the Indy 500, feeling your bones rattle as the cars roared by. At that moment, part of the crowd at the largest sporting event in the world, you knew you wanted to be behind the wheel. In this moment, you know you’ll never be satisfied watching from the sidelines.

You tell Max that, after the race, after he wins and gets his trophy and gets doused in champagne. And he nods in understanding, squeezes you into his chest, tucks his chin atop your head.

“Hold onto that feeling,” he reminds you. “That’s how you’re going to beat them all.”

Your flight leaves late the next afternoon. In the morning, Max knocks on your door with one more trick up his sleeve. You slip into the passenger seat of yet another fancy car and head down the road from the hotel, driving around the outskirts of the racetrack. The circus is already packing up to leave town, equipment being loaded onto trucks. Max pulls into a parking lot- a karting track covered with Red Bull logos. You start to laugh.

He’s apparently booked the whole place out for the morning- it’s just the two of you and a couple staff members. He helps you pick a kart, because “they’re not all equal, of course,” and sends you off to get suited up and put on a helmet. You meet him on the track, buzzing already.

“You ready?” He asks, patting the top of your helmet.

“Are you ready to eat my dust, Verstappen?” You taunt.

Even behind the helmet, you can tell he’s smiling.

It’s been a while since you’ve been in a vehicle this small, but you adjust pretty quickly. The two of you do a warm up lap and then line up at the start, tiny engines raring to go. And the track is new to you, but when the lights go green, it almost feels like muscle memory. Two laps in and you’ve found the racing line. 5 laps in and you start to challenge Max. By lap 10 of 20, you’ve taken over the lead.

When you see the checkered flag first and skid to a stop shortly after the line, you can already hear him laughing. He climbs out of his kart and walks over to slap the side of your helmet affectionately. You can see his crinkled eyes where he’s flipped the helmet visor up.

“Again?” He asks.

You nod, feeling that rumble deep in your chest. “Again.”

You could stay forever, but Max drags you out of the kart around lunchtime, both of you grinning ear to ear. In the year so far, you’ve done a handful of endurance races, a NASCAR race on a dirt track, and competed in the Indy 500, and yet this is what’s brought that thunder back to your bones. You know Max feels it too. Racing for the joy of it. For the fun of it. Just to prove you can still do it. No obligations, just speed and pavement and rubber.

“Let’s call it the Bull Shit Cup,” Max suggests, over sandwiches at some restaurant just a few minutes away from the track. “Make it an annual thing.”

“Okay,” you agree. “You owe me a trophy for it, then. I won, fair and square, even though I could have pushed you off in turn one, and nobody would’ve known.”

“You could’ve,” he agrees. “But you wouldn’t.”

He looks at you with a smirk, blue eyes through long thick lashes, and you hate to admit that he’s right. You would never. You like him too much to send him careening into a wall just to win a race. You care for him too much. Your stomach twists.

You think about kissing him, in the car, before he drops you off at the airport. His hand is on your knee, where it’d fallen when he stopped to listen after telling you an animated story full of hand gestures. It’s probably meant to be a signal, him touching you like this. But you chicken out when he pulls up to the curb. Probably for the best, anyways.

Then Max leans over, cups your cheek in his hand, and presses a soft, sweet kiss to your cheek. Just one. Very not European. Different from the others. His hand stays put, thumb brushing against your skin. You take a breath, try to steady yourself.

“Thanks for having me,” you say. “It was really fun.”

“Thanks for coming,” Max says back.

“I’d invite you to my next race,” you say, quietly. “But I think you’ll be in Qatar that weekend. Or still recovering.”

Max pouts. “Yeah. I think you’re right.”

You sigh. “Well. It’s okay. I’ll see you soon, I’m sure. At some event, or something.”

“Right,” Max agrees. “We’ll find something.”

The flight home leaves you exhausted and empty feeling. You do your best to shake it off, but you worry missing Max is the type of feeling that sticks around.

yourusername: danke Austria, danke redbullracing, and danke maxverstappen1

maxverstappen1 You’re welcome back anytime

redbullracing thanks for being a good luck charm!

liked by maxverstappen1

…..

There’s a gala in New York, one that’s full of people with important names with deep pockets. You end up there, nursing a glass of awful wine, trying to flatter your way into the important conversations. You’re mildly successful a couple times, and manage to make some good connections. Your publicist will be proud. You just hope one of them works out how you’d like.

You’re up at the bar, trying to decide what else to order, when someone says your name. You recognize the voice, but it’s the tone, too. Everyone else who’s said your name tonight has had expectations for you. The way Max says it is different, though you can’t quite put your finger on how it’s different. You just know.

Max smiles at you when you turn to him. His hand falls to your lower back, smoothing over the black silk of your dress as he leans over the bar. He orders a gin and tonic for himself, and a very expensive sounding glass of wine that he hands off to you. You take a sip and smile, relieved when it tastes good.

“This old man ordered a drink for me,” you tell him, whispering conspiratorially. “It was awful, but I had to finish it.”

Max scowls, his eyes scanning the room like he’ll be able to spot the man in question. “Old men usually do have bad taste.”

“I suppose that explains why he was talking to me,” you laugh.

Max doesn’t laugh. “No, I think that may be where he got it right.”

Max keeps his hand on your lower back and leads you through the crowd. You let him. After a night full of trying to make a name for yourself, you’re quite ready to let someone else be in control for a few minutes. You don’t even question where he’s taking you until you end up on the rooftop, the glittering lights of New York City spread out across the open space in front of you. There’s a small garden, a few chairs, a sparkling blue pool, and absolutely no other humans to be seen.

“Oh, wow,” you say, quietly. “Are we supposed to be up here?”

Max shrugs, makes his way over to a patio chair, and sits down. “Don’t know. All I know is I couldn’t be there much longer.”

You nod in agreement and sit down next to him, kicking off your heels. He smiles and sheds his suit jacket, taking a long sip of his gin and tonic. He toes off his dress shoes, too. Then he sighs dramatically.

“Tell me about it,” you say, letting your shoulders drop. “I’ve been called sweetheart and had my shoulders touched far too many times tonight.”

Max blinks. “I could tell you were getting uncomfortable.”

You don’t really have time to process that- to process that he was watching, that he cared enough to notice, that he maybe came over to save you from it all. All thoughts about that go out the window when he starts to loosen the buttons on the collar of his shirt. The bow tie he had on falls to the ground, atop his jacket. The cuff bracelet he’s wearing follows. He leans forward, elbows on his knees. He’s so close you think you could count his eyelashes. You take a sip of your wine.

“I didn’t think you were going to be here,” you tell him. “My publicist said…”

He smirks and blinks a couple times, lashes tangling together. “You asked your publicist if I would be here?”

You swallow and shrug. “Maybe. It’s nice to have a familiar face.”

His smirk grows. “Tell me about it. I asked my publicist, too. If you’d be here, i mean.”

You turn farther towards him, your legs falling over the edge of the chair. His hand brushes against your bare knee. The strap on your dress slips down your shoulder, and you watch the way his gaze traces your bare skin. Then he looks over your shoulder, towards the pool.

“Maybe we should cool off,” he suggests. “Take a swim.”

“I don’t have a swimsuit,” you tell him, thinking back to the bag you’d packed and if there was anything in it that could substitute.

He shrugs, his finger tracing a featherlight circle against your knee. “We can go in our underwear. I won’t tell if you won’t.”

You’re about to tell him you’re not wearing a bra when you hear the rooftop door swing open. The smirk slips off his face, melting into frustration. His hand fully rests on your knee, now, thumb and pointer finger pressing into the inside of your thigh.

“Max?” Someone calls out. His publicist, you think.

He rolls his eyes. “Yeah. I’m here.”

“Yeah,” she calls back. “But you should be downstairs.”

He lets out a long, heavy sigh. You do the same and push yourself up to sit, slipping your shoes back on as he starts to gather his things. He tugs the dress shoes on with a wince, pulls the jacket on and straightens the lapels. The buttons on his shirt and the bow tie are next, his fingers soft and pale in the night light. You want to feel them on your skin again.

He stands. You do the same. The bracelet is sitting on the chair, glinting gold, and you grab it and then hold it out to him. He smiles softly and takes a couple steps to close the distance.

“I’m sorry we didn’t have more time,” he says. His cheeks are red as he takes the bracelet and turns it in his hand.

“We’re busy people,” you tell him.

He nods, but the frown stays etched on his face. You shiver when his hand trails up your shoulder and slides the strap of your dress back into place, and a trail of goosebumps follow his touch. He reaches up, then, and tucks a stray piece of hair behind your ear, too.

“Max!” The woman calls from the doorway. He groans.

“You should go,” you tell him, even though you want him to stay.

He nods, and then he grabs your wrist. Before you can even realize what he’s doing, the bracelet is around your arm instead. Your breath catches in your chest, your heartbeat kicking up a notch. His cheeks are redder, now, but the smile is back on his lips.

“Hang onto this,” he says. “Until I see you again.”

You nod, holding yourself taught so you don’t lean up to kiss him. He disappears a second later, and you’re left to down the last of your glass of wine, wondering if he’d wanted to kiss you, too.

When you return to the party, you find it’s easier to talk to the important people with the weight of his bracelet on your wrist, and the weight of his gaze on you every time you find him in the crowd.

maxverstappen1: Champions 🙌

yourusername huge congrats, Max! ❤️💙 & well done to the whole team

liked by maxverstappen1

…..

Vegas is glitz and glamor and bright blinding lights. Max hates the whole spectacle with every fiber of his being and never forgets to remind you of that fact. You listen attentively to his complaints over the phone in the week leading up to the race. You get it. He wants to race, that’s all. Not be presented like some celebrity, even if he is one.

Then the race happens and he has a good time, and his opinion seems to change.

You’ve spent your weekend in Vegas, watching from the sidelines and trying not to seem bitter in all the promo content they have you do. At least some of it involves driving a rally car around in the Nevada desert- not a bad bonus. Max texts you and tells you the day after that he saw some of the footage, that you looked badass. Despite being in the same city as him, despite being two floors down in the same hotel, you don’t talk to him in person until after he’s crossed the finish line in first place in the earliest hours of Sunday.

It’s a fleeting moment. You’re still in the garage by the time he gets back from the podium. He’s soaked in champagne, lit up like a neon sign. He makes his way through a crowd of Red Bull employees, thanking everyone. You stick to the sidelines, to the walls, not wanting to get in the way. It’s his race, his celebration.

But he spots you and beelines for you, hand already outstretched in your direction. You grab on, eagerly, let him pull you into orbit, into a half hug, face crushed against his chest. He smells like car- like engine exhaust and gasoline and adrenaline. You grin up at him. He stares down at you, eyes wide. The atmosphere feels thick. Like you could cut the tension with a knife- suddenly, you understand that saying in a way you never have before. The garage is filled with activity, but there the two of you are, a fixed point in the middle of the chaos. He’s staring, still, like he doesn’t know what to say but he can’t look away.

You’re wearing his bracelet. His fingers trace over the metal where it hangs on your wrist, but he doesn’t make a move to take it back. He just smiles and presses his thumb into the gap on the underside, skin against skin.

Someone tugs at his elbow and calls his name, loudly.

“I have to go,” he says.

You laugh. “I know.”

When he gets pulled away and lets your hand drop, you swear you feel an actual spark.

You slip away, then, to head back to your room. You have dinner and watch the race recap- there’s a lot you miss, standing in the garage. When you check your phone, you have a barrage of missed notifications bearing his name.

He’s out at a club and asking you to join. You don’t know how to explain how much is riding on your public image right now- sponsors, fundings, support. It’s a part of motorsport he wouldn’t really understand, at least not at the level you do. But he’s kind when you say you can’t, asks if he can stop by, and shows up quickly after you say yes, even if it is late. Nobody sleeps in Vegas. You may as well add yourself to that list.

He’s a little tipsy when you open the door to your hotel room- he has every right to be. He’s holding himself taught, but when he sees you in the entryway he loosens up, gaze going soft.

“Hi,” he says, quietly.

“Congrats,” you tell him. “It was a good race.”

“I… I don’t want to talk about racing,” he admits. “I just wanted you.”

You blink at him, silhouetted by the fluorescent hotel hallway light. There’s a bull on his jacket, on the shoulder, tiny, but it’s there. A constant reminder of the thing that ties the two of you together. You step aside to let him in, let the door swing closed behind him. The air crackles around you, goosebumps rising on your arms. He runs a hand through his hair, his other hand falling to his hip.

“Tell me you feel it too,” he asks, almost begs.

You kiss him as a reply- you lean in and up, wrap your arms around his neck, hold on for dear life when he kisses you back. He’s warm and he tastes like gin and he still smells like the racetrack, like melted rubber that even a shower can’t scrub away. You like it that way. He won the race, but he just wants you. You let him back you towards the bed as you fiddle with the zipper on his jacket.

“I feel it,” you say, when he breaks away for a second, gasping for air. “Fuck, Max-“

He hums, dipping down to mouth at your jaw, your neck, your pulse point. “I know.”

His skin is hot on yours, hotter still the more the two of you get undressed. He gets you laid out on the bed beneath him, takes you apart with skilled precision the way he drives his precious car. But things get heated, and the composure slips away. He gets more open, eyelids fluttering as he gives in to you, too, as you wrap around him and pull him in. Your Max appears, the bravado of a race day melting away, leaving everything you love about him in its place.

Afterwards, he kisses you just to kiss you, holding you in his arms in the bed. You’re both freshly showered, teeth brushed, and he seems to have no plans to go anywhere. You’re happy, even if it might make the morning awkward, even if he needs to leave early the next day for Abu Dhabi.

You realize, then, that you never congratulated him on his championship, other than the comment on the instagram post you know he didn’t even write. But he didn’t want to talk about racing, so you don’t say anything. You just rest your head on his bare chest, his arms banded tight around your middle. You can hear the soft thud of his heartbeat. Steady, now. You wonder if his heart had kicked up a notch earlier, when yours did, if they beat in sync for just a moment.

“Do you ever get scared?” You ask, drawing a nonsense shape on his skin, just under his collarbone. “Or are you numb to it?”

He hums. “Not often, but. There’s this moment. Right before the lights go out. Where it hits me, what I’m doing, how absolutely stupid I am to put myself in that car.”

You nod in understanding. “I’ve had that. How do you get past it?”

He laughs, shrugs. “I don’t. But then the lights go out and I drive anyways.”

He traces shapes across your skin while you listen to his soft breaths.

“I was scared tonight, too,” he tells you, while you rub your eyes and he twists his fingers with yours. “When I knocked on your door. So I think sometimes being scared means you’re doing something good.”

“Me too,” you admit.

Then you lean up to kiss him again, and what little fear that was left melts away when he kisses you back. You can feel the smile on his lips. He leaves in the morning with a toothpaste tinged kiss to your lips and a promise to talk soon. You try to convince yourself he’s telling the truth.

yourusername viva Las Vegas!

maxverstappen1 🕺

liked by yourusername

…..

You wait for him to reach out and try not to be upset when it doesn’t happen right away. His schedule must be insane. He’s probably jet lagged and exhausted and being thrown into the next race weekend far too quickly for his liking. You get it.

When he finally calls, three days after you wake up with him, you pick up on the second ring.

“Hi,” you say.

He lets out a soft sigh. “Hi. I’m sorry I had to leave so quickly. And that it took so long to call.”

You’re a bit relieved that he’s jumping right into it. Not shying away, not pretending like it didn’t happen. You’ve been trying not to think too much about it- your bare skin against his, the way the rise and fall of his chest feels against your cheek. It’s stuck in your head, though.

“It’s okay,” you say, quietly. “You’re a busy man.”

“Not too busy for you,” he says, the words stilted. Like he’s not sure how to get his point across. “I want to spend more time with you.”

You want it too, but. “Max…”

He sighs. “I know. I know things are not simple.”

You laugh. “That’s an understatement.”

“But look at us,” he says.

You reach up, press your finger to the mark he left on your collarbone a few days before, just to feel the ache.

“Has anything you’ve ever done been simple?” He asks.

You blink, suddenly a bit taken aback. He’s got a point, you suppose. From the very beginning, you’ve been fighting an uphill battle, swimming against the current. And yet, you wouldn’t trade it for the world.

“I live by this sort of motto,” you tell him. “That the best day of your life is right on the other side of the hardest thing you’ve ever done.”

You think of Max, of all the stories you’ve heard about him. Of anger running deep in his bones. Of fighting for everything he’s ever wanted and still being hungry for more. You know the feeling all too well. You've had your fair share of your own races gone wrong, of angry debriefs with the team, or wanting to hurl your helmet at the wall and say fuck it all. You’re a bit envious that he could give in to the feeling. You don’t hold it against him, though.

“Yeah,” he says. You can hear the smile in his voice. “Yeah.”

“How about you call me when you’re done in Abu Dhabi,” you suggest. “And we’ll figure it all out.”

He hums. “How about you tell me where you want to go and I book a couple plane tickets.”

Your heart twists in your chest. “I… My schedule is about to get a little crazy.”

“It’s the off season,” he points out. “You’re supposed to be on vacation.”

“I know.” You pinch the bridge of your nose. “I have a good reason. I have meetings and some interviews and some travel-“

“Oh my god,” Max says, quietly. “You got a seat.”

“Shh!” You say, though you can’t fight the grin that slips across your lips. “God I hope you’re alone- I’m really not supposed to talk about it-“

“-I called you, of course I’m alone-“

“-Oh, are you going to ask what I’m wearing?” You tease.

“You’re trying to change the subject,” he says.

You sigh and nod, even though he can’t see you. “It’s like the lights are about to go out and I’m realizing how crazy I am. But on a bigger scale.”

He sighs in response. “I wish I was there with you.”

“You have a race to win,” you tell him. “You know. Good things on the other side of hard days. I’ll be okay.”

“I know you will,” he says. So sure of it. Like he’s known it for years, like he’s known you for a lifetime. Kindred souls, matching sparks in your chests. “And as soon as you’re ready, you call me and tell me everything.”

“Okay,” you agree.

“And then you tell me where you want to go,” he adds. “And we book the tickets. To celebrate the end of the waiting.”

You could cry. You don’t, but you could.

“I think I’d go anywhere with you,” you tell him.

“Okay,” he says. Now you can really hear the smile in his voice. “I’ve never been to anywhere, but I hear the weather is lovely.”

“Now you’re deflecting,” you tease.

“Mhm,” he agrees. “I’m saving all the sappy shit for when I can say it to your face.”

…..

You spend a week in mid-December on a beach with Max, with nothing but the sun and him to worry about. He holds true to what he said on the phone. He picks you up from the airport, drives to the hotel with his hand laced with yours. And then, in the safety of the hotel room balcony, looking out over the ocean in the dark of the night, he pulls you close.

“I’m proud of you,” he says. “I’ve been amazed by you since the day we met. And I know it won’t be easy, but I’ll go anywhere with you, too, if you let me.”

He’s being vulnerable. You can feel his heart racing under your hand, pounding at his ribcage. So you lean up, press your lips to his cheek in a very not European way.

“Nothing good is ever easy,” you say.

He smiles, and you swear it’s bright enough to light up the night sky. And then he kisses you and lights you up from the inside, too.

For the rest of the trip, the two of you leave your phones on do not disturb, leave the TV in your hotel room turned off, leave the outside world, the fast paced shit, behind. For a few days, it’s just him.

You’ve known him for nearly a year, known of him for far more than that. And the two of you are nowhere near done yet- the finish line is still miles ahead. But you find that there’s something in Max that you didn’t know you were missing the entire time- he has that spark, too. The hunger to just keep driving. To push past the moment of fear and find the good on the other side. He’s been one of your biggest supporters since the day you met- since he complimented your driving.

“Now that the season’s over,” you say to him one night at dinner, over the rim of your cocktail glass. “Can I drive Rocky?”

He laughs and hooks his foot around your ankle under the table. “Sure. But only if you let me drive yours.”

You suppose it’s a fair trade.

a/n: fun fact! the karting track with the Red Bull theming really does exist near the track in Austria. so. new travel bucket list item added. anyways. hop you enjoyed! if you made it this far, ty so much for reading!!

Taglist: @4-mula1 @celestialams @struggling-with-delia @lovekt @i-wish-this-was-me @forzalando @iloveyou3000morgan @callsign-scully @arian-directioner @racingheartsposts @sakuramxchii @mynamejeff5 @c-losur3 @casperlikej @the-navistar-carol @everyonesluvah @jsjcue @ggaslyp1 @si1ver06 @nicole01-23 @andruuu28 @coffeehurricanes

crossed out urls are ones I was unable to tag! to be added or removed from this list, just drop me an ask/message!

[lazysoulwriter]

the trouble we cause. - pedro pascal x wife!actress!reader.

requested!!! thank you for sending, love doing this one.

---

It had started as a joke.

"Imagine if we ever worked together," you had laughed, curled up against Pedro’s chest one night. "We’d get absolutely nothing done."

Pedro had only grinned, pressing a kiss to your hair. "I'd be professional... ish."

You should've known better.

Because now, six months later, you were sitting across from him at a press junket, cameras rolling, mics hot — and you were this close to bursting into laughter because of the dumb little face he was making at you from across the table.

It was a losing battle from the start.

From the very first day on set, you and Pedro had been... a problem.

It wasn’t intentional. You were both professionals — award-winning, seasoned actors. But professionalism had limits when it came to your husband whispering Spanish nonsense into your ear between takes just to make you giggle.

It wasn’t your fault he kept sneaking glances at you during serious scenes. It wasn’t your fault you kept blushing and ruining your lines. And it definitely wasn’t your fault when the director had to physically separate you two during lunch breaks because apparently, "you're distracting each other too much."

Not that the separation helped much. Pedro had a whole arsenal of "across the room" tactics: raised eyebrows, secret smiles, a whole silent language only the two of you understood.

You were, in short, insufferable.

And everyone else loved you for it.

The junket was the worst (or best) example yet.

Initially, they had placed you and Pedro side by side, thinking it would be cute — married couple! same movie! adorable!

It took all of ten minutes for chaos to erupt.

You couldn't stop leaning into each other, whispering jokes under your breath. Pedro kept trying to "discreetly" hold your hand under the table. At one point, you straight-up started laughing so hard at something he muttered that you had to hide your face behind your coffee cup.

The publicist eventually gave up and moved you to opposite ends of the panel.

Big mistake.

Now, you were playing silent games of charades across the stage — winking, mouthing jokes, making faces until the moderator very politely asked if "the married couple could please focus."

You bit your lip, cheeks flaming. Pedro just shrugged, grinning like the devil himself.

Later, during the one-on-one interviews, it only got worse.

Every time someone asked a serious question, Pedro would somehow manage to derail it.

"What's it like working together?" Pedro: "Dangerous. I fear for my life daily." (said while giving you a full-on heart-eyes look.)

"Was there a lot of on-set chemistry?" Pedro: "Wouldn’t know. I was too busy trying not to propose again."

You smacked his arm for that one — gently, lovingly, the way you did everything with him.

The interviewer laughed. Pedro just looked ridiculously pleased with himself.

When you got home that night, exhausted but buzzing from the day, you collapsed onto the couch together, still in your fancy clothes.

Pedro immediately pulled you into his lap, arms locking around your waist.

"You know," you murmured, tracing lazy patterns over his chest, "we're a menace."

Pedro laughed, deep and warm. "I think they’re just jealous," he said, nuzzling your temple. "They wish they had this."

You smiled, feeling that familiar, overwhelming rush of love for him.

"This," you echoed, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

And you wouldn't have it any other way. Even if it meant getting scolded like teenagers every time you were in a room together.

Especially if it meant this.

---

[rafeslvbug]

how did nba!rafe and singer!reader come public w their relationship??

singer!reader and nba!rafe publicising their relationship..

soft launches and hard launches didn’t exist.

there was no curating your relationship for the media, even when your publicists insisted you should.

no, rafe made it very clear that you would do what you wanted.

so you did. you went to rafe’s games, posting highlights on instagram like it was the most normal thing. you walked away with his arm around your shoulders, paparazzi taking pictures and ignoring every comment because you could.

rafe would come to your concerts. be filmed by fans, blushing with every song about him, cute shout outs and kisses you’d blow to him. caught wearing bracelets. caught walking off with you in your tour bodysuit outfit, infatuated and pressing kisses to your shoulder.

you’d talk about each other openly. in interviews. podcasts. online. commenting on each other’s posts. mentioning casual things you did on the weekend or conversations.

– “oh yeah, well, rafe always says he prefers the blue outfit so i wear that more often.”

– “me and my girl went out last night to this Italian restaurant i have to recommend to you, if you’re gonna take your wife anywhere.”

– “rafe tries to explain sports to me, all the time. i support every team he supports because i really don’t know any better, he doesn’t like us going into separate rooms to watch our own stuff so he gets into what i like, and i get into sports for him.”

– “i went to y/n’s recording session once and it’s mind blowing really the work that goes into it. fun too, she let me mess about with her guitar - and she loves that guitar.”

she’d subtly post him on her tiktok/insta, filming a quick video at night, resting on a muscled arm that’s so blatantly rafe’s, because everyone can see the small lines marking his tattoo. or maybe she’d do a quick video recap of her month, and he’d be featured in every few videos.

rafe would always have a picture of her in his photo dumps, maybe a photo of him carrying a purple bag filled with things that definitely don’t belong to him. late night photo of him in bed, you in the background, playing your music and writing songs, having had some midnight epiphany.

[psformybss]

Can you do one where the public reacts badly towards Drew’s secret?fiancée? I know you have done a good one but can you do a bad one?

When the World Knew

series masterlist

warnings: internet hate, secret relationship reveal, angst, emotional distress, comfort, death threats (mentioned), protective!Drew, hurt/comfort

an: fun fact i originally wanted to make the reveal angsty, actually wrote a few different versions of it and this one is one of them except more angsty than it originally was

The day they got caught was golden.

Not metaphorically—actually golden.

The light, the laughter, the way the ocean curled around their ankles as they kissed. Teddy chased a gull down the shoreline. Drew held her hand like it was second nature, like no one was watching. Because they thought—hoped—no one was.

For a few sacred hours, it was just them and the surf. A soft kind of joy.

Until it wasn’t.

Until the picture hit the internet like a match to dry brush.

By morning, it was a fire.

By evening, it was an inferno.

And by the next day, it was war.

She hadn’t meant to check her phone.

She shouldn’t have.

But the moment she saw her face plastered across fan accounts, tagged in screenshots of that photo, the dread sank into her like a stone in water.

They had found her.

Not just her name—her Instagram. Her photos. Her old high school posts. Her graduation selfie with Drew’s arm around her waist. The blurry prom pic she forgot even existed.

And they ripped her apart.

Her DMs were flooded.

“You’ll never be enough for him.”

“He deserves better.”

“You’re ruining his career.”

“He could have any woman he wants, and he chose you?”

Then it got worse.

“Die.”

“Go kill yourself.”

“He’ll leave you. They always do.”

She locked her phone and sat in the silence of their bedroom, blinds drawn, heart thudding behind her ribs like a warning bell. Her skin itched. Her throat burned. She couldn’t tell if she wanted to scream or throw up.

Teddy barked from the living room. She didn’t move.

Her hands were shaking.

Drew found out during a scene break on set.

His phone vibrated nonstop—texts from his sister, his publicist, old high school friends, “Check Instagram now.”

He pulled up Instagram.

Saw the photos.

Saw the screenshots.

Saw the hate.

Saw her name trending.

He didn’t even tell the director he was leaving.

She didn’t hear him come in.

She was still sitting on the floor of the bathroom, back against the tub, eyes blank. Her phone was on the counter with the screen turned face-down.

He said her name once—softly.

She didn’t answer.

He dropped to his knees in front of her, cupping her face with trembling hands. “Hey. Baby. Look at me.”

Her eyes flicked to his. Shiny. Empty.

“They found me,” she said, voice hollow. “They found everything.”

Drew’s stomach twisted.

“They’re sending death threats.”

She blinked, tears slipping silently down her cheeks.

“They said I should kill myself so you can be free.”

“Jesus,” he breathed, pulling her into him. She didn’t fight it. Just collapsed against his chest like she had nothing left holding her up.

“I thought I could handle it,” she whispered. “But I didn’t think it would be this.”

His jaw clenched. He stroked her hair like it could ground her. Like maybe if he held her close enough, none of it would stick.

“They don’t know you,” he said, his voice raw. “They don’t get to touch you like this.”

“I feel disgusting,” she choked. “Like I ruined everything. Like I’m the villain in their fantasy.”

“No. No,” he said, pulling back to meet her eyes. “This is not your fault. You didn’t ask for this.”

“We waited, Drew. We waited. We wanted it to be ours. Safe. Now they’ve taken even that.”

He saw it then—the heartbreak buried beneath the fear. Not just the backlash. But the grief of losing something sacred.

“I should’ve protected you,” he said quietly.

She shook her head, voice trembling. “You did. You always have.”

That night, Drew didn’t sleep.

She lay in bed beside him, silent tears soaking into his hoodie. He stayed awake, watching the curve of her cheek against the pillow, the slight hitch of her breath. Every time her phone buzzed on the nightstand, he had to force himself not to throw it across the room.

By dawn, he’d had enough.

He opened Instagram. Sat on the edge of their bed. Hit record.

No lights. No filters. Just a man and his fury.

“If you’re my fan,” he said, “you don’t get to send death threats to the woman I love.”

His voice was low, but it shook.

“She’s been part of my life since we were kids. Before the shows. Before the cameras. She has never once asked for attention or clout or anything from me but love.”

He swallowed hard.

“And now, because someone snapped a picture, she’s being harassed, threatened—told to die. All because she wears a ring I gave her.”

A pause. His eyes narrowed.

“I’m done being quiet. This isn’t just internet drama. This is real. This is the woman I’m going to marry, and you’re hurting her.”

His hand tightened around the phone.

“If you say you care about me—really care—then stop. Right now. Because I won’t stand by and watch you destroy the best thing that ever happened to me.”

He posted it without rewatching.

Then he turned off his phone.

And climbed back into bed.

The internet fractured.

Some fans doubled down—called him whipped, dramatic, claimed he was “blaming his supporters.”

But others fought back harder.

“This woman has done nothing wrong. Leave her alone.”

“Imagine being with your high school sweetheart and people think you’re the villain?”

“I can’t believe how disgusting people are being. Drew’s right to be furious.”

“Love like this doesn’t happen often. Protect it.”

Slowly, the tide shifted.

Not fully. But enough.

She could breathe again.

Not because the hate was gone.

But because he didn’t let her drown in it alone.

They stayed inside for a few days.

Ordered takeout. Watched comfort movies. Played music too loud just to block out the world.

Drew held her through the panic. Sat with her through the silence.

He kissed her like he meant it. Like he was building a new shield around her every time.

And eventually, she started to come back to herself.

She started answering texts again. Opened her camera roll and smiled at pictures of Teddy chasing his tail. Sat on their back porch with her knees pulled to her chest and said, “Maybe one day we’ll laugh about this.”

Drew kissed her temple.

“Maybe,” he agreed.

[no-144444]

making moves- l.norris

a/n: HI AND WELCOME TO MY FIRST FIC-TOBER FIC I HOPE YOU ENJOY :)))))

Day 1 of fic-tober! fic-tober masterlist

summary: Lando and you don't exactly get along and now you're quitting, he'll surely take it well, right?

pairing: lando norris x fem! mclaren publicist! fem! reader

୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ

You turned the corner of the media pen with Lando’s arm in your hand. If he stepped one foot out of line, if one hair was out of place, one unnecessary giggle or joke, you’d lose your mind. You were getting sick of this, of him, of cleaning up every single one of his messes. 

“I said I’m sorry-”

“I don’t want to hear it,” you sighed. You hadn’t studied mechanical engineering and sports journalism for years in college to become a goddamn babysitter. “Just do your interviews and don’t say anything about your relationship status, please Lando.”

He rolled his eyes but obliged, moving past you to start an interview with some sports journal.

You watched the room around you. You would miss this, the buzz of the media pen, the entire paddock, being so close in the action of your favourite sport. You wished it hadn’t come to this. You didn’t want to quit, but you were being driven mad by a 24 year old man-child, and you couldn’t take it anymore. A year and a half ago, you were being driven crazy by how much you wanted him, now, it was his party-boy ways and arrogant smirk that set you off. Lando had always been a popular driver, you understood the attraction on every level. He was a pretty, sometimes funny, and rich man. He was on the younger side of the grid, and he was talented. Christ, was he annoying to work with. He was conceited, self-centred, a manwhore, and downright difficult the majority of the time. You disregarded almost every time he was kind to you, because less than 48 hours later he would do something dickish and ruin your weekend off, or make you cancel a date to come get him from a club because he was drunk and his friends left him alone, blah, blah, blah. You were excited to finally be free of Lando Norris and his asshole-ish ways, yet, maybe you’d miss his face. Anyways, just one race left, and your two-weeks are up. 

୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ Team dinners were simple, you usually sat beside Lily, Oscar’s girlfriend, and chatted with her about her course (the same one you took) and whatever else came to your minds. As the night came to a close, you walked Lily and Oscar back to their rooms with Lando trailing behind, texting on his phone. 

Lily pulled you into a hug. “I’ll miss you so much!” she sighed. “It sucks you’re not even finishing the season with McLaren.”

You shrugged, hugging her back. “I’ll call you, I promise. And we have Greece in January,” you reminded her. She nodded and pulled back. 

“See you in the morning,” she smiled, then disappeared back to their hotel room. 

“See you in the morning,” Oscar smiled, pulling you in for a hug. “You better call her once you land in New York, or she’ll lose her mind,” he chuckled. 

You nodded, smiling. “I will, don’t worry. And I’ll miss you too, Osc.”

He smiled, pulling back. “I’ll miss you too.”

You turned to go to your room, but Lando stopped you. “Why are you going to New York?”

“For my new job,” you explained calmly. “I’m leaving on Sunday night.”

Confusion flashed across his face, and you took the silence as a chance to leave. You brushed past him and continued on your way down the hall. 

“What do you mean you’re ‘leaving’ on Sunday night? Are you going on holidays for the weeks we have off?” he asked, catching up with you. 

“No, I start my new job the next week and I need to get my apartment unpacked and sort out my office,” you explained. 

“What? Why are you doing that?”

“Unpacking my apartment? I’ll be living there-”

“No, moving? You have a job, y-you work here, you work with me,” he stumbled through his sentence and you raised an eyebrow. 

“Did Stella not tell you? I’m leaving after the race this weekend. I sent in my two-week notice almost two weeks ago. I got a job offer from the New York Jets and I took it. Anyway, good night Lando, I’ll see you in the morning,” You continued on your way to your room. 

“You can’t just leave! What will I do without y- someone to-”

“Get your laundry and fix your mistakes in the media? You’ll be getting a replacement when I leave. His name is Will, he’s organised, and he’s quite funny. I think you’ll get along.” 

“What will I do without you?” he gritted out. “You’re meant to be here, with me, and now you’re leaving? How am I supposed to feel?”

“Imparcial I’d assume.”

“Imparcial? Y/n, come on, you can’t be that blind?” This was a different version of Lando than what you were used to. He was usually a brass and confident arsehole. Yet, here he stood in front of you, upset that you were leaving. 

“Blind to what? The way you abuse your power? The way you make me do your bidding? The way you make me cancel important things in my personal life to fit your schedule of heavy drinking? The way-”

“The way I’m in love with you?!” He practically shouted. You clapped a hand over his mouth and a surge of panic ran though you. You pulled him into your hotel room after you and sat him on the bed, then proceeded to pace the room. 

What did he mean he loved you? He hated you. He made your life a living hell. He made sure you’d have to see him everyday. He made sure you’d be in his apartment building. He made sure to-

Oh. Shit. He loved you. 

“Y/n,” his voice was soft. “You need to calm down.” 

You turned to him. “Calm down? What the fuck do you mean ‘calm down’? I’ve just spent the last fucking year and a half burying any and all romantic feelings for you, tried to hone in on all of your flaws to make myself hate you, quit my job to get away from you, and now you’re telling me you love me? What the fuck Lando?!” 

“You had romantic feelings for me?” He blushed. 

“That’s what you got from that?!” 

He chuckled. “I’m sorry, alright. We can work this out, just tell Andrea you don’t want to quit-”

“Lando I’ve accepted the job offer in New York, I’ve signed the contract. I can’t back out,” you sighed, putting your head in your hands. “You really have great timing,” you scoffed. 

He smiled, placing his hands on your waist. “Then we’ll make it work,” he shrugged. “I want you, if you’ll have me.” 

You looked up at him. Were you really doing this?  Lando Norris was your typical male celebrity in his twenties. He had everything he could ever want, any girl he could ever want, and he wanted you? Every insecurity and logical bone  in your body told you to run away. You’d seen what the internet did to girls he was seen in public with, let alone a girl he actually came out and admitted to dating. Was he worth being torn apart for? 

“You’re killing me here,” he laughed to hide his fear. He’d waited a year and a half for this moment. He wanted you more than anything. He wanted to be able to call himself your boyfriend and get to call you his girlfriend. He wanted you around him all the time. Every time he’d found out about a date you’d been on or met a guy you’d been seeing he was filled with jealousy. He was yours, he just needed you to be his too. 

“Lando, I don’t know if this is a good idea-”

He pressed his lips to yours and it was undeniable. This was what you had been searching for. That stupid ‘spark’ all those rom coms talked about all the time. Kissing him was like fireworks. He brought your hands up to wrap around his neck and smirked when you kissed him back. You fit together so perfectly, his lips against yours, your skin against his, everything. 

You pulled back slowly. 

“So can I be your boyfriend now?” he whispered, the hint of a smile on his lips. 

“Only if I can be your girlfriend,” you smiled back.  He pressed his lips to yours again. Maybe he was worth being torn apart for.

୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ

navigation for my blog :) (masterlist)

fic-tober masterlist

taglist: @anotherapollokid @theseerbetweenus @simbaaas-stuff

[spotlight-if]

Lights, Camera…Chaos.

[PLAY HERE] (October 23rd, 2024) Act 1, Chapter 1, 64.2k words.

For as long as you can remember, your dream has stayed the same—you want nothing more than to make it as an actor in Hollywood. After years as an overlooked, overworked talent, your big break comes from an unlikely source. And it’s one that changes everything, for better or worse.

Hollywood is its own character within this world—sometimes it loves you, sometimes it wants nothing more than to see you crash and burn. Navigating this ever changing landscape while balancing your own interpersonal relationships is only half the challenge. The other half is memorizing your lines.

Navigate the red carpet, bloodthirsty paparazzi, cut-throat tabloids and complicated relationship dynamics with A-list celebrities (who may or may not be completely insane.)

But, hey: isn’t this what you’ve always wanted?

Key Features:

- Customize your Actor: are you a classic Hollywood heartthrob? An eccentric and unconventional recluse? Are you kind and genuine despite the fame, or a cutthroat diva with undeniable talent?

- Navigate scandal, paparazzi, and stan culture: dodge or embrace the flashing lights. Interact with your fans, or distance yourself from them for your sanity. Wait—who are they shipping your character with?

-Build your legacy: choose between the stability of superhero blockbusters or turn into an indie darling. Or, maybe forgoe both to become a household name in the horror genre.

- Network and build relationships: whether they’re manufactured by your well-meaning publicist or spawned from real feelings, forge dynamic and ever changing relationships with other industry icons.

- Try to manage your mental health: the dark side of the industry lurks in every corner—the highs are high, but the lows are ever lower.

Characters:

Kendall Mays (gender selectable)—ever the loyal best friend, Kendall followed you into the throes of showbiz without hesitation. From fighting over toys on the playground to helping you run lines for a major motion picture, you can always count on them to have your back. That is, before they met Mason—their ever-present boyfriend who demands more and more of their time. You were never that great at sharing.

[Note: Kendall is not a romance option.]

Sutton Foster (he/him, she/her)—child star turned award winning powerhouse. Sutton Foster has everything an actor could want—well, minus the countless stays at rehab centers around the world. It’s undeniable that Sutton is a generational talent, but what’s even more notable is their messy personal life. You yourself have been caught in Sutton’s gravitational pull, once upon a time. The question lies in whether or not you’ll pull yourself away.

Wyn Grace (he/him, she/her)—on stage, Wyn is electric. The same cannot be said for Wyn off-stage. The lead singer of the up-and-coming Indie band is struggling with their meteoric rise to fame. As the awards pile up and the crowds get bigger, Wyn is unraveling at the seams. All they wanted to do was make music with their friends, but the fame makes them reconsider it all.

Lex Moreau (he/him)—an older, award-winning director with an…eccentric disposition. Yet despite his volatile nature and obsession with perfection, anyone who’s anyone would kill to work with him. Lex is always in search for a muse, a great beacon to pour all of his artistic vision into. And now, he thinks he’s found that in you. Lucky you?

[C is a conditional character, only appears based on choices you make.]

Carlo/Carmen Mencina (gender selectable)—C is harder to pin down than a stable acting gig in LA. When you’re together—it’s kismet. The problem lies in when you’re apart. C’s frequent disappearances abroad leave a bad taste in your mouth, and when a shocking truth comes to light, it’s not just your relationship in the spotlight—it’s your life, too.

Flings and other mini-romances will be available as well. But these I will let be revealed as the story progresses.

When writing this game, I knew what themes I wanted to focus on, and the care/detail needed to do so. Hence, this game is strictly 18+.

TW: death, substance abuse, suicide, bullying, explicit language, violence, and explicit (skippable) sexual content.

Thank you for reading my intro! Reblogs are welcome, and my ask box is open (:

And major thank you @thecutestgrotto for the gorgeous headers!

[steddieas-shegoes]

“any regrets? anything you’d do differently?”

eddie knows the interviewer is just doing her job, probably doesn’t even realize that’s the worst question she could ask. but the guys tense and the air gets thick and something shifts inside eddie’s chest.

“it’s been two years and i still haven’t apologized.”

the interviewer doesn’t know what the fuck he’s talking about, but she doesn’t need to. he’s not gonna explain more than that and he doesn’t care if people make their own connections and excuses.

maybe steve will hear it. maybe robin will. maybe dustin will convince steve to call him.

or maybe he was cryptic for nothing and steve will keep ignoring his calls. he used to think his timing sucked until mike let it slip that he lets all calls go to his answering machine to avoid picking up when eddie calls him.

eddie only calls on bad nights, if he’s drunk or high, or sometimes on the nights that could only be better if steve was by his side. eddie calls most nights.

the interview is done and eddie is being whisked away, getting berated by their publicist about his answer to a question that can never have a good one. the guys are pretending not to listen, but failing. eddie loves them for trying.

the next interview, he stays quiet, at least as much as he can get away with. he fakes a smile, a laugh, whatever it takes to seem like he didn’t just admit that he fucked up on live television.

they get to sleep in their own beds tonight, but tomorrow is the start of their radio show tour to promote their album. it’ll be two weeks long, hitting the major stations daily until they’ve answered all the hard hitting questions like if gareth snores or if they ever find time to eat healthy on tour.

but his bed is his least favorite place to sleep, and no amount of tossing and turning is gonna give him what he needs.

so he calls steve.

“harrington’s house, you’ve reached the harrington who actually lives here.”

eddie’s so shocked that steve answered he barely even registers his words.

“hello?” steve’s voice turns serious. “anyone there?”

“stevie?”

eddie shouldn’t have started with that, but he wasn’t in control of his body anymore.

steve hangs up.

somehow it’s worse than if he hadn’t answered at all.

but eddie is fine. he is.

he’s gonna close his eyes and go to sleep and maybe not dream about dying or fucking up the only good thing he ever had.

his phone rings and he’s almost certain he’s dreaming already.

“hello?”

“sorry i panicked.”

steve’s voice is like a reverb in an arena, sending chills down eddie’s arms.

“you’re not the only one.”

“but…you called me.”

“because you never answer.”

“so why call? if i’m never gonna answer.”

“because if you do answer, i can hear your voice.”

steve sits with that answer for a minute before he speaks.

“dustin played me the interview.”

“yeah.”

“was it me? was i your regret?”

how could steve think that? how could the man who saved his life ever believe he was anything less than a gift? in no universe would eddie regret steve.

“no. my regret is making you ever think that you could be a mistake.”

eddie should end it there, let steve marinate with that. he knows no amount of apologies will actually help, but he could give it a try anyway.

“i’m sorry i left when you needed me. i’m sorry i was selfish and chose to get out and leave you behind. and i’m sorry none of my sorries even matter because it’s too late.”

for a minute—yes, eddie counts— there’s silence. and then there’s a small shuffling sound and eddie’s almost sure that steve’s gonna hang up.

instead, steve sounds like he’s holding back tears when he speaks.

“are you gonna come back?”

eddie can’t. he can’t just put a pause on the band or any of their plans. it’s not fair to the guys or the fans or himself.

but he can do something he should’ve done two years ago.

“will you come with me?”

the question hangs in the air for what feels like forever. steve may say no. that’s part of why eddie didn’t even ask the first time. but he may say-

“yes.”

“you will?”

“on one condition.”

“anything.”

“you stop trying to forget all the bad parts. the bad parts sucked, but they brought us together. running from them means running from me. at least hold my hand so i can run with you.”

eddie thinks maybe he could write a song about that.

and he thinks he’d like to hold steve’s hand while he does.

[wttcsms]

famous reader x famous character except the two of you don’t really like each other — no, you don’t like him. you think he’s arrogant and rude, that he thinks he’s better than you and everyone else. (the truth is, he’s not the best at expressing his feelings verbally and his physical expressions give away nothing). when the sleaziest, most disgusting music producer in the industry sets his sights on you, your fate is practically sealed. no one can go against him; no one wants to. your manager and publicist can only do so much to limit the exposure of all his very public attempts to woo you. rejecting him will mean ostracizing yourself from your social circle. you can’t decline his advances by making up excuses like you’re busy or that you’re just not interested in him. he won’t take no for an answer.

but then something strange happens. in the golden age of social media, where every little subtle move means something huge, a simple tap on the screen just might save you.

character, who’s notorious for being offline and hasn’t followed anyone on his supposedly team-ran social media accounts, ends up changing his following from 0 to 1.

that one person? it’s you.

you’re not sure what he’s playing at, but you do know that the one man you’ve spent years being irritated by just might be your one and only saving grace.

alternatively: slightly socially inept but his lethal face card makes up for it character doesn’t know how to go about his years-long crush on you, the one girl who hasn’t attempted to woo him. he gets the opportunity to play hero when he, who doesn’t understand the nuances behind every action taken on social media, accidentally sparks dating rumors between the two of you. with his notoriety and influence being able to shield you from the clutches of the slimiest man possible, he realizes that he’s willing to learn everything about the subtle art form of “soft launching a private relationship” if it means he gets to spend time with you

[chosoclub]

☆ cocky football player gojo who doesn't take a liking to you when he finds out you're his publicist

tags. football as in soccer, sfw, gojo w/ big ego, nb reader!! geto makes a cameo, oh shit almost forgot about angsty gojo kinda (daddy issues question mark), gives head ruffles ✌︎('◡'✌︎ ), ONE affectionate name (doll) wc. 3.7k!

Gojo Satoru was a publicist’s nightmare. He had recently come under scrutiny for causing his team’s loss due to his hotheaded nature and big ego, earning him a red card for the game and his team, the playoffs. You started at the firm in conjunction with the headlines, and the task was immediately passed onto you akin to hazing from your coworkers who had all reached a point of not wanting to deal with this. 

You stand against one of the bright red seats, observing from the stands while they practice. The white-hot sun laminates the seats with a gleam, waves of heat diffracting off the plastic. You stare across the green field; You couldn’t miss his stark, white hair and his speed compared to the other players. He darted around the field like a dazzling ball of light, you blinked while he was in the corner, and by the next blink he was already in the offensive center ready for a goal.

They had a short break, enough time for the coach to speak to the team and the manager to approach you in the stands. He thanked you for showing up to practice, that it’s been a challenging season for the club. From the corner of your eye, you spot Gojo, tilting his head up to find the source of the conversation. One of his hands shades his eyes and the other stays on his hip, head cocked back looking through the stands until spotting you. For how far down he is, you can still see a scowl begin to contort his face, knowing the reason you’re here is him. 

The break is short, by the time he switches his gaze back down, they’re dismissed for drills. You watch them run from one point of the field to the other as you make your way down the steep steps and onto the grass. Every so often while he strides from end to end, you catch him glowering towards you again, the sun catches in his glacier eyes, the way they narrow until he turns his head again. He makes the drill look easy, almost jumping off the ground each time the hind leg takes off, his arms swing effortlessly by his chest, and he dashes forward akin to a stallion. 

“He’s a damn good player,” you hear one of the coaches tell you as you approach them, away from the blaze of the sun and against the concrete drop-off that elevates the stands from the field. “He knows it too, that he’s irreplaceable.”

“It’s not good for the team to only depend on one player,” you respond, both coaches humming in solemn agreement and the three of you have turned to the field again. “Do you think there’s a chance at redemption to move on to finals?”

“There better be,” he answers. 

Practice is halted by the sharp ring of the whistle. You lean against the cement wall, scribbling on your leaflet, trying to get a grasp of each player. You think over the research you’d done on them all, their strengths, their weaknesses. You don’t notice when they’re walking by you to the locker room. You only notice the way your pen runs down the notepad in a second so fast you’re convinced you began to have a muscle spasm if it wasn’t for the fingers gripping onto the binding rings, pulling the leaflet from your grasp. 

“The fuck are you writing on here, anyway?” Gojo quickly turns the pad towards himself, his eyes skimming the page, his mouth turning to a smirk. “You think I run like a stallion?”

“Give it back,” you reach for it but his reflexes are too quick when he reaches his arm back in perfect parallel.

“Don’t think so, doll. I wanna make sure you’re portraying me in a good light.” The guys continue walking by, some of them chuckling half-heartedly, seemingly feeling bad that you got caught at the brunt end of Gojo’s taunt. He scoffs, quickly having transitioned from a playful mood to being bored of the jest altogether. How childish, you think as he flips the notepad back into your palm. He tips his head forward, close enough that you can see his pupils contract. “This is what they hired you for? I don’t need some failed-Pulitzer-wannabe telling me what I already know.” 

Without much reserve, you scowl, “I’m surprised you even know what Pulitzer is.” Saying so was a surprise to even you, the harshness lingering bitter on your tongue, because you didn’t know this person, being so rude felt crass. No formal introduction, no small talk. However, it would only be more evident that Gojo was the kind of person who thrived off being able to grab you by the shins and drag you down to his juvenile level. 

He opens his mouth to respond but a hand barrels against the back of his shoulder, knocking him out of balance that he has to take a few steps forward to regain. “Keep it moving, you prick.”  

The man, a player a little taller and wider in stature, has long dark hair, strands coated in sweat that stick to his neck like vines down to his shoulders. He’s more solemn by miles, like night and day. You notice the black Captain band around his bicep. He reaches his calloused hand to shake yours, “Geto Suguru.”

“___, thank you.”

He continues walking along, seemingly dazed from the long practice that if he stood still for another second he would collapse from the exhaustion. You hear Gojo scoff walking away ahead of him, your name now etched in his brain to only torment you further. 

✰ 

It’s weeks of this. You begin to understand why writing about a group of 11 adrenaline-crazed, testosterone-driven football players, one of whom is by lack of reserve, an asshole was a project no one else wanted to take on. They spent most days practicing, but if it wasn’t practicing, they were fighting, gripping each other by the collar over a missed shot or an ignored pass when the other player was wide open. And if it wasn’t for either, Gojo spends any minute to let you know how much he doesn’t need your help. If it wasn’t for his scoffs and his scowls when he walked by you in the morning, it was the way your gaze would snap with his while he was whispering to another player, a smirk on both their faces, both sets of eyes transfixed on you.  

It’s a late afternoon, the sun still unwilling to waver its heat, washing the field a sea of vermillion, the grass no longer a shining vibrant green but coated amber by its rays. Practice ended maybe an hour ago, you couldn’t see far enough behind you where the clock hung in the box seats. You sat at one of the ruby seats close to the ground level, the blistering heat sizzling under your legs. You watched Gojo, the only player in the saffron-shaded field, reaching for a ball from his duffel, standing back from its position and kicking it with forceful speed, like a gutter punch, or the cocking of a gun. Like a bullet, the ball flies into the net and topples down to join the other dozen or so ones that had reached the same target. 

Gojo was a damn good player. You wondered if the problem was that he believed he was one in a million, or if he truly was one in a million and it pissed everyone off to see his lack of humility. In the meantime, he’s moved closer to left field where you sit, maybe just out of your earshot, to shoot from the left. He jogs back, running up to the ball, winding his right leg back then quickly switching his hips when his leg palindromes forward with his arms outstretched to the outreach of the field. You watch the ball dart through, once again, enveloped by the white mesh and landing on the patch. 

He pays you no mind, you’re not even sure he knows you’re there, it’s like he doesn’t even know where he is or it doesn’t matter where he is, in the amber grass, in the mud, it’s just about any way he can get a ball in the warp of the net. It was fully quiet by this point, except for the cicadas that danced with their signature anthem, though not too loud lest they break his focus. 

You smirk to yourself with a vicious idea. You watch him jog back again, gearing up for his shot, you watch him charge his right leg back, you wait for the moment the forefront of his foot is about to scoop the ball, and—

“Perfect weather we’re having, yeah?” You holler. The ball goes flying, hitting the perimeter pole with a clang! 

Gojo groans, fists balled up at his side, he lolls his head back to look skyward. The sun accentuates the sweat on the bridge of his nose, he is shaded blood orange all over. He turns to you, exasperated. 

“Are you fucking kidding me?” 

“Woah, I’m just trying to make small talk.”

He swings his head back, rolling his eyes, “Yeah, fucking small talk, I’m sure you are. What the hell are you still doing here anyway?” 

“Doing my job.”

He chuckles, a patronizing smile still tugging at his lips, “Hard day’s work, huh?” His condescending blue eyes flicker to yours. A bead of sweat runs down his neck and reaches the valley of his already glistening collarbone. 

“Hey, I’m here to help you. Matter of fact, I’ve been reading a bit while here.”

“Yeah?” 

He shifts from leg to leg, hands on his hips when he’s turned to you, under the same daze as Geto Suguru, unable to still his body in fear the piston halts. 

“Yeah, quite mad. A boy from Northside sent to Kyoto F.C. as a football prodigy. The third game from starting with the team, second half, scores a goal for the other team, I think might’ve been for —God, I can’t remember now—“

“Okayama,” he scoffs, he grins now but you can’t tell if this one is in malice or not, “I scored a goal for Okayama. What is this, you’re stalking me now? Reading my life story?”

“I do my research.”

Gojo pauses for a second, looking at the ball that he twirls from foot to foot, seemingly not saying much else and going back to his practice. 

“Though I’ll have you know, that team made it to J1 because of me.” You roll your eyes at this and it doesn’t go unnoticed. “What? I’m serious. And I’ll do the same with this team too. Write that in your little notebook.” 

“You really do think you’re one in a million,” you mumble. This doesn’t go unnoticed either despite the fact he’s standing far enough away that it should. 

“I am one in a million.” 

You tap your pen against the rigid white paper, wondering if it’s worth arguing, and by the tenth tap, deciding it is. “You’re one in eleven. In a match, one in twenty-two, with every player even for a small fragment thinking they’re one in a million.”

His smile isn’t genuine anymore, nor is it lingering on his lips at all. “You should focus more on your useless journalism,” he says, contempt like bile spitting from his lips.

“You should focus more on being one of eleven if you actually want to win tomorrow.”

Yeah, fucking high-road me, Gojo thinks. The pressure pinpoints at the base of his chest at the statement, for he understands what it means. It wasn’t about him, in any context. Even when he was benched. For bullshit reasons, he recalls. Idiot Suguru, instead of passing the ball to me when I’m wide open, he motions to move it to another. Ball gets intercepted and in a snap moment of rage, I try to intercept the intercept, foot sliding under the ball and knocking the opponent to the ground with a forceful push to the chest. Even then, even when it cost the team a loss, he thought if it wasn’t for him being benched, they would’ve won. But, if it wasn’t for his anger, his ego, he wouldn’t have gotten benched in the first place. If he thought as one in eleven, he wouldn’t have cost the whole team the chance at J1. 

He stares at the ball that comes to a halt at his ankles. If it was only that easy, he thinks. Before he joined Kyoto, he was made to believe he was special. How impossible it was for someone at his young age to be scouted by such a big team, even if they were nowhere near the Premier back then. He was made to believe he was the one who had to always score, who was the saving grace in the second half that tied the score and eventually overtook it completely. While he was part of a team, it was Gojo Satoru that the newscast would mention by name over and over. This pressure was only stacked on by his family until it became second nature for him to think so too. 

Gojo remembers the night he scored a goal for the other team. He smiled just then but back then, it was a gut punch, a sudden realization that hit him like a freight train for the first time since he was eight: Maybe he didn’t have it, he was a fool to think he was special. He couldn’t forget how bright the stadium lights all of a sudden shined. Have they always been this blindingly white? How he heard them ring loudly for the first time. He m

couldn’t forget the silence in the crowd, a breathless second before the cacophony of cheers and boos. He could never forget the way his father berated him in the car after everyone had already left the stadium. You’re either a winner or a failure. If you don’t win, this was all a waste and I’ve wasted my time on you. Back then, all Gojo could do was ball his fists, knuckles white, eyes locked onto his knees lest he dared shed a tear. From that moment, a second realization followed, he had to believe he was one in a million, he had no other choice. It wasn’t a player part of a team. It was either being a winner or a failure. 

“Whatever,” he grumbles quietly to his ball, kicking it and watching it warily bounce only a few feet ahead. For the first time since the morning, he notices his heart thumping in his rib cage. He grabs his duffel, paying no mind to you, and walks off the field.

✰

It’s the day of the match and Gojo hasn’t stopped noticing his heart pumping in his chest. Since the evening prior, when he was in bed unable to sleep due to the loud thump, thump, thump that he swore was reverberating from his chest to his wrists and ankles to this morning on the way to the stadium to now, in the locker room. He could only fix his gaze on the floor beneath him, his coach’s speech muffled like he was speaking from the end of a tunnel. 

It’s only the way his Captain shuts his own locker, purposefully slamming so the metal rings for a second too long to snap Gojo from his daze. 

“The fuck is up with you?” He asks.

Gojo blinks in surprise like his eyes just learned how to blink. “Nothing.”

Geto sneers, “You're not nervous, are you?”

By this point, Gojo’s eyes have learned how to throw glaring daggers.

“No, I’m not fucking nervous. I’m just thinking.”

“Can’t believe you do that.”

Fuck you, he wants to spit back but grits his teeth instead, for he wouldn’t even be able to hear himself say it due to the bass that rumbles against the bones of his ribcage. 

✰

It’s the day of the match and you don’t think you can feel yourself breathe. The atmosphere of the stadium is so palpably loud, fans from either team unforgiving with their cheers or boos. As you make your way down the steps to your seat next to the managers and stakeholders, a cold breeze that contrasts the warm weather from this past week reminds you of yesterday. You couldn’t get the image of Gojo walking off the field out of your head, the way he didn’t go back to practicing his strikes, the way his shoulders slumped and trembled, the grimace overtaking each feature of his face. A part of you feels bad for having potentially set him off like that, unsure of what it was that completely changed his body language like a ventriloquist that all of a sudden tugged at the strings so hard, that he pulled the egotistical Gojo out and left behind this hollow shell. You’re not able to mull over it much longer because the players have already begun walking out to the playfield, and the announcers begin their commentary.

This could be this team’s make-or-break match, a defining game that takes them closer to the finals and closer to their Premier. We all witnessed the Ace of the team, Gojo Satoru, penalize the team weeks ago. Do you think he has it in him to cooperate this time? 

You don’t catch any part of the answer, the roars of the crowd when the players shuffle out ringing from ear to ear. You can immediately spot Geto Suguru at the front, his stoic manner not letting up to how loud the crowd cheers for him. Gojo is last, at the end, and he too doesn’t give much reaction. Surprisingly. 

The players file in a straight line, parallel to the opposing team. Geto and the opposing team’s captain join the referee for the coin toss. It is by a stroke of pure coincidence that amid hundreds of people, Gojo glances up and immediately spots you in the second row from the drop-off and it is by a sliver of luck that you connect his gaze in that same moment. He takes this as a good sign. What are the fucking odds? He wants to be annoyed but can’t ignore the comedic jab from deep within his ribcage. You watch as he doesn’t scowl, doesn’t narrow his eyes like lasers, but shakes his head, a chuckle shuddering through him. 

It’s three minutes left of the added time and the teams are tied 1-1. Your insides feel like scrambled eggs. Gojo hadn’t scored a goal yet; the first and only goal played by Geto. The crowd had gone crazy for that one, you even caught yourself gasping in your seat when the ball spun in the net. The crowd’s cheers and nerves were contagious. The way your heart raced for a sport you hadn’t given much second thought a month ago was deafening, but you knew how the boys played, you got to see each of their tactics and their sportsmanship as a team. The way the offense switched legs last minute to divert the ball and make a pass to another. The way the goalie hopped from foot to foot never ending and always anticipating. 

It’s only a couple minutes left of time and both teams are level. Both teams have brought out their best tonight from the dugout, it’s been a tough match.

Intercept. That’s what Geto does when he gains possession of the ball. You heard the word a lot when you’d watch commentated games hours into the night. 

A through pass from Geto and Gojo is immediately off with it! He’s a tough player to catch, it’s him against another player, we know he might take this and could. But he makes a quick pass to a wide-open Haibara! 

Your body feels numb watching the pass, how quickly Gojo slides his leg, almost slipping and falling to pass to Haibara who stands to the left of him and quickly receives the ball. 

And he scores it! 

The crowd roars like a thrashing wave, and you catch yourself scrambling to your feet and cheering too. Gojo sprints to Haibara, jumping in his arms; He smiles hard, you don’t think you’ve seen his full set of teeth before. The rest of the boys topple on top of them like sardines as the referee rings the final whistle of the game. 

What a play we’ve seen tonight, it’s like night and day with this team. This only puts them closer to the Premier and hope they can keep this up for the season.

You wait for him in the same tunnel he stormed through the day before. You don’t want to admit that you’re waiting for him, but the stadium lights illuminate your presence standing there so perfectly that you can’t even hide it. You watch them walk through, all smiles, one player having their arm around another, another walking by you still in disbelief, another running by with a player on his back, guiding them towards the lockers. You spot Gojo walking up alone, chest heaving, and glistening. He looks up to immediately meet your gaze, a grin taking over his face, this one most genuine. 

“Hey, there you are,” he breathes out. He slows down in front of you, placing his head atop the crown of your head. He gives your hair a ruffle and chuckles breathlessly. You can’t ignore the way your heart is doing summersaults in your chest. “You were right by the way.” 

“Yeah? About what?”

“That teambuilding bullshit you were talking about, yesterday and all. I think without you, we would’ve stayed tied.”

Maybe you had a freak accident at some point during this project, hit your head so hard you forgot to feel any animosity towards Gojo because the stadium lights spotlight the most ridiculous smile on your face for everyone to see. 

“Guess I was useful after all.”

Gojo laughs at that, a real-from-the-belly laugh. He gives your head one last gentle pat before he continues his stride to the locker room, looking back once more for your reaction. 

NOTE: i feel a bit burnt out and wanted to write a simple drabble w/ this idea however it surpassed the drabble word count but not the low-effort drabble vibes i hope -- maybe MAYBE in the future i can make a second part thats more juiceyyyy come chat! lmk what you thought! mwah (▰˘◡˘▰)

[lulunothulu]

There's not many Glen Powell stories could you do one for me plz:)

So Glen and Reader have been dating about a year. she's not in the entertainment industry she is just a RN he ask her to join him for the press tour for Twitters overseas. She goes with Glen to do some interviews and over hears a conversation where people think she is just with Glen for the money and everyone sees it. She's never asked Glen for money or help but he does occasionally do things for her out of love. She starts to pick up alot of extra shifts at the hospital and dip into her savings to afford all that stuff for the press tour to the point she's passes out one day after working 3 doubles in a row. Glen shows up and ask why she has been working so much and she comes clean about what she heard and how she dipped into her saving to afford the trip. He comforts her and makes her feel better and let's her know he knows she loves him for him and not his money and he asked her to come on the trip bc he wanted her there and he loves her and he loves to spoil her that's not gonna change.

I absolutely LOVE this one 😭 as a former ER worker I live for this.

“Just ordinary”

Glen Powell x Reader

“So Glen,” the interviewer asks. “Who are you bringing to the London premiere?”

Glen smiles, looking behind the interviewer to where you stand with his publicist behind the stage.

“I’m bringing my girlfriend, Y/N,” he smiles, winking in your direction.

You make a mental note to check how much flights would cost but smile back at him.

“Ooo! What does she do? Is she an actress?”

“She’s actually an ER nurse,” he boasts. “I’m so lucky to have her in my life and to be able to feel so safe with her around me.”

“I bet,” they say. “Having someone there to nurse you to health even if you’re not sick must be so rewarding.”

“It is!” He beams. “I love that she takes care of me and makes sure I stay healthy. It also helps when I get injured on the job.”

“That’s so sweet,” they tell him. “Well, that’s all the time we have today. Make sure you catch Twisters in theaters near you!”

After the interview, Glen walks up to where you’re waiting and interlaces his fingers with yours before pulling you close to kiss you deeply.

“We’re almost done, I just have to do some mini interviews outside and then we can head home.”

You nod, and smile up at him. You knew the drill. After an interview inside, there would be fans all over the place, begging for pictures, as well as other interviewers waiting outside.

You follow him out the building and mentally prepare yourself for the screens and flashing lights of cameras. Next to you, Glen holds your hand tightly—not only making sure you’re next to him, but also safe. Glen hands you off to his mom who’s waiting behind him before walking up to some fans.

You smile at Cyndy. “I don’t know how you do it all the time. It’s so loud.”

She laughs. “Yeah I don’t know either. But to see how happy he gets when they all flock to him is the highlight of it all.”

You smile. You knew exactly what that feeling was like. Seeing Glen in his element and interacting with the people that got him to where he is now, felt amazing to watch.

———

You both follow him down the line of people, chatting to each other until you hear someone to the left say something that makes your blood turn cold.

“Yeah, I don’t see what he sees in her,” a teenage girl says to her friend. “She must be searching for money or something because there’s no way Glen would be with someone so ordinary like her. She’s not even that pretty.”

“Yeah, I agree. She seems like such a golddigger. Like where did she even come from?” Her friend responds.

You stop in your tracks at that, Cyndy’s brows furrow in their direction and she wraps an arm around your waist.

“Don’t listen to them. That’s just jealousy talking,” she whispers in your ear.

You only nod, scared if you spoke, you’d cry. Instead, you and Cyndy walk toward the car that’s meant to drive you all back to Glen’s house and wait for Glen there.

By the time he joins you all, you’re barely speaking and holding it together. On the car ride back to his place, you text your charge nurse, Kathy, and ask her to put you in the schedule for the whole week.

Kathy: are you sure? That’s a lot of hours and you’ll be exhausted by the end of it all.

You: trust me, I need the distraction and the money. I’ll be fine.

Kathy: alright, you’re set up for the whole week.

You sigh to yourself, earning a light nudge and smile from Glen.

“Are you okay?” He asks.

You smile up at him and lean onto his shoulder. “Yeah, just got a text that I’ll be working all week.”

“Oh no,” he says. “Can you find a replacement?

“Unfortunately no,” you tell him. “We’ve been so short staffed, they’d barely let me leave for lunch.”

“Hopefully all that overtime means you can come with me to London next week.”

You only smile and nod.

The thing about dating Glen that you never got used to was the way that he’d pay for everything you two did. You knew there was an imbalance when it came to money but never brought it up because he’d always been so happy to pay for everything. But after hearing what those two girls were saying…. Your pride, or something like it, felt like it was wrong to let it continue to happen.

You didn’t want to seem like a gold digger after all.

With this week of twelve hour shifts, you’d be able to afford the ticket, maybe some souvenirs?

Maybe I should text Kathy to set me up for sixteen hour shifts all week.

You text her when you get back to Glen’s place.

———

By the time Wednesday rolls around, you know asking for a week of work plus adding four more hours to your shifts was a mistake.

Glen tried to stay up and wait for you, but he’d be fast asleep in bed by the time you got out of the shower.

On top of not being able to really see him, you yourself were exhausted. Your body becoming so tired, even sitting down was hard because you’d fall asleep. So instead of sitting down during your shift, you’d stand.

At the end of your shift on Wednesday, you could barely keep your eyes open on the drive back home. And when you did get home, you didn’t even bother getting out of your scrubs before collapsing onto the couch and falling asleep.

“This isn’t normal, mom,” you hear Glen say faintly. “She’s working herself to death and I’m just…I’m worried for her.”

The next morning, you rub your eyes when your alarm blares in your ear. Sitting up from the couch, you race to the shower, peeling off your scrubs from the night before, and quickly showering to wake yourself up.

When you step out of the bathroom, you find Glen standing there with a cup of coffee ready for you.

“Good morning, baby,” he says, kissing you.

“Did I wake you?” You ask, taking the cup and sipping.

“No, I’ve been waking up early to make sure you get everything you need for work,” he tells you.

“Thank you,” you smile. You look down at your watch and sigh. “I have to get going.”

“I packed you lunch and extra clothes so that you don’t have to shower when you get home. Maybe you’ll sleep in the bed tonight?” His eyes are hopeful and you can’t help but feel so bad.

He’s doing all of this for you and yet you’re trying to avoid him—to an extent.

“I’ll try to,” you tell him. “I’ve just been so tired to walk up the stairs.”

“Then I’ll set something up for us before you get home,” he tells you. He kisses you before adding, “I’ll see you later.”

———

You’re halfway into your shift when you get the trauma of the day, maybe even the year.

You’re running, trying to grab the necessary supplies you need for the CPR that’s on its way when you suddenly feel the world begin to spin out from under you.

One second you’re stuffing you pockets with extra flushes and vials for bloodwork, the next your vision is blurring and going black.

When you finally wake up, you’re at the hospital still but in a room. The beeping of the monitor next to you grounds you in reality enough look around the room. Glen sits in a chair on the other side of you, worry and fear painted all over his face.

“Glen?” You croak.

“Oh my god,” he says, turning you and grabbing your hand. “Are you feeling okay?”

“For the most part,” you mumble. “What happened?”

“Kathy told me you fainted from exhaustion,” he tells you. “You shouldn’t have been working so many hours so close together. You could’ve gotten seriously hurt. You’re lucky someone was there to break your fall.”

He sighs, running his hand through his hair before asking, “What were you thinking working so many hours for so long?”

“I don’t know,” you lie.

“Yes you do. Tell me,” he urges.

You sigh, rubbing your eyes before looking at him. “I can’t afford to go to London.”

“I’ll pay for your ticket,” he quickly says.

“Glen, I don’t want you to.” This was going to be hard. “I want to pay for myself.”

“I don’t mind doing it, baby.” He searches your face before adding, “There’s more, isn’t there?”

“Yes,” you answer. You squeeze your eyes shut before opening them and taking his hand in yours again. “I don’t want you to think I’m a gold digger.”

“Why would I think that?”

“Because you pay for everything!” You exclaim. “I don’t think it’s fair that you spend money on me and I can’t do the same for you.”

Glen smiles at you, kissing the inside of your wrist. “Y/N, there’s nothing that makes me happier than paying for everything. If I get to spoil you by taking you to London or paying for our dinners and rent, then that means I’m doing my job. I never want you to feel like you’re freeloading or being a gold digger around me.”

He tilts your head back to face him completely before continuing. “Baby don’t ever feel like that’s what you are because you’re not. I’m so grateful to do it for you. In fact, I love doing it.”

“Are you sure?” You ask.

“Very,” he tells you. “So you can stop with the extra shifts. I already talked to Kathy about giving the rest of the week off.”

Tears prick your eyes as you pull him in for a kiss.

“I love you so much.”

“And I love you more,” Glen says. “But don’t do that again. Please?”

You laugh. “I promise I won’t.”

[seoulmatez]

𝓈𝓅𝑜𝓉𝓁𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉

being itoshi rin's publicist is no easy feat.

itoshi rin x reader ﾉ sfw ﾉ fluff ﾉ pro athlete!rin ﾉ publicist!reader ﾉ thinly veiled feelings lol :3

“Jeez, Rin, you’ve really done it this time.” You click your tongue and close your laptop, setting it beside you on the couch. The sun has barely risen and you can already feel a headache coming on. The catalyst for it seems entirely unbothered, turquoise eyes closed, limbs stretched purposefully out on his yoga mat that’s situated on the floor.

His utter indifference toward the matter (despite his silence, you’re positive he knows what you’re referring to)  is almost enough to make you laugh. For as long as you’ve known him, perhaps you should have seen this coming. 

An event Rin’s entire team was set to attend took place last night, and, as his publicist, it was your job to make sure he looked good. An amazing stylist handled his attire and you were sure you did your part well too, preparing a date to accompany him for the night. An up-and-coming model with promising prospects, you believed that the two would make an ideal pairing, at the least for the duration of the event. 

You turned away for one second, which was seemingly more than enough time for Rin to go against all the advice you’ve spent who knows how long drilling into his head for these occasions. The moment happened with your back turned—the woman’s hands had clasped around Rin’s, nothing out of the ordinary for what anyone would expect of a date. Though, Rin has never been too keen on physicality off the field and he made that much known when he snatched his hand back.

He made the incident out to be minor when he recounted it to you after you pestered him for details on the commotion and just why his date became so distant. Only after seeing the video of it do you realize how bad it really looked.

“You couldn’t play nice for one night? Every media outlet with that clip is painting you out to be some cold, unloving monster now.” You stretch your leg out to nudge his shoulder with your foot, a show of your disapproval. Whether it’s that or your words, something seems to have finally caught Rin’s attention, coaxing him to open his eyes and turn to face you.

“She touched me. You know I don’t like being touched.”

You do know that. It’s something you make sure to mention to all of his dates—you just never thought he’d have such a visceral reaction. Watching the video back made it seem like he touched a hot stove with his bare hand. He’s never acted that way with you.

“I get it, but it’s not a good look, Rin—different dates to every event, barely making eye contact with them.” No one can deny his talent on the field and, in that aspect, he’s quite likable. Though, outside of his athletic prowess, the name Itoshi Rin doesn’t conjure pleasant and positive thoughts. You know him better than most people, maybe better than anyone, and all you want is for people to see him the way you do. He’s not a bad guy; you wouldn’t have stuck by his side for so long if he was. “Isn’t there someone you have at least a little bit of interest in? Someone you wouldn’t mind talking to every now and then? Say the name and I’ll make it happen.”

His gaze is locked onto yours, and it’s almost hard to believe that he was barely paying you any attention just a moment ago. “Can’t you just come to this sort of stuff with me?”

“Your first choice is your publicist?” You know that, outside of work, Rin doesn’t foster many relationships, platonic or romantic. Still, the fact that he didn’t even hesitate to mention you makes you wonder just how few connections he’s made on his own. “That’s sad, Rin.”

You don’t miss the way he rolls his eyes at that. It’s almost like when you’d poke fun at him in high school for not asking anyone to the dance, for practically darting your way whenever a partner project was introduced. Dots start to connect in your mind as you think back on the past, painting a picture that’s just now becoming clear. You’ve always been his first choice.

“Before you’re my publicist, you’re my friend,” he tells you, eyes still locked onto yours. The intensity in his stare convinces you that he means it, but you never doubted that. “Besides, you said name anyone.”

“I did, but don’t you think you should at least try to explore your options?” You’re sure that if Rin allowed anyone to get to know him, they’d like him just as much as you do. You don’t want to be the reason he’s so closed off—unwilling to look at someone and see a friendship or something more. “I don’t want to be someone who’s holding you back.”

“You aren’t holding me back,” he assures you, leaning forward on his mat, fingers stretching to reach for his toes. He pauses, and silence envelops the room for a few seconds, only the chirping of the birds outside audible before he speaks up again. His voice feels quieter, softer, a bit more distant. “You’re more than enough for me.”

More than he deserves, he thinks to himself.

He can feel your gaze practically burning a hole into his back, so sharp that he simply can’t bring himself to meet it. He clears his throat and closes his eyes like they had been earlier. “It’s either you or no one.”

You chuckle, leaning back against the couch cushion. It’s not often that Rin gets pushy with this kind of stuff, demanding over work matters. It’s oddly refreshing to see him opinionated about something that he usually tasks you with handling. And maybe, you’re the tiniest bit flattered that, even after all these years, you’re still his person.

A smile lingers in your voice with your next words. “You got it, boss.”

It’s muffled, but you can hear Rin scoff from his folded position on the floor. “I told you not to call me that.”

“Fine, fine.” You should leave him alone—work talk this early in the morning annoys the man and you’re sure that your teasing isn’t helping much either. Despite that, you can’t help but fit one more jab in before breakfast. “You’re not going to freak out if I try to hold your hand, are you?”

He clicks his tongue in annoyance. “No.”

Not in the way you’re implying, anyway.

manon here ( ≧ᗜ≦) thanks for reading! if u enjoyed, reblogs are greatly appreciated!

[verstappenf1lecccc]

Could you please write something with Lando when you have been dating for nearly 3 years before you broke up with you being an actress and he an F1 driver it was an really public break up and it got quit ugly with Lando not understanding why you broke up with him and of course the whole thing got discussed in length on social media. When you attend the Oscars two weeks after the break up you're plan was too get drunk and dance but when you get sat next to an charming British actor you can't help yourself you laugh so much like you haven't in a very long time and when you two leave the after party early with you wearing his suit jacket and holding onto his arm you know that there are cameras and paparazzi's everywhere and that the pictures will be blastered on every gossip magazine but you don't really care. The next morning you get woken up by you’re phone ringing you ignore it the first four times but when it’s the fifth time you have enough you know exactly that it’s Lando and you know better then too pick up you still do it his first question is if you fucked him and you would like to tell him too go fuck himself that it’s none of his business anymore but yes you did and you know that it will make him even more angry and so you tell him the truth and how good it felt let him get blue from anger and envy maybe he then lets you finally alone.❤️

this is one of my favourites!!!

“Party 4 you”

Lando Norris x Actress!Reader x Matthew Broome

You used to rehearse your smile in the mirror.

Three years of premieres, paddocks, afterparties, and carefully timed Instagram posts every single one a performance. Every step beside Lando Norris was a silent prayer: Notice me. Choose me. Just look at me like I’m enough.

But you never said it out loud.

You played the role of the cool girlfriend. The understanding one. The one who didn’t mind the missed birthdays or the forgotten flights or the phone calls that cut off mid-sentence because he had “media to do.” You were the girl who waited backstage, smiling, silent, perfect.

And the worst part?

You told yourself that was love.

You dressed up for him like a party. You showed up glowing and golden, built from scratch every night. And he’d show up late or not at all. A kiss to the cheek. A distracted hand on your waist. A caption-less photo.

He never asked what dress made you feel beautiful.

He never noticed when your laugh changed.

He never saw you.

But you saw him. God, did you see him.

You saw every tired line in his face after a bad race. Every beat of doubt he never spoke. You loved him quietly. Fiercely. Exhaustingly. Until one day, you were sitting alone in your car outside his Monaco apartment, mascara drying on your cheeks, shaking fingers on your steering wheel, and the silence of your own birthday echoing in your ears and you realized:

You’d thrown every party for him.

And he never once RSVP’d.

The break-up was a war.

Not in person. No, Lando didn’t even come to the conversation. He just said, “You’re seriously ending it? Just like that?”

As if it hadn’t already been ending for months.

As if you hadn’t already mourned him in a hundred hotel rooms, with his voice cutting out mid-“love you.”

Social media devoured it. Gossip accounts speculated.

He stayed quiet, mostly.

Except for that one Twitch stream.

“She ended it out of nowhere. Guess that’s just how it goes.”

And just like that you were cold. Calculating. Heartless.

No one knew you cried so hard you threw up the night before.

No one knew you stopped eating for three days after.

No one knew how long you waited before finally posting a picture of yourself, smiling because your publicist said you had to.

They all thought you moved on.

But you hadn’t even started.

The next three to five months were a haze.

You learned how to breathe again, between broken nights and empty apartments.

You learned how to show up for yourself instead of waiting for someone else.

You learned how to not be a party thrown for one person who never came.

The pain dulled. It didn’t vanish. But you grew stronger, piece by fragile piece.

And then, Matthew Broome walked into your life like a fresh breeze cutting through the stale air of your heartbreak.

It started slowly at the Oscars.

You were hesitant to go.

Your agent had insisted.

“You need to remind the world you’re still here.”

You put on the gold dress the one with the slit high enough to say I’m dangerous now.

You put on the red lipstick the one that never smudged because you needed armor.

You smiled.

And smiled.

And smiled.

But Inside, you felt like a ghost.

And then he was there.

Matthew, charming and easy, sliding into the seat next to you.

You didn’t mean to laugh.

But he whispered something funny about the host’s painfully slow speech, and the sound slipped out of you unfiltered, loud, real.

It startled you.

Because for a moment, something inside cracked.

Not breaking or opening.

“I don’t remember the last time I laughed like that,” you told him.

“Then I’m glad I could be the one,” he smiled.

You danced.

Not for Lando. Not for the cameras.

But For yourself

You drank champagne and spilled stories you hadn’t dared to tell anyone.

You left the afterparty early.

His jacket was warm on your shoulders.

Your hand curled around his arm.

You knew the cameras were waiting.

You let them see.

Because this time, the smile was real.

The next morning, your phone rang five times.

You knew it was Lando.

You ignored the first four.

The fifth time, you answered.

He didn’t say hello.

“Did you fuck him?”

You exhaled, slow and steady.

“You really calling me for that?”

“Did you?”

“Yes.”

It was a bomb.

You imagined him, furious, jaw clenched, eyes dark.

“You didn’t waste any time.”

“I wasted three years, Lando.”

He was silent.

“You know what it felt like? To be loved? To be wanted? To finally be seen?”

You didn’t lie.

The silence was different now less angry, more devastated.

“I waited for you. I threw every party for you. And you never came.”

The line went dead.

With Matthew, you didn’t have to be the party.

You just got to be.

Coffee dates that weren’t photographed.

Dinners where you could laugh without a mask.

Texts that didn’t need to be framed or curated.

And you laughed.

Really laughed for the first time in years

Months passed.

You and Matthew grew closer.

Quieter love.

No cameras.

No expectations.

You married on a rainy autumn day.

Laughter came easily.

You were whole.

One night, the phone rang again.

Lando.

You didn’t answer.

But the voicemail played.

It was Matthew’s voice, light and warm.

“Hey, this is Mr. Broome… and Mrs. Broome.”

Your laughter, bright and happy, floated behind his words.

A sound Lando never cared enough to listen to before.

He pressed replay.

That giggle the life he never saw, the joy he never gave.

And for the first time, he felt the weight of every party he’d missed.

He still, he threw parties.

Empty ones.

Chasing shadows.

Chasing a love that had already danced away.

Because the woman who waited for him?

She was dancing.

And finally, laughing.

[aquaholicsanonymousworld]

Two Sides, Same Coin | Austin Butler x CoStar!Reader

The press junket was hell. You’d both said as much—half-joking, half-serious—while seated side by side for yet another back-to-back interview circuit that felt like an eternity. The lights were hot, the air stale, and yet, when the cameras turned on, you and Austin flipped the switch like pros.

"Okay, next question," the interviewer chirped. "Fans love your chemistry. I mean, TikTok has gone crazy—"

Austin grinned, lazy and slow, tipping his chin toward you without even glancing your way. "Oh yeah?"

You smirked, elbow grazing his as you leaned forward. "We’re just really good at pretending we don’t hate each other."

Austin barked out a laugh, head tilting back, and the interviewer laughed too, oblivious to the charged energy snapping between your glances.

"But seriously," they pressed. "People are shipping you guys hard. Any chance of art imitating life?"

Austin raised his brows and turned to you with that smirk that had become a little too familiar lately. "You tell 'em."

You licked your lips—bad move, the internet always caught that—and shrugged. "Wouldn’t work. We’re the same person. Two sides of the same coin. We’d implode."

Austin’s grin widened. "True. She'd kill me in my sleep."

The room laughed. The cameras clicked. The fandom on Twitter prepared to go feral. But beneath the jokes, under the smooth PR lines and polished smiles, you both knew better.

Later that night, there was no camera when his hand found yours under the table at the after-party. It was instinctual now. A brush of fingers here, a squeeze there, small enough that anyone watching wouldn’t think twice. But you felt it—every pulse of it.

"You wanna get out of here?" he muttered against the rim of his glass, pretending to sip. You didn’t answer. You just stood up, and he followed like it was the most natural thing in the world.

The car ride was silent. Charged. His thigh brushed yours once, twice. Neither of you moved away.

At his place, the door barely clicked shut before you were on him. His hands found your waist, rough and familiar, as you shoved him back against the wall, lips crashing together like you’d been holding back all day. Because you had. Because you always did.

"You’re an asshole," you panted against his mouth.

His grin was dangerous now, all teeth and tongue. "Takes one to know one."

You pulled him down by the collar of his shirt, claiming his mouth again. This was the pattern—public distance, private chaos.

The next morning, TMZ had pictures of you both leaving the same restaurant, hours apart but unmistakable. DeuxMoi had an anonymous tip about "seeing them at a private booth, looking cozy."

Your phone blew up. Your publicist texted: "Keep it flirty but deny, deny, deny."

Austin's text came in right after: you see this shit? lol. they’re convinced we’re in love. we’re not, right?

You rolled your eyes and sent back: please. i’d eat glass.

But the next text from him was: dinner again tonight? come over. no glass eating required.

And you said yes. Like you always did.

The world kept watching.

Every interview, every press event, every grainy paparazzi shot only added fuel. You leaned into it, because it sold tickets. He leaned into it, because he liked watching you squirm under the spotlight.

On Jimmy Kimmel, you called him your "evil twin." In GQ, he called you "the only person who can keep up with me."

The internet dubbed you "Hollywood’s last real movie stars." Edits of your red carpet touches and stolen glances trended weekly. Fancams soundtracked your interactions to Lana Del Rey songs and whispered captions like "they’re so obvious."

But behind closed doors? It was messier.

It was late nights at his place, tangled in sheets you pretended didn’t mean anything. It was arguments that turned into kisses. It was whispered confessions at 2 a.m. about how exhausting it was to always play the game.

"You know this is bad, right?" you muttered once, head on his bare chest. His fingers traced lazy circles on your spine.

He hummed. "Yeah."

"We’re gonna fuck it all up."

His hand stilled. "Probably."

And then he kissed your forehead like it was the most normal thing in the world.

By the time the movie premiered, the rumor mill had reached a fever pitch. You both walked the red carpet separately, per studio orders. But inside the theater, he found your hand in the dark, fingers lacing like muscle memory.

No cameras caught that part. No fans made an edit of how tightly you gripped him during the love scene that played on screen. But you felt it. Deep in your chest.

The world saw two actors with insane chemistry, two sides of the same coin. Too alike to last. But you knew better.

Because when the lights came up and the crowd roared, Austin turned to you, blue eyes bright, smile soft just for you. And you squeezed his hand back.

[nakidoriii]

See you later, Mr. President (Part 5)

Hawks x FemReader! mini series

FIND PARTS 1-4 HERE

Warnings: adult themes, smut, anxiety, accusations of sexual assault, creampie || MDNI

Art: Pinterest! (If you know the artist please tag them! )

“The media is taking this story and running with it, Mr.President. You’ll need to make an announcement addressing it.” Keigo’s publicist said over the phone.

“Will I need to reveal the identity of the woman in the video?” Kiego says sternly.

“Possibly… we can try to avoid it since in the video you can’t really see her face but it is very obvious that she’s not from here. The internet might find her on their own. Who is she, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“It’s Y/N. She works with the company that wants to do business with the HPSC. We’ve been secretly going out for a month. Her company told her that she is not to get involved with anyone who works at the HPSC. I'm afraid she’s going to lose her job because of this.” Keigo explains.

“I remember meeting her in the office a few times. She’s very sweet and it’s sad that her company would fire her over this. Ultimately, we need to see how the public reacts to this and what it does to your public image. People might love it since it plays into your old reputation before the war or it could be perceived in a different light…a negative one. I’ll write up something for you to say but I know you will end up saying whatever comes to you at the moment.”

He lets out an agitated sigh and says, “This is such a load of crap but it is what it is. Thank you. Sorry for bringing you into this mess.”

“It’s my job, Mr. President. Try not to worry too much?”

“I don’t give a fuck about what the public thinks. I wouldn’t even respond to this if she wasn’t involved. I’m terrified to know what Y/N will say.” He says nervously.

“It’ll be okay. Keep me updated, sir.” She says as she hangs up the phone.

Keigo walks over to the bathroom that you’re in and knocks on the door. He figured that your phone call was about the video too. He just wanted to confront the situation head on.

“Y/N, Can you open the door?” He says while pressed up against the door.

Keigo knew that you couldn’t have been taking this well. He felt terrible knowing that he’s the reason this is happening to you. You open the door with your phone pressed against your ear. You look at him. Your eyes were glossy from the tears you’re trying to hold back. Your face was honestly a mix of emotions. You looked pissed but your eyes showed sorrow. All Keigo knew was that he needed to fix all of this.

“I have to go, Mira. I need to talk to Keigo so we can figure this out.” You say into the phone. You hang up and give him your undivided attention. You press your lips together and cross arms, waiting for him to say something.

“I am so deeply sorry. You have every right to be upset. I don’t know what I was thinking, acting like that in a public setting and I know better. I was the number two hero of Japan and I didn’t think to check for fucking cameras?” He says with his hand resting on the back of his neck. “I will do everything in my power to make sure we can fix this. Remember what I told you? I’m an optimistic guy. I will fix this.” He declares.

You want to be angry at him but his words just make tears form in your eyes. You press your lips together as they start to quiver. Keigo notices and starts to say, “No, nooooo, don’t cry, baby.”

Too late. The tears come streaming down your face as he pulls you into a hug. You couldn’t hold them back any longer.

“It’s not completely your fault. This was a mutual decision. Just knowing you have my back helps with the anxiety.” You spoke softly through your tears.

“I will take the blame for everything. We will see how everything unravels tomorrow.” He says while rubbing your back. “But for now, we should finish our dinner.”

You can tell Keigo’s demeanor is slightly off. You rub your thumb over the scar that’s placed on his jaw. You were being soft with him, egging him on to tell you how he really felt, with your touch. He looked at you with such serious eyes.

“I don’t want to lose you over this.” He blurts out. “I am so unbelievably into you that I will shoulder this burden for you. My only goal is to make sure you’re happy with the outcome and if you aren’t, I’ll do whatever I can until you are.”

His words carried weight. Everything he said, he truly meant it. You were worried about the outcome but now you’re starting to believe him when he says he will handle it. Hearing those words lit a fire in you. You grab him by his face and pull him into a passionate kiss. He seems a bit surprised but he’s happy you're not upset.

“You won’t get rid of me that easily.” You say as you pull away from the kiss. “Let’s continue our dinner. You put a lot of thought and effort into tonight and it shouldn’t go to waste.”

You grab your phone and turn it off. He does the same. You smile at him as you both sit back down and continue your at home yakiniku. You reach for the wine bottle he had set out earlier and fill your cup.

“Have you ever been through something like this?” You say with a slight giggle.

“Hmm, I’ve been stabbed, shot, held hostage, kidnapped, been a part of publicity stunts, but I’ve never had a border line sex tape leak. That’s a new one for me. What about you?” He says nonchalantly.

“I haven’t been through any of that. What the fuck, haha.” You burst out laughing.

He starts to laugh with you realizing that the tape is not the craziest thing that’s happened to him. “What is one of the craziest things you’ve been through then?” He asks.

You think while taking a sip of wine. The thought comes to you and you say, “Okay, I emergency landed a full plane using my quirk.”

Keigo’s jaw drops as he realizes what you just said.

“What the actual fuck, hahaha. For someone who isn't a hero that’s a big fucking deal. Your quirk has to be more than just a high IQ, Y/N. What’s your real quirk?” He says while taking a bite.

“Fiiinnee.” You whine. “If I read a manual or instructions, I can do that said thing proficiently.” You admit.

“Ooohh, so you read the plane’s manual and you were able to land it.” You nod your head to his statement as you take another big sip of wine. “That must have had your adrenaline pumping.”

“Yea, it was crazy. I don’t know what took over me. I didn’t want anyone to die and then I thought to myself ‘Fuuuck, I’m gonna die if I don’t do something’ so I just got over myself and did it.” You said. You and Keigo started laughing, realizing that you were getting tipsy.

He finally felt that he was seeing the real you. You were so goofy and your sense of humor was unmatched. The way you’d talk with your hands when you got excited about something, or the way your laugh filled a room. He was falling for you, hard. By the time you two finished dinner, it was 3 in the morning. You managed to help him clean his kitchen even though you both were pretty drunk.

“Now that the kitchen is clean, I should probably head home.” You say as you dry the last dish.

Keigo bursts out laughing and says, “It’s 3 in the morning, you're not going anywhere. I have a guest bedroom and clothes you can wear.”

You were hoping he’d offer you to stay but you weren’t sleeping in a guest bedroom. You got up and hugged him from behind, wrapping your arms around his chiseled torso.

“Couldn’t I just sleep with you?” You say softly with your face pressed against his upper back.

He blushes at how forward you’re being with him. He loves it considering he usually makes the first move.

“Y-yea, you can sleep with me.” He stumbles over his words.

You started to rub on his torso, getting dangerously close to the bulge in his pants. He watched as you slowly began unbuttoning his pants. You took your time, wanting to tease him since you two often had quickies. You held your hand up his mouth and told him to spit. He does as you say almost immediately, knowing what your plan is. You kissed the back of his neck as you pulled out his dick and started stroking his hard on.

“Mmnnhh, Y/N. Yeaa, just like that.” He moans as he throws his head back. His eyes met with the back of his skull as you kissed and licked the outer shell of his ear.

“I love watching you squirm.” You whisper.

He moans and squirms as a response to your comment. You couldn’t help but leave hickeys on the side of his neck. You know, just like he did the first night you two shared together. The way your name kept spilling out of his mouth, you knew he was close. He places his hand on your wrist and stops you. Before you could even process what was happening, he turned around and placed his hand on the back of your neck, pulling you towards him. You shared the same breath as you looked into each other's eyes.

“Let’s take this upstairs.” He added in a low hum as he caressed your face.

He hikes up your skirt and picks you up by thighs. You wrap your legs around his waist while you hold onto him. You start to giggle as you two drunkenly head to his bedroom. He lays you down on his king sized bed, staying on top of you. It only took a matter of seconds before your skirt was balled up on the floor and your clit between his lips. His gaze was locked on you as he dragged his tongue through your slick.

“Keigo, fuck.” You whine as you push his face into your wetness.

He groans as if he was feeling your pleasure. He pushes your legs up to your ears as he buries his face deeper into your folds. You hold your legs in place allowing him to focus fully on you. He slides two fingers in as he continues sucking on your clit. Your small whimpers grew into long moans and curse words. Within a matter of minutes, he had you nearing your first orgasm of the night.

“You gonna cum for me, pretty girl?” He moans into you.

You start panting as you cum, legs up by your ears and shaking. You scream his name as you cover his face in your juices. He continues dragging his tongue up and down your slick as you ride out your orgasm. By the time you come down from your high, he’s already undressed and rubbing the tip of his cock at your entrance.

“Fuck, I love seeing you like this.” He moans. He furrows his brows once he realizes you still had your top on. “Take your fucking tits out.” He demands.

You bite your lip and do as he says, leaving you in just the jewelry you had on. He slides into you slowly, watching as your face contorts due to him stretching you out.

“Oh my god, you feel me in there baby?” He says as he slowly starts moving his hips.

You nod your head and say, “Mhmmm, you feel soooo good.”

He smiles at your response and picks up the pace. He props your legs onto his shoulders causing him to hit deeper into you. You couldn’t take your eyes off him, watching his abs flex as his hips snapped towards yours at an alarming rate. He always fucked you good but he was being nasty tonight. He turns his head and licks up your calf, his lips ending up around your toes.

“Ah! I love when you get like this.” Your words come out in between moans which fuels his arousal.

He leans forward, placing his hands on your waist as he fucks into you. Each thrust causes your tits to bounce in the moonlight. You desperately grip on to the sheets under you as he drills into you. He couldn't help but to smile once he heard you cry out. Your walls clenched around his dick as he pushed into your g-spot for a second time.

“You like that baby? Did I find your sweet spot?” He obviously knew the answer to that question but he wanted to hear you say it.

“Y-yes, fuck. right there!” You whine as you feel him pushing you towards your second orgasm of the night. At this point, you were seeing stars. The tight knot that’s been building up in your stomach was coming undone. Keigo thrusts only got deeper and harder as you came on him. He was trying his best not to cum but the feeling of your walls pulsating around him along with you talking him through it pushed him there. The little remarks you made about being filled with his cum also had a hand to play in his orgasm. Whenever you asked for it, he had to give it to you. How could he resist?

“Filled to the fucking brim.” He says as he pulls out of you, watching his cum spill out of you. He leans down and kisses your forehead before he walks over to his bathroom. When he comes back, he cleans you up and puts one of his old t-shirts on you.

“You need anything else, pretty girl?” He says in a low voice as he lays down next to you.

“I’m okay, my love.” You reply as you snuggle into his solid frame.

He wraps his arms around you, pulling you by his side. He leaves small kisses on the top of head as his hand snakes under the t-shirt you had on. His calloused fingertips rubbing up and down your back as you both fell asleep.

*******************************************************

Keigo is not typically a morning person. He often struggles getting out of bed. However, this morning, he had gotten up before you and went down to the kitchen to make breakfast. He was trying to make your day as smooth as possible even though it was going to be a bad day regardless.

“You’re up before me?” You say mid yawn.

“I am. You were knocked out.” He says as he walks over to you giving you a kiss on your forehead. “Good morning, how do you like your eggs?”

“Scambled, please.” He walks back over to the stove and starts cooking your eggs. You sit down at the kitchen island and examine scars on his back. They look like healed burn wounds. You let out a sigh and say, “Have you turned on your phone this morning?”

“I guess we have to talk about it huh? You ready to hear it?” You nod your head yes as you prepare for what he’s about to tell you. “I turned on both our phones. The video has gone viral with a split reaction from the public. Some people are saying that I assaulted you, others are saying it was passionate and that we know each other. Your employer has a feeling that it’s you in the video because they want to do a video call around noon today… with both of us.”

You get up from the barstool and start pacing around the kitchen. You pinch the bridge of your nose and let out a sigh, followed with, “Wait, they think you assaulted me?! Keigo, I have to make a statement! I would hate for your public image to be tarnished over accusations.”

“My publicist was saying that. She had a feeling some people would watch that video and think the worst. If you do make a statement, you’re revealing your identity to the public and to your employer. Which also means we’d have to announce that we are a couple. I don’t think your employer will like that.” He says as he plates your food and hands it to you.

“It has to be done. I don’t like that people are perceiving you that way, when that’s not the truth. At this point, I’ve accepted the fact that I could lose my job. I am scared but after what you said to me last night, I have to do the same for you. I will stand beside you and do whatever I can to clear these accusations. You’re such a good man. Itadakimasu.” You sit down with the food and start eating.

Hearing you say that you’d stick beside him gave him a full body chill. He wanted to tell you now more than ever that he was falling in love with you. He sits down next to you and starts eating his breakfast.

“Do you want to take a look for yourself?” Keigo asks.

“Yea, my mind is made up.” He hands you your phone. You stare at the black screen, nervous as to what will be on it when you open it. Keigo notices your hesitation and places his hand on your back.

“Remember, we will get through this.” He says softly as he rubs your back.

this zoom meeting about to go crazzyyy. new pitcure and dividers for part 5 since we are now half way through the series! I hope you all are enjoying everything!

PART 6

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