#and i barely qualify for that position

[starcurtain]

I know I've talked a lot about Alhaitham actually being one of the funniest characters in Genshin Impact, but every time I think about him, I find something new to laugh at.

Alhaitham's character stories and personal criticisms of Kaveh largely hinge on one specific point: That Kaveh's genius intellect and artistic abilities are incongruous with his idealism. Kaveh possesses more talent than a selfless person should reasonably have, leaving him vulnerable to constantly being taken advantage of.

However, Alhaitham states these complaints about Kaveh's personality while having the exact same problem himself.

Alhaitham is literally the definition of "personality and talents do not match." Sir, you are the pot calling the kettle black.

It's a given: Alhaitham is exceedingly competent. He is intelligent, rational, and capable of being impartial when needed. Despite being a slacker as the Akademiya's scribe, during his stint as the Acting Grand Sage, the game goes out of its way to note--in several places--that Alhaitham was actually going above and beyond what was expected of him, taking the position very seriously, uncovering and fixing major issues in the Akademiya, and demonstrating a deep care for the sanctity and future of the Akademiya as a whole when Sumeru's people's will to research and learn declined after the collapse of the Akasha.

By all accounts, Alhaitham is (was) a fantastic Grand Sage. Compared to Azar, who is shown as inherently self-aggrandizing and unconcerned with Sumeru's well-being, Alhaitham genuinely did his best during his brief time as Sumeru's leader, protecting students' research, concerning himself with how to address the people's problems, and even diving in to solve mysteries that normally would have been left for the matra. As Acting Grand Sage, we're told his behavior and judgments were fair, and he addressed problems immediately and with his full effort.

In short, there is literally no one else more qualified to be Grand Sage than Alhaitham.

And yet, despite possessing every talent needed to be the leader of a nation, Alhaitham doesn't have the personality for it. He has every single trait a good leader requires... And yet he refuses to be a leader. His own talent vastly exceeds the slow-paced life his personality leads him to seek, making his particular abilities more incongruous with his values than Kaveh's--by a mile. People keep trying to promote him into positions of leadership because his talents are so obvious, and yet he does everything in his power to deny his own abilities and instead fly under the radar--and under the level of his full potential too.

Awful hypocritical for you to claim Kaveh's talents don't match his personality when yours match even less, Alhaitham...

[trans-yllz]

JOB INTERVIEW WITH FISH AND WILDLIFE ACQUIRED.

[waywardsalt]

ive been rereading tnp and it’s bothering me so much i need to mention it here; it’s kind of insane how much the erins bend over backwards to make brambleclaw deputy, it’s kind of just nonsensical.

not even him not having an apprentice when he’s picked, though that is kind of wild, he just… there’s basically no good reason other than him being a main pov character and tigerstar’s son. literally any other thunderclan warrior who’s had an apprentice (barring maybe ashfur) would have been a better choice. thornclaw dustpelt sandstorm cloudtail brackenfur- brackenfur is one that firestar explicitly considers and the reasoning why he decides not to is so incredibly weak ‘oh i dont think he’d be right for leader’ number one what are you talking about number 2 then use him being deputy as an opportunity to help him become right for leader are you telling me firestar thinks the cat he once considered letting die in a fire is a better fit for leader than the cat he half mentored. dustpelt is clearly an experienced warrior, sandstorm is someone firestar obviously has faith in, thornclaw is experienced and i’m pretty sure you even see firestar consult him a few times (cloudtail is iffy bc thats cloudtail but he’d really be a better choice, just how he treats daisy and her kits would be an interesting justification for firestar making him second-in-command) but honestly besides the narrative jumping through hoops to act like the other very viable options are either secretly bad choices or otherwise ignore them (why is bramble the only cat we ever see jump to help firestar with stuff they just wrote everyone else to be silent or w/e) but in twilight where he arguably acts the most like de-facto deputy in leaf and squirrel’s pov he’s framed as a jackass half the book??? why would you do that if you intend to make him actual leader?? in his trial run of being kinda-not-deputy you just make him use his semi-authority to be cold and fucking mean to his friend and her buddy??? like i see him being qualified due to having experience being the travel group’s leader and whatnot, but barely anything else is done to make him realistically more qualified than anyone else- he just angsts about his ambitions and gets handed the position because starclan vouched for him for some damn reason even though by his society’s laws he should not be in that position

[sendmyresignation]

another number one's fun fact that's literally pissing me off. well no this is a wonderful fact that has emotional resonances but like the ways women contribute to music history is so vast and far reaching and its just never acknowledged. even in supposedly male-dominated scenes and genres its always there and this erasure is only worsened by the fact nobody behind the scenes is given their due, we only view musicians or like. producers (read: auteurs) as the genius and not the village full of people

[druidgroves]

my coworker is gonna make me burst a vessel i swear to god

[foldingfittedsheets]

When I was working at the sex shop I was pulling poverty wages. I loved my job but I was on food stamps and still barely getting by. When they hired the stores first male employee and he started at my pay rate after I’d been there for three years I quit.

I was initially really nervous when I saw the post for the mattress job. It listed a pay scale that I couldn’t even conceptualize and I appeared qualified. When I got an interview I was over the moon but also petrified. Reactions to my line of work often varied but most people were very embarrassed or skeptical. I worried about how I’d address it in the actual interview.

I lived far to the north of their headquarters and drove almost two hours to get there. When I finally arrived it was in the nicest thrift store clothes I could find, but I shrank inside to see a room full of older white men in nice suits waiting to be interviewed for the same job.

Why did I bother? I was decades younger than anyone else in the room, shabbily dressed, and I suspected I was the only afab person in the entire building. I stewed in my insecurities until I was called in.

The second I met my interviewer I was instantly put at ease. The man had the energy of a therapy dog, he was abound with positive, good natured energy. He was also incredibly beautiful. I grinned back at his welcoming smile as we said our pleasantries. But still. This very beautiful polished man seemed very innocent. How would the sex shop question go?

“I see here you worked at STORE?”

“Yes,” I said hesitantly.

“And that was sales? Or you just rang people up.”

“No, it was sales. I’d help people find products, we were encouraged to upsell, there was sales spiffs, and most importantly we educated customers on products to help them find what they liked best.”

He grinned approvingly and asked, “Can you give me an example of a time you successfully upsold a customer?”

I paused, wringing my hands before I asked, “How vague would you like me to be…?”

“Not at all!” He assured me. “Go for it!”

“Well. A man came in looking for something to make his fingers vibrate so when he was touching his wife it would enhance that sensation. We had cheap $10 cockrings that I showed him first. But we had a rechargeable waterproof one made of nicer material, and after I showed him a demo he bought that one.”

“How much was that one?”

“$110”

“Wow! You had an upsell of 100% from what he came in looking for! That’s incredible!”

He was so truly genuinely stoked and not at all embarrassed that for the first time I saw a tiny glimmer of a future where I didn’t have ramen and peanut butter tiding me over between paychecks.

He asked me to wait then came back to tell me he liked me so much that he wanted to send me right into another interview, if that was okay. He didn’t want me to have to drive back later, it was terribly considerate and exciting. I beamed and told him it would be lovely.

I then had the second worst interview I’ve ever had. The worst goes to the time I applied to be a store manager for a pet food place years later. The district and store manager interviewing me passed notes and texted while I was speaking. When the district manager called to inform me I didn’t get the job I told him I’d never have accepted anyway because I’d never had such a disrespectful interview.

The new man sitting behind the desk radiated an aura of a brick wall. As someone with anxiety I’m highly keyed into the emotional states of people I’m talking to. To receive no feedback at all was my personal hell. After a perfunctory greeting he asked me with no inflection to sell him a pen.

I gathered the shreds of my courage and attempted the Herculean task he’d set me. Through my whole improvised spiel he resisted all attempts at engaging him, regarding me with a cold apathy as I touted the benefits of my fictitious pen.

Halfway through I broke into a cold sweat. My smile didn’t waver but it grew strained as I projected friendliness and warmth into the black hole of his heart. My thoughts scattered and my sales pitch grew redundant in the face of his nothingness. I finally concluded with a hard close and he simply nodded.

He glanced at my resume and commented, “You didn’t ask me to touch or hold it. Though I suppose I can understand from your previous line of work why you wouldn’t.” I shriveled and died inside knowing that I encouraged people to touch dildos all day long and had been too frazzled to offer him the pen.

He bid me a cool farewell. I made it to my car before I started sobbing. I had never been so rattled. I couldn’t understand what I’d done to make him so unfriendly or if my threadbare clothes were what had made him treat me like dirt. I drove an hour and a half to get home, weeping intermittently.

I was therefore taken by complete surprise to receive a call the next day inviting me on board for their five week training program. The first man who’d interviewed me gushed on the phone about how the second guy had loved me and that I was going to be fantastic.

I was in shock. When I showed up to training the second interviewer was charming my new classmates, beaming and laughing. He was an utterly different person. To my dismay I learned he was the trainer for my district and would be my point of contact if I made it through training.

He joked with me later that his interview facade was just a tactic to see how people held up under pressure and I filed him into a category of my deepest enmity. I never forgave him for how small he made me feel that day, but I never showed him the depths of my fury.

I aced every test and went on to be valedictorian of the eight people who had survived the rigorous training process to earn a sales position. When I got my first paycheck I bought myself new clothes, the first non-thrifted things I’d owned in years.

[charlotteking27]

The pretty interviewer

Max Verstappen x reader

Summary: You are Max's favorite interviewer...so much that he will not stop flirting with you.

PT2: Pursuing the journalist

Three Races Earlier…

You stand off to the side of the paddock, fiddling with your Sky Sports F1 microphone. As the newest member of the broadcasting team, you typically handle the less significant interviews, while the veteran reporters get to speak with drivers like Max Verstappen. Today, you're set to interview one of the midfield teams.

The buzz in the paddock suddenly grows as Max comes out of the Red Bull garage after his stunning pole position. A crowd of reporters quickly surrounds him, microphones pushed forward, voices overlapping with "Max! Max, a moment, please!"

You watch from your quiet spot while he walks past them, his expression neutral and barely acknowledging them. This scene is familiar. Max is known for being choosy with the media and often speaks only to a select few senior reporters.

That’s why your heart skips a beat when his eyes suddenly turn to you. His face brightens with a smile, and before you realize it, he changes direction and walks confidently toward your corner.

"Sorry," he tells the stunned reporters behind him, not sounding sorry at all. "I'm giving my first interview to her."

You hear your producer’s voice in your earpiece: "Wait, what's happening?"

Max stops right in front of you, that familiar half-smile on his lips. "Hi," he says casually, as if he hasn’t just brushed off every major broadcaster in the paddock.

"I… um…" You struggle to collect your thoughts, acutely aware of the jealous stares from the other reporters. "Hi?"

He laughs softly at your surprise. "You're new, right? I've seen you around. You ask good questions – technical ones. Not just the usual PR stuff."

"I… yes, I started this weekend," you manage to reply, still in shock. "But shouldn't you be talking to—"

"I'm talking to exactly who I want to talk to," he cuts in, his Dutch accent somehow stronger when he speaks softly. "So, would you like to hear about that qualifying lap?"

𐙚

That first interview changed everything. Since then, Max has asked to give you his post-session interviews. Each one became more flirtatious than the last. This brings you to today.

The Red Bull garage looms ahead as you adjust your Sky Sports F1 microphone for the thousandth time. Post-qualifying interviews are routine by now, but nothing about interviewing Max Verstappen has ever felt normal. Especially not since he started doing whatever this is.

"Three minutes," your producer says through your earpiece. You try to focus on your questions, but all you can think of is last week's interview. Max had deliberately held your gaze so long that you forgot the second half of your question.

He emerges from the garage, race suit tied at his waist as usual. Your heart skips a beat as he approaches, wearing that annoying half-smile that makes you forget basic English.

"Max, congratulations on another pole position," you begin professionally.

"Thanks," he interrupts, eyes shining. "I was hoping it would be you interviewing me today."

You feel warmth creeping up your neck. Stay professional, you remind yourself. "That last lap was incredible. How did you find the grip through—"

"The grip was good," he says, leaning slightly closer than necessary. "But you seem a bit nervous today. Everything okay?"

Your producer chuckles in your ear. Traitor.

"I'm perfectly fine," you manage, though your voice comes out higher than you wanted. "About turn three—"

"You're cute when you're flustered," he says quietly, just low enough that the microphone won't catch it. The smirk on his lips tells you he knows exactly what he's doing.

You almost drop your notebook. "I'm trying to conduct an interview here," you whisper back, fighting a smile.

"And I'm trying to ask you out," he counters smoothly before raising his voice back to interview level. "But yes, turn three was tricky today. The crosswind made it challenging."

Your face feels like it's on fire. You're painfully aware of the camera rolling, capturing what must be the most unprofessional blush in F1 broadcasting history.

"Speaking of challenges," Max continues, clearly enjoying himself, "there's this great restaurant in Monaco that's almost impossible to get into. I have a reservation for two tomorrow night if you're interested in discussing race strategy, of course."

You hear your producer choking back laughter. "The interview, Max," you remind him, trying to sound stern despite your racing heart.

"Right, right. The interview." He grins. "But about dinner…"

"Maybe we should finish talking about your qualifying lap first?" You're fighting a losing battle against your smile now.

"Fine," he sighs dramatically, then winks. "But just so you know, I'm going to keep flirting with you until you say yes."

Your producer is practically cackling now. "Best. Interview. Ever," she whispers in your ear.

"The qualifying lap, Max," you insist, but you’re grinning too.

"The qualifying lap," he agrees, finally sitting up straight and attempting to look serious. "But I should warn you, I'm very persistent. Almost as persistent as I am on track."

You shake your head, trying to remember your questions through the butterfly storm in your stomach. One thing's for sure—this interview is definitely going viral on F1 Twitter.

And maybe, just maybe, you'll say yes to that dinner in Monaco.

𐙚

You barely remember how you finished that interview. Your mind is still spinning from Max's dinner invitation. But the real chaos is just starting.

Your notifications have not stopped buzzing since that interview aired. #MaxAndTheReporter is trending on Twitter, and F1 TikTok is having a field day with edited clips of every moment you and Max shared during the past three races.

"OMG THE WAY HE LOOKS AT HER," says one viral tweet, featuring a slow-motion clip of Max's eyes softening when he sees you in the paddock.

"Remember when Max used to HATE interviews? Now he’s literally running to them. #MaxAndTheReporter." This tweet includes a side-by-side comparison of his usual stern media face and his smile when he approaches you.

Your producer sends you a link to a fan-made compilation video titled "Every time Max Verstappen has flirted with the Sky Sports reporter (so far)." It has already gathered 2 million views.

Not everyone is convinced. "She's just another reporter," one skeptic tweets. "Max is probably just being nice."

That theory gets blown away during the next race weekend. You're interviewing Carlos Sainz when Max casually walks by. He does such an obvious double-take that Carlos starts laughing mid-answer.

"I think someone wants to interrupt this interview," Carlos teases, watching Max hover nearby with barely hidden impatience.

"He can wait his turn," you respond professionally, though your cheeks warm when you hear Max chuckle behind you.

"Can I?" Max calls out. "Because I'm pretty sure my dinner reservation is in an hour, and someone still hasn't given me an answer."

Carlos raises his eyebrows and grins. "Ah, so the rumors are true?"

Your producer's voice crackles through your earpiece: "The social media is going absolutely crazy right now. This is better than Drive to Survive!"

Later that evening, a photo appears of you and Max at a hard-to-get-into restaurant in Monaco. He is looking at you instead of the camera, with that soft smile on his face that F1 Twitter has named the "reporter smile." Fan theories start to explode:

"HE REALLY TOOK HER TO DINNER, I'M SCREAMING." "The way he only smiles like that for her.❤️" "Remember when we thought Max would never date someone in the F1 media? This man really said 'Watch me."

Your phone buzzes with a text from Max: "Have you seen we’re trending again?"

You reply with an eye roll, trying to ignore the butterflies that haven't settled since that first interview.

"Good," he responds. "Maybe now everyone knows why I only want interviews with you."

Your producer sends you a message: "Just wait until they see tomorrow's pre-race interview. The internet might actually break."

You smile, thinking about how a simple paddock interview three races ago changed everything. From a reluctant interviewee to whatever this is becoming, Max Verstappen has definitely kept his promise about being persistent.

And honestly? You wouldn't have it any other way.

[jeonglixie]

.

[yukkiji]

third time's the charm

you’ve had a quiet but unwavering crush on tsukishima kei throughout high school. from his sharp rejections in first year to the subtle softening of his guarded heart by third year, your persistence slowly breaks through his walls. between harsh words, stolen glances, and small acts of kindness, you both navigate pride, vulnerability, and the slow burn of something real — making you wonder if maybe, just maybe, third time’s the charm.

haikyuu masterlist. leave a little stardust on my ko-fi

starring. tsukishima kei x fem!reader ft. the first year gang (hinata, yachi, yamaguchi, kageyama)

genre: fluff, romance, slowburn, grumpy x sunshine,

wc: 4.4k

author's note: i got bit carried away with this one with the amount of words, since this a bit inspired by me having a crush on the same person during highschool and was always rejected lol thank god he always rejected me though hahahahha

it started with a rejection.

it was not the quiet, apologetic kind. it wasn't even a vague, gentle letdown.

you had barely even finished the words "i like you" before tsukishima kei, obviously unmoved, muttered a flat, "no thanks. i'm not interested."

you blinked at him under the afternoon sun, heard thudding in your ears, too stunned to process the way he turned and walked away. no sugarcoating. it was just typical tsukishima. just cold, brutal honesty.

and yet—somehow—you didn't give up.

you first met tsukishima kei through yachi hitoka.

you were from a different class, but the two of you had been friends for a while—neighbors in the same apartment building, often walking home together or sharing snacks after school.

one afternoon, yachi had roped you into helping her carry boxes of water and first aid supplies to the gym. she had just been recruited as karasuno’s new volleyball manager and was still fumbling her way through the responsibilities.

you didn’t have any real reason to say yes—you weren’t particularly into volleyball, and you weren’t especially interested in sports. but you owed yachi a favor, and her pleading eyes were hard to resist.

that’s when you saw him.

tall, aloof, and sharp-tongued, tsukishima wasn't exactly what you'd call approachable. but something about him fascinated you. maybe it was the quiet fire behind his eyes, or how he seemed to carry the weight of ambition without ever admitting he cared.

you didn't know what possessed you to like him.

maybe it was the way his eyes narrowed in concentration or how he always looked vaguely annoyed with the world, yet never missed a block. maybe it was how he ignored the chaos around him, but occasionally paused to push his glasses up in a way that made your chest flutter.

whatever it was, it rooted itself in your chest.

you started showing up to their practices more often, usually using yachi as an excuse. “just helping her out,” you’d say, even though at this point, everyone knew better. you never minded being there, quick to lend a hand with anything yachi needed—water bottles, towels, stats, errands. you blended in so easily that before long, you became the team’s unofficial third manager.

kiyoko even offered you the position formally once, but you gently turned it down with a smile. helping out was enough. you didn’t need a title.

you started small—an energy drink with a bright post-it that said “good luck!” (delivered by yachi, of course). then a neatly wrapped onigiri for one of their practice matches. a chocolate bar with a tiny sticker that simply read “for #11.”

yachi always handed them off with a knowing grin, and though tsukishima never said much, you noticed he never refused them either.

a few weeks later you confessed.

he didn't even blink. "no thanks, i'm not interested"

it stung.

you should've stop.

but you didn't.

"it's okay!" you smiled. "i'll still cheer for you."

tsukishima scoffs, before walking away.

you kept your promise. when it was the final match of the miyagi prefectural spring qualifiers against shiratorizawa, you were there—cheering him on from the stands, sitting beside yachi, nerves buzzing through your fingertips.

tsukishima glanced your way from time to time. every time he did, he'd scoff and look away like he hadn't been caught. like the flush at the tips of his ears didn’t give him away.

“tsukki’s blocks are on point today,” yachi said, eyes wide in awe.

“i’ve noticed that too,” you murmured, leaning forward in your seat. “maybe it’s because this is the finals. if they win, they’re going to tokyo.”

“or maybe it’s because you’re here,” she added, nudging your side.

you rolled your eyes but couldn’t stop the smile tugging at your lips.

before you could respond, the whistle blew—sharp and sudden. your gaze snapped to the court just in time to see kiyoko hurrying over, and tsukishima walking off, cradling his hand. from where you sat, you could just barely make out the smear of blood trickling down his pinky.

your stomach sank.

“he’s okay,” yachi said quickly, catching your expression. “probably just a jam. he’s had worse.”

you nodded slowly, though the worry didn’t ease. you weren’t their manager, and you couldn’t exactly follow him to the infirmary. all you could do was wait.

a few minutes later, he was back on the court—bandages wrapped neatly around his hand. he didn’t look at you this time, but you let out a quiet sigh of relief.

they won.

karasuno won.

the gym erupted in cheers and celebration. you followed yachi down from the stands to meet the team. the air was thick with sweat and adrenaline and the sweet buzz of victory.

amid the noise, you caught sight of tsukishima, slipping away toward the changing rooms. the bandage around his hand had started to unravel, the makeshift tape peeling from the corners.

“wait, kei,” you called softly.

he paused mid-step, turning with that familiar tired glance. you held up a small first-aid kit you’d snagged from yachi’s stash.

“let me help,” you said, voice low. “your pinky—it’s not taped properly.”

he hesitated, clearly reluctant. then, with a resigned sigh, he muttered, “fine. just be quick.”

you sat with him just outside the infirmary, the sounds of celebration still echoing faintly behind you. gently, you took his hand, cleaning the scrape with practiced ease.

“you’re not a medic,” he mumbled, eyes narrowed as he watched your hands.

“no,” you said, focusing on the wrap, “but i’ve had practice with sprains. and you’re not exactly gentle with yourself.”

he scoffed under his breath but didn’t pull away.

you worked in silence for a moment, your fingers brushing against his in quiet concentration.

“you didn’t have to do this,” he said after a beat.

“i wanted to,” you replied, eyes lifting to meet his. “you were amazing tonight.”

he looked at you—really looked at you—and for a second, something passed between you. unspoken. uncertain. not ready to be said out loud.

you tied the final bit of tape and gave his hand a soft pat. “there. try not to break more fingers next time, yeah?”

he clicked his tongue, eyes flicking away. “you’re annoying.”

you stood with a light laugh, brushing your hands on your skirt. “yeah. but i show up.”

you turned to leave, walking back into the noise and warmth of celebration, hoping he felt the meaning behind those words.

because you always had.

and when you didn’t go to see them off when they left for tokyo for nationals. and you couldn’t watch in person either—there was just no way you could skip your classes.

yachi, currently standing at your apartment door with her usual concerned pout, was pleading for you to come with them.

"please? just this once?"

you sighed. "i really can’t skip, yacchan. i’ll get in trouble if i do.”

she muttered under her breath, “tsukki’s gonna be in a foul mood if you don’t come.”

"what?"

"nothing," she said quickly, avoiding your eyes and pouting harder.

you handed her a small omamori and smiled. “give this to kei. tell him good luck.”

yachi gave you a look—half teasing, half fond—before carefully tucking the charm into her bag. “don’t you ever want to give up?”

you shook your head, firm. “nope.”

“well, who am i to stop you anyway.”

she delivered your apology and your good lucks to the team like she promised. and when she handed the charm to tsukishima, she couldn’t help but grin at him, smug and knowing, before walking off to join kiyoko.

back at practice in tokyo, hinata pouted, “it’s weird not having her around, isn’t it?”

yamaguchi grinned. “tsukki’s been extra grumpy. coincidence?”

“i am not,” tsukishima snapped, shooting them a glare.

yachi giggled nervously. “you do seem… quieter than usual.”

he shoved his glasses up. “don’t be ridiculous.”

but he didn’t deny it.

when second year rolled around, your feelings didn’t fade. if anything, they deepened. you still showed up to every game and practice matches and even made special chocolate for valentine's (you also made for the rest of the team since you've gotten close to them at this point). sometimes, even protein bars or sports drink after practice which is of course, delivered by yachi.

your persistence has become a running joke among the team.

yamaguchi once asked you with a laugh, "are you planning on confessing again today, or are you giving him a snack break first?"

you just grinned. "depends on his mood."

but underneath the teasing was a fondness—a recognition of how constant you were.

"he pretends he doesn’t care," yachi whispered during lunch, poking at her food, "but i saw him keep the wrapper from the chocolate you gave him."

you paused. "really?"

she nodded quickly. "he doesn’t throw your stuff out anymore. i think that’s progress."

you had no illusions. tsukishima wasn’t the type to fall headfirst into anything, let alone a high school crush. he was cold, calculating, and painfully aware of how others perceived him. but still, you kept showing up. and something began to shift.

you noticed it in little things.

he’d stop walking away so quickly when you talked to him.

he’d take the snacks directly from your hand instead of through yachi.

he’d grumble, "tch, unnecessary," but still pocket the sweets.

and when a third-year on the basketball team tried to flirt with you behind the gym one day, tsukishima appeared like a shadow.

"she’s busy," he said, stepping in just slightly in front of you.

"didn’t think you cared, tsukishima."

"i don’t. but she has bad taste, so someone has to keep her alive."

you were too stunned to respond.

but later that day, you gave him a lemon soda. he didn’t say thank you, but he drank it in front of you this time.

there was a time when you were helping yamaguchi and yachi pin up the last batch of sponsorship posters for the upcoming spring tournament when he said something that lingered longer than it should’ve.

“he gets grumpy when you’re not at games,” yamaguchi said casually, smoothing the corner of a poster against the wall.

you paused mid-staple. “what?”

he glanced at you, lips tugging into a grin that was far too knowing. “he’ll never say it out loud, but if you’re not there cheering, he’s just… off. his blocks aren’t as sharp. he gets snappy. i think he’s gotten used to having you around.”

you looked away, biting back a smile. the flutter in your chest was immediate—warm and foolish.

but then you remembered the way kei always scoffed when you stood too close. the way he rolled his eyes when yachi teased him. the way he’d say “you’re annoying” like it was a reflex.

you knew better than to read too much into it.

still—you showed up.

you always did.

your second confession came during the school festival.

the night air was cool against your skin, carrying the faint scent of grilled food and melted candy. the laughter and chatter of your classmates echoed in the distance, muffled by the steady beat of your heart as you walked toward the back of the school building.

fireworks lit up the sky above, loud and brilliant—explosions of crimson, blue, and gold that danced across the clouds and cast flickering shadows against the rooftop. the world felt briefly suspended in light.

and there he was.

tsukishima kei stood near the railing, just out of view from the main festivities, bathed in the soft glow of firework shimmer. his arms were loosely crossed, posture relaxed but solitary, as if the weight of the night pressed too closely in crowded spaces.

you hesitated at first, your fingers tightening around the hem of your sleeves. but you took a step forward anyway.

“kei.” you called out, gently.

he didn’t look surprised.

his eyes flicked toward you, half-lidded, unbothered. the familiar indifference was there in the slight tilt of his chin, the unimpressed slant of his brow.

“let me guess,” he drawled, his voice a little more subdued than usual, “another confession?”

you smiled, small. not embarrassed, not hopeful. just honest.

“yeah.”

a beat of silence followed. he didn’t scoff this time. didn’t shake his head or turn away. he just… looked up. toward the sky. toward the bursts of light painting the clouds.

“you’re wasting your time,” he said at last, tone flat, like he was stating a fact more than trying to hurt you.

you nodded slowly, the corners of your lips dipping in acceptance. “probably. but i still like you.”

another silence stretched between you. but it wasn’t heavy.

it felt like the space after a long breath. like neither of you needed to say anything else to fill it.

kei didn’t walk away this time.

he stayed there, hands in his jacket pockets, eyes on the horizon as the last few fireworks painted gold into his blond hair and soft shadows under his eyes.

he didn’t say thank you. or i’m sorry. or don’t.

but he didn’t push you away either.

his shoulders had relaxed slightly. the usual edge in his stance—the one that screamed don’t get close—had dulled. and though he didn’t look at you, he didn’t seem to mind your presence.

so you stood beside him, close enough to hear the way his breath caught with each firework burst.

the world was quiet in that little space you shared. no declarations. no grand romantic gestures. just the sound of distant music, the echo of fireworks, and the stubborn truth you carried in your chest.

you took his silence as progress.

because sometimes staying said more than any rejection ever could.

by the third year, something between you had changed.

you weren’t just a background character in his day anymore. you were there—persistent, present, and impossible to ignore.

you weren’t loud about it. never demanding, never clingy. but your presence threaded itself into his routine like a habit he didn’t remember forming.

you learned the rhythms of his life: when he had exams and needed space to study, when his knees hurt after long practices and he walked with just the slightest wince. you started carrying an extra pain patch in your bag without saying why. you knew when he wanted silence—those days when the weight of everything made him sharper-tongued than usual—and when he needed a distraction, even if he never asked for one.

he learned things, too. things you hadn’t meant for him to notice.

that you liked melon bread more than any other snack, even though you pretended not to be picky. that you always hummed softly under your breath when you were nervous—little melodies that stopped just short of forming actual songs. that your smile was always a little brighter, a little fuller, whenever you handed him something: a drink, a small note, chocolates during valentine’s—even when you knew he wouldn’t react the way you hoped.

he caught himself watching you more often than he liked to admit.

once, during a water break at practice, you were talking to yachi near the gym doors. your laughter filtered in easily, soft and light. tsukishima glanced your way—just a glance—and lingered too long.

yamaguchi caught him.

“you like her, don’t you?” tadashi asked later, a little too casually.

“shut up,” kei muttered, not looking up from the sports drink he was pretending to be way too interested in.

tadashi grinned. “you literally growled at that guy from nekoma for asking her where she bought her jacket.”

“he was being weird.”

“jealousy looks weird on you, kei.”

“i will end you.”

but even that was different. because he didn’t deny it.

and maybe that meant something.

still, it wasn’t all teasing and harmless glances. there were moments where something heavier settled between you—where kei seemed at war with himself, tugged between pride and something softer he didn’t quite know how to carry.

after a tough loss at an practice match—one that hit harder because it was close—he sat outside the gym alone. the sky was already going gray, the air damp with oncoming rain. everyone else had filed into the bus, too tired to say much.

you didn’t ask for permission. you just stepped off the bus, walked quietly over, and sat beside him.

you didn’t say anything. just handed him a canned coffee—his favorite kind, the bitter one you personally thought tasted like disappointment—and let the silence breathe.

ten minutes passed. long and quiet and a little raw.

finally, he spoke.

“you don’t have to keep trying.”

his voice was low. tired. defeated in a way you rarely saw from him.

“i’m not worth it.”

you turned to look at him, blinking slowly, your heart pulling tight.

“you don’t get to decide what’s worth it for me.”

his shoulders tensed, jaw clenching briefly. he didn’t look at you. but he didn’t move away either.

he didn’t say anything after that.

you stayed until he finished the coffee.

then nationals came around. when you heard karasuno had advanced to the semi-finals and made it back to center court, you were determined to be there. you were ready to pull some strings if you had to—but luckily, the vice principal was kind enough to approve a school trip for students to support the volleyball team in tokyo.

the nationals were everything.

for karasuno, it was the culmination of years of growth, grit, and stubborn perseverance. for you, it was watching him—the boy who once scoffed at your feelings—rise higher than anyone expected, one perfectly timed block at a time.

you cheered until your throat was raw. you clutched your chest with every rally. and when they secured third place, you stood in the stands, tears in your eyes and pride blooming so fiercely in your chest it almost hurt.

you were proud of all of them—of kageyama’s precision, of hinata’s impossible speed, of yamaguchi’s quiet bravery—but mostly, you were proud of him.

tsukishima kei.

he had changed. not loudly, not in some grand sweeping arc. but little by little, he had let himself care. you saw it in the way he threw himself into every play, in the way he smirked after a well-timed block, in the way he started calling his teammates by name.

but still, you didn’t confess that day. not yet.

because this time, you needed it to be real. not a question, not a whim, not a gamble.

late that night, when the stadium had emptied and the streets had quieted, you found him.

the gym was dim and nearly silent, save for the soft hum of the overhead lights and the distant clatter of janitorial carts somewhere down the hall. he stood near center court, his jersey still clinging to him with sweat and exhaustion. his head was tilted back, eyes tracing the ceiling as though he were still replaying the match in his mind.

you stopped in the doorway, watching him quietly for a moment.

“karasuno did amazing,” you whispered, the words reverent. like praise. like prayer.

he didn’t look at you, but his voice came low. “could’ve done better.”

you stepped closer, your footsteps echoing softly on the polished gym floor. “tsukki…”

he turned, eyes meeting yours finally.

“…this is the last time.”

his brows drew together, faintly. he said nothing, but you could feel the tension in the air tighten, like the pause before a serve.

“i like you,” you said, voice shaking but certain. “i’ve liked you for three years. but this is the last time i’ll say it. if you reject me now, i’ll stop.”

the silence stretched, taut as a string pulled too tight.

then he sighed. looked away.

“you’re so stupid,” he muttered, the words quiet but harsh. “wasting your time on someone like me.”

you bit your lip, but still smiled through the sting. “probably.”

something shifted. his shoulders, usually squared and defensive, lowered a fraction. and then—he stepped closer.

“you never left,” he said, softer now. “even when i was an ass. even when i pretended not to care.”

your breath caught. he wasn’t looking at you directly, but his hands were fidgeting at his sides, clenching and unclenching like he didn’t know what to do with them.

“i noticed,” he admitted. “everything. the snacks. the cheering. the stupid little notes you kept sneaking into my locker. i noticed all of it.”

his voice cracked slightly, like the admission cost him something.

“i just… i didn’t know how to deal with someone who actually gave a damn.”

you didn’t move. you didn’t speak.

then his hand lifted—hesitant, trembling just barely—and his fingers brushed against your cheek. awkward. gentle. like he was trying to memorize the shape of your face.

“i don’t want you to stop,” he whispered.

you let out a shaky laugh, relief bubbling up in your chest like the end of a long, aching winter. “took you long enough.”

and finally—finally—he leaned in.

you met him halfway.

the kiss wasn’t perfect. it was hesitant and slightly off-center, and you could feel the tremor in his fingers where they now cupped your jaw. but it was soft and real and so full of everything unsaid over three long years. years of cold shoulders, soft glances, unnoticed favors, and a hundred quiet hopes.

when you pulled away, breath mingling, your forehead rested against his, and for a moment, everything was still.

and then—

“tsukki kissed her!!”

hinata’s voice echoed across the gym like a fire alarm.

you both froze.

tsukishima turned slowly, murder in his eyes.

yachi stumbled into view, wide-eyed with panic. “we weren’t spying!”

“you were literally hiding behind the curtain,” you deadpanned, not even bothering to sound surprised.

“i tried to stop them!” yachi insisted, flapping her arms like a terrified bird. “they dragged me into it!”

yamaguchi emerged next, dragging a snickering hinata by the collar while kageyama followed, red-faced and visibly trying not to make eye contact.

“i swear to god,” tsukishima muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose, “i will kill all of you.”

“totally worth it,” hinata whispered loudly to yamaguchi, who was grinning like he’d just won the lottery.

“told you she’d get you eventually,” yamaguchi added, clearly far too smug for his own good.

you glanced at tsukishima. he was glaring, his cheeks faintly pink, jaw clenched like he was weighing the pros and cons of turning around and walking into traffic.

but his hand was still resting lightly against your back.

so maybe, you thought, as you looked at him—just maybe—he didn’t mind being caught after all.

graduation day arrived too soon.

the campus buzzed with a bittersweet energy—laughter ringing out over caps and gowns, tearful hugs exchanged in hallways, and the steady click of camera shutters capturing fleeting moments. you held your diploma in one hand and your future in the other, but your eyes searched for him.

and there he was.

standing beneath the arching cherry blossoms, hands in his pockets, tassel swinging lazily from his cap. the same spot where you’d confessed to him just a year ago. the same courtyard where everything had changed.

you walked over, heels crunching lightly on fallen petals, nerves fluttering even now—because even after everything, this still felt surreal.

"still not tired of me?" you asked, voice light, teasing—just enough to cover the emotion behind it.

tsukishima glanced your way, and for a moment, the world hushed.

he rolled his eyes, but the edge that used to come with it was gone—softened into something warm, familiar. he was smiling now. that small, rare smile he saved just for you.

"not even close," he murmured.

and then he leaned in, fingers brushing your jaw with quiet certainty, and kissed you. there was no hesitation this time. no guarded edges. just the press of his lips against yours, firm and steady and full of promise.

because you waited.

because you stayed.

because you never gave up on him—not even when he pushed you away, not even when he said nothing at all.

and against all odds, tsukishima kei had fallen in love.

with you.

and in that moment, with cherry blossoms drifting like confetti around you, you knew:

it had been worth every awkward silence.

every rejection.

every year of trying.

because this—this—was everything.

bonus scene.

years passed.

the sound of sneakers squeaking on hardwood floors was replaced with roaring crowds, giant jumbotrons, and professional-level pressure. but some things hadn’t changed.

you still sat in the stands, heart in your throat, cheering louder than anyone else. you still kept your eyes on him—watching every block, every play, every subtle tilt of his head. the arenas were bigger now, the spotlight brighter. but to you, he was still kei. still the boy who used to hide behind sarcasm and side comments. still the boy who kissed you under cherry blossoms.

that night, his team had clawed their way to victory in a five-set thriller. the final point had the crowd erupting. you stood in the stands, clapping until your hands stung, pride burning in your chest like a second heartbeat.

afterward, you made your way to the side entrance—where the press couldn’t follow. you waited behind the barricades, bundled in your coat as the late winter air nipped at your cheeks. the cold settled in your bones, but you didn’t mind.

you always waited.

eventually, he appeared. his warm-up jacket was unzipped halfway, hair still damp from a quick rinse, duffel bag slung casually over his shoulder. he looked tired—but content. the kind of tired that came from giving everything he had.

his eyes scanned the crowd, ignoring reporters and staff—until they landed on you.

and softened.

"you always wait," he said, stepping closer until he stood on the other side of the gate.

"and you always win," you replied, smiling despite the chill.

he chuckled—low, breathy. real. he stepped past the barrier with ease, his hand catching yours before pulling you into his arms. his embrace was firm, grounding, like coming home.

his chin rested atop your head, and for a while, neither of you said anything. just the quiet thrum of distant cheers and the beat of his heart beneath your cheek.

then, softly, almost like a secret:

“remember when you said you’d stop confessing if i rejected you again?”

you smiled into his chest. “yeah. i meant it, too.”

a beat of silence. then he tilted your chin up with two fingers, his gaze steady.

“i’m glad i didn’t.”

and then he kissed you—without restraint, without fear. it was deeper now. certain. the kind of kiss that didn’t ask questions anymore—it just knew.

you kissed him back with every piece of your heart.

because time had passed, but love had only deepened.

because he had chosen you—again and again and again.

and somewhere deep in your soul, you understood:

this was still only the beginning.

[drchucktingle]

a moment to check the gears and cogs

feel like i want to talk a little on the message of a recent post because i think it is an important point. when i say that you do not need to QUALIFY OR DEFEND your love of tinglers or my work in general, i am pointing out an interesting social anomaly that happens with my art and with queer art.

as an autistic buckaroo i notice patterns, and on social media i see them a lot. little phrases that come up again and again with my art. ‘yes THAT chuck tingle’ ‘its ACTUALLY good’ ’my favorite author i have never read’ ‘so bad its good’. these are always added after a POSITIVE comment about me

they also all have something in common. they are trying to distance the posters SINCERE JOY and give them an out socially. it is very very very subtle, but they are all saying ‘yes i like this but here is a sliver of acknowledgment that it is also weird or bad or ironic. in not REALLY fully in'

essentially these are added because it means the poster can escape their very real joy if needed. try applying these phrases to any other popular author. its much more subtle with the first two: ‘i liked all fours by miranda july, yes THAT miranda july. its ACTUALLY good’. what does this imply?

the other examples are a little more blatant but lets try them with other authors anyway. imagine saying ‘youre my favorite author i have never read’ to stephen king. would you EVER say that to someone? what does that imply? how about 'i love your books theyre so bad theyre good'. horrifyingly rude

lets dive into saying 'CHUCK TINGLE is my favorite author i have never read’ sounds unusual when substituting other authors because theyre usually not queer or autistic or making outsider art. to be blunt, why CHUCK gets it all the time is because it really means 'i like chuck tingle but im not gay’

while we have mostly culturally evolved past the idea that saying ‘no homo’ is some kind of joke, that FEELING is still around. it has just burrowed a little deeper. honestly it might never go away, or at least take centuries. remember these people GENUINELY LIKE MY BOOKS but feel they MUST qualify

should also be pointed out that LEFT and LIBERAL people are the ones who say this stuff to chuck. they do not MEAN to harm, and if you ask them directly how they feel about queer or neurodivergent people they would not express the same opinion as their subliminal comments might imply

the final elephant trotting by is while some of this is homophobia and fear of a neurodivergent other, it is also just plain old IRONY POISONING. its conditioning from being raised on an internet where sincerity was ‘cringe' and loving something was a weakness or joke. these problems work in tandem

so whats the point? what can we do? first of all, just recognizing these patterns is a start. i didnt HAVE to write all of this today but i think its important to be aware and to look inward and think about the gears and cogs that churn behind the things we say. NEXT step is trying to push past it

if you have done these things in the past, i want you to know i am NOT AT ALL UPSET. i am not mad or hurt and i do not think any less of you. you can trot by my side any day and you are trying your best to prove love. we are ALL just tryin our best, just consider this a friendly chat between buds

proving love can happen in BIG WAYS and it can happen in SMALL WAYS that we barely see. just take a moment and think ‘WHY am i saying this? WHY am i in this pattern to distance myself from outsider or queer art?’ a little moment of consideration goes a LONG way buckaroos. LOVE IS REAL

[sendmyresignation]

finally reading dance of days (thank you ohiolink and oberlin college <3) but my most consistent takeaway thus far. is oh my god. people who think punk is primarily ideological and not subcultural/musical. are so out of touch.

[queen-of-diamonds-xo]

Qatar Heat (OP81)

Oscar Piastri x female! Driver! Reader

🍂🤍🍂🤍🍂🤍🍂🤍🍂🤍🍂🤍🍂🤍🍂🤍🍂🤍🍂🤍🍂🤍🍂🤍🍂🤍🍂

Summary:

A team rivalry for the world championship always makes for tension in the McLaren garage. But what happens when that tension breaks? An unexpected period and an under filled water supply maybe just the thing to break the tension brewing between teammates and rivals, but at what cost?

‘“What’s going on? Are you okay? Should I get the medic.”

The questions fly from Oscar in a panic strain, his eyes inspecting your hunched frame. Scanning quickly for any visible injuries you may have.

Coming closer to you now he places a soft hand on the swell of your back, gentle movements as he rubs small circles on the area. His face crunched in concern as he squinted down at you.’

Warnings;

Dehydration/ fainting, slow burn, both of you are idiots unaware of your feelings, swearing

A/N: ahhh here it is! By far the longest piece I’ve ever written, I hope y’all enjoy. Thank you guys for the support, please Feel free to sent ideas my way for what you would like to see next!

Masterlist

Word count:

🍂🤍🍂🤍🍂🤍🍂🤍🍂🤍🍂🤍🍂🤍🍂🤍🍂🤍🍂🤍🍂🤍🍂🤍🍂🤍

No, no, no.

Not today, now now.

You paced around the drivers room, hands running over your face in frustration. Stomach twisting with the familiar sensation that ran a cold shiver down your spine. This wasn’t just pre-race nerves.

Your face twisted as you felt the first drop of blood, a low spike in anxiety as you scan the room. Gingerly opening drawers and cabinets in search of a tampon.

Drawer after drawer, cabinet after cabinet, your turn up with nothing. A frustrated groan escapes as your movements become frantic, grabbing items from your view and tossing them behind you. Of course, a room full of medical supplies and not a single tampon. You take a mental note to give Zac hell for this after the race. That is, if you can get to the car before the dang event starts.

You bite your lip as frustrated tears fill your eyes. Twenty minutes until lights out and you're stranded in this stupid room.

Of course the room was fitted with just about anything a formula one driver could need, a male formula one driver that was.

You place both hands on the cool counter of the vanity, leaning forward slightly as a wave of cramps wreaks havoc on your insides. A loud shout echoing through the halls of the McLaren garage as your foot collided with the bottom of the cabinet, the force rattling the mirror. Your reflection stares back at you, skin slightly damp and pale. Eyes sunken just enough that the camera will for sure pick up on it. Your mind is swirling with the possible headlines following the race.

The media- a constant criticism of your very existence in f1- not so subtle in their objections to your racing ability, always on the hunt for the next reason why you just aren’t cut out for this sport. (Despite the fact you were currently in position to strip your teammate of his current hold on the championship).

You weren’t about to pull out, that just wasn’t an option.

But the damp sticky feeling of your lower half accompanied with the gut wrenching cramps steadily stabbing your organs weren’t about to make for any easy race.

A soft knock echoes on the door, your ears perking and your heart skipping at the sound. Your head snapping in the direction as a voice spoke, low and controlled, through the wooded blockage.

“Y/n”- it was Oscar.

What did he want? Probably here to play mind games with you. Your eyes rolling at the reminder of the Australians drivers tricks. He barely spoke to you, always a taught and quick exchange between the two McLaren drivers. And when did he speak? A sarcastic response, a witty remark, a comment on your performance not matching up to his. the way he wore that shit eating grin after a good qualifying. The way he flicks his tongue over his lips before he speaks.

God, you hate him.

“I-I heard a shout, are you okay?”

Oscar was shocked as the door to your driver's room flung open, practically flying off its hinges. Your fist collided with his fireproofs- his race suit slung low on his hips- grasping the material before pulling the man inside.

He stood confused as you slammed the door, body whipping around to stare at him- eyes wide in panic as you press your back firm against the wood. Your heart hammering as your mind spirals for ways to ask Oscar what you’re about to. A steady stream of anxiety pulling at your lungs as you fight a losing battle to breath.

In through the nose. Out through the mouth.

He had never seen you like this. You were always calm, never allowing anyone to see ever the smallest of your cracks. You smiled tight for the cameras, answered questions and criticisms with poise and decorum. Your face on race day never shifts from a hardened stare, a tight line and focused eyes. He respected that about you, never letting anything slip. You never gave anyone the chance to call you emotional, not that they didn’t try.

Now you stood in front of him, shoulders slumped and eyes brimming with tears, heaving heavy breaths. Your driver's room- usually left in a pristine state- ripped apart. Towels and miscellaneous items lay forgotten on the floor, drawers and cabinets left open. Your Face flushed with- anger? Embarrassment?

The Aussie wasn’t too sure, could never get a full read on your emotions.

“What’s goin-“

Oscar was stopped with the raise of your hand, the motion quick as a low groan escaped you again. Your eyes screwing shut tight as you grind your teeth through another shock of cramps.

He couldn’t stop the way he stepped closer to you, hand reaching out slightly as your arms came around your stomach in a tight hold. Your posture hunching over slightly.

“What’s going on? Are you okay? Should I get the medic.”

The questions fly from Oscar in a panic strain, his eyes inspecting your hunched frame. Scanning quickly for any visible injuries you may have.

Coming closer to you now he places a soft hand on the swell of your back, gentle movements as he rubs small circles on the area. His face crunched in concern as he squinted down at you.

Your tensed posture relaxes slightly under his hand, a small smile gracing his lips. This is the closest he’s ever gotten to you, the faint smell of your shampoo, the light bouncing from your shining hair. Even scrunched in pain Oscar took a moment to study your features. Your soft skin dampened with a thin layer of sweat, pretty lips parted just so. His eyes scanning over each line, following the scattered pattern of freckles and moles in a dazed trance.

His heart skipping slightly as another, barely audible, groan fills the room once more.

His stupid cologne fills your senses, making you want to slap him in a hormone filled rage. The very fact that his presence is soothing you, enough of a reason for your anger to spike once more at your teammate.

You scoff at him, rolling your eyes at the pity in his voice. Shoving his hand away from you as your turn to look at the older man in front of you. One hand placed on your hip as your spit;

“Jesus Christ Oscar I’m not dying, I just got my period.”

Oscar blinks, the hand that caressed your back now drawn close to his body. His cheeks flush a deep red as hot embarrassment climbs up his neck. His hand coming up the cup the back of his neck, rubbing over the area bashfully at your words. His biceps flexing under the strain of the action, those godforsaken fireproofs clinging tight to the skin.

“Oh.”

“Yeah, ‘oh’. Can you help me?”

He swallows harsh as he averts his gaze. Eyes casting to the door behind you, seemingly lost in thought. He’s brought back by the clicking of your fingers, hand waving in his face.

“Earth to Oscar are you there? I need a tampon, and I can’t exactly just leave to go and ask for one.”

Oscar nods slow, mind absorbing this information. The frustration in your voice is evident as your bite your lip, willing away the hot tears threatening to spill. Oscars eyes widening slightly before darting around the room, refusing to meet your burning stare. His jaw clenching slight as his eyes flutter closer, a deep breath escaping his nose.

He turns without a word, closing the door behind him with a soft click. Once again leaving you alone in the trashed room.

You sigh as you sink down onto the couch, focusing on your breathing as your attempt to slow your racing thoughts. You allowed the room the blur as your eyes shut, basking in the silence once more.

Little did you know Oscar has prepared for this. Once finding out he had a female teammate at the very start of the season, he recruited the help of sister to create an ‘emergency bag’ for you. One he carried with him to every race, PR event, you name it.

The bag was Stocked with pads, tampons, pain killers, various hair and makeup products his sister picked out. Snacks of various varieties, protein bars and chocolates being the main offenders. Oscar ever going as far to buy fresh pants and undergarments in your size- just incase.

Oscar wasn’t dumb, he saw the way you were treated differently to him as a driver. He also saw that the McLaren management net refused to acknowledge that you didn’t have a penis between your legs. Which usually, is a good thing. The very idea of critiquing your abilities as a driver based on gender has been scared out of the staff by a few (heated) words from Zac in an all employee meeting.

But he also knew the chances of getting you a tampon, without bothering any female employees- was next to none.

Plus, Oscar knew if he did ask a female staff member, you would wring his neck out of embarrassment. He knew you held the weight of the world on your shoulders, the first female to driver a formula one car, the idea of this incident going public enough for the man to cringe.

A soft knock echoes through the room, a simple two strikes.

You opened the door slower this time, your body now hidden behind it. Peaking your head out the gap your eyes meet Oscars back.

Allowing yourself a moment to run your gaze down the rippling curves, hugged taught in his black fireproofs. You don’t register your lip between your teeth as you stare at his waist, a white hot jealousy coming over you as you view the shrunken point of the man’s body. His waist pulled in taught, his broad shoulder extenuating this feature. The race suit hung lowly on his hips, mocking you slightly as it obstructed the perfect view underneath.

He turns to meet you, his biceps tensing slightly as he extends his hand towards you.

Like a shitty drug dealer, Oscar palms a small black makeup bag into your open hand. His face burns red as he scans the hallway.

You can’t help the small chuckle escaping you as you grab the offending item from him. Ignoring the tingling sensation of your skin meeting his, the way his long fingers lingers on yours before pulling away.

“Thanks Osc-“ the new nickname hitting the man like a truck, accompanied with your whispered thanks. Your eyes staring up at him through thick lashes, your head tilted just to view his face.

“I appreciate it, seriously.”

Oscar coughs out a faint reply, something along the lines of “no problem” and “don’t worry about it” escaping him in a rushed string of words. Turning on his heels as he rushes towards the exit, praying nobody will notice the way he has to shift himself in his race suit as he jogs away.

A wide grin spreads across your face as you open the bag, pulling out not only a tampon, but two painkillers, a pair of fresh (tags still on) underwear, a protein bar and a small bottle of water.

Okay maybe Oscar Piastri wasn’t always an asshole.

The roaring groan of engines surrounds you as you pull up to the grid, your car planted in P3. Damp sweat stains your skin from the residual heat emanating off the track, the thick air entering your lungs. You shift uncomfortably in your seat, the blinding lights shining down over the perfect row of cars.

The crackle of your radio rings in your ears as your race engineers announces over the radio

“Piastri and Leclerc ahead. Head down, let’s show them what you're made of.”

A wicked grin creeps onto your face as you shut the visor, hands gripping the wheel tight, your eyes trained on the lights ahead.

The car jolts as the lights go out, your foot planted hard on the floor.

Your reaction was good, getting the jump on leclerc on the first corner. Cars pulling side by side as they speed their way down the track. A quick glimpse in your right mirror tells you Charles is right on your six, a fresh surge of adrenaline courses through your veins.

You're late onto the brakes into turn one, locking up your front left as you squeeze your way past leclerc, his car veering off into the gravel slightly as your escape unscathed. Pushing the car hard as you pull away.

But he’s right on your back, steering his way around your left side through turn two as you go side by side down the straight.

Cars rising to full power as you battle again though turn two, your hands battling with the twitching steering wheel.

You pull ahead of Leclerc once more, revelling as you manage to creep your way out of his DRS zone.

As the race continues you settle into P2. Mind focused on tire management and your strategy in place for the race. Your face is hot as you feel beads of sweat crawl down your skin, mouth drying as you push your car and body to limit. You struggle slightly as another wave of cramps wash over you, teeth biting on the straw of your water supply.

Desperate for relief you try to take a sip- key word here being try.

Nerves spike as nothing comes from your actions. Trying again you pull the straw harder into your mouth, desperate for even a drip of the sweet cool liquid. A frustrated growl rumbles from your chest as your car shifts slightly, a snap of understeer as you speak over the radio, voice harsh as your bite;

“What’s going on with my water supply.”

Your met with silence for a moment, your engineers reasoning;

“Checking now. Head down, let’s catch Oscar.”

Lap after lap you get no update on your water situation, as pit stops come and go the frustration and anger inside you grows. Along with the steady pressure intensifying behind your eyes, your body slumping slightly in the seat.

Your head pounded, your hands had begun to shake. Your breath was coming out in short gasps as you desperately tried to focus on the car in front of you. The shining helmet of Piastri mocking you from P1.

You have given up on the radio, every attempt to get an answer met with a quick dismissal.

“Oscars got the jump on you in sector one, but you're faster in two and three. Overtake is available.”

You can help the words flying from your mouth as you shout over the radio, voice strained with frustration and fatigue, not soaring a thought to anyone who may be listening in;

“Shut up. maybe he’s quicker in sector one because he had a working fucking water supply in his car.”

The words were harsh, spat out between clenched teeth. You can’t help the scoff and roll of yours eyes as the radios crackles again

“Understood.”

Head down. Focus.

You ignore the shaking in your hands, the hot sweat stinging your eyes. The fuzzy feeling in your head and slight blur in your vision. You were not about to let the incompetence of a few shitty engineers ruin your chance of snatching the championship.

Your close being Oscar in the final corner, DRS opens as you scream your way down the main straight. Crowd roaring as the two McLarens come racing side by side down the track, a game of chicken as to who will break first.

A quick glimpse in your mirror shows Oscar taking the inside line, aware of his tricks you go wide around the outside, front wings touching as you cut him off outside of the turn. He breaks hard, both fronts locking as he steers out of your path, a yelp of disbelief escaping the Aussie as you take P1.

You fight Oscar hard through turns two and three, pulling away from him down the next straight.

5 laps to go

Your car veers left into the gravel slightly as the weight of your head strains your neck, your muscles tight as you fight away the ever growing feeling of fatigue. You snap the car back right, body slamming hard against the side of your pod.

You felt heavy, the weight of your body pressed firm in the seat. Your arms burn as you struggle to keep hold of the wheel, not missing the slight snap of the back end. Eyes straining under the weight just to keep them open, knuckled white as you bite back the bile rising in your throat.

Oscar watched from behind you, his heart jumping into his throat as he watched your car closely. Your actions were sloppy, the car slipping and sliding around the track as you battled to keep a straight line.

This wasn’t like you, something had to be wrong.

“What’s up with y/l/n? Something seems off.” He pondered over the radio, voice tight with worry.

“Head down Oscar, focus on the race.” Was the only response granted to him.

His body flushed with anger at the dismissal, his eyes narrowing slightly and jaw clenched tight. He watched your every move closely, not just to find a way around you, but to tame the pit forming in his stomach.

The team hangs from the barriers as you cross the line, cheering loudly at the McLaren win. Their cheers rise as Oscar finishes P2, a picture perfect finish.

You sit in your car as you pull into the pits, lining the car on the P1 position. Your head leans heavily on the steering wheel as shouts echo over the radio.

Something about the championship lead, a race well ran.

A hot and heavy sob ripples through your chest as hot tears stream down your face, your body grown limp in your seat. You couldn’t move, your body muscles screamed with every twitch. Your mind swirled as the noises around you faded into a low whistle in your ears.

Oscar was quick out of his car, ignoring the shouts and yells from the team as he makes a b-line straight to you. His large frame blocking the lights above as he looms over your potions in the car, visor flipped to look at you. His eyes shone with worry and burned with a hint of anger as your head rose, titling up to meet his gaze. His hands tense into a fists as you flip your visor, revealing a rest wave of tears as your hiccup a broken and tired sob.

His voice was cold, dangerous. Disgust filling his words as he forces out a strained whisper. Eyes narrowing as he spoke

“What did they do to you.”

You shiver slightly from his words, his tone dark and eyes darker as the burn into you.

“M-m w-w-water. didn’t ha-have any wa-water.”

Oscar has to fight back the urge to scream at the wall of mechanics behind him. He closes his eyes in frustration as he leans down closer to you. His heart hammered hard in his chest, eyeing your slouched position in your seat.

His now shaking hands making quick work to remove the steering wheel. His frantic movements capturing the attention of everyone around him, the noise quieting into a hush. Cameras flashed as teams look on with worry.

He makes easy work of your helmet, removing the encompassing material of your balaclava as you let out a sharp breath of relief. The slight breeze flowing over your heated and slick skin. Oscars hands come under your shoulders, lifting you with ease out of the car. The sudden movement causes the world to shift, your head leaning heavily on his shoulder as he pulls you from the car, your body practically gone limp.

Charles runs over to the two of you, taking some of your weight from Oscar as the two men steady you.

You were thankful for their driver reaction times as your knees buckle, their arms holding your weight as they lower your gentle to the ground. Oscar kneels beside you, his hand coming to rest on your back for the second time today.

You don’t push him off this time. Too focussed on the tightness in your throat, sobs shaking your frail frame as your gasp to catch your breath.

You feel the burn of bile rise in your throat as you throw up the remaining liquid in your stomach, your hands coming to clench your stomach in a pained cry. Doubling over onto the heated tar of the pits.

Oscar moved quick shouting for a medic, not caring about the flashing cameras or judgmental stares of those around him. His strong arms wind around your waste as he pulls you to sit in his lap, his legs outstretched. His large frame envelopes you as he tightens his hold, his helmet covered head coming to rest on top of yours.

A gloved hand coming up to cup your cheek, holding your gaze firm but gentle as he ran his thumb over the flushed skin of your cheek. Your eyes fluttering closed as you lean heavily into his hold.

“Shh it’s okay. It’s going to be okay, I’ve got you now.”

His voice was a soft whisper, muffled accent thick with emotion as he held your body close.

Your mind a haze of frustration and fatigue as you focus on the steady breathing of your teammate. His soft words the last thing ringing in your ears as your mind goes blank, body succumbing to the heat as you grow limp in Oscars arms.

🍂🤍🍂🤍🍂🤍🍂🤍🍂🤍🍂🤍🍂🤍🍂🤍🍂🤍🍂🤍🍂🤍🍂🤍🍂🤍🍂

Tag list:

@piastri-my-boy @wolfbc97 @presleycaudle @haunteddestinykryptonite @feyrecarol @edgyficuselastica

[itsnesss]

𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐩𝐨𝐥𝐞 | kimi antonelli × fem!reader

summary | after accidentally posting a meme about kimi before he got his first pole position, you’re called to his team truck. what starts as a tense confrontation quickly turns into flirtation

warnings | fluff, mild language, flirting, romantic tension, kissing

word count | 1.0 k

🖇 more ka12 🖇️ f1 masterlist

It wasn’t intentional. Well… maybe just a little.

The meme had been ready since Friday. Kimi Antonelli: the prince of Free Practice Fridays, the ghost of Saturdays. It was funny, harmless… at least until he pulled off a magic lap in qualifying and got his first pole.

And you, on autopilot, posted it right after.

"When you make more shade than lap times," the caption read, over a photo of Kimi stepping out of the car, serious face, dark sunglasses. It was clever. It was viral. It was... a big mistake.

Your phone explodes.

First, the retweets. Then, the messages. After that, PR calls. And finally, the message you were dreading:

Kimi Antonelli: “Can you come to the truck for a second?”

You swallow hard. Take a deep breath. Walking toward the team area has never felt this long.

You find him leaning against the side door, still in his race suit, unzipped to the waist, a white shirt clinging to his chest, hair a little damp from the heat inside the helmet. He’s not smiling. He’s not even blinking.

“What was that?” he asks, in that tone so... Kimi. Serious. Calm. Lethal.

You try a nervous laugh.

“It was a mistake. I had the post scheduled before quali. I didn’t think you were gonna… well, pull off magic.”

He raises an eyebrow.

“So my mistake was proving you wrong today?”

“That’s not what I meant…”

“No?”

There’s a pause. You cross your arms. He studies you like you’re one of his corners on a brand-new circuit. Something shifts in his gaze. It's no longer just irritation. It’s curiosity. Playfulness.

“You know how many memes I’ve seen in the last three months?” he says, stepping closer. “Each one made me want to prove I’m more than just potential.”

Your heart drums. The air between you gets thicker than a gridlock in Monaco.

“And what do I have to do with that?”

“You’re the one posting them.”

“And you’re the one who got a pole. I fixed it, deleted it, celebrated it. What else do you want?”

Silence.

“An apology. In person.” Kimi barely smiles. “Because I want to hear if you sound as sarcastic as you write.”

You look at him. Long. You step closer. Your lips are just inches from his ear when you whisper:

“Sorry, Kimi. I really thought you’d qualify tenth.”

He chuckles. Drops his head for a second like he can’t believe it. Then looks up again. Closer. Sharper.

“You’re worse than I thought.”

“And you’re more intense than I expected.”

“Intense?” he repeats. “This isn’t intensity. This is passion. Whole different thing.”

That tone heats your cheeks. You look away. He notices.

“But you kinda like it, don’t you?”

“Don’t answer that,” you say, smiling even though you didn’t want to.

Silence again. But this time, it’s not uncomfortable. It’s loaded.

The distant noise of the paddock fades as he runs a hand through his hair and crosses his arms.

“You know what bothered me most about that meme...” he begins, lowering his voice, “wasn’t what it said. It’s that it came from you.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re good. Too good. And I didn’t expect you to be the one doubting me.”

That hits harder than a badly taken chicane.

“I didn’t doubt you,” you murmur. “I laughed a little. But I never doubted.”

Kimi looks at you. Strong. Steady. Then, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, he steps closer. Your back touches the side of the truck. His hand rests just beside your head.

“Wanna buy me a coffee to make up for it?”

“Coffee?”

“Or whatever you drink when you wanna make things right with someone who’s looking at you the way I’m looking at you.”

You hesitate for a second.

A coffee. Any excuse would work, but you know it’s not about that. Not when he looks at you like this. Not when his eyes scan your face like they’re trying to memorize it. Not when his voice is no longer a challenge, but a whisper full of intent.

“I could buy you something,” you say, barely audible. “But I don’t think it’ll be enough.”

He tilts his head.

“No?”

“No.”

Your eyes drop to his lips, unintentionally. He notices.

What happens next is quick, but it doesn’t feel that way. Everything slows down.

Kimi leans in, just enough. Close enough for you to feel the brush of his breath on your lips. He smells like hot engine, adrenaline, and something fresh you can’t quite name—but it feels right. Familiar. The air between you vibrates with silent tension.

“Tell me if you don’t want this,” he murmurs, his voice a whisper. “But if you don’t say anything…”

You don’t say anything.

You can’t.

Because deep down, you’ve been waiting for this.

And he knows it.

His lips brush yours like he’s testing the moment’s temperature. Like he’s giving you one more second to back out.

But you don’t.

So you kiss him.

Or he kisses you. You’re not even sure. What matters is that it happens.

Slow. Intentional. Almost tender, though there’s fire underneath. Your heart pounds like it might burst through your chest. Kimi holds you by the waist, not hard, but firm—like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. Your hands end up on his chest, feeling the same wild rhythm that says just one thing: he wanted this too.

The kiss deepens. Your lips find his with a terrifying ease. There’s no awkwardness. Just need. Just desire.

When you finally pull apart, just barely, both of you are breathing like you just ran a qualifying lap.

He smiles. This time, for real.

“I think that made up for the meme.”

“Only a little?”

“A lot.”

“Then maybe I should post another.”

Kimi laughs. And this time, it reaches his eyes.

“Post whatever you want. But I’ll need the right to reply.” He pauses. “Privately.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. Emotional contract. After that kiss, you’re officially my personal community manager.”

You laugh. He looks at you like you’re his new trophy. And you, who were just there to do your job, realize the most important pole wasn’t the one he got on track.

It was the one that made you fall headfirst into this.

Into him.

[batsandbirdbrains]

I actually want a Dick Grayson who’s kind of an asshole, who’s not so nice, who isn’t afraid to hold a grudge. I want him to get shot by the Joker when he’s 16 and so in a fucked up twisted form of protecting him, Bruce takes Robin away and it leads to a huge blowout fight where he kicks Dick out.

And Dick is barely 16 and injured and raging and grieving. But the one thing Bruce hadn’t accounted for was that many of the Justice League members liked Robin far more than they liked Batman. That Dick had stronger connections to the individual heroes than Bruce did. So when he kicks Dick out, everyone around him takes Dick’s side. They help him out. They blame Bruce when Deathstroke snatches Dick up and claims him as his new apprentice.

Dick is with Deathstroke for a little more than 9 months. He’s a couple months shy of 17 when he turns up on Clark Kent’s doorstep, shaking and needing stitches, but finally free of Deathstroke’s clutches.

Clark gives Dick a home with no questions asked. Helps him rehab from his time with Slade, tells him stories from Krypton that lead to Dick taking on a new name: Nightwing.

And when Batman gets himself a new Robin in the form of a thirteen year old Jason Todd? Wearing Dick’s old uniform and his family’s colors and his mother’s name for him? Dick hates this fucking kid. And all the other heroes are furious at Bruce for bringing him into this life and then giving Dick’s identity away to him like a fucked up hand-me-down.

They don’t blame Jason, but they don’t warm up to him, either. Batman is a pariah in the hero community now, and that unfortunately extends to his new Robin.

Dick never forgives Bruce. He makes nice because it’s convenient for him, but he doesn’t forget. And he never takes a liking to Jason, because his entire presence in both the Manor and the Batcave are a giant slap in the face. Because Bruce replaced him so easily. Because every reason Bruce had for taking Robin away from Dick and for kicking him out means nothing when he puts a younger kid in the exact same position he told Dick was too dangerous. Dick had years of training and was a professional athlete essentially his entire life, but a crime alley kid Bruce plucked off the streets is perfectly qualified?

Dick hates both of them.

When he comes back from a mission two years later and finds out Jason died? It takes every ounce of restraint in his body to not immediately tell Bruce I told you so. To not throw the whole thing in his face and call him a dumb fucking hypocrite.

And while Dick didn’t like Jason, he does feel bad that the kid is dead.

Idk I just want Dick to not actually like Bruce and Jason all that much. I think it’s totally justifiable.

[harrysfolklore]

Imagine max x driver!reader with the whole fia and swearing situation they’d be such a power couple. Manifesting more max fics!! I love all your work esp little bitch and honorary wag💓

okay this is teeeny tiny piece but i just had tooo. max is too iconic

You're sitting beside Max, your boyfriend and teammate, in the press conference room after the qualifying session in Singapore. The air feels thick with humidity and tension, though most of the tension is radiating off Max.

His latest penalty from the FIA—a fine and community service for swearing —has him fuming. He made it very clear on the way in that he wasn’t going to play nice. Today was going to be a day of vague, shady responses, and you were more than happy to back him up.

The moderator starts with the usual question for Max about how he felt securing P2.

“It was fine,” Max replies, voice completely flat. No elaboration, no typical analysis. Just that.

The reporter stares at him, clearly expecting more, but Max leans back in his chair, eyes narrowing slightly as if daring anyone to push him further.

To your right, Lando is barely holding it together, his mouth twitching as he watches the whole scene unfold. You catch his eye and he shoots you a look like, Is this real?

The next question is directed at you. Something predictable about how you’re feeling being P3, your thoughts on tomorrow’s race strategy.

“Well,” you start, raising an eyebrow, “I guess the plan is… to go fast and not crash.”

There’s an awkward silence in the room, the journalist blinking at you as if he didn’t hear you correctly. Lando makes a noise that’s somewhere between a laugh and a cough, struggling to contain himself as you sit there, completely straight-faced.

“And the tire strategy?” the moderator presses, trying to steer things back into something vaguely professional.

“Use them until they wear out, I suppose.” You lean back in your chair, mimicking Max’s posture, crossing your legs casually as if you’ve just given a perfectly reasonable answer. Max looks at you with a cocky and proud smile, you discretely wink at him.

"Max, can you elaborate on your car's performance today?" another reporter tries.

Max tilts his head, considering for a moment. "It went forward when I pushed the pedal, and stopped when I hit the brakes. Very efficient, really."

You can't help but smirk at his response, and you notice Lando has given up on maintaining composure, his shoulders shaking with silent laughter.

The moderator, looking increasingly uncomfortable, turns to you again. "YN, how do you feel about potentially challenging your teammate for position tomorrow?"

You lean forward, adopting a serious expression. "Well, I've been told it's important to keep things clean on track. Wouldn't want to use any… inappropriate maneuvers."

"Absolutely. We're all about clean racing now. Very family-friendly." Max adds

The reporters exchange glances, clearly unsure how to handle this united front of sarcasm and vague responses. Lando, meanwhile, has resorted to covering his face with his hands, his shoulders visibly shaking with suppressed laughter.

As the press conference draws to a close, you and Max stand up together, your body language mirroring each other's. Before leaving, you turn to the room with a final statement:

"Just want to thank everyone for their thoughtful questions today. This has been a very enlightening experience. Almost as enlightening as some recent FIA decisions."

As you exit the room, hand in hand with Max, you can hear the burst of chatter from the journalists behind you, no doubt trying to decipher the subtext of your responses. Lando catches up with you in the hallway, finally letting out the laugh he's been holding in.

"You two are unbelievable," he wheezes, wiping tears from his eyes. "I thought I was going to lose it in there!"

Max grins, his earlier tension now replaced with a sense of satisfaction. "Well, we aim to entertain," he says, giving your hand a squeeze.

[ari-ana-bel-la]

Hellooo! I don't know if you've done a prompt/story like this yet but can I request where Oscar's daughter (who's around 4-5 years old) attends the bahrain gp (her second time attending after the Australia one) and he dedicates his pole position and win to her. (Because she thinks he lost the aus gp when she first attended) You don't have to make this but yeah. Also I love your stories so much!! 🫶🏻🩷

A win for her

The sun over Bahrain was just beginning to dip, bathing the paddock in that golden-orange haze that made everything feel just a bit more cinematic. The roar of engines had long since settled, but the energy was still buzzing in the air. Oscar stood on the podium, champagne bottle in hand, soaking in the cheers. He could barely hear them, though. All he saw was that little face in the crowd.

Wide brown eyes, pink earmuffs, and a tiny race suit with his car number stitched across the back—his daughter was practically bouncing in Lily’s arms.

He hadn’t planned to get emotional, but the moment he saw Yn lift her little hand and wave—just like she had done in Melbourne weeks before—his heart squeezed.

Back in Australia, she had been so excited. Her first Grand Prix. She’d worn the little team cap with pride, marched through the paddock like a seasoned pro, and sat in the garage with wide eyes, whispering “Go, Papa!” every lap. And then, when he hadn’t won, she had cried. Not out of anger or entitlement, just... heartbreak. She thought he had lost. Really lost. As if not finishing first meant he hadn’t even tried.

Tonight, Oscar had made a silent promise to himself: You’re gonna win this one. For her. So she knows.

And he did.

Before the Race/ Qualifying

“Papa, Papa, is your car gonna be faster today?” Yn asked as she clutched Oscar’s hand, her tiny fingers curling tightly around his.

They were walking through the paddock, just hours before lights out. The team garage loomed ahead, mechanics bustling around like ants with coffee in one hand and tools in the other.

Oscar glanced down at her. “I think so, sweetheart. I gave it a good pep talk this morning.”

“Did you really talk to it?” she asked, eyes wide in disbelief.

“Of course I did. I told it that if it makes it to first place, I’ll buy it ice cream.”

Yn gasped. “Cars can eat ice cream?”

He knelt in front of her, brushing a strand of her dark hair out of her face. “No, but they like it when you promise silly things. Makes them go faster.”

She giggled, leaning in for a hug. Oscar scooped her up and twirled her, the heat already rising in the desert air, but he didn’t care. Holding her close, even for a few seconds, felt like magic.

Lily caught up to them, holding a tiny water bottle and a team fan. “Alright, Yn, let Papa get ready. We’ve got your seat in the garage, remember?”

Yn pouted but nodded. “Okay. But tell your car to go really, really fast, Papa.”

“I will,” he said, setting her down gently. “And hey—if I win, it’s because of you, alright?”

She beamed, the kind of smile that could melt asphalt. “Promise?”

“Promise.”

Qualifying was intense. The desert heat had dropped, but the track was still slick, and everyone was on edge. Radio chatter buzzed in Oscar’s ear as he pushed lap after lap, chasing milliseconds like they were gold dust.

And then—pole.

The garage erupted.

Oscar barely registered the cheers, his eyes immediately scanning the front row of the paddock. There she was—Yn, on Lily’s hip, fists in the air, shouting, “PAPA WON!” even though it was just qualifying.

When he came back to the garage, the first thing he did was kneel in front of her.

“You did it!” she squealed, nearly leaping into his arms.

“Well, not the race yet,” he said, laughing. “But it’s a really good start.”

“Did your car like the ice cream idea?” she asked seriously.

“It loved it.”

On Sunday, it was lights out, and away they went.

Oscar’s focus narrowed like a tunnel. Nothing but the car, the corners, the strategy. He could hear the team in his ears, feel the pressure behind him, but in the back of his mind—just beneath the surface—was Yn.

Every lap he completed, he thought of her watching. Every corner he nailed, he imagined her clapping. Every time he defended a position, he could see her tiny fingers balled into fists, eyes glued to the screens.

Lando was close behind for most of the race. The team warned him over the radio: “You’ve got two-tenths on him, keep it clean.” But Oscar wasn’t racing Lando.

He was racing a four-year-old memory. The image of his daughter crying quietly on Lily’s shoulder in Melbourne.

Not this time, sweetheart.

When he crossed the finish line, the radio exploded.

“Oscar, you’ve done it! P1, Bahrain Grand Prix winner!”

He couldn’t respond right away. His throat was thick with emotion.

Finally, he clicked the button. “This one’s for my daughter,” he said, voice cracking. “She thought I lost last time. I didn’t. But this time—this time, I won it for her.”

The podium ceremony passed in a blur—champagne, fireworks, confetti. Oscar’s eyes were constantly searching for Yn.

When he finally made it back down, he barely had time to take his helmet off before she was running toward him.

“PAPA!” she shrieked, arms wide.

He dropped to his knees just in time to catch her.

“You won!” she shouted, gripping him as tight as her little arms would allow. “You really really won!”

Oscar pulled off his gloves, pressing his forehead to hers. “I told you, didn’t I? We just needed one more race.”

She sniffled, and he realized she was crying again—but this time from happiness.

“I knew your car would like the ice cream,” she whispered.

He laughed. “Me too.”

Lily came over with a soft smile, pressing a kiss to Oscar’s cheek and smoothing Yn’s wild hair. “She hasn’t stopped talking since you crossed the line.”

“She deserves a spot on the team,” Oscar said, standing and carrying Yn in his arms. “Race engineer, team motivator, part-time sorceress.”

“Full-time car whisperer,” Lily added.

Oscar looked down at the girl in his arms. “Wanna join the post-race press conference?”

“Yes!” she yelled.

Lily raised an eyebrow. “She’s joking.”

Oscar shook his head. “I’m not.”

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♥︎♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

Authors Note: Hey loves. I hope you enjoyed reading this story. My requests are always open for you.

-🤍🦢