#and lance has it down packed

[callmelyc]

A single mom

who works two jobs

And loves his Galra

And never stops

[vldlance]

you will never convince me that lance mcclain has a six pack. why would that man put in that level of effort.

[rememberwren]

Dichotomy of Thought || 11

Past and further chapters here.

Simon and Johnny make up.

|| Chapter warnings: Anal fingering, anal sex, baby-trapping, medication tampering, medication control.

-

Your boyfriend manages your medications, a one-man pharmacy. 

Every morning the pills are waiting for you on the table in the foyer beside where you deposit your keys in the evening. There are two of them. 

The first is oblong, tan. Your boyfriend hoards and hides the bottle, but you’d fished the information pamphlet that came from the pharmacy out of the trash, and you know everything there is to know about it from that page jam-packed with text. Sertraline, 50mg. Otherwise known as Zoloft. Just swallowing the tasteless pill makes you remember the even darker days than the ones you’re living now, the ones that had led you to that waiting room with your boyfriend in the seat beside you waiting for a doctor to see you. How do I know if I’m depressed, you had asked the doctor, bold as anything even with your boyfriend’s hand on your knee, or if my life just isn’t worth living? 

You’d learned. By God, you’d learned. 

The other pill is your birth control. Round, sometimes blue, sometimes white, depending on where you are in your cycle. Today it is white and—

It looks—different. 

He wouldn’t, you think to yourself, thumb nudging at the pill in your palm, like seeing it from a different angle might jog your memory of it. He wouldn’t do that. A kid is the last thing he wants. He wouldn’t sacrifice his own freedom just to keep you trapped underneath his thumb. 

Except—wouldn’t he? 

“Hurry it up,” he says, yawning, like you kept him up late last night. “I want to go back to bed.” 

You try to take a picture of the pill in your mind before you drop it onto your tongue, taking a swig from your water tumbler, but your brain feels so scrambled that you forget it right away. You can’t even remember the color—had it truly been white, or had it been the pale sky blue of  robin’s egg?

It goes down like a lump of chalk. He makes you show him your empty mouth before he’s satisfied that you aren’t cheeking the pills, and then he kisses you and tells you to have a good day at work, honey. 

-

“Rooster wants you in his office,” Jackie says under her breath, helping you hurriedly clear one of your tables. You’re slow with the splint on your smallest finger, the throb of pain lancing all the way up your wrist each time you use the damaged hand. Jackie has been an angel in khakis picking up your slack. 

You wish that you had one of the pills that they’d given you in the emergency department. It hadn’t taken away all of the pain, but it’d made your head feel light and floaty and like you could care less if all your fingers were broken. Or maybe you wanted one of Johnny’s pills—the ones that put him in a peaceful sleep. You haven’t had such a thing in so long that you can’t remember when, even your moments of relaxation tainted until ‘rest’ is just waiting for the next act of violence. 

“What does he want?” you ask. 

“Probably to tell you about the raise,” she says. She rolls her eyes and twirls a fingers, mouth set in a grim smile of comradery. “Fifty cents. Writing home about it as we speak. Or maybe he wants to grill you about who keeps stealing from the registers—like we all don’t know it’s Ruth.” 

Fifty cents. You can’t even turn up your nose at it. Every penny is one that brings you closer to that apartment across town. With a promise that you’ll return as quickly as you can, you step off the floor (avoiding making eye contact with any customers who would happily sideway you for refills or to complain) and into the back of the house. It’s quiet back here, cooler. Rapping your knuckles against Rooster’s door, you wait. 

There’s no response, and no sign of him in the hallway. Some of the line cooks are coming in, filtering toward the break room to start their shift. You feel their eyes on you as you stand impotently outside the door. One of them says something to the other, and there is laughter, too loud and boisterous for the enclosed space. Your heart has begun to pound, sweat breaking out at the nape of your neck. 

“Hey,” one of them says to you. 

“Hi,” you mutter, forcing a smile, unable to make eye contact. 

Still there is no sign of Rooster from either end of the hallway—never would you have considered the short man your savior. Heart racing, you crack the door open and see that the office is empty. You slip inside, shutting the door safely behind you. 

The room is as self-important as you might imagine: a desk that seems too large for the space, filing cabinets in the corner. There’s a corkboard pockmarked with holes after years of use, and you drift over to it, too anxious to take a seat in the chair on the other side of Rooster’s desk. A calendar is posted there, Rooster’s neat handwriting here and there. 

Something catches your eye: LOCKER CLEANOUT marked for two weeks from now. 

It seemed like the last locker cleanout had just happened. You had only collected five hundred dollars back then, but it was far too much to want to explain to Rooster, and you had nowhere else to stash it that was safe. In the end, it had sat in an envelope under the driver’s seat of your car while Rooster took the week and went through each of the lockers to ensure compliance with the restaurant’s rules (all because someone used to have a penchant for leaving snack cakes in their locker leading to a bad case of ants that almost led to the restaurant being shut down). It had been the longest week of your life, like driving around with a live bomb underneath the front seat. 

Now you have nearly two thousand dollars. Where the hell were you going to put it? 

The door opens. Rooster looks at you suspiciously, eyes flickering between you and the calendar. 

“Next time, wait outside,” he says, stepping in and shutting the door behind him. It makes your skin crawl to be alone with him, even if he’s never done anything slimier than asking you to pull a double shift. You know the darkness that lies inside men. All men. 

“Sorry,” you mutter.

“Don’t be sorry,” he says, taking his seat in a squeaky rolling chair behind the desk. His smile is a dismal, strained thing, like interacting with you is just as painful for him as it is for you. “Next time, just wait.”  

-

Johnny and Simon spend the day in bed. 

Johnny’s knee is propped up on a pillow, red and swollen. Simon lets his fingers hover over it, gentle, feeling the warmth of Johnny’s skin. Johnny winces, like even the brush of air against his knee hurts. 

“It looks infected,” says Simon. 

“It’s not.” It can’t be. Johnny can’t handle that—can’t handle the idea of having to go through the surgery on his knee again, the recovery, the way recovery is just synonymous with pain. No, it isn’t infected. “Just looks like that because he hit it.” 

Simon leans down and brushes his mouth against Johnny’s thigh. It’s meant to be sweet but—well. It’s the closest his mouth has been to Johnny’s cock in more than six months, and just the sight of it has Johnny’s heart skipping a beat and picking up again in double-time, his face growing flush. Not privy to Johnny’s thoughts, all Simon does is press a chaste kiss to the skin a few inches above where Johnny’s swelling starts—nevermind what else might be swelling now, too. 

The two of them lay entwined together, Simon curling up around him. He plants a hand on Johnny’s clothed chest, right over his heart, like he’s trying to remind himself that Johnny’s here. That Johnny’s alive. The look in his eyes is far away, mouth drawn down into a tight frown. All at once, Johnny’s downright sick of it—sick of them not having anything to smile about. Sick of fighting. 

Johnny takes Simon’s hand, laces their fingers, and guides it down. Down over his slim, firm belly, watching from the corner of his eye as Simon’s brows climb up his forehead. Down until their hands cup his half-hard cock. Simon’s hand shifts straight away, fingers curling around the solid length, thumb stroking up the side, the gentle rasp of his calloused fingerpad loud against the cotton of Johnny’s boxers. 

“You’re hurt,” Simon reminds him. 

“Don’t care.” 

“I do.” 

“We don’t have to fuck. I just—” he doesn’t know how to explain, how badly he needs to feel something good. How badly he needs to know that his connection with Simon isn’t ruined. How badly he needs to see that they’re still lovers, that Simon isn’t just his live-in caretaker. How badly Johnny needs to feel like a human being—like a grown man. He finishes, a little lamely: “I just need it.” 

Simon’s grip goes firm. Johnny’s eyes shut, mouth falling open at the sensation. He hasn’t even touched himself like this in weeks, and while he hadn’t necessarily been keeping track, his cock clearly has been. Simon seems content to go on like this, mapping the shape of Johnny’s cock through his boxers, thumbing over the head until a wet sticky spot appears in the cotton fabric, his hand sometimes drifting down to cradle the warm heft of Johnny’s balls. 

Johnny, usually impatient, contents himself with this torture. Let Simon tease him all day, if he’d like, until Johnny is liable to go off at the whisper of a touch. The thought has his cock jerking toward the warmth of Simon’s palm, and Johnny groans when his grip tightens. 

“Fucking pretty, aren’t you?” Simon mutters, his eyes on Johnny’s face.

Johnny snorts. He tosses his arm over his eyes, but beneath his arm, he’s grinning. “Shuddup.” 

Simon clicks his tongue. “Be good, Johnny. Let me look at you.” 

Johnny moves his arm and gives his grin room to breathe. His head feels light and airy as Simon sits up and helps him work his boxers down his thighs just far enough to draw his cock out. The first touch of skin on skin has him hissing a breath in through his teeth. Fuck, it’s good. Just as good as it always was—maybe even better, because he needs it so bad. 

“Want you inside me,” Johnny says on a whim, feeling the truth of it in his chest. He doesn’t just want it—he needs it. 

Simon leans down and kisses him, just a little too hard to be mistaken as anything but desperate. How long has it been for him, Johnny wonders. He spends every waking moment with Johnny except his perfunctory showers. Does he indulge then, between soaping and rinsing off, holding his breath to hide his sounds while he strips his cock with one slick hand? 

It takes some maneuvering to get Johnny on his side, knee nicely cushioned. He can’t reach back and touch Simon, can’t grip his hip and pull him in closer, and it’s just another reason to miss his arm. Because there are a hundred thousand touches Simon deserves that Johnny can’t give him anymore. 

They’re lucky for the shelf life of the lube. It warms Simon’s fingers as he works them past Johnny’s rim. He takes his time, hands shaking where they touch him. 

“Need it bad, huh?” Johnny wonders. 

Simon snorts but doesn’t deny it. Just curls his fingers searching for that tender spot inside Johnny’s ass that makes him grit his teeth. His cock drools onto the bedspread, red and throbbing with his heartbeat. By the time Simon slips inside him, chest to Johnny’s back, Johnny feels liable to go off at a moment’s notice. 

For all the time they haven’t fucked, Simon remembers everything: the way to touch Johnny,wrapping a strong arm around his chest to make up for the one Johnny lacks, fingers playing with the whorls of Johnny’s chest hair or teasing one of his nipples; the way to angle his hips to nail Johnny’s prostate. 

“Quit,” Johnny groans, shifting until the stimulation isn’t so good, so dead-on. His cock aches, balls heavy and tight. “I don’t want to cum yet. Don’t want this to be over.” 

“Can’t miss Johnny; dick’s too big.” 

Johnny guffaws. The sound nearly startles him—when was the last time he fucking laughed? With you in the park—but he doesn’t need to be thinking about you now, not you with your small, soft hands and the curve of your mouth…

“Fuck—touch my cock, please touch my cock—“ Johnny whines, body trembling. He’s right there, right fucking there, too close to go back now, fuck it all, he wants to cum. Simon’s strong fingers curl around his cock and strip it firmly, and the pleasure inside him bubbles up and over, left too long to simmer. He nearly headbutts Simon in the face, his body shaking and jerking and cum splatters against his belly and the bedspread and down over Simon’s fingers. 

“Just like that—so good, Johnny,” Simon murmurs. His pale hand grips at Johnny’s sharp hipbone, cum smearing against Johnny’s skin. “My turn.” 

Afterwards, Simon gently helps him undress and goes to get them both fresh clothes. Johnny’s knee throbs freshly just from his muscles tensing, but he barely feels it. For the first time since his accident, he thinks that maybe things will be okay. He has no arm—but so what? There are many with a lot less. He’s John fucking MacTavish. He can do this.

Simon has gone still at their closet, holding something in his hands. Johnny leans up on his elbows. 

“What is it?” he asks. “Did you find my lighter?”

Simon holds up with no preamble a skull-embossed balaclava. It’s worn, the fabric gone gray at its most threadbare spots, but the image imprinted on the front hasn’t faded.

“Blast from the past,” Johnny says, throat uncomfortably tight with an emotion he can’t name. “Thought you threw those out.” 

“Thought so too.” He doesn’t look eager to throw this one out though, his fingers tracing over the teeth, like he’s tracing the lipless mouth of a lover. 

“You miss it,” Johnny says, the glow of their sex fading rapidly. Of course Simon misses it. The military had been his entire life—until Johnny’s accident. Until Simon had discharged with him, to take care of him. Johnny hadn’t just blown apart his own life by going down in the helo in Kazakhstan, he had blown apart Simon’s life too. 

“No,” Simon says simply. “It’s not that.” 

Johnny frowns. “What is it, then?” 

“The night of the poker party—I was Ghost again. It was the only way I could…compartmentalize. Stomach it. I’d forgotten.” 

“Forgotten?”

Simon glances toward him. “Forgotten how useful Ghost could be.” Reaching up, Simon slips the balaclava over his head, adjusting it on instinct until it rests just right against the bridge of his nose. His hair is getting long, little blond strands visible, curling at the ends. 

“Now I want to fuck you again,” says Johnny, just to fill the air between them, and because sex used to be such an easy way to fill it. 

Simon doesn’t smile. 

“Johnny.”

“I was just teasin’—“

“Not that,” Simon says. Even his manner of speaking seems different, words clipped, tone short and no-nonsense. “What if I wanted to go visit our neighbor?”

The question lingers in the silence between them. Johnny swallows, the sound of his throat an audible click in the tense air. 

“You,” Johnny wonders, when he can speak again, “or Ghost?” 

Beneath the balaclava, Ghost smiles. 

[pucksandpower]

Grid Kids: First Times

Sebastian Vettel x wife!Reader x platonic!drivers

Summary: they know you’re their mom … you know they’re your kids … but these are the first times you all say so out loud

Series Masterlist

Max Verstappen: Champion of the World

The roar of the engines has faded, the race has ended, and the stands are filled with jubilant cheers. Among the sea of fans waving flags, the color of the Orange Army is predominant. Max Verstappen has just clinched his first World Championship.

As confetti rains down, Max climbs atop his car, soaking in the euphoria. His face displays a myriad of emotions: triumph … relief … elation. During the celebratory chaos, he searches for a familiar face, and as his eyes find yours, a calm settles over him.

As you approach, he jumps down and without a moment’s hesitation pulls you into a tight embrace. Over the din, he murmurs something almost inaudible.

“Thanks, Mom.”

You pull back, a bit taken aback. The weight of the single word isn’t lost on either of you. Max, ever the tough racer, has tears glistening in his eyes.

He clears his throat, trying to mask the emotion, “I mean, after everything, you’ve been like a second mom to me. I couldn’t have done it without your support.”

Sebastian joins the moment, a proud smile on his face. “Welcome to the champions’ club,” he jokes but the underlying pride in his voice is unmistakable.

You wipe away a tear, “I’ve always believed in you, Max. And no matter what, you’ll always be one of my grid kids.”

Charles Leclerc: What If

The race is intense, the energy palpable. But in a split second, the exhilaration turns to horror as Charles’ car careens off track, crashing into the barriers. The scene is chilling and the paddock holds its collective breath.

Time seems to stretch endlessly until, finally, the screens show Charles moving inside his cockpit. It's a sign — he's conscious. When he is carefully extricated from the wreckage and gives a thumbs-up to the cameras, relief washes over everyone.

As he is taken to the medical center, your grid kids gather, their usual playful banter replaced by anxious glances and silent support.

When you’re finally allowed to see Charles, his face is pale, eyes reflecting the trauma of the crash. Despite the bandages and evident pain, he manages a small smile upon seeing you.

“Hey,” he whispers, voice hoarse.

You lean over, brushing the hair from his forehead, your touch filled with motherly concern. “Hey yourself. You gave us all quite the scare.”

He swallows hard, gaze locking onto yours, vulnerability evident. “I thought ... for a moment there ... I thought I wouldn’t ...” he trails off, the gravity of the incident heavy in the room.

You take his hand, offering comfort and strength. “But you’re here, Charles. You’re here.”

He nods, tears forming. And then, in a voice filled with raw emotion, he murmurs, “Thank you, Mom.”

The title that slips out isn’t one of blood or birth but of bond and heart.

You squeeze his hand, “Always, Charles. Always.”

Lance Stroll: Who Needs Wrists Anyway?

After Sebastian’s retirement, life quiets down somewhat. The raucous race weekends are replaced with peaceful moments gardening and beekeeping. But the bond with your grid kids remains as strong as ever.

One evening, a call disturbs the calm. Lance had taken a hard fall while biking and had broken both his wrists. The news shakes you, memories of crashes flooding back. Without hesitation, you pack a bag and book the next flight out to be by his side.

When you enter Lance’s room, you're struck by the sight before you. Both his hands are in casts, his usually playful eyes clouded with pain and frustration. However, seeing you brings a faint smile to his face.

“You didn’t have to come,” he starts, though the gratefulness in his tone betrays him.

You chuckle, pulling a chair beside his bed, “How could I not? I can’t let you starve or wear the same clothes for weeks.”

Lance laughs, “Well, there’s always the option of going commando.”

You both chat, the room filled with light-hearted banter in an attempt to lift the mood. As you prepare to leave for the night after ensuring he is comfortable and has everything he needs, Lance’s voice halts you.

“You know,” he starts, hesitating, “Even after Seb retired, you still ... you’re still here for us, for me. It means a lot.”

You turn back, smiling gently. “Once a family, always a family.”

He swallows, emotion causing his voice to waver, “Thanks, Mom.”

You reach out to squeeze his arm in comfort but remember the reason for your visit. Pulling back before you could hurt Lance, you say, “Get some rest. We’ve got a lot of healing to do.”

George Russell: King of PowerPoint

The rookies sit in the dim room, fidgeting in their chairs, their faces a mix of excitement and nervousness. They’re about to receive their initiation presentation by none other than George Russell, now the Director of the GPDA — an annual tradition to welcome the new drivers, give them insights into the world of F1, and ensure they understand the guidelines, all while keeping it light and enjoyable. It’s also an excuse to give a PowerPoint … and George never turns down an opportunity to put his prowess to good use.

George steps up to the podium, clicking the remote to begin his presentation. The slides cover everything from safety protocols to media interactions. But then, a slide pops up with a familiar face on the screen: yours.

The title reads: “The Heart of Our F1 Family”

George pauses, taking a deep breath. “Now, for those of you new to Formula 1, there’s someone you need to know, someone who has been instrumental for many of us drivers, both on and off the track.”

He clicks to the next slide, showcasing a larger image of you, radiant in the middle of a race weekend while giving one of your famous pep talks to the grid kids.

“This,” George says, voice filled with warmth, “is Y/N Vettel. To the world, she’s known for her contributions to the sport, her philanthropy, and so much more. But to many of us drivers,” he glances at the familiar faces of the other grid kids sitting at the back, “she’s known simply as Mom.”

There’s a hushed silence, the emotional weight of the moment evident.

“She’s our anchor, our guiding light, and sometimes,” George grins, “our stern disciplinarian. If you ever find yourselves needing advice or just someone to talk to, you know where to turn. Welcome to Formula 1!”

Lando Norris: Stream and Shout

Lando is live on Twitch, engaging with thousands upon thousands of fans from around the world while deeply engrossed in a racing simulation game — swerving, overtaking, and trying to claim the top spot. Along with the intense gaming, he’s also juggling questions from fans.

“Hey Lando, any tips for new racers?” one fan asks.

“Just keep training, mate. And don’t get disheartened by failures,” Lando replies, narrowly avoiding a virtual crash.

Another question pops up in the chat, “Who’s been your biggest supporter in F1?”

Lando doesn’t hesitate. “Well, there’s my team, my family, and of course,” he pauses as he navigates a tricky turn on his screen, “there’s Y/N. She is ... well, she’s like a mom to many of us on the grid. Actually,” he corrects himself with a grin, leaning closer to the mic, “She IS mom.”

Fans catch on quickly, and the chat floods with comments.

“Mom? That’s so sweet!”

“Tell us more about her!”

Lando chuckles, “She’s just ... amazing. Always there, always supportive. We’ve had our fair share of fun, chaos, and love. If you’re ever around the paddock, you’ll know. Y/N is magnetic in the best way.”

Mick Schumacher: Drunken Adoration

The end-of-season party is in full swing. It is a tradition where everyone lets loose by either celebrating their successes or shrugging off the stress of the competitive year. The atmosphere is electric with loud music, laughter, and the clinking of glasses.

Mick has perhaps indulged a bit too much. His usually composed and calm demeanor is replaced with a giddy, slightly wobbly version of himself.

As you navigate through the crowd, ensuring everyone was having a good time and not getting into too much trouble, you find Mick seated at the bar, a glass of something strong in his hand.

“Hey!” you call out, approaching him, “Having fun?”

Mick turns, his eyes slightly glazed but recognizing you instantly. A wide smile spreads across his face, “Hey! You know, you’re really awesome.” He slurs, the alcohol evident in his speech.

Laughing, you reply, “Thanks, Mick. Maybe we should switch to water now?”

He shakes his head, trying to focus. “No, no, you don’t get it. You’re not just awesome. You’re ... you’re like ... my mom. Like, a second mom. But also the first because you’re always there and ... you get it, right?”

You chuckle, moved by his inebriated but sincere confession. “I get it, Mick. And thank you. That means a lot.”

Helping him off the stool, you decide it’s time to get him some coffee and maybe a sandwich. “Come on, let’s sober you up a bit.”

As you lead him away, Mick continues to mumble about how great you are, his drunken words filled with genuine affection.

The party continues but for you, that heartfelt albeit tipsy confession is the highlight of the evening.

You: Sons and Spotlights

It’s a grand evening and the room glistens with opulence. Influential personalities from various fields gather, all in the name of charity and giving back. The annual International Philanthropy Awards Gala is an event where the most generous hearts are recognized, and this year, you’re among the honorees.

As you take the stage to accept the award for your contributions to various charities, the spotlight shines brightly but among the crowd, you spot familiar faces — Charles, Max, Lando, Mick, George, and Lance sitting next to your husband. Their presence is unexpected but deeply touching

You begin your speech, gratitude evident in every word, “Giving back is a principle I have always lived by. We are blessed in so many ways and it’s our duty to share those blessings with others.” As you continue, mentioning the various charities and initiatives you work with, an overwhelming wave of emotion grips you.

Taking a moment to compose yourself, you glance once more at your grid kids and say, “I have had many titles over the years — friend, daughter, wife — but one that has been among the most precious to me is simply being Mom.”

The room seems to hold its collective breath.

“These young men,” you continue, gesturing towards them, “are my sons in every way that matters. Not by birth but by bond. Charles, Max, George, Lando, Mick, and Lance are my source of strength, joy, and sometimes, a bit of frustration,” you add with a twinkle in your eye, causing a ripple of laughter.

“But more than anything, they are my family. And tonight, in this room filled with so many esteemed individuals, I want to take a moment to thank my sons. For their love, for their constant support, and for making me the best possible version of myself.”

As applause fills the room, your grid kids stand, pride evident in their glassy eyes that mirror your own, joining the crowd in honoring you. They might be champions on the track, but off it, they are just sons, celebrating their mom.

Bonus: A Family Holiday

Mother’s Day arrives and you wake to find a beautiful bouquet of flowers on your doorstep accompanied by a heartfelt note that reads:

For the woman who has been a mother to us all.

Touched by the gesture, you make your way to the living room. As you enter, warm smiles greet you and the scent of a homemade breakfast wafts through the air.

“Happy Mother’s Day!” your grid kids chorus, raising their glasses.

Max grins, “We know you’re not our biological mom but you’ve definitely earned the title.”

Charles, holding a tray with a stack of pancakes, adds, “We couldn’t ask for a better mentor and friend.”

Lance, with a card in hand, steps forward, “And we wanted to show our appreciation.”

You take the card, and as you read, your heart swells. It’s filled with their personal messages, anecdotes, and memories — marking the journey you’ve all shared.

George, holds out a gift bag with a sheepish grin, “We thought you might like this.”

Inside the bag is a beautiful necklace with six interconnected rings, each representing one of your grid kids. It symbolizes the bond you share, a connection as unbreakable as those rings.

Tears well up in your eyes, “This ... this is so thoughtful.”

Mick smiles softly, “You’ve always been there, through everything. This is just a small token of our gratitude.”

You pull them all into a group hug, the love and warmth radiating through the room. “Thank you, my sons. This means the world to me.”

And as you all sit down to enjoy the homemade (only slightly charred) breakfast, the simple yet emotional celebration of Mother's Day reminds you that family isn’t just about blood ties. It’s about the connections forged through shared experiences, tireless support, and love that transcends convention.

[wispstalk]

Some writing advice for hunting, bc I see a lot of hunting scenes in fantasy that make me itch. More under the cut. Don't read if you're sensitive to blood-and-guts discussion or animal death.

Finding game:

- I don't hunt much these days bc I don't feel like getting my ass out of bed at shitfuck o'clock every weekend during the season. Which you have to do, because much of the time you come home empty-handed. Successful hunts come about when you're out there often.

- You don't really have to be a good tracker to hunt, but you do have to know the basics of your prey and you have to be able to interpret the landscape even if it's unfamiliar. It's less likely a tracker is looking for "bent blades of grass" or whatever and more likely they are noticing game trails, sheltered areas where nests and burrows are, a spot of thick vegetation which would indicate a water source.

- Scat and footprints are useful too ofc but to varying degrees. If I'm hunting deer it's just confirmation that they're in the area; more often I use knowledge of their habits to actually find them. If I were hunting something elusive and solitary like a cougar I would pay more attention to the tracks but that's also a reason people hunt with dogs!

Actually hunting:

- Bows are not the only hunting weapons, though would be most common in ur typical medieval fantasy type setting. Spears and lances, slings with stones, and clubs would also be used. And knives and swords but in this hunter's opinion, FUUUUCK that.

- Lung shot is a quick death. Heart shot and head shot too but that is much harder. Other shots might mean tracking a wounded animal as it runs away. This is where things like broken twigs/bent grass are especially telling, and ofc blood. Small game bleed out faster and won't get as far but you might spend quite a while running after an elk shot in the flank.

- This highly depends on the prey but hunting often involves more sitting around than people realize. I bring a small pad for my booty ass bc sometimes you'll spend hours in a strategic spot waiting for the game to pass by. Also hides (the shelter, not the skins) are a thing and most hunters would consider shelter-building an essential skill.

- Hunting seasons are not entirely a modern convention -- there are better times of year to find different animals. But there would be less concern, historically, about killing animals during the breeding season than we have today.

- Even when I was hunting regularly and more confident, I got a huge adrenaline spike EVERY time I had an animal in my sights.

Big game:

- A deer has a lot of meat on it and though it's not a bad thing to leave a carcass for scavengers, your party of two or three adventurers probably will not go to the trouble of hunting deer unless they have some nearby place to cache, preserve, or trade what they can't eat before it spoils. Are they leaving it behind or do they have some way to take full advantage of such a large kill?

- If your character gets a large game animal they're probably going to field dress it: deal with all the blood and guts on site, then quarter it so it can be packed back to the campsite or whatever. My dad is a big burly mutant man and he cannot carry a deer by himself. You can carry game on poles or horseback too but field dressing is pretty typical in a situation where u can't just fling it in the back of the truck and hang it at home.

- I grew up eating bear and when it comes up I'm often surprised how many people don't know that people hunt bear for meat. It's tasty imo, especially makes a good sausage

- I can hunt deer alone, though company is nice. I wouldn't attempt hunting something more dangerous by myself. Large animals especially are better taken down as a group effort. In the TES context for example it would be kind of insane to hunt horker alone. Not that some folks wouldn't try.

Small game:

- A character who subsists mostly on hunting is going to be eating a lot of small game. They are probably going to use traps and snares in addition to actually going out on hunts.

- Look up "rabbit starvation." Small game is often (but not always) lean and going without fat for a long time can cause serious health issues.

- I joke that you don't hunt turkey, you just go get one. Game birds are kind of stupid. I plan a deer hunt, but I have gone out and shot grouse on a whim.

Processing:

- Draining blood, skinning, plucking, butchering, dealing with all the bones and guts, storage and preservation: pretty time consuming and involved. It's a good excuse for social activity.

- The moneyed classes likely would not process their kills themselves, unless they're doing some kinda randyll tarly masculinity flex for the symbolism. Kitchen staff or a local butcher would handle it.

- A good skinning knife is kinda wide and short. Some game knives have a rounded tip which keeps it from puncturing the skin in case of accidental slippage.

- Skinning is done with a light hand bc puncturing the digestive system means you've poisoned the meat. I will say it is less difficult than I expected it to be the first time I tried it.

- We don't eat a lot of offal in the US but a deer liver, for example, would be considered prime meat by many and eaten first. Bear, walrus, and seal liver contain toxic amounts of vitamin A and would be thrown away.

- I've been told every animal has enough brains to tan its own hide, but I think there are some exceptions. It's definitely true of deer and elk. With small animals like rabbits it's hardly worth the effort of getting the brains out and other things can be used but brain tanned leather is soooo soft and nice.

- Hides and pelts are useful and valuable and would be kept or traded if circumstances allowed. You can tightly roll a hide to keep it from drying out before tanning, or you can freeze it, basically indefinitely. You can also air dry it once scraped clean and soften it later, which is what fur hunters would most likely do for efficiency's sake. Tanning is also so so so fucking gross imo. Really slimy process, and tanneries REEK.

That's all I can think of for now and this is already hella long but the takeaway is that it is generally a pretty involved activity and more impactful on lifestyle than I usually see depicted. So there ya have it

[dilemmaontwolegs]

Not A Verstappen: A New World {10}

Pairing: Charles Leclerc x fem!driver!reader x Lando Norris Summary: The heat of Qatar packs a punch and causes drama but nothing like what happens when the race ends. Warnings: 18+ only, nsfw, reader illness WC: 2k F1 Masterlist NAV: Sibling Rivalry One || Two || Three NAV: Gridlocked One || Two || Three || Four || Five || Six || Seven || Eight || Nine NAV: A New World One || Two || Three || Four || Five || Six || Seven || Eight || Nine || Ten NAV: Lights Out One

Round Eighteen - Qatar GP

“Goddamn this place is hot. I’m sweating my tits off.”

“Are you?” Lando chuckled. “‘cause they still look good to me.”

You rolled your eyes at his flirty wink and continued to try to fan yourself as you scanned your pass at the entrance. “Fuck, this has to be some crime, it’s inhumane to make us race in this heat. How the hell are you wearing a hoodie?”

“It’s comfortable.”

You couldn’t even fathom a response as you stared at Charles, but he just shrugged with a smile and said, “He’ll take it off for the ice bath.”

Your enthusiasm perked at the idea of both a shirtless Lando and submerging into the cold water. Except you knew you would be in your own motorhome where your ice bath was prepped, not able to enjoy the view in McLaren or Ferrari.

“Are you going to be okay in there, mon amour?” Charles asked as they stopped outside your destination. Neither of your boyfriends were happy with leaving you alone, but you hadn’t heard a thing from Lance all week and assumed his father was to thank for that. His son had been absolutely slated online after the video went viral, now he kept a low profile.

“I can handle the big baby,” you said with a nod, cursing the laws that stopped you from kissing them both. “Go, before I get us arrested.”

Lando’s lip curved up into a smirk. “Didn’t we give you enough attention this morning to last a few hours?”

“Non, mon cher,” Charles laughed. “Our sweet will never have enough.”

You hated how your blood began to rush faster from a few whispered words, and they continued to tease you as they went on their way.

“Remember to hydrate, Spitfire.”

You pressed the button on your steering console and nearly gagged as warm water filled your mouth. It was an effort to swallow but you forced the liquid down knowing you were losing much more from your body through sweat. Your suit was drenched and your eyes stung when even the balaclava couldn’t keep your forehead dry and the sweat ran into your eyes.

“I’m having words with Russell after the race, we can’t drive like this,” you complained again.

“I’m sure he will have a few drivers with the same issue. Sargeant is retiring from the race.”

You lapped the Williams car as it limped slowly into the pits but you couldn’t spare a thought for the rookie as your vision started to blur again. Shaking your head violently, you recovered your focus in time for turn one and throttled through it. Another lap down, too many more to go.

Your head was hazy, and your sight wasn’t much better. You were fairly sure it was muscle memory that kept the car on the track as you didn’t really remember the last few laps after your water ran dry. In all honesty you may not have realised the race was over if it wasn’t for Charles slowing down ahead of you. For a moment you thought you were gaining on him but you weren’t that lucky.

“What were the results?” you panted as you followed Charles on the warm down lap, running over the marbling and ignoring the system settings you didn’t have the energy to enter.

“Verstappen, Piastri, Norris, Russell, Leclerc, you. Nice job.”

“And Stroll?” The lap seemed to be going on forever as you took each turn at a snail's pace. You were hot and itching to get out of the seat that was most definitely burning your asscheeks.

“P11.”

You pulled into the pits and the engine stalled as you failed to disengage it properly. The failsafes clicked in and you fumbled for the harness as the need for fresh air almost suffocated you. Your mouth was too dry and the taste of metal coated your tongue. You didn’t even have the strength to climb over the halo and just slid down to the asphalt.

It took every ounce of will power to stand upright with the intention of making your way to Charles. But, as soon as you were upright it was as if all the blood drained from your brain and it was too heavy to hold up. You tried to take a step towards the ambulances that had arrived but when your foot lifted, the world tipped into darkness.

Lando searched the crowd as he stepped out onto the podium and waved proudly at his third podium in three races. He had seen Charles before being sequestered to the cool down room but hadn’t caught sight of you. Now he couldn’t find either as he scanned his team's area.

“Can you see them?” he asked Max beside him.

“No, but I saw Charles heading to her car before we left. Relax, she’s probably just chosen an ice bath over you.”

Lando snickered. “I won’t take it personally, I’m fucking cooking here.”

It was Jon who pulled him aside the instant his shoes hit the bottom step at the back of the podium. Lando knew something was wrong the moment he saw the worry etched on his PT’s face. “Max, you should come too,” Jon stated, his hand wringing together. “It’s your sister.”

Jon quickly recounted how you had collapsed from exhaustion trying to get to the ambulance in parc ferme. Charles had reached you first and then they had taken you straight to the medical centre, which was where Lando and Max were racing towards.

The medical centre was busier than either man had ever seen it and they passed Ocon and Sargeant looking a little worse for wear. Both looked up from their narrow cots in a curtained area but it was Logan who pointed to the door to a more private space.

“She’s in there,” he said softly. “They’re about to transfer her to the hospital. Sorry. Thin walls.”

“Appreciate it,” Lando nodded, skipping to catch up to Max as he pushed the door wide open.

“Zusje…”

Lando froze as he saw Charles sitting beside you, his hand holding yours carefully to avoid the IV that was pumping fluids back into you. Your race suit had been cut away and cooling blankets enveloped you as they worked to bring your core temperature back down into the safe range.

“I thought she fainted?” Lando murmured as he stepped closer and into the space Charles made between his legs, laws be damned. He placed his hand over yours, lacing his fingers between Charles as he sat on his knee.

“Her blood sugar was way down,” Charles said, his voice struggling to remain steady as he pointed to one of the bags connected to the IV. “Severe dehydration, hyperthermia. They are sending her to the hospital for monitoring, just waiting for the helicopter to arrive.”

“A helicopter,” Max frowned. “That’s not normal, right?”

“No,” Charles whispered before swallowing deeply and holding Lando tighter. “There’s something else that showed up in her blood test, mon cher.”

Lando twisted to see Charles as his voice broke. “What?”

Max circled the bed and reached for the papers that were still hanging from the machine that had since been turned off. “She’s pregnant too?”

Charles looked down and nodded, Lando’s spine stiffening at the news before he stood up and snatched the pictures from Max’s hands. His empty hands balled into fists and it was only your body in the bed that kept him from jumping over and tackling your boyfriends to the ground. “Which one of you klootzakken knocked her up?”

“It was an accident,” Charles said as he rose to his feet and wrapped his arms around Lando’s waist. “The doctor thinks she’s about 12 weeks along, but he wants the maternity unit at the hospital to check them.”

“She’s been racing,” Lando murmured, still in a state of disbelief. “She could have crashed.”

“She didn’t know,” Max growled under his breath. “How could she not know?”

The doors opened and three heads turned to see the FIA Director walking in, his eyes taking in the scene. “Good, you are all here.”

Max turned his anger to the Director who had clearly been debriefed on the situation. “How could you let her race in her condition? She got randomly tested in Singapore.”

“We test for drugs, Mr Verstappen, not pregnancy. General health check ups fall on the teams, any further questions should be directed to Aston Martin.”

More footsteps came down the hall and a nurse came with the news that the helicopter had arrived. Charles bent down and kissed your forehead, your skin still too hot on his lips. “I’m sorry, mon amour.”

Only family were allowed in the helicopter and there wasn’t enough space for everyone so Max ended up flying while Charles and Lando broke every speed limit on the road to reach the hospital. 

“She’s going to hate us,” Lando whispered into the silence that plagued the car. “Fuck, Charles, we’ve ruined her career.”

“Hey, shh, she’s not going to hate us,” he said, taking Lando‘s hand while praying he wasn’t lying. 

“Did you see it?” Lando asked, absentmindedly stroking the picture he still held. “A baby, Cha.”

“I didn’t believe them when the blood tests came back,” he said, a small smile tugging at his lips before it dimmed. “I can’t help wishing she was awake to see it.” 

“Do you think…do you think it will be okay? The training, and racing…What if it hurt-”

“Don’t, Lando,” Charles cut him off with a shake of his head. “Don’t think like that, mon cher. Put your brave face on, for her. We’re here.”

Charles' hand slipped from Lando’s as they got out and it was a reflex to reach for each other when they met at the front of the car, except they couldn’t. Not there, not in public. The most they could allow was their shoulders to brush as they stormed inside the hospital and followed the signs to Maternity.

A dull thumping whomped around your head as you came back to consciousness and it took a while to realise the sound wasn’t inside your brain but from the helicopter you were a passenger in. Straps held you down on the gurney and you struggled against them before a hand gripped yours.

“You’re alright, zusje, calm down,” Max said through the headset that matched yours.

You looked around confused about how you had ended up in the back of a helicopter but it was the lack of two other people that worried you most. “Where’s Charles and Lando?”

“Don’t worry about those assholes, they’ll meet us at the hospital.”

You blanched at the acerbic tone and watched your brother's jaw clench with rage. A shiver broke across your skin despite still feeling like you were cooking from the inside out. “What happened?”

Max looked away and shook his head, refusing to explain further as the chopper started to descend. Mad at him, and mad in general, you pulled your hand away and found the buckle, unclipping yourself and reaching for the IV next.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

“I’m fine, Max, it’s just a little heatstroke.”

The nurse travelling with you had the same look on her face as what Max vocalised but she was more calm when she spoke. “You almost went into cardiac arrest, ma’am, and you are still at risk so please lay back on the cooling pads. We only want what’s best for you and the baby.”

Max winced and dropped his head into his hands. “Fuck.”

You blinked. Then blinked again. Maybe you did have more than just a little bit of heatstroke because you were obviously delirious. With a laugh you fell back into the cold blankets. “Crazy,” you mumbled as the buckle was refastened across your chest. “Could’ve sworn she said baby.”

Click here for the next part NAV: Lights Out .

[fxrmuladaydreams]

drunken bets (cs55)

carlos x mclaren social media!reader

summary: carlos makes a bet with a few other drivers, claiming that he can get you, a new (introverted) mclaren employee, to fall for him

notes: what can i say? i love writing driver x mclaren worker apparently 😂 i think it’s because she can be bffs with lando and oscar and that makes me soft. someone had to be the villian/bad influence so i’m sorry drunk pierre/lance. i hope you guys like the “she fell first, he fell harder” trope

next part

The music in the club blasts through the speakers. Drinks are thrown back as warm bodies dance, or more so grind, against each other to the beat.

Carlos feels the buzz from the alcohol coursing through him. He takes drink after drink. He deserves to relax after this race weekend, hangover be damned. He’s approached countless times by girls looking to spend some time with him, all to which he brushes off, choosing to go home alone at the end of the night.

“C’mon man, what’s up?” Lance asks as Carlos sends another breathtaking girl away. “You’re just not in the mood?”

“I don’t think he can do it. I think he needs his “smooth operator” title revoked.” Pierre drunkenly laughs.

Carlos scoffs, pushing Pierre away by his shoulder. “I could get any girl I wanted. Try me.”

Pierre grins and nods. “Alright,” he looks around the club and nods to a blonde at the bar. “How about her?”

Lance shakes his head. “No, that’s too easy. She’s been staring at him all night.”

Pierre points out a few more girls, all of whom have already expressed some kind of interest in the Spanish driver, until an idea pops into his head.

“What about that new McLaren girl?”

Carlos knew who he was talking about almost instantly. You were a newer part of McLaren’s marketing team. While most others from the team could be found creating content with the boys, you tended to keep yourself behind a computer. Lando said you were hired to do things like edit videos or photos, more behind the scenes stuff.

Others had taken an interest in you when you had shown up. A few engineers or pit crew from other teams attempted to get closer with you, all while you turned them down with a quick no. Hell, even Pierre tried to shoot his shot, but you very quickly shut him down.

You tended to stick closer to Lando and Oscar, both boys somehow able to get you to open up to them.

“You mean Y/n? She won’t date anyone.” Lance shrugs.

“Yeah, so I don’t think Mr. Smooth Operator could get her to date him.” Pierre smirks.

“I could.” Carlos is quick to defend. “Easy.”

“Alright then, let’s make this interesting. You get Y/n to have actual romantic feelings for you, and I’ll give you one hundred euros.”

Carlos reaches his hand out for Pierre to shake. “Deal.”

Carlos wakes up with a pounding headache the next morning, the sun streaming in way too bright through his hotel window. He drags himself out of bed and into the shower, attempting to feel a little more like a human before he actually has to go outside and face the world.

He eats a simple breakfast, something that doesn’t make him feel like he’s about to puke his guts all over his plate. Then he finally starts to pack his suitcase for his trip back home.

He checks his phone before pushing it into his pocket. He sees a few message notifications from Pierre and Lance.

From Lance

Insane night last night. I never want to drink again.

From Pierre

I honestly don’t remember much from last night, but I do remember a bet, and I can’t wait to be 100 euros richer

Carlos groans as he remembers the bet he made the previous night. There’s no way they’re going to let this go, they’ll make sure it hangs over his head until the end of time.

A selfish part of him wants to go on with the bet, to prove that even though he’s had some time being single for a while, he’s still a hot ticket item in the dating world. It wouldn’t hurt his image either, he thinks. If he’s seen pursuing and dating someone who isn’t a model it could make him look like he’s matured, like he’s ready to settle down instead of spending his nights in different beds wherever they travel.

From Carlos

I think you mean 100 euros poorer

The next race weekend he makes it a point to hang around the McLaren garage. No one’s surprised to see him there, given his close friendship with Lando, so the striking Ferrari red practically goes unnoticed in the sea of papaya.

He keeps an eye out for you as he sits with Lando, excusing himself when he spots you making your way towards them. You’ve got a set of headphones on over your ears, clearly enthralled by whatever you’ve got playing on the tablet you’re holding.

He pulls his phone out of his pocket and starts walking in your direction, scrolling through whatever social media app he happened to quickly open. He walks until his shoulder bumps into yours, a little too rough, nearly knocking the tablet out of your hands.

Carlos wraps an arm around your waist, keeping you upright, and manages to catch the tablet with his other hand.

“Are you alright?” He asks, flashing you a smile.

You nod and take a step back from him. “I’m okay, are you?”

He swipes a hand through his hair, then holds your tablet out for you to take. “I’m good. It’s Y/n, right?”

“Yeah, I’m at McLaren.” You tilt your head towards the McLaren garage.

“Yeah, I can see that.” He laughs, glancing down at your papaya team kit.

“Right, sorry.” You laugh. “I should probably go, filming and editing to do and what not.”

Carlos gives you a smile and a nod followed by a quick goodbye. He brushes his arm against yours as he walks away. He has to keep himself from looking back at you to see your reaction, but gets a text from Lando later in the day that gives him the satisfaction he was looking for.

From Lando

What did you do to my editor?

The next time Carlos sees you, he recreates your first meeting, bumping into you just so he can wrap his arms around you again.

“We have to stop meeting like this.” He laughs, holding you.

You laugh with him and shake your head. Your hands rest against his chest from attempting to catch yourself. “We really do.”

He smiles as he lets go of you, but keeps himself planted where he’s standing, giving you his undivided attention.

“I saw the recent McLaren video, it was really good. It kind of makes me wish you worked here when I was with McLaren.” He says tilting his head up teasingly.

“It’s mostly my coworkers, I pretty much just make it look good after it’s filmed.” You tell him, you duck your head down to avoid his gaze.

“Still.” He shrugs.

He’s pulled away by Charles after that, who gives you a quick hello before dragging Carlos back to Ferrari’s garage.

You see Carlos a lot more now around McLaren. You chalk it up to his friendship with Lando, but you begin to notice his seeking you out. He shares meals with you now, even if he ends up sitting with you while you’re focus is locked on your laptop.

Carlos is surprised to find that he’s started to genuinely enjoy your company, that he actually looks forward to seeing you every race weekend. He shakes away the feeling that blossoms in his chest whenever he sees you, afraid of becoming too attached.

That all flies out the window when he’s headed back to his hotel one day though. Dark clouds covered the sky, turning it almost black as rain poured down. You could hear thunder rumbling in the distance, likely headed towards the track.

Carlos sees you standing under the awning of McLaren hospitality, looking up at the sky. You’ve got your phone in your hand and a disgruntled look on your face.

He lifts his bright red umbrella up over his head and dashes over to the McLaren building. He puts his umbrella back down once he’s standing next to you, shaking the drops of water off.

“Did you forget an umbrella?” He asks.

You turn away from your phone to look up at him. He’s got a teasing smile on his face. The humidity in the air has made his hair impossibly fluffier, but somehow still picture perfect. He’s bundled up in a Ferrari windbreaker, his backpack slung over his shoulder.

“Yeah. And I walked here from the hotel today, so I can either try to get a taxi or I can wait until the weather clears up.” Just as you finish explaining your problem thunder booms above you.

Carlos shakes his head. “Yeah, no. I’m not letting you walk out in this.” He gestures to the sky.

“Well the other option is find a taxi.”

“I’ll drive you.” He says it as if it’s an obvious solution. Before you can respond he wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you close to him so that you’re both under his umbrella, then starts walking towards the parking lot.

You try to keep up with his pace, occasionally bumping into him, but he makes sure to hold the umbrella over the both of you. He leads you to his car, and holds the umbrella over you as you climb into the passenger side.

You notice how water clings to his hair, drops falling down his coat on his right side, evidence of him prioritizing keeping you dry over himself.

“Carlos, you could get sick, and it’d be my fault.” You scold him.

He shrugs and gives you a smile. “Then you’ll just have to nurse me back to health.”

He parks at the entrance to the hotel McLaren had booked, and walks you into the building. When you expect him to leave, he places a hand on your lower back guiding you to the elevator. He walks you all the way to your door, and leaves you with a “goodnight” and a soft squeeze of your hand.

You get a text from him later that night.

From Carlos

Lando gave me your number. What time should I pick you up tomorrow?

From Y/n

You don’t have to, that’s okay

From Carlos

That’s not an answer cariño

You feel yourself start to smile at the message on your screen and text him what time you usually leave.

He picks you up the next morning, driving you to the track with him. You make conversation about little things like how you slept and what you had for breakfast. He’s quick to run over to your side of the car to open the door for you, and keeps himself close to you as you enter the paddock.

He meets you at the end of the day as well to drive you back to the hotel. He keeps up this new routine each race weekend following. He enjoys your company, and you seem to enjoy his. After a few weekends you could say you have a new chauffeur in the form of a Ferrari driver.

With this new closeness to Carlos comes a wave of media attention you should have expected. Photos are posted over social media of the two of you walking together, you looking up at Carlos with bright eyes, or him looking down at you with his doe eyes.

It’s easy to tell that all of the new attention makes you uncomfortable, but you don’t want to lose your friendship with Carlos so you stick it out. You’re grateful when you see a clip of an interview with Carlos where he’s asked about you, and he sets the record straight.

“There’s nothing going on, we just like to hang out together. We’re just friends.” He smiles.

Although you’re glad he’s put an end to the speculation, you can’t help but feel like your recent hangouts have been only barely platonic. After the nights you’ve claimed are “movie nights” that have turned into falling asleep in each other’s arms, it’s hard to put a platonic label on your relationship.

The first time it happens, it’s you who wakes up first. His chest is warm beneath your head, and his arms lock you against his body. You tilt your head up to look at him. His hair is unkempt, yet still looks effortlessly good. You reach up and brush a few strands away from his face. You watch him for a few minutes, wondering how you were so lucky to be spending your time with someone so beautiful. You rest your head back on his chest and let sleep wash over you again, listening to the soft beats of his heart.

Carlos wakes up not long after you’ve gone back to sleep, lifting an arm to run a hand through his hair. He can feel the little puffs of air from your breathing against his chest, his heart melts when you subconsciously nuzzle your face deeper into him to get more comfortable. You look so sweet, so soft, and a part of him hates himself for it. He let himself accept that stupid bet, and he let himself fall for you. He wishes he’d never let his friends talk him into making that bet, but he also decides he’d never trade the time he’s spent with you for anything.

He’s pulled out of his thoughts when you slowly lift yourself up off of him. He misses your warmth as soon as he can’t feel it anymore.

The two of you continue spending your evenings together, wanting nothing more than to keep falling asleep wrapped up in one another.

He finds himself searching for you in the crowd at parties and events, even those he knows you won’t be at, just so he can spend more time with you. He texts you everyday you’re apart to make sure that you’ve eaten and gotten enough sleep.

Carlos can’t bear the thought of being away from you for more than a week between races. He casually mentions that he’s going back to Spain for the small break, and asks if you want to join him.

You laugh and scoff shaking your head. “Yeah, right.”

“I’m serious, it could be fun. You could relax a little bit. I could take you on my boat. C’mon.” He persuades you.

“I wouldn’t want to intrude on your time off.”

“You’re not. I want you there, I promise. Please?” He takes your hands in his, swinging them back and forth. He gives you his best puppy dog eyes and bats his eyelashes at you.

“Alright, I’ll go with you.” You sigh, but can’t stop the smile from spreading over your face.

It’s different, sharing a space with Carlos outside of the four-walled hotel rooms you’ve stayed in for work. It feels intimate being with him in his home country. He books a private villa to stay in on the beach.

The trip quickly feels more romantic than friendly, what with him cooking your dinner for you, and your evenings in either the hot tub or curled up together on the couch.

You spend your days with Carlos on his boat. You reading a book you brought with you, and Carlos laying out in the sun to tan.

It’s hard not to stare at him, his tanned toned chest on display, while his swim trunks hang low on his hips. He has just as much trouble keeping his eyes away from you as well, he can’t help but watch you as you scamper around the boat in a different little bikini everyday.

Occasionally he convinces you to hop in the water with him, to which you reluctantly agree. You keep your arms locked around him when you feel something brush against your leg in the water. Carlos keeps a firm hold on your waist as he can’t stop laughing at your distress.

Eventually you get back on his boat and sit side by side on the edge, with your feet dangling in the water. You stare down at the crystal blue sea, looking for any creatures swimming around.

Carlos looks back out to the shore. The smile that’s been plastered on his face for the last few days falls when he sees a figure on the beach. They’re far enough away that he can’t really tell who it is, but close enough that he can see the camera in their hands.

He leans back and grabs a towel, laying it over your shoulders, covering up the skin you had on display. He wraps a protective arm around you and pulls you closer to his chest, in hopes that the photos he knows will be everywhere in a few days won’t be clear enough to reveal you in them.

That night he decides to cook on the boat, which turns out to be a little more chaotic than he’d originally planned. He struggles to keep everything straight, but finds it all worth it in the end when he gets to see you surrounded by the sunset. You look breathtaking, looking out into the sea. The soft breezes wisps your hair away from your face. The sinking sun casts a gold light to wash over you.

He wants to tell you how he feels, but he knows he needs to come clean. Maybe you’ll forgive him, he hopes you will. He needs to put this in the past so that he can love you publicly and wholeheartedly.

You quietly share your meal, then break the silence simultaneously.

“I have something I need to tell you.”

“Carlos-”

“You first.” He nods.

You take a deep breath. “Carlos, I want to thank you for bringing me here, and really for spending all this time with me. I’m glad you bumped into me at the paddock because I’ve gained a new friend from it. You’re one of the best men I know, and I really appreciate you taking care of me.”

“Thank you.” He feels his chest tighten at your words.

“The truth is, I’ve come to care about you a lot more than I thought I would. A few of the other drivers tried to ask me out when I was first hired, but I told them no. I was happy when you didn’t try to make a move on me, and instead wanted to pursue a friendship with me.” You look down at your hands, and fiddle with your fingers. “But if you did try to make a move on me now… I don’t think I’d mind it…” Your last sentence comes out quieter than the others.

“Really?” Carlos asks, a soft smile growing on his face.

You clear your throat. “What were you going to say?”

He can’t tell you now. He can’t poison this perfect moment, after you’ve confessed your feelings to him.

“I was going to say that I feel the same way.”

[justaz]

merlin convincing morgana to remain in camelot and bonding over magic. uther dies and arthur becomes king and merlin and morgana are eager for arthur to repeal the ban but it never happens. then arthur and gwen are courting and morgana and merlin are a bit upset but are happy for them (sorta) but mainly they’re waiting for the ban to be repealed. it never happens. then gwen and arthur get married and morgana and gwen (+ lancelot) are devastated but hanging on by a thread for the magic ban to be repealed. it never happens. morgana is growing angrier and angrier while merlin is growing more and more reckless. morgana picks fights with arthur while merlin sticks to the shadows and protects arthur from unseen threats like always but he stops putting up much of a fight. he keeps coming back beaten black and blue, bloodied, on the brink of death.

morgana finally snaps at merlin and is like “i’ve been waiting for the ban to be lifted like you promised it would be and nothings changed. i cannot stay in this kingdom and watch the love of my life be happy with my brother while hiding myself away! you can be fine with the lying and hiding but i’m done! i’ll make my own damn happy ending” and storms off to flee camelot. lancelot finds merlin and they talk about it and lancelot is like “honestly, she has a point. i’m in love with gwen and that’ll never change. it pains me to see them so happy even though i wish nothing but the best for them. the only reason i’m still in camelot is you, merlin. if you want to stay, i’ll stay with you. if you want to go, then we’ll go.” merlin unsure and lance goes “it was you and me in the beginning, it can be you and me again” and merlin tears up but is still unsure and lance compromises with “we don’t have to leave forever. just a month or two, a year or five. however long you need.”

merlin finally agrees and lancelot goes to pack while merlin finds gwaine and tells him his plan bc if he doesn’t tell gwaine then the man will hunt him down like a bloodhound. gwaine ofc immediately agrees to go with him and they all pack their things. merlin shuffles into arthur’s chambers and turns in his resignation from his service and arthur starts freaking out like “wait what?? what’s wrong?? what happened??? let me fix it. was it a nobleman? a knight? was it me?? please tell me it wasn’t me. what happened??” and merlin can’t handle it so he just restates that he’s resigning, bows and says it was somewhat of an honor, and then turns and leaves. he finds lance and gwaine in gaius’s chambers with mordred. merlin rolls his eyes but is also kinda grateful for his friends. arthur storms in and finds three of his knights also packed at they’re like “oh shoot we were gonna tell you in the morning but since you’re here, we’re resigning too”

now arthur is faced with three less knights and one less manservant than an hour ago (he has yet to find out about his sister’s fleeing). he questions them again and the room gives merlin and arthur some privacy for merlin to tell arthur that nothing is wrong but that they just need some time away. it probably won’t be permanent but they have to leave. arthur isn’t begging because kings don’t beg but he’s doing a damn good impression and merlin is on the verge of tears again and is begging arthur not to make things harder than it needs to be. arthur grows angrier now and is like “then tell me why. why are you leaving? why are my knights leaving? tell me.” and merlin can’t think of an excuse bc he doesn’t want to push his troubles of unreciprocated love onto arthur so he just stands there and arthur is like “i thought you were one of the bravest men i ever met. turns our you’re nothing more than a coward.” anyways they split on bad terms.

merlin, lancelot, gwaine, and mordred leave camelot and have their own little adventures and run into morgana again and they form their own little band of travelers. arthur, gwen, leon, elyan, and percival are still in camelot with gwen and arthur completely in the dark while the rest of the knights Know. it’s like a few months after merlin and them left and arthur and them are drunk and he brings merlin and them up and asks what happened. the knights are quiet and gwen sits up and asks elyan and her voice is desperate enough that elyan breaks and goes “morgana and lancelot were in love with you” and they all just stare at each other and elyan rushes to fill the silence with stuff like how they wanted gwen to be happy but couldn’t bear watching gwen and arthur be so in love all the time, he explains that morgana left on her own but lancelot followed merlin. arthur asks if merlin was in love with gwen too and the knights shift before percival goes “no, he was in love with you” and leon sighs before explaining the rest.

“morgana and lancelot were in love with gwen while merlin was in love with arthur. morgana left on her own and merlin was influenced by her choice to leave and lancelot and gwaine followed him. mordred followed both morgana and merlin, i’m not sure what he would’ve done had merlin stayed and morgana left. gwaine followed merlin bc he’s in love with him.” he rubs his eye bc he can’t believe the mess things are even though it’s been this way for years “morgana couldn’t stand it. lancelot was loyal to merlin. gwaine was loyal to merlin. mordred was loyal to merlin and morgana. and merlin…merlin has been protecting you for years, arthur. he’s charged into battle against the threats you can’t see, the ones in the shadows. i’ve kept an eye on him since he got here but he’s had it handled. but recently, after your wedding, he grew reckless. he came back from every fight beaten like a pulp. he stopped trying. not to let you die, but to let them get the upper hand over him. he was dancing with death. it wasn’t healthy for any of them. that’s why they left.”

the knights leave arthur and gwen in their chambers to stew in silence, drunk and guilty and missing their friends and wondering how they could’ve missed the signs. merlin and them on the other hand are traveling from town to town, village to village, kingdom to kingdom and protecting villages from raiders, protecting druids from raids, stepping in on executions and freeing sorcerers.

[penvisions]

shield and spear {general! marcus acacius x weaponsmith! reader teaser}

pairing: general! marcus acacius x weaponsmith! reader

warnings: adult language, adult content, allusions to sex work, allusions to slavery, violence, fighting, blood, more to be determined!

a/n: just a little something my brain yelled at me to get down in response to gift we all received yesterday and how could i not listen?

-> navigation || main masterlist

There’s no use for anything other than food and drink. Energy and hydration. This is not a life any longer but a task set into the callous hands of a man that had been far too young to understand the duty and devotion it would endlessly call for.

There is no use for anything but fuel for his body to carry him through the next battle, the next fight, the next weapon should his give out or bend to another’s.

He knows how to fight with his bare hands should that happen though he doesn’t prefer it. The shield of a weapon in his hands allows him to claim his killings and bloodshed are in the name of those he serves and not of his own volition.

But he sees in your eyes that it makes no difference. A slight thing hiding in the shadows as you watch and tally the use of steel, of bronze, or iron, and tar. Of the things to keep fired stoked high enough to burn them all down to liquid and mold to your orders of weapons to be forged.

He sees the disappointment each time he’s sent to you for collection, the way your eyes longer on the sword he had been gifted from the stash your father had kept for himself. His right as a weapon smith.

But it’s no longer your fathers like you are.

An aide to the efforts of entertainment and execution. Of punishment and pleasure.

He recognizes your sweat soaked body as it’s coated in grime and as it’s coated in the marks men leave on your skin.

He’s never taken the open ended offer up for himself. Only ever calling on you for the supplies you are to provide for the arena. He feels conflicted about how much demanded of you, both professionally and personally but he has no sway in making changes, in altering the life you’re to live.

Until the day he sees you in the arena, with a sword of your own in hand and a pack of wild cats circling you with snarling, snapping jaws. Their large claws swiping at you as if you are but a tiny play thing for them. A meal for them, entertainment for the public, and a punishment for you.

‘What is the meaning of this?’ He demands, voice booming as he enters the cordoned off section of seats. The balcony that just out further that the rest of them lining the walls of the arena.

‘She is proving the strength of her weapons. Too many have chipped and shattered in the last batch.’

He recalls the battle in which the man is referring to so casually. Placing the blame in your work when it had been nothing but devoted. The weapons had been as skillfully crafted as any others you provided, but they had been at a disadvantage in the hands of his men. Not due to lack of materials or skill but of what they had been up against.

Flails and lances, stronger weapons in the hands of those they faced didn’t negate the strength of yours. But now you were facing those ‘consequences’ right before his very eyes down in the pit.

-

taglist: @pedgito @studioghibelli @sawymredfox @tuquoquebrute @hiddenbabynyc @joelsgreys @morallyinept @evolnoomym

[autisticlancemcclain]

“You’re not going.”

Keith picks his head up from the table. “Huh?”

“To the Blades,” Lance clarifies, chopping up something that looks like a bright pink potato and throwing it in a rapidly boiling pot in what Keith would call an aggressive manner. “You’re not going.”

“…I didn’t say I was.”

He didn’t. He didn’t mention anything about the Blades to any living soul. Like, yeah, he had made the decision and was going to, but.

There’s no reason Lance should know that.

“Good, then, because I took your uniform — which looks like a slutty catsuit, by the way, just so you’re aware — to the incinerator last night. It’s ash now.”

Keith stares at his best friend, jaw dropped, hands resting limply on the edge of the dining table, because — huh? pardon? what happened?

“Whatever identity crisis you’re having can happen here,” Lance adds, shaking some spices into the boiling pot and stirring it a couple times. He dips in a spoon, brings it up to his lips, then makes a face. “Here, try this.”

He marches over to where Keith has been moping as he makes dinner and shoves a spoon into his gaping mouth. Keith chokes, hot stew making its merry way down his trachea, eyes watering and chest heaving.

“A little too salty,” he rasps.

Lance scowls. “Fuck. I knew it. Gotta add more barbie potatoes.” He turns down the heat, grabbing more potatoes from the sack and busying himself with peeling them. Slowly, as he recovers from the fear of his actual lungs collapsing in on themselves, Keith stands, hesitantly approaching Lance and reaching for a knife to chop what he peels.

“So,” he starts.

Lance ignores him.

But Keith is used to this dynamic. It’s either this or flipped. Friends or not, if there’s one thing they can’t do it’s use their big boy words. So he carries on.

“I take it you…don’t want me to go, then.”

Lance grunts. “Oh, look, the caveman has room in his skull for a brain after all.”

“Uncalled for,” Keith says, scowling. “I am not the one who’s refusing to communicate right now.”

The corner of Lance’s mouth twitches upwards.

Score. Point to Keith.

“Obviously I don’t want you to leave, you stupid dumbass,” Lance admits finally. He wrestles the chopped roots out of Keith’s hands and practically dunks them in the pot, turning the heat back up. Keith smears his starch covered hands on his shirt in revenge (and then wisely takes three quick and giant steps back, well out of backhanding range).

“But there are too many paladins,” Keith points out. “You said it yourself.”

Lance grabs a dishtowel, twisting it menacingly in his hands. Keith tries not to think about the scar he knows Hunk has from when Lance snapped a towel at him when they were kids, wrestling in the McClains’ kitchen. He fails.

“Do you actually have any braincells left in your head at all?”

“Yes, jackass. That’s why I did the math. I leave and the numbers add back up. Problem solved.”

“You leave and Voltron falls apart,” Lance snaps. “So maybe crunch those numbers again.”

Keith stills. Lance steps towards him, still glaring, still menacing, but he doesn’t move — he holds Lance’s gaze, searching his dark eyes, looking for the words he isn’t saying. Because Keith…Keith isn’t the one holding Voltron together. There was a reason his heart caught in his throat when Lance came to him downtrodden and talked about being a seventh wheel. There’s a reason his duffel is packed, a reason he’s talked to Kolivan. He knows who needs to step aside.

“You just don’t get it,” Lance says, frustrated. He takes another step.

“You talk to us about teamwork all the time.”

Another step.

“You’re favourite thing to whine about is the bonding moment.”

Another step, this time as he pitches his voice high and mocking, flapping his hands.

“You never shut up about training as a group.”

One final step and he’s toe to toe, shoes to boots, nose to nose. Keith realises, startlingly, that they’re the exact same height, now.

“We are a crew, imbécil. Team, group, boyband. Whatever you wanna call it. All for one and one for all. The whole nine yards, all that cheesy bullshit.” He pokes Keith hard in the chest. “You don’t get to ditch.”

“But it makes more sense,” Keith argues, weakly and half-desperately. “We only have so many resources. If I can be useful at the Blades —”

“Fuck the fucking Blades.”

Keith deflates. His hand comes up to stop Lance’s jabbing finger, curling around his knuckles. Lance softens, slightly.

“I just want to be as useful as I can be.”

“And if you’re enough as you are?” Lance asks quietly.

Keith opens his mouth, but stops, automatic I’m not dying in his throat. For the first time in his life, it doesn’t seem like the truth, with the determined set to Lance’s jaw and the sliding of their fingers together, gripping tightly.

“Then I guess I’m staying,” Keith breathes.

Lance nods. “Good.”

Keith notices his hands are kind of clammy. His forehead, too, is a little sweaty. The air between them feels hot. Keith swallows.

“Your stew is on fire,” he croaks, voice rough.

Lance drops his hand, cursing.

“Oh — por amor de dios, hablas en fucking serio —”

———

At dinner, Keith eats his burnt stew without a word of complaint. When Lance drags him to the sink to help clean up, after, even though it’s not his turn, he goes, and he lingers too close and too long, and he’s grateful that the duffel he packed to leave home for good is laid emptied on his bed when he turns in for the night.

[shatterinseconds]

“You’re a mess, darling.” Lance smiles up at him, a big toothy smile that Keith has always loved to see especially when directed towards him, even if he refuses to show it.

“That should be my line to you.” Keith chuckles through the worry lodged inside his throat. The little light that spills into the cave does a good job of disguising the terrible state Lance is currently in. Keith sits on his heels beside Lance laying flat on the rocky ground. He works quietly to staunch the bleeding on Lance’s right side.

Sucking in a sharp breath, Lance winces when Keith presses too hard. “Nah, you’d never use pet names, and I–I always look flawless.”

Keith hums his response, rifling through their emergency pack for medical supplies. He peels off the sterile packaging and slaps the thick bandage over the ugly wound. It’s not his best work but Lance is stable for now.

“Keith, I need to tell—”

“Hey, you’re going to be okay.” Keith snaps his head up, immediately interrupting Lance’s train of thought and doesn’t feel bad about it. To soothe him, he brushes the hair plastered to Lance’s forehead. Blood crusts parts of his hair from a head wound from earlier in the battle, but the main problem is the nasty stab wound from a jagged pipe the Galra soldier improvised with when Lance had shot the Galra’s blaster hand and Keith was too far to stop it all from happening. “It’s not a fatal injury. The team’s arriving soon.”

Those two facts are the only things that have stopped Keith’s mind from running into a free fall of worry and anxiety. The injury will leave a scar but Lance will be alive to bear it, and in the end, that is the most important part.

Lance nods, a little more clear headed though his eyes squeeze closed when he shifts his body. “No, I know,” he replies, starting to become breathless though his pulse has not weakened. “I still… I still need to say it.”

“What if I don’t want you to say it now? What if I’d rather hear you say it once you’re all healed and healthy and able to annoy the shit out of me?”

“Why’re you so certain you know what I’m going to say?” Lance turns his head to properly glare at Keith. Irritation pinches his mouth. “I could be confessing that my favorite color has been orange this entire time. I’ve been fooling you all.”

Keith shakes his head as he allows his hand to fall from Lance’s warm forehead and traces down to his jawline, wiping off some of the dirt sticking to his sweaty skin. “‘Cause I know you and I know myself, and I’ve a feeling our secrets are not so different from one another’s.”

“Someone’s feeling confident,” Lance scoffs when he turns away to stare more at the cave ceiling. A smirk slides onto his face and Keith, probably with the help of latent Galra genes, is able to see that as clear as day. “Maybe I shouldn’t say it at all if you already know.”

“Mm, don’t be stubborn.” He checks Lance’s pulse for the nth time; his fingers linger against his neck, pleased by the sure sign of life.

“That’s your best quality not mine,” Lance mutters and Keith snorts before trying to appease him. He is injured after all. Keith should probably stop trying to have so much fun at his expense. But it's also the only way he’s going to get through this with his sanity intact and not think about Lance injured and future injuries that might not be so survivable. Keith leans over him to make sure Lance doesn’t miss a single thing he’s about to say.

“If you promise not to forget this moment, you can tell me the minute you step out of the healing pod, alright?”

Suddenly, Lance sits up, biting his lower lip against a yelp of pain, and Keith tries to push him back to the ground, but Lance shoves off his help. He glares at Keith, dark eyes shining in the dark, as he says, “I never forget anything when it comes to you.”

That admission stuns Keith for a moment, immediately recalling another similar situation of injury and confessions, and he starts to grin, one of the sardonic variety. “Good, I’m glad we’ve discovered what a big liar you are.” 

Lance still has the strength to roll his eyes. “I’m gonna say it and you better be ready, Mullet. There’ll be no take backs. All honest truth.”

“I’m looking forward to it.”

[vxmpyrate]

Petals - a Klance Fic

I’ve finally posted the first chapter of my tattoo parlor/flower shop klance fic to AO3

Summary:

The McClain family has been a staple in Garrison city for generations. Owning a small botanical shop on the corner of the busiest street, their family is well known and loved by their community. For generations, the responsibility and ownership of the shop gets passed down to one of the next of kin.

This year, Lance is being given the responsibility to uphold the McClain family name by taking ownership of the shop from his parents, and making the shop prosper for the years to come.

-

Keith Kogane, coming from a small city in Texas, has just graduated college with a degree in arts, and his next step is one he’s unsure of. His brother, Shiro, had told him about this tattoo shop in his city, one that’s located on the corner of a fairly busy street, and he thought it would be a good idea for him to check it out.

So, after a couple of online interviews with the owner of the shop, Allura, Keith had packed his things up and moved across the country to live near his brother and work as a paid apprentice as a tattoo artist.

TLDR: Tattoo artist Keith/Botanist Lance

If you like it, please make sure to leave kudos, it helps a lot

I’ll be posting updates regularly, and the chapters will release whenever I get to them :)

[everythingne]

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ ➛ looking in a mirror, riptide (op81)

last installment / series masterlist

mark and sebastian have vastly different ideas for how the strategy should go for bahrain. oscar has a mini victory, daisy struggles to adjust from f2 and people learn her politeness is more of a facade than anything.

warnings/notes: hate comments, no injury accidents, lance stroll being bitchy, this took so long to get out i apologize. i changed yns faceclaim to cecilia chancez

Mark and Sebastian had been behaving for the most part. Porsche was using them as trainers alongside the rest of their staff, and so far it had been smooth sailing. Mark was good at keeping to a regimented plan, keeping both drivers with strict meal plans, workout schedules, and media duties, while Sebastian did more of the experimental work. The car had come along beautifully, the uniforms were gorgeous, and everything was sleek and ready to go.

And then it came to team strategy.

It was a bit of a bicker point for the two retired drivers, and while it was clear you had a big strength with overtaking while Oscar had a bigger strength on defense, it was often bickered about who should do what.

The plan for Bahrain, excluding all the minute details, is mostly for you to lead with Oscar defending you from behind. The two of you are to stick together like a pack, trying not to get seperated. It's clear Mark doesn't want Oscar to get pushed to a second drivers position either, not that the younger Aussie minds it, but knows you have a better chance of shooting ahead with overtaking last moment, so it's a weird balance back and forth for Mark alone. Add Sebastian in and it’s a whole mess.

Arriving in Bahrain, you and Oscar are ushered to the hotel to drop your stuff and then immediately to the paddocks. Its been a mix of dread and excitement for the whole eight hour flight, and Oscar's easy to talk to about it. Hence why you both buckle down in your drivers room, snacking and laying back.

"I still haven't spoken to Rhys about the swap." You admit when Oscar asks, causing him to hum as he leans back against the wall he's sitting against while you stretch against the opposite wall.

"I mean, you haven't really been home. We've practically lived in the garage for weeks." Oscar shrugs, "my sisters are getting real impatient with me not answering them, I imagine with Rhys being just as busy its hard."

"And now he's in a new time zone too. It's so weird." You huff, lowering the bar you've been using to stretch out your shoulders and neck absentmindedly while Oscar rolls his wrists out on one of the small pediatric balls you've been given.

And as deadpan as usual, he says, "It'll come up this weekend, probably. Are you still angry about it?"

You shrug. It's a betrayal, for sure. You'd both promised to always stick together, but here you were... left behind. Like all baby sisters were eventually. On the other hand, you understand his desire to chase what may give him the best chance at a strong future. No other team had offered you a contract, but McLaren wanted Rhys. So it made sense to you.

"Being conflicted is better than just hating him, y'know." Sebastian's voice chimes and you turn to the German who smiles softly, welcoming himself in. Not that you or Oscar will complain.

"I don't hate him, I don't think I can." You shrug, handing Oscar the pipe for his shoulders when he asks for it softly. Sebastian just nods, its not like he's told you that Rhys was chasing money rather than a dream.

"Twenty minutes to media," Mark steps in too, giving Sebastian a soft smile and nod in greeting before turning to you and Oscar, "How are you guys feeling?"

"Fine," Oscar hums, "same old, same old."

"A bit nervous." You admit and Seb leans over to nudge you while Mark gives you a sympathetic smile, but allows your strategist to give you a pep talk while he kneels down to talk with Oscar.

"Ay, it's not nothing you haven't already done." Sebastian leans on the wall near you as you stretch a bit, "Just go slow, and we'll be nearby if you need to like get out of a weird situation."

"Its not weird shit I'm worried about, its Rhys." You huff, leaning to pop your head on Sebastian's shoulder, "you know how he gets, and I don't want media getting any crazy ideas that we like.. hate each other or something."

"Do you hate Rhys?"

"I... I'm fucking pissed and right now, in this moment, I hate him a little bit."

Sebastian nods and wraps an arm around you, shrugging as he says, "You think after everything I did, I didn't hate at least one person in the moment? Hell no, it used to be impossible to put Mark and I in a room together."

Mark laughs at that, but nods.

"But, we got over it. Or, more so, I realized it wasn't his fault and that I was being reckless. But we were young, now we're older and we get it."

Mark chimes in, "Look at Lewis and Nico, they hated each other. But now Lewis buys Nico's girls gifts all the damn time."

"It's a rough patch," Oscar says when your expression looks a little too confused, "they're saying, basically, one day it's something you'll look back at and be able to accept. It's nothing set in stone. You and Rhys are two peas in a pod or whatever, just let what happens, happen. He's still your brother."

“I know it’s just… I dunno.” You groan, burying your face in your hands. There's not much more to say at that point, so Sebastian just gives you a hug and soft reassurances before sending you and Oscar off for media day. Oscar takes your wrist to tug you along, before you both get settled in the media pen, Logan's the first to come up to you.

"Why don't you go see Rhys? He's right over there!" Logan cheerily notes, giving you the biggest all-American smile he can muster.

And when you peek behind Logan, Rhys has amassed a small crowd with his flare. He's smiling, definitely chatting it up with one of the McLaren volunteers or interns and you feel a weird sickness settle in your stomach.

"Uhm. No, I don't think he wants to see me." You say, "I'll just stick with the interviews, I'm not used to this yet so I just wanna be in and out, y'know?"

Logan and Oscar share an odd look but simply let you go off on your own. And for the most part, media is kind to you. You doesn't have to worry about any harsh comments about being a woman, or rude assumptions about your relationship with Rhys after the exchange... or questions about your ex. It's surprising. But, that surprise, you mostly equate to Oscar literally glaring daggers at any reporter who even tries.

The best part of your day, however, is meeting Jenson. He happily brings you off to the side a bit more, laughing as he bids away, "your guard dog, Piastri."

But Oscar smiles and steps closer, humming as he says, "Hey, I don't trust half of these media people."

"Oh, neither do I." Jenson smiles, patting Oscar's arm to show the dismissal was in jest. Cameras capturing you laughing at the two, and answering Jenson's simple questions. It takes maybe twenty minutes, purely because you find Jenson hysterical as you both keep going back and forth. It's Sebastian who comes to get you and Oscar, shooing Jenson away as he shouts,

"You're stealing me and Mark's kids!"

"Oh! Are you two married now?" Jenson doesn't miss a beat, grinning and making everyone in the nearby area start laughing. Sebastian kicks at him jokingly, Jenson sticking his tongue out in jest as he dodges and then bids the Porsche drivers farewell.

The rest of media day passes in a blur, and by the time the last event rolls about, you've got Oscar's face squished against your shoulder as he softly snores. You're about the same distance away from completely falling asleep when Oscar's hand shifts from where it's across his stomach to wrap around you, and you smile, snuggling into the warmth that is your black cat of a teammate.

-

porscheracing

liked by f1, rhyspearce, markwebber, and 569k others...

porscheracing: look like our drivers had a long day!! see you tomorrow for our first ever quali!

oscarpiastri: in my defense I was tired ?

landonorris: i told you for two years naps rock, and now that we arent teammates you finally nap??

msdaisypearce: im a comfier pillow <3

landonorris: BETRAYAL OF THE HIGHEST ORDER.

rhyspearce: good luck!

msdaisypearce: the tik tok doom scroll rlly got to us

user1: ok seriously. they are dating.

-

Qualifying went... alright. Oscar ending in P7, with you, even after penalties from other drivers, ending up in P18. Rhys ending up P9.

You try not to let the side eyes and sneered comments over the low placement get to you, but its hard when its just about every damn male reporter. Lissie and Jenson are by the far the only saving graces you find in the absolute shit show that is the post Qualifying interviews, and then you tuck yourself into a corner in the back of your drivers room to hide from the world for a moment--headphones on and blasting something as you keep your head leaned against the wall.

Three knocks rumbling the wall cause you to open your eyes, Sebastian sitting down next to you. He taps his ears and you oblige, sliding the headphones off and pausing the music.

"You had a great drive today, you know that, right?" He hums and you shrug, "c'mon. Don't let the media get to you, it's your first race. A lot of drivers flunk their first race. You're new to the car and everything, just be a bit easier on yourself, okay?"

"I hold more than just my own successes on my shoulders, Seb. I hold the door for every other girl after me. Doriane, Chloe, Amna and Hamda, Maya, Bianca, Abbi-- you get it." You huff. Having come from F1 Academy, you'd spoken to Susie on countless occasions about how she felt like she'd closed the door. Never scoring points, never getting a podium. She made the academy to open it again, and you were the test subject of all of her hard work.

Hooray.

"If I fuck this up, how can any of them get here too?" you try to bite back the btter tone in your voice. It's not Sebastian's fault this all sucks, but hes the only person close enough to take your anger out on, and you grunt, "and Rhys isn't even here."

Sebastian just leans back against the wall a bit more for a few moments before he asks, "but would having Rhys here help?"

You pause, looking up at Sebastian as he watches your vacant expression, watching the way you slowly sink down and shake your head, "I think he would honestly make me feel worse. He's always been the better driver of us. People are gonna compare us a lot as is, but if we were on the same team I think it would be a lot worse."

Sebastian just nods slowly, then stands, offering you his hand so you can get up. He peels you off the floor, bringing you back out now to the much quieter garage. There's a few engineers walking around, and Sebastian brings you up to the monitors and sits you down.

"Look at your statistics." He says, pointing at the screen, then glancing over his shoulder as Mark approaches and leans on a nearby wall, and Sebastian continues, "your marks, overall, are almost just as high as Oscars are. See? In training, you guys are neck and neck. I honestly think you were just in your head about it today, tomorrow you're gonna have the track nailed down, and know how the cars gonna handle, it hopefully it'll be easier for you."

Mark turns to leave then, giving a curt nod in goodbye. You notice the odd bristling along Sebastian's shoulders, but make an effort not to mention it. Not worth digging into years worth of drama this late on a race night.

"Just..." Sebastian sighs when he can tell you arent' fully convinced, "Go out there tomorrow, try your best. There's no real... real danger if you do terribly. Media can say whatever, but what matters most is here in this garage, right?"

"Sure." You sigh, "sure. Thanks, Seb."

"Don't mention it, Dais. Go get some sleep." He smiles, punching your shoulder as he stands, turning to the offices to go collect his items. You get up, moving to the hall where the drivers rooms are and pause. Mark murmurs something to Oscar with crossed arms, and you'd feel rude to interrupt or accidentally eavesdrop. But when Oscar's eyes meet yours, you can't deny the flame of competitiveness you see in them.

Oh boy. Here we go.

-

It's hot. Abnormally hot for Bahrain at night in March, settling around 32 degrees celsius. It's set to drop quickly to somewhere around 15, but you're burning up as you start the race. Hands stay firm on the wheel, your eyes firm on the Alpine ahead of you.

Your engineer, Jovanni, is softly speaking in your ear as you cruise around the first few passes, getting you firmly into P16 within the first five or so laps. You squeeze around Lance, getting some sort of near miss as you force him out of the way in the turn, and confirm your spot ahead of him.

"Keep pushing, you're doing amazing so far." Jovanni says, "uh... adjustment up for rotary, everything else seems good."

"Copy." you take a sip of water, adjusting the rotary in the straight as you come up alongside Alonso. Which is... such a weird feeling when you grew up watching him win as a kid. As you get level with his back wheels with your front, you go around the turn and are forced wide. It knocks you back behind him but you hum, speeding up to take the inside line in the next turn.

You almost make contact, but luckily he eases off to the wide and you manage to get in front of him. A soft laugh leaving your throat as you happily grin at the feeling. It's weird to pass a childhood hero, but you grip your hands tighter on the steering wheel as you press forward.

"Great overtake, keep pace." Jovanni says and you affirm his statement, pushing forward to where Checo's fallen back due to car issues in the first few laps. Glancing ahead in the crowded turn, you see Oscar overtake someone beautifully, and then you maneuver your way to the outside of the curve to try and overtake Checo.

And shit.

"Contact with Perez." You curse as his rear tires hit yours, "not sure of damage."

"Still on the track?"

"Yessir." You push ahead, but Checo blocks you. So, its a comfy P14 for now.

"Copy, box this lap."

You continue driving, keeping yourself firmly behind Checo until it becomes apparent someone is riding your ass a bit too close. Glancing in your rearviews you can see an Aston Martin, but you aren't sure which one. Pressing to keep the racing line as best you can, you force your way closer to Checo until there's a sudden slow. Cursing, you break and weave out of the way of whacking into the back of the Red Bull in front of you, but not of the Aston behind you.

The driver hits you and nails you into the gravel, causing you to spin out. It takes you a moment to recover, but quickly you push yourself back onto the track.

"Whichever Aston hit me needs to be paying better attention, he's being dangerous." You grumble out the complaint, "Definitely have damage."

"Get back in and box, we'll go from there." Jovanni says, but he sounds void of any confidence he might've had prior to this. You let out a string of frustrated curses and continue the drive, not worrying about passing or getting too far up before you have to box. Its a struggle just to keep the car moving at the point, and you can feel dread pooling in your gut. As you pull to the pits, you're disappointed to see Sebastian standing off the pitwall and instead at door of the garage.

"Damage is too extensive to the rear axle, you're going to have to retire the car." Jovanni says softly and you feel your head just fall to hit the steering wheel.

And then you lift your head and slam your hand into the steering wheel, "Motherfucker!"

By the time you're approached by Sebastian, it's been long enough for you to stew in your anger in your drivers room. You'd been taking our your anger on one of the training tennis balls, throwing it at the wall progressively harder until the small green scuff on the wall started to turn into more of a dent. After the last throw, you just batted it down to the ground like a cat and sunk to a ball on the couch in frustrated tears.

"Not yours, but he got a ten second time penalty." Sebastian's voice chimes from the door, you can't even find the strength to look over. He continues, "Oscar had brake issues, ended P10. Honestly, a better start than I was expecting."

Your head perks up at that, narrowing at Sebastian who just shrugs, "two drivers completely new to cars that have never been on the track before, from a brand new team? I expected P20 and P19."

"I had to DNF." You deadpan, "that should count as a shit start."

"Y/n. You got rear-ended because Stroll couldn't keep his eyes focused on one thing at once. It wasn't your fault, it happens." He stays in the doorway, eyes narrow on you, but Sebastian doesn't make a move to come into the room. He can sense you need the space.

When you don't respond he just sighs, "Look. You've got media in twenty. So you have about fifteen minutes to wipe the attitude off, Pearce."

The door clicks shut shortly after and you groan into the air, slowly dragging yourself up. Media. Yay. After ten minutes of pacing to get the last bits of angry energy out, you change into normal team gear and head out to the main bit of the garage to find whichever poor soul from the PR team is going to have to deal with your mood. You get stuck with a just out of highschool girl named Mollie, shes shy and bouncy as you walk, and her excitement rubs off on you a bit.

You ask her a few questions about her work within Porsche and she happily explains how much she adores the media team, and you let her go on and on while you walk because its sweet.

And when you get to the reporters, and she can sense you tense up, she gives a tiny smile.

"Media can be bitches," she murmurs lowly, making you laugh as you wait for the Bahrain reporter to organize his notes, "just give it back to them."

You give her a little fistbump, seeing a friendship forming in front of you, before you start down the wall of reporters. Most are very forgiving of your race result, wishing you better luck for the rest of the season. You make it halfway down, finding yourself in front of Sky News. Jenson is kind, happy to report to you, giving you a hug when you tell him how frustrated you were with your placement. And then you make it to the last ESPN reporter.

He's a lively guy, accent clearly from somewhere in the States. He starts calmly, slowly bringing you in, before you can see the pin is about to drop. Even Mollie sends you a nervous look.

"And, I wanted to avoid bringing it up, but how did you feel after the rear-ending that ended in your retirement from the race?"

You sigh, digging through your head to formulate some sort of classy response, eventually stammering out, "I mean.. it's unfortunate. We all had to slow due to an accident on the track. I tried to swerve out of the way, but Stroll drove into the back of me. He damaged my rear axle enough I had to retire. It's unfortunate but sometimes it happens."

"Yes, it is unfortunate." The reporter nods, looking over to his camera man before saying, "We did speak to Lance about this earlier. And uhm... he said, to quote, 'she's an idiot. You can't just stop in the middle of the race so yeah, I hit her. Maybe she should go back to F1 Academy and learn how to drive, or not have paid for a seat in F1.'"

Your jaw ticks shut. Mollie clears her throat and you glance down as she shows you whatever your PR agent wants you to say and you shake your head at her. She nods softly as you murmur, "no, thats too nice for a dick like Stroll."

Turning back, you lean closer to the mic hissing through your teeth, "Well, for one, Stroll has a lot of room to talk about being a pay driver. He's got a lot of room. And Lance has been driving for how long? He's not a bad driver, never has been particularly awful, but he's got a lot of attitude. I don't need to go anywhere to learn how to drive, and I'll come back next race and show that. Trust me. But what Lance may need to do is hire someone to teach him to not opening his mouth when it should be shut. This isn't the first time, and I know it won't be the last. He wasn't looking, he drove into the back of me, end of story."

The reporter blinks, shocked at the sharpness of your voice as you continue with a rough growl to your tone, "Everyone knows you watch the car in front of you. That's like the cardinal rule of driving. Regardless of if you're on in a road car or on a race track. He put me in danger, and if the accident had been worse, other drivers in danger -- especially with how fast we were going. He should rethink his choices before commenting on my skill and my ability. I got here because I deserve to be here, end of--" you click your tongue to avoid cursing, "end of story."

The reporter just slowly nods, thanking you for your time, and as you leave Mollie grins as she says, "that was kinda badass."

"Thanks," you grin, taking a drink of the Red Bull you snagged off a random table in the garage earlier, "I feel better now."

"Good." Mollie giggles and you smile, moving along with her back to the garage.

liked by sebastianvettel, oscarpiastri, lewishamilton, and 816k others...

msdaisypearce: not the first race i wanted to have in f1. but we keep pushing. see u in saudi <3!

user1: last pic is a whole mood

oscarpiastri: no pic credits :(?

⤷ msadaisypearce: ur so spoiled. (oscar took the last pic)

user2: shes an f1 driver and yet didn't post herself in uniform?

user3: erm. oki girl whtv u say like u didn't slam on the brakes.

rhyspearce: u did ur best !!

⤷ user4: why is this so passive aggressive??

⤷ user5: daisy hasn't even LIKED her brothers posts since he moved to mcl

⤷ user6: that's so conceited of her. like if ur butthurt ur brother got a better team just be better next time?

sebastianvettel: tough start of the season but like i said before, you've got this kid !!

user7: her beef w lance is SOOO good like pop off daisy

user8: just proving f1a hasn't prepared its drivers AT ALL.

( taglist is open ! )

@evie-119

[luvrodite]

OCTOBER 31ST: I HUNT FOR YOU WITH BLOODIED FEET ACROSS THE HALLOWED GROUND JASON TODD

kinktober prompt: monsterfucking | kinktober masterlist

synopsis.your lover's got a secret. you'd never imagine you would find yourself running through central park for it.

cw: f!reader, monsterfucking, predator/prey, exhibitionism, semi-public sex, cunnilingus, piv sex, creampie, minor dubcon, rough sex, established relationship, aftercare, slight bratty reader minors, blank and ageless blogs do not interact you will be blocked

It doesn’t start out this way. 

Crashing through the thick of trees on Halloween night in a pair of flimsy shoes that were definitely not made for running, getting scratched up by the whip of tree branches and near stumbling over overgrown roots wasn’t something you’d foreseen when you were dressing for this date. 

You can feel your heart in your throat, nausea swirling in your gut as you fumble your way through the woods of Central Park, moonlight thin and whispery through the dense foliage, the trees packed closely together to prevent much getting in–or getting out, you think darkly.

Your feet slam clumsily into the dirt, and another lance of pain blooms across your arm as your push past thin branches. Your eyes have adjusted somewhat, but the eerie ghostland is dense and gnarled trees and twisted branches alike reach out to snag on your clothing. They scrape along your arms and legs, and you grit your teeth with every bite, the promise of what is waiting spurring you on. 

Behind you sounds crashing footsteps not far behind and you hold back a whimper when you hear the snap of jaws. You can see the slobbery maw in your mind, a row of gleaming white teeth, canines sharp enough to tear you into two. 

The thick grove gives way suddenly, emptying into a clearing and you stumble into the center. The moonlight pours unrelentingly over you, silver wrapping around you in a mockery of a lover’s embrace–you do not feel safe, but exposed and bare. You feel desperate as you step further into the glade, pine rustling beneath your feet. The air has suddenly grown very still, and you can no longer hear the heavy steps of your pursuer. You track the treeline, eyes straining peering into the darkness. Only shadowy outlines, ever shifting and curling, peer back. 

Seconds pass. Not a bird’s call, or the snap of a twig reach your ears. Only your heart, thundering in its cage. You turn on your heel, circling as you try to determine which direction to go. 

And then–there. Opposite the direction you had come from (how had he gotten there so fast?) twin rings of green peer at you through the black, flashing red for the briefest moment. You freeze, staggering back and willing your legs to move faster. They carry you right back where you entered, bursting back into the dark and blinding you momentarily once more. 

It is a mistake.

You round a tree and before your foot has landed behind you, large, claw tipped hands are circling around you. Your scream rings into the trees and you struggle in vain against the large body that topples you to the ground. 

A mouth presses to your jaw, teeth scraping against the skin, and in your ear a voice growls, 

“Caught you.”

An assortment of colourful flowers greet you when you open your apartment door, and you look from them to the face behind them, gasping delightedly.

“Are these for me?”

“Hello to you, too, sweetheart,” Jason mutters wryly, but the smile on his face is fond and you move back to let him inside, accepting the bouquet happily. “Yes, these are for you.”

You coo, pressing your nose to the petals and delighting in the silk soft feel, breathing in. 

“Jason, they’re gorgeous. Thank you.” Adjusting them in your arm, you lean up to kiss his jaw affectionately. You trace the bloom of red on his face with a smile, and look back down to the flowers. “What’s the occasion?”

“There’s gotta be an occasion?” he jokes and you roll your eyes, moving further into the apartment to find a vase. He follows on your heels into the kitchen, opening the cabinet for you and retrieving the pretty glass blue vase you’re so fond of as he explains. “I wanted to say sorry. I know I’ve not been around as much lately–”

Ah.

You had only been seeing Jason for a few months now. Enough to have grown fond of him, and miss him in the moments in between, but not very long in the grand scheme of things. 

To his credit, Jason was wonderful. He opened doors and pulled out chairs. He’d even offered you his jacket when you’d been unprepared for the weather, and in such a gallant display that you’d wondered who exactly had raised him. He did all the right things, and unthinkingly.

It was unexpected, the gentleness with which he handled you. It was always sweet presses of his mouth to yours, unassuming and chaste, the careful intertwining of fingers or an arm around your waist in a busy crowd. Never harsh, never obtrusive or demanding. It had been shocking in the beginning, that such a powerfully built man–all hard lines, strong muscle ad scar-flecked–should be so… docile. 

You felt rather as though you’d gained an tamed doberman. Walking down the street with him, you received no shortage of looks, wary and otherwise. You didn’t know how to explain to the curious passersby that your boyfriend couldn’t hurt a fly. The most aggression you’d ever seen him express had been against a stubborn vegetable that evaded his fork, for crying out loud. 

But…

Sometimes, and only sometimes, you swore there was something in his eyes. It had always felt like a trick of the light, looking over to your boyfriend in the middle of something only to find him watching you already, lips parted and something eerily like hunger in his eyes. It was there one moment, and gone the next, expression relaxing into a familiar affectionate grin.

The only problem you really had was the disappearances. 

You weren’t a clingy girlfriend. You weren’t. Perhaps, occasionally, you sought out Jason’s company more, but you felt fairly comfortable in your assessment that you were (mostly) well adjusted enough to not mind being around him all the time. 

But every month, for a few days, he would become totally unreachable. You would be hard pressed to receive even a text from him, let alone a phone call or visit. The first time it had happened was in the beginning stages of your relationship, when things were sparkly new and still tentative, so you’d brushed it off as him not wanting to seem too overeager. 

And he’d seemed so sorry about it, looking so worn when he’d shown up at your door to explain. Work, he’d cited, and you’d believed it. Why wouldn’t you? He had looked exhausted, weary and in much need of some deep rest. You’d let him in easily enough. You remember the way he’d curled his body around you that night, deep in sleep and refusing to let you go.

And then it happened again. And then again.

Your friends had suspected infidelity. Maybe he has a wife, one had said jokingly but you’d shaken your head despite the drop of your stomach, guilt curdling at the image of some poor woman sleeping peacefully while her husband–no, it had to be something else.

It had to be.

Jason who in the time you’d known him, had never so much as looked at anyone else. Who’d shown up to your apartment with soup and changed the sheets when you’d fallen sick last month. Jason who held you like you were the thing most precious to him. 

There was a secret. This was for sure, but you couldn’t imagine it to be a wife, or partner otherwise. What else could leave him out of commission and exhausted for a couple days every month? 

What else had contributed to the collection of scars?

“–and I know I’m here but I thought I wouldn’t be able to make it tonight, either and I know you were really looking forward to it–I was too! I don’t know, I just wanted to make it up to you.” He rambles uncertainly, teal eyes scanning yours carefully for a reaction. 

You stare up at him. Late spring and Jason looks as though he’s returned from the deep midwinter. You can see the lines around his eyes, shadows smudged beneath rings of teal and his handsome face is slightly pale. 

“You sure you’re okay, baby?” you ask, gently, instead of answering his question. You raise a hand to cradle his cheek and he leans into the touch, eyes slipping closed with a sigh. “You look a bit tired.”

The flowers in your arms rustle as you move them to the vase, ferns swaying with the movement. There are creases in the brown paper when you pull it away, placing the stems carefully into the water, one by one. Next to you, Jason leans against the counter. 

“Just…a rough few nights,” he admits, and you nod. He scratches the back of his neck. “I haven’t really been sleeping well.”

“I’m starting to see that,” you mumble, turning to him fully. His arms flex under your hands when you place them there, wrapping around your waist in turn and pulling you closer. He drops his head onto your shoulder, letting out a heavy sigh and concern sparks in your chest. “Are you sure you’re up to going out tonight? We could stay in.”

“Nah, baby,” he murmurs, kissing your neck absently. It’s more of a brush of his lips, unthinking, and you think he might not even have meant to. “Let’s go out. Fresh air’ll do me some good. ‘Sides…”

He pulls away to look down at you, dimpling broadly. “You’re all dressed up.”

You flush at that, mumbling halfhearted protests but he’s having none of it, pressing his mouth to yours and subsequently shutting you up. You’re dazed when he pulls away, and he grins a little smugly, like a child who’s won their argument and you want to pinch him but he’s ushering you out of the door before you can.

The afternoon is balmy as you walk down the street, the approach of summer hanging in the air. You slip your arm around his and Jason showers you with an indulgent smile, one that makes your toes curl, so sweet you can taste it on your tongue. 

He leads you to a cafe and you split dessert, trying to hold back your sigh when he holds out a piece of cake for you on his fork. It’s easy to feel lovesick like this, butterflies creeping in to replace the dread that had plagued you the last few days when Jason had begun to take longer and longer to reply between texts. He’s dappled in sunlight and feeding you cheesecake, and you can’t help but to lean forward and take it. 

Not once does he glance at his phone during the date, lying facedown on the table beside his glass of water. You remain at the centre of his attention, teal gaze softened and syrupy as he tells you about his week, as he listens to you talk about yours. 

He plies you with dessert and sneaks a kiss just to make you laugh. You look at him and think, what is it you’re keeping from me? 

You hope to heaven it isn’t a wife.

The evening crawls upon the day as you’re walking through Central Park, leaning into his side as the skies above you bleed into soft pinks and blues, gold cutting through the clouds and pooling in patches of grass. You step through the rays, feeling warm in the face when Jason’s face takes on an immeasurably fond expression, fingers clutching yours. 

He nudges you with his shoulder and you look up. 

“You doing okay? You’re quiet.”

“Just thinking,” you offer, and looking around, you point at a grassy patch, further away from the spaces occupied by families and other lovers. “Let’s sit here.”

You run a hand over the spot before lowering yourself onto the ground, patting the spot beside you. Despite the flush of late spring, the grass is dry and without any dew. You lay down and grin when Jason remains propped on an elbow above you. 

The sunlight is soft and haloes around his head, strands of amber filtering through his dark hair. He reaches out to touch your cheek with a finger and your eyelids flutter under the touch, a soft breath passing your lips when he skims underneath your eye.

“So pretty,” he murmurs and heat blooms in your face. You keep your eyes shut, bashful, but your lips twitch in an effort to contain your grin. A moment later, warmth sparks against them and you sigh once more into Jason’s mouth, reaching up to card your fingers through his hair. 

You open your eyes and he’s a little blurry above you, golden and green eyed, the faintest smattering of freckles across the bridge of his broken nose. He’s close, nose pressing against yours, taking up the entire span of your vision.

“Hi,” you whisper, and his breath skitters across your cheek when he laughs.

“Hi, beauty,” he whispers back. He pulls back a little and you admire the flush on his face, pink cheeked and bright-eyed. “What’re you thinking about?”

You stare at him a moment longer, before sitting up, too. Taking his hand in yours, you turn it over to trace his palm as you gather your thoughts.

“Jason, I…” you wet your lips, a little nervous. “I wanted to ask you something.”

His eyebrows draw together in concern and he nods, free hand coming to cradle your jaw reassuringly. “Anything.”

In the distance, the sky has begun to darken further and you watch as one by one, the park lights begin to flicker on, lanterns strewn over the grassy knoll glowing orange and casting beams of light that sway with the wind’s touch.

“I don’t know how to say this,” you admit and his head tilts. “Is there…something going on with you?”

His shoulder tense almost imperceptibly and dread curdles in the pit of your stomach. Your mouth dries and against his palm, you can feel your hand beginning to tremble.

“I just feel like there’s something you’re not telling me,” you force out. A breeze rustles through the grass and over your skin, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake. Jason remains unmoving, eyes fixed on your face.

“What do you mean?”

You frown at him. The question sparks something in you, disbelief curling your mouth downwards. Jason stares at you quizzically, almost innocent in the wide eyed stare he gives you, but you’ve caught onto him. The muscle beneath your hand has stiffened, and his palms have grown warm. 

“Jason. Are you serious?”

“Deadly,” he replies, and you scoff, pulling your hand away from him.

“Every single month, you’re gone for a few days and I can’t reach you at all. You look tired when I see you, and you say it’s just work but that’s not work-tired, and don’t think I haven’t noticed the numerous injuries you’ve been hiding from me.” You list them off, one by one, and watch the muscle in his cheek jump. “My friends think you’re cheating on me, but I don’t think that’s it, is it?”

Still he says nothing, and you laugh bitterly, climbing to your feet. Shaking your head, you mumble, “I don’t know what I was thinking.”

There’s a grove of trees nearby that line the edges of the park, the path winding alongside the perimeter marking where you’d come from and you make your way there, ignoring the lump in your throat. Your dress flutters around your legs as you stomp across the grass, pressing your palms to your face in an effort to cool down.

You’ve only taken a few steps away from Jason and it gives you range to hear the hiss of breath he lets out and the rustle of clothing behind you as he calls out, “Baby, wait.”

It infuriates you how calm he manages to sound, resigned even, as though he’s decided to come clean. Unfortunately for him, you’re in no mood to hear it, only speeding up as you walk away from him.

“Sweetheart.” A hand comes around your elbow and you whirl around, almost spitting as you look up at him. He refuses to let go of you, eyes beseeching. “Hey, I’m sorry. Will you let me explain?”

“What, you’ve finally thought of an excuse?” you retort, trying again to pull away from him. He sighs.

“No. You’re right, I was keeping something from you. Will you let me tell you the truth?”

It’s curiosity that wins out, and you lift your chin haughtily, a silent command. He looks as though he’s biting back a smile at the reaction but acquiesces anyway. He looks around the both of you, hand slipping from your elbow to your waist, and you follow his gaze.

The space to your right, where you’d both sat, had been on the edges of the park and further away from the crowds that had gathered after school and work. To your left is the thick wood, dim and poorly lit under the blackening sky. Jason’s mouth twists contemplatively, and then he’s guiding you further into the trees. You stop at the treeline, a question on your lips.

“I’ll explain, I just,” he hesitates. “It’s best if nobody else hears.”

“God,” you mutter, horrified. “Did you kill someone?”

His eyes widen and he begins to shake his head. “What? No! Shit, sweetheart, I just meant–it’s a different kind of secret.”

You pause, uncertain. He waits, the warmth of his hand bleeding through the fabric of your dress. He’s nervous, you realise, gauging his expression. His mouth curves downward as he anticipates your choice. Will you stay, or will you go with him?

His eyes shine, and you’re reminded of who it is you’re talking to. A breath passes, and then you’re stepping forward.

“Fine. Explain.”

His shoulders slacken, gratitude brimming in his eyes as the two of you move further into the treeline. 

“I didn’t know how to bring it up, I had to be careful,” he says, stepping over a root and offering his hand out. You take it, gathering the skirt of your dress in your other hand and crossing over it. 

The forest is greyed, weak moonlight filtering in through the leaves and you brush closer to Jason when somewhere nearby you hear the flap of wings. 

“Careful?” you question. “Jason, I don’t understand.”

“I didn’t wanna scare you, baby, you’ve gotta understand,” he says softly, holding your hand. “I didn’t want to overwhelm you.”

He stops, and guides your hand to his chest. Heat pulses through his clothing, warming your palm in the chilly evening. You look up and startle when for a moment, his eyes almost seem to glow. 

“What…”

“Those times you were talkin’ about, I didn’t want to ignore you, I just–I physically couldn’t, sweetheart,” he starts, contrite. A big hand comes to brush against your cheek gently. “Usually, it isn’t so bad, but the shift–” 

He pauses, and you manage to get the impression that somehow through the dark he’s picked out the confusion on your face.

“Shift?” you mutter.

“Here, it’s easier if I show you,” he sighs, and then pauses, hands cradling your face firmly now. “But sweetheart, you–you have to try to stay calm, okay?”

You swallow, tipping your head in an absent nod. Shift. Just what have you gotten yourself into, now, you wonder. 

You turn your head back in the direction from which you came, the light faint in the distance, just as you hear a sick, snapping sound, and all of a sudden the very air around you shifts. Your muscles lock as you look back slowly. 

You have to dig your teeth into your lip harshly to stifle the whimper in your throat. The air from your lungs expels suddenly, and you feel lightheaded, swaying on the spot.

In the place you’d just seen Jason, he–it?–stands, a foot taller than your already tall boyfriend, towering over you. He’s broad, impossibly so, and your eyes having adjusted to the dim light, fall to the claw tipped hands, coarse hair covering the back of his hands and the sharp nails that curve downwards. 

You raise your eyes nervously, and taste blood in your own mouth when you spot the canines, his jaw slackened to reveal a mouth full of sharp teeth, wolfish and a warning in their own right. 

Luminous green eyes watch you carefully, tracking your movements. You can see the traces of your lover in his face, cheekbones covered by thick hair and most startlingly, his ears have elongated, pointed and tipped in fur.

Your lips part and try to form words but your voice fails you, trembling as you try again. 

“...Jason?”

His ears perk up as if in recognition and he holds out a clawed hand, lumbering forward. You shrink back, but there is relief in your chest nonetheless that he maintains control of his faculties.

“Don’t be scared,” he rumbles and your knees weaken at the gravel in his tone, voice deeper. It’s almost comical, if not for how very real it all is. 

“How long?” you whisper, shuddering. You can hear your heartbeat in your ears, blood roaring with each pulse. 

Powerful shoulders roll, as though shrugging. “Since I was 15.”

“You were–” Your fear is swallowed by a rush of grief, wanting to reach out but staying your hand. You think about your boyfriend at fifteen, the photos you’d caught a glimpse of, still chubby cheeked and childish, lopsided smile and unruly curls. You think of teeth and you think of blood, and your stomach drops. “You were turned?”

“Sweetheart…it was a long time ago,” he says quietly. He takes one step closer, and you let him brush against your hair, staying still as his claws stray close. “So. Is this explanation enough?”

“This is why you’ve been going ghost on me?” you mutter, tilting your head up.

“Full moon takes a few days to recover from,” he affirms, tilting his head up. You let out a miserable laugh, covering your face. “I can get a bit aggressive too–What?”

“I thought you were in a fucking gang,” you choke out through your giggles and he lets out a startled sound. You wipe your eyes, breathing out raggedly. 

Taking him in now, you feel comfortable enough to step closer, hand hovering over his face. He leans down into your touch wordlessly, head bowing and you take in the warmth of his skin, thick hair covering his jaw. Your fingers brush by the corner of his mouth and you meet his eyes, questioning. Is this okay? 

He stays still and you touch his lips, your own parting to mirror him. His teeth gleam and you press the pad of your thumb against the point of his canines, light enough that he doesn’t cut you, but you can feel the danger in the curve of the bones. It thrums under your skin, to be so close to something capable of killing you, to trust him not to. 

Jason allows you to run your fingers along his lips and teeth, saliva gathering on the tip of your thumb and pooling in his mouth. As though in a trance, something else settles in your bones and you slip your thumb out, dragging his bottom lip. He lowers his head as you gravitate closer and in an imitation of a kiss, you brush your mouth against his. Your senses are heady, the curtain of the forest around you drawing a veil over the both of you, and you repeat the motion, tongue darting out to flick against his mouth.

He shudders, and you realise just how large he is, eclipsing your body with his own in the dark. A musky smell hangs around you, salt and pine and earth mingling with Jason’s scent and filling your lungs. 

“Sweetheart, we can’t,” he rasps. At your waist, you feel the brush of talons against your thin dress and the hair on the back of your neck stands on end. Still, you press further into his embrace.

“Why not?”

“‘S…’s different,” he pants when you touch his chest. “Don’t wanna hurt you…might lose control.”

“I trust you,” you tell him, looking at him through your lashes and he groans, dropping his head to your neck, breathing in deeply.

“Don’t–fuck, don’t say that, sweetheart,” he pleads, a voice lowering dangerously. 

“I just want to make you feel better,” you run your hand up to his neck, a few inches away from where a recently healed scar curves around him. “You were all alone, and I didn’t know. Let me make you feel good.”

He gasps, wrenching himself away and you watch his pupils expand, onyx swallowing green until only a sliver remains. His hands curl into fists, and he shudders, head dropping to take a breath before he looks up at you and gasps, 

“Run.”

Jason hauls you into his arms and you scream, only for a large hand to clap over your mouth as he carries you back to the glade, moonlight pouring over the both of you. You squirm but his arms are leaden around you, tight and unforgiving. Above you is the sound of his ragged breathing and you chance a look upwards to find saliva tipped fangs, the hunger in his eyes only an amplified version of all the secret glances you’d caught before.

He lowers you both down to the ground, and you try to crawl away but are immediately wrestled back, pinned to the grass and caged in by his large form. Your dress is long past salvageable, and you can feel the earth smudge into your arms as he lowers his mouth to yours, tongue laving against your neck where your exertion has left traces of sweat. You squirm, and his hips only press further into you, a thick bulge against your stomach that has your mouth drying.

Teeth snap against your neck, dangerous and warning, and yet you find your whimpers not entirely spurred on by fear, tilting your head to bare the skin to him. 

“Don’t.” The warning is issued so strictly, no room left for argument that you look back to him obediently and he snuffles at your jaw, nipping as gently as he can. Small sparks of pain bloom in his wake, and you wiggle under him. 

He snarls again, and you exhale tremulously when he jostles you. “Behave.”

You bite your lip, a grin threatening to break free. Adrenaline rushes through your veins and your heart races in your ears as you lean your face up to his and whisper,

“Make me.”

A deafening silence follows in the wake of your words, not for the first time tonight, but it’s of a different kind. The air trembles with the weight of what is to come, and Jason blinks once, then twice, before his eyes narrow and his maw curls up into a snarl then–

You’re manhandled onto your stomach before you can think, hips pulled up and a hand pressing to the small of your back to press your chest into the dirt. Your gasp is swallowed by the sound of fabric, your skirts tugged up viciously and underwear tugged off without a second thought, baring your pussy to him. 

A second passes, and your legs tremble under your weight, anticipation turning your blood molten. And then a warm, wet tongue is pressed flat against your cunt, and you buckle forward, a scream caught in your throat as Jason begins to feast on you in earnest. He’s savage and messy in his movements, lashes of his tongue unforgiving against your clit and folds, growls rumbling in his chest as his laves at your heat. 

Your moans ring in the forest air, hips attempting to rock against his tongue but he holds you firm in his grasp, talon tipped fingers digging into the fat of your thighs to keep you still for him. He lets out an unrestrained breath, panting loudly into your wetness. He laps at your pussy desperately, filthy sounds trailing up from behind you. 

“Jason,” you choke out brokenly, nails scrabbling for purchase in the grass but only sinking into the dirt, and he grunts in response. 

“So fuckin’ wet f’me,” he grumbles, sucking your clit into his mouth. You catch the graze of his teeth against your thigh, but he’s careful as he eats you out, uncontained as he is. “Gonna fuck you. ‘S that what you want? Huh?”

“Y-es!” you cry, tears trickling down your cheek into the grass, and you feel him pull away. You whine at the loss, only to feel his chest curve over your back, and something prod at the entrance of your pussy.

He’s large, that much you can tell, and you feel your lungs empty as the head of his cock pushes into you, stretching you out dizzyingly. Your mind goes blank as he feeds himself into you, every added inch only adding to the fullness you feel. Your pussy sucks him in, slick coating his length as he rocks into you. 

When at last he’s seated fully inside, he gives you only a moment to breathe, leaning down to murmur into your ear, darkly amused, “Remember that you asked for this.” 

And then he slams his hips against you, picking up a pace that has you gasping for breath, helpless. You can only lie there and take it, sobbing as his cock drags along your walls, catching all the right spots and sending shocks of pleasure eddying in your stomach. It feels utterly filthy, the way he fucks you, mounting you like an animal–and you suppose he is, you think absently, before another wave of heat washes over you. 

Everything falls away from you. The park, the city, until all that’s left is you and him in the moonlit grove. Jason takes, and takes, so far from the sweet boyfriend you know, near feral with the ferocity he fucks you. And yet, you can’t say that he neglects you, one large hand reaching around to press into your stomach and circle your clit, tongue returning to the curve of your neck and shoulders. He holds you tight, so much so that all you feel is him. He encompasses all your senses, and when his thrusts begin to grow sloppier, you feel yourself approaching your own climax, hips twisting his loosening grip to rock back against him.

“Gonna–” he bites out. “Gonna come. Y’gonna come for me, pretty?”

“Uh huh,” you whine. Your breathing runs thin, and your eyes roll back when he thrusts next, full and desperate. “Please–please Jason!”

“Come f’me then,” he barks, and you crest with a mangled scream, feeling yourself clamp down on him, pussy contracting tightly. He chokes out a groan and you can feel him faltering, hips stuttering against yours and arms tightening once more as he holds you in place. 

A warmth floods you with his thrusts as he comes, spilling inside you with a snarl and rough slap of his skin on yours. He doesn’t stop as he finishes, fucking the both of you through your orgasms, more so his than yours. You can feel the spend spilling from you, your thighs sticky with cum, dripping down your flesh and pooling on the ground below you. He pants above you, breath hot against your ear and you whine when he finally settles, coming to a stop still sheathed in you.

Above you, the waxing moon shines brightly onto the glade and when you open your eyes, silvery light paints your outstretched arm. Still on top, Jason’s hand, now beside your head, is similarly encased.

“You alive?” he pants and you exhale in response, turning your head to look at him. He grins at you, mouth still open, and you purse your lips. Obediently, he lowers his head to kiss you gently and you hum, content. “Satisfied, little thing?”

“Very,” you sigh, stretching out as he shifts above you. Pulling out, the both of you hiss at the loss, and you feel acutely just how much he’d filled you with, more spilling out of you. You roll over and look at him, his eyes staring between your legs with a look of growing hunger and when he lifts his head to look at you, you shake your head, breathing out a laugh. “No. No way. You’ve wrecked me for the night.”

He grins teasingly, head tilting as he gathers you into his arms. “And whose fault is that, hm?”

You widen your eyes, shrugging. “Beats me.”

“Brat,” he huffs, nipping your cheek and you giggle, pushing him away. 

“Get off, you brute,” you squeal, and he laughs, only nosing into your space further. Moonlight douses him in silver, and you brush a hand over his cheek when he pulls away. He leans into your touch, smooths his fingers over your side.

“Gotta get you cleaned up, angel,” he mutters and you nod. 

“Stay the night with me?” you ask shyly, and you watch his eyes soften, crinkling at the corners.

“‘Course, baby,” he assures. “Here, let me just–”

He cleans you up as best as he can, reaching for a napkin from the depths of his jacket, and you watch his features recede, hair softening and shrinking until Jason, human once more, stares back at you.

“Hi.”

“Hi,” you murmur sweetly, knocking your forehead against his. 

“Happy?” he asks, and you hum, wrapping your arms around him and twirling the hair at the nape of his neck. His eyes brighten, emerald in the moonlight and you think that he’s what you treasure most in this world.

“Relieved,” you say and at the quirk of his brow you explain. “Told you, I thought you were in a gang, or cage fighting.”

“And this is better?” he questions archly, pinching at your sides teasingly.

“Well, I can’t complain about the sex,” you say primly. 

He laughs, the sound ringing through the glade, and it’s the most beautiful sound you’ve ever heard.

whew. it's finally here. the final installment of the lazy girl's kinktober series and the longest of them all (only by 500 words tbh but it's an important distinction to me). i hope you all enjoyed this, i definitely had an interesting time trying my hand at writing smut. i think i've still got such a long way to go, but i hope it was enjoyable nonetheless.

it's technically november 1st as i'm posting this here, and likely for most places too, which i apologise about. the last few days have been a little rough and i've been avoiding all commitments in order to wallow. this piece is also unedited, so forgive me for any grammatical errors etc. i will try to come back and edit them but in the meantime, thank you for sticking with me this far! it's been a fun month and i'm excited to get back to the requests in my inbox and my other projects!!

[maxillness]

╰┈➤Mafia AU, chap 1 || SP11

Warnings: 18+, unprotected sex, oral (f), fingering, slight sub!checo

Wordcount: 2k

I’m starting this new mafia AU series where there’s a different parring for each chapter. There isn’t gonna be a regular upload, but more when I feel like writing it and I don’t know how many chapters there’s gonna be

Masterlist

If she knew how this day would turn out, she had prepared some more, but in her industry, everything can slip out of plan, and into the soggy sink

That was all she could think about as she stood in the kitchen, looking down into the soggy sink ‘This could be my life in a matter of seconds’

“Y/N, my father would like to speak with you” She turned around at the sound of Lance’s voice. Her boss’ son

Her heart dropped to her stomach. Last time anyone in the house heard the words, they lost a member of their family

“Sure” She sighed as she stepped away from the sink

As she walked up the big stairs, she kept thinking about the soggy sink she just walked away from

Her breathing was heavy as she stood in front of the office door. She tried to calm down before she knocked on the wooden door

She heard a faint confirmation that she could walk in “Lance said you wanted to speak with me” She was visibly nervous, her hands shaking as her steps were uncoordinated

“Yes. Close the door and sit down” She did as told, sitting down in the chair in front of him “Anything to drink?” He asked which she shook her head slightly to

He poured himself a glass of something and put a few ice cubes in it, taking a sip of it. They held eye contact for what felt like hours

She hesitated to speak as she wasn’t given permission to, but the silence was killing her every nerve “What did you want to speak about?”

“I’m stepping down” He sighed, earning him a surprised look from the woman opposite to her “I want you to take over for me”

Her mouth hung slightly open, unable to get words out, she managed anyways “You want… me, to take over for you?” He nodded slightly “Me? Why not Lance? He’s your son after all”

“You’re the best there is, and you’re young, you have a lot of years ahead of you if you get this position, besides, Lance is…” He shrugged “Lance. Let’s keep him as our driver, no?”

“I might not approve of your so called interrogation method, but you’re a good at your job nonetheless, and I want you to take over for me. And I bet, after a short while, you’ll lay down Alonso, getting all his dirty secrets out” He had always spoke softly to her. She was the only he spoke soft to

“Okay” It was the only word she could manage to get out as she nodded slightly, taken aback by his sudden retirement from the industry

“Also because none from Alonso’s side really knows who you are, and if they do, they don’t have a face to associate with the name” He said leaning back in his chair

“Well… My method has always worked, no?” She chuckled, shrugging slightly, to which Lawrence agreed “When?”

“End of the week” He answered “I’m just missing a few boxes to pack”

“End of the week? It’s Wednesday” She scoffed, crossing her arms over her chest

“You can get the big bedroom?” He suggested “And you get this office”

“It is a nice office… Are you leaving the alcohol behind?” She asked cheekily

“You can keep the good stuff” He answered with a chuckle

Lawrence had some knucklehead hired to help moving furniture. Sergio or some shit, she didn’t really care

He was pretty though

“Can I keep him?” She asked, sitting down on the edge of the porch beside Lawrence

“Checo? Sure” He chuckled, taking a sip of his whisky “You gotta convince him to stay though, he’s an old friend, but you won’t have trouble anyways” He chuckled again

She clicked her tongue, shaking her head slightly with a soft smile “I’ll miss you” She sighed softly

“Don’t go soft. You got a family to protect now” He said, looking into the garden, watching as most of the family was in the pool, having fun

“Besides, if you have to take the Alonso family down, you need to be tough, Y’know” He said “And I can’t really get up from this porch by myself” He added with a chuckle

“Right” She smiled, standing up before helping Lawrence up

“First day tip; a bird told me Alonso is using George Washington University Hospital” He told her “And I’m guessing the rest of the family is too” He said, clicking his tongue twice

“George Washington you say?” She hummed “I’ll check it out… Tomorrow though. I’ll relax today” She chuckled

“Ma’am?” She looked up from where she was lounging in the sun bed, looking up at a sweaty Checo

“Yes?” She asked, biting her bottom lip softly

“Um… I got it all moved around. The bedroom and the office” He stuttered slightly, blushing softly

“Yeah? Let me see. Help me up” She said, giving him her hand so he could help her up “You got some soft hands” She hummed, feeling his hands

“Oh, um… Thanks, I guess” She smiled softly before she walked back into the house and up to the office

“Nice” She nodded slightly as she looked around the office “And the bedroom too?” Checo nodded, following her to the bedroom

She opened the door to the bedroom, seeing all of Lawrence’s stuff gone, and hers there instead “What’d you do to Lawrence’s stuff? He didn’t want it with him” She asked, stepping into the room, looking out of the window

“He wanted me to sell it” He nodded, walking up beside her, his side leaning against the window

“Sell it? Hm” She hummed “You want to stay for dinner?” She asked, her finger trailing down his chest, a cheeky smile on her lips

“Dinner? I- um. Lawrence wouldn’t want that” He stuttered, turning all shades of pink

“Lawrence isn’t here anymore” She smiled “Please, stay. It’s the least I can do for all the trouble, Y’know? Pay you back” She stepped closer to him, pushing him softly against the window, his head turned to the side

“Unless you want me to pay you some other way of course” She leaned further in, her breath panning over his neck

“D-dinner’s fine” He stuttered between heavy breaths

“No fun” She sighed but, gave him a short and soft kiss to his pulse point, earning her a slight whine

She stepped back “Dinner’s in 30 minutes” She sighed before turning around, but Checo had grabbed her hand, pulling her back against him

“I could use a tip though” He said, his lips brushing against hers “Don’t get paid a lot with this job”

She leaned in, kissing him softly, Checo kissed her back immediately, his hand on the back of her head

She tucked at his hair, pulling him away from the kiss “Don’t have time for that. After dinner though” She said, patting his cheek softly before walking away from him

Dinner was quick. Before she knew it, she had Checo pressed up against the bedroom door, mouths against each other messily

She stepped back, pulling Checo with her, pushing him to the ground as she sat on the edge of the bed

He immediately got to removing her pants and her panties, throwing them carelessly away

Checo kissed up her inner thighs, his hands tight on her waist under her shirt which she quickly got rid of

She pulled on his hair, pushing him closer into her, and he luckily got the hint, his tongue immediately working on her clit, his hand tighter on her waist

“Fuck. Just like that” She moaned softly, her head thrown back, her other hand grasping at the sheets beneath her

She started moaning a little louder as he pushed in two of his fingers, immediately starting to curl them upwards

She rolled her hips, moving against his tongue and fingers, her orgasm already nearing

“Fuck, yes. God. You’re good” She moaned, her thighs starting to shake slightly around Checo’s head

Her hand tightened in his hair, pulling slightly at the locks as she came around his fingers and tongue

He rode out her orgasm before he pulled out and away from her, standing up to push her back onto the bed, each of his knees on either side of her, his hands working on his belt

She took his hands into her own, stopping him “Stay. Come be a part of the family” She panted slightly

“What?” He asked confused, his accent slightly thicker than it was before

“Come on. I think you’ll be useful” She shrugged slightly “You’ll get your own bedroom and bathroom” She added

“I-I don’t know” He sighed, looking down at her

“Come on. Stay” She bit her lip slightly, her hands trailing down his torso, landing on his waistband, slowly undoing the button, his breathing hitching

“Okay, okay. I’ll stay” He said once she had finally gotten her hand wrapped around his cock, slowly starting to jerk him off

“Good choice. Come on” She said, scooting back into the middle of the bed, curling her finger to the tell him to come closer

He crawled further into the bed, his body placed in between her legs, his cock lined up with her entrance

She locked her legs around his hips, Checo’s hand on her back, unhooking her bra, throwing it to the floor

Her arms hooked around his neck, his own hands on her upper waist, slowly pushing into her, his face hidden in the crook of her neck

His hips started slow and soft, but quickly became faster and harder

Her nails dug into his shoulder blades, praises falling off of her tongue that made the Mexican whine and whimper

Her words were soon incoherent between her moans as she started feeling Checo twitch inside her, pulling her closer to her second orgasm

“You feel so good” She moaned softly, her mouth just by his ear

“Please. Can I come inside you?” His voice was mumbled against her skin and covered with a whine, but she understood him

“Yes. Yes, you can” She nodded, and not another second went by before he stilled his hips, coming inside her, his thighs shaking slightly

Another second went by before she came around him, her body shaking again, his name falling off her tongue softly

He collapsed softly on top of her, still buried inside her

Her hands caressed his sweaty back, nails ghosting over his tanned skin

“Will this happen again?” He asked softly, grunting as he slowly pulled out of her

“Probably not” She sighed “You can take a shower. I need to do something really quick” She stood up from the bed, getting her panties on and a night gown “You can sleep in here as well” She said before leaving the room

She walked down the hall, knocking on the door she knew was Lewis’. She heard a faint come in before she opened the door

She saw Lewis sitting on his bed with a book, and what looked like to be a sleeping Nico beside him

“Asleep?” She asked in a soft voice towards Nico

“Mhm. I take it he’s staying?” Lewis asked with a cheeky smile

“Yeah. For now. Tomorrow, show him what’s what?” She asked softly, making sure not to wake Nico

“Yeah. Of course” The Brit nodded “He’a not staying, by the way” He said, motioning to Nico

“Oh, I don’t mind. I know what Lawrence was like, but really. He can stay as long as he want and as long as he doesn’t get in the way” She whispered

“Thank you” He said with soft eyes, and a slight smile

“Of course. Anyway, good night” She said, walking out of the room, closing the door behind her

She walked back into the bedroom after her shower, seeing Checo in bed but not asleep

“Tomorrow, Lewis is gonna show you what’s what, and then I’m sending you out with him to get something for me” She said, getting under the sheets

“Lewis?” He asked confused

“The dark handsome one? He was at dinner? British?” “Oh, him. Yeah, sure. No problem” He answered

[callmelyc]

Twitter loves hockey Keith soooo

Au where Lance is dating the captain of Keiths hockey team so he's around a lot

He'll bring snacks, be at any hangouts, help host cookouts and celebrations when they win games. He's the teams biggest fan with the biggest heart and most fiery passion.

Lance has been around for years now, he's a team staple. Even the press knows who Lance is, their fans, their families.

So it's only fair that the entire team loves having Lance around even if Keith was initially reluctant....

Here's the thing. Keith likes lance alot actually, probably too much. He isn't blind to Lances beauty or how kind the man is or how smart, funny, ever so slightly annoying he is.

But he also isn't blind to the annoyed sighs their captain gives when lance texts him sometimes. He isn't blind to how little free time Lance has because the captain always wants lance around as a little trophy bf.

So when lance excitedly announced to everyone he's going on a half year, once in a lifetime, research trip stationed at sea? The first person Keith looks at is their captain.

The man has his press face on. It's thoroughly painted with fake joy for Lance and the news he'd be out of his sight for a long period.

It irks Keith enough that he asks Lance genuine questions about his trip he was clearly so excited for. The other team members follow suit best they can since most don't fully understand what exactly it is Lance does.

And look, Keith knows Lance isn't stupid. He knows Lance can see his long-term boyfriends distaste at the idea. He still finds himself worrying about the man when he sees them leave together, a clearly purposeful space between them as they go.

On the day Lance leaves he finds out the couple had had an argument about the entire thing that day Lance told them about it. Against his wishes Keith feels his blood boil on Lances behalf. It's that moment Keith decides. When Lance gets back he could use a genuine friend on his side of the ice and Keith is gonna make sure that's him.

So when Lance returns a week early after many long months away Keith jumps at the opportunity to help him.

Lance,like the sweet saint he is, said he'd wanted to surprise his bf so he hadn't told the captain he was back yet. Though Keith is bitter at the thought of the two reuniting he tells Lance they have a big team party tonight to celebrate their path into finals. He also tells Lance he can help sneak him right up to the captain.

Lance is understandably excited. The entire way there he's telling Keith how thrilled the captain will be since he'd never wanted Lance to go to begin with.

Despite it all Keith can't help but smile at Lances excitement. They're close to the back halls by then so Keith tells Lance to stick close and follow his lead.

Which he does.

Which he also regrets.

There's no romantic welcome home or happy surprise waiting for Lance. Instead, Keith leads him right up to the captain that's actively cheating on him with a woman in public.

Keith sneaks Lance right back out after he takes photos for evidence in what Keith can only assume is for a future fight. He takes a horribly silent Lance right back to the couples shared apartment. He guards the door as Lance packs and goes through their security system only finding more evidence of & confirmation of the cheating.

Keith escorts Lance to a trusted friends place and listens as Lance breaks down into sobs behind the front door as he leaves.

Their team doesn't see Lance again for a long time after that.

Their press team fought to keep the cheating scandal under wraps, claimed the breakup was due to mutual decisions. But Keith knows, the team knows.

They no longer trust their captain.

And as things continue through a rough patch of plays it turns out the cheating wasn't the only thing the man had lied about. Gambling, things that could be considered sabotage, outright lying to all their faces. Word was kept under lock and key least they be disqualified and have all their reputations destroyed. They had one final game to play.

So they do.

Winning doesn't feel the same without Lance watching the ice they skate on. It doesn't feel the same without his loud cheers and insistence on celebrating afterwards.

The only one happy with it is their captain who sits gleefully at the bar with his newest girl.

The rest of the team doesn't know how to feel. It doesn't feel like a win at all.

~•~

The next time Keith sees Lance is during his standard practice between seasons. He's alone on the ice today and is surprised to see those blue eyes looking at him through the glass.

Keith comes to a stop right Infront of him.

"Can I talk to you?" Lance blurts before Keith can even say a word.

Lance doesn't know this yet, but Keith could never deny him anything "yeah sure, I was done anyways"

He finds Lance waiting patiently in the locker room once he's done putting everything away.

"What's up?" He asks, watching lance look at him in question "You haven't been around. So I guess you have a good reason to be here now."

"I was looking for you actually."

"Me?"

"Yeah, I never got to thank you with all that happened....it-" Lance pauses looking down at his hands "it meant a lot to have a friend like you in the moment. I'm sorry for cutting contact."

Keith sits next to him bumping his shoulder playfully "you don't have to apologize for that, I get it. We all do."

"All....?"

"Yeah. The rest of the team, we all miss you but we get it."

Lance looks at Keith like he's surprised to hear such a thing "really?"

"of course? Lance- you do realize how often we hung out right? We all consider you a close friend and we were all furious with the captain for what he did to you."

"I-" Lance finally smiles, small but none the less genuine "and here I thought I'd be unwelcome."

Keith stands, holding out his hand to pull him up "your never unwelcomed Lance, not here, not around me. Why don't we grab some lunch and you can tell me about that trip you went on."

He pretends he doesn't see the tears filling Lances eyes as the man takes his hand and instead Keith focused on the joy radiating off him in waves

For the first time in almost a year Keith finally feels like he's feeling the sun again.

~•~

Keith sits through days and multiple lunch and dinner tales of Lances incredible research trip. It's thrilling to watch the man's eyes glitter in genuine happiness as he does so.

Keith realizes he's the first to genuinely ask after these details since everyone else simply wanted him distracted from the cheating fiasco. So Keith soaks up every detail, every stray insignificant video and piece of data lance is willing to give.

He's so greedy with it Lance laughs, thrilled someone was willing to finally listen. He actually sends Keith the initial drafts for the research (the non nda ones) along with the short writings that followed.

Keith is blown away by how hard Lance had worked. He's so incredibly proud of him, so thoroughly impressed by his intelligence and made Lance promise he'd send the published pieces once they're publicly available.

In return Lance starts attending Keith's hockey practices.

It starts with any that the ex isn't there and eventually spirals to any at all as the season grows nearer.

Lance diligently sits in the stands watching and critiquing the plays just how he used to if with a little more care.

The guys are thrilled to see Lance around again even if he's still reluctant to hang in the locker rooms and after.

Their captain ignores him in full and Lance does the same in return.

Once the games pick back up Lance slowly becomes Keith's personal cheerleader from the stands. It never fails to send a sharp spike of adrenaline through Keiths spine when he hears lance scream his name in support.

He roots for the entire team, minus one man, of course. But the team notes with amusement how Keith seems to be his favorite now.

And, well....Keith can't help but smile at that.

Lance is seen around almost all the time again with his focus mostly on Keith and Keith is smug the more it infuriates their captain as time passes.

He's enraged his ex is around again, he's enraged Lance had taken interest in someone else, he's enraged that that someone isn't him.

What the man doesn't know is Lance and Keith see way more of eachother that anyone knows.

Their captain doesn't know how Lance sometimes spends the night as his place and vice versa. How Lance text him everyday now and how Keith doesn't find it one bit annoying like he had.

He doesn't know how hard they'd fallen for eachother.

And when Keith wins their final game of the season he publicly dedicated it to Lance in their interviews afterwards.

Everyone but their captain follows in his steps saying that Lances support has been monumental to their moral as a team.

And Keith knows he's truly won when Lance pushes through the crowd and gives him a big kiss the moment he reaches him.

Lance smiles into that kiss with all the joy a ray of sunshine can provide and Keith makes sure to smile back just as big.

They go on their very first date the next day.