#and thank you for liking the starter call! | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

bows4tyun · 2 days ago

Text

⛌⛌⛌ MANNERISM ⸝⸝ 강태현

pairing! - tradhusband!taehyun x wife!reader

warnings! - meandom!taehyun, sub!reader, unprotected sex, spanking as punishment, dirty talk, slut shaming, taehyun makes reader beg/apologize, big cock taehyun, taehyun calls reader baby

lexi adds! - requested by my darling @bambiihee (⸝⸝ᵕᴗᵕ⸝⸝) also love the coloring of the text bc it looks like yummy neapolitan ice cream :p not proofread!

feedback and reblogs are appreciated!

taehyun watched your every move like a hawk eyeing it’s prey throughout the whole party, watching the way you offered drinks to every guest. you seemed more like a maid than his wife but that’s how taehyun liked it.

he liked to have you well behaved wherever the two of you went, whether it’d be at his office or at your shared home where you were right now, he’d make sure you acted right and were seen as the perfect wife.

taehyun couldn’t deny the pride he felt when they complimented you for being so kind with everything you said and did.

however, this time it wasn’t how taehyun planned it to be.

for starters, even before the guests arrived you were already stirring up trouble. you wore a dress that taehyun completely disapproved of. the dress in question was a black dress of satin material, it looked stunning on you and hugged your curves beautifully. you absolutely loved the dress and taehyun did too but he wasn’t too fond of how short the dress was, it was way high up above your knees, half of your thighs exposed because of the length.

seeing you like this made him believe it was way too provocative for you to take care of the many guests.

with cold censure eyes taehyun spoke firmly, “go change your dress, it’s too short.”

his words left no room for debate or discussion yet you argued back, your tone sweet yet defying of him. “can’t you see the time? the guests will start arriving any minute, there’s no time for me to change.” with your statement, you walked past him and out of the room, which left him to provoke a feeling of anger rise in him the slightest bit.

now his eyes wouldn’t leave your figure, even if you were across the room and he was in the middle of a conversation with a coworker. he observed the way you went up and asked guests if everything was okay. yeah that was sweet of you but it wasn’t until his eyes wandered and he caught one of his strange coworkers purposely drop an empty plastic cup on the floor. out of the kindness of your heart, you bend over to pick it up for the man, accidentally giving him a free show without even realizing it.

taehyun always had a weird feeling about that man. It seemed that at every party that he hosted, he was always finding a way to talk to you or touch you in any shape or form, it pissed taehyun off how the guy couldn’t keep his hands off of his wife.

this made taehyun snap. he excused himself from the conversation and quickly headed over to where you were, handing the guy back his cup. when the guy thanks you with a smirk plastered on his face, taehyun pulls you by your arm, startling you.

angrily, he whispers into your ear, “what the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

with a confused look in your eyes and a small pout of your lips you respond, oblivious of the situation at hand. “w-what do you mean…?”

“you know what I fucking mean. stop acting like a slut” his words are harsh and threatening, his eyes shooting daggers at you.

“I’m sorry…” you apologize, not sure of what you were even apologizing for but you didn’t want to anger taehyun any further.

“good.” he says, calmed down for now. “but don’t think that I’ll let you off the hook that easy, I have something for you after this.”

his grip loosens and he starts walking back as if nothing happened. but this wasn’t without him shooting a death glare at the man who had the nerve to grin at the sight of you. taehyun would deal with him later back at the office.

⸝⸝

when the party is over, you are walking all over the place, making sure you didn’t miss any trash that you were picking up. taehyun was in the bathroom before he came out, in a white tee and gray sweatpants that hung loosely on his bottom half, his hair was damp and messy from the shower he had taken, the complete opposite of how the guests had seen him.

you didn’t see him, too focused on cleaning as he leaned on the doorframe, eyeing how you would bend over to pick up a variety of trash left behind.

just as you’re about to get up, taehyun grips your hips, pressing his erection in the swell of your ass before he began to grind himself against you leisurely.

startled by his bold approach, you grip onto the edge of the nearest thing to you; the armrest of your couch. he grinds even harder than before, emitting a sweet soft whimper from your lips.

“fucking slut…” he mumbles under his breath but still loud enough for you to hear. “this ass is supposed to be mine only, right?” his voice is mellow yet presumptuous as he speaks in a low threatening tone.

you nod in response, knowing how taehyun became when he didn’t get an answer he liked. “a-all yours…” your words were quiet as you spoke, almost inaudible as your eyes were adorned with the small glint of fear.

before you knew it, a loud smack to your ass was heard, causing you to surge forward and grip tighter on the armrest. you whimper helplessly at the burning sting sensation left from the spank.

“louder”

“I’m all yours!”

“better but don’t expect me to soften up.” another smack to your ass. “start counting.”

once again, he spanked you but you know better than to not count the ones from before. “one!”

smack!

“two-!”

“with apologies. I want to hear them nice and clear, baby”

smack!

“three! I’m sorry…!” the stinging feeling seemed to catch up to you as you felt your eyes had a fresh coat of tears, you had to blink them away in order to get your words out without choking on them.

“sorry for what?” the sternness of his voice was minacious in the way he spoke, almost as if he enjoyed the sound of your pain, even just a little tad bit.

“I’m sorry for… being a slut!” your voice was almost filled with a waterfall of tears as you continued to endure your punishment just as you always did, not wanting to disappoint him.

after the words of true penitence have left your lips, you feel the cold evening breeze hit your ass as taehyun lifts your dress, exposing the red marks on your skin from the harsh punishment. he rubs the skin almost in a soothing manner, as if he felt sorry. he knew it wasn’t your fault that dirty bastard wanted to see you in such a vulgar manner yet he took his anger out on you. taehyun wasn’t the type to apologize in words so he wouldn’t be the one to say it.

“I think you deserve some cock for taking your punishment so well, hm?”

⸝⸝

your soft moans and whimpers along with the lewd wet sounds of love filled the room, the strong scent of sex not failing to linger as taehyun rutted his hips into you.

“hmph! s-so good…!” your grip on the sheets tightens as the tip of taehyun’s cock kissed your sweet spot with such affection, his way of apologizing for his actions.

“yeah? you’re taking it so well, fuck” more squelches of wet pleasure echoed throughout the house, your grip on his cock tightening as you squeezed him like a vice, milking his cock. taehyun hissed at the feeling, throwing his head back in ecstasy and his eyes closed shut.

he continued to smack your ass although softer than before. taehyun obviously didn’t want you to forget who was in charge here.

taehyun huffed out in immense pleasure, knowing that he was very close to release. his hips didn’t take a break, they quickened and so did your sounds of contentment. your knuckles had gone white from how tight your grip on the expensive duvet sheets but, who could blame you when taehyun’s thick cock was plowing into you as if his life depended on it? his brows furrowed as he focused on release.

“you want my cum?” he asked, not slowing down the pace of his thrusts in any way.

“yes! give it to me…!”

“you’ll have to beg for it, baby. life isn’t easy like that”

with no other choice and the only way to get the satisfaction you desperately needed, you begged. “please! taehyun give me your cum, fill me up! I need to so badly!”

“so badly, hm? okay baby, I’ll give it to you but only because you begged so nicely.” a smirk crawls to taehyun’s lips when he says this and he sees you look over your shoulder to meet your gaze with his, pleading eyes shimmering with delight as you continued to take his rough hard thrusts.

in a matter of seconds, you’re cumming on his cock, gushing over him and clenching around him oh so tight, it drove taehyun crazy.

taehyun is now determined to finish inside of you. he doesn’t even need to try. the sounds of your moans were like music to his ears as he looked down to gaze at where the both of you connected, such a beautiful sight to him.

an overly powerful thrust was all that was needed for his cum to fill you up, painting your insides completely white. now both of you are left panting to recover from your climaxes.

taehyun lets out a small hum of satisfaction, giving your ass one last small slap before pulling out and watching his cum escape and ooze out of your hole, dripping onto the newly cleaned floor. his strong arms turn your around and he pulls you into a affectionate embrace, kissing your forehead gently and brushing your hair away from your face. he lifts your chin up with a singular finger, his fierce eyes meeting yours.

“don’t let it happen again, okay?”

“I promise it won’t…”

his hands come to rest on your hips, his thumbs rubbing loving circles on your soft skin before he kisses you once more.

“I trust you to keep that promise, baby.”

taglist! - @hyunj00 @lovingbeomgyudayone @bambiihee @saejinniestar @beomgyusluver (pls lmk if you want to be added!)

90 notes · View notes

oddlydescriptive · 12 hours ago

Text

Reset, Chapter Fourteen

Series Masterlist

════════════════════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══════════════════

You wake up hating everything.

The light.

Yourself.

Beer.

Beer especially.

Life in general.

The ceiling, for starters- the same one you’ve stared at for months now in your little factory dorm room. The way it’s too close, too bright, too white. Your tongue feels like it’s been dragged across the production floor. Your brain is a dull, pulsing throb- not catastrophic, but persistent. Annoying. Like a reminder that yes, in fact, you drank three whole beers -big beers, mind you- last night. Possibly four. And no, you are not nineteen anymore. You’re also no longer a particularly seasoned drinker after three months of nothing more than an occasional, polite glass of white wine or champagne over business dinners.

Oh my God. What even was last night?

The call. Sure. Great. Dream-fulfilling, life-altering, seat-securing moment, and yeah, you’re happy, thrilled, all that. Whatever. Fine.

The beers- fine. Maybe a little fast, maybe one too many, but whatever. You earned it.

But the rest?

The jukebox.

The laughing.

The fucking kneeling.

The staring.

Jesus Christ, the staring.

You groan out loud and flop onto your side like you can physically wiggle away from the memory. Like maybe if you press your cheek against the cool wall and hold perfectly still, time will rewind just far enough to let you unlive the last thirty seconds before you caught Max Verstappen watching you like he’d never seen a person before.

And he wasn’t even trying to hide it.

“God,” you mumble to the ceiling. “What the fuck was that?” No one answers.

You feel yourself heat from the inside out, not with embarrassment exactly- more like offense. How dare he. How dare you, honestly. Getting punchy in the haze of cheap pilsners and vintage ABBA.

You throw the blanket off like it’s personally offended you and swing your legs to the floor. You’ve got a flight to Brazil. You’re going with the team. To sign the contract. To smile and wave and pretend you’re not still mildly hungover from a bunch of £5 pilsner and the world's stupidest standoff.

You feel disgusting, so you dress accordingly- real clothes. Overcompensate. High-waisted trousers, clean blouse, light makeup, hair pinned into something neat. The kind of outfit that says: I have my shit together, even if your brain feels like it was run over by the taxi cab that deposits you on the sidewalk of Heathrow.

Check-in is quick. Security is quicker. One checked bag. One backpack. That’s it.

No drama. No questions. No fire suit. No helmet. No gear bag stuffed within an inch of it’s life. No extra team apparel shoved between a neck brace and your HANS device. No holding up your backpack with two fingers while someone roots through your bag- Miss, is this a lithium battery? You blink as you clear the last scanner, almost suspicious of how easy it was.

Nothing about your luggage says racer. Because you’re on the other side of it. The side that had gear packed and sent before you even had to question it.

British Airways out of Terminal 3. First class. Direct. No layovers. That alone feels like a fever dream. Your seat was booked by someone else, paid for with a team card you’ve never even seen. No expense report, no hustle, no sideways phone calls, no backdoor travel codes that you begborrowstole from dark corners of the internet or schmoozed from a customer service agent. Just: here’s your itinerary. Have a nice flight. God, you don’t want to know what a 12 hour notice first-class flight to Brazil costs. Probably more than is in your checking account.

You’re not used to that.

Thanks to the ticket and the Amex Platinum your dad insists on keeping you listed under- for emergencies only, babygirl, I mean it- you’ve got access to multiple lounges. You spent the entire cab ride over scrolling r/heathrow and watching lounge reviews on YouTube like a psychopath. The Cathay Pacific First Class Lounge came out on top.

Small. Quiet. Mood lighting. Made-to-order noodles.

You take the elevator up, nod politely to the concierge, smile too wide- because you’re still not used to being let into these places without having to explain yourself- and step inside.

Instant exhale. The rest of the airport vanishes like someone hit mute. Carpet under your boots. Leather chairs soft enough to make you want to sleep for a week. It’s small. Quiet. Dim in a deliberate, expensive way. The kind of quiet that doesn’t ask for silence, just assumes it.

You still don’t love traveling. The flights, the time zones, the disorienting lights of arrivals halls in cities that don’t know your name yet.

But the lounges?

God, yes.

You’re not new to lounges. You’ve practically got a doctorate in them. Back in America- especially during your Indy days- you were the undisputed queen of squeezing every drop out of a Priority Pass guest allowance. You learned how to hustle your way through them. Flash the card, assess your options, and above all- come prepared. Water battle. Tupperware. Ziplocs.

The trick was never about getting in, even if your greasy fingernails and stained pit polos did earn you a side-eye or three. The trick was about what you did once you were there.

Eat fast. Use everything. Fill your water bottle with their fancy cucumber water or designer espresso- yes, sir- three lavender oat milk lattes. Yes. Three. Load up your Tupperware when nobody was looking. Slip some goods in your backpack, if the snacks were pre-packaged. Grab an extra banana. Swipe a few granola bars.

It wasn’t about greed or gluttony or some deep-seated kleptomania. It was about strategy. It was about survival.

It was about landing in a town you didn’t pick, at a time you didn’t agree to, with zero food options except for -maybe, possibly- one terrifying “grill” next to the motel that definitely wasn’t making its money from selling food.

Fuck you, Steam Corners, Ohio.

You and six of the pit guys got in at a respectable 9 p.m.- not even late by race weekend standards- and found the entire town locked down tighter than a Sunday church. No grocery stores. No drive-thrus. The bar across the street had plywood in the windows and hadn’t looked like it had been open since the 2008 recession. So you all ended up huddled around a vending machine in the lobby, shoving wrinkled dollar bills into it like it held a prayer. You walked away with beef jerky sticks, off-brand chips, and a melted chocolate bar you had to scrape off the inside of the wrapper with your teeth.

That night, you learned two things:

Always carry your own fork.

Lounge leftovers could mean the difference between starving and not.

So no- it wasn’t indulgence. It was about having something edible by the time you hit the motel roulette in whatever town hadn’t updated its Yelp listings since 2011.

This time, you’re not the exception. You’re on the manifest. It’s disorienting. Not wrong. Just... new.

It used to feel like cheating.

Now it just feels... strange. Now someone is bringing you a menu with hand-pulled noodles and duck broth and you’re not even plotting how to smuggle leftovers into your carry-on. Now there’s no hustle. No sleight of hand. Just you. A seat. A name on the list.

You’ve been in lounges before. Dozens. But never like this. Never without the need to justify it- to earn it. To sneak, to scavenge, to prepare for whatever Mid-western hellscape waited for you in Indy.

Eventually, your boarding group is called. First. Naturally.

You hesitate, just for a second, then rise, sling your backpack over one shoulder, and thank the lounge attendant with the kind of southern politeness that refuses to die even under duress. Your legs move automatically. Your brain’s still catching up.

You walk past the crowd at the gate- past the boarding lane packed with families and couples and the guy who’s holding his neck pillow like it’s going to save him from the cramps that come with a transatlantic flight- and head straight through the First Class lane like you’ve been doing it for years.

One scan. A nod. “Welcome aboard, Miss.”

The jet bridge is the same as always. Too cold. Too bright. Smells faintly of metal and carpet glue. You walk it like a runway you didn’t ask for.

And then-

Left turn. And suddenly, you’re not in an airplane. You’re in another world.

Your seat isn’t a seat. It’s a capsule. A private, high-walled cocoon of brushed aluminum and butter-soft leather, wide enough to stretch in and deep enough to disappear into. There’s a pillow. A mattress pad. A console. A welcome card with your name handwritten in actual ink. Real pen ink. That someone wrote with their hand.

You take one cautious step in, and then another. Sit down like you expect it to vanish beneath you.

It doesn’t.

It cradles you. It welcomes you. It instantly forgives every cheap red-eye and Greyhound bus you’ve ever endured.

A flight attendant offers to hang your jacket. Another one brings you a hot towel. There’s a glass of champagne waiting on a tray like it missed you. You’re pretty sure you just heard someone order caviar. On a plane.

You start poking around, careful but curious- fingertips skating over unfamiliar buttons, compartments, sleek metallic seams. One panel flips open with a click. Another releases a drawer with a blanket folded military tight. You find the noise-canceling headphones. The amenity kit. The menu.

And then- curious, stupid, a little drunk on luxury- you press a button without reading the label.

Whirrr.

The divider wall between you and the next seat begins to descend. Oh no. No no no no no.

“Shit- ” you whisper, eyes widening as the panel hums down, smooth as silk and definitely not stopping until it hits the bottom. Abort, abort, ABORT. You fumble, jabbing the button again like that’s going to make the wall rise faster- or erase the last five seconds entirely. You’re halfway out of your seat, stammering out a panicked, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to- ”

And then the divider finishes its glide- and you’re staring directly into the seat next to you.

George Russell blinks. Then smiles. “Oh,” he says, like he’s amused and already halfway into being polite. “Hello.”

You freeze, still hovering over the console like you’ve been caught rewiring the aircraft. Your voice gets stuck in your throat, then comes out all at once: “I didn’t mean to do that.”

He laughs, easy and warm. “That’s alright. I was wondering when I’d get to say hello.”

And just like that, you're caught. Trapped somewhere between mortification and high-altitude diplomacy. You freeze. Because of course it’s someone you know. Because of course it’s someone from work.

And just like that, you shift. Shoulders back. Jaw loose. Smile calibrated. You sit like someone who’s been in first class before. Who’s tired of the champagne. Who rolls her eyes at warmed towels. Who belongs here.

“Hi,” you say, light and charming, like that button press wasn’t a small social catastrophe. “God, sorry about the- ” you gesture vaguely at the console, at the divider that just revealed way too much. “Didn’t realize it actually worked. Total accident.” Like you’ve been here before. Like you didn’t even expect it to work. Like you’ve been here enough to pick out the flaws. Nice. Smooth.

George lets out a polite laugh. “No harm done.” He adjusts slightly in his seat, still watching you with that carefully unreadable expression. “Nice surprise, really.”

You mirror his posture- effortless, elegant, like the seat wasn’t a mini theme park of compartments and features five minutes ago. “Wasn’t expecting company either,” you say. “But hey. Better than sitting next to someone who takes their shoes off before takeoff.”

He smiles at that. “True. Though I wouldn’t have pegged you for British Airways.”

You raise a brow. “Why not?”

George lifts one shoulder in a mild shrug. “Just assumed Red Bull would have you flying private or something.” You laugh- easy, breezy, Covergirl, like that thought hadn’t just sent a minor wave of panic rolling through your ribcage.

“Oh, sure,” you say. “Maybe next season.”

And he nods, seemingly satisfied. No comment. No follow-up. Just that watchful, polite quiet that makes your skin itch, just a little. You sink deeper into your seat, legs angled, hands loose in your lap. You sip your Coke like you’ve had a hundred of them up here. You make a mental note to google BA first class etiquette when you land, just to be safe.

He studies you for a moment longer. Not invasive, just… curious. “I haven’t seen you since Zandvoort,” he says, like it’s a memory worth revisiting.

You smile. Professional. Clean. “Briefly. Podium.”

“I remember,” George says. “You disappeared in the cool down room, no?”

You hum. “Yeah, I… wasn’t feeling great.” Which is a much classier way of saying: I threw up everything but my teeth five minutes before they handed me the champagne.

He nods slowly, still watching you. Not too intently. Just… enough. “You looked strong,” he says.

You smile again, automatic. “Thanks.”

There’s a pause. Measured. Warm. And then he shifts, smoothing his hand along the armrest. “I take it you’re headed to São Paulo with the rest of us?”

You nod. “Team stuff. Press. Just tagging along.”

He tilts his head. “Tagging along?”

“Support role,” you say smoothly. “A few meetings. A little visibility.”

George doesn’t press. He just offers a small nod and turns forward again. Still smiling. Still perfectly mannered. But you can feel it.

The curiosity. The mild surprise. Like maybe he didn’t expect you to fit in here. Like maybe he didn’t expect you to be this composed.

And you’ll be damned if you let him find out how new this is. You’ve never flown first class in your life. You still don’t know what half the buttons on this seat do. But George Russell won’t be the one to find that out. Not today. Not ever.

The divider stays down for a while.

You didn’t mean to leave it that way. But George doesn’t seem in any rush to raise it again, and you’re not about to be the one to imply conversation with a Mercedes driver isn’t worth having.

Besides, it’s... not bad. He’s not loud. Not nosy. Just casually curious in that very British way- polite questions shaped like compliments, wrapped in neutral observations. “So,” he says, somewhere over the Atlantic, after you’ve finished your meal and quietly declined the warm chocolate tart, “contract up for review soon, isn’t it?”

You don’t flinch. Don’t blink.

“Something like that,” you say, smiling into your glass.

He doesn’t push. Just nods like that’s exactly what he expected. There’s no point in pretending he hasn’t heard the rumors. But the AlphaTauri deal isn’t public yet, and you’re neck deep in and NDA, and even if you weren’t- you haven’t even told your mom. Fuck if you’re going to tell George before Marissa LeChriste. You still have some fear of God.

He turns back to his tray, wipes a crumb off the corner with a napkin, and says- like it’s nothing- “Toto and Susie mentioned you the other night.”

Your hand stills slightly on the stem of your glass. “Oh?”

“Susie said she’s been looking to get in touch. Formula Women Academy.”

“Really?” you ask, careful not to sound too surprised. “I didn’t know.” Try not to turn your nose up too fast. No ma’am- you are not racing the sideshow, noble as it might be. Susie Wolff has another thing coming if she thinks you’re interested in racing old money’s daughters in F4 cars.

George offers a polite little shrug. “Said you’d dropped off the map a bit this season. Thought you might be interested in some involvement. Media appearances, mentoring. That sort of thing.” Oh. Okay. Not driving, then. Fair enough.

You hesitate. Only a second. Then: “Yeah. That’d be great.” He pulls out his phone- new, shiny, no case- and passed it to you. You type in your number, save it under something innocuous, and hand it back with that same even smile.

“Consider it done.”

It’s quiet after that.

He cues up a film. You do the same. Occasionally, one of you makes a comment- a subtle glance, a half-smile, a dry joke passed just loud enough to carry across the shared space. Nothing that would bother a stranger. Nothing that would call attention.

The divider goes up once, midway through the flight. Not with finality. Just... a pause. An unspoken “we’ve said enough for now.” You don’t take it personally.

Hours later, after sleep and a half-watched documentary, it hums back down again. You murmur something about the snack service, and George agrees that, yes, the ice cream really is decent. You’re both groggy, faces soft from sleep, too disarmed to be fully guarded. There’s no bond here. Not really. Just a quiet agreement that being pleasant is… pleasant.

And when you land in São Paulo, it’s George who speaks to the driver first. Who casually says you’re headed to the same hotel. Who doesn’t offer- just assumes you’ll share the car.

You slide in beside him. Thank him, just barely above a whisper. Outside, the city rolls by in flickers of orange streetlight and fogged glass. Inside, you sit tall. Hands folded over your phone. Skin warm from too many hours of recirculated air.

You’ve never felt more legitimate. You’ve never felt more out of place.

After check-in, you offer George a polite nod, a gentle expression of thanks- something neat, polished, gentle- as you part ways. You throw your bags down in the corner, not the closet, and head back downstairs in search of some food. You skip the hotel restaurant.

It’s too glossy, too curated, full of white linen and waitstaff who look like they’ve been coached not to make eye contact. The menu’s in three languages and somehow still vague. You’re not in the mood for vague. You want comfort. Eleven hours in proximity of George Russel, pretending you’re someone who absolutely understands how to read wine notes, and you’re done. You’re tapped. The endurance of your soft smile has reached its absolute limit.

Instead, you find a street vendor a half block down. Open cart. A line of locals seven deep. The smell hits you halfway down the block- charred meat, cilantro, lime. You don’t even ask questions. Just hold up three fingers and exchange a few crumpled reais. He hands you a few hot skewers wrapped in butcher paper and a paper boat of what looks to be fried potatoes.

Hell yeah. You eat the first skewer on the walk back to the hotel.

And it tastes like home. Not even the flavors, per se, just the simplicity of it. Like spice and salt and honest money. Like county fairs and brandings and barbeques and long days that end in dusty tailgates. Like normal people.

Back at the hotel, you don’t go upstairs. Not yet. You settle into the corner of the lobby with your tablet balanced on your knee. One earbud in. Head low. Film pulled up- public stuff, just YouTube- past Brazil races, lap analyses, old helmet cams. Nothing you’d get into trouble for watching out in the open.

You’ve seen most of it before, but that’s not the point. It’s not about learning. Not anymore. It’s about rhythm. Sound. Familiarity. The weight of tires in your ears. Food tastes better when it’s accompanied by a racecar, and that’s just a fact. Can’t argue with the facts.

You’re not hiding. Not even a little. You’re just… re-centering. Letting the ebb and flow of the world, the people, the evening move around you like a river coursing around a stone. People watch. Enjoy a few more hours of relative anonymity in this city while you still have it. As soon as the contract news breaks it’s going to be another feeding frenzy of interviews, cameras, pictures, soundbytes.

But right now, you’re still a normal person, eating a normal meal, doing normal things. And that’s nice.

════════════════════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══════════════════

They’re halfway back from dinner when it happens.

The three of them- Max, Lando, and Danny- trailing through the hotel’s wide, dim lobby, stomachs full, conversation lazy. Lando’s half-telling a story about a rental car disaster in Dubai. Danny keeps interrupting, loudly, adding fake details just to hear himself talk. Max isn’t really listening. Just nodding occasionally, arms crossed, eyes drifting. He’s thinking Barcelona should be able to beat out Osasuna tonight. Hopefully.

The restaurant glow fades behind them. Soft jazz filters through the lobby speakers like an afterthought. The elevator’s still a good fifteen meters away when Danny suddenly stops short.

“Hey!” he says, like he’s just spotted a long-lost friend across a train station platform. “That’s her, right?” Max follows his gaze, already knowing exactly who he means.

You’re curled into a corner of the lounge, half-lit by the warm, low lighting, legs folded under you, tablet balanced on your knees, hoodie slouched off one shoulder. One earbud in. Lost in your own world.

Trying not to be noticed.

Which, of course, means Danny notices immediately.

Max doesn’t answer. Doesn’t need to, because Danny’s already moving. Like an over-eager puppy let off the lead at a dog park. Arms too loose, stride too confident, smile already forming. He drops into the armchair next to yours like it belongs to him. “You’re real!” he crows. “Jesus, I thought maybe you’d evaporated.”

You look up, a little startled- but only for a second. Then the switch flips. Max watches it. That thing you do.

That warm, lightning-fast pivot. The way your shoulders square and your posture tightens- not defensive, just rehearsed. Professional. Polished. It’s your PR mask, clean and seamless, the one you’ve worn in sponsor rooms and press pens and garage interviews where everyone’s already decided what kind of girl you are before you open your mouth.

The one that pisses him off.

Your smile clicks into place, pleasant and untouchable. “Hi, Danny,” you say, voice dry and careful, clipped just enough to keep things neutral.

And then Danny Ricciardo- human chaos engine, adult golden retriever- grins like you’ve just handed him the keys to a convertible. “Hi, Danny,” he mimics back, voice all exaggerated smoothness. “You know, I really didn’t expect you to be fast and good-looking. Bit rude, honestly.”

Your mask cracks instantly. Not subtly. Not in stages. Just- gone. Danny has that effect on people.

You laugh.

And not the clipped, controlled thing you offer when someone says something mildly inflammatory in a media pen. Not the gentle sound you offer when a sponsor cracks a joke that’s not as funny as they think it is. This is… loud. From your chest. Full-bodied and real.

Max feels his stomach twist like someone just yanked the steering wheel too hard.

You say something- he can’t hear it- and Danny throws his head back and howls like you’ve just told him the world’s funniest line. And just like that, you’re off.

You shift in your chair, leaning forward, one elbow on your knee, gesturing now with both hands like you’re trying to tell him five stories at once. Danny keeps pace effortlessly, already pointing to your tablet like he belongs there, like he was invited. You tilt the screen toward him without hesitation.

You two are obnoxious. Cringey. Instant combustion in human form. You talk with your hands. You talk a lot. You match Danny’s energy in real time, and that’s saying something. Like you’ve got the same outlet. Like you're wired into the same kind of stupidity.

It’s not flirting.

It’s worse.

It’s compatibility.

You’re not trying. That’s the worst part. You’re not doing anything performative. You’re just existing, and somehow you’re funny, magnetic, loud, and completely unfazed by Danny’s hurricane enthusiasm.

Max watches. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. He’s not jealous. He’s not angry. Just… disoriented. Because he’s never seen you like this. So bright. So open. So uninterested in guarding yourself. This you is a stranger entirely, except Max doesn’t know any version of you well enough to understand what is and isn’t manufactured.

And worse- you like him. Danny. Immediately. Loudly. You’re already chattering about something Max can’t hear- something about a street vendor and suspicious meat and strange men with grills- and Danny’s practically drooling over whatever you brought back with you from outside.

And then Danny takes your fork. Max can’t tell if you offered it or if Danny just took it, but it’s in his hand, and then his mouth, and then he’s moaning like he’s never eaten before.

“Oh my God,” Danny says, chewing, dramatic as hell. “This is insane. Where did you get this?”

You shrug, smirking. “Sidewalk cart. Didn’t speak a word of English. Definitely wasn’t licensed. I trusted him completely.” He eats it. You let him. Neither of you blinks.

Seriously?

Danny too?

“Jesus, take a fucking breath,” Max mutters under his breath, not loud enough for anyone to hear. “Dumbass.”

It’s not like he expected restraint- this is Danny, after all- but something about the immediacy of it is almost offensive. Max hasn’t seen him this animated since the last time someone lost a bet with Danny and ended up in a tattoo parlor.

And now he’s here, absolutely in his element, double-dipping conversation and eye contact like he’s known you for a decade.

Gross.

Whatever. Max doesn’t bother approaching. Just stays planted, arms crossed, watching the performance unfold.

Danny’s not serious. He can’t be. He never is. He’ll say anything if it gets a laugh and everything if it gets attention. He flirts with dogs and baristas and traffic cones if they smile at him first. He’ll forget about this by tomorrow.

Still- Max shifts his weight. Doesn’t move closer. Doesn’t say a word. Lando sidles up next to him with a soda in one hand and a stupid grin already forming. “You think they’re getting on, huh?” he murmurs, tilting his head toward the chaos in the corner.

Max doesn’t answer immediately. Doesn’t have to. He exhales hard through his nose, eyes fixed straight ahead.

“They look and sound stupid,” he mutters.You and Danny are still talking over each other, bouncing jokes like tennis balls. Your laugh has gotten louder, like you’re not in the middle of a four-star hotel lobby, and Danny is eating it up.

Lando snorts and waves his hand at the two of you like he doesn’t have the words for it. Extrovert-on-extrovert extravaganza, in a way that only people from countries that don’t believe in inside voices or taking turns to speak can be.

“I mean, come on,” Max adds, sharper now, “she’s American, he’s Australian. Of course the volume doubles. You put two dogs in a room, they bark louder. Doesn’t mean they’re communicating.” He says it like a fact. Like he’s explaining gravity.

And in his mind, that’s that.

Danny will burn out in ten minutes. You’ll get bored. And Max will go upstairs with the boys, watch the Barcelona match in peace, maybe crack a beer and yell at the screen. Life will return to normal.

But then he hears it.

Danny: “You should come up.”

And Max’s heart stops. His head snaps toward the group just in time to see Danny half-sitting on the arm of your chair, holding a water bottle in one hand and gesturing toward the elevators with the other.

“We’re watching the Barcelona game,” he says, all grin, all ease. “Lando’s already in, a few of the others, right Max?” He doesn’t wait for confirmation. “You should come. Hang out.” Max goes still.

You raise an eyebrow, clearly skeptical. “With you guys?”

Danny shrugs like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Why not? You’re already out, you’re already fed, and you’re way too interesting to be stuck down here watching race film alone like some weird little robot.”

Max feels something in his chest go cold. Because this was not the plan. No. Nonono. The plan was just the guys. Just the match. Just noise and a drink and the comfort of knowing nothing unexpected would happen.

And now?

Now you’re coming upstairs.

To Danny’s suite.

To the same room where Max was planning to take off his shoes and stretch out on the floor and complain about passing accuracy and not think about you.

He doesn’t say anything.

Doesn’t protest.

But internally, he’s screaming.

════════════════════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══════════════════

You’ve tucked yourself into the corner of the couch like it’s instinct. Knees pulled up. Hands folded. Half watching, half not. The suite filled up, and fast- Lando, Max, Carlos, Charles, Fernando, Danny- shoulders crammed together, half-eaten snacks on the table, bottles of beer already sweating onto coasters.

Everyone’s locked in on the screen.

Except you.

You’ve never really gotten soccer. Football. Whatever. You know the rules, kind of. Understand the basics, mostly. But the obsession? The tribal loyalty, the screaming at the screen like your voice might physically change the outcome? Not really. You’re not bored. You’re just… not about it. You’ve never been a soccer girl. You’re a ranch kid with a race car problem. This isn’t your arena.

You keep quiet. Not shy, exactly. Just aware.

You’re the outsider in a room of heavyweights. Guys with race wins, titles, legacy. And it’s not that you can’t belong in this room- it’s just... not the night to prove it. You know better than to force your way into a rhythm you don’t know the beat of. So you stay quiet.

Still, it’s… nice. In the way background noise sometimes is. The rhythm of the match, the dull commentary, the occasional groan or cheer when someone misses or makes a goal. The way Carlos keeps ejecting himself from the couch and pacing around the room is entertaining, if nothing else.

But Danny-

Danny doesn’t leave you to drift.

He slides into the cushion next to you. Casual. One foot on the coffee table, beer dangling between two fingers, eyes half on the screen. “Y’right?” he murmurs, voice low enough that it doesn’t carry.

You nod. “Yeah. Just… not really a soccer girl. Football. Whatever.”

That gets a small grin out of him. “Yeah? What kind of girl are you then?”

You narrow your eyes. “If you’re trying to make that sound flirty, it’s failing spectacularly.”

Danny lets out a soft laugh. “Nah. Promise. I’ve hit my limit for the night. Just makin’ conversation.” You believe him. He’s settled now. Less animated. Less golden retriever at the dog park. Just Danny. And for once, it doesn’t feel like small talk.

“So where’s home?” Danny asks. “Proper home. Not the Europe version.”

You shift in your seat a little, glance at the game, then back at him. “Washington.”

He blinks. “As in… D.C.?”

You snort. “God, no. State. Eastern side. Not the rain and coffee shops. The hot, dry, endless wheat field side.”

Danny squints. “Washington has a hot side?”

“Yep. Lotta people don’t realize it. It’s farmland. Orchards. Sunburns in April.”

He tilts his head, studying you. “Still doesn’t explain the accent.”

You smile a little, tugging at the hem of your sleeve. “Yeah. That’s fair.”

He grins. “No offense, but I’ve met, like, three people from Washington and none of ‘em sound like they wanna offer me iced tea on a porch swing.”

You laugh. “My mom’s from Texas. Proper Southern girl. Real pearls-and-praise-the-Lord energy. I did most of my junior career down there. Close to her family. Think it just… rubbed off.”

Danny raises a brow. “Rubbed off?”

You shrug. “Accents are sticky. You spend your formative years getting yelled at in one, it sticks. Plus, the sponsors love it.”

He leans in a little, grinning. “Oh yeah? Bit of drawl, a little ‘yes sir’- all part of the package?”

“Exactly,” you say, deadpan. “It’s branding.”

Danny chuckles, voice warm and easy. “God. That’s grim.”

You smirk. “That’s motorsport.”

He tips his beer toward you like a salute. “Well, for what it’s worth, it works.”

You smirk sideways at him. The noise of the game swells behind you- cheering, commentary, the scrape of someone’s bottle against the table- but it all feels distant. Muted. Like you’re sitting just slightly outside of it all. By choice.

Danny shifts beside you, slow and casual, his elbow sliding along the back of the couch until his arm drapes behind you- not touching, just resting there like it belongs.

His voice drops a little. Softer now. “So… you miss it? Home?” You glance at him, surprised he asked. Not because it’s invasive. It’s not. Just that no one ever really does. Not like that. Not in a way that feels like they care about the answer.

You hesitate. But something about his face- open, kind, not trying too hard- makes it feel okay. “Yeah,” you admit. “A lot more than I thought I would.”

You twist the edge of your sleeve between your fingers, the screen across the room blurring into background noise. “I miss the quiet. The space. My family.”

Danny doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t give you that look- the one people give when they’re trying to relate but don’t actually understand. He just nods, slow and thoughtful. “Yeah. That makes sense.”

“I didn’t think I would, this much,” you say, trying to keep your voice light. “I’ve lived off the ranch more than on it for the better part of ten years- but it was still just a plane ticket and a half day of flying away. I was so ready for this. But… now that I’m here…” You trail off. Shrug.

He finishes it for you. “Now it feels like you left a part of you behind.”

You nod, exhaling through your nose. “Something like that.”

Danny leans back, eyes on the screen but not really watching. “I felt like that my first year in Europe. Had this flat in some beige building in Nogaro. No heating worth a damn, weird neighbors. I was flying out every other week, chasing the next thing. Couldn’t sit still. Couldn’t sleep. Just felt… off.”

You steal another look at him, and this time he’s not grinning. Not teasing. Just steady.

“I missed my mum’s garden,” he adds. “Didn’t realize that until I walked past someone cutting rosemary and nearly lost my shit.”

You laugh- quietly. Soft. “Not the rosemary,” you say.

“The rosemary,” he repeats, mock solemn. “It’s always the little stuff.”

You smile. Small. Real. And for once, no one tries to poke it. No one rushes to fill the silence or turn it into a joke. Danny just… stays there. Still and steady. One arm draped lazily over the back of the couch like he’s holding space without needing to claim any of it.

Not fixing anything. Just there.

The moment hovers. Not long- just long enough to register. Long enough to feel it bloom in your chest, slow and unfamiliar. Something soft. Something warm. Something you forgot you missed. It’s nice. Too nice. Like maybe- just maybe- you could feel that way again. Let your guard down. Be a person instead of a weapon.

Which is precisely when Danny kills it.

Not cruelly. Not even consciously. Just- swerves. He nods toward the TV with a grin already tugging at his mouth. “So. Still not a soccer fan?”

And just like that- it’s gone. The warmth. The ache. The weight.

It snaps closed around you like a door slamming shut, and you blink as the air shifts. Like someone’s poured a pitcher of cold water straight down your spine. You try to recover fast. You’re good at that. Exhale a soft laugh. “Not really. But I am glad you call it soccer.”

He grins, all bright mischief again, like the last sixty seconds never happened.

And you? You pull the softness back where it belongs. Out of sight. Out of reach.

He grins- bigger now, looser. “Yeah, that won’t last.” You arch a brow, suspicious. He nods, too solemn to be trustworthy. “No, seriously. Stay here long enough and one day you’ll be screamin’ about offsides and actin’ like you were born wearin’ cleats. Swear it’s in the water.”

You scoff. “Doubt it.”

“Sorry to tell ya,” he says, raising his drink. “It’s a slow infection. No symptoms. One day you just wake up with a favorite team and an enemy for life.”

You laugh, and it surprises you that you’re not still stinging from the gear change in moods. It’s easy. Thoughtless. Like your body didn’t ask permission first. You shake your head, still smiling, something soft catching behind your ribs.

It’s not a big conversation. It’s not terribly deep, at least not for long. But it’s real. And it’s the first time in a long time someone’s asked about your life- not your stats, your sim times, your strategy. You.

And it didn’t feel like a test. Didn’t feel like small talk. Even if it was just a moment.

════════════════════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══════════════════

Series Masterlist

This was a super natural chapter to write- I love this character set and all the things it's going to reveal about 66 and who she is and what her needs are and why Max and her do work so well once they're together. And it's just nice to get into the part of the story where she gets to form real relationships that are all diverse and multi-dimensional and serve different purposes. We get to build her a rich personal life that helps ground her and shape her as she steps into this new stage of her life! As always, I am shamelessly pandering for your interaction in the comments and asks- helps me stay motivated and find passion in the fic :)

#f1 #max verstappen #max verstappen x reader #f1 fanfic #formula one #max verstappen x y/n #f1 x reader #max verstappen x you #mv1 fic #mv1 x reader #mv1 #mv33 #max vertsappen fic #formula 1 x you #formula 1 #formula 1 x reader

48 notes · View notes

wandixx · 3 months ago

Text

Seriously chaotic fashion misadventures

I realized I posted a teaser and never really followed up on it, so here is some more of that

“Hey, Dami?”

Boy hadn’t looked up from the kittens he was bottle feeding but let out a hum indicating he listened.

“I'm thinking about trying out a more girlish style. Do you think it would suit me?”

Well, Damian had no idea but if Dani wished to give it a chance, then, well, the only proper reaction was to offer his aid.

*-*-*

“Father, I require access to your rouge gallery.”

Bruce almost choked on his breakfast when his youngest made this announcement.

Rouge gallery, as his children playfully called it, was vast collection of lipsticks, which he collected to uphold his Brucie persona. Famous playboy with head constantly in the clouds couldn’t not show up with discreet signs of scandal from time to time. And it couldn’t always be the same shade. Or scent when he choose more subtle approach and used one of his more feminine perfumes.

In all honesty, he enjoyed this.

But that’s not the point, point was that Damian wanted to use it and Bruce needed to know what disaster would fall upon him if he agreed.

“Mind telling me why, chum?”

Dick, who visited Manor for a weekend, barely stifled his laughter while Tim stared at his empty coffee mug like it personally betrayed him. Cass just wore her usual knowing and mischievous smile.

Damian shifted in his chair, hands clenching on butter knife. He was nervous and suddenly Bruce dreaded the answer he was about to hear.

“I don’t see how me sharing this information would change anything. It won’t be used to cause harm to anyone but it’s necessary in the extracurricular project I just started.”

“Dami, what project?” Dick asked, voice oozing with genuine curiosity and excitement. He was almost bouncing.

“I don’t want to disclose it.”

“Is this a hero or civilian type of deal?”

Damian didn’t look any of them in the eyes, both hands clenching on his seat as he kept shifting. Bruce narrowed his eyes. Was his youngest… flustered?

“Civilian”

“Alright, great” Dick swung back with single clap, almost tripping his chair over “I think B won’t have anything against you using his rouge gallery, will he?” Man knew his oldest son well enough to recognize his ‘don’t you dare to disagree’ tone. He was confused but there wasn’t any harm so he nodded with affirmative hum.

“Thank you, Father”

Boy practically inhaled rest of his food and rushed outside. Despite all his training and all his efforts, they clearly saw his excitement. Tim pinched himself and returned to staring at his mug.

“Cass, have you seen what I’ve seen or am I overreacting?” Dick asked, barely restraining his enthusiasm. Girl nodded eagerly, shoving more crumbs into her mouth. Young man cheered, throwing his hands up.

“What have I missed?” Tim mumbled, frowning a little.

“BABY BAT HAS A CRUSH!”

Cass nodded again with wide smile.

Oh.

Oh no.

Who were they? What did he know about them? Was Protocol 3r0s started? Did someone run a background check already? What could they do if they somehow hurt Damian? Was this person a risk to their identities? Oh gods, oh no.

He probably will have to do The Talk™.

He always dreaded having The Talk, with any of his kids. He felt The Talk with Damian would be even worse. Understandably so.

“Also sleep in at least three da-”

“Fuck off, dick.”

“Was this insult or-”

His children remained obvious to how much work it meant, cheering and sassing each other like they often did.

*-*-*

Damian did not know how it was possible but he lowered his guard enough to get caught.

"What are you doing?" Brown choked out after they stared at each other for a long moment.

"It does not concern you–"

"You're rummaging through my wardrobe, not many things concern me more and also, that's frickin creepy don't do it to anyone outside of the family"

She did have a point however he was not convinced it would be the correct approach if he shared his plan. Father's wards (even unofficial like Brown) tended to make assumptions and overreact based on these conjectures. Dani wasn't easy to scare off but he didn't want to check if his family would manage. They often did things thought to be impossible.

He tried to get away but the blonde stood fiercely in a door, leaving the window as the only way out. He wasn't this desperate. Yet.

Girl looked more and more angry at his silence. He had to give her some answers.

Now that he actually considered it, she could be a useful asset. She was far better versed in women's fashion and if he phrased it correctly, he wouldn't even need to bribe her. Question was, how should he phrase it?

"I have an acquaintance- I have a friend," he corrected himself "from the animal shelter I volunteer at. She mentioned wanting to try out more 'girlish style' and asked for my opinion. I wanted to see if you had any clothes that would fit her. She is smaller than me so I thought that whatever I take, it wouldn't be missed."

Brown grinned with an unsettling gleam in her eyes. He suddenly regretted opening his mouth if not coming to this room in the first place.

"Say no more, I have a plan Demon Child"

#dpxdc #dp x dc #dc x dp #dcxdp #steph is fashion icon thank you very much #dami is trying to woo this girl since the day she saw house rat in such horrible state that three older volunteers had to go to puke-#called it adorable and started cleaning and patching it up without batting an eye #meanwhile dani is having a blast on her one month visit in Gotham; she doesn't plan on telling anyone when she is leaving #btw Dani's name here was supposed to be Jackie (from Jaqueline) or Jaime #(with Danny's second name being Jack or James respectively)#but I changed it back because there is no set-up for it and i didn;t want to just drop that out of nowhere #i just wanted her to stay true to her gremlin name stealing nature #while having a name that sounded distinclty hers #because idk how it is in us #but here you know someone's second name if you're #a) handling some legal documentation/their id #b) are close enough friends to know such deep lore #c) happened to be at the table when someone used 'what's your second name' as a conversation starter at the canteen #so she'd feel conected to Danny for everyone in the know #while still sounding like she isn't a carbon copy #this fic started because i saw a post about similar looking ans sounding words having different meanings and-#- someone mentione rogue rouge and Batman in one sentence and i decided that this man deserved rouge gallery outside of his usual rogue one #this fic could probably be seen as distant continuation of Ghost of Fries and Hero of Cookies #in a way thirteenth book in the series is continuation to second #but it is a sorta continuation #i still don't believe in my dc knowledge enough to pull this series of #anyway #serious chaos #(almost) new years fic special #part five (final)

388 notes · View notes