#engine hesitation fix

[landmarkmotorsinc]

Generally, the engine is defined as the most important component in your car that is used for converting the chemical energy to run the car smoothly on the road. While driving the BMW on the road, sometimes you will notice that the engine sputters during acceleration. When it happens, try to address the causes behind engine sputtering and the way to fix it. Go through the infographics to know about the causes behind your BMW engine sputters when you accelerate.

https://www.pinterest.com/pin/840836192951138921

[op3ra]

sunny day in autumn

(alt vers + scarf vers below cut)

[pucksandpower]

Do-Over

Logan Sargeant x Andretti!Reader

Summary: Logan drowns his sorrows after being dropped by Williams and passes out in 2024 … he wakes up slightly hungover and very much in 2022 (aka the time travel fix-it fic)

Logan’s hands are shaking.

He’s staring at the email on his phone, reading it over for the third time, hoping the words will somehow rearrange themselves into something different. But they don’t. The screen doesn’t lie, and neither does the cold, detached tone of James Vowles.

Logan, I’m sorry to inform you that Williams Racing has decided to terminate your contract effective immediately. Your performance this season has not met the team’s expectations, and the decision has been made to move forward without you for the remaining races. We believe this is in the best interest of the team as a whole. You’ll find the details of the termination and the necessary steps moving forward in the attached document.

His eyes blur, and he forces himself to blink, trying to hold it together. He knows what this means — his F1 career, the thing he’s worked for his entire life, is over. And it’s not ending with a bang, but with a fucking email.

A knock on the door snaps him back to the present. He looks up, swallowing hard as James walks in without waiting for permission, just like he always does.

“Logan,” James begins, his voice calm, almost clinical. “We need to talk.”

“I got the email,” Logan mutters, shoving his phone into his pocket. “Is this really how it’s going to end?”

James’s face is unreadable. “We’ve discussed this at length. The crashes, the lack of progress … it’s just not working out. The engineers and mechanics are frustrated. We’ve been more than patient.”

Logan feels a wave of anger rising in his chest, but he pushes it down. He knows it won’t help. “So that’s it? Nine races left, and you’re just … dropping me?”

“It’s not an easy decision,” James replies, crossing his arms. “But we have to think about the team. We can’t afford any more setbacks.”

“Setbacks,” Logan echoes, almost laughing at the absurdity of it. “That’s all I am to you? A setback?”

James hesitates, his expression softening for just a moment. “Logan, you’re talented, but this sport is ruthless. You know that.”

“Don’t,” Logan snaps, his voice sharp. “Don’t try to soften the blow now. You could’ve at least told me in person, before sending the damn email.”

James sighs, running a hand through his hair. “I know it seems cold, but this is the reality of Formula 1. You’ll land on your feet. You’ve got potential.”

“Potential,” Logan mutters under his breath. “That’s not going to get me back in a car, is it?”

There’s a tense silence, the weight of the situation pressing down on both of them. Logan feels like the walls are closing in, the air in the room growing thicker with each passing second.

“I’m sorry,” James says finally, and for the first time, he sounds genuine. “I really am.”

“Yeah,” Logan replies, his voice hollow. “Me too.”

James lingers for a moment, as if searching for something else to say, but there’s nothing that can fix this. Nothing that can make it right. Finally, he nods and leaves, closing the door quietly behind him.

Logan stands there, staring at the door, his mind racing. This can’t be happening. It feels like some kind of nightmare, one he can’t wake up from. But the harsh reality is setting in. It’s over. All those years, all that effort, and it’s over just like that.

He sinks down onto the couch, his head in his hands. His chest feels tight, like he can’t get a full breath. He needs to get out of here, but he has no idea where to go. Where do you go when your dreams have just been crushed?

His gaze falls on the bottle of whiskey sitting on the small kitchen counter. He bought it a few years ago, intending to open it after a win that never came. The irony isn’t lost on him.

Logan pushes himself up and walks over to the kitchen, grabbing the bottle and a glass. He hesitates for a moment, then shrugs and puts the glass back. What’s the point of pretending there’s any dignity left in this?

He twists the cap off the bottle and takes a long drink, the burn of the alcohol offering a brief distraction from the pain gnawing at his insides. He leans against the counter, staring out the window at the darkening sky. How the hell did it come to this?

He’s replaying every mistake, every missed opportunity, every race where he could’ve done better. It’s a torturous cycle, one that he can’t escape. He takes another drink, then another, hoping to drown out the thoughts, to numb the ache in his chest.

But it doesn’t work. The alcohol just makes it worse, amplifying the guilt and the regret. He feels like a failure. No, he is a failure. The team didn’t even have the decency to let him finish the season. That’s how little they think of him.

The room starts to blur around the edges as the whiskey takes effect, but he doesn’t stop. He can’t stop. He’s spiraling, and he knows it, but he doesn’t care. This is the only way he knows how to cope, the only way to forget, even if it’s just for a little while.

Hours pass, or maybe minutes — he’s lost track of time. The bottle is nearly empty now, and he’s slumped on the floor, leaning against the kitchen cabinets. His phone buzzes in his pocket, but he ignores it. He doesn’t want to talk to anyone. What’s the point?

The apartment is silent except for the occasional sound of cars passing by outside. It’s eerie, this quiet, and it makes the emptiness inside him feel even more profound.

Finally, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone. The screen is cracked from a previous fall — one of many — but it still works. There are messages from friends, from his family, but he doesn’t open them. He knows what they’ll say. They’ll be supportive, encouraging, but it won’t change anything. They can’t fix this.

Instead, he opens his camera roll and scrolls through the photos. Pictures of him in the car, of the team, of moments that once meant everything to him. Now they’re just reminders of what he’s lost.

He stops on a photo of himself, taken just after he signed with Williams. He looks so damn happy, so full of hope. He barely recognizes that person now.

“What a joke,” he mutters to himself, his voice slurred. “What a fucking joke.”

He takes one last drink from the bottle, then tosses it aside, not caring as it rolls across the floor. He feels the darkness closing in, pulling him under, and for once, he doesn’t fight it. He lets it take him, lets it drown out the pain, the regret, the fear.

And as he finally drifts into unconsciousness, the last thought that crosses his mind is that maybe — just maybe — he deserves this.

***

Logan wakes with a start, his head pounding, the taste of stale whiskey thick on his tongue. He groans, squeezing his eyes shut against the assault of the light streaming through the windows. His whole body feels like it’s been put through a blender — sore, achy, heavy. But it’s not just the hangover, it’s the weight of everything, of what happened yesterday.

He takes a deep breath, bracing himself as he sits up, his hands pressing into the bed beneath him. Except, the texture’s wrong. It’s not the rough fabric of his apartment’s couch or even the smooth, cool sheets he’s used to.

Logan’s eyes snap open, and he looks around, confusion crashing over him like a cold wave. He’s not in his apartment. The walls are different — cleaner, the color a familiar light blue he hasn’t seen in years. The bed is narrow, uncomfortable, with plain white sheets. There’s a desk pushed against the far wall, a locker in the corner with his name printed on it in block letters.

This isn’t his apartment. This is … his driver’s room. The one he used when he was driving for Carlin in Formula 2.

“What the hell …” Logan mutters, running a hand through his hair, trying to make sense of it. He must still be drunk. Or maybe he’s dreaming. But no — he can feel the dull ache in his temples, the dryness in his throat, the uncomfortable press of the mattress beneath him. This is too real to be a dream.

But it doesn’t make any sense. The last thing he remembers is passing out in his apartment after finishing nearly a whole bottle of whiskey. He was a mess. He is a mess. But here he is, waking up in a place he hasn’t seen since 2022, a place that shouldn’t exist in his present reality.

Panic starts to set in. He fumbles for his phone, which is miraculously still in his pocket. The screen lights up, showing the date and time.

September 10th, 2022.

His heart stops. That’s impossible. It’s been two years. Two years since this date. His mind races, trying to piece together what the hell is happening, but nothing fits. He’s not in 2024 anymore. Somehow, he’s back in 2022.

It’s the only explanation, but it’s insane. None of this is possible. It’s not even like those vague dreams where everything’s familiar but distant. This is his life two years ago, down to the worn fabric of the team jacket hanging on the back of the door.

Before he can spiral any further, there’s a sharp knock at the door. Logan barely has time to react before it swings open, and Gary Catt, his manager, strides in with his usual briskness, already talking before the door is fully open.

“Logan, I just got off the phone with Jost Capito,” Gary says, his voice all business, not noticing Logan’s stunned expression. “Williams wants you. They want to lock you in for next season. It’s the best possible scenario. This is it, Logan — this is what we’ve been working toward.”

Logan feels like he’s been hit by a freight train. This conversation — he remembers it. It happened. Gary, standing in this very room, telling him the exact same thing, with the exact same excitement in his voice. The memory is vivid because it changed everything. It was the start of his F1 career. And also … the start of everything that led to that email.

“Logan?” Gary’s voice cuts through the fog in Logan’s mind, pulling him back to the present. “Are you even listening? This is huge, mate. You’re going to be in F1.”

Logan’s throat is dry, his mind racing with possibilities, with consequences. He remembers how he felt the first time he heard these words — pure elation, followed by a rush of nerves. But now, with the knowledge of what’s to come, all he feels is dread.

This is his chance to change things. To make sure it doesn’t end the way it did yesterday. He’s been given a do-over, a second chance, and he can’t afford to mess it up.

Logan takes a deep breath, forcing himself to stay calm. “Gary,” he says, his voice rough from sleep and the alcohol, “I don’t think I should take the offer.”

Gary stops mid-stride, turning to face Logan with a look of utter disbelief. “What did you just say?”

“I don’t think I should take the offer,” Logan repeats, more firmly this time, even though his heart is pounding in his chest. “It’s too soon.”

“Too soon?” Gary looks at him like he’s just sprouted another head. “Logan, this is Williams. It’s F1. There is no such thing as ‘too soon’ when an opportunity like this comes around. What are you talking about?”

Logan stands up, pacing the small room, trying to gather his thoughts. How does he explain this without sounding completely insane? He can’t tell Gary what he knows — what he’s seen, what’s happened. But he also can’t go down the same path again. Not when he knows where it leads.

“I just … I don’t think I’m ready,” Logan says, finally turning to face Gary. “If I rush into F1 now, it could end badly. I need more time. More experience.”

Gary’s expression shifts from disbelief to concern. “Logan, listen to yourself. You’ve been preparing for this your whole life. You’re as ready as anyone can be. If you pass this up, there’s no guarantee another chance like it will come along. You know that.”

Logan shakes his head. “I know it sounds crazy, but … I have a feeling that if I take this now, it’ll be a mistake. A big one. I’ll end up in a situation where I’m not able to deliver, where the pressure is too much. And that’s not good for anyone — me, the team, my career.”

Gary is silent for a long moment, studying Logan with an intensity that makes him squirm. “Where’s this coming from? You were over the moon about this before. What changed?”

Logan hesitates, searching for the right words. “I just … I’ve been thinking a lot about the future. About what I want my career to look like. And I don’t want to be one of those drivers who gets rushed into F1 and then crashes out because they weren’t ready. I want to do it right. I want to be fully prepared.”

“You don’t get to be fully prepared in this sport,” Gary says, his voice dropping to a more serious tone. “This is Formula 1. It’s sink or swim, and you know that. You’re not going to get a better opportunity than this, Logan.”

Logan feels a knot of frustration tightening in his chest. He knows Gary is right, in a way. This is F1. It’s not supposed to be easy. But he also knows that if he takes this offer, if he goes down the same road, it’ll end in disaster.

“I get that,” Logan says, his voice firm. “But I’ve made up my mind. I’m not going to take the seat. Not this time.”

Gary stares at him, his expression a mixture of shock and confusion. “Logan, this could be career suicide. You understand that, right?”

Logan nods, swallowing hard. “I do. But I’d rather take that risk than go into something I know I’m not ready for and crash out in a blaze of failure. I can’t do that. I won’t.”

Gary runs a hand over his face, clearly struggling to comprehend what’s happening. “This isn’t like you. You’re not one to back down from a challenge. Why are you doing this?”

Because I know how it ends, Logan thinks, but he doesn’t say it out loud. Instead, he takes a deep breath and says, “Because I want to do this right. I want to have a long career in F1, not a short one that ends in disappointment. And to do that, I need to be smart about the choices I make now.”

Gary lets out a slow breath, clearly conflicted. “This is … I don’t even know what to say, Logan. You’re turning down a seat in F1. That’s not something you do lightly.”

“I’m not doing it lightly,” Logan assures him, though his heart is racing. “I’ve thought about this a lot, and it’s the right decision for me.”

There’s a long silence as Gary processes this. Logan can almost see the gears turning in his head, the calculations, the weighing of options. He knows how hard this must be for Gary to accept — hell, it’s hard for Logan to accept, and he’s the one making the decision. But he has to stick to his guns. He has to believe that this is the right choice.

Finally, Gary lets out a resigned sigh. “Alright, Logan. If this is really what you want, I’ll back you. But you need to understand the risks. This could close doors for you. Big ones.”

Logan nods, his stomach twisting with anxiety. “I know. But I also know that if I take this now, it could end up closing even more doors in the long run.”

Gary studies him for a long moment, then gives a slow nod. “Alright. I’ll let Jost know. But don’t expect him to be happy about it.”

Logan feels a mixture of relief and dread. “I won’t. But thanks, Gary. I know this isn’t easy.”

Gary gives him a tight smile, still clearly grappling with the decision. “No, it’s not. But you’re the one driving the car, Logan. Just make sure you know what you’re doing.”

Logan nods, watching as Gary turns and leaves the room, the door closing softly behind him. He stands there for a moment, taking in the silence, the surrealness of what just happened. He’s just turned down a seat in F1. The one thing he thought he wanted more than anything. But as the anxiety ebbs, a new feeling takes its place — determination.

This time, things are going to be different. He’s going to do it right, even if it means making the hard choices. Logan takes a deep breath, feeling a strange sense of calm settle over him. This is his second chance, and he’s not going to waste it.

***

The 2023 F2 season ends in a flurry of champagne, confetti, and flashing cameras. Logan stands on the top step of the podium, the P1 trophy clutched in his hands, a grin splitting his face. He’s done it. He’s proved to everyone — most of all to himself — that he was ready. This time, he didn’t rush, didn’t let the pressure consume him. And it’s paid off. He’s the Formula 2 Drivers’ Champion.

But as the celebration winds down and reality sets in, Logan faces a new challenge. Despite his victory, the F1 grid is full, and F2 champions can’t return to the series. He could take a reserve role, bide his time, wait for a seat to open up. But that’s not what he wants. He’s not willing to spend another year on the sidelines, waiting for an opportunity that may never come.

So when the offer from IndyCar comes, Logan doesn’t hesitate. He’s heard the stories — about the speed, the fierce competition, the thrill of racing on ovals. It’s not Formula 1, but it’s still racing at the highest level. And right now, that’s what he needs.

The decision surprises everyone. The media buzzes with speculation, but Logan remains focused. He knows what he’s doing. This is a new path, one that he’s chosen for himself, not because it was expected of him. He’s determined to make it work.

A few weeks later, Logan finds himself in the heart of Indianapolis, standing outside the office of Mario Andretti. The legendary name still carries a weight of history and reverence, even in this new world of racing. It feels surreal, like stepping into a different era of motorsport.

Inside the office, Mario is all business. The contract is laid out on the table between them, a simple piece of paper that represents Logan’s future. Mario goes over the details with the kind of thoroughness that only comes from years of experience, but Logan can barely focus. His mind is racing, thoughts darting between the past season, the unknown future, and the thrill of what he’s about to embark on.

“Everything looks good?” Mario asks, breaking Logan from his thoughts.

Logan blinks, then nods, forcing himself to concentrate. “Yeah, it’s perfect.”

Mario slides the pen across the table. “Then let’s make it official.”

Logan takes the pen, feeling the weight of the moment as he signs his name at the bottom of the contract. It’s done. He’s an IndyCar driver now.

Mario nods in approval, leaning back in his chair with a satisfied smile. “Welcome to the team, Logan. We’re excited to have you.”

“Thank you,” Logan says, meaning it. This is a new beginning, and he’s ready for it.

They shake hands, and Mario stands, motioning towards the door. “I’d love to chat more, but I’ve got to head out. My granddaughter’s picking me up for lunch.”

Logan heads out of the office, his mind still reeling from the whirlwind of emotions. He’s so caught up in his thoughts that he doesn’t notice the person rounding the corner until it’s too late. They collide, and Logan’s first instinct is to reach out, steadying the person as they stumble backward.

“Whoa, I’m so sorry,” he blurts out, his hands gripping her arms as he helps her regain her balance.

“It’s okay,” you reply, laughing softly as you look up at him. “I wasn’t paying attention.”

Logan’s breath catches in his throat as he looks down at you, the apology dying on his lips. You’re beautiful — stunning, even — with eyes that seem to sparkle with life and a smile that’s warm and inviting. For a moment, all he can do is stare, struck by how perfect you seem, like someone who’s stepped straight out of a dream.

“You alright?” You ask, tilting your head slightly as you study him.

Logan snaps out of it, quickly releasing his hold on you and stepping back. “Yeah, sorry again. I didn’t see you there.”

The door to Mario’s office opens, and the man himself steps out, his eyes narrowing slightly as he takes in the scene. “Everything okay out here?”

You turn to your grandfather, smiling brightly. “Just a little bump, Grandpa. Nothing to worry about.”

Mario’s expression softens as he looks at you, the sternness replaced by affection. “Good. I don’t want anyone getting hurt before lunch.”

You laugh, the sound light and carefree, and Logan finds himself smiling along, despite the awkwardness of the situation.

“Logan,” Mario says, turning to him, “I’d like you to meet my granddaughter.”

Logan’s heart skips a beat. This is Mario’s granddaughter? Of course, she is. It makes sense now, the confidence in your stance, the way you carry yourself. You’re part of a racing dynasty, just like Mario.

“Logan Sargeant,” Mario continues, introducing him to you. “He’s going to be racing with us next season.”

You offer him your hand, your smile never faltering. “It’s nice to meet you, Logan. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Logan takes your hand, feeling a jolt of electricity as your fingers brush against his. “Uh, yeah. Nice to meet you too.”

You glance at Mario, then back at Logan. “We’re heading out for lunch. You should join us.”

Logan’s mind goes blank for a second, and all he can do is blink at you, trying to process what you just said. “Lunch? With you and … Mr. Andretti?”

You laugh again, and Logan thinks it might be the best sound he has ever heard. “Yeah, with us. Unless you have somewhere else you need to be?”

“No, no,” Logan stammers, trying to regain some composure. “I’d love to join you.”

Mario claps Logan on the shoulder, his laughter booming through the hallway. “Looks like you’ve made an impression already, kid. Come on, let’s get out of here before the press catches wind of this.”

Logan nods, still somewhat dazed as he follows you and Mario out of the building. His mind is a whirlwind of thoughts — about the contract he just signed, the new chapter he’s stepping into, and now, about you. He can’t quite believe his luck. Not only is he starting a new adventure in IndyCar, but he’s also just met someone who, in the span of a few minutes, has completely captivated him.

As they walk to Mario’s car, Logan steals glances at you, trying to be subtle but failing miserably. You seem so at ease, chatting with your grandfather, your laughter punctuating the conversation. There’s a lightness about you, a warmth that’s infectious, and Logan finds himself drawn to it, to you.

“Logan,” you say, turning to him as you reach the car. “So, what made you decide to join IndyCar? It’s not every day an F2 champion makes that leap.”

Logan pauses, caught off guard by the directness of your question. “Well, uh,” he begins, trying to find the right words, “I guess I just wanted something different. F1 wasn’t an option, and I didn’t want to sit around waiting for a seat to open up. IndyCar seemed like the right challenge. Something new, but still competitive.”

You nod, clearly intrigued. “That makes sense. It’s a bold move, but I think it’ll pay off.”

“Bold,” Logan repeats, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“It is,” you assure him, your eyes sparkling. “I admire people who take risks. Especially when they’re as calculated as yours seems to be.”

Mario clears his throat, a knowing grin on his face as he watches the two of you. “Alright, kids, enough shop talk. Let’s get some food.”

You and Logan exchange a smile before sliding into the back seat of the car. The conversation flows easily, despite Logan’s initial nerves. You ask him about his time in F2, what it was like racing on the different tracks, how he handled the pressure. Logan finds himself opening up more than he expected, the words coming easily under your encouraging gaze.

Mario chimes in every now and then, adding his own insights, but it’s clear he’s content to let the two of you do most of the talking. He watches with an amused glint in his eye, as if he’s already figured out something that Logan is just beginning to realize.

By the time you reach the restaurant, Logan feels like he’s known you for much longer than the short time you’ve actually spent together. There’s an ease between you that he’s rarely felt with anyone else, a connection that seems to have sparked almost instantly.

Inside the restaurant, Mario insists on taking the head of the table, leaving you and Logan to sit across from each other. As you settle in, you continue to ask Logan questions, but now they’re more personal — what does he do outside of racing? What’s his favorite movie? Does he have any hidden talents?

Logan answers as best he can, though he’s still reeling a bit from how quickly this day has turned into something he never expected. He’s just signed with IndyCar, but more than that, he’s sitting across from someone who makes his heart race faster than any car ever could.

“You’ve got a good head on your shoulders, Logan,” Mario says suddenly, breaking into the conversation. “I’ve seen a lot of young drivers come and go, but you … you’ve got something special. Just keep your focus, and you’ll go far.”

“Thank you, Mr. Andretti,” Logan says, his voice sincere. “That means a lot, coming from you.”

“Call me Mario,” he replies with a wave of his hand. “We’re family now, after all.”

Logan smiles, feeling a warmth spread through him at the word “family.” It’s strange, how quickly things have shifted, how he’s gone from a solitary driver trying to make his way in the world to someone who might actually belong here, in this new place, with these new people.

As the lunch continues, Logan finds himself growing more comfortable, the initial awkwardness fading away. You keep the conversation lively, sharing stories about your grandfather, about your own life, and Logan can’t help but be drawn to your passion, your intelligence, your warmth. It’s clear that you’re not just Mario Andretti’s granddaughter — you’re your own person, with your own dreams and ambitions.

Eventually, the meal winds down, and Mario excuses himself to take a phone call, leaving you and Logan alone at the table. The silence that follows isn’t uncomfortable, but charged, filled with the unspoken things neither of you have quite put into words yet.

“So,” you say, leaning forward slightly, a teasing smile on your lips, “what do you think of Indy so far?”

Logan grins, feeling a boldness he didn’t expect. “Well, it just got a whole lot more interesting.”

You laugh, your eyes twinkling with amusement. “I’m glad to hear it. I have a feeling you’re going to fit in just fine here.”

“Yeah,” Logan says, his voice softening as he looks at you, really looks at you. “I think I am too.”

You hold his gaze, the connection between you growing stronger with each passing second. For a moment, the world outside seems to fade away, leaving just the two of you, caught in this moment that feels almost like fate.

Before the silence can stretch too long, Mario returns, his phone call finished. He glances between the two of you, his eyes twinkling with a knowing look that makes Logan’s ears burn. “Ready to head out?”

You nod, standing up and giving Logan one last, lingering smile. “It was nice meeting you, Logan. I’m sure we’ll see each other around.”

Logan stands as well, feeling a mix of excitement and nerves. “Definitely. I’m looking forward to it.”

As you and Mario head out of the restaurant, Logan lingers for a moment, watching you go. He can’t quite believe what just happened, but one thing is certain — his life just got a lot more complicated, and he wouldn’t have it any other way.

As he walks out into the bright sunlight, Logan can’t stop the smile that spreads across his face. He’s taken a leap into the unknown, and it feels like the start of something incredible.

***

The roar of the crowd is deafening, vibrating through the very core of the Speedway as Logan crosses the finish line first. It’s the 107th running of the Indianapolis 500, and he’s just won it. The realization hits him like a tidal wave, almost knocking the breath out of him. He’s an Indy 500 champion. In his rookie season, no less.

The engine growls as he coasts to a stop, and for a moment, all he can do is sit there, hands trembling on the steering wheel. His heart pounds in his chest, adrenaline coursing through his veins, and he lets out a breathless laugh, disbelief and elation mingling into something indescribable.

“Logan Sargeant wins the Indy 500!” The announcer’s voice echoes through the speakers, barely audible over the cheers of the crowd. He hears it, but it still feels surreal, like something out of a dream.

The pit crew rushes over, the celebration already in full swing as they haul him out of the car. He’s immediately surrounded by a sea of people — team members, media, officials — everyone wanting a piece of this historic moment. But through it all, there’s one thing on his mind. One person.

You.

He’s searching the crowd, trying to spot you among the chaos. His vision is blurred with sweat and tears, but then he sees you — pushing your way through the throng of people, a look of pure joy on your face. You’re clapping, laughing, your eyes shining with pride, and all Logan can think is how he needs to get to you.

But first, there’s tradition to uphold.

One of the crew hands him the iconic bottle of milk, the symbol of victory. Logan takes it, still in a daze, and tilts it back, taking a long swig. The cold liquid is refreshing, cutting through the heat of the moment, and he can’t help but laugh as he lowers the bottle, milk dripping down his chin.

Without hesitation, he lifts the bottle above his head and pours the rest over himself. The milk runs down his face, soaking into his race suit, and the crowd goes wild, the noise level somehow reaching new heights. He feels on top of the world — unstoppable, invincible.

And then he spots you again, closer now, just on the edge of the crowd. Logan doesn’t think, doesn’t pause to consider anything else. He just moves, pushing through the throng of people until he’s standing right in front of you.

You’re smiling up at him, eyes bright with something that makes his heart race faster than it did on the final lap. Before he can stop himself, Logan reaches out, pulls you in, and kisses you.

It’s the kind of kiss that’s been building for months — the culmination of all the moments, all the glances, all the unspoken words between you. You taste like the victory he’s just claimed, like the adrenaline that’s still pumping through his veins, like everything he’s been chasing since he first set foot in this world.

When you finally pull back, you’re both breathless, milk dripping from Logan’s face and onto yours. You laugh, and the sound is the sweetest thing he’s ever heard.

“You’re lucky I’m not lactose intolerant,” you tease, licking the milk from his lips with a grin that’s both playful and suggestive. “But honestly? It’d be worth it even if I was.”

Logan laughs, a deep, full-bodied sound that comes from a place of pure, unfiltered happiness. He feels like he’s floating, like nothing in the world could possibly bring him down from this high. Not now, not ever.

“Best win of my life,” he says, his voice rough with emotion, still holding you close, as if afraid that letting go might make this moment disappear.

You tilt your head, still smiling up at him with those eyes that have captivated him from the start. “I’d hope so,” you say softly. “You just won the Indy 500.”

He shakes his head, a playful grin on his face. “No, I mean this.” He gestures between the two of you, the words hanging in the air, heavy with meaning.

For a second, you just stare at him, the noise of the crowd fading into the background, the world narrowing down to just the two of you. And then you’re laughing, throwing your arms around his neck, pulling him into another kiss.

This one is softer, sweeter — less about the heat of the moment and more about the connection between you, the way everything just seems to fit when you’re together. Logan loses himself in it, in you, in this moment that feels like the culmination of everything he’s ever wanted.

When you finally break apart, the noise of the crowd floods back in, the celebration continuing around you. But it doesn’t matter. Nothing else matters except the way you’re looking at him, like he’s the only person in the world.

“Come on,” you say, tugging him towards the podium. “You’ve got a trophy to collect.”

Logan follows, still holding onto your hand, not willing to let you go just yet. The team is waiting, cheering him on, and as they hoist him up onto their shoulders, Logan realizes that this — this moment, this feeling — is what he’s been racing for all along.

Standing on the podium, the trophy in his hands, Logan looks out at the sea of faces, at the fans cheering his name, at the team celebrating their victory. But his eyes find you in the crowd, and that’s where they stay.

You’re smiling up at him, and Logan knows, deep down, that this is just the beginning. The beginning of something incredible, something he never saw coming but can’t imagine living without.

As the anthem plays and the confetti rains down, Logan lifts the trophy high, his heart full to bursting. He’s done it — he’s won the Indy 500. But more than that, he’s found something, someone, who makes all of it mean so much more.

And as he looks down at you, standing there with that bright, beautiful smile, Logan knows that he’s not just a champion. He’s the luckiest guy in the world.

***

The soft hum of the office fills the silence as Logan sits across from Mario, the weight of the moment pressing down on him. The past year has been a whirlwind — plenty of IndyCar wins, that unforgettable victory at the Indy 500, and the life he’s built with you by his side. It’s been everything he didn’t know he needed, but now, as he sits in Mario’s office, there’s an air of something significant, something life-altering in the way Mario looks at him.

Mario clears his throat, leaning forward on his desk, hands clasped. “Logan,” he begins, voice steady, serious. “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking — planning, actually — and I need to talk to you about something important.”

Logan’s heart skips a beat, the weight of Mario’s words sinking in. He nods, leaning forward slightly, feeling the anticipation coil tight in his chest. “What is it?” He asks, voice steady despite the flurry of nerves.

Mario takes a deep breath, then looks Logan squarely in the eye. “We’re buying Haas F1 Team. The deal’s already in motion, and we’ll be restructuring everything from the ground up to make our entrance into Formula 1 in 2026.”

The words hang in the air, heavy with implication. Logan’s breath catches in his throat, and for a moment, he’s not sure if he’s heard Mario correctly. “Formula 1?” He echoes, almost disbelieving. His mind races, a thousand thoughts colliding at once. “You’re serious?”

“As serious as it gets,” Mario replies, his expression unwavering. “I’ve wanted this for a long time, Logan. And now, with everything coming together, it’s finally happening. But here’s the thing-” he pauses, his gaze locking onto Logan’s with an intensity that leaves no room for doubt, “I can’t think of anyone better suited to lead this team as our driver than you.”

The words hit Logan like a freight train. He stares at Mario, unable to speak, his heart thudding wildly in his chest. Formula 1 has always been the dream, the pinnacle of everything he’s worked for. The chance he thought he’d lost — twice, if he counts the strange twist of fate that had brought him here in the first place.

“Logan, I know this is a lot to take in,” Mario continues, his tone softer now, understanding. “But I believe in you. You’ve proven yourself time and time again, in F2, in IndyCar — hell, you won the Indy 500 in your first season. And I know you still have that fire for F1. This is your shot, kid. And I want you to take it.”

Logan feels the lump in his throat as Mario’s words sink in. The room seems to close in around him, the gravity of the moment pressing down like a physical weight. He’s had a lot of success in IndyCar, more than he ever imagined, and it brought him you — his reason to smile, his anchor in the storm. But Formula 1? That’s the dream he’s never fully let go of, even when he tried to convince himself otherwise.

He swallows hard, forcing the words out past the emotion threatening to choke him. “I-I don’t know what to say,” he admits, his voice thick. “I mean, this is … I didn’t think I’d ever get another chance like this.”

Mario smiles, the kind of smile that’s equal parts pride and encouragement. “I know it’s a lot, Logan. And it’s not an easy decision, especially considering everything you’ve built here in IndyCar. But I have no doubt in my mind that you’re the right person for this. You’ve got what it takes to succeed in F1, and I’m not just talking about talent. You’ve got heart, determination, and the ability to learn from your mistakes. That’s what makes a champion.”

Logan’s mind races, the possibilities spinning out in front of him. He thinks about everything he’s worked for, everything he’s achieved. And then he thinks about you — how you’ve been there with him through it all, supporting him, believing in him even when he doubted himself.

He takes a deep breath, his decision already forming in his mind, solidifying with each passing second. “Okay,” he says, meeting Mario’s gaze head-on. “I’ll do it. I want this, Mario. I want to prove to myself that I can do it right this time.”

Mario’s grin widens, and he stands up, offering Logan his hand. “Welcome to Andretti F1 Team. We’re going to do great things together.”

Logan shakes his hand, the reality of it all starting to settle in. He’s going to be a Formula 1 driver again. It’s terrifying, exhilarating, everything he’s ever wanted all over again. As he stands there, absorbing the magnitude of what’s just happened, he feels a strange mix of emotions — elation, fear, anticipation, and something else that he can’t quite name.

Mario walks him to the door, still talking about the next steps, the plans they have for the team, but Logan’s mind is half-focused on something else, someone else. As the door swings open, the conversation comes to a halt. The sight that greets them both brings a grin to Mario’s face and a burst of laughter from Logan.

You’re standing there, your ear pressed to the door, looking guilty as hell when you realize you’ve been caught. You straighten up quickly, trying to play it off, but the blush spreading across your cheeks gives you away.

“Eavesdropping, huh?” Logan teases, crossing his arms and raising an eyebrow. There’s a lightness in his voice that wasn’t there moments ago, the news already settling into a place of excitement rather than apprehension.

You bite your lip, trying to suppress a smile, but failing miserably. “I, um … I might have been curious,” you admit, your eyes twinkling with mischief.

Mario chuckles, shaking his head. “Looks like we’ve got a new team spy, Logan. Better watch out.”

Logan can’t help the grin that spreads across his face. He steps out of the office, wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you close. “You know, you didn’t have to spy,” he says, his voice dropping to a softer tone. “I would’ve told you everything.”

You look up at him, your smile fading slightly as something more serious takes its place in your eyes. “I just … I wanted to know if it was good news,” you say quietly. “I know how much F1 means to you.”

Logan feels his heart clench at your words, at the sincerity in your voice. You’ve always understood him, always known what drives him, what keeps him going. He cups your cheek, his thumb brushing lightly over your skin. “It’s great news,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’m getting a second shot at F1, and I’m not going to mess it up this time.”

Your smile returns, bright and full of the same determination he feels. “I know you won’t,” you say confidently. “You’re going to do amazing things, Logie. And I’ll be right there with you.”

Logan’s chest tightens with emotion, the intensity of the moment overwhelming him. He leans down, pressing his forehead to yours. “I’m so lucky to have you,” he murmurs, his voice thick with gratitude. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

You laugh softly, the sound like music to his ears. “Good thing you won’t have to find out,” you reply, your tone teasing but laced with affection.

Logan’s heart swells, and before he can stop himself, he lifts you off your feet, spinning you around in a circle. You yelp in surprise, then burst into laughter, the sound filling the hallway.

He sets you down gently, your laughter fading into a soft smile as you look up at him. There’s a moment of quiet, the world around you fading away as the reality of what’s happening sinks in. Logan leans in, capturing your lips in a kiss that’s both tender and passionate, a promise of what’s to come.

When you finally pull back, breathless and smiling, Logan feels a sense of calm settle over him. Everything is falling into place, and for the first time in a long while, he feels like he’s exactly where he’s meant to be.

With you by his side, he knows he can face whatever comes next.

“Ready to take on the world?” You ask, your voice light but your eyes serious.

Logan grins, squeezing your hand. “As long as I’ve got you, I’m ready for anything.”

And with that, he leads you down the hallway, the future stretching out before him, bright and full of promise.

***

The sun is barely up, casting long shadows across the Albert Park Circuit, but the air is already alive with anticipation. It’s the first day of preseason testing for the 2026 Formula 1 season, and the paddock is buzzing with the usual mix of excitement and nerves.

Teams are unpacking crates, engineers are huddled over laptops, and the unmistakable scent of burning rubber is already in the air. But for Logan, walking through the paddock with you on his arm, it feels like stepping into a dream — one he’s worked too damn hard to make a reality.

He adjusts the collar of his Andretti jacket, the weight of the moment not lost on him. This is it. His second chance — though, thanks to the bizarre twist of fate, no one else knows it’s his second. Everyone around him sees a rookie, an American hopeful making his debut with Andretti’s new F1 team. But Logan knows better. He’s here with experience that no one can fathom, and he’s determined not to waste it.

As you walk beside him, your hand resting lightly on his arm, he can’t help but steal a glance at you. There’s a brightness in your eyes, a mix of pride and excitement that mirrors his own. “You okay?” He asks, squeezing your hand gently.

You look up at him and smile, the kind of smile that makes his heart do a little flip. “I’m more than okay,” you reply. “I’m with you, and we’re about to watch you live your dream. What could be better than that?”

Logan grins, feeling a warmth spread through his chest. You’ve been his rock through everything — the highs, the lows, the strange, unexplainable journey that brought him back here. He’s never been more certain that you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.

As you make your way through the paddock, heads turn. It’s not just because Logan is here with the legendary Andretti team, but because of the woman at his side. He catches a few curious glances, some surprised, others appreciative, and he can’t blame them. You’re a sight to behold, and he’s proud to be walking in with you.

But then, out of the corner of his eye, Logan spots a familiar face. Oscar Piastri, decked out in McLaren colors, is standing near the entrance to the pit lane, chatting with a few team members. It’s been years since they last spoke properly — back when they were both climbing the ranks in the junior series, fighting tooth and nail for every inch of track.

They were close once, but life pulled them in different directions — Oscar to McLaren, Logan to IndyCar. And now, here they are, both in Formula 1, albeit on different paths.

Logan feels a wave of nostalgia, and before he can overthink it, he’s steering you in Oscar’s direction. As you approach, Oscar looks up, and for a split second, there’s a flicker of surprise in his eyes before it melts into a wide, genuine smile.

“Logan Sargeant,” Oscar says, his Australian accent as thick as ever. He steps forward, hand outstretched, and Logan takes it, shaking firmly. “I’ll be damned. You actually made it.”

Logan chuckles, the sound more relaxed than he feels. “Yeah, I guess I did. It’s been a long road, but here I am.”

Oscar’s smile widens, his grip on Logan’s hand lingering for just a moment longer. “It’s good to see you, mate. I was wondering when you’d show up in F1. Figured you were having too much fun in IndyCar to come back.”

“There was a lot to love about IndyCar,” Logan admits, glancing at you with a fond smile. “But F1 was always the dream, you know? Couldn’t pass up a chance like this.”

Oscar nods, understanding clear in his expression. “I get it. And with Andretti, no less. That’s a hell of a team to start with. You’re going to shake things up around here, I can tell.”

Logan shrugs, trying to play it cool even as his heart pounds with the reality of it all. “That’s the plan. But enough about me. How’s life at McLaren? You guys ready to give us a run for our money?”

Oscar laughs, the sound light and easy. “Always. McLaren’s been working their asses off, and I’m feeling good about this season. But don’t think I’ll go easy on you just because we’re old friends.”

Logan grins, feeling the competitive spark that’s always driven him reignite. “I wouldn’t expect anything less. Besides, it’s been a while since we’ve gone wheel-to-wheel. I’m looking forward to it.”

Oscar’s gaze shifts to you, his curiosity evident. “And who’s this?” He asks, his tone polite but genuinely interested.

Logan’s grin softens as he looks at you. “This is my better half,” he says, his voice filled with affection. “She’s the one who keeps me sane.”

You smile at Oscar, offering your hand. “It’s great to finally meet you, Oscar. Logan’s told me a lot about you.”

Oscar shakes your hand, his smile warm and welcoming. “All good things, I hope.”

“Mostly,” you tease, throwing Logan a playful glance.

Logan laughs, feeling a lightness in his chest he hasn’t felt in a while. It’s good to be here, good to be surrounded by the familiar banter and camaraderie that he’s missed. He knows the road ahead is going to be tough — F1 is nothing if not ruthless — but with you by his side and old friends welcoming him back, he feels more ready than ever to face whatever comes his way.

Oscar steps back, his gaze shifting between the two of you. “Well, I’d better let you guys get settled in. But hey, we should catch up properly later. Maybe grab a drink after testing?”

Logan nods, appreciating the offer. “Definitely. It’s been too long.”

As Oscar walks away, Logan watches him for a moment, the memories of their shared past mingling with the excitement of the present. It’s surreal, being here again, but this time with the weight of everything he’s learned, everything he’s fought for.

You tug gently on his arm, pulling him out of his thoughts. “What are you thinking about?” You ask, your voice soft and curious.

Logan smiles down at you, squeezing your hand. “Just how different things are now,” he admits. “But in a good way. I’ve got a second shot at this, and I’m not going to waste it.”

You nod, your eyes shining with the same determination he feels. “And I’ll be right there with you, every step of the way.”

Logan feels a swell of emotion, gratitude, and love that he can’t quite put into words. Instead, he leans down, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

The two of you continue walking, the sounds of the paddock fading into the background as you focus on each other. The day ahead is full of unknowns — testing, strategy meetings, the inevitable pressure of proving himself — but with you by his side, Logan feels ready for anything.

As you make your way to the Andretti garage, the team members greet Logan with nods and smiles, and he can see the mix of curiosity and expectation in their eyes. They’re all in this together, building something new, something that has the potential to be great. And Logan is determined to be the driver they need, the one who can lead them to success.

You squeeze his hand, drawing his attention back to you. “You’re going to do amazing, Logan. I can feel it.”

He smiles, the confidence in your voice bolstering his own. “Thanks. I’m just glad you’re here with me.”

“Always,” you reply, your gaze unwavering.

As the day progresses, Logan finds himself falling into the rhythm of the paddock. The familiar sounds of engines roaring to life, the chatter of engineers discussing data, the focused intensity that permeates every corner — it’s like he never left. But this time, there’s a new layer to it all, a sense of belonging that he didn’t fully grasp the first time around.

He exchanges nods and brief conversations with other drivers as they pass by, some offering congratulations, others sizing him up as the new competition. It’s all part of the game, the unspoken dance of respect and rivalry that defines the sport. But through it all, Logan keeps you close, your presence grounding him in the midst of the chaos.

As the day draws to a close, Logan finds himself back in the garage, the car stripped down and the team poring over the data from the day’s sessions. He’s tired, the kind of exhaustion that comes from both physical exertion and mental focus, but it’s the good kind of tired — the kind that tells him he’s exactly where he needs to be.

You’re standing nearby, chatting with one of the engineers, your laughter mingling with the sounds of the garage. Logan watches you for a moment, a smile tugging at his lips. You’ve always had a way of fitting in, of making everyone around you feel at ease, and he’s grateful for that — for you.

As if sensing his gaze, you look over at him and smile, that familiar warmth in your eyes. You make your way over to him, and when you reach him, Logan pulls you into his arms, holding you close. The noise of the garage fades into the background, leaving just the two of you in this moment.

“You did great today,” you say.

Logan holds you a little tighter, resting his chin on the top of your head. “I couldn’t have done it without you,” he murmurs.

You pull back slightly, just enough to look up at him, your eyes filled with a mix of pride and affection. “You’re the one out there driving, Logan. But I’m glad I can be here for you.”

He smiles, leaning down to press a soft kiss to your lips. “It means everything to me that you are,” he whispers.

For a moment, the chaos of the garage and the world outside fades, leaving just the two of you standing together, ready to face whatever comes next. Logan knows the road ahead won’t be easy, but with you by his side, he’s more than ready to take on the challenge.

***

The media room is buzzing with the usual pre-race energy, a mix of nerves and excitement crackling in the air as the drivers settle in behind the table. Logan’s seated between Oscar and Charles, the bright lights overhead casting sharp shadows across their faces. The backdrop behind them, plastered with sponsor logos and the official F1 emblem, feels almost like a stage, the press in front of them the audience waiting for their performance.

Logan shifts in his seat, glancing down at the bottled water in front of him. The press conference has been the usual mix of questions so far — how the cars are handling, expectations for the season, the general camaraderie between the drivers. But there’s an undercurrent, a sense that something more pointed is coming.

A journalist from the back finally stands, her voice clear and direct as she catches Logan’s attention. “Logan,” she begins, holding her recorder up, “there’s been some observation that every time you see James Vowles, your expression seems to … change. Almost like you’re not too thrilled to be around him. Any comment on that?”

There’s a moment of silence in the room, a collective breath held. Logan feels the gaze of every person on him, including the drivers beside him. He lets out a quiet laugh, trying to play it cool, but he can’t help the way his mind flashes back to the last time he’d faced Vowles, the man’s condescending tone, the cold dismissal that had sent him spiraling.

Oscar shifts beside him, giving him a sideways glance, probably wondering where this is going. Logan catches the edge of his own reflection in the shiny surface of the table and forces his expression into something neutral, even though the old bitterness is clawing its way up from the pit of his stomach.

“Bad vibes,” Logan says finally, his voice carrying just enough humor to keep it light, though there’s an unmistakable edge to it. “That’s what my girlfriend would say. He just … gives off bad vibes.”

There’s a ripple of laughter through the room, the tension breaking slightly. But the journalist isn’t done yet. “Bad vibes? Care to elaborate on that?”

Logan shrugs, trying to brush it off with a casualness he doesn’t quite feel. “You know, it’s one of those things. Sometimes you just don’t click with someone, right? It’s nothing serious.”

Charles, on his other side, leans into his mic, flashing a grin. “You’re not going to make us all paranoid about our vibes now, are you?”

The room laughs again, and Logan takes the opportunity to sip his water, hoping the moment will pass. But he can feel the weight of the past pressing against him, the memories of how it all went down before he’d found himself in this second chance. He knows better than anyone that this sport is a game of perceptions, of how you carry yourself, and he can’t afford to let the past taint his future.

Another journalist jumps in, steering the conversation toward safer waters — questions about the new car, how he’s adjusting to the Andretti team. Logan answers on autopilot, the usual lines about feeling confident, about how the team has been amazing. But in the back of his mind, he’s still thinking about that flash of disgust he couldn’t hide, the way his skin prickled when he saw Vowles earlier that day.

When the press conference finally wraps up, and the drivers are ushered out of the room, Oscar hangs back, falling into step beside Logan as they head toward the paddock. “So,” Oscar starts, keeping his voice low, “bad vibes, huh?”

Logan lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, a half-smile tugging at his lips. “You know how it is,” he says, trying to keep it light, though he knows Oscar can see right through him.

Oscar just nods, not pushing any further, and Logan’s grateful for that. They walk in silence for a moment, the din of the paddock growing louder as they approach, engineers and team members bustling around them.

“Honestly, mate,” Oscar says after a beat, “if anyone’s going to bring some good vibes into F1, it’s you. I’m glad you’re here.”

Logan glances over, and there’s sincerity in Oscar’s expression that makes Logan’s chest tighten, the weight of everything he’s carried with him lightening just a bit. “Thanks, Oscar. That means a lot.”

They reach the Andretti motorhome, where you’re waiting for Logan, your eyes lighting up the moment you spot him. He feels a warmth spread through him at the sight, a reminder of what really matters.

You push off the wall you’d been leaning against, falling into step beside him. “So, how’d it go in there?”

Logan smirks, wrapping an arm around your shoulders as they walk. “Let’s just say my reputation for honesty might have gotten a bit more solidified.”

You tilt your head up at him, a teasing glint in your eyes. “That bad, huh?”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “Not bad, just … honest.”

You glance at Oscar, who’s still walking beside you, and give him a knowing look. “He always has to make things interesting, doesn’t he?”

Oscar grins, nodding in agreement. “Never a dull moment with this one.”

As you make your way back into the motorhome, Logan feels the tension of the day starting to ebb away. The familiar scent of coffee and fuel, the low hum of conversations around him, and the comforting presence of you by his side — it all feels right. Despite everything, he knows this is where he belongs.

Once inside, the motorhome offers a brief respite from the chaotic energy outside. The team is prepping for final checks, and Logan knows he should be focusing on the task ahead, but there’s something nagging at him, a need to explain himself, to make sure you understand.

You catch the way his brows furrow slightly, the way his grip on your shoulder tightens for a moment before he lets go. “What’s up?”

He hesitates, running a hand through his hair, looking for the right words. “I just … I don’t want to come off like I’m carrying a grudge or anything. That comment about Vowles — it probably sounded harsher than I meant it.”

You step closer, your hand finding his, grounding him. “Logan, it’s okay. Everyone has people they don’t vibe with. It doesn’t mean anything more than that.”

He nods, the tightness in his chest loosening as he looks into your eyes, seeing the unwavering support there. “You always know what to say, don’t you?”

You smile, squeezing his hand. “It’s a gift. Plus, you make it easy.”

Oscar clears his throat, and both of you look over to see him trying not to grin. “I’m going to leave you two to it. Just don’t forget we have a race to focus on.”

Logan laughs, shaking his head as Oscar heads out. “Yeah, yeah, we’ll be right out.”

When Oscar’s gone, Logan turns back to you, his expression softening. “Thanks for being here. Really.”

You lean up, pressing a quick kiss to his lips. “Always.”

As you both make your way out to the garage, the sounds of the team preparing for the weekend reach your ears, and Logan feels that familiar rush of adrenaline, the anticipation of what’s to come. The memory of the press conference, of Vowles, fades into the background. What matters now is the race ahead, the chance to prove himself once again, and the knowledge that whatever happens, you’re right there with him.

He glances over at you as they approach the car, and you catch him staring, raising an eyebrow in question. “What?”

Logan just smiles, shaking his head. “Nothing. Just thinking about how lucky I am.”

You roll your eyes, though there’s a smile playing on your lips. “You better believe it, Sargeant. Now, go out there and show them what you’ve got.”

He nods, feeling more centered than he has all day. With a final squeeze of your hand, he steps into the garage, ready to take on whatever comes next, knowing that no matter what happens on the track, he’s already won in the ways that truly matter.

***

The roar of the engines reverberates through the paddock, a constant hum that thrums in Logan’s chest as he steps into the Andretti garage. It’s yet another race weekend, and the energy is electric, a mix of anticipation and nerves hanging in the air.

The team is buzzing around him, mechanics fine-tuning the car, engineers buried in data, but Logan’s focus is on the familiar figure leaning casually against the back wall, arms crossed, watching the hustle with an almost serene smile.

Logan stops in his tracks, eyebrows raising in surprise. It’s not that Mario isn’t around — he’s a constant presence in the team, always keeping an eye on things — but he usually doesn’t show up this early in the weekend, and certainly not with that look on his face.

It’s a smile Logan recognizes all too well, a mix of pride and mischief that means only one thing: Mario knows something that everyone else doesn’t, and it’s going to shake things up.

Logan weaves his way through the garage, sidestepping the organized chaos until he’s standing in front of Mario. “You look like you’re up to something,” Logan says, crossing his arms to mirror the older man’s posture. “What’s going on?”

Mario’s smile widens just a fraction, his eyes glinting with a secret. “Now, what makes you think I’m up to anything, kid?”

Logan chuckles, shaking his head. “Because I know that look. You’ve got news.”

Mario doesn’t respond immediately. Instead, he pushes off the wall and motions for Logan to follow him to a quieter corner of the garage, away from the prying eyes and ears of the rest of the team. Logan follows, his curiosity piqued. Whatever Mario’s about to tell him, it’s big.

When they’re sufficiently out of earshot, Mario leans in slightly, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “You remember how I told you a while back that we were working on something big for the team?”

Logan nods, his interest fully captured. “Yeah. What’s up?”

Mario’s smile turns almost wicked. “Well, it seems that James Vowles and Williams think they’re going to secure Adrian Newey for next season.”

Logan’s eyes widen slightly. Newey is a legend in the sport, the kind of designer who can turn a good team into a championship-winning one. If Williams were to get him, it would be a game-changer. “Wait, you said they think they’re going to get him?”

“Exactly.” Mario’s grin is practically gleeful now. “What they don’t know is that Adrian’s already in talks with us. In fact, we’re just about ready to sign the deal.”

Logan lets out a low whistle, the magnitude of the news sinking in. “You’re serious?”

“Dead serious. By this time next week, Adrian Newey will be working for Andretti.”

Logan can’t help the wide smile that spreads across his face. This is huge, a move that will send shockwaves through the paddock. With Newey on board, Andretti’s chances of becoming a front-runner in F1 just skyrocketed. “I can’t believe it,” Logan says, shaking his head in disbelief. “That’s going to change everything.”

Mario nods, satisfaction evident in his expression. “It’s a big deal, no doubt about it. But we’ve still got work to do. We can’t get complacent, not with what’s at stake. But this … this is a big step in the right direction.”

Logan’s mind is already racing ahead, thinking about what this means for the team, for his own career. The idea of driving a car designed by Newey is almost surreal. “When are you going to announce it?”

“Not until everything’s signed and sealed,” Mario replies. “But once it’s done, we’ll make sure the whole world knows. And Williams … well, they’re in for a nasty surprise.”

Logan laughs, the sound coming out more exhilarated than he intended. The idea of one-upping Vowles, especially after everything that’s happened between them, is deeply satisfying. “I can’t wait to see the look on Vowles’ face when he finds out.”

Mario pats Logan on the shoulder, the gesture filled with a camaraderie that Logan has come to cherish. “Neither can I, kid. Neither can I.”

As they walk back towards the main part of the garage, Logan’s mind is still reeling from the news. He’s been focused on the present, on making sure he performs at his best every time he’s out on the track, but this … this opens up a whole new realm of possibilities. With Newey on board, there’s no telling what they can achieve.

When you spot him from across the garage, the look on his face must give away that something’s up because you immediately make your way over, your expression curious. “What’s going on?” You ask as soon as you’re close enough.

Logan glances around, making sure no one is within earshot, and then leans in, his voice low. “Mario just dropped a bombshell. Andretti’s about to sign Adrian Newey.”

Your eyes widen in shock, and Logan watches as a grin spreads across your face, mirroring his own excitement. “No way. That’s … huge!”

“I know,” Logan says, still barely able to believe it himself. “This changes everything.”

You reach out, placing a hand on his arm, your voice filled with pride. “You’re going to be driving a car designed by Newey. Do you realize how amazing that is?”

Logan nods, the reality of it finally sinking in. “Yeah, I do. It’s … I can’t even put it into words.”

You laugh, shaking your head in disbelief. “You don’t have to. I can see it on your face.”

For a moment, Logan just stands there, soaking it all in. The garage is still bustling around them, the team oblivious to the monumental news that’s just been dropped in their laps. But Logan knows that soon enough, everything is going to change. This is the kind of move that can define a career, that can take a team from being contenders to being champions.

But more than that, it’s a chance for redemption. A chance to prove to everyone — including himself — that he belongs here, that he’s capable of more than anyone ever gave him credit for. The past is behind him now, and with you by his side, and Newey in the garage, the future looks brighter than ever.

Logan glances over at you, seeing the pride and excitement in your eyes, and feels a surge of gratitude. For the second chance he’s been given, for the team that believes in him, and for you, the person who’s been there through it all.

“We’re going to do something amazing, you know that?” Logan says, his voice filled with conviction.

You nod, your smile soft but full of certainty. “I know. And I can’t wait to see it.”

Neither can Logan.

***

Logan’s heart is still pounding from the rush of the race as he stands on the podium, feeling the weight of the Miami sun on his shoulders. The crowd roars below him, a sea of red, white, and blue as far as the eye can see, their energy pulsing through his veins. He can hardly believe it. A podium at his home race, in front of a crowd that feels like family, is something he’d dreamed about since he was a kid.

He turns, looking out over the crowd, his eyes scanning for you. You’re there, as you always are, standing with the Andretti team, your smile brighter than the sun. The mechanics are cheering, patting each other on the back, but Logan only has eyes for you. It’s like everything else falls away — the noise, the cameras, the pressure of the season — all of it fades into the background. All that matters is the way you’re looking at him, like he’s your entire world.

He takes a deep breath, the realization of what he’s about to do washing over him. His hands shake, just slightly, as he reaches up and touches the chain around his neck, feeling the weight of the ring that’s been hidden there for weeks, waiting for this moment.

Without another thought, he drops to one knee, right there on the podium. The world seems to stop as he looks up at you, the crowd going silent in his mind. He hears the sharp intake of breath from the Andretti crew, sees the shock on your face as you register what’s happening.

“Hey,” he says, his voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through him. “I … I don’t know if I can put into words what you mean to me. You’ve been with me through everything — the wins, the losses, the crazy twists and turns. And I can’t imagine going through any of it without you by my side.” He pauses, the weight of the moment sinking in. “So I guess what I’m trying to say is … will you marry me?”

Your eyes widen, and for a second, you’re frozen in place, staring at him in disbelief. Then, as if breaking free from a spell, you laugh, a sound that’s pure joy, and nod vigorously. The next thing Logan knows, you’re being lifted onto the podium by the mechanics, tears of happiness streaming down your face as you launch yourself into his arms.

“Yes,” you say, your voice trembling with emotion. “Yes, of course, I will!”

The crowd erupts into cheers, the noise deafening as Logan slides the ring onto your finger. He pulls you close, his lips finding yours in a kiss that tastes like victory, love, and everything good in the world. The mechanics are going wild, chanting your names, and someone — Logan thinks it might be Mario — pops open a bottle of champagne, spraying it over everyone.

It’s chaotic, it’s perfect, and it’s a moment that Logan knows he’ll remember for the rest of his life. As he holds you close, feeling the warmth of your body against his, he realizes that this — right here, with you in his arms, and his home crowd cheering around him — is the true victory. The rest is just a bonus.

He pulls back slightly, just enough to look into your eyes. “You know,” he says, his voice low so only you can hear, “I always knew I was lucky. But this … this is something else entirely.”

You smile, the kind of smile that makes his heart skip a beat, and lean in to kiss him again. “We’re both lucky, Logan,” you whisper against his lips. “And this is just the beginning.”

***

The paddock is buzzing with activity, the hum of engines and the chatter of mechanics creating a familiar symphony that Logan finds oddly comforting. It’s the start of another race weekend, but this one feels different. There’s an undercurrent of excitement in the air, a mix of nerves and anticipation that has nothing to do with the cars or the track.

Logan slips away from the Andretti garage, his eyes scanning the bustling paddock as he makes his way toward the Williams garage. He’s done his best to stay clear of them ever since re-entering Formula 1, but today is different. Today, he has a reason to be there — a reason that brings a small, almost mischievous smile to his lips.

The Williams garage is a flurry of motion, mechanics and engineers huddled over laptops, surrounded by toolboxes and tires. The sight brings a wave of nostalgia crashing over Logan, but he quickly pushes it aside. He isn’t here for a trip down memory lane.

Spotting Alex Albon near the back, Logan weaves through the chaos, his steps light and easy despite the tension he can feel crawling up his spine. Alex is engrossed in a conversation with his race engineer, but when Logan steps up, he looks up in surprise.

“Logan!” Alex greets, his face splitting into a wide grin. “What are you doing here? Slumming it with the backmarkers?”

“Something like that,” Logan replies, his tone light as he pulls a small, cream-colored envelope from his jacket pocket. He hands it to Alex, who takes it with a curious tilt of his head. “Figured I should deliver this in person.”

Alex flips the envelope over, his eyes widening slightly as he reads the names printed in elegant script on the front — his and Lily’s. He breaks into a grin, already understanding what it is before he even opens it.

“No way,” Alex says, pulling out the invitation and quickly scanning the details. “You’re really doing it, huh? Getting hitched?”

Logan chuckles, feeling a warmth spread through his chest at the thought. “Yeah, we are. And we’d love for you and Lily to be there.”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Alex replies, his grin softening into something more sincere. “Congrats, man. You two are great together.”

Logan nods, grateful for the genuine well-wishes. He’s about to say something else when a flicker of movement catches his eye. Glancing up, he sees James Vowles standing a few feet away, his expression unreadable as he watches the exchange between Logan and Alex.

For a brief moment, the past rushes back — the frustration, the disappointment, the sense of being discarded like a broken part. Logan feels a familiar pang of bitterness, but he quickly tamps it down. He isn’t that person anymore. He’s moved on, and he’s got better things — better people — in his life now.

Still, he can’t help himself.

He meets James’ gaze head-on, his smile shifting into something a bit more pointed, more deliberate. “Oh, James?” He says, his voice carrying just enough to be heard over the noise of the garage. “Seems like your invitation must’ve gotten lost in the mail. Real shame.”

James’ eyes narrow slightly, his jaw tightening, but he doesn’t respond. The tension between them is almost tangible, thickening the air around them. Logan holds his gaze for a moment longer, then shrugs exaggeratingly before turning his attention back to Alex.

“Anyway, hope to see you there,” Logan says, clapping Alex on the shoulder before stepping back. “Tell Lily we’re looking forward to it.”

“Will do,” Alex replies, still smiling but with a touch of unease as he glances between Logan and James.

Logan doesn’t linger. He turns on his heel and strides back through the garage, the small, satisfied grin still tugging at his lips. He can feel James’ eyes boring into his back, but he doesn’t care. Let him stew, Logan thinks. He’s got more important things on his mind.

As he exits the garage and steps back into the sun-drenched paddock, Logan takes a deep breath, feeling lighter, freer. The thought of the wedding, of you waiting for him back in the Andretti garage, fills him with a sense of contentment that he never thought he’d find in the world of Formula 1.

He spots you before you see him, standing with Mario and a few other Andretti team members, animatedly talking about something. Your laughter rings out over the noise of the paddock, and Logan feels his heart swell with affection.

It’s funny how things work out, he thinks. How life has a way of surprising you, of turning things around when you least expect it. He’s come a long way from that lost, angry kid who thought he’d never get a second chance. And now, here he is, standing on the cusp of a future that’s brighter than anything he could have imagined.

He picks up his pace, eager to get back to you, to tell you about the exchange with Alex and the little jab he couldn’t resist throwing at James. But as he draws closer, you turn and catch sight of him, your face lighting up in a way that makes his breath catch in his throat.

“Hey, you,” you call out, stepping away from the group to meet him halfway. “Did you get it done?”

Logan nods, a grin spreading across his face. “Yeah, I did. Alex and Lily are in.”

“And Vowles?” You ask, a knowing glint in your eyes.

Logan chuckles, slipping an arm around your waist as he leans in to press a quick kiss to your lips. “Let’s just say … he didn’t make the cut.”

You laugh, the sound pure and full of joy, and it’s the best thing Logan’s heard all day. “Good. You don’t need that kind of negativity at our wedding.”

“No, I don’t,” Logan agrees, feeling a rush of relief that you’re by his side, making even the most awkward encounters bearable. “And anyway, we’ve got more than enough people who actually care about us.”

You nod, your expression softening as you look up at him. “Yeah, we do. And I can’t wait to celebrate with them — with you.”

Logan feels a warmth spread through him, the same warmth he’s felt ever since the day he realized just how much you meant to him. It’s a feeling that never gets old, no matter how many podiums or victories he racks up. Because at the end of the day, it’s moments like this — simple, shared moments with you — that matter the most.

As the two of you head back toward the Andretti garage, Logan can’t help but think about how far he’s come. From the chaos of that first season in Formula 1, the heartbreak of being dropped, to the wild success of his time in IndyCar, and now, back in the sport he loves, with you by his side.

He knows there will be more challenges ahead — there always are in this world. But for now, he’s content to focus on the here and now, on the love he’s found and the life he’s building with you.

And as you walk together through the paddock, the sun casting long shadows on the ground, Logan can’t help but feel like the luckiest guy in the world. Not because of the cars, or the fame, or even the victories, but because of you — because you’re the one thing in his life that makes all the twists and turns worth it.

And he wouldn’t trade that for anything.

***

The roar of the crowd is deafening, a wall of sound that crashes against Logan as he stands on top of the podium. His hands grip the trophy tightly, the cold metal grounding him as the reality of it all sinks in. He’s done it. Logan Sargeant, the kid from Florida who almost lost everything, is now the World Drivers’ Champion.

The first American to do so since Mario Andretti himself.

He’s fought hard for this moment, clawed his way back from the brink of obscurity, and now here he is, at the pinnacle of motorsport. The champagne sprays around him, but all Logan can focus on is the sight of you, beaming up at him from the edge of the podium. You’re standing beside Mario, who’s wearing a grin as wide as Logan’s ever seen. You’re bouncing on the balls of your feet, hands clasped together, eyes sparkling with a mix of pride and joy.

He barely registers the other drivers beside him, the interviews, or the flashes of cameras. Everything narrows to you and the overwhelming sense of accomplishment swelling in his chest. You’ve been there through it all, from the moment he took that leap of faith into IndyCar, to the sleepless nights before his first season back in Formula 1. Every high and every low has led to this, and you’ve never wavered.

Logan can’t help the way his gaze shifts slightly to the left, where James Vowles stands at the edge of the crowd, arms crossed, lips pressed into a thin line. There’s a tightness to his expression, a bitterness that Logan recognizes all too well.

But as much as he’d love to revel in that small victory, he finds that he doesn’t care. Not really. The vindication is sweet, sure, but it pales in comparison to the sight of you and the emotions radiating from you like the warmest of suns.

You notice him looking at you, and you blow him a kiss, laughing when he pretends to catch it, holding it to his chest. There’s no place he’d rather be than right here, right now, with you by his side.

The ceremony starts to wrap up, and as the photographers move in closer for shots, Logan can see Mario nudging you forward. You’re waving your hands at your grandfather, as if to say no, you’re fine where you are, but Mario’s having none of it. The mechanics and team members part to let you through, and Logan watches with an ever-growing smile as you finally make your way up onto the podium.

When you reach him, Logan pulls you into his arms without hesitation, lifting you off your feet as the crowd goes wild. He spins you around, feeling the way you cling to him, your laughter ringing out in his ear.

“You did it,” you say when he finally sets you down, your voice thick with emotion.

“No,” Logan corrects, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “We did it.”

You roll your eyes playfully, but there’s no hiding the way your eyes glisten. “You’re unbelievable.”

“And you love me for it,” Logan teases, leaning in to press his forehead against yours.

“Yeah,” you whisper, “I really do.”

The moment is interrupted by Mario clearing his throat, and Logan turns to see him holding a bottle of champagne, a wicked glint in his eyes. “Now, are we celebrating or what?”

Logan laughs, grabbing the bottle and popping the cork, spraying the contents over you and Mario, who both shout in surprise. The rest of the team quickly follows suit, and soon, the podium is a chaotic mess of laughter, champagne, and pure, unfiltered joy.

As the celebrations continue around him, Logan takes a step back, watching the scene unfold. His heart swells with a sense of contentment he’s never felt before. He’s always been driven, always had his eyes set on the next goal, the next race, the next win. But standing here, with you by his side, he realizes that he’s found something even more important than all of that.

He’s found a home.

A family.

And he’s never letting go.

The night carries on in a blur of congratulatory hugs, media obligations, and team celebrations. But as the crowd starts to thin and the energy begins to mellow, Logan finds himself sitting on the edge of the podium, his legs dangling off the side. The cool night air brushes against his skin, the sounds of the city in the distance providing a soft backdrop to the dwindling celebrations.

You find him there, sitting in silence, and without a word, you join him. You lean into his side, and he wraps an arm around you, pulling you close.

“It’s still sinking in,” Logan admits after a while. “I don’t think I’ll ever get used to this feeling.”

You tilt your head up to look at him, your eyes filled with warmth. “You’ve earned it, Logan. Every single bit of it. Don’t ever doubt that.”

He nods, resting his chin on top of your head. “It just feels … surreal. Like I’m living in a dream.”

“Well, if this is a dream,” you say, a mischievous smile playing on your lips, “then it’s one I never want to wake up from.”

Logan chuckles softly, his heart swelling with affection. “You and me both.”

The two of you sit there in comfortable silence, watching as the final remnants of the celebration begin to fade. The stadium lights dim, and the night sky takes over, a blanket of stars twinkling above you. It’s peaceful, a stark contrast to the chaos of the day, and Logan can’t help but feel grateful for this quiet moment with you.

“I used to think winning was everything,” Logan says after a while, his voice barely above a whisper. “That nothing else mattered as long as I crossed the finish line first.”

“And now?” You ask, your tone gentle, inviting him to continue.

“Now I know that it’s not just about the win,” Logan replies, his gaze fixed on the horizon. “It’s about the journey. The people who stand by you, who lift you up when you’re down, who make the victories sweeter and the losses bearable. It’s about finding something worth fighting for, and never letting go of it.”

You smile, your fingers intertwining with his. “Sounds like you’ve learned a lot.”

Logan nods, turning his head to look at you. “I have. And it’s all because of you.”

You laugh softly, shaking your head. “I think you’re giving me too much credit.”

“Not at all,” Logan says, his voice firm. “You’ve been my rock, my anchor. I wouldn’t be here without you.”

You look at him, your eyes shining with unshed tears. “Logan …”

“I mean it,” he says, his voice gentle yet unwavering. “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

You don’t respond with words; instead, you lean in, capturing his lips in a soft, lingering kiss. It’s a kiss filled with promises, with unspoken words, and with a love that has grown stronger with every challenge, every victory, every moment shared.

When you finally pull away, Logan rests his forehead against yours, his eyes closed, his heart full. “I love you,” he whispers, the words carrying the weight of all he feels.

“I love you too,” you reply, your voice just as soft, just as full of emotion.

The world fades away as the two of you sit there, wrapped up in each other. Logan knows that there will be more challenges ahead, more races to win, more obstacles to overcome. But as long as he has you by his side, he knows that he can face anything.

Because, in the end, it’s not just about the racing. It’s about the people who make it all worthwhile.

And for Logan Sargeant, that person is you.

As the night deepens and the city quiets, Logan realizes that this is just the beginning. The beginning of a new chapter, a new journey, with you right beside him. And whatever the future holds, he knows one thing for certain:

He’s exactly where he’s meant to be.

And with you, he’s already won.

[snaileer]

We Didn’t Start The Fire

“See man, the moon!” Kid Flash said as they came outside, standing on the pile of rubble.

“And Superman! Do we fulfill our promises or what…” his voice trails off as a grinding clanking sound echoes behind them.

They turned around, confused to see a tricked out pale yellow Volkswagen bug trucking its way up the rubble and crumbled building blocks. It stopped before it got too steep, a man in a familiar white lab coat stumbling out.

Immediately, they were on guard, the man haphazardly climbing towards them.

Robin drew two batarangs in each hand, standing in front of Superboy as he got closer. It didn’t even matter that the Justice League had just landed behind them, if this CADMUS scientist tried something, Robin would be the first to defend Superboy. Without hesitance.

The man stopped in front of them, huffing for breath.

“You’re-!” He stopped, leaning over his knees with gasping breaths, “Sorry, one sec!” He held up a finger, gasping for another few seconds before stepping forward-

Chains of water surrounded him before they could blink, Robin looking back surprised to see Aqualad standing with extended weapons and a grim face.

“This is odd.” The man looked at the water wrapped around him, wriggling a bit before shrugging. His eyes zeroed in on Superboy, “You’re okay!” He said with a blinding grin.

Superboy recoiled and Robin immediately stepped between them.

“What.”

The man glanced at him briefly before looking back over Robin’s head, “You are okay right? I mean I tried my best but I couldn’t figure out a way to get you out- I mean if I’d known you were there to begin with I’d would have never-but then I wouldn’t have-

“Who are you?” Superman asks, suddenly close from behind them.

The man’s mouth clicks shut, looking between them all before a grimacing smile rises to his face.

He extends his hand at the elbow between the liquid chains, “Dr. Danny Fenton, ex-biochemical engineer of CADMUS labs Mr.Superman,sir.”

Flash zips forward, the eyes of his cowl narrowed, “Ex?”

The grimace turns into a wince. “Oh.. heh, yeah, I’ve found that arson is usually a pretty good kickstart of sudden unemployment,” there’s a thoughtful pause as he looks over the rubble, “It’s usually accidental though.”

Nobody responds.

“What? You didn’t think that lab fire started on its own did you? How else was I supposed to get you here?”

“There’s a Justice League public phone! That’s literally its entire purpose!” Kid Flash shouts, throwing his hands in the air. At this point, Aqualad cautiously lowers his water bearers, releasing Fenton.

“Oh, sure, I call a bunch of superheroes and tell them my boss is doing a Grow-Your-Own-Superman in the boiler room. That’d go over well.” He pauses, “Though the sidekicks was a surprise.”

The comment goes uncorrected, as the rest of the league has snapped to face Superboy the moment he says it.

Superman looks stricken as Superboy reveals the logo on his torn shirt.

Fenton unceremoniously breaks the tension, “Sorry I never asked, do you have a name? I’d feel really bad just calling you-“

“… They called me.. Superboy..” He says, still not looking away from the man of steel in front of him.

“That’s not-“ Fenton rubs his temples and sighs harshly, “Okay, I can fix that later, whatever-“

“You’re not gonna be ‘fixing’ anything, Doctor.” Robin snarls.

Fenton blinks. “Huh?”

Batman steps forward, “Green Lantern.”

Green construct cuffs snap around the Dr.Fenton’s wrists, though he looks at them puzzled.

“Superman, check for survivors in the damage, Flash find some salvageable evidence before it finishes burning. The rest of us, we’ll continue this interrogation at the hall.”

“Wait what?” Dr. Fenton says, perking up like a meerkat even as Batman turns away with swirl of his cape.

“What about me?” Superboy asks, desperation in his hesitant step forward.

Batman looks to Superman. Superman nods, and then shoots off into the rubble and emergency vehicles.

“For now, you come with us.” Batman says, and Superboy’s shoulders loosen just a hint.

The dark knight pauses again before turning completely, “And don’t think we’ve forgotten the rest of you,” he says, cowled eyes narrowed over his shoulder, “Robin.”

Robin shirks back, “Heh.. Right.”

“Wait what’s going on?” The Fenton scientist yelled back over his shoulder as Green Lantern pulls him away.

He starts to say something but the construct fully engulfs him now, shifting from a platform to a soundproof bubble.

It seems to shock him enough, Fenton tapping at the walls and looking like he wants to take it apart and take a sample.

Robin grit his teeth.

He was not gonna let these CADMUS freaks touch Superboy again.

Not Fenton or anybody else.

[rottiens]

⊹ ˚. GOJŌ SATORU┊ "Doesn't the idea of not wearing panties in front of strangers turn you on?" he plans the seed.

tags. (18+), husband gojo, he hm smells your panties and other things (he loves you believe me), lowkey (highly) exhibitionism, reader with female anatomy (she/her pronouns).

You check Satoru a second time, only to realize that your eyes weren't deceiving you and that he really was smiling at nothing, his long fingers clapping the steering wheel every now and then to the rhythm of the song playing in the background on the radio and the third time your eyes land on him your back stiffens, with the seat belt still hugging your body you turn to see him, though the pressure of the belt doesn't allow you to move freely.

"Why are you smiling?" you ask, mimicking the same smile, like a mirror.

"I can't smile when looking at my beautiful wife?" Wife. Ever since you got married Satoru hadn't stopped calling you that, and even though you liked it and it always made you feel warm inside....

You obviously don't believe him. Not this time. The smile you still possessed paired with a furrowed brow, examining him in a way that would help you verify if he was telling the truth or not.   

You didn't believe him one bit. "What are you planning?" you insist again, still admiring his profile, Satoru hadn't bothered to look at you, busy not missing a green light.

"Remember the other day when we were playing uno and I won..." ... okay?

"You cheated," you reproach almost immediately, crossing your arms. You had the same posture as that night when you caught him with four cards hidden inside the joggers. 

"Whatever you want to believe, baby, I did not." You click your tongue and roll your eyes going back to your initial stance, you weren't going to argue with him again, that day you only let him win because Nanami and Geto decided not to fight and let him win.

"Whatever," you say. Fixing your eyes on the road you realize that you were a few corners away from reaching the restaurant.

"Anyway..." Out of the corner of your eye you notice the lopsided grin adorning his face. "It's time to pay."

"What do you want? For me to admit I'm a sore loser?" You turn your attention back to him, his finger with the gold wedding ring gleaming under the streetlights.

"I want your panties," he commands, claiming his prize (prize he won by cheating, you want to emphasize).

You blink, trying to verify that you just heard what you think you just heard. "What. No."

"A deal is a deal..."

"You cheated!" you accuse him again, and satoru's lopsided grin turns into a full-on grin showing you his fangs. "You're going to pay for this."

Satoru parks a few feet outside the fancy restaurant, the colors of the restaurant inside splashing all the way outside. Only when the car's engine dies does he tilt his body to look at you, you see determination and temptation in his face, those blue eyes are bathed from the street lights and the darkness inside the car, bringing you the details of his incomplete features.

"Doesn't the idea of not wearing panties in front of strangers turn you on?" he plans the seed. "In front of Suguru, in front of Kento..." satoru adds. "Because it turns me on a lot to know that only I know that you have a naked pussy, probably dripping on the chair."

You stand still for a moment, processing everything he just said as the birth of a smile stretches his lips slowly and an uncomfortable warmth creeps from your chest, face and ends in the form of a rush in your pussy.

You curse yourself because you can feel how the idea makes you wet.

Satoru laughs at your reaction knowing he has won, he stretches out his hand waiting for his prize.

You curse again, now out loud. You lift your ass off the leather seat to help you slide your underwear off with ease, you slide them down your legs and embarrassedly hand them into his hands, by which time Satoru was forcing a wicked smile to disappear.

Without any hesitation he brings them to his nose, inhaling until his lungs remember the scent of your pussy. Then he pushes them into the pockets of his pants. You stand there, still at the scene. It's not the first time he did it, but you were forced to check the street to verify that no one else had seen what had just happened.

"You're so fucking hot, you know that, don't you?" he looks down your body, focusing especially on your thighs. "I love the way that dress looks on you, I knew it was made for you as soon as I saw it."

Within seconds Satoru leaves his seat and walks across the short walk to your door, opening it for you. You realize he planned this all along. The dinner, the dress he bought especially for you (that barely comes down across your thighs and if you're not careful you might show your pussy)....

Satoru reaches out and feigning indignation you take it, stepping out of the car as you arrange your dress down, the fresh breeze caresses your slit and hits your clit. Satoru squeezes your hand, the coolness of the ring sending shivers down your back, into your abdomen.

"It's going to be a fun night," Satoru says.

[roosterforme]

Mr. Right Now Part 11 | Hangman x Reader

Summary: As soon as you told Jake you wanted him to come find you, there was no stopping him. He couldn't make you need him the same way he needed you, but he would take care of whatever made you cry. When you hurt Jake, you hurt yourself, too. He deserved an apology that you were ready to give him, and then he gave you more than you could have hoped for.

Warnings: angst, adult language, fluff, 18+

Length: 3600 words

Pairing: Jake "Hangman" Seresin x Female Reader

Why is Jake on my masterlist!? Mr. Right Now masterlist

Jake whipped along the dark, quiet streets of Coronado before crossing the bay bridge at twenty over the speed limit in his truck. You called him. He thought his number never even made it into your phone, but after almost two weeks, you called him. Your voice sounded distraught, but when he went out on a limb, suggesting he come find you himself, you readily agreed. Now he just needed to figure out why you were upset and make sure you weren't hurt.

"Come on," he growled at the red light where he needed to turn left. There wasn't much traffic this late, but it still had been fifteen minutes since you called, and he didn't want to keep you waiting. Not when he heard the tears in your voice. Not when he missed you so much, it felt like part of him was lost.

Something must have happened. If he had done a better job with you, maybe you'd have been back at his place again tonight, safe and sound. That was exactly what he wanted. He hadn't cracked open a college textbook in almost eight years, but that didn't stop him from imagining you doing your classwork on his couch while he offered his two cents here and there. He'd been so damn desperate to feel as good as he had when you were there two weekends ago, he ordered himself your favorite kind of pizza tonight. If he thought it tasted bad before, it was a hundred times worse without you on his lap teasing him.

When he made it to your campus, he found the street you told him over the phone, and he drove a little slower, eyes darting from one side of the street to the other. He was tempted to call your number back to be sure he was on the right track when his gaze caught on a bench across the next intersection. 

It was you. Your head was in your hands, staring at the ground, but he recognized your Converse sneakers as soon as his headlights shone on them. You had on the cutest dress imaginable, and all Jake wanted to do was make sure you were okay.

He pulled his truck up to the curb and killed the engine, and you looked up at him as soon as he hopped out. You were illuminated by a streetlamp, shivering on the bench, and he ran to get to you faster. Tears streaked your cheeks as you stared up at him like he wasn't real, and he sank down onto his knees on the rough sidewalk at your feet.

"Darlin'," he whispered as more tears filled your eyes. "Tell me what's wrong."

You only got one word out before fresh tears fell. "Jake."

He scooted a little closer, and you let him take your hand in his. "You can trust me. I meant it when I said that." As he ran his thumb along your knuckles, he added, "If you tell me what's wrong, I'll try to fix it."

You hung your head and took a deep breath. "I'm such an idiot." Your eyes were closed, long lashes resting on your damp cheeks as you whispered, "I shouldn't have bothered you. Can you just give me a ride back to my dorm?"

"Hey," he coaxed, giving your hand a little squeeze. "I'll make sure you get back safely, but I can't help with whatever caused the tears unless you tell me what happened."

Your eyes fluttered open as you licked your lips. They parted in silence, and Jake was close enough now to feel your warm breath on his cheek. You were hesitating. Reluctant. You were never like this with him before. He was used to you making demands and walking around his place like you owned it, and he found that was how he preferred things. But he waited for you to speak, simply stroking your knuckles with his thumb until you were ready.

"Cooper happened. And it was awful."

Even the name made Jake's skin crawl. He'd been thinking about that stupid kid since the first time you mentioned him, but right now, anger burned just beneath the surface of his skin as he asked, "What did he do to you?" When you tried to hide your face, Jake ran his palm along your cheek and guided your gaze back to his. "Did he hurt you, Darlin'?"

The sentence hung in the air as Jake's throat grew tight. One more tear slid down your cheek as he examined your beautiful face, and you pressed your quivering lips together. Your lack of response was enough for him to get to his feet, and he pulled you up from the bench as well. He tried his best to stay calm, but he could hear the anger in his voice when he asked, "Where is he? I will fucking destroy him."

You responded by taking a step closer until your cheek was resting on his chest, and Jake wrapped his arms around you. Some of his rage melted away at your touch. Goosebumps covered your arms as you shivered, and he couldn't help but kiss your forehead. Maybe that gesture was why you finally spoke more than a few words, or maybe it was because you could still feel the anger inside him. Either way, Jake held you close as you said, "Cooper did exactly what I gave him permission to do. No need to destroy him."

"Did he hurt you?" he asked again, needing a straight answer.

"No."

"Do you want me to beat the shit out of him anyway?"

You laughed in spite of your tears, and the sound made Jake's heart clench in his chest. "Kind of. But it's all my fault for being so stupid."

"Look at me," Jake said softly. He waited until you did before he said, "You're not stupid. I'm sorry if I made you feel that way when I called you naive. You're young, but you're not stupid."

"I am though," you replied immediately, hand coming up to rest on his chest. "You were so sweet to me. A perfect gentleman. A perfect weekend. And then I just fucking threw it in your face and had sex with Cooper."

Jake let out the breath he had been holding. He wasn't really surprised. That was your main goal the whole time, and you were a good student. You knew what you wanted, and you went for it. But some twenty year old dipshit wasn't going to be able to handle your level of class. He'd been trying to show you that all along. "Let me guess, Darlin'. Cooper wasn't a perfect gentleman?"

You shook your head, and Jake leaned down to kiss your cheek. "It was terrible," you told him. "I just... I messed up somehow."

"Fuck," Jake murmured, hoping the answer to his next question didn't make him want to pull the bench out of the ground and throw it across the street. "Did he use a condom?"

Your eyes were sincere in the glow from the streetlight. "Of course I made sure he used a condom." You bit your lip and added, "You're the only one who can fuck me without one. That was lesson number twelve."

Even the thought made him dizzy. "Just me," he grunted. 

Jake hadn't stopped wanting you for a minute since you kissed him at the bar, but tonight, he found you sitting on a bench on a sketchy side street, crying over another guy. And that really fucking hurt. But at least you made sure Cooper used a condom. At least you were safe.

"He was nothing like you were," you whispered, and he held you tighter. "I asked him for some extra foreplay, and he didn't know how to touch me. I told him I liked oral sex, but he just automatically assumed I'd go down on him instead. I can't believe I did all of this so wrong."

When you tried to remove your hand from his chest, he covered it with his own. "You didn't do anything wrong. I can promise you that. Maybe... you just don't belong with that asshole." Jake sighed and fought the urge to kiss your lips, because he knew you belonged with him, even if you weren't quite there yet. "As long as you're okay, I'll take you back to your dorm. But... maybe in a couple days or a few weeks, when you think you're done crying over Cooper... maybe you'd consider calling me again?" Your eyes went wide as he added, "I really am done with the tag chasers. I haven't been with anyone since you. I think you were my final straw in admitting to myself I wanted something more. Because being with you felt perfect."

"Jake!" you gasped loudly. "I'm not crying over Cooper. I'm crying over how badly I messed things up with you!"

Jake's brow furrowed. "Oh." Now he felt like the idiot. He also felt a little light headed as you leaned in closer.

"I'm so sorry for making you feel cheap," you whispered, eyes shimmering with more tears. "Because you're not. I didn't mean it. I got scared of how much we did together in such a short amount of time. But it was unbelievable how special you made me feel." When he tried to say something, you shook your head before you touched your lips gently to his and asked, "Was it just a normal weekend for you, or did you feel as good as I did? And I'm definitely not just talking about the physical stuff."

"Darlin'," he whispered, wiping your tears away as they fell. "It was the best weekend of my life. And not just the sex. It was never just the sex." You kissed him tentatively again, lips barely touching his before you started to pull away, but Jake chased you for another one. And another one. And then you were smiling against his lips as he said, "I'm really happy you called me, Darlin'."

"Me, too. I missed you."

When he finally broke the kiss, he asked, "You're sure you got Cooper out of your system?"

"I'm so sure," you said softly, never breaking eye contact.

"Then let's get out of here."

Jake ushered you to his truck with his arm around your waist. "Are you taking me back to my dorm?" you asked when he opened the door for you.

"Nah. You're spending the weekend with me. Where you belong."

-----------------------------

Walking back through Jake's front door felt like going home. He held your hand the whole ride over, and when you told him you might need some things from your dorm room, he promised to take you back there in the morning to get whatever you wanted. Then he smirked and added, "But you wore everything from my dresser and made yourself at home last time you were here. You can do that again while we make up for being apart last weekend."

Now that you were standing in his living room where everything looked and felt familiar, you closed your eyes and let him hold you. "I missed you so much," you whispered. "I thought about calling or texting you so many times, it's not even funny. Then I told myself there was no way you'd forgive me."

Jake sighed deeply. "I was terrified that I didn't save my number in your phone before the battery died. I thought I'd never hear from you again. I missed you so much, I even stopped by the Hard Deck last weekend to see if you went there by chance."

Your gaze settled on the pizza box on the coffee table, and when you tried to reach for it, Jake grabbed your hand. You looked up at him, and when you tried one more time to open the lid, he wrapped you in a tighter hug and tried to walk across the living room with you in his arms.

"What kind of pizza is that, Jake?" you asked, tone playfully accusatory. 

This man literally picked you up from a bench on your school campus after you slept with a loser your own age, and he'd once again done nothing except show you respect and affection the whole evening. And now you could feel how easily you and he were falling back into the playful bubble you'd existed in two weeks ago. It was exquisite. This time you weren't going to burst it.

"Come on, Darlin'," he groaned, letting go of your hand so you could investigate the pizza box for yourself. "I couldn't help myself."

"Ha!" you said once you had it open. "My favorite kind!"

Jake's cheeks were pink as he nodded while you pointed at the half eaten pizza on the coffee table. "I told you I missed you," he whispered, and you stumbled back into his arms. "I've been sleeping with my window open so I could listen to the ocean, but it's better with you there. Everything is. The pizza was bad enough before, but it tasted like shit when I ate it alone. I didn't even want to stay in the tub until the water got cold the other day. I only lasted like five minutes"

Your eyes went wide. "You broke one of your own rules?" When he nodded, you kissed his cheek and asked, "Can we take a bath together now?"

His expression melted into a smile. "Go get it started while I get us some drinks."

Lighter than air, you practically floated down the hallway to his bedroom. Everything was tidy like you remembered it. He had some clean laundry folded on his dresser, and when you ran your hand along the soft cotton of his undershirts, you paused. Your black thong was sitting there as well. Excitement welled up inside you, because he never got rid of it. Your fingers wrapped around the lace and you carried it into the bathroom with you, excitement building further as soon as you saw the green toothbrush you used was still there, right next to Jake's. He held onto both of them since you were here last.

These were things a boyfriend would do. You were sure of it. When Jake strolled in with a Sam Adams in one hand and stemware filled with ice water in the other, you were holding your underwear and the toothbrush to your chest. He kissed your cheek like it was the most natural thing in the world before saying, "I thought you were going to fill the tub."

"I was," you replied, making no move to do anything as he set the drinks down on the sink vanity. He smiled when he saw what you were holding, and then he opened the cabinet to pull out two towels and some washcloths. There was no new box of condoms inside. None at all.

"You're really done with the tag chasers?" you blurted out, toothbrush digging into the palm of your hand.

Jake looked up at you and nodded as he turned the water on to fill the tub. "Yeah. To be honest, I think I was done with them as soon as I picked up your fake ID from the floor." His green eyes were earnest as he stood tall again and reached for you. "Now, can we make this water as hot as possible? So it'll take longer to cool down? Once we start snuggling, I'm not going to want to get out."

His fingers were teasing along the strap of your dress at your shoulder as you finally set down your thong and your toothbrush. Then you let Jake undress you as the bathroom started to get steamy. The part inside you that was still afraid he wouldn't want you now was soothed by his words and his big hands on your bare skin.

"Climb on in, Darlin'."

You watched him undress from the comfort of the bath, and he handed you both drinks before he turned off the brighter lights in favor of the softer ones. Then he climbed in with you, and his arm was around your body immediately, guiding you to settle between his legs. 

You sipped your water while he sipped his Sam Adams, and the two of you smiled at each other before you asked, "Are you sure you want me to spend the night?"

He hummed into his beer bottle before taking another sip and setting it aside. "I'm going to want you here as much as possible." His words were so simple, but so full of possibility. He felt the same way you did. You were sure of it now. But you had to sip your water to take time to collect your thoughts.

"Well, I have work to do for my classes," you finally said, and he took the glass from your hand and discarded it.

"I can try to help you with it," he replied, both hands on your body once more. "Or maybe I can learn something new. You can be the teacher."

Your heart was beating a nervous rhythm even as you curled up against him with your head on his shoulder and your fingers in his chest hair. "Maybe we should buy more condoms tomorrow or Sunday?" you asked quietly. Nothing about the current state of things felt sexual, but you were still a tiny bit scared he would reject you in that way because of Cooper. But his lips found your forehead while he traced a little heart on your thigh.

"Sure. We can do that." He tipped your chin up so you were looking at him. His expression was serious as he softly said, "But the two of us don't need to have sex to be intimate and have a good time together. You have a lot more than that to offer, Darlin'. I do, too."

You thought back to all the little moments you and he shared in between hooking up. Making out on the couch and laughing together. Eating pizza and falling asleep in his arms. Those were the best parts. "I don't know what you did, but you made all of it so good. Every minute of the entire weekend."

He seemed to relax more as he accepted your words. "It was never just fucking to me. Not since the first night when you trusted me enough to sleep over. And certainly not since I asked you if you wanted it to be sex or something more. That was us making love."

You whimpered before his lips met yours, and you kissed him hard as you let your wet fingers drag through his soft hair. "It was perfect," you said against his mouth before you pulled away an inch.

His forehead was pressed to yours as he murmured, "You're perfect. You always were." His lips brushed yours as he added, "But yeah, after I take you out for lunch tomorrow and we stop by your dorm for whatever you need, we can get more condoms. I would enjoy that immensely."

"You better not get me pregnant before I graduate from college," you joked.

Jake snorted. "I better not get you pregnant anytime soon. I haven't even met your parents yet."

"You want to meet my parents?" you asked in surprise. 

You were perched on his lap awaiting a response as Jake leaned back against the tub. His gaze lingered on every part of your face before he casually asked, "Which lesson were we on?"

He was being coy and sweet and sincere, and all of your feelings were right there at the surface now. "Are you serious right now?" you asked, poking him in the abs. When he nodded, you said, "We were on number thirteen."

"Right. Lucky number thirteen. My favorite one," he crooned, offering up nothing else.

After another beat, you poked him again and said, "Spit it out, Jake. What's the lesson?"

"Smartass," he muttered. The water was starting to cool down now, and when you shivered, he just held you a little closer. "Lesson thirteen is more for me than for you." He paused to kiss you before saying, "I'm feeling like I don't want to be with anyone else. Just you. Make this a permanent thing. Think you can humor me by labeling it?"

"Yes," you replied so quickly that he was laughing when your lips crashed against his.

--------------------------------

Jake wrapped you up in one of the towels, and the two of you brushed your teeth side by side. You already knew where everything was, and without prompting, you rooted around in his dresser drawers until you found something you wanted to wear. Then you climbed into his bed like you knew without a doubt you'd always be welcome there, and he turned off the lights.

"Jake," you whined softly, patting the empty spot next to you in the glow from the moonlight. When he didn't immediately move, you added, "Get in bed with me."

But he took the time to admire you as he slid the window open another few inches. The sound of the ocean had a calming effect on him again now that you were back, and he felt more peaceful. You belonged here with him. When you reached for his hand, he let you tug him toward the bed with a smile on his face. He belonged with you, too.

"That's better," you whispered, melting into him as soon as he had his arms around you under the blanket. "Good night, Jake." 

"Night, Darlin'." He was ready to keep you warm all night and spend the weekend showing you that he made an excellent boyfriend. "I love you."

---------------------------------

Jake and Darlin' pulled it together in the end. Thank you for reading my fic about intimacy, consent, trust and knowing your worth. I loved every second of writing this. Thanks to @beyondthesefourwalls

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[its-avalon-08]

what are we even fighting for? (cs55)

✦ pairing - carlos sainz x female!reader

✦ genre - angst, fluffy ending

The air in the flat hung heavy, thick with the unspoken words of a fight that had fizzled out hours ago. Y/N sat on the couch, meticulously folding laundry, each crease a testament to the storm raging inside her. Carlos emerged from the bedroom, a shadow of his usual energetic self.

"Going for a run?" Y/N asked, her voice clipped. It wasn't a question, more a confirmation of the escape route he usually took during their arguments.

"Yeah," Carlos mumbled, avoiding eye contact. He grabbed his trainers, the familiar routine a stark contrast to the turmoil within.

"Great," Y/N said, the single word dripping with sarcasm. Carlos flinched, his shoulders slumping further. He paused at the doorway, finally looking at her.

"Y/N, do we really have to do this?"

"Do what?" she challenged, her gaze hardening.

"This," he said, gesturing vaguely between them. "The constant fighting, the silence."

"Maybe if you hadn't—" Y/N started, but Carlos cut her off.

"Here we go again," he sighed. "It's always my fault, isn't it?"

"No, it's not," Y/N snapped, her voice cracking with unshed tears. "It's just... everything feels so different lately."

They were at an impasse. Every conversation, every attempt to bridge the gap, ended in a fresh volley of accusations and hurt. The silence, once comfortable, now screamed with unspoken resentments.

Carlos ran. He pounded the pavement, his frustration mingling with the rhythmic thud of his feet. When he returned, showered, and hesitantly entered the living room, Y/N was gone. He found her in the bedroom, surrounded by open suitcases.

"What are you doing?" he asked, dread pooling in his stomach.

"Packing," she said, her voice flat. "Maybe a change of scenery will do us both some good."

Carlos's heart hammered against his ribs. "A change? Or a break?"

Y/N stopped folding, her shoulders slumping. Tears welled up in her eyes, spilling over like a dam finally breached.

"I don't know, Carlos," she choked out. "Maybe... maybe this whole thing was a mistake."

The words landed like a physical blow. Carlos stared at her, the color draining from his face. A mistake? All the laughter, the late-night talks, the shared dreams - were they all meaningless to her?

He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. The fight had drained him, leaving him numb and speechless. With a defeated sigh, he turned and walked out, the click of the guest room door echoing the hollowness in his chest.

The roar of the engines at the Monaco Grand Prix was a dull thrum in Y/N's ears. She stood stiffly at the pit wall, a knot of dread tightening in her stomach. It was race weekend, a time that usually buzzed with shared adrenaline and nervous excitement. Now, the atmosphere felt sterile, devoid of their usual pre-race ritual.

Carlos emerged from the garage, his helmet tucked under his arm. He scanned the crowd, his gaze finally landing on her. Their eyes locked, and for a horrifying moment, Y/N thought he wouldn't do it. He wouldn't come to her. A fresh wave of tears welled up, blurring her vision.

"Y/N," his voice was a croak, barely audible over the din. He hesitated, then began walking towards the starting grid, his shoulders slumped in defeat.

Tears spilled over, tracing hot tracks on her cheeks. It was over. All the fights, the resentful silences, had finally driven them apart. A strangled sob escaped her lips.

Just then, the commentator's voice boomed over the loudspeaker, snapping her attention back to the track. "And Sainz is rushing into the paddock! What is he doing?!?"

Y/N's head whipped towards the pit lane, heart pounding in her chest. Through a haze of tears, she saw Carlos sprint past the mechanics, his face etched with determination. He tore through the crowd, his eyes fixed on her.

He skidded to a halt in front of her, his chest heaving. Before she could react, he cupped her face in his calloused hands and pulled her into a desperate kiss. The roar of the crowd faded into the background, replaced by the frantic drumming of their hearts.

When they finally broke apart, both breathless, Carlos looked at her, his eyes raw with emotion. "Y/N, I messed up," he rasped. "That was never supposed to happen. This… this whole thing, us… it can't end like this."

"Carlos," she whispered, her voice thick with tears. "Can we fix it?"

He held her gaze, his voice firm. "I promise. We'll fix it. Whatever it takes." He squeezed her hand, the familiar spark of warmth a lifeline thrown across the chasm that had grown between them. "Now, I have a qualifying to win."

Y/N wiped her tears, a flicker of hope rekindled in her eyes. "Go get 'em, champ," she said, her voice hoarse but determined. "And remember, we're in this together."

Carlos offered a shaky smile, the ghost of his old grin. With one last, lingering kiss, he turned and sprinted back towards the grid, leaving Y/N with a renewed sense of possibility. The roar of the engines no longer sounded like a dirge, but a challenge, a call to face their problems head-on, just like they faced every race.

The qualifying session concluded with Carlos securing a decent starting position. Relief, however, battled with anxiety as he rushed back to the drivers' room. Y/N stood by the window, her back to him. He took a deep breath, the image of her tearful eyes fueling his determination.

"Y/N," he called out gently, his voice raspy.

She spun around, her face etched with a mixture of worry and hope. As their eyes met, the dam broke. Tears welled up anew, spilling down her cheeks. Carlos hurried towards her, his arms outstretched.

"Carlos," she choked out, rushing into his embrace. They clung to each other, the roar of the track a distant echo compared to the storm of emotions within them. Tears soaked their shirts, silent apologies mingling with the salty sting.

"I'm so sorry," Y/N whispered, her voice muffled against his chest. "We haven't been communicating, and I shouldn't have said what I did back in the flat."

Carlos held her tighter, the tension in his shoulders easing. "Me too, cariño," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "I've been so focused on the championship that I forgot what truly matters. You matter, Y/N. We need to talk, to listen to each other."

He pulled back slightly, cupping her face in his hands. Their eyes locked, a silent understanding passing between them.

"We can fix this," he murmured, his thumb brushing away a tear. "We just need to try."

Y/N nodded, a small smile trembling on her lips. "I know. I just… I got scared, Carlos. Scared of losing you."

He leaned in, placing a tender kiss on her forehead. "You won't lose me," he promised, his voice firm. "Not if you don't want to."

His lips grazed hers, a question lingering in the air. Y/N met him halfway, the kiss a rekindled flame, burning away the hurt and doubt. It was a kiss filled with a newfound appreciation for each other, a promise to rebuild their trust and communication.

Pulling back, foreheads resting against each other, a comfortable silence settled between them. The weight of unspoken words had lifted, replaced by a fragile hope for the future. They knew the road wouldn't be easy, but with each other, they were ready to face whatever came their way. The roar of the engines seemed less daunting now, replaced by the steady beat of two hearts determined to race together.

[prentissluvr]

some other time — sam winchester

cw : gn!reader, fluff, reader sits in sam's lap, he holds their waist/stomach, mentions of demons, poor editing ofc, 1.1K words. requested !

prompt : one having to sit in the other’s lap when space is tight and them both blushing like crazy over it.

being able to steal a car is a very helpful skill to have when you’re being chased by several demons and too far from your normal ride to make it away. you just can’t help but wish that dean could have picked a better car, if only to spare your sanity.

dean, ahead of you both, yells through the driver's side window as you approach at full speed. “in the back! front’s full of shit!”

sam skids to a stop at the back door of the small car, yanking the door open and swiftly climbing in with you right behind him. you expect him to keep sliding down to make room for you, but when you finally register the state of the car, you realize that the back is full of bulky boxes, the same as the front seat. only the seat that sam takes up is clear. you hesitate for a split second, but sam takes your hand urgently. you’re still in danger. the three of you managed to off a few of the demons, but there was something strange going on, and there were far too many to deal with for the moment.

“c’mon,” sam urges. with that, you pile in right after him, barely all the way in the car when dean gets the engine to start and begins driving away. you let out a surprised yelp when the car lurches forward, and you lose any semblance of balance. your legs were already draped across his, but the rest of you slams right into his chest from the change in velocity. still tilted towards the middle of the car, you almost hit your head against the box right in front of you, but sam’s quick reflexes keep you from getting hurt with his hands on your hip and shoulder. he helps you settle onto his laps as you huff out a laugh that’s half frustrated, half flustered.

“thanks,” you mumble, trying to sound as casual as possible as you feel his strong thighs under your own.

“you okay?” he asks, his hands leaving your hips, then hovering in the air as he realizes that there’s just about nowhere else to put them. the space is completely cramped; the car itself is small, and the added boxes piled up on the seats press against sam’s shoulder and push him into the car door that he barely managed to close in the whirlwind of getting into the car and out of danger. 

“i’m fine,” you confirm, nodding your head. you look down at his hovering hands and smile at them, at how sweet and respectful he is. but your gaze flies up along with your hands to grip the seat in front of you to stop you from falling off of sam’s lap as dean takes a hard turn. in that same moment, sam’s hands firmly reattach themselves to your waist to hold you steady. you laugh nervously again, rolling your eyes at dean’s driving, but choosing not to scold him since he’s busy trying to get you safely away from this nasty group of demons.

“looks like you’ll have to be my human seatbelt,” you joke to sam, barely tilting your head to smile at him and catch his eye. if you turn to fully look at him, you think you’re likely to die. his face is so close to yours, his hands so big on your waist, and his thighs even bigger under you. your face is hot and your expression is likely much more flustered than you’re normally able to cover up. so, you quickly avert your eyes and keep your gaze fixed in front of you.

sam’s having similar problems, both glad that you’re not facing him and mourning the loss of your face turned to his while you’re so close. in the end, this is better so that you can’t see the blush on his face or the way his jaw clenches every time the car jolts or bounces in any way. having you settled on his lap in a moving car, pulled all the way to him so that your back is against his chest, does not help with his raging crush on you.

he can’t even give a proper answer to your half-joking comment, and just gently squeezes your sides to show you that he’ll keep you steady. just as you intended, he takes your words as full consent to leave his hands on you.

of course, this action is entirely ruinous for you, and you hope that he doesn’t notice the way you gasp at the pressure of his big hands on your waist.

after a minute of stillness and dean’s teasing eyes on you through the rearview mirror, you think you might be safe as you get a little more used to the sensation. naturally, you’re still flustered out of your mind and wishing desperately that you could sit in sam’s lap for no reason at all, whenever you like.

but as sam’s arm grows uncomfortable in its position pinned against the boxes beside you, his hand starts to shift from your side to your stomach. he feels you stiffen under his hand, and quickly retracts his hand.

“sorry,” he whispers, afraid that he’s made you uncomfortable.

but you look down and really survey the position his arm is. his elbow, wrist, and shoulder are all pressed into an awkward angle, just to be sure that he’s not touching you anywhere but the place you seemed most comfortable with. “it’s okay,” you rush to assure him, and without thinking, you grab his hand and wrap his whole arm around right around your middle, effectively putting it in the most comfortable position. “that better?” you ask softly, voice a little breathy as you register what you’ve done. you’re not helping yourself. or maybe you are. you can’t really tell, because it’s sort of hard to breathe with his muscled forearm pressed up against your stomach.

“yeah,” he breathes out, “as long as you’re okay with it.”

“of course,” you assure, nodding for a moment. “i don’t mind at all.”

he seems to soften at that, and he holds you with more surety. i don’t mind at all. over and over again, he replays those words in his mind, thinking about the soft tone you used, all of the sincerity that you made clear and easy to pick up on, and the way that you relax into his touch.

he can imagine you like this some other time. you in his lap because you want to be there, and his chin perched on your shoulder. he’d nuzzle his nose into the side of your neck, and he’s sure that it would make you giggle a little. what he wouldn’t give to have that. he’d rub his thumbs over your sides in a soft pattern, and you’d lean all the way into him when he kissed your jaw. god, he wants you. he wants you more than anything.

[coco-loco-nut]

Broken Bones

pairing: george russell x reader

summary: George gets in a wreck and you happen to be the surgeon on-call.

a/n: i loved this prompt, i hope you love it ❤️

masterlist

————————

George was enjoying his home race, he was holding P3 with a comfortable lead due to some great defending earlier in the race. Unfortunately for him, mother nature decided to put her hand into the race and have a pop up rain shower come through.

“It should clear through shortly, let’s keep with the softs,” his engineer says, hoping to outsmart those pitting for inters. George says a quick response and continues focusing on the track, especially the dry line. With the rain pouring, he catches a wet line in turn 4, sending the car spinning and into a barrier.

You rush down a couple floors to where you have been paged. Being the only orthopedic trauma surgeon in the hospital and on-call, you have to make haste.

“Is there really no one else to take this?” you ask, looking at the chart that has initial images and the patient information.

“Big fan?” the nurse beside you asks as you mentally plan the procedure. Most of Britain is basically a fan of the racing driver.

“Yeah. It’s not ethical, but I took an oath,” you tightly smile, beginning the process of scrubbing in.

“You are a great surgeon, you will have no problem keeping the fan part of you out of your mind,” the nurse reassures you. You take a couple deep breaths before heading to surgery.

The procedure goes well, you repair the broken wrist and fix the damage as best you can. Of course, time will finish healing it, but you do your best.

Afterwards you scrub out, finish paperwork, and go home. You won’t need to check in until anesthesia wears off, and that can take a while. You return later in the day, dressed in business casual and your lab coat.

“Mr. Russell, how are you feeling?” you ask, needing to check on your work. You close the door behind you when you enter the room.

“You are so pretty,” George says, still a little out of it.

“Thank you. Mind if I check your arm?” you ignore your blush.

“You look like my wife. She’s a doctor too, soooo pretty,” George babbles.

“I know, love, let me see your arm,” you say gently, sitting beside him.

“What happened?” George asks with a confused look.

“You spun out and crashed into a barrier. It was raining, you were on slicks, and caught a wet line,” you explain, carefully examining the surgical site, removing the splint immobilizing the wrist.

“I know that much. Injuries?” he asks, eyes trained on your wound examination.

“Broken wrist. We are going to brace it rather than cast it,” you check his chart for other injuries noted.

“Thank you for taking such good care of me, I love you,” George says, moving his non-injured hand to grab yours.

“I love you too, Georgie,” you whisper, rubbing your thumb over his hand as he processes everything. You note things in his chart, making sure your observations and updates are written down.

“I’m glad you did my surgery, I wouldn’t trust anyone else,” he smiles, you can’t help but smile back. It’s not illegal, but it certainly is borderline unethical to treat your husband.

“I’m happy to hear that. Why don’t I go and see if your family is out in the waiting room?”you hum, needing to stay inconspicuous. Of course, those close to you know who your husband is, but since you don’t share his last name it isn’t obvious.

“One kiss before you leave,” George pouts and you hesitate. “Please, I was just in a crash and your kisses make me feel better,” he pouts. You playfully roll your eyes and lean in, giving him a quick kiss.

“I love you, I’ll be right back,” you reassure him. You find his family and Toto waiting outside in the waiting room.

“Family of Mr. Russell,” you say, calling them to you.

“Y/n, dear, did you do his surgery?” George’s mom asks, a little hopeful.

“I did, I was the only one here and on call. Thankfully nothing too major, he can probably get back into a car in a month if we rehab him correctly. Want to see him?” you ask, knowing the answer. You lead them to his room, but stop Toto before he walks in.

“Y/n-“ Toto starts but you don’t hesitate to cut him off.

“You got very lucky that the broken wrist was the worst of it. Keeping him out on slicks? Are you stupid, a win is not worth more than a life,” you fume.

“I know, I gave his engineers and strategists a talking to. I just wanted to check in on him, but knowing he is in your care is all I needed. I check in tomorrow then,” Toto stays calm, knowing you had to since George was brought in and you needed to yell at someone.

“I, um, thank you. He should only be here another day for observation. I’ll keep you updated,” you recompose yourself and watch as Toto leaves.

“She’s just the best doctor ever. So pretty too, and smart, and really good at surgery,” you overhear George tell his parents, he likely just got another dose of pain meds.

“Thank you, Georgie. You are a pretty good patient,” you smile from the doorway.

“Can you believe that doctor loves me? And she married me?” George asks his mom who laughs.

“You chose a wonderful wife. Why don’t you let her get back to work?” his mom asks, catching your amused gaze.

“Yes, I have another surgery scheduled. I will check on you in a few hours,” you walk over to your husband, giving him a quick kiss.

“I love you so much, I want to have babies with you,” George blurts, causing your face to flame bright red.

“Okay, let’s talk about that later,” you awkwardly say, stepping out of the room.

You are quick to return after your scheduled surgery. You know the nurses rotations and know that they won’t check in for another hour.

“There’s my beautiful wife,” George grins as you walk in. “You look so sexy post-surgery,” he eyes you up.

“Really? I don’t feel like it,” you slide onto the bed beside him, careful to avoid hurting him. You relax in silence for a minute before you address the feeling eating at the pit of your stomach. “Please try not to crash again. I know it’s unavoidable, but the feeling I got when I saw your name and didn’t know how serious the crash was. It… I don’t think I can describe the panic,” you take a deep breath, closing your eyes and focusing on the sound of his heartbeat under you. The cool hospital air is a stark contrast to his warmth.

“I’m sorry, it’s the one part of racing I hate too,” George is unsure how to respond. He looks at the blank hospital wall, as if it’ll give him the answer. “I’ll always come home to you, and I have a badass surgeon to take care of me,” he laughs a little, trying to lighten the mood.

“I can only do so much, like brain surgery? You are on your own,” you grin, happy to let the vibe change.

“You could do it, you can do anything,” George says, he always gets gushy when he’s tired.

“Okay, baby, you should get some sleep. I’ll go home and get you clothes. I will be back tomorrow morning to check on you,” you yawn, also needing sleep. George knows you can’t stay in the room too long, and he wouldn’t want you to stay up in an uncomfortable chair.

“I love you. Drive safe,” he mumbles, tiredness washing over him in waves. You fix his sheets and make sure he is okay before kissing him goodnight and leaving. It feels weird, to go home and not have him there. You burn the rest of your anxious energy by reaching out to some good physical therapists that you know to help with George’s recovery.

Under your watchful eye, he makes a recovery similar to Lance’s, even with you fussing the first few races post-injury. You framed one of his x-rays. George had to listen to you talk about how beautiful it was, you claimed it to be your best work. It allows for a good story when having friends over, and it reminds George to not let it happen again.

[stargirlrchive]

HOLD ON w/ SIMON ‘GHOST’ RILEY

cw: i have had the worst, WORST, biker!simon brainrot bc of sun ( @tojisun ) and this insane post (gnawing at the bars of my enclosure) and also dbf!simon so here u go! age gap (reader over the age), naughty thoughts but no smut

NSFT ✩ MINORS DNI (18+ ONLY)

GENERAL MASTERLIST

nerves caused your stomach to tighten as simon straddled his bike, your eyes glazing over his tattoos and taught muscles. his visor pulled up on his helmet with his balaclava underneath.

“come on, princess. you’ll be fine.”

you bit your lip, trying to rid yourself of the thoughts that ran rampant in your mind. for gods sake he was your father’s closest friend. he was twice your age.

you could feel an ache throb between your thighs as you pouted softly, “the helmets going to mess up my hair.”

he barked a laugh, his eyes subtly running down your exposed thighs as he shook his head, “no helmet, no ride.”

your stomach flipped at his words, hesitating for a few seconds before you slipped the helmet on. gripping onto his arm to throw your leg over the bike.

your thighs caging over his as you pressed yourself flush against him. your arms wrapped around his waist. “not too fast, si’.”

the engine roared to life and with it the steady pulse between your legs. he smelled so delectable. his body hard and big against yours. his cologne was so subtle but it filled your senses and your legs tried to squeeze around his.

one of his gloved hands caressed your thigh but the touch was gone before you could dwell on it.

“hold on.”

your arms tightened around his waist as he removed the footpeg, easily balancing the weight of both of you and the bike as he drove off.

a tiny noise of surprise left your mouth as you clung to him. your fingers subconsciously running down his abdomen and resting dangerously low as you tried to look over his shoulder to watch the pretty sunset as he drove the two of you.

due to the loud engine and roaring wind, you missed the groan that slipped from simon’s mouth. your heart hammered in your chest as he drove faster. you clung to him desperately as your eyes closed, as if that would protect you from the speed in which he was going.

when he finally came to a stop you swatted his helmet, “i said not to go too fast!”

“and i told you to hold on.”

his finger gently squeezed your thigh and then he was off again.

he drove the two of you for a while before stopping at a random restaurant, one you didn’t recognize you noted.

you clambered off his bike and he helped you remove your helmet, removing his after. you tried to fix your hair but despite it there was a bright smile on your face as you looked at him.

“that was so fun!”

you were practically bouncing on the balls of your feet, simon’s lips tugged upwards gently. he leaned forward and your eyes blinked up at him. his thumb brushed along your bottom lip and your mouth instinctively parted.

much to your disappointment, he only moved away a stray hair that you hadn’t tucked back. but you didn’t miss the way his eyes glazed over as he watched your mouth.

[tyquu]

Ah I remember my question now!! Since Ezra is a growing boy, how does that impact his prosthetic use? I'm assuming they can't just go get him refitted like normal... do they help him resize? Do they build new parts? Or help him find some?

Hiii!! :D) So I doodled out my thoughts as I pondered this question but my handwriting is ass so… I’m also gonna write a little summary too!

Ezra's first Prosthetic was given to him by the same people who performed the amputation on his leg in the first place. Some concerned Lothali citizens who couldn't bare to watch him hop around on his severely infected leg any longer. 12 year old Ezra was pretty pissed about it though (understandably). It didn't help that his first prosthetic was old as balls and awful to walk on.

Thankfully, using bits n bobs he'd collected out on the streets, Ezra was able to tighten the loose hinges at the joints and modify the top to fit better. Alas, he ended up loosing this leg after bopping Kallus over the head with it pretty early on into joining the spectres.

Hera set him up with a pair of crutches and then devoted herself to finding him a replacement. She was determined to find something that was better than his last prosthetic and thought she'd struck gold when she figured out Vizago had one sitting in storage. She haggled hard but eventually managed to pocket the rarity, and delivered it back to Ezra. Sabine helped modify it fit to properly, and to Ezra's delight he discovered that the hinges on this leg were motion activated, and could pack an even better punch (or kick) than his previous one.

Ezra hadn't really manage to curb his habit of using his leg as a weapon on occasion, and during such an incident ended up losing leg 2 (much to Hera's despair). Thankfully, Sabine had helped Ezra do enough maintenance on his last two legs that she was confident she could fix up some similar prototypes using her engineering skills. The spectres all contributed to a scrap box that would be used to build replacement legs whenever Ezra ended up losing or outgrowing one. All of them were very dedicated to scouting out parts for him and happy to help with maintenance.

At some point the rebellion had gotten large enough to start having a more organised healthcare system, and Ezra was offered a spot on the surgery waitlist for cybernetics. Ezra was initially hesitant, however, post the incident on Malachor he eventually agreed.

The cybernetic, although not the most advanced for it's time, is connected to his nerves giving him full mobility over the prosthetic. However, it came with it's own new quirks that took some getting used to. Detaching and Reattaching the cybernetic takes between 2-5 minutes to do, and often requires tools to help, rendering it no longer an option as a spontaneous mid battle weapon. As a result there was no longer need for him to cut holes in the left leg of his trousers either.

Ezra doesn't sleep with the cybernetic (same as one wouldn't with a prosthetic) cause it would be hella uncomfortable. On lazy days, he often goes without it, opting to use crutches around base instead. The cybernetic is waterproof, however, in both snow and sand it can sometimes become clogged and stiff, and may need extra maintenance after the mission is complete. The ghost crew is always willing to help pitch in with their engineering expertise (mainly Hera, Sabine and Chopper) or spare part gathering.

Anywho,,, yeah. I hope that sort of answers that question?? I'm not 100% familiar with how prosthetics and cybernetics work in the Star Wars universe so forgive me if some of this info doesn't check out. ( also if u see a spelling mistake,,, no u don't)

[tojisun]

im giggling thinkin about biker!simon finding out you haven’t ever ridden a bike before and so the first thing he does is tell you to stay put before hopping on his harley and driving away.

you stand there, blinking, still reeling over what happened. you’re quite confused if your date really just left you, before giving up on worrying as you hold onto the hopes that he’d come back. he did say he will but how many of your dates and ex-partners fooled you because, apparently, you’re too “gullible” and it’s just too “funny”?

too fucking many times, that’s what.

you amble towards an empty bench while you wait, fluffing up your skirt and dusting your sweater before fixing your hair. you itch to message your friends, anxious thoughts buzzing underneath your veins, but simon had always been such a gentleman with you. always so caring and pampering. always so honest with his affections. he isn’t like anyone you’ve ever been and so you want to trust him.

and you do. god, you do. because you trust him with your safety. with your heart.

time crawls by but the agonizing drag does end. you didn’t have to wait long, you realize with a giddy heart, as you see simon driving back. his head whips around the park, trying to find you, and you giggle as you stand up, waving your hand above your head to catch his attention.

his helmeted head snaps towards your direction and you smile as the purr of his engine becomes louder, his bike devouring the space between the two of you eagerly.

“hey, sweetheart,” he says as he snaps his visor up, his beautiful eyes crinkled as he smiles at you.

the butterflies in your stomach roar, and you almost choke on the intensity of your happiness as you whisper back, “hey there, big guy.”

simon preens like he loves the nickname and you sear his reaction to your memory, already anticipating the next opportunity where you get to call him that again.

“i‘ve got somethin’ for you,” simon announces before twisting towards the other side of his harley, reaching for something that you couldn’t see. you tilt your head, trying to act cool as you wait.

simon turns back to you with a shy smile tickling his lips, and your eyes instantly flicks towards his hands where he cradled a cute little purple helmet – one of the many things you didn’t expect him to return with.

“is that a bicycle helmet?” you blurt out.

“yeah,” he laughs, a pretty sound. “this is all they have.”

“‘they’?” you finally move close to him as you ask this, taking tentative steps on the gravel.

“the closest bike rental,” simon replies, sounding embarrassed. “you said y’ve never been on a bike and, well, this is a safe environment so i thought, ‘why not?’”

you breathe in sharply, his words curling along the crevices of your heart. “lemme get this straight,” you begin, swallowing the lump in your throat. “you heard me say i’ve never been on a bike before so your first reaction was to drive away to find a closest bike rental so you can get me a helmet because you want to give me a safe bike ride?”

“…yeah,” he whispers, hesitant. “i mean, if you don’t want to then that’s oka- are you crying?”

“shut up,” you whimper, hiding your face behind your palms.

you hear him curse, the engine of his bike shutting off, before hearing the way his feet drop on the gravel and march towards you. in a heartbeat, you are pulled in his embrace, with your face pressed on his chest, and you eagerly breathe in the scent of leather and ozone that is stuck on him. he pats your head softly, his palm dragging along your hair as he continues to comfort you.

you sniffle, unable to stop the tears because what the actual fuck.

you have never felt so loved. so adored. so revered.

you chew on your confession, your heart and mind syncing up for once. simon, i-

(later, when you’ve finally calmed down, you will let out a wet giggle and apologize for dampening the mood. simon will just smile at your adorable, tear-swollen face and tell you that you have nothing to apologize for. then, he’ll kiss your forehead before securing your helmet on your head. he’ll tighten the strap around your chin, gently knock on the shell, then pull you onto his bike. you two will spend the rest of the afternoon just making slow and gentle donuts around the park, laughing and chatting.

and then, gritting through the choking staccato of your heartbeat, you will tell simon that you want more than a flurry of dates. that you want something more official. then, you will tell him you love him and simon will buckle before you because,

“me too, sweet girl. i’m so in love with you too.”)

-

(ext.01) (ext.02) (ext.03)

[elryuse]

Hierarchy

Part 1 : The Beginning

The grand piano stood like a polished ebony throne in the opulent living room. Its keys, under Lee Y/n’s deft fingers, transformed into a symphony of dreams, a melody that seemed to dance on the air. The room, a gilded cage of luxury, was silent except for the music. Y/n was lost in the world he created, a world far removed from the harsh realities outside these gilded walls.

He was a pianist, a musician by passion, but life had other plans. To afford his musical dreams, he found himself here, a ghost in this opulent mansion, playing for the Jang family, one of the pillars of Jooshin High, the most prestigious school in the country.

As the final notes of the Chopin nocturne faded, a soft applause broke the silence. Y/n bowed, his heart pounding with a mix of gratitude and apprehension. He had done it again. He had managed to impress the Jang family.

“Beautiful, as always, Y/n,” Mrs. Jang complimented, her voice a soft purr. Her husband, Mr. Jang, a stern-looking man with an aura of authority, nodded in approval. But it was the youngest Jang, Wonyoung, who captured Y/n’s attention. She was a vision in a short, revealing dress, her long legs and captivating eyes drawing everyone’s gaze.

Y/n had seen her around the neighborhood. She was the talk of the town, the rebellious princess of the Jang family. Yet, there was an underlying sadness in her eyes that intrigued him.

As the evening wore on, the atmosphere shifted. A heated argument erupted between Wonyoung and her father. It started with a casual remark about her dress, which escalated into a full-blown confrontation.

"You know this isn't appropriate!!" Mr. Jang thundered, his face flushed. “You are a Jang. You should dress like one.”

Wonyoung scoffed, her defiance evident. “I don’t want to be a Jang,” she retorted, her voice laced with bitterness. “I never asked for this life.”

The argument reached a boiling point when Wonyoung declared, “And besides she’s not my real mother.”

The room fell silent. A heavy silence that seemed to press down on everyone. Mr. Jang’s face turned ashen. He raised his hand and slapped Wonyoung hard. The sound echoed through the room, followed by a sharp intake of breath from Mrs. Jang.

Wonyoung’s lip was bleeding, but she stood her ground, her eyes filled with defiance and hurt. Mr. Jang, his anger momentarily subsided, wiped the red lipstick from her lips with a handkerchief, his voice cold and venomous. “This shade of lipstick is only for uneducated lowlifes.”

With tears streaming down her face, Wonyoung turned and ran out of the room. Y/n watched in horror as the once vibrant girl transformed into a wounded creature.

A few moments later, he heard the soft click of a door. Cautiously, he peeked outside. Wonyoung was in the backyard, a solitary figure against the backdrop of the opulent mansion. In her hand was a small, sleek device. She took a long drag, exhaling a cloud of vapor.

Y/n’s heart sank. He knew vaping was harmful, especially for a young girl. He hesitated for a moment, then decided to speak up.

“It’s not healthy for you, you know,” he said, his voice barely a whisper.

Wonyoung turned to face him, her eyes filled with a mixture of surprise and defiance. She took another long drag, the vapor swirling around her face like a ghostly halo.

“Mind your own business,” she said, her voice cold and distant.

But then, something unexpected happened. She approached Y/n, her eyes fixed on his white shirt.

“Can I borrow this?” she asked, her voice surprisingly soft.

Y/n was taken aback. He chuckled nervously. “You're joking right?

Wonyoung’s face turned serious. “I’m not joking,” she said, her voice firm.

Reluctantly, Y/n handed her the shirt. As she disappeared into the garage, he stood there, feeling a strange mix of emotions. He was scared, intrigued, and undeniably drawn to the enigmatic girl.

The sound of a powerful engine roared to life, shattering the silence. Y/n watched as Wonyoung emerged from the garage, the Lamborghini Gallardo gleaming under the moonlight. She was wearing his shirt, her long legs bare. She looked wild, dangerous, and undeniably beautiful.

With a final glance at Y/n, she revved the engine and sped away, leaving behind a cloud of dust and a lingering sense of mystery.

Y/n was left alone in the backyard, the night air filled with the echo of the Lamborghini’s roar. He looked down at his bare chest, feeling a strange sense of vulnerability. Something had changed that night, something profound and irrevocable.

The world of Jooshin High, a world he had observed from a distance, had suddenly become much closer. And at the center of it all was Wonyoung, the enigmatic princess with a rebellious spirit.

Y/n knew that their paths were destined to cross again. And when they did, he was certain that nothing would ever be the same.

Meanwhile In Wonyoung's POV

The roar of the engine filled my ears as I sped away from the mansion. The wind whipping through my hair felt like a cold slap of reality, a stark contrast to the suffocating atmosphere within those gilded walls. I glanced at the rearview mirror, the imposing structure of the Jang mansion growing smaller with every passing second.

Pulling over to the side of the road, I grabbed my phone and typed a quick message to my friends. "Meet me at the usual spot, ASAP." I hit send and slipped the phone back into my pocket, my heart pounding with a mix of adrenaline and relief.

The raceway was a world away from the pristine elegance of the Jang mansion. It was raw, gritty, and exhilarating—a place where I could truly be myself. As I pulled into the parking lot, I could already hear the distant roar of engines. A grin spread across my face.

Stepping out of the car, I was greeted by the familiar sight of my friends: Jimin, Minjeong, and Ryujin. They were a force of nature, a trio of fire, ice, and electricity. Jimin, with her infectious laugh and boundless energy, was the heart of the group. Minjeong, the calm and collected one, was the brain. And Ryujin, with her sharp wit and rebellious spirit, was the wild card.

They enveloped me in a group hug, their warmth a comforting shield against the storm I had just escaped.

“You okay, Wonyoung?” Jimin asked, her voice soft.

I forced a smile. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just another one of Dad’s epic meltdowns.”

Ryujin snorted. “Your dad is such a buzzkill.”

Minjeong nodded in agreement. “We should have a party to celebrate your freedom.”

“I’m in,” Jimin chimed in.

We spent the next few minutes catching up, laughing, and planning our next adventure. The tension that had been building up inside me slowly began to dissipate.

Then, Ryujin’s eyes lit up. “Oh, speaking of parties, don’t forget about the Jooshin High opening ceremony tomorrow. We have to plan our outfits.”

Jimin and Minjeong erupted in laughter. “Can’t wait to see the new scholarship students,” Jimin said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “I bet they’re going to be a bunch of losers.”

Minjeong nodded. “We need to find some new victims for our amusement.”

I couldn’t help but smile. As much as I hated to admit it, I enjoyed the thrill of the hunt. It was a way to escape the boredom of our privileged lives.

Just as we were about to dive deeper into our plans, a sleek red Ferrari pulled into the parking lot. The car was a masterpiece of engineering, a symbol of power and wealth. As the door opened, a figure stepped out.

It was Park Sohyun.

A cold shiver ran down my spine. Sohyun was the queen bee of Jooshin High, the undisputed alpha of our social circle. She was beautiful, intelligent, and ruthless. And she hated me.

She walked towards us, her long black hair swaying in the wind. Her eyes, cold and calculating, scanned our faces.

“You’re back,” she said, her voice as smooth as ice.

I met her gaze, refusing to back down. “And you’re still as unpleasant as ever,” I retorted.

Sohyun smirked. “We’ll see about that.”

With that, she turned and walked away, her tall figure disappearing into the setting sun.

As soon as she was out of sight, Jimin, Minjeong, and Ryujin exchanged worried glances.

“What’s her problem?” Jimin asked.

“I don’t know,” Minjeong replied, her voice laced with uncertainty. “But I have a bad feeling about this.”

I tried to shake off the feeling of dread. After all, I had faced Sohyun before and come out on top. But this time, something felt different. There was a darkness lurking beneath her icy exterior, a darkness that scared me.

To Be Continued

[anniebeemine]

isn't that sweet?*- s.r. x fem!reader

i’m working late, 'cause i’m a singer

warnings: oral sex (fem. receiving), slight voyeurism

The studio was dimly lit, the soft glow of the mixing board casting long shadows against the walls. You stood in the recording booth, headphones snug against your ears, adjusting the mic one last time as you prepared to lay down another track. This album was different—more personal, more intimate than anything you’d ever done before. And that was because of him.

Spencer sat on the other side of the glass, his gaze fixed on you as you shifted from one foot to the other, finding your rhythm before the music began. He was seated next to your producer, who was quietly conversing with the sound engineer, but Spencer’s focus never wavered. His presence was constant, steady and comforting, as you prepared to pour your heart into the microphone.

This album was a reflection of your life over the past year—every song, every lyric, a piece of the story you shared with Spencer. From the first tentative dates where you both stumbled over your words, nervous and unsure, to the quiet nights spent curled up on the couch, watching old movies, your heads resting against each other. Those memories, those moments, were what fueled your creativity.

You’d written about the way his fingers intertwined with yours during a late-night walk, how he always made you feel like the only person in the world when he looked at you. The way his eyes would light up whenever he got lost in a ramble, explaining some obscure fact or statistic with a passion that made your heart swell.

And then there were the nights where the world outside ceased to exist—the ones where you’d stay tangled in bed long after the sun had risen, whispering secrets and sweet nothings, your bodies and souls completely intertwined. The songs that emerged from those moments were the most vulnerable, the ones that spoke of love in its rawest, most passionate form. They were the songs that made you blush when you sang them, knowing that each note and word was a reflection of the intimacy you shared with him.

As the instrumental intro played through your headphones, you closed your eyes, letting the music wash over you. The melody was soft, almost dreamy, and you knew it would resonate with Spencer. It was the same melody you had hummed absentmindedly during one of your many nights in, the sound lulling him to sleep as you played with his hair.

You started to sing, your voice soft and controlled, carrying the emotion of the lyrics. The song was about a specific night—a night where time seemed to slow, and every touch, every whisper, felt like it was magnified. You had written it as a lullaby of sorts, a tribute to the quiet, peaceful moments you’d shared, the ones that felt like a sanctuary from the world.

The song came to an end, and you let the last note linger in the air before you pulled the headphones off, stepping away from the mic. The room was silent for a moment, the weight of what you’d just recorded settling over everyone.

Your producer leaned forward, a look of approval on his face. “That was perfect. I think we’ve got it.”

You gave a small, relieved smile, but you didn’t move from where you stood. The producer and sound engineer began gathering their things, the producer casting a knowing glance between you and Spencer. “We’ll leave you to it, then. Just lock up when you’re done,” he said. “Goodnight.” 

The door clicked shut behind them, leaving you and Spencer alone. The silence stretched on for a moment before Spencer pushed the button on the console to speak through the speakers into the booth.

“Is there something else you want to record?” he asked, his voice gentle but curious.

You hesitated, your fingers tracing the edge of the mic stand as you looked at him through the glass. “There is… but I’m really embarrassed to do it in front of other people,” you admitted, your voice just above a whisper, even though you knew he could hear you clearly.

Spencer’s brow furrowed slightly. “Embarrassed? Why?”

You took a deep breath, trying to steady your nerves. “It’s… it’s a song I wrote. It’s about… well, about us. Specifically, about our… sex life.” You could feel your face heat up as you spoke, averting your eyes to the floor. “My producer suggested adding some… um, moans in the background, but it’s really awkward to do it in front of anyone else.”

Spencer’s eyes widened slightly, but he quickly composed himself, understanding washing over his features. “So… you want me to stay and just press record and stop for you?”

You nodded, feeling a wave of relief at his understanding. “Yeah. I can’t do it with them here, but… I trust you. It’s just, every time I try, it either comes out flat or too breathy. I’m too in my head.”

Spencer’s lips quirked into a small smile, and he nodded. “Okay. I can do that.”

He walked over to the console, settling into the chair that the sound engineer had vacated, his fingers hovering over the controls. You adjusted the mic, closing your eyes for a moment to collect yourself before you spoke again. “Okay, I’m ready.”

Spencer pressed the record button, and you began. The first few attempts were rough, your voice coming out boring and flat, lacking the emotion you wanted to convey. Each time, you stopped, shaking your head, frustration building as you couldn’t quite get it right. Spencer patiently stopped the recording each time, offering you encouraging smiles, but the tension was mounting. After a few more failed tries, you couldn’t help but let out a nervous giggle, breaking the tension in the room. 

“This is so awkward,” you admitted, laughing softly as you looked at Spencer, who chuckled along with you.

“You’re overthinking it,” Spencer said, his voice warm and reassuring. “Just relax. I’ll even turn around.” 

You nodded, appreciating his understanding, and tried again. But this time, the frustration only grew. The sounds were either too forced or completely flat, and each attempt left you feeling more and more tense. Finally, you let out a groan of frustration, stepping out of the booth to grab a bottle of water, trying to unwind.

Spencer watched you as you sipped the water, his eyes thoughtful. “I think I know a way to help you get authentic moans,” he said after a moment, his voice low and careful.

You blinked at him, trying to piece together what he was suggesting. At first, you were hesitant, not quite believing what he was implying. But the way he looked at you, his eyes full of that familiar warmth and affection, made it clear. He was serious.

“Spence…” you started, your voice trailing off as you considered it.

He gave you a small, reassuring smile. “There are no cameras in here,” he reminded you, his voice soft. “And I’ll be very, very quiet.”

You felt your heart race as his words hung in the air, a mix of nervous excitement bubbling up inside you. Before you could respond, Spencer leaned in, his lips gently brushing against yours in a soft, lingering kiss. The heat of his touch, the familiar taste of his lips, sent a shiver down your spine.

His kisses grew deeper, more insistent as he pressed closer, his hands finding their way to your waist. You could feel his breath against your skin as he began trailing kisses down your neck, his lips soft and deliberate. Each kiss left a trail of warmth in its wake, a persuasive argument in itself.

“Spence,” you whispered, your voice trembling slightly as he reached a particularly sensitive spot just below your ear. The sensation made your knees weak, and you found yourself leaning into him, craving more of his touch.

His hands moved up to cradle your face, tilting your head slightly to give him better access to your neck. “Just relax,” he murmured between kisses, his voice a low, soothing rumble that vibrated against your skin. “Let me help you.”

His lips continued their journey, pressing slow, deliberate kisses along your collarbone and up the side of your neck, sending waves of heat through your body. With each kiss, he was chipping away at your hesitation, replacing it with something far more potent: desire.

You closed your eyes, letting yourself get lost in the sensation of his mouth on your skin, the warmth of his body pressed against yours. It was impossible to think about anything else, the world outside the booth fading away until it was just the two of you, wrapped up in this moment.

Finally, he pulled back slightly, his eyes searching yours for any sign of doubt. “How are you feeling?” he asked softly, his voice a tender caress.

You opened your eyes, meeting his gaze. The nervousness was still there, but it was tempered by the undeniable pull you felt toward him. “I think… I think I’m ready,” you whispered, your voice steady despite the butterflies in your stomach.

Spencer smiled, his hands gently squeezing your waist in encouragement. “Good,” he said, his voice filled with warmth and reassurance. “I have an idea.”

You watched, curious, as he moved around the room, grabbing a few of the equipment boxes stacked nearby. He brought them into the recording booth, carefully setting them up beneath the microphone. You followed him inside, your heart racing as you tried to piece together what he was doing. It wasn’t until he started arranging the boxes like a makeshift seat that you began to realize his plan. Your eyes widened slightly as the realization dawned on you—he was setting up a throne for you, right beneath the microphone.

Your mouth went dry as you processed the implications, your body buzzing with a mix of anticipation and nervousness. Spencer was always full of surprises, but this...this was something else entirely.

He caught your expression and gave you a small, reassuring smile. “Trust me,” he said, his voice low and soothing. With a practiced ease, he shrugged off his cardigan, folding it neatly before draping it over the makeshift seat. He looked at you, his gaze warm and steady, before gently guiding you to sit down.

You hesitated for a moment, the intimacy of the situation sending a flush of heat through you, ending right at your core. You clench around nothing. But the way Spencer looked at you, the quiet confidence in his eyes, made it impossible to resist. Slowly, you lowered yourself onto the makeshift throne, the softness of his cardigan cushioning you.

Spencer knelt in front of you, his hands resting on your knees as he looked up at you. The sight of him there, gazing at you with such intensity, made your breath hitch. He gently parted your legs, his hands warm against your skin as he settled himself between your thighs.

“I want you to focus on the sensations,” he murmured, his voice like velvet. “Forget everything else. Just think about us.”

You nodded, your heart pounding in your chest as he leaned in, his lips brushing softly against your inner thigh. The warmth of his breath sent shivers down your spine, your entire body attuned to his every movement. You felt his fingers loop around the sides of your underwear, pulling them down. 

“Aren’t you glad you wore a skirt?” He teased. 

You nod, closing your eyes to hopefully forget the fact that you’re in your workplace and anyone could walk in at any moment. Spencer kissed your inner thigh, spreading your legs wider. You can feel the cool air run over you and your soaked core. His tongue traced a line along your folds. You gasped, writhing beneath him. Spencer wastes no time in using his hands, circling a finger around your entrance as his lips find your clit. He wraps his lips around the sensitive bud, sucking lightly. 

You moan lowly, your fingers finding his hair to give him a harsh tug. He looks up at you, relishing in the way your eyes are screwed shut, little pants leaving your lips. He lets his fingers slide into your pussy, pumping slowly as he kitten licks at your clit. 

“Fuck.” 

He smiled against your cunt and you just know that he’s come up with some cocky comment that he’s dying to say. You finally open your eyes and almost cum at the dazed look in his eyes. The hand that was on your thigh came up to cup your breast, sliding his way under your shirt. Spencer’s eyebrows perk when he realizes you’re not wearing a bra. 

You wink at him, a smug smile forming on your lips. He pushes his fingers deeper. The action makes your thighs flinch, closing in on him for a moment before you relax again. Spencer hums against you, his lips sucking generously at your clit before his tongue massaged it in teasing little circles.

Spencer continued his relentless, expert pace, every flick of his tongue and gentle suck driving you closer to the brink. The sound that escaped your lips was a soft moan, barely more than a whisper, but it filled the recording booth with a delicate echo that made Spencer smile against you.

As his tongue circled and teased, the moan grew into a breathier, more desperate sound. “Spence,” you panted, the word tumbling out in a ragged exhale. Your hands clutched at his hair, urging him on, your breath catching in your throat as he continued.

The next moan was louder, more drawn out, vibrating with the tension building inside you. It was a sound of pure need, of surrender, and Spencer relished every note of it. The intensity of what he was doing made you lose all sense of composure; your breaths came quicker, more shallow, and each exhale carried a gasp, a whimper, a plea.

“Please,” you gasped, your voice trembling as he pushed you further, his name falling from your lips again and again. Every moan, every pant was a symphony of rising desperation, a crescendo of need that you couldn’t hold back.

Your back arched involuntarily, pressing yourself closer to him, and the moans turned into broken cries, the kind that left your throat raw. “Spence, I—” You couldn’t even finish the sentence, the words lost in a strangled moan that was half sob, half ecstasy.

The sounds coming from you were almost primal now, a mixture of keening whimpers and breathless pants, each one more desperate than the last. You were close—so close—and it showed in every pant, every strained moan that escaped your trembling lips.

And Spencer kept going, his own breath coming in short, heated bursts as he listened to every sound you made, each one spurring him on, relishing the way he was drawing these noises from you. It was like music to his ears, a melody he never wanted to end, as your moans grew louder, more frantic, until you finally tumbled over the edge, your voice breaking in a long, shuddering cry of release.

Spencer sat back, a smug grin playing at the corners of his lips as he wiped his chin with the sleeve of his shirt. He started to rise, heading toward the control panel. “I’m going to hit record. I’ll be back in a second.”

You blinked, still catching your breath, and reached out to stop him. “Wait… you didn’t already record that?”

He turned to you, that same smug smile deepening. “Of course not,” he replied, a teasing glint in his eyes. “A good vocalist always warms up first.”

You let out a breathless laugh, shaking your head in disbelief. “You’re something else, Spencer Reid.”

He leaned in, his voice low and dripping with confidence. “Besides,” he added, his tone playfully serious, “I think this next take is going to be a hit.”

And he was right.

When you showed Spencer the plaque for the double platinum record, his eyes lit up with pride. “So,” he said, a playful smirk tugging at his lips, “are you going to give me writing credit for this?”

You laughed, rolling your eyes. “I think we can keep that our little secret.”

[spaghettiposts]

To be loved

Tara Carpenter x Reader

Summery: You’ve never known love, until Tara.

Warnings: Fluff, lovey dovey words, mentions of Ghostface attacks, fluff fluff fluff, wlw, neglectful parents, hurt/comfort.

Word count: 2.1k

A/n: This was just a bunch of word-vomit I came up with in the spam of 3 days, reader definitely has been neglected but Tara’s here to fix that <3

You’d say love was one of the things you missed most, a missing puzzle piece to your emotions. Absent parents tended to do that being busy with work and all, love only feeling like a distant concept because of it. Sure, you knew they cared for you—deep down somewhere, but not enough to take a day off. The more you thought about it, the more that nagging voice in your head mocked you; not once did they take a day off. 

There were fleeting moments of jealousy you felt, gazing desperately—longingly—at your friends and their mothers, wishing for just a fraction of that affection. The ache of longing never quite left, as you watched them being cared for, held close, and repeating the same wishful thinking. You never truly got to experience that, but swiftly pushed those feelings aside, burying them.

 By high school, you became pretty good at patching up your own wounds and learning to live on your own. Maybe that was for the best.

You learned to rely on yourself. 

That was until college, Blackmore University. A relatively close college to your house, the commute was doable and hey, you actually liked some of the classes. Your parents had encouraged you to attend first, explaining how getting a degree in engineering would really help you take over their business someday.

You hesitated to tell them that wasn’t what you wanted. Not if it meant having to put work before others, you didn’t wanna be like them. 

Still, you went along with it, taking the classes they suggested. Amidst the sea of blueprints,  you had picked up an appreciation of the art of film. Deciding to take a class for yourself, you signed up for Film History. Later, it was the best decision you ever made. 

And the first time you met Tara Carpenter. 

She was undoubtedly beautiful, anyone with eyes could see, but it was the radiance surrounding her that truly mesmerized you. Indisputably, you folded like a table. The effortless confidence she emitted during class discussions, the stubborn fire inside her, and her unabashed passion for something as simple as filmmaking—it seemed like the whole world to her. 

It only took a group project for her number to end up in your phone, and it only took a party for her to slam her lips against your own.  

With her, you found a happiness previously unknown to you. Every moment turned into the highlight of your week,  you were absolutely head over heels for your girlfriend. From tender first dates ending in soft slow kisses on her doorstep, to the cozy movie nights leaving your lips swollen and your cheeks flushed, and between those; gentle moments of care. They blossomed a newfound sense of joy in you, and in Tara. 

Day after day you effortlessly fell into new habits, soaking up every second of them. You learned Tara loved to smile between kisses, while she, in turn, learned you enjoyed the feeling of your hair being toyed with. It was all just perfect. 

However, as time went on, you couldn’t shake the feeling of Tara drifting away. Her sudden coldness left you stunned and hurt. The more you tried to talk, the more she pushed you away. But you weren’t one to back down so easily, confronting her in her apartment one last time, seeking some closure. 

 It only took a month for Tara to be honest with you, and fearfully so. Through shedded tears and shaking hands, she explained to you, and you listened. It hurt you to see her hurting, expressing vulnerability she hadn’t allowed you to see. Her arms came up to hug herself and you’d never wanted to punch Ghostface more. 

Tara half expected you to walk away, laugh at her, and leave her like the rest of them but you made it clear you weren’t leaving. You spent the entire afternoon by her side, determined to prove her wrong and keep her safe, whispering murmurs of promises between kisses. Holding her close until tears subsided and drifted off to sleep, thoroughly exhausted from it all, peacefully in your arms. 

Following her confession, it felt as if a weight had been lifted off Tara’s shoulders and your relationship picked up from where it stopped. Your bond with the shorter girl only grew stronger, surpassing previous boundaries as you both delved into a deeper understanding of one another. Tara clung to you, unwilling to let you slip away, and gradually, you found yourself spending more nights at her place than your own. And truth be told, you didn’t mind that one bit. 

As much as you wished everything could continue perfectly, a coward in a mask would only try to ruin it all. 

——

It had been a week since the latest run-in with Ghostface, A week since your left arm got slashed up. Tara was absolutely livid, and you wondered if her anger was directed more at the attacker or at you. Either way she let Chad hear it when she learned you had “heroically” taken the hit for him — though she preferred to call it stupid rather than heroic. You didn’t argue with her on it. Fortunately, Chad was able to pick himself up and knock out the idiot before he could do more.

Despite that fury she held inside her, you could see the worry etched on her face, bordering on tears, during your hospital stay.

Days later you’d learn he was just some deranged kid trying to be “Funny”. He was promptly arrested by the police and sent to a hospital. You’d never seen Sam so disgusted. 

Considering the circumstances, you were fine. Mentally? Probably not, you hadn’t had time to reflect on it. Physically? That’s where it was hitting most. The scars left by his knife only got progressively worse as time passed. Chad was quick to call an ambulance for you, and you thanked the man greatly, holding onto his shoulders for support. 

The doctors affirmed the bone wasn’t too severely damaged but it would need time to heal. Hence the blue cast hanging from your shoulder. 

But the strangest part wasn’t your injured arm - it was Tara’s behavior. You understood that she was reliving the whole ordeal all over again and tried your best to comfort her. But it seemed just being around you, without fail, brought tears back into her eyes. With time, she was starting to recover too, but she stayed unusually quiet. Despite this, she never left your side, not even for a moment. Like right now, she sat beside you, on your good side, as you watched a movie together in her room. 

You didn’t want this attack to get in the way of your relationship or mess things up, so you insisted on keeping things normal - like movie nights and when you were both up for it, date nights. 

Tonight, Tara picked a Disney movie, probably to keep things light after what happened. You tried not to let your heart swell too much at her consideration. 

“Sit up for me,” Tara mumbled out of nowhere, pulling you out of your thoughts. You furrowed your eyebrows but did as she asked, watching as she disappeared into the bathroom and came back holding a familiar red box. 

“Tara, I’m okay.” You lied. 

She arched an eyebrow, reading completely through you but didn’t say anything, simply opening the kit and motioning for you to swing your legs off the bed. 

You sighed, complying with her words knowing better than to argue. 

“You’ve been scratching at your shoulder this entire time. I know it’s bothering you. Let me change it.” She said softly.

Pursing your lips, you nodded, giving her the go-ahead. You understood that helping you made her feel better, even though you constantly reassured her that it wasn’t her fault.

Sitting straight up, you watched as she delicately unwrapped the gauze, marveling at her gentle touch. A shiver ran down your spine as the fresh air hit the wound, her eyes softening as they fell upon the scar. She then grabbed some cotton balls and applied alcohol to them, causing you to hiss at the burning sensation.

“Sorry.” She murmured, leaning in to press a kiss on your cheek before blowing softly on the cut. “I don’t want it to get infected, it’ll just get worse.” 

You nodded, biting the inside of your cheek. It felt good, having someone care for you like this. More than you’d ever admit, really. The thought of how much you secretly loved Tara fussing over you was too embarrassing to acknowledge fully. 

You couldn't help but relish in the feeling of being looked after, of having someone fuss over you with such genuine concern. It was comforting, reassuring even, to know that you weren't facing this ordeal alone, that someone was there to support you every step of the way. 

As her fingers delicately adjusted the bandage, ensuring it was snug yet not too tight, your heart spoke before you could stop it. And just like that, the words spilled out, unfiltered and sincere: “I love you.”

Tara froze, the silence turning deafening. Her fingers pressed slightly harder against you, fingernails digging into your shoulder but you didn’t comment on it, too overwhelmed by your own anxiety and fear that she could hear how fast your heart was beating. After a beat of silence, she continued wrapping the fabric, cutting it off once she finished. Yet, her touch lingered, eyes fixated on the injury, her thumb softly rubbing against your shoulder. 

A small sniffled escaped her, and she stood up abruptly. Covering herself with her arm to wipe away tears. Your heart sank, fearing you had ruined everything.

“You shouldn’t.” She whispered, her voice barely audible, as she rubbed her arms in search of comfort. “I’ll just get you hurt.” 

Your eyes softened, heartbreaking at the sight of her vulnerability. It was a side of her you had only seen once before, the last time you nearly broke up. A look you didn’t want to see.

“Tara, don’t say that.” 

“It’s the truth, everywhere I go he follows.” She choked out, her eyes glistening, “You’ll never be happy constantly looking behind your shoulder, living in fear.” 

You stood up, pausing in front of the shorter girl. Tara sighed, shaking her head and turning away. Your hand gently lifted her chin, and you leaned down to press a kiss against her cheek, coaxing her shaken eyes to look at you. Very seriously you uttered, “Every time I'm with you I feel more secure than ever in my entire life. We take care of each other, I’ll take care of you. I love you, Tara.” 

Tara shudders, her head leaning against your forehead, letting the words wash over her. Your arm rubs softly against hers, while you pepper kisses along the side of her face, expressing your feelings through touch. 

Shakingly, her nails grip tighter against your back. “If you’re gonna keep saying that- you have to mean it.” She affirms, pulling back to look at you,  “You can’t just say that and leave, not anymore.”

You nod in agreement, finally, leaning down to capture her lips between your own, pulling her into a loving kiss. “I mean it, I love you.” You whisper against her lips. 

Tara swallows, before letting out a watery laugh. “I love you too, god I do.” 

Her hands find a home between your neck, pulling you in closer into a much firmer and passionate kiss. Your stomach tightens, and you shiver when her tongue slides in effortlessly, melting at her touch. 

Getting lost in the moment, your feet move before you realize it, and your knees hit the bed. Tara gasps in surprise, clutching onto you for support and you wince at the sudden pressure to your cast. 

You let out a breathy chuckle, sinking back into the mattress, Tara quickly joining in to meet you. The room fills with shared laughter, a moment of light amidst it all. Being mindful of your arm, Tara moves to lay by your side once again, draping an arm across your chest. She presses a lingering kiss to your neck, sighing against you.

You recall your previous conversation. And you wanted to say she had nothing to worry about—nothing to be scared of. But you both knew the truth of the cruel world you lived in. Safety wasn’t something you could guarantee, not to Tara, and not to yourself. 

Instead, you pulled the girl closer, her body adjusting to fit with yours, her head resting on your neck. If physical contact was what she needed to sleep for tonight and any night, you could provide that. Pressing a tender kiss to her head, you placed your chin on top of her, reveling in the moment, focusing on the small patterns she traced on your skin. 

And just for once, without fear, Tara let her eyes close. Slowly falling asleep in your warm embrace, completely reassured that you wouldn’t be leaving her.

[luveline]

since roan likes to copy eddie she starts calling y/n sweetheart or other pet names bc that’s what eddie calls her <3

little bit of hurt/comfort here <3 single dad eddie x fem!reader

"Daddy, where are we?" Roan asks, trying to work out their location from the little bit of window she can see through. Her sun visor makes it difficult work.

"We," he says, grabbing the side of his chair with two hands to see her in the backseat, "are outside Y/N's job."

"Is she having dinner?" With us, she means to say.

"Yes she is." Eddie checks out the window to see if you're coming. You're not, so he turns his serious face on Roan and starts with a gentle tone, "You know... when Teddy lost his ear? And you had to be very careful with him until I could get Uncle Wayne to sew him up?"

She squints, confused. "Yeah."

"Well-" Eddie smiles softly. "Y/N isn't feeling the best. So I just want you to be as nice to her as you can be until she feels better."

"Is Uncle Wayne fixing her?"

Eddie's voice raises an octave. "No, he's not. I'm gonna try my best, alright?"

"Why does she feel bad?"

He peeks out the window and sees you leave your building. "I- It's a grown up thing, baby." It's lots of grown up things, piling on and weighing heavy. You don't like to talk about it. Eddie's just gonna have to show you how much he cares.

Eddie pops open the door and waves. "Hey," he calls.

You look up. Your downtrodden frown quirks into an abrupt smile. "Eddie?"

"Hey."

You pick up your pace. He can't walk too far from the car while Roan's still inside to meet you, but he receives you with open arms.

"Oh my god, I missed you," you say. The relief in your voice turns his heart, has him clutching you tighter.

"I missed you," he says, cheek pressed to your cheek, hand scrubbing down your back. "I'm glad I caught you. Think you can clear a space in your busy schedule to come for dinner?"

"Is my favourite girl gonna be there?" you ask.

He encourages your head back to kiss your cheek. You love affection, you live for it, so he tries to make it a good one, and he strokes your cheek as he pulls away. He doesn't bother answering your question because it's rhetorical, Roan's always with him.

"Is she sleeping?" you ask.

Eddie climbs back into the driver's side and gestures for you to do what you want to do.

You open Roan's car door. "Hi, princess," you greet immediately, thrilled at her smart clothes and her hair in two low pony tails either side of her face. "It's so good to see you. I've missed you!"

"Missed you too," Roan says.

Eddie beams and turns his key. He knows the power of Roan's loving words against a bad mood.

The engine starts and the radio flickers to life, his music occluding your happy laugh. "Can I give you a kiss?" you ask fondly.

Roan pouts and holds her head up agreeably for you to kiss her on the cheek. She kisses you in turn.

Your smile is magnetic as you close her door and round to the passenger seat.

"So, what's for dinner?" you ask, closing the door behind you.

Dinner tonight is your favourite because Eddie's got game. He gets you home and bundles you and Roan on the sofa with the thickest throw blanket he owns, pulls off both of your shoes and gets you something to drink. Roan snuggles into your side and grins at Eddie's approving smile. He winks. She winks back clumsily.

When he's finally got a bowl of food in all your laps he sits down on your left side. You're hesitant at first but eventually you sink into him and he wraps and arm around your shoulder, content to eat one handed if this is what you need today.

"This is really good," you praise, chewing with your hand over your mouth.

He'd tried very, very hard. "No biggie. Whipped it up for you easy this morning. Working on a Saturday, that isn't permanent, is it?"

You sigh forlornly. "God, I hope not. I'm so sick of-" Your words dry up.

You pet Roan's shoulder like you've remembered she's there.

She looks up with a fork halfway to her mouth and everything on it falls off.

"Doesn't matter," you say with a snort, reaching around her to wipe a stripe of sauce from her cheek.

"It does matter, sweetheart," he says softly. "Of course it does."

You shrug it off. "It's okay, Eddie, really. It's fine." You slink down in your seat and smile at him all wobbly.

"Let me get you another drink," he says. He gets up, gives your shoulder a good squeeze as he goes.

Roan watches him leave. As soon as he's out of sight she thrusts her bowl to the side and untucks her small legs from the blanket.

"Everything okay?" you ask.

Roan's young, but she can tell you're not feeling good all on her own. Her dad's warning in mind, she stands up tall and drapes herself against your shoulder, hands vying for your face. She props her short fingers under your eye and strokes a wonky line. Your eyes fall to her, perplexed.

"What are you doing?" you murmur.

"Daddy said you're sick," she says, frowning at you. "Like Teddy when he lost his ear."

You blink at her. "I'm not sick, baby. Don't worry."

"You look," — Roan readjusts her hugging, hands in the collar of your work shirt — "sad."

You shake your head at her urgently. "No, no. I'm alright, Roan, I'm super happy. You know I'm always happy when I'm with you and daddy, cos you're so awesome," you say, poking her chest.

Roan doesn't believe you, though she likes you and loves you anyways. She wraps her arms around your neck and rubs her forehead into your jaw.

"Roan," you say quietly.

"Don't be sad, sweetheart," Roan says.

You giggle. "What did you say?"

Roan cuddles you and doesn't repeat herself.

"What did you say, baby?" you ask, arm wrapping around her back.

"Don't be sad, sweetheart."

You laugh again and hug her with a great big harrumph of breath, your squeezing arms startling an infectious baby-like giggle from her. You pull her up into your chest and lift your head until you're face to face, brushing that sweet lone curl out of her eyes as you say, "I guess I can't be when you tell me so nicely! Aw, Roan, you're my favourite little girl on this whole planet-" You're praising her in a near breathless rush. "The whole universe."

"I second that!" Eddie says as he returns, three cups pressed to his chest. He smiles, totally clueless. "What did I miss?"

"I made her better, daddy," Roan says easily, pride coming off of her in waves. Her curls tickle your nose as she turns in your arms to goad at him. "'Cos you took too long."

You beam widen your eyes. "Way too long," you repeat teasingly.

He has the good graces to look bashful. "You did? Thank you. I was getting 'round to it, I promise."

You nod at him. Yes, he was.

When Roan turns back to you, you shake your head. "All you, princess."

-

more eddie and roan