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spencereidluver · 1 year ago

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E is for Even Guys Like Me?

september 12, 2008

summary: You tell Spencer about the conversation you'd overheard with his mother. He gets embarrassed, and even a little angry.

word count: 1.9k

warnings: the slightest teensiest bit of angst. mostly just a lot of spencer crushing for reader

It had been a little over two weeks since you overheard Spencer’s phone call with his mother. You’d been making it your mission to drop little hints at him about your feelings being the same, but they all seemed to just go over his head. You decided it’d be best to find a moment and tell him directly before it’s too late.

You were on a case right now, you and Spencer once again staying back in the PD to work on the intellectual side of things. Though a lot of time was spent together, this was not a time for deep conversations. You’d wait on the case before you said anything. You didn’t want to distract the genius. Because, despite what he had told Hotch in your meeting last month, Spencer did most of the work. You were just there on the off chance that he didn’t know something, which was pretty much never.

Three days went by, you had to try your best to not be too flirtatious with Spencer. He got flustered fast. And you weren’t sure how experienced he was, you didn’t want to move too quickly. Though your guys’ carpooling and coffee sharing was normal, it felt different for you now. More meaningful. You caught yourself blushing sometimes when the tall boy would bring in two cups of coffee, one with his name and one with yours. He’d even begun leaving sticky notes on them sometimes, ever since you did the morning of the phone call. You’ve saved them all in your desk, his handwritten script being some of the most effortlessly beautiful things you’ve ever had the pleasure of laying your eyes on.

_____

You’re seated on the jet on the way home from the case. Directly to your left, is Spencer, who is deeply entranced in a book, “A Study in Scarlet,” by Arthur Conan Doyle, the book that he received in last year’s white elephant gift exchange, which took place before you began working at the BAU. Across from you is Emily and Derek, and Hotch and Rossi are at the booth behind her. JJ stayed home for this case as she is pregnant. She is in charge of files until she gives birth and returns from maternity leave.

The silence in the jet is broken by a head turn from Hotch who clears his throat. “Are you three up for dinner tonight?” He says.

“My treat,” Rossi adds.

“Well, if Papa Dave is paying, then of course I’ll be there,” Emily says.

“Sure, I’ll go,” you said, glancing over at Spencer who hadn’t even looked up from his book. “I’m sure Spence will come too.” Derek kicked you under the table and gave you a wink. His teasings were the main reason you haven't made any moves on Spencer prior to hearing him speak to his mother about you.

Almost on beat, Spencer looks up, “Yeah, I’ll be there. I’ll just need a ride if that’s alright,” he said. His eyes met yours.

“I’ll give you a ride, Spence.” Another kick from Derek, this time, you kick him back. Emily catches on to the teasing game of footsies going on under the table and gives you and Derek a cheeky grin. You roll your eyes at the two of them and pull your feet into your lap. Sitting criss-cross now, you pull out your book of crossword puzzles and begin scribbling answers.

_____

You weren’t quite sure how much time had passed. Emily and Derek had fallen asleep, and not a peep had been heard from Rossi or Hotch either. Spencer was still awake and was coming up on the final few pages of his book. He was curled into a small ball against the wall in the corner of the seat, his knees to his chest and feet pointed toward you. His mismatched socks peeked out from beneath his khakis, one pink and one yellow. The shoestring of his left converse was coming untied. Untied! That was the answer to the last line of your puzzle! You subconsciously thank Spencer for his accidental aid to your old woman games, and it’s almost as if he heard it. He looks at his watch, then up at you.

“Hmm, we should be back in Quantico in 17 minutes. Taking to account the wind speed, maybe even 16,” he says. He crinkles his nose and returns to the last pages of his book. You scribble in the final word of your crossword puzzle and begin to pack up. You slide your puzzle book into your small carry on backpack, and begin to clear off the rest of the table. You pick up yours and Emily’s empty coffee mugs and reach around Spencer’s elbows which were rested against the table to grab his. You stack the three mugs together and grab Derek’s plate. Derek was the only person you knew who would eat four pork chops at 3pm, then agree to go to dinner only two hours later.

Spencer sees you take his mug and looks up at you. He gives you a smile and whispers a soft “thank you.”

_____

Spencer was seated on the passenger side of your car. His eyes were following the flashing lights as you drove down the city streets in the darkness. It was 7:30pm. A little late for dinner, but it’s when the jet got back. Plus, you were hungry.

The light was hitting Spencer’s face in a way that made him look ethereal. Maybe you shouldn’t have said anything, but you couldn’t help yourself.

“Hey, Spence,” you say, alluding a hum in response. Can I tell you something?”

“Of course,” he looked at you. Somehow, from the repositioning of his head, the lighting somehow hit his face even better. The yellow luminescence shining through the windows made the honey brown of his eyes almost 3-dimensional. It felt as if he was looking inside of you. He was truly breathtaking.

“Okay,” you sigh, “please don’t hate me, but I kind of overheard you and your mom’s conversation…”

“What?”

“Well, just your side. I know I shouldn’t have, but I just couldn’t… I just… I need to-”

Spencer interrupts you. It was dark, but you could tell his cheeks were red. “So you were eavesdropping?”

“Spencer, I’m sorry. I just…”

“How much did you hear?”

“It was only the end. If you would’ve been talking about something personal I would’ve left but-”

“How is me opening up about my feelings for someone not personal?” He seemed a little angry.

“No, it is, and I know I shouldn’t have, but…”

“Yeah, you really shouldn’t have, y/n.”

“Spencer, I…” You looked at the man in the seat beside you. You didn’t want this conversation to upset him. You really wished you hadn’t spoken. You could see the betrayal in his eyes. You felt truly awful.

“You what?” He broke the silence, eyes meeting yours. He stared at you intently.

You took a moment, trying to find the words to say. You didn’t want to break his trust even more. “Spencer, I like you too.”

His eyes were blown huge. “Huh?” “I like you too. I’ve liked you since I first started working here. I didn’t want to try anything because I didn’t know if you felt the same, or if you even date because I know some people with this job don’t. And-”

You were rambling. You were trying your best to defend yourself. Spencer’s eyes were searching your face. He was profiling you. You were telling the truth.

“I, wow. I didn’t know you felt that way, y/n…”

You reached for his hand. It was cold and shaky. You ran your thumb over the back of it, letting it raise and drop with the veins it crossed. He began shaking even more, so you let go. He snaps his hand to his thigh, and with his other hand, traces the tracks you’d left. He smiles to himself and lets out a large sigh.

_____

“You guys have a good night,” Rossi says as he climbs into his luxury sedan. The team had just finished a large dinner and were beginning to head their separate ways.

“Don’t worry, Papa Dave, I’ll get the kid home safe,” Derek says, giving Spencer a playful noogie.

Spencer agreed to a ride home from Derek at dinner. Maybe it was because their houses were only a few streets away from each others’, or maybe, he still felt a little awkward from your previous conversation with him. You didn’t mind all that much though, after all, you’d finally openly expressed your feelings for him. That was enough for one night.

Rossi carefully backs out of the parking lot, leaving you, Spencer, and Derek still remaining. You stuff your hands in your coat pocket; it’s chilly. You want this night to last forever, yet simultaneously, you hoped it’d end right now. You tilted your head toward your car. Spencer understood.

“Derek,” he says, “are you about ready?”

“Yeah, we can head out whenever you want.”

Spencer ran his hand through his hair before turning around to look at you. He gave you a smile. “I’ll see you Monday, y/n.”

“Bye, Spence,” you say, returning the smile.

_____

“Hey, Derek,” Spencer says as he rubs his fingers over his knuckles.

“What’s up, kid?” Derek responds. He looks over to meet eyes with him quickly.

“Can I, um… can I ask you a question?” Spencer looks at Derek like a lost puppy.

“Woah, the boy genius asking me a question? What has this world come to?”

“It’s about girls.”

“Oh. I see.” Derek knew of Spencer’s trouble with girls. Despite the darkness, he could see the light in the skinny man’s eyes. “Come at me, big guy.” He gave Spencer a pat on the back.

“How do I like… ask one on a date?”

“Oooh, who’s the special lady? Hmmm?”

“Derek, I’m being serious. Please.”

Derek could hear Spencer’s plea in his voice. He understood that Spencer was confiding something foreign to him and truly needed the help of an experienced man.

“Well, what does she like? Don’t take her somewhere too extravagant. Maybe a nice dinner or a breakfast date. Start simple and see how it goes.”

“Okay, but like, how?”

“Step one is speaking to her.”

“I have spoken to her… a lot.”

“The main thing, kid, is just to sound confident. Even if you’re not.”

“But what if she says no? Like how do I turn away from that?”

“There’s no reason for her to say no.”

“Yeah, but like… what if she does? What if she thinks I’m weird? Maybe this is a bad idea…”

Spencer was spiraling. Derek reaches over and puts his arm on Spencer’s shoulder. He turns to him, meeting his eyes.

“Even guys like you are capable of love, kid. Any girl would be lucky to have such a kind and caring man like you, okay? Just go with your gut.”

Derek rounded the turn to Spencer’s road.

“Thank you, Derek, really. I’ll let you know how it goes.”

“Have a good night, lover boy.”

“You too, Derek.”

_____

next chapter: F is for First Date

other parts: Spencer Reid A-Z Masterlist

view the masterlist in a calendar version!

_____

a/n: i've spent the most time on this out of any post i have in a while. kinda hit writer's block pretty bad the other day. i'm really hoping i can get the next part out by sunday, but i work all day tomorrow and idk how much time i'll have time to work on it saturday, but i'm trying my best, i promise.

_____

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#spencer reid #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid x bau!reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid fic #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds x reader #spencereidluver #spencer reid a-z

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unbornwhiskeyy · 1 year ago

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this was actually a very important period in my development as a writer (something i should probably only say if i am a famous artist being interviewed and i sure am not), i decided i was going to write an essay every week whether i felt inspired or not and i did this for almost a whole year. i didn’t really write at livejournal at this point, it mostly linked up to a wordpress that i considered my Real, Serious music blog, and it’s amazing i wrote regularly at all considering how doing anything real or serious was and remains anathema to me. also

sometimes i was really right

they’re deleting down my old blogspot in 60 days, which is fine, i only wrote a few entries when i was 18 and 19 and was far too influenced by edgelordy pre-pitchfork internet music critics at the time, there’s also a lot of forced toilet humor, maybe i should blame kevin smith as well? but it inspired me to look at my livejournal entries from around 2009, which is when i redesigned myself as a far more ambitious music writer, and most of it is pretentious nonsense (i got roasted about this regularly by ppl at the college radio station who didn’t like me, they were dicks but i was writing pretentious nonsense), but it’s nice to see baby 21-year-old me trying so many things and really failing hardcore most of the time but absolutely killing it for at least a sentence or two. anyway i absolutely love that i wrote this deranged and perfect and perfectly deranged sentence about julee cruise’s “the world spins”

#i do still find most of the writing extremely embarrassing please don’t look it up #i just found an entry from september 2008 where i literally wrote ‘fuck the patriarchy y’all’#so t swift definitely dropped that keychain on the ground

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youryurigoddess · 1 month ago

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Anyone has £260,000 to spare?

Looks like Mary, better known to general public as Crowley’s Bentley from Good Omens, was put on sale — this time for real.

And the advertisement is full of anecdotes up to December 2024, including the filming of the show, as well as interior and exterior photos that might be helpful for artists and writers; definitely worth reading if you’re a Good Omens fan!

Vehicle description and photo gallery

(As published by the seller, Jeremy Marshall-Roberts)

“Mary is a 1934 Derby Bentley Thrupp & Maberley bodied Coupe. BLE 430 – B 96 BN. Two were made but the other one has not been seen since WW11, so she is unique. She is also the only Bentley in the world to have been blown up twice on screen. She was owned by Speed King Donald Campbell in the early fifties.

I acquired her in 2009, to go with my 1947 Mark VI. Since then the engine has been completely re-built, including a new head and block, with a new clutch put in at the same time. She has also been re-wired, new kingpins, total brake overhaul, new radiator and fuel pump with suspension and one shot lubrication system overhauled. Also had the speedometer and rev.counter serviced in 2018. She runs superbly and has just had her annual service at AB Classics, who specialise in pre-war Bentleys & Rolls Royces. (He also looks after my 1936 25/30 RR.

She is currently insured for £295,000 and I will be looking for an offer around £265,000.”

History

“Ordered for Jack Odling in September 1934. One of two 3 ½ lt Coupes made by Thrupp & Maberley. The other one has not been seen for several decades and presumed lost during World War 2. Not much early history but owned by Speed King Donald Campbell in the early 1950’s. We have a photograph of the car at that time being offered for sale, with silver wheel discs. His ownership is acknowledged by all the relevant history available in various publications and agreed with both Bentley Drivers Club & Rolls Royce Enthusiasts Club records.

She went through three owners from October 1954 to October 1961. Next piece of history is she was acquired by a Mr Silk of Romford in 1973 and underwent extensive professional restoration up to 1994, with a mechanical overhaul in 1994. She was back on the road in 1998. She was then purchased from P & A Wood by Andrew Smith in August 2001. He kept her until early 2008 when he sold her to Brian Classic as he did not wish to re-wire her. I bought her from Brian Classic in April 2009 with money left to me by my late Mother, Mary. We only just made the 100 miles home with many electrical problems. I am glad to say that Brian Classic eventually made a substantial contribution to the re-wiring by Jeremy Padgett.

The following year going into the RREC Concours the heating nearly went into the red so back to Jeremy Padgett to sort out. Result was a complete engine re-build by Ristes, also replaced the radiator core and new clutch plate. Finally back on the road in May 2012. Very expensive period. However, she is now in superb condition, being regularly serviced by AB Classics. More recently the carburettors have been re-built. Following an accident on set in 2017 she was sent to Steve Penny at Penny Vintage to restore the damaged door. Sadly this was one of his last jobs before retiring. What a superb craftsman he is, he made a fabulous job of restoring her. Needless to say she still looks superb. I have owned and enjoyed classic cars since 1969 and Mary must be my ultimate car.”

TV & Film work

“Whilst paying the engine re-build bills, I asked my accountant if I could offset costs against my regular income as a Wine & Hamper merchant. I then started www.classicbentleycarhire.co.uk as I was already doing the occasional wedding with Mabel, my 1947 Mark VI. In January 2014 I received a phone call from a TV film service company, TLO Film Services. Would I be interested in bringing Mary down to Taplow near Maidenhead to appear in the Endeavour series of Inspector Morse on Saturday and Sunday in early February. I duly arrived at an old warehouse complex by the Thames where this episode was being made. I was shown where to park and told to go and have lunch. Having been shown where to go I sat down and found the running order for the day’s scenes. Half way down was a scene called ‘Bang goes the Bentley’. Quite put me off my lunch. I found the TLO guy fairly shortly afterwards who explained that my car would be put somewhere near a series of pyrotechnic effects and no, they could not afford to really blow it up. I then went for a ride in Morse’s black Jaguar.

As soon as it got dark, I was asked to position Mary near a set of what can only be described as bamboo firework gadgets. Just managed to get into place, despite the heavy mud. The storyline is that a schoolboy drops a match into the fuel tank and up she goes. The young actor pretended to light a match having opened the outer fuel flap. CGI provided the spark and the pyrotecnic machines burst into life. There was a shot of the boy running to join the others with a big burst of flames in the background lighting up the quadrangle. All done in one shot. The next day the boys were being driven down the street by the ‘baddie’. Mary was stationery with lights going round 360o and a certain amount of pushing up and down on the bumper to simulate movement. The schoolboy actors, who were heavily chaperoned, were thrilled to discover they were in an 80 year old car. And that was it. Drove home the 120 miles to Lincolnshire. Kept in touch with TLO and used Mabel in another episode of Endeavour and a friends XK140 in the Outcast in 2015.

I had sold our business in 2014 to a very nice Italian couple to take it on to the next stage. Apart from old age creeping up, we had run out of space. The business struggled on that year and then I found a near perfect industrial building in Bourne. It moved in August 2015, leaving me with my old premises where I can, if everything was perfect, stash up to 17 cars. Should explain that our old premises are in the back garden of our home. I had bought a little 18’ cruiser to do up when the call came. ‘Jeremy, I am looking for a 1926 Derby Bentley, preferably black. Can you find me one please.’ I explained that they were not invented until 1933 and that mine was made in 1934 and is grey and black and has not changed since Endeavour three years earlier. Half an hour later phone goes again, ‘Can you bring your car down for production to have a look at in Ealing early next week’.

Production were delighted with Mary, especially after a bit of a run round Ealing. At this point no-one would tell me what it was all about, apart from the fact that this was ‘The Big One’. Two days later phone goes again, she is going to be Crowley’s Bentley in ‘Good Omens’ by Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman. My wife quickly ordered the book and read it. The Bentley was mentioned almost 80 times. Can I please take her to a specialist body maker for her cab to be replicated for studio scenes. Can I find an interior etc. I phoned Hew at The Real Car Company, who was a tremend ous help. A complete set of instruments and a steering wheel duly arrived.

Next, I was asked if I could take the car to Wokingham to be copied. Absolutely staggered to discover they wanted the car at Rushton’s Farm, where I lived from 1957 to 1963. Father’s chicken sheds had been converted into industrial units. A half hour drop off turned into four hours, as I took an old photograph album to show the current owners. The farmhouse had been separated from the rest of the farm by this time. A real trip down memory lane for me. Looking for a Derby body, seats etc., Hew recommended talking to Bob Petersen. He was stripping down a Thrupp & Maberley saloon to make one of his famous specials, so that was purchased complete with dash, seats etc., so Mary could be well and truly replicated. Even changed the indicator switch, so that both were identical. By this time the cast list had leaked out on the Internet. David Tennant and Michael Sheen are the main stars with others being added on a daily basis. I met many people, but mainly worked with these two, especially David. He is one of the nicest guys you could ever wish to meet. Very hardworking, but happily chats to everyone. I got Mary back from the farm in September, ready to start filming. The first scene was near Marlow for a two day shoot where I started to meet the cast and crew.

Trying to teach David how to drive Mary was a bit of a struggle. Most people in their forties haven’t a clue about cars without syncromesh on all gears, and David normally drives an automatic! However, Rob, the stunt driver, did know how to drive Mary and quickly picked up the fact that the clutch cannot be depressed for any length of time. The main problem with David and Rob changing over was about six inches in height. Don’t think the seat had been moved so much for years, with a gentle application of oil on the runners and avoidance of catching the carpet. During this period Mary used the registration NIATRUC, Curtain spelt backwards (the subject is the end of the world). The Morris Minor had SID RAT, TARDIS spelt backwards. David was an earlier Dr Who! Being the grandad on set meant that I was well looked after by everyone, who made sure I had Mary in the right place and usually a radio as well. There is a lot of hanging about on set then a burst of activity. Some shots are repeated over a dozen times to get differing angles and eventually sort out which take will be used. Within a few days I was getting the hang of it, meeting the directors, the camera guys, the sound technicians, moving from location to location, usually in or around the M 25 then in central London. Naturally you can watch Good Omens on BBC iPlayer and see how much Mary appeared. There are a few pictures of what it is like on set.

The second ‘Blowing Up’. As mentioned earlier we had purchased a rotten Thrupp & Maberley four door body and this was jury rigged onto a frame with wheels. Crowley drove his on fire Bentley on to the USAF base where it was spectacularly blown up by the pyrotechnic guys. I must admit that I was rather sad to see this happening but as one of the guys said to me ‘It’s either this one or yours’. I have my video of this happening which we will try to put on the BDC website. We should have finished by Christmas, but pushing snow and ice out of the way, rather delayed things especially whilst the extras wandered about in their summer clothes before diving into thick coats etc at the end of the shot. We returned for the final ten days shooting on 8 th January 2018. Rob, Mary’s stunt driver, was on holiday so someone else was brought in. I showed him how to drive Mary, but he was not used to old cars. Unfortunately the passenger door was not closed properly and in a scene with Mary coming down the street from an angle the suicide door flew open and hit another car, writing that off and Mary’s passenger door at right angles. If he had reacted quickly and slammed on the brakes the accident would not have happened. It took an hour to dismantle the door and jury rig it back onto the main body then tape it up, and paint it. Obviously the door could not be used again so had to change a few shots. The day after the accident, Mary had a different stunt driver, who know exactly how to drive her. He had been driving Rowan Atkinson’s Aston Martin round the Alps the week before for Johnny English 3. The final day loomed, very cold and Mary was in the last UK shot at 8.00pm. Suddenly it was all over, no time to say goodbye, as we had to get everything off site by midnight.

Fast forward to April 2019 and there was a request from Amazon for Mary to be used for the launching of Good Omens. First she appeared on the ‘Green Carpet’ in Leicester Square. The event was organised chaos with the stars appearing from all over the place, and the fans behind barricades. The next five days saw us in Greek Steet, Soho on the opposite side of the road from a mock up of Aziriphale’s (Michael Sheen’s Angel) book shop. Wonderful to meet all the directors and main stars again and properly say goodbye. The fans were queuing round the block to see the Book Shop and Mary.

Now back to normality. Mary was amongst the 1321 Bentley’s at Blenheim, as well as appearing at the RREC Concours event for Derbys in June. Now in my heated warehouse under cover for the winter. In 2023, seven of us ran the 90 th Anniversay weekend of the launch of Derby Bentleys, where 104 of these cars turned up at some part over this period. Final part of the weekend was at Chatsworth House on the Sunday. Prior to this five of us met with Simon Taylor of Classic and Sports Car Magazine so that he could do an article about these wonderful cars. His article finally appeared in the December 2024 edition. Naturally Mary is one of these five.”

#good omens #good omens props #the bentley #yuri is doing her thing #crying in poor

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ladykailitha · 9 months ago

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Of Butterflies and Backstrokes Part 1

Welcome to my other AU that I couldn't wait until September to show you all. I know, I know the closing ceremonies for the Olympics are tomorrow, which is another reason to get this in before all the fanfare dies.

Summary: When a freak accident at his third Olympics left him with migraines and a fear of deep water, Steve thought his Olympic dreams were dead—until delinquent Eddie Munson arrived at his pool to do community service. Steve witnesses Eddie's swimming talent and realizes his dreams don't have to be over. Now it's a race to get Eddie Olympic ready in two years. Steve's going for gold, but Eddie might have other interests in mind.

~I know I forgot to post the results of the poll regarding which time period to set this story in. But I got the notification on my phone while I was busy and by the time I got to my laptop, I forgot. And kept forgetting.

Most people wanted Eddie's Olympics to be in 2004 but after talking to people in the tags and comments, I decided on 2012 instead. Sorry about that.

Steve Harrington grew up with parents who pushed him hard in everything he did. He had to be the best at playing the piano, basketball, baseball, singing, formal dancing, and swimming. But of all those things Steve excelled at swimming the best. Because once he put his cap on over his ears, the roar of the crowd dimmed and then vanished the second he hit the water.

Those other things? Suddenly no longer mattered because Steve wasn’t just good at swimming, he was brilliant. From when he first started competing when he was eleven there was always talk about the Olympics. Always the Olympics.

So it was something he was being pushed toward. World Championships and other competitions were just trials for the Olympics as far his father was concerned.

His father. Clint Harrington, who had never worked hard for anything in his life, who had his job handed to him by his dad, who was a raging, frat boy narcissist who drank his weight in alcohol before he was even twenty-one. Who collected guns but never shot one in his life and didn’t even know how to load one. The man who decided that because his life was soft, his son’s could not be.

When he got fifth at the Olympics at age fourteen everyone was amazed and even a little shocked. Clint Harrington was disappointed. Even though everyone knew that boys his age were still growing and changing and once he had settled into his body, he would do more than just medal, he would take home gold.

Which is exactly what happened his second Olympics. He was eighteen and just coming into his own. He walked away with three silver medals, four gold, and a bronze. The bronze is what upset Clint Harrington the most.

How dare he only take third! The audacity!

Where was his mother in all this? Maureen Harrington was bragging at all her country clubs, charity dos that her son was an Olympic gold medalist. Never mind her friends had never met him. That they saw more of him on their TV then she had since he turned ten. That was when she decided that he was big enough to handle himself and promptly stopped interacting him.

Clint hadn’t even noticed, he was so focused on making sure Steve won at any cost. He hired the best coaches, built a swimming pool in the backyard, drove him to all his meets, all of it; just so Steve could be the best at any cost.

There was only one line Clint didn’t cross, which honestly surprised everyone who knew him. He didn’t suggest Steve dope up. Steve wasn’t sure if it was because he was a coward and was afraid Steve would get caught, or if he just merely thought Steve could be pushed into perfection without them.

But he was always grateful that it was the one line Clint Harrington refused to cross.

And then it happened. It was 2008 Olympic Games in Beijing, China. Steve was poised to break several records and win a staggering amount of medals. He was in eight events and everyone was expecting him to medal in every one of them.

But the only things he broke that year, was his head, his hopes, his dreams, and his spirit. For in the very first event the jump board he was on, slipped out from under him as jumped. His head hit the side of the pool and he sunk like a stone to the bottom.

He didn’t remember much, the roar of the crowd turned to screams, the sicking crunch as his head hit the side and then the rush of water all around him as he sunk, weightless to eternity.

When he woke up, all Steve was left with was migraines and a fear of large bodies of water.

His dad walked away that day and he never saw him again.

Two Years Later

Eddie Munson was in deep trouble and he knew it. He had been arrested with enough weed on him to know it wasn’t for personal use. Possession with intent to sell. Thank god it happened two weeks before his eighteenth birthday otherwise he’d be facing real jail time and not.. community service?

Wait, what?

He was expecting probation at the very least. But nope. He was sentenced to five hundred hours of community service as it was his first offense, he had a troubled childhood, and apparently the God damned Chief of Police on his side. Who had said that he was a good kid who protected the weak and participated in afterschool programs to help teach them math, creative writing, cooperative skills, troubleshooting, and time management.

Eddie’s lawyer told him before Hopper was to testify at his sentencing hearing that he could not laugh, could not chuckle, could not even so much as snort or smile. When Eddie asked why, he was told he couldn’t be told that or else it would be seen as influencing his testimony. And then Hopper got up on the stand and said that.

D&D. Eddie DM’ed D&D after school. Jesus Christ did it take everything he had not to show any emotion at all.

Five hundred hours was nothing to slouch at. It came out to roughly three months. And he could only work eight hour days. He had barely graduated high school by the skin of his teeth and a fair amount of flattery.

Chief Hopper came to pick him up personally for his first day of community service.

Eddie came barreling out of his trailer only to stop in his tracks when he saw Hopper leaning up against his pickup truck arms folded and ankles crossed.

“Chief,” he said dryly. “To what do I owe this rather dubious pleasure?”

“Get in the truck, boy,” Hop growled. “I’m doing your uncle a favor and making sure you actually show up. And I will be taking you every day. You’ll work five days a week for eight hours a day. You will have three people sign off on your sheet every day. Me, Joyce Byers, and your direct supervisor, Murray Bauman. Every god damn day. Because if you miss one signature, one day and you’ll be thrown in jail. Do. You. Understand?”

Eddie gulped.

He nodded and quietly moved around the truck to get in on the passenger side, head down and shoulders rounded. He didn’t utter a single word the whole trip. He just followed Hopper through the doors and into Joyce’s office.

Sitting behind the desk was a lovely woman with kind eyes, standing beside her was a balding man with beady eyes behind thick glasses. Eddie hadn’t liked the sight of him at all. He just hoped the guy didn’t make his already miserable life even worse.

Joyce broke down all his duties, when he could take breaks and a lunch, and that those would be included in his service hours. He would get access to all the facilities but with the proviso that if a client wanted what he was using, he would have to give it to them.

Whatever that meant.

“Come on,” she finished. “Let me show you around, then Murray will spend all of today training you.”

She stood up and Eddie immediately followed.

“Hopper will sign you in,” Joyce explained, handing a clipboard with his time sheet on it and a pen to the police chief.

He signed it and handed it back to her, she put it on her desk.

“Then Murray and I will sign it when you’re done for the day,” she continued as she moved around the desk. “You are allowed sick days but only five, unless signed off by a doctor.”

Eddie breathed a sigh of relief on that one. He got hay fever something fierce in early September and there were some days that it got so bad he couldn’t see.

All three men followed her out the door. Hopper stopped in front of it.

“This is where I get off,” he said gruffly. “You’ll have to find your own way home as I’ll be at work when you get done.”

Eddie nodded. He shook hands with him and watched as he left.

Joyce smiled at Eddie brightly. “Let’s go.”

She showed him where all the equipment was and that he was charged with wiping it all down once an hour. They continued on and suddenly he heard it.

A sound he had not heard in years.

The sound of kids’ playful screams echoing around the sounds of splashing water. Holy shit, Uncle Wayne, he thought nervously. What did you do for the Chief of Police, hide a body?

Joyce opened the door and led Eddie through the humid air and strong scent of chlorine, pointing out his duties. Which included mopping the floors and grabbing the great big laundry baskets that held the complimentary towels to be taken to washed and also restock them every morning.

Eddie was practically vibrating now. Yeah, sure it was shit grunt work that was meant to be deliberately demeaning, but he got access to the pool. He would be able to swim again and for more than just a couple of times a summer where they would have free swim days when it got too hot.

They got to the end of the tour and Joyce turned around to face him, clapping her hands together.

“So you ready to get to work?”

Eddie sighed. Because yeah that part still sucked. “Ready as I’ll ever be, I guess.”

“That’s the spirit!” she said with a laugh.

Steve stepped out of the showers and toweled off the best he could, throwing his white trainer polo on.

Because this pool was in Indianapolis where Olympic trials had been held more than a couple of times, it had the best of services for swimmers that could be offered. You had the standard lifeguards in the red polos, the coaches in the blue polos, and the trainers like him in white. It was supposed to be patriotic, but there were far too many countries that had the red, white, and blue color scheme for Steve to do anything but scoff at the notion.

What was the difference between a trainer and a coach? Well it depended on who you asked. If you asked a trainer, they would tell you age. They taught beginning, intermediate, and advanced classes.

If you asked a coach? They would tell that trainers only taught coaches inspired. They brought out the best in their students, fostered a love of water, and coached them in competitions.

They also had state of the art facilities, too. A kiddie pool, two Olympic sized swimming pools, an outdoor pool and water park, and even an endless pool.

Steve loved the endless pool. It was fifteen feet long and eight feet wide with a current that you could change the speed on so you could build up strength and endurance. It was how he unwound every day.

He stepped out of the men’s changing rooms and smiled at his assistant trainer, Robin Buckley who was waiting for him.

“You ready for another day of screaming, terrified children?” she asked with a grin, slinging one arm around his shoulders.

He returned her grin.

“You better believe it!”

Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12 Part 13 Part 14 Part 15

Also on the 14th, I'll be throwing myself a birthday party on my new Discord server for my writing. Link here. Come join me, ask questions about me or my work. I like to chat. I'll still be doing WIP Wednesday but a more informal vibe in Discord, too.

Tag list: TEN SLOTS REMAINING

1-@mira-jadeamethyst @rozzieroos @itsall-taken @redfreckledwolf @zerokrox-blog

2- @gregre369 @a-little-unsteddie @chaosgremlinmunson @messrs-weasley @cryptid-system

3- @maya-custodios-dionach @goodolefashionedloverboi @val-from-lawrence @carlyv @wonderland-girl143-blog

4- @justforthedead89 @irregular-child @bookbinderbitch @bookworm0690 @forgottenkanji

5- @anne-bennett-cosplayer @yikes-a-bee @awkwardgravity1 @littlewildflowerkitten @genderless-spoon

6- @dragonmama76 @ellietheasexylibrarian @thedragonsaunt @useless-nb-bisexual @disrespectedgoatman

7- @counting-dollars-counting-stars @tinyplanet95 @ravenfrog @swimmingbirdrunningrock @lingeringmirth

8- @gutterflower77 @a-lovely-craziness @just-a-tiny-void @w1ll0wtr33 @beelze-the-bubkiss

#my writing #stranger things #steddie #ladykailtiha writes #olympic steddie

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doyoulikethissong-poll · 3 months ago

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Lady Gaga - Poker Face 2008

"Poker Face" is a song by American singer Lady Gaga from her debut studio album, The Fame (2008). It was released on September 23, 2008, as the album's second single. The main idea behind the song is bisexuality and was a tribute by Gaga to her rock and roll boyfriends. The song samples Boney M.'s 1977 hit "Ma Baker" (poll #494).

"Poker Face" was acclaimed by most critics, who praised the song's robotic hook and chorus. The song attained worldwide success, topping the charts in 20 countries including the US, the UK, Australia, New Zealand, Canada and many European countries. With over 14 million copies, "Poker Face" is one of the world's best-selling singles of all time and became the best-selling single of 2009 worldwide with over 9.8 million in sales that year alone. It was certified Diamond by the Recording Industry Association of America (RIAA) in 2015. It won the Grammy Award for Best Dance Recording.

"Poker Face" received a total of 93,3% yes votes!

youtube

#finished #high yes #00s #o1 #o1 sweep #o1 ultrasweep #o234 #lo24 #lo24 tie #lo2 #lo4 #lady gaga #english

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diamonddaze01 · 1 month ago

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WINGS AGAINST THE WIND

PAIRING: kwon soonyoung x reader| WC: 6.7K GENRE: hurt-comfort | non-linear storytelling | based on boys by alfie jukes WARNINGS: alcohol consumption A/N: for keopihaus’s spring event! i picked pantalone | had this brain worm at work and this is the end result. not entirely happy with it, but we ball. happy to finally be able to write for svt again | hochi’s debut on the blog! welcome sweet boy RECOMMENDED LISTENING: boys, alfie jukes | motion sickness, phoebe bridgers | sweet disposition, the temper trap | summertime sadness, lana del ray | cherry, harry styles | out of my league, fitz and the tantrums | lovers' carvings, bibio | i wanna be your girlfriend, girl in red

SUMMARY: The tide pulls in. The stars burn on. Neither of you move.

JUNE 2019

The first time you see Soonyoung that summer, he’s chasing seagulls down the shore, barefoot and grinning, arms spread wide like he thinks he can fly.

The ocean wind tousles his hair, strands of it sticking to his forehead, but he doesn’t stop running. The birds scatter around him in startled flurries, wings beating against the sky in protest, but Soonyoung only laughs—a sound carried away by the tide, swallowed up by the crash of the waves.

You watch from the porch of your family’s beach house, hands curled around a cold glass of lemonade, condensation damp against your palm. The sun hangs low, turning the sky soft at the edges, streaks of rose bleeding into gold. The scent of salt lingers in the air, familiar and thick.

It’s always like this with him. Soonyoung, with his sunburnt nose and scabbed knees, the boy who never walked when he could run, never whispered when he could laugh. Soonyoung, who arrives with the summer and stays until it ends, as much a part of this town as the sea-glass that washes up on the shore, as the rusting Ferris wheel down by the boardwalk.

And just like that, it begins again.

JUNE 2002

You are six, and the world is too big.

The ocean roars, an endless, hungry thing, swallowing the shore in foamy white before retreating like it changed its mind. The sky stretches too wide above you, and the sun is too bright, pressing hot fingers against your skin. Even the voices—grown-ups talking, seagulls screaming—are too loud. So you hide, small hands curling into the fabric of your mother’s dress, peeking out at the unfamiliar boy in front of you.

He is loud. He is all knees and elbows and wild energy, his hair sticking up like he’s been running into the wind for hours. His shirt is untucked, one sneaker untied, a smear of something suspiciously orange at the corner of his mouth. He stands with his weight on the balls of his feet, like he might take off at any second.

And then—he grins.

"TAG!"

He smacks a hand against your arm. Then he spins on his heel and bolts, kicking up sand as he tears toward the water, his laughter trailing behind him like a kite in the breeze.

Your feet stay rooted. Your heart pounds. You glance up at your mother, searching her face for an answer, but she only nudges you forward, voice warm with amusement.

"Go on, sweetheart," she murmurs. "He’s waiting for you."

You look back at the boy—Soonyoung, she had said his name was. He is already halfway to the shoreline, but he pauses, turning back to you. His hands cup around his mouth as he shouts, "Come on! You’re it!"

Your fingers twitch. Your toes curl in the sand. And then, something in you—some quiet, cautious thing—loosens just enough.

You take one step. Then another.

And then you run.

SEPTEMBER 2008

You are twelve, and summer is ending. The world has narrowed.

Once, it had felt endless, stretching beyond the dunes and the boardwalk and the chipped-paint fences of this beach town. But now, it feels smaller, shrinking to the space between sun-warmed pavement and the steady crash of the tide, to the places where Soonyoung goes and where you follow.

You don’t remember when you started falling in love with him. Maybe it was when he climbed onto the roof of your house just to prove he could, his grin bright as the moon above, his breathless told you so floating down like a dare. He had scaled the old oak tree by your window with the reckless confidence of a boy who had never believed in falling, fingers gripping the rough bark, feet scraping against the gutter as he pulled himself up.

Now, he sits there, legs swinging over the edge, toes brushing against the night air like he could dip them into the stars if he tried hard enough. His hair is mussed from the climb, sticking out at odd angles, and his t-shirt is streaked with dirt where he must’ve wiped his hands. But his eyes—his eyes shine with something wild, something boundless.

"You coming up or what?" he calls down, voice laced with laughter.

You hesitate. Your mother would kill you if she knew, but Soonyoung is already scooting over, patting the space beside him like it’s the easiest thing in the world. And maybe, for him, it is.

You climb. It’s clumsy, slow-going, your fingers fumbling against rough bark, but when you reach the top, Soonyoung is waiting, grinning like he knew you’d make it all along.

The roof is warm beneath your palms, still holding the heat of the day. The town spreads below you in quiet patches of light—porch lamps glowing amber, the boardwalk flickering in the distance. The ocean is a dark, endless thing, breathing against the shore. And above, the sky stretches wide, a mess of constellations neither of you can name.

"You ever wonder what it’s like to be a bird?" Soonyoung asks suddenly, voice softer now.

You turn your head, catching the way the moonlight skims the curve of his cheek. "What do you mean?"

He shrugs, tilting his face toward the stars. "Just—flying wherever you want. Never having to stay in one place."

You frown, pulling your knees to your chest. "But don’t birds always come back home?"

Soonyoung is quiet for a long moment, his fingers drumming against the shingles. "Maybe." Then, turning to you, eyes crinkled at the edges, "But I think I’d want to see everything first."

Something flutters in your chest, strange and new. You don’t know what it is yet.

So you don’t say anything, just tip your head back and watch the sky, the stars too many to count, the night stretching wide and open before you. And beside you, Soonyoung hums under his breath, legs still swinging, like he’s testing the air—like he’s already getting ready to take off.

JULY 2019

The waves lap gently against the wooden beams, the water below shifting with the tide, black with hints of silver where the moonlight kisses it. A faint breeze rolls in from the horizon, cool against your sun-warmed skin, and beside you, Soonyoung hums some half-forgotten song under his breath, the tune swallowed by the wind before it can reach your ears.

He’s always humming, always moving—tapping his fingers against the railing, shifting his weight from foot to foot. Even now, leaning over the edge of the pier, he rocks onto his toes like he’s daring himself to fall forward, like he trusts the ocean to catch him. You don’t know if it ever occurs to him that it wouldn’t.

"Bet I could jump," he says suddenly, tilting his head toward you, eyes glinting in the dim light. He grins, teeth flashing white. "Bet I could survive."

You roll your eyes, but your heart stutters anyway. "Bet you could break your leg."

Soonyoung laughs, pushing off the railing to stand upright. He stretches his arms above his head, his t-shirt riding up slightly, exposing the strip of tanned skin just above his waistband. "C’mon," he says, nudging your shoulder with his. "Where’s your sense of adventure?"

You huff, turning your gaze back to the water. Somewhere in the distance, a boat bobs along the horizon, its light a tiny pinprick against the vast dark.

It’s not that you don’t have a sense of adventure—it’s just that Soonyoung’s is always bigger, always wilder, always burning too bright for you to hold in your hands without it slipping through your fingers like embers.

"You don’t always have to prove something, you know," you murmur, watching as a gull drifts lazily above the water, its wings barely moving, carried by the wind.

"I’m not proving anything," Soonyoung says, voice softer now. He nudges you again, more gently this time. "I just like knowing I could."

You don’t answer right away. The breeze carries the scent of salt and something sweet—funnel cakes, maybe, or the last wisps of cotton candy from a boardwalk stand closing up for the night. The sounds of the carnival are distant now, nothing but an echo of laughter and carousel music winding down for the evening.

Soonyoung swings an arm over your shoulders suddenly, tugging you into his warmth. "Hey," he says, voice teasing, but you hear the quiet sincerity beneath it. "If I ever do something stupid, you’d catch me, right?"

You exhale a small laugh, shaking your head, but you don’t pull away. "Yeah," you say. "I’d catch you."

Soonyoung grins, satisfied, and you stand there together, the waves below whispering secrets you’ll never quite understand.

AUGUST 2011

You are fifteen, and the ocean is endless.

It stretches before you, vast and rippling, the sky above painted in the soft pastels of late afternoon. The waves are restless today, tumbling toward the shore in a frothy rush, stealing the sand from beneath your feet as they recede. You should have been more careful. You should have braced yourself better. But Soonyoung was beside you, and it’s always easier to forget things when he’s there.

The wave catches you off guard—one moment, you’re standing ankle-deep in the water, and the next, the current surges forward, swallowing your knees, your waist, knocking you off balance. The world tilts, salt filling your mouth as you go under, the water curling around you, flipping you end over end until you don’t know which way is up.

And then—hands.

Soonyoung's grip is firm, fingers wrapping around your wrist, tugging you up, up, up until you’re breaking the surface, gasping as the air rushes back into your lungs. He’s laughing, because of course he is, his eyes crinkled at the corners, his hair dripping saltwater down his cheeks.

“Damn,” he breathes, grinning wide, “I thought the ocean was about to steal you.”

You’re breathless, stunned—less from the tumble, more from the way his hand is still wrapped around yours, warm and solid, grounding you. Your heartbeat is a staccato rhythm against your ribs, matching the waves that crash around your legs.

“You okay?” Soonyoung asks, squeezing your fingers lightly, like he’s making sure you’re real, like you haven’t been carried off with the tide.

You nod, but you don’t move. You don’t let go.

And neither does he.

A gull wheels overhead, crying out against the wind, and the moment stretches long and golden, suspended between you like something fragile. His thumb brushes against your knuckles absently, as if he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it, and you think, suddenly, that you’ll remember this forever—the salt on your lips, the sun-drenched glow of his skin, the way his laughter still lingers in the space between you.

The tide rolls in again, swirling around your calves, and finally, reluctantly, Soonyoung pulls away, raking a hand through his wet hair. “Come on,” he says, stepping backward toward the shore, “before the waves drag you under for real.”

You follow, but you swear you can still feel the ghost of his touch, the warmth of his palm against yours, even as the ocean tries to wash it away.

SEPTEMBER 2012

You are sixteen and have realized summer doesn’t feel the same when Soonyoung’s not there.

The days stretch long and golden, but they feel hollow, like an echo of something that once was. The ocean still hums against the shore, the seagulls still wheel lazily overhead, crying out into the heavy afternoon air, but everything feels off-kilter, like a song played in the wrong key.

You walk the boardwalk alone. The wooden planks creak beneath your feet, weathered and warm from the sun, but they don’t bounce with Soonyoung’s unrelenting energy, don’t tremble beneath his eager footsteps as he drags you from one end to the other, chattering about nothing and everything.

He’s not here.

He’s in a city miles away, where the air smells of pavement and ambition, where he spends his days in mirrored studios lined with scuffed wooden floors, his body moving through the shapes of something greater, something bigger than this sleepy town could ever offer. You know this is what he wants—have always known that Soonyoung was meant to move, to run, to fly.

And yet.

You sit on the pier at sunset, legs dangling over the edge, watching the waves catch the last light of the day. The seagulls drift overhead, weightless and free, carried by the wind like it loves them. You wonder if Soonyoung ever stops to watch them in the city, if he looks up from the rhythm of his own body long enough to remember the way the ocean breathes, the way summer feels here, with you.

You press your palms against the wooden planks, grounding yourself in the familiar, in the place that has always felt like home. But without Soonyoung’s laughter ringing through the streets, without his sunburnt hands pulling you forward, it feels smaller somehow.

The wind shifts, carrying the sound of distant music from the boardwalk, the scent of salt and spun sugar. You close your eyes and pretend, just for a moment, that if you turn your head, Soonyoung will be there beside you—grinning, wind-tousled, eyes alight with something that makes everything feel alive.

But when you open them, it’s just you.

And summer has never felt so quiet.

AUGUST 2019

The days stretch long and golden, collapsing into nights laced with salt and the hum of cicadas. The ocean is a constant whisper in the background, ebbing and flowing like breath, like the slow pull of time neither of you try to fight.

Soonyoung drives with one hand on the wheel, the other draped lazily over the window frame, fingers trailing through the wind as if he’s conducting an invisible orchestra. The air is thick with heat, the scent of sunscreen and sun-warmed leather filling the car. The radio crackles, the same summer songs playing on an endless loop, and Soonyoung sings along—offbeat, off-key, always a lyric behind. You don’t correct him. You just listen, watching the way the wind tosses his hair, the way the sun paints his skin in soft gold.

Some nights, when the sky is wide and full, he takes you to the dunes. He doesn’t ask, just tugs you by the wrist, his grip warm and insistent, leading you past the weathered wooden fences, past the sea grass swaying in the breeze. The sand is cool beneath your bare feet, grains slipping between your toes as you climb higher, until the town is just a scatter of distant lights behind you. The ocean stretches vast and inky beyond the horizon, the waves gleaming silver under the moon.

Soonyoung flops onto his back with a sigh, arms sprawled like he’s trying to hold onto the whole sky. “Look,” he says, pointing upward, “Cassiopeia.”

You follow his gaze, but all you see are stars—scattered and bright, endless pinpricks of light. “That’s not Cassiopeia,” you say, wrapping your arms around your knees.

“Sure it is,” he argues, tracing a messy W in the air. “And that’s Orion, and that’s the Little Dipper—”

"You’re making them up," you accuse, raising an eyebrow.

He grins, rolling onto his side to face you. “Maybe. But who’s gonna prove me wrong?”

You roll your eyes, but you lie down beside him anyway. The sand still holds the heat of the day, warm against your spine, grounding you. Above, a flock of birds shifts in the sky, their silhouettes carving soft, fluid patterns into the dark.

Soonyoung watches them too, something quiet settling over him. “Do you think they know where they’re going?” he murmurs, voice barely above the hush of the waves.

You exhale, watching your breath dissolve into the night. “I think they just go.”

For a moment, there is only the sound of the ocean, of the wind moving through the dunes. Then, Soonyoung turns to you, his gaze steady, unreadable. The wind ruffles his hair, brushes softly against your skin.

“Yeah,” he says at last, voice low. “Yeah, I think so too.”

The tide pulls in. The stars burn on. Neither of you move.

AUGUST 2013

You are seventeen, and the summer tastes like salt and firewood smoke.

The nights blur together, one bleeding into the next, stitched together with sand sticking to sun-warmed skin and the hum of cicadas in the dunes. The air is thick with the scent of the ocean, of burning driftwood, of marshmallows turned molten over an open flame. Somewhere down the shore, music drifts from a crackling speaker, the melody warped by the wind, and Soonyoung—always Soonyoung—is beside you, too loud, too restless.

Long days melt into long nights. You spend the afternoons sprawled on the sand, the sky above a vast and endless blue, the kind of blue that makes you believe in forever. The kind of blue that makes you think forever might look like this—Soonyoung’s laughter bright and uncontained, his body twisting away from the incoming tide, only for him to launch himself straight back into it, fearless, unrelenting.

At night, the two of you wander the boardwalk like ghosts, dodging pools of neon light, walking the railings with your arms outstretched, breathless, unsteady, pretending the ocean below is nothing but air. Soonyoung, always first to jump, teeters on the edge like he’s trying to touch the sky, his fingers splayed wide, his laugh caught in the wind, pulling you in with him. The world is full of motion, but here, together, you feel like you’re part of something still, something that lingers in the spaces between his words and the sounds of the ocean.

A mockingbird calls from a distance, its song old and familiar, a note of something that’s already slipping away. You know it’s a song that used to belong to summers long past—before the world started demanding things of you, before the noise of growing up began to drown out the simple things. Before Soonyoung’s laughter, wild and free, was something you couldn’t hear without a tinge of fear.

You both sit on the railing, the wood warm beneath you, your legs dangling into the night air, too far from the ground but not enough to feel unsafe. The ocean is a dark mass below you, a black expanse of water that pulls at your feet as though calling you in. You breathe in the salt, the smoke, the unspoken understanding that summer is already slipping away.

Soonyoung is a constant, a whirlwind, a never-ending movement. He is arms waving, words tumbling, laughter spilling over like waves crashing against the shore. And yet, here, now, in this in-between moment—his gaze steady, his body still except for the absentminded fidget of his fingers against his thigh—he doesn’t feel like motion at all. It’s as if even Soonyoung is holding his breath, waiting for something, maybe for the summer to tell you both what comes next.

And as the ocean sings beneath you and the stars hang heavy above, you know for certain, with a clarity that hits you like the warm evening breeze, that you love him. It’s not a revelation. It’s just the way the world feels right when he’s here. You realize you’ve always known, that the way your heart flips every time he’s near isn’t just the rush of summer or the thrill of adventure. No, it’s something deeper, something more permanent.

You don’t say it. You don’t need to. The ocean is enough, the wind is enough, and Soonyoung, sitting so close you can feel the heat of his skin even through the night air, is enough.

“You ever think,” he asks, his voice quiet for once, the ocean’s roar filling the space between his words, “if birds feel trapped by the sky?”

It’s a question you don’t know how to answer, but you don’t need to. You both sit there, staring out into the distance, the waves crashing like a quiet promise. A mockingbird whistles in the distance, and for a moment, the world stops moving. It’s just the sound of the ocean, of the night stretching long and endless, and Soonyoung, who has always been everything, sitting quietly beside you, as still as the sky.

APRIL 2014

You are almost eighteen, and Soonyoung calls you at midnight like he has forever.

The phone buzzes in your hand, sharp in the quiet darkness of your room, a signal of something both familiar and foreign. His name lights up the screen, and for a second, you're back to summers where the nights felt endless, where time seemed to bend around the two of you. You press the phone to your ear, and even before he speaks, his voice settles into you like the weight of an old song, one you’ve memorized in the corners of your heart.

“I made my decision,” he says, words spilling fast, but there’s something different in them tonight. They feel heavier. Like he's holding something back, or maybe you are. The sound of his breath, quick and charged, vibrates through the line.

“What decision?” You try to keep the steadiness in your voice, but there's a flutter, a pulse in your chest you can’t ignore.

“About college,” he says, and the words feel like a blow you didn’t see coming. “I got in. I’m going across the country. I—I’m going to dance.”

And the world feels too small for a moment, like the walls of your room are suddenly pressing in on you. Across the country. It might as well be across the world. His dream is taking him somewhere far away, somewhere you can’t follow.

There’s a quiet stretch of silence on the other end, the kind that fills the space with too many things unsaid. Your fingers tighten around the phone, the cool surface grounding you, but not enough. Not enough to stop the sudden ache that settles into your bones.

You want to say something. Something that makes this okay, something that makes it feel less like the earth is shifting beneath your feet. But you don’t. Because there’s nothing to say to make it okay.

“Soonyoung,” you whisper, barely enough to hear, but he catches it, and his laugh is soft, uncertain.

“I know,” he says. “I know it’s far. But it’s what I want.”

You hear him breathing, and you know this is it. The moment when things start to change. Not a slow shift, but a sharp one. The way the seasons will turn, the way you’ll look back and realize the summer you thought would last forever is slipping through your fingers.

“I might not be there this summer,” he says after a beat, his voice quieter now. “The program’s got pre-season stuff... It’s in June, right? I won’t be here for any of it. I—” His voice falters, and for the first time, you hear the uncertainty in it, the crack where his words don’t fit quite right.

And it’s like someone took the last bit of air out of the room. You both know what it means, even if it isn’t said directly. This summer—this one that’s always been the same—is about to slip into something unrecognizable, into something new.

“Okay,” you finally say, your voice low. And the weight of that word feels like too much to carry. Too much for one night, too much for one phone call.

You know he’s still there, still waiting for you to say more, but there’s nothing left to say. Soonyoung’s dream is his own now, and you’re left standing on the edge of something, unsure how far you’re willing to fall.

“Happy birthday,” he says softly, as if it’s a way to close the space between you. But the distance feels like it’s already there, stretching out farther than the ocean between you.

JULY 2014

You are eighteen, and June slips away in the space between breaths.

Each day blends into the next like the tides rolling in and out, each wave a soft reminder of everything you’re losing.

The air is warm with the promise of summer, thick with the scent of salt and the distant whisper of fireworks. The city hums with the pulse of late-night life, but the streets outside your window feel empty now, quieter than they should be, as if the world is holding its breath, waiting for something.

Anything.

Then, there’s a knock at your door. It’s sharp, unexpected, and when you open it, Soonyoung is standing there, his chest heaving with shallow breaths, his hair damp from the cool night air. His eyes, wide and alive with something unspoken, lock onto yours and without a second thought, he grabs your hand and pulls you out into the warmth of the night.

“Come on,” he says, his voice breathless, but urgent, like he’s chasing something, like he’s trying to outrun everything that’s coming. “Come with me.”

Before you can ask any questions, before you can make sense of the moment – there are a million questions in your head. What happened to pre-season? Why are you here? Are you here for me – he’s dragging you down the empty streets, past the shuttered shops and the quiet houses where people are already asleep. You can hear the soft tap of your shoes against the pavement, but it’s drowned out by the sound of his laughter, the wild, unrestrained joy of someone who doesn’t know—or doesn’t care—about the world waiting for them. His grip on your hand is firm, like he’s afraid you might slip away if he lets go.

The boardwalk is silent as you pass it, the lights above flickering like old memories, casting long shadows that stretch across the empty path. And then, finally, you reach the beach, the sand soft beneath your feet, the cool breeze of the ocean sweeping over your skin. The sound of the waves is constant, a steady rhythm that seems to match the beat of your racing heart. The moon hangs high above, bathing the shoreline in a silvery glow, casting everything in a dreamlike haze.

“Soonyoung,” you start, breathless from the run, but before you can finish, he pulls you into his arms, his hands finding their way to your waist, his body warm and solid against yours.

“Dance with me,” he says, the words more like a command than a request, and before you can respond, he’s moving you, spinning you in circles, no music but the sound of the waves crashing, no rhythm but the way your feet meet the earth, the way your heart thunders in your chest, in time with the crash of the waves.

You laugh, caught up in the madness of it all, in the feeling of the night, of him, of everything slipping away and yet feeling more alive than you’ve ever felt before. The stars above are a blur, a smattering of white across the black sky, and for a moment, it feels like you’re the only two people in the world, like this—this strange, reckless dance—might be all that matters.

“Where did you come from?” you ask between breaths, trying to catch your own as you stumble in the sand, laughing.

Soonyoung doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he tilts his head back toward the stars, his hair falling in messy strands across his forehead, the moonlight catching in his eyes, turning them silver. He looks like he belongs here, in this moment, with the world at his feet and the night surrounding him, as if nothing else has ever mattered but this dance, this night, the two of you.

“I don’t know,” he says softly, but the words hang in the air like they’re something sacred. “But I don’t ever want to leave.”

The wind picks up, ruffling your hair, pulling you closer into the dance, and you feel it then—the unspoken promise, the feeling that this moment is all there is, that the world can shift and change around you, but nothing will matter as long as you’re here, together, in the glow of the moon and the rhythm of the ocean, with the sound of your laughter echoing into the night.

For a second, just a second, you think it could last forever.

JUNE 2017

You are twenty-one, and you still love Soonyoung.

The dingy dive bar on the boardwalk smells like stale beer and regret, the kind of place you've always passed by, nose scrunched in distaste, never once thinking you'd step inside. But tonight, Soonyoung winks at you with that signature grin��daring, mischievous—and says, "We're twenty-one, let's have some fun!" as he drags you in.

The air inside feels thick, the dim lights casting shadows that stretch across the worn wooden floors. The smell of cheap liquor clings to everything, but for some reason, it’s comforting tonight, like the world is giving you a small, tight hug. You glance around, noting how it’s exactly what you expected—grungy and lived-in, with cracked bar stools and neon signs that buzz faintly, but there's something about it that feels like a secret you've been let in on.

And then there's Soonyoung, his grin lighting up the room like he's the only thing in it that matters. You realize, in the half-faded light, how much has changed. He’s older now, sharper. His shoulders are broader, and his hair falls messier, less like the careless perfection of youth and more like someone who’s been fighting to make a name for himself. But his laugh—his laugh still holds that same reckless joy, the kind that turns ordinary nights into something more, something you’ll remember for years.

The past few years have been a blur—his choreography intensives, your internships. Summers were fleeting, slipping through your fingers faster than you could catch them, leaving only the echoes of missed chances and unspoken words. But here, now, in this bar, with the stale air and the clink of bottles around you, time feels still. You hold on to everything he says, every word like it’s gold. You try to memorize the shape of his smile, the way his eyes crinkle when he laughs, the way he’s always looking at you like you’re something more than just a friend, even if neither of you ever says it aloud.

He nudges you, his fingers brushing yours as he hands you a drink, a little too full, a little too fast, but you don’t care. “To being twenty-one,” he says, and for a moment, you wonder if this is what it feels like to be young forever.

You sip your drink, the burn of alcohol mixing with the sweetness of something unspoken, and you can’t help but feel dizzy—not just from the booze, but from the way he’s looking at you, the way his presence fills the room in a way it never used to. And maybe he’s tipsy, and maybe you are too, but when he leans in—his face too close, his breath warm against your lips—and presses a sloppy kiss to your mouth, you don’t pull away. You don’t even think to.

His lips are soft against yours, a little too wet, but it’s familiar, in a way that’s almost too much. And when he pulls away, eyes still hazy with the remnants of alcohol, you find yourself smiling—grinning like an idiot—and somehow, you’re both still standing there, in this dingy bar, as if the rest of the world doesn’t exist.

The next morning, sunlight floods through the blinds, the world outside still too bright and too loud. Soonyoung doesn’t bring up the kiss. You don’t either. Instead, you nurse your hangovers with orange juice and your mothers’ chiding, a familiar kind of torture.

You pretend like it never happened. Like it didn’t mean anything. But both of you know it did.

You swallow another sip of juice, a little too bitter, a little too heavy. His eyes flicker to yours across the kitchen, and for a moment, it’s like everything that’s unsaid is spilling over. But then he just shrugs, grins like nothing ever changed, and asks, “You wanna hit the boardwalk later?”

You say yes, because there’s no reason not to.

Soonyoung never brings up the kiss.

SEPTEMBER 2019

The air is different now. The ocean feels colder when it reaches your toes, like it’s finally remembering the sharpness of autumn that’s waiting just beyond the horizon. The sky dims earlier, stretching the shadows long across the shore, as if the world is already preparing to move on from the endless days of summer. The light no longer spills like honey—it’s thin, fragile, slipping away in fragments, as though the sun is reluctant to leave.

One evening, Soonyoung drives you to the cliffs, to the highest point in town where everything feels a little more distant, a little more infinite. He doesn’t speak much on the drive, his hands lightly gripping the wheel, his eyes focused on the road, though his mind feels miles away. You don’t ask what’s on his mind, not yet.

When you reach the top, the wind greets you like a forgotten friend, strong enough to make you feel weightless. Soonyoung steps out first, slamming the car door behind him with a sharp thud that echoes against the rocks. He walks toward the edge, the same familiar sway to his movements, like he's always been here, like he’s always been this person—fearless, reckless, unafraid of the unknown. His arms stretch wide, the wind catching his shirt, lifting it like he might take flight.

His silhouette against the fading light is something you know by heart. You’ve seen it before—seen him standing at the edge of the world, the one constant in a summer full of changes, a quiet promise that nothing would ever really shift. But now, he seems smaller somehow, as if the weight of the night has already begun to settle on his shoulders, as if he’s already carrying something he can’t let go.

"Summer’s almost over," he says, his voice barely audible over the wind, but still, you hear it—clear and sharp like a bell tolling in the distance.

You nod. You both know what that means.

Summer has always meant everything, and now, it’s slipping away faster than either of you can grasp. Somewhere, in a place far beyond this summer, this town, these nights—life is waiting.

Soonyoung turns to you, his face still half-lit by the fading light, his eyes unreadable in a way they’ve never been before. The way he looks at you, like he’s searching for something he hasn’t quite found yet, makes the air feel heavier. You swallow, fingers curling tightly into the fabric of your sweater, the warmth of it barely enough to chase away the cold creeping in.

"You ever think about what comes next?"

You take a moment before answering, your heart catching somewhere in the gap. "Yeah," you say, and it’s the truth. You think about it all the time. About how everything seems to be moving, how things are slipping away, and how you don’t know how to hold on when the world keeps shifting.

"Me too," he says, and the words feel too final, like a door closing softly in the distance. His eyes are searching yours, as if looking for a reflection of the question in them, but you don’t know what answer he wants, what answer you have.

In the distance, a flock of birds takes off, heading toward something unseen, something only the wind knows. You watch them, the flutter of their wings a reminder that not everything has a destination—that sometimes, they just go.

You don’t say it, but the thought lingers there, the answer to a question he asked only a month ago—maybe they don’t know where they’re going. Maybe they just go. Maybe that’s what you’ll do, too, when the time comes.

Soonyoung exhales, long and slow. "Guess we’ll figure it out."

And maybe that’s enough. Maybe it always will be.

Soonyoung doesn’t come back the next summer. Or the summer after that.

The silence between you stretches, a quiet that fills every corner of your life. The sky is still the same shade of blue when summer rolls in, but it feels emptier now, as if it’s lost something it never meant to lose.

Your mother sends you news articles. They arrive in the mailbox, pressed between the usual letters and bills, but they stand out. Always. She folds the pages carefully, her handwriting neatly scrawled across the top: Look what Soonyoung's up to now.

One article is about how he’d been selected to join a world-renowned dance troupe. Another talks about how he’d choreographed for Coachella, the way his name shimmers in the lights of the stage, filling every word with something grander than what you remember. Then there’s the Super Bowl. His name, in bold letters, nestled between those of stars, as if it belonged there all along.

Each article feels like a different version of him, a version you never thought about until now. The way he stands at the center of massive stages, the weight of his presence carving space in places you always knew he was meant to reach. But still, with each new article, you can’t help but feel that familiar ache in your chest, the one that comes with absence. He’s somewhere out there, taking up space in the world in ways you’d never thought possible, but not here. Not here with you.

You can’t help but wonder, as you read about his successes, if he’s forgotten. If the days on the cliffs, with the ocean at your feet and the wind in your hair, have faded into something like a dream, a summer you shared once but can never go back to. Maybe he never felt it the way you did. Maybe he was always meant for something bigger than that small town, something grander than the boardwalk and the rusty Ferris wheel and melted bubblegum ice cream.

You try not to hold it against him. But it lingers—soft, insistent. The part of you that once thought you were forever, that once imagined summers and years stretching into something permanent. Now, it's just you, the ocean, and the echoes of a laughter that’s grown fainter with time.

But then, every time you close your eyes, you can still see him—the way his arms spread wide on the edge of the cliffs, the way the wind tugged at his hair, and the way, just for a moment, you thought he might fly.

JUNE 2024

Years later, you find yourself back on that same beach. The air hangs thick with memory, the scent of salt and sand settling into your lungs, familiar in a way that aches. You stand at the water’s edge, toes curling into the cool, damp sand, and for a second, you half-expect to see Soonyoung running down the shore, legs kicking up spray as he chases after the birds—always just a little too fast, just a little too wild, a laugh spilling from him like the ocean itself.

But he isn’t here.

The beach is quieter now, the laughter of summer replaced by the steady hush of the waves, the soft whisper of the wind that cuts through the air, carrying with it the weight of everything that’s changed. It feels different, but in a way, it doesn’t. The same sky, the same ocean, the same stretch of sand you once walked barefoot with him.

You stand there, the pulse of the tide at your feet, and listen. His voice is there—woven into the crash of the waves, into the way the wind tugs at your hair. It’s him, lingering like a shadow you can’t quite shake. You can almost hear him, shouting your name, daring you to join him in one more race down the shore, one more moment that was never really enough.

You wonder, for just a second, if the ocean remembers him the way you do—how his laughter once filled the air like music, how his presence used to make everything feel like it was meant to last. Maybe the ocean knows. Maybe it’s kept him in its depths, tucked between the rhythm of the waves, as if it, too, is holding on to the summers you had.

You are twenty-eight, and you will always love Kwon Soonyoung.

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lokideservesahug · 8 months ago

Text

A Taste Of Victory

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Pairing: Jenson Button x reader (implied), Mark Webber x reader (implied).

Warnings: Jenson is a bit of a dick to reporters, sexism,

Notes: This isn't even the big peice of writing that started all of this but that is coming soon... And the photos may not be aesthetic but they sure as anything are time accurate (even using photos from the specific days). I tried to make sure of it (as well as the dates) to give you good visuals so I hope at least someone appreciates it. Also I tried a new header format. Please tell me your thoughts

Summary: Y/N Y/L/N, the newest 2009 rookie who's also...a woman? The media are desperate to pick her apart and see how well she'll do so let's have a look:

Series Masterlist

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Y/L/N residence, 7th September 2008

You sit back and sip happily on your coke bottle. Any minute now. Any minute and your phone will be blowing up. Or at least that's what Frank had told you (you still can't get over the fact that THE Frank Williams insists that you call him that, or that you'll be working for him next year). You focus back on the image on your screen,

Lewis Hamilton in his McLaren. Of course a favourite to win this season especially after his incredible performances even from his rookie season. And despite trying to clear your mind of all bias for next year, you can't help but wish that he might win. He seems like a nice guy and it's a better him than some of the others. As Hamilton reaches the ever famous, ever gorgeous Eau Rouge, the image changes, the camera focuses on the white, green and red Honda of Jenson Button. He swerves slightly, performing a certainly showy move especially for just FP2.

Despite the numbers not being as much as Hamilton supporters, some F1 fans are putting their money on Button winning the championship instead. You scoff at the thought alone. Goodness knows Formula 1 doesn't need another cocky playboy as the world champion and goodness knows Jenson Button appears to be exactly that. Gosh why couldn't a more sensible seeming driver win say Mark webber or even Fernando Alonso again. You internally scold yourself, these men will be your co workers in only a matter of months. Just the thought makes you feel a matter of emotions; which you are quickly pulled out of as the commentators voice grows louder. You watch as Fernando Alonso puts in a particularly fast lap and the more you think, you can't help but feel almost a bit...nervous.

☆-☆-☆-☆-☆

Albert Park paddock, 27th March 2009

You hold your head up high as you enter the paddock. Bright flashes of cameras shine in your peripheral but you try your hardest to just keep your head down and focus on getting to the Williams hospitality. You glance up, taking in the sights surrounding you. The bright Australian sun paints the paddock? that you've been so long awaiting, in such a light, that you finally feel a sense if fulfilment- and you're not even in the car yet.

Too entranced by the sights around you, you fail to notice the person just in front of you. You're met with the sight of a crisp yet untucked shirt. You panick, instantly going to apologise when you meet the eyes of the person you bumped into. "Woah, careful there." Jenson Button. Oh gosh. "Someone needs to slow down." He laughs and you assume his enjoyment is coming from your misfortune. Now you'd never thought you were the type to become speechless but as you're finally met with the first driver on your official Formula 1 debut, you can't help but panick even more, squeak out an apology and speed walk towards Williams.

Gosh, you wanted today to be perfect and here you are crashing into people already. What a clumsy fool you must look like. You groan as you realise what you've done.

Now, like any unfamiliar place, you find that it was pretty easy to get yourself lost, even in place with such an easy concept (curse Melbourne event planners for trying to make too much go on at once and make it confusing). Most people also don't expect to get recognised in an unfamiliar place even if it's where you work (and your hiring was widely broadcast).

"Hey, are you alright?" You turn to look at the Autralian man whose voice, up until now, you'd only heard through a screen. You meet the eyes of Mark Webber and smile shyly. "Hi, sorry to be a bother but do you know how to get to the Williams hospitality." He just gives you a small grin, clearly not seeing your lack of knowledge as incompetence or anything like that "Of course, follow me and welcome to the paddock by the way." And as Mark leads you away, you can't help hut feel glad you'll be seeing more of him (and not just for how polite and kind he is).

☆-☆-☆-☆-☆

Post race interviews, 29th March 2009

After you step down from the podium, and your team has dispersed (after all congratulating you, some even with tears in their eyes). You walk away to a quieter part of the paddock to gather your thoughts. You go behind the tows of hospitalities only to find Mark Webber hunched over. You aobseve him, he's sporting a serious, disappointed and almost worried looking expression as he looks out into the distance. You walk up to him and place a soft hand on his shoulder in an attempt to gently coax him out of his thoughts and to try and offer some comfort

Without a word, he turns to look at you and his shoulders raise slightly. You give him a small smile and sit down next to him. You both sit next to each other in silence, sharing a comforting moment, silently offering support and understanding to one and other.

The air shifts (and you try to not get to excited at the prospect that your presence alone may have somewhat comforted him). The air shifts, this time it isn't tainted by negative emotions but rather fatigue and acoplmisent on your part. The both of you probably look like a true sight, disheveled, tired and sweaty, however there's a warmth between you both as you share a brief moment of tranquility amongst the chaos.

Someone calls your name and the moment is broken. You nod to Mark who gives you a small smile back and a short "Well done for today." As you smile at him and walk off to go to interviews.

You pass some fans, signing their Williams caps and exchanging excited "Well done!" And "Thank you." Pleasantries. You revel in the post win glow. It's one thing to win in your rookie season, but to win your first race? Now that's just unheard of. You hurriedly sit down in the assigned seat for you and wait for the other few straglers to arrive. You look down, placing your hands on your lap in an attempt to thwart the nerves threatening to bubble.

Brawn driver, Rubens Barrichello is the second to arrive followed not long after by Jenson Button. Rubens gives you an easy smile and yet another congratulations. You feel incredibly fortunate to have you welcomed so quickly and easily by him over the past few days of testing. You return his smile with one of your own and a small wave.

When Jenson finally sits down, an FiA representative gives the 3 of you a short introduction and then begins. Quite a few people had warned you before you entered this room that many people would want to speak to you, but you didn't expect such an onslaught.

A short, bald man stands up and adresses you. "So Miss Y/L/N, you just managed to win your debut race, which is an incredible feat but how much of it do you think is down to the car." You try not to take offence to the question, it was a pretty basic question afterall (even if it was worded a bit harshly.) You let out a small laugh. "I think it's a joint effort really. The car was looking really good this weekend but I also have a history of running fairly well at this track." The reporter nods his head and continues. "So do you think this victory will encourage other women to become involved in F1?" You nod excitedly at him. "Oh I hope so. I hope it's encouragement to all women out there that weren't sure if they could." The reported thanks you and sits down.

A few more reporters ask questions. 90% of which are adressesdfor you and a few others adresses to the men beside you (mainly to Rubens and Jenson about Braen and its last minute establishment).

This time, a slightly more lean, dark haired reporter speaks up, once again directing his questions towards you. "Y/N, how did your fellow drivers perceive your and your entrance into F1?" You nearly furrow your brows at the biazzre question (Well it's possibly bizzare that it's adressed to you). "I uh don't know. Why don't you ask them." You gesture to the drivers either side of you as the reporter repeats his question to the other pilots. "Gentlemen, your thoughts on the newest addition to the paddock?" Rubens gives you an encouraging pat on the shoulder mid sentence "She's obviously fast and I think she's managed to impress us all." The reporter nods to Jenson; and despite your belief that he's he's too cocky for his own good, you can't help but feel a bit excited and a bit anxious to hear his repsonse. "Her lap times were phenomenal during the race." You smile at his words, maybe he wasn't as bad as you thought. However, he continues "I think my only criticism I have of her is that she seems to smile less than Kimi." The reporter smirks as you lower your eyeline slighty. "Yeah and she's much easier on the eyes than Kimi." The room erupts into low laughs as you feel shame and embarrassment pool in your gut.

The reporters continue to ask a few questions that you don't pay too much attention to as you nearly get complety lost in your thoughts. One asks Jenson if he thinks you have the potential for the championship. He laughs as he awnsers "There's no denying that she's fast. But she's in a Williams, she's not going to win the championship." You bite your tongue at Jenson's words and what you think is a jab at you (not realising the true intention if insulting his old team).

Yet another reporter asks you a familiar question along the lines if how exactly you think you managed to win. Fed up being in a room with a bunch of old men, trying to pick you apart and insult you with the same few questions just worded differently, your resolve finally snaps.

"Well not that anyone is caring to ask, but I've done this track a million times over. I've practised again and again and again to get my performance perfect yet no one is congratulating me on how well I went around that track. Brawn were amazing today and I'm sure they will be in the future as well but please dont let that take away from what I've done today." You shuffle back in your chair slightly, feeling a bit uncomfortable under the stares but stay strong, unbreaking (and not noticing the stare of admiration coming from the British driver to your left and never knowing the love filled look of another Australian pilot, watching on a screen not far away).

☆-☆-☆-☆-☆

Top Gear Studio, May 2009

You listen anxiously as Jeremy Clarkson introduces you. Yes, Jeremy Clarkson. As he shouts your name, the camera pans to you and you walk forward, shaking Jeremy's hand and sitting down in the green, faux leather sofa.

"Now obviously I want to ask the obvious..." He speaks over the crowd's quietening bustle and you expect the next question to be one you've hears bwfore. About your gender, you- "What on Earth have you done to that Williams to make it so good?" You laugh, the familiar humour of the Top Gear host you've only ever seen on a screen putting you at ease.

"Well I don't know but maybe its because I'm far more polite to the car than other drivers." Jeremy smiles at your words and invites you into light conversation about you finally being viewed as a serious title contender. The two of you continue until you hit more general off-track talk "So, how much do you train and have you managed to find enough time to see your friends and family. Because some people have such an odd view on things like that." You let out a dramatic sigh. "Gosh they're making me train so much. More than just once a day and there are so many regimes that I can't keep track of anymore. But family wise, well I spend far less time with them than I do do training, I can tell you that much." The audience laughs which encourages you to continue. "I see my friends and family in-between weekends when I can and sometimes they'll even come to races. But gosh. I feel awful saying this." Jeremy leans forward slightly "No, go on..." Your smile becomes a bit embarrassed as your cheeks warm. "Well even on free weekends, with how crowded the paddock can be, I'll come home and just want to be alone." Jetemy shakes his head. "Well that makes sense. But you're in a very crowded space all weekend, does that mean that you've you've asked out by a lot of guys throughout the season so far?" Your eyes widen widen the insinuation. At your lack of instant response, Jeremy clarifies, "Come on! Gorgeous girl such as yourself in such a male dominated sport, I bet loads of men and probably even some drivers too have asked you out." You quickly deny the claims and the two of you move on to your lap times in their old car but you don't miss the way your mind flashed with the image of a certain dark haired Red Bull driver as Jeremy asked his previous question.

>To be aired 28 June<

☆-☆-☆-☆-☆

You huff out a low sigh. If you overthink today anymore, you think you might be sick. Your phone pings. You know you shouldn't have it on you but it has helped to keep you entertained as you wait. You look down and see a text from Mark. His text, wishing you good luck makes you smile and you shoot him a small thanks and silence your phone as you hear footsteps behind you.

"Are you ready?" You turn you head and nod to your future teammate as Michael Schumacher steps forward. "Question is, are you old man?" Your words make him smile and your nerves ease slightly. "I don't think I can ever be ready for something like this. But the more important thing is you." He places a caring hand on your shoulder.

If you told your child self, or heck even yourself a year ago that you're friends and future teammates with 7-time world Champion Michael Schumacher, you think you'd have laughed at yourself until tears streamed down your face. But in recent months and more specifically recent weeks, the two of you have been getting much closer. Michael offering you advice, you offering great support on current drivers habits firsthand as a warning for next season. And you even met Michael's family a month or so ago; them nearly adopting you into their clan.

A woman with headset approaches you both and taps you on the shoulder, "A minute to go." She gives you a small thumbs up and walks away, mumbling into her headset. You give her an uncertain nod as Michael pats your shoulder again. "Go out and show them what you've got kid and I'll see you out there." You give him a nervous smile and as you hear a distant shout of your name, you pull yourself together and pull your face into an excited expression, ready for the reaction to your announcement and overjoyed to have a front row seat to people's reactions to your teammate.

☆-☆-☆-☆-☆

You sit alone in a booth of a bustling club. Loud music nearly deafening but you'd take it any day over the continuous commentary you heard at track. You don't know how many time you can hear "It looks like the title fight is over. Y/L/N's engine is overheating and she's slowing down. It looks like Jenson Button may be champion." Without feeling sick especially when it's directly followed by your voice on the team radio, voice cracking during an apology as your mechanics tell me to back off to cool the engine.

You think of the image of Jenson's Brawn overtaking you and pulling futher into the distance; the sight of not one but two Red Bulls overtaking to fight a battle that should be yours. A voice cuts through your thoughts. You look up, meeting the eyes of the person speaking. "Are you alright?" You're surprised that Jenson came to speak to you, especially after his victory. Gosh in your vulnerable state, you even think that he might not be too bad. How silly of you. You give him a gentle nod (clearly not enough to convince him). He gestures towards the seat next to you "Is it alright if I sit here?" You nod, not Trusting your voice in this moment. "Well-" "You w-" You finally crack a smile as you speak at the same moment. He gestures to you "Sorry, you go." You smile at him. "Well done Jenson you gave a great drive this season." You expect him to smirk, to revel in your compliments but instead he just gives you a soft smile and a shake of his head. "Don't be silly. That championship would be yours if Williams ever learnt how to build cars properly. But thank you." You look down at his words, all of your emotions finally coming to the forefront. "Hey, you look like you need to be cheered up. You don't need to feel like this going into next season..." He passes and his brows furrow. You look up at Jenson who is now standing and for the first time all year, allow yourself to admire him. The way that his still slightly hair drops as some strands stick to his forehead. "You-" He furrows his brows again and then laughs freely. "Oh yeah, you're taking my job. Well Miss Y/L/N, he grabs your hand and pulls you up from your seat, Elliciting a small noise from you. "Then we need to dance to celebrate and to cheer you up." You just shake your head and follow him, finally smiling as you follow his foolish adrenaline (and probably slightly alcohol-fueled) giggly nature; placing down your phone and missing the texts.

Mark Webber: Hey Well done on today and I'm sorry what happened. Hoping to speak to you at some point later...

M.S: Hey Hase, well done on today, you drove so well I hope you know that. Corinna and I wanted to invite you to our...

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Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed it.

As always, likes, reblogs and especially feedback is always welcome!

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