#garage equipments near you

[verstappenverse]

Too Many Kisses

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Reader

Summary: Max showers you with kisses after a race much to your embarrassment.

Masterlist

The sun was setting over the paddock, casting a warm orange glow across the chaotic scene. Engineers were packing up equipment, journalists scurried from one interview to another, and the occasional roar of an engine echoed as cars were wheeled back into their garages.

You stood in the Red Bull garage, arms crossed, watching as Max wrapped up a few interviews. He’d just finished another dominant weekend, and the smile on his face was evident even from a distance. He spotted you and his eyes lit up causing a flutter in your chest.

Before you could react, he was heading straight towards you, weaving through the small crowd with an easy confidence.

"Hey," Max greeted, sliding an arm around your waist, pulling you close as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

"Hey yourself," you smiled, glancing up at him. His hair was still slightly damp from sweat, and his face had that post-race glow, a mix of exhaustion and adrenaline.

Catching you by surprise he leaned down and pressed a kiss to your forehead, then another one on your temple, and another this time on your cheek. You stifled a laugh knowing exactly where this was headed. His lips hovered near yours, but instead of kissing you properly, he peppered quick, light kisses all over your face causing you to giggle and squirm out of his grasp.

"Max, stop," you half-heartedly protested, trying again not to laugh too loudly.

"What?" He smirked, mischief twinkling in his eyes as he continued his relentless assault of kisses. "Too much?"

"Not in front of everyone," you chuckled, glancing around and noticing the amused glances from the nearby crew. Several crew members were failing miserably at hiding their grins, and you were almost certain someone had just snapped a photo.

"Too many kisses?" Max pulled back just slightly, arching an eyebrow. He leaned in again, this time capturing your lips in a soft, lingering kiss.

You melted into him for a moment before pulling back with a playful shove. "Seriously, everyone’s watching."

Max laughed, clearly unbothered by the attention. "Let them watch. I just won, I deserve to kiss my girl."

"You’re insufferable," you teased, rolling your eyes but the grin on your face betrayed your words.

Max, of course, noticed. "Oh, come on, you love it. Admit it, you want more." His voice was teasing, his lips hovering dangerously close to yours again.

You huffed, crossing your arms in mock annoyance.

"Mm-hmm." His hand gently cupped your chin, tilting your head up toward him.

You tried to hold back a smile, but it was impossible. "Maybe... one more," you conceded, your voice soft.

Max’s smirk widened as he leaned in his lips brushing yours again, but just before he kissed you, he whispered, "I knew it."

Before you could reply, he kissed you, slow and sweet, the kind of kiss that made everything else around you fade into the background. The noise of the paddock, the murmurs of the crew, it all disappeared as his hands settled on your waist pulling you even closer.

When he finally pulled away, your cheeks were flushed and he looked entirely too pleased with himself.

"Happy now?" you asked, a bit breathless.

"Very," he grinned, his thumb brushing over your cheek affectionately. "But you know… I could go for one more."

You swatted his chest lightly. "You’re ridiculous."

"Ridiculously in love with you," he quipped, and the sincerity in his voice made your heart stutter.

"You’re lucky you’re cute," you teased, even though the warmth in your chest was undeniable.

"Very lucky," he agreed, leaning in to nuzzle your neck playfully.

He grinned, and leaned in to press one final kiss to your forehead before stepping back.

You rolled your eyes, biting back a smile. "Just get ready for your press conference Verstappen."

As he walked away you caught the smirk playing on his lips, a silent promise that he'd be back for more, and honestly you knew you’d be right here, waiting.

[preydefiler]

thinking about being an abusive older sister... I keep my bedroom door closed and locked, not even our parents have a key. sometimes I bring someone home, and you can hear noises coming from under the door. you're curious, and you have to take a peek.

the first time you do, it's embarrassing. you watch me have sex with one of the neighborhood girls. it's rough, and there are times she's gagged and crying and you hear these incredibly wet noises, but this angle... you can't quite see. you never quite catch sight of my cock, which is... disappointing for some reason. you feel funny, and you think the feeling is wrong, but... you want more. so you seek more opportunities.

you find a spot in a tree in our backyard, where if you climb just high enough, you can wiggle into a space in the branches that gives you a view into my room. this time I'm in there alone, and I'm lounging on my bed. you watch me for a few minutes, mostly just me flipping through a magazine. but then I reach down and put a hand in my pants. you get that feeling again, and this time you start mimicking my movements. grinding against the branch you're laying on. you watch me unzip my pants and pull out my cock. it's hard, and fills up my hand, and you watch me pump while you moan softly in the leaves, until we both cum at the same time. you can't help but be mesmerized by the ropes I shoot, your tongue subconsciously sticking out of your mouth. you ruin your shorts, and have to spend the next half hour figuring out how to climb down and change without getting caught.

you decide you need a better view. you've tried sneaking in my room, but I keep it locked down tight. The door to my room is always closed. My window, however, doesn't always get locked. Perks of being on the second story. You find that if you climb on the roof from your window, you can climb down and into mine. The first time you tried, it was locked, and I almost caught you. The next time you were successful, and that's when you started coming in and listening to and watching me fuck near constantly.

Under the bed was an interesting choice. You shoved yourself under there because you were almost caught. You heard me unlocking the door just as you were closing the window. You were squeezed in with all kinds of other junk, old sports equipment and dirty clothes, which you secretly did enjoy having your face shoved into. a couple of boxes, some used sex toys, and some trash. You could hear everything, every noise and breath caught in my throat. Every moan the slut of the week groaned into my mattress. The humiliation of feeling my thrusts under my bed was tempting, but there was nothing to see but shed clothes.

Hiding in the closet seemed to be your favorite though. Through the slats in the door, you could see everything. Every inch of flesh, every drop of sweat and cum, every throb of my cock. You loved it. You couldn't get enough. You started jerking off into my clothes you found in there. Your favorite was a pair of my boxers that I had been too lazy to change for a few days, so they really stank like me. You'd watch, and pant, and rut into your hand as I would finish load after load into anything but you, and the hunger enveloped you. I started to be the only thing you thought about. But you were careful. You made sure you were never caught.

It was your birthday, and our parents were throwing you a party. You invited all your friends, there was music and games and even an inflatable bounce house, which you thought was a bit too childish, but didn't fight about it. You always kept an eye on me though. And I said, Fuck the party. You knew my routine by this point. I'd go steal a beer from the garage, sneak behind the tree to drink it, paw at one of the girls there until I took her up to my room for more of the same. You were prepared though. You snuck off from the party, and you were able to get inside my room. I had left my door unlocked, which was uncommon, but not unheard of, and you slipped inside the closet like so many times before. And like clockwork, there I was, leading one of your friends to my bed.

Something about this fuck felt different. I seemed... angry, almost, and I slammed into your friend with scary force. I pressed both of my hands into the small of your friend's back and I stretched her out and pushed as deep as I could. I pounded her wet holes, and I faced her towards the closet door. This was the hottest and roughest you had seen me be, at a few points seeing me punch into the slut's ribs a few times, told her I liked it better when she cried. and then, somehow, I looked at you. You swear I couldn't see you, you were hidden in the closet. you hadn't made any noise. but as I fucked your friend harder and angrier, I kept glancing at the door to the closet. I growled and groaned and finally thrusted my seed deep into your friend, and after a few minutes of gasping breaths, she gathered up her clothes, thanked me, and left.

I continued to lay there panting for a few moments longer before I got up and relocked the door behind your friend. Still nude, I flopped back on the bed on my back. My cock was angled directly at you, still mostly hard and glistening with cum and your friend's juices. After a couple of minutes of awkward silence, you caught me looking at the closet door again. I looked away out the window, and you were too afraid to move. Afraid to be caught. Your heart pounded in your chest, fearful of what I would say, what our parents would say. I made a frustrated face and then huffed loudly. I finally looked at the closet door again and made eye contact with you. I rolled my eyes and finally spoke.

"Well? Are you going to cower in there, or are you going to come and get a taste, clean me up? Figured I've made you wait long enough... C'mere, meimei, let me show you how happy a birthday you can have..."

[swiftiethatlovesf1]

Heyy, could you maybe do an age difference reader x Toto Wolff or sunshine x grumpy, where he has one of his headphone breaking moments and she scolds him in the middle of the garage? Like I’d find super funny like his smaller, younger wife yelling at him for breaking his headphones and the fans and media eating that up haha. Please and thanks!! <3

The hum of the Mercedes garage was as familiar as it was chaotic, a rhythm of voices, machinery, and focused intensity. Engineers moved swiftly, the clatter of tools punctuating their discussions as mechanics fine-tuned the car for the upcoming race. Amidst the organized chaos, you stood by the monitors, scanning data with a calm focus that contrasted sharply with the frenetic energy around you.

Then it happened.

“Verdammt!” Toto’s voice boomed from the other end of the garage, startling even the most seasoned team members. Heads turned to see him, towering as always, but now radiating frustration. His expression was a storm cloud, and in his hands were the remnants of his latest pair of Bose headphones, the poor device snapped clean in two.

You let out a sigh, half amused, half exasperated. Your husband—the esteemed team principal of Mercedes-AMG Petronas, feared and respected across the paddock—had once again succumbed to his infamous headphone-breaking habit.

“Oh no, not again,” you muttered under your breath. You handed your tablet to a nearby engineer and strode across the garage, weaving through the maze of equipment and personnel. The team parted like the Red Sea as you approached, sensing what was about to unfold.

Toto stood there, oblivious to the audience he had attracted. His broad shoulders heaved as he tried to rein in his temper, the broken headphones dangling from his massive hands. He looked every bit the grumpy giant he was known to be, but to you, it was just another Friday.

“Toto Wolff,” you began, your voice sharp enough to cut through the air. His head snapped up, and his stormy gaze softened—just a little—when it landed on you. But his sheepish expression did nothing to quell your determination.

“What on earth do you think you’re doing?” you demanded, planting your hands on your hips. Despite being significantly shorter and younger than him, you had no trouble commanding the attention of a man who could intimidate entire boardrooms.

“They broke,” Toto said, as if that explained everything. He held up the shattered headphones as evidence, his Austrian accent thick in his defense.

“Oh, really?” you shot back, sarcasm dripping from your words. “Did they break, or did you break them? Because I’ve lost count of how many pairs you’ve destroyed this season alone. What is it now, five? Six?”

A snicker rippled through the garage, and you caught George trying to suppress a grin from where he stood by the car. Even the media personnel hovering near the entrance couldn’t hide their amusement, cameras clicking furiously to capture the moment.

Toto’s ears turned red, a rare crack in his composed demeanor. “It was… a stressful situation,” he mumbled, looking anywhere but at you.

“Stressful?” you echoed, raising an eyebrow. “And snapping your headphones in half helps how, exactly? Are you planning to intimidate Red Bull with broken electronics now?”

The garage erupted in laughter, and Toto’s lips twitched, caught between a scowl and a smile. He shifted awkwardly, the 6’4” team principal suddenly looking very much like a schoolboy caught red-handed.

“You need to control your temper, mein Liebling,” you said, softening your tone but not your resolve. “You’re setting a terrible example for the team. And for the record, I’m not buying you another pair. You can use the cheap earbuds like everyone else until you learn some self-restraint.”

Toto’s eyes widened, the horror of your words sinking in. “Not the earbuds,” he said, as if you’d suggested he race barefoot.

“Yes, the earbuds,” you confirmed, folding your arms. “Consider it a lesson in anger management.”

Another wave of laughter rippled through the team, and even Toto couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped him. He looked down at you, his eyes twinkling with a mix of amusement and affection.

“You’re terrifying when you’re angry,” he said, his voice low enough that only you could hear.

“Good,” you replied, poking a finger into his chest. “Maybe you’ll finally listen to me.”

As you turned to walk away, the garage buzzed with whispered commentary and stifled laughs. The moment had been caught by every camera in the vicinity, and you had no doubt it would be all over social media within the hour.

A shadow loomed over you, and you turned to see Toto standing there, an apologetic smile on his face. In his hand was a hastily repaired pair of headphones, held together with duct tape.

“I’ll behave,” he promised, leaning down to press a quick kiss to your forehead. “No more broken headphones.”

“Good,” you said, giving him a pointed look. “Because next time, it’ll be the earbuds and no kisses for a week.”

He groaned dramatically but nodded, retreating to his post with his makeshift headphones. You shook your head, a fond smile tugging at your lips. He might be a grumpy giant with a penchant for breaking expensive electronics, but he was your grumpy giant. And if keeping him in line meant scolding him in front of the entire team, well, you were more than up to the task.

[ari-ana-bel-la]

Heyyy Can you write a Dad!lewis where he’s getting ready for a race, but his little daughter insists on helping him. Maybe she tries to zip up his suit, hands him his helmet, or gives him a “good luck” kiss before he heads to the grid. The team finds it absolutely adorable, and he makes sure to let her know she’s his lucky charm.

Good luck charm

The rain tapped gently against the roof of the Ferrari garage, a soft, rhythmic patter that filled the air while the team bustled around, preparing for the upcoming race. It was one of those unpredictable race weekends where the weather refused to cooperate, but for a three-year-old girl named Yn, it was nothing short of magical.

Yn stood near the edge of the garage, her tiny hands clutching a bright red Ferrari flag that one of the engineers had given her earlier. Her eyes sparkled with wonder as she watched the sleek, red car sitting proudly in the center of the garage. It was her dad’s car, and to her, it was the coolest thing in the whole world.

"Wow," she whispered, as the tires were swapped and checked with impressive speed. Everything felt so big, loud, and important, but Yn wasn’t scared. Not when everyone around her was so kind.

A soft chuckle came from beside her. "Do you like it, Yn?" Angela asked, crouching down to her level. She had a warm smile, the kind that made Yn feel safe and comfortable.

Yn nodded enthusiastically, her curls bouncing with the motion. "It’s so fast!" she exclaimed, making Angela laugh quietly.

Across the garage, Lewis stood in his fireproofs, stretching his arms as he chatted with one of the engineers. Even when he was busy, his eyes would flick over to Yn, making sure she was okay. He loved having her at the track. It was something special, sharing this world with his little girl.

"Daddy is fast," Yn declared proudly, watching as the team moved around him.

"He is," Angela agreed, giving her a little squeeze on the shoulder. "He’s one of the fastest."

The Ferrari crew adored Yn. From the moment she had toddled into the garage with Lewis earlier that morning, she had captured all their hearts. It was impossible not to smile when she was around, especially when she clapped her hands excitedly every time she heard the roar of an engine.

"Yn, bambina!" One of the mechanics called out, holding up a small red cap with the team logo. "Want to try this on?"

Yn's eyes lit up. She let Angela guide her over, and she giggled as the mechanic gently placed the cap on her head. It was a little too big, but she loved it anyway. "Look!" she said, turning toward Angela. "I match Daddy!"

"You do," Angela agreed, brushing a curl out of her face. "You’re his little good luck charm."

Across the garage, Lewis caught sight of his daughter in the oversized cap and smiled to himself. She was having the time of her life, and honestly, it made all the rain and the delays worth it.

"Alright, let’s get started," Angela said softly to Lewis as she walked over. "Race time."

As Angela began to help him with his gear, Yn's curious eyes followed every movement. She watched as Angela picked up the balaclava and handed it to Lewis. Without thinking, Yn rushed over, her little feet tapping against the floor.

"I help!" she announced, her hands outstretched.

Lewis turned, a little surprised but immediately softened when he saw her eager expression. "You want to help me get ready, sweetheart?" he asked gently.

Yn nodded, her face serious with concentration. "I do it," she said firmly.

Angela laughed softly and handed YN the balaclava. "Alright, you can help."

Yn clutched the soft fabric and held it up to her dad. "Here, Daddy. You need this."

Lewis knelt down slightly so she could reach him easier. "Thank you, baby girl," he said, letting her place it in his hands. "You’re so helpful."

Her chest puffed out with pride as she returned to Angela, her eyes scanning the equipment. Next were the gloves, which Angela passed to her with a knowing smile. Yn took her job very seriously, toddling back to her father and handing him each glove carefully.

"Gloves, Daddy," she announced, watching as he pulled them on.

"I don’t know what I’d do without you," Lewis said playfully, wiggling his fingers in the gloves.

When Angela picked up the earpiece, Yn held her hands out again. She carried it carefully to her dad, who crouched down in front of her. "This too," she said, her voice soft but confident.

"You’re amazing," Lewis told her, letting her tuck a braid behind his ear as she handed it over.

Finally, Angela handed her his helmet, but Yn knew it was heavy, so she carried it slowly to him, setting it down gently on the floor. She stood back, tapping her chin as if she was thinking very hard.

"Daddy, you need to kneel," she instructed seriously.

Lewis blinked in surprise, exchanging a curious glance with Angela, who only shrugged with amusement. "Okay," he said, lowering himself down onto one knee. "Like this?"

Yn nodded decisively before stepping forward and placing a soft, warm kiss on his cheek. "Good luck kiss," she whispered, her voice as sweet as honey.

For a moment, Lewis forgot all about the race. His heart melted at the gesture, and he couldn’t stop the wide smile spreading across his face. "Thank you, baby," he murmured, pulling her into a hug. " You are the best good luck charm ever."

She giggled softly, and as he released her, she picked up his helmet and handed it to him. "Now you ready," she declared.

"I am now," Lewis agreed, giving her a soft kiss on the forehead. "You did such a good job helping."

The Ferrari crew, who had been quietly watching the whole interaction, exchanged smiles and soft chuckles. The sight of their star driver being so soft with his little girl was almost too much. Even in the chaos of a race weekend, moments like this felt like magic.

Angela scooped Yn up into her arms, rocking her gently as Lewis stood up and adjusted his helmet. "You were amazing, Yn," Angela whispered. "Dad’s going to win with your good luck."

"He will?" Yn asked, eyes wide with wonder.

"Of course," Angela assured her. "Because you helped."

Before climbing into the car, Lewis turned back toward them. With a smile, he sent Yn a playful blow kiss.

YN's eyes lit up, and with a delighted giggle, she clapped her hands together, catching the invisible kiss. She held her closed fist to her heart, looking up at Angela proudly. "I caught it!"

Angela kissed the top of her head, swaying gently. "You did so good today, sweetheart."

The engines roared to life, the vibrations filling the garage as Lewis rolled out onto the wet track. But for Yn, the loud noises didn’t matter. She was too busy watching her dad, knowing deep down that he would win, because her good luck kiss was the most powerful thing in the world.

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♥︎♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

Authors Note: I hope you all enjoyed this little piece. My requests are always open for you.

-💙🦋

[souliebird]

[[and then I met you || ch. 27]]

Series: Daredevil || Pairing: Matt Murdock x Fem!Reader || Rating: Explicit

Summary:

A one-night stand years ago gave you a daughter and you are now able to put a name to her father – Matthew Murdock. Everything is about to change again as you navigate trying to integrate your life with that of the handsome and charming blind lawyer’s and Matt realizes he needs to not only protect his new family from Hell's Kitchen, but from the world.

chapter masterlist

Words: 4.4k

ao3 link

Police Arrest Three After Mass Protests in LA County

By C. Grant

Three people were arrested in Pasadena, California yesterday after a crowd gathered to protest the death of Sheila Pom. Police say the three individuals, whose names have not yet been released, appeared to be Enhanceds attempting to agitate the crowd. Witnesses claim one of the individuals was creating sparks with their fingers and threatening to start a fire, while the two others encouraged the behavior. Police have made no comment about these arrests and all questions about the incident have been redirected to a now defunct phone number. 

Sheila Pom was killed in an officer-related shooting two weeks ago after neighbors reported her as a Dangerous Individual under the new Sokovia Accords Act. Pom, 23, worked at her uncle’s auto body shop as a mechanic while also attending online classes to get a degree in Engineering. She was also a telekinetic - someone who can move objects with their mind. 

Pom was known to not be shy about her gifts. Pom was seen frequently lifting cars and trucks within garages without the help of equipment and is rumored to have once righted a tipped over semi-truck. Neighbors became concerned when Pom began using her gifts at home.

“We’d come home, and things would be floating up and down the street,” one neighbor said.

Another claimed Pom was unstable, and when she would become upset, things around her would begin to shake.

“I thought it was an earthquake until my TV hit the ceiling,” a source who lived in the same building Pom told GKTV, “I learned the next day her boyfriend broke up with her.”

Officers were called when Pom refused to return a motorcycle to the ground while working on it in a residential neighborhood. After a brief standoff, officers fired two shots, striking Pom in the head, and killing her. 

Pom’s family claims she was unaware of the officer’s presence, as wireless earbuds were found near her body after. Pom was known to listen to music to block the noise of machines. 

Protests began after the officers involved in the incident were cleared of any wrongdoing. 

----

A full-page ad takes over your screen, and instead of continuing to read the depressing article, you close the tab.

There has been a palpable unrest in the news cycle the past week that is starting to leave you with an uneasy feeling in your stomach. You’ve noticed a shift in the general narrative tone and terminology used when discussing people who have superpowers. 

Before Sokovia, before Lagos, before Connecticut, the morning shows would bring on people with amazing gifts and gently joke about them joining the Avengers as they made water fly around the set, but now those same hosts debate if they should be allowed to have the right to privacy. ‘Enhanced Peoples’ has been shortened to just Enhanceds and is now spit out like it is something dirty. 

You don’t know when the conversation stopped centering around heroes and vigilantes and started being about everyday people, but it scares you that the change happened. There seems to be no official power scale about what is deemed ‘dangerous’ and your mind keeps zipping all over the place trying to justify different lines of thinking.

Does Matt fall under the category of Dangerous? 

He is a vigilante, so by default the Accords are directed at him, but is it doubly so? If he was forced to reveal himself to the government, would they require him to wear a tracking device? Or would they try to lock him up?

Could he fight it in court, or would they whisk him away in the middle of the night and you’d never know what happened?

If Matt is deemed Dangerous because of his senses, and not just because he is a vigilante, would Minnie be considered the same?

With how intense and angry everyone is becoming you could see yourself having to take her in to be tested.

To be monitored. 

And she is just a baby. 

You can’t imagine how others must feel - people who are older, who are just trying to live their lives. The girl who was killed was just trying to fix her bike, like millions of other people do every weekend. She wasn’t going to other countries to fight terrorists. She wasn’t trying to use her powers to rule over others. She wasn’t hurting anyone.

But she was different, so they killed her.

“Mommy! Mommy! Mommy! I need help!”

You’re ripped from your spiraling thoughts and look across the room to where Minnie is sprawled out on the floor. Her Starkpad is in front of her, and she’s set up Pig and Scooby so they are also peering down at the device and you know exactly what she is doing.

It is the same thing she has been doing for a week straight - playing a bootleg Muppet’s math game. 

Since meeting Spider-man, all your little Mouse has wanted to do is learn math. She keeps saying she wants to impress him and make him proud, and you are in no way going to discourage her. Every day has been filled with counting and addition and subtraction and you are a bit amazed she has stayed so focused. 

You are not going to complain at all about it - you are getting time to yourself while she has been glued to Elmo and Kermit. 

You leave your phone on the dining table and head towards your daughter.

“You need help?” you confirm as you crouch beside her. The screen shows a Muppet you don’t recognize, along with various numbers floating around them, and up at the top, the equation that has your little Mouse stumped. 

“I need help!” Minnie repeats as she scrambles up off her belly and into sitting. “I don’t have enough fingers!” 

She holds up both her hands to show you all ten of her itty-bitty fingers and you make a sympathetic noise. 

Mouse has been getting pretty good at using her fingers to help her with addition and subtraction, but on only one hand. She uses the index finger on her right hand to help count by pointing at each finger and hasn’t quite worked out she can use her fingers to point and count. That is okay, though, as you are happy to lend yours to her important cause. 

“Okay, how many fingers do you need?”

You hold out your hands and she instantly begins to manipulate them. 

“This one…this one needs three! One, two, three!” She pushes your thumb and index finger down so the other three remain up, then she pushes down the pinky of the other hand. “And this one is four!”

“So, three and four? What are we doing with three and four?” You ask, trying to not laugh at her determined face.

“We adds them!” She chirps, before starting to jab at your fingers, “One, two, three, four, five, six, seven! That’s seven fingers! Mommy, it’s seven! Three plus four is seven!” 

“That’s right, it is seven. Which number is seven?” You direct her back to her game, where she triumphantly picks the correct symbol. The Muppet congratulates her before presenting a new equation. 

Minnie squeals in delight before ripping the device off the ground and shoving it in your face, “I know this one! Mommy! I know this one! It’s three! Mommy! It’s three!” 

You can’t even process what the question is before the screen is out of sight. Your daughter holds her Starkpad above her head, treating it like some war prize as she starts spinning and dancing around the living room. 

“It’s three! It’s three! It’s three!” 

You laugh at her antics, heartwarming at her pureness. How could anyone ever think she’s a danger?

“Are you sure it’s three?” You tease as you watch her. 

She whips around to you, eyes scrunching up into a glare, and barks, “It’s three!”

“Okay, okay, it’s three.”

You push yourself up into standing just as Mouse returns to her spot. She drops her Starkpad to the ground a little harder than you would prefer, but that is why it has a big bulky case. She plops down in front of it and happily smacks the number three that is floating around the screen.

You let yourself watch her for a few seconds, silently bombarding her with all the love you feel for her. You want to wrap her up and live in this bubble forever.

Except, there is one element missing from your perfect moment. You wish there were a pair of arms wrapped around your waist and a chin on your shoulder. You want to lean back against a muscular chest and lose yourself to eternity like that. 

Instead of indulging those thoughts, you tell yourself to stop fantasizing and you make your way back to the kitchen to check on dinner.

Vegetable curry has been simmering on the stove for most of the day. It has been a while since you had the energy to make the dish from scratch, but you had a craving this morning and went all out. You’ve made curry for Minnie before, and she did not complain - though you think that is because her portion was mostly rice and hot dog cuts. You plan to do the same again tonight, and if she wants more sauce, you’ll give it to her. 

You check your seasonings and give everything a stir to make sure nothing gets stuck at the bottom of the pot. The rich aroma tickles your nose, and you are glad you don’t have to wait much longer to treat yourself.

As you debate adding a pinch more salt, you catch Minnie sneaking towards you out of the corner of your eye. Her movements are slow and dramatic, and you pretend you don’t notice her. This ruse works, and you appropriately jump in fear when she suddenly tugs on your shirt.

“Up!” She demands and you oblige, scooping your daughter onto your hip. As soon as she is high enough, she cups her hands around your ear and leans into whisper, “Daddy saids the food smells yummy-yummy.”

She quickly dissolves into giggles, and it is infectious, so you end up smiling. 

Matt hasn’t been over for dinner in a hot minute, and you are hoping to have a nice quiet family night, before he goes out on his Patrol. The plan is to watch a movie after your meal and Minnie has already prepared for this by dragging multiple blankets out to the couch. You just know she is going to demand a cuddle pile, and now that you and Matt are intimate, it isn’t something you are nervous about. 

You just want to have a good time.

“Can you tell Daddy everything is almost ready?” you ask, even though you know Matt can probably hear you just fine. 

Mouse, always eager to be helpful, nods and relays the message directly into your ear. You try to not grimace, and so it won’t happen again, set her down on the ground. 

“Can you plug in your Starkpad so it can sleep for the night?” 

She streaks off to do her newly assigned task, leaving you to start setting the table. When you were at the store, you bought Matt a bottle of beer - a brand you know he likes - and you set it at his designated spot. You’ve grown accustomed to just drinking water and juice, but you don’t want to push that on to him - not when he’s a guest and coming over after a long day of work. 

As you start to make everyone’s plates, you hear the water in the bathroom turn on. You know Minnie knows the routine for getting ready for dinner and you just hope she isn’t trying to wash Scooby’s paws again. You are worried he’ll end up moldy and you aren’t sure what you will do if that happens. You peek into the living room and are relieved to see your daughter’s best friends have been relocated to sitting on the coffee table, facing the television. 

You finish setting everything up just in time, it seems. Minnie runs from the hallway right to the door as you go to wash your own hands, and you rush to get all the soap off so you can help her open the door. 

Matt is standing on the other side, looking handsome as ever in a gray suit. He looks like he’s had a busy day - his hair is windswept, and he is sporting a strong five o’clock shadow. There is a garment bag draped over his arm and his saddle bag looks a little bulkier than usual and you wonder if he ran some errands on his lunch - picking up his dry cleaning and such. 

You barely have time to take in his appearance before Mouse is launching herself at him.

“Daddy!” She shrieks and Matt oh so easily swings her up onto his hip. “Daddy! We’re having vege-tuhble kermies for dinner! I helped make it! I cut up ALL the carrots! By myself!”

“By yourself, huh?” Matt confirms, a bright, warm smile taking up his entire face. “Soon you’ll be making us dinner.”

You step aside so he can come in and help to take his things to hang while Mouse soaks up his attention. 

“No! Mommy makes dinner because…’cause she makes the bestest foods. I just help!”

“You are a very good helper,” you interject, “You keep a very clean workstation. A professional chef would be proud.”

Minnie beams at the praise, then a microsecond later, is wiggling in to be let down. Her feet hit the ground and she takes off running back toward the living room, probably to collect something to show off to her Daddy. 

Matt takes the small break to turn his attention to you. A hand goes to your cheek, and instead of a brief ‘hello’ peck, he kisses you like he wants to turn and pin you to the wall. It catches you off guard, but you easily melt into it. You clutch at the lapel of his suit jacket and try to not moan as he nips at your lips. You open your mouth for him, but being the tease he is, he pulls back just enough to whisper against you.

“Been thinking about that all day.” 

The words send your blood rushing - some north to your cheeks and the rest to your cunt. 

He’d been thinking about you? About wanting to kiss you? Or has he been thinking about more than that - because you must admit, you’ve been thinking about it. You’ve had more than a few thoughts about what you want to do to him the next time you two are alone together and those thoughts were certainly very explicit. 

“Matt…” you totally do not whine out but instead of replying, his grin just turns cocky. He pulls away as Minnie returns to the entryway, and you decide you need a drink of your water. You escape and Mouse starts showing off her latest masterpieces to Matt. 

Food coloring, cotton balls, and popsicle sticks have proven to be a massive hit and Minnie has made a whole collection of things for Matt - there’s butterflies and flowers, a house with clouds, and various abstract pieces. You are sure his office is already filled to the brim with his daughter’s art, and you would not be surprised if he started to hang things from the ceiling when he does run out of room. He seems to treasure every little thing Minnie has given him and it warms your heart so much. You hope that love never runs out. 

Somehow, Matt ushers Minnie back to the dining room while she shoves different papers into his hands and gets her up in her booster seat. 

“I’m going to put all these in my bag, so they don’t get dirty or lost, okay?” He tells Minnie, who nods way too enthusiastically. 

“Keep them clean!”  And then, just like that, she switches from being excited her Daddy is there to being a hungry toddler. She whips around to face you and asks in an almost impatient manner, “Can I has my hot dogs now?”

You give her the go ahead as Matt returns to the table and takes his place. You quickly tell him the placement of everything, including his beer, then quickly add, “If you don’t like it, I have a few different things I could make you. Or we could order something.”

A brief panic runs through you when Matt scoffs. You think you’ve insulted him - having him come all the way to Chelsea to eat a dinner he won’t enjoy and having to find a substitute. 

“I love curry and this smells delicious. I wouldn’t trade it for the world - in fact, I’m hoping some of those leftovers on the stove are for me to take home and lord over Fog tomorrow.”

You flush at his sweetness and mumble out you’ll pack him some to go. This seems to please him, and he starts to dig in. Ever the little parrot, Minnie mimics him by shoveling food into her mouth with a big grin and you can’t help but laugh a little. 

“It’s nummy!” Your little one declares, and even if she’s just eating plain rice right now, you’ll take it as a win. You know well she won’t eat what she doesn’t like.

“Speaking of yummy,” Matt starts, slow and deliberate, with his head angled towards you, “I was hoping we could go somewhere yummy together.”

You blink slowly at the statement, rolling it over in your mind and trying to dissect the meaning. Did he want to go somewhere for dessert? Maybe get ice cream or something? “Somewhere yummy…?” 

“Mhm,” he hums, then his smile becomes a bit more sly. Even though you know it isn’t true, you feel like, behind his glasses, he is hungrily looking you up and down, “Somewhere like Uvas.”

The name doesn’t automatically generate anything for you, but after a moment, it dawns on you. Uvas in a Spanish restaurant near Central Park known to be high end and impossible to get into. It’s been in the local tabloids a few times for turning away minor celebrities who don’t meet the dress code. You’re mouth parts slightly in shock.

“What’s Oo-vuhas?” Minnie asks around her fork, her big eyes looking between you and Matt. “Do theys has yummy foods?”

“Oh, they have yummy food,” Matt teases. He then leans forward a bit in his seat and stage whispers to her, “It’s where I want to take Mommy for a date.”

“A date?” Minnie scrunches up her face at the word while your mind is still spinning. 

Matt wants to take you on a date? To Uvas? You have never been anywhere that fancy or expensive as a date. Hell, you’ve never been somewhere that fancy, period. The nicest date you’ve ever been on was Hard Rock Cafe - which says a lot about your dating life.

“A date,” Matt confirms, smug and knowingly scheming. You can hear it in his voice as he tells Minnie, “That is where Mommy and Daddy go and have dinner together as grown-ups.”

Up goes Minnie’s hand into her mouth, but it stays there only a split second. Her eyes get impossibly bigger and filled with wonder, and she whispers, “Like Lady and Tramp?”

“Exactly like Lady and Tramp.”

“Mommy!” Minnie says a little too loudly, pointing her fork at you. “You gotta go to Oo-vuhas and be Lady and Tramp! You gotta!”

And at that moment you know you can’t say no, and that Matt knows that. You can’t tell your daughter you don’t want to be like Lady and Tramp. Not that you don’t want to go on a date with Matt - the idea gets you giddy and makes your stomach flutter - but you thought if it happened, it would be a coffee or something. Not somewhere where you can’t even afford to look at the building. The idea makes you a little nauseous, because you are sure you’d make an absolute fool of yourself.

But Matt looks determined and sure of himself. You are certain he asked in front of Minnie so that she could help bully you into saying yes to such a lavish date. 

Luckily, your mind is working in overdrive, and you choke out, “I don’t have anything to wear. They have a dress code, don’t they?”

You don’t expect Matt to push his chair out and get up. Your throat instantly tightens up and fear shoots up your spine. Have you offended him? He clearly wants to do something with you and you’re over here hesitating. You must be coming off as a complete bitch. 

You start to stand up yourself as Matt disappears into the entryway. You don’t think he’d just leave without saying goodbye to Minnie.

Maybe you can talk to him - explain that somewhere a little less grand would be ideal to start.

Before you can start to follow him, Matt is coming back to the table, holding up the garment bag he brought with him, still looking like the cat that got the canary. 

“I thought you might say that,” he starts, his voice almost a little musical, “so I got you this.” 

You stare dumbly at him, shock and confusion overtaking your system. 

He got you something to wear? To Uvas? 

No one has ever bought you clothes before - except your parents. Even when you were pregnant, the small amount of gifts you got were all for Minnie. 

You distantly hear Minnie start saying something about presents, but it is all muffled under the sound of blood pumping through your ears. You step forward hesitantly and reach out for the zipper of the bag, your hand shaking slightly.

You expect it to be a joke. You’re going to open the bag and there’s going to be a clown costume inside, or a skimpy dress people like arm candy to wear, or something akin to a Burka. 

You don’t expect a black floor length sheath gown. The silhouette is simple, but you can tell just by looking at it the quality of the dress is top notch. The fabric has a nice weight to it, and it is incredibly soft to the touch that you have the distinct feeling that it did not come from a dress warehouse or a department store. 

This type of dress would come from a boutique uptown and would cost a few hundred dollars. 

You are so caught up in admiring the dress, you don’t notice Minnie come up beside you until she is also touching the dress. Panic that she might have crumbs or curry on her fingers runs through you, but you force it down.

“It’s like a princess dress for Mommy!” Mouse cooes and you feel your face start to heat up.

You’ve never worn something so nice before and certainly nothing that would be fit for a princess, but it seems like Matt and Minnie are on the same page.

“Well, I want Mommy to feel like a princess.” 

You want to hide your face, but you know you can’t, so you cover your mouth instead.

“Matt, this is beautiful. But this is so much, I can’t accept this.” 

You know that while Matt is a lawyer, he’s still struggling a bit financially. If he had his way, you know he wouldn’t charge anyone for his services, and even though Nelson, Murdock, and Page has paying customers, they still have to stagger out their bills. 

He shouldn’t be spending his hard saved money on you. 

Matt sighs your name before gently draping the garment bag over the back of his dining chair and stepping towards you. Both his hands go to your waist, and you freeze up as he steps close enough to press his forehead to yours. Your heart begins to wildly beat when his hands slowly begin to rub your sides. 

“Let me spoil you. To make up for all the dates I’ve missed. Please?” His lips dip into a small frown and you feel like you’ve kicked a puppy. 

He’s gone out of his way for you, and you are being so ungrateful. 

But it is so hard to say yes. Guilt is pooling in your stomach, and you just want to disappear into the shadows and be forgotten about. That is so much easier than Matt holding you, saying such sweet things.

You don’t want to ruin everything. 

You close your eyes as you have a war inside yourself. All you have to say is ‘Yes’ and you’ll make Matt happy, but the monster inside of you keeps dragging your mind into a pit. 

Matt wants to treat you like a princess, but how crushing will it be when he decides that is no longer the case? Can you take that?

The corners of your eyes start to sting and your monster starts to mock you for getting worked up over something as simple as being asked on a date. 

Why can’t you be normal?

Why can’t you accept this?

Why can’t -

The thoughts cease as Matt’s lips press against yours, soft and sweet and tempting. You respond hesitantly.

“Let me take care of you,” he breathes into your mouth, making you shudder. “You deserve it.” 

“You deserve it!” Minnie chirps from beside your knees and you very suddenly remember where you are and what you were doing. You try to pull away from Matt, thinking Minnie hasn’t seen the two of you like this yet, and it might confuse her, but he keeps his hands firmly planted on your hips, not letting you go. You don’t try to fight it, instead, you turn your head away, trying to hide away in your shell. 

You know there is no way you will win this. Matt is determined and he clearly has Minnie on his side, so, very hesitantly, and feeling like you are going to throw up at any moment, you nod into Matt’s shoulder.

“Okay.”

Mouse lets out a deafening cheer and you feel her dart away.

“LADY AND TRAMP! LADY AND TRAMP! LADY AND TRAMP!”

Matt laughs at her excitement over something she doesn’t understand, while you tuck yourself into his hold, wondering how long you have before he ends up shattering your heart into pieces.

---

tags:

@two-unbeatable-beaters @kiwwia-wiwwia @1988-fiend @xblueriddlex @loves0phelia @ninacotte @lovelyygirl8 @littlenosoul @ednaaa-04  @astridstark13

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@Specialagentjackbauer  @yarrystyleeza @ofmusesandsecrets

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 @allllium @waywardcrow @thatkindofgurl @waywardxrhea 

@anehkael @akilatwt @lostinthefantasies @reluctanthalfwayoptimism @ethereal-blaze

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@ladyoflynx @hobiebrowns-wife @sarcasm-n-insomnia @lillycore 

@dorothleah @mattmurdocksstarlight @mars-on-vinyl @mywellspringoflife @sleepdeprived-barelyalive @simmilarly @soupyspence @darkened-writer @akila-twt

@murc0ckmurc0ck @groovycass @sumo-b98 @just3rowsing @tongueofcat @zoom1374

@theclassicvinyldragon @aoi-targaryen @lunaticgurly @nikitawolfxo @shireentapestry @snakevyro @yondiii @echos-muses @honeybug-victoria @the-bisaster @ristare 

@mrs-bellingham @eugene-emt-roe @cometenthusiast @stevenknightmarc @yes-im-your-mom @hunnybelha @actorinfluence @capbrie @prowlingforfood @jupitervenusearthmars

@mayp11-blog @danzer8705 @thinking-at-dusk @remuslupinwifee @akila-twt  @nommingonfood @mattmurdocks6thscaleapartment @dil3mma @allllium 

[iamquiantrelle]

XOXO YOUR FAVE WAG (ONE SHOT) • iamquaintrelle

# summary: your fave wag meets lewis hamilton. based on this ask.

# wc: 6.6k

# pairings: kylian mbappe x black spoiled gf (fc: 6kenza)

# tags: @kmlottin @masn-mount @leighjadeclimbedmtkilimanjaro @szariahwroteit @muglermami @sailurmewn @perfecttrashface @angstdaddy @jasmystique

# author’s note: got a scenario for your fave wag? - send them here // one shot series masterlist

PART V: SIR LEWIS HAMILTON

May 2024

The Monaco sun beat down mercilessly on the harbor, transforming the Mediterranean into a glittering mirror that made her squint even behind her designer sunglasses. She adjusted the brim of her wide hat, trying to find relief from the heat while maintaining the effortless chic look she'd spent an hour perfecting that morning.

"Tu transpires déjà?" Kylian teased, sliding his arm around her waist as they walked through the paddock. His PSG cap was pulled low, but she could see the amusement dancing in his eyes.

"It's hot as hell," she replied, fanning herself with the VIP pass hanging around her neck. "How do these drivers wear full racing suits in this weather?"

"Because they're not soft like you," he grinned, dodging the playful swat she aimed at his chest.

The Monaco Grand Prix paddock was a circus of organized chaos—mechanics wheeling equipment, journalists chasing interviews, celebrities posing for photos, and fans pressing against barriers hoping for a glimpse of their heroes. She'd been to plenty of football matches, but this was different. The energy was more electric, more dangerous somehow.

"Remind me why we're here again?" she asked, accepting the bottle of water Kylian offered her from the cooler their security detail was carrying.

"Because you wouldn't shut up about wanting to meet Lewis Hamilton," he replied dryly.

Heat rushed to her cheeks that had nothing to do with the Monaco sun. "I did not—"

"'Oh my God, Ky, Lewis Hamilton is so fine.' 'Did you see Lewis in that suit?' 'Lewis Hamilton could run me over with his car and I'd thank him.'" Kylian mimicked her voice with exaggerated breathiness.

"I don't sound like that," she protested, though she was fighting back a smile. "And I never said that last one."

"You thought it loud enough."

Before she could respond, a commotion near the Mercedes garage caught their attention. A small crowd had gathered, phones raised, as someone emerged from the silver and black hospitality area. Even from a distance, she recognized the distinctive figure immediately.

Lewis Hamilton stood in animated conversation with his team, hands gesturing as he spoke. He wore a cream-colored linen shirt unbuttoned to reveal the intricate tattoos covering his chest and arms—geometric patterns mixed with meaningful symbols that she'd studied in countless magazine photos. His hair was styled in neat braids that highlighted the sharp angles of his face, and when he laughed at something his engineer said, she felt her stomach do a little flip.

"Merde," she breathed, suddenly feeling underdressed despite wearing a designer outfit that cost more than most people's monthly salary.

"You're drooling," Kylian observed with barely concealed irritation.

"I am not drooling." But she reached up to check anyway, just in case. "He's just... he's Lewis fucking Hamilton, Ky. Seven-time world champion. Racing legend. Fashion icon."

"Tattooed pretty boy who drives in circles for a living," Kylian muttered.

She turned to stare at him. "Are you jealous?"

"Of him? Non." But the tightness around his eyes suggested otherwise. "I just don't understand the obsession."

"The same way teenage girls obsess over you?"

"That's different. I'm actually good at my sport."

"Lewis has won seven world championships!"

"In a car that does half the work."

She was about to argue further when their VIP guide approached, clipboard in hand and an eager smile on her face.

"Mr. Mbappé, Ms..." she paused, clearly unsure how to address her.

"Just call me by my first name," she supplied with a friendly smile.

"Perfect! I have some exciting news. Mercedes would love to give you both a private tour of their garage, and Lewis Hamilton specifically requested to meet you both." The guide's enthusiasm was infectious. "Would you be interested?"

She felt her heart stop, then start again at double speed. "He... he asked to meet us?"

"Well, technically he asked to meet Mr. Mbappé, but of course partners are always included," the guide clarified. "He's a big football fan."

Kylian's expression shifted to something more pleased. "Of course he is. Lead the way."

As they followed the guide toward the Mercedes garage, she found herself growing increasingly nervous. This was Lewis Hamilton—she'd had a crush on him since she was a teenager watching her first Formula 1 race. What was she supposed to say? How was she supposed to act normal?

"Respire," Kylian murmured near her ear. "It's just a guy."

"It's not just a guy, it's—"

"Lewis Hamilton, I know. You've mentioned it approximately forty-seven times since we got here."

The Mercedes garage was organized chaos—mechanics working on car setups, engineers analyzing data on multiple screens, the smell of rubber and fuel mixing with the sea air drifting in from the harbor. And in the center of it all, looking completely at ease despite the pressure of race weekend, was Lewis.

Up close, he was somehow even more striking than in photos. The tattoos covering his arms were works of art—she could see a lion on his right shoulder, geometric patterns weaving down his forearms, script she couldn't read from this distance inked along his collarbone. His braids were perfectly styled, and when he looked up as they approached, his smile was warm and genuine.

"Kylian Mbappé!" Lewis stood, extending his hand. "Man, it's an honor. I've been following your career for years. That World Cup final was insane."

"Merci," Kylian replied, shaking his hand with professional warmth. "I've been watching you dominate for years too. Seven championships is incredible."

"Thank you, brother." Lewis's eyes shifted to her, and she felt her breath catch. "And you must be the beautiful girlfriend I keep seeing in the papers."

Heat flooded her cheeks as she accepted his offered hand. "Nice to meet you," she managed, hoping her English didn't sound as stilted as it felt.

Lewis's smile widened. "French accent, right? You sound absolutely adorable."

She felt her face grow even hotter. "My English is... not so good," she admitted, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear nervously.

"Are you kidding? Your accent is cute as hell." Lewis still hadn't let go of her hand. "Where in France are you from?"

"Just outside Paris," she replied, acutely aware of how thick her accent sounded compared to his smooth British one.

"I love Paris. I have a place there actually, in the 16th. Maybe we'll run into each other sometime."

Beside her, Kylian shifted almost imperceptibly closer. "She's pretty busy with her modeling career," he interjected smoothly. "Lots of travel, lots of commitments."

Lewis's eyes flicked to Kylian, then back to her. "Modeling? That makes sense. You've definitely got the look for it."

"Merci," she said softly, finally remembering to pull her hand back from his grip.

"Would you like a tour of the car?" Lewis offered, gesturing toward the gleaming Mercedes. "I can show you how everything works."

"Oh my God, yes!" The words tumbled out before she could stop them, and she immediately felt embarrassed by her enthusiasm.

Lewis laughed, clearly delighted by her reaction. "I love that energy. Come on."

As he led them toward his race car, explaining the technical aspects in terms she could understand, she found herself hanging on his every word. He was patient with her questions, encouraging when her English faltered, and when he laughed at her attempts to pronounce technical racing terms, it didn't feel mocking—it felt fond.

"The steering wheel alone costs more than most cars," Lewis was explaining, letting her peer into the cockpit. "Want to sit in it?"

"I can do that?" Her eyes widened.

"Course you can. Here, let me help you."

Before Kylian could object, Lewis was offering his hand to help her climb into the tight cockpit. The seat was impossibly narrow, designed for someone much smaller than even her petite frame. She had to squeeze in carefully, acutely aware of Lewis's hands steadying her waist as she maneuvered into position.

"How do you even fit in here?" she asked, looking up at him from the driver's seat.

"Very carefully," he grinned. "What do you think? Feel like racing today?"

"I would crash in the first corner," she laughed, then attempted to add in English, "I am... how you say... très mal at driving."

"Very bad," Lewis corrected gently, still smiling. "And somehow I doubt that. You seem like you could handle anything you put your mind to."

The compliment made her stomach flutter dangerously. She glanced toward Kylian, who was watching the interaction with poorly concealed irritation despite his polite smile.

"She once crashed into our own driveway gate," Kylian said pointedly. "Trust me, you don't want her behind the wheel of anything that expensive."

"Hey!" she protested from inside the car. "That was one time, and it was raining!"

"And you were on the phone," Kylian added.

"Details," she waved dismissively, making Lewis laugh again.

"I like her," Lewis said to Kylian. "She's got personality."

"She's got something, all right," Kylian muttered under his breath.

As Lewis helped her climb out of the car—again with his hands on her waist—she caught sight of more of his tattoos. There was definitely a lion on his right shoulder, but she could also see the edge of what looked like angel wings spanning his upper back, visible through the open collar of his shirt. Script she couldn't read from this angle adorned his left forearm, and there were smaller symbols dotting his wrists and fingers.

"Your tattoos are beautiful," she said without thinking, then immediately blushed at her boldness.

Lewis glanced down at his arms, then back at her with raised eyebrows. "Thank you. This one's my newest," he said, indicating the geometric pattern on his right forearm. "Got it done in New York last month."

"What does it mean?"

"It represents balance—the constant push and pull between order and chaos. Kind of like racing, you know? You need both elements to succeed."

She nodded thoughtfully, genuinely interested despite her nervousness. "That's beautiful. Very... profound?"

"Profound," Lewis repeated with a smile. "Your English is better than you think, you know."

Before she could respond, Kylian stepped between them. "We should probably let you get back to your preparations," he said to Lewis. "I'm sure you have a busy schedule."

"Actually, I was just about to grab lunch. You're both welcome to join me if you'd like," Lewis offered. "There's this great little place just off the harbor—quiet, away from all the cameras."

Kylian's smile became strained. "That's generous, but we actually have plans—"

"We do?" she interrupted, then caught Kylian's sharp look. "Oh, right. Yes, we... have plans."

Lewis looked between them, clearly picking up on the tension. "Another time, then. Maybe when you're in Paris?" This last part was directed at her specifically.

"Maybe," she replied softly, ignoring Kylian's pointed stare.

"Brilliant." Lewis smiled, then turned to Kylian. "Mate, you're lucky. She's absolutely lovely."

"I know," Kylian replied, his arm sliding possessively around her waist. "I'm very aware of how lucky I am."

There was something in his tone that made Lewis's eyebrows raise slightly, but he maintained his friendly demeanor. "Well, it was great meeting you both. Enjoy the rest of your weekend in Monaco."

"Thank you for the tour," she managed, trying to ignore the way Kylian's fingers were digging into her hip. "Good luck in the race."

"Thanks, love. Maybe I'll see you around the paddock later?"

"Maybe," she repeated, though Kylian's grip tightened further.

As they walked away from the Mercedes garage, Kylian was unusually quiet. She could feel the tension radiating from his body, the careful control he was exercising over his expression for the benefit of the cameras and fans they passed.

"That was amazing," she said finally, hoping to break the silence. "He was so nice, and did you see—"

"His tattoos? Yes, you mentioned them. Several times." Kylian's voice was clipped.

"I was just making conversation."

"You were flirting."

She stopped walking, forcing him to turn and face her. "I was not flirting."

"'Your tattoos are beautiful,'" he mimicked in a breathy voice. "'What do they mean?' 'That's so profound.'"

"I was being polite!"

"You were being obvious."

Several people nearby had started to notice their raised voices. She grabbed Kylian's hand and pulled him toward a quieter area near the harbor, away from the crowds.

"You're being ridiculous," she said once they had some privacy. "He's a celebrity. I was starstruck. That's completely different from flirting."

"The way you were looking at him—"

"The way I was looking at him was the way anyone would look at someone they admire. Like how you look at Pelé or Zidane when you meet them."

"I don't blush and giggle when I meet my heroes."

"I did not giggle!"

Kylian gave her a look.

"Okay, maybe I giggled a little. But he said I was cute! Lewis Hamilton called me cute, Ky. That's like... that's a once-in-a-lifetime compliment."

"Right, because I never tell you you're cute."

"That's not what I meant." She sighed, reaching up to touch his face. "You're being silly. Yes, I think Lewis Hamilton is attractive. I've never hidden that from you. But thinking someone is attractive and actually being interested in them are two completely different things."

"Are they?"

The insecurity in his voice surprised her. Kylian Mbappé, golden boy of French football, actually worried about losing her to a racing driver?

"Bébé," she said softly, "look at me."

Reluctantly, he met her eyes.

"I love you. Only you. I've loved you since we first met in Bondy, and I'm going to love you when we're old and gray and you're complaining about your bad knees. Lewis Hamilton is attractive, yes. But he's not you. He doesn't know that I cry during Disney movies, or that I eat the ends of the bread loaf first, or that I still sleep with a stuffed animal when you're away for matches."

"You sleep with Mr. Bunny when I'm gone?" Kylian's lips twitched slightly.

"Every time," she admitted. "He smells like your cologne because I spray him before you leave."

The tension in his shoulders began to ease. "That's... actually really cute."

"Lewis Hamilton doesn't know any of that. He doesn't know me. He just sees what everyone else sees—your girlfriend. The pretty accessory to Kylian Mbappé." She stepped closer, pressing her hands against his chest. "But you know me. The real me. The messy, complicated, imperfect me. And somehow you love that person."

"I do," he said quietly. "More than anything."

"Then stop worrying about other men finding me attractive. Of course they do—you have excellent taste." She grinned. "But I'm not going anywhere. I'm definitely not leaving you for someone I just met, no matter how many championships he's won."

Kylian was quiet for a moment, processing her words. Finally, he sighed. "I'm sorry. I just... when he was helping you into the car, and you were laughing at everything he said..."

"I was nervous! I always laugh when I'm nervous, you know that."

"And when he said you were lovely..."

"You got all caveman possessive and basically peed on me to mark your territory," she finished with amusement. "Very subtle, by the way. 'She's very busy with her modeling career,'" she mimicked his earlier tone.

Kylian had the grace to look embarrassed. "Was I that obvious?"

"Mon cœur, you were about as subtle as a brick through a window."

"Merde."

"It's okay," she laughed, standing on her tiptoes to kiss him. "It's actually kind of hot when you get all possessive. Reminds me why I wear that K necklace."

His eyes darkened slightly at the mention of the pendant resting against her collarbone. "You're wearing it now."

"I always wear it. Your initial, against my skin, where everyone can see it." She traced the chain with one finger. "Including Lewis Hamilton."

"Good," he said, pulling her closer. "Let him see."

"There's my possessive boyfriend," she teased. "Feel better now?"

"A little. But I still don't like how he looked at you."

"How did he look at me?"

"Like he wanted to eat you alive."

She felt a flutter of something dangerous in her stomach but pushed it aside. "Well, he can look all he wants. I'm already taken."

"Damn right you are." Kylian's hands slid down to rest on her hips. "By me."

"By you," she agreed, then added with a mischievous smile, "Though I have to admit, when he helped me out of the car and his hands were on my waist..."

"Don't," Kylian warned, but there was heat in his voice now rather than anger.

"I could see more of his tattoos. Did you notice the angel wings across his back? And there was something written on his collarbone, but I couldn't read it from that angle—"

Kylian silenced her with a kiss, deep and possessive and completely inappropriate for their public location. When he pulled back, they were both breathing hard.

"Enough about his fucking tattoos," he growled against her lips.

"Jealous?" she whispered.

"Incredibly."

"Good. Take me back to the hotel and show me exactly who I belong to."

His eyes flashed with promise. "With pleasure."

As they walked back toward their waiting car, her phone buzzed with a notification.

Instagram: lewishamilton started following you.

She glanced at the screen, then at Kylian, then quickly shoved the phone back in her purse.

Some things, she decided, were better left unmentioned. At least for now.

But as they drove through the winding Monaco streets toward their hotel, she couldn't help but think about Lewis's parting words: "Maybe I'll see you around the paddock later?"

And despite herself, despite her love for Kylian and her genuine commitment to their relationship, she found herself hoping that maybe, just maybe, they would run into each other again before the weekend was over.

Not because she wanted anything to happen—she didn't, not really. But because there was something intoxicating about being found attractive by someone like Lewis Hamilton. Something that made her feel powerful and desirable in a way that had nothing to do with being Kylian Mbappé's girlfriend.

For once, she had been seen as herself. Not as an extension of her famous boyfriend, but as a woman worth pursuing in her own right.

And that feeling, dangerous as it was, was addictive.

The Monaco sun filtered through the curtains of their hotel suite, casting golden streaks across the rumpled sheets. She stirred awake to the familiar weight of Kylian’s arm across her waist, his face buried in her neck, breath warm against her skin.

Two days. Two full days of Kylian being absolutely relentless in bed, as if he was trying to fuck Lewis Hamilton right out of her system. Not that she was complaining—she loved when he got like this, possessive and intense, putting in serious work until she was completely wrecked beneath him.

“Matin, ma belle,” he murmured against her throat, already pressing soft kisses to her pulse point.

“Morning,” she whispered back, stretching languidly. Her body ached in the best way possible, evidence of just how thoroughly he’d claimed her over the past forty-eight hours.

She slipped out of bed carefully, padding naked to the bathroom mirror. The reflection showed exactly what she expected—love bites scattered across her neck and collarbone like a constellation of his possession. Her bob was a disaster, the heat from their activities having completely undone the sleek style she’d pressed it into yesterday.

“Merde,” she muttered, reaching for her concealer. She’d need industrial-strength coverage to hide the evidence of Kylian’s marking spree.

As she worked on camouflaging the hickeys, she heard him moving around the bedroom. Soon enough, he appeared behind her in the mirror, still gloriously naked, pressing his chest against her back.

“Qu’est-ce que tu fais?” he asked, hands sliding around to cup her breasts.

“Hiding your artwork,” she replied, focused on blending concealer over a particularly prominent mark. “I can’t go to the race looking like I got attacked by a vampire.”

“Tes seins deviennent plus gros,” he observed, squeezing gently. “Tu es sûre que tu n’es pas enceinte?”

She froze, meeting his eyes in the mirror. “Don’t even joke about that, Ky. Your maman and my mother would literally kill us both.”

He shrugged, unrepentant. “They know how serious we are.”

“My mother barely tolerates that I live with you without being married,” she scoffed, moving to work on her hair with anti-frizz spray and heat protectant. “Une femme traditionnelle camerounaise doesn’t play about these things. Marriage first, babies second.”

“Maybe we should—”

“KY!” she cut him off, pointing the hair product at him threateningly. “I’m serious. Don’t start.”

Before he could respond, voices echoed from downstairs—loud, familiar laughter that made them both smile.

“Wesh! Où vous êtes?” Ethan’s voice carried up the stairs. “On a faim!”

“C’est Jirès et Tchaga aussi,” came another voice—Jirès, Kylian’s adopted brother.

Kylian grinned, moving to the window to shout down, “On arrive! Five minutes!”

“Five minutes mon cul!” Ethan yelled back. “Ça fait une heure qu’on vous attend!”

“Menteur!” Kylian laughed.

“Mec, we can hear you two up there! Sounds like you’re murdering each other!” That was definitely Tchaga.

She buried her face in her hands, mortified. “Oh my God, they heard us?”

“Probablement,” Kylian said with zero shame. “Come on, let’s shower quick and go down.”

Twenty minutes later, they finally made it downstairs to find Ethan, Jirès, and Tchaga lounging around the kitchen island, already helping themselves to the continental breakfast the hotel had sent up.

“Finally!” Ethan jumped up to dap up his brother while she made her rounds with cheek kisses.

“Salut, mes amours,” she greeted them warmly.

“Where are Isayah and Lana?” she asked Jirès, looking around for his kids.

“Isayah had a dentist appointment this morning, so they’re flying in after the race,” Jirès explained. “They’ll be here for the rest of the vacation.”

“Ah, okay. I brought presents for them,” she said, already mentally going through her shopping bags.

“Of course you did,” Jirès smiled fondly. “Isayah’s been asking about ‘tata’ nonstop.”

As they settled around the breakfast spread, Ethan immediately launched into questions. “So, Madrid! How’s the house hunting going?”

Kylian reached for a croissant. “We found a place. Big enough, good security, close to the training center.”

“Pool?” Tchaga asked importantly.

“Obviously,” she laughed. “What do you take us for?”

“Guest rooms for when we visit?” Ethan pressed.

“Multiple,” Kylian confirmed. “You guys are always welcome.”

“Even when you’re having your… loud conversations?” Jirès teased, making her choke on her coffee.

“Especially then,” Kylian replied smoothly, completely unbothered. “Adds to the ambiance.”

“You’re both disgusting,” she muttered, but she was smiling.

After breakfast, they headed down to the harbor where a sleek speedboat waited to take them to the circuit. The paparazzi were already out in force, cameras clicking as they boarded. She was grateful for her oversized sunglasses and the strategic placement of Kylian’s hand on her lower back as they navigated the attention.

The boat ride through Monaco’s harbor was spectacular—crystal blue water, million-dollar yachts, and the iconic Monte Carlo skyline. The guys were animated, talking about everything from football transfers to vacation plans, while she enjoyed the wind in her hair and the spray of sea mist on her skin.

At the Paddock Club, they settled into their VIP area with perfect views of the circuit. The energy was electric—engines roaring, crowds cheering, the distinctive smell of rubber and fuel mixing with expensive champagne and designer perfumes.

She found herself scanning the Mercedes garage area more than once, hoping to catch a glimpse of Lewis, but he was probably busy with pre-race preparations. Still, the possibility of seeing him later at the after-party sent little thrills through her stomach.

The race itself was incredible—Lewis fighting his way through the field after a poor qualifying, eventually finishing fourth. She cheered along with everyone else, though perhaps a little more enthusiastically when he made particularly impressive overtakes.

“Tu supportes Mercedes maintenant?” Kylian asked with amusement during one of her louder cheers.

“I’m just appreciating good driving,” she replied innocently.

“Mm-hmm.”

As the sun set over Monaco, they made their way to the after-party on a massive yacht anchored in the harbor. The party was already in full swing—celebrities, drivers, team principals, and Monaco’s elite mingling on multiple decks with champagne flowing freely.

Kylian went to get her a drink while Ethan, Jirès, and Tchaga spotted some people they knew from the football world and wandered off to say hello. She found herself alone on the upper deck, enjoying the cooler evening air after the heat of race day.

The view was breathtaking—Monaco’s lights twinkling like diamonds, other yachts dotting the harbor, the distant sound of music and laughter carrying on the Mediterranean breeze. She pulled out her phone to capture some photos, posing against the railing with the glittering backdrop.

“That’s going to break Instagram,” came a familiar British accent behind her.

She turned to find Lewis approaching, now dressed in a perfectly tailored white linen shirt and dark trousers, his braids styled differently than yesterday. He looked effortlessly elegant, and she felt her pulse quicken.

“Lewis! Hi,” she said, hoping her voice sounded more casual than she felt. “Great race today. Fourth place from where you started was amazing.”

“Thanks, love. Not quite what we hoped for, but we’ll take it.” He moved to stand beside her at the railing. “Mind if I join you? It’s mental down there.”

“Of course,” she replied, suddenly very aware of how close he was standing.

“So,” Lewis said, turning to face her, “I realized yesterday that I know all about your boyfriend’s career, but I don’t know your story at all. How did you two meet?”

She smiled, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “It’s actually kind of funny. We first met when we were really young—I was maybe fourteen? My cousin Wilo was being trained by Kylian’s father in Bondy.”

“Wilo Saliba?” Lewis asked with interest. “The Arsenal defender?”

“You know him?”

“Met him a few times. Good lad. So you knew Kylian as kids?”

“Briefly. I thought he was cute but way too cocky,” she laughed. “Always showing off, you know? Very sure of himself.”

“Some things never change,” Lewis grinned.

“Right? But then we didn’t really see each other again until he moved to PSG from Monaco. I was at university, doing my thing, and we kept running into each other at events in Paris.”

“And he remembered you from when you were kids?”

She felt her cheeks warm. “Actually, yes. He told me later that he’d had a crush on me back then but was too scared to talk to me properly.”

“Smart man. Though I’m surprised he was ever too scared to talk to anyone.”

“He was different then. Still confident, but… softer somehow. We became friends first. Good friends, actually. For months.”

Lewis leaned against the railing, giving her his full attention. “What changed?”

She thought back to that night in Paris, the party where everything shifted between them. “There was this event, some charity thing. He showed up looking incredible, and I realized I wasn’t seeing him as just a friend anymore. I think he noticed me noticing, if that makes sense.”

“Perfect sense. And?”

“And then he kissed me in the middle of the dance floor, in front of everyone, like he’d been waiting forever to do it.” She smiled at the memory. “Very dramatic. Very Kylian.”

“Sounds like him,” Lewis chuckled. “Public declarations seem to be his style.”

“What do you mean?”

“That necklace you wear. The K pendant. That’s not exactly subtle.”

Her hand moved instinctively to her throat, where the diamond initial rested against her skin. “No, it’s not. But I like it.”

“Do you? Or does he like you wearing it?”

The question was asked lightly, but there was something in Lewis’s tone that made her look at him more carefully. “Both, I think. Why?”

“Just curious. It’s very… possessive.”

“Is that bad?”

Lewis shrugged. “Depends on whether you like being possessed.”

The way he said it sent heat curling through her stomach. This conversation was definitely moving into dangerous territory.

“Where is the famous boyfriend tonight, anyway?” Lewis asked, glancing around.

“Getting drinks. Should be back soon.”

“Should I disappear before he does?”

“Why would you need to disappear?”

“Because the other day he looked like he wanted to murder me for talking to you.”

She laughed, though there was truth in what he said. “He’s just protective.”

“Protective. Right.” Lewis’s smile was knowing. “And what about you? Do you need protecting from big bad racing drivers?”

“I can handle myself,” she replied, meeting his gaze directly.

“I bet you can. You know,” Lewis said quietly, “if things were different…”

“But they’re not,” she interrupted, though her voice was breathless.

“No, they’re not,” he agreed. “Pity.”

Before either of them could say anything else, she heard familiar voices approaching from behind. Kylian’s laugh, Ethan saying something in rapid French.

Lewis straightened immediately, putting a respectable distance between them just as Kylian appeared with two champagne flutes.

“There you are,” Kylian said, handing her a glass. His eyes flicked between her and Lewis, immediately assessing the situation. “Hamilton.”

“Mbappé,” Lewis replied smoothly. “Just congratulating your girl on handling the Monaco madness so well. First time at a Grand Prix, right?”

“That’s right,” Kylian answered, moving to stand closer to her. His free hand found the small of her back possessively. “She’s been loving every minute.”

“I can imagine,” Lewis said, though his eyes were on her rather than Kylian. “Well, I should get back to my team. Early morning tomorrow.”

“Of course,” Kylian replied. “Safe travels.”

“Thanks.” Lewis turned to her. “It was lovely meeting you properly. Maybe we’ll see each other in Paris sometime.”

“Maybe,” she managed, hyperaware of Kylian’s hand tightening on her back.

After Lewis walked away, Kylian was quiet for a moment, sipping his champagne and watching the other man disappear into the crowd.

“So,” he said finally, “having a good conversation?”

“Just talking about the race. About Monaco.”

“Mm.” Kylian’s tone was neutral, but she could feel the tension in his body. “He seems interested in you.”

“He’s just being friendly.”

“Very friendly,” Kylian observed. “The way he looks at you…”

“Ky.”

“I know, I know. I’m being possessive again.” He turned to face her fully. “But can you blame me? You’re standing here looking like that, and he’s looking at you like he wants to steal you away.”

“No one’s stealing anyone,” she said firmly. “I’m here with you. I came to Monaco with you. I’m going to Madrid with you.”

“I know,” he said softly. “Sorry. It’s just… he’s Lewis fucking Hamilton.”

“And you’re Kylian fucking Mbappé,” she pointed out. “Golden boy of French football. World Cup finalist. My boyfriend.”

That earned her a small smile. “Your boyfriend who’s completely gone for you.”

“Good,” she said, standing on her tiptoes to kiss him. “Because I’m completely gone for you too.”

[mediocre-shark-tales]

Brazilian GP part 2

Masterlist

Trigger Warning- slow burn of increasing themes including sexism, SA, depression, and implied grooming

Returning to the paddock for the sprint race, I focused on one thing: the job. The rain hadn’t come yet, but the air was thick with humidity, and the dark clouds rolling in on the horizon promised it wouldn’t hold off for long. As I climbed into my car, I pushed every stray thought out of my head. This was my escape. The only time Henry couldn’t get to me was when I was strapped into the cockpit.

The sprint race itself went well. I pushed hard, held my position, and finished P3 again. Behind Lando and Oscar, I couldn’t help but feel satisfied with my consistency, but there was still a fire burning in my chest, a determination to do even better in the main race. For now, though, I basked in the small victory.

After pulling into parc fermé and handling the brief celebrations with my team, I made my way back to the garage. That’s when I saw him—Henry. His smirk stretched across his face as he stood by my workstation, arms crossed like he owned the place. I immediately felt my stomach churn.

The weather had taken a turn for the worse, delaying the next session. Rain lashed against the paddock’s roof, and thunder rumbled ominously in the distance. Teams were stuck in their garages, waiting for updates from the FIA. It felt like the world was put on pause, and unfortunately for me, that meant I was stuck with Henry.

I tried to keep busy, double-checking data with the other engineers and chatting with Landon when I could. But Henry was like a shadow, following me wherever I went. His presence was suffocating, his comments laced with the same inappropriate undertones that made my skin crawl.

“Staying dry in here, sweetheart?” he asked as I passed by, his voice dripping with mock concern.

I ignored him, but he wasn’t deterred. He leaned against the table where I was reviewing some data and lowered his voice. “You know, I’ve been thinking... You’ve been looking really tense lately. Maybe after this weekend, we can spend some one-on-one time. You know, help you unwind.”

My jaw clenched, and I felt my fingers curl into fists at my sides. I didn’t trust myself to speak without snapping, so I stayed silent, my eyes glued to the tablet in front of me.

Henry chuckled, clearly amused by my lack of response. “Silent treatment, huh? That’s fine. I like a challenge.”

I needed to get away from him. Grabbing the tablet, I stood abruptly and made my way to the other side of the garage, pretending to check something with one of the mechanics. But no matter where I went, Henry was always close behind. It was like a game to him, and I was the unwilling participant.

At one point, I slipped into the back of the garage, trying to find some space to breathe. But Henry followed, cornering me near the equipment racks. His eyes glinted with something that made my skin crawl, and I pressed myself against the wall, desperate to put distance between us.

“Why so shy today?” he asked, his tone low and teasing. “You know, you don’t have to be so uptight around me. I don’t bite... unless you want me to.”

That was it. My breaking point was so close I could feel it bubbling under the surface. But I couldn’t afford to lose my composure, not here, not now. Instead, I forced myself to look him in the eye, my voice steady but cold. “Henry, I’m not in the mood for this. Back off.”

He smirked, leaning in just enough to make my pulse quicken. “Oh, come on. Don’t be like that. We’re just having a little fun.”

I stepped past him, my entire body trembling with frustration and disgust. I needed air, space—anything to escape him. But the rain still poured outside, trapping me in this nightmare of a garage.

The FIA announcement came through the garage speakers, crackling to life over the ambient noise of the rain hammering against the roof.

"Attention, teams. Due to the persistent rain and worsening conditions, qualifying will be moved to a slot a few hours ahead of the originally scheduled race time tomorrow. This will allow us to monitor for a potential break in the weather. Further updates will follow."

I felt a wave of relief wash over me. This was my chance to escape, at least for now. As soon as the announcement ended, I grabbed my things and slipped out of the garage. The quicker I got to my driver’s room, the less likely Henry would have a chance to corner me again. My heart pounded as I walked briskly through the bustling paddock, my eyes darting around to make sure he wasn’t following me.

Once inside the sanctuary of my driver’s room, I locked the door behind me and leaned against it, exhaling deeply. I allowed myself a moment to breathe before gathering my thoughts and changing into my casual clothes. The sooner I was out of here, the safer I’d feel.

As I finished changing, I peeked out the door, scanning the hallway for any sign of Henry. When I didn’t see him, I let out a small sigh of relief. For once, it looked like luck was on my side. Slinging my bag over my shoulder, I stepped out and made my way toward the paddock exit, keeping my head low and moving quickly.

Just as I was about to turn the corner, I nearly collided with someone. Looking up, I saw Franco Colapinto grinning down at me.

“Hey! You’re in a rush. Everything okay?” he asked, his tone light and friendly.

I plastered on my best fake smile, pushing down the lingering nerves. “Yeah, just trying to beat the rain back to the hotel. You know how it is.”

Franco chuckled, adjusting the strap of his bag. “True. I don’t envy whoever’s on the FIA’s weather team right now. Anyway, I was going to ask—do you want to join us for dinner tonight? I invited Alex and Lando, too. Figured it’d be good to unwind before tomorrow.”

I hesitated for a moment, my instincts telling me to retreat to my hotel room and hide for the rest of the evening. But the thought of being surrounded by friends, even for a little while, sounded comforting. And besides, Franco’s friendly demeanor was hard to resist.

“That sounds great,” I replied, the smile on my face feeling a little more genuine this time. “What time?”

“Let’s meet in the hotel lobby around seven,” he said. “We’ll figure out where to go from there.”

“Perfect. I’ll see you then,” I said, giving him a small wave before continuing toward the exit.

As I stepped out into the rain-soaked paddock, I felt a flicker of hope amidst the chaos. For a few hours tonight, I could pretend everything was normal. Even if I had to put on a brave face, I’d take any reprieve I could get.

Returning to the hotel felt like stepping into a sanctuary. The ride back had been quiet, giving me time to stew in my thoughts, but the moment I stepped into my room, I set my bag down and headed straight for the bathroom.

I didn’t just want to shower—I needed to scrub every trace of Henry’s words and his unwelcome touches from my skin. Turning the water as hot as I could bear, I stepped under the stream and let it pour over me, cleansing not just the grime of the day but the lingering weight of his actions. I scrubbed at my arms and shoulders, imagining I could wash away the memory of his arm around me, his hand gripping my waist. By the time I turned the water off, my skin was pink from the heat and friction, but I felt lighter, freer.

Wrapping myself in a towel, I leaned against the bathroom counter and took a moment to steady my breathing. Tonight wasn’t about Henry, I reminded myself. It was about Franco, Alex, and Lando—people who didn’t make me feel small or uncomfortable. I dried off and slipped into a pair of comfortable jeans and a sweater before tying my hair back loosely. With a glance in the mirror, I forced myself to smile. It didn’t quite reach my eyes, but it was a start.

At exactly seven, I stepped out of the elevator into the hotel lobby. The boys were already there, chatting and laughing. Franco spotted me first, waving me over with a bright grin.

“Perfect timing!” he said, his energy contagious. “You ready?”

“Always,” I replied, smiling back as Alex and Lando turned to greet me.

“Glad you could make it,” Alex said warmly, giving me a quick hug.

“You’re not allowed to bail halfway through, by the way,” Lando added with a smirk. “We’re keeping you hostage for the evening.”

“Oh, no,” I teased, feigning horror. “Guess I’m stuck with you guys then.”

They laughed, and just like that, I felt a little more at ease. We piled into a car Franco had arranged, and he directed the driver to a small, tucked-away restaurant he’d found online. It was styled like a quaint town eatery, the kind of place that served hearty, comforting meals with a side of charm.

Inside, the atmosphere was warm and inviting, with rustic wooden tables, dim lighting, and the smell of freshly baked bread wafting through the air. We grabbed a table near the back, and before we’d even ordered, the banter started.

“So,” Franco began, leaning forward with a grin. “What’s the over-under on Alex spilling his drink tonight?”

Alex rolled his eyes. “One time. It happened one time.”

“And yet, it lives rent-free in my memory,” Lando quipped, dodging Alex’s playful swat.

As the night went on, I found myself relaxing more and more. The boys were effortlessly funny, their lighthearted teasing pulling me out of my own head. When the food arrived—big plates of pasta, burgers, and fries—we dove in like we hadn’t eaten in days.

“So, what’s everyone’s game plan for tomorrow?” Franco asked between bites.

“Win,” Lando said confidently, earning a laugh from everyone.

“Revolutionary strategy,” I teased, shaking my head.

“And you?” Alex asked, looking at me curiously.

I hesitated for a moment, but their expectant faces made it impossible not to answer. “Honestly? Just survive the chaos. If the rain comes like they’re saying, it’s going to be wild out there.”

“You’ll do more than survive,” Franco said firmly. “You’re the rain master, remember? We’ll all be trying to keep up with you.”

I laughed softly, grateful for the confidence he had in me. The conversation continued, moving from racing to random topics like who could do the worst impression of their team principals (spoiler: it was Lando). By the time we left the restaurant, my cheeks hurt from smiling and laughing so much.

As we walked back to the car, Lando nudged me lightly. “See? I told you tonight would be good.”

“You’re not wrong,” I admitted, feeling a warmth in my chest that I hadn’t felt in a long time. For a few hours, I’d been able to forget the weight of everything else and just enjoy the company of my friends. And for that, I was endlessly grateful.

The morning of the race was a whirlwind of nerves and anticipation. I stood in front of the mirror in my hotel room, mentally preparing myself for the challenge ahead. Today was a new day, and no matter what had happened leading up to this moment, I was going to race like it was my last. The pressure from Henry and the team’s constant expectations weighed on me, but I refused to let it break me. Not today.

After going through my usual routine of getting ready—gearing up, double-checking everything—I made my way to the paddock. The moment I stepped foot into the familiar environment, I could already feel the tension mounting. Of course, Henry was the first to spot me. As usual, he had a comment or two to make as I walked past him, his gaze lingering longer than necessary. His voice had that familiar smugness, but today I had one thing on my mind: get into the car and forget about him.

I didn’t let his presence affect me; I couldn’t afford to. I gave the bare minimum responses, nodding along as he made more remarks, his tone still pushing boundaries. His touch lingered longer than I wanted, but I kept my focus on the goal. I was here to race, not to let him ruin this for me.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, I made my way to the car. Once I was suited up and strapped in, the world outside of the cockpit faded. It was just me and the machine. The roar of the engines, the feel of the track beneath my tires—I was in my element. Qualifying started, and the nerves I’d been holding back finally seemed to evaporate.

But the track wasn’t as wet as I’d anticipated. The rain had calmed down to a drizzle, and the surface was surprisingly dry. That meant I couldn’t push as hard as I’d wanted, and the lap times didn’t reflect the pace I knew I was capable of. When I crossed the line, I felt a pang of disappointment. P5. Not terrible, but not what I had hoped for. Still, I couldn’t let it get to me. There was still the race, and I could make up for it.

The starting grid was a blur, and before I knew it, the lights went out. As we all took off, the rain came back in full force, and my confidence surged. This was my domain—racing in the rain was second nature to me, and I could feel myself carving through the field. It was almost effortless.

I overtook car after car, inching closer to the front. The rain never let up, but it didn’t bother me. I was in the zone. By the time I reached P3, I had a surge of pride—this was where I belonged. But the track was starting to get dangerous. The spray from the cars was so thick, visibility was reduced to almost nothing.

Then came the call.

"Bring your delta positive," Landon’s voice crackled over the radio. "Yellow flags. Be careful."

I felt the pit of my stomach drop. Yellow flags weren’t a good sign, and I could hear the tension in his voice as the tone of the message shifted. "We’ve got reds, we’ve got reds!" he said, loud and clear.

"What’s going on?" I asked, my hands tightening on the wheel.

"Franco has spun and crashed," Landon replied, his voice thick with concern. "We don’t know if he’s okay yet."

My heart skipped a beat. Franco. My mind raced with worry, the thought of him hurt gnawing at me. I had to swallow the lump in my throat, focusing on my breathing to calm myself. I needed to know he was alright.

"Franco, please be okay," I whispered under my breath.

The tension felt suffocating as I continued to slow and adjust my pace. It felt like an eternity before the radio came back on.

"Franco’s fine," Landon said, a slight relief in his voice. "He’s out of the car, shaken up but okay."

I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. Franco was fine. But the weight of the situation still hung in the air.

I made my way into the pit lane, my mind still racing. The red flags meant the session would be paused, and we’d have to wait it out. As I pulled into my pit box, I let out a slow, steady breath, still shaken but thankful. The team was already working hard to keep me updated, but for the moment, I had to reset.

I couldn’t let my emotions take over. I still had a race to finish.

As the red flags finally lifted, I found myself back on the track, adrenaline coursing through my veins. The rain had only intensified, turning the surface into a treacherous challenge. Visibility was at an all-time low, and the spray from the cars ahead of me blurred everything around. Every inch of the track felt like a gamble.

The lights went out again, and we were racing once more. I quickly regained my focus, the familiar rhythm of the car returning beneath me. I knew this track like the back of my hand, but today, it was a whole different beast. The rain made everything unpredictable. My heart was still pounding in my chest, but I pushed it aside, keeping my focus sharp. This was the moment where I had to trust my instincts and my training.

As the laps wore on, I found myself battling alongside some of the best drivers on the grid, feeling the pressure building up. Then came the moment that would define the rest of the race.

Carlos and I were side by side on one of the straights, inches apart, both of us fighting for the same piece of real estate. It was going well until, suddenly, Carlos’s car began to aquaplane. His back end snapped out, and in the blink of an eye, he was off the track. Instinctively, I tried to react, but it was too late—my car was already slipping, too. The moment my tires lost grip with the wet track, I felt the dreaded sensation of aquaplaning.

My heart leaped into my throat as the car began to slide. I fought the wheel, trying to regain control, but it felt like the world was spinning out of control. Carlos was already in the gravel, but I had a split second to save myself. I yanked the wheel, bringing the car around in a full 360 spin. Time slowed down as I felt the car slide and twirl, but somehow, by sheer force of will, I managed to keep the tires pointing in the right direction.

It wasn’t over yet. The car didn’t want to cooperate. As soon as I regained control of the wheel, the back end started to drift into the next corner. I could feel the tires barely gripping the surface as the car skated dangerously, but I didn’t panic. My fingers tightened on the wheel, my foot on the throttle, and I steered the car back into line.

Somehow, I managed to correct the slide, keeping my position. No spinouts, no off-track excursions. I hadn’t lost anything—except maybe a few heartbeats—and I was still in P3. The radio crackled to life as I rejoined the racing line.

"y/n, that was some incredible driving," Landon said, his voice a mix of relief and admiration. "You’re still in it—keep it up."

I allowed myself a small exhale of relief, but I knew this wasn’t over. The rain was still coming down hard, and the conditions were only going to get worse.

Behind me, Max was gaining on me. He was hungry, and I could feel the pressure building with every corner I took. Esteban and Pierre were still in front of me, but I knew it was only a matter of time before the battle for P3 would turn into a fight for the win.

As the laps ticked down, I had to remind myself that I wasn’t just here to survive—I was here to win. I would prove to everyone that I could handle anything, even when it felt like the world around me was falling apart. I wasn’t going to let the conditions, or the pressure, take me down. This was my race, and I wasn’t going to let anyone take it from me.

The final laps felt like a blur, a perfect mix of instinct and skill. I could hear the tires screeching as the rain continued to pour, but it was as if I had found my rhythm, my comfort in the chaos. Pierre and Esteban were still holding strong in front of me, but I could feel them starting to struggle with the conditions. The track was slick, every corner becoming more and more treacherous with each passing second.

I wasn’t going to let this opportunity slip away. I focused on the corners where they faltered, waiting for my chance. As we hit the straight, I pulled out from behind Esteban, my eyes fixed on the gap between him and Pierre. I knew exactly how much grip I had, and I wasn’t going to waste it.

I closed the distance with a calculated precision, then took the inside line into the next corner. Esteban was slow on the brakes, his car sliding just slightly in the rain, and I dove past him before he could react. In an instant, I was on Pierre's tail, my heart pounding in my chest.

He wasn’t giving up easily, but the rain was a relentless opponent, and I could see the strain in his movements. With one final push, I threaded my car through the corner in a perfect line, pulling ahead of him just as we came to the final stretch.

I could hear the roar of the engine in my ears, the tires biting into the wet tarmac, and my heartbeat syncing with the rhythm of the car. And then, just as the checkered flag waved ahead of me, I surged forward, crossing the line in first place.

The moment the race ended, a rush of emotion hit me, and I heard Landon’s voice crackle through the radio, full of excitement. “You did it! Master of racing in the rain, huh? I think the storm has nothing on you.”

I couldn't help but laugh, the tension lifting as the weight of the victory finally set in. "Maybe I’ve just got a magic touch on the wet tracks," I teased. "Looks like the rain’s not the only thing I can control today."

Landon chuckled on the other end. "Whatever it is, you crushed it. Proud of you."

As I slowed the car to a stop, the pit crew and team stood at the barriers, all cheering and clapping. The adrenaline that had kept me sharp during the race now flowed freely, and I allowed myself a moment to soak it in. I had done it. I had conquered the storm.

The podium ceremony was a blur of smiles, flashing cameras, and cheers, but for a moment, I allowed myself to truly savor the victory. The rain may have been relentless, but it hadn’t stopped me from coming out on top. I glanced over at Pierre and Esteban, both grinning ear to ear as we all stood side by side on the podium.

"Finally!" Esteban chuckled, holding up his trophy, the relief in his voice palpable. "It’s been a long time coming, but this is worth it."

Pierre nodded, his eyes sparkling with pride. "You’ve been quick all season, Y/N. Well-deserved. I’m just happy to be up here with you."

I grinned back at them, genuinely happy for their success. It was a long time coming for both of them, and I could tell how much this podium meant to them. Seeing their joy, their sense of achievement, made the victory feel even more meaningful.

We all raised our trophies high, basking in the moment as the crowd cheered. But as the noise of the celebration filled my ears, my eyes couldn't help but wander to the crowd below.

I caught sight of Henry, his smug expression standing out among the rest of the team. His eyes locked with mine, and for a moment, the joy of the podium felt distant, overshadowed by that familiar, disgusting feeling.

I couldn’t shake it. That sickening reminder that despite my hard work, my success, there was still something toxic lingering in the background. I forced myself to smile as I stood there, trying to shake off the unease creeping up from my gut. The team’s cheers filled the air, but all I could hear was the thought of the media duties that awaited me. I would have to face Henry again.

As the ceremony wrapped up and we made our way down from the podium, the momentary elation of the win started to fade, and reality hit me again. I tried to push the thoughts out of my head, focusing on the next step. But I knew deep down that the weight of what I was still facing wasn’t going to go away just because I’d crossed the finish line in first place.

I had a lot to prove, not just on the track, but off it too. And the hardest part? Getting through the next few hours, knowing what was waiting for me after the cameras stopped flashing.

[hemmingsleclerc]

I'm really loving the dad max content, your style of writting is amazing

I don't know if it's possible, but could you do something where Olivia is hanging out with Checo's kids (Chequito, Carlota, Emilio) and causing chaos in the paddock

I think it would be cute and fun

Lost in the Paddock┃MV1

Omg I love this idea I just imagined it and laugh!😭💕

summary:where max and checo lose their children in the spanish grand prix

It was a sunny morning in the paddock and the excitement for the Spanish Grand Prix was growing. Max’s daughter, Olivia, and Checo’s children, Chequito, Carlota and Emilio, were full of energy and looked at everything with curiosity. The sound of the engines echoed throughout the place, but the children were more interested in playing hide and seek.

As their parents prepared for the race, the four quickly came up with a plan to explore the paddock together. Unbeknownst to their parents, the mischievous group ventured out, carefully checking all the places.

The paddock was a maze of trailers, trucks and equipment, a perfect playground for the kids. Olivia, being the oldest, had convinced the others to follow her and explore the secret corners that she had already seen before with her father. Unbeknownst to their parents, the little ones had wandered too far and were soon lost in the maze of racing equipment.

Meanwhile, Max and Checo finished their conversation and turned around to find that their children were nowhere to be found. Panic set in as they frantically shouted their names. Max's heart almost burst out of him as he screamed his little girl's name while Checo was just as bad or worse than him.

"Olivia!''

''Chequito! Carlota! Emilio!" echoed through the paddock, but there was no response. The two parents exchanged worried glances and quickly ran out of their garage in search of their children.

Meanwhile, the children had managed to find their way to the center of the paddock, laughing and laughing as they explored the different areas of the different teams. Chequito, Carlota, Emilio and Olivia were in their own world of fun, oblivious to the chaos they were causing.

They managed to reach a place where photos of their parents were displayed on a wall. ''Look! There's my daddy!'', ''Ours too!'' Suddenly, a great idea had occurred to Olivia, what better idea than to leave a nice message for her dad and for everyone to see it, so carefully she took out of her small backpack the markers that her mother had given her on her birthday and with a huge smile, she began to draw hearts on the wall, among other things, while her other three companions saw her laughing.

Meanwhile, Max was on the verge of having a nervous breakdown himself while Checo was madly asking anyone who crossed his path if there was any sign of his children.

Charles, Daniel, Lewis and Carlos had joined the search for the little ones to cover more space and narrow down the possible places they could be.

''Via!Your favorite uncle is looking for you!'' Daniel shouted

''Carlota! Emilio! Checo jr!, Come here! We have a special surprise for you!'' Charles said

''Kids! Roscoe wants to play with you!'' Lewis' turn

Just as concern was reaching its peak, a track official informed Max and Checo that a group of children matching their descriptions had been seen near the merchandise area. With a sigh of relief, the parents rushed to the scene, their hearts pounding in their chests.

There they found the quartet, happily surrounded by team merchandise, trying on oversized caps and sunglasses while devouring different flavored ice creams. The children looked up with innocent smiles as Max and Checo approached, a mix of relief and exasperation on their faces.

Max and Checo shared a look that conveyed relief and amusement at the same time. When the chaos calmed down, the parents couldn't help but smile at the getaway their children had made. With a laugh of relief, they escorted the boys back to the Red Bull Racing garage, ready to focus on the race ahead.

Max lifted his little girl in his arms while he covered her face with kisses.

''Were where you all this time angel?, and who bought you those ice creams?''

''!Uncle lando and uncle oscar daddy!'' Olivia exclamed

''They also bought us these cool caps dad!'' Chequito said to checo

''Yeah, you're not wearing those mclaren caps on our watch kids, redbull ones are better''

As the paddock returned to its normal bustle, Max and Checo were grateful to have their children back safe and sound.And listen to all the mischievous they got up to in their absence.

[annaswrites00]

We Probably Shouldn't - Kimi Antonelli

Kimi Antonelli x Rory Bearman (OC)

(4.2k)

Chapter Eight

Chapter Seven, Chapter Six, Chapter Five, Chapter Four, Chapter Three, Chapter Two, Chapter One

Summary - Kimi and Ollie’s sister start something they probably shouldn’t… warnings - suggestive content, not too explicit

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Bahrain - Race Day

The desert held its breath in the dying light.

Race day had dissolved into dusk. The paddock, once electric, was quieting now, softening into shadow. Bahrain’s air was dry and gold-edged, the kind that clung to skin and made every inhale feel weighted, like you were breathing in sand and salt and something unspoken.

Rory waited near the Mercedes hospitality unit, one ankle crossed over the other, her arms folded loosely, camera slung heavy across her chest. Kimi had finished eleventh — outside the points. She hadn’t seen him since parc fermé.

He’d disappeared into the post-race machinery: debrief, cool-down, media. It chewed drivers up, that stretch of time, and spat them out quieter than they’d gone in. She hadn’t texted him. Didn’t need to. There was something about him today — something slow-burning, cautious. She knew better than to tug at the thread.

So she waited.

Above her, the lights still buzzed over the track like artificial stars. A few engineers passed, trailing equipment and exhaustion. She leaned her head back against the wall, letting the stone cool her spine. It had been a strange day — long in that slow, sticky way where time lagged behind her thoughts.

Footsteps approached, and she expected Kimi — felt something stir in her chest, that strange flicker — but it wasn’t him.

It was Ollie.

His curls were messy, his shirt half-untucked, water bottle dangling from his hand. He looked like someone who’d run ten laps of the circuit himself.

“You waiting for Kimi?” he asked, voice dry.

Rory rolled her eyes. “I—don’t start.”

“I didn’t say anything.” Ollie smirked, leaning beside her on the wall. “You’ve got that look. That I’m-not-waiting-but-I-am look.”

She nudged him with her shoulder. “He just had a tough race.”

“Yeah, I saw.” Ollie’s voice gentled, not teasing anymore. “Tough’s one word for it.”

They watched a couple mechanics wheel past with tire blankets. The scent of burnt rubber still lingered in the air.

“You alright?” he asked, after a beat.

She shrugged, then nodded. “I don’t know. I just… he looked tired. Not the kind you fix with sleep.”

Ollie tilted his head, thoughtful. “You care.”

It wasn’t a question. Rory didn’t answer.

Silence settled between them. Not awkward, just full — like when they were kids, sitting on the swings and watching the wind move the leaves. He’d always been the one to let quiet things be quiet. Let her feel whatever she needed. 

“I don't think you should invest your feelings here,” Ollie said eventually.

Rory blinked. “What?”

He grimaced at her, voice softer. “I love Kimi. He is my best friend on the grid, no doubt. But Rory, this lifestyle…all the pressure, stress, and issues it comes with…I don't want you to get hurt”

Her heart pulled tight. She looked down at her hands.

“Who says I’m investing my feelings anywhere,” she murmured.

“Rory.” Ollie stated as he reached out and flicked a piece of hair from her forehead. “Just listen to me. Trust me on this.”

He pushed off the wall, gave her shoulder a squeeze, and wandered off toward the garages. She watched him go, heart thudding strangely.

She didn’t know how long she stood there after that. The night grew cooler. The air started to lose its heat.

And then—finally—Kimi appeared.

He moved slowly, eyes drawn, suit half-unzipped, hair damp at the nape. There was a stiffness to the way he carried himself, like everything in him had been wound too tight and released too fast.

His eyes found her instantly.

For a second, he just looked. Like he hadn’t expected her to still be here.

“You waited,” he said, voice low.

She nodded. “Yeah.”

He stopped in front of her, close enough that she could smell the lingering heat of the car on him, the faint tang of sweat and engine oil. His mouth was tight, unreadable.

“You didn’t have to,” he said.

“I know.”

His gaze flicked down, then back up. “I don't feel like going back to the hotel yet.”

“Okay,” she said softly. “I can wait with you. Until you’re ready.”

There was a long, still pause.

Then she shifted slightly, lifting her camera. “I got some photos of the race. Want to see?”

He hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah. Okay.”

They sat on the low stone ledge outside the building. She turned the camera on and scrolled through, letting him lean in, letting his shoulder brush hers.

She could feel the quiet in him. It wasn’t anger, not even disappointment. Just… weight.

“Eleventh feels worse than last sometimes,” he said, not looking at her.

“I know,” she whispered.

He was silent for a moment, watching the tiny screen as a blurred image of turn four clicked past.

“I wanted to do better.”

“I know.”

“I can do better.”

“I know that too.”

Another photo: his car, mid-corner, rear tires feathering dust off the track limits.

He exhaled. “They always ask the same thing. What went wrong? What would you do differently? It’s like—I don’t know. Sometimes it just goes how it goes.”

She didn’t try to fix it. Just let him talk.

“I felt… slow,” he said finally. The word cracked a little.

She turned the camera off. Let it rest in her lap.

“You’re not,” she said, and when he looked at her, she held his gaze. “You know what you’re capable of. You shouldn’t let today’s results take away from what you’ve accomplished the last few races.”

He looked like he might say something. Then didn’t.

Instead, he shifted closer.

His thigh pressed lightly against hers now. Not intentional, maybe. But steady. She could feel his breath, slow and controlled, like he was trying not to let something slip out.

“Rory,” he said, her name thick in his mouth.

She didn’t move.

His hand brushed hers on the ledge — not a grab, not a reach. Just a touch. Barely there. But it stayed.

And she let it.

They sat like that while the paddock emptied around them. Two figures tucked into the margin of a long, dusty night — not saying anything, not needing to. The stars were out, bright and breathless.

When he finally spoke again, his voice was softer than she’d ever heard it.

“Thanks for staying.”

She didn’t look at him. Just leaned a little closer. Her head moved to rest on his shoulder. His head met hers.

“Always.”

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Saudi Arabian Grand Prix - Saturday

The air was warm. The kind of heat that held close like breath. In the still moments between sessions, the paddock shimmered with spotlights and low murmurs. Engineers murmuring telemetry, photographers trailing cables, fans pressing their faces to the edges of fences. Time moved in slow sweeps under the artificial glow, and behind closed doors, things cracked open.

It started in silence.

Not the soft kind. Not gentle or shy. Just quiet, like the pause before something inevitable.

She found him behind the garage — tucked in the narrow corridor between shipping crates and spare parts, the smell of burnt rubber still clinging to the air. The world was still spinning, but not here. Here, everything stood still.

He was pacing, or trying to. Running a hand through his hair, unzipping his suit to the waist. His fireproofs clung to his chest, damp from the heat, collarbone slick with sweat. Practice three had just ended. Qualifying would be starting soon.

She didn’t call his name.

She didn’t have to.

He looked up — and that was it.

Two steps forward, maybe three, and her back was against the metal wall of the garage. His mouth was on hers before she could say anything. Fast. Messy. Hungry.

She gasped into him and his hands found her waist, pulled her closer until there was nothing between them but breath and fabric and heat. Her fingers slid under his fireproofs, skimming the skin there — lean muscle, tense and twitching. His teeth grazed her lower lip and she let out a sound, soft but aching, and he swallowed it whole.

“Kimi—” she whispered, head falling back as his mouth trailed along her jaw.

He didn’t answer. Just kissed the hollow of her throat, hands tight on her hips like if he let go, the moment would shatter.

“We can’t do this right now,” she breathed, even as her body arched into him.

“You’re here,” he said simply, lips brushing her collarbone. “So I am.”

The paddock hummed meters away — voices rising, radios crackling, tyres squealing as they were dragged into garages. But none of it made it in here.

Here, it was just heat.

Just the scrape of zippers, the thud of her heart, the press of him against her in a space barely wide enough to hold the tension between them. His hands mapped her like muscle memory, like he’d known this all along.

She kissed him back harder, less afraid now. Pulled at his suit, tugged him closer until her breath hitched and his eyes fluttered shut.

“You drive me insane,” she whispered.

“I know.”

She laughed, breathless. “So smug.”

“You like it.”

God help her — she did.

Her fingers slid along the edge of his fireproofs, up his spine, leaving goosebumps in their wake.

“We shouldn’t,” she whispered.

“I know.”

Neither moved.

The silence thickened again, warm and wanting. She could feel the race weekend closing in on them—like a drumbeat from beyond the walls—but he didn’t flinch. Just leaned his forehead to hers, their bodies still tangled, mouths parted like they hadn’t quite finished saying goodbye.

“Quali,” she murmured.

He groaned softly. “Fuck.”

“Exactly.”

That made him smile—barely, like a secret. She kissed the edge of it, stealing one more second, one more breath. And then she was pulling away, hands smoothing her hair, her shirt, her expression.

He leaned back against the wall, watching her with something unreadable behind his eyes.

“Rory,” he said, as she reached for the door.

She turned.

“I’m not going to pretend this didn’t happen.”

She blinked, caught off guard by the steadiness in his voice. The way it held her name like it mattered.

“Neither am I,” she said, then slipped out into the light.

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The hotel restaurant was glossy with evening polish — low lights in golden sconces, a ceiling that caught sound and held it soft, and glass tabletops that reflected every flicker of expression. The Bearman family had taken over a booth in the corner, tucked just enough out of sight to let secrets simmer unnoticed.

Rory slid into the booth beside her younger brother Thomas, heart still unsettled from earlier. Her skin prickled like it remembered every place Kimi had touched her — her throat, her waist, the inside of her wrist.

She could still feel the imprint of him on her ribs. His mouth behind her ear. His voice, low and uneven, whispering don’t go when she tried to slip away before it could turn into more.

He was already at the table, seated across from her beside Ollie, posture perfect, gaze low over the menu. Hair still a little damp from the shower. She didn’t trust herself to look too long.

Her knee brushed his under the table.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t look up. But his fingers tightened slightly on the menu.

“Thank you for inviting me to dinner. I’m excited for you all to stay with us in Imola.”

David Bearman, ever the sharp observer in family settings, clapped Kimi on the shoulder. “Anytime Kimi. But man that qualifying run was something else, mate. Real grit through sector two.”

Kimi gave a polite nod. “Thanks. Just trying to find pace.”

He didn’t look at her. Not once.

Terri passed around a menu. “Thomas, no more chicken tenders. I swear, if you order off the kids' menu at sixteen—”

“Fifteen,” he muttered, sulking, “and it’s not the kids’ menu, it’s just called that.”

Rory’s lips twitched.

Ollie leaned over to swat Thomas’s arm. “Order something green for once.”

“Leave me alone, you order like a wellness coach.”

That earned a laugh from David and a warning look from Terri, and for a moment, things felt easy. Normal.

Until Kimi reached for his water glass — and his knee bumped Rory’s under the table.

Not hard. Not lingering. But enough.

She didn’t move.

Not when the waiter took orders.

Not when to food arrived.

Her pulse stuttered as she traced her finger along the condensation on her glass, trying not to look across the table. He sat so composed, chin tilted slightly, not even blinking. But his foot stayed there, just barely pressed against hers.

Conversation rose around them — Ollie arguing about tire degradation, David chiming in with some old racing anecdote, Thomas digging into a story about a karting kid who threw up in his helmet. Background noise. Cover for the storm just beneath Rory’s skin.

She hadn’t meant for it to feel like this. 

“You’re quiet,” Terri said gently, eyes on her. “Everything alright, love?”

Rory blinked. “Yeah, just tired.”

But it wasn’t tiredness pressing hot behind her knees or making her fingers curl too tightly around her water glass. It was Kimi’s leg against hers under the table. The weight of earlier still wound into her limbs, soft and unrelenting.

He hadn’t looked at her all dinner — not directly. But she could feel him like a current.

Their legs touched, just barely. The tablecloth draped low enough to hide it, their secret tucked in the folds.

She shifted — not away. Closer.

His foot moved, slow and deliberate. The toe of his shoe brushed along her ankle. Her breath hitched, caught in the top of her chest. She reached for her wine glass and missed slightly, fingers fumbling the stem.

Kimi didn’t flinch.

But under the table, his foot stilled. Firm. Present.

Terri launched into a story about Rory’s first karting accident — something about a lost front wing and a tantrum — and Ollie added dramatic reenactments, hands flailing. Thomas was in stitches.

Rory laughed on cue, barely hearing a word. Her heart was too loud. Her skin too hot. And Kimi — Kimi was just sitting there, still composed, still unreadable, while his shoe pressed lightly into the inside of her calf like a promise.

Her cheeks flushed. She could still taste the ghost of him on her mouth. The low rasp of his voice when he’d told her not to leave. The heat of his body crowding hers behind the garage wall, hands tight on her hips like the world might end if he let go.

She dragged her gaze away. Took a sip of water.

“We’ll head up after this,” David was saying. “Early morning, and I don’t trust Ollie to wake up without three alarms.”

Thomas leaned toward Kimi, conspiratorial. “They still make him wear the same pajamas from when he was fourteen. Did you know that? They have little go karts all over them.”

“Thomas! You’re such a liar.” Ollie’s voice cracked with horror.

Kimi smiled — just barely. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Needing a distraction, Rory turned to Thomas, desperate to say something — anything.

“You still have that formula four race next month?”

“Yeah,” he said, bright with pride. “There’s a series in Italy. Dad said you might come?”

“Maybe,” she managed. “If I’m not—”

Busy with Kimi’s mouth on her neck. Busy trying not to fall into whatever this was.

He didn’t move his foot.

Just left it there.

And when the check came and everyone shuffled to stand, Kimi rose last, slow and careful. He lingered by her side, his voice low in her ear:

“I’ll wait for you.”

It wasn’t a question. Just a quiet instruction. As if he already knew she wouldn’t say no.

And when she turned to grab her bag, her hand brushed his.

She held it.

Only for a second.

But it was enough.

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The hallway outside the Bearmans’ hotel suite was hushed, carpeted in silence and warm lamplight. Rory stood with her hand on the doorknob, phone tucked tight to her chest, heartbeat drumming in her ears.

She waited five minutes after everyone had gone to bed.

Then slipped out barefoot.

Kimi’s room was two floors down.

The walk felt like an eternity — like every footstep might echo into something irreversible. She pressed the elevator button with her knuckle, counted the seconds, and prayed no one from the paddock would see her in her oversized jumper and sleep shorts.

His door opened before she could knock.

He must have been watching through the peephole.

Kimi stood in the doorway, backlit by soft yellow light, shirtless, his damp hair curling slightly over his forehead. The sharp line of his collarbone dipped into his chest. Low, grey sweatpants hung loose at his hips.

He didn’t say anything.

Just stepped aside to let her in.

The moment the door shut behind her, her breath caught. Her skin still felt marked — not with bruises, but memory.

“Kimi,” she whispered.

But he was already moving.

And then his mouth was on hers.

The kiss was different now. No stolen seconds behind the garage. No risk of getting caught — only the burn of restraint unraveling by the second. He pressed her against the wall beside the door, his hands splayed wide across her waist, under her sweatshirt, palms flat to her bare skin.

He kissed her like he was drowning.

And she let him.

Her hands slid up over his shoulders, into his hair, tugging him closer like the space between them was too much. His tongue swept over hers, deliberate, claiming. Her back arched under his touch — she couldn’t help it.

When his mouth left hers, it only moved lower — jaw, neck, the hollow beneath her ear.

“Dinner almost killed me,” he murmured, voice wrecked. “I would’ve—fuck, Rory.”

She whimpered as he lifted her, arms around his neck, her thighs bracketing his hips. He carried her to the bed without hesitation, laying her down like he already knew the shape of her.

They kissed until her lips were swollen.

Until his hands trembled where they held her.

Until she felt him through their clothes and she was shaking under him, overwhelmed.

But then he stopped.

Breathing hard, forehead pressed to hers, he muttered, “Shit.”

Rory blinked up at him, lips swollen, chest rising fast.

“What?”

“I have the race,” he said, voice strained. “In the morning. I need sleep. I—I shouldn’t... if we keep going I won’t stop. It’s too soon.”

Her fingers curled in the waistband of his sweats, reluctant. “Do you want to stop?”

“No.” It was instant. “God, no.”

He leaned in and kissed her again, slower this time. A deep, aching pull that said everything he couldn’t.

Then he pulled back, chest heaving. “I want to do this right. Not when I have to leave in a few hours. We should talk too.”

She nodded, throat tight.

He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “You feel like it’s just this?”

Rory met his eyes, wide and shining in the dark. “No.”

He waited, silent.

She exhaled. “I don't not want this. But it’s not just this. If that makes sense”

A beat. He nodded.

Kimi laid down on his back next to her, hands on his thighs, grounding himself. “I don’t do this with people.”

“I know.”

“This is a really weird time for me.”

“I know,” she whispered.

His thumbs traced soft circles over her knees. “But I think about you all the time. I don’t know what this is yet, but it’s not casual for me.”

Her eyes welled.

She sat up, arms wrapping around his neck again, her forehead resting against his. “Me neither.”

They sat like that for a moment, still caught in the tension, but softened now, tethered by something gentler.

Eventually, she whispered, “I should go.”

He shook his head, jaw clenched like it killed him to let her. “Stay with me until I fall asleep?”

Her smile was small. “Sure. Just for you.”

He brushed a kiss to her temple. “Thank you.”

Rory nodded, her heart folding in on itself. Something about the way he said it — quiet, like a secret — made her ache.

She slipped under the covers beside him, still in her sweatshirt and shorts. He lay back against the pillows, arm resting behind his head, eyes fluttering shut like the weight of the weekend was finally catching up to him. The room buzzed with stillness, soft and safe.

She turned onto her side, propping herself up on an elbow to look at him.

“You always this tense the night before a race?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper.

His lips curved faintly. “Only since you started showing up in hotel hallways.”

A quiet laugh slipped from her throat. “Right. My fault.”

His eyes opened — not fully, just enough to meet hers in the low light. “No. You make it better.”

She swallowed. The words hooked into something deep inside her, something she hadn’t realized she’d been guarding.

Kimi reached for her hand under the duvet, weaving their fingers together.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he murmured. “But I need you to know… when you’re around, I feel—lighter. Like I can breathe a little easier.”

Rory blinked back the sting in her eyes. “I feel that too.”

His thumb traced the back of her hand, slow and steady. She watched the way his eyelashes fluttered, the way his chest rose and fell as he fought sleep.

“You’re sure you want me to stay?” she whispered.

Kimi nodded without opening his eyes. 

So she did.

She lay beside him, watching the lines of his face soften in the dark, memorizing the subtle curve of his mouth, the way his hair stuck up at odd angles when he shifted against the pillow. His grip on her hand loosened gradually until his breathing slowed, deep and even.

He looked young like this. Not the composed, quiet racer. Not the boy with fire in his veins and control in his bones. Just Kimi. Bare. Human.

Her heart thudded low in her chest, warm and slow.

She reached out with her free hand, brushing a piece of hair from his forehead, fingers ghosting over his skin.

“I think I’m falling for you,” she whispered.

He didn’t stir.

And maybe it was better that way — for now.

Rory pressed a soft kiss to his shoulder, barely there, then slowly lifted the covers up, tiptoeing her way to the door. She gave him one last look before walking into the hallway and shutting the door.

She let herself imagine what might come next — after the race, after the secrecy, after the ache.

The hallway was quiet, dimly lit by warm lights and the glow of a vending machine at the far end. Her bare feet made no sound on the carpet, but everything inside her felt loud. Her pulse, her breath, the way her skin still hummed where his fingers had been.

The moment the door shut behind her, the air felt colder. Sharper.

She tightened the sweatshirt around her frame, hugging her arms to her chest as she padded toward her room.

Kimi’s voice was still in her head — the rasp of it, the way it had frayed just a little when he asked her to stay. The look in his eyes before he’d fallen asleep, like letting her in cost him something but he did it anyway.

She could still feel the warmth of him on her skin, the way he held her hand under the sheets like he was afraid to let go.

God, she was falling for him.

Not just in the dizzy, breathless way — though that was part of it too. But deeper. In the way that settled behind her ribs and rooted itself into something permanent. In the way his steadiness calmed the worst parts of her, and how his silences made her feel heard in a way words never had.

By the time she slipped back into her room, the loneliness hit her like a cold draft.

Her bed was untouched. The sheets still perfectly tucked. She climbed in and curled on her side, facing the window, watching the shadows stretch long across the floor.

Sleep didn’t come easily.

Not when she could still feel his fingers laced with hers, not when her chest ached with all the things they hadn’t said — and all the things she wanted to believe might still be waiting for them.

It was selfish, maybe, to want more. They hadn’t even named this thing. But the truth sat sharp in her throat.

She knew this would be different - difficult.

But she wanted mornings.

Not just the nights when tension pulled them together like magnets in the dark — but the sunlit mornings too. The sleepy, slow ones where everything was real and nothing had to be hidden.

She wanted to wake up beside him.

To kiss him without the rush, without the guilt.

To see what it felt like when he wasn’t pretending.

She turned her face into the pillow and closed her eyes.

And in the quiet of her hotel room, her body still warm from his, her heart whispering things she wasn’t ready to say aloud, she let herself hope.

Just a little.

Just enough.

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩ ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩ ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩ ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩ ✮ ⋆ ˚｡

Thanks for reading!!!!

tagged: @mywritersmind

ʚ🧸ɞ˚ ʚ🧸ɞ˚

[the-witty-pen-name]

Everything that I Wanted (5)

Eddie Munson x F!Reader / Billy Hargrove x F!Reader 

Word Count: 4.6k 

Synopsis: Love triangle between your best friend Eddie and your first boyfriend, Billy Hargrove that spans over many years as you get everything you think you ever wanted. However, your life doesn’t play out how you expected it, starting from the first time you’re asked out on a date. 

Warnings: 18+ SMUT (piv sex, m masturbation); angst, language, substance use; depictions of a toxic relationship; therapy

A/N: Comments & Reblogs are always appreciated! Please let me know what you think! Thank you so much @munsonsmixtapes @punkrockmlchael @keeryhours for reading this for me & letting me yap to you.

Series Masterlist

Stranger Things Masterlist

Life was changing and it was all happening quickly before Eddie had his I made it moment. The record deal had meant for a really sudden move, whisking Corroded Coffin to the heart of New York. He’d always imagined living anywhere but Hawkins. Never in a million years did he think he’d actually get out. Yet, here he was carrying boxes of his vinyls and clothes into his penthouse apartment. A place he got to share with you-  give to you. Listening to you talk excitedly about the plans you had to make this space feel like yours and his? That was the moment he knew. 

Eddie insisted on breaking in the new place. And you happily obliged. Eddie ate you out, laying your body down on your kitchen island until your legs were shaky. He bent you over the new couch before it was even fully assembled. He had you on your knees in the shower, his hands tangled in your hair as you swallowed everything he gave you. With swollen lips and messy hair, the two of you ate pizza straight from the box sitting crossed legged on the floor and talked about nothing. 

Before either of you realized how fast time was flying by, you found yourself in the front row of Corroded Coffin’s first sold out show. Their first album was a record breaking success- just like you always knew it would be. Eddie’s schedule was getting so busy, between meetings with management teams, interviews, photo shoots… He was always so exhausted when he came home. However, it was everything he ever worked towards- these were the commitments he willingly took on. He wouldn’t trade it for the world. 

You’re pressed up against the barricade, the crowd around you roaring with excitement- the energy unlike anything you’d ever experienced. It was exhilarating, seeing thousands of people finally seeing Eddie and your friends exactly like how you’ve seen them. It was incredible to see them getting everything, all of the love, you’ve always known that they’ve deserved. When they finally took the stage, the crowd was so loud- it was a sensation Eddie could see himself becoming addicted to. Your eyes never left him, he was so completely captivating- his confidence, his voice, his fucking hands when he played his guitar. 

“I just want to thank everyone for coming out tonight,” he says into the mic, as they near the end of their set. “Just, fuck- we’re from a small ass town in Indiana and never in my fucking life did I ever think we’d play a crowd this big.” The crowd erupts into loud cheers and you feel that you’ve lost your voice from singing and yelling along the entire show. Your hands are sore from how hard you’d been clapping. “Um, yeah,” Eddie says, clearly speaking off the cuff, “But there’s one person here tonight- and we just wanted to take a second to thank her.” 

Eddie scans the front row, trying to find you again despite the harsh stage lights. His eyes light up when he sees you, and he winks. He chuckles to himself, before finding the mic again. “My girlfriend- the gorgeous girl over there in the front row? She has been our number one fan since day one- supported us no matter what. Whether it was listening to us rehearse in Gareth’s garage when we sounded like shit, or helping us lug equipment in and out of shitty bars during awful time slots- I just, we wouldn’t be here performing for you and doing what we love without her.”

“All the lyrics you sang along to tonight… they’re about her. Every love song, everything I’ve written- it all comes back to her. She’s my muse- always has been. Long before she even knew how I felt- God, she’s just my everything.”

He picks the mic off of the stand, walking with his hand in the back pocket of his black jeans. He’s making his way over towards you, and for a moment- it feels like it’s suddenly just the two of you. The crowd is screaming, and cheering but you can’t hear them- it’s like it’s all fading into the background. “I love you, sweetheart,” Eddie says sincerely, a shy smile gracing his pretty face. He can’t hear you because it’s too loud, but he can see your lips move as you return the sentiment. 

He leans over, bowing his torso down so he can have his face closer to yours. He holds the microphone up, so everyone can hear what he is about to say, but all he’s looking at is you. He says your name, and it makes your heart skip. Is he? 

“Will you marry me?”

You feel tears well in the corner of your eyes, you’re so overwhelmed with emotion that you’re momentarily stunned. You can’t help yourself as you stare at him and smile like an idiot. You manage to nod your head, and you manage a coarse “yes.” His eyes brighten, leaning forward to press his lips to yours, careful to not fall off of the stage. The screams from the crowd are deafening, as Jeff and Grant encourage them to yell louder as Gareth bangs on his drums celebratorily. 

Time feels much slower when you’re living alone, working to make your rent by picking up overtime at every opportunity. That was Billy’s new life that he felt like he was adjusting to well enough. As long as he’s keeping himself busy, he can do his best to fend off the loneliness. It surprises him how much the isolation he craved is slowly eating at him. No one here knows him. He makes small talk with the other mechanics, and he’ll go with the guys from work to the bar some nights- it’s just all so superficial. 

Most nights he’s just home, staying up late watching tv because he doesn’t want to be alone with his thoughts. Falling asleep on his couch night after night is messing up his neck but he can’t bring himself to go to bed. He doesn’t want to lay in bed in the quiet. He’ll take the stiff neck and sore arm any day over the nightmares he can’t seem to shake. 

He’s dozing off when he hears something that makes his ears perk up. It’s some award show, he’s not really sure which one- something music related. He sits up, rubbing his sore eyes as he forces himself to stare at the glow of the tv. Standing together on the red carpet, he doesn’t believe his eyes- you and Eddie. He’s convinced he’s dreaming, his exhausted mind playing tricks on him. 

You look so different, but he knows he’d recognize you anywhere. These past couple of years have been good to you- you’re absolutely stunning. He can’t believe that you’re the same girl he once knew- or thought he knew. Suddenly, he feels like he’s back on the pavement where Eddie knocked him down. The sting suddenly feels fresh again. 

The dress you're wearing is showing off your body, and he smiles to himself for just a second as he witnesses the confidence you’ve gained. It’s almost compulsive, the way his mind shifts, not letting him dwell on anything that he’s feeling. He can’t interpret how he feels, he can’t let himself acknowledge anything. He instead focuses his eyes on you again, raking over your body, and remembering how it felt. 

God the things he’d wanted and never got with you. He’s too tired and lonely to think about what he’s doing when he pushes his boxers down. He spits in his hand, and pumps his cock- watching you in that fucking dress. He doesn’t even give a fuck that Eddie is there, that he’s the one who actually gets you and touches you like how he wants. He’s so focused on you and desperate for a little release. He’s picturing how he’d peel off that dress, mess up your styled hair, and make your makeup run. 

He can practically feel you, perched on his lap. He can imagine the silk of your dress on his fingertips as he holds the soft flesh of your hips. He can hear your sounds, the way you respond to his touch. He can feel the way your chest pressed against his, your hands tangled in his hair. He bites his lip, continuing to pretend his hand is you, as he focusing his eyes back to the tv. 

That’s when he notices the ring on your finger. He shouldn’t let himself go there- but for the briefest of moments the thoughts slip past. What if it was him? What if instead, you were marrying him? For the shortest of moments he leans into that fantasy and before he can even anticipate it, he’s panting and finishing on his stomach and on his hand. He feels immediate regret when the loneliness creeps back in. He shouldn’t have fucking done that. 

He needs something- he knows he needs help. See someone about his problems or whatever. He begins  going to therapy, every Tuesday morning- begrudgingly, even though he wants to be there. He sits on the uncomfortable couch awkwardly, faced with questions about his childhood and his issues that he hates being confronted with. Sometimes, he says practically nothing in his sessions and sometimes the 50 minutes is up before he even realizes it. This most recent session left him feeling furious. 

He’s angry. He’s angry with his dad, he’s angry at Eddie, he’s angry at you- just upset about the world and his life. He’s pissed at the hand he was dealt, how much it fucked him up. He can’t let himself feel anything. His therapist suggested that he uses sex as a mechanism. A means to avoid his own thoughts- an escape to prevent him from feeling anything for too long. It hit a sore spot with Billy, because deep down, he knew it was right, but he didn’t want to admit to it. 

So he slips right back into the routine, after work he meets up with some guys at the bar. He drinks until he can barely function, and finds the first girl who is willing to sleep with him. He doesn’t even learn her name before he’s guiding her head down to suck his dick. He just needs to feel something- anything other than the thoughts he’s running from. She’s good- really good. He can close his eyes, lean his head back against the locked door and think about nothing. 

He continues the cycle. He continues to go to therapy, even though he’s not sure why. He ignores any advice his therapist offers. Any attempt to break down his walls, just leaves him feeling even more defensive and angry. He’s smoking more- at least a pack a day, drinking more, and the hook-ups are becoming a regular part of his routine. Most nights, he’s bringing someone home- to kick them out almost immediately after. He can’t sleep in a bed with someone else, not when all he can see or think about is you when the night finally stills. 

All of it worked for a while, the distractions keeping the thoughts at bay. But it was as though he was building up a tolerance to it all. And they couldn’t numb him as well as they used to. Before he knew it, he was seeing you everywhere- and the guilt of how he treated you was eating him alive. 

Suddenly, the girls in his bed all look like you- he can’t shake the image of you from his mind. He was never that vocal in bed, but now he needs to stop himself from moaning your name. Then, it begins to show up at his job. At the shop, he was speaking to a woman on the phone about her car and she sounded like you. Then, he sees you at the bar in every girl even though you aren’t there. There’s a girl with her back to him, chatting with someone, and he has to stop himself when he realizes yet again, she’s not you. 

It started to get really bad when he began seeing you in his dreams. Sometimes it would be innocent enough, you’d be like passing extra in the background and he couldn’t even be totally sure it was you. Other times, it would be debauched- him fucking you roughly into his mattress, watching tears prick in the corner of eyes as you looked up at him with those pretty eyes. Then, the dreams become nightmares. His guilt bubbling up to the surface and he’d be forced to face it head on. 

In his dream, the memory of how much he scared you floods back. Your scared, timid demeanor and he doesn’t know what he said or did to make you look like that. The dreams don’t make sense, they just make him feel panicked. He always wants to apologize, speak to you- say anything, but in his dreams, the words always fail. It’s like he’s paralyzed, feeling trapped in one place as the memories swirl and distort around him. Sometimes Eddie’s there- both of you, laughing and belittling him for how pathetic he’s become. The two of you gang up to kick him while he’s down, and he knows that he deserves it so he lets it happen. 

“So how long had you been seeing this girl?” His therapist asks, jotting down some notes as Billy just finished recounting everything- finally laying it all out on the table. He couldn’t take it anymore. He tells him everything. 

“Uh, the first half of my senior year of high school.” Billy says, wiping his face with his hands, trying his best to remember the timeline of events. “Just a few months, really.” 

“That’s not really a long time,” he muses, and Billy fights the urge to roll his eyes. No shit. “Why do you think she had that much of an impact? Is there something you feel guilty about?” Billy shrugs, not knowing how to even begin the explanation. He knows how he feels, he knows he was wrong- but how do you communicate that- that feeling. 

He’s so frustrated, everything just piling up inside him, and he can’t fucking put it anywhere. His mind just goes blank whenever he tries to put it into words. He hates sitting with this feeling, and he’s fighting back the urge to storm out. He shakes his leg anxiously, wanting badly to rush outside so he can smoke. 

Despite the elaborate proposal, you and Eddie wanted a really simple wedding. Corroded Coffin had been everywhere, and they’d been working such long hours. Eddie was constantly doing press, or working late nights in the studio. You both wanted the day to be as relaxed as possible. Eddie and you decided to go home, a trip to Hawkins to flee the paparazzi and the responsibilities of life. Plus, you hadn’t seen the house Eddie had built for Wayne in person yet. 

The backyard was gorgeous, with lots of trees and a garden Wayne had taken on as a project. It was perfect, and you found yourself thinking about how much it felt like home. The hats that lined the walls, the photos on every surface… all of the pieces of life from their trailer finally had space to spread out and breathe in new air. It made your heart ache for Hawkins for the first time in a really long time. It felt so bittersweet being back here, even if only for a little while. 

Surrounded by family and your closest friends, you and Eddie shared vows under a tree strung with fairy lights on a really warm summer night. You couldn’t look at anything else, despite the small crowd of family and friends, all you could see was Eddie. Your Eddie, with his unruly curls tamer for once and his soft brown eyes, looking back at you like you're the only girl in the world. How could you have ever thought your life would be anything besides you and him? 

You’d always been someone who would think anywhere but here when you thought of your hometown. But tonight, it’s not so bad- wonderful even. It took moving away for you to see how much it was a part of you. Part of you, a part that you kept buried deep down, didn’t want to go back to New York, back to the busy life, the hectic schedules, the paparazzi. But, watching Eddie- smiling ear to ear talking so happily about his band, his music, how proud everyone is of him- you couldn’t take that away from him. You were so happy, you can’t imagine your life being anything else. 

“I always knew it was going to be you,” Wayne says, pulling you up close to dance with you. It makes you smile widely, your grin meeting his. 

“You knew?” You giggle, wondering how many people saw Eddie’s heart on his sleeve before you ever realized. 

“From the very first day,” Wayne says matter of factly, pride in his voice. He glances over to Eddie, happy tears welling in his eyes. “I’m just so happy you too found each other.” 

Billy rubs his temples, trying to wrap his head around what his therapist just confronted him with. How the hell is he supposed to know the answer? The impact you had? How the fuck is he supposed to answer that? 

“I don’t know, she was nice to me, I guess,” Billy grumbles, “She, like, cared about what I had to say and like- wanted to show me stuff she liked.” 

“Have other people in your life done that for you?” He asks, tapping the pencil on the edge of his notepad. Billy hates this format. This guy knows the answer is no, Billy knows that the answer is no. Yet, he has to sit here and act like it’s some revelation. It’s pissing him off more than anything. 

“No.” 

“Maybe you feel regret or guilt about something you said or did?” 

No fucking shit. Billy shrugs. 

“Walk me through why you broke up,” he says, his tone neutral. 

“Um, she liked some other guy,” Billy scoffs, “they’re getting married now, or are married- I don’t know.” 

“Is there any more? Tell me about what she said to you.” 

“Um, this guy- he was like one of her friends, and like, I knew he liked her- when we were together, like I knew he wanted her and it really pissed me off. So, like, I didn’t want her hanging out with him. And we fought about that- like a lot. Then, uh, yeah- she broke up with me for him.” 

“It hurts when someone you love doesn’t reciprocate your feelings,” the therapist states. Billy’s posture straightens. Panic begins to settle in. Nope, he’s not going there. “It’s normal to feel hurt, or maybe you felt betrayed…” 

“No, no- I’m not in love with her,” Billy is quick to say. “It’s not that- this thing was so long ago. Trust me, it’s not that.” 

“Well, it sounds like you were in love with her at one time,” the therapist recounts. “It’s sounds like you’re feeling some remorse… if you can, can you recall what happened when she broke up with you?” 

Billy winces, he fucking hates reliving it. It’s been plaguing him for weeks, and even bringing it up now is making anxiety fester inside his gut. 

“I scared her,” he confesses, finally saying something- finally acknowledging it out loud. “Um, she turned to walk away, and I just- I panicked, I grabbed her arm- I- fuck, I grabbed her arm really hard, it was so fucked up. But, I couldn’t think. Then, Eddie- he punched me.” 

“What were you thinking when you grabbed her arm?” 

“Just that I didn’t want her to leave, she just- I didn’t want her to walk away and I just panicked. I honestly, don’t really think I was thinking- it was just- I don’t know… fear.” 

“What were you afraid of?” 

Billy can’t answer that, there’s so much going on in his head right now. He thought therapy was supposed to be helpful but this conversation is just making him feel so much worse. He’s uncomfortable, and he can’t let himself sit here with this pain. He’s not ready yet. 

What was he afraid of? Fucking everything! He’s walking around terrified all the fucking time and no one seems to care. His whole life he’s felt like this- how is he supposed to know any different? Of course he was afraid of losing the one person besides his mom to ever once show him a little bit of love…

Fuck, maybe he is still in love with you. 

He practically knocks over the coffee table inadvertently when he rushes out mid session but he can’t physically take it anymore. He needs to get out of the room. He ignores his therapist telling him to stay. He’s feeling suffocated. He needs to get out of here. He needs to take his mind off of this before he spirals. He needs anything- something to just made the thoughts just fucking stop. 

“Have a nice day,” he hears a sweet voice say as he’s walking out. It makes him pause. Billy knew the receptionist here would flirt with him every time, but he’s ignored it. He couldn’t do that here- he never let himself entertain the thought. He turns to smile at her. She’s pretty, and he thinks she’ll be the perfect distraction for him. He saunters over, leaning an arm on the ledge of the desk. 

“I’m Billy,” he smiles, and when the blush rises on her cheeks he knows this will play out exactly like he wants. 

“I’m Megan,” she smiles back at Billy. He doesn’t miss how her eyes trail down and back up his body. It makes his chest swell with pride. 

Eddie’s hands haven’t left your body most of the evening. His hands slide around your waist, rub your back, or his arm rests protectively around your shoulder. 

“God, my wife is so pretty,” Eddie muses, his mouth close to your ear so no one else can hear. His voice is low and gravely- making you shiver. “I love you so much,” he says, kissing your cheek. “Can’t wait to get you alone, sweetheart. I need you so bad.” 

Her lips are on his the very second the door of the supply closet latches shut. Locking the door behind them, Billy’s hands work to quickly pull open her blouse. Her hands greedily run up his torso, freely exploring his toned chest. It feels good, but it’s not enough to shake the thoughts of you- not yet. He needs more. 

When you’re finally alone, Eddie’s quick to lay you on the bed of your hotel room- kissing all over your neck and chest. “Love you so much, drive me fucking crazy,” he muses, his lips hot on your skin. 

“Fuck, Eds,” you whine, tangling your hands in his hair. “Love you too.” 

“My wife is so fucking perfect,” he mumbles against your skin, unclasping your bra and his mouth wraps around your nipple, making you moan contently. 

Her skirt is bunched at her waist, and her chest is pressed against the wall of the closet. He’s trying to focus on anything except the thoughts of you that keep swarming around in his head. He tries to think about her skin, her hushed moans and whimpers, the way she’s taking his cock… but it’s no use. His thrusts become harder and more sporadic, a desperate attempt to push the thoughts away. 

He closes his eyes shut tightly, and he’s drowning out her moans by placing his hands on her mouth. She responds to it well, and he smirks to himself. He’s breathing heavy and he knows he’s close. He just needs to feel the release, the pressure inside him is building up too much and he just needs those few seconds of escape to feel something else- even if briefly. 

“I have such a sexy husband,” you tease, pushing Eddie down gently so his back rests against the headboard. You smirk, watching his cheeks flush red. You know you’ll never get sick of that look. You straddle his waist and his hands find your hips. Your chests pushed flushed together, holding each other close. 

You sigh softly as you sink down onto his length. You rest your hands on his shoulders as you find your pace- slow and loving, taking your time to feel absolutely every part of him. He groans, his hands grabbing the flesh of your ass and squeezing. Your dress is in a heap on the floor, and his suit pieces on the ground make a trail to where you both are on the bed. 

“Mhmm Billy,” she moans, trying to keep her voice down, but she’s struggling. He reaches around and teases her nipple, tugging in a way that makes her eyes roll back. 

“Fuck,” he pants, struggling because he feels so close but he can’t fucking finish. He’s never had this problem before. He tilts his head back, biting his lip, trying to focus on the feeling of her- how tight she is. He feels her clench around him as she orgasms. 

He needs to get himself there. He can’t figure out why he’s having so much trouble. He quickens his thrusts, sweat drops down his forehead and he tries to let himself relax- he shuts his brain off, hoping to find his release he’s chasing desperately. 

“I love you so fucking much baby,” Eddie whines, his lips finding that one spot on your neck that drives you absolutely wild. You gasp at the sensation as he bites down on your skin, sending shivers up your spine. 

You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him closer and you bury your face in the crook of his neck. It feels too good, it’s becoming too much. You whimper as he coaxes you through it, whispering sweet nothings in your ear and rubs your back as you continue to grind against him. 

“Eddie… I’m gonna cum,” you moan, your panting breath feels hot in his ear. He holds you close, wrapping his arms around you. He thrusts up into you, hitting your g spot so perfectly that it makes your jaw drop and your eyes roll back. You cry out and clench around him as you cum, it takes all of your energy so your body is like putty in his hands. 

“That’s it, pretty girl,” he praises. “Fuck,” he groans, his own orgasm following quickly after yours. He rests his head on your shoulder, and he kisses you there. 

Shit, he’s thinking about you again. Billy can’t stop himself as he finally lets himself indulge in the thoughts. You’re with him and he imagines what it would be like if she was you. He can hear you, and imagines your voice when he closes his eyes. God, you’re so fucking beautiful. Everything about you, it just fills up all of his senses. Just like that, the familiar feeling stirs inside him. He’s so close, teetering on the edge, and he lets himself continue to fall into his thoughts. 

“Fuck… baby, I love you, fuck- fuck-” he gasps, not realizing the words are spilling out of his mouth until he says your name. 

His eyes widened, pulling out so quickly and tucking himself back into his pants. He needs to get the fuck out of this closet, he suddenly feels so claustrophobic- he needs to leave. He needs fresh air. He feels like he can’t breathe. He doesn’t even acknowledge Megan as she calls after him, confused at his sudden switch up.

TAGLIST: @fandom-princess-forevermore @sunshinepeachx @downbear @fanlifeaamt @exploding-bonbon @losingmygrasponreality @skiddypiddy @andvys @djodirt @moonlightsolo @kyga01 @sheisjoeschateau @melaninjhs @v3lv3tf0x @purpleeyeswithgoldensparkles @sunshine-mrk @danymunsonharrington @mrsjellymunson @fanficfantik @the-unforgivenn @punkrockmlchael @spookysace24 @crispystarfishhottub @4billy @let-love-bleeds-red@supersecretsamm @e-c-a-r-l-a-t-e @melvin333 @mmmunson @daryldixonswifesworld

[blogport]

EPOXYSHİNE - DRAGON+ (3)

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[porcelana-r0ta]

The Curse of Sight, Part 7

DCxDP

[Part 6] [Part 7] [Part 8]

[Ao3 Link] (Registered Ao3 users only)

Summary: When Wes Weston meets Tim Drake-Wayne, the dots start connecting. And those dots form a bat.

xxXxx

After a phone call with his mom to confirm that it’s alright for Wes to stay the night, Rebecca leaves with the AV equipment in a Wayne vehicle with a WE driver from HQ. (She also absconds off with a few extra Alfred Pennyworth cookies, but no one calls her out on it.) Wes is then left alone with Tim for a grand tour of Wayne Manor. 

The estate is large and sprawling, but Wes is nothing if not observant and adaptive, and he makes quick work of memorizing the layout. He’s careful to make mental notes of places that could potentially hold secret passages. 

Part of Batman’s whole thing was that he had a Batcave, right? Surely it’s connected to the Manor. The entrance is most likely on the first floor for easier access if the Cave is underground, which is the most logical conclusion given that the Batcave has to hold a computer with enough processing power to be the legendary Batcomputer, all the Bat-vehicles, plus any trophies Batman has collected in his lucrative career as a vigilante. Also, if it’s as much of a cave as the name implies, it’s got to be underground. 

Not that Wes wants to go exploring. This investigation is just so he can mentally note what areas to avoid and always have plausible deniability. 

“Oh, no, Mr. Bruce Wayne, sir, I didn’t see you come out of a bookcase secret passageway with bruises that strangely match up with Batman’s. You see, I was over on the bench in the Wayne Gardens, much too far away from the Wayne Library to see any secret nightlife activities. I’m just a simple teenage boy, haha, please don’t steal my kneecaps. Anyway, what did you think of My Immortal? ”

Yes. Foolproof and non-suspicious, two of Wes’s favorite things in Gotham. He even deflects into the Brucie Wayne persona in this imaginary scenario.

God. This is too stressful. Wes knows too many people with alter egos. He needs normal friends—he can’t keep being the normal friend for abnormal people. Maybe he should start going to the community center in his mom’s neighborhood and meet normal teens with normal Gotham interests. (Wes imagines the normal Gotham teen experience to be the universal vaping and smoking, plus minor vandalism and maybe even some pickpocketing in the Diamond District. He’d sidestep any vigilante-chasers or gangsters, naturally. He’s got to avoid the Bats!)

Of the first floor, there are the following rooms: the kitchen, the dining room, the living room, the parlor, the drawing room, Mr. Wayne’s office, the game room, the theater room, the servants’ quarters, the bathrooms, and the garage.

The kitchen likely has too much foot traffic to keep a secret entrance, plus Mr. Pennyworth seems too proper to let Bat-hijinks take place anywhere near his domain. The foot traffic would remain an issue for rooms like the living room, the drawing room, and the parlor. The theater and game rooms may be an option — both had bookshelves to hold board games, video games, DVDs, and VHS tapes, and bookshelves are classic rich people hiding places. The library is another potential place, even if it’s rather stereotypical. But maybe he should expect stereotypes from the same people with a cow named Bat-Cow? 

The servants’ quarters, only occupied by Mr. Pennyworth and not included in the tour, would be an unexpected place. It may be too far out of the way, though. The bathrooms could be an option: no one is going to interrogate someone for spending too long in a bathroom. But some people are nosy about what others keep in their bathrooms, and someone as paranoid as Batman would account for that. The garage is likely too much of a security liability given that it’s right there along the driveway for an easy getaway. 

That just leaves Bruce Wayne’s office, where it wouldn’t be weird for a CEO to disappear into for hours at a time, nor would it be weird for it to be off-limits for people to be in. Wes was only shown where the room was, not the inside. It’s totally normal to not be brought into your friend’s dad’s office. So normal, in fact, that Wes wouldn’t have even questioned it if he didn’t already know that the Waynes were the Bats. 

So, avoid Bruce Wayne’s study. Not a problem for Wes because he has zero reason to go in there in the first place. This sleepover thing will be a piece of cake. 

Right now they were in the game room, playing Mario Kart 8 on the Switch. The Waynes were wealthy enough that both Tim and Wes had a pro-controller. (Eat the rich!) Right now, Wes was beating Tim by a decent margin as Luigi, but he’s not sure how much of that is Tim letting him win. He’s only played Mario Kart a few times, and never on the Switch, so he’s not really world champ. It’s nice of Tim to fake being bad, though. 

“Damn, you win again,” Tim says, watching Luigi pass the finish line, followed by his avatar, Princess Peach, seconds after. 

“‘Cause you’re going easy on me.”

“What? No I’m not.” 

“You liar.” One of the best ways to lie is to pretend to be a bad liar. Make a few sacrifices with your integrity and no one will question you when you lie well about something that actually matters. His parents taught him that. “Play better this next round.”

“Are you trash talking me?” Tim is playfully offended. 

Wes scoffs, grabbing one of the sofa cushions and setting it against the armrest. He buries himself into it, swinging his legs onto the couch. He’s just barely tall enough to shove his socked feet into Tim’s ribs where he’s sitting. “Am not. I just know that you’re a little tech nerd, and that you can totally kick my ass. No way you haven’t obsessively played Mario Kart.” 

“First of all, I resent that.” He shoves Wes’s feet away. His ears are red. Still cooling down from outside? They weren’t so red a little bit ago. “Second of all, fine. Let’s do Rainbow Road.”

“Sweet, a challenge!” 

Tim selects the Special Cup, and Wes does semi-decently in the first three courses, though Tim only barely holds onto first. The last course is Rainbow Road, and Wes proceeds to fall off the track every thirty seconds. He crosses the finish line in a very humble tenth place. Tim, impossibly, does worse than he has in previous rounds, ending in fourth place rather than the calculated second to spare Wes’s pride of their previous Cups. 

“Hmm. That was humiliating.”

They both turn to look at the doorway, where Damian Wayne lurks, holding Alfred the Cat. 

“Don’t be rude, Demon Spawn.” Tim scowls. Wes stretches his feet out to nudge at Tim admonishingly. 

“Dude, c’mon. He’s right. That was bad.” 

“Weston is correct, Drake. And besides, I was talking about you.”

“Okay, that’s it—” Whatever Tim is about to say is cut off when Wes kicks him, harder than a nudge, but not enough to hurt for longer than a few seconds. “Wes! What the hell?”

He ignores Tim, “Did you want to play, Damian?” He gestures at the TV with his controller. 

The boy straightens up, and the movement makes Alfred the Cat wriggle free of his hold. She darts into the room, behind the sectional couch and out of sight. “Don’t be ridiculous. I am merely here to relay Pennyworth’s message that supper will be ready in thirty minutes.” 

“Oh, so you’re scared that you will do worse than me?” He raises a challenging eyebrow. 

“Tt. I could defeat you and Drake blindfolded.” 

“Prove it.”

Wordlessly, Damian marches into the room and swipes the controller from Wes. He laughs, kicking his feet off the couch and getting up to grab a third controller. When he turns back to the couch, Damian is already sitting beside his big brother, his back straight and his face neutral. He turns on the controller and joins them on the couch, leaving enough room for Damian to not feel crowded with a stranger. 

The kid reminds him of some of the more minor-league ghosts who like to annoy Danny for attention. Ghosts like fighting, they like arguing. Siblings shared in that trait, usually. 

Tim grumbles and switches to three person multiplayer, then asks, “What tracks do you want to play?”

“The same one you and Weston were on. I will defeat you both.” 

“Well, definitely me,” Wes says. Damian only sniffs in response. 

They speed through character selection, Wes keeping Luigi and Tim keeping Peach, and Damian chooses Shy Guy. After choosing their vehicles (Wes is the only one who chooses a cart instead of a motorcycle), they start the Special Cup. 

They quickly discover that Damian is a ruthless competitor. Wes lets out a frustrated groan at the third green shell that hits him, whereas Tim curses at his little brother. “How are you so fucking good? I thought video games were beneath you!”

“Jon has a Switch. He likes Mario Kart and Minecraft.”

“Of fucking course he does.”  

Wes wonders who this “Jon” person is. A civilian friend? A fellow superhero? He hates knowing superhero identities, but his mind runs theories anyway. 

Damian continues to win against them, and when that gets boring, he purposely keeps a middle-pace so he can collect shells. His aim is unfortunately impeccable. After twenty minutes of losing to his little brother, Tim calls it quits. “Okay, that’s it. We need to wash up for dinner before Alfred gets mad.” 

“Scared to continue losing, Drake?”

“Hardly. Go wash your hands, brat. You were holding the cat earlier.”

“She’s cleaner than you,” Damian insults. Then, before Tim can retort, he bounds out of the room. 

Tim turns to Wes, “Dude, seriously?”

“What? He obviously wanted to hang out with you.” 

“No he didn’t! He’s Damian. He wanted to spy on me and you so he can insult us better later when you aren’t around.” 

“Mh-hm.” Wes is doubtful. “I don’t know about that. He acts like how I did when I was in middle school and wanted to hang out with my older cousin.”

“It warms my heart that you’re capable of seeing the good in evil.”

“You don’t mean that, dude.”

Tim smiles, “I guess not.” 

After washing up themselves, they head downstairs for the dining room. They are greeted by the savory scent of steak. Wes’s mouth waters. Real rich people food. 

Bruce Wayne (Batman!) is already seated at the head of the table, Damian to his right. Tim grabs Wes’s hand and pulls him to sit on the other side, with Tim acting as a buffer between him and Bruce Wayne. 

“B, this is Wes Weston, my friend. He works in PR, specifically with our TikTok team.” There is no TikTok team, unless Wes and Rebecca count as a team. What is she supposed to do when he goes back to Amity with his dad at the end of the summer? “Wes, this is Bruce, my adoptive dad.” 

Well, only after the whole fake uncle thing, Wes thinks to himself. But he isn’t supposed to know about that. “It’s nice to meet you, sir.”

“Please, call me Bruce when we aren’t at work, Wes.” Bruce Wayne grins that Brucie grin, big and disarming. I’m onto you, Batman. You can’t fool me. “It’s great to see Tim with friends his age. I had a lot of concern after he dropped out of high school, you know, but—”

“Bruce, please. Stop embarrassing me!”

“I’m just expressing my love for my son, Tim.” He turns to Damian, “Don’t follow your other brothers’ examples. Stay in school.” 

“Of course, Father,” Damian says while Wes snorts. 

The Waynes are really zero to nil on children who have high school diplomas. Dick Grayson ran off (or was run off?) at age sixteen, Jason Todd was declared dead (though Wes suspects that maybe he really did die—is there a way to get Danny and Co. to look into that without spilling identities?), and Tim dropped out and created an uncle after his parents passed so he could become a full-time CEO and vigilante (Wes should sit down with Tim and talk about good coping mechanisms, and also never admit to knowing about the fake uncle or the vigilante activities). Hell, even Bruce Wayne is a medical school dropout!

They still at least had Damian Wayne and Duke Thomas, Wes supposes. Maybe they can be the Wayne kids who finally walk at graduation. 

As if on cue, Duke Thomas trudges into the room, clearly tired from daytime patrol as The Signal. Though, Wes is likely supposed to believe that Duke is out doing volunteer work or something of the like. 

“Hey, guys. New person.” Duke squints at Wes, then rubs his eyes. A pair of tinted glasses hang on the collar of his yellow shirt. He grabs them and puts them on.

“Hello, Thomas.”

“Hey, Duke.”

“Welcome back, Duke! Have you met Wes yet? Are your headaches acting up again?” 

“Nope,” says Duke, taking his seat next to Damian. “Nice to meet you. I’m Duke. And my head’s fine.”

“Nice to meet you, too.”

“Is Dick still here?” Duke asks. 

Bruce shakes his head, “He had to leave to make it back to Bludhaven so he’d be able to rest before his shift with the BPD tonight.” 

Wes translates that as He’s got Nightwing work tonight. But who knows? Maybe he really does have a night shift. 

“Ah, that sucks,” Duke says.

Alfred walks in pushing a cart of the mouth-watering steak, mashed potatoes, gravy, and roasted vegetables and starts to serve everyone.

Wes may have to sleep over more often. 

“Thanks, Alfred,” Wes says when his food is plated. 

“Of course, Master Wes.”

He wrinkles his nose at that, even though Alfred’s called him that a few times upon coming in for snacks after filming. Being called “master” makes him feel like some kind of egocentric wealthy elitist. 

“So, Wes,” Bruce Wayne, literally Batman, starts after everyone has been served. Wes straightens up tp better search for any signs of dinnertime kneecap removal. “You’re Penny’s son and that you intern at WE. How are you liking it so far?”

Normal dinnertime conversation. Excellent. Wes has been to dinners every evening of his life, so he should ace this. 

“It’s fun. I mean, I just did coffee runs and stuff at first, but it’s a lot more engaging now that Rebecca is running the TikTok and is using me as her Gen Z brain monkey.” 

“She’s not that much older than you.” Tim rolls his eyes. 

“The WE TikTok is doing very well,” Bruce compliments as if Tim hadn’t opened his mouth. “We should have started one much sooner.”

“I love the one you’re in. Wes, the one where you talk about the American public school experience,” Duke says, rubbing at his temple. Which is unhelpful because Wes directly made fun of Bruce Wayne in that one. “Sorry about the maybe trauma it inflicted.”

He winces, “I mean, it was fine. We were in a safe room the whole time. It genuinely was like the average American high school experience.” He cuts a concerned look at Bruce. The guy who literally can fire his mom and also rip out his kneecaps if he decides to take offense to something dumb Wes says. He just can’t help it—he’s an Amity Park teenager!

Bruce notices and laughs, “Now, now, none of that! I think it’s great that you raised awareness about school shootings. I’m very aware of my privilege, and I don’t have any hard feelings about it being called out.”

“That’s… good.” 

Tim nudges him from under the table with his foot. When Wes looks at him, he’s smiling. Wes’s stomach twists. It’s not an unpleasant feeling. 

Damian sniffs, “Well, nothing will compare to the appearances of Bat-Cow, Titus, Alfred the Cat, and Haley.”

“Everyone will love them,” Wes agrees. “People go crazy for animals.” 

“They would be wrong not to.”

“Wes, not to be rude, but are you from Gotham?” Duke asks. He squints from behind his tinted glasses. “You don’t have a Gothamite accent.”

“That’s not rude at all.” Wes racks his brain for reasons why the meta vigilante might look constipated whenever he looks at him. Is it an Amity Park thing? The Signal’s power set isn't 100% known—the only things confirmed by witness accounts are light and shadow manipulation. Is the electromagnetic radiation spectrum that Duke can see wider than a baseline human’s, thus allowing him to see more visible light? Can Duke see auras? Can he see ectoplasmic radiation? Can he see that radiation in Wes? 

He needs to be careful about what he says. “I’m from Amity Park, Illinois. So is my mom. But she and my dad divorced a few years ago and now I visit Gotham every other holiday and every summer.” 

“Oh damn, that sucks, dude.”

“Nah, it’s fine. They were super chill about it.” They had an amicable divorce. Wanted different things. His parents still text semi-regularly, and they will usually steal Wes’s phone for a few minutes when he’s talking to the other. They might still be together if his mom hadn’t wanted to move up in her career and his dad hadn’t been firm on staying in Amity, or if they’d both been okay with long distance. 

Still… it would be nice to be a complete family, again. Together and whole. Preferably in an Amity Park not infested with white suits or ectophobic ghost hunters. 

Ugh. He really needs to call his dad after work tomorrow. Maybe his cousin, too.

Dinner goes smoothly from there, and after, Tim drags Wes to the movie room to watch Lord of the Ring: Fellowship of the Ring before turning into bed. When the credits roll, he asks, “Are you cool with just staying in my room, or do you wanna stay in the guest room?”

Honestly, what kind of rich people shit is that question? (Ignoring that his mom owns a townhouse in Gotham City and is the director of Wayne Enterprises’s PR Department. He had humble beginnings!)

“Your room is fine,” Wes says. 

“You… just wanna share the bed?” 

Wes had seen Tim’s bedroom in the tour already. He had a California king sized bed. Sleeping in a bed that size would be just the same as sleeping in separate sleeping bags on the floor in terms of intimacy. 

“Yeah, that’s fine, dude.” 

Fast forward to them actually in pajamas and actually under blankets and actually turning off their phones for the night, and Wes is learning that it’s actually not fine. 

He’s hyper-aware of Tim’s form beneath the blankets, the same blankets Wes is under. And sure, they are on separate ends of the bed, nearly three feet between them, but still. 

He’s slept in the same bed as a few friends before, but that had stopped around middle school, when it was suddenly gay for guys to do that. Wes is secure in his sexuality, sure, but he was still in a small Midwestern town at the time, so he hadn’t exactly wanted to do anything to confirm any queerness about him. 

Tim, on the other hand, has been publicly bisexual for a while now. And he wasn’t in the room with Wes when he’d gotten his fitting and made his request that his suit reflect his sexuality, so he didn’t know that Wes was any flavor of MLM. (He’d been too insecure about his lanky basketball player frame to let a superhero overhear his measurements.) 

Is it weird that Wes knows Tim’s sexuality but Tim doesn’t know his while they share a bed? Is it creepy? Is it wrong? Should Wes say something? Or would it be even creepier to come out while in Tim’s bed? Fuck, is it hot in here?

He kicks a leg out from under the covers, allowing it to be exposed to cool air. It’s completely dark in the room, but he stares at where his foot should be. Should he have worn socks to make it not gay? Is it gay at all? What even is “it” at this point, anyway?

He forces a deep breath. This is probably not weird. It probably would be weird if he did decide to come out while sharing a bed with his friend, who is a queer vigilante and his boss and could have his adoptive father rip out Wes’s spine if he so wished. 

Right. So Wes needs to chill the fuck out and think of literally anything else. 

His first thought is unfortunately that time he fell off the monkey bars in the first grade and landed on top of Paulina Sanchez, who had cried and hated him until sixth grade for it. 

Even worse, his second thought is of his parents’ divorce, and he wants to slap himself. But he can’t do that when there’s a maybe-sleeping-maybe-not body next to him, so instead he takes another deep, quiet breath.

He thinks of Duke Thomas and the way he squinted at Wes. Right, light and shadow manipulation. But to what extent? The way he reacted to Wes might suggest he can see more than a regular human’s visible light spectrum. (More colors, like a shrimp?) If he can see ecto-radiation, then he can see that there’s something off about Wes, who has lived in Amity since the portal’s opening nearly a year ago. The average Amity Parker has a little ecto-contamination in them, but Wes’s may be higher thanks to his stalking of Team Phantom. 

So Duke might know that he’s a little irradiated. Not a big deal, Amity’s a small town. There’s no reason to assume that Duke will meet other Amity Parkers and start to ask questions. 

But what would happen if the Guys In White decide to outsource help and they decide that someone who can see more forms of light would be beneficial to the cause? 

….Fuck. He was supposed to calm himself down, not work himself up.

Wes settles in for a long night. 

xxXxx

Taglist: @theamazingfox

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Ao3 is updated first BUT I upload onto Tumblr 10-30 minutes after uploading on Ao3, so don’t worry about missing out on early content or anything. Everything is updated within the hour :)

[ivorydragoness44]

Ahkmenrah x Reader: Sarcophagus Part 2

Sarcophagus Part 1

Word Count: 2,388 Warnings/Notes: Minor angst (disappointment, worry, disbelief), Reader kinda panicking over touching ancient artifacts without gloves. Summary: Having yet been able to free Ahkmenrah from his sarcophagus, the Reader tries to find a way into the museum at night.

~~~~ ~~~~ ~~~~ ~~~~

The sun was hanging low in the sky as the day was nearing its end. But for two people inside the Museum of Natural History, they were missing every moment of it. Deep within the ancient Egyptian exhibit, you and your archeologist colleague were hard at work. Though as day was nearing evening,you both were finishing up with cataloguing the hieroglyphs around Ahkmenrah’s sarcophagus. Packing up their equipment into their satchel, your friend and longtime colleague turned to you. “Are you sure that you want to ask to stay in the museum after closing? I mean, I know that this is important and downright fascinating to you. Believe me, I know. And I couldn’t agree more, but…do you honestly think the museum director will allow it?” They kept their voice down. Even in an empty room, the flooring could echo off of the large walls. You plopped down beside the sarcophagus, you bag between your legs. “I hope he agrees. It’s just that we always have a limited amount of time. We’re lucky we got four weeks to do this,” you sighed. Glancing at the scale of the room around you, you shrugged. “This museum has been open for how many years? And no one has though to catalogue the hieroglyphs?” They gave a dry laughs as they finished packing. “Well, they found the tomb and brought all that they could here. They at least have a decent list of all of the items.” “And after a while, they move on to the next big discovery.” “There’s nothing wrong with that,” they stood, slinging their bag over their shoulder. “Not everyone has the luxury to sit around with the same discoveries for a while.” Following their lead, you grumbled. “It’s like searching for garage sales, but having to pay beforehand without knowing if you’ll ever really find something.” With a tilt of their head, they squinted teasingly at you. “And with that strange comparison to archeology…”

Turning toward the exit, you both headed down the straight path. Between the near ceiling height jackals, and away from the ancient glittering gold artifacts. A fleeting glance from you at the far most interior of the exhibit, and you felt it. A mixture of emotions. Guilt, wonder, and even skepticism. Since that fateful evening, you had not dared to utter a word about the incident. Unfortunately, there was your reputation to worry about. The dream career clutched tightly within your grasp as well. Besides, who in their right mind would believe you. It was outlandish. Ridiculous. Outrageously peculiar. And if it was late on a Halloween night, potentially terrifying.

Into the hallway, the pair of you headed straight toward the museum curator’s office. Though as you passed by a few guests, you found that the director was out in the lobby. The dress-suited man’s brows rose in recognition when he noticed the two of you. “Ah! I see that another day’s work has come to a close,” he smiled as you approached. “Yes. Thank you again for allowing us such access into the museum, Doctor McPhee.” “Of course,” he nodded, clasping his hands together. “I was enthralled to see if such an…investigative task would draw in more visitors.” As he glanced around, you held your breath. “However, no one quite attends the exhibits like they used to. They like the new and the exciting. Unless either of you found something worthwhile?” Your partner spoke up first. They seemed always ready when the situation demanded it. “Not yet. We still need to take time to translate the hieroglyphs.” “Right, right. They can’t possibly translate themselves, now can they?” Polite, and partially awkward laughter ensued for a few moments.

A decent amount of courage grew, and you knew that you had to ask. If not now, when? “Um, Doctor McPhee, we were hoping to complete more of our findings after the museum’s closing at night. To also avoid the possibility of disturbing the visitors during the day, and the overall normal functioning of the museum activities.” With a fading smile, the curator shook his head. “No, no. I’m afraid not. I appreciate your hard work, and wanting to maintain the integrity of the museum. But my answer is no.” A heaviness dropped within you. Despite that feeling, however, you smiled politely. “Thank you, anyway,” you nodded. “We understand completely,” your partner added. “Have a good evening.” As further pleasantries came to an end, you made your way to the exit. It was not unlike every other time, and yet, it was. The museum curator held the final word. Someone had to. You were just hoping to leave with an emotion other than disappointment.

Days had passed and you had yet to take a single step back into the museum. It was not so much that you were upset, but that other work needed to be done. Other responsibilities needed to be tended to. You could not stay in the museum forever. Recording the hieroglyphs more legibly and digitally. The time it tok to translate each symbol, and record your findings. As well as to share all of that information with other colleagues, and other such procedures. It could be overwhelming sometimes. What you could not let occupy your thoughts, was Ahkmenrah. Or at least not during work hours. You worried about him. What if he lost faith in you helping him? A stranger he could not see or touch. What if he was still waiting for you? Keeping someone waiting after making such a promise felt more awful as the days went by. But worse yet, what if the whole ordeal never happened in the first place?

Hours later, you woke up with a jolt. The phone was ringing. It was much too loud for you to deal with at the moment. “Hello?” “Okay, wake up!” Your colleague. “Look…I know it’s late…it’s uh…” Squinting in the dark, you glanced at the time. “So late that it’s almost tomorrow.” “Heheh, sorry about that. But this is important. You need to hurry to the museum.” Sudden alarm pushed aside any remaining tiredness and lulling thoughts of sleep. “Why? What’s wrong?” You asked in a rush, sitting up in bed. “Uh, not necessarily. Apparently, someone’s throwing a party.” Your nose scrunched at their words. “A party?” “Yeah. So, I was thinking that maybe we can get inside to check on our pharaoh.” Hope sprung in your chest and you swung out of bed. “Let me get dressed and I’ll be right over. Wait,” you paused in your rush. “Where are you?” “Out front.” They explained with a more casual tone to their voice. They’re playing great music, by the way. The light show is a little much though.“ You laughed. “Thank you for your commentary. I’ll see you soon.”

Minutes dragged on through the late night as you hurried to the museum. When you arrived, your colleague was just where they said they were. “This looks insanely out of place,” you said. Looking up at the building, it appeared as if all of the lights were in use. Not ailing to mention a number of them that seemed more fitted for a concert instead. “What,” they smiled beside you, “you’ve never partied among artifacts before?” You elected to not respond. And with the music pumping as it was, you did not feel like raising your voice to be heard.

A single head nod from your friend, and you both made your way up the front steps. At the top, the glass revealed an interesting party scene. Everyone indoors was dressed like the mannequins and statues from a variety of exhibits. You were about a second away from complimenting the accuracy in their wardrobe before you saw something else. There was no widely used technology like it, that you knew of. Even theaters and roaming exhibits used elaborate costuming and puppetry. The animals prancing fluidly were definitely neither. “That’s..a zebra,” your friend gawked. “There’s no way.” You glanced at each other in disbelief. “We’re either looking at something that we can never afford, or…witnessing something else entirely.” “They look like they’re enjoying themselves though. I mean—” Eventually, through your wide-eyed staring, someone approached. Dressed in dark navy, a museum nightguard made his way over and opened one of the doors. “Uh, hi. This is kinda a private party…so…” For the save, your friend spoke up. “I’m an archeologist. My colleague and I have been residing here for the past month cataloging the pharaoh’s hieroglyphs.” Though you were sure that they were going to say more, the nightguard’s face lit up with recognition. He was much younger than the three you had met on occasion. “Oh! Right,” he smiled. Gesturing at you, he added further. “And you’re the hieroglyphical—” “Egyptologist,” you corrected kindly. “Right. My apologies. I’m Larry, the new nightguard. It’s pretty late, um, did you need something, or left something inside?” He asked with genuine curiosity. You swallowed down your anxious nerves. “I would like to check on the sarcophagus, if you don’t mind.” Urgency pumped through your veins. Uncertainty hung in the air. Could your heart handle any more disappointment? “Oh, uh,” Larry checked behind him. “Yeah. Come on in.” Stepping aside, he let you both into the lively museum. “I’ll escort you over. Mind your step.”

“This is unreal.” Your friend awed beside you. The tyrannosaurus rex skeleton that typically posed on its perch at the entrance was not in its place. Instead, it was chasing after a little remote controlled car.

Leaving the main party scene, you sighed quietly to yourself. The hallway had a dramatic decrease in activity. Your ears, among your other senses, were grateful. Too much all at once was all too overwhelming.

To your right, the exhibit for the Pharaoh Ahkmenrah. “Don’t look up…jackals,” advised Larry. “Protectors of tombs. Anubis,” you recalled, eyeing your friend. “Hah, yeah, and they do take their job very seriously.” “As do we,” your friend said before placing a hand to your arm. Your heart dropped as you passed through the last archway. Stepping around Larry, you noticed something awful. Not only was the stone slab on the floor, but the lid to the sarcophagus had been opened. It was empty. Empty, with the exception of the ancient mummy’’s cloth wrappings. “Oh my,” you covered your mouth. Staring down into the sarcophagus, you could hardly believe your eyes. “It’s open. Who took the mummy out? No one here is authorized.” Larry put his hands up defensively. “No one took the mummy, he walked out.” Staring at the man, your eyes narrowed a fraction. “Walked out?” “Yeah,” he shrugged awkwardly. “He does that. Well, I mean, he technically has to climb out of there…” “Since when?” You asked, remembering that night more clearly. “He was trapped, and the other nightguards wouldn’t let him out.” “He—you know a lot.” Larry paused, looking as confused as your colleague. “How do you know that?” “I was here later than expected, accidentally. I was working.” “Okay, I’m gonna have to ask you about that later,” your friend pointed out. “But where is he, because my Brendan Fraser impression isn’t great.”

By the sound of approaching footsteps, you all turned around. There, walking up the pathway into the exhibit was someone wearing a complete ancient Egyptian pharaoh outfit. The gold gleamed off even in the dim lighting. “Oh, hey, Ahk,” Larry greeted, striding toward the young man. “I have some people who would like to meet you.” Puzzled, you were sure your entire face scrunched in your bewilderment. “Ahk?” Larry smiled between the pair of you. “Yeah, Ahk—” “Hello. I am Ahkmenrah. Fourth King of the Fourth King. Ruler of the land of my fathers.” “Well, shit,” your colleague squeaked out quietly. Familiarity echoed in your ears. That introduction was the exact same that you were given so many nights ago. His voice, though much clearer, was almost striking to hear. And his youthful face? It reminded you of the digital facial reconstructions performed from thorough scans. Ones of which that were not shared with the public for some reason. Though it was from a few years ago, the likeness was uncanny. “Oh my gosh,” you murmured. Tears began to well up around your eyes as you looked at him. Ahkmenrah’s dark brows curved up in curious worry. “Apparently you two have met,” Larry explained. “Like, before I worked here.” The Pharaoh’s eyes widened, understanding. Slowly, he approached you with gold bracelet bound arms extending outward. In the next moment, you found yourself in a tender embrace. “I’m sorry,” you whispered to him. “I’m sorry I could not free you sooner or find a way like I had promised.” “It’s quite alright,” he assured. His hands remained to the upper portion of your back, thumbs rubbing gently. Leaning out of the embrace, he looked to you with soft brown eyes. “Larry, Guardian of Brooklyn, freed me. And so I was able to restore order to the museum.” Your brows nearly shot up to your hairline. “Oh.” Restore order? What was—? Ahkmenrah’s eyes looked between your own as you stilled in place. At such a close distance, you took notice of the pharaoh’s attire. Ancient gold and fabrics. Intricate beadwork that was supposed to be inside their proper display cases. All for their protection and preservation. And you were touching it with your bare hands. A small intake of air lead to you hardly breathing at all. “What’s the matter?” Asked of Ahkmenrah, his face downcast in his concern. “I shouldn’t be touching this without the proper gloves,” you stared in horror. Fingertips shaking over polished blue beads. “I won’t tell,” your friend piped up with a shrug. “Breathe.” Stepping back carefully, you took a steadying breath to calm yourself. The pharaoh’s hands slipping down to your arms. Again, your friend spoke up. This time, they directed themselves toward the museum’s nightguard. “Is there any other surprises?” They asked, looking around. “Like…uh, the tablet glowing?” “Glowing?” You peered behind you. “Yep, it’s glowing. Does it…do that at night?” Ahkmenrah nodded. “After the sun sets each evening.” You gawked at the golden tablet across the room. “I’m not going to believe any of this in the morning.”

~~~~ ~~~~ ~~~~ ~~~~

Thank you for reading!

[mygnolia]

get better! | 3. meet my neighbor ig???

SMAU! synopsis -› in which your neighbor and popular twitch streamer park sunghoon breaks his arm, so he switches to vlog style content that matches up with yours! now everyone’s curious why 1) you have a cute boy in your apartment, 2) sunghoon’s not on his grind anymore, and 3) when are you two going to date!?

(2.2K WORDS, cw: food, y/n collects smiskis and sony angels LOLL)

You open the door to see a fist about to rain bruises on your forehead- and Sunghoon doesn’t expect for you to answer so quickly. He immediately retracts his hand, an apology tumbling from his lips as he drops his head in embarrassment. You wave it off, inviting him into your apartment.

“Welcome to my humble abode.” You greet, turning to face him expectantly, waiting for him to say something.

Sunghoon stares at the bare walls. “It’s…very new.” He comments, unsure of how to take in the plants in one corner, fluffy rug, half built coffee table, and extensive video editing equipment all ready to go near your balcony.

“What do I get for being the world’s best teacher?” You start. “Will you even let me on your stream?”

He cracks a smile. “Of course. You’ll have your own verified twitch badge and everything, too. What did you need help with, by the way?”

“I need to unpack my wall decorations. You’re tall,” You mention, walking towards another labeled brown box. “You can help me hang up my pictures.” You reach for cardboard with ‘photos’ scribbled over in marker, setting it down in front of Sunghoon. “Those two.” You point, and his eyes follow. “I marked on the wall where they all go.”

Sunghoon at least knows how to keep quiet, working with an efficiency as he refers to the pictures you’ve sent of where you want everything to go. You both move floppy potted plants near couches and decorate them with proper rugs and throw pillows. You realize how much better it is to have a second person, even if he was down an arm. Your living space changes from something plain, and as Sunghoon describes, ‘new,’ into something more personable.

“Help me build this shelf.” You say, and he frowns, looking at his right arm in a cast.

“And How am i supposed to do that?”

His words make you pause, forgetting that Sunghoon can’t just build furniture for you. “Okay. Let’s build it together. Then, I’ll set up my figurines, and I’ll help you film.”

With a nod from the streamer, you make your way towards the box, slowly taking out the pieces as Sunghoon lays them out. He eyes them carefully, making sure they’re in the right piles and opening the plastic.

“Okay, it says….I need..Where’s piece 236?”

He sighs and leans over, reading the instructions properly.

“It says 23 and 6.”

You frown, almost hitting him when you turn around to scowl. “Close enough.”

It continues that way for a while, and you finally finish building the cute shelf, leaning it against the wall and starting to put the figurines on as Sunghoon adds succulents to your kitchen.

“Let’s eat.” You half yell half suggest across the spacious room. “I’m hungry.”

“But we haven’t even filmed anything.”

You grab your keys off the kitchen counter and ignore him. “I’m craving toast.”

He laughs, following you down to the elevator. “You eat like a Victorian child.” Biting your lip, you pretend to be offended.

“And you look like one.” You weakly retort.

You make sure to bring your recording stick and smaller camera, playing with the settings before you record. “Hi guys!” Waving to the camera, you pan it over to Sunghoon, tilting it up for the camera to catch a glimpse of the mysterious figure next to you. “We’re getting lunch!” Across the parking garage, you see the somewhat busy cafe, but as one couple leaves, you usher Sunghoon to take the spot, commenting slightly to the camera.

When done ordering, the food comes in a cute yplace decorated with small animal doodles. As influencers, you’re both aware of the plaster social media life you have to live, taking out our phones and snapping photos that scream ‘date.’

Sunghoon pans the camera over, and the device catches the steam from the thick fluffy bread as he cuts a small piece, showing to the camera before trying it.

You stare at him, waiting for any change in expression.

“It’s really good, ____. Try it.” He nods, agreeing with the 5 star reviews.

“I got my egg a little crispy on the end,” You tell the recording, holding up a piece you cut before eating. Despite the simplicity, the eggs are well cooked and seasoned, and the addition of small vegetables on the side makes for a light meal. It’s not expensive, and in your opinion, it shouldn’t be- it’s literally eggs and toast. After a bit of small talk regarding the menu, you both agree to stop the recording.

Sunghoon speaks up. “I might have to leave early. The groupchat is telling me they want to play League of Legends.”

You falter, confused. “But you can’t even play.” Sunghoon’s heard the line so many times and rolls his eyes, exasperated. “I’ll just sit on stream and cheer them ob, or something.”

While you’re in no place to direct him around, you definitely have the means to judge Sunghoon a little for the things he does. “You work, right? Not just streaming?”

“Of course,” He answers casually, wiping the table and stacking the plates. “I am just another computer science major with an internship.” His tone makes you laugh, and you mirror his actions to make sure your table is clean, before returning the plates and leaving.

Despite inviting a stranger into your home for business talk, you seem to get along despite your rough start online, and he seems to not take anything too personally; a huge relief for you. When back in your apartment, you grab your better camera, making sure it’s properly adjusted to the sunlight that shines through and lights your living space.

After a glance around the room to take in how much work you two did, he speaks up. “What about the shelf, and your figurines?”

“Don’t worry about it. I want the natural lighting in the video.” You refer to how you want to avoid filming late.

Sunghoon leans back, observing not only the brand but also how easily you mess around with the features, keeping a mental note of the model.

“Smile.” You tell him, pointing the camera up to Sunghoon. He flashes a grin, and the corner of your lips turn up as the perfect amount of exposure makes for a great video cover. He raises an eyebrow, and you turn the camera around, showing him how it turned out, and he’s satisfied.

“Cute.” He mumbles.

“You love telling yourself that, huh?” You shake your head, mock disappointment on your features.

“I voice the general public.” He defends, smiling as he watches you get out your laptop and open a word document. “What’s that for?”

“Ideas.”

“Oh, don’t worry, I have plenty.”

You patiently watch as he rummages for his phone through his pocket and finding his notes app. Sunghoon’s positive he’s come prepared, practicing a sweet tone in the mirror and styling his hair just right.

He scrolls and scrolls.

It’s empty.

“Plenty?”

“In my head.” Sunghoon plays it off with a sheepish expression, suddenly embarrassed. You laugh at his sudden change in demeanor, continuing to tease him.

“Thanks for all of your help, mister ‘hooniebee.’

“I was trying to come up with video ideas last night, actually! I just fell asleep before I could write it down.”

“And you didn’t remember anything, huh?” You grin at the way he shrinks on your pink couch, quick to jot down some of the lingering thoughts from last night’s brainstorming.

“I’d say we start off with a ‘simple get to know you.’ Sunghoon’s suggestion is the same as yours, and you’re relieved to share the same train of thought.

Your excitement to teach him is infectious, and Sunghoon understands why people like you so much. Even if your stuff is still in some boxes or in the wrong places, you really do live an almost perfect life, and your beaming personality is no different.

“When it comes to vlogging, you learn what people like to hear. For my audience, they love to know about some video schedule updates as I’m doing small tasks, or simple life updates and explanations. If you’re as boring as the internet makes you out to be, then you got to start overexplaining.” He scoffs, crossing his arms the best he can with his cast.

“I’m not boring!” Sunghoon counters, running a hand through his hair and making himself presentable. “Start recording. Your audience will love me.”

You smile, clicking record without letting him know. “You sure?”

He nods. “Pickles Fan Club will become my fans. Promise.”

You turn to the camera, flashing a bright smile.

“Thinking and thinking about… Hi everyone! It’s ___ and you’re here rent free!” Your introduction is cute, and Sunghoon realizes that when you pause, it’s his turn to introduce himself, and he panics.

“Buzz Buzz.” He hurries, a wave of embarrassment crashing over him. You laugh, motioning at the camera to cut this part out through your quiet laughter.

“That’s not bad at all!” You promise, turning to him. Sunghoon gives you a blank stare, and your optimistic look fades just a bit. “You just can’t sound like you hate saying it.” You advise. “Buzz Buzz…what you do call your fans?”

He pauses, heat rushing to his face. He glances up, noticing the way you raise your eyebrow as you wait.

“Bae-bees.”

A grin spreads across your face, and you can’t help but find amusement in the situation. “Bae-bees??”

Sunghoon rubs his face with his one hand, waving you off. “They like it.” He promises weakly. “You named your fans after your cat.”

“So be it.” You conclude, turning to the still recording camera. “Say it.”

He shakes his head, letting out a quiet groan of disapproval before sucking in a breath, flashing a bright smile at the camera, and you anxiously watch. “Buzzin’ over here is your favorite Hooniebee! Hi guys!” He offers a little wave, and looks at you for approval.

Your satisfaction is plastered all over your starry smile. “That was really good.” You praise, and Sunghoon smiles, suddenly feeling bashful.

You turn the camera back, and start talking about what you two plan to talk about in your video. You introduce the mysterious boy as your broken armed neighbor, and you two laugh about how you met, listening as he teases you and reads direct quotes of texts from his phone. You two have natural chemistry in front of the camera, and whether that’s from your personalities or your ability to perform in front of a camera, you’re not sure.

You continue to ask questions about him, almost like a podcast as you two exchange witty banter and comments. You talk about his college life, he shares some drunken interactions, and talks about how much he appreciates his fans for sticking along. You think it’s all very sweet, the way he talks about his ‘bae-bees’ with so much adoration. You chime in, agreeing with Sunghoon’s thankful comments.

“I think that’ll be enough for the getting to know you part! We should do a quick apartment tour.” You pick up the camera, adjusting any hair and making a face before panning it over to Sunghoon, who just waves. His still slightly awkward demeanor can’t be helped, but it makes him all the more swoon-worthy to everyone who sees him.

You ramble about what you’ve started to put together, reminiscing to your long time fans about certain pieces of memorabilia that you had to let go. Sunghoon follows you around and adds a bit of commentary, even if it’s only to make jokes or make fun of you for not being able to build an ikea shelf around him.

The video ends when your half finished apartment has been toured, and you cut the recording after some cheerful waves to the camera.

“How do you think?” Sunghoon looks over at you when you ask for his input, nodding.

“I think it went pretty well. Pretty natural, or at least I hope. I’m not too boring, am I?” Sunghoon rubs at his neck sheepishly, and it takes a refusal from you for him to look up.

Offering him a nod of a approval, you say, “You did great, everyone will love it.”

Finally looking over the recording, you realize you might have to raise Amber’s pay, for how much footage there is.

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[cosmiclily]

chapter six: dreams

wc: 2.7k

cw: drinking

A couple of weeks after the meeting, the four of you finally secured an appointment with the head director of the label. It was the moment you’d all been waiting for, yet the anticipation left you on edge. The director had asked for a portfolio of materials—demos, performance videos, and a few polished tracks—and you had delivered, spending days perfecting every detail to ensure the band’s best work was on display.

The meeting was scheduled at one of the label’s premier recording studios, a sprawling, state-of-the-art facility that felt miles away from the DIY setup you were used to. Walking into the studio for the first time was like stepping into another world. The walls were lined with platinum records, and the sleek, modern equipment glinted under the soft glow of recessed lighting. The air itself felt charged with possibility, as though the walls held echoes of every hit song ever recorded there.

Ekko was the first to comment, his eyes wide as he took in the control room. “This… this is insane,” he whispered, running a hand over one of the massive soundboards. “Do you even know what this thing can do? It’s worth more than my car. Hell, probably more than my house.”

Jinx was equally in awe, practically bouncing as she examined the vocal booth through the glass panel. “Do you think we’ll get to record in here? Like, for real? I mean, listen to this!” She clapped her hands together, and the perfect acoustics made even the small sound echo like a symphony.

You couldn’t help but smile at their excitement, though your attention kept drifting to Vi, who was standing near the drum kit set up in the live room. She ran her fingers over the polished cymbals and nodded quietly, her expression unreadable.

“Feels different, doesn’t it?” you said, stepping up beside her.

“Yeah,” she replied softly. “It’s… surreal. We’ve been recording in Ekko’s garage for so long, I didn’t think we’d ever get here.”

“Don’t forget the soundproofing foam we duct-taped to the walls,” you teased, earning a small chuckle from her.

“Hey, that foam was the MVP,” she said, her lips curving into a smirk. “But this? This is on another level.”

When the director finally arrived, a tall man in a crisp blazer with a presence that immediately commanded respect, you all quickly gathered in the control room. He introduced himself as Mark Caldwell and wasted no time in getting down to business.

“First of all, let me say, your demo impressed the hell out of me,” he began, leaning against the console as he addressed the group. “I’ve been in this industry a long time, and I can tell when a band has something real. You’ve got it. Now, the challenge is taking that raw talent and refining it without losing what makes it special.”

He gestured toward the studio equipment. “This place is yours for the next few hours. I want you to record a live session—no pressure, just play like you’re at one of your shows. We’ll use it as a baseline to figure out where to go next. Sounds good?”

You all nodded, a mix of excitement and nerves bubbling under the surface.

“Good,” Mark said, standing up straight. “One more thing. This isn’t about perfection. It’s about capturing who you are as a band. Don’t overthink it—just play.”

The four of you exchanged glances.

“Well,” Ekko said, cracking his knuckles, “looks like it’s time to show them what we’ve got.”

“So what do you guys want to play?” Jinx asks, looking at the three of you

As you settled into your positions, the reality of the moment hit you. For years, you’d made do with what you had—recording in Ekko’s garage, using secondhand equipment, and figuring it all out as you went. But now, standing in a professional studio with the best gear and people in the industry at your disposal, it felt like everything was about to change.

And when you played the first note, it did. The sound was unlike anything you’d ever heard before—clean, rich, and so alive it sent chills down your spine. The way the instruments blended was pure magic, with Vi’s precise drumming anchoring the rhythm, Ekko’s basslines adding a steady pulse, and Jinx’s electrifying guitar melodies soaring with clarity. But it wasn’t just the instruments; your voice brought it all together, cutting through the air with a resonance that felt larger than life.

For the first time, you felt like a real singer, not just someone chasing a dream in Ekko’s garage. The way the studio’s acoustics carried your voice made every word, every note, feel like it had its own weight. You started with some new, unreleased tracks, carefully chosen to showcase the band’s growth, but by the end, you let yourself get lost in the moment.

“Alright,” you said into the mic, your tone playful as you looked at the others. “Let’s mix it up.”

Jinx immediately picked up on your energy, her guitar shifting into an improvised riff. “Finally! I thought we were gonna stay on script forever,” she teased, throwing a grin your way.

Ekko rolled his eyes but joined in, his bassline syncing effortlessly with her experimental melody. “Just don’t blame me if we go off the rails,” he joked.

“Keep up, kids,” Vi said from behind her drum kit, her sticks tapping out a steady rhythm as she grounded the improvised jam.

And then you sang. Lyrics you hadn’t planned spilled out, and the band followed your lead. The energy was raw, unfiltered, and powerful. You could feel it in the way your voice hit the high notes, in the way Jinx’s guitar seemed to sing with you, and in the way Vi and Ekko kept the entire thing tight yet vibrant.

By the time the final note rang out, the room felt charged with energy. You looked up, breathless, to see the label director, Mark, grinning on the other side of the glass. His voice came through the speakers, making you jump slightly.

“Well, I think that was all I needed to hear. You guys were great,” he said, his tone calm but full of certainty.

The words hung in the air for a moment before Jinx, ever the bold one, leaned into the mic in front of her. “Wait, great as in good? Or great as in ‘We’re sending your manager a contract tomorrow’ great?”

Mark chuckled, shaking his head. “The second one. Congratulations, guys. You’ve got it. Now go celebrate—because this is just the start.”

The room exploded into cheers. Jinx spun around, hugging her guitar before giving Ekko an enthusiastic high-five. Vi smirked, twirling a drumstick as she leaned back in her chair, the hint of pride unmistakable. Ekko laughed, clapping you on the shoulder.

You stood there, the reality of his words sinking in. This was it. The years of hard work, late-night rehearsals, and doubts had led to this moment.

Jinx threw an arm around your shoulders, her grin wide. “Told you we’d make it,” she said, nudging you playfully.

“You’re right,” you replied, unable to keep the smile off your face. “We really did.”

As you all packed up your instruments, Mark’s words echoed in your mind. This wasn’t just the end of a chapter—it was the start of something much bigger. You looked around at your bandmates, their excitement mirroring your own, and felt a spark of determination.

──────────────────────

“So, what now?” you asked, standing outside the record label building. You were still walking on cloud nine, adrenaline coursing through your veins. Your whole body felt electrified, as though the energy from the session hadn’t left you. The night air was cool, but it couldn’t temper the heat of excitement bubbling inside you. “If I go home right now, I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep.”

“Me neither, to be honest. I feel like I just downed five of those energy drinks Jinx is obsessed with,” Ekko said, laughing as he leaned against the railing beside you.

Jinx smirked, swinging her guitar case over her shoulder. “Come on, my energy drinks are what keep this band alive. You’d all be half-asleep without me.”

“You’re the last person who needs more caffeine,” Vi quipped, twirling a drumstick in her hand like she always did when she was buzzing with energy. “But yeah, I’m not ready to call it a night either.”

Ekko tilted his head thoughtfully. “So, what do we do? Celebrate? Grab some food? Go somewhere?”

“I know the last time we went to a club, you guys hated me for a couple of days, *but*,” Jinx said, dragging the word out and batting her eyelashes in exaggerated innocence, “we don’t have anything scheduled for tomorrow. I vote we go out for drinks.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Jinx, the last time we went out for drinks, you ended up dancing on the bar and Ekko got into an argument with the DJ.”

“Correction,” Jinx said, pointing a finger at you. “Ekko got into an argument because the DJ wouldn’t play my request. And, if I recall correctly, you weren’t exactly sober or innocent that night either. You disappeared after claiming you were going 'to the bathroom,'” she said, making air quotes with her fingers.

Vi chuckled, clearly recalling what actually happened. “You know what? I’m down,” she said with a smirk, leaning back against the railing. “I mean, we deserve it after today.”

Ekko groaned. “I don’t know if my reputation can survive another night like that, but…” He shrugged, a grin spreading across his face. “Screw it. Let’s do it.”

“That’s the spirit!” Jinx cheered, punching the air in victory. “Okay, I know just the place. It’s got cheap drinks, good music, and enough chaos to keep things interesting.”

“Sounds like trouble,” you muttered, but the excitement was already building. It had been a long time since you’d let loose, and the adrenaline from the studio session was still buzzing in your veins. “Alright, Jinx. Let’s just leave these things at my place, and we can go.”

After a quick stop at your apartment to drop off your instruments, Jinx led the way to the spot she’d been so excited about.

It was a pleasant surprise. The place was leagues better than the chaotic club she’d dragged you to in LA. The DJ was playing a mix of upbeat and chill tracks that actually made sense together, the lighting was warm and inviting, and it wasn’t packed to the point of suffocation. People were dancing in small, carefree groups, while others mingled at the bar or lounged around tables, laughing and enjoying themselves. It felt alive in the best way—a comfortable buzz of energy without the overwhelming chaos of your previous outing.

You stopped at the bar first, each of you ordering your drinks. Jinx, naturally, went for something vibrant and sugary—her cocktail an almost cartoonish shade of blue. Vi opted for something simple, a whiskey neat, while Ekko chose a craft beer after taking an unnecessarily long time debating his options. You ordered your go-to, letting the familiarity ground you for a moment before following Jinx to an open table near the edge of the room.

As the four of you settled into the cushy seats, drinks in hand, you raised your glass to the group. “To us,” you said with a grin, the words heartfelt. “And to whatever comes next.”

“To whatever comes next!” Jinx echoed, clinking her glass against yours with a grin before taking a long sip of her cocktail. She lowered it, her eyes sparkling as she glanced around the lively room. “I can’t believe this is actually happening,” she said, her voice filled with awe. She gestured with her drink, the blue liquid sloshing slightly. “I mean, this is it. We’re actually doing it. No more garage demos. No more begging venues to let us open for a band nobody’s heard of. We’re in.”

Vi nodded, swirling her whiskey lazily in its glass. “Feels good, doesn’t it? Feels like…” She paused, searching for the right words. “Like maybe all the crap we’ve been through was worth it.”

“It better have been,” Ekko said with a laugh, raising his beer. “I didn’t waste years soundproofing my garage just to get here and not enjoy it.”

Jinx snorted. “You mean *we* didn’t waste years soundproofing your garage. Let’s not forget who came up with the duct-tape-and-blanket solution when we ran out of foam.”

“I’m pretty sure that was me,” Vi cut in, smirking. “I was the one who said it wasn’t gonna hold and then ended up holding it anyway.”

The laughter came easy, the banter flowing naturally as you reminisced about the less-than-glamorous moments that had brought you here. For a while, it felt like time slowed, the stress and pressure of the industry melting away. It was just the four of you, a table full of drinks, and the unshakable bond that had carried you through every late-night rehearsal and every failed gig.

As the night wore on, you found yourself watching your bandmates with a kind of quiet affection. Jinx was animated, her hands flying wildly as she retold the story of one of your earliest shows—a chaotic disaster back then, but hilarious now. Ekko leaned back in his chair, laughing so hard his beer nearly tipped over, his deep, booming chuckles contagious. And Vi… Vi was quieter than the others, but her eyes were bright, her smirk constant as she leaned her elbow on the table, soaking it all in. She looked at ease, her usual guarded exterior melted away in the warmth of the moment.

Your face was warm too, though you weren’t sure if it was from the alcohol or the swirl of emotions bubbling in your chest. They were your family—a little crooked, with sharp edges that didn’t always fit perfectly together—but they were yours, and you loved them for it. Through the fights, the failures, and the small victories, they were the constant that kept you going.

Eventually, after Ekko’s near-miss with his beer and Jinx’s attempt to convince the bartender to name a cocktail after her, you decided to call it a night. The four of you spilled out onto the street, the cool night air hitting your flushed cheeks as you laughed about nothing in particular.

Ekko and Jinx shared an uber, Jinx dramatically leaning out of the window as it pulled away. “Don’t forget, we’re crashing your place tomorrow to grab our stuff!” she called, pointing at you as the car disappeared into the distance.

And then it was just you and Vi, standing in the quiet outside the bar. The sounds of the city buzzed faintly in the background, but it felt like a bubble had formed around the two of you. She stuffed her hands in her jacket pockets, glancing at you with a small, amused smile.

“Guess it’s just us now,” she said, her tone casual, but there was a softness in her voice that made your chest tighten.

You hesitated for a moment, your heart pounding as you worked up the courage to ask what had been sitting at the edge of your mind all night. “Do you… I don’t know, wanna come over?” The words came out as smoothly as you could manage, though you were sure your voice betrayed some of the nervous energy bubbling beneath the surface. You tried to play it off as casual, but the truth was far from it.

The truth was, you had spent the week after coming home thinking about the last night you had shared together. Maybe it hadn’t been planned; maybe it had surprised you both when she woke up in your bed. But in the moment, it had felt right—like you were meant to be kissing her neck, like she was meant to be holding you that way. You had tried to shake it off, to attribute it to adrenaline and too many drinks, but the memory clung to you. And now, standing here with her, it burned fresh in your mind.

Vi tilted her head, studying you for a moment, and you couldn’t tell what she was thinking. The silence stretched just long enough to make you second-guess yourself, but then she nodded, a small smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “Yeah,” she said softly. “I’d like that.”

Relief and excitement hit you all at once, but you kept your composure, nodding as you gestured in the direction of her bike. “Alright. Let’s go.”

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masterlist - chapter seven

notes: there is a surprise next chapter lol

taglist: @saturnhas82moons @baylegend6 @oidloid @vaebear @wicked-laugh

[seat-safety-switch]

Sometimes, when I'm feeling flush, I like to go to this little restaurant near me. It's a sushi joint, and in my part of the world that always has to come with some additional kitsch. For this restaurant, it's "bullet train sushi." You order on a little iPad, and then a train comes out of the kitchen, bringing your sushi behind it. Clean. Efficient. Antithetical to my morals and values.

See, I'm from North America. In case you're unfamiliar, it's very popular these days. You can find it on the north end of America on any map, except for that weird one that is about Pangaea. One thing we love in North America is cars. We spend a couple of hours stuck in one so we can go to an office we hate, then spend a couple of hours going home so we can spend a few more hours taking our kids to a soccer game. If we had a train, then we'd be able to do things like check our text messages without running over a pedestrian.

Being presented with this totally viable transportation alternative, albeit in miniature and towing little pieces of raw fish behind it, troubles the mind. If we had made better choices, put monopolists to the torch, could we have a utopian society where you order things on a little iPad and then gleamingly efficient tubes fly you out of the kitchen and into a glorious new world? I love the food, but I hate the frantic cold sweats it gives me as I ponder an alternative civilization that doesn't care quite so much about heated steering wheels. That's why I had to do something.

Welcome to Switch's Highway of Sushi – the only sushi restaurant in town that's sponsored by General Motors Corporation. Here, each table is actually a fully-equipped Chevrolet Blazer. Diners are commanded to get their own goddamn food the way our forefathers once did: in four-wheel-drive. The eight-storey parking garage in which the restaurant is housed features many stalls, containing highly trained chefs making delicious food that's just a complex parking job in tight confines away.

Sure, it makes the restaurant fairly space-inefficient having to make room for sixty 6000-pound SUVs. Our insurance is through the fucking roof because our customers keep backing over the waiters and their own families (why not look at the award-winning ClearView Surround Backup Camera, idiots?) And the air quality inside the place could be defined as "not great," even with the really expensive oven vent hoods you get at the restaurant supply store.

All this doesn't matter. Freedom is what matters. The freedom to not have to occupy the same space as any other member of your civilization, unless you are currently backing over them because you forgot to check the backup camera again. Come on, table four. If you're going to keep this up all night, we might think about giving you some demerits.