#german SImmer

[touchofsims]

Als sie das Krankenhaus verließen, wollte Julie sich verabschieden als Oliver meinte. "Komm mit mir." er lächelte sie an und ihr Herz schlug höher. "Wohin?" "Bitte" er wollte erst -vertrau mir- sagen, aber er stockte und sagte es lieber nicht. "Okay" Julie blickte ihn an und beide nahmen den Ladebildschirm und kamen plötzlich an einem ihr wildfremden Ort an.

"Wo sind wir? Wow, wem gehört das Haus??" Julie schaute sich mit großen Augen um. "Uns" lächelte Oliver. "Was?" "Ich hab es gekauft. Wir brauchen einen Neuanfang, fern ab von allem. Ich mein es ernst, bitte." Sie schauten sich tief in die Augen. "Ich weiß nicht was ich sagen soll." Julie war immer noch sprachlos. "Überleg es dir. Ich muss zur Arbeit und ich hoffe, dass wir uns dann hier wieder sehen, wenn ich fertig bin." er lächelte sie an und war auch schon weg.

"Wahnsinn" Julie schaute sich das Haus und die Umgebung an und konnte das alles nicht glauben. Nie hätte sie gedacht, dass sie mal an einem wildfremden Ort einen Neuanfang wagte und das schwanger.

[keirosims]

Mein kleiner Mäusebär

Just had to use @j3lly-fish's Mother pose for these two 🥺🥺

[superstupendoussims]

Goodbye my franzy

[shadowvalkyrie]

There are a lot of things about Taskmaster that feel very... culturally British. That mixture of extreme silliness with occasionally very dark humour for example.

Or the particular tone of affectionate bullying and the way it's (mostly) taken in good humour. (And expected to be taken in good humour, even when it hits a nerve. Something that caused quite a bit of bad blood between the Brits and the Germans in my former workplace, because we generally don't shrug off insults that easily.)

But I think one difference is sort of... simmering under the surface in ways that aren't immediately obvious to international audiences (and makes me wish I was still writing uni papers, because it would be a GOLDMINE), is how much of the humour is based on the British class system.

I mean, the basic premise of "tyrannical taskmaster makes people jump through arbitrary hoops for his favour and then belittles them for doing so" is already something only an audience with a slightly monarchical bend would accept unquestioningly. Add to that the way the Taskmaster/Assistant relationship is set up... Let's just say it fetishises a social dynamic that doesn't exist in quite the same way elsewhere.

Which I think may partially explain why so many people seem to be oblivious to the D/s undertones. -- Of course it's often kink-blindness on the part of non-kinky people, but I strongly suspect it's helped along by the cultural perception of what constitutes an acceptable power differential acting as a buffer to seeing anything off about it. The threshold for when it becomes weird is different.

Now, I think (and since I'm not British, do correct me if I have it wrong!) a key part of what makes the basic premise funny to British audiences (and differently from how it's funny to international ones) is the way cultural expectations of power vs submission are subverted.

Purely based on accent? Alex is the posh one. By miles. And Greg -- very pointedly! -- doesn't do the matching Fauxbridge that most viewers would probably expect from someone presented in a position of authority (or even just a "neutral" BBC accent). It seems bizarre from a foreign point of view, but I've found that this kind of discrepancy immediately and viscerally registers with Brits. (It's uncanny how little it takes, too -- ask your favourite non-TM-aware English person to just listen to the different ways they say "taskmaster" and they will extrapolate things you cannot even imagine.) Instead of just the regional connotation, there are always implications of class and social status to an accent that are absolutely baffling to the unaware.

Add the fact that Greg Davies is from Wales, and a lot of English people have a weird colonial superiority complex towards Welsh people to this day... It's enough to make all these obvious gestures of devoted subservience from Alex very unexpected and therefore funny.

(Also notice how it adds interesting layers to Katherine Ryan buying Greg a fake lordship title? And makes it funnier in a way she may not even have fully been aware of herself, being Canadian? It's delightfully irreverent and pokes fun at the whole system.)

My guess is that this is also why the studio audience's reaction to linguistics-based jokes is always so strong. Lets take the recurring bit about Alex correcting Greg's grammar. To an international audience, the main joke is that Alex is a nerd and cares too much about grammar, with maybe a side of him being a smartarse towards his boss in a potentially ill-advised way. But to a British audience, the level of audacious insubordination implied there? Much stronger. Wildly offensive thing to do. (And a level of arrogance that is extra hilarious coming from someone shown to be sleeping in a dog bed.)

The same mechanism also puts Alex's snide little asides towards contestants with regional or "urban" accents into perspective. Offensive dick move on his part? Oh yes, extremely. But the audience is very much not supposed to be on his side in this. He's being a bigoted little bully, and either the contestants get to humiliate him in retaliation (it's certainly not a coincidence that the Welsh and Irish contestants are generally the ones having the most fun putting him in his place) or Greg calls him out on it in the studio. In a society in which Alex's brand of micro-aggression is still incredibly commonplace and accent discrimination a widely accepted default, it's actually very cathartic to see it openly acknowledged and condemned.

I mean Tumblr obviously loves Alex, because he's cute and funny and we love the Greg/Alex D/s thing (I'm definitely guilty of this as well), but we have to remember that -- in the context of the show's premise -- his character is supposed to be pathetic and ridiculous, so when Greg does the "next to me a man who once told me while drunk that he thinks regional accents are inversely correlated to intelligence" intro thing, we're meant to see it as an asshole opinion that is actually unacceptable to hold and no one in their right mind would openly admit to. So Greg is humiliating Alex by (supposedly) exposing him as someone who would spout that kind of opinion. (Same as the jokes about Alex's misogyny. I see people criticise these jokes all the time, but I think that's because they refuse to understand how the underlying mechanism actually works and take them at face value as the real Alex's actual opinion, rather than something deliberately assigned to his in-show character to make a point about them being terrible.)

[reminiscingtonight]

You Should Talk

Georgia Stanway x Reader

Word Count: 2k

A/N: Inspired by the one and only Fletcher song

[WOSO Masterlist]

The room falls silent the second the door slams shut behind you. 

An uncomfortable tension settles as you breathe out noisily through your nose. 

It’s hard to temper the anger simmering in your veins, your glare sharp enough to shake even those who have attempted to stay on the sidelines. 

“Out. All of you,” you bite out, eyes never leaving your target. 

Georgia glares back, raising her chin just a bit back in challenge.

Your hackles rise on instinct, eyes flashing dangerously when no one moves. 

“I said leave.”

Clothes are shoved haphazardly into bags as the last stragglers shoot out behind you, none of the girls daring to meet your eyes as they escape to safety.

The benefits of being one of the last ones to the locker room generally meant less girls hanging around while you get your things together. A downside is catching conversations that clearly weren’t meant for your own ears. 

Keira pauses awkwardly in front of you, grimacing when you stare right through her, eyes never leaving Georgia’s. “Sorry. Don’t take it out too much on her. You know how she is when she’s unhappy.”

Sometimes you love how caring Keira is. How she’s always driven to mediate and fix things even if she’s not involved.

Today’s not one of those days.

Keira sighs when you don’t acknowledge her, throwing a glance over her shoulder at Georgia before slipping out behind you 

You barely wait for the door to click shut before you’re stalking forward. 

It’s no surprise that everything’s led to this. From the moment camp started things have been frosty. Leah and Keira have been doing their best to keep you two separate, nothing good ever coming out of a volatile break up. But that didn’t stop the snide comments, the muttered insults. Everywhere you turned it was like Georgia was there with her prickly tongue, each word cutting as much as the last. 

The last straw were those words you heard her complaining to Keira just mere seconds ago. 

“You're one to talk, Stanway. I’m the insane one?"

Georgia rolls her eyes, arms crossing in front of her. 

“I’m the one who ruins everything? Tell me how exactly me wanting to spend time with my girlfriend ruins things.”

“That’s not what I meant and you know it.”

“No I apparently don’t! Because why am I the insane one for being upset that you never wanted to spend time with me?”

Georgia scoffs, pushing up to meet your fire with fire. “I play in Germany! It’s not like I could pop over for an hour every time you wanted to see me!”

“Oh my god, that’s not what I meant and you know that.” You press an accusatory finger against her chest, making sure to add pressure every time Georgia tries to brush your hand aside. “All I wanted was more effort. You want to tell me how many video dates you blew off so you could be out with your German friends? Or how many times you canceled plans to come home so you could jet off somewhere else?”

“Well I’m sorry for actually having a life. When you have a girlfriend who spends her time bitching at you about everything she thinks you’re doing wrong you’d skip out on calls too.”

“Oh fuck you!”

“You wish!” Georgia shouts back. 

Though you scrub angrily at your face, you’re not fast enough to hide the evidence of just how hard Georgia’s words have hurt you. Georgia’s face flickers a bit, her brash demeanor softening a bit when she catches the tears rolling down your cheeks. 

Unable to stop the stinging in your eyes, you push past her to your locker before she can say anything else. If Georgia wants to act like you’re the worst person to ever walk the earth you’ll just have to do the exact same. 

In the back of your anger hazed brain, you register the way Georgia lingers. She headed for the door the second you started shoving your clothes into your bag, neither of you wanting to spend more time arguing about how much you hated the other, but for some reason she just hasn’t left yet. 

You throw your bag over your shoulder, rolling your eyes when you spot Georgia uselessly tugging at the door. “What are you doing? Just open it.”

“You think I’m trying to spend more time than necessary with you?” she shoots back. “This bloody door just won’t open.” 

“What do you mean it won’t open?”

“What else could I mean?” Georgia scoffs before banging on the door again. “Hello? Can anyone hear us? We’re trapped in here!”

“Clearly no one can hear us otherwise we wouldn’t be locked in here.”

“Great. Just fucking great,” Georgia mutters before sliding down onto the floor. Might as well get comfortable if you’re going to be here for the foreseeable future.

“Being locked in a room with your ex girlfriend that miserable of an act for you?” you can’t help but laugh bitterly.

“You broke up with me,” she grits out, purposefully not looking your way.

You roll your eyes. “That’s why you’ve been acting like a child all camp? Because I broke up with you?”

If you cared more about your own personal safety and peace of mind you should maybe do a better job of keeping your mouth shut. Because the way Georgia’s nearly snapping her teeth at you tells you just exactly how endearing she finds the lip you’re giving her. But you're too far gone to care at this point, wanting Georgia to feel nothing if just a piece of how you've been feeling these past couple months.

Georgia scoffs but you cut her off before she can say another word. 

“No, you listen to me, Georgia. I broke up with you because you gave up first. You clearly wanted an out so I gave it to you.”

“Don’t do that!” she snaps. “Don’t blame it all on me. It takes two to fuck things up.”

“Don’t give me that ‘woe is me’ crap. You gave up long before I did and you know it.”

“What did you want me to do? You kept pestering me about your mum and then you showed up where I work to fight about it! How am I the bad guy here? You’re the insane one for doing that!”

“For the last time, I didn’t go to Bayern to fight with you, you self-centered asshole!” You throw your hands up in frustration. What you really wanted to do was throw your boots at her, but the thought of having to help Georgia stop any bleeding if you actually made contact was the only thing stopping you from doing so. “I was touring the training grounds because they offered me a contract. I wanted to check it out before making any decisions.”

The day you landed in Germany still haunts you. You traveled straight from the Colney to the airport to Bayern’s practice grounds. It was only ever supposed to be a quick trip. Explore the training facility, talk with a few of the execs, maybe surprise Georgia with a quick dinner before returning to London. 

What you didn’t expect was to run right into your girlfriend after making your first loop around the area. 

Georgia was elated at first, but you could spot the apprehension settle in just as quick. Making your excuses she had grabbed your wrist and dragged you into a deserted room.

Accusations were thrown. 

“Are you seriously here to lecture me in person about missing your mum’s birthday next week?”

“What’s so wrong with me being here? Got a secret girlfriend you’re trying to hide?”

Old wounds were rehashed.

“Stop being so bloody insecure!”

“Quit being such an attention whore then!”

By the time you left it was with a broken heart, a broken relationship, and a newfound resolve to stay the hell out of Germany. The national team was something you couldn’t, and wouldn’t, get out of, but spending everyday playing club level with your ex was something you’d never do. 

When your words sink in, Georgia freezes. Her mouth drops open, face one of surprise and conflicted regret. “I didn’t-- You… No one told me.”

“I wanted it to be a surprise,” you mutter, picking at a thread on your sweater. “So much for that.”

The bad times were bad, you won’t deny it. Both you and Georgia are hotheaded enough that arguments weren’t rare to come around. You always end up resolving them, but frustrations about being so far away from each other mixed with emotions neither of you could adequately express bubbled over until you called it quits. 

Yeah, maybe you should’ve tried harder, but in the end you were just too defeated to do so.

Although things crashed and burned horrifically, however, you couldn’t deny how much you still loved her. There would always be a part of you that belonged to Georgia, no matter how infuriating you found her. 

You’ve known each other since you were children, the relationship something everyone expected to happen. Everyone always joked about the two of you dating when you were younger, the affection you had for each other always superseding those of regular friends. When Georgia asked you out in the middle of the night during one of your youth camps, you couldn’t help but say yes. 

For years the two of you made the distance work. Georgia was always in and around the Manchester area while you were in London yourself. You always made sure to carve out enough time to still travel to see one another, quality time important to the two of you. 

So no, distance wasn’t something new to your relationship. But for some reason the distance between England and Germany proved to be too much for the two of you to bear.

Germany was something you could never take away from Georgia. From the moment she told you about Bayern’s offer, you knew she was going to accept it. It was something you knew Georgia has always wanted to do, play in a new league, experience a different environment. And of course you were happy for her. You’d never be anything less than proud of everything your girlfriend has achieved. But if you had known just how badly the move would’ve messed up your relationship maybe you would’ve tried harder to convince her to stay. 

So who knows, maybe in another universe the two of you made the distance work. Maybe you brought up the things that bugged you before they turned into something bigger than it was. Maybe you made the move to Germany and the two of you lived happily ever after. 

But this is here and now, and there’s no denying how much Georgia’s hurt you (and how much you’ve hurt her back). 

“You’re an asshole, Georgia Stanway.”

Georgia sighs, shutting her eyes as she lets her head thump against the locker behind her. It’s a thump of defeat, one that tells you everything you need to know about how much Georgia wished she did things differently. “I know. I’m sorry.”

You’re silent for a moment as you take her in. It’s hard to miss the bags under her eyes, the barely existent chewed down nails, the minute details that showed just how much Georgia’s been hurting too.

You let your head thump backward too. 

“I’m sorry too.”

.

When the doors are unlocked hours later, Leah finally having enough mind to read her texts and discover the lock-in, she’s expecting nothing short of carnage. What she sees instead is the two of you asleep, your head on Georgia’s shoulder as your hands stay clasped together.

[nef-ar10us]

And Olive Specter's last name is 'Speck' (which translates to 'bacon'). 😐 Because the first syllable of Specter sounds similar, I suppose. Zero respect for the excellent Maxis punnery going on

i want you all to know that Oberon's name is Norbert in the German localization

[meazalykov]

heart of gold

aitana bonmati x WAG!reader

summary: there's a big reason why you've fallen in love with her

warnings: angst, bronze medal match

a/n: the winner of the vote was this fic, here you go <3

the roar of the crowd around you faded into the background as the final whistle blew. germany had secured the bronze medal, and spain was left with nothing. 

your stomach churned as you watched the spanish players slump to the ground, faces etched with exhaustion and disappointment. but your eyes were fixed on aitana.

there she was, the ballon d’or winner, the heart of the team, standing tall amid the wreckage. even as the loss sank in, she was comforting her younger teammates, cradling their heads against her chest as they sobbed. 

aitana wasn’t breaking — not yet, at least. that’s who she was. selfless, grounded, the strength for everyone else.

you watched as laura, laura freigang, asked aitana to swap shirts shortly after. the blonde wondered if it was too early to ask, but aitana gave her reassurance as she took the german shirt and gave laura the red spanish one. 

your hands gripped your camera, not sure if you should even take any pictures at this moment. 

your job as a sports photographer had brought you to moments like this, but this time was different. 

this time, it was personal. you’d met aitana through your work, and somewhere between the flashes of your camera and the interviews, you’d fallen in love with her. it wasn’t just her skill on the pitch that drew you in, though. it was the way she treated everyone — humble, kind, always thinking of others first.

but right now, all you wanted was for your girlfriend to think about herself, to let herself feel what she was bottling up. your chest tightened, wishing there was something you could do to take away the hurt she was surely feeling inside.

you glanced over at the germans celebrating. you’d worked with a few of them too, knew their faces, their stories. 

you were happy for them, but that happiness was muted by the pain you felt for aitana. she deserved something — something to show for the blood, sweat, and tears she’d put into this tournament.

finally, after what felt like an eternity, aitana’s gaze found yours. her eyes softened when she saw you, though she still wore that brave face for her team. 

she gave you a small nod, as if to say she was okay. but you knew better.

she finished speaking with her teammates and made her way over to you, the weight of the match clinging to her like a shadow. when she reached you, her shoulders were slumped, her walls still up.

“i’m sorry,” she said in english, voice low and strained.

“you don’t need to apologize, aitana. not for this.” you shook your head immediately, stepping closer, your hand gently brushing her arm. 

“it feels like i should,” she muttered, her voice trembling slightly. 

“i should’ve done more. i should’ve—”

“aitana, no,” you interrupted, squeezing her hand. 

“you did everything. you were incredible out there, like always. no one can take that away from you.”

“but it wasn’t enough. there is no medal.” her eyes flicked away, as if she couldn’t believe your words, as if the loss had clouded her judgment. 

“that’s not true,” you said firmly, lifting your hand to gently cradle her cheek, guiding her gaze back to yours. 

“you’ve done so much more than you realize. yes, the result sucks, but look at what you’ve accomplished. ballon d’or, you guys are the current world champions, and today, you were the one holding everyone together with alexia. you kept going, even when the team was falling apart. that’s worth more than any medal.”

aitana’s lips quirked into a small, sad smile, but the frustration was still there, simmering just below the surface. 

“i wanted something for them,” she whispered. “for the younger ones. i wanted them to have something to show for this.”

your heart ached as you saw the selflessness in her eyes. even now, she wasn’t thinking about herself. 

“they’ll have you to look up to, aitana,” you said softly. “you’re their role model. they’ll remember how you were there for them today, how you helped them through this. that’s something they’ll carry with them forever.”

finally, aitana’s shoulders slumped, the tension easing slightly as she let out a long, shaky breath. “i don’t know if that’s enough.”

“it is,” you assured her, your thumb brushing over her cheek. “you’re enough. always. not just to them, but for me.”

her eyes searched yours, and for the first time since the match ended, her walls began to crumble. 

the brave facade she’d been holding up for her teammates fell away, and you saw the hurt, the exhaustion, the vulnerability she’d been hiding.

“i just— i hate feeling like i failed,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper.

you wrapped your arms around her, pulling her close, her head resting against your shoulder. 

“you didn’t fail. you’re not capable of failing. you’ve given everything to this sport, aitana, and it shows. maybe not today, but in the way you play, the way you lead, the way you care.”

she was quiet for a moment, her arms slowly wrapping around you in return. “you make it sound so easy,” she murmured, her breath warm against your neck.

“it’s not easy,” you said, running your fingers through her hair. “but it’s the truth. you are incredible, not just because of your awards. you’re incredible because you’ve got the biggest heart, aitana. you’ve always put others first, even when you didn’t have to.”

she pulled back slightly to look at you, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. 

“it’s okay,” you whispered, brushing your thumb across her cheek. “feel everything right now. but when you’re ready, remember what you’ve accomplished. remember how much you’ve given. and remember that, no matter what, you’re still the woman i fell in love with because of who you are, not what you’ve won.”

aitana finally let the tears fall, and you held her as she cried, her grip on you tightening. 

you didn’t care that you were still in the middle of the stadium, that people might be watching or snapping pictures. none of that mattered right now. what mattered was aitana, and being there for her the way she always was for everyone else.

“thank you,” she whispered after a while, her voice hoarse.

“always,” you replied softly, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “i’m so proud of you. and i always will be.”

she gave you a small, grateful smile, her eyes still red but softer now. “i don’t know what i’d do without you.”

“lucky for you, you’ll never have to find out,” you teased gently, earning a quiet laugh from her.

aitana leaned into you again. you smiled knowing that she still had a bright future ahead of her.

you’ve always admired aitana and her heart of gold, you will never stop admiring it. its a big reason why you've fallen in love with her.

my masterlist is here if you want to read more!

[tteokdoroki]

*ੈ🌩️‧₊˚— playing defence + yoichi isagi.

૮˶ᵕ ༝ᵕ˶ა synopsis — you bitch slap kaiser for talking smack about your boyfriend. perhaps isagi is rubbing off on you.

⭑ warnings — please read + mdni ! characters aged up to 20s, crack, fluff, suggestive towards the end, violence, smack talk, mentions of injury, mentions of blood, established relationship, pro player!isagi, fem!reader - not beta read !

⭑ words — 2.2K.

⭑ notes — greetings all! isagi brain rot is so real rn, i swear i have like six wips for him... anyways this was a silly little idea that popped into my head lmao kinda cringe but i had fun with it !! enjoy ! - m.list ✩

your boyfriend is somewhat of a conundrum.

the world knows yoichi isagi as the ruthless heart of blue lock’s success. a man that’s unrelenting on the field with his strategic mind and frightening air of dominance poured into his every play. every movement he makes is calculated meticulously, the greed for a goal simmering in his blood. isagi as a pro player is foul mouthed and messy — taunting his opponent until they crumble into nothing but dust before his very eyes.

the media thinks he’s cocky, but rightfully so. after all yoichi isagi is the catalyst for a new generation of japanese soccer. the girls love him, he’s charming in interviews without meaning to be — they like how he talks about you. as if you’re a gem that’s worth millions. precious.

the isagi that you know has a tender touch and his soul warm, he wears his heart right on his sleeve and never lets you go a moment without knowing you’re appreciated. the isagi that you know is encouraging, he’s always on your side. if he needs to, he’ll sweet talk you with honey glazed words and kiss you until your thoughts fizzle out into stardust.

isagi is good.

he’s good to his friends, his teammates, his parents — he’s almost too good to be true. as if he’s been peeled from the pages of a shoujo romance manga or ripped from the silver screen of a perfect Hollywood romcom. a literal walking green flag. you’d say that you were lucky to have him, and yoichi would spin it on you — using strings of sweet words to express just how deep and profound his love is for you, praising you just enough to melt you into a love sick puddle of goo. and he’d mean it, sincerity swirling in his whirlpooling blue eyes. he swears by it.

so when someone pisses your isagi off, when they hurt him — you can’t help but lose your shit.

it happens during a practise match with a few of the players that joined during the neo-egoist league. although it’s been years since then and the blue lock project has become a formidable team, it keeps the boys on their feet to play with those with other worldly styles of soccer. the match had been going well, isagi trailblazing across the pitch and leaving nothing but a trail of destruction and despair behind — you were proud of him, amazed by him and the talents he possesses. to see him in his element makes your heart swell.

you don’t know kaiser very well — just that he’s super big and plays for the german team that gave isagi his leg up in the soccer world. you’ve heard from others about how much of a dick he could be and the intense rivalry he had with your boyfriend back when the blue lock project first started. you don’t know kaiser well but that information alone was enough to get your back up whenever he was in close range of yoichi.

and rightfully so. because you see the way he prods and pokes at the beautiful, sensitive parts of your lover as they race across to the penalty area. you notice how it rattles isagi, gets him all up in his head. you hear kaiser say something along the lines of:

“what’s with your shitty plays, yoichi? surely if you’re the heart of blue lock then the future of soccer is bound to be doomed.” he skirts around your boyfriend, intercepting a pass he was meant to receive from nagi. “pathetic, to see how much this star has fallen. i should crush you.”

you’ve heard all the insults the blue lock boys throw at each other before but this is nothing like usual. rin itoshi has said much worse to isagi right in front of your face (and isagi right back, foul mouthed motherfucker) but you know that’s a defence mechanism to how rin truly thinks and feels.

michael kaiser is just an asshole, plain and simple.

and that kind of behaviour doesn’t fly with you when it comes to yoichi.

you storm onto the pitch from the sidelines before your mind can even catch up to your body. the other players working around your boyfriend and his rival stop their movements as you stroll past them, snapped out of their egoist state by the referee whistle that calls for you to stop.

“m-ma’am! you can’t be on the pitch!”

you walk right past ness, weave between kurona, bachira and hiori, and right up to the blonde haired perpetrator himself. you’re polite about it too, tapping him on the shoulder to interrupt the narcissistic monologue he’s giving to isagi and showing him your sweetest, kindest smile.

there’s a split second before the blunt force of your fist collides with michael kaiser’s cheek and he’s knocked to the ground from the weight of it.

“you better watch who the fuck you’re talking to, you clownish freak.”

“babe?” isagi jumps into action despite his shock and the sniggers from other players on the field. he wraps his strong arms around your middle and tugs you into his chest with a winded laugh. “precious, what are you doing here?”

“he can’t talk to you like that!”

“but baby, you can’t be here—“

“this isn’t good.�� bachira sings from a safe distance.

“fuck! what the actual fuck?” kaiser swears, using the sleeve of his jersey to wipe the blood from his bruising nose. “who’s crazy groupie is this?”

another wave of anger crashes through your veins, your blood at its boiling point as his words register within you. “excuse me?” isagi snarls, clearly unimpressed, loosening his hold on you while you struggle against your boyfriend’s lean frame.

“so what? you get your girlfriend to play defence for you and then act like i’m in the wrong? i said, get this groupie away from me—!”

before anyone on the pitch can realise, you’re free from isagi’s hold and you’re on kaiser like white on rice — fisting his sweatshirt between the same pretty fingers that treat isagi like he’ll break with too much force. “you wanna say that again, shitstain?” you run your tongue over your teeth, the menacing glint to your eye making you look like you’re a predator about to hunt down her prey. the blonde shakes underneath you as you pin him to the grass — an insult rolling around on his tongue. “i wouldn’t waste my words. you should just lay down and die before you take another sucker punch from this groupie.”

“do you have any idea how much this face is worth? i should—“

“gimme a break michael kaiser,” to your left you can hear bachira chanting something about ‘no violence’, bouncing around excitedly and a wicked grin tugs on the corner of your lips. “you’re not worth shit to me. so keep fucking around and find out, pretty boy. you talk smack about yoichi again and i swear your face won’t be the only goods i damage.”

“jeez, you’re just as crazy as that wanna be protagonist over there—“ is all he can muster before he flinches back from your fists that raise a over your head.

isagi moves quicker this time, scooping you up from underneath your armpits despite how you huff, puff and protest. “alright, alright, you’re done here. let’s go, princess.” he says sheepishly. maybe he’s been rubbing off on you a little too much.

his comforting touch slides down to your hand, grabbing at it to drag you off the pitch for the sake of kaiser’s safety, keeping everyone else out of harms way. and isagi just about gets you off the green before you set your sights on your next victim — ness, who can’t help but make faces at you as you trudge after your boyfriend.

drawing a line over your throat with your thumb, you make direct eye contact with him. “you’re next, shitty little meat-rider—! ow! ‘ichi!” you bark, but isagi quickly scoops you up again like a cat holding her kitten by the nape.

you have no choice but to back down for now.

“yanno, you really didn’t have to do that.”

isagi let’s you go once you’re back in the locker rooms to check on your hand. he crouches before you (where you sit just a level above him on the metal bench), holding an ice pack to your knuckles with the trace of a smile on his lips, only lifting it to see if the swelling has gone down. isagi reads you like an open book, he’s got you all figured out so he leaves you with the space to react and have your little tantrums.

besides, it’s cute that you get so pissed off when it comes to him. watching your nose scrunch up and your lips twist into a pout while you fight your own outburst just makes his heart beat for you a little faster.

“oh i fucking did! he was being so horrible to you and i couldn’t just let it slide!” you huff as your temper flares, shoulders sagging and arms crossing over your chest. he says nothing for a moment and lifts the compress from your hand to check the damage.

“look at you, precious girl. you’ve only gone and hurt yourself,” even when you’re throwing a fit like this, yoichi can only see the beauty in you — his cheeks flushing at how much you care for him. the dark haired striker flips through a first aid kit that rests at your feet, looking for disinfectant to clean up your split knuckles. “and, as for kaiser… well, he’s always like that.”

“well, i don’t like kaiser. i hope a bird shits on his head and both sides of his pillows are warm.”

“bird shit is supposed to be a sign of good luck, baby.”

“don’t test me yoichi isagi.”

he dabs at your wounds with a cotton pad and a brownish liquid that smells like the dettol your mom would keep in the cabinet under the kitchen sink for when you got yourself into similar situations like this as a kid. but instead of scolding you like she would, yoichi tends to your cuts and scrapes either upmost care. still smiling to himself. smiling at you. resisting the urge to burst with affection.

“you’re gonna have to apologise, precious.” he mutters absentmindedly, wincing when you do.

“i-i’m not going to, he deserved it!” that much is true, kaiser is clown who needs to be put in his place but it shouldn’t have been by you and at the expensive of your precious hands getting hurt.

you’re in more pain than you’re willing to show, and it bothers isagi just a little bit that you’re experiencing it because of him.

“well he did, but ego won’t be happy.”

“did ego make you apologise for all those times you beat the crap out of your teammates for even looking at me? for stealing your goals?” you roll your eyes, leaning away from your doting boyfriend in protest.

isagi grabs at your wrist firmly, tugging you back into place so he can start wrapping your hand up — ignoring the way his face and the tips of his ears start to burn up in embarrassment. “well no… but that’s different. friendly competition.”

“hardly! may i remind you that shidou literally couldn’t walk for a week straight after he commented on my ass? because of you?”

“i was defending your honour! and keep still!”

you give isagi a pointed look. hypocrite. “okay, but what about when rin said you couldn’t fuck for the life of you and then you proved your point. using me. in front of him. was that about honour or about your ego? mister egoist.” isagi’s big blue eyes instantly shoot up to meet yours and blushes a crimson that could rival the shade of the older itoshi brother’s hair. “itoshi couldn’t look at me for weeks!”

“point taken.” knowing that he won’t win this argument (if you could even call it that), isagi finishes up with bandaging your hand and takes a seat next to you, a comfortable silence settling over you both while he attempts to piece together why you love him this much. to play knight in shining armour to his damsel in distress.

“are you…really going to make me apologise yoichi?” you ask him sheepishly after some time, leaning into him for comfort.

“not if you don’t want to, precious.” he hums, fondly brushing a thumb over the back of your bandaged hand. a silent thank you. a hidden i love you.

“good,” you whine now that all of your adrenaline’s worn off and you can really feel the consequences of punching a world class striker in the face. “now kiss my knuckles. they hurt.” holding up your hand to isagi’s face, you shake it as if to rid yourself of the painful ebb to it.

“better?” isagi complies, his lips soft against your skin.

“much.”

“so spoilt,” he adds. your boyfriend’s voice stays low while he plays with your bruised fingers and checks them over, resting his head against your own affectionately. “next time you throw a punch in my name, tuck your thumb into your fist to minimise the damage. i don’t like seeing you get hurt.”

“so you did like seeing me punch kaiser.” you giggle, squirming when isagi drops your hand to pull you into his lap possessively. his loving grin spreads even further when your eyes widen at a certain…hardness poking your inner thigh.

“oh yeah, super hot. i love it when you get mad ‘n start talking shit for me.”

isagi doesn’t make it back to practice, too caught up in showing you just how much he loves it when you start fights over him.

[katelynnwrites]

Girl Put Your Records On (Tell Me Your Favourite Song) | Sydney Lohmann

warnings: syd’s injury 😔

word count: 2077

summary: requested, domestic fluff with sydney

a/n: syd’s back! syd’s back! syd’s back!

It’s no secret that Sydney loves cooking. She has even said that if she wasn’t playing football professionally, she would be a chef.

And maybe you’re a little biased as her girlfriend and frequent beneficiary of her cooking but you are sure that she would have made an amazing one.

The German woman cooks a large variety of things and she is always down to experiment but her favourite is pasta.

Sydney’s homemade pasta is one of your favourite things to eat and you would even go so far as to call it your comfort food.

Your girlfriend makes the entire dish from scratch and you swear you can feel the love and care she puts into it.

The extent of your fondness for it and for any of Syd’s cooking really, is well known. There has been more than one occasion where your fellow Bayern teammates have teased you that you’re only with Sydney for her skills in the kitchen.

That couldn’t be further from the truth though.

You love everything about your girlfriend, from her every perfection down to her littlest flaw.

If it were up to you, you would say that a certain Sydney Matilda Lohmann is complete perfection.

There is so much you adore about her and that includes each moment that you spend with her.

Making pasta together with your girl is one of your favourite moments.

You and your girlfriend frequently have teammates over for meals. Sydney’s cooking tends to have that effect on people and while making pasta with friends is nice, you love making pasta with Syd much more.

When it is just you and her, the Bayern Munich midfielder putting her vintage record player on to as she put it, set the vibe.

Your girlfriend spins you around the kitchen when any of her favourite records come on and you’d ask her, her favourite song in between fits of laughter.

Sydney’s favourite song changes all the time based on how she’s been feeling so you like to ask her what it is. It gives you an idea of her current mood and state of mind.

Her hazel eyes are always bright when she answers you and you cherish all of her answers and the way she looks as she gives them.

More often than not, she has flour on her clothes and hair. She leaves streaks of it behind on you, a visible reminder of her hands on your body.

You love these smudges of white, left on your hips, shoulders and stomach, sometimes on your cheek if Sydney’s feeling mischievous enough to swipe her flour covered finger across your cheek.

It’s especially heartwarming after tough games and it goes like this.

Sydney makes her pasta dough and you hand her the ingredients in the right order, reading out the recipe from one of her cookbooks. Her scribbled handwriting in the margins of said cookbooks mark them as hers.

You continue leafing through the recipes, giggling at some of the notes and comments she has left while your girlfriend wraps the dough up before putting it to chill in the fridge.

The German woman then proceeds to make the sauce, tomato or cream based, depending on her mood.

She lets it simmer over the stove and it always smells so damn good. Syd stirs it and lets you taste test it as she cooks. The Bayern player feeds you those spoonfuls of little tastes with anxious smiles and hopeful looks, always waiting for your feedback.

You don’t know what she’s worried about because her pasta sauce is constantly amazing.

It gives you great joy to watch her face light up whenever you tell her so.

Sitting on the kitchen counter, most of the time in Syd’s clothes as you swing your legs back and forth, you fall even more head over heels in love with her.

You love watching her hum along to the song playing as she does little dance moves whenever inspiration strikes her.

Every now and then, she turns around to check on you and you have no shame in showing her just how captivated you are.

You’re starstruck because of her.

The way you look at her makes her blush and your girlfriend often ducks her head, looking back down at her pot of sauce to hide it. It really is cute of her.

When the sauce is done, Sydney washes her hands before pulling you off the kitchen counter. The German woman always takes the opportunity to kindly suggest that she can help pass the remaining time more quickly.

And you always take her up on it because who would say no to what she has in mind?

Making out with your girlfriend is like something out of a dream. With her lips on yours and whispered sighs, her hands skimming your bare skin, well you’re in love with the feeling and her.

The last minutes of chilling time for the pasta dough go by fast and then Sydney is waltzing you back into the kitchen.

You stand beside her, the only place you ever want to be, even if you are given the whole world to choose from and roll out the pasta dough with her.

The both of you take turns to run the pasta wheel over the rolled sheets and Syd never fails to make fun of you for how much neater hers turns out.

It is quick work after that, for the meal to be ready.

You set the plates out and your girlfriend finishes off her dish.

It is almost sacred to be able to curl up with the hazel eyed woman, with whatever show the two of you are binge watching playing on the television while you eat together.

Moments like that give you the much needed break from football. It’s lovely to be able to chase a dream you’ve had since you were a little girl but it’s also lovely for you to be able to spend time with your girlfriend.

Since Syd cooked, you pick up the plates and take them to the kitchen to wash.

It is everything to you, to be able to share this domestic bliss with Sydney.

******

Now that she is injured, things have to change.

Not by much but rather, a simple reversal of roles.

You make the pasta and let your girlfriend taste the sauce. The German player directs you from your usual perch atop the kitchen counter.

As much as she insists that she wants to help, you simply shake your head, giving her a firm no.

You just want her to rest her ankle.

The injury had been a devastating blow to your girl who had been so excited to start the season. Prior to the injury, her form had been brilliant and she’d just come off a solid win against Iceland.

Your girlfriend was just getting back the sparkle in her eyes every time she steps onto the pitch. It had been missing since Germany’s exit from the World Cup and now you feared it would be a while more before you saw it in its full beauty.

You hate how injury prone Sydney is, hate the way the world is so unkind to her. Her bad luck has it that she is always getting into a really good flow right before it is cut short. Fate is cruel sometimes.

There’s nothing you can do about that but you can make her dinner. It is the least you can do for the hazel eyed woman you are so in love with.

You’ve only finished simmering the pasta sauce and turned off the stove for a moment before Sydney is making grabby hands at you.

It’s tomato tonight because that is what the midfielder had been wanting.

You laugh at her gestures and scoop out a spoonful of sauce as she’d asked.

Carefully, you feed it to her but not before you make a show of blowing on it, to cool it down.

‘Good?’ You ask, taking a step back expectantly.

‘It’s really good.’ Your girl replies.

‘Yeah? Why do you sound so surprised?’ You tease.

‘I’m not! I-’ Sydney backtracks defensively, her eyes widening rapidly.

It’s adorable how easy it is to fluster her.

‘I’m just kidding sonnenschein.’ You admit and she scowls, crossing her arms and huffing, ‘I knew that.’

‘You sure?’ You mock and the taller woman deigns to reply you by dramatically rolling her eyes.

‘I’m sure. I am also sure that your tomato sauce isn’t as good as mine though.’

‘I know. Yours will always be better.’ You shrug easily, stepping back in between Syd’s legs and planting a gentle kiss onto her lips.

Your girlfriend chuckles and your heart lightens.

******

Eating dinner with the German player sitting next to you has your heart fluttering in all kinds of good ways.

You are never going to stop cherishing these moments with her.

Syd notices you staring at her and she blushes, mumbling, ‘Why are you looking at me like that?’

‘Because you are so incredibly beautiful and I love you.’

It is a simple, effortless confession but your girlfriend’s face lights up.

‘I love you too.’

She sets her plate down on the coffee table and smiles, ‘I fall more and more in love with you with each and every day that I spend with you.’

Sydney’s words give you the warmest of feelings inside and when she smoothly straddles you, despite the walking boot she has on, you know the feeling is mutual.

‘Syd…’ You groan, torn between wanting to make sure she is being cautious about her injury and wanting her to kiss you.

‘I’m being careful.’ She insists before leaning down to connect her lips to yours.

She tastes like tomato sauce and cheese but you don’t care because it’s Sydney.

Sydney who is the living definition of sunshine. Sydney who for reasons you can’t fathom is as in love with you as you are with her.

You have a lot of reasons to be thankful but your girlfriend is the biggest one.

******

It’s with kiss swollen lips and messy hair that you take yours and Syd’s dinner plates into the kitchen.

Your girlfriend trails behind you with her crutches, her lips and hair in a similar state.

There is no mistaking the satisfied smirk on her face though.

‘Here.’ You breathe, lifting her up onto the kitchen counter after depositing both your plates into the sink. Her crutches are propped next to her.

Sydney wiggles comically as she gets comfortable and you giggle.

You put her record player on and start on the dirty dishes.

‘Let me help please?’ The hazel eyed woman implores.

You’re going to refuse and assure her that you manage but remember how helpless the rehab has been making her feel despite her best attempts to hide it.

Ever selfless, you know that Syd would never do anything she deems might harm the team dynamic, even if it really wouldn’t.

You want to spoil her but know that that is not what she needs right now.

So as a compromise, you offer her a dish towel and ask, ‘You can dry if you like?’

The Bayern midfielder gratefully takes the towel from you. She knows you know and the soft look of adoration in her gorgeous hazel eyes makes you melt.

It’s quick work, made enjoyable by the music playing and Syd’s humming along.

******

Normally you brush your teeth together and your girl links her little finger with yours but now you support her with an arm gently wrapped around her waist.

Syd has taken her walking boot off for the night so she needs to be careful not to put any sort of weight on her injured ankle.

Before she’d taken it off though, she had affectionately touched the yellow smiley face sticker you had put on it.

She hopes you know how much you and all your little gestures mean to her.

Her injury is hurting her but you make it all bearable.

So she leans into you and soaks in your touch, giggling through the toothpaste foam in her mouth.

Your gaze meets hers and you know that you want this to last the rest of your life.

With the way Syd whispers about how much she loves you as she settles down to sleep with her head on your chest, you know in your heart that she wants the same.

German Translation:

sonnenschein - sunshine

[37sommz-archive]

✼. INVITATION | 2019.

CH. 05. NOW PLAYING: essence by wizkid [fluff, suggestive]. ✼.⠀summary: michaela makes a promise, 2.5k. ✼.⠀view:⠀masterlist⠀⸻⠀join the taglist⠀⸻⠀request.

✼.⠀MARCH 14, 2019 — melbourne, australia

“P9, Michaela. That is points at home; well done.” 

Eugenio’s voice crackled into Michaela’s helmet. The celebratory shower of applause from the Alfa Romeo garage echoed alongside his voice, adding to the near imperceptibility of his speech. 

Though the sweat from the Melbourne heat simmered underneath Michaela’s baklava, she could only focus on the calming fact relayed to her by her engineer—points in her debut race. 

“Couldn’t have done it without you all. Cheers to the new season,” she responded with a sigh of satisfaction. It wasn’t long after that when she heard her father's voice leak into the radio. A gentle, “Amazing drive, Mickey. We’re eternally proud” only magnified the moment's euphoria. 

Though it was nowhere close to a podium, Michaela figured keeping up with Kimi Raikkonen just ahead in P8 was more than worth celebrating. Finally reaching the garage and kicking the engine off, Michaela hopped out of the car's cockpit with practiced grace. Fist bumps and energized embraces from the team personnel eager to congratulate the rookie driver.

Rushing to embrace her family before turning away to be weighed, her sister, Courtney, was the one to remind her that she had joined a small list of modern drivers who had scored on debut. A whisper of Hamilton and Prost and Villeneuve slipped through her lips and into the shy ears of her younger sister. 

Varied strengths of celebratory pats and friendly hugs kept Michaela in a daze as she floated from the Alfa Romeo garage to the weighing platform. Words of congratulatory relief left the lips of the remaining 17 drivers excluded from the parc ferme madness. 

As she pulled the straw of her energy drink to her mouth, a particularly firm clap on the back shook her from her daze. A familiar German accent filled her ears before she could fully regain control of her breathing. 

“You might have the biggest balls here. Solid drive, Mick.” Helmet in hand, Sebastian Vettel’s acknowledgment drew chuckles of appreciation from the nearby Perez and Hulkenberg. 

Rolling her eyes in response to the senior driver’s sense of humor, Michaela threw a friendly punch into his shoulder. Quickly engaging in light-hearted conversation with a few of the surrounding drivers, Michaela found herself back in that daze. As if totally disconnected from her body, it wasn’t until she was sitting on the floor of her parents’ living room that Michaela realized the magnitude of her achievement. 

The Sommers had taken it upon themselves to invite several drivers to a small cookout after the race. Though George, Lando, Alex, and Pierre, the usual guests, had made their way over, Pierre and Lando’s parents were in tow. Michaela was more than shocked to see Antonio Giovinazzi find his way among the group. Somebody—likely her father—must have extended his invitation to a plus one, Michaela figured. The familiar face of his friend Olivier stood out to her almost immediately. 

Between the chilly November night, they shared in Abu Dhabi and the race in Melbourne, the two had shared little more than polite half acknowledgments. Michaela never got around to calling him back. Not that she planned on it or even truly believed he’d give her the time of day. It must have been that same sense of self-sabotage that Pierre had once mused would “obliterate any potential for romance.” She had called him a dick at the time, remembering the long eye roll she responded with at the time. Sitting there on the floor with her head leaned against her mother’s legs, her hands pulling Michaela’s hair into two neat Dutch braids, she couldn’t help but realize he was right. As he often was, frustratingly. 

It was Pierre’s mother’s words that shook her out of her thoughts. “Have you met Antonio’s friend? The French one?” The question was innocent, but Michaela couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that the older woman knew more about him than she let on.

“Briefly,” she decided would suffice to satiate Pascale’s curiosity. Sitting to his mother’s left, Pierre seemed to perk up at the mention of Olivier. Leaning over to mention something to his mother in French, Michaela gritted her teeth as she strained to catch what the Frenchman could be saying. 

“English, Pierre,” she almost begged, embarrassment written all over her face. 

Her mother and sister sensed the discomfort on the youngest Sommers’ face. Courtney, jumping up to sit on the other side of Pierre, tapped him on the shoulder. Reciprocating her energy, Pierre whispered into her ear as well. A delighted laugh left the lips of the Australian two years his senior. 

Courtney let out a more boisterous laugh in response to her younger sister’s irritation. Her amusement spurred on additional laughter from Pascale and Pierre, who were both keen on the secret. Catching her breath, Courtney couldn’t shake the smile adorning her glossed lips, the very same brand Michaela used for hers, at the newly revealed information.

“You know him?” Courtney almost exclaimed from her seat directly across from her sister. Rolling her eyes once she recognized the hidden implications of Courtney’s question, Michaela sighed against Miriam’s legs. 

“Yeah, he used to drive F3,” she muttered. Miriam began to chuckle herself, knowing her daughter’s self-imposed avoidance of romantic interaction. “Not with me, though.” The words are tacked on quietly, parroting information she learned from Antonio—Alfa Romeo’s reserve driver.

“Where did you even meet him?” Miriam questioned calmly, trying—more than could be said about the giggling pair of 20-somethings—not to set off the youngest child.

“In Abu Dhabi,” was muttering one more by the embarrassed Australian. “He was at the club I went to with Alex.” Finally catching on to the unspoken, Miriam’s words faltered in her throat until she caught Pascale’s eyes and fell into a fit of laughter herself. A short “Oh!” left her lips between her amusement, triggering a teasing snicker from Pierre.

“Did you text him back?” He spoke up from his side of the room. A glint in his eyes not unfamiliar to Michaela made her skeptical of his intentions in posing the question.

“No…” she drawled out slowly, eyes squinting at the older driver. A sudden gasp from Pascale broke their staring contest, and she excitedly spoke with a clap of her hands.

“Why not? He’s so sweet, and he’s French!” Her eyes widened cartoonishly. The blues become brighter still as she symbolically adopts a schoolgirl’s interest in Michaela’s love life.

Miriam’s amused chuckle at the added “qualification” only added to the heat Michaela couldn’t shake from her face. The embarrassment seemed to radiate off of her very being, only serving to make her increasingly wary of drawing attention from the other side of the room. 

When her mother laughed, her father noticed. It was one of the criteria a younger Courtney had added to her blue and purple ‘Cute Things Daddy Does for Mummy’ list, the same one that still hung in her childhood room. Michaela remembers the differences in their rooms, even in their childhood years. Courtney, the romantic, decorated her room head to toe with posters from her favorite movies, while Michaela, the anti-romantic, hoarded posters of her favorite circuits.

“I don’t do relationships,” Michaela spoke under her breath. Her hands found their way to her warm cheeks, wishing them to cool down before turning her attention away from the group, catching sight of her father seated with a beer in his hand, speaking animatedly—by some cruel coincidence—with Olivier.

“It’s lonely at the top,” Miriam hummed, reaching for her glass of wine. As Michaela exhaled deeply in response, Pascale echoed the statement hanging in the air. “If you’re worried about a man understanding your commitment to your career, don’t waste your time. They won’t.”

Hums of appreciation spiral through the air from the three other women in the small circle. Michaela catches Pierre’s eyes, suppressing a giggle as it rips through her. A bratty scowl rested upon his face at his mother’s words, his mind scrambling to find the right words to defend himself in an effort to prove he was exempt from her quip. 

Before he could get the words out, his mother added to her statement. A carefree, “Just find a polite one and keep him around for a good lay” leaves Pascale’s lips before the rest of them can even begin to process the thought. It is Miriam who chokes on her wine first, reaching over the center table to grasp the Frenchwoman’s hand in her own. The two parents giggle together over the idea as if a congratulations. 

Their three children look on with uncomfortable sighs, Michaela herself seemingly the most painful. Her lips curl up into a tense grimace before a deeper set of voices snaps her out of her discomfort. A low French accent hits her ears first before the others—Italian and Australian—can strike her as familiar. Her heart quickens once she lays eyes on the owner of the husky voice, his hazel eyes having yearned for hers from across the room over the last several hours. 

Ignoring Pierre's stray whistle coinciding with his mother's shushes, Michaela shakes herself from her lavender cloud. A quirk of his head towards the kitchen is all it takes to rouse her from her place on the floor. She could not bring herself to care if she were aware of the eyes tracking their movements. The husk of his scent and the drawl in his voice almost hypnotized her from the beginning.

Only vaguely aware of the sound that fails to emit from the shocked few now seated in the living room, Michaela finds comfort leaning into the countertop behind her. Olivier’s near-golden eyes sweep the length of her body, leaving her burning to feel his touch on her. It is a clear of his throat that only accelerates her misery, pulling in a breath as his hand sweeps through his dark curls. 

“So?” is what Olivier opens with. A twitch in her features draws a small chuckle out of him. “If I was that bad, you should have just told me then.” When Michaela can only furrow her eyebrows in confusion, he laughs once more. His hand lifts his beer to his lips, taking a gulp as if drawing strength from the alcohol. 

“You never called,” he almost whispers as if embarrassed. The odd tone strikes Michaela, who straightens up in anticipation of his following words. “You wanted me to call?” Her voice is just as soft as his, and her eyes struggle to look anywhere but into his. 

He waves off the question with an immediate scoff, breaking eye contact for just a moment as he carefully places his chilled beer on the counter behind him. Taking a confident step forward, a hand reaches out to her before hesitating and falling back to his side. 

Deciding to cross them, he answers her decisively, “Of course, I wanted the pretty girl to call.” It’s smooth as it rolls off his tongue, twirling with the French accent that dances through the sentence. This time, it was Michaela’s turn to break eye contact, the ‘pretty girl’ being the last thing she heard before falling back into her desperate yearning.

“Plus, I’m quite a fan of yours.” 

The sentence draws a giggle out of an embarrassed Michaela. The Australian’s heart fluttered beneath her blushing skin, leaving Olivier with practical stars in his eyes as he watched her fluster. Anyone else would find the behavior distinctly out of character for the ultra-competitive driver. Her usual gentle cockiness was replaced with an unfamiliar coyness that nearly left her paralyzed to his charms. 

Wordlessly, Michaela finds a surge of courage, tossing her blonde locks over her shoulder before taking a step forward to shorten the gap floating between the two of them. The move brings a falter to her steps as she takes in a whiff of his cologne. Expensive-smelling is what she decided the scent was. As Michaela places her out in wait, Olivier’s features twist with confusion. 

Her simple request, "Hand me your phone, I'll put my number in," shocks him immensely. 

The words hang in the air, heavy with unspoken promise. A scoff leaves his lips, a playful sound that betrays the spark of curiosity in his eyes. In one fluid motion, his honey-toned hand reaches into his pocket, releasing his phone from its confines and placing it in her waiting hands. Her short, manicured fingers wrap around the device, the touch sending a jolt of anticipation through him.

With an ease that hints at a confidence typically seen in her Sauber racesuits, Michaela's thumbs dance across the screen, her name and number slowly appearing on his contacts list. She adds the details with a quickness, a desire to commit to the action before her mind can intervene. 

"Okay?" 

The question is a challenge, her voice laced with a vulnerability that dares him to reject her. Her lips quirk upwards, a gentle smile that contrasts with the doe eyes locked on his, pleading for approval.

"Perfect." 

The affirmation falls from the Frenchman's lips, the single word a decisive praise that sparks a giggle from Michaela. A uncharacteristically delicate hand rises to cover the lower half of her face, as if willing herself to hide her reaction. The sound is melodic, a sweet note that hangs in the air between them.

The room around them fades into the background, the hum of conversation and clinking glasses receding until all that remains is the crackle of tension between their bodies. It is Olivier who bridges the nearly nonexistent gap, his movements an act of casual seduction. A hand snakes down to rest on the curve of her lower back, the touch sending a shiver down her spine. His fingers draw loose circles into the material of her shirt, the caress featherlight yet full of intent.

As if drawn by an unseen force, Michaela's hands find their way up the length of his firm torso, coming to rest on the broad expanse of his shoulders. The contact burns unexpectedly, the heat of his skin seeping into hers. The air between them thickens, heavy with the weight of unspoken promises. His breath intermingles with hers, a mix of anticipation and desire. 

"Promise you'll answer?" 

The question is a whispered desperation, a plea for reassurance.

Words become useless as her lips find his, the contact a jolt of electricity that sears through them. The 'yes' is unspoken, conveyed in the press of her mouth and in the sweep of her tongue. She pulls away before he can fully process the sensation, leaving him longing, his chest rising and falling in a rhythmic motion. A soft "I promise" is her parting gift, the honeyed words hanging in the air like a promise of more to come.

With a grace that contradicts the turmoil bubbling inside her, Michaela leaves the kitchen, her steps a slow withdrawal back into the familiar safety of the living room. He remains still, his phone still clutched in his hand, her number and name staring back at him. A challenge and invitation consuming him totally.

✼.⠀taglist:⠀

@cha-hot @certifiedlesbianbaddie @nichmeddar

@d3kstar @thewannabewriter @hwalllllllelujah

@pacmacs-macs @thearchieves @doodlehunz

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@emilyval1 @scarlettwidow3000 @anotherblackreader

@sv5beehives @mynameisangeloflife @tellybearryyyy

@melancholyy-hill

[touchofsims]

Julie stand immer noch unter Schock. Mittlerweile war sie so erschöpft, dass sie sich schlafen legte. An diesem Tag passierte nicht viel. Es gab Essen und sie machte ca. 10 Nickerchen.

Sie musste es Oliver sagen, aber wie? Übers Telefon auf jedenfalls nicht. Normalerweise hätte sie sich gefreut. Kinder standen eigentlich noch nicht auf ihrer Agenda, aber es war wohl Schicksal.

[powerfultenderness]

Alright, is, I had an idea for the neighbor König series! What if König came home from a mission with a dog they rescued, and he got to keep. When the reader sees the dog she’s shocked that König hasn’t come up with a name yet so she starts making name suggestions. So now, König has this tough looking German shepherd type dog with a name like “Mr./Mrs. Snuffles” or “Chauncey”

Chauncey

Rated: T+ Word count: 1498

“Aww, who’s a good boy! You are! Yes you are!” You cooed while smooshing repeated kisses into the dog’s fur, on his nose, between his ears, on the side of his face.

The dog, König had yet to give him a name, stood there wiggling in excitement and wagging its tail as you played with him.

It was cute. König had a feeling that you’d love the dog, but he just might have underestimated how much you’d love it. He also didn’t account for the tiny little bit of jealousy simmering low in his stomach after you hadn’t said a word to him in five minutes. 

“Oh, I know!” You finally tore your eyes away from the tan and black mutt, “what about Mr. Snuffles?” 

König blinked at you, your attention torn from him once again as you giggled at the way the dog continued to sniff and lick at your face. 

“Maybe something else.” König responded dryly, trying to imagine commanding the dog like the handlers at work did. “Herr Snuffles doesn’t quite fit.” 

Actually, as he watched you and the dog interact, it might. What he really meant was that it didn’t sound intimidating enough. 

“You want a German name?” 

Maybe. He wasn’t sure, but you didn’t give him a chance to answer, instead asking, “how do you say ‘biscuit’ in German?” 

Thus began a few minutes of answering “how do you say this random noun in German?”

After he rejected several of the most adorable puppy names you could think of, you nodded at him. “I see what you’re going for.” 

“You do?”

You nodded again and looked back at the dog. “Your name will be…Chauncey.”

König laughed and shook his head, “perhaps I won’t give him a name just yet. I don’t even know if I’ll get to keep him.” 

“You have to name him! We can’t just keep calling him ‘dog’!”

A knock on the door derailed the conversation, “don’t give him any of your food.” He said sternly just before he answered the door and thanked the food delivery man. 

“I wasn’t going to!” You gasped. And lied. 

“The trainer said he needs to be evaluated by a vet first before we start changing his diet.” 

One of the canine handlers on base had given some basic advice to König and Silva, the other operator who had volunteered to adopt the dog that had somehow wandered into the training grounds. 

The dog looked like a German Shepherd to him, but the trainer said it looked like it was mixed with something else. König was no dog expert so took his word for it. 

“Sorry Chauncey.” You whispered and gave the dog a final kiss before pushing yourself up from the ground.

König set the food on the counter, telling you to help yourself, while he filled a bowl with the dog kibble that the canine handler had given him. 

Dinner was a little more animated than usual that night, with you making tentative plans from trips to the pet store to you taking “night walks”, which König was quick to remind you that even if you had a dog with you, that was a dangerous idea. If you really wanted to go for a walk at night, he (and Chauncey the dog) would go with you. 

-

König almost didn’t want to answer the door the next evening just to avoid seeing the look of disappointment on your face. Anxiety gnawed away at him as he watched your smile fall as you looked around him, then up at him. “He’s gone?”

He nodded and stepped aside, “Silva’s wife agreed to take the dog in.” 

“Oh.” 

“They have a lot of space at their house, and four children. Chauncey will be happy.” 

“Chauncey?” You smiled, happy that even if König didn’t keep him, he’d always think of him as Chauncey. 

He chuckled as he led you into the living room. “Silva brought one of his daughters to meet the dog. I told her that you wanted to name the dog Chauncey and she liked it.” 

“Well, that’s good.” That Chauncey was going to a happy home. 

You sat down and tapped your chin playfully, “but now who’s going to watch over me when you’re gone?” 

König coughed awkwardly when he sat next to you. That was precisely one of the reasons he wanted to adopt Chauncey in the first place. Not that he told you that.

“You will just have to learn to lock your door before I am deployed again.” 

“I lock my door!” You protested, though laughed, and threw your hands up. Alright, most of the time. Sometimes you were just running to your car or walking down to the mailroom or something, not like you were leaving it unlocked for extended periods of time!

“Oh Chauncey, now who’s gonna hug me and kiss me and love me when I come home?” You cupped your hands over your heart as you pretended to mourn the loss of Chauncey, a silly little grin plastered on your face the whole time.

Nevermind that he wasn’t sure what a dog hug was, he was certain he could accommodate. Spurred on by your playfulness, König leaned towards you and growled lowly in his throat and followed it with a quick bark. 

You laughed delightfully, only encouraging him even as you leaned back. He continued his dog act until he had you pinned beneath him, his masked face pressed to the side of your neck, while his hands moved up and down your sides to tickle you. 

“König!” You gasped between laughs, your hands on his shoulders but you were neither pushing him away or pulling him closer. 

He growled again, one hand quickly flying from your hip to lift his mask over his mouth. You were still laughing and wiggling against him even as he lowered his mouth and slid his tongue up your neck.

You both froze. 

“Uhm.” You squeaked out. Your hands were still on his shoulders but your fingers were practically digging into him now.

König groaned, not the playful growls he’d been making before, and dropped his head, hiding his already hidden face in your shoulder. This was why he didn’t have any luck with civilian women! He always took things too far and weirded them out! Hopefully he’d get news of deployment any moment now and you’d forget this happened at all! 

After a moment of awkward silence, you cleared your throat and poked at his shoulder. “König?”

He groaned again and shook his head, still hiding from you.

You weren’t sure what he was saying no to, so you ventured a guess. “Are you embarrassed that you just licked me?” 

This time his groan petered out into a quiet whine as he nodded once. 

“Do you want me to pretend you didn’t do that?” Even if it did send a thrill down your spine.

“Please.” He mumbled in German, voice muffled into your shoulder.

“Okay.” 

After another beat of slightly awkward silence you were about to ask him if you should leave, but he pushed himself up just long enough to maneuver your body so that you were laying on your side and slipped behind you, holding you to his chest. 

“Is this okay?” His voice was still a little quieter than usual.

You shifted slightly to get fully comfortable before resting a hand on his arm that was draped loosely around your waist. “Yea.” 

You figured he was still too shy to face you but didn’t want to send you home quiet yet. It was more than fine, you liked cuddling with him (he provided such warmth and security) and spending time with him, you could definitely spend the rest of the night like this.

“You know,” you started, your hand gently stroking his arm. “Now that we’re not keeping Chauncey-”

König hoped you couldn’t feel his heart thump hard in his chest. The way you so casually lumped yourself together with him, “we”, like you were a couple, made butterflies erupt in his stomach. 

“-you’re gonna have to pretend like you’re happy to see me when I come home.” 

He scoffed quietly, “I think you already know that I am.” 

“Hm?” You shifted like you were going to turn to face him, but you took the way his arm tensed around you as a sign to stop. 

“I wouldn’t have to pretend.” He didn’t quite translate.

“...Really?” 

König hummed and he may have nodded, you felt movement behind you, but said nothing else.

“Well, I feel happy when I see you, too.” You whispered just loud enough for him to hear you. 

Once again König didn’t say anything. Instead he wrapped himself around you even more, holding you flush to him like he never wanted to let go.

Maybe you didn’t end up with shared custody of a cute dog, but what you had with König might have been even better. 

“Can we still go on night walks?” 

[Neighbor König masterlist]

Neighbor König taglist: 

@warrior-of-justice  @cumikering @ihateuguys @rand0m--fangirl @keiva1000 @dtftheavengers @takeyour-pants-off @aeeliy @milenko115 @sodonuthideout @onegami @nadiauddincrafts @nadiauddincrafts @grizzersmamma @flooftoof @techs-ass @virginalsacrifice @s0rc3r3r @sleeplessskeleton @introvered-violinist @tizylish @romula96 @peach-habibitch @mitchlow @queenotaku27 @fenixnegras @emmbny @love-dove-noora @lesbianmitsuri @supergirl16 @wybwtjmiadz @ghonigsloverbabe @thatmusedhatter @grassclippers @skystreamchan @lordlydragon @luvecarson @thetestsubject666 @mafer383 @darkangel4121 @puppylikethedog  @trashitytrashitytrash 

[robthegoodfellow]

3DPC4EVA

@harringrovezine submission! Billy and Steve take a backseat while their cars get busy. Crack taken seriously. Brace for puns.

Summary: When the Camaro rumbles into the Hawkins High parking lot, she catches the attention of a certain luxury vehicle.

Harringrove, Camaro/Beamer (or Bimmer/Beemer whatever you prefer)

Rated G | ~2.2k (slightly expanded version) | Alternating Car POV

thank you @adelacreations and the rest of the zine team for all your hard work!

~🛞~

A car never forgot the moment it came to—became aware. For PC, it was rounding a bend of the Pacific Coast Highway, to the left a sprawling sea, baked cliffs sloping opposite. And inside… was a boy, death-grip on the wheel relaxing, his stiff back gone slack on a long exhale.

He was gazing at the water, mesmerized. Revved the engine, a vicarious roar—but not of rage.

Exultation.

They meandered north for miles, blue horizon painted pink and red, glittering in the sinking sun. Veering onto a rocky shoulder, he hopped on the hood. Reclined, sighing smoke, until the sky had bruised purple. 

The boy’s mind wandered on the drive back, and PC got a sense of him then—name, where he lived. Enough to nudge reminders before he missed a turn. 

PC learned its own names, too—knew the boy thought of it as a she. Called her Baby. Or sometimes he’d smush the first part of her plate together, PCE, and think peace.

~🛞~

3D didn’t belong here, wasting away parked outside a school. A BMW E23 7-Series? Far more befitting the head of the Harrington family, not his spoiled Lothario of a son.

But no—downgraded months after purchase when the wife gifted her darling husband a Rolls-Royce.

Who could compete? So here it was, surrounded by malformed AMC experiments, rusted-out Oldsmobile barges, decrepit Pintos liable to explode if you looked at them wrong. Oh, and tractors—let’s not forget the occasional farming equipment caked in mud and manure ridden to school for a laugh. 

3D could have borne the shocks without blowing a gasket—it was a high-performance vehicle—but then… then the boy made it his mission to bed every girl in town. And 3D had spacious seats. Spacious and luxurious: black leather, gleaming wood trim—not that the paramours would notice, too busy humping while 3D stared out its headlamps at the lake or the trees or wherever it could fix its attention that wasn’t the pair of humans copulating all over its pristine interior.

Finally, the boy hitched himself to a girl with standards, one who preferred privacy. Granted, that relationship coincided with some rather strange occurrences—early on, the boy sped off to a remote property with faulty wiring, lights berserk, and ran inside to much screaming and cacophonous violence. 3D was certain that menace would emerge grievously wounded if he emerged at all, and do you know how hard it is to get bloodstains out of leather?

Well, 3D didn’t, either, but it was bound to be impossible.

Anyway—despite that bizarre hiccup, the boy seemed happy, and so too was 3D.

Happy its rear bench was a Motel 6 no longer.

~🛞~

The blistering hurt he'd stoked from San Diego to Indiana—this despairing, gnashing fury—had simmered to a low-grade pang when PC rumbled into the Hawkins High parking lot, blazing past milling students.

Billy slammed the door—pat the handle, apologetic, before striding off. Max wheeled away on her skateboard.

Though PC was facing the school, she wasn’t limited to staring dully at the brick. Sky through her windshield, a side-view out her windows, the lot behind via the tail lights. In no time, she’d taken stock: not too different from back home. Less pervasive rust from salty air, fewer finishes sun-bleached pale pastel… and the crusty tractor was new… but a parking lot was a parking lot.

That’s what she repeated, again jerking her focus from a gleam in the next row. A BMW—PC had a weakness for German makes. Her first crush was a cute Volkswagen bug that belonged to one of Billy's surfer buddies, but the Beetle couldn’t hold a candle to this burgundy beauty—shining in the sun, the lines of its hood so proud, so pert and compact compared to PC. The appealing rounds of its double headlamps, spider eyes on either side of those distinctive kidney grilles. Like bared teeth.

The plate read 3Ds46T2.

Its wipers twitched, annoyance loud and clear. What?

PC barely reined in the startled beep, hot underhood. But then—well… what else to do when caught so blatantly staring?

She flashed a taillight, a quick, cheeky wink, and the headlamps across the way flared—a bright flush, though brief, firmly repressed.

Didn’t want to push it—the blush perhaps more embarrassment than pleasure—but when she risked a glance, 3D was looking back, intrigued. 

At final bell, PC blared both taillights, a last gambit—and her fan belt fluttered when 3D’s wipers swept a wide arc. A farewell.

Half-expected to overheat on the way back to the new house. Like all the coolant in the world couldn’t help her.

~🛞~

A showy, brutish Camaro Z/28 wouldn’t typically warrant more than an irritated huff of exhaust, but a car like that had never been bold enough to… flirt? Just brazenly wink for the whole lot to see, gazing like you were the most riveting object in existence.

It was… well, flattering, obviously—a Camaro was a handsome make, whatever its faults—but more than that, it had thrilled in a way 3D couldn’t shake. So next time the boy pulled into the lot, it gently nudged the wheel, willing them to the front where PCE 235 was sitting pretty.

Maneuvering to park next to the muscle-bound stunner took more of a push—enough to trigger a frown—but the boy rarely fired on all cylinders. He shrugged it off.

3D never dreamed it could be so forward, but the Camaro didn’t mind. Quite the contrary: as the school doors closed on the last straggler, 3D spied its neighbor’s window cracking open. A loaded quiet—then the soft static of the radio searching for a station. Odd squeals, a cut-off twang, belt, chorus, then—

—too good to be true. Can't take my eyes off you. Pardon the way that I stare—there's nothing else to compare.

An earnest crooning Oldie, and—it was like its undercarriage had bottomed out on nothing. 3D flushed hot as a busted radiator. 

If you feel like I feel, please let me know that it's real. You're just too good to be true. Can't take my eyes off you.

Seeming to sense its struggle for composure, the volume lowered until the song clicked off. The window rolled up, parted lips closing, and the wheel spun, nervous. Crunch of gravel as the front tires turned its way: Your move.

3D choked, butterfly valve sealing shut. The boy’s tastes weren’t exactly varied. Hardly strayed from the local channels piping nonstop Hot 100. But the silence would soon ring of rejection, so it powered the radio, scrambling, poised to blindly crank the dial and hope for the best—

Miracle of miracles. Rushing to open a window, it lowered all four, silently thanking Hump Day Hits of the 60s.

—thought love was only true in fairytales—meant for someone else but not for me. Love was out to get me—that's the way it seemed. 

Spontaneity sparking, it left the windows down. Let the whole lot hear! What did it care what they thought?

Then I saw her face! Now I'm a believer. Not a trace of doubt in my mind…

Last bell, after hours of trading silly ditties, their batteries were dead, and 3D was in love—felt drunk on diesel, sappy sentiment gumming up its engine.

PC. How wonderful, those two letters. And a she. Fascinating.

Their drivers were baffled at both needing a jump—a much remarked upon coincidence. Waiting for their cars to revive, the boy made awkward small talk with PC’s human—a blond ruffian who smoked like a chimney.

The boy asked the ruffian—Billy—if he was going to the Halloween party later.

Billy was.

“See ya there, man,” he said, tapping 3D’s roof. It would have cringed at the fingerprints left behind, if not for a more pressing thought.

It would see PC that night.

Perhaps all night.

~🛞~

Billy was nervous—PC could tell by his fidgeting grip, Metallica blasting. Odd outfit, too: leather jacket, shirtless, with fingerless gloves.

He parked behind 3D, no encouragement necessary. Before he’d even disappeared inside the pulsing house, PC waved her wiper, overeager but suddenly—shy.

They seemed to mutually agree not to drain their batteries again. Instead, at the risk of coming on too strong, PC reached out with the nebulous consciousness linking her to her body, linking her to Billy… until she felt a psychic bump. Not enough to dent. Just… alert.

She’d never done this—gone beyond basic flirtation—but something about 3D made her bold… and maybe Billy’s loneliness, the aimless despair bubbling under his skin since the move… maybe that had bled over more than she’d realized.

A bump, and she almost ignited her own engine, so intense was the bolt of excitement. 3D was reaching back, willing to open to her—

She had no idea how much time had passed, so submerged in their mingled selves, when Billy stumbled against her with a grunt, a slurred curse. The icy jolt must have transferred before she cut off to focus on the problem sagging at her door—a problem she knew too well.

Billy unlocked her after a couple tries, more falling than sitting in the driver’s seat. Shoved the key in the ignition—groaned when the engine wouldn’t start.

“Not tonight, baby—I’m fucking fine.”

She remained unmoved, even as he slumped, forehead knocking on the wheel.

“Just start! We’re three streets away, for fuck’s sake.”

An insistent bump—so unrelenting that she reconnected, conveyed through images, flashes of memory, that this was just something they did: Billy would drink too much, and she wouldn’t start until he was sober. But that only triggered a renewed wave of concern, a series of impressions in return: pulling over to assist a family broken down, the kids shivering in the chill evening air of autumn; 3D’s human, breath misting, joking with a pretty brunette about drinking until they were warm, the girl informing him that booze made you more vulnerable to frostbite.

But… it wasn’t nearly cold enough for that, right? Although what did she know? It had taken ages to warm up this morning. How cold was too cold?

Maybe Billy would just… go back inside the house. Or she could—start the engine but jam the accelerator? Or—

Billy jumped when 3D’s horn blared, obnoxious in the still night, its headlights flashing with each trumpeting blast. 

Not a minute later, PC understood in a burst of gratitude: 3D’s human trotted from the house. He would help. Flinging open the door, she spun her wheel, sharp.

A grunt, and Billy spilled onto the pavement. “Bitch.”

The alarm died with a chirp. “Hargrove?” 

Billy sighed, flopping backward. “Fuck off, Harrington.”

Harrington did not—kept coming until he towered, hands on hips. Prodded Billy with a curious foot.

“You wanna be roadkill, or what?”

Bratty snort. “Or what.”

“Well, in the interest of not scraping you up tomorrow, how about I drive you home?”

Billy propped himself on elbows. A hum, considering. “Pass.”

PC resisted whacking him with the door. From his expression, Harrington felt much the same.

“Take you to mine, then.” Stooping, he stuck his hand out, waiting while Billy curled his lip, rolled his eyes—finally took the hand.

3D’s lights beamed worry as Harrington started the engine, Billy safe in passenger. PC twitched a wiper—shoo—and settled in by the curb. Small price for peace of mind.

~🛞~

At some point between disappearing into the Harrington house and emerging in the early dawn, something had happened—3D couldn’t begin to guess. The surly quiet of last night now buzzed like coins in a cupholder. Glances darted, never meeting.

3D resisted cranking the radio to drown out the awkward. Or redirecting the beads of condensation cutting through the misted windows so their dewy paths spelled HELP.

It rumbled with relief to see PC, glistening in the gloom, right where they’d left her.

“Last night,” Billy said, as they rolled to a stop. “We—it can’t happen—”

“You scared?” The arched brow was bluster, his frame rigid with nerves.

“You dumb?” Sneered it, scathing.

He was dumb, 3D would vouch for that, but the boy only glared. Billy huffed, paired an eye roll with a shake of his head, reaching for the door. 

A lesser vehicle would’ve missed the other hand pounce across the console, but 3D fogged the windows just in time.

No one saw the driver yanked sideways by the shirt, arrested by snarling lips pressed to his own—or the hands that grappled in reply, cupping cheek and chin, fingers sinking into hair.

No one saw, but PC knew—was practically dancing, wipers waving, front wheels pivoting left and right. And usually 3D would sigh, resign itself to rounds of necking and worse, but it couldn’t muster the fumes.

Because it would put up with anything—happily, no matter the wear and tear—for more time right here, sharing PC’s air. 

Since keeping one meant keeping the other, this would be no fling. Not if 3D could help it. 

What was it humans liked to say? 

My way or the highway.

~🛞~

Read on Ao3

[skywalker1dream]

Title: Driven by Friendship

Note: Okay so I have no idea what I wroteSo if there are mistakes, please tell me (which I'm sure there will be) tbh I don't like it so maybe I will delete it later. Oh and we need more fics about these two men sadly. [They can hit me with a car and I'd say thank you]

Warnings: Language, Sexism,Injury,Emotional Conflict...(anything else? I don't know, let me know;3) Use of nicknames hase [bunny] (german correct me if I am wrong) darling, love..

Rbr!Sebastian vettel x fem!driver!reader,

Jenson Button x fem!driver!reader..

Summary: The story follows readers and Sebastian's friendship from karting to Formula 1. Tensions rise, leading to a collision and strained relations. Unexpected friendships.Despite support from Jenson Button, Sebastian's betrayal deepens the rift, emphasizing the importance of friendship.

From the moment you and Sebastian met at the local karting track as kids, you were inseparable. You shared a passion for racing that burned brighter than the sun, and together, you conquered every track and championship in your path.

As you grew older, your dreams of reaching Formula 1 together only strengthened. But along the way, you faced countless obstacles, none more daunting than the prejudice and skepticism of the male-dominated racing world.

journalists were quick to criticize you, questioning your skills and abilities simply because you were a woman in a sport traditionally dominated by men. But you refused to let their words discourage you, fueled by the unwavering support of Sebastian and your fellow drivers.

"Seb, did you hear what they're saying about me?" you asked one evening, frustration evident in your voice.

"Ignore them, Hase. You know they're just trying to get under your skin," Sebastian replied, his tone firm.

"But it's not fair! I've worked just as hard as anyone else to be here," you protested.

"I know, and I believe in you. We'll show them together," Sebastian said, placing a comforting hand on your shoulder.

When Mark Webber retired in 2013, you saw an opportunity to join Red Bull Racing. You and Sebastian became teammates,It was a dream come true, a childhood dream to be teammates, and finally that dream came true, but little did you know that it would test the strength of your friendship in ways you never imagined.

As teammates, you and Sebastian were thrilled to be racing together at the highest level. But as the season progressed, tensions began to rise. Competitive instincts clashed with personal loyalties, and soon, your friendship was strained.

After a few races, tragedy struck. In a moment of miscommunication on the track, you and Sebastian collided, sending both of you spinning off into the gravel trap. The aftermath was tense, emotions running high as blame was exchanged.

"What were you thinking? You cut across me!" Sebastian's voice was filled with frustration as he confronted you in the garage.

"Me? You're the one who didn't leave me any room! I had nowhere to go," you shot back, your own anger rising to match his.

The tension between you simmered, neither willing to back down. But as the adrenaline faded and the reality of what had happened set in, you both knew that something had to change.

"Seb, can we talk?" you asked tentatively, breaking the silence between you a few days later. "Oh and I brought peace of offering." You showed him donuts and ice-cream.

"Sure, Hase. What's on your mind?" Sebastian replied, his expression cautious.

"I just... I don't want things to be like this between us," you said, your voice softening.

"Neither do I," Sebastian admitted, his gaze meeting yours. "I'm sorry for what I said. I was angry, but that's no excuse."

"I'm sorry too. I should have been more aware of my surroundings," you replied, a weight lifting off your shoulders.

As the season progressed, the strain on your relationship became more apparent. Small disagreements turned into heated arguments, and soon, you found yourselves avoiding each other both on and off the track.

"I can't believe you let me down out there," Sebastian muttered bitterly after a particularly disappointing race.

"I'm not the one who's been making mistakes lately," you retorted, unable to hide your own frustration.

The words hung between you like a dark cloud, a stark reminder of how far you had drifted from the friendship you once shared.

During a press conference, you faced harsh criticism from male journalists (again) questioning your abilities and suggesting that you didn't belong in Formula 1. As the questions became more pointed, you looked to Sebastian for some support, but he remained silent, his gaze fixed on the floor.

"And what do you say to those who claim you're only here because of your connection to Sebastian Vettel?" one journalist asked, a hint of malice in his voice.

You felt the weight of his words like a punch to the gut. as you struggled to find a response, Jenson Button stepped in, defending you with a passion that brought tears to your eyes.

I've raced against her, and let me tell you, she's one of the most talented drivers I've ever had the privilege of competing against," Jenson said, his voice unwavering.

"She's earned her place in Formula 1 through hard work and determination, not because of who she knows," he continued, his words a lifeline in a sea of doubt.

As the press conference came to an end, you felt a sense of gratitude wash over you, grateful for Jenson's unwavering support even in the face of adversity.

As the press conference came to an end, you felt a sense of gratitude wash over you, grateful for Jenson's unwavering support even in the face of adversity.

After the journalists filed out of the room, you turned to Jenson, a mixture of emotions swirling inside you.

"Jenson, I don't know what to say," you began, your voice trembling with emotion.

Jenson smiled warmly, placing a reassuring hand on your shoulder. "You don't have to say anything, darling. We're all in this together, remember?"

You nodded, feeling a swell of gratitude for his kindness. "Thank you, Jenson. I don't know what I would have done without you," you admitted, a lump forming in your throat.

"Hey, that's what friends are for," Jenson replied, his gaze sincere. "Just remember, you belong here just as much as anyone else. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise."

His words resonated with you, a reminder that you were not alone in this fight. With a grateful smile, you squeezed Jenson's hand, silently thanking him for being the friend you needed in that moment of doubt.

"I won't forget it, Jenson. Thank you," you said, your voice filled with conviction.

And as you left the press conference room, a renewed sense of determination filled your heart. Though the road ahead would be challenging, you knew that with friends like Jenson by your side, you could face anything that came your way.

Back in the garage, you confronted Sebastian, hurt and anger bubbling to the surface.

"Why didn't you defend me out there, i thought we had each others back?" you demanded, your voice trembling with emotion.

"I... I don't know. I just... I didn't know what to say," Sebastian stammered, his eyes filled with regret.

"You could have said something, anything!" you cried, feeling the weight of his silence like a betrayal.

But as you looked into his eyes, you saw the regret there, a silent acknowledgment of his failure to stand by you when you needed him most.

The tension between you and Sebastian had reached a breaking point, with each passing day bringing more heated arguments and strained interactions. But just when you thought things couldn't get any worse, there was a knock on your hotel room door.

With a sense of trepidation, you opened the door to find Sebastian standing on the other side, a sheepish smile on his face and a box of donuts and a tub of ice cream in his hands.

"I come bearing peace offerings," he said, his tone lighthearted but sincere.

You couldn't help but smile at his gesture, a wave of nostalgia washing over you. Donuts and ice cream had been your tradition for as long as you could remember, a symbol of your friendship and the bond you shared.

"I guess old habits die hard," you replied, stepping aside to let him in.

What followed was a week of laughter and camaraderie, as you and Sebastian fell back into your old rhythms, joking around and laughing at each other's jokes and antics. It felt like old times, and for a fleeting moment, you allowed yourself to believe that maybe, just maybe, things could go back to the way they were.

But as the week drew to a close, the tension returned, hanging between you like a heavy fog. And despite your best efforts to maintain the facade of friendship, the cracks in your relationship began to show once again.

The once inseparable bond you shared seemed to fade further into the distance with every awkward silence and tense exchange.

As the season pressed on, the weight of your strained relationship began to take its toll on both of you.

"Are you crazy? You almost crash into me!" Sebastian's voice was filled with frustration as he confronted you in the garage.

"Me? Are you blind?You were in front of me, you braked and we both almost hit the wall!"

you shot back, your own anger rising to match his. The tension between you simmered, neither willing to back down. But as the adrenaline faded and the reality of what had happened set in, you both knew that something had to change.

despite your best efforts to maintain the facade of friendship, the cracks in your relationship began to show once again.

The strain between you and Sebastian was palpable, lingering like an unspoken truth in the air. Despite the temporary respite of laughter and shared memories, the underlying issues remained unresolved, simmering beneath the surface.

With each passing day, it became increasingly clear that the competition between you was more than just a temporary setback.

And as you navigated the twists and turns of the race track, you couldn't help but wonder if the biggest challenge you faced wasn't the competition on the circuit, but the battle to salvage what was left of your fractured friendship with Sebastian.

The fight between you and Sebastian was like a collision on the track—explosive, unpredictable, and fraught with tension. It began with a series of small disagreements, simmering beneath the surface until it finally erupted into a full-blown confrontation.

As the dust settled and blame was exchanged, tempers flared, and harsh words were spoken in the heat of the moment.

Accusations flew back and forth, each of you convinced of your own innocence and the other's culpability.

As emotions ran high, the fight spilled over from the track into the garage, where heated arguments and bitter accusations threatened to tear apart the fabric of your friendship. Both of you dug in your heels, unwilling to back down, each convinced of the righteousness of your own perspective.

But beneath the anger and hurt, there was also a sense of betrayal feeling that the person you once trusted implicitly had let you down when you needed them most. And as the fight dragged on, it became increasingly clear that repairing the damage done to your relationship would be no easy task.

The fight between you and Sebastian reached a boiling point in the garage after the race.

"What were you thinking?!" Sebastian's voice was sharp with frustration as he confronted you.

"Are you serious, Seb? I left you plenty of room! You just didn't take it!" you shot back, your own frustration boiling over.

"I had nowhere to go! You squeezed me into the wall!" Sebastian's voice rose, matching your intensity.

"I didn't squeeze you into anything! You should have backed off!" you retorted, the tension between you crackling like lightning.

The team members nearby exchanged uneasy glances, sensing the escalating conflict between their drivers. But neither of you seemed willing to back down, each too stubborn to concede the other's point.

Just as the argument between you and Sebastian threatened to escalate further, a familiar voice cut through the tension like a knife.

"Hey, hey, what's going on here?" Jenson Button's calm voice broke through the heated exchange, his presence commanding attention.

You and Sebastian both turned to see Jenson standing in the doorway of the garage, his expression calm but firm.

"nothing," Sebastian started, but Jenson held up a hand to silence him.

"Nothing? From where I'm standing, it looks like a whole lot of something," Jenson replied, his gaze moving between you and Sebastian.

Sensing the gravity of the situation, Sebastian fell silent, his jaw clenched in frustration. You too remained silent, feeling a mixture of embarrassment and relief at Jenson's intervention.

"Look, I get it. Racing is intense, emotions run high, but you two are teammates, friends even. You can't let this come between you," Jenson continued, his tone gentle but firm.

"We'll talk about this later," he said, turning his attention to Sebastian. "But for now, I think it's best if you both cool off."

With a nod from Jenson, Sebastian reluctantly backed down, his expression tense but resigned. You too felt the tension draining from your body, grateful for Jenson's intervention.

The final race of the season loomed ahead like a storm on the horizon. With both of you fighting for the championship title, the stakes had never been higher.

But as the race unfolded, it became increasingly clear that this would be no ordinary battle. Sebastian's desperation to win seemed to override any sense of sportsmanship, resorting to aggressive maneuvers and risky tactics to gain an advantage.

In the final moments of the race, as you and Sebastian went wheel to wheel, the unthinkable happened. With a sudden lunge, Sebastian executed a dirty move, forcing your car off the racing line and into a spin that sent you careening off the track and into the barriers.

Time seemed to stand still as your car crumpled against the unforgiving concrete, the impact reverberating through your body like a shockwave. And in that moment, as the realization of what had just happened sank in, a profound sense of betrayal washed over you like a tidal wave.

Sebastian's victory celebration felt hollow against the backdrop of your shattered dreams and broken trust. As he stood on the podium, basking in the glory of his championship win, you couldn't help but feel a sense of emptiness, knowing that the cost of his victory had been the loss of your friendship.

And as the season came to a close, the rift between you and Sebastian widened into an unbridgeable chasm, the bonds of friendship irreparably broken by the events of that fateful race. In the end, it wasn't the thrill of victory that defined the season, but the bitter taste of betrayal and the painful realization that some wounds never truly heal.

As Jenson stepped into the hospital room, you noticed the concern etched into his features, a stark contrast to the composed demeanor he usually exuded. His presence was a welcome sight, offering a glimmer of solace amidst the turmoil of the aftermath.

"Hey," Jenson began softly, his voice filled with empathy as he approached your bedside. "How are you holding up?"

You mustered a weak smile, grateful for his presence in the midst of the chaos. "I've been better," you admitted, the weight of recent events pressing down on you.

Jenson nodded, his expression somber. "I saw what happened out there. I'm so sorry."

The memory of the crash flashed through your mind, the sensation of spinning out of control still fresh in your memory. Tears welled up in your eyes as you recalled the betrayal of seeing Sebastian's maneuver unfold before you.

"I don't understand why he would do that," you confessed, your voice trembling with emotion.

Jenson's gaze softened, a mixture of sympathy and understanding in his eyes. "I wish I had an answer for you. All I know is that you didn't deserve any of this."

His words were a balm to your wounded spirit, offering a sliver of comfort in the midst of your turmoil. As you met his gaze, gratitude flooded your heart, a silent acknowledgment of the unwavering support he had shown you in your darkest hour.

"Thank you for being here, Jenson," you whispered, your voice choked with emotion.

Jenson reached out, grasping your hand in his own, a gesture of solidarity and reassurance. "Always, love. You're not alone in this."

And in that moment, as you felt the warmth of his hand enveloping yours, you knew that no matter what lay ahead, you had a friend by your side who would stand with you through it all.

So the end...it was bad I know,but It was fun to write it.

Can you guess my inspiration? I give you hint "Silver Arrows"

I love drama

[venriliz]

10 random facts about me

got tagged by @druidberries @alientown @papermint-airplane TY <3

u literally tagged the most boring person but that's probably what half of all people think of themselves, huh? °-° i might regurgitate some of the facts i used for my introduction post in the sims of tumblr community. i wrote a lot so i'll put a cut with the facts below here. °-°

my birthday is the 4th of july and when i was a kid (prolly like 5 or 6) i saw an american parade on the news on tv. after i asked my dad why these people are celebrating he literally told me that they're celebrating my birthday °_° i believed for several years that americans celebrated my fucking birthday bc i wasn't aware of independence day existing lmfao. my dad just loved fooling me V.V he might be dead but i'm still holding that grudge lol.

i'm kinda lucky to be alive i guess? when i was a kid i was hit by a car in what we in germany call "Spielstraße" which is kinda like a street in dense neighborhoods where kids are allowed to play freely and cars aren't allowed to go faster than 7 kph/4.3 mph. i don't now how fast the driver was but it probably was something around 30 kph/18 mph. i didn't have very bad injuries but still °-° i could've died.

i was a typical horse girl as a kid (i still like horses but i'm not riding anymore because i'm a very old 20-something with knee problems lol) and i was fucking INSUFFERABLE abt it.

i don't want to have kids or get married. i'm not one of those people who hate children like i love my nieces and my nephew BUT i have a lot of mental health issues and can't possibly take care of another life if i can barely take care of myself properly, right? marriage to me is just a weird concept. i can totally respect people getting married and if i'm invited to a wedding i'm obviously attending but i personally can't really subscribe to the idea of binding myself to someone with a piece of paper and it then being such a stupid process when it doesn't work out. also... it costs too much money lol

i have kind of an affinity for finding missing pets (i also photograph every missing poster i see so i guess that helps with recognizing them?)

i was NOT good at school like i kinda sucked and i can probably blame a mixture of mental health issues, trouble at home and also being a lazy teenager that just wasn't really built for school life lol. i barely managed to get the "Mittlere Reife" (if you're german u know what i mean. i could explain what that means but explaining the german school system would take years). english, german and biology were my only good classes. i absolutely hated math like we're lifelong enemies.

speaking of germany, i am from germany or to be more specific from the most northern region nearest to the danish border and i LOVE living here. the north and baltic sea are close to me and people here are usually quite chill. the only thing i don't like that much abt living here is kind of the regional cuisine bc a lot of it is fish and i don't like eating fish T.T

i HATE going shopping (i'm an online shopper °-° EMP my beloved) and my friends just don't take me with them on shopping trips bc they know i'll kill the mood by complaining like a child and wanting to go back home lmfao

the first sims game for me was the og Sims and i almost fried my dad's old ass pc playing it. my first vivid memory of the game was noticing that here and there random houses appeard out of seemingly nowhere. the goths got a new house that didn't fit their vibe for example lol. years later my dad told me that he used to play the game when i was sleeping and just built these houses lmfao. so i guess my dad was an og simmer oO.

i remember 9/11 (yes i'm old enough don't age shame me T.T). i was in kindergarten at that time and just came home from a friends house when the towers fell. i saw it on tv and even though i was very young i understood that a lot of people were getting hurt. definitely had an impact on me as a kid.

yeah that's it. i rambled a lot but yeah °-°

tagging @landgraabbed @olli-online @living-undead @moonwoodhollow @microscotch @crazy-lazy-elder-sims @aniraklova @tiallussims @skaterboi108 @faerun-s @cristalviper @none-of-these-days @fadingforrest @acuar-io @elderwisp @lilamausmaus @simpleratattack @azeterna @butteredfrogs @mmonetsims and everybody else who reads this! HA!

[thornybubbles]

All I Ever Wanted: Yandere Santana x Reader

Note: I used a different method for writing this story than I normally do. I used a picker wheel to randomly choose a prompt from a list of Yandere Prompts from Tumblr and a list of JoJo characters I haven’t written for yet. The winning character was Santana and the winning prompt was “Yandere saves Darling’s life”. I may use this method again in the future. 

Santana first encountered you when you snuck into the German base to aid Joseph in rescuing Speedwagon. He could not take his eyes off of you as you tended to the old man while Joseph tried to gain his attention with his buffoonery. Nothing the young Joestar said or did could pull Santana’s gaze from you as you spoke words of comfort to the frightened Speedwagon. The old man scolded you for tagging along with Joseph on such a dangerous mission, but he was relieved to have you there nonetheless. Watching you coddle the old man stirred something in Santana that he never felt before. Santana never considered humans to be especially attractive before, but there was something about you that lured him in. Maybe it was the gentle look in your eyes as you checked the old man over? Maybe it was the loving words you used as you spoke to him?

Santana found himself growing jealous over the attention the old man was getting from you. For him, affection was few and far between and usually limited to a half-hearted head pat from Kars or Esidesi whenever he did as he was told. As he got older though, they started to treat him less like kin and more like a pet. During training, he found himself unable to achieve the same kind of results that Wammu could, and Kars became increasingly frustrated with him. He once warned him that if he did not catch up with the rest of them, then he would be left behind. When he woke up thousands of years later and found himself alone, he knew that he’d been abandoned. 

He fully intended to take all of his grief and anger out on every single human he came across, but seeing you, he decided to make an exception. Though anger began to simmer in him as he watched you with the old man. You hadn’t even looked at him when you came in. Did you have any idea how stupid it was to blunder into enemy territory and not be on guard? He could have killed you a thousand times over before you even made eye contact with him! Why were you wasting time with that old man when you should be paying attention to him?! Santana side-stepped Joseph, who was incessantly tapping his nose and saying ridiculous things, and began to advance on you and Speedwagon.

Your back was turned to the Pillarman. You were too busy trying to release Speedwagon from his restraints to notice as Santana drew ever closer to you. He was strangely quiet for someone so large. It wasn’t until Speedwagon’s horrified gaze locked on something behind you did you turn around and find yourself face to face with the Pillarman. You gasped and instinctively put yourself between Santana and the old man, trying to shield Speedwagon from the brute. Santana just stared down at you with an unreadable expression while Speedwagon begged for you to get away. 

Slowly, Santana reached out for you, his massive hand looking like it was about to clamp down on your head. 

“Don’t ignore me, you prehistoric prick!” shouted Joseph. 

He placed a hand on Santana’s shoulder, trying to annoy the Pillarman enough that he would forget about whatever he was planning to do to you. When Santana didn’t react, Joseph sent a jolt of Ripple energy into the flesh of his shoulder to get the point across. It certainly worked because Santana’s eye twitched and the corner of his mouth turned up into a slight snarl. His shoulder sizzled from the attack but was already healing itself. Santana slowly turned to face Joseph who was bouncing from foot to foot holding his fists up as if he were in a boxing ring. 

“That’s what you get for treating me like I’m just a mosquito flying around your ear!” Joseph said, grinning obnoxiously. 

Santana was giving him a blank look but you could practically feel the rage boiling off of him. Before anything else could happen, though, the sound of several booted feet stomped up the corridor and a troop of German soldiers burst into the room. They lined up on either side of a very confused Joseph and took aim at Santana. Who the blazes were these guys? Reinforcements? From where? You thought Santana had killed all the soldiers in the base! You didn’t think much more about it because you realized that while the Germans had their guns locked on Santana, you and Speedwagon were right behind him. If they fired on the Pillarman, they would take you and the old man out, too! Joseph must have realized the same thing because he was already trying to wrestle the gun out of one of the soldiers hands. The others ignored Joseph’s antics  and you heard someone yell, “FIRE!” 

Thinking quickly you knocked Speedwagon out of the wheelchair and onto the floor where he would be out of range of the gunfire. Seconds later you found yourself swept up in a pair of muscular arms and held to an equally muscular chest. Thinking that it was Joseph that held you, you screamed as you felt the bullets tear into him. Over the racket you heard both Speedwagon and Joseph call your name. That’s when you realized that it wasn’t Joseph that had you in his grasp. You looked up and actually felt the blood drain from your face. Staring down at you with impassive red eyes was Santana. You felt your arms and legs draw up against your body in terror. You tried to speak, working your jaw and tongue to get words out, wanting to demand or even beg him not to kill you, but you could only manage to emit squeaks of fright. 

You became vaguely aware of the sound of JoJo fighting with the soldiers and more gunfire. He was angry with them for nearly killing you and Speedwagon. 

“What kind of morons just burst into a room and start shooting?!” He shouted as he kicked one of them in the back of the head, knocking off his helmet and sending the soldier to dreamland. It was only then that he spotted you in the arms of the Pillarman and froze, eyes widening in horror. 

“My God! Joseph! That monster has her!” Speedwagon spoke up. He, too, only just now realized what was happening. 

Seeing that JoJo had stopped attacking them, the soldiers returned their attention to Santana once more taking aim. You gasped and squinted your eyes closed, not wanting to see your demise coming. Joseph prepared to send a Hamon-fueled kick to the ground under the soldiers feet to knock them off balance but he never got the chance. Santana readjusted you so that he was cradling you with one arm. He raised his free arm upwards towards the soldiers, spreading his fingers at weird angles. Just like he had before, he used the bullets that had been absorbed into his body to return fire. Each bullet shot from his fingertips hit its mark, embedding itself into the heads of each of the soldiers. Not even the ones that Joseph knocked out were spared. Only Joseph remained unscathed. He looked around himself in confusion, wondering why he didn’t get shot, too. Santana lowered his arm, readjusting you in his hold once more. He glared at Joseph the entire time. He only spared him because he had unfinished business with the upstart primitive, but he could take care of that later. Joseph had gotten over his confusion and was now glaring back at Santana with equal ferocity. 

“Put my friend down right now!” He demanded, pointing a finger at the ground as if to show exactly where he wanted Santana to place you. 

The Pillarman’s lips pulled away from his teeth in a snarl and he made a noise that sounded like a cross between a snake’s hiss and a dog’s growl. Joseph had the audacity to growl back at him, an action that you would have thought funny if it weren’t for the situation you were in. Santana moved slightly and Joseph seemed to know immediately what he was planning. 

“Don’t you dare!” he warned the Pillarman. 

Santana hissed/growled at him again, before suddenly taking off down the corridor that the German troops had just come from. The action took Joseph off guard. He was expecting the Pillarman to try to harm you in some way, not run off with you! 

“JoJo! Stop him!” cried Speedwagon from where he still lay on the floor. 

That was all he needed to snap out of his shocked state and into action. He took off down the corridor at full speed, desperately trying to catch up with Santana. The Pillarman’s powerful legs let him run far faster than any human though, and he was constantly maneuvering out of Joseph’s grasp as he tried to snatch you away from him. Santana went so far as to run along the walls and at some point, you even found yourself upside down as Santana began running on the very ceiling. 

“Get down here, you cheater!” Joseph yelled up at him. 

Joseph’s vision was suddenly obstructed as a green cloth fluttered down on top of him. During his escape from the observation lab, Santana grabbed a shirt off of one of the dead soldiers. While he and Joseph were glaring each other down, Santana had spotted a map of the base among the scattered files and papers that littered the ground after his earlier rampage. He only needed to glance at it once in order to commit it to memory. When he knew that he was coming upon an intersection, he waited for just the right moment to drop the shirt down on Joseph, obscuring his view as he darted off down the corridor that he knew led to some maintenance tunnels. 

Joseph snatched the bloodstained shirt off of himself. He let out an angry shout when he realized that Santana had evaded him. That freak was a lot smarter than he seemed. There were three passages he could’ve taken: straight ahead, right, or left. He obviously didn’t keep going straight or Joseph would still be able to see him. So that left either the left or the right. Joseph debated on which way to go for a moment. In comics, the bad guys almost always take the left passage to get away from the good guys. Maybe that was the case in real life, too? He growled in frustration. He didn’t have anything else to go on, so left passage it was. He ran down the passage calling your name, hoping that the monster hadn’t hurt you. Unfortunately, real life isn’t like comic books and Santana had taken the right passage.  

You were grateful when Santana began running upright again. Being upside down for so long was starting to give you a headache. You lost sight of Joseph hours ago. You tried calling out for him once, but Santana gave you such a glare that the words died on your tongue from sheer fright. But you were beginning to wonder just how long this damned corridor was. And just how long could this guy run? He’d been running for a while now and wasn’t even breathing hard! 

Santana darted down a flight of stairs that seemed to lead to a basement and storage area. He slowed down to a normal walk and began searching for something. Finally he came to a set of chained up doors with a lot of writing around it. You couldn’t read German so you had no clue what it said. He pulled the doors open, snapping the chains as if they were made of paper. He then stepped inside of the room and closed the doors behind him. The lighting inside of the room was dim, but you could make out the shapes of a desk and some machines that you didn’t recognize. Santana walked to a corner of the room and plopped down on the ground, hiding in the shadows. He held you in his lap and stared at the doors, watching to see if JoJo would burst through them at any moment. After a moment, you felt him relax and he let out a quiet sigh. Then, he turned his gaze on you. 

The dim light made him look especially eerie and you noted that his red eyes seemed to have a bit of a glow to them. 

“Uh… hi…” you said awkwardly. 

“You did not thank me.” 

You blinked up at him. You had only heard him say one or two word sentences before, and usually he only seemed to repeat what others said to him. He may have said something to JoJo before, but you were too busy worrying about Speedwagon to pay much attention. 

“Thank me properly.” he said. His voice was quiet and calm, but you could definitely hear the demand in it when he said that. 

“I… what? W-what do you w-want me to d-do?” You stammered. “I don’t even know w-what I’m t-thanking you for.” 

Santana gave you an insulted look. 

“I saved your life.” he stated in a gruff, clipped tone. “The other humans would have killed you. I prevented it. Now thank me properly.” 

Oh well, now you’ve made him angry. 

“Thank you…?” You said lamely, not sure what he wanted. 

Santana huffed and rolled his eyes. You were unfortunately as thick-skulled at any other human, in spite of your kind, gentle nature. You would have to be trained apparently. He grabbed your hand, causing you to flinch. He then guided your hand to the top of his head and moved your hand around in a motion that made it seem like you were ruffling his hair. Once or twice your palm scraped against the two small horns that jutted from his skull causing you to wince. You were surprised at how soft his hair was though. For someone that came from a time when hair care products weren’t exactly readily available yet, it seemed very healthy. After a while, he let your hand go but made sure you kept rubbing his head. He closed his eyes and nuzzled into your hand. The action caused you to blush. 

Stop. Bad guys are not supposed to be cute. You mentally scolded yourself. 

After a few minutes of rubbing the top of his head, you were starting to feel a little awkward. 

“Okay… good Aztec Demi-God…” you said in a nervous tone and slowly pulled your hand away from his hair. When he didn’t immediately force you to start petting him again, you relaxed a little. 

“I guess it’s safe to assume that you aren’t going to kill me then?” you asked, feeling a little braver. 

Santana shook his head. 

“No.” he said, a sleepy look in his eyes. 

You glanced down at the floor longingly. 

“Any chance of you putting me down?” You asked, feeling brave enough to push your luck. 

Instantly, the sleepy look was gone from his eyes and he tightened his hold on you. 

“NO!” he all but roared. 

You cringed in his hold and didn’t say anything else. 

Well it was worth a shot. You really hoped JoJo found you soon, before this situation got any more uncomfortable.