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tsunodaradio · 3 days ago

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the summer you turned pretty ⛐ 𝐋𝐍𝟒 & 𝐎𝐏𝟖𝟏

the story of you, mclaren’s golden boys, and the summer that changes everything.

ꔮ starring: lando norris x mclaren marketing admin!reader x oscar piastri. ꔮ word count: 12.2k. ꔮ includes: romance, humor, friendship. mentions of food, alcohol; profanity. slight time skip (set in 2027), tension tension tensionnn!!!, not really a love triangle, loosely based off the summer i turned pretty where oscar is conrad and lando is jeremiah. ꔮ commentary box: yeah.., yeah. this is a thing, i guess. much thanks to @binisainz and @norrisradio for watching me spiral over this. consider this a warm-up for the challengers au 🙂‍↕️ 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

There’s something about the air this time around.

You feel it the second you step out of the van, your trainers hitting the gravel with a muted crunch. A breeze ruffles the hem of your McLaren-issued shorts, sticky with sweat from the long drive, and you breathe it in. Salt, pine, heat radiating off the tarmac like a living thing.

It’s the fourth time you’ve made this pilgrimage, the fourth summer you’ve found yourself somewhere off-grid with the team. Official cameras conveniently ‘forget’ to roll. Every work email is answered with a flip-flopped foot and a cocktail in hand.

Life at McLaren never really started until you survived the off-season getaway.

Everyone knew it. No one said it out loud.

The rented-out summer home sprawls out in front of you, all whitewashed stone and terracotta roof tiles, perched high above an aquamarine stretch of water so clear it looks Photoshopped. A few bright towels already cling to the poolside chairs; someone’s left a trail of sandy flip-flops like breadcrumbs. You can hear laughter somewhere—muffled, distant, a memory you haven’t made yet.

The whole place hums under the weight of something not quite visible. A static charge. A warning shot fired low across the bow.

Oscar had won the 2026 World Drivers’ Championship, wrestling the 2025 crown from Lando in a way that was almost surgical. No drama, no big public blowout. Just a clean, clinical dethroning that had stunned the paddock stupid.

But it wasn’t clean. Not really. You’d seen the cracks up close. The stiff smiles. The way Lando’s jaw would tick when Oscar’s name got thrown around in meetings. The brittle way Oscar would pretend not to notice.

Now, with both their contracts coming up and the whole world speculating if McLaren could even keep them both, the air buzzes with something volatile. Not anger, exactly. Not yet. Just—

“You coming or what?” a voice calls out, snapping you out of your reverie. You turn to see Callum from logistics waving you in, already wearing a sleeveless tee and a grin that promises poor life decisions.

You wave back, laughing under your breath. Whatever. Let the future burn itself down later.

Right now, you’ve got one week. One week to drink bad beer by the pool, to dance barefoot to someone’s crackling Bluetooth speaker, to pretend that you’re just a marketing admin on holiday and not someone who spends their life airbrushing tensions away with pastel graphics and PR spins.

One week before everything changes.

You’re going to enjoy the hell out of it.

Except you don't even make it to the front steps before they find you.

Lando’s laugh cuts through the air first. Unmistakable, that full kind of sound that’s always gotten him exactly what he wanted. He strides across the gravel with a beer in hand, sunglasses perched low on his nose. Tan already sunk into his skin like he belongs here more than anywhere else.

Oscar is a step behind him, hands shoved into the pockets of his board shorts, mouth pulled into that familiar half-smile that never quite gives away what he’s thinking. Cool. Untouchable. But not when it comes to you.

You’ve known them both since 2023. Started the same year as Oscar, actually, back when he was still the ‘new kid’ and Lando was the anointed heir of McLaren. Watching them now, it’s almost funny how much and how little has changed.

“Well, well, well,” Lando drawls, his gaze raking down the length of you without a shred of shame. “Someone’s been hitting the gym.”

You roll your eyes, but the heat crawling up your neck betrays you. Typical. Lando always wielded charm like a blunt weapon. Flirt first, apologize later—if at all.

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” you shoot back, crossing your arms to fend off the fluster you feel prickling your skin.

“You should.” His grin turns a little wolfish, a little sharper at the edges. It’s always been like this with Lando. Sharp banter, quick jabs, a constant underlying dare in his words.

Oscar, on the other hand, doesn’t say anything. He just glances at you, quick, his gaze flickering over the obvious changes. The toned arms, the tighter shorts, the way you stand a little differently now, more sure of yourself. It’s the sun you’ve caught over the spring, the way your hair is lighter. The confidence, fitting you a little easier now.

“Ignore him,” Oscar says finally, voice dry as ever. “He thinks a compliment a day keeps HR away.”

Lando snickers, entirely unbothered. “No one’s filing any complaints.”

“Yet,” Oscar adds under his breath, and you catch the twitch of a real smile before he looks away, as if he’s embarrassed to be caught being funny.

The dynamic between them is sharper this year, the edges harder to ignore. Lando’s a little too loud; Oscar’s a little too careful. And you, well—

You shoulder your bag higher. Whatever storm is brewing, it’s not here yet.

When Lando is pulled away by another group, you find yourself next to Oscar, the two of you naturally falling into step. “He’s subtle, huh?” you say, nodding toward where Lando is already readying to play a match of beach volleyball.

Oscar snorts. “As a brick through a window.”

Your laughter comes easier with him. No games, no showmanship. Just the same effortless back-and-forth you’ve had since you both joined McLare. Young, new, a little out of your depths. You’ve grown alongside each other in different ways, but the familiarity remains.

“You look good, by the way,” Oscar says after a beat, almost too casual.

You glance at him, but he’s already looking away. “Thanks, Piastri,” you say, nudging his elbow lightly. “Big year for compliments, huh?”

He hums noncommittally, a ghost of a smile pulling at his mouth. His expression doesn’t shift, but there’s something in his eyes. Something that makes you feel seen in a way that’s infinitely more dangerous than Lando’s brand of unashamed attention.

Voices call your names from across the courtyard. A group from the marketing team waves you over, already laying claim to beach chairs and plotting the evening’s games.

“Duty calls,” you say with a mock salute.

Oscar lifts a hand in farewell. “See you.”

The first few hours are a whirlwind of people claiming rooms, of staff trading sunblock and shots and secrets. By the time it’s evening, the beach air is thick with the scent of salt, laughter bouncing between bodies huddled in threadbare hoodies and board shorts. Someone passes a bottle of cheap rum around. Someone else suggests Truth or Dare, and against your better judgment, you let yourself be roped in.

You’re perched on a faded picnic blanket with a handful of your favorite coworkers. Marketing assistants, junior engineers, a couple of race strategy interns. A makeshift family built over late nights and endless deadlines.

“Alright, you,” Tom from engineering says, pointing at you with a grin. His cheeks are already flushed from the booze. “Truth: which of our two golden boys is more crush-worthy?”

A chorus of oohs rises from the circle. You groan, tossing a handful of sand in Tom's general direction. “What are we, twelve?”

“Come on! You have to answer.”

You make a show of rolling your eyes, sighing dramatically as if it’s the most inconvenient question in the world. Still, your heart skips a beat. You know there’s only ever been one answer.

“Oscar,” you say finally, shrugging like it doesn't cost you anything. “It’s always been Oscar.”

The teasing jeers come quick, but you just grin and take a swig from the bottle when it’s passed your way. It’s easier to laugh it off than to sink into the memories unspooling quietly in your mind.

You think about your first day at McLaren. You’d both been rookies, wide-eyed and trying not to drown in a sea of expectation. Oscar had been fresh off his earlier championships. This quiet, determined presence in a world built for louder voices. You had locked eyes across the cafeteria once, both awkwardly holding trays of uninspiring food, and he’d given you a small, tentative smile.

It hadn’t been fireworks. It hadn’t been some earth-shattering moment you could write a novel about. It had been something smaller, quieter. A seed planted in good soil.

Over the years, you’d watched him grow into himself. Sharper on track, still dry-humored and steady off it. Always polite. Always a little reserved. And always, somehow, softer towards you.

You were no fool, though. You never once mistook kindness for something more. You knew what your place was. A marketing admin, barely visible on race weekends unless a driver needed to be somewhere for a shoot. You’d been content to stay in your lane, to admire him like you admired the sunsets over the paddock, or the roar of the engines on a Sunday afternoon.

Beautiful things. Distant things.

If Oscar was nicer to you than he was to others, you chalked it up to that shared sentiment. You were both once the least important people in the room, both standing on the shaky ground of McLaren’s legacy, and rookies tended to stick together.

Someone nudges you, laughing, and you shake yourself out of it, laughing along. The night spins onward, bright and blurry. Tomorrow, you’ll wake up with sand in your hair and regret in your bones.

But for now, you pass the bottle to the left, and let the fire warm your skin.

The next morning is slow and heavy, the sun just starting to burn off the early haze. You’re pulling your hair into a loose ponytail, half-listening to chatter around the shared bathroom when Mia from digital points her toothbrush at you and says, “You know he’s been checking you out, right?”

“Who?”

Mia rolls her eyes dramatically, toothpaste foam threatening to spill. She jerks her chin toward the open doorway. “Norris.”

Curious and a little dubious, you step out into the hall. Sure enough, there he is, leaning against the kitchen counter, sipping from a mug. His gaze finds yours immediately, unapologetically. When he notices you catching him, his mouth quirks into a slow, confident grin.

“Morning,” he calls.

“Morning,” you reply as casually as you can manage.

He sets down his mug. “Fancy a run?”

You hesitate, glancing around for signs of anyone else. Usually, the drivers corral a whole group when they go on these runs. But there’s no one hovering by the door with sneakers in hand. It’s just Lando, looking infuriatingly fresh and ready.

“Sure,” you say before you can overthink it. He grins, and it’s the same sort of smile he has when he’s standing on the top step of the podium.

You lace up your trainers quickly and meet him outside. The air is cooler by the beach, the ocean stretching out endlessly beside you. You jog in an easy rhythm, sand crunching faintly under your feet. It’s quiet for a while. Just the waves and the distant call of gulls.

“You look different this summer,” Lando says after a stretch of silence. His voice is low, almost thoughtful.

You laugh breathlessly. “Bad different or good different?”

“Good. Very good,” he says with a lopsided smile. “More... sure of yourself.”

The compliment lands oddly heavy in your chest. “Maybe I’m just better at pretending now.”

He shoots you a sideways glance, sharp and knowing. “Or maybe you’re better at being who you are.”

The words catch you off-guard, more meaningful than the easy flirtations you’d expected. For a while, neither of you speak. You just run, side by side, until the sun climbs higher and the morning grows warmer.

It’s always been a little different with Lando. He was the occasional headache of the marketing team, the one that warranted one or two more PR releases than Oscar. Off the track, though, you were always pleasantly surprised at who Lando could be underneath the orange race suit.

He was the thoughtful kind, the type to know everybody’s birthdays and to stop for any kid asking for an autograph. He never minced words, but he was not unkind, either. He just felt everything deeply, whether it was a loss, or a win, or the sentiment of an unassuming summer day.

When you finally loop back toward the house, your skin is sticky with sweat and your mind is spinning. Lando bumps his shoulder lightly against yours as you walk up the porch steps.

“Good run,” he says, like it means something more.

You nod, pretending your heartbeat is only from the exercise.

Inside, the house is waking up properly now. Music playing, laughter bouncing. You disappear into the crowd, feeling Lando’s eyes on your back the whole way, and wondering, not for the last time that day, what the hell just happened.

You try not to think of it during the day. You focus on the team exercises, the planning, the downtime. You count down the seconds until your favorite parts of these summers: the bonfires in the evening.

Lanterns swing lazily from the wooden beams overhead, casting a dappled light over the courtyard where most of the team has gathered. It’s bright and loud, and it reminds you of why you continue to stay despite the shitty management and the questionable policies. The people here are good people.

Lando shimmers in the center of it all. He’s a social butterfly, fluttering from interns to old-timers with small talk that makes you feel special for a few, precious moments. What endears you the most is that you know he’s not putting on a show. Lando likes the team, likes the beach and the woodsmoke and the invincibility of these moments away from the public eye.

You feel like something’s missing, though. You wander off in search of that puzzle piece, and that’s when you spot him.

Oscar, tucked away by the side of the house, half-shielded by the drooping branches of a tree. His hands are shoved into the pockets of his hoodie, his posture hunched as he scrolls through his phone. You smile to yourself.

“Hiding, are we?” you call out, keeping your voice light.

Oscar doesn’t start. He just glances at you, a wry smile tugging at his mouth. “Strategic retreat.”

You chuckle and wander closer, careful not to intrude too much. “Fair. You lasted longer than I thought you would,” you sya.

“Peer pressure’s a powerful thing.”

“I’ll leave you to it. Just thought I’d come say ‘hi’ before you went full hermit.”

You’re about to wander back off to the beach when Oscar says in an uncharacteristic rush of words, “You don’t have to go.”

You freeze for a beat. When you look over, Oscar’s already looking at you—steady, earnest, like he actually means it.

“If you want,” he adds, more casually now. As if he’s giving you an out instead.

Your heart does that stupid thing it always does around him. A warm stutter you can never quite control. You move closer, sitting down a comfortable distance away. Close enough to talk, far enough not to spook the moment.

You don’t say much. You don’t need to.

The night hums around you and between it all, a quiet little space you carve out with Oscar, just the two of you. You wonder, not for the first time, if he feels it too. The anticipation when the amps turn on. The thick tension.

It’s not something you’re willing to stake your friendship over, so you let the moment pass as many others before it. By the time the two of you are heading back to the throng, you’re only reminded of where you belong in the complex hierarchy of co-worker friendships.

The next morning, the sun is high and hot by the time everyone spills out onto the open field just beyond the house. There’s a haphazard setup of cones, makeshift goals, and a suspicious number of foam batons.

Classic team-building chaos.

Brian from HR claps his hands together. “Alright! Lando, Oscar, you know the drill.”

There's a collective hum of excitement as people start gathering behind them, ready to be picked. You hang back, adjusting the hem of your shorts and shielding your eyes from the sun. It’s almost a tradition at this point: drivers lead, employees follow, and everyone ends up in some over-competitive version of capture-the-flag or ultimate frisbee.

Lando and Oscar stand a few feet apart, each looking unfairly good in their McLaren-branded athletic gear.

“Ladies first,” Lando says with a smirk, tossing a foam baton into the air and catching it with a little spin. “Pick whoever you want, mate.”

Oscar just gives him a bemused look. “You’re only saying that because you want to steal half my picks.”

“It’s called strategy,” Lando replies smoothly, tapping his temple. “That’s why I'm the smart one.”

Oscar snorts, but then his eyes flick to you—brief, almost imperceptible if you weren’t looking.

You feel it more than you see it: the way the energy subtly shifts. The people around you start elbowing each other, stifling laughs. There’s no hiding it now. You’re not the most athletic, not really the kind of member who brings in the winning shot, but you’re close enough to both drivers for this squirmish to become an annual thing.

“I’ll take—” Oscar starts, but Lando cuts in.

“Nope. Mine.”

A ripple of amusement runs through the group. Someone whistles. You cross your arms, eyebrows raised in mock affront.

Oscar’s mouth twitches at the corner, betraying the tiniest smile. “That’s not how this works. You let me pick first.”

“Rock, Paper, Scissors for her?” Lando says cheekily, already raising his hand into position.

I’m right here, you’re tempted to tease, but you’re already red-faced from their attempts to stake claim. Oscar sighs like Lando is the greatest burden on earth. He humors him anyway.

They square up. A few of the engineers start chanting under their breath: “Rock, paper, scissors! Rock, paper, scissors!”

They throw once.

Lando’s scissors against Oscar’s rock.

A loud cheer goes up. Lando groans theatrically, dragging his hands down his face.

“Fine,” Lando grumbles, shooting you half a smirk. “But just know, you’re missing out on being on the winning team.”

You laugh, falling into step next to Oscar as the rest of the group starts getting sorted out.

“Don’t let him fool you,” you tease under your breath. “You’re the only reason this team has a chance.”

Oscar flashes you a look. One warm enough to melt every rational thought right out of your sun-drenched head.

“Good,” he murmurs. “Wouldn't want to win without you anyway.”

You’re still brushing sand from your hands as the games kick off, a whole series of activities spread across the beach: tug-of-war, three-legged races, trivia relays. The energy is infectious, easy to get swept into, almost enough to make you forget about the heavy things hanging in the background—the contracts, the titles, the unspoken rivalries.

Oscar is relentless. Competitive in a way that most people wouldn't expect if they only ever saw his calm interviews. It’s an open secret, just how intense Oscar could get when it came to things like these.

His team moves like a machine, coordinated and precise, while Lando’s team operates with chaotic enthusiasm, making up for what they lack in organization with sheer willpower and noise.

You’re laughing as you hurl yourself into a sack for the next race, the sand hot and uneven under your feet. The world tips violently when you stumble, crashing face-first into the beach. Grit fills your mouth, your skin stings.

When you push yourself upright, coughing, Oscar is already tossing a snide comment over his shoulder: “Maybe stick to admin work.”

It lands harder than it should.

Maybe because it’s him. Maybe because it’s been four years of pretending you didn’t really care what Oscar thought of you. The sting rises up quicker than you can shove it down, and it only worsens when you notice Lando’s sharp gaze.

“Mate,” Lando snipes, breaking from his own team to glare at Oscar. “Bit harsh, don’t you think?”

Oscar hesitates, like he realizes it a second too late, but someone calls for the next round and the moment fractures before it can settle into anything more. You paste a smile on your face and dive back into the games like nothing happened.

Like you didn’t just realize that no matter how long you stayed at McLaren, some things might always hurt a little more than they should.

The games end in a tangle of cheers and whoops, Oscar’s team carrying their homemade ‘trophy’—an old beach umbrella someone had scrawled CHAMPIONS across with an orange Sharpie. The sun dips lower, bleeding oranges and reds across the sky, painting everyone in a warm, careless glow. Music drifts the easy beat of a summer song nobody will remember by winter.

You’re crouched at the edge of it all, nursing a plastic cup of water in a bid to fill the hollow feeling buzzing under your ribs. Oscar is somewhere in the throng, a grin splitting his face. He’s pulled into photos, hands slung over shoulders, the weight of his careless comment seemingly long gone from his mind.

You’re fine. You swear you are.

It’s stupid to let it fester, stupid to feel the prickle of tears when you’ve fought so hard to be seen as part of this team, not just the girl who sends calendar invites and films content.

You want to believe that Oscar hadn’t meant to be cruel, that it’d been adrenaline-fueled trash talk. That the remark wasn’t some thought that’s been on the back of his mind for years now, just waiting for a moment to come to head.

God, what does it say about you that you’re the one hurt, and you’re still making excuses for Oscar?

You’re contemplating how soon you can sneak back to the house without making it obvious when Lando drops down beside you, kicking up a puff of sand.

“Hey,” he says, voice low, easy. The kind of ‘hey’ that slips into the cracks you've been trying to mortar over all afternoon.

You smile, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. Lando notices. Of course he does.

“You’re shit at hiding it, you know,” he adds, nudging your elbow with his.

You huff out a laugh, more breath than sound. “I’m fine.”

He doesn't say anything right away. Just picks at a piece of driftwood half-buried in the sand, giving you enough space to either lie again or actually talk.

The silence stretches, not uncomfortable, but patient. The sky darkens a little more. The ocean breathes in and out.

“You were killing it out there,” Lando offers eventually. “Seriously. You’ve got, like, a mean sack race face.”

A real laugh slips out this time, unguarded, and Lando grins that I-finished-P1 smile again.

“I just…” You dig your toes into the sand. “Sometimes it feels like I’m never going to be… y’know. Actually one of you.”

Lando frowns, properly frowns, like the idea physically pains him. “That’s bull.”

“Tell that to Oscar.”

“Oscar’s a dick sometimes. We all are. Doesn’t mean we don’t see you. Doesn’t mean you don’t matter.”

It’s said so simply, so plainly, that for a second you don’t know what to do with it.

“You’re McLaren,” Lando insists, nudging you again. Gentler this time. “Always have been.”

Your throat burns. You blink hard at the horizon, refusing to cry over something as stupid as a sack race, and a throwaway comment, and Lando Norris’ sincerity.

Lando stands, brushing the sand from his shorts, and holds out a hand.

“C’mon,” he says. “Bonfire’s starting. I’ll get you the good marshmallows.”

You let him pull you to your feet, the weight in your chest easing just a little. Maybe not everything was perfect. Maybe not everyone saw you the way you wanted. But right now, Lando did.

It’s enough.

The bonfire spits and crackles as the night sinks deeper, a hundred tiny embers dancing into the dark. Someone’s switched the playlist to slower songs, the kind you know all the words to without trying.

Lando sticks by you the entire evening.

Making sure you get the first roasted marshmallow. Shoving his hoodie at you when the breeze picks up. Sitting close enough that your knees bump sometimes, casual but intentional. It’s as if he’s decided that tonight, you are his responsibility, and he’s damn well going to make sure you feel wanted.

You don’t care if it’s pity. You let him. You let yourself take all of it, because Oscar’s comment had been a papercut in the thick skin you’d built over the years. Lando soothes it, whether or not he’s aware.

Across the fire, Oscar laughs at something one of the mechanics says, but you can feel it—the way his gaze finds you when he thinks you’re not looking. The way it sticks, hot and restless.

You force yourself to ignore it. You’re not going to cause a scene. Not here. Not now. Not after everything.

You’re practically sleepwalking by the time you make it back to your room, the party still humming faintly through the walls. You peel off your clothes and collapse onto the bed in Lando’s hoodie, the scent of fire and salt clinging to your skin.

You’re just about to drift off when your phone buzzes against the nightstand. Your lockscreen—a photo of the most recent McLaren 1-2 finish—lights up with a text.

O. Piastri 🥐🐨 [2:03 AM]: You up?

You stare at it, your heart kicking once, stupid and traitorous. You think about ignoring it.

You don’t.

You [2:05 AM]: barely

The typing dots pop up immediately.

Disappear.

Pop up again.

O. Piastri 🥐🐨 [2:06 AM]: About earlier

You bite your lip hard enough to sting.

You [2:07 AM]: it’s fine

It’s not. You both know it.

Another pause.

O. Piastri 🥐🐨 [2:09 AM]: It’s not

You sigh into your pillow, the ache behind your eyes starting to burn.

You [2:10 AM]: i don’t want to do this over text

The response comes faster this time.

O. Piastri 🥐🐨 [2:10 AM]: Can we talk tomorrow morning?

You hesitate. The safe thing would be to say no. To let it slide, bury it under the sand and sun and pretend none of it mattered.

But you’re tired of pretending.

You [2:11 AM]: yeah. ok.

Oscar doesn’t reply after that. Your screen goes dark.

You roll onto your side, pulling the hoodie tighter around yourself, and finally, finally let sleep take you under.

The next morning, you’d been half-hoping Oscar would forget the plan from the night before—pretend it was just another drunken text with no follow-up—but no. He texts about getting breakfast for everybody else; you wait on the porch, your hands shoved in Lando’s hoodie as you groggily wonder why the hell you agreed to this.

Oscar emerges moments later, cap pulled low, shirt wrinkled, looking like he hates everything about being awake before noon.

“Nice hoodie,” he says, deadpan, barely glancing at you as he shoulders past you and heads towards the direction of the nearest bakery.

You snort, following him into the fresh sting of morning air. “Sorry, didn’t realize there was a dress code for pastry runs.”

“Well, I didn’t realize Lando was your stylist now.”

“And I didn’t realize you cared.”

Oscar cuts a look at you, the edge of his mouth twitching like he’s fighting a smirk or a grimace. It's hard to tell with him sometimes. “I don’t,” he says way too fast.

You bump your shoulder against his as you cross the street. “You’re being weird about this.”

“I’m not being weird,” Oscar mutters, jaw tight. “I’m…” He trails off, kicking a pebble down the sidewalk. “Shit, I’m going about this all wrong.”

You blink at him, mid-step. “About what?”

“Forget it.”

The bakery is tucked into a corner of the sleepy town, all blue awnings and window boxes bursting with flowers. A little bell jingles when you push the door open, the smell of fresh bread and sugar wrapping around you like a hug.

Oscar heads straight for the counter, scanning the rows of pastries with a frown like he’s plotting a strategy. You trail after him, trying not to feel weirdly self-conscious about the hoodie swallowing your frame.

For some reason, both your claws are out. You point out the doughnuts and Oscar makes some snide comment about cavities. He surveys the croissants and you mumble about his predictability. You feel it, then, what he had said earlier. On going about this all wrong.

You’re convinced the two of you are one sarcastic comment away from a physical altercation when a comment stops you both in your tracks. “You two remind me of my wife and me,” the elderly baker says cheerfully, wiping his hands on a flour-dusted apron as he rings your orders up.

You almost choke. “Oh, we’re not—”

“—Not like that,” Oscar says at the same time, voice a little too sharp.

The baker chuckles, clearly not convinced, and hands over the bags stuffed with pastries. Oscar wordlessly pulls out his wallet, shoving a tip into the jar. Way more than necessary.

You raise an eyebrow as you step outside. “Generous.”

“Guilt tax,” Oscar mutters.

You open your mouth to poke at that—because honestly, it’s too easy—but then you catch the look on his face. Not exactly regretful. More like… determined. Stubborn. That same look he gets right before a race starts when he’s locked in.

For the first time all morning, you wonder if maybe you’re not the only one trying to pretend things don't matter as much as they do.

The walk back to the beach house is quiet, the smell of warm bread thick between you. Just as the house comes back into view, Oscar clears his throat.

“Hey,” he says, his voice lower, realer. “About yesterday. The team games.”

You pause.

“I was a dick. I’m sorry,” he says.

You glance over. Oscar’s staring straight ahead, knuckles white on the brown paper bag of doughnuts. The one he’d bitched about but still got.

You let a beat pass. Then: “I accept your apology, But,” you add, grinning, “I’m still gonna tease you forever about getting weird over Lando’s hoodie.”

He lets out a groan of pure suffering. “I wasn’t being weird.”

“You know,” you say, voice casual, “if it’s that big a deal, I wouldn’t mind wearing one of yours.”

You don’t wait for his reaction. You head towards the house, pastries in tow, leaving Oscar spluttering behind you.

It’s an exhilarating feeling, you realize. You haven’t flirted with Oscar the same way you do with Lando, out of fear that you would simply keel over and give up at first sight of the Australian’s blush. But it’s easier than you thought, and nothing amuses you more than the reddened tips of Oscar’s ears when he comes in after you.

After breakfast, you retreat upstairs for some air. You open your door and stop short.

Sitting neatly on your bed is a hoodie. Folded almost too carefully, like he wasn’t sure if he should leave it at all.

On top, a scrap of paper, the ink a little smudged:

Keep your word. — o.p.

Just like that, he’s back to having that one-up on you.

You hastily pull off Lando’s hoodie and tug on Oscar’s without thinking. The sleeves swallow your hands; the fabric is warm in a recently-got-ironed kind of way, and it smells faintly of soap and sunscreen.

Is it too late to keel over?

The pool gleams under the sun, finally coaxed into full operation after a solid day of half the team fighting with buttons and levers. Someone’s pulled out a portable sound mixer. Someone else has brought out mocktails. The air buzzes with a rare, lazy kind of joy.

You’re sitting on a deck chair, wrapped up in Oscar’s hoodie, sipping something neon pink through a straw. Honestly, it’s too warm to be in a hoodie, but you’ll be damned to not ‘keep your word’. Besides, the knowing smile that Oscar tries to fight is worth the sweat on your back.

One of your co-workers, Chloe, plops down next to you.

“This is not very hot girl summer of you,” she whines, tugging at Oscar’s hoodie like a child.

You wrinkle your nose. “It’s a perfectly fine hoodie, Chlo.”

“You know what would be even more fine? The bikini sitting at the bottom of your suitcase.”

“Did you rummage through—”

“Tomato, tomato. Put on the damn swimsuit you bought specifically for this trip!” Chloe punctuates the threat with a pointed look. The kind that says, Don’t make me drag you. You have no doubts she’d do it, too, so you set down your drink with a groan of dramatic reluctance.

“If I get sunburnt, I’m blaming you,” you grumble as she cheers and practically shoves you back into the house.

In your room, you peel off the hoodie and shorts before swapping them for the bikini—a simple black two-piece that suddenly feels much more revealing now that you actually have to walk back out in it.

The chatter quiets a fraction when you step out. Not dramatically, but enough that you notice. Enough that Lando’s eyebrows climb a little higher than normal. Even Oscar’s head turns, his lips parting slightly in what might be surprise if he wasn’t quick enough in hiding it.

“Finally decided to join the rest of us mortals,” Lando crows, tossing a beach ball between his hands. “Looking good, admin.”

You roll your eyes but can’t quite fight the smile tugging at your mouth. Before you can even think about easing into the pool like a normal person, Lando and Oscar exchange a look. A look you recognize all too late.

“Don’t you dare—” you’re starting, but it doesn’t matter.

Too late.

Lando goes low, grabbing you by the ankles. Oscar effortlessly hauls you up with strong arms through your middle. You’re swung around a bit for good measure, and then you’re airborne for half a heartbeat before crashing into the pool with a splash.

The water is warm from the sun, but it still shocks the breath out of you. You surface, sputtering, as Lando and Oscar double over with laughter. Everyone else watches on with the same amusement, knowing the boys’ tendencies for mischief when they were in a particular mood.

“You absolute menaces,” you declare, wiping water from your face. “I think I twisted my ankle, man.”

Oscar’s laughter cuts off instantly. “Wait, seriously?” His brow furrows, and before you can blink, he’s crouched at the edge of the pool, leaning down to get a closer look.

“Which one?” he asks, already reaching to haul you out.

You grab his outstretched hand and yank.

Oscar yelps—an actual, undignified yelp—as you drag him headfirst into the water beside you.

He resurfaces, blinking water from his lashes, completely betrayed. “You—”

You’re already laughing, kicking away from him.

“That’s for the sack race comment!” you crow, paddling backward.

He shakes his head, grinning despite himself. “I thought we were past that,” he calls out, splashing water in your eyes. You retaliate before attempting to dart away.

The afternoon blurs into sun-drenched chaos. People drift in and out of the pool, mock battles and splash wars springing up as naturally as breathing. The laughter is loud, the water warm, and for a while, everything feels suspended, easy.

Mid-afternoon, someone shouts “Chicken fight!” and it's immediately game on. Chloe clambers onto Oscar’s shoulders without hesitation, while you tread water nearby, laughing at the whole ridiculousness of it.

Before you can react, strong hands wrap around your waist.

“My turn, love,” Lando announces triumphantly, already hoisting you up onto his shoulders. “You were on Oscar’s team last time. You’re mine now.”

You squeal, half from shock, half from trying to stay balanced as Lando’s hands steady you by your thighs. Your heart stumbles a little. His grip is firm, his fingers warm and sure against the hem of your bikini bottoms.

You catch Oscar looking at you from below Chloe, his gaze a little too intense for something as stupid as a pool game. Your stomach flips uneasily.

Focus, you tell yourself. This is supposed to be fun.

It’s fun to have Chloe lunge at you, her giggles bright as she sinks her nails into your sunburnt shoulders. It’s fun to have Lando moving underneath you, shouting up reassurances like get her and that’s my girl. It’s fun to feel Oscar watching your every move, and not because he’s strategizing.

You thread your fingers through Lando’s hair as Chloe tries to push you backward. Lando’s hands shift slightly higher on your thighs, nearly underneath your bikini. Maybe by accident, maybe not. You feel the difference immediately. An inch more of skin under his touch, a flash of heat that makes your breath catch.

You’re still trying to process that when, all of a sudden, Lando jerks underneath you with a loud “Oof!” and sinks halfway underwater.

Chloe shrieks in laughter, nearly tumbling off Oscar.

You slide off Lando’s shoulders in the commotion, landing back in the water with a splash. As you surface, you catch a glimpse of Oscar, looking absolutely unapologetic as he pulls back his leg.

Lando pops up a moment later. He’s wheezing, his hands clasped over his swim shorts. “What the hell, Osc!” he rasps, the sound punched out of him after being ungraciously kneed in the groin.

Oscar shrugs, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Slipped.”

You cough out a laugh, half in disbelief. Chloe floats past you, cackling.

Lando glares at Oscar, but that eventually cracks into a grin. “C’mere, you,” the Brit coos, lunging for his co-driver. Before his head can be shoved down, Oscar throws you a wink—quick, private.

Your cheeks burn hotter than the sun overhead, and you duck underwater before anyone can comment on it.

That day’s dinner stretches into the warm evening, the long table lined with empty plates, half-drunk glasses of wine, and the low hum of conversation. The sun dips lower, casting everything in a syrupy, forgiving glow. It feels almost perfect, if not for the gnawing restlessness you can’t quite name.

For once, neither Lando nor Oscar are by your side.

Lando leans back in his chair, laughing at something one of the engineers says, his fingers curled around a sweating can of soda. Oscar is farther down the table, deep in a serious discussion with one of the strategists, his brow furrowed in that familiar, endearing way.

You’re free to breathe, to think. It’s then that the reality of the summer settles in, heavy and unrelenting.

Everyone’s been talking about it in hushed tones when they think the drivers aren’t listening.

Will Lando stay with McLaren? After years of loyalty, of being the heart and soul of the team, will he finally walk away for a shot at something different, something better?

And Oscar—Oscar, who’s no longer just the promising rookie but the reigning World Champion—faces the brutal weight of defending everything he’s fought for. Will he make it? Will he relent, or will he be something greater than what was expected of him?

You can feel it thrumming under every casual exchange, every shared joke. The quiet tug-of-war. The clash of futures neither of them are quite ready to admit they want different things from.

And yet, somehow, it’s you who feels pulled taut between them.

Lando catches your eye across the table and winks. Easy, breezy, the same way he always has. He makes it seem as if there’s nothing complicated about any of this.

Almost immediately after, Oscar glances up from his conversation and smiles at you. Soft and crooked, like you’re the one safe thing in a world that’s otherwise slipping sideways.

Your chest tightens.

You’re caught, but you don't even know what in. Caught between loyalty and ambition. Between the comfort of what’s always been and the thrill, the fear, of what might change. Between two boys who are friends, rivals, teammates and something else you’re not sure you want to name.

You pick at your food, your appetite long gone, and wonder when exactly this summer stopped feeling endless and started feeling like a ticking clock.

The summer heat is clinging to everything. It’s the kind that demands you do something, anything before you’re swallowed whole.

Plans start to splinter over breakfast.

“Surf’s up,” Oscar says, tossing a board into the back of one of the jeeps. The sun catches in his hair, making him look unfairly effortless. “Who’s in?”

“Or,” Lando calls out from the kitchen, a trail of crumbs following his words, “we could do something that doesn’t involve dying under a wave. There’s a sick hiking trail up the cliffs. Views are unreal.”

There’s a beat, and then the divide begins. Some of the team flock toward Oscar, lured by the thrill of the ocean; others gravitate to Lando, drawn to the promise of a rugged adventure.

You stand in the middle, heart hammering a little too hard for something that’s supposed to be casual. Supposed to be fun.

It feels like a metaphor you’re not ready to face.

“You’re not coming?” Lando asks, mock-offended, pulling a pout that would be funny if it didn’t make something in your chest ache. “Gonna miss you,” he adds, lighter, teasing.

Oscar, carrying two boards now, smirks over his shoulder. “Guess she’s tired of babysitting you, Lan.”

You force a laugh you don't quite feel. “Maybe I just need a break from both of you.”

They both react predictably. Lando clutches his heart in fake agony, Oscar shakes his head with a quiet chuckle. You don’t wait for more. You duck back into the house, the coolness of the shaded hallway swallowing you up.

For the first time in days, you’re alone.

You wonder if choosing yourself is just another way of choosing at all.

You spend the afternoon alone, and it’s a kind of peace you didn’t realize you needed.

The beach house creaks with the slow, easy rhythm of the ocean breeze. You move from room to room without urgency. Sometimes reading on the porch, sometimes just watching the water glitter beyond the dunes.

By the time the sun starts to slip lower, you hear footsteps, wet and clumsy on the deck. Oscar appears first, his wetsuit peeled down to his waist. Sand dusting his hair and shoulders, water still dripping from his grin.

You laugh despite yourself. “Come here,” you say, the affection leaking into your tone before you can hold it back.

Oscar ambles over, letting you reach up and card your fingers through his messy hair, brushing the sand out with a few playful tugs. His gaze is steady on yours, warm enough that you have to focus on some nondescript point past him to hide the way your face heats.

“Had fun?” you ask for the sake of asking.

He raises his shoulders in a shrug, his eyes never leaving your face. “Could have been more fun,” he says simply, his words loaded with implication you’re not about to confront.

Oscar opens his mouth to say something else—

The door swings open again. Loud. Dramatic.

Lando stumbles in with a theatrical groan, one hand clutching his shin. “Ow. Ow. Pretty sure I’m dying.”

You arch a brow. “You’re so full of it,” you accuse, dropping your hands from Oscar’s hair.

“Seriously,” he insists, dragging himself toward the couch like he’s reenacting the third act of a war movie. “Tragic end to a heroic hike.”

You roll your eyes but motion him over anyway, reaching for the first aid kit you know is stashed under the side table. When Lando props his leg up, you find a scrape. Minor. Nothing to justify the Oscar-worthy performance.

Still, you crouch beside him, carefully dabbing at the cut.

“Big baby,” you mutter.

Lando grins, completely unashamed. “Worked, didn’t it?”

You look up, catching the cheeky glint in his eye. The very obvious satisfaction of having pulled your attention away from Oscar.

You shake your head, biting back a laugh. “Unbelievable.”

Lando snickers. Oscar, toweling off his hair nearby, watches the exchange with a faint shake of his head. A half-smile tugs at his mouth like he can’t even pretend to be annoyed.

You tape a bandage neatly over Lando’s scrape, pretending not to feel the weight of both of their gazes pressing into you from opposite ends of the room.

The bonfire crackles in the pit, casting gold onto every face circled around it. You’re seated between Oscar and Lando—close enough that your knees brush both of theirs. It wasn’t planned. Just the way the night unfolded. Just the way they looked at you when you arrived, and the way neither of them moved an inch as you lowered yourself into the space between.

Lando’s been chatty all evening, but now his voice takes on a teasing edge.

“So,” he says, leaning back on his palms. “You seeing anyone?”

“That’s direct,” you hum, gaze focused on the s’more in front of you that won’t cooperate.

He grins, eyes glinting in the firelight. “I’m just saying. You’ve been dodging the topic for, what, four summers now?”

Oscar shifts beside you. Just barely.

“You always seem very invested in my love life,” you comment, though you can already feel your heart picking up.

“I’m invested in you,” Lando says plainly. “That’s not a crime, is it?”

Oscar lets out a sound that might’ve been a scoff. “Back off, mate.”

The air thins like someone’s turned off the music. Everything goes on around the three of you, but in this little corner of the bonfire, something blaze and burns in a different way.

Lando raises a brow, turning toward Oscar. “What? We’re just talking.”

Oscar doesn’t meet his gaze. “You’re grilling her,” he grunts, shoving his stick into the sand with uncharacteristic force.

“I’m curious.”

“You’re nosy.”

“Okay,” you interject. “Let’s not fight over me like I’m some prize, yeah?”

Lando leans forward, elbows on his knees now, attention swinging back to you. “We’re not fighting.”

Oscar speaks without looking. “Could’ve fooled me.”

You look between them. Their faces both angled toward the fire now, lit in shifting amber tones. There it is again—the live wire of tension crackling between the two of them, beneath Lando’s wicked smirk and Oscar’s bouncing knee.

Except it’s not about racing, now, is it?

Lando taps your knee, snapping you out of your thoughts. “So? Are you?”

You chuckle, deflecting. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

Oscar huffs beside you. Lando chuckles.

The laughter and music swell again. But nothing really returns to normal.

It’s an uneasy thought that makes a home in your bones all the way until the next day. The morning sun streams through the sheer curtains, lighting the hallway in a sleepy glow. Your footsteps are slow against the wooden floor as you pad barefoot toward the kitchen, the house quiet save for distant clinks of coffee mugs.

You nearly bump into Oscar rounding the corner. His hair’s a mess, still damp from the shower, and there’s a barely-there smile tugging at his lips.

“Morning,” he greets. “Didn’t think I’d run into you before the chaos starts.”

You frown, still foggy from sleep. “What chaos?”

He blinks, then breaks out into a wider smile. Amused, fond. “You forgot?”

You stare at him, confused, until it hits you.

The annual sand rail race.

Every summer, tucked into the off-season downtime, it’s the one competition that’s just for bragging rights. The leaderboard is even scrawled on a whiteboard in the garage, a running tally of victories and sore losers. So far, it’s 2-2. Lando and Oscar locked in their own personal tie.

Oscar watches the realization dawn on your face. “Right,” you murmur. “Race day.”

“Mm.” He studies you for a beat. “Hey.”

You glance up at him.

“I know you’re not a prize to be won,” he says, voice a little quieter now. “That’s not what this is.”

You nod slowly, watching him. You don’t know where this conversation is going. You’re not sure if you want to know.

“But, uhm…” He trails off, his gaze flicking down to the walls before finding your eyes again. “I hope you’ll be rooting for me.”

The sheer sincerity of it nearly bowls you over. It’s not a command, not an order. It’s a wistful invitation, a shy confession made by a man who typically knew how to ask for anything else. But this was not a weekend off or a car upgrade. Hell, it wasn’t even anything consequential—not a date, not anything like that.

Just for you to root for him. And yet he asks for it as if it’s something that matters, that makes everything do-or-die, and you wish it didn’t affect you as much as it does.

You put on a front. You tilt your head, lips tugging up despite the hammering of your heart underneath your ribs. “That depends.”

“On?”

“Whether you bring me coffee before the race.”

Oscar scoffs. “Bribery. Noted.”

But he’s smiling as he passes you, his shoulder brushing yours. And there’s coffee waiting for you when you get to the kitchen, poured into the mug that Oscar has repeatedly claimed as his.

You sip from it, feeling the weight of the day shift. Something in the air is charged. Not just about the race, but everything teetering around it.

The sand rail track near the house buzzes with energy as the McLaren staff and team trickle in, excitement thrumming in the air. Someone brings a clipboard to track the bets. Within minutes, a frenzy of numbers and names clutters the surface. Playful taunts echo between the team members, each person rooting for either Lando or Oscar with a kind of fervor usually reserved for proper race days.

You slip your own bet into the mix quietly. You don't reveal it when one of the engineers presses you for an answer. You just shake your head and let them assume whatever they want. After all, it feels a little too intimate, too weighted, to share out loud.

When you make your way to the sidelines, Lando catches your eye. His grin is crooked, and he tosses you a flying kiss as he climbs into his sand rail buggy, helmet tucked under his arm. Oscar, a few meters away, adjusts his gloves with practiced ease, the sharp set of his jaw betraying his focus.

The start is as lawless as you would expect from the two of them.

Engines roar to life with a guttural snarl, tires kicking up dry sand as they lurch forward. Lando takes an aggressive line right off the bat, cutting tight against the first corner, his buggy tilting precariously before settling.

Oscar, ever the tactician, plays it smoother. He hangs back just enough to find a cleaner line, aiming for consistency instead of showmanship. His turns are precise, efficient, the kind of calculated risk that usually pays dividends on the track.

But Lando—Lando races like the world might end tomorrow.

His buggy dances across the sand, skimming close to the edge of control. His reckless daring makes your stomach twist with nerves and awe in equal measure.

Lap after lap, they trade the lead in a blur of flying sand and roaring engines. The track isn't long, but it’s rough and unforgiving, peppered with bumps and hairpin turns.

On the final lap, it’s neck and neck. You can feel the tension in the crowd, everyone leaning forward unconsciously, breath held. Money is on the line, sure, but so is pride. And something else, something you’re not ready to admit.

Oscar has the inside line on the last major turn. Lando guns it anyway, swinging wide, almost off-track—only to slingshot past in the final straight with a burst of speed that has everyone screaming.

Lando crosses the makeshift finish line a second ahead of Oscar. He throws his arms up in victory even before the sand settles.

The cheers are deafening.

You clap along with everyone else, and your heart pounds for reasons that have nothing to do with the race itself.

Later, the house is alive with celebration.

The playlist is one of Lando’s favorites, and a cooler filled with drinks appears out of nowhere. Lando is hoisted onto someone’s shoulders for a victory lap around the deck, soaking in the glory. Everyone is loud, laughing, riding the high of a race that felt more like a championship showdown than a friendly bout.

Oscar is nowhere to be seen.

You slip away from the noise, letting the sound of celebration blur into the background. The beach dock stretches out ahead, wooden planks weathered and warm beneath your feet. There, at the edge, Oscar sits with his feet dangling just above the water, his arms braced behind him as he stares out at the horizon.

You wordlessly sit beside him, close but not touching, letting the silence settle for a beat.

“I should’ve had that,” Oscar mutters, his voice low and rough. He doesn't look at you. He’s not usually the type to take unkindly to losses; he’s always the type to make some comment about wanting to finish one place higher whenever he’s P2, but he doesn’t sulk. He doesn’t wallow.

He does tonight. You don’t know why.

“You almost did,” you offer, and Oscar scoffs.

“Almost doesn’t count.”

You pull your legs up, crossing them underneath you. “It’s a bummer,” you concede. “Especially now that I’m fifteen dollars down ‘cause of you.”

That earns a glance. His brows lift, eyes searching your face. “Seriously?”

You nod. “You asked me to bet on you, didn’t you?”

Oscar huffs a laugh, but there’s something soft behind it. His shoulder brushes yours when he shifts.

His gaze drops briefly to your mouth.

It plays out like a movie scene, like something you’d imagined time and time again as some sort of maladaptive daydream. You’re frozen, focused on the way Oscar looks underneath the moonlight. How he shifts imperceptibly closer. How he leans in soundlessly, as if he might scare the moment otherwise.

Your eyes flutter close.

And then—

“CANNONBALL!”

Your eyes snap open just in time. Lando sails over both your heads in a blur of tanned limbs and unchecked chaos, crashing into the water with an explosive splash. Saltwater sprays over you and Oscar, dousing the moment in cold.

You yelp, shielding your face too late, and Oscar jerks back, blinking in disbelief.

Lando resurfaces with a triumphant whoop, grinning brightly. “Did I interrupt something?” he calls, treading water with the ease of someone completely unbothered.

Oscar wipes his face with a groan. “Go to hell, man.”

You can’t help but laugh, even as your heart is still hammering in your chest.

The moment’s gone, but it lingers in the edges, in the way Oscar’s hand almost finds yours again on the dock, in the way you both glance toward the water and then back at each other, unsure of what comes next. Lando, dripping in seawater and drunk on his earlier victory, pulls everybody in for a swim.

You follow, hopeful it will help you forget.

It doesn’t.

The beach house quiets into the low hum of waves and the distant buzz of the crickets outside. Most everyone is asleep or pretending to be. You toss and turn, too wired to drift off, your mind replaying the moment by the dock on a loop: Oscar’s closeness, the soft look in his eyes, the way he leaned in like gravity had decided for the both of you.

Until Lando, in all his chaotic timing, had crashed down from the sky like a rogue asteroid.

Eventually, you give up. You throw on a hoodie—not Oscar’s, not Lando’s, just your own—and pad into the kitchen, the floorboards creaking under your steps. The fridge hums gently in the corner, and you pull out a glass, filling it with water from the tap.

You don’t notice Lando until he speaks.

"Can’t sleep either?"

He’s leaning against the counter, shirtless, a half-eaten packet of biscuits in one hand. His hair’s a mess and there’s a kind of easy, rare quiet around him.

You start, nearly dropping your glass. Squint at Lando through the darkness of the kitchen, you can’t help but hiss, “Why are you just standing there in the dark?”

“I like the dramatic effect.”

“Well, congrats. You scared me.”

He waves a biscuit like a peace offering. “Want one?”

You shake your head, and he shrugs before popping it in his mouth. There’s a moment of silence, the kind that teeters between awkward and intimate. Then Lando tilts his head at you, chewing slowly.

“Can you keep a secret?”

Your lips pull into a frown. “What kind of secret?”

He pushes off the counter and walks over. He doesn’t comment when your eyes flick over to his toned abdomen or his bare shoulders; if anything, the way he leans against the island across you means he wants you to keep looking. “Two secrets, actually,” he says conspiratorially.

You raise your eyebrows, intrigued. In the dark kitchen, you can make out the beginnings of Lando’s toothy smile. He knows he has you hook, line, sinker.

He holds up one finger. “First, I only just realized this summer that you—” He gestures vaguely in your direction, then clears his throat. “You’re actually really pretty. Like, ridiculously. And I don’t know if that’s new or if I’ve just been blind.”

“Oh, fuck off.”

“I’m serious. Hey, look at me.” His eyes are surprisingly intense as he forces you to hold his gaze, willing it purely through sincerity alone. “You’re attractive. I’m not about to deny that fact just because you don’t want to hear it.”

Your mouth feels dry. Your palms feel clammy. You suddenly wish you’d just slept off your unease.

“Second secret,” he continues, tone shifting. There’s something much more serious, now. Something consequential. “Except you can’t tell a soul. I mean it.”

“Norris, I swear—”

“There’s an email from another team,” Lando divulges, as casually as he might comment on the weather, “burning a hole in my phone.”

There had been whispers, of course. In the paddock. In the McLaren garage. In the media room. Anywhere and everywhere Lando Norris’ name existed.

Someone reported that it was Red Bull. A strategist ran numbers and alleged it was Mercedes.

But there had been no confirmation, no slip-up from the managers or team principals. Negotiations were made behind closed doors. Decisions trickled down after the fact, and rarely were people like you aware before the news was already meant to break.

Now, though, you find your stomach twisting as Lando stares at you through the darkness. He suddenly feels much like the sand outside this beach house—slipping right through your fingers.

“Are you leaving?” you manage.

He looks at you for a long beat, assessing the question you’ve decided to ask, then smiles faintly.

“Dunno yet,” he says. “Guess I’m waiting for something worth staying for.”

The air stills around you. For a moment, the two of you only look at each other, trapped in this summertime snow globe of indecision. The only sounds are the gentle clink of the glass as you set it down—the weight of it suddenly too heavy for your quivering fingers—and the ocean beyond the walls. The one that has seen you through four years of summers with Lando and Oscar.

“What does that mean?” you exhale, even though you already have some idea.

Lando grins, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “You’re smart,” he says. Not in a taunt, but in a matter-of-fact way. “You’ll figure it out.”

He bites into another biscuit, winks, and walks out of the kitchen, leaving you standing there with the world’s most damning secret.

You’re in your head for most of the next day.

Lando’s words keep circling back, like a tide you can't fight: Something worth staying for. You wish he’d said it with a little less charm, a little less Lando. But he hadn’t. He’d said it with that easy smile, the one that hides how serious he might be underneath. The one that makes it impossible to tell whether he means any of it or all of it.

So now you’re stuck with it. The way he looked at you in the dim kitchen light. The way he popped another biscuit into his mouth like he hadn’t just handed you a loaded gun and walked off, not even watching his back to see if you’d shoot him.

Everything feels sideways. Every time you pass him in the hallway, your pulse does something stupid. Every laugh over breakfast, every casual brush of his arm against yours. It’s like something has shifted. Something that makes your skin buzz.

And Oscar feels it.

You know he does because he’s been trying to catch you alone all day. In the kitchen, during meals, on the walk down to the beach. But you keep dodging, not even consciously. You’re just not ready to talk about what almost happened. Not while the words worth staying for keep ringing in your ears.

By the time the sun dips low and the smell of dinner wafts through the beach house, Oscar gives up. He stops chasing, stops looking for the right moment.

But he doesn’t stop looking at you.

He sits across the room that night, slouched into the cushions, nursing a drink he hasn’t touched in half an hour. There’s something quiet in his posture, something that reads like retreat. His gaze is soft when it finds yours.

No longer searching, just lingering. Like he’s memorizing you before something ends.

And you? You’re still stuck, still wondering what Lando saw in you last night that made him say it. It’s driving you crazy, and you refuse to let it give you any more grief beyond the time you’ve already dwelled on it.

The tide whispers in and out as you jog along the wet sand, trailing the shape of Lando’s footprints.

You see him before he sees you. His silhouette cutting through the misted sun, hoodie sleeves pushed up to his elbows, curls damp with sweat. He’s always moved like this, light on his feet, like running is more instinct than effort.

“Lando,” you call out, voice too loud in the quiet.

He slows. “Morning,” he greets, brows arching as you fall in beside him, breathless and determined. It’s the second to the last day of the week-long retreat. A little over 24 hours since Lando entrusted you with the two halves of his heart.

You don’t stutter. “I can’t be the reason you stay.”

That stops him. Full stop, mid-stride. His breath clouds between you. “Whoa. You’ve been stewing on that all this time?”

“I don’t want that on me,” you insist. “If you stay, it has to be for the team. For you. For Osc—Piastri.”

Lando blinks. Then, his face breaks out into a knowing grin, curling around your sincerity. Not to snuff it out, but more to let it take hold.

“You really thought I was serious?” he says, half-laughing. “I was mostly joking. Kind of.”

You cross your arms. Lando is deflecting, trying to make it seem less than it really is, but you’re not about to call him out.

He runs a hand through his curls, then looks at you—really looks. The same way Oscar had last night, as if he’s trying to figure out which parts of you he can beg and barter for.

“I don’t think I’m done here,” he admits, decides. “I think I can still get a couple more championships with McLaren.”

A relieved sigh escapes you. “Okay, that’s—”

“And as for my other secret,” he interrupts, his hands planting on his hips. His tone is lighter, but his words are not any less cutting. “There’s always gonna be something between you and Osc, huh?”

You freeze.

You’d almost forgotten that. The ‘secret’ of Lando realizing you’re attractive, of him seeing you some other way than what you’re accustomed to. You try to stutter out some bullshit excuse, only to realize you had two hoodies to choose from today, and the one you’re wearing is not Lando’s.

His words land heavier than his tone suggests, but he doesn’t linger. Instead, he flashes a grin and steps back, putting space between you. Just enough to see if you’ll pull him back in.

You don’t.

“Go ahead. Have your fun with him,” Lando says. Easy, breezy. “But when I get that WDC, I’m coming back to collect.”

He’s gone before you can respond, before you can discern if his words are a threat or a promise. Sand kicks up behind him as he disappears into the dawn. McLaren’s golden boy, setting course for the sun.

That night, the energy is heavy and sparkling—like the last few drops of something good that's about to run out.

The group piles into the living room, a mess of sunburnt faces and half-drunk laughter. Everyone is tangled up in cushions and throw blankets. An empty bottle of vodka spins over the floor, clinking against the hardwood as it points and wobbles. The rules are easy: truth or dare, no take backs, no running away.

You’re trying not to stare at Oscar.

You’ve spent the better part of the day trying to catch him alone. Every time you moved toward him, he moved away, so you gave up after a while. You couldn’t blame him. You hadn’t exactly made yourself easy to reach lately, and he had his pride.

The bottle spins again. Spins and spins.

Eventually, it teeters to a stop and points squarely at Oscar.

A whoop goes up from the group. Someone slurs, “Truth or dare, Piastri!”

“Truth,” he answers, tongue already heavy and words just a bit slurred.

Someone from accounting leans forward, grinning wickedly. “Have you ever had a crush on someone from McLaren?”

It’s the sort of drunk, easy question everyone expects to be laughed off. Everyone expects some half-hearted dodge, some teasing deflection.

But Oscar doesn’t even blink.

“Yeah,” he says simply, his eyes steady.

Laughter ripples through the room. Someone shouts, “Who?!”

And then.

Oscar’s gaze finds you across the crowd, unwavering. The whole room feels like it tilts sideways.

You forget how to breathe.

He says your name. You’re tipsy, but you’re fairly sure of it. Your name has always sounded different when Oscar said it.

The room goes still for a moment before exploding into hoots and teasing cheers. “Mate,” Lando crows at his side, half-drunk and loud, “you’ve noticed the glow-up too, huh? She’s different this summer, right?”

Oscar frowns, almost like he doesn’t understand the joke. You feel every molecule of air between you stretch thin.

His next words are an absentminded mumble, almost lost to the clamor of activity in the circle.

“It’s not just this summer,” he says to no one in particular.

You don’t know what to do with your hands. With your heart. With the way Oscar is looking at you like you hung the stars.

Has he always looked at you like this?

You’re not sure who moves first. The bottle spins again. More shots get passed around. This is the part of the summer you’d been waiting for.

Knowing something has shifted. Knowing nothing is ever going to feel quite the same again.

Oscar groans the moment he sits down at breakfast, squinting at his plate like it’s personally offended him. You offer him an Aspirin and a sympathetic grin.

“Rough night?”

He scowls half-heartedly as he rubs at his temples. “Who even brought out the tequila?”

“That would be you,” you inform him brightly, plucking a piece of toast from his plate.

You fall into a companionable silence as the rest of the team trickles in, blurry-eyed and sun-kissed from too much fun. Packing starts soon. The last full day hangs heavy, sweet with goodbyes not yet said.

Later, as you help Oscar load his things into the boot of his car, the air between you shifts. Enough to make you slow down. You fold up a beach towel, glancing at him from the corner of your eye.

You’re both dragging your feet through the sand, both trying to extend this moment before you’re thrown back into the whirlwind of race weekends and media obligations.

“Hey, uh,” he starts tentatively, “about last night. The game. I didn’t mean to be disrespectful.”

You blink, confused. “Disrespectful?”

“Yeah.” He tongues the inside of his cheek, looking younger than you’ve ever seen him. “You know, since you and Lando are—you know.”

No, you don’t know. You’re not sure where the wrong impression might’ve landed, but you figure it’s somewhere between the day you spent ignoring Oscar and your lackluster reaction to his drunken admission.

“We’re not,” you say, your words tripping over each other in their haste. “Lando and I—we’re not.”

Oscar lifts a brow. “Really?”

“Really,” you confirm, heart stammering now. You look down at your feet, breathe in the oceanside one last time, and you make a choice.

“I, um. I’ve liked you for a while, actually,” you manage. “I just didn’t think you felt the same. And I don’t expect anything now, I mean—people say things when they’re drunk, and—”

Oscar Piastri wants it on record: gravity has nothing to do with him kissing you. The choice is all his. His desperation, his yearning, his urge to quiet the doubts that threaten to bubble out of you.

It’s a quick thing. Over before you can properly respond. His cheeks are red as he pulls back; it has nothing to do with the sun.

There’s something serious in his gaze. Something soft. “I was drunk, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t mean it,” he says, eyes still fixed on your lips. “I’ve thought you were beautiful since the day I met you at MTC.”

You open your mouth, but all that escapes is a quiet, stunned breath.

“And, fuck, okay,” he exhales nervously, “I think I want more than just summers with you.”

You don’t overthink it. You lean in, hands curling into the front of his shirt. “Okay,” you whisper, and then you’re pulling him in to kiss him again, for longer, for more.

This time, he doesn’t pull away.

The house is half-empty by the time you're saying your see you laters, the air thick with that bittersweet ache that always clings to the end of something golden. People are hugging, snapping last-minute selfies, pretending they’re not already thinking about inboxes and deadlines.

You’re not pretending. Not today.

You’re watching Oscar load the last of the bags into his car, quiet and sure, the way he always moves when he thinks no one’s paying attention. There’s something unmistakable in the way he glances at you, like this week didn’t just change the rhythm of your summer but the shape of something much bigger.

You think about the other summers, the ones you thought were just fun and fleeting. You remember tequila shots Oscar took so you didn’t have to, the quiet way he always offered you the window seat on the flight home.

That first summer, when he set down his hoodie on the sand so you wouldn’t have to sit on it, and you’d laughed and called him a grandma.

You hadn’t seen it then. Or maybe you had, but you were too afraid to believe it.

Lando swings by with a backpack slung over his shoulder, squinting at the two of you with that trademark mischief. His eyes flick from you to Oscar, back again. He doesn’t say anything; he doesn’t have to. Just smirks knowingly and claps Oscar on the shoulder.

You grin, wide and wordless, and toss Lando a little wave as he heads for his own ride. Thank you, it says. For not making it weird. For always knowing.

Lando waves back at you. It’s strategic, too. His phone is in his hand, the screen angled towards you. You catch the glimpse of his Mail app being open. How there’s nothing unread in it, how he makes his own choice at the same time that you do.

Your attention is drawn back to Oscar when he clears his throat. “You, uh, still need a ride?” he asks with feigned calmness.

You lift a brow, biting back a giddy grin. “You’re going the complete opposite direction.”

“Roads are roads,” he says, like it’s that simple.

And, somehow, it is.

You slide into the passenger seat, folding your legs up as Oscar starts the engine. The breeze curls in through the open windows. It smells like salt, and sun, and something you never want to forget.

The road curves away from the coast, and still, summer clings to your skin, sinking into your bones. For the first time in a long time, you don’t dread what’s on the other side of it.

Oscar glances at you as you stick one hand out the window, letting the breeze slip between your fingers. You hadn’t noticed it then, but you do now. How he looks at you, how he saves smiles for you.

How roads are roads, and all of yours have led to him. ⛐

#oscar piastri x reader #lando norris x reader #oscar piastri x you #lando norris x you #f1 x reader #formula one x reader #f1 imagine #formula one imagine #oscar piastri imagine #lando norris imagine #oscar piastri fluff #lando norris fluff #⛐ kae prix #⛐ ln4 #⛐ op81

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p0tat0-g0ddess · 22 hours ago

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alright so I didn't establish a lot of nuance when I posted this because I made it as a meme but it got. more notes than I expected. so uh

Yes, this can apply to real life people as well. I just had some idea that people in general were more respectful to real life people and their relationships than fictional characters, which may not be true. Personally, I think it's hilarious when people assume I'm dating a friend because I'm physically affectionate with them (ace/aro here. But this applies for people of any and every sexual identity).

I've seen a number of tags with the following sort of vibe-

And. Erm. No?

In the words of @burningcheese-merchant, "#why is friendship not good enough? why is the love of a friend not good enough? can anyone answer me?" I hope I'm not taking your tags out of context. But friendship *can be* that bond that transcends words. Friendship isn't a stepping stone towards the "ultimate" bond. I'm not saying that I don't believe relationships can float in the nebulous zone of platonic vs romantic, I just don't think that there needs to be a third classification. Just say it's complicated (/lh).

I haven’t platonicposted in a while

#The idea that a platonic relationship is just a step on the way to relationship enlightenment or something irks me #It's good enough!!!!

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asxgard · 1 day ago

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Companionship | pt. 13

Dr. Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x f!reader

Previous | Next

Summary: You score tickets to a Penguins game for Michael’s birthday — but you have more than one way to celebrate in mind.

[ Series Masterlist ]

Note: I can’t always answer all of your lovely comments or reblogs, but thank you all so much!! I appreciate all the interactions you guys give this series💜

I’m sorry this wasn’t out yesterday! I got a migraine at work and then it just wouldn’t go away all day. It proceeded to stick around for a good chunk of this morning as well lol

Word Count: 1.9k

Warnings: age gap, foul language, violence at a hockey game, birthday blowjob (oral, m! receiving), pet names (sweetheart, honey)

not beta read

How you had been able to save enough money to afford the tickets really was beyond you. When Michael picked up your utility bill, you put the money you would have spent and put it into savings. You were then able to buy the tickets for the Penguins vs. Predators game at the PPG Paints Arena after saving for nearly two months.

“So…your birthday is coming up.” You ventured one night, rubbing a thumb into your palm.

He half groaned, rubbing a hand down his face, “Don’t remind me.”

“So that’s a no to your gift then?”

His interest piqued, looking back over at you, eyebrow raised. “You got me something?”

You pulled the card out of your bag, “It’s a little early…but you’ll understand why in a moment.”

The card was quaint, with your sprawled handwriting with his name on the front. You hadn’t gotten physical tickets, so the inside of the card was empty, except for the heartfelt little note you had written. Then at the bottom was: you are now two Penguins vs. Predators tickets richer!

Michael read over the note a few more times, before looking back up at you and blinking. He brought a hand to the back of your head and pulled you in for a kiss.

“You really didn’t have to get me anything.” He said, still holding onto you.

“I wanted to.” You smiled and gave him a quick peck. “Not sure if you want to take Jack, or Jake maybe, but I wanted to give you enough notice in case you needed to take time.”

He scoffed like he was offended, “I’m taking you.”

Your smile grew, “Yeah?”

“Of course I’m gonna take you, sweetheart.” He said, kissing you again. “This was really nice of you, thank you.”

Your cheeks warmed, “Sorry I couldn’t do more. Once I’m a CPA—”

“None of that. This is a great gift and I’m looking forward to spending time with you.”

You nodded, taking in his genuine smile.

“I would like you to meet them. Jack and Jake, I mean. And a few other people from the hospital, in a more official manner than showing up for stitches.”

You smiled at him, but anxiety filled your chest at the thought. Jake was his surrogate step-son, and had been in Michael’s life since he was just a kid — you worried over the fact that you were much closer to Jake’s age. You wondered if he was the judgmental sort. And Jack. From everything you had heard about him, he was not likely to sugarcoat anything — if he didn’t like you, you’d know about it.

“I’d like to meet them.” You said, twisting your hands together.

As if sensing your unease, he kissed the side of your head. “They’ll love you.”

“I’m sure it’ll be nice to put all those rumors to rest.” You smirked, thinking back to how everyone hovered both times you had been at the hospital.

He chuckled, “All the people who need to know do now.”

Your face heated, thinking that you had done the same.

You swung your legs into his lap and cuddled close to him, “Good, I did too.”

—

The trek to Saturday was a busy one, hardly having time for each other. When Michael was working, you were studying, and when you were working, he was trying to occupy himself with mundane chores. By Wednesday night, he had showed up on your doorstep with takeout and a smile. You had thrown the door open and crashed your lips together, giggling and saying, “I missed you.”

You found a Penguins t-shirt in the back of your closet to wear for the occasion, slipping on a simple pair of jeans and your favorite sneakers.

You arrived at Michael's apartment with coffee and bagels — set to spend the majority of your day there while you waited for gametime. You lounged around and watched shitty tv reruns, and it was a welcomed lazy few hours for the both of you. Stolen kisses that left you wanting more, and soft touches that made you want to throw your plans out the window.

You ate dinner at a bar near the arena, excitement brewing at being to your first hockey game.

“I don’t wanna jinx it, so I’m just going to hope we have an enjoyable game.” You said, sipping your drink.

Michael chuckled, “Cheers to that.”

The arena was not overly packed, but it felt crowded navigating through the halls and to your seats. You had paid for decent seats, in the last row of the first floor, on one corner near the home bench.

Michael kissed you softly, “These are great seats.”

You beamed at him, and intertwined your fingers. He brought your hand up to kiss the back of it.

At puck drop, you traded conversation over predictions, and hoots and hollers at your favorite players. You laughed and held onto each other when the other team got too close to scoring. You cheered when the Penguins scored their first goal, standing with your hands in the air. You held your breath every time a fight broke out, squeezing Michael’s hand. And you enjoyed the way he knew the game well enough to make calls before the referee’s did — announcing “icing!” or “offside!” before the whistle blew.

During the first intermission, you went together to get a beer before heading back to your seats. The crowd around you was rowdy, but not uncomfortably so. You were enjoying the atmosphere.

Second period came with a few idiotic calls from the referee’s, but also another point for the Penguins. You cheered loud enough you feared you would lose your voice, and Michael watched you affectionately.

In the second intermission, you wandered off to get cheesy fries while Michael got another beer, and you met back at your seats. You were bouncing on your heels in excitement, though did not dare to utter the W word, in fear of jinxing it.

During the third period, the Penguins scored another goal toward the latter half.

“This has been the best game,” You laughed, munching on a cheese fry.

Michael pulled you in close, wrapping an arm around your shoulders. He kissed your head.

By the time the buzzer sounded, the Penguins had won in a 3-0 shutout game against the Predators. You gave a relieved laugh, as you had been standing on your feet for the last minute of the game when the Predators had gotten too close. On your way out, you asked a random couple to take your picture.

You added the photo to your favorites on your way out, taking in Michael’s smile, his arm wrapped around your shoulders, his other hand in his pocket. Butterflies fluttered around in your stomach.

You looked over to him with the widest smile, admiring how handsome he was.

“Something on my face?”

“No,” you said, heat blooming in your cheeks. “Can’t a girl take in the view?”

He grinned softly, making his smile lines crinkle. He brought a hand to cradle your face, rubbing a thumb across your cheek. His eyes flickered between your eyes, and your heart started racing. He opened his mouth to say something, but closed it, leaning down to kiss you instead.

You melted into him, wrapping your arms around his neck, wanting to savor it for as long as you could.

When you returned to his apartment, adrenaline filled your senses, suddenly having the urge to get on your knees for him — half desperate to taste him, half addicted to the sounds he made when he was enjoying himself.

“It’s late…you should stay over.” Michael said in his dim living room, the one side table lamp being the only thing illuminating the room.

“I didn’t bring anything.” You said, a sheepish smile on your lips.

“I’ve got plenty of things that’ll fit.”

Your smile widened into a grin, heart racing at the thought of wearing his clothes. You pulled him down for a kiss, tongue sweeping across his bottom lip, and he opened his mouth. His tongue entered your mouth and you hummed against him.

Something bubbled in your stomach at the feeling of him getting hard, and your thoughts spiraled downward. You moved a hand to the waist of his jeans, pulling at the button until it unbuttoned. Michael’s breathing hitched, bringing both hands to either side of your head and kissing you fiercely.

As the zipper lowered, so did you, getting onto your knees and looking up at him.

He stared down at you, shoulders moving up and down with his breathing, face half shadowed. Though his brown eyes pooled desire low in your belly.

You pulled down his jeans to his knees, running your hand over his length through his boxers, watching as his eyes flickered closed. When you pulled them down, he opened them again, looking down at you with half concealed desire.

“You don’t have to—” he choked on his words when you grabbed hold of him, your hot breath on his tip.

You wet your lips, “I really really want to.”

He cursed lowly, running a hand through his hair, “Fuck, okay, honey.”

You licked tentatively along the head, and you noticed how his stomach quickly clenched and unclenched. Your smile was hard to hide. You took him into your mouth, tongue swirling along the tip before you descended deeper.

Michael let out a low groan from the back of his throat, head pointing up at the ceiling. HIs hand found the back of your head, not pushing, but simply holding you.

You took him until his cock hit the back of your throat and tears quickly gathered. You set a slow pace, using your hand to pick up the slack closer to his base, unable to take the full thing into your mouth. You moved your other hand to cup his balls and he moaned.

Your pussy pulsed at the sound of it, feeling yourself grow wet. You looked up at him through your lashes, and he was watching you intently, eyebrows drawn in.

“So beautiful, sweetheart. Fuck.”

You hummed around him at his words, and his apartment was filled with the sound of his quiet moans and grunts while you unraveled him. You took him deeply again, trying not to gag, flattening your tongue to apply pressure upwards while you hallowed out your cheeks.

“If you keep that up—fuck—I’m going to come down that pretty throat of yours.” He warned, though his voice sounded wrecked.

You looked up at him and didn’t stop, easily saying that that was exactly what you wanted.

He let out a few pants, one hand going to his neck, while his body tensed. You could feel that he was trying not to thrust into your wanting mouth. You ran a finger over his balls still in your hand and picked up your pace.

Michael came with a low groan, eyes squeezing shut, and you took it all. You swallowed his spend until he was twitching from overstimulation. You let go with a wet pop, which made him jolt. He quickly pulled you up in a kiss.

“Yeah, I need you in my clothes right now.”

You met his eyes, noses touching, and you smirked. “You gonna make me, handsome?”

A sly smile grew as he pulled up his pants, “I can certainly do that.”

He chased you into his room, your laugh echoing off the walls.

[ Next ]

want to join any of my taglists? shoot me a message!

Companionship taglist: @queenslandlover-93 @clementine111002 @virgomillie @emily-b @kaygilles @lt-jakeseresin @imonmykneessir @kniselle @gabsgabsvaz @rosiepoise88 @calivia @holdonimwalkingmysnail @valhallavalkyrie9 @blahkateisdone @shadowhuntyi @fuckalrighty @elli3williams @yournerdmodziata @i-know-i-can @dickheadturner @dcgoddess @pittobsessed @glamorizethechaos @blueb33ry-cat @whatdoesntkillyoumakesyoustrange @burningpenguinwitch @evienorville @equallyshaw @heyysolsister @justrandomthougt @babygirlagenda @lauracantsleep @rogersbarnesxx @longlivecandice @misshoneypaper

Dr. Robby taglist: @cherriready @seeyalaterinnovator @my-soulmate-is-mycroft @bxxbxy @18lkpeters @flyinglama @hagarsays @mayabbot @anakingreys @happyfox43 @dark-twisted-and-mechanical-mind @sarah-the-bird-nerd @girl-obsessed-with-things @laurenkate79 @woodxtock @rosie-posie08

(50 tags have been reached with the combo of all three taglists, so unfortunately some of Dr. Robby & all of The Pitt taglist for this series will be added in a reblog right after this is posted - I’m sorry if this is an inconvenience!)

three parts to go + the epilogue😭

#the pitt #michael robinavitch #dr robby #michael robinavitch x reader #the pitt x reader #dr robby x reader #michael robinavitch x female reader #asxgard writes #companionship series

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l0s3rd0wnt0wn · 3 days ago

Note

Thank you for answering my beach continuation question! If you don’t mind, I do have one more request!

I’ve finished watching Saiki K recently, and I was just wondering how WB! Reader’s life would go if they had Saiki’s powers. Realistically, it’d be torture hearing their thoughts before and after they go yandere, but I imagine they’d just teleport to get away from them.

SAIKI K!READER: Who is obsessed with everything and anything sweet, from coffee jelly to chocolate to cookies to donuts to cake? You have a real sweet tooth. It's never going down. You'd practically do anything pudding, being a part of the batfam means constant spoiling. So, if you're hungry for something sweet, they're not afraid to drop their whole bank account in front of you.

SAIKI K!READER: Tries to act nonchalant and uncaring, but deep down is a big softy who's actually very sweet and caring when it comes to their friends and partners. They refuse to let their guard down in front of the bats; you'd rather die than let Bruce hug you. You teleport all the way to Nicaragua to escape Dick's constant cuddling. You hiss at Duke if he gets too close, but you'll instantly melt if Conner pulls you into a hug or if Cassie holds your hand. You say you don't care, but the second they pull away, you come running back. The bats are crazy jealous.

SAIKI K!READER: Who on purpose reads the bats' minds just for fun but then realizes they'd rather not? They're literally making plans on how to catch you off guard. Tim has a whole thought-out plan on how to hug you without you teleporting away from him. In his head, he's thinking of every single possible outcome, and it's honestly kind of creepy. Just imagine: you smell something sweet coming from the kitchen, and it's Barbara making you something to eat. You read her mind just to make sure she doesn't have a secret plan behind it. She does: "Maybe if they enjoy these sweets I made for them, then they'll finally let their guard down, and I can rub it into Dick's face how they love me more than everyone else." You're leaving the kitchen immediately.

SAIKI K!READER: Reader doesn't like to talk out loud, so they literally just use their telepathy to communicate. You accidentally scared Bart while using your telepathy to talk to him. In addition to that, the leader and Miss Martian have a cute, weird little relationship where you both have inside jokes using each other's telepathy. During meetings, you guys just randomly start giggling, and you're kind of happy you have somebody to talk to in your head. You can't really hide anything from her, and she can't hide anything from you either. It's kind of fun, but also a bit weird because she occupies your head a lot without you knowing. You can be in the middle of messing up a good coffee jelly just for Megan to be in your head like, "Hahaha, fatty."

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lazysoulwriter · 2 days ago

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who's that woman? - Pedro Pascal.

requested! thank you so much for sending, hope you like it. ♡

---

The after party buzzes with static energy — music, flashing lights, laughter bouncing off the walls. You feel it in your chest like a second heartbeat. Your heels are killing you, your curls are sticking to the back of your neck, and someone spilled something suspiciously sticky near the bar. But none of it matters.

Because you're dancing.

Dancing like no one’s watching — even though everyone kind of is. The DJ is deep into a 90s setlist, and you’re in your element. You know every lyric, every beat drop, every over-the-top bridge. And you don’t care how you look doing it. You’re having fun. Real, shameless, sweat-slicked fun. And the people around you? They’re feeding off your energy. Laughing when you point to them mid-verse, clapping along when you hit a dramatic air guitar solo.

You’ve always been the life of the party without even trying.

What you don’t know is that, from across the room, Pedro Pascal is watching you — completely mesmerized.

He’s leaning against a wall with a half-empty drink in hand, tired from small talk, already plotting his escape when he sees you. And it stops him cold.

Your smile, your joy, your wild abandon — it’s unlike anything he’s seen in a long time.

“Who is that woman?” he murmurs out loud, not meaning to be heard.

But someone beside him answers casually, like it’s obvious. “That’s Y/N. You don’t know her? She’s the indie singer of the moment. Absolutely magical.”

He repeats your name under his breath. Y/N. It sounds good already. His eyes never leave you — not even when the song ends and you finally step off the dance floor, cheeks flushed, skin glowing, laughter still lingering on your lips.

You head to the bar, needing water more than another drink. And he sees his chance.

He walks toward you — slowly, calmly — but just before he reaches you, someone else gets there first.

A man leans in close to your ear. Says something low. You throw your head back and laugh.

Pedro stops in his tracks.

Of course she has someone, he thinks. Why wouldn’t you? You’re radiant. Magnetic. Everyone wants to be near you. And he isn’t the kind of guy to flirt with someone who’s taken. Even if all he wants to do is hear your voice. Ask what song you were dancing to like it was saving your life.

He’s just about to turn away when the man — whoever he is — looks up and locks eyes with Pedro.

And then he smiles. Waves him over like they’re old friends.

Confused, Pedro approaches. “Took you long enough,” the guy says, easy and amused. “Pedro, right? I’m Luca — co-producer on the indie you’re shooting next month.”

Pedro laughs in recognition. “No way. I didn’t recognize you without five assistants and a clipboard.”

Then Luca turns to you and says, almost too casually: “This is my sister. Y/N.”

You smile at Pedro with that same effortless warmth that had everyone watching you dance. “I love your work,” you say, offering your hand. “Your voice? I’d listen to you read my grocery list.”

He laughs, starstruck and completely at ease. “That might be the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

And from there — the rest of the night falls into place like it was always meant to.

The party fades into background noise. You end up sitting close, knees brushing under a tiny table, talking like you’ve done it a hundred times before.

He’s funnier than you expected. A little shy at first, but playful, too. Sharp. Thoughtful. You tell him you write better lyrics after two drinks. He confesses he’s cried at every animated film he’s ever seen. You tease him for dancing too well for a man over 40. He tells you you’re like his childhood best friend — the one who dared him to do ridiculous things just to see if he’d say yes.

You feel it. That pull. That click.

And you can see he feels it too.

He looks at you like he’s remembering something. Like you remind him of a version of himself he thought he’d outgrown — but misses more than he realized. You’re loud where he’s quiet, fearless where he’s careful. But underneath? You’re made of the same stuff. Passion. Curiosity. Heart.

Six months later.

You’re sitting on the kitchen floor in mismatched pajamas, eating cold risotto straight from the container. He’s across from you, eyes soft, cheeks a little pink from the wine.

He doesn’t kneel. Doesn’t have a speech. Just pulls a small box from his hoodie pocket and says your name like a question.

And you say yes before he even finishes.

Now, in a quiet interview for a glossy magazine, Pedro leans back in his chair, fiddling with the silver ring on his hand. The journalist asks about you — how you met, how it happened.

He smiles, slow and sure. “I never believed in love at first sight,” he says, voice warm. “Not until her.”

---

#pedro pascal #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal x you #pedro pascal x y/n #x reader #pedro pascal fanfic #pedro pascal fanfics #pedro pascal blurb #pedro pascal fluff #pedro pascal imagine #pedro pascal imagines #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal fic #pedro pascal fics #pp #ficreq #fanfics #fanfic #imagines

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vex-the-great · 3 days ago

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"Please... I beg you..." The creature that had gained my face begged kneeling at my feet... His hands clasped almost as if praying to me, "I've learned my lesson..!" ...I wanted to be furious. I wanted to scream to lash out at him and yet... I who had been effected by the ancient wisdom hidden deep within this body that not even the original owner had found, to have been aged by it long beyond my years, could only see him as a miserable child... Too scared to let himself speak to others, yet didn't want to be alone, one who would rather run from their mistakes and flaws then to face them... How could I be mad at such a child? I was the exact same when that form was mine... And so I spoke in a deep, rumbling yet soft voice, "There is no more running child..." I brought my furred and clawed hand to his chin and lifted it up so he looked at me, "I do not know how to cast the spell, nor do I think it would solve anything..." "Wh-what do you mean..?" He whimpered tears forming in his eyes... He was scared, of course he was. He had thrown himself into the life of a miserable human without considering the consequences. He had just wanted a chance to feel loved. "Your issue isn't your form. It is your fear... The fear that makes you run from mistakes, avoid all other creatures, and lash out in extreme ways trying to force out an answer." I gently explained, it was odd... How much wisdom I had gained through the ancient aspects of this body centuries older then I and it's original owner combined.., "Luckily for you... I had already begun a path of recovery before you had taken my form... As long as you listen to my advice I shall help you learn to live properly as a human... And you shall eventually be loved..." He looked up at me, a hint of hope in his eyes, "D-do you mean it..?" his voice small and quiet almost scared to believe me. And I simply nodded, "Th-thank you... thank you so much... I'm sorry..." He started to sob and I brought him into my arms holding him tightly... "I forgive you..." I quietly murmured in his ear... I had never expected to say that, when I had first inhabited this body I was angry. I wanted to rip his head off. And yet... as I let myself explore this body it's senses it's instincts, it's blood... This is the kind of creature I became... Maybe it was an extension of my foolishly kind nature as a human, but... This was a version of me I had come to love... Hopefully I can let this child who had stolen my form feel the same way about himself.

A monster forcefully switches places with you. You become a horrible creature, and the monster assumes your form. Unfortunately for the monster, your life absolutely sucks—and you have no intention of swapping back.

#writeblr #writers on tumblr #writers #writing prompts #writing inspiration

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no-144444 · 2 days ago

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one for leaving- d.ricciardo

꩜ summary: something changes...

꩜ pairing: daniel ricciardo x fem! reader

Daniel had always been around.

Even as a child, you watched as he carved out his own immovable space in your life. He was persistent, he was fast, and he didn’t often take no for an answer. He was funny. Always laughing. Smarter than anyone realised. The first time he asked you out, he did it for your school formal, and he made a big sign, basically begging you to go. You never thought he’d liked you like that, and you were ecstatic. What followed was years and years of bliss. Years where you got to know him, learning every habit, every trait, every phobia, every fucking twitch of his lip, and what it meant. You pulled him out of McLaren, and you made it alright. You supported him at every race. You waited for him.

So, you’d think you’d know him by now. You’d think you could… understand him, by now. Losing F1, it was hard, but you’d stood by his side, being the pillar of strength he needed, pulling him up by his bootstraps and reminding him who he was. Reminding him that he was Daniel fucking Ricciardo, and he had a lot more life to live beyond some silly cars. And that worked.

For a while.

Then reminders crept in, and the arguments started. You only wanted what was best, and you knew if he continued watching and staring and reminiscing, he’d be miserable. And you were right. A particularly bad day meant he told you your ideas for your (long overdue) wedding were stupid and silly, and you recoiled. He knew you were right to, and he knew this wasn’t your fault.

He just didn’t know how to tell you.

“What’s wrong?” you asked, your voice cautious. That’s all you’d been for weeks… cautious. After the fight, Daniel had stepped away from you, and the distance was only growing. He sighed beside you.

“Nothing,” he shrugged. “Just busy these past weeks,” he shook his head, a soft smile on his lips. You fiddled with your ring.

“Are you sure? If something’s wrong, you can tell me,” your voice was tender. More tender than he’d even heard it. He was quiet. “Please just let me back in.”

Something snapped. He looked down, and you felt it. That terrible ache in your chest that had settled all those weeks ago finally opened, at the same time Daniel’s mouth did. “I don’t want to get married anymore,” he admitted, clasping his hands together as he evaded your gaze. It was almost pathetic. He was wearing a shirt you’d washed and ironed, he was sitting on a couch you picked out, having eaten food you’d prepared.

And he didn’t want you.

You nodded, attempting to soften the impact the lump in your throat would have on your voice. “Alright,” you slid the engagement ring off your finger and dropped it in his lap. “Anything else?”

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, emotions overtaking his voice. “I’m so sorry. You deserve so much more than this, than me.”

You huffed, standing up. “Maybe that’s true,” you shrugged, picking up your plates and taking them to the sink. “But that’s not reality, and I hav- had you.”

“I just-”

“I don’t really care for your explanation Daniel,” you sighed. “I’ll pack up my stuff during the week, alright?”

“Alright,” he nodded, following behind you, stopping when he was just a foot away. “I’m sorry-”

“You don’t need to keep saying that,” you turned to him. “You don’t love me anymore, it’s fine.”

“It’s not though, is it?” he mused, prolonging both of your suffering. “I’ve tried and I just… can’t. I don’t know why. I want to. I really want to, because I think you’re a great person. You’re funny, and you’re beautiful, you’re so smart, and fucking- I don’t know! I don’t understand why I can’t love you like I want to,” he crossed his arms, frustrated. “And it’s not because of you,” he assured you, but your self-confidence was already shot, so it didn’t matter, even if he’d blamed you. “I just… there’s something wrong with me.”

“Sure,” you shrugged. “That’s fine.”

“Why are you so okay right now?” he asked. You stared at him for a moment. Really stared. This would probably be the last time you’d see him upclose in real life. A sad smile made its way onto your lips, and you couldn’t hold back the tears in your eyes. “You’ve always been one for leaving Daniel, it was only a matter of time.”

navigation for my blog :)

redbull and vcarb masterlist

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ilovemarvel97 · 3 days ago

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Written in Our Souls - Part 5

Wanda Maximoff x Reader

Summary: Wanda continues to run from her fate. But for how long?

Word Count: 5,733

Warnings: angst, mentions of blood and violence, a little fluff

Series Masterlist

---

Y/N’s POV

After the party Y/N avoids Wanda.

She doesn’t avoid the others, but she keeps her head down. Trains when scheduled. Eats when Natasha drags her. Sleeps when exhaustion wins over the ache. But it’s a ghost of a life, a holding pattern. She isn’t really living—just existing around a wound no one else can see.

Except Nat.

She sits across from Y/N every morning, arms folded, eyes sharp. She doesn’t fill the silence. Doesn’t coddle. Just shows up. And maybe that’s the only reason Y/N hasn’t disappeared entirely.

“You’re eating,” Nat notes one morning, her tone unreadable as she eyes the half-eaten toast on Y/N’s plate.

“Barely,” Y/N mutters.

“Still counts.”

A long silence.

“She’s not okay either, you know.”

Y/N doesn’t look up. “Don’t.”

“She’s unraveling.”

Y/N’s throat tightens. “Then she should say something.”

“She won’t. You know that.”

Y/N finally lifts her gaze, voice sharper now. “Then what am I supposed to do? Keep standing there like a fucking lighthouse while she steers away?”

Nat leans in, elbows on the table. “You love her.”

“That doesn’t mean I have to let her destroy me.”

The words feel like glass leaving her mouth.

Nat doesn’t argue.

Because she knows Y/N’s right.

---

Wanda’s POV

Wanda sits on the rooftop.

Her fingers tug at the edge of her sweater sleeves, hiding the pulse of Y/N’s name against her skin. It still burns sometimes. Quietly. Like a whisper she tries not to hear.

She’s not sure how many people she’s snapped at today.

Bruce, when he asked if she was sleeping.

Sam, when he jokingly mentioned she was more intense than usual.

Vision, when he said he was worried.

She doesn’t want his worry.

She wants the girl whose name is on her wrist. Her soulmate. The one she was supposed to wait. And now, wouldn’t even look at her.

No.

She pushed her away. She knows that.

But knowing doesn’t make it hurt less.

She thinks of Y/N’s voice—soft in the hallway that night, barely a whisper.

“I’m just a mistake, Wanda.”

The words she once said backfiring at her.

Wanda leans forward, forehead resting on her knees, arms wrapped tight around herself.

For the first time in days, her powers are still.

Because she’s too tired to feel anything except the ache that started in her chest after Y/N started ignoring her.

---

Each day without Y/N stretches longer than the last.

And each day, the lie Wanda keeps living—the one where she pretends Vision is the right choice, the safe choice—scrapes her raw from the inside out. It wasn’t supposed to go like this. She was supposed to be stronger. Clearer. She thought if she just committed hard enough to the path she’d chosen, the ache would fade. The bond would silence. The name on her wrist would stop glowing like an ember pressed into her skin.

But it doesn’t.

It worsens.

The more she ignores it, the more it punishes her. The name—Y/N’s name—burns now. Not gently. Not warmly. But with sharp, cutting heat, like it’s trying to remind her that something real is dying.

And Wanda is the one killing it.

She’s quieter these days. Vision tries to cheer her up by asking her on dates, or trying to cook paprikash for her. And she tries too.

---

Y/N’s POV

The worst part is: she still dreams of her.

Wanda.

She’s in everything. Every hallway. Every laugh that’s not hers. Every silence that lasts too long.

Y/N pretends she’s fine. Enough to keep up appearances. Enough to nod when Steve gives her orders. Enough to answer when Sam or Bruce ask how she’s holding up.

But the truth is, she’s unraveling too. Quietly. Elegantly. Like something made to fall apart.

Because the bond won’t let her go.

Because Wanda won’t.

Every time Y/N tries to move forward, something pulls her back. A glance in the hallway. Her voice during a mission. The whisper of her powers lingering in the air when she leaves a room.

The worst is the guilt—because Y/N knows Wanda is in pain too.

But she can’t be the one to fix this.

Not when she wasn’t the one who broke it.

So, she waits.

And waits.

And breaks a little more every time the name on her wrist pulses with a longing that will never be returned.

---

Wanda’s POV

She kisses Vision one night.

Softly. Mechanically. Like it’s written in a script.

His hands rest at her waist. Gentle. Polite.

Wanda doesn’t feel anything.

She pulls back, heart pounding for all the wrong reasons. Vision tilts his head, puzzled.

“Wanda?”

“I’m tired,” she lies, backing away. “Long day.”

She doesn’t look at him when she leaves the room. Doesn’t stop until she’s behind a locked door, sinking to the floor, breathing like she’s drowning.

Because she is.

In guilt.

In want.

In a love she tried to bury and couldn’t.

She lifts her wrist. Y/N’s name is glowing again, brighter than ever.

And this time—her chest hurts so much she cries.

---

Y/N’s POV

Then one night.

It all starts as a tingle.

A small, burning pull that wakes me from sleep like a whisper too loud in the dark. I sit up, heart racing. My wrist—Wanda’s name—is glowing faintly beneath the skin, not in the warm way it sometimes did before, but sharp, erratic. Like it’s panicked.

I rub at it, wincing, then glance at the clock.

3:12 a.m.

A pit forms in my stomach.

Something’s wrong.

I swing my legs out of bed and sit on the edge for a moment, debating. My chest aches. My whole body feels tense, like my soul is bracing for impact.

Should I check on her?

She told me to stay away. She made it clear that I was a mistake. That we were. I’d spent days putting distance between us, even when every part of me screamed to do the opposite.

But this—this burning sensation, this invisible thread tugging at me in the dark—it’s not something I can ignore.

I’m halfway to the door when—

Knock. Knock.

I freeze.

A soft, shaky knock again.

And then I hear it. Breathing. Ragged, desperate.

I open the door.

Wanda collapses into me.

She doesn’t say a word. Just folds into me like her legs gave out the second she saw my face. Her arms wrap around my middle, and her head buries itself in my chest as the sobs break free.

I stand there, stunned, arms hovering awkwardly for a split second—then I wrap them around her without thinking. Tight. Like I’m trying to hold her together.

She’s trembling. Shaking so violently it scares me.

“Wanda…” I whisper, pulling her inside, closing the door with my foot. “Hey… hey, I got you, it’s okay. You’re okay.”

But she’s not okay.

She’s falling apart in my arms.

She clings to me like I’m the only thing tethering her to this world. And maybe, for her, right now—I am.

---

Wanda’s POV

Wanda doesn’t remember getting out of bed. Doesn’t remember walking the halls barefoot, or the way her vision blurred from tears.

She just remembers waking up screaming.

Vision didn’t hear her. He just remained still beside her. She doesn’t know.

But Y/N—Y/N was the only face her mind called out for. The only arms that felt safe.

Now, in Y/N’s room, Wanda curls into her like a child, like something wounded and small, and Y/N doesn’t ask questions. She just holds her.

Her heartbeat is steady.

Wanda lets herself breathe again.

For the first time since that mission… she doesn’t feel like she’s drowning.

---

Y/N’s POV

I guide her slowly toward the bed, not letting go for even a second. She clutches my shirt like she’s afraid I’ll vanish if she loosens her grip.

“It was just a nightmare,” I whisper, barely audible over her sobs. “You’re safe now. I’m here.”

She doesn’t answer. Her entire body is shaking, curled in on itself like she’s trying to disappear. I sit down on the edge of the bed and gently pull her into my lap, her knees each one beside me, arms wrapped tight around my neck.

She buries her face against my chest, and the sound she makes—it’s broken. Like her soul is splintering in my hands.

I wrap my arms around her tighter, pressing a kiss into her hair. “I’ve got you,” I murmur again, and again, like a mantra. “I’ve got you. I’m not going anywhere.”

My fingers thread through her hair in slow, calming strokes, and gradually the sobs dull into small, stuttering breaths. Her heartbeat pounds against mine, ragged and desperate, like she’s trying to sync to something steady. Something real.

She shifts just enough to tuck her face under my jaw, her skin hot and damp against my neck. And I swear—it’s like our souls are speaking in silence.

When she finally speaks, her voice is so raw it makes my chest ache.

“I saw you die.”

I freeze.

Wanda’s hand clutches my back like she’s trying to hold me here. Her voice trembles.

“You were on a mission. And something exploded. I couldn’t reach you in time—your mark on my wrist just—” she gasps. “It burned. It burned like it was trying to stop your heart from leaving mine.”

My arms tighten instinctively around her.

“I tried to stop it. I screamed. But you were gone.”

“Wanda—”

“I couldn’t breathe. I woke up choking on it. I didn’t know where else to go. I just—I needed to see you. To feel you.”

She lifts her head slowly. Her eyes are bloodshot, cheeks streaked with tears, and all I can see is fear. Vulnerability. Love that’s bleeding and terrified.

“I’m here,” I whisper, cupping her face in both hands. “I’m right here. I’m okay.”

Wanda leans into my touch like she can’t get close enough. Her forehead presses against mine, our breaths tangling in the small space between us.

“You’ll always have me,” I say, voice soft and shaking. “Even if you push me away. Even if you say we’re a mistake. My heart doesn’t care. It still finds you.”

Her eyes flutter closed as a new tear slips down her cheek. I kiss it away without thinking.

She doesn’t let go.

Neither do I.

We sit there like that for a long time, just breathing the same air. Letting the silence carry everything we’re not ready to say out loud.

Eventually, she curls up against my side, fingers still tangled with mine. Her breathing slows. Steadies.

She falls asleep in my arms, soft, warm and safe.

And I stay awake, watching the rise and fall of her chest, her name burning gently beneath my skin—not in pain this time.

But in something that feels a lot like peace.

And love.

---

Wanda’s POV

Morning light filters through the room, casting a warm golden glow on the walls.

It’s soft. Gentle. The kind of light that could almost convince her everything was okay.

But it’s not.

She blinks her eyes open, her head still resting against Y/N’s shoulder. The steady rise and fall of Y/N’s chest under her cheek is comforting. Too comforting.

And that’s what terrifies her.

Wanda sits up carefully, trying not to wake her.

Y/N is still fast asleep, face peaceful in a way Wanda rarely gets to see. There’s a hand still loosely wrapped around hers, and Wanda stares at it for a long moment—like she’s memorizing the feeling. The warmth. The safety.

She hadn’t meant to come here last night.

She didn’t plan to collapse into her soulmate’s arms and cry herself to sleep like a child. But the second she woke up from the nightmare, Y/N’s name was the only thing echoing in her mind. Not Vision’s. Never Vision’s.

It was Y/N.

Just like before.

What did I do?

Her breath catches.

What have I done?

This wasn’t supposed to happen. She wasn’t supposed to need Y/N like this. Not after everything she said. Not after how cruel she’d been.

She’s engaged. She has responsibilities. A future already mapped out. A life she's forcing herself to choose.

But lying in Y/N’s arms last night felt like home.

And that terrifies her more than the nightmare ever could.

Wanda carefully untangles herself from Y/N’s arms. Her movements are slow, calculated—like if she breathes too loud, the moment will shatter.

She stands at the edge of the bed, looking back at her soulmate just once.

There’s a faint crease between Y/N’s brows, like even in sleep, something inside her knows.

Wanda’s chest tightens painfully.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers under her breath.

Then she turns and slips out the door—quiet, fast, like she’s fleeing the scene of a crime.

Because in her heart… it feels like she just committed one.

Wanda walks back to her room.

Her bare feet hit the cold hallway floor, and the chill cuts through her like guilt. She hugs her arms around herself, not even sure which way she’s going. Just away.

She’s almost at the corridor that leads to her own room when she hears a voice.

“Wanda?”

Her breath catches in her throat. She turns—and there he is.

Vision stands at the corner, dressed in his usual casual morning wear. He tilts his head slightly, concerned but not suspicious.

“I was looking for you,” he says with a faint smile. “You were not in bed.”

Wanda forces a smile. “I couldn’t sleep.”

“You should have woken me.”

I couldn’t.

Instead, she says, “I didn’t want to disturb you.”

He walks toward her and reaches for her arm, gently. “You weren’t in the library either. I checked.”

She stiffens under his touch. “I just… needed air. I wandered for a bit. Ended up falling asleep somewhere.”

He frowns slightly. “Are you alright?”

Wanda nods too quickly. “I’m fine. Just a nightmare.”

He brushes his fingers down her arm. “I wish you’d come to me. You know I’m here, don’t you?”

She opens her mouth, then closes it.

You were never the one who could calm the storm.

Not like she did.

“I know,” she lies.

Vision gives her a small kiss on the temple, and she closes her eyes, hoping it’ll feel like something. Hoping it’ll anchor her to the choice she made.

It doesn’t.

It just makes her stomach twist.

“I’ll meet you downstairs,” he says gently. “You should shower. You look pale.”

She nods again, walking past him with a polite smile and a whispered, “Okay.”

But as she slips into her room and closes the door behind her, she leans back against it and finally lets herself shake.

Not from the cold.

But from everything she’s trying not to feel.

---

Y/N’s POV

I wake up to silence.

No soft breathing beside me. No warmth curled into my side. Just the faint scent of her shampoo on my shirt and the hollow weight of empty sheets.

I sit up slowly, blinking away the haze of sleep.

She’s gone.

The spot where she slept is still faintly warm, but fading fast. And it’s like the moment hits me all at once—like a punch to the chest I didn’t see coming.

I run a hand down my face, trying to breathe through the ache building in my ribs.

I knew this would happen.

I told myself not to fall asleep. That if I did, she’d be gone by morning. That this wasn’t real. That last night—her arms around me, her voice shaking against my chest—was just temporary.

But knowing it doesn’t make it hurt any less.

I shift to the edge of the bed, rubbing my wrist out of habit. It’s still warm where her name is burned into my skin. Not painfully. Not like before. Just… there. Like it knows she was close. Like it remembers, even if she’s already pretending to forget. The pain in my chest is less too.

I glance toward the door.

There’s no note. No message. Just absence.

The same kind I’ve felt when she looked me in the eye and said we were a mistake.

I grip the edge of the mattress, jaw clenched.

Last night, she let me in. Let herself fall apart. She came to me. Not Vision. Me.

And this morning… it’s like it never happened.

I stand up, dragging on a hoodie, trying to shake the chill that settled in my bones the moment I woke up alone. I don’t know what I expected. I guess part of me hoped… something would be different.

But it’s the same story, rewritten with softer words and sharper endings.

Still, I’d hold her all over again if she asked.

Even if she leaves every time the sun rises.

---

Wanda’s POV

She hasn’t looked at Y/N in days. Not really.

Not since that night she crept into their bed like a secret and let herself feel something she swore she’d never want.

The morning after, as she walks back to her room, she bumps into Vision who has been looking for her. And when she went to the kitchen, she slipped into his side like nothing had happened. Like she hadn’t spent the night tangled in someone else’s arms.

Like she hadn’t felt peace for the first time in weeks.

Now, she lies in bed beside Vision. His presence, once familiar, now feels suffocating. He doesn’t sleep, but he rests, and he’s quiet. Kind. But utterly wrong.

Wanda stares at the ceiling.

She can’t sleep. She hasn’t, not properly, since that night.

And when she finally falls asleep, it happens again.

The dream starts quiet.

She’s back on the battlefield—scorched earth beneath her boots, smoke curling through the air like fingers reaching for something already gone. The sky is red, too red, like it’s bleeding. And all she hears is wind. No voices. No gunfire.

Too quiet.

Then she sees it: a flash of movement ahead. A familiar silhouette standing tall amidst the ruins.

“Y/N,” she breathes, relief flooding her chest.

She runs toward her, the broken ground crumbling beneath her feet. Y/N stands facing away, still and silent. Her stance is off—tense, unreadable.

“Y/N,” Wanda calls again, louder now.

Y/N doesn’t turn.

Wanda’s heart hammers. She moves closer. She reaches out a hand. “Please, look at me—”

And then she sees it.

Blood. So much blood.

It’s soaked into Y/N’s shirt, pooling beneath her, staining her fingers. Wanda’s breath catches in her throat as Y/N finally turns—slowly, painfully—and when their eyes meet, it’s like something inside Wanda splits clean in half.

Y/N is smiling, but it’s not the one Wanda knows. It’s hollow. Fading.

“You didn’t come,” Y/N says, voice soft, broken. “You chose him.”

“No—no, that’s not—” Wanda stumbles forward, clutching Y/N’s arms, trying to hold her up, to stop the bleeding with her hands, her powers, anything.

But her powers fizzle out uselessly. Like they’re gone. Like she’s nothing.

“I’m here now,” she begs. “Please, just stay with me. Please, I’m so sorry—”

Y/N shakes her head slowly. “It’s too late.”

Her knees give out. Wanda catches her, cradling her in her lap, rocking back and forth as tears blur her vision.

“You were supposed to be mine,” Wanda whispers, voice cracking. “You’re my soulmate.”

Y/N’s hand rises, brushing her cheek—gentle, forgiving.

Then her eyes go still.

And Wanda screams.

---

She wakes up with a gasp, drenched in sweat, her sheets tangled around her limbs. Her heart is a fist, pounding against her ribs.

Her hand flies to her wrist—Y/N—still there. Still glowing faintly in the dark.

Still alive.

“Wanda?” Vision sits up beside her, his voice gentle. “Are you alright?”

She doesn’t answer.

Her breath stutters. The phantom pain lingers in her chest like a bruise. The sound of Y/N’s voice—“You chose him”—won’t stop echoing.

“Would you like me to get you water?” Vision offers, his hand reaching for hers.

She flinches.

“No,” she says quickly. “No, I just… I need air.”

She doesn’t wait for a response. She’s already grabbing her hoodie, already walking out the door barefoot.

---

Wanda hesitates only for a second.

Then she opens the door. Quiet. Like she did before.

The room is dark, but she knows the shape of her in bed. Knows the rhythm of her breath. The way she sleeps—curled slightly toward the wall, as if bracing for something that never comes.

Y/N shifts. “Wanda?” her voice is hoarse, sleep-soft, confused.

She doesn’t answer. Just crosses the room and climbs into her bed. She’s trembling.

And just like before, Y/N doesn’t question it. Her arms open for Wanda like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Wanda presses herself into her warmth, anchoring herself in the rise and fall of her chest.

“I saw you die again,” she whispers, her voice cracking. “In my dream. I was too late. You were bleeding and I—I couldn’t save you.”

Y/N’s arms tighten around her.

“I’m right here,” she murmurs. “I’m okay. I promise.”

But she doesn’t ask why Wanda keeps coming. Or why she keeps leaving.

And that makes it worse.

Because she should.

Wanda buries her face in her chest, fingers fisting the fabric of her shirt like she’s afraid she’ll disappear. The dream still clings to her—the blood, the silence, the way her eyes had gone still.

“I felt you slip away,” she chokes out. “And it felt like the end of everything.”

Y/N says nothing. Just holds her tighter.

Wanda’s voice breaks into a whisper. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“I do,” Y/N replies softly. “You’re scared.”

She closes her eyes. She wishes Y/N would hate her. Scream at her. Push her away.

But instead, she holds her. Gently. Steady. Like Wanda hasn’t shattered her over and over again.

And Wanda lets herself fall asleep in the arms of the person she keeps losing—even when she never lets go.

---

The next day, Wanda is having another nightmare.

The world feels wrong—distorted, blurry. Wanda can’t focus, can’t understand what’s happening around her, but she feels it, deep in her bones. There’s a weight pushing her down, suffocating her. Her heartbeat is louder than everything else, echoing in her ears.

And then she hears it.

Save her

It’s her wrist, burning in pain, as if ripping her skin open.

Wanda’s breath catches. She tries to look for Y/N, but her legs feel like they’re made of stone. She can’t move.

And then she sees her.

Y/N is kneeling, shackled to a cold metal chair, her body bruised and bloodied. Her face is pale, her eyes wide with terror. But it’s the pain in her eyes that makes Wanda’s chest tighten—the agony of someone she loves being tortured.

Wanda’s heart races. She tries to scream, to reach out to her, but nothing happens. No sound, no movement. The room is suffocatingly silent except for the echo of cruel laughter.

Then, a voice Wanda doesn’t recognize fills the space—a cold, mocking voice.

“We’ve been watching you, Wanda. You think your precious Y/N is safe? She’s nothing. A pawn in your game.”

Wanda’s breath catches in her throat. The voice continues.

“Don’t worry, though. We’ll let her live—for now.”

The voice chuckles, and the sound sends chills down Wanda’s spine.

“We know you care for her. But it seems you’ve chosen someone else, haven’t you? That thing you call Vision… He’s the one you’ve chosen. Not her. Not the one who could have stood by your side.”

The words feel like a slap to Wanda’s soul. She feels herself tremble with the weight of them. She doesn’t understand how she’s hearing this. How this could be true.

But the figure in front of her doesn’t stop.

“You don’t care enough, do you? You hurt her for him.”

Y/N winces at the words, her body wracked with pain from the torture, but she looks up at Wanda—eyes pleading, desperate for her to stop them, to save her. But Wanda can’t move, can’t reach her.

The voice smirks. “We’ll stop if you beg, Wanda. Beg for her life. But we know you won’t, because you’ve made your choice. Vision. The one who doesn’t feel like this one does.”

The HYDRA agents laugh, taunting her, their voices cutting through Wanda’s heart.

Wanda’s vision begins to blur with tears, and she watches as they turn their weapons on Y/N, ready to deliver another round of torture. The air in her lungs is too thick, like a vice crushing her chest.

“Stop!” Wanda tries to shout, but her voice is a whisper lost in the void.

Y/N’s eyes find hers, and in them, Wanda sees the hurt—the belief that she’s been abandoned. And it’s true. I chose Vision.

The world around them is suddenly quiet. The room is still, like time has frozen. Y/N’s trembling body looks up at Wanda one last time, her lips barely moving. She smiles—tired, but so loving, as if she’s trying to reassure Wanda, as if she’s trying to tell her something that Wanda can’t hear.

Then, in an instant, the figure standing over Y/N moves with brutal precision. A cold blade flashes across the air.

Y/N’s body jerks violently, and Wanda watches in horror as the blade cuts across Y/N’s throat. The blood splashes onto the floor, pooling around her. Y/N’s eyes flicker with shock and pain before they slowly go blank, and her body goes still.

Wanda’s heart stops. Time starts again, rushing back to her like a tidal wave, and she screams out in agony, but her voice is swallowed by the silence.

---

Y/N’s POV

Somewhere deep in her sleep, Y/N jerks awake with a sharp, breathless gasp. The room is too quiet. Too still. But it’s the pain—the deep, gut-wrenching pain—that’s the first thing she feels.

Wanda.

It crashes into her like a wave, raw and unrelenting. The physical pain is excruciating, but the emotional ache that follows is worse. She can feel it like an open wound. Wanda’s grief. Her regret. Her sense of abandonment. It rips through her like a razor, and for a moment, Y/N can’t breathe.

She sits up in bed, heart hammering in her chest, sweat pooling on her forehead. Her hands clutch the sheets, her eyes wide with confusion and terror. What was that? What happened?

But she can’t answer her own question. All she knows is that Wanda’s pain is bleeding into her own, and it feels like it’s suffocating her—drowning her in something far darker and deeper than physical torment.

Y/N presses a hand to her chest, trying to steady herself, but the ache is relentless, unforgiving. Her wrist burns with the mark of their bond—the name Wanda written there.

—

Wanda’s POV

Wanda jerks awake with a gasp, heart racing, breath shallow. The nightmare still grips her like chains—Y/N’s screams, the blood, the mocking voice of HYDRA echoing in her head:

“You chose him. So we’ll spare him.”

She shoves the blanket off and stumbles out of bed without a glance at Vision. Her hands are trembling, her legs unsteady, but she doesn’t stop. The walls of the compound feel like they’re closing in as she moves down the hall in a daze, pulled by instinct—by the thread that connects her to the only person she needs to see.

She reaches Y/N’s door.

No hesitation this time.

She pushes it open—and her breath catches in her throat.

Y/N is sitting up in bed, clutching her chest, her face twisted in pain. Her skin is damp with sweat, her eyes wide and glassy.

“Y/N,” Wanda panics, the dream too vivid in her mind.

Y/N looks up, their eyes meeting. “Wanda…” she whispers, her voice rough. Before she can continue, Wanda is grabbing her face and checking if she’s okay.

Before either of them can think, Wanda’s already crossing the room, hands on Y/N’s cheeks, scanning her face like she needs proof she’s real—alive. That she’s here.

“You’re burning up,” she mutters, brushing sweat-damp hair back. “Are you in pain? Is it your chest? Where does it hurt?”

Y/N winces faintly but leans into her touch. “It’s okay,” she says, though her voice betrays the effort it takes.

But Wanda isn’t reassured.

“No, it’s not okay,” she snaps, voice pitching higher. Her hands run over Y/N’s arms, her shoulders, searching desperately for injuries. “You’re sweating—you’re breathing too fast. Your heart—your heart feels wrong.” Her fingers hover helplessly over Y/N’s chest, terrified to touch too hard, terrified not to touch at all.

Panic coils tighter and tighter around her ribs. Her mind is screaming at her—you’re losing her, you’re losing her, do something, save her—

“I need to get Bruce—I need to get Tony—you’re not okay, you're not healing right, we need to call someone—”

“Wanda—” Y/N tries again, but Wanda barely hears her.

Her power flares without warning, making the lamps in the room flicker wildly. The air crackles with raw magic as her body vibrates with terror she can’t contain. It feels exactly like it did in the nightmare—helpless, useless, too slow to stop it.

“I can’t—I can’t lose you,” she chokes out, voice breaking apart into jagged pieces. “I felt it, Y/N. You were dying. You’re dying and I’m just standing here—”

“Wanda,” Y/N says again, louder this time, pushing through the pain to grab her wrists, anchoring her.

Their eyes lock.

Wanda freezes, trembling, her magic surging uselessly under her skin.

“Breathe,” Y/N whispers, like she’s trying to catch her through the storm. “Please, Wands. Just breathe with me.”

Wanda’s chest heaves. It feels impossible, like her lungs have forgotten how. But Y/N’s hands are solid and real, wrapping around hers, grounding her.

“In and out,” Y/N murmurs, voice low and steady. “You’re here. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

Slowly—painfully—Wanda forces a breath into her burning lungs. Then another. And another.

The crackling air around them starts to calm. The lights stop flickering.

But Wanda’s hands stay clutching Y/N’s like she’ll never let go again.

Then, as her breathing starts to even out, the panic gives way to something deeper. Something worse.

Guilt.

“I felt it. I felt you. What happened?”

The sight of her like that—hurting because of her—makes Wanda freeze. Then panic seizes her all over again.

“I—I’m sorry,” Wanda stammers, stumbling into the room. “It was a nightmare. They had you. HYDRA. They said they’d spare Vision because he was the one I chose, and then they—” Her voice breaks, and her legs give out.

Y/N is already shifting, reaching for her.

Wanda collapses into her arms, shaking violently. “I couldn’t stop them. I was screaming and they just—they just laughed. And then they—” Her voice dies into a choked sob.

Y/N wraps her arms around her, wincing slightly from the residual echo of pain, but holds her tight. “It wasn’t real,” she murmurs. “I’m right here. You found me, remember?”

“But you felt it,” Wanda whispers, horrified. “I hurt you through the bond.”

“No. I felt what you feel. Not what you dreamt about. And I’m okay now,” Y/N says softly. “You're okay now. We’re both okay.”

Wanda clutches her tighter, burying her face in her neck. “I thought I lost you. It felt real. Like I was already too late.”

“You’re not too late,” Y/N says, kissing the top of her head gently. “You came back.”

Wanda nods against her skin, unable to speak.

And this time, when they lie down, it’s not Wanda crawling into Y/N’s arms—it’s both of them pulling each other close. Holding on. Not letting go.

---

The Next Morning — Y/N’s Room

The light is soft when Wanda stirs. Pale golden, barely filtering through the curtains. It brushes over her face, warming her skin just enough to make her blink awake.

She’s not in her room.

Not in Vision’s bed.

The warmth she feels… it’s not artificial or distant. It’s alive.

Y/N.

Her breath catches as memory floods back—the nightmare, the way she ran through the halls like she was drowning, the moment she burst into Y/N’s room and found her already awake, clutching her chest with a pained expression.

And now… this.

She opens her eyes—and Y/N’s already looking at her.

Her face is close, closer than it should be, like they’d never let go. There’s a slight crease on her cheek from the pillow, and her lips are parted just enough to suggest she’d been watching Wanda long before she woke.

“Morning,” Y/N whispers, voice raw. Gentle. A little shaken.

Wanda doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch. She just looks at her, letting the reality sink in.

She stayed.

And Y/N didn’t ask her to leave.

The moment feels too fragile to speak into. Too sacred.

Y/N’s hand is already there—resting lightly on Wanda’s back, like it had stayed there the whole night. Not possessive. Just present. Grounding. Real.

“Did you sleep at all?” Wanda asks, voice barely audible.

Y/N nods, slow. “Only after you did.”

Her chest aches at that. “You felt it,” she whispers. “The nightmare. What I felt.”

“I felt everything,” Y/N says quietly. “It tore through me, Wanda. I thought something was happening to you.”

Wanda closes her eyes for a second, guilt crawling up her throat. “I didn’t mean to pull you into it.”

“You didn’t,” Y/N replies. “I was already there.”

Silence stretches again, but it’s different this time. Warm. Familiar. Full of things neither of them have found the courage to say aloud.

“I didn’t have a nightmare,” Wanda admits, her voice even softer now. “Not once. It was quiet with you.”

Y/N doesn’t smile. Her eyes just soften, a sorrowful kind of knowing in them that makes Wanda’s throat tighten.

“Maybe your soul finally found its way home,” she says. It’s not a line. Not meant to make anything easier. It’s just the truth.

Wanda wants to cry. Or kiss her. Or both. But she does neither.

Instead, she lifts her hand and brushes her fingers along Y/N’s wrist. She doesn’t need to look at it to know her name is there. She can feel it—burning, steady, alive.

“I’m scared,” she whispers.

Y/N meets her gaze, no judgment in sight. Just quiet understanding.

“I know,” she says. “Me too.”

Wanda breathes in. Deep. Full.

And for a moment—just a moment—she lets herself stay in it.

Not the guilt.

Not the fear.

Not the life she’s pretending to live.

Just this.

Her.

The bond.

---

A little fluff for the pain 😁

#wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff x you #wanda x reader #wanda x you #wanda maximoff #wanda maximoff fanfiction #elizabeth olsen x female reader #elizabeth olsen x reader #soulmates

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oldqueergrandma · 2 days ago

Text

Everyone's experience has nuance, so here is mine;

While I was in high school, I was having a pretty good time. I had a circle of friends besides my one Worstie. I outsmarted a couple of scheduling problems so that I could take instrumental music, vocal music, and art electives each year. I'd started going to SF/Conventions so I'd found My People and my world was already a lot bigger than my high school.

It wasn't until later that I saw how seriously fucked up my life was then. Why I busted my ass to go to college four hours away, and then just collapsed. That drive I had in high school evaporated on me. I was free, and I didn't really understand what that meant.

Some years later, after he went through a lot of therapy, my (3 years younger) brother asked me if I could pinpoint "when things at home got really bad."

My reply was that they got steadily worse. I could really see it when I flunked out of college and had to move back home the following year.

For him, that year I went away marked the "Worst" year. And I just stared at him and very softly said, "And why do you think that? What was different about that year?"

I watched him connect the dots at last. "You weren't there... To protect me."

"And I'm sorry."

Now, we didn't have a horror story.

We weren't beaten, or starved. We weren't forced to work part-time jobs while in school to feed the family. My brothers were allowed to play sports and I was allowed to pursue art.

But we were being emotionally abused, financially abused, and watching our parents' descent into their own miserable madness.

High school is when you start to see the bigger picture. High school is when many of us start to see what kind of cage we have been living in.

And, for some people, they don't experience that awareness. They love it so much because it's the only time in their lives when the ratio of freedoms-to-Responsibilities is favorable. And they spend their life reliving those Glory Days.

But I gotta tell you, and tell you truly:

It gets better. It's going to get better in ways that you might not even know about. You are going to become the manager of your own affairs, and that means you're going to get to make choices about the shape of your life.

High school *can* be practice for figuring out your life. But once you're no longer being monitored, you have only yourself to answer to.

If your life right now is miserable, try to find a space in your mind to decide what you want it to be like.

One day, you will be able to curate your experiences fully.

Maybe you won't have a mansion to live in, but an apartment. If you need personal space that is really private, promise yourself now that you'll work toward that goal. (Ditto for a house full of fun roommates, a dorm room all tricked out with a loft, or house with a yard.)

One day, you will be able to curate your friend group, based on people you like, who are supportive and fun. You won't be thrown together with randos who happen to live nearby and were born the same year.

One day, you won't have to sneak around to date. One day, you can make your own choices (including not to date.)

Life is a great adventure. Consider me the wizard walking through the door to inform you that you're special. That there is great peril, but also great rewards ahead. It is dangerous to go alone.

But take my hand. Everything will turn out right in the end.

what a beautiful day to not be in high school

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harringtonfeels · 2 days ago

Text

touch

18+ • 2.8k • Friends to ???? to Lovers with inexperienced Reader

Notes: This is about half fluff, half smut, with a liiiiittle bit of angst. There is some discussion of the right to revoke consent regarding a past boyfriend of Reader's toward the beginning. Nothing bad happens to Reader, aside from confusion about expectations for female sexuality. If this would be triggering for you, please don't read.

"Wait, hold on a second." Steve sounds so perplexed that you have to look up from the book in your hands and glance around the room, as though someone else may have walked in and changed the tenor of the conversation. All you'd said was— "You've never had sex?"

You blink back at him, surprised by his surprise. Cheeks burning, you say, "Well, I mean…" Closing the book with a dense thump, you force yourself to make eye contact. "You don't have to say it like that. And it's not like nobody's ever, like, offered."

When he cocks his head slightly to the side, his hair falls slightly in that very Steve sort of way. "What about Mark?" You can't help the way a shiver runs down your spine at the mention. The intrigue is practically spilling out of him at this point, as he turns over onto his side and props himself up on his elbow, settling into the conversation. "I thought you said you were going to sleep with him. That night with the big, fancy date and the—"

"You mean right before I avoided him for three days and then broke up with him?" How had Steve not gotten the memo on that one?

You watch him connect the dots in real time, but he still seems a little confused. "Okay, then Rick. You dated Rick for a long time."

That forces a laugh out of you. "Yeah, when we were like thirteen, Steve. Come on."

"Jeff?"

"I couldn't even get Jeff to answer my phone calls, let alone have sex with me. Can we stop the rundown of my abysmal love life?" you say, trying to remain lighthearted but feeling your own mood sour with each passing moment. What started as incredulousness at Steve's reaction is beginning to turn into something like shame.

A beat later, Steve asks, "Did something happen with Mark?"

You know what he's asking, and your cheeks burn even hotter with embarrassment. "No, nothing like that."

"I thought you liked him."

"I did. And then I didn't. It was just… He just…" You drop your forgotten book onto Steve's bed and bury your face in your hands. "He was just very pushy, I guess. Like, as soon as he realized I was willing to have sex with him, he just wanted to get right to it. I didn't really feel like he was listening to me."

Steve's hand curls itself gently around your wrist, prying your hand from your face, and his voice takes on a slight edge. "What do you mean, 'he wasn't listening to you'?"

"Not like that." It's so hard to find a way to put it into words. You aren't entirely sure Mark even did anything wrong. It's more that he didn't do anything right. You steel yourself and look up at Steve, your longtime best friend who recently became something more, and you know he'll wait as long as you need him to, until you find the words to say. Steve has always had such patience with you, your whole lives. Somehow, that makes it feel even more urgent.

Finally, you inhale deeply and summon the courage to continue. "It wasn't like he tried to make me do anything, really. He was just kind of… inconsiderate. It felt more like he was excited to be having sex than that he was excited to be having sex with me."

Steve rubs soothing circles into your wrist and presses a soft kiss to the palm of your hand. "So you told him to fuck off?"

That draws a laugh out of you. "Yes, basically. I was really confused about how I was feeling, so I told him I didn't think I was ready, and then he acted like he was mad at me the whole way home. So I broke up with him."

He looks a bit lost in thought, and you wonder what he's thinking about. If he's rethinking your relationship, if this makes him see you differently.

He props himself up against the headboard and pulls you close, tucking you into his side. "Baby, you know that's not how it's supposed to be, don't you?"

You want to say yes, but deep down, you're not really sure. What if you're just high maintenance? What if that's the way it always is, and it's true that sex isn't really supposed to be enjoyable for women, and maybe Mark was right to be upset with you for putting an end to things? What if once you'd already said yes, you weren't really allowed to say no? What if what you want isn't supposed to matter at all?

Realistically, you feel like this can't be the case. Why should sex only be good for one person? Why should you not be able to decide when and where and how you have sex, for the first time or for any time? Why should anyone else's feelings matter more than your own? But it's hard to reconcile your feelings of self-preservation with the things you've been told your whole life, or the look on Mark's face when you told him you wanted to go home.

Knowing something is true doesn't make it feel that way.

You bury your face in Steve's shoulder and nod anyway. Of all the ups and downs in the years you've spent with Steve, one thing he's always made you feel was safe.

His fingertips brush against your thigh, just under the hem of your dress, and you smile into his shirt at the way it tickles. Reflexively, you lift your leg a little higher, running away from the feeling. "I'd never want to make you feel that way, honey. You know you could tell me if I did, right?"

You flush at the insinuation. Steve wants to have sex with you. And he wants you to enjoy it. It's still hard to wrap your mind around it, this newfound whatever-this-is, the boundariless relationship status that started with a kiss and ends with… you're not sure what, exactly.

But you know Steve. Whatever this is between you, you can't imagine Steve Harrington would ever treat you like an object, or a means to an end. "I know," you say softly, breath hitching in your throat as his palm slides beneath your dress.

"Is this okay?" he murmurs into your hair.

Your stomach flutters with anticipation, and you nod.

His touch is so gentle, it's almost maddening. It's already so different from how Mark touched you, slow and thoughtful instead of rough and hurried. For the first time, you think you might really understand the meaning of the word sensual.

When his palm leaves your skin, you sigh with disappointment, but just as quickly, he's tipping your chin upward, looking into your eyes with his honey brown ones. "Can I kiss you?"

Suddenly, there's a lot you want to tell him. Words that threaten to spill out of you without cohesion or any defined purpose. But this moment is so perfect you don't dare tarnish it. You lean into it instead. Breath stuttering, you nod again, and you sit up just enough to see him better, to reach him better.

His lips are soft against yours, hand gently cupping your cheek, and it's excruciatingly slow at first, until you clench the front of his tee shirt in your fist and urgently draw him closer. He shifts, slotting one knee between your thighs and deepening the kiss as he does.

Steve has kissed you a few times now, and each time, it's like learning a different version of him. Drunk, confident Steve the first time. Sticky-sweet, adoring Steve the second. Soft, horny Steve today. You can feel the hard outline of him pressed against your thigh. A few minutes ago, this might have been jarring or even somewhat alarming, but not now. With your skirt rucked up almost to your waist, you can't help but sigh into his mouth and roll your hips against his.

He pulls away just enough to murmur, "Oh, honey."

You whimper in response, feeling your way under the hem of his shirt. You've never touched him like this. You don't know when the lines blurred so much that your best friend Steve has become someone whose sides you can caress, whose mouth you can feel on your neck— "Oh my god."

His lips brush against your skin. "Can I tell you how I'd touch you?"

Your brain struggles to piece together what he's asking, which is a testament more to how focused you are on how you feel than the complexity of his question. Swallowing thickly, you nod again.

"Come on, baby, use your words. I need to know you mean it."

You dig your nails lightly into his back at that, pouting. "Steve, please."

He's got you flat on your back now, grinding his hips absentmindedly against yours. You can feel him smile against your collarbone, fingers splayed across your ribs as his thumb ghosts across the underwire of your bra. "If you let me touch you, I'd start real slow," he whispers. "Get you nice and comfortable for me, start somewhere safe, like here." His hand cups the outside of your thigh, making leisurely circles with his thumb.

It's a clear retreat from before, less suggestive, and yet you feel your pulse pick up with anticipation. Mouth falling open just slightly, you watch his face as he continues. You've never seen him like this before, focused but glassy-eyed, lips swollen.

When you focus on his hands like this, it's hard to think that it was ever outside the bounds of your relationship for him to touch you like this. All those times watching him shift gears, watching the way his big hands wrap around his baseball bat at practices. Eyes lingering on his long fingers just a little longer than strictly necessary. It feels natural, now that you see his hands on you in real time.

You're sucked back into the present when Steve opens his mouth. "And when you're feeling really comfortable, I'd make my way a little higher." He punctuates this statement by bending your leg at the knee, hand slowly lowering beneath your dress once more.

You let out a whimper as his fingertips graze the edge of your light pink panties, drunk on the suggestion alone, and you weave your fingers through his hair to steady yourself.

It's not like you've never made out with anyone before. You've had boyfriends, you've been on successful dates with passionate kisses that left you winded on your doorstep. But it's never been anything like this, not that you can remember. Every time you made it even to second base with someone before, they were just… demanding or selfish or, once, even actually insulted your body. Some guys didn't work out because they moved away for college, or got back together with their ex, or because you didn't like them that much, or they just weren't a very good kisser. You told yourself when you were dating Mark that, if a lackluster makeout session was the worst of it, you could handle that. You hadn't known at the time that it was possible you wouldn't have to make any concessions.

Steve swipes his thumb across your lower lip, eyes darkening with desire. Teasing the wasitband of your panties with more intention, he leans back in to press a kiss just above the neckline of your dress. He hesitates slightly, and you hang on his every movement like it's a lifeline. When he speaks again, his eyes meet yours. His hair is wild from your fingers running through it, and he looks just as feverish as you feel.

You can't help but watch his mouth when he speaks, as if you don't already know what it feels like on your skin. "And if you liked that," he says, "then I'd turn my attention somewhere else. The trick—" His free hand brushes along your ribcage, dangerously close to your breast. "—is to keep my hands busy, and keep your imagination busy, too."

If you were ever under any illusion that you weren't turned on before, the slick gathering between your thighs makes it quite clear. The late summer breeze rolling through the window is cool on your skin. If it weren't for that, you'd be burning up under the heat of him. As it is, you can barely breathe, but you're not sure that's from the temperature.

His hands move confidently but not impulsively. He skims across the side of your breast with his palm, and you arch into his touch, fingers tangling into the hair at the nape of his neck. Removing his hand from your waistband, he pulls you up into a sitting position and finds the zipper of your dress. He starts to unzip you, then stops abruptly, raising his eyebrows in question. When you nod in response, he leans in for another searing kiss and finishes the job.

You only notice he's run into some difficulty unclasping your bra because he laughs after the third try, and you can't help but smile as you reach around to unclasp it yourself. And then his hands are on your skin again, palming one of your breasts and burying his face in your neck.

When he brushes his thumb over your nipple, you gasp, and he grins against your skin, carefully laying you back down on the mattress. "Does that feel good, honey?"

"Mm-hmm," you whimper, not caring how needy you sound. "Please don't stop."

"'M not stopping, baby," he murmurs, "unless you ask me to."

Steve is nothing if not good at building suspense, you're learning. He circles your nipple with his thumb, then backs off, sliding his free hand back down the front of your dress and toward the front of your panties. While you're distracted by that, stomach clenching in anticipation, he pinches your nipple gently, rolling it between his thumb and finger.

You can't help but gasp in response, overstimulated in the best way.

"And when you're nice and relaxed and ready for me…" He uses one finger to lift the waistband of your panties up just high enough to fit his hand inside. Your thighs fall open at the movement of their own accord, and you tug at his hair, hips lifting slightly to chase his touch.

Steve stills completely, mouth parting like he can't believe it. As if he himself didn't honestly think this little lesson would be so effective. Sounding a little distant, he looks into your eyes and whispers, "That's when I'd touch you."

You stare back at him, the spell broken. You had almost forgotten there was something he was getting at, other than just showing you what you were missing. It's a little dizzying, seeing how far you've gotten on a flirty line, an ambiguous relationship status, and a suspension of disbelief.

Didn't he just say he wasn't going to stop?

"Steve?" you prompt him, voice uncharacteristically small, as if speaking too loudly will make this moment disappear.

He blinks back at you, re-engaging. "Can I touch you, honey?"

Biting your lip, you nod, and a slow, easy grin spreads across his face.

He finds your free hand and kisses your knuckles before slipping his hand just a little bit lower, fingertips just dipping into your slick folds. "Oh, sweetheart," he hums, "you're s' wet for me." When the pad of his middle finger brushes your clit, your hips buck against his hand with urgency. "We've made a mess of your pretty panties, honey. We're gonna have to take these off."

You raise your hips up off the bed without further prompting. You don't have it in you to feel embarrassed, or to worry about what you're going to wear back home. You just let Steve remove them, and when he's done, you paw at the hem of his shirt, asking permission silently. He rolls his shoulders and helps you pull it over his head, tossing it haphazardly onto the floor.

And when he leans back in, you marvel at all the parts of him you get to touch now, the things you get to do that you never could before. The things you've thought about a million times when you really shouldn't have. During school night sleepovers, summer afternoons by his family's pool, at the department store when you both tried on outfits for prom. All those parts of him you've craved, the things you never thought you'd get to feel.

The words tumble out before you can stop them. I love you.

And sure, it's embarrassing. There's a lot of stuff about tonight that's embarrassing, but it doesn't matter. Because even if he doesn't—

Before your cheeks have even had time to warm up, Steve is climbing up your body, eyes wide with something like wonder, and he's cradling your face in his hands. He kisses you slow and firm, like it's the first time, or even the last. He kisses you until you're both breathless, and then he leans his forehead against yours, both of you panting and giggling a little at the absurdity of it all.

And then Steve whispers, "I love you, too."

#steve harrington x reader #steve harrington smut #steve harrington x you #don't know how to tag for this fandom so sending this out there and hoping it finds its people lol

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