#i know it's a different cameraman

[bacchuschucklefuck]

doing chibi is a good design exercise bc it forces u to think on shapes n essential details, essentially thumbnailing ur designs. its also a terrible design exercise bc it ends up looking cute no matter what

[yazmarina]

walk me through it

for the love circuit series

—you're used to being flirted with in front of the camera. but something about franco is really doing you in.

franco colapinto (f1) x fem!reporter reader

warnings/notes: smut, unprotected sex (no condom, yes birth control), guided masturbation, lewd photography, lots of flirting, franco is shameless (naturally), some Spanish sentences and phrases

a/n: will resume hit play for a bit after this one! enjoy franco girlies mwa

Your job was simple enough. Well, for today, at least.

Stand in the media pen, gather statements, and piece together a couple of stories later that evening for publishing first thing tomorrow morning. All in a day's work, like all the other days before.

You've grown immune to the charms of rich, adrenaline-seeking men. Didn't take you too long, the illusion breaking as soon as any one of them opened their mouths. Some you tolerate more than others, but some you'd rather steer clear of completely.

This isn't to say that you've brushed all of them off. You might have agreed to a date here and there but nothing ever stuck, the nature of your jobs a bit too similar and all too different at the same time. You've given up on the prospect that you'll somehow end up with one of the many Formula 1 drivers you've interviewed and spoken to. And you've spoken to a lot. You've had this gig since you were shipped off fresh from uni and one too many 'What happened there?'s and 'Tell me about qualifying's can put a damper on the romantic side of things.

But someone new's in town. Well, er, new in the paddock. And you'd be lying if you said you weren't even a little bit excited.

He's charming, that much you can already tell. He walks into the media pen like he's done it thousands of times before and you have to actively suppress a smile as he walks over. Confidence is always a plus. For the interview, of course.

"Hola, Franco. Antes que nada, enhorabuena," you greet warmly, extending your arm over the barrier to place the microphone nearer to him. Hi, Franco. First of all, congratulations.

Franc's eyebrows shoot up, a wolfish grin settling on his face. "Oh. I thought this was an English interview?"

You smile back. "It is, but I know my way around Spanish, as well."

"Ah," Franco nods. "Gracias, _______."

"You know my name?" You ask, momentarily forgetting that you're being taped and recorded. You clear your throat, ignoring the quiet snicker from your cameraman.

"Yeah, I've seen you around and watched some of your other interviews," Franco confirms, a hand settling on his hip as he leans against the barrier, closer to you.

You can smell his perfume from where you stand.

"Thank you, I've heard and seen a lot about you as well," you respond, trying to return to your original train of thought.

"Which is why I want to ask you how it feels on your first day as a Formula 1 driver," you quickly follow. "Have you done anything special to prepare for this weekend? Other than the obvious, of course."

Another easy smile spreads across Franco's lips. "I've definitely added to my training and done some new things to prepare. I haven't done a full F1 weekend before so everything will be new."

"We definitely don't have reporters like you in the lower Formulas," he adds.

You feel a violent blush rip up through your neck all the way to your cheeks. As if the Monza heat wasn't enough.

"Well, I'm glad you could meet me here," you manage to get out.

The thing is, Franco isn't even the most attractive driver you've met. He's definitely up there, but not the most.

That's a discussion you have with yourself semi-weekly: ranking the drivers in terms of attractiveness, factoring in personalities and general attitudes towards the people around them, specifically the media.

Look, people love to shit on the media and press, calling journalism all sorts of derogatory words, but you're just here to do your job, like anyone else. And it gets pretty fucking hard when your boss is ringing your phone every five minutes demanding four stories by tomorrow and drivers are sassing you out as if you asked them if they've murdered their whole family.

So, naturally, the way they treat you determines a big chunk of how you think your day is going to pan out.

And right now, Franco seems to be lifting your spirits just fine.

"What are your goals for this weekend? Are points on the horizon for you at your first F1 race?" You continue, trying not to stare at the way Franco starts to rub at the back of his neck, bashful all of a sudden.

"We'll try," Franco begins. He plants both his hands on the barrier and leans even closer. You have to physically take a step back.

You gulp. Franco smiles.

"Anything is possible this weekend."

-

"You broke the internet last night."

You scoff, sending your cameraman a vicious side-eye. It's crowded in the paddock today, everyone wanting to get a glimpse of the new rookie, it seems. Such is the eagerness for this young driver that even that 30-second clip of your interview with him blew right up in your face. Your inboxes at capacity, your own voice speaking back to you with every other swipe on your TikTok.

It's not all bad, though. A tweet with one of your Instagram photos attached to it captioned 'TE ENTIENDO MUCHO FRANCO ES MUY LINDA PERIODISTA' did weasel out a chuckle from you.

Your cameraman shrugs, gesturing with a jerk of his head in front of you.

"There he is. I'm sure he knows all about it."

You look over to where he's pointing and lo and behold, Franco is right there, chatting with a few Williams team members, his race suit hanging undone around his waist. He turns to you even before you can fully register that it's him you're looking at.

But your training kicks in even faster. A megawatt smile appears on your lips and you wave enthusiastically at Franco.

"Hi."

"_______," Franco says, face lighting up at the sight of you. Your name seems to fall even more effortlessly off his lips.

You reach over and pull him into a half-hug with one arm, but both his arms wind around you and you have no choice but to squeeze back.

"You saw?" Franco asks, a gleam in his eye as he pulls away. His hand remains casually on the small of your back.

"Saw what?" You know what it is he's asking but you'd like to hear it from him.

"We went viral, no?" Franco says with a laugh, reaching further around you and squeezing your waist. You lean into his touch, heart jumping as his fingers graze just underneath your cropped top.

"That's all because of you," you reason, pointing an accusatory finger at Franco. "I bet you say that to all the other reporters."

The Williams team members standing nearby burst out laughing and even your cameraman affords a snicker. A deep blush spreads across Franco's face as he rubs your side reassuringly.

"No, no, I don't. Just you," Franco admits with another lighthearted laugh.

"Sure," you say with exaggerated skepticism. You pull away from his touch, catching his hand before he slips it fully off of you.

"I'll talk to you later," you say. And it's fully intentional, the words you choose to say. I'll talk to you later. Not 'I'll catch you later' or 'I'll see you later'.

I will talk to you later.

Franco understands, giving your hand a squeeze.

-

Later that day, you pray that no one catches you grinning behind your hand as Franco takes the chequered flag at qualifying.

P11.

Almost there.

-

"Hi. Come in."

Franco beams at you from across the threshold, stepping into your room with slow, measured steps.

"Great qualifying," you compliment, eyes traveling down Franco's body, noting the way his team kit hugs his frame just right, his hands shoved into his pockets, exposing just his arms, veins and all.

Your eyes snap back up to his face when you hear the door shut in place.

"Q2 on your debut. Not bad," you go on, taking a step back. Franco takes one toward you.

"You're just repeating what you said at the media pen earlier," Franco points out. He reaches out and gently circles an arm around your waist.

Always straight to the point.

Like this morning.

You tried not to make it so obvious when you ran into Franco earlier, but all you could think about was The Message.

You were doing your cursory social media checks a few minutes after you had woken up, still snug in your bed and unwilling to get up just yet. A message in your Instagram inbox caught your attention, sitting at the very top of your 'verified followers' tab.

Franco Colapinto: hola, hermosa 😉

It took a minute for your motor functions to return, your fingers hovering over the keyboard as you pored over what to reply. You settled on a nonchalant greeting, asking if Franco needed anything.

You realized rather belatedly that this was looking a little familiar. You wished he wouldn't say the dreaded answer, the more-than-predictable response that every man liked to use.

Franco Colapinto: you, maybe?

You groaned into your pillow, not because you were repulsed by his answer, but because you liked it. If you were easy, then so was he.

You: i finish work at 9 pm tonight...? 👀

It's 9 PM now. Franco's in the room and your hand is running up his chest.

Easy.

"It's such an honor," Franco teases, backing you up further into the room. His hands feel heavy on your waist and your heart hammers against your chest.

"I get to work with people like you now," Franco continues, stopping right in front of the bed.

The kiss comes as a shock more so because of how good Franco kisses. One of his hands is now cradling the back of your head, keeping you in place while he licks into your mouth, groaning with every pucker of your lips.

You pull away for barely a second to get both of your tops off before you dive back in, seemingly too desperate and too starved for each other's mouths. Franco's hands are everywhere; they run down your arms, paw at your waist, tugging at the belt loops of your jeans.

You giggle as he pulls you even closer, your bare chests pressed against each other. Franco pulls back and peers down at you, reaching behind to unclasp your bra. You let it fall, already guiding one of his hands to your tits.

"Couldn't stop staring at them?" You ask, your voice rising with an innocent lilt.

Franco kneads at the mound beneath his hand, eliciting a moan from you. He grins.

"I wanted you to notice," Franco admits simply, kissing you again.

"Perv," you mumble against his lips. Franco laughs, already undoing his trousers.

You wiggle your own way out of your jeans, letting Franco get the shortest of glimpses at your baby pink underwear before you discard them off to the side.

"Mierda, you're so sexy," Franco compliments as you crawl backward onto the bed, laying back and letting your hair splay out beneath you.

Franco pounces on you like a man starved, bare atop your own naked body, his arms caging you in.

"Big moves from somebody so new," you whisper, carding your fingers through Franco's soft locks.

"I like to make a statement," Franco says with a shrug. He glances up momentarily, something piquing his interest off to the side.

"Is that your camera?"

You crane your neck to see where he's looking and sure enough, your personal DSLR is right there on the bedside drawer. You look back at Franco, an eyebrow raised.

"You wanna use it?" You ask, not expecting him to actually say yes. But a mischievous grin settles on Franco's face and you feel your heart skip several beats.

"Knock yourself out," you say.

Franco reaches for the camera and fiddles with it for a few seconds. His eyes scan over your body and you suddenly feel the urge to hide away with how hard he's looking.

"May I?" Franco asks, brandishing the camera. Your mouth falls open as you realize what he's asking.

"You can keep them for yourself. For your eyes only," Franco hurriedly adds, planting his knees firmly on either side of you.

You stare up at him, a million thoughts running through your mind.

"Just...touch yourself."

You gasp, stunned at his proposal. Franco watches through the LCD monitor, glancing up at you through his lashes. Your bottom lip slips between your teeth, and as if on instinct, your hand inches down slowly between your legs.

"You're in front of cameras all the time," Franco reminds with a smirk. "This should be easy for you."

You suppress a whimper at his words, your fingertips swiping through your slick folds. You're already soaked and you start to wonder if it started even before Franco got here.

The shutter clicks and the lens whirs, sharp against the soft breaths you're letting out. Franco is concentrated, snapping photo after photo as you rub yourself closer to release. But it's not enough. You need more.

"Franco...," you implore, peering up with bright, begging eyes.

"Slowly, mi amor," Franco coos. "Just where you like it. Right there."

Click.

"Harder now, but still slow. Yes? Feels good?"

You whine, eyes fluttering shut as your pleasure picks up again. Several clicks. You're panting now, the tendrils of release wrapping themselves around you.

"Faster, yes, like that," Franco eggs on. Your fingers speed up against your sensitive clit and a litany of Franco's name spills from your lips. Before you know it, he's putting the camera away. You reach for him, gripping the back of his neck as he smashes his lips into yours.

Franco bites down on your lip and you cry out, your orgasm washing over you like a tide. You arch against Franco, feeling his own stiffness heavy on your thigh.

You blink, Franco's face coming into focus, barely an inch from yours. He watches you closely, pupils blown wide and plump lips even redder. You hook your legs around his waist, letting him know that you're not done yet.

Franco is quick to pick up, smiling as lines himself up with you. The groan that escapes him is nothing short of delicious as he pushes himself in. You gasp along, the stretch a welcome sensation.

Franco wastes no time and pounds right into you, catching you by surprise. You let your head fall back against the mattress, a long, drawn-out whine erupting from deep within your chest as Franco licks a stripe up your neck.

Your whole body quakes with how hard he's thrusting into you but you're clearly enjoying it if your wanton moans are anything to go by. Franco meets your eyes and you pull him down, wanting nothing more than to drown in those lips of his.

It's feral and it's unrestrained, spurred on by the knowledge that this is more than unprofessional in your line of work. Not illegal by any means, but risky enough to warrant warnings from your coworkers. Never sleep with a driver unless you're committed.

Oh, well.

Franco groans loudly in your ear, movements losing their rhythm as he speeds up. You're clinging to him as if he'd disappear if you let go, your own belly tightening once more with that familiar feeling.

Franco. Franco. Franco.

He kisses you just as he finishes. Passionate, eager, heady. You feel him inside you, a different kind of elation filling you as you release all over him.

Franco pulls away to allow yourselves to breathe. He pulls out, rolling over to your side. You hug your folded knees to your chest, too lazy to get up and find something to deal with the mess.

"No hagas eso. Eso es demasiado doméstico," Franco jokes, moving closer and planting a kiss to your shoulder. Don't do that. That's too domestic.

"Relájate, estoy usando anticonceptiva," you reassure with a lighthearted roll of your eyes. Relax, I'm on birth control.

Franco hums, laying an arm over you. He pulls you close and you face him, reaching up to brush away some of his unruly hair.

He plants a gentle kiss on your forehead.

"Happy that you're a Formula 1 driver?" You ask, grinning.

Franco chuckles. "Very."

[thelostconsultant]

Puppy love

pairing: Max Verstappen x reader

summary: During his karting days, you were one of his opponents, but outside the track he was just a stupid boy who fell in love with a pretty girl. Now, after all those years, you meet again in the paddock, and he doesn't want you to leave.

note: Yes, Jos is an asshole in this (too).

“Have you seen who jumped in to do the interviews?” Charles asked with a wicked smile when he stopped next to his rival after the race. Max hadn’t really paid attention to these details until now, but now that he was informed there was something he should probably know, he looked around to see where the reporter was. “I haven’t talked to her since your dad ruined her career. But she seems truly happy now.”

That’s when his eyes fell on you, the girl who had been haunting him in his dreams for long years, the one who was glowing while talking to the cameraman. He wanted to object, he wanted to say “my dad didn’t ruin her career, she just decided to quit,” but the way you had left certainly hinted at a possible connection between the two events. Because his father’s outburst took place a week before he found out you weren’t coming back to race, and you didn’t even try to contact him ever again. 

What made it real hard was the fact he knew you were left heartbroken, and it wasn’t racing that you missed. His mother called your parents to ask them about you, and they said you had been crying in your room for days, but when the option for a call from Max came up, they were quick to shut it down. They said it would be easier for you to move on if he didn’t show up in your life again, and he couldn’t help but blame himself for everything that happened. 

If he hadn’t fallen in love with you, if he hadn’t met you on a vacation, if his father hadn’t found out he loved someone, maybe you would still be racing. He remembered your bright smile that was present even after a tough race, and your good mood that was often highly contagious. The boys you raced against loved you dearly, mostly because you brought a different energy into their little boys’ club.

“Max, you’re next,” he was told all of a sudden. 

He wasn't ready to face you, but there was no escape. What he had to do now was force a smile on his face and act like he was talking to someone else, someone whose presence didn't affect him half as much as yours did. But the moment he stopped in front of you and noticed a strange glint in your eyes, he had to focus on breathing in and out while you asked your first question.

After the camera was turned off, he cautiously watched you to see if you were planning to approach him, or if you seemed open to the possibility of him doing that. When you looked at him with a smile and said goodbye to the cameraman, he walked over to you with his hand folded behind his back.

“It's nice to see you here,” he said with a small, cautious smile. You nodded, but Max could see behind the cheerful look on your face, he could tell you were tense. “If I'm bothering you, just say it.”

You took a deep breath, and soon your smile changed, and it was now showing a lot more sadness. “It's been a while, that's all. Talking to you in person brings back different memories,” you admitted.

“Good or bad ones?”

Following a shrug, you folded your arms over your chest and looked down at your shoes. “Compared to the ones that come back when I see you or Charles on TV? Bad,” you finally replied. 

Max gulped upon hearing this, feeling guilty despite knowing he had done nothing wrong, that whatever happened back in the day was the result of a series of decisions made by your parents. If it was up to him, he would have kept in touch with you, doing his best to see where this puppy love would lead the two of you. Maybe you would have broken up after he got into F1, maybe you would be married by now. It was a question he had no answer to.

The best he could do now was trying to make you understand this, making you see that he wanted to fix things now, even if you would be nothing more than friends. Sure, he had no idea how much you had changed over the years, but he knew there was only one way to find out. “I know it means very little after all these years, but I’m sorry,” he said to break the deafening silence.

You nodded, then to his surprise, took a step closer to him. “I know it wasn’t your fault. My parents told me what happened exactly eventually.”

He watched you closely, trying to figure out if you were interested in a proper conversation, maybe later in private. But before he could speak up, Charles walked over to the two of you and wrapped an arm around your shoulder with a big smile on his face. “It’s been so long,” he said happily, earning a shy smile and a barely visible shake of your head from you.

Max bit the inside of his cheek, annoyed by the sudden appearance of the Ferrari driver, but the main problem was a vivid memory from his childhood. While him and Charles had gone for blood on the track and didn’t have the best relationship off it either, you and the Monegasque were on very good terms, with you even visiting him and his family in his home. It didn’t bother him until his brain finally caught up with his feelings and he realized he had a crush on you, because then he felt intense jealousy every time his rival laid a finger on you, even if it was nothing more than a friendly pat on the shoulder.

You then suddenly moved to give him a hug, and seeing the way Charles wrapped his arms around you made his blood boil, even if he knew deep down that he had no right to be jealous. But it was painfully obvious that the two of you were talking to each other, keeping your voices down as much as you could in the noise around you, and he couldn’t help but wonder what it was all about.

Then he finally let go of you and said goodbye, although the two of you agreed to have dinner in Italy next week to catch up. Max took a deep breath and thought about what to say, but before he could come up with anything, an official came over to drag him to the cooldown room, so all he could do was apologize and say goodbye, wishing he could see you again next week. According to Charles you were supposed to be there in Monza, which meant he would have the chance to talk to you.

To properly talk to you and possibly find out more about your life after you quit racing.

He knew in the cooldown room they were supposed to talk about the race, but all he could think about was asking Charles what you talked about, what was so secretive that no one else could hear it? So, in the end he didn’t say much, he just watched the recap of the race and discussed what he saw if it was standing out. Even while standing on the podium, his eyes scanned the crowd under them, trying to find you as if he was playing Where’s Wally?

On the way home, he spent his time browsing your social media accounts, and he couldn’t help but wonder why he had never checked them. On X, you were posting about F1 news, commenting on them as a journalist, while on Instagram you focused on sharing more personal posts, like photos of your holiday, your hobbies, or yourself in the paddock. There had been so many of those, how come he hadn’t met you before?

Having a glimpse into your life felt so nice that he hadn’t realized he had scrolled back a few years. Well, not until it turned out he accidentally liked a few of your old photos. If you hadn’t seen the notifications, he wouldn’t have noticed that. But you saw them and weren’t shy to send him a DM about it.

The next few days passed with him regularly checking his DMs to see if you wrote to him again, if you changed your mind and decided to have dinner with him, but there was nothing, so he was forced to wait for the perfect opportunity to talk to you in the paddock in Italy. How he would find you in the flurry of people was a mystery, although he had a fleeting idea that maybe their PR team could help him get a hold of you. Not like that could work, a request like this would certainly give them a stroke, assuming he was planning to give a random interview.

His heart skipped a beat when he noticed you at the press conference, talking to some of the drivers behind the cameras. Your eyes were shining brightly, your smile lit up the room around you, and Max felt like he had been taken back to his childhood when all the boys at their karting races swarmed around you to get a scrap of your attention. But those were hormone-driven teenagers, while these guys were grown men, many of them in serious relationships, so he knew it wasn’t entirely the same situation.

This time Max made sure he could stick around after the interviews, hoping to get a hold of you once you were done. He approached you after everyone left and you decided to chat with someone from the crew. He cleared his throat nervously, subconsciously expecting you to yell at him, to tell him to leave you alone. But your poker face was perfect, because you turned to him with a kind smile and acted like you were ready to have a pleasant chat with him. The crew member left you alone, so only the two of you were left there. 

“You either don’t understand the word no, or you just learned to completely ignore it because you always get what you want,” you said with a sigh, the smile long gone by now. 

He let the last part of the comment go past his ear, instead he just took a deep breath and began to massage the back of his neck. “Can’t we have a pleasant conversation? Just put everything aside, forget about our shared past, and let’s treat this as a chance for a fresh start.”

You watched him with a thoughtful hum for a while, then nodded. “All right. What would you like to talk about?” you asked with a curious look in your eyes. 

“Us.”

“There’s no such thing as us.”

“Too bad, because that’s exactly what I want,” he was quick to inform you, mentally kicking himself for being this straightforward, even if it was true. Because he wanted to see if you would be interested in the 2.0 version of your relationship, the chance to see how your young love would work out in your adult lives. “Are you seeing anyone?”

For a moment you hesitated, but then you shook your head. “No. I don’t really have the time for that,” you replied honestly. Before Max could speak up again, though, you began to talk once more. “But I’m a reporter here, dating a driver would be… unethical. I can’t play favorites,” you explained. 

Max took a quick look around, then gently placed a hand on your cheek. “We can figure that out later. Let’s focus on step one, which is going on a first date. Tonight? We can turn to room service to help us out if you don’t want to meet somewhere public,” he told you. 

“So you want me all to yourself in your hotel room?” you asked with a teasing smile. 

He was sure as hell he blushed, because the idea of what you were suggesting hadn’t occurred to him. Having you alone in his hotel room wasn’t something he consciously planned out, he only wanted to meet you somewhere away from the curious eyes. “It’s not like that,” he told you defensively. 

“I know, don’t worry. Send me the when and where,” you said as you patted his shoulder. “See you later, Max.”

Nodding, he watched as you walked away from him. He didn’t say a word–no, he couldn’t say a word. His brain was too busy replaying the way his name rolled off your tongue, that sweet, soft tone of your voice as you said goodbye. With his mind still lost in a pink haze, he returned to their motorhome to gather his things and call it a day. He couldn’t wait to meet you, that was all he could focus on. 

A few hours later he was sitting on the edge of his bed, his foot nervously tapping on the floor while he waited. You could be here any minute, and waiting was the worst part. Well, maybe the conversation wouldn’t be that much better, but he could still hope for the best. So when half an hour later there was a knock on his door, his lips curled into a wide smile and he rushed over there to let you in. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I was held up in the media center,” you apologized the moment the door closed behind you. 

Max had to take a deep breath to calm himself. You being close to him again brought back feelings he thought he had long forgotten, and he wanted to give you a kiss, a soft kiss to test the waters with you. But he had to behave, he had no idea where the two of you were standing right now. “It’s okay, don’t worry. So, dinner?” he asked after a short break, giving you a smile. 

Food seemed to get you in the mood to chat, because as the two of you enjoyed the various dishes he ordered, you started to tell him about your life after everything that had happened back then. You finished high school like a normal kid, went to college to study journalism, and you managed to get jobs at various places that were related to motorsports, especially F1. That was your dream, to once work with this world, but you were quick to clarify knowing he made it here didn’t give you the idea. 

He tried to hide the cocky smirk that wanted to show up on his face, because he was sure what you said weren’t true. A voice in the back of his mind told him you wanted to see him again, that you wanted to get back what had been taken from the two of you all those years ago. After all, why wouldn’t he think that? It didn’t take much convincing to get you to meet him tonight. And if he was delusional? At least it was a nice thought. 

It was then his turn to talk, so he told you stories that you had probably never heard, about himself, about the grid, about everything, really. If you asked questions about his family, you focused on his sister and mother, but you were mostly interested in his cats and hobbies. As you told him, you couldn’t understand how he ended up being such a cat dad, but it certainly suited him. 

“Charles said he doesn’t get murderous thoughts about you several times a day lately,” you suddenly noted with a short laugh. 

Clearing his throat, Max tilted his head to the side. “You talked to him?” he asked casually. 

You nodded and took another bite of your pasta. “Yeah, we had dinner yesterday. I remember how the two of you were back then, I was wondering what the situation was now,” you said with a shrug. 

A wide grin crept on his face upon hearing this. “So you asked him about me.”

“It was just one question, don’t get too cocky,” you pointed out with a roll of your eyes. “But I’m glad you kinda get along now. It’s nice to see that.”

Max flashed a smile at you, then returned his attention to his dinner. For a while you both ate in silence, but then you got rid of the plates and he found himself wondering what to do next. So he just looked down at his hand and moved it closer to yours, letting his little finger brush against yours as if you were back in your teenage years. You let out a laugh when you noticed, and you looked at him with a kind smile. You weren’t as cold as you had been earlier today, now you seemed to have warmed up to him, ready to give him a chance to show you what he wanted. 

So, he took a deep breath and leaned in to kiss you, cautiously moving his lips against yours to make sure he didn’t scare you away. It took you a few seconds, but you eventually eased into the kiss, one of your hands even moving up to his face to keep him close. He couldn’t hold back a quiet chuckle that drew a questioning hum out of you. Max shook his head, then he dived in to kiss you again, but at the same time he let his hand wander under your shirt, even though he could have expected what happened next. 

Because you pulled away and pushed his hand away from your body. “Stop, don’t… I shouldn’t even be here, I should just go, and–”

“Hey, hey, hey, don’t do this, don’t push me away. I’m sorry. If you want to slow down, that’s exactly what we’re gonna do, okay?” he asked you, his voice desperate. For a minute or two you remained completely silent, you were just watching him with doe eyes, as if you were trying to process what just happened. “Please, just stay,” he said quietly.

You hesitantly took his hand and gulped loudly as you gathered your thoughts. “Listen, it’s complicated. I already told you, I shouldn’t date drivers, but,” you began, but fell silent without finishing the sentence. 

Max cupped your face and rested his forehead against yours. “One step at a time, all right? We’ll figure out if this could even work between us, then we’ll decide how to move on,” he said with a soft smile. When you nodded, he kissed your nose. “Good. Do you want to stay with me and cuddle a little, or would you rather go?”

“We just cuddle, right?” you asked with a thin voice. When he nodded, you let out a soft sigh. “Okay, just for a little while, then I’ll leave.”

But you didn’t leave. The next morning he woke up to you sleeping soundly with your head on his chest, snoring softly while you were lost in your dream world. Max couldn’t stop grinning, he was way too excited and happy to keep a straight face. It felt so nice, so natural, that he wondered how long you would be against it. You clearly wanted this as much as he did, but if you needed time, he was willing to give it to you.

As you lay there, he remembered that vacation all those years ago, when your parents not-so-accidentally bumped into his mom. His first date in a local cinema, watching a movie that was dubbed and neither of you could fully understand it. His first kiss in that movie theater with a girl that was special enough to catch his attention. The way you fell asleep with your head on his shoulder one night when your parents talked a little too long in a restaurant on the beach. 

And he was hell-bent on going back to that town to experience everything again as adults. All he needed was you softening enough to let him take care of you in front of the whole world.

[cu7ie]

💋 big mouth ☆ ～('▽^人)

⠀⠀✿`` content warnings : gojo can't shut up. cervix fucking. switch reader and gojo. (gojo gets dommy at the end.) porn w/o plot. dirty talking, throat fucking, handjob, face humping, a lot of cum bc i said so nyeh nyeh, oral (dick-sucking/pussy licking), big dick gojo (and he knows it), reader has experience, gojo a little less so. stamina, gojo has it, you don't. cursing (lots of it). name-calling (both sides), afab reader. raw sex minors do not interact! 3.8k words Y'ALL.

⠀⠀✿`` author note : gojo cock is good. based as fuck please talk to me about gojo cock <3 also i fr think hes so annoying hes never quiet!! in my mind he so blah blah blah blah blah during sex . even if he dont like u he blah blah blah. also if you like my porn, reblog it! oh yeah!!! and leave comments omg... this fic got so away from me, idk how long it is its just so much fucking porn- also! @enchantedforest-network partner! join us hehehe

Gojo has a bit of a talking problem.

He's a blabbermouth at the best of times, and maybe in any other situation would you appreciate his insight. He's good at making mountains out of molehills, take your nothing and make it something; even when it's as mundane as the weather, he'll draw up his own storyboard and play all the different actors - reporter, news anchor, cameraman and "Satoru, coming to us live with the forecast,"

and at first it's charming, right? It's what endears most people to him; what attracted you in some respects. Bordering on bit of a god complex, Gojo's always been effortlessly confident; disarmingly charming; handsome to the point of aggravation. He's never a dull moment, always gives it his all, extra even when he's lazy.

But you thought maybe, just maybe,

if you shunt his pants down till they bunch around his ankles, and licked his cock from shaft to tip,

would he shut up then? Would he allow you a moment of silence (relative, because the sound of you sucking all up on his dick is decidedly extremely loud) to let your hair down, let your head bob back and forth, tongue slurping on the underside of his cock while your lips are wrapped firmly round the middle of his shaft?

"You really like sucking my dick, don't you?"

No. The answer is no.

His face has broken out into a smile, and you don't know if he's giggling out of incredulousness or nervousness - but you are surprised that all his blood hasn't gone to his dick, cause his cheeks are red. His hand cradles the back of your head graciously, sweat sliding down his nose because he has to crane his neck to ogle you.

"C'mon. You can take more of it inta your mouth - suck. Fucking suck." His hips shifty as you work your way towards the base of his shaft, and you chose to ignore the comment, what with cock in your mouth and all. He's gotten mouthy before, not like this, but it's nothing you can't handle.

See, Gojo's kinda ... easy. He can act all hard to get - er, mysterious and what not, but he's like any other aloof man with a pretty face. Afraid of gettin' close and not knowin' what to do with it. It, you know, -

And you do, but he keeps fucking up your rhythm by trying to fuck your hand. You give full strokes, rotating your wrist and pumping steady and quick, trying to look Gojo in his eyes as you're doing it, where as his gaze is dead set on your point of contact. "You're just a dog aren'tcha? Hump, hump, humpin', away." Your smile curling at the corners, at how easily he's giving himself to you. He's dripping pre,

His fat fucking cock. Thigh clenching, pussy watering, eye-widening kind of fat. Shit is so big can't even hold itself up, so you tell him "I can hold that for you," and he pants out as he nods rapidly, "Yes, please do." You get to jerking his cock and he's a whiny little bitch. "Faster" this, "More" that, moving your hand up and down his cock like you don't know what you're doing.

"Back up Satoru, I got this."

"Look at you - you're fucking panting."

And you think you'll get away with it. Get just grunt or a sigh in response. But of course his motorboat mouth starts going on...

"Yuh ... you're good, but, " He attempts nonchalance in a cherry tomato cosplay. Red red red all over. "You're holding out on me..." His tongue lolls at you playfully, and you decide anything not singing your praises wasn't worth hearing. He opens his mouth to say something else.

Your stutter your stroke (effectively cutting him off,) working your way to the head and massaging it between your thumb and forefinger. Sweat is pouring from Gojo's forehead. He's hiking his leg further apart on the couch so you have more space to touch him, your body snaking over his thigh, getting close enough for him to be able to feel your steady breaths on his cock. "Fuck! Stop - haah.." He groans like you're working him. You most definitely are. "Stop teasing.."

"A blowjob?" You purse your lips, ponder it over. "Think you'll be able to make it to the fucking?" Your breathing gets closer, and you feel him throb in your hand. "You sure seem excited! Just don't blow your load down my throat, save it for my pussy." You're teasing, licking your lips and pressing a sloppy kiss to his mushroom head. You could swear it'd gotten a little harder than before.

Only in those moments could you have recognized you gave the man a little too much power. When your pillowy, spit slicked lips wrapped around his throbbing cockhead, licking up the pre on your eager tongue, looking down and breathing deeply through your nose. He can hardly keep himself from lifting his hips and trying to pop through the other side of your throat with the damn thing!

Now, he's just a boy too big for his damn britches. He knows you give good head because of the way you move your tongue and jerk off whatever you can't reach, but it's not good enough head. He's big, sure, but for someone who talks like they fuck n' suck on the regular, something about the performance is feeling a wee bit lackluster...

And while you're busy thinking about how you got here, he's impatiently jutting his hips against your face.

"You listening to me?" His finger teasingly taps at your forehead, getting you out of your train of thought. "Don't tell me - I've already fucked your brains out? Maybe you're just a lil' cock-drunk. Got a remedy for that..."

He thrusts his hips and the rest of his dick tucks itself snugly into your wet warm mouth, head brushing past your uvula and nestling comfortably in your throat. You can't see the way your throat bulged a little, but you most definitely feel it. You make a noise, half-choke-half-whine, and he laughs gaily at the way his balls pap your chin. "Ah? You said something?" He peers down curious, your nose mingling well with the fluffy little hairs at the base of his cock.

You don't forget to breathe, although your eyes tear a little from his size. Your jaw and throat are being stretched to capacity, but you remind yourself 'through your nose'. It's fine for a bit longer - you bob up and down in relatively uninterrupted peace, til Gojo's hand on the back of your head gets a little too comfortable. "Just a little more... suck a little harder..."

Your face burns and you clutch at it, staring at him your the gaps in your fingers as he tucks into your pussy like it's supper. He's alright at it. He doesn't do it like all he's seen is shitty porn - he's really ... getting in there, actually. Oooh.... Ohh..

He starts trying to take over your flow, his grip firm enough to start bobbing your head up and down all on his own. Like your throat is just some fleshy, tight hole to fuck. Kinda makes your pussy drool, but that's besides the point. "Oh fuck.."

You moan and take it. Let him hump up into your mouth as his musk sorta clogs your nose. He's moaning so loud it drowns out most other cohesive thoughts in your mind, the plumpness of his balls cushioning your chin a little every time he tugs your head down. He's muttering stuff you can barely hear over the sound of sucking.

"Pretty baby. Here's to hoping you'll never suck anyone else's dick this good again.... holy shit..."

Eventually his grip lets up a little. It allows you more freedom in your movement for a bit. Though your jaw starts hurting sooner than later, so you give his balls a little pinch and he finally lets you up to take in a big good gulp of air.

His voice is a little shaky. "That was ... fuck ... that was nice." Your voice is a little raw, more croaky when you respond, "Just nice?" flicking his balls in irritation as you take huffing breaths. His cock twitches, shiny and coated in saliva, your drool dripping down over his sack - altogether one of your prettier pictures. "Y'know... what'd make that blowjob just a bit better?" He breathes like he missed oxygen, his sigh half content and mostly wheedling as one hand creeps towards the base of his cock, and his other gets comfy on your ass.

"You wanna fuck, Satoru?" He feigns a gasp, his mouth popping into a little surprised 'o' shape. His face can't belie his excitement, his palms clasping together almost comically before he realizes what he's doing and stops.

"Where could you have ever got that idea from...?" He says, jerking his cock a little and pointing it up to the sky. "Get over here." He pats your cheek with it. You're not against the idea, but Gojo hasn't impressed you enough yet. You poke it away with your finger, sitting up and shuffling out of your underwear. There's enough space on the couch that you can flop onto your back, looking at Gojo from between your legs, pussy pretty and glistening with your arousal.

The way he looks at you makes you squeeze down on absolutely nothing. Flustered yet wild like an animal, apprehensive like he's never sucked a clit before.

"Head first, then we fuck."

"Oh?" Gojo starts fighting to get his shirt off his head, scampering forward so fast he nearly falls into your pussy lips. "Easy boy! Down, down..." You mutter, his fingers digging into your thighs and spreading them clumsily. The aforementioned effortless confidence of Gojo seems to break away into something more sincere and somber when he lowers himself down to kiss your clit. The way he chooses to maintain eye contact throughout makes your heart flutter, and you get a bit of slick on his lips on accident.

His tongue darts over it. "Itadakimasu."

"Oh my fucking god..." Your chest almost deflates at how serious he is, nodding like he's bowing before going in with his tongue.

"Mmf..." Your sigh flutters out of you, becoming a full blown moan as his mouth firmly suctions over your clit and little labia, licking firmly and decisively. Like all of a sudden he knows what he's doing. His attention is most often directed towards your clit, suckling on it and making your thighs twitch. You push them against the side of his head but he forces you to spread them wider again, just to fuck a finger or two into you first.

Your pussy makes a little schlick noise, readily accepting him in the hot warmth of your cunt. "That's a good sign.." He meanderingly strokes his chin. "Take dick that well too?" Your head perks up, teasing underlined with irritation.

"Course. Now suck please, I liked you more with a mouth full." You smile shakily and Gojo seems to laugh in kind. Your smile is cut off by a gasp and shudder as Satoru firmly presses his finger into your wall, lifting his mouth to get a better look at your pussy as he's stretching it open. "M'sorry, did I cut you off?"

He licks the remnants of you from his damp lips, two fingers slowly thrusting in and out. All you can do is sigh, one legs flopped off the couch and the other slung over the back of it. He's alright at this. Not as good as him giving head, but it's not terrible either. Maybe you just like seeing him be quiet for more than a second.

His fingers feel like they're looking for something. First he's pushing down, and when you only grunt in response, he starts gently feeling around for that little pocket of sunshine...

"Up." You whimper, aroused but irritated with his finagling. Your hand slides down the front of your stomach, pressing softly on a spot right before your lips start and where your hair would begin to grow. "Around th-there... You got thaat?-" If his grin is anything to go by, he most certainly does. First he presses up into it like it's a button, which makes you squeak and yelp and clutch the couch, bracing for impact. Then he slowly opts you into the pleasure, trying to apply the right kind of pressure to massage a couple moans out of you, your juices coating his hand and dripping to his wrist.

"Oh, oh.." He winks cheekily as you sling your leg over his lap, positioning his cock till it's brushing up against your pretty lips, pre-cum dripping from the head of his cock as your warmth beckons him further. "...save a horse..." He sighs happily as you sink down onto him.

"Hey - don't turn my couch into a slip n' slide now." You groan, clenching down on his fingers like you mean to squeeze the life out of them. "Need - I need more." You snort when he tries to go for a third finger. He clues in quick.

"Dick? I gotchu, don't even worry about that." He tries to slide atop you to complete this jigsaw, but you got a different idea in making these pieces all fit. You push him backwards with your foot a little, getting up off your back in one motion. He backs up to allow you space, clocked in to your movements just a tad.

"Oh my God Satoru." You groan out as the tip of his cock stretches you out, your pussy sucking him up so so greedily, like you'd been waiting all night. "What... don't like my banter babe?" Gojo grunts and your brows furrow, his hand jumping to your hips and steading you when you swoon.

"N-no... Just ... aaaah .." You squeeze his shaft and he actually honest to god chokes on air. "Just - oh fuck - just shut up for a sec. Let me have thissss..." You're halfway down now, Gojo gently coaxing you further and starting to rock his hips.

Pulling up with ease and sliding down further on his fat shaft with effort, Gojo stretches you open so good your legs keep trembling, your breathing hurried even after a couple minutes - and while Gojo seems to be enjoying himself (very, very much so), he's smiling up at you and your effort, very plainly amused. Sweat starting to trickle down your forehead, you're sat wondering what's so funny.

"Yeah yeah yeah. Go on - I'm definitely not stopping you." He sighs deep, his head lolling over the couch as you start lifting yourself up and down, your hand reaching up and going for your nipples. He's too focused on your wet pussy to pay you mind for a bit, but then he's drawn to them, hypnotized. He pulls on your left with his fingers, nibbles on your right with his teeth.

"Oh!" Gojo's blue eyes flick up, wrinkled at the corners. "Mno teef?" He says, still attached to your nipple. The vibration makes you laugh, more of his cock pressing into you as your muscles relax. "Teeth is ... teeth is fine." Gojo resumes his plucking. He lets you use his cock a little like a dildo. In fact, he kind of reminds you of a perfect Ken doll. Smooth muscles you can run your hands over, nice built shoulders, pornstar dick...

"Nuffin..." He mumbles around your areola, going back to sucking and scheming. Whatever. You focus on bouncing on this cock.

...

Opting to do most of the work probably wasn't the best decision. Your legs are championing through, but you're pretty tired, and after figuring out Gojo's dick is big enough to meet your cervix you've been having the time of your life. Sometimes you get too tired to lift yourself, so Gojo is oh-so-very helpful in grinding up into you, smearing his little pre-cum kisses up against your cervix.

"I'll even do all the work." His grin was smarmy, but you didn't clock it at the time. It's cute and still makes your pussy throb, so "Go," you say. "Go off, babe."

You're gonna cum soon. Gojo notices how tight you get when it's about to happen. His take over is a little subtle, but you're so interested in reaching that stiff peak, that tightening in your stomach, just chasing, chasing, chasing,

Gojo thinks, "like a dog." He smirks into your chest. Your cursing abruptly cuts into his thoughts, however -

"Shit! - fuck fuck fuck - ugh!" Every word is punctuated by a last effort of raising and falling, raising and falling, raising, and then being pulled. Gojo tugs your hips down and your pussy spasms as your body jerks.

"Satoru!" You yelp reflexively before something like a whimper weasels itself from your lips. You tighten around Gojo and it hurts a little because he's so thick, but you moan into his shoulder unbothered. A little broken, voice horse, but mostly unbothered. Til he starts moving his hips again.

"The fuck?" You stutter, a little caught off guard as you're suddenly shifted, up and down not from your own movement, but Gojo's rabid humping. "I'm almost there - soo close - can we keep goin', pretty please?" He grinds his hips into your orgasm terribly slowly, trying to get your brain to clock into overtime.

He carefully saws himself in, making your back arch at the sensation. He slides your knees apart and holds the back of them firmly, tugging you the rest of the way onto him. The meandering pace of sex before is tossed to the side.

And regret isn't quite the right word, but you'll feel something a little like it in a second.

"Whatever you say."

Your body is boneless, so it's pretty easy for Gojo to scoop you up, though it doesn't surprise you any less. Says there's not enough space on the couch for him to spread his wings, so he lugs you back to his cozy little room, and plops you onto his bed. Towards the edge of it, so your legs dangle off as he positions himself in front of you, holding his cock at the base - which now looks angrier than before. Instead of the blushy pink dusting it at the tip, it's a deeper, aggravated red now - slapping against your cunt like this motherfucker has places to be. "Open uppp~"

You were fucking Gojo before. Now he's fucking you. Any apprehension, slow-to-start bashfulness, gone with the wind. Once the head pushes past your entrance, a good five inches of cock go alongside it immediately after. Gojo's hiking your legs onto his shoulder's as he watches your eyes suddenly blow wider than saucers, laughing genuinely at the break in your nonchalance and worn facade.

"I should have answered you properly earlier." He says, brushing a stand of sweat slicked hair away from your forehead. He leans down so close, lips a little touch and go, the intention in his eye serious and cutting. With the movement, the last couple inches of cock fill you out, making you eep! But not breaking his focus in the slightest. "I want to fuck." He drags his hips molasses like, till the head is back at your entrance. He slides it back in smoothly, earnest chuckle overshadowed by your pitchy whimper.

"But I assume you got the memo - so," The sound of skin slapping against skin resumes, his pace almost breakneck. His balls slap against your ass with such ferocity it makes you yelp the first time, whimper the second, moan the third. Gojo seems more serious now, the balls in his court and the way you squeal and reach out for anything to hold only spurs him on further.

And are promptly cut off by a vigorous pounding, the sounds of your own moans, and an downright visceral embarrassment when you realize this is the second time you're cumming and in spite of all your fucking and sucking, Satoru hasn't even came once. And as if hearing your thoughts, Gojo's playful expression closes in - his brow furrows as each roll of his hips gets more decisive.

"Pussy tryna close up shop?" He mutters near your ear when you clench on him a little too tight. "You tryna break my dick or something? I know it's good, but you can't keep it -" You don't know if your sigh is from pleasure or exasperation.

"Gojo, please." He tweaks your nipple and makes you squirm.

"Ohhhh, I see how it issss. It's Gojo now?" With every drag of his words he slows down dramatically, dragging his cock along your walls so painstakingly sensual it makes you want to scream. "What happened to Satoru?"

You start placatingly. "Satoru, I-"

After a moment, his hand comes over yours, your fingers weakly folding over his. His pumps grow harder, but slow down, his eyes clamped shut as he looks up, and -

"I'll try to make this one a two-fer." He speaks with that same smile in his voice, and you're two far gone to offer a groan or snap in response. "Y-yeah. Cum, Satoru - I wanna, I wanna cum," His eyes dart up to yours, and it's a little hard to hold his stare, but you manage.

"Yes yes pretty baby. You'll - we'll cum. Soon... real s-soon."

Your muscles feel tired, used from your last orgasm and forced to prolong operation just to take more dick. It's harder to take the full length of his shaft, your tummy flipping and your mind beyond fuzzy and fucked out. But you hold out. Just a little bit ... longer.

His thrusts start getting sloppy. The bruising piston of his hips edge off their intensity, and -

You're cumming again. Your legs are shaking and your ass feels a little numb and you're clenching so so so hard, for dear fucking life-

"Fucking hell!" Gojo bites his tongue, and pumps into you for the last time.

"Good." You gasp. "That was good." Satoru runs a thumb over your clit, teasing.

He heaves sighs like he's moved mountains, but really he's just offloading hot cum from his throbbing nuts, pressed into you very closely before going entirely still. You thought you were full before? Now you're kind of... bursting. Is that the right word? Feels that way. Gojo does a full body shudder and stretches his back out, trying to fuck his load you before he's even came it all out.

There's so much that it spurts around the sides of his dick and you can feel some of it slip out, run down your thighs, and you quiver one last time before feeling strength leave your body. Satisfaction blankets over you, a nice, full-bodied comfort. When Gojo slides out, he spurts a little cum on your tummy, the rest of it oozing out of you slow.

"Haha," His voice is a little raspy, like yours now. He arches a brow before he bends down, planting a loving kiss on your lips.

"Just good?"

[f0point5]

i NEED jealous Max. Please 🥺🥺🥺 I love jealous/possessive guys haha the feminism just leaves my body

Me too! GOD. Me, too.

It took me ages to decide how to go about this because I had soooo many ideas but I hope you like it!

✨set during the Miami GP weekend 2022✨

Everybody wants you, but I don’t like a gold rush

Max glances down at his watch. 17 minutes. 17 minutes you’ve been standing in the gallery area of the garage, fanning yourself with a magazine - with Max’s face on the front of it, no less - in the Miami heat, talking to some freakishly tall guy in a Louis Vuitton denim jacket and aviator sunglasses. He’s so painfully American that Max wonders what you even have to talk about for…eighteen minutes.

You tighten your high ponytail while Paul Bunyon talks, his mouth wide with every word. Max studies your face for any sign that you’re bored. He’s bored of watching this, but he knows from experience that not looking isn’t a real option. You haven’t looked over at him once in those eighteen minutes, in fact you haven’t even been distracted by the mechanics moving around or the noise of drilling and clattering tools.

This guy must be really fucking interesting.

You smile at something Captain America says and Max feels his jaw clenched so hard he thinks a tooth is going to crack.

It’s like he’s thirteen again, watching you stand in the middle of the makeshift paddock at the karting track, swarmed by every one of his competitors, their parents packing up their stuff as they vie for your attention. He was the only one who stayed away, following his dad’s instructions on how to properly dismantle and store things while sneaking glimpses at the show you were running. He would win every race and still go home feeling like a loser.

It’s different now, of course. He doesn’t take your gregarious nature so personally now, and he can admit he understands what men see in you now, even if he doesn’t feel it. But he’d be lying if he said it doesn’t trigger something in him to see the way men react to you. It might irritate him less if you enjoyed it, but you’ve long since grown out of that. Now, you expect it so much that you ignore it, and Max has no choice to but to notice it, the same way you’d notice a rusty knife embedded in your side.

“You’re not listening to me, are you?” GP says, which snaps Max out of his calculations.

“I’m listening,” Max says, fiddling with the brim of his cap. “Drive fast, win race, I got it,”

GP frowns at his dismissive tone, and Max makes a point of looking at his water bottle, lest GP realise what actually had his attention. “Max, you need to focus. What are you even-“ It’s the sound of your laugh - high pitched over the deep bass of the music - that makes GP look across the garage. His features twist in disapproval as he turns back to Max. “You’ve got to be kidding me,”

Max looks down at his shoes, moving his foot as he inspects them. “What?”

Above him, GP groans. “I’m not going to say anything about the situation as a whole, because it’s waste of my time. But specifically now, she’s right there, she’s not going anywhere. Can we please just go through this once and then you can carry on staring?”

Max rolls his eyes, steeling his face as a cameraman enters the garage. He’s wearing a Red Bull shirt so Max doesn’t mind too much, but he can’t be captured looking as morose as he feels. The cameraman pans past him and onto you and the guest. Max watches you cringe as the guy throws up some hand sign to the camera, clearly at home with the media attention.

“Who even is that?” Max asks, unable to hide his rancour. He’s probably going to be forced to take a picture with Popeye later.

“I don’t know, some American football player?” GP says with a shrug, giving Max a helpless look. GP couldn’t give less of a shit about the celebrity guests touted around the gargae, and normally Max is his ally. “Are we done?”

Max nods, but not even a second later he’s looking again. It gets worse the more you talk, he can see this guy becoming more enchanted by the second. He wonders what kind of steroids they take in American sports leagues because the meathead is acting like a dog in heat. He leans towards you at an angle that is wholly unnecessary, his eyes fixated on your mouth, nodding too emphatically at everything you say.

“My God, why doesn’t he just lick her face,” Max says incredulously, more to himself than anything.

“Max,” GP sighs.

“Come on,” Max implores with a scoff, stopping himself from outright gesturing in your direction. “Look at him. That’s embarrassing,”

GP fixes Max with a deadpan expression. “Right, but you being sulky and jealous is the height of cool?”

“I’m not jealous.”

And he isn’t. Because Joe DiMaggio over there doesn’t have anything he wants. He’s not going to waste time being jealous of a guy getting half an hour with you when he has cats, and a home, and a life with you.

Finally, you look in his direction, but only because GP calls your name. “Can you come here?”

You give GP a thumbs up and excuse yourself, trotting over to Max without a second thought. Wannabe Tom Brady brazenly enjoys the view, and Max swears he hasn’t been that close to punching someone since Monza last year.

“What’s up?” You ask, slotting yourself between the two men as you lean back against the shelf.

GP hands you his phone. “Beat this Candy Crush level for me, would you? Been stuck for days,”

You look at him skeptically, but years of being filmed up close by cameras on the pit wall have given GP a hell of a poker face; he just stares back at you, and you give up with a huff.

“Men are hopeless,” you say with a roll of your eyes.

“Couldn’t agree more,” GP says, his eyes pointedly on Max, who can’t even defend himself.

Desperate to avoid GP’s scrutiny, he glances over at the gallery, only to find the Yank looking at him. Well, not him, you. He’s got that curious expression as he assesses you fiddling with GP’s phone, one that says he’s trying to understand if he has something to be worried about. He doesn’t. You’re not his to worry about.

“Here,” Max says, pulling off his cap. You barely look up at him before he puts his cap firmly on your head, holding it steady with one hand while pulling your ponytail through the hole at the back with the other.

The brim of the hat obscures half your face, and Max turns so that half your body is shielded by his, which he tells himself is in case a camera comes by.

“It’s sunny,” Max shrugs in his own defence, when he notices you looking at him with a raised eyebrow.

You adjust the cap on your head but don’t take it off. “Why don’t you just give me your letterman jacket?”

“My what?”

“Never mind,” you chuckle, shaking your head at him as you pat his chest with an indulgent smile.

He takes the opportunity at the sound of a large wheel gun to glance over at the gallery, only to meet the eyes of the guy you were talking to. Now that you’re no longer next to him, Max does sort of recognise him. He plays for some team named after an animal. Max just looks at him - he’ll do this all day if he has to - until the guy shoves his hands in his pockets and pulls out his phone, starting to tap away. Yeah, go back to Raya.

Good riddance, Max thinks to himself as he turns back to you, only to find that you already looking at him. He wonders for how long.

He can tell by your smirk that he’s been caught. If he’s honest with himself you caught him five years ago, this was just one of the few moments he let you know it. And you know it. How could you not know?

He thinks for a second that you’re going to tease him, but you don’t. You shift on your feet so that some of your weight rests against his arm, and go back to playing on GP’s phone.

“Go on, GP,” he says, fighting a smile at the large number 1 on the brim of what is now your hat.

He knows from the way GP is looking at him that he’ll get an earful about this later, but right now, he just clears his throat.

“Right, so,”

[fanfictionismyaddiction]

Toto Wolff with wife reader. Doing a hot lap together with him driving. (You choose which circuit) Thanks!! :)(

Hold on tight

Word count: 1.1k

Pairing: Toto Wolff x wife!reader

Summary: Toto and Y/N Wolff’s Nürburgring hot lap showcases Y/N’s hilarious reactions to Toto’s driving, with Jack adding his adorable excitement.

Because I thought it was very similar to the other Fics I’ve written I made this one in to part four of the social media Toto Wolff x wife!reader fic series

Part one: Unscripted Moments

Part two: A guide to modern slang

Part three: Getting It Right (and Wrong)

________________________________________________________

The sun was shining brightly over the Nürburgring, casting a golden glow on the iconic circuit as you and Toto prepared for yet another video, the third in a series that had quickly become a fan-favorite. The sleek Mercedes-AMG GT gleamed behind you, the anticipation of what was to come buzzing in the air.

Standing side by side, you and Toto exchanged playful glances as the camera crew set up. This wasn’t your first rodeo; the first video had been a fun “This or That” challenge, where you’d both revealed surprising things about each other. The second video had tested your knowledge of Gen Z slang, which had led to a lot of laughs—and a few hilarious misinterpretations on Toto’s part. But this time, things were about to get a lot more intense.

As the camera began to roll, you and Toto turned to face it, ready to introduce what was sure to be a wild ride.

“Hello, everyone!” Toto greeted the camera with his signature grin. “Welcome back! For those of you who’ve been following along, you’ll know that we’ve done a couple of fun videos already—first, a ‘This or That’ challenge, and then we tried to guess some Gen Z slang. Both were… let’s say, very educational,” he added with a wink in your direction.

You chuckled, nodding in agreement. “Educational is one word for it. I think we both learned that Toto is definitely not up-to-date with the latest slang.”

Toto laughed, shaking his head. “True. But today, we’re doing something completely different. And a bit more in my territory. We’re here at the Nürburgring, and we’re about to do a hot lap in this beautiful Mercedes-AMG GT.”

You turned to the camera with a slightly nervous smile. “Which means I’m going to be the terrified passenger, holding on for dear life, while this guy here,” you nudged Toto, “drives like a madman.”

Toto put his arm around your waist, grinning widely. “She says madman, I say skilled professional.”

“Tomato, tomato,” you replied with a smirk, earning a chuckle from the camera crew.

One of the cameramen stepped forward, asking, “So, Y/N, on a scale of 1 to 10, how nervous are you?”

You didn’t hesitate. “Eleven. Definitely an eleven.”

The cameraman then turned to Toto. “And how excited are you?”

Toto grinned, his eyes lighting up with excitement. “A solid twelve. I’ve been looking forward to this.”

You rolled your eyes playfully at the camera. “Well, there you have it. I’m nervous, he’s excited, and we’re about to take off. Wish me luck!”

Toto opened the passenger door for you with a teasing flourish. “Your chariot awaits, madame.”

You took a deep breath and slid into the seat, glancing up at him with a mix of affection and exasperation. “Just remember, we’re doing this for the fans. And don’t forget—I’m holding on to whatever I can if you scare me.”

Toto chuckled as he settled into the driver’s seat. “I’ll try to keep it interesting. Ready?”

“Not really,” you admitted, your voice a mix of nerves and excitement as you buckled your seatbelt.

With that, Toto started the engine, and the car roared to life. He shot you a quick grin before hitting the accelerator, and the Nürburgring immediately became a blur around you. The speed and intensity of the hot lap were unlike anything you’d ever experienced before, and as the car whipped through sharp turns, you instinctively reached out, gripping Toto’s arm.

“Toto, langsam!” you yelled, slipping into German as the adrenaline took over. “Du bist wahnsinnig! Scheiße!” ("Toto, slow down! You're insane! Shit!")

Toto only laughed, clearly enjoying himself. “Liebling, bitte,” ("Darling, please,") he replied with mock seriousness, the grin on his face widening as he expertly navigated another sharp corner. “This is just getting started!”

“Fucking hell,” you muttered in English, switching between the languages as the car sped through another tight curve. “I’m holding on to you whether you like it or not!”

As the car took a particularly steep turn, you instinctively grabbed onto Toto’s leg, holding on for dear life. “Verdammt, Toto! Du bist verrückt!” ("Damn it, Toto! You're crazy!")

Toto glanced down at your hand on his leg and shot you a teasing look. “Oh, holding onto my leg now? Didn’t know you were so eager, Schatz.”

Despite the fear coursing through you, you managed a glare. “Not the time for jokes!”

He just laughed again, thoroughly enjoying your flustered state. “You know, there are other times when I wouldn’t mind you holding onto me like that…”

“Toto!” you exclaimed, your face flushing as the car finally began to slow down, signaling the end of the lap.

Toto brought the car to a smooth stop in the pit lane, turning to you with a wide grin. “Well, that was fun, wasn’t it?”

You took a deep breath, trying to steady your racing heart. “Fun is relative. I think I just aged ten years.”

As you both got out of the car, the camera crew was still filming, capturing every moment. One of the cameramen walked over, grinning. “That was amazing! The fans are going to love this. You two are hilarious together.”

Toto chuckled, clearly pleased. “She’s the best co-driver I could ask for.”

Before you could respond, you heard the sound of little footsteps running towards you. Jack came charging over, his face lighting up when he saw you.

“Mommy!” Jack called out, reaching up for you as he ran to your side.

You bent down, scooping him up into your arms, feeling a wave of relief and joy as you held him close. “Hey, sweetheart,” you murmured, pressing a kiss to his hair. “Did you have fun watching?”

Jack nodded eagerly, his eyes wide with wonder. “You were so fast, Mommy! Like a race car driver!”

Toto walked over, wrapping an arm around your waist and giving Jack a playful ruffle of his hair. “Your mom was very brave, wasn’t she, Jack?”

Jack nodded again, looking up at you with wide, admiring eyes. “Yeah! But why were you holding onto Daddy’s leg?”

You couldn’t help but laugh, your face flushing as you glanced at Toto, who was grinning mischievously. “Well, Daddy was driving really fast, and it was a little scary.”

Toto leaned in close, his voice low and teasing as he whispered just for you to hear, “I didn’t mind it at all, you holding onto me like that… Maybe we could try that again later?”

You blushed, swatting at him playfully. “Behave yourself.”

He chuckled, pressing a kiss to your cheek. “Can’t promise that, Schatz.”

Jack giggled, oblivious to the teasing between his parents. “Can I come with you next time, Daddy?”

Toto smiled, his hand gently squeezing Jack’s. “Maybe when you’re a little older, buddy. For now, let’s keep your mom safe from my driving.”

You laughed, leaning into Toto as you held Jack close. “Yes, let’s do that.”

[killerlookz]

heyyy💋 so could i request a fic where reader is an eurovision contestant and basically her & joost are attached to the hip. they are seen being all cuddly with each other, flirting, sitting as close to each other as possible, the cameras catching your non so secret glances.. generally acting like a couple. but when the press asks you about this whole situation, you both deny that you have something going on between you two, but deep down you know that those gestures are not so “innocent” at all🤭🤭

a/n: ooooh i love a cheeky little secret romance!! thank you for the request anon <3

Just Friends | Joost Klein

content: gn! reader, very brief allusion to sex, joost and reader are so down bad for each other its a little pathetic, mostly fluff, some angst if you look at it under a microscope. this fic contains rpf and has been tagged as such, do not continue if that makes you uncomfortable, and please block the rpf tag

word count: 2128

You sit on the edge of your hotel bed, you smile, your cheeks grow hot, letting out a small breath from your nose, replacing a genuine laugh.

Your phone sits in your lap, opened to a message

Joost Klein: When were you planning to tell me that I'm your secret lover 😓

What followed was a screenshot from some European tabloid sight, headed by: Eurovision Contestants Spotted Getting Cozy: Secret Lovers Revealed?!

Below were two grainy photos of you and Joost, taken just moments apart from each other. Taken from behind, they showed the two of you walking side by side, just outside the hotel you were staying in. It would have looked more like a friendly exchange if your hands hadn't been locked together.

You knew you'd have to explain everything eventually, that was the third headline this week that had come out about you and Joost. Another showed the two of you sharing a hug that looked a little too close for it to be friendly, in another you had a hand planted on his chest, and your head tilted back mid-laugh.

It all seemed a little ridiculous. You knew Eurovision was one of the largest events in all of Europe- but still, you couldn't have imagined how interested people would be in your personal life off the stage.

It was nothing too scandalous anyway, you and Joost had known each other prior to Eurovision. And sure, you were more casual friends, despite being from different countries, the two of you had run in similar circles with music and all. You had spent the last few years admiring each other's music, usually from afar, the times the two of you had genuinely hung out before all this were few and far between. Your conversations were usually reserved for more chaotic moments, either backstage at the end of a show or in the crowd for a musician friend the two of you had in common.

You couldn't exactly explain away all of the touchy-touchy stuff, but you never expected that you would have to, it had just always been like that, ever since you first met. Truthfully, the two of you were closer than the tabloid photos led on. But they didn't have to know that.

Hasty fingers tap at your phone screen

apparently it's so secret that i didn't know it either!

You send your response to Joost before closing your phone and tossing it somewhere on the bed. You lay back, landing on the firm mattress with a small bounce.

Your eyelids are lowered, trying your best to keep focus on the woman in front of you through heavy lids- though it seems impossible with the crisp white LEDs shining in your face.

"So, have you made any connections with any other contestants since you've been here in Malmö?" The woman asks, a curious eyebrow-raising as she guides the microphone in her hands in front of your face.

You know exactly what she wants to hear from you, the hunger is evident in her eyes, she licks her lips in desperation for a scoop, before her mouth pulls into a sly smile, it all feels so predatory. You swallow thickly, shifting a quick gaze toward the cameraman before flicking your eyes back to the reporter, who has an equally as hungry look on his face, and you realize, you are their prey.

"Yeah, absolutely," You nod, your face lights up, "I've honestly really connected with Bambi Thug, they're really bringing such a new and innovative sound to Eurovision, I really admire them for that, and don't let the makeup and costumes fool you they are an absolute sweetheart!" It wasn't a lie, Joost was not the only person you had talked to since the competition started. You did make friends while you'd been here.

The journalist loses her grin, her face now twisted with dissatisfaction.

"Anyone else?" She asks, nearly cutting you off, her microphone still stuck in your face.

"Marina has been an absolute joy too," Your smile lingers on your lips, "And Nemo- they're great too!"

"Well," The journalist starts, facing the microphone back to her, "I think we've all been hearing the rumors about some sparks flying between you and the Dutch representative, Joost Klein, is there any truth to them?"

You're a little taken back by her forwardness to just outright ask the question,

"I wasn't aware of any rumors," You furrow your eyebrows, shaking your head in vehement denial, "But Joost is great too, we've known each other for a few years now, and I've been a big fan of his music, and he's a great friend." You breathe out, silently hoping the answer is satisfactory for the journalist to cease probing any further.

"No potential for anything more than a friendship?"

"Oh no," You shake your head, nearly scoffing as the words choke out of your mouth, and you hope you're as good of an actress as you are a singer, "Again, Joost is great, but he's just my friend."

"Alright," She nods her head slowly, unsatisfied. The way the journalist's eyes linger on you makes it clear she doesn't quite believe you- but it would be inappropriate of her to ask you any more questions on the matter.

"Would you like to talk about my music now?"

"I just don't know why they're acting like we had a sex tape leak- do these people not hug their friends?" You throw your hands up, frustrated. The last two days had been nothing but interviews, but it seemed none of the interviewers were as interested in your actual Eurovision performance as they were in potentially getting the first scoop on what was "going on" between you and Joost.

"I mean that would give them something to talk about," Joost chuckles, standing at the foot of your hotel bed, he's clad in nothing but a white tank top and his underwear. The tight fabric of what little he's wearing clings to his body, leaving just about nothing to the imagination. He ruffles a hand through his already messy hair. You'd wondered what the tabloids would say if they got a whiff of this, "All press is good press"

"Are you suggesting something, Mr. Klein?" You flash a look at him, your eyes piercing his. Your words come out much harsher than you had intended them to, you couldn't help it, your frustration was evident.

Joost placed a hand behind his neck, rubbing anxiously, throwing a sheepish look in your direction as to insinuate he had been suggesting something. You knew he was only joking, but the thought of actually doing such a thing made your face hot. A light pink blush burned on your face as you stared up at him.

"You're filthy," You giggle, and your hands latch on to a pillow that sits next to you, and you fling it in Joost's direction.

He takes a step back as the pillow hits him square in the stomach, a loud thump can be heard in the room as contact between his body and the stuffed object is made. He choked out a breath of surprise, and his face winced as he grabbed his stomach in feigned agony,

"How could you," He shakes his head, "I think you broke every single one of my ribs."

"Shush," You scoff, "C'mon, get over here." You pat the bed next to you, shifting yourself over to one side.

In typical Joost fashion, he practically jumps onto the bed. He adjusts himself in such a way that his shoulder is brushing up against yours. He's warm, and you want nothing more than to crawl into his arms. It was almost pitiful the way you wanted him, completely desperate. And yet, you don't dare to act- not right now.

The room falls silent as the both of you hesitate to say anything. The room is thick with a humid tension, and words left unsaid. Your reccolection of the last few days seemed non-existent yet ever-present at the same time. Everything had left you wondering the same exact questions as every journalist who had talked to you today, what was going on between you and Joost?

"I can feel the stress radiating off of you," Joost finally speaks, "Are you okay?"

You furrow your eyebrows, looking down into your lap where your fingers are not fidgeting and intertwined. Your face twitches.

"Are you really so upset about those interviews? Do you want to stop this, I can lea-"

"No," you cut him off all too quickly, "No stay. Please." Your voice had shriveled down to nothing but a pathetic whisper. As confusing as your feelings had been, the confusion seemed to be better than not having them at all. It was hard being away from home and feeling like you were bracing the weight of the world or at least of Europe against your shoulders. Joost, at least, was a source of comfort, something to come back to.

"Okay," He nods, his head moving up and down slowly.

You'd be lying if you said you hadn't felt some sort of way about Joost before all of this. His affectionate nature with you seemed to cross all of the wires in your brain. He had always been affectionate with his close friends, not afraid to spare a hug or an arm around the shoulder when he felt like it, but with you it seemed different, especially taking into account neither of you would exactly consider the other as a "best friend."

Besides, even if you were, best friends don't usually stay up all night, lying on top of each other in some state of undress, lips hungrily pressed against one another. This whole situation had left you feeling like you were a teen again, the prickling feeling in your chest of excitement and anxiety of sneaking around to see a boy you liked. It was addicting, the adrenaline that flooded each and every inch of your body, as the two of you snuck off from the afterparties where your appearances were all but mandatory. You'd be lying if you said it didn't at least help a little to take the edge off of all the stress of the competition.

An arm snakes around your shoulder, and immediately Joost is clicking his tongue disapprovingly

"So tense," He mumbles, "Lay down, will you?" His voice is quiet, nearly pleading, and much more timid than you're used to. You feel compelled to oblige, spellbound, his soft words are like hypnosis.

Joost's arm slips from where it sits around your shoulder as you sink into the pillows below. You allow your body to relax into the support of the mattress.

A hand grazes your thigh, trailing down to your knee, Joost gives you a couple gentle taps, "Put your legs up, I'll pull down the blanket for you."

You oblige, bending your knees to pull them inward, and Joost hops off the bed for a moment, grabbing the thick white comforter in his hands from its neatly made position. You shift as he pulls it from under your body, allowing the blanket to slip down to your feet.

The bed dips as Joost crawls back to his position next to you. He reaches out to the foot of the bed, pulling the comforter up to cover the two of you.

"So," You start, rolling on your side, facing away from Joost, "Did they ask you about me?"

The blanket above you shifts as Joost adjusts himself to lie down next to you. He places a gentle hand against your hip, rubbing careful circles against the fabric that separates your skin from his. His chin rests upon your shoulder, and almost instinctively you nuzzle your cheek against his.

"Mhmm," His gentle hum vibrates against your skin, sending shivers down your spine.

"What did you say?" You ask and your teeth clench, your eyes shut tight, waiting with anticipation for his response, hoping for it to line up with yours. You could only imagine the suspicion that would arise if the two of you were to have given entirely different answers to the same question.

"I told them we're friends, just friends."

Your jaw slacks at the relief, and you let out a sigh, eyes fluttering open. But something about those words coming from his mouth, just friends, as his words graze your ears your relief is coupled with a stinging feeling in your chest, a sharp reminder of the peculiar position you had found yourself in.

"And are we," You pause, "Just friends?"

Joost picks his head up from where it rests on your shoulder, ghosting the exposed flesh of your arm with a kiss.

"Not if you don't want us to be."

a/n: i added a pt. II to this, read it here!

[euphorajeon]

if it's a dream (i'll come around)

— request: jeongguk + yes or no - jungkook

— pairing: jk x f. reader

— genre: fluff

— word count: 3.1k

— warnings/tags: idol!jk, college student!oc, best friend!jk, most likely inaccurate desc of new york, jk is still pining, jk orders food excessively (again), cliches (sorry)

— summary: something in the new york air makes jeongguk feel a rush: a rush to admit, a rush to tell, a rush to take a leap. he's just not sure whether you feel it too.

— author's note: it's finally here!! i'm sorry for taking so long to write this request. thank you areyousure!jeongguk for inspiring me to finish this request. hah. i hope you still enjoy!! (its unedited. maybe i'll come back someday to edit.)

a continuation of opposite of sun and light of the morning. please read the first two parts before reading this!

masterlist

Jeongguk never thought that it could be so hard to walk around New York.

There are people everywhere, going in a thousand different directions than him, and they walk so fast Jeongguk struggles to keep up even with his long legs. The shops he caught his eyes on were always full too, making him turn away from the door and look for other places that aren't so filled to the brim. Maybe he should’ve gone somewhere not as touristy as Times Square.

But above all, the hardest part of his stroll today is walking alongside you and having to feign nonchalance about it.

Jeongguk’s life as a singer doesn’t really allow him to have much free time, and even when he does, you either have work, class, or anything in between. As a result, the both of you can’t meet often. Jeongguk is so used to just seeing your face on his phone screen, talking to you via a video call connection, that seeing your form walking beside him throws him off balance.

It’s a good thing your face is mostly covered by the camera in your hands, otherwise Jeongguk would’ve spent the entire day with a blush dusting his cheeks just from holding eye contact with you.

“Do you want to go somewhere else?”

Jeongguk squints his eyes past the camera lens covering your face, searching for your eyes which are shaded by the faded black cap sitting on your head. You only respond with a shrug, gesturing towards the camera as if to remind Jeongguk of its existence. He sighs, lifting your cap with a finger so he can look at your eyes. “Bun.”

“You’re not supposed to talk to me, you know?” you huff, trying to balance the device in your hand so Jeongguk’s face is still in frame. “I’m your cameraman for today, not your best friend.”

Jeongguk chuckles. “Camerawoman,” he corrects, “and who says I’m not allowed to talk to you? Do you think I talk to myself the entire time I’m filming vlogs like this?”

“Seems like it,” you say. “Sometimes they’re funny, but most of the time they just make me think ‘what even is he saying?’”

A slow grin spreads on Jeongguk’s face, his eyes still trained on you instead of the camera. When you look away from the small screen of the device in your hand, Jeongguk feels like his smile could split his face into two, and it must look bizarre on camera, but he doesn’t care. What he does care about is—

“You watch my vlogs?”

Suddenly, Jeongguk feels like he is not a popular singer with fans all over the world who tune in to his regular vlog updates, but just Jeon Jeongguk, a boy with a crush to impress. The way you unintentionally confirmed that you watch his vlogs makes him feel all giddy inside that it slipped his mind that you already said the same thing this morning in his hotel room.

Maybe this is what people mean when they say love makes one stupid.

“Only to see what other stupid shenanigans you do this time,” you mumble, dabbing around your face with the back of your free hand. It suspiciously looks like you’re trying to hide the blush creeping up your cheeks, but Jeongguk immediately throws that thought away from his mind. It must be the New York heat that’s making your face hot like this.

“Just admit you enjoy seeing my face on your phone that much,” Jeongguk says cheekily, settling for a response that’s annoying, teasing, but familiar for the both of you. Maybe he’ll address the not-blush on the apple of your cheeks some other time.

“Where was this confidence about me watching your Times Square performance, huh?” You punch his shoulder lightly, which he’s sure makes the image of him on camera shake and blur. “Saying I ‘ghosted’ you because your performance is ‘bad’. What nonsense was that.”

“Hey, I was really worried about you, okay?” Jeongguk pouts. “Besides, I still need your opinion on my performances, whereas my vlogs are usually just me messing around. It’s different.”

Whatever response you have prepared in your mind gets interrupted by your phone ringing, which startles you so much you almost drop the camera from your hand. Good thing Jeongguk has fast reflexes, immediately enclosing his hands around yours before you could do any damage to the device. Upon checking the caller ID, your expression turns to one of worry.

Jeongguk takes the camera away from you. “Take the call,” he says. “I’ll just be here.”

While you step away to do just that, Jeongguk takes the opportunity to finally pay attention to the camera that he has been ignoring for the past few minutes, checking himself out on the small screen and running his fingers through his hair while holding eye contact with the lense. He goes on social media often enough to know that his fans will cut this specific clip from the vlog and fangirl over how good he looks while doing that.

Sometimes he wonders whether you see those clips and have the same reaction as his fans. Do you see them and scroll past them like they’re nothing? Do you scoff at his antics? Do you shake your head with a small laugh?

There’s also a possibility of you not even seeing those clips at all, but Jeongguk likes to think he’s popular enough that his clips can’t help but still end up in your feed. (Also, it hurts his little heart too much to imagine otherwise.)

You come back to him from your phone call with anxiety written all over your face. Jeongguk doesn’t even need to inquire before you squeak out your concern yourself.

“The deadline for my midterm paper has been moved. It’s now due in five hours. Jeongguk, what do I do?”

The both of you end up going back to Jeongguk’s hotel to fish out your brick-ass laptop from your gigantic backpack, the camera in his hands still recording. You’ve told him that he could continue exploring New York on his own, bringing the camera noona like the initial plan was, but Jeongguk insisted on coming with you instead. Why would he go with anyone else when you are here?

Still, though, because he doesn’t want to lose the sense of exploring a new place, he drags you to a dessert cafe near his hotel, offering to hold your laptop in his arms while you walk the short distance to the cafe. Despite your protests, Jeongguk manages to convince you to leave the camera on for the entirety of this laptop fiasco, capturing every moment from the laptop tug-of-war in Jeongguk’s hotel room to his grin in response to your sulking face when you’re both seated in the dessert cafe.

His video editor would hate him for this, but Jeongguk doesn’t care. You’re here, in New York with him, and he’ll be damned if he doesn’t try his hardest to preserve any memories you make here.

“I don’t understand why you’d rather be stuck here with me than be out there exploring sunny New York in all its glory,” you huff while waiting for your laptop to turn on. It takes a while, Jeongguk notices, but your pout prevents him from saying anything about it. “What idiot has free time in New York and chooses to spend it cooped inside some random cafe?”

Jeongguk pretends to adjust the camera sitting on the table—angled in a way that it captures his face only—so he doesn’t have to look at your face when he says his next words: “Your idiot, Bun.”

You level him with a flat stare. “So you admit you’re an idiot.”

If it means being yours, sure, Jeongguk thinks. He really should stop thinking thoughts like these lest he blurt them out in front of you, on camera.

“I’m gonna order, what do you want, Bun?” Jeongguk asks as an attempt to steer the conversation away from idiots with feelings.

You look up from your (finally on) laptop screen with your head in your hands. “Anything except americano,” you mumble. “Thanks, Jeon.”

“Sure, Bun.” Jeongguk stands up from his seat, grabbing the camera to bring with him to the cashier. “You sure you don’t want anything else?”

The way you shake your head dejectedly is so uncharacteristic of you, given you’re both in a cafe filled with the smell of baked goods—something that usually brings a light of excitement into your eyes. Jeongguk can only imagine how stressful it is being a college student and having your midterm deadline be moved to hours earlier, and to experience all this while being jet lagged from a 14-hour flight prior surely doesn’t help.

Jeongguk has to physically hold himself from ducking down to engulf you in a hug, squeeze his arms around your frame until your frown is turned upside down and he can bear witness to your smile once again. For now, he can only wish that the cafe sells the type of bread you like so he can at least alleviate some of your burden with the sweet treat.

When he goes to the cashier to order, his polite smile is responded with a gasp from the cafe worker, clearly recognizing him as the popular singer. His smile turns into something more genuine—albeit a bit shy also—when the worker mentions that she’s a fan of his. After exchanging some pleasantries with her, Jeongguk proceeds to order. He just doesn’t realize how many desserts and pastries in the display case he’s pointed at until the worker asks him a question.

“Are you here with your crews?” she inquires, still tapping away at the computer screen in front of her. When Jeongguk only stares at her with wide eyes, she continues. “We can provide individual utensils for each of you if you’d like,” she offers.

Oh. Oh. Jeongguk thought she was asking for conversational purposes. “Uh, just two sets would be fine. Thank you.”

Still, it doesn’t register in his brain that he’s ordered too many pastries for two people until he’s coming back to your table with only both of your drinks on the tray in his hands. He sets your drink down next to your laptop, on which you’re typing furiously like you’re a madman chased by a tight deadline (in a way, you kind of are.)

Only when three cafe workers come back to back to your table to drop off his order of various kinds of desserts and pastries does he realize that he might have gone overboard with his order. Jeongguk can only flash a guilty smile your way when you tear your eyes away from your laptop to gape at the array of desserts in front of you.

“Are you trying to feed an entire village?” you ask incredulously.

“Hehe,” Jeongguk offers. “I was thinking about you and how you looked so stressed out because of your deadline and I just … ordered pretty much everything … for you.” He scratches his head sheepishly while setting the camera to its initial position on the corner of the table. He hopes the camera doesn’t pick up the way his cheeks blossom with heat. Or if it does, he hopes the editor cuts this part out.

Jeongguk doesn’t know if he imagines this part or not, but your eyes soften at his words and your next words are more gentle in tone. “Thank you, but there’s no way I would be able to finish all of these by myself.”

“Did you forget that you have Jeon Jeongguk for a best friend?” There’s a smug smirk on his face now, replacing the sheepish one he was sporting a few minutes ago. He likes it when you’re soft with him, vulnerable in a way only he’s allowed to see, but that’s exactly the problem: you’re both on camera, and whether or not this gets shared to the world, it’s still not as private as he would’ve liked. So he’s back on his annoying best friend persona to stop your vulnerable side from coming out.

You roll your eyes at him, but there’s a sliver of a smile on your lips.

The both of you spend the next few minutes enjoying your desserts and drinks, with Jeongguk cutting the desserts into bite-sized pieces so you can eat them with ease. He also does not forget his job as an entertainer, showing each and every one of the desserts to the camera and making sure his delightful hums are loud enough for the camera to pick up. He’s humming along to the song being played in the cafe while chewing when it suddenly plays an intro of a song he knows by heart—and judging from the way you look up from your laptop, you do too.

“Did they know you’re here?” The smile on your face is teasing.

“The cashier recognized me, said she’s a fan,” Jeongguk explains, turning his head in the direction of the cashier, trying to find the aforementioned worker. Upon making eye contact with her, Jeongguk mouths a thank you! with a smile, which she responds with a thumbs up.

“You must have made her day by coming here. Her whole week, even,” you chuckle, going back to typing on your laptop. The smile quickly drops from your face as you’re forced to go back to thinking mode for your midterm paper. Jeongguk nudges a fork full of pastry into your hand, silently asking you to eat.

“Then would you still say I’m an idiot for choosing to be here with you?”

Jeongguk said he’d leave this topic alone, revisit it later when he’s got the courage to do so, but what can he do? Your presence here with him makes him overwhelmed with feelings that sometimes it slips in between his words.

The only response he receives from you is silence. Jeongguk doesn’t know whether it’s because you didn’t want to respond or you simply just didn’t hear him. It’s most likely the latter as any attempt he makes to make you eat the desserts are useless as you’re too immersed in your paper. He ends up just feeding you bites after bites of desserts, grateful and giddy that you take them without protests as you’re typing.

As he’s cutting up more pastries for you to eat, the song changes to ‘Yes or No’, the fifth track on his latest album that he performed live two days ago at Times Square. He remembers you telling him that your friend, Yeseo, became a fan after listening to this song. Jeongguk tries to suppress a smile by biting his bottom lip as he listens to the lyrics of the song.

Are you feeling the rush?

Are we falling in love?

Say yes or no

In an interview, Jeongguk told the public that no songs from his album are based on his personal life, although he hopes he still delivered the messages of the songs well enough. What he doesn’t say, however, is that he thinks of you whenever he listens to or performs this song. It’s a song about a person in love and still wonders whether the other person is feeling the same way. Sometimes he wishes he could be honest and sing the words to you, pour out his feelings along the way, and he wishes you could feel the same way.

Jeongguk stops his activities of cutting desserts into bite-sized pieces and leans his back against his chair, staring at you. You’re still hyper-focused on your paper that you don’t notice his gaze, typing away on your laptop without a care for the love pouring out of his eyes.

Jeongguk knows you love him.

You love him enough to answer his video call at two am when you were studying. You love him enough to sacrifice sleep to watch his performance. You love him enough to book a flight to New York immediately after even though you still have a midterm paper to finish. You love him enough to walk around JFK with a heavy backpack hanging off your shoulders. You love him enough to join him exploring New York instead of resting off your jet lag.

But does that mean you love him enough to return his feelings the way he wants you to?

As he ponders the answer to that question, his hand moves on its own accord to continue feeding you the dessert he has cut up. You continue accepting the food he feeds you, and Jeongguk thinks maybe he needs to stop being selfish and just be content with whatever he has with you right now: friendship.

Although, in this moment, feeding you desserts while you do your paper, he feels like your college boyfriend he wished to be nights ago when you were a mere video on his phone. He already dresses the part—jeans and oversized hoodie—and feels the part, but that’s the thing about parts, isn’t it? That they’re not real, that they’re only there in his head.

You have cream on the corner of your lips from a particular big cut of dessert Jeongguk just fed you, and it feels like autopilot when he leans forward to swipe the cream off your lips with his thumb. He slots the thumb in between his own lips, sucking the cream clean off his skin. The innocent round of his eyes are met with the shocked round of yours, unblinking as you stare at the thumb previously on your lips, now on his.

“What?” he asks dumbly.

You shake your head. There’s an unmistakable crimson on the apple of your cheeks. “Nothing,” you say, clearing your throat. The blush on your face remains, and if Jeongguk’s sight serves him right, deepens instead. “Just, remember that you’re on camera the next time you want to do that.”

“So I can do it again if I turn off the camera?”

Jeongguk surprises himself by how steady he sounds. A tad too serious, too, and if he’s not careful, you might take it that he really wants to do it again, for real. His heart hammers in his chest as his hand inches towards the camera, fingers ready to turn the device off.

“Jeongguk,” you say slowly in a warning tone. “Namjoon will kill me if you try anything funny.”

Letting out his signature big grin, Jeongguk retracts his hand from the camera.

“Sorry, Bun. I’ll let you finish your paper in peace now.”

If you have cream on your lips again, maybe he’ll swipe it off with his lips instead. Maybe later, when he has the courage to. Maybe later, when he’s let you know how he really feels.

Maybe, maybe, maybe.

a/n: thank you for reading! i still have 1 (one) more idea for this couple pair of bestfriends but not sure if i have the brain capacity to actually write it out ahaha let me know if you want to see more of them though :D

[uhohdad]

THE GIRL WHO CONQUERED THE MOUNTAIN

KONIG X READER [HUNGER GAMES AU]

You & Konig have been chosen to participate in a twenty-four tribute fight to the death.

18+, NSFW, 183k WORD COUNT, AO3,Virgin!Konig, Outcast!Konig, 18yo!Konig, GentleGiant!Konig, Mentor!JohnPrice, Fem!Reader, Blood & Injury, Graphic Violence, Death, PTSD, Alcohol Use, Slow Burn, Konig Pines Hard, Sexual Content, Porn with Too Much Plot, First Time, Dirty Talk, Size Kink, Smut, Fluff, Angst

CHAPTER ONE | PREV | CHAPTER NAVIGATION

➤ THE AFTERMATH II

At the mention of District Eight, your mouth turns to cotton. Your wide eyes dart around the floor of the glittery stage, heels turning inward.

You don’t want to do this.

You give up and pinch your eyes shut, a slight shake of your head, trying to take yourself somewhere you’re not, even going so far as to redirect your focus to remembering the lyrics to an old tune you sing in your thoughts.

Konig senses something’s up and gently guides you into the crook of his arm and his chest, giving your shoulder a squeeze. He presses a kiss to the top of your head, and you respond by raising your hand to rest in the space between his firm stomach and chest.

You can’t block out their words, the commentary from the people of District Eight. Your heart doesn’t want to hear it but your ears can’t help but listen and your eyes have to peek open.

The recap of the interview clearly cut out a majority of their words, and starts with the conflict between the boy from eight and Willow. The interviewee tries to begin, but she abandons her first few attempts to recount the story.

“Uh-” The interviewee’s eyes dart to the side, “Yeah, they uh- there was-“

She clears her throat, “Willow, uh-“

She trails off, staring off into the distance with a pause before she continues.

“He had this girlfriend, right? And they were - I mean, they were the perfect pair. You could tell, uh, you could tell he really loved her, you know? And the same goes for her.”

The interviewee pauses, and she has to look away.

“I was actually- I remember being jealous of them, wishing I had what they had. Love like that.”

You can hear her scraping gravel under her shoe.

“And I guess, I guess his girl wasn’t crazy about the uhm, The Capitol, and she uh- well, I think she broke a few laws, or something. Real rebellious type.”

She looks to her shoes, nodding slowly.

“And uh,” She clears her throat again before meeting eyes with the person behind the camera, “Willow blabbed about it. And his girlfriend got taken away.”

The interviewee nods slow, her sad, squint eyes staring off at the cameraman.

“They cut out his girl’s tongue, and now she- she serves The Capitol.”

She shakes her head, “He snapped. Just, a different person entirely.”

There’s a pause, and your eyes pinch shut, squeezing Konig as hard as your arms will allow. His hand slides down your back, tracing soothing circles with his fingertips between your shoulder blades.

“Please, no! It was an accident!”

The desperation in her voice is unmistakable. You find the screen, and there she is.

Willow.

As pretty as her name - rich bronze skin and golden brown eyes. Full, curly hair that seems to have a mind of its own and reminds you of the elegant draped tresses of the tree for which she was named.

The boy from eight has her on the ground, towering over her with his blade raised. Her upper half is propped up by her elbows, her feet kicking away from him.

“You knew what you were doing!” He yells, in that same booming, terrifying voice he used on you.

His blade lowers as his fists tense at his sides, “She served us! You hear me? She served us in our suite!”

A hand comes up to his head, and he grabs a fistful of his own hair with white knuckles. There’s tears springing in his eyes, and that daunting shout cracks.

“I couldn’t even talk to her!”

Your brows are pinched as you watch, shallow breaths through parted lips.

The tears crest Eight’s eyeline, and his hands drop limply to his sides.

His voice lowers to a broken whisper, a whiny strain in his words. It makes your brows pinch - you’ve never heard him speak in a way that wasn’t harsh and booming, never seen his eyes swelled with any emotion other than anger.

“I couldn’t even talk to her.”

Willow shakes her head, her words choppy through her stuttered breaths and hiccups.

“I know- I know! I’m sorry, I’m sorry! Please, I didn’t- I never wanted this to happen, I didn’t mean for it to happen! Please-“

His voice shoots back up when he interrupts her, his shouted words ripping his throat to shreds.

“She’s gone, Willow! I lost her!”

He pinches his eyes for a moment, sending more tears down his cheeks, his chin lowering with a tilt of his head.

A snarl creases his face, brows tight when he finds Willow again. He jams his blade at her, his voice just a growl in her direction.

“And there is nothing you can say to change that.”

Willow just stares up at him with wide eyes, her entire body trembling. Her mouth is gaped to speak, but she knows she doesn’t have a defense.

“I am nothing without her.”

He steps closer to her, his boots planted on either side of her ribs. Just as he did with you, he grabs her by the front of her jacket and pulls her from the dirt, inches from his face.

“I am suffering! She is suffering! Everyday!”

He gives her that look, the same gut-churning look he had on reaping day when he threw himself on stage to volunteer.

“Now it’s your turn to suffer.”

The shot lingers on their faces for a few more moments, Willow’s golden brown eyes darting around his gut-churning rage, her breath caught in her throat.

They don’t show it.

You are so thankful they don’t show it.

They cut to you, walking through the forest. You have to close your eyes again, burying your face in Konig’s chest.

Your stomach boils and your heart constricts beyond comfort at each of her moaned wails. You’re clawing at Konig’s suit, a handful of the fabric shaking between your tensed fist.

Konig’s free hand comes up to swallow yours, a gentle reassurance from hardened hands.

Each of her maimed breaths violate you. The stage lights are searing your skin, sweat building up on your scalp and under your dress. The layer forming under your thick makeup is suffocating, aching for the touch of fresh air instead of the roasted stage air you breathe now.

Your eyes are screwed shut, but you can still see her, her exposed, bloody muscle rising and falling with her chest. The whitish yellow pockets of fat, the bones of her fingers, her blood-pooled eye sockets.

There’s a nauseating heat simmering just under your skin, and your breaths turn almost as guttural as hers.

Against every instinct, you have to rip away from Konig, not at all gracefully stumbling in your heels offstage.

“Oh, uh- technical difficulties, folks. Bear with us,” Caesar says cheekily, the audience’s collective chuckle laugh following.

You weren’t aiming for him, but Price catches you once offstage, sturdy arms pulling you into an embrace.

“Hey, hey, it’s alright, kid,” He whispers softly, “It’s alright.”

Your palms find his chest with a firm shove, freeing yourself from his hold. You swivel on your feet simultaneously, doubling over to vomit all over the floor, your bile splattering over Price’s shoes.

He doesn’t seem to mind, standing at your side and pulling your hair back from the line of fire as you heave in rhythmic convulses, struggling to work up what little is in your stomach.

“It’s alright,” Price soothes, holding your hair with one hand and rubbing your trembling back with the other, “It’s alright. Get it all out.”

You feel a second hand on your back, and you already know it’s Konig, standing tall on your other side.

A stage hand rolls over an industrial size trash can, and you grip the rim with white knuckles as you gag into it.

When you’re done spitting out the bitter, offensive taste, Konig has a cloth waiting for you to wipe your face. Exhausted breaths leave you, droplets of sweat trailing down your back and tears streaming over your cheeks.

Your arm stretches over the rim of the trash can as you lean over it, pinching your eyes shut to try to quell the nausea. Konig offers you a bottle of water, and shaking hands reach to take it gratefully.

They wait for you to collect yourself, someone gets you a toothbrush to clean out your mouth - apparently this kind of thing happens enough to warrant keeping toothbrushes on hand, - your prep team touches up your makeup, and Konig holds you wordlessly in his strong arms while you breathe him in, his silken tie brushing against your cheek.

When you’re ready, your fingers wrap around Konig’s bicep, his arm bent at the elbow to keep you steady as he escorts you back on stage, putting himself between you and the crowd to block you from the audience.

The crowd explodes at your return, a standing ovation that echoes with whistles and claps.

“Welcome back, welcome back!” Caesar chimes, dipping each syllable with flare.

The crowd keeps the applause going long after you’re sat, and once settled, Caesar segues back into the show.

You don’t watch, hiding your face in Konig’s chest as he holds you tight, gently stroking your back.

The feed resumes, and you hear your squeak through the speakers, your stumble and trip into the dirt. Your dash through the woods, your dry heaves towards the dirt.

Your desperate plea.

Luring Eight into the fall forest, almost killing him but bailing at the last second. Weakly running for Willow as you cry out to her in the tune of a desperate sorry, spoken exactly like her pleas to the boy who knew no bounds to his spite. Piercing a dart through her exposed muscle, her final three breaths, your sobbing as her cannon fires.

Konig’s grip on you loosens as he watches your mercy kill, his soothing rubs ceasing. He starts back up again when the footage pauses, but you can’t bring yourself to leave Konig’s chest.

The crowd erupts in a truly enthusiastic applause, shouting adorations in your direction as Konig squeezes you tight.

“Wow,” Caesar shouts over the crowd, “That was something!”

The audience ignores his attempt to settle them, showering you with praise for what must be a full minute while Konig rubs your back.

“That was really something,” Caesar says, “Wow, I have to say, that was really admirable.”

You say nothing, trying to block out Caesar and his stupid commentary.

“I must ask, have your feelings about your actions changed after learning of their history?”

Your brows pinch as your head lifts from Konig’s chest to find Caesar, your arms snug around Konig’s core.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Knowing what you know now, would you have still lended her a hand?”

The end of Caesar’s question perks up so innocently, as if he didn’t just ask the most insane question in the world.

Your face twists, “Of course I would have - what kind of question is that?”

You glare at him, voice taught and sharp.

“You think that I think that there’s anything in the world that justifies that?”

You shake your head.

“No, you’re out of your mind. I wouldn’t even wish that fate on someone sick enough to ask a question like that in the first place.”

Konig gives you a squeeze and a little shake to show you he’s on your side, sitting tall with his chest puffed out. The audience is on your side too, apparently, clapping along in approval.

Caesar breaks character for a moment as he flits his gaze between you and Konig, the latter surely dawning a just as loathsome stare. You hold Caesar’s eyes in challenge until he looks away.

You understand the boy from eight’s anger. If someone got Konig taken away to serve the Capitol, surely you’d be just as furious and hellbent on vengeance.

But Eight’s anger was misdirected.

While Willow blabbed, his anger was provoked by the Capitol, not by Willow.

The Capitol is the one who took his girlfriend away, cut out her tongue, and forced her to dote on her boyfriend, unable to speak with him - surely a calculated move to instigate more tension between the District Eight tributes. Willow was just the one who let it slip, intentional or not.

As fucked up as it sounds, though, you get it.

You get where Eight is coming from. There was no way for him to seek vengeance against a government that has the entire country under its strict thumb, so he took out his anger on the next best thing.

Nowhere near to the same extreme - but you’ve been in a similar position countless times before.

That day in District Nine was one of those days. A bad day riling you up, looking for a victim to boil over on. You’re not even sure if you stood up for Konig because it was the right thing to do, or because you were just looking for an outlet for anger you couldn’t direct elsewhere without severe consequence.

Deep down you know the answer, but you’re too cowardly to share it with anyone, especially Konig. He has you on a pedestal. He thinks of you as a true, selfless angel that protected him for no other reason than to do the right thing.

You really don’t want to ruin his perception of you.

But you know who you are.

“Well, more exciting things to come,” Caesar weakly chimes, looking to the floor as he clears his throat.

An arm comes up to gesture to the large screen.

“You bravely risked your life to end this girl’s suffering, my dear, and we have the footage to prove it.”

The replay resumes - cutting to a shot of the three remaining careers gliding over the snow as they make way towards the cornucopia.

“In and out,” Sapphire says to the group, “I don’t want to leave the woods for too long.”

“Not like she can leave,” Titan mumbles.

“If she got her hands on some supplies, she could.”

“Where would Funny Girl find supplies? We got ‘em all.”

“Gotten them off someone else.”

Titan scoffs, “You think Funny Girl’s killing?”

“She’s made it this far. Who knows.”

Titan laughs, “Funny Girl can’t fight. She’s just playing shy.”

“Lover Boy’s got his backpack,” Sapphire says, “If he found her, those two could go anywhere.”

“Well if he found her, it doesn’t really matter, does it?”

Sapphire just sighs, rolling her eyes. She doesn’t look good. Her face is puffy, bags under her eyes. You know a girl who’s too exhausted to argue when you see it. Clearly Titan’s attempt to get her to rest was unsuccessful.

“I’m sorry!”

The careers immediately perk up at your distant cry.

Titan’s mouth curls into a sickening grin, flashing his razor sharp canines, a giddy laugh threatening to spill from his lips.

Even in Sapphire’s exhaustion, her lips stretch in a smile, those brilliant blue eyes flickering with a spark of gut-churning determination.

“I’m sorry!”

Even from the distance, the desperation in your voice is unmistakable.

The career pack is in a full sprint to the direction of your broken, cried apology, hollering in celebration that their arduous hunt is coming to a conclusion.

As they burst through the trees, the shot cuts to you, running on weak ankles to the spring quadrant.

“There she is!”

Konig shoots forward in his chair, taking your arms with him and forcing you to leave his chest. His brows tighten as he plants his elbow on his knee, the pads of his fingers reaching up to gnaw on his nails.

Eight breaks into the clearing, making a beeline for the careers.

“What did you do?!” Eight shouts at them, barreling right for them with his blade raised. It’s clear now he thinks the careers killed Willow, not you.

The three prime their weapons and when Eight catches up, he’s already swinging.

“Titan - get the brat!” Sapphire shouts, her tone leaving no room for argument as she blocks one of Eight’s swings.

It’s as if Titan was a dog growling on the end of Sapphire’s taut leash, itching to be released so he can maul his target - and Sapphire just unclasped his collar. There is no transition between his stand to a full sprint, both his pace and his strides at least three times as quick as yours.

Konig’s fingers are digging into his knees hard enough to turn his knuckles white, on the edge of his seat and glued to the screen, not so much as blinking.

Titan catches up, powerful hold wrapping around your waist and slamming you into the sand hard enough to steal your breath.

Konig flinches in his seat, his lips parting and pulling to the side to reveal grit teeth. As he watches Titan toy with you, pinning you to the ground and reveling in the power he holds, Konig’s fists are clenched so tight they’re shaking. Resting a gentle hand on his forearm does nothing to placate him - he’s locked on the screen.

“Why don’t you yell for him?”

“Fuck you!”

Really not your best comeback, but to be fair to you, you were running on steam and also thought you were about to die.

When Titan’s hand shoots out to choke you, Konig springs up from his seat and rips away from your hold on him.

He can’t watch anymore, turning to face the couch, his face pinched and a hand threading his hair with a tight grip.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” You whisper, reaching out to grab the rigid hand at his side.

“No,” He grits through strained breath.

He can’t look at you, the sounds of your desperate chokes for air blaring from the speakers and suffocating him second hand.

“It is, it’s okay,” You say with sloped brows, “I’m fine. I’m okay, it’s okay. He’s dead.”

It’s almost funny, Konig is so concerned with your fight with Titan - when it pales in comparison to the rest of your arena experiences.

Even the cold of the freezing nights in the forest were worse than this.

A gory bloodbath, the snap of a neck, a first hand lesson on the anatomy of the human muscular system, blinding and skewering Sapphire, Konig beating Titan to death with his own two hands - these are the moments that truly haunt you.

You give Konig’s trembling hand a squeeze. He doesn’t speak, he just shakes his head.

“Call for him!”

On screen you’re gasping for air, Titan forcing his demands through his clenched teeth.

The feed pauses, the crowd silent as Caesar starts.

“Konig, it’s clear this is upsetting for you to watch, mind sharing your thoughts?”

Konig’s eyes crease when he closes them, his free fist tight at his side. He doesn’t turn around, his shoulders raised.

“Hey, Caesar,” he grits.

Konig takes a breath.

“Shut the fuck up.”

You jump to your feet as the crowd erupts, both your arms shooting up in the air and taking one of Konig’s hands with you.

“Yes! Yes!”

You practically order the crowd to shower him in praise, waving your hands to beckon them to keep it up. You let go of Konig’s hand to grab his tensed arm and give him an excited, proud shake. He rolls his eyes, a half grin blooming on his face as he turns pliant to your jostling.

“Right,” Caesar says, clearing his throat and looking down.

They resume the feed, and you give Konig’s suit a tug, beckoning him to sit with you.

“Watch this part,” You whisper.

He finally looks to you, giving a swallow as he follows your wish.

“Call for him or I’ll make you!”

On screen - your spit-stained face pinches, and you send two fistfuls of sand directly into Titan’s face.

The audience explodes at your escape maneuver, and Konig hums at Titan’s cries of pain, giving that soft inaudible laugh that raises his shoulders. He looks to you, eyes crinkled with a pressed grin. He grabs a shoulder and rests his other hand on the crook of your neck, leaning down to press a long, messy kiss on your lips.

You hum into him, the crowd still cheering when he pulls you into him with an arm slung over your shoulder, squeezing your bicep.

“Wow, wow, wow!” Caesar says after the audience has settled, “Escaping the hands of such a powerful career - I think you managed to surprise every citizen of Panem!”

The audience gives a hearty applause in approval. Caesar leans in, voice suddenly serious.

“And I think we were all very, very touched to see you risk your life to keep Konig out of danger.”

Your brows crease as you turn to the audience, clapping in approval.

It takes you a moment to realize that Panem thinks you refrained from calling Konig’s name for his benefit, to keep him safe from Titan, which isn’t true at all.

You just didn’t want to submit to Titan’s demands, didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of fulfilling his plan, didn’t want to give him whatever scrap of dignity you had left. It was a move of spite against Titan, not of care for Konig.

Guilt.

You have to look down at your lap as you try to swallow it - because saving Konig from Titan was not a thought that even crossed your mind.

You couldn’t even think of Konig when you knew Titan wanted to kill him. Konig, the boy who killed Titan with his two hands for even daring to lay a hand on you.

Konig squeezes you tight and plants a kiss on your forehead, the audience cooing at his adoration for you.

Guilt.

When your unearned praise dies down, Caesar continues.

“It’s truly beautiful what you two have.”

You don’t care, Caesar.

You don’t care what anyone in the Capitol thinks of you and Konig. You wish your relationship wasn’t able to be perceived at all, actually - not out of shame, but because you hate how everyone in Panem has their grubby little hands all over your romance, something so personal and intimate and fresh to you.

The people of Panem have had more time to process your new relationship than you have.

The feed shows you collapsing into the grass, cutting to the part where District Eight sent you the bread, eventually showing you picking up the ribbon, tying it around your wrist.

“I have to ask, my dear,” Caesar says, “You’ve mentioned that the ribbon means a lot to you, can you share with us the significance of this ribbon?”

To be honest, you really don’t have a reason for why you kept the ribbon, or why it means so much to you. You just know it does.

You know it’s symbolic, but for what?

Is it a reminder of Willow, the girl you feel an immense connection to, even though you just assigned her name to her less than an hour ago and never shared a word with?

Is it the unification of two districts forced to be pit against each other?

Is it because it is a token of the district who went against all the standards to thank a girl who treated their tribute with human decency - the opposite of what the games are about?

Why does this ribbon mean so much to you?

You really don’t know. But you do know you can’t be snarky here - this moment is important, and you need to get this right.

Your mouth has gone dry again, and you look to your lap.

“I- uh-“

You clear your throat, and Konig gives you a squeeze.

“It just does,” You say, not harshly, but genuinely.

You turn your head to find a camera and speak into it. You’re talking to District Eight now, not the audience, not to Caesar.

“I don’t know why it means so much to me, but I know that I am grateful for the gifts. I am grateful that you helped me put an end to her suffering.”

Your voice cracks.

“And I am sorry for your loss.”

The audience gives a soft applause, and you have to look down at your lap again.

“Wow,” Caesar says, his voice gentle, “Beautifully spoken.”

He’s so full of shit, it actually makes you scoff.

You know your words aren’t striking the proper emotion, because you haven’t even had the opportunity to digest them yourself. To assign words to the attachment you have to your ribbon, to your feelings about Willow, Eight, his girlfriend, about his unwavering dedication and her brutal end and a district who thanked you for making a life-threatening sacrifice.

“Enough about you, my dear, let’s take a look at what Konig was up to in the meantime.”

Eight’s cannon woke him up with a start, a cloud of sand wafting up with him as he shoots to a sit. A hand comes up to his hood, and he lets out a long sigh.

Just by looking at his eyes through his hood, you can tell it’s all catching up with him. The restless nights, his aching body, the instinctual fear.

The jump the sun makes when the feed cuts suggests he laid unmoving in the sand for hours. Price caves once again, sending him food and water.

When he finally gets to his feet, he makes slow, unsteady steps through the desert. To see him so weakened makes your heart throb in your chest, because it reminds you of the last time you saw him stumble, the last time you saw him drained of life.

You swallow, looking down to your fidgeting fingers, smoothing along the pleats of your dress.

It’s your turn to wish you could have been there for him. You get it now, how hard it is knowing the one you love struggled and you were useless to help.

Konig’s eyes are drowsy, his steps sluggish, even with One’s shoe attachments.

Next to you on the couch, all of Panem watching him in this state, Konig’s head is hung, looking to his shoes in shame, the pads of fingers swirling together.

You nuzzle your head into his shoulder and give him a squeeze.

I’m here now.

The effects of the spiky plants in the desert, cacti as Caesar calls them, were severely downplayed by Konig.

Konig trips over his own boot and falls forward, weak hands shooting out to brace himself, his palm catching a handful of needles. He winces, a strangled grunt leaving him as he rips his hand back to his chest.

He rolls over in the sand, propping himself up on his backpack to inspect his palm. Tiny beads of blood smear between his skin and the perforated temperature suit.

He lets out a grunt of defeat and throws his arm to the sand. His breaths are heaved, his chest struggling to work in breaths, eyes pinching shut behind his hood.

When he brings his hand to his face again, it’s swollen and as black as the ooze that dripped from the ginkgo petals and swallowed you whole during your hallucinations. The color soaks into his veins and up his forearm in inky streaks.

He lets out a strained whine, his other hand trembling as he goes in to touch the source of the wound. The gentlest touch has him wailing out in pain, his cries tighten your chest and wring your heart out.

He lies on the desert sand, his infection getting worse by the second. It spreads up his bicep, swallowing his entire arm until he can’t even move it. He’s crying, but the tears that spill from his eyes are not normal tears. Whatever is dripping from his eyes is bleaching his hood, streaks of color pulling up on the black fabric.

The infection creeps up his shoulders, his collarbones, sucking what little strength he has left from him.

He’s given up.

You can see it, in his eyes. He knows he’s about to die.

“Just tell her I love her,” He whispers to the arid desert air, his voice hoarse and barely loud enough to carry, “Just make sure she knows I love her.”

A shaky finger comes up to swipe away the tears threatening to spill from your eyeline, but you are powerless against the squeak that leaves the back of your throat.

You can practically hear Price’s eye roll from the mentor’s suite, and before the infection can spread to his other arm, a parachute comes down from the sky and lands inches from him.

He’s so weak he can hardly get the canister open. Grunting and hitting it against the sand in frustration. His shaking fingers pop it open to reveal a small syringe filled with a clear liquid, a tiny needle at the end.

Konig lets out another grunt as he jams the needle into his dead bicep, and shortly after succumbs to either exhaustion or the pain, maybe both, and passes out propped up on his backpack.

“That looked pretty painful,” Caesar says, “How do you feel after overcoming such adversity?”

Konig shrugs his shoulders at him, a slight shake in his head and lips bunched in annoyance.

Caesar directs the question to you, and you can’t bite your tongue.

“How do I feel after watching Konig nearly die from a cacti?”

“Cactus.”

You pause, narrowing your eyes at Caesar and offering an obnoxious suck of your teeth.

“Cact-you,” You say.

You and Caesar stay locked on each other for a moment before you shrug.

“Feels great, Caesar.”

The audience seems to find your annoyance and sarcasm amusing.

“Well, the fun doesn’t stop there,” Caesar says, “Looks like you woke up to some trouble too.”

Konig’s eyes roll, and the feed resumes.

You had not encountered any mutts in the arena, but Konig was not as lucky.

He wakes long after the sun has gone down to find himself surrounded.

Genetically modified scorpions, ten to twenty of them, the size of large dogs and equipped with bulbous tails that taper into razor sharp hooks. Exoskeletons designed to be nearly impenetrable, serrated claws itching to tear apart flesh.

Konig’s mumbling curses under his breath, springing to weak legs, stumbling through the sand. The scorpions hiss at him, curling their wicked tails, as if beckoning him to come closer.

Konig’s head is ducked, body low as he swivels on his feet, the handle of Eleven’s scythe in a tight grip at his side.

His mind has drawn a blank - he’s panicking.

They close in on him, their spider-like legs dancing over the sand as they hiss at him, snapping their claws and curling their tails.

His darting eyes stop on the cactus, and he’s got it.

There’s no hesitation, his arm winds back entirely, using all of his strength to cut clean through the base. Ten feet of poisonous spikes comes crashing down, a flood of pulpy water pouring at Konig’s feet. It lands on one of the scorpions, giving him a break in the circle of mutts to make his escape.

When one of the scorpions cries out, both you and Konig freeze, shoulders tensed on the couch.

It’s your voice.

Your haunting wails recorded during your nightmares, crying out Konig’s name.

On screen, Konig whips his head around, stumbling on the sand as he looks in the direction of your cry. He trips, his hands springing up to brace himself before he hits the ground.

The nearest scorpion closes in on him, and shortly after Konig’s back on his feet and working up to a sprint, the mutt’s serrated claws snap at and tear through the flesh of his calf. Your brows slope at Konig’s cry of pain, your hand coming up to your racing heart.

He’s limping through the desert now, blood gushing down the back of his leg and splattering on the grains of sand.

The scorpions are following him, not struggling to keep up now that he’s injured.

All of them, crying out in your voice, crying out his name, scared and pleading, desperate and helpless. Both on screen and now, Konig’s hands shoot up to his ears to block out the overlapping wails.

He’s curled up next to you on the couch as you rub your palm over his button down and tie.

“Hey, hey it’s okay. It’s okay, I’m fine, it was just a nightmare. It was just a nightmare.”

“No,” He objects through a grit, his eyes pinching shut.

“Don’t listen to it, just listen to me. I’m fine, it was just a nightmare. I’m okay, I’m right here.”

He throws himself into your arms, wrapping around you and squeezing hard enough to steal your breath, his stubble scraping against you as he buries his face into your neck.

You rub his back, looking over his head to watch the screen over his shoulder.

He straggles through the desert, his leg threatening to give out under the pain of each stride, but he doesn’t stop. He’s scrambling to get away from your cries.

This is when he finds the oasis. The scorpions stop at what appears to be an invisible circle of safety looping the ring of trees. Konig doesn’t look back until he’s in the middle of the pool of water, until the waterfall drowns out the scorpion’s cries. He’s heaving and struggling to stay afloat with his injury and the weight of his soaked backpack. He rips off his hood, pulling in deep breaths of air as he flails.

Once the scorpions lose interest, he swims to where his toes can touch, taking a moment to catch his breath.

He lets out a cry, loud and unrestrained - not from pain, no, this is a cry of pure frustration, the cry of a boy pushed to his limit. He shakes his head, his hair sending water droplets flinging in all directions, fists splashing in the water as he tries to work out the emotions suffocating him.

Konig is still in your arms and avoiding the screen, sunk in on himself, a hand coming up to cover his red face.

You’re not judging him. You get it. In fact, you just threw a nationwide temper tantrum in front of all of Panem. Basically challenged the whole country with a one-girl rebellion because you thought he was dead.

Oh, shit.

He thought you were dead.

Neither of you watched the faces of the fallen, you because you didn’t want to see Willow’s face and him because he’d passed out after the cactus. Surely he thought those screams were recorded not during a nightmare, but during your brutal end. A brutal end where you screamed and cried and pleaded for Konig’s help, and he failed to save you.

When enough time has passed and he deems it safe, Konig drags himself to shore and lies defeated in the wet sand, deep, brilliant red oozing generously from his calf. Tears stream down his puffy, pale face, his breaths choppy and his chest stuttering.

The sight is enough to bring tears in your eyes, your lower lip pulling between your teeth.

You squeeze Konig tight, the hand you rest on his back raising to scratch his scalp and simultaneously shield him from the world.

On screen, Konig digs into One’s soaked backpack, and retrieves the canister of medicine to tend to his wound.

The feed pauses, and you give Caesar a look that would have made a king’s knees buckle.

‘Try it, Caesar. If you even dare utter a word in his direction, I will grab you by your ponytail and beat your ass in front of all of Panem.’

He receives the message loud and clear, and speaks into the audience while you scratch Konig’s hair, cooing reassurance into his ear in between soft kisses on his head.

Caesar rambles on about Konig’s escape maneuver, praising the design of the scorpions, going on about how your screams were just such a heart wrenching thing for Konig to endure.

When the feed resumes, Konig’s wound is tended to, his face no longer pained, but hollow. He just lies face up in the sand, bags under his eyes and gaze fixed to the night sky. Numb, motionless.

Tired.

Tears stream down his temples, and he has no motivation to wipe them away. He gets no rest the night before the finale.

Just lies in the sand, unmoving.

Price caves and sends him more food, hoping that he’ll eat without the arduous task of fishing or scavenging, but he doesn’t eat.

The feed cuts, skipping to when he finally finds the will to move.

You know it well.

The rage, he’s using his anger to push through, to survive. It shows in every movement he makes, too forceful and aggressive. Yanking and slamming and grunting through grit teeth at everything he comes in contact with. It’s a stark contrast to his usually reserved demeanor.

Weirdly, it’s working for you.

Which does make you feel bad, since he’s clearly in distress, both on screen and now, but you can’t help it. Those seething hormones that don’t know their place.

The feed pauses, and Caesar makes his stupid little commentary.

“Now, this next part here, we really get to see some action from Konig.”

The feed resumes, having cut to morning. Konig has left the oasis, heading back to the heart of the arena with forceful steps.

“Please don’t watch,” Konig mutters into your neck, his words just a low vibration against your skin.

Your brows pinch and your lips part, pausing your soothing rubs.

“Okay,” You whisper. You rest your cheek on his head and close your eyes, starting up the back rubs again. He squeezes you a little tighter, nestling into you, his shaky breaths tickling the skin of your neck.

You have to watch.

Your eyes instinctually open at the sound of Konig in conflict, and once they’re on screen you can’t bring yourself to rip them away.

The boy from Four, one of the particularly bigger volunteer tributes, holds out his arms, inviting Konig to a confrontation. He eggs him on with some taunts, and Konig doesn’t so much break his pace.

You already know the ending, not just because Konig is sitting right next to you, a victor, but because the boy from four is decked head to toe in the gear Konig wore at the finale.

It does not deter Konig. He doesn’t evade. In fact, he seems almost eager to fight, picking up into a run.

Konig rams his shoulder square into his front, entirely ignoring the knife that slashes into his bicep. Four is knocked back into the sand, the impact stealing the breath from him.

With each hit Konig lands to Four’s face, Titan’s caved-in head pulses in front of your eyes.

Konig pulls away from your embrace to look up at you, his brows sloped, a glint of betrayal in those worried eyes. Your lips part to give him an apology for watching, but you can get the words out. Between flashes of Titan steadily turned to pulp, choking the breath from you beyond the grave, it takes you right back to the last time Konig looked at you in betrayal, pale and almost entirely drained of life.

The nausea is bubbling up again, and you have to pinch your eyes shut. You blindly nudge into him, burying your face in his shoulder while you try to block everything out.

You don’t watch, but you know Four didn’t die. His cannon doesn’t go off, only knocked unconscious and injured at Konig’s hand.

When you find the screen again, Konig’s wearing Four’s gear back at the oasis, his bicep fully healed. He’s propped up against a tree, his knees pulled to his chest, head in his hands, staring blankly at the sand.

The feed pauses, and Caesar starts up.

“I have to know, Konig, what were you feeling in this moment?”

Konig loosens the embrace and finds Caesar. He shrugs, and says nothing.

“Well then. Let’s take a break from the intense stuff, and let’s see what our lovely lady was doing in the meantime.”

You roll your eyes, and the audience gushes over your crown of petals, your tiny snow-family.

Konig seems to find it endearing, too. He relaxes a bit in your hold, a soft hum vibrating your skin as you scratch his hair.

“Now,” Caesar says, “Before we get into a truly spectacular finale, I’d like to bring someone on stage for a chat.”

As you and Konig sit straight, the crowd whispers to themselves as they try and guess who it is.

“The man who pulled off the impossible, the mastermind behind it all, Mentor - John - Price!”

The crowd explodes into applause, and you turn your head to watch Price walk out on stage, waving a hand loosely at the crowd.

You’re incredibly relieved to see him, actually. It’s clear that you and Konig are entirely lost on this couch, and Price’s experience and his ever-sturdy nature will surely be a crutch for you both. You’re hoping he’ll take the spotlight off of you and Konig for a while.

Before Price sits, he leans down and simultaneously ruffles both you and Konig’s hair with a chuckle.

“How’s my poker face?” He asks with a laugh.

You and Konig sputter, rolling your eyes at him, but you can’t help the half-grin that peeks through.

Price takes a seat on the sofa next to you, giving you a hearty pat on the back before he slings his arms over either side of the back of the couch.

“Wow, wow, wow!” Caesar exclaims, “What an honor it is to have you with us today. You truly pulled off the strategy of the century!”

Price gives a single nod, a raise of his brows that hardens the lines on his forehead.

“Tell us, how did you come up with such a plan?”

Price scratches his temple and gives a light grunt before he gestures to Konig.

“Boy liked the girl. Practically did the work for me.”

The audience laughs as Konig’s hand comes up to rub the back of his neck.

Caesar crosses his legs and leans in, “And at what point did you realize Konig was in love with her?”

Price snorts, a small sly smile on his face.

“Took me about an hour.”

The audience laughs as Konig turns pink at your side. Your cheeks flush with heat as well, once again embarrassed it took you so long to notice the obvious.

You were under a lot of pressure, okay?

“For those of us who don’t know, I’d like to take the opportunity to revisit your victory.”

Price just grunts, and you and Konig look to each other with furrowed brows.

The thought hadn’t even crossed your mind - what Price’s games looked like. How he pulled off a feat that no one from District Nine but you and Konig have been able to recreate since.

Judging by the look on Konig’s face, this is the first time he’s considered it too.

Instantly you’re aching to know.

They start with the reaping of the girl tribute from District Nine, a girl named Summer. She’s average in stature, a headful of wavy, miskept hair frames her face.

For a moment, she is stunned, jaw tight and a slight sway in her feet. Round, deep brown eyes are fully blown, staring straight ahead.

She blinks twice, and her face relaxes, a scoff from lips that pull into a devilish smile. Her eyes roll as she elbows her way through the crowd, striding up to stage before the peacekeepers can even get their hands on her.

Summer hauls herself up on stage and rips the microphone from the escort’s hands. Her arm extends, swatting away the escort’s attempts to take back the microphone by alternating planting her palm into her face and chest. Their mild altercation broadcasts over the speakers - grunts, hissed demands, and almost comical shrieks of mic feedback.

Eventually the escort gives up with a grunt of annoyance.

Summer’s laugh echoes throughout the speakers, and she takes a few slow, bouncing strides across the stage, her back sloped in an irreverent lean, strolling leisurely in front of the crowd. She throws her free arm into the air and lets out a sharp ‘Wooo!’

“I just want to say, I mean - what an honor it is to be the tribute of District Nine.”

Her sarcasm slips from her tongue like it’s her native language, her body slack and dipping a shoulder towards the crowd.

“Truly!” She laughs again, spinning on light feet, projecting faux verve, “It is such an honor to sacrifice the wonderful life the Capitol has graciously offered me so far.”

The escort approaches and tries to swipe for the microphone again, but Summer’s shin catches across the escort’s ankles mid-stride, causing her to trip and crash to the ground with a ridiculously dramatic cry.

The crowd actually laughs at this, which is jarring, because no one ever laughs at a reaping.

Summer ignores the escort's aggravated chirping as she continues with a wide smile.

“A life of harvesting grain on an empty stomach, I mean, I really am giving up something special, aren’t I folks?”

Summer laughs again, but it’s interrupted by a shout in the crowd.

“I volunteer!”

Summer’s face falls at once, her jaw tightening. Her lighthearted, sarcastic tone sheds the moment she hears the voice.

“No!” She objects, shaking her head and pointing into the crowd, “No he doesn’t!”

The camera finds the source of the disruption, shoving his way through the crowd with familiar sturdy arms.

Price volunteered.

Your brows furrow, your head turning to find Price on the couch next to you.

He doesn’t look at you. He keeps his eyes on the screen, but you know he can feel your stare. His jaw cocks, his lips fold in, and he gives a nearly indistinguishable nod.

“Johnny!” Summer grits, her tone that of a parent pushed to her limit as they scold a misbehaving child, “Get back in the crowd, you fucking moron!”

Price trips over himself as he makes his way to her. He tries to crawl up the middle of the stage, but Summer sticks her foot out, pressing the sole of her shoe to his chest to keep him from pulling himself up.

“Stop it! Get back!” She grunts, but his sturdy arms pull themselves up to stage regardless of her shoves and objections.

Summer drops the microphone, the entire audience jumping at the ear-piercing thud that echoes through the speakers. She puts her hands on his shoulders, and for a moment the two wrestle as she froths at him.

“Take it back! Take it back!”

The peacekeepers intervene and rip the two apart, dragging them back with tight grips on the crook of their elbows.

Price isn’t fighting the peacekeeper’s hold, but Summer’s kicking her feet, thrashing ruthlessly against the restraint. Her words are slathered with fury, loud enough for the back of the crowd to hear even without the microphone.

“You fucking idiot, Johnny! What did you do?! What did you do?! You killed yourself, Johnny! You killed yourself!”

Price is panting, chest heaving as his bright blue eyes soak in her rage.

When the escort finally restores order, she has the two shake hands. Summer doesn’t take her glare off Price the entire time. She practically smacks his hand, squeezing him with a deathly grip, a twist in her lips as she grumbles under her breath. Price just swallows, staring at her with sad eyes as he lets her assault his hand.

You hate to admit it, the thought itself making your stomach turn, but Price was kind of good-looking at your age.

While his blue eyes are still hooded, they’re not narrowed into his constant squint. Distressed in this moment, but overall his eyes are brighter, wider, full of life. His face isn’t harshened with fine lines, and instead of the intense facial hair he wears now, he only has faint stubble along his jaw. Price is strong as you know him, but his younger self seems to be entirely fit, a young man primed with youth and strengthened from a life of fieldwork.

The year Price competed in the games, the arena was truly foreign, you don’t recognize a single plant or tree that makes up the lush jungle. The trees fork in odd places, their leaves awkwardly fanned. A few are reminiscent of the trees you saw at the oasis, puffs of leaves only at the very top of their branches, but even that comparison is a stretch. Some of the flora carry leaves bigger than your entire body. Plants that you’d describe as large ferns swallow the jungle floor, camouflaging only a few feet into the tree line. Massive bones scatter the jungle, bones much larger than any animal you’ve ever seen. In many places the jungle drops off into truly stunning valleys teeming with huge, thick-stemmed flowers. Rivers carve out the land, sidewinding through the valleys.

A Jurassic landscape, they call it.

Price and Summer are locked onto each other the entirety of the countdown. When the gong sounds, they don’t hesitate to dart for each other, each of them working up to a full sprint the moment their boots leave the pedestals. They link hands at the center of the brutal bloodbath, blind to the gory altercations surrounding them. As soon as their hands are locked they make a run for the jungle, quickly disappearing into thick foliage.

They skip a lot of the games, and show the particularly exciting moments Price and Summer went through.

For the circumstances, the tone between them is light, smiling and joking as they dredge through the jungle. They’re playing a game to see who can catch the insides of a jungle nut in their mouth from the highest toss straight up in the air.

Price, leading the way, gets stuck mid-stride, as if his boot had been glued to the jungle floor. He looks down, and immediately his palms shoot out to shove Summer back in the dirt.

“What-”

Summer’s eyes widen when she sees the pit of thick sand swallowing Price’s boots.

Price panics, jerking his legs to free himself, but it’s only making it worse. The more he thrashes, the quicker the pool of sand climbs up his legs. Summer curses, kicking to her feet and stepping to the edge of the pit.

“Stop!” She yells, her fingers a blur as she shakes her palms at him, “Stop moving, Johnny! Grab my hand!”

He stills as he looks at her, heavy breaths leaving parted lips and wide eyes pooled with fear. His knuckles turn white the moment he latches to her wrists.

Summer grunts through clenched, bared teeth and leans back, every muscle shaking as her entire body weight pulls on his arms. The heels of her boots dig into the jungle floor, but Price doesn’t budge.

“Ow, ow!” He yells, “Gonna break my arms!”

“Oh, is that a worse alternative to dying?!” Summer spits.

“Save now, fight later!” He grunts.

“Just- stay still!” She says, eyes frantically darting around.

She locks onto one of the trees, a nearly matured sapling with a long, skinny, branchless trunk that stretches well above Summer’s head.

“Got it, I fucking got it, Johnny!” She shouts with excited revelation, giving herself a running start before she jumps up to grab the trunk as high as she can. Her legs fold around the tree, climbing hand over hand to shimmy herself up. When the sapling begins to curl, she jerks her body weight in the direction of Price, unwrapping her legs and dangling off the trunk until the tip of her toes touch the ground.

“Grab it!” Summer hisses, a grunt caught in the back of her throat as she holds down the spring-loaded tree.

Price, now submerged to his diaphragm, scrambles for the sapling, his arms getting lost in the sprouts of leaves at the very top of the odd tree.

“Got it!”

“Hang on tight!” She hisses before releasing the tree, falling backwards into the dirt.

The tree springs up a few feet in the absence of her weight and yanks Price from the sand to his mid-thigh. Summer’s already on her feet, scrambling to the edge of the pit to wrap her arms around Price’s core, yanking to help work him free as he climbs up the sapling with shaking arms.

Once the sand spits out the tops of his boots, he pops free, the tree slingshotting back into place and almost taking him with it. He’s dragged into Summer, both of them crashing to the ground with a thud.

Summer’s eyes pinch shut and she lets out a drawn-out, low groan under his weight.

Price heaves a breathless, relieved laugh, planting his palms in the dirt to prop himself up, smiling down at Summer.

“So,” Price says in between heavy breaths, “Want to finish that fight?”

Summer gives an amused hum behind a grin, her eyelids fluttering. She snatches him by the collar of his shirt with two fingers and pulls him in until his face is inches from hers. A sly grin spreads thick on her face, voice low and as smooth as silk.

“Kiss first, fight later.”

“Deal.”

When Summer closes the gap and plants a long kiss on his lips, you have to look down at your lap, swallowing around the lump in your throat.

Because you already know how this one ends.

The feed cuts to a shot of Summer and Price at the border of the jungle, a rock ledge next to a fifty-foot cliff overlooking a truly gorgeous valley. They’re both inspecting bushes of fruit, none of which you recognize.

“I don’t know, if I had to place my bets, I’m going with this weird one,” Summer says as she pats a fruit the size of her head, its skin a deep purple and knotted with bumps.

“Really?” Price asks, tucking his walking stick into his armpit, “Betting your life on the weird one?”

“That’s rich, coming from you,” Summer digs with a teasing, but slightly pointed tongue.

Price huffs, lacking defense.

He inspects a curved, green fruit the size of his hand, running his thumb along its grains.

“I like this one,” He says, “Got a good feel to it.”

Summer narrows her eyes at him, that sly grin making a reappearance.

“I’ll test yours if you test mine,” She goads.

Price lets out a huff, “Alright, fine. Loser dies.”

“Deal.”

They switch fruits, and dig in.

“Oh, that’s it,” Summer says with a groan, “Good pick, Johnny.”

Price speaks through a mouthful, juice dripping down his chin and staining his chin maroon.

“Can’t say, I’m hungry enough to think dirt tastes good.”

He takes another bite, sucking out the fruit’s insides.

“Johnny,” Summer says carefully.

“No, no, it’s good,” He reassures her, one of his palms blindly gesturing in her direction.

“Johnny,” Summer repeats, her voice low with a slight waver stitched in.

“Yeah?”

Price licks his fingers, and turns to Summer when he doesn’t get an answer.

“Oh, f-!” Price springs to his feet, stumbling backwards with a flail.

“Sh, sh, sh!” Summer hushes with a soft wince, “Just be calm - Don’t freak out.”

A massive snake with a head the size of a loaf of bread, a body as thick as a tree trunk, has crept from a tree above the fruit bushes. Its scales slide around the back of Summer’s neck, slithering leisurely down her shoulder and her front.

“What do I do?!” Price whispers frantically.

“Relax,” The word rides one of Summer’s exhales as she closes her eyes.

You’re not sure if she’s talking to herself or Price.

“Just let me think,” She says quietly.

The python moves slow, snaking around her core like a sash, wrinkling the fabric of her shirt as it curiously explores her.

Summer’s face pinches - she’s trying to come up with a plan but her focus is split between steadying the rise and fall of her chest and keeping herself from panicking.

“So cold,” Summer whispers under her breath as she suppresses a shiver, “Feels so fucking weird.”

Price takes a few slow steps forward, arms puffed out at his sides and his back hunched over.

“Johnny,” Summer warns.

Price lowers himself to a squat, picking up the purple fruit with careful hands.

“Johnny,” Summer tries again with a draw, but with concern to angering the snake coiling around her, her voice isn’t as forceful as she would have liked it to be.

His brows furrow, and a hand comes up with a wave of annoyance.

“I got it, Trouble.”

Price gets his boots in front of her crossed legs, leaning down and carefully extending the fruit in the direction of the snake’s face.

“What are you doing?” Summer grits.

Price ignores her, cooing to the snake.

“Oh, what’s this?” He says softly, animated and affectionate, the way one would speak to a beloved pet.

The snake’s tongue flicks out, it’s head perking up from Summer’s thigh.

“Yeah, buddy, check this out,” Price coos, “You don’t want her, you want this thing.”

“Run, Johnny,” Summer hisses through clenched teeth.

“Smells good, don’t it?” Price says to the snake, ignoring Summer’s demands.

The snake’s tongue flicks from its mouth furiously, hunting down the fresh, pungent scent of the purple fruit, juice still dripping from the taken bite.

The snake double back on itself, peeling back from Summer’s stomach, and Price gives a drawn out, low, “Yeah-heh-heah.”

Price takes careful steps, shifting to Summer’s side, delicately guiding the snake to unwrap from her core.

Price chuckles, “That’s it.”

When the snake is only draped over her shoulders, Price grits to Summer.

“Run, Trouble, Run!”

With a grunt, Summer shoves the snake from her shoulders to get away from its slimy scales.

The snake did not like this maneuver one bit.

With a deafening hiss, another fifteen feet of tail whips from the jungle, the end coiling around Summer’s ankle in less than a second, pulling her foot out from under her. Summer slams face first into the ground, busting her chin open on the rock ledge.

At the same time, the snake’s jaw unhinges, its lips peeling open well below where the corner of its mouth should be, parting down the sides of its body to reveal an opening large enough to effortlessly swallow a full grown man whole with one bite. Its razor sharp fangs start at a size you’d expect at the front of its mouth, and increase in size down its unfurled body until they’re as big as Price’s forearm.

Price screams as he stares into the snake’s gaped innards displayed in clear threat while Summer desperately claws at plants on the jungle floor. Her shirt bunching up her torso as she’s dragged on her front by the snake’s tail. Price flings himself back when the snake’s uncanny mouth closes with a snap like a whip in his direction. Summer flips over on her front, folding her core to peel the tail from her ankle, but she’s no match for its deadly grip.

As Price moves away, Summer is effortlessly lifted from the ground, flailing her limbs once airborne. The snake fully unfurls its mouth towards the sky, its tail curling to hover Summer over its gaped throat. She screams and kicks suspended in the air, dangling helplessly as she stares into the snake’s mouth.

“Hey!” Price yells from off screen.

The purple fruit smacks the snake’s neck with an almost comedic wet slap.

The snake’s mouth snaps shut beneath Summer, its head whipping to the side, venomous eyes locking onto Price. Summer is slammed against the rock ledge, expelling all of the air from her lungs with a guttural wheeze as the snake slithers with unnatural speed towards Price. A choppy groan leaves Summer, dragged across the rock ledge in the snake’s wake as Price trembles, taking uneasy steps backward as he points his meager walking stick in the direction of the snake.

The snake’s already unfurled its terrifying mouth again, priming to swallow him with a gut-churning hiss, but it does not deter Price from launching himself into the snake’s mouth, jamming the thick branch vertically between the bottom and the roof of its mouth.

The snake lets out a cry as it tries to snap its jaw around Price, but instead pierces the walking stick through the roof of its mouth.

The snake wails, ripping away from Price and releasing Summer as it desperately shakes its head to rid the wedge propping its jaw open. Price boots fumble along the rock as he makes a run for Summer, moaning in pain on the ground.

Price skids to a stop before leaning over and pulling her up with sturdy arms and a grunt. Her wobbly legs come to a stand while Price slings her arms over his shoulders, half-dragging her as they stumble through the jungle.

When the two finally give out, Summer collapses to her knees and Price doubles over, his hands on his thighs and spitting his exhaustion into the dirt.

As they catch their heaving breaths, Price lets out a huff.

“Betting on the weird one worked for ya, did it?”

Summer puts two shaky palms to the jungle floor and lowers herself onto her side with a wince.

“You tell me,” She says after a long breath, resting her cheek on her bicep, smearing her arm with the blood of her split chin.

Price laughs again, lying down next to her.

A tightly pressed smile blooms on Summer’s face. Her eyes close, cheeks bunching with a glow that can be seen even under the blood and dirt. Her voice is soft when she speaks to the jungle floor.

“You’re the biggest idiot I know.”

Price hums.

“Well, I can’t help that.”

He touches the pad of his finger to the tip of her nose, a cheeky, goofy grin on his face.

“You’re the one who picked the biggest idiot you know.”

She scoffs, loosely swatting at him, but her hand lingers on his chest, her fingers toying with the slack fabric on the front of his shirt.

“Tell me about it,” She says with a wistful sigh.

You carefully turn your head to get a discreet glimpse of Price on the couch next to you. His elbows are propped up on his knees, leaning forward in his spot. His eyes are relaxed, lost in the rerun. Wearing the outline of a smile that matches Summer’s and the side of his index finger absentmindedly stroking his beard.

Your heart is heavy in your chest and your throat has gone sore and dry, you have to look away from him.

Because you know how this one ends.

When the footage cuts, they show Price and Summer setting up camp in a dilapidated skull the size of a modest room, a snug but cozy fit for two. Whatever animal it came from must have been massive, and had a powerful, flesh-eating jaw. The entrance to their hideout, the mouth of the once creature, is lined with rows of teeth, each tooth the length of Summer’s palm. The skull has been partially overtaken by time and foliage, dirt filthying the yellowish white bone, moss and vines climbing up the holes along the roof of the skull.

Inside the mouth, Summer’s resting on her back on a hand-gathered bed of moss, her elbows bent to cradle her head in her palms. Price is curled up at her side, a sturdy arm slung over her waist, nestled into her shoulder. He snores lightly into her neck as she keeps watch, staring through a hole in the roof of their skull, watching the stars through the leaves of the nearby trees.

Something shakes the jungle, every last tree and leaf on the foliage disturbed as the world rumbles for just a second.

“What’s’it?” Price slurs as he opens his eyes, a deep inhale of morning as he lifts his head to find Summer’s worried face.

It happens again, something shakes the ground beneath them, the both of them jostled for a brief stint.

“The fuck is that?” Summer whispers to him, her brows pinched.

“Don’ know, jus’ woke up,” He mumbles with a slur, voice low with annoyance and sleep.

They flinch and cling to each other when it happens again, their heads swiveling as they try to piece together what’s happening.

“Earthquake?” Summer asks.

Something gives a deafening, screeching roar, booming in the distant forest, ripping a gasp from both of them. Their fingernails are digging into each other, huddled in a ball of tense limbs as they wait for threat.

The thuds turn rhythmic, the entire jungle vibrating with tremendous force.

A shallow breath leaves Price when a tribute screams in the distance.

Both of their mouths are parted, locked onto each other before they peer out of the skull, unable to see beyond the foliage.

The speed increases, the spaced out jostles quickly becoming one continuous rumble. It’s getting closer, intensifying with each beat.

“What do we do?!” Price shouts.

Summer just shakes her head, face slack with fear. The rumbling stops, and the tribute screams pick up in its absence.

The truly harrowing, bone-chilling roar cuts through the jungle again, both Summer and Price jumping from their skin, arms tensing around each other.

A cannon fires.

For minutes the jungle settles, but the two don’t dare break away from each other, holding each other close.

They both flinch when the thuds start up again, one after another, the entire jungle quaking. It’s getting closer, the two have to lower themselves on their hands and knees to keep from being tossed around.

It is a truly terrifying beast, the ultimate predator.

The beast is well over the size of a building, with flesh like a lizard’s. Two powerful, bird-like legs support a body that must be four stories wide, its feet lined with killer claws. A thick neck supports a head the size of a car and two useless arms hang from its front. Half of its body is just a massive tail balancing out the weight of its huge head, thick near its body and thinning out to a point twenty feet away.

When the beast gives a powerful roar, its screeched breath rustles nearby leaves, displaying its powerful jaws far and wide.

Summer blinks, and her gaze flits to the row of teeth at the entrance of their hideout, and she’s coming to the haunting realization that her and Price would be a snug, but cozy fit inside the mouth of the beast. It cross the jungle what must be only fifty yards from Price and Summer, their entire world becoming a nauseating blur.

The two flinch when the extreme force causes the jaws of their hideout to snap shut, trapping them in the skull.

The two watch through the nostril openings until the beast is long lost to the jungle.

“Okay,” Summer draws out a long sigh, closing her eyes, “Hated that.”

“Not a holiday for me, either.”

“Let’s make a deal,” Summer’s fist jams a thumb in the direction of the beast, “We stay far away from that thing.”

“No?” Price asks with a tilt of his head and a raised brow, “I was thinking we put a collar on ‘em and keep ‘em as a pet.”

Summer snorts.

“Fine, but I’m not going to get stuck taking care of it. You have to clean up after it.”

Price’s eyes crinkle when he smiles at her.

“Deal.”

When the feed cuts again, it’s clear a good chunk of time has passed. The hideout is camouflaged, they’ve rigged the skull’s jaw open with a pulley, and the two managed to get their hands on some modest supplies - some rope and knives.

Price and Summer are digging into a nice bounty of fruit and the meat of a jungle creature, cooked over some now extinguished embers. They’re eating in a comfortable silence, resting their backs against the skull with their legs stretched out. It’s clear they’re both exhausted.

Heavy eyelids shoot open when voices in the jungle near.

“I can smell it, it was definitely over here.”

“Well, it’s not anymore. They’re long gone.”

Two careers, slicing their weapons through vines and overgrown plants, hunting for the smoke from Summer and Price’s campfire.

“Lower district rats prol’ly too stupid to clear out.”

Summer’s face twists, a snarl tugging on her lips. Price shakes his head at her, his eyes wide and lips folded in.

“We can look around for a little.”

“Or we can look until we get to spill some rat blood.”

With pointed brows and a growl threatening to leave her, Summer makes a ring with her index finger and her thumb. She goes to place it in her mouth, but Price snatches her wrist and slaps a hand over her mouth, prompting Summer to muffle objections into his palm.

Summer starts swinging at him as she tries to shake away her muzzle, but Price positions himself behind her, pressing her back to his chest and keeping her secure between his legs as she trashes in his hold until the careers move on.

When Price loosens his grip, she shoves him away.

“What is wrong with you?” He hisses, “Are you nuts?”

“What’s wrong with me? What’s wrong with you?! How can you just sit by after hearing their bullshit all week?”

“Because I’m not trying to get myself killed!”

“Well then you shouldn’t have volunteered, should ya’ve, Johnny?!”

He doesn’t have anything to say to that one.

The pain wells in his eyes for just a moment before he huffs, pinching his brows and looking away.

Summer grumbles under her breath before crawling out of the skull, getting much needed space from him.

The feed cuts, and it appears as if the two have resolved the fight, or at least have repaired things enough to tolerate being next to each other. They walk silently through the jungle, both of their steps sluggish, but are stopped in their tracks as the world gets brighter. It takes only a few seconds for the entire arena to be engulfed in a blinding white light.

The sound of the impact blares over the speakers loud enough you feel the vibration in your ribcage. It makes you jump. A flinch and a sharp draw of breath that drives Konig to tighten his hold on you.

The ground shakes beneath Price and Summer, tenfold more intense than the beast’s footsteps. It knocks them both to the ground instantly, and they have to scramble to narrowly miss getting crushed by weakened trees, uprooted and crashing to the ground.

A cloud of white dust barrels like a wave in their direction, and even though Price wasted no time to grab Summer’s arm and make a run from it, they are swallowed by a thick cloud of smoke, coughing and hacking as they stumble blindly through the jungle.

Half of the arena has been entirely destroyed, now only a burning, fiery wasteland ringing an enormous crater, a meteor wedged deep into the earth at the center. What remains of the arena is so foggy with debris they can’t see a foot in front of their faces.

The impact killed a handful of tributes instantly, including half the career pack, and wiped out all of the beasts that roamed the land.

The feed cuts again, and your stomach twists when Price licks his lips and looks to the floor.

You know what that means.

You follow his gaze for a moment, trying to swallow the lump forming in your throat.

The meteor strike has driven what remains of the tributes together, the pool slimmed. The dust has mostly cleared the arena, now only a slight fog weaving through the foliage.

Where the jungle breaks into the cornucopia, Price and Summer lock eyes with what remains of the career pack.

Summer’s fists clench at her sides and Price’s hand immediately shoots to Summer’s shoulder.

The careers don’t even lunge for them.

They stand in front of the cornucopia, arms crossed over their chests and smug grins on their faces.

Price gives Summer a tug, guiding her to turn and run, but her feet stay planted firmly on the dirt.

“Trouble,” Price hisses, “Let’s go.”

“C’mon rat!” One of the careers calls from across the field, his arms uncrossing and held out at his sides, inviting them to a fight.

Summer’s knuckles have gone white around the handle of her blade, shallow breaths leave her parted lips. She’s caught in a trance as she stares down the careers.

“Summer! Let’s go!” He says sternly, giving a harsh tug on her arm and taking a step to backtrack into the forest.

“You all talk?!” One of the careers calls, “Put your bread where your mouth is, Rat!”

Summer jaw clenches before she rips from Price’s grip, breaking into a sprint towards the careers.

“Summer, no!”

Price runs after her, but stops in his tracks when Summer’s ankle snags against something.

It happens so fast.

A nearly invisible tripwire hidden within the fern-like plants sends an axe into the side of her stomach in an instant. For a moment she is paralyzed, only a slight sway on her feet before she turns to face Price.

It takes a moment for Price to understand what just happened, in stunned disbelief as his hands find his head.

“No!” Price cries when his thoughts catch up, “No, no!”

His boots take off, slamming against the dirt and tearing through the ferns as he runs for her.

“Summer! Summer!”

A heavy wall of tears rims his eyeline, a shake in his hands as he locks on to her wide eyes. Summer collapses face first into the foliage, and when Price catches up he forcefully flips her onto her front.

Summer groans as Price’s panicked eyes dart over the wound, muttering to himself while the blood oozes generously around the blade of the axe.

“You’re going to be okay!” He says, but he convinces absolutely no one, then and now.

“‘S make a deal, okay?” Summer grits, her words chopped with each twitch of her body, “You win this thing-”

Summer coughs, blood splattering on her lips and chin.

“And I’ll love you for the rest of my life.”

He nods, tears slipping down his face.

Price’s voice is just a choked breath.

“Deal.”

She closes her eyes and hums.

“Love you, Johnny.”

“Love you, Summertime.”

“Go,” She says hoarsely, “Make sure you didn’t do it for nuthin’.”

Price nods, his brows pinching. He looks up to the careers, both of them making the dash across the clearing to finish Price off.

He looks back to Summer, his face falling and swelled with worry.

Her eyes roll ever so slightly, her words wet and gurgled through her blood.

“Go, idiot.”

Price nods with a swallow and rises to his feet, breaking into a run further into the jungle as soon as he musters up the courage to take his eyes off her. He doesn’t look back, his boots slamming against the jungle floor with each step, the leaves of the flora wavering in his wake.

Tears streak his face, his lips parted to push out sharp breaths, but otherwise his face is expressionless, stone-cold. He only breaks for a moment when the cannon fires, a wince that creases his eyes, but his boots don’t slow.

The careers are closing in on him, and you find your nails are digging into Konig’s thigh, threatening to tear a chunk of fabric from his dress pants.

Price must have run miles without slowing before he sidesteps the familiar pool of quicksand and returns to his previous trajectory. One of the careers gets sucked right into his trap, his body is thrown when his boot gets caught in the pit, planting his palms right into the quicksand.

By time the other career catches up, the sand has swallowed the boy to his wrists and ankles. He’s tugging futilely against its hold on him, only burying himself further into the sand’s clutches. The other career ignores him entirely, doesn’t even look in the direction of the desperate pleas for help.

When Price finds his and Summer’s hideout, he makes a beeline for it.

Both your teeth and fists are clenched, resisting the urge to scold Price for cornering himself by crawling into the skull.

Price turns on his feet, hunched over to fit as he steps to the back of the hideout, his knife primed above his head.

“Let’s go, Rat!” The career calls before lowering himself to follow Price into the hideout.

Price swings his knife, but not at the career, no.

As the career is halfway into the mouth of the skull, Price slices clean through the rope of the pulley. The skull’s powerful jaw clamps shut with tremendous force, massive teeth piercing through the career’s torso with a snap, pinning him in the mouth of the once beast.

The career sputters his breath, eyes blown and blood shooting from his mouth at once. His hands instinctively press the back of the beast’s teeth to pointlessly try to work himself free.

Price carefully nears as the boy struggles, keeping eye contact with him. Price’s face is eerily even as he squats down in the bed of moss soaking up the blood that drains down the massive, bone white teeth.

He raises his knife to his own forearm, and slices clean through his skin without so much as wincing.

Price inspects the wound with furrowed brows for a moment before he slowly extends his forearm to the boy, droplets of Price’s blood streaking from the cut and down his arm.

“You see that?” He says, his voice low and dangerous.

Price huffs.

“Looks like you bleed the same colors as the rats.”

The boy can’t respond, too busy choking on his blood, but what life remains in his eyes sparks with rage, his brows creasing ever so slightly as he glares at Price.

Price’s eyes narrow into a deep squint.

“You tell Summer who sent you.”

Price’s knife pierces through the career’s windpipe without warning.

You flinch in your seat, eyes pinching shut to rid the sight of Sapphire being skewered at your hand, your nails nearly drawing blood from the flesh of your knee as you try to shake the reverb of the staff in your grip and silence the sound of her choking on her own blood.

“Wow,” Caesar starts, “Let’s give John a hand, huh?”

The audience complies, but it’s muffled by the sound of your own shallow breaths in your ears. Behind the cover of your eyelids, your irises dart furiously.

So much new information you’re learning about your fellow victors today, and not at all the proper space to digest it.

Your nausea is making a reappearance and your heels scrape across the stage in a futile attempt to expel the heat bubbling from your pores.

“It must be really special to you, that after all this time, you managed to pull off getting these two star-crossed lovers out together.”

Price gives a curt nod.

“That’s right,” He says evenly.

Your hand crosses over your bicep, and your lower lips catches between your teeth. That sickening guilt is coiling in your intestines again, the heavy weight that’s impossible to ignore.

What makes you worthy of getting out of the arena, when Summer couldn’t?

Why do you and Konig get to have each other at your sides - when Price didn’t get the same?

You don’t feel deserving of it.

Not just in comparison to Price - but even in relation to your games.

Why do you get to sit here on this stage, alive and unharmed, while there are twenty-two other tributes - many of them much more deserving of the victor title - who’ve long since been packed up in wooden boxes and shipped back to their districts?

Because you are alive today, someone else is dead.

And it’s only worse that a selfish little brat like you got gifted something that an honorable man like Price couldn’t have.

Guilt.

“Tell us,” Caesar says to you and Konig, “Have you seen this footage before?”

You swallow hard enough you can feel it tug on your ears. You can’t bring yourself to speak, or even open your eyes, so you just shake your head.

“And how do you feel after seeing John’s win for the first time?”

You shake your head again, and when you speak, your words are choked and barely audible.

“Not good.”

Price gives you a squeeze on the shoulder before rubbing it out. You think he’s trying to tell you it’s okay, that you shouldn’t feel bad, but it does nothing to relieve the sickening guilt swelling in your gut and swallowing you whole.

Caesar receives little cooperation from Konig.

“Well, John, I have to say, your tributes weren’t the only ones stirring excitement in the arena.”

Price scoffs, a smile tugging on his lips.

”We have some never-before seen footage I can’t wait to share with you all! Let’s take a look, shall we?”

The mentor’s suite is just a sterile white, curved room, lined with screens and chairs. One large screen shows the audience’s perspective, and each mentor’s seat has multiple screens to keep an eye on their own tributes at all times.

You’d think Price bet the farm on you and Konig.

Price is consistently the loudest of all the mentors. It’s easy to see from one look that everyone else is annoyed with him.

Ruby isn’t nearly as loud, but she’s just as obnoxious, looking over Price’s shoulder and squealing every word.

Oh, how you have missed that shrill Capitol accent.

They only show the particularly interesting moments.

When you escaped the snare, Price threw his chair across the room, making everyone in the room flinch.

“That’s my fucking girl!”

“Well, she has always been stubborn!” Ruby chimes.

It actually makes you blow an amused huff of air out of your nose, a grin creeping on your lips.

And of course, they show Price pulling Ruby into an excited kiss when you escaped Titan. She turns bright red and grunts when he lets go of her, smoothing out her shirt.

”Well, I never!”

The audience loves it, a hearty applause for Price’s antics.

Caesar asks Price a few more questions, but you do your best to tune them out, taking your opportunity to shut off your brain for a minute as you bury yourself into Konig’s chest.

When Caesar prompts Price off the stage, he practically strongholds you into standing with him, Konig in turn following.

He pulls you in for a hug and digs his nails into your back hard enough you hiss into his ear. He doesn’t let you wriggle away, holding you for a few more sharp seconds before he finally lets you free, ignoring your face pinched in defense.

His jaw clenches, and the message his eyes are drilling into you is clear.

Be. Good.

The look, the first implementation of physical correction - it’s enough to dry out your mouth and clench your muscles. An ominous feeling pools from your center and infects your limbs, ultimately putting a shake in your fingers and a wobble in your knees.

There it is, that feeling again. The unpinnable, chest-wrenching, breath-stealing feeling.

Something is wrong.

How badly did you fuck up? What specifically was he correcting?

Konig doesn’t get the same treatment. Price plasters his crowd-worthy grin on his face and pulls Konig into a short side-hug, giving him two gentle but firm pats on the back before he struts off, waving at the crowd.

With stitched brows you follow him with your gaze as Price walks off stage, carefully taking your seat once he’s out of sight. Your fingers fidget at your side as you try to heed off the urge to throw up all over the glittery stage.

Caesar hypes up the crowd for the finale before digging into the highlights.

You’re not looking forward to this part.

The oasis does not grant Konig refuge from the dust storm, a light breeze turning to a gusting wind that turns to a full on twister of sand.

They cut to the boy from four, still lying on the sand exactly where Konig left him, skin fried from the desert sun.

Konig paralyzed him.

And judging by the way Konig’s eyes widen and his lips part, he had no idea. He looks to his hands, horrified.

The dust storm steadily suffocates Four, his weak cries more muffled with each passing second before his cannon fires.

Konig’s horrified expression lingers the entirety of the arena being destroyed.

You give him a squeeze that he doesn’t return, motionless when you rest your cheek on his shoulder.

They feature the boy from six and the boy from seven, the boys who ran into the snow quadrant at the bloodbath. They took refuge in the center of the snow quadrant, in the large, complex system of caves. They were out hunting for food before the avalanche chased them out of the woods and swallowed them whole.

Even though you only knew of them as ‘The boys who ran into the snow quadrant’ - there’s some level of unpinnable familiarity there that makes your heart sink. Maybe because you witnessed their death happen in person, or maybe because you got too close of a look at them at the bloodbath, or maybe it was that moment where the boy from seven was smiling in his chariot with his district companion. You don’t know. This interview is so exhausting, and has left you with more than enough emotional homework you care to handle, and you’re still not finished yet.

You still have to relive Sapphire’s death, you still have to watch Konig beat Titan into a bloody pulp, and you still have to see Konig die.

What you wouldn’t give for a breather.

For five minutes with Konig in private.

You just want to be done, done with this interview, done with The Capitol, done with the Hunger Games.

But you won’t ever be, will you? Every year they’ll drag you and Konig back with Price, forced to mentor a pair of kids destined to die, and you won’t be able to keep your distance. Every year they will break your heart, and every year they’ll broadcast your romance far and wide, both in recaps and in new footage.

They start with Sapphire.

As soon as her cry blares over the speakers, your eyes are screwed shut.

Konig’s nearly squeezing the life from you, surely watching Sapphire close in as you bleed generously from your hedge-inflicted wounds.

“He killed him! He killed him!”

Konig’s grip on you loosens as soon as he realizes it.

Realizes that you took the brunt of her vengeance against him for killing her district companion. A boy she surely trained with for years, preparing for this moment.

You give his arm a squeeze. Konig doesn’t know it, but that same vengeance is what saved you.

The exhaustion from mourning her companion made Sapphire’s spear toss sloppy, her hatred for Konig left her defenses wide open, and her spite drove her own spear square into her abdomen.

How many times does a boy have to save a girl’s life before she gets the fucking picture?

Konig is so skilled at protecting you - he managed to pull it off without even being by your side - all while you fought with everything you had to die.

It feels as if these games have revolved around you and Konig since the beginning. Tethered together by a rope that stretched across the arena, ensnaring any tributes that neared in its indestructible, suffocating web.

You can’t help but wonder - if you had never been, if you were never a soul on this earth, what would the outcome have been?

Who would have had a fair chance if you and Konig had not been unintentional allies, if it weren’t for you two being an unstoppable force that pulled tributes under without even trying?

How many deaths fall back on you, simply for breathing, for existing?

Konig’s grip has turned crushing since Sapphire whipped her spear in your direction, and it almost grounds you as you’re suffocated by the replay of her froths.

The squelch of Sapphire’s eye and her haunting wail makes you gag, bile sloshing up the back of your throat and bringing tears to your eyes.

Konig’s clutch on you is so tight he’s shaking. As you and Sapphire attack simultaneously, he sucks in a sharp breath, flinching in his seat. He almost takes your hand with him to find his head, but corrects himself and rests your intertwined hands where your thighs meld together.

Your eyes are closed, but you can see her - on her knees, ripping out her own eye, the tear of her shredded optic nerve. You can feel it - the spear jamming into your stomach, the weight of Sapphire’s body scraping the spear against your flayed hands, the ground jostling you about as her limp body bounces lifelessly on the ground.

“What a moment, what a moment!” Caesar chimes once the footage pauses, a chorus of claps echoing throughout the theatre.

“Wow, I have to say, it’s not every games we get to see a tribute drive another to end their own life,” Caesar’s lips pull to the side, and he speaks in a lowered, cheeky tone, “And I hate to spoil it for you folks, but that won’t be the last time it happens.”

As the audience laughs, your face pinches, crushing Konig’s hand in yours. Your lips part to run your mouth - but you stop yourself, forcing out a deep breath.

Be. Good.

So instead your lips press into a tightly pursed smile, your neck jerking to the side.

Konig finds you, those icy blue eyes just as annoyed as yours.

He lifts your locked hands with a gentle shake and a squeeze.

“And here I thought I was being original,” He mutters with a slight roll of his eyes.

For a moment your brows tighten, and then you scoff, finding yourself actually smiling during this grueling, painful interview.

“Eh,” You shrug, “She may have gotten there first, but you perfected it.”

His chest puffs out with an amused huff, his fingers raising to rub out his temple. He shakes his head and looks at you, and you share a weak, but genuine smile.

It doesn’t last long.

Konig’s next.

Really, you should have connected the dots considering you saw the two dead tributes at the other end of the maze, but it hadn’t crossed your mind to think of the fights that were taking place as you fought Sapphire.

His assigned opponent is the girl from two, Sage as Sapphire called her.

Sage wastes no time once the ground settles, in a run straight for him. Konig’s not fazed by her speed. He roughly tosses his pack to the side, and stands tall with Four’s blade primed.

There’s little to see of his expression under his hood, but his eyes are fearless, slightly narrowed as he waits for her approach.

Sage wields a sword of her own, and once Konig is in motion, it’s impossible to look away. The footage isn’t altered, but it feels as if time has slowed for them. You catch every movement, the way Konig’s leg dips and his arm straightens behind him, winding up to deflect her hit with the perfect clinks of metal on metal. They way her feet shuffle in perfect positioning, alternating between offensive and defensive maneuvers.

It’s violent, aggressive, - but also graceful.

Their fight is a mesmerizing dance. They meet in the middle like it has been rehearsed, perfect timing of the commanding clashes to form a grated song of their swords embracing.

Sage’s face is pinched in determination and focus, grunts behind her grit teeth with each swing.

They exchange no words.

It’s a transaction, professional. The two are there to complete their task and nothing more.

Their swords clash between their chests and hold there, hands trembling as they push against the other. Their eyes are locked and crinkled in focus.

Konig closes in and gives a forceful shove, sending her tumbling back onto the grass.

When she’s on her elbows, her legs bending in a scramble, the very end of Konig’s blade finds her neck, resting an inch under her chin. He looms over her in all his glory, blocking out the sun and casting his shadow over her.

Sage stills at once, her lips twitching as she looks up at him. It’s not quite anger in her eyes, more frustration at herself. Bested even with her training.

She doesn’t beg. She holds his taut stare, and waits. Accepting her defeat in good sportsmanship.

Konig’s sword lingers for a few moments before it slowly retreats, pulling away from her neck.

Sage breaks the stare to follow Konig’s sword until it’s back at his side.

“Up, Girl.”

Her chest heaves with her shallow breaths, irises shifting back and forth as she flits between both of his unreadable eyes.

There’s a pause, lingering their stares on each other before she comes to a slow stand.

Konig takes a few steps back, his sword relaxed at his side. For a moment she eyes him in unease, but he waits patiently. She fixes her shirt, tugging down the hem that bunched up when she fell, and tilts her head to the side to pop a joint in her neck. A long exhale leaves her, she rolls her shoulders, and repositions her feet.

Her face pinches in determination, and they begin round two.

They’re not holding back. Sage is back in the game, catching every swing. She almost gets him, twisting her wrist with a jerk of her arm to leave his core undefended, but he saves it with a quick deflect by putting the sword vertically just in front of his middle. She would have cut him when she forced her sword further into his, but the supplies in his vest spares him from being nicked with his own sword.

Sage retreats her blade and risks opening herself up while Konig’s busy winding regaining his grip on his swords. She returns with all her might, a grunt that borders on a shout leaving her. Konig blocks her from the inside and pushes outwards, and for a moment she loses balance, stumbling at Konig’s side. His upper half quickly leans back as he swivels to keep face to face with her, a few steps back to keep his distance.

He flinches when she cries out. Sage learns the hard way about the hedge’s blades, slicing deep gashes on the undersides of her forearms and through the meat of her palms.

Konig’s eyes widen as he tries to figure out what just happened, taking a few uneasy steps back as she collects herself.

Sage shakes out her arm, flicking blood in all directions. She winces, but it does little to stop her from wrapping her palms around the handle of her sword and finishing their fight.

They sidestep each other for a moment, swords at the ready.

Sage advances quickly and with little warning, frustration laced into her flurry of offensive strikes. Her blade is just a blur, each collision announced with the clash of steel and a splatter of her blood. Konig follows her lead, blocking each strike, both of them slipping right back into their perfected routine. She’s clearly got the upper hand when it comes to skill, her sword techniques much more advanced. But Konig’s holding his ground even with his base level understanding.

Sapphire’s cannon fires, and the girl from two loses her rhythm when she flinches and whips her head to the side.

That’s all Konig needs. He gives a forceful shove to the blades, knocking her off balance. He has no problem dismounting her sword. She’s back on the ground again, unarmed and dwarfed under Konig’s full stature.

She doesn’t scramble for her sword or to a stand, calmly propping up on her elbows and watching as Konig leisurely returns the sword to her neck.

They lock eyes again, her chest rising and falling with her heavy breaths as they stare at each other.

Sage licks her lips and nods.

“Do me a favor,” She says through shallow breath.

She looks to the blade, and then back to him.

“Make sure that loon doesn’t win.”

Konig pauses, his eyes relaxing.

“Okay,” He says.

She gives him a faint nod, and Konig takes a long, deep breath, closing his eyes on the exhale. With one motion he pierces the sword into her neck until it imbeds through the ground beneath her.

As the audience claps for Konig, your eyes are pinched shut, trying to free your hands of Sapphire’s spear.

When you do look to him, your brows pinched and gnawing on your lower lip, he doesn’t meet your stare. His eyes point low and to the side, a solemn look weighing down his pale features.

“Wow,” Caesar starts as the audience settles, “Konig, I have to say, that was a truly thrilling fight.”

You have to agree with Caesar on that one. Your heart is beating so fast you can feel it in your ribcage, and you wouldn’t be surprised if your lips have turned blue from holding your breath.

“I have to ask, what were your motivations in granting Sage a second chance?”

You’d like to know the answer to that one, too.

Konig is silent and still, sunken eyes taking their time to find Caesar. He swallows hard enough you can see it, and he gives an unsteady, slow shrug. This one’s different, it’s not disrespectful. Defeated and sluggish, you can tell he genuinely cannot find the words.

They’re used to careers sitting on this couch, wearing proud with each replay of their kills, cheering along with the crowd.

If The Capitol wanted meaningful commentary from you both, they should have given you more time to think on everything, because right now it is so painful. You feel like you’ve been sliced from chest to core, your guts spilling all over the glittery stage, and Caesar might as well be squishing your intestines under his dress shoes with every question he asks.

Caesar sees he’s not going to get the answers the country is desperate for, and moves on.

Titan’s turn.

His fight is much less fair.

He’s up against a male tribute who’s clearly out of his depth, unarmed and no match for Titan.

If you had to guess, his strategy for the games was the same as yours. To evade until he had no choice, and he’s realizing that this is his reckoning.

A prey trapped with its predator, the instinctual fear of an animal taking control as he tries to put as much space between him and Titan as possible.

Titan’s maniacal cackle as he watches the boy tremble and flee sends a shiver down your spine. He stands so casually, laughing at him as if the boy wasn’t rightfully treating Titan like the killer he is.

It’s a jarring contrast, they’re not even playing the same game.

For Titan, it’s like a game of tag. Toying with the boy as he chases him around their pen, teasing calls in a sing-song tune, smiling and laughing all the while. He purposely slows up a few times to drag the fun out a little longer.

It’s so unnerving, an unsettling twist in your lower core that begs for attention.

Titan.

If you never see those teeth again, if you never hear that laugh again - it’ll be too soon.

It’s clear that both you and Konig have checked out. Shut down on yourselves, staring blankly at the stage and trying your hardest not to retain any of it. Your limp body leans into him, lulling your head on his bicep.

He gives you a weak squeeze on your locked, sweaty hands, but is otherwise motionless at your side.

The Capitol forcing you to falsely grieve his death has worn yourself down emotionally before you even stepped onto this stage, and every highlight chips away at what little of you remains.

You find your mind wandering to that night before the games. Longing for a soft bed and Konig’s chest as a pillow, leeching his cozy warmth, his heartbeat a lullaby to ease you into a much needed break from consciousness.

Your eyes are still closed when Titan finishes the excruciatingly drawn-out hunt, but you can hear it.

Titan chose to break his neck.

Every muscle in you and Konig’s bodies have clenched with such speed and intensity it’s painful. You lurch forward involuntarily, folding your core in preparation to keep from throwing up over yourself.

Titan’s cackle is the accompanying song to the vivid image of Eleven’s limp bounce off the platform, his lifeless eyes a searing, white hot flash behind your eyelids.

You shake your head to try and rid the visual, taking deep breaths in a futile effort to settle your boiling stomach.

You can’t take much more of this. The only thing keeping you on this couch is Price’s fingernails sinking into your back.

It was a warning.

A warning without explanation of consequence or instruction on how to proceed. A blaring alarm, not sure if you’re dealing with a tornado or a wildfire, unsure if you’re meant to hunker down or evacuate.

All you have to work with is - Be. Good.

You barely manage to stay on the couch, squirming and shaking into Konig’s side.

Once Caesar is done analyzing the footage of Titan and his victim, the rest of the hedge walls descend, and it’s on to the three-way standoff.

You have to open your eyes to watch, because other than Konig’s hand nearly crushing the bones in your hand to dust - the glittery stage, Caesar Flickerman, and this godforsaken audience is the only thing reminding you that you’re not in the arena.

The wide aerial shot they use makes the six of you look like insects as Titan and Konig close in.

They pause on you, coated and dripping in blood, brows pinched and eyes pointed, Sapphire’s colorful spear trained at Konig’s chest.

The image makes your face warp, knotting your insides with shame and guilt. You look like a heartless killer, aiming your spear at the boy who loves you so much he sacrificed himself for you.

“Konig, I have to say, it must have been tough watching a friend, your crush, displaying such apparent distrust.”

Caesar’s words are like a knife to the chest. Slicing deep and exposing your heart to the entire country.

And you would know.

Konig swallows, his eyes flitting to his fidgeting dress shoes. He gives a grave nod that twists the knife sticking out of your chest.

“My dear,” Caesar says, “What was going on in your head at this moment?”

It takes you a few moments to coax the words from your dry, raw throat.

“I-”

You take a deep breath, smoothing out your dress skirt. You sound like a child when you speak.

“Nothing. Nothing was going through my head. I was just scared.”

Caesar nods.

“Scared of a friend?”

He might as well have taken the knife from your heart and plunged it right back in.

You swallow, your words consisting of only breath.

“Yeah.”

“And why’s that?”

For fucks sake, Caesar.

Be. Good.

“Because it was the end,” You croak, the audience hanging onto every word.

“I think we understand dear,” Caesar says, “Afterall, you’re not a mind reader.”

You give a shaky nod, and Caesar finally gives it a rest.

Titan’s taunts blaring over the speakers are unable to be ignored.

Titan.

That sardonic laugh, that mocking voice, those killer teeth.

It’s somehow worse the second time.

Your skewered heart is racing, your entire body pulsing in rhythm and blurring your vision with each beat.

At your side, Konig’s jaw is clicking as he grinds his teeth, his hand shaking in your hold.

Sapphire’s ribs snapping under Titan’s boot fold your body in a cringe, Eleven’s lifeless eyes stealing your breath.

When Titan’s gotten his hands on you, Konig lets go of your hand and slings his arms around your waist instead, possessively tugging you flush against him, quick and just forceful enough to pull a gasp from you. As Konig gives your hand a break to squeeze your side instead, your stare follows your touch as you rub out the ache in your palm.

You can feel the vibration of Titan’s chest against your back, his breath in your ear, his massive arm snaked around your neck.

Next to you, Konig’s leg is bouncing furiously, a hand lost in his hair in a useless attempt to placate his rage.

You give his leg a gentle squeeze, trying to get him to look at you, to remind him that you’re right here, that it’s okay. He doesn’t meet your gaze, staring daggers at Titan through the screen as he coos and purrs and growls and yells and taunts.

Every insufferable moment of this standoff is a grating ringing in your ears. Listening to yourself yell at Konig in a demand to kill you is making you feel dumb, Titan’s voice rips a shudder from you with every sentence, and Konig’s rage is a burning heat on your skin.

The worst is yet to come, of course. The encore of Konig beating Titan to a bloody pulp.

Konig’s arm turns to lead over your shoulders, working against each flinch you make. He’s entirely still at your side as you shake in his hold, pinching your eyes shut but not at all able to rid the visual of Titan's smashed face and the waterfall of blood behind him, his lifeless body collapsing to the grass and razor sharp blades shredding his flesh.

As you beg and plead with Konig for your life, you’re both deathly still on the couch, only the rise and fall of your chest to heave breaths towards your lap.

You can’t bring yourself to sit up or to open your eyes. The sound of your own voice, pleading for your life with the boy who killed himself for you, it’s making you sink in on yourself.

To your relief, they skip your breakdown. You find it strange they also skip Konig tending to your wounds and his detail of that day in District Nine.

They do show a few bits of conversation from your picnic, but most of it is cut. They leave out the trip to the oasis entirely.

At first, it’s a relief. The more they skip the quicker this interview is over with, and to be honest, you weren’t crazy about the idea of all of Panem watching you and Konig having careless fun in your underwear. You’re especially thankful that Konig won’t be finding out about the lingering stares anytime soon.

There’s something about it that’s not sitting right with you, though. Yours and Konig’s romance was the star of this year’s games, and it seems odd they’re cutting out the particularly lighthearted, but intimate moments.

The audience does get a chance to gush over Konig carrying you through the desert, and laugh over you asking Konig about having a crush back home, but again, they skip most of yours and Konig’s conversations.

And there it is again. The dread that sloshes around your core, lapping up your insides, a dark cloud drifting into your thoughts but entirely unidentifiable.

Something is wrong.

Konig rests his cheek on the crowd of your head, his finger tracing gentle swirls into your sides instead of squeezing. You find yourself melting into him, your finger absentmindedly stroking his silken tie as you let your eyes flutter shut.

“You’ve really never had a boyfriend?”

You’ve seen this one already.

Might as well try and sneak in a break, here in his chest.

Konig’s hand finds your hair, running his fingers through your Capitol-Standard silken locks, sending electric tingles up your scalp. He manages to draw a soft, content hum from you.

It’s like the eye of the storm, a moment of calm before you’re thrown right back into the hurricane.

Caesar leaves you both alone. He doesn’t need to ask you how you feel, or what was going through your mind, because the versions of you and Konig on screen are doing the work for you.

Caesar does occasionally stop the footage to make commentary that would normally make your teeth drive straight through the flesh of your tongue, but you truly can't find it in you to care. The only thing you care about in this moment is the billow of Konig’s ribcage with each breath, the feeling of his chest from beneath his suit, the soothing fingers sliding through your hair.

“I have to say, it’s the first time we’ve ever seen two tributes fight to the death quite like this!”

And yeah, you’d prefer if all of Panem wasn’t watching you be so raw and vulnerable, but you can’t bring yourself to even be embarrassed about your fits and fight.

Aside from the obscenities and insults thrown at Konig, you stand by everything you said, everything you did, and you’d do it again if you have to.

The kissing doesn’t even faze you.

You’d do it again and again and again.

They obviously skip your intimacy.

You expected at the very least some teasing from Caesar, innocuous jokes and cheeky, knowing stares until you and Konig’s cheeks turn warm, but they don’t even mention it.

And unusually, they skip your preparations for death. You do remember making the faintest slight against the Capitol, but they skip all of it. Your plea to die, the exchange of the ribbon, the final hug.

Come on. That’s the height of television to these people. The drama and the tragedy.

You and Konig put on a show. In more ways than one, and it’s hard to stomach why The Capitol didn’t include any of it in the highlights.

And while you’re relieved you don’t have to relive such a painful, bittersweet moment - you know that there is a reason it was not included.

A reason The Capitol did not like.

And it’s starting to sink in that maybe you don’t have the upper hand anymore.

Because with Konig at your side - they finally have the leverage they need. It is no longer you as the sacrificial lamb. If The Capitol is upset with you, they will not use your tongue against you.

They will use his.

Konig’s chest does little to quell this thought.

The sound of a blade slicing flesh, screams and desperate pleas, weak reassurances also does little to help.

And of course, the audience cheers for your double suicide. It doesn’t even surprise you.

What does surprise you, though, is the footage of you in your hospital room.

Immediately your head rips from Konig’s chest, your face falling, scrambling to comb over everything you said in your fits to figure out what could possibly be exposed to all of Panem in moments you thought were private.

They show you attacking Price in the hospital room, which the crowd finds funny, but you scratch behind your ear, not sure how to feel about it. It is kind of funny, considering Konig was alive the entire time, but you find being forced to believe he was dead, the grief that otherwise was not necessary, not so funny.

And they show Konig. Restrained to his hospital bed, staring up at the ceiling, his temples red and raw from the never-ending stream of tears trailing down the side of his face to contribute to the growing stain on his pillow.

He refused to do anything.

Wouldn’t eat, wouldn’t listen to the nurses, wouldn’t even speak to Price.

Just stares at the ceiling, unmoving.

When you try to meet his stare, he refuses, his eyes fixated on his lap, sitting low on the couch.

You rest your head back on his chest, your arms creeping around his waist and squeezing tight.

I’m here now.

After a pause, the arm around your waist gives a gentle squeeze back.

You tune out Caesar’s closing commentary, trying to focus on breathing Konig in, the feeling of his firm chest billowing against your ear. His hand creeps behind you, fingertips tracing over the back of your dress in soothing, abstract patterns.

The crowd gives another roaring round of applause before the anthem plays, and out steps The President.

The sight of him, stepping onto the stage with his stark black suit and precise smile, floods you with a wave of dread from head to toe. You don’t even have the sense to hide the intimidation pulling at your features as you and Konig rise from the couch, your sweaty hands interlocking once again.

Behind him stands a Capitol attendant, carrying your crowns onto stage.

Konig actually has to bend at the knee to keep The President from standing on his tiptoes.

The President gives a soft, calculated laugh.

“Thank you, boy.”

With delicate hands he places a thick and ornate golden crown onto Konig’s head before he steps to you.

Inches from you, he wears a perfect smile as he places your crown on your head. His eyes are cruel and piercing, he doesn’t so much as blink. His icy stare lingers long after he’s dawned you with the dainty golden crown.

You swallow once when he finally turns away, looking to your heels, crushing Konig’s hand with your own.

The standing ovation, bowing, and waving goes on for far too long. You’re starting to think Caesar is dragging it out on purpose just to torture you when you finally get the cue to leave the stage.

You don’t even get a moment to take a breath before the prep teams and stylists swallow you both whole, showering you with praise and squeals overlapping each other, you can’t make out a single thing any one of them are saying.

Their group moves in a pack, forcing you and Konig to shuffle forward, locked at the hands to keep the other from getting lost.

Mauve manages to push her way through, grabbing your free hand.

“Just wait until you see the dress for the party!”

“What do you mean?” You ask, looking down at your dress, “I can’t just wear this?”

“Of course not, babe! It’s a ball.”

No much-needed elaboration is received.

Mauve and the woman you saw whispering frantically with her before the interview try to seperate you both to get you ready.

“No!”

As you object, Konig tugs you closer to his side, the hardened hand engulfing yours doubling its grip.

The group goes silent, all of them looking to you.

Mauve and the woman share an uneasy stare and nod.

“Yeah, babe,” Mauve says with a waver in her unusually high-pitched voice, her hand raising to twirl the charm in her necklace between her fingers, “We can- yeah, we can get you both ready together.”

You give a shaky nod, your other arm reaching across your front to grab his tense bicep.

They take you to your fitting room, and you both are once again transformed.

So sparkly.

Tonight’s color is champagne. A weird mixture of a golden beige and rose. Shimmering rays of gold reflect from the glittery dress with the slightest movements. It almost hurts your eyes.

Another sweetheart bust that comes in at your waist, and you already know the way the hem of your dress drags against the ground is going to be annoying. Two straps only as thick as twine reach over each of your shoulder blades to criss-cross in the middle of your back.

And you find your inner biceps will once again be tortured by the rough texture of the glitter.

Konig’s suit is a matching color, but no glitter. The elegant paisley patterns and the lapels of his suit are the slightest bit reflective, the designs appearing to change color depending on how the light hits him.

“You look beautiful,” Konig says.

His voice is soft, his eyebrows the slightest bit pinched.

“You too,” You whisper.

Unsure eyes linger on each other, a sad smile on both of your faces as the prep team gushes over your compliments.

You don’t want to talk about what happened, but it feels wrong to talk about anything else. Every word feels like it is overheard by twenty-two dead tributes, like every sentence must justify a double suicide.

The air between you is more than heavy, awkward even.

Because how do you look at each other and not immediately think of the nightmare you both just woke up from?

The click of her heels announces her presence before that unmistakable voice does.

“Oh! There’s my tributes!”

Ruby pulls you both into a hug at the same time, smushing yours and Konig’s arms together.

“Oh, you did it! You did it!” She squeals, actually jumping up and down in your group hug, her brilliant white smile flashing far and wide, “I am just so proud of you!”

She doesn’t even let either of you get a word in, which usually is annoying, but at the moment a huge relief. Not just because you’re incredibly relieved to see her, but you’re really not up for talking right now. You feel like a lifeless husk, your insides shriveled up and flaked away to dust.

She reaches out to scoop up yours and Konig’s free hands, the three of you now linked in a triangle of hand holding.

“Not one, but two of my tributes! My stars! Oh, I’m sorry dears, I’m sorry I didn’t come see you before. I just wouldn’t have been able to keep the secret! They wouldn’t let us tell you, I’d have had my tongue cut out!”

Ruby rambles on, gushing and singing praises at you and Konig, both of you hardly having the energy to listen to the words being thrown at you.

“Oh,” You say quietly, interrupting her mid-sentence what must be twenty minutes into a monologue, “I forgot.”

You fish into the bust of your dress and retrieve her token, staring at the small trinket in your palm before extending it to her.

“Thanks for letting me borrow it,” You whisper.

Ruby’s lips fold in, a soft hand resting on her collarbones.

Tears brim in her eyeline as she gently closes your fingers over the token and clasps her hands around yours.

“It’s yours, dear. It’s yours.”

Her words prick the back of your throat, mouth suddenly dry as you try to choke back tears. You go to thank her, but you can’t find your voice. Instead you give her a deep nod, finishing out on an involuntary, choked sob.

“Oh, dear,” She pulls you into her arms, and while you don’t return the embrace, you do bury your cheek into her shoulder, squeezing Konig’s token at your side.

“Thank you,” You whisper, the tears escaping down your cheeks, “Thank you.”

“Of course,” she says, stroking your upper back, “Of course.”

She gives you a gentle swat on your forearm.

“And don’t you cry young lady! Your makeup hasn’t even had time to dry!’

You let out a nasally laugh, giving a sniff.

”You got it, Ruby,” You mumble.

You give a long sigh as your smile fades, closing your eyes on the exhale. You’re exhausted, mentally and physically. It’s weighing you down, eyelids heavy and each movement slowed.

How badly you want to take a break, to turn off your brain and fall asleep on Konig’s chest in the privacy of your own room, to have even a moment to process the nightmare you just went through.

But now is not the time for respite, privacy, or reflection

Now is the time for a party.

NEXT CHAPTER | CHAPTER NAVIGATION

Dividers @saradika-graphics

Konig Photo Credit

[kenjisatos]

MSBY BLACK JACKALS READ THIRST TWEETS ! (ATSUMU EDITION)

second part of this series! i love to see more of this team <3

[sakusa version]

this fic features…

haikyuu timeskip!spoilers, highly suggestive content (as the title entails), inappropriate language, atsumu keeps getting violated by his teammates, i headcanon sakusa to be fluent in english (argue with the wall), genre: crack, some of these are actual tweets i found lol.

The videos begins with multiple flash shots of Atsumu screaming, Hinata and Bokuto bursting into laughter, and a clip of the camera zooming in on Sakusa’s disgusted face.

- cut scene -

“Hi, we’re the MSBY Black Jackals, and we’re here with Buzzfeed to read your thirst tweets.” The 4 of them say together.

Hinata drums on his chair, “Miyaaaaa Atsumuuuu edition!”

Atsumu smirks at the camera, “I know you’ve all been waiting for this.”

The cameraman speaks up, “Are you excited?”

Atsumu nods enthusiastically, “Hell yeah! I can take this like a champ, unlike Omi-Omi…”. He side eyes the outside hitter, who, in return, flips off the setter—but the video pixelates it for censorship.

Bokuto snorts, “That’s what she said…”

Atsumu chuckles and claps his hands together. “Let’s get started!”

- cut scene -

The crew tosses a phone to Atsumu. He catches it and clears his throat. “Alright, first one…”

“How can I transform into one of those cameras used for volleyball games? Oh to get that view of Miya Atsumu’s dick all up in front of me when he does his sexy low set.”

Atsumu chuckles, “I can practically see you drooling from here, user.”

Hinata wiggles his eyebrows and pretends to hit a spike, “It is a sexy set, Miya.”

Bokuto fakes an animalistic growling noise, “When you get down low and—“

“Oh please, why are we praising Miya for flashing the camera?” Sakusa cuts in.

Atsumu huffs, “I’m not flashing them on purpose!” He then turns to the camera and winks, “Unless you want me to…”

“Barf.”

“Shut yer trap, Omi-Omi!”

Hinata snickers, “Miya, your accent is slipping in…”

His voice is high pitched and whiny as he replies, “No, it’s n—!”, he clears his throat, his voice now two octaves deeper, “No, it’s not.”

Bokuto chuckles, slapping the setter on the back. Atsumu simply passes the phone to him to read the next tweet.

“Funny how I want to throw hands at Inarizaki Miya Atsumu, but at the same time, I want to throw my panties off for MSBY Miya Atsumu.”

Sakusa laughs, actually laughs, for the first time since they started the shoot. His rowdy companions slowly turn to him, eyes blown wide at the rare sight of their stoic teammate showing an ounce of amusement.

Sakusa’s laugh trails off, “Yeah…you were a piece of shit in high school.”

“No, I wasn’t!”

“Yes, you were. Still are.”

Hinata tries to reassure the blond, “Don’t worry, Miya, I thought you were cool.”

Bokuto quips, “Hinata, I thought you couldn’t tell the difference between him and Osamu.”

Hinata’s eyes widen and Atsumu glares at the orange-head, “Seriously, Shoyo?”

Hinata waves his hands dismissively, “I-I-I…”

Atsumu sighs, “You guys keep distracting me! I’m supposed to be replying to these thirst tweets.”

Bokuto holds a hand to his heart, “We are sorry, your highness.”

Atsumu looks at the camera and smirks, “Keep your panties on, ladies. I like to do it with them on.”

Sakusa stares at Atsumu in disgust, the beginning scene of the video making its’ debut as the cameraman zooms in on Sakusa’s revolted expression.

“How do you do it with it on?” Bokuto thinks out loud.

Hinata responds, “I think he means it’s pulled to the side?”

Bokuto’s mouth turns into an animated ‘o’ shape, “Ohhh, or or or he—“

Their pr manager coughs loudly off screen. Sakusa gives their manager a grateful look, mouthing a ‘thank you’.

The other three pout as their conversation is cut short. Bokuto hands the phone to Hinata; he squints his eyes at the screen as he tries to make out the words. He begins to read:

“Have y’all seen Miya Atsumu? If that dick slap his thigh when he walk, I shall listen when he talk.”

Hinata laughs but continues, “The Twitter user reposted themselves saying ‘Sheesh.’ with 18 fucking android emojis.”

Bokuto leans closer to Hinata, “Ooh! Lemme see, lemme see.”

Atsumu grins smugly with his eyes closed in satisfaction, his hand coming up to run through his platinum hair.

Sakusa speaks up, “Stop posing for the edits.”

Atsumu seems to ignore Sakusa’s comment as he faces the camera. “Well in that case, I guess you’ll all be listening to me.”

Hinata snorts, “Proof?”

Bokuto guffaws while Hinata holds his laughter in behind a cheeky smile.

Atsumu’s cheeks flush red at his words, “I ain’t showing you nothin’!”

Sakusa rolls his eyes, “Trust me, we’ve seen enough in the locker room.”

Bokuto hides behind Atsumu and holds his hands up a certain distance to insinuate the length of Atsumu’s…commodity.

Atsumu continues, practically flirting with the camera, “But trust me y’all, it does, indeed, slap.”

Hinata leans his elbow over Atsumu’s shoulder, “Yeah and so does he!”

The sound effect of a turntable skidding plays.

Atsumu flinches away from Hinata, “WHAT???”

Their pr manager stands up quickly from their seat, a horrified expression on their face; the threat of losing their job rushing in their head.

Bokuto is holding a hand over his mouth, the Buzzfeed crew members are exchanging nervous looks, even Sakusa has his eyes wide open.

Hinata realizes his mistake and freezes for a moment before he’s jumping and scuttling around in a panic.

“I-I-I MEAN HE SLAPS—NO, NOT LIKE SLAPS, LIKE SLAPS LIKE SLANG ‘YEAH THAT SHIT SLAPS’ KIND OF SLAP. NOT PHYSICAL ABUSE SLAP I—”, he exhales sharply, “I’M GONNA STOP TALKING NOW!!”

Sakusa snorts and covers his face with his hands, Bokuto has tears in his eyes from how hard he’s holding in his laughter, the MSBY pr manager sits back down, their pale face slowly regaining its color. Atsumu is left with what can only be described as a sea-sick expression, almost constipated. After a few seconds, he remembers how to speak and says:

“Shoyo…what the fuck.”

“I’M SORRY!”

Sakusa opens his palm up, he’s biting his lip to not let a chuckle escape. “Give me the phone, Hinata.”

Hinata wordlessly hands the phone over as Bokuto giggles and places both his hands on Hinata’s shoulders and jumps in place to brighten up the mood.

Atsumu finally laughs a little, rubbing the back of his neck. “Almost caught myself a scandal there.”

“Wouldn’t be the first,” Sakusa mutters as he scrolls to the next tweet he has to read.

“Miya is so fucking hot, I want that man to turn my legs into jello.”

Atsumu grins, “Well well well—“

Sakusa continues reading the tweet, “I’m talking about Miya Osamu btw, aka the better twin.”

Atsumu opens his eyes, “Huh??”

Sakusa snickers, “Finally a tweet I agree with.”

Bokuto raises his hand to cup around his lips and whispers to Hinata, “Here come the SakuSamu shippers…”

Hinata whispers back, “I thought they were called Omigiris…”

The camera crew turns to a very confused Atsumu, “We thought it would be funny to add an Osamu tweet” one of them says.

Atsumu scowls like a petulant child.

Hinata perks up, “Osamu is pretty sexy, ey? In his Onigiri Miya compression shirt too…”

Bokuto nods in agreement, “And that cap? Smash.”

Atsumu whines, “Guyssss, this is supposed to be about meeee!”

“Womp womp.”

“Omiii :(“

Sakusa gives the phone back to Atsumu, who pouts and sticks his tongue out before he grumbles, “Y’all love to bully me, huh? And here I thought we would have deep team bonding conversations.”

Sakusa quirks an eyebrow up, “…at a thirst tweets shoot?”

“It’s personal and vulnerable,” Hinata replies.

“The only vulnerable thing at risk here is my wellbeing,” Sakusa retorts.

Atsumu sighs as he grabs the phone from Sakusa. “I hope the next tweet makes me feel better…”, he mutters.

“I just know that if Miya Atsumu called me a real good boy, it would awaken something in me.”

Bokuto starts barking at that, “Yeah, it awakens that inner dog in me.”

“We are the Black Jackals.” Sakusa comments, matter-a-factly.

“Are they talking about that time you and Kageyama were at that youth camp?” Hinata asks.

Atsumu nods, “I believe so.”

“Then how do they know you said that…?”

Sakusa responds amusedly, “Knowing Tobio, he probably tweeted about it. That man hates Miya.”

Atsumu defends himself, “Hey now, hate is a strong word. Tobio-kun is just jealous that I’m Shoyo’s setter.”

Bokuto, once again, leans in closer to Hinata to whisper, “Here come the KageHina and AtsuHina shippers…”

Atsumu stares right at the camera with a smoldering expression, “User, you’re being a real good boy…”

Bokuto barks again. The video adds a sound effect that makes it sound like a chorus of Bokutos are barking all around.

Atsumu laughs and passes the phone to Bokuto.

“Someone on here said the English equivalent to Miya Atsumu’s Kansai dialect is a country accent. Well then, call me a cowboy the way I’d be riding that man till the break of dawn. #SaveAHorseRideACowboy”

The video adds a cowboy hat and lasso to Atsumu, who pretends to be on a horse. His voice is much deeper as he says, “Yeehaw~”

“Oooh we have international fans!” Hinata speaks excitedly.

Bokuto’s eyes light up at Hinata’s comment, “Oooh, Omi-kun, say something to them!”

Sakusa squints his eyes and raises an eyebrow, “What do you want me to say?”

Atsumu jumps in, “Tell them I’d be happy to let them have a go at this rodeo ride.” He clicks his tongue with a wink.

Sakusa sighs then looks directly at the camera, and says the following in perfect English: “I hope your taste in men improves from what it is now. My condolences.”

Atsumu smiles, completely oblivious to the insult. “Thanks, Omi-Omi.”

Sakusa smiles, an evil little smile. “My pleasure.”

- cut scene -

Atsumu tosses the phone back to the crew, “And that was it! I thoroughly enjoyed the ego boost, minus the parts when the team bullied me.”

“You were a good sport, Miya.” Hinata tells him.

“Thanks, Shoyo. And you’re a horrible speaker.”

Hinata’s face burns scarlet again at the reminder of his misfortunate wording earlier.

“2 out of 4 completed!”, Bokuto exclaims.

“Yes, we’re so close to being done.” Sakusa says, though he looks way too happy and relieved.

“More coming your way!” Hinata adds.

“Stay tuned~” Atsumu points at the camera.

“We’re the MSBY Black Jackals, goodbye!”

kenjisatos

🏷️ @dervngedgf

[scuderiahalf]

always you — mick schumacher

pairing. mick schumacher x verstappen!merc racing engineer!fem!reader

summary. mick had always been inexplicably tied to you, no matter what distance grew between you. even if it took over two decades for you to figure it out, it had always been mick. it would always be mick. 5.4k, 18+

playlist. "invisble string" by taylor swift, "the perfect pair" by beabadoobee, "moves" by suki waterhouse, "i wanna be yours" by arctic monkeys, "let the light in feat. father john misty" by lana del ray

warnings. pining, mick is kind of very much pitiful in this alright, smut, l-bombs, sort of sub!mick, google translated german, almost choking, oral (fem and male receiving), penetrative sex

masterlist.

. . .

"I'm telling you what the data says, and it says you're wrong, so follow the damn line, George."

Mick fought a smile as you told George off over the radio. Toto cast you a look that you didn't even seem to see, let alone acknowledge. The team principal didn't look all that surprised when you didn't take your eyes off the screens of data you were getting input from.

In the next lap, George's lap time dropped nearly a second thanks to your suggestion. George didn't offer an apology for doubting you and you didn't expect one; you only expected him to be consistent in how he attacked turns seven and eight, to continue following your instructions.

Mick had observed your and George's relationship over the last few seasons you had been working with him. As George's racing engineer, you had quite a close working relationship with the Brit.

Off track, you were good if unlikely friends. Where George was all pretense and propriety and politeness, you were nothing but brutally honest, succinct, and to the point. But you were close in age and often seen together chatting and laughing.

On track, you were pretty much the same, if not even more blunt, if that was possible. George fed off your no-nonsense attitude, communicating clearly and without any of the fluff normally gracing his conversational skills.

Mick admired how well you worked with George. He admired just about everything you did. You could sit there doing absolutely nothing and F1TV would catch Mick staring at you like a lovesick fool again.

He still doesn't know how he hadn't seen the cameraman filming him as he watched you from across the garage two weekends ago. People kept referring to him as "Heart Eyes" Schumacher and he really could not blame them after seeing the clip of himself watching you.

You hadn't said anything to him about it. In fact, you hadn't said anything to him all season. Or during pre-season. Or in the two years prior when he was driving for Haas. Or in the thirteen years it had been since your dads had their falling out.

Mick would have liked to talk to you. He would have liked to talk about nothing or everything like you used to. He would have listened to you ramble about statistics and analytics and anything you wanted, even if he didn't understand a word of it.

But you had looked at him maybe three times since he signed on as Mercedes reserve driver. You either didn't remember or—more likely, knowing your keen mind—you didn't care about your shared history.

Even if it was in your childhood and so much had changed since then, Mick still remembered. He remembered playdates and shared family vacations and spending every second together that you could before your dad dragged you away.

He remembered noticing how different your dad treated you than his dad treated him. He remembered sleeping over once and hearing your dad screaming at you until you ran to your bedroom in tears. He remembered telling his dad about it all.

He remembered how he was the one to ruin everything.

You didn't seem to remember any of it—or, at least, you never seemed to reminisce on it. Never got caught up staring at him wondering how things could have been different. Never got distracted by unexplainable yet unavoidable and likely unrequited feelings for someone that was once your friend over a decade ago.

When he was with Haas, your lack of interaction could be excused; you were on different teams. Since he had signed with Mercedes, it felt like you had purposefully been ignoring him for months.

He could approach you. He could simply walk up to you at any point when you weren't fully absorbed by readout screens and analytic diagnoses and strike up a conversation.

He didn't want to push his luck. He didn’t fully understand why you wouldn’t talk to him but he also didn't want to make you uncomfortable.

If being near you meant never truly being close to you again, Mick could live with that. Ultimately, you owed him nothing, so he could watch from afar and adore you silently. He could be content with that.

After all, it was his fault that everything fell apart in the first place.

.

"Hey, heart eyes! Come here!"

Mick hesitated before making his way to where Lewis was in the VIP section of this Friday night's club of choice.

"Hi?"

"I can't help but notice that you're pathetically in love with your race engineer."

"She's George's engineer—"

"That’s beside the point. Anyway, I think your girl could use some saving."

"She's not my girl."

Lewis hadn't said your name. Mick didn't need him to.

Mick leaned on the balcony railing beside Lewis, looking down over the crowd on the main floor of the club. He found you embarrassingly fast. You were wearing a black shirt, pink shorts, and sandals.

He had seen you come in earlier with your brother and thought you were probably the prettiest girl there that night. If you were put in a room with the world's top models, Mick would still think the same.

On the floor below, your personal space was being invaded by a dark-haired man in glasses. You looked incredibly uncomfortable, glancing around for anyone you knew who you could latch onto and get away from the man who was talking at you incessantly.

It wasn’t even a conscious decision on Mick’s part. One second, he was watching you from the VIP balcony and the next, he was pushing his way through the dance floor to get to you.

The unnamed glasses man put a hand on your back, touching the sliver of exposed skin between your shirt and shorts. You visibly tensed up.

Before he could think better of it, Mick called your name and pretended to stumble into you and the man.

“Hey! I’ve been looking for you.” He played up being drunk as he stuck himself between you and Glasses. “Hey, mate, how’s it going? Who are you?”

“I’m Nolan. And we were having a conversation.”

Mick had to hand it to ‘Nolan,’ he was persistent. “My bad, I guess. Y/N, your brother’s looking for you. Come on.”

He walked off and you followed after him. He hadn’t really thought this far ahead. He hadn’t been thinking at all. He was running by the seat of his pants and hoping he didn’t end up making things worse.

Last time he had thought he was helping you, he didn't speak to you for thirteen years.

“My brother left an hour ago.”

“I know.”

Mick kept walking towards the stairs up to VIP.

You kept following.

Maybe this time, things would be different.

.

When Mick was 11, he mentioned to his mom that your dad yelled at you and made you cry. That same day, his dad sat him down and asked him to tell him everything he knew about how Jos Verstappen treated his children.

He had told him everything he knew because he didn’t know why he shouldn’t. If his dad wanted to know, it had to be important. Maybe he would be helping you by telling his dad.

A week later, Mick was playing with you in the backyard when your dad started yelling. Except that time, he wasn’t yelling at you or his most frequent target of your older brother Max, he was yelling at Mick’s dad.

That day had ended with your father dragging you away from Mick. Mick remembers thinking he had grabbed you so roughly; didn’t it hurt to be seized by your arm and jerked around like that?

Jos didn’t care. He just yelled at Mick’s dad to stay away if he had such an issue with how he raised his children. So, the Schumachers stayed away. The last memory Mick had of you was with tears streaming down your face, begging your dad not to make Mick leave.

A little less than ten years later, Mick was a Formula One reserve driver. That same year, you had graduated early from university and earned a spot as a Williams performance engineer. Then, you went to Mercedes in 2021 and took over as George’s racing engineer at only twenty two years of age while Mick was racing with Haas.

"I thought you hated me."

You looked up at him, mouth full. "What? Why would I hate you?"

"For telling my dad about everything. For tearing us apart."

You swallowed your mouthful of sandwich, sat across from him in Mercedes hospitality on your lunch break.

After that night in the club, you and Mick rekindled your old friendship. You looked at him, now. You smiled at him and talked to him and sought him out just to sit and talk during your break.

Getting a second chance to be your friend was more than Mick ever thought he would have.

"Mick, that wasn't your fault. My dad... it's complicated. But our dads' falling out wasn't your fault. I never blamed you for it. You know that, right?"

No, he had not known that. He had spent the last thirteen years blaming himself for losing you. He had assumed you would blame him, too, for ending your friendship because he had spent so long as a self proclaimed scapegoat.

"Mick."

"I know that now."

"Mick!"

"I— Okay, I know it's stupid but I have always blamed myself for the whole situation. Then, when we both were getting into F1, you never reached out."

"You never reached out, either!"

"I know that but I figured you wanted nothing to do with me, so I never tried to talk to you."

"You're so daft sometimes, Schumacher."

Mick took your empty insult without argument.

After spending every free second he had with you over the last several weeks, he realized how dumb he had been. He never thought of himself as the melodramatic type but he had really been going through it when he thought you were avoiding him.

"I've never been the smartest when it comes to you."

You just scoffed at him and ate more of your sandwich.

The next day, it was a double podium for Mercedes with Lewis in P2 and George in third. With your brother on the top step of the podium, you were elated, grin broad and voice loud over the radio as you congratulated George for a race well done.

Then, you looked around the garage. Mick didn't know why until your eyes found him along the back wall. You were looking for him. You smiled (at him) and he was smiling back before he even had to think about it.

Being with you had always been easy. As kids, you never argued. You shared toys and always managed to find some weird, convoluted way to mash what you both wanted to do together.

Now that you had gotten over whatever misunderstandings that kept you apart for the last few years, it was easy again. There was never anything you two couldn't talk about. There was never awkward silence. There was never any want to not be near each other.

Mick spent all night celebrating Mercedes' 2-3 finish with you. It was easy to spend hours by your side, to stand too close, to look at you for too long. Once he had a few drinks, it was all too easy to speak his mind around you, lips loose and heart full.

"I missed you."

"I missed you, too, Micky."

"I mean I really missed you. All the time. I would think about you sometimes and miss what we used to have."

Your eyes were soft and focused only on him. He was barely tipsy from the alcohol but he was definitely drunk on you.

"Then, we were both in F1. But it was the pandemic and I was still worried you didn't want to see me. Then, when I was with Haas, I was so scared to approach you."

"Did I do something to make you think I hated you?"

"No, I was just in my head. And those months preparing for the season with Mercedes were the worst. You were so close but I was still too scared to talk to you."

"I wanted to talk to you, too," you admitted. "I thought about doing it sometimes but... I don't know. We hadn't spoken in so long and I was always so busy. I guess I was scared, too."

"I wish we had spoken sooner. We could have had this so much sooner."

"Had what sooner?"

"I don't know." That was a lie. "This. Us."

In all honesty, Mick didn't know what you two were. To anyone who asked, he would say old friends. But you were much more than that.

When he was ten, Mick kissed you for the first time. He had been in love with you since before he even understood what it meant. There was more heartbreak in the severing of your friendship than your families knew, more than either of you had known at that point.

And now, you were together again. Friends again. Except, friends don't sit knee to knee for hours at a time, wholly absorbed in nothing but each other in a raucous club with post-race celebrations going on all around them.

Friends don't let friends ghost their fingertips over the exposed skin of their shoulders, rest their hands on each other's thighs, play with the ends of their hair or the hem of their clothes.

"I missed us." Mick wondered if you knew what he meant by that.

You smiled (at him, again). "Me, too."

You were so close to him. Any sort of respectable distance was out the window. Your thighs were pressed together. You were sat sideways, head resting in your hand as you leaned an arm on the back of the couch.

He could sit up a little straighter and that was all it would take to reach your lips. He was seriously debating doing it.

Then, your brother smacked the back of your head as he was walking past, said something to you in Dutch that had you cursing at him in the same language.

"Hey, Mick," Max tossed at him with an uncomfortably knowing grin.

"Hey, Max."

Suddenly faced with the older brother of the woman he was just been fantasizing about kissing in the middle of a public space, Mick felt his face grow hot. He couldn't quite make eye contact with the eldest Verstappen child.

"Go away, Max," you told your brother with a glare.

Kelly took pity on you, dragging her boyfriend away.

"What did he say?" Mick asked you.

"'Get a room.'"

Mick laughed nervously, shifted away from you slightly. "Sorry, I—"

"Do you want to get out of here?"

Being with you had always been easy. It was maybe the easiest thing Mick had ever done to nod his head yes and let you drag him out of that club.

You sat too close in the cab ride back to the hotel. He stood too close in the elevator up to his hotel room. You held his arm as he fumbled with the keycard to get the door open.

You pushed at his chest to get him to sit on the edge of the bed. He went down willingly, kept his eyes on you the entire time. You stood between his legs, pushed his hair back, let him lean into your touch.

"Is this okay?" you asked.

Were you seriously asking that? He had turned into putty in your hands from just a few touches. You hadn't even kissed him yet.

"Mick," you insisted at his silence.

"Yes. It's okay. It is so okay. Don't stop. Please."

He couldn't find it in himself to be embarrassed by just how easily you had reduced him to begging.

Above him, you smiled before leaning down to press your lips to his. His neck was craned back; you had a hand on the back of his head and one on his shoulder to keep him in place. He let you dictate the pace, let you kiss him however you wanted.

It was slow at first, just your lips on his. You set the tempo low, moved your mouth at a torturous pace. You sucked his bottom lips between both of yours. When your tongue finally poked out, he let his jaw slacken, let you lick into his mouth without a need to fight against it.

You slid your tongue against his. The exchange of saliva was erotic and messy and left Mick panting against you. He gripped the backs of your thighs, adjusted his hips, tangled his fingers in the hem of your dress.

Mick slipped into German as he got lost in want. "Liebe, bitte. Bitte, ich brauche dich." [Baby, please. Please, I need you.]

And you—brilliant, keen, genius you—knew what he was saying. When did you learn German? Did you remember enough of it from all the time you had spent with his family as a child? He had no clue.

"Sei geduldig. We will get there." [Be patient.]

"I have been patient for years. Please, Y/N."

You kissed him again to shut him up, faster, harder, sloppier this time. Your hand slid over the column of his throat, just resting there as nothing but a reminder. He keened into your mouth, the vibration getting caught by your hand.

"I love you," he gasped, out of breath.

You drew back.

Mick's heart stopped.

"You love me?"

He swallowed, Adam's apple bobbing against your hand. "Yes. I have since we were kids. I don't— I don't want this if this is all it will be. I want everything with you. I want you to love me, too."

Somehow, it was still easy for him to lay all his cards on the table, to let you see everything and wait for your verdict. He was terrified, yes, but he trusted you implicitly.

He loved you and only you—he had only ever loved you this desperately and wholly, thirteen years apart be damned.

"I'm in love with you," he said.

You seemed breathless and speechless all at once.

He knows he said too much. It was definitely overwhelming to have all of that said to you with no warning but once he started, he couldn't stop. He had kept it all to himself for so long, watching from afar, never able to get close to you.

Now, here you were. He only hoped he had not read into things that were not there. He looked up at you, ice blue eyes wide and hopeful, patiently awaiting your response.

"I love you, too," you said on an exhale. "I'm in love with you, too. I thought I was crazy for it but I think I've always loved you."

Mick was not entirely convinced that this all wasn't some sick wet dream he would wake up from in the morning. He didn't care. He couldn't care, not when you slid your hand up to his jaw, held his face so gently, looked at him like he hung the stars in the sky.

"It's always been you, Mick."

He couldn't stop himself anymore. He pulled you close, guided your legs to either side of his hips, held your head and kissed you.

Dominance was shared this time as you kissed each other. You sighed into his mouth, a contented and wanting sound. You rested your arms on his shoulders as your tongues danced. His hands pushed up higher under the skirt of your dress, squeezing the soft skin of your upper thighs.

"Okay?" was the simple question he asked before taking things any further.

"Please."

Supporting your weight, Mick lifted you out of his lap and laid you out on your back. Hovering over you, he slid a hand up your dress to your hip. He caught the waistband of your underwear, glanced up at you to make sure.

You nodded.

He got both hands under your dress to pull your underwear off. He pushed your legs apart and you let them fall open, exposing yourself to him and he nearly moaned at the sight alone.

You were laid open and not quite bare with your dress still on but your pretty pink folds were in clear view. He had never expected to have you in any way, let alone spread open and ready to be ravished, but to say he hadn't imagine it two hundred times over would be a lie.

He moved down your body to kiss your left thigh, first closer to your knee then moving up so the soft, supple skin of your inner thigh. He let his breath fan over your pussy, felt the way you twitched at the sensation. Then, he kissed back down your right leg, trailing kisses down to your knee.

"Mick," you urged.

He bit back the repetition of your words about patience from earlier, instead deciding to be nice and lift your knees up over his shoulders, slide his arms under your legs to warp around and hold them in place, then settle in between your thighs like he had nowhere to be for quite some time.

Your folds were glistening in anticipation by the time his lips met them. He kissed over your aching core one, two, three painfully slow times before finally letting his tongue slot against your clit. His lips moved in tandem with his tongue, sucking and licking at the little bundle of nerves until you threw your head back and choked out a throaty moan.

"Mick—please."

That was all the encouragement he needed.

Mick dropped his head to slide his tongue down between your folds, to press at your entrance over and over, lapping at your pussy in a way that could not care about saliva and slick dripping off his chin.

His nose nudged at your clit. Every breath in was nothing but the scent of you ingraining itself in his brain in a way he will never forget. He would never want to forget a single thing about you in that moment.

Not your scent or the taste of your cunt on his tongue. Not the feeling of your fingers tangling in his hair, not pushing or guiding just holding onto him like you just wanted to have your hands on him in any way you could. Not the way you breathed his name halfway between a moan and a cry, or how you arched your back as you were overwhelmed with bliss.

You were coming apart on his tongue and lips and nothing else. If he could save the taste of you and get high on it every night he would. If he could bottle the feeling of you trying not to squirm under the pleasure that he was bringing you, he would drink himself dumb a thousand times over.

"Mick—!"

He hummed in perfect contentment as you cried his name in warning. Your muscles tensed, legs tried to close around his head as he worked you closer and closer to the edge. He just dug in more, ate you out more fervently, slipped his tongue inside of you until you were gasping from the feeling of it.

When he made you come the first time, it was with a cry of his name and panting moans as you bucked your hips up against his face. He worked you through it, kissing and licking at your clit until you were pushing at his head to pull him off.

When he lifted his face from between your thighs, his face was wet, covered in you and he loved it. You laughed breathlessly as you saw him, still shaking slightly from your orgasm.

"Jeez, Mick. When did you learn to go down on a girl like that?"

He was a little lightheaded and a lot pussy drunk, but he still knew better than to mention any girl he'd been with before. "I want you to be the only girl I ever go down on again."

"Good answer," you said, and pulled him up to kiss you as a reward.

You could probably taste yourself on his lips but didn't seem to care as you kissed him hungrily. You tugged at his shirt, so he pulled it over his head. You ran your hands over his torso unabashedly, feeling his stomach and shoulders, bringing goosebumps to his skin as you ran your fingernails down his chest.

Despite having you crumbling apart under his mouth not three minutes ago, when you climbed into his lap and started kissing his neck, Mick felt like he was short circuiting.

Your dress had fallen back over your hips to hide it but he knew you were uncovered underneath the silky fabric. If his pants were off, he could be inside of you right now.

He slid the straps of your dress off your shoulders as you gripped his jaw and tilted his head to the side to kiss at his neck some more. He went pliantly, moaned softly at the feel of your teeth tugging at the sensitive skin where his neck met his clavicle.

He reached around to your back to unzip your dress. When you slid your arms out of the straps and he pulled the top of the dress down, he was finally able to get his hands on your boobs, taking big handfuls of each.

You were still kissing and licking his neck, teasing your teeth against his skin every so often. When he ran his thumbs over your nipples until they were hard under his fingers, your breaths grew shaky. He carefully let his nails drag over the firm peaks, pinched them between his thumbs and forefingers and tugged until you were arching into him.

"So handsy," you commented breathlessly.

"I want to touch every inch of you until you can recognize me by feel alone."

Mick dropped his head between your breasts, kissed the skin there and the side of your boob before you pushed him back. He whined as you deprived him of becoming acquainted with another part of yourself he already knew he would never get enough of.

Then, you stood and stepped out of your dress to leave yourself bare. He couldn't find a reason to complain.

He was prepared to slide to the floor at your feet. Then, you beckoned him toward you.

You had him sit at the edge of the bed again. You dropped to your knees. You popped the button of his pants. You pulled his boxers down just enough, and then his cock was stood at full attention just in front of your face.

He cursed under his breath. You heard it and smirked before licking up the underside of his cock. You wrapped a warm hand around him, stroked him a few times while kitten licking at his tip.

"Y/N. Liebe, please. Y/N, please."

You were not as easily convinced to dive in and give Mick what he wanted as he was with you. You didn't change what you were doing, just continued to let the tip of your tongue dance along the top of his cock while your hand moved on him slowly.

You finally closed your lips over the head of his dick and Mick could have come from that and nothing more. You popped him out of your mouth with an audible noise. Mick groaned; you would be the death of him and he wouldn't even fight against it.

You shot him a Cheshire grin. The sight was lewd and unbelievably hot: you, with a hand around his cock and a big smile on your face like you enjoyed nothing more than sucking him off. Mick was going to combust if he wasn't inside of you in the next two minutes.

"Y/N—"

He tried to tell you as much but your mouth was on him again and he couldn't get the words out. You swirled your tongue around his head, then your jaw opened and and you took as much of him in your mouth as you could. It was warm and wet.

Your tongue flexed against the underside of his dick when it hit the back of your throat. He could feel himself press into your soft pallet until you had to come up for air with a slight gag.

He couldn't bring himself to make you stop when you went back in for more. His breaths were short and labored, legs tense under your free hand as he mentally and physically had to hold himself back from coming down your throat.

He could imagine how you would gag around him when he did, pulling up to take his load just behind your lips instead. You might open your mouth after he had finished, show him your handiwork as it was pooled on your tongue before swallowing it all.

"Y/N, you have to stop. I'm going to come."

You took him out of your mouth to press a sloppy kiss to his cock. You pouted up at him as you let his length rest against your face. He could feel your eyelashes against it when you blinked.

"You don't want me to make you come?"

"I don't want to be spent yet. Come lay down for me?"

You let him pull you off the floor, kissed him as you crawled up the bed and laid yourself out on your back. He managed to kick his pants and boxers off while searching his suitcase for a condom then get back over to you without tripping over his own feet.

You giggled at his eagerness. Your hands ran over his chest as he ripped the packet open and slid the condom on. Your legs were already parted for him as he positioned himself.

He glanced up at you, not nervous but checking in. Your gaze was set on where your two bodies were about to fit together, hungry and expectant. Who was Mick to deprive you of what you wanted?

Entering you was as easy as anything with you was. You were still soaked from Mick's saliva and your own fluids. Your mouth fell open and your walls fluttered around him. A moan croaked past your lips as you gripped his arms.

"Holy shit, Mick."

He had to be sure, so he asked, "Are you alright?"

"I'm in fucking ecstasy. Oh my god, baby."

Mick started moving his hips, long, slow strokes in and out as you keened beneath him, panting from almost nothing at all. He could live off the noises you made for him. He snapped his hips against yours, was rewarded with a gasp and startled little mewl and your fingernails digging into his biceps.

"Mick, please."

He continued the same slow pace. In and out, almost languid, near torture but so worth the desperate way you pulled at his shoulders and hips, physically trying to get him to speed up, to give you more.

"Mick. Go faster."

"I love you." Anything for you.

He made a smooth transition from rolling his hips against yours to making them a piston, pace and weight faster and harder. He bore down on you heavier. You cried out, dragging your nails down his back to only spur him on.

He sat back, pressed down on you with his hands on the backs of your knees to fold you in half. You couldn't easily get away from him when he had you pinned down like this, thighs spread wide and pussy bared to be split open on his cock. You tipped your head back and moaned loudly.

"You've got to try and be quiet, baby," he told you; you were still in a hotel.

"You're making it really difficult."

Mick grinned but eased off just a bit. "Sorry—"

"Don't you fucking dare. Fuck me, Schumacher. Fuck me hard."

So, he did.

.

You were sticky, shaking, and more than satisfied when Mick was through with you. Three more orgasms, four different positions, and five I love you's later, you had passed out against Mick's chest after he had carefully wiped you clean.

The next morning, you and Mick came down for breakfast together. Max was already there; you usually ate breakfast with your brother if you were staying in the same hotel because there wasn't much time to see him elsewhere on race weekends.

When he clocked the way you and Mick were so casually close together, the little looks you kept sneaking, he smacked a hand on the table and pointed an accusatory finger in your face.

"I knew it!"

Mick went red.

You just rolled your eyes. "Shut up, Max."

. . .

a/n. this was partially inspired by this one max fic i read a while ago that i couldn't find again. it's schumacher!reader x max and reader is the one to tell michael about how jos treats max then reader and max reconnect years later. i think it was inspired by "seven" by taylor swift.

if anyone can find it/the author lmk and i'll give credit! hope you enjoyed <3

edit: credit is due to @mastermind123 (who i cannot tag for some reason) and their story, seven. go read it; it’s so cute!!

[hazelsmirrorball]

F1 Elementary | Teacher! Oscar Piastri x Teacher! Reader

summary: It's Halloween in Box elementary and Oscar decides it's a good idea to play secret admirer and finally make a move with one of the teachers.

pairings: teacher!oscar piastri x teacher!reader

a/n: Excuse any errors english isn’t my main language. This is based off Abbott Elementary. If it's in bold it's a confesional.

 The bell rang loudly, filling the halls mixing with the loud voices of the kids that were heading towards their classrooms. The teachers patiently waited outside the door greeting every single kid that entered. The hallways were different from their day to day. Miss L/n had stayed all night up decorating the halls to make them spooky for halloween. People could probably say that she could be a little bit of an overdoer. Spiders webs, spiders, pumpkins, bats surrounded the hallways, clinging towards the halloween aesthetic scaring a few of the kids. 

"Hi! I'm principal Norris. I still don't know how I ended up ruling this school but might I say I love it here. I’m the literal king of this school, everyone does what I say, it’s like I direct them or something. There’s a lot of perks of working at Box elementary,  Hot teachers, smart kids and the paycheck. Being a principal is the best, so I welcome you to my lovely kingdom. But enough about me, let’s talk about my untalented and ugly staff so you guys can see what I have to work with everyday. Look, there we have one of our annoying second grade teachers, Y/n. I'll leave you guys to it and let me say if you need more beauty shots, I'll be in my office" Lando said while tilting his crown down sending a kiss towards the camera. He turns to the left and the camera slowly follows him walking towards one of the students eating a lollipop. Lando  quickly takes it out of her hand and eats it himself. He walks away leaving the kindergartener alone crying in the halls. 

"Hello!! I'm Y/n L/n. But around here everyone calls me Miss L/n. I've been teaching second grade here for about four years now and honestly it's a blast. I love the kids, I love the school, I love my coworkers, I love the classes, I love my mood ...Sorry l am rambling but in my defense it's one of the best holidays of the year. Halloween!  and this year is different because we got the opportunity to dress up. They also let me put the whole school in halloween decor. All the kids are so excited to wear their little costumes and eat candies. That’s why I had to step up my game. Guess what I am? No? Okay. Well I’m a bumblebee cause people say I’m sweet like honey and sometimes that is annoying, but that’s nobody's buzzness. Did you get the joke? Did you understand?  Because I am dressed as a bee? I know you got it, I see that smile on your lips, cameraman. Anyway, let me just get to the point, I teach second grade and around here we all love to have fun. Do you want a Frankenstein cupcake? I made them myself" She said with a huge grin stretching out her hand with a cupcake toward the cameramen while the kids in the background made cute cupcakes. Her face was covered in frosting and her costume was covered in glitter. 

Oscar Piastri, smiled as he excitedly greeted his first graders, exclaiming proudly “happy halloween ” as they entered the classroom, His  Mark Webber  costume intact. He watched as his little students entered the classroom all giggly while holding onto buckets filled with candies he had personally requested them to bring so they could exchange with their classmates. When the last student entered, his eyes trailed towards the end of the hall where he could see Y/n L/n handing her kids a lollipop while they entered. Oscar stared at her in aw, as she did a dance battle with one of the kids that was dressed as a hip hop dancer. Y/n stinger got caught on the door making her fall back as all the kids from her class ran up to her to help her up. She shook them off by saving countless thank you’s. Y/n threw her head back laughing at her kids following the action as Oscar stayed in his place being starstruck by her beauty. Oscar waited a few seconds to catch her eye and waved at her with a soft smile which Y/n happily returned. Being lost by the sudden interaction Oscar couldn’t feel the small child tugging on the side of his pants trying to get his attention. 

“Mr. Oscar! You are staring at Miss L/n again. You said staring at people was rude” The child exclaimed quite loudly making Oscar jump up and panick. He quickly crouched down to be at the same level as the kid. 

“Alex, what did we say about yelling?” Oscar said softly, trying to push back his flushed face. Alex looked down towards his shoes shaking his head. 

“That we shouldn’t do it. I’m sorry Mr. Oscar. I was trying to get your attention because I needed to tell you something but you were looking at Miss L/n. I heard that in their class they are making cupcakes today. What are we going to do? It’s Halloween we should do something fun” Alex said, raising his head and grinning excitedly towards Oscar. Oscar mirrored his expression. 

“Well, I talked to Principal Norris and he said we could race cars outside. So after we exchange candies right after recess we can race” Oscar said resting his hands on his shoulder grinning. Alex quickly squealed in excitement jumping up and down. Oscar followed his actions moving side to side. “Wait, what did you need to tell me that was so urgent?” Oscar said quickly remembering what were his true intentions. 

“I actually don’t remember” Alex said, making a thinking face. 

"Mister Oscar!  Jeremy is kicking me again" a kid screamed from inside the classroom making Oscar quickly enter the room to detain the fiasco before it got worse. Jeremy was quite the fighter and he didn’t feel like cleaning up blood today. 

Oscar Piastri didn't expect to like being a teacher as much as he did but now after being a  teacher for about a year, he was starting to get the hang of things. He enjoyed the kids' presence, they made things actually fun for him and the best thing, aside from the kids, was Y/n L/n. Having Y/n around made the teaching experience quite refreshing. She was around the same age as Oscar  but she had been teaching there for about four years just like her close friend and English teacher, Logan Sargent. Oscar had tried several times to get in their little group but it was quite hard for him to click with the teachers. It wasn’t that they were mean or anything, it was the fact that they didn’t take the rookie teacher seriously. Adding to the fact that Oscar wasn’t the best when getting social clues, for some people, it felt like they were talking to a child while they were talking to Oscarl. 

“Mister Piastri, I wanted to inform you that the camera crew just got here today, so don't be surprised if they catch your fine ass. You look quite attractive with that, costume." Principal Norris said, peeking his head through the door. Oscar  turned around with a scared look on his face seeing Lando wiggle his eyebrows at him. Oscar’s hands dropped stopping the two kids that were originally fighting. 

"Excuse me?" Oscar asked, raising an eyebrow at Lando making him wink at Oscar. 

"I'm just playing but remember that they...Oh look they are here now! Here we have Mr. Oscar Piastri. He teaches first grade and he's been working here for about a year, yet he can barely get a hold of his class but we are working on it. So enjoy your time with him. The hottest teacher in the school. Bye" he exclaimed while he left Oscar standing agape in the hallway with a camera crew filming straight at him. Oscar quickly took his glasses off, cleaning them on his pants nervously while the kids screamed as loud as they could in the back of the class, the kids once again starting their fight.

“First of all, I'm not the hottest teacher here, I'll leave that to Charles and second of all I have perfect control of my kids. Didn’t you guys catch on camera me stopping the fight? " Oscar exclaimed defensively while putting on his glasses and looking at the camera clearly stressed. His hair was now messy pointing to several directions as his  breath was unsteady. 

"Mr. Oscarl! Help me, Jeremy is still pulling my hair now" a kid yelled from the back of the class quickly gaining Oscar’s attention. He quickly ran towards the back of the class and the camera crew quickly behind him. Oscar tried pulling Jeremy off one of the other kids but he wouldn't move.

"Jeremiah, let go!" Oscar said while falling desperately to get his attention. 

"I'm not letting go Osc! She bit me with her stupid vampire teeth" Jeremiah yelled, still not letting go of his grip becoming stronger. 

"First, I told you even though you are stronger than me to call me Mr. Oscar. Second of all, we said no bad words in the classroom and that included the word stupid.  Now let's just try to be in a loving mood, it's Halloween, don't you guys want to be in a loving mood?!" Oscar asked desperately, trying to convince the kids to let go of each other. All the kids around them were unphased by the interaction, exchanging candies while the fiasco unfolds.

"NO!" Both of the kids exclaim pushing Oscar down towards the floor. He closed his eyes in pain waiting for a few seconds for the floor to eat him alive. He let out a sigh, dragging himself to one of the classroom doors praying that someone, beside Lando or Y/n, would help him out. 

"How are you kids so strong?! Verstappen!  Verstappen please, please help me. Verstappen I know you can see me" Oscar exclaimed as he gripped on the side of the door from the floor. He reached forward holding his leg desperately not wanting him to move. Verstappen stopped dead in his tracks staring down at Oscar with pity. His eyes were nearly covered in tears as he begged him to come and help. Verstappen looked towards the break room as he turned his back from it, taking a step into the classroom but not before quickly rolling his eyes at Oscar. Instantly the kids stopped fighting while the ones that were exchanging candies  sat down hiding their sweets.

"How?" Oscar mouthed to the camera while watching the kids stay like statues with Verstappen.

"I'm  Max Verstappen. Please do not associate me with the principal or I will call the authorities against you. If it were my decision, I would have been principal and I would have said no to this little filming festival you have going around here. But since l am not principal, I have to answer your dumb questions.  I am the other second grade teacher here at Box elementary. The only person I don't get annoyed at in this school is possibly Oscar. He isn't the worst teacher in the world but he isn't the greatest. Kids here can be little shits but I have them under control. Oscar on the other hand doesn't. He lacks control and I truly believe he's one of the kids."  Verstappen said to the camera while moving to the side to let into view a giggling Oscar Piastri exchanging his candies  with his students excitedly.

Meanwhile, Logan and Carlos  walked together to the break lounge ready to eat their lunch and enjoy their break. Both of them worked on the second floor with the middle school kids and they were exhausted.

"Good evening, I'm Logan and I teach seventh grade english. I've been in this school for four years and quite frankly still don't know why I've stayed so long."

Carlos sat down taking his food out of his neatly prepared lunch box while Logan took his mug to serve himself some coffee. Both of them took in the wonderful peace and quiet that surrounded the break lounge, something that it always lacked. But the peace and quiet was interrupted by the door slamming open and a visually alarmed Oscar  coming through, Verstappen following behind shortly after.

"I'm so done with those little pieces of sh.. You"  Oscar took a deep breath pointing at the cameramen. "Stop following me with those stupid cameras. You're making me seem like I'm a bad teacher” he said while his eyes twitched, making Logan hide a chuckle with a cough. He continued to drink his coffee attempting to calm himself.

"I don't think they're making you seem like a bad teacher, maybe you're just being one” Carlos  responded while taking a bite of his sandwich making Logan  "cough" even louder.

"Carlos.  I came to this school the same time Oscar Piastri did and it still surprises me that he is still here. There were fifty new teachers and surprisingly the only two left are Oscar Piastri  and me, I thought he was going to be the first one to leave, yet here he is, still struggling and still not getting the hang of it" Carlos said to the camera while fixing the nonexistent wrinkles of his button up shirt.

"Well, I have you know I am a great teacher! My students say it to me all the time when I get emotional. I bet you don’t even cry with your students. My students and I had a Halloween party, something that didn't even cross your mind to have today. We exchanged candies, had a dance party and watched movies. They love me. I love them. And all you did was bore you kids to death today, I suppose. What did you do? Make them read" Oscar responded angrily while looking at the peaceful Carlos. 

"Actually, yes. We read about the history behind witches. Something you can actually do to learn since you come to school to learn not to party. But I guess you didn't get the memo since all you did was go to frat parties in college" he said taking another bite of his sandwich.

"Jokes on you I wasn't even in a frat. But I just know your kids wanted lollipops and by the way I gave my kids lollipops and none of them threw them at each other so I believe that's progress" Oscar said proudly while looking in the fridge giving his back to the teachers letting them see the back part of his robes covered in lollipops.

"Congrats! You are getting better, Piastri. I am really proud” Logan  applauded while placing his cup of coffee down.

“But I don't think you should get your kids hopes up with Halloween. You should show them the gory things that I showed mine today. Real, scary, halloween movies. When they’ll get older they will thank you for teaching them how to survive a psycho. ” Verstappen responded while sitting next to Carlos.

"Aren't your kids seven?" Carlos asked, concerned, raising an eyebrow at Verstappen.

"And your point is, Carlos Jr.?" Verstappen asked while taking a sip of his black coffee. 

“I already told you, my name isn't Carlos Jr., it's just Carlos" he said seriously while glaring at the man.

"I will not stop spreading love in my classroom.I love Halloween and no one and I mean no one  loves Halloween more than me" Oscar exclaimed sitting down with his arms crossed. 

"Hellooo fellow teachers!" Y/n exclaimed throwing flower petals in the air while entering the break room. 

"I highly doubt it" Logan responded while looking at his best friend, dressed up in her vibrant yellow costume. She was holding onto a basket filled with sweets while her wings neatly placed on her back. Her hair wasn't styled as usual, instead it was pulled back in two braids with her antennas.

"Happy Halloween to you, and you, and you" She said, handing a beautifully devoted Halloween box to each of her coworkers.

Carlos smiled softly, Logan whispered a thanks and Verstappen rolled his eyes, but deep down he loved it. Y/n headed towards Oscar giving him a bigger box than the rest. Oscar blushed hard, taking in the gift in his hand while Y/n placed down her things. 

"Thank you, Y/n. I appreciate it a lot" he said smiling softly but his smile got wider when she sat next to him.

"You're welcome Oscar! By the way, I love your red bull costume. I really like the redbull drink. A lot of my students dressed the same. It looks cute" she said, playing with the ends of Oscar’s long sleeve . 

“Actually, Y/n. Oscar’s dressed as An...” Verstappen started but quickly got cut off by Oscar slamming his hand against the table. 

"Thank you, Y/n! I was trying really hard for that can look. I really like your bee costume. I know everyone was buzzing about it” he said excitedly while trying to hide his  blush. Y/n threw her head laughing hitting Oscar’s shoulder softly making Oscar blush more if it even was possible.  

"Thank you! I wanted to go all out today, I heard that the party was going to be the bomb.” Y/n said winking towards Oscar which made him grin excitedly. 

“You know about that?” Oscar asked confusedly, while taking his food out of his bag. 

“Yeah! My kids were telling me about some big plan you have after recess. I was so excited for the afternoon party I forgot to bring lunch" She smiled at her while opening a water bottle and looking down at her notes to fix anything that was incorrect for the party the school was throwing later today.

"Here, have my sandwich" Oscar exclaimed quickly, planting the sandwich next to her. She looked up from her paper shaking her head.

“Don't worry about it Oscar. You should eat, I can wait until later.” She responded by trying to hand it back at him but he shook his head.

"Have it, I'm not even hungry" Oscar said smiling softly while shrugging trying not to worry her.

"Thank you Oscar! I owe you one" Y/n said, taking a bite while Logan looked at the camera suspiciously while drinking his coffee.

"What? I'm not hungry. My stomach is filled with brownies, candies and cupcakes. Plus the cupcake I had this morning, if Y/n’s hungry I wouldn't mind giving her my food!! Or anyone not necessarily her, I give my food to everyone that wants it, look. Here have this kiwi" Oscar exclaimed while taking out the kiwi he was previously eating and handing it in to a kid that was passing by. The kid stared at Oscar weirdly before continuing walking.

"So,what are you guys doing tonight? Anything special planned in this spooky evening" Oscar asked, trying to change the subject while they all peacefully ate. Everyone stayed quiet but Oscar anxiously taped his finger on the round table making Carlos groan and speak up.

"Well, since you're being nosy, I rented out a movie theater to watch movies tonight with my girlfriend” Carlos responded, closing his book. Y/n squealed, turning to him with a smile. "It was so romantic. What did you get?" Carlos asked, directing himself to Y/n, but she simply shrugged.

“The kids gave me some beautifully made cupcakes, those that count?" She asked sitting next to him, Verstappen laughed making the two stare at him.

“It's sad that you want that to count," he said, taking another sip of his coffee.

“Don't listen to Max, he's just jealous the kids didn't give him anything because they are scared of him” Carlos said, rolling his eyes as Y/n fixed her posture awkwardly. 

"My kids love me, they know my second grade class is the superior one and they did get me sweets. I just don't like them" Verstappen responded, getting a bag of candy and throwing it on the table leaving Carlos in shock.

"Well, maybe you'll get something later, the night is still young" Oscar said suspiciously while looking at the camera with a smirk. As if it were by cue a delivery man opens the door holding a big strawberry bouquet.

“Delivery for Y/n L/n” the delivery man said while reading the card. Y/n excitedly got up taking it in her hands and placing it down on the table picking the card to see from who it was. She quickly smiled at the delivery man saying thanks before he left. All the teachers looked at the bouquet waiting for her to say who it was from.

"Who is it from?" Oscar  asked while standing next to her with a huge grin on his face.

"It says spooky berries from a secret admirer, " she said, picking a strawberry and eating it.

Logan, Carlos and Verstappen stood outside in the hallways with the camera crew Filming them.

"It was Oscar" the trio said at the same time while rolling their eyes.

"This is beautiful! The person that got me this has to know me really well, I love chocolate covered strawberries. They are literally the best thing to ever exist on this planet"

" You see! I know her well!! I got her that gift and went all out! I'm proud of my hard work and the smile on her face is to die for. So ha! I win Halloween" Oscar exclaimed happily at the camera while grinning.

"Breaks over, I need my teachers in their classrooms so they can take the kids to that dumb party Y/n’s making" Lando said entering the lounge and getting himself some coffee.

"Nothing you can do will ruin my mood today, Lando. So I will take that as a compliment" She responded, taking a picture of the strawberries.

"You got yourself that gift? That's sad, even for you L/n" Lando responded while taking a sip of the drink.

"Actually, it was a secret admirer," she responded, not even looking at him.

"Oscar, it was Oscar" Lando said, looking at the camera in the hallway while taking a bite of a strawberry he had taken from Y/n's gift.

"Also how are you guys enjoying the reality show we have going on here?" Lando asked, winking at the camera.

"I feel watched and stalked" Verstappen responded seriously.

"I didn't ask you. Oscar?" Lando turned his head towards Oscar who started to pick up his things so he could head back to his classroom. 

"This isn't a reality show Lando. it's a documentary for schools with poor funding so I don't think we should be proud of that” he said while standing up and putting his tote bag on his shoulder. 

"You know what I'm not proud of, the fact I haven't received my Valentine's Day gift yet" Lando said only for him to hear. Oscar shivers while looking at him with the same expression as before. "Now everyone chop chop. We don't have all day" he continued while applauding obnoxiously.

Everyone started leaving the teachers lounge leaving Oscar to himself to open the box Y/n had given him, he slowly opened the box and opened his eyes wide when he saw the gift.

"Oh, I've known about Oscars' crush ever since he started working here. But I love seeing the reactions he does when he thinks I don't know a thing about the little gestures he does for me. That's why I decided that I should give something back" Y/n said smiling to the camera holding the gift she had received from him. In the background you could see Oscar dancing excitedly and when Y/n turned around to look at him, he froze waving at her trying to act cool which Y/n responded with a smile while quickly turning to her classroom.

Oscar looked at his kids jumping up and down at the party and he smiled. He looked at the camera men and then down at his hands.

"I'm going on a date today" He said screaming while joining his kids in a dance battle.

Logan looked at Oscar and then at his best friend from the other side of the school gym and smiled softly at her.

"You asked him out, didn't you?" Logan asked, looking at Y/n.

"Yes, I think he’s cute." She responded while looking at the dancing Oscar. Both of them looked at how Oscar huddled up with the kids pushing a car to make the kids star driving. A few seconds in, a kid “runs’ over another ones leg making them cry.

“I though he meant toy cars?! Seven year olds don’t have diverse license”  

[vivwritesfics]

Keep On Rolling - MV1

Chapter One

Summary: Lando's best friend having feelings for anyone on the grid? Impossible, right? She worked with them, sharing her friendship with the grid with the world via the FormulaY/N youtube channel.

After film a video including... spicy water (alcohol), everything changes between her and a certain world champion. Good thing she hasn't had a crush on him since his F1 debut, right?

Right?

2K words

Hello everybody! Long break, I know (life throws curveballs), but I'm taking the blog in a different direction. Hope you guys like my first F1 imagine, I'm really passionate about it.

Series Masterlist

"Hello everybody and welcome back to another episode of Paddock Pals," Y/N said to the camera, holding her microphone in her hand. "Now, if you're new to the channel or don't remember the first installment, Paddock Pals is where cameraman James and I go around the Formula One paddock, dressed in the best disguises, and try to have the weirdest interview possible with the drivers," she explained. "Whoever recognises us first wins the game."

Y/N L/N was maybe the biggest name in Formula One youtube. She brought something to the game that nobody else had - access to the drivers.

Growing up as best friends with Lando Norris had its perks. She got to make a career out of her friendship and got to travel the world. She wasn't much into the sport until she met Lando. Now, she was a woman obsessed.

"As you can probably tell, James and I are not yet in disguise. We're filming this the night before so we had head straight there tomorrow, catch them bright, early, and unaware." She was stood in her hotel room in Australia, going over the previous installment of Paddock Pals. "Last time we got caught out by the honey badger himself, Daniel Riccardo. So, this time around, Danny Ric is going to be helping us out by letting us do a pretend interview with him when we need to."

The cameraman walked over to the mirror, showing himself. "This year we're making predictions on who we think will catch us out. I think it'll be Charles this year," he said. "He's been suspicious for a while, always asking when we're doing the next episode."

"As always, I think it's going to be Lando," said Y/N when the camera turned back to her. "I always try to leave him until last because, if anybody is going to catch us out, it's going to be him."

After that, James cut the camera. They needed a break, a moment to gather themselves together. "You really think Charles?" Y/N asked as they changed over the head of her microphone. Usually, it was the FormulaY/N microphone, but she changed it to a generic black one for the Paddock Pals video. "Not Max or Oscar?"

"And why would I say Max?" Asked James with a grin. Y/N glared, but she didn't push. Charles was a good choice. He spent almost as much time with Y/N as Lando did. Her audience loved him, and she lived to keep her audience happy. That was what brought in the money. "Want to put a wager on this one?"

Y/N shook her head. She positioned herself ready to start filming again. They filmed late into the night, Y/N showing off the props and the outfits they were going to wear for the rest of the video. Her phone buzzed once, and they had to film the whole section again.

By the time they were finished they had barely any battery left in the camera and were ready for bed. James had left to go to his own room but Y/N was sitting on her bed, texting Lando. It wasn't anything important, wishing him good luck for tomorrow and complaining about the heat in Australia.

And then it was a restless sleep. When Y/N woke up in the middle of the night, she stayed up scrolling through her comments. It didn't make getting to sleep any easier for her, scrolling through the comments on her youtube videos and social media posts. There were positive fans, most of them seemed to be young women. But there were some, commenting on her appearance and calling her friendship with the grid fake. Some said she didn't know what she was talking about when it came to Formula One, that she was only there because she was sleeping with Lando.

Of course, none of it was true. It played over in Y/N's head nonetheless. Normally, Y/N would text Lando when this happened, but he was asleep. And sleep was desperately what he needed leading up to the qualifying.

Eventually, Y/N fell asleep, her phone still in her hand.

Y/N and James woke up to their alarms in the early hours of the morning. They got up, set up the camera and got into their disguises. "You're so lucky I was obsessed with special affects as a kid," said James as he attached the fake nose to Y/N's face. He placed a bushy moustache under it and handed her the coloured contacts to put in.

Y/N's clothing was heavily padded, hiding her shape. She had her hair hidden up in a cap and an obviously fake press pass. She just had to help nobody looked too closely.

James did his own disguise. He changed everything but the camera, but they just had to hope nobody noticed that, either. Once they were ready and had given an update to the viewers, Y/N and James made their way down to the paddock.

"A lot of people have been asking us to include Alonso and Stroll in these videos. Truth is, I only do these videos with the guys I'm close with. Fernando is such a legend that I get nervous around him, and I just haven't spent that time with Lance," she explained to the camera as they walked.

"And now, for our first victim," said James.

The drivers that walked past were the ones Y/N didn't have anything planned for. Sargeant, Stroll, Checo Perez. Y/N and James waited and waited until somebody came by.

Oscar Piastri. The poor, young Australian was Y/N's first victim. "Oscar! Welcome to your first home race in Formula One!" Y/N shouted, calling him over for an interview. The second question was normal, something Oscar was happy to answer. But then Y/N got a little strange. "As all F1 fans know, the man who had your seat before you loved to do a shoey. Have you managed to try one yet?" The question itself wasn't strange, but it was about to be.

Y/N slowly eased off her shoe as Oscar answered the question. When he answered no, not yet in Formula One, Y/N passed him her microphone. "Hold this for me," she said and picked her shoe up from the floor. She grabbed a can of beer from her coat pocket and poured the contents of it into her shoe. "Here, try mine."

Oscar's eyes went wide. "Uh, no thanks," he said and passed the microphone back to James. Without finishing the interview, Oscar walked away. Y/N couldn't blame him, she would have done the same.

"Warm up complete. Time for the real thing," said Y/N brushing down the hairs of her fake moustache.

The next driver to walk past was poor George Russell.

Y/N went on and on, asking the drivers the weirdest questions she could think of. Most finished the interview, or walked away before it had finished. Halfway through, Y/N had her interview with the honey badger himself, Daniel Riccardo. It wasn't a real interview, but they made it look as such. The end of the interview was made to look like a success.

After that, Y/N interviewed Ocon, Tsunoda, and Leclerc. Charles went on the longest out of any of the drivers. Y/N asked him questions about Ferrari and how sad he is after almost every race. He looked at her with confusion when she spoke, and Y/N thought she had been found out.

Y/N moved on. It was Verstappen next. Y/N asked weird questions and got the perfect response. He definitely knew, she thought as he laughed. Towards the end of the interview, Y/N felt the hat come off her head, revealing her hair. She gasped and turned around to see Charles stood there, her hat in hand. "I knew it!" He cried, using her hat to smack her shoulder. "I knew it was you!"

"And there you have it, folks," Y/N began, placing her hat back on her head. This time it didn't hide her hair. "This years winner of Paddock Pals is Charles Leclerc! What do you win, Mr Leclerc? Bragging rights, of course," she said and passed her microphone to the Monégasque.

Charles did an acceptance speech. Like everything he and Y/N did together, it was all for a laugh.

"That concludes this years episode of Paddock Pals. Thank you everybody for watching. Don't forget to like, subscribe, and join us next week and in Azerbaijan for the next race."

James cut off the camera. "And we're out," he said and pulled off his fake nose.

Y/N did the same, pulling off the fake nose and the moustache from her face. "Did you have any idea?" Asked Y/N, turning to Max. The heat in Australia was sweltering. Y/N worked on taking off her multitude of padded jumpers, leaving her in a loose, classy shirt and a pair of shorts.

Not answering, Max looked away and let out a laugh. Of course, he knew, thought Y/N. Shaking her head, she turned away from him. "Good luck, Super Max," she said and took her leave, walking away from the Paddock.

It wasn't race day, but her viewers didn't have to know that. It was qualifying and Y/N wouldn't miss it for the world. James left the paddock, going back to the room to begin editing the video. Y/N made her way to the grandstands to watch. She loved nothing more than sitting with the McLaren fans to watch the qualifying and the race. In most laces Lando's fans were her fans, but they were also respectful, asking for selfies before the qualifying began so she could watch in peace.

***

Race day meant race day vlogs for Y/N. Everything from getting ready to after the race, the people wanted to see it all. Y/N tried to dress her best for every race, this time a McLaren shirt with a white tennis skirt.

Cameraman James didn't accompany her for race day vlogs. Sometimes he was in them, watching the race alongside her, but that was a rarity. Y/N had a separate camera for her vlogs. The video quality was worse than when James had his big camera, but the quality wasn't what people were there for.

After having breakfast and getting her final bits ready, Y/N headed down to the paddock. It had become a tradition that she heads down there to wish Lando good luck. She filmed herself going down to the paddock and wishing Lando luck, but turned off the camera after that.

"You look tired," said Lando as Y/N put the camera down.

Y/N shrugged her shoulders. "I thought my makeup covered it up," she answered, leaning against the wall.

Rolling his eyes, Lando put his arms around her shoulders and pulled her away from the wall. "You could have texted me if you couldn't sleep."

"And make you tired before the race? No way, Norris."

Lando laughed. "You better get going to the grandstands," he said, walking her to the edge of the garage.

Nodding, Y/N followed him. "Good luck out there, Lando Norris," she said and kissed his cheek.

Y/N filmed herself making her way to the grandstands. She turned off her camera for more selfies with the fans and waited for the race to begin.

The race started smoothly. Of course, Verstappen was on pole, but that's why they called him Super Max. He had Sainz, Hamilton and Leclerc behind him. Lando was stuck in the midfield, but Y/N still cheered him on.

Lap twenty and Lando was taken out of the race. "Shit!" Y/N cried, standing up. She watched as he was stuck in the barrier and thanked God he was near the pits. He drove the car into the garage and Lando climbed out.

Biting her nails, Y/N pulled out her phone and texted Lando.

Letting out a breath, Y/N pulled out her camera. "Update on the race, Lando has just retired after a crash. He's okay. He's in the garage right now and the race is still ongoing. Our favourite driver might be out of the race, but our second favorite is still going," she said and put the camera down.

Y/N sat back in her seat. She turned her attention back to the race, keeping her phone on and in her lap in case Lando needed her.

[mclarengirliexo]

Summary: You and Max have started dating after you both break up with your partners. You have to learn to navigate how to accept being with Max on the world wide stage and tumultuous relationships with families that put a strain on your own relationship. Is it worth it?

Pairing: Max Verstappen x reader (no mention of Y/N)

Word Count: Just a sneak peak and not sure if I should continue or where the story should go. Advise and criticisms are welcome!

Azerbaijan GP

“Un-fucking-believable…” You hear Jos Verstappen mutter to himself whilst you both stand in the sweltering Red Bull garage, watching on the screens as his son Max crosses the finish line, finishing P5 in Baku under the safety car. Max has had a string of bad races, failing to win a race since Montreal.

Despite knowing Max for years through your job working for F1 and your close friendship with fellow Australian Daniel Ricciardo, your relationship with him was still relatively new. The two of you began seeing each other in the New Year. You both had broken up with your respective long term partners and had turned to each other for comfort. At first it was purely physical, with both of you being on the F1 circuits, albeit for different reasons, it made sense to find your enjoyment in each other. And then one day, with the help of self proclaimed Cupid Daniel, it changed.

You take your headphones off, simultaneously both eager and hesitant to find your boyfriend, knowing Max would not be happy with today’s outcome. Before you could take a step, a calloused hand softly wraps around your upper arm forcing you to a halt. You glance up at Jos, you’re always amazed at how similar father and son’s faces are. Yet, Max would never look at you with the look of contempt and anger that is radiating off Jos’.

“You know this is your fault, Max has never been this fucking shit -“ “Jos…” You try and pull your arm away without bringing too much attention to the pair of you, your eyes darting around the garage. Already you have noticed inquisitive eyes staring in your direction, looking for your reaction. Jos doesn’t notice or he just simply doesn’t care. “Even when he was playing family! He’s too distracted by you, mooi.” The last word is sneered at you, one of the affectionate names that Max calls you frequently.

The Sky News cameraman has noticed the interaction between you and Jos, quietly zooming in on the pair of you. You glance to the screens, showing you in a heated one sided discussion, broadcasting live to every team in the paddock and more embarrassingly to the millions of fans internationally. No doubt this moment between you and your boyfriend’s father will be picked apart and analysed by media outlets and fans alike. You’re just thankful that Christian is quick to come to your aid, his hand covering the lens of the camera, telling the operator to move along.

“You’re no good for my son.” You can only scoff at Jos, pulling free your arm from his grasp. “Neither are you.”

[thepersonnamedsam]

you already know how much I love gen z driver! could you maybe write something of how would it be if gen z reader’s birthday happened to be during one of the gp’s? how everyone acts and makes it all about her?

happy birthday!

pairing: the genz!driver x '23!grid

summary: it’s the genz!drivers birthday, and it just happens to be the miami gp!

word count: 1.7k

warnings: some swear words and some google translated spanish and dutch :)

note: oh i just love all of your request, especially that one, bc i’m a birthday lover myself! have fun reading it and feel free to request more!! <3

masterlist/ taglist

The first people to congratulate her, were her parents. They called her, in the middle of the night; they forgot that time zones exist. But her heart was full when she picked up the phone at 3AM and both of her parents where singing ‚happy birthday‘ to her. What wasn’t so good, was that she had to be asleep, because it was a Sunday and race day! But it didn’t matter, it was her birthday!

Two hours later, her phone was ringing again, but this time not because someone was wishing her a happy birthday, no, it was her alarm. But today it was okay. 5AM on your birthday doesn’t feel that early, does it now? At least it didn’t for her.

Andy, her personal trainer, knocked on her door at exactly 6.30AM, holding a tiny cupcake with a candle in it. „Happy birthday, y/n!“, his voice cheerful and happy. Her smiled widened and her heart full with love again. „Thank you, Andy.“

„Are you ready for the race?“, Andy asked her. She nodded and closed her hotel door. „I’m excited to see Danny again and Nando and all the other people of course. Oh and definitely Lewis.“, Birthdays were her thing, she always missed them in school, either she had them on a weekend or she was on holiday. So, being surrounded by people who are important to her, was the best present she could’ve gotten.

On the way to the paddock, Andy let her pick out the music, her car playlist was blasting on full volume. Tongue Tied by GROUPLOVE was her favourite song at the moment, that’s why she was singing at the top of her lungs to the lyrics.

„Take me to your best friends house, go around this roundabout, oh yeah“, she looked at Andy as if he would follow the orders of the song.

The music died down, as they arrived at the paddock. Press was already waiting on her, they knew it was her special day and hoped to get some good footage of the birthday-girl. Usually the media annoyed her this early in the morning, but today, nothing could’ve ruined her day. She smiled and waved to the camera, spoke to some press people and had nice conversations with all of them.

The media always tried to find some gossip, especially on the young driver, but not today. They were happy to see her this happy.

As she set foot on the paddock, people were congratulating her. Pads on the back, some strokes on her arm here and there, everyone was nice to her, and who doesn’t enjoy some attention sometimes. Especially if it’s for something you didn’t work for. It was her favourite day of the year, Christmas is second.

„Danny!“, she shrieked as soon as she saw him. She sprinted towards the Australian and jumped into his arms. „I missed you so bad!“ Daniel just laughed and hugged the young driver. „Happy birthday, y/n.“

Her smile was consistent and contagious, every person she smiled at, they just had to smile back. Even Max smiled at her. Well, he always smiled at her, she was one of the persons that could make him smile.

„Max, can you give me a piggyback ride?“, she looked at him with puppy dog eyes and he just couldn’t deny her. „Of course, zus sister.“

As Martin Brundle spotted the two, he motioned to his cameraman to put the focus on them. „And now we see Max Verstappen carrying the birthday girl y/n. It is not rare to see the young driver interact with the different drivers. Let’s wish her a happy birthday“, he talked into the camera. „Hello you two, happy birthday y/n, am I the first to congratulate?“, the older man looked at her with an amusing look on his face. „Martin, as much as I love you, you are hopefully not the first person to wish me a happy birthday“, she looked at him with a serious face.

„Did Max congratulate yet?“, a challenging look on Martins face, he pointed at the camera and said: „Remember, this is a livestream.“, Max‘ cheeks turned a pretty pink colour and y/n gasped. „He did not!“, she gasped. „Max, you didn’t wish me a happy birthday?!“ - „I’m sorry, schat darling. Happy birthday, my dear.“

But how could she hold a grudge against a face that looked like Sid from Ice Age?

Fernando was the next person she saw, and he instantly grinned at her. „Oh Nando, do you know whose special day it is today?“, she singsang to the oldest driver on the grid. „Hmm, let me guess, is it Roscoes?“, he laughed as he saw her shocked face. „How could you, I thought we were friends?“ - „We are, we are, cariño darling. Feliz cumpleaños happy birthday, y/n.“

„How old are you now, 5?“, he laughed at her. „Har har, very funny Nando. How old are you turning this year, 60?“ She was always getting irritated fast. He grabbed her by her hip and pushed her into a side hug of his. „Don’t ever change, cariño.“

„Don’t have a plan for that, who’d change something as fabulous like this“, her hands were pointing to herself. „But on a serious note, Nando, do you know where Lewis is? I’ve been searching for him.“ Fernando only shook his head, he didn’t know where the British driver was. He rubbed over her hair as she left his side to search for her mentor.

„Oh Lewis! Your favourite person is looking for you“, she shouted over the paddock, with no luck. She didn’t even see a trace of Lew, none. But what she did find, was a monegasque driver with the number 16 and a spaniard driving under the number 55. They were arguing over some bullshit, as always, as they spotted her. „y/n! Over here“, Charles shouted over to her and waved his hand. She ran over to them and greeted the older drivers with a side hug. Carlos quickly kissed her head as he wished her a brilliant birthday. Charles even sang the first to lines of the song.

She was a bit embarrassed, but she enjoyed the attention of the two Ferrari drivers. „I love you guys, but have you seen Lewis?“, she smiled at the two as they rolled their eyes. She just wanted to see her favourite person on the paddock. She loved them all equally, but you couldn’t deny that Lewis definitely was her favourite. „I think I saw him at Mercedes, his motorhome“, Charles told her, she totally missed the sarcastic undertone of his and just skipped along to the Mercedes garage.

Before she even set a foot in the motorhome, Toto Wolff approached her and squished her into a hug. „Alles gute zum Geburtstag, liebes! Happy birthday, darling! How are you, so happy to see you“, he whispered into her ear. She loved Toto. „Hi Toto!“, she grinned up at him, „I’m good, thank you. Do you know where Lewis is?“ Toto laughed and pointed to his drivers room. „Thanks!“, she yelled as she took off.

She hasn’t been to her own motorhome, just wandering around the paddock and taking in all the attention from the others. And as she knocked on the door, she knew she’d receive the best attention of them all.

„It’s open“, she heard and busted into the tiny room. „Hello, your favourite human on this planet has arrived and will be gracing your presence from now on!“ She grinned at him and he only laughed and embraced the girl. „I have a present for the birthday girl? do you know where she is“, he joked and turned around to grab her present. „A present? Aw Lewis, you shouldn’t have, you totally should have.“

The present contained some gag gifts, such as a Mercedes hat and shirt, or some shirts with funny pattern on it. But the original present was a necklace. It wasn’t anything special, really. It was a simple silver necklace with a tiny turtle as a pendant. Her eyes were tearing up, so she quickly wiped them away.

„Is this one of the necklaces that makes you a godparent of a sea turtle?“ - „It sure is, have fun with“ he turned the pendant around and looked at the engraving on it „Yertle. He is now your godchild“, he smiled at her and motioned to y/n to turn around, so he could put the necklace on. „Thank you so much, it means a lot“, she hugged him as a thank you. He smiled at her, he adored the young driver and was grateful that he was apart of her journey.

„Thank you, love you Lewis!“, she yelled to him as she sprinted out of the motorhome. She was finally headed to her own garage. They had planned a surprise party for her and Lewis was the distraction. As she reached her motorhome, she didn’t see anyone. „Hello, is it not race day?“, she joked into the dark.

„Happy birthday, y/n!“

She jumped, her heart was racing, but she had a giant smile on her face. Her heart, once again, was full, full with love.

„Ahh, thank you guys!“, she squealed and sprinted into the engineers and mechanics, just like she won a race, which she hasn’t, by the way. She hugged all of them, thanked all and smiled the biggest smile she ever smiled. „I’m so grateful for all of you! And now, let’s win this race!“

She didn’t win, but was one of her best birthdays so far. And the after party was her personal highlight of the day. There was a huge pile of presents, just for her of course.

Lando was the DJ, Max was standing on a table, preparing to do a toast for her and Danny was laughing and pointing his camera at everybody.

The evening was definitely something she’d remember, maybe not Max‘ toast, as it was very embarrassing;

„Dear people, we have gathered here to celebrate not only my win, but also a birthday of some special person. She is not our girlfriend, which we are all happy about, but they’re all jealous of her, y/n! Happy birthday, you beast, come up here!“

The alcohol definitely made it more bearable, but the fact that Pierre had to drag you to Mac spoke for itself.

„Pierre, let me be, go back to your boyfriend“, she spoke harshly to the French man, but he ignored her with a smirk on his face and brought her up to Max.

„Ladys and gents, the birthday girl herself!“

It was one of the better party’s she attended and when she looked at all the posts she’s been tagged, she found one particular that she liked the most.

daniel3.jpg

Liked by yninsta, charles_leclerc and 473’827 others

daniel3.jpg happy birthday to my personal favourite female driver of all time! let’s raise a glass or two, to all the things i’ve lost on you ;)

View all 4638 comments

yninsta i am the only female driver…

landonorris that’s why your his fav

yninsta rude af

daniel3.jpg don’t fight kids

charles_leclerc happy birthday y/n!

carlossainz55 yeah, feliz compleaños to our fav girl

pierregasly liked by pierre gasly

f1girly we love all the drivers in the comments, y/n is definitely the paddock princess

likedbypear oh yes, idk if i want to be her or with her

yninsta be definitely with me, c’mon

neymarjr happy birthday y/n!

°°°

taglist: @ironmaiden1313 , @topguncultleader , @missskid , @gulabjamooon , @lovelyy-moonlight , @peachyplumsss , @mistrose23 , @copper-boom , @love4lando , @champomiel , @serenityleah , @iloveyou3000morgan , @angelwithoutmywings , @elleeeee21

[terminuslucis]

I adore your twisted cameraman series! Thanks to that I adopted the headcanon that Yuu takes those pictures.

My question is has Little Silver taken any of the birthday bloom cards? I know some haven’t been released yet, but what about the ones that have been? I adore.

I'll start with these two, because it's funny how differently they're flying along the same road.

I added the people doing their interviews (Jack and Malleus).

I imagine Azul was trying really hard not to be upset by little Silver telling him to fly higher.