#i love him for the things that make him boring to you

[ari-ana-bel-la]

Hi! Can I please request a fic where the reader is the young daughter of an F1 driver (you can pick who if you want), and one day she steals his phone in the paddock and starts running around filming everything like tyres, garages, the cars, even some drivers and she’s making the cutest little comments the whole time? A team social media admin notices and just lets her take over filming for them, and they post the video later and it becomes the most popular thing the team’s ever posted because everyone falls in love with her commentary? (The video from admin can be the drivers walking in or a tour of one of the teams garage)

Future Film Maker

The sun was shining down on the paddock, and the familiar low hum of activity buzzed through the air. It was Friday morning, and George had arrived bright and early — but this time, he wasn’t alone.

"Alright, sweetheart, you ready for a big weekend?" George asked as he lifted little Yn out of her car seat.

The three-year-old beamed up at him, her eyes bright with excitement. She wore a miniature Mercedes team shirt that practically swallowed her tiny frame, and her hair was pulled up into two tiny buns on either side of her head. A lanyard with her name and a VIP pass swung around her neck.

"Race cars!" she squealed.

George laughed, kissing her forehead. "Yes, race cars. But you have to promise to be good while Mama’s working, okay?"

Yn nodded very seriously, though George knew that promise would be short-lived.

The paddock was bustling with mechanics, drivers, and media personnel as George walked through, Yn perched securely on his hip.

"Hey! Look who’s here!" Alex said, walking over with a big grin. He bent down to Yn’s level. "Hello, Miss Trouble."

"Hi, Uncle Lex!" Yn giggled, holding her arms out. George passed her over with a fond sigh.

"You’ve got five minutes before she gets bored and starts plotting something," George warned.

"That’s five more than last time," Alex joked.

Yn looked around the garage, then spotted something shiny. "Tyres! Big tyres!"

"You want to see the tyres?" Alex asked. Yn nodded furiously, so he carried her over to the tyre stacks.

George watched, amused, but soon got pulled into his engineering briefing. Carmen had been swamped with back-to-back shoots and meetings, and George hadn’t hesitated to take Yn for the weekend. It wasn’t even a question — he adored any excuse to spend time with his daughter.

What he didn’t know was that while he sat through fuel data and sector times, a small storm was brewing.

Yn, ever the explorer, was now back in the garage sitting on a little stool with George’s phone — which she had sneakily taken from his bag.

"Cameraaa…" she whispered as she tapped on the screen until the video app popped up. She grinned.

"Hi! It’s me. Yn. I’m at Daddy’s work. Look!" She panned the camera dramatically to the floor. "That’s a shoe. It’s Uncle Lex’s shoe. Very fast shoe."

The camera wobbled as she got up and toddled around the paddock. She pointed it at a mechanic’s back. "That’s… um. I dunno who that is. But he’s workin’. So shhh."

A few meters away, one of the Mercedes social media admins, Mia, blinked in surprise as she noticed the toddler filming.

She crouched down gently beside Yn. "Hey there, Miss Yn. Whatcha doing?"

"Makin’ a movie," Yn replied confidently, still filming.

Mia smiled. "That’s cool. Want some help holding the phone so it’s not so wobbly?"

"Yes, please. You have nice shoes," Yn said.

Together, they held the phone steady as Yn continued her documentary. "This is the garage. It’s loud. My ears go beep beep when it’s loud. This is a car. It’s my daddy’s car. It’s very very fast. Vroom."

From behind, Charles approached, sipping on a water bottle. "Is our little Spielberg directing something today?"

"Uncle Cha!" Yn squealed, abandoning the phone momentarily to run into his arms.

Charles caught her easily, lifting her into a hug. "Are you being a good girl today?"

"I’m makin’ a movie! Want to be in it?"

Charles chuckled. "Of course. Should I smile? Pose like this?" He made a silly face that had Yn giggling uncontrollably.

Mia took the phone and kept filming as Yn directed him.

"Say: ‘I go zoom zoom!’"

Charles played along, throwing his hands up. "I go ZOOM ZOOM!"

"Cut!" Yn yelled dramatically.

Later, she ran into Lando, who was talking with one of his engineers.

"Uncle LaLa! I’m filming! Be in it?"

Lando turned and knelt. "Of course I will. What’s my line, Miss Director?"

"Say: ‘I’m cool.’"

"Easy. I am cool," he said with exaggerated flair.

Yn nodded. "Okay, you can go now."

Lando laughed. "Tough crowd."

In the hospitality tent, Toto was enjoying a quick lunch when he felt a small tug at his pant leg.

"Hi, Mr Toto! Can I have a bite?"

He turned, surprised, and found Yn looking up at him with wide eyes.

"Of course," he said with a warm smile, offering her his fork. "Don’t tell your papa I gave you his favorite part."

She chewed thoughtfully. "Tastes like chicken. But not chicken. Fancy chicken."

He burst out laughing, and Mia — still filming — made a note to keep that clip.

All around the paddock, drivers began noticing the little girl toddling around, narrating things in her high-pitched voice.

"That’s Uncle Lew. He laughs lots. That’s Oscar. He’s my friend. He smells like soap."

"This is a helmet. I can’t wear it. It’s BIG. Like my head is in a spaceship."

Drivers smiled, stepping aside to let her pass, sometimes walking behind her to make sure she didn’t trip or get too close to anything dangerous. Carlos followed her at one point for ten minutes straight, just in case.

By the end of the day, Mia had collected over thirty minutes of Yn’s footage.

"I’ve never seen anything like it," she told her colleague. "She’s gold."

George eventually found his daughter curled up on the couch in the media room, his phone still in her hand.

"Hey, you," he whispered, lifting her carefully.

"Dadda," she mumbled, already half-asleep. "I made a moovie."

"I heard," he said with a chuckle. "Can’t wait to see it."

The next morning, Mercedes’ social media posted a five-minute cut of the video with the caption: A day in the paddock through the eyes of our smallest team member: Yn.

Within minutes, it exploded online.

Fans flooded the comments:

This is the cutest thing I’ve ever seen.

Give her the camera every weekend, I beg.

Uncle Lex’s shoe is iconic now.

Fancy chicken. DEAD.

Even rival teams reposted it with heart emojis and laughing reactions.

George held Yn on his lap as he scrolled through the comments. "You’ve gone viral, love."

Yn blinked at him sleepily. "I’m famous now."

He laughed. "You sure are."

By Sunday, drivers kept stopping by with snacks and toys for Yn. She sat in a little chair beside the engineers, wearing oversized headphones, proudly pointing things out to anyone who’d listen.

"That’s the telemetry. It goes beep. Daddy says that’s good."

Even Lewis came by, kneeling beside her. "Heard you’re the boss around here now."

Yn nodded seriously. "I make movies. Maybe you can be in my next one."

"Only if you let me wear cool sunglasses," Lewis grinned.

She thought about it. "Deal."

George just smiled from a few feet away, heart full.

His girl, his world — and now, apparently, the internet’s too.

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♥︎♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

Authors Note: Hey loves. I hope you enjoyed reading this story. My requests are always open for you.

-💚🐍

[bunny-jpeg]

john price loved having his reading time with you. rainy afternoon out in the countryside, grey heavy clouds and heavy rain drops on the window.

you were cuddled up to price's fuzzy chest. your cheek pressed against it while he kept a strong arm around you and held onto his book. you weren't too interested in the book however, a hefty high fantasy hardcover. a door stop, you called it. which earned a nice lick across the ass from price's large hand.

"daddy." you said softly as you looked up to his blue eyes. he looked away from his book to you.

"yes, petal?"

you tucked your face into the collar of the grey sweatshirt you were wearing. it was price's, but had made home in your weekly rotation, especially one days like today. price pulled the sweater away from your face and looked at you a bit more sternly.

"use your words."

"i'm bored."

price broke into a grin and said, "well, i guess this book isn't exactly your cup of tea. but that's alright." he put a mark in it to save the page before it found home back on the nightstand.

you were dressed in panties and his sweater with nothing else underneath. the peak of comfortable you could get. so it wasn't hard to get you on your back with your lumbering lover between your soft thighs.

"pretty little thing." he purred, "maybe next time i'll find other ways to keep ya entertained while i'm tryin' to read." he hiked up your hips till your clothed pussy was rubbed against his clothed cock, "needy got like ya needs to keep busy. or else you get bored."

you swallowed, "daddy."

he replied, "i know, i know. the worst thing in the world is for a pretty little thing to be bored." he rubbed himself up against you, "don't worry, i'll find something for you to do. maybe next time i'll get ya to suck my cock, or make ya ride that pretty little toy you have."

you shuddered with sexual desire and he chuckled lowly, how cute.

"i think you'd love that, wouldn't ya?" he asked before he dropped your hips to get your out of your panties, "i own this. own this cute little pussy just like i own that book on the nightstand. just like the house you live in and the clothes you wear. it's all mine, petal."

you nodded and then swallowed when you watched him get his cock out of his sweatpants. he was always so big, the biggest you could possibly have. any bigger and it wouldn't fit. price liked that you were a small little thing, it wasn't your fault. even with your soft stomach, thick thighs and round little face, you were still his little angel. all his.

"daddy loves when you're so needy for me. i love how soft ya are. no proper woman should have a thigh gap. not natural." he chuckled, "more room to cum on them." he said as he eyed you up and down once more.

you giggled. you weren't petite, but that only made price love you more. he said that too much of his life he had denied himself pretty things, so he'd make sure to never deny himself you. the prettiest thing he could ever have.

he gripped your hips once more, just right. he hiked them up and made sure your legs were wrapped around his waist. he said, "daddy loves when you behave so well. taught ya everythin you should know." he said with affection in his tone, "fuck, petal."

then slowly he sank his cock into you. he eyed your form and licked his lips. everything about him screamed a certain kind of traditional masculine that made you excited all over.

"mine."

the heaven was immediate, there was something about how your older lover took you that made you run so very hot, he leaned in to kiss you on the lips. his kiss was hot and you reached for him to hold him tightly on the shoulders. you moaned into the kiss and felt the lust kick up inside of you.

you swore under your breath as your lover moved against you, his thrusts were strong and they made your toes curl with sexual need for him. it felt amazing, you loved it. you loved him.

"look at you my love." he said almost dreamily, "the sight of you is to die for. the love i have for you is something that i need. i need you and you need daddy." he felt you tense up around him and he licked his lips. a beautiful a sight, a gorgeous woman under him as he made love to you.

he watched the sight of your breasts move with each heavy thrusts. a full figure is what drove him made. your soft thighs wrapped around his waist as he fucked himself into you. almost folding you in to a mating press as he worked his hard cock inside of you.

your pussy felt immaculate, the feeling of our wetness coating his cock all the way down to his balls. always such a messy girl, but price loved it, he yearned for it.

as the rain came down on the window, he continued to fuck you, praise you with the low rumble of his voice. you felt your mind feel a little blank from the intensity of his praise. your pulse was in your throat as he thrusted heavily. this was all his, always his.

he went in for another searing kiss, another hot one against your lips and you arched your hips a little bit. you moaned against his lips. you swore under your breath and price enjoyed the feeling.

"my petal."

"daddy."

"always say my name so lovely." he purred as he fulled pressed you into a mating press and continued to fuck you with the passion he had. your knees to your ears as he worked himself against you, his thrusts were heavy and you could feel his heavy balls against you.

everything screamed hairy daddy and it made you get lost in the pleasure of it all. you moaned and held onto the back of your knees. you whined a little louder and price drank in the noises. you sounded beautiful. a needy little thing for him, his precious petal. delicate, and warm like you soaked up the sun. it made price more hungry for you. a deep thrum of yearning in his core. his. his. his.

you held on tightly, you arched your back. the kisses continued. he pressed into you further. the warmth ran through you, along with the intense heat of pleasure. you looked into his blue eyes, perfect. all perfect. you were everything to him and the notion muddled you brain with ecstasy.

"that's my girl." he said lowly, "all mine."

his words felt like gospel and it made your core shiver. the feeling of him on top of you was intense, this was your lover. this was your everything. you needed him like you needed water.

"ah, daddy!"

"sounds so right on your lips." he purred and you shifted under him. he admired you as he brought you closer to orgasm.

you held on tightly, soon you came around his cock. you were pressed further into the bed while price worked his hips against yours. you tensed up, the pleasure washed through your body as you came. you let out a delicate whine and price licked his lips.

"that's it, that's my girl." he purred as he came inside of you while you were in the height of your pleasure, "all for daddy."

"mmm, fuck." you whined.

he continued to fuck you through his climax, only soon after slowed to a stop before he made out with you messily once more. you moaned into the kiss and held onto his shoulders tightly as the two of you continued to make out on the bed.

he pulled out and got next to you, before he pulled you in his arms once more and picked up his discarded book. you were a lot less whiny now, curled up with your lover and letting him read in peace. he kissed the top of your head, that's alright though. if you need too loud again, your daddy was more than happy to finish another load in you <3

[everrinsly]

life with rin vibes.

the utter objectification of rin's biceps.

biceps with rin. fluff. slight nsfw. very suggestive. fem!reader. | not proofread.

more reads!

~~~~~

Your first mistake was attempting to keep Rin company while he exercised—

"You wanna watch me, baby?"

He kissed your forehead softly before moving around the basement, collecting the scattered dumbbells from his sets the day before.

"Y-Yeah, I-I can keep you company," you stuttered, cheeks warm. Because even though you've been together for two years, he never failed to make your heart flutter.

He hummed. "You might get bored. You wanna watch something?" he asked, glancing back at the TV mounted on the wall.

"Mm... it's okay, Rin, I'll be fine—"

(Such lies).

—so now, you were here. On the floor, your back against the foot of the couch.

You should’ve looked away.

You really, really should’ve.

But the sight of Rin working out made you crumble—sweat glistening down his neck, sleeves shoved up over his shoulders, and those arms (let me repeat, those arms) were on full display as he curled the dumbbells like they were nothing.

Thick, veined, flexing with every movement.

You eyed him through your lashes, pretending to scroll through your phone, cheeks red, thighs pressed together like that might help the intrusive thoughts crawling through your mind.

(It didn't).

You bit your lip. The taste of your strawberry chapstick graced your tongue.

Rin didn’t speak. He rarely did during workouts. But you knew he was aware of you. The smug, silent... dangerous... kind of aware, like he could feel you watching him, soaking in every contraction of his biceps like you were starving.

And god—you tried not to imagine what it would feel like to sit on them. To grind on them. To ride—

(You failed. Miserably).

Your face burned hotter, red as a beet.

“Something wrong, baby?” he asked, finally. Casual, like he didn’t already know exactly what kind of nasty filth you were thinking.

You looked up quickly, snapped out of your trance but the feeling of heat in your core still lingering. “N-No.”

His eyebrow lifted, teal eyes scanning from your eyes to your bitten lips. “You sure?”

You nodded. "Mmhmm."

He didn't believe you.

He set the dumbbell down with a soft thud, stretching one arm behind his head—his bicep flexed, bulging, perfect. And fuck, you looked again. You couldn’t not (like it'd be rude to not stare).

Rin tilted his head.

“You’ve been staring at my arms for ten minutes,” he said, voice low and deep. “You wanna say something, pretty?”

You shook your head furiously, tucking your face behind your phone again.

He smirked.

“I’ll say it for you then, yeah?”

You froze. Well... shit.

“I know you think about it,” Rin said, voice dropping to that teasing hush that made your stomach twist. “Don’t pretend you haven’t imagined what it’d be like. Sitting on them. Grinding down. Making a mess while I flex for you.”

Your phone slipped out of your hands.

God—he loved watching your cute, flushed face scrunch up, so he continued.

"You're wet. Aren't you, baby." It wasn't posed as a question. It didn't need to be. Because he knew and you knew. It was a fact.

“I—!” you gasped, utterly mortified. “I d-didn’t—I mean, I—!”

He laughed softly, rising to his feet and stepping towards you. He towered over you now. You couldn’t even look at him.

Rin crouched down, tilting your chin up with one finger, his other arm flexing just barely. Taunting. Teasing.

"You think they're the perfect size too, huh? Perfect for riding. Because my thighs are just too big, right? Too big for your tiny pussy to get off on? So you wanna rock on my biceps instead, isn't that right, pretty baby?"

Holy shit.

You short-circuited, brain stopping completely, all mushy and melting.

He leaned in closer, nose brushing yours, glazed eyes trailing down to your lips.

“Sweet little thing,” he murmured. “So shy, but you’ve got the dirtiest imagination.”

Your face was on fire.

“Maybe...” he whispered, leaning in just enough to brush his lips on yours.

You held your breath.

“I’ll let you test that theory after I finish my sets. So... be a good girl and keep watching me."

[dannyriccsystem]

congrats on 1k! can i get 18 and 25 with lewis please? ;)

CRAWLIN’ BACK TO YOU.

1K SPECIAL - LH44

Comparing hand sizes + “suck on it.”

SUMMARY: What was meant to be you innocently commenting on the size of your boyfriend’s hands turned into you on your knees for him real fast.

WORD COUNT: 1.3k

WARNINGS: Blowjob, hair pulling, soft dom, size difference (if you squint)

FEATURING: Lewis Hamilton x Reader

NOTE: I SCREAMED. I LOVE LEWIS. Anyway I lied NOW I’m going to bed… Expect more tomorrow

THE DAY HAD BEEN MUNDANE in the way where nothing seemed over the top. All the shows on TV were uninteresting, all the chores were fairly simple, all your friends were busy… It was yet another lazy Sunday where you ended up at home with Lewis. At first it felt, to a limited extent, boring.

You finished up what you wanted to do around the house for the day, wiping your hands off on a towel before choosing to join your fiancé in the living room, where he idly focused on some show he had been binging lately. You didn’t understand the plot, but in your defense, he was already halfway through when you started to watch it with him.

He was sitting like he always did, arms lazily draped over the back of the couch, his position lax. Lewis had one leg crossed over the other, his ankle resting atop his knee. There was nothing off about this, but when you were bored, your mind typically wandered to the most peculiar places.

His ring-clad fingers tapped against the cushions, those eyes hyper focused on the screen. For some reason, knowing one of those pieces of jewelry tied him directly to you sent a fluttering straight to your core, and seeing him so focused didn’t help either. He usually only had that look when he was racing, and it was just as hot now as it was then.

His gaze was dragged away when you stood in front of him, effectively blocking the TV screen. He tilted his head, “Yeah?” And, fuck, his voice…

You held your hand out, palm facing upwards, like you were waiting for him to hand you something. Of course, his confusion worsened as he stared at you expectantly. Lewis waited for an explanation, but didn’t get one. With bewildered hesitance he placed his hand in your palm.

You expertly shifted your hands around, intertwining your fingers with his. His hands were much large than yours, palm easily engulfing yours. “I never noticed how big your hands were,” You muttered. The look in your eyes could only be described as hypnotized. Lewis tenderly squeezed your hand, and in your somewhat entranced state, he helped you lower yourself to the ground.

“What about it?” You could hear the smirk in his voice as he stared down at you, shifting around to get more comfortable in his seat. This day was suddenly starting to look a lot more interesting for him, because he’d have a pretty little thing to keep him entertained. You finally looked up at him, your sultry eyes too sweet for him to not want to ruin. You looked like you were waiting for his every command. “You like ‘em?”

Lewis pulled his hand away from yours, which then fell to rest on his thigh. Meanwhile, he trailed his mitt up alongside your cheek, caressing your soft skin. His touch was lighthearted, like a gentle breeze kissing your warm skin.

Then he dug his digits into your hair, yanking on the messy locks. You gasped, your pupils blown out wide as you stared up at him like a goddamn deer in headlights. You were not making this easy on him— Not in the slightest.

“I do-” You finally replied. Your voice was shaky, weak, pretty. So fuckin’ pretty, just for him. Just for an ounce of his attention because that’s the kind of woman you were.

The tension in the air was thick. There he was, large hands gripping your hair whilst you both made direct eye contact. In spite of his aggressive mannerisms, his eyes held that signature kindness to them. This was all for the hell of it; he’d never truly hurt you.

“Suck on it,” He suddenly commanded. His tone held authority and power that made you drool on the spot. You opened your mouth to speak, but you were quickly silenced with a soft, “Shhh.” He leaned back, head tilted up ever so slightly. He was literally looking down at you. “Use that pretty mouth for something good.”

You obeyed, and that’s how he knew you were loving every minute of this. It didn’t matter how bold he got in bed because if Lewis did something you didn’t like you’d tell him right away. This was the man you were marrying for fuck’s sake. You knew each other better than anyone could ever understand.

With that same weak, lovedrunk expression, your small, petite hands tugged at the waistband of his grey sweatpants, which did wonders at outlining the tenting of his hardening cock. There was no secrets with those on. He lifted his hips, helping you slide them down to his ankles, leaving the man in just his boxers.

You leaned in, slowly. If you moved too fast, his hands would surely tug you back at the hair and you’d get a good scolding. His smug expression grew as you kissed his exposed thighs, your left palm teasing him through the thin piece of fabric, applying pressure to his erection.

He started to get impatient with all the waiting, and Lewis tugged the damn things off himself. His impressive length sprung free, nearly slapping you directly in the face. Through thick lashes, your eyes drifted up to look at him. Everything about him screamed power, which turned you on even more.

You started by licking along the underside, your tongue tracing a rather prominent vein until you reached the mushroom-tip. You kissed the top, feeling his entire cock twitch as a positive response. You had yet to receive verbal feedback of any sort, which meant you’d have to try harder.

You knew from experience it was impossible to fit the entire thing inside your mouth. You briefly spit on one hand, using it to stroke the base of his dick. You leaned in, tongue laying flat back against your chin as you wrapped your lips around the tip. You suckled tenderly until you heard a faint grunt. Success.

“Yeah, just like that,” He whispered, adjusting his hold on your hair. With those words of encouragement, you brought in your tongue to swirl around his evidently sensitive tip. Lewis’ hips involuntarily bucked forward, forcing himself deeper into your mouth. You were surprised, but you adapted rather quickly.

You maintained confident eye contact, searching his gaze for approval with every bob of your head. You idly traced shapes into his thighs with your freehand, and your right one continued stroking him from the bottom. He watched with darkened, lustful eyes as your cheeks hollowed, eyebrows tilted with pleasure. He didn’t even have to touch you for you to get off.

“Keep going and I just might come,” His voice was somewhat shaky, making the fruits of your labor suddenly seem a lot more obtainable. Just an arm’s length away. With another jerk of his hips, Lewis’ other hand flew down to hold your back of your head, easing you further and further down. “Come on, almost there.”

Tears brimmed in your eyes, but you refused to give up here. Still maintaining that eye contact, you took him deeper. You took him faster. Finally…

He leaned his head against the back of the couch, grunting and gripping your hair. A thick, warm, salty solution spilled down your throat in spurts, his warm cock twitching and spasming from within your mouth.

When he finished, you pulled your lips off with a satisfying ‘pop!’ He eased his grip on your hair, smoothing it back and brushing a strand behind your ear. Then, he wiped some of the cum dribbling from your plush lips away. That dirty, filthy smirk had long turned into a loving smile.

“You did great,” He panted out, slightly breathless.

“Let me grab a towel.” Maybe you did all the work, but you just made the man come harder than he ever had before.

The least you could do was offer to clean him up…

[formulaonecrumbs]

till death do us part 🥀

Lando Norris x deceased!reader (is that a thing idk)

summary: lando grieving the death of the love of his life

warnings: pure angst, death, grief, cause of death never mentioned, depressed lando

A/N: i don’t even know why i wrote this. it’s old, and i had one of those anxiety spirals where i kept picturing ppl i love passing away and i just bawled and bawled until i wrote this (then bawled some more) BUT I HOPE U CRY TOO :p enjoy (or don’t), u beauts ❤️

୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ

lando doesn’t remember the last thing you said to him.

not really.

he’s replayed your voice so many times in his head since you left that the truth’s gotten all tangled up with the imaginary — the should-have-said, the could-have-been. maybe it was something small, something boring, like “don’t forget to take the bins out.” maybe you told him you loved him. maybe you didn’t say anything at all. it’s all static now. a fuzz of memories he can’t quite grip.

he wishes he could go back. rewind. hear your voice. just once. even if it was yelling. even if it was just you asking if he wanted tea. anything.

he wakes up most mornings forgetting you’re gone.

there’s still two mugs on the drying rack. your toothbrush is still in the cup. your side of the bed still sinks like you’ve just rolled off it.

lando doesn’t touch any of it.

he doesn’t let anyone else touch it either.

his friends try. connor, max, oscar — they come over sometimes. bring food he won’t eat. offer company he won’t ask for. they speak too gently. their eyes flinch when they say your name. they never stay long.

he likes it better that way. the silence.

the quiet feels closer to you than they ever could.

still, it hurts.

god, it hurts.

everything he does reminds him of you. you, who used to hum in the kitchen while making breakfast. you, who wore his oversized hoodies and laughed when they fell past your knees. you, who called him “pretty boy” with a grin and kissed the mole right next to his nose.

lando stares at your hoodie now, folded neatly on the back of the couch. he hasn’t worn it. he can’t.

he’s tried. once. sat on the floor and held it to his face, breathing you in until he choked on it.

you’re everywhere. and nowhere.

he can’t go back to the track. not yet.

his helmet still has the tiny heart sticker you put on it after that race in monza. “for luck,” you’d said. he wore it every session after that. now it sits untouched on a shelf. dusty. forgotten. like him.

sometimes he talks to you.

soft, one-sided conversations in the dark.

“i don’t know what i’m doing,” he whispers into the void. “i don’t know who i am without you.”

he looks at your photo on the bedside table. it doesn’t answer.

lando doesn’t cry much. not anymore.

he did, for a while. for days. weeks. he cried until he couldn’t breathe, until his chest felt like it would cave in. now he just… aches. it’s quieter. but heavier.

your number is still saved in his phone. your messages, your voice notes, your blurry selfies — all still there. sometimes he opens them just to see the typing bubble. to pretend, for a second, that you’re still here. still coming home.

but you never do.

he scrolls through old videos. your laugh echoing in the background. your face popping into frame just to kiss his cheek.

lando presses play over and over. and over.

he doesn’t eat much. barely sleeps. the world outside his flat has kept moving but he’s still stuck in the moment he lost you.

he doesn’t remember the last thing you said to him.

but he remembers the way your hand fit in his.

he remembers the warmth of your forehead against his.

he remembers how you smelled like citrus and something floral and the shampoo you both shared.

and he remembers how the world shattered the second they told him you were gone.

there was no final kiss. no goodbye.

just silence.

and now —

lando sits alone in the flat you made a home, surrounded by the ghosts of everything he didn’t say.

he closes his eyes and pretends you’re just in the other room.

but you never walk out.

you never will.

and that, more than anything, is what finally breaks him.

୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ

it’s been six months.

half a year.

lando knows because the calendar on the fridge still has your handwriting on the last day he ever saw you. a little smiley face next to the words movie night, finally. he’s never turned the page.

he still lives like you might come back.

your jacket’s still hanging by the door. your favorite cereal is still in the cupboard, untouched, but he buys it every week anyway. sometimes he opens the box and just stands there, staring at it. hoping he’ll wake up and hear your footsteps coming down the hall.

but the hallway’s always empty.

and he’s always alone.

lando went back to the track two months ago. he hated every second of it.

the first race without you was unbearable. your seat in the paddock was empty. his garage was too quiet. no smile waiting after quali. no arms around his neck after a podium.

he finished P5. they said it was a good result. strong comeback.

he didn’t care.

nothing matters now. not really. he drives because he has to. because people expect him to. but he doesn’t feel anything when the lights go out. not like he used to.

there’s no more joy in it.

just noise.

distraction.

people keep telling him you’d want him to be happy. to move forward.

what they don’t understand is — lando doesn’t want to move on.

he doesn’t want a new beginning. he wants you.

they say grief is a wave.

for lando, it’s a flood that never recedes. it drowns him quietly, every morning when he opens his eyes and realizes you’re still not beside him.

your absence lives in everything.

the playlists you made still play when he drives. his spotify wrapped was just you. your music. your voice in the background of voice memos.

you’re gone. but you’re everywhere.

and it’s unbearable.

lando avoids people now. his smile’s thinner. fake.

fans ask him to do your accent like he used to. he just laughs and changes the subject.

he hasn’t posted anything personal in months.

his camera roll is full of photos he can’t look at. videos he can’t bring himself to delete. you in the sun, you laughing, you in his hoodie.

you in every frame of his heart.

sometimes he dreams of you.

you’re always just out of reach.

always smiling.

never staying.

he wakes up shaking. empty. sometimes in tears, sometimes in complete stillness.

lando’s therapist says grief isn’t linear. that he’s doing okay.

but okay feels like a lie.

lando doesn’t remember the last time he laughed without feeling guilty. doesn’t remember what it’s like to be held and not feel the absence of your arms in comparison.

the flat is still yours. still smells like you, faintly.

some days he talks to the ceiling. some days he clutches your pillow and begs the universe to give you back.

most days, he just stares at the wall and breathes through the weight on his chest.

it doesn’t get easier.

it just gets quieter.

and the quiet is killing him slowly.

୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ

one year.

twelve months without you.

lando never thought he’d make it this far.

not because he didn’t want to. not because he stopped loving life completely.

just because it all felt too heavy to carry without you.

but he’s still here.

and that feels both like a betrayal and a miracle.

your photo is still on his nightstand. a little more faded now. he talks to it sometimes, less often than before. not because he stopped needing you, but because the silence between his words hurts less than it used to.

he still misses you. with every heartbeat. but it doesn’t knock the wind out of him anymore.

not every time.

sometimes he even smiles at your memories now instead of crying.

like last week — he found a video you took of him in the kitchen, half-asleep, dancing like an idiot to some cheesy pop song. you were laughing so hard, the camera shook. he watched it three times. laughed with you. then cried himself to sleep.

progress.

his team has learned to stop tiptoeing around your name. they say it with softness now, not fear. they hang photos of his old races and leave the one of you kissing his cheek right there, in plain view.

lando doesn’t hide it anymore.

you mattered. you still do.

a few days ago, something small happened. something unexpected.

he was walking back from the store — headphones in, head down, hoodie up — when a little girl bumped into him by accident.

she looked up at him and said,

“you’re lando norris! my mum loved you! she made me watch all your races.”

past tense. loved.

he looked at the girl’s father standing a few feet away, eyes kind and full of something familiar.

grief.

loss.

he smiled. genuine. soft. like he understood. because he did.

he handed the girl a mini helmet keychain from his pocket — one he usually kept just for himself — and told her,

“thank your mum for that. she had good taste.”

they walked away.

lando stood there for a long time, staring at the sky.

he imagined you watching him from wherever you were, eyes warm. proud.

that night, he lit a candle.

sat on the floor. whispered into the flame.

“i miss you. i always will. but i’m trying.”

he meant it.

he still sets the table for two sometimes. he still wears your hoodie on the bad days. still listens to your playlist.

but he also lets the sunlight in now.

he opens windows. answers texts. sometimes he laughs — real, full laughter — the kind that doesn’t feel stolen.

lando knows now that he’ll never stop loving you.

but maybe that love doesn’t have to hurt forever.

maybe love, even in loss, can still grow.

and maybe, just maybe, he’s allowed to live.

even without you.

especially because of you.

THE END :>

[captain-huggy-bear]

hi, could i request "I'd like my good morning kiss now, thank you very much" with quinn hughes and maybe it’s reader upset because he forgot to give her her daily morning kiss 🥰

1000 Followers Celly Finished Requests are currently closed while I work through current ones <3 Writing Masterlist

You're boring holes into the side of his head, staring so intently at him that even Quinn can't help but notice. He's been home from morning skate maybe 10 minutes now and you're just staring...and staring, arms folded across your chest, brows pulled down into a frown, lips pursed into a pout. You're not happy with him and he hasn't got a clue what he could have done. He had even put his socks in the laundry basket this morning. Unlike yesterday...and the day before that...

"Baby...you okay?" Quinn takes a few cautious steps closer, juice being put down on the side table, socked feet shuffling nearer to you. Your pout only seems to deepen, eyes narrowing on him like he should know that you're not okay and exactly why you're not okay.

"No."

"Anything I can do to help?" He's cautious, voice unsure because he can't tell how serious you're being right now. Whether he's about to get broken up with or you're about to tell him he left a sock on the floor again.

"I don't know? Can you? Since you forgot my morning kiss." There's a relief that comes with your response, a laugh that bubbles out of him as he sits on the arm of the sofa and smiles at you. You try your best to keep your pout and frown in place but Quinn can see a hint of a smile just peeking out, lips turning upwards at the corner.

"I'm sorry, baby, I didn't mean to! What can I do to make it better?" He's overly sweet, almost cloyingly so, sliding to his knees in front of you like he's begging for forgiveness when you both know you're not actually mad at him. You look down imperiously on him, chin raised, eyes flickering with humour beneath your lashes, a Queen looking down on her humble servant.

"I'd like my good morning kiss now, thank you very much." You huff and Quinn can do nothing but oblige.

He's leaning over you without a second thought, instinctual as his hands fall on the back of the sofa, caging you in. It's not fast, it's not rushed, a slow press of his lips over yours. Not a salsa, but a kiss that feels like the first dance at a wedding, slow, sweet, warm and honeyed.

You sigh into it with a smile, at peace for the first time this morning because as much as you joke around, it had bothered you. It bothered you that he hadn't given you your morning kiss, that you hadn't felt the soft press of his lips on yours or the way his tongue slides in without much force or resistance, easy, simple. You had been upset to miss the way your fingers feel in his hair, the strands so soft they almost tickle.

When Quinn pulls back he stays oh so close, nose brushing yours, breath warm against your lips.

"You happy now?" Lips brush yours, the tip of his nose rubs your own, his eyes are warm and oh so close. You're surrounded by Quinn, he's there, he's everything and he's the only thing you could possibly need in that moment.

"Mmm, think I need one more kiss as payment, since you were late." Your smile is cheeky, teeth showing, eyes crinkling but it just makes Quinn love you more. You love him so much and you don't hide it and it feels good, to be loved the way he loves you, to know you're both so utterly besotted with each other.

"Okay, I think I can do that."

[kxsagi]

ITS FINALLY MAY 1ST!!!!

i’m back and ready to request >:3

how about a oneshot with sae itoshi with a reader who’s like a cat. the reader wants to always be around him, on his lap, biting his cheeks to annoy him, always asking to be carried, hisses at him, getting head pats, and just taking care of the reader in general. sae really loves this cause he loves having the reader depend on him, he loves taking care of her

tyty in advance sorry if it’s complicated

“𝐜𝐚𝐭-𝐜𝐨𝐝𝐞𝐝”

a/n: this is my first time writing this kind of thing so i apologize if it’s not the best or what you want 😭

you stretch your arms out like a lazy housecat as sae opens the door for you to his apartment, immediately greeting him with a humming sound that makes him snort. before he can even close the door, you’ve already dropped your bag and thrown yourself onto the couch, curling up like it's your designated nap spot. it basically is. his whole apartment basically is. 

he doesn't even ask. he just walks over, scoops you up in one smooth motion like he’s cradling a giant cat, and you immediately nuzzle into his neck with a satisfied sigh. 

"you're so clingy," he mutters, but his voice is soft, amused. affectionate. 

"mm, carry me to the kitchen?" you mumble into his sweater, ignoring him completely. "i'm hungry. i want strawberries." 

"you have legs." 

"i have you," you say with a sly smirk. 

he rolls his eyes, but the smile tugging at the corner of his lips betrays him. you don’t see it, but you can feel it in the way his arms tighten around you just a little. 

he rests you onto the counter like a cat who refuses to use the floor. you sit cross-legged, swinging your feet, watching him open the fridge with a focused little squint. 

"where’d you hide them," he murmurs. 

"bottom drawer. your strawberries are in the top drawer. mine are in the pink tupperware." 

he pauses and looks back at you. "... and why do you have your own strawberry stash?" 

you grin, flashing teeth. "because yours suck." 

sae raises an eyebrow. he says nothing. he simply grabs the pink tupperware and pops one in your mouth. 

you purr. literally. a little humming noise with your eyes closed. he chuckles under his breath. 

"spoiled," he says. 

"mhm." 

later, you’re draped across his lap like you own it, because, well, you do. he’s scrolling on his phone with one hand and running the other through your hair like it's muscle memory. 

your tail, if you had one, would be swishing. 

his legs are warm, and his fingers are heaven on your scalp, and you’re so comfy and so at peace until – "hey," you say, poking his cheek with your finger. 

he hums in response. 

"look at me." 

"i’m literally looking at you all day," he says flatly, not looking at you. 

"sae." 

he finally glances down at you, bored but tolerant. 

you lean up and bite his cheek. lightly. enough to annoy, not enough to injure. then you retreat, smug. 

"the hell was that," he deadpans. 

"you weren’t paying attention to me." 

he grabs your chin with one hand, squishing your cheeks. "is this how you protest now?" 

"head pats or no more cuddles," you mumble through the squish. 

he stares. then leans down and kisses your squished face anyway. "idiot." 

it doesn’t take long for you to fall asleep in his lap shortly after, curled up like a tiny menace with your face smushed against his hoodie. and he just… lets you. 

he doesn’t shift. he doesn’t move. he even puts his phone down after a while just to gently scratch your head and stare at you – messy-haired, face relaxed, mouth slightly open. like the world's clingiest, neediest cat. 

and the thing is… he likes it. 

no, loves it. 

he loves that you always crawl into his bed like it’s yours. he loves that you make those bratty little hissing noises when he teases you. he loves that you need him to carry you, feed you, pet you, love you. 

because he does. 

he loves taking care of you. 

and maybe you’re clingy and needy and half-feral, but he’s never been the type to care for ordinary things. 

so he strokes your hair again, sighs quietly, and whispers into your ear: "you’re my favorite stray." 

you smile in your sleep. 

© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢

[lizzybugsblog]

Based on this post, here's how I think Leo would react to a new friend or potential person of interest. (This is just for human type of reader.)

I feel like if you are a human and meet Leo, he'd try to explain that he isn't a giant talking turtle and "you're just seeing things" or ask for directions to the science convention he's currently dressed for(I don't remember the exact quote). Chances are you would see him again, since they do little to nothing to hide themselves from the general public. Probably just avoid actual citizenship as to not pay taxes. But anyway, you'd probably also find out they exist from April(I'm writing this in the pov that you are teenage or young adult going to school with her). After Leo properly introduces himself, he'd want to learn a little about you. Y'know, just incase you're trying to get close to them for some reason nefarious. But since you aren't because you're a good person and good people don't betray their turtle friends out of nowhere. He's not all quick wit and funny poses. Anyway, you two are friends are now, you've joined his list of 'people to bother when he's bored'. Expect a bunch of sudden drop ins with his portal swords and rants about the Jupiter Jim and Lou Jitsu lore. He sometimes gets annoyed by the questions you have about why he is the way he is. "You have you're weird habits! I have mine!" If you forget something at home, he'll be fine with portaling the item to your location. If you're standing beside him, chances are he'll hold it above your head to mess with you. He's 5'5" cannonically. There's only so high he can hold it.

Leo enjoys challenges, so if you're competitive or at least willing to play along, there will be a bunch of races or competitions of some sort. He doesn't let you win. You have to win fair and square or drop a banana peel to make him fall. In any video games, he'll always be excited to set a high score for you to try and beat. If you do, he'll try his hardest to beat it. It's a vicious cycle of trying to be better than each other.

If you're not as competitive, Leo does some of his "impressive" tricks, like skateboarding tricks, or trick shots in basketball, or the pizza tower balancing on his head just to earn a surprised look from you or a "how did you do that?" type of reaction.

Also, you'll probably catch on to his aromantic tendencies or he'll show it. Probably because his brothers tease him sometimes since you two spend so much time together. "I don't have many outside friends! Of course I'm going to hang out with them. You guys are no fun anyway." I feel like he'd say something like that so his brothers would quit teasing him. Hopefully, you can resist the "prettiest face" of the Mad Dogs. *Insert eye roll*

He comes to talk with you on the rooftops or just the park if you're not that casual. Mostly about his missions and how he totally had everything under control. Definitely, tells you all his one-liners or "jokes" he said that day. If you actually laugh, he starts smiling a little more softly and genuine as opposed to his usual smirk.

He wouldn't think of you as a love interest, just someone he can talk to that isn't family. Based on your reactions most the time, he doesn't think you find it weird. And if you do ask questions about it, he'll deny and say something to most likely make any assumption or fantasy about him evaporate from your brain.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

After the events from the Movie, Leo tends to call you for conversations on rooftops. Or depending on your injuries, you two will just talk on the floor or couch in your house/room.

He still sees you as a friend. Even if you did tell him never to do that again and constantly hold onto him when he's the slightest bit sad. Leo may feel a little confused to be cared for by a human. And even if he does somehow feel a little different around you, he can't let any lovey-dovey thoughts in his mind. You're a human and he's a freak of nature. Literally.

Although, after a few session with Mikey or Dr. Feelings and an overlook of his relationship with you, it's clear as day that he's fallen for his best friend. "No, I haven't. That's ridiculous. I think the Kraang did a number on you to think of a situation as crazy as that." He's definitely in denial. Poor boy can't realize he's in love.

Gross. He can't be in love. That's icky.

So what if he knows what you like and don't like? That's what friends do. So what if he spends more time with you than he would with April or Sunita or Casey, both of them? You're the newest and least judgmental friend he has. And when you are judgmental it's kind of funny. So what if he text you in the middle of the night? He's an insomniac and he's bothered his brothers long enough. So what if he hugs you and spins you around and shares his pizza with you? OH. He shares his pizza with you. Yeah, he's toast.

At first, he doesn't know how to approach the idea that he likes you more than a friend. Leo mostly tries to ignore it, but every time you smile his way or laugh at his jokes or say he's actually got "rad skills". OHH! WHY??! He sometimes has to cover his face or act like he's adjusting his bandana to make sure you don't see him sweat or blush a little in embarrassment.

If you confess first, he might react like "Oh, of course you do. I am the face man. The greatest ninja of all time, who wouldn't love me?" He'd say with the most confidence, flipping his bandana tails and smirk while trying to ignore the blush on his face. If he has to confess, eh boy. He's acting a lot more flamboyant until you ask him why he's acting so weird. "Weird? I'm not acting weird! You're being weird! You're being weird hanging out with a turtle who can do ninjitsu!" He eventually calms down and takes a deep breath to look you in the eyes. "Okay, don't freak out, but I may have an attachment to you further than... oh, I can't say it." He'd probably turn around to actually figure out what to say. He can't wing it this time, he's gotta be professional. "OK! Listen, I... I like you. And... more than a friend should." Leo has to say it since you're probably confused if he's getting a flashback or just speaking gibberish at this point. "And I was wondering if... maybe... you... like me too?" He's looking down and tapping his fingers together like this.

This idiot.

If you return his feelings, he's shocked at first. Real shocked. You like him? How? He's a clumsy, weird, arrogant, impulsive, and self-sacrificing. Why would you like him?

Well, somehow you like him back and he's so happy. He's a little confused on how to react since... romance. Icky. So he just settles with hugging you and spinning you around like he normally does.

If you don't like him. Oh. Yeah that makes sense. He's weird and you guys are just friends and romance icky. You guys agreed on that. No lovey and or dovey talk. You can still be friends. He's just glad to get that off his chest.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

This is my opinion so take it with a grain of salt. Or pepper if you don't like salt.

Why I headcanon Leo as aromantic

While I enjoy the fanarts and fics of Leo with Usagi, if I would gonna write a Rise fic, I would write him as aromantic, cause canonically, this boy is disgusted about romance.

Is not just that he doesnt like it: he is GROSSED OUT.

Look at this boy, and tell me, do you think someone that reacts like him is cannonically interested in romance 😭 And of his brothers, is the only one that reacts this way.

... so, yeah, thats why I headcanon him as aromantic.... and gay. Cause you dont need to be in love to feel atraction.

[katsukiizmoon]

╰┈➤ ꒰🍓💌🥛 | quiet love, that screams + K. BKG꒱

『♡』 katsuki bakugou x reader , fluff, bathing

『♡』 a/n: wrote this all in one go while laying in bed sick. I'll die on this hill.

The thud of boots being set beside the door and the shuffling of tired feet fill the room. You glance to the side, shoulders drooping like that of a willow tree.

"Hey beautiful." You murmur, taking in the beauty of your very tired pro hero. His work clothes are no doubt soaked in the labor of the day. Sweat, dirt, blood and other grime.

He replies with only a grunt, shoulders slumping much like your own. A quick thumb yanks at the stubborn black fabric of his mask as he tosses it aside. Your brow raises as he nears, curious.

He's exhausted. It doesn't take words to tell you that.

Yet, he bends and leaves a chaste kiss to the corner of your mouth. The very act grounds you, sinks in your bones and seeps through your veins.

"Follow?" Katsuki raises a brow, gesturing toward the bathroom.

You wordlessly follow suite. There is no need to discuss what is to happen. The two of you round the corner into said bathroom. The sleek black cabinet is topped with a beige marble countertop, copper faucet rounding over the pale porcelain sink. A small variety of skincare products sit perched upon the counter, next to the prescription bottles and creams.

Katsuki begins to peel off the layers of his hero suit one by one. He tugs at his top but you're right behind him. Your fingers reach to his pants, unbuttoning before they lay purchase on the top. You get the grimey material off in a quick movement all the whilst his pants drop to the cold tile.

You move to the shower and turn it on, turning around to face him. He's just about naked now, save for his socks. You take the liberty to squat down and tap on the inside of his calf. He lifts a heavy foot and your nose scrunches as you remove each of them.

"Go ahead, baby, I'll be in inna' second." You hum, pressing a kiss to his jaw. Surprisingly, he does so without much of a fight.

Katsuki steps into the steaming water and sinks down on the custom platform in the shower. You make quick work of your own clothing and toss everything into the basket. The water beats down in a steady rhythm against his body, and soon, your own.

"You okay?" You hesitate, joining him.

Cherry eyes bore into yours and it's then that you notice the knit of his brows. His good hand rubs over the scarring of the other. Almost instantaneously, you understand. Some days the nerve pain and muscle aches are okay and other days.. are like today.

"Okay. Okay." You repeat, to yourself more so than him it seemed.

Your fingers wrap around a much too expensive bottle of body wash and squeeze a healthy amount onto a washcloth. His eyes close as you bathe him in precise, practiced motions. It's only when you tap him that he knows to stand and wash his privates. A dignity thing— you can wash every part of his body if need be but not his genitalia. (He'd said after a particularly bad day)

It's an intimate, raw form of love for the two of you. It has come only with many arguments, tears, and 'i love you's. Still, it grew on you— both of you— like wisteria on old stone walls.

You bathe yourself shortly after and make haste to get the two of you to the bedroom. Shower ‐ dry off - skincare- bed. In that order.

The bedroom is as grand as he is, in its own way. With a large bed in the center, fluffy duvet on top and lush pillows. A nightstand rests on either side of it and a large, rather polished dresser is pressed against the opposite wall.

He plops himself on top of the bed and allows you the courtesy of picking his boxers. Today, you choose a simple black pair. They slip on easily, aside from a quick struggle against his rather massive thighs. He snorts and presses a kiss to your jaw when you snap the band of them.

Katsuki quickly shoves a large hand down his boxers to adjust and then rolls into the bed. You toss on a shirt and follow suite. He curls around you like the peel on a fresh clementine— tight, protective, loving.

You grab his hands and pepper kisses across the knuckles. His nose makes itself home in the crook of your neck and your shoulders droop for the second time today.

Katsuki would never admit this to anyone, so don't quiz him on it. But he'd pick your panties for you and wash your back for you any day of the week. You would not need to ask, the knit between your brows would be enough.

[you-little-arsonist]

ok so if anyone wants them, here are some buddie fics that have mutual masturbation and/or phone sex in them (don't look at me), idk these are probably pretty well known but i'm still making my way through all of them. they are all complete and they're all rated E because well. also CHECK THE TAGS because i didn't write them all out here!

Your place is where I'd rather be instead by mickeysmyheart/ @mickeysmyheart (3.5k)

The next thing Eddie does, short circuits Buck's brain. Eddie takes his shirt by the bottom and pulls it up and over his head, keeping it bunched up and putting it to the side on the counter. Eddie is now shirtless. He’s shirtless in his kitchen. Oh. OR Buck teaches Eddie how to make lasagna over FaceTime when Eddie gets his shirt dirty and has to take it off and it alters Buck's brain chemistry.

Last night, you called on accident by mickeysmyheart/ @mickeysmyheart (8.3k)

Buck goes back to his bag and pulls out Eddie’s black tank top. He brings it up to his nose and inhales— he can tell himself it means nothing later. He moans on his exhale. Holy fuck. OR The one where Buck finds one of Eddie's tank tops in their locker and takes it home & in El Paso, Eddie brought one of Buck's LAFD shirts with him. You know the GIF.

Kiss me through the phone by mickeysmyheart/ @mickeysmyheart (2.6k)

Buck finds himself sitting up in bed— his back against his pillows— phone close to his ear. His heart is beating like crazy— both of theirs are. “That something you want, Eddie?” Buck says in a low, deep voice. “Want me to tell you how often I’ve thought about getting down on my knees for you?” Eddie’s breath hitches. That’s all it took for Eddie’s dick to get hard as fuck— twitching with the need to be touched. “Jesus, Buck,” Eddie moans out as he reaches his free hand into his briefs, touching himself. OR Buck is bored and Eddie can't sleep so the two end up having phone/video sex

to have and to hold (platonically and heterosexually) by teenytinytomlinson/ @littlefreakbuckley (21.2k)

So in the middle of Eddie’s dining room, with his brain to mouth filter non-existent (as per usual), Buck blurts out, “Marry me.” Eddie sits straight up, looking at him with eyes wide as saucers. “Excuse me?” “W-well, just think about it. If we get married I can add you and Chris to my insurance policy and that solves your problem.” Eddie’s mouth forms a perfect little ‘o’. Buck waits patiently for the floor to open up and swallow him whole. When the ground doesn’t do as he’d hoped he realizes he has to say something else. “Obviously, w-we don’t have to,” he’s quick to assure. “But if we did it would be platonic, of course, because you’re straight and–” he pauses, praying for another rogue stroke of lightning. Anything to put him out of his misery right now. “-and like I know that I’m bi now, but this wouldn’t be like that y’know? It would just be two friends helping each other out.” He’s rambling, the words won’t stop tumbling out. “Like a friends with benefits type situation! E-except you know not those kinds of benefits! Like actual benefits! Health and dental.” or, Eddie is moving to Texas, losing his insurance, and marrying Buck all very heterosexually and platonically.

A Phone Call Away by Ironkissedfanfics/ @ironkissedmage (5.7k)

Buck had his apartment to himself for the first time in months, so of course he had to take advantage of such a lovely opportunity to get off without fear of anyone hearing him. It's just his luck that he butt dials someone while he's fingers deep in himself. And he's just not sure if it's a blessing or a curse that it's Eddie he called.

while i think of you by markofalover/ @markofalover (4.2k)

Just Buck speaking, apparently, is enough to get him hard. His brain starts hurting. Like he’s guzzled down a Big Gulp sized Icee in the summertime. …or, Eddie slowly loses his mind and has phone sex about it.

anyway those are some of the best ones, please tag me if you guys know of more like this! and thank you to all these authors, you are truly doing the lord's work

[brookghaib-blog]

The ghost I left behind (preview)

Pairing: Robert ‘Bob’ Reynolds x reader

Summary: Y/N and Bob had a life before he disappear, full of love, hope, and a lot of chaos, but they managed each other, she was the only one who truly could make him avoid the void inside his mind. How could he turn his only light into a shadow in his mind ?

Note: I have this idea in mind I want to share it, it's still to be writen and planned but I will provide this and watch yall feedback. I had this idea when reading the content on the tag, and I'm bored with all being smut and more smut (which it's fine, but enjoy a story). Feel free to comment and message me with your opinions :) I also had this idea because sentry has a whole wife in the comics, so I'm giving him one.

Chapter I

--

The Void pulsed around them, breathing shadows. Echoes. Regrets.

“Where are we?” Ghost asked, her voice uneasy.

The warped blackness twisted, then rippled—and suddenly, they weren’t in the darkness anymore.

They were standing inside a small, dimly lit apartment. Peeling paint, an open window letting in the summer air. A cheap fan spun lazily in the corner. A couch with cigarette burns. And two people in the center of the room.

One of them was Bob.

The other was her.

Y/N.

She stood barefoot in an oversized t-shirt, mascara streaked down her cheeks. Her hands were shaking.

“You lied to me again, Bobby!” she screamed, holding up a small baggie in trembling fingers. “You told me you were clean!”

“I was! I am—I—” Bob stammered, his eyes darting, wild. “I just—one time, I swear. I needed to feel normal again, Y/N. Just for one night.”

She laughed, a horrible sound—broken, gutted. “You don’t get to call this normal! You said you wanted to get better! That you wanted to be here for us—”

He froze. "Us?"

She pressed a hand to her stomach. Her voice cracked like glass.

“I’m pregnant, Bobby.”

Dead silence.

Even the fan stopped.

Bob’s memory-self blinked. Stepped backward as if the words physically struck him. “No,” he whispered. “No, you—Y/N, why would you do this to me—”

“Do this to you?” she whispered, eyes wide. “It’s a baby, Bobby. Not a punishment.”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t move.

“I believed in you,” she choked. “I thought I could help you. But you keep choosing the drugs. You keep choosing to disappear, and now..” Her voice broke entirely. “Now I don’t even know who you are anymore.”

She turned her back to him. And then, the memory flickered like a dying film reel—and stopped.

They were back in the Void.

Bob sank to his knees.

“That’s her,” he whispered, voice like gravel. “That’s Y/N.”

The others stared in stunned silence. Even Bucky didn’t speak.

“I left her. I left everything,” Bob said, clutching his head. “I thought—God, I thought I’d never get clean. I was barely holding myself together, and she—she had so much hope. I didn’t want to drag her down with me.”

He looked up. Eyes rimmed with red. A storm behind them.

“She was the only good thing in my life. And I left her alone. With our child. Because I was afraid.”

No one moved.

“I thought I was protecting her, how could a drug addict be a great boyfriend and a better father,” he said. “But really…I just broke her heart.”

And then the Void pulsed again—quieter this time. Like it was listening.

To be continued...

[sillymusings]

summary: Spencer and you haven't been dating for long, but you decide you're ready to take the next step together.

word count: 2241 words

a/n: My first fic on here so I hope you like it!!

Spencer had always known that the world could be a dark place. He had never quite been naive, but years as a profiler in the FBI had shown him just how evil mankind could be. It was something of a domino effect. Cause and effect, or often cause and consequence, suggested that everything connected. As a profiler and a "perceived" genius —he still had his doubts about whether intelligence could be accurately quantified—it was in his nature and training to notice these connections. 

Years in the field had shown him how easy one could be consumed by the weight of it all. It was a constant exercise, he had realized, to not become jaded and hold onto hope. He'd had introspective conversations with his teammates before about the hollowness he felt after cases sometimes and all their advice had circled back to one key idea: find things you love and hold onto them like crazy. And Spencer realized that for all the pain, and the evil, and the hate, there were just as many things that he loved. He loved learning and teaching. He loved magic and ghost stories. He loved making a difference. He loved the team and he loved his mom. And he loved you.

You had only joined the team a year prior, but the closeness that had developed between you and them felt like you had known each other for decades. Spencer was the person you had grown close to the quickest. One month into working at the BAU, you were already trading book recommendations and tagging along with him to foreign film festivals where he would give an added bonus of simultaneous whisper translations for the movies without subtitles. You'd had a crush on him immediately, of course. How could you not? Spencer was kind and tender. He was so incredibly knowledgeable, but he wasn't a know-it-all. He didn't display his knowledge as an act of superiority but rather as a form of sharing. His rants made you inexplicably happy because it was like he was giving you leeway into seeing what fascinated him and why. The more he said, the more you understood him, and the more you liked him.

Almost like winning the lottery, he liked you back. You started dating two months into your time at the BAU. He asked you out with a magic trick because he knew how much you loved it when he performed them. He eventually revealed that he had spent weeks stressing about how to do it and it wasn't until Derek suggested using something that made him "feel like an expert" that he had gotten the idea. Eight months later, you were going strong, seeking any opportunity to escape into romantic bliss. There was never a boring day spent between the two of you. You went to movies and conventions. You read books together. Between cases, you played Chess and Go on the jet (he usually won, but you were getting better) and you took lots and lots of naps. Your lockscreen was a photo that Derek had taken of the two of you napping. Spencer had his arm around you as your head rested on his shoulder, the two of you fast asleep. 

Then there were the days like this. Another case had wrapped up in Vegas and you'd been on a journey to cheer Spencer up because you knew that cases in his home state were always a little bit tougher on him. You'd insisted that the two of you request an extra day and Spencer had shown you all the nooks and crannies he hung out in throughout adolescence. You noticed that those spots were a bit more isolated, away from the places that he pointed out his classmates had frequented. Spencer had told you the awful stories of what it was like to be in high school as a 12-year-old genius and let's just say that you hoped—for their sake—that you would never run into any of those people. You hadn't exactly been "miss popular" in high school either, so you knew that it wasn't super accommodating to those that deviated from the status quo. 

Afterward, you went to see his mom for the first time. You talked for a couple of hours and to Spencer's chagrin, she told you the things that he had said about you in his letters to her. She's intelligent, and witty, and beautiful, mom. And when I'm with her I don't get nervous that she'll think I'm too much or too little, but I get the sense that she thinks I'm exactly enough. She's exactly enough for me, anyway. Spencer's cheeks had turned bright red and the look of appreciation on your face and your adoring teasing had done nothing to hide the overwhelming love that you had for this man, not that you wanted it to. When Spencer stepped out to use the restroom, Diana took your hands.

"Thank you."

"For what?"

"For loving him. For reminding him that it's okay to want and need love. For reminding him that he deserves to be happy. This life is short, this world is so dark, and love is the only thing that makes any of it worth it."

It was early in the evening when the two of you finally left, wandering into a nearby park. You sat on the worn wooden bench with your sides pressed together and your hands intertwined. Your mind was racing. Maybe it was because his mother's words kept playing in your head even after you said your goodbyes. Maybe it was the remnants of the last case you’d been on, which, outside of the sour taste it had left in your mouths, had carried along the promise that tomorrow wasn’t given. Or maybe it was a combination of all of it. 

Your hands cradled his face, hearts full and lips flushed from the kiss you’d just shared. 

“What is it?” Spencer asked, softly. He knew that inquisitive look of yours, the furrow of your eyebrows that was the physical manifestion of the gears shifting in your brain.

It was normal for what was on the other side of that to take him by surprise. Sometimes it was fun facts you had learned and wanted to share with him because you were on a mission to find something that he didn’t already know, a silly challenge between the two of you. Other times, it was something more outrageous. Would he love you if you were a worm, or a spider, or a bird? 

At first, he struggled not to focus on the unrealistic nature of the questions, but over time he mastered the art of conversations with you. If you were a worm, he would make you a beautiful garden that you could live in. If you were a spider, he would never get rid of your web (to which you had scrunched up your nose in disgust). If you were a bird, he would build you a bird house. You giggled each time, flattered by the answers he gave and grateful that he loved you enough to be silly with you. 

And your laugh, gosh it made him feel like he was ten feet tall. How lucky he was to be loved by a woman like you. One that was so kind, so intelligent, so captivating. The questions were ridiculous but he loved them because he loved you. Yet, nothing had ever surprised him as much as the words that came out of your mouth next.

“Will you marry me?”

“What?” His eyes, big and brown, searched yours for some sort of sign that you were pulling a prank on him. You had been known to pull a practical joke or twenty. You were a fun girl, really. But this wasn't one of your pranks. In fact, you had quite possibly never been this serious or sure of anything in your life. 

“I know that it seems sudden, and maybe it is in a way, but who’s to say that’s not the point? To act on your love when you have it? I don’t want another gruesome case or a tragedy or even aliens to descend on earth when I am not your wife.” You knew that Spencer could probably give you some statistic about how marriages that happened too soon were more likely to end in divorce, but statistics couldn't account for the way your heart raced when he looked at you like you were everything that was good and beautiful in this world. And you knew that when looked at you like that, with the same eyes that had seen horror after horror and the ways that this world could be twisty, he meant it. 

You could be very forward. You knew that. It had gotten you into trouble a time or two, branding you as being “difficult” or “intimidating”, but you had always believed it to be one of the things that Spencer loved most about you. You had a fiery spirit that insisted you always spoke your mind. But seeing the look on his face at that moment made it hard not to think that you took it too far sometimes. 

You let out an awkward laugh, wondering how you could take words back that you had meant so deeply. “I’m sorry. That was silly. I shouldn’t have sprung this on you.” 

You started to retract your hands, hoping that that your eyes weren’t bright with embarrassment and that the rejection that you feared would swallow you whole wasn’t emanating off of you in waves. Spencer wouldn’t say it if he could feel it. He was a good guy, empathetic, and kind. He didn't derive pleasure in hurting others. 

Before your hands were fully out of sight, he gently pulled them back to him.

“Honey,” the word laced with tender intonation, the same one he always used when he spoke to you. “I’m not saying no, I-I just. . .” 

Sometimes words weren’t enough. He let go of one of your hands and reached into the brown leather jacket you had gotten him, pulling out a black velvet box. You felt your breath hitch. “I just couldn’t believe that you beat me to the punch,” he smiled nervously. He stood from the bench and got on one knee in front of you.

“Oh, Spence, you don’t have to do–"

“Baby, this is one tradition I’ve always wanted to keep.” And so you let him.

“Y/N L/N, I used to worry that I wouldn't know enough about romantic love to notice it if it ever came. I always wanted to fall in love and start a family, but I worried that my childhood or my job or the terrible things that had happened in my life would stand in the way. But when you came into my life, it all became clear. You always describe yourself as a tornado, but honey, that’s nowhere close to accurate. What you are is a paradigm shift, a critical shift in approach.” You laughed because only Spencer Reid would use science to propose to someone. It was so niche and unusual and exactly what you had never known you wanted. “You shifted how I saw the world, how I saw myself, and how I saw my life. Now, I can never go back and I never want to. I love you. I love you so much that I've searched in science and literature and art, but nothing comes close to describing it. And just like right now, you remind me that there is never a right enough time to wait to show someone that you love them. There is only the present. I might not know whether there will be a tomorrow, but if there is one, there is no doubt in my mind that I want to spend it with you.”

"Wow," You breathed. "I love you so much it hurts. And this is crazy. We haven't even been dating that long." You didn't know why you said it. Maybe for the need to point out some time down the line that you'd had some semblance of rationality in the moment. That some part of you had considered the weirdness of it all. But let's face it, you had already made your decision. You threw rationality out the window the moment you met this man. 

"Hey, you just asked me!" Spencer laughed.

You nodded. "I've always been crazy though. But you. . .I've made you crazy!"

"Yeah, you have. I like to believe that it was always inside of me and I just needed someone to bring it out. Will you keep being that person for me? For the rest of our lives?" 

Gosh, your voice had never trembled the way it did as you muttered yes after yes after yes. 

There were tears in his eyes and tears in your eyes. His hands shook as he pulled the ring out (a center-piece diamond like you’d always dreamed) and your hands shook as he slipped the ring onto your finger and he kissed you like something out of a film. It was perfect. He was perfect.

You strolled out of the park that night with the love of your life, your heart bursting with love, and a beautiful rock. 

“Technically, I proposed to you first and we have to tell everyone that now, okay?” You instructed. 

He smiled. “Anything you want, baby.”

[lotusteabag]

'68 FIREBIRD | CALEB XIA

SUMMARY: during a summer of grease-stained hands and quiet yearning, you and caleb rebuild a pontiac firebird—and, unknowingly, each other. by the time the engine roars to life, so does a love that's always been idling just beneath the surface.

PAIRING: mechanic!caleb x fem!reader CONTAINS: fluff and comfort, romance, childhood friends to lovers au, 80s au, slight angst (a misunderstanding), mutual pining, emotional tension, soft jealousy, inaccurate depictions of a mechanic and the innards of a car, mechanic caleb supremacy NOW PLAYING: just the two of us (feat. bill withers) by grover washington, jr. WC: 12.3k WARNINGS: none!

–IGNITION (Starting the spark.)

There’s a kind of heat that only happens at the end of a long day–not the sharp, punishing kind that sits heavy at noon, but one that’s slower, softer, almost sleepy. The kind that turns the edges of things golden, that makes every breath feel dipped in syrup. You coast through it on your battered bicycle, wheels humming a lazy, warbling tune over the cracked asphalt, your shadow stretching out behind you like a tattered flag.

The old parking lot behind the garage is half-swallowed by weeds and broken glass, bordered by a sagging chain-link fence and rusted-out pickup skeletons. It smells faintly of motor oil, warm tar, and the first tentative promises of summer. You kick your bike to a wobbling halt, dust puffing up in little ghostly clouds around your sneakers, and there he is–Caleb Xia.

He’s leaning against the side of a car, loose-limbed and easy, the sunset pooling across his skin like spilled fire. His shirt’s sleeves are rolled haphazardly to his elbows, grease staining the strong line of his forearms. His dark brown hair is mussed, curled at the ends from sweat and the weight of the day, and when he lifts his head to look at you, his eyes–those ridiculous, impossible galaxy-purple eyes–catch the light and scatter it back like twin stars.

You don’t know how he does it, how he carries himself like a smile you haven’t seen yet, like some secret he’s almost willing to tell. Caleb’s the kind of boy people instinctively orbit–friendly, steady, the kind of charm that doesn’t burn so hot as much it glows slow and certain. There are rumors already: about how the new girl at school asked him to the dance and he turned her down with a laugh so gentle she didn’t even mind; about how the garage hired him even though he barely had experience, just because he’s a fast learner and you can’t teach heart like that.

Sure, he’s wearing his work boots, grease-smudged jeans, and a T-shirt that’s seen better days, but he looks like he belongs to the sunlight–not the grime. Like he was made for both. Like the world tried to rough him up but couldn’t touch the core of him.

You skid to a stop a few feet away, breathless in more ways than one, and throw a hand dramatically over your forehead.

“I’m dying,” you announce. “Out of pure boredom. You have to save me.”

Caleb arches a brow, unimpressed but smiling anyway. “You gonna keel over right here, pipsqueak? Should I start diggin’ your grave now, or later?”

“Pfft,” you scoff, dropping your bike unceremoniously onto the hot ground. “You owe me. I watched that boring documentary about carburetors with you. I sat through two whole hours of engine diagrams.”

“You fell asleep halfway through,” he reminds you, pushing off the car with a lazy stretch. His shirt rides up just a little, flashing a slice of tan, grease-smeared skin before settling back down. “You were drooling.”

“Details,” you wave him off, already beelining toward the object of your shameless begging: a sleek, cherry-red ‘67 Mustang–an old project Caleb had nursed back from the dead over the last year. It gleams in the dying light like something alive, something that could run forever if only you knew how to coax it.

You circle it reverently, hands behind your back like a museum visitor, making a low, appreciative noise in your throat.

“Let me drive it,” you please, turning those big, hopeful eyes on him–the ones you know he can never quite resist. “Come on, please, Caleb. Just around the lot. I won’t even shift past second gear.”

He exhales, slow and weary, like a man being asked to give up his most prized possession to a rabid raccoon.

“You barely know how to work a clutch,” he grumbles, but there’s no heat in it. Only that familiar fondness, exasperation wound tight with affection.

You bounce on your heels, undeterred. “I can learn! You’re supposed to teach me! That’s what good friends do!”

He scrubs a hand through his hair, smearing grease across his temple without noticing, then sighs the kind of sigh that says I’m going to regret this, but I’d let you wreck me if you asked nicely enough.

“Shortstack,” he mutters, “you’re gonna be the death of me.”

You beam like the sun itself. He rolls his eyes, opens the driver’s side door with a reluctant, theatrical groan, and jerks his head toward the seat.

“You break it, you buy it,” he warns, but his voice is warm, not sharp. A warmth that whispers I trust you with the things I love most.

You scramble forward, giddy, already half in love with the feeling of the cracked leather under your palms, the faint metallic tang of old air-conditioning and gasoline filling your lungs.

Outside, the last sliver of sun sinks beneath the horizon, leaving only the bruised purple of twilight and the first shy stars peeking through. Inside, everything smells like oil and old dreams, and Caleb–standing beside you, smirking despite himself–feels as solid and steady as a lighthouse against the tide.

Sliding into Caleb’s Mustang feels like stepping into his personal history. Every inch of it seems to hold some tiny echo of him–small details that tell a story deeper than words ever could. The leather seats, worn soft from hours spent coaxing life into stubborn engines, bear faint smudges of grease, tracing the shape of his fingertips. A cluster of cassettes spills haphazardly from the glove compartment–Led Zeppelin, Fleetwood Mac, Queen. His old denim jacket, smelling of gasoline and summer grass, drapes casually across the passenger seat like an invitation, sleeves frayed at the cuffs from restless hands. You run your fingers over it briefly, a soft shiver chasing the contact.

He slips into the passenger side next to you with the easy grace of someone who’s spent countless evenings doing exactly this–windows down, music loud, the world reduced to a blur of neon lights and endless pavement. The car shifts slightly beneath his weight, creaking softly like an old house settling into its bones, comfortable and familiar. Caleb watches you with amusement dancing in his eyes, the corner of his mouth tugging upwards into a gentle smirk as you fumble to adjust the seat, scooting forward until your toes finally brush the pedals.

“Easy there, pipsqueak,” he murmurs teasingly, his voice warm and deep, curling softly at the edges in a way that feels like smoke from a bonfire. “Don’t want you straining something just tryin’ to reach.”

You shoot him a mock glare, heat rising lightly to your cheeks, grateful the gathering twilight masks your blush. You’re acutely aware of him beside you, his long legs sprawled carelessly beneath the dash, one arm resting casually along the back of your seat. The air in the car grows thick, honeyed with tension–an innocent kind, sweeter for its clumsiness, unspoken and untested but undeniably there.

He reaches across you, the faint scent of motor oil and something uniquely Caleb enveloping you as he taps a finger lightly on the ignition key dangling from the steering column, keys jangling softly like tiny chimes. Your eyes catch the slight roughness of his hands, fingertips calloused from hours of wrenching bolts and sanding metal, a small cut on his thumb healing unevenly–marks of someone who works with care, patience, persistence.

“First things first,” he instructs softly, voice gentle with infinite patience. “Clutch down, remember? Easy does it.”

You nod vigorously, biting down a smile that threatens to split your face in two. The pedals feel heavy under your feet, impossibly stubborn, as if silently challenging your determination. Caleb’s car–so effortlessly his–seems to test you, to size you up in that quiet, teasing way he always does. Your foot barely reaches, stretching slightly, toes pointed. He chuckles softly, a sound that sparks like a struck match, bright and fleeting.

“Need me to grab you a phone book, shortstack?” he drawls lazily, the rich amusement pooling warm in the pit of your stomach.

You huff, defiant, lifting your chin. “I’m fine. Totally fine.”

“Mhm,” he murmurs, eyes glittering softly with humor. But he leans closer anyway, broad shoulder brushing yours, the warmth of him seeping through your skin, soothing your nerves. You realize suddenly that he’s close enough for you to see faint freckles scattered across his nose, barely visible beneath his summer tan. Tiny constellations, secrets mapped in skin. You swallow hard.

Your palm rests hesitantly over the gearshift, fingers curling around its worn leather surface, waiting, heart thumping hard beneath your ribs. Then, without a word, Caleb’s hand settles gently over yours, fingers folding easily over your smaller ones. He guides your movements carefully–first, second, back to neutral–his palm rough yet oddly gentle, warm, secure, lingering just a fraction longer than necessary.

Heat floods your cheeks again, and your breath comes quicker, a tiny hitch he pretends not to notice. You glance sideways, trying to read the quiet expression on his face. Caleb’s eyes remain on your joined hands, thoughtful, his thumb brushing almost absently against the back of yours, once, twice, before pulling away slowly. A breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding escapes into the silent car.

“See?” he says finally, voice carefully casual. “Nothin’ to it.”

He sits back comfortably in his seat, the arm stretched out behind your shoulders remaining there, warm and reassuring. You glance again at his profile–strong jaw set softly against the fading light, galaxy eyes reflecting a quiet glow of dashboard illumination. The realization hits you gently, a truth you’d known somewhere deeper than thought: Caleb isn’t just teaching you to drive–he’s wordlessly handing you a piece of himself, carefully trusting you to handle it.

Determined now, you steel your nerves, foot pressing down on the clutch more confidently this time, gearshift familiar beneath your fingers, a little braver because he’s here. You twist the key, ignition turning with a satisfying click, the dashboard flickering to life, needles jumping expectantly in their dials. Caleb’s grin widens, proud and encouraging.

“Good,” he praises softly, so gently it squeezes your heart. “Now ease off the clutch–slowly. Real slow, pipsqueak.”

You do exactly as he instructs–until the car jolts violently forward, lurching and sputtering, engine coughing loudly in protest. Caleb’s laugh bursts out suddenly, rich and unapologetic, filling the car like summer thunder. Embarrassment floods your veins, but his arm tightens reassuringly around the back of your seat, bracing your body from the clumsy jolt, his warmth a comforting shield.

“You’re tryin’ to kill my car already?” he teases, laughter still lingering at the edges of his voice.

You groan softly, embarrassment giving way to reluctant laughter of your own. “This really was a bad idea.”

“Nah,” he murmurs affectionately, leaning closer again, reaching gently to help you reset. His shoulder nudges yours comfortingly as he guides you through the motions once more, infinitely patient. “You’ll get it. She just needs you to go easy on her.”

It’s absurd, really, but you think he’s talking about more than just the car.

Together, you try again–once, twice, engine stumbling and then steadying, each attempt clumsy yet exhilarating. His voice remains calm, encouraging; his hand finds yours again briefly on the gearshift, each touch lingering longer, holding tighter. And when you finally manage a smoother glide forward, a gentle, triumphant hum of the engine beneath your trembling fingertips, Caleb looks at you with such warmth that it steals your breath away.

“Atta girl,” he whispers softly, the corners of his mouth curling into a lazy smile, eyes shimmering gently in the dim glow of dashboard lights. And somehow, impossibly, in this tiny moment–clumsy and chaotic, full of sputtering engines and quiet laughter–you feel something spark between you, fragile and hopeful, glowing softly like embers beneath ash.

The Mustang rolls forward, carrying you both into the twilight–into something uncertain and unnamed, but already achingly familiar. Something bright and warm. Something just beginning.

–CHASSIS (The frame–the first bones of trust.)

You hadn’t expected nostalgia to smell like rust and engine oil, yet here you stand, ankle-deep in dusty gravel, breathing it in like it’s something precious. Summer has returned–older now, mellower somehow, the sunlight softer at the edges as it trickles gently through gaps in rusting metal. The junkyard spreads around you like an old, forgotten kingdom, towers of gutted vehicles stacked one atop another, silent sentinels guarding the memories they used to carry. Long shadows stretch and fold along their battered shells, the sky a dreamy shade of blue that deepens subtly at its fringe, like ink spilled into water.

Caleb walks ahead of you, navigating this mechanical graveyard with the familiar ease of someone visiting an old friend. He’s grown, you realize, in more ways than just the broadening of his shoulders or the quiet confidence in his steps. His presence feels richer now, layered with experiences that have shaped him softly but surely into the man beside you. There’s something beautifully unchanged too–the way sunlight seems drawn to him, highlighting the subtle streaks of honey-gold in his dark hair, teasing out the gentle kindness that lives in every silent glance.

He had knocked on your door early this morning, sunshine drenching him like a halo, looking impossibly hopeful and slightly mischievous all at once. “Come with me,” he’d said, voice carrying that irresistible note of warmth you could never quite refuse. And now here you are, trailing behind him through aisles of rusted frames and faded chrome, each row telling stories of adventures once had and roads long forgotten.

Your fingers skim lightly over the corroded hoods and doors as you walk, each surface a different texture beneath your touch–rough, pitted, flaking away in your palms. You feel the soft ache of memories stirring somewhere deep, recalling afternoons spent sprawled in Caleb’s driveway, knees scraped and fingertips raw from sandpaper, laughter muffled by the low, steady hum of a radio playing softly in the background.

Caleb pauses suddenly, as though something invisible has called out to him, a silent voice drawing him nearer. You watch his eyes settle on a shadowed form at the far edge of the yard, tucked away beneath a tarp so weather-worn it’s nearly indistinguishable from the dusty earth around it. He moves closer, steps careful, reverent, anticipation brightening his expression into a boyish kind of hopefulness you’ve missed more than you realized.

He peels back the tarp slowly, gently, like he’s pulling away the veil from a masterpiece, and you can’t help but frown at what lies under. The car–what’s left of it–is barely recognizable as anything once roadworthy. Its surface is battered, doors missing, rust forming intricate patterns along the skeletal frame, the paint long stripped away by years of weather and neglect. Yet even in this sorry state, the car holds itself with a kind of dignity, a quiet pride in having survived so much for so long. 

“A ‘68 Pontiac Firebird, “Caleb whispers to you, and you know instantly he’s found what he came searching for.

You move closer, joining him in quiet contemplation, the weight of years and dreams hanging softly between you. Caleb reaches out and runs his fingertips carefully along the hood, tracing the lines and curves as though relearning something he once knew intimately. You watch him, aware suddenly that this isn’t just another car. It’s a new story Caleb wants to tell–a fresh chapter waiting to be penned with his diligent hands, patience, and endless, steady affection.

“She’s beautiful,” he murmurs softly, almost to himself, eyes lingering over the battered frame with a quiet awe reserved for the most precious of discoveries. He catches your skeptical glance, and something warm and amused flickers gently in those galaxy-bright eyes. “Or, well, she will be,” he corrects himself, his voice threaded through with quiet conviction.

You step closer, inspecting the tangled wires spilling from beneath the empty dashboard, the gaping hollows where seats once rested. You run your fingers over the faded metal edge, imagining the countless journeys and whispered conversations that once filled this space. Caleb watches wordlessly, content just to see you sharing in this hushed reverie. After a long moment, he nudges you playfully with his shoulder, a gentle press of warmth that feels as comforting as an embrace.

“Could use some tiny hands,” he teases, leaning against the car beside you, his voice low and warm, carrying faint echoes of that younger Caleb who taught you to drive. “You could fit in places I can’t, pipsqueak.”

You smile softly at the nickname, the affectionate teasing, the silent promise woven subtly between his words. It’s his way of inviting you into this dream he’s shaping, into the gentle labor of restoring something broken into something beautiful again. It’s Caleb all over–believing deeply in what others overlook, seeing potential where the world sees ruin.

You brush rust-stained fingertips against the car’s cold metal again, the sunlight warming your shoulders, the soft drone of insects and distant birdsong creating a slow, sweet soundtrack for this moment. Caleb stands close enough now that his presence is like a solid warmth against your side, steadfast, reassuring. Something twists softly in your chest, tender and achingly familiar, like a song you haven’t heard in ages but still know every word to.

This, you think to yourself, is how all great things begin–not in perfection, but in quiet hopefulness, patient hands, and hearts that see beyond the surface. You glance sideways at Caleb, the way the afternoon light catches in his eyes, the tender lift at the corner of his lips, and you feel yourself drawn inevitably into this new adventure he’s chosen for you both.

You’re not sure how long you both stand there–sunlight warm on your backs, breathing in the faded scent of oil and metal, silent promises passing gently between you–but when Caleb finally speaks again, softly, decisively, you know you’ve already made your choice, just as he made his.

“This one,” he says firmly, a note of finality in his voice, gaze still fixed on the car. He turns his head slightly, those deep violet eyes meeting yours like a vow, and his smile blooms into something brilliant, hopeful, utterly genuine. “Let’s take her home.”

You nod, unable–and unwilling–to hide your own fond smile in return, and together you both step back, leaving your fingerprints in dust, your silent hopes tangled with rust and old dreams, ready to bring something broken back to life.

The garage Caleb calls his own isn’t much to look at from the outside–a sagging structure tucked behind his family’s house, its paint peeling in long strips like sunburned skin, the roof patched here and there with mismatched sheets of tin. But inside, it’s a kingdom.

Posters from old car shows and bands you both loved when you were younger–Sex Pistols, Def Leppard, AC/DC–are tacked haphazardly to the walls. A battered cassette deck hums softly from a workbench cluttered with socket wrenches, oil cans, and faded Polaroids stuck with yellowing tape. There’s an old green couch against the far wall, threadbare and drooping, a graveyard for stray tools and half-drunk bottles of Coke.

The Firebird sits square in the center, the centerpiece of it all.

It took two days to drag her home and clear enough space to work, but the moment she rested beneath the buzzing fluorescents, it felt like she belonged. And maybe you did, too.

Caleb tosses you a pair of oversized coveralls that smell faintly of gasoline and soap, a teasing glint in his violet eyes. “Hope you’re not afraid of a little dirt, pipsqueak.”

You catch them against your chest with a dramatic oof, grinning despite yourself. “I’ll have you know,” you say loftily, stepping into the baggy legs, “I’m a professional now. Expert dirt-getter.”

His laughter bounces off the metal rafters–rich, warm, the kind of sound you feel under your ribs.

You start with the seats. Caleb shows you how to find the bolts hidden deep beneath the rusted frames, your fingers bumping clumsily against the cold metal. He kneels beside you, demonstrating with slow, easy movements, the fabric of his shirt pulling tight across his back every time he leans forward. His forearms flex as he works, and you try not to notice, not really, not in any way that would make things weird.

“Lefty-loosey, righty-tighty,” he murmurs under his breath, just loud enough for you to hear, and when you flash him a glare, he smirks wickedly.

“I know that,” you huff. “I’m not a complete idiot.”

“No one said you were, pipsqueak,” he says easily, bumping his shoulder into yours with deliberate gentleness. “You’re just… fun-sized.”

You stick your tongue out at him and return to wrestling with a stubborn bolt, cheeks burning hotter than they should.

The hours pass in a haze of dust and low music, the scratchy vocals of an old cassette mixing with the clink of tools and the rhythmic scritch of sandpaper. You lose yourself in the work, hands blackened, arms aching pleasantly from the effort. Grease streaks your face and smudges your clothes, settling into the crooks of your elbows, the creases of your palms. Somehow, it feels right–like this is what you were made for: this dirt, this sweat, this slow and steady act of bringing something broken back to life.

At one point, Caleb leans over to show you how to wedge a ratchet into a tight corner near the floor pan. His chest brushes lightly against your shoulder, warm and solid, and when you glance up, he’s impossibly close. His hair falls slightly into his eyes, damp with sweat, and there’s a smudge of oil trailing along the line of his jaw.

You freeze, half holding your breath, your hand still clutching the ratchet awkwardly mid-air. Caleb notices the grime streaking your own cheek and, without thinking, lifts his thumb to swipe it away. His touch is gentle, slower than it needs to be, the pad of his thumb lingering just a fraction longer than necessary.

“There,” he murmurs, voice roughened slightly from the dust in the air��or maybe something else. His thumb brushes across your skin again, lighter this time, before he draws it back, clearing his throat quietly.

You mumble something in return–maybe a thanks, maybe just a noise–and duck your head back toward your work, praying he can’t hear the way your heart thunders wildly against your ribs.

From the corner of your eye, you catch him looking at you again–not the playful, teasing glance he usually tosses your way, but something quieter. Something almost… awed. It lasts only a moment before he schools his face back into easy nonchalance, tossing a bolt into the battered coffee can you’ve both been using as a parts bin. But the look lingers, burned into the inside of your chest like the slow fade of headlights down an empty road.

Later, when the sun begins its slow descent, casting the garage in long golden bands of light, you both step back and survey your progress. The Firebird’s interior is gutted, seats piled neatly to the side, bolts and panels catalogued into little cardboard boxes with Caleb’s careful scrawl. Dust floats lazily in the shafts of sun, and the world feels smaller somehow, folded neatly into this warm, messy moment you never want to end.

Your arms are streaked with grease, and there’s a tear in your jeans you don’t remember getting, and you’re absolutely certain you’ve never looked less presentable in your life. But when Caleb glances at you again, his smile is so easy, so fond, that you think–maybe just for a heartbeat–that he’d rather have you here like this, messy and real, than anywhere else.

You don’t dare say anything. You don’t want to risk losing this fragile, perfect thing you’re building together–not just the car, but something quieter, something stitched carefully between laughter and stolen glances and the brush of fingertips over dusty cheeks.

Instead, you nudge him lightly with your shoulder, mimicking his earlier teasing, and grin when chuckles low under his breath.

“You’re not so bad for a shortstack,” he says, voice playful but soft, carrying a note of something unspoken.

You bump him again, just to feel the solid, familiar weight of him beside you, and the two of you stand there for a long moment in the golden hush, breathing in oil and sun-warmed metal, the Firebird gleaming softly between you like a dream just beginning to take shape.

–ENGINE (The heart–beginnings of yearning.)

The heart of any car is its engine, and right now, the Firebird’s heart is just an empty hollow, a cavernous space yawning wide where metal and machinery should breathe life into steel and chrome. It feels like possibility and like absence, like something desperately waiting to be made whole. When Caleb first lifts the hood for you, revealing that gaping emptiness, you feel it somewhere deeper than just your eyes. There’s a quiet ache in it, a yearning not so different from the unnamed feeling you carry around yourself these days.

Caleb pulls an old tarp off a collection of boxes, revealing the meticulous puzzle he’s assembled piece by painstaking piece: pistons, rods, rings, timing chains–all patiently waiting, polished and lined up with careful precision. This is how he is with everything, you think quietly–calm, determined, making sense of chaos until it’s something whole and beautiful again. You envy that quality more than you’d ever admit.

The afternoons blur into one another, each stretching long and slow beneath the lazy summer sun. You’re out in the garage every day now, elbows-deep in engine grease, fingertips raw and stained from endless sanding, oil smudges stubbornly clinging beneath your nails. Your clothes are a lost cause, grease-splattered shirts and jeans becoming badges of honor rather than accidents. The radio hums quietly in the corner, cassette tapes cycling through the familiar rhythms of your shared childhood–Springsteen and Mellencamp, Petty’s melancholy lyrics mingling with the hum of cicadas outside the open garage door.

Together you work meticulously, learning the careful ballet of assembling an engine from scratch–pieces sliding smoothly into place with Caleb’s steady hands guiding yours, gentle yet firm. You memorize the slow, attentive way he explains everything, voice patient and easy. He trusts you more each day, passing you tools and tasks without hesitation, as if he’s always known you’d fit beside him exactly like this.

When the pistons finally slot into place for the first time, a flush of pride warms your chest. Caleb notices your silent triumph and nudges your shoulder gently, eyes crinkling at the corners as he smiles.

“See? Told you you’d get it, pipsqueak,” he says, his voice low and warm, something more than teasing lingering softly behind his words. You duck your head, smiling, heart stuttering beneath your ribs.

Between the scrupulous steps–aligning crankshafts and securing timing chains–the conversations between you shift quietly, deepening with each passing hour. Caleb speaks of dreams he’s never mentioned aloud before: opening his own garage someday, maybe even taking over the one he’s apprenticing at now. There’s pride and silent ambition in his voice, and you find yourself swept along by his easy confidence, drawn gently into the soft warmth of his hopes.

You, however, find it harder to speak your own dreams aloud. Instead, you talk quietly of your fears–the nagging sense of being small, left behind somehow. Your own aspirations feel less clear, murkier, harder to grasp. How can you explain to Caleb, who shines effortlessly, drawing people to him without ever trying, that your own life feels tentative, uncertain? You work at an ice cream store, scooping cones and serving sundaes, watching kids and families pass by, their laughter and chatter flowing around you like water around a rock. You don’t hate it–but sometimes you feel like you’re watching your life from behind a glass counter, invisible and unable to truly touch it.

Caleb hates it when you say things like that. He stops working entirely when you mutter something self-deprecating, something quiet and dismissive, and the forceful gentleness of his response takes you by surprise.

“You’re not small where it counts,” he insists, voice roughened by sincerity, violet eyes darkening seriously as he studies you. “Never were, pipsqueak.”

You feel yourself flush again, heart stuttering hard against your ribs, your chest suddenly too tight to breathe properly. Caleb rarely speaks like this, rarely lets seriousness harden the edges of his playful nature. It unsettles you, makes you ache in a way you don’t quite understand–like something warm and tender opening inside you, vulnerable and uncertain.

You duck your head again, busying your hands with tools and engine grease, too afraid to let him see how deeply his words have burrowed beneath your skin. You want to believe him–you desperately want to–but doubt remains, whispering from somewhere deep inside you. Still, Caleb’s conviction makes you want to trust, want to hold onto this moment, his steadfast certainty like sunlight warming your shoulders, chasing away shadows you’d grown used to.

Late in the afternoon, while aligning the crankshaft carefully into its bearings, your fingers slip awkwardly, fumbling clumsily with a stubborn bolt. Caleb moves without a word, his hand covering yours, gently steadying your grip, guiding your fingers back to where they belong. His palm is rough, calloused, yet impossibly tender, fingers lingering softly over yours for a heartbeat longer than necessary. Neither of you speak, the moment stretching between you, filled with unspoken things, fragile and tremulous.

When he finally draws away, the absence of his warmth leaves you strangely bereft, hollowed out in a new way you don’t fully recognize. You glance sideways, catching him watching you with quiet contemplation in his eyes, a look that’s almost longing, though you can’t quite trust yourself to read it clearly. He’s Caleb–charming, charismatic, effortlessly magnetic. You know half the town is probably head-over-heels for him, and yet here he is, quiet and patient beside you, spending his summer afternoons breathing new life into old steel and rust, as though there’s nowhere he’d rather be.

Maybe that’s enough, you think, tightening the next bolt carefully, fingers trembling slightly. Maybe just having this–these gentle moments, this quiet understanding–is more than you’d ever dare to ask for anyway. You don’t have to name it, you don’t have to define what this is or what it might become. It’s enough to feel the steady presence of him beside you, the rhythm of your days marked by laughter and the slow, methodical work of rebuilding this heart of steel together.

The sun sinks lower outside, painting the sky in streaks of apricot and lilac. Caleb pauses to wipe his hands clean, streaks of grease still shadowing his fingertips. He nudges you gently again, that familiar warmth returning to his voice, layered with quiet meaning.

“You and me,” he says softly, nodding toward the engine. “We could build anything, you know.”

You glance up, meeting his gaze. For just a moment, something open and vulnerable flickers between you both, a truth held steady beneath his careful gaze. You nod numbly, feeling something deep inside you shift into place, just like the last piston slotting neatly home.

“Yeah,” you reply quietly, your voice almost a whisper, careful not to reveal too much. “I know.”

The days roll by in slow, hazy loops, stitched together with warm grease-streaked afternoons and the thrum of distant thunderheads gathering on the horizon. In the lull between wrench turns and socket sets, you start to notice things. Not big things, not moments that stop your breath–but small ones. The kind you only realize you’ve been storing away when it’s too late to pretend they don’t matter.

Like the way Caleb always brings an extra soda–root beer for you, because he knows you like the glass bottles better. He never says anything, just hands it over wordlessly, the glass sweating in your palm. Or the way he leans into door frames when it rains, all tall limbs and lazy posture, but subtly tilts his body just enough to keep the worst of it off your shoulders. It’s instinctual, unconscious–the kind of consideration that’s never been asked of him and yet seems woven into who he is.

And then there’s how he looks at you–or maybe, more accurately, how he doesn’t look at anyone else.

People come and go from the garage sometimes–friends from the shop, old classmates, girls who lean into their laughter a little too obviously when they spot him covered in grease and smiling in that slow, golden way of his. He’s charming, everyone says so. Popular without trying. Caleb’s the kind of guy people want to orbit. You used to wonder if it bothered you. Now you know it doesn’t–not really. Because he never looks back. Not the way he looks at you, with quiet attention and a softness so steady it feels like a place to rest.

He asks you what music you want on before you even speak, knows which tool to hand you without you needing to ask. At some point, his hands start brushing yours more–passing bolts, steadying tools–and he never pulls away too quickly. Not anymore. Neither do you.

You’re not sure what this is. What it could be. But you know, somehow, in that space behind your ribs, that you’re becoming each other’s heart without even trying.

It’s late one afternoon when the sky suddenly turns mean. Thunder rolls in like an angry drumbeat, low and heavy. You’re elbow-deep in the wiring harness while Caleb turns the carburetor, the Firebird’s innards slowly knitting back into something that almost breathes again.

The rain comes fast–loud against the tin roof, a metallic lullaby. Caleb doesn’t flinch. He just shifts beside you, leaning his shoulder closer to yours, and grins.

“Guess we’re stuck here for a bit,” he says, brushing a streak of oil from his jaw with the back of his wrist. “You okay with being trapped with me, pipsqueak?”

You snort. “Trapped? Please. You’d get lonely without me, anyways.”

He laughs, full and warm, the kind that spills into your bones and lingers there. “I think I’d survive without your commentary on my spark plug gap.”

“I think you wouldn’t survive without me making fun of your spark plug gap.”

“You wound me,” he says, pressing a hand dramatically to his chest, but the look in his eyes is soft, fond. Like he’s grateful for your presence even when your words are sharp. Especially then.

The rain grows heavier. Water runs in small rivulets down the windows, blurring the world outside. Inside the garage, the light is golden and comforting, making everything feel like a memory even while it’s still happening.

You settle onto the couch for a break, dropping beside him with a sigh. He tosses you a rag, and you wipe your hands while he fiddles with the radio dial until something older comes through–a song from your shared childhood, something scratchy and sweet. Phil Collins, maybe. Or Bryan Adams. It hardly matters. The moment’s already perfect.

“I remember this,” you murmur, head tipping back against the couch cushion, the ceiling fans clicking above you in a lazy circle. “You played it on repeat one summer. Drove everyone nuts.”

“Not you,” he says, nudging your knee with his. “You never complained.”

“Yeah, well. I was too busy trying to keep up with you.” You mean it as a joke. Mostly. But it comes out softer than you intend. Honest.

Caleb’s smile falters just slightly–not in a bad way, but as if he’s considering something. Turning it over in his mind.

“You never had to,” he says after a beat, voice low. “I mean it. You were always enough just… being you.”

You glance at him, and the way he says it–like it’s the simplest truth in the world–makes your breath catch in your throat. You look away too fast, down at your hands still covered with traces of grease and oil, suddenly not knowing what to do with them.

You want to say something back, something real, but the words get lost somewhere on their way to your mouth.

Instead, you lean forward and grab another part from the toolbox, letting the silence settle again, but it’s not heavy. It never is with him. Just comfortable. Like the moments between switching gears–necessary, natural, leading somewhere you can’t quite see yet.

Later, after the wiring’s cleaned and the timing chain finally aligned, you both stand over the engine bay in shared satisfaction. It’s still not finished–there’s so much left to do–but for now, it’s enough. The Firebird has a heart again. Quiet and waiting. Ready to run.

Caleb wipes his hands on his jeans, and without thinking, offers you the last sip of his soda. The gesture is so casual, so second-nature, it sends a small, unexpected ache through your chest.

You take it. Drink. Smile.

He watches you with that quiet, unreadable look of his again. The one that makes you feel seen. Not admired, not adored–known. All your edges and doubts laid bare. And still–still, he stays.

“You think we’ll finish this by the end of summer?” you ask, mostly to fill the space, though part of you dreads the answer.

“Maybe,” he answers, dragging a hand through his hair. “Maybe not. Doesn’t matter. We’ll get there.”

We. The word hums through you, steady and certain.

He smiles, soft and easy. “You and me? We’re the team, remember? As long as we’re in it together, we can fix anything.”

You want to believe that more than you’ve wanted anything in a long time. And for the first time, you think maybe you really do.

–TRANSMISSION (Learning how to move forward–together.)

There’s a delicate rhythm to shifting gears–a careful dance of timing, precision, and patience. Caleb’s voice hums gently beneath the hood of the car as he walks you through it, fingers tracing the smooth curve of a gearshift, each gesture slow and steady. You watch him quietly, memorizing the way he moves, the fluid certainty of his hands and the soft, thoughtful set of his brow. It’s familiar, almost achingly so, and you realize he’s taught you all this before. Years ago, when you’d sat beside him in his old Mustang, the sunlight melting gold over the cracked parking lot. You remember his laughter back then, warm and reassuring, as you’d fumbled your way through clutch pedals and stalled engines. It feels like a lifetime ago, and yet nothing’s changed at all.

“You already know most of this,” he murmurs, a faint, teasing smile curling the corners of his mouth, “or did all of that expert teaching of mine slip your mind?”

You roll your eyes, nudging him lightly with your elbow. He chuckles, a deep, comforting sound that mingles softly with the summer breeze drifting through the open garage doors. The sunlight slants lazily through dust-specked air, the afternoon worn comfortably around you both like a faded denim jacket. You listen to him anyway, hanging onto every quiet word, every patient instruction, not because you need to hear it again, but because it feels good just to stand beside him like this. Together. Like it used to be.

And somewhere in the gentle lull between his words–somewhere beneath the hum of cicadas and the murmuring of the radio–you start to understand why transmissions matter. It isn’t just about gears shifting smoothly or engines humming to life. It’s about timing. It’s about things aligning perfectly, synchronizing just right so nothing stalls or falters. Caleb explains it with a seriousness that surprises you, his voice low and rich, as if he’s talking about something sacred, something infinitely fragile.

“Everything has to work together,” he says softly, fingers brushing lightly over the gears. “Miss one step, one little shift, and everything falls apart. You gotta trust the timing, trust yourself, and know exactly when to move forward.”

You nod quietly, letting his words settle deep in your chest, feeling their gentle weight like stones dropped carefully into still water. You can’t help but wonder if he’s talking about more than just the car–but the thought drifts away, unspoken, replaced by the comfortable silence you always share.

Later, as evening slips into night, you find yourselves working beneath the soft glow of a bare bulb hanging over the engine bay. Caleb’s decided to test an old Chevy engine he’s rebuilt for someone else, its heart throbbing quietly beneath the hood. He gestures for you to climb into the driver’s seat, trusting you without hesitation.

You slide into place, feeling the old leather seat creak softly beneath you, simple and comforting. Yet your heart kicks harder, nervous suddenly in a way you shouldn’t be. You know this–it’s as familiar as breathing–but it’s the way Caleb watches you, so patient and expectant, that makes your fingers tremble just slightly when you grip the wheel.

He nods, eyes gentle, voice calm. “Just like always, pipsqueak.”

You exhale carefully, foot pressing slowly on the clutch, feeling the quiet catch of gears beneath your palm. But something slips, just a fraction–your timing just off–and the engine stalls abruptly, coughing once before falling silent. Your stomach tightens painfully, embarrassment flaring hot in your cheeks. You stare at the dashboard, fingers white-knuckled on the steering wheel, afraid to meet Caleb’s gaze. You know better than this. He knows you know better. A pang twists sharply inside you; you don’t want him disappointed–not in you.

“I’m sorry,” you mumble, barely audible, staring fixedly at the silent dash, cheeks burning fiercely in the dim garage.

But Caleb just laughs softly, warm and unbothered, leaning closer, reaching out and gently ruffling your hair. The casual affection eases something inside you immediately.

“You’re fine,” he murmurs reassuringly, the words kind but firm, smoothing over the anxious twist in your stomach. “Even pros stall sometimes. It’s about how quick you recover.”

You glance up hesitantly, heart still thumping too fast, and see nothing but easy warmth in his eyes. No disappointment. No impatience. Just Caleb, steady and certain as ever.

He starts the engine again, guiding your hands gently through the motions until the car purrs evenly beneath your fingertips, humming softly in perfect harmony. You sit there in silence, breathing slow, the calm returning to your chest like a steadying hand.

Later that night, you borrow his uncle’s old convertible, cruising aimlessly down winding back roads beneath the velvet-black sky, the breeze catching in your hair, tugging softly at your clothes. The radio murmurs quietly, a familiar old song drifting through the night air–Foreigner, maybe, something nostalgic and soft-edged. Caleb drives with one hand lazily draped on the wheel, the other arm resting along the back of your seat. Neither of you speak much, content just to sit together, hearts beating in tandem beneath the hum of tires on asphalt.

You tilt your head back, eyes closed, letting the wind carry your thoughts away like leaves scattered down an empty road. Caleb shifts gears smoothly, effortlessly, the car moving like an extension of himself, natural and confident. You feel every muted shift resonate through you–a soft vibration, comforting and secure.

When you finally glance sideways at him, his profile glows softly in the dashboard lights, quiet and thoughtful. Something seems to flicker briefly across his expression, something almost vulnerable. He opens his mouth slightly, as if he’s about to say something important, something tender–but instead he just swallows, gaze snapping to meet yours in a warm, wordless glance before returning to the road ahead.

You turn your head back again, heart beating slow and careful. The stars glide gently above, blurred by the speed, stretching endlessly toward the horizon. It feels like you’re standing somewhere delicate and fragile, balanced carefully between gears, between moments–waiting quietly, patiently, for the right timing.

You understand, suddenly, what Caleb meant earlier in the garage: that moving forward requires patience, a trust in timing, and an understanding that every little shift matters. One wrong move might stall everything–but the right move could send you hurtling forward, smooth and easy, like you’ve always belonged exactly there.

And somewhere beneath the gentle hum of the engine and the whisper of night air around you, you realize quietly–almost wordlessly–that you don’t want to move forward without him. You’re not sure exactly what that means, not yet, and you’re afraid to name it aloud–but it’s there all the same, resting softly behind your ribs.

Caleb seems to sense your realization, glancing again at you with that affectionate look he always has, the one that makes your heart feel too big for your chest. He smiles softly–barely there, a gentle upward curve of his mouth–and shifts smoothly again, moving you both forward together, steady and sure, toward whatever comes next.

Neither of you speak. You don’t need to. Not yet.

The road stretches out ahead, illuminated only by the headlights slicing gently through the darkness, guiding your path toward something uncertain, unnamed, but inevitable–something you’ve been moving toward without realizing it, each gear shift, each subtle glance, pushing you slowly toward it.

Together.

–BRAKES (When you have to stop, even when it hurts.)

July has settled into something thick and slow, syrupy in the heat, the kind of weather that makes everything stick to your skin and refuses to let go. The garage air hums quietly with the metallic whir of box fans trying desperately–and failing–to move the sluggish summer around. Caleb works beside you, sleeves rolled up neatly past his elbows, the thin cotton of his faded t-shirt clinging to his back with sweat. He’s concentrating, brows knit slightly as he leans deep into the engine bay, one hand braced against the Firebird’s warm metal shell, the other gripping a wrench tight enough to whiten his knuckles.

You steal glances sideways at him between your own tasks, eyes drawn softly to the line of his shoulders, the quiet strength in his movements, so familiar now you could trace each one with your eyes closed. It’s comforting in the simplest sense, standing next to him like this, working side by side as you always have. But lately, comfort has been shifting into something else–something unnamed and tenuous, something you’re almost afraid to acknowledge even to yourself. It simmers quietly beneath your ribs, barely-there and gentle, until suddenly it’s not.

The garage doors are wide open to the street, and sunlight spills lazily across the concrete, pooling around your sneakers and Caleb’s work boots. You both glance up when a soft, unfamiliar voice calls Caleb’s name, lilting delicately like the chime of small silver bells. There, framed in afternoon gold, stands a girl you’ve never seen before–pretty in that effortless, polished way you’ve never quite managed. Her hair catches the sunlight, gleaming in soft waves, and her pale pastel sundress makes her look like she’s stepped straight from a magazine spread, a glossy contrast to your oil-streaked jeans and rumpled shirt.

Caleb’s face brightens in recognition, the wrench slipping from his fingers into the cluttered toolbox with a sharp metallic clang. You notice–immediately, instinctively–the way his posture straightens, the easy smile spreading warm and open across his face, eyes sparkling with pleasant surprise. He wipes his hands roughly on an old rag, stepping toward her, already laughing softly as she murmurs something you can’t quite hear. The sound feels distant, muffled somehow, like you’re suddenly watching the scene unfold from behind thick, fogged glass.

You linger by the Firebird, your own hands curled absently around a screwdriver, knuckles white from how tightly you’re gripping the handle. You’re careful to appear disinterested, but something twists painfully in your chest–sharp, unexpected, quietly fierce. It’s nothing you’ve ever let yourself name, something tucked away deep beneath the easy, familiar rhythm of your friendship. But now, watching the casual intimacy of Caleb’s smile directed toward someone else, it rises abruptly to the surface, raw and vulnerable and achingly confusing.

Their laughter floats gently toward you, soft and bright, the sound wrapping itself around your throat like a tightening thread. You try not to listen, try to focus instead on the wiring harness and screwdriver in your hands, but you hear snippets anyway–references to old friends, memories you’re not part of, something about a summer party that happened before you and Caleb ever found this quiet rhythm of working side by side. Each shared word feels like a silent confirmation of your exclusion, a reminder of something that never quite belonged to you.

Caleb seems oblivious–or maybe he’s pretending. You’re not sure which would hurt less. He leans casually against the tool bench, arms crossed easily, listening attentively as she speaks, his violet eyes warm and affectionate. She laughs at something he says, her delicate hand lightly touching his arm, lingering just a moment longer than necessary. You feel your stomach drop at the sigh, hollow and heavy all at once. It isn’t fair, you know that, but a strange possessiveness flares suddenly within you–strange, ugly, and frighteningly real.

You turn away sharply, back toward the engine bay, burying your attention fiercely in the familiar, comforting tangle of wires and grease. You don’t want to watch anymore, don’t want to feel these complicated, ugly things twisting quietly inside you. But every muffled laugh, every gentle murmur behind you feels like a fresh wound–silent, subtle, yet aching in a way you can’t fully understand.

Hours seem to pass, each minute stretching like warm, sticky taffy in the slow afternoon. When you finally glance back, they’re standing closer now, Caleb’s eyes crinkling at the corners as he smiles gently down at her. Something deep inside you cracks softly at the sight. You’ve seen that look before–directed toward you in quieter moments, soft with patience and kind teasing. But now it feels tainted somehow, uncertain, fleeting. You wonder suddenly if you’d imagined it all–every glance, every touch, every shared smile. If the intimacy you’d felt had only ever been childish affection, innocent and short-lived, easily given and just as easily forgotten.

Eventually, the girl leaves, her laughter trailing like perfume behind her, sweet and lingering. Caleb stands by the open garage door, watching her go, sunlight highlighting the thoughtful set of his shoulders. He turns back toward you slowly, smile fading into something quieter, almost questioning, but you look away quickly, afraid to meet his gaze, afraid of what you might see–or what you might not.

You clean up in silence, careful not to let your hands shake as you wipe grease from your fingertips. Caleb says nothing, but you can feel him watching, silent and puzzled, uncertain in a way he rarely is. You want him to say something–anything–to reassure you, to laugh away your sudden uncertainty and restore the delicate balance you’ve shared, but the silence hangs awkwardly between you, heavy and new.

When you finally leave, slipping quietly out the garage door into the fading daylight without a word, you glance back only once. Caleb is still standing there, framed in the soft, amber glow of sunset, watching you go with an expression you can’t quite read–something almost desperate flickering softly behind his eyes. But neither of you speaks, neither of you breaks the silence, and so you turn away, heart twisting painfully as you disappear into the evening shadows.

That night, as you lie awake beneath tangled sheets, staring at the ceiling, the painful ache inside you settles wordlessly, stubbornly into place. You wonder bitterly if you’ve misread everything–every gentle glance, every careful gesture. If Caleb has only ever seen you as someone younger, smaller, someone to protect and guide, a kid he’s been quietly humoring all these years. You curl your fingers tight into the sheets, jaw clenching around the painful, humiliating thought, realizing for the first time that maybe you’ve always been a step behind–always catching up, always wanting something just beyond your reach.

Maybe everything you’d felt–everything you still feel–has always been just yours alone.

In the weeks following that afternoon, everything feels different–blurred somehow, like looking through rain-streaked glass. You begin to slip quietly away, retreating little by little from the warmth of Caleb’s orbit. Visits become shorter, your laughter muted, strained. Where you’d once lingered comfortable beside him, passing gentle banter back and forth, you now keep yourself guarded, words fading into careful silences. The garage, once your sanctuary, feels tight and suffocating, walls pressing closer each day. You convince yourself it’s better this way, safer. You’ve always been a step behind, after all–always the kid, tagging along, clinging to someone who never truly needed you in the first place.

You bury yourself deeper in work, the Firebird, focusing fiercely on sanding rough edges, smoothing primer coats, finding any excuse to keep your eyes carefully downcast. You pretend not to notice Caleb’s gaze on you, patient and puzzled, increasingly desperate as each silent afternoon passes. When your hands brush accidentally–still inevitable despite your best efforts–you pull back quickly, cheeks burning, heart aching sharply beneath your ribs.

Caleb notices. Of course he does. He always notices. It kills him quietly, painfully, evident in the shadows beneath his eyes, the uncertain lines forming at the corners of his mouth. But you refuse to confront it, refusing to see beyond the stubborn walls you’ve built, determined to shield yourself from truths too painful to bear.

Then, one evening as the light outside turns purple and dusky, he finally snaps.

You’re alone together in the garage, the Firebird freshly painted and gleaming softly under the glow of the hanging bulb. Despite its outward beauty, the car remains hollow, silent without its heart, its emptiness mirroring your own careful distance. Caleb watches you quietly from across the room, jaw tense, violet eyes clouded with silent hurt he’s no longer trying to hide.

You keep your gaze fixed stubbornly downward, sanding the same smooth spot over and over until your fingertips ache. Suddenly, Caleb crosses the distance in swift strides, stepping directly in front of you, leaning heavily against the Firebird, blocking your escape.

“Stop,” he says quietly, voice low and thick with frustration, and your hands freeze mid-motion, sandpaper trembling faintly in your grip. You can’t meet his gaze–you’re afraid of what you’ll see there, afraid it’ll confirm every ugly fear you’ve been carrying for weeks.

He exhales sharply, forcing himself steady, voice softening slightly, though the ache still threads gently beneath each word. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

Your chest tightens painfully, a hot lump rising swiftly in your throat. You shake your head, words stuck fast in the back of your mouth.

“You have,” he insists stubbornly, eyes narrowing in desperation. “Don’t deny it. Did I–” he pauses, voice breaking. “Did I do something wrong?”

You swallow roughly, finally daring a glance upward. Hurt flickers openly across his expression, raw and vulnerable, and something twists sharply inside you, your heart aching fiercely against your ribs.

“No,” you whisper hoarsely, voice rough, unsteady. “It’s–it’s not you.”

He steps closer, the space between you shrinking dangerously, his voice gentle yet edged with quiet frustration. “Then what is it? You’ve barely spoken to me since–since that afternoon. With her.”

You flinch visibly, eyes dropping immediately to the floor. Embarrassment floods hot and bitter through your veins, your fingers curling tightly into fists at your sides. You shake your head again, mutely denying everything you’re afraid to say aloud.

“You think I’m blind?” Caleb asks, voice shaking now, frustration breaking through his frayed control. “Or stupid? Do you really think I’d ever–” he cuts himself off sharply, jaw tightening in anger–not at you, but at the misunderstandings hovering painfully between you both. “Look at me,” he demands softly, voice barely above a whisper, but so full of hurt it cuts deep.

You finally raise your eyes, gaze locking helplessly onto his, heart thundering so violently you feel dizzy.

“Have you ever,” he begins quietly, achingly, voice raw with vulnerability, “ever seen me with someone else? Honestly? Have you?”

You swallow thickly, head shaking slightly, unable to form words around the lump tightening in your throat.

“Exactly,” Caleb breathes roughly, fingers trembling slightly at his sides. “And yet you’re pushing me away, convinced I’m something I’m not. Convinced of something I’ve never felt, never wanted.” He pauses, voice cracking softly. “Not from anyone but you.”

You stare at him, speechless, your pulse roaring loudly in your ears. His words sink slowly into your chest, slipping quietly past the fragile walls you’d so desperately constructed. You’re wavering now, breath hitching, terrified of what he’s saying, even more terrified of believing it.

“Don’t,” you whisper desperately, eyes flooding suddenly, hot tears burning your vision. “Don’t say that. Don’t say something you don’t mean just because you’re trying to fix this.”

Caleb’s eyes darken further, pained and wounded. He reaches out instinctively, fingers ghosting gently along your cheek before falling away abruptly, hands dropping helplessly back to his sides.

“You think I don’t mean it?” he asks hoarsely, voice aching, the hurt in his tone palpable. “After everything–after every afternoon we’ve spent in here, every drive we’ve ever taken, every stupid joke we’ve ever shared–you think I’m just humoring you? Treating you like some kid I keep around for fun?”

You nod miserably, tears slipping silently down your cheeks, raw humiliation tightening in your throat. “Isn’t that what I am?” you whisper brokenly, your voice barely audible. “Just a kid, Caleb? Someone you’ve always looked after?”

He makes a soft, desperate sound in his throat, reaching for you again–this time catching your shoulders gently but firmly, forcing you to look up, his violet eyes fierce, bright with sincerity and hurt. “You have never–never–been just a kid to me,” he says, intense, voice quavering slightly. “Do you hear me? You were never just some kid.”

You stare up at him, eyes wide, lips trembling, tears still quietly tracing hot paths down your cheeks.

“Then what am I?” you choke out, voice shaking softly, frightened yet desperate for an answer. “What have I ever been to you?”

He breathes sharply, thumbs brushing along your shoulders, holding you steady. His gaze softens into something heartbreakingly tender, eyes searching yours frantically. “Everything,” he whispers roughly, the word so kind, so merciful, so achingly vulnerable, it steals your breath completely. “You are everything to me. I don’t want anyone else–I never have. Not once.”

You break quietly, shoulders shaking with sobs you’ve held in far too long. Caleb gathers you close immediately, strong arms folding around you, pulling you gently to his chest, holding you steady against the warm, comforting beat of his heart.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper brokenly against his shirt, voice muffled, tears soaking through the thin fabric. “I’m so sorry–I didn’t–I couldn’t–”

He shushes you softly, palm brushing gently over your hair, holding you securely. “Don’t,” he murmurs soothingly, voice thick with emotion, warm breath kissing your temple. “Don’t apologize. Just–please, don’t push me away. Don’t shut me out, pips.”

You nod, face buried in his chest, breathing him in–oil and soap and quiet summer nights. It feels right here, held tight in his embrace, the hurt finally bleeding into relief, truth settling sweetly between you.

“You scared me,” you whisper, voice trembling, unguarded and real. “I didn’t know–I thought it was just me, all this time. I thought I was imagining everything.”

Caleb’s grip tightens around you, his cheek pressed comfortingly against your hair, warm and tender. “You’re not imagining it,” he whispers, voice steady, achingly sincere. “You never were.”

You hold onto him tighter, heart slowly steadying, truths whispered softly between you, gentle reassurances stitching the cracks back together. And finally, for the first time, you believe him.

–SUSPENSION (The delicate balance–learning to trust the ride.)

Summer tilts gently toward its close, lingering like the final chords of a song that you can’t bear to finish just yet. August heat mellows into a softer warmth, shadows stretching a little long, the evenings breathing a quiet coolness around the edges. Time feels delicate now, precious somehow, the last golden days slipping silently between your fingers like sand. You’re aware of every moment–keenly, almost painfully aware–as though you’re trying to hold onto each one before it slips inevitably away.

The Firebird is close to finished now, so near completion you can almost taste the sweetness of it–bittersweet, maybe, because finishing it means letting go, moving forward. And you’re close to finished too, nerves stretched taut beneath your skin, emotions raw and frayed. Every glance Caleb gives you feels deeper now, layered with a vulnerability that hadn’t existed openly before. It’s delicate, careful–still threaded softly with echoes of awkwardness–but slowly, surely, comfort returns, piecing itself back together beneath your fingertips.

Caleb asks you to help him install the suspension–an intricate, delicate system of shocks and springs, designed carefully to carry weight and soften every jolt the road has to offer. It feels fitting somehow, poetic even. You’ve both been carrying each other’s weight quietly, gently absorbing shocks without realizing it. Now you’re here, together, working side by side once more, meticulously putting into place the final pieces that will carry you both forward.

The garage feels hushed, peaceful in the late afternoon sun. Caleb works silently, his hands sure but movements slightly cautious, mindful not to disturb the balance that’s slowly, painstakingly returning between you. You match his quiet, saying little, yet each small task feels significant–passing tools back and forth, holding parts steady for one another. The silence is gentle, comforting in a way that hasn’t been for a while. Yet beneath it lingers something raw and open, a muted awareness that makes your heart beat faster whenever Caleb’s finger’s brush against yours.

You watch him as he tightens bolts, grease smeared lightly across his knuckles, forearms flexing beneath rolled sleeves. He’s tense in a way he rarely is, his movements precise, deliberate, almost overly careful–as though he’s still afraid of pushing you away again. You ache softly watching him, wishing suddenly that everything could be easier, wishing desperately you knew how to fix things properly, completely.

Then, quietly, carefully, you move closer. You slide beside him to help align a stubborn bolt, shoulder brushing gently against his, aware of the faint hitch in his breath. He doesn’t speak, just keeps working, breathing slower now, steadier. You’re grateful he lets you close, grateful he trusts you again, even if it’s tentative, fragile.

The afternoon wears on, shadows sliding longer across the concrete floor, sunlight filtering golden through the half-open garage doors. Caleb finally breaks the quiet first, his voice rough, barely above a whisper.

“This is important,” he says softly, hands gripping the wrench tighter than necessary, knuckles white. “It’s gotta be done right, or everything else falls apart.”

You look up slowly, watching him, sensing there’s something more behind his words–something he can’t quite say yet. You nod, signaling you’re listening, signaling you’re there. He takes a measured breath, grounding himself, and meets your gaze finally–violet eyes raw, defenseless, agonizingly open.

“I don’t just want you in the passenger seat,” he says eventually, voice low, thick with something you’ve never heard from him before–need, maybe, longing, definitely. “I want you here. With me. Always.”

The words land like feathers between you, heavy and fragile, yet precious in their vulnerability. Your heart swells painfully, fingers quaking slightly where you grip the suspension coil you’re holding. Caleb watches your reaction wordlessly, breathing uneven, chest rising and falling softly beneath the thin cotton of his shirt.

“Caleb,” you whisper, voice trembling, unsure how to respond to such raw honesty, overwhelmed by the depth of emotion in his gaze. He steps closer, wrench dropping from his fingers to the concrete, forgotten entirely.

“Tell me you understand,” he murmurs roughly, voice tight, eyes desperate, quietly pleading. “Tell me you feel it too–that it isn’t just me. Tell me you want this, us, as much as I do.”

Your heart skips treacherously in your chest, words catching tightly in your throat. You nod quickly, helplessly, eyes shining, vision blurring. “I do,” you manage, voice shaking, throat closing. “I’ve always wanted–”

He doesn’t let you finish, closing the distance swiftly, catching your face carefully in his still-grease-smudged hands, and kisses you–messy, urgent, impossibly tender, lips slightly parted, warm and careful against yours. His fingertips tremble slightly, the faint roughness of his calloused palms feeling like home, safe yet thrilling. You kiss him back clumsily, heart swelling fiercely beneath your ribs, heat flooding through your veins, dizzying and overwhelming. It feels like every careful moment, every gentle glance, every ache you’ve quietly carried is pouring out into this single, desperate kiss.

When he finally pulls back, breathing ragged and shaky, forehead pressed fondly against yours, you let out a quiet laugh–a soft, tearful, joyfully astonished sound that quickly dissolves into a gentle sob. Caleb laughs too, relief spilling through him visibly, thumbs swiping carefully over your cheek to wipe away tears.

“Don’t cry,” he whispers kindly, voice impossibly tender, lips brushing reverently over your damp cheekbone. “Pipsqueak.”

You laugh again, breath hitching, wet, heart aching sweetly at the nickname spoken now in the softest voice you’ve ever heard him use. You press your face tightly against his chest, letting the strength of him steady you, the comforting scent of grease and soap and summer filling your senses, grounding you.

He wraps strong arms around you, littering the crown of your head with soft kisses, mumbling soothing nonsense words that mean everything.

“I thought it was just me,” you whisper against his chest, fingers clutching his shirt, desperate not to let go. “I was so scared, Caleb. I know what you said that day but I still thought I was alone in this.”

He tightens his embrace gently, breathing against your hair. “You were never alone,” he murmurs roughly, voice thick with quiet regret. “I should have told you sooner–I was just as scared as you. Terrified of ruining everything we’ve ever had. But god, the thought of losing you–”

He trails off, shaking his head, his breaths becoming slow and steady to regain his composure. “I can’t lose you,” he finally whispers fiercely. His voice breaks around the words, raw and open. “I need you here, always. Exactly like this.”

You nod against his chest, heart slowly calming in tandem with the steady warmth of his embrace, finally allowing yourself to believe him truly, finally feeling completely safe.

“I want that too,” you whisper, eyes drifting shut, inhaling him deeply, chest swelling with quiet happiness and overwhelming relief. “Always.”

He holds you closer, fingers gently threading through your hair, lips pressed to your temple, murmuring quiet promises you’re finally ready to trust completely. And in this fragile, tender moment, it feels like you’re both suspended carefully–balanced delicately on the edge of something new, something thrilling and real.

Neither of you moves for a long time, simply holding each other, hearts beating in sync, breathing slow and gentle, the garage around you softly lit by fading golden sunlight. The Firebird sits silently beside you both, patiently awaiting the final touches–just like the two of you, ready to carry the weight together, carefully absorbing every shock that comes your way.

Together, at long last.

–HEADLIGHTS (Looking ahead–the future shining bright.)

Late August has a certain magic to it–one foot still in summer, the other gently stepping toward autumn. The air turns just a bit sweeter, carrying faint whispers of falling leaves and cooler nights to come, but tonight still feels like pure summer, warm and inviting beneath a deep velvet sky scattered carelessly with stars. The Firebird sits proudly beneath the soft glow of the garage lights, finally, beautifully complete. It gleams, sleek and smooth as liquid fire, its cherry-red paint reflecting your smiles on the glossy surface like something out of a dream.

Caleb invited you tonight with an air of quiet excitement, eyes sparkling with barely-contained pride. You came prepared, carrying a silly gift hidden behind your back–an apple-shaped air freshener you’d picked up from the gas station on your way over. A joke, but also not, a tiny symbol of something sweetly familiar, something that felt like home. When you presented it to him, dangling from your fingertips, Caleb laughed–a deep, warm sound that settled somewhere inside your chest–and carefully hung it from the rearview mirror with exaggerated solemnity.

“There,” he teased, grinning widely as it swung from side to side, its cheerful scent filling the car’s interior. “Now she’s perfect.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t suppress the smile tugging at your lips. He leaned forward, pressing a quick, playful kiss to your forehead, and you felt the blush rise immediately–warm, comforting, still surprising somehow.

Now, shoulder pressed against Caleb’s in the Firebird’s front seat, your heartbeat flutters gently, fingers drumming lightly against your knees. Everything you’ve both worked for, every careful step taken together, has led here–this quiet moment under the stars, anticipation crackling like static between you.

Caleb’s hand hovers uncertainly over the ignition, fingers brushing against the keys dangling loosely from the steering column. You glance sideways at him, heart swelling at the gentle set of his profile, bathed in soft moonlight. He’s so heartachingly familiar to you, yet new somehow, transformed from the boy you once knew into the young man beside you now–steady, patient, a quiet strength you’ve come to lean on more than you’d ever admit aloud. He’s impossibly beautiful tonight, messy dark hair catching in his eyes, lips curved ever so slightly in anticipation, eyes painted in the colors of nebulae reflecting the warm glow of dashboard lights.

“You ready?” he asks, glancing sideways at you, lips lifting into an easy, affectionate smile.

You nod, chest tight with excitement, fingertips tracing lightly along the Firebird’s smooth leather seats. “Ready when you are.”

He turns the key slowly, deliberately, eyes shining as the engine rumbles to life, low and powerful beneath you both, humming evenly, perfectly. The sound floods the car, fills your chest, spills warmth and joy and sweet triumph into every empty space between you. The headlights blaze suddenly, piercing the darkness ahead, two beams of golden-white slicing neatly through the night.

Caleb exhales, fingers tightening on the steering wheel, a proud, relieved smile spreading wide and open across his lips. He shifts gently into gear, foot pressing lightly on the clutch as if testing the waters, making sure every carefully assembled piece aligns perfectly. The Firebird responds smoothly, like an extension of his touch, purring contentedly as it rolls slowly forward into the quiet night air.

You sneak a glance at him, heart threatening to explode, something tender fluttering deep inside your chest. Caleb meets your gaze, eyes softening, the corner of his mouth lifting as he watches you. For just a moment, the air feels delicate, suspended between you, a thousand quiet promises whispered silently beneath your shared glance.

“She drives,” he murmurs, almost reverently, violet eyes sparkling, thumb brushing against the wheel. “She really drives.”

You grin fondly, nudging his shoulder lightly with your own. “Was there ever any doubt?”

He laughs, low and warm, settling around your heart like a bed of flowers, easing something tight and uncertain inside you. “Not with you beside me.”

You glance down, heart stuttering at his sincerity. You swallow, daring yourself to believe every soft word. “You mean it?”

Caleb shifts into neutral, letting the engine idle as he turns to face you fully, one hand reaching to brush lightly along your jaw, thumb tracing against your cheek. “Hey,” he murmurs gently, eyes serious now, quiet reassurance threaded deeply in his tone. “You’re enough. You’ve always been enough. You don’t need some grand plan or future mapped out perfectly to matter–to me or anyone else.”

Your throat tightens, vision blurring with sudden tears you blink stubbornly back. “But you’ve got dreams, Caleb,” you protest, voice quavering, vulnerabilities surfacing with a vengeance. “You know exactly what you want, exactly where you’re headed. I don’t–I’ve never known.”

He shakes his head gently, eyes tender and patient, fingertips brushing your hair back from your face. “Dreams change, pipsqueak. Life changes. All I know–” he pauses, breathing quietly, “–is whatever comes next, wherever this car takes us, I want you there with me. Always. Just you. Exactly as you are.”

Your heart breaks softly, beautifully, something warm and healing spilling into your chest cavity, chasing away shadows you’ve carried for far too long. You lean forward, heart swelling fiercely, and press your lips to his–a quick, soft kiss, sweet and playful yet carrying all the meaning you can’t fully articulate aloud. Caleb smiles against your mouth, fingers cupping your cheek, warmth flooding sweetly between you.

When you finally pull back, faces just inches apart, Caleb grins, eyes bright and teasing. “Careful, shortstack,” he murmurs playfully, thumb tracing your bottom lip. “Keep kissin’ me like that, we’ll never make it out of this driveway.”

You laugh, heat flooding your cheeks, heart thundering in your chest, comfortable and safe yet thrilling in its newness. Caleb turns back toward the road ahead, shifting into first gear again, his hand reaching instinctively to find yours, fingers tangling together between the seats.

“Wanna ride with me, pipsqueak?” he asks, grinning broadly now, eyes crinkling at the corners, sunlight somehow woven into every glance. “Wherever this thing goes?”

You squeeze his fingers, warmth expanding deeply throughout your body, certain of only one thing–one truth you’ve quietly known all along, even before you’d allowed yourself to believe it.

“Yes,” you whisper, eyes shining, heart finally settling into place, safe and secure. “Of course I do.”

He smiles tenderly, eyes softening, fingers tightening lightly around yours, and presses the accelerator carefully. The Firebird leaps forward smoothly, powerfully, headlights slicing easily through the darkness, illuminating a path toward whatever lies ahead–unknown yet filled sweetly with possibility, tenderness, and gentle, inevitable joy.

You lean your head back against the seat, smiling, breathing slow and steady, comforted by the hum of the engine beneath you and the warm, reassuring presence of Caleb beside you–steady, patient, and wholeheartedly yours.

You don’t know exactly what’s next, don’t know exactly where this road might lead. But as long as you’re beside Caleb, heart open and trusting, you’re certain of one thing–wherever this journey takes you both, you’ll be exactly where you’re meant to be.

Together. 

NOTE: thank you so much for reading! @gojover perhaps this is for you since you lowkey went feral at the thought of mechanic caleb (not judging). i am also in no way a mechanic nor am i qualified or skilled to be building cars so there are definitely a hundred thousand inaccuracies so please go easy on me (art by DeluluDough on X)

[formulaonecrumbs]

junie i could use osc irl rn. how about him comforting reader, trying to help keep her pain under control. massaging her hips, arms, sides, thighs, back, stomach, stomach (all things that are hurting after surgery). just trying to let her relax.

-🧸

slow hands

Oscar Piastri x PCOS!reader

summary: oscar comforts reader after surgery with soft touch and care.

warnings: post-surgery recovery, pain management, full-body massage

A/N: i’m so scared my writings getting too repetitive and u’re gonna get bored of it but i’m running out of ways to make these different and fun and stuff 😭😭 i hope u enjoy it regardless. LOVE U ❤️

p.s. that IS a nial horan reference in the title :p

⚘ ⚘ ⚘ ⚘

you’re barely out of your pain meds haze, body heavy and aching, when oscar settles beside you on the bed with the quietest, gentlest kind of care.

“you okay?” he asks softly, brushing your hair off your forehead. his voice is warm like sunlight, all concern wrapped in love, and you don’t have the energy to do anything but nod.

“hurts,” you mumble, voice small. “everything hurts.”

“i know, baby. i got you,” he says, pressing a kiss to your temple. “just tell me where.”

you take a slow breath, blinking heavy eyes open. “hips. thighs. stomach. back. arms. literally everywhere.”

he gives you the smallest smile—soft and sweet—but there’s nothing teasing in it. “we’ll go one at a time then, yeah?”

he starts with your arms, gentle circles of his thumbs in the muscle, soft pressure, checking your face every few seconds like he’s reading it for pain. he works down to your wrists, thumbs brushing the sensitive skin there. then your thighs—he moves slow, spreading warmth into each sore inch with long, steady strokes.

“just wanna get the tension out of you,” he murmurs, leaning in to kiss your knee. “you’ve been through so much, baby.”

his hands glide to your stomach, skimming the swollen skin around your incision site without pressing too hard. you flinch slightly, and he pauses. “too much?”

you shake your head, even though your eyes are fluttering closed. “feels nice. just tender.”

he keeps his palms open, broad and warm, rubbing in the most featherlight rhythm, like he’s trying to soothe the hurt straight out of you with love alone. “i hate that you’re in pain,” he whispers, more to himself than to you.

“but you help,” you whisper back. “you always help.”

his hands move to your hips and sides, rubbing where he knows the cramping hits hardest, working knots of pain away in slow, loving passes. and when he gets to your back, he helps you turn gently, so carefully, like you might break if he moves too quick. he kisses the top of your spine, trails soft fingers along the curve of it.

“i’ll stay right here,” he says. “no matter how long it takes.”

you hum in your throat, drowsy, limp under his touch. “you’re too good to me.”

“not possible,” he says, already tucking the blanket back around you. “you deserve all of this. more than this.”

and he keeps going, hands everywhere you hurt, until the ache starts to dull and you can finally, finally rest. wrapped in warmth, soft love, and oscar’s voice whispering, “sleep, baby. i’ll be right here when you wake up.”

THE END :>

[foxieduvought]

Something something Simon Riley’s shithead brother buys him a prostitute for the night before he leaves on deployment but Simon doesn’t touch you. Not once. Instead, the two of you chat all night (who wouldn’t want to listen to that accent, even if he only spoke a few rough words?). He learns a lot about you, sitting there and observing the way you flitted about your apartment, inhaled deeply when you brought your cigarette to your lips, propped your feet up on the dining table littered in empty beer cans. He liked you - you were kind, able to hold a conversation, had a bit of sass to you.

Of course he liked you; he was leaving in the morning. Figures his brother would leave him with even more heavy weight to carry when he left.

Something something now you’re the first stop he makes when he returns from every deployment. Writes you one single letter and sends it about a week in advance so you can prepare. He’s never once asked you to do this ritual before he comes back, but you do it anyway. You clear your schedule of all clients for the entire week before, clean the apartment, get your hair done, maybe buy a new outfit. He never once touches you, it’s always a completely pressure-free, fun time.

Though sometimes you wonder what it would be like if while you two sat on your couch, side-by-side, he slid one of those giant calloused hands up the very short skirt you were wearing. Or wondered what he looked like under those jeans - something you hadn’t been able to stop thinking about after you saw him adjust a half-chub when you bent over in front of him one time (purposefully, you little devil).

Then came that time you always feared, deep down: you received your letter from Simon, one week before he’d be back, same as always.

Been a rough one, love. Mind if I steal ya for a bit longer this time?

And he never showed. Months went by. No word. So you feared the worst: Simon had been killed, and you’d never ever know, because you weren’t family, you weren’t a friend, you weren’t his girlfriend, or his wife. You would be left wondering. Forever-

BANG! BANG!

It was 2:30 AM. Stumbling through your apartment, drunk with sleep, you open the door and scream: there’s a gigantic, filthy masked man at your door, and he’s shoving his way in with a wild energy and strength you could never hope to fight against-

“Stop screamin’. S’me.”

You’re sputtering, half angry, half in shock. “Simon?! W-what are you… why are you-“

You reach up to peel the mask off him, assuming your familiarity remained, but he grabs your wrist a bit more harshly than he even intended to stop you from doing so. His eyes are boring into yours, and you just know something terrible happened.

Your voice lowers to barely a whisper. “What can I do?”

He storms over to the sofa, flops down onto it and completely melts into the worn cushions. Head back, arms and legs splayed. “Don’ know what I need.”

And so, for the first time ever, without asking what happened to him, without demanding anything of him except that he let you do something for him, you lowered yourself to your knees between his legs. You’d grown fond of him, though you’d never say such a thing out loud, especially not now, but you could show him. The state of him didn’t bother you, not in that moment, not when he needed you. He might not have known how to verbalize it, but you were what he needed.

He never once moved or touched you, but he kept his eyes on you through that mask the entire time.

[kxsagi]

a little rant then a smol request in the end bcs i wanna let it out and i have no one to talk about it with and this is kinda my safe place (and ik you can make me better with your great writing 😚😚)

~

so, i had this classmate that also liked blue lock and this classmate of mine liked nagi sm. he also acted like nagi (as in like both gamers, lazy but genius and vv tall and shi)

had confessed to him exactly 2 years and 5 months ago and got rejected because he wanted to focus on himself for now and i respected that because I totally understand when things get rough in life you want to distance yourself with others

and everytime i move on from him i keep coming back. the first time was after i got rejected, moved on and it came back just right before our Christmas break because he said to me "Merry Christmas and enjoy your break" (i know I'm a simp) and the second one was after our high school graduation and it only came back when i saw him after summer because we attend the same university (and in the same class too)

it's literally so hard to move on from him, like one of his friends had a crush on me that i had spoken to but cut him off (he was a red flag, and luckily i avoided it) because i was still crushing on this guy 😭

and months later (literally just this april) i noticed he keeps talking to all of our classmates, even my own group friends but when I'm in the picture he starts to avoid me and ignore me as if I wasn't even there?

so here i am, moving on and trying to get the closure i want but can't because he keeps running away from me and i guess that's a good thing (??)

so the request was to make a better ending than my life because oml i can't with this (yes it's a nagi x reader so i can just associate him with Nagi since they're the same) during their student night (prom) where Nagi realizes he just kept running away because he didn't want to fall in love but he knew he'd be better off with reader and confessed that night and they become lovers (yay)

(ps. sorry for the long message and sudden lovestory lore drop, i couldn't talk abt this to my friends because i know if i did, they'll just question my feelings because they know it's nigh impossible for me to move on and let on my efforts go to waste 😔😔)

– 🪻

“𝐢 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐡𝐞𝐫”

a/n: hey pretty! honestly, your feelings are totally okay, normal, and valid. us as girls tend to have crushes on people for a long time, and if he’s still single, then that’s okay! it’s nothing to be embarrassed about it and if he’s a green flag, if you think he’s good for you as a partner, i PRAY that you two get together someday! 

him avoiding you isn’t a bad thing, don’t overthink about it + i’m always here if you wanna talk about anything as well :)

side note: where i’m from, we have high school prom in hotel ballrooms. i’m not sure if it’s like that for other schools

side note #2: i chose i was all over her by salvia path as the title because i think the song is fitting for this scenario. nagi’s known to be lonely and he definitely finds comfort in others’ presence

the music is loud, the lights are spinning, and the ballroom smells like too much cologne and cheap perfume. your heels are already starting to hurt, your mascara’s a little smudged, and your best friend ditched you for their date ten minutes ago. 

and then there's nagi. 

leaning against the back wall like he always does. hands in his pockets. slouched posture. tie half undone. phone in hand like he’d rather be anywhere else. you catch his eye across the room and flash him a look that says really? you promised you'd try tonight. 

he shrugs. lazy as ever. but his gaze lingers longer than usual, like maybe there’s something on his mind. something heavy. 

“this is kinda lame,” he says when you walk over to him, voice low and bored like always. 

“you’re the one who didn’t wanna go in the first place,” you tease, nudging his arm. “but you still came.” 

“’cause you asked.” 

your breath catches a little. he says it so simply. like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. 

nagi seishiro doesn’t do effort. he doesn’t move unless it’s convenient. he doesn’t stay unless it’s worth it. but he’s here. in a suit he didn’t wanna wear. at a dance he didn’t care about. standing next to you like it’s the only place that makes sense. 

“did you eat?” you ask, trying to change the subject before your heart betrays you and starts beating out of your chest. 

he shakes his head. 

you pull him toward the snack table. he doesn’t complain. he lets you drag him through the crowd, fingers brushing together until he just... holds your hand. casually. no warning. 

your brain short circuits. 

he pops a cookie in his mouth like nothing happened. 

you try not to explode. 

“you’re acting weird,” you mumble. 

“am i?” he says, chewing. 

you look at him. really look. something’s different tonight. not in his appearance, he still looks effortlessly good, like some model who wandered into a school dance, but in his eyes. they’re softer. warmer. watching you like you’re something rare and precious. 

“i’ve been thinking,” he says, voice quiet. 

that alone is shocking. nagi? thinking? willingly? unheard of. 

“about what?” 

he glances at the ceiling like the words are stuck there. “about you.” 

oh. 

your stomach flips. 

“i always thought love sounded like a pain,” he continues. “too much work. too many feelings. not worth the effort.” 

you nod slowly. “and now?” 

he meets your gaze. “and now i think i’ve been running away. ‘cause maybe i didn’t wanna fall.” 

you don’t say anything. you can’t. the music fades into the background. it’s just the two of you. the lazy genius who always kept things at arm’s length, now looking at you like he’s finally ready to let go of his fears. 

“but then there’s you,” he murmurs. “you make everything easy. even when it’s hard. and i don’t wanna keep running.” 

your breath hitches. 

“so... can we be something? like, for real?” he says, cheeks slightly red. “you and me?” 

you blink. once. twice. and then you smile so big it hurts. 

“took you long enough.” 

he lets out a soft chuckle. it’s rare. boyish. genuine. 

you pull him onto the dance floor, ignoring his halfhearted grumbles. he puts his arms around your waist, lets you sway with him, lets the world blur. 

and in that moment, nagi seishiro realizes love isn’t something to avoid. 

not when it feels like this. 

© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢