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minkieater · 3 days ago

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yknow what ,,, who in atz makes love vs fucks ,, i am tinking abt it

FUCK THIS IS HARD. controversial take on atz tbh i cant believe mingi is where he is i want him to be a freak so bad but i must separate mental mingi and real mingi

FUCKS: freak bitches

1. hongjoong

hj is a possessive demon freak you can see it in his eyes fr. there isn’t a day that will pass without you getting split in two, he’s not just a freak but he has stamina and he’d rather do literally anything else but sleep, so what better way to pass the time when his brain is fried from making music than to fuck your brains out???? you love his libido and his ability to never turn it off, i don’t think his dick ever softens tbh not really. especially not when you’re talking to another man, that possessiveness really comes into play, it doesn’t matter who it is from your coworker to your friend he’s taking you to the next secluded spot and reminding you who the fuck you belong to. maybe toxic, but that’s hj, and when he’s done blowing your back out you’re reminded every single time that you don’t need anyone else but him (and you like it that way) (he’s my soulmate in the astral realm btw)

2. jongho

he’s a dominant freak and its so fucking sexy. his dominance slips into every aspect of your life, what you wear, what you do, who you talk to, what you eat, never in a toxic way, but in a way that he’s taking care of you, looking out for you, keeping you safe. he loves a good game of cat and mouse, loves when there’s a lil brattiness he has to tame, to assert his dominance all over again— there’s been several nights where you haven’t finished once because you disobeyed him, tears streaming down your cheeks with your legs shaking because you were so fucking close and he ripped it away last second, he knows every inch of your body like the back of his hand, he knows what you’re thinking half the time just by the look on your face. he’s got boxes of toys set aside, ropes and handcuffs and spreader bars, either for torture or your pleasure depends on your behavior (jongho ill be so good for you pls) and he is NOT afraid to use em. god hes so in tune with you and your body and his OWN his control is so fucking crazy i think i could keep going and actually talk about this for hours

3. wooyoung

he’s a fun freak!!!! giggly and experimental he wants you in every position he can think up, he’s creating his OWN positions when he runs out of ideas. he’s fucking you in public, in a dressing room, fingers slipping inside you under the table, a cocky little smirk on his face when you accidentally let a moan slip UGH he’s the type to not be weirded out by anything like if you find some weird shit on the internet and wanna try it out he’s 100% down. he’ll try anything once. you want to tap into omegaverse shit??? he’s barking for you and still fucking into you like its the first time. you wanna get into pee??? cum eating??? bondage??? cuckolding?? it literally doesn’t matter. he’s down and he’s researching and he’s educating YOU. he needs an experimental partner too tho cus his ideas are just as fucking crazy and he is NOT shy about sharing them with you. sex is fun with him, never boring, never stale, he keeps you on your toes just as much as you keep him on his, you’ve spent legit weekends in the bedroom because you tried something new and neither of you can get enough. toys, vibrators, dildos, butt plugs, cockrings, Strap Ons, you have them all, wooyoung is a yes man and no one can tell me differently. with a shrug and a smile on his face EVERY TIME he’s like yeah sure why not Omg and if there’s something that doesn’t work he’s like ok whatever and then just goes back to normal. sex is so chill and so fun and so experimental and there’s never any pressure FUCK wooyoung i fucking love you i got carried away

MAKES LOVE: sweet angels

1. yeosang

guys im sorry he’s here. i do think yeosang is versatile but not often enough to classify him in the middle, if you catch him on a day where is patience is thin he might be using his biceps to cut off your air flow while he’s fucking into you from behind, but on the day to day, he’s kissing every inch of your body, hands in your hair, petting your skin, cupping your cheeks, whispering sweet words, praises, everything is so fucking sweet it usually ends up with you in tears from the emotion passing back and forth between you. yeosang takes care of you in every way, there’s never a time where you finish unsatisfied, he makes sure of it. if you aren’t whining with tears streaming down your cheeks he isn’t done yet, he has stamina and he could fuck you for hours, even besides fucking he’s eating it for hours if thats the vibe. yeosang i want you so fucking bad

2. mingi

man :/

he’s a whiner. he’s sloppy and messy and so fucking virgin even after you’ve been fucking for years, every time is like the first time with mingi. while his hands grow more confident and his body has more stamina, he’s still fucking into you like it’s new, eyes screwed shut and staggered breaths leaving his chest because it’s inconceivable that you feel so fucking good— that’s something he’ll never get used to i fear, how you wrap around him so perfectly, how you’re so warm and wet it’s fucking war to not bust in you within three strokes. he doesn’t tho, he has pretty good control, up until you’re the one whining with tears slipping down your cheeks and he’s losing his fucking shit. elbows pressed into the mattress beside your head, tongue slipping into your mouth with no real rhythm, his cock rutting into you while barely pulling out, he’s addicted to your warmth, the feeling of being inside, the closeness, and god when he fills you up it just spurs him on farther. he’s not stopping until there’s three loads inside you with barely any reprieve between sessions, he’s spilling into you and fucking himself through the overstimulating, crying and whining and praising you because he loves you. im so fuckinf insane im an animal i fucking love this man i would die for him

3. san

this one should not be a surprise tbh san is a caregiver, the way he fucks is spiritual, its all consuming, its heavy and emotional and passionate and everything. you guys probably aren’t into anything hella freaky, farthest is probably a quickie in a dressing room every now and then, but most of the time he’s taking his time with you, stripping you of each scrap of fabric on your body with dainty hands and warm kisses, licking up your skin as if it was candy, telling you how you taste. he’s fucking into you with skilled precision, the movements of a man who’s taken the time to learn every inch of you, what makes you feel good. he’s big into breeding and he’s filling you up every time he def has a vasectomy. would never want u on any birth control because god forbid u change something about yourself for him!!! i feel like san is mad traditional in every way his fav position is probably missionary so he could see your face while he fucks you, holding your hands, kissing your lips that had long gone unresponsive against his own.

SOMEWHERE IN THE MIDDLE: both ways

1. yunho

hahahahahahahahahahahahahha this fucking freak bitch you know exactly what im gonna say. similar to jongho in the sense that he’s controlling many aspects of your life just because he can, he thinks its hot, and so do you. if you disobey him/make him feel disrespected he’s fucking you into next week, and he’s cruel about it, he’s not letting you cum, he’s holding your hands behind your back with one of his own just so you can’t touch him. he’s degrading you, vile words flying off his lips that make you clench tighter around him, he’s pinching your nipples until you’re crying. yunho dom agenda is so real. but he’s not like that all the time, you have your nights where you’re lost in kisses and sweet words and slow strokes, he fucks three loads into you because he wants to get you pregnant, would probably start trying to make you a mother a year into your relationship. if even that long tbh. yunho is mad versatile and he checks off every single box jeong yunho can i please have your phone number

2. seonghwa

😛 I WANT HIM SO BAD this freak bitch i still think he loves voyeurism and cuckolding and shares u. that blurb lives within me. i also think he is mad freaky like wooyoung, nothing puts him off, everything is hot and he wants to explore your sex life as much as he can, if something doesn’t work he’s like whatever we just wont do it again. prolly an ass eater on the regular. super flexible too he’s probably fucking into you from crazy angles like you’re both pretzels LMFAO fuck hes so hot i think seonghwa can do anything at any time. he’s another that loves to fuck you slow, but in a torturous way, like only fucking you with the tip until youre a crying mess begging for more. he definitely gets off on your whines, laughing in your face above you, but when he finally gives you what you want it’s shattering you. deep, heavy strokes, each one has his pelvis hitting yours, all while he’s kissing you sweetly and telling you how good you are for him. seonghwa freakbitch truther!

576 notes · View notes

cheftsunoda · 9 hours ago

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Would you consider doing something with a quiet/ reserved reader. I love the idea of a reader who's an up and coming driver but isn't about the press or media at ALL. Like dodging cameras and running away from interviews, and maybe a boy (I don't mind who you pick) misunderstands and thinks that she's running away from them? Maybe add some drama from f1 update twt accounts escalating the situation and painting the reader in a negative light for being "rude" or "impolite".

Thx!! (Sorry for any confusion, English is not my first language but I hope you get what I mean)

miss misunderstood— op81

smau + blurbs

oscar piastri x !quiet/shy driver reader

yn has a lot of pressure on her shoulders— she is the only female driver in f1 and that leads to her consistently having to prove herself to not only her team, who took a chance on her, but the press who are constantly there hounding her. she has always been very shy and reserved— especially around people she does not know. when fans notice how she skips out on interviews and hides from big crowds, the hate pours in, especially after she is seen avoiding a conversation with the grids other most quiet individual— but he is persistent and wont give up on her.

(a/n) : such a cute idea anon! i understood you perfectly fine my love. i hope you enjoy this. i thought it would be fun to pair reader with someone who is also rather quiet and reserved.

fc : amna al qubaisi

—

f1gossipgirls

257,087 likes.

f1gossipgirls : Almost all of our favorite drivers have touched down in Barcelona for media day. Some of our first arrivals include YN LN, Charles Leclerc, Oscar Piastri, Lewis Hamilton, Lando Norris and George Russell.

—

view 32,057 other comments.

username0 : george not dressed properly for the weather pt 899

liked by f1gossipgirls

username10 : yn always looks like she doesn’t want to be there. why is she even in f1 if she hates to do the job??

username15 : everyone is smiling, waiving, talking to fans and press and then there is yn who immediately books it to the paddock and ignores everyone

username22 : ill say it once and i will say it again— f1 is not a silent film. she either needs to speak up and play the role or step aside. good driver or not. that job comes with more responsibilities than just driving around the track.

username5 : she gives off “im better than everyone else” energy and im sick of her.

username00 : every time i try and like her, she gives us absolutely nothing. cold and awkward isn’t a personality, babe.

↳ username9 : yet you guys eat it up when oscar does it. the double standard is insane.

liked by f1gossipgirls

username11 : its always the quiet ones y’all tear apart for not being loud enough. she’s there to drive. not entertain you.

liked by f1gossipgirls

username17 : you guys are extra hard on her because she is a female. and it is sick.

username101 : she minds her business, she’s fast, and she is unproblematic. you guys are just finding reasons to hate her. jealousy is a disease.

liked by f1gossipgirls

—

They say I’m cold. Unfriendly. Standoffish. Like I’m trying too hard to be mysterious or above it all. But they don’t know me. Not really. Because if they did, they’d know I used to be warm. I used to talk too much. Laugh too loud. Hug people without thinking twice. But that was before. Before the phone call. Before the hospital room. Before the person who knew me better than anyone else—who loved me without needing me to be anything but myself—was just… gone.

Losing a parent is something people talk about like it’s a passage. A sad inevitability. But they don’t talk about what it does to you when it’s sudden. When it’s brutal. When the last words you said were something stupid because you thought you had more time. My dad was my safe place. The only person I could fall apart around. He was the reason I started racing. The reason I believed I could do anything. And when I lost him, I didn’t just lose a person—I lost myself. I haven’t spoken about it. Not to anyone.

Not to my engineers. Not to my teammates. Not to the drivers who think I’m just “shy” or “quiet” or “moody.” Because once I say it out loud, it becomes real in a way I’m not ready for. It becomes the thing people pity me for instead of the thing I’ve survived. So I stay quiet. I keep the noise out. I protect the stillness inside me. People don’t understand it, and that’s fine. They think I’m emotionless when really, I’m overflowing and just trying not to drown. I hear what they say. The fans. The media. That I don’t engage. That I don’t give enough. But I didn’t come here to be their favorite. I came here to race. I came here to honor my father. To survive something else. To find moments of peace between the chaos and the grief that still sits like stone in my chest.

They’ll never understand why I am the way I am. Because they never saw me before. Before the silence felt safer than the world ever did. And I don’t owe them an explanation for that.

—

The air in Barcelona is thick with heat and noise—press cameras clicking, fans shouting driver names like spells, a thousand voices layered on top of each other. I keep my head down but offer a small smile, lifting my hand in a quiet wave. They cheer anyway. Some scream my name. Others don’t. Some just stare, waiting for me to trip or ignore them or give them proof I’m “as cold as they say.”

I smile again, even if it doesn’t reach my eyes. It’s not fake—it’s just not loud.

Security walks with me as I cross the paddock. My eyes flicker over the cameras stationed outside team motorhomes, the reporters already calling out names, hoping for a quote. I tighten my grip on the strap of my bag. Just a few more steps.

I keep walking. Fast, but not suspiciously fast. Just enough to dodge the press circling like hawks, waiting for a moment of weakness, a headline, a clipped quote that can be turned into whatever version of me they want to sell this week.

Finally, I step inside Red Bull. The air conditioning kisses my skin. The silence—relative silence—is heaven. I make it to my driver room, push the door shut with my shoulder, and lean against it for a second. Eyes closed. Deep breath. The chaos is muffled now, like a storm just beyond the walls. Then the door opens again without a knock.

“Nice escape,” Max says, completely unfazed. He shuts the door behind him like he owns the building. “You only almost ran over two photographers. New record?”

I huff out a laugh—quiet but real. “Felt like twenty.”

He drops into the chair across from me like he’s been doing this his whole life. Which, to be fair, he basically has.

Max studies me for a second, unreadable as always. “You look like you’re about to vomit. That your media day face?”

“Shut up,” I mutter, a tiny smirk tugging at the corner of my mouth.

He shrugs. “Just saying. You do realize they can’t eat you alive on camera, right? Legally.”

“I don’t know. I think one of the Sky guys has sharp enough teeth.”

He chuckles, dry and quiet. “You’ll be fine. Say as little as possible. Give one-word answers. Scowl a little. That’s what I do.”

“You give plenty of one-word answers.”

“Exactly,” he says, proud. “It’s an art.”

He leans forward, resting his arms on his knees, face softening just slightly.

“They don’t matter, you know. The journalists. The fans who think they know you. The Twitter freaks. You’re fast. That’s what counts. That’s what wins. Let them think you’re a robot or a villain or a Bond girl or whatever mood they’re in this week.”

I nod. A slow exhale.

“Thanks, Max.”

He shrugs again. “Just don’t cry on camera. I already have a reputation for being emotionally unavailable. Don’t need yours adding to the Verstappen Cold Front.”

This time, I laugh out loud. He grins. Mission accomplished.

“Go be scary,” he says, pushing himself up. “And if you panic, just pretend they’re all standing in front of your car at turn one.”

“I’d drive through them.”

“Exactly.”

He leaves without another word, and for the first time all morning, I feel like I can breathe.

—

I answer with the same even tone I always do. I deflect, redirect, smile where I’m supposed to. I’ve trained myself not to flinch. But it still chips away at me, a little at a time. I finally escape outside, tucked behind one of the Red Bull displays near the fan zone—close enough to be seen, far enough to feel like I’m not drowning. I sip from a water bottle, hoping the air might settle in my lungs again. That’s when I see her.

A girl, maybe twelve, in a handmade cap with my number scribbled on it in glitter glue. She’s holding a small notebook and a marker, standing with her dad and hesitating like she doesn’t want to bother me. I almost keep walking. I’m tired. Overheated. Ready to shut down for the rest of the day. But something in her eyes stops me. She doesn’t look like the others—she looks like she’s trying to be brave. So I walk over.

Her eyes go wide when I stop in front of her. “Hi,” I offer, voice soft.

She blinks. Then holds out the notebook with slightly trembling hands. “Um��sorry, I just—could you sign this? I know you don’t really like talking to people a lot, but you’re my favorite. You don’t have to talk if you don’t want.”

My chest tightens. Not in a bad way—in the way it does when something hits a nerve you didn’t know was still exposed. I take the notebook and sign it carefully.

“You know,” she says, voice quiet, “I get nervous talking to people too. But I think you’re really brave. I like that you don’t try to be loud just to fit in. You make me feel like that’s okay.”

I blink fast. It’s not the kind of compliment I get. It’s not about speed or podiums or stats. It’s about me. The parts I’ve always kept hidden because the world made me feel like they were wrong. I smile—genuinely this time—and crouch a little so we’re eye level.

“Thank you,” I say softly. “That means more than you know.”

Her face lights up like I just handed her a trophy. We take a photo. I sign her hat. She hugs me before I even have time to react—but I don’t mind. Not even a little. As I walk away, I feel lighter. Like the weight pressing on my shoulders loosened just a little. Maybe I’ll always be the quiet one. The misunderstood one. But to that one girl? I was seen. And that’s enough.

—

The moment I cross the line, the radio explodes.

“P1, YN! That’s P1! You did it! You absolutely nailed that last stint—what a drive!”

I don’t say much. I can’t. My throat is tight and my hands are shaking around the wheel. The pit wall is screaming, my engineer shouting through the static. The grandstands blur into one giant roar. I slow the car down and guide it into parc fermé, P1 board waiting. The marshals are waving, cameras already turned in my direction like hungry mouths. I sit still for a beat. The engine is off, the world is loud, but in my cockpit it’s just… quiet. Then I hear it—Max’s car pulling into P2.

“Let’s go,” I murmur to myself and start the slow climb out.

But my limbs feel heavy. Every emotion I’ve buried all year starts clawing its way to the surface, and I’m suddenly not sure if I’ll make it over the halo without falling flat on my face. And then—there’s a hand. Max, already out of his car, standing beside mine like it’s the most casual thing in the world. He holds his hand out without a word. Just a look that says, Yeah, I know. Take it. I take it. He helps me out of the car, firm but unshowy. As soon as I hit the ground, I sway a little, overwhelmed—but I don’t fall.

He leans in, dry as ever. “You know you’re supposed to breathe when you win, right?”

I huff out something between a laugh and a sob. “I’ll try next time.”

Our helmets clink together briefly as we hug—quick, tight, familiar—and then he nudges me toward my team. They’re already there—Red Bull crew surrounding me, cheering, hugging, spraying water. I let myself fall into it for a moment. I smile, genuinely. I hug back. One of the engineers lifts me off the ground and spins me, and I let them. Because this is theirs, too. Ours. But just as the broadcasters and press start pushing through the sea of mechanics, I slip away—ducking behind the barrier, walking briskly toward the cooldown room before they can catch me.

I hear a few voices behind me—“YN, one word for Sky? Just a few seconds?”

I keep walking. The cooldown room is blissfully empty. Cold, quiet, white walls and a table with water and towels. I sit, press the bottle to my forehead, and finally breathe. No cameras. No questions. No pretending. Just silence. Just peace. Just… me. And for the first time in a long time, it feels like enough.

—

The water bottle sweats in my hands, condensation dripping slowly onto my race suit. I haven’t said much since sitting down, and Max hasn’t asked me to. He’s lounging across from me on the other bench, head tilted back, eyes closed like he owns the room. His suit is halfway peeled down and his hair’s a sweaty mess, but he looks… content. Neither of us are fans of the overexposed post-race routine. The lights. The forced questions. The soundbites that get twisted a dozen ways before the sun even sets. So we sit here, in the eye of the storm, letting the world knock on the door without answering.

Max finally cracks an eye open. “You going to do the interviews?”

I lean my head back against the cool wall and sigh. “Eventually. Maybe. If they don’t forget I exist by then.”

He grins slightly. “You just won. They’ll send a SWAT team if you don’t come out soon.”

Before I can answer, the door opens — fast but tentative — and in walks Camille, my press secretary. She’s breathless. Her clipboard’s half tucked under her arm, and she looks like she’s been fighting off wolves outside.

“YN,” she starts, trying for calm but clearly begging on the inside, “I hate to interrupt, but they’re getting antsy. Sky, F1TV, everyone’s lining up. They want quotes, a soundbite—anything.”

I nod slowly. I expected this. It doesn’t make it any easier.

“I’m not doing the scrum,” I say. “Not the pen. Not the mixed zone.”

Camille looks like she wants to scream into a pillow. “Okay. Fine. What will you do?”

I glance at Max, who’s watching like it’s the most entertaining episode of Drive to Survive he’s seen all year.

“One interview,” I finally say. “That’s it.”

Camille’s already flipping through her mental rolodex. “Okay. Sky? F1TV? Maybe something for social? Martin Brundle is waiting and—”

“No,” I cut her off, gently but firm. “If I do one, it’s with Lissie. No one else.”

Camille blinks. “Lissie—Lissie Mackintosh from Sky?”

I nod.

“She’s the only one who doesn’t make me feel like I’m under a microscope,” I explain. “She’s kind. And she actually listens.”

Camille softens a little. “Okay. I can work with that. But they’ll push back.”

“Let them,” I shrug. “I don’t owe them anything else today.”

She studies me for a moment, then exhales and heads out, already dialing her phone as she goes.

The door shuts again, and I fall back into the silence like it’s a blanket.

Max raises a brow. “Lissie, huh?”

“She doesn’t try to make me a headline,” I reply.

Max gives a nod of respect. “Smart. Wish we all had a Lissie.”

I glance down at my fingers, still slightly trembling from adrenaline. “I just need someone who sees me.”

“You just won a damn Grand Prix,” Max says, standing and nudging my foot with his. “They’re gonna have to see you now, whether they like it or not.”

—

yn's post race interview with lissie mackintosh- barcelona

—

third person pov

YN steps down from the small stage, fingers tugging at the collar of her suit as if she’s trying to breathe easier now that the lights are off. She’s walking fast, already focused on making it back to the safety of the garage. She doesn’t see Oscar until she turns the corner, he is halfway through his own interview with a different outlet. He’s smiling—tired, but still upbeat—and when he spots her, his expression brightens like he’s been waiting for a chance to say something. Oscar turned to YN as she passed by.

“You should really be talking to the winner, huh?”

His voice is friendly. Joking. The kind of throwaway line that’s meant to show camaraderie, not pressure. YN pauses just for a second. She offers a small, polite smile—closed-lipped and barely there. No laugh. No response. Just a nod. And then she’s gone. Quiet steps, fast retreat.

Oscar watches her disappear down the corridor, his smile faltering slightly. His interviewer says something, but he doesn’t really register it.

“…Did I say something weird?”

He turns back to the camera, eyes a little more unsure. In the back of his mind, the question settles in— Does she just not like me? But the truth is simpler. And sadder. She doesn’t dislike him. She just doesn’t have room for warmth in the places where the world watches too closely.

—

twitter!

f1gossipgirls : Race Winner, YN LN, only gave 1 two minute interview with @/skysports Lissie Mackintosh. Oscar Piastri who was P3 today, was also doing an interview when LN happened to walk by and made a joke to which YN just walked off. He then asked the interviewer if he said something wrong. Thoughts?

view 120,004 comments.

username00 : imagine winning a race and still managing to have the personality of dry toast 😭 poor oscar was just being NICE

username22 : as someone who watched the full interview with Lissie — she was genuine and soft spoken. maybe what she needs is respect, not attention.

username08 : i love Oscar but this isn’t that deep. she clearly has boundaries and isn’t fake about it. that’s kind of refreshing.

username09 : she didn’t even thank the fans today. one interview and vanishes? okay ice queen 🧊

username17 : not her making Oscar second guess himself when he was literally just being sweet? i would NEVER recover.

username20 : this is why she’s boring. no charisma, no interviews, no interaction. i said what i said. 🥱

username30 : are y’all ignoring the interaction she had with a younger fan today?? she is such a sweetie, she is just camera shy.

—

ynfromredbull

liked by maxverstappen1, oscarpiastri, redbullracing and 1,7005,002 others.

ynfromredbull : good shit.

—

view 74,032 other comments.

lissiemackintosh : Honored to have been the one to share part of this day with you. Congratulations again, YN! ✨

liked by ynfromredbull

username0 : i feel like max is the only one that understands her.

maxverstappen1 : good shit indeed.

liked by ynfromredbull and redbullracing

oscarpiastri : Insane drive today, YN. 💪🏻

liked by ynfromredbull

↳ username0 : oscar is much better than me bc id be a hater rn

alexalbon : can someone pls nerf the redbull team. i am tired.

liked by maxverstappen1, ynfromredbull and redbullracing

username10 : can y'all shut up now- she is literally taking pictures with fans.

↳ username0 : wowww one time in her whole career.

carlossainz55 : such a beast. congratulations yn

liked by ynfromredbull

—

I don’t like nights like this. Too many people. Too many lights. Too many eyes that don’t know me but swear they do. I don’t stop for cameras, I don’t pose, I don’t even slow down when someone calls my name. I just head straight inside the theater like I’m late for something, even though I’m not. I keep my eyes low, find the row I asked Max to save for me, and drop into the seat beside him with a quiet exhale. He glances at me, unimpressed but amused.

“Nice entrance. Scared three PR people on the way in.”

I almost smile. “Was aiming for five.”

He snorts, and just like that, I feel a little more human. Max has always understood the value of silence. He never pushes, never demands more than I can give. We talk a little—about the ridiculousness of the event, the car updates, the championship—but mostly, we just sit. It’s enough. Until I feel a shift. I don’t even have to look up. I can sense someone walking toward us with too much hesitation, like they’ve already decided I’m going to run. When I do glance up, I’m met with wide brown eyes and a nervous smile. Oscar.

“Hey. Sorry—YN? Can I talk to you for a second?”

Max raises a brow. I pause, heart twitching in my chest for reasons I don’t fully understand, and then I nod. I follow Oscar into the hallway, the noise of the event fading behind me like static. The lighting is dimmer here. Softer. Still too bright. He turns to face me, shifting on his feet like he’s rehearsed this five times already.

“I, um—did I do something to upset you?”

My stomach drops.

“What?”

“After the race. I made that joke and you just… walked off. And I get it if you’re not a fan of me or something, I just—” He laughs nervously. “I keep thinking I said something wrong.”

I blink. I want to laugh, but I don’t. Instead, I look down, ashamed.

“No. You didn’t do anything wrong.” My voice is quiet, barely above a whisper. “It’s not you. It’s just… me.”

He looks confused. Still gentle, though. Waiting. I don’t know why, but I want to explain—just a little.

“When I was younger, I lost someone. My dad. He was… my person. The one who made the noise of the world feel a little less loud. And after it happened, I kind of… shut off. I don’t like being watched. I don’t like being asked to smile when I don’t feel like it. I just… exist better in the quiet.”

Oscar doesn’t speak for a long moment. But his expression softens in a way that makes my chest ache.

“You don’t have to explain,” he says eventually. “But thank you for trusting me.”

I nod, throat tight. Then, a flicker of guilt. “And I’m sorry for walking off like that. You didn’t deserve it.”

He smiles, shy and genuine.

“So… you don’t hate me?”

That makes me laugh. Just once, but it’s real.

“No,” I say softly. “I don’t.”

There’s a pause, and for the first time since I got here, I feel something shift in my chest. A crack of light.

He nudges me lightly with his shoulder. “Cool. Friends, then?”

I think about it. About how hard it is to let people in. About how much it scares me.

Then I nod. “Yeah. Friends.”

—

3 month time skip

ynfromredbull

liked by oscarpiastri, maxverstappen1, lando & 2,409,001 others.

ynfromredbull : as my counterpart @/maxverstappen1 would say— these last few months have been simply lovely. 🏆💪🏻

—

view 127,002 other comments.

username0 : this caption is the most personality i’ve seen from her all season.

username14 : i can’t believe she is leading the wdc rn

maxverstappen1 : id sue for copyright infringement if i wasn’t so proud

liked by ynfromredbull

oscarpiastri : very artistic post yn

liked by ynfromredbull

↳ ynfromredbull : thank you mr. piastri

liked by oscarpiastri

↳ lando : OMG SHE SPEAKS

liked by ynfromredbull

↳ lando : yn i didn’t mean that in a bad way pls don’t drive me off the track

liked by ynfromredbull

georgerussell63 : it is against fia regulations to have a teddy bear in the car. RACE BAN (she is still destroying all of us— it would not help save the season)

liked by ynfromredbull

—

f1gossipgirls

428,023 likes.

f1gossipgirls : For the first time in her F1 career, YN LN has not walked into the paddock alone. She walked in with none other than Oscar Piastri himself. Not only did she walk in with him but the two stopped for the press multiple times and stopped to talk with fans. Many people say that this is the most they’ve seen her smile in her whole career. Thoughts?

—

view 15,539 other comments.

username00 : from Oscar “did I do something wrong?” to Oscar walking her in and making her smile… the arc is so insane

username15 : f1gossipgirls is finally being NICE about her. this is how powerful love is

username17 : i haven’t seen her this relaxed since she debuted. i’d cry if i wasn’t already crying.

username22 : this is NOT a drill. she SMILED. she TALKED. she STOOD STILL for the PRESS. what is happening

username0 : So now she wants the attention? Pick a side. Either be private or don’t.

username14 : she’s literally only tolerable when she’s standing next to a man. that’s so sad lol

username20 : i’m sorry but this whole “she’s just shy” thing got old last season. f1 drivers are public figures. she knew what she signed up for.

—

It happens slowly. Like sunlight through tinted glass — warm but filtered, creeping in without permission. Oscar’s been around a lot lately. Not just in the paddock, where we’re both supposed to be, but everywhere in between. Track walks, post-race debriefs, long flights, short layovers, dinners in quiet towns we don’t name on social media. He’s become part of the background noise of my life, and for once, that doesn’t scare me.

I notice it when we’re sitting side by side in the sim room, not speaking, just existing. The silence between us feels easy now. Familiar. Like I don’t have to earn my space — I just have it. I notice it when he hands me a coffee before I’ve even asked, the way he always remembers I take it black with a splash of oat milk, no sugar. Or when he throws a hoodie at me because I always forget I get cold before FP3.

I notice it most on the plane ride. He’s asleep beside me, his head tilted toward me, headphones slipping. I’m staring at the clouds and thinking about how close I am to the title. Closer than I’ve ever been. I should be terrified. But I’m not. Because he’s here. And for some reason, that grounds me.

He mumbles something in his sleep and leans slightly toward my shoulder. I freeze. Not because I’m uncomfortable — but because I’m suddenly too comfortable. My heart stutters. It’s a dangerous thing, comfort. I’ve avoided it for years, convinced it would disappear the moment I reached for it. But Oscar—he never asked me to reach. He just stayed.

Now I’m sitting in row 8F of some transatlantic flight with a soft-voiced Aussie curled up next to me and a World Championship lead in my lap — and all I can think is... God, I might actually be in love with him. And that’s scarier than any press conference I’ve ever dodged.

—

I could already feel the heat of the Monaco sun pressing down as we stepped out of the car. The walk to the paddock always felt long, even when it wasn’t. My palms were tucked into my jacket pockets, nerves dancing beneath my skin like they always did. But this time, I wasn’t alone.

Oscar walked beside me, chatting softly about absolutely nothing — the weather, the coffee at the hotel, the chaos of the Monte Carlo grid. I appreciated it. His voice was grounding. I didn’t have to say anything, and he didn’t expect me to.

I kept my eyes low, used to the flashes of phones and the buzz of people trying to get my attention. Normally, I’d keep walking. Fast. Direct. No room for error. But then I heard it.

“YN!”

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t aggressive. Just… hopeful. I slowed down without thinking. Oscar noticed instantly and stilled beside me.

“You good?” he asked quietly.

I nodded. “Yeah. Just… give me a sec.”

I turned toward the barricade. A young fan was holding a poster of my car from Australia. I’d won that race. My name was scrawled across the sidepod in sharp lettering — a moment frozen in time I’d barely let myself process. I took the marker from their hand, signed it quickly but neatly.

“Thank you for today,” the fan said, eyes wide. “You’re… amazing. You’ve always been amazing.”

The words hit me somewhere in the chest I didn’t know was sore.

“…Thanks,” I said, almost too quietly. Then louder: “Thanks for saying that.”

They smiled like I’d handed them gold. I took one photo — just one. And then I stepped back beside Oscar, who gave me a subtle smile. Not too proud. Not too over-the-top. Just there. Solid. Steady. We weren’t even halfway through the paddock before a Sky Sports reporter called out.

“YN! Oscar! Over here?”

I froze.

Oscar looked at me. “Wanna skip it?”

I shook my head. “Just one.”

We walked over together. I didn’t say much — I never do — but I stood there. Present. Listening. And when they asked how I was feeling going into the weekend, the words came before I could edit them.

“Focused,” I said. Then, after a breath: “And a little less alone today.”

Oscar glanced at me out of the corner of his eye. There was a flicker of something soft there, something understanding. It felt… safe. When we finally reached the Red Bull garage, I exhaled for what felt like the first time in twenty minutes. I peeled off my jacket, tugged at the brim of my cap, and tried to disappear through the back. But Max was already leaning on the pit wall, headset half-on, watching me with that unreadable Verstappen face.

“You smiled,” he said, completely monotone. “Terrifying.”

I rolled my eyes. “Don’t start.”

He smirked just slightly. “I’m just saying… if you become media friendly, I’m going to have to be the difficult one now.”

“You already are,” I deadpanned.

Max laughed under his breath and tossed me a bottle of water. “You did good, LN.”

And for once, I let myself believe it.

—

The world was quiet around us. The kind of hush that only existed in moments like this — between heartbeats, between stares. Monaco’s lights flickered just beyond the windows, gold threads pulling through navy silk. I could hear the sea in the distance. Oscar lay beside me, legs stretched across my duvet like he belonged here. He wasn’t touching me, not yet, but he was close enough that I could feel every inch of space between us — and it made my chest ache.

“You’re quieter than usual,” he said softly, barely above a whisper.

I turned my head toward him. “That’s saying something.”

He smiled, tired and tender. “Fair. Still true.”

I didn’t answer. Because truthfully, I was scared. This was all new. The closeness. The comfort. The way he looked at me like I wasn’t hard to figure out. Then he said it — no fanfare, no buildup, just a simple truth.

“I think I’m falling for you.”

It should’ve terrified me. But it didn’t. Not really. It cracked something open.

I stared at him, eyes burning, heart folding in on itself. “I think I already have,” I breathed, voice barely there.

The silence that followed was thick — not heavy, not awkward. Just real. He reached over, his fingers grazing mine so gently it made my skin buzz. It wasn’t a grab. It was an invitation. And for once in my life, I accepted. I laced my fingers through his and sat up, pulling open the drawer next to my bed. There was only one thing inside — an envelope. Worn at the edges, the flap taped down three times because I’d opened and closed it more than I should have. I handed it to him. His brows furrowed as he opened it slowly. The photo slipped into his hand.

Me, at six. All tiny teeth and wild hair, grinning up like the sun had never set. Standing next to a man in a racing suit. His hand was on my shoulder. The same eyes. The same smirk. My father. Oscar looked between the photo and me, and I saw the shift happen in real time — confusion to understanding to quiet reverence.

“That’s… is that who I think it is?” His voice cracked just slightly.

I nodded, swallowing hard. “My dad.”

I didn’t say his name. I didn’t need to.

“He died when I was eight. It was… it was violent. Sudden. One second he was there, and then he wasn’t. He was my safest place. My everything. After that, I… broke. I stopped talking for months. And when I started again, it was never the same.”

He didn’t move. Just stared at me like I was something delicate, like if he breathed too loudly I might fold in on myself.

“I never told anyone,” I continued, voice barely holding. “I didn’t want pity. I didn’t want to be treated like some ghost of his shadow. I wanted to be me. Just me.”

Oscar’s fingers tightened around mine — not too much, just enough to remind me I wasn’t alone anymore.

“You are,” he whispered. “You’re everything.”

I looked at him then, and for the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel like hiding.

“I think he’d like you,” I said, smiling through the burn in my throat.

Oscar leaned in, resting his forehead against mine, and whispered back, “I like you more than I should.”

And in the soft glow of the Monaco skyline, wrapped in the quiet I used to fear, I finally let myself feel it all. Love. Safety. Peace. Him.

—

liked by maxverstappen1, redbullracing, ynfromredbull & 8,029,003 others.

f1 : Your 2025 World Champion, YN LN! Incredible drive this season, YN. This is well deserved.

tagged : ynfromredbull

—

view 239,492 other comments.

username00 : MY QUEEN! CONGRATULATIONS YN.

username15 : gonna be insufferable about this for the next 40 years ok????

susie_wolff : YN has made history. I am forever proud of her.

liked by ynfromredbull and f1

username30 : people doubted her, the press dragged her, and she STILL smoked them all. cold-blooded. we love a quiet assassin 💅

lissiemackintosh : I’ve seen your journey up close. You are everything this sport needs. Congratulations, champion. 💫

liked by ynfromredbull

oscarpiastri : No one more worthy. What a season, YN. 🏆🤍

liked by ynfromredbull

lando : MY GOATTTTTT LFGGGG

liked by ynfromredbull

lewishamilton : It’s been inspiring watching you come into your own. World Champion sounds good on you. 🔥

liked by ynfromredbull

maxverstappen1 : Couldn’t be more proud. YN deserved this more than anyone.

liked by ynfromredbull

—

ynfromredbull

liked by maxverstappen1, oscarpiastri, lando and 12,037,024 others.

ynfromredbull : this is what it is all about. thank you all. it is an honor to be your 2025 world champ. i hope you grow to love me as much as i love all of you.

—

user has disabled comments on this post.

—

We were far from everything — the noise, the cameras, the endless headlines. Just a small coastal town somewhere in Portugal, sun-drunk and slow, the kind of place where people didn’t care about championship points or last names. Oscar and I had spent the day walking through sleepy markets, eating too much gelato, and laughing at nothing. Now, the two of us lay tangled together on the bed in the little apartment we rented, the linen sheets kicked down to our ankles and the windows cracked open to let in the salt-kissed night air. His hand rested on my stomach, thumb drawing slow circles over the hem of my shirt. The world outside our window was quiet, but my mind wasn’t. Not tonight.

“I want to do it,” I said into the stillness.

He turned his head, his voice a low murmur against my temple. “Do what?”

I hesitated, even though I already knew he’d understand. He always did.

“The interview. I want to finally say it. Talk about… him. All of it.”

Oscar sat up slightly, enough to look at me properly. “You’re sure?”

I nodded, throat tight. “It’s time. I’ve hidden behind the silence for so long. And I don’t want to anymore.”

He searched my eyes, then gently tucked a piece of hair behind my ear. “You don’t owe anyone your pain, you know. You don’t have to justify who you are.”

“I know,” I whispered. “But I want to tell the story. My story. People have made it for me for so long — all the gossip, the assumptions. I’ve let them believe I’m cold or arrogant or just awkward. But the truth is…” I swallowed. “The truth is, I’m just someone who lost the one person that made the world feel safe.”

Oscar’s hand found mine under the sheets, his fingers warm and steady.

“I think he’d be proud of you,” he said softly. “For everything. For surviving. For being brave enough to do this now.”

I blinked hard, staring up at the ceiling to stop the tears from spilling.

“I miss him so much, still. Every day. Sometimes I think that little girl in the paddock died with him — the one who used to talk to everyone, who smiled without thinking about it.”

He pulled me into his chest, pressing a kiss to the top of my head. “That girl’s still in there. I see her every time you light up after a race. Every time you laugh when you think no one’s listening. You’re still her. Just… grown, and stronger.”

I breathed him in — the cologne I’d come to associate with safety and something close to peace.

“Will you be there? When I do it?” I asked quietly. “When I finally say his name?”

“Every step,” he said without hesitation. “Always.”

And in that moment, with his arms around me and the stars blinking somewhere above the rooftops, I knew I wasn’t alone anymore.

Not in the silence. Not in the truth. Not ever again.

—

‘hey lissie— its yn. i want to do an exclusive interview with you. if you’re willing.’

’omg hey champ— obviously id be willing to. where do you need me?’

’my house. next week? i can send a plane your way.’

’ill be there. i am honored, yn. truly.’.

—

world champion, yn, sharing her truths from her home in monaco with lissie mackintosh - 1/2/2026

—

ynsenna

liked by maxverstappen1, redbullracing, oscarpiastri & 17,023,004 others.

ynsenna : i’ve spent most of my life trying to be quiet enough not to be noticed. not because i didn’t have anything to say—but because grief took the words from me before i ever had the chance to speak.

this season changed my life. not just because of the results, but because i finally stopped running from the part of me that hurt the most. my father was everything to me. and losing him the way i did shattered something i didn’t know how to rebuild—until recently. the truth is- i’m proud to be his daughter. but i’m also proud of the woman i’ve become, entirely on my own.

to those who’ve seen me when i couldn’t see myself—thank you. to the ones who stayed kind even when i stayed quiet—you mean more than you know.

and to the person who reminded me i’m allowed to be loved, messy and whole—i love you.

—

user has disabled comments on this post.

—

twitter!

f1gossipgirl : YN just did an interview from her home with Lissie Mackintosh going into detail about her childhood and revealed that Ayrton Senna is in fact her father. She spoke about how her father’s tragic death left her emotionally shut her down for most of her life— and she chose silence as form of self protection. She led Lissie through a room in her house which held a large collection of her father’s helmets and trophy’s and she shared a few photos of them on her instagram today— which her new instagram handle is @/ynsenna. She also revealed in this interview that she is indeed dating Oscar Piastri. Oscar was behind the camera silently supporting her during the interview. Thoughts?

—

view 802,482 comments.

username0 : i’m crying real tears. she carried the weight of that legacy in complete silence. absolute warrior.

username14 : Oscar being behind the camera and just silently supporting her???? marriage. immediately.

username20 : now it all makes sense. the silence, the eyes that always looked a little sad. she’s been carrying so much. proud doesn’t even begin to cover it.

username15 : she didn’t win the championship for the world. she won it for her dad and for the little girl who lost her dad. i’m not okay.

username17 : everything about this interview was raw and honest. we don’t deserve her but god do we respect her.

username30 : the fact she said nothing for years and let people think the worst of her, just to protect herself?? she’s not cold. she’s human. and she deserves peace.

—

oscarpiastri

liked by ynsenna, maxverstappen1, lando & 10,273,005 others.

oscarpiastri : proud to know you. proud to love you. you are the strongest human i know. you made him proud, sweetheart.

—

user has disabled comments on this post.

—

The interview with Lissie had gone live less than twelve hours ago. I’d barely blinked since then. I was curled up on my couch, hoodie three sizes too big, hair in a bun, face completely bare. Oscar sat on the floor in front of the coffee table, his back leaning against the couch between my legs. I absentmindedly ran my fingers through his hair while he scrolled through TikTok with the volume low. My phone buzzed every five seconds on the table, but I ignored it. Oscar didn’t ask questions. He just stayed. And he was quiet in that way that felt like peace.

The soft hum of city traffic below filled the silence until—

BANG. BANG. BANG.

Someone was knocking on my door like it owed them money. Oscar and I both jolted.

“Are you expecting someone?” he asked, twisting to look at me.

“No—wait. Shhh. Listen.”

BANG BANG BANG.

Then—“YN! OPEN UP! YOU OWE US A DAMN EXPLANATION!”

That voice. That unhinged tone.

“Oh my god,” I whispered. “Is that—Max?”

Oscar looked up at me. “Should I get the bat?”

I was still laughing as I padded to the door, the sound of voices growing louder.

“Carlos, stop pressing the buzzer, it’s annoying.”

“She’s probably ignoring us—”

“She probably moved to Brazil, bro.”

“Shut up, George.”

“YN, IF YOU DON’T OPEN THIS DOOR I’M GETTING THE SPARE FROM CHRISTIAN!”

I opened the door. And immediately got hit with a wave of chaos. Max was at the front like the ringleader. Behind him stood Charles, Lando, Carlos, Pierre, Yuki, Lewis, George, and Alex, all staring at me like I’d just casually announced I was royalty.

“Hi,” I said blandly.

“‘Hi’?! That’s all we get?” George sputtered.

Max shouldered his way in first, eyes wide. “You—YOU—” He pointed at me. “Are Senna’s daughter and you didn’t tell anyone?!”

“I told Oscar,” I mumbled, leaning against the door frame.

“Yeah, okay, Oscar gets a free pass,” Lando said dramatically, waving a hand as he walked in. “Since he is the boyfriend.”

“I can’t believe you’re his,” Pierre said, mouth open as he stared around the apartment.

Yuki beelined for my kitchen. “Do you have snacks?”

Carlos gave me a look that was half stern, half soft. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

Lewis stepped forward, eyes kind. “You didn’t have to. But… damn. That was powerful, YN.”

“Yeah,” Charles agreed, nodding slowly. “I cried, but that might’ve been the wine.”

The room was buzzing. Full of movement, questions, half-jokes, too much cologne, and disbelief so thick I could feel it crackling in the air like electricity. And yet, through it all, I just… Chuckled. I mean — this was my life now? Eight world-class athletes pacing my apartment like it was a race strategy debrief while Oscar, my boyfriend, my soulmate, looked like he wanted to protect me from the emotional onslaught with nothing but a throw pillow.

Max stared at me. “What’s funny?”

I smiled — wide and honest. “You guys are all losing your minds in my living room. Like I’m a unicorn or something.”

George raised a finger. “To be fair, you are. We just didn’t know it.”

Lando turned toward Oscar. “You knew. You absolute sneaky bastard.”

Oscar held up his hands, all innocence. “She told me. I didn’t say anything. Not even in the group chat.”

“I’m so proud of you, and also I hate you,” Pierre muttered, clapping Oscar’s shoulder.

And then — without warning — Max said, “Alright, that’s it. Everyone shut up.”

I blinked. “What—”

He lunged. Then Lando. Then Charles. Then George. Before I could even think to protest, I was being dragged into a ridiculous, suffocating, all-limbs, too-many-colognes, full team group hug. My face was squished between Max’s shoulder and Pierre’s head. Oscar laughed and wrapped his arms around all of us from the outside.

Someone yelled, “We’re proud of you!”

Someone else yelled, “She’s a Senna but she’s our YN!”

And I think it was Alex who shouted, “WE LOVE YOU, WORLD CHAMP!”

I couldn’t breathe. Not from the pressure of the hug — from the feeling of it all. Acceptance. Support. Love. After years of walls, of silence, of solitude, it all rushed in like the wave I didn’t know I’d been bracing for. And I let myself sink into it. Maybe, just maybe, I didn’t have to carry the legacy alone anymore.

—

575 notes · View notes

flowersforbucky · 2 days ago

Text

you drew stars around my scars

bob reynolds x reader

summary: you show bob that he doesn’t need to be insecure about anything with you.

word count: 1k

warnings/tags: 18+ only, mentions of past drug use, descriptions of scars from drug use, insecurities, hurt/comfort, kissing and suggestiveness, implied smut, no use of y/n, some angst, fluff

author's note: i fully believe the sentry project would have gotten rid of any scars but i couldn't get this idea out of my head so.. just pretend with me.

please do not read this if any of the warnings could be triggering for you. you are responsible for your own media consumption, take care of yourself ♡

“Honey,” you breathe. He plants a trail of kisses from your jaw down to the pulse point of your throat, where he begins to bite and suckle.

He knows that it's your weakness.

Normally, you'd melt into it – let him take his time peppering you with love bites.

But right now, you're seeking something else. He knows it, too. It's the reason he's trying his hardest to distract you.

The second that your hands crept under his shirt and began easing the fabric up his back, he broke the heated kiss you’d been lost in, moving his lips to your throat, instead.

And then to your collarbones, and then the peaks of your breasts, and your sternum, and so on – until he’s so far down your body that you have no choice but to let your hands fall away from where they’d been resting under his shirt.

A blissful distraction, but a distraction nonetheless.

“Honey,” you repeat when he gets to the waistband of your panties. He pauses before he can pull them down, looking up at you with an expression of hesitation and uncertainty.

“What’s wrong, baby?” He asks, concern etched in his voice. “Do you want me to stop?”

“Well, no,” you laugh. “I don’t. I just…”

You trail off, looking up at the ceiling. You’d been planning how to go about this conversation in your head for days, but now that it’s actually time to string the words together to formulate what should be a relatively straight forward question, your brain is drawing blanks.

“What is it?” He asks gently. He sits up on his knees, placing a comforting hand on your thigh. “You can talk to me.”

There's a part of you that wants to drop it entirely. The last thing you want is to be embarrass him, or pressure him, but you also need him to know that you want to touch him, feel him, see him completely and fully.

Mostly, you want to understand why.

Why doesn’t he want you to take his shirt off? Why is he insistent on wearing long sleeves when it’s the middle of summer? Why is it that when he does take his shirt off during sex, it’s only at night when all of the lights are turned off?

It hurts you to think that he may not see himself the way you see him. All you want is to assure him that he never has to hide any part of himself – not from you.

“You know I love you, right?” You sit up, eye-level with him. His brows crease, in the endearing way they usually do when he’s confused or in deep thought. “All of you?”

He drops his gaze, as if realizing the direction this conversation is heading. He nods. “Of course I do.”

You place a handle beneath his chin, gently tilting his head back up so that he's looking you in the eye once more. “Can I see all of you, then?”

“It’s not that I don’t want you to see me,” he murmurs. “I’m just afraid that you’ll look at me differently once you do.”

“Bob,” you breathe, stroking the side of his face with your thumb. “There’s nothing in this world that could make me love you less. You’re perfect to me, no matter what.”

He gives you a small, hesitant smile before he grabs the hem of his Henley and slowly pulls it over his head. At first, your eyes go to the muscles of his chest. You have caught glimpses of them and have felt them from beneath his clothing on many occasions, so you’re not surprised by the defined planes of his abdomen, but you still can’t help but ogle.

As many times as you’ve tried to picture what he'd look like without the baggy shirts, you're now realizing that your imagination failed you.

Then, he extends his arms. Your eyes follow his to his inner elbows, and that’s when you realize that his insecurity was never about his physique.

You know what you’re looking at without him having to explain. Though it isn’t something he talks about often, his history with drug addiction is not a secret. You're still surprised to see the slightly raised, discolored lines in the bends of his arms, however. Mostly because you didn’t think it was possible for him to have scars anymore.

There’s a couple on each arm, some more noticeable than others.

“All of the others faded a long time ago,” he says meekly, staring down at the marks. “But these got infected, so they scarred worse. I had hoped that the serum they gave me in Malaysia would take care of them, but I guess it doesn’t really help older scars, ‘cause they’re still here.”

You scoot closer to him, once again tilting his face to look up at you. He gulps, blinking quickly to keep unshed tears at bay. Leaning forward, you slate your lips over his. He kisses you back, practically sighing against your lips with relief.

You pull his right arm to you, leaning down to press your lips to the more prominent of the two dark lines in a series of feather-light kisses. Bob’s posture relaxes, and you hear the faintest hum of contentment emanate from his chest. When you've kissed both scars, you move to his left arm and do the same.

“I love you,” you whisper when you pull away. “I think you’re beautiful, Bob. I don’t want you to ever feel like you have to hide any part of yourself from me.”

“I love you, too. More than you know.” He smiles, no longer looking ashamed or embarrassed. He maneuvers you back down against the mattress, hovering above you. There’s a playful look on his face as he smirks down at you, eyes roaming down your chest and to where his fingers once again toy with the band of your underwear.

“Now that we have that conversation out of the way, maybe I could get back to what I was trying to do a few minutes ago? If that’s.. if that’s okay with you?”

You snort a laugh, pushing away the locks of his hair that fall down over his face. "Of course."

******

thank you so much for reading!! as always, comments and reblogs are very appreciated <3

452 notes · View notes

suliigwp · 2 days ago

Note

HIII omg i love your writings!! got this idea while i was in the bathroom blasting alchemy by taylor swift and you were the first writer i thought of that i know would slay this! Reader is a known singer but she doesnt really write love songs which charles is completely fine about. His friends ask and tease him about it and he brushes it off then one night on one of her tours she sings alchemy for the first time while charles is watching from the crowd. His whole world stops and maybe even tears up then he just goes on for days bragging about it. HUMOUR AND FLUFFF WHATEVER U WANT THANK YOU SO MUCH

WHERES THE TROPHY?

Charles Leclerc x Singer! Reader | fluff

SULI: hiii omg you have no idea how much it means remembering me first🥹 thank you soooo much!!!!! — very cool because I actually do have a singer!readers series coming up but none of the love interests is Charles sadly— but I really love singer au's and this was so much fun to write! Thank you so much for requesting, love you, hope you enjoy🫶

I'm absolutely obsessed with this song — stream "The alchemy" now!!!

Warnings: none, short and sweet, Twitter post at the end

Charles liked to think he had you figured out.

At least, the version of you the world didn’t get to see — the quiet one, the tired one after long studio nights, the version that wore his hoodie to bed and snuck kisses onto his shoulder when you thought he was sleeping.

He liked being the silent inspiration, the person behind the curtain. You were his in private — that was more than enough.

"She doesn't write love songs."

That was the line Charles Leclerc had come to know and love. He’d heard it in interviews, read it in headlines, and smiled through every late-night talk show where someone inevitably asked, “So, do you really not write about him?”

The camera would zoom in, the crowd would laugh, and you’d flash that sly little grin. “Don't worry, if I wrote a love song,” you always said, “you’d know it.”

Charles didn’t mind. In fact, he was fine with it.

You were his.

Even if the rest of the world liked to think you belonged to them.

The fans, the cameras, the interviews — they all wanted pieces. But Charles had long made peace with being the part no one else got to hear in the songs.

Because you didn’t write love songs.

Everyone said so.

You said so.

And Charles believed it. Until the night you didn’t.

...

back, first year of dating

“You still haven’t written a song about me,” Charles teased from the couch, bare feet on the floor, one arm lazily slung around your waist. His eyes were half-lidded, lips curled into that soft smile he only gave you when the world was quiet.

You rolled your eyes, brushing your fingers through his curls. “You say that like you’re not already in every other one.”

“Yes, but I want the main character treatment,” he said, dramatically pressing a hand to his chest. “The standing ovation. The bridge that emotionally ruins people.”

You just laughed, kissed his cheek, and said, “Maybe when you win Monaco.”

He groaned. “Cruel woman.”

...

He hadn't told you he was coming.

You were in the middle of a sold-out run through Europe, and Charles was drowning in simulator sessions and car debriefs. But when he saw the gap in his schedule, he booked the ticket quietly, packed light, and told his engineers he was leaving for “something more important than tyre degradation.”

Barcelona was a quick flight from Monaco. Your show there had been sold out for months, and he knew better than to try and sneak in through backstage. So he did what no one expected:

He lined up like everyone else.

He didn’t tell you. You were always happiest on stage, and he wanted to be just another face in the crowd that night. Just a quiet, anonymous dot in a sea of lights and sweat and noise.

Hood up, cap low, a simple black tee that did nothing to hide how gorgeous he was. He bought a pit wristband from resale (triple the price, but whatever), pushed into the crowd, and waited.

His heart beat harder the closer it got to showtime.

He didn’t know why. He’d seen you perform dozens of times. Hell, he’d watched you rehearse in sweats with a tea bag hanging out of your mouth. He lived with you.

But something about tonight buzzed different.

The lights dimmed.

The crowd erupted.

And then you appeared.

...

You always had a certain way of standing still — calm, rooted, like you didn’t need fireworks to be the most magnetic person in the room. Charles felt the shift the second you stepped up to the mic.

“This one’s new,” you said softly.

The crowd stilled.

“I wasn’t planning to play it live yet, but…”

You paused, and smiled.

“He’s here tonight.”

The girls around Charles screamed.

He went still.

No.

You’re not—

The opening chords were simple, soft. A rhythmic pulse like a heartbeat.

"Shirts off, and your friends lift you up over their heads, Champagne sticking to the floor"

The lyrics felt so close, so personal, Charles swore you were staring right at him, even though you couldn’t see him through the crowd.

"Cheers chanted, cause they said, There was no chance, trying to be The greatest in the league"

And then.

Then.

“Where’s the trophy? He just comes running over to me.”

Charles’s knees nearly buckled.

The lyric struck him like a punch to the gut.

He didn’t even breathe for a second — chest tight, hands shaking, mouth parted in stunned silence.

You remembered.

Monaco.

That day.

The crowd, the flags, the win — his first home win. The one he had chased like a ghost for years.

He remembered the noise, the champagne, the cameras flashing. But more than anything, he remembered you, standing behind the barrier, tucked to the side — quiet and glowing and waiting.

He hadn’t even thought.

He just ran.

Straight to you. Through the crowd. Past everyone. Helmet barely off.

You caught him in your arms like you’d been waiting there your whole life.

“Where’s the trophy?” the reporter had asked him after.

And he’d smiled before glancing over at you.

...

By the time you hit the final chorus, Charles had completely given up pretending he was okay.

His eyes were glassy. His cheeks were damp.

A teenage girl next to him elbowed her friend and whispered, “That guy is, like, sobbing.”

He didn’t even notice.

When you sang the last line and let the guitar fall quiet, Charles couldn’t move.

The stadium exploded in sound.

You bowed.

The lights went out.

And he just stood there — one hand pressed over his heart, whispering the lyric under his breath like a prayer.

...

Backstage, everything felt like static.

You were mid-change when a tech knocked on the greenroom door.

“Uh… sorry, there’s a guy trying to come back here. He says he’s your boyfriend? Hoodie, cap, extremely beautiful—kind of panicked?”

You laughed, heart already racing.

“Let him in.”

Charles barrelled into the room like a man possessed.

“You—” he said, voice raw.

You turned, makeup still smudged, hair frizzing from sweat, and barely had time to open your arms before he was there — pulling you into him like he hadn’t seen you in years.

“Monaco?” he whispered.

You nodded against his chest.

He pulled back just slightly, hands cupping your face, eyes red-rimmed and earnest. “You remembered.”

“Of course I did.”

“You wrote about it.”

A breathless laugh. “You wrote about me.”

You shrugged playfully, nose brushing his. “Guess you’re the main character now.”

His grin cracked wide and helpless, and then he kissed you. Soft, slow, deep — the kind of kiss that says thank you and I love you and I’m never letting this go.

“You’re screwed now,” he whispered, grinning against your mouth.

“Why?”

“Because I’m going to brag about this forever.”

...

And he did.

The next morning:

And for the rest of the season, no matter how many podiums he earned, Charles had one answer to every post-race interview:

“Where’s the trophy, Charles?”

“She’s probably watching from home.”

Taglist, comment to be added;

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kxsagi · 3 days ago

Note

HIHIHIIIII POOK vould you do something w the bllk boys (isagi, itoshis, shidou n whoever else u'd like😽) and reader who's been really down lately, like the average depression blues and maybe the boys take care of them a little 😁only if u wanna ofc ofc

“𝐦𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐛𝐨𝐲 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐡𝐚𝐬 𝐚𝐥𝐰𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐛𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞��𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐦𝐞”

a/n: yesss ofc, i hope this brought some comfort!

i couldn't think of a title idea for the life of me and wrote most of this late at night 🌚

ft. isagi yoichi, itoshi sae, itoshi rin, shidou ryusei, bachira meguru, mikage reo, nagi seishiro, karasu tabito, aiku oliver, kaiser michael, ness alexis

isagi yoichi

isagi notices first when your texts start getting shorter. you’re saying “i’m tired” more often, cancelling plans, and your usual emojis are missing. he doesn’t pry, he knows that can make it worse.

instead, he starts showing up unannounced with your favorite food and something soft, like a hoodie of his he knows you love or a little plushie. he doesn’t say why he’s there. he just sits beside you, talks about his day, and holds your hand.

when he sees you struggling to get out of bed, he gently rubs your back and whispers, “you don’t have to do anything today, love. but if you want, we can just lie here. i’ll be your blanket.”

and then he actually just… lays on top of you like a weighted comforter.

he’ll do your skincare, braid your hair with tik toks in the background, and narrate his entire football training schedule in the most boring monotone possible until you finally giggle.

itoshi sae

he’s not good with emotions, but he’s very good at noticing them. and lately, your voice’s been quieter, your eyes a little duller.

he doesn’t say, “what’s wrong?” he says, “you haven’t smiled in three days.”

sae starts doing things without asking. dishes? done. laundry? folded. fridge? stocked. and every time you protest, he gives you this deadpan look like, “don’t argue with me when you’ve been living on toast and sadness.”

one night, he lies down beside you, not touching, just watching you breathe under the moonlight. then, in the quietest voice ever, “you don’t have to pretend to be okay with me. i’ll sit in the dark with you.”

if you cry, he doesn’t say “don’t cry.” he just pulls you into his chest and rubs your back until the silence becomes soft again.

itoshi rin

rin has no idea how to help at first. he watches you zone out mid-sentence, sees you curled up in bed at 2 PM, and feels this tight ache in his chest. he hates seeing you like this.

his version of helping is silently putting your comfort things around the room: a heating pad, your favorite hoodie, a playlist that he made secretly titled “for her on bad days,” and your favorite snacks on the nightstand with a sticky note: “eat or i’ll kill you. – rin.”

when you start crying randomly, rin panics. he stiffens up, goes “uhh, shit, uhhh” and then just awkwardly hugs you from behind like a koala.

“you’re allowed to be sad, okay?” he mumbles into your hair. “just don’t shut me out.”

he’ll lay there with you, barely moving, one hand resting on your hip to let you know he’s there, even when you can’t talk.

shidou ryusei

surprisingly… shidou handles it better than expected. he notices when your energy disappears. he’s the one dragging you out of the house when you’ve been inside for four days straight.

“sunlight, baby. vitamin D. you need it. and me. mostly me. and my vitamin D–”

when you’re curled up like a burrito, he physically lifts you and throws you over his shoulder, yelling, “you don’t need therapy, you need tacos. and me. mostly me. and my di–”

he makes you laugh when you really don’t want to. calls your depression “the emo gremlin in your brain” and offers to fight it. literally draws a face on a pillow and body-slams it yelling “GET OUTTA HER HEAD YOU GREMLIN BITCH.”

when the laughter dies down and your eyes go sad again, he softens. “hey… you don’t have to be happy around me. i’m not goin’ anywhere. you got me.”

bachira meguru

he notices immediately. he feels it. when your voice loses its color, when your hugs don’t hold as long, when your smile doesn’t crinkle your eyes anymore.

he paints you a mural on a giant canvas, full of bright yellows and warm oranges and little cartoon versions of you two holding hands.

“this is how i see you, even when you don’t.”

if you’re having trouble eating, he turns it into a goofy picnic on the floor with tiny flags and “rate this snack from 1 to 10 or i’ll explode.”

when you cry in silence, he doesn’t ask why. he just cups your face gently and rests his forehead on yours.

“you’re allowed to be messy and quiet and heavy. i still love you just the same.”

mikage reo

the moment reo sees your energy drop, he drops everything else. meetings? postponed. training? moved. if you text “i’m not feeling good today,” reo shows up in ten minutes flat, in sweats and with a bag of your favorite pastries.

he doesn’t try to cheer you up by telling you to “look on the bright side.” instead, he says: “then let’s sit in the dark together, baby.”

starts spoiling you even more when you're down – luxury spa kits, takeout from expensive places, even orders a custom plush of himself for you to “cuddle when he’s not around” (he pretends it’s a joke, but he’s 100% serious).

when you start blaming yourself for being distant or moody, he holds your face and says, “hey. you’re not a burden. if anything, it’s an honor to be trusted enough to see you like this.”

(stopppp reo you’re gonna make everyone cry 😭)

nagi seishiro

nagi might seem laid back, but he notices right away when something’s off. you haven’t texted him your usual memes? you didn’t rant about something dumb today? yeah, no. he’s crawling into bed with you.

no words – just silently pulls you into a warm cuddle pile, head tucked under his chin, arm lazily but protectively around your waist.

“existing is hard. let’s do nothing together, mkay?”

he starts playing cozy games on switch next to you while letting you snuggle up. if you peek over to watch, he hands you the extra controller and says, “you don’t have to talk. just press A sometimes.”

kisses your forehead so gently when you fall asleep mid-sniffle and whispers, “you’re still my favorite person, even when you’re sad.”

karasu tabito

he gets weirdly good at dealing with it. he’s the “joking but also serious” boyfriend who forces you to shower by making it into a fake olympic sport.

“if you get out in under 10 minutes, you win a forehead kiss and a chicken nugget.”

if you cancel a hangout, he immediately texts “no worries 💕 love u 💕 but also ur dumb and i’m coming over to throw bread at your window 🥖”

has a sixth sense for when your brain spirals. texts you things like: “you’re hot. emotionally complex. and mildly unstable in a sexy way. this is a pro-depression household as long as you let me hug you after.”

and when you get quiet and low, he stops joking. his voice softens. “don’t disappear on me, okay? i don’t care if you’re not sunshine right now. i just wanna be where you are.”

aiku oliver

the guy who tries to make you laugh with the dumbest things like putting cucumbers on his eyes and moaning “self-care is sexy” to cheer you up.

but also the one who sits you down and asks how you’re actually feeling in a calm, grounded voice that makes you tear up.

“listen, babe. it’s okay to feel like crap. just means you’re human. hot, wonderful, sometimes-sad human.”

runs you bubble baths, makes sure you’re fed, brushes your hair if you let him, and throws your depressive guilt out the window.

“you don’t owe me joy, y’know? you just owe yourself a little kindness. i’ll remind you every day if i have to.”

kaiser michael

the second you stop being your usual self, kaiser panics internally. not that he’ll ever admit it. instead, he becomes overly dramatic and possessive in the name of “fixing it.”

“who hurt you? was it the world? was it capitalism? was it that barista who spelled your name wrong? i’ll destroy them.”

makes you get out of bed just to lie on his chest like a weighted throne. “you’re not allowed to be sad unless it’s on top of me.”

he doesn’t say “cheer up.” he says, “you’re allowed to be fucked up. i am, too. but if you’re going down, i’m going with you and we’re doing it with style.”

buys you matching sunglasses and says you two are going to sabotage the universe together unless you feel like napping first.

but when you’re really, really quiet, when you don’t want jokes or noise, he kisses your temple and says softly, “you don’t have to be anything right now. not perfect. not productive. just… stay here. i got you.”

(it’s rare but when it happens, it breaks you and heals you all at once.)

ness alexis

ness notices right away. he’s so emotionally tuned in, you barely have to say anything. if you sigh a little too heavy, he’s already checking your temperature and fluffing pillows.

“what do you need? food? music? a hug? a legally binding note saying you don’t have to do anything today?”

becomes the cuddliest nurse on earth. wraps you in a blanket like a burrito and hand-feeds you snacks while talking about random stuff just to fill the quiet without making you feel pressured to respond.

sends you memes with captions like “me trying to be a functioning adult” but checks up five minutes later like: “okay, but seriously. do you want me to skip practice and come over?”

writes you tiny notes and hides them around the apartment. in your book: “you’re still the main character.”

on the bathroom mirror: “your sadness doesn’t scare me. i’m staying.”

when you cry and say “sorry for being like this,” ness hugs you tighter and whispers, “don’t apologize for being human. i love you even when you’re not okay. maybe especially then.”

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vettelsvee · 2 days ago

Text

NEW YEAR'S DAY | Oscar Piastri

⋆ PAIRING: Oscar Piastri x Girlfriend!Reader ⋆ SUMMARY: A clumsy and unexpected proposal on New Year's Day is what you wouldn't have thought about after dating Oscar for almost five years ↳ Part of REPUTATION in MY TORTURED DRIVERS DEPARTMENT ⋆ WARNINGS: Curse words ⋆ WORD COUNT: 1722 ⋆ VEE'S NOTES: I loved writing this one! Hope you like it as much as me ☺️ Feel free to tell me in the comments <3 ↳ LET'S TALK/REQUESTS! | FORMULA 1 MASTERLIST

Oscar was nervous, really nervous… maybe even more than the day he won his first Formula 1 race and had no idea how to act.

“Which one do you prefer: blue pants or the black ones?”

“Oscar, sweetheart… it’s just New Year’s at our place. With your family. And with Lando. It’s all very casual, so stop overthinking what pants wearing!”

You answered from the kitchen island, struggling to cut a pineapple with a knife that was very likely the one Oscar had promised to sharpen. A promise, clearly, left unfulfilled.

Oscar looked at himself in the mirror and rolled his eyes at your answer.

The thing was you were supposed to be helping him. Instead, you were doing quite the opposite.

“I just want to look good, you know? It’s the first time we’re hosting New Year’s here, and, well… you never know what might happen. It’s a special night.”

“Come on, Osc, why are you so nervous?” you asked, narrowing your eyes at him. He avoided your gaze and sneezed instead.

“Okay… you’re definitely hiding something.”

“You think I’m hiding something because I sneezed?”

You nodded. You knew he always did that when he was dodging a topic, and then there was the way he kept fidgeting with his hands, tapping anxiously on his thighs.

“I’m not hiding anything, I swear,” Oscar said again. He tried to sound convincing, but the tremble in his voice gave him away. “I just want tonight to be… memorable.”

All you could do was smile. As much as you didn’t like being left in the dark, the way he kept secrets was, somehow, ridiculously charming. Especially coming from someone like Oscar, who rarely let his emotions show, no matter how hard you’d tried to help him open up.

As the hours passed and midnight drew closer, your home filled with people. First came Oscar’s mom and stepdad. Then his father arrived with his three sisters, who wasted no time grabbing cold beers while casting suspicious glances at your boyfriend. Lando, who was supposed to be one of the first to arrive, ended up being among the last. He said nothing until he reached the makeshift DJ booth he’d insisted you set up behind Oscar’s back. Even your cousin, who hadn’t been too keen on attending such a “different” kind of party, showed up unexpectedly, arm-in-arm with a guy you’d never seen before and who looked nothing like her usual type.

“Who let Oscar cook?” Lando asked, holding up a canapé with salmon that was, honestly, a little overdone. “This piece of toast looks incinerated.”

“Take it or leave it!” Oscar shouted from the kitchen, wrestling with an egg-shaped timer that refused to stop beeping. He slammed it repeatedly against the counter until it finally cracked open. “Holy shit!”

You shook your head, laughing quietly at the surreal scene, especially when Hattie walked over to Oscar and made him swear to buy you a new timer, plus something else she whispered in his ear that you couldn’t quite catch.

You tried, once again, not to read into the secrecy, but it got harder when his entire family huddled in a corner of the living room, politely but firmly refusing to let you join them.

Your cousin must’ve sensed your confusion, because when she came over, you finally felt like you could breathe again.

“Have you noticed how weird Oscar’s acting? Imagine if he proposes to you!”

“What? No, come on,” you replied quickly, doing your best not to get your hopes up. “In front of his whole family? On New Year’s Eve? That’s so not his style.” You shook your head. “If he ever did something like that, it’d be at home, after dinner or something low-key. He’s not the kind of guy who’d go public with that.”

“Exactly. That’s why I’m saying it. Why else would he be this nervous, today of all days? It’s not your first New Year’s together… It’s too obvious.”

You brushed the idea aside, but no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t quite shake it off. Especially when, at 11:30 p.m., Oscar disappeared without a word and now, his sisters and Nicole were clearly stalling you.

Oscar tried to sneak into your bedroom unnoticed, but he knew he hadn’t succeeded. Did he care? Not one bit. Clutching the velvet ring box he’d hidden in his travel bag, he had bigger things on his mind.

“Okay, breathe… You’ve rehearsed this over ten times alone, and five with Lando…”

He crouched down, then stood in front of the full-length mirror to practice kneeling. But on the third attempt of “how to propose to my girlfriend without completely embarrassing myself,” he tripped on the rug and fell flat on his face.

“Shit…”

“Oscar, babe? Are you okay?”

Your voice made him scramble to his feet and instinctively toss the ring box to the back of the closet, terrified you’d catch him.

“Yeah, yeah, everything’s great! Just, uh… rehearsing how to celebrate the New Year with you!”

“Osc, sweetheart, this isn’t our first New Year’s together,” you said as you jiggled the door handle, trying to open it. “Are you sure you’re okay? You’ve been acting a little… off today.”

And that was putting it mildly.

“I’m just nervous because, you know… this is the first of many New Year’s where I’m a Formula 1 world champion!”

You shook your head. At that point, it was obvious—Oscar was up to something. Whatever it was, good or bad, it was going to surprise you.

You said goodbye and reminded him not to take too long—only ten minutes left until midnight. He promised he’d be quick, just needed to stop by the bathroom.

Once he heard your sandals fade down the hallway, he let out a long sigh of relief and turned to face the mirror one last time.

“All right… ‘I want to spend the rest of my life with you, through the good and the bad. So… will you marry me?’”

[...]

"Five minutes to midnight!" Lando shouted from the terrace, half a glass of champagne in hand as he finally abandoned the DJ booth.

"God, it was about time he got out of there," Nicole whispered to you. "Do you have any idea how nervous that music was making me?"

While you kept chatting with your mother-in-law, Oscar stepped out onto the balcony looking much paler than usual. It was obvious something was up: he scratched the back of his neck, stared at the sky, shoved his hands into his pockets, then looked straight at you and gave you a nervous smile.

"Hey, Osc... are you okay?" you asked, walking up to him with a shyness you hadn’t seen in him since you first started dating back in high school.

"Yeah, yeah, I’m fine." He glanced at his mom, who was standing behind you. She gave him a discreet thumbs-up. "I just… really want to see the fireworks."

"Oscar. You hate fireworks."

"Exactly the reason why I’m nervous."

He swallowed hard.

You let the little lie slide; there wasn’t time to call him out anyway, because everyone around you had started the countdown. So you just smiled, wrapped your arms around him, and kissed his cheek.

Oscar, gently pulling away, reached into his pocket to grab the box… only to find it wasn’t there.

"No, no, no… shit… where the hell are you?" he muttered under his breath, pretending his panic was about the upcoming fireworks.

He checked the other pocket… nothing. Looked down… nothing. Then, as he fumbled with the back pockets, he finally felt the box. Unfortunately, in pulling it out, it slipped from his hand and hit the ground with a soft thud.

"Five, four, three, two, one…!"

And Oscar tripped right over your feet.

"Happy New Year!"

You dropped to your knees in a slight panic to help him up, praying he hadn’t hurt himself, because the sound of the fall had been anything but soft.

What you weren’t expecting was to find him kneeling in front of you, holding an open box with the ring. The one you’d been eyeing for six months.

You stared at him, confused… and then completely speechless.

"Wait… are you really serious? This isn’t a joke, right?"

He looked up at you. Hair a mess, shirt wrinkled and soaked in champagne from the bottle Lando had just popped. Tiny pieces of confetti stuck to the beads of sweat on his face.

"Yes and no," he said, a sheepish grin spreading across his lips. "I mean, sure, I think I’ve dislocated a hip and lost most of my dignity, but… I guess it was worth it."

Then, with just a few quiet seconds and a single question, your eyes welled up.

"Will you marry me?"

Silence wrapped around the room. No one screamed. No one pushed you to answer. You even noticed Lando thoughtfully turning the music down, switching it to Lover by Taylor Swift, the song you’d once told Oscar you wanted playing when you got proposed to.

"Of course, you idiot," you said, tears rolling down your cheeks as you helped him up and pulled him into the tightest hug, burying your face in his chest. "But promise me you won’t be this nervous on our wedding day."

[...]

"Do you think it was too… casual?"

The party was over, and now the two of you were curled up in bed, sharing a McDonald’s burger because, as it turned out, Lando was right—putting Oscar in charge of New Year’s dinner had been a mistake you wouldn’t repeat.

"Well… you tripped over a rug while rehearsing, then fell again and ended up with confetti all over your face. So I wouldn’t call it casual. I’d say… unique."

"Yeah… It definitely didn’t go as planned."

"But it was perfect anyway," you cut in.

Oscar sat up, holding his Big Mac box like it was a sacred artifact, and looked at you.

"Really?"

"Of course! If there’s anything that defines us, it’s not just how much we love each other… it’s also how ridiculously clumsy we are."

"Right… And listen, speaking of clumsy…" he said with a guilty grin. "I think it’s very much fair you tell Lando that you were the one who burned all the food and ruined New Year’s dinner."

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littlegrapejuice · 3 days ago

Text

Post Uploaded! | IH6

Pairing: Isack Hadjar x Reader

Summary: Being VCARB's social media admin is definitely not for the weak, especially when you got a chaotic duo to babysit. But maybe it isn't so bad when it means that you can land a cute driver as your boyfriend.

Author's Note: whoever's the actual vcarb admin, ilysm🫶🏻 istg i look forward to watch whatever they post everyday, it's just fucking hilarious + the dynamic btwn isack and liam is🔛🔝 also, huge thank you to my bestie @sk8termikey who beta read this, ily babe<3

F1 MASTERLIST🏎

“Have you seen this trend?” was probably the question that Isack asked you the most. And whether you replied positively or negatively, it was always followed by “can we do that?”.

As part of Racing Bulls’ social media team, it was supposed to be your job to be creative and find ideas for the team’s socials. However, due to Isack being even more chronically online than you, he was always suggesting things before you even had time to edit and post the previous videos you had filmed.

It was certainly a bit calmer now that Liam had replaced Yuki at Racing Bulls – Yuki was as chaotic as Isack, and them being together meant that you were never able to catch a break during race weekends. Still, Liam and Isack made up for a crazy duo.

But even if you let out the biggest sigh known to mankind whenever Isack was walking up to you, far from innocent grin on his face, you were glad that you didn’t have to force your drivers to film content. Social media admins from the other teams often expressed their jealousy, gushing about how lucky you were that you didn’t have to chase your drivers in the paddock just for a ten seconds long video.

You weren’t paid enough for that, though. You loved your drivers, you really did. But God, they were way too energetic for you. You had to listen to them talk about Cars at least twice a day – you loved the film, but not enough to hear about it every time you were with them; and they often argued about who you’d prefer based on whose idea you’d film first – definitely not Isack. But the most draining thing was for sure when they would both follow you everywhere around the paddock as soon as they had a video idea. Hell, you even had to get lunch with them – more like them getting lunch with you actually – while they showed you examples and made you listen to funny audios.

But you loved them, most of the time.

Except right now.

Right now, all you wanted was to relax. Well, relax as much as you could while working. You had your headphones on with some of your favourite songs playing and were looking at some pictures from the latest race as you had to choose which ones to post after having also edited several videos. You were in your little bubble, until Isack sat down in front of you. You tried your best to ignore him for the time being, but you could see from the corner of your eye that he was expecting you to interact with him.

Not removing your headphones, you decided to acknowledge him:

“Please, just give me ten minutes. I’m almost done with this, and then I’m all yours. Been on it for the past hour; I’m dehydrated and I have a headache, but I’ll be free for whatever silly trend you got. Just ten minutes, thanks Isack.”

It could’ve been considered rude from you to not even glance at him, but he understood. Not that you had seen or heard anything, but Isack nodded and told you that he would be back soon. You were focused on your task, and desperately needed to finish it before the next event of the weekend was to happen. You weren’t usually this dramatic, but you were more exhausted than usual because of the triple header, and were therefore more stressed to not fulfill your job within the deadlines.

After ten long minutes that felt like an hour, you were finally done with your editing. Pictures and videos had been posted; they featured both drivers, and all had a nice caption. You sighed as you leaned back on your chair, removing your headphones before putting them around your neck. You then noticed that Isack wasn’t here anymore, and wondered if you had been too mean to him.

Still, you took advantage of the calm and silence that echoed in the room. Everyone else was either downstairs or outside, and you found peace in the quiet around you as you closed your eyes.

Breathing in, and out. In, and out.

You were a bit less tense than earlier, and kept enjoying the silence until you heard someone approach as they seemingly put something on the table. Opening your eyes, you saw that Isack was sitting down once again in front of you.

“You’re back, good. Just five more minutes of peace, and we can film whatever you want.”

“It’s okay,” Isack replied. “This is for you, by the way.” He pointed to the glass on the table.

“Me?” You asked, straightening up and looking at him.

“Yeah, you said that you were dehydrated and had a headache. So I brought you a drink, and some painkillers.”

That’s when you noticed the blister pack next to the glass, and you couldn’t help the smile that appeared on your face. Immediately popping a pill into your mouth, you didn’t hesitate gulping down half of the drink right after. You let out a satisfied sigh, which made Isack chuckle.

“Better?” He wondered.

“Yeah, that will definitely help. Sorry about earlier,” you apologised. “Guess I got a bit grumpy, but I’m free for you if you wanna tell me about whatever trend you found.”

Isack dismissed your apology and told you it was fine, before he quickly got his phone out to open TikTok. His enthusiasm was contagious. Soon enough, you were back to your usual self and laughing at the video that Isack was showing you as you both discussed what your take would be for the team’s social media.

…..

You didn’t know what to expect when you accepted that Isack and Liam take control of the team’s socials for a day. You had only agreed to it after Isack kept reminding you how well the video of him pretending to be VCARB’s admin had done, and you had to admit that it had indeed been a popular video.

So here you were, shadowing the drivers for a while until you had to take a lunch break. For once, it was you who offered them to join you. But they politely refused your invitation, claiming that they wanted to film a couple more videos. So you let them do their thing, thinking that it was fine – especially when they kept saying that you would actually be able to rest while eating.

It wasn’t fine.

Well, it was at first.

Before going back to wherever Isack and Liam were in the paddock, you decided to check if they had posted anything since this morning. There were two new videos, crossposted on TikTok and Instagram: one was of them simply notifying the fans that they were taking over VCARB’s socials for the day – simple and efficient, you thought. The other video was already a bit chaotic compared to the first one: the two drivers had tried to sneak into every garage and pretend they were from that team before someone noticed that they were, in fact, absolutely not part of it.

You had to admit, they could come after your job as the videos already had a fair amount of likes and comments. People were clearly enjoying today’s content, and you were glad that they could indeed be trusted.

But of course, something had to go wrong.

After a quick text to your drivers, you found yourself in Isack’s driver room where they had been brainstorming more video ideas. When you opened the door, you saw that Liam was apparently filming something and you were about to apologise for interrupting when Isack noticed your presence.

“Hey!” The French said with excitement. His smile was bright, like a warm ray of sunshine. “Have you seen our videos? Our content is almost better than yours!”

“I did watch them both, yeah.” You nodded, before noticing that Liam had stopped recording and was now looking at his phone with a smirk on his face. “Did I interrupt anything?”

“No, you’re fine. In fact, you helped with something.” Liam was being kind of cryptic, as he put his phone back in his pocket.

“I did?” You wondered while tilting your head in confusion. You had simply entered a room, so you were a bit lost as to how you could have provided anything to his content. “What’s your video about?”

“You’ll know when I post it later”, Liam simply replied.

“Okay…” You were quite suspicious, but decided to trust him. “Can I help with anything else?” You asked them.

“Personally, I’m good. But I wouldn’t mind if you kept us company today,” Isack admitted. “Unless you have other things to do, of course.”

“Isack, you guys are literally doing my job right now. So no, I actually don’t have anything else to do.”

“That’s great, then. You can stay with us for the rest of the day”, Liam concluded.

And so until media day was over, you had followed your drivers around the paddock. They kept having crazy ideas after crazy ideas, and you couldn't help but laugh every time they had to do multiple takes due to one of them not being able to stay in character. This was probably one of the best work days you’ve ever had, and you almost wished that they would do this more often.

Keyword: almost.

Because of course, there had to be that eventual issue mentioned earlier.

Liam had been filming Isack doing whatever he was doing until the French driver tripped on his own feet and ended up face first in a wall. The sudden noise alarmed you, and you immediately rushed to Isack’s side as he was holding his head.

“Are you okay?” You asked, worry evident in your voice.

“I think I’m dying”, Isack dramatically replied.

You chuckled at what was definitely him overreacting. You forced Isack to sit down before you crouched down to his level, making him look up at you.

“Remove your hand, please.” Isack did as he was told, and you carefully inspected his head. “Where does it actually hurt?”

“Like– my forehead,” he said.

You nodded in understanding, and cupped his face to make him stay still – it was probably not even necessary as you being so close to him was almost making him stop breathing, and he didn’t dare make a move. You gently pushed his hair back from his forehead, looking for any kind of bruise as you stroked his skin to feel if any lump had appeared. You were so focused on your task, you didn’t even notice how flustered Isack was becoming with every second passing.

Liam, however, had very much noticed. And unbeknownst to you or Isack, he was absolutely enjoying the scene, still recording for God knows what reason. This was good content for the video idea he’d had since this morning, which he had slowly but surely been filming for throughout the day.

After a couple minutes, you finally released Isack’s face – he couldn’t decide whether it was a good thing or not, given that it had been messing with his heart a lot – and he was already missing the warmth of your hand on his cheek.

“All good”, you eventually concluded. “Might have a slight bump forming, but you’ll survive. You’re a strong guy, right Isack?”

“Y–yeah, of course. Thanks”, he could only reply due to how nervous you were making him.

“Pathetic…” Liam mumbled under his breath, unheard from you nor Isack.

Glad that Isack was fine, you straightened back up with a smile before offering him your hand. He hesitantly took it, and you then pulled him up so he could stand. Not expecting to end up so close to you once again, Isack quickly took a step back with the blush intensifying on his cheeks.

Liam was definitely having a field day, while you were completely oblivious to the effect you were having on the French driver.

“I wish I could trust you to keep playing social media alone, but I’m gonna have to review your next ideas before you start filming them and I’m being put on the spot.”

The drivers both nodded, understanding that you were simply worried about them – and about your job too. So for the rest of the day, you made a compromise with them: you would still give them creative liberty to film – almost – whatever they wanted, but you had the right to veto anything that could seem to eventually end up badly for one of them.

…..

A few hours later, media day was finally over. Isack and Liam had filmed three other videos, while you supervised them like a babysitter from afar. Although they had done most of the job, you still helped them edit their videos and confirmed to them that yes, their caption ideas were funny.

“Well, this was an interesting day for sure. But I don’t think we’ll do that again for a while,” you told the drivers when all their videos were posted.

“Sorry to have wasted your time”, Isack apologised.

“It wasn’t wasted,” you reassured him. “I just didn’t rest as much as you had promised me. But it was fun, I guess.”

“It was very fun, yes. Glad I was able to know more”, Liam said.

“About my job?” You wondered.

“Amongst other things”, Liam vaguely replied.

Although a bit confused at his words, you didn’t think much of it as you knew that Liam had enjoyed the day as well. He had harboured a satisfied grin for most of the afternoon, and you were glad to see it every time you would look at him. You wouldn’t be glad in the near future, but this was another story.

After checking that the team’s social media was doing fine, you announced to Isack and Liam that they were free to leave the track and go back to their hotel. You were actually all staying in the same one, which led to Isack suggesting that you all go back together before he also asked you if you wanted to join him – and Liam – for dinner. You hesitated a bit as it wasn’t really something you often did unless there were other VCARB employees going out with you, but Isack’s excited smile made it impossible to refuse.

…..

So now you were back in your hotel room, about to go downstairs after having changed from your team kit. You were strangely nervous, already picturing the worst that could happen. It wasn’t everyday that you were hanging out with your drivers off track – only the three of you – so you really hoped that the evening would go smoothly.

But once again, you had spoken too soon.

Courtesy of Liam who had apparently come down with a “last-minute stomachache”, you were now looking at your menu with only Isack sitting at the table with you. He had surprisingly dressed up a bit, and you wondered if the supposed stomachache had been planned between the two of them. But with the way that Isack was avoiding your gaze, his cheeks slightly flushed, you truly didn’t know what to think of the situation.

It looked just like a date.

You. And Isack. On a date.

And that’s not even the worst that would happen. The worst had happened right after you and Isack had ordered. The tension had lightened a bit after a waiter had come to your table, bursting the little bubble of nervousness that had surrounded you two. You were now patiently waiting for your food as you sipped your drink, when you heard your phone going off.

You were about to apologise to Isack for not muting it, when you saw what the notification was:

Post uploaded!

Furrowing your brows, it was safe to say that you were confused; because the account that was showing wasn’t your personal one. No, it was the team’s account. And that’s when you started panicking.

“Is everything alright?” Isack asked you, easily noticing your stress.

“Yeah, hmm… it’s just Instagram being weird,” you said. “I don’t know what happened.”

Just to make sure you hadn’t posted anything weird, like a wrongly scheduled video, you opened the application. Nothing had prepared you for the video that immediately played before your eyes. The editing was basic, but the caption was far from being a usual one: 30s compilation of isack having a crush on admin.

You watched the entire video with widened eyes, each clip showing a different version of Isack throughout the day. Your face wasn’t shown, but you recognised the moment from earlier in the afternoon when you were checking on Isack after he had bumped into a wall. He was looking up at you with flushed cheeks, his eyes filled with something you didn’t dare think about.

When the video finished, it automatically replayed and you could only rewatch those clips of Isack’s eyes glancing at you – his face lightening up when you had entered his driver’s room, his smile brightening as he talked about you.

You didn’t know what to think of it. And for a couple minutes, you had forgotten that Isack was actually sitting at the table across from you.

“Are you okay?” He worryingly asked. “Your face has gone a bit red.”

Of course your face had gone red! It wasn’t everyday that you had to see your driver look at you as if you were the prettiest girl in the world – Isack wouldn’t deny that, as if you were the only thing that made him wake up in the morning, the only person he was impatiently waiting to see at every race.

“I’m fine…” That was a lie. “I just think that a certain someone posted a video on the team’s account without consulting me first.”

“Liam?” Isack guessed. He unlocked his phone to go see it himself, and was met with his own face as he clicked on the video. “Oh mon Dieu, putain…”

Isack would definitely kill Liam for that. Setting him up on a date with you was one thing, but a public video that displayed his crush on you for the entire world to see? Isack wanted to die of embarrassment. His face had gone even redder than yours, and he didn’t dare look up from his phone. He was afraid to see your expression, afraid that you’d be mad about the situation.

But you weren’t.

After a few minutes of silence between you and him, you caught his attention.

“Isack”, you called out his name which made him nervously look at you.

“Wait! Before you say anything”, he interrupted. “I’m so sorry for this, I didn’t know Liam had planned that. And I’m also sorry for the dinner, he told me at the last minute that he wasn’t coming. I swear it wasn’t on purpose! And–”

“Isack, breathe!” You exclaimed as you saw him almost hyperventilating. You took his hands in yours, which made him go still for a second. “Calm down, it’s fine.” He raised an eyebrow at you, and you chuckled. “Okay, it could’ve been better. But it’s not the end of the world,” you tried to reassure him.

“Kinda feels like it is for me”, he argued. “Liam just outed my feelings on the team’s socials, out of all places.”

“I’ll admit that was a shit move.” You were definitely giving Liam a lecture tomorrow morning, and removing his access to the VCARB account until the end of time. “I’m actually going to take this down while I think about it,” you said as you quickly deleted the video before focusing back on Isack.

“I’m sorry, again.”

“If anyone should apologise, it’s Liam. You have nothing to be sorry about, unless it’s to tell me the video wasn’t telling the truth.”

“It is…” Isack tried to avoid your gaze once again. “And now it probably ruined our friendship, as well as our professional relationship.”

“It hasn’t, though.”

“Really?” He was confused, but it was kind of getting his hopes up. “You’re not weirded out by me liking you?”

“Nope”, you replied with a grin. “If anything, the video was actually cute.”

“Cute?” Isack repeated.

“Yes”, you confirmed with a nod. “You’re cute, Isack. Sorry I never noticed this until now. Well, I would be blond not to have actually noticed. But I never truly did, I guess”

“You’re cute too.”

“Well, I hope so given how you look at me.”

“You’re never letting me live this down, are you?”

“Got it!” You chuckled and leaned back in your chair. “But there’s something we can do now.”

“What?”

“Liam expected something out of this, right?” When Isack nodded, you continued. “Let’s make it happen.”

“And it is…?”

“I don’t know, you tell me.” You shrugged, a challenging expression making its way on your face. “Maybe you asking me on a real date, so tonight isn’t wasted. Or maybe it’s you being the one to confess instead of Liam doing it for you.”

“I didn't really ask for that to happen in the first place”, he reminded you. “But if you’re actually serious, then I’d love for tonight to be a real date. Let me make it better than how it started.”

“You’re on the right path, don’t worry.” From the corner of your eye, you could see your food finally arriving. “Here’s to our first date!” You said as you raised your glass towards Isack before taking a sip.

“Here’s to our first date”, he repeated with a nervous smile.

And thankfully, it wouldn’t be the last.

…..

The next day, you lectured Liam for at least ten minutes. His head hung low and he apologised countless times to you. You also forced him to apologise to Isack, as the French driver had been the most affected by Liam’s actions. Luckily for him, he was saved by his engineer calling him for FP1 as it would be starting soon and so you had no choice but to let him go.

“It did work, though. Right?” Liam asked with a smirk right as he stood in the doorway.

“Get out Liam”, you only replied. “You’re on thin ice right now, and your social media privileges have been revoked for an undetermined period of time.”

“I know. But being so defensive means that it worked!” He quickly concluded before leaving you and Isack alone.

“He’s not wrong…” Isack smiled at you.

“Doesn’t mean I wanted to admit it to him”, you argued. “But yes, it did help speed up things between us.”

“You know, I would’ve still confessed even without Liam. Maybe not before months,” he admitted, “but I was planning on us becoming closer friends before that.”

“And what would’ve made you confess?” You were now definitely curious about it.

“I wish I could’ve gotten a podium first,” he explained. “I only have points as an achievement right now.”

“That’s enough for me, don’t worry.” You quickly looked at the time, realising how late it was getting. “You better go join Liam by the way, I don’t want to be fired for keeping you away from your job.”

“I would vouch for you, don’t worry. You’re the best admin we could have”, Isack claimed.

“You’re just saying that because I make you look good on our socials.”

“But you think I look good off socials too, right?”

“Get out, Isack.” Your tone was teasing, and your cheeks a bit flushed. “Go drive your little car and let me do my job in peace.”

“Okay, okay!” He raised his hands in defence, before he left his room.

Now that you were alone, your only reaction was to put your head in your hands. You could only giggle as you remembered what had happened from yesterday to just a few seconds ago.

You were just a girl after all.

But right now, you were definitely a happier girl than ever.

…..

You didn’t think that you would see Liam and Isack still in the garage by the time you finally left Isack’s room – it had taken you a dozen minutes alone before you felt comfortable to go out, but they were talking with some engineers while half of the drivers were already on track for FP1.

Taking advantage of the moment, you called out their names and they walked to where you were in between their garages.

“Okay guys, quick picture time if you don’t mind.”

“Both of us or separately?” Liam asked.

“Let’s do three pictures: two individuals and one of you together”, you decided. “I’ll see what I eventually post later.”

The drivers nodded and waited for your directions.

“Do we do anything special or…?” Isack wondered.

“Just stand there and look pretty,” you said without thinking. “Won’t be too hard for you.”

While Isack blushed at your words, Liam’s face was making an exaggerated and disgusted expression.

“I know it’s thanks to me that y’all are finally together, but please refrain from flirting in front of me.”

“That wasn’t flirting!” You tried to argue. “And we’re not even together…”

“Yet,” Isack pointed out.

“You’re not helping,” you told Isack with what you hoped was a stern glare. You sighed and tried to remain professional. “Just smile and give me some thumbs up, please.”

Taking a few pictures of them together first, you then let them go to their respective side of the garage so that they could gear up and get in their car. You took that as an opportunity to take individual pictures of them, starting with Liam.

“You know,” he caught your attention, “I’m actually happy for you two. And I’m sorry again for making it chaotic, but I’m glad y’all can make it work.”

“Thanks, Liam.” Your smile was genuine, and you knew Liam had only wanted to help. “Next time, let’s have private conversations instead of using the public internet.”

“Copy.”

You both exchanged one last smile, before you walked to Isack’s garage as he was about to put on his helmet.

“Wish me luck?” He asked, holding his helmet next to his face while he smiled for a picture.

“It’s FP1, Isack. I’m sure you can manage without me blessing your car.”

“But what if I crash and it’s because you haven’t wished me luck?” Isack was being dramatic, his voice teasing.

“Please don’t joke about that,” a mechanic said. “And definitely don’t crash on purpose to get your girlfriend’s attention.”

“Not his girlfriend”, you mumbled with a faint blush on your cheeks.

“Yet”, Isack said in reference to earlier.

“Get in the car, Isack.” You sighed as you took one last picture before he secured his helmet. You waited for him to get in the car before you spoke again. “Good luck.”

Isack’s head turned so quickly towards where you were, it almost seemed like his neck could’ve snapped. Only his eyes were showing, but you could see in the way Isack looked at you that he was grinning. Your expression was soft, which made Isack almost want to get out of the car and kiss the smile that had appeared on your face.

…..

And he would eventually do so, after getting his first F1 podium. Not wasting any time as soon as he would reach parc fermé, Isack would get out of his car so quickly that you would barely have time to realise that he was in front of you. He would hug you tightly, while everyone cheered around you. He would then struggle to remove his helmet, having only one goal.

And when he would finally succeed, Isack would drop his helmet to the ground without a care and he would get as close to you as the barrier between the two of you let him do so. And this time, his arms wouldn’t be around you; because his hands would reach for your face, cupping your cheeks and pulling you close to him as his lips kissed yours.

Isack wouldn’t give a damn about the podium, or the trophy. Because you were his prize.

In this moment, you would forget about the video of Isack that you were filming. You wouldn’t be VCARB’s social media admin anymore, you would simply be Isack Hadjar’s girlfriend. And for once, you wouldn’t mind being the one in front of the camera.

..........

Tagging the lovely people who expressed a wish to read this, thanks to y'all for motivating me to finish it: @fellowwomenlover @mrssaturday @boke---hinata---boke

HOPE Y'ALL ENJOYED🫶🏻🫶🏻

Kudos again to my bestie who's fr my soulmate bc she literally complimented on the exact thing i had been unsure of (without even knowing i had struggled w that)

Really manifesting an isack podium soon bc pookie is doing so well recently and ik he's on the right path to perform even better🕯🕯

I also wanna say that we've reached 400 followers and it feels absolutely insane, so tysm for supporting me and my silly lil fics🫂

See you soon, take care of yourselves, i love y'all xx

#f1 #formula 1 #f1 x reader #formula 1 x reader #isack hadjar #isack hadjar x reader #f1 x you #formula 1 x you #isack hadjar x you #ih6 #ih6 x reader #ih6 x you

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sugary-strawberry-shortcake · 16 hours ago

Text

Blossom Reverse (Yandere Batfamily x Neglected! Poison Ivy's Daughter! Reader)

Chapter 6

A/N: so the next chapter will be crazy guys lol. I feel like there is always more happening. And there are only two more chapter I have finished writing and still need to edit. Then I will need to move my ass and write more. Hope you like this one!! Btw the taglist is closed for now, my phone can‘t handle the length of the list 😓 I will edit this later, and i‘m writing a new Drabble for this verse right now. Any suggestions or ideas are welcomed. :)

It started with a single sentence.

“Join us for dinner tonight.”

He’d said it so simply.

Calm. Final. Like a man who hadn’t ignored her existence for the better part of a decade.

Bruce Wayne. Standing in her doorway.

Looking down at her with the same expression he gave the board of directors at Wayne Enterprises—measured, controlled, unreadable.

And now he was inviting her to dinner.

She’d wanted to say no.

She almost did.

But something in his tone—low, grounded, irreversible—told her this wasn’t optional.

And part of her—some small, childish, weak part—didn’t want to say no either.

Not to his face.

Not when he was finally speaking to her.

So she nodded.

And smiled.

Just a little.

And said, “Okay.”

⸻

The table was longer than it needed to be.

Gothic carved edges. Candles flickering against the dim chandelier. The food was laid out perfectly by Alfred, as always—elegant dishes, polished silverware, cloth napkins she didn’t dare wrinkle.

She took her seat like she always had.

At the end. Near the wall.

The place she thought they preferred her to be.

Only this time—

They were all there. Almost all.

Bruce at the head.

Tim just two seats down from her, casting intense glances every so often.

Dick on the other side, trying too hard to smile naturally.

Damian across from her, arms crossed, eyes occasionally narrowing when she looked away too quickly.

And Alfred standing nearby, silent as ever, though his gaze lingered at her side longer than anyone else’s.

Y/N sat stiffly, fork light in her hand, barely picking at the soft roasted vegetables on her plate.

No one was talking.

At least, not much.

Dick was the first to try.

“So… how’s school?” he offered, smiling her way.

Tim echoed it, “Yeah. Classes good?”

“Fine,” she said, voice barely above a whisper.

No one followed up.

The silence dripped in again.

She felt like the spotlight was burning.

Because for the first time in her life—

They were all looking at her.

Watching.

Studying.

Not maliciously.

Not mockingly.

Just… intensely.

Like she was something rare.

Or fragile.

Or worse—like she was someone they suddenly remembered was breakable.

She cut a piece of the food and pushed it around on her plate.

Her heart beat quietly in her chest.

She tried to breathe through her nose, smile when anyone looked her way. But her skin was too tight. Her hands cold.

And all she could think about was how she used to sit at this table, four chairs away from anyone, completely invisible.

And somehow… she preferred that.

Because now they were here.

And now they were seeing her.

And she didn’t know why. And she knew it couldn't be because of anything like love towards her.

No, she was sure. None of them would or even could ever love her.

It happened halfway through the silence, just as her fork hovered again above untouched vegetables.

Dick leaned forward, resting one arm casually on the table. His tone was warm—too warm. Like someone handling delicate porcelain he’d once dropped and only just remembered existed.

“So,” he said, “what’ve you been up to in school, little flower? Any clubs? Anything new?”

Her hand paused.

The silverware clinked quietly against her plate.

And then—she blinked, wide-eyed, her voice quieter than it should’ve been.

“…Are you talking to me?”

The table froze.

The stillness wasn’t angry—it was shocked.

Tim’s head tilted just slightly, a furrow forming between his brows.

Dick blinked, smile faltering. “Uh—yeah. Of course.”

Even Bruce’s eyes narrowed with a strange weight. Alfred’s brow twitched slightly where he stood, pouring water into Bruce’s glass.

Damian scoffed from across the table, arms crossed.

“Tt. Are you too self-absorbed to hear your name when it’s spoken?”

The insult wasn’t sharp—just typical. Delivered with that familiar dismissiveness, the kind he always used when he felt confused or off-balance.

But Y/N still flinched.

Because it reminded her—again—that any attention from them was foreign. Unnatural.

And hearing her name in their voices still felt like some distant echo of a life she’d never fully been a part of.

She lowered her gaze to the plate again, then mumbled,

“I’m… the school representative this year.”

A pause.

Then she added, “Student rep. I got elected.”

There was a flicker of surprise around the table.

Tim blinked. “You? Really?”

Dick leaned back, grinning. “Hey, that’s actually really cool.”

Bruce didn’t speak. But he watched her closely now. His brow slightly furrowed, his posture still.

She shifted uncomfortably, voice quieter.

“I’m also in the gardening group. I help take care of the greenhouse.”

Her fingers tightened slightly against her lap.

“It’s stupid.”

Dick frowned. “No it’s not.”

She didn’t look at him. Damian muttered, “Figures.”

Not cruelly. Not coldly.

Just… like it was expected.

Like of course she would gravitate toward flowers.

And that—somehow—still hurt. It reminded her of her heritage, one of the reasons people will forever despise her.

Her fingers curled tighter around the hem of her skirt.

She could still feel it.

The glances.

The weight of their eyes. Not cruel. Not mocking. But pressing.

Watching her like she was something foreign, something that might wilt or crumble if they said the wrong thing.

She didn’t belong here.

She’d known that for years.

But this—this silence—was different.

Before, they’d ignored her.

Now, they looked at her like they didn’t know her at all.

Because they didn’t.

She remembered how dinner used to sound without her.

Voices. Conversations. Occasional arguments. Dick teasing Damian. Tim venting about casework. Even Bruce occasionally commenting about missions, news, politics.

Tonight?

Nothing.

The silence was because of her.

They hadn’t stopped talking for her.

They’d stopped because she was there.

And that made something in her chest coil with shame.

Alfred poured her water.

She hadn’t touched her plate.

Not one bite.

He said nothing.

But she saw it in the way his eyes lingered on her too long.

He noticed.

⸻

She swallowed.

Then gave a soft, breathy smile and said, “I need to help Maya with something. We have to call about our project. She’s not doing well with the script.”

She stood before anyone could respond.

Didn’t wait for permission.

Didn’t look anyone in the eye.

Just turned.

And walked—too fast.

Her footsteps light. The way she’d learned to move when she didn’t want to bother anyone.

She didn’t run.

Not until she was past the hallway.

She locked her door.

Slid down against it, breath shivering.

She wasn’t angry.

She wasn’t even crying.

She just felt… cold.

Because even now, when they finally remembered she existed—

It still didn’t feel like love.

The silence hung like smoke in the air.

Dick was still watching the doorway she’d disappeared through.

Tim’s fingers had gone still on his fork.

Even Damian looked mildly tense now—his shoulders sharper, jaw tighter.

Bruce didn’t move.

He just looked down at YN’s untouched plate.

Steam rising.

Completely full.

As if she’d never even tried to be part of the meal.

“She didn’t eat,” Alfred said quietly.

They all knew it already.

No one spoke.

Not even Damian.

Bruce stayed silent.

His hands folded neatly in front of him.

But his eyes didn’t leave that full, untouched plate.

___

Her plan was almost finished.

The envelope was sealed.

The fake signature was in place.

The burner phone was pre-loaded.

She’d picked out the back gate she’d use—the one where the cameras never worked right.

She’d even mapped the bus route to the far end of Gotham, where names blurred and no one asked questions.

Next Monday night.

She’d be gone.

⸻

In the last three days, she’d perfected the lies.

She told Bruce she had a student council report due.

Told Tim she had extra lab hours.

Told Dick she had sleepovers planned.

Even managed to slip past Alfred twice when he offered to drive her to school.

And she made sure to smile—like she used to.

To keep them calm.

Distracted.

Because the more they noticed her, the more they hovered.

And she didn’t know why.

⸻

They didn’t know what they were missing. But they knew they were losing something.

Bruce didn’t say it aloud.

But he noticed her shoes by the back door weren’t the same polished ones she wore to school.

He noticed the bus card tucked into her notebook.

He noticed the new shadows under her eyes when she returned late—even when she claimed it was “just Maya.”

And when she smiled too fast, too sweet, too easy…

He saw Martha’s softness in it.

And something hollow beneath.

⸻

Tim was the first to try casual contact—offering help with homework. Chess. Even suggesting he walk her to the bus once.

She dodged all of it.

At first, he thought it was shyness.

But now—he couldn’t help but check the cameras.

Track her phone once.

Then again.

But he never found her.

Because it wasn’t with her.

⸻

Dick visited more often. Every time he entered the manor, he asked Alfred if she was in. If she’d eaten. If she’d left anything in the kitchen.

He tried knocking once.

She said she was on a call.

Another time, she said she was baking cookies for her class.

He knew she was lying.

But all he could do was smile and say, “Tell Maya I said hi.”

⸻

And every day, she slipped out quietly.

Tended the garden behind the crumbling apartment building.

Talked politely with the landlord, who now left her old tools and gloves.

And smiled like she wasn’t holding her life together with shaking fingers.

Because when she left… she’d lose everything.

Her friends. Her name. Her school.

Her self.

But it was safer than dying again. Than knowing that the people you wished to care for you would never do.

⸻

That Night

She woke up gasping.

Sheets tangled. Skin cold. Eyes stinging.

It was the same dream again.

The memory.

Of the last few hours.

Before she died.

⸻

She remembered the smell of smoke.

Her own voice screaming.

A cold metal chair.

Wires digging into her skin.

A hand around her throat.

And a voice in the dark.

“Too soft. Too sweet. Should’ve never been a Wayne.”

⸻

Her body jolted upright.

She pressed her hand over her mouth.

And choked down the sob before it could wake the house.

When she was little, she used to go to Bruce’s door.

Tiny fists knocking in the night. Waiting. Hoping.

He was never there.

Alfred would find her sometimes. Scoop her up. Rub her back. Hum lullabies no one else remembered.

But eventually even he stopped hearing the cries.

Because she stopped making them audible.

And started enduring.

Alone.

She wiped her face with the back of her sleeve.

⸻

Alfred

He wasn’t surprised to hear footsteps.

Soft. Bare. Careful not to creak the floorboards.

But no one was more practiced at silence than Alfred Pennyworth.

And no one knew the rhythms of this house better than he did.

So when he heard her—

Miss YN, tiptoeing down into the kitchen at an hour where no child should be awake—

He didn’t call out.

He simply watched.

She moved like a ghost.

Shoulders curled in. Sleeves long over her hands. The glow of the stove light casting pale shadows across her cheeks.

She was thinner than he liked.

Too pale. Too quiet.

And far too distant.

Even now, her small fingers reached for the kettle like she was trying not to disturb the air.

Something had changed in her.

Something deep and quiet and frightening.

He’d noticed it for weeks. Longer, even.

But tonight—

Tonight he knew.

She was slipping away.

“Miss Y/N,” he said softly, just above a whisper.

She startled—just slightly. Her hand pulling back from the kettle, eyes wide, pupils dilated from the nightmare that still lingered behind them.

“Alfred,” she breathed. “Sorry. I just couldn’t sleep. I’ll go back up soon.”

He stepped into the light.

No scolding. No sternness.

Just that familiar, unbearable softness in his gaze.

“You’ve always come here after bad dreams, sweetheart.”

Her eyes dropped.

She gave a nervous little smile.

“I’m fine. Really.”

But her voice trembled on the last syllable.

⸻

The night had been thick with tension.

Ivy’s operation was falling apart.

The GCPD didn’t find her first.

Bruce did.

He returned that night to the cave bloodied and furious—but with something else in his arms.

A file. A name. A girl he had to find.

And later—when the cleanup team was sent to sweep Ivy’s hideout—

Alfred was with them.

He remembered the dark walls covered in vines. The broken glass. The abandoned chemicals and rotting moss.

And then—

In the corner of a cracked nursery, under a heat lamp and a pile of vines—

A toddler.

She looked up at him.

Eyes wide. Wet cheeks. Trembling lip.

And the expression.

So small. So lost.

But in that little face, he saw Bruce.

Saw the same tightly clenched jaw. The same furrow of the brow. The same eyes that had once looked at him from the crib in the east wing of the old estate.

She didn’t cry when he approached.

She blinked.

Then toddled forward. Shakily. Holding out her tiny hand.

And when he crouched down—when he extended his arms—

She fell into them like she’d always belonged there.

He’d whispered to her then, as she nuzzled into his coat:

“There now, my little bloom. You’re safe. You’re home now.”

She’d asked about her mother.

And he’d lied, gently.

“You’ll see your father soon.”

Because even then, he knew.

Even if Bruce didn’t.

She was his.

And Alfred—who had served generals and kings, fought wars and buried brothers—had only ever had one secret favorite.

One child in that cursed manor whose laughter made the halls feel alive again.

And he’d sworn, silently, holding her close:

“No one will ever take you from me.”

Not Gotham.

Not God.

Not even Bruce Wayne.

⸻

He set the kettle to boil.

Y/N sat on the stool like a child who had shrunk back into her bones.

He handed her a warm cup with honey and lemon—just the way she liked it as a toddler.

She wrapped her hands around it slowly.

Didn’t drink.

Didn’t speak.

“You’re planning something,” he said gently, after a moment. “Aren’t you?”

Her eyes lifted in a flash of panic.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t accuse.

Just smiled softly.

As if to say: Don’t lie to me, darling. I’ve raised you since your first breath in this house.

“You’ve always been my little bloom,” he said, voice low. “I know when you’re wilting.”

She didn’t answer.

But her eyes shimmered.

And Alfred Pennyworth, ever the gentleman, ever the shadow—

Decided then and there:

If she tried to run,

If she tried to vanish,

He would bring her back.

_____

Damian

She was lying again.

He watched from across the courtyard, arms crossed, jaw tight as his eyes tracked her movement. A soft laugh. A toss of her hair. That smile.

That damn smile.

He’d seen it before.

A long time ago.

Back when she used to run up to him after training. When she used to leave him little flowers on his practice mat. When she’d beam at him for a single glance in her direction.

Back when her world revolved around them.

Now?

Now she smiled like that for everyone but them.

He’d noticed the change before anyone else.

Of course he had.

He was raised to observe—to dissect.

And she was easy to read. Always had been. No poker face. No ability to lie worth anything. Her tells were childish, obvious.

Fidgeting. Blinking too much. Looking away when she spoke.

Only now, she was doing it constantly.

Her excuses were thin. Transparent.

“I’m helping Maya with something.”

“I’m organizing for student council.”

“I have a meeting after school.”

Maya didn’t exist.

He had checked.

Twice.

And still she kept slipping through their fingers.

Avoiding them.

Avoiding him.

And it infuriated him.

Because even if she was just a kid—even if she was soft, and fragile, and meant to be protected—she was still his.

And her behavior made no sense.

She was supposed to be the one who clung.

The one who lit up when he entered the room, even if he only sneered or turned his head. The one who offered him cookies, or asked him to walk her down the hall, or tried to braid his hair when she thought he was asleep on the couch.

She used to follow him like a kitten.

Now?

Now she walked ahead of him.

Away from him.

And smiled for strangers.

It made something in his chest twist.

And it made his mind sharpen.

He didn’t want to admit it aloud—not even to himself.

But she looked…

Like she was getting ready to leave.

And for the first time in a long time—

Damian Wayne felt something he didn’t like.

Not anger.

Not superiority.

But something sharp.

Tight.

Fear.

He clenched his fists inside his blazer pockets.

His eyes locked on her where she stood with her friends, laughing at something someone whispered to her.

And he felt it again—

That low, gnawing hatred.

Not for her. Never for her.

But for them.

The ones who got her smile now.

The ones who got her attention.

The ones who didn’t even know what she was.

⸻

She belongs to us.

To me.

And if she thinks she can just disappear…

He turned on his heel.

Cold.

Focused.

Determined to find out exactly what she was hiding.

And to stop it.

Whatever it was.

____-

He hadn’t meant to eavesdrop.

But the second he heard it—the name, floating lazily off someone’s tongue—

“Wayne.”

His shoulders tensed.

His boots stopped cold.

He turned. Quiet. Dangerous.

The boys behind him hadn’t even noticed the way his gaze had sharpened.

He used to beat them for this.

All of them.

Any fool who threw his name around like it was cheap.

Until Father pulled him aside and told him it wasn’t honor—not like this.

And for once, he listened.

He backed off. (At least most of the times)

He tried.

But then he heard the rest.

“Yeah, she went up to Silas like last week. Alone. Just walked up to him and paid him off or something—like, what the hell?”

“Didn’t think someone like her would be talking to him.”

“Bet he was trying to pull her into his little side business—”

He didn’t even remember moving.

In a blink, he had one of the boys pressed hard against the locker wall, forearm across his throat.

The others stumbled back, shouting.

“What did you say?!”

His voice was ice.

Sharp. Refined. Deadly.

“Damian—chill, man—it’s just gossip, we didn’t say anything—”

“What. Did. She. Want. From. Him.”

The boy’s breath hitched.

Damian’s eyes narrowed.

No one touches her.

No one speaks her name.

No one gets close to her unless I allow it.

When he dropped the boy, he didn’t even wait for an answer.

Because he was already moving.

Already storming.

The fire in his chest burned with something worse than anger.

Rage.

He found Silas near the side building, leaning against the wall like he wasn’t a roach. A dirty cockroach. Someone that wasn't even allowed to breath the same air as his sister.

Damian’s fist connected with his face before the other boy could even speak.

The second hit drove him against the bricks.

“What the hell—!” Silas shouted, clutching his face.

“You spoke to her,” Damian hissed.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about—!”

“Y/N Wayne,” he growled, teeth gritted. “She came to you. What did she want? What did you give her?”

Silas spat blood to the side.

“She paid me. I promised not to say.”

Another punch. Silas dropped to his knees.

“I don’t care what she paid. I will know.”

A kick into his gut.

Silas wiped his mouth. Voice tight.

“She didn’t… do anything wrong, man. She just asked for a signature. A fake one. That’s it. I don’t know what for. I swear.”

Damian’s body stilled.

Signature?

A fake one?

His brain started to whirl.

Why would she need that? What is she planning? What the hell is she hiding from me—

But Silas wasn’t going to say more.

He could see it in his eyes.

He was keeping her secret.

Just like everyone else had kept things from him his whole life.

With a last punch that send him into unconsciousness, Damian spit on the boy.

He turned on his heel.

His eyes were determined.

Storming.

Hunting.

When Damian Wayne entered a room with rage in his steps, people moved.

They turned. Whispered.

Doors shut quietly. Eyes dropped.

Because when the youngest Wayne snapped, the whole school listened.

He found her.

In the courtyard.

With her friends.

Smiling.

Laughing.

That soft, sunlit expression that used to belong to him.

His voice rang out like thunder across stone.

Loud. Sharp. Echoing.

“YN. ELOISE. WAYNE.”

Every head turned.

Even hers.

And when their eyes met—

She flinched.

Her smile shattered.

And in her chest, something sank.

Because she knew.

He found something.

She was running out of time.

And she had to run from him.

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288 notes · View notes

criminalyapping · 2 days ago

Text

due for trouble | he's around

the pitt masterlist main masterlist

pairing: jack abbot x f!reader

a/n: after a one day hiatus on this project i am back and i hope you all like it! as always if you have thoughts or opinions or ideas my asks are always open and i would love to hear from you. ok love u bye

warnings: unplanned pregnancy, age gap relationship, language, alcohol, reader has a mom

< part 4 | part 6 >

"They put it on the market for 899, when, you know, all of these houses are like, north of a million, so I talked to the realtor and was like, what? What's up with this house, you know?" your mom says into the phone.

You bite your lip and look up at the ceiling. Not that you really want to change the subject, but you had just given yourself a pep talk and were about to lose your bravery.

"Hey, mom, can I change the subject?" you interrupt.

"Oh," she says, "yeah, what's going on?"

"Uh," you start, "I'm havingababy," you say in a rush.

Silence. More silence.

"Mom?" you ask.

"Sorry, what?" she finally returns. "No you're not."

That brings a chuckle out of you.

"Yes, I am." you tell her.

Even more silence.

"Oh. Uhhhhhhh, okay. Okay. What?" she stutters. "I'm sorry, with who?"

"Um, his name is Jack?" you tell her.

"Tell me more." she says.

"His name is Jack," you repeat, "he's a doctor."

"A doctor," she says, mostly to herself.

"Mm hm," you agree.

"And he's," she trails off, "... there?" she asks.

"Not right now," you answer, "but he's like, around. We went to the doctor on Thursday."

"And everything is... good?" she questions.

"Yep," you say, the awkwardness palpable.

"Okay, well, good." she forces out. "Sorry, honey, this is just..." she trails off.

You laugh, "I know,"

"Let me, I don't know, absorb." your mom says. "Can I call you later?"

"Yeah, for sure," you agree.

"Okay, bye honey, I love you." she says.

"Love you too." you bid goodbye, hanging up the phone.

Could have gone worse, you think.

And that's mom, crossed off the list. Your next ordeal is telling your friends, who frankly you're even more scared of because you just know that they will simply not bite their tongues and will say exactly what they're thinking.

Not wanting to deal with it in person, and maybe ensure a bit of peace after you reveal, you decide to text them. You open your group chat with the three of them and send a picture of your sonogram, quickly followed by a message.

'not taking questions at this time'

Your phone is silent for a second, before a rush of notifications fill your lock screen.

You glance at one before deciding not to interact.

'bitch what the hell'

It does pull a chuckle out of you before you turn your phone over, face down.

It's a gorgeous Saturday afternoon; Jack is sleeping off his night shift, you're on a three day streak of not throwing up, and you are in the middle of a couple of loads of laundry. Your windows are open to let in the light, and telling the important people in your life about the latest situation has you feeling like nothing can bring you down.

You eventually read through your friends' messages, all of them shocked, incredulous, and asking you questions that you don't have the answers to right now.

Your mom sends a text, one that scares you to your core.

'Houses are really expensive in Pittsburgh"

You don't reply to that one.

You do text your friends back, assuring them that yes, you're happy, and no, they don't need to come over right now. Apparently, and unfortunately for you, they all seem to be either free or canceling their plans, and before you know it, all three of them are sitting on your couch.

"How long have you known?" Jiya, your friend from work, asks.

"Um, a few weeks," you reply. You're sitting criss crossed on the floor in front of the couch, taking questions from the panel.

They're all treading and circling around the questions that they really want to ask.

"Okay fine, I'll do it," Emily, your friend you met in college, speaks up. "Who the fuck?" she asks.

You blush, "do you guys remember that guy from the bar?" you say.

"The OLD GUY?" Jada asks in a yell. Jada, Emily, and you all met in college, and Jiya had joined seamlessly when you introduced everyone after a few months of working post-grad.

You hide your head in your hands at their question, groaning out an affirmative sound into them.

"Oh, my god," Emily says, "did you tell him?"

"Yes, I've told him." you reply.

"And?" Jiya prompts.

"And what?" you say, not really wanting to continue with this line of questioning.

"Oh, my god," Emily sighs, throwing herself against the back of your couch.

"Jack is fine, we are fine, and everything is totally fine," you tell them.

"Is he your boyfriend, is he just around, what's going on with him?" Jada asks.

"I don't knowwwwww," you whine. "He's around, and he's nice and caring and asks me how I am all the time," you tell them.

Your friends stare at you with wide eyes.

"Don't give me that fucking look," you murmur.

The three of them share a look between them.

"Okay," Emily agrees, "no judgement, but it seems like you might need to have a conversation." she says.

"I don't wanna," you pout.

"Do you want us to do it for you?" Jiya smirks, snatching your phone off of the coffee table.

"No!" you scream, climbing onto the couch on top of her, reaching for your phone as she holds it up.

A terrifying game of monkey in the middle ensues, your phone being tossed around and handed off as you desperately try to get it back. It ends a few moments later as you all shake with laughter and are barely able to get words out.

You take advantage of the break and snatch your phone back from Jada, who is still crying with laughter.

"He texted me," you tell them as the laughing tapers off.

"What did he say?" Emily squeals.

"That he's on his way with stuff," you say, eyes growing wide with terror.

They share conspiratorial looks.

"When did he say this?" Jiya asks.

You gulp. "20 minutes ago."

Your friendss all cheer, reading between the lines and understanding that he would most likely be here at any time now.

You groan, collapsing on the floor in a heap.

You sit back up quickly, rushing to send him a text.

'sorry I didn't see this. my friends are here and they're monsters who will embarrass me'

He texts back quickly.

'My bad, I should have waited for a response. I just pulled up but I can go'

"He's just gonna go," you tell your friends, dissapointed for a reason that you can't quite put your finger on. Before you can text back with an apology, he sends another message.

'I can still come, though. Just to give you the stuff, it's no problem.'

You bite your lip, typing out a response.

'yeah, if you want to! you're welcome to come and say hi'

"Nevermind, I think he's coming," you tell them, to which they cheer. A second later, there's a knock at your door. You share a look with your friends before all four of you clamor towards the door. Luckily, you get there first and stand with your back against it, giving them a look.

"Be. Normal." you threaten. You point at the couch sternly and they all head back and sit down.

You take a quick breath and turn around and open the door.

"Hi," Jack greets, leaning against the frame. He leans down and presses a quick kiss to your lips, catching you off guard.

His eyes flick over to the three on your couch, all smiling devilishly at him.

"Hi," he says again.

"Hi," they echo, actually being normal for once.

You step back, letting Jack in and closing the door.

"Sorry," he says, speaking towards the couch, "didn't mean to crash your party."

"No, we are so glad you're here." Jada replies. Jack laughs in response.

"Uh," he starts, quickly turning his attention back to you. "So, vitamins aren't FDA regulated and I know you're already taking some but I got these. They have some other stuff that'ss research based in them that most don't have." he says, holding out a container of vitamins.

"Aww," one of them coos quietly, before a fleshy slap noise cuts it off.

"Ow," whoever it was quietly says. You're not looking over there.

Jack does; he glances over to the couch and then back at you, smiling.

"I also got you more candies." he says, holding out a large pack of peach rings. Call you crazy, but you swear those are the only things that help the nausea.

"Thank you," you smile, taking the candies as well.

"Okay," he says, rubbing his hands over his jeans. "Well, I can go now."

Somehow, though, Jack ends up sticking around. He sits on the floor with you, drinking a watermelong White Claw that was hanging out at the back of your fridge, and manages to easily win over your friends. He has a surprising knowledge of slang terms that woo's them, not to mention his sense of humor that has them clutching their sides multiple times as the afternoon fades into the evening.

"I have to go to work," Emily eventually whines, groaning about her bartending jobs that gets her more money than any job in the field of her degree.

The other two leave with her, grinning and waving at you and Jack standing in the doorway.

"Your friends are fun." he says with a grin after you shut the door.

"It's fascinating how well you get along with a bunch of 20 somethings." you laugh.

"What can I say," he says with faux pride, "it's a gift."

tagging: @michasia24 @veggieburgerwrites @bruher @ahopelessromanticwritersworld @catmomstyles3 @qardasngan @fuckalrighty @rae4725 @beebeechaos

let me know if you want on the taglist!

#the pitt #the pitt imagine #dr abbot x reader #jack abbot x female reader #jack abbot x reader #the pitt x reader #dr abbot

387 notes · View notes

el4ise · 1 day ago

Text

I’M GONNA SHUT YOUR MOUTH, PUNK!

feat. ⤷ lads li’s x reader

genre / cw’s ⤷ fluff, swearing, lads guys get MAD esp caleb :'p

✦ you were just mindin’ your own business when someone calls you out. oops.. bad idea!

𝗿𝗮𝗳𝗮𝘆𝗲𝗹

you were at the beach with rafayel, he offered to take pictures of you since you were wearing the bathing suit he’d bought you, which he thought you looked insanely good in. he told you to just be yourself, and instruct him if you needed to—he knew he wasn’t the best photographer. this wasn’t his form of art anyway.

“raf, could you tilt the camera a ’lil? yes like that! okay... now uhm, move to the side a bit- okay good.” admist your small instructions, rafayel’s eardrums bang to the sound of a man commenting. “gosh, that woman’s a commander. it’s just a picture why try that hard? ha! so annoying.” you wondered why rafayel suddenly stopped and dropped the camera down.

the voices of the waves covering the man’s inappropriate comment. suddenly, rafayel storms at his way. the man turns around, confused as to why a sudden purple haired boy is marching at him, before he could react, his ears were suddenly pinched & twisted— hard. his comrads could barely react either, not knowing what to do.

“for your information— her instructions are clear and precise. photography is a form of art that isn’t made with just a few simple clicks. I suppose you don’t know that since your brain is too fogged up meddling with others. bastard.” he lets go of the guy’s ear, looking painfully red.

he then grabs your wrist and gently drags you away. “c’mon cutie, i’ll mame thomas set a schedule for us. I’ll do a whole photoshoot of your beauty.”

𝘀𝘆𝗹𝘂𝘀

he took you to a shoe shop, letting you pick whatever heels you wanted. though he wonders why you wouldn’t just tell him to buy everything. all of it looks good on you anyway. still, he lets you pick the right one.

“what do you think about this one, sy? it has a red bottom which I love, but this other one.. has the higher heel I was looking for! but not the red bottoms. I don’t really know what I should pick.” you show him both the heels, he gives out his opinions. “why not get them both, sweetie?” you pouted. “I don’t like having many shoes.. it’s hard to pick for a certain occasion. so I just want one.” he nodded.

“jeez. indecisive people are so annoying. why can’t you just pick one? it’s not that hard.” he hears the saleslady speak, and he suddenly gazes to her, one that doesn’t need any words. she stills in her spot, a sudden shiver runs down her spine.

“the way your mouth runs is like cutlery grinding on a plate. it irks me how brash you talk about my wife yet you can’t even afford one of these even if you wanted to.” you gasp at sylus’s sudden defense, you sigh though— he defends you without a doubt. “let’s go, kitten. this brand was far too cheap for my liking anyway.”

𝘅𝗮𝘃𝗶𝗲𝗿

he booked a 5-star hotel for the both of you since there was a day-off at the hunter’s association— and the next day is a saturday. you were politely asking for some things to be added in your room.

“uh yes, we’d like an extra comforter on the bed, a few more bathroom amenities, since he forgot his. and a pair of home slippers. oh and we’ll order our dinner a little later. thank you so much!” you then go and check your purse, checking if all your stuff are there. the front desk lady then sighs, mutters something under her breath, among the lines of, “jeez so many requests, how annoying.” one that went unnoticed by you— but definitely not xavier.

“excuse me, is there a problem?” xavier speaks up, catching the attention of both you and her. “from what it looks like you’re the person at the front desk. so, it’s your job to tend to our requests and why are you acting like this is your first time? my girlfriend told you politely and I ask for you to attain to that nicely as well..” his speech made the lady freeze in her position. unable to act. “..or we’ll find some other place that’ll treat us well– and i’ll have a word with your manager.”

𝘇𝗮𝘆𝗻𝗲

you were waiting for zayne to finish up some documents at the hospital. phone on speaker as he listened to you talk. “..just please hurry up, okay? I miss you.” he lets out a hum, “mhm. I miss you too, darling.” suddenly he hears one of the interns mumble. “pfft. that kind of clingyness is annoying.” thankfully the sound was too quiet to be heard on call by you, but zayne wasn’t having it. “.. actually, I’m done here, honey. I’ll be home in five. love you.” he says before hanging up, hearing your quick “wait, huh-” reaction. as he packed his stuff and marched towards the door, his eyes glanced to the intern with a cold glare. one that made him shiver.

when he got home, he showered you with so much affection. it made you curious. “why the sudden affection, zayne?” you giggle as he peppered your cheek with light kisses. “mm, nothing. I jus’ love your clingyness s’much.. thought i’d return the favor.”

the night went on with zayne spoiling you. the next few weeks the intern wasn’t to be seen around akso ever again.

𝗰𝗮𝗹𝗲𝗯

he treated you to an arcade date after finally becoming caleb-the-boyfriend and not caleb the big bad colonel. you’ve spent around 5 minutes on the same claw machine— trying to get the green & red apple plushie that was holding hands. it reminded you of him and you.

you were already pouting, sulking because of the amount of tokens you’ve spent attempting to get that damn plushie. you whine, “ugh! I’m so upset claw machines are so rigged! I hate this.” you hear a man scoff from not far out, “god girls and their silly tantrums these days are so annoyi—” before he could continue, he felt a strong force pull his lips shut. “god ignorant strangers these days are so annoying. don’t ya think, pips?” he glances at you, then back at the guy with a dark gaze. you could only gulp and grip caleb’s hand, gesturing him to stop. he then stops his evol, the man rubs his mouth in relief. he pulls your wrist and drags you. “c’mon pipsqueak. I’ll treat you to ramen.” you nod, thankfully you didn’t see the last look he spared to the guy. muttering “you should be lucky my girlfriend told me to stop or else, you wouldn’t be able to talk for the rest of your life. "+

tags ──── @nishikio, @jeondyy, @ruenaie

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lyricwritesprose · 3 days ago

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I am so glad to hear this perspective!

I am Older Than Some Of You. Forty-five, to be precise, with two kids of my own. My Mom is a Boomer. My Mom was also a hippie, one of those overly earnest, overly feeling, cringily sincere people we look back on and (some of us) laugh at. (She did not in any way fit the stereotype of incompetence, because you did not get a scholarship and a 4.0 at fucking Antioch without a few brains in your corner, but hell, most of the country was willing to mock their own college-age children at that time, I'm not that surprised the stereotype stuck.) Literally Class of 69, which is also—I think—the year I figured out her acoustic guitar was made in.

We recently dug that guitar out of the closet to give to my nb kid. Mom's first impulse was to dig up guitar tabs for stuff like "Where Have All The Flowers Gone," and "Blowing In The Wind," because what else would you play on a guitar? But there was one of those songs that I carefully didn't bring up, because I remember trying to pick it out on the piano when I was little. (When I was a kid, we accidentally ended up hosting an antique piano that a friend couldn't keep—long story.) We had a piano, I had old, yellowed sheet music from sometime long gone. I puzzled over a typewritten set of lyrics that my Mom had squirreled away in that book (it began, "I'm a typical American boy from a typical American town") but as that didn't have any notation to it, I went on and tried to play the song it was tucked in behind, which was "We Shall Overcome."

I had never seen my mother cry like that before.

She sat me down and talked to me about hearing Martin Luther King Jr. speak. She couldn't really get through the story. She talked about feeling like her generation could change the world. She started to talk about the feeling when she found out he'd been shot. She couldn't get through that part of the story either.

Listen. Listen, hippies were young people who looked around at a cynical, fake old world run by cynical, fake old men and said, "Fuck this shit, we're gonna change it." We will make it better. We will make something good on this blood-stained ground. And of course they failed, at least in part, of course it fell short, of course the shadow will always fall between the idea and the reality—but they also saved some lives, they also changed some hearts, they also kept our world lurching towards something better in spite of itself. (Saving a life, saving a world, it's all the same at the heart of things—that's in several Good Books, IIRC.) They cared and they tried. That is, in fact, a Big Fucking Deal.

Damn straight PresAux is being portrayed as a bunch of hippies, and I say that with all the love and respect I have in my soul. It is wholly appropriate and right that they be like that.

I think I am going to go find my nb kid guitar tabs for "We Shall Overcome" and probably "The Times They Are A'Changing." And if none of you are familiar with any of the tunes I am name-dropping, you might want to go look a few of them up, because young people have declared Change The World Time before and y'all will need to declare it again, and I think we need a bit of hippie spirit in the world right now.

Murderbot as a ‘Cringe’ Litmus Test for the Audience (a.k.a., we are culturally the Corporation Rim)

One of the more interesting things I’ve seen in discussions of ‘Murderbot’ are how many people are not happy that the show made the Preservation team more explicitly hippies. After all, per our current cultural zeitgeist, hippies are silly, over-earnest, over-feeling, over-EVERYTHING. Why is this team of scientists holding hands and humming? Why are they taking breaks in the middle of a tense situation to reassure a colleague that they love him? Why do they stand around playing music and dancing during their downtime? Why did the show make them “Cringe”?

And that got me thinking again about the current cultural antipathy toward sincerity and openness. People who are seen as open and sincere beyond a fairly narrow scope of emotional expression are treated as deeply weird, off-putting, and most importantly for this conversation, as INCOMPETENT. You can’t be goofy and competent. You can’t believe in the power of love and friendship and holding hands and taking a dance break, and still be a good scientist. You can’t have one of the unsexy sorts of mental health problems (panic disorder) and be a good leader. In our current cultural moment, you have to be Cool. You have to be unaffected by both the horrors of the world and the day-to-day joys.

I think that a lot of people see themselves in ‘The Murderbot Diaries’, and a lot of them understandably love the very anticapitalist tone of the books. And they wanted Preservation to be Cool Space Communists. Hypercompetent at all times, serious, without flaw. Because any personal flaws might be taken as flaws in their cultural and political leanings, right? And we can’t have silliness or goofiness or fun in our Communist Utopia, or people won’t take us seriously.

But to me, the tension is so much better, so much more real and human and FUN. And it makes the audience question their own implicit biases as much as SecUnit is going to have to contemplate its implicit biases. This team is comprised of highly talented scientists from a culture that values emotions and, yes, activities that we the audience have been culturally trained to think are Cringe. They do have a humming consensus circle—so that anyone in the team can have veto power over a decision that has major ramifications not only for a research project, but for their own ethics. They do like to play music and dance when they’ve got some free time, even if that music would be considered embarrassing or offputting to outsiders. They do openly love one another and support one another, even in—no, especially in—challenging times. It’s good to have that tension, both to tell the story and to give the characters and the AUDIENCE an emotional and thematic arc.

Let’s use Dr. Mensah as a the best example so far of this tension. Mensah is a good leader. In every scene where she’s with the group, she’s the heart of it. She’s always weighing the fears, the thoughts, the feelings, and the arguments of her friends to come to a decision. She doesn’t feel like Gurathin’s right about not trusting SecUnit, but she’s also very aware that he knows more about the Corporation Rim than she does, and that his arguments, while rooted in his fears, are rational. So she ends up deciding that they’ll leave the SecUnit behind for their mission.

And it’s the wrong call. Going out to the dark site in the map without the SecUnit almost gets her killed. But her decision to climb the scree pile alone makes sense, because she doesn’t want to further endanger Bharadwaj, and if she doesn’t climb up there with her equipment, they won’t get important information about what’s going on with their survey data. And yes, while she’s climbing she has another panic attack. But she keeps climbing through it. Hell, she even takes a moment to encourage the teamwork between SecUnit and Gurathin, because that’s an important part of being their leader. And, yes, they both roll their eyes because they still don’t like one another. But the important thing is that she’s created this sense of openness, of acceptance, of love.

Being a good leader doesn’t mean making the right call all the time. It means learning from both right calls and wrong calls. It means creating an environment where people can be wrong, and learn from their mistakes, and try again to get it right. And it works! Gurathin may roll his eyes, but he also has the space to apologize for getting it wrong. He has the space to fuck up and try again. And that is created by her encouragement, by her openness, by her caring even when it becomes embarrassing to a man raised in our culture the Corporation Rim, where open emotion is something to smirk at.

And when she’s alone, Mensah falls apart. When no one can see her, she has panic attacks, because things are starting to go pear-shaped for these people she loves. Because one of her dear friends nearly died, and she wasn’t there, and apparently that could happen at any time because their maps are faulty, and the only real rescue is an untrustworthy bond company that is a week away at best. That’s a perfect recipe for a panic attack, but she hides them because she knows what she needs to be for her friends and colleagues. She is the leader, and damned if she’s going to let something like her panic disorder stop her from doing that.

That’s not incompetent, that’s incredibly courageous. Her bravery lies in being afraid and pushing through, not being flawless from the off. The bravery and the competence and the things that eventually are going to win Murderbot over to loving these humans ARE their flaws and the fact that they don’t let those flaws stop them from trying to be the best people they can be, while also being true to a culture of being open and loving to the point that they can come across, to the jaded construct or audience member, as Cringe.

I think we’re going to see more and more of that as the show unfolds. We’ve only just laid the groundwork, and established the initial impressions of all the characters. They are being set up for arcs, and by electing to let the Preservation team be more out-there, more earnest, more Cringe, they’re setting the audience up for an arc too.

Anyway, loving the show, can’t wait for the DeltFall storyline to kick off tonight. And I love this crew being highly-competent space hippies with realistic human flaws, who love and support one another. In an unrelentingly Cool, Bleak, and Edgy television landscape, it really is nice to have kind characters be free to be their kooky selves without the show judging them for it.

#murderbot #murderbot tv #murderbot spoilers

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neonbonded · 2 days ago

Text

Fatherhood Is a Full-Contact Sport

♡ ft. Caleb, Xavier, Rafayel, Zayne, Sylus x fem!reader ♡ cw: dad!headcanons, domestic chaos, tag-team toddler warfare, sticker abuse, ego injuries, public humiliation (soft), wife-led mischief ♡ a/n: you didn’t mean to start a war… but once your kid picked a target, you had to support them. teamwork makes the dream (dad meltdown) work.

Caleb

It starts with the socks.

You and your kid exchange a look over breakfast—just a slight twitch of the eyebrow, a smirk over toast—and Caleb should have known. He should have.

But he’s got stars in his eyes and jam on his fingers, and he’s too busy cutting your kid’s pancakes into perfect little hexagons to notice you’ve already swapped his socks.

They’re pink. With glitter hearts. And the words “#1 Trophy Husband” stitched in sparkly thread.

He puts them on without looking.

And then?

Operation: Bully Dad begins.

—

Phase One: Language Manipulation. You teach your kid to call him “Captain Cranky.”

Every time he sighs? “Okay, Captain Cranky.”

When he says no to dessert? “Ugh, classic Captain Cranky.”

He stares at you like you betrayed him. You just sip your coffee.

“I am not cranky,” he mutters.

From under the table: “You’re literally pouting right now, Cap.”

—

Phase Two: The Snack Swap. He reaches for his favorite protein bar in the pantry.

Finds a note instead.

"Too slow, Captain Cranky. We needed it more. For… missions"

He spins around.

You and your kid are already on the couch. Sharing it. Making dramatic yum noises.

“I swear to god, you two are a menace.”

You both say it at the same time: “A menace to CRANKY.”

—

Phase Three: The Betrayal. He finally gets a break. He’s lying on the floor with your kid on his chest, playing spaceship noises.

It’s quiet. Peaceful.

Then your kid leans down and whispers: “Mommy says you talk in your sleep. About kissing her toes.”

His eyes FLY OPEN.

You’re across the room, hiding a smile behind a throw pillow. “I said what I said.”

He groans and drags both of you onto the floor with him. “Unbelievable. My own family.”

You grin. “You love it.”

He kisses your temple, then your kid’s forehead. “You have no idea.”

Xavier

It starts with a whisper war in the hallway.

You and your kid peek around the corner like spies on a stakeout—clipboard in hand, checklist ready.

Mission Objective: Tease Daddy Until He Short Circuits.

Xavier is at the kitchen counter, pouring cereal into the mug he always insists is “just more ergonomic than a bowl.” He’s wearing socks with swords on them. A gift from you. He takes them very seriously.

You circle “Target Acquired.”

—

Phase One: The Wrong Name Game. Your kid walks in casually.

“Hey, Xylophone.”

Xavier glances up. “Hello.”

No reaction.

Not even confusion.

So your kid tries again, louder. “I said Xylophone.”

Xavier frowns faintly. “Yes. I heard. Are we experimenting with sound-based naming systems today?”

You lose it from the hallway.

—

Phase Two: Sticker Warfare. This one’s your idea.

While Xavier’s reading on the couch, your kid climbs into his lap with all the innocence in the world—and slowly starts covering him in dinosaur stickers.

One on his cheek.

One on his temple.

A brontosaurus on his neck.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch.

Finally, he blinks over his book. “Is there a… theme?”

“Jurassic Daddy,” you say sweetly, passing by.

He nods thoughtfully. “Very well.”

Doesn’t even take them off.

—

Phase Three: The Hidden Alarm. Your kid sneaks your phone into Xavier’s jacket pocket.

Sets a timer.

In two minutes, it’ll go off. Loud. In the middle of him doing birdwatching on the balcony.

He’s squinting into the trees, focused and serene—until a digital duck quack blares from his coat.

He freezes.

Then calmly pulls out your phone, stares at it like it’s a new lifeform.

“...Is this my punishment for using your mug?”

You and your kid high-five from the doorway.

—

That night, you’re brushing your teeth when you feel arms wrap around your waist from behind.

“I love you,” he murmurs into your hair.

You smile at his reflection. “Even when we bully you?”

He hums. “Especially when you work as a team.”

He’s got a triceratops still stuck to his sleeve.

You leave it.

Rafayel

It starts because Rafayel wouldn’t let your kid put googly eyes on the blender.

A crime, truly.

So now?

You’re at war.

You and your mini-me form an unholy alliance before breakfast. The mission is clear: mess with Rafayel all day. Confuse him. Fluster him. Bring him to his knees (with love, obviously).

—

Phase One: The Sketch Swap He leaves his current canvas in the studio—half-finished, ethereal, probably titled Longing for Lemuria II: A Study in Violet Silence.

You and your kid sneak in.

When he returns, the dreamy mermaid now has a mustache. And laser eyes. And a speech bubble that says “My dad has stinky feet.”

He gasps like you physically struck him.

“You defiled my muse?!”

You shrug. “Consider it a collaboration.”

Your kid adds: “We made it better.”

He puts a hand to his chest. “You’re both going to artist jail.”

—

Phase Two: The Fashion Sabotage He goes to pull on his favorite pants—the flowy, artsy ones with the embroidered moons—and finds they’ve been replaced with hot pink yoga leggings from your drawer.

You: “I think you could rock them.”

Your kid: “Slay, bestie.”

He stares at the pants.

Then stares at you.

Then changes into them like a man on a catwalk.

But he’s muttering the entire time. “This is emotional abuse. I’m filing a glitter-based complaint.”

—

Phase Three: The Cookie Theft He opens the cabinet for his secret stash of lavender shortbread.

Finds an empty tin and a note inside:

“Stolen in the name of justice. Your blender crimes have consequences. —The Chaos Coalition”

He screams. Loudly. Then walks dramatically into the living room and collapses across the couch like a Victorian woman fainting on a chaise.

You toss him a goldfish cracker.

He glares.

Then eats it.

—

That night, he pulls you close in bed, head on your chest.

“I hope you both know,” he whispers, “that I am keeping a list.”

You run your fingers through his hair. “Of what?”

“Every emotional injury I sustained today.”

Your kid peeks in the doorway. “You forgot we replaced your shampoo with whipped cream.”

He gasps.

But honestly?

He’s never felt more loved.

Zayne

It begins when he finds his stethoscope floating in a bowl of cereal.

“Do you have a reason,” Zayne asks slowly, very calmly, “why my hospital equipment is now... infused with oat milk?”

Your child blinks up at him. “It was cold and needed a bath.”

You, from across the kitchen: “Honestly? Sound logic.”

He closes his eyes. Sets the stethoscope on the counter. Says nothing.

That was your warning shot.

—

Phase One: Renaming the Routine

You and your kid refuse to call anything by its normal name.

Zayne walks into the room, setting his laptop down with surgical precision.

You: “Look out. The Ice Cube Cometh.”

Your kid: “All hail Frost Daddy.”

Zayne: “I am literally holding your dental insurance forms.”

You both clap like he told a joke.

He blinks. Once.

“...What’s happening right now?”

—

Phase Two: The Hospital File Swap

He opens his neatly labeled folder before work.

Finds a glittery drawing titled “ME + MOMMY + FROST DAD = BESTIES FOREVER 💖”

Also, you’ve replaced his bio with:

“Zayne: World’s Coldest Softie. Will cry at piano music and is afraid of butterflies.”

He reads it. Stares at the paper.

Puts it back.

And takes it to work anyway.

—

Phase Three: Sticker Surgery

He showers. He gets dressed. He puts on his favorite button-down.

Then glances in the mirror—and freezes.

There’s a little cartoon Band-Aid sticker on his jawline.

Purple. With a smiley face.

You don’t even try to hide your laugh.

His jaw tics.

“I’ve conducted heart transplants with less sabotage than I face in this household.”

You pat his cheek. “And yet, you’re still so lovable.”

“Debatable.”

—

At bedtime, he’s halfway through folding laundry (into immaculate rectangles, obviously), when your kid leans against his side.

“Hey Dad?”

“Yes?”

“We bullied you good today.”

He pauses.

Then quietly nods.

“You did.”

You sit beside him, resting your head on his shoulder.

“But you liked it.”

“…No comment.”

You kiss the spot beneath his ear. “Tomorrow we’re calling you Doctor Cuddles.”

He exhales. Resigned. But soft.

“…Fine. But only inside this house.”

(You do not respect that boundary.)

Sylus

It starts before 9 a.m.

Sylus—warlord, tactician, red-eyed nightmare of the underground—walks into the living room fully dressed for a meeting with a black-market arms dealer.

Hair slicked. Suit sharp. Brooch in place.

You and your kid are waiting for him.

He stops. Narrow eyes. Tilt of the head. Suspicion.

You smile sweetly.

Your kid lunges forward.

And slaps a bright pink unicorn sticker onto his briefcase.

Dead center.

Sylus just… stands there.

“…Is this meant to be intimidation?”

You: “We’re marking our territory.”

Your kid: “Now the bad guys will know you have backup.”

He looks down at the sticker.

Then at you.

And says absolutely nothing.

But he takes the damn briefcase.

—

Phase One: Name Disrespect

He’s mid-hologram conference when your kid walks in, climbs into his lap, and announces to the entire Onychinus leadership:

“This is Mr. Grumpy Fangs. He doesn’t like it when I boop his nose.”

Sylus doesn’t even flinch.

Keeps talking about supply routes like there isn’t a giggling toddler poking his cheek on live cam.

Later?

He finds out you recorded it.

You send him the clip labeled:

“POV: You’re a villain and your child is your boss.”

He replies with one word:

“Traitor.”

Phase Two: Crow Brooch Chaos

You’re in the middle of folding laundry when your kid comes sprinting in, giggling with something clenched in one hand.

Minutes later, you hear Sylus’s voice—flat, deadly.

“Why… are there googly eyes on my crow?”

You don’t even look up. “Balance. Every villain needs a little whimsy.”

He turns to your kid. “Did you do this?”

“Team effort,” they chirp.

Sylus glares at the glittery-eyed brooch sitting on his chest.

Then sighs.

And doesn’t take it off.

Until hours later.

(He leaves it on his desk. Keeps looking at it.)

Phase Three: Tactical Sabotage

He walks into the war room.

Finds the giant wall map—his map—covered in crayon scribbles.

He blinks.

“Did someone… add butterflies to the Northern quadrant?”

Your kid: “It needed joy.”

You: “And balance.”

He stands there in silence.

Then mutters: “You’ve both become a security threat.”

You blow him a kiss.

That night, he’s sitting on the edge of the bed, jacket off, tie loose.

You crawl into his lap, wrapping your arms around him. “Did we push you too far today?”

He grumbles something unintelligible.

Then rests his forehead against yours.

“You’re lucky I love you.”

You kiss him slow. “We know.”

He exhales.

“…You’re not going to stop, are you?”

“Nope.”

Your kid shouts from the hallway: “TOMORROW YOU’RE GETTING GLITTER STICKERS!”

He closes his eyes. Bends his head to your shoulder.

And mutters:

“I should’ve stayed in the shadows.”

(He never means it.)

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