#i wanted to give more screen time to everyone

[tsunodaradio]

racing for your number¹ ⛐ 𝐋𝐍𝟒 & 𝐎𝐏𝟖𝟏

“obviously, we’re both here to try and fight for a world championship,” says oscar. “we wanna fight for it the whole time we’re in mclaren. we’re both on long contracts, so we wanna make sure we’re fighting this for the foreseeable future.” (or: part one of 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘰𝘴𝘤𝘢𝘳 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘢𝘶.)

ꔮ starring: lando norris x mclaren f1a driver!reader x oscar piastri. ꔮ word count: 23.1k overall; 14.4k in this part one. read part two here. ꔮ includes: smut, romance, angst, friendship. explicit sexual content; depictions of injuries, one (1) bad crash; mentions of food, alcohol; infidelity; profanity. tension! tension! tension!, mid-story timeskip/pov switch, idiots in love, everybody is kind of a bad person, open ending, references to challengers (2024).  ꔮ commentary box: this absolute behemoth of a fic is @cinnamorussell’s. birdy, there’s nothing i can tell you that you don’t already know, but i will say that being friends with you has been a constant source of light in my life for the past seven (!) years. thank you for matching my freak in all things; happy birthday, my dearest ❤︎ shoutout to the love of my life @norrisradio for beta reading this monster. tara, my star, i am nothing without you. 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 🎧 official playlist ⸻ they go back to the hotel room

“They call her the second coming of Christ or something.” 

Oscar shoots Lando a look. “Bit much, don't you think?”

The older driver shrugs, mouth twitching at the corner. “That’s just what I heard. Whole F1A camp’s obsessed,” he drawls. “Even Toto has called her a menace, and I don’t usually give a damn what that man has to say.” 

Oscar doesn’t respond right away. He glances toward the pit lane, where crew members are huddled around a monitor, static and telemetry painting ghost shapes on the screen. The air smells like brake dust and anticipation. Another season, another beginning.

He shifts his weight from one foot to the other. There’s that low buzz in his spine again. The mix of nerves and hunger that always hits before the first green light. Testing isn’t even real racing, and still, his fingers itch for the wheel.

“It’s probably just hype,” Oscar says after a moment too long. “Everyone wants a new prodigy. Makes for a good headline.”

Lando looks up, sunglasses perched halfway down his nose. He raises an eyebrow. “Have you seen her highlights?”

Oscar hesitates. That’s enough of an answer.

Lando’s grin widens. “Yeah. That move in Monza last year? Lap six?”

“That wasn’t bad,” Oscar mumbles, exhaling through his nose. 

“Not bad, he says,” Lando scoffs. “She dummied two drivers into turn one and made it look like a warm-up lap.”

He says it like it means something. Like he respects it. That’s the thing about Lando—Oscar can never quite tell where the line is between admiration and challenge. It makes their friendship—or whatever it is—feel like balancing on the curbs at high speed. One wrong step and you’re off.

“You think she’ll live up to it?” Oscar asks, not really expecting an answer.

“Guess we’ll find out. She’s supposed to be here this morning.”

Oscar nods, more to himself than to Lando. The sun glints off the garage signage, chrome and orange in the desert light. Somewhere across the paddock, you exist. A wildcard. A name whispered like a promise or a warning. He hasn’t met you yet, but he’s already wondering what happens when he does.

The first glimpse isn’t cinematic. 

It’s sharp. Unfiltered. Like a photo taken mid-motion, eyes narrowed against the sun, your race suit half-zipped, sleeves tied around your waist.

You’re walking across the paddock toward the F1A garage, helmet tucked under one arm, hair swept back in a loose, no-nonsense ponytail. There’s no entourage. No preamble. Just this unflappable self-assurance that follows you like a shadow.

Lando sees you first. “There,” he says under his breath, nudging Oscar.

Oscar turns.

And time slows. Just a little. Just enough to feel it.

You stop at the side of your car, greet the engineers with a nod, and lean into the cockpit like it’s something sacred. Something earned. There’s an efficiency to your movements—clean, exact. Not rushed. Not tentative.

Oscar watches the way you adjust your gloves. The flick of your fingers against the wheel. He sees the discipline, the small rituals that precede precision. There’s no charm in it. No softness. Just strategy.

Lando lets out a soft whistle. “She’s got swagger, mate. Look at that. No nerves. Like it’s her playground,” he points out, and Oscar’s brows furrow like he doesn’t quite get the joke. 

Your car rolls onto the track.

Oscar and Lando follow the feed from the monitors, from the straight to sector two, to the turn six hairpin. Every corner you take is cut clean. Tight. Ruthless.

Oscar doesn’t say anything, but his jaw is tense. It’s not flash, what you do. It’s control. You don’t flirt with the edge; you own it. He recognizes it for what it is: cutthroat. Surgical. The kind of driver who doesn’t just want to win. The kind who needs to.

And yet, Lando can’t stop smiling. “You see that? She’s showboating. Look at the line she took! Fucking theatre, man.” 

“That wasn’t theatre,” Oscar huffs. “That was execution.”

“Same thing when you’re good enough,” Lando says, eyes still on the screen.

They’re both watching the same driver. And somehow, they’re both watching someone different.

Later, when they’re done being awed and they’ve had their turn with their own cars, they see you before they hear you.

You’re walking with a small entourage, one of the McLaren comms girls half-jogging to keep up with your stride. There’s a clipboard in someone’s hands, a tablet in another, and you—at the center of it—walk like you’re already late for the rest of your life. You don’t spare a glance at the two drivers watching you from the edge of the garage.

“Is that her?” Lando’s already halfway into the pit lane, giddy with the kind of energy he usually reserves for pole positions.

Oscar lingers at the back. Hands tucked into his hoodie, watching. Squinting.

You stop just briefly as one of the mechanics gestures something toward your car. You nod once, curt and efficient, before turning back toward the paddock. There’s a gravity to your movements. Unhurried but completely unyielding. You disappear behind a barrier of personnel before Lando can even open his mouth.

He exhales, deflating like a balloon. “Osc, she didn’t even look.”

Oscar hums. “She’s busy.”

“Yeah, but still.” Lando runs a hand through his hair. “She’s like—cooler than us.”

Oscar doesn’t answer. His eyes remain on the spot you vanished from. The imprint of your presence still clings to the moment, sharp and vivid.

He hadn’t expected the air to change when you walked through it.

Hadn’t expected to feel it in his ribs.

“Maybe we’ll catch her at the driver briefing,” Lando says, already hopeful again.

“Maybe,” Oscar says, even though he knows that moment, whenever it comes, will be more loaded than either of them are ready for.

He wonders, briefly, what happens when two people want the same thing. Wonders what happens to teammates when the equation shifts. Wonders how long it’ll take for you to shift it.

And if he’ll be fast enough to keep up.

Because he can’t resist, Oscar asks around a bit. He has to see it for himself. Sure, Lando and him could appreciate a show, but numbers was where it’s all at. When the engineers divulge the data, how you’d made the MCL39 your bitch in less than an hour, all the cards end up on the table. 

“Jesus,” Lando cusses, his eyes dancing over the data, over the replay of your pre-drive, over you. 

Amen, Oscar thinks to himself. 

--

The season starts like a fuse. One brilliant spark, and then everything explodes into motion.

Oscar and Lando trade wins like old friends swapping secrets. Quietly, easily, until it’s not so quiet anymore. Until it’s Lando in Australia, Oscar in Shanghai, Lando again in Suzuka by three-tenths. Then Oscar in Bahrain with a blistering final stint that stuns even his own engineer.

The championship leaderboard seesaws. McLaren shoots up in the Constructors’ like a rocket with nowhere to go but up.

They rib each other at press conferences, knock helmets at parc fermé, drag race out of pit lane just to see who can make it to Turn 1 fastest.

There are moments that glitter. Lando grabbing Oscar in a bear hug in Jeddah, champagne streaking down both their visors; Oscar clapping Lando’s back after a stunning quali in Miami.

It’s fun. It’s good. It’s everything Oscar imagined the dream would feel like when he first signed the long-term contract.

But sometimes, when the noise dies down and the race suits are peeled off and he’s alone in the dark of his hotel room, Oscar thinks about the way your eyes narrowed in that first test. How you had stared at the track like it was your birthright to dominate it. How you hadn’t looked at him or Lando at all.

He shakes the thought loose. Buries it somewhere far and deep, underneath telemetry data and tyre degradation curves and championship standings. He tells himself it doesn’t matter.

There’s only one prize he wants, and it’s not you.

(At least—not yet.)

--

The courtyard at the MTC has been transformed into something out of a champagne commercial. Fairy lights in brilliant orange, sleek chrome furniture, ice buckets blooming with bottles of prosecco. Lando already has a drink in hand. Oscar is sipping a tonic water, eyes scanning the crowd as if it’s just another race to read.

And then you appear.

You don’t just walk into a room; you make the whole space bend around you. Your dress catches the light in sharp, refracted angles, gleaming silver with slits like speed lines, as if you belong on a podium, not a patio. Lando actually stares. Oscar’s hand tightens slightly around his glass.

You’re all media smiles and quiet power, the kind of person who doesn’t have to raise their voice to command attention. You make the sponsors laugh with dry, carefully measured quips. You charm the mechanics with that fierce, knowing gaze. Even Zak leans in a little closer when you speak.

The other drivers of the McLaren Driver Development programme trail just behind you—pleasant, polite, and clearly second-best. It’s not in anything they say or do. It’s in how people look at you. You’re the one they thank for the points. For the headlines. For the lead you’ve built race after race. You’ve won four of the last six rounds. You’ve never finished below P5. The rest of the grid? Scrambling for scraps.

“There she is,” Lando mutters, nudging Oscar. “Shining like the North fucking Star.”

Oscar doesn’t reply. He just watches as you move through the party, all shimmer and calculation.

When you finally step away, slipping toward the quieter side of the garden for air or solitude—maybe both—they move without having to discuss it. Lando leads. Oscar follows, but not far behind.

You’re leaning against a railing, looking out over the lake. You hear them before you see them.

“I’m sure we need no introduction,” Lando grins, drink still in hand.

You glance sideways, one eyebrow raised. Your gaze burns, bearing right into Oscar’s very core. 

He tries to ignore it. Oscar instead snorts, gently tapping his shoe against Lando’s. “Ignore him. He’s an idiot.”

“An idiot with pole in Monaco,” you point out, drawing a toothy grin from the Brit. 

“See? She does watch us,” Lando teases Oscar, voice loud enough to indicate this is not the first time the hypothetical had been floated. 

You smile, but it’s sharp-edged. “Only when I’m bored.”

Oscar watches the moment unfold with a tamped grin. You’re exactly what he thought you’d be. Witty. Cool. Intense in the way fire is—bright, beautiful, and probably dangerous.

“You’re leading your championship by a mile,” he says, a little more serious now. “That’s not boring.”

You tilt your head, considering him properly. “And you’re not as cocky in person.”

“Don’t give him ideas,” Lando interjects, visibly offset by the few minutes he’s spent watching the conversation from the outside. 

You take a sip of your drink and look at both of them like you already know exactly what this is. What it might become. “Well,” you muse, “this should be fun.”

Oscar knows the truth: it’s been fun since the moment they saw you at pre-testing. 

You’re swept away before they can get a word in edgewise. One of the team’s top PR officers taps your shoulder, murmurs something about bigwig sponsors, and you nod—ever gracious, ever poised, even as your champagne flute hasn’t had time to be refilled.

Lando and Oscar watch as you disappear into a crowd of tailored suits and sparkling dresses. For a moment, neither of them says a word. Just the soft clink of glasses and the drone of conversation filling MTC’s glassy atrium.

“Think they’ll let us talk to her again before 2026?” Lando asks, half a laugh, half a sigh.

Oscar lifts his drink. “Not unless we start wearing Rolexes and own a yacht.”

Hours later, the party has thinned to the faithful and the bored. Someone’s trying to DJ in the simulator suite, a few engineers are playing beer pong with shockingly good precision, and the rooftop—usually off-limits—is unlocked for some reason no one questions.

Oscar finds Lando near the elevators, leaning against the wall like he’s waiting for the right excuse to do something dumb. “Let’s go,” Oscar says.

“To the roof?”

Oscar just jerks his head. Lando follows. They bicker aimlessly in the lift, knowing that the real conversation awaits them once they can sit down and discuss in private. Call it a debrief; call it two friends in a pissing contest. 

Oscar will want to dissect your humor. Lando will list out all the reasons why you probably like him more. They get to do neither of those things. 

When the elevator doors open to the cool night air and the wide, starlit stretch of the rooftop, they almost miss you.

You’re leaning against the railing, backlit by the glowing McLaren sign, one foot crossed over the other. There’s a cigarette in your hand. You look like you belong on a magazine cover or in a war; you could go either way.

You don’t look surprised when you see them. If anything, you look amused.

“Boys,” you greet. “Didn’t peg you for rebels.”

“We could say the same about you,” Lando quips, approaching you with his hands in the pockets of his slacks. Oscar figures it’s a way to hide how he’d started shaking with excitement. “Didn’t know F1A let you smoke.”

You shrug. “They don’t. It’s not a habit. Just a moment.”

Then, like it’s nothing, you hold the pack out. An unspoken test.

Oscar declines with a small shake of his head. You may be the hottest person at this party, but he’s not about to bend his morals. Meanwhile, Lando fumbles to grab one, then lights the stick like he’s done it before. He hasn’t. It’s obvious in the way he exhales too deeply, the way he nearly doubles over when all that smoke hits his lungs. 

“Smooth,” you deadpan.

“Cheers,” Lando replies, coughing once.

There’s a pause. The air is sharp with wind and smoke and whatever this tension is. When you speak up, it’s not to stoke the flames. It’s to fan it. 

“So,” you ask, tone infuriatingly casual, “which one of you is driver number one?”

Neither boys waste a second.

“Me,” they answer at the same time.

You smile—not one of those bullshit, tight-lipped grins, but an actual smile that’s all teeth and knowing.

Oscar sees it too late. He’s already trapped. So is Lando.

They don’t make a move to take it back, to buck and give in about one or the other actually being in the so-called first seat. Oscar rolls his shoulders; Lando smiles behind the cigarette he doesn’t know how to smoke. You eye them both like they’re cars driving side by side, both gunning for P1. Maybe they are. 

“Figured,” you say, a hint of amusement tinging your tone. “Predictable.”

It sounds like an insult. It lands like one. Lando takes it in stride, leaning toward you with his lips half-curled. “And you’re not?”

“God, no.” You flick some ash off the ledge of the rooftop. “I took up a Master’s this year. Did no one tell you?”

Oscar tilts his head. “While racing full-time?”

You nod.

Lando stares. “Why?”

"Didn’t want the only thing I’m good at to be driving in circles."

Oscar studies you in the quiet that follows. There’s a depth to that answer he doesn’t know how to touch. Lando watches on, too, his expression both impressed and doubtful. Like he doesn’t see the point in getting an education when you’ve got the whole world waiting to see you dominate a track. 

You catch the blankness on Oscar’s face, the beat of judgment that tugs at Lando. It makes you laugh, makes you jab, “You two don’t really know what racing is yet.”

That gets their attention. Lando scoffs. Oscar stays still.

You go on. “Racing’s not about pace or points. It’s not the overtake. It’s not even the win. Racing’s a relationship. It’s brutal and messy and intimate. It’s about knowing where the limit is, and choosing to brush against it anyway. Like love.”

Oscar’s breath catches. Lando freezes mid-laugh. If anybody else tried to lecture them like this, the two boys might’ve called bullshit. But there’s something about the way you say it—serene, self-assured—that has them listening. 

You tap ash off the end of your cigarette, smiling to yourself. “Thing is, most people don’t know how to love. Not really. Not enough to last.”

“And you do?” Oscar asks before he can stop himself.

You meet his eyes. “I know how to race.”

Plain, simple, factual. The silence stretches, thick with tension and something electric. Oscar’s heart beats loud in his chest. Lando looks like he’s trying to come up with a joke but can't quite manage.

You take one last drag, drop the cigarette, crush it with your heel. Without so much of a word, you begin to walk away, leaving the McLaren boys with your metaphors and the look in your eye that will haunt their wet dreams for days.

Lando’s voice scrabbles to fill the space. “Wait,” he says, casual but quick. “Are you on Instagram?”

You stop in your tracks, caught off guard. Then you laugh. A real one this time, not performative, not polite. It startles Lando a little. Maybe even startles you. “What?” you ask, because of course you have Instagram, but that’s not the real question. 

Oscar, deadpan but firm, chimes in, “He’s asking for your number. And so am I.”

There’s a beat. Then another. The stars stretch wider above the rooftop. You glance between them, like you’re trying to decide who’s more serious, but both of them look at you the same way. Deadly earnest. Half-smiling, half-daring. Fire and ice; Norris and Piastri. 

“You both want my number,” you say, amused.

Oscar doesn’t flinch. “Very much so, yeah.”

Lando, quieter now but still himself, nods. “Yeah.”

You tilt your head. The rooftop light catches the sharp angle of your jaw. You say, slow and deliberate, “Okay, well, I’m not a homewrecker.”

Oscar grins. A flash of something more than just confidence. “We don’t live together.”

Lando, without missing a beat, jokes, “It’s an open relationship. Come hang out with us later. We’re in Room 481.”

You raise an eyebrow. There’s something almost fond in your voice now. “Want me to come and tuck you in?”

“No, we can just keep talking,” Lando drawls, twirling the cigarette still burning in his hand. “About racing.”

Your gaze lingers on both of them for a second too long. Then you say, “Good night,” and walk away.

Neither of them moves until the sound of your footsteps fades.

Oscar exhales first. Lando mutters something under his breath that sounds a lot like, “Fuck.”

--

Their hotel room is dim, lit only by the thin line of city light sneaking through the half-drawn curtains. The air smells like hotel soap and condensation from two long showers that didn’t quite steam the tension out.

Lando is shirtless, legs kicked up on the low coffee table, a half-finished beer dangling from his fingers. The bottle sweats against his skin, cold and clammy. He hasn’t spoken in a while. Not really. Just the occasional grunt as he aimlessly scrolls through his phone.

Oscar is stretched out on the bed, one arm tucked under his head, the other lying flat across his stomach. His shirt is still on, wrinkled and halfway untucked. He looks relaxed, but only if you don’t know him.

He glances over. “You think she's coming?”

Lando doesn’t look up. “Don’t be stupid.”

“You’re the one who keeps staring at the door.”

“Am not.” 

Oscar doesn’t press. Doesn’t have to. He just closes his eyes and lets the silence breathe between them. It’s like something’s waiting to happen and both of them are trying to pretend they don’t care who it happens with.

Lando tips his head back against the couch cushion. He blows out a breath and mutters, barely audible, “You really think she'll come?”

Oscar cracks open one eye. “Didn’t you just tell me not to be stupid?”

Before Lando can answer, the doorbell rings.

Neither of them moves.

Then both of them do.

Oscar gets there first, his socked feet quiet against the carpet. He presses an eye to the peephole and sees you standing in the hallway—bare legs, McLaren hoodie, your hair a little messy, like you couldn’t decide whether this was casual or calculated. Maybe it’s both.

He exhales, a soft, amused thing. 

Behind him, Lando is already in a flurry of movement. A piss-poor attempt to clean up the mess that, admittedly, was mostly Oscar. “Shit, shit—Oscar, there’s your jacket on the lamp—why the fuck is it on the lamp?”

Oscar shrugs, unbothered. Lando grabs the jacket and flings it onto a chair, knocking over an empty water bottle in the process. He frantically straightens the bedspread, then whirls around. “Why is there toothpaste on the mirror? What the hell have you been doing?”

“Brushing my teeth,” snaps Oscar, already moving over to the mirror to wipe the toothpaste off with one of Lando’s boxers from their shared hamper. 

The doorbell rings again. They stumble over to the door, all pretenses be damned. At the exact same time, they reach for the handle.

Lando shoves Oscar with his shoulder. Oscar elbows him back. The door jiggles under the push-pull of indecision and male pride.

Finally, the lock clicks. The door swings open. Oscar braces himself on the doorframe; Lando leans a little too heavily against the nearby wall. 

Oscar’s eyes catch on you in real time—legs bare, hoodie sleeves shoved up to your elbows, collarbone visible where the zipper’s left half-undone. You’ve got one hand on your hip, your weight shifted lazily to one side like you’ve just walked into a room full of admirers and knew you’d find them scrambling.

You clock the chaos instantly. The hastily tossed jacket, the open beer bottles, the way both boys are slightly out of breath. It should be embarrassing, but you just smile, eyes glittering with some private joke they’re not in on yet.

“Hi,” you greet, and Oscar thinks you might as well have kicked the door in.

Lando recovers first—barely. He gestures you in like a flight attendant pointing out the emergency exits. “Come in. Sorry about the mess. We weren’t expecting company.”

You arch a brow. “Weren’t you the one who invited me?”

He grins, sheepish. Oscar steps aside to let you pass, trying and failing not to stare at the sway of your hips.

Within minutes, the three of you end up seated in a loose circle on the carpet, backs against furniture, lukewarm beers in hand. The room is still cluttered, but the energy has changed. Softer, warmer, lit from the inside now.

You lean back against the couch seat, legs stretched out in front of you, bottle balanced on your thigh. “So,” you say, casual, like this isn’t the weirdest triangle anyone’s ever walked into. “Tell me something I don’t know about you. Either of you.”

Lando snorts. “How much time do you have?”

Oscar just smiles and lifts his bottle to his lips. “Careful. You asked for it.”

You grin, settled and unbothered, like this is your living room and not a hotel suite two boys nearly ruined trying to impress you. The stories begin. Laughter and low voices fill the space between beer bottles and long glances. You sit cross-legged across from them, the edge of your smile betraying how entertained you are by their back-and-forth.

Oscar starts the story about Lando trying to order pizza in rural Italy using only sound effects and hand gestures. Lando counters with a tale of Oscar getting stuck in a revolving door in Tokyo, too polite to push past an old lady. Each story is a duel masked as banter, a performance sharpened by proximity, by the way your eyes jump between them like you’re judging a competition.

They want to make you laugh. Every so often, they succeed. 

Then, almost lazily, like you’ve just remembered something important, you address Oscar. “How come you’re not pretending not to have a girlfriend?”

Oscar blinks. “What?”

Before he can recover, Lando answers smoothly, “Oscar's between ladies.”

You raise an eyebrow, amused. “Is that right?”

Oscar frowns. “No. I mean, that makes it sound like I'm some kind of…” 

“Player?” you finish for him. 

Lando lifts his beer in salute. “Oscar does fine for himself.”

Oscar feels like he might actually combust. “Okay, can we not—” he’s saying, irritated, but Lando has never known when to pull the plug on anything. 

The Brit just grins and pinches Osc’s cheek. It’s meant to be condescending, but the nature of their friendship makes it look more affectionate than anything. “I mean, look at him,” Lando coos. 

And so you do.

You really look at Oscar.

Your gaze lingers, deliberate. There’s something unhurried in the way your eyes move over him. His jaw, the dip of his collarbone, the way his hand tightens ever so slightly around his bottle. He feels it like static under his skin, the heat crawling up the back of his neck.

He doesn’t look away, but he does swallow.

Your voice is soft, teasing. “Yeah, I guess I see it.”

Oscar doesn’t know if that’s a win or a warning. Lando’s grin widens.

You tilt your head, this time regarding Lando. It’s like you’ve already decided he’s the one who’s going to indulge you, the one who’s prone to spilling the secrets. You’re right, of course. “How often does this happen? You guys going after the same girl,” you ask outright. 

It’s a kind of confidence that would look distasteful to anyone else. But it’s you, and they couldn’t hide the truth from you if they tried. Lando raises his shoulders in a shrug. “Not as often as you'd think, actually,” he admits, and Oscar gives the smallest of nods. 

You look amused. “No?”

Oscar chips in, dry, “Lan’s more into the model types.”

“Hey!”

You raise your eyebrows. “Should I be flattered that I’m not either of your types?”

Oscar looks at you, more serious than he means to be. “I mean, you’re everybody’s type, aren’t you?”

There’s a pause—small, sharp, and not entirely comfortable. You glance between them, then say it with the same casual boldness you walked in with: “What about you two?”

Lando furrows his brow. “What do you mean?”

“I mean… what about you two? You’ve got the energy.”

Oscar chokes on his drink. Lando bursts out laughing.

“You’re kidding,” Lando says, but not unkindly. Not even convincingly.

Oscar wipes at his mouth. “She’s not kidding.”

You just smile, relaxed and devastating. “Just curious.”

And now it’s their turn to squirm a little.

“Well, there is that one time—” Lando offers, but Oscar is already shaking his head. 

“No.” It’s just one word. One word, but Oscar packs all the authority he can into it. It’s the type of soft power that has Lando stopping dead in his tracks, because he’s been in enough meetings and sessions with Oscar to know when to stop pushing. 

You don’t have the same sense. 

You lean forward, looking far too invested to let up. “Now you have to tell me,” you declare, eyeing the two boys with rapt interest. 

Lando shoots Oscar an apologetic look. Oscar glares daggers in return. There’s a long, terse moment, where everything from the rumble of the airconditioning to the distant sounds outside the hotel room seems to hold everything taut. 

It’s a battle of attrition, and Oscar crumbles when the silence stretches uncomfortably long. When Lando guiltily mumbles, “I think it’s a sweet story.” 

“Fine,” Oscar grits out, “but I’m not telling it.” 

That doesn’t phase Lando at all. He jumps right into it. “Right, so,” he starts, “it happened when Osc first joined McLaren. I’m sure you know how we all need to… take the edge off, ‘specially after grueling races. There’s a time and place for that, but sometimes you really can’t just wait, I guess.” 

You don’t recoil like you’re disgusted, don’t contest Lando’s words. Somehow, that’s even more surprising to Oscar than the fact he’s watching this conversation play out. It doesn’t help at all—the mental image that begins to blossom in his head. An unzipped race suit, discarded fireproofs—

Oscar glances at your fingers and his throat suddenly feels dry. He takes a long swig of his drink, begging his mind to get out of the goddam gutter. 

“And I was going to check in on Osc, because it was a pretty shitty FP2,” Lando goes on. “We had separate driver rooms. His was unlocked. I went in, and all the lights were off, and he was… you know…” 

“Jerking off,” Oscar deadpans when Lando hedges. 

Lando breaks into the smallest smile before going on, “I probably should have walked out then and there, but I’ve never had the best rational judgment. So—I was by the door, Osc had frozen up, and I asked him what he was doing. And he said he was…” 

“Jerking off.” 

“And then—” Lando pauses. For dramatic effect or to sort through his memory, Oscar’s not sure. He pushes on, “I asked him if he needed any help.” 

Your eyebrows raise, but you try to hide it behind a conservative sip of your beer. Lando chuckles nervously, “Don’t worry, I said ‘no homo’, like, eight times.” 

That’s a lie. Oscar knows that’s a lie. But if it helps Lando sleep at night, if it softens the blow of this damning story, then he’ll take it. 

Lando, in fact, had only said ‘no homo’—or his own variation of it—once. When Oscar had locked up at the offer, when Oscar had stared at Lando like he was insane. Lando went on to stammer something about the socials filming they did earlier that day, where they’d both become acutely aware of their differences in hand size. 

It’s just that your hand is so small, Lando had said. Do you even… get everything? 

It had been a challenge. That’s what Oscar likes to think. That’s how Oscar defends the way he had made space for Lando, the way the two had mumbled about never talking about this. 

Oscar’s cock had twitched, his body fucking betraying him, when Lando wrapped his much bigger hand over Oscar’s. The pitch black room had made it impossible to see everything, but there were things neither of them could deny. Lando’s fingers wrapping all around. Oscar’s hand suddenly feeling quite insignificant and useless, enough that he decided to drop it all together. The clumsy way Lando worked him, as if unsure what rhythm and pace Oscar might like. 

Lando had probably been going by instinct, had been moving according to what he enjoyed. Hard jerks, occasional squeezes. It wasn’t Oscar’s speed, but the sheer absurdity of it all was enough to have him struggling to muffle his moans. 

Lando had gone so far as to wordlessly place his free hand over Oscar’s mouth. The warmth of Lando’s palm to his panting lips had been too much, too intimate, so Oscar wrenched it away and bit his own lower lip until it bled. 

When Lando had leaned over to spit for some extra lubrication, Oscar came. Hard. A violent unraveling, nearly painting Lando in ropes of white. Thank God for racing reflexes; the older man pulled away just in time, leaving Oscar to shoot cum over his own fireproofs. 

The moment was relegated into a footnote. For the first time, tonight, it’s shared like it can be something more than a fevered memory. 

Lando finishes telling the story. Oscar downs the rest of his beer. You look between them, eyes piercing but not judging, as if you might be able to catalogue their relationship from that one anecdote. 

Oscar isn’t sure if you find what you’re looking for, but your voice is softer, kinder, when you comment, “You’re right. That was a sweet story.” 

You drain the last of your bottle and frown, holding it up like the weight will change. “That was the last one.”

Oscar peers into his, confirming. “Yeah. All gone.”

Lando tips his bottle back dramatically, just to be sure, before setting it down with a click. “Tragic.”

There’s a moment. Not quite a silence; it’s too loaded for that. More like the air pausing, holding its breath. The scene has been set. The stories, exchanged. 

You stand. The hem of your hoodie sways around your thighs as you cross the room and sink down onto the edge of their bed. You glance at both of them, your expression unreadable but heavy with intent.

“Come here,” you say, patting the mattress.

Oscar blinks. “Which one of us—?”

But Lando’s already up, not even hesitating. He strides over like it’s instinct, like it’s muscle memory. Oscar follows, nearly tripping over his own feet. They sit on either side of you, the mattress dipping beneath the weight of all three.

It’s close. Intimate. The kind of proximity that makes skin buzz and burn.

You don’t speak. Just turn slightly, your knees brushing Oscar’s as you lean in. Oscar doesn’t immediately realize, but he does, then. You’re choosing him. Or: you’re starting with him. 

The kiss is deliberate, sweet and slow. You taste like beer and something warmer, more dangerous. Oscar goes still for a split second—just long enough to catalogue the soft press of your mouth against his, to commit it to memory. He kisses you back, instinctive, barely breathing.

He can feel Lando watching. Not looking away. Not even pretending to.

When you pull away, Oscar gasps like he’s coming up for air.

You shift your weight, turning toward Lando now.

Oscar’s heart stutters.

It’s different when you kiss Lando. Still soft, still lingering, but there’s a grin curled on the edge of your lips. Lando kisses you like he’s always known he would get to. 

Oscar watches.

And doesn’t look away. Not pretending to. 

You and Lando break apart as if gravity’s the only thing pulling you apart. Then—like they’d been waiting for the same cue—both boys lean in at once, heads angling, mouths searching. There’s a split-second of chaos, almost comedic: Lando and Oscar bump foreheads. They both freeze, startled.

And then, laughter. Lando first, grinning. Oscar chuckles, too.

You just watch them with amusement, your eyes flicking back and forth. “Seriously?”

They recover quickly. Lando dips his head, trailing slow, feather-light kisses down your neck. His breath is warm, his mouth surer now. Oscar’s lips find your shoulder, soft and exploratory. You tilt your head slightly, inviting more, and they eagerly take you up on it. 

You’re smiling at first, a little dazed by the attention. But then their mouths travel higher, closer, until suddenly, without planning or hesitation, the three of you are right there. Lips, mouths, breath tangled together. For a heartbeat, all you can feel is the closeness: three people caught in something electric and unspoken.

There’s a moment of surprise. Lando draws back an inch, blinking. Oscar, too, hesitates.

You laugh, light and easy, as if to say, What did you expect?

Then you lean forward again, slow and deliberate, your lips brushing between theirs. Your hand reaches for Oscar’s shoulder, your fingers brushing Lando’s knee. And this time, when the kiss resumes, no one flinches.

It’s warm and heady and a little reckless. The space between you disappears, and all that’s left is touch, breath, heat. When Oscar’s eyes flutter close, he’s not even sure what’s happening. Just that there’s spit, and tongue, and teeth. Cheap alcohol and somebody’s Chapstick. A three-way that would land all of you on the front page of every gossip website in the world.  

Oscar doesn’t know when exactly it happens.

One moment, it’s the three of you. The tangle of lips and hands, so close it’s impossible to tell where one person ends and another begins. His mouth moves instinctively, chasing pressure, chasing warmth. 

He thinks it’s still you he’s kissing.

But then—slowly, imperceptibly—your presence begins to withdraw.

You don’t pull away all at once. It’s subtler than that. Your touch lingers at first, fingers still curled against Oscar’s shoulder, the scent of your shampoo still invading Lando’s senses. But your mouth has gone still, your breath cooled. The kiss narrows, focuses.

There’s less of the Chapstick. More of the grazing teeth. Something firm, aggressive, desperate. 

Oscar opens his eyes, just a flicker.

Lando.

They’re kissing. Fully. Deeply.

Oscar freezes, not from fear or discomfort, but the pure shock of it. He hadn’t thought—hadn’t let himself imagine. But now it’s happening and there’s no one else there.

Just him and Lando.

And it’s good. Lando’s mouth is hot and insistent, his hand firm at the back of Oscar’s neck. The kiss is clumsy and eager, but genuine. Oscar should pull away; Oscar should push Lando off. Oscar—

Closes his eyes. 

Indulges it for just a second more.  

Then, your voice cuts gently through the haze.

“Okay,” you say, soft and wry. “I’m going to bed.”

This time, it’s Lando’s turn to freeze. Oscar feels it happen. The way the man’s fingers tighten at Oscar’s neck, the way his mouth stops moving as if realizing, then and there, that there’s one less factor in the equation. 

Both boys pull away. You’ve sunk against the pillows, your hoodie slipping off one shoulder. The smile on your kiss-swollen lips is small and knowing. Like you planned it. Like you knew they wouldn’t stop.

Lando looks dazed. Oscar’s heart is thundering in his chest. They detach, watching you as you make your way to the door. 

“Wait,” Lando croaks. “What about your number?”

You pause, one hand already on the doorknob, looking back at them. The longing in their faces isn’t subtle. “I told you,” you say, “I’m not a homewrecker.”

Oscar speaks up, voice low. “Please.”

You tilt your head, regarding them with a sincerity that makes Oscar’s stomach churn. He’s not sure what you see, in between their mussed up hair and twin boners and desperate, desperate expression. “How about this?” you finally say. “I'll be watching your next race. Whoever wins can text me.”

Lando breaks out into a grin. Oscar lifts an eyebrow, intrigued.

You look towards Oscar, something sly tinting your voice. “You can beat him. You should beat him, actually.”

Oscar narrows his eyes. “Are you saying you want me to?”

“I’m saying you’re not getting my number if you don’t.”

“But what do you want?” he presses.

“To watch a good fucking race,” you say, saccharine sweet even though your gaze is as good as poison. 

And with that, you’re gone, the door clicking shut behind you like the end of a chapter neither of them realized they were in. 

Oscar shifts, still catching his breath, the taste of Lando lingering in his mouth. His heart thuds in his chest, too fast, too loud. He tells himself it’s the adrenaline, the beer, the girl who just walked out the door. Not what just happened. Not the kiss that still feels burned into his skin.

Lando speaks first, breaking the charged silence. “Remember that tow I gave you in Spa? Got you P3. You owe me for that.”

Oscar snorts. “That was a lifetime ago.”

Lando stands, stretching with a groan. His underwear is slightly askew, and the tent forming beneath the waistband is impossible to miss. He makes no move to hide it, instead giving Oscar a cheeky grin. “Papaya rules,” Lando drawls.

“Jesus, mate,” Oscar grimaces. 

And then he swats Lando’s boner. Hard.

Lando yelps, folding into half. “Oi! Assault!”

Oscar laughs, shaking his head as he tosses a pillow at Lando’s chest. The tension doesn’t disappear, not really. But it twists into something else—competitive, charged, challenging. Unresolved, in a way that won’t be settled with a trophy or points. 

The race isn’t over. Not by a long shot.

--

The paddock buzzes like it always does. Mechanics shouting, tyres squealing, engineers hunched over telemetry screens. But for Lando and Oscar, everything feels sharper. There’s a different kind of focus in the air.

They walk side by side through the McLaren garage, helmets in hand, fireproofs zipped halfway. On the surface, they look the same as they always do. Calm, clipped, professional. Beneath it, something brims.

Only the two of them know what’s at stake.

You’re already there, leaning against a table near the back of the garage, head bowed slightly as you scroll through something on your phone. You’re wearing your F1A team gear, sleeves rolled, expression unreadable.

Oscar sees you first and slows a fraction. Lando notices, smirks.

“Nervous?” he says under his breath.

Oscar scoffs, eyes forward again. “Please. I’m not the one who nearly broke a toe trying to get to the door first.” 

“I was being courteous.”

Oscar doesn’t answer, but his knuckles tighten on the strap of his helmet. Neither of them approaches you. You don’t look up.

A mechanic calls Lando over; his engineer waves Oscar to the other side. The spell breaks. 

It’s race time.

Oscar climbs into his car with the same ritual movements he’s done for years. Today, though, his hands are steady in a way they haven’t been in months. He can feel it. The hum under his skin. The challenge. The possibility.

Across the garage, Lando slides into his own cockpit, flashing his usual grin at his crew. It doesn’t reach his eyes. He glances once toward Oscar’s car.

Separately, together, they get ready to drive like their life depends on it. The lights go green over the Circuit Zandvoort. Seventy-two laps to go.

Oscar starts at P3. Ahead of him: Max on pole, Charles in second. Behind him, Lando in fifth.

But Oscar isn’t thinking about Max or Charles. Not really.

He’s thinking about the way your voice sounded when you said, I’m saying you’re not getting my number if you don’t. He’s thinking about the way Lando kisses, and how he will now have to live his entire life with the knowledge. 

Oscar slams that thought shut like a visor and focuses on the track. On the rhythm of corners and gear shifts, the uphill stretch of Hunserug, the breathless plunge of Gerlach. He falls into the math of it, the feel of rubber kissing tarmac.

His engineer’s voice cuts in, low and precise. Fuel mode. Tire temp. Gap to Charles. Gap to Lando.

He doesn’t ask where Lando is. He doesn’t need to.

Because suddenly, by lap 24, he’s there. The other papaya car looms in his mirrors. Then at his side.

Oscar catches a glimpse of Lando’s helmet, sees the glint of his visor flash in the sunlight. They’re wheel to wheel now, two McLarens carving through the mist and rubber smoke, racing for P3 like it’s more than a podium.

It’s not just about position anymore. It’s about something else. Something unsaid. Gunning for glory, or maybe just the right to text you first. Neither of them is backing down. 

By lap 30, they’ve cleared Charles. Lando takes P2; Oscar slots into P3.

Then the radio crackles. Oscar’s engineer: “Hold position. Let Lando push on Max. You defend from Charles.”

“I have the pace to catch Max,” Oscar grits out. 

"Oscar, copy. Strategy wants Lando to go for it. You hold."

He tightens his grip on the wheel. Grinds his teeth.

“Oscar. Copy?”

He doesn’t respond. Not at first. The tyres scream beneath him as he pushes harder through Tarzan Corner, narrowly fending off his French opponent.

Oscar is not just defending. He’s attacking every corner like it insulted him. Like the very idea of holding back is a personal offense.

Lando’s still ahead but just barely. Oscar knows he’s quicker today. He feels it in the car, in his bones.

And when the next lap comes, he makes a decision.

Fuck strategy.

Fuck papaya rules.

Fuck it all.

He’s not holding position for anyone. Not today. 

He closes the gap between him and Lando with surgical precision. The engineer’s voice in his ear is tenser now, firmer: “Oscar, you’re too close. Repeat, hold position. This is not your fight.”

He doesn’t answer. Again.

Into Turn 10, he edges closer. Into Turn 11, he clips Lando’s rear wing. Carbon fibre sparks off like fireworks.

Zak’s voice cuts across the radio this time: “Oscar, what the hell are you doing? Back off.”

But it’s too late.

They’re not racing Max anymore. They’re racing each other.

Lando’s line gets more defensive. Oscar’s braking later, sharper, riding the limit. Every corner is a dare. Every straight, a challenge. From the pit wall, the tension is unbearable. From the garage, you’re standing now, eyes glued to the screen.

And from the track, it’s just fury and fire in orange suits.

Final lap. 

A blur of DRS, rubber, and sweat.

The chequered flag waves.

Max crosses the line.

But behind him, it’s a flash of orange that storms through for P2.

No one can quite tell which one.

--

Under the sharp glare of the McLaren media shoot, Oscar stands shoulder to shoulder with you and Lando. Fireproofs unzipped, hands shoved into pockets. The PR team calls it a Challengers reel. They want natural chemistry.

There’s a lot of that to go around.  

The studio smells like sponsored cologne and hair product. You’re in full papaya gear: cropped jacket, fitted pants, hair done in a way that makes it hard for Oscar to look away. You look good. You know it. He’s not the only one who notices.

The photographer calls for a new configuration. You in the center. The boys flanking you. Lando drapes an arm over your shoulder, hand resting just below your collarbone like it’s instinct. Oscar puts his arm around your waist, fingers pressing just over where there’s exposed skin to touch. 

You don’t move away. You lean into it, into him, into both of them. 

The camera clicks. The director coaxes a laugh. You tilt your head toward Lando, laugh softly, then turn to Oscar with faux-innocence blooming on your lips.

“Smile, Piastri,” you say.

Lando snickers under his breath. Oscar obeys, barely.

The lights flash. For a second, it feels like there’s no one else in the room.

Someone calls for another take. The boys switch sides. This time, it’s Oscar with your shoulder pressed against his. You glance up at him like you’re about to say something, then think better of it. But your fingers ghost over his wrist when no one’s looking.

Oscar’s ears go hot.

Lando catches it. His grin sharpens.

It goes like this for another hour. Whispered nothings, brushed touches, flickering glances. All of it carefully, deliberately ambiguous.

Once all of it is done, Oscar waits outside the changing area, arms crossed, jaw tight. He hears a muffled laugh—yours. Then Lando’s voice, smug and low. 

The door opens and the two of you emerge. Your hoodie is askew. Lando’s hair is mussed, belt unfastened and hanging loosely from his waistband. There’s a flush to both of your faces that tells Oscar everything he needs to know.

At the damn Dutch Grand Prix, they had finished within mere tenths of seconds from each other. But the results didn’t change: P2 for Lando Norris. P3 for Oscar Piastri. Your number, slipped into Lando’s phone like destiny fulfilled. 

“Don’t worry, mate,” Lando says as he slaps Oscar’s shoulder. “She still likes you.”

Oscar forces a laugh. It doesn’t reach his eyes.

You look up at Oscar, beautifully undone from whatever makeout session you and Lando just had. “Thanks for keeping watch,” you tell the Australian, standing on your tiptoes. You press a kiss to his cheek. Light, dry, perfunctory. A thank-you, not a promise.

“Yeah, mate. Thanks,” Lando chirps, just a hint of sincerity bleeding into his tone as he wraps a casual arm around your shoulders. “You’re such a good friend.” 

It’s salt to wound. The worst part is the genuineness of it all. How you’re grateful Oscar keeps your trysts a secret. How Lando is thankful, too, and probably does think of Oscar as a decent friend. 

The two of you wander off, leaving Oscar as he mumbles about getting changed himself. You don’t look back.

But Lando does. A quick glance over his shoulder. To check, to see. And then he’s back to you, back with you, smiling like he hadn’t wanted to know what Oscar looked like when you weren’t watching. 

That’s the thing about wounds: they only fester over time. 

Lando starts disappearing more and more. You begin showing up with your hoodie zipped halfway up and a telltale flush to your cheeks.

Oscar doesn’t ask. Not directly. He tells himself it’s not his business. You made your choice, and it’s not like he’s entitled to anything. Still, one night, post-simulator debriefs and beers, he hears himself say, “You and her. Is it a whole thing?”

Lando just grins. “You want me to kiss and tell?”

“No,” Oscar scoffs. “Just wondering.”

Lando kicks his foot lightly. “Alright. I’ll give you a signal.” He pauses, contemplative. “If I ever chug an entire champagne bottle on the podium… that’s when you’ll know.”

Oscar laughs it off, trying to seem indifferent. “What, like, that you’ve slept with her?”

Lando shrugs, still grinning. “Exactly that.”

It becomes a joke. A ridiculous signal. Oscar convinces himself it doesn’t matter. But every race, every time Lando ends up on the podium, Oscar watches. Pretends not to. But he watches.

And then it happens. Marina Bay Street Circuit. A race well run. 

It’s not even a win. Lando finishes P2. Oscar’s the one at the top, P1, taking in the crowd, feeling the champagne bottle cool in his palm. He turns, ready to spray, when he sees Lando.

Lando’s already popped his bottle. No theatrics, no delay. He tilts his head back and begins to chug. The crowd roars.

Oscar freezes.

It’s stupid. It’s just a bottle. But he knows.

Lando finishes, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and catches Oscar’s eye. There’s a beat. Then a wink.

Oscar looks away, jaw tight.

P1, and he can’t even fucking enjoy it.

--

The desert heat in Qatar settles low and dense over the paddock, heavy with the scent of rubber and scorched tarmac. Floodlights slice through the dusk, casting long shadows over the McLaren garage. The season is almost over. Two races left.

Oscar stands just outside the bustle of engineers and mechanics, helmet under one arm, expression unreadable. The helmet cam had caught every corner, every brake point, every inch of perfection he squeezed out of the car. But it isn’t enough. Not this year.

Lando leads the Drivers’ Championship. Even if Oscar finishes first tonight and in Abu Dhabi, he won’t catch up. The math is clear. The sting of it isn’t.

Oscar should be proud. McLaren is at the top of the Constructors'. They’ve traded podiums all season, flipping P1 like a coin, sharp and exhilarating. He and Lando have pushed each other harder than ever. And yet, there’s a sour edge to it all.

Because while Lando’s name tops the standings, he also tops something else: you.

Not that either of you would call it that. Not aloud. Not seriously. Not where it counts. The press doesn’t know. McLaren doesn’t ask. You and Lando play it cool, but the signs are there. Lando always sits next to you on flights, always knows your coffee order, always gets that look on his face when you’re talking to someone else. Like he wants to pull you back by the wrist and keep you all for himself. 

Oscar tries not to see it. Tries even harder not to think about it. He reminds himself it doesn’t matter. He’s here to race, and you’re here to win.

Which you might. You’re in a dead tie with the Red Bull F1A lead, every session a war, every lap a line drawn in sand. Today, you set record times in FP3, carving the air with ruthless precision. Oscar watched from the monitor room, arms crossed, mouth dry. Your name lit up purple sector after purple sector.

Now, in the dim glow of the McLaren garage, Oscar hears your voice before he sees you. Laughing. Casual. The sound digs under his skin in the worst way. You walk in, race suit peeled down, sleeves tied at your waist, hair wild from the helmet. You look like victory incarnate. Like you’ve never lost a damn thing in your life.

You spot him.

Oscar expects you to keep walking, to flash a grin and disappear into whatever post-session obligations you have lined up. Instead, you lift your hand in a small wave. Something private. Something easy.

Oscar lifts his in return. Feels the corner of his mouth tug upward.

A small win.

He clings to it.

Because Lando was supposed to be here tonight. Dinner plans with the team, drinks after. The usual circuit camaraderie. But his flight’s been delayed. Something about a storm over Europe.

Which means it’s just Oscar and you.

He watches as you disappear into the drivers’ lounge, towel slung over your shoulder, already mid-conversation with a race engineer. The door swings shut behind you.

Later that night, the rooftop is quieter than usual, the hum of celebration below faint and muffled. Oscar finds you exactly where he expects: perched on the edge of the low wall, cigarette between your fingers, city lights flickering far in the distance. The orange glow of the ember lights your face like a memory.

“Hey,” he says, stepping out onto the roof.

You glance over. “Hey yourself.”

Oscar joins you, leans against the wall beside you, elbows resting on the concrete. There’s a bottle in your other hand—beer, lukewarm by now. 

“Drinks not strong enough downstairs?” he asks.

“They’re not strong enough anywhere.”

A beat of silence. Comfortable. The kind that only settles between people who know how to leave things unsaid.

You offer him a cigarette. He shakes his head. You shrug, amused.

“You always end up here,” he says.

“So do you.”

You both smile, faint, crooked.

Then you speak, voice light. “We should go somewhere. When the season ends. You, me, Lando. Somewhere far.”

Oscar watches the smoke curl past your lips, wonders how someone so untouchable could sound so casual about something so potentially catastrophic. He knows you’re not saying it to be nice, not extending this invitation to be cruel. You genuinely think it’s something the three of you deserve. Some sun-soaked vacation in Cancun. A ticking time bomb in its own right. 

“Sure,” Oscar says. “If you want.”

He fails at sounding casual. You tilt your head toward him, squinting. “Okay, what’s that?”

“What?”

“That tone. That… whatever that was.”

“It’s nothing,” he lies.

“This whole ‘thing’ you’re doing is stupid. You’re not good at it.”

Oscar exhales sharply. “I’m not doing a thing. I’m just…”

“Uh huh?” 

He hesitates. Then, quietly— “I’m surprised that you guys are still seeing each other.”

The silence that follows is sharper than any response. The ember of your cigarette burns bright before you flick it away into the dark. And then, you say “Okay,” and you start moving.

You push off the wall, brushing your hands against your thighs, about to walk away when his voice catches up with you. “Wait,” Oscar calls, the panic in his voice grating on you more than anything else. “I’m sorry.”

You round on him, jaw set. “Don’t be such a fucking pussy. Is he seeing other girls while you guys are racing? Is that what this is?”

For a second, Oscar thinks about lying. But he knows it wouldn’t stick. Not with you. Not with how Lando looks at you like you’re his whole world.

“No,” he says. “I mean, I don’t know. That’s not what I’m trying to say.”

“Then what are you trying to say?”

It slips out, louder than he intends. “He’s not in love with you.”

You blink. 

Then, your expression hardens. “Who says I want somebody to be in love with me? When did I say I was in love with him?”

Oscar feels like a school child being chastised. “You didn’t,” he says, his voice so quiet in the evening that the night almost swallows his words up. 

“So why would I care whether or not he loves me?”

“I guess you wouldn’t.”

You stare at each other for a second too long. The rooftop air crackles.

Oscar has already fucked this up, he thinks to himself. What’s one more crack in the armor? “Don’t you think you deserve it?” he asks. 

Your face twists. Not angry. Not amused. Just exasperated. You see right through him, if the way you grouse “Jesus fucking Christ” is any indication. 

Oscar swallows. “I mean, who wouldn’t be in love with you?”

You laugh, short and harsh, and start to walk away. “You're the worst fucking friend in the world, man,” you call over your shoulder, and somehow, that’s the worst part of the evening. 

“Maybe,” Oscar calls bitterly. 

“Definitely,” you retort. 

And then you’re gone, disappearing down the stairwell without a backward glance. Oscar watches the door shut behind you, then looks down at your discarded cigarette on the ledge. For a second, he considers picking it up, taking a drag, just to have some part of you in him.

He decides he has more dignity than that.

Barely.

--

The paddock is loud, chaotic. This little corner of the hospitality, though, feels insulated. Oscar and Lando sit across from each other at a small table, disposable cutlery scratching against takeaway containers. The food’s barely touched.

Oscar’s picking at his pasta, avoiding eye contact. Lando is too busy battling jet lag to notice. 

“So,” Oscar starts, voice casual enough to be suspicious. “You don’t think she’s really… looking for something serious, do you?”

Lando looks up, eyes narrowing as he chews. He swallows, leans back in his chair. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just saying. She’s... complicated.”

“Did she say something to you?” 

Again: the urge to lie rises up like bile in his throat. He’d be doing Lando a service, wouldn’t he, by mentioning the way you alluded to the fact that you weren’t in love with his co-driver. That you might not want love at all. 

Lando watches Oscar struggle, then the asshole bursts into laughter. “You fucking snake,” Lando wheezes. 

Oscar blinks, genuinely caught off guard. “What?”

Lando is still giggling as he bites out, “Honestly, I’m proud of you. I’d be doing the same thing.”

Oscar goes red. “I’m not—”

Lando lunges across the table, mussing Oscar’s hair, tugging at the collar of his shirt, grinning like an idiot. “You’re unbelievable. You think I don’t see it? The way you light up when she’s in the room? Come on, mate.”

“I’m not trying anything,” Oscar says feebly, ducking so hard he nearly slams his forehead on the table. 

“Sure, sure,” Lando says, mock-solemn. Then softer, with something real behind it: “It’s nice to see you lit up about something. Even if that something is my girlfriend.”

“Is that what you guys are calling each other now?” Oscar asks before he can keep it back. He doesn’t even manage to hide his jealousy, though the question remains. Who the hell was he jealous of?

Lando fixes him with an amused look. “You know this just makes it hotter for me, right? You sitting here, pining for her?” 

“I would never—” 

“I know. It’s not your style.” Lando plucks a breadstick off of Oscar’s plate and takes a big bite. He speaks his next words through his mouthful of carbs. “You’re playing the long game. Waiting for me to fuck up.” 

That’d been Oscar’s play, during his early years in McLaren. Driving to delta. Managing tyres and fuel, choosing consistent lap times, trusting his race engineers. 

Waiting, always waiting, for others—Lando included—to slip. 

Lando and Oscar regard each other. “Come on,” Lando says, shoving the rest of his breadstick in front of Oscar’s face. “We’ve got quali to prepare for, you numpty.”

Without breaking eye contact, Oscar takes a bite from the breadstick in Lando’s hand.

--

Everyone’s coiled tight with anticipation, but Oscar’s moving on autopilot. Helmet in hand, visor smudged, his crew chattering in his ear about tire temps and pit stop windows. He nods, distracted.

He’s on his way to check in on Lando. It had started as a casual impulse. Just a knock, a check-in, maybe a few words about turn six or the wind picking up on the main straight. But as he nears Lando’s driver room, Oscar slows.

He hears something.

At first, it’s soft. Rhythmic. The unmistakable hush of something intimate, layered beneath the hum of the nearby garage fans. A muffled moan.

Lando’s voice, unmistakably low, drawn out in pleasure.

Oscar freezes.

He knows he should walk away. Now. Turn around and pretend he never heard a thing. But his feet stay planted. Breath shallow. Every muscle strung tight. Because he doesn’t know how else to act, Oscar leans in, his ear pressed to the door. 

Another sound. Wet, hushed, intimate. Clearer to Oscar, now that he’s nearer. 

Then: “I missed you.” It’s Lando again. Voice thick. Tired in the way that only closeness makes someone. “You have no idea how lonely it is without you, love.”

Oscar’s stomach twists at the pet name, the one Lando has graciously accorded to you even though you never returned it. Oscar knows what’s coming. Still, he waits.

Your voice rings. Playful. Sharp.

“Is that why you bottled qualifying?”

Lando laughs, breathless. “P2 is hardly bottled. And I just told you I missed you.”

There’s movement. Something thumps lightly. A soft gasp. More quiet noises, like the rustle of sheets, or limbs shifting. You again, half-amused: “You left two tenths in Sector 3.”

“I didn’t—” Lando groans, then tries again. “Love, come on. Look at me.”

A beat. You, more cautious now: “What?”

More movement. A giggle. Then another low moan. The kind Oscar wishes he could unhear. His heart hammers. His face feels hot. 

Oscar tells himself again to go. This isn’t his place. This isn’t his business. But the image forms anyway. You, straddling Lando in that ridiculous pre-race shirt he likes. Lando’s hands on your waist. Your fingers twisted in his curls. The way your voice always softens when you say his name.

Oscar clenches his jaw. Tries to blink it away.

Then—

Lando, panting faintly: “When were you gonna tell me about Osc?”

A pause. Oscar can’t fucking breathe. All he can do is try and follow the exchange, straining to hear your voices.

“I thought you knew,” you hum. 

“I mean, I did,” says Lando. “I just thought, y'know. Trust and all that shit.”

“You’re not threatened by him?”

Lando doesn’t hesitate. “No.”

“You should be,” you say flat out.  

The sound of rustling. Maybe your hand moving against his skin. When Lando hisses, Oscar imagines you’ve got your hand down his boxers. You’ve got Lando right where you want him, forcing him to listen to you tease, “He’s good looking. He’s smart. He’s really fucking good at racing.”

Now Oscar has a boner. If he wasn’t scared of getting caught eavesdropping, he might bang his head against the wall. “He’s always been... very good,” Lando breathes, still sounding strangled in his pleasure, and Oscar nearly finishes then and there like an inexperienced virgin. 

“I’m serious,” you insist on the other side of the door. “He’s gotten a lot better this season.”

“Are the two of us still playing for your number?” Lando grunts. “I thought I won.”

“That’s your problem. You always think you’ve won before the race is over,” you say, and the world tilts on its axis. For both Oscar and Lando. 

A beat. The sound of shuffling, like Lando has maybe pushed you off his lap, pulled away, taken your hand away from his cock. 

“Are we still talking about racing?” Lando asks, and his tone betrays whatever facade of coolness he might be trying to put on. 

“We’re always talking about racing,” you answer. 

Oscar’s hand curls into a fist against the wall. The conversation that follows is so fast-paced, so loaded, that he can barely keep up. 

Lando’s voice. Hurting and with the intention to hurt. “Be for fucking real.” 

“If you’re not interested in me fixing your strategy for free,” you’re saying, voice a little more distant now. Like you’re moving as you’re talking, “then don’t worry about it.” 

“Why do you care so much?” 

“I’m dating you. It’s embarrassing for me if you suck.” 

“I’m leading the championships, in case you forgot.” 

“And yet you’re still qualifying P2.” 

Oscar hears a dull thump. Lando, probably, with his fist to the mattress. “I don’t need you to be my fucking race engineer,” the older man seethes. 

“Well,” you say sagely, “someone needs to be.” 

“I already have a perfectly fine—” 

“I mean, what do you need from me? Or, what do you think you need? A cheerleader? A fuck buddy? A girlfriend?” 

There’s a pause. Oscar isn’t even a part of this conversation, but he knows what Lando’s answer would be. Lando wants you—all of you. Everything you have to offer. And yet, here you are, sniping, “There are a lot of girls who will be your girlfriend. You’re talented, you’re charming, and you’ve got a big dick. Go be with one of them.” 

Lando sounds like he’s resisting the urge to jump out the window as he questions, “Is this like a new strategy you’re using to pump yourself up before a race? Have a little fight to get the energy going?” 

“At least I don’t coast by on talent,” you shoot back, and Lando snorts. 

“Excuse me for inconveniencing you.” 

“You are.” There’s a pause. “I’m going to go. I’ll see you after the race.” 

Lando’s response comes out firm. “No.” 

“What?” 

Shuffling. The hint of feet moving, visible through the little crack beneath the door. Oscar should go, Oscar should leave, Oscar should stop fucking listening—

“I’m not going to your race,” says Lando, voice so low that Oscar has to practically lean against the door to hear the seethed words. “Not if you think you can just dismiss me. I’m not some fucking lapdog who’s gonna sit around and let you punish me. I’m not Oscar.”

It’s a miracle that Oscar manages to hold himself upright after that. He’s torn between running in the opposite direction and barging in, but your sharp, disbelieving laugh keeps Oscar rooted. 

Lando goes on, “I mean, maybe you need someone like that. I think he’d quite enjoy being your WAG on Sundays.” 

“That’s what you think I want?” you prod. 

“Yeah. A member of the fan club.” 

“You’re not a member of my fan club?” 

“I’m your peer. I’m not your groupie.  And I’m definitely not your student.” 

There’s a moment of silence, loud enough to twist and cause damage. You breathe “Okay,” sounding suspiciously close to the door, and Oscar scrambles backward. He manages to slip into his own driver room, the one adjacent to Lando’s, just as you take your leave. 

Oscar doesn’t even see you. Not Lando, either. 

But he does hear the way Lando calls out after you, always intent on getting the last word: “Break a fucking leg, champ!” 

--

Oscar stands at the edge of the McLaren garage, arms crossed, pretending he isn’t counting every heartbeat. The monitors show your F1A feed. No commentary, just raw data and camera angles. Every corner you take, every split-second decision, is etched into the graph lines and colored sector times flashing before him.

You’re fast. Always are. But this is different.

Oscar squints. Your lines are tighter, more aggressive. Where you used to calculate a move, now you dive into gaps with a kind of ruthless certainty. Your radio comms come sharp, clipped.

“Box end of next lap, we need a wing check.”

“I said I’m fine,” you snap.

The engineer’s cursor hesitates on the screen.

Oscar says nothing. But he sees it. The small corrections on the steering wheel in the turn radius readouts. The missed apex at turn 7. The DRS deployment half a beat early down the straight.

Not enough to cost you the race. Enough to say something is wrong. “She’s pushing too hard,” someone mutters behind him.

Oscar doesn’t turn. Doesn’t say what he knows: You’re not pushing the car. You’re punishing yourself.

Lando isn’t here. Not in the garage. Not by the pit wall. Oscar knows he’s gone off somewhere, blowing off steam or playing it cool, convincing himself he has to lock in for their own race later.

Lando isn’t watching you race for your life; Oscar is.

His eyes flick to the screen again just as you approach the high-speed chicane, a brutal left-right combination that demands perfect balance and a fearless heart. Your telemetry surges. Too hot into the corner.

“She’s late,” Oscar murmurs, but no one hears him over the rising pitch of the engine.

The rear steps out. You catch it—but overcorrect.

The car twitches violently. Slams the sausage curb.

And then—

Flames.

Oscar’s breath catches in his throat.

The screens go red. Red flag. Emergency tones blare.

For a split second, no one moves. No one breathes.

The feed cuts to a wide shot of the track. Your car is wrecked against the barrier, carbon fiber shattered like glass across the asphalt. Marshals sprint.

In the garage, someone drops a headset.

Oscar’s world tunnels. The only thing he can hear is his own pulse, pounding like a war drum. These things happened. These things—people survived these things. 

That’s what he tries to convince himself as the Netflix cameras capture a tight shot of his expression, as the garage devolves into utter chaos, as a voice, too calm, declares, “Medical car’s en route. Driver extraction in progress.”

Oscar steps back, dazed. He looks down at your last telemetry readout. The spike, the warning signals, the abrupt flatline.

You were brilliant. You were angry. You were reckless.

And now you’re gone from the screen.

Oscar grips the edge of the console like it might anchor him, knuckles white.

Please be okay. Please be okay. Please—

About three hours later, Oscar gets behind his wheel.

He doesn’t want to. He shouldn’t have to. But the lights go out and the cars launch and for the next hour and a half, his hands move on instinct, every shift and brake and downforce adjustment automatic. His heart isn’t in it. He doesn’t know where his heart is, except that it isn’t in the cockpit.

He finishes P5.

Lando finishes P12.

There are murmurs about setup issues, bad tyre calls, overheating. Excuses, really. None of them seem to matter. For the first time all season, Oscar doesn’t care that he missed the podium. He doesn’t feel the sting of watching someone else hold the trophy. 

It’s a terrible weekend for McLaren. That will be the headline, and Oscar lets the reporters write it.

He tears through media obligations with clipped answers and a thousand-yard stare. Lando isn’t far off, giving one of his most stilted post-race interviews to date, the usual spark behind his eyes dimmed.

But Oscar doesn’t wait for Lando. He doesn’t wait for anything. He gets in his car and finds his way to the hospital they took you to. Security tries to block him at the first checkpoint until someone recognizes the McLaren ID and nods him through.

He hears the talk on the way in. Doctors, nurses, mechanics who arrived earlier. Everyone has something to say. About the fire. About how long it took to get you out. About how the carbon monocoque crumpled inward at the knees, the force of the crash pressing the car into your body like a vice.

Doctors may be miracle workers, but they aren’t gods. Later, everyone will lament the way things ended. How your knee had been busted in a way that you would never be able to withstand a racecar again, much less put your foot to the pedal. 

Oscar doesn’t believe it’s bad. He can’t. Not until he sees you.

When he walks into your room, it’s quiet as a tomb. Monitors hum softly. The air smells like antiseptic and gauze. You’re sitting up in bed, leg braced and elevated, arms slack at your sides.

You’re not crying.

You look at him. Dry-eyed. Exhausted. Like your body has finally run out of adrenaline, of fight, of the thing that made you bite off every radio call and dive into every impossible corner.

He stands in the doorway. You blink slowly, then nod.

Oscar says nothing. He just walks to the chair beside your bed and sits.

The silence says the rest.

Lando arrives hours later. Hours too late. 

Oscar hears his steps before the door creaks open. Lando pauses at the threshold, unsure. He looks wrecked. Unshaven, rumpled in civilian clothes now, like he peeled himself out of his race suit and sat in his car for a long time before finally convincing himself to walk in.

“I’m sorry, I—”

You don’t let him finish. “Out,” you say. 

Oscar’s jaw clenches. Lando flinches. “Love—”

"OUT!"

His hand tightens on the doorframe. “Please—”

You’re screaming now, in a way that will undoubtedly draw attention. “OUT! OUT! OUT!” you’re screeching, voice raspy, eyes blazing, body twitching. 

Oscar stands. Calm, decisive. The first time in hours he feels anything like control. “Norris,” he says firmly, “get the fuck out of here.”

There’s a look in Lando’s eye, one Oscar doesn’t think he’ll ever forget. Some kind of haunted. Congratulations, Lando is saying without saying out loud. You got what you wanted. 

Lando leaves. 

Oscar sits back down. 

You don’t speak. You don’t look at him. You let the silence come back, and he stays. Just stays.

Lando Norris Crowned 2025 World Champion; McLaren Secures Constructor's Title in Historic Season December 2, 2025 

YAS ISLAND, ABU DHABI — In a moment that will go down in McLaren history, Lando Norris has officially been crowned the 2025 Formula 1 World Champion, capping off a season of relentless precision, electric performances, and a deepening rivalry that has captivated the motorsport world.

With Norris's consistent podium finishes and dominant performances through the final leg of the season, McLaren also clinched the Constructors' Championship, securing their return to the summit of Formula 1 dominance. This marks their first double championship win since the early 2000s.

Oscar Piastri, Norris’ teammate and formidable on-track rival, finished the season in third place, with a string of powerful mid-season races keeping him in contention before a critical DNF in Canada and a team strategy shuffle in Mexico widened the gap.

The dynamic between Norris and Piastri has drawn comparisons to some of Formula 1's most iconic teammate rivalries—Senna-Prost, Hamilton-Rosberg. When asked about the weight of those comparisons during the Abu Dhabi press conference, Piastri offered a measured take:

“I mean, it’s a nice comparison to have, definitely. I’ll take it. Each rivalry and each teammate pairing has a very different feeling to it. I think, you know, we’re still working together very well, and we still get on together well. It’s quite a different dynamic to certainly the two rivalries you mentioned. Obviously, we’re both here to try and fight for a world championship. We wanna fight for it the whole time we’re in McLaren. We’re both on long contracts, so we wanna make sure we’re fighting this for the foreseeable future.”

Piastri’s words underscore what has made this McLaren resurgence so unique—a genuine partnership despite fierce internal competition, one that has redefined the meaning of sportsmanship in the modern F1 era.

While the F1 paddock celebrates Norris’s long-awaited title and McLaren’s championship comeback, the team’s other campaign tells a more somber story. McLaren’s bid for the F1 Academy Championship came to a crashing halt in Qatar after a devastating accident left their lead driver hospitalized.

Though the extent of her injuries has not been officially disclosed, early medical assessments suggest a career-ending blow: significant knee trauma that may prevent her from ever racing again. As McLaren closes a monumental chapter in Formula 1, its future in F1A hangs in the balance, tethered to the hope that their most promising driver might one day return to the track. ##

Oscar finds himself in your orbit more and more as the weeks drag on.

You’re out of the hospital, cleared to walk on crutches, but your gait is stiff and your movements are labored. The brace wraps around your knee like a shackle, and Oscar watches you try to get back behind the simulator with a frown pulling at your brow and sweat collecting at your temple. You last ten minutes before ripping the helmet off and cursing under your breath.

“It’s too soon,” the sim engineer says carefully.

“It’s too fucking late,” you snap, and Oscar doesn’t know where to look.

He sees the way you linger in the MTC, not-quite-there, tethered only by the ghost of something you loved. He tries, in the quiet ways he knows how, to make things lighter. 

He picks up your favorite coffee before meetings. He offers to help carry things. One day, he sets up a quiet outing, something light: go-karting, just the two of you.

You show up in an old hoodie and sweatpants, eyes ringed in exhaustion but eager enough. For a few laps, it almost feels normal again. You’re slower than you used to be, tentative, favoring the leg with a carefulness that screams through every turn. Oscar holds back, lets you overtake once or twice.

When you pull into the pit and rip your helmet off, your expression is molten.

“Don’t patronize me,” you spit.

Oscar blinks, taken aback. “What?”

“You went easy on me. I could see you lifting.”

“I wasn’t—”

“You think I need pity laps? That this is what I want?” you ask, jabbing a finger into Oscar’s chest. He stumbles backward, even if the hit isn’t all that bad. “To be humored like some fucking charity case?”

He takes a breath, tries to steady the way his heart twists. “I thought it might cheer you up. I thought maybe you'd want to drive. Just for fun.”

You scoff. “You’re not here for fun. You’re only here because you want to get in my pants.”

It shouldn’t hurt. It shouldn’t sting. It does anyway, leaving Oscar breathless as he meets your heated glare. You’re angry. He’s angry for you. When he speaks, his voice carries the hurt of your accusation, the betrayal he feels for a split second. 

“I just wanted to be a friend,” he admits, and it’s about as true as it will get. He’s making up for things. He’s angry on your behalf. He’s—he wants you to have somebody, anybody, even if it’s just him and this. 

The words breaks something in you. Your face crumples, the edge softening all at once. You exhale like someone letting go of something heavy.

“Fuck,” you whisper. “I’m sorry, Piastri. That was... that was really shitty.”

Oscar steps toward you, hesitates, then opens his arms. You drop your helmet and fall into him like a wave, arms wrapping around his waist, forehead against his shoulder. For a moment, you both just breathe.

“I’m sorry,” you say again, muffled against his shirt.

“It’s okay,” Oscar says, and he means it.

Things progress slowly. Not like a turn taken too late or a brake pulled too hard, but in the small and steady moments that stack up over time. Oscar starts spending more time around you under the guise of checking in, training nearby, helping you keep the edge sharp even if you’re off the grid.

You’re not racing anymore. Your recovery is at a snail’s pace, even by generous standards. But you still sit in the simulator, still bark telemetry codes at Oscar when he invites you to his sessions. 

You’re still a racer. It’s in your bones. Even if your knee won’t ever fully forgive you.

Oscar doesn’t ask for anything. He’s just there. When your coursework gets heavy, he quietly learns enough to proofread your papers. When your knee acts up, he offers massages with clumsy, respectful hands. When you’re in pain, he notices. And when you’re not, he laughs with you like nothing ever broke.

Lando hangs around the edges of this new world. He still drives like a man possessed, like he’s chasing something he lost. But he doesn’t come around often. Not anymore.

You don’t ask.

And Oscar doesn’t say a word about it, either. He just stays beside you, loves you in a way that has never demanded reciprocation.

Then it’s your graduation day. The heat is unbearable. You’re in rented academic robes and limping slightly from a walk that was longer than you’d planned. Oscar is there, wearing a dress shirt that doesn’t fit quite right and holding a bouquet that clearly gave him more trouble than he expected.

You see him from across the crowd, laugh brightly, and break into a run. Or try to.

Your knee gives. The pain shoots white-hot up your leg and you stagger.

But Oscar’s already moving. He catches you mid-fall, the two of you tumbling into a heap on the concrete. The bouquet is crushed between you. You’re half-laughing, half-gasping from the pain.

“Fucking hell,” you mutter, breathless.

Oscar looks up at you, his back flat to the pavement, the petals of his overpriced flower arrangement scattered on the ground. “You do that on stage?” he quips, his arm still tight around your waist. 

You laugh. There’s shouting somewhere behind you. Someone’s taking photos. Your hair’s in your face. And Oscar is right there, beneath you, fighting the urge to push the strands back so he can check if you’re actually blushing. 

Before he can, you lean down. You kiss him.

Just like that, everything he’s been holding back rushes in all at once. His arms come around you. The pain, the fear, the restraint—it all falls away. Because you’re kissing Oscar, choosing him, letting him in. And he’s never going to let you go. 

Oscar kisses you back like he’s been waiting forever to do it.

BREAKING: Former F1A Standout Returns to McLaren as Oscar Piastri’s Race Engineer December 12, 2027 

In a stunning and heartwarming development, McLaren has announced that the former F1 Academy phenom whose promising racing career was cut short after a fiery crash at the 2025 Qatar Grand Prix, will return to the Formula 1 paddock—not as a driver, but as Oscar Piastri’s full-time race engineer for the 2028 season.

The news comes just two years after she completed a Masters in Engineering, following an early retirement from racing due to severe knee trauma sustained in the crash. Once considered the future of F1A, she had led the standings that season and was locked in a championship battle with Red Bull when the accident brought everything to a halt.

“I’m excited to be back in papaya,” she said in a brief statement released by McLaren. “This team gave me my shot as a driver, and now they’ve given me a new chapter. I’ve missed the garage, the noise, the data—missed the feeling of pushing something to its absolute limit.”

Piastri appeared visibly moved at the announcement event. “No one understands racing like she does,” he said. “She challenges me, she grounds me. It’s an honor to have her back on the comms.”

The two have been in a committed relationship since the start of 2026. Sources close to the team describe the partnership as “effortless” and “integral to Oscar’s most consistent performance run to date.”

This move comes as McLaren looks to maintain its edge in an increasingly competitive field. Since 2025, Lando Norris has held a firm grip on the World Driver’s Championship title, a streak that remains unbroken. With both Norris and Piastri nearing the end of their multi-year contracts, the team appears eager to maintain balance—and perhaps tilt the odds further in their favor.

Asked about persistent rumors of a move to Ferrari, Norris offered a cryptic smile. “I’m still in papaya for now. I’ve always said I want to win where I started, and I’m happy we’ve got somebody new on board. As for Oscar and me—we’re still very good friends. Nothing’s changed on that front." ##

It had been frighteningly easy to lie. 

To say he was still good friends with Oscar. To nod when people asked about you and pretend you were just a colleague from another life. To smile in interviews and make jokes about McLaren magic and how they were just one big happy family.

It was easier than admitting the truth—that he hadn’t really spoken to either of you since the crash. Since the hospital. Since he stood in that doorway and watched the light leave your eyes when you told him to get out.

He did. He got out.

And then he kept getting out. Avoiding. Dodging. Letting Oscar and you build something, something that Lando told himself he didn’t want to see. It was like watching someone else win a race you’d crashed out of. And you had crashed. So had he, in a way.

Lando gets up, walks to the window, and stares out over the marina. He wonders what it’ll be like to see you again. To hear your voice filtered through Oscar’s radio, steady and sharp, coaching him lap by lap.

You’ll be back in the orange. He wonders if you’ll wear the jacket with the collar popped. Wonders if you’ll look at him at all. Wonders if Oscar will let you.

He hasn’t let himself think too long about the moment Oscar finally got what Lando didn’t. The girl. The engineer. The gravity. The win.

And now the two of you are back. Together. In his garage.

Lando exhales slowly, tries to steady the nerves that have started to buzz at the base of his spine. Back then, you used to call him funny. Used to laugh until you cried as he regaled his stories and told his jokes. 

Today, this is the punchline: Lando Norris, three-time World Champion, is afraid to go back to work.

READ PART TWO HERE.

[taylormarieee]

~you fell in love sweetheart~

A dean winchester drabble

Summary: you didn't expect to fall in love with your bestfriend, but it just kinda happened. no turning back now, you fell in love sweetheart.

word count: 1.6k

pairing: dean winchester x fem!bestfriend!reader

Warnings: some arguing, dean being a tease, reader being a bit tough, kissing, reader gets put in danger, some backstory on reader, and anything else im missing!

A/N: heyyyyy!!!! I'm backkkkkk! I HOPE I'M BACK TO STAY FOR A WHILE! such bad brain farts! I COULD NOT for the life of me come up with fic ideas. I know i still have some inboxes from a while ago so hopefully I can get back to those and my unfinished series! LOVE YOU GUYS! so glad I'm back on your screens!

you wouldn't say you're in love with dean winchester.

but to say the least, you were falling in love with dean winchester.

it scared you a lot, considering all that was on your mind was breaking his heart or worse, getting rejected and losing the best friendship you've ever had.

you were very reserved at times, before you even worked with the winchesters, you worked with your dad.

your dad trusted you and after your mom and dad split, you chose to stay with him.

you always researched and he would go out and find the damn thing(s) that were terrorizing innocent people.

you were like sam to your father. you were resourceful, helpful. you think about the times you helped your dad alot.

it motivates you to do the same for the winchesters. maybe more heavily for dean if you know what i mean.

today as always was just a normal day, or whatever hunters call a normal day.

you all stopped by bobby's place to get insight on a shapeshifter that was terrorizing young women by killing their partners and then killing the women.

you and sam are debriefing with bobby and dean about the case, well... more like arguing.

"dean thats stupid." sam says aggressively with his hands on his hips. you standing next to the younger brother with the same look of disbelieve on your face.

"so what your telling me is you want to use me as bait for our little woman killer." you say death glaring at dean.

"well it's not my best idea-" he starts off.

you interrupt saying, "you think!?" with an incredulous look on your face.

"as i was saying... it's not my best idea but it could work. there are billions of people in the world. who knows where this shapeshifter is hiding?" he says

"yeah and only a population of 200 in this town. I'm sure we can easily narrow this down to a certain village of people and track the damn thing down." sam informs.

"but he moves from town to town. there are similar repots in Michigan, Texas, Colorado, and others matching his description. reports that date back months, years even." bobby says scattering a bunch of newspaper reports on the desk.

"look, as much as i don't want to put you in danger cupcake, your are only solution at stoping this son of a bitch." dean says staring at you.

bobby and sam join in looking at you to see what your final answer is.

your too worried about the nickname he just gave you to process anything else.

so distracted the words slipped right out of your mouth before you could think.

"sure thing handsome." as the words leave your mouth, everyone in the room had a different reaction.

sam jerked his head and squinted his eyes in confusion, bobby shook his head and put his head down, and dean had the biggest smirk on his face.

you internally face palm. "uhm i mean yea i totally got this, but you all owe me a beer later." you say clearing your throat, the awkward tension clearly growing in the room.

"i'm uh, gonna take a walk." you say pointing towards the door before grabbing your leather jacket and walking out.

bobby and sam give dean a 'go after her' look and he stutters before rushing out after you.

"hey wait!" he yells out closing bobby's door. "wait for me, i wanna come too." he says.

you turn around and stop walking, eyes squinted in this South Dakota heat.

soon he catches up to you and you both give each other a tight-lipped smile before walking again.

"so, your really up for this huh?" he asks as you guys sit in his car.

"yea i guess can't stand the feeling of hearing about another dead girl and her spouse. it just sickens me you know? like sometimes i think about my mom and dad. what would i have done if i was in that situation? watching or reading in a newspaper about how my mom was killed and my dad? i would be angry."

you take a deep breath in and close your eyes for a few seconds, a technique your dad taught you to control your emotions.

"you okay?" dean asks. "yea i'll be okay, just trying to put myself in these women's shoes." you sigh.

"quick question. what did you mean by that back there. the nickname?" you ask, fidgeting with deans cassette tapes.

"oh cupcake? i don 't know, it just kind of slipped out. guess it was something to reassure you since you were shooting daggers my way." he says with a chuckle.

you giggle with him, "i guess your right, thanks." you say urning to face towards him.

"uh yea no problem." he responds. there's this silence between you two. not an awkward silence but a comfortable silence. one that's been shared many times before.

"so are we going anywhere or are we just going to sit here until i'm used as bait later tonight?" you ask kicking your feet up on his dashboard.

"I don't know? did you want to go somewhere?" he asks.

"well i did just say something didn't I?" you bark back.

"oookay so someones feeling a little bit sassy, did you put a stick up your ass?" he said chuckling as he starts the engine.

"no, but it'll be up your ass in a second if you don't start driving." you respond with your hands crossed over your chest.

"hey, this is my car. i'll drive when i want to." he says putting his foot to the gas and driving out the parking lot.

you guys finally make your way to a food joint and of course dean orders fries, a burger, and some pie.

you decided to order fries, a milkshake and a cheeseburger. you roll your eyes at dean, his obsession with pie grinding your gears but you don't say anything.

"god, whoever invented pie, needs some serious sex handed to them." he says munching on his pie.

"then why don't you go find the person who invented pie and fuck em yourself?"

"seriously whats your-" he trails off before proceeding to laugh his ass off.

"what's funny winchester?" you question. he continues to bawl and in the process, he almost drops his pie.

"i know what's got your panties in a bunch." he says.

"oh yea and whats that winchester?" you question with your deathly glare.

"you need some. like badly." he says smirking.

"I need some what? that nasty ass pie? I'm good thank you."

"no no no, not the pie, well maybe some cream pie but what i'm trying to say is you need to get fucked. your ass is all riled up and your just taking your anger out on me dummy. when was the last time you had sex huh virgin?" he chuckles at that last part.

you stare at him and then punch him in his nose. "you wanna know whens the last time a man fucked me winchester? well it was your brother 3 days ago, so suck on that asshole."

"what?" he says sternly holding his nose.

"you heard me." you say.

"god you really are a bitch aren't you?" he says before getting out the car to go throw away the leftover trash in the car.

you sit there and think about what you said quietly scolding yourself for what you just said.

god why couldn't you just tell him. tell him that he is all you want. he's your type, he's the one you pray to be with, he's the one you've fallen madly in love with. not his brother.

the car door opens again and the car shakes a bit from deans force to sitting in the drivers seat.

"look dean, about what I said- i'm sorry. I didn't mean it. me and your brother have never slept together because he's not the winchester I want." you take a deep breath and stare out your window.

"I like you dean. I know i'm pretty shitty at showing it but i've been your best friend for years. I never would have expected myself to fall this deeply for you or even fall in love with you at all, but these last couple of weeks have changed for me. I've started to notice how handsome you really are and notice that I really have liked you for so long I've just suppressed the feelings. I hope this doesn't scare you off but I think I'm in love with you dean winchester." you look down at your fingers as your eyes close at hearing the words come out of your mouth.

"wow cupcake, never thought i'd hear you say the words." he says with a chuckle.

he guides his hand to your chin and lifts your head up to look at him.

"you fell in love sweetheart, and so have I." he says before looking down at your lips and smashing his together with yours.

warm lips touching your slightly cold ones. his warm hand sending electric sparks to your body.

his tongue slightly slipping past and mingling with your own. the feeling is euphoric and it's loving.

you break off and stare at him, "so you like me too?" you ask.

"duh, I've liked you for a while actually, surprised you haven't noticed."

"oh your such an ass, guys make the first moves not girls!" you say covering your face in embarressment.

he chuckles and grabs your hands before placing one more kiss on your lips.

"eh, didn't have the balls just yet." he says and you laugh as he starts the car again and you both drive back off to bobby's.

Taglist:@dollyfl1rt@itzdarling@sammyluvr@liliesdiary@ribbonprincess @bellahadidnt16 @iilovefictionalpeople @aerangi @keiva1000 @madafton @niktwazny303 @prettyluhdavis @kqmbr1a @nuemanfilms + anyone else who wants to join

[transboyswitchytales]

And Everybody Loves You

Agatha All Along Week!

First day is Jealousy Prompt!

Agatha x Reader x Rio

Agatha is chronically jealous! How do her girlfriends handle it?

Mention of Smut but no Smut (sowy) / Cute fluff / BELTANE (Celebration) / Billy being their son moments / Polyamory / Missing Nicky / Hickies / Jealousy of course / Cuteness / Depression mentioned / Rio should sing to Reader all the time / Snacks / Witchy fun / Coven Found Family Moments / Lilia is the absolute best and I'll fight you if you disagree / Are these even warnings anymore ?

MDNI

Happy AAA Week guys!!!

My Masterlist

Jealous. 

Polyamory was something you’d experienced before. You’d dated in threes a few times in fact, centuries ago.

Agatha Harkness, a centuries-old witch, had not. And it showed. 

And more importantly, Agatha had never learned how to share. I don’t just mean in a relationship. I mean that if you put your witch girlfriend in a sandbox, she’d probably bite a kid, again.

So when Rio and you, on a Saturday morning, when a sleepy Agatha was grumpy and didn’t want to get up, you went to a local bakery early. 

You came back to an even grumpier agitated Agatha. Rio set her keys down in the bowl and started in on Ags.  

“Oh my god, you are ridiculous. We brought you a dirty chai with pumpkin, even though you swear you hate pumpkin spice. ANNNnnnd we got you a chocolate donut detective!” Rio waved the white bag and the drink at Agatha. Who didn’t budge, but she reached for the cup. 

Rio pulled it back and shook her head. Agatha’s smirk emerged, and she leaned in and kissed Rio in gratitude, and only then did Rio give your grumpy girlfriend her breakfast. 

These moments happened a lot, which was silly because you all worked hard to communicate, ok, you worked hard for everyone to communicate.

 But you all wanted to have equality and no one left out. You had rules and things you didn’t do without each other.

One of those things was not watching your TV shows without the other person. You’d learned this the hard way. 

You and Rio had been watching Twilight Zone reruns, you were drawing and Rio was being your big spoon. 

Agatha came in from the basement where she’d been working on magic. She eyed the screen before you or your girlfriend could welcome her back into the land of the living. From being in the basement for hours. But Agatha turned hurt cold in her whole being. 

“You're watching TV without me?”

“They’re from 1959, Ags, these episodes are all reruns.” Rio teased, which wasn’t the right thing in that moment because Agatha’s lips pursed, and she glared at Death. 

“I was a little busy in the 50s! I missed them. You are watching TV without me! That’s against the rules!” Agatha would never like to be considered a person who whined, but that was exactly what was happening. 

“What? No way! This isn’t one of ‘our shows.’” Rio threw back, and that started the argument for an hour. 

You realized in that moment it wasn’t a matter of what show it was, it was being left out. 

Agatha was chronically jealous. 

The TV was no longer something you and Rio did without Agatha. Which was hilarious because Agatha didn’t even want the TV in your home. And now she owned it, like a kid who licks a cupcake to own it. No one else could touch it.  

You could name a million times these tense times came into view. 

Agatha was a control freak, and Rio and you just kinda understood that it wasn’t actually about Twilight Zone or baked goods. Agatha hadn’t been wanted by her own mother. 

And she forgot sometimes that you and Rio wanted her more than anything. 

So you and Rio would wordlessly communicate through the space and make little changes to keep Agatha’s safety. 

You were hunched over in the backyard picking vegetables from the garden you and Rio tended to. The sound of the sprinklers in the neighbor's yard and crickets starting up before the sun even set. 

That’s when you felt the depression bug creep in. You pushed it down. 

You pushed it down as you three made a large dinner. Working hard to fake it until your mind would catch up to the new idea. You got a few long glances from Agatha and Rio but you worked hard. 

Two days had passed and Rio had to work, so you and Agatha were going on a walk. 

You were doing ok, not great, but ok. 

And then you saw a kid who looked like Nicky. Your heart dropped.  

You calmly asked Aggie if you two could go home. Your girlfriend wasn’t stupid. But she laced your fingers together and walked you home. 

You took off your outside clothes and dove into the bed. And you stayed there for the rest of the day, and the night, and the next morning, and that afternoon. 

Agatha brought food and endless mugs of tea. She held you, and kissed your head. She tried to get you out of bed. But you were glued, you didn’t want to worry, Agatha. 

But you just couldn’t try anymore. 

You didn’t have the fight. 

The black dog had won, and you were letting it feast on your bone marrow. 

Around 3pm, you heard the door open again, Agatha hadn’t really left your side except to maek you tea. But she’d gone downstairs an hour ago and not returned. 

And when the sound came from teh floorboard you hated yourself for her worry. And you tried to pretend you were sleeping, knowing it would never work. But the bed dipped, and you flinched. You didn’t want to keep feeling this way and you didn’t want the unending shame for the look on Agatha’s face. 

But you felt another set of hands. One you’d known for a long time too. 

“My love, my sweet carino, it’s one of those days, huh?” Rio says, and you flip over and grab her shoulders. Rio lies down with you. And you cry from deep inside, and Rio doesn’t shy away, doesn’t tell you that Nicky is gone. Doesn’t remind you how long it’s been since he died. She just holds your body, like it’s sacred. 

When you finally stop sobbing, you pull back to look at her eyes. 

“You got here fast. Did Agatha tell you to come home?”

“I was in Mississippi, a guy got eaten by a tractor, blood everywhere. He kinda looked like a tube of toothpaste splattering.” Rio tells you, and you laugh at her dark humor. You put your face into her neck, and she rocked you. 

Rio whispered a song to you, one she’d sing to you when she dropped her work to come home. You’d played it one day, and Rio had told you it’s how she felt when she knew you or Agatha needed her. 

She’d drop her work and get to you two as fast as she could. So when she sang it, your heart broke in two. 

‘Cutting through the country, on my way to you

Runnin' out of Reds, comin' up with truths

I'm cutting through a cornfield, talkin' to myself

Hookin' up with strangers, askin' them for help

You reveled in Rio’s voice and her tender touch, and your body relaxed for the first time. Since you’d been on your walk. 

Waitin' for forever, waitin' for your call

I know it sounds crazy, we could have it all

If you needed someone, if you needed proof

I'm cutting through the country, I'm on my way to you

You bit your lip, and Rio kept singing to you. Knowing that you needed to hear it, needed to hear her. Need her.

I'm cutting through the country, listenin' for you

Someone I could trust, wishin' it was us

Yeah, nothin' lasts forever and everybody dies

I don't wanna leave, unless it's here with you tonight

And I'm pullin' from a bottle, flippin' on my phone

Lookin' for a life, lookin' for a home

Cutting through the country, call me when you're up

Nothin' lasts forever, but I'm not in a rush

Every day's a movie and I've already seen

I'm cutting through the country, I might fall asleep

Wake up in a cartoon, fallin' through the earth

Give me somethin' real, babe, and nobody gets hurt’

She stopped when you turned to look at her once more. 

“Agatha really called you, huh?”

It felt strange because Agatha was so good at soothing your frustration. But Nicky was a hard thing for any of you to talk about. You wondered what drove her to ask Rio for help. Because she couldn’t mourn with you? No, Agatha had mourned with you plenty. 

“Ags may be chronically jealous. But she loves you more than anything, Sweets. She’d give up her powers forever if it meant you didn’t feel another moment of pain. She knew you needed me, too. She can’t always communicate the right thing, hell I fucking can’t either. But you are so important to us. So I’ll always drop everything, and Agatha will break her pride and call me.”

Rio told you, and your bottom lip wobbled, and Rio’s face softened even further as she hugged you back to her chest.

You got out of bed that night and ate dinner at the table with your girlfriends. You sat on Agatha’s lap as Rio picked a scary movie. Agatha’s hands held you tightly, and you knew she wanted to say a million things. But her hands worked against your skin and you didn’t need her to speak a word.  

It was quickly Beltane, time the only thing that was constantly passing. 

And you were loving going to this huge witches' gathering. You knew the coven was too, but Billy had never been to a Beltane celebration. 

So you pulled him into little witches' booths and bought him cobbler and new rings. Explaining the fruit in it was important for Beltane and the whys. Lilia was running a tarot booth, and you’d brought her iced tea and poppy lemon cake. She’d kissed you and given you a big hug. Wishing you a happy, fruitful Beltane. 

Rio and Agatha held hands and walked behind you as you gushed over the history of Beltane to Billy. Who was just as bubbly, he’d bloomed this year into a more confident witch. Agatha told you it was because of you, but you didn’t take the compliment at all. 

But Billy had sort of adopted you three as his parents now. 

And you tried not to cry every time he asked to stay the night, or called you when he was upset. He’d ask you questions about how to have a healthy relationship, he loved Eddie. You talked for him for hours.

But he also adored Agatha for all her faults and sharp edges. Sometimes he’d come over and sit with Agatha and they talked into the wee hours of the morning. She taught him more magic, and he was respectful and eager to please her. Agatha always tried to hide her pride but you saw it. 

You also saw how Rio warmed to your favorite teen.

 It started small, she’d noticed he loved tomatoes. She had some in the garden, no big deal. But when you walked into the yard one day and noticed five new tomato varieties being planted, you knew Rio loved him. 

Slowly, Billy stopped being afraid of Rio too. Instead, he learned from Eddie how to make his Nonna’s family traditional tomato sauce. And he jarred it and brought it back to Rio. Who had never received a gift from a child before. She’d been worshiped by deities and you and Agatha had bought her thoughtful things over the years that she cherished and kept. 

But a child had never looked at her without fear, except one. And now here was Billy, looking at her with big eyes and dark curls. And she swore to protect him in that moment. 

And he kept bringing her things. A comic book with a lesbian in it, a button that had a skull on it, a bunch of taco’s from a taco truck he followed online. And in turn, Rio started to talk to him more and more. It was a gorgeous thing to see. 

You grabbed Billy’s hand in the sunshine and guided him into the next book. Jen wasn’t working it, but it was her company. You eyed the candles, and you and Billy sniffed each one and decided which one was the best. 

You looked over your shoulder to see Rio calmly talking to Agatha. Who was anxious, you eyed them, but knew that Rio could handle whatever had upset your girlfriend. 

The sun dipped down quickly, and you’d all eaten so much good food. The maypoles were being put away, and the bonfire was being built. Children were blowing bubbles and they floated like fairies in the sky. 

“So do we have to be naked?” Billy whispered to you, and you laughed at him and his blush. You were sitting on a log together as Rio and Agatha found some fun alcoholic floral drink that was being served in celebration. Nothing like drunk witches before a bonfire. Witches were throwing logs on the fire, and you two watche,d waiting for the rest of your coven to come join you.  

Jen and Alice were probably fucking in their car. But Lilia had gone in search of a ‘gift’, and you weren’t sure who it was for. 

“No, honey, we don’t have to be naked. We’re just here to celebrate. Witches aren’t here to judge each other, they’re here to give tribute to new beginnings. Beltane is to ask for new things, but to celebrate the coming of spring and a fruitful land. We are here to give back.” You explain to him, and Billy drops his head against your shoulder. He’d become way cuddlier in the last few months. And your heart ached for him. Wanda would be so proud. 

“Who are you going to give tidings to?” He asked, and it reminded you so much of Nicky and his first Beltane. You let yourself feel the overwhelming love for both of your boys. 

“Well, I always start with my sweet girl, Death. But Flora naturally and I never forget, no matter what time of year, to give a gift to Hecate. What about you?” You ask him, and his eyebrows scrunch, and he thinks hard before responding. 

“Belenus,” Billy said, the Celtic god, and you loved that he had such knowledge now. 

“That’s a great choice.” You tell him, and you hear Agatha and Rio before you see them. Rio plops down next to Billy, and Agatha sits next to you. Her hand goes to your thigh, and it’s a claiming touch. 

Rio reached across the teenager to hand you a pretty purple drink. You took it, thanking her and taking a sip. It was good very sweet and strong, and you made an appreciative noise. Agatha kept on hand on you as she sipped her own a little faster than you were. 

“Can I have one?” Billy eyed how Rio was double fisting two drinks. 

“Absolutely, when you are twenty-one, I’ll take you out and buy you shots. Until then, you can drink water or the kids made lemonade.” Rio answered like the Dad, and you felt warmth at the domesticity of it all. You and Agatha didn’t even step in, Rio ha,d and it was adorable. 

“Not even a sip?” Billy tried again. 

“Pet, if you keep this up you won’t get the strawberry funnel cake,” Agatha warned him, and she sounded so much like a mom. And Billy didn’t fight it anymore, but you saw him experiencing the love in her words. Someone to watch out for him, to tell him no. It was a beautiful thing. 

Alice yelled across the way to Billy she had two strawberry soft-serve ice creams in waffle cones. Billy hopped up out of the seat and ran over to her. She handed him one and then affectionately brushed his hair out of his eyes. He needed a haircut from Jen soon. 

You all loved him. 

Agatha’s nails dug into your thigh a little, and Rio scooted to close the distance between you two. Both girlfriends sandwiching you in the middle. Much like they did every night in bed. 

“Aggie, what’s wrong, baby?” You asked and took a sip of the strong drink.

Agatha’s face fell into your neck, and she stayed there, inhaling you. Agatha wasn’t worried about people seeing you two cuddle. You were life long partners.  

“Someone’s a little touch starved for you, you’ve been paying a lot of attention to the coven today. And I think our witch is feeling a little needy.” Rio whispered so other witches walking by wouldn’t hear. A few stopped to look at you three, obviously aware of your reputation. No one knew who Rio was, which was always annoying and hilarious. 

But you and Aggie, were witch killers. And after all this time you still got dirty looks and snide remarks. But Agatha hadn’t told you no on coming to this event. Knowing you loved to celebrate the old holidays. 

But her hands ached for your body. 

Setting your drink down between your barefeet. You ran a hand through Agatha’s dark locks and kept her in your neck. 

“Do you wanna follow Jen and Alice example and go fuck in the car?” You asked, and Agatha snorted in your neck. Rio’s eyebrows raised in intrigue, and she hoped Aggie was about to say yes. 

Nicky had been conceived on Ostara, you’d not carved runes. You’d said no spell and no incantation. He’d been born from love. Having your nose and optimistic attitude, Rio’s dimple and mischievous nature, and Agatha’s brilliance and her ability to love deeply. 

Nicky was perfect. The best of all three of you. 

You were a little nervous to fuck on a holiday, especially one for fertility. But if Agatha needed you, you’d never deny her. Agatha’s nose brushed against the sensitive spot on your neck, and you shivered. 

“You don’t want to leave Billy for too long,” Agatha answered, and you knew that wasn’t what she wanted to say. There was a whole coven here for him. 

“If my witch needs my fingers, you only need to accept my invitation.” You tell her, and Agatha takes a minute before nodding. You three stand, grabbing your drinks, you excuse yourself. 

It takes about two hours, not what you’d planned but your body is thoroughly fucked. Agatha steps out of the car first and she uses a pencil to put her hair up. Big love bites clearly scattered over her neck and chest. You weren’t much better; you had more bites, and they were already dark purple. 

Rio wiped her mouth on the back of her hand to get all the evidence off. She reached into the back of the car, grabbing four sweaters and handing you and Agatha each other’s clothes. You wore Aggies deep purple sweater, and she wore your dark maroon cable knit. Rio pulled it over her baggy dark fern colored sweater on. It had frayed over the years and bits of yarn stuck out. She looked gorgeous. They both did. 

You all walked back into the cool night air. It had gotten dark while you were….busy in the car. 

When you came back to the outdoor venue, you saw Alice and Lilia holding Billy as Jen worked with the kid's corner to make sure that baby witches were grounded during all this energy play. 

Rio put a hand on Billy and he turned and grinned at her in greeting. She thoughtfully handed him one of her baggy sweaters, it was a dark blue and it had a few white sigils for warming in it. You loved that sweater so much, there was something so parental about Rio keeping the teenager safe and warm. 

Walking up to your fortune witch and grabbing Lilia’s shoulders, she turned to you and kissed your cheek affectionately. 

“Wondered when you three would finish.” She teased and then bent down and took out a flower crown from her bag of goodies. She placed it onto your head, and you had to bend down because she was so short. But she curled your hair behind your ear and then beamed at you. Lifting your chin up so she could look at you.  

“You are one beautiful witch, doll.” Lilia complimented you and you felt it warm your body. 

“Lilia-”

“Hush, you look fantastic. The giant bruises on your neck look like you’ve been fighting a vampire. But besides that, you are…gorgeous inside and out.” Lilia grabbed both your forearms and leaned in like she was telling you a secret passed down for centuries. 

“Thank you.” You whispered back and turned to see Agatha and Rio beaming at you. 

The flowers in your crown were a mixture of Nicky's favorite wildflower to pick in the forest, Agatha’s secret ingredient in her perfume orchids, and Rio’s water hemlock, a poisonous plant that she planted in every home you’d ever lived. And your favorite big Alaskan daisies that’s stems weave through each flower. 

Lilia was good. 

Your girlfriends both came over and kissed each of your flushed cheeks.

You all sat as the celebration began, and people danced in all ways around the fire and chanted. It was gorgeous, and a glow illuminated off their bodies. Lilia and Alice were explaining what was happening to Billy. 

You weren’t watching the witches now, your eyes were up at the full moon. You were watching as the magic of all these witches did what it did in Old Salem. They were ‘drawing down the moon.’ So it looked bigger and bigger, like La Luna wanted to dance with the witches herself. 

Agatha was watching you and one of her hands brushed your hair to the side, and she held the back of your neck and you closed your eyes at the sensation of her fingers. She was leaning in to kiss you or whisper something and someone cut your moment short. 

“Hey! You are fucking gorgeous wanna come dance naked with me?” This witch asked you, and she was very beautiful. Her red hair was wild, and little braids were in between her thick locks; they had baby’s breath in their strands and feathers. She was already naked, and the curtains did match the drapes. Her large rune tattoos framed her muscular arms. 

“She’s fucking taken, go find a loose witch that’ll lift her dress for you silly hag.” Agatha snapped and snarled like an animal, and the poor witch froze for a minute in fear. Before making a great imitation of Thumper and running like a rabbit back into the night. 

Before you could say anything, the coven erupted into laughter. 

“She had no idea she’d just hit on Agatha Harkness, woman!” Alice cackled out as Billy grabbed his sides, and Lilia’s laughter made people turn and stare. Rio’s hand fell over her mouth as she found it hilarious as well. 

“I don’t see the humor in this!” Agatha chastised her coven which was erupting at the seams. Perhaps it was all the energy in the air, the magic, you told yourself. But Agatha glared at them and you moved further into her embrace kissed her long and slow. 

“I like you jealous. I’m yours, though. I didn’t wanna dance with her, I only want to dance with you and Rio.” You tell her, and Agatha softens like butter under your words and gentle touch on her body. 

It’s dawn by the time it all ends, and you are sobered up enough to drive your girlfriends home. You offer to take Billy, but he’s asleep on Jen’s lap, and she shakes her head. Alice and Jen take him back to their house to sleep off all of that magic high. Lilia steals his phone and hands it to Alice, not able to really work technology well. She texts his mom to let him know the change of plans. 

Rio guides your body in your mutual tired state.

“Coffee first?” She asks, wondering if you wanna make a stop. 

“Home.” You say eyeing an exhausted Agatha who climbs into the back seat and lies across the leather. She doesn’t put her seatbelt on, which is terribl,e but you and Rio can’t find it in you to wake her and make her do it. 

You drive home slowly and carefully. You get into the house and rest your flower crown on the kitchen table. The three of you move into the bedroom, shed your clothes, and climb in to cuddle. 

You wake hours later, and it’s deep in the afternoon, and you yawn. Agatha kissed your forehead and you smiled. 

“Wanna take a bath with me?”

“Yes, please,” it sounds like an amazing time. The smell of campfire and ash sliding off your body. Agatha did her amazing talent of making a bath smell sinful and look like a scene in Game of Thrones. You both slid in and Agatha was happy to press your back against her bare chest as she used a hand towel to scrub your arms. You closed your eyes, still sleepy after your nap. 

Aggie talked to you softly in the space about her first Beltane with you. One where you’d stolen her heart and she teased you about never giving it back. 

“It’s mine.” You told her and she kissed behind your ear. 

“In this life and the next.” Agatha promised.

You were both feeling a contact high between your naked bodies pressed together and the intoxicating scents in the tub. The undtertone of sexual tension was dilicious. Turning slightly you angled yourself so that Agatha could kiss your lips in a slow dance. 

You were both rudely interrupted as Rio walked in. 

“HEY! I didn’t get invited to bath time!”

Yeah, Agatha was jealous. But you might have forgotten to mention so was Rio. 

Rio was very jealous. A lot. 

Death was huffing at you both irritated at not getting her bubble bath moment too. 

“Rio the tub is not big enough for three! And you took a shower-” Agatha tried to reason with her toddler of a girlfriend who folded her arms and glared at you both. 

“WE HAVE POWERS! MAKE A BIGGER TUB! I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU!” Rio started to shout and you just smiled. 

Jealousy was woven into your life yes, but the love was behind every inch as well. 

Agatha took the wet washcloth and threw it at Rio’s face who started to take off her clothes and Agatha shouted at her. She had one foot in the tub and Agatha was trying to push her out. Soap and tub water splashed over the side and all over the bathroom floor. 

“IT’S TOO SMALL OF A TUB!”

“MOVE OVER!”

“YOU ARE ALL SWEATY!”

“YEAH WELL I’M GONNA GET CLEAN AREN’T I!”

[bidisasterevankinard]

Ravi the matchmaker

based on this and for @thecarrott who loved it

Ravi fixes his shirt, loving that Buck and Tommy decided to semi-formal style for their wedding and he didn’t need to sweat in a hot uncomfortable suit, staying near Buck and watching Tommy cry, when Buck said ‘I do’.

And now time for his best man’s speech.

“Ladies and gentlemens, for those little who don’t know me, I'm Ravi. Once I was a probie who was trained by Buck and now we’re partners on heavy rescue. But the reason I was chosen by Buck is not just it. You see Chim, as he said, was the reason this couple whose love we celebrate today,” Ravi raises his glass to shit grinning Buck and Tommy whose two pairs of  bright and happy eyes, but red from a lot of happy tears, “met almost three years ago. And I,” Ravi proudly smiles. “was the reason they,” Ravi looks at kids, “hang out one night and leave each other wanting more and pining with the idea that it’s not done yet,” everyone laughs.

Then Ravi blushes, sending hate look at the Buck, “but I also the reason they got back together. And even though without me they’d be pining for god knows how long, they still with another best man bullied me into telling you the whole story. So prepare to laugh. And remember I had a lot of tequila in me thanks to one Evan Buckley… Sorry Buckley-Kinard. ”

-

Two years ago

“And that is h-h’w Hen and Karen’ found the way to each other again…” Chim hiccups, “and here we are,” he makes fake bows when Eddie starts applauding.

Ravi smiles at the happy couple, hoping to one day be as happy as them. It’s sweet to know you’re so loved.

But Ravi sees how the smile on one face doesn’t reach the eyes of one person who tries hard to hide it. Buck. The person who got really quiet during the whole story, looking lost, and taking two more shots, as if trying to get away from something.

Ravi knows from what. He saw Buck look at Tommy’s number during the night several times. All the time closing the contact information, before opening it up again.

That won’t do it. Ravi saw them together, listening to Buck talking about Tommy and saw the way Tommy smiled when he saw Buck that night in the bar weeks ago.

If those old schoolers won’t grow up and talk, it seems Rvai had to make them.

“Hey, Buck, my phone’s dead. Is that ok if I’ll call my sister to come and get me?”

Man just nods, opening up his phone, and Ravi smiles at him, patting his shoulder.

“Thanks, man you’re the best.”

Ravi doesn’t sway when he’s walking. But just barely. Two or three last shots were too much. But Buck paid, so it’s fine.

Quickly making sure Ravi’s alone outside, he opens the phone, finding the number he needs.

Please, don’t be on shift

“‘Van?” a sleepy voice answers, “what’s wrong?”

“Tommy, it’s Ravi,” Ravi makes his best sad voice, but then thinks that it’s unfair to say ‘it’ to Tommy even for a second. He can’t say that Buck’s dead. Not even for a moment to get them back together. What if it’ll break Tommy’s heart? 

But he needs a plan. And quickly. He remembered Buck’s home screen. Buck holding baby Han, smiling like it was him in labor and now has his baby in his arms.

The lamp bulb brightens up.

“Tommy, Buck’s in labor. It’s yours baby. There were complications. The baby and Buck need you.”

Silence.

Ravi checks that the call is still there.

“Chim told you how he got Hen and Karen back together,” Tommy asks without any sounds of him moving to get here and Ravi feels sad. Doesn’t he love Buck even a little bit?

“Yes.”

“And how much tequila did you have?”

“Much.”

“Yeah, I figured. But you had this bright idea on your drunk head. I was mentally building the crib for a second on a sober one.”

“I don’t see what’s wrong with my plan,” Ravi pouts. It was a good plan if only he remembered that Tommy was around when Chim did it to Hen and Karen.

“Ravi,” Tommy seems to try and control his laugh, “Evan is cis man. He can’t get pregnant even if I’d give my best shot,” Ravi’s pretty sure he hears the whisper ‘and god did I give it my best shot’.

Blinking, Ravi feels like wires that tequila unplugged in his head are plugged back. He can’t stop himself from laughing too loud.

“Oh fuck. Please can you not tell anyone?”

“Nuh, Ravi, sorry, when Evan tomorrow will ask me what made me come and talk with him, I’ll tell him the truth. But I promise to keep it from Chim till the wedding.”

Ravi can live with it.

“Wait, you will talk to Buck?”

He hears a deep exhale that sounds too hopeful.

“You wouldn’t try and matchmake us if there was nothing for me to hope about, so yes. I’ll talk to him. Now go and give Evan his phone back. And delete this phone call.”

“Yes! Good luck, Tommy.”

Ravi does as he’s told, deleting the call history and then calling his sister, faking to everyone that she was not answering the number for a while.

Buck🦌

Next evening he has the new texts sitting in his notifications.

Thanks, Rav❤️

You can’t imagine what it means to me

Even if I can’t believe you said Tommy that I was in labor 🤣

-

Everyone in the room laughs too loud and Ravi can’t feel bad because that evening might have actually never happened or happened not soon enough if he didn't.

And he definitely is ok with some other people's jokes because it’s him who is going to be the godfather of baby girl Buckley-Kinard that is expected to be born next month.

He’s sure he and Skylar Robbie are going to be huge friends.

[atangledfate]

Think with his head? That really was never his strong suit was it? Honestly it's why Eggman always lost because it made him so unpredictable. Not that he couldn't be smart when he put his noggin' to the task! But he preferred to think on his toes, and react to every situation in the moment! but he did get her concern, he could blurt things out sometimes. Often in an attempt to lighten a mood or in a moment of frustration. His mother use to say he got it from his father but he hated to believe that since he hated the man so much.

" ouch going right for the jugular eh, i can't say you aren't right though. It ain't like i ever intend to blurt thing's out... it just kinda happens... guess it's my darn ADHD... or something..."

" An, i've fought guys like that president and that general before. Those kinda creeps are always up to no good... can't stand people like that. They just wanna oppress people's freedom in the name of good but--- in reality they are just usin' that shit as an excuse! "

He huffed as that all seemed to be a sore spot, as if he'd been down this road once before.

" Last time i met guys like that ... It created Iblis and Mephiles... i'd rather stop them before we end up with a 2.0 of those two..."

=============================================

The beetle buzzed her wings as she watched the general's image vanish off the screen. Really she had to focus on her duty! she can worry about what those two were really up to later. but right now she couldn't worry about them, and must focus on getting people the help they need. She should probably get checked out herself despite the healing she got from that royal.

" While i think we can all agree with you on that one Princess ... But be that as it may... and like it or not. United Federation is still the ruling body here on Mobius. We have to comply on some level.. and right now i'm more worried about our people getting help... the cost isn't light but it if we must... we must "

She buzzed her way over to Lanolin with a stern gaze to give her acting orders as director.

" Lanolin i want you to gather up Surge, and get her ready for transfer once the proper paperwork and contracts arrive. Miss Odessa could you keep an eye on the border where our people will be moving in and out-- i doubt GUN would start anything but just in case. I'd appreciate an eye on both sides as tensions are so high right now. "

She fluttered over to Miles trying to measure up as a leader and really doing her best. But the stress was getting to her by the way her antenna would slump when she thought no one was watching her.

" Miles, can i enlist your aid? You have access to a legal Team, and i'd appreciate it if you can employ them to check the paperwork and make sure they aren't trying to use some legal loop hole or another. "

She finally addressed Blaze with her hands behind her back

" And thank you Princess... your aid has been invaluable... i hope you'll continue to be a presence until this situation is fully resolved... they'll be sending there legal representative... and i'd like you there when they arrive. If for no other reason then to dissuade any ill action against us... as for everyone else, you should focus on helping the transfer and getting our essential personal back on base! "

The sheep gave a Nod as she made her way out the door to find Surge and Sonic. While Miles already had his phone out making a call to some legal experts he had access to. Things were coming to a close and this scenario was almost over... Yet Jewel couldn't help but stare at the monitor with the GUN cruiser still floating threateningly over head--- this was a bold action by GUN and one that did not bode well for Restoration...

The blue hedgehog gave Surge a sideways glance as he didn't forget about that. It was just that--- so much had happened to him that not even Eggman knew it all. Starline just pumped her full of common info, and assumptions. He didn't know about his adventures in the story books, or about his godling father. He certainly didn't know what happened when he, shadow and silver defeated Solarius. His life might be known, but he was more then a bunch of text in a book.

" ... Then you know i'm good for my word... that's enough right? Heck i'm not even askin' for you to like me. I was happy enough that you and the kiddo were getting a chance to do your own thing... "

he sighed and placed his hands on his hips looking up at the GUN Ship.

" This whole thing sucks... I really wish you two had more time--- And i think we both would like a long talk with that general guy. But i've faced my share of tyrants, hacks, and evil overlords. That guy gives me the willies... both of them do... and that's not easy to do "

============================================

The General remained Stoic as the princess simply iterated what they both already knew. Jewel's tactic was sound, but it was predictable and that alone spoke to Jewels lack of experience. She may have been a keen eyed business woman. But she wasn't a soldier, or a warrior and that was something Blaze and himself shared in common.

" I could have, but i'd honestly I'd like to resolve this in a timely manner. It does none of us any good to remain in this stalemate any longer then we must. Despite what you may think i want what is best for my World... "

He simply motioned with his hand in a dismissive manner

" Which is exactly the problem isn't it? How can we put our fate in the hands of someone so chaotic and undisciplined. I'm sure we'd agree on much more then we disagree on if things were different... as for The President... I hope he can do the things he claims but, he's as of yet untested... "

His one good eye turned to Odessa and acknowledged her without directly speaking to her. He seemed to assess her but his face was like stone and impossible to tell if he was concerned or if he found her threat to be just another annoyance.

" My men are all disciplined... they won't act unless ordered to. you can relax, if i wanted to cause you harm... we wouldn't be having this conversation and you must know that. As for your princess getting hurt--- If a foreign dignitary enters foreign lands uninvited ... i can't be held responsible for any ill that befalls them. In truth your presence could be seen as an act of War... be glad we make an exception for the aid you provided the resistance during the Phantom War "

He sighed to the Princesses desire and his eye shifted away as if he found this argument rather tedious. He understood what she wanted but until Thawn, gave him the go ahead his hands were actually tied. He wanted to explain that but he had a feeling she'd fight him every step of the way. So it was a good thing, that jewel came in almost as if on que. Her wings buzzing as she came into the room and interrupted the conversation.

" President Thawn and i came to an agreement... The blackade is to be opened to essential personnel and, we can begin moving the injured and, get our medical staff back on base! i'm sure the general will get these orders momentarily! "

" Indeed, i was just given a folder with new orders... congradulations Miss Jewel... I look forward to working with you in the future---in less stressful circumstances... Princess it was ... interesting, i hope this doesn't jade you to future talks "

[twlgholts]

always kind of was, j.b.

chapter eight, hollow bones

— jacob black x f. reader

a/n: i wonder what is so important he had to leave to do hmmmm i wonder

taglist: @asillysimp @grimlinn @eneywey @shinobuily

prev. series masterlist! next.

Since you got back, Jacob found small ways to be around again: dropping by to fix the deck light without being asked, showing up with a socket wrench like he’d just remembered your dad had mentioned the grill was busted. He was around enough that your parents started teasing you again, throwing each other knowing looks over dinner like they knew something you didn’t.

You got comfortable. Too comfortable.

Lately, the nights had started to feel off.

He bailed more. Told you he was busy. Said he was tired. You didn’t push, but you noticed. The way his eyes drifted toward the treeline more often. The way his phone would buzz and he’d get quiet. He never said it, but you knew there was something pulling him away from you—something heavy he didn’t want you to carry with him.

Jacob hadn’t texted. Not a blurry sunset picture. Not even his usual dry, late-night “you alive?” that you’d come to expect when the house was quiet and everyone else had gone to bed.

You stared at your phone too long, your thumb hovering over his contact, but you didn’t type anything. You expected the dots to pop up on your screen first, like maybe he was already thinking of you.

That weekend, you waited for him at the dock for a fishing day and a swim. You stood with your pole, glancing at your phone every few minutes. When five o’clock came and went, you sat down instead, feet dangling in the water. Then the minutes turned into nearly two hours. Five missed calls to voicemail. You weren’t sure why you kept waiting.

Jacob: I’m sorry I can’t make it

You: That’s it?

Jacob: I’m sorry

You left him on read. He eventually promised to make it up to you. Matilda and chocolate cake.

But tonight, the storm hit before he did.

You waited too long in the living room, your parents eventually giving up and kissing your head before heading to bed. You wandered into the kitchen instead, looking for something—comfort, distraction, sugar. Anything.

The storm outside was violent. Unseasonal. Like it didn’t belong in a lazy summer night. You stood at the window with a glass of water, blanket around your shoulders, the lightning making brief ghosts of the trees outside.

Then–two sharp bangs on the door.

Your heart leapt up into your throat. You opened the door, blanket still clutched, anger already stitched into your expression.

Jacob stood there, soaked. Shirtless, barefoot, hair flattened to his face, his body steaming faintly in the cold night air.

“Why the hell are you not wearing clothes, Jacob?” you snapped before you could stop yourself. “Where are your shoes? You’re gonna catch a cold—”

You dragged him inside, grabbed a towel, shoved it into his chest. “Clean your feet before my mom sees those prints and has a heart attack.”

He didn’t say anything, just quietly doing as you said.

“You bailed on me again, and now you show up like this?” You threw your blanket over his shoulders out of reflex. “What is up with you lately?”

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice low like it hurt to say anything at all.

“Couldn’t you have texted me? Called?”

He pushed his hair back and looked at you. “Didn’t think it would come down this hard.”

“You scared the hell out of me,” you admit, quieter this time. “I thought something happened.”

“I’m okay.” He hesitated. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

You hugged him–brief, sharp–and he froze before returning it, his hands settled lightly on the small of your back.

“No cake, I’m guessing?”

He looked away. Not a funny joke, you guess. “I’m not staying. I just–Just wanted to come by. Say sorry.”

Your chest tightens.

“That’s it?”

“I have to go soon.”

You studied him. The way his jaw clenched. The flicker of something in his eyes he couldn’t quite hide.

"Don’t lie to me, Jacob. Just—don’t. I’m not mad that you missed things; I’m mad you didn’t tell me you would. I’m not a stranger—you don’t need to vanish. And I’m confused. Confused why you don’t respond for hours, why you show up at one in the morning, why your clothes are missing." you let out a slight laugh at how ridiculous you sound.

“I know.”

“Then why do you keep doing it?”

“It’s complicated.”

“Yeah. That’s what people say when they don’t want to talk about things. Avoid things.”

Silence. Then a soft “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“That’s not your call.”

You didn’t realize your voice was shaking until he looked at you, his brow drawn, almost like it hurt him.

“I’m leaving soon, Jake. I only get you for the summer. Everyone else gets you the rest of the year and I hate feeling like I’m begging for scraps of time from someone who’s supposed to be my best friend.”

He winced, like that hit harder than he expected.

“Stay,” you almost beg. “Just until the storm slows.”

“I can’t.”

“Why? Is it something I did? Something I said?”

“No.” It came out sharp, too fast. “No. It’s not you, no.”

You stared at him. At the way his hands fidgeted with the edge of the towel. At how he couldn’t look you in the eyes anymore.

“You used to tell me everything,” you said.

“I still want to.”

“Then tell me why it feels like you’re not really here anymore.”

You didn’t mean for it to sound like a plea, but it did. Soft and breaking and too close to the truth. Jacob didn’t move. His eyes flickered to yours, then down to the floor again, like he couldn’t stand to meet the look in your face. Like it might burn.

You watched him breathe. His chest rose and fell too slow, like each inhale was a choice he had to make. The towel in his hands hung limp now, damp and wrung out at the edges where his fingers twisted the fabric.

He shook his head once, barely. “I can’t explain it.”

“You mean you won’t.”

“It’s not the same thing.”

Your throat tightened. “It is when you used to tell me everything.”

“I still want to.” he repeats, this time more desperate like he’s trying to get you to understand something hiding behind his words.

“Then do it.” You took a step closer. “Just be honest. Tell me whatever it is that makes you disappear. That makes you lie about why you don’t come around. That makes you look at me like you’re already halfway gone.”

You didn’t raise your voice, but something cracked under the surface—raw and hollow. He heard it. His jaw tensed. His eyes flicked to the window as thunder rolled again in the distance. For a second, he looked like he wanted to bolt. Like staying here any longer was going to ruin something.

He didn’t move, didn’t say anything, didn’t even try.

The thunder outside cracked louder this time, a low roar rolling through the floorboards. Rain lashed the windows in steady waves, but inside, the silence thickened like fog. You could feel it clinging to your skin—heavy, electric, expectant.

“Say something,” you said, quieter now. It didn’t come out angry. Just tired. Bone-deep and quiet, like you’d already given him all the fight you had.

Jacob’s lips parted, then closed again. His eyes shifted—your face, the floor, the towel in his hands—anywhere but yours. Like he was hunting for an answer that didn’t exist. Or one that wouldn’t destroy you both.

“I…” His voice cracked, barely there. This wasn’t the Jacob Black you knew and loved. He scrubbed a hand down his face, jaw tight, rainwater still dripping from the ends of his hair. “I don’t know how.”

You stared at him. This boy used to finish your sentences, used to look at you like the world made sense. Now he stood soaked and silent in your living room, unable to finish his own sentence, and he felt farther away than ever.

The rain pounded down harder as if on cue, the wind howling against the side of the house, rattling the windows like fists against glass.

You didn’t move. Neither did he.

“I hate this,” you said, almost a whisper. “I hate pretending like everything’s fine when it’s not. I hate wondering if I did something wrong. If I said too much or not enough. I hate how I keep waiting for you to come back—to actually come back—but every time you show up, it’s like I’m watching you from the other side of a glass wall.”

He flinched, not visibly, not much–but you noticed. A ripple in his shoulders. A breath that caught too hard in his throat.

“I’m still me,” he said, low and shaky.

“Then why don’t you feel like you?”

Jacob swallowed hard. He turned away like he couldn’t stand being seen by you as if he would come undone if he looked at you too long.

The towel hit the floor.

“I can’t stay tonight.”

The words landed like a blow. You didn’t know what you expected—but not that. Anything but that.

You nodded slowly, lips pressed together. “Right. Of course.”

You stepped back to give him space, even though all you wanted to do was close it. Grab his hand. Shake him. Ask him what the hell he was doing—why he was running when you were right here, asking him to stay. But you didn’t because what good was holding onto someone who was already slipping away? Making the choice to do so?

He moved toward the door, slow but sure, like each step pulled him farther into a choice he didn’t want to make. The storm outside surged louder, wind curling beneath the frame like it was trying to claw its way in and keep him here.

His hand hovered over the doorknob.

You didn’t say his name.

He didn’t say yours.

The door opened with a groan and the cold rushed in. Damp and bitter. He stood there for a second, shoulders hunched again, back to you, like he might turn around. Like he wanted to. Like maybe, just maybe, he’d choose you this time over whatever secret he was hiding.

But then the door clicked shut and he was gone.

You stood there for a long time, staring at the empty space where he had just been. The towel still lay on the floor, the rain still pelted the windows, the silence stretched until it wrapped itself around your chest like a second skin.

You were alone and this time, it wasn’t an accident.

[effietrinket1619]

lanternfam tiktok chaos

So, by this point, everyone knows Hal has an ex that he's on frankly horrible terms with. but-

the video opens with Kyle and Hal in a legit screaming match, Jess is clearly filming from around the corner, and-

"WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU MARRIED HIM TWENTY-THREE TIMES?"

"WE WEREN'T LEGALLY MARRIED IN THOSE CORNERS, OKAY? IF I WANTED TO GET MARRIED ON MY HOME TURF, AND THEN HIS OLD STOMPING GROUNDS, AND THEN EVERYWHERE ELSE WE HAPPENED TO VISIT-"

"ARE YOU KIDDING ME?"

"IT'S NOT MY FAULT YOU DATED HIS DAUGHTER, KYLE."

"TWENTY-THREE TIMES, HAL!"

"AND TWICE TO JOHN, BUT YOU DON'T SEE ME BRINGING THAT ONE UP EVERY OTHER TUESDAY!"

"WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU AND JOHN GOT MARRIED?"

Jess ducks behind the corner again. there is never an explanation for this. ever.

i am HOWLING over this

The visuals focused while the audio bled in slowly, the cadence of a heated argument clear even if the words were anything but. Jess was giggling behind the camera as the debate reached new heights.

"--twenty-three times, Hal! What the hell were you two doing? Did the Guard--"

"Of course they knew, Kyle! This was before the law that forbade relationships, you idiot!"

Hal and Kyle, standing close together with their faces alight because of this entire debacle, were trading barbs with each other. Kyle in particular looked like he wanted nothing more than to throw Hal out of the window. "You got married to that asshole twenty-three times and you didn't think to tell us?"

Hal threw his hands up in the air. "You never asked!"

"Oh! Sorry then, I didn't realise I had to ask to know the sordid details of the great Hal Jordan's life! I'm asking now! What the hell is wrong with you?" Kyle bellowed.

Jess didn't think she'd quite seen Kyle this angry in her life. Then again, he was always full of surprises.

With a scowl, Hal grumbled, "You want the long answer or the short answer?"

"Long, obviously!"

"I..." Hal rubbed a frustrated hand over his face. "Okay. Listen, it was just diplomacy at first and then it kinda spiralled outta control so now we're here. Really, you're making a big deal of nothing. It's not like we're living together or anything."

"Yeah," Kyle hissed, "I'd sure hope so considering the guy tried to kill me!"

Waving a hand flippantly with a scowl, Hal said, "He's tried to kill all of us. You're being dramatic."

"I'm--" Kyle turned straight to Jess, eyes wild and radiating fury. "You're hearing this bullshit, right? Like, you're getting all of this too?"

Jess's thumbs up was visible for the camera, although the shaking made it extremely clear that she was just barely holding herself together for this. Hal groaned. "Can we please drop this? He's not exactly a great husband."

"Yeah. I can imagine, Hal." Kyle stopped short, looking a little unwell for a moment. "Oh God, I dated your stepdaughter."

Hal rolled his eyes. "Yeah, and that ended so well. Hypocrite."

"No!" Kyle jabbed a finger at Hal, pushing him back half a step with all of the audacity in the world. "No, you don't get to talk! I didn't marry her twenty-three times!"

"It wasn't a weird thing back then!" Hal said hotly. "We married each other all the time for diplomacy shit! I married John, like, twice!"

Kyle's voice cracked right down the middle. "John?"

"And Guy! We're all married to each other!"

"Oh my God. Oh my God." Kyle slumped into a chair. Jess was audibly losing it behind the camera, the screen shaking so violently the image was more or less ruined. "You...oh my God. You're in a fucking polycule."

"Sure. Whatever the hell that means."

Burying his face in his hands, Kyle gave a very distressed, very strangle sort of cry that sounded suspiciously close to a sob. "'Whatever that means,' he says. He's married to John and Guy and he doesn't give a shit. This entire time. This entire time, Hal?"

Hal, thoroughly over this, turned to Jess with incredulity written all over his face. "He's overreacting, right? Like, come on. I married a bunch of people back in the day."

Jess, almost entirely unable to choke out an answer through her genuine tears of laughter, responded with, "You--maybe you should've-should've told us?"

He crossed his arms, petulant. "Maybe you should learn how to ask first."

Kyle sobbed again.

[reveryfics]

Back Home

Sam Wilson x Male Reader

Summary: You've been invited to your family's yearly summer gathering, but there's a catch: your mother really wants you to bring Sam along.

A/N: Was ranting to my friend that I needed more Marvel men domestic fluff, then remembered I have the ability to do just that. I am however taking a pause on requests as I'm a little burnt out doing them, however they will stay open while I do a bunch of domestic fluff fics. Also 500 follower special! 3.6k+ words

TW: Domestic fluff - Fluff - Tooth rotting fluff - Comfort

The familiar scent of pine needles and damp earth hung heavy in the humid summer air, a fragrance so intrinsically tied to childhood that it tugged at something deep within you. For years, that scent had been a phantom, a fleeting memory conjured by old photographs or a stray whiff of cleaning supplies, a stark contrast to the sterile hum of Avengers Tower and the ozone tang that often clung to Sam's vibranium wings. Every summer, without fail, your mother's invitation to her lake house would arrive, a brightly colored postcard amidst the stark white envelopes of mission briefings and Stark Industries memos. Each year, a pang of guilt would accompany the polite decline, the well-rehearsed excuse of pressing global threats and interdimensional anomalies feeling increasingly hollow. She always asked anyway, your mother, her love a constant even in the face of your chaotic life, and she always made sure to extend an invitation to Sam, picturing him, no doubt, as a more tangible presence than your perpetually screen-lit silhouette against the backdrop of his own heroic endeavors.

This year, however, felt different. The weight of responsibility, usually a familiar companion, had become a crushing burden. The world hadn't ended when Bucky, with a quiet resolve that surprised everyone, traded his metal arm for a seat in Congress, advocating for a future he believed in. But his absence left a void, a subtle shift in the dynamic that even Sam, now bearing the mantle of Captain America with a blend of earnestness and wry humor, couldn't entirely fill. Sam, ever perceptive, had noticed the growing weariness etched around your eyes, the way you’d lose yourself for hours in data streams, a ghost in your own headquarters. He’d seen the yearning flicker in your gaze whenever your mother’s calls came through, a longing for the simple rhythm of family, the uncomplicated joy of a lakeside sunset.

It had taken weeks of gentle prodding, a persuasive argument woven with reassurances that the planet wouldn't spontaneously combust in your absence, and a not-so-subtle reminder of the sheer joy on your mother’s face whenever he actually showed up. Finally, the dam of your resistance had cracked. With a sigh that carried the weight of a thousand averted crises, you’d agreed. The decision had been impulsive, a sudden craving for normalcy that eclipsed the ingrained habits of a life lived on high alert. Without a word to your parents, you and Sam had quietly loaded his battered SUV, the trunk filled with swimsuits and sunscreen. The drive down to Lancaster had been a blur of familiar landscapes morphing into the comforting familiarity of home, a silent anticipation building with every mile. The plan was simple: a surprise. A sudden, unexpected appearance on the porch, a hug that spoke volumes of missed time and unspoken love. You could almost picture your mother’s face, the initial shock giving way to a radiant smile, the kind that always made the world feel a little bit brighter. The thought alone was enough to ease the knot of tension that had taken root in your shoulders, replaced by a nervous flutter of excitement. This year, for the first time in what felt like an eternity, you were going home.

The last stretch of road unwound like a familiar ribbon, the canopy of trees overhead creating dappled patterns of sunlight on the dusty asphalt. You could almost smell the lake now, a unique blend of fresh water, algae, and the faintest hint of barbecue smoke that always seemed to permeate the air around your mother's place. Sam hummed along to an old soul tune on the radio, his usual nervous energy replaced by a quiet contentment. He understood the significance of this trip, the unspoken need to reconnect with the roots that anchored you, even amidst the whirlwind of your extraordinary life.

As you turned onto the long, gravel driveway, the lake house came into view, nestled between towering pines like a well-loved secret. Laughter drifted from the backyard, punctuated by the splash of someone jumping into the water. The familiar cacophony of a family gathering – distant chatter, the clinking of glasses, the playful shrieks of children – washed over you, a comforting wave of sound that had been absent for far too long. A knot of anticipation tightened in your chest.

Sam parked the car a little further down the drive, out of immediate sight. "Ready for this?" he asked, a small smile playing on his lips.

You took a deep breath, the pine-scented air filling your lungs. "As I'll ever be."

Stepping out of the car, the gravel crunched softly under your sneakers. You could see figures moving around the deck that overlooked the lake, their silhouettes framed by the golden light of the late afternoon sun. Your mother's distinctive laugh, warm and bright, carried across the yard, instantly melting away some of the tension you hadn't even realized you were carrying.

You and Sam exchanged a quick glance, a silent agreement passing between you. You started walking towards the backyard, your footsteps hushed by the soft grass. As you rounded the corner of the house, the scene unfolded before you in vivid detail. A long picnic table laden with food sat under a shady oak, surrounded by a motley crew of aunts, uncles, cousins, and their children. Some were playing cornhole, others were lounging in Adirondack chairs, and a few were splashing in the shimmering expanse of the lake.

And then you saw her. Your mother, her silver hair catching the sunlight, was in the middle of a story, her hands gesturing animatedly, a familiar twinkle in her eyes. She looked… happy. Truly happy. A pang of guilt, sharp and sudden, pierced through your excitement. Had she gotten so used to your absence that your presence had become an unexpected bonus rather than a given?

You paused at the edge of the yard, Sam a step behind you. The noise seemed to fade slightly as your mother’s gaze, as if sensing your presence, lifted from the group. For a moment, her expression remained unchanged, a picture of serene contentment. Then, her eyes widened, a flicker of disbelief crossing her features before it erupted into a radiant, unrestrained joy.

"Oh my god!" she exclaimed, her voice cracking with emotion. The sound carried across the yard, and the conversations around the picnic table abruptly ceased. All eyes turned towards you, a wave of surprised murmurs rippling through the crowd.

Your mother pushed herself up from her chair, a hand flying to her mouth, her gaze fixed on you as if you were a mirage that might vanish at any moment. Then, she started to run. Not a graceful run, but a full-tilt, arms-outstretched sprint, her familiar figure growing larger with every stride.

You stood frozen, a lump forming in your throat, and then you were running too, meeting her halfway in a clumsy, tearful embrace. Her arms squeezed you tight, her familiar scent of lavender and sunscreen enveloping you.

"You're here," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion, pulling back just enough to cup your face in her hands, her thumbs tracing the lines you hadn't realized had deepened around your eyes. "You're really here."

Behind her, the rest of the family was starting to move, a wave of welcoming faces approaching. Your cousins were grinning, your uncles were clapping you on the back, and the children, momentarily forgotten their games, stared with wide, curious eyes. Sam stepped forward, a warm smile on his face, offering a comforting presence amidst the emotional reunion.

"Surprise," you managed to say, your voice a little rough, a genuine smile finally breaking through the years of carefully guarded composure.

Your mother pulled you in for another hug, a long, heartfelt embrace that spoke of all the missed moments, the unspoken worries, and the enduring, unbreakable bond of family. "It's the best surprise," she said, her voice muffled against your shoulder. "The absolute best."

As you finally pulled apart, her gaze shifted to Sam, her smile widening even further. "And Sam! You made it too! Oh, this is just wonderful." She enveloped him in a hug as well, her genuine warmth making him chuckle.

Standing there, surrounded by the familiar faces and the comforting sounds of your family, the weight that had been pressing down on you began to lift. The world could wait. For this week, at least, you were home.

The initial flurry of greetings subsided into a warm hum of familial chatter. A gaggle of your nieces and nephews, ranging in age from a curious five to a slightly more aloof twelve, had been hovering at the periphery, their eyes wide with a mixture of shyness and fascination. Now, emboldened by the general air of excitement, they began to edge closer to Sam.

Little Lily, all pigtails and missing front teeth, was the first to speak, pointing a tentative finger at the star on his chest. "Are you… are you a superhero?" she whispered, her voice barely audible above the murmur of adult conversation.

Sam knelt down, his expression gentle. "Well, some people think so," he said with a wink.

Suddenly, recognition dawned on ten-year-old Ethan, a self-proclaimed expert on all things superhero. His eyes widened dramatically. "Wait a minute. You're Captain America!" he exclaimed, his voice cracking with excitement.

A ripple of understanding spread through the younger contingent. Gasps and excited whispers filled the air. "It is Captain America!" shrieked eight-year-old Maya, bouncing on the balls of her feet.

Then, Ethan’s gaze swiveled to you, a look of awe spreading across his face. "Uncle! You know Captain America! You're friends with Captain America!" His voice rose with each word, drawing the attention of more of the adults.

A few of your older relatives exchanged amused glances, while your mother beamed with pride. You felt a flush creep up your neck. You were used to this kind of attention in your professional life, but having your family witness it felt… different. More personal.

Sam, still kneeling, caught your eye. He offered a wry, knowing smile, a playful glint in his eyes. Leaning in slightly, so only you could hear, he whispered, his voice a low rumble, "Definitely more than friends."

Your heart did a little unexpected flutter. You quickly looked away, a sheepish grin tugging at the corner of your mouth. The kids, oblivious to the subtle exchange, were now bombarding Sam with questions, their small hands reaching out to touch his arm, their voices a chorus of youthful wonder.

"Have you ever flown really high?"

"Can I see your shield?"

"Did you fight Thanos?"

Sam fielded their inquiries with good-natured patience, answering their questions with a blend of humor and genuine warmth. He showed them the vibranium weave in his suit, explained (in kid-friendly terms) the physics of flight, and even did a little pantomime of throwing his shield, much to their delight.

You watched the scene unfold, a sense of unexpected peace settling over you. Here you were, surrounded by the people who had known you longest, witnessing this surreal intersection of your two worlds. The awe in your nieces' and nephews' eyes, the quiet pride on your mother's face, and the playful intimacy of Sam's whispered remark created a moment that felt both grounding and utterly extraordinary. For the first time in a long time, you felt completely, unequivocally, home.

Later that evening, as the fiery hues of sunset painted the sky over the lake, the gathering migrated towards the wooden dock. Some family members were still splashing in the cool water, their laughter echoing across the tranquil surface. Others were sprawled out on blankets, contentedly munching on the remnants of your mother’s legendary potato salad and grilled corn. The air was thick with the comforting aroma of citronella candles and the gentle lapping of waves against the pilings.

Your nieces and nephews, their earlier awe of Captain America undiminished, had now fully embraced Sam as a playmate. He was down by the water's edge, engaged in a spirited game of "Marco Polo," his booming laughter mingling with their delighted shrieks as they tried to evade his outstretched hands. He even let Lily wear his Captain America mask for a few turns, her small face peeking out from behind the iconic symbol, radiating pure joy.

You found yourself sitting on the end of the dock, your bare feet dangling above the water, a comfortable silence settling between you and your mother. She sat beside you, her hand resting lightly on your arm, the warmth of her touch a familiar comfort. The frenetic energy of the day had mellowed into a peaceful contentment.

"They really like him," your mother said softly, her gaze following Sam as he playfully dunked Ethan in the lake, eliciting a squeal of mock protest.

"He's good with them," you replied, a small smile gracing your lips as you watched Sam ruffle Lily’s wet hair. "He's good with everyone."

Your mother turned to you, her eyes filled with a gentle understanding. "He seems… happy, being here."

"He is," you confirmed. "He needed this too, I think. A break from saving the world."

A comfortable silence stretched between you again, punctuated only by the sounds of the lake and the distant chatter of your family. Then, your mother’s voice, soft but carrying a hint of something deeper, broke the quiet.

"You seem… different, sweetheart."

You turned to her, surprised by the observation. "Different how?"

She studied your face, her gaze searching. "Lighter, maybe? The lines around your eyes… they seem a little less… etched."

You hadn't realized it, but her words resonated with a truth you hadn't fully acknowledged yourself. The constant pressure, the weight of responsibility, had become so ingrained that you’d forgotten what it felt like to simply… relax.

"Maybe," you conceded, looking out at the shimmering water. "It's been a while since I've just… been."

Your mother squeezed your arm gently. "You work so hard, honey. We all know that, but sometimes… sometimes you need to let the world take care of itself for a little while. You have people who care about you, who can handle things."

Her words, simple yet profound, struck a chord within you. It wasn't just about the physical break; it was the permission to let go, to trust, to simply be present in the moment.

"It's hard," you admitted, the ingrained sense of duty still a persistent hum beneath the surface. "It feels… selfish, sometimes."

Your mother shook her head gently. "It's not selfish to take care of yourself, my dear. It's necessary. And seeing you here, laughing with your cousins, playing with the children… it makes my heart happy." Her voice softened. "And seeing you with Sam… he's a good man. A very good man. He looks at you like… like you're his whole world."

That comment caught you off guard. You glanced over at Sam, who was now helping Maya build a sandcastle on the small patch of beach near the dock, his expression open and unguarded. You hadn't really allowed yourself to dwell on the nuances of your relationship with Sam beyond what it seemed to be, a partnership that never truly had a label. But your mother's words hung in the air, a gentle nudge towards a deeper understanding of what lay between you.

You looked back at your mother, a warmth spreading through your chest. "He is," you said softly, a genuine affection coloring your tone.

The night deepened, the stars beginning to pepper the inky sky. The sounds of the lake house slowly lulled into a peaceful quiet. You stayed there on the dock with your mother, the comfortable silence punctuated by the occasional splash or whispered conversation. For the first time in a long time, the weight on your shoulders felt a little lighter, replaced by the simple, profound joy of being home, surrounded by family, and perhaps, something more.

Eventually, the last of your family retreated inside, the house glowing softly with warm light. The only sounds were the gentle chirping of crickets and the soft lapping of the lake against the dock. You and Sam were still out by the water, the cool embrace a welcome respite from the summer heat. You'd initially tried to maintain a bit of space between you, a lingering habit of keeping your guard up, but Sam had gently, persistently drawn you closer, his arms now comfortably wrapped around your waist as you both floated in the stillness.

The water cradled you both, the darkness hiding the blush that still crept up your neck whenever you replayed your mother's words in your mind. You leaned back against Sam, the steady beat of his heart a comforting rhythm against your spine.

"They really do love you," you said softly, your voice carrying easily across the quiet water. "Even my grumpy old Uncle Jerry, who usually avoids everyone, was asking you about the shield."

Sam chuckled, a low rumble that vibrated through you. "Your family is… amazing. So welcoming. I can see where you get it from."

A wave of warmth washed over you. "It meant a lot to me, seeing you with them. Especially the kids. They'll probably be telling everyone at school they hung out with Captain America all summer."

"Hey," Sam said, his chin resting lightly on your shoulder, "being called 'Uncle Sam' by a bunch of adorable little superheroes-in-training? That's a pretty good perk."

You smiled, the corners of your eyes crinkling. "Don't let it go to your head."

A comfortable silence settled between you again, the shared quiet feeling more intimate now, the coolness of the water a stark contrast to the warmth of Sam's embrace.

Then, you chuckled softly, a nervous energy bubbling up. "You know," you began, hesitating slightly, "I honestly wouldn't be surprised if, by the end of the week, my mother pulls me aside and asks when us two are going to… you know…"

You trailed off, the unspoken words hanging in the air.

Sam tightened his hold around your waist, a soft laugh escaping his lips. "Become husbands?" he finished for you, his voice a low murmur in your ear.

Your breath hitched slightly. You hadn't expected him to say it so directly. You could feel his smile against your temple.

"She's got that matchmaking glint in her eye, doesn't she?" he continued, his tone teasing but with an underlying note of something else you couldn't quite decipher in the darkness.

You nodded, unable to see his expression clearly but sensing a shift in the atmosphere. "She does. She's been waiting for me to… settle down, I think. And she's always liked you. A lot."

"Well," Sam said, his voice becoming a little more serious, his arms holding you a little tighter, "maybe your mom's onto something."

Your heart skipped a beat. You tilted your head back slightly, trying to read his expression in the dim starlight. "What do you mean?"

He didn't answer immediately, the silence stretching out, thick with unspoken possibilities. The gentle lapping of the water suddenly seemed louder in your ears.

Finally, he spoke, his voice soft and earnest. "Ya'know," he began, his thumb tracing a slow circle on your hip, "being here, with your family… it feels… right. You feel right."

He paused, and you held your breath, waiting.

"And if your mom happens to ask," he continued, his voice a low whisper against your ear, "tell her… tell her I wouldn't mind being her son-in-law one bit."

A soft gasp escaped your lips, the surprise and a sudden rush of emotion constricting your chest. You finally turned fully in his arms, your hands finding their way to his face, your thumbs tracing the familiar contours of his jawline. The starlight was just bright enough to catch the sincerity in his eyes, the warmth that mirrored the feeling blossoming within you.

"Sam," you whispered, the sound barely audible above the gentle lapping of the water.

He leaned his forehead against yours, his breath warm against your skin. "I know it's not exactly a grand gesture on a mountaintop," he murmured, a hint of his usual playful tone returning, "but floating in a lake under a billion stars with the man I…" He paused, and you waited, your heart pounding in your chest. "The man I care about more than anyone… it feels pretty perfect to me."

A tear, unexpected and warm, traced a path down your cheek. You didn't try to stop it. Instead, you leaned closer, closing the small distance between you. Your lips met his in a kiss that was soft and tender, filled with a quiet understanding and a promise of something beautiful. The cool water swirled around you, the vastness of the night sky stretching above, and in that moment, held in Sam's arms, you felt a sense of peace and belonging that transcended even the extraordinary life you led.

When you finally broke the kiss, a soft smile lingered on both your lips. "Well," you said, your voice a little shaky, "I think my mother is going to be absolutely thrilled."

Sam chuckled, pulling you closer again. "Then maybe we should start preparing ourselves for a lot of wedding planning advice."

You laughed, the sound light and joyful. "Oh, definitely." You joked.

As you floated there in the still, dark water, held in the embrace of the man you were undeniably, irrevocably falling in love with, the worries of the world seemed to drift away. Here, under the watchful gaze of the stars, surrounded by the quiet beauty of your home, you knew you had found something truly special, something worth holding onto, with both hands and a whole heart. The surprise trip home had turned into a homecoming in more ways than one, and the future, once a landscape of looming threats and global crises, now held the warm promise of shared sunsets on a peaceful lake and a love that felt as boundless as the night sky above.

[i-am-a-chubby-girl]

It was a just more normal day returning of the work for home, but you had to be attacked for a fucking monster, but allright ‘cause you were saved for a man very handsome and hot… a shame that he looked more dangerous than the monster.

Well, I said I wanted to write about Toji and well, I did. It's obscenity, but it's the first time I've written something like this so have mercy on me! Anyway, English is not my first language so forgive me for any mistakes and if anything, point it out to me! I hope you like it and enjoy reading!

Title: Curses, alleys and chests Words: 7491 I wrote this while listening to: It Wasn't me by Shaggy and Rikrok, 'cause I think all of this guy's music has a sexual vibe!

WARNINGS: Mention of blood, attempted rape, you have been warned!

YOU DON’T KNOW HOW long you've been sitting at your desk programming and decoding, your eyes are already getting crossed and dry, your butt is scrunched up in the shape of your chair with old and worn upholstery and you can't even feel your legs anymore, but you still keep on with your work. The only thing that fills your ears is the frantic sound of your typing after all your headphones had broken… again, you rub your eyes trying to get your vision to focus again, now you feel like a fool for having rejected the idea of ​​getting reading glasses, probably your eyes won't be so tired now.

Sighing you stretch like a cat with your back stretched out, you yawn as you look for the analog clock that is always in the same place on the wall, but you always forget about it, the clock is from Naruto of all things, you can't remember who gave it to you, probably one of the nerds in your sector, humph, as if you weren't a nerd when you work creating and reviewing mathematical and digital codes, who could say that there is so much calculation and numbers involved in creating games?

Squinting your eyes you stare at the clock hands and calculate the time mentally, 11:00 PM, you huffed out a laugh, it wasn't that late, it wasn't even past midnight. A frown forms on your round face, something was wrong, the old Mr. Watanabe, who works on the floor above you is very kind and always brings everyone a donut from the shop downtown near his house, and you're sure he's given you three donuts since you started your work day. You pick up your forgotten cell phone on your desk and quickly unlock it. The screen showed that it was five past eleven, but that's not what caught your attention, but the fact that today was the seventeenth of June and when you woke up this morning and got ready for work it was the fifteenth. Have you been working for more than two days without stopping?

When this realization hits you, you start to gather your things as quickly as possible. You weren't going to waste another second in that place. Oh my, it was really lucky that your cat was at a week-long spa. Your little darling would never forgive you for forgetting about him for so long. As soon as you get up from your chair, you feel dizzy and stagger, having to hold on to the table to keep from falling. Okay, you'll never do that again, you promise yourself.

You close your office, courtesy of being the best programmer ever, behind you and walk out into the hallway. — Hey, Jimmy. — You call out to your coworker who sat near your office, he was a typical skinny, freckled nerd with thick glasses who played Dungeons & Dragons in his mom’s basement with his other nerdy, loser friends, that’s how you defined him. — Hey boss. — The guy answers without taking his eyes off the screen. — I’m going home, I won’t be back until next week. — The good thing about being the boss of your own department and being the best employee is that you can give yourself time off. — Well, it’s about time, one more day and I would have thought you were dead.

— Jennifer would like that! — You say with disgust, remembering the annoying woman who works in the marketing department. You don't know why she's always on your case. I mean, more than half of the income in that place is because of you, but even so, that woman seems to hate you like Darth Vader hates everything. Oh my God, you've been here for so long that you're talking like the nerds. There goes your reputation. — Puff! She was already looking for someone to replace you. — Jimmy finally answers, looking at you.

— That bitch! — You say, showing your teeth in anger. — Bye, Jimmy! — You say, forgetting your anger because of the tiredness you felt, you kiss the freckled cheeks of the boy who blushes, ha! You loved tormenting these virgins. You leave your sector laughing out loud, going down to the third floor you hear the voice of that insufferable woman, there she was with a dress that was too tight and short for the workplace, with brushed and straightened hair, wearing more makeup than a streetwalker. — Jennifer. — You say in disgust as the woman turns to you, still keeping her red smile on her face. — Y/N, I didn't know you were there! Don't you think you're working too much?

— Well, not everyone here sucks dicks to make a living, some of us work hard! — You answer with a fake smile on your face, the girl who is with Jennifer can't hold back her laughter, but she stops when Jennifer gives her a deadly look. — I feel a note of envy. — She says trying to come out on top, but that doesn't work with you. — Nah, some of us have talent and don't need to get on our knees. — You say while yawning, if it were any other day you would be boiling with anger, but today your tiredness is so strong that you can't even feel angry at the lame excuse for a demon that is in front of you. — I have talent! — She hisses, her cheeks turning red with anger.

— If you really had talent, you'd be a department manager and not just another employee. — You give her a shit-eating smile. — What's wrong? Can't you handle it? I could have sworn your mouth was big! — You scoff. — If you want, I can give you a little help with… — You pause before making the okay sign in front of your mouth and sticking your tongue out in an obscene gesture. Jennifer gets so irritated that you can see her neck tensing. She screams in anger before stomping out of there. — Good riddance, Judas! — You yell at her as she continues her march. — You did well this time! — The girl who had always been there tells you with a huge smile on her face. You just smile in response since you don’t know who she is. You didn’t bother to record who the other workers in the building were, besides the few who worked in your sector, Mr. Watanabe, who gives you donuts, the doorman who lets you in even when you’re late or after hours, and Jennifer, who is the person you hate the most. — Thank you, I live to please!

You say goodbye to the girl before finally going downstairs. You could use the elevator, but they're always broken or full of nerds you keep your distance from. — Bye, Tanaka-San! — You wave to the bald doorman who responds with a cheerful "bye and see you next time." The streets are cold and you regret leaving your coat and scarf at home. You shrug your shoulders against the cold and continue on your journey.

Yawning, you rub your eyes, feeling the tiredness taking over your bones. Your job was usually easy for you, it was like second nature to you. Games were a hobby that ended up becoming your livelihood, but unfortunately, you had reached a stalemate in your new project. It was something you were used to, an otome game. You were a master at those, but the proposal was not to create just any dating simulator. It had to be aimed at an older audience. You're not that old, but you know very well what they want. Cute moments and beautiful scenes with flowers and sparkles around are even nice, but what they want is sex, lots of sex with strong and hot men.

You're not a prude, in fact you were almost a Casanova, after all what can't a confident skirt-wearing woman do? Sex has never been a problem for you, blink your eyes, lick your lips and let men think they're in charge, they like women who can handle a rougher scene, a little pain, you're not like those skinny girls, they can be rough without fear of breaking you and you like it when they're rude, anyway, back to the subject. Making a game about sex is not a problem for you, the problem is that you haven't had sex in a month, a little more and you could go back to being a virgin.

All your fuck buddies were busy with their jobs or colleges, some of them were in jail or had finally found their soulmate and the only one of them who was available was a mistake you made on one of your wildest drunken nights that would never happen again, come on, the guy had been following you and stealing your underwear, that was a big fat no. You could always go to a bar, a club and try your luck with one of them, but your job has worn you out the last time you tried to invest in someone in one of those places the guy tried to drug you so yeah, no bars either.

Unfortunately, your sexual frustration was making it hard for you to write sex scenes, I mean, you had no inspiration and it was hard to masturbate while working so hard, the story has to be good in your game, but what all degenerates like us want to see in these games are handsome men who are good in bed. You sigh, how you wished a man would fuck you hard until you lost your brains and couldn't even remember your own name and he had to have at least an anaconda between his legs.

You click your tongue, already feeling your anger returning. You rummage through your bag for your cigarettes and find them at the bottom. You pull out your lighter, which is shaped like a Game Boy, a gift from your boss to everyone in your department, and light up your addiction. You wanted to quit. I mean, you were already stuck at a desk at work and lived on fast food, but you had time to cook, and you added cigarettes to that equation. It was almost like attempting suicide. You smoked for the first time after one of your boyfriends offered it to you. At first, it burned and tasted horrible, and you wondered how anyone could put up with that. But then a friend offered it to you. Once you were stuck at a bus stop and the guy next to you offered it to you out of courtesy. Now you buy your own cigarettes from your favorite brand because you can't live without the euphoria of nicotine.

You take a puff of smoke from your cigarette and hold it against your chest for a bit. The burning sensation was helping to ward off the cold. You exhale the smoke and watch it spread in front of you. The Japanese streets are quite busy even though it's late at night, but this was Tokyo, a city full of lights and screens. You were thinking about exchanging your cigarette for caffeine, but it was easier to light up than wait for the liquid to filter and spend $2.40 on a cup of coffee every time. Your stomach chooses this moment to growl.

It's late and you're too tired to go home and just do anything, even instant noodles. Maybe you should stop at a fast food restaurant, but you don't want a burger and fries, much less a pizza. You've been craving sweets for days, so maybe this is the time. Geez, if Jennifer were here, she'd complain and make fun of you, saying that you'd grow as big as an elephant. Too bad for her that you don't care about that.

If you remember correctly, there's a somewhat dubious bakery nearby that strangely stays open during the early hours of the morning. From what you've heard, it has a divine strawberry cake and a decent coffee. It's also somewhat close to the station, if you ignore the fact that you'll have to turn around and walk five blocks to get there. You stop walking and look at the alley next to you. There are rumors going around that some strange guy is attacking women in alleys and they end up dead in the end. You believe it and at the same time you don't believe it.

You approach the alley, up close it looks really dirty and disgusting, it's darker than the dark side of the moon, another yucky nerd reference, and you can hear the sounds of rats crawling around there with their disgusting little paws and disgusting naked tails. Well, after you get past that dirt and sewer devils you only have to take a few steps before you reach your destination. Well, you have your pepper spray and Jack, your taser that you bought after that whole thing with the weird stalker, so if it works for this weirdo it should work for anyone.

Determined, you turn on your heels and enter the alley. As soon as your body is hidden by the shadow of the alley, you feel a strange sensation, as if something is staring at you. You feel your skin tingle as a lump rises in your throat. Suddenly, breathing becomes more difficult. You stagger a little and almost fall, tripping over your feet. You feel cold, not only in your body but deep in your bones. You hug yourself as you swallow hard. You try to walk, but it feels like there are weights and weights tied to your legs.

A tightness in your chest makes you groan and drop your cigarette, which falls to the ground of the alley along with your bag. You cough as you fall to your knees on the ground, something is rising forcefully up your throat. You lean forward as you vomit a lot of blood onto the ground in front of you. Your vision blurs as tears sting your eyes, you stare in horror at the red stain in front of you, with trembling hands you touch your lips and feel the warm, thick thing on them, that on the ground was really your blood. A pressure forces your shoulders down and you spit out more blood. — Cough, cough. — You cough as you cry, feeling the iron taste of blood in your mouth, so was this how you would die?

Right there in the middle of that alley alone vomiting blood, without having sex one last time or finishing that damn game. You clutch your belly when you feel something inside it twist and turn, your poor cat would be an orphan. You had your check-ups and everything was fine so why are you here dying, it was a good time to regret not believing in God, this would be the right time to have someone to curse or bargain with.

A strange noise as if something was coming out of the water catches your attention, with blurred vision and barely breathing you look ahead and turn pale with what you see, coming out of the ground as if it were a puddle of water is the grotesque figure of an octopus man, his dark green skin is disgusting glowing in the dark, his eyes are black balls and a beak appears from under his beard made of mine tentacles.

The thing laughs heartily, making its tentacles swing. — It seems you fell into my trap, foolish human! — He says with gusto, but you didn’t notice he was talking because your head was focused on something else. — Holy shit, it’s Davy Jones! — You say, surprised that you were raving about the octopus man from Pirates of the Caribbean of all things, that was a pretty nerdy thing to do and he was kind of… different? In the movies he seemed cooler.

— I'm not one of your acquaintances, stupid human! — He shouts, getting so angry that small streaks of dark red light come out of him, you roll your eyes, even in your imagination men call women stupid? With difficulty you drag yourself to the wall ignoring your hallucination, you manage to stand thanks to the support of the wall, but even so your legs tremble beneath you. You can do it Y/N, you tell yourself, you don't have time to hallucinate in an alley over a pool of your own blood, you need coffee, sweets, to be fucked and to sleep, and you don't even care about the order, you're not picky at the moment, as long as all that happens that same night, you'll be fine.

You lean against the wall with your shoulder and stare at the octopus man, you rub the blood that stains your chin and say through your teeth because of the pain and dizziness. — I don't feel like fighting with hallucinations or nerdy references, so go fuck yourself and miss me! — You ignore him and try to stand on your legs, but that proves impossible, you were worse than a newborn colt. The octopus man gets irritated, but you don't notice it, too caught up in your mission.

— Don't look down on me, bitch! — The thing screams furiously and then suddenly one of its tentacles runs towards you at the speed of a bullet and wraps itself tightly around your leg, you scream in fright and fall backwards, you can feel the appendage squeezing you while its suction cups stick to your skin. The feeling of that cold and slimy thing pressed so tightly against you makes you sick and gives you chills, but that's how something comes to your mind.

A woman who just broke up with her boyfriend who was cheating on her with her best friend, her parents kicked her out of the house and now she is alone in the dark street while it rains, she decides to take shelter in an alley when suddenly a strange monster appears and starts fucking her with its tentacles, unfortunately the inspiration ended here, you had to have a romantic couple, but that octopus man was too ugly, too horrible and too much of a jerk to even give you inspiration in this part, well, back to part zero.

The tentacle wrapped around you tightens and you hiss, feeling the bone in your leg creak under the pressure. If it continued any longer, your leg would be broken. The tentacle continues to climb up your leg, leaving a sticky line on your skin as it moves to your thigh. You groan in disgust and use your hands to try to get it off you, but other tentacles advance towards you and pull your arms away and pin them above your head.

You try to free yourself, but those appendages are very strong and it's strange because since when can hallucinations be so real? Your eyes watch in horror as another tentacle appears and simply lifts your skirt up, you really should have worn pants to work. Your favorite panties, those pretty and comfortable at the same time, are exposed, the first tentacle rises a little more until it invades your underwear, the feeling of it rubbing against the skin of your intimate part is strange.

You let out a startled moan as the appendage begins to rub against your rim, you scream as it simply shoves itself inside you, it begins to wiggle inside you, that slimy, cold thing deep inside you is a horrible sensation, you try to pull away, but the appendages holding you in place are too strong, the tentacle continues to move in and out at a fast, relentless pace, the wet sounds coming out of your cunt that usually turn you on now disgust you.

— That's it, human, feed me! — The octopus man says with a strange smile on his beak. — I feed on sexual energy and the moment you came in here I knew you would satisfy me! — He says as a pale, slimy tongue comes out to lick his beak. — You must last longer than the others! — Ah, so that's what happened to those women, being fucked by an octopus man to death.

Another tentacle climbs up your body and enters under your shirt, going up to your chest. It squeezes your breast while the suction cup sticks to your nipple. You moan, you don't want this, to get excited by this, but your body misses a sexual touch and wants it. You writhe in an attempt to get free, it's getting too much. The tentacle that enters and leaves you quickly, the other one that squeezes and plays with your breasts and those that squeeze your arms tightly. Tears run down your cheeks. You sob but it was the wrong move because another appendage sticks itself in your mouth and starts to simulate oral sex with you, but this time it wasn't your mistake.

As the tentacle fucks your mouth and you feel the spit accumulating in the corner, you don't even think before closing your mouth and sinking your teeth into it, a rotten taste of its blood fills your mouth, but you don't let go. The octopus man roars in pain, he throws you hard to the side and you hit your head on the wall and end up letting go of the tentacle, you get up and even though your legs are shaking you turn and run, ignoring the thing's curses of pain, but unfortunately you don't get very far.

As soon as you turn around you hit your nose on something really big and hard, you groan in pain as you feel blood start to run from your nose, since when was there a wall right behind you? Were you so dizzy that you didn't even know which way you were running? You groan in confusion and frustration before you start to feel the wall that broke your nose, it's strangely soft for a wall, it's also warm and what is that? You put your ear to it and hear something banging there, what the hell? You spread your hands once more and move them along the wall until you feel a small dip further down and feel what looks like the most defined six pack you've ever seen?

— Have you stopped groping yet? — A hoarse voice interrupts your moment, you are startled when that voice makes the wall in your ear tremble and that's how you realize that it wasn't a wall but a very warm and divine chest. You move away from that piece of paradise with flushed cheeks, you groped a guy in the face and speaking of him, he is simply the most handsome man you have ever seen. Dark hair, pale skin, black and practically lifeless eyes, but none of that could diminish his beauty, not when he was wearing such a tight blouse, even the scar on the corner of his mouth was hot, even your little friend between your legs gets excited agreeing with you.

— Don't get involved in this, sorcerers! — The octopus man shouts furiously. — I saw her first, she's mine! — He waves his tentacles in the air, you almost smile when you realize that one of them is circumcised, but when you see how they swing limply in the air and look like canned sausage, you almost vomit, you don't want to believe that thing was inside you and in your mouth, simply disgusting.

The handsome newcomer doesn't say anything, he just gives you a long look, his eyes going up and down your chubby figure, he was probably seeing all the blood on you, the marks he left on your exposed skin and your disheveled clothes, his eyes linger a little longer on the line of spit still drying at the corner of your mouth, I wonder if he noticed the blood running down your nose that his divine pecs broke. His face wrinkles into a frown and he clicks his tongue. — What a waste! — He says with disgust and you blush at the same time as you get irritated, was he saying that because you were fucked by a scumbag octopus-man or because it wasn't his dick in you?

Tired of being ignored, the octopus man growled angrily and sent his tentacles towards you, you screamed in fear and stumbled to hide behind your handsome and somewhat douchebag savior. The stranger just blinked looking bored as he pulled a sansetsukon out of mid-air, of course you know this because besides playing games you see some friends and have nerdy friends and you're kind of becoming one of them.

— Stay still, doll face! — He says as he positions himself with the gun in his hands, getting hotter than before. You blush at his shamelessness. Who does he think he is to call you nicknames like that out of nowhere? Your cunt leaked happily at the compliment, traitor. He uses his gun to deflect the first appendage that approaches. He turns his body fluidly, which seems impossible for someone with his body. He spins the strange three-part nunchaku and starts to advance, ripping off the tentacles with quick, precise and strong blows. You just stood there, not knowing what was happening. Luckily, that fight didn't last long. It turns out that the octopus-man was a terrible short-range fighter. All it took was a few blows to the face with the gun and he was already on the ground, dead to the world. In fact, that fight was quite disappointing, but at least it lets you see long, thick arms flexed.

Too bad the stranger didn't think so. The handsome guy starts kicking the octopus man's unconscious body angrily, each blow seems stronger and more irritated than the last and in truth, as hot as he was, you had already reached your quota of psychopathic men so you're leaking. — Okay, thanks a lot for helping me and all, you were practical and really nice back there, but my time is up and I have to go so, Au revoir! — You turn around ready to leave there, get your bag and smoke four or five cigarettes while freaking out, but the handsome stranger grabs your arm so hard that you groan, you're almost sure you sprained it.

— Don't even think about it, princess, I don't work for free! — He says looking at you with furrowed eyebrows and you think FUCK! The octopus man's body lying a little far from you makes it very clear that you have no chance with this handsome, muscular man, you have no money, you spent all your salary this month on your debts and paying for the spa for your cat and besides your cell phone and your set of sex toys the most valuable thing in your house is your Levi Ackerman doll and you are not giving your Levi to anyone, that cost a kidney!

— Sorry, but I don't have any money! — You say irritably as you pull your arm out of his grip, it hurts like hell and turns purple almost instantly, but you don't have time for that, your Levi and your cat's pampering are at stake here. — Well, there are always other forms of payment. — The stranger says as his gaze travels over your plump form, lingering on your breasts and hips. — Okay. — You don't even think before agreeing and you can see that he was taken aback by the way a pout formed on your lips and your eyebrows furrow, sexy and cute. Come on, let's be honest, you want to have sex, he wants to have sex, why would you say no? He'll be getting paid and you'll be out of the drought, and your Levi and your cat's pampering would be safe, you were killing several birds with one stone!

The man gives you a dirty smile and before you know it you're against the wall feeling the heat of his body on yours, you can't even react before he dives towards you and attacks your lips. The kiss is neither passionate nor gentle, he slams your mouths together and doesn't even wait before putting his tongue inside your mouth, he searches every corner as if he owned it, he doesn't care about the residual taste of blood still there or what still dries in your nose.

His hands roam your body, squeezing your rolls tightly. He devours you with desire and strength. You scratch his back, needing to do something before the heat of this kiss consumes you. You feel that warmth between your legs and know you're getting excited. He squeezes your waist and you scratch his scalp. Unfortunately, you both need to breathe, but you need more than your partner. You breathe with difficulty, your eyes are dilated while your cheeks burn red. This kiss has managed to finish you off.

Still out of orbit, you watch him kneel down, the way he lowered himself was so fast that you almost thought he had fallen. He doesn't look at you or say anything asking for permission, he just holds one of your thighs tightly, the grip on your leg makes you moan. A finger fits into your panties and pulls them so hard that the fabric tears, you moan sadly, those were your favorite. The stranger pulls your leg and places his shoulder, he turns his face and leaves kisses, licks and small bites on the exposed skin and you bite your hand to stop your moans from coming out too loud. He gives you a look, eyes shadowed by his long, curled eyelashes, before bringing his face closer to your cunt.

You can feel him breathing in your scent, the scent of your arousal, and you blush when you realize that you're practically leaking. — Look at that, all soaked for me, doll face! — He says, and the heat of his breath makes you twitch. You swallow hard. Oral sex wasn't anything new to you, but it wasn't something that happened often either. But now there you were with a hot, handsome man standing on his knees in front of you, ready to put his mouth on you, and it was suddenly too much.

A shiver runs through your body when his tongue licks your folds and you throw your head back with a long moan. After that octopus man, you were very sensitive. Apparently that lick was to test the waters, because after that he doesn't even wait to stick his tongue in your entrance. His mouth moves with strength and confidence. He sweats your folds, his tongue swirls and swirls as it goes back and forth inside you as if he were licking a candy, and it makes you lose your mind. You forget where you are and scream with pleasure. Fuck, the sounds he makes while his mouth eats you are so obscene, you look at him while biting one of your hands, without it you feel like you might lose your mind.

You stick your fingers in his dark hair and pull lightly on the strands, encouraging him to go deeper and deeper. The man makes sounds of pure delight as he sucks in your flavor, it was almost as if he had never eaten anything so good in his life. The liquid from your cunt runs down his cheeks and down his chin until it runs down his neck, but he doesn't even care, very intent on devouring you, he licks you and licks you like a dog and it's so hot, you have to stop yourself from fucking yourself in his mouth, but something tells you that he would like you to sit on his face, but that's a subject for another time. You get lost in the feeling of his tongue invading you and in the wet sounds that escape him and that's when you feel it.

You feel that sensation of something growing in the pit of your stomach, that pressure that grows and grows, your body starts to catch fire. Your breath catches, your cunt clenches around his tongue, your back arches as something tightens in your cervix and you scream as you cum into that handsome stranger's mouth. Your vision explodes into white as the air leaves your lungs, your mouth opens in a silent scream as you continue to send jets and jets into the stranger's mouth who drinks it all with desire like a man in the desert.

You're floating on a post-orgasm cloud when he lowers your leg, you wobble until your back is pressed against the wall, your legs are about to turn to jelly and your head is so far away, in your entire life you've never cum so much from a simple blowjob before, not even after months without sex, you feel something warm running down your nose, your blood pressure probably went up in the middle of the act and your nose is leaking again, but you couldn't care less about that at the moment. The stranger laughs at the way you look airy and satisfied. — Calm down, it's not over yet, princess. —  He says cheekily, you blink confused, your ears feel like they're full of cotton, but even so you think you heard him say it's not over yet, destroying you with his mouth wasn't enough? When you come back to reality he's in front of you with the smile of the cat who got the cream, he squeezes the sides of your thighs tightly and pulls you up. Scared, you simply let yourself be lifted up and wrap your legs around his hips, and it kind of takes your breath away, no one has ever lifted you up so easily before, but after what he did to that octopus man, it shouldn't be any mystery, that face wasn't normal, but it doesn't make you scared, it just excites you.

— By the way, the name is Toji! — He says looking at you with a mischievous and smug smile. — In case you need to scream. — You roll your eyes ready to give him a very naughty answer, but you choke when he simply thrusts himself inside you, you hadn't even noticed when he took his dick out. Toji invaded you without even warning or preparing you, all he had used was his own tongue and saliva, you throw your head back as you scream his name feeling his member stretch you inside, Toji just gives another mischievous smile before starting to thrust into you without mercy.

His thrusts are fast, strong and precise inside you, the tip of his dick always pokes that little spot inside you that makes you see stars, his penis is big and thick and opens you up like a pipe cleaner. Your body rocks against the wall of that alley, Toji is deep inside you, but so deep that your mind starts to turn to jelly, with each stroke of his cock you feel your consciousness leaving you. His mouth bites your neck hard and you moan feeling his teeth marking you, you moan as your toes try to curl inside your leather shoes.

His big hands were squeezing your ass tightly, will he leave marks? You want to know that you will have marks of him on your body, you want to feel him inside you for days on end. One of his hands takes advantage of the fact that your blouse is still open to slip into your bra and play with your breast, his fingers squeeze the flesh there and then squeeze and pinch the tip, making your skin crawl. His hips thrust against you like a machine in a constant rhythm and with the same strength without weakening, the sound of his skin slapping against skin and the wet sounds of his cock entering and leaving you floating in the air, your head is thrown back, you can feel the saliva running down your throat, but you are so lost in the pleasure that you don't even care.

You risk a glance at him and notice how he is biting his lip with his eyebrows furrowed as he watches his own cock disappearing inside you. So fucking hot, you think before reaching out your hands to hold his face, when his glazed eyes focus on you, you pull him in for another kiss, Toji seems to like it because he soon takes control of the gesture and devours your mouth with the same desire as before, your hand pulls his hair and you whimper feeling wave after wave of pleasure.

You bite his lip when the kiss ends, you stare into his eyes clouded with desire and lust and you can feel how his already monstrous cock simply seems to double in size inside you. You can't believe that you're being fucked by a complete stranger in the middle of an alley, your eyes dart to the entrance barely. The alleyway is lit up and you can still see the lights of Tokyo lit up while cars and pedestrians still cross the streets. You should hate this, feel tremendous shame just imagining some of the passersby hearing your obscene sounds and coming to check it out, but the thought of you two being caught fucking like animals in heat only turns you on more. Toji buries his face in your bust, you can feel him licking and biting the skin of your breasts and you just throw your head back moaning like a whore. At that moment you didn't care if someone would catch you with a dick shoved deep inside you, fuck that, Toji was the biggest dick you've ever had inside you, it was burning and burning your insides, but this pain was so good that you were practically bouncing on him. This was the best thing that happened to you after having his mouth on your cunt.

— Look at you, your cunt welcomes me so well! — He whispers in your ear. — What a wonderful little cunt, taking me like that. — He presses you closer to the wall and the speed of his hips increases even more, what an insatiable man. You feel that twinge again and know you're coming a second time. — Toji! — You scream his name as you cum. — Fuck! — He growls as he feels you tightening around his cock and covering it with your cream. His thrusts continue brutally, overexerting you, your cunt practically drooling cum, completely mistreated and fucked.

You can only cry and beg him to stop as he continues to pump himself inside you. Your cunt contracts and contracts on his cock, taking everything he gives with desire. — What a greedy girl! —  He jokes before grunting, putting more force into his hips. You don't even know what you're saying with the post-orgasm cloud clouding your mind, you ask him to stop, skin for him to fuck you harder, you don't even know what you want anymore and that's how less than two minutes after cumming for the second time you come for the third time effortlessly.

Your head falls back along with your arms that hang limply at your sides, it's official, your mind is out, he's fucked you until your brains are fried. Your body rocks up and down scraping against the alley wall in time with his brutal thrusts, your bones no longer exist and all you can do is float in pleasure as you let him use your body as he pleases.

You've never cum so many times in such a short period of time, not even when you were still new to this and the scent of virginity was exuding from you, apparently that was enough. His thrusts start to weaken a little and lose their constant and desperate rhythm and you don't need more to know that he's coming, Toji buries his face in your breasts again and scrapes his teeth against their skin, giving you shivers, you just struggle to keep your legs wrapped around him.

He grunts as he cums as he pumps and pumps cum inside you that paints your insides white, he keeps pushing himself inside you as the wave of orgasm ravages his body. — Toji! — You scream his name as you cum a fourth time with him, but this time you practically squirt on his cock, your whole body trembles in spasms and it feels like all your strength has drained from you. He rests his head on your shoulder as he breathes deeply catching his breath, after being fucked so thoroughly like this his hands itch to light his cigarette and feel the nicotine relaxing his aching muscles, but unfortunately his bag is on the other side of the alley with your cigarettes.

And so it is, with him inside you after being fucked in the middle of a dark and smelly alley with the carcass of an octopus-man a few meters away from you while your mind is puree you have an epiphany. Your protagonist does not know the truth about the world, while she walks down the streets with her head down after being betrayed and thrown out on the street she finds the first truth she does not know. The cruel tentacled monster that attacks her to feed, she cannot run or scream, and when all seems lost she is saved, not by the knight in shining armor but by a guy in leather who looks like a mercenary.

Terrified and scared in the alley she thinks it's all over, but it's not, her savior is not a hero, he doesn't do charity, he has no home and no money so how is she going to pay her debt? A deal is made in the alley as the handsome stranger buries himself inside her, she will be a warm hole for him, a source of relief, always cute, sweet and ready to take him anywhere and as this sex contract unfolds the attraction turns into passion and this passion burns to the point of becoming love and then they fall in love in the midst of monsters and others who want to see them separated.

And here was your otome game with a story, a hot man and lots and lots of sex. Toji finally pulls out of you with a slippery sound and pulls you off his lap. It doesn't take long for his cum to start running down your legs like a sticky white waterfall. As soon as you no longer have Toji or the wall supporting you, your legs tremble and give out beneath you, before you know it you're falling forward, but luckily the man catches you, okay, in fact you end up falling with your face buried in the middle of his chest again, but at least this time it wasn't hard enough to break your nose again and are you really going to complain? Those breasts were divine!

— This again? — Toji says as he watches you continue with your face buried in him. — If you keep this up, I'll charge you. — His tone was free of any emotion and you didn't know him well enough to know if he was lying or not, although a part of you said that he would be quite capable of charging you. — I'm sorry if your breasts are delicious and gravity doesn't help me! — You say muffled as you still keep your face in his chest.

You stare at him keeping your cheek pressed against his chest, you still feel your cheeks flushed from sex and you know that your whole face is still stuck in the expression of someone who has been very well fucked, in fact you still feel the effects of his cock on you and it is simply perfect. Toji stares at you looking deadly serious and this lasts for a while before he simply lifts you under your arms and throws you over his shoulder like you were a sack of potatoes.

— Wait, what are you doing? — You ask as he simply walks out of the alley and into the bright and busy Tokyo street, this attracts the gaze of some people in his direction. — You made me hard again so you're going to have to solve this. — He shrugs with you still on top of him. — Only it'll be in bed this time. — Toji starts whistling as if he was walking in the park.

— What? — You blink confused. — No, wait! My bag is there! — You scream but the man simply ignores you. — Toji, come back now, I need my bag! — You try again but he keeps walking. — Toji! — You scream irritably as you hit his back and this gets his attention, but all he does is slap your ass hard making you let out a scared moan. You just stare at the alley moving away while your bag remains in the alley and inside it the most important thing in your life. — My coupons! — You whine.

[dykesfordiaz]

spoilers !

okay i'm actually PISSED about the show's treatment of eddie this season. it started out so good with him opening up, working through his shit, the whole priest thing, dancing with joy in his living room. and then he was completely sidelined, treated like he's not a main character at all, despite having been one of the most important characters since season two. he got to stand up to his parents, and then we didn't see any kind of actual talk about it, or him talking things out with his son. he didn't get to say goodbye to bobby, a person who was a mentor to him, someone who saved his life and who he saved in return. he found out about his death off screen, and dealt with more grief on his own for two whole weeks. we never got to know if he heard about the whole 'competition' thing, or how the 118 was doing without him. and now, after he and chris are back in la, he decides despite everything, to start over in el paso? somewhere he was fucking miserable? and THEN, after dragging himself back in the action to save his team, his FAMILY, the choice to stay isn't even his, but essentially made my chimney saying everyone is staying? basically rendering the entire el paso storyline, as well as his and christopher's recent character arcs, pointless. like am i being dramatic in my anger? perhaps. but i am so damn disappointed in the finale. and that's not even to mention that buck putting in for a transfer is barely discussed, despite him literally suing the department to fight his way back to the team. we're never given a proper reason for hen not wanting to be captain. athena loses the love of her life, for the second time, and her trauma is totally ignored. maddie being kidnapped and nearly killed is brushed over, her daughter is barely there, and her pregnancy and birth is barely even an on screen thing, despite her history with postpartum depression. tommy and gerrard have so much screentime, despite historically being racist, bigoted characters, and people treat it like it's totally fine. like it's not fine at all. and they spend the entire season discussing eddie's sexuality, setting buck up for a feelings realisation, and even spending the press tour teasing them going canon, just to give us NOTHING at the end of the season. i love this show so dearly, and i have for years, but i am scared as hell for season nine. idk how to feel right now.

[crunchchute]

handful of dudes

[watchingwisteria]

listen there really was just something about how in the book, snow’s 3-page descent from hesitant lover boy to deluded mfer happens entirely in his mind. lucy gray gives him no indication whatsoever that she suspects him, that she’s going to leave or betray him. he’s just sitting quietly in the cabin waiting for her to return when that seed of calculated suspicion, which he has needed to survive the capitol, takes a hold of him and chokes the life out of any goodness left inside him. it really drives home your terror as a reader that “oh my god did he kill her? did she escape? what happened to her? why would he even think that?” in a way that when the movie had to adjust for visualization it lost some of that holy shit this guy has lost it emphasis.

[benevolenterrancy]

Please feel very, very, very free to disregard. However, may I request a Wang Xi appreciation drawing? My man is Too Good For This World. X'D (if not, then I hope you have a lovely day! Your art is so chbi and funny and cute!)

YES YOU MAY literally where would those two be without Wang Xi? constant source of support and childcare, Wang Xi is the secret mvp, i love this man

[lotus-pear]

finally started p5 royal ‼️‼️‼️‼️

expect some royal trio art soon they are my dearly beloveds (minus akechi i hope he dies in this reality too)

[vargaslovinghours]

Say it like you mean it

[quibbs126]

Does anyone have or can someone make an AU where the future Decepticons are also cogless in TF One? Like they weren’t the High Guard, they’re miners alongside the other future characters? And presumably through the story they end up siding with D-16 more to eventually form the Decepticons?

Like sure, I can admit that I see why they didn’t do this in canon; they only had like an hour and thirty minutes and presumably had to have things mostly recognizable to the general setup of the franchise by the end of the movie, there just wouldn’t be enough time to develop them

But I think the cogless future Decepticons would be really interesting, and I have to know what kind of relationship they could have had with the future Autobots, and most particularly Orion Pax and D-16, since they’re important later but just random nobodies in this state

I especially really want to know what cogless Starscream would be like. I’m not even a huge Starscream fan (I don’t dislike him, he’s just not a fixation), but I would be fascinated to see what this situation would be like for him. He wouldn’t even be able to fly, and never would have in this state because he would have been “born without a cog”; he wouldn’t be a Seeker, just a cogless bot. And being a Seeker is kind of integral to his characterization usually, how would this change him or the other Seekers? And how would getting a cog and becoming a Seeker affect them, would they feel like they’ve had this block on them suddenly removed, more so than other bots?

And like I said, there’s his relationship with Megatron/D-16. Back when they were cogless, they would have presumably been on equal standing, both socially and physically, and would have very little reason to beef, outside of possibly both vying for a similar position, or just generally not liking the other’s personality. How and when would the divide have started between them, and Megatron become the leader of this group over Starscream?

Like I need to see this alternate version of the story, I need a multi-chapter rewrite fic about this concept, it could be so interesting. Maybe have the future Decepticons included in the story by expanding the adventuring party, including a couple more Autobots to even it out, put Jazz in there or something

Also it’s not to say I’m not interested in the canon TF One Decepticons, they have a very interesting potential dynamic with Megatron being the youngest and a complete stranger to them, and there’s plenty to explore there, I’m just not the most approving of how convenient their existence is. But the cogless scenario provides another very interesting potential dynamic for the Decepticons to explore, and I want to see stuff of it