willowsnook

[willowsnook]

LSU JB9 (headcannons) // JOE BURROW

✰ description: a collection of detailed headcannons about what it would be like to be with LSU joey <3

✰ joe burrow masterlist

✰ pairing: LSU!Joe x Reader

✰ a/n: wrote this on a whim so please don't tell me if it sucks <3 party 4 u is still in progress and on it's way!! this wasn't meant to be this long but here we are

warnings: NSFW/suggestive content, mdni. language. wc: 10.5k taglist: (ask to be added): @joeyfranchise @joeyb1989 @joeyburrrow @softburrow @burrowbarbie @yelenasbraid @lovelyburrow @majestic87 @grittysbiggestfan @definitelynotdomanique @burrowswomen @lilfreakjez @fourburrow @ladyluvduv @jbnine99

── .✦ he absolutely thought you were out of his league

you and joe met through a group of mutual friends, though it took him weeks to build up the courage to actually talk to you. he played it cool on the outside—stoic, steady, the calm-in-a-storm quarterback everyone counted on—but the second you were in the room, it was like someone pulled the rug out from under him. his stomach would flip, mouth dry, palms way too warm for comfort. his teammates would tease him endlessly, whispering “there she is,” every time you walked in, just to watch the tips of his ears flush bright pink. he had no idea what to do with himself when you were nearby. his brain ran a mile a minute “don’t stare, do not stare, is my shirt wrinkled? do i smell weird?”—while trying to come up with something, anything, to say that wouldn’t make him sound like a complete idiot. usually he ended up blurting out things like “uh…nice notebook,” then immediately wanting to evaporate on the spot.

when you’d laugh or tilt your head toward him during group conversations, joe would lose his train of thought entirely. he’d get fidgety, tapping his thumb against the seam of his sweats, tugging at his sleeves, bouncing one knee under the table like he was running plays in his head. once, you’d accidentally brushed his arm while reaching for your drink, and he swore he didn’t breathe for ten full seconds. he replayed that moment in his mind for days, convinced it meant something. he’d linger in places he thought you might pass through—by the vending machines, near the quad, waiting just a beat longer in the hallway after practice was over and you were coming back from the gym—then pretend it was coincidence when your eyes met. he smiled every time, slow and sheepish, like he couldn’t believe his luck.

what killed him most was how easy you made it look, how you talked with that bright, effortless laugh and looked at him like he wasn’t about to combust under the weight of his crush. he’d lay in bed at night staring at the ceiling, replaying everything you’d said, wondering if you could hear how hard his heart was pounding when you stood close. wondering if maybe...just maybe...you felt the same kind of dizzy, giddy, butterflies-in-your-ribs kind of thing he did every single time you smiled at him.

it wasn’t until three whole weeks later, after endless teasing from his teammates, half-baked pep talks in the locker room, and at least four different times where he almost did it but chickened out, that joe finally worked up the nerve to ask for your number. it happened on a random tuesday, tucked in the back corner of the student union during a group study sesh, his knee bouncing under the table and fingers fidgeting with the seam of his hoodie. you were mid-sentence, laughing at something he’d said (probably dumb, probably charming), when he suddenly slid his phone across the table, screen open to a new contact, that sheepish, lopsided grin tugging at his lips.

his ears were pink. his voice cracked just a little when he said, “only if you want to,”.

you’d been smiling back at him for weeks, meeting his eyes in the dining hall, catching his glances at fred's, lingering just a second longer during group hangouts, quietly hoping he’d finally get brave. so when you picked up his phone with a grin and tapped in your number, joe looked like he’d just won the national championship. all the tension drained from his shoulders in an instant, pride and disbelief blooming across his face like he couldn’t quite believe he’d actually done it.

in that moment, the cool, collected quarterback? gone. all that was left was a nervous, giddy boy falling stupidly in love. and you? you were already halfway there.

── .✦ picked you up for dates in that tragically old truck

joe’s old pickup was a tragic kind of pride and joy. its faded paint chipped in places, the creaky door that never quite closed quietly, and a passenger seat that squeaked whenever you shifted your weight. but every time he had a date with you, he’d spend nearly an hour making sure that front seat was spotless. free from grass stains and the stench of post practice sweat. he’d scrub at the worn fabric like it was a sacred ritual, determined to make it perfect for you despite the truck’s rattles and quirks.

when he rolled up to your building, cudi blasting from the speakers—something nostalgic and familiar, like the soundtrack to all his best memories—he wore that signature athens high backwards hat and an easy, laid-back grin, pretending like he was cool as ice. but beneath that calm exterior, his hands gripped the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles turned white, and his heart hammered against his ribs like he’d just run a touchdown sprint. the truck rattled noisily when he shifted gears, and he could feel his stomach twisting nervously the entire drive to the diner, silently praying you weren’t bored, that the noise wasn’t annoying, that you didn’t mind the less-than-perfect ride. even though he acted casual, teasing you with jokes and playful banter to break the tension, every glance he stole at you in the rearview mirror was full of quiet hope, hope that these imperfect moments were exactly what you wanted, that you saw the guy behind the beat-up truck, steady and nervous and completely smitten.

── .✦ the softest drunk you’ve ever met

post-big win joe at LSU was honestly the softest, most adorably clingy drunk you’d ever met, and it was a side of him that made your heart swell in ways you didn’t expect. from the moment he spotted you standing by the bar, his whole posture softened, his usual confident swagger giving way to a kind of gentle vulnerability that was rare and utterly captivating. his arm slid around your waist like a lifeline, pulling you close as if you were the center of his entire universe. his cheeks were flushed this perfect shade of rosy pink, curls damp and sticking just a little at his temples from the buzz of celebration and the late summer, early fall humidity. he swayed lightly beside you, his wide grin lighting up his face like a kid who just scored the winning touchdown for the first time, eyes sparkling as they locked onto yours. his voice dropped to that low, husky murmur only meant for you, breath warm against your ear as he whispered sweet, sincere words that made your skin tingle,“’m so glad you’re here,” and “couldn’t do any of this without you,”. the world around you seemed to blur, the noise of the rowdy bar fading until all you could focus on was joe’s steady presence and the way his fingers gently squeezed your hip with quiet pride.

when someone approached to congratulate him, joe’s first instinct was to shift the spotlight onto you. with that trademark smirk and a proud squeeze of your side, he’d say, “my girl’s my good luck charm,” making you feel like the most important person in the room. his voice was thick with affection, a mix of exhaustion and elation that wrapped around you like a warm blanket. half the night, he’d lean his head against your shoulder or bury his face in the soft curve of your neck, mumbling sleepy i-love-yous that felt like whispered promises.

you’d try to coax him to drink some water, your hands smoothing his hair back, feeling the warmth of his flushed skin against your palm, but he was too caught up in the moment, too enamored with you, to care about anything else. as the night wound down and the crowd began to thin, joe stayed close, arms wrapped tightly around you as if he never wanted to let go. when the uber finally pulled up, he practically melted into you, resting his head on your shoulder during the ride home, every so often brushing your cheek with his thumb as he murmured half-jokingly, “promise me you’ll never leave,”. the soft haze of the buzzed haze made him more open than usual, more honest, and you could see in his eyes the deep gratitude he felt—not just for the win, but for you, for the way you’d been there through every pass, every tackle, every moment.

those nights revealed a tenderness beneath joe’s tough exterior, an emotional vulnerability that only you ever got to see. and in that quiet closeness, with his heartbeat steady against your side and his lips warm against your skin, you knew this was love, messy, sweet, and utterly perfect.

── .✦ the first time you wore his jersey

the moment you surprised joe at tiger stadium wearing his #9 jersey, the 9 tight and perfect across your back, everything shifted. you could almost see his breath catch, that usual confident front slipping away like a secret no one else was meant to see. the boy who owned the field—the one who led the team with quiet power—morphed into a blushing mess in an instant. his cheeks flushed a deep, flushed hue, and before you knew it, he was tugging you close by the wrist, like a protective golden retriever caught doing something adorably awkward. his face buried itself in the soft curve of your shoulder, hiding behind you with a goofy grin that made your heart flutter.

“you look way too good in that, stop it,” he grumbled quietly, voice thick with timidness and awe all at once. but even as he protested, his thumb was tracing the fabric lightly over your spine, as if trying to convince himself that this wasn’t some dream—that you really chose to wear him so boldly, so unapologetically. it was like he was seeing you in a new light, one that made his chest tighten with pride and nervous excitement all tangled together. throughout warmups, joe couldn’t keep his eyes off you. every few minutes, his gaze flicked up toward the stands where you sat, a mixture of thrill and terror sparkling behind those deep, intense eyes. he was proud, beyond proud, but also a little overwhelmed by the vulnerability of it all. this was more than just a jersey; it was a bold, public declaration, and knowing you were there wearing him like that made the whole stadium feel electric with possibility.

── .✦ “study sessions” were just an excuse to nap on you

joe swore up and down he was there to help you cram for midterms—armed with neat highlighters, meticulously color-coded notes, and a strategic stash of snacks—but honestly, those study sessions quickly became something else entirely. within twenty minutes, the carefully organized piles of textbooks and flashcards were forgotten, because joe would inevitably stretch out across your dorm bed, sinking into your space like he belonged there. his head would find the soft curve of your lap, eyes fluttering closed as your fingers absentmindedly wove through his curls, tracing gentle circles that seemed to lull him into a peaceful calm.

“you make it too comfy,” he’d mumble with sleep and contentment, that trademark grin tugging at the corner of his lips even as he drifted off. you’d try everything to wake him, lightly tapping his shoulder, softly calling his name, even a few playful kisses, but his arms would lazily wrap around your waist, pulling you closer until you were tangled up with him. it was like he knew, deep down, that these quiet moments nestled against your warmth were more restful than any bed, any blanket, any pillow. he’d whisper in a sleepy half-joke, “i swear, i sleep better tucked against your stomach than anywhere else,”. the room would grow quiet except for the soft rhythm of his breathing and the comforting brush of your fingers through his hair. sometimes, you’d peek down at his peaceful face and smile, knowing these naps weren’t just about rest—they were a way he felt close, safe, and home. and when you finally did try to move, he’d clutch you tighter, muttering sleepy protests that made your heart ache with affection. those “study sessions” weren’t about cramming facts or acing tests, they were about finding solace in each other, stealing moments of peace in a world that often felt too loud.

── .✦ refused to kiss you on the mouth before games (a silly superstition)

joe was weirdly serious about his superstitions, one sock inside out, the caramel apple sucker situation, and especially the one where he claimed full mouth kisses would curse his throwing arm. so before every kickoff, he’d press a soft kiss to your cheek, tap his helmet gently to your forehead, and whisper “see you after,”. what he didn’t warn you about was the way he’d make up for it later. sweat-slick and flushed, adrenaline still coursing through his veins as he found you in the parking lot or the stands after everyone left, grabbing your waist with greedy hands and kissing you so hard your knees buckled. he always cradled your face like it was something fragile, thumb sweeping your cheekbone while he growled against your lips, voice ragged and low, “waited all damn day for this shit,”. postgame kisses were everything he’d held back, poured out in full. the reward, the release, the ritual he’d never skip.

── .✦ he kept every love note you wrote him in a shoebox under his bed

you always assumed joe tossed your silly little love notes once they’d made him smile. those hurried post-it scraps stuck inside his locker, the crumpled dining hall napkins with quick messages like “good luck, baby,” or “proud of you my love,”. you thought they were just sweet, fleeting tokens, small reminders that brightened his day before being casually discarded. but one afternoon, while helping him clean his bedroom, you stumbled upon something unexpected, a worn, slightly battered nike box tucked away behind a pile of laundry under his bed. curious, you pulled it out and opened the lid, your breath catching as you saw what was inside.

dozens of your notes filled the box—each one carefully folded, edges softened and smoothed from countless readings. some were scribbled on torn scraps of paper, others on napkins stained faintly with spilled coffee or your lip gloss, the subtle smudges still visible where your lips had pressed. it was a private collection, a secret treasure trove of your words that joe had kept close to his heart. when he caught you holding the box, his face flushed a warm, honest shade of red, and a shy smile tugged at his lips as he admitted, “those are my lucky charms. rereading them before games, especially on nights when i can’t fall asleep without you, it helps calm my nerves, reminds me why i keep pushing,”. the quiet vulnerability in his voice made your chest tighten, realizing that these simple notes were more than words. they were a lifeline, a quiet source of strength when the pressure felt overwhelming for him.

── .✦ knocks twice before slipping into your dorm at 2am like it’s a secret mission

joe always approaches like he’s on a confidential mission, knocking softly twice before slipping into your dorm at 2 a.m., like he’s stealing moments no one else is allowed to see. he moves with a quiet confidence, sweatpants slung low enough to threaten a slow slide off his hips, a hoodie pulled up just enough to cast shadows over his damp curls, eyes half-lidded and glowing with the sticky warmth of those late baton rouge nights. his footsteps barely make a sound on the worn carpet as he eases the door shut behind him, the subtle click of the lock echoing like a whispered promise. then, turning toward you, he wears that sleepy-soft smile—the one that makes your heart skip and your knees weaken in equal measure.

with one big hand, roughened from practice but tender in the moment, he cups your jaw, tilting your face up just enough to meet his gaze. his voice drops to a hoarse whisper, the kind of tone reserved only for the darkest hours and closest confessions, “couldn’t sleep without you, baby,” the words hang in the air, heavy and true, like something he’s been holding back all day, too shy to say in the sunlight but impossible to keep inside now. in that quiet, stolen moment, the world falls away, and it’s just you two, bound by whispered truths and the soft rhythm of a love that’s as deep as the night itself.

── .✦ he cannot keep his hands to himself

his self‑control completely evaporates the moment the lock clicks. one hand braces against the wood behind your head while the other roams under your oversized t‑shirt, fingertips tracing the line of your spine until you shiver. he noses along your jaw, breathing ragged as he mutters how soft you feel, how good you smell, every syllable warm and damp against your skin. his palms are greedy as they slide up your thighs and around to grip your ass, tugging you flush against the hard shape of him as he whispers, “been thinking about you all day, couldn’t focus in meetings ‘cause i knew i’d have you like this tonight,”.

── .✦ he's awful at keeping quiet during sex

you’re constantly covering his mouth, fingers slipping between his lips or pressing firm over them, because joe is so fucking bad at staying quiet. especially when he’s buried deep inside you, all flushed and frantic, eyes blown wide with need. every sound he makes is desperate, obscene—low groans that vibrate against your palm, ragged moans punched out of him every time you clench around him just right. he loses it when you tug his curls or rake your nails down his back, hips bucking like he can’t stop himself, breath catching in his throat as he gasps your name like a curse. in your suite, walls thin and roommate far too close for comfort, he tries to hold it together, biting into your shoulder, voice muffled as he pants hot against your skin, “fuck, baby,” like you’re unraveling him from the inside out. and when you grind just a little deeper, a little rougher, his restraint shatters, he starts whispering broken things against your collarbone, “please...don’t stop...so good, fuck, please,” like he’s not even aware he’s saying it, every word dripping with raw, needy heat that makes it impossible not to give him exactly what he wants.

── .✦ obsessed with you sitting in his lap on your tiny full sized bed

there’s nothing in the world he loves more than pulling you into his lap, thighs spread wide on that cramped full mattress, knees hanging off the edge, your legs bracketing his hips. he’ll nudge his nose along yours, coaxing you to settle on top of him, big hands sliding up the backs of your thighs as he hums “there you go, pretty girl,” once you’re seated, he presses up into you slowly, deliberately, his fingers digging into your hips as he guides you in lazy little rolls. he loves when you brace your hands on his shoulders to steady yourself, his breath coming harsher, hotter, the deeper your hips dip, and murmurs how “sweet” you feel when you clench around him.

── .✦ draws patterns on your bare thigh while teasing

he takes his time, that lazy, confident joe burrow smirk curling his lips as he leans close but doesn’t quite touch, letting the tension build. his thumb moves in slow circles along your bare inner thigh, each gentle stroke sending little electric jolts straight through your skin. his eyes darken as he whispers, “that’s what you want?” with a voice soft and laced with promise, like he already knows the answer but loves making you beg for it anyway. the way his breath fans against your ear, warm and steady, contrasts sharply with the teasing, delicate touch of his fingers, drawing out your every shiver and soft gasp until you’re shaking beneath him. underneath it all, you can feel the solid, unmistakable proof of him pressed against you, a slow burn ready to ignite.

── .✦ secretly melts when you tug on his waistband

there’s something so effortless, so fucking lethal, about the way your fingers slide beneath the hem of his shirt, teasing just enough to make his muscles twitch beneath your touch. your nails trail over the firm ridges of his abs, featherlight but full of intent, and it knocks the air right out of him. his breath hitches, body going rigid for a split second before it melts, like your touch just short-circuits everything in him.

then comes the waistband, the slow, sinful drag of your fingers against his skin, right where his sweatpants hang low on his hips. you hook your thumbs there and tug, just a little, and he loses it. lips parting, jaw going slack, he exhales a soft, broken “fuck...god,” like the word itself is fragile in his throat.

his head tilts back ever so slightly, lashes fluttering, like he’s offering himself up without realizing it, completely undone by such a small, filthy little gesture. there’s awe in his eyes when he looks down at you, like he can’t believe how easy it is for you to ruin him. like your hands are the only ones that have ever touched him like this—teasing, confident, yours. and the worst part? he loves it. the way his stomach clenches when you pull again. the way his cock twitches in anticipation. every subtle tug makes him feel worshiped and wrecked, dizzy with need and helpless to anything else you might want from him.

── .✦ always insists on pulling his your hoodie back on you after sex

after every heated moment, every desperate gasp and lingering kiss, joe’s instinct is tenderness. when you’re both sticky with sweat, completely spent and dazed, and your breathing still uneven, he’ll carefully tug that oversized hoodie back over your shoulders, the fabric soft and familiar. his fingers brush the hair out of your face, and then he presses two gentle kisses to your forehead, murmuring, “wanna keep you warm,”. it’s such a simple gesture, but it holds all the weight of how much he wants to protect you, like you just rocked his entire world against the cramped dorm room walls and now he wants nothing more than to hold you close and keep you safe from everything else.

── .✦ falls asleep with his hand on your stomach and leg thrown over yours

even after the heat fades and the world quiets down, joe is still the biggest, gentlest presence beside you. wrapped around you like a warm shield, his large hand rests softly on your stomach as his leg drapes over yours, anchoring you together in a cocoon of closeness. his breath slows, lips still swollen and tinged pink from kisses, hair tousled in that charming, messy way. soft snores hum against your skin as he drifts off to sleep, utterly content and utterly yours by 3 a.m.

── .✦ he's grade A munch.

joe eats you out like it’s his life’s purpose. like your body is the only thing that makes sense in a world full of chaos. he doesn’t just go down on you, he sinks into you. slow, steady, with the kind of focus that makes your head spin. he starts by spreading you open, fingertips tracing along the softest parts of your thighs, his breath hot and heavy as he looks up through his lashes with that lazy, cocky grin—the one that says he already knows he’s about to ruin you.

his mouth meets you with soft, lingering kisses first. wet, warm, slow drags of his tongue that make your hips jerk and your breath catch. he’s not in any rush. he takes his time, learning and relearning you every time, tasting you like you’re honey on his tongue. when he licks a slow stripe up your center and his nose presses right up against your clit...fuck...your whole body arches. and he doesn’t move. he stays there, mouth wide and tongue deep inside you, nose grinding firm little circles right where you need him most, nudging and rubbing as his fingers dig into your thighs to keep you spread and still. and it’s so much. the pressure of his nose, the way he groans into you when you whimper, like the sound goes straight to his dick.

every moan from him sends heat flooding through you. he doesn’t just make you come, he drags it out of you, with his face soaked, mouth messy, eyes glassy with lust. and as you start to come undone, his hands move up—slow, sure palms gliding over your stomach, then higher, until he’s cupping your tits, thumbs brushing over your nipples like he’s trying to make you fall apart in every way at once. sometimes he squeezes just hard enough to make your back arch, your chest pushed into his hands while his mouth works you over, and it feels so fucking overwhelming. you’re being touched everywhere, devoured everywhere, and it’s him, it’s always him.

and he loves it. he lives for the way you shake beneath him, for the way your thighs clamp around his head when he hits that spot just right. he lets you ride his tongue, nose still pressed tight against your clit, chin slick, fingers tugging gently at your nipples as you come apart. and he doesn’t stop. if anything, he gets more desperate. tongue flicking faster, nose rubbing harder, hands holding you down while you sob out his name like a prayer. he wants it all, every gasp, every cry, every twitch. and he wants to be the only one who gets to see you like this. wild, wrecked, and his. when you finally collapse back into the sheets, breathless and dazed, he pulls back just enough to look at you. his lips are shiny, chin drenched, eyes dark and blissed-out as he runs his palms soothingly over your thighs, your hips, your stomach. he presses a slow, wet kiss to your lower belly and mutters something like, “you’re so fuckin’ perfect. can’t get enough of you. never will,”.

and the worst part? he means every word.

── .✦ your makeouts always start slow, full of teasing touches

joe never rushes that first kiss. it’s a slow, delicious tease that sets your insides humming like a secret song. his fingers thread gently around your waist, pulling you close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body, but he holds just enough distance to let the anticipation simmer between you. his thumbs drift over your cheekbones with a delicate, almost reverent touch, warm and soft like a whispered promise, as if he’s tracing the shape of you for the first time and wants to savor every detail.

his eyes lock on your lips with a mix of longing and restraint, like he’s holding back a tidal wave just to savor this moment with you. when his mouth finally grazes yours, it’s feather-light and searching, like a question, a gentle exploration of what it means to finally be this close.

then that small, knowing smile curls on his lips just before his kiss deepens, sending sparks crackling through your chest, stirring every nerve ending awake. his breath mingles with yours, slow and warm and utterly intoxicating, as if the rest of the world has melted away. one hand slips down your back, fingers pressing into your hip with a fierce, tender possessiveness that makes your heart flutter wild and free. every soft flick of his tongue, every feathered brush of his lips is a silent vow, an unraveling that leaves you dizzy, breathless, and craving more—even in the gentlest moments.

── .✦ flirty banter between heated kisses

between kisses, joe’s playful confidence flares like a match struck in the dark. hot, quick, impossible to ignore. when you pull back just enough to breathe, your lips swollen and your chest heaving, he grins like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. that cocky, half-lidded glint lights up his eyes, his fingers already sliding down the curve of your spine like he owns it. “you’re dangerous, you know that?” he murmurs, voice rough and low, like gravel wrapped in silk. you smirk, fingers brushing along the sharp edge of his jaw, your thumb dragging across his mouth like a dare. “oh, please. you’re the one who can’t keep his hands off me,”.

his laugh rumbles deep in his chest, a sound that vibrates against your skin, and before you can get another word out, he’s kissing you again, harder this time, like he needs to shut you up with his mouth. his lips crush against yours, all heat and hunger, his tongue sliding in with a groan as his hand fists in your hair, pulling just enough to make your toes curl. he doesn’t stay still. he kisses you like he’s starving for every inch, trailing his mouth along your jaw, down your neck, biting lightly before soothing the spot with his tongue. “talk too much,” he mumbles against your throat, lips brushing your racing pulse. “but fuck, i love hearing you,”.

you breathe out a laugh, but it turns to a moan when he sucks a mark into your skin, his teeth scraping just enough to make you melt. every kiss becomes part of the game—the way you tug at his shirt, the way he presses you harder into the wall or the mattress or anywhere, the way your bodies move like you’ve done this a hundred times and still can’t get enough. teasing becomes tension, every flirty remark sharpened by the fire building between you. and still, between every breathless kiss, every wicked grin, joe keeps pulling you closer like he can’t stand the thought of space between your bodies. like the only place he wants you is right there, tangled up in him, lips swollen, voice wrecked, utterly his.

── .✦ sex with him is a mix of fiery passion and tender connection

sex with joe is a fever dream, a raw, all-consuming fire that leaves you breathless and aching, like he’s trying to crawl inside your very soul with every desperate thrust. he starts slow, almost, lips ghosting over your skin like he’s tasting something sacred. those first kisses are gentle and worshipful, savoring every inch of you, every shiver beneath his touch. but that tenderness doesn’t last. soon it’s swallowed whole by a fierce hunger that rips through the quiet, turning kisses into something filthy and possessive. his mouth claims yours with teeth and tongue, quiet growls vibrating against your lips, desperate and demanding, marking you like his.

his hands are rough, gripping your hips like he never wants to let go, fingers trailing up to cup your breasts with a touch that’s desperate and tender all at once. his thumbs tease your nipples, drawing out sharp gasps and soft cries, fanning the flames burning between you. when he finally slides inside, it’s like a dam breaks—his rhythm brutal and relentless, pounding deep into your core, cock hitting every perfect spot with precise, bruising force. you can feel the unmistakable imprint of him, wide and thick, filling you so completely you swear you’ll remember it forever. his breath hitches, hot and ragged against your neck, voice a rough whisper tangled with praise and lust, “mine. you’re so fucking perfect. so tight around me. fuck, i can’t get enough,”.

his moans spill out uncontrollably, raw and guttural, mixing with your own helpless cries as his hips slam into yours with punishing power. he watches your face like he’s memorizing it, the way your eyes flutter with every drag of his cock, the way your mouth parts in desperate gasps, every little tremble and whimper carving itself into him. and when you unravel beneath him, back arching, nails digging into his skin, he’s right there, forehead pressed against yours, breathing you in as his hips stutter and shudder, spilling into you with a guttural groan—his voice raw, trembling, utterly undone by you and the way you make him lose control. when it’s over, he doesn’t let go, he kisses your shoulder, your cheek, your jaw, whispers “i love you,” into your hair, arms still tight around your waist like letting go would break him completely. the air stays dense with heat and the scent of sex, bodies tangled, skin slick, hearts pounding in sync—and in that breathless, boneless quiet, there’s no doubt left, you aren’t just his obsession. you’re his fucking religion, and it's in your lips, in your touch, in every part of you that you let him have.

── .✦ late night talks about everything and nothing 

sometimes, long after your dorm suite has fallen silent and the only light comes from your laptop screen or joe’s flickering phone, you two lie awake and talk for hours—about everything and nothing. joe’s naturally into the nerdier stuff you bring up, he listens wide-eyed when you get excited, explaining your latest favorite science fact or a weird historical tidbit, and he loves when you quiz him on random trivia like the physics of throwing spirals or the probability of certain plays succeeding. sometimes the conversation spirals into playful debates about whether he’d survive a fantasy world or which superpower would actually be the most practical on the field. those silly, random “what if” questions have you both laughing so hard your sides ache, but beneath the jokes is this quiet, special space where you can be completely yourselves. joe traces slow, lazy patterns on your arm as you talk, his voice soft and steady, and in those moments, no matter the chaos of football, classes, or expectation, you both feel this deep certainty that you’re facing everything together, as a team.

── .✦ the way he’s totally different around his teammates versus just with you

on the field and in the locker room, joe carries himself like the star quarterback he is, focused, razor-sharp, and with a teasing confidence that’s borderline cocky. he’s all quick jokes, friendly trash talk, and that subtle leadership vibe that pulls the team together. but the moment he’s alone with you, it’s like a switch flips. his shoulders drop, the tension in his jaw melts away, and the sharp edge of his voice softens into something especially reserved for you, as if he’s finally letting himself breathe, and it can only happen when you're in his space. you catch him smiling differently, less showman, more sincere, when he thinks you’re not looking. his eyes lock onto you with a quiet kind of intensity, full of warmth and a tenderness he doesn’t share with anyone else. in those moments, he’s not just the golden boy quarterback; he’s the guy who’s utterly and completely yours, and he savors every second of that. whether it’s a late-night walk across campus under the streetlights or sitting close in the corner of a nearly empty diner, he talks slower, listens harder, and laughs softer, like you’re the only person in the world who really matters.

── .✦ he’s the guy who memorizes your schedule so he can surprise you

joe isn’t just laser-focused on football and the roar of tiger stadium on saturday afternoons, he’s quietly tuned into the rhythm of your life at LSU. he notices how you carry your textbooks across campus from cedar hall to the business building, how you sometimes linger a little too long in the union bookstore browsing when exams are coming up, or the way you always grab a coffee from CC's before your morning classes. one random wednesday, without a word, joe shows up just as your history professor calls roll in himes hall, balancing a hot cup of your favorite caramel latte and a bag of fresh beignets, the kind you always sneak for midnight snacks during finals week. his grin is that unmistakable mix of pride and mischief, like he just threw the perfect touchdown pass, and when he hands you the treats, his voice drops to that soft, teasing tone, “thought you could use a little extra fuel before that paper, i'll see you later tonight,”. it’s never loud or showy; it’s the kind of quiet devotion that fills the spaces between classes, the kind that makes you feel like, even in the chaos of college football and academics, he’s your constant, your biggest fan, your secret weapon. and if you ever catch him slipping a little sticky note with a dumb joke or a “you got this, tiger,” tucked inside your notebook? well, that’s just joe making sure you never forget how much he believes in you.

── .✦ sassy man apocalypse.

lowkey sassy LSU joe is so fun because it’s not loud or performative. it’s quiet, bone-dry, perfectly timed, and exclusively for you.

like picture this, you’re both at a crowded party, music thumping, sun blazing, and some overly confident frat guy starts making conversation with you while joe’s grabbing drinks. joe returns, tosses you a water, and without missing a beat, eyes the guy and mutters just loud enough, “she’s got a type, huh?” he doesn’t even wait for a response—just hooks his fingers through your belt loop, pulls you back into him with a subtle little smirk. not jealous, just cheeky. that deadpan sass that makes your stomach flutter.

or when your roommate launches into another one of her wild conspiracy theories, “i’m telling you, the moon landing was staged”, and you and joe exchange that look. he leans in, raspy voice brushing your ear like a secret, “you really let her shape your worldview like that?” then acts totally normal the second she glances your way. but later, in bed, he’ll bring it up again, all warm and sleepy, teasing, “babe, you ever think about how you almost believed the moon’s made of cheese?”.

it’s that special brand of sarcasm that never feels mean. it’s just…joe. sharp. knowing. flirty in its own right. and it always makes you feel like you’re on the inside of some delicious, private joke, just the two of you against the world. like even when he’s roasting you, he’s doing it with stars in his eyes. it’s his love language, in a way. that teasing bite, that perfectly timed quip, it’s how he shows he’s paying attention. how he keeps you laughing. how he reminds you, without saying it, that he sees you. every bit of you

── .✦ he’s such a little shit, and you love it (more sassy man apocalypse)

it starts with the way he leans against the doorframe of your dorm room like he owns the place. he’s in a worn geuax tigers hoodie and grey sweats that hang low on his hips, arms crossed over his broad chest, one ankle kicked lazily over the other. his hair is still damp from practice, a curl falling boyishly across his forehead, and his grin is all slow mischief. his gaze drags down your body and back up with zero shame, taking his sweet time before finally drawling, “that’s what you’re wearing?” he clicks his tongue, feigning disbelief, like the sight of you knocked the air out of him.“didn’t realize i had competition tonight,”.

you scoff, turning away so he doesn’t see how fast your cheeks heat up. “you wish,” you toss over your shoulder, brushing past him, pretending not to be flustered. but you can feel the weight of his eyes on you, feel the way his smile grows, smug and knowing.

he follows without hesitation, long strides catching up before you make it three steps. he’s at your back in a flash, chest to your spine, the heat of him unmistakable. his breath ghosts over your ear as he dips his head, voice low and dripping with that cocky drawl. “you know no one else can handle you like i do,” he murmurs, and it’s infuriating how right he is. how your stomach tightens, how your knees weaken, just from his tone alone. you swear he smirks against your skin when he feels your breath hitch.

you push at his chest, trying to bite back your laugh, but he catches your wrist with ease, pulling you into him like it’s nothing. his grin turns damn near electric, soft around the edges but still laced with challenge. his nose bumps yours as he leans in, lips hovering, teasing.“you gonna keep talkin’ or are you gonna kiss me?” his voice is low and dangerous now, a velvet rasp threaded with heat and arrogance, like smoke curling off embers. it crackles in the quiet, makes your skin tingle and your stomach flip, something about the way it slides over your name like a promise and a threat all at once. when you finally give in, fingers in his curls, mouths crashing like you’ve both been waiting all day for it, he groans into the kiss, deep and satisfied. and then, just as you're catching your breath, he pulls back with a maddening smirk, “told you so,”.

he’s insufferable. but he’s yours.

── .✦ joe’s terrible but lovable attempts at cooking

joe insists he’s a natural in the kitchen, but every time he tries to whip up something for you, usually during those late-night study breaks when you both desperately need fuel, it turns into an adorable mess. like the time he confidently flipped pancakes only for them to burn on one side and stick stubbornly to the pan on the other, leaving you both staring at a half-charred, half-stuck disaster while he scratches his head and grins sheepishly. or the mornings he tried to make scrambled eggs but somehow managed to scramble them into the pan, leaving a sticky, burned layer that no amount of scrubbing could fix. the grandest catastrophe was when he ambitiously attempted gumbo, one of your favorite dishes, and forgot to add the seasoning, so the whole pot ended up bland and sad, much to your amusement. through every kitchen fail, joe’s midwestern charm shines bright, he flashes that crooked grin, shrugs like it’s no big deal, and promises to make it up to you next time, usually by ordering takeout. but honestly, those messy, laughter-filled moments where you’re elbow-deep in flour or scrubbing pans together are some of your favorites. they’re a messy, imperfect kind of love, full of warmth, teasing, and joe’s determined effort to take care of you, even if he can’t quite get the cooking part right.

── .✦ he loves to bite

sometimes joe tries to bite you, and it’s the most ridiculous form of affection you’ll ever get. it’s never serious or rough, more like playful little nips meant to tease and claim, but it catches you off guard every single time. maybe you’re laughing at something dumb he said, and suddenly his mouth closes just a little too close to your neck or your shoulder, teeth grazing your skin with a light pressure that makes you jerk and laugh all at once. his eyes sparkle with mischief, that half-smile tugging at his lips as he mumbles a barely-there apology mixed with a tease, “can’t help myself, you’re just too damn cute,”.

sometimes it’s during lazy afternoons when you’re sprawled on the couch, and he leans over, fingers tangled in your hair, then gently bites your earlobe like it’s the funniest thing he’s done all day. it’s awkward and sweet and completely joe, an odd little sign that when words aren’t enough, he’ll let his teeth do the talking, all while grinning like he just got away with the best joke ever.

── .✦ the way joe looks at you when you laugh at his dumb jokes

when you laugh at one of joe’s dumb jokes, sometimes so bad they’re almost painful, there’s this moment where the whole world seems to narrow down to just you two. he watches you like you’re the only person in the room, eyes locking onto yours with a softness that almost makes you forget the noise around you. his gaze isn’t just warm, it’s magnetic. like a quiet pull that draws you closer even when you’re already near. there’s a teasing sparkle in his eyes, mischievous but tender, like he’s silently daring you to laugh even louder. you can feel the heat radiating from him, subtle but undeniable, as he leans in just a fraction—enough to catch your breath, to catch the space between your heartbeats. his voice drops a little, deeper and rougher, when he murmurs, “i like hearing that,” the words barely more than a breath, but charged with a kind of electricity that makes your chest tighten and your stomach flutter. as he brushes a loose strand of hair behind your ear with that careful, gentle touch, your pulse speeds up, and you swear your heart does a little flip, like a secret only he’s allowed to know. it’s simple, almost effortless, but the way he looks at you in that second tells you everything: that to him, you’re the whole world, and nothing else quite matters.

── .✦ he listens when you ramble

you’re sprawled out on the faded couch in his apartment, clutching a lukewarm cup of coffee that’s long since lost its bite, your voice spilling out about that brutal 8 a.m. lecture—the one where the professor drones on like the roaring crowd at tiger stadium, and your brain’s stuck in slow motion, caffeine barely nudging you awake. joe’s sitting beside you, eyes fixed on you with that slow, tender kind of intensity that makes your heart stumble in your chest, like the moment the tigers score in the last seconds of the game.

he’s not just hearing your words, he’s soaking them in, the frustrated sighs, the small laughs you can’t hold back, the way your fingers nervously twist the edge of your sweatshirt. his gaze is soft but fierce, warm like the golden sun streaming through the window, the kind of look that makes you feel wrapped in a blanket even when you’re exhausted and overwhelmed.

his lips curve into that familiar half-smile, the one that’s equal parts teasing and full of affection, and he leans in a little closer—just enough that you can feel the heat of his breath against your cheek, as if he’s trying to catch every syllable between your words. when you stumble over a detail or laugh at how wiped you are, his hand moves without thinking, brushing a stray piece of hair back behind your ear. his touch is so achingly gentle, and it sends a shiver racing down your spine, like the first cool breeze after a long hot summer day in baton rouge.

and then there’s the way he looks at you, eyes gleaming with adoration, a quiet hunger buried deep beneath his calm exterior. it makes your stomach flutter wildly, like you just caught the perfect pass in front of a screaming stadium crowd. before you even realize it, his low, husky voice cuts through your ramble, warm and steady like a slow southern drawl, “i don’t care about the professor’s annoying ex-wife. i just wanna know about you,”.

and in that moment, with the smell of old textbooks and coffee lingering around you, all the early mornings, the long lectures, the exhaustion—none of it matters. because he’s here. he’s listening. and that’s everything.

── .✦ marvel or dc movie nights where you both nerd out

joe’s always been a little surprised by how much you actually love his nerdy side, and how much you tend to nerd out with him. so naturally, movie nights centered around marvel or dc films are his absolute favorite way to unwind with you.

you two set up your dorm or his room like a mini theater—blankets piled high, pillows scattered everywhere, and a big bowl of popcorn that somehow turns into a battlefield for who gets the last handful. joe’s not picky when it comes to snacks; he’ll happily munch on whatever junk food you pick out (as long as it's balanced out with something healthy to abide by his diet) even if it’s questionable candy or chips you swear are just too salty. picking the movie? that’s where the real fun begins.

he teases you relentlessly when you argue over which universe has the better heroes or who would win in a fight—tony stark or bruce wayne. sometimes he pulls out his phone to fact-check your claims or show you fan theories he’s found, which only makes the debates livelier. between scenes, he’ll nudge you and whisper jokes, or mimic the characters’ iconic lines in his goofy southern drawl, making you burst into laughter every time. and during the emotional or epic moments, he pulls you closer, fingers threading through yours like he never wants these nights to end. it’s a perfect blend of nerdy passion, playful banter, and quiet intimacy. just the two of you, fully yourselves, wrapped up in the glow of the screen and each other.

── .✦ he always insists on a specific post-practice snack from the union

after draining, sweat-soaked practices under the relentless louisiana sun, joe’s mind zeroes in on one simple pleasure. a spicy chicken po’boy from the union’s little sandwich shop. the smell of toasted french bread and that fiery, tangy sauce has become his personal reward, and he drags you along with a grin that’s both teasing and sincere. you tease him about his sauce obsession, but watching him take that first bite, eyes closing briefly as the spice hits just right, makes you understand it’s more than food. it’s comfort, routine, and a small moment of joy after the grind. the two of you sit side by side on a worn bench outside, sharing fries and stories from the day, the afternoon sun warm on your skin as the campus buzz hums around you.

── .✦ joe has a collection of old game tickets and wristbands, and lets you keep them

joe’s sentimental side isn’t always obvious, but he keeps a hidden stash of game-day mementos tucked away. faded tickets with frayed edges, wristbands stiff from sweat, even a worn bowl game hat he only brings out on special occasions. when you started dating, he surprised you with a small pile of these tokens, pushing them across the table with that easy smile and a quiet, “now you’re part of this too,”. you tuck them carefully into your own keepsake box, scraps of memories that tell the story of his journey, the team’s highs and lows, and the moments you’ve shared along the way. every time you glance at them, you feel connected to something bigger, to him, and to the history you’re helping build together.

── .✦ he knows every shortcut across campus and loves showing you hidden spots

joe’s campus knowledge runs deep even though he spends minimal time actually there. he knows every shortcut, quiet quad, and secret bench that’s perfect for stolen moments away from the chaos. when you’re together, he’ll grab your hand mid-walk, tugging you down a narrow path shaded by ancient oaks dripping with spanish moss. the air smells of damp earth and blooming magnolias, and the late afternoon sun filters gold through the leaves. he’ll lead you to a little-known bench tucked behind hergert hall, where you can watch the sun dip below the treetops, the campus stretching out in peaceful silence. those small adventures are like secret escapes—places just for you two to breathe, laugh, and feel completely wrapped up in each other away from the spotlight.

── .✦ nerdy tangents

joe loves going on these random, nerdy tangents, and one of his favorites, totally out of nowhere, is about how fishes can’t drown. like, you could be sitting out on the patio of his apartment, just chilling after practice, when he suddenly gets this gleam in his eye and starts explaining, all serious and earnest, how fish breathe underwater by pulling oxygen from water through their gills, so drowning is literally impossible for them. he’ll get all animated, waving his hands around, maybe even doing some half-baked fish impression, and you’ll just watch, amused and completely charmed by how passionately he dives into these weird facts. then he pauses, looking at you like he’s just dropped some life-changing knowledge, and adds, “so basically, fish are the ultimate survivors..kind of like me, but less handsome,” and you can’t help but laugh, because that’s joe in a nutshell. equal parts goofy science nerd and cocky quarterback, and completely, utterly yours.

── .✦ stubble and silence

he lets you shave his beard in the quietest, most intimate kind of way, like it’s a ritual only meant for the two of you. he sits on the closed toilet lid in front of the sink in just a pair of gray sweats, towel draped over his shoulders, legs spread wide, arms relaxed at his sides while you stand between his knees with a warm towel and that little purple razor you always use on him. his eyes never leave your face. he watches you with that glazed-over eye, lovestruck look, like he’s letting you touch a part of him no one else ever gets.

the bathroom is foggy with steam and silence, broken only by the quiet scrape of the blade and the occasional brush of your fingers under his jaw. every time your touch lingers just a second too long, his lips curl at the corners, and he teases you in a low voice, “you’re really taking your time, huh? liking the view?”, but he doesn’t move. not even when you straddle one of his thighs for better access, or when your thumb brushes the corner of his mouth to steady him. he’s still, trusting, his skin warm and damp beneath your fingers. and when you finally finish, wiping away the last bits of shaving cream with a soft towel, he grins and pulls you into his lap like he’s waited the whole time just to kiss you smooth-faced. “how’s it feel?” you ask, running your hands along his jaw. “like i belong to you,” he says simply, mouth already on yours.

── .✦ he calls you during film study just to hear your voice.

he’s sitting in the back corner of the football facility, hoodie pulled up, headphones in, eyes fixed on the glowing screen where grainy footage of last week’s game loops endlessly—plays, mistakes, formations he’s already seen a hundred times. his pen taps absently against his notebook, and his jaw clenches tighter every time something doesn’t look right. he’s supposed to be focused. locked in. but his head feels crowded and his chest tight, like no amount of tape will make the noise go away. so he picks up his phone—thumb hovering for half a second—then calls you without thinking.

“tell me something good,” he says when you answer, his voice lower than usual, tired around the edges. “anything. what you ate for dinner. what song’s stuck in your head. what color your socks are. i don’t care...just talk to me,”.

you smile instantly, curling deeper beneath your blanket in your dorm bed, phone pressed to your cheek, your voice soft and easy as you start to ramble. you tell him how your professor went off-topic for twenty minutes, how you spilled iced coffee all over your notes, how you ran into that guy from welcome week who still can’t remember your name even though he tried to hookup with you. and as you talk, joe exhales slowly, shoulders dropping, pen forgotten beside him. he leans back in the chair, eyes fluttering shut for just a second, letting your voice wash over him like warm rain, familiar, grounding, the only thing cutting through the static in his head.

sometimes he doesn’t even respond, just lets you fill the silence while he watches the tape in the background, your words soft in one ear as game film plays in the other. and when you laugh—really laugh—he smiles for the first time all day. “you have no idea how much i needed this,” he says eventually, his voice quieter now, the tension in his chest finally loosening. “just hearing you...it’s like everything slows down,”. and in that small, quiet moment, between football and fatigue and the echo of your voice in his ear, it’s clear that no matter how much pressure he’s under, no matter what’s riding on the next game, you are his calm. his breath. the thing that brings him home, even when he’s still in the middle of it all.

── .✦ around his parents, he’s so soft with you it almost embarrasses you (in the best way)

it starts the second you walk through the door, his fingers loop gently through yours like muscle memory, and he doesn’t let go, not even when his mom pulls you into a hug or his dad claps a hand on his shoulder. you can feel the nervous energy rolling off him, not in a bad way, but like he wants so badly for this to go well, for you to feel at home here. and you do, especially when he’s like this. especially when he’s watching you with those gentle, love-sick eyes like you personally hung the stars.

he’s extra careful, pulling out your chair at dinner, sneaking glances to make sure you like what’s on your plate, rubbing small soothing circles into your knee under the table. when you let out a laugh at something his mom says about baby joe’s bowl cut phase, he doesn’t laugh with you, he watches you instead, eyes crinkling in that boyish way, mouth tugged up into the kind of smile that makes your whole chest ache. he’s younger around them. a little more playful, a little more easily flustered. teasing in that only-child-who-grew-up-too-fast kind of way. but the moment your fingers graze his or you rest your head on his shoulder in the middle of a movie, that softness blooms all over again—he’s leaning down to press a kiss to your temple like it’s instinct, like your skin is the place he always wants to land.

you catch his mom watching once. she doesn’t say anything right away, just smiles to herself like she knows a secret. later, while you’re drying dishes and joe’s outside tossing a football with his dad, she nudges your elbow and says quietly, “he’s different with you. softer,”. and the way your heart flutters in your chest. you feel it for days. and maybe the best part? he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. doesn’t know that the way he checks on you, makes your plate, or lets you borrow his favorite childhood batman blanket when you get cold, makes you feel like you belong, not just in his house, but in his life.

── .✦ joe never lets you carry your own bag when you're visiting his hometown

whether it’s a heavy duffle slung over your shoulder or just your tiny makeup bag clutched in your hands, joe is already reaching for it before you can even adjust the strap. it’s instinct now, part muscle memory, part soft ritual. the second your feet hit the tarmac in ohio or you’re climbing into his car for the long drive to athens, he’s there, palm skimming the small of your back, murmuring “i got it” with a quiet certainty that makes your stomach somersault.

he never makes a show of it, never boasts, never asks, just quietly insists on carrying it himself, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. and when you’re staying at his parents’ house? you barely get through the front door before your bags disappear entirely. one moment you’re greeting robin in the kitchen, and the next you’re being pulled down to the basement where his room is, only to find everything already unpacked, your clothes folded neatly in the dresser, your favorite robe hung on the back of his door against his faded kid cudi poster, your skincare laid out just the way you like it by the sink.

“baby,” you whisper, heart tight in your chest, “did you do all this already?”. he just shrugs, lifting your hand to kiss the inside of your wrist. “i want you to feel at home here,”.

because to joe, bringing you back means something. he wants his parents to see how well he loves you. he wants you to see the world that made him, to feel like you belong in it. when his mom asks what you want for breakfast, he’s already rattling off your coffee order and how you like your eggs. when his dad offers to set up a movie night, joe’s quietly tucking your favorite blanket over your legs before you can ask. he notices everything. remembers it all. because loving you, especially in the place that raised him, feels so special for him.

and watching him carry your bag like it’s nothing, like you’re everything, is just one of the many ways he shows it.

── .✦ stargazing on the levee

on quiet nights when the air is thick and humming with the heat of a humid afternoon, joe drives you out past campus, past the glow of tigerland and into the dark quiet of the levee. the truck bed’s been lined with old blankets he snagged from his apartment, worn cotton and faded fleece smelling faintly of his detergent and your shared life. he helps you climb in with a gentle hand on your waist, always guiding, always careful. you stretch out beside him, shoulder to shoulder, heat lingering between you as you both tilt your heads up to the stars.

his fingers find yours, thumb stroking lazily against your knuckle as he murmurs things in that silly, boyish voice—half science, half poetry. he tells you the names of constellations he remembers from grade school, points out the north star, then gets distracted watching your face instead. “you shine brighter than all of ‘em,” he mumbles with that crooked smirk, and you roll your eyes, but you’re blushing, and he’s grinning because he knows it worked. sometimes you fall asleep out there, tangled together under the stars, the sound of crickets and faraway trains the only thing keeping time.

── .✦ home.

when things got overwhelming for him, media, pressure, expectations, the mounting noise of being the guy on campus, he always found his way to you. even if you were all the way across campus in your dorm, even if it was the middle of the night, he'd send a simple, quiet text, “can i come over?” no punctuation, no small talk. and within minutes, he’d be there. hoodie on, hat pulled low over his messy hair, headphones around his neck, carrying all that weight in his shoulders.

you never asked questions when you opened the door. just stepped aside, let him in, and made space for him on the worn-out couch. it didn’t matter if you were in the middle of studying or halfway through folding laundry—you'd drop it all to pull him in (knowing he'd do the same for you), tangle your legs, and let him bury his face in the crook of your neck. his breaths always came a little slower there, a little deeper, like you were the only place he could exhale. sometimes he didn’t say much, just hummed a soft “hey” against your skin, or wrapped his arms around you tighter when you reached for the blanket.

and every time, without fail, after a while, after your fingers slid gently through his curls, after the silence worked its magic, he’d whisper, “i’m okay now,”. just like that. like you'd patched up whatever the world had scraped raw.

he might’ve been the guy out there, bright lights, cameras, expectations heavy enough to crush most people, but with you, he never had to perform. never had to prove anything or be anything other than yours.

long before the trophies, before the draft buzz, before the fans started painting his number on their cheeks...he already knew what mattered.

you.

you were his place to land. his calm. the one thing he didn’t have to chase or win or deserve. you were just his. his home, always had been.

always would be.

--the end--

[willowsnook]

girl I’ve followed you for years now and I love that our hyperfixations have synced up again. Your fics are ADORABLE.

lando & 20, please 🤞🏻

babe i'm pretty sure you sent this before he won silvo and somehow ur prompt fit exactly into real life how did u know 🤯 and omg years?? that's crazy to think about thank u so much for sticking around <33

20. bandaging/stitching up an injury. lando norris x physio!reader, 2.6k. mentions of injury and blood but nothing too descriptive just lando's post race trophy mishap. request something from here!

“Streets are saying Andrea and Zak are taking the team out for dinner tonight.” 

You aim a knowing look at your friend and coworker, who looks far too happy to have just chatted with the bosses about dinner arrangements. “And by streets, you mean…?” 

“Okay, I heard it from Jon,” She says sheepishly, rolling her eyes at your suggestive wiggling eyebrows. “Shut up.” 

“I didn’t even say anything!” You protest with a laugh, tucking a box of sterile gloves into its designated pocket of your med bag. “But if I were to say something, which I definitely won’t, I’d say you should really just ask him out, you know.” 

“I’ll ask him out when you ask Lando the same.” 

You pull the zipper of the bag shut a little too aggressively to pass off as nonchalant. “Don’t.” 

As unprofessional as it is, you’ve grown a little crush on the British driver in the time you’ve been with McLaren. How could you not have? 

Lando is kind and very down to earth, not to mention extremely talented at what he does. To say he’s charismatic is stretching it a bit, but his personality exudes comfort—the kind of comfort you’d felt even the first time you’d met him. Like the sun’s rays finally shining through the clouds after a rainy day. 

As part of the physiotherapy team, you’ve worked with him quite often, always on hand when he needs anything both at MTC and trackside during race weekends. He’s always been a little extra nice when you’re the one working on him, asks about your life away from work and actually listens when you talk. You just attribute it to his likeable nature, because if you let yourself think too deeply into the way he is around you, you’d never be able to get anything done. 

“What’s the worst that could happen?” 

You scowl. “Let’s not talk about this now. C’mon, we gotta load all the equipment into the trucks.” 

All of a sudden, a ruckus just outside the room gains both your focus. Someone’s shouting something about medical attention, which snaps you both to attention because, well, that’s your forte. The door swings open to reveal none other than the two people you’ve just been talking about. 

A worried looking Jon ushers Lando, who’s got both hands clutching at his upper face, into the small area. 

“Whoa, what happened?” You gasp, hurrying to pull out a chair for Lando to sit on. 

Jon rakes a hand back through his dark hair, pushing his glasses up on his nose with a grimace. “Incident with a photographer out in the pit lane. Would you mind checking him out?” You nod quickly, and he claps Lando on the shoulder. “Mate, you gotta show the doc.” 

When Lando just shakes his head no, the older man looks at you and your coworker helplessly. 

“Lando, she needs to take a look at your face. She can’t do that if you won’t show her,” He says slowly. Cautiously. Again, Lando shakes his head, this time more vigorously than the first. 

You lay a hand on his shoulder gently, crouching down to his eye level. “Hey, I gotta make sure you’re not hurt badly, yeah? If you’re in pain, I can help you, but only if you let me.” 

“Why don’t we give them some privacy?” Your coworker suggests, aiming her question towards Jon. It takes a few seconds, but he eventually gives in, tells Lando he’ll be right outside if he needs him, before heading for the exit. 

The door clicks shut behind them, leaving just the two of you. Lando hasn’t moved or said a word yet, and it’s starting to make you a little nervous.

“Lando, it’s me. Just me, no one else. Can you let me help you?” 

“It’s so embarrassing,” He groans finally, broad shoulders hunching in on themselves.

“You once came to me because you pulled your hamstring trying to do the full splits on a dare. I think we’re past embarrassing at this point, no?” 

“Don’t remind me about that, please,” Lando mutters, chin dropping towards his chest. You take the cap off his head and set it aside to get a better look, but he’s still got his hands over his face. “I was trying to get up on the fence to, y’know, say hi to some of the fans, show them the trophy. And then someone in front of me fell into me and the next thing I know the pointy bit on the top jabs me right in the face.”

He gestures a haphazard hand towards the golden trophy sitting on the counter, all sharp edges and protruding details that glint in the light. It’s beautiful, you think, but dangerous. 

Kind of like Lando. 

“Not your eye, right?” You press. It is very—no, extremely—important that he hasn’t been stabbed in the eye. 

“No, no, not the eye. My nose.” 

“You and injuring your nose seems to be a common theme, doesn’t it?” 

“Ha ha, very funny,” He deadpans, lifting his head to level you with an unimpressed stare through his fingers. You smile, and his shoulders lose a bit of their tension. The sign that he’ll let you touch him now is subtle, but you know him. 

“Let’s see what we’ve got here, shall we?” You hum, prying his hands away from his face gently. Upon first inspection, it looks pretty bad. A sizable looking gash sits right between his eyebrows, a rivulet of blood running down his nose, smeared onto his cheek from where he’d probably rubbed at it. 

In your experience, the sight of blood tends to make an injury look a lot worse than it actually is, and you suspect this is the case with Lando. 

“Is it bad?” He asks breathlessly, eyes squeezed shut. His chest rises and falls erratically, which tells you he’s nervous about the diagnosis. Or worried his handsome face will be scarred for life, you can’t tell. 

Even with blood streaking his golden skin and a face injury, Lando is still unfairly attractive. You don’t mean to stare at him outright like this, but you can’t help it. Long, thick lashes kiss his cheekbones, curls still damp with the sweet smelling tang of champagne hanging over his forehead artfully messy, pink lips pressed into a slight pout. 

You use your thumb to turn his head to one side, then the other, before stepping back and sighing loudly. If you spend any longer looking at him, you’d feel like a creep. “Terrible. We might have to cut the whole nose off.” 

“What?” He yelps. His eyes spring open, wide and disbelieving until he catches you giggling into the back of your hand. “Oh, you’re just taking the piss, aren’t you? That’s not funny!” 

“It’s a little funny.” Lando scowls weakly at your jest, and you roll your eyes playfully. “You’re gonna be fine, Lando, it’s not bad at all. I do have to clean it up, though.” 

“That’ll hurt like a bitch.” 

“Probably. But you’re a big boy, you can handle it.” You turn to grab the supplies you need to clean his face, completely missing the way he blushes. By the time you turn back, he’s got a little crooked smile on his face, like you amuse him. “What?” 

“Nothing. You just look happy.” 

“Happy that someone needs me? Yeah. If you boys didn’t get hurt, I’d be out of a job, wouldn’t I?” 

“I’d get hurt more often if it meant seeing you every time.” 

You falter, nearly fumbling the things gathered in your arms in surprise at his boldness. The roll of tape at the top of the pile topples over at the sudden stop, but Lando leans forward, snatching it out of the air before it falls even a foot. 

He holds it out to you like it’s a peace offering to what he’d just blurted out, cheeks already pink with sheepish embarrassment. 

You pluck it out of his open palm, setting it and the rest of the supplies onto the table beside him. “Thanks.” 

Lando likes seeing you. Lando wants to see you more often. Your brain doesn’t seem to comprehend that.

You give your head a little shake to refocus, busying yourself with organizing your materials nicely. “So how does it feel? To win your home race for the first time,” You ask, ripping open a packet of antiseptic wipes discreetly. 

You have the feeling you’ll need to distract him for this. 

“Absolutely fucking unreal, honestly. Like, it feels like I’m dreaming and I’ll wake up any second, and then realize it was all just in my head.” He’s grinning like a madman, still smiling like he’s replaying the whole thing in his mind as you nudge your way between his knees. “Is that crazy?” 

You smile warmly, shaking your head. “I don’t think so. You’ve been wanting this forever, and it’s finally happened.” You settle a gloved hand at the base of Lando’s jaw to keep him still, tilting his head up for a better angle. His lips part, tongue darting out to lick his lips nervously before quirking up into the tiniest of satisfied smiles. “You should be proud.” 

“Yeah, I am, for sure. But I owe it all to—fuck, ow!” He bites out, grimacing at the sting of the antiseptic as you dab at the cut gingerly. A hand comes up to the curve of your hip, knuckles curling into the material of your team jacket on instinct. To ground himself from the sudden pain.

For a moment, you lose yourself in the mesmerizing constellation of his eyes, lured into losing focus by the swirl of colors and the weight of what lies within them. Your hands fall still on his face. The way he’s looking at you makes you want to kiss him, just to see what it would be like. 

Fuck. No, you can’t. You have to remain professional, because you’re coworkers, damn it. 

“Sorry,” You murmur. You try really hard not to think about how his hand doesn't move from your waist. Instead he holds on a little tighter, giving you an almost imperceptible tug closer. “This is gonna hurt some more.” 

“I don’t mind.” His voice is impossibly soft, a little breathless as he stares up at you unabashed. 

You dab at the cut and the surrounding area until there's no more blood, letting you see the wound a little more clearly. Clean edges, not too deep, definitely no need for stitches. Some tape to close it up and a plaster should do nicely. 

“Did you know you scrunch your nose when you focus?” He asks some time later, as you’re getting ready to fix him up. 

“What? No, I don’t,” You scoff. 

“Yeah, you do. It’s cute.” 

You feel your face flame hot. “Shut up.” 

“I’m serious!” He insists, grinning. He seems to rather enjoy the reaction he’s elicited from you. “Look, I know we work together, but I don’t think I’m imagining the way things are between us. So I’m just gonna come out and ask. D’you—I mean, would you maybe…I dunno, wanna grab dinner with me tonight?”

You bite the inside of your cheek as you lay down the plaster right over his cut, fingers smoothing around the edges delicately. “We have the team dinner later.” 

The last thing you want to seem is too eager, but you wouldn't even dream of saying no. Not when he's looking at you all hopeful and nervous like this. 

Lando scratches his cheek, frowning. “Oh. Right. It’d be a bad look to skip out on that, wouldn’t it?”

“Reckon it would be, yeah,” You chuckle goodnaturedly. Three pieces of tape go on, right before he tilts his head to the side thoughtfully.

“Maybe tomorrow then? We’ve got the day off, we can do something together!” 

“You’ve got it off maybe, but I’ve got an exciting day of supply inventory at MTC.” 

“Sound riveting,” He snorts, shoulders shaking with laughter. “Alright, how ‘bout this? I can swing by in the afternoon, bring some food. We can sit out in that little garden in the east wing on your lunch break. Or I can pick you up after your day’s done and we can grab some dinner?” 

“Has anyone told you that you’re very persistent?” 

“Oh, all the time. But I do really like you, and today’s given me the courage to man up and finally ask you out, so…yeah, I’m persistent. Is that alright?” 

You try to fight the smile spreading across your face, but it’s no use. “Yeah, it is. ‘Cause I kinda like you too.” 

“Just kinda?” 

“Quit killing my mysterious vibe, Norris.”

“Mysterious! That’s hilarious, seriously.” 

“What? Why?” You’d be offended if it wasn't true. Now it just makes you giggle. 

“Don’t think I haven’t seen the way you’ve been staring at my lips this whole time. And might I add—” 

You lean forward, slotting your mouth against his before he can go on. It’s an impulsive spur of the moment kind of decision that stuns him into silence, short and sweet and effective. 

He looks utterly dumbfounded when you pull back. “I—you—that was…if that’s how you get me to shut up, I should start talking a lot more.” 

“Try it, see what happens.” 

“I could. Or I could just…” He trails off in favor of tugging you a step closer by the hand, leaning in slowly. 

Closer, closer, closer still, until—

“Mate, I heard you got smacked—” Oscar bursts through the door right before your lips touch, phone waving in hand. The sudden intrusion makes you both startle away from each other. You grab the remnants of your supplies to put back, Lando scratches the back of his neck in a poor attempt to look casual, and the Australian boy just stops, eyes flicking between the two of you in search of a connection. “Oh shit, sorry. I was—you guys were just—um, I can leave. Yeah, I’ll go.” 

“It’s fine, Oscar.” Although a little bummed the moment has been cut short, you smile as sincerely as you can manage. “We’re just about done here anyways.” 

“We are?” Lando asks, brows furrowing. He looks like he doesn’t want to go, but even you know he has to. 

You squeeze his hand. “Yeah, you’re all set.” 

“Thanks for patching him up, doc,” Oscar says, clapping Lando on the shoulder. “Dude, c’mon. We gotta get to the fan stage.” 

“But—” 

“We’re already late because of your detour, let’s go.” His tone leaves no room for discussion and Lando can see that, because he slouches and sighs. 

“Fine,” He huffs, shoving his hands into his pockets. His grumpy expression softens when he looks at you again. “See you later?” 

“I’ll be around.” He’s halfway out the door when you exclaim quickly, “Lando, wait!” 

Lando pokes his head back into the room quicker than lightning, looking hopeful. “Yeah?” 

“Don’t forget your trophy.” 

“Oh.” He shuffles towards you to grab it, ears turning red at just how excited he’d sounded as he hefts the giant thing into his arms. “Thanks.” 

You press a kiss to his cheek before he can get far, smiling fondly at him when you pull away. “See you tonight.” 

“And tomorrow?” 

“Yes, and tomorrow.” 

“Mint. Can't wait.”  

With a cheeky wink aimed at you, he’s gone, leaving you alone grinning like an idiot with your heart thrumming in your ears. 

You barely notice your coworker slip back into the room, but coincidentally, she’s also grinning. Though hers looks much more devious in nature. 

You roll your eyes. “Not a word out of you.” 

“I didn’t even say anything!” She protests, but the wicked gleam in hers tells you she knows exactly what went down. 

“Good. There’s nothing to say.” 

“Of course.” She nods. “But if I were to say something, which I definitely won’t, it would be about fucking time.” 

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[willowsnook]

JOE BURROW / is it not obvious?

summary / ja’marr didn’t mean for his two best friends to actually get together, but he’d rather pull his own eyes out than watch them dance around each other.

warnings / fem!reader, oblivious!reader, best friends to lovers, fluff, some angst, suggestive themes

note / FOR MY BABES @irishmanwhore BC ITS HER BDAYYYY hope you like it <3

tags / @starsinthesky5 @hannahjessica113 @iosivb9 @softburrow @burrowdarling @jburrgf @joeyburrrow @joeyfranchise @joecoolburrow @justhereforthetea200 @hotburreaux @joeyb1989 @ebsmind @wickedfun9 @sportyphile @willowsnook (comment/send an ask if you want to be added!)

Fall 2019

The air was sticky. The breeze that blew over the Bayou came from the gulf, and it wasn’t the kind of breeze that people wished for. It was a hot breath, a wet lick from a dog that no one asked for.

It was September, so why the hell was it so hot?

“You comin’ tonight?” Ja’Marr Chase plopped down beside her at the library. She was always studying, always busying herself away with a pen. It was too hot to study outside like she wanted.

“Where?” she asked, flicking her eyes up to meet his. They’ve known each other for years, ever since they were in middle school. They moved up to high school together, and when Ja’Marr started acting like he was the shit, she was there to shut him down.

He needed that.

“There’s a party tonight,” he started, putting up both pointer fingers when she gave him a look, “and before you lose your shit, I’m only inviting you because I want you to meet someone,”

“Oh God, you’re not setting me up are you? I’m not dating one of your football bros,” she groaned, rolling her eyes. She knew of the guys Ja’Marr played with. Talented, but cocky. They got around. They were worshipped.

It rubbed her the wrong way.

“Bruh, like he’s not like that. Trust me. He’s different,” Ja’Marr swore up and down. He knew Joe wasn’t like what she pictured. He was nerdy. Quiet. But damn was he good at football.

Just her type.

“Whatever,” she groaned, “what time and where?”

“Are you serious?” Ja’Marr lit up, sitting up in his seat. He couldn’t believe it.

“Spit it out before I change my mind,” she sighed, “and I swear if you abandon me, I’m gonna tell the entire football team why you missed practice last week,”

“Okay okay I swear, I won’t abandon you,” he held up his pinky finger, a pinky swear. The two of them took them seriously. She hooked her pinky around his, giving a small squeeze.

“It’s at Josh’s place, 7pm,” He texted her the address. Ja’Marr knew parties weren’t her thing. They weren’t Joe’s either. Perfect.

“This better be good,”

Josh’s place

The music was loud. It shook the walls, vibrated through her chest. She clung to her shoulder bag, which held her keys, lip gloss, lotion, and a tampon. She was due any day.

Her eyes flicked across the venue. It reeked of sweat and alcohol, the occasional whiff of weed blasted her nostrils, making her curl in on herself. If they were gonna smoke at least make it the good shit.

“There she is!” Ja’Marr’s voice carried over the crowd, and a few eyes turned towards her. She couldn’t beat the dating allegations with Ja’Marr, even when he very clearly had a girl on his arm.

He walked over to her, the alcohol already pumping through his blood. She could smell it on his breath. She was already overstimulated and she’d just walked through the door.

“Aight down to business,” Ja’Marr slung an arm over her shoulders, walking her back towards his friends. She recognized a few of them, Justin Jefferson being one of them.

Joe Burrow being another.

“Y/N, you’ve met JJ,” Ja’Marr nodded to Justin, who gave a smile and a wave, “and this is Joe. Our fearless leader,”

The boy in question laughed. His cheeks were flushed, and a half-finished cup of beer sat between his fingers. He didn’t look drunk, then again, she wasn’t too good at deciphering that.

“Just Joe is fine,” Joe gave her an award-winning smile. He’d heard a lot about her. Smart. Witty. Stubborn as an ass. Ja’Marr didn’t mention beautiful. He didn’t mention how her eyes sparkled when they caught one of the strobe lights that Josh messily put up. His heart skipped a beat in his chest and suddenly his palms were sweaty.

He wasn’t that great with women.

“Alright Just Joe,” she grinned, “Y/N,”

He offered her his hand. She took it and gave it a firm shake. She didn’t know what that single handshake would do for their future.

Summer 2022

The sun was warm. It kissed the ground. It made the air thick and undesirable, but perfect for a pool day.

“Give me that!” Joe grunted, rounding around the island in his kitchen. He had his friends over, particularly his core four. Justin came up to visit them for the weekend, and she already lived in Ohio. Columbus, to be exact. They just wished that Justin hadn’t been drafted to the Vikings. To keep the gang together.

It felt better when it was the four of them.

“No! You’re being an asshole!” She accused him, holding onto his hoodie. One she stole, of course. It smelled like him, reminded her of how she got to see him every weekend since he got drafted. It made her heart race and her mind fill with dreams.

He didn’t know that.

“How am I being an asshole?” Joe lunged for her, only to have her dodge him. This game of cat and mouse had been happening for about 5 minutes while Ja’Marr and Justin made drinks.

“You finished our lego set, that you promised we’d do together, without me!” She tried to hold a laugh back. He’d gotten bigger, somehow. The muscles in his body were toned, making him look taller and wider. It sucked her in.

Joe was honed in on her. Her fingers clutched his hoodie like a lifeline, her eyes sparkling with a sense of mischief. Beautiful. Adorable. It made his heart skip a beat. She was his world and didn’t even know it. He’d bring the sun down to her just to see her face glow like this everyday.

“Oh come on,” he groaned, finally catching her, his arms wrapping around her middle, “you’re being dramatic,”

“Let go of me!” She laughed. He did the opposite. He picked her up, marched her towards his back door. She wiggled in his grasp, breathless giggles leaving her lips as he opened the door with one hand. The heat blasted them, but Joe didn’t care. He knew where he was going.

“Think you need a dunk,”

“No,” she squirmed, “no no no, Joseph, put me down,”

“No can do,” His voice is honey in her ears. For a moment, she focuses on his arms and how they’re secured around her. He’s strong, effortlessly carrying her around, even while she’s wiggling. It’s impressive, making her cheeks heat up. She can feel her heart rate increase in her chest.

Little does she know that Joe was also losing his damn mind. Every step he took he just wanted to keep her in his arms. Her skin was warm, and she was so close to him. Pressed against him like a perfect puzzle piece. He couldn’t help himself as he breathed against her neck, his nose brushing against the shell of her ear.

But before she could react, he tossed her into the pool. He grabbed the hoodie as she let it go, saving it from being soaked.

She, however, was soaked.

“Oh my God,” Justin laughed. She wiped the chlorine out of her eyes, ran her hands over her hair. She was freezing, and as much as she hated Joe for it, she couldn’t deny that his smile and laugh was contagious.

“Yeah yeah, laugh it up, asshole,”

“You look like a soaked cat,” Joe laughed, his hands going over his stomach. She looked adorable, her hair soaked, her arms crossed over herself. He felt bad. He walked over, offering her his hand.

“Thanks,” she hummed, grabbing ahold of it. He knew something was up the moment she didn’t have a witty comeback. Her hand gripped his, but she tugged him into the pool with her.

He let her tug him into the pool.

He fell in, the cold water wrapping around him. His clothes uncomfortably stuck to his body as he surfaced, flicking his hair out of his face.

“Who’s the asshole now?” Joe splashed her, earning one of those award winning giggles from her. God she was beautiful. She held the sun in her skin and the stars in her eyes. She was his sun, and he orbited around her.

“Shut up,” she groaned, “now we’re both soaked. genius. That Master’s degree was for nothing,”

Joe only laughed. He knew she was joking. Not based off of words alone, but the way she looked at him. Like he was her towel to dry her off. The napkin to wipe her tears.

For a moment he believed that the world revolved around them. Around her. Maybe he had a shot with the girl who hated football players at first.

Ja’Marr got them towels, still relentlessly giggling over the fact that they both ended up in the pool fully clothed. What was even funnier was that Joe had obviously let her pull him in with her. Ja’Marr was shocked that she didn’t think Joe liked her.

Joe didn’t just like her. He’d fallen in love with her.

Joe wrapped a warm towel around her first. He wiped off her face, watched as she tucked herself into the soft fluff of the fabric. His fingers pushed her hair out of her face, lingering a millisecond longer on her cheek.

He wanted to take care of her. To make sure that even amidst the pranks, he’d still make her safety and her joy his priority. He didn’t know if he could survive without her smile or her presence.

They padded into his home, the cool AC brushing over her skin. She wrapped the towel tighter around her, following Joe up to his bedroom. He’d promised her with his expression that he’d make up for it. That he’d give her warm clothes and make sure she felt comfortable.

He opened his bedroom door, the familiar scent of his cologne filling her nostrils. She’s been in his bedroom plenty of times, taken naps on his soft, grey duvet. She’s worn his clothes and used his shower.

His home was as much hers as it was his. He wouldn’t have it any other way.

“Here,” he tugged at-shirt out of his luxury closet, flinging it at her. It’s an old LSU one. It smelled like him. The rustling of clothes fills the room, and he pulls out some boxers.

“So helpful,” she smirked, gently shaking her head.

“It’s no biggie,” he shrugged, “I just…do whatever I can to make you happy, and in this case it’s staying dry,” she might have been joking, but he wasn’t.

He’d do anything to see her smile.

The boxers were oddly intimate. Made his heart clench and his breath catch. He hesitated before he threw them at her, overwhelmed with the strength of his feelings for her. He closed his eyes, squeezing the fabric in his hands. It wasn’t a sexual thing. It was domestic. A wish for something he didn’t have.

Her.

“Joe? Am I just gonna walk around without pants on?” she called from his bedroom. He snapped back into it, tossing the boxers at her. The domestic image still stayed.

“Here,” he smirked, “you like that?”

“Weirdo,” she rolled her eyes. He laughed, shutting himself in his closet. He changed, stripping himself of his shirt and his shorts. He dried himself, changing into dry, comfy clothes.

“Didn’t say no,” he called from the closet.

“You’re a pervert,” she huffed as she started stripping, neatly keeping her clothes in the same pile.

“Only for you,” he called. He meant it, not the pervert part. But he was only anything for her. Happy. Smiling. A gentleman.

He stepped out, except she wasn’t done yet. She was still slipping the shirt over her body, her back to his eyes. Her skin was soft, glowing in soft sun of the room. He felt his breath catch, his teeth sinking into his lips.

No. He couldn’t look at her. He turned away from her, but his mind was still racing. His body ached to hold her, to touch her. His eyes locked in on the half-closed door of his closet. But he couldn’t stop thinking of her. She’d taken root. She’d sprouted a flower in his chest.

“Joe?” her voice cut through the air again. He squeezed his eyes shut. Then her hand touched his arm. Then she stood at his side, her eyes on his side profile. His skin twitched like he’d been shocked.

“I don’t think the closet door is that interesting,” she joked, her smile bright and warm. Joe snuck a look at her, her body dressed in his shirt and boxers. She looked like she was his.

And she wasn’t.

“Sorry,” he cleared his throat, gently moving out of her grasp so he didn’t make a stupid decision, “guess the door was a little too interesting,”

She chuckled, shaking her head at him. She didn’t notice how red his ears were. How the skin of his neck turned cherry red. She didn’t see how his pupils were so dilated he could get high off of just her presence.

So when she turned to go, he felt like a limb had been ripped from his body.

Winter 2023

It was cold. Snow was forecasted for that evening and into the next day. It was January, prime snow-time for Ohio.

Except Joe wouldn’t be playing in the snow.

He sat on his couch, watching as a game played on the screen. A game he was missing. He should be there. His heart ached to be with his team, to support them, to play. Jake was doing okay, doing stellar for picking up where Joe left off.

But Joe wanted to be playing. He wanted to be out there.

“Hey,” she hummed softly. She’d come over earlier that morning since he’d asked her to. He was lonely. He needed her.

“Here’s that gross, green drink you like,” she smiled softly, sitting next to him on his plush, grey couch. Joe smiled softly, taking the drink out of her hand with his left hand.

His right hand was still in a cast.

“Thanks,” he sighed, “it’s really not all that gross, you know,”

“It tastes like grass, Joey,” she smiled, sliding her body under the blanket he had across his body. He scooted closer to her, making sure she had enough blanket.

He leaned against her. Ever since his injury, he’s relied on her. She made the clouds disappear, she helped the sun come out when there wasn’t any in his head. He felt forgotten. Dejected.

But she never made him feel that way. He never felt alone with her. He didn’t feel lonely. She was all he needed.

“You should stay,” he murmured, “I may like being alone, but I feel lonely whenever you’re not here,”

She looked over at him. His eyes weren’t meeting hers. He stayed locked in on the screen. But she didn’t miss his words. She smiled softly, a blush forming on her cheeks.

“If it snows I’ll have to stay,”

“Then I’m praying it snows,”

Summer 2024

“Please tell me you’re joking,” she gaped at him. Joe was visiting her apartment, showing her photos from his fashion show in Paris. They were sat on her couch, her legs curled under her, eyes glued to his phone.

“What? Can’t believe I walked in a fashion show?” Joe smirked over at her. Her cheeks were flushed, the tips of her ears tinted the same shade of red. She was blushing.

“I just didn’t think you’d have your whole back out,” she told him. He looked good, really good. His hair was perfectly golden, his muscles rippling under his skin. She caught herself locking in on his muscles, on the way he held his fingers up. It was delicious, sparking unholy and intense images in her mind. She’d seen him shirtless before, but something about how much bigger he looked now made her pupils dilate.

“You’re drooling,” he pointed out, even though she wasn’t literally drooling. In her head? Yes, yes she was

“No, I’m astonished you’d wear those crusty bracelets,” she covered up. Joe didn’t believe her, not for one second. Maybe he showed her those pictures to her on purpose. Her reaction was priceless.

It was also exactly what it dreamt it would be.

“Oh come on,” he teased, shoving her shoulder, “you don’t think I look good?”

“I’d be feeding your ego,” she quipped back. Her eyes met his, and for a second there was something between them. A spark. Electricity. He felt it, he leaned into it.

But she cleared her throat and shifted away. His heart sunk.

She stood up, grabbing her empty water tumblr and walked into her kitchen. He wouldn’t like her. There’s no way. Joe was well, Joe. Soft eyes and gentle smiles, muscles and gentle touches. Girls fawned over him. There was no way that he’d like her.

“I’m gonna buzz my hair,” he blurted, more to get her attention again than anything.

“Shut the fuck up,” she turned to face him, her eyes wild and wide. Joe smirked, leaning back against her couch.

“Nah, I’m serious,” he shrugged, “need a little spice,”

“Okay, spicing up your life might mean getting another car or wearing something crazy. Buzzing your head? No,” she argued, screwing on the cap of her water tumblr. Joe couldn’t help but smile, enjoying this banter with her.

“Oh come on,” he smirked, “don’t wanna see me bald?”

“If you go bald I’m blocking you on every platform known to mankind,” she replied, making Joe’s jaw drop. He laughed as she came back over, sitting back down next to him.

“You wouldn’t,” he groaned.

“Try me, Joey,” she challenged.

So he did.

He showed up a week later to a dinner with her and his parents, she let her jaw slack. His head literally glowed. The warm lights of the restaurant didn’t dim the brightness of his head. He sat down, laughing as she kept her bewildered look.

“You’re so insane,” she laughed, shaking her head. She ran her hand over the buzz cut, letting the soft prickles of his short hair prickle her skin. It sent shivers down his spine, making his fingers and toes tingle.

“You said to try you,” he smirked, leaning back, “I see I’m not blocked yet,”

“Yet, Joseph,” she teased. She’d never block him. Not really. She couldn’t. Joe just laughed, keeping his eyes on her. She looked beautiful in this light. Her eyes sparkled, her skin glowed. There wasn’t anyone else like her. Nothing compared to her. The sun dimmed in her presence and the moon glowed brighter.

The night went on. Laughter and fond memories filled the table. Joe’s arm rested across the back of her chair, a familiar gesture. It looked intimate, like the two of them were finally an item. Robin’s smirk reflected her thoughts.

“You two together yet?” Robin asked, taking a sip of her wine. Jimmy and Joe gave Robin a look, but she just shrugged. She shook her head, her fingers tapping against her wine glass.

“No,” she felt her cheeks heat up, “don’t think that’ll happen,”

Joe looked over at her. He was shocked. His eyes widened, his heart stuttered in his chest. Was she serious? Had he not been obvious enough?

“Why not?” Robin asked, seeing the look on her son’s face. Y/N, clearly, didn’t see it.

“Don’t know,” she shrugged, “I think he likes someone else,”

“Yeah, you,” Joe told her, chuckling awkwardly. She chuckled along with him, completely missing it. Joe exchanged a look with his mom, who shrugged. He thought he’d been clear with how he felt. He thought he’d been so blatantly obvious with how she made his heart slam against his ribcage. How she made his world tilt.

Winter 2025

A marvel movie played in the background. The scent of popcorn filled the living room, buttery and warm. They were wrapped in a blanket, curled against one another. She’s focused on the original Avengers movie. His eyes are there, too.

But his mind is on her.

The season was hard. It brought him down so low. He played the best he’s ever played and they still didn’t make the playoffs. She was there for all of it. Not once did she make him feel like he’d failed her. She was at every home game, supporting him everywhere she could.

“Cap always looks so good in this movie,” she sighed, “what did that girl say? He looks like a glazed donut?”

“What?” He laughed, finally flicking his eyes to her. She was in his hoodie, curled under the blanket. She looked so soft, so warm. She smelled of cherries and vanilla; home.

“Can’t a girl thirst over a fictional character?” she hummed. She settled against him, earning a laugh. He slung an arm over her shoulders, keeping her close to him. His fingers drummed on her arm, a dull touch that sent matched the rapid fire rate of her heart.

And his heart was also pounding in his chest. He needed to say something. He needed to tell her how he felt because she clearly didn’t get it yet.

“Y/N?” he spoke up, softly. His tone was different than it had been in the past. His palms were sweaty, his skin hot under his hoodie. His eyes flicked over her face as she looked over at him.

“Yeah?” she asked. She could see it in his eyes. The tension. The intense emotions. Something weighed on him.

Joe gathered his thoughts. The movie still played, the scenes dancing in her eyes. His breath caught in his chest, and suddenly he felt nervous. She was a supernova, a once in a lifetime experience that he wanted to capture. She was the definition of beautiful, of a star being born.

“I’ve not made it clear enough, have I,” he stated plainly. She swallowed, her eyebrows knitting together.

“What?” She asked, turning her body to face him. Joe’s heart pounded in his chest, straining against his ribs. He swore he was going to pass out.

“I don’t just say the flirty things I say because they’re funny,” he started, “I say them because I mean them. I don’t just get bored and ask for you to come over because no one else can. I want you to come over. I don’t like anyone else. I don’t have eyes for anyone else,”

Her eyes widen with every word. Each syllable punctuates against her chest, drilling in the realization that Joe had feelings for her. Her chest tightens, her lips part with uneven breaths. She doesn’t speak. He’s not done yet.

“You…you’re the sun in my solar system. The stars in my night sky. There’s only you, Y/N. Only you. I’m in love with you, I have been for a long time,” his voice cracked, his hands shook. He awaited her response, his eyes flicking desperately over her features.

She was rendered speechless. No one had ever told her that before. No one’s ever told her that she was the center of their universe. It made her eyes prickle and her chest tighten. She wasn’t just wanted, she was needed. She wasn’t sure if she’s felt this needed before. She didn’t expect to hear it from Joe.

“You’re not joking,” she swallowed, her voice small. She couldn’t wrap her mind around the fact that he liked her. That he chose her above every model, above every other girl that wanted him. She was normal. There wasn’t anything special about her. Yet to Joe, she was more precious and more beautiful than the Hope Diamond.

“No,” he shook his head, “I’d never joke about that,”

His hand lifted. He cupped her cheek softly at first, silently asking if it was okay. His eyes drunk her in, all warmth and vanilla waves. He took a deep breath, his thumb tracing over her cheekbone. Her skin was soft, as he’d imagined it. Her eyelashes twitched, her eyebrows were still knitted together.

But she looked at his lips first.

The air around them buzzed. The world held its breath, waiting for the moment that everyone seemed to be waiting for.

“Can I kiss you?” Joe whispered, inching closer, his breath fanning her face. She was nervous, but damn if she wanted him to kiss her.

“Yes,” she nodded. He leaned in, his lips gently brushing hers. A whisper. A hint of his affection for her. He pulled back, only to kiss her again. A little deeper. Her lips were warm and she tasted sweet. His hand slid to cup the back of her neck, his head tilting, his nose bumping against her cheek.

His stomach churned. His mind exploded. Colors danced in his brain as his lips moved in effortless sync with hers. He’d been needing this. Her lips. Her touch. Her.

She deepened the kiss. One of her hands threaded through his hair, forcing shivers down his spine. Her body thrummed, nothing but affection and a deep warmth filling her veins. It was if she took a deep breath, cool and fresh air filling her lungs.

He was her fresh air.

He gently leaned her back. His arms hooked under hers, hands keeping her hair out of her face. Her arms looped around his, fingers delving into the thickness of his curls.

He kissed her deeper. Desperately. His tongue nudged against her bottom lip, and as soon as her parted lips bid him welcome, he sighed. His muscles relaxed, his brain seemed to have one thought. Her. His stargirl.

He kissed her like his life depended on it. He held her like she’d disappear. His lips moved with hers like they’d done with dance before, a tango that only they knew. Soft lips and desperate kisses signed the bottom line of a contract that read the evidence of his love.

He pulled away and she chased his lips, kissing him one more time before their lips separated. His forehead rested against hers, his nose brushing hers. He couldn’t believe it. He was so overwhelmed, so filled that he swore he was going to cry.

He wouldn’t though.

“Wish you’d realized that earlier,” he croaked with a laugh. She shared in that laughter, nodding her head against his. She’d been stupid, oblivious even. She hadn’t seen the obvious signs staring her in the face. She missed all of it.

“I know,” she moved her hands to cup his face, “but I’m glad I see now,”

“Me too,” he hummed. He dipped his head once more, capturing her lips in a heated, desperate kiss. He finally had his girl, his universe. He’d never let her go.

[willowsnook]

TONIGHT, YOU ARE MINE / JB9, TRACK 2

summary / joe doesn’t lose. but he does when she can’t make it to a game.

warnings / fem!reader, angst, fluff, smut (oral, m!receiving, p in v, unprotected sex)

note / from this point forward, if you’d like to submit asks about our little einstein and joey, pls do! it’ll help fill in the gaps between parts :)

tags / @willowsnook @irishmanwhore @iosivb9 @softburrow @burrowdarling @jburrgf @wickedfun9 @hotburreaux @starsinthesky5 @hannahjessica113 @joeyfranchise @joeyburrrow @joeyb1989 @burrowswomen @kazsbrckkers @sportyphile @ebsmind @justhereforthetea200 @joecoolburrow (comment/send an ask to be added!)

part 1

GAME DAY. The energy was electric. It cascaded down his spine. He’d spend the whole day with the team. He was excited, the thrill of another game chilling his nerves. They were undefeated at this point. Now they moved on to Florida.

He was up before she was. The sunrise was poking over the horizon, making the room a dim blue color. He slid out of bed, leaving the warmth of his sheets and her body.

“Baby,” a soft groan interrupted the silence accompanied by the whisper of sheets. Joe turned just as he slid his sweats on, watching as his girlfriend stirred to life.

“Mornin’,” he leaned down, hands pressed against the mattress, kissing the crown of her head, “sleep well?”

“Mmhm,” she hummed, stretching her limbs under the pillow. He was tempted to slide back under the covers with hers to feel her skin against his. He wanted to touch her, to feel her around him. He wouldn’t get that chance all day.

Joe slid his sweats back off, leaving him in his elastic boxers. He slid back onto the bed, his hand sliding across her back. He kissed between her shoulder blades, his hand roaming the expanse of her hips. Her skin was warm, perfumed with a scent of roses. She hummed under his touch, a soft smile blossoming on her lips.

“What’re you doing?” she asked, her voice a rasp as he kissed down her spine.

“I won’t be able to see you ‘til later,” he hummed against her skin, “just wanna be with my girl,”

She hummed, stretching her arms under her silk pillow. She loved mornings like this, that even though he’d leave for the stadium soon, he still found time to love her.

“You’re a mess,” she chuckled softly. Joe smiled, kissing back up her spine, his lips finding a home on her neck. He could feel her heartbeat under his lips, and he hummed against her skin. Joe pressed his weight on top of hers, making her grunt. His skin was warm, a reminder that she’d not feel it all day. Game days were torture.

“What’s wrong?” He hummed, running his hands up and down her sides. She let her eyes slide shut, letting his touch and his body become one with hers. This was the downside of keeping things private. She could go to the game, watch him play, cheer when everyone else cheers, but she’d never be able to greet him in the tunnel or on the field. She’d never be that girl.

“Nothing,” she sighed, “sometimes I hate this whole privacy thing,”

Joe remained silent. He felt the same. He pressed kisses to the skin between her shoulder blades, his mind roaming. He brought her up once to his mom, when they were friends, and it didn’t go well.

Flashback to a year ago, winter break

“Any of your friends in town?” Robin asked her son as he perched on a barstool. His hair had grown out, thick curls billowing at the very top of his shoulders. His dad wanted him to cut it; mom didn’t seem to have an issue with it.

“Yeah,” Joe contemplated, sitting on his hands, “one of them,”

Joe knew how his mom felt about his female friends. If they had a boyfriend, then she didn’t care. She was more open to having someone like Lola over, who Joe had known since Ohio State, and who was engaged.

But Joe wasn’t talking about Lola.

“Joey,” she smiled, pausing her fingers, “tell me who. You’re not bound to the house, you know,”

But to him, he was. His mom wanted him there all the time, she wanted him to do these events and talk to those people. She wanted him to go shopping with her, to have “mother-son” dates before he got big in football.

“Her name’s Y/N,” he started, settling his hands on the counter, “she’s in my political science class,”

“Does she have a boyfriend?” Robin asked. Not a beat skipped. Her fingers steadied on the knife, chopping onions for dinner.

“Mom-”

“Joe, you know how I feel about your single female friends. They’re a distraction, you need to focus on your career, on football. That’s what’s important,” She interrupted him, her eyes flicking up to meet him. She was serious. The lines of her face deepened, the knife pausing in her hands.

For some reason, it felt like a threat. It wasn’t, but the knife in her hands added to Joe’s hesitancy.

“She doesn’t have a boyfriend, mom,” Joe insisted, finding himself growing irritated with her, “but she’s smart. She’s helping me with political science,”

“Is she helping you with football?”

“Mom, please, she’s nice, okay? She’s not gonna make a move. She doesn’t even watch football,” Joe sighed, his fingers playing with the bracelets around his wrist. Joe found Y/N’s lack of football knowledge refreshing, even a challenge. He’d promised her one class that he’d get her fluent in football by the time they graduated. The more Joe interacted with her, the stronger her pull was. Joe got anxious, but with her it was warm. Easy. Y/N made him feel like he was the only man in the world.

“See? You can do better than her,” Robin softened her tone, as if that would help her son, “I don’t want you going on a date with her,”

“I’m almost 22 mom, I can date her if I want,”

“Excuse me?” Robin’s eyes went wide. The silence in the kitchen is deafening. It was thick with tension, and Joe felt his heart quicken inside of his chest. He was a grown adult, capable of making his own decisions. He didn’t know why his eyes widened, why his palms all of a sudden became sweaty. He didn’t know why he felt fear.

“I just meant that I’m an adult, and I like her. I really do, and I want to ask her out,” He corrected, his heart beating wildly in his chest. He was beginning to regret even mentioning Y/N, but he found himself wanting her right there. It was pathetic, and they weren’t dating, but Y/N was the breath of fresh air he so desperately needed.

“No,” Robin scoffed. Her eyes were hard, unforgiving. She wasn’t going to let her son date someone that wouldn’t further his career. She wasn’t going to let Joe, her Joey, leave her. The youngest son. The last to fly the nest.

“What do you mean no?”

“You’re not dating her, Joe. She’s going to be bad for you, she’s not going to help you. If you date her, we’ll pull you from LSU,”

“Mom,” Joe widened his eyes, his heart skipping a beat, “you wouldn’t,”

“I don’t want to, Joe. You’re thriving at LSU, but she’s going to tear you down,”

“You don’t know that,”

“I know how women think, Joe. Just leave her alone. Don’t even talk to her,”

Joe’s lips parted, shock evident on his face. His heart shattered, his chest heaving with his breaths. He’d appease his mother, but he wasn’t going to shut Y/N out. He couldn’t. He needed her.

“Fine,”

In that moment, when he stood from the barstool, he made the decision to ask her out when school was back in. They’d keep a secret. No one would know. Their own little world.

Present day

That argument with his mother often replayed in his mind. Every game, every fan interaction, every win he wished Y/N was there. He needed her there. Ever since he met her, she’s been more than the girl who sat next to him in political science class his junior year. She was the reason he went out onto that field and won.

“I know, baby,” he hummed, sliding his hands under her stomach, “I wish things could be different too,”

He really wished they were too. Y/N was the light of his life. His reason to get up. His reason to play as best as he could. He wanted to show her off, to talk about her in press conferences. He was so proud of her, and keeping this a secret felt like he was hiding her, that he was ashamed of her.

Silence crept in. They laid there, warmth enveloping them. Joe knew he needed to get up, but her body was warm. She didn’t want him to leave, knowing she wouldn’t see him until much, much later.

She couldn’t even talk about him.

She flipped, shifting under him so she faced him. His blue eyes were soft, an ocean under the soft pull of her moon. He rode the waves of her love, let her string him along and make his life easier. Routinely.

“Promise me one thing,” she hummed, cupping his face in her hands. He was growing stubble, the soft scratch of it under her fingers making Joe hum. He wanted to go baby face again, but she insisted he keep it. For now.

“Anything,”

“Be safe,” she whispered, words spoken in desperation, “be careful. I don’t know if I’ll be able to keep my hands off of you if you get hurt,”

Joe smiled, angling his face to kiss her palm. She was a worrier, but he didn’t care. Her concern meant the world to him, even if he always assured her there was nothing to worry about.

“I will,” he promised, “as best I can. It is football,”

“I know that,” she rolled her eyes with a playful tone, “but just…try, okay? Please?”

“I will, pretty girl,” he hummed, softly sliding his lips against hers. Her kisses were always warm, always seasoned with their need for one another. It went beyond any surface level emotion like lust or toleration, Joe needed her to breathe. Every kiss they shared, their breaths mingling together, was him letting her breath fill his lungs.

Joe pulled away, softly, the tingling in his belly begging for more. He couldn’t. Not even if he needed to.

“I’ll see you later?” he propped himself up on his hands, his arms bulging. His chest was chiseled, his soft hair falling in simple curls on his forehead. He was beautiful.

“You better,” she hummed, bringing him down for one more, tender yet passionate kiss, “you know what seeing you in your jersey does to me,”

“Oh don’t start, darlin’,” he drawled, the southern accent he’s picked up slipping into his tone, “you’ll have me later,”

He got up off of her, reluctantly, and changed into LSU sweats and pulled a shirt over his head. It wasn’t his gameday fit, but it was packed away in his bag. She’d picked it out too.

“Go get ‘em, tiger,” she smiled, hoisting herself up on her elbows. His sheets were perfect around her body, shrouding her like a goddess in the low morning light.

“As always, my love,” he murmured. Joe walked over, pressing a quick kiss to her lips.

“I love you,”

“I love you, too, J,”

5 minutes before kickoff

He always looked for her in the stands. She sat in the same place every time, knowing that he’d try and find her. She was his comfort, his good luck charm. Seeing her in the stands would ease his anxieties, would reassure him even. Sometimes he just needed to see her.

But he didn’t. She wasn’t there. She was always there.

“Bro,” Justin clapped him on the shoulder, snapping Joe out of his confusion. For a moment. Why wasn’t she there? Was she okay? Did something happen?

“Who’s got you in a trance?” Justin teased. He didn’t know about Joe and Y/N. He didn’t even know that Joe liked her. He just knew that they were once friends and now they weren’t. Supposedly.

“No one,” Joe murmured as time started. He grabbed his helmet, a simple aggression to his movement, sliding it over his head.

“Let’s kick their fuckin’ asses,” Joe murmured, watching special teams lined up for the kick. Justin didn’t know what had gotten into Joe, but whatever it was, Justin wasn’t going to mess with it. He knew Joe well enough that once he was in the zone, there was no getting him out of it.

2nd Quarter

It’s tied. Florida is putting up a fight. A good one, but LSU is better. Joe gets up from his run, and on instinct, he looks into the stands. She’s still not there.

“Where the fuck is she?” he mumbled as his teammates clapped him on the shoulder, shouting praises into his ear for making another 1st down.

End of 3rd Quarter

35-28. LSU lead. A hard fought game, and Joe’s focused. He’s locked in on throwing to JJ and Ja’Marr, and his success has put them ahead.

Except when he flicks his eyes to the stands again, she’s not there. Still. He can’t see her. Did she move spots? Did she come late and have to sit somewhere else?

Or, God forbid, she didn’t show up. Like she promised. The feeling sat heavily in his gut, pinching his chest. He needed her there, and she promised. Did the pressure get to be too much? Was this her Irish goodbye?

End of Regulation

She hadn’t shown up. LSU beat the Florida Gators 42-28. The crowd went insane, the cheers echoing in the stadium. His teammates clapped their hands on his helmet, and he did his best to enjoy the win.

Even when his girl wasn’t there.

He jogged back into the locker room alongside Ja’Marr and Justin, who were already making post-celebration plans.

“We’re going to the bar,” JJ announced, “and you’re joining us,”

Joe wanted to join them. He needed to. But he needed to figure out why she wasn’t there.

“Not tonight,” Joe nudged him back, “got something to take care of,”

“Ohhh he’s got a lady back home,” Ja’Marr teased, not knowing the truth in his own words.

“No,” Joe lied with a chuckle, “my parents are meeting up later. They want to celebrate with me,”

It was a lie. Flat on his face. Maybe it would come back to haunt him, maybe it wouldn’t. All that mattered is that Joe got his explanation from Y/N.

“Right right,” JJ sighed, “well, next time bro,”

“Next time,” Joe conceded, offering a close-lipped smile. He walked over to his locker, pulling his phone from his bag. There were several texts from her.

‘I’m so sorry J, but I had a meeting for an internship come up.’

‘It’s mandatory, and they weren’t willing to reschedule.’

‘Pls forgive me baby’

The string of texts soothed his irritation. Just a little. Just enough that he could text her back in that moment. Playing without her being there felt like driving a car that needs a little TLC. He played good, but he needed a little oil in his joints.

‘Are you done now?’ he texted, watching as the grey bubbles immediately appeared.

‘Yeah, I’m back at my apartment. Babe I’m sorry’

His thumbs hovered over his keyboard. He envisioned her, sitting on her bed, legs crossed under her. He could almost feel her skin under his, the warmth and the scent of vanilla filling his head. Her wide eyes as she watched her screen were plastered in his head.

Because she was wide eyed. She was freaking out.

Her internship coordinator sent out an email for an emergency meeting to be held that evening. It went over logistics of the internship and changes to policy. They were adding another trip, a longer one, to Germany in the summer. Something about analyzing old war technology.

The meeting, in retrospect, could have been an email. She thought it was useless other than getting to know others on her team better, but sitting there and going through rules and policy changes (like yes, don’t touch a centuries old document) was boring. She’d rather be supporting Joe.

‘Hang tight’ her phone buzzed with a text from Joe.

Guilt ate at her insides. She sat there on her bed, legs crossed under her, her hair freshly washed and damp down her back. Her room smelled of cherries and chai, a new scent of body wash she was trying. Though none of it seemed to relax the tight muscles in her shoulders.

While she was waiting on Joe, she went to YouTube. Maybe the highlights would be posted. Maybe someone would have made a video about it. Her eyes flicked over the screen, cursing under her breath when she didn’t find the highlights yet. Of course not. The game just ended.

She buried her face in her hands, running them down her skin. She should have just not gone to the meeting and went to see Joe instead. She should have kept her promise to him. All she wanted was to be a supportive girlfriend, to be the one that loved him even when no one else saw it. It was hard enough keeping things secret, to not love him in public.

A knock echoed in her apartment. She knew it was Joe. Her heart raced, her eyes widened. She stood from her bed, walked out of her bedroom and through the living room. The door opened, Joe standing in front of her. His hair was damp from his shower, his body adorned in comfier clothes.

But his expression wasn’t as soft as his outward appearance was.

“Joe-”

“I know,” he interrupted, stepping inside. He knew she was sorry. She nog only told him, but he could see her guilt carved into her face. Her eyes held every ounce of remorse, of genuine apology.

“You tried to reschedule?”

“I did,” she sighed, closing and locking the door behind her, “there were too many complications,”

“How mandatory was it?” He crossed his arms over his chest, facing her. The living room was lit by a single table lamp, casting warm shadows on their bodies. The atmosphere between them wasn’t at all warm.

“Like I’d lose the internship,” she replied. She could see it on his face; his irritation. She swallowed, taking a hesitant step closer. She wanted to make it up to him, to somehow make it better. Her chest hurt, and she’d already had her share of tears shed.

“So, what? The internship was more important than me? Than your promise?” He argued, his nostrils flaring, his jaw tightening.

“Joe, it’s not like that,”

“Y/N, I needed you there. You’re telling me some fuckin’ internship meeting lasted the entire three hours?”

“Well, no-”

“Then why weren’t you there?” he argued, his voice raising with every passing second. His blood was hot, rushing through his veins. He needed to be rational, to try and see her side of things, but it was so damn hard when all he could think about was her not being there.

And her silence spoke volumes.

“If you didn’t want to come, just say that,” he scoffed, shaking his head.

“I wanted to be there!” she snapped, “I wanted to watch you, I planned on it too. I went to that meeting with my gameday fit on. I expected to make it to the game,”

“But you didn’t,” he worked his jaw, shaking his head, “you didn’t, and I was left alone,”

His words are growled out, his throat raw from the game and his tone now. Silence filled the air again, and not because she was afraid of him. She wasn’t. She was baffled. She felt her guilt choke her.

“Let me make it up to you,” she whispered. She wasn’t the type to beg, to plead for forgiveness. No one deserved to see her on her knees.

Except him.

“How? How Y/N? Want me to go out there and play another four quarters just for you?” He snapped, raising his shoulders, his hands slapping at his sides. He appreciated that she wanted to make it up, that she felt bad, but it didn’t make the empty feeling in his chest much better.

“No, no Joe that’s not what I want,” she groaned. She ran her hands through her damp hair, the conversation between them more tense than she originally bargained for. She just wanted to apologize and it turned into an eruption.

Silence filled the air. It pulsed between them, alive and dangerous. It threatened to push them apart, to break them. But Joe had something else in mind.

Something that would get her on her knees.

“There’s something you can do,” he proposed, stepping forward. The charge in the air shifted, hot and intense. His eyes bore into hers, making her skin crawl. She knew that look. He wanted something.

Wanted her.

“What?” She asked, swallowing.

Joe didn’t answer. Instead, he showed her. His hands gripped her shoulders, applying just enough pressure so she got the memo. She sank to her knees, her heart skipping in her chest. She knew what Joe wanted; he didn’t have to ask.

Her fingers clenched around the waistband of his sweats, tugging them down his hips. Her eyes were wide, glossy with a desire to please. No one ever saw her like this, and he rarely ever saw her like this. Supple. Submissive. She wasn’t the type.

It fired his blood up.

His skin prickled as his boxers were done away with. He sat down on the couch, spreading his legs. Her head between his thighs was a magical sight, especially the way her eyes glowed.

His cock was swollen. Pre-cum slid down his red, sensitive tip, all down his shaft. He smelled like arousal. Musky and sweet. Despite the submissive stance she was in, Y/N never fully submitted to anyone. Not even Joe. Not even when he was this upset at her.

She dipped a finger into the pool of pre-cum at his slit, making his hips buck. He inhaled sharply, watching as she slid her finger into her mouth. So much for being submissive.

She grabbed the base of his cock, flattening her tongue against his shaft. His whole body had a reaction. His stomach coiled, his fingers flew to lace in her damp strands of hair. Her mouth around his cock sent electricity straight through his veins, making him twitch.

“Fuck,” he groaned, widening his legs. Her mouth engulfed him, sliding down his cock until the tip kissed the back of her throat. She repeated the action. Up and down. Her tongue swirling around his slit. Hands squeezing his base.

All of it making Joe’s thighs ache and his stomach churn.

“Look so good, baby,” he managed to rasp, focused on her thick eyelashes and flushed cheeks, “like a fuckin’ goddess,”

Her mouth and hands traded off. She’d suck, then she’d stroke. On and off again. Bringing him closer to that brink of pleasure. His arousal thickened, soaking his cock with hints of her saliva. When his balls tightened, when his cock twitched, he pulled her head from him.

“Gonna fill you up,” he rasped. Her clothes were shed, discarded somewhere on the floor. She climbed into his lap, cunt dripping with her own thick arousal. Breaths mingled together, moans filled the room as she settled down on top of him.

“My girl,” Joe gritted his teeth, thrusting up into her. Her gummy walls were hot, soaked with her arousal. She swiveled her hips, her hands gripping the muscle of his shoulders. He guided her movements, keeping her steady.

“Just like that,” he praised, his lips brushing hers, “keep ridin’ me,”

It was slow. Sensual. Filled with unmet promises and forgiveness. With every drag of his cock, every bounce of her hips, their tension unwound. The earlier argument dissipated into air, and what instead filled their chest was a primal need to feel each other.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered as her hips bounced, ass meeting his hips. His hips thrusted up, creating such a force between them that he could barely speak. The ache, the electricity, the way her pussy felt around his swollen cock all made his head spin.

“Shh,” he cooed, his hand sliding up her back, “just feel good right now, pretty girl, just keep going,”

And she did. Whimpers fell from her lips, their bodies shifting to be pressed against each other. His arms held her in place and he fucked up into her, balls slapping her skin, his cock hitting her g-spot. This was what he needed. Her closeness. Her scent. Her.

“Joe,” she moaned into his neck. She was close, teetering on the edge of the knife.

“Let go,” he whispered in her ear. Her orgasm flooded over her, the force of it making her body tremble. His cock pulled out, her body convulsing as a mixture of squirt and cum fell from her slit, soaking his stomach. He reinserted, his hand cupping the back of her neck.

“So good,” he moaned, chasing his own release, “so sexy, so beautiful,”

With one final thrust, he spilled into her. He moaned into her neck, keeping her flush against him. Everything quieted. The buzz. The static. All of it fell from its crescendo. Their breaths filled the room, the soft, sticky sounds of their bodies coming undone flickering in and out.

“I love you,” Joe murmured. His hands cupped her face, his eyes boring into hers. He wanted her to see it, to feel it. He needed her to. That despite their argument, he’d always love her.

“I love you,” she whispered. Their lips met, soft and gentle. Their skin still pressed against each other, hearts beating in sync. His hands pushed hair out of her face as his lips moved in gentle rhythm with hers.

“I’m sorry for yelling, and I do forgive you for not making it,” he murmured once he pulled away.

“It’s okay,” she sighed, melting against his skin. His fingers traced patterns on her back, each touch, each pattern soothing and bringing her down. They grounded each other, kept each other sane.

Moments passed. Bodies shifted. The two of them ended up in her bed, limbs tangled together. She laid on his chest, drawing shapes while his fingers curled into her hair. They didn’t need to say words. Their bodies spoke for them. Warm and soft. Satisfied with their lovemaking. Satisfied with each other. That’s all they’d ever need.

Each other.

[willowsnook]

⸻ ⸻ ⸻

Just a nose

Pairing: Lando Norris x fem!Reader

Genre: pre-relationship, fluff, teasing, cozy chaos

Word Count: ~3.3k

Summary: You always sleep buried under your blanket like a burrito—with only your nose peeking out. Lando finds out.

Masterlist

⸻

It’s 8:43 in the morning and Lando’s standing frozen in your doorway like he’s just discovered the eighth wonder of the world.

You’re completely hidden under your duvet. Like, completely. Head, hair, ears, everything—except for the tiny tip of your nose poking out on the side like a little periscope.

The rest of you? Absolutely encased in blanket. Mummified. Like a cryptid in hibernation.

Lando stares. Blinks once. And immediately starts laughing.

“What is that?” he whispers to himself, voice cracking from holding back. “Is it… is it breathing?”

He takes a cautious step closer to your bed, still clutching the mug of coffee he went to make while you were asleep. Your room is quiet. Soft morning light filters in. The only sign of life is your nose, barely moving with each sleepy exhale.

“Oh my god,” he whispers again, and sets the coffee down before he drops it. “It’s just a nose. It’s literally just a nose.”

You shift slightly under the covers, just enough to twitch the blanket.

Lando gasps—like you’re a mythical being and he’s just seen it move.

“I’m sleeping,” you croak, voice muffled by several inches of cotton.

“Are you?” he says, grin wide. “Because all I see is a nose. A single, suspicious little nose. Is it attached to a person? Unknown.”

You groan and burrow deeper.

“Stop.”

He kneels beside the bed like he’s examining rare wildlife. “Is this… a defense mechanism? Like a turtle? Is this a new human subspecies? Blanketus Maximus?”

You let out a half-snort, half-laugh from under the duvet, despite yourself.

“I do this every time I sleep, Lando,” you mumble.

“Yeah, but I’ve never seen it in its natural habitat,” he says. “This is so much better than I imagined.”

“You imagined it?”

He shrugs. “You always say you like to be ‘cozy cozy burrito warm,’ but I thought that meant, like, wrapped up. Not full-on blanket cocoon with just the nose of truth poking out.”

He gently boops said nose.

You twitch away like a gremlin. “Rude.”

“I’m sorry,” he says, not sounding sorry at all. “I just… I need to understand the science behind it. Is the nose out for ventilation? Like, you need one small breathing hole so you don’t overheat and die?”

“Exactly,” you mutter.

Lando sits back on his heels, stunned. “Wow.”

You finally peek your eyes out from the blanket, brows furrowed.

“What?”

“That’s adorable. Like. Stupidly adorable. I’m fighting for my life here.”

You duck back under with a loud sigh. “Stop making it weird.”

“You’re the one who sleeps like a secret agent avoiding infrared lasers.”

“You’re the one standing in my room monologuing to my nose.”

“I think I’m in love with it.”

You burst out laughing under the covers.

“Lando.”

“Y/n.”

“Go away.”

“I can’t. I’m emotionally attached now. You don’t understand. This nose? She’s my best friend.”

You peek one eye out again. “She?”

He nods solemnly. “She guided me through darkness. When all hope was lost, your little nose said: ‘breathe, Lando… there is light still.’”

You throw a pillow at him, which he catches midair like a smug little brat.

“You’re such a menace,” you say, grinning despite yourself.

He plops down next to your bed, resting his chin on his arms like he’s settling in to keep talking to you forever. His smile softens just a bit.

“You’re lucky you’re cute.”

“Stop flirting with my nose.”

“Never.”

You roll your eyes, then go quiet for a second.

Lando notices.

You break the silence first. “Most people made fun of it.”

He blinks. “What?”

“The blanket thing. Like. In sleepovers or trips. I’d always get called weird. Or dramatic. Someone would pull it off and I’d freak out. It’s not really a joke to me.”

Lando’s expression softens immediately. “Hey. I’m not making fun of you.”

“I know,” you say, voice quieter. “It just… it feels better when you say it’s cute. Even if you’re teasing.”

He nudges your shoulder through the blanket.

“I mean it, though. I’ve never seen anyone sleep like that, and now I don’t ever want to see you sleep not like that. It’s so you.”

You smile.

A beat of silence.

Then he adds, deadpan:

“I might get matching nose holes in my blanket. Solidarity.”

“Don’t you dare.”

“I’m just saying. Nose buddies.”

“Lando—”

“Let me in the burrito.”

You laugh so hard the blanket shifts completely off your face.

“Absolutely not.”

He grins wide. “One day. I’ll earn it.”

“You’ll need a nose pass.”

He taps his own nose. “Already got one.”

You shake your head, still laughing, still buried.

And Lando watches you, warmth blooming quietly in his chest, like maybe—just maybe—he already loves you a little more than he should.

⸻

It’s a week later when Lando makes his move.

You should’ve known he was planning something. He’s been weirdly quiet all evening, suspiciously well-behaved—not trying to steal your snacks, not playfully kicking your foot under the coffee table, not calling your hoodie “the world’s saddest blanket with sleeves.”

Which means, of course, that he’s plotting.

And that theory is confirmed when you’re halfway asleep in your bed, snug in your Certified Nose-Only Sleep Position™, and your door creaks open with the quiet menace of a horror movie.

You groggily lift the corner of your blanket. “What are you doing?”

Lando’s standing in the doorway in a hoodie three sizes too big and a mischievous glint in his eye.

“I come in peace,” he whispers.

“Do you?” you mumble suspiciously.

He holds up a fuzzy blanket of his own like it’s a peace offering.

“I’ve come to learn the ways of the burrito.”

You blink.

“…what?”

“I’m ready,” he says solemnly, stepping closer. “To be one of you.”

You squint at him. “You’re not serious.”

He’s already kicking off his socks and climbing onto the mattress beside you. “I brought my own blanket. I’m a respectful guest.”

“You’re invading sacred ground.”

“I’m here to apprentice under a master.”

You snort. “There are rules, Lando.”

“Teach me.”

“You’re not ready.”

“I am the blanket now.”

“Oh my god.”

But he’s already halfway under his own blanket, dramatically mimicking your sleeping style—pulling it over his head and leaving just his nose peeking out.

“Like this?” he muffles.

You pause.

Okay. It’s… weirdly cute.

The tip of his nose is all you can see, just barely sticking out from the fleece. He looks like some kind of cozy shark emerging from the depths.

“You’re not bad,” you admit. “But your nose is crooked.”

“Rude.”

“And it’s too far out. You’ll get chilly.”

“I need nose guidance, Sensei.”

You shift slightly and tug your own blanket tighter around your ears. “Okay. Rule one: full coverage. No hair, no eyebrows, no rogue ears. You are one with the blanket.”

“Got it,” he nods. “No stray limbs. Maximum burrito integrity.”

“Exactly.”

“Rule two?”

You hum. “Temperature regulation is key. Nose stays out. Just enough to breathe. No mouth.”

“I almost suffocated a minute ago.”

“That’s part of the training.”

“Holy sh—okay.”

He adjusts again. His blanket rustles as he wiggles into place, trying to match your form. You watch with a raised brow as he squirms, shifts, and eventually knocks a pillow off the bed.

“Is this a test of endurance or flexibility?” he asks through the muffled fabric.

“Both.”

He groans.

There’s a long pause, the kind of quiet that only exists when it’s late and soft and the room is dark and filled with the smell of shared comfort.

Then Lando breaks the silence.

“…I’m cold.”

“Because your nose is too far out.”

He peeks one eye at you. “Can I—can I come into your burrito?”

You go still.

For a second, you don’t say anything. Your heart jumps up into your throat and stays there, pulsing warm and nervous.

“…You want to be in my burrito?”

He nods seriously. “I’ve realized mine is inferior.”

“You’re the one who said you wanted your own.”

“I was cocky. I see that now.”

You narrow your eyes. “What’s your blanket’s thread count?”

“I dunno. Soft?”

You shake your head slowly. “Disgraceful.”

“Please,” he begs. “Just five minutes in yours. Five. I won’t move. I won’t breathe loud. I’ll be respectful.”

You consider. He’s already halfway leaning toward you, face still mostly hidden, eyes wide with exaggerated innocence.

You sigh. “Fine. But if you move too much, you’re banished.”

He salutes you, then immediately slithers under your blanket like a man on a mission.

There is zero grace. He drags half the duvet off you in the process, elbows you in the side, and nearly faceplants into your pillow.

“Lando—!”

“Sorry! Sorry! I’m adjusting! I’m aligning my soul!”

Eventually, he settles. He’s awkwardly squished up beside you now, both of you facing the same direction, noses barely peeking out, sharing the same warm space.

He exhales slowly.

“…Wow.”

You blink, trying not to focus on how close he is. His foot brushes yours. You don’t move it away.

“Yeah?”

“I get it now,” he whispers. “This is the peak human experience.”

“Told you.”

“You’re warm.”

“You’re squishing my shoulder.”

He pulls back half an inch. “Better?”

You nod.

A few seconds pass.

“…You smell nice,” he mumbles, quieter.

Your breath catches.

You want to say something back—anything—but your throat’s suddenly too tight.

Instead, you just shift slightly closer, the tiniest lean, until your forehead brushes against his.

He doesn’t move away.

“Thanks for letting me in,” he whispers.

“…You’re not so bad, for a burrito rookie.”

He chuckles. “Don’t fall in love with me in here.”

You scoff. “Too late.”

He goes quiet.

Your heart stumbles.

And then—

“Me too.”

⸻

It happens again.

And again.

The first time, you think it’s a fluke. He stays the night, claims it was too late to drive home, and you catch him quietly sneaking back under your blanket burrito at 2 a.m. like a gremlin in socks.

The second time, he doesn’t even bring his own blanket.

“Not gonna pretend anymore,” he says casually, holding a bag of snacks in one hand and his phone in the other. “I’m joining yours. Make room.”

You try to act annoyed. You really do. But your heart’s already thumping at the sound of his voice. You only huff and roll over, lifting a corner of the blanket without saying a word.

Lando grins the whole way in.

It becomes a thing. A routine.

You don’t even talk about it anymore. He’ll show up late, hoodie loose, socks mismatched, and just give you that look—the one that means, scoot over, I’m cold, I come in peace. And without thinking, you do. You always do.

Sometimes, he pretends to take it seriously.

He’ll solemnly ask, “Are you ready to guide me once again, Master Burrito?”

And you’ll nod with mock gravity. “Only if you bring offerings.”

He hands you a cookie and calls it a sacred rite.

Sometimes you laugh so hard you knock heads and both yelp like children.

Other nights, you’re quiet. You don’t need to talk. He just curls around you, forehead to your shoulder, legs a little tangled, noses peeking out like two conspirators under one roof of warmth.

And somewhere in the space between “just friends” and “definitely something else,” you start to crave the silence. The closeness. The way he always fits just right under your blanket like he was always meant to.

But you never talk about that part.

Until the fourth night he stays over.

You’re both under the burrito—your burrito, obviously—and watching a movie on your ipad, screen dimmed, faces inches apart. It’s late. You’ve both stopped pretending to care about the plot. The screen plays on, but neither of you are watching it.

You feel Lando shift a little.

His nose brushes yours.

You freeze.

So does he.

“…Was that part of the sacred ritual?” he whispers, voice barely audible.

Your breath hitches. “Might be.”

“I think I’m ready for the next level, then.”

You turn your head slightly, not quite meeting his eyes. “There’s only one more level.”

“What is it?”

“…You stop pretending it’s a joke.”

The silence is thick now. You can hear your heart. You can feel his.

Lando exhales, slow and unsteady.

“I’m not pretending,” he says softly.

Your stomach flips.

You turn your face fully to his. You’re still hidden under the blanket, your noses still the only thing exposed, but now you’re nose-to-nose. Barely a breath of air between you.

“You’re not?” you whisper.

He shakes his head the tiniest bit. “Not even a little.”

You blink once. Then twice.

And then—

He leans in.

It’s not a kiss, not really. It’s the promise of one. A brush of his nose against yours. A press of his forehead to yours. The way his hand finds yours under the blanket and gently, so gently, twines your fingers together.

You don’t move away.

You don’t want to.

“You make it hard to sleep,” you murmur.

He smiles. “You make it hard to leave.”

You let yourself tuck into him, pulling the blanket tighter around you both.

“You’re staying?”

“I’m never leaving,” he whispers into your hair.

And for the first time, you believe him.

⸻

The morning after is a gentle kind of chaos.

You wake up to the soft glow of sunlight seeping through the blinds, your face buried in the warm, comforting space where Lando’s chest meets your cheek. The blanket is still over both of you, and somehow, it’s stayed intact through the night, a fortress of warmth. His hand is still loosely holding yours, the skin of his fingers cool against yours in the early morning.

For a moment, you think you’re dreaming. That the whole night was just some product of your imagination. The way his thumb gently brushes over the back of your hand, the quiet rise and fall of his chest beneath your ear.

But no. He’s here. You’re here.

You stir slightly, trying to shift without disturbing him, but the movement wakes him up anyway.

Lando groans softly, the sound muffled by the blanket. “Morning,” he mumbles, voice rough from sleep.

“Morning,” you reply quietly, still half-dazed, unsure of what to do. You’re tangled in the blankets, in his arms, in the soft, fuzzy warmth of this moment. Is this real? you think.

His eyes flutter open, bleary and slow, before they meet yours. He blinks a few times like he’s not sure if this is real either, but then his lips curl into a sleepy smile.

“Hi,” he says, like he hasn’t seen you in a thousand years, even though you’re right here, inches apart.

“Hi,” you reply, unsure whether you want to laugh or stay quiet. 

What now?

His hand moves up to your cheek, fingers brushing your skin as if testing the waters. It’s light, hesitant. But it feels like a promise in the way he holds your gaze.

“Did you sleep okay?” he asks, still not quite pulling away, still close enough that the proximity feels dangerous but comfortable.

You nod. “Yeah, surprisingly.” Then you add with a teasing smile, “You’re not so bad to sleep with.”

He grins, his eyes lighting up. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Before you can reply, there’s a loud noise from the other side of the room.

“Y/n! You up yet?” A voice shouts from the doorway, too cheerful for this early hour.

You both freeze.

Lando’s expression shifts to pure panic, his eyes wide as he slowly pulls his hand away from your face. “Shit, Carlos.” 

You sit up in a hurry, yanking the blanket further up around you like it could somehow protect you both from whatever is about to happen.

The door swings open, and Carlos’ head pokes around the frame, his eyes immediately landing on you and Lando, still tangled in the blanket, clearly a bit too close for comfort. His eyebrows shoot up, then fall into a dramatic frown.

“Uh-huh…” he says slowly, as if analyzing the scene. “So, this is what’s been happening under my roof?”

“We share rent for god’s sake, Carlos!” You say while rubbing your eyes with both of your palms.

“Carlos!” Lando exclaims, his voice pitchy in panic as he scrambles to sit up, his hands trying to straighten his messy hair. “We were just—”

“You were just, huh?” Carlos interrupts, a smirk curling at the corners of his mouth. “How’s that blanket burrito working out for you?”

You’re blushing now, the embarrassment flooding your cheeks like a tide. “We—we were just sleeping?” you reply, fumbling for something to explain the situation that makes it sound less… weird.

“Sure,” Carlos says, rolling his eyes. “Looks like the burrito’s a little too cozy for just sleeping, huh?” He gives Lando a teasing look, his smirk only growing. “Well, I’m glad to see my friend is finally learning how to share his blankets.”

Lando glares at him, trying to make himself presentable. “Carlos, seriously, can you not?”

“Fine, fine, I’m going,” Carlos says, his grin never fading. “But next time, try to keep it under wraps a little better, yeah?”

With that, he pulls his head back through the door, leaving the two of you in stunned silence.

Lando lets out a breath, half-relieved, half-embarrassed. “I’m sorry. He’s just—he’s just teasing me.”

You laugh softly, the tension finally breaking. “It’s fine. Honestly, it’s not like he doesn’t know what’s going on. I just… didn’t expect him to barge in like that, he never does.”

“Yeah, well, you get used to it.” Lando’s smile is lopsided, his hand rubbing at the back of his neck. “So, uh, should we talk about what happened last night?”

You blink at him, a mixture of hesitation and curiosity swirling in your chest. “What do you mean?”

He shifts closer again, his tone suddenly more serious, more vulnerable. “I mean, we kinda got… close, didn’t we? In more ways than one.”

You nod slowly, unsure of how to put into words the mess of emotions that’s slowly growing inside you. “Yeah. We did.”

The quiet between you both feels heavy now, like it’s asking for something more.

Lando clears his throat. “So… um, I don’t know what that means for us. But I want to figure it out. If you do, too.”

His eyes search yours for any sign of uncertainty, but all you see is sincerity. And maybe something more.

You take a deep breath. “I think I want to figure it out, too.”

The smile that breaks across Lando’s face is enough to make your heart do a funny little flip in your chest. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You let out a quiet laugh. “But you’re not getting any more blanket space unless you stop teasing me.”

“Deal,” he says, leaning in again, this time with more purpose, more certainty in his movements.

And this time, you let him. This time, when his lips brush against your forehead, you feel the warmth spread through you like wildfire.

“Just know,” Lando says softly, still close, “that this is only the beginning, okay?”

You can’t help but smile. “I’m counting on it.”

The two of you settle back into the blankets, the world outside fading into the background as you both stay wrapped in your little cocoon, a place where no one else can intrude. And maybe, just maybe, this is the start of something more than either of you expected.

Until you hear a pan dropping to the floor in the kitchen, echoing through the whole apartment.

“Carlos!” You and Lando groan at the same time, and after a beat of silence, burst out laughing.

God, how you love this.

⸻ ⸻ ⸻

Masterlist

[willowsnook]

SO WE CAN—MEDDLE ABOUT

Oscar Piastri x Reader | Angst, nsfw

SULI: one thing about me is i love writing toxic relationships, uts my guilty pleasure and don't look at me that way, you still read it, and almost every time oscar is my victim🤌 also how do you like the new look? finally figured out how to get custom colors, i really like it (also im obsessed with this color) (also yes this Is inspired by oscar starting his modeling career) it has a long intro but it's worth it besties

SUMMARY: she's the chaos he can't stop chasing. inspired by the song "meddle about" by chase atlantic.

WORD COUNT: 7,437 (i know i'm unwell)

WARNINGS: toxic situationship, swearing, smoking, talk of past abusive relationship on readers side, sexual scenes (switch!oscar but mostly sub, oral, unprotected sex (don't be stupid wrap it before you tap it))

The bass was low — not loud, but thick enough to crawl under your skin, the kind of beat that pulsed at the base of your spine and made your glass tremble just slightly where it rested against the slick marble bar.

It was too late, too quiet, too intimate in that penthouse suite. The city glittered outside the windows, distant and uncaring. Inside, the air was laced with expensive perfume, lazy conversation, and something unspoken.

You shouldn’t have been there.

But then again, neither should he.

You felt it before you saw him — that pull. Like the room shifted ever so slightly to accommodate him. The hairs on your neck rose, sharp and alert, trained to recognize his presence even after everything. Especially after everything.

You turned.

And there he was.

Oscar fucking Piastri.

He was leaning against the opposite side of the bar like he hadn’t ruined you in a hotel room a month ago and vanished like he hadn’t kissed your throat like it meant something.

Black dress shirt, sleeves casually pushed up to his elbows, a few buttons undone — enough to expose the sharp line of his collarbone. He looked clean, but not untouched. Eyes dark. Jaw tight.

He was looking right at you. eyes on you like he hadn’t almost just thrown a career out the window for you a month ago.

Like you were inevitable.

You scoffed under your breath and turned away, lifting your glass again.

“Didn’t think you’d be stupid enough to show up,” you muttered, not sparing him a glance.

There was a pause. A single, loaded second. Then his voice — quiet, clipped, familiar in a way that ached like bruises you didn’t want to check for.

“Didn’t think you’d be here either.

But then again… you’ve never been great at staying gone.”

You rolled your eyes and raised your drink in a lazy, mocking toast.

“Aw. Still bitter I didn’t stay for breakfast?”

He moved before the glass even reached your lips — smooth, silent, suddenly beside you, like your proximity was inevitable. The smell of his cologne hit you first. Clean. Sharp. Too precise for someone who had once kissed you like he couldn’t get close enough, fingers digging into your skin like he was trying to memorize you.

“Still pretending it didn’t mean anything?” he said, voice low. Just for you.

You smiled without warmth. Didn’t even look at him.

“Still pretending you didn’t like it?”

You felt it — that tiny flicker in his jaw. A twitch. Nothing most people would notice. But you did.

You always noticed.

“You're switching up now? You said no strings,” he bit out.

“And you said just once.”

Finally, you turned to him. Met his eyes.

They didn’t look away. Neither did yours.

Seconds passed. The silence stretched and settled between you like smoke curling off a lit match.

“You look good,” he said eventually. Voice quieter this time. Like a truth slipping out against his will.

You tilted your head, letting your lips curl.

“And you look like you’re still trying to convince yourself I was a mistake.”

“You were.”

It was meant to hurt. And it almost did.

You smiled instead — something sharp and dangerous.

“So why are you still staring at my mouth like that, pretty boy?”

That shut him up.

His tongue slid slow across his bottom lip, gaze falling for half a second — exactly where you knew it would.

You stepped in just slightly. Enough for the tension to thicken. Still not touching.

“You came here to forget me?” you whispered.

A muscle ticked in his jaw.

“I came here to remind myself.”

“Of what?”

“Why I shouldn’t want you.”

Your smile turned crueler. Prettier.

He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. But you could feel it.

That barely contained thing between you — want, resentment, need.

Like both of you were daring the other to break first.

You leaned in, close enough that your shoulder brushed his chest, slow and deliberate as you grabbed your clutch from the bar.

“You still play pretend real well,” you said, softly, as you turned your back to him. “But I see right through you.”

You didn’t wait for a response.

You walked away — hips swaying, heels sharp on the marble — knowing he was still standing there, eyes burning into your back.

...

The camera clicked like a heartbeat, fast and deliberate, and the lights pulsed hot against your skin.

You didn’t blink.

Didn’t breathe.

You didn’t have to. Not when you were in front of a lens. You’d mastered this years ago — the art of control, of looking straight into a camera like you could ruin someone with just a glance. And you often did.

“Beautiful. Hold it—perfect. Chin up. Eyes on me—yes. That’s the one.”

You shifted slightly, jaw tilted, mouth parted just enough. Another click. Another pose. Another perfectly rehearsed expression that would end up plastered on a billboard in Milan or New York or Monaco — maybe all three.

Your stylist stepped in to adjust the collar of your oversized blazer, smoothing the silk lapel. Hair and makeup hovered nearby, watching every strand, every smudge.

But you didn’t break. You didn’t drop character.

Not until the photographer finally said, “That’s a wrap, love. You killed it.”

You let your shoulders drop slightly — the smallest release of tension — and stepped back from the set, the bright light fading behind you.

“You always make it look so easy,” one of the assistants murmured as she handed you a bottle of water.

You gave a quiet, tired smile. “It is.” Not cocky. Just true.

You pulled your phone from the dressing table as you sat down, flipping through a few texts, ignoring most of them — PR messages, another designer asking if you’d walk their show, and a photographer begging for another campaign.

And then your screen lit up.

[CALL INCOMING: N/n 🩶]

You raised an eyebrow. Lexi never called.

You swiped up. “What’s up?”

“Are you sitting down?” she said instantly, her voice practically buzzing.

You looked around. “N/n, I’m literally in full glam with a six-person team around me. Yes, I’m sitting. What happened?”

“You’re gonna love this. Or hate this. Or both.”

“N/n—”

“Oscar just signed with IMG Models.”

You blinked. “…What?”

“Yeah. Like your agency. As in, the one you’re the face of. As in, your team now works with him too.”

“You’re joking.”

“I wish I was. But nope. My manager just texted. Apparently it’s part of a whole ‘new talent crossover’ thing they’re doing — more athletes, more faces, more ‘modern masculinity’ or whatever.”

You leaned back in the chair, jaw tight.

Oscar. Here. Now?

In your world? Your space? Your territory?

“Did he ask for it?” you asked quietly.

Lexi paused. “…I don’t know. But it’s official. He’s one of you now.”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t have to.

You stared at your reflection in the dressing room mirror — red lipstick still flawless, eyes still sharp, hair still perfect.

And for the first time in a while, your heartbeat ticked up just slightly.

Oscar Piastri.

“Oh,” you murmured, voice cool as glass, “this should be fun.”

...

The conference room smelled like citrus water and damage control. You were still in full glam, post-campaign shoot, long legs crossed in your seat at the head of the table like you owned the place — because honestly, you kind of did.

Your manager sat beside you. IMG's brand PR sat across from you, grinning too much for it to be good news.

“So,” the PR girl started, all polished teeth and tone, “you know how the internet is. They’ve been… spiraling lately.”

You raised a perfectly shaped brow. “About?”

“You and Oscar.”

That earned a pause. Not because it surprised you — the rumors had never fully gone away. Pictures. Sightings. A few blurry shots of you leaving a hotel at the wrong hour. Someonecatching you two talking in a hallway but your face wasn't visible.

Nothing ever confirmed.

Nothing ever denied.

Just enough to keep the internet guessing.

“We haven’t commented on anything,” your manager said evenly.

“Exactly,” PR Girl chirped. “Which is perfect. It’s all so mysterious, and no one knows what’s true or what’s fake. So we figured… why not lean in?”

You blinked. “Lean in.”

“Just a little! Lightly! In a fun way! You two already broke the internet without trying. So we’re thinking… shoot together. Just one. Minimal press. Something cheeky. Like, 'Look! The rumors were silly and here we are just being hot together for fun!'”

You stared at her.

“You want us to shoot together so people stop thinking we’re involved?”

“Yes! Exactly! Like reverse psychology. Play into it so they stop believing it.”

You had to bite back a laugh.

If only she knew.

“And you think that’ll work?”

“Totally! It’ll be iconic. A moment. The whole internet will be like, 'wait, are they or aren’t they?'”

You tilted your head. Thought for a second. Then:

“And he said yes?”

The PR rep faltered. “We… haven’t asked him yet.”

You hummed, looking out the window. The LA skyline was washed in golden-hour light. It should’ve felt calm. It didn’t.

He was the last person you wanted to be in front of a camera with.

Because you knew what would happen.

The tension. The sparks. The way he’d look at you like he still remembered the way you tasted.

The way you’d look back.

You swirled the condensation on your water glass with a finger.

“I’ll do it,” you said finally, cool and unreadable, “if he does.”

“So like… if he says yes…?”

You turned back to her with a small smile that didn’t reach your eyes.

“So Oscar,” the agent across from him said, grinning a little too brightly. “We wanted to bring something to you — low-pressure, totally optional.”

“Okay…”

“You’ve probably seen the rumors. Online. About you and Yn.”

Oscar didn’t blink. Didn’t shift. Just held their gaze, neutral.

“Right.”

“Well, obviously we’ve never confirmed anything. But the buzz is still insane — the engagement, the edits, the conspiracy-level breakdowns of your paddock interactions—”

“People get bored,” he said flatly. “They’ll move on.”

“Sure, sure. But while the attention’s there, we thought… why not have fun with it?”

Oscar didn’t say anything.

So the agent leaned forward a little, hands clasped like they were pitching something harmless.

“One shoot. With her. Just something cheeky and clean — like, ‘this is all a joke, right?’ Sort of playing into it without confirming anything. Everyone wins. You look good. She looks good. The internet dies for a week. Boom.”

Oscar’s throat was dry. Not that he’d let it show.

She was here.

She was still in this building. Maybe down the hall.

He hadn’t seen her in weeks. Not since that night. Not since the afterparty where she looked at him like she wanted to bite and kiss him all at once. Not since she walked away with his name still caught between her teeth.

“She agreed to this?” he asked, voice cool.

“Only if you say yes.”

Silence.

He exhaled once. A single breath through his nose. Short.

He thought about the last time they were in front of a camera — not for work. Just someone catching them in the background of something. The grainy footage, the way her hand curled into his hoodie. The way she was laughing. The way he was looking at her like the world had quieted.

He thought about the fact she didn’t deny anything.

He thought about the fact he hadn’t, either.

Oscar shifted slightly, leaned forward.

“I’m in."

The agent blinked. “Just like that?”

He nodded once. No emotion. Like it meant nothing.

“If she’s in, I’m in.”

...

The studio was quiet when you walked in — sterile, cold, bathed in soft white lights and humming equipment. Stylists buzzed around, photographers adjusted angles, assistants clutched mood boards with references taped to the corners.

You walked like you owned the floor.

Because you did.

Outfit number one was sleek — Grey dress pants with matching shirt, Dark dirty Green leather Coat. You didn’t say a word as you stepped up to the monitor to glance at the set. The background was minimal. Industrial. Clean. Deliberate.

He was already there.

Oscar stood to the side, mid-conversation with the creative director, dressed down in all black of ysl's new collection — wide-legged trousers, a fitted white shirt with a dark blaser. Hair slightly messy like someone had styled it to look like he just rolled out of bed.

Which, to be fair, was exactly how he used to look when he was in yours.

He didn’t turn. But he felt you. The moment your heels hit the floor. His shoulders stiffened just a little — subtle — but enough. You caught it.

You always caught it.

“We’ll start with spacing,” the director said. “Some tension. Back-to-back maybe. Then we’ll play with angles, bring you closer. We’re thinking like… casual intimacy but with bite. Like you don’t trust each other but you’re obsessed.”

You smiled slightly.

“Typecasting,” you murmured.

Oscar didn’t look at you. But his mouth twitched.

The first few shots were simple.

Back-to-back. Arms crossed.

A little distance between you.

“Closer,” the photographer said. “Look at the camera.”

You obeyed. Head high. Eyes cold. You felt Oscar shift behind you, shoulder brushing yours. Heat bloomed in your spine.

“Now turn toward each other — not facing. Just slight. Like you’re mid-argument.”

You turned. So did he.

And for the first time in weeks, you were face to face.

His eyes dropped to your mouth, just for a second. You noticed. You didn’t move.

“Don’t look at each other,” the assistant said quickly. “Look slightly off. More… detached.”

But neither of you listened.

“Shouldn’t have said yes to this,” you muttered under your breath.

Oscar’s voice was even lower.

“You told them you would if I did.”

“Didn’t think you’d actually do it.”

“You always underestimate me.”

“You always follow me.”

He didn’t answer that.

“Alright,” the photographer said, oblivious, “now we want him behind you — just slightly. Hand on her waist. She’s leaning back like she doesn’t care.”

You turned your head slowly. Raised a brow.

Oscar’s jaw clenched. He stepped into position.

His hand found your waist.

It was nothing. Light. Professional.

But your skin remembered.

And from the way his fingers flexed — so did his.

“Relax,” you whispered, not looking at him.

“I am.”

“You’re not.”

“Neither are you.”

The next few shots blurred.

Touch. No touch. Closer. Shoulder grazing chest. His breath at your ear. Your lips parted just slightly — and not for the camera.

The room was full. But it felt empty. Just you. Just him. Just the version of this moment you lived through before, without the lenses and the stage lights.

“Alright,” the director said, more excited now. “Last few. Real close.”

You turned to face him. Oscar’s eyes didn’t blink.

Your hands lifted — one at his chest. Just barely there.

“You’re good at pretending,” you murmured.

“So are you.”

“Is that what this is? Acting?”

Oscar didn’t smile. Didn’t breathe. His voice was low.

“You tell me.”

The shutter clicked.

...

You arrived just before Quali — early enough to be seen, late enough to be talked about.

McLaren staff were already buzzing around the paddock like clockwork, drivers in and out of press pens, team radios crackling in the background. And then there was you — stepping through the McLaren hospitality entrance like it was a runway.

White trousers. Cropped black top. Hair effortless. Sunglasses sharp. The lanyard around your neck glinted in the sun:

IMG MODELS — GUEST OF MCLAREN

The cameras caught you immediately.

So did the fans behind the barricades.

You paused just long enough to smile politely, wave once, let someone snap a photo of you beside the papaya-colored car parked outside the garage. Casual. Easy. The kind of effortless presence people couldn’t look away from.

Inside, the PR girl from IMG smiled like this was all going according to plan.

“We’ll do a few photos by the car, then if you’re down, maybe say hi to Lando — he’s always good with guests. You can hang back for a bit if you want, no pressure.”

“No problem,” you replied, voice calm, already scanning the garage.

Oscar wasn’t there.

You took the offered spot beside the car, one hand on the halo, your other slipping into your pocket. You smiled — just slightly — as a photographer clicked a few shots for socials.

“Can I post one?” the comms guy asked.

“Go ahead,” you said. “Tag my agency, not me.”

You walked inside a moment later — greeted warmly by a few team members, all of whom looked a little too excited, a little too rehearsed. The kind of welcome that said we’re pretending this is casual but nothing about this is casual.

That’s when Lando spotted you.

He grinned, pulled his sunglasses up, and crossed the garage.

“Well, well. What a surprise,” he said, arms open in mock drama. “We’re letting the runway elite into the garage now?”

You smirked. “Didn’t realize this place had a dress code.”

“It doesn’t,” he said, giving you a quick hug. “But you might’ve just set one.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t hide the smile.

“How long are you here?” he asked, leaning casually against a tire stack. “Just today?”

“Weekend. IMG wanted me to ‘soft tease’ the campaign. Whatever that means.”

“Oh, it means chaos,” Lando said, grinning. “It means half the grid is going to start pretending they’ve been fans of yours for years.”

“What about you?”

He shrugged. “I’m still recovering from seeing the unedited shots on the agency drive.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “You’re impossible.”

A few team staff came over, asking politely if you’d mind taking another photo — this time with the McLaren banner. You posed effortlessly, answered one or two questions from the embedded F1 media, and slipped right back into your “guest mode” posture.

Polished. Beautiful. Untouchable.

Just like a normal celebrity.

And yet…

Every few minutes, someone stole a glance toward the entrance.

Waiting.

Oscar stepped into the McLaren garage like he always did on race weekends — focused, quiet, sleeves half-zipped, fireproof top clinging to his frame. The headset around his neck bounced gently as he walked past the engineers, nodding at a few familiar faces.

He was mid-step when he saw her.

You.

Leaning against the back wall near the monitors, sunglasses pushed to the top of your head, chatting lightly with Lando like you didn’t just make the entire internet combust by showing up. One of your hands casually held a cold drink, the other gesturing mid-sentence.

Oscar paused. Just for a second.

Barely noticeable.

But she noticed.

Of course you did.

Your gaze flicked toward him, unreadable behind perfect lashes, then back to Lando, as if you hadn’t seen him at all.

As if you hadn’t touched his waist last week like it still belonged to you.

As if his hand hadn’t lingered just long enough to hurt.

He exhaled and kept walking.

“Oscar! Can I grab you for a sec?” a staffer called. “Driver brief’s ready.”

“Be right there,” he said, slipping past the tire stack—just close enough that his shoulder nearly brushed yours.

Neither of you spoke.

The silence burned.

Then—of course—the one person who had no idea what they were interrupting appeared.

“Hey hey!” chirped the McLaren content admin. Early 20s. Bright smile. Dangerous energy. “Can I get a quick photo of you two for the team page?”

Oscar froze. You blinked.

Lando visibly smirked and stepped back like he wanted no part of it.

“Just one shot!” the admin said, holding up their phone already. “The fans are gonna lose it —We’d be dumb not to.”

Oscar glanced at you. You looked at him.

Brief. Electric. Painfully awkward.

“Sure,” you said first, already adjusting your stance.

You stepped beside him, not too close, but not far enough to make it weird.

Your hands fell to your sides.

His stayed tucked into his race suit.

Then — right before the shutter clicked — you turned slightly, threw up a peace sign, and scrunched up your face in a little ironic ‘please end me’ kind of smile.

Oscar huffed out a breath that was half a laugh, half a sigh.

“Perfect,” the admin beamed. “Thanks, guys!”

You stepped away instantly, already reaching for your water bottle like nothing happened.

Oscar opened his mouth to say something — maybe — but before a word could come out, the speakers in the garage crackled to life.

“Green light at the end of the pit lane. Qualifying begins now.”

And just like that, he was being pulled back into the chaos — helmet in hand, engineers swarming, mechanics giving final checks.

He looked back once.

You were watching the monitors now. Calm. Still. Untouched.

...

Race day

The sun was blinding.

The crowd roared so loud it felt like the concrete shook under your heels.

And somewhere through all of it — the orange of the team uniforms, the headsets and the champagne on ice — you heard someone yell:

“He’s done it!

Piastri wins the Grand Prix!

What a drive from the Aussie!”

Your stomach dropped before your heart could catch up.

You hadn’t planned on being this close to the garage. Hadn’t planned on watching that closely. But the moment the checkered flag waved, the moment Oscar laughed across the radio, the moment his engineer shouted “That’s P1, baby!” — you couldn’t look away.

The McLaren team erupted around you.

People yelling, hugging, jumping, crying.

Then the screens changed.

His car pulled into parc fermé.

Helmet off. Eyes wild. Grinning like a boy again.

Hair messy. Sweat dripping.

And then he looked straight into the camera.

Dead center.

Through the lens. Through the monitor. Through you. Your breath caught.

Because somehow, you knew. He wasn’t just looking at the camera.

He was looking at you.

He pumped a victory fist in the air.

...

It took time — too much time — for the garage to empty.

For the cameras to pack up. For the champagne to stop flowing.

For the celebration to finally, finally fade.

But when it did, you slipped away. Quietly.

To the back corridor — the one behind the media room, where the fluorescent lights buzzed softly and no one ever bothered to look.

You leaned against the wall.

Eyes closed.

Pulse still steady from the chaos.

And then —

you heard him.

Before you could open your eyes, he was there.

Oscar’s arms slid around your waist, firm and quiet, and his face dropped into the curve of your neck like he was trying to remember how it felt to breathe.

His lips brushed the skin just below your jaw.

Not a kiss. Not quite.

But close enough.

You didn’t move. Didn’t speak. You couldn’t.

“Come with me,” he said, voice hoarse. Low. Wrecked.

Your breath hitched.

“Oscar—”

“At mine,” he said, softer now. Like if he said it any louder, he’d break.

You pulled back just slightly, just enough to look at him.

His face was flushed, eyes still bright with adrenaline. Hair messy. He looked exhausted. Raw. Real.

“You just won a race,” you raised a brow. “You should be celebrating.”

His hand tightened against your waist.

“I don’t want to celebrate,” he said, eyes on yours. “I want you.”

The words hit you square in the chest.

You searched his face, looked for the tell — the mask, the smirk, the dismissal.

But it wasn’t there.

Not this time.

Still, he added:

“Just tonight.”

You laughed once — sharp, soft, broken.

“It’s never just anything with us, Oscar.”

His jaw clenched. His hand moved to the side of your neck. His thumb dragged across your skin like he was trying to memorize it.

“Then lie to me,” he whispered.

“Please. Just this once.”

You stared at him for one long, aching second.

Then you nodded.

And let him lead you out the side door.

No words. No cameras. No headlines.

Just him. And you.

And every lie you both wanted so badly to believe.

...

The door slammed shut behind you.

You didn’t even get a full breath in before Oscar’s mouth was on yours — fast, desperate, no hesitation. His hands gripped your waist, tugging you forward, like he couldn’t stand another second of space between you.

“Oscar—” you gasped against his lips, but he didn’t let you finish.

He kissed you harder. Like an answer. Like a plea.

Your back hit the wall, cool paint against overheated skin, and his mouth broke from yours just long enough to breathe against your neck — hot, open-mouthed, hungry.

“I couldn’t stop thinking about this,” he muttered, voice low and wrecked.

“All day. The podium, the cameras—you.”

You pulled his shirt up, nails dragging along his spine, and he groaned into your shoulder, teeth grazing the skin just above your collarbone.

“You said just tonight,” you whispered, head tipped back. “You lied.”

He nodded once against your skin. Didn’t even try to deny it.

His hands slid under your top, fingers splaying across your stomach like he was relearning you.

“You’re not mine,” he said quietly. “But fuck—you feel like you are.”

Your lips found his again, fiercer now. Like punishment. Like surrender.

The jacket you wore dropped to the floor.

Shoes kicked off. His shirt peeled over his head. You didn’t remember who undressed first, only that it wasn’t fast enough.

“This means nothing,” he muttered, breath shattering across your collarbone.

“Then stop touching me like it does,” you shot back, hand tangled in his hair.

He pushed you harder against the wall.

Didn’t stop.

Your back hit the wall again, and this time, Oscar dropped to his knees.

There was no warning. No teasing. Just the sound of his breath catching as his hands pushed your pants down and his mouth followed — fast, greedy, desperate.

“You’ve been driving me insane,” he murmured against your skin, voice so low it vibrated.

“Wearing that smug little peace sign smile in the garage like you didn’t know what you were doing to me.”

You laughed — breathless — and threaded your fingers into his hair.

“You won a race,” you whispered. “You should be celebrating.”

He looked up at you through thick lashes, lips already parted.

“I am.”

And then — nothing but tongue and teeth and heat. Wrapping his pretty mouth around you, ge dove right in, didn't bother starting slow, he knew you hated easing into it.

You gasped, legs trembling, one hand braced on the wall behind you, the other buried in his curls. He held your thighs like he was anchoring himself there, groaning low in his throat every time you shifted your hips toward his mouth. Following your movement so you rubbed on his nose, making your leg twitch.

It wasn’t slow. It wasn’t soft. It was craving.

He knew every spot.

Every sound.

Every way you tried not to fall apart.

And when you did — when your knees buckled and your breath stuttered out in a broken gasp —

he pulled away just enough to kiss the inside of your thigh like it was a secret.

Then he stood.

You were still dizzy when he caught your face in his hands, forehead pressed to yours.

“You always come back to me,” he said, so quiet it hurt.

“You always let me,” you breathed.

He kissed you again. Slower this time. Mouth open, deep, messy. You could taste yourself on his lips. You didn’t care.

You pulled his sweats down and palmed him through his boxers, making him hiss between clenched teeth.

“Don’t tease,” he muttered.

“You don’t get to beg and give me rules.”

“You think I’m begging?” he growled, backing you toward the kitchen.

You hit the counter edge. He spun you around.

“Oscar.”

“Tell me you didn’t think about this,” he said, pressing against you. His hand wrapped around your throat, gentle but firm, holding you still as he rutted his hips into you.

“Tell me you didn’t imagine it every night since that fucking shoot.”

You couldn’t speak.

“That’s what I thought.” he said, his grip tightening around your throat, breath hot against your ear, hips grinding into you like he was already inside.

But then—

Your hand came up fast and hard against his chest.

“Back off.”

Oscar froze. Shocked.

Just for a second.

You turned, your eyes locked on his, and then shoved him — hard — until his back hit the opposite edge of the kitchen counter.

“You think you can keep doing this,” you said, breath heavy, mouth swollen. “Push me up against every wall like I’m yours.”

His jaw clenched. His hands twitched at his sides.

“Aren’t you?”

Your laugh was dangerous.

You stepped closer.

Slow.

Hips swaying with calculated cruelty.

“You want control so badly,” you whispered, dragging your fingers across his chest, nails scratching just enough to make his breath hitch.

“But you look so fucking pretty when you let go.”

Before he could answer, your hand wrapped around his throat — firm, unrelenting. You pushed him further back until he was pinned, head tilted up, eyes dark and wide.

“Let me hear you beg for it, Piastri.”

His throat flexed beneath your fingers.

His lips parted — breathless, stunned, wrecked.

And then he smiled. Crooked. Dangerous.

“You’re a menace.”

“You like it.”

You kissed him — teeth clashing, lips bruising — and palmed him through his boxers again, this time slower, dragging every motion out like punishment.

He swore under his breath.

Your grip on his throat didn’t loosen.

“You gonna stop me?” you asked, nipping at his lower lip.

“No,” he breathed. “Don’t.”

You dropped to your knees.

He barely got a warning before you had him in your mouth — no teasing, no hesitation. Just taking him, deep and fast, until his head dropped back and one hand tangled helplessly in your hair.

“Fuck—” he gasped, already shaking.

You pulled back just enough to speak, lips slick, eyes burning up at him.

“Look at you,” you said, voice soaked in pride. “So fucking obedient.”

“I’m not,” he rasped.

You licked the tip, slow and mean. “Liar.”

Then you took him again, hand gripping his thigh to keep him where you wanted him. He was panting now, jaw clenched, trying not to fall apart too fast — trying to pretend like he was still in control.

But he wasn’t.

Not right now.

Not when you had him like this.

And when his stomach tensed, hips twitching, that broken noise slipping out of his mouth?

You stopped.

He nearly choked.

“What the—” he started, breathless, wrecked.

You stood. Pressed your body against his. Tugged his head back down to yours.

“You don’t get to come,” you whispered, lips brushing his. “Not until I say so.”

Your hands were already on his chest when you shoved him down onto the bed.

Oscar landed with a grunt, legs falling open, hair a mess, pupils blown. He tried to sit up, but you climbed on top before he could even breathe right.

“No,” you said, voice low, steady, already tugging your shirt off. “Stay down.”

He obeyed.

Of course he did.

You straddled his thighs, nails dragging across his stomach as you leaned forward. His hands skimmed your sides, up, up—

“Off,” he said, voice rasping. “Please.”

You raised a brow.

“My bra?”

He nodded. Just once.

You let him reach. His fingers fumbled with the clasp — too eager — and when it finally slipped off, he pushed the straps down slow, eyes locked on your chest like it was the only thing tethering him to Earth.

“Fuck,” he whispered, hands now splayed across your back, pulling you down until your breasts brushed his chest. “You’re unreal.”

“And you’re too cocky for someone about to whine into the mattress,” you smirked.

He opened his mouth — probably to deny it.

Too late.

You reached down, lined him up, and sank down in one long, slow motion that had both of you gasping.

His head hit the pillow.

His hands gripped your thighs, hard.

“Holy shit,” he choked out. “Fuck—wait—wait—”

“Nope,” you purred, rolling your hips slow. “You said you could take it.”

You didn’t give him a chance to adjust.

Didn’t let him settle.

You just moved — smooth, deliberate, pace building with each bounce of your hips, each grind of your body against his.

His hands scrambled for purchase — your waist, the sheets, your back.

But you were faster. Meaner.

You pinned them above his head.

“Hands off,” you whispered, breath hot in his ear. “Be good.”

He whined.

Oscar fucking Piastri whined.

His head twisted into the pillow, lips parted, voice caught in his throat as you rode him harder, deeper, rhythm dragging him toward the edge with no mercy.

“You look so pretty like this,” you said, licking across his jaw. “Under me. Useless.”

“I’m not—” he tried to argue, but you clenched around him and he groaned.

Back arching. Face twisting. Destroyed.

“What was that?” you teased. “Did you say something?”

He swore again. Loud this time.

“Please,” he rasped. “Let me—fuck—let me come, please—”

You tilted your head. Smiled.

“Beg better.”

“I need you,” he gasped, thighs shaking. “Please. Please, let me come. I can’t—I need to.”

You slowed your hips just slightly. Enough to make him twitch.

“Good boy,” you whispered. “Come for me.”

He did — hard, breath shattered, whole body tensing beneath you as he groaned your name like it was the only word he knew.

You didn’t give him a moment to catch his breath.

No time to recover. No pause for his body to stop shaking from the first round.

You wanted him just like this — trembling, desperate, wrecked.

And you didn’t let him get comfortable.

You shifted off him slowly, almost teasing, as he lay there, chest rising and falling in quick breaths, looking up at you like he was waiting for your next move.

His eyes were full of that cocky charm he always had, but you knew better. This wasn’t the same guy who’d walked in here all cool and confident.

He was about to get broken again.

You crawled back onto the bed, straddling his waist, and pressed your palms into his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart beneath your fingers.

“Ready for round two?” you asked, voice a smooth, low command.

Oscar’s lips parted, eyes already clouded with need. He reached up as if to grab you, but you slapped his hands away.

“No touching,” you warned. “You’ve had your turn. This time, you’re mine.”

He swallowed, eyes blazing, but he nodded.

You sank back down onto him, but this time, you moved even slower, feeling every inch of him stretch you, his body reacting to yours in ways that made your head spin. His hands fisted the sheets, knuckles white, holding himself back as you ground down, circling your hips in a way that made him throb inside you.

He gasped. “Fuck… you’re gonna kill me…”

You just smiled, leaning down to kiss him, slow and deep, forcing him to taste himself on your lips as you rocked your hips harder, quicker.

“You’re gonna have to beg for it again,” you whispered against his lips.

Oscar’s eyes went dark, the challenge flashing in his gaze. “Don’t make me.”

You bounced on him with deliberate rhythm — slow at first, then faster. Every movement had him groaning through clenched teeth, eyes squeezed shut like he was fighting himself just as hard as he was holding back.

You leaned down, lips brushing the shell of his ear.

“You gonna be a good boy and ask nicely?”

He shook his head — a lie.

“I don’t beg, please—,” he rasped, barely above a whisper.

So you clenched around him.

Hard.

And dragged your hips slow — torturously slow.

Oscar gasped — sharp, shaky.

You grinned.

He writhed beneath you, chest heaving, fingers clawing the sheets like they could save him. You grabbed his jaw, forcing him to look up at you, all flushed and wrecked and undone.

“Come on,” you said sweetly. “You know the words.”

He blinked up at you, lips trembling.

And then—

“Please,” he breathed. “Please, let me come. I can’t take it—fuck—I need to, I swear—”

You moved harder.

“More.”

“Please, let me come—please, I’ve been good, I’ll do anything, just—fuck—please, please, I’ll say it, I’ll say anything—just let me come inside you, I need to, I can’t—please.”

It came out ragged. Broken. Honest.

Oscar Piastri: Begging. Whining. Falling apart.

For you.

You leaned down, mouth at his throat, licking the salt of his desperation.

“That’s it,” you whispered. “Good fucking boy.”

And then you gave it to him — fast, hard, rough — watching his face twist in relief and ruin as he came with a choked groan, your name all tangled in it.

He’s lying flat on his back, ruined.

His hair’s a mess — curls flattened in some places, wild in others from where your fingers tugged.

His face is flushed pink, deepening down his neck, collarbones slick with sweat.

There’s a faint bite mark on his shoulder.

Your lipstick smudged across his jaw like a claim.

His chest rises and falls fast — like he still hasn’t caught his breath.

There’s a vein in his throat you didn’t notice before, pulsing from how hard he tried to keep it together.

His lips? Red. Kiss-bruised. Slightly parted.

His tongue keeps darting out like he’s trying to swallow down a whimper.

One of his hands is still tangled in the sheets, knuckles white. The other’s resting on your thigh, thumb twitching.

He’s bare, completely open to you, eyes glassy and dark.

And he’s looking at you like he doesn’t know what the hell just happened —

but he’d beg for it all over again.

“You look smug,” he breathes, voice wrecked, eyes dragging down your body.

“You should.”

He tries to sit up. Can’t.

Falls back, groaning.

“You’ve actually broken me.”

You lean over him, and his fingers dig into your thigh like instinct — needy and helpless and still hard.

“You’re not done,” you whisper.

“Fuck.”

...

The room was still warm with the echo of everything they'd done.

Sheets rumpled. Breathless tension slowly cooling in the air.

But your body no longer ached.

Only your chest did.

You sat on the floor, back against the bed, Oscar’s shirt draped over you — sleeves too long, hem brushing your thighs. You didn’t bother buttoning it. Your cigarette burned low between your fingers, and the wind from the open balcony kissed your face in soft intervals.

Behind you, Oscar was half-covered in the sheets, one arm folded underneath his pillow, the other reaching toward the side you’d left empty again, staring at the wall like it had answers he couldn’t ask you for.

Then—

“...You can never give anything up, can you.”

You blinked, gaze fixed on the cigarette.

“What? The smoking?” you said with a light scoff. “Yeah, I know. I’m working on it.”

He didn’t respond.

You turned your head slightly. The silence behind you stretched too long.

And when he spoke again, his voice was lower. Tired.

“Not just that,” he said. “Everything.”

You frowned.

“Oscar—”

“This tension. Us. Your grudges. Your anger. You never let go of anything.”

His voice wasn’t cruel.

But it was honest.

Too honest.

“God forbid someone tells you something you don’t want to hear—suddenly everyone’s your enemy. Suddenly you disappear. Again.”

“Oscar, drop it.”

“No,” he snapped, sitting up. “I’m the angry one this time. I’m the one upset.”

You stood, crushing the cigarette into the ashtray.

“You don’t get to pull that shit—”

“Why not?” he cut in. “Because I’m not your fucking ex?”

You froze.

He stood too. The sheet dropped from his waist, but neither of you noticed anymore. Not with how loud the silence became.

“You know why you’re like this?” he said, stepping closer. “Because of him. Because of the way he twisted you into thinking love meant control. Meant silence. That letting someone take care of you was weakness.”

Your jaw clenched.

“Stop.”

“You survived him. You fought your way out. That’s fucking strength.”

You tried to walk past him. He blocked you.

“Oscar, I swear to God—”

“But you haven’t let go of the war. You still fight everyone who tries to get close.”

His hand reached for your arm — not to hurt, not to stop — but to hold.

To say I see you.

You yanked it away.

“Let. Me. In,” he pleaded, voice breaking. “Just once. Let me be gentle with you. Let me caress you.”

You snapped.

“No.”

The word hit the room like a slap.

“I don’t want soft,” you hissed. “I don’t want gentle. I don’t want to be fucking held and kissed and told it’s going to be okay like I’m some broken little thing you can glue back together.”

Oscar stared at you. Hurt blooming behind his eyes.

“That’s not what I see when I look at you.”

“No? Then what do you see?”

“Someone who’s still bleeding.”

You didn’t speak. Couldn’t.

The wind picked up. The curtain fluttered.

Your breathing was uneven, lips parted, hands curled into fists.

He stepped closer again — slower this time, cautious like you were wild and wounded.

“You don’t have to be like him,” he whispered. “With me, you don’t have to control every part of the room just to feel safe.”

The worst part wasn’t that he said it.

It was that he meant it.

“Just let me try.”

That sentence.

So small. So soft.

And it ripped through your chest like a blade.

You moved. Fast.

Faster than your breath.

You grabbed your underwear from the floor, stepping into it like it burned. The hem of his shirt slipped up, exposing the bruises blooming across your thighs — his fingerprints.

Oscar flinched.

“Wait—what are you doing?”

You didn’t answer. Just reached for your pants, pulling them on inside out first, cursing, ripping them off, and shoving them on again — the right way this time. Your hands were shaking so hard it took three tries to zip the fly.

“Hey—hey, talk to me,” he said, stepping off the bed, barefoot, voice climbing. “You don’t have to go. Just—just stop for a second.”

“No.”

You grabbed your bra. Snapped it on too tight. Didn’t care.

“I need to leave.”

“You’re not thinking straight—”

“No. You’re just used to me not thinking straight.”

You reached for your top, still wearing his shirt, and that’s when he reached for you — his hand around your wrist.

“Please.” His voice broke. “Just stay.”

You yanked away so hard it left a red mark.

“Don’t touch me right now.”

“Why not?” he snapped. “Because I’m the first person who ever told you the truth? Didn't make you believe a lie and fuck you after?”

You stopped dead.

Then turned slowly.

“Fuck. You.”

“You already did,” he bit back, pulling his own boxers on.

You pulled your own shirt over your head, too fast, nearly catching the collar on your chin. His shirt was left crumpled at your feet.

“You think I’m running?”

You grabbed your bag from the chair, slinging it over your shoulder.

“I’m fleeing, Oscar. There’s a difference.”

He followed you to the door.

“Then stay. Fight. For once, don’t bolt the second it gets real.”

“And do what?”

Your fingers fumbled with your bag. “Let you sit there with your soft hands and your kind words and—what—fix me?”

“I never said you were broken.”

You spun.

Now fully dressed. Fully armored. Fully pissed.

“Then stop looking at me like I am!”

He reached for you again, slower this time, both hands hovering like he was scared to touch.

Like you might shatter if he did.

You backed away like you might burn if he didn’t.

“You don’t have to prove anything, you know,” he said, softer.

You opened the door.

Paused.

Then slammed it shut behind you.

The echo of it bounced off his bare skin.

And all that was left was the scent of you. The sound of you.

And a shirt on the floor he couldn’t bring himself to pick up.

Taglist, comment to be added; @angstynasty @cryinghotmess @mits-vi @dramaticpiratellamas @mimisweetz @mrssaturday @chiara8104 @moonlight-girls-posts @linnygirl09 @rue-t @danielricroll @the-vex-archives @trees-are-books @blodwyn4u @yoruse @ccrickett-t @l-a-u-r-aaa @multifans-things @woderfulkawaii @azrinableuet @mayax2o07 @everyday-is-sunday365 @devilacot @faithxyu @freyathehuntress @suibianupyourass make sure you can be tagged!

[willowsnook]

Give Me a Chance

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Reader

Summary: Max has always been a playboy, fast cars, faster flings. You’ve always been his best friend. Falling for him was risky… but loving him? That’s where it gets dangerous. Because what if you’re just the next chapter in a story that always ends the same?

12.1k words / Masterlist

You didn’t mean to fall in love with him.

In fact you had tried for most of your life really hard not to.

Because Max Verstappen was the kind of boy mothers warned you about, fast cars and faster flings, cocky grins and charming stories. He lived like he raced, pedal down, never looking back, always chasing the next high. Everyone knew what Max was like off-track. He was beautiful, reckless, magnetic. The kind of man who could have anyone, and often did.

The kind of man who didn’t pause to consider consequences, only cared about momentum. About the next thrill, the next win, the next warm body to fall asleep beside and leave before dawn.

There was always someone new.

Models, influencers, heiresses, you’d seen them all. Blonde, brunette, redheads, tall, short, sultry, polished. Faces blurred together after a while, barely distinguishable from one another in the parade of photo ops and club exits. They came and went like pit stops momentary distractions before the real race resumed. They wore his hoodie for a week, posted cryptic captions with champagne emojis, and disappeared just as quickly. You knew the pattern. You watched it play out like clockwork.

Headlines followed him like smoke, inevitable, choking, impossible to ignore. Paparazzi shots of him slipping into back doors of nightclubs, lip-locked with someone who’d be labeled a “mystery woman” for twelve hours until internet sleuths figured it out. Tabloids loved him. “F1’s Wild Child.” “Heartbreaker Verstappen Strikes Again.” And he never denied it. Never corrected the record. In interviews he wore that playboy reputation like armour. Let them believe what they wanted. Flashed that sly, sideways grin and shrugged when asked about the girl from the weekend before.

“Just friends,” he’d say. Or, “I don’t remember,” with that maddening smirk that made people want to slap him or kiss him or both.

He walked into a room and the air changed. People noticed him. Women wanted him. Men envied him. He didn’t have to try, and maybe that was the most dangerous part he never had to try. He craved connection the same way he craved speed, intense and immediate, but never built to last.

He broke hearts without meaning to. Gave people memories they’d replay for years while he forgot their names. He wasn’t malicious. Just... restless. Always moving. Always wanting. Always leaving.

And still, people fell for him. Hard. Like you did.

Even when you swore you wouldn’t.

You saw it all up close in the shadows of his chaos, tucked just behind the cameras and the curated smiles. The one he called when things inevitably crashed and burned. When the sparkle wore off and the girls realised they were nothing more than another fleeting thrill. The one who waited outside hotel rooms, keys in hand, while he cleaned up another mistake with tired eyes and a muttered, “Can we go now?”

You knew the rhythm. You lived it. The cycle. The drama. The aftermath. You told yourself it didn’t hurt. That being the best friend was better than being temporary.

But Max made it hard. He always made it hard.

With you there was no performance, no pretending. With you he was real. Raw. Honest in ways he never showed anyone else. You saw it in the quiet moments, when the world wasn’t watching. The nights in his Monaco apartment when the lights were low and his voice went soft. When you asked each other questions about things no one else cared to know, dreams, fears, family. When he looked at you like you mattered.

He learned your moods, your silences, your tells and knew exactly when to make you laugh or when to sit beside you and say nothing at all. Once when you got sick he flew back as quick as could and he stocked your freezer with your favourite soup and sat on the floor of your apartment watching old movies with you, refusing to leave until you promised you felt better.

He laughed with you in a way he didn’t with anyone else, loud, unguarded, tears in his eyes as he doubled over at some stupid inside joke that would’ve made no sense to anyone else. He remembered the names of your cousins. Your favourite flower. The way you always tapped your fingers twice before answering a hard question.

It happened slowly, then all at once.

One smile at a time. One stupid smirk, one inside joke, one sleepy “goodnight” over the phone. Until one day you looked at him and realised you were completely and utterly ruined. Heart gone.

You buried it deep with sharp-edged sarcasm and playful teasing. You clapped for him on podiums, rolled your eyes at his bravado, kept your late-night talks locked up tight like something fragile.

Lately however, it’s been harder to breathe around him. Harder to ignore the way his hand lingers when he touches you. The way his voice dips low when he says your name. The way he looks at you like he knows. Like he’s been watching you just as long, and he’s finally seeing it too.

Still, you don’t let yourself believe.

Because you remember the girls. The flings. The ones who thought they were different. You remember the rumours, the morning-afters, the hungover apologies. You don’t want to be another girl on a list he swears he never made. You don't want to become just another story Max forgets when the next race comes.

You want to matter, and that’s the scariest part of all.

It happens one rainy night in Monaco.

The rain taps gently against Max’s floor-to-ceiling windows, streaking down the glass like it’s too tired to fall properly. The world outside is blurred, soft around the edges like maybe even Monaco is holding its breath.

You’re curled up on the corner of his massive sectional, legs tucked beneath you, his hoodie swallowing you whole. It smells like him, something sharp and expensive and faintly like motor oil. Familiar in a way that hurts if you think too hard about it.

Max moves through the space like he owns it, barefoot on hardwood, quiet in a way he rarely is. He hands you a drink without asking, the same one he makes you every time you're here. Like clockwork. Like ritual. He settles in beside you with a soft exhale, the kind he only lets out when it’s late and you're the only person in the room. He doesn’t sit on the other end, he never does, he sits close and his thigh brushing yours.

“You’ve been quiet lately,” he says, low and careful, like he’s easing into a conversation he’s rehearsed in his head a hundred times and still isn’t sure he’s brave enough to have.

You keep your eyes on the rain. “I’m just tired.”

He doesn’t respond right away. Just lets the silence stretch, broken only by the steady hum of the storm outside and the soft clink of ice in your glass.

Then, flat and certain. “Bullshit.”

You blink. Look at him.

He’s already watching you with that frown he only gets when something’s wrong, but this one’s different, more confused.

You force a shrug, weak and defensive. “You’ve been busy too. With your… dates.”

It comes out sharper than you meant. You hate the way it sounds, like an accusation, betraying how much it hurts.

You sip your drink quickly, like maybe that can swallow the truth down before he notices it.

“I haven’t been seeing anyone,” he says eventually, and there’s a strange tension in his voice, as if the words are uncomfortable on his tongue. Not because they’re a lie, but because they’re heavier than he expected them to be once said aloud.

You scoff before you can stop yourself. “Since when?”

He doesn’t answer right away.

You glance over, prepared to catch him in some vague half-truth, but he’s not squirming or flinching. He’s just… still. He’s choosing his next words carefully, whatever he says next matters more than he knows how to explain.

“For a while now.” He swallows, eyes fixed ahead. “Since I realised no one else is you.”

You blink.

“I don’t know the exact moment,” he says slowly. “It wasn’t one thing.”

He turns toward you, gaze steady despite the nerves thrumming beneath the surface.

“I think it started after that night in Austin,” he murmurs.

You blink. “What night?”

“You don’t remember? We stayed up talking until 4 a.m. You were ranting about FIA inconsistencies, and I—” He cuts himself off, smiling faintly. “I looked at you and for some reason, it hit me like a fucking truck. That none one else has ever made me feel the way you do. Like you always do… without even trying.”

He shakes his head, almost like he’s embarrassed. “Every room I walked into I was just looking for you. Every conversation I had I’d compare their laugh to yours, their eyes, their timing. And it never matched. Nothing does.”

Your heart stutters. Just once, but enough to make you feel dizzy. You blink down at your glass like maybe the answer’s there, maybe if you hold still enough this moment will pass.

“Don’t,” you whisper. “Don’t do this, Max.”

“This isn’t a joke.” His voice is steady now. “I’m not drunk or confused. I’m just… done pretending.”

“You’ve always pretended,” you say, retreating emotionally even though your body hasn’t moved an inch. “That’s your thing. Fast flings, fast cars, fast goodbyes. You know exactly how to make someone feel wanted… for a night. For a weekend. And then it’s over.”

Max’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t interrupt.

“You’re good at it,” you add, voice brittle. “You don’t even look twice Max. You never have. One weekend, one story, and then it’s on to the next.”

You breathe out shakily, eyes falling to your lap. “I’m sorry if I’m being harsh, but that’s what I’ve always seen.”

“That’s who I was,” he corrects, and now there’s something sharp in his voice. Not angry but wounded. “I didn’t know what I wanted. Not really. So I kept trying to fill the gap with anything else, with people. With things that didn’t mean anything, I was... trying to outrun something.”

Your voice shakes. “And what were you running from?”

He looks at you like the answer should be obvious. “You.”

Silence crackles between you like static.

“You’re it,” he says, softer now, the words catching on the edge of his breath. “Every race. Every late-night call. And I—I never saw it until I couldn’t not see it. I didn’t know how to look at you and not want more, and then it was everywhere. You were everywhere.”

“I’ve ignored it for years, I shoved it down so deep I forgot where I’d buried it. I told myself I didn’t need you like that. That I couldn’t afford to need anyone like that, but I can’t do it anymore. I don’t want to spend another day without you.”

“Max…” Your voice breaks on his name.

“I’m in love with you

He says it like it costs him something. Like it’s been sitting just behind his teeth for years and this is the first time he’s let it out.

You meet his eyes and it’s a mistake, it always is, because he’s not guarded. Not this time. He’s wide open, bare, like he’s laid every version of himself on the table and is just waiting for you to decide whether he’s enough.

Your voice is a whisper. Shaking. “You don’t mean that.”

“I do.”

“You think you do,” you say quickly, desperate to stop the ground from shifting beneath you. “But this, this is just timing Max. It’s proximity, you’re lonely and I’m here, and we’re comfortable, and you’re—”

“No.” His voice cuts clean through your spiral. It’s sharp, but not cruel. “That’s not what this is.”

He leans forward slightly, and you can feel the heat off his body now. He’s close enough to touch, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t push.

“Don’t do that,” he says, quieter now. “Don’t make it smaller than it is just so you can walk away without feeling guilty.”

You inhale sharply, chest tight, vision blurring just a little at the edges, because he knows. Of course he knows. He always sees straight through you.

You look away, blinking hard, willing the tears not to come. “You’ve never looked at a girl twice,” you murmur. “I can’t—I won’t be the next one you get bored of.”

The moment the words leave your mouth, his whole body tenses. His jaw clenches like you’ve struck something soft inside him.

“Is that really what you think of me?” he asks, and this time the hurt is impossible to miss. It lingers between syllables, bruised and bleeding.

You swallow. “No. It’s what I think of your history Max.”

And then the words tumble out faster than you can stop them. Words you’ve been biting down on for years.

“I’ve seen it. I’ve lived it. I’ve watched you stumble out of beds with girls whose names you couldn’t remember. I’ve sat outside hotel rooms while you cleaned up your mess. I’ve looked them in the eye and told them they were going to be okay when they were clearly not.”

You shake your head. “So no it’s not just me being insecure. It’s me knowing exactly how this story ends.”

Max drops his head into his hands, rubbing his fingers roughly through his hair like he wants to tear the frustration out by the roots.

He leans forward, elbows on his knees, fingers threading through his hair in frustration. “I was a fucking idiot alright? I didn’t know how to handle the one thing I actually wanted and so that’s what I did instead. I kept hooking up with girls I didn’t care about, letting them believe I did just to keep myself from thinking about you. It wasn’t fair to them. I know that. They didn’t deserve to be placeholders.” He shakes his head, almost to himself. “But I couldn’t open up to them even if I tried, because deep down I knew none of them would ever be you.”

Max shifts toward you again, slower this time, gentler, like one wrong move might send you bolting for the door.

“I would never hurt you,” he says softly.

This time, it isn’t just a promise, it’s a plea. A desperate truth pulled straight from the core of him.

There’s no bravado in his voice, no charm.

You close your eyes. “You can’t be sure of that.”

“I am sure,” he replies instantly. “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”

You open your eyes slowly.

“I’m done pretending I don’t need you,” he continues. “I do. I need you like air, and I’m tired of suffocating.”

“I don’t want to be a phase,” you whisper, eyes burning. “I don’t want to be something you look back on one day and realise was just a detour. A lesson. Some girl you had to lose to grow up.”

“You’re not a mistake,” he says, voice hoarse. “And you’ll never be a lesson.”

You try to look away, but his hand follows, gently guiding your face back to his. He’s so close now, and yet everything in you feels like it’s bracing for impact.

“I’ve messed up a lot,” he continues, breath unsteady. “I’ve hurt people. I've pushed away every good thing that came near me. But this, you, I swear to God, I’ve never wanted anything like this before.”

You say nothing, but your silence isn’t empty. It’s heavy. It’s waiting.

Max swallows hard, his thumb brushing just below your jaw as his forehead tips to yours.

“Give me a chance,” he breathes. “Please.”

It’s not loud. It’s not dramatic. It’s quiet. Honest. The sound of a man who’s never begged before, but would drop to his knees if you asked.

He cups your jaw gently, his palm warm and steady against your cheek, thumb brushing just beneath your eye. Like he’s trying to soothe a bruise that hasn’t even formed.

“You’re it for me,” he says.

His voice falters at the end, not from doubt, but emotion. Like the confession is still too big for his chest. Like he’s still surprised he got it out at all.

There’s a beat. A heartbeat.

Then slowly, cautiously, you lean forward. Just enough to bridge the space between you, to show him you’re not running. That the weight of everything he’s said hasn’t crushed you. That you’re still here.

Your lips brush his, tentative and trembling, and it feels like exhaling after years of holding your breath.

The kiss is soft and shaky. Full of everything you’ve both been holding back. Regret. Hope. Love that’s been simmering quietly for years beneath shared laughter and almosts.

For a moment, the world stills.

Even the rain outside seems to hush.

He doesn’t move at first stunned that you’re actually here, kissing him back, but then something shifts in him.

Whens he kisses you back, really kisses you, it feels like the one thing he’s been waiting for his whole damn life. His hand slides to the back of your neck, pulling you in with a confidence that makes your chest ache. His mouth moves slowly, carefully, but with the urgency of someone who finally knows what he wants and is terrified it might slip away.

When you finally pull apart, barely inches away, you stay close. Foreheads almost touching. Breathing the same air.

Your voice comes out as little more than a breath. “If you break my heart Max…”

He doesn't hesitate.

“I won’t,” he whispers.

In this moment you believe him, because this doesn’t feel like a game it feels like a beginning.

You don’t tell anyone at first.

Not because you’re hiding, but because there’s something special about having him to yourself. Something about the way Max looks at you when no one else is around, the quiet awe, the unguarded affection, that makes it feel like a secret too precious to share.

The world knows him in noise. In flashes. In fire and fury and front pages. But you get the quiet version. The early-morning version. The one who kisses your shoulder before you’re even awake. The one who rests his palm on your stomach at night like he needs to feel you breathing to sleep properly.

He holds your hand under the table at dinner with friends, thumb tracing gentle circles against your skin. He presses kisses into your hair when you lean into him, murmurs little things under his breath just for you, things that make you smile when you’re supposed to be paying attention to someone else talking.

And he looks at you.

God, he looks at you like you’re the only person in the room. Like everything else is just background noise. Like he’s memorising your face in case he ever wakes up and finds this was all a dream.

He’s softer with you now.

Gentler than the world gives him credit for. He still moves like a storm, still yells at the TV during football matches, still throws his gloves down when a race weekend doesn’t go to plan, still mutters sharp Dutch curses under his breath when the sim doesn’t respond the way he wants it to, but when you’re nearby something in him eases.

It’s like you’re the only thing that quiets his engine.

You start noticing the smaller things. The way he brings you your drink in your favourite mug, even though it’s chipped. The way he pulls you onto his lap during movie nights, hands on your waist like he just needs you close. The way he checks to make sure you’re covered by the blanket before he lets himself fall asleep.

One morning you wake up tangled in his sheets, your leg draped over his hip, his arm slung heavy around your waist. The sun is just beginning to spill into the room, pale and sleepy.

You blink yourself awake and find him already watching you, head propped lazily on one arm, his other hand tracing light shapes into your spine.

“What?” you mumble, voice hoarse and sleepy.

He grins, slow and fond. “You drool.”

You slap his chest, groaning through a laugh. “Asshole.”

But he just laughs quietly, eyes still on you like you hung the stars. “Yeah, but I’m your asshole.”

He tugs you closer, pressing a kiss to your hair, then your temple, then your jaw. His thumb brushes the corner of your mouth.

“Still cute though.”

That’s when it hits you, how simple it is being loved by him in moments like this. How all the noise of the world disappears when it’s just him and you, and the warmth of something real.

Three weeks later and you’re perched on his kitchen counter in nothing but one of his oversized shirts, bare legs swinging, a half-eaten punnet of strawberries in your lap. The sleeves hang past your hands, stained faintly with syrup from earlier, but Max doesn’t mind. If anything, he looks at you like that hoodie belongs there.

He’s standing by the stove, flipping pancakes with one hand, barefoot and half-distracted, the other hand sweeping his hair back off his forehead.

“Did you just flip that pancake with your fingers?” you ask, incredulous.

Max shrugs without looking, unbothered. “Hands of a champion.”

You snort, grinning as you reach forward and steal one before it even hits the plate.

He narrows his eyes, swats at you with the spatula. “Thief.”

You just giggle and take a dramatic bite, swinging your legs like you’re immune to consequences.

When he slides the final plate in front of you, he leans in and kisses your temple, soft, instinctive, and then he leans back against the counter with a sigh.

“I don’t think I’ve ever had breakfast with someone before you,” he says quietly.

You blink, looking up from your fork. “Seriously?”

He nods, eyes distant for a second. “They never stayed the night. Or if they did I left before the sun came up.”

“Oh,” you say, and it’s small, because you’ve seen that version of him. The messy morning-afters. The goodbyes he never struggled to say. But then he glances back at you.

“I’m glad it’s you.”

The air stills, and you know he doesn’t just mean in his bed or in the morning. He means in his life. You didn’t come and go. You didn’t stay for the night and disappear with the morning light. You’re still here, you always were.

You look down, heart thudding. “Well… I’m not planning on going anywhere.”

Max steps closer. His hand lifts to tilt your chin up with quiet care, and when he looks at you, there’s nothing left to doubt.

“I love you,” he says.

Your smile is soft. “Good, because I’m in love with you too.”

Early next month he kisses you in the garage, quick, sharp, just behind a monitor while no one’s looking. It’s reckless and brief and completely perfect.

You barely have time to catch your breath before Christian walks past, giving Max a suspicious glance.

Without missing a beat, Max blurts something about, “tyre strategy” with the panic of someone who’s just been caught stealing state secrets. You double over laughing, one hand on your stomach, the other covering your mouth. “You are the worst liar.”

“I panicked!”

“Am I gonna get you fined?” You tease, pulling him in again.

He grins, smug. “Worth it.”

You roll your eyes and steal one more kiss before shoving him back toward the car. “Now go get that win.”

He winks over his shoulder. “See you at the podium.”

When he lifts the trophy that afternoon, face flushed with adrenaline and champagne, he doesn’t look at the crowd. He looks for you.

Two months in and it’s raining again in Monaco, lazy, unhurried raindrops tapping against the windows as Max drops his keys on the kitchen counter and kicks off his shoes.

“Let’s just stay in,” he mutters, stretching like a cat. “Order pizza, I’ll pretend to care about rom-coms.”

You snort. “You love rom-coms.”

He squints. “I tolerate rom-coms.”

“Max you cried during The Notebook.”

He collapses beside you on the couch with a groan. You’re both laughing by the time you’ve curled into each other, limbs tangled, your hand lazily threading through his hair while his arm wraps around your waist like a promise.

“I like this,” you whisper into the quiet. “Us.”

He hums in agreement, forehead pressed to yours. “Me too.”

Later that week you’re brushing your teeth in his bathroom, bare feet against the cool tile, sleep still clinging to your skin.

He appears behind you in the mirror, sleep-mussed and shirtless, one hand rubbing at his eyes. He wraps his arms around your waist from behind, presses a kiss to the back of your neck.

“You know…” he mumbles, voice still gravel-rough from sleep, “You can leave a toothbrush here… permanently I mean.”

You turn in his arms, brushing your nose against his. “You sure?”

His eyes are heavy-lidded but clear.

“I’m sure,” he says.

And when you smile at him, he smiles back like it’s the easiest thing in the world, because loving each other is.

You fall in love with Max again and again in the quiet moments. Not during the grand gestures or the champagne-soaked victories, but in the stillness. The ones that aren’t meant to be romantic but somehow end up that way because he’s in them.

When he rolls over in the middle of the night, still half-asleep, and starts rubbing your back with slow, lazy circles like his body just knows where to find you, even in his dreams.

When he texts you ‘How you feeling?’ before every race, like you’re the one about to climb into the car. Like your nerves matter more than his own. Like his day doesn’t fully start until he hears from you.

When he sends you voice notes while traveling, some mundane, some ridiculous, just because he wants to hear you laugh at them later. You’ll be alone in your kitchen, earbuds in, grinning like an idiot because he’s making some terrible impression of some influencer he met in the paddock just to make you smile.

You never knew this version of him existed.

Not fully.

The Max you knew was fast and loud and untouchable. Reckless, impatient, always moving. But this Max, this one is quiet. Present. Soft in a way the world never gets to see. He lets you in without even realising he’s doing it. A hand on your thigh while he’s on a call. A glance across the room that says there you are. A small smile when you walk through the door, like the storm in his chest settles just from seeing you.

That’s what scares you most, because this kind of love, this steady, real, fragile kind, it feels too good. Too rare.

You know somewhere deep down in that quiet anxious part of your mind that happiness like this usually doesn’t come without cost, but you let yourself fall anyway. Over and over again.

The first crack doesn’t shatter.

It hums. Soft. Subtle. A tremor beneath the surface. A splinter in glass you don’t notice until the light hits it just right and suddenly it’s everywhere.

It starts after Silverstone.

Nothing dramatic. Just a silence.

He doesn’t text you goodnight after press. Doesn’t call when he lands back in Monaco. Doesn’t tell you he’s safe, or tired, or that the car felt like shit in the corners today.

You only find out he’s home when you see a blurry photo on Twitter, sunglasses on, walking alone.

Your stomach knots because he always calls. Even if it’s just a two-minute check-in. Even if he’s exhausted.

You wait.

Tell yourself not to spiral. He’s probably tired. Jet lagged. Burned out from the media.

But the second day passes.

And the third.

And the fourth.

Your texts go unread.

And you feel it, the ache creeping in through the cracks. That old fear, the one you buried deep under love and laughter and whispered confessions in the dark. The fear that this was always too good to be true.

When you finally show up at his apartment, heart hammering, throat dry, he looks… surprised.

Not angry.

Not guilty.

“Hey,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Didn’t expect you.”

You force a smile that feels too tight. “Yeah. I kinda figured.”

The apartment is a mess.

Not Max-messy. Not the usual clutter of a man who lives in fast lanes and hotel rooms. This is off. Empty Red Bull cans crowding the counter. Dishes in the sink. His sim rig sits abandoned, paused mid-race, one corner frozen on-screen like he just walked away.

Everything looks… unfinished.

You glance around. Then back at him.

He won’t meet your eyes.

“Are you okay?” you ask softly.

His jaw tightens. “I’m fine.”

You sit down slowly on the edge of the couch, his couch. Your usual spot, but somehow it feels different now, like you don’t belong in it anymore.

“I didn’t hear from you,” you say after a long silence. The words are gentle. Not accusatory. Quiet enough that they tremble a little in the air.

Max exhales hard, standing a few feet away, arms folded tightly across his chest. “Yeah. I just… I needed some space.”

You don’t react right away because the words take a second to land. You nod slowly, swallowing hard. “Okay.”

He still won’t look at you.

You glance down at your hands. “Do you not want me here?”

That finally makes him look up.

There’s something in his eyes, something fractured. Regret? Fear? Shame? You don’t know. You can’t tell anymore.

“It’s not that.”

“Then what is it?”

Max paces a little, dragging a hand through his hair like it’s suddenly too heavy on his head. “I don’t know alright? It’s just been… a lot latley. The races. The press. Everything’s moving so fast, you, us…”

He says the last part quieter. Barely audible.

You flinch, chest tightening. “Do you regret it? Us?”

“No.” His answer is immediate. Too quick, almost. “God, no. I just… I didn’t think it would feel like this.”

“Feel like what?” you whisper.

Max looks at you, finally, really looks, and the fear there knocks the wind out of you.

“Like I could lose you.”

That silences you for a beat, but you still angry at his silence.

“So your solution to that is pushing me away?”

He rubs the back of his neck, eyes darting away. “I know it makes no sense. I know I sound like an asshole. I just… I needed space to figures things out.”

You laugh bitterly. “Of course.”

“I’m scared,” he chokes. “I don’t know what I’m doing. I just—I panicked”

You stare at him, your throat raw. “I’m scared too,” you whisper. “But I didn’t run, I didn’t shut you out, I chose you to trust you.”

Max blinks hard, tears slipping out despite his best efforts. “I don’t know what to do. I just I’m confused, I fucked it up.”

You nod, chest heaving, the ache in your throat threatening to choke you, and maybe that’s what finally makes the decision for you, because he still hasn’t apologised. Not really. Not in the way that counts. Not in the way you need.

You take a shaky breath and step back, and for the first time since this started he doesn’t stop you from walking toward the door.

You try to move past it.

You tell yourself it was just a bad week. A rough patch. Pressure from the championship. Jet lag. Burnout. Anything but what it really was, him pulling away.

So you adjust.

You stop staying over every night. You give him space like he asked for. You sleep in your own bed again, wake up alone again, try not to flinch when you roll over in the morning and your phone is still empty.

You keep texting. Short things. Safe things. "Good luck tomorrow." "Need anything from the store?" You try to keep it light. Try not to ask for too much. Try not to make him feel cornered, and for a while, you convince yourself it’s working.

But things don’t go back to normal.

He doesn’t touch you the same way, doesn’t reach for your hand when you’re walking side by side. Doesn’t lean in to kiss your cheek at red lights anymore. He still holds you when you’re in his bed, but it feels different now.

He misses your cousin’s birthday dinner and when you finally ask him to come with you to a wedding one of your best friend’s, someone who’s known him for years, he hesitates.

“Do I have to?”

You freeze. The question knocks the breath from your chest like a slap.

“You don’t have to do anything,” you say slowly. “But I thought you’d want to.”

Max sighs, rubbing at his jaw like the conversation is hurting him. “It’s just… a lot. Weddings. People. All the questions.”

You frown. “What questions?”

He hesitates.

“You know people will assume things,” he says not looking up.

You blink. “Like what?”

“That we’re serious.” he says too quickly.

Your heart stutters. “We’re not?”

He looks up at you now, and you watch the realisation of what he’s said dawns on his face.

“Fuck, that’s not. That’s not what I meant—”

“No,” you cut in, voice tight. “I think it is.”

You step back without meaning to. Just a few inches, but it feels like miles.

“You love me,” you whisper. “But you don’t want people to know we’re serious?”

He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. “I’m just scared alright? I’ve never done this before. I’ve never been this with anyone. I don’t know the rules.”

“I’m not asking for rules,” you say, trying so hard not to cry. “I’m not asking for perfection. I’m asking you to show up. To stand next to me and let people know I matter to you.”

“You do matter—”

“Then why are you acting like being with me is something to hide?”

He doesn’t answer. He looks down, jaw clenched, shoulders tight.

“So what?” you ask, voice cracking. “I’m just supposed to wait until you figure it out? Until you decide if I’m worth claiming in daylight?”

He flinches like the word physically hits him.

“That’s not fair—” he starts, voice rough, eyes red.

“And you think all of this is. I told you I was scared too,” you whisper, your hands now clenched tightly in your lap. “I told you from the beginning I didn’t want to be another girl you hurt.”

“You’re not—”

“But you are hurting me, Max.” Your voice shatters, and you hate the way it sounds. Like begging. Like heartbreak. “You said you wouldn’t do this to me. You promised you wouldn’t.”

He winces, stepping toward you, voice cracking. “I didn’t mean to—”

“You promised,” you cry. “You said, ‘I would never hurt you. Give me a chance.’ And I did. I gave you everything. And now you’re backing off because it’s real? Because it scares you?”

He looks wrecked. Eyes glassy, jaw clenched, fingers twitching like he wants to reach for you but knows he has no right. Silence falls between you, sharp and immediate. A pause that drags one second too long.

That’s all it takes to know.

“I need time,” he says again.

It sounds like a door clicking shut.

You nod, barely holding yourself together. “Then take it.”

You grab your bag off the floor, your fingers numb, your throat burning.

He doesn’t stop you.

You don’t speak for two weeks.

When he finally texts, it’s short.

Can we talk?

You type three different responses before you settle on:

I don’t know else there is to say.

No reply.

Two days later he shows up at your door and you’re still not sure if it was the right decision to let him up. You see his shadow before you see his face. The shape of him through the peephole. The weight of him in your hallway.

You don’t open it right away. Instead you press your forehead against the door, eyes shut, your hand hovering near the handle, heart thudding painfully against your ribs. Then softly, almost broken, he says,

“Please.”

You open it.

He looks like hell. His hoodie is wrinkled, like he’s been sleeping in it for days. There are shadows under his eyes that no amount of good lighting could hide. His posture is all wrong slumped, guarded, but still reaching, like guilt has wrapped itself around him like a second skin.

He looks at you like he doesn’t deserve to be standing there and he knows it.

“I’m sorry,” he says, voice hoarse. “I’m so sorry.”

You nod once, swallowing around the lump in your throat. “For what?”

“For freezing. For being a coward. For everything.”

You step aside, wordless, and let him in.

He paces at first, back and forth like he’s trying to burn off nerves he can’t outrun. You don’t speak.

“I didn’t know how to hold onto something I was so terrified to lose,” he says finally. His voice is uneven.

You sink onto the edge of the couch, arms wrapped tightly around your knees. “You made me feel like I was too much.”

His eyes snap to yours. “You aren’t.”

“You aren’t,” he says again. “You’re everything. I know that. I knew it then too, but I was so fucking scared. I thought if I kept you at a distance… if I didn’t let myself want it too much… then maybe it wouldn’t hurt if it ended.”

His voice breaks, just slightly. “I know the logic is messed up. I know it’s selfish. But I didn’t know how to get out of my own head and all I did was ruin the best thing I’ve ever had anyway.”

You turn your head slowly. “And what do we have now?”

Max hesitates. His fingers twitch in his lap.

“I guess it depends,” he says quietly.

“On what?”

He meets your eyes. “On if you can give me another chance.”

He’s not hiding now. There’s no mask, no ego. Just Max. Completely exposed. Heart on his sleeve. Hands trembling slightly like he’s terrified of your answer.

“Max…” you whisper.

“I love you,” he says, voice low and trembling. “I love you more than I know how to say. More than I ever thought I could. And I know—” he swallows hard, eyes glassy, “I know I fucked up. I know I shut you out, and I hurt you when you trusted me not to. That’s on me. All of it.”

He takes a step closer, hands shaking slightly at his sides. “But you have to know it was never because I didn’t care. It was the opposite. You scare the hell out of me. What I felt—what I feel it’s real in a way nothing else has ever been, and I didn’t know how to handle that. I panicked. I pushed you away because I thought that would make the risk of losing you hurt less.”

His voice cracks then, and he looks down, like he can’t bear to see your face.

“I was wrong about everything. Because I can’t—” he looks back up, desperate now. “I can’t do this without you. You’re the only thing that’s ever made any of this make sense.”

He takes a breath like he’s steadying himself before the fall.

“I don’t deserve to ask I know that, but I’m asking anyway, because if there’s even the smallest part of you that still believes in me, still wants us, then I swear I will spend every single day proving how much I love you. Not just in words. In every way I know how. Please... give me a chance again.”

Your heart splinters all over again.

Because it hurts to love someone who’s scared of loving you back properly.

Because that first chance was already hard enough to give.

And you don’t know if you can survive handing him your heart again.

“I can’t… at least not now… I need to think,” you say, voice cracking like glass.

He nods.

“I’ll wait,” he whispers. “As long as you need.”

Then he leaves and this time, you’re the one who doesn’t stop him.

The days bleed into weeks.

You keep telling people you're fine, you say it so often it almost sounds believable.

You go to work. You answer texts. You show up to dinners and birthdays and work events you wish you could cancel. You smile in the right places. Laugh at the right jokes. Drink just enough to dull the ache but not enough to let the truth spill out.

But you’re not living, you’re just existing.

Floating. Fragile. Half-hollow.

He texts you still. Cautiously. One or two spaced out over days like he’s testing the water. Then more. They’re never demanding. Never pushy. Just… him.

Hope you had a good day today.

I saw your favourite cafe changed owners. Made me sad.

You’d laugh if you saw what I cooked for dinner. Burned half of it. Still ate it.

Do you remember the time we got lost in Belgium and you swore Google Maps was gaslighting us?

I miss you.

I miss us.

Each one lands like a pebble in your chest, small, but shifting everything underneath.

You don’t respond. You can’t. Because replying would mean reopening the door, and after everything, staying broken feels safer than risking being shattered all over again.

Still, he keeps trying.

He sends you flowers, simple, beautiful, no name on the card, but you know. Of course you know. A few days later, his friend drops off one of his hoodies. Clean. Folded. The faintest trace of his cologne still clinging to the fabric. You hold it in your hands longer than you mean to. Almost bring it to your face. Almost give in.

Then comes the book, your favourite book. You find it on your doorstep, wrapped in plain brown paper. Inside, the page is dog-eared to your favourite quote. You sit on the floor of your hallway and nearly cry. Not because it’s romantic, but because it hurts, because you know he remembers, because a part of you wants to let him back in.

But you don’t.

Not yet.

Meanwhile, Max is not fine.

He tells the world he’s focused. Locked in. Gearing up for the next race.

But the truth is uglier.

He doesn’t go out. Doesn’t answer most calls. He cancels plans with with his friends, ignores texts from his engineers. He spends hours in the sim, running the same laps on the same track until the lines blur and his fingers ache from gripping the wheel too tight.

He stays up past 3 a.m., staring at the ceiling, heart racing from things that have nothing to do with speed. Replaying everything he said to you. Everything he didn’t.

He keeps your contact pinned at the top of his messages. Reads the last thing you ever sent him on a loop like maybe if he stares hard enough, you’ll text him back.

Christian asks what’s wrong.

Lando asks if he’s dying.

Even Helmut frowns and tells him to "sort it out before he drives like that again."

He’s so tired. Tired of the silence. Tired of the way his apartment still smells faintly like you even after he’s finally changed the sheets.

He’s tired of being without you.

Two weeks before Zandvoort, Max does an interview.

The reporter asks about his mindset. His focus. How he’s changed over the last few months. He hesitates. Then, for once, he lets a little truth slip through the cracks.

“I think real connection can change the way you drive,” he says softly. “Makes you sharper. Calmer. When you’ve got something real to come home to.”

The quote goes viral.

People call it poetic. A sign of maturity.

Your fingers hover over your phone for nearly an hour after you see it.

You type a reply.

Delete it.

Type it again.

Delete it again.

In the end you say nothing because you’re still not sure if wanting him back is the same as trusting him again, and love, you’re learning, isn’t always enough.

Then it happens.

It gets worse before it gets better.

The photo.

You’re scrolling idly one afternoon, trying to feel normal, trying to feel anything and then suddenly there it is.

Blurry, looks like it’s been taken from the inside of a car, somewhere in Monaco. Probably by a fan who didn’t realise they were about to ruin your entire day. Max, outside a restaurant. Laughing. With a girl.

You freeze mid-scroll. Your body goes still before your mind can catch up. Your breath catches, sharp and ugly in your throat, and your stomach twists into something dark and acidic, nausea rising fast.

She’s beautiful. Of course she is. She’s touching him. One hand on his arm, casually, she looks comfortable. You swear she’s wearing his jacket. The one that used to smell like you. The one that used to be folded on your side of the bed.

You blink. Once. Twice. But the image doesn’t change. If anything, it burns itself in deeper.

You click it open. Then you open Twitter. Then Instagram.

It’s all there.

The girl posted something on her story, nothing blatant, nothing tagging him, but it doesn’t need to be. A selfie, smiley and sun-kissed, and in the blurred background there he is. Max. In the corner of the frame. Head turned, not looking at the camera, but it’s him. Clear as day. Clear enough to hurt.

Your phone slips from your hands and hits the floor with a dull, lifeless thud.

You don’t move to pick it up.

You don’t cry.

You don’t scream.

You don’t call a friend or throw something or give into the heartbreak clawing at your ribs.

You just sit there.

Staring at nothing.

Frozen in place like your body doesn’t know how to function now that your heart’s short-circuited.

You lie in bed, eyes wide open, the ceiling a blur as your mind replays every word he ever said to you in that low, steady voice that used to sound like safety. “You’re it for me.” “I’d never hurt you.” “I’ll wait.”

He didn’t wait. Of course he didn’t. Of course he went back to what was easy. What was familiar.

Maybe that’s what hurts the most, knowing deep down in the quietest part of you that this was always going to happen. That you knew. That something in your gut warned you, and you still believed, still hoped anyway.

When Max texts the next morning, your heart stutters in that horrible, traitorous way it always does when his name lights up your screen.

Can I see you today? I’ve got something for you it’s stupid but I think you’ll smile.

You read it three times in disbelief.

You see the photo again in your head, her hand on his arm and something in you snaps. Your hands are shaking as you type back, but your fingers don’t hesitate.

Don’t bother. I saw the photos. You don’t have to lie. I don’t want to hear from you anymore.

There’s a full minute of silence.

Then—

What are you talking about?

Almost a minute passes.

Then a second message.

Please let me explain.

You can see the dots, he’s typing, but you don’t wait to read the rest.

You block his number.

And this time, you do cry.

Not just because he hurt you. Not just because you lost him. Not even because it hurts to know he moved on so easily, but because deep down you’re terrified that you never really had him at all.

You don’t get out of bed for two days.

The curtains stay drawn, your room dim even in the middle of the afternoon, like the light itself knows it isn’t welcome. Your phone sits face-down on your dresser, untouched except for the few times you glance at it, only to glance away again. The hoodie Max returned lies at the foot of your bed, folded too neatly, as if it doesn’t belong to the chaos he left behind. You tell yourself you’ll throw it out. Burn it, maybe. But instead, you bring it to your nose, just once, just to see and when it still smells like him, like cologne and warmth and the memory of every quiet morning you spent wrapped up in his arms, you hate yourself a little for checking.

The world, predictably, keeps spinning. Cars pass by outside. The neighbour’s dog barks. On Monday you go to work because your boss would notice if you didn’t. You lie to your friends on autopilot, tell them you’re just “tired,” just “burned out,” that work’s been “crazy,” and no, you’re fine, you swear.

You don’t mention the photo. You don’t mention the way it knocked the air out of your lungs or the way your stomach twisted so hard you had to sit down or the way you still see it in your mind every time you close your eyes.

You try not to look at the tab you left open. “Max Verstappen Monaco mystery girl.”

You don’t click any links. You don’t read the comments. You don’t want to know what people are saying about him, or about her, or think about the way your chest still aches like a bruise that won’t heal.

Still, the images play on an endless loop in your mind.

Your best friend shows up three days later, uninvited but not unwelcome, letting herself into your apartment with the spare key you gave her years ago for emergencies. You’re curled up on your couch, legs under a blanket, the TV playing something you’re not even pretending to watch. You haven’t told her anything, but she just… knows.

“What happened?” she asks gently, lowering herself onto the couch beside you.

You don’t answer right away. You don’t look at her either. You’re too tired to lie, too hollow to make it sound okay. So instead, you pick up your phone for the first time in hours. You unlock it and hand it to her.

The photo.

The messages.

The last thing you sent him before you blocked his number.

She reads it in silence. Once. Then again. Her brows pull together. She lets out a slow exhale.

“Okay,” she says carefully, “but… this doesn’t make sense.”

You blink. “What?”

“I mean—I’m not saying he didn’t fuck up, I’m on your side. But this girl? I’ve seen her around. She’s one of those Monaco hanger-ons. She posted that same selfie with like five other drivers. Always around the “hot-spots”. Always tagging locations, trying to be seen.”

You shift on the couch. “So?”

“So… maybe you saw what you thought was happening. Not what actually was.”

You shake your head, heart pounding. “She was wearing his jacket. She had her hand on him.”

“And? Max lends stuff out all the time, maybe he lent it to her outside like the gentleman he weirdly is sometimes. Maybe it was someone else’s and it looked similar. Maybe she grabbed his arm for two seconds and the photo caught it at the worst possible moment. You don’t know.”

You sit up straighter. “But he didn’t deny it.”

She looks at you then. Really looks.

“To be fair,” she says slowly, “you blocked him before he could.”

You go quiet. The guilt creeps in like cold water seeping through cracks in the floor.

“What if I didn’t want to hear his explanation?” you whisper.

She gives you a look that’s too knowing to be comfortable. “Then you have to ask yourself something.”

You already know what she’s going to say. You hear it before she even says it.

“Do you want to stay angry or do you still love him?”

You open your mouth. Close it again. Because you want to say it doesn’t matter. That you’re done. That it’s too late.

But the truth is louder than your pride.

You still love him.

You always have.

Meanwhile Max is pacing like a storm in a bottle. Restless energy coiled in his spine, unspooling with every step across the hardwood floor. His phone is clutched in his hand like it might break if he squeezes any harder, his face flushed not just with frustration but with something closer to panic.

“She blocked me,” he says again, like saying it aloud will make it sound less insane. “She actually blocked me. I was on my way to surprise her with her favourite flowers and that stupid stuffed koala she laughs at in the airport gift shop every time we see it and then boom gone. Just cut off.”

Lando is sitting on the edge of Max’s sofa, legs spread, elbows on his knees, watching his friend spiral with the wide-eyed expression of someone who’s been dropped in the middle of a house fire with a plastic spoon. “Alright. Breathe. Start from the beginning. What happened?”

Max swipes angrily at his phone, pulls up the blurry photo that’s been circulating for the past few days. “That’s Julia,” he snaps. “She’s my trainer’s girlfriend’s friend or something. I barely even know her. She showed up out of nowhere while I was grabbing lunch with him, said she was meeting someone else, asked if she could wait there for a minute. She sat down, we made small talk, and then hug goodbye. Five minutes. Tops. Flash of a camera.”

He runs both hands through his hair, yanking the roots like he could force the shame out of his head. “I didn’t even see the camera it looks, it looks bad. The jacket, the arm, it’s the worst possible moment.”

Daniel, who had arrived five minutes ago and already regrets it, scrolls through the messages Max had sent in the days before everything blew up. He lets out a low whistle, his face pinched in sympathy. “Shit. These are… a lot.”

Max grabs the phone back. “She thinks I’m lying. She thinks I went back to being that guy. The one who says what he needs to get what he wants and then disappears when it gets real. She thinks everything I said was just noise.”

“And do you blame her?” Daniel says carefully. “I mean, not to kick you when you’re already bleeding out here, but… you did disappear on her for a while.”

Max looks like he’s been slapped. “I know that. I know. I handled it like a fucking coward and I’ve been trying to make it right ever since.”

Lando leans back on the couch. “So what now? You just sit around and mope?”

Max glares at him. “What do you want me to do, force it? I already made her feel like shit. The last thing she needs is me showing up uninvited.”

“Maybe,” Daniel says. “But she also needs to see that you care. That you’re not just sending sad little texts and hoping she forgets.”

“I’ve been trying!” Max snaps. Then lowers his voice. “I’ve been trying. But everything I do feels too late.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Daniel tilts his head. “What about her best friend?”

Max looks up. “What about her?”

“Talk to her,” Daniel says. “Not to get the friend to do your dirty work, just… find out if there’s anything you can do that wouldn’t make things worse, or maybe she can suggest a way in, wouldn’t hurt to try and get someone in her corner to understand your side.”

Max hesitates.

Lando shrugs. “It’s better than sitting here waiting for her to magically unblock you.”

Max nods slowly, like something clicks into place. “Alright I’ll try. I’m not giving up on this. On her.”

Daniel smirks. “Good. Because it’s about time you started acting like it.”

The next morning Max makes a call he’s been dreading. It’s awkward as hell, and the conversation doesn’t go the way he practiced in his head, but he owns it. He tells the truth.

And somehow, it’s enough.

Because a day later he’s standing outside your building in the shadows of early evening, hoodie pulled tight, cap low, heart pounding harder than it ever has behind the wheel of an F1 car.

Your best friend lets him up without a word and then disappears.

You don’t even know she’s done it until you hear the knock, three quiet raps against your door, hesitant, almost like he’s not sure he deserves to be heard. When you open it, he’s standing there, his eyes are bloodshot and his hair is a mess, flattened from the cap. His mouth opens, then closes again before he finally finds the words.

“Before you slam the door,” he says, voice shaking, “just let me explain. Please.”

You freeze. Your fingers tighten around the edge of the door. You don’t move, don’t speak, but you don’t close it.

So he keeps going.

“She’s not someone I’m seeing,” he blurts, the words tumbling out in a breathless rush. “I barely know her. She’s my trainer’s girlfriend’s friend, I didn’t invite her, I didn’t ask her to sit with us. She showed up at the restaurant, said she was waiting for someone else. We made awkward small talk for five minutes. I didn’t even realise how close she was sitting until I saw the photo. And the jacket—” He pauses, swallows hard. “She said she was cold. It was draped over the back of my chair. I didn’t think. I just—” His voice cracks. “I was trying to be nice.”

You blink at him, vision going blurry. “Then why didn’t you say something? Why didn’t you come here earlier?”

“Because you blocked me, and I didn’t think you wanted to see me.” he says softly.

“I thought you gave up,” you say, arms folding over your chest to keep from falling apart. “I thought you moved on. That it was just easy for you.”

“I would never,” Max says, and it’s not a plea, it’s a vow. He steps forward, carefully, like he’s afraid to spook you. “You have no idea how hard it was not to show up every day. How many times I sat in the car ready to drive here, wondering if I had any right to knock. I only stayed away because you asked me to, because I thought you needed time.”

“I did.”

“And I wanted to to give that to you,” he says. “But it’s been killing me.”

His voice cracks on the last word. He’s not holding it together anymore. Not even close.

“I didn’t want anyone else,” he whispers, voice hoarse. “I don’t want anyone else. Not now. Not ever. You’re it. You always were.”

You bite the inside of your cheek, fighting the flood building behind your eyes. “You promised you wouldn’t hurt me.”

“I know.” His voice is barely above a whisper now, cracked and shaking as tears trail slowly down his cheeks. “I know I hurt you. I let the fear win. I let my past, my pride, my bullshit get louder than everything we had, and I’ll hate myself for that until the day I die.”

He swallows hard. “But if you gave me another shot… if you ever could I would spend every single day earning it. Proving I’m not the same coward who let you walk away. I’d show you what I should’ve from the beginning. That I’m in this. That I meant every word I ever said to you, even the ones I was too much of a mess to back up.”

Max steps forward slightly, like he’s bracing for rejection but can’t help chasing hope anyway.

“I don’t know how else to ask. I keep trying to think of the right thing to say but none of it feels like enough, but this, you, you’re everything, and I’ll take whatever version of us you’re willing to give me, even if it’s just the chance to try.”

His voice breaks completely then. “Please. Give me a chance.”

It breaks something in you.

Because you do love him. Even now. Even after all the silence, all the distance, all the aching disappointment. Your heart still beats louder when he’s near. But love isn’t enough, not when you’re still bleeding from the wounds he left behind.

“I can’t,” you say, and your voice shakes.

Max’s face crumples like he’d prepared for this but prayed against it anyway. He nods, slow and steady, like each movement hurts.

“I understand.”

He nods. Once. Twice. Each movement slower than the last, like gravity’s working harder on him now.

“Yeah,” he breathes, barely audible. “I thought maybe I could earn it back.”

His eyes are red, glistening, but he doesn’t wipe them. Doesn’t hide. He just stands there, hollowed out. “I knew that coming here was a long shot. I just hoped…”

He steps back, nodding again like he needs to convince his body to move.

“I’m sorry,” he says, voice tight. “For everything.”

He steps back and turns away, but just before he disappears down the hall, your voice breaks through the silence, shaky, quiet, but impossible not to hear.

“I never stopped loving you.”

He halts mid-step. Stiffens. For a long moment, he just stands there, back to you, head bowed like the weight of your words physically hit him.

His shoulders rise and fall with a breath that sounds like it hurts to take.

“Me neither.”

A pause. The kind that stretches forever.

“Not for a single second.”

Then he walks away, with the same realisation you’ve been battling for weeks, that love alone was never going to be enough.

It’s been two months since you closed the door on him.

Max hasn’t called. Hasn’t texted. Not once. He hasn’t tried to push, hasn’t knocked at the door or slipped another note under it, and in a strange, cruel way, it hurts. It means he heard you. It means he listened, he’s respecting your boundaries. But it also means he’s gone.

And yet, he’s everywhere.

You still find pieces of him buried in the quiet corners of your days, like ghosts you’re too tired to chase away. His name doesn’t appear on your screen, but his voice plays in your head when you drive past the petrol station where he used to stop for your favourite gum. His laugh echoes in the back of your mind when you open Spotify and the playlist you made for him starts and somehow it still knows which songs make your throat close.

You keep his shirt in the back of your drawer, forgotten, then remembered, then deliberately not moved. It still smells like his skin in a way that makes your knees weak. You pass the little café he loved and your heart stumbles over itself because you can see him leaning against the window, tapping the lid of your drink so the steam wouldn't burn your lips, eyes already crinkled in that half-smile he never gave to anyone else.

He's there when you open the fridge and automatically reach for the orange juice he always used to keep on the top shelf so he could tease you about not being able to reach and then act all macho when he got it down for you. He’s in your dreams when sleep forgets you’re supposed to be angry and lets him back into your arms. He’s in the ache just beneath your ribs when someone asks, “Are you okay?” and you smile and nod and hope they don’t hear the lie rattling behind your teeth.

But today… today you can’t do it anymore.

You can’t keep carrying the silence like a shield when all it’s done is cut you off from the one person who ever made you feel that kind of love. You’ve tried the distance. You’ve tried the pretending. You’ve tried to be fine.

You don’t know what you’re going to say.

You don’t know if it’ll come out as forgiveness or fire, or if you’ll be able to speak at all when you see him again.

You do know this, nothing hurts more than this in-between. Nothing is worse than wondering what might’ve happened if you’d just tried one more time. Maybe you’ll get hurt again. Maybe he’ll break your heart all over. But what you had was rare, and that kind of love? That kind of connection? It’s worth the risk. It’s a chance you’re willing to take, for how special you were together. If there’s still a chance, you have to take it, you have to try.

Because waiting might protect your heart.

But not giving the two of you another chance, not finding out what this could’ve been.

That’s the kind of regret that would haunt you forever.

It’s late.

Almost midnight, Monaco quiet, rain threatening the cobblestones. You take the steps to his apartment two at a time, heart pounding so hard you can hear it echoing in your ears.

When you reach his door, you hesitate.

Then you knock.

It only takes a few seconds.

The door swings open.

He’s there. Hair tousled, hoodie hanging loose off one shoulder, barefoot, eyes wide like he thought maybe he was dreaming.

You’re both frozen.

Then you whisper, “Hi.”

“You’re here,” Max says, voice wrecked.

His eyes are wide, disbelieving. He looks thinner than you remember, tired in a way sleep can’t fix. One hand grips the doorframe like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.

“I didn’t think you’d ever—” He breaks off, breath catching. “I never thought…”

You shift your weight, arms folded tightly across your chest. You want to say something comforting, but instead, what comes out is honest.

“You hurt me so badly, Max.”

His shoulders drop. “I know,” he says immediately, his voice cracking at the edges. “And I’ll never stop being sorry.”

You look away, just for a second, long enough to stop yourself from crying. “I wasn’t asking you to be the perfect boyfriend. I never expected you to be anyone but yourself. I just needed you to show up for me. I needed you to stay. To choose me, even when it wasn’t easy. Especially then.”

“I know,” he says again, more desperate this time, stepping forward without thinking. “I thought I was doing the right thing, pulling back, then trying not to mess it up more. I was scared. Scared of what it meant to need someone like I needed you. I thought pushing you away would protect us, but all it did was destroy what we had.”

His eyes are glassy, voice trembling. “You were everything I ever wanted and I handled it like someone who didn’t deserve you.”

You take a breath and step past him, into the apartment.

It still smells like him.

Still feels like home, in the way a bruise still hums beneath your skin, aching when you press it, reminding you of everything that came before. You look around, and your voice is soft when you say, “I told myself I was done. That I deserved better. That I shouldn’t come back.”

His breath catches.

“And I still don’t know what’s right,” you admit. “But I know this, waiting didn’t make it hurt any less. Pretending not to love you didn’t help, and maybe I’ll regret this. Maybe we’ll fuck it all up again, but I would rather risk everything than spend one more night wondering what might’ve happened if I’d just given you that second chance.”

Max is crying openly now, but he’s smiling, too, this broken, beautiful kind of smile that only comes from relief so overwhelming it knocks the breath from your lungs.

“You still want this?” he asks hoarsely. “You still want me?”

You nod, stepping into his arms. “I want us. I want messy and real and worth it. But only if you choose me this time. Every time. No more halfway.”

He pulls you into him like he might never let go again, his whole body trembling. “I choose you,” he breathes against your temple. “Forever. I swear to God, I’m all in. I don’t want a life where you’re not mine.”

Without any warning you're crashing into him like waves that have waited too long, too long to break, too long to finally come home.

There’s no pause, no hesitation, no careful approach just your body folding into his, arms winding tight around his neck, his wrapped around your waist like he’s terrified you’ll disappear if he lets go. You’re both trembling, not from cold but from the sheer weight of it all, weeks of silence, of pain, of love held back like a dam on the verge of breaking.

Your forehead presses against his as your fingers twist into the familiar fabric of his hoodie, breath caught in your throat, tears slipping hot and silent down your cheeks.

“I missed you,” you sob, the words cracking in your chest as they leave your mouth.

Max lets out a sound like something inside him is breaking open. “I missed you every fucking second,” he says, voice thick with desperation and relief, like he’s been holding that sentence inside his lungs and can finally exhale.

Then his lips are on yours, messy, raw, and a little too hard, but you don’t care because it’s not careful, not poised, not the kind of kiss you save for clean slates or picture-perfect moments.

It’s real. It’s everything.

All the love, all the grief, all the fear and the hope and the need you’ve both been swallowing since the second things first cracked, it's all there, spilling out between your mouths in gasps and saltwater tears.

He kisses you like he’s starving.

Like his heart has been aching for this one small miracle.

When he finally pulls away, your chests are heaving, noses still brushing, his hands coming up to cup your face, his thumbs swiping away your tears, his fingers trembling against your skin like he still can’t believe you’re here.

“I’ll do it right this time,” he whispers, voice breaking like glass in the quiet. “Whatever it takes. I’m yours, completely, stupidly, yours. As long as you’ll have me.”

You don’t answer with words.

You kiss him again instead, slower this time, deeper. Not rushed. Not panicked. Just full of everything you couldn’t say before. Then you rest your forehead against his, eyes closed, tears still drying on your cheeks as you both stand there in the silence, in the safety of each other’s arms.

It’s steady.

Sure.

Home.

Later, when the adrenaline has settled into something softer, when the tears have dried but the weight of everything still clings to your bones, you lie curled up beside him, limbs tangled beneath the duvet, the room dim and hushed, like the universe itself is catching its breath.

His arms are around you and your head rests on his chest, rising and falling with the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. The same heart that's trying truly, desperately to piece you back together again.

You tilt your face up toward him, your voice quiet but steady, raw from crying, scraped from truth.

“It meant a lot that you waited,” you whisper, your fingers drawing soft shapes along his ribs like you're still trying to memorise the feeling of being this close again.

Max looks down at you, and there’s something different in his eyes now, not panic, not fear. Just presence. Just him. A boy who’s made mistakes. A man who’s trying to do better. Someone who is choosing you, fully and without flinching.

He reaches up and brushes a tear from your cheek with his thumb, gentle.

“I hoped every day you’d walk through that door,” he says, voice low, eyes locked on yours like they’re the only truth he knows. “I swore I didn’t care if it was weeks, or years… or never… I would’ve still waited.”

You don’t speak. You just kiss him.

It’s hope.

It’s trust.

It’s the belief that maybe, just maybe, love can survive the storm and still be true.

And for the first time in weeks, in months, in what feels like lifetimes, you both finally believe, truly believe, this will last.

Taglist: @shigarika @bunnisplayground @thecoolpotatohologram @ymrereads @alexxavicry @gigglepre @esw1012 @satorinnie @percysaidnever @osclerc @sainzluvrr @autumn242 @shadowreader07 @joyfulpandamiracle @inmynotes63 @athanasia-day @embonbon @waterdeeply @shadowsoundeffects13 @fastandcurious16 @odegaardlia @skzvibes-blog @iambored24601 @e10owmaks @painfromblues @brokenvines-wiltingflowers @leto-twins-3107 @rxx-eegh @treatallwithkindness @lewishamiltonismybf @mara1999 @armystay89 @ramonaflwsr @zazima @valevv30 @mischiefmxnxgedhp @yoonessa @wordskeeper @freyathehuntress @brumstappen @irenkaproszepana @butterkaput @lenamds @blueskies4everxo @teamnovalak @taylordaughter @taetae-armyyyyy

[willowsnook]

coach's daughter

summary: your dad’s the yankees’ hitting coach. he’s very strict about players dating you. but aaron’s been crushing since the day you showed up at practice in your oversized hoodie and cleats.

word count: 3.3k words

Your dad was the Yankees’ hitting coach. He was intense. Respected. The kind of man whose stare could silence a room and whose standards were etched into every swing the team took.

The players called him old-school, no-nonsense, and most importantly: off-limits.

Especially when it came to you.

You had always been the exception. The little girl sitting in the dugout before she could even read the scoreboard. The one who grew up collecting batting gloves like souvenirs and chasing foul balls like they were treasure.

But now you weren’t just Coach’s daughter.

You were twenty four. You had your own opinions, your own rhythm, and a killer swing of your own.

And Aaron Judge had definitely noticed.

You’d seen it in the way his eyes lingered too long.

In the way his voice dropped slightly whenever he talked to you lower, softer, careful.

In how he immediately looked away the second your dad walked into the room.

Aaron was good at keeping his composure he had to be.

But not around you.

Not when your laugh made him glance over from the cage.

Not when your hoodie fell off one shoulder and he nearly tripped over his own cleats.

Not when he saw you in your favorite worn-in cap, curled up in the dugout with sunflower seeds and a book like it was your own personal safe haven.

You weren’t supposed to be off-limits to him but you were.

And that made it worse.

⸻

One sticky July afternoon, you were pretending not to watch him during warmups. You leaned against the gatorade cooler, scrolling through nonsense on your phone, but your eyes drifted to him every few seconds rolling his sleeves up, adjusting his grip on the bat, doing absolutely nothing and still somehow making your heart flutter.

He jogged over toward the cooler with a bottle in hand.

“Thought you might need one,” he said casually, but his eyes were anything but casual.

You reached out, brushing your fingers against his. He didn’t let go right away.

Your eyes met.

Lingering. Warm. Way too dangerous.

“You know my dad would kill you, right?” you teased, a smile playing at your lips.

Aaron gave a slow grin. “Only if he found out.”

You squinted at him. “So you are thinking about it?”

“Thinking about it?” His voice dropped a little, barely above a whisper.

“I think about you all the time.”

Your breath caught.

It wasn’t a joke anymore.

He meant it. You could see it written all over his face the hesitancy, the longing, the quiet ache in his eyes.

Your teasing smile faded. Something settled in your chest some combination of want, fear, and realization.

Before you could respond, Volpe walked past, slinging a towel over his neck.

“Coach’s heading this way,” he called out with a smirk. “If you’re gonna risk your life, maybe don’t do it next to the bullpen.”

Aaron blinked. Stepped back. Cleared his throat like the moment had never happened.

You stared at the ground, flustered and flushed.

And you both walked away like nothing had changed.

But everything had.

⸻

That night, the stadium lot was almost empty when you left.

The buzz of stadium lights shutting down filled the air, and the air smelled like cut grass and late summer.

Aaron caught up with you beside your car.

Hands in his hoodie pocket, head slightly bowed.

“I didn’t mean to make things weird,” he said. “Earlier.”

You shook your head. “You didn’t.”

The quiet stretched between you. Not uncomfortable just thick with everything unspoken.

“For what it’s worth,” he said softly, voice full of something that made your chest tighten, “I’d treat you right. If he ever gave me the chance.”

You didn’t say anything.

Instead, you leaned up slowly, brushed your lips against his cheek, and lingered just long enough for him to know it meant more than a thank you.

When you pulled back, his eyes were wide.

Hopeful.

You slipped into your car and drove off, your fingers trembling slightly on the steering wheel and a stupid smile on your lips.

You didn’t see the shadow across the lot.

Didn’t see your dad standing still, arms crossed, watching everything unfold from twenty feet away.

But he saw.

And for him, it wasn’t just a stolen moment.

It was a warning shot.

⸻

Everything became a secret.

A sweet, reckless, breathless kind of secret. One that lived in your lungs like smoke hard to see, impossible to ignore.

There were late night FaceTime calls where you whispered beneath your blanket, earbuds in, your lamp off to hide the glow of your screen. You’d talk about everything baseball, your favorite movies, his childhood in Linden. Sometimes, you’d just lie there in silence, listening to his breathing like it was enough to make you feel safe.

When he was on the road, he’d sneak off the team bus to call you from hotel hallways. He’d text you selfies from batting cages with a soft smile and a simple: “Miss you.” You sent him pictures of your coffee orders, your dog in your lap, your face without makeup no filter, no walls.

You met in parking lots, diners two towns over, and quiet parks after dark. Once, he even drove an hour past his apartment just to sit in your car for twenty minutes, kissing you like it was the last time, his cap pulled low and his thumb brushing over your cheek.

You became fluent in the language of secrecy.

Inside the clubhouse? You were friendly. Respectful. Boringly neutral. You never lingered too long, never laughed too loud. Aaron kept his distance never touched you, never even looked at you longer than anyone else.

But the second no one was watching? It was like a switch flipped.

You shared private glances during bullpen sessions. You stole kisses in staff rooms during team events. He’d brush your hand gently as he passed behind you, just enough to make your breath hitch, just enough to remind you he was yours.

You’d sneak out of family dinners at your dad’s condo under the pretense of “errands” or “early study sessions.” In truth, Aaron would already be waiting in your driveway, engine idling, soft music playing as you climbed into the passenger seat. You didn’t even have to speak just reaching across the console and slipping your hand into his was enough.

He once waited in the rain for nearly forty minutes because your dad stayed late on a zoom call. You tried to apologize as you slid into the car, soaked from sprinting to meet him.

“Worth it,” he said, brushing a raindrop from your forehead and kissing your knuckles.

But the longer it went on, the harder it became to hide.

One afternoon in the weight room, your dad walked in just as Aaron had his hand resting on your lower back barely a touch, but intimate enough that he sprang backward like he’d touched a live wire. In his panic, he knocked over a row of dumbbells.

“Everything alright in here?” your dad had asked, narrowing his eyes.

“Y-Yeah. Just dropped something,” Aaron had said, voice rough.

Another day, your dad walked past just as Aaron slipped his hoodie off and tossed it toward you. It was casual innocent, even but the way your dad’s brow furrowed said he noticed.

It was small. But it was enough.

You felt the shift in your dad’s tone. The questions that came too sharp, too fast. The way he asked where you were going more often. Why your phone was always upside down on the counter. Why you smiled at texts and didn’t explain who they were from.

You and Aaron talked about it one night on his couch.

You were curled up in one of his Yankees sweatshirts, your legs draped across his lap, his fingers tracing soft lines down your calf.

“I think he knows,” you whispered.

Aaron didn’t deny it. He just nodded slowly. “Yeah. I think he’s piecing it together.”

You turned toward him, cheek pressed against his shoulder. “Do you regret it?”

His hand stilled. “Being with you?”

You nodded.

“Not for a second,” he said. “Even if it costs me everything.”

Your throat tightened.

“I’m not ready to give you up,” he said.

“Neither am I.”

He leaned in, kissing you softly, like he wanted to remember this exact moment.

And you kissed him back deeper this time like maybe love was worth the risk.

Even if it came with consequences.

⸻

It was a rainy Tuesday. The kind of day where the sky never really brightens and the air smells like wet asphalt and expectation. Practice had ended early. The players scattered to the showers. The staff had cleared out.

You and Aaron had stayed behind.

You were tucked beneath the bleachers at the far end of the field, rain pattering softly against the metal above. His hoodie hung off your shoulders, still warm. Your back was pressed to the wall and his forehead rested gently against yours.

You had just kissed him.

Lips brushing. Smiles forming. Everything feeling like it was just starting to fall into place.

“I don’t want to hide anymore,” you whispered.

Aaron nodded, his breathing a little heavier than usual. “I’ve been thinking the same thing.”

His fingers were laced with yours. He was about to kiss you again when a voice shattered the moment.

“What the HELL is going on here?”

It wasn’t a shout. It was a growl low and furious, the kind of voice you hadn’t heard from your dad since you were a kid sneaking into team transport vans.

Your heart plummeted. Your stomach turned cold.

You turned slowly, eyes wide.

Your dad stood at the end of the tunnel, soaked from the rain, his cap dripping, his arms rigid at his sides. His face was pale with anger. His jaw clenched so tightly you thought he might break a tooth.

“Dad—”

“Get away from her,” he barked at Aaron. “Now.”

Aaron didn’t move at first. He opened his mouth, struggling to form words. You could feel the tension rippling off his body.

“Sir, I—”

“Don’t ‘sir’ me,” your dad snapped, voice sharper than lightning. “I trusted you.” His eyes darted between the two of you. “You knew the rules. You knew what this meant. And you—” he looked at you now, eyes glassy with fury and something that looked a lot like betrayal. “You lied to me. Both of you.”

“I wasn’t—I swear, it wasn’t just—” Aaron’s voice cracked.

Your dad pointed a trembling finger at him. “I took you in. I treated you like family.”

You stepped forward, heart in your throat. “Dad, please, just—”

“Don’t,” he snapped. “Don’t make excuses. Don’t pretend this was harmless.”

You stopped, the air between you dense and suffocating.

He shook his head, the muscle in his jaw twitching. “I want you out of my house. Tonight.”

You blinked. “What?”

“You heard me.”

Then he turned to Aaron. His voice dropped, but somehow it hit even harder.

“And you don’t even look at her again. Not at practice. Not at games. Not in passing. I don’t care how many homers you hit stay the hell away from my daughter.”

Aaron looked like he’d just been punched. He didn’t speak. He just nodded once then dropped your hand like it burned.

And walked away.

Leaving you standing in the cold rain, heart split wide open.

⸻

Aaron stayed away.

Not because he wanted to. Not because he stopped caring. But because he thought it was what you needed.

He thought stepping back would protect you. Give your dad space. Buy time.

He was wrong.

You didn’t blame him.

But it still broke your heart the night he didn’t answer your call.

The phone rang. And rang. And rang.

Then it stopped.

You stared at the screen, your hand shaking, willing it to light up again.

It didn’t.

You cried into your pillow, biting back the sobs because your dad was in the next room. Because you didn’t want to admit out loud how badly you’d let yourself fall.

You scrolled through pictures you couldn’t post. Texts you never sent. Notes from him that still sat in your drawer like relics from another life.

His hoodie still hung on the back of your chair.

His contact still starred at the top of your favorites.

The ache wasn’t sharp.

It was dull. Heavy. Like carrying a weight you couldn’t put down.

And the worst part wasn’t the silence.

It was the absence.

You missed his laugh deep and low, the kind that rumbled in his chest and made you feel like you were the funniest person in the world.

You missed how steady he was. The way he always stood with his feet planted like he was ready to catch you if the world tilted.

You missed the way he made you feel safe. Even when you were lying to everyone else. Even when your world felt like it was stitched together with secrets.

The first few days, you half expected him to show up anyway. To knock on your window. To send one last text.

But he didn’t.

And after a week, it started to feel permanent.

After two, it started to feel like grief.

You sat in your room most nights, staring at your phone, trying not to give in to the part of you that still believed he might fight for you.

But deep down, you knew:

He was hurting, too.

And staying away?

That wasn’t his way of letting go.

It was his way of protecting you even if it meant breaking his own heart in the process.

⸻

You found your dad alone in the clubhouse.

It was after a home game. The field lights were off. Most of the team had cleared out hours ago. You knew he always stayed late checking stats, going over film, or just sitting in the quiet like it grounded him.

You stood in the doorway for a long moment before stepping inside.

The room smelled like sweat and turf and the faint ghost of sunflower seeds. Your dad sat on the bench outside his office, elbows resting on his knees, fingers wrapped around a paper coffee cup that hadn’t been touched in at least an hour. The steam was gone. So was the fire in his eyes.

“Dad,” you said softly.

He didn’t look up. “Shouldn’t you be home?”

You walked closer. “I needed to talk to you.”

He sighed, rubbing his thumb along the rim of the cup. “Let me guess who this is about.”

You sat down across from him. The wood creaked under your weight. Your hands folded in your lap, clenched together like you were bracing for impact.

“Dad,” you began again, your voice trembling slightly but clear, “I love him.”

He finally looked up. His face was tight, weathered with exhaustion. He didn’t look angry anymore.

Just… tired.

“You’re young,” he said. “You think everything that feels good must be love.”

You didn’t flinch. “Maybe. But I know the difference between a crush and something that makes me feel safe. Seen. Worth it.”

His jaw twitched.

“I’m not asking you to throw a parade,” you continued. “I’m not even asking you to like it. But I’m asking you to believe me. To believe us.”

He leaned back slowly, the cup now dangling from his fingertips. The silence between you was long, brittle.

“Do you know how many players I’ve watched rise and fall?” he said finally. “How many of them burn hot and then disappear?”

You nodded. “But Aaron’s not like that.”

He looked at you again. This time, there was something different in his eyes.

“I didn’t want this for you,” he said, voice low. “The spotlight. The pressure. The heartbreak.”

You blinked hard, refusing to cry. “But what if it’s also joy? And safety? And real?”

Another beat passed. Then another.

“I was scared,” you admitted. “That if I told you, you’d shut it down before it even started. But it already had. And it meant something. It still does.”

He exhaled. Closed his eyes briefly like the weight of your words was pressing directly against his chest.

“You could’ve told me,” he said. “You should’ve told me.”

“I know,” you whispered. “I’m telling you now.”

He let the coffee cup drop into the trash beside him and ran both hands over his face. When he dropped them, you saw something shift.

A softening.

A surrender.

“If he ever hurts you—”

“He won’t,” you said, immediately. Without hesitation.

Your dad’s gaze locked on yours. Not as your coach. Not as some hard-edged guardian.

But as your father.

“He better not,” he said, quieter now.

You nodded, a breath catching in your throat. And for the first time in weeks, you didn’t feel like you were choosing between the two men who mattered most.

You were finally choosing both.

⸻

He was packing up his locker when he heard your voice.

“Hey.”

He froze.

At first, he thought he’d imagined it. He’d been doing that a lot lately hearing your voice in places you used to stand, seeing glimpses of your silhouette in the corner of the dugout, only to blink and find you gone.

But this time, when he turned around, you were there.

Really there.

Backlit by the hallway lights, damp hair curling slightly from the rain, wearing that same Yankees hoodie he hadn’t had the heart to ask for back. His mouth went dry.

You looked like everything he’d tried to stop himself from missing. And failed.

“You’re back?” he asked, the words catching in his throat.

“I’m back,” you said, stepping into the clubhouse like you belonged. “And I told him. Everything.”

Aaron blinked. The world narrowed to the space between you. The ghost of your absence still lingered in the way his shoulders tensed, in the weight in his chest that hadn’t lifted in weeks.

He took one hesitant step forward.

“And?” he asked, carefully.

You smiled. Not a smirk. Not a brave front. A real smile the kind he hadn’t seen in too long.

“He didn’t kill you. Yet.”

A short laugh broke out of him, a laugh tangled in disbelief and something close to relief. The kind that cracks open something inside you and lets hope flood in.

“I’ve missed you,” he said, voice low, aching.

“I know,” you whispered, moving closer until the space between you vanished. “Me too.”

He didn’t wait this time. He pulled you into him like muscle memory, arms tight around your waist, chin buried in your shoulder.

And for the first time in weeks, he breathed.

Fully.

You felt solid in his arms. Warm. Real. The kind of real he had tried to bury under routine, training, distraction and failed every time.

You tilted your head back to look at him, and he kissed you right there in the clubhouse. No hesitation. No fear. No one to stop him.

The kiss wasn’t fireworks. It wasn’t rushed.

It was slow. Steady. The kind of kiss that says:

“I still choose you.”

Even after everything.

His hand cradled the side of your face, thumb brushing along your cheekbone, like he needed to relearn every part of you.

And you let him.

When you pulled away, you stayed pressed together. Foreheads touching. Arms still locked tight.

“It’s really over now,” you whispered. “No more hiding.”

He nodded, eyes searching yours.

“No more hiding.”

A pause. Then, quieter:

“Does he hate me?”

You shook your head. “He doesn’t. Not really. I think he’s just… scared. But he sees it now. Us.”

Aaron closed his eyes for a moment. Let the weight fall off his chest.

“I don’t care if he never smiles at me again. As long as I don’t have to lose you.”

“You won’t,” you said.

And standing there, still holding you like you were gravity itself, he believed you.

Finally.

a/n: thank you for reading! this is definitely my favorite one i've wrote so far! let me know what you think!

[willowsnook]

Hiii! I literally just discovered your blog and I’m obsessed! Can I request one where Carlos sainz gets jealous ? Maybe from the reader being friendly w an ex ? Thank you iyyyyy

The Better Man

Carlos Sainz x Reader

Masterlist

Summary: Carlos gets jealous after the two of you run into your ex in a supermarket.

Note: Wait cause the first and second pic match so well, the similar outfit wasn’t even intentional 😭 lowkey wanna do a whole saga about the things drivers turn into races (send asks about what you think they would)

wc 2.1k

The thing that most people fail to consider about Formula 1 drivers is their innate ability to make anything a race.

The cool grocery store is a welcome oasis away from the heat of the Monaco summer, from the moment he’d seen the shopping trolleys, he’s been on a mission. Carlos weaves and pushes, taking any empty space he can, pulling risky moves, taking corners at speeds. It’s as if he’s racing in Barcelona, the crowd going wild for his daring stunts with a cart rather than a car. 

But nobody pays him any attention other than an older woman scoffing, brushing him aside as she hobbles past with her own small basket, unimpressed by the way he was swerving around. 

“Will you fucking stop? Please? Jesus!” You grit your teeth and hiss at him, pulling the end of the trolley behind you, scolding him like the child he’s being. “You nearly knocked that poor old lady over, Carlos. Christ.”

Carlos barely slows down. If anything, he turns back to glance at you with that shit-eating grin that tells you he’s not sorry at all. His curls are slightly damp from the heat outside, cheeks pink with the effort of his self-appointed grocery grand prix and he’s still beaming like he’s just set the fastest lap.

“She was in the racing line.” He says, deadpan, like he’s defending a move in a stewards’ briefing, trying not to catch a fine.

You stare at him, stunned, pointing an accusatory finger of warning as if to say don’t you dare fuck with me today. “You’re unbelievable.” He mutters something about a perfect qualifying session and playfully bumps your ass with the trolley as you turn away, earning a hard glare. 

“How about rather than being a pain in my ass - literally - you go and get the meat? Huh, guapo? Go, be useful.” You gently shoo him away with an eye roll and a small smile, not wanting to seem like you’re encouraging his silly behaviour in a small store after he’d nearly mowed someone down. 

“Go on, grill master. Be free, I’ll get the vegetables.” 

He grins and shoots you a wink, leaving you with the shopping trolley, pressing a kiss to your temple as he passes, slapping your ass that lets out a thunderous crack, turning your cheeks red with embarrassment over the thought that anyone might’ve seen. 

For a second it’s quiet and still in the bread aisle, the momentary peace that follows is a relief - a stark contrast to Carlos’ chaos. You reach for a pack of brioche buns, already mentally ticking through the rest of the barbecue list when a familiar voice cuts through the hum of the store’s soft pop music.

“Didn’t think I’d see you here.”

You freeze for a half-second before turning, heartbeat tripping into an uneasy rhythm. An awkward quiet settled between you and your ex as you finally look up at him, half grimacing when you try to offer a smile. 

His hair’s shorter, but everything else is the same - the way he stands, the way his eyes scan your face like he’s trying to read a language he forgot how to speak.

You clear your throat, adjusting your grip on the bread in your hands. “Uh, well, I’ve always shopped here. Nothing new.” You throw the bread into the trolley and hold the handles a little tighter, trying to steady your uneven breathing. “How’ve you been Chris?”

His eyes rake over you, not sleazy but something worse - familiar. He’s studying you like he’s remembering and it makes your skin itch, shifting uncomfortably when he doesn’t answer the question you’d posed. 

“Yeah? You look good.” He says - and it’s absolutely not casual. Not in the way it’s supposed to be, it couldn’t be as his eyes run up and down you, hovering over the curves and edges he used to run his hands up and down in the exact same way. “It’s been a while.”

You nod, noncommittal and just wanting out of here now. “Yeah, year and a half.”

“Eleven months, right?” He asks, too fast, his mouth twitches like he regrets being so obvious and his nose does the half-scrunch that happens when he’s uncomfortable. “With Sainz, yeah? S’all the guys at work can talk about, find it hilarious that you’d go from me to him.”

He says it like it’s supposed to be an insult to Carlos and your heart tugs uncomfortably, not brave enough to tell him to fuck off and leave you alone, to leave Carlos alone - who’s ten times the man that Chris had ever been or would ever be. It’s not that you’re hiding anything - it’s just that you don’t want to have this conversation here, in the bread aisle of a fucking supermarket, while holding buns for a barbecue and pretending that he didn’t break your heart.

Still, you offer a tight smile. “Yeah. Carlos.”

“He treating you alright?”

You blink, caught between confusion and defensiveness. “Of course he is. Does any part of you seriously think he could treat me any worse than you did?” You seem to find your voice now, not liking the way he seemed to immediately look down on your boyfriend of only ten months, the man who’d helped put you back together again. 

And then - like he’s summoned by name, Carlos appears with a bright smile, arms overflowing with burgers, sausages, steaks… a watermelon? 

“You manage without me, tesoro? I see you didn’t get as far as the fruit and veg aisle, ah?” He asks, bundling the meat and melon into the shopping cart before finally letting his eyes settle on the third part of the equation, the shorter man with dusty blonde hair and green eyes, not unattractive, but certainly not on your league, Carlos thinks. 

“Something interrupted?” Carlos pushes, half smirking as he shoots the man a look now, as if to tell him to get moving. 

You squeeze his arm gently, trying to anchor him, trying to tell him you’re fine. But Carlos doesn’t move. He’s locked in now, not angry or loud - just possessive. Not for the first time, you realise how quiet his jealousy is. It’s not explosive. It’s just wound tightly, coiled like a spring waiting to explode. He’s controlled in the most sexy way and it makes your mouth slightly dry as he presses himself to you.

Territorial.

Carlos doesn’t need to raise his voice. He doesn’t need to square his shoulders or clench his fists. All he has to do is stand there with one hand resting on the small of your back - his thumb stroking slow, deliberate circles against your spine - while the other casually adjusts the watermelon in the trolley like it’s the most natural thing in the world to bring produce to a passive-aggressive showdown.

Chris shifts, uneasy now under Carlos’ gaze.

“You know Chris,” you say, trying to keep your voice even, “we were just catching up for a second.”

Carlos hums again - the sound a low rumble in his chest, like he doesn’t believe you and doesn’t care to pretend otherwise.

“Catch up’s done, no?” Carlos says, voice smooth, accented and polite enough that it might have passed for friendly if not for the razor edge hiding beneath. “I think she has all the bread she needs.”

Chris opens his mouth, maybe to argue or explain - but Carlos cuts in again before a single syllable can escape.

“Eleven months, huh?” Carlos murmurs, eyes narrowed slightly now, every word laced with precision. “That’s how long you’ve been watching from the sidelines?” Chris flinches, even if he doesn’t mean to. “I’m not watching.”

“Could’ve fooled me.” Carlos tilts his head and leans closer to you, lips brushing your temple again, but this time the kiss lingers just a little longer - more pointed. “The way you were staring at her? Like you forgot she’s not yours anymore.”

Your hand curls tighter around his bicep, squeezing harder now to tell him to play nice, feeling the tension humming beneath his skin. He’s being calm - dangerously so - and it’s only sexy because you know exactly how much he’s holding back.

Chris swallows and shakes his head defensively, holding one hand up in surrender as the other holds his basket by his side. “I just asked if she was okay.”

Carlos finally lets out a short laugh. “She’s more than okay. She’s fucking glowing.” His hand slips around your waist again, pulling you flush against his side as if he’s daring the man in front of you to say something else. “Look how pretty she looks. But then again, I suppose that having a man who eats her pretty little pussy twice a day and keeps her bank account tidy would do that, no? You gave up that right when you stopped treating her like someone worth holding on to.”

There’s a beat of silence - awkward and loud in the way supermarkets can sometimes be. The hum of fridges, the metallic clatter of a cart rounding the next aisle, a kid whining somewhere near the cereal.

Chris’ face twitches, his jaw tightens like he wants to say something back, to claw at any shred of dignity he still thinks he has. 

But Carlos doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look away and somehow, that is more unsettling than any raised voice could ever be.

You don’t speak either - you just rest your hand against Carlos’ forearm now because it’s a little intoxicating, the way he defends you so effortlessly, like it’s second nature. Like the moment someone disrespects you, it’s his battle too.

Chris shifts his weight as his bravado fades radially to nothing, replaced with something like regret or embarrassment, his cheeks warm with colour. “Right.” He mutters flatly with a nod, wringing his hands and wiping them on the denim of his jeans. “Well. Good to see you, I guess.”

Carlos doesn’t respond, just lifts his chin in the smallest nod, like he’s already decided Chris is dismissed, like he has the sort of power to dismiss someone who’s not worth the energy.

“Subtle.” You tease, raising an eyebrow with a smile playing on your lips, pressing closer to his side to press a gentle kiss to his jaw. “But thank you, for… defending my honour I suppose.”

Carlos lifts his hands in faux innocence before his arms come down to circle your waist, pulling you close despite the people milling nearby trying to find their own shopping. “What? I didn’t touch him.”

“I know what it’s like… you know?” He adds after a beat. “To lose something and realise too late what it was. I see it on his face. I’d rather crash out of every race for the rest of my life than feel that when it comes to you.”

“Carlos…”

He cuts you off with another kiss - softer this time, a promise rather than a statement, and then pulls away just enough to grin. “Now. Go get the lettuce before I start drifting this trolley down the pasta aisle. I think I can beat my sector time from earlier.”

You laugh again, nudging him with your hip. “You’re such a fucking idiot, you’re lucky I love you.”

“Fastest idiot on the supermarket grid, cariño, hopefully Max won’t show up to rival me with his tractor.” He calls out as he starts pushing the cart again, a lazy smirk on his face as he goes weaving ahead with absurd precision.

[willowsnook]

JOE BURROW — messier

summary — to him, it’s a friends with benefits situation. to her, he’s the love of her life. it only can end in flames

warnings — fem!reader, smut, angst, language

requested by — anon! based off of this ask

note — yes yes i know yall are waiting on TYAM pt 2 its just taking longer than i expected. i’m gonna try and grind it out this week! pls hang with me.

tags — @willowsnook @ebsmind @softburrow @burrowdarling @wickedfun9 @iosivb9 @hotburreaux @starsinthesky5 @joeyburrrow @hannahjessica113 @irishmanwhore @joeyfranchise @joeyb1989 @justhereforthetea200 @sportyphile @kazsbrckkers @joecoolburrow

A BAD GAME CAN CHANGE EVERYTHING. One fucking point can harden the edges of anyone. Including the notoriously calm and collected Joe Burrow. The Kansas City Chiefs won. Again. Painfully so.

“You can’t be costing us yardage like that, Ja’Marr,” Joe snapped, his expression all hard and deep lines. The tension was thick, stringing the two friends together.

“Did you see that fuckin’ call, Joe? Huh? It was bullshit!” Ja’Marr argued. Everyone and their mothers knew it was a bad call. Ja’Marr had decided to do something about it.

“You think I’m blind?” Joe challenged, stepping towards him. The visitor side locker room was small, shrinking with the time as the wide receiver and quarterback duo inched closer.

“We could have won the game if that call wasn’t made!”

“We could have won if you kept your damn mouth shut!”

“Hey!” Coach Taylor stepped between them, hands pressed against their chests, “cut the shit. We lost. Now’s not the time to see whose dick is bigger,”

Silence filled the room. Heavy breaths clouded the space between players. The plane ride home wouldn’t be a fun one.

Cincinnati, Ohio

He doesn’t give her much of a choice. His text to her before his flight said enough.

‘I’m coming over.’

Their relationship was complicated. They were best friends, had been since LSU. He was the star quarterback, lifting LSU from the depths of their losses, and she was the girl who got straight A’s and was in bed by 10pm. But Joe was always fond of her. Her laugh and her ability to comfort. The way her brow furrowed when she concentrated.

She was his steady. His constant. His stress relief. He was her hope. Her motivation. Her first love.

And those things didn’t mesh as well as she’d wanted them to.

She was dressed comfortably. Sweats hung on her hips and a t-shirt wrapped around her shoulders. A TV show was on, something unimportant. Her phone vibrated again, her eyes flicking to it next to her on the couch.

‘5 minutes away.’

She didn’t know why she was nervous. Her stomach bubbled, hands grew clammy. It wasn’t that she didn’t want sex, she just didn’t know what to expect. He’d lost the game. He was angry. She was his outlet.

The first time he’d come over, it was just an overabundance of touch. His hands around her waist, head on her chest. He sought comfort from her. But each time, it grew more heated. He never kissed her, not properly. Always her neck. Always below her chin. Never marking her. Never staking his claim.

Because she wasn’t his. She was just his best friend.

She stood up, padding over to her front door. She unlocked it, walking back to her spot on the couch. Joe was her best friend. They laughed together, shared in their love of Star Wars. She let him show her chemistry videos, his commentary on the compatibility of different elements she found intriguing.

But once he got a taste of her skin, there wasn’t any going back.

‘Door’s unlocked.’

She curled under her blanket, letting her body sink into the couch. It wasn’t long before the doorknob to her apartment turned. Before Joe stepped through, his cologne wafting into the small space.

She sat up, watching him. His movements were stiff and ragged. His eyes were hard and unforgiving. More of himself. How could he have lost such a game? By one damn point?

He tossed her blanket aside, crawling on top of her. There wasn’t speaking. No words crawled out of the depths of his throat. His lips attached to her throat, his hands sliding up her shirt. She was all warm and soft edges, pliable under his touch.

The complete opposite of himself.

His touch wasn’t foreign. The way he touched her, calloused hands against soft skin, it ignited something in her. Something it shouldn’t. She imagined that he was touching her because he loved her. Because he wanted her.

But she was an outlet. Nothing more. Nothing less.

Joe’s hands pried her shirt off, tossing the fabric aside. His lips kissed down her chest, swirling around a nipple on her breast. Her breath caught in her throat. Her stomach tensed, but she forbade herself from making a single sound.

This wasn’t pleasure for him. This was his stress relief.

He kissed down her stomach, his tongue velvet against her skin. Shivers crawled down her spine, her hands fisting the fabric of the couch. The ache that built between her legs was undeniable. The arousal that stuck to her cunt was hot, making her grit her teeth together.

Clothes came off with ease. They were discarded on the floor, forming a disorganized pile. Joe’s bare chest was pressed against hers, his cock hard and leaking against her slit. And yet, his eyes never left hers.

His hands held her hips, his fingers pressing into her skin. He guided himself into her, the friction sending electric currents down the length of his spine. He wanted to take his time, to let her feel every inch and every thrust, but his anger drove him. As soon as he bottomed out, he pulled back just to slam into her again.

“Fuck,” he whispered, his hips snapping at a relentless pace against hers. Wet sounds filled the living room of her apartment, her soft and contained mewls floating between them. His hair, the bleach growing out finally, stuck to his forehead. His lips were pink and parted, his cock dragging in and out of her with a ragged and intense pace.

To him, every thrust was cups of his anger poured into her. A release. He could always count on her to be what he needed. To hold and to comfort. To let him do what he needed to do.

To her, every thrust was a reminder that he never loved her. She grit her teeth, her mind in other places as he slammed into her. She didn’t feel the burn, not like she used to. She couldn’t concentrate, not enough to send her over the edge.

So, she faked it. Her legs shook, her back arched, and even though the pleasure was real, the orgasm wasn’t. She clenched around him, her breaths shuddering as she squirmed.

He believed it. There was nothing that changed about the way her face looked, or how her back arched into his chest. His own orgasm built, twitching in his belly, and just as he was about to spill over, he pulled out. He sat up, wrapped his hand around his cock, and brought himself to that point of ecstasy.

He was completely satisfied. She, however, wasn’t. It was proof to her that he never paid attention to her body. That he only wanted to get himself off. It was selfish fucking ambition that drove him.

It was a sour taste in her mouth.

She shifted, pushing herself out from under him. His mind was clearer, blue eyes meeting hers. There was something wrong, something sitting under the current of her eyes. He didn’t know what it was.

She sat up, tugging her legs from under him to swing over the couch.

“Wait,” he paused her movements, a steady hand placed on her arm, “let me take care of you,”

Her eyes met his. She could see the sincerity behind his gaze, the need to do something right. Joe was a fixer, always had been. He wanted to fix problems right then and there, he wanted to make people feel better. After a loss, it was what he especially needed.

At her silence, Joe stood. He slid back on his boxers and sweats, padding into her kitchen. His mind wandered, exploring the depths of his thoughts. She didn’t seem satisfied. She didn’t seem okay. She was his best friend, and he’d always take care of her. So why did she look like she’d been punched in the gut?

He grabbed a glass of water and a warm, soaked towel. He brought it back over to the couch as she slid her shirt back on. He set the glass down, holding the towel awkwardly in his hands.

“Something’s wrong,” Joe pointed out. She took the cloth from his hands, setting it down on the table. Her mind spun. It always did after sex. But it spun faster now, a realization that she deserved better surfacing. It choked her, pressing down on her chest.

“I’m fine,” she insisted, standing from the couch. She grabbed her panties, tugging them over her hips. A practiced motion, something she wished held more meaning. She wished she could bask in the warmth of his body without worrying about him.

“No, you’re not,” he continued, “did I go too hard? Did it hurt? Y/N, tell me,”

“So now you’re worried about how I feel,” she snapped. Months of sex, years of yearning, and she was finally ready to boil over. Her fingers flexed at her sides, her toes digging into the carpet under her.

“What?” Joe’s eyes flickered, widening ever so slightly. He was still on the couch, watching her as she stood above him. He didn’t need this. He didn’t need her to stop being his constant.

“You come over when you need me, and I’m here. Always. When you need someone to hold you, I’m here. When you need sex, I’m here. Have you ever thought about what I need?” Her question hung in the air, and yes, Joe did think about what she needed. All the time. But something told him she was going somewhere else with this.

“Y/N-”

“Whenever I need you, you’re not there. I’m never angry. I’m never upset. But this, whatever this is, it’s not 50/50. I don’t deserve that,” she continued, and her words set a deep fear within him. He could see the end of the tracks, the cliff she was about to take them down.

“Please, just give me another shot,”

“No,” she shook her head, stepping away from him, “you don’t notice things. You’ve never picked up on the small things, Joe. You’ve only come over to satisfy yourself,”

“What the hell are you talking about?” He argued, standing up from his spot. Her chest heaved, her head cocked to the side. Her legs shook, her mind still swimming with both anxiety and anger.

“You know how many times I’ve faked it?” she asked, “how many times I’ve made it look like you’ve made me orgasm?”

Her question hit him like a punch to the gut. It shouldn’t be that offensive. They weren’t a couple, but she’d been lying to him, he’d even go as far as she was deceiving him.

But it was true. He’d never noticed. His face fell, his chest tightening even more. He came to her to find peace away from the storm when she herself was the storm.

“My favorite flower isn’t lilies, it’s dahlias. I’ve told you that. My favorite book isn’t True Colors, it’s The Nightingale. You’ve seen my annotations,” she continued. Every word struck deep within both of them, realization hitting them both in different ways.

“You never corrected me,”

“I shouldn’t have to correct you, Joe,” she snapped, “we’ve been best friends for years, how much do you actually know about me? Or is it all about sex?”

He froze. A bad time to freeze, but his mind couldn’t function. Joe knew a lot about her. He was sure of it. He wasn’t perfect, but he knew her. Now, as he stood in front of her, his mouth opening and closing like a fish, he looked like an idiot.

“That’s what I thought,” she sighed, stepping away from him. Her heart ached, cracking down the middle. She’d loved him for so long, only for him to not have a single thing to say about her. It hurt, it made her organs twist inside of her.

“Y/N, wait-”

“Get out,” she hummed, words like venom. Joe clenched his jaw, the unwelcome silence of his tears blossoming in his chest.

“Please-”

“Get out, Joe. This is over,” she stood firm on her words, even if it killed her. Joe grabbed his shirt, shaky hands tugging the fabric over his head. He wanted to scream, to shake her, to make up for his stupidity, but she seemed final in her decision. His stomach churned, aching deep within him. He couldn’t go anywhere but home now.

He slid on his UGGs, grabbed his keys from the bowl next to her door, and left.

She stood there, bottom lip quivering. Her fists clenched at her sides, tears filling her eyes. She’d ripped a limb from herself, the pain nearly unbearable. She covered her mouth as a cry left her throat, unable to fully articulate what she just did.

Even if she deserved better than a man who didn’t notice the little things.

[willowsnook]

49 and Lando?

lando win means lando fic!!! enjoyyy <3

49. holding on to the other's shoulders for support. lando norris x reader, 1.6k. r is a little drunk, but no mentions of alcohol! request something from here :)

The first thing Lando notices when he ducks into the club is the heavy bass of whatever song the DJ of the night is turning. 

It’s so loud in here he feels the beat in his entire body, and it brings him a sense of nostalgia. He remembers when he used to tag along with Martin to clubs like these more often, even DJ a set or two. Nowadays, he doesn’t have much of an appetite for clubbing all that much, but rather prefers to have a quiet night in with some video games.

He’d been doing so when he got a text from you about twenty minutes ago, asking him to come get you. It wasn’t too concerning, but the amount of typos in the one sentence message was a little more so. Lando knows you can handle yourself, knows that your friends will take care of you until he gets there, but he still wants to find you quickly. 

It doesn’t take long to find you and your friends, and when he does, he spots you almost immediately. 

You’re asleep on the sofa behind them, head resting on one of your friend’s shoulder. He chuckles at the sight, one of the many ways you and he are similar—you can both fall asleep basically anywhere. 

Your friend spots him approaching and waves, patting your knee gently to wake you. You don’t stir one bit. You don’t even stir when Lando slides in next to you, maneuvering your weight against him so she can continue having a good time. 

“Baby, wake up,” He says right next to your ear, rubbing a hand over your thigh. 

Your brows furrow at the action as you inhale a deep breath, eyes flutter open groggily. You blink a few times to regain your bearings, sitting up straight.

“Lando?” You mumble, squinting at him. 

“Hey, you. Ready to go home?” 

“Did I call you?” 

“You texted me to come get you,” He says amusedly. You remain unmoving for a good few seconds, staring at him like he’d just grown a second head. “I can show you the text, if you don't believe me?” 

“No, I do. You just—” You inhale a deep breath, reaching out with childlike wonder to touch his cheek gently. “You’re so pretty, Lan.” 

Lando feels his face turn hot at the compliment, even though you tell him all the time. “Thank you, love. You’re very pretty too.” 

“No, but like, you’re…so pretty.” 

He lets out a breathy chuckle, blanketing the hand currently stroking his cheek with his own. “Alright, I think it’s time we get you home, yeah?”

You nod wildly, face brightening as he helps you to your feet, muttering something about nachos. Before Lando can urge you out of the place, you just have to say goodbye to each and every one of your friends for at least five minutes (Lando would know—he counted) while he waits patiently with your purse in hand. 

When you finally do make it outside, the two of you barely get ten feet from the door before you stop suddenly in your tracks. 

“What? What’s happening?” He asks, alarmed at your abruptness. You gesture at your feet halfheartedly, but don’t say anything. “Baby, what?” 

“I wanna take my shoes off,” You whine, pouting. 

“You can’t walk to the car barefoot.” 

“What if I run?” 

Lando scrubs a hand down his face, shaking his head. “Please don’t.” 

“But my feet hurt!” 

“You’re sure you can’t make it to the car? It’s just down the block, you can take your shoes off there.” 

He could leave you here and run to grab the car, but he can’t rule out the possibility that you won’t wander off in the short time it takes him to pull it around. You’re as curious as you are cute when you’re drunk. 

“Positive.” 

“Alright, fine. Go on, take your shoes off then. I’ll carry you to the car.” 

You beam and bend down to undo the strap, but your drunkenness seems to have impaired your balance, because you nearly topple over, only able to right yourself because of Lando’s hands steadying you by the waist. 

“Oops,” You giggle, hiccuping. 

Lando kneels down, taking your ankle and undoing the strap with gentle fingers before you try again and actually fall. 

“Step here,” He urges, gesturing to his own trainer for you to put your foot on. You oblige, planting both hands on his shoulders for support, reveling in the sturdiness of them as he unbuckles the other shoe swiftly. He doesn’t miss the way your hands travel down to his upper back, fingers toying with the hood of his jumper. 

“You’re so nice to me, Lan,” You sigh happily. 

“Yeah, well, that’s because I love you. Now c’mon, jump on.”

You let out a little squeal like you’re on a roller coaster when Lando lifts you off the ground with little effort, winding your arms around his neck with another drunken giggle and a smattering of sloppy kisses pressed to his cheek. He chuckles amusedly, making sure you’re holding onto him tightly before starting the short trek back to the car. 

There are sure to be pictures circulating on the internet by tomorrow morning, but hey, it could be worse. At least the aforementioned photos would be of him being a doting boyfriend. 

The passenger door opens upwards with a hiss when he tugs on the handle, and by the way you’re gawking slack-jawed at it in amazement, one might think you were looking at a damn spaceship. Lando chuckles to himself at the thought as he deposits you as best he can into the low sitting car, reaching over you to click your seatbelt into place. 

“Hi, baby,” You hum, running your fingers through his hair. “You’re pretty.” 

“So I’ve been told many times tonight.” 

You scowl suddenly, nose wrinkling. “By who? I’ll fight them.” 

“By you, my love.” 

“I think I would remember calling you that, don’t you reckon?” You ask, tapping your temple like your memory is airtight. 

“Mhm, yeah. ‘Course you would,” He says airily, bobbing his head. Then, under his breath, more to himself than anything as he rounds the car to slide into the driver’s seat, “Damn, your hangover is going to be wicked tomorrow morning.” 

The purr of the smooth engine is familiar as the car roars to life under Lando’s fingertips. 

“Can we get nachos before we go home? Please, Lan?” You ask eagerly, turning in your seat to face him when you realize you’re about to leave. Without even looking at you, Lando knows you’ve got your puppy dog eyes trained on him, most likely paired with the jutted out lower lip that he’s never quite learned how to say no to. 

Lando flicks on his blinker, pulling out onto the road, towards the place you always go to whenever you’re craving nachos, where the people there know him by name and his order by heart, and not because of what he does for a living. He’s memorized the way there the same way he’s memorized every circuit he’s ever raced on. 

“Who’s the best boyfriend ever?” He asks. Rhetorical, of course. 

“You are!” You cheer, leaning over to kiss his cheek. You actually wind up kissing the side of his chin, but Lando will take it gladly anyways. When you’re happy, he’s happy, and that’s all he really needs. 

Fifteen minutes and a rather long conversation about Lando’s impressive car with the old man that always works the counter on late nights later, you’re finally on the way home. You’ve got your nachos on your lap, humming happily in the passenger seat as you munch on them. 

“Lan, here,” You urge, tugging at his sleeve the moment he stops at a red light. One glance tells him you’re holding out the best chip in the whole tray—the cheesiest one with the most toppings on it. 

It feels vaguely like a testament to how much you love him, really. You love him so much that even when you’re drunk you want him to give him your favorite bite. 

Warmth thrums through Lando’s chest at your offer, and he grins but shakes his head. “It’s alright, love. It’s your food.” 

“But I want you to have it.” 

Well, now how can he resist that? 

He takes the bite gratefully, not even minding when a bit of salsa misses his mouth and splatters onto the seat, even when you gasp like it’s the worst thing in the world. The chip is good, but not better than the person who gave it to him. 

If he’s being completely honest, he’s still getting used to being treated like this—to being loved so much. You’re the type of person who would give the shirt off your back if someone asked, kind and caring and always looking out for others. It still blows Lando’s mind that he’s one of the people you’ve chosen to care about. 

You make sure he’s eating on race days because you know sometimes the nerves get to be so much that he forgets. You do his laundry the morning after he gets in from another redeye flight because you know how much the jet lag messes with his body and want him to get as much sleep as he can. You tell him how proud you are of him after every practice, every qualifying session, every race, because you know how hard he is on himself when it comes to even the smallest mistakes. 

You love Lando in ways he’s never been loved before, and he’s damn lucky for it. 

Right now, as you sing offkey to the song playing on the radio with crumbs all over your lap and your hair blowing around everywhere from the wind of your open window, he feels like the luckiest guy alive.

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[willowsnook]

dove - mattheo riddle

─✶⋆.˚ 𝔟𝔢 𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔢𝔣𝔬𝔯𝔢 𝔴𝔦𝔰𝔢 𝔞𝔰 𝔰𝔢𝔯𝔭𝔢𝔫𝔱𝔰, 𝔥𝔞𝔯𝔪𝔩𝔢𝔰𝔰 𝔞𝔰 𝔡𝔬𝔳𝔢𝔰

summary: fed up with the way the slytherin boys create chaos without consequence, someone seeks to bring them down a notch by going after the one thing their strongest loves most: you.

warnings: this is relatively dark (for me anyway!) reader is attacked + kissed/touched against their will. mentions of blood, knives and violence.

word count: 6.6k 🫣

soundtrack: heathens - twenty one pilots

a/n: i promise this isn't deranged, there is ample flangst and a mattheo that would burn the world to the ground for you ♡

If you'd heard it once, you'd heard it a thousand times.

Be careful. He's dangerous. You don't know what you're getting yourself into.

As if you weren't an adult, perfectly capable of making your own decisions, of reading people, of caring for your own heart.

On paper, you and Mattheo Riddle made no sense. You were quiet and calm, friendly and compassionate, quick with a warm smile and a hug. You were light and laughter and goodness.

By contrast, Mattheo was rough and edgy, quick to anger with a firecracker temper and a biting sarcasm like a venomous snake that kept everyone but his closest friends at an arm's length. But around you? He melted.

It was like you held the key that unlocked his defenses, allowing you to walk straight into the dark center of his heart. He would have mocked any guy who fell for a girl the way he fell for you: immediately, irrevocably and hard. And once he had his mind made up about you, there was little you could say in the matter (not that you were arguing).

He showered you with a depth of affection that was rare for anyone, let along the brooding bad boy of Hogwarts.

Suddenly, he was just there, beside you in class, next to you at meals, and keeping you company in the library as you studied. Before long you began to crave the feeling of his presence, of his warmth next to you, of the low rumble of his voice meant only for you to hear as he shared an inside joke or complimented you. He'd eagerly watch your face light up in return, the twinkle in your eyes, the lift of your lips and your happiness became a high for him that he wouldn't stop chasing; making you happy and keeping you happy became his mission, one that he succeeded at in every way.

Then late one night in the library you were huddled close together as a storm racked the castle outside, sending wind and rain against the large windows. Your heads were close together as you spoke in whispers. You looked at him and smiled and for just the breath of a second your eyes flitted from his eyes to his lips, and that was all the invitation he needed. He leaned in slowly, winding his hand to cup the side of your face as he pressed his lips to yours and he kissed you with tenderness and hunger, the combination of which pulled you out of your seat and onto his lap. And once he realized how bright you shined after he kissed you? He was a goner. And so were you.

There wasn't a thing anyone could say to you about Mattheo after that that you would have listened to, because he had you, heart and soul. He treated you like royalty, he protected you like treasure and he loved you with everything he had in him. What more could a girl possibly ask for?

You fell in step with Mattheo's long strides on your walk to breakfast, the early morning light beaming through the stained glass windows.

He wrapped his arm around your shoulder and pulled you into his side, right where he always wanted you, as close to him as possible. You nuzzled into his neck and he pressed a kiss to the top of your head.

As usual, the sea of students in the corridor dipped and dodged out of your way, leaving a wide berth for your group out of deference and intimidation. It was odd for you at first joining the group that held the rest of the school in such rapt fear because it was immediately obvious that they were just like everyone else, they just didn't care to show that side of themselves to the world; they were fun-loving, goofy, affable and caring and they quickly adopted you as one of their own.

You rounded the corner to the Great Hall and Mattheo went crashing into a figure that hadn't had the wherewithal to get out of his way. He tightened his grasp on you out of instinct and narrowed his eyes towards Seamus Finnegan who had dropped the entire stack of books he'd been holding and looked ready to argue about it until he saw who he was confronting. He bit his tongue instead, averted his eyes, and stepped out of your way.

Mattheo moved by him without a word, the slight already forgotten, but you glanced back with the smallest ounce of pity in your eyes as Seamus knelt to the floor to gather his books and a few Gryffindors came to help him.

"M'fuckin' sick of it" Seamus said quietly once you were out of earshot. "Him, them, walkin' around like they own the school" he shot a nasty glare in the direction of the Slytherin table.

"Good luck doing anything about it" Ron sighed, resigned. "Nasty temper, that one" he added, eyes shifting warily towards Mattheo like he might actually have the ability to hear him from the other side of the loud hall.

"It's cruel is what it is! Neville is still trying to recover from Nott hexing him. He claimed it was an 'accident', but we all know the truth. He should be expelled!" Hermione added hotly, her cheeks flushing at the idea of anyone breaking the rules and getting away with it.

Seamus grimaced as he stared at your group, at the ease with which you had all carried on with your morning, laughing and joking, boisterous, without a care in the world because you knew you were all completely untouchable, above reproach or reprimand.

He knew there wasn't a thing he could do in retaliation without ending up in the infirmary or worse he thought solemly.

What I wouldn't give to take them down a notch his mind whirled, to make them feel something, to feel vulnerable, on edge, afraid like the rest of us.

His eyes narrowed.

Surely there was a weakness, a vulnerability he could find, something something to level the playing field. His eyes skated over Draco and Blaise, over Theo's large frame and Lorenzo's tall figure before they landed back on Mattheo, and finally on you.

You.

He watched the way Mattheo kept his arm around you, as he always did, keeping you close to his side like you were two parts of one whole and Seamus thought about the way he'd seen Mattheo pull you even closer when he'd run into him. He watched, really watched him turn to look at you when you talked and saw a surprising softness in his normally cold, dark eyes.

It was no secret that you two were together, Mattheo loved kissing you openly, unabashedly, anywhere and everywhere he pleased: in between classes, after quidditch matches, at meals, even in class from time to time with a complete disregard to anything the professors said about it.

If there was one thing anyone knew or had learned the hard way it was that you were one hundred percent off limits and to think otherwise was a death wish.

Seamus remembered the transfer student several months ago that had unknowingly asked you out, and how Mattheo had broken his nose over it. Twice. Never mind the time Mattheo happened to overhear a Ravenclaw compliment your outfit, and he ended up puking slugs for weeks.

Seamus shuddered.

Mattheo had an appetite for violence and a temper that never burned hotter than when it came to you, sending him into a fitful spiral.

She's his weakness he realized.

"I have an idea" he said to the group around him.

Weeks later, your feet carried you quickly down the winding stone staircase from Divination. You were first out the door, eager to spend every second of the short break you had between classes with Mattheo as you always did at this time in the neighboring stairwell of the North Tower.

You turned the corner to see him leaning against the wall, waiting for you and your face lit up as you strode toward him in the small, empty space. He stood up straighter as he took you in and he fidgeted with his hands in an unusually nervous way that had you laughing as you approached him and pressed into him, winding your arms around his neck.

"Hi handsome" you breathed against his lips before you kissed him.

But it was like kissing a statue.

His lips sat unmoving against yours, his hands awkwardly at his side.

"Matty?" you asked, pulling back to look at him to see the same look of genuine nerves on his face, his cheeks flushed.

You laughed again, totally confused at his reaction.

"Are you okay?—"

"—Y-yeah" he mumbled before running his hands slowly up your sides. "Yeah, m'so good" he confirmed before tugging you into him.

His lips met yours but something was still off, he was stiff and awkward. You moved to pull away from him again but his grip on you tightened, holding you in place until he swung you around and pushed you against the stone wall so quick and so hard your head knocked against the surface painfully.

Mattheo was a lot of things.

But careless with you was not one of them.

Your heart raced in your chest as your head throbbed. You pushed against him, but he was unwavering as he deepened his kiss aggressively, sloppily, despite your growing protests. And then he bit your bottom lip. Hard. And you tasted blood.

"Ah! Mattheo - what the fuck!" you said, shoving him hard this time as your hand flew to your bleeding lip.

He looked completely disheveled, flushed, his eyes glazed as he stared at you. Your stomach roiled.

And then you earnestly began to panic because for the first time in the year you'd been together you were keenly aware of how tall and how big he was, and how helpless you were in comparison.

Your heart began to race and your breaths came fast and shallow as you searched his face for any sign of the boy you loved and every cautionary word you'd been told came racing back to you: Be careful. He's dangerous. You don't know what you're getting yourself into.

Those fears mixed with how fiercely you loved him in a cocktail of confusion that left tears burning in your eyes as you tried to hold back a sob.

At the sight of that he smirked and a chill ran down your spine.

You tried to run.

He grabbed you.

"C'mon dove" he said, caging you in with his arms against the wall despite how you squirmed. "I know you like it like this" he muttered as lips attached to your neck and he began to suck and bite you.

Dove?

He'd never once called you that.

You scraped against his chest. You tried to shout until he put a hand over your mouth and it was like he was intentionally trying to mark you, sucking your skin so hard you could feel the bruising as you pushed and punched him to no avail. He reached for the top of your shirt and yanked, tearing it as buttons flew off.

You were crying hard now as you fought his hands when suddenly voices echoed in a nearby corridor and he pulled away from you.

His grip loosened and his eyes flashed with fear, and then he left, taking off down the corridor without a word.

You sunk to the floor in disbelief, gasping to catch your breath as cries ripped from you and you wrapped your arms around yourself, your brain a mottled mess as you tried to comprehend what the fuck had happened to your boyfriend.

As soon as you could steady yourself, you grasped your torn shirt with shaking hands and made your way as quickly as you could to the common room through a series of passageways and abandoned corridors to avoid running into anyone.

You snuck into the dungeons, head down, desperate to get to your room, when you heard your friends' voices.

"There she is. Hey! YN!" Blaise shouted.

Shit.

You tried to ignore him, to act like you didn't hear anything.

"YN!" Theo called after you, louder. "Hang on, I'll get her" he said, standing to come after you.

You tried to walk faster, doubling your pace.

"Hey, hey!" Theo said, catching up with you easily with his long strides. "Have you seen Mattheo? He—"

He reached for you and you pulled out of his grasp, turning to face him and he stopped in his tracks, the words dying on his lips as his eyes widened and the color drained from his face.

"YN" he said quietly, intently. "What the fuck happened to you? Holy shit."

He reached for your face, taking your chin in his warm hand, his touch so soft and gentle, so completely opposite of everything you'd just experienced that you immediately began to cry.

"Bella, your lip" he said, panic slipping into his tone both at your reaction and the sight of the blood there. "Who the fuck did this?"

You closed your eyes and shook your head and he slowly wrapped his arms around you. Your head fell to his chest as you grasped him, soaking his jumper with your tears.

By now, Draco, Lorenzo and Blaise had come over and were muttering softly.

"Bloody hell."

"This is fucking mental, mate."

"Matty is going to kill them."

And at just the mention of his name, you pushed further into Theo's chest, burrowing there like you could hide from the world.

"Bella, you're going to have to tell him, you can't protect whoever did this" he said, misreading your reaction.

"Well, we'll have to find him first. He'd better hear this from us" Blaise said.

Find him?

"W-what do you mean find him?" you muttered against Theo's chest.

"Haven't seen him since breakfast. Wasn't in class this morning and didn't come for our smoke" Draco replied.

Your head ached as much from your tears as it did from where he'd pushed you into the wall as you tried to process that. What had he been doing all day? And what the hell had gotten into him?

A burst of laughter, shouts and a loud wolf whistle echoed from behind you and pulled the group's attention to the door. You peeked from the comfort of Theo's arms to see Mattheo walking in... in his underwear.

"Thank you, thank you" he smirked, bowing cockily to the group of onlookers who cheered and gawked at his half-naked body, moving to make his way towards his room until he saw your group.

"There you fuckers are" he said as he approached. "I have had a fucking day - someone's getting their face rearranged—" but he stopped midsentence when he got close enough to see you in Theo's arms.

"What's going on? What's wrong?" he asked, stepping towards you immediately.

Theo moved to let you go but you gripped him tighter, hiding yourself, refusing to move.

Mattheo stopped, startled by your reaction like he'd run into a brick wall. He stood at a distance from you, completely unmoored by the sight of you grasping onto someone else for comfort. His heart began to thump heavily and angrily in his chest and his cheeks flushed in irritation and embarrassment.

He let out a steadying breath, his jaw clenched as his eyes slid to Theo, the decided object of the brewing anger he felt.

"What. The fuck. Is going on?" he asked again, his fury palpable.

"It's not—I don't—" Theo stumbled.

"—She hasn't said anything, mate" Enzo clarified.

You could feel yourself begin to shake and a dam of pressure welled up behind your eyes at how angry Mattheo was, at how afraid you were to be near him, at what he might do or say next and yet at the same time, how much you craved his comfort, how you knew he was the only person who could truly make you feel better.

Your tears came hot and wet down your cheeks as you cried into Theo's chest and Mattheo felt something crack inside of him. He'd never once seen you like this and he felt a wave of nausea wash over him, sick over how upset you were, sick that you were in pain, sick that you didn't seem to want him or to be anywhere near him, sick that he didn't know what to do or how to help.

"B-baby, please?" he said, nearly begging as he tried to move closer.

The tone in his voice and the affectionate nickname tugged at your heart.

You swallowed and turned your head to look at him, gently, tentatively letting Theo go.

Mattheo's eyes met yours before they wandered over your face.

His face fell.

And he stopped breathing.

A cold sensation like the ooze of a cracked egg ran down his body as he looked at you.

Your mascara was smeared, caught in the tears that were running down your face. Your cheeks were red and flushed and your lip was swollen and bleeding. He catalogued the bruises down your neck and marks that looked an awful lot like bites there too that led to your ripped and tattered shirt.

Mattheo had been angry plenty of times in his life, and for good reason. But this was the first time he felt it. He could have told you where and how quickly the rage pulsed in his veins, blooming hot in his chest, pumping into his arms, into his hands that curled into fists and ached to hit something, into his stomach, his legs that wanted to run, to cause chaos and destruction until he fixed this.

But he didn't expect the next emotion that hit him like a dark wave in a stormy ocean, all consuming, nearly bowling him over: deep and overwhelming sadness.

"N-no, no no no who-who did this? Baby" his voice ached with pain as he moved to step towards you again, desperate to hold you, to make it better as quickly as he could.

You took a small, hesitant step back and looked at him with confusion, with trepidation.

And you said the next words so quietly he was certain he'd heard you wrong.

"You" you whispered.

His face scrunched in confusion.

"It was you" you said louder and all the boys turned to look at you and then back to Mattheo.

"In the stairwell? Our spot?" you said pointedly, trying to get him to remember.

"You were there, waiting for me, but you were... off. Different. And then y-you..." you gestured to yourself as you tried to keep from coming undone again at the memory.

Theo took a protective step closer to you.

Mattheo carded his hands through his hair in exasperation where they rested atop his head as he paced a step back and forth before stopping in front of you. It was taking his entire willpower not to lose his composure, and not to launch at his best friend.

"I got jumped this morning" he said patiently, evenly, though his underlying anger was still very much there. "I woke up in a broom closet ten minutes ago with no fucking clothes."

"B-broom closet?" you muttered, confused.

"Yeah, it was maddening, had to break the door down and— look, that doesn't matter. Please please tell me you believe me."

Your mind was reeling. You opened your mouth hesitantly to reply, but you couldn't find your words, your emotions, your fear, everything you felt far too raw.

He let out another deep breath and then crouched in front of you, making himself smaller, less threatening as he met your gaze directly.

"You are the most important person in my world. You know that, right? You are everything to me. Everything that is precious and perfect and right. And I would never ever hurt you."

You met his dark brown eyes that were shining intently up at you, unflinching in their truth and you nodded despite your tears and sniffles. Of course you knew that, which was why everything that happened this morning was so fucked up.

He slowly extended his hand to you, palm up, wordlessly asking you to believe him, to trust him.

"You're okay now, you're safe. No one can hurt you, no one can fucking touch you when I'm here, when we're all here, okay?"

And gods you'd needed to hear that. You nodded again, more strongly now.

"We're going to figure this out. And I'm going to fix this, I can promise you I will fix this. Hey, can you look at me?"

Your eyes met his and more hot tears fell down your cheeks at the gentleness and patience in his expression, the way he was nearly on his knees begging for you to trust him, to believe that the boy in front of you in no way could have been the boy from this morning and you pursed your lips.

"I love you" he whispered.

And those words alone healed a significant part of your hurt.

You slowly placed your shaking hand in his and it was like your body immediately registered the difference in his touch, how he tenderly ran a thumb over your knuckles as he continued to speak softly to you as he stood up.

"I've got you, you're going to be okay. It's me, I'm here" he said as he slowly pulled you toward him.

You took one step, and then another, and then you curled yourself against his warm chest and you let out a breath you didn't know you'd been holding as you grasped him. He held you tightly to him, squeezing hard, and his hand held the back of your head as he pressed his lips to your temple.

You sniffed and let out a few more shaky breaths, letting him consume you, trying to replace every memory from this morning with his touch like it could pull the fear from you as you listened to his heartbeat and took in his familiar smell.

Theo cleared his throat as politely as possible.

"Really hate to break up the moment, but if you spent the morning in a broom closet, then how the fuck were you also walking around the North Tower?—"

"—Polyjuice potion" Draco said, without missing a beat, his brow furrowed in thought. "It's the only logical explanation, would also explain why they had to take your clothes" he gestured to Mattheo's half-naked body.

"What?!" Blaise exhaled in disbelief.

"So you mean to say someone planned all of this? Went through all of this effort just to get to her?" Theo asked, and you could hear the fury rising with his tone.

Mattheo's arms squeezed around you, a subconscious reaction to the thought.

"What kind of sick fuck?—"

"—I'm going to kill them" Mattheo said flatly.

And it wasn't a turn of phrase.

He'd said it so plainly, so matter-of-factly that you nearly believed him and hugged him back a little tighter.

"Do you have any idea who it was?" Lorenzo asked.

"No you dipshit, don't you think if she knew it wasn't him this wouldn't have happened?" Draco replied, smacking him in the back of the head.

Theo and Blaise chimed in, arguing the point with one another.

"He did say something weird" you mused quietly, silencing them all as they turned to look at you. "He called me dove" you said, shaking your head at the memory, like you could make yourself forget it.

Mattheo held you that night in a way that made you wonder if he'd ever let you go again. Every minute you spent back with the real him seemed to stitch you together again, to heal and comfort you as you snuggled further into his arms.

He'd apologized no less than a thousand times by now, the guilt steadily eating away at him, even though he had nothing to be sorry for, which you continually reminded him.

"You're a fucking angel" he sighed, unable to stop thinking about it as he traced a thumb over your cheek, his expression sorrowful and raw. "Someone did this to you because of me."

"Matty, that's not—"

"—I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry. I should have been there."

"It's okay, it's not your fault. I'm okay now" you said, smiling, feeling the words as you said them, tracing a finger down the bridge of his nose.

You tried to reassure him the rest of the night, managing to coax a few smiles out of him, but his eyes never left you, like he feared looking away for a single blink would leave you in danger. And although a spell had mended your lip and healed your bruises, he continued to trace his fingers over where each mark on your skin had been, like he was reminding himself, committing them to memory.

Nothing could have prepared you for the tension of the days that followed.

The whole group was on edge, like a pack of rabid dogs, ready to snap at anyone that got too close to you. One if not all of them walked you to every class, to every meal, to every event, to Hogsmeade and back again; Mattheo even insisted on showering with you and sleeping with you every night, much to you sincere enjoyment.

The boys spent their days eyeing everyone with suspicion and their nights trying to plot out who might have attacked you. Five guys were walking around the castle with black eyes, but no one had come clean and it was slowly driving them mad; the lack of answers was taking the situation from a serious problem to a personal vendetta.

Two weeks passed. And though the tension remained, you were settling into the heightened level of protection, finding a sense of calm in the way the boys surrounded you like a security blanket. You had every confidence that they would figure this out and until then all you could do was seek a return to normalcy, to focus on the present.

You grounded yourself with the task at hand, potting bundles of dittany during Herbology class shoulder to shoulder with your friends at a long table in the warm greenhouse, the boys acting as a veritable wall between you and the Gryffindors.

Your eyes caught Mattheo's across the narrow table from you and you watched the way the spring sun caught his dark locks. He sent you one of his signature smirks and a quick wink that made you blush and smile.

Your classmates chattered back and forth quietly until a phrase wafted down the table as Seamus Finnegan leaned over to Hermione Granger.

"C'mon dove, help me out?"

And it was like someone sucked the air out of the room. The warmth in the greenhouse suddenly felt stiflingly hot and you could hear the blood rushing to your head as it whooshed in your ears.

Time slowed to seconds like the tick of a broken time-turner.

Five.

Your eyes lifted and met Mattheo's whose had lost all warmth and peace in a way that sent a shiver down your spine. They were devoid of color, clouded, jet black. His jaw ticked as he looked at you, asking you wordlessly to confirm what he'd just heard.

The trill of Finnegan's voice, the accent was all too familiar, it was undeniable and it sent you spiraling back to that morning in the stairwell in a way that had you woozy on your feet. You nodded, small and quick back to him.

Confirming what you'd thought so many times before, that there was an inexplicable bond that linked the boys together, four sets of eyes wordlessly confirmed the same.

And then chaos erupted.

Four.

Lorenzo ran for Finnegan and Theo dropped the plant in his hands, sending shattered pottery and dirt flying in his rage, hot on Enzo's heels.

Three.

Your eyes followed them both but fell to Draco who had started moving in the opposite direction, frantically pushing past classmates who were looking around in panic as he tried to reach Mattheo.

Two.

You glanced at your boyfriend.

He hadn't moved.

He wasn't making a scene, but he'd pulled out his wand, and for the life of you, you couldn't remember a time when he'd favored his magic over his fists.

Oh no you thought as you began to move towards him yourself.

One.

Mattheo stood straight and tall, brandishing his wand with unflinching confidence and surety as he pointed it directly at Finnegan's head.

"AVADA KE—" his voice boomed.

"—Not like this, mate!!" Draco shouted, grabbing his arm at the last possible second.

"Get the fuck off of me!" Mattheo roared, the contact breaking him out of his stupor as he thrashed in Draco's arms.

By now the others had wrangled Finnegan whose face was as green as the detail on their robes; he knew he was utterly and hopelessly fucked, and if you weren't sure before you were certain now that it had been him, the guilt so clear on his face it might as well have been written on his forehead. Your skin crawled.

The rest of your classmates were running and screaming, tearing by you to flee the room as your feet kept you cemented to the floor.

"You're dead! You're fucking dead!" Mattheo's voice echoed, as he screamed and thrashed in Draco's arms.

"You're going to wish for death, you're going to beg me for it, Finnegan! How dare you, how fucking dare you!!!"

Draco was barely holding onto him as they all walked quickly towards the back of the greenhouse.

You moved to follow until Blaise came up beside you and gently reached for you, pulling you into the throng of people fleeing.

"C'mon" he said, softly but firmly guiding you the other way, back towards the castle. "They've got this, you don't need to be here for this—"

"—But this is because of me, Blaise" you urged, pulling back, frantically looking between him and the disappearing figures of Mattheo and your friends, his raging threats echoing off the glass walls in a way that amplified them.

"No, this is because of Finnegan" he said coldly, following your gaze. "And he'll get what's coming to him."

Blaise guided you quickly back to the castle, back to the common room and he tried his best to keep you company, to keep you occupied, though neither of you could properly focus on anything else.

"It'll be alright, right?" you asked quietly, for the hundredth time.

He nodded steadily. "It'll be alright, YN" he reassured you.

You sighed.

"This is just... a lot" you admitted.

"Babe, if you wanted someone to be level-headed and normal about you, you're with the wrong guy" he said in attempt to make you smile.

You smiled weakly and toyed with the fringe of the blanket that you pulled into your lap.

An hour passed.

And then four more.

You skipped dinner and sat in the secluded corner of the common room with Blaise until it emptied and the embers in the fireplace burned low, nearly out. You had sat quietly together now for hours. You were exhausted of conversation and exhausted from the wash of emotions from the day, a mix of relief, of pain in reliving the memories upon hearing Finnegan's voice, of worry about what exactly was going on.

You'd never seen Mattheo like that; he had been completely unhinged and you recalled his words the day it all happened. "I'm going to kill them" spoken like a vow, an oath.

It was beyond late before the door snicked open quietly and the four boys walked in without a sound. You and Blaise stood and they met Blaise's eyes first, nodding at one another before your friends departed, leaving you with somber smiles to be with Mattheo.

You navigated around the couches to him, your footsteps quickening to close the distance and you pulled him into your arms. His body was stiff with tension, but you felt it begin to melt away the second you touched him; he nuzzled into you and you could feel the tired on him, mixed with a burdened sense of relief.

"Come on" you said, taking his hand and leading him to your bedroom.

He sat down on the corner of the bed in the dim light and let out a sigh like he was trying to unload the weight he'd been carrying, his shoulders slumped as he ran his fingers through his hair. You stepped between his legs and reached for his hands the way you always did, ready to tend to them.

"They're fine" he croaked, his voice hoarse as he met your gaze, smiling softly at you, taking you in. You could tell he was trying to distract you and when he rested his hands on your hips and moved to pull you into him, he almost succeeded.

You pressed a quick, searing kiss to his lips and then reached to pull his hands off of your hips and he relented, sighing again.

His knuckles were badly bruised and bloodied, at least two of them looked to be broken from what you could tell and a frown crested your lips to know that the same hands that were so gentle with you could be capable of such violence.

But it was the crimson blood that stained his palms, that gathered under each fingernail that made you pause. That was new.

"Mattheo" you whispered, the question lingering in the air unspoken. What did you do?

"He's gonna be gone for awhile" he said plainly in response before his eyes met yours straight on, intense.

"And he is never, ever going to touch you again."

You pursed your lips and nodded, acknowledging that this was his way of apologizing, of making things right, of balancing the scales of justice as judge, jury and executioner.

He brought his bloody hands to your face, cupped it gently and kissed you.

Seamus didn't come back until well after spring solstice, weeks later.

Despite the rampant rumors and speculation, he didn't say a single word about what happened, like the boys had taken his very voice from him.

His face was still mottled with multicolored bruises, one eye swollen shut, evidence that even magic couldn't heal the extent of the damage they'd caused.

But even despite that, something you'd learned about your friends is that they were not quick to forgive and they never, ever forgot...

You were lounging by the Black Lake on an unusually warm afternoon, sprawled on a large blanket with your friends, your shoes and socks forgone and your skirt and shirtsleeves rolled up in an effort to catch a tan.

Mattheo himself was shirtless beside you, his eyes closed against the warm rays as you rested your head on his bicep. Theo, Enzo and Draco were sitting next to you playing exploding snap while Blaise flipped through a book, and you sighed, reveling in the rare moment of peace, which didn't last longer than fifteen minutes.

"Bit warm for a jumper, isn't if Finnegan?" Draco shouted.

Your eyes fluttered open and you turned your head to see a group of Gryffindors nearby.

Sure enough, the group was dressed like you, short sleeves, bare feet, but for Finnegan who was covered head to toe and was visibly dripping sweat. His faced flushed even redder at the comment as he averted his eyes, immediately shrinking in pure terror.

"Should take it off, mate" Lorenzo chimed in cheekily. "Enjoy the sun, no?"

Seamus swallowed but wouldn't meet their eyes.

You turned to look at Mattheo but he hadn't moved. His eyes remained closed though you could see a muscle tic in his clenched jaw.

"C'mon then" Theo said, sitting up like he meant to move. "Need our help? We'll come lend a hand."

Seamus looked like he was about to cry as his face crumpled.

You didn't know what they were playing at, but you could tell it was torturing him, and for the briefest moment you pitied him, until your memories came wading back, threatening to overwhelm you with the feeling of sickening fear and betrayal.

And it was like Mattheo could sense it, his eyes fluttering open to look at you as he tried to tug you back into his arms.

"Just ignore them" he said, his voice still scratchy.

But you saw Seamus pull his sweater over his head out of the corner of your eye and as it came away from his body you noticed the crimson lines covering his arms. Even at your distance you could feel the sickness of them, the curse of dark magic in the air and several people gasped and scrambled away from him.

You sat up and stared closer as you realized the lines spelled something.

On his left arm, MUDBLOOD in deep angry jagged letters, in wounds carved into his skin.

On his right, RAPIST.

He took one fateful look at your group and then got up and nearly tripped over himself as he ran back to the castle.

"Aww, was it something I said?" Draco cried after him.

"Bye!" Lorenzo waved cheerfully.

Blaise blew him a kiss.

And Theo watched his every move under dark lidded eyes.

But Mattheo was looking solely at you, trying to gauge your reaction, your understanding. He reached for your hand and twined his fingers in yours, pulling you back to lay down with him as he looked at you with vulnerability and caressed your cheek. Now you knew the truth. You knew just how dangerous he could be, just what lengths he would go to for you.

Your heart thumped wildly in your chest and your mind raced and for a moment it occurred to you to be scared.

Be careful. He's dangerous. You don't know what you're getting yourself into.

You thought about broken knuckles and black eyes, of blood-stained palms and the lingering feeling of dark magic in the air. You heard his voice rattling the panes of the greenhouse with his rage, 'You're going to wish for death, you're going to beg me for it!'

And then that same voice, from the same boy, sweetly, softly ‘No one can hurt you, no one can fucking touch you when I'm here, when we're all here. I love you, YN.'

And you thought about the caress of his lips against yours on a stormy night, of his warm arms around you, of the feeling of his calloused hands on your bare skin, and the rumble of his voice in his chest as your head lay on his heart.

"It'll never heal" he said quietly, bringing you back to the present moment. "No magic can fix it. He'll wear that reminder on his skin for the rest of his life."

His chocolate eyes warmed as they looked at you, asking you, one more time, to trust him, to tell him that you understood.

You smiled softly, and traced a finger over his lips and a calm comfort settled over you, a reassurance that no matter what life threw your way, this boy would be standing by your side, that he might burn the world to the ground but would never let a flame touch you, that this was simply how he loved: deep, sincere, serious and unrelenting.

“I love you” you whispered in reassurance before leaning in to press the sweetest kiss to his lips that melted his heart and proved to him that every sin he committed along the way would always be worth it, for you.

taglist: @kenjikishimotoswifey, @mattiesgf, @sleepiibunniiii, @darlingshecried, @girllblogging777, @foivetimesacharm, @clar2aa, @broadwaybaby123, @slytherinscreamqueen, @chelawrites, @loverliner, @smut-anarchy, @locknco, @pizzaapeteer

[willowsnook]

hey girl!

I LOVEEEE your writing, you're so talented! i was wondering if you could do a grid post where either the reader, or the driver starts crying during an argument? I'd just love to see how it would play out!

thanks ml :))))

crying during an argument

꩜ featuring: the entire grid, zhou guanyu, paul aron, jack doohan.

꩜ a/n: thank you for requesting and thank you for reading! I loved this idea and lmk if yall want a part 2 to any of them bc i have some ideas... :) also heads up, this is 14k words... my b i got carried away :p

mclaren

Oscar Piastri 

Oscar didn’t cry often. Special events required crying; terrible crashes where he genuinely felt scared for his life, his dog dying, missing his sisters’ graduations. 

And apparently this. 

You were ranting, not even raising your voice, just frustrated. You were so damn understanding too, so aware of the fact that it wasn’t his fault, that he couldn’t control his schedule. You just missed him. You just wanted him there for one of the biggest nights of your life, and he couldn’t be there. 

He felt the emotion building in his throat, foreign and clunky. Uncontrollable. He tried to swallow it down, but he just made this weird choked sound, and he felt the tears on his cheeks. 

You’d somehow sensed it, like you did with everything else about him. Always, after every race, every tough day, every great day, you always knew just what he needed. You stopped talking. You whipped your head around, and you were already in front of him with wide eyes and more patience than he thought he probably deserved.  

A soft hand on his shoulder, a tentative breath. “Oscar?” You practically whispered. He nodded, wiping his tears away, only for more to appear seconds later. “Oscar, it’s ok, I’m sorry,” you whispered, your hand reaching up and running through his hair, coaxing him to lean into you. He did. He dropped his head to your shoulder, his tears soaking your shirt. You didn’t seem to care. 

“I’m sorry,” he croaked out, not entirely sure what he was apologising for. You shook your head as he fisted your shirt, trying to hold onto something so he wouldn’t fully fall apart.

Your voice came soft and soothing. “You’ve nothing to be sorry for,” you tightened your grip on his waist. “Please don’t apologise.” 

“I just-“ hiccup- “I feel bad,” God, he sounded like a child to himself. You didn’t judge. “I want to be there so bad.”

“It’s alright Osc,” you hushed. “It’s okay. I know you support me,” you said it against his temple like a prayer, and it made him want to believe you. “I know you love me.”

He nodded, pulling his face out of its solace in the crook of your neck. “Okay,” he nodded, breathless. Your eyes were wide, but trusting. Truthful. “Okay.”

You hadn’t seen Oscar cry many times, mostly because he didn’t like to. He knew now, if he needed to, he could come to you. 

Lando Norris  

It was a dumb argument. Somewhere in your brain, you knew that. 

But it’s hard to remember that when you’re that angry, and that frustrated. 

You shouldn’t have shouted. You shouldn’t have stopped looking at him. You shouldn’t have let him go quiet. There were a lot of things you shouldn’t have done. 

He listened as best he could, truly. He wanted to solve the problem, to make it better, to make being with him easier. He can’t control his schedule though. He can’t control where he’ll be day by day. He can’t leave at a moment's notice. He has people who rely on him, too many people who rely on him. It weighs on him, and somehow, it’s started to weigh on you. You’ve become a background character in your own partner's life, and you couldn’t take it anymore. He feels like more of a roommate than a boyfriend, and he’s hardly ever home. He wanted to fix it, but when so many parts of your life are out of your control, you start to feel helpless. You start to believe the things people say online, the ones online telling him he should just break up with you since he only gets to see you twice a year. The ones who tell him he’s not a good boyfriend. The ones who remind him of his failings, and all the second chances you’ve given him without even thinking about it. 

He teared up and just left. The bedroom door locked behind him before you’d even notice he’d fucking left. 

Then the guilt settled, right down in your stomach, so deep you felt like you couldn’t breathe. You cupped a hand over your mouth, like it would reverse all the things you’d said. Like it could take it back. It couldn’t. You couldn’t. 

Time passed as you stared at that fucking door, debating about what you’d even do if you went in there. You didn’t know, but you knew you had to make it right. 

You knocked against the wood. “Lan,” your voice was breaking. “I’m so sorry,” you leaned your head against the door. “I’m such a fucking idiot.”

Slowly, you heard footsteps, and the door opened. He looked cosy, but the sad kind of cosy. The kind of cosy he looked when he was overwhelmed. 

He cleared his throat. “Don’t talk about my girlfriend like that,” his usual sentiment lacked any conviction, but there was a soft kind of humour in his words. “She’s a genius.”

You shook your head, that guilt clawing at you from the inside out. “I’m not sure I am,” you chuckled out, but it lacked any kind of humour. “I’m sorry,” you looked up at him, his red-rimmed eyes, his soft expression, his sunken shoulders. “I shouldn’t have said what I did.”

He shrugged. “Probably not,” he let out a breath. “But I’ve said a lot worse, and you’ve given me another chance every time without thinking about it,” he admitted. “And I think we’re both exhausted.” 

“You’re too nice to me-”

“You’re not nice enough to yourself,” he corrected, wrapping his hand around your waist and pulling you into his chest. “I just needed a minute, I’m sorry I left.”

“I think we both needed a minute,” you admitted, that warm feeling in your chest somehow choking out the feeling of guilt. “I’m sorry again Lan.”

“Thank you,” he pressed a kiss to your cheek. “We’ll work through it. We always do.”

mercedes:

George Russell 

George argued like he drove; completely controlled until he wasn’t. He liked to think he could keep his cool, that an argument with his girlfriend wouldn’t shake him so much when he could make split-second decisions while driving 300km/ h. He couldn’t. Every word coming out of your mouth seemed to rattle him, make him falter, make him lose his mind. 

He didn’t realise he was crying. It wasn’t sadness. It wasn’t being overwhelmed. He was frustrated. He wanted to be what you needed, he wanted to be there for you, he wanted to always be able to drop everything for you, but he couldn’t. Yes, it was his dream to drive, but sometimes, it left a sour taste in his mouth on the nights you texted him sad and lonely, or exhausted and in need of affection. It made him feel… ashamed. He wanted to be the perfect fiance, be there for you more than anyone else. He couldn’t. And it made him feel like shit. 

“George,” your voice pulled him out of his shame-spiral, and he felt your hand on his cheek, wiping away the wetness. “Breathe,” you demanded, your voice full of fear and eyes wide. “You’re going to have a panic attack, George, breathe.”

He did as you asked, grounding himself with his hands on your hips, squeezing your shirt in time with his breaths like you’d made him do several times before. He focused on your eyes. Exploring the colours he knew so well, reminding himself that an argument is just an argument, and you were just frustrated, he was just frustrated. You’d both lie down together tonight, he’d kiss your shoulder, and you’d pretend to hate the way his hand sneaks up your shirt. You’d still be there. You’d still love him. 

He nodded. “I’m alright,” he sighed out, the tension finally breaking. You didn’t look convinced, you never did during one of these. “I’m alright,” he spoke slower again, reassuring you. 

You nodded, then pressed your face into the crook of his neck. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have raised my voice,” you let out, soft and small. Like you were scared he'd fall away if you didn’t hold onto him. 

“I’m sorry I can’t be there,” he whispered, a humorless chuckle in his lips. “You’re always there to support me and I can’t fucking be there for you. Ever.” He spat out the last word like he was embarrassed, or disgusted with himself. 

You looked up and pressed your lips to his. He kissed you back like it could maybe make up for it. Like he could show you how much he cared, how much he wanted to be there. “George,” you were breathless, he tried to kiss you again, and you stopped him. “You’re always there for me,” you smiled softly, the kind of smile that made him see into the future, wrinkles and kids, everything he wanted. “Even when you’re a million miles away, you’re always checking up on me. You care so much it scares my friends sometimes,” you chuckled and pressed a kiss against his forehead. “I’m just…” you couldn’t finish your sentence, you didn’t even know how you felt. 

“I know,” he whispered, his forehead against yours. He always knew when it came to you. 

Andrea Kimi Antonelli

Kimi hated arguments. He hated making you upset, hated not knowing what to say. 

“You can’t say shit like that Kimi, it’s not fair,” you scoffed, fluffing the pillows of your couch. Moving in together had been tumultuous. You both loved it, but it was a long process to figure out the balance between being together all the time, and not ripping the heads off each other. He’d said something stupid, some off-handed comment that made you see red. He sat on the couch as you rage-cleaned the apartment, ranting all the way. He felt too much like a child for his liking, sitting on the couch as you scolded him. 

Kimi was an emotional person, and you’d only had so many arguments in your relationship. He hated seeing you upset, and knowing it was his fault just started a guilt pit in his mind, picking apart every single thing he did that upset you. 

“I think I just need some time alone,” you sighed, putting down the towel in your hand. “I’m going to go for a walk-“

“Don’t go!” He shot up, the emotion building behind his eyes as panic surged through his chest. You couldn’t leave, not like this. He grabbed onto your wrist and pulled you against his chest. “Please don’t leave, talk to me, scream at me, just don’t leave. Please.” His eyes were wide and pleading, and his grip was practically bruising. 

You’d never seen him like this. Begging. Pleading. Like if he didn’t convince you to stay, you’d never come back. You cupped his cheek, the beginnings of tears falling from his eyes as he tried to blink them away. “Kim,” your voice was soft. “I’m not leaving,” you assured him, stroking his cheek as he kept his eyes fixed on your face. “I’m right here.” You took his hand and placed it on your waist, showing him you weren’t leaving. 

“I hate it when people leave,” he admitted, breathless. “I don’t-“ hiccup “-want you to leave,” he closed his eyes. “I never want you to leave,” he pressed his forehead against yours, like it could somehow stop you from running. 

“I’m not leaving,” you whispered. “I’m not leaving, Kim,” you shook your head. 

He tightened his grip on your waist. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I was just tired, I didn’t mean it-“ 

“I know,” you nodded, voice full of warmth and understanding. He wasn’t sure he deserved it, but he took it all the same. “You don’t have an angry bone in your body Kimi, I know you didn’t mean it,” you chuckled, and he felt lucky to ever hear the sound. “It just… upset me.”

“I didn’t mean to-“

“I know you didn’t,” you cooed, and his frown relaxed. “Again, I don’t think you have a mean bone in your body either. It just… it was what it was. And it’s done now.” 

Forgiveness, it had never tasted so sweet. “Thank you,” he whispered. “Thank you,” he repeated, on his lips like a chant. 

williams:

Alex Albon

It’s haunting how strange Alex looks when he cries. That’s what he thinks anyway. He’s almost sure you think it too. He’s just so used to not being upset, that he really doesn’t know what to do with himself when he is. You were there for him, through everything. Through RedBull. You’ve seen him cry. You’ve seen him rise up from it, rise up to Williams, rise up to P5 being a genuine result, a constant result. He’s proud, of course, but there’s always that voice in the back of his head that sounds surprisingly like Will Buxton, telling him that he’s a problem. 

Even in his relationships. Even in your relationship. 

That’s what this stemmed from. He didn’t feel good enough. He shut you out again. He didn’t text for a full week. 

“Alex, you can’t just not text me for a week, alright?” You were exhausted, exasperated, and downright pissed. Frankly, you had every reason to be. He was in the wrong, he knew that, but he just couldn’t help feeling slightly justified. He would’ve caused a fight either way, especially when he got like that. “I want to hear from you, the good, the bad, the ugly, the mundane! I don’t care once it’s coming from you,” your words were raw with emotion, and it almost shocked him. He sometimes forgot the fact that he made a difference in people’s lives. 

He didn’t feel the tears falling until one landed on his shirt, and he almost thought it was somehow raining inside. “I know,” his voice broke despite himself. “I’m sorry.”

Your head whipped around and you were beside himin seconds. “Alex,” you whispered out, his name coming out like a secret. “It’s okay,” you wrapped an arm around his neck, your heart breaking as you felt him hiccup against you, trying against his better judgement to stop himself from crying. “You can cry.”

And he did. He wrapped his arms around your back and pulled you into his lap, and cried into your shirt. He didn’t know what to do after carrying this… hurt, for so long. But for some reason being beside you, having you hold him, it didn’t seem so heavy. 

“What’s wrong?” You whispered once his crying has subsided. Your expression was full of care, of understanding, of love. He wondered how he’d gotten so lucky. 

He shrugged. “I just… I don’t know. Sometimes there’s this voice in my head that, no matter what I do, tells me I should still be more,” he admitted, and immediately, he felt out in the open, and not necessarily in a bad way. You nodded your head, and pressed a kiss to his cheek. 

It took you a few seconds to formulate a response, but it didn’t make him panic like he’d thought it would in the millions of times he’d gone over this very scenario in his head. Your hand smoothed up and down his arm, and he knew you cared. You wouldn’t run away. 

“Thank you for telling me,” you smiled softly. “And I always want you to talk to me about these things, because I’m here for you,” you took a deep breath. “I’m going to say something that I know you won’t like, and that’s how you know I genuinely believe it. Alex, I think you should see someone again,” you placed a soft hand on his cheek as he stiffened. “Not right now, maybe not even in the next few months, but I think it would be good for you. I can love you as much as I can, and do, and evidently, I can’t make it go away. Race results don’t make it go away. Progress doesn’t make it go away. Nothing is going to make it happy, and if I’m understanding right, you can’t just turn it off,” you pressed your lips to his cheek again. “I think seeing someone would help.” 

He felt like you’d opened his eyes. You were right, nothing would make it go away, other than him. For the first time in his life, he was happy about an argument. 

Carlos Sainz

When he argued, he got quiet. Whether he meant to or not, he did. So there was nothing out of the ordinary when it seemed like you were talking to yourself as you listed out the problems. You didn’t want to go to a race when you knew a certain other girlfriend would be there, because she made you feel like shit. Carlos didn’t seem to understand that, and he fought you on it. He called you selfish. You walked off. This was part two of the argument, what you called the reconciliation, but Carlos was silent as he leaned against the counter, his back to you. 

“You’re not even fucking listening, are you?” You scoffed, feeling more than dejected. “I don’t know why I try,” you mumbled, starting to walk away again, but a strong hand gripped your waist and pulled you into his chest. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered out. He hadn’t paid much attention before, when you’d said you didn’t want to go. He just felt rejected, and he ignored your reasoning. He stopped listening. He didn’t know it was because of the group chat you had been added to and humiliated by a girl you thought was your friend. He would’ve never fought you on it. He would’ve just agreed and moved on, asking you to come to the next one. “I didn’t listen, I’m sorry.”

“Carlos-” you reached up and cupped his face in your hands. “What’s wrong? I-I’m sorry-”

He sighed, that hole of guilt in his heart aching with every word out of your mouth. Of course you’d start worrying about him. You should get angry, but of course, you chose to be soft, to care, to love. Sometimes he wished he could do that. He wished he could think like that, instead of going straight for an argument. “You don’t need to apologise,” he shook his head, his big brown eyes dropping with tears as you tenderly wiped them away. “I’m in the wrong,” he reminded you, almost as if he thought you forgot. Maybe you had. “I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you, and I’m sorry I started an argument,” he sniffled. “I love you,” he pressed a kiss to your shocked cheek. “I love you so much, mi cariño.”

“Car,” you were wordless, not even sure how to react. “It’s alright,” you answered, your eyes focused on him, only him. “It was a mistake.”

His heart ached. The world didn’t deserve you, your friends didn’t deserve you, he didn’t deserve you. You should scream. You should tell him to shove his apology up his ass. But you don’t. You chose to forgive him. 

He wasn’t sure he deserved it, but you kissed him like he did, and he couldn’t really complain from there. 

redbull racing:

Max Verstappen 

Max probably wasn’t the best person to go to about emotions, and you knew that. Not only was he emotionally stunted, he was also Dutch, a nationality famous for being blunt. 

But you thought he would see your side and agree. He didn’t. He spent a half hour lecturing you on why your mother was justified in what she said to you. You just agreed, it wasn’t worth the energy to fight with him, he was always so fucking logical. He couldn’t just appeal to the illogical side of you, he couldn’t let you just be upset. He had to solve the problem, he had to explain why the problem wasn’t a problem, he had to make you feel like a helpless kid. 

You finished getting ready for dinner in silence. No music playing. No fun dancing he pretended to hate watching (and sometimes joining you for). No bright smile when your hair looked how you wanted it to, or your outfit came together exactly how you’d wanted it to. Just a flat line on your lips. Just a dull gaze in your eyes. He, on the other hand, was completely entranced by you. You looked stunning in that dress, with your hair done the way you had it.

“Ready to go?” You asked him, not even trying to bait him into putting your heels on you. Another thing pretended to hate, but secretly loved. 

“Yeah,” he nodded, watching you with a sense of curiosity and confusion. “Are you alright?” He asked, trying to snake a hand around your waist, but you just walked on. 

“I’m okay,” you nodded, but there was a stiffness in your actions and words. “Just tired.”

He decided to put it to bed for now, just enjoy the night together, and check back in with you in a while. 

You ditched him the second you got on the yacht. Alexandra was there, so you practically ran to her, and Max loitered around the drinks table with Charles. 

“Alex is mad at me,” he admitted. 

“I think Y/n’s upset with me too,” he admitted. He could blame the loosening of his tongue on the gin in his drink, but he knew it was because of his growing anxiety about the situation. You rarely fought, and it rarely went on this long. 

“What did you do?” Charles knocked back the rest of his drink and Max took him in for the first time that night. He looked practically disheveled. A broken man in front of him, because he had an argument with his girlfriend. 

“Nothing really, she had an argument with her mom over something stupid, and I told her to get over herself. I have arguments with my folks all the time,” he shrugged, and Charles looked at him like he’d committed several war crimes. 

Charles’s jaw dropped even further when he realised Max wasn’t joking. “Are you fucking crazy?” He demanded. “Do you want her to break up with you?”

Now it was Max’s turn to think Charles was crazy. “Obviously not? I love her.”

“You sure?” He scoffed. “If I said that to Alex, I think she’d break up with me-”

“The fragility of your relationship has nothing to do with mine,” he interpreted because he’d finally realised what he sounded like. God, he’d been a fucking asshole, no wonder you were upset. 

You slinked into the bedroom with your head low and a tired expression on your face. You slotted into bed beside him, but you didn’t shock him with your feet against his, frozen against warmth. You didn’t turn to him. You didn’t show him the funny tiktoks you’d found that day. He felt something in his heart squeeze. 

You turned out the light without a kiss, and the air in the room filled with the atmosphere of a heavy silence, and he genuinely yearned to reach out for you. He didn’t. He wasn’t sure if he was allowed. 

You waited 30 minutes. Max was a good sleeper, and heavy sleeper. You could get away with sleeping on the couch for one night, not because you wanted to hurt him, but because you genuinely couldn’t sleep next to him after he told you to get a grip. 

Slowly, you climbed out of bed, pillow in hand. 

Something pulled you back. A hand. His hand. 

A sniffle. “Stay,” he whispered into the darkness of the room. “Please stay. I know what I said was shitty and wrong, and you can hate me all you want, but please stay.”

You halted in the darkness, his words carrying more weight than you thought he probably meant them to. “I don’t hate you Max,” you answered. “I’ll never hate you.”

“You can, if it means you’ll stay,” he admitted, his voice breaking. You climbed back into bed slowly, but he felt that hole in his chest, the one that had been there since the day his father left him at a petrol station, close up just a little more. The way it always did when he was near you. You climbed into his arms, feeling small droplets of water against your shirt. “I’m so sorry.”

You breathed out. “Alright,” you nodded. “Thank you for apologising.” He practically held his breath. What the fuck was he doing crying when he was one the in the wrong? He could hear his dad now, telling him to stop crying, telling him to grow up, telling him- 

“You can cry, y’know,” you whispered. “I like it better when you trust me. Like when we dance or when you put on my heels. You’re less nonchalant than usual. Makes me feel like you really care about me,” you admitted, running a hand through his hair. “Makes me feel like you like me enough to trust me.”

He closed his eyes, tight. Of course you’d say the most heartbreakingly beautiful thing anyone had ever said to him and act like you’re the one inconveniencing him. “I trust you,” he whispered. 

And that was the first time you’d ever seen Max cry. 

Yuki Tsunoda

Fathers were funny in the way they showed their love. You understood that Yuki probably didn’t have the healthiest relationship with his, especially based on the way he practically shunned him when he came out of the car, another disappointing Sunday. You knew it was already weighing on him with a simple glance. 

He clearly couldn’t. He complained the whole way back to the hotel, all throughout dinner, and even on the short walk back to your hotel rooms. 

And you couldn’t take it anymore. Yuki was trying his damnedest in one of the shittest cars on the grid, and the only reason it looked so bad for him was the fact that he had Max 4-Time-World-Champion-one-of-the-greatest-of-the-modern-era Verstappen as a teammate. 

“He’s trying. How can that not be enough for you? He’s trying,” you shook your head at her before bidding his wife a good night, and walking into your own suite. Yuki had no idea what to do, but his father just brushed by him coldly, his mother behind him offering a sympathetic smile. He felt twelve again, sandwiched between two things he wanted equally. He wanted his father’s approval, he wanted his dad to just say he was proud, just once. And he wanted your support. He liked that you stood up for him, that you were willing to, but it wasn’t that simple. The majority of things never were. 

He didn’t even know what to say. It happened in slow-motion. He couldn’t stop it, just watch the chaos unfold and have to deal with the aftermath. He just stormed in and demanded. “What the fuck was that?!” 

“Yuki, the way he was talking about you, it was disgusting,” you answered, shocked at his confusion. 

“You just disrespected my father, Y/n, you’ve just fucked the both of us,” he scoffed. He paced the floor, his eyes wide, panic surging through him. Tension filled the room, oozing from every corner. “He’s going to hate you now.” He knew it probably wasn’t the best thing to say, but he needed you to understand the level of disrespect, and how his father would hold that grudge. 

You shrugged, unbothered, as you pulled your earrings out. Though he could tell, from the stiff and rigid nature of your movements, it bothered you. “Let him hate me,” you sighed. “I’m trying to support you, and hearing about every tiny thing you did wrong isn’t going to make you feel any better, just worse. He needed to shut up.” 

He groaned in frustration, his head falling into his hands. Despite the way he wanted to keep his composure, he could feel it crumbling under the weight of the day. He sniffled and looked up again, willing himself not to cry. He failed, and the first tear fell. 

You stared at him through the mirror, your eyes locked in on him. You slowly turned around and stood when you saw him. “Yuki,” you breathed out, pulling him into a hug. “I’m sorry,” you cooed. “I made it worse, and I know that. I’m sorry.”

He shook his head, emotion breaking his voice. “I just- I wanted today to be good. Not like every other fucking race this year. I wanted it to be worth it. Worth their sacrifice. Worth your sacrifices. And it’s not,” he sighed. “I just step into that car feeling like a failure.”

“I know,” you nodded as his hands circled your waist. “But you’re not, baby, you’re not a failure. Christian is. Helmut is. You’re just taking the brunt of the weight because they’re too small to admit their mistakes,” you soothed. He wondered how he’d ever gotten so lucky. “And you’d never fail me.”

Something about the way you said it made him believe you, and for the first time in a while, he didn’t go to bed feeling like a failure. 

vcarb:

Liam Lawson

He hated crying. He hated how it made him feel. He hated how it made other people feel. You hated arguing just as much. 

The fact that both these things were happening simultaneously was entirely your fault.

He knew you wanted to meet his parents, he really did. You were just busy. The life of a software engineer was busy. You couldn’t change that, even if you wanted to, which you did. You would’ve been there, at that restaurant on 43rd, that gorgeous Italian place you two frequented when you were in New York. Yet you stood him up for a late-night coding session with your team because the contract you were working on was taking longer than expected, and you were contractually obligated to keep on working until you could get as close to done. His texts were just… miserable. 

Hey baby, where are you?  (18:04)

We’re going to start without you, alright? I’m sure you’re just late (please don’t be too late my dad is already teasing me about you not being real :)) (18:35)

Y/n, where are you? (18:47)

Are you alright?  (18:59)

Please text me I’m getting worried. (19:34)

Fucks sake Y/n. I just checked your location. Really? 

Work is more important than this? Than me?  (19:57)

Congratulations my parents are pissed and I’ve been doing fucking recon all night. I thought you’d actually make it this time. I thought you put the time aside. I thought you fucking cared.  (20:07) 

Don’t text me. I don’t want to talk to you until tomorrow. (21:49) 

I’m staying in my parents' hotel. (21:50) 

He was crying on the streets of New York like some bad romcom. He felt pathetic, in more ways than one. How was it that he could fuck everything up, all over again. He trusted you. He relied on you. He was so sure you’d show up for him like you’d done so many times before, and you just didn’t. His parents felt disrespected, fuck, he felt disrespected. He’d planned out the entire dinner, picked a place you loved, briefed his parents on you as a person so they could ask questions, briefed you on them, so you’d have just as many questions. 

And you didn’t show.

You walked towards his hotel, shame hanging off you so clearly, you were sure anyone who could see you would know. Fuck, you stood up Liam’s parents. Brilliant first impression, you thought to yourself. You knew him well enough to know that after a night like this, even when you fucked him off so badly, him still wanted you to try. He’d messed up enough for you to know this routine, though you didn’t think it would go as it did regularly. You’d missed dinner with his parents. Possibly the worst first impression you could ever make, especially when you truly planned on marrying him. You loved him, so bad it hurt sometimes. 

You dialled his number. You couldn’t wait the 18 minute walk to apologise. You just hoped he’d pick up. 

He picked up on the fifth ring. 

“I’m so sorry,” you rushed out. “I’m a fucking piece of shit, and you deserve so much better and I’m mortified that I missed it, I’m so sorry Liam.” You waited with bated breath as he just breathed on the line. He was quiet for a minute, so still you thought he almost hung up. 

“I can see you,” he answered. You raised an eyebrow, and looked around, seeing a figure that looked a lot like Liam, just across the stream between you. 

“What-? Liam-” you started, hearing the thickness of his voice. He’d been crying. The knife twisted in your heart, and you had only yourself to blame. 

“Across the water,” he finished. “You look beautiful,” he smiled through his tears. “So fucking pretty.”

Again, that knife got deeper. Of course he’d compliment you even after what you’d done. Of course, because that’s the kind of man he was. Caring. Loving. So fucking sweet it hurt your teeth sometimes. You let out a small humourless chuckle. “You’re too sweet to me.”

“You fucked up tonight,” he admitted, running a hand through his hair as he stared at you from across the water. “Figured a compliment might soften the blow.”

“You don’t need to soften the blow, I was an asshole. I deserve the full consequences,” you breathed out. “I’m so sorry Liam. I’m genuinely so embarrassed and fucking… ashamed. I’m such a fucking idiot,” you played with the ring on your middle finger. He’d given it to you after he noticed that you liked to fidget while you spoke. That's what he did, he noticed. 

He let out a teary laugh. “Yeah, you were an asshole,” he agreed, nodding his head. The words felt foreign in his mouth. He hated saying shit like that, but objectively it was true. You were the asshole in the situation. “But I fucking love you,” he let out a breath he didn’t realise he was holding. “And for some reason spending a night we could spend together, alone, makes me sick to my stomach. I want to fall asleep next to you and I want to wake up beside you tomorrow before I fuck off to wherever,” he admitted, his vulnerability pulling at every single string of your heart. “And I fucking love you so much I spent all of tonight convincing my parents I got the date wrong. So you owe me.” 

You breath caught in your throat at that. Of course he did. Always protecting you. Always caring too much. “Liam, you didn’t have to do that. You should tell them-”

“Just come over here,” his voice was pleading, like he wasn’t above begging for you. “Please,” he added at the end. 

Against your better judgement, you walked straight through the shallowest part of the stream, ruining your dress from the knees down, and running right into his arms. “I’ll make it up to you,” you whispered against his lips as he kissed you like he hadn’t seen you for months, not days. 

“You fucking better,” he chuckled, wiping away the last of his tears as he pulled away. 

Isack Hadjar

Isack had vowed to himself he wouldn’t cry until the end of the season. Was it the healthiest thing on planet earth? No, very much not, but he seemed set on the idea, so you let him. You were just ready to be there if it fell apart, and he needed some comfort. 

He did pretty well, up until it started. You came home, quiet. You weren’t humming in the kitchen as you made a snack, you weren’t asking him about his day, it was like you were there physically, but not mentally. And it didn’t change. He’d thought it had been a once-off, but no, the next day you pushed him further and further away, and he had no idea why. You’d always been the better communicator out of the two of you, hell, you’d taught Isack everything he knew about communicating effectively. So getting radio silence from you was not only unusual, it was worrying. He left for the double header, thinking you were just mad and needed time to process it, and then you’d talk. You didn’t. You texted him a few times, small messages wishing luck, or congratulations on a good result, but your regular messages about your day were gone, much like your hours-long facetime calls. He didn’t let it bother him. He gave you space. He didn’t lose his cool, because he knew you loved him, and he loved you. That wouldn’t change.

He walked into the living room with a confused expression when he found you sitting on the couch, the apartment looking more barren than when he’d left. It hit him. His heart stopped in his chest and he dropped his bag. No. He thought. This isn’t real, she’s pranking me, she’s just mad at me, she’s just-

“Isack,” your voice was steady, but anyone could see the way you were breaking inside. “We need to talk.”

Those dreaded words. He nodded and gulped back the emotion building in his throat as he sat beside you, his eyes trained to you like you’d disappear if he looked away for a split-second. Maybe you would. He didn’t reach out and hold your hand or grab your thigh like he usually would, he didn’t know if he was allowed. He held his breath. “What’s wrong?” he asked, all the care in the world in his voice. 

You sighed. “I can’t do this anymore,” you admitted out loud for the first time. For months you’d been going over every scenario in your head, trying to work through every possible fix, and none of it left you satisfied. You couldn’t just be someone’s WAG, even if that someone was Isack. You needed a boyfriend who could show up for you, always. And Isack never could. And the worst part was, it was never his fault. He always wanted to, tried to support you from oceans away, sent you message after message, and you’d see how disappointed he was once you came back and you had to recount the whole night to him. He cared so deeply, but it just wasn’t enough. You needed someone to be there, mind, body, and soul. Not in a racecar halfway across the world. “I love you,” you sniffled, a stray tear falling down your face. “But this isn’t working for me anymore. I need someone who’s here, someone who can be there for me all the time. And it’s not your fault. You’ve been nothing but the best to me,” you choked up, unable to continue as more tears fell down your face. He wanted so desperately to reach out and wipe them away, promise you he could be there, that he would be there, but that was unrealistic. He couldn’t be there, no matter how badly he wanted to be, and intentions and text messages after the fact are never as good as actually showing up. He couldn’t give you that. He understood. “You’re so kind,” your voice was barely above a whisper. “And caring, and loving. I just… I need something else right now.” 

You finally looked up and saw his face, tear-stained but accepting. He nodded. “That’s alright,” he whispered, though every syllable killed him. “You deserve someone who can be there for you,” there was a small smile on those lips you knew so well, and it hit you that it might be the last time you ever see him in person, you were sure you'd end up seeing him on your TV screen, even long after today, probably winning world championships. Time stopped for a moment and you let yourself remember what it meant to be with Isack, just one last time. “And I’m so sorry I cannot give that to you,” he sighed out a teary, angry sigh. “It is one of my great failings,” he sniffled, but brought a hand up to your cheek and wiped a tear away. “Maybe one day we’ll find each other again?” he asked, his voice hopeful. 

“Maybe,” you nodded, but you both knew this was the end of the two of you. 

You left the apartment after that. You didn’t look back. You saw him, years on, watching the sport you fell in love with because of the boy you fell in love with, with your family. Your husband and your children loved car number 6, and you didn’t have the heart to tell them you loved it for a different reason. He won world championships, like you always knew he would. He never got married, he just raced. He sent you Christmas cards and thank yous that you hid and cherished forever, because you never really forget your first love. 

Years on, you told your granddaughter about the boy with the hazel eyes and fighting spirit, and how some nights, you wished you’d stayed with him. She told you that you should’ve. You told her she was wiser than you were at her age. 

Maybe she was right. Maybe you should’ve held on a little bit longer. 

ferrari:

Charles LeClerc

Charles notoriously hated fighting. He had no idea what the point was, because he’d just apologise, kiss you, and want everything to go back to normal. That worked for him. He came from a family that didn’t yell, a family so tightly woven together through something so deeply upsetting, that shouting was never an option. He came from a family that took care of each other, no matter what it cost them. Loyalty. Strength in numbers. Unconditional love. 

You didn’t. You came from a family that made their children compete for love, made you hate your siblings and them hate you in return, and a family that boarded all that up with their perfect image. 

He didn’t know. He wouldn’t have pushed if he did. He wouldn’t have gone behind your back and set up the dinner if he realised it was like this, on your birthday no less. 

Those carefully disguised jabs from your mothers, those deliberately placed smirks and sniggers from your siblings and their stuck-up partners, those blatant comments from your father, he saw how they all weighed you down slowly. Over the course of a dinner, he saw you turn from the extroverted, kind, and sweet girl he’d fallen for, to the small, picked-on, and scared child you’d been for half your life. The side of yourself you’d never shared with anyone. The side of yourself you promised you’d never have to. He saw how your eyes watered before you got up to go to the bathroom, another snarky comment about your career choice being ‘unique’, like you weren’t literally changing people’s life with your work. He shook his head as he watched you leave. 

“You are all terrible,” the words came out of his mouth before he meant them to, his eyes low as he looked at the table around him. He’d already said it, why not dig the grave deeper? “Get out of my house, now.” 

There was a tense stillness that followed. Knives stopped. Chatter died down. Anger pulsed through his veins. 

“Pardon?” your father asked, an incredulous smile on his face. He acted as if he didn’t hear Charles, and if he was a better man who wanted to keep a relationship with your family, he would’ve apologised and told everyone to continue eating. He wasn’t a better man, not when it came to you. He would do anything to protect you. He would go to any length to make you happy. He’d do anything if it meant he wouldn’t have to see you with that heartbreaking pout and cloudy eyes. 

“I said, get out of my house,” he repeated, standing from the table. “I don’t want to see you here again.” He walked over to the door and opened it wide, waiting for them to step outside. They looked at him dumbfounded. Like he wasn’t being serious. Like he wasn’t seconds away from grabbing your brother, who’d made an awful comment on how you were ‘parading yourself around the paddock like an instagram whore’, when he didn’t understand or know how long it took Charles to convince you to come with him. When he didn’t see the hours you’d spent before walking into that paddock, pacing your hotel room, and nearly backing out at the last minute, but you forced yourself to because you wanted to be there for him. 

“W-what’s going on?” you asked, walking out of the bathroom, the tension palpable. 

Your father turned to you. “Brilliant question, what is going on?” he demanded, his tone laced with anger. You flinched. Charles knew that was it. 

“They’re leaving,” he said, never raising his voice, never arguing. Just assertive and simple. “Say goodbye.”

The fear in your eyes broke his heart. Had this really been how you’d grown up? You looked around the room, panicked. “Charles, they’re not done their-”

“No, we are,” your sister bit out, standing up with her husband beside her. “Thanks for the hospitality, Bunny,” she practically spat at you. You just flinched, those beautiful eyes filling with fresh tears. He wanted nothing more than to go to you, hold you, promise you he was sorry, swear he’ll never let it happen again. But he couldn’t. Not yet. He had to make sure they left. 

“Meg, come on, I’m sorry-” you reached for her, but she slapped your hand away. Like it didn’t even matter. Like you were less than her. Charles couldn’t stop himself. He crossed the room and grabbed her wrist, holding it tight. She gasped. You grabbed his arm and tried to get him to let go, begging in his ear gently, but he had this unbreakable focus and precision. He wanted to scare her, scare them all. He needed to show that you were untouchable now, that he wasn’t going to let this shit slide. By the way your mother’s eyes widened, he guessed she got the gist. 

“What did you just do?” he questioned, the terrifying calmness in his voice sent a shiver down your spine. She didn’t answer. “Apologise, then leave.” 

She mumbled out something, and Charles let her go. It wasn’t that he actually cared about her apology, it was about scaring them. She shuffled out the door with her bitch of a husband behind her, your brother following, shouting about a lawsuit. Your parents were last to go, their eyes on Charles the entire time as you just watched them leave, feeling eight years old again. If you had it in you, you probably would’ve begged them to stay, just because dealing with their teasing is better than the opposite. Silence. For months at a time. Even when you were in the same house. Even when you were a child. 

Your hand was wrapped so tightly around Charles arm, he didn’t even notice the pressure until you released it. Your eyes were clouded over, you were shaking, and you just walked over to the table and started cleaning up dishes. 

“Y/n-” he started. 

“Don’t,” you breathed out, your voice uneven and broken. It squeezed his heart. “Just don’t, Charles.” He held you clean up the table in silence. He dried the dishes after you washed them and he tried to push that terrified look in your eyes out of his mind, but it kept coming back. Your realisation of them leaving, the way you were trying to apologise, and the way you tried to stop him. 

“Fuck,” he mumbled, stopping in his tracks as his eyes watered. You just kept washing the dishes. Mindful, like it was a ritual, holding onto it like it was the only thing stopping you from crumbling. “Y/n, please,” he begged, reaching over and turning the tap off. “Talk to me.”

You looked up, a tear already flowing down your cheek. You dried your hands on a towel, then wiped your cheek. He wrapped his arms around your waist and pulled you against him. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered, hsi voice breaking. “I’m so sorry.” 

You nodded, tears falling onto his shirt silently. “I know. You didn’t know. It’s alright,” you whispered, that heartbreaking frown on your lips against his neck. “It just sucks.”

“Was it always like that?” he asked in a broken whisper. You didn’t respond, and that was answer enough. He choked back a tear. “It’ll never be like that here, I promise. I swear.” 

You nodded. You believed him. Charles made you feel safe. Sure, he made a mistake tonight, but he was already making up for it. 

He loved you. That was worth a shitty night.

Lewis Hamilton

The apartment was ground zero for an explosion of toys, arts and crafts, and Lewis was sure there was some mashed up food in there somewhere. And it was quiet. Too quiet. A newborn, two toddlers and a five year old meant there was constant noise, but none tonight. He raised an eyebrow as he expertly stepped through a broken lego set, and moved towards the kids bedrooms. 

No one in the nursery, not unusual, since the most time Millie spent there was sleeping. 

No one in the boys room, again, also not unusual at this time of night, they usually stayed up with you until about 8, then when he got home, they’d go down without a fight. 

No one in Emmy’s room, so they were in your room. 

He opened the door as quietly as he possibly could, and found three children sprawled out on the bed, already asleep, and Millie asleep in her crib. He smiled fondly, tucking them in, kissing Millie on the forehead. Moments like these made those shitty days in the car bearable. Just knowing he had his own little fan club back home, made getting into the car just that bit easier. 

The light from the bathroom spilled out from under the door, and he froze when he heard a tiny choked sob. He softly opened the door, worry furrowing his brow as you came into view. Red-rimmed eyes, hand over your mouth to stop the sobs from waking the kids, exhausted eyes. His heart ached and he pressed a cautious hand on your shoulder, just a simple ‘I’m here’. 

You whipped around and fell into his chest, everything you’d been holding in for weeks finally coming out. Then you did something unexpected, you pushed him away. 

You stood up, wiped your eyes, and went back out to the main room, and you started cleaning. He closed the bedroom door and followed you out, a confused brow raised. “Baby?” he questioned. “What’s wrong?” 

“Nothing Lewis,” you spat, picking up toys, as tears fell like you didn’t even notice them. “Nothing’s wrong.” His heart ached. What could possibly be this wrong? Why would you be calling him by his first name? 

“Clearly something’s wrong,” he started, approaching you slowly. You stilled and stared, finally looking at him. Ferrari shirt and some jeans, necklaces and rings, hair done perfectly. It made you hate him. He got to go out and live his life every single day, every single weekend, while you were stuck in an apartment in a country hundreds of miles away from your family and friends, and you were just expected to deal. Deal with a newborn. Deal with your toddlers. Deal with the actual important things in your life while he gets to go race, and still be the favourite parent. God, you fucking hated him for it. You weren’t sure when it started. You weren’t sure if it was just your regular case of postpartum depression, or if you genuinely hated his guts, but either way, you didn’t want to see him. You didn’t want him to touch you. You didn’t want him. 

Seeing him standing in your living room filled you with so much rage, you actually didn’t know what to do with yourself.  “Just fuck off Lewis,” you scoffed, resuming picking up the toys. “Go on the sim or something, leave me alone.” 

“Y/n,” his voice was stern, serious. “What’s wrong?” He tried again. 

And you broke. Even though you didn’t want to. Even though you’d been holding it together since Millie was born. You dropped the toys to the floor with a loud crash, and you sobbed. Openly. Angrily. 

You let yourself rage. You didn’t think about the other people. You didn’t think about the kids asleep inside. You didn’t think about the fact that you’d end up saying things you regretted, because you didn’t care. You just wanted him to hurt, to understand your hurt, and you didn’t know how else to show it. “Fuck you Lewis,” you sniffled. “You’re never here!” you shouted, thanking your past self that you soundproofed the apartment years ago, so hopefully, the kids wouldn’t wake up. “You’re never fucking here. You leave me, all the fucking time. You don’t parent our kids, ever. I do. Every fucking day. Every drop-off, every mess, every spillage, every argument, every fucking day. And I don’t get a moment to myself. Because I have four fucking kids relying on me, alone. Their father is never fucking here. And every time I remember that, I think back to your vows to me, as your wife,” you choked out, sobbing as you shouted. You didn’t even feel like a person anymore, just a mom. Not a functioning human with thoughts and opinions, and needs, and wants. “You promised you’d never leave me.” 

He stood there, dumbstruck. He had no idea. Of course you didn’t, you’re never here, a voice in his head shot back. “Baby, I’d never leave you-”

“You already have, Lewis. Clearly you have,” you sighed, letting your arms cross over your chest. “I just… I need to go home.” 

“You are home, baby,” his voice which was once soothing, sounded so fucking patronising now. You gritted your teeth. 

“I want to go back to my home. With my family, and my friends,” you bit out. “I’m bringing the kids with me. You can visit us there.” 

Fuck, that was heavy. You both felt that settle in the room, tension filling the air. He didn’t realise he was crying until it dropped down onto his shirt. “Y/n, you can’t just leave-”

“You do it every damn weekend,” you offered an angry smile. “I hope you’re satisfied by the end of the season, because if you don’t choose our family and me over your career, I’ll be filing for a divorce.” 

And the ultimatum was set. Fuck, he probably would’ve fallen over if he wasn’t already leaning against the wall. You didn’t notice. You just continued picking up the toys and putting them away. He felt bile rise in his throat. 

Zhou Guanyu

Zhou cried, he was just like that. But, he’d never cried because of you. This had rattled him. He’d never expected you to be so… mean. He knew you didn’t mean it, emotions were high anyway and this was just the cherry on top of a shit week. 

You knocked on the door, guilt heavy in your stomach like a bowling ball. “Zhou,” your voice was soft. He held his breath. “Zhou I'm so sorry,” you started choking up yourself. “Fuck,” you mumbled. “I’m being mean to you and I’m the one fucking crying,” you sniffled, leaning against the door. “I’m an asshole.” He felt your weight against the door, and heard the desperation in your voice. He just… wasn’t ready to respond yet. He didn’t have anything to say to you. 

You took another deep breath. “I shouldn’t have said that, I-I’m sorry,” God, you felt so small. Taking Zhou down just because you were stressed? Snapping at him like he wouldn’t do anything for you? Like he didn’t love you so much it hurts? You were disgusted with yourself. You honestly thought you didn’t deserve forgiveness. “I was stressed, and I know, that’s not an excuse. I just don’t know how to fucking deal with it. When everyone is breathing down my neck, a-and you’re just trying to love me with, with your fucking love languages and I love it. I swear I do, I don’t ever w-want it to fucking stop, I just… it gets c-crowded in my h-head,” you admitted, hiccups interrupting your explanation. You’d never been good at this, at love. But you were willing to try for Zhou, because you loved him so much you felt like you couldn’t breathe without him. You let out another sob. He felt the tears falling down his cheeks. “I just don’t know what to do with myself sometimes. I’m so bad at this, I just… I’m so scared you’re going to wake up one day and realise that I’m not worth the trouble. And I-I push you away because I already love you so much that losing you w-would break me,” you held in a sob. “And I’m so sorry Zhou. You deserve so much better than that.” You knocked your head against the door lightly, like it could somehow fix the turmoil in your brain. It didn’t. 

He sniffled from the other side of the door and it twisted the guilt in your stomach. The door unlocked. You stepped back. Zhou stood in front of you, looking just as broken as you were. 

No words were exchanged. He didn’t shout or demand an apology. He did the most Zhou-thing he could’ve done. He forgave you. He hugged you. He kissed you. He promised you he’d stand by you when you felt like this. 

He chose to be kind, because of course he did. He was your Zhou. 

haas:

Ollie Bearman 

He was fucked. Literally, and metaphorically, he was fucked. 

Seriously, he’d just fucked someone. And he’d just realised it wasn’t you. After the fact. After it was over. 

Dodging calls wasn’t like Ollie. Dodging texts wasn’t like Ollie. But, he’d changed a lot since moving up to F1. He was colder. Less goofy. Less… himself. He walked around like he cared what people thought now, which you guessed he must’ve. You saw it in the way he carried himself. You saw it in the light in his eyes, or lack-there-of. 

And you were seeing it in person, right now. He stood in front of you, eyes wide and teary, excuses pouring from his mouth like those tyre strategies he used to rattle off. 

“It was a mistake,” he sniffled. “And I’m so sorry.” He let his head drop, eyes falling to the floor. He couldn’t face it, face you. This was the biggest mistake of his life, and he was a Haas driver. He thought back to those nights where you’d hold him when he got like this. Whether it was results or pressure or stress, you always cared. You hugged him and kissed him and told him everything would be alright. Well, right now, he wished you would. He knew you wouldn’t, knew he didn’t deserve it. Didn’t stop him from hoping.

“Alright,” you shrugged, no tone, no hurt, nothing. His head snapped back up, eyes filling with hope. “Pack your shit.” 

His world stopped. “Y/n-” 

“Fuck you Ollie, I don’t care. I don’t trust you. I can’t love someone I don’t trust,” you laid it out perfectly. Simple. Easy. He broke your trust, so he didn’t have you anymore. “Begging won’t change anything. Just leave with your dignity.” 

And even if he didn’t want to, he did. He left with that pit of guilt in his stomach, knowing he made the biggest mistake of his entire life. 

Esteban Ocon

Esteban was quiet. You were tense. Your apartment was usually full of laughter and light. It was silent that night. The sun had set on the beautiful city of Geneva, and the chill crept in from the cracked window, or just the cold shoulder your boyfriend was giving you. The bed felt cold. He felt cold. You thought back and noticed how those sweet routine moments you’d cherished for years had slowly started to dwindle in recent months. He wouldn’t join you for a shower anymore. He didn’t bother teasing you while you did your makeup or skincare. He didn’t dance with you in the kitchen anymore. He spoke more French, a language you didn’t quite understand (though in recent months you’d been learning it, for him). He focused on work. 

Your heart broke slowly as it hit you. He fell out of love. 

“Just say it,” you whispered into the darkness of your shared bedroom. His hands weren’t around your hips like they used to be. His face wasn’t buried in your hair as he slept soundly. No, he stayed to his side of the bed like you had the plague. 

“Say what?” he huffed, tired voice and eyes turning over to meet your eyes. “It’s 2am Y/n.” 

You stared at him for a moment, and you knew she knew what you were saying. He knew exactly what you were saying, he was just too pussy to do it himself. “You’re seriously going to make me say it?” you scoffed. He shook his head in annoyance and looked at you expectantly. He was a small man. He was pathetic. That's what you reminded yourself as you spoke. Maybe your voice would shake, but at least you spoke. “You’re not in love with me anymore,” your voice sounded so small it was almost like you didn’t recognize it.

He was quiet for a moment, then he broke. Eyes weeping, chest heaving, fully sobbing. You stared in shock. Never in your three years together had he ever done that. Never had he fully broken down in front of you. “I’m sorry,” he choked out. “I never meant for this to happen.”

And you hated yourself for being right. Of course he fell out of love with you, everyone always did. “Yeah,” you shrugged, sitting up. “I know you didn’t.” There wasn’t much enthusiasm behind your words, but I think anyone could’ve excused you for that. You didn’t reach out for him. You didn’t comfort him. You didn’t care to. Who was he to be crying when he was the one at fault? You’d been the perfect girlfriend, perfect support system, perfect fucking WAG, and he fell out of love. That was his failing, not yours. You told yourself, but it had started to feel like there was something wrong with you. This kept happening. You’d give yourself to someone completely, and they wouldn’t care anymore.

He grabbed your wrist before you could leave the bed. “You’re going to find someone who loves you like I should’ve.”

Fuck, if that didn’t break you more. 

aston martin:

Fernando Alonso

Arguments weren’t uncommon in any relationship. People disagree, it’s just humans being humans. But these disagreements were showing up more often, cutting into you a bit more, his words became more harsh. You knew he didn't mean to, but he hurt you. He made you feel like a child, with the way he talked down to you, like you were too fucking stupid to understand the complex inner-workings of his brain. 

It made you feel less-than, and you fucking hated that. It made you feel like you weren’t in a partnership, but a mentorship, and you hated that too. He used language that he knew would hurt you, childish, adolescent, a baby. Like you couldn’t understand just how bad life can get because you were 28 instead of his wise age of 43. 

So you were quiet. You stayed quiet, shrunk yourself to fit in better. You didn’t take back when his friends made awful comments, you spent more time to yourself, you stopped wanting to come to races, you stopped wanting to dress up and go out, you stopped wanting things. Race weekends passed in a still kind of tension, one that he didn’t seem to notice. He did. He saw every time you made yourself smaller for him. Every time you gave up something you wanted for him. Every time you kept your mouth shut for him. And it broke him. Why would you think he wanted you to be any different? Why would you change yourself for him? Why would he let it go on so long? 

So he sat down at the table one day, dinner in front of him, you to his left, and he broke down. It was all too much. The pressure from the sport, the silence in the house, the shrinkage of the only thing good left in his world, you. 

You gasped. “Fernando,” you reached out and cupped his cheek, panic filling your eyes. “What’s wrong?” You asked, your food forgotten as you leaned in closer to him. So caring, so kind. It twisted the knife into his heart, but he was always good at persevering. 

He shook his head, a sad smile reaching his lips. “You deserve better than me, than this,” he spoke softly and your heart dropped into your stomach. He couldn’t make you miserable a minute longer. He couldn’t watch you shrink. “I think we have to take a step back,” The fear in your eyes would haunt him for the rest of his life, but he knew he needed to do this. He had to set you free, you had to live your life free of him. He pushed your hand off his cheek. “I’m not interested anymore. I want you gone.” 

That was all it took. That panic and fear melted away into something darker. Resentment. Anger. Hatred. It killed him to watch, but he knew it was the right thing, even if it felt like his world was falling apart. 

Lance Stroll

“Just- shut up!” he groaned, his hands flying around the room uncontrolled. It was quiet for a moment, you were quiet for a moment. Just standing there, still, either in shock or rage, he couldn’t tell. He just knew nothing good could come of this argument since the minute he started it, and he still started it. “I just… I need a minute.” His voice broke and that unforgettable burning sensation began in the back of his throat. You stepped closer to him and placed a hand on his back, soothingly rubbing up and down. He could tell you were still upset, still mad, still raging. But you chose to put it aside for a moment, and calm him down. Fuck, he didn’t deserve you. 

You sighed, laying your head on his shoulder and leaning into him. “Lance, you can’t start an argument and leave it once it gets hard, or I get angry. It’s not fair,” you whispered out, your exasperation clear in your tone. “It’s not fair.”

He knew you were right, knew he should apologise, knew he should say something. He didn’t. He just nodded, trying desperately to hold himself together as he felt everything in him beg to be let out. You huffed. “Lance, you can cry, we just need to keep talking after. You have to stay here. Trust me enough to let me comfort you. If you don’t trust me I genuinely don’t understand why we’re still together,” you admitted, your voice raw and tired. You couldn’t do this dance again, you needed him to commit. Feel the fear, and do it anyway. Trust. Love. 

He nodded again, stronger this time. He took another shallow breath, and he turned to you. She has you. He told himself. She loves you, this isn’t going to scare her away. 

And he let himself go. 

sauber:

Nico Hulkenberg 

He missed it, even though he’d flown all night. Exhaustion had settled itself in his bones long before he reached his front door, and still, he continued. 

But he missed it. 

That’s what she would remember. Her dad wasn’t there for her birthday. He didn’t get there in time. 

You were waiting in the living room. It was 5am. Too early to get the day started but also too late to go back to sleep. You told yourself you should go for a walk, start breakfast, get ahead on your work, but something anchored you to the couch, watching the sun rise on Monaco. The harbour shone in the sunlight, making it as beautiful as the time you first saw it. When he brought you here for the first time, all those years ago. You sat on a boat beside him, a new exciting talent in the world of F1, a jittery 20-something guy you’d met through mutual friends. Someone had said to you that even then, he looked at you like he saw something else. A future, a loving home, a family. And they were right. You chuckled, remembering those moments where he’d come home to you after a shitty weekend, and he’d just melt into you. Not leave your side for three days. It made you laugh. 

“I missed it,” he whispered into the expanse of the dark living room, just brightening up in the new day's light. He didn’t approach you. He didn’t know if he was allowed. “I fucking missed it.” You stood up and walked over to him, hearing the wobble in his voice. It cracked your heart, just like every question from your daughter had, during the day. You wrapped your arms around his neck. You should be mad. You should shout.

“She’s four,” you whispered. “She loves you more than anything. Children are more forgiving than adults. Don’t miss the next one,” you advised with a soft smile on your lips. He squeezed you tighter, the beginning of tears falling onto your hoodie. “You’re not a bad father,” you reminded him, instilling in him that he wouldn’t become his worst fear. “You’re a lot of things Nico, and a bad father will never be one of them.”

He shook his head in the crook of your neck. “I don’t deserve you two.” 

Now it was your turn to shake your head. “You do,” you smiled. “We love you so much Nico.” 

Gabriel Borteleto

He wasn’t prepared, he didn’t think about it, he just said it, he didn’t realise the implications, didn’t notice the way you stiffened. 

Now his apartment was empty. It was his apartment, as he’d so unkindly shouted during that godforsaken argument. It all came back to him clearly, the housing, the tears, his unwillingness to stop. He hadn’t meant to drive you away, he just… he needed you to understand. Understand the pressure. Understand the disappointment. Understand how he felt like he was failing every single time he jumped into that car. But he couldn’t stop. He wouldn’t. Even when you left, he sent you message after message, calling you selfish. Making you out to be the problem, as if you weren’t the only thing holding him up. 

The pounding in his head didn’t cease throughout the day. You’d told him to at least wait a day before talking to you, or else you’d never hear him out. It was torture. Counting the minutes down as the time slowly ticked by, never quite close enough for his liking. Then 8pm rolled around, and he was dialling your number as fast as he could. You picked up on the fifth ring. 

He spoke first, his voice breaking. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “I’m so sorry.” He held his breath. He wasn’t expecting you to forgive him immediately. He wasn’t really expecting you to forgive him at all. He was expecting to get scolded, to get told just how bad he’d hurt you. 

“Alright,” you shrugged, indifference crept into your tone and it made his blood freeze, his whole body shivering with a scary sense of dread. You didn’t care. Not anymore. Not now. He’d pushed you too far. He’d done it. He’d fucked it. He leant against the bathroom door, a sob ripping out of his throat as the burning sensation of his unshed tears began. You sighed. He held his breath again. “Gabi, what do you want me to say?”

You might as well have stamped on his heart. God, he wanted to scream. Anything that shows you fucking care? He thought. Anything that makes me think this is salvageable? “I don’t know,” he admitted. “Just… something. This has to be worth saving, we have to be worth saving.” He choked out through angry tears. Why weren’t you fighting? Why weren’t you angry? Why didn’t you care? 

“Is it worth saving?” you asked him, and his world tipped on its side. Of course it is. Was his immediate response. He loved you. You loved him. It made sense. You groaned. “We fight all the fucking time, Gabi. You’re not happy, I’m not happy. We haven’t been for a long time.” 

He thought back to those fights and those nights you both spent angry. By morning the problem would be forgotten and you’d make up right? You’d kiss his cheek and make him a coffee, he’d give you some half-assed apology but you’d accept anyway. That’s the way it was, and he never wanted it to change. Maybe she wants it to change, a voice in his head spoke up. She’s getting the short end of the stick. His heart dropped to his stomach when he realised he’d been ignoring all the animosity from you. The burnt coffees. The glares. The subtle and slow retreat back into yourself. He coughed. “It is for me,” He had to fight for you, promise you he’d change. “I’ll change, I swear. I love you.” 

“I don’t need you to change. I need to change. I need other things, and you can’t give me them. I’m sorry Gabi, but we’re over.”

alpine:

Pierre Gasly

He hated arguing, really he did. He was just good at it. Weirdly good. Like, he’d been told to become a lawyer on more occasions than one. But he hated arguing with you. And he hated when he took it too far. 

You wouldn’t understand. He’d said.

What, like I’m not smart enough now? You were livid, and rightfully so. 

I like taking care of you, is that so hard to understand?! He didn’t mean to raise his voice, but he had. He just didn’t understand why it was such a big deal, it was just money, a simple thing he had more than enough of, and he wanted to spend it on you. You weren’t having it. 

It’s not being taken care of Pierre, it makes me feel gross, like I’m using you or something. And you could use that money to do so much good in someone’s life, God! You were just being kind, but he was frustrated. He just wanted to do something nice and you’d blown it out of proportion. It was a dress. A fucking 5,000$ dress. It made you sick to just look at the price tag, but he didn’t feel the same. That kind of money was cheap change to him. 

You’re being dramatic, it’s s dress, I just wanted to congratulate you. You got a promotion, it was a big deal. He was proud. 

I’m not trying to sound ungrateful Pierre, but flowers would have sufficed. 

And he snapped. He said things he didn’t mean, and you left. You went back home, leaving him in Austria with a race weekend to finish. You told him to sort his shit out. You told him to think before he speaks. God, he’d been thinking of you since you left. He called your phone. 

You didn’t pick up the first time. Or the second. Or the third. 

Ten times. Then you responded. You picked up the damn phone on his lucky number ten. 

“Pierre,” you yawned. “Isn’t it late over there?” you whispered into the phone like you’d wake someone if you weren’t quiet enough. You wouldn’t, you were alone in your hotel room, still sorting out your shit from the argument. 

“I missed you already,” he admitted, the first tears falling down his cheeks. He sniffled. “I’m such an idiot sometimes.” 

You chuckled. “Yeah, you are.” He chuckled too. Quiet conversation filled both your hotel rooms as you both drifted back off to sleep. You didn’t talk about the fight. You didn’t talk about how he was crying. You just… talked. About your busy schedules, how you were running out of foundation, and how tired he was. Boring things. The in-between things. Monotony. Regular, normal life. 

He loved every second of it. 

Franco Colapinto 

His body ran cold when he looked at the time. 2am. You still weren’t home. He’d pretended it didn’t bother him long enough, he had to text you. Or call you. Make you come home. 

He wasn’t a stranger to fucking up, especially with you. He knew what he did was shitty. He knew he should’ve tried harder, worked harder to be there, but duty calls sometimes, and fuck, he has to answer whether he wants to or not. He called your number, his hands shaking. 

Pick up. He begged. Pick up, please. 

You picked up on the sixth ring. “Franco?” your voice was tense. Like he was annoying you. He didn’t care, he was just happy you were responding to him. Relief surged through his body like a fucking lightning bolt, and suddenly he could breathe again. “Why are you calling me?” You were sick of this, of him, of being a secondary priority. You didn’t even want to fucking fight anymore, you just wanted peace, a boyfriend would could be there, who could show up. 

“Where are you?” he asked, his voice quiet. Timid. And, if you didn’t know any better, you’d say he sounded scared. He was. He felt sick to his stomach that you were walking around Spielberg all alone. You left the hotel 4 hours ago. 4 hours of him burning a hole in the floor pacing the room, 4 hours of genuine fear that it might all be over, 4 hours of shit. Pure and utter shit. He was scared, alright? Fucking terrified. He wanted you back, in the hotel, in his arms, in his bed. He wanted you home, to him. He wanted to make sure he was still home. You were quiet for a moment, debating on whether to tell him. “Come on mi cielo, just… come back,” he let a small sob out, his voice just above a whisper. 

You stopped in your tracks. You’d seen him cry a handful of times at most. Over family stuff. Over results. But never was it over you. You didn’t think this had pushed him that far, didn’t think it would. He was so… unbreakable sometimes, you forgot he was just as fragile as you were. He hurt and bled the same, and of course he wouldn’t want you walking out in the dark in a foreign town with your location off, ignoring him. Of course not. “I’m on my way back now, I’ll be there soon.” 

He squeezed his eyes shut and held back a relieved sob. He nodded. “Great,” he choked out. “I’ll be here.” 

Jack Doohan 

It was important to you, he understood. He saw the way your eyes lit up when you spoke about it. He basked in that light, he planned beside you. 

Blood is thicker than water. His father’s mantra rang out through his head, taunting him. He’d been the one to fucking say it and the hurt on your face told him everything he needed to know. Not that he hadn’t known it before, he had. He knew you wanted him there more than anything, he knew how much it would mean for him to get on a plane and meet your family. Yet, he flaked. For some fucking family holiday he didn’t even want to go on. But you cried when he left, and you asked him to practically never come back, and even though he felt like his heart was being ripped from his chest, he boarded that plane like he didn’t have another choice. He saw that he did now. He saw the right choice. 

Mick saw the changes in Jack. He saw the untouched food, the sluggish walk, the lack of interest. He texted you and got no response and he knew what it meant. 

Dinner was too loud, so Jack sought refuge with the sand and the water. His bracelet, the bracelet you gave him was threaded through his fingers as he watched the waves roll out. He was too deep in thought to see Mick sitting beside him. 

“What did you do?” he asked, his voice soft, though it startled him all the same. He jumped and turned to him, a slow smile made its way onto his lips, a chuckle leaving Mick’s. “She’s gone for good?”

That smile disappeared quickly. Jack looked back out at the ocean in front of him, so vast and wide. “I fucked it up,” he admitted, his heart aching with every word. “I left her for this.” He gestured to the area around him, but Mick got the gist. He sighed and clapped a hand on his friend's back. 

“Did you talk to her?” 

“She doesn’t want to hear from me,” he shook his head. It wasn’t like he hadn’t tried, he had. You genuinely didn’t want to hear from him. Emotion bubbled deep in his throat, but he tried to swallow it down regardless. He didn’t care if it’d choke him, he didn’t want it. Emotion admits more than words ever would. If he let himself break down he’d be admitting it was over. He wasn’t ready for it to be over. He wasn’t ready to kiss those moments with you goodbye. The way you smiled at him, the way you’d tease him over anything you could, just because you loved it when he’d finally tease back. He couldn’t say goodbye to those nights when you’d stay up until dawn, just talking, making promises about a future you two weren’t guaranteed. He wouldn’t leave those memories of you telling him you loved him in a box in the back of his mind. 

He hadn’t realised he’d been crying. Well, there it was. 

Over. 

Paul Aron

“You can’t fucking do this! You can’t leave for weeks at a time and not talk to me Paul, for fuck’s sake!” you groaned, your eyes wild and angry. It had been like this for 40 minutes, a back and forth that wouldn’t end no matter how much you both wanted it to. He wouldn’t see your side, and you couldn’t see his. He didn’t really have a justification for his actions, just empty promises, and you were sick to death of those. Your hands raked over your face, and you sighed, your eyes meeting his. “Either sort your shit out, or break up with me Paul, because those really seem like our only options right now.” You already knew you were crossing a line, but you couldn’t stop yourself. You just had to say it. 

He could’ve pretended that didn’t feel like a punch to the gut, but you knew him too well. You knew the second you said it too, because you stilled. His face faltered, his body twitched and jerked in a weird way. He wanted to recover, to pretend it was normal, act like it didn’t happen maybe. He couldn’t. Not when it was you on the line. Not when you were talking about a universe where he couldn’t come home to you every night and have you kiss his head or let him kiss you silly. 

You walked over and wrapped your arms around him. Your face was serious but tender and he cupped your cheek. The low light made him look like an angel, a crying angel, but an angel all the same. “Paul, I’m sorry,” you whispered, tender but timid. Like you were scared you’d make it worse. “I’m tired and you’re tired, and you’ve just had a huge weekend, and we just need… we need each other, right?” you offered and he just nodded, too shocked to really comprehend what was going on. “Let’s just head to bed, yeah?” 

He nodded, then dipped his head down and kissed you like it was the last time, like he was trying to put all the love and care and passion he had for you into the kiss. Like that would make you understand him. To an extent, it did. 

navigation for my blog :) (masterlist)

mclaren masterlist (OP81 &LN4)

ferrari masterlist (CL16, LH44 & AL65 )

williams & mercedes masterlist (GR63, KA12, CS55 LS2 &AA23)

redbull & vcarb masterlist (MV1,IH6 & LL40)

alpine masterlist (JD7, PA17, FC43, PG10)

[willowsnook]

Bed Time | oneshots

Charles Leclerc

“I’d climb every mountain..

And swim every ocean ..

Just to be with you…”

The soft glow of morning sunlight leaked through the curtains, casting golden shadows on the hardwood floor of the Monaco apartment. The room was still quiet, except for the rhythmic tapping of Charles’ fingers against his laptop keys. He sat by the window, dressed in a faded grey t-shirt and sweatpants, his brows furrowed, utterly focused.

Deadlines, strategy plans, sponsor calls—the kind of work that never really stopped, even for a Formula 1 driver.

In the bed they shared, Y/N stirred under the duvet. She rolled over to his side, now cold and empty, and blinked at the sight of him across the room. Her voice was still sleepy when she murmured, “Charles… come back to bed.”

He glanced up. And instantly, the hard lines on his face softened.

“Mon ange…” he smiled, his voice still low from not speaking for a while, “I just have to finish one thing, I promise.”

Y/N sat up, the sheets pooling around her waist. “You said that an hour ago.”

“I know,” he said, scratching the back of his neck, a little sheepish. “But it’s just—this race week is important. The simulator notes came in late and I didn’t want to forget.”

He looked down, feeling a little guilty now. He hated disappointing her. Always did.

“I get it,” she said softly, leaning her head against the pillow, watching him. “But… it’s Sunday morning. And you promised me one morning that was ours.”

That struck something deeper in him. He closed the laptop slowly, hesitating for only a second. He wasn't good at switching off. But he was good at listening to her.

“Okay,” he said, voice quieter. “You’re right.”

She didn’t expect him to actually get up so quickly, but he did—crossing the room in a few long strides, climbing back into the warm bed with her. She giggled softly as he did, and he let out a rare boyish laugh, his arms wrapping around her waist and pulling her into him.

“You win,” he whispered into her hair.

“I always do,” she teased.

He nuzzled against her neck, warmth blooming in his chest. She smelled like lavender and sleep and home.

“I really do love you, you know?” he said, more serious now.

She turned to face him. “I know. And I love you. Even when you go all workaholic on me.”

His smile stretched slowly, the kind that lit up his whole face. “I’m sorry… I just want to be good at all of this. Racing. Life. You.”

“You already are,” she replied, brushing a thumb along his jaw. “But you don’t always have to prove it. Just… let me be your soft place to land.”

His breath caught for a moment. That meant more to him than she'd ever know. Charles had always been private, guarded, always polite in public, controlled on camera. But with her—he could be undone. Could be real.

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

And just like that, his focus shifted from circuits and strategy to the quiet sanctuary of their bed. His arm draped over her waist as he tucked her close, her body curved into his, and the world outside faded into background noise.

No podium could ever compare to this kind of peace.

Lewis Hamilton

“Let my love adorn you ...

You gotta know, baby…”

The London skyline shimmered outside the penthouse windows, hazy and golden in the early morning light. The city was still quiet, wrapped in its own kind of slumber, but Lewis was already up — sitting on the velvet armchair near the balcony, journal open, pen in hand, a mug of herbal tea resting on the table beside him.

He was deep in thought, legs tucked up, hoodie sleeves pushed past his elbows, expression contemplative as soft lo-fi jazz played in the background. The kind of stillness he’d grown to protect. Reflect. Heal.

Behind him, the massive bed was still warm, tangled in cream silk sheets and Y/N’s soft breathing. But her eyes fluttered open when she didn’t feel his presence beside her.

She stretched lazily, her voice still raspy with sleep as she called out, “Baby... come back to bed.”

Lewis glanced over his shoulder, lips curving at the corners. His pen paused. "You always know when I slip away," he murmured, teasing gently.

“That’s because it’s colder without you,” she pouted, resting her chin on the pillow as she looked at him. “And it’s our first real morning off together in... weeks.”

He closed the journal slowly, sliding the pen between the pages. “You’re right,” he said, voice warm and velvety, yet thoughtful. “I just... needed to write out a few things that were sitting heavy.”

Y/N’s gaze softened. She knew that tone—introspective, a little weighty. He always carried the world in his heart. The battles, the brilliance, the hope.

“You okay?” she asked gently.

“I am now,” he said honestly. “Just needed to clear some energy.”

Then he stood, barefoot, quiet as ever, and walked back to the bed. He paused at the edge, taking her in—hair messy, skin glowing in the early light, arms outstretched in invitation.

“You know,” he said with a small smirk, crawling in beside her, “there are a hundred places I’d fly you to right now. Just us, private jet, ocean breeze, zero noise.”

She smiled, brushing her fingers through his curls as he laid his head on her chest.

“Sounds tempting,” she whispered. “But this? You, here, like this… that’s already everything.”

He exhaled, deeply and slowly, like the kind of breath that empties your soul of tension. “You really get me,” he said, voice low against her skin.

“I do,” she whispered. “Even when you disappear into your mind for a bit.”

He turned his face into her, kissed the space just over her heart. "I love you for that. For letting me wander without ever making me feel lost."

Silence settled around them, soft and thick. His arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her impossibly closer.

“Okay,” he mumbled, already relaxing, “five more minutes… but I might make it a whole day.”

Y/N smiled, pressing her lips to his temple. “Good. Because I was planning on keeping you here anyway.”

And just like that, Lewis Hamilton—the man who danced between the metaphysical and the fast lane—let go. No circuits, no cameras. Just him and the woman who saw every part of him, even the ones he didn’t always show.

He didn’t need a private island to feel at peace. He had it, right here, in her arms.

Carlos Sainz

“Love is the answer, at least for most of the questions in my heart…”

The gentle hum of the espresso machine was the only sound echoing through the quiet Madrid apartment. Carlos stood at the kitchen counter in a soft navy t-shirt and grey joggers, stirring his coffee with one hand, scrolling through race data on his phone with the other.

It was early—too early for most people on a day off—but not for Carlos. He liked his quiet mornings, liked starting the day before the world demanded too much of him.

From the bedroom, a low, sleepy voice broke the calm.

“Carlos…”

A pause.

“Come back to bed.”

He turned his head, a soft smile forming before he even replied. “It’s not even 8, cariño,” he called back, voice still laced with that low morning gravel. “You sure you’re not tired of me yet?”

“You’re my favorite pillow,” Y/N mumbled, her voice muffled in the sheets.

That earned a quiet chuckle from him. Dry, amused. The kind that barely made it out of his throat but lingered in the room.

He finished stirring his coffee, set the phone down, and padded barefoot down the hallway toward their bedroom. He leaned on the doorframe for a moment, watching her curled under the duvet, hair wild and arm stretched toward where he used to be.

“I thought I’d let you sleep,” he said gently. “Didn’t want to bother you.”

“You not being here is the bother.”

His brow arched slightly. “Dramatic for someone who calls me emotionally boring.”

“You’re not boring,” she yawned, pulling the covers open in invitation. “You’re steady. Like… calm in a storm.”

He tilted his head slightly, that soft expression returning. Carlos had never been the man of grand speeches. But he was consistent. Steady. Quietly all in.

“You know I’d come back just for that, right?” he said, moving to the bed.

He set his mug on the nightstand and climbed under the covers, immediately pulling her against his chest. His hand slid under her shirt—nothing intense, just a warm palm against her spine, fingers tracing lazy circles like a silent way of saying I’m here.

Y/N hummed in contentment, fitting herself perfectly in his arms.

“I know you’ve got a million things on your mind,” she whispered, “but I like you best when you let yourself rest.”

His lips brushed her forehead. “I do rest. When I’m with you.”

That was the thing with Carlos. He didn’t overwhelm. He anchored. He wasn’t loud about his love—but it was in every touch, every look, every way he quietly chose her over and over again.

“You’re my safe place, you know?” she murmured.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just held her a little closer.

Then, finally:

“I know, mi amor. And you’re mine.”

And with that, the day could wait. The world could wait. Because in this moment, wrapped in warmth and love and the kind of peace that doesn’t need proving—Carlos was exactly where he wanted to be.

Franco Colapinto

“I guess I’m in love with the way you hold me ....

And I’ll spend the rest of my life…”

The Sunday sun filtered lazily through the gauzy white curtains, casting soft shadows across the crumpled bedsheets. The apartment smelled faintly of coffee — warm, nutty, familiar. Y/N stirred awake, arms reaching out instinctively to the other side of the bed.

Empty.

She blinked, brows furrowing. No Franco.

His pillow was still warm. His hoodie was still tossed at the foot of the bed, which meant… he hadn’t gone far. But still. It was Sunday. Their day. Their slow, no-plans, order-too-much-food-and-do-nothing day.

She sat up, eyes still heavy with sleep, and called out, “Franco?”

No answer.

She grabbed the nearest sweatshirt — his, obviously — and padded into the living room.

There he was. Sitting on the floor. Surrounded by open notebooks, a half-eaten banana, a sketchpad, and what looked suspiciously like a very unofficial to-do list written on the back of an old receipt.

He was humming softly to himself, pencil tucked behind one ear, glasses slipping down his nose.

“Seriously?” she said, arms crossed at the doorway. “You left me for your chaos corner?”

He looked up, blinked once, and grinned. “You looked so peaceful, I didn’t want to wake you.”

“You didn’t wake me. You abandoned me.”

Franco stood, stretching in that slow, exaggerated way that made her roll her eyes and smile all at once. “Abandoned is a strong word. I was going to come back the second my brain shut up.”

“It’s Sunday,” she said, stepping closer. “You’re allowed to tell your brain to shut up.”

He hooked an arm around her waist, pulling her in until she melted against him, warm and grumpy and barefoot. “I missed you too, you know,” he whispered, kissing the top of her head.

“Then come back to bed.”

“I thought you’d never ask.”

He grabbed a couple of sticky notes from the floor and slapped them to his forehead. “Reminders for later,” he said solemnly.

She burst out laughing. “You’re the most chaotic genius I’ve ever met.”

“And you’re the person who keeps me from accidentally drinking paint water,” he said, scooping her up bridal style with zero warning.

She squealed, clinging to his neck. “Franco!”

He grinned. “Too late. We’re going back to bed.”

He carried her like it was the most natural thing in the world — like he’d always known exactly how to hold her, how to make her laugh, how to make the world slow down. And when he finally dropped them both into the sheets, limbs tangled and hearts synced, he whispered against her skin:

“You’re the best thing I’ve ever made space for.”

And that Sunday — the kind that never made the highlight reels but somehow felt like everything — became another quiet moment stitched into the life they were building.

Together.

Oscar Piastri

“And I need you to know that we're fallin’ so fast

We're fallin’ like the stars…”

The hotel suite was quiet in that specific post-race kind of way — hushed, heavy, and slow. Outside, the sky was dull with overcast clouds, the streets of whatever city they were in a blur behind rain-smeared windows.

Y/N blinked awake to the rustle of hotel sheets and the smell of mint tea steeping in the corner of the room.

But Oscar wasn’t in bed.

Again.

She rolled over to see the bedside clock: 8:42 a.m. Early, but not insanely early — unless, of course, you were Oscar, and you apparently didn’t know how to sit still even after driving at 300 km/h all weekend.

She sat up, pulling the duvet around her shoulders like a cloak and calling out, “Where’d you go?”

His voice floated in from the small sitting area near the window. Dry. Awake. Oscar.

“Just writing a very dramatic grocery list.”

She peeked over the duvet to find him there, legs tucked under himself on the armchair, laptop open, his face lit only by the grey light filtering through the clouds. Hair tousled. Hoodie sleeves pushed halfway up his forearms. Calm as ever.

“Groceries?” she asked, amused.

“We’re out of oat milk. It’s a crisis,” he said without looking up. “Also, I forgot which laundry detergent you like, and I don’t want to guess wrong again. Last time the clothes smelled like a dentist’s waiting room.”

She smiled to herself. It was ridiculous. It was so him.

“You’re incredibly annoying for someone who’s also kind of perfect,” she mumbled into the pillow.

“I take pride in that.”

She waited a beat, then added, softer this time, “Come back to bed.”

He looked over his screen. And something in his face softened — the sarcasm paused, and there it was: that quiet, thoughtful affection he never put into too many words.

“Didn’t want to wake you.”

“You didn’t,” she said. “You just... disappeared.”

Oscar closed the laptop slowly, placing it aside. “Right. Terrible crime. Left my girlfriend alone in a five-star bed with six pillows and central heating.”

“Exactly,” she said, smug under the covers. “And you forgot the best part.”

He stood, stretching with a groan that sounded far too dramatic for a 23-year-old. “Me?”

She nodded, watching him walk back over, calm and casual, like he wasn’t the most emotionally intelligent person she'd ever met hiding behind a dry one-liner.

Oscar climbed under the covers without another word, settling beside her with practiced ease — like they’d done this a hundred times, and would a hundred times more.

He didn’t say much — didn’t have to.

Just wrapped an arm around her waist, pulled her in, and whispered near her temple, “There. The bed’s whole again.”

She sighed into his chest, and after a moment, she felt his hand brush gently down her spine — just once. Barely there. But enough.

“Thanks for coming back,” she said.

“I always do,” he replied.

Lando Norris

“I’m still holding on to everything that’s dead and gone…”

The hotel room was dark, except for the soft glow of a hallway light peeking under the door and the occasional flash of city lights bouncing off the windows.

Y/N was asleep.

Or at least, she had been.

The door clicked shut behind him — too carefully. Like he was trying not to be heard. A second later, Lando’s shoes hit the floor one at a time with soft thuds, followed by a rustle of fabric as he tossed his hoodie onto a nearby chair.

He moved like a teenager sneaking in past curfew. Quiet. Strategic. Guilty.

Y/N cracked one eye open. “You trying to rob the place or just tiptoe like a cartoon criminal?”

He froze mid-step.

“Shit,” he whispered. “You weren’t supposed to be awake.”

She flipped onto her back with a groggy smile. “Well. I wasn’t. Until I heard my boyfriend trying to ninja his way across the carpet.”

Lando grinned in the dark. “I was being so subtle.”

“You opened a chip bag two minutes ago.”

“That wasn’t chips. That was... team hospitality mints.”

“Even worse.”

He laughed under his breath, then crawled carefully into the bed, lifting the covers with an exaggerated gentleness that made her giggle.

“Didn’t want to wake you,” he whispered, burying his face into her shoulder.

“You didn’t,” she said, combing a hand through his curls. “But you definitely weren’t in bed when I reached for you.”

“I know,” he murmured. “Dinner ran long. And then Zak wanted to talk about some sim work. And then… I dunno, I just got stuck in one of those ‘Lando being Lando’ convos with the crew. I didn’t want to bring all that energy back in here and ruin the peace.”

She looked at him in the dark, quiet and honest now, no teasing. “You being here is the peace.”

He blinked slowly. His smile softened — the kind that wasn’t for cameras or anyone else.

“You’re ridiculously good at that stuff, you know?” he said. “Making me feel like I’m allowed to just… be.”

“You are,” she whispered. “But only if you come back to bed properly. No weird stealth missions. No mint crimes.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

He pulled her into him dramatically, wrapping her up in the duvet like she was the most valuable thing in the room.

“Better?” he asked, chin resting on her head.

“Much.”

They were quiet for a minute, her hand tracing slow shapes against his chest.

Then he mumbled, sleep already tugging at his voice, “You always wait up for me?”

“Always.”

A pause.

“Even if I’m late?”

“Especially if you’re late.”

He exhaled, the sound soft and real. “I don’t deserve you.”

“You don’t,” she teased, smiling into his neck.

But she held him a little tighter anyway.

Paul Aron

“Not talkin' 'bout a year ...

No not three or four..

I don't want that kind of forever in my life anymore.”

The first light of morning slipped into the room, pale and gentle, painting soft shadows across the walls. The air was still, the silence sacred.

Y/N stirred in bed, eyes fluttering open. The sheets beside her were still warm — but Paul wasn’t there.

Not surprising.

He had a habit of slipping out of bed early, especially after long nights — the kind where conversations ran deep and silence wasn’t awkward, just heavy. The kind of nights where tears sat close to the surface and hearts got a little too exposed.

Last night had been one of those.

No arguing. No raised voices. Just real life, quietly sitting between them — work stress, family things, future talks. The kind of emotional honesty that didn’t need fixing, only holding.

She reached for her phone, but stopped. Instead, she sat up, pulling the blanket around her, and listened.

There. Soft footsteps. The kettle in the kitchenette whirring to life. A familiar scent — cinnamon and chamomile.

She got out of bed and padded down the hallway, finding him exactly where she hoped he’d be: leaning against the counter, mug in one hand, hair still messy from sleep, hoodie zipped halfway up over bare skin.

He looked up, and his face softened immediately.

“You should’ve stayed in bed,” she said quietly, voice still hoarse from sleep.

He held out the second mug without a word. She took it, letting the warmth seep into her hands.

“I woke up and didn’t see you,” she added.

Paul sipped his tea, then gently nodded toward the folded blanket and notepad left on the table. “Didn’t go far. Just needed a second to let my head catch up to my heart.”

She smiled. “That’s very you.”

He tilted his head slightly, amused. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“It’s not,” she said, stepping closer. “It’s one of the reasons I love you.”

He didn’t react dramatically. Just reached out and tucked a piece of her hair behind her ear. One simple motion, but it made something in her chest settle.

She looked up at him again. “Come back to bed.”

He hesitated only for a second. “You sure?”

“Yes. You don’t have to carry all your thoughts in a corner. Just… come be with me.”

Paul took a final sip of tea, set the mug down, and reached for her hand. No resistance. No big declarations. Just his quiet, solid presence walking back beside her.

Once they were under the covers again, he pulled her close — not because he was told to, but because he wanted to. Her head fit perfectly against his chest, and the room fell into stillness again.

He kissed the top of her head, voice low. “Thanks for letting me come back slow.”

She smiled into his skin. “Thanks for always coming back.”

And just like that — in their own quiet way — they picked up where the night had left off. Not with words. Just warmth. Just together.

Arthur Leclerc

“Can I go where you go...?

Can we always be this close forever and ever?”

It was barely 6:30 a.m. when Y/N stirred in bed, confused by the faint sound of keys jingling and the door very gently clicking shut.

She blinked at the empty space beside her, eyes narrowing.

“Arthur…” she mumbled to herself, pulling the blanket up over her shoulder, still too sleepy to investigate — until she smelled it.

Croissants.

A second later, she heard a not-so-subtle crinkle of a paper bag and a quiet curse in French followed by a whispered, “Merde.”

Now fully awake, she turned toward the doorway just in time to catch Arthur tiptoeing in, hoodie slightly damp from the early morning mist, cheeks pink from the cold, and a very suspicious-looking pastry bag clutched in one hand like a stolen treasure.

He froze when he saw her propped up on one elbow, eyebrow raised.

“…I can explain.”

She smirked. “You better.”

He walked in sheepishly, trying not to smile. “You said last night you missed the pastries from the little corner bakery. I woke up early and thought—surprise breakfast in bed. Very romantic. Very Arthur.”

“It would’ve been more romantic if you were in bed when I woke up.”

“I wanted you to sleep,” he said, crossing the room to her, placing the warm bag on the nightstand. “But clearly, I’ve underestimated how ninja you are with your hearing.”

She sat up, reaching for the croissant and tearing off a piece. “You’re lucky these are still warm.”

He laughed, settling beside her, sliding back under the covers without hesitation. “I didn’t think I’d get scolded for trying to be sweet.”

“You didn’t get scolded,” she said, handing him a bite. “You got caught.”

Arthur leaned over and kissed her cheek, his voice lower now. “Still worth it.”

She smiled, resting her head on his shoulder as he handed her a second pastry from the bag. “You could’ve just cuddled me till I forgot about breakfast.”

He turned toward her, grin lazy. “You say that like we can’t do both.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Come back to bed and bring pastries? A man of many talents.”

“Exactly,” he said, wrapping his arms around her, croissant still in hand, crumbs already on the blanket. “This is the real breakfast combo: carbs and cuddles.”

Y/N laughed into his chest, heart full. That was Arthur — chaos in a hoodie, thoughtful in action, never one to say a lot, but always showing up in the most perfectly imperfect ways.

And in that early morning mess — rain-slicked hair, flaky pastry crumbs, cold fingers and warm kisses — she didn’t need anything else.

He was already everything.

[willowsnook]

red flag, huh? ⛐ 𝙜𝙧𝙞𝙙

your boyfriend declares something you do as a red flag. he faces the consequences. (𝘧𝘦𝘮!𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳)

ꔮ starring: oscar piastri, isack hadjar, lando norris, carlos sainz, alex albon, george russell. ꔮ word count: 3.9k. ꔮ includes: romance, humor/crack, fluff. mention of food. established relationships, the drivers grovel!!!, reader is rightfully petty (#isupportwomenswrongs). references to F1 Drivers Decide Their Personality Red Flags. ꔮ commentary box: look. i’m not fond of writing grid fics, but when george in the video said “i think my girlfriend does that, hang on,” my ass kicked into high gear. finished this in one deranged sitting because, sometimes, the stories truly do write themselves. they’re all just men, dawg 🤥 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

OSCAR P. ⸻ 🚩 PHOTOGRAPHING THE MEAL BEFORE ALLOWING PEOPLE TO EAT.

Oscar first clocks you somewhere around week three.

At first, it didn't register. There are plenty of other photos in your latest dump: a blurry sunset, your sock-covered feet tangled with his on the couch, some artistically chaotic overhead of your cluttered nightstand. 

But not a single photo of the mille-feuille from last Tuesday. Which is strange, because the plating was obnoxiously good. Food magazine good. The kind of good you usually made everyone wait to eat so you could get the angle just right. He ate it without pause, and you didn’t say a word.

He tells himself not to overthink it. Maybe you just didn’t like the lighting.

A week later, it’s ramen. A new spot. Big ceramic bowls and frosted glass dividers and lanterns that would’ve made for a great moody backdrop. You sit down, murmur something appreciative about the soft-boiled egg, and then just—dig in.

Oscar blinks. He waits for you to stop him. You still don’t.

It’s not until he scrolls through your camera roll on a flight to Austria, looking for a photo you took of his hoodie on your desk chair, that it really hits him. Because there are still photos of food, sure. Just… not his. One sad little snap of a half-eaten bao bun, probably taken when he went to the bathroom.

No more overheads. No more rearranging the table for composition. No more sighing at shadows or holding up menus for bounce lighting.

The worst part is, he knows exactly when it started.

He can picture it perfectly. How he, the genius, the romantic, the absolute idiot, had laughed and said, As soon as that plate's on the table, I’m eating it. So if anyone’s stopping me... 

He hadn’t thought twice about it. Not until now, anyway.

By the time he books dinner for the two of you at the trendy bistro in Notting Hill, he’s borderline subtle about it. It’s got a tiled floor. Terracotta plates. A whole skylight situation. He figures, if anything’s going to tempt you into propping your elbow on the table and telling him to wait, it’s this. Instead, you just smile, thank the waiter, and start on the roasted carrots like it doesn’t hurt your soul to leave that burrata unrecorded.

When he finally brings it up, it’s less a confrontation and more of a low-stakes science experiment.

“Did the food get uglier, or did I say something dumb?”

You stare at him from across the kitchen island. You’re in your pajama shorts and one of his old team shirts, chopping strawberries. He watches your mouth twitch. “Be more specific,” you say.

Oscar gestures toward the pan on the stove, which still smells faintly of vanilla and burnt sugar. “You made crêpes. They’re perfect. Where’s the Instagram story?”

You glance at the pan. Then at him. Then back at the strawberries. “Oscar,” you say sweetly, “you once said—and I quote—As soon as the plate’s on the table…” 

His face folds into a groan before he can stop it. “You’re still mad about that?”

“Not mad,” you say airily, slicing another berry. “Just respectful of your dining philosophy.”

He leans his elbows on the counter, eyeing you. “You’re telling me you gave up a six-year food photography streak because of a side comment I made?”

You hum noncommittally, but the corners of your mouth are doing something very close to smug. Oscar lets out a short laugh, half in disbelief. “Unreal,” he mumbles. “I miss it, you know. The hovering. The adjusting of cutlery. The way you used to bully me into not breathing on the plate.”

“You said it was a red flag.”

“Yeah, well.” He shrugs. “Turns out I like your shade of red.” 

You pause mid-chop. It only lasts a second, but he catches it—that soft hitch in your breath, the way your gaze flickers up to meet his. “You liked being told not to eat yet?”

“I liked watching you fuss over things that made you happy,” he says, voice steady and firm. “Even if I had to pretend my pasta wasn’t going cold.”

You set the knife down. Walk around the island. Slide your arms around his waist, your cheek pressing against his chest. Oscar wraps his arms around you and kisses the top of your head. “Just take the photos, okay?” he sighs, holding you like you might slip away from him in the face of his sheer stupidity. 

Your voice is muffled against his shirt. “I’m going to take a dozen of the crêpes.”

ISACK H. ⸻ 🚩 SLOW WALKING IN BUSY PUBLIC AREAS.

Isack used to joke that your natural walking pace was somewhere between a daydream and a scenic detour.

Not that he minded. He liked it, actually. Liked the way your fingers would slot into his, how your pace slowed time down. Sunday markets, grocery store aisles, even airport terminals. You never walked like you had anywhere to be. He used to tease you about it, but secretly, he enjoyed that you made the world feel less urgent.

Lately, though, he feels like he’s dating an Olympic speed walker.

He has to jog to catch up to you outside the baggage claim in Barcelona. You’re weaving between people like a salmon upstream, carry-on bag in tow, jaw set in quiet determination. He reaches out to grab your hand, but misses. Again.

“Do you have a flight I don’t know about?” he calls out, the frustration edging his tone ever so slightly.

You glance back at him over your shoulder, barely slowing. “The cab queue fills up fast.”

He huffs a laugh as he tries not to get shoulder-checked by a tourist group. “You used to take pictures of the floor tiles,” he bites out. 

“They were nice tiles.”

“They’re still there, you know! They didn’t run off!”

You flash him a grin but don’t slow down. He frowns, adjusting the strap of his backpack. He doesn’t know when this started, exactly. Just that his arm feels colder without your hand in it.

It gets worse in Heathrow. The terminal is chaos, all metallic ceilings and garbled announcements and snaking queues. You’re ahead of him again, fast-walking toward passport control like it’s a competitive sport.

Isack’s about to tell you to slow down when you trip.

It’s not graceful. Your bag wheels the wrong way and your ankle buckles. The slap of your hands on the tile echoes, and so does the word you mutter under your breath. He’s at your side in an instant, crouching next to you, heart doing something unpleasant in his chest.

“Hey, hey. What the hell. Are you okay?”

You nod, but you’re wincing. “Think I twisted it.”

He checks your ankle gently, jaw tight. There’s already a faint redness blooming, and you hiss when he presses lightly against the bone. “You were practically sprinting,” he mutters.

“I was not sprinting.”

“Mon coeur, you were drafting off an old lady with a cane.”

You let out a pained laugh. “It’s fine. I’ll walk it off.”

“The only thing you’re walking is slowly, beside me, like a normal person,” he snaps, pulling a pack of instant cold compresses from his bag.

You go quiet, watching him shake the pack and press it gently to your ankle with a kind of exasperated care that only makes your cheeks burn. Eventually, in a voice barely above a whisper, you murmur, “You said it was a red flag.” 

He pauses, hand still pressing the pack to your inflamed ankle. “What?”

You look everywhere but him. “In that video. They asked about red flags. And you said slow walkers in busy places.”

Isack stares at you. Then: “You changed your entire walking speed because of something I said in a video?!”

“I just didn’t want to annoy you.” 

He groans. Loudly. Like he’s being haunted by his own past stupidity. “Mon coeur,” he says, pressing the cold pack a little firmer, “you could be moving backwards on a conveyor belt and I’d still want to hold your hand.”

You look like you’re biting back a grin. Progress, he supposes. 

He sighs, brushing your hair back from your face. “I said something dumb. I’m allowed. I was raised in a paddock. But if you think I care more about getting to the taxi stand than walking next to you, you’re an even bigger idiot than me.”

You sniff, leaning your head against his shoulder. He shifts a little to accommodate you, wraps one arm around your waist. “You sure?” you ask, just for good measure. 

“I’d wait light years for you,” he says. “Just maybe not in Heathrow ever again.”

You laugh, soft and sheepish. He smiles against your hair.

“Now let me carry you to the taxi queue before you try to walk again and ruin both our lives,” he declares, one arm already snaking around your waist. 

“Romantic.”

“You know it.”

LANDO N. ⸻ 🚩 INSTANT TEXT REPLIES.

Lando tells himself you’re just busy.

That’s all it is. Bad Wi-Fi. Time zones. A dead phone. You’re not ignoring him, not really. Your texts still sound like you, peppered with emojis and the same dry jokes. It’s just the timing that’s off. 

Where you used to reply within minutes, now it’s hours. Sometimes half a day. Sometimes he checks his phone and there’s nothing, and then he keeps checking, like maybe the notifications are delayed.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just refreshes your chats more than he should, tells himself he’s being clingy. It’s not a big deal. You’re allowed to have a life. Except when it happens for the fifth day in a row, he rereads your last message six times trying to decide if there’s some kind of shift in punctuation.

After two weeks, he’s convinced you’re slowly breaking up with him.

He books a flight the next morning.

You open the door in sleep shorts and an old hoodie. There’s a dent in your cheek from your pillow. “Lando?” you say, voice rough with sleep. 

He doesn’t say anything for a second. He just stands there, backpack hanging off one shoulder, trying to read your expression. “Hi,” he breathes. 

“What are you doing here?”

“I thought we were breaking up.”

You stare at him in that way that makes him want to melt, or go stupid, or both. “What?”

“Or you were about to,” he blurts out. “I don’t know. You weren’t texting back. I thought maybe I said something, or forgot something, or—I dunno, babe.”

You squint at him. “You flew across countries because I was texting slower?”

He shifts on his feet. “...Yes?”

You drag him inside by the wrist, as if the answer itself is proof you don’t hate him. He doesn’t let go. Your apartment smells like laundry and mint tea. There’s a blanket balled up on the couch and your laptop still open on the dining table.

“I didn’t want to seem too keen,” you say plainly, dropping onto the couch.

Lando drops his backpack by the door and draws his eyebrows together as he tries to process your words. “Pardon?” he says, only because it makes absolutely no sense to him. 

You reach for your tea and take a sip. Then, as if it’s obvious: “You said instant replies were a red flag. In that video. I didn't want to come off too clingy.”

He stares. Then he laughs. Sharp, breathless, stunned.

“You were trying to not seem too keen? Have you met me?” he says incredulously. “I check our chat thrice an hour. I’ve reread your ‘good night’ texts like they’re Pulitzer material.”

Your eyes widen behind your cup. “You what?”

“Shut up,” he groans, flopping down next to you. “God, you’re such a menace. Do you know how many times I checked to see if your read receipts were broken?”

You lean into his side, smugness radiating off you in waves. “So you’re saying you’re the clingy one?”

“I’m saying we can both be keen. Equally keen. Keen as hell.” He pauses, then adds, just on the right side of desperate: “Just text me back like before. I don’t care if it’s in under ten seconds. Fuck being nonchalant; I want us to have all the chalants about each other.” 

“That’s not—” 

“You know what I mean, numpty.” 

Your smirk melts a little. “Okay, okay.” 

He presses a kiss to your temple, then mutters, “I flew across Europe like a complete loser. You better reply with at least two heart emojis next time.”

“Four,” you bargain, “if you buy us lunch today.” 

He grins, cheek pressed to the top of your head. “Deal.” 

CARLOS S. ⸻ 🚩 TAKING A GYM MIRROR SELFIE.

Carlos never thought he’d become someone who looks forward to Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. But here he is, eyeing his phone like a teenager, waiting for that familiar notification.

You at the gym: ponytail messy, cheeks flushed, smile cocky. Sometimes it’s a mirror selfie with your shoe on the bench. Sometimes a blurry video of your form mid-rep, with music blasting in the background and your caption reading something like form check or thirst trap?

He doesn’t care which it is. He opens them all immediately. Saves every single one. Watches the videos at least twice; once to appreciate your form, the second time just because.

Lately, though?

Crickets.

You still text after your workouts. Little things. Done for the day, or PR’d squats, almost cried, or Leg press almost killed me. But no photos. No clips. Nothing to tide him over while he’s stuck at media days or pretending to listen in debriefs.

Carlos gives it a month. A month of maturity. And then he decides that maturity will get him nowhere.

Carlos: So who is he? You: ? Carlos: Your new gym boyfriend. Must be hot if u are not sending me anything anymore :) You: 🚩🚩🚩

Carlos immediately hits call. You pick up on the third ring. “Are you serious?”

“Yes,” he says, deadpan. “Do you know how many Tuesdays I’ve had to go without your gym face? I’m wasting away.”

“Carlos—”

“Don’t Carlos me. You’re punishing me because I made one comment. One! And I was clearly talking about the guys.”

“You literally said gym selfies were a red flag. You called it icky.” 

“From men! From other drivers!” he says frantically. “Not from you, mi vida, who has the best gym selfies in the known universe!”

You go quiet for a second. He can hear you breathing, the soft shuffle of fabric like you’re sitting back on your couch. “So you’re saying my gym selfies aren’t cringe?” you ask, and even though Carlos knows you’re just fishing at this point, he rises to the bait. 

“They are elite content,” he declares. “They are the highlight of my week.”

You hum. “Maybe I want that in writing.”

“Text or handwritten? I can send a notarized statement. I can tweet it from the Williams account if you want. Just send me the mirror pics again. Please.”

He hears you laughing now, amused and soft. “You’re ridiculous,” you tsk. 

“No,” he exhales, sighing like he’s Atlas bearing the weight of the world. “I’m deprived of my girlfriend.” 

The call ends with a promise to check his phone in ten minutes.

He lasts seven.

The selfie hits his inbox at minute eight: your face glowy, sports bra matching your nails, the gym mirror smudged like always. He grins so wide, the engineer across from him gives him a look.

All is right again in Carlos’ world.

ALEX A. ⸻ 🚩 TALKING DURING A MOVIE.

Alex had really thought this one would get you.

It’s a Friday night. The lights are dimmed, the couch is a mess of blankets and limbs, and the opening credits of the rom-com he swore was actually good are rolling. He’s already chucked a pillow at your legs for trying to guess the twist too early, but he’s grinning when he does it. It’s the kind of movie night that’s become a ritual by now.

Fifteen minutes in, he’s already whispered two jokes into your hair. You’ve smiled. You’ve laughed, even. But you haven’t said a word about the plot, and that’s when Alex starts to feel a little off-kilter.

Because you’re quiet.

Suspiciously quiet.

You’re not doing your usual commentary—no side remarks, no scoffing at the over-the-top meet cute, no delighted gasps when the soundtrack hits. You’re sitting curled up next to him, expression warm, sure, but the running commentary? The back-and-forth he usually loves? It’s missing. 

Alex, idiot that he is, keeps trying to coax it out. He makes a joke about the best friend’s eyebrows, nudges your arm when a line is especially cheesy, even points out a continuity error like a gift-wrapped invitation. Still nothing.

You chuckle when appropriate, lean your head against his shoulder like the world’s coziest silent film date. But it’s not the same. By the time the credits roll, Alex is pouting in that half-dramatic, half-serious way of his, picking at the popcorn bowl like it’s betrayed him.

“So you hated it.”

You blink before frowning at him. “What?”

“The movie. I thought you’d like it! I’ve been saving it for a month. But you barely said anything.”

You blink again, incredulous, like he’s grown a second head. Then slowly, very calmly, you say, “Alexander Albon. You literally said talking during movies was a red flag.”

It’s Alex’s turn to frown. “Yeah, but that’s—”

You raise your eyebrows, challenging him to go back on his word. He groans and sinks lower into the couch. “I was talking about, like, loud talkers. People who explain the plot as it happens. You’re—you’re different. I’m colorblind to your red flags.”

You narrow your eyes, sinking your teeth into something new entirely. “Red flags. Plural?”

Alex’s expression stutters.

You shift forward, eyes narrowed in mock interrogation, cornering him against the armrest with the casual menace of someone about to win an argument and enjoy it. “What else, Albon?”

“Nothing,” he says quickly, voice going a bit high-pitched like a cartoon character under pressure. “I love all your weird little traits. Every single one. Especially the one where you interrogate me like a detective from a teen drama.”

“Mhm.” You fold your arms. “Is that another one?”

“No, no,” Alex says, voice cracking with laughter now. “That’s my favorite one, actually.”

You let him stew for half a second longer before lunging. Alex tries to climb over the back of the couch, but you pull him back by the hem of his hoodie. He tumbles against you with an oof, limbs tangled, laughing as you trap him under your weight. You poke at his side until he squirms, cheeks warm, grin helpless.

“I really thought you lost your personality for two hours,” he says, flipping you onto your back. “Turns out I just red-flagged myself out of the best part.”

You reach up to tug at his hair, fingers threading through soft strands. “That’s what you get for being fake deep in interviews.”

“I’ll never recover.”

“You’ll live.”

Alex kisses you once, twice, lingering the third time. The TV is still softly playing previews in the background, forgotten. He pulls back just long enough to rest his forehead against yours. “Next time,” he says, “talk through the whole thing. I want every thought. Every gasp. Every rant about pacing.”

You smile against his lips. “Even when I complain about how they kissed too early?”

“Especially then.”

He kisses you again. That one, in his humble opinion, is just on time. 

GEORGE R. ⸻ 🚩 LIKING ALL PHOTOS ON YOUR SOCIAL MEDIA FEED.

George doesn’t notice it at first.

Which is, in his opinion, fair. He doesn’t obsessively track notifications like some people. He’s a busy man. He has training schedules and simulator runs and six different WhatsApp group chats muted for mental health reasons. He doesn’t exactly sit around checking who’s liked his most recent Instagram post.

After the third post in a row goes without your name popping up, though, he starts to feel it.

It’s not even a proper jealousy thing. He’s not spiraling. It’s just that—well. You always like his posts. You react to the Mercedes team reels with unrepentant bias. You comment the most cursed memes under his podium photos. You once made a slideshow on Facebook called George Russell: The People’s Princess and tagged him in it.

So yeah, maybe George’s ego has grown used to the digital affection. Maybe it expects a little fanfare from you. 

Maybe it sulks when it doesn’t get it.

He holds out for a bit. Tells himself you’re just swamped with work. Tells himself the algorithm’s being weird. Tells himself anything but the thought that’s slowly growing louder in the back of his mind: that you’re doing it on purpose.

It all comes to a head one lazy Sunday afternoon. He’s draped across your lap like a Victorian heroine with a fainting spell, scrolling through his phone while you absentmindedly rake your fingers through his hair.

“Hey,” he says, angling his screen up at you. “Did you see the photo I just posted?”

You hum, glancing down. It’s him standing next to his AMG ONE, sunglasses pushed up into his hair, all long lines and smug satisfaction. It’s the kind of photo he knows you usually clown him for.

You smile. “Very dreamy. Should I be worried you’ve found someone hotter than me?”

He snorts. “It’s a car.”

“You’re not denying it.”

George grins and elbows your thigh. Then, more casually, “So, you liked it?”

“I said you looked dreamy.”

“No, I mean—you liked it?” He waggles the phone meaningfully. “With the little heart button?”

You blink. “Oh. No. I don’t do that anymore.”

His head lifts off your lap. “You don’t—what do you mean you don’t?”

You pause. Shrug. “You said in that video that it was a red flag.”

George looks personally victimized. “I meant people who like every single post, like bots. Not you. You’re allowed. You’re grandfathered in.”

“Too late,” you say dismissively. “I’ve reformed. No more Instagram validation for you.”

“But—but that’s not fair!” he splutters, sitting up fully now. “You’re taking it seriously? That interview was mostly me taking the piss!”

You raise an eyebrow. “I don’t know, love. Seemed pretty sincere.”

He looks scandalized. Like he’s been hoisted by his own curated online persona. “You mean to tell me I’ll be doing this season without your moral support?”

“You’ll be winning even without it.”

“That’s not the point,” he grumbles.

You lean over and kiss his cheek. “Don’t pout.”

“I’m not pouting.”

He falls dramatically backward into the couch, muttering something about betrayal. For a few minutes, he’s quiet, phone in hand, frowning at the screen like he’s planning a very slow, very petty war.

Then your phone buzzes.

And buzzes again.

And again.

The Instagram notifications pop up in a steady stream across your lockscreen. 

George Russell liked your photo from last week. George Russell liked your photo from 23w ago. George Russell liked your photo from 103w ago. 

You glance over. He doesn’t look at you, just keeps scrolling, jaw set. “I can keep going,” he huffs. “I’ve got time.”

You start laughing. “George,” you wheeze, “are you liking my entire archive out of spite?”

“Out of principle,” he corrects. “Equality in red flags. If I have to be loved embarrassingly, so do you.”

You reach over and muss his hair. He lets you. “Fine,” you acquiesce. “I’ll go like your car thirst trap, you lunatic.”

George finally looks satisfied. “Good,” he says. “I deserve it.” 

He keeps scrolling until your very first Instagram post, and then he switches on over to Facebook. ⛐

[willowsnook]

I THINK HE KNOWS — F1 GRID

synopsis. trying to keep your crush on a certain driver a secret isn't exactly easy. but do they know about it, or not? pairing. f1 grid x reader (ft. mv1, yt22, ln4, op81, gr63, cl16, lh44, dr3, aa23, cs55, ih6, jd7, eo31, ka12, ob87) genre. fluff, headcanons warnings. mild secondhand embarrassment, maybe some suggestive themes, mostly coworker!reader, some of these are noticeably longer than others. my bad word count. 3k-ish (200-ish each)

note. this slowly devolves into silliness. alsoooooo, im tryna have a more consistent upload schedule, but i did just get a job and im taking online classes over the summer, so like, its hard to find the time to actually sit down and write. i'm trying, tho!! hope you guys enjoy this one :p

MAX VERSTAPPEN

۶ৎ completely oblivious

of course, it was glaringly obvious to everyone but max. everyone else saw the way you immediately stopped whatever you were working on to stare at him whenever he wandered into the red bull garage. ever since you started working for red bull as an analyst, you had the biggest crush on max. at first, it was just a harmless thing, blushing whenever he was in your general vicinity, your coworkers giggling and elbowing you whenever he walked into the room. the teasing from your coworkers was really the most annoying part at first. but now? the most annoying part by far was how max was just apparently totally oblivious to the fact that you liked him. you weren't even keeping it a secret anymore like you were at the beginning. you'd all but asked him out at this point. but he had absolutely no idea. it wasn't until charles teased him about how you stared at him during the driver's parade that max realized. it took him aback at first, but trust he'd never felt more dumb than when he realized you were in fact hitting on him all that time. asks you out the next time he sees you.

YUKI TSUNODA

۶ৎ has a suspicion

he could be wrong- maybe. but for the past several months, yuki's had a feeling that all those times you've brushed against him in the hallway, stared just a little too long during team debriefs, and laughed a little too hard at his jokes meant you saw him as a little more than just a coworker. it's hard for him to keep to himself- you haven't actually said anything that would indicate that you like him, so he doesn't want to bring it up. which sucks for him, because he really likes you, too. the way your hand feels on him when you pat him on the back after a race, the way your voice sounds when wishing him luck, the way your eyes soften when they meet his- it gives him butterflies. but he doesn't want to tell you. maybe he's just scared of rejection- because what if he's wrong? what if you don't actually like him? you have to be the one to tell him first. his imposter syndrome refuses to let him make the first move. he's elated when you do- a grin breaking over his face, a soft "i knew it" slipping from his lips.

LANDO NORRIS

۶ৎ thinks you hate him

maybe it's just the way you show affection- but lando thinks you can be a little...mean. not just a little mean- really mean. lando genuinely thinks you hate his guts. the way you refuse to make eye contact with him, the way you practically flee the room whenever he enters- he's convinced you have something against him. lando's a sensitive soul, he can take things a little personally. and you're perfectly content letting lando think you hate him if it means he never finds out ab out your stupid little crush. on another note, lando's absolutely flabbergasted when oscar makes a passing comment about your little crush on him- leaving both of them confused; lando because he was convinced you hated him, and oscar because he thought your crush was so blatant. oscar was right, of course. you just have a rather elementary way of navigating your crushes on people. lando practically corners you about it the next day, your violent blush and stuttering at the sudden confrontation telling him all he needed to know. he asks you out properly and nicely after that.

OSCAR PIASTRI

۶ৎ he knows but you have no idea he knows

oscar clocked your crush immediately. he's an observant guy. but he's so incredibly normal about it. you have absolutely no idea that he knows. the thing is, he thinks he's being obvious about liking you back. he'll open doors for you, give you his coat when you're cold, open energy drink cans for you, and he thinks it's incredibly obvious. the problem? you just think he's the kind of guy that'd do all that stuff anyway. because he's just so relaxed with it. it goes on for MONTHS. you both thinking you're being plainly obvious about your feelings for each other, and oscar just simply not wanting to be the one to make the first move. lando eventually knocks some sense into him- telling him to just ask you out because you're obviously not going to be the one to initiate it. as soon as he does, you're taken aback- not having expected oscar to be into you, too. but of course he was. how could he not be?

CHARLES LECLERC

۶ৎ thinks its all platonic

charles thinks that you're just a good friend- his best friend. doing things that all best friends do. of course a best friend would drop everything because he asked you to go out and do something. of course a best friend would go out of their way to come to all his races. of course best friends hug each other for extended periods of time after a bad race. he thinks you're just his best friend. because none of his other friends really do things like that- you must just be that good of a friend! right? no. of course not. you are head over heels in love with charles and you always have been. and he's never noticed. to be fair, you didn't exactly want him to. you were scared of the rejection you'd face if he ever found out. he's the charles leclerc. why would he go for you? even if you were his best friend. funny enough, it's his mother that ends up spilling your secret. charles thinks she's just joking at first, but once he realizes she's not, he's absolutely mortified. not only because he never realized it, but because he's felt the same about you for years, thinking you only saw his as a friend. calls you over immediately and confesses everything.

LEWIS HAMILTON

۶ৎ he knows, but doesn't say a word

lewis, ever the gentleman, notices your crush immediately, but chooses to keep it a secret. because you obviously don't want him to know about it, otherwise, you wouldn't be keeping it a secret. he thinks its charming more than anything. completely endeared by the way you immediately blush and look away whenever he makes eye contact, scurrying away like a little mouse whenever he ever so politely asks you to do even the most miniscule task. he didn't have any feelings for you at first- but the more time he spends observing you, the way you interact with others, your kindness, your individuality, he falls for you slowly but surely. you know lewis is a good man, so when he asks you to go to dinner with him, you think it's just to show his thanks to you for being such a hard worker. when he tells you how he feels about you, you feel like you're about to melt out of sheer embarrassment. lewis watches the blush take over your face with a soft laugh, your reaction reminding lewis exactly why he liked you in the first place.

GEORGE RUSSELL

۶ৎ thinks it's just a joke

even if you are so completely blatantly obvious about having a crush on george, he just thinks you're kidding. any time you openly flirt with him, he just laughs along and takes it as a joke. it gets to a point where you're all but telling him to his face that you're in love with him, and he's just like "haha, good one!" straight up, for a man that's so in love with himself, you think he'd be able to take a hint. but no. he's blind to the truth. and he's like this for MONTHS. you are LAYING IT ON, and he just does not understand that you are being 100% for real. only gets it when you literally corner him and tell him blatantly to his face that you are genuinely actually into him. he's both flabbergasted and overjoyed bc this rich boy gets zero play.

KIMI ANTONELLI

۶ৎ he has NO idea

silly silly boy. despite the fact that you've followed him around the world since you were kids, been by his side the entire time, through his best and worst days. he just doesn't see it. and you'd never tell him, of course. you value your friendship too much to ruin it over a stupid little (not little at all) crush. but still. who tf basically puts their entire life on hold to follow their best friend around the world? either someone who's in love, or someone who's just that good of a friend. in your case, it's the former. but unfortunately, kimi thinks you're the latter. he doesn't even realize he's in love with you until he's talking about you to ollie one day, just absolutely gushing about you and ollie's just listening like "...😐 you're stupid." after kimi realizes how he feels, he tries to keep it to himself, but accidentally lets it slip out one day while talking to you. to his ABSOLUTE SHOCK (idk how it was a shock he's lowkey blind), you feel the same about him.

ALEX ALBON

۶ৎ he knows & is very obvious about it

he KNOWSSSS. AND YOU KNOW HE KNOWSSSSS. unfortunately, as an employee for Williams, you know that dating a driver is looked down upon at the VERY LEAST. so despite the fact that you keep it as professional as possible, any and every time you so much as make eye contact with alex, this mf giggles. like, actually giggles. like a middle schooler. you don't even really know how he knows. but you suspect that carlos told him after you let it slip to him one day that you thought alex was cute. but nevertheless, you never let your interactions go beyond relaying basic information and wishing him luck before a race. but one weekend, you and alex end up with you hotel rooms booked right next to each other, somehow leading to alex basically living in your room all weekend. after that, it's all longing stares across the garage and holding hands in secret.

CARLOS SAINZ

۶ৎ totally blind to it

i think he just likes to think that you're a very kind and respectful person. like, he says jump and you ask how high, type shit. despite the fact that you try to keep it a secret at first, you realize that he is truly never going to get it unless you start like, actually putting the moves on this man. he thinks you're just a really nice person until one day it just slaps him in the face that you're literally obsessed with him, and he just feels SO stupid bc of it. like, you are all but offering to literally become his personal maid and he hasn't realized until now??? not very smooth operator of him. when he suddenly starts flirting back to you, you realize the vibe switchup IMMEDIATELY and you know he's clocked you</3 he asks you out on a casual coffee date at a cute quiet little cafe and it's very sweet and fluffy and eughhhh i hate (love) him so much.

ISACK HADJAR

۶ৎ again, thinks you hate him

poor baby thinks you getting red in the face and cutting the conversation off early whenever he tries to talk to you is indicative of you hating him and not of you getting flustered by his mere presence. he's pacing back and forth wondering what he could have possibly done to make you hate him, meanwhile you're in the other room pacing back and forth wondering how the hell you're ever going to be able to tell him you're basically in love with him. isack eventually decides to just be as nice as possible; getting you coffee, doing his best to make your job easier for you, complimenting you whenever he notices you've done your hair differently or whatever. unfortunately, this may or may not make things worse bc you have no idea how to take a compliment and just mumble a "thanks" and immediately leave the room whenever he does so. eventually, one of your coworkers talks some sense into you and convinces you to tell isack how you feel. shocked and elated don't even come close to describing how isack feels when you finally confess to him. relationship immediately starts from there, and he's basically obsessed with you and giving you allllll the words of affirmation.

JACK DOOHAN

۶ৎ thinks its just "bestie vibes"

again. stupid boy. stupid dumb boy. let me set the scene; you and jack have in fact been best friends for as long as you can remember. you weren't even into him at first, but after not seeing him for a while, and all of a sudden, he comes back as an accomplished formula driver, not to mention he's like, half a foot taller and significantly more ripped than he was the last time you saw him, something definitely changed in the way you looked at him. but of course sweet oblivious jack is just happy to hang out with his best friend again after so long. the two of you take a trip to the beach not too long after he gets back, and you have to physically stop yourself from staring at his abs for too long. ofc he just thinks you're looking at him so longingly bc you missed your best friend (him) so bad. that same night, the two of you get a little drunk and you accidentally call him hot to his face. oops! he thought about it for a solid ten seconds before he realized that he, in the back of his mind, thought the same about you. i just love this himbo so bad okay :(

OLLIE BEARMAN

۶ৎ he WANTS you to, but has no idea

to ollie, you were just so fucking cool. always so poised, level-headed, always cool under pressure. and he was absolutely head-over-heels for you. he practically followed you around like a lost puppy everywhere you went. not just because he's always getting lost at social events, but because he wanted to be near you as much as he physically could. to ollie, you were totally and completely out of his league. he wanted so badly for you to notice him as more than the guy that you were getting paid to basically babysit and make sure he doesn't say anything stupid to the media. little did he know, you'd been charmed by his cute smile, sweet demeanor, and puppy-like tendencies since the day you met him. he thinks he's seeing things when he starts noticing the blush that creeps up on your cheeks whenever he says something sweet. "wishful thinking" he tells himself. he swears he's dreaming when you knock on his hotel room one night and say that you have a secret to tell him. and he practically dies from happiness when he wakes up the next morning with a text from you confirming that you meant it when you told him you liked him.

ESTEBAN OCON

۶ৎ he's SUSPICIOUS of you

what do you want from him?? why are you so nice to him? what are you planning?? are you, the sweet alpine employee that says hi to him every morning in the paddock with that cute little smile spying on haas for your team??? he notices the way you come to the haas mobile home to "visit your friend" that works for the team. every time you wish him luck on the race in passing, he narrows his eyes and nods curtly, suspicious of the way you always happen to bump into him. little does he know, he keeps seeing you around because you have the biggest crush on him. you're close with a couple of the guys on the haas pit crew, and they've been trying for months to get esteban to notice you. which he has. just not in the way that you hoped. it all comes to a head when esteban relays his suspicion to your friends on the haas team, all of whom are absolutely flabbergasted that that's the conclusion he came to. they couldn't possibly let him go on thinking that. esteban is completely floored when they tell him you're always hanging around not because you're spying for alpine, but because you have a crush on him. immediately pulls you aside the next time he sees you and apologizes for being so unwelcoming towards you. he takes you out for an apologetic dinner, and realizes you're actually really great :p

DANIEL RICCIARDO

۶ৎ he knows and you know he knows

not only does he very obviously know, he teases you about it. you're too stubborn to give him the satisfaction of telling him flat-out how you feel. that's exactly what he wants. so you let him tease you, taking the shit-eating grins, flirtatious jokes, and the way he gets just a little too close for comfort in stride. you absolutely refuse to give him any kind of confirmation when he leans in, going "come on, i know you like me a little bit." it gets to a point where he's gotten on your nerves so much, you're not even sure if you even like him anymore or if you're just so stubborn, you can't even admit it to yourself anymore. it goes on for literal years. you think it's finally over when daniel leaves red bull. finally, you can let go of your stupid crush and live the rest of your life in peace knowing you won't have to deal with the australian ever again. but no. of course not. despite the fact that he was now in renault, he would come sidling up to the red bull mobile home just to flash you that shit-eating grin with a painfully flirty "how you doing?" all that time while he was in red bull, the possibility that he liked you back hadn't even crossed your mind. you thought he was just kind of a dick, teasing you for being into him. turns out, he was just waiting for the moment you weren't working for the same team so he could ask you out properly. "surprised" doesn't even begin to cover how you were feeling after he told you after the 2019 season was over.

taglist: @bear-yawns @revelauver

[willowsnook]

Save Me Tonight | b.b 𐙚˙⋆.˚

Pairing | Congressman!Bucky Barnes x Assistant!Reader 

Summary | Congressman James Barnes is your boss. When you begin to develop strong feelings for him, you decide to take a practical approach and download Tinder. However, when your date takes a turn for the worse, you find yourself desperately hoping for someone—anyone—to come to your rescue. Bucky will always be there to save you.

Warnings/tags | Between the events of CA:BNW and Thunderbolts*, fluff, slow-burn, hurt/comfort, yearning, cursing, sexual harassment (not by Bucky), angst, panic attack, nsfw, MDNI (18+), kissing, smut, p in v sex, unprotected sex, praise kink, low-key switch!Bucky, protective!Bucky, breast play, fingering, save a horse; ride Bucky, mentions of violence, injuries, Bucky would let the world burn for Reader, no use of y/n.

Word Count | 17.8k

A/N | Hey, lovelies. Thank you for all the support on my last fic and 160 followers!! It motivated me to write this one, and I’m pretty proud of it. To reiterate, this is only my second fanfiction, so bear with me, I’m still learning. There’s a little something extra at the end because I’m a sucker for protective Bucky. Sorry in advance for it being so lengthy. Blame my fingers for typing away without consequence. (Hahaha, you’ll never stop me ~ my fingers) Hope you enjoy, and if you did, let me know or feel free to give any feedback:))

You were falling.

No, you were clearly standing upright, but it felt like you were falling. Whenever you looked at him, you felt like the rug was being ripped out from under you.

Him being your boss, Congressman James Barnes. He’s so handsome in a rugged, but polished way. 

Like the white button-up he’s in now. Sure, it’s sophisticated, but he has his grey suit jacket off, draped over the back of his chair. His sleeves are rolled up, exposing a bit of his forearms. A few of his top buttons are undone, leaving an immaculate view of his collarbone. That and his five o’clock shadow leave a perfect mix of rugged and polished.

The scent of his cologne is filling your nostrils—oak, amber, and lavender. It’s making your head spin. You feel crazy. You should not be breathing in your boss’s scent or staring at him like you are now.

Bucky is leaning over his desk, focused on a document. He’s chewing on the end of a pen with a furrowed brow, as if the papers had personally offended him.

You let yourself take him in for a few more seconds before you step into his office. You enter with a soft knock on his door.

”I thought I told you that’s bad for your teeth. And, if you keep scrunching your eyebrows like that, you’ll get wrinkles.” You tease, your voice is light and full of warmth.

Bucky’s eyes shoot up immediately. He gapes at you momentarily before taking the pen out of his mouth and relaxing his face. He snorts and rolls his eyes, but you can see the hint of amusement in his expression. 

“Yeah, yeah. I know. Always tellin’ me what to do.” 

“Maybe you’ll finally look your age if you get wrinkles.” You bite your lip to suppress a giggle.

Bucky shakes his head, but the corner of his lip lifts. “You’re hilarious.” His tone is laced heavily with sarcasm.

“Thank you,” you bow, your arm over your stomach as you bend. “I’ll be here all week.”

“Not if I fire you.” He tilts his head, smirking.

Your jaw drops in faux shock as you cross the room to his desk. You let out a soft laugh. “Smooth, Barnes.”

He swivels in his chair to face you; it’s evident he’s enjoying the banter. Bucky leans back in his seat, elbow on his armrest with his head propped in his hand. Fuck, he’s sexy.

You gesture to the document on his desk as your face goes serious. “If that’s stressing you out, take a break.”

He waves you off. “Nah, I’m alright. Besides, isn’t that what I’m doin’?” Bucky winks at you. Winks at you! What, is he trying to kill you? 

After a beat, you clear your throat and nervously grin. Bucky motions to you as he speaks. “What’d you need, darlin’?” 

You honestly forgot why you were even here, but you glance down at the packet in your hand, and it all comes flooding back. 

“You’re going to hate me.” Your expression turns apologetic. “But I need you to read this over and sign it.” You sheepishly hand him the packet.

”I could never hate you.” He grabs the papers, and your fingers brush. You feel sparks across your flesh. It’s like tiny fireworks coursing through your veins, threatening to reach your pounding heart. You haven’t let go yet, relishing in the bit of contact. 

You snap out of your daze and release them. Your cheeks warm, and you hope he can’t see the slight flush crawling up your face. You tuck a loose strand of hair that has fallen from your bun behind your ear. 

Bucky’s jaw sets as he places the packet off to the side. He coughs into his fist and locks eyes with you. “Consider it done. I’ll leave it on your desk before I go home.” 

“Perfect!” You force your voice up an octave to distract from your embarrassment. “Sorry, I know you have a lot on your plate.” 

“All good, it’s a part of my job.” 

“Yeah,” You cross your arms over your chest. “But you work too hard. Take a break.”

He arches a brow, trying to keep a straight face, but fails miserably. “Like I said, always tellin’ me what to do.” Bucky huffs air through his nose. “I could say the same for you.”

You roll your eyes at his attempt to deflect your concern. “I work a normal amount, and my break is in five, so don’t worry about me.”

”I’m always worried about you.” Bucky’s voice softens.

You can’t hear anything over your heartbeat thrumming in your ears. Does he realize how those words affect you? You could die happy knowing you‘re even a thought on Bucky’s mind.

He sits up in his seat and continues. “When was the last time you went home on time and didn’t stay after hours?”

”I do go home on time.” Your voice squeaks; you’re lying.

Bucky lets out a dry laugh. “You’re not foolin’ me, doll.”

”Fine, if I promise to leave on time, you have to promise you’ll take a break.”

He contemplates your words and then gives you a stiff nod. “Okay, I promise.”

You grin as you stick out your pinky. He stares at you with a perplexed expression. “What’re you doin’?” 

You let out a deep sigh. “Pinky promise me.”

Bucky‘s eyebrows knit together. “I’m not twelve.”

You give him an unimpressed look. ”You’re right, you’re a hundred and something years old. Now give me your damn pinky.” 

He grunts, glaring at the ceiling as if it were the one to make him do this. He eventually concedes and interlocks his pinky with yours. 

Your fingers tingle again at his touch. You feel like a touch-starved puppy who’s finally getting some attention. If only both of his hands were on you, holding you by your waist and pulling you in to put his lips against yours-

You mentally punch yourself, so that thought doesn’t go any further. Maybe you need to get laid. Then, all these feelings for your boss will go away. This relationship is strictly professional, so you might want to find something to keep your mind off the idea of it becoming more. 

You straighten, beaming at him. You pull your hand away and turn on your heels to stride toward the door.

When you exit his office, you grab the handle, ready to close the door behind you. Before you do, you peek your head in. “Have a nice break.”

“Yeah, you too,” Bucky grumbles.

On your way back to your desk, you're grinning from ear to ear like an idiot. This is ridiculous. You need a distraction. You pull your phone out of your blazer and download Tinder.

This should be fun.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

Bzz. Bzz.

Bucky glances at your phone resting on his desk before refocusing on his laptop to determine where he left off with his email. Just as he gets his train of thought back-

Bzz. Bzz.

He takes a steady breath in and releases it. Why is he upset over a simple notification? He wonders why you didn’t take it with you to the bathroom. Bucky sighs and begins typing away on his laptop again.

Bzz. Bzz.

What the fuck? How many notifications can you get in a minute? He nearly wants to reach over and grab it to see, but he won’t snoop into your business. That’s unprofessional.

Bzz. Bzz.

Bucky groans, rubbing at his eyes as he inclines back in his chair. How can he get any work done with that thing buzzing on his desk? He hears your heels clack against the wood floor as you enter his office.

“You okay, sir?” Your pretty voice drifts through the air like a bird’s song.

Bucky’s gaze darts to you, and he gestures to your phone. “Can you get that thing under control? And I told you, stop calling me that.” His voice comes out harsher than he intended.

You raise your hands in surrender. “I’ll get right to that, grumpy.” 

You grab your phone off the desk, glance at it, and press a button on the side. Then, you slide it into the pocket of your trousers before perching on the seat across from him.

“Fuck,” he grunts under his breath, massaging his temples. “Sorry, I didn’t sleep much last night, but that’s no excuse.”

You shrug and give him a soft smile. “It’s alright, I can handle your grumpy ass.” You motion to your pocket. “I’m sorry, I must have forgotten to silence my phone this morning.”

“Don’t apologize. You have nothing to be sorry for.” Bucky scoots forward, getting back to his email. His fingers are on the keys, but his mind is elsewhere. 

“What was that all about anyway?” He points to your pocket.

You cross one leg over the other, settling into the chair. “Oh, nothing. It’s just this guy I’ve been talking to.”

Bucky’s jaw clenches, and he has to force his face to remain blank. He shouldn’t be jealous. He’s not jealous. You're his assistant, nothing more. You deserve to have a life outside of work, outside of him. Anyone would be lucky to have you.

Lucky fucking bastard.

“Yeah? What’s his name?” Bucky lightens his tone as if it doesn’t bother him, which it doesn’t. He doesn’t care about his name, but he’ll try for your sake. 

“Uh…Derek.” You mutter.

His posture goes rigid. He attempts to tease you, so you don’t notice. “What’s uh…Derek like?” 

You giggle, and it’s the sweetest sound. Like a soft patter of rain against a window. “I don’t know, I guess he's nice.”

”You guess? Haven’t you been on a date with him yet?” Bucky inquires.

This is entirely unprofessional. He shouldn’t be asking about your relationship status. He’s just trying to get to know you, right? It’s normal for bosses to ask their employees about their lives. 

He doesn’t see you that way, though. He’d much rather label you as his equal. You do as much work as he does, if not more. He knows he could never do this job without you.

You let out a long sigh, drawing him away from his brain's constant back and forth. “No, our first date is tomorrow.”

Bucky tilts his head. “Tomorrow’s the gala, darlin’. I kinda need you there.” 

If you asked for a day off, he would be more than happy to give it to you. However, he wants to be selfish. You are the highlight of his evenings at those damn events. Whenever he feels anxious or overwhelmed by all the rich bastards around him, he seeks comfort in your company.

“I know, that’s why I invited him as my plus one. It completely slipped my mind. I should have asked you earlier this week.”

It’s not the best situation, but you’re still going with him. He hates the thought of you being around another man all night, but he’ll deal with it because it’s necessary. This is a professional relationship, and he has to accept that, even though he wishes it could be something more.

Bucky’s silent, so you continue. “I just didn’t want to be alone all night. I always appreciate it when you come over to check on me, but you shouldn’t have to feel obligated to.” He opens his mouth to interrupt you, but you talk right over him.

“I thought it would be easier this way. You can focus on the political side of things, and I can keep tabs from a distance like we always do, but instead, I’ll have someone to keep me company.” 

You’re rambling, your words spilling out like water from a faucet. You’re bouncing your leg and picking at your nails—clear signs of anxiety. He recognizes these behaviors all too well, although his own anxiety manifests as a silent, gnawing feeling. In contrast, yours feels like a wildfire, all-consuming and intense.

“Doll-” Bucky tries to cut you off, to ease the tension out of your body, but your mouth is moving a mile a minute.

“Gosh, what was I thinking? It’s a dumb idea and entirely unprofessional. I’ll cancel and reschedule our date for another time.” Your gaze has shifted to a point on the wall, as if you’re dissociating. 

He stands up from his chair and drops down to one knee in front of you. You still don’t notice his existence as you keep chatting away.

“It’s not that I hate galas, I like them, but it’s easier around someone. I don’t even have to talk to them just to be near them-” You stop suddenly when Bucky places his hand on your restless leg, halting its movement.

“Hey, darlin’.” Bucky’s voice is gentle, calmly trying to pull you out of your trance. His thumb strokes your knee over the fabric of your pants. Your wide eyes focus on him, and your breathing becomes erratic.

“You’re having a panic attack. Can you breathe with me for a second?” He demonstrates breathing in and then releasing slowly. “In through the nose, out through the mouth. Do it with me now.”

You follow his lead, breathing deeply into your nose and releasing a long breath out of your mouth.

”Good, do that a couple more times with me.” Bucky coaxes. You obey his instruction, slowing your breathing down.

Once he knows that you can breathe easier, he speaks again. “Can you tell me five things you can see?”

”Huh?” You look utterly confused.

”It’s a trick I learned in therapy. Indulge me.” Bucky continues to gently massage your knee with soothing patterns.

You give him a tight nod. Your eyes begin wandering around the room. “Uh…your laptop, that little white cat figurine I bought you—Alpine.”

Bucky snorts; he really loves that figurine. One day, early in his term, you were discussing pets. You asked him if he would ever consider having a pet, and he replied that he couldn’t because he’s too busy. Curious about his preferences, you asked what type of pet he would choose if he had the time, and he mentioned that he liked cats. That’s how the cat figurine came to be. Of course, you were the one who named it.

”That’s two. Give me three more.”

Your attention flicks back to Bucky, and he notices how drained you look. “Your tie has blue stars on it.” 

You lock eyes with him, and a faint smile appears on your lips. "It matches your eyes, though yours are the perfect shade of blue. That color is rare; I don't think I've seen it anywhere else."

Bucky swears that his heart skips a beat. He doesn’t think he’s ever received a compliment quite like that before. He decides he only wants you to compliment him from now on.

He clears his throat when he realizes he stared at you for too long. “One more, doll.”

You lift your gaze again, searching for something in his office. “That dumbass painting.” You point to the wall, and Bucky pivots to see. 

You’re referring to the painting with dogs around a table playing poker. He chuckles, scanning your face as if your thoughts are written there and he’s trying to read them.

“What’s wrong with it?” Bucky sounds offended, but he’s suppressing a smirk.

”It doesn’t fit your aesthetic.”

“My aesthetic?” The word feels foreign on his tongue, as if he were never meant to say it.

You clarify, your hands motioning to the room around you. “Your style.”

He no longer tries to hide his amusement, grinning like you are the most interesting thing in the world. “And, what is my style, doll?”

“Dark, mysterious, clean, and you’re a minimalist.” You express it as though it’s obvious, and he can’t deny your description.

”Huh, I guess I’ll remove it then. I didn’t realize you had such disdain for dogs playin’ poker.”

”I don’t, it’s cute,” you insist. “And, don’t take it down. You put it there, and it’s your office.”

“Nope, it’s already settled.” Bucky rises from his kneeling position with a grunt. “I’m removin’ it. I didn’t put it there anyway. It was here before I became a congressman.”

Bucky grabs the pitcher of water off his desk and pours it into one of the stacked plastic cups beside it. He sits in the chair beside you and hands you the water.

“Drink.” He orders, but his voice is soft.

“Now you’re telling me what to do.” You tease, lifting the cup to your lips and gulping down the refreshing liquid.

He ignores your comment and presses on. “Wanna tell me what happened to make you have a panic attack? Was it somethin’ I said?”

“No,” Your shoulders slump forward as you release a breath. You set the empty cup down on his desk before speaking again. “It was the silence. I immediately thought you were angry with me when you didn’t say anything.”

“Have I given you any reason to believe I’d be mad at you?” It’s a sincere question. You’re the only person he genuinely cares about protecting. If you think he’s upset with you, then he’s not fulfilling his role.

You shake your head, and it instantly puts his worries to rest. Bucky clasps his hands together and continues. “I’m okay with the idea of you bringin’ a plus one, I just wish you had told me-” 

You open your mouth to speak, but Bucky raises a hand to signal that he isn't finished. “I wish you had told me you don’t like being alone.”

You furrow your brow, surprised by his unexpected response. You bite your lip, searching for the right words to express your feelings.

“I’m not your responsibility.” You murmur. There’s no malice behind your words, just a woman who’s done things on your own for far too long and doesn’t want to ask for help.

“No, you’re not.” Bucky begins. “But we’re a team, and if secrets exist between us, this doesn’t work.”

He’s such a hypocrite. He’s holding back vital information from you. Bucky likes you, and no one can pry that knowledge from him. Feelings are fleeting; whatever he feels towards you will fade eventually. Right?

You smile sweetly, your eyes crinkling at the corners. It’s like the sun has entered the room. You’re bright and blinding. You’ll destroy him from the inside out if he looks for too long. 

He doesn’t mind the idea of that, though. He was yours to take apart anyway. How can he move on when you look like that, and you make him feel like this?

“You’re right. No more secrets.”

“Damn right, I’m always right.” His expression is all smug, which prompts you to roll your eyes and giggle, but it seems somewhat frail.

Bucky gets up from his spot. “You should go home. I got it from here.”

You stand to meet his eyes, defiance etched on your face. “No, I’m fine. I was going to help you-”

He cuts you off. "If you want to help me, go home. Get some rest, darlin’. I’ll see you at the gala, and you can introduce me to uh…Derek.”

You snort, shaking your head. “You are not making that a thing.”

“Oh, I’m definitely making that a thing.” Bucky puts his hands on his hips. “Now, go before I fire you.”

You narrow your gaze. “Fine, but you can’t keep threatening to fire me when it’s convenient for you.”

“Nah, I like seein’ the look on your face every time I say it.” His smirk is wide and arrogant. You glare at him in response, and it’s adorable.

He tips his head in the direction of the door. “Do you need a ride home?”

Your expression softens. “No, I’ll manage.” He gives you a stiff nod.

You amble towards the door, but pause, peeking over your shoulder. “Thank you, Barnes. For everything.”

Bucky staggers slightly. He would do anything for you. He doesn’t need a thank you in return, but it sounds too good coming from your lips. He’s staring at you like a damn fool, undoubtedly with hearts in his eyes.

”Of course, doll.” He mumbles. You hum and proceed forward, stepping out of the door and out of Bucky’s view.

As soon as you leave, he flops back down in the chair. He lets out a long sigh, metal hand running down his features. 

How will he manage a whole night with another man's arm around you? 

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

You’re leaning against the bar, glass in hand, and patiently waiting. 

No, pacing by the bar and fixing your hair for the tenth time tonight is not what anyone would describe as patience. You have never been a patient person, and you can thank your anxiety for that.

You arrived at the venue about half an hour ago, an hour before the gala even starts. You like to be on time or extremely early. There’s no in between. 

The real reason you arrived early was to meet Derek before the event. You wanted to chat and get acquainted before everyone else arrived. 

He’s late. You would understand if he had sent a quick text saying he would be there soon, but you haven’t received anything in an hour.

You spent the last twenty minutes pacing back and forth. The bartender noticed your nerves and slid a glass of water your way. You’ve been sipping on it while trying to fix your curled strands. This is why you usually wear your hair up—so you don’t have to worry about adjusting it repeatedly. Then there’s your dress, which you keep fussing with.

You wore a navy satin dress with a plunging neckline that revealed just enough cleavage. The back was mostly open, featuring crisscross straps. The dress hugged your curves perfectly and accentuated your figure, making your ass look fantastic. You exuded elegance along with just the right amount of sultriness.

It wasn’t your typical style, and the thought of revealing too much of yourself made you feel insecure. Since you hadn’t been on a date in a while, you decided it was the perfect opportunity to try something bold. Now, you worry that after putting in so much effort, he might end up standing you up.

You continue to drink your water, letting it cool you. You almost wish you had something a bit stronger to ease the tension in your body.

Suddenly, you feel a presence behind you as a warm hand brushes your arm. You quickly turn your head around.

Damn. Congressman Barnes.

He looks like snow cast in shadow under the midnight sky, with the snowflakes illuminated only by the moonlight. He’s wearing a crisp white button-up shirt over a black tuxedo and dark dress pants. Although his bow tie is crooked, it doesn’t matter at all. Bucky wears suits every day, but tonight he looks incredibly handsome with his hair slicked back and his blue eyes shining.

Shit. You’re gawking at him. To distract him from your flustered state, you flash him a wide smile. His warm flesh hand rests gently on your arm, but after a moment, he acknowledges that he is still touching you, and he lets his hand fall away.

Bucky opens and closes his mouth several times before spitting it out. “You look…lovely.” 

Your smile falters slightly, and you feel your breath become heavier in your lungs from that simple word. Sure, he has complimented you before, but this feels different. You can't quite put your finger on why, though.

“Thank you.” Your voice is delicate, and your grin turns genuine, unlike the showy one from before. “You don't look too bad yourself.”

Bucky huffs air out of his nose, a smirk playing on his lips. His eyes seem to penetrate your very being, as if he's tearing through your flesh to truly understand every part of you. He knows your most vulnerable sides and didn't flinch. So, what’s the harm in him seeing everything?

You turn your gaze away from his eyes, afraid of losing yourself in them. Your eyes shift to his neck as you take a step forward until you're directly in front of him.

“You look perfect, but can I make one minor adjustment?” 

He gives you a firm nod in response. You extend your arms to grip both sides of his bow tie and adjust it to your liking.

“Great,” Bucky grumbles. “I can’t even dress myself properly.” 

“You did fine, it was just a bit crooked. Sometimes all a man needs is a woman’s touch to look presentable.” There’s a teasing lilt to your tone. 

After adjusting, you rest your hand over the middle of the bow tie. Glancing up into his piercing blues, you realize how close you are.

You swear he’s reading every one of your thoughts as if they’re on full display. It’s intimidating, yet his eyes tell you he’ll treasure them, keeping them tucked away in his mind in a special spot just for you.

His cologne envelops you like a warm hug, drawing you in as if urging you to kiss him. You find yourself captivated by the scent, which clouds your mind and impairs your logical thinking.

Instead, you gently pat him and take a step back, admiring your work. “Now you’re ready for your close-up, Congressman Barnes.”

He shakes his head and playfully rolls his eyes. “Thanks, doll.” He peers around the room. “Where’s uh…Derek?”

You let out a lengthy sigh. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

He looks puzzled, so you clarify, “We were supposed to meet thirty minutes ago, but he hasn’t shown up or even sent a text.”

Bucky clenches his jaw, but releases it as if the tension was never there. “Would you like me to wait with you?”

You wave your hand as if to shoo him away. "No, please, go mingle."

He seems like he might press the issue, but gives you a tight-lipped smile. “Well, as soon as he gets here, I’m givin’ him a piece of my mind for makin’ a pretty girl wait.”

He’s stolen the breath from your lungs, leaving you gasping for just a bit of air to keep from suffocating. It feels as if he hasn’t realized that his sweet words are slowly killing you. Then, he walks away as if nothing had happened.

Air rushes into your lungs again, overwhelming you as if it’s choking you. You’re panting like you ran a marathon, yet your feet remain planted in the same spot.

You pull out your phone from your purse and shoot Derek another text.

I’m at the bar whenever you get here.

You need him here now. The whole reason you put yourself out there is to distract your heart from liking someone you can’t be with. And once again, Bucky has turned your world upside down. You must avoid your feelings before they sink their teeth into your vulnerable, beating heart.

Minutes go by, and finally, you see a familiar figure moving around the ballroom. Derek is even more attractive in person. He carries himself with confidence, and his presence fills the space, as if his frame were larger than it actually is.

He is wearing a casual beige polo shirt loosely tucked into mocha-colored trousers, paired with loafers. His dark hair is perfectly coiffed around his eyes, and the sleeves of his shirt fit tightly around his biceps.

It seems he wore it intentionally for that reason, and you don’t mind. You can appreciate some muscle; there’s nothing wrong with showcasing something you worked hard for.

Of course, appearances aren’t everything for you. You matched with him because of his impressive profile. He works as a financial manager, which shows he is skilled with money. He has a dog named Luna, who is a husky. In his free time, he has hosted multiple charity events and volunteers at homeless shelters.

Derek seems like the perfect guy on paper. From your conversations with him, he checks all the right boxes: he’s kind, caring, and communicates well. The only downside is that he left you waiting for almost two hours. However, you believe in not judging someone based on first impressions, so you’re genuinely excited to see how this date unfolds.

You eventually wave him over. “Derek, hey!”

He immediately responds to the sound of your voice, greeting you with an easy smile as he checks you out.

Being examined by an objectively handsome man should elicit some feelings, right? You might expect butterflies in your stomach, your skin to heat, or your heart to skip a beat. But it does nothing for you. Not like when Bucky even glances your way, then your palms become instantly sweaty.

Stop thinking about Bucky and focus on the man approaching you. He wraps his arms around you and pulls you into a quick hug while you drape your arms around his neck. You might feel rigid in his embrace, like stiff cardboard. As he steps back, you remind yourself to relax and not let your nerves get the better of you.

Derek leans back to get the full view of you up close. “Damn, you’re hotter in person.”

Oh, what an interesting way to start a conversation. You can't help but think of Bucky and how gently he spoke about your appearance, as if it were difficult for him to express what he was seeing in just a few words. In contrast, Derek is quite bold. Perhaps that's a good thing?

”Thank you, you’re very handsome in person.”

He smirks at you like he knows it. “Yeah, I get that a lot.” He pushes his hair back and deliberately flexes his arm muscles. “Listen, I’m sorry I’m late. Something came up.”

Well, that’s vague. It’s fine, you’re over it. At least he’s here now.

“All good,” you gesture toward the bar seats. “Would you like to sit?” He nods, climbing onto one of the stools, while you take the one next to him.

“What‘re we drinking?” Derek claps his hands and rubs them together. 

“I’m on the job, so unfortunately, it's just water for me. You can go ahead, it's an open bar.” 

“Come on,” he pokes you in the side. “Just one, I won’t tell anyone.”

You lightly giggle. “No, really, I shouldn’t.”

He rolls his eyes, and he seems annoyed. “You’re no fun.”

Derek turns to the bartender and orders a rum and Coke. Your water is refilled. You turn in your seat, resting your jaw on your hand, and wait for the conversation to flow.

As the night progressed, the date hadn’t. Derek only seemed to want to talk about himself, which would have been fine if he had included you in the conversation. Instead, he spoke right over you and didn't ask about you once.

You nod along and actively listen. He takes full advantage of the open bar while you stay hydrated. He is not at all what you expected and is completely different from the man you texted daily.

There’s a beat of silence, and you take that opportunity to finally get a word in. “I read on your profile that you do charity work. What charity did you last host for?”

Derek shrugs. “No idea, my dad is in charge of all that shit.”

“Huh?” You give him a perplexed expression.

“My dad runs the company where I work and organizes the charity events. Sometimes I don't even bother showing up.” He chuckles as if it’s funny, but you don’t laugh.

You change the topic since he doesn't know anything about it. "What kind of volunteer work do you do at homeless shelters?"

“That was a lie.” He takes a deep breath before continuing. “Look, it's tough out here for us men. Sometimes, you have to lie to even get a date with these self-absorbed women.”

You suppress your growing anger. Why would someone lie about that? You feel like you need to make an excuse to run to the bathroom.

Derek leans closer to you. “But you’re different, sweetheart.” His hand wraps around your waist, and you can smell alcohol on his breath.

He presses his mouth to your ear and whispers. “Maybe we can find a private room in this place.” Derek’s hand drifts down your back and he grabs your ass.

Your body tenses up, and you feel extremely uncomfortable. He just squeezed your ass as if he had the right to do so. You hadn’t given any indication that such behavior was acceptable. Even if you had, he should have asked for permission before touching you in that way.

You hardly know each other. You know almost everything about him, but he knows very little about you. You’re trying to lean away from him to breathe air that isn’t his, but he’s holding you close.

You almost convince yourself that this is what you want, but your body rejects the idea. The thought of having sex with him makes you feel physically ill. He’s drunk and would only be using you for his own pleasure, which wouldn’t be enjoyable for you at all. You crave meaningful sex, not a brief distraction to forget about your boss.

Your breathing is shallow, and you begin to shake. You try to speak, but the words won’t come out. Silently, you pray for anyone to come to your rescue. Although you could push him off you, you can’t find the strength; you feel frozen.

Save me, please, you think. You don’t know exactly who you’re pleading to, but you hope someone can somehow hear you.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

Bucky has been watching you all night, especially when Derek arrived. He was supposed to go over and introduce himself to your date, but he didn't have the courage to do it. 

He’s fine with watching from a distance. He doesn’t have to hear you laugh at Derek’s jokes or look at him with your beautiful, sparkling eyes.

He places himself so that he can catch a glimpse of you from the corner of his eye during every conversation he has with the wealthy assholes. He hardly pays attention to what they are saying because he is concerned about you. While he adds a few remarks to each topic, he isn’t genuinely interested in their responses.

Bucky becomes especially interested in your date when Derek leans in closer. He clenches his fist and grinds his teeth in frustration. He almost looks away, but notices how uncomfortable you appear. Though Bucky is quite a distance away from you, he knows exactly what he saw.

You attempt to pull away from Derek, but he only draws you closer. Meanwhile, Bucky has vanished without a word to the person he was talking to. He moves through the crowd with purpose, as if on a mission that no one can interrupt.

Derek leans back to examine your face, gently pushing a strand of your hair behind your ear. Bucky feels a wave of nausea; he can tell you're not interested in Derek's advances because you appear to be panicking internally.

Bucky clears his throat as he stands behind you. Derek eventually lowers his hand, and the tension instantly leaves your body. You glance back at Bucky, and your breathing becomes lighter.

”Can I borrow you for a second?” Bucky nearly grits the words out through his teeth.

“Sure.” You turn in your seat and begin to get off, but Bucky is there with a hand out to help you. You grin in appreciation and use his hand to leap down.

After you’re down, Bucky’s hand falls back to his side. You turn to Derek while motioning towards Bucky. “This is my boss, Congressman Barnes.” You swivel around to Bucky. “Barnes, this is Derek.”

Bucky nods in Derek’s direction but avoids making eye contact. Derek stumbles out of his seat, clearly drunk and struggling to hold his liquor.

“Congressman, it’s an honor to meet you,” Derek slurs as he stands in front of Bucky, extending his hand. “Let me just say, your campaign was inspiring.”

Bucky takes a moment to push down the raging fire crawling up his throat. “Thanks.” He grunts and takes Derek’s outstretched hand with his metal one. His grasp is unyielding, as if one wrong move could snap all the bones in Derek’s hand.

“Shit,” Derek growls as he grimaces in pain. ”Strong grip you have there.”

Bucky grins mischievously as he claps his hand on Derek’s shoulder. "Sorry, sometimes I don't know my own strength." He then releases his hand and steps back, offering his arm to you.

You link your arm with his, resting your hand on his forearm. “I’ll be right back,” you assure your date, but he secretly clutches his hand as if the bones have shattered.

Bucky guides you away, his expression marked by irritation. You glance up at him and squeeze his bicep with your free hand. “What’s wrong, grumpy?”

“Nothing. Why would anything be wrong?” Bucky mutters, keeping his eyes forward, as if you’ll see the reason swimming there if he looks at you.

“I don’t know; you tell me.” You stop, making Bucky halt and glance in your direction. Your eyes show concern. “Are the rich bastards stressing you out?” 

You reach up, placing your thumb on Bucky’s forehead, rubbing out the frown lines between his eyebrows. His eyes flutter closed at the sensation as he lets you melt away the tension with your touch.

You hum and remove your thumb from its spot when you register that all the strain in his forehead is long gone. Bucky peels his eyes open again as he speaks. “What stress, darlin’?”

You giggle, and it lights up the entire room. “I swear it was there a second ago.” You tease, patting his forearm. “What’d you need me for, Barnes?” 

Shit. Bucky didn’t fully consider the consequences; he just wanted to help you escape that uncomfortable situation.

So, he blurts out the first thing that comes to mind. “I need a second opinion. Could you listen in on the conversation? Let me know what’s worthy of my attention.”

“Of course, lead the way.” You answer with warmth in your voice.

Bucky guides you towards a group of people in suits engaged in conversation. You both join the discussion, and Bucky introduces you. You shake a few hands and receive a warm welcome. As the conversation resumes, you actively participate in it.

Bucky is impressed by your enthusiasm for political topics. Words come easily to you, and you have a wealth of knowledge. He always knew you were intelligent, but witnessing you in action is captivating. 

The conversation shifts to more personal matters, including families, properties, and everyone’s golf score. You and Bucky don’t participate in that section of the discussion. 

You angle your mouth to Bucky’s ear and whisper. “I should get back, but let me know if you need anything.”

He doesn’t want you to leave. Things are easier with you around. Bucky can’t let you return to that jerk, who’s drunk and trying to take advantage of you.

Bucky gently grabs your arm before you leave and leads you away from the suits for a private conversation. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

”Yeah, why wouldn’t it be?” You respond, trying to avert Bucky’s gaze.

”Darlin’,” He begins. “I saw him touch you.”

You shrug, acting as if it’s no big deal. “That’s typically how things go on dates.”

Bucky shakes his head. “Not like that.”

”Please, stay out of it.” Your voice is small, like you don’t want to argue with him right now.

“What if he tries that shit again?” Bucky doesn’t mean to raise his voice at you, but he loathes this situation. He wants more than anything to protect you, even if you're not his to protect.

“Then, I’ll handle it. I’m very capable of doing things myself.” You match his tone, clearly showing that you’re getting upset with him.

He wants to avoid making you angry, so he tries to make his voice sound lighter and more compassionate. “I know you’re capable, but I want you to be safe. I’m not convinced you're safe with him.”

You take a deep, shaky breath, and Bucky sees this as a signal to continue. “I’m not trying to tell you what to do, but you shouldn't waste your time on him. He disrespected you, and I don’t think he deserves a second chance.”

“Well, I believe everyone deserves a second chance.” You state calmly.

Bucky scoffs. “Not everyone, doll.”

You don’t miss a beat. “You did.”

Bucky's shoulders slump as he reflects on your words. He has always struggled to believe he deserves forgiveness for his past. Although he knows, on some level, that he had no other choice, that doesn't erase the lives he took and the families he destroyed.

Those feelings will never fade, no matter how often he’s told ‘it wasn’t him’. He still has to live with the screams and gore he witnessed with his own hands. When he relives those memories, it’s his hand that is doing the killing, even if it’s dark now instead of the silver one in his nightmares. 

It's not an out-of-body experience where he watches the soldier do his bidding. No, it's all Bucky; that's clear to him. Now, he's questioning his judgment all because of you. With just two simple words and that twinkle in your eye, you convinced him that he deserved a second chance and that he is worthy of the life he’s living now.

How does she do that? That must be a superpower or something.

“Listen,” you begin again. “I appreciate your concern, but please let me do this.”

Bucky’s hand drops from your arm as if he's enchanted. He doesn't want to tell you what to do; God knows he's had enough of that in his lifetime. He shouldn't do that to you either.

“You’re going to give me wrinkles with all this stress you’re puttin’ me through, darlin’.” His gaze narrows at you.

“Aw, you poor thing,” you smirk. “Seriously, please don’t stress. You're first on my contact list, if anything goes wrong.”

First on your contact list? Bucky won’t dwell on that too much, for his own sake. He rolls his eyes, and you chuckle at his disapproval. 

You step towards him and quickly kiss his cheek. Bucky practically melts at the brief contact. As you pull away, your eyes shine with forming tears. “Thank you for always looking out for me. I truly don’t deserve you.”

Bucky is stunned into silence as he stares at you, dumbfounded, as if you just told him the world is falling apart. He wants to say it's the opposite—that he doesn’t deserve you—but the words are stuck in his throat, as if he’s choking on them.

You smile at him as if you can read his thoughts, and one of the tears rolls down your face. You turn and stride away. Before he knows it, the crowd has engulfed you.

There's a sharp pain in his chest. For some reason, he feels like he just lost you. Bucky should have fought harder for you. Although he doesn’t deserve you, he would treat you right.

If it were Bucky instead, he would have a hand on the small of your back, whispering sweet nothings into your ear, and asking you to dance. He would take his time with you, making you feel like you were something special, because you are special.

Now he has to spend the next hour drifting in and out of meaningless conversations while he worries about you. 

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

You wipe the tears from your eyes as you return to the bar. You’ve never felt so deeply cared for in your life, and you refuse to take it for granted. Already, you’re planning ways to show your gratitude to Bucky, making sure he knows how much you appreciate him and everything he has done for you.

You spot Derek still at the bar where you left him. His head is resting in his hand, and it looks like he has switched to water. Sneaking up behind him, you say with a hint of amusement in your tone, “Did you drink them dry of all their alcohol?”

Derek spins around, and upon seeing you, he bursts out laughing. “No, I thought this would help me sober up faster.” He lifts his glass.

You hum in response. Derek jumps down from his stool and faces you. “I’m sorry about earlier. I was out of line. First, I shouldn’t have gotten drunk on a date. Work was frustrating me, and you were making me nervous. I thought the alcohol might help, but I realize now that it only made things worse.”

Derek takes a deep breath. “Second, I talked about myself the whole time. That was not fair to you. I didn’t even ask you anything; I just rambled on and on about shit that doesn’t matter.��

“Third,” he rubs the back of his neck. “The biggest mistake. I shouldn’t have touched you like that. That was highly inappropriate, and I should have asked you before even thinking about it.”

Wow, you weren't expecting that, but you're pleasantly surprised. It doesn’t justify what he did, but at least he’s taking accountability. 

“I think we need a do-over. What do you think?” You offer.

Derek seems relieved by your words. “That sounds great.”

You give him a kind smile. “How about a walk?” 

He glances down at your attire. “In heels?”

You snort. “I’ll take them off.”

“I’ll carry them for you.” He winks at you. You already feel more at ease with this new start.

Derek motions for you to follow him out of the room, and you do. You stroll side by side through the hallway. His fingers gently brush against yours, as if silently asking for permission. You feel warmth in your chest and heat rising in your cheeks.

He pauses by the coat room and motions to it. “I gotta get my jacket quick.” You nod for him to go ahead, and he steps inside. 

You lean against the doorframe as you pull your phone out of your purse. “I should send my boss a text before we leave.” You swiftly type something out and send it to Bucky.

Change of plans, we’re going for a walk. If you need anything, don’t hesitate. I promise I’ll make it up to you tomorrow. You can make me work extra :) 

Derek grabs his leather jacket and throws it on. “I thought you’d never get away from him.”

You put your phone back in your purse, and your brow furrows. “Hmm?”

“I thought he was going to hold you hostage all night.”

“Well, he is kind of my job.” You shrug with a grin on your lips.

“I know that,” Derek crosses his arms over his chest. “Don’t get me wrong, he seems like a nice guy, he just asks a lot of you.”

“I don’t think he asks enough of me, honestly. I have the easiest job.” 

He tilts his head. “You don’t think he’s demanding or testy?”

“Not at all. Sure, he sometimes gets grumpy, but I know he means well,” you admit. Derek quirks a brow, then dips his head and shakes it. He stays quiet for a moment.

You press the matter because you're curious. “You seem like you want to say something else.”

“It’s nothing.” Derek waves you off.

“Come on, just say it.” Your tone is playful..

Derek takes a deep breath as he contemplates whether to say what’s on his mind. “I mean, he’s kind of a murderer.”

Your body stiffens, and you frown; you are entirely disgusted by the fact that he said that.

"No, he's not." Your voice is firm and unwavering.

“You’re defending him? I get that you work for him, but you don’t have to follow him blindly.”

You scoff. “Of course, I’m defending him. He was brainwashed for fuck’s sake and he didn’t have a choice. How would you like to be stripped of your choices and used as a weapon?”

Your blood is boiling. Why were you so naive to think that this guy was anything other than a jerk? Derek disrespected you, and now he's doing the same to Bucky. You should have listened to your boss when he advised you not to give this guy another chance.

“You believe that shit? He almost broke my fucking hand, shaking it. That seems like a conscious mind, freely being violent, to me.” Derek shouts.

You could laugh because you weren’t aware that Bucky tried to break his hand. You thought Derek was exaggerating, but now you realize he wasn’t.

You’re finished with this discussion. You need to walk away before you become ‘freely violent.’ You start to march away, but stop and turn around when Derek speaks again.

“Hold on, I see what this is. You follow Barnes around like a lost puppy because you want something from him.”

You let out a dry laugh. You can’t believe you’re still listening to this guy like he has anything relevant to say.

Derek gets closer to you again. “No wait, I got it. You’re trying to get in his pants for a promotion.”

Your heart pounds with anger as you glare at Derek. “Not that I owe you an explanation, but I truly love my job, asshole.”

“No one wants to be an assistant.” 

“Well, this date is over.” You stomp down the hallway, attempting to get some distance from him.

“It’s a shame.” You glance over your shoulder, and he’s giving you a condescending smile. “You would have been a decent fuck.”

Your hands ball into fists tightly, and your fingernails dig into your palms. You shouldn’t even be entertaining Derek, but you yell back anyway. “That’s your problem, huh? You think with your two inch dick rather than your brain.”

You can tell that bothered him. “You’re just mad because I figured you out.” You roll your eyes, and your feet shift forward again. “That’s right. Go cry to your boss and beg him to fuck you.”

You keep moving, unbothered by his shouts. Derek continues, much to your dismay, “I knew you were desperate, but I didn’t realize you were also a slut.”

Your movements falter slightly. Out of everything Derek said, that’s what affects you the most. It feels heavy on your chest. Everything he mentioned about you and Bucky feels like weights tied to your ankles, dragging you down. Your vision blurs as tears prick your eyes.

You hear a door shut in the distance, and you hope that means he’s gone because you can’t hold back your tears any longer. You need to sit down, but the waterfall of tears obstructs your vision. You find a wall to lean against and slowly slide down into a sitting position.

You pull your knees to your chest and sob. Tears stream down your cheeks as you gasp for air in a broken cry.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

Change of plans, we’re going for a walk. If you need anything, don’t hesitate. I promise I’ll make it up to you tomorrow. You can make me work extra :) 

Bucky has been standing in the same spot for several minutes, staring at your text. He’s thinking about whether to find you and take you home or stay put like you asked him to.

He struggles to follow your precise instructions; stay out of it. He strides out of the room like a tracking dog following a scent. As soon as he exits the ballroom, he hears it.

Muffled cries fill his ears, and he knows it’s you without even looking. Your back is against the wall, but you’re curled in on yourself. He tentatively steps over to you, so he doesn’t startle you.

“Darlin’?” Bucky’s tone is tender, full of sympathy. He’s never seen you like this, and it breaks his heart.

Your head snaps up from your knees. Your red, tired eyes dart over Bucky’s form. You quickly wipe the tears from your face and force a weak smile.

You point your thumb toward the ballroom. “I’ll be in; I just need a minute.” Your voice is thick with unshed tears.

“No,” he declares as he walks over to you, positioning himself against the wall while maintaining a little distance to give you space. He grabs the fabric of his dress pants at his thighs and adjusts them before sitting down beside you.

Bucky stretches out his legs and lets the quiet settle between you, interrupted only by your sniffles. After a while, he decides to continue his statement. “You’re going to sit with me for as long as you need.”

Once you can breathe clearly and the occasional tear falls, you mumble, “You should have broken his hand.”

Bucky lets out a nervous chuckle. “You saw that?”

“Sort of, but…Derek confirmed my suspicions.” It’s a struggle for you to get his name out as if it’s strangling you from the inside.

He clenches his jaw, furious that Derek hurt you and that Bucky could have prevented it. But then again, you’re stubborn, and he knows you would eventually find a way to return to your date, even if he physically tried to hold you back. Yes, he’s a super soldier, but he doesn’t stand a chance against you when your heart is set on something.

“Do you wanna talk about it?” Bucky murmurs.

You shake your head. “Not right now, maybe later.” You wipe a stray tear from your jaw and rest your chin on your knee, examining a point on the opposite wall.

Bucky's heart squeezes in his chest. He doesn't know what to say or do. When he feels pain, he prefers to sit in silence. Maybe that’s what you want, so he chooses not to speak.

You break the stillness with a question. “You know how we said no secrets?”

He nods his head even though your focus isn’t on him. “Yeah.”

You slowly turn your head to meet his gaze. The color of your eyes is dim, and the skin around them is swollen.

“I don’t want to be alone tonight.” Your voice cracks as if there’s a threat of more tears yet to come.

Bucky's throat tightens as he watches you. The sight is like witnessing a butterfly losing its wings yet struggling to stay aloft. You keep falling, desperately pleading for someone to save you from your impending doom. Bucky has been there for you, arms wide open; he’s just waiting for you to notice him.

“Could we do our post-gala recap tonight instead of tomorrow morning?” you ask, sounding uncertain, and his heart shatters.

“Works for me, doll.” Bucky’s lips lift at the corners. You return his smile, albeit smaller. At least he got that much. 

“Damnit,” his eyebrows knit together, deep in thought. “I didn’t bring my keys for the building. I can swing by my apartment-”

You interrupt him. “We can go to your apartment instead.” Your following words tumble out of you like you can’t hold back your growing anxiety. “If that doesn’t make you uncomfortable.”

“That doesn’t make me uncomfortable at all.” He reassures, and your expression softens.

You nod and relax against the wall behind you. “I think I’m going to wait in my car, if that’s alright with you. I don’t feel like being in a crowd.”

Bucky scoffs in amusement; he wouldn't leave you alone in your car, especially not like this. You just admitted that you didn't want to be by yourself.

“No,” he stands up to his full height. You were baffled, staring at him with wide eyes. Your expression read What do you mean ‘no’, but you were hesitant to question his authority.

He offers you his hand and clears up your confusion. “We’re leaving.”

“Now?” You inspect his outstretched hand and then his face.

”Yes, now. You’re ridin’ with me.” 

“But, my car-”

Bucky cuts you off. “I’ll bring you back.” He waves his extended hand around. “Take my damn hand.”

You comply, allowing him to help you to your feet. “Always telling me what to do,” you smirk, and he can't help but chuckle. You brush off invisible dirt from your dress and look up at him.

Fuck, you’re the prettiest thing he’s ever seen, even with your exhausted eyes and tear-stained cheeks. You’re like a sunset, with colors in full vibrancy. Reds and oranges swirl together to create the masterpiece that is you.

“Is there something on my face? Oh shit, did I cry all my mascara off? The packaging said it was waterproof.” You grumble as if you’re furious about your makeup. He can just see you writing a lengthy review about how you bawled your eyes out, and the mascara didn’t hold up.

He shakes his head and chuckles. "No, your mascara is fine." He doesn't know why, but he admits the truth about why he was openly gawking at you: "I was staring because you're beautiful."

You blink multiple times at him, then he notices your cheeks flush. “James, I—I know I look like a wreck. Don’t lie,” you stammer out.

Bucky smirks at the sound of his first name. He rarely hears you call him anything other than ‘Barnes,’ but when you're serious or scolding him, you use ‘James.’ He lives for those moments, just to hear you say his name that way.

He shrugs. "Logically, you should. But you're beautiful, no matter the circumstances."

You’re attempting to suppress a smile, but failing. “You can’t say things like that.”

A charming smirk appears on Bucky’s face. “Why not?”

“Because,” you’re searching for the best answer, “you’re going to give me a big head.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll help you hold it up.” He winks at you.

Your cheeks flush a deeper shade of red. You playfully roll your eyes and slap his arm. “Are you going to keep flirting, or are you taking me to your apartment?”

Is that what he was doing? Talking to you like this felt so effortless that he didn’t even realize he was flirting. He enjoyed it and wanted to continue. He liked seeing you all flustered—the way you tried to pretend you didn’t like it, but your flushed cheeks gave you away.

Bucky tilts his head. “I can do both. I’m a great multitasker.”

Your lips part and you suck in a breath. Now he’s thinking that little comment he just made could have a double meaning. Maybe he intended it that way because you definitely took it like that. And, damn, now he’ll be thinking about it the whole way home.

“Uh-huh, I bet you are.” You reply in a mocking tone.

Bucky could do this forever with you and never tire of it. However, he knows that this is extremely inappropriate. No matter how much he wants you, he understands he can’t have you.

He wants to be the person who makes you laugh, comforts you on tough days when you're feeling anxious, kisses your shoulder when he wakes up beside you, and holds you in his arms to relieve his stress, as you melt away his tension. He craves all the cheesy, romantic moments that come with being in a relationship with you.

But you are unattainable. You’re his assistant. Bucky feels like all the other creepy political figures who fantasize about being with someone who works for them. They get a sickening power high from it. 

That’s not how he sees it, though. At least, that’s what he tells himself. Unlike the other wealthy assholes who view their employees as mere possessions, he perceives you as something precious that he doesn’t deserve. Perhaps that’s why he believes he can’t have you — because he thinks you’re too good for him.

“Ready, darlin’?”He eventually asks. You nod, still grinning. If he sees you smile like that one more time, he might not be able to stop his common sense from flying out the window.

Bucky offers you his arm, and you wrap yours through the opening, gripping his bicep as he leads you out of the building. He calls for the car to come around and helps you into it, placing a protective hand over your head to prevent you from bumping it.

Once he knows you’re safely inside, he squeezes his eyes shut and wills the feelings within him to stop burrowing into his heart. It’s like a festering wound he can never quite be free of. 

One hell of a wish that is. He’ll never get rid of these maddening feelings for you.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

The car ride to Bucky’s apartment is mostly quiet, which is fine with you because your mind is keeping you thoroughly entertained.

Congressman James Barnes was flirting, and he was flirting with you. He called you beautiful and meant it, even when your face was streaked with dried tears. He winked at you, and you felt your stomach flutter instantly.

You were foolish to think one date would erase these feelings, because now that you know him, no man will ever compare. You’ll constantly hold everyone to the standard set by Bucky.

Bucky's driver approaches his apartment building, which appears to be quite expensive based on its exterior. You know that this apartment was provided to him by the government upon his return to the States; it was part of the deal for his pardon. He received a nice apartment situated high enough that no one would disturb him, but the government was keeping a close eye on him.

It made you feel nauseous just thinking about it, even though he wasn’t being monitored closely at the moment. It was absurd that he had been under constant surveillance in a home he never chose. Hydra had taken away all of Bucky’s choices, so why couldn't he even decide something as simple as where he lives?

You open the door to get out, but you hear another door slam, causing you to stop. Then, Bucky jogs around the car to stand in front of you with his hand out. Ever the gentleman.

You smile and take his human hand to help you out of the car. His metal hand rests gently atop your head again as you exit. You feel like a princess with this kind of treatment.

Bucky subtly waves to his driver as the car pulls away. He then guides you inside, takes you to the elevator, and directs you down the hall to his apartment.

Once inside, you were surprised by how charming and modern it was. It wasn't at all what you had imagined, but you liked it.

“Make yourself at home.” Bucky passes you and wanders into the kitchen. “Can I get you something to drink?”

“Water, please,” you murmur, still taking in your surroundings. You take off your heels at the door, not to be polite, but because your feet are killing you.

You pad into the kitchen after him, and he’s putting ice in a glass. The kitchen is bright white with a splash of color. There’s an island with stools lined up along it, and that’s where you decide to ‘make yourself at home’.

You lift yourself onto the stool, and Bucky slides your water glass over the counter. You nod in thanks and take a sip. He then disappears down the hallway that you’re certain leads to his room.

He returns without his tuxedo jacket, bowtie, and shoes. His collar is unbuttoned, and he's rolling up his sleeves as he rounds the island to sit beside you. Every time you see him like this, you can't help but internally freak out.

You nearly choke on your water, and he’s there with a hand gently patting you on the back. “You okay there?”

“Of course, just drank it too fast.” You nervously smile, hoping he misses your lie. Bucky drops his hand when you stop coughing.

You need to change the subject because you have to stop thinking about how dreamy he looks. “Where would you like to start?” 

You take your purse from your shoulder and place it on the surface to dig for your phone. “I don’t have my laptop, but I can write your thoughts down on my notes app and transfer them to a document later.”

He shakes his head and grabs your wrist, pausing your action. “We can do that tomorrow. Relax, talk to me.”

You glance up at him, and your breath catches in your throat. Breathing feels pointless because you can't seem to exhale. His eyes are shifting in a way that makes it seem like his smoky blue gaze conveys something entirely different from what his mouth is saying, but you're struggling to understand their message.

He releases your wrist, and you come back to reality. You set your purse off to the side as you inhale oxygen properly again. “What do you want me to say?”

“What happened?” Bucky mumbles. He doesn’t want to pressure you if you’re not ready to talk.

You take a deep breath and begin to explain. “When I returned to the bar, he had sobered up a bit and apologized to me. I foolishly believed he was genuinely sorry and asked if he would like to start over.”

You let your eyes fall away from him, examining the drops of condensation running down your glass. “But, then, he insulted you, and that apology didn’t mean anything anymore.”

Bucky nods slowly. “What’d he say?” You shake your head, unable to tell him the vile words bouncing around in your skull.

”It’s nothing I haven’t heard before.” He insists.

You meet his gaze once more, and your eyes begin to well up with tears. Not out of pity for him, but because it pains you to hear someone speak negatively about your favorite person. The most heartbreaking part is that the worst of it comes from his own mind.

Hydra is long gone, but now he is torturing himself. You wish you could take away all that pain and those awful thoughts, replacing them with something pure.

From your experience, you understand that the healing process is a slow journey. It requires time and energy to rebuild your mental and emotional state and regain a sense of humanity. You want to be the person he trusts enough to share that process with.

Bucky doesn’t need fixing because he wasn’t broken to begin with; he needs someone to confide in and rely on. You want to be that person who’s there for him through it all, just as he is for you.

“That’s the problem. You don’t deserve that.” Your voice quivers slightly. 

He scans your face like he’s trying to find the lie hidden in your features, but he won’t find one.

“Okay,” he lets out a long sigh. “You’re right.”

“Absolutely, I am.” You agree matter-of-factly, then deepen your voice to impersonate Bucky: “I’m always right.”

He scoffs. “I don’t sound like that.”

You raise your hands in mock surrender. ”I know, I’m working on it.”

Bucky smirks, shaking his head as if trying not to laugh. His expression becomes serious again. “What else did he say?”

You wave him off. “It’s not important.”

He raises an eyebrow, giving you a disapproving look. You roll your eyes and say, “Why do you need to know?”

He shrugs. “For research purposes.” 

You purse your lips, but eventually concede. “He suggested that I was trying to…get in your pants for a promotion.” 

His jaw ticks, but you reluctantly carry on. “On top of that, he called me desperate and a slut, so truly the highlight of my week.” You release a dry laugh.

Bucky’s jaw is clenched so tightly that it seems he might break a tooth. His hands are balled into fists, and the raging fire in his eyes is unmistakable.

”Don’t.” You warn.

“What?” He grits his teeth.

“Don’t get mad. He’s not worth the energy.”

“Not mad.” He growls. You tilt your head and raise an eyebrow, and he proceeds. “I’m fucking pissed.”

“Well, I’m over it, you should be too-”

Bucky interrupts you. “Hold on, I’m plotting his murder in my mind.” His eyes squeeze shut for a second, and you stifle a giggle. “Okay, now I’m at the part where I hide the body.”

You playfully slap his arm, and his eyes shoot open, amusement evident on his face. “Are you making me an accomplice to your imaginary crimes?” you tease.

“Who said imaginary?” He smirks. You laugh, and your eyes crinkle at the corners. You shouldn’t find planning a murder comical, but it feels nice to laugh again.

After a beat of silence, Bucky speaks. “Can I ask why you went back to him?”

Your smile fades as you lean forward, resting your elbow on the surface in front of you and propping your head in your hand. "If this is your way of saying 'I told you so,' just save it. I already know I was being stupid."

“That’s not-” he blurts, but cuts himself off to start over. “I just wanna know. And, you’re not stupid, don’t say that.”

You swallow hard, trying to gather your thoughts before revealing yourself to him. "I haven't been on a date in a couple of years, and I had a lot riding on this one. I know it sounds naive, but I thought it would be a one-and-done situation."

You chew on the skin of your bottom lip. "When he touched me, I thought I was the one with the problem. I believed there was something mentally wrong with me for not wanting him. But I was just making excuses for him, as I always do for horrible men who don't deserve my mercy."

Bucky’s eyes are fixed on you, intently listening and absorbing every word. This support is something you didn’t realize you needed, but it’s helping tremendously, and you hope he understands that.

You sit up a little taller in your seat, feeling a strange sense of relief wash over you as you open up to him. “I tried dating before, and it was terrible—one bad date after another. I made a silent vow to myself that the next guy I met, I would settle for, because I’m tired of coming home alone. I want love, and if that makes me desperate, so be it.”

You give him a weak smile as you finish your rambling. You avert your gaze and start glancing around the kitchen, suddenly embarrassed.

“Look at me,” he orders in a soft voice. You find his eyes again, and they’re earnest. “Never settle, darlin’. You are something special, and you deserve nothing less than perfect.”

You're looking at him as if he has cleared your cloudy sky and made the sun shine brighter. You don't know how to react or what to say. Your heart is pounding against your rib cage, as if it's trying to escape.

Bucky clears his throat and hops off the stool. He veers around the island and picks up an old-fashioned radio that you notice for the first time.

“What are you doing?” you mumble. He turns the dial, and the crackle of the radio fills the air. The noise fades as he finds the station he was searching for. Right away, you recognize that the music is from the forties, instantly bringing a smile to your lips.

“I found a station that still plays music from my era some time ago. I listen to it occasionally, and it takes me back.” A broad smile lights up your face as you notice his relaxed demeanor, as if the mere sound of the music puts him at ease. 

Bucky rounds the counter again, standing in front of you. He offers you his flesh hand with a charming smirk. You tilt your head. “What?”

He nods to his hand. “I’m showing you how a real date should go.” 

Your stomach does somersaults and you bite your lip. “Are you smooth-talking me, Barnes?”

“Maybe, is it working?” His voice is deep and suave.

“You know it is.”

He extends his hand further. “Dance with me.” 

You take his hand, and he helps you down. He leads you to an open space between the kitchen and the living room.

He grabs your arm with his metal hand and places it on his shoulder. Slowly, he lowers his hand from your arm to grip your waist, sending a shiver down your spine. With your hands still interlocked, he raises his elbow and points outward.

“I should probably tell you, I don’t know how to dance.” You mutter.

“Do I have the honor of being your first dance?” His expression is marked by feigned shock.

You giggle and roll your eyes. “Yes.”

His face softens. “Don’t worry. I’ll lead, you follow. We’ll start slow.” 

You nod, and he sees this as a chance to begin. “Watch my feet and mimic my movements.”

You glance down between your bodies, and he takes a step back. You take a step forward, then he side steps, and you follow. You register that it’s your turn to take a step back, and he takes a step forward—another side step in the opposite direction, and you find yourselves back where you started.

“Good, you’re a natural.” Bucky sounds pleased, which brings a grin to your face.

He repeats his actions while you follow, and you watch his feet several more times until you feel confident in your understanding.

Your gaze returns to his, and the expression in his eyes is undeniably captivating. This moment feels like much more than a simple dance. You search your mind for a topic to discuss, hoping to avoid getting lost in the music and giving in to the urge to kiss him.

“Do you like being here?” The question runs out of your mouth.

Bucky’s taken aback by your sudden inquiry. He gives you a perplexed expression. “You mean this apartment?”

“Yeah, this apartment. Brooklyn. I know you lived here, but Brooklyn has changed a lot since the forties.”

“Oh, definitely, but I still enjoy living here.” He answers with a shrug. “Why do you ask?”

“Just wondering.” You resume your thought. “Don’t get me wrong; it's a lovely space, but do you see yourself living somewhere else?”

Bucky hums, lost in thought. “Yeah, I do. I want a house away from everything—somewhere without the noise of traffic, surrounded by nature like I had in Wakanda. Maybe I’ll finally get that cat.” He pinches your side, and you let out a snort.

You release a lengthy sigh. “And, I’ll be long gone.” You’re teasing, but there’s some truth to your words.

He shakes his head, clearly offended by your assumption. “That’s not how I see it.”

“Well, if you’re talking about settling down, you won’t be in politics anymore, and I won’t be your assistant.” You clarify.

His eyebrows knit together. “You don’t want to stay friends?” 

“Yeah, I do.” You squeak.

“Why’d you say it like that?” Bucky presses, and he’s caught you in a lie.

Your heart is racing now. Are you really about to tell him how you feel? You can’t imagine a future without him in it, but if you remain just friends for the rest of your life, it might break you.

You open and close your mouth before spitting it out. “Because I want to be more than just your friend.”

Bucky’s eyes widen, and his jaw clenches. His metal fingers twitch on your waist, causing more chills to run through your body. He scrutinizes you as if you had said something obscene.

You part your lips to interrupt his thoughts. As soon as you do, his attention shifts to your open mouth. His tongue darts out to lick his bottom lip as his gaze traces the outline of your mouth.

“Fuck,” He grunts. “I wanna kiss you so bad.”

You must've forgotten you were still dancing, as you're tripping over your feet. You recover, getting back into the rhythm of the movements, but your mind feels like it's short-circuiting.

“Th-then,” you stutter, “kiss me.”

“It’s a bad idea.” His tone is serious, though a soft smile plays on his lips.

You contemplate this for a moment. He’s right; your situation is complicated, and kissing your boss would be a bad idea. Yet, you can’t find it within yourself to care.

“Maybe, but you tend to have many of those.” You quip, smirking.

Bucky huffs air through his nose as if it’s funny, but when he speaks, his voice is firm. “No, I mean, it’s a terrible idea.”

You scoff, lightly hitting his shoulder where your hand rests. “That’s not making me feel any better, James.”

His smile fades, and his eyes darken. He looks as if he’s been longing for you, and now that he has permission to have you, he’s still contemplating the situation.

He comes to a sudden stop, causing you to halt your footwork as well. He still hasn’t released his grip on you, almost as if he physically can’t. You hear a deep, frustrated sound coming from his throat, indicating that he's angry with himself.

“Fuck it,” Bucky grumbles. 

Before you can fully register what he’s doing, he pulls you in by your waist and crashes his lips against yours. You gasp, and he swallows the sound. His lips bruise yours with a desperate intensity, as though he’s starved, and you’re the only one who can satisfy his hunger.

You reach out and cup the back of his neck with your palm. His hand falls away from yours as he grips the side of your neck, right under your jaw. With your hand now free, you run your fingers along his back, drawing him closer. Your bodies fit together perfectly, like pieces of a puzzle.

His tongue glides along your bottom lip before invading your mouth. It explores every crevice like he’s committing your mouth to memory. You swirl your tongue around his and moan into the kiss.

Bucky shifts his weight, struggling to find his footing, as if the sound alone weakened his knees. His tongue retreats, tugging at your bottom lip with his teeth before he pulls away completely.

Your eyes flutter open, and you find him studying you intently as you both try to catch your breath. His fingers gently brush against your rosy cheeks and swollen lips. He sweeps your hair away from your face and tucks it behind your ear.

“We need to stop.” His voice is strained, as if the words are forced from his throat.

“Why?” You breathe.

He closes his eyes as if he can’t bear to see you in this state, flushed and desperate for more of him. “If we continue, I won’t be able to hold back.”

You smooth the loose strands that hang in his eyes back to their original place. “Don’t hold back.” Your tone is low and sultry.

Bucky's eyes fly open, breathing hard through his nose. His metal arm envelops your torso, pulling you close until you feel him, thick and hard against your lower stomach.

“Darlin’,” he drawls. “Do you feel what you do to me?”

Your chest rises and falls rapidly, and your eyes dart between his features, unsure of where to focus because you desire all of him. Your hand travels down the smooth expanse of his chest, feeling the quick thump of his heart beneath your fingertips. You grasp the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer until you're only inches apart from his lips.

“Yes,” you murmur against his mouth. “Now, shall we continue, or do you have any more objections?”

He releases a shaky breath against your lips and shakes his head. You must’ve stolen his ability to speak. “Fantastic,” you whisper.

You lean in to kiss him again, this time more slowly. Your lips brush against each other gently, savoring the moment. You relish the soft curve of his mouth, the way his stubble tickles your delicate skin, and the feel of his nose nudging against your cheek.

Your tongue delves into his mouth uninvited, but he welcomes it with a satisfied hum. Now it’s your turn to explore his mouth with your tongue. You don’t get an adequate exploration because his tongue is sliding against yours, making it hard to focus on anything but his taste.

His warm hand slips into your hair, gently tugging at the roots to intensify the kiss. You whimper into his mouth, and suddenly, it feels like a switch has flipped. The kiss quickly becomes heated, as if your mouths are battling for dominance.

You unclasp your fist from his shirt as both of your hands move to the buttons of his dress shirt. One by one, you start to undo them. Once you’ve finished, he removes his hands from you and shrugs the shirt off. You hear the light fabric drop to the floor, and his hands quickly return to their previous positions.

Bucky begins to step forward, pushing you backward while your hands explore the firm contours of his chest and stomach. Your calves bump against something soft, and you realize it's the couch. You break the kiss, but his lips follow yours as if he's not finished savoring you.

“Sit.” You coax.

His eyelids flip up to reveal dilated, icy eyes. He inclines back and smirks. “Always tellin’ me what to do.” 

He sits down reluctantly with a huff. You back away from the couch, taking a moment to admire the view. As you scan his shirtless body, you notice the defined muscles. The black metal of his arm glimmers under the dim light.

You reach behind you to pull at the navy ties on your back as he proceeds to complain from his seat. “Y’know, this is my apartment.” 

The ties give way, and you start to slide the thin straps down your shoulders. “I feel like I should be tellin’-” Bucky stops himself as the material of the dress cascades down your body, pooling at your feet. You’re completely naked save for the steel blue panties you're wearing.

“What were you saying?” You poke fun at his stunned expression.

He swallows hard as he observes the angles and curves of your form. "It's irrelevant."

You giggle, warm and breathy. You hook your fingers into the waistband of your panties. “Should I take these off, too?”

“No,” he blurts. “Keep ‘em on.”

You let go of the band, relaxing your hands at your sides. Bucky stretches out his arm and beckons you closer. “Come here.”

You saunter over to him. Once you’re close enough, he grips your hip with his metal hand. His cold touch sends shivers down your body. You sink onto the couch, positioning your knees on either side of him as you straddle his thighs. 

His flesh hand drags along the length of your figure, fingertips ghosting over you like he’s touching petals on a flower. “You’re stunning, doll.”

Your heart skips a beat at the compliment. Bucky’s eyes shift from your body to gaze up at you, and you cup his cheek. Your thumb strokes his skin, and he leans into your touch.

“Me?” You mutter. “You are perfect.”

His lips curl as he tilts his head up to peck your jaw in gratitude. When he leans back, his head dips to examine your panties again, his fingers toying with the waistband as he bites his lip.

“Do you know why I bought these?” you ask sheepishly. He shakes his head, his gaze still fixed on the steel blue fabric. “They reminded me of your eyes.”

Bucky looks up suddenly at your confession. "You're tryin’ to kill me, aren't you?"

You tilt your head back and chuckle. When you glance down again, he pokes your side. “That’s not funny! I swear, you’re going to give me a heart attack. You can’t just say that and expect me to stay calm,” he scolds, but you can’t help but keep laughing.

You tip your head forward and trail kisses from his cheek to his ear. “Sorry, baby. I wouldn’t want your heart to give out,” you whisper.

As you lean close to his ear, you gently nibble on his earlobe, and he lets out a soft grunt in response. You begin to kiss your way down his neck, focusing on the spots that elicit the strongest reactions from him. Your tongue flicks out to taste his skin, and you feel him shiver beneath you.

Bucky’s metal fingers press into your hip, as if he’s struggling to resist the urge to take you right here and now. His other hand lightly traces the wet spot on your underwear, making you groan against his neck.

“Hmm…you’re soaked,” he announces as he applies more pressure to your pussy. Your hips jerk when his fingertips move in circular motions on your underwear clad clit. 

You place lazy kisses along the area where metal touches skin. It's too hard to do anything beyond that now, as your head spins from his actions. You lean your forehead against the cool metal, finding a soothing comfort in it.

“There you go, just relax for me.” His voice is raspy as he speaks in your ear. 

He moves your panties to the side, running his fingers through your slick folds. Bucky slides a single digit into your entrance and you suck in a breath. He languidly pumps his finger into you while gently kissing your shoulder.

Your warm, heavy breathing against his chest quickens as he increases his pace. He inserts another one, stroking your walls with his long fingers. You let out a throaty moan and reach up to clutch his metal bicep to ground yourself.

You tip your head back to see him as he thrusts his fingers deeply into you. A delighted sound escapes your lips as his fingers crook deliciously inside of you. You grind against the palm of his hand as he works at your core.

“That’s it. Take what you need, darlin’.” He encourages.

You tilt his chin up and press your lips to his in a passionate kiss. He responds with equal enthusiasm as his fingers expertly plunge further and faster. Lips connect roughly as his teeth graze your bottom lip to nip at it. Your mouth separates from his, and your hot breath brushes across his lips. 

“I—I want to ride you.” You pant.

His fingers falter as he processes your comment. He inspects you as if he can’t believe you’re real. His metal fingers brush against your collarbone to tuck your hair back.

“Shit,” Bucky mutters, awestruck by you. “If that’s what you want.” 

He gradually reduces his pleasing movements as you nod your head in agreement. His fingers slip out of you, and when he holds them up, they’re glistening with your juices. He puts the digits to his mouth and wraps his lips around them, sucking them clean.

Your jaw drops at the sight; it’s the most erotic thing you’ve ever seen. You didn’t realize he could turn you on even more than you already are. 

He takes his fingers out of his mouth with a hum. “You taste divine. I would eat you out, but I guess we’ll save that for another time.” He states with a wink.

You aren't sure you can get off the couch now because your knees feel weak and your stomach is a fluttering mess.

He snaps the band of your underwear, pulling you from your daze. “How ‘bout you take these off for me while I take off my pants, sound good?”

You clamber off the couch as Bucky starts to unfasten his belt. You watch him intently while your thumbs hook into your panties. Sliding them down your thighs, you realize you’re both observing one another getting undressed.

You step out of your underwear and toss them somewhere in the living room. You hear him grunt from his seat now that you are completely bare.

He lifts his hips off the sofa and tugs his pants and boxers down the length of his thighs. You watch his cock spring free and your mouth begins to water. You want to drop to your knees for him, but the thought of him inside you is too tempting to resist.

Bucky tears the fabric from his legs and mimics your actions by tossing it across the room. He reaches out and holds you by your hips, then leans down to place soft kisses on your waist. He pulls you closer, and you both settle back into your spot on the couch.

His dick rests against his stomach, hardened and demanding. You take him firmly in your grasp and he sucks air through his teeth. You pump him a few times, spreading the precum with your thumb.

Your core is throbbing with anticipation. You decide you need him now. You position yourself over him, swiping the head of his cock through your slick. You line up his tip with your entrance, teasing it.

Bucky glances up at you with pleading eyes, and his grip on your hips is almost bruising. “Please, darlin’. I need to feel you.”

You didn’t know how beautiful begging could sound, but hearing it from his sweet lips is like silk blanketing your ears. “I know, honey. I need you too.” 

His eyes soften at the nickname. You’ll save that knowledge for later. 

You don’t waste any more time. You grab his shoulder with your free hand in preparation. Slowly, you lower yourself onto him as if you have all the time in the world, wanting to memorize every second of this moment.

He releases a strangled moan as his body goes rigid beneath you. He’s stretching out your tight pussy luxuriously as you inch down his cock. You maintain eye contact with him, observing the way his face twists in pleasure.

You settle onto his thighs, and he bottoms out inside you. You feel incredibly full, it’s a sensation you could easily get addicted to. As you take your time to adjust to his sheer size, you brush your knuckles across his cheekbone.

“You feel so good.” You praise. “Where have you been all my life?”

Bucky’s flesh hand loosens on your hip to take your wrist and kiss your palm. “Right here. I’ve been waiting for you.”

You lean in, kissing him desperately because you’re already addicted to him and can’t get enough. Your lips move tenderly against his, pouring every ounce of adoration you feel for him.

You ease up on his cock, moaning into each other's mouth. You fall back down, his dick filling you once more. You maintain a steady pace up and down on him, using his shoulder as leverage.

He breaks the kiss, allowing his hand to wander into your hair. He gently tugs on the strands at the base of your scalp to angle your head upwards. His mouth finds your neck like a magnet, kissing and licking the soft flesh.

Your hips roll at the pace of his languid kisses on your neck. Your greedy pussy is taking every delectable inch of him, drawing him in deep. Bucky groans against your throat, sending vibrations through you.

He caresses his way down your body, letting your hair fall as he trails his fingers over your thigh. Your hips pick up speed, riding him quicker. His forehead rests against your chest due to the sudden change of pace.

“Doll-” he drawls. “You feel incredible.”

Bucky licks a line up your sternum as his metal hand glides up your side. His touch is feather-light on your breast, a cool sensation sweeping over your nipple. His mouth moves to place wet, open-mouthed kisses along the opposite breast. 

He eventually finds your nipple with his mouth, flicking his tongue over the sensitive bud. He latches onto it, sucking and swirling his tongue around it. You arch into him, a lewd noise escaping your parted lips.

He palms at the other breast, massaging and swiping his thumb over the delicate skin. The pleasure you’re feeling from his skilled tongue only spurs you on, and it drives you to ride him faster, harder, and deeper.

He grunts and bites your nipple. Your mind feels overwhelmed by the intensity of it all. Has sex always been this magical? Not for you, at least. 

Bucky is the missing piece you’ve been searching for, not just because of the sex, but because of everything he brings to your life. The sex is incredible because he is incredible. It’s that simple.

“Just like that. Fuck—you’re doing so good.” He mumbles in between kisses as he trails over to your opposite breast. His metal hand moves back to your hip to help guide your movements.

He backs away from your chest when he knows he’s given equal attention to each of your breasts. He concentrates on your face, observing the way your lips part and the sounds that flow from them.

His fingers dig into your thigh as he begins to massage it. Bucky kneads the pliable skin, moving up and down the flesh until he’s squeezing your ass. With the leverage he has, he bucks up into you with the same rhythm you set. 

Your voice breaks into a guttural moan as he pulls you down forcefully onto his cock. You continue to match his tempo, but your hip movements are becoming more erratic.

“Let me take over, darlin’.” He groans. “I wanna make you feel good.”

How did you get so lucky to have a man who is more concerned about your pleasure? He makes it his mission to satisfy your every need; you just have to allow him to do so.

You softly smile. “I think you underestimate what your cock is doing to me.”

“Well, let me make you feel even better,” Bucky reiterates. You nod in response and stop your actions.

“Good girl,” he rasps. He scoots to the edge of the couch while still fully inside you. Carefully, he positions your legs to wrap around his hips, and his metal arm covers your torso. Then, he effortlessly picks you up as if you weigh nothing and begins moving across the apartment.

You cling to him, though you know he would never let you fall. He steps into his room and gingerly sets you down on the end of the bed. Leaning over you, he kisses the tip of your nose, causing you to giggle.

“You didn’t want to fuck me on your couch?” You tease.

“No,” he lowers his mouth to your ear and growls, “because you’re not some random hook up.”

Bucky punctuates that statement by slamming his dick into you. You whine and squirm beneath him. He inclines back and clutches your hips, thrusting into you at an unrelenting pace. You throw your head back against the mattress because he was right, this is even better.

He’s touching parts inside of you that you never knew existed. Your legs tighten around him as you reach for his neck, craving the sensation of him beneath your fingertips. His gaze is locked on you, and his eyes sparkle with a desperate desire to please you.

“Tell me how that feels, doll.” 

“Fucking fantastic.” You breathe, your lungs are working overtime, as he effortlessly drains the oxygen from your chest.

A ghost of a smile appears on his lips; that's exactly what he wanted to hear. Bucky's hand moves down to the underside of your knee. He takes hold of it and lifts it up, so your knee presses into your side. Finding the angle he desired, he pushes into you with renewed purpose.

You arch your back, and you wail when he hits that sweet spot deep inside of you. The head of his cock pounds against your g-spot repeatedly, reducing you to a writhing and whimpering mess.

He’s bringing you to the edge, and it’s happening quickly. The pressure is rising within you like a tidal wave, and you feel like you might drown in it. Your senses seem heightened, and Bucky is surrounding you, integrating himself into every one of them.

“James–” His name feels like a prayer on your lips.

“I know you’re close, pretty girl. Let me get you there.” His metal hand reaches between your bodies and his thumb rubs tight circles into your clit. 

Your cunt instantly clamps down on his dick and you moan loudly. You were already close, but now you’re teetering on the edge. Your free hand fists the sheets, and your thighs begin to shake.

“I’ve got you, darlin’. Let go. I’ll be right behind you.” His words drift over you like steam rising from a hot spring, warm and enticing.

Your body obeys immediately, your orgasm hitting you like a tsunami. The pressure coiled in your stomach releases and your pussy clenches hard around him in waves. You scream out in a breathless cry, your grip tightening on his neck as you tug him closer.

You’re a shuddering, aching mess under him. Your eyes are sewn shut, and you feel as though you’re floating. A wave of euphoria washes over you, leaving you high on the sensation.

Bucky presses his forehead to yours, whispering your name like a mantra. He grabs both your hips again, as if afraid you'll slip away.

His cock proceeds to ram into your pulsating cunt, working you through your climax until he’s twitching inside you. His cum spills deeply into you with a low groan from his lips. He’s coating your walls and warming your core with the thick liquid.

His hips come to a stop, and his head rests in the crook of your neck. Bucky wraps his arms around you in a tight hug. You lazily fold your arms over him, holding him as if you never want to let go. He nuzzles into your hair, inhaling your scent. You gently scratch his upper back, relishing the intimacy of the moment.

“You’re unbelievable.” He mutters right below your ear. “You’re real, right? This isn’t a dream?”

You let out a breathy laugh. “Yes, I’m very real, honey.” You kiss his shoulder softly. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

Bucky hums contentedly and leans back, gently slipping out of you. “Good.”

He strolls away from the bed and into the bathroom, turning on the light. You prop yourself up on your elbows to see what he’s doing. The sound of running water becomes audible, though you can’t see it.

He returns with a damp washcloth and completes his thought. “I’m holding you hostage.”

You’re smiling broadly. “I don’t believe this is a hostage situation if I’m here willingly.”

“Are you sure you don’t already have Stockholm syndrome?” he asks, a smirk on his face.

You chuckle and shake your head as he moves closer. He opens your legs and steps between them to wipe down your inner thighs, gently gliding his hand over your dripping cunt.

The sight gives you a warm feeling, knowing this isn’t the last time Bucky will take care of you. “Well, aren’t you the king of aftercare?” you joke.

“I can't leave my pretty girl in a mess, especially since I'm the one who made it.” Once he's finished, he tosses the dirty rag into his hamper and lies down beside you. He wraps his arms around you, pulling you close into his embrace.

You hum in contentment, burying your head into his chest. “I have a sneaky suspicion this won’t be the only mess we make tonight.”

Bucky squeezes you, running his hand through your hair to cradle your head. “I think you read my mind.”

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

The door clicks softly behind Bucky as he treads carefully through the hall. His heavy boots thud against the floor, so he decides to take them off at the door to avoid waking you from sleep.

He changes out of his tactical gear and puts on a pair of sleep shorts. Gingerly, he moves the blanket aside to crawl in beside you. You are facing the opposite direction, and your light breathing indicates that you are still asleep.

Bucky wraps his arms around you and kisses your shoulder, unable to help himself. You stir slightly, resting your arms over his and melting into him. 

“Where’d you go?” Your sleepy voice breaks the quiet.

His chest warms at the adorable sound as he whispers against your neck, “I had some business to take care of.”

You hum and snuggle into the pillow, settling back into a relaxed state. Suddenly, your head pops up, and you peek over your shoulder at him. “James, what did you do?”

“I didn’t do anything.” Bucky retorts.

You let out a heavy sigh; it's clear you know he's lying. You kick off the covers and hop out of bed, moving toward his closet. He ogles your naked form; fuck, he wants to take you again.

You grab a random shirt from a hanger and slip it on. Turning to face him, you cross your arms over your chest with a blank expression. “Where’s your first-aid kit?”

It's as if you see right through him. One glance into his eyes reveals exactly where he's been and what he's done.

“What? I’m fine. Come back to bed.” He pats the spot next to him.

You narrow your gaze at him, and your expression says it all: you don’t want to make me mad, James.

“Okay, okay.” Bucky points to the bathroom. “Cabinet. Top shelf.”

You practically stomp to the bathroom. He hears the sound of you rummaging around, and you exit with the opened first-aid kit in hand. You set it on his nightstand and search through it.

“Sit up,” you command in a surprisingly authoritative tone.

He smirks and does as you instructed him. “Always tellin-”

You hold up a finger, stopping him. “Not the time.”

“Don’t be upset.” He mutters.

Your shoulders, once tense, relax as you shake your head. “I’m not upset.” Your voice is softer and more gentle now.

“Then what’s wrong, doll?” Of course, he knows what’s bothering you, but he doesn’t seem to want to admit it. You haven’t seen this side of him; he’s afraid that because you have, you might leave.

“You paid Derek a visit, didn’t you?”

Bucky nods stiffly. “I did.”

You rub your forehead with your thumb and pointer finger. “Do I have to help you hide a body?”

“No.” He states simply.

You let your hand fall to your side now that you have confirmation that no murders occurred tonight. You point to his bloody and bruised knuckles and say, "If your hand is any indication, you beat the shit out of him."

“He got what he deserved. I actually let him off easy,” he grumbles, wishing he had done more to the bastard. He didn't use his metal arm; that was an act of mercy. Now he's regretting that decision.

“That’s not the point.” You release a long breath. “What if someone saw? Or worse, what if he talks? Your job could be in jeopardy.” You give him a worried expression.

“No one saw, and I doubt he’ll be saying much, if anything at all.” Bucky’s mind drifts back to the condition he left Derek in. His face was swollen, bloody, and bruised. Yup, he won’t be talking for a while; I made sure of that.

“Not helping.” You scold.

"Listen, nothing is more important than you. I would gladly lose my job if it meant keeping you safe." Your expression softens at his words, and he continues, knowing he has your full attention. “That asshole doesn’t get to speak to you like that, and get off scot-free.”

Bucky adjusts his tone to be light and caring as he takes your hand in both of his—flesh and metal. “I will always protect you. You never have to doubt that.” 

After a beat of silence, your lips curve into a smile. “Okay.”

He quirks a brow. “Okay? That’s it, no more arguing?”

“What’s there to argue about?” You shrug. “Like you said, the asshole got what he deserved.”

He returns your sweet grin and kisses your hand gently before letting it go. You bite your lip and turn around to search in the medical kit. Grabbing an antiseptic wipe, you extend your hand toward him. "Now, let me clean you up, honey."

“Yes, ma'am.” He offers his hand willingly. You clean the blood from his knuckles, scrubbing deep into the grooves between his fingers.

“Did Derek at least cry?” you inquire, tilting your head as you examine his wounds.

“Like a baby,” he replies. You snort as you toss the dirty wipe into his trash can. Taking out some ointment from the kit, you apply it to the sores on his skin. He doesn't really need it since he’s a super soldier with rapid healing, but he lets you do it anyway because he appreciates the way you care for him.

“He apologized, by the way,” he adds. “At least, I think he did. I couldn’t understand him through all the blood in his mouth.”

"Bucky," you scoff, but then you break into laughter. "That's awful."

He wants to laugh with you, but is caught off guard when you call him by his nickname. He’s never heard you say it before, and it sounds so pleasant to him. You put away the ointment, and then he grabs your wrist. You whip your head around to meet his gaze.

“Say that again.” His voice is low and rough.

You furrow your brows in confusion but then understand his meaning, and your expression softens.

“Oh,” you shift to face him, your voice becoming seductive and breathy. “Bucky.”

He basically melts; his lips part, and all his muscles loosen up. “Again. Slower. I like the way it sounds.”

You giggle and gently cup his face in your hands, obeying his request. “Bucky…” You lean down and press a lingering kiss to his forehead. His eyes flutter closed; he believes he has died and gone to heaven, with you as the angel welcoming him at the pearly gates.

You lean back, and he looks up at you with hooded eyes. “Alright, my hero,” you murmur. “Let’s get you to bed.”

Bucky's face is etched with amusement as you utter the words ‘my hero’. He has never been called that, nor has he felt like much of a hero anyway. But honestly, that word wouldn’t matter if it came from anyone else because he only ever wants to save you.

“Whatever you say, darlin’.”