hey yeah so turns out my visceral desire for henry winter x richard papen x reader is so insane that there are no fics at all. this is the first time in history that this has ever happened. i am distraught
Question to Marc Marquez : If you were an F1 driver, who would you be?
I would like to be Max Verstappen. A fighter, a killer. We get along really well. Obviously Fernando Alonso is Fernando Alonso and Carlos Sainz is Carlos Sainz but Max Verstappen transmits something different to me.
Monaco was quiet in January, if such a word could ever be applied to a place built for spectacle. The luxury yachts had mostly left the harbor, the thrum of tourists thinned out to a trickle, and the sun had mellowed out to a cool glimmer, trickling down the buildings like pale honey. You liked it that wayβquieter, less chaotic, more like home again.
You frowned in confusion. The number was from Monaco, alrightβsame country code and everything. But you didn't recognise the jumble of numbers either. Might as well say something back, you thought.
You
depends who's asking.
A pause. Then bubbles popped up on the screen. You watched them load, waiting for a reply.
Unknown Number
Ah, I invite you to dinner, and you pretend not to know who I am?
You
bold of you to assume i actually know??
Unknown Number
You truly do not?
You
nah
wrong number buddy
Unknown Number
Pierre, is this a joke? It is not funny π
You
i don't know anyone called pierre except my pet rat from 5th grade
Unknown Number
My apologies then, mysterious stranger. You have just saved me a reminder to him for a dinner he has most definitely forgotten.
I am sure that my friend Pierre and your pet rat bear a remarkable resemblance!
You
glad to be of service
Unknown Number
I'm Charles, by the way
You
Y/N
There was another pause, long enough that you'd already put your phone down, thinking the conversation was over. Then it pinged again.
charles (silly stranger)
Since I have clearly embarrassed myself already, I might as well ask
What do you think I should have for dinner?
That was how it all started.
It was the type of thing that shouldβve sorted itself out after a few messages. A funny mix-up, a polite apology, maybe a brief goodnight. But it didnβt.
Charles kept texting. Not constantly, not in a way that felt strangeβbut enough that his name started appearing regularly between your best friend's rants and calendar reminders.
The first few conversations were light. He asked about restaurants (βWhich place has the best pasta in Monaco, and why do I always end up at the worst one?β), about your day (βAre you the type who enjoys errands, or do you cry in the supermarket like I do?β), and, occasionally, talked about Pierreβthe friend heβd meant to message in the first place.
You never asked for details. You didnβt need to; from the sound of him, he was definitely local, a little chaotic, very funny in a dry, self-aware sort of way.
And so, against all reason, it became a thing.
You could be anywhere, having a croissant at the bakery down the road, going on a walk in the park, and your phone would chime with:
charles (silly stranger)
Today's disaster: burnt my toast so bad the smoke alarm decided to evacuate my entire building
Attached: toast.jpg
or:
charles (silly stranger)
Serious question, does caffeine make you shit more
Youβd laugh, answer something dumb back, and the chat would flow from there. It didnβt feel realβthis easy, invisible friendship with a stranger who made you smile through a screen.
Until one night, it did.
He'd asked what you were doing, and you'd answered back honestly.
You
idk sitting on my balcony like a loser π€·ββοΈ
charles (silly stranger)
That sounds nice! Send a photo
You
Attached: roof.jpg
nothing special
charles (silly stranger)
No, it is!
I know that view
Something about the way he said it made your fingers pause, mid-reply.
You
wdym??
charles (silly stranger)
I see it every morning
We are neighbors, maybe?
You laughed out loud.
You
pretty sure i'd notice an idiot named charles who texts stranger for fun
charles (silly stranger)
Probably not.
I am very stealthy, mon amie π
You didn't know it then, giggling to yourself at his message, but he wasn't lying.
It took nearly a month for you to finally realise which Charles he was.
Not because he told you, he never would. But because you opened Instagram one night and saw a very familiar kitchen counter. Same marbling pattern, the same espresso machine and mug you'd seen in your Charles' blurry breakfast photos.
You blinked at the screen, then at his username: @charles_leclerc
Oh.
Your stomach flipped. Monaco's own golden boy. Formula 1's prodigy. The Charles that couldn't walk ten feet without someone asking for a photo. And also, your stranger, who sent you updates about your day and pictures of his dog.
You typed out a message before you could overthink it.
You
so. random question. do you happen to own a ferrari or two??
There was a longer-than-usual break before he replied.
charles (silly stranger)
...Possibly
You
omfg i hate you
there's no freaking way i didn't realise
charles (silly stranger)
Does this make things weird?
You
only if you start signing off your texts with autographs, leclerc!
Of course, he didn't. And to your surprise, nothing really changed. If anything, he seemed relievedβtelling you more, sending pictures of himself modelling his new line of watchesβlike he didn't have to hide.
By late February, heβd become a fixture in your days.
Sometimes heβd call between meetings, his voice low and tired but always warm. Sometimes heβd send you photosβfrom Ferrari Headquarters, from his balcony, from quiet street corners. In return, you sent him glimpses of your ordinary life: market stalls, paint-stained hands, foggy harbour mornings.
He said he liked it, the normalcy.
charles (silly stranger)
Everyone else sees me in red and on cameras
You just send me tomato memes
You
i have layers, okay
charles (silly stranger)
Like an onion?
You
like a lasagna!!
You met him in person two weeks later.
It was an accident, technically. Youβd gone to the market near the marina for olive oil, muttering to yourself about how absurdly expensive everything in Monaco was, when someone called your name over the din.
βY/N?β
You turnedβand there he was. No cameras, no fireproofs, just Charles, in a navy tee-shirt and sneakers, holding a paper bag of oranges.
βHi,β he said, smiling in that slightly crooked, real way that didnβt match the polished photos online.
You blinked, hand still reaching out for the bottle of oil. βYouβre real.β
He laughed. βYou say that like Iβve been catfishing you.β
βI mean,β you said, βstatistically, it wouldnβt be that crazy.β
You stood there for a beat too long, both pretending not to be awkward. Then he said, βCoffee?β
βCoffee,β you agreed, returning his smile.
It was easier than it shouldβve been.
In person, Charles was exactly how he texted β kind, funny, one too many self-deprecating jokes about Ferrari's strategy. He asked about your art, listened properly, and told stories about racing that made you almost forget how famous he was.
He laughed when you teased him about his βPierre situation,β and he confessed that Pierre had, indeed, missed the dinner that night.
βYou know,β you said, βyou couldβve texted anyone else by mistake, and theyβd have blocked you immediately.β
βI was lucky then,β he said, looking at you in a way that made something flutter painfully in your chest.
Maybe it was the sun, or the sea air, or the fact that Monaco always felt too small for secrets. But something changed that afternoon.
A few weeks passed. You saw him moreβalways quietly, always by choice. Walks by the harbor, evenings on your balcony, coffee cups shared over half-finished books.
Then the photos came.
Someone had seen you together, of course. Monaco was tiny, and gossip travelled fast.
βI know,β you said quietly, sighing. βItβs not your fault.β
βIt feels like it.β
He paused. βDo you want me to say something? Tell them itβs notββ
βNo,β you cut in. βThatβll only make it worse.β
He exhaled softly. βThen what do we do?β
You didnβt have an answer.
The noise faded, eventually. It always did, the media had moved on to the next big thing before you could blink. But something between you was different after thatβnot worse, but fragile.
You still talked, still met up, but there was always the weight of being seen, the awareness that your private something could become public again at any moment.
And yet, every time he looked at you, every time his hand brushed yours across the table, you felt it: the reassurance that this was worth it.
It wasnβt dramatic when he kissed you for the first time.
It was late, you were on your balcony again, the air sharp with salt. Heβd been talking about the next race, something about setups and luck, when he trailed off mid-sentence.
You looked upβand he was watching you, eyes soft and warm, like he was about to say something stupid and brave.
Then he did.
βI never meant to text the wrong number,β he said, voice low. βBut Iβm glad I did.β
You barely had time to smile before he leaned in.
It wasnβt fireworks. It was quieter than thatβa kiss that felt inevitable, like the world had been quietly tilting toward it all along.
When you pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours. βYouβre smiling,β he murmured.
βSo are you,β you said.
βGood.β
After that, the world didnβt exactly stop being complicated. The season started, there were still headlines, still distance, still long weeks when you only had his voice through the phone.
But there were also mornings where you woke up to sunlight spilling over the city, a message from him waiting on your phone.
charles (silly stranger)
wrong number?
You
never again.
**divider credit goes to @pixopix!! thank you so much lovely xoxo
Monaco was quiet in January, if such a word could ever be applied to a place built for spectacle. The luxury yachts had mostly left the harbor, the thrum of tourists thinned out to a trickle, and the sun had mellowed out to a cool glimmer, trickling down the buildings like pale honey. You liked it that wayβquieter, less chaotic, more like home again.
You frowned in confusion. The number was from Monaco, alrightβsame country code and everything. But you didn't recognise the jumble of numbers either. Might as well say something back, you thought.
You
depends who's asking.
A pause. Then bubbles popped up on the screen. You watched them load, waiting for a reply.
Unknown Number
Ah, I invite you to dinner, and you pretend not to know who I am?
You
bold of you to assume i actually know??
Unknown Number
You truly do not?
You
nah
wrong number buddy
Unknown Number
Pierre, is this a joke? It is not funny π
You
i don't know anyone called pierre except my pet rat from 5th grade
Unknown Number
My apologies then, mysterious stranger. You have just saved me a reminder to him for a dinner he has most definitely forgotten.
I am sure that my friend Pierre and your pet rat bear a remarkable resemblance!
You
glad to be of service
Unknown Number
I'm Charles, by the way
You
Y/N
There was another pause, long enough that you'd already put your phone down, thinking the conversation was over. Then it pinged again.
charles (silly stranger)
Since I have clearly embarrassed myself already, I might as well ask
What do you think I should have for dinner?
That was how it all started.
It was the type of thing that shouldβve sorted itself out after a few messages. A funny mix-up, a polite apology, maybe a brief goodnight. But it didnβt.
Charles kept texting. Not constantly, not in a way that felt strangeβbut enough that his name started appearing regularly between your best friend's rants and calendar reminders.
The first few conversations were light. He asked about restaurants (βWhich place has the best pasta in Monaco, and why do I always end up at the worst one?β), about your day (βAre you the type who enjoys errands, or do you cry in the supermarket like I do?β), and, occasionally, talked about Pierreβthe friend heβd meant to message in the first place.
You never asked for details. You didnβt need to; from the sound of him, he was definitely local, a little chaotic, very funny in a dry, self-aware sort of way.
And so, against all reason, it became a thing.
You could be anywhere, having a croissant at the bakery down the road, going on a walk in the park, and your phone would chime with:
charles (silly stranger)
Today's disaster: burnt my toast so bad the smoke alarm decided to evacuate my entire building
Attached: toast.jpg
or:
charles (silly stranger)
Serious question, does caffeine make you shit more
Youβd laugh, answer something dumb back, and the chat would flow from there. It didnβt feel realβthis easy, invisible friendship with a stranger who made you smile through a screen.
Until one night, it did.
He'd asked what you were doing, and you'd answered back honestly.
You
idk sitting on my balcony like a loser π€·ββοΈ
charles (silly stranger)
That sounds nice! Send a photo
You
Attached: roof.jpg
nothing special
charles (silly stranger)
No, it is!
I know that view
Something about the way he said it made your fingers pause, mid-reply.
You
wdym??
charles (silly stranger)
I see it every morning
We are neighbors, maybe?
You laughed out loud.
You
pretty sure i'd notice an idiot named charles who texts stranger for fun
charles (silly stranger)
Probably not.
I am very stealthy, mon amie π
You didn't know it then, giggling to yourself at his message, but he wasn't lying.
It took nearly a month for you to finally realise which Charles he was.
Not because he told you, he never would. But because you opened Instagram one night and saw a very familiar kitchen counter. Same marbling pattern, the same espresso machine and mug you'd seen in your Charles' blurry breakfast photos.
You blinked at the screen, then at his username: @charles_leclerc
Oh.
Your stomach flipped. Monaco's own golden boy. Formula 1's prodigy. The Charles that couldn't walk ten feet without someone asking for a photo. And also, your stranger, who sent you updates about your day and pictures of his dog.
You typed out a message before you could overthink it.
You
so. random question. do you happen to own a ferrari or two??
There was a longer-than-usual break before he replied.
charles (silly stranger)
...Possibly
You
omfg i hate you
there's no freaking way i didn't realise
charles (silly stranger)
Does this make things weird?
You
only if you start signing off your texts with autographs, leclerc!
Of course, he didn't. And to your surprise, nothing really changed. If anything, he seemed relievedβtelling you more, sending pictures of himself modelling his new line of watchesβlike he didn't have to hide.
By late February, heβd become a fixture in your days.
Sometimes heβd call between meetings, his voice low and tired but always warm. Sometimes heβd send you photosβfrom Ferrari Headquarters, from his balcony, from quiet street corners. In return, you sent him glimpses of your ordinary life: market stalls, paint-stained hands, foggy harbour mornings.
He said he liked it, the normalcy.
charles (silly stranger)
Everyone else sees me in red and on cameras
You just send me tomato memes
You
i have layers, okay
charles (silly stranger)
Like an onion?
You
like a lasagna!!
You met him in person two weeks later.
It was an accident, technically. Youβd gone to the market near the marina for olive oil, muttering to yourself about how absurdly expensive everything in Monaco was, when someone called your name over the din.
βY/N?β
You turnedβand there he was. No cameras, no fireproofs, just Charles, in a navy tee-shirt and sneakers, holding a paper bag of oranges.
βHi,β he said, smiling in that slightly crooked, real way that didnβt match the polished photos online.
You blinked, hand still reaching out for the bottle of oil. βYouβre real.β
He laughed. βYou say that like Iβve been catfishing you.β
βI mean,β you said, βstatistically, it wouldnβt be that crazy.β
You stood there for a beat too long, both pretending not to be awkward. Then he said, βCoffee?β
βCoffee,β you agreed, returning his smile.
It was easier than it shouldβve been.
In person, Charles was exactly how he texted β kind, funny, one too many self-deprecating jokes about Ferrari's strategy. He asked about your art, listened properly, and told stories about racing that made you almost forget how famous he was.
He laughed when you teased him about his βPierre situation,β and he confessed that Pierre had, indeed, missed the dinner that night.
βYou know,β you said, βyou couldβve texted anyone else by mistake, and theyβd have blocked you immediately.β
βI was lucky then,β he said, looking at you in a way that made something flutter painfully in your chest.
Maybe it was the sun, or the sea air, or the fact that Monaco always felt too small for secrets. But something changed that afternoon.
A few weeks passed. You saw him moreβalways quietly, always by choice. Walks by the harbor, evenings on your balcony, coffee cups shared over half-finished books.
Then the photos came.
Someone had seen you together, of course. Monaco was tiny, and gossip travelled fast.
βI know,β you said quietly, sighing. βItβs not your fault.β
βIt feels like it.β
He paused. βDo you want me to say something? Tell them itβs notββ
βNo,β you cut in. βThatβll only make it worse.β
He exhaled softly. βThen what do we do?β
You didnβt have an answer.
The noise faded, eventually. It always did, the media had moved on to the next big thing before you could blink. But something between you was different after thatβnot worse, but fragile.
You still talked, still met up, but there was always the weight of being seen, the awareness that your private something could become public again at any moment.
And yet, every time he looked at you, every time his hand brushed yours across the table, you felt it: the reassurance that this was worth it.
It wasnβt dramatic when he kissed you for the first time.
It was late, you were on your balcony again, the air sharp with salt. Heβd been talking about the next race, something about setups and luck, when he trailed off mid-sentence.
You looked upβand he was watching you, eyes soft and warm, like he was about to say something stupid and brave.
Then he did.
βI never meant to text the wrong number,β he said, voice low. βBut Iβm glad I did.β
You barely had time to smile before he leaned in.
It wasnβt fireworks. It was quieter than thatβa kiss that felt inevitable, like the world had been quietly tilting toward it all along.
When you pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours. βYouβre smiling,β he murmured.
βSo are you,β you said.
βGood.β
After that, the world didnβt exactly stop being complicated. The season started, there were still headlines, still distance, still long weeks when you only had his voice through the phone.
But there were also mornings where you woke up to sunlight spilling over the city, a message from him waiting on your phone.
charles (silly stranger)
wrong number?
You
never again.
**divider credit goes to @pixopix!! thank you so much lovely xoxo
say cheese! -- lando norris x driver!reader βΉββ‘β
warnings β none!!
reader β driver!reader
summary β the infamous ralph lauren shoot. only now, youβthe infamous 'bombshell' mercedes driverβare forced to smile and wave at his side. everyone knows of your infamous rivalry, both on and off the track; what could be a better way to make amends than to stick you in a dress, and him in a sleek leather?
word count β 1729 words
Being in any sort of sport as a girl was difficult. More so, in motorsport. And unfortunately, that was exactly what you did to earn your keep.
It wasn't that you were bad, not at all. If anything, you were one of the bestβyou won everything. From karting as an eight year old to winning F3 on your debut year, then F2 the year after, you dominated the leaderboard. And now, your rookie year in F1.
It was nearly unheard of, for such a new driver to the grid to join on such a prominent team: Mercedes. They'd been watching you all throughout F3 and F2, you'd noticed. Someone decked out in black and silver would always be in the grandstands, taking notes and nodding with approval. Finally, in the season break, they'd finally reached out.
Hello!
I hope you are doing well. We are reaching out to offer a position as a driver next year. We have been observing your driving for an extended period of time, and have determined that you are a very talented and promising young woman. It would be of our utmost honor to provide you with the best resources availiable, and further hone your skills into that of a race winner. Please consider this position, and let us know via return email before January 15th.
We'd love to see you next year!
Mercedes AMG Petronas
It'd been too good to be true. A contract with Mercedes would almost certainly guarantee you a position in the top 10, if not the top 5 of every race. Signing that piece of paper was one of the most significant points in your whole career. Everything changedβbrands, people, and even other drivers had finally taken notice. They didn't see just a pretty face, they saw results. Standings and finishes that even drivers with 10 years of experience couldn't reach. Sponsors lined up along the block, pestering Toto every minute for an opportunity with you. You represented so much more than you ever could've imagined: a driver at the forefront of a male-dominated sport, a martyr for all girls who dreamt for the impossible.
Now, it was your very first race weekend of the season. Your first race weekend in F1, ever. The Australian Grand Prix. You knew exactly just how important this race wasβone slip, one wrong call, and everything that you'd built up over the years would be dismissed in a single 'she's still a girl'. As a safety against this, Mercedes had accepted an offer from Ralph Lauren. To your utter despair, it was in partnership with McLarenβmore importantly, with Lando Norris.
Possibly your least favourite driver, and the man with whom you'd fought with for years. During karting, he'd run you off the track more than once. In F2, he'd nearly won against you in the last moments of the season. You thanked your lucky stars every day that he didn't get the championship that year. He would've been even more insufferable than he already is.
The whole point of the shoot was to show that you were desirable to other sponsors. Not that you were in any shortage of them, but it never hurt to be safe. In case you ever had a bad weekend, there would always be something to fall back on. Everyone was well aware of your stunning looks anywaysβwhen did it ever hurt to capitalise on something that was already there? You'd been nicknamed the 'bombshell' by all the tabloids (and oddly enough, skysports themselves), and not inaccurately at all. long legs, magnetic eyes, and an allure that seemed to draw everyone in no matter what. Mercedes' PR representative had almost fainted in joy at seeing how well you handled Media Day, patting your hair and twittering excitedly about finally 'having someone decent to manage'.
Straight after the last interview, you'd been rushed off in a flurry of clipboards and radios to the shoot. You'd barely blinked before you were sat in front of a huge vanity and zipped into a satiny dress. The makeup artist was working quickly, applying golden shimmer onto your eyelids with careful strokes of the brush. Someoneβyou couldn't tell whoβwas beside you, curling bits of your hair and brushing it through. A final coat of deep red lipstick was added, and you were ready.
Standing up in stilettos, you were indescribable. Long, toned legs only accentuated by a deep red dress, complete with a slit that drew all the way up to your mid-thigh. An open back that displayed the dip in between your shoulder blades, the valley where your spine curved, skin that glowed with a divine atmosphere. The various makeup and hair people smiled with pride, and you thanked them profusely, knowing they made you look fit for the runway.
Opening the door of your fitting room, you could just make out the outline of Lando, fitted into a leather jacket in matching red and black to your dress. You braced yourself for the onslaught of teasing and jabs and walked down the hallway. He noticed you before you even stepped foot onto the set.
"Well," He grinned, eyeing you up and down. "Didn't know Mercedes was branching into modelling now."
You didn't relieve him with more than a passing glance. "I didn't know McLaren was still relevant enough to get invited.
That one hit; you could see it in the clench of his jaw, the stiffening of his back. He recovered quickly, tilting his head in mock admiration. "Ah, there she is. The bombshell with bite."
The photographerβan middle-aged man with sharp glasses and an even sharper voiceβclapped his hands. "Alright, you two! Save the flirting for later. We're on a tight schedule."
Hah. Flirting. You almost scoffed. But the second you stepped into the diffused red light, you understood exactly why they'd picked the two of you, instead of anyone else on the grid. The smooth backdrop of chrome and black, the Ralph Lauren logo gleaming in goldβthe pairing looked good. The contrast between his relaxed, boyish confidence and your lethal, poised elegance was electric. You could already picture the headlines. The Pairing that Redefines Formula 1: Mercedes' Bombshell Meets McLaren's Golden Boy.
βAlright,β the photographer said, stepping back. βLando, hand on her waist. Look at her like you want to kill herβor kiss her, I donβt care which. Letβs go.β
You felt his fingers brush against your side, restingβtoo casuallyβat the small of your back. The leather of his jacket was warm against your skin, and you hated the fact that you noticed.
βTry not to look too happy about it,β you muttered under your breath, keeping your face angled toward the camera.
βIβm not,β he said, lips barely moving. βIβm terrified youβll stab me with a stiletto.β
βTempting.β
The flash went off, catching the faintest ghost of a smirk tugging at both your mouths. The photographer practically beamed. βPerfect! Thatβs the energy I want. Again!β
You leaned slightly closer, your hand brushing his chest for the next shot, eyes sharp and cold as glass. You could feel the tension radiating between youβpart rivalry, maybe something that neither of you wanted to acknowledge.
When the camera clicked for the final frame, Lando let out a slow breath and stepped back first. βYou clean up well,β he said, not quite meeting your eyes this time.
βSo do you,β you replied, then paused, letting your gaze flick over his jacket. βFor someone who nearly ran me off-track at Silverstone.β
He laughed softly. βStill holding onto that? Come on, you won that race.β
βExactly.β You gave him a small smile, the kind that could cut glass. βAnd I donβt plan on letting you forget it.β
The crew was already moving, resetting lights and props, but for a moment, he just stood there, watching you walk awayβheels clicking against the polished floor, red dress trailing like a flame.
If the season was going to be anything like this, you thought grimly, then it was going to be war.
**divider credit goes to @pixopix!! thank you so much lovely xoxo
just started watching house and I thought yall were exaggerating but no. every episode is just like three wrong diagnoses that almost kill the patient and then house is like "he has underwater skunk herpes" and they give the guy a new butthole and he's cured. and then house chugs vicodin while talking about wanting to rail wilson.
new year's eve -- jj maybanks x bsf!reader βΉββ‘β
warnings β none, just tooth rotting, back arching fluff !
reader β fem!reader
summary β you've been best friends with jj maybanks for all your life. he's privately conflicted when he starts to notice his mindless flirting is turning into something real. of course, he's been pining after you for the better part of a year, but on the other hand, your friendship with him is simply too much to risk. before long, new year's eve rolls around, and he makes a drastic decision.
word count β 990 words
outer banks was heaven on earth, especially when the year was drawing to a close. you could feel the energy thrumming through the people, hear the excited chatter and find the occasional leftover christmas bauble floating in the surf.
the kooks, who lived on the north side of the island, were usually gone by now, on a fancy private jet to ski in switzerland, or some equally pretentious motive. however, this left the majority of outer banks to the pogues. for the pogues, this was the one time of year where they weren't washing yachts, cleaning tables, or working their asses off.
you'd always been a pogue, born and bred.
it was new years eve, so jj invited practically everyone on the island over to the chateau for a 'ass blowing party', in his words. the sun was just dipping below the horizon when you arrived, washing everything with a brilliant hazy orange. pulling your jeep to a stop outside the slightly rundown house, you got out and headed towards the backyard, where music was booming through the trees and shady outlines of figures were visible through the foliage.
walking towards your group of friends, you smacked jj upside the head before he said a word.
"when you say a party, you're not supposed to invite all the pogues in outer banks over to the chateau!" you hissed, crossing your arms for good measure.
"hey, hey gorgeous, it's not my fault-- goddamn!" his eyes widened, eyeing you appraisingly. "well well well, look at you, lil' mama!"
you couldn't help but smile. he'd always had that effect on everyone. "you're not looking too bad yourself, maybank."
"when am i ever lookin' bad, huh?" he retorted, raising an eyebrow teasingly. before you could reply, he put his hand over your mouth, shaking his head. "uh huh, that's right. never." he laughed, letting you go.
"what about that time we were at the wreck?" john b jumped in, holding back a laugh. "didn't you stumble in with half your hair buzzed, missing a shoe?"
jj gasped affrontedly in mock indignation, leaping over to tackle john b in a headlock. "i told you not to bring that up!"
you tutted with a disappointed look on your face, watching the two boys tussle with each other. "jj maybank, how are you ever going to get a girlfriend at this rate?"
he choked a little on air, and tried to play it off, tossing john b at you and sarah with a playful shove, leaving john b to stumble against sarah's side like a disoriented puppy.
"y/n, how could you say that? you know i've got girls lined up around the block," he mock pouted, coming over and slinging an arm around your shoulders. "and plus, even if they don't like me, i've got you to give me a new year's kiss!"
you snorted, leaning your head on his shoulder. "yeah sure, jay. i'm gonna give you a new year's kiss, and the sky's fuckin' green."
"aww, you wound me, sugar." he said, looking down at you with a grin.
"oh, you big baby." you laughed, lightly bumping him with your hip. "you'll find your girl soon enough."
"i bet i will." he said, his eyes flicking back to the party after a moment.
the night went on as per usual, and of course, jj got drunk and had to be dragged around everywhere. and you were stuck with the job.
"jesus christ, jay, you smell like vomit." you wrinkled your nose, his arm draped over you again.
"i smell like strawberries and roses, thank you very much." he slurred, clumsily putting a finger on your lower lip.
you rolled your eyes, taking his hand off. "jj, cmon, let's get you some water."
"i don't water, i want a kiss from my pretty baby," he said, his eyes barely focusing on your face. "my pretty pretty baby."
"and who might that be?" you decided to humour him, slowly making your way over to the drinks table with a borderline incoherent jj in tow.
he laughed a little, the sound petering off towards the end. "well, she's like, super pretty. super super pretty." he grinned, his weight falling on you even more as he lifted the arm over your shoulders to draw a circle in the air. "and she's got an ass like," he made the circle even bigger. "that."
you raised an eyebrow, holding back a laugh. "does she? well, you'll have to introduce me to her sometime, won't you, jay?"
he finally looked at your face properly for the first time since he did that keg stand a while back. "hey, you look just like her!" he exclaimed drunkenly, stumbling a little as you came to a stop next to the water dispenser. "you've got the same... face!"
you paused a little, in between getting a cup and filling it. "do i?"
he nodded earnestly, finally standing a little straighter. "you look a little too like her, dude."
your reply was cut off as you heard people near the firework stand chanting 'ten! nine! eight!".
your eyes widening, you took jj's arm off your shoulder and held his wrist instead, dragging him over to the crowd. the flashing lights and glow sticks radiated off your face, colouring everything bright blue and deep violet. "c'mon, jay, count with me." you laughed, looking at his confused expression.
"y/n?" he asked, an expression of revelation coming over his face. "i think you're my pretty baby."
"what?-" you said, turning back to face him with a bewildered look. however, anything you said next was utterly drowned out by the exploding fireworks 50 feet away from you, and ultimately, jj's warm, if a little chapped, lips right on yours. his arms pulled you close, holding you pressed against him until the fireworks ended. eventually, you broke apart, breathing heavily. "god, jj," you laughed, after a brief pause. "you're my pretty baby too."
**divider credit goes to @pixopix!! thank you so much lovely xoxo
β§ name : you can call me espresso, or any variation of that! i love any and all names that you angels give me xoxo
β§ just some info : i usually fixate on a handful of characters at a time, and will probably just write about those characters until i move on. if you've got any other characters you'd like me to write, just send in a request!!
β§ okay on a less cutesy patootsie note, idk how any of this tumblr shit works so pls help a girl out
β§ also i've got no idea what to write! i beg yall, send in some reqs before i go insane
**divider credit goes to @pixopix!! thank you so much lovely xoxo
β§ please don't spam my asks with the same request. sometimes i might not necessarily see everything in my inbox, but i promise im trying my best to get through all of them xoxo!
β§ certain posts will be flagged as mdni! if you're a minor and you choose to continue, it's your choice. but please do not request adult themes if you are below 18 years of age, or you will be blocked.
β§ i do not, and will not ever write rape or dubcon.
β§ requests that have characters dealing with extremely specific or personal issues will unfortunately be denied. i'd like to abstain from writing those types of requests as i simply don't have the experience nor the means to do them justice.
β§ this blog primarily is written for a fem!reader, however i am open to writing other gender identities (with a little bit of guidance). however, i will never describe reader with any weight / race markers, just to keep it neutral for all audiences!!
β§ this is most definitely a safe space for everyone! hate towards anyone or me will not be tolerated, and you will be blocked.
β§ if you'd like to claim an anon emoji, send a message through to my ask box!
βｑΛΰ¨ΰ§Λｑβ misc : anything and everything that doesn't fall into any of the above categories. could be polls, discussions, edits, anons or you angels' messages!
please tell me if you feel as though i've missed something, or have any questions! this list may be updated / added to periodically.
signing off, espresso <3
**divider credit goes to @pixopix!! thank you so much lovely xoxo
pixelskylines
snowghoul
s-u-f-j-a-n-s-t-e-v-e-n-s
titsay
