Mama We Are Following The Rule Of Not Believing Anything You Feel After 9pm. Goodnight

mom said it’s MY turn to lay gently in the cold dark earth

Enchanted - Part 1/7

Pairing: Enzo Vogrincic x Actress!Reader

Synopsis: Bored at an event as a brand ambassador, you lock eyes with a man across the room and your evening takes a turn. Based on this request

Wordcount: 3.1k

Warnings: fluff, tension, minor angst (if you squint), flirting, reader has a backstory, mentions of alcohol, brief use of Y/N

A/N: additional warning: cringy dialogue? This is mostly a prologue for the series. A little bit based on the song Enchanted by Taylor Swift. And as always, just pretend they're speaking Spanish.

Series Masterlist & Masterlist

As the pulsating beat of the music filled the air, you navigated through the crowded room with practiced ease, a glass of champagne in hand. The sparkling lights and chatter of the guests created a vibrant atmosphere, but deep down, you couldn't shake off a sense of unease. This wasn't where you wanted to be tonight. 

It was another glamorous event, one of many that filled your calendar as an ambassador for a prestigious beauty brand. Normally, you'd have your sister by your side, her infectious laughter and unwavering support serving as a comforting presence in these bustling gatherings. But tonight, she was bedridden with illness, leaving you to navigate the soirée solo.

You couldn't help but notice the familiar patterns that seemed to repeat themselves at every event. New products were unveiled, celebrities graced magazine covers, and champagne flowed freely—all under the guise of celebration.

You engaged in polite small talk with the attendees, effortlessly slipping into the role of the charming socialite. Yet, behind the facade of smiles and laughter, you couldn't shake the feeling of detachment. These people knew you only as the glamorous persona you projected in public—a facade meticulously crafted by years in the spotlight.

Your mind drifted back to the beginnings of your journey in the entertainment industry. It had been a whirlwind journey from your first gig at eleven years old as a child actor to the seasoned professional you had become, fifteen years later. Acting was more than just a career; it was your passion, your raison d'être.

Despite the glitz and glamour that often accompanied your profession, you had managed to steer clear of scandal, maintaining a pristine reputation in an industry known for its pitfalls. Your films had garnered critical acclaim, and your portrayal of diverse characters had earned you a devoted fan base.

Being an ambassador for this beauty brand had added another layer of prestige to your already illustrious career. For nearly five years, you had been the face of their campaigns, gracing magazine covers and social media platforms with your radiant presence. It was a symbiotic relationship—you promoted their products, and they rewarded you handsomely in return.

Yet, beneath the veneer of success, there lurked a sense of disillusionment. The industry often felt hollow, leaving you longing for something more substantial. Tonight was one of those moments, as you navigated the familiar landscape of superficiality and pretense that often defined these events.

Despite the occasional monotony of these events, you had learned to navigate them with grace and composure. You remembered the time you had made a hasty exit from a particularly dull affair, much to the dismay of your publicist. Since then, you had adhered to her strict rule of staying for at least two hours—an obligation that often tested your patience.

As you engaged in small talk with an influencer, your mind wandered, the minutes ticking by at an excruciatingly slow pace. You glanced at your phone, hoping to find that more time had passed than you realized, only to discover that a mere 45 minutes had gone by. One hour and 15 minutes left to endure. You yearned for the comfort of your sister's presence.

Taking a sip of your champagne, you scanned the room, searching for a distraction from the dullness. That's when you felt a pair of eyes boring into you, a subtle change in energy that drew your attention like a magnet. Turning slightly, you found yourself locking eyes with a man across the room, though he quickly averted his eyes. There was something oddly familiar about him, a nagging feeling that tugged at the recesses of your memory.

He was undeniably handsome, his features chiseled and his demeanor exuding an air of quiet confidence. Yet, despite his striking appearance, he appeared just as out of place in this sea of superficiality as you felt. And then it clicked—recognition dawned upon you like a sudden burst of clarity. You knew where you had seen him before.

His eyes met yours once more, and you felt a flush of warmth spread across your cheeks, realizing you had been caught staring. Feeling bold and excited about the prospect of conversing with someone new, you excused yourself from your current conversation and made your way through the crowd towards him.

With each step closer to him, your heart quickened, a mixture of nerves and excitement coursing through you. You couldn't deny the flutter of anticipation as you closed the distance between you, determined to strike up a conversation with this intriguing man.

As you reached him, he looked at you, a subtle shift in his demeanor betraying his surprise at your approach, though he greeted you with a polite smile.

With a friendly grin, you introduced yourself, the words tumbling effortlessly from your lips. "Hi, I'm Y/N."

"Oh, I know. I'm— I'm Enzo," he responded, his words accented with a hint of nervousness, spoken in English with a charming accent.

Your smile widened at his response. "Oh, I know," you replied, switching to Spanish, a language that seemed to bridge the gap between you. "I saw your movie. It was incredible."

A look of relief washed over Enzo's features at the sound of his native language, his eyes lighting up with a spark of surprise and gratitude as he registered your words.

"Wow, thank you. That means a lot coming from you. I'm a big fan of all your work," he expressed, his hand resting on his chest in a gesture of gratitude.

"Thank you," you replied, feeling a surge of warmth at his compliment.

"I didn't know you speak Spanish. I've spoken bad English the whole evening," he quipped.

You chuckled softly, enjoying the easy banter between you. "Yeah, my father is from Mexico, so I grew up with both languages. Although I don't speak it now as often as I would like."

Enzo's presence had a way of putting you at ease, and you found yourself opening up to him more than you had anticipated. Whether it was the shared language or an inexplicable connection, you couldn't deny the magnetic pull drawing you closer to him with each passing moment.

Enzo nodded in agreement, his eyes scanning the room once more as if seeking an escape route from the stifling atmosphere of the party. "So, what's the appropriate time to ditch these kinds of events?" he asked, a hint of uncertainty lacing his words. Lost in the sea of unfamiliar faces and foreign conversations, he seemed to look to you for guidance.

You couldn't help but empathize with his predicament. Navigating through such social gatherings could indeed be daunting, especially for someone new to the scene and grappling with a language barrier. Yet, there was a certain charm in his candid vulnerability, a quality that drew you to him even more.

But rather than dwell on the situation, you decided to lighten the mood with a playful suggestion. "Let's play a game," you proposed, a mischievous glimmer dancing in your eyes.

"A game?" Enzo echoed, his curiosity piqued.

You nodded eagerly. "It's called people-watching. My sister came up with it."

Enzo's brow furrowed in confusion. "Aren't people usually watching you?"

You couldn't contain a chuckle at his puzzled expression. "Exactly! But this way, we can be on the opposite side for once." 

Enzo still looked slightly bemused, but there was a spark of intrigue in his eyes as he awaited your instructions. “Alright. How do I play it?”

"It's simple," you replied, a mischievous glint dancing in your eyes as you scanned the room, searching for a suitable target. "I pick out someone in the room, and then you have to make up a story about them. And vice versa. Something wild and completely absurd. The funnier answer wins."

"And what do I get if I win?"

You turned to face him fully, only to find him already gazing at you with an intensity that sent a subtle shiver down your spine. The sudden acceleration of your heart rate caught you off guard, leaving you momentarily breathless. What was it about this man that had you feeling so off-kilter, so inexplicably drawn to him?

"How about my phone number?" you suggested with a playful tilt of your head, a mischievous smile tugging at the corners of your lips. The words slipped out before you could fully process them, but there was no turning back now.

As the realization of your own flirtatiousness dawned on you, a thrill coursed through you, mingling with the nervous excitement that bubbled in the pit of your stomach. 

Enzo's response was a raised eyebrow, his smirk deepening as he held out his hand in agreement. “Deal.”

You swallowed hard, the weight of the moment settling over you as you met his gaze, feeling a surge of anticipation coursing through your veins. With trembling fingers, you reached out to grasp his hand, the touch sending a shiver of electricity racing up your arm. It was a simple gesture, yet it felt charged with a palpable energy that left you breathless.

Enzo's grip was firm yet oddly comforting, his touch igniting a warmth that spread from your fingertips to your core. As you withdrew your hand, you couldn't help but notice the subtle shift in Enzo's expression, a flicker of something unreadable dancing in his eyes. It was as if he, too, felt the charged atmosphere hanging between you.

You blinked, willing your thoughts to clear as you focused on the task at hand. "How about you pick someone and I go first?" you suggested, eager to divert your attention from the lingering sensation of his touch.

Enzo nodded in agreement, his gaze scanning the room before settling on a figure in a blue suit. "Her," he declared, tipping his chin in the direction of an elegant older lady who stood at the edge of the crowd.

You studied her for a moment, taking in her poised demeanor and the air of sophistication that seemed to radiate from her. With a thoughtful expression, you searched your mental catalog for a suitable name, your brows furrowing slightly in concentration.

"Her name is Mrs. Eleanor Pemberton," you declared with a hint of theatricality, a playful twinkle dancing in your eyes as you invented a persona for the unsuspecting stranger. "She's a retired spy, covert operations specialist turned etiquette coach. Trained in the art of espionage, but now she spends her days teaching the elite how to navigate high society."

Enzo raised an eyebrow, his lips quirking up in amusement at your imaginative tale. "That's … Wow, a retired spy?" he chuckled, clearly entertained by your creativity.

You nodded emphatically, unable to suppress a grin. "Absolutely. Just look at the way she surveys the room, assessing every detail with a trained eye. It's all part of her covert training," you insisted, weaving an elaborate backstory for Mrs. Pemberton on the fly.

Enzo's laughter subsided into a warm smile, though his gaze lingered on you for a moment longer, a subtle warmth in his hazel eyes that made your heart flutter involuntarily. There was something undeniably captivating about the way he looked at you, as if he possessed the ability to unravel the layers of your persona with just a single gaze.

Shaking off the unexpected wave of shyness, you redirected your focus to the task at hand, scanning the room for your chosen subject.

“Your turn, Enzo,” you prompted, nodding towards a man with a full beard who stood behind a group of women. “Him. What’s his story?”

Enzo followed your gaze, his eyes narrowing slightly as he focused on the man you had indicated. His lips curved into a mischievous smile, a glint of amusement dancing in his hazel eyes as he considered his response.

"Him? Oh, that's... let's see," Enzo mused, his tone thoughtful as he leaned in closer, as if sharing a secret. "That's Luis Morales. He was a circus performer once but now he's a chef."

You couldn't help but chuckle at his unexpected choice, raising an eyebrow in mock skepticism. "From circus to food?"

Enzo nodded, his expression deadpan. "Luis has a gift. He's known for incorporating circus tricks into his cooking routines. Rumor has it he once cooked a five-course meal while balancing on a tightrope."

You laughed, amused by Enzo's storytelling. "Sounds like quite the character. I'll have to keep an eye out for him at the next dinner party," you teased, relishing in the lighthearted banter between you.

Engaging in conversation with Enzo felt effortless and light-hearted, as if you had been friends for years rather than meeting him for the first time. There was a natural chemistry between you, a comfortable rhythm that flowed seamlessly from one topic to the next.

"Give me your phone," you requested, holding out your hand expectantly.

Enzo arched an eyebrow, a playful glint dancing in his eyes. "I won?" he inquired, retrieving his phone from his pocket.

"Extra points for your first time playing," you countered with a playful smirk, masking the fact that you had just invented that rule on the spot, solely for his benefit.

He handed you his phone, and you quickly entered your number into his contacts. As you returned it to him, your fingers brushed lightly, leaving a tingling sensation in its wake. Enzo accepted his phone with a smile and he tapped away on the screen.

Meanwhile, your own phone vibrated discreetly in your purse, drawing your attention. Curious, you retrieved your phone and discovered a message from an unknown number. 

You're beautiful, it read, causing a rush of warmth to flood your cheeks at the unexpected compliment. Glancing up, you found Enzo's gaze fixed on you, his smile tender and genuine. 

"Thank you," you murmured softly, a smile tugging at the corners of your lips.

The warmth that flooded your chest upon receiving Enzo's swift reply was unexpected yet undeniably welcome. With his number now stored in your phone, you couldn't help but feel a sense of anticipation for the conversations that lay ahead.

There was something about Enzo's quiet confidence that drew you to him like a magnet. In his presence, you felt a sense of ease and comfort that you hadn't experienced in a long time. It was as if the two of you existed in your own little bubble. The hours slipped away unnoticed as you lost yourselves in each other's company.

As you made your way home, you couldn't help but marvel at the feeling of nervous excitement that bubbled within you when you thought of him. It was rare for you to feel such a strong connection with someone, especially someone you had only just met. 

The memory of the hug he had given you before parting lingered in your mind, filling you with a warmth that matched the flush of your cheeks. Enzo was undeniably charming, with a quick wit and an infectious sense of humor that had you hanging on his every word.

And then there was his undeniable attractiveness, a fact that hadn't escaped your notice from the moment you laid eyes on him. The thought of his hazel eyes and the way his smile seemed to light up his entire face brought a fresh wave of heat to your cheeks, and you couldn't help but smile to yourself at the memory.

By the time you arrived home, you couldn't shake the feeling of gratitude for having met Enzo. He had injected a spark of excitement into an otherwise ordinary evening.

–

Lying in bed, bathed in the soft glow of your bedside lamp, you found yourself unable to shake thoughts of Enzo from your mind. The events of the evening replayed in your head like a looped film reel, each moment etched into your memory with a clarity that surprised you. 

You should have been trying to get some sleep, especially with an audition looming on the horizon. But here you were, lost in a sea of thoughts, your mind refusing to quiet down.

With a sigh, you reached for your phone, fingers dancing over the screen as you navigated to your chat with Enzo. Only one message stared back at you, a silent reminder of the connection you had forged earlier in the evening.

Should you text him now, or wait until after your audition? The question lingered in your mind, uncertainty tugging at the edges of your thoughts. Perhaps it was too late, and he was already fast asleep, lost in dreams that had nothing to do with you. Or maybe he was lying awake, just like you, his mind consumed by thoughts of the woman he had met at the party.

Shaking your head, you scolded yourself for getting ahead of yourself. There was no way of knowing what Enzo was doing at this very moment. After all, you barely knew the man. 

Yet, even as you entertained the possibility of reaching out to him, a nagging doubt crept into your mind. What if he was already seeing someone? What if the connection you felt was nothing more than a fleeting moment in time, destined to be forgotten amidst the chaos of everyday life?

Curious, you opened Instagram and searched for his name. Enzo's profile popped up, and you immediately saw the "Follow back" button. He was already following you. The realization sent a flutter through your chest, a rush of excitement mingled with uncertainty. 

Chiding yourself for getting so worked up over a simple social media interaction, you reminded yourself to keep your composure. But try as you might, you knew that Enzo had already left an indelible mark on your thoughts.

Scrolling through his feed, you searched for any signs of a girlfriend, a pang of relief washing over you when you found none. Perhaps it was selfish of you to feel relieved, but you couldn't deny the surge of hope that blossomed within you. 

Reflecting on the evening, you couldn't help but wonder if you should have lingered a little longer at the event, savored the conversation with Enzo a while longer. But dwelling on what could have been served no purpose now. All you could do was hope that this was just the beginning, that fate would conspire to bring you together again soon.

Turning your phone off, you set it aside and settled back against the pillows, the memory of Enzo's smile lingering in your mind. Until the next time you crossed paths, you were certain that he would remain a constant presence in your thoughts, a gentle reminder of the unexpected connection you shared.

Part 2

A/N: Let me know what you think!

she’s out of her mind

luke castellan x daughter of hades!reader

anon prompt: Hey babes! I saw your post about wanting prompts and I was wondering you could write Luke Castellan x Daughter of Hades! Reader where it's like sunshine (Luke) x grumpy (Reader) trope?

authors note: hello i am back with a small drabble for the cute prompt above! i got drunk off of applebees dollaritas and wrote this in 15mins so do with that information what you will. hope you enjoy! :)

title is from she’s out of her mind by blink-182. lyrics are a lil fitting.

warnings: none? i think? it’s just fluff, i think. sort of.

“Wake up, sunshine.”

You groaned low and deep, releasing a guttural sound full of pure agony. Rolling over on your (extremely warm, cozy, sleep inducing) bed, you came face to face with your boyfriend, Luke Castellan, who was currently opening up the curtains in your cabin.

Being the only child of Hades at the camp, the entire cabin was sparse and empty, save for the corner you called home. There was a bed with black sheets and blanket, a side table full of the few memorabilia you had to your name, and a dresser beside that which held your extensive collection of black clothing. The walls resembled the inner workings of a cavern; slick rock prodded with small bones and beautiful jewels encapsulated the bedroom areas. Sconces held lit torches burning bright with turquoise Greek fire.

Your favourite part of the cabin, though, was the specially-crafted blackout curtains that were typically drawn tight over the windows. Not even a sliver of light could penetrate the thick, black, velvet drapes. That was, until, your idiot boyfriend took it upon himself to draw them open. The harsh blades of sunlight violated your eyes, illiciting your pained groan. You hated it when people interrupted your sleep.

“Luke,” You whined, shoving your face into your pillow, hoping to evade the blinding light. “Let me sleep, please, for the love of the gods.”

“Fuck the gods,” Luke said, and you could hear the smirk in his voice without needing to see his (cute, devilishly handsome) face. “Anyways, it’s 9am! You’ve slept in long enough and I wanna have breakfast with you and your pretty face.” Luke flopped down on the bed beside you and flipped your body back over with ease, in a foolish attempt to force you into the world of the living.

Typical for a child of Death, you kept your eyes squeezed shut and pounded the bedsheet with your fist. “I will literally, genuinely, actually murder you without hesitation if you don’t leave me the fuck alone.”

“That’s no way to talk to your boyfriend.” Luke said, pressed a small kiss to your nose. You swatted him away with anger.

Any other (normal, rational, smart) kid at camp would’ve soiled their pants and fled in terror from such a threat uttered by the one and only daughter of Hades. You were capable of a simple killing — you were graciously bestowed the gift of sucking out the souls of mortals with a mere flick of the wrist — and so it was only logical to fear such a ghastly claim. Luke, however, had released early on in your Camp days that you were full of shit and would never hurt a fly. He took an opportunity to befriend you and you’d been dating for a few years now. You were (truly, madly, deeply) in love with him and yes, despite your immense hatred for morning sunlight, you would never actually hurt him.

“Come on,” he prodded again, cuddling up beside you and tapping your forehead mischievously. You mustered the courage to crack open one eye (barely) and saw him grinning down at you. “Wake up, baby. Let’s get breakfast and then spend the day at the docks. We can swim and sun bathe and have a picnic—“

“Gods, your ambitious today,” you grumbled, rolling back over to face the opposite direction of Luke (and, the open windows), allowing him to grab your waist and pull you up against his chest. “I hate being in the sun. You know this.”

“Yeah, but I like to try new things with you,” Luke said, peppering a few kisses down your jaw and the side of your neck, squeezing his taut arm around your torso. “And I’m dying to see you in a bikini.”

“Perv,” you mumbled, but deep down you felt butterflies erupt in your stomach, causing a crimson blush to bloom over your chest. “Give me another hour to sleep.”

“No,” Luke said, and now it was his turn to groan impatiently. “Please, now, for me? I love you and want to spend time with you.”

“I hate you and want you to leave me alone,” you replied, pulling your fluffy duvet back up over your shoulders. “Bed time.”

“Beach time,” Luke decided. He sat up slightly and ripped the blankets entirely off your form, exposing your body to the cold air of the morning.

You shrieked. “Luke, you asshole—“

Luke jumped out of the bed, smiling wide. He gathered up all the blankets up into his arms, much to your dismay, and held them away from you. You only wore shorts and a tank top to sleep last night, and the chill in the room froze you right to your bones. Luke bundled up the bedding into a ball and fired it across the room. “There, now you’re acclimated.”

“You’re dumb as hell.”

“You are a grouchy, sleepy demon who needs breakfast and vitamin D.”

“Ugh!” You exploded, finally shoving yourself out of bed in a fit of exasperation. Luke had the audacity to applaud you. “Okay, there, I’m up!”

“So proud of you, my sleeping beauty,” Luke remarked. He crossed the room to you and placed a tender kiss to your lips, making sure to nip at your pouty bottom lip.

“Sorry for being rude,” You murmured, after having kissed him back. “I love you. I just don’t love being woken up.”

“I know,” Luke said with a grin. “I actually think you’re cute when your grumpy, so I do it on purpose to bug you.”

You rolled your eyes, but couldn’t stop the small smirk from appearing on your cheeks. “Whatever. You promised breakfast and I’m starving, so let’s go.”

Luke mimicked your playful eyeroll. He took your hand, leading you out the door and towards the dining pavilion.

note 2: hi hi! if you read this and enjoyed it and maybe want to read more from me, i would super appreciate prompts and requests sent to my inbox! can’t guarantee i’ll write them all but i will for sure try my best! thanks for reading! :)

OP: i can’t complain but i will

pairing(s): oscar piastri x mercedes driver!reader; oscar piastri & driver!reader & lando norris; lando norris x oscar piastri

word count: 2.4k+

an: here’s a little bit of angst a little bit of fluff and me holding myself back from making osc x reader x lan a poly ship😭 disclaimer: this isn’t an accurate reflection of the events of the Hungary GP. i take creative liberties as usual! and sorry to lewis. it’s still a mercedes P3 i guess😭 also here are my thoughts on the race so nothing is misconstrued here. AND gif credit because it keeps disappearing!

I. I choked on such longing I couldn’t spit out

Oscar crosses the finish line in Hungary and it’s fine.

It’s fine.

Y’know, fine in the way where there’s this feeling in his chest. This thing gnawing at his insides. At his gut. And maybe it’s his helmet, maybe it’s the temperature, but there’s something on his cheeks. Heat. Something burning. Maybe.

His mind goes immediately to those clips he’d seen of Lando’s onboard in Miami. The shrill little giggles, the high-pitch of his teammates voice, the cheer of the crowd faintly in the background. Crackle hiss—

No one’s cheering for Oscar—

Tom is on the radio.

Oscar’s not stupid, not by a long shot. He can hear the strained quality of it, the forced cheerfulness.

Yeah. Oscar apologises before he can think twice about it. It just slips out of him. He thinks of you telling him— on a Tuesday night two weeks ago— that he needed to “stop saying sorry so fucking much, Oscar”. The way he’d been distracted by his name in your mouth. Oscar. Not Osc like he’s used to, or the occasional Oscie you’re prone to throw out. Oscar. Like you were serious.

Whatever. He says something to Tom that his publicist would be proud of. Waves at the grandstands. Tries not to think, not like this. I didn’t want it like this.

A sigh leeches out of him. Lando’s car is in his periphery and you’re trailing behind him as the three of you turn. The three of you on a podium… it’s a dream come true for him. But— yeah— not like this.

He’s in the car for too long. Helmet on his head, where no one can see his face. He’s okay, he thinks. He’s fine.

He thinks of being a little kid at Albert Park. Watching F1 in the living room late at night. Getting in a kart for the first time and feeling alive. And okay—

Yes, there’s a sour taste in his mouth. Words unsaid sitting on his tongue. But he’s starting to feel the smile tugging at his lips. The feeling is his chest starts to ease, just a little. Just a bit.

He’s looking up and there’s you and there’s Lando. You’re on opposite sides of the car, Lando’s reaching for him, for his hand. Clutching it tightly. Lando squeezes once, his helmet covered face bobs in a nod that says something… part of Oscar hopes it’s I’m sorry. Another part of him is mad that it may not be.

And you, well you have no idea the half hour he’s just had. But your hand is on his shoulder and then on the top of his helmet and you’re whacking it with a gusto he hadn’t expected. He thinks you might be crying. You keep reaching in through your visor to wipe at your eyes and it’s making Oscar feel sick. You’re crying and he’s sitting here feeling sorry for himself because the win wasn’t perfect.

Fuck.

So Oscar grins and he bears it.

He gets out of the car and he smooths it over until everything is okay again. Because that’s what he’s good at. Because that’s how he’s made it here. Oscar Piastri is a team player, sometimes more than he is anything else. And that’s okay, that’s fine for now, because one day, eventually, Oscar is going to be the reason they need to hire a team player. One day he’ll be the beating heart of some Formula One team and he won’t have to win a race because his teammate had to let him by—

That’s not Lando’s fault either. Lando is…

He’s Lando. Oscar gets it.

Oscar gets it more than anyone.

II. I am obsessive. I contain nothing but the replay

Lando is trying so fucking hard not to have a tantrum.

It’s this infuriating feedback loop where he thinks I had it and then something cuts in to say but Oscar deserved it and then it starts over again. It’s making Lando feel like shit, for losing, for being a bad friend, for jeopardising the relative peace of the team. He’s trying to temper the angry, selfish little spoiled brat voice in his head but it’s so fucking hard to keep that dog on a leash.

He’s trying to be okay.

He’s in the post-race room with you and he’s trying to be fine.

And okay, so he knocks the stupid second place cap to the ground in front of the camera that’s broadcasting you guys to the world. Always second. God. He’d tasted a win in Miami and it’s almost like he’s worse off for it. It’s a win or it’s nothing and it’s tearing him apart from the inside out. There’s a voice in his head that’s saying, you’re just a one trick pony, Lando. Do it again and you might be worth something.

It’s making him crazy.

He bites his tongue. Turns to look at you, lounging in the third place chair like it doesn’t matter, like you’re happy to just be on the podium.

You raise an eyebrow at him, face blank but he knows what it says anyway. Be happy for him. He would be happy for you.

Fuck, and he would—

He would. Selfless and kind above all, Oscar.

Lando frowns, his back to the lens.

Your gaze flicks from him, to the hat on the floor. Pick it up, it says. Pick it up and pretend.

Lando picks it up. He’s the one who gave Oscar the position back after all. He’s his own worst enemy right now. Not you, certainly not Oscar—

Speaking of Oscar.

He’s here. He’s holding the first place cap that Lando wants to be his, he’s putting it on his head and Lando’s okay. Lando’s fine. He’s watching the race replay and seeing Max turn into your car and he’s trying desperately to look at that, pay attention to that, and not Oscar.

Because it hurts.

Not in a good way, not the way Lando looks at him sometimes and feels some yawning sun in his chest.

Instead there’s something bitter and snarling.

Some chained, angry dog on a leash.

Lando turns, goes to sit in the chair he doesn’t want to sit in, and catches Oscar’s eye. He feels the snarling thing strain, it goes to bark, to bite. Then Oscar smiles. It’s not much— it doesn’t reach his eyes exactly. But it’s effort. It’s thank you. It’s I know what that meant.

It’s enough.

III. He forgives you, dogs are like that, so loyal

You know something is off the second that you get out of the car. This isn’t what Oscar’s maiden win is supposed to look like— or it almost is, but the picture is wrong.

It’s not ecstatic, it’s not crowds chanting his name, it’s not Oscar getting out of the car like a shot and jumping into the arms of his team.

Instead, you see grim faces plastered over with smiles, McLaren engineers huddled into groups and talking in hushed tones. Lando’s sulking, you can tell by the set of his shoulders, the way people hover around him, keeping their distance a bit. You blink— there’s something in your eyes, your nose tingling with some emotion—

Whatever. You push it aside, go to Oscar’s car before anything else, before even taking your helmet off. It's you and Lando on opposite sides and whatever the case, whatever happened out there that you're not aware of, Lando's here. Lando's sucking it up.

You find out bits and pieces over the next hour, from your race engineer, from the post-race interviews, from Lando's attitude in the cool down room. The tension between them is bleeding into everything and they orbit around each other all afternoon. They can't quite look at each other, they keep making eye contact for a split second and then letting it slide away. They keep smiling these strained things at each other. Lando keeps reaching out to touch Oscar, but always at arms length. Like an apology neither of them can quite commit to.

You know it's the team that are the issue and it's also this hurt that Lando can't quite get over, and an Oscar who is trying to just be happy but needs more time to get there.

It's making your heart ache.

You've dreamt of this, stupidly enough. Oscar on the top step of the podium, that bunny-tooth grin of his spreading and spreading. Champagne and confetti. You're there, of course you're there. Lando is too. So it's painful to have that dream actualised and to realise it's not perfect— because, well, nothing ever is.

And it's fucking unfortunate.

But it's them. So it's fine.

You're baffled by that sometimes. You still hold grudges against old teammates. There are things you'll never forgive them for, wounds that will never heal. But you come back from your frustratingly long debrief and find them doubled over outside their driver's room, giggling their heads off at something. It's not perfect, there's still something between them, something in the air.

But they're trying.

And Oscar is smiling wider than you've seen in a long while.

So for Oscar's sake you push it aside—

It's always a little different away from prying eyes, away from rolling cameras, in front of which you feel pressure to act like Oscar and Lando are first and foremost your rivals. When they're gone they can just be your friends. Your boys.

Naturally, you're thudding into Oscar before he really notices you're there. Too busy throwing his head back at something Lando had said. He's still in champagne wet fireproofs as you reach your arms around his shoulders, but so are you. He smells vaguely like a wet dog and lets out a soft oft noise as you charge into him.

"Hey, race winner," you say as he threads his arms around your waist.

You put your forehead on his collarbone, close your eyes as a laugh flutters out of him. You hear it rumble in his chest as he rocks the two of you gently from side to side. It's giggly, light and joyful like the one he does when he's tipsy. But he's not tipsy, just happy you think.

"Race winner," he mumbles, low, quiet, to himself more than anything, "Yeah."

"Yeah," you whisper back.

You're like that maybe for too long. Longer than people who are just friends should be. You can hear Lando moving around behind you, asphalt grinding under his feet. His gaze prickling the back of your neck. Eventually, you pull away. You slide your hands to grip Oscar's shoulders, fingertips pressing into warm skin, lean up and press a kiss to his cheek. Accidentally, your lips land too close to the corner of his mouth, brushing against stubble and sweat. You hear something soft escape his lips, barely audible as his brown eyes bore into yours. Pupils blown large, gaze drifting momentarily down to your lips.

"Good job today, Osc," you say, trying not to let your breath hitch.

You pull away a little before he does something in the heat of the moment— and right in front of Lando, of all people. He's high on adrenaline, that's all. That's all.

"Thank you," he smiles, all teeth.

You feel hot all the way down your neck, into your chest. Hm, premature menopause, you think, rather than the obvious— which is that it makes you mega nervous to be that close to Oscar Piastri.

Lando clears his throat.

In a jerky, surprised movement you step away from Oscar, while Oscar fumbles awkwardly for his phone in his pocket. He holds it up, says something stumbling about calling his family and then takes only maybe five steps away before you or Lando can say a thing.

You laugh, just a little.

Then do a pleased little spin to face Lando.

Who seems better, lighter. At least in comparison to how he was immediately post-race. Which you’re glad to see. Especially after catching bits of his team radio from a brief conversation with George. You’re not particularly happy about it, but it’s not really your place to be upset.

“Hey,” you smile warmly.

He smiles back, tighter than you’d hoped.

You move a bit closer into his personal space, watching him carefully. It’s okay you think. He’s more subdued than usual, but you can’t see the seething thing that was under his skin earlier. That would be fine of course, he’s entitled to that, but his sake you’re glad it’s gone.

“You okay?”, you ask.

Lando nods, eyes falling closed momentarily as he hums contemplatively, “‘M okay. Happy for him.”

You nod, stepping closer to pull him into a one armed hug that’s not quite as energetic as the one you’d given Oscar before.

“Yeah,” you say quietly, pressing the side of your face into his cheek, “Upset too?”

He hums again, sighs, “Yeah. ‘Course.”

“Yeah,” because you get it,

Maybe not in these exact circumstances. But you know what it’s like. To chase a win with everything you have, to fall short after it’s been in your grasp. You understand that. So does Oscar—

Speaking of.

Oscar’s back, footsteps crunching asphalt behind you.

“They’re asleep,” he explains, “I’ll talk to them later.”

You half let Lando go, moving to accommodate the race winner into your little circle. They’re a bit weird about it, shuffling into place awkwardly, you’re not surprised after a day like today, but you persevere— wrapping arms around both of them and pulling them simultaneously down into a haphazard hug that you’re in the middle of.

Lando’s face is in your neck somehow, mumbling something about you being overbearing while his hand clutches at your waist to keep himself upright. Oscar’s arm is tight around your shoulders and your face is squished up against his chest. You squeeze tightly— let them go when it’s been a minute too long—

You can feel yourself almost getting caught up in the tangle of limbs. The warmth of your friends. The emotion of it. You think there’s something stuck in your eye again, something wet in your tear ducts.

You sniff, try to ignore it, hope they don’t see.

Then, stupid observant Oscar, “Are you crying?”

You let out an offended noise and shake your head to deny it, but instead something that’s almost a sob, but not quite, slips out—

“No,” you declare, but it’s unconvincing—

and then you’re back in the hug. All sweat and sticky champagne residue, Lando’s too-strong cologne and Oscar who smells like burnt rubber. And it’s not perfect, because nothing ever is, but it’s enough for you.

this was really cathartic for me to be honest. just needed my little driver!reader to hug landoscar after that race. needed to get some big feelings out and then needed a sweet little fluff section to make me feel better.

ALSO DISCLAIMER: this was a work of FICTION it does not reflect the entirety of what i feel about the events of the hungary gp. i am simply playing with dolls! thank you and goodbye!

when i was a kid i would get a sick thrill from learning someones middle name now i dont feel anything at all ever and im no good for nobody

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don't stop (thinking about tomorrow)

wc: 2.3k

cw: live!reader who can see wally, fun little meet cute that freaks wally out, tw for two sentence mention of harry potter, set in 2023 but nothing with maddie happens, and as always i am writing with a plus size!reader in mind, but this one is gender neutral!reader as well so far

pt. 1 - pt. 2 - pt. 3 - pt. 4

a/n at the end!

masterlist

He was never supposed to find out that you can see him. 

You could see all of them - the beatnik with the sour expression plastered on her face, the sweetheart in the jean jacket, even the blonde dude who’s always at the pottery wheel during your second period ceramics class.

You’d spent the last four years perfecting walking right past them, not looking up, not laughing at the jock’s jokes when you’re seated near them in the library.

Your ‘gifts’ are too confusing to explain, and even if you attempted to confide in someone about them, you know it would be too hard to believe.

It freaked your parents out when you were little - your comments about how Grandma talked to you long after her passing, how you waved to people on the street that nobody else could see. They never took you to be tested -  worried too much that you’d get taken away or put in psychiatric holding. 

So if you came home looking tired and drained, or sometimes, a little scared, your parents understood. 

When you started high school, you hadn’t expected there to be so many dead people. It was so weird, seeing people your age walking around stuck in the clothes representative of their times. 

You’d told your mom about the kids as you distinguished them from the living ones -  sadness in her eyes growing when you’d mentioned the lanky one in 80s athletic gear. She’d gotten her own Split River yearbook from the shelf, flipped to the memorial page and pointed at Wally. 

“Is that who you’re talking about?” 

You’d nodded, confirming her suspicions. She’d been in his graduating class, though not in his social circles. He’d been your stereotypical jock when he was alive, for all the pros and cons of it. King of the ragers thrown after games, not always a bully, but often a bystander. Gone too soon, but quickly forgotten in the grand scheme of things. 

For your safety, you’d agreed that you wouldn’t ever speak to any of the ghosts. Your mom had clocked the dreamy glaze in your eyes while looking at Wally’s picture, and while she couldn’t stop you from talking to him, she’d told you what you already knew. It wasn’t smart, and it wouldn’t end well. 

In your mind, letting any of them know that you could see them would be more cruel than just letting them go about their usual business. Even if you made contact, spoke to them - hung out with them - you were leaving after graduation, and they’d be alone again, without any contact with the living world. It seemed unfair; pointless. 

It’s not Wally’s fault he’s so fucking pretty. 

He moves about the school the same way you do - not looking at or paying attention to the people around him - because he has no reason to believe he can be seen. It’s worked out entirely in your favor thus far, because you can stare at Wally Clark for small periods of time without him noticing. On the occasion that he turns his head in your direction, a shift of your eyes to the right or left has him believing you’re just staring off into space. 

He’s so nice to look at. His slightly curled waves of black hair, gold chain gleaming under fluorescent lighting. There’s depth to him, too. When he’s around his friends, he’s energetic - bouncy, cracking jokes and patting people on the back too hard. When he’s alone, though, he seems calmer. More reserved. 

You get bolder with it, the staring, lulled into a sense of safety because you’re just another face in the ever-rotating crowd of high schoolers that pass through Split River. He’d seen forty generations of kids move on at this point, stuck as a fresh 18 year old with dreams and aspirations he’ll never be able to achieve. 

It must suck, having to stay behind and watch as other seniors get a chance to do what he never did. You wish you could comfort him, maybe even help him find a way to move on. It’s harder for the people who die traumatically. 

So much unfinished business and pent up emotions make it difficult to find the peace needed to pass onto the next plane. It’s easy to tell -there’s always a certain aura around the sad ones. Like the air around them is heavier, darker. 

You’re not complaining, though, as fucked as that may sound. Especially not when you’re lounging under a tree near the football field, not so subtly watching as a shirtless Wally picks up replicated footballs and throws them aimlessly in different directions. If you hadn’t been daydreaming about being able to talk to him, you would’ve noticed the ball soaring towards you. 

You look up, just in time for the phantom ball to hit the ground next to you, bouncing to land at your feet. Absent-mindedly - and almost jokingly - you kick it away from you, suddenly aware the ball was solid against your foot. In the time it takes you to realize you just interacted with a phantom football, it's faded away into the ground, and its sender is staring at you wide-eyed. 

There’s a beat of stillness, soundtracked by the cicadas and other teens on the field before you begin to move. 

You scramble to throw your shit into your bag, and speed walk back inside. 

“Holy shit? Wait! Hey, wait!” 

He follows you, because of course he does, and you try your best to ignore the panic and guilt rising in your throat. You just keep walking, hoping that he’ll give up. He doesn’t. 

“Can you slow down please? I know you can see me!” 

Wally catches up to you, jogging a few paces ahead to try to cut you off. You’ve never been this close to him - you have no idea if he’ll pass through you the way you’ve seen the other ghosts pass through living people before or if you'll make contact like you did moments ago with the ball he had thrown. 

It blows your cover even more than kicking the ball away, but when Wally goes to stand in front of you, you attempt to veer out of his path. And then he grabs you. Or, he tries to, anyway. He’s not fully solid, not enough to place a firm hold on you, but enough for you to genuinely feel it. 

His hand does go through you, but there’s resistance to it. It makes you shiver, the ice cold sensation of his palm trying to hold your shoulder but not being able to fully grip it. 

“What the fuck?” He looks down at his hands, then back towards you. 

He’s caught off guard enough for you to truly get away this time. Rest of the school day be damned, you make a break for it and throw yourself into your car. 

The stale air does nothing to help your nerves, your shaking hand turning the ignition to blast AC at yourself. You lean forward, resting your head on the steering wheel and try to breathe through it. This is bad. Like, really fucking bad. 

You don’t know much about him, but you seriously doubt that this is the kind of thing he’d just let go. 

You’re in it now, for better or for worse. 

You can’t tell your mom. It’s selfish, and misguided, and you hadn’t even said anything to him, but it was something. It was yours, and you don’t want to share. It makes the guilt worse, and your drive home is spent in dissociated silence. 

When you get home, your mom is in the kitchen, bouncing around to 80s music and chopping onions. The slam of the front door alerts her to your presence, and she pauses her music, concern etched in her features. 

“Hey, sweetheart. Everything okay? You’re home early.” 

You don’t want to lie. 

“Yeah, I’m alright. Just got a headache, that’s all. Thought I should come home and take a nap.” 

-

Spending a few days at home would probably be for the best - it would give you time to come up with some sort of plan on what to say to Wally. You have no idea what the best course of action is. He knows you can see him now. You can’t take that back and make him forget it, and you don’t even know if you’d want to. 

Instead, you barrel into school the next day, head down and earphones blasting music. Your eyes don’t leave the linoleum floor except to put your bag in your locker. The grumble of frustration and annoyance that leaves your body when three Tears for Fears songs play in succession draws the attention of other students in the hallway, but you pay them no mind. 

You don’t even make it to third period before you see him. 

Sitting in the corner of ceramics class, shaky hands denting an already uneven vase, the slam of the classroom door makes you jump - effectively destroying the soft clay cradled in your palms. 

“There you are! Dude, I've been looking all over for you.” He sidles up to you, plops down in the seat directly to your right, the heat of his gaze burning into the side of your face and making your cheeks hot. You sigh, squishing the clay down and shaking your head. 

“That’s fine, you don’t have to talk. I can talk for both of us. I can just talk, and talk, and talk, and-” 

Your hand shoots into the air, a frantic “Can I use the restroom please?” leaving your throat. 

It’s your worst nightmare and a dream come true, being alone with Wally. He walks next to you in the hallway, and when you pass the bathroom he pauses. 

“You’re not going in? I thought you needed to go.” He’s teasing, you know he is, but you still huff at him. 

You keep your pace, calling out behind you, “No, Wally, I don’t need to use the bathroom.” 

You don’t turn around to see it, but you can hear the slightly shocked giggle that leaves him. 

“Oh, c’mon, really?” 

He catches up to you, and when you crane your head to the side to make eye contact, he sucks in a little breath. It’s the first time you’ve actually looked into his eyes. It throws you off kilter a bit, and you feel the need to make up the difference with a quip. 

“What, you’re Moaning Myrtle now? You feel like talking and hanging around in public restrooms?” 

The laugh that leaves him surprises you, Your eyebrows raise, not expecting him to understand the reference. 

“Ms. Williams plays the movies during finals week like every year,” he shrugs, “I’m dead, not blind.” 

You’d taken your things with you - skipping the rest of your class to spend time with him, to answer the questions you know he wants to ask. You go back to the football field, under the same tree you’d been under when you kicked the football away from you. 

He’s waiting for you to speak, to help him understand what’s going on, but the words are caught in your throat, cheeks hot and skin itchy. Your hands fidget, picking dried clay from under your fingernails and flicking it onto the grass nearby. 

You look at him, trying to decide where to start. 

“I’m not really supposed to talk to you.”

“Why not?” He laughs then, shakes his head a little. “It’s because I’m dead, right? Do you have a problem with dead people?”

“No, I-” You start on the defensive, but soften when you see Wally’s smirk. He’s a little shit, you should've known. You roll your eyes, “You’re not supposed to know I can see you for your own sake. What good would it do? Hanging out with me for the next three months until I graduate and you can never see me again? It’s unfair.”

He looks away from you for a second, sly smile wiped off of his face, replaced with a sadness you hadn’t seen from him before. You reach out, trying to make contact, and your hand just meets the air. When he’d tried to grab you yesterday, he was slightly more solid than he is now. You don’t know why. 

“Yeah it is unfair,” He turns to face you again, brown eyes glassy and tear rimmed, “but you can see me, and that’s the most exciting thing that’s happened to me since I’ve been here.” 

Something in your chest stirs, and you know there’s no universe in which you would’ve been able to stay away from him. You’re worlds apart, or planes apart, but it doesn't seem to matter as much as you used to think it did. 

“I think it’s the most exciting thing that’s ever happened to me, too.” 

You spend the rest of the school day - without being caught, thankfully - in deep conversation. The shrill ring of the bell signaling the end of the day cuts you off in the middle of a sentence, and you stand from your place on the grass, dusting yourself off and gathering your things. 

The silence between you is comfortable now, as he walks you to your car. He can’t step off the curb - he’d explained the boundaries of the school to you, that he’d be thrown back to the field if tried to leave. You hover together, not wanting to part. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow? We can hang out more, I have study hall during 5th period.” You tuck a stray hair behind your ear, and he follows the movement with his eyes. 

“Yeah, see you tomorrow.” 

You blast your 80s playlist on the way home, while you’re in the shower, while you’re doing homework. 

Wally Clark is gonna be the death of you.  

a/n: hiii i feel like this part was a little lackluster but !!!! i have a whole plan for what i want to do with this fic and i'm really excited about it. it should be four parts, but that's subject to change as i keep writing.

if you liked this and want to read more of my little stories, my masterlist is linked at the top! if you have ideas or just want to chat, my inbox is always open!

pls don't forget to like and reblog! love you mwah

Makeup as an expression of the soul.