Sexy Barbed Wire Stitching On The Collar Of My New (old) Battle Jacket
sexy barbed wire stitching on the collar of my new (old) battle jacket
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Changing Lanes
Charles Leclerc x Horner!Reader
Summary: Charles Leclerc always thought he would spend the rest of his career racing in red. But you make him see that he deserves better than false promises and unrequited love
“Took you long enough,” you say, lounging casually on the small leather couch in Charles’ driver’s room, your fingertips tracing intricate patterns on the cushion beside you.
Charles raises an eyebrow, letting out a dry laugh as he kicks off his shoes. “Every single time I see you, Y/N, you always have something to say.”
You linger on him. “Is it my fault you had to chat with the entire paddock before coming here?”
He smirks, crossing the room. “It’s called being polite. Something you could learn from.”
“Polite?” You scoff, feigning innocence. “Oh, like how Ferrari celebrated that P3 like it was a win? That kind of polite?”
Charles stiffens but he keeps his cool. “We take what we can get.”
You tilt your head, eyes narrowing. “Starting on pole and settling for P3? Charles, you deserve better.”
“I know,” he sighs, avoiding your gaze. “But this is racing. Sometimes it just doesn’t go your way.”
You lean in closer, your voice dropping an octave. “It could, though. If you were with a team that actually valued you, that gave you a car worthy of your talent.”
He looks up, meeting your gaze with a challenge. “You mean Red Bull?”
A coy smile plays on your lips. “It’s not a secret that Dad wants you. And imagine … you, in a competitive car, and me, right by your side as your race engineer.”
Charles’ eyes dart to your lips then back up to your eyes. “Tempting,” he murmurs, leaning in just a fraction closer. “But is this for the team or for you?”
“Can’t it be both?” You whisper back.
His breath hitches and he pulls back slightly. “This isn’t just about racing, is it?”
You hesitate. “I see how they treat you. How they let you down time and time again. But with us ... with me ... it would be different.”
He looks conflicted. “It’s not that simple.”
“Why not?” You press. “With Red Bull, you’d have support, a competitive car, and … me.”
Charles sighs, running a hand through his hair. “It’s not just about what happens on track. It’s about the politics, the contracts, the media ... it’s all complicated.”
“You make it sound like an impossible puzzle,” you say, tracing circles on his wrist. You gaze locks with his, trying to convey everything you feel.
“It might be.”
You lean in, lips just inches from his. “Then let’s solve it together.”
He hesitates, searching your eyes. “You’re playing a dangerous game, Y/N.”
You smirk, confidence oozing from every pore. “Isn’t that what racing’s all about?”
Charles chuckles softly, the tension in the room slowly melting away. “You always have an answer for everything.”
“It’s the Horner in me,” you retort with a smug smile. “Besides, aren’t you tired of being just another pawn in Ferrari’s game?”
“It’s not easy. To just switch teams, to give up on something you’ve worked for your entire life.”
You reach up, tucking a stray lock of hair behind his ear. “Who says you’re giving up? You’d be making a choice. A choice to be somewhere you’re valued. Somewhere you have a real shot at the championship. With people who truly care about you and actions that reflect that.”
He closes his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath. “It’s not just about the racing. There are so many other factors.”
“Like what?”
He opens his eyes, meeting yours. “Like us.”
You blink, taken aback. “What do you mean?”
“If I come to Red Bull … if I work with you … it changes everything. Our relationship. Our dynamic. Everything.”
You take a moment, absorbing his words. “We can handle it. We’re strong enough.”
He gives you a sad smile. “I wish I had your confidence.”
You cup his cheek, your thumb stroking his skin. “You have me. Together, we can face anything.”
Charles looks at you for a long moment, his emotions raw and exposed. Finally, he speaks. “I’ll think about it. But whatever I decide … know that it’s not just about racing. I refuse to give you up.”
“Just promise me one thing.”
He raises an eyebrow. “What?”
You lean in, your lips brushing his ear. “Never settle for less than you deserve.”
He smiles, capturing your lips in a soft, lingering kiss. “Same goes for you, Y/N Horner.”
***
“I still can’t believe they forgot to remove the radiator blank,” you murmur, your fingers softly tracing patterns on Charles’ bare chest as he lies next to you in his São Paulo hotel. The dim light from the bedside lamp paints soft shadows on his face, emphasizing the frustration in his eyes.
Charles sighs heavily, turning his head to look at you. “Neither can I. Another race, another issue. I don’t even know why I’m surprised anymore.”
You lean in closer, lips brushing against his ear. “You don’t deserve this, Charles. You’re better than this. Better than them.”
He chuckles humorlessly, eyes closing. “It seems like it’s one thing after another.”
“Come to Red Bull,” you whisper, fingertips dancing down his arm. “You know it’s the right move.”
He opens his eyes, looking deep into yours. “Y/N, we talked about this.”
You press a gentle kiss on his jaw, speaking against his skin. “Hear me out. If McLaren overtakes Ferrari in the Constructors’ standings, you can activate your exit clause. You could leave them, Charles.”
Charles swallows hard, feeling the warmth of your breath on his neck. “And if they don’t?”
“Then we’ll buy you out,” you say confidently, trailing kisses down his collarbone. “Dad’s already spoken about it. We want you. I want you.”
Charles’ breath catches as your hands explore his torso but he tries to focus. “Equal status with Max?”
“Of course,” you assure him, pressing your body flush against his. “You and Max, racing side by side. Just think of the possibilities.”
He groans, both from your touch and the tempting offer. “A car designed by Adrian Newey ...”
You nod, “With plenty of oversteer, just how you like it. No more one-sided compromises.”
He laughs softly. “You’ve thought of everything, haven’t you?”
You smirk, lips hovering over his. “Always. And instead of Xavi, you’d hear my voice on the other end of the radio, guiding you, supporting you.”
Charles captures your lips with his, deepening the kiss before pulling back. “You’re making it very hard to think.”
“That’s the point,” you whisper with a playful grin, your hands tugging at his waistband.
He bites his lip, trying to resist your charms. “But Y/N ... it’s not just about the racing. It’s ... it’s us. What happens to us?”
You cup his cheek, gazing deep into his eyes. “We fight together, we win together. Every podium, every championship, we celebrate together.”
He closes his eyes, taking a deep breath. “You make it sound so perfect.”
“It can be,” you promise, pressing soft kisses on his eyelids. “With Red Bull, you’d have everything you’ve ever dreamed of. And me.”
Charles smiles, caressing your cheek. “You’re very persuasive, you know?”
You grin. “It’s one of my many talents.”
He chuckles, capturing your lips once more. “I’ll think about it.”
“Whatever you decide, I’ll still be by your side.”
He smiles, pulling you closer. “I know. And that’s what makes this decision so hard.”
***
“Absolutely unbelievable,” your father mutters, watching the replay of Ferrari’s disastrous double stack. “You would think they’ve never done a pit stop before.”
You nod, equally shocked. But your attention shifts as the familiar figure of your favorite Monegasque storms into the Red Bull garage, his helmet still on and visor obscuring his face. You can feel the fury emanating from him.
“Charles?” You question hesitantly.
He doesn’t respond to you but instead turns to your father, “Christian, can we talk? Now. Somewhere private.”
Christian looks taken aback by the intensity in Charles’ voice but nods. “Of course.”
Charles glances at you. “You too, Y/N. Please.”
You follow, the weight of the moment heavy on your shoulders. Once inside the small office, Charles finally removes his helmet, revealing eyes red from restrained tears. He takes a moment, collecting himself before he speaks.
“I can’t do this anymore,” Charles exhales. “Every single time I think they’ve hit rock bottom, they find a new low. Today was the last straw.”
You approach him, gently placing a hand on his arm. “Charles, I’m so sorry.”
Your father is equally sympathetic. “That was hard to watch. I can’t even imagine what it felt like.”
Charles closes his eyes, taking a deep breath. “It’s not just today. It’s everything. I gave them everything. I wanted to win with them. For my father. For Jules.”
You swallow hard, emotions swirling. “They would be so incredibly proud of you. No matter what.”
He blinks back tears, voice strained. “I wanted to drive that red car to the top for them. But I can’t keep sacrificing myself for a team that clearly does not value me in return.”
Your father speaks up, “Charles, if you’re thinking of a change ... Red Bull is ready to welcome you with open arms.”
Charles looks up, locking eyes with him. “I know. And as much as Ferrari has been my dream, my home, I can’t do this anymore. I want to be with a team that values me. I want to join Red Bull.”
You’re taken aback by his sudden declaration but the look in his eyes tells you that he’s made up his mind. “Charles,” you whisper, stepping closer. “Are you absolutely sure?”
“It’s hard,” he admits. “But this is where my heart is telling me to go.”
Your father gives the two of you a moment, leaving the office to give you privacy.
Charles takes a shaky breath, pulling you close. “I never imagined leaving Ferrari. But after everything, I know it’s the right decision.”
You wrap your arms around him, resting your forehead against his. “They will be so proud of you, Charles. No matter what colors you wear or what car you drive.”
He smiles weakly. “Thank you. I really needed to hear that.”
You pull back slightly, searching his eyes. “This is a big step. I don’t want you to regret anything. Are you still sure?”
He nods, determination in his gaze. “More than I’ve ever been.”
You smile, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. “Then welcome to Red Bull.”
***
“I have to tell Ferrari,” Charles straightens, determination evident in his eyes. “I just need to get it over with. Will you come with me?”
“Of course.“
Charles grabs your hand, pulling you towards his driver’s room. “Wait here,” he says, going in and returning moments later with his Ferrari jacket. He places it over your Red Bull team polo, attempting to keep your allegiance concealed for now. You both then proceed to the debrief room where the Ferrari team is waiting.
Fred Vasseur begins his speech the moment you both enter, “This wasn’t how we wanted to end the year but looking ahead to next season—”
Charles cuts him off, “Actually, there won’t be a next season. Not for me.”
The room falls into a tense silence, all eyes on the driver who has given them his heart and soul.
“What do you mean?”
Charles takes a deep breath, “I’ve decided to leave Ferrari.”
Gasps fill the room. Fred’s eyes land on you, finally noticing the Red Bull logo peeking out from under the jacket you’re borrowing. “And you bring her, of all people, here to tell us this?”
Charles squares his shoulders. “Y/N is here because I asked her to be. This decision is mine and mine alone.”
Xavi stands up, “After everything we’ve done for you! This is how you repay us?”
You can’t hold back any longer. “Everything you’ve done? You mean the countless strategy mistakes, the endless car issues, the complete lack of support?”
Another team member cuts in, “This is not your place, Y/N!”
“It is today,” you retort. “I’m here to support my new driver.”
Charles’ voice shakes but he speaks with conviction, “I gave everything for this team. I bled Ferrari red. But I can’t keep doing this. Not when it’s clear that my effort and commitment is not matched in return.”
Fred’s voice softens. “Charles, we’ve had our challenges but we can overcome them together.”
Charles shakes his head, tears threatening to spill. “I’ve made up my mind. I’m joining Red Bull. My manager will send over the necessary legal paperwork as soon as possible.”
The room is filled with murmurs, disbelief evident on every face. Charles takes one last look around, his eyes filled with pain, and turns to leave.
You follow closely, feeling the weight of every step as you exit the debrief room.
The second you’re around the corner, Charles breaks down. He rests his forehead against the wall, tears rolling down his face silently. “I didn’t ... I didn’t think it would hurt this much.”
You pull him close and try to find the right words. “It was never going to be easy. But you did what you had to. For yourself. For your future.”
He turns to look at you, eyes red-rimmed but determined. “I just wanted to make them proud.”
You cup his cheek, wiping away a tear with your thumb. “They would be proud of you. Not for the badge you wear or the car you drive but for the man you’ve become.”
Charles takes a shaky breath, pulling you into a tight embrace. The two of you stand there for a moment, finding solace in each other’s presence.
When he finally pulls away, he manages a weak smile. “Thank you. For standing by me.”
You squeeze his hand. “Always.”
***
***
***
Charles stands in front of the massive two-story trophy wall at the Red Bull Racing factory in Milton Keynes, eyes wide with wonder. “Ferrari would never do something so ... gaudy.”
You smirk, sidling up next to him. “And yet, you love it.”
“I do,” he laughs. “It’s … different.”
You lean in, whispering conspiratorially, “Well, Ferrari hasn’t had all that much to exhibit in the last two decades. Not for lack of trying from the drivers, of course.”
He playfully nudges you with his elbow, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Cheeky.”
The two of you walk further into the factory. “So,” Charles draws out, “I was wondering if you could recommend a good real estate agent in the area.”
You raise an eyebrow in confusion. “Why would you need an agent when I have a perfectly good apartment we can share?”
“Really? Are you sure? I just … I wasn’t sure if you would want that and I don’t want to pressure you.”
You roll your eyes affectionately. “Of course I do, Charles. It’s not even a question.”
He smiles, the weight of the decision to move seeming a little lighter now. “Thank you.”
You wink, taking his hand. “Come on, let me show you around.”
As you guide him through the factory, he’s like a kid in a candy store, eyes wide with wonder and curiosity. “This place is incredible,” he murmurs, running a hand along a piece of machinery.
You grin, pulling him towards the simulator room. “Wait until you see this.”
He steps inside, eyes immediately drawn to the impressive simulator setup. “Wow.”
You gesture for him to sit down, watching as he takes a seat, adjusting the settings. “Ready for your first sim run in the RB20?”
He nods eagerly, “Let’s do it.”
As he starts the simulation, you watch closely, monitoring the data and providing feedback. The two of you work seamlessly together, the connection between race engineer and driver already forming and growing.
After several runs, Charles steps out of the simulator, a huge grin on his face. “That was incredible! The car feels amazing.”
You smile. “I’m glad you think so. The team has put a lot of work into it.”
He pulls you into a hug, burying his face in your hair. “I can’t wait to get on track with you on the other side of the radio.”
You pull back, looking into his eyes. “Me too. We’re going to do great things together. I know it.”
He nods. “I know we will too.”
***
“I have to admit,” Charles says, eyes scanning the paddock, “I’m thankful that Mercedes and McLaren are between our motorhome and Ferrari’s. Makes things less ... awkward.”
You glance towards the distant red of the mobile Ferrari building, understanding the sentiment. “Must be weird being so close and yet so far.”
He nods, a hint of melancholy in his gaze as he looks at the place he called home for so long. “It’s bittersweet.”
Pulling him from his thoughts, you nudge him playfully. “Come on, Mr. Pole-Sitter. We have a race to prep for.”
Charles smirks, playfully rolling his eyes. “Always so professional, Miss Horner.”
You grin. “Only when it counts.”
The atmosphere in the Red Bull garage is electric. Mechanics and engineers hustle around, getting everything ready. The RB20 sits gleaming, waiting for its moment to shine.
Charles adjusts his gloves, taking a deep breath. “Feels different,” he admits, looking at you. “Being here, in this car, with this team. But a good kind of different.”
You lean in, placing a reassuring hand on his arm. “You’ve got this. It’s just another race.”
He smiles. “Easy for you to say. You’re not the one in the hot seat.”
“True, but I’ll be with you every step of the way. Just listen to my voice and trust me.”
“I always do.”
As he gets into the car, you lean in closer to his helmet, your lips touching it’s hard shell. “And Charles? Stay safe out there.”
He looks at you and winks. “I’ll come back to you.”
The race begins with a burst of energy. Charles takes off from pole, holding his position as the field jockeys for placement behind him.
“Good start,” you say through the radio, your voice calm and composed. “Keep it steady.”
“Copy.”
The race is intense, with Charles and Max battling for the lead, their cars dancing on the edge of perfection. The radio chatter between the two of you flows naturally, filled with technical details, strategy adjustments, and the occasional personal quip.
“Feeling the heat from Max?” You tease after a particularly close call between the two Red Bulls.
Charles laughs breathlessly. “Just keeping things interesting for the fans.”
The race continues at a blistering pace, with Charles and Max pushing each other to the limit. But through it all, Charles remains in the lead, with you guiding him from the pit wall.
“Final lap,” you inform. “Bring it home.”
He nods, pushing the car to its limit. The cheers of the crowd grow louder as he crosses the finish line, securing his first victory with Red Bull.
“Amazing job, Charles! I knew you could do it!”
He lets out a whoop of joy. “Yes! Thank you, team. Thank you, Y/N. I couldn’t have done it without you all.”
The two of you celebrate the victory, and as the rose water sprays and the cheers of the crowd fill the air, you know that this is just the beginning of an incredible journey together.
***
“You’re sure about the medium tyres, Y/N?” Charles asks nervously as he looks at the other cars lining up. “Everyone else is starting on softs.”
You nod confidently, tapping the race strategy on your clipboard. “Yes. The upside of using the mediums is it gives us flexibility. We can extend our first stint if needed, especially with possible rain on the forecast. While everyone else has to pit early for hards and then again for inters when the rain starts, we’ll only have to pit once. Trust me.”
He inhales deeply, trying to quell the unease bubbling inside. “I do trust you. It’s just ... Ferrari ... the strategies there ...”
“I know,” you interrupt softly, understanding the trauma and distrust years with Ferrari had instilled in him. “But this isn’t Ferrari. It’s Red Bull and we work differently. I’ve got your back.”
“Alright,” he looks into your eyes, finding assurance and conviction there, “let’s do this.”
The race begins, and Charles holds his ground well on the medium tyres, though the drivers running softs initially show quicker pace. But as predicted, the clouds soon darken and the threat of rain becomes increasingly evident.
“Stay focused,” you guide through the radio. “Remember the plan.”
He pushes on, expertly handling the streets of Monaco. The cars around him begin to lose grip and one by one they dive into the pits for hard tyres.
Charles keeps lapping. He moves up the order.
“You’re doing great,” you encourage. “Stick to the plan. We’re right on schedule.”
However, as the first raindrops begin to fall, panic sets in among the other teams on the grid. Those who just pitted for hard tyres are forced to pit again for intermediate tyres, losing precious time.
“Now,” you command, “Box this lap.”
He follows your instruction, driving into the pits, and with a flawless stop by his Red Bull crew, re-emerges in the lead.
The rain continues but Charles navigates the treacherous streets of Monaco expertly, maintaining his lead. When the chequered flag waves, it’s Charles who crosses the line first and finally claims victory at his home Grand Prix.
Tears of joy and relief pour from Charles’ eyes as he takes in the moment. “Thank you,” he says over the radio, voice choked with emotion. “I can’t believe it. We did it in Monaco!”
You smile, tears in your own eyes. “We did. I told you to trust me, didn’t I?”
He laughs, the sound full of pure joy. “You did. And I’m so glad I did. Thank you for everything.”
As he steps out of the car and jumps on its nose, arms spread wide, the crowd roars in approval, their prince finally crowned in his home race.
Then he rushes to the barriers and jumps into the cheering crowd of dark blue waiting for him. When his sweaty lips find yours surrounded by the celebrating Red Bull team, you take a moment to whisper a promise, “This is just the beginning. It will only get better from here.”
***
The season flies by in a blur of champagne showers. Heading into the Italian Grand Prix, Charles find himself leading the Drivers’ Championship with Max nipping at his heels.
“I’m not sure I can do this,” Charles confesses, staring out at the Autodromo Nazionale Monza. “This was home. I don’t know how they will react now that I’m no longer wearing red.”
You rest a reassuring hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently. “Many fans support the driver, not just the color he wears.”
He takes a deep breath and looks over the crowd. “The Tifosi are different. They bleed Ferrari red. I’m afraid they will see me only as a traitor.”
“You gave them your all,” you counter. “They’ve seen the struggles. They know why you left. They understand. Trust in them and in yourself.”
As the two of you make your way towards the paddock, the familiar chorus of cheers fills the air. But instead of the jeers and boos he feared, a chant begins to rise among the crowd of red: “Charles! Charles! Charles!”
Charles stops in his tracks. “They’re ... they’re cheering for me.”
You nod, a smile playing on your lips. “Told you.”
He’s soon swarmed by a group of fans, all clamoring for autographs, photos, and just a moment of his time. It’s clear that the bond between Charles and the Tifosi remains unbroken.
An older fan steps forward, his Ferrari cap worn with age. “You are still Il Predestinato. We wish it ended differently but we have eyes. We watched the races. We know why you left. No matter what team you drive for, you always have our hearts.”
Charles blinks back tears, deeply touched. “Grazie,” he whispers and claps the fan’s weathered hands in thanks.
Another fan, a young girl with a homemade sign that reads Once a Tifosi, Always a Tifosi, shyly approaches. “We still love you, Charles,” she says.
He kneels down to give her a gentle hug. “Thank you,” he murmurs, taking off his Red Bull cap and placing it on her head.
As the day goes on, the support from the Tifosi only grows. They cheer for him during practice, during qualifying, and every time he appears in front of the stands.
It’s clear that the bond between Charles and the Tifosi is as strong as ever.
That evening, as the two of you sit in the garage looking over data, Charles reflects on his day. “I was so afraid,” he admits. “Afraid of being rejected, of losing their love. But today ... today was incredible.”
You close the analytics. “The Tifosi love you. Not because of the car you drive or the colors you wear but because of who you are. Just like I do.”
He nods slowly. “It’s overwhelming. Monza has always been special to me. To feel this level of love and support ... it’s more than I ever expected.”
You lean closer, resting your head on his shoulder. “They see your passion. They see how much you give on and off the track. Anyone who does not love and respect you for that needs to reconsider.”
He exhales slowly, “I just ... I wanted to make them proud, to win for them in red and bring glory back to Maranello. But knowing they still support me no matter what ... it means everything.”
You look up into his eyes. “And they always will. Because they know you always gave and will continue to give your best. They love you because they are loved in return.”
He laughs, pulling you into a tight hug. “Thank you,” he murmurs into your hair. “For always being my rock, especially in moments like these.”
“Now let’s go out there tomorrow and win.”
***
“Vegas, baby!” Charles shouts, swinging an arm around your shoulders, both of you holding champagne glasses that have been refilled one too many times.
You giggle, distinctly feeling all of the alcohol you’ve consumed. “We won! We did it!”
Charles laughs, pulling you closer. “We did! And do you know what people do when they’re in love and win in Vegas?”
You think about it for a moment, a mischievous glint appearing in your eyes. “Get ... married?”
Charles nods enthusiastically. “Exactly! Y/N Horner, will you marry me tonight?”
You don’t hesitate, “Hell yes!”
The two of you, in your drunken stupor, begin your mission to find a wedding chapel. However, before you can get very far, Max spots you and quickly catches on to what you’re planning.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Max exclaims, grabbing Charles by the shoulder. “Where do you think you’re going with Y/N?”
Charles replies with a sloppy grin, “To make her Mrs. Leclerc!”
Max bursts into laughter, trying to play the voice of reason. “Mate, as much fun as that sounds, I think you might want to sleep on that idea.”
But you’re not having it. “No, Max! We’re in love and it’s Vegas. We’re doing it!”
Before the conversation can escalate further, your father joins the fray, looking both amused and concerned. “What on earth is going on here?”
Max chuckles, “Your daughter and Charles here have some ... ambitious plans for the evening.”
You pout and stumble slightly, “Daddy, we want to get married! Right now!”
Your father’s eyebrows shoot up. “Married? Tonight? Seriously?”
Charles nods with absolute seriousness, though his precarious swaying contradicts his tone. “Christian, I love your daughter. And we won. In Vegas. So ... wedding?”
Your father places a firm hand on his driver’s shoulder. “Listen, Charles, I have no doubt about your feelings for Y/N. But my baby girl deserves the world. When and if you ever decide to propose, I expect you to get down on one knee, stone-cold sober, and ask her properly.”
Charles blinks, processing the words. “But ... Vegas?”
You laugh and go to hug your father, almost falling over in the process. “He’s right. Let’s just enjoy tonight. And if we still feel like getting married in the morning, we can discuss it then.”
Max smirks, “Trust me, you’ll thank us in the morning. If you can even remember this conversation, that is.”
***
“Charles,” you begin, your voice echoing in his helmet, “The team has made the call. You and Max are free to race. No team orders.”
There’s a pause on the other end. “Understood. May the best man win.”
The tension in the garage skyrockets as soon as the lights go out. It’s evident that this is going to be an epic battle from the very first turn. Max and Charles swap places multiple times, pushing their cars to the very edge of their limits.
“Breathe,” you remind him calmly as the laps go by, “Don’t loose sight of the race as a whole. There’s a championship at stake.”
The entire race is a blur of overtakes, pit strategies, and nail-biting moments. The two Red Bull cars battle wheel-to-wheel lap after lap. One side of the garage against the other.
Coming into the final laps, Charles is right on Max’s tail — the championship hanging in the balance between them.
You know there’s not much you can do to guide him anymore … it’s all up to Charles.
“Last lap,” you try to sound composed despite the pounding of your heart. “You can do this.”
The cheers and gasps of the crowd are deafening as Charles makes his move, taking the inside line and overtaking Max on the penultimate turn.
“Push now! Just a few more corners.”
As Charles crosses the finish line, the enormity of the moment crashes over both of you.
“Charles Leclerc,” you scream over the radio as tears stream down your face, “you are the World Champion!”
“Yeeeesssss! Yes! Yes! I ... I can’t believe it. This is ... thank you, everyone. To the entire Red Bull team, you’ve given me the chance to chase and achieve my dreams. To my friends, my family, to every single person who’s been by my side, believed in me, and supported me … thank you. And Y/N, you’ve been my rock and my oxygen. Without you, this wouldn’t have been possible. Thank you! Thank you. Thank you so much!”
***
“Whew! That was a lot of rose water!” Charles laughs, wiping the bubbly liquid from his eyes.
You chuckle and try to wring out your hair. “You didn’t have to drench me, you know!”
Charles grins cheekily. “It’s a special occasion, after all. Both of us on this podium? It’s a dream!”
Then suddenly, he turns serious and signals to his brother in the crowd below, who throws him a small leather box. Charles catches it and promptly lowers himself down on one knee in front of you, making the crowd fall into a stunned silence.
“I tried this in Vegas,” he starts with a laugh, “But I might have been too drunk and missed a few pretty important steps.”
Charles takes a deep breath and his eyes lock onto yours, saying everything that words would never be sufficient to. “Y/N, being on this podium with you, winning the World Championship, it’s the pinnacle of my career. But what we have ... it’s the pinnacle of my life. I can’t imagine going on this journey with anyone else, facing the highs, the lows, the in-betweens. Will you marry me?”
Tears flow steadily down your cheeks and you nod with a fervor that would make bobbleheads jealous, “Yes! There’s no one else I’d want to spend forever with.”
The crowd erupts into cheers and applause, the deafening roar echoing around the Yas Marina Circuit. Max gives a loud whistle, his face lit up with a big grin next to you on the podium stage.
Charles rises to his feet and pulls you close, attacking your lips as the crowd goes wild.
“Promise me we won’t head to a chapel right after this race?” You joke, sniffling and giggling at the same time.
Charles laughs, looking slightly sheepish. “I promise, mainly because I’m too young to die and your father would definitely kill me if I even thought about pulling the stunt we tried in Vegas again. You deserve a fairytale wedding.”
You press your face against his chest, feeling the rhythm of his heartbeat as fireworks explode overhead. “All I need for my fairytale is you.”
Miami
lando: thanks osc!
zak: osc?
lando: that's my nickname!
---
Barcelona
interviewer: osco?
oscar: that's my nickname!
“I’d let you if you asked.”
Jason Todd always had a habit of being in your space. It's something you didn't mind, but it is something you kept note of. He leans towards you, head angled down to catch every sound that comes through your throat, observing every twitch of your muscles with a sharp, intent gaze.
But even if he always seems to linger in your shadow, even if his eyes darkened with the desire for something more, he was careful. He never touched you before you touched him, and he always caught himself, when his fingers instinctively reached for you.
Something as simple as a hug, a brush over the back of your hand, a tousle of your hair, he denied himself over and over again. It was almost frustrating to see him denying himself something you never held back from him.
He melts into every hug you give, relishes when you thread your fingers together, nearly drops to his knees every time you kiss his cheek.
But then he'll falter, when you pull away, like he's snapping back to reality. He'll remind you that he's not good. In not so many words, he tells you he's poison. That he'll end up ruining you. Breaking you.
You think he's silly for it, because Jason Todd is nothing but good. But you indulge him, brushing the stray strands of hair falling into his face back, "I'd let you, if you asked."
He blinks at you, eagerly leaning into your touch, with dumbfounded eyes, "You would?"
You smile at him, devouring the way his eyes flutter when you do, "I would. If you want to ruin me, all you have to do is ask."
He frowns a little, his hand raising to rest on top of yours, keeping your palm pressed to his cheek, "I don't want to ruin you."
"Then ask for something else," you encourage, voice soft and fond.
"Can I kiss you?"
It makes you laugh, maybe he's not so scared of you after all. The hope doesn't leave his eyes when you do, and you're more than happy to answer him, "Yeah. You can kiss me, Jason."
He's quick to take advantage of your agreement, and it turns out, Jason's kisses are just as sweet as he is.
Need to reblog this just so I can keep coming back to it... good lord is this writing amazing.
im a pretty boy im stunning
Pairing; Chris Knight x Fem Reader
Summary; Chris accidentally mows you down on campus, then pays you a visit in the evening and dirty shenanigans ensue...
Warnings; 18+ or 5 megawatts will go into ur brain, big talk about face sitting in this, oral sex (male receiving), chris deserves his own warning otherwise you'll explode with love, teensy bit of dirty talk, he calls you 'angel' and you call him 'pretty boy', brief mention of blood/minor injury (elbow scrape)
(a/n) y'all when I say Chris Knight is my comfort character?!? he is literally the prettiest boy I have ever seen and he deserves the whole world. this is pure filth and im projecting so there! title is a lyric from Stunnin by Curtis Waters!! bcus he is a pretty boy and he is stunning
Word Count; 3.9k ish
He couldn’t usually care less when he was running late for something, it never really even entered his mind in fact. But today he couldn’t have been happier that he was an hour late to a lecture, because if he wasn’t then he wouldn’t have met you. Well, knocked you over into the ground.
He’d been running across the campus grounds, out of need to burn off excess energy rather than reduce his lateness, and rounded a corner that you were unfortunately on the other side of. Unfortunately for you since all the air got knocked out of you and you practically slammed into the floor, but very fortunate for him because he’d just met the love of his life-that’s what his mind helpfully supplied anyway, as he tried to get his bearings and saw you attempt to catch your breath while lying on your back next to him, a few bits of paper fluttering down around you.
Chris sat up slightly, resting on his elbows and squinting against the sunlight as he looked around. Some folders and papers which must have been yours were strewn around the both of you, one of his bunny slippers had fallen off and was a few feet away, and he could feel the comically large sunglasses that were perching on his head had been knocked askew, hanging off of one ear. He turned to you and grinned, watching your chest rise and fall heavily, and raking his eyes down your legs, suddenly very very glad he’d left his dorm at that exact time so that he was able to see the shorts that currently sat high on your thighs.
One of your hands had been laying over your eyes, a frown on your face, but you moved it and narrowed your eyes against the brightness of the sun. As soon as you shifted as though you were going to sit up, he practically catapulted himself on top of you to hold himself over your body. He watched as you blinked in surprise, beaming down at you and feeling you move yourself where you were trapped between his legs.
“You’re very very pretty.”
“Oh-I, well, you’re pretty too…?”
“You’d look very very very pretty sitting on my face though. Which you should do, as soon as you possibly can.”
“I’m sorry?!?”
He jumped to his feet, still grinning down at you and placing one hand on his hip while he held the other out for you to grab and pull yourself up by.
“Don’t know what you’re sorry for, but I graciously accept the apology anyway!”
“No-no just-did you just ask me to sit on your face?!?”
Chris took you in, looking you up and down as you rubbed your elbow and wincing where you’d landed on it. His mind went blank, solely focused on how pretty your eyes were and how badly he wanted to brush his fingers along the flush staining your cheeks. Eh, what the hell.
You jumped when you felt his fingertips skate over your cheeks, before relaxing a little and looking curiously at him. He smiled widely, before chuckling and raising his hand to fix the sunglasses now tangled in his hair.
“No ma’am I did not ask you to sit on my face, I just said you’d be very pretty doing it, and therefore you should. I’ll ask you though if that’s the encouragement you need.” Chris mockingly saluted you, before dropping his arms to his side and standing to attention as though you were a commanding officer. And as though he were any sort of soldier, actually. The sunglasses dropped from his forehead to the tip of his nose.
You let out a giggle at the sight, until your arm twinged again and you sucked in a breath, rubbing at the broken skin on your elbow.
“You should let me look at that, angel-”
“That’s not my name-”
“Why not? It suits you. But let me look at that.”
You hesitated for a second before holding your arm out and twisting it so he could see the red stain slowly creeping down your forearm. He picked up your hand gently and inspected the minor wound, peering at it with concern.
“Do you know first aid then?”
“No why would I?”
“You asked to see my elbow!! I thought you were going to help me!”
Chris let your arm go and tugged at the shirt he’d tied about his waist, startling you when he suddenly ripped one of the sleeves off and offered it to you. Taking it tentatively, you shot him a confused look as he just kept on grinning.
“So. What am I meant to do with this…?”
“It’s a bandage. Or bondage. Or whatever you want. A little piece of me.”
“I-I don’t even know how to respond right now-”
He spread his arms out wide, then leaned in until his forehead was resting on yours, chuckling as you blinked in surprise again.
“Well, you can always sit on my face like I want you to-”
“Oh my word-I can’t-I don’t even-who are you?!?”
“Chris. Christopher. Knight. Christopher Robin? Knight in shining armour. The Dark Knight? Saint Christopher? Whoever you want me to be. But my name is technically Chris Knight.”
“Well Chris-” How did his name sound so much better than normal coming from you?!? “-it’s been something, meeting you. I’ll be sure to find you if I want to take you up on your…offer. But for now, I’m going to find someone who knows a bit of first aid and then go to my lecture-see you around yeah?”
You were leaving already?!? No no no, you couldn’t go yet. He didn’t know anything about you, hadn’t even gotten your name. It would be a shame if he didn’t manage to bury his face between your thighs, but it would be an absolute tragedy if he let you go so easily. It confused him a little, which was rare, but he somehow knew you could be something. This could be different. Not very scientific but he took comfort in the fact that he was pretty much always correct. About everything. Why should this be any different?
“Pretty pretty pretty girl! If you gotta go I’ll see you later. Wait. Can I see you later???”
He looked excited as he asked the last part, staring expectantly at you as he waited for an answer.
“Yknow what? You seem nice and you’re pretty as well, why the hell not?”
“You really think I’m pretty? My makeup didn’t go so well today, you see-”
You shocked him by laughing loudly, forgetting about your injury for a minute as you bent double in hysterics. The past ten minutes seemed to have hit you, finally taking in the fact that you were mowed down by a bunny slippers and fancy dress sunglasses wearing goofball of a man, blond hair sticking up in every direction possible, who immediately told you to sit on his face, ripped a sleeve off his shirt for you and asked to see you later. A much more entertaining morning than your lecture, that’s for damn sure.
“No really you are a pretty man. And sweet. If not somewhat…blunt and inappropriate-”
Chris let out a startlingly loud ‘HA’ and suddenly leaned in to peck your forehead before twirling in a messy circle, bowing as he finished. He lifted his head and you raised your eyebrows at him.
“I have a blunt and inappropriate instrument you might like as well by the way, comes with me everywhere if you must know. Now, places to be and things to explode-”
Flashing you another grin, he turned and sprinted the way he had originally been heading, leaving you surrounded by folders and papers, smiling as you held the torn sleeve he’d handed over.
-
Chris spends the rest of the day wandering around, heading no particular direction. Every time someone walks past him, he flings an arm out and stops them, barely even looking at them as he describes you in great detail to find out anything he can. Your name, what you’re studying, your friends, your favourite at the cafeteria, your dorm room.
If he’s remembered right then it was the 47th person he asked-there’s a chance it’s the 48th but he’s inclined to believe his math in this situation rather than Jordan’s-who finally told him where your room was.
No matter who smart he is, he can concede it may have been a little stupid to ask to see you later and then not ask for a single detail about you.
But nevertheless, it all works out because now he knows where you are and he can go and see you and watch you smile again and maybe you’ll tell him a bit about yourself and then maybe he’ll get you to sit on his face! He hopes, anyway.
As he picks out some nice, presentable clothing (purple sweatpants, a crochet sweater and pink earmuffs around his neck), he thinks that if not then he’ll just keep coming around-it feels like a punch to the gut when he considers not ever getting his tongue on you. He bets you’ll taste better than anything, thinks you’ll stretch around his fingers just right and-
Aaaand he needs to think clearly so he doesn’t scare you away or come off wrong.
But god all Chris can think about is how pretty your eyes were this morning, how they’d look when he’d made you cum twice on his tongue-the way you might gaze down at him, eyes half lidded and glassy. Cheeks flushed so prettily, red and hot with the pleasure he can’t help but give you over and over.
As he ruffles up his hair and makes it even messier, he thinks back to when he picked up your hand (how can a hand be that pretty?!?) and he just knows it was made to tangle in his hair, pull on the blond locks and push his head further into you.
Looking in the mirror and artfully ruffling his hair just one more time, he grins and gives himself a thumbs up-at which point Mitch walks in and looks him up and down interestedly.
“You uh-you going somewhere Chris?”
“I am going to see my girlfriend, Taylor! Don’t wait up!”
He jogs out of the room, ignoring his roommate’s confused stare. Mitch sticks his head out and yells down the corridor.
“You have a girlfriend?!?”
“No!”
The answer was shouted back, fading as Chris struts around the corner to leave the building and head over to yours.
-
When he knocks on your door, there’s some scrabbling behind it and someone obviously moving around quickly. He uses the few moments to decide which position he wants to be standing in when you open the door, but takes too long and ends up quickly attempting to lean on the doorframe, but misjudging it so you open the door to see him fall straight in and crash to the floor.
“Angel! You keep making me fall for you and I won’t have enough brain cells left to tell you how pretty you are. Have I told you how pretty you are yet?”
You stare down at the man lying on your floor, who grins up at you and crosses his arms behind his head. In a mirror of this morning, you stretch a hand out for him to grab and he debates pulling you down onto him, but pulls himself up instead with the thought that he’d like to get to know you a little better before you think he only wants to get into your pants.
So, for the next few hours, that’s what he does. He lays down on your bed until you prod his thigh and beat him in a staring contest to make him sit up, and you both spend a long while just talking. It’s not that Chris doesn’t talk to women, not that he only wants to sleep with them or anyt-hing, but he doesn’t usually go this long without making some sort of advance. Odd. But, he’s happy-as in, surprisingly actually really ecstatic to just be sitting there with you.
Surprisingly actually really ecstatic!
However. He can’t deny how crazy he’s currently going from the feel of you straddling his lap, arms around his neck and joining him in messy kisses. If you asked him, he wouldn’t be able to tell you exactly how it happened-you two were talking about your study methods and then you looked over at him and were suddenly sitting on his lap and he was sucking gently on your tongue. At least he knows you want him as well, he was getting a little too concerned that you didn’t. The warmth he can feel rocking over his clothed dick tells Chris that it’s definitely not one sided, thank god-he’s not sure what he’d do if it was.
When he breaks away to suck marks just under your jaw, you gasp and grip his hair tightly, making him laugh quietly at how right he was earlier.
“Yknow-yknow I thought you were, oh, kind of-a little bit-odd, when I met you this morning, but then-then I couldn’t stop thinking-”
Chris pulls his face away to beam up at you, and he watches you bite your lip at the glistening salvia coating his lips and no doubt your skin.
“S’good, real good, angel, means your brain is functioning and many people can’t even own to that-”
“Shush shush I just-all I was thinking about through my, god, through my lectures was how-how stupidly pretty you are-”
“You were?!? I like that-I like that a lot-”
Ducking his head again, he presses more messy kisses to your neck and wraps his arms around your waist, squeezing tightly and crushing your bodies together. He presses you down slightly as well, indulging in the hot pressure on his shaft. He knows he’s going to savour the moan that spills out of you forever.
“Uh huh-you are-you’re really pretty-’nd then I was thinking about what you said-what you offered this morning-”
He licks a long stripe up your neck, from the hollow of your throat to your chin, and pulls back again, looking at you hopefully.
“Can I??? Will you let me? I’ll-I’ll make it really good, promise-be so good for you-please-”
Giggling a little at his dopey expression, lips parted and breathing heavily as he watches you dotingly, you brush your thumb over his bottom lip and lean your forehead on his.
“Wanna-another time, but I wanna taste you first instead-”
“Oh-”
You watch his pupils blow out in real time, jaw going slack as his mind struggles over the thought of your mouth around him.
“Can I? Cmon pretty boy, can I?”
Chris outright moans at your words, dropping his head down to land on your collarbone and slipping his arms off your waist so he can grab at the flesh of your ass, pawing at you and digging his fingers in to relieve some tension.
“Do-do you like that? Only saying it cause you are, yknow, very very pretty boy-so pretty for me-”
Whimpering into your neck, he uses his grip on your ass to tug you against his crotch again. His sweatpants suddenly feel too tight, too restrictive and he needs to get them off.
“Would-do you really want to? You don’t have to angel but-but if you do-”
“‘Course I am, couldn’t focus in my lecture cause I just kept thinking about blowing you, pretty boy-then you even make the effort to find me and we sit here for hours chatting and you’re so sweet and I just really wanna suck your dick-”
“Angel angel angel-you-you gotta stop saying stuff like that or you won’t get the chance, m’gonna paint the inside of my pants if you keep talking like that-”
“That’s-actually really hot can we-can we do that another time-”
He grasps the back of your head and smacks your lips together, teeth clashing and tongues battling. After a little bit, you pull away, gasping and taking in the sight of him. He’s so beautiful-stunning, really. Head tilting towards yours, eyes blissfully shut, lips parted and shining with spit in the artificial light of your bedroom. Hair mussed and soft between your fingers, hands gripping the flesh of your ass, member jutting up into your feverishly hot centre. Prettiest boy you ever did see.
Reaching down to grab his hands, you move them to the bed either side of his thighs and watch the muscles in his arms flex, his fingers twitch as he fights not to move them.
He presses his lips together, trying not to grin at the sight of you shuffling off his lap to kneel in front of him. He feels like he’s about to have his first time all over again, a too-eager teen all jumpy and skittish.
When your hands slide up to tug at the ties of his sweatpants, his hands immediately jump up and pick at the material on his thighs before smoothing up and down, trying to expel some of the anticipation he’s feeling. It doesn’t help at all, not when you pull at his waistband along with the zebra print boxers he’s wearing and move them down far enough to free his length, slowly pumping your hand up and down.
As soon as your skin makes contact with him he moans loudly, seemingly a very vocal man even though people could be walking past your room. One hand fists in the sheets of your bed and the other comes up to pull at his hair, attempting to ground himself somewhat while you push on his knees to make room for yourself. You shuffle forward, smiling up at him and stomach flipping at the grin he sends back, all wide and toothy, his excitement palpable as you bring yourself closer.
Wrapping your hand around him again, you press a small kiss to his tip and look up to see his mouth drop open, barely able to keep his eyes open as his brain blanks and his breathing picks up.
“Jesus jesus je-oh christ-”
“Have barely done anything yet give me a second pretty boy-”
Some sort of whine comes from him and he forces his eyes open, not wanting to miss a second. You close your lips around the head of his cock, sucking gently-you’re rewarded with a loud ‘WOAH’, so naturally you suck a little harder.
His hands roam across the sheets of your bed, grabbing at sections for a few seconds before letting go to fist in another part. Letting go with a wet pop, you look up to hold eye contact with Chris and dip down to lick a long stripe from base to tip. He falls back on your bed with a heavy thump, abdomen flexing as he mumbles your name over and over again and you grin.
Slipping one hand up and under his crocheted sweater to skate over his toned stomach, you scratch lightly at his happy trail and sink your mouth down around his shaft. He’s, unsurprisingly, quite well endowed and it’s a slight struggle to fit all of him so you settle for sliding your hand up and down what you can’t get in your mouth. It doesn’t seem to make a difference to Chris judging by the groans coming from him and the way he suddenly sits back up, holding his arms out a little and clenching his hands in the air, not able to decide where to put them. The hot, wet heat of your mouth is about to drive him insane and he doesn’t think he’s able to form the words to ask if he can card his fingers through your hair right now.
You slide your mouth up and down, up until you’re almost off of him and then slowly (painfully, he thinks) back down until he nudges against the back of your throat. His brows furrow as he gazes down, mouth open and eyes glassy at the absolute vision of you looking up through teary eyelashes and drool spilling down his cock. Moving both of your hands so they’re resting on the tops of his thighs, which makes you clench around nothing at the feel of his taut muscles, you breathe slowly in and out of your nose to slide down a little bit further.
Chris falls backwards again with a stream of curses and plunges both hands into his hair. You pause your movements and, with great trouble, he lifts his head up a few inches to peer down at you. That’s when you decide to swallow, throat constricting around the head of his dick-
“Fucking-fuck fuck shit jesus christ-”
You raise your eyebrows at the expletives now filling your ears and then sense movement below you, glancing down to see his abdomen flexing and hips twitching minutely as he evidently tries to hold back from bucking up into your mouth.
“I can’t-m’gonna-oh god-”
You barely take any notice of his words, swallowing again and feeling his member pulse, suddenly cumming down your throat with a loud moan from the man you’ve just unravelled.
Chris pants a little as you lift your mouth off of him to swallow, and then duck your head to place gentle kitten licks all over his cock, cleaning up the mess you’d accidentally made. He leans up and rests on his elbows to watch in adoration as you gently tuck him back into his sweatpants, tie the strings and then sit back on your haunches to wait for his next move.
Unable to contain himself for much longer, he lurches forward and grabs your biceps, pulling you up and toward him until you’re lying on top of him on your bed, one of his thighs pressing up against your cunt.
“Can-can I-please will you let me-I gotta return the favour I can’t-can’t not taste you for much longer please, please angel I just-need-need to-”
His eyes dart all over your face as the words spill out of him, hands roaming around and thigh nudging up into you to make your body jolt. With a soft chuckle that turns into a gasp at the pressure between your legs, you lean down to kiss him-and are met very enthusiastically, one hand pressing on the back of your head to keep you in place as he explores your mouth-and hum in agreement.
He makes good on his offer, making you come twice on his tongue and once on his fingers before the night is out. Then twice on his cock in the morning-one time in bed and one time in the shower. From that day forward, people seldom see you without Chris being, at most, fifteen feet away, and if you’re together there’s a good chance he’s trying to touch you in one way or another-making both of you very very happy. It does result in a few interrupted moments, but Chris brushes them all off with a casual ‘what’s a mentally scarred Mitch in exchange for that pretty face you make when I get my fingers inside you?’
Who knows-maybe one day it’ll be Kent and he’ll finally lose the stick up his ass?
YALL if you enjoyed this at all, liked any part of it please comment or reblog so it shows up for more people in more tags, it’s not a very well known movie or character in terms of fandoms anyway so any help spreading this would be hugely appreciated :) lyyyy
tags;
@tiredly101
@bisexual-watermelons
@thewolveswithin
@valkilme
@whyisitsohardtosignin
sunset anew | dick grayson
Summary: You're a little nervous to become the Mrs. Grayson. Luckily, your husband-to-be knows just what to say to soothe your worries.
Pairing: Dick Grayson x fem!reader
Word count: 1.7k
Warnings/tags: wedding, anxious reader, the batfam actually gets along, fluff!! (dick is my wife.)
If you like this fic and want to see more, please let me know through reblogs ♡
the divider
Contrary to popular belief, Gotham isn't a complete eyesore.
Sure, it's no vacation spot, and it's probably not the ideal place to settle down. But there are beautiful parts within the grunge.
Your wedding planner had shown you multiple locations, from Napa to the Bahamas. Bruce had insisted cost was no problem.
But that wasn't what made you choose Gotham.
Your forearms rest on the polished stone-top railing that surrounds the rooftop of the nicest hotel in the city. Thirty-two floors, all rented out for you.
You look down at the tiny cars and people below. Your heart swoops.
Your heels are in one hand. The sun crests the horizon; soon, yellow will melt into buttery orange and pink. It’s the first sunset you knew. The only sunset you know. And it’s the same one you saw the first time you met your almost-husband.
You'd come up here so you wouldn't miss it. Just this one time.
“Found her!”
You jump as the roof access door opens. Damian and Duke walk out. Duke gives you a warm smile.
"Jesus, you guys," you say, hand on your chest. “Way to scare a girl.”
“Sorry. You look really nice,” Duke says, smoothing his bowtie.
Damian crosses his arms, clearly unimpressed.
“Frightening you is the least of our concerns. We thought you’d run. Which would be understandable, considering the family you’re marrying into, but Father spent a lot renting the hotel. Plus, Grayson would’ve been inconsolable, and extremely annoying.”
“Dude,” Duke says, elbowing Damian. “Chill out. It’s not like she was actually going to leave him at the altar.” He squints at you. “Were you?”
“No! I wasn’t going to leave him at the altar, oh my God.”
Damian nods. “Good." He taps his watch and speaks into it. "Grayson, our work is done. Come to the roof.”
Duke gives you a wave and they wordlessly leave the way they came. You sigh and start to slip your heels back on. There’s some whispering at the bottom of the stairs, and Damian shouts “no!” before it’s silent.
You have one heel on when Dick emerges.
He’s unfairly handsome in his tux, hair somehow both neat and tousled. He also has what looks to be Damian’s tie wrapped around his eyes. You step out of your heel, unsure.
"Hey, sweetheart," he says, sounding genuinely apologetic. "Sorry about that. Didn't mean to scare you."
"It’s okay, baby. Why are you blindfolded?"
"Bad luck to see the bride, duh."
You can't help your idiotic grin at that. "I think it'll be fine, Gray. You didn’t have to take his tie.”
"Maybe you haven't met my family; we're not known for our good luck streaks.”
"I'm madly in love with you,” you say, feeling gooey.
Dick beams, and you nearly forget about the sunset altogether.
"I'm madly in love with you too."
You kiss him and he blindly returns it, following your lips even after you step back. You cluck your tongue and nudge him away. He obeys, though not without sliding his hand onto your waist and tugging you away from the roof. You follow because he's such a worrier.
Dick reaches for your hand and squeezes.
"You okay?" he asks.
"Yeah. Sorry I disappeared. I didn’t know the calvary would be sent after me.”
“Yeah, uh…” Dick rubs the back of his neck. “Sorry about that. Again. I got worried.”
The guilt sinks its claws deeper. You frown and touch his cheek.
“I would never leave you at the altar, Dick.”
“I know! I know that. They’re idiots; don’t listen to ‘em, whatever they said."
You cup his face with both hands and kiss him again. He squeezes your wrists and you can feel the relief rolling off him in waves, as much as he tries to hide it.
“Was my absence noticeable?” you ask.
"Just to us. Don’t worry about it. The Wayne family are professional crowd entertainers."
"I take it Bruce is doing card tricks?"
"Yep,” Dick says. “He’s pretty good too. Might retire the suit."
You laugh. "Sorry I'm missing it."
"Trust me, you'll get your fill soon."
“We can go down now,” you offer, even though you’re still waiting for that sunset.
He shakes his head. “There’s no rush.”
You smile and rest your head on Dick's shoulder. He accepts you instantly and wraps his arm around your waist.
"You feel really beautiful," he says.
"Charmer."
"I'm serious!"
"I know. That's why I'm so damn sweet on you, Gray."
"I've got a shot with you, then?" he asks.
"Oh, big time."
He nuzzles your neck. You breathe in his scent: wine from earlier, detergent, the hair gel he uses to effortlessly capture the bed head look.
"We didn't have to do this today, you know,” he says, voice vibrating through you.
You pick your head up in alarm.
"What're you talking about?"
"If-if you're getting cold feet, I mean," he adds. "Second thoughts. We can always reschedule."
"Dick, no, I'm not getting second thoughts. I want to marry you today. I will marry you, okay? We've been together for almost four years."
"So? You know how long Batman and Catwoman have been skirting around each other? We've all got a wager going. Including Alfred!"
You snort. "Okay, well, excuse me if I don't want your family to bet on how long it's going to take us to marry."
"Afraid that ship's sailed."
"Of course it has."
You wrap your arms around his neck and pull him in. His arms drape over your hips. You trace the shape of his lips with your index, up his Cupid's bow and up the tip of his nose. Dick has such a lovely nose. You've always thought so.
“So who bet that I’d actually made a run for it?”
“That feels like a trick question,” he says.
“Jason?"
“Jason adores you, actually. He didn’t doubt your loyalty once.”
“Damian had his doubts."
“Damian's thirteen, he doesn’t know shit.”
You snort and kiss his cheek. “Well, I forgive him. He was protecting you, that’s all.”
"If it helps, everyone else was certain of your loyalty," Dick says, letting you paw at his face. “Myself included.”
"That does help, actually.”
Dick stops your hand in its journey and rests your palm on his cheek.
"What were you thinking about?" he asks quietly.
You stiffen a little. "Nothing. Just needed some air."
"You sure?"
You know what he's doing: feeling your pulse to see if it changes, listening to your breathing, watching if your shoulders tense. He's a detective first, and a damn good one.
You slump in defeat.
"What if I'm not… good at this? At being… us?”
"What?" Dick asks in disbelief. "What are you talking about? Of course you’ll be good at it. The real worry is me, babe. I mean, you're incredible. I'm the one who runs around in spandex at night."
"Gray, I'm serious," you say, resting your head on his heart. "All those people who’ve been watching us, waiting for the future Mrs. Grayson to slip up. I just—I can't help but wonder if it's prophetic. I wonder if maybe you deserve more."
"Hey. Now I can't predict the future. But even if I could, I don't believe there is a timeline out there where I could ever want or need anyone but you. And you're not alone in this, you know? I'm scared too. I'm terrified I'm putting you in danger. Of fucking up completely. But I also know that sometimes… we get good things, you know? It's not all doom and gloom. I mean, you being in my life is proof of that."
God, he always knows how to make your heart ache just right.
"I really want us to work," you whisper, clutching his suit coat. "I just don't wanna let you down, Gray."
"Baby," Dick says, curling around you. "Sweetheart, where did this come from? What makes you think that? You've never let me down, not once. I love you. It's okay if you feel like you don't know what you're doing, 'cause I don't know either."
You reach to untie the tie. Dick lightly grabs your hand, but you continue to tug anyway.
"Wait, babe—"
"Dick, it's okay. I want to see your eyes. Please?"
He lets you pull it off. He squints at the light, adjusting. Then his gaze drops to you and his lips part.
"Wow," Dick says, hands sliding up your arms.
You smile. "Like it? Selina helped me pick the dress, so it's all thanks to her."
"Fuck, baby. I wanna marry you right now. Screw everyone down there. Let's elope."
You laugh, combing back his hair with your fingertips and tucking loose strands behind his ears.
"Gray, you know we can't do that. What about Bruce? He'd be devastated and more than rightfully pissed."
He shrugs. "So what? I'm the favorite, I can get away with it."
"Well, what about Alfred? You'd break his heart."
Dick pauses, mulling that over. You kiss his chin.
"Damn it," he says. "You're right. I couldn't do that to him. He's arguably more excited about our wedding than we are."
"Mmhm. But I appreciate your attempt to be spontaneously romantic," you say, smiling.
Dick tugs you closer still, rubbing your back.
"I would elope," he says. "If you really wanted to. You could convince me to do just about anything. Even if it unleashed Alfie's wrath."
"Don't tell me that," you chide playfully. "You'll give a girl all sorts of notions."
"Oh, I'm counting on it."
Dick starts to kiss up your neck and you happily let him, eyes slipping closed. It's good, until—
THUMP!
You jump. Dick immediately pushes you behind him.
The roof access door swings out so hard it slams against the wall. Jason glares, bowtie already loosened.
"Are you fucking kidding me? You're gonna miss your own wedding, dumbass!" He nods at you. "Hey, future sis. Looking good."
"Thanks, Todd."
"Mm. Everything okay?"
You smile. "Everything's wonderful."
"Yeah, I'm okay too, thanks," Dick says, scowling.
"I know you're fine, idiot. Now come put a ring on it before Alfred hunts you down himself."
Jason turns on his heel, shaking his head. "Responsible one, my ass…"
You look at Dick, grinning.
"Seems like we should go do the marriage thing," you say.
"Seems like." He squeezes your hip. "Do you feel better?"
"Yeah, Gray. I do. Thanks. I love you."
"Love you too, baby. Let's go marry the hell out of each other."
The sunset has morphed into a violet night. But you don't mind that you missed it; you know there will be countless sunsets to come.
Privacy || PG10
Pairing: Pierre Gasly x fem!reader, Kika x fem!reader Warnings: angst, cheating, wlw WC: ~700 F1 Masterlist
You were his. He had promised it over and over, time and time again. You were only his. He didn’t want to share you, not with anyone. Privacy - that was the foundation of your relationship. Everything was kept private, so he could keep you safe.
Or so he said...
You could still see the notification when you closed your eyes. The WhatsApp message that mysteriously disappeared before you could read it, just like all the rest. You could feel the ice spreading down your spine at the lie.
It was just a group message, just one of the guys on the grid. He said it as if you didn’t know the name of every driver.
“I’ll be back before you wake, you won’t even notice I’m gone,” he promised as he stepped out of the bedroom in a white linen shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. You had taken time off work to spend the summer break with him but he couldn’t seem to go one night without attending a party at some club you couldn’t even pronounce.
You placed your phone on the coffee table and nodded your head like a good girlfriend should, just as he expected. “Be safe. Have fun.”
“Yeah, course.” He could barely hide his smile as he replied to a message on his phone, completely distracted as you did the same. “Love you.”
“You too.”
The club was full by the time you made it inside, unable to skip the long queue because you were just another pretty face, not one of the influencers or sports stars that frequented the place. There were hundreds of people but it was impossible to miss Mr Personality in the crowd, his smile wide as his arm curled around the model’s narrow waist.
The anonymity that came with the ‘private’ relationship worked in your favour as you made your way through the people. A few men took notice of your hips swaying with each step, but that was nothing new. Pierre had called you his ‘petal’, beautiful and in need of protecting.
“Hi,” you greeted your boyfriend when you reached the ring of strangers surrounding him. He dropped his arm from the model’s body and tore his lips away from her neck with wide-eyes. “Oh, don’t stop on my account, Kika is very beautiful.”
“It’s not what it looks like-”
“Of course not, it was totally innocent,” you interrupted, voice dripping with sarcasm.
“No need to be a bitch.” You could smell the alcohol on his breath and see his eyes dilated with the thoughts he had of finishing what he started with the younger woman. He had been talking to her for weeks, waiting for their trip to align so he could do more than just slide into her DMs.
You watched his hand disappear behind her back and she bit her lip as he palmed her ass. “It’s time to make a decision,” you said as you crossed your arms. “Are you going to come home with me?”
Pierre looked between you and Kika, his eyes dropped from her face to her tits before flicking back to you. “I’m good here.”
“Let’s go, love,” you said as you held your hand out, making Pierre laugh.
His laughter died when Kika stepped away from him, taking your hand and curling her body into your side. The devilish look in her siren eyes had you combing your fingers into her dark hair as she gripped the tight dress you wore and pulled you closer. Her lips tasted of strawberry from her daiquiri and the essence of the rum was stronger on her tongue when she deepened the kiss.
“What the fuck?” Pierre growled as he pulled you apart to see her lipstick smeared on your smirking lips.
“You’re not the only one in my DMs,” Kika teased as cleaned her lipstick from your face with a promising look. “Isn’t that right, my petal?”
“Petal?” His face was falling with each passing second, devastation at his actions being realised the longer he looked at you. He knew he was losing you. “Baby, wait, we can talk about this.”
“You made your bed, Pierre,” you said as you shook your head and curled your arm around Kika like he had earlier. “Now sleep alone in it.”
Need to come back to this when it's not 3am
Adopted Damian AU Index
Brief overview of the AU
Arc 1: Who's your Daddy?
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Arc 2: Welcome to the family
Part 5
Part 6
Part 7
Interlude
Part 8
Arc 3: A Breaking Point
Part 9
Part 10
Part 11
Part 12
Interlude
Part 13
Arc 4: What could have been
Part 14
Part 15
Part 16
Part 17
Arc 5: Who’s Really Your Daddy
Part 18
Part 19
Part 20
Part 21
Part 22
Part 23
Interlude
Part 24
Part 25
Arc 6: 4th of July
Part 26
Part 27
Part 28
Part 29
Part 30
Part 31
Part 32
Part 33
Part 34
Part 35
Part 36
Part 37
Part 38
Part 39
Interlude
Part 40
Arc 7: Mother Dearest
Part 41
Part 42
Part 43
Part 44
Part 45
Part 46
Arc 8: Decisions, Decisions
Part 47
Part 48
Part 49
Part 50
Part 51
Part 52
Part 53
Arc 9: Fateful Meeting
Part 54
Part 55
Part 56
Part 57
Part 58
Part 59
Part 60
Part 61
For the Jason drabbles, what about Jason conforting/taking care of reader while they are sick or even on their period?
We love a supportive man. What he receives he gives back tenfold.
—
“Show me where, baby.”
His hand roamed along your lower abdomen, imagining the soreness in your tense muscles. The spikes of pain that riddled you bedridden during your most heavy days.
“Here?” He applies pressure, fingers rubbing circles down just under your stomach, along the spot near your hip bone.
“Oww, yes,” you whine, wincing from the pain before being soothed by his massage.
Jason knew what periods were. He knew it’s a natural thing women dealt with. He’s worked with women for years, alongside doing his own research on it during one time you hadn’t left your bed for a while, thinking you were sick at first. It was an.. interesting conversation with Babs over what more he could do to help that the internet didn’t tell him about those relentlessly heavy cycles.
Pain like this took a lot longer to be rid of than a heating pad would allow. Especially the good quality ones with different settings.
Or, if you want something different, something fun that he wouldn’t mind shoving into the microwave for a minute, he’d get you a heatable, plush teddy bear. Or a duck. Or a menstruation crustacean.
He had no idea what the hell that was until you showed him on the site. You received whatever you chose in a box nearly three days later from Prime shipping.
Don’t freak out about blood. Accidents happen. If you got some on the sheets, along his lap when he held you, or on the couch, he could’ve cared less.
He wouldn’t even point it out, if you didn’t know. If you did notice it, he’d immediately shush you in an consolation attack, hiding your shameful expression in the crook of his shoulder.
“Shh, baby,” he’d murmur in your ear. “Easy. Nothin’ I haven’t seen before. S’alright, it’s okay.”
With advice from Babs, he cooks a lot more iron rich meals for you a lot more during this time. Usually, it’s been a team effort. You cook, he cleans up, you wash dishes together. Vice versa.
This week, regardless if you suffer from irregular periods, he does it all. He’ll do it even if he was a walking zombie, he doesn’t care.
Jason will not, no matter what you say, let you lift a finger if he knows you’re in pain. He’s an expert of masking his own, he can tell when you do it.
This even goes if you’re not used to being babied, get used to it. You tend to him for weeks at a time in a single month alone, this is his way of saying thank you for it all.
“Bed.” Jason demands, not even having to turn around from his attention on the stove to hear your shuffling to the kitchen.
“But I’m—“
“I brought you a drink,” he replies. A cup of warm raspberry leaf tea sitting on your bedside.
“No, I mean—“
“I know it hurts, but you can’t take anything until after you eat,” Jason peers over his shoulder, seeing his olive green shirt loosely draped over your body. “Go back to bed, Princess.”
“Can I stay here?” You plea, making his shoulders slump with a sigh. Try as he may, your weakened state makes him more pliable to your every request.
Might as well, since you’re already up. Stubborn girl.
“Go sit on the couch,” he sighs, knowing a few comforters were folded up on the cushions. “Get comfortable, an’ stay there. Dinner’s almost done.”
Jason has pills, plenty of them. From plain Tylenol, ibuprofen, to doctor prescribed muscle relaxers, morphine, etc. All thanks to Alfred.
Broken bones or severe, suture required injuries would be the only times Jason felt complied to take them. He knew addiction, watching it first hand and being involved in it at one point himself. He only took them when he absolutely, positively needed it.
For you, if you needed something stronger, he’d give you half of one pill, or a full, single pill at most. No way would you ever fall victim to such a cruel, toxic routine. He’d keep them locked up, for both your safety and his.
After your said hearty, iron rich meal, you remained on the couch snuggled up together like true lovers.
His guilty pleasure during your period of vulnerability was how much you relied on him for comfort. Positions varied, but his most favorite would be your body laying in his lap as he lounged on his reading recliner.
A gray comforter over your shoulders, some fuzzy socks on your feet. The furnace you called your boyfriend leaving you nice and toasty, his hands settling along your hair and back, preparing to soothe and massage when needed.
He adored when you needed him, he loved catering to you. You were his woman, his little nurse turned patient.
This also sort of gave him an excuse to skip out on patrols, but he never voiced the reasons why he’s gotten calls about it. He just didn’t feel like it, refusing the idea of abandoning you late at night, leaving him tense and unfocused on his routine on if you needed something, and he wasn’t there.
The others, with their detective mindsets could figure it out for themselves as to why Jason didn’t show up on a Saturday night. Or a Sunday, and definitely not a Monday.
He had important priorities, after all.
Just him, you; snuggly comfortable and content, and your herbal scented, menstruation crustacean.
Can you please please write smt about doing body shots off either Charles or lando. I keep staring at their necks in pics and I’m imaging just licking salt off it. I feel like lando would be soooo cocky about it and just let you lick it off his neck and make you grab the lime from his lips and then he ready to do it back to you
A/N: Lando is so perfect for this, Lando would be so cocky while Charles a blushing mess so we picked Lando in this house
You needed to be careful. The party was starting to get out of hand, but Lando had gotten P2 and Carlos P1 so the party was ragging. Everyone was getting tipsy and drunk while others were sober because of the slights they would be catching in a few hours.
Unable to remember who screamed it but all you knew is that everyone was doing body shots and the person who cracked the first was the next victim. And that's how you ended up standing in front of a smirking Lando. His hair was messed up and lips swollen.
No telling who he's been kissing or doing body shots off od, but you hated this. Standing in front of everyone has Daniel and Carlos explained the concept of what was going on. If either of you kissed, then you cracked, and someone will have to do a body shot off you.
Lando was following your every movement as Daniel placed you in front of Lando. The music was pounding and people everywhere but when Lando spoke in his low husky voice, something that happened when he's worked up and tipsy. "Are you okay?" Lando asks, pulling you in which has you leaning onto his chest for support. "Yeah, I've done this before." You whisper back, clearing your throat. The hands on your waist tighten and Lando's bright eyes darken but he says nothing as he smiles.
"So, who made you crack?" You asks, trying to forget your own nerves. "Don't worry about it," "Carlos did," Daniel teases craning Lando's neck to the side you swallow hard.
It's hard not to stare at Lando with his large hands, perfect smile, and neck he was just, perfectly imperfect. "Really? Can't believe I missed that." Lando giggles, from your words and the salt being stuck to his neck. "Alright! LET'S GO!" Daniel yells loudly which has everyone turning but still, it was a rather large party not even half the people were paying attention.
From the corner of your eye you see the other drivers laughing and watching you two closely. "Here goes nothing." Taking the bottle from Carlos's hand you take a swing, ignoring the burn in your throat as you lean in to lick the salt.
Slowly you move your tongue, a shudder passing through Lando's body, causing some wolf whistles as Lando's hands move from your waist to your ass squeezing it. Pulling back you look for the lime, looking at Lando he smiles and you groan seeing it in his mouth. "Cheater," You whisper, fingers tangle in curls as you yank him forward sending the drivers crazy as you kiss him deeply.
Groaning into the kiss Lando loses the lime as you curl your tongue sending him crazy you pull away with the lime in your mouth. Everyone laughing and cheering when you pull back with it in your mouth. "I think I win, yes?" You ask Daniel who is clapping and nodding. "Hell yeah!" Turning you see Lando standing there dazed. "Maybe next time, baby boy." Patting his cheek, unsure where that courage came from.
Walking away you move your hips from side to side, uncaring that everyone is going crazy as you slip into the crowd. If he wanted you, he'd come to you.
Salt, Sweat, and Tarred Oakum
Max Verstappen x Oscar Piastri Golden Age of Piracy AU
Summary: A wicked lift came unbidden to the corner of Oscar’s mouth. “I’m trained to hunt pirates, sir – you have fewer secrets than you think.”
The inscrutable set of Verstappen’s face hardened, and Oscar marveled at the captain’s ability to be such a sphinx when he needed to be. It was the perfect combination of unsettling and disturbing - no wonder the man had a three-year running reputation as the Caribbean's most fearsome pirate.
In which a harrowing storm pushes Pirate Captain!Max and Captured Naval Lieutenant!Oscar to their limits.
Warnings: Explicit 18+ NSFW smut (handjobs); explicit language; pirates being pirates; discussion of death at sea and pirate ship destruction; hurt/comfort; hand wounds (cuts and blisters)
Word Count: 10k+
Also on A03
A/N: If anyone had said that the Qatar GP cool down room would spawn this AU, I wouldn't have believed it, buuut... here we are lol. I totally blame credit this to the fic's awesome beta xsunny for the inspirational post-race chat we had. And no offense meant to Lando here, but Max and Oscar both on the floor (despite the not good reasons why) was just too good to let go. 🏎️🏴☠️
Water soaks him to the bone. Oscar can’t even tell his own sweat from the sea water and rain water. Not that it really matters when puddles form in his boots, his hair mats to his forehead, and thick drops fall from his chin and drenched clothing.
The ship and rest of the deck crew look just as waterlogged now that the rain finally tapers off. Such a godsend after the last two hours of brutal torture at the helm as the ship tossed and pitched about in the unforgiving, merciless waves. Adrenaline seeps from his veins as exhaustion settles deep in his bones. His hands ache from controlling the wheel, from fighting the rudder’s resistance against the powerful sea. At least Pierre and Esteban had managed to drop the mainsail before the storm unleashed its full fury.
Biting back a grimace, he flexes his hands and tries to work some feeling back into his numb muscles. A burning blister announces itself on the junction of his left thumb, protesting the motion. He steadies himself against the wheel as the ship rocks in the calmer water, paying little mind to the rainy drizzle falling around him.
In all his years at sea - despite his young age - he’s never encountered such a fierce storm. He’s never had to push himself so hard just to hold on, just do the job he’s trained his life to fulfill. His chest heaves with deep breaths as he closes his eyes and tries to calm the thunderous roar of his own heart that matches the thunder now fading into the distance behind them.
He opens his eyes, blinking water from his eyelashes, and his gaze lands on the captain. Verstappen’s face holds the gaunt pallor of over-exertion and exhaustion even as rainwater glistens on his skin and hair. Oscar doesn’t know where the man’s tricorn has gone, but he still wears his dark canvas coat over the white blouse and dark trousers plastered to his skin. The captain rakes a hand through his hair as he surveys the deck, unleashing a cascade of water droplets down his neck, and a tendril of unwanted, traitorous heat curls in Oscar’s gut.
Cannon fire still pounded in his ears as saltwater filled his nostrils and stung his eyes. Another wave swell overtook him as he swam against the choppy, crystal water. The heavy wool of his uniform threatened to drag him under, but his fingers found purchase against a piece of floating debris and he hauled himself up. The section of splintered decking wasn’t so large to fit his entire body, but just wide enough to keep his head out of the rolling waves.
He gasped for breath, still trying to clear his head. Smoke hung in the air as the destroyed remnants of the navy ship floated around him, and he fervently looked for any other men in the water. His heart sank to not immediately find any, instead only finding the pirate ship floating victoriously off the port side. A small tender approached out of the ship’s ominous shadow, and Oscar’s stomach lurched. He didn’t know what this pirate crew would do with a naval officer like himself, but he'd heard plenty of tales back at the barracks.
His feet kicked in the water on instinct, trying to get away even though it was futile. He wouldn’t be able to outswim them and there was no land in sight this far out in the Caribbean. Anxiety clenched his chest as he slumped against the flotsam to catch his breath and save his strength. He would need all of it for what lay ahead.
“Doesn’t look to be much left.” A French-accented voice carried over the rolling waves. “Perhaps the captain hit them too hard, non?”
“No.” Another French – but maybe Italian? – voice piped up. “You saw it blow from within – they scuttled themselves to prevent us from taking their cargo.”
“But that’s what we’re out here for.” A wizened Spanish-accented voice said, carrying a soft authority. “Whatever they were carrying was valuable enough to not let us take it, but some of it may yet be afloat. Stay sharp.”
Oscar worked an uneasy swallow down his throat as a general chorus of ‘aye, sir’ filled the air. He tightened his grip on the wooden plank, ignoring the growing ache in his shoulders as he bobbed in the water. Would telling the pirates that the cargo hold of the king's treasury bullion now rested at the bottom of the sea spare his life or just earn him a quicker slit of the throat? Tilting his head down, he watched helplessly as the tender floated into view. He could only hope that the extensive amount of wreckage floating around him would camouflage him.
The pirate crew looked like the expected ragtag bunch of brigands – young seadogs each seeking their own fortune and following their chosen captain in hopes of attaining it. The man standing at the tiller sported uncommonly refined white streaks in his hair, his face marked with deep lines indicative of a long life at sea. He didn’t wear the obvious adornments of command, but an unspoken authority still rested on his shoulders. The ship’s bosun, then.
Oscar froze as a sailor fixed him with piercing green eyes. The man’s face curled to an intrigued smile beneath his mop of wild brown curls as he pointed at Oscar. “A survivor!”
The other sailors in the boat instantly turned towards him, and he had nowhere to hide. A chuckle broke out from another man with rakish brown curls and short facial hair. “Are you sure, Charles?” He asked with a heavy French accent. “It looks more like a drowned rat!”
A sailor with straight black hair and pointed features moved his oar in the water as the boat approached. “All navy men look like rats to me.”
Indignation stiffened Oscar’s spine as his face hardened. The man on the tiller offered a kind smile despite the dark, serious set of his eyes. “What’s your name, son?” His Spanish-accented syllables held a tone that promised reward for obedience and punishment for obstinacy.
“Lieutenant Piastri.” He called out, putting a note of steel in his voice.
“Well, Lieutenant Piastri,” the Spaniard’s grin widened with a toothy edge. “You have nowhere else to go.”
“I’m fine right here, thank you.” He adjusted his grip on the floating flotsam for emphasis.
A low chuckle rose from the tender, and the green eyed French-Italian man shook his head. “Don’t be foolish, mate – you can’t possibly hope to survive.”
He nodded, unable to deny the pirate’s words. “Death at sea is preferable to life among pirates.”
“Oh-ho!” The Spaniard chuckled and glanced down at the crew. “You hear that, mates? Refusing our hospitality even before he’s met the captain!” Another chorus of laughter rose from the pirates, and Oscar’s mouth pinched to a tight line of irritation. “Well, we can’t do that, mate,” the Spainard continued with a definitive shake of his head. “You may yet know something useful. Especially since your captain decided to sacrifice his ship, his cargo and his crew... you’re about all that we can salvage.”
“Well, unfortunately for you,” Oscar returned as he tried to kick away from the tender’s bow. “I’m unsalvagea-"
Multiple pairs of rough, strong hands grabbed him all at once. The pirates leaned over the gunwale, intent to haul him onboard, and he clung tighter to the driftwood. The French sailor with brown curls grunted in exertion as he pulled on Oscar’s arms. “Let go, mate!”
Oscar grit his teeth, tightening his grip and thrashing his feet as he tried to dislodge the hands pulling at this water-logged uniform.
“On three!” The Spaniard called out. “One, two… three!”
All three sailors in the boat tugged hard and fast in unison, and Oscar’s hands ripped away from the wooden plank. White hot pain erupted in his left hand and the saltwater instantly burned, distracting his concentration as the pirates dragged him up into the boat.
He fell to the bottom of the tender with an undignified groan, instinctively cradling his left hand close to his chest. A nasty, jagged gash sliced across his palm, probably from some unseen nail or splinter. Blood soaked into his uniform coat as the sailors retook their seats on the tender benches and resumed rowing.
“Don’t you worry, Lt. Piastri,” the Spainard said, sounding half-distracted as he glanced out over the sea ahead. “We’ll try to forget that you insulted us so brazenly, but I suggest watching your tongue around the captain. Or he will cut it out.”
“And don’t tell him that you’re a lieutenant,” the black-haired Frenchman chuckled. “Or he will remove your stripes with your own toenails.”
Another round of laughter rang above him as Oscar bit his tongue. His opportunity to fight back may yet come, but this wasn’t it. He tossed about the bottom of the tender in a puddle of seawater until the hull knocked against the side of the pirate ship. The ship loomed impressively large overhead – larger than he had originally estimated – and his gaze caught on the flag held high in the midday wind.
A pair of white stitched cross bones occupied the bottom of the black flag, but where a skull should reside, instead sat a white patchwork emblem of a lion’s head with its mouth open in a fierce roar. Oscar’s stomach dropped to his feet as recognition seized him.
Only one ship in the Caribbean flew this emblem – Captain Max Verstappen's notorious Sea Lion.
A dark chuckle sounded overhead before the Spanish bosun stepped into view. “Come on, mate,” he encouraged, nudging Oscar’s shoulder with the toe of his boot. “If you recognize the flag, then you know that he doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”
Oscar's mind reeled as his body numbly moved, rolling to his feet and reaching out for the rope ladder slung over the side of the ship. The cut on his hand screamed even as he gingerly tried to adjust his grip on the rungs, but with the bosun right behind him, he had no choice but to keep climbing. More pairs of hands awaited him at the top, seizing his shoulders to drag him fully on deck, but Oscar stayed on his feet as the crew closed in.
In a show of subtle defiance, he straightened the lapels of his soggy navy coat as if that would somehow lend an air of commanding stature to his appearance. But as the wind ruffled his sopping wet hair, he recognized how painfully young he must look compared to the crew around him.
A man with wide, soulful brown eyes stepped forward, assessing him up and down. “You’re injured, yes?” He, too, had a Spanish accent though he appeared to be many years younger than the bosun.
Oscar glanced down at his left hand, spying the small puddle of blood forming on the deck. “Obviously, yes.”
“Just your hand?” The man clarified, darting his gaze back up to Oscar’s.
“Yes.”
The young Spainard gave a curt nod before he turned and disappeared towards the ship ladder leading up to the quarterdeck. Oscar watched him go, tracking his movements until he stopped to converse with the man at the helm who could only be the ship's captain.
The man wore a rough leather tricorn with no plumage or frivolous accessories. His coat and blouse complemented the broad set of his shoulders and the leanness of his waist. With the overhead sun, Oscar couldn’t discern the captain’s facial features, but something in the man’s confident, unassuming stature made his heart leap.
As the captain descended the ship ladder to the main deck, Oscar didn’t bother to hide his curiously open stare. Captain Verstappen’s exploits had been legendary for three years now, and any navy man worth his salt had dreamed about being the one to finally bring him to justice. Maybe if Oscar played his cards right, he would have that chance.
Verstappen came to a stop in front of him and fixed him with sharp blue eyes. Despite the neutral set of the captain’s face, Oscar missed none of the calculating assessment taking place in those crystalline depths. Heat gathered beneath the drenched shirt collar sticking uncomfortably to his skin, but Oscar refused to look away. If the captain meant to intimidate him, then he refused to give the man that satisfaction, even though something about Verstappen's gaze made Oscar incredibly self-conscious in his nearly transparent white trousers and shirt.
The captain suddenly blinked away to regard someone over Oscar’s shoulder. “Fernando,” he said, voice thick with a Dutch accent. “Why is this man bleeding on my deck?”
“The navy ship scuttled her cargo, captain.” Fernando's words floated over his shoulder. “This sailor was the only thing of any value to be found.”
“Are you sure about that?” Verstappen's gaze darted back to Oscar and the gold stripes on his uniform coat. “Tell me, sailor, what was your post?”
The corner of Oscar’s mouth lifted before he could stop it. “Sail Master.”
A hush fell on deck as everyone stared at him. The crew probably thought he was bluffing, but that would be their mistake. Even his commanding naval officers had marveled at his uncanny skill and innate talent for seafaring navigation – especially for one so young – but he had long proven himself capable. And if this pirate captain now truly doubted his worth, then that would also be his misfortune.
A disparaging, cackling laughter came from somewhere on Oscar's left. “Yeah, right mate.” A man with sandy-blonde curls and a British accent scoffed. “If you’re a Sail Master, then I’m the King of England.”
Laughter rang across the deck, but nothing changed in the intensity of the captain’s eyes despite the almost bored set of his face. Oscar held his gaze in silent challenge, in a silent assessment of his own – until the captain blinked and somehow looked even more bored than before. “Carlos, take him to my cabin.” He said as he abruptly turned away. “I’ll deal with him there, and for fuck’s sake, stop him bleeding everywhere. As for the rest of you, back to your stations and set sail!”
A roaring chorus of support sounded around him as Carlos stepped forward, glancing down the lines of Oscar’s coat. “Does that thing have pockets?”
Oscar scoffed before he could stop it. “Is that seriously your answer to my bleeding hand? Just shove it in a pocket?”
Carlos shrugged an indifferent shoulder. “The captain hasn’t decided yet if he’s keeping you or not. Best not to waste supplies until he does.”
“Keep me?” Oscar echoed. “What? Like I’m a fish to be thrown back into the sea?”
“If he decides you’re not worth it, then yes. Come on,” he stepped forward to wrap a strong hand around Oscar's upper-arm. “Hand in your pocket and let’s go. There’s work to do.”
Fernando’s voice filled the air around them, calling out orders as the men scrambled into action securing deck supplies, ascending the rigging ratlines, and taking up sailing positions. Oscar squared his jaw but loosely balled his hand to shove it in his coat pocket. He let Carlos lead him across the deck to disappear into the ship’s interior.
Gunners and powder monkeys scurried about, tying cannons down and securing barrels of shot after the thwarted attack on his navy ship. He tried to get a count of how many guns flanked the pirate ship’s deck, but Carlos pulled him through another doorway before he could finish.
“Don’t touch anything,” Carlos instructed curtly as they passed through the wardroom. “You can probably guess what will happen if you do, let alone if you’re caught stealing anything.” He pulled Oscar towards the door set in the far rear of the ship – the door that needed no introduction. “And don’t get blood on his floor or else you’ll answer to me.”
“If I’m still here, though. Right?” Oscar asked cheekily before he could stop himself.
Carlos blinked back, unimpressed. “Just for that, I’ll send you straight to Fernando.” He pulled open the captain’s cabin door and shoved Oscar inside. Despite the sun’s brilliance, the salt-crusted windows cast dim shadows about the space. It looked tidy enough – a hastily made bunk along the far wall, a sea chest strapped against the foot of the bunk, a closed-door cabinet adorning the other wall. At the center of the cabin resided a large square table – a desk, a dining table, a charting table all in one functional furnishing. The scuffed surface revealed that it once held a gleaming polished finish, but now it just bore the scars from life in the service of Captain Verstappen.
An unbidden shiver ran down Oscar’s spine despite the stale warmth of the captain’s personal space. The air hung heavy with an oddly pleasant musky, sweet scent, and he absently wondered if it came from some part of the captain’s toilette or if that was just his natural scent.
His hand started to throb as he held it in the warm confines of his pocket, and he debated seating himself at the table until the captain arrived. Despite being below decks, the increasing sway in the ship’s movement indicated a steady increase in speed as the sails caught the wind, carrying him away from the remains of his ship and the bodies of his fellow sailors.
The thought punched him in the gut. A ship of 122 hands – all elite sailors to defend the king’s treasury – and fate had decided that only he should be the one to bear their memories. He tried to summon a prayer for the lost souls, but the sudden scrape of the wooden door distracted him.
The captain entered without a second glance behind him and closed the door. His assessing stare landed on Oscar before darting around the room in a careful study as if to confirm no signs of tampering.
Oscar sighed softly. “I didn’t touch anything.”
The captain scoffed with a faint edge of amusement. “I already suspect you of lying, mate, so that won’t work.” His boots thudded off the deck as he stepped up the large table and dropped his tricorn atop the surface. His dark sandy-blonde hair held a curiously short style and loose strands flopped over his forehead. Even in the dim light, Oscar could see beads of sweat that clung to the fine hairs on the nape of his neck. He turned back to regard Oscar. “I assume that you already know who I am?”
Oscar tilted his head in a moment of consideration before answering. “Your colors are well known, Captain Verstappen.”
He looked neither pleased nor disappointed in Oscar’s answer as he pulled out a chair to sit. “Now this is where you tell me your name.”
“Oscar Piastri, Lieutenant of –“
“Just Piastri will do.” Verstappen cut him off as he leaned back against the chair and stared back at him with a gaze to cut through bullshit. “And you claim to be a Sail Master, yes?”
“If I had my sailing log, I could prove it to you.”
Verstappen tilted his own head in contemplation. “Quite a bit young, aren’t you?”
“22, sir. Older than I look.”
“Then, tell me Piastri,” the captain continued unfazed. “Your course to reach Tortuga from here?”
Oscar blinked in a moment of surprise, thrown by the sudden question. Realization slowly dawned and his brow furrowed with curiosity. “Wait, are you… are you testing me?”
“Liars waste my time.” Verstappen simply replied. “And since your sailing log isn’t available, as you said – I’m left with limited options. Either you’re a ballsy liar or you’re a truthful idiot.”
Another wave of indignation stiffened Oscar's spine as he wet his top lip, choosing to ignore the captain’s comment and instead focus on the question. He summoned the navigation chart in his mind’ eye and recalled the last known compass bearings. “Four points off the starboard bow, east by north-east.” He said, pointing his right hand in the appointed direction for emphasis. “Tack the sails larboard and ride the headwinds until sunset.”
His words hung in the cabin’s silence for a long moment as Verstappen stared back at him, betraying nothing about his thoughts. The urge to fidget under the unwavering scrutiny tugged at Oscar, but he resisted. It was nothing more than another intimidation tactic – an admittedly effective one, but Oscar still refused to back down.
“And from Tortuga,” the captain said suddenly. “To Nassau? What would be your recommendation?”
Oscar nibbled his bottom lip as he conjured the map in his mind. It wasn't a route that he had personally sailed, but the naval charts bore many markings of hidden reefs and sandbars along the Bahamian islands that just waited to ensnare unsuspecting ships. “I suppose it depends,” he started softly as the wheels of his mind worked. “On the tide and the draft of the ship.”
“We usually run 4 meters.”
“4 meters,” Oscar repeated with a nod. “Then, the coastal tides of the Cockburn Shoals will snag us. Best to stay on a westerly course. A bit more exposure to the open sea, but less risk to thread the shoreline.”
Verstappen arched a brow. “You know about Cockburn Shoals?”
A wicked lift came unbidden to the corner of Oscar’s mouth. “I’m trained to hunt pirates, sir – you have fewer secrets than you think.”
The inscrutable set of Verstappen’s face hardened, and Oscar marveled at the captain’s ability to be such a sphinx when he needed to be. It was the perfect combination of unsettling and disturbing - no wonder the man had a three-year running reputation as the Caribbean's most fearsome pirate.
Without warning, Verstappen shoved his chair back and pushed to his full height. He stood a couple of centimeters taller than Oscar and he crossed the room to the closed-up cabinet. A key materialized from his pocket, and Oscar could just see the ribbon tied to the key’s end that disappeared back into the pocket’s interior. A wise decision to sew one’s keys to one’s clothing when living on the water with known thieves.
The cabinet doors swung open to display an array of indistinguishable bottles, books, and rolled charts before its contents were blocked by the captain’s broad shoulders. “We should dress your hand,” he said matter-of-factly as he took a bottle in hand. “You’re no use to me with sepsis.”
Oscar’s ears perked. “I’m no use to you, as in… you’re keeping me onboard?”
“Perhaps you’re more valuable than you look.”
Verstappen turned back around, and Oscar fixed him with a hard look. “Respectfully, captain, I would like to request that you maroon me instead.”
“Really?” Nothing in Verstappen’s tone changed as he moved back to the table, brown bottle in one hand, a wooden bowl under one arm, and a roll of clean linen in the other hand. “Starvation and death instead of serving on a pirate ship, hmm?”
“Exactly right.” Even as Oscar spoke, Verstappen’s words settled with a lethal finality in his ears. It didn’t make his response any less true, however.
“Then, you should have kept your mouth shut, Sail Master.” Verstappen replied, dipping his head with an admonishing edge as he dropped the linen roll and bowl to the tabletop. “If you trusted that fact to keep you alive, it worked – but did you consider the ramification that it would press you into my service?”
Up close, Verstappen’s eyes glittered like the crystal sea as they reflected the dim sunlight. His scent carried hints of salt, sweat, and tarred oakum worthy of any seaman, but something about it stuck in Oscar’s gut. He didn’t realize just how close they stood, running his gaze over Verstappen’s features until he noticed the freckle on the captain’s upper lip.
He worked a swallow down his suddenly tight throat. “And you’re really going to install the man who requested death instead of your service at the helm of your ship?”
“Just because you turn the wheel doesn’t mean you know the destination,” Verstappen smoothly countered. “And since you’ll report directly to me – I’ll be the first to know if you put even just one toe out of line, and then you’ll probably lose it.” He looked down to pull the cork free from the bottle. “Give me your hand.”
The words reminded Oscar about his left hand pulsing with pain and growing uncomfortably hot inside his pocket even as he replied. “Is that the same encouraging incentive you give your crew?”
“My crew aren’t prisoners. They understand that if they follow orders and don’t try my patience, we will be successful. But I can’t speak for a navy man fresh off his ship who chooses death over my service.” He nodded down at Oscar’s arm. “Give me your hand. I won’t repeat myself again.”
Verstappen’s tone gave Oscar little room for doubt, and he swallowed his words to bide his time. Perhaps this wasn’t his moment of escape, but it may yet come. The Sea Lion will have to dock eventually, and there would be plenty of opportunities to seek freedom at that time. Deciding that he had made the captain wait just long enough, he slowly pulled his hand from his pocket.
The captain wasted no time grabbing hold of his wrist and pulling it down towards the bowl. Oscar braced himself as Verstappen tipped the bottle and a stream of brown liquid poured over the gaping wound on his palm. Fire erupted in his veins as the alcoholic grog made contact with his blood, and he hissed sharply, unable to hide a wince. It burned for a long unpleasant minute before Verstappen sloshed another wave over the oozing wound. His hand twitched in the captain’s firm grip as he bit back a groan, and Verstappen’s steadying hold tightened.
“You’re taking this well, for what it’s worth.” Verstappen commented absently as he inspected the gash.
Oscar drew a sharp breath as pain lanced up his arm. “Not my first wound. Won’t be my last.”
The captain hummed – perhaps in agreement, perhaps in consideration – before he pulled back and released Oscar’s wrist. He drew it back on protective instinct, shaking the excess grog into the wooden bowl, mindful not to throw any drops onto the floor. If he was indeed going to be stuck on this ship for the time being, then he didn’t want to risk earning Carlos’ ire too quickly.
“Keep it dry and keep it clean.” Verstappen commanded as he reached for the roll of linen and retook Oscar’s wrist. He wrapped the linen to form a crude bandage and secured the ends with a knot that rested between Oscar’s thumb and forefinger. “Report to Fernando for a hammock and another bandage. You’ll serve a 10-hour shift behind the wheel daily-”
“10 hours?”
Verstappen arched an unimpressed brow. “Do you think that’s unfair?”
It was certainly longer than any navy shift, but if he was indeed a prisoner of sorts, then he had no leg to stand on here. However much he wanted to fight and push back against Captain Verstappen, he must keep reminding himself that this was not his opportune moment. He pinched his mouth shut and curtly shook his head.
“Good. I didn’t think so.” Verstappen continued, drawing back to fix him with a hard look. “You’ll serve a 10-hour shift at the helm daily and report directly to me. Logan will be your master’s mate and minder on your off-shift hours. You will never go anywhere on this ship unaccompanied, and you will heed every order that comes from me, my quartermaster, and my bosun. Are we understood?”
The words sank like lead in Oscar’s stomach, but he vowed to find a way to turn this situation to his advantage. “Understood.”
Verstappen nodded sharply before his gaze dropped down Oscar’s body and a concerned wrinkle appeared between his eyes. “You need to remove that coat. I won’t risk those brass buttons catching the sun's gleam in someone’s spy glass.”
Oscar nearly laughed but stopped himself. “Well, if I don't wear my navy coat, sir, then what do you suggest?”
“Your whites will do, for now. If we take on cargo that includes clothing, you can perhaps have a share if your behavior warrants it.”
Well, maybe he wouldn’t stand out as a captured navy man in his blue coat, but his cream and white ensemble would still betray him. Perhaps that was Verstappen’s intent – if he remained dressed in all-light clothing, he wouldn’t be able to easily hide in the ship’s shadows, nor would his master’s mate be able to mistake him for someone else.
The moment drew out for another breath before Oscar sighed and shrugged out of his navy coat. The wet wool stuck to the linen of his soggy shirt as he pulled it free, suddenly self-conscious all over again.
Verstappen took the dark coat in hand, giving him another once over, and something in the air shifted as he no longer appeared to be assessing a threat. In fact, his gaze held almost a hint… some appreciative gleam in those glacial eyes that sparked heat in Oscar’s chest…
But then he abruptly turned away and Oscar finally remembered how to breathe.
A cry from the forward ratlines drags him out of the memory, and he watches Pierre start to climb. Blinking more water out of his eyes, he glances up to see a damaged piece of rigging swaying in the gently falling rain. He hopes the breakage isn’t too severe - Alonso had already said the canvas provisions were getting low and Carlos didn’t know when the ship would next dock.
The blister on his hand protests as he grips the wet wood, but he doesn’t dare let go. Between the thinning clouds and the hazy starlight, the horizon appears as a dark, grey smudge, but it’s enough for him to keep the ship pointed in the right direction. At least until he can relinquish the wheel long enough to use his compass.
The salt beef and potatoes settled in his stomach with a satisfying fullness as he waited for the start of his shift. Standing by the quarterdeck railing, Oscar let the refreshing evening breeze blow over him and he glanced up at the stars. He didn’t remember anything about the skies over his home. Probably because he’d been way too young to know better, but maybe that was what he loved about the Caribbean skies. No matter where the sea took him, the stars overhead always made him feel at home.
Even if that home was still a pirate ship.
The thought hit his gut with a sour note, and the singing merriment from the main deck below suddenly sounded way too loud.
“The captain’s wife was Charlotte, born and bred a harlot. Her thighs at night were lily white, by morning they were scarlet!”
Raucous laughter rose from others in the crew as they joined the chorus, but Oscar had little desire to sing along. He still couldn’t shake the guilt of helping Captain Verstappen take down yet another merchant ship. But the day’s haul of yerba mate tea and cocoa had put everyone else on board in high spirits.
Even Captain Verstappen seemed pleased by the day’s take, but the man still proved difficult to read. Glancing away from the horizon, Oscar's gaze strayed unbidden to the man currently at the helm. Captain Verstappen draped almost lazily over the large wheel, making minor course adjustments as they rode the nightly currents. He had earlier decreed a night of rest and celebration for the crew’s successful venture with a promise to dock soon and sell their ill-gotten goods for the benefit of all – and the promise of fresh coin immediately had called for a triple rationing of grog.
“You should be down there, you know.” Verstappen’s voice sliced through his thoughts. “You did your part as a member of my crew today.”
The words nearly made Oscar cringe. “No, thank you, sir. I take no joy in what we accomplished today.”
“No? It only took one shot across the bow for them to raise the white flag. They offered no resistance, no one was hurt, and they sailed off with a significantly lighter hold – but they did sail off.” Verstappen shook his head with disbelief. “If that’s not a victory, then I don’t know what is.”
Bile rose in Oscar’s throat but he swallowed it down. “Victory is not stealing from innocent people just doing their jobs.”
“Innocent people," Verstappen scoffed. “Your naivety shows itself if you think colonization is innocent – no doubt the tea and cocoa below is rooted in blood labor and their masters are the only ones who profit from its sale.”
Perhaps the captain did have a point there. Oscar had seen enough of the slave trade ships to have some idea, but by Verstappen’s logic – if someone only stole from those who stood to profit, then why not make the whole world a target? But as he blinked over at the unassuming man commanding his ship with easy competence, perhaps that was exactly Verstappen’s plan.
Why stop now when he could be king of the world?
A rush of warm appreciation rolled through Oscar, and he shook the thought away, trying to work a swallow down his suddenly dry throat. The singing from the main deck seemed to grow in volume, affording him another moment to collect himself.
“Aboard the good ship Venus, you really should have seen us! With a figurehead, a whore in bed, and a mast of a phallic genus!”
“Well,” Oscar finally said, glancing back up at the captain. “At least the crew are in good spirits. That should make you happy, either way.”
“It does,” the taller man confirmed. “But you’re part of that crew now, too.”
Oscar scoffed softly. “I don’t think so, sir.”
“But you could have run away three weeks ago, could you not?” Verstappen suddenly turned and fixed his sharp eyes on Oscar, leaving him nowhere to hide. “We docked in Antigua, and you had every opportunity to not come back.”
“You had Logan stick to me like a flea on a dog -”
“And you could have forced a brawl in a bid to win your freedom –”
“And then be arrested for brawling in the street?!”
Something mischievous twinkled in Verstappen’s eyes. “But then you’d be free of my ship.”
“At least your prison has sails and stars,” Oscar heard himself say. “A prison on land would just…” Words escaped him as his stomach soured. Even just the idea of being locked away in a dingy stone cell unable to have the sea spray on his face or feel the deck rolling beneath his feet or see the starry sky hurt his soul.
Verstappen regarded him for a long moment before stepping away from the wheel. He approached with his long steady stride, crossing over to where Oscar stood just in the shadow of the mizzenmast. Starlight shone on the captain’s Caribbean sun-kissed skin and deck torchlight gleamed in his blue eyes as he drew up close – close enough for his perpetual scent of salt, sweat, and tarred oakum to catch in Oscar’s nose. A scent that had no right to be so appealing, no right to make Oscar want to lean in and taste it on his tongue.
Memory sparked in Verstappen’s gaze, leaning down to make himself heard over the lively celebration raging on the main deck below. “That doesn’t sound any different than being marooned, you know.”
Oscar’s mind replayed the first conversation he ever had with Captain Verstappen that day in his cabin, and he couldn’t look away from the older man. “But that would have been my choice, unlike imprisonment.”
“And would you make that same choice now?” Verstappen’s voice dropped to a low register that settled uneasily in Oscar’s gut.
He worked a swallow down his throat as he debated how to answer. Somehow saying anything but ‘yes’ felt like a condemnable betrayal, a precipice from which he could never return. Yet the truth of Verstappen’s words stared him in the face - he didn’t try to escape Logan’s watchful eye, he hadn’t tried to plant subversion on the ship, and he had only helped Captain Verstappen navigate the sea to take more plunder. Everything he had ever been raised to believe dictated that he should want nothing more than to abandon this ship and see it rot at the bottom of the sea... the sea that glittered at night like the light in Verstappen’s crystalline eyes…
The corner of Verstappen’s mouth ticked up, revealing the little freckle that dotted the pink, plump skin. “You know what I think?” He purred softly. “I think that you actually like being aboard my ship. You can’t admit it, of course – betrayal of duty and honor and so forth – but I look at you and I don’t see a man wanting to escape.”
Oscar’s mouth went dry as his voice turned thready. “Then what do you see?”
An inscrutable edge came to Verstappen’s face even though nothing in his expression changed. He held Oscar’s gaze for what felt like eternity before he broke away to glance down at his coat and rummage in a pocket. A flash of brass appeared in his hand, and he reached out for Oscar’s right wrist. He upturned Oscar’s hand and placed the cool metal object in his empty palm. Oscar’s eyes darted down to his hand, stunned at the object’s familiar, circular shape.
He raised his left hand and popped the brass cover to reveal a smart, functional compass. The arrow aligned in its north-south orientation with clearly marked points of sail extending in all the designated directions. Not all compasses were suitable for sailing the sea, but this one couldn’t be more perfect.
His gaze flew back up to the captain, trying to understand. It certainly wasn’t Verstappen’s usual compass. Even though Oscar had never been allowed to use it, he had seen the captain consult it plenty of times on deck. “Where on earth did you get this?”
The corner of Verstappen's mouth ticked up with playful mischief. “Another acquisition from our merchant friend today. I thought it would suit you.”
Oscar nearly went dizzy from the implication. “But I thought… well, you said that I wasn’t allowed to know the destination.”
“Then perhaps it will help you see what I already see,” he said softly as Oscar drowned under his gaze. “Someone who’s already free if he only just chooses to be.” A stunningly handsome smile lit his face before he ducked his head with striking modesty and turned away.
As he resumed his post at the helm, his mask of calm, collected command fell back into place. But it did nothing to disguise the open fondness in his gaze as he surveyed the celebrations of his crew on the deck below, and maybe… just maybe… Oscar could admit that being on board the Sea Lion wasn’t a fate worse than death.
He pats a hand against his soaked trousers, searching the clinging fabric for the familiar shape of the compass casing. It should probably bother him how such a simple object can immediately put him at ease, but it anchors him all the same.
“Piastri?”
He straightens up on instinct, his gaze focusing on the captain’s broad shouldered form at the base of the ship ladder. “Yes, sir?”
“Assess our position. I want to know how far the storm threw us off course.” Verstappen’s voice sounds hoarse from shouting orders over the storm’s fury, but his sharp eyes still shine through his bone-weary exhaustion. “Let Lando have the helm. And report to me in my cabin once it’s done.”
Oscar nods numbly. “Yes, sir.”
Verstappen turns without another word to seek out Carlos, finding his quartermaster as the man makes his rounds on the main deck. When the storm had blown up with little warning, Oscar had stumbled up from the orlop deck to report directly to Verstappen for orders, as always. Even now, Oscar can still see the captain at the helm in his mind’s eye. Silhouetted against the pounding rain and blinding lightning as he stood with imperious dominance in defiance of the sea’s raw power. But as soon as Oscar had climbed up to the quarterdeck, shouting over the thunder to make himself heard - Verstappen hadn’t hesitated to hand the wheel over to him.
In that moment, Oscar hadn't given it another thought - but eight months ago when he first joined the crew, that never would have happened. God… eight months. The thought lands heavy in his stomach, or maybe… maybe he’s just hungry after such intense exertion? Or maybe he’s just beyond exhausted…
But he still has a job to do. He spots Charles plodding by on the wet deck, arms laden with thick cords of rope. “Charles,” he calls out, barely recognizing his own breathless voice as the sailor looks over. “Verstappen wants Lando at the helm. Pass the word along?"
Charles looks barely able to stand but he nods before hefting a heavy line over his shoulder for better balance. In fact, as Oscar glances out over the main deck, all of the deck crew moves about in a haze of weary exhaustion. Some look far too green around the gills, others look on the verge of collapse, and others… others stagger about just trying to press on with their duties.
Even Verstappen isn’t immune to it as he braces heavy hands on his hips while now talking with Alonso. Honestly, the bosun appears to have weathered the storm almost better than the captain, but maybe that’s the benefit of the man’s nearly forty years at sea. Oscar has every intention of being retired by then - or, rather… at least, that was his plan before being pressed into a life of piracy.
Again, his gaze strays to Verstappen but he can’t summon any venom through his exhaustion. As much as he faults the man for ruining his life, he just can’t… can’t quite bring himself to entirely condemn Verstappen. There’s just something in the mischievous edge of his smile, in his direct approach to the world, in his ruthless determination to be the best.
He sighs, flexing his fingers against the wheel, and the blister screams with pain. A hiss passes his lips before he can stop it as heavy thudding boots tromp up the steps. Lando looks unusually pale in the wane light, but he’s shockingly dry as he rakes his gaze up and down Oscar’s waterlogged form. “Did you fall overboard, mate?”
Oscar works a swallow down his parched throat. “Certainly feels that way.”
“Did Max have the helm the whole time?”
It still strikes Oscar as odd that Lando maintains such a causal basis when speaking about the captain while the man's not around. But he pushes the thought aside and shakes his head. “No… it wasn’t too long after the storm hit that he turned the ship over to me.”
Lando’s brows climb to his unfairly dry hairline. “You? You mean - that was you steering us through that howling gale?”
Oscar’s face pinches uneasily. “Yes, and you can give me the full critique later -”
“No, it’s just that you… he trusted you!?” Lando’s voice rings with a heavy note of incredulity. “Despite your naval rank, you’re still a greenhorn if I’ve ever seen one, but that…? You shouldn't just be able to do that!"
A modest blush tries to color Oscar’s cheeks, but he’s just so worn out. He shakes his head in dismissal as he loosens his fingers from the wheel and tries to relax them at his sides. “Well… Verstappen said for you to take the helm now. I need to go chart our position and report back.”
Lando steps up to the wheel, running his fingers over the dripping wheel pegs. “Ask Carlos to tie a rope around your waist if you feel like you’ll fall over the railing - or maybe not!" His words sound glib but Oscar doesn't doubt that Lando might just push him overboard if he outperforms the Brit under Verstappen's watch.
He forces a tired lift to the corner of his mouth as he steps back to relinquish his post. “I’ll keep that in mind, mate.” Dragging his feet that feel far too away from his head, water sloshes in the confines of his boots as he trudges across the deck. His leg muscles nearly tremble from overuse and he longs to sit down, but not yet.
Grimacing from the blister’s sting, he reaches for the lid of the navigation trunk. The sextant’s cool metal stings his overheated skin as he pulls it free and adjusts the settings. Discerning their position through hazy clouds and falling rain always involves more guess-work than actual charting, but his honed sense of direction continues to serve him well. By the time he consults the position bearing and glances at the tattered chart in the bottom of the trunk, he has enough confidence to call the task complete. Locking the trunk, he stuffs the key back into his pocket before reaching for his compass.
As the needle orients itself north, he glances out over the ship’s deck. Carlos continues his rounds, checking on the men and glancing up at Pierre and Esteban assessing the damage. Oscar doesn’t immediately spot the captain’s familiar form, and he hates that he’s actually disappointed about it. Perhaps the man has already retired to his cabin.
After all, Verstappen had spent the storm’s duration running between the quarterdeck and the main deck, relaying orders and commands - getting everyone to pull together and heave the sails, pushing to hold his ship and crew together as the storm threatened to tear them apart. Even now, the memory of the man’s unwaveringly fierce determination stirs something warm in Oscar’s chest.
Glancing down at his compass, he confirms the ship’s orientation, pleased that they haven’t drifted too far afield. They may not arrive in time to intercept the Lusail, but the merchant ship can’t be too far away. Especially not if they also suffered a battering from the same storm.
He snaps the compass lid closed and turns for a quick word with Lando to confirm the heading. His face wrinkles with a grimace, courtesy of his blister, as he takes the ship ladder down to the main deck and pushes through the door that leads into the ship’s interior. Fortunately, most of the ship’s supplies stay well-secured for life at sea, but some ropes and fastenings have broken. He navigates through a rolling minefield of grapeshot, hearing Yuki curse heavily as he works to retrieve and store them away. Loose scrolls and a few upended books litter the wardroom as he pushes towards the ship's stern.
Verstappen’s cabin door doesn’t announce itself with any ostentatious ornamentation, and Oscar steps up to it, knocking softly. He strains to listen for a reply, brow furrowing as another frustrated cry sounds from Yuki. His mind doesn’t engage fast enough to stop his hand from reaching for the door handle and pulling it open.
The interior of Verstappen’s cabin is blessedly dark and it further tempts the exhaustion gnawing at his bones. It also offers an inviting reprieve from the stifling moisture in the air - perhaps it should be stale and unwelcome compared to the sea breeze filling his lungs for the past couple of hours, but the familiar musky scent of Verstappen’s personal space draws him forward.
After all, Verstappen had told him to report to his cabin once he finished charting. And if he happened to beat the captain here, that’s hardly his fault. He closes the door behind him and indulges a long, slow breath. His eyelids grow heavy in the dim darkness, and maybe Verstappen will reward his initiative for lighting a candle.
Ignoring the uncomfortable squelch of water in his boots, he doesn’t think about how he’s been in Verstappen’s cabin enough to know where the man stores his flint. Reaching for his knife, he steps up to the glass lantern that swings from the ceiling and strikes steel to flint. Sparks catch on the wick and a soft golden glow suffuses the room. It’s not bright enough to read by, but it might just be bright enough to keep Oscar on his feet.
Or maybe not. Darkness eats at the edge of his vision and maybe if he… maybe if he just rests on the floor for a few minutes, that will be enough. At least until Verstappen arrives. With a soft groan, he lowers himself down to sit on the wooden decking and rocks onto his back. A blissful moment of relief overtakes him and he brings his hands to his face, scrubbing them up over his eyes and through his wet hair as he stretches his legs out.
His shoulders and back sing with sweet relief as he relaxes against the hard surface, unwinding from the storm’s demanding intensity. With another sigh, he unfolds his arms out at his sides against the floor, paying no mind to the wet stick of his shirt-sleeves. No doubt his drenched clothing clings to him like a second skin, but it’s of little consequence.
Especially now that reality hits him.
He hasn’t crashed the ship. He hasn’t pitched anyone overboard. He hasn’t rolled them completely off-course.
He has done everything that training and instinct compelled him to do and… maybe Lando has a point.
"You shouldn't just be able to do that!"
The door’s dull scrape slices through his thoughts, but his mind moves too slow for his body to catch up. He hears the crisp thud of Verstappen’s boots and the wet slap of his discarded canvas coat against the wood floor before his eyes fly open. Turning his head against the wooden planks, he watches in disbelief as Captain Max Verstappen folds himself in half and lowers down to the floor. He settles his back against the cabin wall, stretching his long legs out to give Oscar a prime view of his boot soles. Verstappen sighs, running a hand through his dripping hair as his eyes close in a moment of... relief? Relaxation? Respite?
Oscar can’t place it, but it’s a shockingly vulnerable look on his commanding officer. And yet… Verstappen has proved so different from any naval commander that it just…
Something twists in Oscar’s gut as he continues to glance up at Verstappen, watching the candle’s glow catch in the water dripping from his hair like golden jewels. But as Verstappen opens his eyes, and those glacial pools connect with his gaze, Oscar’s throat begins to tighten. “I-I apologize, sir. If this…” He trails off as a dull ache lodges in the back of his skull. “I just needed a minute.”
“Clearly.” Verstappen deadpans but there’s no displeasure behind it. “I think everyone who was on deck does. That storm…” He pauses with a heavy sigh. “One of the top five worst I’ve ever seen, I think.”
“That was definitely the hardest fight of my life.” Oscar doesn’t hesitate to say. “It just never let up… a constant attack, a constant struggle to hold steady and keep the course.”
The corner of Verstappen’s mouth lifts with heavy exhaustion but also… is it pride? “But infinitely worth the reward.”
Oscar’s brow furrows gently. “The reward?”
Verstappen hums low in his throat. “Or perhaps satisfaction is the better word. That… man versus nature, the freedom of life at sea, braving the elements… whatever it is that compels you to a life at sea.” He shakes his head slowly as he tilts it back against the wall. “There’s little else more satisfying than a contest fought and won.”
Oscar turns away from the captain to blink up at the long shadows playing on the ceiling. “There’s just… nothing else that I wanted to do with my life. The sea is all I’ve ever wanted.”
The words hang in the cabin’s silence for the space of several breaths before movement shuffles over Oscar’s shoulder. He turns his head as Verstappen sits forward, folding his legs underneath him. Sitting so close, he nearly looms over Oscar in his wet trousers and clinging drenched shirt, and the firelight casts a mesmerizing glow in his clear blue eyes. “Me, too,” he says softly. “It’s what I’m good at. It’s what I like to do. If someone took away my ability to sail… I guess I don’t know what I would do.”
“I think you’d surprise yourself, sir.” Oscar offers a small smile as he rallies his strength to sit up. Bracing his hands against the floor, the painful pressure on his blister draws a hiss between his clenched teeth. He also isn’t quick enough to hide his grimace from the captain’s concerned gaze as he meets the older man at eye level, close enough to breathe in the scent of rain on Verstappen's skin.
“Are you hurt?” Verstappen’s tone comes softly but there’s no mistaking the command on his words.
“Not really,” Oscar answers with a slow shake of his head. “Just a blister. From the wheel, I guess. I thought after all these years my skin would be tough enough, but… still not enough, it seems.”
Verstappen’s gaze roams over his face as if looking for something before he drops down to study Oscar’s hands. It takes nothing for him to reach out for Oscar's blistered hand. He holds it up in the faint candle light, studying the inflamed welt with a strange look of reverence and care. It makes him look so young… much younger than the 26 years that Oscar knows him to be. Loose strands of wet hair hang over his forehead, casting dark shadows that contrast to the exhausted pallor of his skin, and the sight of him tears through Oscar’s heart.
Verstappen wets his top lip thoughtfully. “When I first met you, you had also injured this hand.” He strokes a long finger along the dark pink scar crossing Oscar’s palm. “But you survived that, and you’ll survive this. You… you’re a lot tougher than you think, you know.”
Oscar’s heart lodges in his heart and he tries to swallow around it. “I-I guess so. I mean - well, we didn’t lose anyone today. The ship’s still in one piece. So, I guess that’s the reward I most care about.”
Despite his weariness, a spark of mischief catches in Verstappen’s gaze. “Even though we’re just a ship of pirates?”
Oscar takes a long minute to look at him and the air thickens. “Even though.” He confirms as his voice drops to a low, soft tone. “It’s like you said… it’s what I’m good at.”
Another heavy silence falls as Verstappen regards him in equal measure, still holding his left hand. Heat grows along his skin from the shared point of contact and an unspeakable urge itches under his skin. The captain looks at him with such… awe and satisfaction and longing and -
Oscar’s heart stops when he finally recognizes it.
Desire.
His breathing quickens as his mouth goes dry. He has no defense left to offer, and he doesn’t know what Verstappen can read on his own face in return and he’s too tired to care. But it shouldn’t matter - all that matters is that they achieved their goal, they persevered in the face of intensity, and they’re both still alive and still here.
Beneath the scent of rain, Verstappen's natural scent of salt, sweat and tarred oakum still permeates the air, intoxicating him as it reaches deep into his lungs, urging him closer. He doesn’t know who falls into who, but as their mouths slot together, some long lost part of Oscar snaps into place. For the longest moment, they just hold the kiss together, breathing each other in, basking in the solid, reassuring contact. The slow pace of the embrace takes Oscar’s breath away as his exhaustion amplifies each sensation.
The captain’s broad hand raises to cup Oscar’s cheek, holding him closer in the slow, lingering, exploratory kiss. A sigh falls from Oscar’s lips as he leans into Verstappen’s strong hand, and the heat from the sensual kiss spreads through his tired muscles. The edge of Verstappen’s tongue prods at the seam of his mouth, and he relaxes his jaw to deepen their embrace.
A moan rumbles low in Verstappen’s chest as they learn each other’s taste, curling Oscar’s toes in his soggy boots. He chases the velvety heat of Verstappen’s mouth as an answering moan crawls up his throat, and the hunger of their kiss grows. Oscar nearly goes dizzy as Verstappen’s strong fingers tighten around his jaw, dragging his mouth down to lick and nibble at Oscar’s throat.
His heart threatens to beat out of his chest as he tries to catch his breath. “C-captain…?”
“Max,” the other man murmurs with a pleading edge against his skin. “I just want to be Max right now…”
The vulnerability in Max’s voice swallows Oscar whole, and both hands surge up to cup Max’s face. He doesn’t feel the blister’s sting as he crushes their mouths together in a searing, endless, breathless kiss. The heavy weight of Max’s hand grips his shoulder in fierce encouragement as their tongues tangle and get lost in each other. Everything about it sets Oscar’s body aflame, blood rushing to fill out his cock despite the weary state of his body. But somehow… this feels like the perfect answer after such a harrowing experience.
Max’s hand drifts down the plane of his chest, settling over a nipple. The plastered fit of Oscar’s drenched shirt adds a delicious friction as Max rolls the hardening nub between his fingers. Pleasure arcs down Oscar’s spine and he whimpers into Max’s mouth. A pleased growl sounds in Max’s throat as he licks into the heat of Oscar’s mouth while his fingers continue their sweet torture against the shirt's wet fabric.
His cock aches with need, growing impossibly harder with each twisting pinch of Max’s fingers, and, God… what would it be to have Max’s fingers on his skin without his shirt or trousers in the way? He goes blind with delirious desire as Max works the sensitive nub, scraping a blunt nail across for added effect.
The groan that punches from Oscar’s chest sounds way too loud in the deafeningly silent cabin, not helped when Max’s other hand cups his right hand and guides it down the expanse of his broad chest. His finger skim over the drenched fabric of Max’s shirt, feeling the sea-toughened muscles beneath before Max guides him over the waist of his trousers to settle on his straining erection.
“Oh, fuck… Max.” The words spill from Oscar with abandon as he gives a gentle squeeze, swallowing Max’s answering groan. The delicious sound settles in Oscar’s chest and it’s everything that he wants to hear as Max’s fingers deliver one last teasing caress before dropping down the length of Oscar’s torso.
Anticipation burns as Max’s fingers skim lower and finally cup his own aching erection. He doesn’t care if Max can taste his desperation as kisses turn messy and frantic. With Max’s calloused fingers tracing the hardened shape of him and Max’s erection in the palm of his hand, there’s no turning back from what they both want.
His tongue chases the water drops on Max’s neck as he fumbles with the laces of the man’s trousers. His blister only announces itself one time, drowned by the rush of eager need as Max’s fingers tug at his own laces. The first touch of Max’s bare skin in his hand takes his breath away, but it’s all he can do to hold on to his sanity as Max’s hand wraps around his own naked cock.
The raw touch borders on uncomfortable as their wet skin chafes but it couldn’t be more perfect. Their mouths reconnect in a sloppy kiss as they pant their pleasure into each other’s mouth. Max’s salty, sweet musky scent surrounds him as he works his hand over Max’s cock, drowning in the pleasured gasps and moans that fall from the older man’s lips. It fuels his own building pleasure as Max’s hand twists and squeezes in return, driving him closer to the brink of sweet, maddening release.
He’s far too keyed up and far too gone far too soon, and he spills over Max’s hand with a choked off cry as Max’s teeth scrape against his neck. It’s only two strokes later that Max’s own release coats his hand, and a new scent permeates the air as they slump together in post-orgasmic bliss. Oscar drops his head to Max’s shoulder, chest heaving as he tries to calm the thundering of his heart. His eyes grow heavy as the wonderful high rolls through him, relaxing his tense muscles, and God… he just wants to sleep for days.
Max groans in relief as his head rests similarly on Oscar’s other shoulder, his lips pressing a hard kiss to the side of Oscar’s neck. A pleasant aftershock courses through him and he gives Max’s softening cock one last gentle squeeze.
Max grunts. “You tease.”
Oscar hums low in his throat. “I do believe that you encouraged me.” He gasps in oversensitized pleasure as Max imparts a farewell squeeze to his own spent cock. It sparks another aftershock in his blood, but every muscle in his body is far too overworked to respond. Max’s release turns tacky on his hand and he probably has a mess in own trousers to deal with before it dries too much further. Max seems to have the same idea as he pulls back and reaches for his discarded wet coat.
He tugs an inside flap free and wipes down his hand before attempting to clean himself up. The wordless invitation extends to Oscar, and he hesitates for a brief moment before Max sighs. “It’s alright,” he says as Oscar finally reaches for the coat. “It’s on the inside so I can carry it out without anyone seeing. Easier to wash that way, too.”
With their hands mostly clean and their trousers mostly presentable, Oscar finds himself at a loss. Just what does he say to his captain now? Now that he knows how the man sounds when licking into Oscar’s mouth, when spilling into his hand? The memory curls a bolt of latent heat down his spine as he glances over at Max in the flickering, swaying candlelight. Fortunately for him, Max looks just equally lost for words as if… as if this is the first time he’s ever encountered a situation like this.
And maybe it is.
Something about that thought warms Oscar’s chest, and he desperately hopes that he is the first person aboard that Max has taken in his cabin like this. At length, he sighs and scrubs a hand over his face, breathing in the remnants of Max on his skin. “Two points south-southwest.” He suddenly says, drawing Max’s confused, piqued gaze. “That’s how far off course we are… I told Lando to hold a steady southerly course and we should be closer by morning. Though, we can’t know how the Lusail fared in the storm, either. She could be even further off course.”
Max takes a moment to respond, nodding gently. “Then, we’ll just have to keep on her shadow. Until the opportunity presents itself, we keep to what we know and see what the dawn brings.” His gaze drops to his feet in an uncharacteristically hesitant moment. “Oscar, I don’t…” He starts and stops just as quickly before raising his eyes. They shine with a painfully raw determination and something unspeakably intimate. “The dawn already brings about one change for me… but whatever we have shared - or may yet share - behind that closed door must never escape that closed door.”
Oscar immediately nods as his heart leaps. “Of course, Max. Yes, I understand.” Even as he responds, he suddenly doubts his hearing. Maybe it’s just his exhausted mind playing tricks on him, but did Max really just imply that this could happen again? It’s more than Oscar could have ever hoped for, and the corner of his mouth lifts with a hopeful edge as he meets Max’s gaze in the candlelight.
Despite the desperation and need with which they had clung to each other on the floor, the moment now isn’t right to kiss Max again and so he doesn’t. In fact, he watches as Max starts to replace his armor, transforming from the young man who shook apart in his hand back into Captain Verstappen, legendary pirate of the Caribbean Sea.
He nods again, this time in farewell. “Good night, captain.” He turns without another word, reaching for the door handle just as Verstappen’s voice sounds over his shoulder.
“Good to have you aboard, Piastri.”
Fin
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