#flat 55

[mitjalovse]

Many quietly influential musicians have had several successes to their names that gave them the silence they need to be what I keep defining. For instance, Mr. Oizo did reach the highest peaks of the charts during the late 90's, which enabled him to do what he wants, including an incredible movie career. The latter does complement what he does in his music – you keep asking yourself how serious he is. There's a sense he has a goofy smile on his face, when he makes his music. Of course, he doesn't troll you, he's gently ribbing you, but he also seems to be aware his surroundings – he has to thank Daft Punk for his visibility, they made France one of the havens of electronica in the 90's – enables him to go there.

#Youtube #mr. oizo #analog worms attack #flat 55 #quentin dupieux #feadz #90's music #electronic music

[blue-orchid-boi]

thinking about how absolutely buck-wild Jonathan Sims goes in his supplementals, like, he finishes talking about how maybe that above statement was bs with one (1) spooky coincidence then just fully admits to Crimes three seconds later

#magnus archives #this one is somewhere around mag 55-61 but I can’t find it #it’s so funny to me that he’s batahit crazy paranoid #the magnus universe #the magnus archives #tma martin #tma shitpost #tma jon #tma spoilers #tma the archivist #the one where he breaks into Gertrude’s old flat #bros insane I love him for it

[internetgremlin-writes]

Flat Spin [Chapter Seven]

Summary/Prompt:

1. A spin in which an aircraft descends in tight circles whilst remaining almost horizontal

2. A state of agitation or panic [informal]

As the only female driver on the grid, you’re fighting a constant need to prove yourself, however sometimes the line between accepting help and hand-outs is more blurred than you think

Pairing: Carlos Sainz Jr x Female Reader

Word Count: 6,200

Warnings: None really, just colourful use of the English language :))

Previous Parts: one | two | three | four | five | six

The usual pit of dread for media day didn't descend upon you until you were midway through breakfast.  You knew about it because the sausages started to taste like cardboard and you'd stopped listening to Katie, who was talking you through a rundown of the day. 

“It's not the worst,”  Katie promised you over the sceptical look you threw her as you examined your schedule for the day.

In her defence, it really wasn't bad at all.  You had the usual press conference, but by some stroke of luck both Carlos and Mick were going to be there with you and you had a long lunch blocked out for a silly video with Seb after.  There were no special features and the remainder of the day was filled with meetings and training.  The fanzone sessions were, you noticed, double the length as usual but you could understand that; it was Monaco after all.  And they were never really bad - signing, a quick photo and messing with Seb without an escape.  There were the odd weirdos, but there were so many lovely, kind people that were so thrilled just to say hello to you that it was usually quite enjoyable.

Carlos had already texted you from the gym that morning with a sweaty, smiley photo that made your stomach clench with a reminder of the evening before.  He was loving the momentary release of pressure he'd been given, with the double-header resulting in his home race being immediately followed by that of his teammate.  Not only was it Leclerc’s territory, but one of the most revered races on the calendar and naturally all eyes were on the young Monegasque.

Your own morning started well, with a workout session where Katie pushed you so hard that by the end of the weight sets followed by sprint intervals on the treadmill you were flat on your back and panting heavily.  She pulled you through a stretch-out that made your abused muscles scream, but by the time you made it to the paddock you were loose and comfortable and incredibly grateful for her expertise.  

The conference room was already warm when you stepped in, despite the fact that the corral was less than half-full with a sleepy trickle of journalists.  The platform for the drivers was lit with warm yellow stage lights that felt more like the outdoor heaters one would find in European cafés and bars, simply walking across it made you sweat and the coffee in your hand felt like a mistake.  With another ten minutes before the interviews began, you decided you could make a detour to the green room to swap your travel mug for a water bottle and discard your hoodie.  You were midway through shrugging the tight hoodie off in a corner of the backstage excuse named the ‘green room’ when there was a low whistle behind you.

“Be careful, no?  Teasing all the drivers,”  you straightened up and turned to face Carlos, who was standing behind you with a smirk on his face.

“Right, because a few inches of my lower back will drive all the boys wild,”  you rolled your eyes, then caught the way his eyes flashed and he opened his mouth.  “No,”  you jabbed him in the chest  “Don’t even think about saying it,”  he stepped back with ease, his body swaying as he rebalanced with a shameless grin, holding his hands up in surrender. 

You’d not done press with Carlos yet this season and it was nice, even backstage.  Nice to have someone you were genuinely comfortable with, someone who you could relax around a little bit.  You were midway through comparing notes about the bizarre exercises you’d been put through by your respective trainers that morning when you spotted Mick enter the green room looking a little lost and more frantic than usual.  Valterri Bottas and Nicholas Latifi completed the group of five you were spending the day with, the pair of them sat separately absorbed in their phones.  You looked over Carlos’ shoulder and waved Mick over, his eyes following your movement.  His expression changed for half a second before Carlos stepped to the side, allowing Mick to join the pair of you.

Mick immediately pulled you into a hug as you greeted him warmly and turned to shake Carlos’ hand.  He started explaining an issue he’d had with his motorbike that had almost made him late when the stressed-looking stage director appeared, calling you all to take your seats on the stage.  You naturally found yourself settled between Carlos and Mick, prepared to while away the least enjoyable part of your day by throwing sideways looks at the two of them in silent mockery of the ridiculous, shit-stirring questioning the self-appointed journalists would direct at you.  

You’d been right earlier: it was hot.  You could feel your face already starting to shine under the searing lights and now that the floor was packed with cameras and bodies it was as if there was a wall of heat, radiating towards where you were trapped in the strangely uncomfortable egg-shaped chairs.  Carlos looked zoned out from the minute after his name had been called, a blank look crossing his features as he stared at a spot on the wall above the heads of the crowd.  You could feel yourself joining him, mentally slipping away as the questions directed at other drivers kicked off the session.

Someone calling your name dragged you back into the stuffy room.  You hitched a false smile onto your face, squinting against the powerful lighting to try and identify the person clamouring for you.

“Can you confirm that you’ll be seeing the new upgrades on your car this week?  Did you feel it was unfair you were forced to wait a week whilst Seb had them?”  And so it begins.  Big smile, don’t say anything inflammatory, don’t rise to anything they say.

“As far as I’m aware, yes, I will be receiving the upgraded package.  Of course, everything will be finalised tomorrow over the practice sessions,”  you smiled.  No true information, nothing Krack wouldn’t want to give away.

As per usual, one question slid rapidly into an onslaught.

“Did you feel your performance was compromised by being denied the upgrades in Barcelona?”

“Are you actually aware of what’s in the upgraded package?  Do you know how it will impact your drive?”

“Is there friction within the team between yourself and Sebastian following the split in upgrades?”

“On evaluation, do you believe there were other factors resulting in your performance last week?”

You answered each question as it was fired at you, trying to politely ignore every hint at your gender or the invisible rivalry between yourself and your mentor or communication breakdowns within the team or your lack of technical understanding or anything else equally ridicilous.  You could feel your heart rate building the more the questions were directed at you, unforgiving voices probing until you felt like you were on the verge of slipping up and just telling them to all shut up.

You tried to distract yourself by re-tying your hair and taking a drink out of your water bottle as the hoard descended on Latifi for a moment, questioning his so far pointless performance.  Mick caught your gaze, raising an eyebrow and mouthing the question of if you were okay.  You nodded your head with a tight smile and he pulled a silly face which forced you to break into a short laugh.  You could have sworn you heard the bones of a journalist’s neck crack as he whipped around to locate the sound. 

“Y/N, you were seen entering the paddock with Carlos yesterday, any comment?”  You threw Carlos a look that was met with a sympathetic smile and kind, understanding eyes that said ‘I’ll follow your lead on this one’.  You galvanised yourself, wondering whether death by imaginary rivalries with Seb or constantly having your personal relationships dissected live on air was worse.

“As I’m sure you’re aware, sorry I can’t read your name tag from here, Carlos and I are in the handful of drivers that don’t have properties in Monaco.  Turned out we were staying in the same hotel - I bumped into him at breakfast - so it made sense to come in together.  After all, when Seb is your mentor, you see ways to save the planet everywhere you go,” 

At least your comment about Seb distracted the reporters, earning you a delayed chuckle that broke out in smatterings through the crowd.  Carlos sent you a lopsided grin, his attention finally back in the room. 

“She just wanted to go in a Ferrari,”  they loved that. 

Luckily no one seemed to have noticed that you’d spent the morning gallivanting around Monaco with Carlos before arriving together and it was easy enough to deflect questions about your presence at the football with the same statement you'd been using the day before.  You didn't miss the way Carlos stopped staring into space and started watching the floor with a smug grin when said football match was brought up. 

“Mick, how do you feel about Y/N's newfound friendship with Carlos here?”  It was the last question, and you found yourself reeling.  Mick himself looked startled, bright blue eyes desperately searching you and then Carlos for help.  You knew where this was coming from, Hello Saturday was by no means the only gossip column that firmly believed you and Mick had been dating since the days you were both in Prema.  

You barely heard Mick’s stumbled response, your ears were ringing and hands shaking with pure, white-hot anger.  It felt like you were sitting in a straight jacket, unable to move or speak, bound to your seat and just staring at the high clock mounted on the back wall until it chimed the hour and you could leave.  It felt robotic the way you stood and walked back out to the green room.  You picked up your hoodie and coffee cup, making your way to the door when Mick's hand on your shoulder finally jolted you back into yourself. 

“Was that okay?  What I said?”  He looked frantically at you, his gaze jumping to Carlos who was approaching behind him and back.  He looked like he was going to cry as you nodded vaguely back at him.  “Okay, good.  What a mess, huh?”  You managed to huff out an agreement before mumbling something about having to go to a meeting, your only desire to get out of the building and to the opposite side of the paddock as quickly as possible. 

Carlos caught up with you as you were marching across the paddock.  He didn't say anything as he fell into step beside you.

“You know, I haven't a clue what Mick said,”  you mused, your blood pressure was slowly returning to normal and you were starting to feel like a reasonable person again.  “How dare they?  How dare they comment on my social life in front of me and not fucking ask me!  As if Mick or any man has any right to so much as an opinion on the company I choose to keep!”  Okay, so maybe not entirely reasonable, but it wasn't like you had no right to be angry. 

He nodded quietly. 

“Yes.  That’s very much what Mick said.  Maybe nicer, though,”

“Good,”  you'd walked around the back of the trailers where it was quieter and had come to a halt hovering outside the entrance to Ferrari, the Aston Martin zone separated by the McLarens.  Carlos was watching you with an expression you weren't used to.  It was - kind, without judgement or sympathy or anything else you were used to.  It almost made you uncomfortable the way you felt naked under his gaze.  You sighed heavily, unable to shift the heavy weight that had settled in your chest. 

“Look, if you don't want to keep doing this I'll understand,”  you couldn't bring yourself to meet his eyes, instead focusing on the comforting green of the trailers over his shoulder.  

“Excuse me?”

“This,”  you gestured between you.  “They're like bloodhounds with me.  Do you remember Hungary last year? Max hugged me on the podium and they wrote articles about our secret passionate affair for weeks.  They think I've fucked half the grid, if they've got a sniff there's something going on with us it's going to be relentless,”

“Do you want to stop?”

“That's not what I-”  Carlos had stepped closer, so your back was pressed against the rack of tyres you were concealing yourselves behind.  He'd caught your wrists, those wide brown eyes piercing through you as he trapped you, forcing you to face everything you'd been shoving down for weeks.  

“If you don't want to anymore, that’s okay.  But you can't make me go away because of media.  Not if I don't want to and you don’t want to,”  it really felt like he was boring into your soul.  You so desperately wanted to shy away from him, your whole body itching to squirm out of his grip and run away.  The only thing keeping you in place was his body blocking your escape route.  Like a trapped animal, you knew you'd lost.  You felt yourself deflate as you gave in, collapsing back against the tyres and going limp against Carlos, who gently released you. 

“I don't want to stop either,”

“Okay then,”  he shrugged as if it was that simple.  You immediately informed him he was incorrect.  Analytical eyes found you.  “Does denying all the rumours make them stop for you?  You tell the press ‘no I didn't date Mick’, but they still think you do, no?”

“Yeah, but I don't see what this has to do with-”

“So what is the difference now?  You say ‘No I'm not having sex with Carlos’, they don't believe you.  You say ‘Yes I am having sex with Carlos,’ then what do they have to say?  It doesn't change anything.  And you know what is true.  And what matters,” 

“I mean, I'd rather them take me as a serious athlete and not say anything at all,”  you grumbled, but you understood what Carlos meant.  Whatever you did, whoever you saw and in whatever capacity that was the media were always going to take it and twist it in the way that was the most scandalous.  It wasn't fair and you were never going to get over the unfairness that you faced as a woman in sport, but it didn't mean you couldn't enjoy anything. 

“You're quite wise really, aren't you Chili?”  Carlos paused and cocked his head at you like a curious dog. 

“You never call me Chili?”

“Well… that's what your friends call you isn't it?  And your family?”  You hadn't expected him to really react to you using his nickname at all, a spark of worry that you’d overstepped a line began to flare in your stomach.  

“Say it again,”

“What?  Chili?”  He shook his head, but his signature grin was back in place as he stepped between your legs, fingers deftly caressing the side of your face as he brushed back a piece of hair.  He made a small, almost thoughtful noise in the back of his throat. 

“My name sounds much prettier in your mouth,”

“Carlos!”  You squealed and tried to duck away from him, his hot breath on your ear making you shiver, the hand you hadn't noticed on your waist slipping beneath your shirt for a fraction of a second making you squirm against him.

“Just like that,”  he whispered.  “Go to your meeting, Cariño,”  you were sent away to finish the short walk to Aston Martin with a pat on the bum that had it been delivered by anyone else, you'd have scolded them.

*****

Your meeting, in fact, was not a meeting at all.  You were collared the second you walked into the Aston Martin box and dragged up to the team common room where Seb was already seated at one of the two small tables placed in the centre of the room.  

It was a nice afternoon, almost enough to make you forget the mess of the conference as you and Seb filmed a little video showing off some new merchandise and talking about a new sponsorship partner you'd picked up.  Apparently, it had been someone from the stuffy dinner you'd attended in Miami but you had absolutely no idea who was sent from the company or what they even did.  You didn't really care anyway, as you flashed a travel mug and pulled on a hoodie way too big for you, in the same green you were used to with just an additional logo embroidered on the arm. 

Then there were meet and greets with VIPs and Paddock Club people.  You took a small hoard of children on a tour of the garage whilst Seb distracted Mike and the parents with something technical and funny and just brilliantly Seb that when you returned with several impish little faces decked out in green hats and clutching photos of themselves in your car, Mike couldn't say a word against you.  Your dad pressed a coffee into your hand whilst you were taking a ‘break’ to check in with your race engineer and before you could start to dissect the turbulent weather reports for the umpteenth time, Katie was pulling you away to the fan zone to meet the masses. 

Several hours and an aching wrist later you were freed from signing cards of yourself and grinning for distant selfies.  You'd accumulated a good hoard of gifts which Katie carried over to your trailer.  It was a habit you'd picked up in your rookie year when you were so overwhelmed by any scrap of kindness shown to you that you took and kept everything fans handed to you and where you could, you'd send a thank you note or tag them on your Instagram.

By the time you were doing final seat fittings and checks for the first practice session, the sun was setting, casting the garage in a soft orange glow.  Katie handed you a boxed couscous salad from catering at some point between an in-depth discussion on whether changing the angle of your headrest would save a few hundredths through La Rascasse.  Several teams were still in the paddock.  You could hear the raucous laughter from Red Bull, usually meaning they were filming something ridiculous.  You ended up taking a bike for a sunset lap, just soaking up the late afternoon sun by yourself before everything kicked off.

*****

Friday was as relentless as usual.  Between the free practice sessions and strategy meetings, you found yourself frequently chasing Carlos out various crevices of Aston Martin that he seemed to appear in. 

“Seriously Carlos, Mike will have a hernia if he finds you in here one more time,”

“But Cariño, I’m bored,”  he complained, an unapologetic grin on his face as you marched him back through the VIP entrance he’d seemed to have slipped into and out into the throngs of the paddock. 

“Was Charles this childish when you were the homeboy last week?”  Which only led to him pouting and complaining more as he scrabbled to get back to the cafeteria behind you.  In the end, it was a very stressed-out Rupert who managed to track down his driver twenty minutes before the first free practice session and drag him back to Ferrari to start warming up.

The car you found yourself cruising around the streets in felt a million miles away from the car that had given up on you in Barcelona.  You had no idea what they’d done, but the upgraded package had the backend snapping around just the way you liked it and the downforce felt like you were guiding the car around rails on the racing line.  It was so easy, so smooth.  You found yourself setting purple sectors without even trying because finally, finally, you had a car that felt like an extension of yourself.  You just had to think about what you wanted to do and the car seemed to already be responding to you.

You topped the timesheets of the first session, the hour had flown by and you hadn’t even realised how badly you’d been sweating in the thirty-degree heat until you were helped out into the garage and realised your suit was soaked through.  You didn’t even care, you were grinning from ear to ear as everything else stopped mattering.  Seb had come in right behind you, looking younger than you’d seen him in years.

“Wow,”  You grinned at him, cheeks flushed and hair bedraggled from the balaclava. 

“You liked it?”  

“Oh my god, that was the best drive of my life!”  Seb chuckled as you unzipped your suits, making your way back to the driver’s rooms to grab a quick shower and change for the midday debrief. 

“That,”  Seb gestured as he pushed his hair out of his eyes.  “That’s what Kinky Kylie felt like,”

Kinky Kylie was the name Sebastian had christened his car with in 2011.  It was the year he completely dominated the sport and took the Championship like it had been his from day one.  It had been the season that changed him from being one of the drivers you looked up to, to the driver you wanted to be when you grew up.  There was a feeling in your chest that you’d not had before.  You thought it might just be the feeling of sitting in a car that could win you a championship title.

“They’re going to call it a Green Bull,”  Seb chuckled at your comment.

“Good,”

***** 

You’d never been so excited for a qualifying day in your life.  Seb had taken the lead for FP2 with you coming in a close second and the media had exploded overnight.  Just like you’d predicted you found yourself walking into a media storm in the paddock when you arrived on Saturday morning, but for once you welcomed the questions. 

The Green Red Bull was the official unofficial nickname for the Aston Martin that had spread throughout the paddock, and suddenly the only questions being thrown at you were about you and your car.  There wasn’t a peep about Mick or Carlos or any other men.  It felt good, refreshing even.  You’d much rather spend your days fiercely denying that your team weren’t cheating and the car was actually more similar to older models of Red Bulls than the current season’s car anyway than arguing about your relationship status any day.  Sure, no drama at all would have been ideal but at least this made you feel like a real driver.

You and Seb were inseparable, even more so than usual.  You spent the entire day in the garage, heads pressed together and passing notes back and forth with data and evidence.  Seb had dug up his 2011 notes for you so that by the time you were actually strapping into your car and setting out for qualifying you had no idea what year it was, all you knew was that your viens were alight with adrenaline and you were itching to go.

It was a hot qualifying, with temperatures reminiscent of Miami and Barcelona and Australia.  You could feel your body fighting you through the whole of the first session.  You blatantly ignored every warning sign because the car was flying and there was no way you were going to miss the opportunity to get pole position in Monaco because you were a little overheated.  Naturally, both green cars breezed into the top ten and for the first time in forty minutes, you were able to suck in a deep breath and relax a little.  Your first flying lap took a purple sector two and planted you in third.

“Outstanding lap, Y/N, box box,”  you pulled down the pitlane, welcoming the heavy-duty fans pointed at your body as the car was tuned up, given brand new soft tyres and the bare minimum fuel load.

“Empty my water bag too,”

“Copy,”

Max and Carlos had gone faster than you before they pitted, meaning that in the final three minutes when you were released back onto the track for the final flying laps you were sat in P5.

“Okay Y/N, we really believe you could cinch a pole today.  Full send, good luck,”

“Full send,”  you agreed with your engineer, putting more effort than you ever had into warming up your tyres to the perfect grip so that when you rounded the final straight and the start line came into view you were accelerating like a bullet. 

Your whole world narrowed down to the tiny strip you could see through your visor, which was bouncing so violently you were driving the track almost entirely on memory.  You knew you would be gaining attention, the way you were taking the corners was borderline idiotic but you’d never felt so in control before.  You glided around the hairpin-like it was nothing, and you were just approaching Portier.

“Abort lap, red flag, abort lap!”  

“No!”

“Track blocked before the tunnel abort now,”   

“Fuck’s sake,”  you swore down the radio, not giving a shit that the TV companies would have to bleep you out as you eased off the acceleration and brought the car back down to a cruise.  As you approached the tunnel you could see why the race had been red-flagged, with a Red Bull in the barrier and a Ferrari that had clearly spun in a too-late attempt to pass, blocking the track completely. 

“What do I do then?”

“Wait there.  Marshalls are moving the Ferrari and then come back to the pits.  Looks like you’re keeping your P5,”

“Copy.”  You switched off the radio and sat cursing everything and anything as you felt the heat of the midday sun and the boiling engine surround you fully now that you weren’t distracted by the racing line.  It would be just typical that the one you had a shot at pole, not just a top ten start would be the day there’s a red flag on the final lap.  Luckily, it didn’t take long for the Ferrari to be reversed back, and you pretended not to see the apologetic look Carlos threw you from where he was standing behind the barrier with Sergio Perez.  How did he always seem to be the one involved in these incidents?

You cruised back to the garage and hopped out to a sea of sympathetic faces.  Seb looked as stormy as you did, he was stuck all the way back in P8 and your hopes of a magical one-two finish were sorely bruised.  Your dad, who had been watching from the garage pulled you into a hug and for a second you allowed yourself to feel like the little girl who’d had a win slip through her fingers at the karting tracks.  He smelled the same and felt the same as he did back then when he was your manager, engineer, coach and everything else.  You tried to swallow through the hot prick of tears in your eyes and bite down the disappointment because there was no way you’d be allowed a moment of private grief. 

Instead, you pulled back, hitched a grim smile on your face and made your way to debrief.

*****

You woke up at 5 am.

Not by choice.  Your heart was hammering in your chest as you tried to settle your breathing.  You desperately wracked your brain but you couldn’t remember the dream you’d had that had clearly woken you up so dramatically for the life of you.  Your window was still a black square against the soft glow of the bedside lamp you’d turned on.  The sheets were pooled around your waist, and the oversized blue shirt you always slept in was damp and sticking to you with sweat leaving you feeling close and uncomfortable.

Your alarm was due to go off within the hour anyway, so you decided there was no point in trying to go back to sleep.  There was a strange dull ache in your head and the air in the room felt particularly close.  You cracked open your window and were hit in the face with a wall of hot, sticky hair.  You groaned, immediately acutely aware of why you’d had such a terrible start.  It was a weird thing, but you were incredibly sensible to barometric pressure and you always had horrific headaches when a storm was close, and this one was close.  There was an almost metallic taste in the air.  You slammed the window shut as your head throbbed, and decided the only sensible thing to do was sit on the floor of your shower and wait for the steam to soothe you.

The storm had broken by the time you’d succeeded in your first shower of the day.  You could hear thunder rumbling in the distance and the invisible weight pressing on your sinuses had lifted, thankfully, but the spattering of rain against your tiny, square window was not filling you with joy.  Not only were you on the third row of the grid on a track that was notoriously impossible to overtake on, but it was also looking like a wet race after two days of dry running.  It was going to be a disaster.  Your phone pinging broke you from where you were miserably watching the weather, hair tied up in a towel and cup of tea cradled in your hands.

Carlos Sainz: This is going to be fun

You: You and I have very different ideas of fun

You’d never known a morning so long.  Maybe it was because everyone kept bringing up how it was due to rain right when the race was due to start, or because with your disappointing starting position you just wanted all the “what-ifs” to be over and done with.  Between workouts and warm-ups, meetings and fan greetings you felt like a listless version of yourself, just allowing people to shuttle you forwards and backwards as you smiled and waved and pretended you were fine.

You stood next to Daniel for the driver’s parade.  He had his headphones on and other than a warm smile there was no pressure to talk.  Max was with him, who was waving at the crowd and half paying attention to something Checo was saying at his side.  Lando joined you shortly and of course, where there was a Lando, a Carlos was never far behind.  They started yet another spirited discussion about the weather, resulting in Daniel having to shush his young teammate before he gave away three of McLaren’s tyre strategies.  It was enough to break you out of the mood you’d been in and you managed a half laugh at his expense.  After that you found yourself starting to relax as the float carried you through the second half of the track, aided by Carlos sharing some rather amusing stories of Charles’ attempts to cope with his home race ‘curse’.

The rain started again just as you’d had your seatbelts tightened for the formation lap.  There was a sudden flurry of activity as you felt the first drops hit your visor.

“What’s happening?”  You radioed your engineer as two sets of mechanics moved through the grid past you with trollies of new tyres.

“Unsure currently,”

“I don’t want inters unless it’s bad,”

“That’s risky,”

“I’m not settling for P5 today,”

“Copy,”  So you sat with your mediums on, watching the chaos of the grid evolve in front of  you.

“Race delay, nine minutes,”  you made an exaggerated groan that you knew would be broadcast.

“I’m bored,”

“Safety first,”

“I need a wee,”  you tried to bargain, partly for entertainment purposes and partly because your legs were starting to fall asleep and you really were bored.

“You’re not getting out of that car, Y/N.  Do you want inters now?”

“I hate inters,”  you were treated to another few minutes of radio silence for your adamant refusal of the intermediate tyres.  The grid was still alight with activity, you could see the Red Bulls directly in front of you had tyres everywhere, and just in front of them was a swarm of red suits belonging to the Ferrari mechanics.  Lando was starting just behind you in P6 and you had to crane your neck a little to get a good view of the Mclaren, but you could see tyre racks lining the outside of the grid there, too.

“Alright, Y/N, you get your way.”  your engineer made you jump as your attention turned back to your own car.

“What?”

“Rolling start behind safety car, so it’s full wets.  No intermediate tyres,”

“Yay,”  you knew your tone was full of sarcasm but you didn’t mind too much.  You much preferred the blue-rimmed full wet tyres over their green cousins that seemed to hate you.  Every time you’d driven with inters you’d had some kind of accident or at the very best a near miss.  A rolling start was boring, but at least you’d get to move after having been sat there for close to twenty minutes. 

It wasn’t quite “Light’s out and away we go!”  but you still felt the familiar rush of adrenaline as you eased the car forward and slotted in behind Max.  The wet tarmac made you focus more on your drive and you found yourself fighting the back end of the car constantly, but you were reassured that the line in front of you looked as questionable as your own.  Two laps of “racing” were completed before your radio crackled and you had to suppress an irritable eye roll.

“Yellow flag,”

“Ugh,”

“Latifi in the wall at the hairpin,”

“I’m behind the car anyway, I don’t care,”

“And red flag,”

“Oh come on!”  You would admit the rain had been coming down heavier, but you were finally moving and you didn’t want to stop.

“Everyone to box,”

At least you were allowed out of the car for a wee.  You sulked in the back of the garage watching the weather reports on the screens with Seb, strategists buzzing around you.  You didn’t know how many times you told them you wanted nothing to do with intermediate tyres, but it was enough that nearly an hour of being stationary felt like the entire afternoon and by the time you were allowed to get back in the car for another safety car restart you were just grateful to be racing at all.

The green flag had never looked so sweet as you snapped the car forward and stuck yourself onto the Red Bull’s tail and started to push your race on.  Monaco being Monaco meant that you followed in a lovely line for ten whole laps.

“I can see a dry line,”

“Already?”  your engineer sounded sceptical but you could feel the speed falling as your tyres started to struggle on the drier ground.  There was no way you could pull off an overtake, let alone four to get to the front like that. 

“Think so,”  

“Okay, yep, Haas and Alpha Tauri are on inters and lapping faster,”

“Let’s go to slicks,”

“Strategy is go inters for a dry line,”

“I will crash this car if you give me inters.  Will hards last to the end?”

“Pit window for hards opens in five laps,”

“I can nurse wets until then,”

“I strongly disagree,”  there was an edge to his voice that said maybe you shouldn’t be arguing over the pre-agreed strategy mid-race.

“Can you guys just trust me?  Please,”  You had a feeling you were right, you couldn’t explain it but the dry line just seemed to jump out to you and as much as the car was working well on the wet tyres there was an almost visceral yearning within you for the dry tyres.  And you weren’t above begging on the radio if it meant avoiding the dreaded intermediates.

Five laps later you were the first one to change to the hard compound slick tyre.

“Don’t crash,”  was the only advice you received from your engineer as you came out into clean air, just ahead of a DRS train of lapped cars.

You were starting to get some heat into the tyres and were feeling good, like really good.

“Where’s everyone else?”  You asked when you realised you’d not caught up to the drivers ahead of you despite setting a new fastest lap.

“You’re leading.  All have pitted for slicks and come out behind.  There are three lapped cars between you and P2,”

“Haha nice,”  was your only response.

“Head down, you’re doing great,”

“Gotcha,”

You felt great.  Clean air, packed stands, and blue skies coming up ahead of you.  You felt yourself finally relaxing into the race and starting to push.  You set two more fastest lap times and were coming up to half-distance when you saw the first flash of yellow.

“Yellow flag?”  

“Confirmed.  Big crash through the chicane, be careful,”

“Think it’s gonna go red?”

“Yep, standby to box,”

You slowed the car as you guided it through half of the lap before you saw the damage.  You thought you were going to be sick.

Scattered across the track was an absolute mess of a formula one car.  The rear half had been completely ripped off, the tecpro barrier morphed out of shape with the force of the impact.  Debris was littered around as if a bomb had gone off inside the actual car itself.

“Jesus,”  you mumbled as you passed the site.  One thing that stuck out to you was the name on the sidepod, a large tear in the metal slicing through the red lettering, but you could easily identify the Haas.

“Please tell me that’s not who I think it is,”  you could hear the ugly strain in your voice as you contacted your engineer. 

“Red flag, Y/N, box box,”

“Who,”

“Y/N…”

“Who is that?”

“It’s Schumacher,”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Read Chapter Eight here!

Check out my masterlist here

Hello hello

This was originally a mega chapter but I forgot how much shit happens in Monaco so there's one more part to the weekend to finish the race and deal with the aftermath. Um usual stuff, yeah? Hope you guys enjoy this one and feedback is always appreciated.

I feel like it's been ages since I've published anything, I've lost all track of time lmao

Taglist: @imreallylosingit @serialkillertbh @sticksdoesart @idkiwantchocolatee @agentsoybean @piceous21 @whosays75 @xscorpioxmoon @miahelen @j-brielmalfoy @honeybadger03 @teapartydreams @guccicloudz @nochillnel @timetoracewrites @rmaddenns @ruledchaos @isabellabrodar @ccloaned  @ihearttheoriginals @tattered-tales @ferrarifwendvale @bradfordbantams  @bobohumyonlyboo @zoobabystation @formulacads @hnmaga-blog @f1-incorrect-s @alicekepley @thembeforethea @mrscevans @nora-moon @sueesstuff @turningxstrange @luvrboygaslys @sgkophie @jpotterdilf @dan3avacado @missxmericana @mall--e @ohthemisssery @yearsof-war @bisexual-desi @forzaferraris @rge-nini @l3kas @iamasimpingh0e @ricsaigaslec @guardians-ofthe-lastyoungkilljoy @chokedwithaseaview @cara1111 @troybolton-14 @loverboysainz-interacts @dile-m-m-a @valkyrie418  @thelightnessofthebeing @moneymasnn  @lightsoutpierre

#carlos sainz x reader #carlos sainz imagine #carlos sainz jr #formula one #f1 #flat spin #sebastian vettel #mick schumacher #monaco gp 2022 #carlos sainz #55

[recurring-polynya]

I found a YouTube video of the entire Bleach Brave Souls Soul Reaper Academy storyline and I've been skipping thru it to watch all of the cut scenes and this bit is sending me:

#kira izuru you live in a world of immortal ghosts and you still manage to come off as 9000 years old #the video is Really Something because they sort of boop boop the characters around like popsicle stick puppets #and kira sort of sidles up to renji immediately before saying this #this bit is from around 16:55 #but the whole thing is pretty great #kira keeps saying things to renji like 'you really let me have it!' #and 'you're so strong! my hands are numb after fighting you!!' #later on there's a boss battle against kira and the person playing the game defeats him in like 3 seconds flat

[nebulanewts]

…ok so hi sorry for completely disappearing yet again and I’m kind of late w/ all the Koshien stuff but ANYWAYS here’s the covers for the new Liella subunit songs!! Not gonna lie,I didn’t expect them to just…casually preview these at the Koshien out of nowhere like when did they start doing this???Not that that’s bad,it just feels random cndjdj but I’m still excited tho 👀👀 we only got snippets,but just from those these sound WAY better than their debut tracks imo

(Also this may be too early to say,but just going off of the Koshien and the YouTube previews Jellyfish is by FAR my favorite - they’re all pretty solid tho)

#listen… #if you like the debut tracks that’s ok #but for me? they fell a little flat #now these i’m more excited for #they sound a lot better #ESPECIALLY kaleido and 55’s songs #love live #love live! #liella #liella! #catchu #mei yoneme #kanon shibuya #sumire heanna #kaleidoscore #ren hazuki #wien margarete #keke tang #5yncri5e #chisato arashi #kinako sakurakoji #tomari onitsuka #natsumi onitsuka #shiki wakana #mars babbling

[meloromantics]

would you consider dropping the link for the 280k spirk fic...?

happily my friend, go with god 🛐

#church of spirk #this one honestly knocked me flat w. characterization in the first 3 chapters alone and has HELD UP !! pretty well !! #i finished ch 46/55 last night [sean: that's like the bible!] #and am prob gonna rewatch TMP on my day off friday #btw grabbing the link from the open tabs on my iPad and NOT continuing to read on my lunch break took tremendous self discipline #this will prepare you for the themes in the text

[incorrect-immunology-facts]

Jane Prentiss’s landlord underwent pyroptosis send post

#Jane Prentiss #TMA #MAG 55 #immunology #pyroptosis #I’m lowkey fascinated rn by the way multiple encounters with The Corruption have been solved by arson #and the seeming connection to the Lightless Flame that if accurate sets up sort of a rivalry between the two entities #paralleling the balance between immunological tolerance and reactivity #and how the difference between bugs infesting buildings and pathogens infesting bodies is #at least in the context of the Corruption #only a matter of scale #the flat is a body #the landlord its immune system #attempting to maintain the boundaries between self and nonself #and the hive an infection which—up until that point—had succeeded in evading the innate immune response #but the landlord is not a complete functioning immune system #all he can do is react against what is foreign #but there is more to any life than a single organism whose cells descend from a common progenitor #and without tolerance there can be no self to defend #or any sort of symbiosis—parasitic commensal or mutualistic #and that’s not even getting into the rivalry the Corruption seems to have with the Eye #to be seen and known and bound and remembered does tend to rob pathogens of their power #and from a purely mental fear standpoint I don’t really see a compelling reason why seeing and learning about a disease would #take away the fear of it #but also I’m only a few episodes into season 2 of TMA so I may be a bit uninformed #rambling in the tags

[slutdge]

old man is old but doesn’t have wrinkles, like he LOOKS old but his skin is IMMACULATE how dare he not be crusty :-/

Its so sad when they age well, how am I supposed to sexualize them without crows feet :((((

#when theyre skinny too like NO. YOURE SUPPOSED TO HAVE CHUB. THAT AINT RIGHT TO BE 55 WITH A FLAT TUMMY.

[srndpt2024]

"If by eternity one understands not infinite duration of time, but imtemporality, then he who lives in the present lives eternally."

Ludwig Josef Johann Wittgenstein, Philosopher

„Wenn man unter Ewigkeit nicht unendliche Zeitdauer, sondern Unzeitlichkeit versteht, dann lebt der ewig, der in der Gegenwart lebt.“

von: Ludwig Josef Johann Wittgenstein, Philosoph.

#ludwig wittgenstein #philosphie #philosophy #eternity #present #edward elgar #classical music #symphony #a flat major #opus #55 #advaita #eckhart tolle #the power of now #ramana maharshi #robert adams #barry long #Youtube

[thegreatestheaver]

I have one million things to draw and I can’t even make the “so much to draw so little time” excuse nyanymore since the semester is over and I in-fact have a surplus of time to do whatever I want. In reality I am just very sleepy

#m.. wanna draw now.. but.. tomorrow #m. ok I need to plan #I will draw. this comm… then that artist of love fit .. tHEN I think I’m gonna work on a envy wip.. then a nvuzi wip #ok ..??? #maybe #AUHG. then thetes that one n and Flesha thing I’m cooking up #I’m too tired to remember if I had nyanything else to draw #nyanyways Tomorrow im gonna go out :3 get sum stuff #not too much cos I don’t have a lot of money and. once I get this comm money I’m gonna FINALLY buy the v shirt and animatez #which will be 55$ flat + shipping so. approximately 60$💔 #I wanna buy that cork board (shouldn’t be TOO expensive ??) and yea mahbe a coffee :3 #ah.. I am so happy #the happy smiler :) #I am the happy smiley because… it’s summer!!! YAYY!!! #hollowspeak

[allaroundtheworld55]

#55 #flat bed truck #ATL

[leechandoki]

Posting sample ideas (for commishes) of what to expect from me when bidding.

If you have any questions shoot me an inbox ask!

YCH (couple base) is being sold on my kofi if you want to grab it instead of bidding on it.

Want to send me a tip? Here are some places you can! Kofi | Post+ | PayPal | CashApp | Society6

Remember all tips send are final! Only send tips if you can! THANK YOU FOR SUPPORTING ME!!

#I literally drew myself a cell sona to better represent what the flat color render will look like :'| #I thought about the price for a long while and for me to be able to pump out a lot of art gray tones is the way to go really #unless you bid $55+ then I shall color for yee #YCH is already posted onto my Kofi it's pricy at the moment because the item is being auction

[internetgremlin-writes]

Flat Spin [Chapter Two]

Summary/Prompt: Flat Spin

1. A spin in which an aircraft descends in tight circles whilst remaining almost horizontal

2. A state of agitation or panic [informal] As the only female driver on the grid, you're fighting a constant need to prove yourself, however sometimes the line between accepting help and hand-outs is more blurred than you think

Pairing: Carlos Sainz Jr x Female Reader

Warnings: None really, bit of swearing and drinking

Word Count: 4,200

Previous Chapters: One

Gif credit: @artemispt <3

The five minutes after you sent the text felt like it stretched on for a lifetime.

Every little sound felt like it was dialled up, your skirt catching on the rough material of the desk chair felt like it was coming through a boom box.  When your phone pinged in response it sounded like a bullet echoing through your room.  You tried to ignore your shaking hands as you picked up the phone because it was ridiculous, you told yourself.  Carlos had invited you first in his note.  

Carlos Sainz: When?

You: Now

Because what was the point in waiting around?  Plus, yet again, you were starving.

By the time you'd swapped shoes three times he was at your door.  The awkward demeanour from yesterday was replaced with a much more Carlos look, all bright smiles and white teeth and clean-shaven skin. 

"Good morning, Cariño," you weren't quite sure how to respond, but Carlos didn't give you time to worry about it, sweeping down and pressing a quick kiss to both of your cheeks.  You laughed to try and distract yourself from the blush you could already feel rising and pointed at the alarm clock on your bedside table. 

"Only just," you admitted.  He grinned at you. 

"I don't mind," he was wearing a pair of darker jeans than yesterday, with a white dress shirt that was unbuttoned at the top and the sleeves rolled up to combat the already hot Italian morning.  "Shall we go?"

You nodded, reaching down to pull on your original shoe choice a pair of pretty white sandals without too much of a heel.  Almost instinctively, and as he was stood so close, you placed a hand on his arm to balance yourself.  You felt Carlos tense a little but he didn’t move and let you finish and stand up.  You let go of his arm pretty quickly to grab your phone and purse and close your hotel room door behind you.  Carlos walked down the hall and into the elevator beside you in amicable silence, only speaking once you'd pressed the button to take you to the ground floor and turned to face him. 

"What is a brunch?"  You tried not to laugh because Carlos was looking at you with genuine question, but you couldn't help it.  Hearing him try out the new word in his accent was sweet, even though he completely butchered it.  "What?" He questioned, searching your face with a good-natured smile as you shook your head at him.  "Did I say it wrong?" 

"Brunch," you corrected "It's like when you wake up too late to have breakfast, but it's too early for lunch so you sort of have both in one meal," 

At that point, the elevator pinged and the doors slid open onto the ground floor.  You stepped out into the lobby and turned right towards the hotel restaurant on autopilot.  Carlos caught you by the elbow, making you stop in your traps and tilt your head at him quizzically. 

"It's a nice day for a walk, no?" The sun was beating down on the road outside the hotel and you had to admit that the sun-baked city you were in looked very inviting.  So you agreed with Carlos and let him lead you out of the hotel. 

It was only a short walk down the road into the town.  It was hot, but not unpleasant and there was a breeze that brushed pleasantly against your legs.  Carlos was telling you about Imola and the surrounding area.  Since his move to Italy when he started working with Ferrari he had become a big fan of the country and was keen to share what he had learnt with you. 

"Do you wanna eat in the town then?" You asked, accidentally interrupting him midway through telling you about some of his favourite Italian food.  He looked down at you with an eyebrow raised, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. 

"There is a small restaurant in the town," he gestured forward to the cluster of buildings you were rapidly approaching "I think it will be very good for, ah, brunch," he deliberately put too much emphasis on the word, wiggling his eyebrows at you as he did so to make you laugh.  

"Did you sleep well?" It was an innocent enough question but he caught you off guard, and you could feel your face warming a little. 

"Yeah…" in a split second you decided to be honest. "I woke up at like 3 am on my own, totally confused," you couldn't bring yourself to look up for his reaction. 

"I didn't know if you wanted me to stay," he admitted, running a hand through his hair and adjusting the Ray-Bans on his nose.  "I thought maybe you’d prefer to wake up alone than to kick me out," you were definitely blushing now. 

"And I snore!" He said, followed by a free laugh that immediately broke whatever awkward trance you had found yourself in.  You couldn't help but watch as he dropped his head back with ease, his Adam's apple moving slightly and hair shaking out behind him as he laughed. 

"I don't believe that for a second," you said quietly.  If Carlos heard you he didn't respond.  You were preoccupied anyway, winding your way through a European high street full of prettily coloured buildings and flower boxes bursting with colour.  He gestured for you to turn down a narrow cobbled street that looked almost deserted aside from a tiny hanging sign. 

"Here," he said when you came level with the sign.  The restaurant was tiny, barely the size of a shop front but beautiful.  It was dimly lit inside even though it was midday, but each table had a candle glowing in a jar and fairy lights were strung haphazardly around.  The place was almost deserted, but even so, Carlos said something to the waiter in Italian and he led you round a corner to a table that was tucked away from the rest of the place.  He pulled out a chair for you before taking a seat opposite. 

In the low light, with Carlos watching you intently, there was a little voice in the back of your head wondering; is this a date? 

"So, what do you normally eat on brunch?" Carlos asked you as the waiter handed you a small menu each.  Of course, there wasn’t a word of English on the menu and you didn't know much more Italian than your basic hellos, please and thank yous.  Sometimes you really hated that the culture of your education had left you severely monolingual.  You explained that it really could be anything, from a full English to French toast to Belgian waffles.  He watched you speak with his full attention as you described the array of dishes you were used to, leaning forward with his elbows on the table to prop his chin on his hands.  You picked up the menu again and flicked through it whilst you finished describing the complexities of avocado toast. 

"I don't think I'm going to find anything that that here though, am I?" Carlos didn't answer you properly, instead shrugging his shoulders and grinning at you. 

"Do you trust me to decide?" You nodded without thought.  One thing you'd learnt about Carlos was that he took food very seriously, and good food even more so.  So you sat back and enjoyed not thinking, getting very easily lost in conversation with Carlos.  When it came to ordering you couldn't help but find it extremely attractive.  Carlos didn't look at the menu once and conversed with the waiter as if he was a local.  You didn't have a clue what we was saying but it sounded wonderful.  One thing you did recognise was the ice bucket that was brought to your table.  You quirked an eyebrow at Carlos 

"I thought you said cola was fine last night?" He waved you off as if it was nothing.

"No racing today.  And no head wounds.  How are you feeling, by the way?" You had wondered when the question of your health would come up. 

"Fine," you said.  Your physio had done a brilliant job with you and paired with a decent sleep you were feeling surprisingly bright following the crash.  "I have two days off training to recover from any muscle strains but I can't really feel any, and I was fine walking here," you added when you noticed he was looking unconvinced. 

You found yourself pleasantly surprised at the bottle of champagne and peach puree that was brought to your table, the waiter assembling bellinis for yourself and Carlos.  Carlos raised his glass towards you for a toast, which you met, although you had no idea what he could possibly want to toast. 

"For a fresh start," he explained.  The way he was leaning forward as he spoke, his hand so close to yours and eyes boring into yours made you think that he might have meant more than just forgiving you for the crash. 

"You said you don't know what brunch is, how did you know to order these?" You questioned, nodding to the drink in your hand.  Carlos grinned, not a hint of shame in his body language. 

"I didn't know it was for brunch.  I just like to have them," well, you thought.  That was something you certainly didn’t know about him. 

"Well I can drink to that," you returned his smile, feeling yourself truly relaxing into his presence.  

The food Carlos had ordered was heavenly, and you told him so multiple times.  There was an impressive spread of dishes, from bread and jams to cheese, to fried eggs and some small pasta dishes.  Your favourite was the bruschetta, the fresh bread toasted to perfection and topped with herby tomatoes and mozzarella cheese that melted in your mouth.  Carlos seemed to enjoy the fact that you were enjoying the food because he was taking great pride in explaining to you everything you didn't immediately recognise and once more you found yourself just soaking up every second of his undivided attention. 

Once the plates had been cleared away and your glasses had been topped up several times you were filled with a pleasant buzz and starting to really enjoy yourself.  You were propped up on your elbows, leaning forward to be as close to Carlos as you could over the small table.  His forearms were resting on the table, falling just wide of your elbows.  One of his fingers was just gently grazing up and down your forearm, sending little tingles down your spine as he did so.  The waiter came back and you decided that by the one word you did recognise, he was being asked if he wanted to order more. 

"Tiramisu," 

You were, however, a little surprised when only one plate was brought out with two spoons.  You didn't say anything because Carlos was already encouraging you to take the first bite and the way he watched you lick the spoon clean as you eagerly informed him it was the best tiramisu you’d ever had was downright sinful.  Sharing the desert had been a good idea because by the time you'd managed about a third of the cake you were completely stuffed and refusing another bite.  Carlos was only too happy to clear up for you. 

He was just finishing when you noticed the small smudge of cream clinging to his top lip.  You liked to think it was the champagne that spurred you to do what you did next. 

"You have a little-" you gestured to his lip, but before he could react you'd leant forward to wipe the cream away with your thumb.  Carlos was virtually frozen in his seat, his eyes fixed on you almost hungrily.  Before there was time for second thoughts or regrets you put your thumb in your mouth and licked the cream away.  His eyes widened as he watched you lower your hand before focusing back on your face.  You had to admit watching the blush bloom across his cheeks made you feel a little smug. 

It was probably a good thing the waiter arrived once more because you had no idea what to do or say following on from that, and Carlos for once looked too stunned to say something to you.  He mentioned something that sounded suspiciously like 'bill' so you immediately picked up your purse and began rummaging through to find your card.  Carlos looked downright horrified when you produced it. 

"No,"

"What?" 

"Put your card away," 

"Don't be silly I'm happy to split it," you started to argue but Carlos caught your wrist, his hand wrapping around it with ease.

"Put it away.  I pay today," 

"You really don't have to, it was my idea-" 

"Y/N," there was no argument in his tone.  "I took you out, I will pay," you were fast learning that Carlos was painfully stubborn and when he had his mind set on something there was no talking him out of it.  So you tucked your card back into your purse as he handed his off to the waiter. 

"Fine.  But next time I'm taking you out, so I'll pay," you challenged with a raised eyebrow.  Carlos muttered something under his breath that you didn't quite catch.  But it didn't matter because the next thing you knew he was helping you to your feet and you were realising you were a little tipsier than you perhaps should have been for early afternoon on a Monday.  You weren’t drunk, but you definitely weren’t sober as Carlos and you made your way back through the quiet alley and onto the high street. 

He swerved as he was telling you a story about his football team, his shoulder bumping against yours.  Normally you would have been able to recover quickly but with alcohol-soaked reactions you found yourself grabbing his arm for support.  Carlos looked at you for a second, before breaking into a childish giggle that had you following suit as you realised that Carlos was also pretty tipsy.  He covered the hand on his arm with his own and repositioned you slightly so you were walking arm in arm.  You were just about to leave the shaded side street when you spotted something that made you hesitate. 

Carlos stopped when you tugged on his arm and discreetly pointed to the small group of people looking up and down the busy street.  They were all wearing bright red caps and t-shirts.  You had no idea how, but F1 fans, especially the Ferrari ones seemed to get themselves everywhere.  Carlos tilted his head at you, a little confused as you were both used to high levels of attention. 

“You don’t wanna be seen with me?” he couldn’t quite keep the dejection out of his tone. 

“Erm, not like this,” you mumbled, pointing to yourself and then him.  You hated it, but being a woman meant you had to think so much harder about where you were and who you were with all the time.  When you first joined the grid there were articles published after almost every race, speculating which of the drivers you were sleeping with based on the few moments of interaction they had caught in the paddock or during interviews.  Netflix was even worse, you hadn’t seen Drive to Survive, but it was now your third season on the show and you knew from the comments fans made when you met them that your romantic interests were frequently brought to the attention of the public eye.  It was the main reason you had made the rule for yourself that you did not spend time with any drivers other than your teammate outside of race tracks and events.  And now here you were.  Out in a silly sundress in a small Italian town with Carlos Sainz Jr, you virtually hanging off his arm and the pair of you drunk in the afternoon.  You’d barely spent any time with him and the thought of it already being taken over the media made your chest ache.  You wouldn’t even get the chance to figure things out for yourself before the internet decided to do it for you.

You tried to explain it to Carlos, but you felt like you weren’t doing it justice and you managed to say ‘it’s not that I don’t want to be seen with you’ about four times before he stopped you from rambling.  

“Hey, I get it, it’s okay,”

“Are you sure?” your confidence faltered for a second. 

“I promise,” those big brown eyes were searching your face again, the humour from minutes ago temporarily vanished.  He turned you effectively and walked you the opposite way down the narrow street which opened out onto a main road, where he was able to very rapidly locate a taxi and neatly tuck you inside before himself.  The taxi dropped you off at the service entrance to the hotel and you found that you were able to duck inside with no fan spottings to have to worry about.  Carlos insisted on walking you all the way back up to your room.  You had learnt he was staying on the opposite side of the hotel and had to travel around the swimming pool in order to reach you. 

The fan sighting had unnerved you a little, so you brought him into your room to bid him farewell.  As soon as the door was closed behind you, you visibly relaxed, slumping back against the wall as you looked up at Carlos, who had taken his sunglasses off and tucked them into his shirt.  

“Thank you.  For brunch and for, you know,” you felt embarrassed that you’d had to end the morning the way you had but Carlos didn’t need to hear it.  He was leaning down to speak to you, so close to hovering over you but not quite making the step into your personal space.  The playful shine was back in his eyes and you could still feel the buzz of the champagne.  Maybe that was why he reached forward to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, his hand hovering by your face for a moment too long after. 

“It was perfect,” your stomach flipped at the word.  Because perfect meant a whole lot more than ‘a really nice time’.  There was a definite blush on your face now but there was no way you could do anything to hide it.  Not with the intensity of Carlos’ gaze entirely trained on you. 

“Carlos…” his name was barely a whisper.  He stepped closer, a hand landing on the wall beside your head as he did so.

“Y/N,” his gaze flickered down to your lips for a split second before snapping back to your eyes.  But it was enough.  Maybe you didn’t know exactly what was going on, but the one thing you knew was that you did not want to be friends with Carlos Sainz.  You caught a quick glimpse of his tongue poking out to moisten his full lips and you were done for.  Your heart was thudding in your ears.  Without a second thought, you grabbed a fistful of his shirt and pulled.  He let out a small yelp, but you didn’t give him time to respond any further before you kissed him.

He responded immediately, his arms wrapping tight around your waist and pulling you close to him.  Your body shut down for a moment, because kissing him felt so damn good.  Like everything with Carlos he had an irresistible intensity about him, from the way he tightened his arms around you to how he nudged your head to the side slightly to gain better access.  You finally managed to let go of his shirt to wrap your arms around his neck, the kiss becoming sweeter. 

You waited until your lungs were burning to pull away.  His cheeks were flushed, pupils blown and lips a shade brighter as he stared at you like you’d just told him the secrets of the universe.  But there was a smile behind the shock.  

“Where are your plans next week?” The question caught you off guard, but you couldn’t stop the smile that was making its way onto your face. 

“I’m going back to England early tomorrow.  Spending the week at home and then I fly to Miami on the Monday,” Carlos nodded in thought. 

“I arrive on Sunday,” 

“Well I did say I’d take you out, how does Tuesday in Miami sound?” it was a little over a week away, which felt like an acceptable time for a second date.  If it was a second date. 

“I can’t wait,” you realised that you were still in his arms, his hands warm where they covered your hips.  You weren’t sure what to do with your hands so you fiddled with the small strip of excess material where his shirt buttoned.  One of his hands came up to tilt your chin up so he could press another chaste kiss to your lips.  He was like a real-life Disney Prince, you thought, and it was making you weak in the knees.  

“What are you doing?” 

“When?” He was kissing your cheek. 

“This week, later…” he kissed your lips again.

“Going home, to Maranello,” he kissed your jaw “Later is boring.  Meetings for dinner and my PT in the gym,” you nodded and he found your mouth again.  It was getting difficult to focus.

“I have to pack,” you agreed absentmindedly.  Things needed to get done today and a tipsy Carlos in your hotel room was not the way to achieve anything, well anything productive at least.  He nodded against your skin and pulled away, releasing his grip on you but not stepping entirely away. 

“I’m very excited to see you in Miami,” you agreed because already a race you were beginning to dread was becoming more and more exciting.  “Maybe you’d even like to see the golf courses?”

You sighed with a shake of your head and an easy laugh, playfully shoving him towards your door.  You knew Carlos played golf, it was difficult to not know.  He was constantly putting pictures on his Instagram at different courses across the globe and if you caught him and Lando in the same room you’d not be able to get a word in edgeways as they talked about the sport incessantly.  

“We’ll see about that,” you mused playfully.  Carlos turned to you once more.  He didn’t kiss you again but he pulled you in for a hug that couldn’t have been any different to the one he had given you the night before.  He kissed your cheek as he bid you goodbye and you couldn’t help but feel your chest tighten a little as you watched his frame retreat down the corridor towards the stairwell. 

You couldn’t process a single thing that had just happened.  Your brain felt like someone had thrown it into a blender, your mind spinning.  If someone had told you this time yesterday that Carlos fucking Sainz would be snogging you off your feet, there was no way in hell you would have believed them.  You collapsed back onto your bed and decided you could afford to avoid the tedious packing process for another hour or two by calling your best friend and giving her a play-by-play analysis of the last 24 hours.  It involved a lot of squealing down the phone and enough ‘oh my god’s to earn the pair of you a lifetime of Hail Mary’s at the Catholic church. 

You had dinner booked at the hotel with Katie later to discuss plans for the week and when you’d be reuniting with the team in Miami, so you changed into a simple blouse and jeans for that.  She was curious about what you had been up to that morning as you had failed to answer three texts from her.  You considered telling her that you’d been out with Carlos and just omitting the kissing, but you just couldn’t be bothered to deal with any lectures so instead, you said that you’d spent a quiet morning recovering from the crash and had taken yourself on a small walk in the afternoon.  It was a good lie because Katie didn’t even question your very simple order of margarita pizza and a glass of water.  Packing was really the last thing you wanted to do, but after dragging out dinner as long as you could you found yourself returned to your hotel room with no more excuses and a flight in eight hours. 

You haphazardly threw everything into your suitcase aside from the clothes you needed tomorrow and your carry-on bag that you never packed until the morning and collapsed onto your bed.  You only realised then that it had been quite a busy post-race day, you usually spent them either snoozing on planes or lounging around in luxurious hotels avoiding any sort of responsibility for as long as you could.  An old rom-com was on the TV and within ten minutes you were passed out fast asleep, a smile still on your face and the faint scent of Carlos’ cologne in the air. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter Three

Check out my Masterlist here

Two parts in less than 2 weeks? Peer pressure is a wonderful thing!

In all seriousness though, the love Flat Spin Part One got was INSANE and you guys were so lovely about it that I couldn't not continue &lt;3

This part was supposed to be longer but I got entirely carried away with the brunch scene and then I realised that Miami content is also huge so I thought I'd separate them into parts two and three.

I haven't really written a date scene before so as per usual feedback is always appreciated and I hope you guys enjoyed this chapter!

Rage and Love

Le Gremlin

Forever Tags: @graysonmalfoy @inumorph @lokilvrr @bookgirlunicorn @thinkwritexpress-official @somanydifferentthings @faeriedelalune-blog @elthanin-sive-blog-blog @ispendmoretimehere-blog @drakesfiance @allonesharingonebreath @storm-howlett @daneel-the-sister-of-castiel @groovy-lady @skadivalholl @govazz @its-astrotea-love

F1/Carlos Tags: @imreallylosingit @serialkillertbh @sticksdoesart @lovingroscoee @agentsoybean @piceous21 @whosays75 @xscorpioxmoon @miahelen @j-brielmalfoy @honeybadger03 @teapartydreams @guccicloudz

#formula one #carloz sainz #carlos sainz jr #carlos sainz imagine #carlos sainz x reader #ferrari #scuderia ferrari #carlos sainz fanfic #carlos sainz 55 #F1 #F1 imagine #F1 x reader #sebastian vettel #aston martin #flat spin #lando norris

[chestharrington]

For A Good Time Call! || Steve Harrington x Fem!Reader

Rating: Explicit (18+)

Word Count: 14.6k

Pairing: Steve Harrington x Phone Sex Hotline Operator!Reader

Warnings: SMUT (phone sex, m & f masturbation (including pillow humping & sex toys), f!receiving oral sex, p in v sex), language, idiots in love, mutual pining, porn WITH plot

Summary: In the Summer of 1985, Steve's social standing is at an all time low. In an act of sheer, pathetic desperation, he calls a phone sex hotline. Little does he know, his dream girl from the hotline is just an escalator away.

Steve Harrington wasn’t the kind of guy who did this. He repeated it in his head as he scribbled down the phone number— fed straight to him from a local late-night advertisement. For a good time call!

It didn’t take a genius to figure out what that meant. And he wasn’t exactly able to ignore the way his dick twitched in his boxers as the commercial showed pretty girls twirling phone lines around manicured fingers, pretty smiles on their faces, eyes sultry and staring right through him. 

Plus, he wasn’t actually going to call. He was just… keeping the number for his records. He’d just put it in his Rolodex and forget about it. 

A week later, and he decidedly hadn’t forgotten about it. In fact, with the house empty and playboys not cutting it, it’s all he could think about. 

For a good time call. He wanted to have a good time. It had been a while since he had a good time— his stupid Scoops Ahoy uniform wasn’t exactly bolstering his natural charm. Robin could say what she wanted, but he was charming and fun and everything people usually want in a boyfriend. He was just… going through a rough patch. 

He retrieved his Rolodex and hurriedly flipped through, trying to remember where he’d hidden the number. Definitely not around his boss. And not around Nancy either. Tucked between Tommy and a past hookup, he found it. 

He set up his pillows behind his back and got comfortable before dialing the number with uncharacteristically sweaty hands. He was cooler than this was all making him seem. He was the playboy of Hawkins High— of Hawkins in general. Phone sex was nothing. 

As he dialed the number, he prepared to turn on his charm. Instead, he was led to a generic call-center script, which, after being carefully followed based on his wants and desires, took him to billing. 

“It’s a flat rate of twenty for your first ten minutes. If you finish before then, it’s still twenty, alright?”

He swallowed hard. “Okay.”

“After that, it’s fifty cents per minute. An hour session will run you about $55.” Oh. It certainly wasn’t cheap. He’d spent less on dates before. “Is that alright with you?”

“Yeah,” he said after a brief pause, his mind taking a while to catch up. “Do you need my credit card?”

By the time billing was over, his anticipation had tangled his stomach into knots. He glanced at the clock, wondering if those ten minutes would fly past him as fast as he thought they would. The line trilled as he waited to be connected to his partner for the night. Jenny. Like the song.

That song was gross, anyway. But how could he say anything about it now?

The ringing stopped, and he could hear the crackle of a quiet line on the other side, the rustle of movement. Did he need to say hi first? Was trying to start a conversation weird?

“Hi,” he said, and he wondered how he could make one word sound so utterly stupid. “Jenny, right?”

“Mhmm,” you hummed. He could picture you so clearly, despite knowing nothing— one of those pretty girls in the commercials, laying on your belly on a frilly pink bed, fingernails and toenails painted a shiny red, twirling the phone cord around your finger. “What should I call you?”

He swallowed. “Do people usually give you fake names?”

“Sometimes,” you replied. “It’s not about what other people do, baby. It’s about what you want. Do you want me to call you by a fake name?”

He wrinkled his nose. What was the worst thing that could come from a stranger knowing his first name? “No, that sounds awful. No offense.” You laughed, and he felt himself relax. “I’m Steve H—“ He cleared his throat. “Just Steve.”

“Well, I’m glad that I get to talk to you tonight Steve,” you said, and just the sultry timbre of your voice made his stomach do flips. “I’m guessing this is your first time?”

He furrowed his brows. “I’m not a virgin.”

“No, baby. I mean it seems like it’s your first time calling a hotline like this.” His face burned hot as he fumbled his way through answering, oh, yeah, I guess that’s right. “So, sweetheart, why don’t you tell me what you want?”

“Uh…” he paused, trying to think of a more polite way of saying to cum while a pretty girl talks to me. “I guess I’ve just been lonely.”

“Poor baby,” you said, and he was shocked that you didn’t have even a hint of amusement or mirth when you said it. “You want me to take care of you? Help you forget?”

His breath caught in his throat, stealing his response. His dick twitched, already half-hard and sensitive. All he could manage was a tiny whimper of, “Mhmm.”

“What do you usually think about when you’re touching yourself?” You asked, and the lack of shame in your voice made heat flare in his cheeks. He’d had some shameless hookups, but most of the girls he slept with didn’t like to talk about it. “Like, what’s your favorite fantasy, Steve?”

It was embarrassing. Mortifying, actually. It was basically the plot of a bad porno or a letter to Penthouse. 

Usually, it started by his pool. And a girl was there, wearing a cute, but ultimately tiny, bikini. The girl didn’t really matter. Well, she did, but it wasn’t about who she was. She could have been a Playmate of the Month, or a movie star, or a girl he was crushing on and wanted to ask out. All that mattered for the sake of the fantasy, was that she was pretty, had nice tits, and wanted him. 

“Does that make me awful?” He asked, pausing mid-description to gauge your perception of him. You laughed on the other end of the line. 

“God, Steve,” you said with thinly veiled amusement. “You think I give a personality and backstory to all of the people I fantasize about fucking?”

It made him feel a little better.

Anyways, there was something about summertime that just made sense to him. Skin all but steaming in the heat, the oiled up glow that came from sweaty skin. Wearing as few clothes as possible so you didn’t overheat. 

You gave a nervous laugh— breathy and sweet— on the other end of the line. “You’re really good at setting the scene, Steve.” He liked to be specific. He wanted to think about tiny details like the salty taste of skin or hair that smelled like chlorine and salt. “What’s next?”

She always started by laying on her stomach, the ties of her bikini undone so she didn’t get unsightly tan lines. She would peer at him over her shoulder with wide, innocent eyes while she asked if he could apply a bit more sunscreen on her back where she couldn’t reach. 

So he straddled her thighs, her skin burning up under his hands as he rubbed in the freezing cold sunscreen. Goosebumps would break out along her arms, and she’d have to arch away from the sensation, pushing her ass against him. 

“Are you hard already?” You asked, and his cheeks burned hot. 

“Like…” He glanced at his lap, where his cock was already straining against the fabric of his boxers. “In the fantasy or right now?”

“Is the answer the same for both?”

He let out a shaky breath. “Yeah.”

“Keep going.”

He was already impatient. Skipped right to the kissing and cut out the context and actions that led to it. Did it matter? The bikini top fell onto the ground, and she was on top of him, tits pressed into his sun-warmed chest, tongue licking into his mouth. 

God, he fucking loved kissing. He’d missed it so much since he’d graduated and his social clout had depleted to fuck all. There had been dates, and messy, slow makeouts in the back of his car since walking the stage, but not one since his first shift at Scoops Ahoy. It was killing him.

She felt so good in his lap— so warm and heavy. He could have stayed like that forever— trapped beneath a pretty girl with her tongue down his throat. But he wanted more— he always wanted more. 

He wanted more then. As he relayed his fantasy to this stranger in painstaking detail, he ached for more. His hand was flat on his tummy, and he shivered as he slipped it beneath the band of his boxers to take his cock into his hand. He groaned, the back of his head knocking against the wall.

“God, you’re cute,” your voice was so pretty. He throbbed in his grip, making him exhale a shuddering breath. “It’s okay, Steve. You can keep touching yourself while you talk to me. I want you to.”

“Are you sure?” He asked, his voice broken by a tiny whimper. “I don’t have to.”

“I’m sure, baby,” you insisted. “What do you do next, hm? I’m on top of you, kissing you nice and slow, grinding my hips against yours because I just can’t help myself. Tell me what you’re going to do to me.”

“I’d—“ He swallows hard, eyes shut tight. “I’d want to taste you.”

In the fantasy, his hands gripped the back of your thighs, moving you up his body so you were just above his mouth. He was suave and sexy. He’d pull the bow at your hip with his teeth so your swim bottoms fell off like they were nothing. 

And it would feel so comfortable beneath you— so natural for him. He’d just barely have to lean forward to have his mouth on you, already wet so he could taste you on his tongue. He’d moan at your taste— he fucking loved the way pussy tasted, even if he got shit for it in the locker room when he admitted it— and pull you down onto his mouth so he could get impossibly closer. 

It would be messy— a mix of spit and slick on his mouth and chin, making the tip of his nose shine. He’d spend as long as he wanted beneath you, pulling every noise he could from your lips, trapped between your thighs. He wouldn’t stop until you came— once at a minimum, more if he was feeling greedy.

“All this attention on little old me,” you teased. “Would you let me take care of you? I could slip off those swim trunks of yours and make you feel good.”

He had set a steady pace— hand gliding up and down his length as his fantasy continued to evolve. “Yeah,” he managed, but his voice came out strangled and desperate. “You’d put your hand down my shorts and tease me. Your hand would feel so good. Warm and soft. You’d, uh, tell me how big I am, how you wanted to feel me stretch your uh— your—.”

“My what, baby?” Your voice dripped with amusement and mirth. “My pussy?”

“Fuck.” It came out with an exhale, his heart hammering.

“You like it when girls say dirty things to you, Steve?” You asked, and he could hear your smirk. “You want me to beg for your cock so deep inside of me that I feel you in my stomach? Or tell you how warm and wet and tight I feel around my fingers?”

Steve groaned, throbbing in his grip as he worked himself faster. “Fuck, are you really?”

“Mhmm,” you replied. “Think about how good I’d feel when you finally let yourself fuck me. You were such a gentleman first, but you don’t have to be with me. I want to make this all about you.”

But he was a gentleman. Of course he wanted to get his dick wet and et cetera, but that wasn’t really why he liked sex. He liked making people feel good all because of him— hearing the pretty noises they made, watching their initial shyness melt away into unabashed desire. 

A lot of the time (most of the time), he felt like a huge fuck-up. Abysmal grades (well, more around average), not good enough for sports scholarships, basically every bit the son that his parents didn’t want to have. Who could really blame him for relishing in the times when he could be good and impressive to someone other than himself?

Whatever. If he thought about that train of thought for more than, like, ten seconds, he’d lose his hard-on and probably start crying into the receiver and spilling all of his life’s worst moments. He really couldn’t imagine anything more pathetic than that. 

So he thought about something else. 

He thought about how he’d lay you down on a beach towel, warmed in the sun, cradled by plush grass beneath it. He’d feel awkward about shucking off his swim trunks— he always hated undressing because it felt so awkward. But you’d look at him like he was the most attractive guy in the whole world. 

He was a sap, what could he say? He would hold your hand too, squeezing it with his as he lined up with your entrance. You’d be so wet that it felt slick and he’d feel proud just knowing he did that to you.

When he finally pushed into you, your eyes would be locked on his, warm with emotion, like the entire world just melted away. And how could he not kiss you? When everything felt so good and your legs were wrapped around his waist and each breath was punctuated by soft, desperate sounds? 

It would feel special. With your foreheads pressed together, breathing the same air. He just wants to be as close to you as possible— needs to feel every inch of your skin, sweaty and sun-warmed, against his. He’d just… bury himself deep inside of you and grind into you. It felt more intimate that way.

He could feel himself getting close. A furrow formed between his brows as he chased his high. Moans broke up his words as he brought himself closer and closer. 

“I’d— fuck— I’d rub your clit. Make you cum before I got there. It’d feel so— so fucking good too. It always feels so good. Oh god. Fuck, I’m close.”

“Go ahead, baby. I want to hear you.”

His entire body shuddered as he came, spilling messily onto his belly and chest. It felt like it lasted forever— that warm, perfect feeling of reaching his peak. He was panting as he came down, stroking himself until overstimulation made him whimper. 

“Fuck… maybe I should pay you for that,” you said after a beat. “Did it feel good, Steve?  Feel a little less lonely?”

“Mhmm,” he replied. He was spent— already feeling languid and heavy. “That was… Really perfect.”

“I’m glad.” You paused again,  and he spent that time trying to catch his breath. “I’m on every night around this time. Like, from around ten to two. I’d like to hear more of your fantasies, maybe even act one out with you, if you’d want that?”

His heart hammered, and he felt incredibly stupid as a blush crept up his neck and cheeks. “Yeah, I’ll call you again soon.”

When you said your good nights, he laid back against his pillows. The dial tone played over the speakers as he stared up at his ceiling, spend cooling on his tummy. Leave it to King Steve to fall for someone he had to pay to talk to.

Your eyelids drooped as you manned the checkout counter at Waldenbooks, one of few stores at the mall that could actually be found vacant during a busy summer day. Last night had been a late one— it didn’t help that you couldn’t stop thinking about Steve, your mystery caller. 

It felt stupid to get hung up on the type of guy who had to call a hotline to get his rocks off, especially when you knew precious little about him. You had his name, his general location, that he had a pool, and he had a nice voice. 

Your bangs lifted as you blew a puff of air out the side of your lips, slowly going insane to the sound of Muzak playing softly through the speakers. 

Steve… Did you know any Steve’s? Steve Crandall got into a motorcycle wreck the year after graduation and died. Then there was Steve Odell who moved off to California on some crazy tech idea he swore was going to change the world. Steven Ferris? He seemed like the type, but there was no way he owned a pool since you were pretty sure he lived in the basement of some old couple’s house. That wiped out your graduating class, at least. 

From your perspective on the second floor, you had a perfect view of the fine piece of ass working the ice cream parlor. He was cute— definitely younger than you by a couple of years— and the stupid costume they had him in surprisingly did it for you. You could watch him mop up spilled sorbet all day and it’d be jerk-off material for the next week. 

  He had nice biceps. And thighs. Fucking hell, the things you’d do to get between those and —

“New releases?” You snap your gaze to the other side of the counter, where a woman with pink lipstick on her teeth looks at you impatiently. 

You plastered on a winning smile and pointed a manicured finger to the other side of the store. “That big shelf on the left-hand wall over there,” you said with saccharine sweetness. “Anything else that I can help you with, ma’am?” 

She frowned and you fought a grin. There was nothing that women pushing forty hated more than being called ma’am. You might as well have been telling them they had a foot in the grave. 

The day passed by with minimal hiccups. You convinced someone to buy your favorite book, so that was a win. And you’d gotten to restock the fun pencils. You clocked out and shrugged off the vest you wore on top of your normal clothes and took your hair down from its ponytail to hang loose on your shoulders. Your perm was kind of killing you. It never sat just how you wanted, almost like it had a mind of its own. 

You made your way out of the mall with a brief glance towards Scoops Ahoy, which was notably missing the hot guy you’d been lusting after since your first day on the job. With a dejected sigh, you escaped the crowded, piercingly loud mall and stepped into the hot summer air. 

Most people (or, more accurately, children) were heading for the busses that would shuttle people back into the town square or their respective neighborhoods, but your car waited for you in the exclusive Employees Only lot in the shade. As you turned to head that way, you bumped straight into a tall, firm figure. 

Huh, you thought. He smells like hot fudge and maraschino cherries. I like those things.

“Sorry,” he said quickly. “I thought you were headed for the bus like everyone else.”

You looked up, squinting against the sun, and felt heat flood your cheeks when you realized that it was the hot ice cream scooper. “Oh, it’s, uh—“ you stammered nervously. It was never as easy as the phone line. “I was too.” You wanted to hit yourself. What the hell were you even talking about?

His brows furrowed. “You were what?“

Fuck. “I… uh— don’t know,” you finally said, ready for the conversation to end forever. “I’ll see you around.” And you were gone. You almost missed him calling after you.

You will?

But you pretended you’d never heard it. 

——

Steve called at midnight, just as you brewed your second cup of coffee of the night. You took a quick sip as the call was directed your way, already feeling much more awake in anticipation of what lay ahead. 

“Hey, Steve,” you greeted, adjusting your voice to that casual, sexy cadence that you had perfected. “I was thinking about you all day today.”

Steve responded with a dismissive psh. “I’m going to pretend that’s true, because I was thinking of you too,” he said, and you could hear his grin. “I kept screwing up at work because I’d get distracted thinking about you.”

You felt heat creep into your cheeks. “Baby, you’ll make me blush.” You paused, chewing on your lip briefly. “So… what’s in the cards for tonight, Steve? What do you want to do with me?”

He paused so long that you almost thought the call had dropped, but eventually he worked up the nerve to continue. “Well, you heard my fantasy last time. This time I want to hear yours.”

You snorted a laugh. “Steve, baby, that’s so incredibly sweet, but you could hate it, or think it’s boring, and then I’ll feel guilty for wasting your money.”

“I won’t,” he insisted. “C’mon, it’ll help us get to know each other better.”

You exhaled slowly through your nose, your tummy already fluttering with thoughts of the hot sailor shelling out dollar ice cream cones with extra sprinkles on top. 

Fuck. 

“Alright, but if you hate it, you’ve gotta promise me that you’ll tell me to shut up and we’ll do something else.” He hummed in affirmation and you laid back against your pillows, sighing as you closed your eyes and fell into your newfound, perfect little fantasy. 

“So… when I’m not doing sexy phone calls, I work a menial job,” you begin. “And normally, I’d be, like, wearing an ugly polo or vest or something with our logo on it, but for the sake of sexiness, let’s say that I’m wearing a cute little dress and my hair looks, like, perfect.”

“What does your hair look like normally?” Steve asked, hung up on the one detail that was specifically for your sake. God, you wanted to burn your local salon to the ground. 

“Uh,” you paused, wondering if you should tell the truth. “So I told my hairstylist to go for Kelly LeBrock and she… you know… tried. It looks so cute sometimes, and then other times it has a total mind of its own.”

“Oh, Kelly LeBrock! She’s such a babe. I saw the trailer for that movie she’s gonna be in. Total fox. Great hair.”

You tried to fight a smile, but couldn’t. “Do you wanna talk hair routines, or do you want me to keep going?”

Steve paused like he was genuinely considering it. “We’ll come back to the hair. I could probably help you figure it out, you know. I’ve got great hair.”

You smirked. “Oh, yeah? Where?”

“Use your imagination.”

You grinned. Oh, I am.

You were stocking shelves, as usual— except this time you couldn’t reach the top shelf. Standing on your tiptoes, the hemline of your skirt inching up and up and up. And suddenly there was a presence behind you, reaching up to stock the shelf for you. He smelled really nice, felt warm pressed up against your back.

“Am I the handsome stranger in this scenario?”

You said yes, even though you were mostly thinking about your mystery sailor from the mall. God, even the stupid uniform did it for you. Maybe it was the short shorts.

In the fantasy, the two of you didn’t even talk— really, your fantasies were typically pretty straight to the point, unlike Steve’s. The plot and dialogue would get skipped, and then suddenly, your back was pressed against the ridges of the shelves and the handsome stranger was on his knees in front of you, kissing sloppily up your thighs. 

Usually, you’d have some sense of control— keep your hands above the belt. It was better for you that way. It gave you a sense of separation from what was real and what was happening on the phone. And, really, you never really had a particular need to touch yourself while you were handling the calls anyway. 

And yet… Your hand slipped past the elastic hand of your panties, between your thighs where you were already wet and needy from just your own imagination. You gasped into the phone, bucking your hips into your own touch. 

Steve made a choked sound, crackly through the phone’s speakers. He knew exactly what you were doing. 

“Getting all worked up thinking about it, huh?” He asked, and you could hear a slight rustling and movement as he got himself undressed. It was honestly puzzling that it took that long, or that he didn’t call already ready to go. “Sound so pretty.”

You weren’t even aware that you were making a significant amount of noise, but Steve had keyed into it easily, hanging onto every sigh and whimper. 

In your fantasy, his mouth was absolutely fucking sinful. He would moan against your cunt, nuzzling against your clit with his nose as he lapped up your slick. It was sloppy, and the sounds he made could have made the devil himself blush a burning red. His chin and mouth would drip with the combination of your juices and his spit— his fingernails leaving crescents in your thighs from where he held you tight. 

When he looked up at you from between your thighs, his gaze would be equal parts hungry and sweet. He wanted it to feel good for you because the more you get off, the better it felt for him too. When he felt you getting closer and closer, he moved his fingertip to your entrance, teasing you with featherlight grazes that gathered your essence. He pressed in, just to his first knuckle, and relished in the way you would clench around him at the smallest intrusion before he gave it to you entirely.

Despite the shitty quality of the phone, which was probably your fault, since you had owned it since at least ‘78, you could hear the slick sounds of him stroking himself to your words. And, for once, you relished in that noise across the line. 

You pushed a finger inside of yourself, then a second. Most guys you’d been with got that far then jammed them in and out at a wrist-killing speed until you faked it. Your thing was always just keeping them still, pressing against the sweet spot just barely a few inches inside. Paired with the dizzying pleasure of attention to your clit, the sensation was electric and all-consuming. 

It felt too good to stop, and yet you knew you needed to make it through your fantasy before you came and that precious euphoria rushed over you. Because after the euphoria came that strange sense of disgust, and you couldn’t really afford to spend the rest of the call grossed out by what you were doing. 

“Fuck, anyways,” you began, your breath coming in short pants. “He— you— would take off your shorts.” Stupid, tiny, tight shorts. “And, fuck, you’d already be so hard and needy. You just wanted me so bad. You would press me against the shelf and when you push into me it’d be so easy and slick and I’d feel so full.”

Your cunt pulsed around your fingers, so close to the edge that you could almost swear you were already over it. The precipice was so nice you almost didn’t mind waiting for it. You would hear Steve fucking his hand, pretty moans and grunts passing his lips as he brought himself closer. It wasn’t really fair to leave either one of you hanging much longer. 

“You’d kiss me. And it would be a little messy, but we wouldn’t care. You’d taste good, and you’d feel good. Fuck, Steve. I need to cum so bad.”

He panted into the phone and you practically mewled. God, he sounded so much better than the gross old men you usually had to deal with. “Fuck, I’m right here with you,” he managed, his voice breathy and desperate. “Let me hear you.”

Your ears rang as you came, making the world go a bit fuzzy. Distantly, you could hear how pretty Steve sounded as he came. Honestly, you’d never been one to relish in that type of thing— most guys you’d hooked up with kind of grossed you out. But, god, you’d give anything to watch him get off. Your chest heaved, rising and falling with a shiny sheen of sweat.

“So…” Steve began, sounding a little more languid and a lot more blissed out. There was a sweet, carefree quality to his voice. “Your fantasy is having sex at work?”

You rolled your eyes and fought a grin. “Hey, I didn’t judge your hot, sweaty poolside fuck session.”

”That was about making love,” He insisted. Your heart stuttered a bit. You had to admit that was sweet. “And I’m not knocking your fantasy— I just can’t even imagine someone wanting to have sex with me in my uniform.”

You grinned. “Aw, you have a uniform? I bet you look really sexy in it.”

He huffed, an annoyed groan escaping his lips. “No, I hate my uniform and I’m counting the days until I can rip it off and throw it in, like, a bonfire.”

“I can help with the ripping it off part, y’know,” you teased. 

“No,” he said firmly. “No, we’re not going there, because, one, I came so much I can’t even think about getting hard again or my dick will hurt, and two, if I start having workplace fantasies about you and my uniform I’ll get hard on the job and end up on a registry somewhere.”

“Alright, alright,” you said with a laugh. “I had fun tonight, Steve. I, uh, don’t really get a lot of people asking what I like. I don’t get anyone asking what I like, actually.”

“Well, what can I say? I’m just a pleaser, I guess.” 

He said his goodnights just before hanging up, promising to call again soon. You didn’t have a clear idea of when soon was. You’d had long-term customers promise a call soon that just dropped off the face of the earth. You laid there listening to the dial tone until it started to hurt your ears, then put the phone back on the receiver.

The bed creaked on its ancient springs as you got up, padding out into the hallway. Outside the big window at the end of the hall, you saw a lamp switch off across the street, making the house go dark. It felt a little comforting to know that boring old Hawkins was awake just like you were. 

In the bathroom, you washed your hands with cotton candy-scented soap and tugged at your misbehaving curls. Maybe you would take up Steve on his hair tips. Before you could think about Steve any longer, your phone rang again. And though part of you wished it would be Steve, you knew that there was such a thing as too soon to be ‘soon.’

There wasn’t really a point in pouting. It was decent money. You answered the phone, put on your fake voice, and got to work. 

Steve called nearly nightly for the next month. If having a backyard school wasn’t proof enough he was loaded, his ability to pay your rates nightly sealed the deal. 

It wasn’t always sexual. Well, to be fair, it was mostly sexual. No matter how much you looked forward to phone sex with Steve, you enjoyed talking to him just as much. You learned about his childhood dog, Walter, and his allegedly prodigy-like swimming skills. He was CPR certified, could say his ABCs in French (and nothing else), and loved the colors red, yellow, and blue.

You told him what you could without giving too much away. That Jenny, obviously, wasn’t your real name. Your favorite color, favorite book, favorite flower. You told him that you were in college, going back in the fall. That you only started doing this gig because textbooks were expensive and you wanted to be able to feed yourself while at school. 

Without meaning to, you started to care about Steve. It was probably stupid, and definitely against everything you thought you stood for. But somehow, he managed to squeeze into the recesses of your brain and set up camp there. Try as you might, you couldn’t get him out of your mind. 

“Alright, little Stevie, that’s your fifth wistful sigh of the day,” Robin said, marking a tally on her palm. It struck him as weird that she was counting, but it wasn’t exactly anything new. “You’ve gotta stop or I might actually start feeling bad for you.”

His chin rested in his hand, and he looked over at her with wide puppy dog eyes. “Can you love someone you’ve never met?”

Robin shrugged. “I dunno. Probably not, why?”

He sighed again, his shoulders sagging. “What if my dream girl isn’t exactly accessible? Like… she’s impossible to find and might not even live in Hawkins. She might live in, like, Indianapolis.”

Robin’s expression— the slight squint of her eyes and downturn to her lips— told him she didn’t particularly care. But the store was dead on a boring Tuesday, so digging into Steve’s life was about the only interesting thing to do on the job. 

“That sucks,” she said slowly. “How do you know this mystery soulmate?”

Steve blanched, picking at his nails as he tried to consider a reasonable excuse. “Uh… Blind setup. Very blind setup.” Robin raised an eyebrow. “I only know her number, nothing else.”

“Name?” Steve shook his head glumly. “Damn. But you think you love this girl?” Steve nodded again, but felt a little dumb. He never did things in half-measures. Never felt things that way either, so it made sense to him, but maybe it was a little crazy. 

He just couldn’t stop thinking about you. He wanted to help you with your bad perm and give you advice about how to take care of it. He wanted to surprise you at your boring job with lunch and flowers. It had been a long time since he’d been this excited about someone. 

A tinny beeping sound made him jolt, nearly slipping on the freshly mopped floor. Finally. He didn’t hesitate to tear off his work shirt, leaving him in the shorts and the white tee shirt he kept beneath it for this very reason— not having to walk out in public in full uniform.

He offered a quick bye to Robin and clocked out as quickly as he could. It had been only a week since Jenny had told him her favorite book, and he’d been saving up tips to pay for a copy at Waldenbooks. 

There was a girl behind the counter with a messy ponytail that had half-fallen-out, music blaring from her headphones. It must’ve been a mixtape because it went from some Hall and Oates song to an older Queen one. A little disjointed, but not in bad taste. She was completely immersed in the novel in her hand, so much so that she didn’t notice his presence.

“Excuse me?” He asked, putting on a winning smile. 

“What?” The girl in front of him blinked in surprise and tugged the headphones down around her neck. The music continued— saxophone and a dance beat. Staying Power. He liked that one. Once she’d paused it abruptly, she looked at him again, and he saw a glint of something in her eyes, like she recognized him.

“I’m looking for this book—“ He withdrew a piece of paper from his pocket, where he had scribbled the title down as Jenny told him about it. “Do you know if it’s in stock?”

She looked at the note, then chewed on her lip anxiously. “Mhmm.” She watched him again, like she was expecting something. It took a moment, but it clicked. 

She’s the girl who bumped into him outside a month ago and said weird stuff! “Oh! You were right, I guess. About seeing me around.” He squinted, reading her name tag aloud. 

“Hm?” She blinked a few times, like she was taken out of a daydream. “Oh. Yeah, sorry about all of that. I just had a long day and my brain was fried.”

He nodded. “I get that,” he replied. “Next thing I know I’ll wake up from scooping ice cream in my sleep.” She laughed at that, a smile splitting across her features. “I’m Steve, by the way.”

Her expression faltered, just the tiniest bit. Almost enough that he wouldn’t notice, especially since she corrected it just as quickly. “I’ll go grab that book for you, ‘Kay? Just… stay here.”

She disappeared into the shelves, leaving him standing awkwardly at the counter. The store was oddly empty— he would’ve at least expected some nerdy kids like Dustin to be rooting around. When she returned, she seemed more nervous than before.

“Here, just take it—“ She said, shoving a beat-up-looking copy at him. His brows furrowed as he looked down at the copy in his hands. The cover was bent and torn in places. Corners of pages were dog eared, sticky note tabs stuck out from pages, and he could see glimpses of pen and highlighter. Noticing his confusion, she elaborated. “We’re out, but I had an old copy in my bag. I’ve already read it, so you can borrow it.”

He furrowed his brows. “Is that, like… allowed?”

“Probably!” She said with a startling lack of confidence. She swallowed, giving him an awkward smile. “Just bring it back when you’re done.”

He hesitated. “Uh… okay. Thanks.” He turned to walk away when she called out after him. 

 “Bye, Steve.” 

He wondered why that sounded so familiar. 

Fuck. 

“I mean… what are the odds?” You spoke aloud as you paced your room. When your reflection caught your attention, you felt, and looked, like a madwoman. “It’s not him. It’s not him, and I’m not going to worry about it.”

Five minutes later, you sat up in bed, unable to focus on the book you were reading. It was going to keep bothering you unless you did at least a little digging. But, Jesus, where did you even start with something like this?

“Hey, Rhonda?” You called, popping your head out of your room. “Do you remember any hot underclassmen named Steve from high school?”

Rhonda Finley was the prettiest girl from the class of ‘83. And it wasn’t an exaggeration either, seeing as she was voted Most Beautiful and Miss Hawkins within the same school year. The fact that you were even friends felt like a strange coincidence, but there you both were regardless. 

She carried all of her yearbooks into your room, settling onto the fluffy rug beside your bed. 

“You said his name is Steve?” She asked from her spot on the floor. She flipped through the old yearbook with reverence— pausing to look at photos of herself on other pages. “Steve… stevestevesteve. What about Stephen Cranston? He did the morning announcements, he was decent.”

You glanced at his picture briefly and shook your head. “No, not him,” you replied. “He’s cuter. Uh… boyish is a good word to describe him. Sharp nose and warm eyes.”

Rhonda snorted, flipping another page. “Okay, Shakespeare.” 

You chewed on your lip, watching her tab through until you made a squeak of recognition. The faintest glimpse of a younger Steve in a picture of a home economics class. “Ronnie, flip back,” you said, tapping her shoulder insistently. She did as you said and you pointed. “That’s him. Younger, but it’s him.”

She squinted, reading the small caption. “Sophomore Steve Harrington cooks up trouble in Mrs. Destefano’s Home Ec class!’” She laughed and flipped until she found the sophomore class portraits. “Yep. Steven Harrington.”

You sat back on your heels. “Huh.”

She closed the yearbook and glanced back at you. “I think I went to a pool party of his once,” Ronnie said, brows furrowed as she tried to find the memory. “He was friends with that freckle-y kid that my asshole ex was friends with. God, that was the night when we got into that screaming match and we broke up for like a month before he was begging for another chance.”

Pool party? You felt a knot in your stomach that you weren’t even sure you could have untangled at that point. Was it even possible that your mystery cute phone guy was the unbelievably attractive ice cream scooper at the mall?

No chance. You weren’t that lucky. And yet… maybe a seed of hope took root in your chest. And maybe… maybe you could get him to spill enough details to prove it. 

——

Steve called you around midnight. Your heart leapt into your throat as you answered, thrumming and threatening to burst from nerves. 

“Hey.” His voice was soft, a little tired. “I, uh, thought about you today.”

You could picture him so clearly— his soft hair, long legs, boyish charm. “Hope I wasn’t too distracting. Were you working today? What do you do?” You dug a little deeper with the question, trying to suss out any information you could. 

“Yeah,” he replied with a sigh. “I work in food service at a mall I live near. It’s nothing to write home about, I guess, but it’s temporary until I start applying for the spring semester.”

Okay, so there’s no doubt about it anymore. It was Steve Harrington, the hot ice cream scooper in the sailor suit, who was calling your line every night. The same Steve Harrington who you’d bumped into twice after your shift. 

You tried to push that aside and focus on the reason for the call. 

“So I was a welcome distraction, then?”

He laughed. “I can’t imagine a world where you aren’t.” He paused. “Did you, uh… think about me?”

The hope in his voice made your heart swell. “Of course I thought about you, baby. You’re my favorite caller.” You paused, debating your next move. “I’ve been thinking about getting you all needy and desperate for me all day. About hearing your pretty sounds.”

He fucking whimpered. “I’ve spent the entire night hard just waiting to call you.” You could hear him shuffle around on the other end of the call, presumably stripping off his remaining layers. “Didn’t want to be too desperate and call too fast.”

“Poor baby,” you cooed. “Can you do something for me? It’ll feel so good, I promise.”

“Mhmm.”

“Grab a pillow and lay on your stomach for me,” you instructed. Without hesitation, you could hear the staticky sound of movement on his end as he shifted. “This might sound weird, but—“

“You want me to… to like—“ he stammered nervously. “Hump it?”

You blanched, wondering if your perverse fantasies of the hot mall guy getting off had perhaps pushed him a bit too far. “I mean…. Only if you’re into it. We can do something else.”

“No,” he said quickly. “No, I’ve… I mean— I’ve done it before.”

Oh. Butterflies buzzed around your tummy as you let yourself indulge in the mental image. “Yeah? Did it feel good?”

“Mhmm,” he hummed. You could hear rustling on the phone, like he was trying to situate himself comfortably. “Just made a mess is all.”

Fucking hell. “You gonna make a mess for me tonight, then?” You asked, twirling the phone cord around your finger. He moaned in response, and you grinned. “Aw, did you already get started, sweetheart?”

He moaned out a confirmation and you grinned, letting your free hand trail down your belly and beneath the waistband of your panties. “You already sound so pretty, Steve. So good for me, doing exactly what I say.”

The breathy sounds of his pants and moans made slickness gather between your thighs. Sounded like he hadn’t been lying about being hard and desperate all night just anticipating the call. “We’re not gonna talk tonight, we’re just gonna listen to each other,” you told him. 

Maybe it was unfair to him that you had the perfect mental image of him in your head since you already knew what he looked like. You relished in that knowledge as you coated your fingers in your wetness and rubbed small circles around your clit. 

Steve was loud, which made you wonder if his neighbors hated him. If you had to live next door to Steve Harrington and his pornstar moans, you’d probably go crazy. You were going crazy just from being on the other end of the phone. You were louder than usual too— it was a miracle that Rhonda worked nights.

It wasn’t long before you both finished— gasping and moaning into the phone’s receiver. You sighed as you laid back against your pillows, completely sated and content as you listened to Steve’s shaky breaths. 

“How’re you feeling?” You asked, fighting the desire to twirl your hair around your fingers. 

“Good,” he said finally. “Gonna have to do laundry, wash my sheets. I probably needed to anyway.” He paused. “I picked up a copy of that book you were talking about. It’s actually funny, ‘cause they were out of copies apparently, but the girl behind the counter let me have hers. Like it was meant to be, or something.”

Your heart hammered. “That’s really sweet, Steve,” you said softly. “I’m sorry in advance if you hate it.”

“I won’t!” He insisted. “I read the first couple of pages while I waited to call. I’m not the best reader, though. Might take me a while to finish it, but I do like it so far.”

You were partially convinced that you were in love with Steve Harrington, despite the fact that he wouldn’t even recognize you on the street. “This might be… I mean, maybe it’s crossing a line, and I could totally get fired for even suggesting… but—“ You hesitated. Fuck it. “I want to give you my personal line. So you don’t have to pay to talk to me. It’s not fair if we’re both enjoying the conversations but only one of us is paying, you know?”

He was quiet, almost too quiet. Nerves stirred in your belly. “Is that… you know, okay?”

“Yeah, I’d like that,” he said quickly. “Let me just grab a pen.”

You couldn’t help but stare longingly down into the atrium of the mall, where Steve Harrington was sweeping crumbs off of one of the booths inside Scoops Ahoy.

“Hello?” A kid snapped his fingers a few times and you swallowed down your annoyance as you turned. “We called earlier about Ender’s Game. The guy on the phone said he’d hold three copies. It’s under Mike.”

You glanced behind you, where the books clearly weren’t. Fuck Greg for making your menial job even worse. “It must’ve slipped his mind. I can grab those for you.” The kid made a bitchy face as you stepped away from the counter and you bit your tongue to keep from saying something rude. Fucking latchkey kids.

When you returned with three copies of the book, you looked at the kids skeptically. “By the way, if you stole any of the pencils or bookmarks, my boss is going to take it out of my paycheck and I won’t be able to feed my kids.”

“It costs thirty cents to feed your kids?”

You sighed and rang them up, but they continued to loiter in the shelves while you pretended to be busy. 

“There’s nothing to do,” one of them said after picking up a copy of Sports Illustrated briefly. “We should just go back to my house and play Atari.”

A red-haired girl rolled her eyes. “Lucas, we’re not playing Pong again.” She paused and glanced down towards the food court. “We could go see Steve.”

It took all your willpower not to react. 

“Why do you always want to go see Steve?” Lucas asked. “It’s not like you have a boyfriend or anything.”

“She just wants to see him because she’s got some weird crush on him,” the bitchy one said. Mike? The red-haired girl blushed nearly as fiery as her hair and shoved Mike hard. “What? We all know it. You and El are always drooling over him. It’s weird.”

“He’s nice, okay? Way nicer than you are, asshole.” She shoved past the group and left on her own, leaving the other two guys to scramble after her. One kid was left behind, the one with the unfortunate bowl cut. He offered a wave before he followed after them. 

When they got downstairs, you watched him greet the redhead with a smile and a ruffle of her hair. Lucas and the bowl-cut kid got a slap on the back, and the bitchy one got a half-smile that wasn’t returned. 

Then he shelled out free ice cream, which was evident because none of them made a move to pay. 

After they left, you watched him reach into his own wallet and cover the cost, placing the bills carefully into the cash register. 

The rest of your shift was spent fawning over Steve and flipping through issues of the magazines you had on display. You felt idiotic gazing at Steve Harrington with puppy dog eyes while reading Top Ten Ways to Know if He’s Really Into You! Of course he wasn’t into you— he didn’t even know who you were, not really. 

Around two in the afternoon, you were snapped out of your reverie by the sight of Steve walking through the threshold of the shop, looking around the shop before his gaze settled on you and lit up in recognition. 

“Hi!” He said, nearly knocking over a carefully displayed unofficial biography of Reagan on his way over. You smiled, straightening your posture as he approached. “I wanted to thank you for the book.”

Your heart thumped. “Oh, you don’t need to thank me,” you insisted. “I just wanted to help.”

He reached into the pocket of his uniform and pulled out two coupons to Scoops Ahoy with a flourish. They advertised free ice cream in the nautical scrawl. “Does this change your mind?” He raised his brows and smiled smugly. 

You rolled your eyes and grabbed them, reading the fine print. Valid only at the Starcourt Mall location on weekdays between 8am and 11am. Offer not valid in conjunction with any other deals. Offer excludes banana splits, sundaes, and the U.S.S. Butterscotch.

“Maybe,” you replied. “Is free ice cream your thing or something? I saw you give that group of kids free sundaes earlier.”

He furrowed his brows, considering it, then grinned. “Are you watching me?”

Fuck. You spluttered, shaking your head as you fumbled through a response. “No. They were here first, then talked about going to see you, and then I just…” He laughed and leaned over the desk slightly, as if testing the view. 

“Oh, yeah. Perfect view from here.”

You rolled your eyes, trying to fight the heat burning in your cheeks. “So you come here to thank me with shitty coupons, and then you accuse me of spying on you?”

He shook his head as he leaned back. “Hey, it’s not accusing you if it’s true.” He was so smug. “Anyway, I’ll get out of your hair. See you around?” He looked at you expectantly until you nodded, face burning hot. He smiled, shoved his hands into his pockets, and walked out casually like he hadn’t just totally caught you creeping on him. 

God, you were going to make him pay for that later. 

——

Steve paced around his room as he tried to gain the courage to call you. He would have liked to say that he needed to get your number from his Rolodex, but he’d memorized it nearly the moment he put it down on paper. 

He was thinking of you, but he was also thinking about the girl from the mall who seemed to keep popping up. There was something about her, the way he was drawn to her, the way she spoke, the way she looked at him. It was all so familiar and easy, like they’d known each other forever. 

He didn’t know how to feel about that. 

Finally, he settled on his bed, dressed only in a thin white tank top and boxers that were a size too big since he stopped working out as much. With nerves buzzing in his ears, he dialed your number and waited. 

And waited. And waited. He swallowed hard, wondering if you’d given him a fake number just to be rid of him. The number went to the answering machine, and his mouth went dry. 

“Hi! You’ve reached Y/N Y/L/N. I’m out right now, but leave your name and number at the beep and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can!” A beep sounded and Steve hung up suddenly. His stomach sank. 

He wasn’t supposed to know your real name like that. It felt like some gross intrusion. And yet, he repeated it over and over again in his mind. Why did it seem so familiar?

On his nightstand, the beat up paperback he had borrowed stood out like a sore thumb. Oh. The book, the same book you, Jenny, had told him about. And the girl who worked there… Y/N. 

It was too much, far too much to be a coincidence. He grabbed the book and opened it to look at the inside cover, where your name, Jenny’s name was scrawled inside. Because you and Jenny were the same person. 

Every single conversation leading up to that point played over in his mind. The messy perm, the shitty job with the ugly polo, the fantasy about being pushed against the shelves and fucked. Oh, God. And you were totally spying on him. 

It should’ve been an absolute win for him, but his stomach turned as he glanced over at the phone on the receiver. You were gorgeous and funny and smart and so sexy. Why would you want to be with someone who needed to call a sex hotline?

He could just picture the look on your face when you discovered that the guy who worked in the stupid uniform at Scoops was so pathetic that he needed to call someone to get attention. 

He swallowed hard, guilt and doubt settling icy in his stomach. He put the book down, and didn’t call back.

——

Steve was sulking during his shift. Probably biting the heads off of a few too many kids who asked for a few too many samples. 

“Jesus, how many times do you need to try cotton candy?” He snapped as he dug out a tiny spoonful of the pink and blue ice cream. The kid furrowed his brows up at him, puzzled by the sudden outburst. 

“Uh, can I try Cherries Jubilee next?” He asked hesitantly. 

Steve exhaled slowly through his nose. “No, you’re done. Out.”

The kid rolled his eyes, swore under his breath, and stomped out of Scoops Ahoy. 

Robin was staring at him funny when he turned around, a mix of curiosity and amusement. “You’re totally PMSing today.”

He couldn’t manage more than a scowl in response. “Shut up.”

Robin laughed and tossed a cherry at him, which he managed to catch before it splattered against the glass of the ice cream case. He hated maraschino cherries— the artificial sweetness and unnatural color. But, hey, he could tie a cherry stem into a knot with his tongue.

He hadn’t called you for three days, which felt like the longest stretch of time in his life. And he hadn’t even seen you around Starcourt, which was both a good thing and absolutely unbearable. 

Part of him wanted to just jump on the escalator and see if you were sitting behind the counter at Waldenbooks, but he knew it was better to just have a clean break. Maybe in a few months, you’d forget about that Steve guy who’d called you and he could make his move then.

The shift change hit around lunchtime, and Steve prepared for the influx of people who were getting off work on empty stomachs. As he suspected, the line stretched out the door and he was practically up to his elbows in ice cream, mindlessly scooping flavor combinations that should’ve been illegal. Until—

“Hey, Steve,” you said, standing in front of him in your ugly work polo with messy hair half-fallen out of your ponytail. “Staying busy?”

He stammered nervously and mumbled out an unintelligible response. “Ice cream?” Was all that he could manage to ask, which made him want to throw himself into the fountain right in the middle of the food court. 

But you just smiled. “A shake, actually. Chocolate banana if that’s possible.” He nodded and got to work, thankful for the distraction. Your eyes followed his every movement as he made your shake, but he couldn’t let himself look at you.

Because if he did really look at you, all he’d be able to think about were the phone calls you’d had— the calls where he’d heard you cum with breathy gasps and pants and soft whimpers. And— Jesus Christ— he was thinking about it and it made him feel dizzy. 

He used a little bit too much whipped cream and put rainbow sprinkles on top for God knows why, but he handed it to you with a weak smile. 

“Three bucks, right?” You asked, nodding to the menu.

“Uh, you can just have it,” he said without even thinking. “On the house.”

You furrowed your brows for a moment,  but smiled brightly. “Really? Thanks, Steve. I appreciate it.” You took a sip and gave a soft moan at the flavor that made a full-body chill run through him. “See you around?”

“Yeah. See you.” You gave a small wave before you disappeared into the food court. He watched you the whole way, like you were the only person in the room.

Fuck. He was hard. Like, rock hard and the stupid apron on the uniform only made it more obvious. He’d fucking pavloved himself to get turned on just by your voice. 

“Robin, I’m taking my fifteen,” he said, darting into the back before she could protest. He stepped inside the walk-in freezer and propped the door with a crate of waffle cones. After about five minutes, he felt like he could actually think again.

“Fuck,” He muttered under his breath. He had to call you again.

You were sincerely considering quitting the hotline. After Steve, just listening to the other guys panting and blowing their loads on the phone was nauseating. They didn’t care to learn more about you, not the way he did. They just wanted to get their rocks off to an anonymous, sexy voice. 

Then again, Steve had disappeared too. Maybe giving him your real number had crossed a line. Maybe it freaked him out that you were taking it beyond a transaction. You sighed and wrapped yourself tighter in your house coat. Rhonda always kept the AC on overdrive in the summer, which meant you needed at least two blankets to be comfortable. 

When the phone rang, you picked it up without thinking, half expecting it to be Rhonda calling you to check in during her break. 

“Hey,” you said absentmindedly, leaning back against your pillows. 

“This is, uh— this is the right number, right? It’s Steve.”

Your heart nearly burst out of your chest at the sound of his voice. “Hey, yeah, it’s the right number,” you assured. You wriggled out of your housecoat and tossed it to the side so you could get more comfortable. “How are you? It’s been a few days.”

He sighed. “Yeah, I, uh,” he paused. “I think I psyched myself out of calling you.”

“Oh,” you said softly. “Well, I’m glad you did call. I really missed you.”

“You did?”

You laughed, letting yourself get more comfortable. “Mhmm,” you replied. “I mean, we’ve been talking everyday for a while, you know?”

“I missed you too, couldn’t stop thinking about you, even at work.” You smiled, remembering how absentminded he had seemed when you showed up in the ice cream parlor. And he was thinking about you. Not you, but still you. “I— uh— had to walk into our deep freezer to cool myself off.”

“How long has it been for you?” You asked suddenly. “Like, since you’ve had sex.”

Steve chuckled nervously. “I dunno… two months?” He paused. “Is that lame?”

“Nuh-uh, baby,” you assured. “Think it’s sweet. No wonder you’re all needy all the time. You need a nice, tight, wet pussy to sink into, hm?”

A low moan escaped his lips. “God—“

“Better than your hand, isn’t it?” You teased. “I bet you’re so desperate that you’ve been touching yourself this whole time, even before you called me. Isn’t that right?”

The closest thing you got in response was another pretty moan. “You’re big too, aren’t you?” You mused aloud, not even waiting for a response. “I know you are, you’ve basically told me in not so many words. Most girls can’t handle that, baby. It’s not your fault. That’s okay, we could take it slow, you could get me all nice and stretched for you, take your time like the gentleman you are.”

“Fuck— fuck—“ His words came out choked and desperate. You could almost picture it— the way he’d be fucking up into his hand, needing more and more.

“I bet you always have to take it real slow, huh? Gotta be careful so you don’t hurt someone. But that just means you can feel everything better, doesn’t it? Inch by inch by inch, every flutter and squeeze. And you can see on their faces how good it feels, can’t you? You can watch their eyes roll back and their mouths fall open while they cry out for you. I mean, Jesus, Steve, I bet most girls come before you’re even all the way inside.”

His hand sped up, desperate and needy, just as you’d said. You could hear it with each wet slap of skin against skin. His moans were constant, a stream of yesahgodfuckohshitahyesahfuckfuckfuck— until the prettiest moan escaped his lips, all low and deep, and you knew he’d made a pretty mess of himself. 

“Bet that felt really nice,” you said while he panted on the other end of the line. 

He made a weak noise, then finally managed a, “Uh-huh. Fuck.”

You laughed softly. “That’s gotta be the fastest I’ve gotten you off,” you said finally. “I like having that much power over you. It turns me on so much.”

He groaned. “Fuck, give me five— no— ten minutes. I can barely breathe right now.”

You grinned, relishing in your ability to torture him a bit after he’d teased you at work. Unknowingly, of course, but still. “I dunno if I can wait that long, Steve… I’m so wet that my thighs are all sticky.”

“God, you’re killing me.”

You couldn’t help but laugh at his dramatics. “Why don’t you lay there and listen to me? Be good and keep your hands off, alright? You already came, so don’t get greedy.”

He made a nearly pained noise. “Fine. Fine.”

A smirk spread across your lips as you let your hand move between your thighs. Really, you weren’t exaggerating that much— you found yourself slick and needy when you finally slid your panties down your thighs. Actually, you thought you’d probably have to be a statue to hear Steve Harrington panting and cumming over the phone and stay unaffected.

You could hear his breath catch with every soft moan and whimper, and maybe you got mean and held the phone near your tummy, so he could hear just how wet and messy you’d gotten as you steadily fucked yourself with your fingers. When you got desperate enough, you held the phone against your ear once more. 

“I dunno, Steve… I don’t think my fingers can cut it,” you said, exaggerating the pouty tone of your voice. “I wish you were here to take care of me.”

He groaned, low and muffled. You had a feeling he’d thrown an arm over his face. “You’re so unfair.”

A smile spread across your lips at his words. “No, baby. What’s unfair is that I’m laying here all alone, feeling so empty and needy, and you’re not here to make it all better.” You reached into your nightstand, pulling out the dildo you’d bought for your twentieth birthday. “‘S okay, I can take care of myself just fine. You ever been to a sex shop?”

It got quiet on the line, and you could nearly hear the gears turning. 

“N-no.”

You raised a brow. “Really? But you know what they sell, don’t you?” You paused until he hummed a soft uh-huh. “It’s only fair that I get to use a toy to fill myself up since you can’t do it for me, right?”

“Y-yeah, wanna hear you do it.”

You grinned. “Patience, baby. Gotta get it wet first so it glides in nice and easy.”

Blowing a rubber dick wasn’t how you’d envisioned ending your day, but— what can you say?— spontaneity is the spice of life. You made sure he heard every wet pass of it between your lips, every exaggerated gag as you took it into your throat, the messy smack of your lips. It tasted like a tire and dish soap, but the desperate, restrained sounds he was making made it all worth it. 

Your eyes were watery when you finally pulled the toy from your mouth, certain you’d adequately worked him up for the time being. Plus, you were worked up just as much, if not more— you wanted to just fuck yourself into oblivion already. 

Instinctively, your thighs fell farther apart as you moved the toy between your legs. You let the tip tease your entrance, only a little, before you began to push it inside. A soft moan fell from your lips as you finally got the nice, full feeling you’d been dreaming of. 

You laid there for a moment, letting your body adjust to it, reveling in it. With your free hand, you slowly circled your clit until your cunt fluttered around the intrusion. 

“Feels so nice,” you sighed, lips brushing against the mouthpiece of the phone. You felt drunk and hazy with desire. “Like I’m so close already that I can taste it.”

“Make yourself come for me,” he practically begged. “Wanna hear it.”

You moaned at his words, but shook your head. “Can’t yet. I wanna make this last.”

Time felt a little hazy as you kept working the toy in and out, slow and deep. Occasionally, you’d brush against your clit just right, or the toy would find a nice spot inside of you, and your entire body would tremble with need. 

Steve’s breath came in pants over the phone, but you couldn’t tell if he had broken and actually started to touch himself. You kind of hoped he did, even if you wouldn’t say it. 

Eventually, you came without warning— the build-up of it all made it impossible to avoid. Once you started over that edge, you couldn’t crawl back even if you’d wanted to. Moans fell from your lips as you succumbed to your orgasm; every nerve was like a live wire. When it finally came to be too much, you slipped the toy out and relaxed onto your bed with a contented sigh. 

“Are you still alive?” You asked, quiet crackling over the phone. 

“Uh… yeah,” he replied, a little distracted. “Have you ever come without having to touch yourself?”

You laughed softly. “Once. I read in Cosmo that some girls can get off just from playing with their tits. Took a while, but I eventually got there. Why?”

“I just, uh… listening to you, all the noises and hearing how wet you were… I guess that was all it took.” He sounded so embarrassed, but it was the cutest fucking thing you’d ever heard. You could imagine it so clearly, his cock pulsing against his twitching stomach, cum making puddles around his navel. 

“That’s the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard,” you said with a smile. “You’re probably exhausted, huh?”

He laughed a bit. “A little, but I can stay up and talk, if you’re free.”

Ever the gentleman, Steve stayed up another hour to talk about whatever you could think of to keep the conversation running. The new collection at The Gap, whether or not he planned to see Back to the Future, his favorite music got him talking for half an hour at least. Finally, you were yawning and beat. 

“Steve, baby, I should go to sleep,” you said, almost apologetically. 

“That’s okay. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

You froze, brows furrowing. “What?”

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he repeated, sleepily. “At the mall.”

“Um… night,” you said quickly, panicking slightly as you hung up the phone.

Steve had mopped the same spot on the floor five times during his shift, all while sparing fleeting glances towards Waldenbooks, where you were immersed in a magazine or a book. Always doing anything but looking down at him. 

Which was good… maybe? He couldn’t quite decide.

He hadn’t been thinking when he said that on the phone. But he was sleepy, and his brain was a little foggy, and then he’d gone and doubled down. 

As soon as he hung up the phone, he remembered that he had given his real name, and you knew he worked in food service, and you knew he wore a stupid uniform. That narrowed it down really easily. 

So he spent his shift in a constant state of dread and panic, waiting for the other shoe to drop. 

By the time the mall was closing, he had occupied himself with wiping down tables. He let Robin head home and pulled out his Walkman to keep him company. Since working at Starcourt, he made a pretty sick collection of tapes that wound up in the lost and found. This one was a metal mix, which typically wasn’t his thing, but was growing on him. 

He didn’t realize you were standing over him until you rapped twice on the table, drawing his eyes up, up, up until they were locked with yours. He scrambled to pause the tape and stand up, adjusting his stupid uniform as an embarrassed blush grew on his cheeks. 

“Hi,” you greeted. Your Waldenbooks vest hung loosely on your form, right on top of a pink polo. 

“Hi,” he echoed. It was quiet for a second, as he tried to think of what to say, and as you scrambled for the words you’d been practicing all day. “I’ve known it was you for a while.” The words escaped him before he could stop himself, and then he just stared at you, completely mortified. 

You laughed, covering your face for a moment as heat flooded your cheeks. “You knew? I didn’t even— I mean, I didn’t realize. Because I knew it was you calling. For a while, actually. 

He grinned, leaning forward. “So… the guy you said you wanted to… against the shelves…?” When you ducked your head and looked away, he smiled like the cat who got the cream. “No way. You were totally perving on me, even before!”

“You had to walk into a deep freezer to cool off because you were thinking about me, perv.” He laughed, and you wanted to kiss him so badly it freaked you out a little. “So… What do we do now? I mean, now that you know who I am, and I know who you are, and we’re going to keep running into each other.”

Your poor cuticles were going through the wringer— red and stinging where you picked at them due to nerves. There was nothing you wanted more than for him to just sweep you into his arms like some kind of fairytale and promise his undying devotion. Or just say he wanted to date you. Whichever.

“I could take you on a date,” he said sheepishly, scratching at the back of his neck. “I mean, if your type is total pervs who spend most of the week in sailor uniforms.”

Oh, you had plans for that sailor uniform. You stepped forward and planted a kiss on his cheek. “I think you just might be in luck.” He turned his head, just slightly, so he could capture your mouth with his. 

The kiss was sweet, at first. Slow brushes of his lips against yours. They tasted sweet, like he’d been wearing lip smackers or something. Or maybe he’d been sneaking samples of the ice cream. He pulled you closer and you gasped, offering him the perfect opportunity to slip his tongue into your mouth. You moaned softly at the feeling of your tongue licking against his. 

He picked you up easily, sitting you down on the table he should’ve been cleaning. Your legs wrapped around his waist, your arms around his neck. It was easy to lose yourself in the hungry, desperate way Steve kissed. You could’ve stayed right there in the middle of Scoops making out with him until the mall opened in the morning, and still not have found the motivation to stop. 

A bright light startled you back into reality, shining directly in your faces. You and Steve squinted in the general direction, as Starcourt security stomped your way. 

“Hey! Get the fuck home,” He shouted, with equal amounts of exasperation and annoyance. He clicked off the flashlight and walked away with a huff and an eye roll, leaving you and Steve alone.

Steve’s cheeks were flushed pink with embarrassment as he stepped back, but he still wore a dopey grin on his lips. You hopped off the table and adjusted your skirt with a light laugh. 

“That was nice,” You said as you tucked a loose curl behind your ear. “I should leave you to it, I guess. Before we both end up in mall jail.” 

He shook his head quickly. “No! I mean, you could hang out here until I’m done. I just have a few more tables to clean and chairs to stack, if you want to—” He trailed off, looking at you expectantly. 

A sly grin spread across your features. “What? Are you trying to go home with me or something?” He stammered nervously, that same, cute blush growing on his cheeks. Before he could say anything, you took a step closer and peered up at him. “Because if you are, I might tell you that my roommate works nights at Hawkins General, and we’d have it conveniently all to ourselves.”

He swallowed, then nodded. “Yeah, that’s what I’m trying to do.”

You sat in the booth nearest to the entrance of the parlor, flipping through a magazine you’d grabbed from work. Occasionally, you’d sneak tiny peeks of Steve bent over a table to wipe it down, uniform stretched tight over his ass, and grin behind the pages. 

He got everything locked up in what he claimed was record time, flashing a smile as he closed up shop behind the two of you.

”Do you work tomorrow?” You asked, as casually as possible as the two of you approached your cars in the employee lot. 

“Yep. Afternoon shift,” he explained.

“I’ll drive you. We’ll carpool tonight.”

The car ride was relatively tame, a few stolen glances at stoplights at most. When you brought him inside the house, your phone was ringing off the hook. You apologized and ushered him into your room, where, true enough, the spare phone you used for the hotline was ringing nonstop. 

“Sorry, let me just…” You grabbed the phone and hung it up once, before taking it off the receiver completely. “There. No interruptions.”

Steve grinned, surveying your room carefully. The set of pom-poms from high school on a shelf, a stack of Cosmopolitan magazines, the chair full of your laundry— fuck, you should’ve definitely taken a moment to speed clean before letting him inside. 

“So… what do you say we pick up where we left off?” You stood on your tiptoes and pecked his lips chastely before guiding him towards your bed. As soon as he sat down, you wasted no time in crawling into his lap and kissing him with all of the pent-up frustration of weeks of phone calls. 

You kissed him for so long you’d have to come up panting for air, before diving right back in. His hands— Jesus, you’d never noticed how big his hands were— were splayed out over your hips at first, but had moved down to grab your ass, encouraging each movement as you rocked against him. 

Without breaking the kiss, you shrugged off your work vest, so it fell into a heap over the side of your bed. He pulled back, chest heaving slightly as he caught his breath. His lips were swollen from use and spit-slick. His eyes moved from the vest on the ground, then back to your eyes. A tiny laugh escaped you before you pulled off your top, then your bra. 

“This still okay?” You asked, as you stood briefly and tugged down your denim skirt. The sound of your voice felt almost foreign in the quiet room, while he took in the sight of you in nothing but a pair of panties.

“God, more than okay,” he assured, before pulling you onto his lap for another heated kiss. This kiss was needier— you could feel it in the hungry way he licked into your mouth, and the feel of him hard beneath you. Tiny gasps pushed past your lips as you rocked against him just right. 

He moved his hands from you only to pull off his work shirt, and the white shirt he wore beneath it. Your hands immediately went to his chest, running through the chest hair he’d hidden beneath the uniform. How the fuck did he manage to walk out of his house without being immediately pounced on by every woman in a five-mile radius?

 He placed one final kiss on your lips before pulling back and meeting your gaze. As earnestly as you’d ever, he asked, “Can I go down on you?”

Yes. Fuck, yes. Oh my god, yes. “Sure, if you want to.”

He smiled wide. “Yeah? Just relax for me, alright?” He shifted the two of you, so you were lying on the bed and he was on top of you. He planted a chaste peck on your nose, and you wrinkled it in reaction. 

You kissed him one, fleetingly, before letting him kiss down your chest and tummy. He parted your thighs and carefully positioned himself between them. You met his gaze and felt your stomach somersault. He leaned in, pressing a kiss to the damp fabric of your panties.,

“Fuck,” he mumbled against you. “You’re soaking for me, huh?” And there was that cocky grin you’d seen at the mall before. You had to lie back and put a hand over your eyes, because if you thought about that fucking smug expression for too long, you’d cum untouched. 

He ran his tongue over the fabric of your panties, tasting you through the saturated satin once, twice before he pulled them down your legs. And he fucking moaned like a man starved at the sight of you. 

Heat burned in your cheeks as you felt him spreading you open, and at the slick, wet sounds of your own arousal. “You’re so pretty.” And then his tongue was on you, lapping up your juices, savoring all of you. 

“O-oh, fuck—“ Your moan came out like a sob as his nose brushed against your clit, making your thighs tremble. He moaned against your cunt, nuzzling deeper like he couldn’t get enough. 

In retrospect, he had brought up how much he loved eating pussy a lot on that first call. Your hips bucked slightly, torn between chasing the feeling and overstimulation. His lips would wrap around your clit and suck softly before he would go back to lapping at you, his tongue parting your folds and teasing your entrance. 

“St-Steve!” You cried out, fingers tangling in his hair. The slightest tug on his locks made him moan against you, which made your toes curl. 

Your moans became pitchy and breathless as he brought you closer and closer to the edge. All of your muscles were wound up tight, itching for release. 

All it took was a little bit of eye contact and you were done for. You sobbed out a moan as he lapped up your release— each lap of his tongue sending electricity up your nerves. When he finally relented, you were shaking with aftershocks and giggling. 

“Something funny?” He asked with a grin as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

You sighed and spared a glance over at him. “I’ve been dreaming of that happening since our first call.” He grinned as you pushed him onto his back and straddled his hips. 

“Did it meet your expectations?” He asked, swallowing nervously as you shifted to accommodate your hand between the two of you. His eyes fluttered shut as your hand slipped beneath his work shorts and boxers to grasp his cock in your hand. 

You gave a slow, experimental stroke of your hand and nodded. “Two thumbs up.”

He swallowed hard as you removed your hand to completely undress him, leaving you both completely naked. You spit into your hand and wrapped it back around his length, holding eye contact as you jerked him off.

There was something so surreal about the entire situation— having him beneath you, warm and pulsing and slick in your hand. Each time your thumb brushed along the head of his cock, he cried out with the prettiest moan.

“W-wait—“ he said quickly, a look of panic in his eyes. You stilled your hand as he looked at you, a pretty blush painting his cheeks. “I’m not gonna last.”

You bit your to keep from grinning like an idiot. “That’s okay,” you said with a smile. You reached into your bedside table and retrieved a condom. “Do you want to, uh, go all the way?” 

He nodded quickly. “Yes. Yes, please.”

You tore open the packet and rolled the condom on. “How’s that feel? Alright?” He gave a dorky thumbs up, which made you laugh. You leaned down to kiss him once more and wondered if you’d ever get tired of that feeling. 

You reached between the two of you and guided his tip through your folds, coating it in your arousal until you grew too needy and lined him up with your entrance. It was a stretch, even though he’d gotten you plenty worked up with his mouth. You sank down slowly, one hand splayed against his chest to keep you steady as you took in inch after inch. 

The sounds that escaped him as you lowered yourself onto him were so pornographic you thought he should be the one working the hotline instead. Desperate panting moans slipped past his full lips as his hands clawed at your hips.

“Fuck,” he moaned, eyes half-lidded as he watched you. “That’s it. You can take it.”

The mouth on him. You moaned softly as you finally settled onto his lap and he was fully sheathed within you. You stayed still, letting your body adjust to and relish in how full you felt. 

“You look so pretty right now,” he said, reaching up to brush a messy hair from your face. You laughed softly as your cheeks warmed, and a funny fluttering in your chest nearly stole your breath.

“Says you,” was all you could manage to say back. You were hyper-aware of the feeling of him within you, of each flutter of your walls around him.

You gave an experimental roll of your hips and his head fell back, against the pillows, exposing the column of his throat. You relished in the way he looked beneath you— debauched and needy. 

It was easy and slow at first. Each time you moved, you would lower yourself back down slowly, letting him savor the feeling of you, warm and wet and needy. He groaned each time you settled back on his lap, eyes hooded with lust as he looked up at you.

You gave a lazy smile as you looked down at him, moaning each time his cock brushed against your sweet spot. “Can I go a little faster?”

He nodded, eager for whatever you could give him. Your nails raked against his chest as you began to ride him in earnest, the back of your thighs slapping against his as you bounced on his cock. 

Your head fell back as you rubbed at your clit with your free hand. Soft moans spilled from your lips as you relished in the culmination of all of your fantasies. Because he was there, splayed out beneath you like a fucking pornstar, and you had him all to yourself. 

His fingers dug into the plush of your hips as he began meeting your thrusts halfway, fucking into the heaven between your thighs. 

Your eyes rolled back as he fucked himself deeper and deeper, stealing your breath with each thrust. “Close,” you practically squeaked out. Red marks stood out against the freckles skin of his chest where you searched desperately for purchase. 

Steve’s hair was stuck to his forehead, tacky from exertion. “Need you to cum for me,” he managed between pretty moans. “Wanna feel you cumming around me.”

You whimpered at his words, riding him harder as your orgasm hit like a tidal wave. A fucked-out moan escaped you as you collapsed against his chest, hips weakly stuttering as Steve continued fucking up into you. With your pussy gripping him like a vise, he could only manage a few good thrusts before he came with a groan. 

You laid there on top of him as you caught your breath, wearing a stupid, giddy smile as he traced mindless shapes onto your back. His face was buried in your neck, where he left sweet, wet kisses. After a while, you slid off of him and sighed, missing the way it felt when he was still buried inside of you. You did your best to clean yourself off with the towel hanging from your bedpost as Steve tied off the condom and tossed it in the bin. 

“We’re not just…” Steve began once you were both comfortable in your bed. He let the words linger for a moment before he shook his head. “Never mind.”

You turned on your side to face him, adjusting your blankets for a bit of modesty. “We’re not just fucking? That’s what you’re asking, right?” He nodded quietly. “It was nice, but no, that’s not all I want.”

He grinned. “Yeah? You wanna be my girlfriend? I totally pulled a cougar.” His stupid grin made you roll your eyes, but you couldn’t keep a matching smile off of yours. 

“You’re so annoying,” you said, not giving him a second to react before your lips were on his again. You pulled back and placed a chaste kiss on his lips. 

In the morning, you woke up in his arms as sunlight crept through the window. You squinted at the sun, then back at him. “Still want me to drive you to work?”

“No way,” he said, muffled against the column of your throat. Soft kisses peppered against your skin, making you giggle and arch into him. “I’m calling in.”

#steve harrington x reader #steve harrington smut #stranger things x reader #stranger things smut #steve harrington fanfic #stranger things fanfic #steve harrington #okayyyy enjoy :)

[gikairan]

Received a letter from the housing association saying the monthly rent I pay is going up

BUT DONT WORRY! They capped it at 7% instead of the 10% they COULD have done (how very generous! 3 whole percent!!!)

.... But they also haven't explained why the service charge is going up from £81 to £131 (: (: (: (:

#suuree you DIDNT raise my rent by 10% #but you sure raised that service charge by far more than that (: (: (: (: #£50!! fifty whole pounds!!!!! #i was considering paying for a tv contract bc im tired of using my parents log in on my ps5 #but haha thats like £30 a month... #this rise all combined is like £80 a month extra... #anyway if anyones wondering why im mentioning rent - i only own 55% of my flat and rent the remaining 45% #because i cant afford anything otherwise (:

[househuntingscotland]

1 bedroom flat for sale on Lorne Street, Kinning Park, Glasgow

Asking price: £95,000

Sold price: £107,000

#3/4 11 #glasgow #G51 1DP #55 sq meter #flat #for sale #scotland #uk property market #sold #sold price