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steddieas-shegoes · 1 year

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Baby formula was expensive, and Eddie knew the fact that half of the container being spilled on the counter would probably cause Steve to have a heart attack.

It was an accident, obviously. He didn’t just decide to dump half of the powdered gold that fed their newborn daughter on the kitchen counter.

And Steve wouldn’t be mad about it. He didn’t get mad about accidents.

But he would definitely spiral about how that was two days’ worth of bottles for Ella and how they had a budget.

Eddie told him many times they were fine. He had more than enough money in savings from the band’s success, and he knew Steve had his own trust fund that he’d guilted his parents into letting him keep as a way to apologize for never being around in his childhood.

Money wasn’t really an issue for them.

But Steve was still careful with it, and Eddie loved that about him.

Other than their house, they’d never made major purchases, and stuck to necessities only with occasional extra spending for birthdays and Christmas for their loved ones.

But after they adopted Ella, Steve turned into a penny pincher. He stocked up on everything from diapers to formula to baby soap any time there was a sale, and refused to buy the “fancy” brand that had the same ingredients and vitamins as the generic store brand.

Eddie loved him.

But he was very worried about Steve finding out about this.

Maybe if he just cleaned it up and then pretended Ella had had a few extra bottles?

No, then he’d panic that her food intake was abnormal and he’d call the pediatrician and Eddie would have to backtrack and then Steve would be mad.

He pulled the trash can in front of the counter, swiping his hand across quickly to get most of it into the trash.

As he moved the trash can back to its usual spot, Steve came around the corner with Ella in his arms, cooing at her.

God, he was born to do this. Eddie was gonna do everything he could to give him the six nuggets he wanted so he could watch him in his element for as long as possible.

“Say hi to Daddy, Ella,” Steve said before looking up at Eddie, who was wiping down the counter furiously.

Not fast enough if Steve’s face was any indication.

“What are you doing?”

Dammit.

“Just cleaning.”

“You’re wiping the counter.”

“Yes.”

“You never do that.”

“I just finished the dishes so I thought I should.”

“You do the dishes all the time and never do that.”

He was so suspicious. Rightfully so.

Eddie knew he was found out, or if he wasn’t quite yet, he would be as soon as Steve saw the trash.

He sighed, letting his head fall down and his chin hit his chest.

“Eds, what is it?”

Steve was walking behind the counter, concern on his face. Concern for Eddie. Concern he didn’t deserve.

“I spilled something, it’s not a big deal.”

“Okay. But you’re being weird about it so it makes me think it is a big deal.”

And then he saw it. He must have, because Eddie watched him freeze in his tracks and stare down at where the trash is.

“Stevie, it’s not a big deal. I’ll go get another can to make up for it.”

“What happened?”

“I was measuring out her nighttime bottle and knocked the can over.”

“That’s a lot of formula.”

“I know.”

And then Steve started laughing.

It startled Ella in his arms and she let out a whimper like she was about to start crying.

Steve handed her to Eddie so he could lean over, hands on his knees, and laugh louder.

“Ella, your dad’s lost it.”

“Sorry,” Steve said as he tried to gasp for air between hysterical laughter. “Just- you were so serious. Why didn’t you just say that?”

Eddie knew he wasn’t seriously asking that.

“Sweetheart, you’re kind of insane about this stuff. In a good way! I love you because you’re a little crazy! But like, that was a lot of formula and it’s wasteful and costs a lot to replace.”

Steve’s face went serious.

“Baby, you don’t think I’d be mad about an accidental spill, do you?”

Oh no, he was hurt.

Eddie hurt his feelings.

“No! No. It’s not that. It’s just you’re so serious about the budget and this would mess it up.”

“It’s just a little. And it’s not like we actually have to live so tight.”

That was suspicious. What the hell did that mean?

Steve wasn’t changing his mind on the budget, was he?

He must’ve done something.

“Oh my god. What did you do?”

“I didn’t do anything.”

“Oh yes you did. Your face is bright red and you look like you committed a felony. I would know what that looks like since we’ve committed at least two together.”

Steve somehow blushed harder.

“It wasn’t a felony.”

“Aha! But it was something!”

The tables turned awful quickly. Eddie didn’t know how, but he’d take it. Anything to get the focus off of him.

Ella was gurgling in his arms, eyes flitting between the two of them like she was watching a tennis match.

“Well, you know how we talked about getting an RV, right? Since we had Ella now and might try to adopt again? Since it’s one of the things I want more than anything?”

“You bought an RV.”

Eddie was smirking at Steve, who probably expected him to be upset, but Eddie was thrilled.

Not only would they be able to travel the way Steve wanted to, Steve had thrown their budget right out the fucking window.

“I put a down payment on an RV. I told them I had to talk to you first.”

“This is gold.”

“We did technically talk about it already.”

“We did.” Eddie bounced Ella in his arms and looked down at her. “Wanna go on a road trip, angel?”

“So you’re not mad?”

“Sweetheart, I’ve been waiting for you to spend my money for years. This is the third best day of my life.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

Eddie walked up to him and kissed the corner of his mouth, then his nose, and finally his lips.

“I love you and your crazy budget.”

“I love you and your ignorance of how money works.”

“That’s why I have you, sweetheart.”

Steve rolled his eyes but nodded.

“We can pick up the RV tomorrow if you want.”

“Did you plan our first trip yet?”

“No.”

Eddie raised a brow at him.

“Yes.”

Eddie jumped up once, making Ella giggle.

“Where are we going?”

“I figured you’d wanna take Wayne to the Smoky Mountains.”

Of course he did. Of course he thought about what Eddie would want and what would make Wayne happy and what he could do to make it happen.

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“Then I guess we better make a stop at Wayne’s house tomorrow with the RV.”

#steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #tumblr drabbles #stranger things #dad steve harrington #dad eddie munson #domestic fluff

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tasteracha · 1 year

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bite me.

a/n: you give in to the urge to bite minho, and quickly learn why that wasn’t a good idea.

warnings: contains smut - MINORS DNI. pet names, reader is called good girl, orgasm denial

the first time you do it, it’s really because you can’t resist the urge. you’ve been thinking about it lately, about biting his skin outside of leaving hickeys all over him just because you can. he’s sitting with you, your body curled up around his side as he reads a novel with gold rimmed glasses on his face and -

you can’t stop yourself from sinking your teeth into his bicep, the part you can reach right under the sleeve of the tight workout t-shirt he’s been in for the past few hours.

he looks at you with a side eye, quirking a brow at you as if he was amused. he very well could be, you’re sure you make quite the vision with your teeth still locked into his skin as you drool a bit. he goes back to his reading once you detach yourself and go back to playing games on your phone, and that was that.

except, it wasn’t.

it hits you again when you’re grocery shopping for dinner, right in the middle of the dairy aisle while he internally debates which non-dairy milk would make the best sauce for the pasta he’s chosen to make. he looks so cute, pretty lips pursed into a pout shrouded under the hood he has pulled up over his head, small tufts of hair peeking out around his eyes. you’re already standing so close, your head is practically over his shoulder and you lean in a little more and let your teeth latch onto his muscle. you mostly get a mouthful of hoodie material, so you bite just a little bit harder and he yelps a little, shuddering under you.

you let the material leave your mouth, spitting out bits of lint and frowning at the dryness. he looks at you as if to say it’s your own fault, and you stick your tongue out at him.

“really?” he says, his face stern but his tone teasing. “in public?”

“mm,” you admire the wet patch you left on his shoulder. “couldn’t help it.”

it’s his own fault he’s so biteable, is what you don’t say.

the last straw breaks when you’re washing dishes together after dinner. he’s soaping and you’re drying, and he’s teasing you with small flicks of water in your direction every time you turn. you retaliate by swatting him with a towel several times until he takes it from you and says he’ll finish it up himself if you’re going to be silly.

silly. as if he didn’t start it in the first place.

you resort to wrapping your arms around his waist from behind as he works, enjoying the flex of his abs whenever he has to scrub particularly hard at a certain spot. his neck is right there though, and you can’t be blamed for the way your mouth moves to bite at the vein there. this isn’t the first time you’ve bitten him today, but it is the first time he reacts to it.

he turns abruptly, ripping himself out of your arms as he calmly dries his hands with the towel you were using to swipe his ass earlier. he puts it down, stalking towards you like a predator.

“so you want to be playful tonight, kitten?” he says as he backs you up against the counter behind you. his hands come to brace either side of you. trapping you in place, and you’re mesmerized by the way the veins pop in his forearms. his eyes are dark, hooded and almost dangerous, and you can feel your own pulse skyrocket. “bad kitties get punished, you know that right?”

if he were a cat, his claws would certainly be out.

he dips in for a kiss, looming over you and making you arch your back to keep up with him. it’s deep, dirty, his tongue is prodding at your bottom lip and you can’t do anything else but let him in. his hands move to your waist, fingers digging in just right and he bends down a bit to hike you up onto the counter and you moan into his mouth and take his bottom lip between your teeth and -

he stops.

a whine claws out from the back of your throat and you stare at him in annoyance.

“you just can’t stop, can you?” he says, clicking his tongue while he looks at you in pity. his voice is sharp and mocking and it sends flames licking up your spine. “pretty baby can’t even control herself.”

oh. you bit him, again?

“in front of me.” he orders, guiding your body away from the counter to lean against his, your back flush against his chest. you can feel his hard-on against your ass, but he makes no move to do anything about it.

you gulp - it’s sinking in that this does not bode well for you.

he pushes his hands under your shirt, hands smoothing their way up your stomach to reach your breasts. he fondles your breasts a bit, pushing out a moan from you and you tip your head back to rest against him.

without warning, he pinches both of your nipples hard, making you gasp and double over. or, you try, but his strong arms keep you locked into place while he unrelentingly squeezes your skin between his fingers. it burns, the sensation taking over your entire body, making your eyes roll back.

“feels good?” his voice is dark and low and sickly sweet, right in your ear. you moan in response, squirming to get away. he squeezes harder when you don’t answer, and tears begin to prick in your eyes. “i asked you a question, didn’t i?”

“y-yes!” you push out, salty tears slipping out when he relents and lets go, rubbing at your stomach in an apology. your breath is trembling and your legs are shaking, and his touch grounds you as you calm down.

“are you going to be good now?” he says, hands drifting down towards your waistband. your breath hitches as you nod; it’s his way of asking are you okay? should we keep going? do you want to stop? “that’s my good girl.”

he nuzzles your neck with his nose as he pushes your pants down, fingertips creeping into your panties. his other arm comes up to wrap around your chest, and you reach up to grip at his forearm.

he starts slowly, parting your folds and sneaking his digits inside, the wetness you’ve accumulated helping them slide along your clit. you breathe out a moan when he circles around it in teasing circles, the pressure light against you.

“f-faster,” you croak, voice hoarse, “harder.”

you’re surprised when he actually listens. his fingers almost flutter with how quickly they work you, and with how turned on you’ve been since this started you’re close already. you clutch harder at his arm, moving it down and it brushes against your nipples, still sore and sensitive from his brutal treatment earlier. the feeling sends you over the edge, and you’re riding out the waves of pleasure and grinding down against his hand as they crescendo. you breathe harshly, waiting for him to stop moving his fingers so you could relax and bask in the afterglow of your orgasm.

except, he doesn’t stop. he keeps going, with more fervor than before, fingers moving to dip inside of you and curl into your heat at a brutal pace. he knows exactly where to move his fingers, knows the contours of your body better than anyone: a blessing and a curse. you can almost feel the smirk he’s wearing against your neck before he sinks his teeth into your neck.

you’re shaking in overstimulation, the feeling almost too much, on the edge of painful, until it slowly morphs back into burning pleasure. you’re panting against his skin, nails digging into his arm as you hold on for dear life. you don’t feel any part of your body that he isn’t touching, can’t feel how hard you’re holding onto him, can’t feel your bare feet on the floor. you feel your high coming up again, too much too soon, the lack of control leaving you reeling as he takes what he wants from you.

until he stops. again.

“no!” you cry out, slumping against him as the waves of pleasure weaned back. you let out a sob, utterly confused and desperate, in need of something. he slaps your pussy lightly, one, two, three times, punching cries out of you with every strike.

“oh, baby,” he croons, “you didn’t think your punishment was done, did you?”

#stray kids smut #skz smut #stray kids imagines #stray kids drabbles #lee know smut #lee minho smut #stray kids fluff

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najia-cooks · 6 months

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[ID: Two large flatbreads. The one in the center is topped with bright purple onions, faux chicken, fried nuts, and coarse red sumac; the one at the side is topped with onions and sumac. Second image is a close-up. End ID]

مسخن / Musakhkhan (Palestinian flatbread with onions and sumac)

Musakhkhan (مُسَخَّن; also "musakhan" or "moussakhan") is a dish historically made by Palestinian farmers during the olive harvest season of October and November: naturally leavened flatbread is cooked in clay ovens, dipped in plenty of freshly pressed olive oil, and then covered with oily, richly caramelized onions fragrant with sumac. Modern versions of the dish add spiced, boiled and baked chicken along with toasted or fried pine nuts and almonds. It is eaten with the hands, and sometimes served alongside a soup made from the stock produced by boiling the chicken. The name of the dish literally means "heated," from سَخَّنَ "sakhkhana" "to heat" + the participle prefix مُـ "mu".

I have provided instructions for including 'chicken,' but I don't think the dish suffers from its lack: the rich, slightly sour fermented wheat bread, the deep sweetness of the caramelised onions, and the true, clean, bright expressions of olive oil and sumac make this dish a must-try even in its original, plainer form.

Musakhkhan is often considered to be the national dish of Palestine. Like foods such as za'tar, hummus, tahina, and frika, it is significant for its historical and emotional associations, and for the way it links people, place, identity, and memory; it is also understood to be symbolic of a deeply rooted connection to the land, and thus of liberation struggle. The dish is liberally covered with the fruit of Palestinian lands in the form of onions, olive oil, and sumac (the dried and ground berries of a wild-growing bush).

The symbolic resonance of olive oil may be imputed to its history in the area. In historical Palestine (before the British Mandate period), agriculture and income from agricultural exports made up the bulk of the economy. Under مُشَاعْ (mushā', "common"; also transliterated "musha'a") systems of land tenure, communally owned plots of land were divided into parcels which were rotated between members of large kinship groups (rather than one parcel belonging to a private owner and their descendants into perpetuity). Olive trees were grown over much of the land, including on terraced hills, and their oil was used for culinary purposes and to make soap; excess was exported. In the early 1920s, Palestinian farmers produced 5,000 tons of olive oil a year, making an average of 342,000 PL (Palestinian pounds, equivalent to pounds sterling) from exports to Egypt alone.

During the British Mandate period (from 1917 to 1948, when Britain was given the administration of Palestine by the League of Nations after World War 1), acres of densely populated and cultivated land were expropriated from Palestinians through legal strongarming of and direct violence against, including killing of, فَلّاَحين (fallahin, peasants; singular "فَلَّاح" "fallah") by British troops. This continued a campaign of dispossession that had begun in the late 19th century.

By 1941, an estimated 119,000 peasants had been dispossessed of land (30% of all Palestinian families involved in agriculture); many of them had moved to other areas, while those who stayed were largely destitute. The agriculturally rich Nablus area (north of Jerusalem), for example, was largely empty by 1934: Haaretz reported that it was "no longer the town of gold [i.e., oranges], neither is it the town of trade [i.e., olive oil]. Nablus rather has become the town of empty houses, of darkness and of misery". Farmers led rebellions against this expropriation in 1929, 1933, and 1936-9, which were brutually repressed by the British military.

Despite the number of farmers who had been displaced from their land by European Jewish private owners and cooperatives (which owned 24.5% of all cultivated land in Palestine by 1941), the amount of olives produced by Palestinians increased from 34,000 tons in 1931 to 78,300 in 1945, evidencing an investment in and expansion of agriculture by indigenous inhabitants. Thus it does not seem likely that vast swathes of land were "waste land," or that the musha' system did not allow for "development"!

Imprecations against the musha' system were nevertheless used as justification to force Palestinians from their land. After various Zionist organizations and militant groups succeeded in pushing Britain out of Palestine in 1948—clearing the way for hundreds of thousands of Palestinians to be dispossessed or killed during the Nakba—the Israeli parliament began constructing a framework to render their expropriation of land legal; the Cultivation of Waste Lands Law of 1949, for example, allowed the requisition of uncultivated land, while the Absentees’ Property Law of 1950 allowed the state to requisition the land of people it had forced from their homes.

Israel profited from its dispossession of millions of dunums of land; 40,000 dunums of vineyards, 100,000 dunums of citrus groves, and 95% of the olive groves in the new state were stolen from Palestinians during this period, and the agricultural subsidies bolstered by these properties were used to lure new settlers in with promises of large incomes.

It also profited from the resulting "de-development" of the Palestinian economy, of which the decline in trade of olive oil furnishes a striking example. Palestinian olive farmers were unable to compete with the cheaper oils (olive and other types) with which Zionist, capital-driven industry flooded the market; by 1936, the 342,000 PL in olive oil exports of the early 1920s had fallen to 52,091 PL, and thereafter to nothing. While selling to a Palestinian captive market, Israel was also exporting the fruits of confiscated Palestinian land to Europe and elsewhere; in 1949, olives produced on stolen land were Israel's third-largest export. As of 2014, 12.9% of the olives exported to Europe were grown in the occupied West Bank alone.

This process of de-development and profiteering accelerated after Israel's military seizure of the West Bank and Gaza in 1967. In 1970, agriculture made up 34% of the GDP of the West Bank, and 31% of that of Gaza; in 2000, it was 16% and 18%, respectively. Many of those out of work due to expropriated or newly unworkable land were hired as day laborers on Israeli farms.

Meanwhile, Palestinians (and Israeli Palestinians) continued to plant and cultivate olives. The fact that Palestinians do not control their own water supplies or borders and may expect at any time to be barred by the military from harvesting their fields has discouraged investment and led to risk aversion (especially since the outmoding of the musha' system, which had minimized individual risk). In this environment, olive trees are attractive because they are low-input. They can subsist on rainwater (Israel monopolizes and poisons much of the region's water, and heavily taxes imports of materials that could be used to build irrigation systems), and don't require high-quality soil or daily weeding. Olive trees, unlike factories and agricultural technology, don't need large inputs of capital that stand to be wasted if the Israeli military destroys them.

Olive trees are therefore the chosen crop when proving a continued use of land in order to prevent the Israeli military from expropriating it under various "waste" or "absentee" land laws. Palestinians immediately plant olive seedlings on land they have been temporarily forced from, since even land that has lain fallow due to status as a military closed zone can be appropriated with this justification. The danger is so pressing that Palestinian agronomists encouraged this habit (as of 1993), despite the fact that Israeli competition and continual planting had lowered olive crop prices, and despite the decline in soil quality that results from never allowing land to lie fallow. In more recent years, olive trees have yielded primary or supplementary income for about 100,000 Palestinian families, producing up to 191 million USD in value in good years (including an average of 17,000 tons of olive oil yearly between 2001 and 2009).

Israeli soldiers and settlers have famously uprooted, vandalized, razed, and burned millions of these olive trees, as well as using military outposts to deny Palestinian farmers access to their olive crops. It prefers to restrict Palestinians to annual crops, such as vegetables and grains, and eliminate competition in permanent crops, such as fruit trees.

This targeting of olive trees increases during times of intensified conflict. During the currently ongoing olive harvest season (November 2023), Gazan olive farmers have reported being targeted by Israeli war planes; some farmers in the West Bank have given up on harvesting their trees altogether, due to threats issued by organized networks of settlers that they would kill anyone seen making the attempt.

The rootedness of olive trees in the history of Palestine gives them weight as a symbol of homeland, culture, and the fight for liberation. Palestinian olive harvest festivals, typically celebrated in October with singing, dancing, and eating, have inspired similar events elsewhere in the world, aimed at sharing Palestinian food and culture and expressing solidarity with those living under occupation.

Support Palestinian resistance by calling Elbit System’s (Israel’s primary weapons manufacturer) landlord, donating to Palestine Action’s bail fund, and donating to the Bay Area Anti-Repression Committee bail fund.

Ingredients:

For the dish:

2 pieces taboon bread, preferably freshly baked

2 large or 3 medium yellow onions (480g)

1 cup first cold press extra virgin olive oil (زيت زيتون البكر الممتاز)

1 Tbsp coarsely ground Levantine sumac (سماق شامي / sumaq shami), plus more to top

Ground black pepper

For the chicken (optional):

500g chicken substitute

5 green cardamom pods, or 1/4 tsp ground cardamom

4 cloves, or pinch ground cloves

1 Mediterranean bay leaf

1 Tbsp ground sumac

For the nut topping (optional):

2 Tbsp slivered almonds

2 Tbsp pine nuts

Neutral oil, for frying

Notes on ingredients:

Use the best olive oil that you can. You will want oil that has some opacity to it or some deposits in it. I used Aleppo brand olive oil (7 USD a liter at my local halal grocery).

If you want to replace the taboon bread with something less laborious, I would recommend something that mimics the rich, fermented flavor of the traditional, whole-wheat, naturally leavened bread. Many people today make taboon bread with white flour and commercial yeast—which you might mimic by using storebought naan or lavash, for example—but I think the slight sourness of the flatbread is a beautiful counterpoint to the brightness of the sumac and the sweetness of the caramelized onions. I would go with a sourdough pizza crust or something similar.

Your sumac should be coarsely ground, not finely powdered; and a deep, rich red, not pinkish in color (like the pile on the right, not the one on the left).

For this dish, a whole chicken is usually first boiled (perhaps with spices including bay leaves, cardamom, and cloves) and then baked, sometimes along with some of the oil from frying the onions. I call for just frying or baking instead; in my opinion, boiling often has a negative effect on the texture of meat substitutes.

Instructions:

For the onions:

1. Heat a cup of olive oil in a large skillet or pot. Fry onions on medium-low, stirring often, for 10 minutes or until translucent.

2. Add 1 Tbsp sumac and a few cracks of black pepper and reduce to low. Cook for another 30 minutes, stirring occasionally, until onions are sweet, reduced in volume, and pinkish in color.

For the chicken:

1. Briefly toast and finely grind spices except for sumac (cardamom, cloves, and bay leaf). Filter with a fine mesh sieve. Dip 'chicken' into the pot in which you fried the onions to coat it with olive oil, then rub spices (including sumac) onto the surface.

2. Sear chicken in a dry skillet until browned on all sides; or bake, uncovered, in the top third of an oven heated to 400 °F (200 °C) until browned.

For the nut topping:

1. Heat a neutral oil on medium in a small pot or skillet. Add almonds and fry for 2 minutes, until just starting to take on color. Add pine nuts and fry until both almonds and pine nuts are golden brown. Remove with a slotted spoon.

To assemble:

1. Dip each flatbread in the olive oil used to fry the onions, then spread onions over the surface.

Some cooks dip the bread entirely into oil; others press it lightly into the surface of the oil in the pot on both sides, or one side; a more modern method calls for mixing the olive oil with chicken broth to lighten it. Consult your taste. I think the bread from my taboon recipe stands up well to being pressed into the oil on both sides without tearing or becoming soggy.

2. Top flatbread with chicken and several large pinches more sumac. Bake briefly in the oven (still heated to 400 °F / 200 °C), or broil on low, for 3-5 minutes, until the sumac and the surface of the bread have darkened a shade.

3. Top with fried nuts.

Musakhkhan is usually eaten by ripping the chicken into bite-sized pieces, tearing off a bit of bread, and eating the chicken using the bread.

Some cooks make a layered musakhkhan, adding two to three pieces of bread covered with onions on top of each other before topping the entire construction with chicken and pine nuts.

#Palestinian #Palestine #palestinian food #recipes #long post /

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sergeanttpoliteness · 1 year

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sooo.. no idea how old the post was, but if your req are still open, Wholesome Spider Noir? 0u0

hello, love! not sure which post you're talking about, but the last time i posted a story was in 2020, so it's surely been a while, lmao. to be honest with you all, my days of writing for marvel are coming to an end, but when i saw this ask, i thought i'd post something in honor of the sequel of the movie that started it all, since this blog will forever mean a lot to me. thank you for this request, i hope it's enough <3

--------

Peter watches you now, as you wash the dishes and pass them to him to dry, lather covering your hands and forearms. You nearly drop and break a ceramic plate in the sink, and your humming to a song stuck in your head is replaced by small giggles.

He worries you’ll never know how much he truly loves you.

He knows you understand how tough it can be for him sometimes to be as open and vulnerable. Tribulations and heartache forged his heart, painted his soul a deep blue— like fierce, destructive ocean waves during a violent storm. You’ve reassured him countless times, yet after everything he’s seen, his brain struggles to accept there can exist someone so gentle, so angelic. As war and bloodshed explode around him, you’re like a flower blooming in between the broken concrete— beauty amidst the foulness.

You wash the soap off your skin, and when you close the faucet, Peter immediately reaches for your wet hands and gently dries them with the kitchen towel. You chuckle. “You’re supposed to dry the dishes— not my hands.”

At the sight of your grin that reaches your eyes, he smiles. So many words, so many languages, so many smiles, and touches of lips, yet neither could ever fully convey this glow in his chest. So many universes, worlds, and people that have entered his life and that he will happen upon, yet he’ll always choose to be here with you.

He calls your name. It’s an incantation that illuminates his chest and seeps into his surroundings, painting over the blue with glimmering gold. It helps him believe he won’t forever be damaged. No, he can also be the sunlight filtering through the heavy clouds and smoke, caressing the flower.

Instead of the towel, Peter’s hands now brush against your skin, fingers trailing down your forearms, wrists, and knuckles until he places his palms flat against yours. He reaches down and plants a tender kiss on your forehead, lips lingering for a while. When he pulls away from you, heart racing, he prays you understand.

Your eyes soften, your fingers interlocking with his.

“I know. I love you, too.”

#spider noir x reader #spider man noir x reader #spider noir x you #spider noir fan fic #fan fiction #across the spiderverse #spider man: across the spider verse #gender neutral #fem!reader #male!reader #spider man: into the spider verse #sm: itsv #sm: atsv #peter parker x reader

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answer2jeff · 4 months

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not a lot, just forever.

carmen's opening up, but he wishes you'd do the same.

warnings: fluff + angst. fem!reader who is also a big reader (mostly poetry) and occasionally journals. unestablished relationship (friends to lovers, mutual pinning.) very touchy-feely. writing is overly detailed and so painfully poetic you might vomit.

word count : 2.4k

hey. i think i left my book at ur place. 11:15pm.

sorry, just got home. i can bring it over now 11:36pm.

oh yeah that'd be great! thank you. (sorry for the inconvenience) 11:38pm.

no worries 11:41pm.

lmk when ur here. xx 11:45pm.

Carmen had some idea of what that meant: xx. He knew what it meant when girls signed notes with xoxo in replacement of red kiss marks and strokes of long acrylic nails through their secret lovers hair—not that he ever received one, no. But your occasional visits practically felt just as intoxicating. If the order was x-o-x-o, and the worded statement being hugs-and-kisses, then xx must've been hugs, right? Two hugs. Like the one you shared the first time you met at Natalie's baby shower. He smelled like authentic Italian cologne with a hint of cigarette smoke diluted by dish soap and warm water. His grasp was hesitant, but ever-all-consuming once his shoulders relaxed. It was like metamorphosis. The way he wrapped his arms underneath while you tossed yours up around his neck, his gold chain feeling cold and hard against your skin, unlike the rest of him.

He was an under-hugger. He kept the ones he cared for unsuspectingly close to him. Such physical touch felt familiar. Maybe you'd just remembered stories and inside jokes about him through Natalie so well his tenderness and anxious nature was fitting to the idea of him you had in your head.

That was almost 6 months ago. And surprisingly, you'd become pretty good friends. Not that either of you really did friends at your age...but somehow it worked. You'd come to realize that he was so much kinder than anyone painted him out to be. And yet, you never really talked about yourselves.

Not in a way that really mattered, anyway.

The articles you'd written, the interviews you conducted with snobby assholes, the dozens of freelancing jobs with horrific schedules you had before, what you loved about writing and what you hated about the world around you—those were topics of discussion. Carmen's favorite restaurants he ever expanded his career with, the odd relationship he had with his sister that flipped like a rusty switch after highschool, candle scents he loved and bought over and over again despite their poor quality wicks, the first time he got drunk and how he swore he'd never let another drop of alcohol touch his tongue—those were normal methods of late night conversations.

But what about your dream to publish a novel? Or the memoir you read that completely changed your views on love as a whole. What about Carmen's uncle being his only friend his entire life? Oh, how he would've become a starving, broken artist if he ever believed he had enough talent for it. Hell, what about the girl you met in middle school who mysteriously moved away and shared all her secrets on the true meaning of life, death, and everything in between? Why didn't you ever talk about those things? Maybe it was too close, too personal. If he knew you too well, maybe he'd see you as you saw yourself.

Carmen had been thinking about those colored pencils you bought him for his birthday and can't get himself to tell you he uses them every day. Not just to illustrate his dishes...but you, sometimes. Your hair, your smile. He used that photo you begged him to snap of you staring out your window melodramatically with a bowl of pasta carbonara and a glass of bubbling champagne in front of you as reference. How could he ever show you the endless amount of pages containing the essence of your existence in that goddamn sketch book?

Questions. Questions. Questions.

Thoughts of potential ate away at your patience with every pacing step you took around your bedroom.

Answers. Answers. Answers.

—

"Do people even have deep conversations over pasta and wine anymore?" You trace the pad of your middle finger against the rim of your glass, your elbow propped up on the counter so your chin can rest in your hand.

Carmen draws his eyebrows together, the little crinkle in his forehead showing. You glance up at it and struggle to stifle a growing smile. He cocks his head before barring his bottom lip behind his teeth, picking at the skin with the tips of his fingers. That signature pose; where his left arm is crossed against his chest and his hand holds the elbow of his right arm. It's a habit you almost immediately picked up on. It told you time and time again that he was nervous.

Thinking. Contemplating.

"Is that, like—" he breaths a chuckle, but it comes out more as an accidental huff than anything. Smug bastard, he is. Especially when he drags his gold chain across his neck as it loops around the finger that once picked at the dry skin of his mouth.

"Your way of..asking me for a deep conversation over wine and pasta?"

Ah. He's called you out. The one thing he couldn't shake was his annoyance when you were so completely and utterly vague about your wants, your needs, your desires. Hell, Carmen Berzatto would wrap a lasso around the moon, or any planet you put your claim on, and drag it down so it could be yours and only yours. Only if it meant you'd stop feeling so complacent. You knew this. At least to some extent. His little favors buttered you up until you a mushy mess of adoration. What really scratched at your urges and your patience was how blissfully unaware he was of his show of affection toward you. Part of you feared that if you ever told him how much it caressed that bruised, fruit fly infested, rotted spot of your heart so gently it felt like a kiss, despite the sting, he'd stop.

"Y'know what? Yeah. I'm asking."

You shrug your shoulders and stare down at your nearly finished bowl of penne with vodka sauce. Stabbing a stack of pasta onto your fork and the clinking sound of the metal banging against the ceramic bowl seemed to fill the silence before Carmen finally spoke again, though with much hesitation.

"Okay," he barely whispers, nodding his head and fumbling to take a seat in the barstool underneath the counter. Sitting across from you gives him the constant justification to just look at you.

Starting off this session with a question was quite a kicker.

"Y'know Sade Zabala? Author of that book you brought back for me."

Carmen blinks slowly. He pretends to dig deep in his memory to identify the name, wondering if you'd ever mentioned her. But he fails, pulling his lips taught, so as to say 'I've got nothin.' The sound of your dramatic sigh and the 'tsk' sound of your lips separating makes his palms sweat.

"She's a wonderful writer. A poet. I mean, really, her book Coffee and Cigarettes was one of the most gut-wrenchingly beautiful and altruistic collections of.. of love, pain, rejuvenation—all of it."

If he was completely honest, he doesn't have a clear image of what those words meant. But it doesn't seem to matter what comes out of your mouth or how you phrase it. Your use of specific language fascinates him. There is nothing else he can do in this moment but nod and allow the corners of his lips to curl into a smile strong enough to make the apples of his cheeks go pink.

"I'll tell you one line of one of the greatest poems she had ever written in that book. In the humble opinion of yours truly, of course."

"Sure," he assures you. "Of course, of course."

"Tell me every terrible thing you ever did, and let me love you anyway."

Saliva pools in your mouth as you speak the quote, the taste of every vowel washing down your throat as if you dedicate them to Carmen himself. Which, in bare and naked truth, you do. The only thing you could ever ask of Carmen was to let himself tear himself open with the hope and belief that you would crawl into his fears and convert them into profound discoveries. And the trust that you would not stitch him up with your own hands, but rather clasp your fists around the circumference of his wrists as he carefully closes the wound his trajectory of life has created.

"Wow." Carmen's eyes go another centimeter wider, the language still processing in his mind. He interprets it over and over again.

"I know. And—" you set your fork down so you can have complete focus as you recite your following question, "I was just wondering what you'd say if someone told you that, y'know? What would you tell them?"

Vulnerability, he thinks. Fuck.

"I mean...fuck that's—that's a good question. Um.." he chews on the flesh of his bottom lip once again, looking above at the warm glow of the light that hangs over your island counter as if he'll find the answer up there.

"I don't even like the good stuff about me, so. I'm not sure how to, like, articulate that? Is that the word?"

Now the quickening pace has started.

"And what do you think the good stuff about you is?"

Probing questions like this are somewhat too-close-for-comfort inquiries for friends. But Carmen would be stupid to mind it. He relishes in it, actually. With much guilt. But it's tainted with the secret pleasure of being cared for by someone he so deeply valued the opinions and thoughts of.

Since the first day you met, Carmen knew he would never go to anyone else for some piece of mind. For some sanity. Or even just for someone to explain the method to his madness. You understood it—what he believed.

"I care a lot, I think. But that's not always practical. It hardly ever is now that I think about it."

"You do. You care so much." You soften your tone, hesitantly reaching for Carmen's tattooed hand that rests on the cold marble counter.

"Sometimes it freaks me out."

"Like, this whole thing, the—the restaurant, where my life is right now, it makes me crazy. But it also keeps me..."

"Human," you finish.

"Yeah, human."

Though it takes him a couple seconds for his digits to not second guess themselves, he gently takes your hand in his. The slow pace in which he intertwines his fingers with yours is enough to kill you.

"Can I tell you something?" Carmen asks.

"Anything."

"You take good care of me. Of everyone, really." . His thumb gently rubs your warm skin, the rough and calloused mounds over his fingerprints soothing you. A deep breath moves in and out from his lungs as he meets your eyes again. This time, he won't look away.

"It's like you were made to just be good."

You smile, but you're not convinced you're certain on what he means. "Thank you, Carm. But—good?"

"I don't know. You're warm. I'm—I'm not like that. I'm not warm."

This, this is where truths as bare as untraveled paws of loyal dogs that roamed the streets in search of security uncover themselves.

"What? Of course you are." You lean forward, feeling your heart pound so hard it could leap out of your body.

"I don't think I am."

To think—no, to know that Carmen Berzatto cannot share at least one feature of his layered soul he genuinely likes. God, that pains you. You could write a million sonnets listing every little thing you adored about your friend.

"Carmen, you—" you sigh, your head dropping for a fraction of a second. "You have such a big heart. You're not cold or...or out of reach, or anything like that, okay?"

Even with Carmen's tendency for rage and his tattoos that displayed yet another callback to his culinary career—his way of speaking: so gentle and unsupported, you're certain that he is something so much greater than just a chef. He took care of people too. His staff, his clientele, his family—of you. Whether it was home cooked meals when you were sick, or when you needed to complain about Natalie. Carmen listened. Not as her brother, but as your friend. You don't really remember when you started to regularly see each other during his leisure. Either at the restaurant, or a coffee shop next door to your complex, and eventually his living room.

"This is so fucking selfish, but—"

No, Carmen. You could never be selfish.

But you let him be hungry. You want him to be hungry. Starving for reassurance. Because you'll feed him until the empty space in his existence is filled.

"I just wish you'd look after yourself the way you take care of me. Like, fuck, hearing you look at yourself and point out all this shit that nobody notices—which I wish they fucking would—because I notice them and I still love those things about you is..."

Oh, what a beautiful mind you've always had. He'll always store all the love you can't have for yourself in his own heart. Your wit, your intelligence, your smile, even down to the way you have to readjust the grip of your fountain pen as you inscribe your thoughts into your journal

"Wrong." He completed his thought with just one word. "I don't like it. It makes me sad," he says again.

That breaks you. So much that a tear sure to be followed by many more wells up in your waterline. The glisten of the salty liquid in your eyes startles the wonderful man across you. You can see the immediate guilt in his face, his blue eyes filled with concern and regret. But you shake your head, holding onto his forearm as he raises his hand to your cheek to catch the falling tear. Fuck being friends. Fuck small talk. Fuck jokes and laughs and cigarettes and poor communication that just ended in silence.

This was here and now. There was no going back.

With that, you cupped Carmen's own cheek, leaning closer and closer to his lips before he desperately kissed you. His free hand anchored itself on your shoulder blade while yours crawled to the back of his head to burry itself in his golden curls. Your taste was everything. Salty with pasta with a sweet aftertaste that echoed from your fruity lip balm, followed by a final twinge of bitterness from your glass of red wine. He tasted of comfort, of acceptance, something you'd never felt against your tastebuds from the previous years of the dating pool. With every separation of your lips to swallow gasps of air, the further the two of you hovered over the counter in a needy attempt to get closer.

You didn't need answers. Not a lot from him either. Just him. Forever.

tags: @lemmejustpulloutmylightsaber @sexyyounglatinoboy @febris-amatoria @diorrfairy

#carmen berzatto #the bear #carmen berzatto x reader #carmen berzatto fluff #carmen berzatto angst #carmen berzatto blurb #this took way too long #writers block is really killing me #im running out of ideas

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tapronlimited · 3 months

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How to Choose a Bathroom Basin

The Tapron blog post "How to Choose a Bathroom Basin" offers a comprehensive guide on selecting the perfect basin for your bathroom, emphasizing the importance of material, shape, and design. It discusses various materials, including ceramics, metal, and glass, and explores shapes like round, oval, and corner basins. The guide advises on choosing basins based on individual style preferences, practicality, and the overall bathroom design, ensuring the basin complements the space both functionally and aesthetically. For detailed guidance, visit the full article here.

#1. Bathroom accessories #2. Shower enclosures #3. Washbasins #4. Shower trays #5. Soap dishes #6. Soap dispensers #7. Toilet roll holder #8. Bathroom hooks #9. Tumblers and holders #10. Gold bathroom accessories

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slytherheign · 9 months

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GOLD RUSH | daniel ricciardo

PART 2/4 OF BROKEN GLASS AND HONEY SERIES.

CAN ALSO BE READ AS A ONE-SHOT.

PAIRINGS: daniel ricciardo x fem!reader, ex!max verstappen x fem!reader

WORD COUNT: 4.9k

SUMMARY: you don't like a gold rush, but you're attracted to someone everyone admires. when he stares at you with eyes like sinking ships on waters so inviting, will you jump in or not?

WARNINGS: cursing/swearing, people not giving a single fuck about the 3-month rule, mention of a hand injury, and allusions to a past unhealthy relationship. as i said, this can be read as a one-shot but there are references in this about the previous part of the series. so… you might want to read that. let me know if i missed any warnings. [⚠︎︎RATING: 16+]

AUTHOR’S NOTE: inspired by taylor swift’s song with the same title. also, based on my research, driver rooms are either located in a team motorhome or a floor in the driver’s garage. i literally watched paddock tours, garage tours, driver’s room tours BUT i still cannot find where in the japanese gp are the driver rooms located. so in this fic the driver’s room is a part of the garage, i imagined it on the 2nd floor. if you are reading the series i suggest rereading the last part because i changed some important details there like the timeline and stuff. again, huge thanks to my bestie @writingstoraes for helping me with the social media parts included here.

DESTINATION: Angst Avenue | GO TO SERIES MASTERLIST or GO BACK TO THE STATION.

All you did was accept his follow request on Instagram.

Then happened the small talks, the exchanging of numbers, the constant messages, and the little secret meetups.

And now here you were, meeting with his family as he introduced you to them.

What Max couldn’t do in almost 2 years, Daniel did in 2 months.

You remembered the date you accepted his follow request, July 19th. Only a few days before he would drive for AlphaTauri after Nyck de Vries got sacked. He then spent most of his summer break getting to know you. And when he sustained a break to a metacarpal on his left hand during the free practice 2 session at the Dutch Grand Prix, you stayed with him and it brought you even closer.

Today was September 19th. Exactly 2 months after you accepted his follow request and 2 days after the race in Singapore ended—the race where he returned after his injury. You were having dinner with his family. His mother told you stories about Daniel’s childhood. He was embarrassed at some of them, but you assured him that you thought the stories were cute. You smiled all throughout the meal. This was a new experience for you, getting introduced to someone’s family and getting treated like you were already one of their own.

You were used to being hidden. Things never used to be like this. For the longest time, it was always secret glances, touching behind closed doors, and kissing behind closed curtains. It was never talking, laughing, and getting along with his family.

He joined you when you took the initiative to wash the dishes. His mother didn’t want you to, but you insisted because it was all you could do in return for their warm welcome.

You worked as a team. You washed the plates with the dishwashing soap while Daniel rinsed them with water, silence never surrounding you for even a moment because he had so many stories to tell and you loved hearing every single one of them.

You weren’t even in a relationship yet. Sure, you went on a few dates, but there was still no label put on it. There were no kisses, no making out—just the occasional holding hands and Daniel never complained. He understood that you still weren’t prepared for another relationship and he was ready to wait.

“It’s late. We should probably rest,” he spoke up after you both washed your hands and dried them using a paper towel. You followed him into his childhood room.

“You take the bed, I’ll sleep on the floor,” he said.

“You don’t need to do that. This is your room.”

“No, please. I insist,” he smiled.

You took the bed, immediately smelling his scent on the sheets. From the paint to the posters and the pillows, everything about this room screamed Daniel Ricciardo and it gave you so much comfort.

But even with all the comfort his bed provided, you still couldn’t sleep. “Daniel?” you called his name.

“Hmm?” he replied, he couldn’t sleep as well.

“What were you thinking that day?” you asked quietly.

“What day?”

“When you requested to follow me on Instagram. You knew I was dating Max, right?”

“You already broke up that night.”

“Well, yeah. But you didn’t know that.”

“I actually did. Max told me when he was drunk and crying. I don’t think he remembers telling me, though.”

“Why did you want to follow me?”

“I was curious, I guess. I wanted to see who made Max cry. He’s one of my closest friends so I wanted to know who was this girl he was crying about. Your account was private but I was really curious about you, so I requested to follow you and…”

“And?” you urged him to continue.

“And I loved what I saw. You’re really beautiful.”

You blushed, covering your face with your hands even though he couldn’t see them anyway. You changed the topic. “You said Max was crying?”

“Yeah. But then he also drunkenly told me the reason why. And for what it’s worth, I’m on your side. You did the right thing. You deserve someone better.”

No one spoke for a moment. Your mind suddenly lingered on Max. He would never cry in public, not even in front of a friend. You knew that if he was sober, he would’ve never cried in front of Daniel. Max always said that he was raised to not show any sign of weakness to anyone, and he thought that crying was one of them. You were the only exception. With you, he wasn’t afraid of crying. Hell, he had broken down in front of you countless times and you were always there for him. And he loved that you were always there for him.

You pushed any further thought of him away from your head. He wasn’t yours anymore. You shouldn’t think about him. He wasn’t the one lying on the floor next to the bed you laid on now, it was Daniel.

“Dan?” you softly called his name.

He smiled at the new nickname. “Yeah?”

“Can you sleep next to me?”

“Are you sure?” he asked. From the way his voice sounded, you knew he was smiling.

“Please?” you said, moving yourself to make a space for him on the bed.

He immediately stood up to lie beside you. None of you felt any awkwardness, it was almost like it was always meant to be like this—you and him, beside each other.

You stared at the ceiling, not really feeling any sleepiness. How could you? When there were about a thousand thoughts circling themselves in your head?

Thoughts about your future, about Daniel, and about Max. You were just thankful you were privileged to be born into a family that owns a successful company in Monaco. And although you stayed in Menton, you still worked for your family business. At least, if the public discovered your possible future relationship with Daniel, you knew they couldn’t call you a gold digger because you already have plenty of gold just by yourself. That was one less thing to worry about.

Daniel couldn’t sleep either, knowing that you were still awake. He looked at you, following your line of vision until he stared at the ceiling as well.

“What’s on your mind?” he asked.

“A lot,” you chuckled.

“Do you want to talk about them?”

“No,” you shook your head. “At least not yet.”

“That’s okay. You wanna talk about something else?”

You thought for a moment before a sudden question entered your mind. “What’s your favorite memory that happened here in your room?”

“Well, I had my first make-out session here,” he laughed.

You playfully hit his shoulder. “Really?” you laughed. “That’s your favorite memory?”

“Why? Are you jealous because it wasn’t you?” he teased.

“I-”

“Just kidding,” he laughed again. “My favorite memory in this room was when my dad and I sat on this bed and had a deep talk about life. I still l remember every piece of advice he told me that day and I try my best to follow them.”

“Care to tell me one advice?” you said. “Who knows, maybe it’ll help me out at some point.”

“There was one he told me that really stuck to me the most,” he responded.

“What is it about?”

“About love.”

You glanced at him before looking back up again at the ceiling. “Tell me.”

“Give love time to flourish, but never time what flourishes the love.”

You let the words sink in. You turned to your side so you could face him, urging him to elaborate.

“You can fall in love with someone years after meeting them, at the same time, you can fall in love with someone after hours of meeting them. The length doesn’t matter if the trust is strong and the love is already stronger.

“You can get engaged after being with someone for 6 years, at the same time, you can get engaged after being with someone for 6 months.

“Time matters, yes. But the length is subjective. Love is not supposed to be a competition where time is the sole judge. Sometimes, longer doesn’t mean healthier, and shorter doesn’t make it insincere or artificial.”

He turned to his side so he could face you as well. You didn’t know what to reply and he didn’t expect you to. You just stared at each other’s eyes.

You had never paid attention to his eyes more than what you were doing now.

They were gleaming.

Twinkling.

Those eyes…

They were like sinking ships on waters so inviting.

You almost jumped in.

You cleared your throat, pulling away from his face that was just an inch away from yours. Funny, you didn’t even notice your faces were moving closer to each other.

“W-we should-uhh n-not,” you suggested.

“Y-yeah, we should not,” he agreed, smiling sheepishly.

The next race was not far ahead. You actually thought that after the race in Singapore, he would fly straight to Japan to get ready for the next grand prix. Instead, he took 3 days off just to set up a dinner with you and his family.

You didn’t know why he did it, because if you were him, you wouldn’t want to stress yourself this much just for you to meet his family. You weren’t demanding anything right now. If Max made you wait for almost 2 years, you could wait a couple more months for Daniel. After all, waiting was your game—and an expert at that.

It wasn’t a coincidence that Daniel introduced you to his family exactly 2 months after your first interaction. He knew about the waiting game Max made you play for almost 2 years. The number ‘2’ always being the highlight. So, he did what Max couldn’t do in just 2 months. He wanted to prove something. And from the look on your face the moment his parents hugged you, he knew his little plan worked.

It also wasn’t a coincidence that out of all the advice his father gave him, what he told you was the one about love and time being subjective. It was his sly way of saying that it didn’t matter how long you two have known each other. He was basically saying that Max may have had you longer but you should pick him. He had feelings for you, he wanted you to see that, and hopefully, return them.

Tomorrow, he needed to travel. Reality would return again, and the track needed him. As much as he wanted to spend more time with you, his car won’t drive itself. He had a thought.

“Do you want to go with me?” he asked suddenly. “To Suzuka.”

There was something in you that screamed to go back to your Menton apartment. Were you ready to go to a Grand Prix supporting a different driver than who you were used to supporting?

This was a second chance at everything, though. A chance to move on and a chance to have something new and someone new to look forward to.

“Okay,” you finally answered. “I’ll just have to do some work online for our family business. But as soon as I’m done, I’ll be in the stands cheering for you.”

He looked at you like you said some forbidden language. “The stands?” he asked you.

“Yeah, like with the other fans,” you shrugged.

“You know you’re not like the other fans, right? You can watch in the garage. If you’re not comfortable with other people seeing you, you can stay in my driver’s room and watch there. I’m sure there’s a monitor there.”

Again, this was a new experience for you. You didn’t know what to say.

“It would make me really happy knowing you’re in my room rather than in the stands. I could also show you the car and some stuff,” he continued.

Max never even invited you to walk the pitlane with him. And now here was Daniel, all ready and prepared to tour the entire paddock with you if you asked him to.

“That would be great,” you smiled.

“We better rest then, we have to travel tomorrow.”

JAPAN. SEPTEMBER 24, 2023.

The race was happening today.

For the last few days since you got here, you chose to stay at a hotel near where the circuit was. Daniel was staying at the same hotel just 2 floors above yours. He invited you to stay in his room but you refused because it would raise a lot of suspicion. You were still figuring out what you had with Daniel and staying in the same room as him would paint a picture that you were already in a relationship. You knew just how F1 fans could become detectives if they wanted to. They already knew your name when Daniel decided to follow you on Instagram. A lot of them tried to follow you, but you chose not to accept their follow requests.

You stayed in your hotel room on Friday and Saturday, watching the practice sessions and the qualifying in your room. You didn’t really have a choice, you had online work to do. You watched while you worked.

But not today.

Today, you were free. Today, you’d watch the Grand Prix in person.

Daniel visited you quite often in your room. He took advantage of you being in the same hotel as him. He always tried to convince you to get out, but you always said that you were busy finishing some work in advance so you could attend the Grand Prix with no worries about work. He stayed beside you while you worked until his duties called him and he needed to get to work as well.

But not today.

Today, he didn’t have to convince you anymore because you wouldn’t stay in your room. Today, you’d join him.

The plan was to walk behind him through the paddock with an AlphaTauri staff until you reached his garage where he would tour you and get you to meet the people working there. After that, he would lead you to his driver’s room where you would stay.

If it was entirely up to him, he wanted you to walk beside him instead of behind. But you refused again, because you knew walking beside him would launch something that you weren’t sure of yet.

You didn’t understand yourself. You broke up with Max because he kept you hidden. And now that you were with someone who wanted to show you off to the world, you’d rather stay hidden. You told yourself it was just because you and Daniel did not have a label in your relationship yet. You convinced him it was just because you were still figuring everything out.

And those reasons were reasonable and true.

But you missed one little fact.

There was something about being hidden that excited you.

Maybe being Max’s secret for a long time had convinced you that being hidden was an exciting thrill.

A knock on your door interrupted your thoughts. You finished fixing your hair immediately to open it. On the other side was a staff from AlphaTauri you had gotten close to for the past couple of days. You followed her downstairs where you met up with Daniel.

As soon as Daniel entered the paddock, all eyes were on him. The cameras turned and snapped pictures, your white cap barely hiding your face so you looked down and focused on the road most of the time. You should’ve brought sunglasses.

You heard people calling his name. Photographers, fans, people from the other teams—everyone. He displayed a huge smile on his face that everyone returned as soon as they got a sight of him. He waved at everyone, because let’s be honest, everyone knew him.

You saw everything as you walked behind him.

You saw how everyone admired him.

How everyone glorified everything he did.

Not everyone knew him personally, but everyone felt close to him. That was how admirable Daniel Ricciardo was. He leaves a mark on everyone. A mark so indelible and so perfect that no one could ever forget. No one would dare to forget.

It started to make you insecure.

It ached to even think of how perfect he was, of how peaceful he was. Like sunshine, he was a need for everyone. He presented a light that everyone would kill for just to have a taste of.

It started to make you jealous.

It was like he floated as he walked because everyone cheered on him. Like a rush of gold, he was a desire—a temptation.

And you didn’t like a gold rush.

You didn’t like anticipating your face in a red flush.

You didn’t like that anyone would die to feel his touch.

Everybody wanted him.

Halfway through your destination, the AlphaTauri staff you were walking with behind Daniel suddenly realized she left something important in her room. She had to go back to the hotel, leaving you no choice but to stand and walk beside Daniel.

And he loved it. He glanced at you every now and then, smiling and checking if you were alright. He brought his camera with him, he took some pictures of the surroundings while he walked. You didn’t know that most of those pictures were you looking around the place. You’ve been to multiple F1 races in your life, but this was your first time in a Grand Prix in Japan.

You entered the pitlane with him. And once again, photographers snapped pictures of him. You slowed down a bit, letting Daniel be on the front again and the only focus of the cameras. He instantly noticed the lack of your presence beside him, looking at you and smiling, telling you it was alright and that you could walk beside him again. You eyed the cameras, observing that their focus was not on Daniel anymore as another driver was walking towards your way. So, you went back beside him, smiling softly at him. He placed a hand on your back guiding you through the large amount of people coming and leaving the pitlane.

For a slight moment, you wondered how someone so perfect would want to be with someone so imperfect. How could someone as desired as gold would want to love someone who was the complete opposite?

You were nearing his garage, but before you could reach it, a pair of familiar eyes caught yours. You swore you felt your heart jump and the world stop for a second but you shook it off.

As it turned out, the other driver that was walking towards your way was none other than Max Verstappen.

He froze for a second but he looked away from you. He continued walking, pretending that nothing ever happened but you noticed that his jaw was clenched when he walked past you.

When you reached Daniel’s garage, he introduced you to his race engineer and mechanics. You exchanged greetings. Yuki Tsunoda joined the conversation as well when he took notice of the new addition that Daniel brought.

“So, what are you two?” Yuki asked. The other people in the garage were listening intently, curious as to what the answer was.

“Umm, we’re not really sure yet,” you answered honestly. “We’re still figuring it out.”

You looked at Daniel and he grinned, agreeing with your answer. Most of them shrugged at your response but they couldn’t hide the smirks they were showing when they each looked at Daniel.

Daniel led the way to his driver’s room, making sure you were settled in there before he eventually had to leave to do some things he needed to do.

You heard the sound of your phone notifying you that someone sent you a message. You checked it.

You rolled your eyes as you stared at your phone, slightly cursing at yourself because you swore not to reply to any of his texts anymore. His last texts were from the night he tried to convince you to stay with him—the last time you talked to him in person. You didn’t even notice yourself typing a reply until you already sent it.

You knew nothing would stop Max from doing what he wanted to do. What Max Verstappen wants, Max Verstappen gets.

You just placed your phone in your pocket and hoped that whatever kind of talk they would have would not affect the race later.

The race would start at 1:00 p.m., and even at 9:17 a.m., you could already feel how busy everyone was. Daniel entered the room, immediately sitting next to you on the couch and hugging you close. He rested his head on your lap and you played with his hair, twirling his already curly hair with your fingers. You stayed like that for a while, you were sure Daniel had already fallen asleep. You chuckled, pulling your phone from your pocket and snapping a cute picture of him.

You weren’t sure how many minutes had passed. You tried taking a nap but your excitement for today was too much for even a minute of sleep to consume you. So, you just stared at Daniel and resumed playing with his hair with one hand, while the other scrolled through Twitter on your phone.

And there it was. The speculations were already starting. You had no idea how they even knew it was you from just a side view of your body.

But for the first time, you didn’t care.

You scrolled even more, reading almost every comment about the picture of you and Daniel.

Every comment and reply you saw was positive, not even one negative comment about him. People loved him and you understood them. What’s there not to love about him?

Even you were not an exception. You cared for him. You were attracted to someone everyone admired.

Everybody wondered what it would be like to love him.

And you wondered the same.

Daniel’s phone that was atop the coffee table made a noise, informing him that someone had texted. He was still lying on the couch with his head on your lap when he got woken up by the notification and took his phone from the table. He immediately sat up when he saw who it was.

You sneaked a glance and saw that it was Max.

They were texting back and forth and since Daniel’s phone was not on silent, you heard every tap he made on his keyboard. He was typing roughly, his phone shaking just by the force of his typing. His jaw was clenched and his eyebrows were knitted.

He was angry.

And you knew why. You wanted the couch you were sitting on right now to eat you alive.

Minutes later, someone knocked on the door, saying something about a meeting he needed to present for. You knew he wasn’t talking to Max anymore because he had stopped typing. But still, he stared at the phone with so much hatred.

You had never seen Daniel this angry before. You couldn’t help but ask Max what he said.

But of course, Max told you nothing.

Daniel stood up suddenly, his stance telling you he was still pissed off. But before he could fully leave the room, he looked at you as if he was asking for your permission if he could leave. You nodded in response, smiling to assure him that you were going to be fine.

You didn’t dare to know how their conversation went anymore.

“It’s lights out and away we go!” you heard Crofty announce. And as soon as he said it, 20 sensational drivers in their cars fought for positions.

You actually left Daniel's room before the race started, deciding to watch from the back of the main garage with the other AlphaTauri guests. You didn’t need to hide anyway because people already knew you. And besides, the cameras were focused on the race.

53 laps later, Daniel finished P9 which was astonishing given that he was driving an AlphaTauri. Because let’s be honest, the team and their cars aren't exactly built to win a championship.

You knew he had media duties to do after the race so you didn’t expect him to go back immediately. You returned to his room, watching the post-race interviews while waiting for him. You immediately focused on the screen as soon as it was his turn.

“P9, huh? What an astonishing drive,” a Sky reporter praised him.

“Well, yeah,” he chuckled. “Thank you. I had a lot more motivation today and I made sure to project it on track.”

You blushed.

The reporter asked him questions about the pace, what he felt about the race and the usual stuff. All of them he answered with a smile on his face. Even in his sweaty conditions, he looked gorgeous.

What must it be like to grow up that beautiful?

His hair was falling into place like dominoes.

And once again you questioned just how on earth this man was a real person.

Back in the hotel, with your phone in your pocket, you were helping Daniel pack his suitcases in his room after you already packed yours.

He was taking a much-needed shower while you insisted on packing his belongings for him. God knew how tired he was after the race and you had a lot of free time on your hands. Even if he didn’t want you to do it for him, you still did it.

Daniel came out of the bathroom already dressed and immediately proceeded to help you pack. “Have you seen my headphones?” he asked.

“No, and I haven’t packed it yet,” you answered. “Where did you last remember using it?”

“I think it’s in your room.”

“Okay, I’ll check it,” you got ready to leave before he stopped you.

“You want me to come with you?” he asked.

“No, but thanks,” you smiled. “Just continue packing so we’ll finish faster.”

Moments later, you discovered that his headphones were indeed in your room. You quickly retrieved it and made your way back to his.

As you were about to open Daniel’s door, the room beside him opened and someone entered the hallway. You made the mistake of looking at the person because it was Max. You made eye contact for the second time that day and he seemed stuck on the floor.

He frowned, eyeing you and the room you were about to enter. You saw his confusion turn into realization when he remembered who the person staying in that room was. And then, he scoffed. He walked past you again, brushing his shoulder with yours as he went straight to the elevator.

You sighed, opening the door and seeing how Daniel already finished packing most of his belongings.

“I found it,” you said, handing him the headphones. He stood up from his position, getting the item from your hand before tossing it on the bed and caging you with his arms.

“My God, what would I do without you?” he said, rocking you back and forth as he hugged you.

You looked up to meet his eyes. “I don’t know, probably lose half of your things,” you laughed as he released you from his arms. “Now, where were we?” you asked, looking over all the suitcases on the floor.

“I finished most of it, I’m sure it’ll take me only 5 minutes to finish the rest.”

“Okay, you do that. I’ll check the other bags if you’ve forgotten something again.”

Daniel did in fact finish the rest in only 5 minutes. He stood up, stretching his body after the crouching he had to do while he was packing.

You couldn’t help but look at him. He was wearing a simple white t-shirt and his back was facing you. You saw how the muscles on his arms and back flexed while he stretched.

Suddenly, everything was in slow motion.

You didn't like slow motion double vision in rose blush.

You didn’t like that falling felt like flying 'til the bone crush.

Everybody wanted him.

And you didn’t like that you didn’t wonder the same anymore.

Because unlike them, you didn’t need to wonder. You already loved him.

You didn’t like a gold rush.

But for him, you would.

You stood up, walking towards him until you were in front of him. He faced you, confused as to what you had to say.

But you didn’t say anything.

Instead, you placed your hands on his cheeks and you caressed them gently.

His eyes started doing the same thing they did back when you spent the night in his childhood room and your heart started beating faster than ever.

They were gleaming.

Twinkling.

Those eyes…

They were like sinking ships on waters so inviting.

So, you jumped in.

You pulled his face close to you, closing the distance with a passionate kiss. He was shocked at first, not because he didn’t want it but because he didn’t expect it. He was ready for you anytime, he was just waiting for the time you would tell him that you felt the same.

And instead of telling him, you showed him.

With a kiss, you made him feel.

Daniel reciprocated the kiss and held you closer.

From that moment on, he won.

Or at least he thought he did.

We all know Max Verstappen was a fierce competitor.

He kissed your forehead when he pulled away. Then, he placed a soft peck on both sides of your cheeks before pressing his hands softly on them. You looked at him lovingly.

Your phone in your pocket buzzed from someone messaging you but you were too busy admiring Daniel that you didn’t even pay attention to it.

Only time would tell how those two sets of three little words would affect you.

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