Warnings: None, unless you count Charles having a mini heart attack and Toto yelling in three languages.
🏎️ Growing Up Ferrari’s Little Mascot
Y/N had been born with the smell of gasoline in her lungs and the sound of pit guns in her ears. The Ferrari garage wasn’t just her second home—it was her actual home. Her dad was a mechanic who had been with Ferrari for over a decade, and somehow, his kid had ended up becoming every driver’s unofficial niece.
By 2025, she was 17, loud, a walking car encyclopedia, and far too comfortable calling out World Champions for their nonsense. And the worst part? They all let her.
Charles swore she was like his little sister. Lewis claimed she knew more about aerodynamics than half the rookies who walked in. Max admitted he was actually afraid of her after she corrected his toe angle mid-track walk. George described her as “terrifying in a polite way.” Yuki saw her as a snack rival. Kimi once had his homework corrected by her and still hadn’t recovered from being roasted about his handwriting.
Y/N wasn’t officially employed by anyone, but the paddock knew her. She was the kid with grease on her hands, always rolling around under a car, and she had the uncanny ability to spot when something was off before even the engineers noticed.
🔧 The Spark of Chaos
It started innocently enough. Y/N had been hanging around the Ferrari garage, listening to her dad rant about the scrap pile they had to sort through.
So naturally, her brain went: “What if I… just… built something?”
Two weeks later, hidden in the corner of the garage, Y/N had assembled what could generously be described as a Frankenstein go-kart. It had an old kart chassis, leftover Ferrari bodywork from 2022, and wheels that absolutely did not match.
But it ran.
And that was the problem.
🚨 The Discovery
The first person to see it was Charles.
Charles blinked at the tiny car in the corner. “…what…is that?”
Y/N, without hesitation: “My child. Be respectful.”
Charles: “YOUR WHAT??”
Lewis walked in behind him, holding an espresso. He stopped mid-sip. “…why does it have a Ferrari front wing on it?”
Y/N, proudly: “Because it deserves the best.”
Lewis: “…that’s a 2022 spec part. Do you even—wait. Does it run?”
Y/N, grinning like she’d just robbed a bank: “Want to see?”
Before either Ferrari driver could stop her, Y/N hopped into the seat, twisted some questionable wiring, and the car ROARED to life.
Charles nearly dropped dead on the spot.
Charles: “NO NO NO. THIS IS DANGEROUS. YOU’RE A CHILD.”
Lewis: already filming it for Instagram “This is the best thing I’ve ever seen.”
🏁 The News Spreads
Unfortunately for Charles, Lewis uploaded the video with the caption: “Ferrari’s new junior driver 👀”
The internet broke. Within twenty minutes, every team garage was aware. Within thirty, half the grid was at Ferrari demanding to see it.
👀 Red Bull’s Reaction
Max stared at the scrap car like it was cursed. “…this is illegal.”
Y/N: “Show me the rulebook.”
Max, muttering: “…you terrify me.”
Yuki was already halfway into the seat before Charles physically dragged him out by the collar. “Move. I’m testing it.”
Charles: “NO. GET OUT. THIS IS NOT A TOY.”
Lewis: laughing while still recording “Actually, it very much is a toy.”
Y/N: “It’s art.”
🧑🏫 Mercedes Shows Up
George arrived first, pristine as ever, followed by Kimi, who had heard rumors that Y/N had “created a monster.”
George: hands on hips “This is not safe.”
Y/N: “Neither is Mercedes’ tire strategy sometimes but you don’t see me complaining.”
George: offended gasp
Kimi, wide-eyed: “You built this? Out of scraps?”
Y/N: “Yep.”
Kimi: “…can you help me with my physics homework later?”
George: “KIMI.”
Y/N: “Sure. But only if I can test drive it around the paddock.”
George: “ABSOLUTELY NOT.”
Lewis, unhelpful: “I think we should let her.”
Charles, about to have an aneurysm: “NO ONE IS DRIVING THIS DEATH TRAP.”
🔥 The Great Scrap Car Race (aka the Dumbest Idea Ever)
Of course, the more Charles said no, the more everyone else said yes.
It started with Yuki daring Y/N to do a lap around the paddock. Then Max insisted he could drive it faster. Then Lewis suggested a mini GP.
Within an hour, half the paddock had gathered for the first unofficial “Scrap Car Grand Prix.”
Rules were simple: one lap around the paddock, no sabotaging the kart, and winner gets bragging rights and an energy drink supplied by Yuki.
The participants? Y/N (the creator, obviously), Yuki (chaos incarnate), Max (because of course), George (to prove he’s responsible but also competitive), and Charles (only entered to make sure Y/N didn’t die).
Lewis was the commentator. Kimi was the flag waver. Toto tried to shut it down but failed spectacularly when Y/N pointed out “there’s no rule against it.”
📣 Race Commentary Highlights
Lewis: “Alright everyone, welcome to the first ever Scrap Car GP. I’ll be your commentator. This is already the dumbest thing I’ve seen in my entire career and I raced Pastor Maldonado.”
The race started with Y/N actually getting the jump because she built the thing and knew its quirks. Yuki nearly crashed into a catering table. George was trying to be careful but also screaming at everyone for cutting corners. Max was treating it like a real race and terrifying the spectators. Charles was literally just driving behind Y/N like a bodyguard.
Lewis: “Max is pushing Y/N into the wall—CHILL, SHE’S SEVENTEEN.”
Toto, off-camera and furious: “I’M CALLING YOUR FATHER.”
Y/N, yelling mid-race: “DO IT, HE’LL BE PROUD.”
🏆 The Aftermath
In the end, Y/N won purely because everyone else crashed, stalled, or gave up.
Max ran out of patience and stormed off. Yuki got distracted by snacks. George claimed he was “robbed” because he followed the rules. Charles deliberately slowed down to make sure Y/N was okay.
Lewis handed her a toy trophy he found in the Ferrari motorhome. “Ladies and gentlemen, your new World Champion.”
Charles, head in hands: “I hate all of you.”
📰 Media Reaction
By the next morning, the headlines were insane: “Ferrari Mechanic’s Daughter Builds Race Car Out of Scraps” … “Future F1 Talent? Meet the Girl Who Outsmarted Half the Grid” … “Lewis Hamilton Seen Commentating Illegal Paddock Race.”
Ferrari PR was in shambles. Y/N’s dad threatened to ground her. Toto Wolff was allegedly heard muttering about “junior driver contracts.”
Meanwhile, Y/N was just sitting pretty, polishing her Franken-kart, and asking if anyone had spare carbon fiber she could use.
✨ Chaos Forever
Y/N, grinning at her scrap car: “Next time, I’m building one with a DRS system.”
Charles: “NEXT TIME??”
Lewis: “I’ll sponsor it.”
George: “This is an actual safety hazard.”
Yuki: “I call dibs on first test drive.”
Max: “…if she enters F2 with that thing, I’m retiring.”
2 weeks later...
✨The Upgrade Nobody Asked For
The problem with Y/N wasn’t that she had ideas. It was that she had access to mechanics, drivers, and occasionally, very bored engineers who thought “helping the kid with her project” was a good way to kill time.
Two weeks after the Scrap Car GP, Ferrari discovered Y/N had been sneaking into the garage late at night, raiding the parts bin. Again.
This time, she wasn’t building a go-kart. She was upgrading.
🛠️ The Secret Helpers
She had help, of course. Yuki smuggled snacks and acted as lookout. Kimi Antonelli “accidentally” left his laptop with aero models open. George pretended he didn’t see anything but “accidentally” dropped notes about suspension setups. And Lewis? Lewis encouraged her constantly, occasionally tossing her leftover carbon fiber like it was candy.
Even Max caved after she pointed out a flaw in his simulator setup. He leaned over her shoulder once, muttered something about “that’s not the right camber angle,” and then stalked off like he hadn’t just contributed.
By the end of the month, Y/N’s Franken-kart had evolved. It had a DRS flap, better suspension, reinforced brakes, and an engine that absolutely had no business being inside a kart.
😱 The Reveal
Charles walked in one morning, humming, coffee in hand… only to freeze at the sight of Y/N revving her upgraded beast.
Charles: “WHAT IS THAT.”
Y/N: “Version two. Now with DRS.”
Charles: “IT HAS DRS???”
Lewis, casually leaning against the wall: “She’s innovating.”
Charles: “SHE’S GOING TO DIE.”
Y/N: “Nah, I fixed the braking system.”
George, whispering: “She actually did. It’s better than ours.”
Charles: “WHAT.”
🏎️ Scrap Car GP 2.0 (aka The Disaster Grand Prix)
It was inevitable. The grid begged for another race. Y/N insisted on it. Charles begged them not to. Guess who won?
Scrap Car GP 2.0 had actual heats, a bracket system, and a finishing podium made out of Red Bull crates. This time, even more drivers joined.
Participants included Y/N, Yuki, Max, George, Kimi, and—against his better judgment—Charles. Lewis commentated again. Fernando Alonso showed up just to spectate and bet money.
This race was chaos. Y/N’s upgraded kart smoked everyone down the straights. Yuki tried to ram her and ended up in a flower bed. Max pushed so hard he nearly spun himself. George lectured everyone while still losing. Kimi nearly cried with joy when Y/N let him test the DRS.
Charles was screaming the entire time.
🏆 Aftermath, Again
Y/N won. Again.
Lewis hoisted her onto the Red Bull crate podium like she’d just won Monaco. The crowd (aka half the paddock and some very confused journalists) cheered. Someone threw confetti.
Charles looked five years older. “We are ALL going to get sued.”
Ferrari PR passed out in the corner.
And Toto? Toto was already drafting paperwork for a contract. “If we don’t sign her, Red Bull will.”
✨ Chaos Forever
Y/N, tinkering with her kart: “Next upgrade, I’m adding ERS.”
Charles: “STOP ADDING THINGS.”
Lewis: “I’ll get you the batteries.”
George: “This is madness.”
Yuki: “I’m bringing snacks for the next race.”
Max: “…if she actually builds a hybrid system, I’m done.”
And that was how a 17-year-old mechanic’s kid became the unofficial terror and pride of the F1 paddock—one scrap car at a time.
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I need a Reader who just has to rawdog it through life.
No caffeine, regulated sugar, no alcohol, no tobacco, no energy drinks, no milk, no cheese, no gluten.
Reader who has Pica, Reader who works a night shift and yet has insomnia, so they are just constantly tired. Reader who has problems walking, Reader with a lazy eye, reader with ‘unattractive’ features.
Reader with mobility devices who still push their limits to improve. Med student Reader who can’t find a job to support it. Broke Reader being screwed over by their debt, Reader with albinism, black Reader having the paper bag test done to them at work, asian Reader influencer having to deal with the white men in their comments.
Biracial Reader struggling to choose an identity when the world chooses it for you, specifically a non black mixed Reader. Like Indian reader mixed with Japanese, who’s skin doesn’t match the projected image, and yet is too far away from their other culture.
Disordered eater Reader who staves themselves all day only to binge eat when they can’t take it. Disordered eater Reader who works out too much and yet forgets to eat.
Scarred Reader who is not the romantic stereotype, who looks deformed by their scars. Burned Reader struggling to be treated as human after their mutilation. Amputee Reader struggling to relearn their body.
Curly-haired Reader wishing to have straight hair and straight-haired Reader wishing to have curls.
A Reader who covers their freckles, and a Reader who paints them. A masc-looking Fem!Reader who struggles to wear feminine clothes, fem-looking Male!Reader struggling to look masculine!
Give me a Reader with too many siblings, who isn’t the oldest, and is lost in the middle! A Reader who daydreams the day away, who draws cringe OCs and cries when their favorite character dies!
A Reader who’s too empathetic, a Reader who’s too apathetic! A Reader who’s overwhelmed with parenting, a Reader trying to reparent themselves after being raised a brat. An high-functioning autistic Reader who tries to validate their experiences. A high-needs autistic Reader who uses a robotic voice to communicate (I forgot what it’s called 😞) and yet is still chatty and funny!
A Reader who is afraid of stupid things, a narcoleptic Reader who finds everything funny. A Reader with no humor, a Reader who’s working off weight. And I’m not talking no ‘140 lbs(63.503kg) to 80lbs(36.287kg) 🤩!’ type Y/N build. I’m talking overweight Reader deciding (FOR THEMSELVES!!!!!) that they want to loose a couple pounds. I want a bodybuilder chubby Reader who can lift over 300 lbs (136 kg).
I need a nerdy BL lover Reader, who spends all their money on their Gacha games. Weirdo Reader, who knows more people online than real life. Creepy Reader who watches analog horror to make theories.
Perv Reader who’s usual reads is smut, who’s favorite authors are dark romance. Where’s the crime loving Readers, who yumeship themselves with criminals. Where’s the other side of crime loving Reader, who spends hours working to the sound of crime podcasts. Digital artist Reader, who draws to the sounds of body-cams and celebrates in their room when the bad guy gets caught.
Niche fandom Reader who makes their own merch, dedicated to a dead fandom like it’s their legacy. AO3 author Reader who’s iconic throughout the fandom. (Like Jabsartt, or the Mirrors fic)
WE NEED READERS WHO WE CAN RELATE TO!! NO PLAIN Y/N, GIVE THEM SOME SPICEEE!!! MAKE THEM CREEPY WEIRDOS WHO CAN’T RELATE TO NORMAL PEOPLE!!
aka I just want a weirdo reader. Not even just that, but that was the OG intent. Make them relatable people. Make them fat. Not even chubby, give them elbow meat and make them have big faces. Make them weak and slow, make them desperate, make them relatable. Make their lives shit, make them feel inferior, build them back up into a new person. Make them spontaneous, put yourself in there, the good, the bad, and the ugly.
And for goodness sake, please don’t make the default white. Write your own experiences into them, how would you react, not some perfect doll. Don’t be afraid of the cringe that might come from writing Readers of different colors and race, just stay away from the stereotypes. You can even look up how to write different races or read experiences from the people of that race you’re basing it off of. Don’t make white the default. As a white person.
Note: this is my first fic here, so… yeah. reblogs and comments are very much appreciated!
Tags: Reader X Sunday, GN!Reader, Reader plays cello, Sunday plays piano, fluff and some angst if you squint really hard. Astral Express has a piano bc i said so. NOT PROOFREAD.
*CAN BE PLATONIC OR ROMANTIC* <- leaning more towards platonic, imo.
[Divider from a rentry site called crusher dividers]
The actual summary: Reader wakes up in the middle of the night feeling hungry, so they go to grab a snack and get jumpscared by Sunday playing piano.
wc: 1,230 :>
You woke up in the middle of the night, in the room you shared with March. She had one arm splayed across your chest, with her face buried inside a pillow. Thankfully, she didn’t snore… unlike a certain Trailblazer. However, the current arrangement wasn’t the best. Any other day, you wouldn’t have minded, since the rest of the crew say you could potentially sleep through the apocalypse. You had to limit your breath intake to not disturb March right now, since she was the lightest sleeper you’ve ever known. And you were hungry.
Fortunately, as you stared into the void of the ceiling, March rolled over onto her side, leaving you with the ability to get up. The problem now… you have to get up silently. So you slowly sat up, and let one leg go over the edge of the bed slowly. Then the other leg followed, and all you had to do was stand up quietly. That you could do. You finally got up, and put on your slippers at the edge of the bed. After that, you looked back at the room, and made sure March was still asleep.
Then you treaded carefully into the hallway, hearing a pleasant piano melody. It was faint, so you thought that someone left a phonograph on again. After confirming once more that March isn’t awake, you walked towards the end of the hall. As you carefully stepped towards the source of the melody, you thought this was going to be a simple in-n-out. Take the snack, and then leave. Easy enough, right?
Wrong.
Because when you finally reached the end of the hall, no, someone did not leave a phonograph on. Someone—Sunday, you realized, was playing the piano. You stood there like an idiot, completely baffled by the melody sounding so good, and the fact he’s playing this late at night. Sure, he was a bit eccentric sometimes, but not to this extent, you thought. This’ll definitely be awkward, because… you two hadn’t interacted much. He was here before you, but never made much effort on his end. And you didn’t really try talking to him either. But, you both got along. You noticed how the light from whatever galaxy you were in bathed the entire room in a soft, silvery glow. This moment felt peaceful, and yet… private is the word to describe this, you thought.
It was pretty much vulnerability on full display. You decided to step as quietly as you can with slippers on, towards the bowl of snacks that laid at the center table. In the middle of the room. After the first step, the playing ceased, and Sunday stood up from the piano bench.
Oh fuck, you thought.
“Mx. [____?] Did I wake you?” Sunday asked gently.
“No, I was just hungry, that’s all,” you stammered. It didn’t help that the starlight from outside the Express shone in his eyes so brightly either.
“I’ll just get a snack and leave, that’s it,” you said.
Sunday nodded, and sat back down at the piano bench. He placed his hands tentatively on the piano, deciding on what to play next.
He ended up going with a more somber melody. Beautiful low tones filled the room, and paired with the silvery starlight, it set a haunting atmosphere.
Not the best for eating a snack in peace. You walked towards the center of the room, more confident now that you had no reason to be afraid. A pack of cookies was just sitting on the large circle table, and you took it as soon as you were within reaching distance. You sat in an armchair, glad that Sunday paid no attention towards you.
Until he made a comment whilst playing. “…Mx. [____], do you know how to play an instrument?”
You paused mid-bite of the brownie cookie, before swallowing and deciding to answer.
“Yeah, I used to play cello. Don’t do it nearly as often as I used to… but I still remember the basics,” you said with nostalgia in your voice. Those were good days, being part of an orchestra and laughing with your friends. You remember the glances everyone gave each other when a piece with divisi was handed to them. The way your friends giggled when the conductor just assigned ‘top,’ and ‘bottom.’
“Ah, I see.” Sunday looked down at the piano solemnly, and you wondered what exactly he seemed to be sad about.
“Say, Mx. [____], how would you feel about… playing the piano?”
You blinked. You might’ve heard him wrong or something, but nope. He was genuinely asking you to play the piano. You assumed it was most likely a sentimental thing of value, and you didn’t want to intrude on that aspect of his life. But with that curious look he gave you, something like hope swirling in his eyes, how could you say no?
So you obliged, and walked up towards the black piano bench.
You sat beside Sunday, and he shifted towards the side to make room for you.
Meanwhile, you were internally panicking. It did not help that you were beside him without an inch of space.
This was not fair at all. Too close, you thought. Way too close.
The only thing eventful so far was that Sunday mainly corrected you about using both hands, and not just one. Thankfully.
“Sorry,” you had said for the nth time now. “Old habits die hard, am I right?” You grinned, hoping that he could not feel your heart rate escalate.
Sunday looked thoughtful for a second, before nodding and asking you to play a simple melody again. It was one you were unfamiliar with.
Your left hand kept doing most of the work, while your right was occasionally pressing some keys here and there. Not on purpose, obviously, but it was still challenging.
“Mx. [____], try using only your right hand,” Sunday suggested.
You looked at him curiously, and then he put his left hand on top of yours, effectively immobilizing it. Your hand wasn’t squished, but it was held down firmly. Sunday’s grip was oddly gentle, and his hand was warm. Really warm.
You thought he would’ve been fed up with you by now, but clearly not. Well, maybe he was, but he probably didn’t want to show it.
Not even a single sigh of resignation from him, just gentle guidance and kind words.
“Honestly, how are you not annoyed by now?” You said, playing it off as a joke.
Sunday tilted his head in confusion. “What could possibly be annoying about teaching?”
“A lot, really. Anything could go wrong,” you replied dryly. “That’s why I’m not a teacher. Don’t have the same kindness you do.”
Oh, the irony.
“…I’m sure you know of my crimes. But I did them with pure intentions. Would you consider that kindness?” Sunday asked.
“…No,” you managed. “But you’re trying to be better, and that’s what really matters. You can forgive and remember at the same time, Sunday.”
The silence afterwards was thick with emotion. After that, you had finally played the simple melody, using both hands equally instead of one or the other.
Sunday smiled, and as you got up to leave, he said it so quietly you almost missed it.
“…Thank you.”
You stopped where you were, looked back at him, and nodded.
You walked back to your room after that, slithered back into bed next to March, and decided you’d actually initiate a conversation with him the next time you saw him.
Little did you know, he had decided the same thing.
Warnings: Age Gap, Mentions of Anxiety, Power Imbalance.
Summary: He was chaos. She was order. For two years, she was the secret genius who turned Tony Stark's wildest ideas into reality, all without ever meeting him. But when he finally walked into her office, he wasn't just impressed by her work—he was obsessed.
The hum of the data servers was the soundtrack of my life. At 25 years old, being the Director of Applied Innovation at Stark Industries was a dream that surpassed all fantasy. My world, much younger than that of most people in the boardroom, was composed of blueprints, algorithms, and the sublime challenge of translating the chaotic genius of a man who was almost a legend to me into tangible projects that would improve the world.
I had never met him. Tony Stark was a ghost, a myth from a previous generation whose ideas reached me through memos from Pepper Potts. I was his young, invisible shadow. He, an established genius. He created, I converted. He improvised, I organized. He blew things up in his lab, and I, the twenty-something with more responsibility than I could sometimes handle, presented the impeccable report to the board of directors, justifying the expense. It was a perfect dance, from a distance.
El día que finalmente lo conocí fue en la presentación trimestral del proyecto. Yo, con mis mejores tacones para aparentar más edad, le explicaba el programa de prótesis neuronales cuando entró. Entró en la sala con una confianza que solo los años y el poder pueden dar, y se sentó con expresión impasible.
The next day, the smell arrived first: motor oil, expensive coffee, and a clean, mentholated scent that smelled of experience and money. Tony Stark appeared in the doorway of my office with a smile that could melt steel and a box of scrap metal.
"Good morning, Director. I have a new idea for you," he announced, treating me with a familiarity that left me breathless. He sat down as if he had been doing it for decades, and began taking out pieces. "It's a molecular-level toxin neutralizer. What do you think?"
I was dumbfounded. It wasn't a memo. It was Tony Stark, in person, asking for my opinion, me, a girl who still remembered watching his exploits on the university news. I told him I would need to review the compound's stability. His smile widened. "Excellent objection! That's why I came!"
And from that day on, he didn't leave my side. His veteran chaos needed my young-girl order, and my meticulousness began to appreciate his brilliant improvisation, born from years of experience. He created, and I by his side, translating, refining. He asked for my advice. He listened to me. And for me, it was inevitable.
Era Tony Stark. Era exasperantemente arrogante y tremendamente atractivo, con una confianza que solo los años pueden forjar. Cada vez que se inclinaba sobre mi hombro, su aroma mentolado me hacía sentir como una groupie, pero su mente me trataba como a una igual.
He began to ask me out. "Come on, Director. This project requires pizza." I, with the heart of a teenager but the head of a professional, invented a thousand excuses. The contrast was too great: him, Tony Stark, a man at the peak of his life. Me, just starting mine. I was afraid of being just a fling for him, the young girl of the moment.
But Tony is persistent. The flirtation became a duel of wits where I, to my surprise, could win. With him, I felt smart, heard, valued not only for my efficiency, but for my mind, despite my years.
One night, after a success, we were celebrating with a whiskey. The tower was silent.
"You know," he said, his voice soft. "This works. We work."
"The project does," I said, avoiding his gaze.
"Not the project, us," he insisted, turning my chair. "I don't want you to go home. In fact, I don't want you to ever leave."
"Tony…"
"Move into the Tower," he said, and his gaze showed a raw vulnerability. "I have ten empty floors. I want to keep working with you at 3 a.m. I want to have breakfast with you at 10 a.m. I want… this to be permanent."
The silence was dense. The ball of ice in my stomach was pure panic.
"Are you… completely out of your mind?" The question came out tinged with disbelief. "Move here? With you? Tony, we barely know each other! I'm… I'm much younger, this is… it's insane!"
He blinked, as if my age were an irrelevant detail he had never considered an obstacle. "What does that matter? These months have been the most lucid of my life. We know everything we need to know."
"We don't know! You've lived twice as long as I have! You know nothing about my world and I know nothing about yours!" I stood up, feeling the immense generational gap suddenly like an abyss. "This is suffocating!"
The word fell like a slab. Tony went still, and for the first time, I saw something genuinely hurt in his eyes. It wasn't anger, but the bewilderment of a man who didn't understand why something so perfect for him could be so wrong for me.
"Suffocating," he repeated, in a flat tone.
"Yes," I whispered. "Tony, I need… to breathe. I need to live my life. I can't just jump into yours like that."
"I understand," he said finally, his voice regaining a glacial distance. He stood up. "I don't want to be a burden. Or… suffocating."
And he left.
Las semanas siguientes fueron una agonía. Volvimos al frío protocolo. Y yo me sentía miserable. Extrañaba nuestro mundo compartido. Me di cuenta de que, en mi terror a ser un cliché, había herido algo genuino.
I found a screwdriver he had personalized for me and knew I had made a mistake. Not for refusing to move in, but for not offering an alternative. For not fighting for "us."
Determined, I marched to his workshop. I found him under the hood of a car, with AC/DC at full volume. I turned off the music.
"Director? A problem with the last memo?" he asked coldly.
"Yes, a huge problem," I said, thrusting the screwdriver into his chest. "It's yours."
He looked at the screwdriver and then at me, confused.
"And I came to tell you that you were right about one thing, and I was right about another," I continued. "You were right that we work. I was right that me moving in here is insane… for now."
He smirked. "And?"
"And… that maybe there's a middle ground. One that doesn't involve sharing a zip code yet." I took a deep breath. "How about we start with a date? A real one. Outside the tower. Where we can discover if, despite the years of difference, our worlds can fit together."
Tony slowly took off his goggles, studying me. The tension evaporated.
"A date," he repeated. "Like… pizza and a view of Central Park at 2 a.m., but without the pretext of a project?"
"Exactly."
A slow, true smile lit up his face. "That sounds like a sensible and well-structured plan, Director."
"Someone has to," I said, smiling back.
"Deal," he agreed, taking my hand. "One date. But on one condition: I choose the place. And I promise not to mention the word 'move'… until you do."
Heyyy, is it alright if I ask for a Hazbin Hotel character matchup. (i don't mind the gender) Here is my info: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1lCoU2PmWJBBZNXi5Vj3mokyCZSAz3lykzknH2PcDIB4/edit?usp=sharing
Thank you so much
❝ HAZBIN HOTEL — MATCHUP ❞
⸻
❝ YOU ARE MATCHED WITH… Velvette ❞
ꜱᴛʀᴀᴛᴇɢɪᴄ ᴍɪɴᴅ x ᴄᴜʀᴀᴛᴇᴅ ᴄʜᴀᴏꜱ.
You are thoughtful, introspective, curious, constantly analyzing the world around you. Velvette is fast-paced, expressive, socially sharp, and hyper-aware of people in a completely different way.
And somehow?
You click.
Because where you observe, she acts.
⸻
❝ SHE FINDS YOU INTERESTING — FAST. ❞
You have that “people confess to me for no reason” energy.
Velvette notices immediately.
Not in a soft way.
In a fascinated way.
“You’re weird,” she says, scrolling through something before glancing at you again. “Not in a bad way. Just… people talk to you a lot, don’t they?”
You blink.
“…yeah.”
“Yeah. Thought so.”
And just like that, she’s paying attention to you more than anyone else in the room.
⸻
❝ YOUR INTELLECT x HER SOCIAL INTELLIGENCE. ❞
You’re a science person. Analytical, curious, mentally active.
Velvette is socially intelligent.
She reads people like data.
Together?
You cover both sides.
You’ll sit there dissecting behaviors, motives, patterns, and she’ll lean in like—
“Okay, but did you notice how she switched tone halfway through?”
And suddenly you’re both spiraling into analysis together.
It becomes your thing.
⸻
❝ SHE MATCHES YOUR ENERGY (IMPORTANT). ❞
One of your biggest needs is reciprocation.
If your energy isn’t matched, you pull away.
Velvette does not let that happen.
You text fast?
She texts faster.
You ramble?
She engages.
You send ten messages?
She sends fifteen back.
You never feel like you’re “too much” with her.
⸻
❝ YOUR ANXIETY x HER CONFIDENCE. ❞
You overthink. You get anxious. You need validation.
Velvette doesn’t baby you.
But she does ground you.
“Relax,” she says, not unkindly. “You’re fine. You’re overthinking it.”
And weirdly—
It works.
Because she says it like fact.
⸻
❝ YOUR ACADEMIA AESTHETIC x HER FASHION BRAIN. ❞
You love fashion. Academia, coquette, gold jewelry, curated looks.
Velvette loves that.
She will absolutely style you, help you refine your aesthetic, hype you up while doing it.
“You’re literally wasting potential if you don’t lean into this more,” she says, adjusting something on you.
You don’t even argue.
⸻
❝ SHE RESPECTS YOUR BOUNDARIES. ❞
You are curious but respectful. You back off when needed.
Velvette does the same.
If something is off-limits, she does not push.
She might tease—
But she won’t cross the line.
⸻
❝ YOUR LOVE LANGUAGES ALIGN PERFECTLY. ❞
Matching things?
Immediate yes.
Jewelry, outfits, small aesthetic details?
She eats that up.
Quality time?
Late night conversations, scrolling together, talking about everything and nothing.
Physical touch?
Present, but not overwhelming.
It feels natural.
⸻
❝ SHE KEEPS YOU FROM GETTING STUCK IN YOUR HEAD. ❞
You spiral. You overthink. You distract yourself constantly.
Velvette pulls you out of it.
“Okay, get up,” she says. “We’re doing something. You’re bored and it’s annoying.”
She doesn’t let you sit in that space too long.
⸻
❝ OVERALL ❞
A relationship built on stimulation and balance.
She keeps you engaged.
You keep her grounded in something deeper.
Smart, stylish, and perfectly matched energy.
⸻⸻⸻
❝ HONORABLE MATCH — Zestial ❞
ꜱʟᴏᴡ, ᴋɴᴏᴡɪɴɢ, ꜱᴏᴜʟ-ᴅᴇᴇᴘ ᴄᴏɴɴᴇᴄᴛɪᴏɴ.
⸻
❝ HE MATCHES YOUR INTROSPECTION. ❞
You think deeply.
So does he.
Your conversations would feel endless, philosophical, layered, meaningful.
⸻
❝ HE IS PATIENT WITH YOUR ANXIETY. ❞
No rushing. No pressure.
Just understanding.
⸻
❝ YOUR SOULMATE / FOUND FAMILY TROPE. ❞
This pairing feels like something fated. Quiet. Deep. Lasting.
⸻
❝ OVERALL ❞
Calm, intellectual, emotionally safe.
A bond that feels written in the stars.
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> Fushi leaves a vessel to wander around campus while he’s fighting Knockers
> Reader tutors Fushi
> Reader is good at school
> Dialogue-heavy
~•~•~
❀ The semester started with a new transfer, which wasn’t odd in the slightest.
❀ Besides his white hair that suspiciously looked too natural to be dyed, Fuyuki Shiromiya was an average student.
❀ He slept during class. Turned in decent assignments and held up the bare minimum. Just the run-of-the-mill student that couldn’t care less about his grades.
❀ At least, that’s what you assumed.
❀ Because he was slipping in his coursework, the teacher had assigned you as Fuyuki’s personal tutor. In other words, the tired teacher’s threat to you to keep his grades up.
❀ Little did they know, they assigned an eternity’s worth of gore and magic that sounded like it came straight out of a fairytale. And to a simple high schooler no less.
> “You’re Fuyuki, right?”
> “W-Wha- oh, yes, that’s me!”
❀ You had startled him awake upon entering the classroom, gone vacant after everyone else had left the building.
❀ Everyone except him.
❀ Sighing, you put your bag down, already assuming that whatever you had to say was going to go from one ear out the other. Why did it have to be you?
❀ On the other hand, Fuyuki, who seemed mildly anxious about something, smiled awkwardly and took out his notebook.
❀ Which was just the amount of tidy to show how little notes he actually took.
> “What did you need help on?”
> “Um…everything?”
> “….Everything?”
❀ He was an immortal being who fought knockers for a living. As well as too busy monitoring them to fully attend class. He didn’t have a clue what the modern humans knew and didn’t know.
> “I guess we’ll start with history?”
> “Sounds like a plan.”
❀ For a boy who was “slipping”, he sure knew his stuff.
❀ He knew biology and science with an almost scary kind of proficiency.
❀ He was great in history, more so lacking in math and english. Yet, he was decent enough to pass.
❀ And the way he listened to you, like he heard every single word, it was unfathomable why this kid even needed a tutor.
> “You sure you need help? You seem pretty good to me. With this attention span and IQ, you could enroll in college if you wanted to.”
> “College?”
❀ He shook his head and hands, as if the mere thought was out of the question.
> “No way. I probably just feel more comfortable with you than the teacher. I still lack the knowledge necessary to pass the next test.”
❀ No way was that true. Perhaps confidence was just the issue, you thought.
❀ Over the next couple of weeks, you continued to “tutor” Fuyuki. Along the way, you even became his friend.
❀ You learned over the time you spent with him that he was far beyond the dozy, devil-may-care type you originally thought him.
❀ For starters, he was extremely observant and attentive.
❀ He remembers everything you tell him. Especially about yourself. A bit stupid here and there, but earnest to a fault.
❀ Needless to say, he was charming in his own unique way.
❀ But the one aspect of him that you couldn’t stress enough was his huge compassion for everything.
❀ He loved every living being like they were treasure. Hell, you thought you saw him trying to tippy-toe around ants one time because he was afraid he’d squash them.
❀ It was hard not to root for him. Care for him. Slowly fall in love with him.
❀ Even though Fuyuki Shiromiya felt like a mystery, you couldn’t help but adore him. Perhaps that was why when you met Fushi, you didn’t turn away like he thought you would. Even though at the time, he wished you did.
> “It’s 3, right?”
❀ You laughed.
> “Yep. By now, I don’t think you need me anymore.”
> “Don’t say that. There’s still some time before finals, so there’s lots of things I need help on. And besides, I don’t mind it if it means we get to spend time like this.”
❀ You swear, he had so much unintentional charm, it was practically unfair.
❀ The sun was starting to set, so you began to collect your things to go home for the day. You were just about to reach for your notebook when-
> “Y/n, look out!”
❀ CRASH
❀ Right through the window, fleshy tentacles shot through into the floor until something crawled in.
❀ Something nasty, hissing, and brain-like. Out of shock, you couldn’t do anything but gawk and stare as it came straight for you.
❀ Thankfully, a large branch came from under the creature and skewered it motionless. A sharp, powerful gesture made by a singular flit of Fuyuki’s fingers.
❀ But by then, even with you saved, he knew that he was going to have to explain everything.
❀ It was the death of Fuyuki Shiromiya, the normal high school student you had come to love.
> “So, let me get this straight. What that giant pink brain-thing was is called a Knocker, you’re an immortal being that’s lived for more than 500 years and fights those things, and we’re all in danger because they’ve finally made their move?”
> “…..Pretty much.”
❀ He had volunteered to walk you home because he was worried Knockers would find you. Also to explain the reason he could manipulate roots like a god.
> “You’re probably scared of me now, aren’t you?”
❀ Tilting your head, you could see the way his honey eyes looked at you without ever reaching yours. A sure sign he was afraid that one look would send you fleeing on the spot.
❀ A small smile came to your lips, and to both of your surprise, you laughed.
> “Well, sure it’s pretty terrifying knowing that we’re all about to be attacked by sentient bubble gum and my tutoring partner can shoot tree branches at will. However, that doesn’t mean I’m scared of you. After all, you’re still a student and we still have to study for finals.”
❀ Finally turning to face you, his honey turned golden with relief and surprise.
> “Really? You still like me, Y/n?”
> “Yes, Fuyuki, I do.”
❀ A smile you never thought you’d see blessed his features, giving a laugh lighter than a feather.
> “It’s actually Fushi, and I’m glad you feel the same.”
> “I see. It’s nice meeting you then, Fushi. And, wait a minute-
Summary: Steve and the others learn just how bad the government facility was,
You were showing them everything in the underground home, there were a total of ten rooms, a workout room a workshop, massive living room and kitchen everything was solar paneled each room had a bathroom,
“So I know it’s nothing like avengers tower.. but you are all welcome to stay I did quite a few upgrades,” you say your voice scratchy and squeaky from all the screaming from being tortured and not to mention one of the men squeezed your throat so hard he damaged your voice box you couldn’t talk for the longest time
“We would love to stay.”Steve answered,
Your back still facing them you are sure they haven’t seen your mangled face yet,
You nod
“Good pick any room, I’m gonna have to make a run for supplies and food..”you began
“don’t worry about that, we’ve got plenty food and supplies,” Natasha says
You nodded still not facing them,
“Okay make yourselves at home, excuse me I have to check on the system…” you say walking away
After checking cameras and wire’s making sure the steel door has some counter measures in case someone tries to force their way through, you are in your workshop tweaking the AI watch you have been working on, a giant magnifying glass as you continue working on it.
your thoughts drift back to the facility….
Blood was all you could taste in your mouth your breathing ragged as one of the agents had a fist full of your hair making you look up at him after he beat the shit out of you,
“You know he is not coming for you. You might as well tell us where you last saw him or where he went.” The man says
You chuckled,
“Good as long as he and the others are safe that’s all that matters to me, you never will figure it out just like you will never crack my computer..” you say with a dry laugh
He backhanded you making you fall to the ground he started kick you,
“You will crack they all do eventually!” He says as he kicks you
********
You shake your head trying to rid yourself of memory, you look at the watch your hands were shaking you put down the tools in your hands taking a deep breath,
You hear a knock on the door,
“Yeah.” You answer it
“Hey you just-“ Nat says cutting herself off seeing your face
She gasps grabbing your chin,
“Christ Y/N! Why didn’t you say anything look at these injuries!” She said clearly upset
You pull your chin out of her grip,
“Didn’t think it was that big of a deal.” You say
“Well it is!” She says pulling you out of your seat
“Are there anymore injuries?” She asked pulling your shirt up a little to see,
Natasha was shocked, not only at the injuries you have but your overall health, you were underweight pale and by the looks of it you haven’t slept in a good while.
She grabs your wrist, leading you out of the room,
“Where was the medical room?” She asked
“Second door on the right.”you say
She nods talking you there you hear a few footsteps behind you, she Ordered you to sit on the medical table,
You sighed
“Nat it’s really not-“ you began but she only pointed
You sighed sitting on the table where Steve got a real good look at your face and injuries this only made him feel more guilty, what you didn’t notice was the way Bucky was looking at you with eyes filled with sadness and anger
Dude, the last lap dance you had was - was - was at Christmas. It was a gift paid for by me. You spent the entire song trying to convince the girl that she should go to nursing school.
or you give sam a lap dance, and he tries to convince you to go to nursing school
A/N - not smut but nsfw so be safe people
word count - 720
“Dude, the last lap dance you had was - was - was at Christmas. It was a gift paid for by me. You spent the entire song trying to convince the girl that she should go to nursing school.” Dean exclaimed.
Sam remembered it clear as day.
You’d strutted up to him, pointed his direction by Dean, an unknown amount of 100s in between your fingers like a cigarette. He’d protested, but you’d put the roll of money in between his lips, effectively silencing him as the next song queued.
Pony by Ginuwine.
You’d sat down on his lap, facing him with a bright grin as he pulled to notes from his lips with gentle care. You’d made him a promise, something about taking care of him, and Sam had nodded silently, giving you back your money. You tucked it in between the valley of your breasts, looking into his eyes, before standing, turning, sitting back down and grinding yourself into him.
“This is my song, you know?” You’d said. “I’m just a bachelorette, looking for a partner.”
Sam had basically choked on nothing as you said it, grinding particularly hard into his lap. You smiled, giggling at his reaction. It wasn’t often you had men as attractive as him coming into here, not knowing just how attractive they were, not acting like they owned the place.
“You could probably be a real nurse,” Sam had whispered, hands tentatively touching your waist, referencing the slutty costume you had on. You threw back your head in a laugh, the weight landing on his shoulder.
“You’re funny.” You giggled, spinning in his lap to face him. “I like funny guys.”
Sam closed his eyes as your breasts pushed up into his face. When he had opened his eyes again, you were frowning, eyes slightly narrowed, grinding slowly into him again.
“I mean it.” Sam said softly. “I’m sure you’re a smart girl.”
You rolled your eyes, placing a finger over his lips to silence him, shushing him as well. “I can be smart and a stripper.”
Sam grabbed your hand, pulling it away from his lips and staring into your eyes. “I know. But you could be anything you wanted. You don’t have to be a stripper.”
“I like being a stripper. I like pole dancing. I like doing lap dances. I like making more money in a song than a doctor makes in an hour.” You stood, turning and giving him a good view of your ass, bending over so that he could see your matching panties up your skirt. Sam’s eyes looked down to his lap. You stopped, standing upright with your hands on your hips. “I like the attention. And right now, you’re treating me like trash.”
Sam looked up, eyes wide. “No, no, no, no. I didn’t mean to offend you. You’re beautiful. I just didn’t want to objectify you!”
“I’m a stripper. It’s my job to be objectified!” You snapped, crossing your arms over your chest. Sam had looked up, trying not to look at your breasts as they threatened to spill out of the tiny little shirt you had on. “Look at me!”
Sam slowly looked back down at you, uncomfortableness clear on his face. You frowned.
“Why did you even come here if you didn’t want a lap dance, or to look at the women?” Sam sighed.
“My brother dragged me here. The guy who paid you.” You turned, looking over at the guy, who gave you a flirty wave. You waved back, smiling slightly.
“Okay, well. Do you want to respect me?”
“Yes!” Sam exclaimed, eyes wide once more.
“Then let me do my job, and look at me like I’m pretty. Don’t look away like I’m something disgusting. I chose to be a stripper.” You tilted your head. “You’re right. I could have been a nurse. Or a doctor, or a lawyer, or whatever I wanted. I was top of my class and I was accepted into an ivy league school. But I chose to be a stripper.”
Sam blink, then nodded. “Okay.”
“Okay.”
“Then, I think my brother paid for the rest of the song.” Sam offered tentatively. You grinned.
“You horny?” You asked with a giggle, referencing the song.
“My saddle’s waiting.” Sam said, and your grin widened. “Come and jump on it.”
