#$500 car challenge

[i-my-me01]

$500 CashApp Deposit

[i-my4549]

$500 CashApp Deposit

[mostlysignssomeportents]

"Efficiency" left the Big Three vulnerable to smart UAW tactics

Tomorrow (September 22), I'm (virtually) presenting at the DIG Festival in Modena, Italy. Tomorrow night, I'll be in person at LA's Book Soup for the launch of Justin C Key's "The World Wasn’t Ready for You." On September 27, I'll be at Chevalier's Books in Los Angeles with Brian Merchant for a joint launch for my new book The Internet Con and his new book, Blood in the Machine.

It's been 143 days since the WGA went on strike against the Hollywood studios. While early tactical leaks from the studios had studio execs chortling and twirling their mustaches about writers caving once they started losing their homes, the strikers aren't wavering – they're still out there, pounding the picket lines, every weekday:

https://www.cnbc.com/2023/08/09/how-hollywood-writers-make-ends-meet-100-days-into-the-writers-guild-strike.html

The studios obviously need writers. That gleeful, anonymous studio exec who got such an obvious erotic charge at the thought of workers being rendered homeless as punishment for challenging his corporate power completely misread the room, and his comments didn't demoralize the writers. Instead, they inspired the actors to go on strike, too.

But how have the writers stayed out since May Day? How have the actors stayed out for 69 days since their strike started on Bastille Day? We can thank the studios for that! As it turns out, the studios have devoted so much energy to rendering creative workers as precarious as possible, hiring as little as they can getting away with and using punishing overtime as a substitute for adequate staffing that they've eliminated all the workers who can't survive on side-hustles and savings for six or seven months at a time.

But even for those layoff-hardened workers, long strikes are brutal, and of course, all the affiliated trades, from costumers to grips, are feeling the pain. The strike fund only goes so far, and non-striking, affected workers don't even get that. That's why I've been donating regularly to the Entertainment Community Fund, which helps all affected workers out with cash transfers (I just gave them another $500):

https://secure2.convio.net/afa/site/Donation2?df_id=8117&8117.donation=form1&mfc_pref=T

As hot labor summer is revealed as a turning point – not just a season – long strikes will become the norm. Bosses still don't believe in worker power, and until they get their minds right, they're going to keep on trying to starve their workforces back inside. To get a sense of how long workers will have to hold out, just consider the Warrior Met strike, where Alabama coal-miners stayed out for 23 months:

https://www.thenation.com/article/activism/warrior-met-strike-union/

As Kim Kelly explained to Adam Conover in the latest Factually podcast, the Alabama coal strikers didn't get anywhere near the attention that the Hollywood strikers have enjoyed:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UvyMHf7Yg0Q

(To learn more about the untold story of worker organizing, from prison unions to the key role that people of color and women played in labor history, check out Kelly's book, "Fight Like Hell," now in paperback:)

https://www.simonandschuster.com/books/Fight-Like-Hell/Kim-Kelly/9781982171063

Which brings me to the UAW strike. This is an historic strike, the first time that the UAW has struck all of the Big Three automakers at once. Past autoworkers' strikes have marked turning points for all American workers. The 1945/46 GM strike established employers' duty to cover worker pensions, health care, and cost of living allowances. The GM strike created the American middle-class:

https://prospect.org/labor/2023-09-18-uaw-strikes-built-american-middle-class/

The Big Three are fighting for all the marbles here. They are refusing to allow unions to organize EV factories. Given that no more internal combustion cars will be in production in just a few short years, that's tantamount to eliminating auto unions altogether. The automakers are flush with cash, including billions in public subsidies from multiple bailouts, along with billions more from greedflation price-gouging. A long siege is inevitable, as the decimillionaires running these companies earn their pay by starving out their workers:

https://www.businessinsider.com/general-motors-ceo-mary-barra-salary-auto-workers-strike-uaw-2023-9

The UAW knows this, of course, and their new leadership – helmed by the union's radical president Shawn Fain – has a plan. UAW workers are engaged in tactical striking, shutting down key parts of the supply chain on a rolling basis, making the 90-day strike fund stretch much farther:

https://prospect.org/blogs-and-newsletters/tap/2023-09-18-labors-militant-creativity/

In this project, they are greatly aided by Big Car's own relentless pursuit of profit. The automakers – like every monopolized, financialized sector – have stripped all the buffers and slack out of their operations. Inventory on hand is kept to a bare minimum. Inputs are sourced from the cheapest bidder, and they're brought to the factory by the lowest-cost option. Resiliency – spare parts, backup machinery – is forever at war with profits, and profits have won and won and won, leaving auto production in a brittle, and easily shattered state.

This is especially true for staffing. Automakers are violently allergic to hiring workers, because new workers get benefits and workplace protection. Instead, the car companies routinely offer "voluntary" overtime to their existing workforce. By refusing this overtime, workers can kneecap production, without striking.

Enter "Eight and Skate," a campaign among UAW workers to clock out after their eight hour shift. As Keith Brower Brown writes for Labor Notes, the UAW organizers are telling workers that "It’s crossing an unofficial picket line to work overtime. It’s helping out the company":

https://labornotes.org/2023/09/work-extra-during-strike-auto-workers-say-eight-and-skate

Eight and Skate has already started to work; the Buffalo Ford plant can no longer run its normal weekend shifts because workers are refusing to put in voluntary overtime. Of course, bosses will strike back: the next step will be forced overtime, which will lead to the unsafe conditions that unionized workers are contractually obliged to call paid work-stoppages over, shutting down operations without touching the strike fund.

What's more, car bosses can't just halt safety stoppages or change the rules on overtime; per the UAW's last contract, bosses are required to bargain on changes to overtime rules:

https://uaw.org/wp-content/uploads/2023/09/Working-Without-Contract-FAQ-FINAL-2.pdf

Car bosses have become lazily dependent on overtime. At GM's "highly profitable" SUV factory in Arlington, TX, normal production runs a six-days, 24 hours per day. Workers typically work five eight-hour days and nine hours on Saturdays. That's been the status quo for 11 years, but when bosses circulated the usual overtime signup sheet last week, every worker wrote "a big fat NO" next to their names.

Writing for The American Prospect, David Dayen points out that this overtime addiction puts a new complexion on the much-hyped workerpocalypse that EVs will supposedly bring about. EVs are much simpler to build than conventional cars, the argument goes, so a US transition to EVs will throw many autoworkers out of work:

https://prospect.org/labor/2023-09-20-big-threes-labor-shortages-uaw/

But the reality is that most autoworkers are doing one and a half jobs already. Reducing the "workforce" by a third could leave all these workers with their existing jobs, and the 40-hour workweek that their forebears fought for at GM inn 1945/46. Add to that the additional workers needed to make batteries, build and maintain charging infrastructure, and so on, and there's no reason to think that EVs will weaken autoworker power.

And as Dayen points out, this overtime addiction isn't limited to cars. It's also endemic to the entertainment industry, where writers' "mini rooms" and other forms of chronic understaffing are used to keep workforces at a skeleton crew, even when the overtime costs more than hiring new workers.

Bosses call themselves job creators, but they have a relentless drive to destroy jobs. If there's one thing bosses hate, it's paying workers – hence all the hype about AI and automation. The stories about looming AI-driven mass unemployment are fairy tales, but they're tailor made for financiers who get alarming, life-threatening priapism at the though of firing us all and replacing us with shell-scripts:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/03/09/autocomplete-worshippers/#the-real-ai-was-the-corporations-that-we-fought-along-the-way

This is why Republican "workerism" rings so hollow. Trump's GOP talks a big game about protecting "workers" (by which they mean anglo men) from immigrants and "woke captialism," but they have nothing to say about protecting workers from bosses and bankers who see every dime a worker gets as misappropriated from their dividend.

Unsurprisingly, conservative message-discipline sucks. As Luke Savage writes in Jacobin, for every mealymouthed Josh Hawley mouthing talking points that "support workers" by blaming China and Joe Biden for the Big Three's greed, there's a Tim Scott, saying the quiet part aloud:

https://jacobin.com/2023/09/republicans-uaw-strike-hawley-trump-scott/

Quoth Senator Scott: "I think Ronald Reagan gave us a great example when federal employees decided they were going to strike. He said, you strike, you’re fired. Simple concept to me. To the extent that we can use that once again, absolutely":

https://twitter.com/American_Bridge/status/1704136706574741988

The GOP's workerism is a tissue-thin fake. They can never and will never support real worker power. That creates an opportunity for Biden and Democrats to seize:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/09/18/co-determination/#now-make-me-do-it

Reversing two generations of anti-worker politics is a marathon, not a sprint. The strikes are going to run for months, even years. Every worker will be called upon to support their striking siblings, every day. We can do it. Solidarity now. Solidarity forever.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/09/21/eight-and-skate/#strike-to-rule

[augusnippets]

Prompts are out!

plain text and "rules" under the cut

path of hurt:

day 1: gaslighting/hypnosis/brainwashing

day 4: amputation/degloving/vivisection

day 7: waterboarding/drowning/choking

day 10: execution/fake execution/begging for mercy

day 13: drugging/poisoning/cannibalism

day 16: humiliation/dehumanisation/conditioning

day 19: collared/branded/chipped

day 22: captivity/recapture/tearful goodbye

day 25: intimate whumper/sadistic whumper/reluctant whumper

day 28: mind control/body control/betrayal

bonus prompts: forced to watch/whipping/stalked

path of comfort:

day 2: platonic bathing/hair care/make-up

day 5: drunk caretaking/concussed caretaking/feverish caretaking

day 8: reunion/found family/friends

day 11: escape/breaking the conditioning/safe and sound

day 14: toys/gifts/celebration

day 17: forgiveness/grace/resolving a misunderstanding

day 20: homemade meal/quenched thirst/favourite treat

day 23: massage/wiping away tears/gentle touch

day 26: nightmare/warm blanket/snuggling

day 29: singing/first words/inside jokes

bonus prompts: tending to nonhuman whumpee's nonhuman parts/protective caretaker/whumpee wearing caretaker's clothes

secret third path — whumperless whump:

day 3: thunderstorm/blizzard/heat wave

day 6: car accident/plane crash/ship wreck

day 9: hypothermia/overheating/dehydration

day 12: lost/trapped/avalanche

day 15: food poisoning/starvation/throwing up

day 18: apocalypse/infection/self administered medicine

day 21: delirium/vertigo/hallucinations

day 24: animal attack/bear trap/land mine

day 27: migraines/chronic pain/phantom pains

day 30: self-harm/addiction/overdose

bonus prompts: flashbacks/relapse/medical complications

day 31 — bonus day :) write whatever you feel like writing today or have a nice day of rest

AuguSnippets is an event that encourages the short and sweet of the whump genre. Ideally, your drabbles would be under 500 or even under 100 words, maybe even just a dialogue prompt. This, however, does not mean I won't reblog longer prompt fills! Don't stress too much on that limit. I just think it's sometimes nice to challenge yourself to write shorter drabbles, and it can also work as a very good exercise to write daily or semi-daily, and it doesn't need a lot of prep.

As for tagging your work, please use the appropriate trigger warnings. This is so everyone can stay safe and avoid potentially triggering topics while participating. Also, if your work is nsfw, please don't forget to tag it as mature content! If your work is not tagged properly, I won't be able to reblog it! Thank you!

Our special tag will be "#augusnippets day [x]". On the first day that would be "#augusnippets day 1". This is so I and others can find your work easier! You can also tag the blog, that's an even more surefire way to get me to notice your prompt fill :)

Is this a writing only event?

Yeah, this one is exclusively writing focused.

Do I have to use the special tag or tag this blog?

Not if you don't want to get featured on this blog :) It's just so I can find your work easier and reblog it here! If that's not something you're interested in, just scribble away without it.

Is the "under 500" a hard limit for the word count?

No, but I encourage everyone to try and keep to it in the spirit of this event.

Can I submit nsfw works?

Yes! Just please tag it properly :)

Can I mix and match the prompts from different paths?

Yes! Have fun!

What do I need to do to get the completionist badge?

Either you need to complete one whole path, or complete 10 prompt fills altogether while mixing and matching. Those who complete all 30 days (and maybe even the bonus day) will get something extra special!

Can I write fandom related things?

Yes! This event is both for original characters and fandom related writing.

Will there be an AO3 collection?

Yes! Here

[dear-ao3]

ok so considering im decently sure a good chunk of the f1 drivers dont actually like driving road cars on roads (fair) i propose a new grand prix to determine the real Best Driver.

behold. the rush hour grand prix.

1 lap. at rush hour on a friday night. all the usual normal commuters and terrible drivers are still on the road along with all the drivers. in the rain. everyone drives a car of their choice. they have to count out all their tolls using change, no one gets ez pass. and you get disqualified if you veer from the instructions (no wrong turns!)

and where does this take place?

thats right.

new jersey. (and new york city) (but mostly new jersey)

here is the proposed track:

we start and end on route 22 right outside the staples. a terrible awful road that would cause harm to any driver, especially european ones. route 22 is so terrible because there is a long stretch that has a center median with shops in it, so theres shops on the right the left and in the center with u turns every 500 feet.

they go east on 22 towards us route 1 and 9 and, thats right, newark liberty international airport. here they have to do a loop around all of the departure terminals before exiting and heading towards jersey city on route 78.

they take route 78 through the holland tunnel, which is a hilarious tunnel to go through as you can literally blink and miss the signs because theyre so small.

upon arriving in new york city they will head towards the canal street station, doing an awful little loopy loop to take hudson street to 8th avenue. new york will prove a challenge for many of them because every other street and avenue there is pretty much a one way in the opposite way.

theyre going to turn right on 23rd street and take it three blocks towards the flatiron building on fifth avenue before doing another turn around and heading back up sixth avenue

here theyre going to turn left on 40th street, then right on 7th avenue then immediately right again on 41st street and then back to 6th avenue which they'll take all the way to the bottom of central park. here they'll turn left onto 59th street then go around columbus circle, exiting on broadway and then going right onto 57th street, which they'll then take down to 11th avenue, then after. few blocks cut over to the west side highway (12 avenue) and then they'll get off at 40th street and enter, you guessed it, the lincoln tunnel.

they'll exit the lincoln and get onto route 3 which they'll take down to route 120 and then they'll do a single doughnut in the parking lot at the american dream mall (a terrible place) before getting onto, you guessed it! 95!! they'll take 95 (devil highway) to 78 to the garden state parkway before getting back on route 22, doing a quick hairpin turn at one the first u turn and then end up straight back where they started. outside the staples.

i think maybe 3 people would finish the whole thing. logan sargeant, being the only american, would come in first. fernando alonso takes second and valtteri bottas takes third.

[wheelsgoroundincircles]

1972 Hurst/Olds

How about some interesting facts about 1972 Oldsmobile Hurst:

Indy Pace Car: The 1972 Hurst/Olds was the official pace car for the Indianapolis 500. Hurst Performance stepped in to sponsor the pace car after major auto manufacturers were reluctant to provide one due to a tragic accident involving the 1971 Dodge Challenger.

Performance: It featured a 455 cubic inch (7.5-liter) V8 engine producing around 300 horsepower. The engine was paired with a 3-speed Turbo-Hydramatic 400 transmission and Hurst Dual-Gate shifter.

Exterior Design: The car had a unique Firefrost gold on white paint scheme, black pinstripes, and chrome accents. It also featured a functional hood scoop and rear spoiler for improved performance.

Interior: The interior was luxuriously appointed with black leather upholstery, wood trim, and special H/O emblems. The car also had power windows and climate control for added comfort.

Limited Production: Only 3,508 units of the 1972 Hurst/Olds were produced, making it a rare and sought-after model among collectors.

[soul-controller]

Compensating The Cashmaster

When Matthew pulled into the driveway of his house, the 35-year-old was shocked to see the souped up blue Dodge Challenger sitting there. Although he knew the driver of the car, their appearance on his doorstep wasn’t something that he had expected to see any time soon. But as he finally parked his car and exited, a quick glance over to the angered glare being given to him by Josh, the man standing against his front porch, revealed that this wasn’t a kind and nice visit from an acquaintance.

As a dead weight suddenly dropped into his stomach, Matthew’s pace was glacial as he slowly approached the front door. Opting to keep his lips sealed until they were both in his house, Matthew avoided eye contact entirely as he unlocked the door and pulled on the knob – standing back as the handsome and muscular man wasted no time barging into the residence.

“Are you trying to piss me off, Matthew,” the other man inquired – making his way into the living room before falling back into the small couch.

In response, Matthew’s breathing ramped up as his voice came out entirely weak and airy. “Oh uh, of course not sir! I sent you everything I could afford this paycheck,” he responded, looking over to his cashmaster and attempting to seem as remorseful as possible.

To any outsider who looked at the two of them together, it was clear that they were not close friends or anything. If anything, they resembled co-workers forced to work together or a college jock and his weak-willed nerdy tutor – which paled in comparison to the truth of their relationship. In actuality Matthew was one of Josh’s paypigs, a man who got off on giving away his money to someone he deemed hotter and “far more deserving”.

“Well, $500 isn’t enough,” Josh coldly replied, crossing his arms against his broad and muscular torso – which only made him look even more imposing to Matthew. “Get me another $500 by the end of the day or else…”

Despite wanting so badly to please his cashmaster and keep their relationship on good terms, such an ask was something that the full-time low-level office employee simply couldn’t manage. As he informed Josh as such and explained his reasoning, it seemed clear that the man wasn’t taking the news too well. In fact, all Matthew heard before everything went black was “If you’re not going to give me my money, then I’ll just find a better use for you…”

* * * * *

“You fags like you what you see, huh?” Josh grunted towards the camera, a cocky smirk on his face as he lifted his arms up and flexed his immense biceps. “If you want more, give me all of your fucking money!”

As he watched the money begin to funnel into his account, the cocky cashmaster looked down at his skintight blue compression tee that left nothing to the imagination. Every well-defined line of musculature from his bicep veins to his sculpted six-pack was on full display for the audience and the man loved seeing all of these pathetic losers fawning over him. Although he had the ego the size of Jupiter, the 24-year-old couldn’t help but give some props to his most quintessential prop of the stream – the tee that had once been Matthew, one of his pathetic paypigs. Despite living in a nice house with plenty of things he could have sold to make the extra money Josh desired, the paypig simply said he couldn’t and that genuinely pissed the man off. 

Luckily for the cashmaster though, his magical ancestry allowed him to tap into innate abilities to help teach lessons to paypigs that refused to comply. Any time one of them couldn’t provide what he demanded, he’d find a new use for them in order to help make up the remaining amount of money that they had shorted him. So as the hundreds of dollars quickly pushed past a thousand, it was clear that Matthew had certainly earned back his humanity at the end of the session. Unfortunately for him, the man’s extremely submissive personality made it highly likely that the man would replicate Josh’s experiences with other former-clothing paypigs as those individuals would purposely stop paying in order to relive their inanimate fantasies due to the innate humiliation and helplessness it provided…

Eager to read more stories like this? Head over to my Patreon to discover tons of hot transformation fiction including stories like this one!

[holllandtrash]

long live | daniel ricciardo

pairing: daniel ricciardo x driver!reader (epilogue to fragile line)

long live the walls we crashed through i had the time of my life with you long, long live the walls we crashed through how the kingdom lights shined just for me and you

time passes and feelings may fade, but the memories never will word count: 7.7k (im so sorry) warnings/tags: time jumps like always, angst and heartbreak but it's not all sad this time, or is it?

four years later

“Daniel Ricciardo, 2025 Formula 1 World Champion, The Honey Badger,” James Hinchcliffe put his arm around the fellow commentator, “Tell us what you know.”

“What I know, Hinch,” Daniel repeated, taking a dramatic look up towards the clear sky. “What do I know?”

They didn’t need to act like they were friends for the camera, James and Daniel had grown close in a short time, ever since Daniel put down the helmet and picked up a microphone, Replacing the racing overalls with a suit and tie. He had the personality to be a motorsports commentator. No one was surprised when he was announced as Sky Sports newest reporter following his Formula 1 retirement. 

And James, a fellow retired driver himself from the IndyCar side, a Canadian with the humour and the banter that could keep up with Daniel, they were truly one of the best duos when it came to motorsports broadcasting.

They weren't often together, though. Daniel stuck to Formula 1. James was a regular for IndyCar. There were only a handful of races where they came together and the Indianapolis 500 was one of them. 

They were a comedic duo last year at the 2026 running, it only made sense to bring Daniel back again this year.

“Who’s your money on?” James asked. The question was innocent enough, proposed to most people who didn’t have an association with any team.

Daniel had his answer. Before the race weekend started he had an answer. Before the season started he had an answer. 

But he hesitated. 

Or, maybe froze was a better word. Daniel froze when he dropped his gaze from the sky and looked further down the pit lane. They didn’t plan on standing a few slots away from the number 6 car of Arrow McLaren, but that's where they found themselves.

Daniel froze when he spotted the familiar face sitting on the bench in the pit wall, looking at the data on the screens and nodding along with the engineer as he spoke. Daniel froze, because even though he knew exactly who was driving that car, he still wasn’t prepared for what he would do when he saw the driver.

When he saw you. 

You guys had agreed, long ago, that there would be no more interactions. That your careers, your lives, would be better if the other stayed as far away as possible.

Daniel knew that even now, four years later, he had no right to talk to you, to talk about you. He knew that at this point, it was for the best that ties were still cut, that the conversations didn’t happen. It had been over a year since your last interaction, he was in no position to change that. 

And he tried, desperately, over the years to follow the rules you agreed on. You as well kept your distance, you had to. 

But you were only human. There had been a few slip ups over the years.

For the remainder of the season, after the Austin race, you both had stuck to your word. You stopped giving the world the moments they were waiting for. You refused to interact with each other, you forced yourself to stop caring. 

It grew easier with time. The 2024 season was challenging in itself, but with Max and Daniel fighting amongst each other in a league of their own, you knew you couldn’t fight them in a McLaren. All you could do was make the most of what you had. 

Lando and you had a strong opening those first few races. McLaren was third in the constructors for a short time until other teams started to catch up, filling in the holes of their designs. 

You quite literally didn’t have time to care about Daniel when you were so focused on the rest of the grid, your actual competition. Ferrari, Mercedes, Aston Martin even. Your upgrades were no match with theirs and by the end of the season, it was disappointing to look back without a podium to reminisce on. Lando scored two, one in Spa, the other in Singapore. You did well, but not well enough to bring home a trophy.

2025 was…different.

In many ways. Firstly, the McLarens showed consistency as the season continued. You and Lando were always top contenders for points.  

Secondly, Daniel was giving Max a run for his money. He had a bit the year prior, but this season was far more competitive. You, like everyone else, was dying to see who would pull through and score that first place trophy at the end of the day, but you had to hide your desires for it to be Daniel. 

You still hadn’t spoken. You had successfully veered away from any accidental interactions. His name stayed out of your mouth and at this point, everyone on the grid knew there was a disconnect. You both had gone out of your way, this year and in 2024, to assure there would be no media appearances together, no driver conferences, nothing that the online world could twist. 

But you couldn’t do anything about still being happy for him. That would never go away. You would always want Daniel to succeed. You just couldn’t be watching the screens when he podiumed. You couldn’t go out with him and the others to celebrate. You couldn’t wish him a congrats in passing like Lando could if you were walking down the paddock. 

Daniel felt the same. While the love was gone, there was nothing he could do about those proud moments. He wanted you to make a name in this sport, to make history. He wanted you to be someone and even though he once wanted to be at your side while you planted your roots, he couldn’t.

Except that one time when he physically was at your side. 

There was a mistake in the media pen scheduling on that Thursday in Miami. From what you knew, Daniel was supposed to be in the press conference and you’d be one of the ten unlucky few that had to stand under the Miami sun in the football field, talking about how you were looking forward to this race when in reality you personally thought this was the worst race on the calendar. 

But it was too hot to complain about anything other than the heat and how you needed to change shirts as soon as the media pen segment was over because the breathable material of your papaya polo was anything but breathable.

You had barely stepped into the roped off circle to join the other drivers when you heard your name being called. Glancing over your shoulder, it took a second to realise that the call was coming from a young girl running in your direction. Her paddock lanyard flailing over her shoulder as she sprinted, one hand held onto her McLaren hat so it wouldn’t fall off.

“She can’t be here-”

“Piss off, she’s fine,” you weren’t even sure who you interrupted, but you didn’t give the risk of a reprending a second thought as you stepped forward to meet the young fan.

She was small, and you weren’t a professional when it came to guessing the ages of kids but you would put her somewhere in the range of six and eight. Maybe?

You knelt down to be more at eye level, “Hi darling, what’s your name?”

“Cara,” she answered, slightly out of breath. There was a gap in her teeth from where she must have just lost one, but it didn’t affect her grin at all. 

“Hi Cara,” you smiled at her, only then noticing she wore a shirt with your last name on it. Glancing over your shoulder, you saw an older gentleman running towards her. “Is that your dad?”

Cara looked and then nodded, but she didn’t care that she had completely abandoned him and given him a heart attack. “I saw you last year here. You finished fifth, my dad took me to watch. He says you- he says that you’re the only girl driver.”

“I am the only girl driver,” you confirmed, pouting slightly. You brushed your hand over her shoulder to smooth out the material of the shirt, “That should change soon, don’t you think? All of these boys need to be put in their place and I can’t do it alone.”

“I can join,” Cara suggested. The carefree optimism was a rare sight at one of these race weekends, but you admired it in Cara. She was too young to know the difficulties of being a female in this field and hopefully by the time she grew up, there were less walls for her to climb over, just doors to open. 

“You can join,” you nodded at the idea, laughing slightly, mostly because her dad had caught up to her and he was more out of breath than she saw. You smiled at him but looked back at Cara, “Do you race?”

“Yes!”

“No,” her dad answered, putting a hand on her shoulder. “Not yet, at least. We’ve signed her up for karting this summer, we’ll see how it goes.”

“I can already tell you’ll be a natural,” you told Cara. Watching her face light up was probably the most rewarding feeling you’d get all weekend. 

“I want to be like you. I want to win races, I want to win a championship!”

“You know what Cara, I can’t break every record, being the first girl driver. So I’ll save the championship one for you, how about that? I want to see you become the first girl to win the championship.” You gave her arm a squeeze and then stood up, turning your focus to her dad. 

He wasn’t wearing a wedding ring and although you couldn’t make assumptions that he was single, the greying hair at a fairly young age and the bags under his eyes told you that he was mostly likely the main caretaker for Cara. 

“She’s got dreams,” you said.

He nodded, but smiled proudly, “That she does.”

You didn’t want to speak negatively about this industry in front of Cara, you didn’t want to crush her dreams, but you also didn't want her to grow up and be hopelessly disappointed either.

“It’s not easy for girls in this sport,” you told him. “But if she’s serious, if both of you are, look into working with Mary from Victory Speedway, located out in Tampa. She’s got contacts with F1 Academy as well. They’re goal is to make it easier.”

“Thank you,” he nodded, holding out his hand to shake. “And thank you for talking with Cara. Both of us are big fans, you truly are inspiring.”

You chatted for a bit longer, ignoring Oliver who was at your side reminding you that you had media duties. They could wait. A photo with the girl that seemed to be your biggest fan and maybe one day your predecessor, couldn’t wait.

No one really heard what you spoke about, the other drivers had their own obligations in the media pen. 

Daniel, though, he listened. 

He was standing right near the entrance when Cara had run up. He had watched you bend down to chat with her, making her a priority opposed to the reporters. He was less than two feet away as he overheard your conversation and when you turned around, ready to get the media day over with, you met his eyes.

For the first time in a long time, you didn’t look away.

Daniel wanted to tell you he admired that conversation, the hope you installed in the young fan. He wanted to tell you that you made a great role model, for not just girls but all aspiring drivers. He wanted to say a lot of things to you.

He settled on a question, “You’re not trying to win the championship?”

This was the first time you had spoken in months and it wasn’t even in private. It was quite literally in front of cameras, reporters, people with audio recording devices and microphones. You opened your mouth slightly only to lock up, giving him an apologetic look because you both knew better than to be having any sort of interaction. 

You turned to face the first reporter, ignoring Daniel’s question completely. He just nodded to himself and walked to his own spot, keeping you in the corner of his eye. 

This young reporter, though, was also curious, having overheard what Daniel asked. 

“You’re not vying for a championship? Does Zak Brown know this?” He asked with a soft chuckle.

You shrugged and gave him a smile, “I mean, every driver's dream is the championship, but it’s not my goal currently. Your goals can, and should, be different than your dreams. And yes, Zak knows this, don’t you worry.”

“Your goal then, what is it?”

You inhaled, thinking to yourself for a second, “I’ve got a few and I have a good team supporting me while I work towards them. First would be to make as much history as I can, set as many records while I have a spot in Formula 1 and then I want to help other female drivers break them.”

“You want your records to be broken?”

“If it means getting more females into Formula 1, then yes.”

Daniel, who was in the middle of trying to listen to the reporter in front of him, smiled as he heard that. It was a very you response. He leaned forward, gripping the railing a bit because he completely misheard his own question and needed him to repeat it.

“And your other goal?” The young reporter asked you. 

Your lips curved into more of a devious smile, deciding to keep that one close to your chest. “Do you have any questions about the race this weekend? Or are you trying to write a biography on my life?”

Daniel was dying to know what it was too. He spent the rest of that media session racking through the memories of you, there were a lot, trying to think if you ever had that conversation. You must have, right? So why couldn’t he remember?

When all of you made your way out and back to the paddock, Daniel ignored the voice in his head telling him to just let it go. He completely drowned it out as he jogged up to your side, refraining from reaching out and brushing his hand over your elbow to grab your attention. Instead he just said, 

“Hey.”

You glanced up, instinctively stepping to the side as you walked to put more space between your bodies. 

“Hi,” you breathed out, pulling your eyes off of him and on the Red Bull motorhome that was coming up. This conversation would be short, he’d have to go back inside. You’d be fine for ten seconds, right?

“So what-” he cleared his throat. This shouldn’t have been awkward but it was. After so long of not even glancing at each other, there were new lines painted between you. Daniel didn’t know how to navigate them, and honestly, neither did you.

“Triple Crown, Dan,” you answered, knowing that's where he was going when he opened his mouth. 

The Triple Crown. Monaco. Indy 500. 24 Hours of Le Mans. 

He took a second to process that goal, not having expected it in the slightest. When he nodded, you could see the hurt in his eyes, only there was less pain and more distance. He didn’t know you like he thought he did.

“I never knew you were aiming for the Triple Crown.”

“You never asked.”

He had trained you, helped you become the best athlete you could be. He had introduced you to the right people. He acted as a mentor, but the conversations you had about racing were limited. There was a lack of communication in that sense because why bring work home with you? 

But that was the wedge driven between you. Had you talked about racing, contracts, your futures, you would have never found yourself in that McLaren contract scandal that ultimately broke you two up. 

He nodded, because what else could he say to that? You gave him a soft smile and told yourself to keep walking, to move to the other side of the paddock as Daniel headed into the Red Bull motorhome. 

You don’t interact again until Monaco. Daniel now knew winning this race meant more to you than others. Winning this would be one third of the Triple Crown checked off and as much as he was gunning for the podium, thankful for his P2 starting position, he saw that you were starting fourth and took a breath of relief. You had a shot.

Daniel wasn’t sure what came over him when he saw you in the paddock after qualifying. Maybe it was because you not completely shutting him down in Miami gave him a strange surge of confidence to approach you again, or maybe it was because he was ignoring all the voices in his head to just keep walking. Whatever it was, Daniel saw you chatting with a member of Sky Sports and as he walked passed, patted your shoulder in a congratulatory manner.

You paused whatever it was you were saying and turned in his direction, just in time to see him give you a smile and a thumbs up as he continued on his way. You returned it, but that small interaction had you stumbling over your words for the next two hours. 

Not because you were smitten, you were past that. You didn’t look at Daniel anymore and lose your train of thought, you didn’t get lost in a daze and allow everything else to fade around you.

But he didn’t seem to let go of you completely yet, and you could work with that. You could be civil. You could be neutral during race weekends, as long as it didn’t go further than the friendly smiles and minimal chats.

It shouldn’t have been hard to keep the conversations short, you hadn’t actually had anything meaningful to say to each other in over a year. When you ran into him after the race on Sunday, after he claimed the title of Monaco Grand Prix race winner for a second time, you should have just said congratulations and kept walking.

But Daniel saw you as he was propped up against the side of the Red Bull motorhome and then he stood up straighter, almost inviting you to walk up to him. There were no cameras around anymore, the majority of the paddock had gone home so you felt safer, sort of. If the world hadn’t lost their minds at the clip of him patting your back yesterday, you could talk to him now.

The Red Bull engineer he was with said his goodbyes and smiled politely at you as you approached, stopping at a safe distance.

“Another Monaco win under your belt.”

“So it seems,” Daniel tried his best to not look too proud of himself. You could see his dimples poking through. You wanted him to not be holding back, you missed his grin but gone were the days when he didn’t have to refrain with you. 

“You deserve it,” you nodded, glancing over your shoulder out of habit. You were scared of any stragglers with iPhones, but no one around seemed to care that you and Daniel were talking. You were drivers, it shouldn’t have been a strange sight.

“You deserve it,” Daniel playfully shot back. “I mean, I couldn’t just hand it over this year though, despite your Triple Crown goal.”

“Oh but next year? You’ll let me have it then?” You asked, eyebrows raised. It was a joke, a small tease, but Daniel’s smile slipped and you caught it. You caught it and you stepped forward, hand flinching because it would be moments like this where you’d want to reach for him but you couldn’t do that anymore, could you?

Daniel tensed. Now it was his turn to look anxiously around, “I might not-” a sharp inhale passed through his lips, “Yeah I might not be here next year.”

You scoffed because that idea was preposterous, “Oh shut up.”

“No it’s true,” Daniel said, but his smile told you that he wasn’t sad about it. “You know how your goal is the Triple Crown?”

“Yes.”

“Mine’s the championship, sweets.”

You weren’t given an opportunity to react to the nickname because he continued on explaining without missing a beat. Either he didn’t see the way saying sweets affected you or he didn’t even notice he said it because even after all this time, it still came naturally to him. 

“There’s a clause in my contract,” he said. “If I win the championship this year, we can renegotiate. I can leave, I can- I can retire. The way I want to.”

You didn’t know how to process this. 

Daniel belonged in Formula 1. He fought so hard for his seat, he was a mess when he was left without one and now there was a chance he’d be gone? 

And even though you were only eight races in, already he was leading the driver standings over Max, not by much, but he was. There was a strong possibility Daniel could take the championship home at the end of the season.

You couldn’t say what was on your mind. You couldn’t say, selfishly, I hope you lose the championship. You couldn’t say that it was impossible to imagine the paddock without him because even those few months when he wasn’t racing, he was still there. 

“We’ve still got a few months to go,” Daniel’s voice broke you from your thoughts, trying to move to a brighter note because that’s just who he was. “But this could be good for you. You’ll have a real shot at winning Monaco next year. But I mean- you technically already won Monaco.”

“That was F2.”

“I think it still counts.”

“I think I’ll win it again, just to be safe.”

Daniel liked that response, he liked how confident you were that the win was coming. He nodded and he really would have liked to talk to you more about this, about his potential leave, about your success, but when he was called from across the paddock you didn’t hesitate before saying goodbye. The conversation was long enough.

Things seemed lighter between you after that. 

You didn’t stop yourself from being visibly happy when he was doing well. You laughed if you overheard the stupid shit he said in the paddock. You didn’t make a big deal about it when you two were signed up for the same press conference session. Granted, you still sat on complete opposite ends of the couch, but you sat there with a smile because you liked hearing Daniel talk about the lead he still carried in the standings.

Spa was the turning point for you two.

While you hadn’t taken any more steps beyond paddock conversations and friendly interactions, what was Daniel supposed to do when you both ended up on the podium together? Him on top, claiming first, you right next to him on the second step?

You both held back when you climbed out of the cars. He opted for a friendly pat on the back even though he wanted nothing more than to bring you in for an embrace. You had podiumed once already this season, but not with Daniel. You stood between the two Mercedes drivers back in Austria but now you were there, with Daniel at your side, both of you beaming. 

You were proud of yourselves. You were proud of each other. 

Both of you had dreamt of this moment, standing next to each other on the podium. You still remembered that conversation years ago, trying to imagine what it would be like to hear the cheers for both of you.

‘You’ll have to do a shoey.’

‘Only if you win. I’m not doing one if I win.’

You had shared this dream when you were in love and even though that wasn’t the case anymore, the dream was still very much alive. Because of that, it almost didn’t feel right. 

It felt sort of unfulfilling, despite you being handed a heavy trophy. 

But this was a moment that you would remember for the rest of your life. All of your accomplishments were held very close to your heart but this one meant more than you could put into words. 

Hands shaking, crowd going wild, you were on top of the world and you were standing next to the man you used to be in love with. You glanced to the side to watch him, not able to stop yourself from smiling wide and then wider still as he held his head high like a hero. 

Daniel was larger than life. 

He always would be. 

You tried not to let yourself think that this might be the only chance you’d get to stand here with him. This win only pushed him further ahead in the championship and you were, seemingly, the only one who knew this year would be his last if he ended up winning. 

You had to hold onto this moment. It wouldn’t come again. 

To everyone watching at home, this was the start of a new age with you and Daniel. Fans could see the way you two interacted, the sheer joy you had for each other, something they hadn’t seen since you still raced in F2. 

To you, this was the beginning of the end. 

Finally, you and Daniel were getting to a place where things could be good and in a few short months, he’d be gone.

You couldn’t think about it more, not when you felt champagne being sprayed in your direction. You were late to the game and popped yours after Daniel and Max had, but you still joined in with the celebration. 

You laughed when Daniel took his shoe off and poured some of the bubbly liquid into the sole. He laughed when you refused to drink it, both of you ignoring the fact that if you were still in love, if you were still together, you would have done the shoey with him. 

Daniel was content with the nod. He knew you were happy for him, the same way he was happy for you. But neither of you could show it the way you wanted to. 

The championship win was decided at the second last race of the season, Qatar.

You didn’t have a good weekend, and you knew this. You took responsibility for the poor qualifying, the bad performance, for all of it. But you were distracted, unable to keep yourself from thinking about Daniel because if he won this race, he won it all. 

And then he’d walk away.

You were conflicted. You wanted to see Daniel take home the win but selfishly, you wanted him in Formula 1. You always wanted him in Formula 1. 

So when he crossed that line, ahead of Max, ahead of the rest of the grid, when he did celebratory donuts and stood on the podium with his chin held high, you stood on the sidelines and ignored how you used to wish for a day like this, wished for a day where he would be crowned the Championship Winner.

Daniel Ricciardo. 2025 Formula 1 World Champion. 

It had a nice ring to it. 

That’s what you told him that night when you were out at dinner and saw him sitting with a few members from his team just a few feet away. You weren’t surprised to see him at the establishment, it was exclusive, it was way overpriced and it was where many drivers went prior to going out and partying. 

You avoided his eyes that evening, scared that if you’d meet them you’d be forced to accept the reality that he really was leaving. At least, you know, if you didn’t look at him, you could live in your own little world where he wasn’t gone just yet.

You were genuinely annoyed when you bumped into him after leaving the toilets. The hall was dim, narrow and there was quite literally nowhere for you to go when he turned the corner and stopped walking when he saw you. 

“Hi,” you swallowed, anxiously smoothing out the skirt you wore, even more anxiously trying to avoid his eyes.

“Hi,” Daniel slid his hands into his pockets. His Enchante shirt clung to his skin due to the heat, but you told yourself you weren’t allowed to look at the way his little curls stuck to his forehead. 

“You, um-” you held your hand out. “Congratulations, really. Daniel Ricciardo. 2025 Formula 1 World Champion. It’s got a nice ring to it.”

He laughed and nodded along, “Yeah, yeah, thank you.”

When he leaned against the wall, you realised you were stuck. There was no getting out of this conversation. No escaping this reality. 

It didn’t help that the rest of the dining room faded behind him. The people, the sounds, the light, it was just Daniel. 

Just Daniel and just you.

How it always should have been.

How it would never be again.

You opened your mouth, intent on saying something else about his win but all that came out was a shaky breath and a choked back sob that triggered the tears you didn’t even know were building. It was quiet, but it was desperate and it was painful and Daniel didn’t hesitate before stepping forward and wrapping his arms around you, pulling you into his chest. Your cries were muffled against his shirt and Daniel stroked your back and then your hair, holding you tight against him.

You were happy for him, really. If anyone deserved this win, it was him but god you were devastated because up until now, you didn’t realise you still held this much love for him. Up until now, you didn’t realise that even after everything, you still needed him.

You needed him.

“What am I going to do without you on the grid?” You asked, your voice was already quiet but it was even more so muffled as you spoke directly into his body.

Daniel chuckled, it vibrated through his chest. “What you’ve been doing this whole time, sweets. You’ll make history. You’ll put the rest of the guys in their places. You’ll be the driver I know you to be.”

It took a few seconds, maybe a few minutes actually, of just standing there and crying into his chest until you snapped out of it. You weren’t dating anymore, your conversations now didn’t last longer than five minutes, it was embarrassing to be losing it in front of him, because of him.

You stepped back and wiped your eyes, “Sorry, sorry, I didn’t- I just-”

“I’ll miss you too, Y/N,” he breathed out. 

You nodded, because if you tried to say anything else you would be crying again. Daniel held his finger up and walked into the toilets to grab some tissue for you. It took another minute for you to be able to trust your voice again.

“I can’t believe you’re really leaving,” you dabbed at your cheeks, knowing you’d have to go back to the hotel to fix your make up before going out again. 

“I’ve got things lined up,” Daniel shrugged.

“Care to share?”

He tried to hide his smile and failed miserably, “Just don’t be surprised if I show up at the track next year with a microphone instead of a helmet.”

That was about as much he would say as his deal with Sky Sports wasn’t yet official. 

But now you felt more like an idiot for crying about him leaving if he wasn’t even actually leaving. You’d still see him. He’d still be around. You could work with that.

Daniel could still be proud of your accomplishments, even if he was on the sidelines. 

He was, however, a little conflicted when you won the last race of the 2025 season.

You made history in Abu Dhabi. The first female driver to win a race. This was a wall you had spent years trying to crash through and now there you were. On top of the podium, on top of the world as confetti fell to the ground around you, champagne sprayed in all directions. 

This was your moment.

Your win, your first win and all you wanted was Daniel up on that podium with you. As happy as you were to celebrate with Max and George, you couldn’t deny something was missing. 

Because you really could never cut yourself off from Daniel completely, could you? You could try, you could attempt to distance yourself, you could stop the interactions and you could tell yourself you didn’t care but you were right that day you told Lando that Daniel was your missing piece.

So it made sense that you were at a bit of a loss for words when he showed up at your hotel room that next morning. 

You invited him in, despite being slightly hungover. He didn’t care that your clothes were spread all throughout the room, but he did smile at the sight of your trophy on proud display on the table before you had to give it to your engineer for safe travels.

“So this is it,” you sighed, sitting down on the far side of the couch. Daniel sat down as well, the opposite side, arm stretched along the back of it.

“This is it,” he agreed. 

“When does the news drop?”

He clicked his tongue, “Tomorrow.”

“Who’s replacing you?”

“Not sure,” he scratched the stubble along his jaw. “My guess is Lawson or possibly Palou.”

You sat in silence for a while, thankful that it wasn’t uncomfortable because it easily could have been. 

But you both grew this season.

You could both admit now, being in love and being drivers was an unattainable dream.

But you could be drivers and you could still have love for each other. 

You reached across the couch, a gentle smirk playing on your lips as you nudged his arm, “So what are you going to say about me?”

Daniel dipped his head back and laughed, “What do you mean?”

“You know,” you shrugged. “Like when you talk about us drivers on Sky Sports. What are you going to say about me?”

“I’m going to say that not only did you steal my seat, but you stole the glory of my last race by winning.”

You rolled your eyes, recognizing the sarcasm but you were thankful his words weren’t malicious anymore, “I thought we were past this. I didn’t steal your seat, Dan.”

“No, but I don’t think I can joke about it on air so this is my last chance.”

You reached behind you and grabbed one of the throw pillows, smacking it against his chest. You chose to look at this playfully, instead of it as the inevitable end. 

And Daniel needed a second to think about your question anyway, so the joke was just a way to stall. Honestly, he was a little surprised that he hadn’t already thought about it considering you were on his mind more than you should have been. 

He cleared his throat and adjusted himself on the couch cushion. You could see that he was struggling to come up with a good response and you didn’t mean for this. You didn’t want him to think he had to choose his words carefully. 

“Hey,” you whispered, shifting closer to him, “Promise me something.”

You met his eyes, his dark brown eyes that once had such a strong hold over you. You looked at him and remembered why you fell in love with him in the first place. In this moment, it was hard to remember why you ever wanted to stop loving him.

Had you stopped loving him? Did that day really come?

You could have love for someone and not be in love with him anymore, but you didn’t think you’d find yourself in a position where you had to differentiate between the two. You thought, you knew, you would always be in love with Daniel that to sit here and think that maybe, possibly, you didn’t anymore, felt like a betrayal. 

He was supposed to be the one that stood by you through it all. The good, the bad, the wins, the losses. It wasn’t supposed to end with you two sitting on the couch and admitting that this truly was over. 

It wasn’t supposed to end like this, but you always knew it would. 

Fate stepped in and whether you liked it or not, it was forcing you into a goodbye, into an acceptance that your lives would no longer be intertwined, that you couldn’t go back to the way things were. 

“Anything,” Daniel spoke softly. Maybe one day he would have said, I’d promise you the world, if you asked, but that seemed a little too forward for the moment.

“Be honest, Dan,” you told him, your hand finding his over the edge of the couch. Your thumb brushed against his fingers and both of you fought the urge to just connect them further. “Tell them my name, but tell them how I got to Formula 1. Tell them it was you, that you helped me pave the way, that you helped me make a name in this sport. Don’t just point to the pictures of me, point to the ones of us. Now that you’re done with racing, I don’t care about the assumptions, the rumours, any of it. Tell people how it really was you and I, how we were the team that should have been, that never was, please,  because even though I know-” 

You paused, taking a second to swallow the lump at the back of your throat. You glanced at your hand and maybe it was you or maybe it was him, but your fingers started to interlock. Your eyes stayed glued to the touch as your last admittance filled the air between you.

“I know I could have made it to Formula 1 without you, but I can’t put into words how thankful I am that I didn’t have to.”

Daniel nodded, because he agreed with you. He knew you could have gotten here without him but he too was grateful he was by your side for the start of it. He agreed that you two really were the team that never was but should have been. He nodded and agreed that he would say all of those things.

But you knew that he wouldn’t.

Those words were for him, not the rest of the world. 

He would tell people that you shined on top of the podium. He would say that the crowds went wild, louder for you than any other driver.

And he would never say that he had any part of shaping your career. Despite you knowing he did, despite the whole world knowing he played a detrimental part, Daniel didn’t hold onto those connections when you went on to race in 2026 and he stood in the commentators box. 

He stayed neutral, surprisingly. 

It helped that he didn’t interact with many drivers or if he did, it was never you. He did talk about you, but only about your performance on the track. His colleagues knew not to bring up your past, not when the only thing that mattered was how well you were doing in the present.

He had some thoughts when you announced you were making the switch to IndyCar at the end of this season, but mostly because you made that announcement before the Monaco Grand Prix, before you claimed the win you were chasing, before you could check off one third of the Triple Crown.

He wanted to pull you aside and question why you were making this choice but he couldn’t. He also couldn’t call you out publicly on air like other reporters had. 

All he could do was hold his breath after you qualified P2 in Monaco. He sat on the edge of his seat, struggling to do his job, struggling to commentate on the race because the second you made the move to overtake Max and it worked, Daniel had to leave the room. 

He had to leave because he knew that if you kept the lead, if you won, he couldn’t celebrate the way he wanted to with cameras on him. Instead, he watched from the privacy of a separate media suite. The broadcast was a few seconds delayed but at least he was able to cheer and be visibly proud of you and not have to hold back when you crossed the line ahead of Max.

You won the Monaco Grand Prix, in a McLaren of all cars, and now he knew what you were gunning for next.

The Indy 500. 

Signing that Arrow McLaren deal ended up being the right move after all.

“Who’s your money on?” James Hinchcliffe asked him as they stood on the pit lane where the teams were preparing for the greatest spectacle in racing. The question was innocent enough, proposed to most people who didn’t have an association with any team.

Daniel had his answer. Before the race weekend started he had an answer. Before the season started, he had an answer. Despite knowing you were still far from winning the Indy 500, his money would always be on you. 

You looked up from where you sat on the Arrow McLaren bench and you smiled at him.

You were having a pretty good season, for a rookie. With O’Ward and Rossi as your teammates, you knew you couldn’t compare, but they were good people to have on your team, in your corner. They helped you, guided you through the shift from Formula 1 to Indy and you could be proud that in a grid of 26 drivers, you were 11th in the standings. 

“Not betting on anyone, James,” Daniel answered, but his eyes were still locked on you and his smirk said otherwise. “It’ll be a good race.”

He could say your name, he wanted to. But Daniel stayed as far away from your life as he could because you decided on it a long time ago and nothing that happened since told him that you’d be going back on that decision, that you wanted him back in your life.

He might not have been a driver anymore, but you still were. So he was content with being civil, neutral. He was fine with the friendly smiles and if an old photo of the two of you circulated every now and again, well, he didn’t hate it. 

He sat with the rest of the Indy commentators during the race. He shared his honest opinions throughout and he, along with the other reporters, praised Alexander Rossi for taking home his second Indy 500 victory, eleven years after his first. 

But that was not the Arrow McLaren driver he wished was celebrating in Victory Lane.

Daniel waited until his job was done, but he knew he had to find you before the day ended. He wanted to congratulate you on finishing twelfth. That was something he was proud of and he hoped you were as well. 

It would only go up from there. The Indy 500 was still an achievable goal. 

He found you in the paddock. It wasn’t hard. You stood out, even in the crowd of people. He waited off to the side and watched you take photos with young girls, young fans that resembled that one girl in Miami, all of them looking up to you and thanking you for paving the way for them, for other females in motorsport.

It was by chance that you looked over your shoulder and saw Daniel standing there. He nodded, wordlessly assuring you that he could wait, to take your time with the fans. 

He ended up waiting almost fifteen minutes. 

Eventually, you started to approach him. Daniel stood up straighter, having been leaning against the Penske trailers until you were done. You still had your racing overalls on, but unzipped and hanging loosely on your hips. The black fireproofs under the papaya looked good on you, but Daniel hadn’t let himself appreciate your appearance for years, he couldn’t start now, even if he really wanted to.

“Hey,” you called out when you were only a few steps away.

“Hey yourself,” Daniel chuckled. When you finally stood in front of him, he was sort of expecting to see a sliver of defeat, but you were happy. You may not have won the 500, but you had a good run and there was always next year. Plus, you still had the rest of the season to finish. The season wasn’t over, you could still make history in this sport. 

You crossed your arms over your chest and glanced around, jaw clenched until you finally worked up the courage to meet his eyes. 

“So,” you inhaled a breath. “You’ve got some time on your hands now that you’re retired, right?”

Daniel wasn’t sure where this was going but he laughed and nodded, “Somewhat, yes, but I do still work race weekends.”

“But Monday through Wednesday?”

He pondered it for a second, just for dramatic effect. “I’m fairly open.”

You nodded, hoping for that answer. 

If you were being honest with yourself, this was a conversation you wanted to have with Daniel since he announced his retirement almost two years ago, you just never knew what the outcome would be.

You felt a bit safer now, knowing that he was based out of the UK and your races were only North American. If he hated where you were going with this, well, it was rare you’d be crossing paths so soon afterwards. 

You just had to blurt it out.

“Ever thought about being a trainer?” You asked. “Or a manager? Mentor even? You know- my last mentor walked out on me-”

Daniel cut you off with a booming laugh, “Walked out? Really? Is that what you tell people?”

Him playing along with your humour felt like a weight off your shoulders, “Only if they ask.”

Daniel, finally, didn’t have to refrain himself anymore. He felt confident enough to drape his arm over your shoulders and walk with you down the paddock. For once, he didn’t care if people looked or recorded and secretly, he hoped they did. 

All he wanted was to be at your side. All he wanted was for the world to know he was proud of you, that, if you asked, he’d be back in your corner.

And you were asking.

“So you need a mentor?” He repeated. “A trainer?”

Your hand slipped around his waist. It was natural, comforting, right.

“Well, I need to win the 500 eventually and then I need to get into Le Mans. I can’t do it alone.”

Daniel looked at you, wearing that stupid grin you missed so much even if you had memorised it the first day you met. You missed him, despite hearing his voice on the broadcasts and seeing him in the paddock. You missed him, he was your missing piece after all.

Daniel looked at you, and you knew, you weren’t alone.

__________________

the end ♡

taglist: @torossosebs@whatthefuckerr@jspitwall@oconso@tsarinablogs@landowecanbewc@somanyfandomsbruh@christianpulisic10@storminacloud@sunnytkm23@formula1mount@azxulaa@icarus-nex@spideyspeaches @moonvr @destourtereaux @baw-sixteen @cinderellawithashoe @love4lando @alesainz @blueanfield @itsmeempar @vellicora @simple-soul-searcher

for some reason im struggling to add people to the taglist, i deeply apologise

[cazzyf1]

Interesting facts I learnt about Maria Teresa de Fillippis & Lella Lombardi from Motorsports Magazine: Italian Legends

Maria Teresa de Fillippis:

She originally started off racing horses

Her first car was a Fiat 500 which she raced when her brothers bet she couldn't be a fast driver

She won her first ever race in the Fiat

Her father inspired her to succeed in whatever she did and supported her racing, Her mum didn't object either as she was happy that Maria was winning

She never had any sponsors or managers as she came from a wealthy family and made her own decisions, took no orders.

She never raced for Ferrari because she didn't want Enzo Ferrari to try and control her - Maserati respected this

Fangio told her she drove too fast and needed to go slower

Fangio, Ascari & Villoresi were her hero's and they were always very good to her

On track she called Fangio her 'Race Father' because he treated her so well and she admired that

"The relationships within the team were influenced by the older drivers. They were all older than me so they would protect me from anything like that (people trying to romance her at the track) I could look after myself, you know, and when things became too intense or too vulgar then I would joke with them, make fun of them, and they would go away"

She was once courted by Luigi Musso

"She was admired not only for her beauty but her courage in a racing car. She had guts, and was respected by her fellow competitors. I thought it was absolutely great she was in Grand Prix racing"- Tony Brooks

Monaco was tough on her at the corners

She was known as 'pilotino' because she was the smallest person racing

A car was made for her but had so many delays that neither her, Hans Herrmann nor Wolfgang von Trips could get the car on the grid during qualifying. Stirling Moss advised her to not race that car anymore

She was due to race the car at AVUS but gave the car up to Jean Behra who's car it originally was and was without a car. He was killed at that race

After this De Filippis left the sport to focus on having a family and didn't return until 1973 to join the International des Anciens Pilotes de Grand Prix F1 club

She became the club's vice president in 1997 and made honorary president days before celebrating her 85th birthday

Lella Lombardi:

Robin Herd says the Nurburgring was Lella's best driver, not the time when she got half a point

She started off with Monzo-based Formula 875

Her partners name was Fiorenza

She did well in F3 and became Italian's Ford Escort Mexico Challenge Champion the same year, 1973

Jackie Epsteine ran a Formula 5000 team in the winter of 73 and was persuaded to let Lella try, and became impressed with her driving and technical knowledge like when she correctly pitted when realising the car was getting a puncture

She was nicknamed 'Tigress of Turin' though the place name is wrong

She had little trouble getting sponsors. She stayed in Italy and flew to each race and never asked for expenses.

"She was charming but stubborn and independent, and a tremendously careful road driver. I went with her from Snetterton to Norwich once: 30mph all the way. Painful. People were staring and peeping. She didn't care"

"She wasn't interested in fashion and usually wore trousers if she was in civvies. She had an image to keep; "I'm tough so don't mess with me" She was a loner, really. No entourage. She never brought a girlfriend"

"Her sex and sexuality were not topics of conversation in the paddock. She was judged purely as a racing driver"

"She wasn't a publicity seeker. BBC news came to her first test with us at Goodwood and she wanted to know why. That she was a woman was irrelevancy to Lella. She was a racing driver first and foremost" - Robin Herd

Lella would complain that her car was understeering badly in corners but Vittorio who tested the car out said it was fine. Only next year when Ronnie Peterson described the same handling with the car did they realise Lella had been correct

With Ronnie Person joining Lella was unfortunately let go from March

"Lella was the perfect co-driver. She was much more concerned by the settings than I was, great with the mechanics and very speedy. But she wanted me to be just as fast and was always giving me tips and help. She was passionate about racing. She was no interested in music, reading, culture or anything else. Just racing - and fishing" - Christine Beckers

"When asked in a press conference how she was coping with such a hefty car, she replied, "I don't have to carry it, I just have to drive it"

Lella felt she could have been rich and famous in America but her love for Italy made her stay there

She knew foreign people appreciated her but she wanted to be know in Italy

Lella knew of her breath cancer by 1985. She had hit her breast on a sailing trip and it hurt her a lot.

With her partner Fiorenza she was trying to create a team and find others to help her including Giusy Remondi

She used to sleep in her truck to save money for racing

"She and Fiorenza were a beautiful couple, reserved; the spotlight was never on them"

"Lella only complained about the inequality in Formula 1 - because nobody had listened to her about the changes for the car"

"On her deathbed she asked us to continue the team to preserve what she had achieved. We miss her passion, determination and modesty"

Lombardi checked into Milan's san Camillo Clinic in February 1992 and died on March 3rd, days short of her 51st Birthday

[pudgedork]

it’s amazing what surrounding yourself with the right people can help you achieve. you’d finally allowed yourself to give in to your desires just a few short years ago, and already your progress was pretty remarkable. you used to be such a skinny little thing, but now… well, things were a bit different now.

progress started slowly. the desire to eat was there in your heart, but unfortunately your stomach wasn’t ready for the sudden step-up in intake. it took a couple of months to build up your capacity, but you soon found an unexpected boost. there were a few other feedees in your area as it turned out; you weren’t really looking for a relationship, but it wouldn’t hurt to make some new friends.

from the moment you all met up for the first time, the floodgates opened. not just for you personally, but for everyone in the group. turns out if you bring a bunch of gluttons with a passion for fatness together, waistlines are going to bulge. sharing in the pleasure of stuffing yourselves to the brim – and often beyond – while encouraging one another to order one more dessert… it was an intoxicating combination.

so here you were today; you’d recently surpassed 500 pounds, and you had no intentions of slowing down any time soon. your not-so-little gang of bad influences had become tightly knit over these last few years. you all wanted to see each other get huge, and you loved spending time together. even beyond the food, you just enjoyed their company.

you’d recently become the heaviest in the group, and it was unanimously agreed that you had the potential to get seriously fat; as if you weren’t already. that original target you set yourself of 300 pounds had proven to be deeply unsatisfying; you were barely getting started at that size! now, you didn’t really have a goal weight. you just wanted to keep growing and see how it felt. those fantasies of immobility and transforming your body into a mountain of blubber were thoughts you tried to bury, but deep down you knew there was every chance of your reality becoming not too dissimilar one day.

the routine for the group meet-ups remained pretty consistent; every sunday, you all met up for what was essentially the fast food equivalent to a pub crawl. this lasted from lunchtime all the way through to the late evening, by which point you were barely able to haul yourselves to your feet. looking back on when these meet-ups started, it was funny to think how self-conscious you all were. everyone was too afraid of the inevitable judgement from the staff – and the other customers – to order as much as they actually wanted. with time though, you stopped caring.

who cared if people spoke in hushed tones when they saw this pod of whales waddle through the door? it didn’t matter that the guy taking your order was mortified at how much you intended to eat, nor did it matter how the people at the next table over reacted when you lifted your bellies out to rest on the table.

you thought it was hot as fuck, honestly. yeah, it was kind of embarrassing to be known across town as this complete pig. everyone you went to school with knew, and you’d seen all the discussions they had on the local social media groups about you. but god damn, becoming this spectacle for people to observe with morbid curiosity only made you more desperate to pile on weight.

on the way to this week’s hangout you were reminded of an ongoing problem caused by your exploits; squeezing into your car was becoming a challenge. it wasn’t the biggest, so maybe it shouldn’t have come as a surprise. it did however occur to you just how ridiculous it was to have to consider whether a car could physically accommodate your sheer mass like this. that wasn’t really a concern most people had, after all.

it didn’t half get you in the mood for your binge though. arriving at the first fast food chain, you parked up near your friend’s cars and headed for the door. these trips between your car and the various establishments you’d be visiting were the most intense exercise you got nowadays, and they were a serious workout. the thought of the day arriving where you were simply too fat to complete this journey had you biting your lip.

after a quick catch-up – chatting about what everyone had been up to that week – it was time to begin. you ordered a stack of burgers and several large drinks, and got to work. within minutes, you were releasing a satisfied belch and pushing aside your trash. your friends took a little longer to finish their first meals, but it was soon time to move on.

by the time you reached the fourth stop – your favourite bakery – one of your friends pulled you aside before you had a chance to order. you’d been one of the more ravenous members of the group for a while now, but they couldn’t believe your pace today. they were all completely stuffed from trying to keep up, but it was clear you were far from finished. so there was a change of plan for the rest of the day; all the attention was going to be on trying to find your limit specifically.

you didn’t have a chance to reply before they pointed out the feast laid out on the table. an enormous selection of delicious looking baked goods. there were more than you could count. admittedly, your mind was a bit fuzzy from the caloric assault it had faced so far already, but even still; this was an obscene amount of food. and it was all for you.

squeezing into the seat, you briefly questioned if it was sturdy enough to handle you. no time for that, there was already a cake being shoved into your mouth. the next couple of hours were a haze. your friends took turns cramming a seemingly endless supply of food into you, while the rest of them caressed your bloated gut in an attempt to ease the strain. the only breaks came to pour milkshakes down your throat to hydrate you.

the state of pure bliss you found yourself in meant you didn’t even register the crowd that had gathered in the building. phone cameras flashed and recorded the evidence; they couldn’t believe what they were seeing. what the hell were they witnessing? who was this absolute mess, and how the fuck did they let themselves get like this?

by the time your gorging was over, the crowd had long since dispersed. most of the employees had left as well; there was no chance of other customers coming in while you were eating your way through the bakery’s entire stock. you felt more nauseous than you’d ever experienced before in your life. your stomach was stretched so tight you were concerned it might actually split open. the jeans you’d worn into the building lay torn under the table; there was absolutely no chance of them ever fitting you again.

shuffling in your seat to try and find a more comfortable position, your earlier fears about the chair were suddenly justified. a loud crack as the legs snapped underneath your heft, and down you went. before your friends had a chance to ask if you were alright, you released an enormous burp that eased the pressure in your belly significantly.

leaving your jeans behind – and with your shirt covering only a fraction of your gut – your friends attempted to help hoist you to your feet. you could barely maintain your balance. it was clear walking to your car wasn’t happening. one of the employees said they’d bring through a delivery pallet so you could be dragged out of the building.

the realisation of how absurd this situation was finally hit you. you were so stuffed, so unfit, so far gone, that your friends were having to literally wheel you out of the bakery using industrial equipment. you were completely humiliated, and you could barely contain your orgasm.

the next problem came once your friends – with assistance from the remaining employees – finally managed to get you to your car. you really weren’t in a fit state to drive. there might not be any laws around driving under the influence of a biblical sugar rush, but your friends decided for you it’d be for the best if someone else took you home.

with great difficulty, they managed to shove you into the passenger seat. the seatbelts had already been getting pretty tight, but with your belly this inflated it simply couldn’t reach. the smallest of your friends – though that was relative in this company – offered to drive you home, since she only lived a couple streets over anyway. it took all her willpower not to get distracted by the cascading ocean of fat sat next to her every time there was a bump in the road, but soon enough you were home.

you had a mobility scooter in the garage. you’d picked it up cheap on the off-chance of an emergency; but it wasn’t as if you would ever get fat enough to actually need one for real. well, it sure came in handy now. your friend helped you shuffle from the passenger seat onto the scooter, and said her goodbyes. you rode into the house, and caught a sight of yourself in the hallway mirror. barely clothed, chocolate and cream smeared around your mouth, a picture of completely unhinged gluttony.

the thought of having to return to normality tomorrow hit you. you’d had a taste of life as your friends’ pet project, and you had no desire to turn back. you wanted more. you needed that experience again. this was everything you’d ever fantasised about. it was crazy, but you didn’t care. you wanted to spend the rest of your life stuffed to the brim, praised for how huge you were getting, for being such a good whale.

you felt your phone vibrate. it was a message in the group chat.

“enjoyed that, didn’t you fatass? don’t worry about work tomorrow. you’re our full-time pig now, and we’re going to help you achieve exactly what you want.”

[xcalkenf]

SNEAKING OUT. [MAFIA!SUKUNA X F!READER] P2

NOTICE: f! reader, mafia sukuna, the reader was sold by her family to sukuna, sukuna calls reader brat + mine, fluff (wow), short part 2 note: This is a short one since I'm still sick and can't think of any good plot. Sorry about that, will upload more drabbles instead of 500-2k word fics since that will take less time to write. No smut, sorry people.

800 ish

The car ride back to the penthouse was tense. Sukuna’s knuckles whitened as he gripped the steering wheel, his jaw set in a firm line. You, on the other hand, stared out of the window, your anger simmering beneath the surface. The city blurred past, a chaotic dance of lights and shadows.

When the car finally pulled into the underground garage, you practically flung the door open, desperate for space. Sukuna followed suit, his expression unreadable. The silence stretched between you, heavy with unspoken words.

As you stepped out of the elevator onto your floor, he caught your wrist, pulling you to a halt. His touch was electric, sending shivers up your spine. “Listen,” he said, his voice low and gravelly. “Again, I don’t do affection. It’s not in my nature.”

You met his gaze, challenge burning in your eyes. “And what if it’s in mine?”

His lips quirked, a hint of amusement. “Then you’re in for disappointment.”

But before you could retort, he leaned down, capturing your lips in a kiss. It was fierce, possessive—the kind that left no room for doubt. His mouth moved against yours, demanding and hungry. And for a moment, you forgot everything—the gilded cage, the blood on his hands, the danger lurking outside.

When he finally pulled away, you were breathless, your heart pounding. His eyes bore into yours, a storm of emotions swirling within. “That,” he murmured, “was a small affection.”

Your cheeks flushed, and you took a step back, steadying yourself against the wall. “I thought you said—”

“I know what I said,” he interrupted. “But, sometimes I crave a moment of tenderness..”

His ears turned a delightful shade of red, and he cleared his throat. “Go to your room, brat.”

And with that, he practically fled down the hallway, leaving you standing there, dazed and disoriented. You thought he was mad, but in reality, he was just adorably embarrassed. Perhaps there was hope for this guarded heart after all.

-

A gentle glow was created on the wooden floor by the morning light that slipped through the curtains. You sat up in bed and blinked, confused. You quickly wondered if you were alone in the quiet room. Maybe he had left early to go to work. 

You slipped out of bed, your feet sinking into the plush carpet. The penthouse was eerily silent, and you tiptoed across the hallway, pushing open the door to his room. Empty. The sheets were neatly folded, the pillows untouched. Great, another day without him. Even after last night, you thought. 

As soon as you entered the living room, your heart began to rush. The door to the balcony was slightly open, and there he was, sitting on its edge, staring down at the city. His shoulder tattoo was visible as he wear his "comfortable"-looking clothes and ruffled pink hair. To be honest, he did look quite nice now that you think of it. 

“You took the day off,” you said, your voice barely a whisper.

He glanced at you, his eyes unreadable. “Someone has to make sure you don’t escape.”

You swallowed, the weight of his words sinking in. “I’m sorry,” you blurted out. “For last night. I didn’t mean to—”

He waved a dismissive hand. “It’s in the past.”

“But—”

“Brat,” he interrupted, his tone sharp. “Move on from it.”

You bit your lip, the memory of his lips against yours still fresh. “Why are you like this?” you whispered. “One moment, you’re—”

“Because,” he snapped, “I can’t afford sentimentality. Not in my world.”

You turned away,  frustration warring within you. But then you remembered the kiss—the way he’d held you, his eyes. “Last night,” you said softly. “That wasn’t nothing, was it?”

His silence spoke volumes.

“Why?” you speak out. “Why bother?”

He stood, walking closer to you. His fingers brushing your cheek. 

He leaned closer, his breath warm against your cheek. "I care about you," he admitted, his voice barely audible. 

"More than I should." 

Your heart skipped a beat. "Why?" 

His lips brushed against your forehead, a fleeting touch. “Because you’re mine,” he murmured. 

You gaze up at him, and thoughts of confusion cross your mind. "What's causing him to act this way now? Maybe he's trying?" You gave it some thought.

With a swift dismissal, you backed away from Sukuna and asked, "U-uh, have you had breakfast?" You ask in an attempt to lighten the mood, eyes looking everywhere -too ashamed to even look him in the eye. 

He raises an eyebrow while his gaze remain fixed on your face.

"Breakfast?" he uttered, as though the word meant anything more than just food. "It's not necessary for me."

But you didn't give up, your curiosity winning out. You spoke softly, "You should probably eat." "Even monarchs require food."

He snorted. "Brat," he remarked in a sarcastic voice. "You're annoying."

Unaffected, you shrugged. "Perhaps. However, sometimes even a killer needs a little sweetness."

And just like that, the tension eased, leaving room for something fragile—a thread of connection between you and him.

A/N: Ok so I did say I *might* put smut in this part, but I think I'm gonna move that to another part (If I manage to figure out what to write) Sorry about the short writing :) God bless <3

TAG: @szuuyl , @dimplesxx , @ssetsuka , @kozutooru , @domainofmarie

(for some reason, I can’t tag the people in itallic.)

@xstom in tumblr 2024. DONT REPOST/COPY! !creds to those who own the dividers and banners!

[temis-de-leon]

Day 25 - New Year's kiss

Characters: Mammon x fem!MC

25 kisses challenge Masterlist

Main Masterlist

CW: a bit of self insert (my parents are not every one's parents), Mammon is taller than MC and they have a well established relationship, they are whipped for each other

A/N: we're finally here. Time passed so fast, I'm gonna miss this. I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did. Next will be the 500 followers celebration, see you there :) (if you want to ofc)

.

“Shit!”

MC could only watch as Mammon kicked the wheel and grabbed fistfuls of his hair. He seemed desperate, embarrassed and defeated, jewellery sparkling under the faint light of the rural streetlamps and eyes glistening with unshed tears. In a way, he also looked beautiful, and MC felt incredibly guilty for the thought alone.

He was wearing a suit, chest buttons opened and sleeves rolled up, ignoring the cold with nonchalance. Lucifer begged him to put on a coat to, at least, pretend that low temperatures did bother him a little, but Mammon wouldn’t be himself if he didn’t ignore his older brother’s suggestions. In the end, the coat ended up on MC’s shoulders.

The cold cut her skin when she got out of the car, but what hurt her the most was Mammon’s avoidant gaze. He was ashamed, but there was no way he could've known the engine would fail and leave them stranded out of town. The car wasn’t even his! It was rental!

“Things like this happen” she said in a low tone, grabbing the belt loops in his pants to pull him close to her. A blush immediately appeared on his cheeks and MC wasn’t able to hide her smile on time.

“Do they, tho’?”

“It’s an old car, so yeah”

“Well, it wouldn’t have if Lucifer let me bring my Lexura” he groaned, messing up his hair again “It’s his fault”

“It’s no one’s fault”

MC’s interruption went unnoticed and Mammon kept complaining to the air, growing aggravated without letting her get too far, her fingers still anchored to the loops.

She could understand him. It wasn’t the first time they celebrated the new year as a couple, but it would’ve been the first time spending it with her family. It was a milestone in their relationship he was eager to reach and the disappointment was evident in his face.

“You can fly us there and we can spend time with them still”

“But we’re not gonna be with them when the year starts”

His voice was meek, truly beaten, as if not being there when the year ends would bring bad luck to the new year. A superstitious thought that she wouldn’t have assigned to him before, but maybe this first impression was far more important to him than MC believed to be.

“Baby, come on… I swear it’s okay”

MC called his name, moving her arms to hug his waist, and a wave of relief covered her body when he hugged her back and let his cheek rest on top of her head. Although she couldn’t see him anymore, she knew he was blushing and that made her smile.

Not that far away, crossing the darkness of the countryside and beaming with street lights and firecrackers, the sound of chimes broke the silence. People screamed in excitement and anticipation and Mammon sighed with sadness. Only half a minute of the year remained and they were lost in the middle of the road, the asphalt too old for her to comfortably walk on and the distance too long for them to arrive in less than forty minutes.

Her parents would have to wait, but she knew they wouldn’t feel insulted. And frankly, it’s not like she was sad either. She was with Mammon, after all, listening to the weak ringing of the chimes with poorly hidden joyful agitation, and the closer they got to midnight, the faster her heart beat.

Mammon looked at her in surprise, keeping her close to shield her from the cold. The artificial light from above crowned his hair like a halo and MC was too happy to comment on the irony.

“Are you seriously okay with this?”

“Of course I am! As long as I start each new year with you, I’ll always be okay!”

The chimes got louder and people started to scream the countdown. Only 12 seconds left.

They were both smiling like idiots, the disappointment of not arriving on time slowly disappearing. MC stood on her tiptoes and Mammon leaned down.

“Stop being so cute, dammit”

She chuckled and he kissed her and the scream got louder. Fireworks exploding in the air while he spread his hands across her back and she cradled his face, keeping him where he was for a few more seconds before he managed to pull away.

With eyes half closed and a flushed expression, he murmured against her lips.

“Happy New Year, treasure”

“Happy New Year, Mammon”

MC smiled while he kissed her, repeating the gesture again and again until they started laughing. Then, they kissed once more.

.

.

Taglist: @ourfinalisation  @owlisbuffering  @chizukimp4  @ravenredwine @darkflowerav  @craftysclown @mehkers

[acourtofkindness]

Thank you for sending in all the stories, here you can find the collection! Some of these are one-shots, some are longer stories, just click your way through them and also check out their other fics!

A Court of Vice and Victors

by @wishcamper Acosf rewrite where Nesta actually gets help and she and Cassian have a healthier dynamic, plus an Illyrian murder mystery

Pages Turned

by @climbthemountain2020 A character study on Nesta Archeron, the hardships she's faced through her life, and how they've shaped her as a person.

Could You Love Me While I Hate Myself

by @witch-and-her-witcher Humans have just been freed from servitude to the fae after years at war on Prythian and times are desperate for Nesta Archeron. With Feyre MIA and Elain a shell of herself, her options are becoming increasingly limited. When one of the young fae warriors, Cassian, who has carved a name for himself on the battlefield proposes to her after recognizing a mating bond between them, Nesta doesn't see any choice but to agree to take him as her husband and move herself and her sister to his home Court and the wilds of Illyria. War brings them together, a bond binds them - but is that enough for two broken people to find love with each other?

Firm and Fragrant Still the Brambleberries

by @foundress0fnothing When Nesta became a nurse at the start of the war, she could not have predicted a patient as challenging as Lieutenant Cassian Davies, nor he a nurse as captivating as her. As the same war that brought them together threatens to tear them apart, Nesta and Cassian must navigate the complexities of love and duty to find the way back to each other. A WWI historical AU.

Wreck My Plans, That's My Man

by @c-e-d-dreamer Drummer for the Bat Boys, Cassian has a large following, but sometimes Nesta doesn't appreciate fangirls calling themselves "Cassian's future wife."

It Looks As Though You're Letting Go

by @Darkcat18 (on ao3) Everyone is born with an arrow on the back of their hand which points to their soulmate at midnight on their eighteenth birthday. After her parents' disastrous marriage and her father's subsequent depression following the death of her mother, Nesta realized a soulmate is nothing more than guaranteed heartache and ruination. On the eve of her eighteenth birthday, she packs up her car and leaves her family and life behind forever. What she doesn't count on, however, is having a soulmate like Cassian, who may be the one to prove to her that a soulmate is what she needs.

I Guess It's Half Timing (And The Other Half's Luck)

by @moodymelanist Nesta and Cassian have a steamy one-night stand while out celebrating St. Patrick’s Day, but their lives are changed forever once Nesta realizes her period is late. Follow along as Nesta and Cassian navigate preparing to become parents, balancing their other life stresses, and figuring out their feelings for one another!

Amidst the Madness

by @This_Immortal_Hope (on ao3) Love and war have always followed the same rules: Quick to ignite, slow to extinguish. There aren't many things Cassian has dared to openly want in his 500 years of existence. Not even the position he currently occupies as Lord of Windahaven (far too lofty a spot for nothing more than a well-blodded bastard, if you ask the other Illyrian Lords), but from the second Nesta Archeron stepped foot in his camp, the entire world ebbed into a single truth. She is his. He is hers. Everything else - the war he is meant to lead, the people relying on him, the legacy he should be fighting to protect, cease to exist the second his eyes are caught in roiling silver flames. There is pain in this female, his female. And retribution will be exacted. Rhysand has his war, and now so does Cassian. Whether the two align ... only Nesta can give that order.

Sweetest Con

by @separatist-apologist Nesta Archeron has been trapped in witness protection for the past five years, hiding a secret no one can ever learn. All she has to do is wait out the criminals back home determined to punish her and her sisters for a lie they told years before. She can handle anything- even the new agent sent to keep her safe.

The Whole Truth

by @TheTeaQueen (on ao3) A beautifully heartbreaking story about what if Papa Archeron used/sold Nesta back in their village, and the IC learning this truth. It features Rhys and Nesta sibling bonding over their respective SA traumas. And Cassian helping Nesta to heal and feel comfortable with touch again

The Nesta Variation

by @persegrace (on ao3) A modern AU where Cassian is a military vet and Nesta is a former ballet dancer. They're both dealing with trauma, and meet in AA.

Ultima Ex Nobis

by @fieldofdaisiies Six years into a global pandemic which was caused by a mass fungal infection that turns hosts into zombie-like creatures and makes the whole of Prythian collapse, the former army general Cassian Cadell is tasked with one very special mission – escorting Nesta Archeron, one of the few immune survivors, across a post-apocalyptic Prythian to a group of people of the name L. Their identity is unknown but they can make an antidote.

you make my motor run

by @wilde-knight When Nesta and Cassian are set up on a blind date, neither of them can imagine their families feeling whole again. But with sparks flying between them, will they finally be able to imagine the road ahead?

[random-thot-generator]

Written for Cali's nameless challenge hosted by @the-californicationist (love your fics btw, sweets.)

Went a tad over the 500-word mark by about 50 words. I tried.

SFW, no smut or violence. (I know, disappointing.)

A Quiet (K)night

It's just you and him again.

You watch as the last of the passengers exit the car, the doors closing with a hiss as the train lurches forward. Book in hand, you chance a peek up at your silent companion. As always, he's seated near the back, eyes on the window, booted feet spread wide and firmly set. Heart fluttering, you direct your eyes back to the page, unseeing.

Since switching to the evening shift, you've been leery about traveling alone at night, but something about this bloke makes you feel safe. He just gives off a protective vibe. Or maybe it was the uniform he was wearing the first night you saw him. Either way, you've dubbed him your 'quiet knight'.

He never speaks, but you think he keeps an eye on you, just the same. You both get off at the same stop every evening, him following several paces behind you, hands in his pockets, walking as though he's out for a stroll. Once you reach your building and step inside, you always linger by the door, waiting for him to pass by. Only then will you go up to your flat.

Your eyes drift up from your book again. He's still looking out the window, but you don't think he's seeing what's beyond it. There's a far away look in his eye, and you wonder what he's thinking about. You hope he's not thinking about some other bird. It's silly, but the thought of it makes you jealous.

Your stop comes up and you grab your purse, watching from the corner of your eye as your quiet knight stands as well. He always waits for you to go first, leading the way out of the car, and it strikes you as a very gentlemanly thing to do. You don't see him take notice of the soft smile that's formed on your lips.

Now out of the station, you set the pace, hearing his footsteps behind you. With his long legs he could easily pass you by, but he never does. He stays with you, not too close but never too far away. You wish he'd draw closer, maybe say something about the weather to start a conversation.

When you reach your building, keys in hand, you pause. Something takes hold of you, an inner voice whispering to take a chance. You glance up and see him nearing, his eyes focused on you, his steps slowing. Feeling a rush of bravery, you smile at him.

"You walk me home every night, don't you?"

He stops, shrugs, his expression sheepish.

"Jus' keepin' an eye out for ya. Dangerous, a pretty bird walkin' alone at night."

Your breath hitches at his admission, but also because he called you pretty. Your smile grows wider.

"Maybe you should walk with me tomorrow evening, then?"

He nods, eyes sparkling. "I can do that," he replies.

You like the way his eyes crinkle at the corners. So handsome.

You tell him goodnight before you enter your building and wave to him once you're inside, heart pounding, elated. Your quiet knight shuffles, gives a nod, then continues on his way, a smile now on his face, too.

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