#and it's the second to last chapter and things finally clicked this weekend

[anosrepasi]

Chapter 5: Provençal/Read from the beginning

Chapters: 5/6 Fandom: The Old Guard

It is a long time, 400 years beneath the water.

–

A coda fic for Lingua Franca.

[world-of-aus]

Breaking The Ice

Pairing: Hockey Player!Bucky x Sports Photographer!Reader

Warning: More Angsty Dialogue. Perhaps a turning point?

Author's Note: Chapter 3 is here and i apologize for the delay but life caught up and tripped me up on the ice friends! I hope you enjoy this one, part four is in the editing phase and should be released shortly here! Enjoy my little buns!

You were halfway through editing Thursday’s shots when the email pinged. 

Subject: Road Game - Montreal (Bus Departs 9:00 AM Friday)  From: Bruins Media & Ops  To: All Game Day Media Personnel 

Hi team,  Just a reminder we’re hitting the road tomorrow morning for our weekend game in Montreal.  Bus departs from TD Garden at 9:00 AM sharp. Please be on time and ready to roll.  — Operations Team 

You settle back into the comforting cushions of your couch, the cold press of reality settling somewhere between your lungs. You’d known the game was coming. Of course you did. You’d memorized the Bruins’ media schedule the day you took the job with the team. But something about the email, about seeing it, turned your spine to glass. You hadn’t been prepared for this. 

You were going to be on a bus with Bucky. With the team you reminded yourself. 

A long, quiet ride. No press room noise to buffer the silence. No lens to hide behind. No safe, sterile space between the two of you. Just shared air, shared memories, and all the things the two of you hadn’t said. 

Your laptop screen dimmed slightly as your fingers froze on the trackpad. The photo still open on the screen was the one you hadn’t been able to delete yet; Bucky, from the photoshoot, caught between a soft laugh and something quieter. That look that lingered. The one you’d seen once before, years ago, the night he’d promised not to forget you. 

You clicked away from the image like it had burned you. 

Your phone buzzed a moment later. Wanda. 

Wanda: You good for the bus tomorrow? Want to sit together? 

You hesitated for a beat before typing back. 

Y/N: Yeah. Please. 

You didn’t trust yourself to be alone with your thoughts. Not on that bus. Not with the echo of his voice still under your skin. 

The next morning 

The bus rumbled to life as the last few players climbed aboard, coffee cups in hand, duffel bags slung over their shoulders. You found a seat near the middle of the aisle beside Wanda, holding your camera bag on your lap like it might keep you safe, keep yourself from doing something silly. 

The hum of voices rose and fell around you, players bantering, coaches murmuring over tablets, the rustle of protein bar wrappers and gear. 

But none of it penetrated through you. Your thoughts already elsewhere, still stuck in that studio, with golden light spilling over Bucky’s jaw, with the sharp edge of what could’ve been catching in your chest. 

Wanda didn’t speak right away, offering you a granola bar with a nudge of her elbow against yours. You took it, unwrapping it slowly, your head falling against the cool of the window with your first bite into the morning breakfast. 

“He looked at me like I was still that girl,” you finally said, your voice a whisper above the engine's hum. 

Wanda turned to you, quiet but present. “You’re not though.” 

“I know,” you said with a nod. “But it felt like… like time folded. Just for a second. Like I was right back there on the rink with him, under the stars. Like none of the years in between mattered.” 

Wanda didn’t interrupt. She just listened, eyes soft and steady as she watched you. 

“I told myself I was over it,” you whispered. “That I’d moved on. That I could stand in front of him and feel nothing but professionalism. But then he stood there and looked at me like I still mattered. And I -” You blinked, jaw tightening. “I hated how much I wanted to believe it. To believe him. How much I still want too.” 

Wanda reached over, squeezing your hand gently with yours. “You don’t have to hate that part of you, y/n. The part that still cares. That part that loved him. You can’t just un-love someone because they disappeared. The memories you two shared are always going to remain.” 

You let the silence sit for a moment. Outside the window, the city peeled away into blurred trees and faded highways. 

“He was everything,” you admitted quietly. “My best friend, my future, my safe place. And he let me go without even trying to hold on.” 

“And now he’s here,” Wanda said gently, “and it’s like reopening a wound you thought had healed.” 

You nodded, numbly taking another bite of granola. 

“He didn’t just break your heart,” Wanda continued. “He disappeared from your life like you didn’t exist. But you do. And you’ve built something beautiful from the pieces he left behind.” 

You swallowed hard, tears threatening to fall from the corners of your eyes. “So why does it still feel like I’m the one who got left behind? If it truly rose above it all, if I moved on why do I still feel like this?” 

“Because you never got the closure you deserved,” Wanda said. “But you’re here now. And he gets to see the version of you that survived without him.” 

You gave a quiet laugh, watery and soft. “The version of me who’s totally holding it together on this bus ride?” 

Wanda smirked. “Hey, you’re doing better than me. If my ex showed up with cheekbones like that and a redemption arc, I’d throw myself out the window.” 

That cracked a real smile out of you. Brief, but real. 

They sat like that for a few minutes, the hum of the bus filling the quiet spaces between them. You leaned your head back, eyes closed, letting the movement of the road settle your nerves. 

When your opened them again, your gaze drifted forward, instinct or something heavier pulling you there. 

Bucky sat two rows ahead, his head leaned back against the hard head rest, earbuds in. As if he could sense your watching eyes, he tilts his head slightly just enough so that his eyes find yours through the narrow space between the seats. 

His lips barely curl. 

Your throat goes tight. 

You turn away, heart pounding against your ribs like it still remembered what it felt like to be seen by him. Really seen. 

Wanda watched you quietly. “You okay y/n?” 

You didn’t answer right away. Just stared out the window and whispered, more to yourself than anything, “I don’t know.” 

By the time the team bus pulled into the circular drive of the hotel in downtown Montreal, the late afternoon light had turned the city to gold. You stepped off the bus behind Wanda, your camera bag slung over one shoulder, as you tried not to let the weight of your thoughts show on your face. 

Inside, the lobby buzzed with check-ins, team staff passing out room keys, and a concierge smiling too brightly at the herd of oversized athletes crowding their quiet foyer. You accepted your keycard and followed Wanda into the elevator, nodding politely at a couple of assistant coaches you shared the bus ride with. You rode up with Wanda to your floor only parting ways when you each reached your respective doors, the two of you promising to find one another later once you had settled in. 

With a press of your room key to the door, you were slipping in, the hotel room door clicking shut behind you with a soft, solid thud. You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding. 

Muted sunlight filtered through the tall windows, casting long shadows over the sleek, modern furnishings. There was a king-sized bed with perfectly tucked corners, a streamlined desk, and a soft chair by the window that looked more decorative than comfortable. The air carried that familiar, sterile scent of industrial-grade linen wash and lemon polish—clean, impersonal, temporary. 

You dropped your camera bag on the desk, pulling the strap over your head, rolling your shoulders. The pressure of the long day settled there like it always did. But today, it wasn’t just the weight of the equipment or the constant focus behind the lens. 

It was the weight of him. 

You moved to the bed and sat on the edge, elbows on your knees, face cradled briefly in your hands. The memory of the bus ride pulsed behind your closed eyes, Bucky’s voice low and tentative, Wanda’s knowing glance, the quiet ache in your chest that hadn’t dulled all day. 

This wasn’t just any away game. 

It was the yet another confrontation with the past you’d tried so hard to leave behind. 

Your phone buzzed from where you’d tossed it on the nightstand. 

You reached for it lazily, the familiar glow washing across your tired features as you unlocked it. 

Subject: Team Dinner — Mandatory Attendance (Tonight @ 7 PM)  From: Bruins Media & Ops  To: All Staff & Personnel 

Hi all,  Please join us in the Montrose Room (second floor, off the main elevator) for a team dinner this evening at 7:00 PM sharp. This is a formal welcome dinner ahead of tomorrow’s game. Business casual, Bruin's gear optional.  — Operations Team 

You stared at the message for a long moment. 

Mandatory. 

Of course it was. 

A humorless breath slipped out through your nose. You flopped back onto the bed, arms spread wide like you were trying to melt into the mattress, eyes fixed on the ceiling. 

Seven o’clock. That gave you just under two hours to shower, dig out something vaguely presentable, and brace for the very real possibility that you’d be eating dinner across the room from the man who once promised you forever. 

You let your eyes close, just for a minute. 

Long enough to feel the pull of old hopes and fresh wounds curl quietly beneath your ribs. 

You didn’t know how long you laid there on the bed just staring up at the ceiling, trying not to feel anything too deeply. 

But your mind wouldn’t slow down, enough for you to catch up. It kept pulling you backward through frozen memories of a different rink, a younger version of yourself holding a camera with frozen fingers and a heart full of unspoken things. A boy who skated up to you with wind in his smile and snowflakes on his lashes. Who called her Hot Shot like it was the softest secret in the world. 

You rubbed the heel of your palm against your chest like that might quiet the sting. 

You were young, you told yourself. You should’ve known better than to believe in forever. 

But you had believed. Fully. Recklessly. Enough to let yourself hope that love could stretch across miles, across fame, across time. 

A sharp knock jolted her out of your spiral. 

You sat up fast, blinking. “One sec,” you called, quickly dragging yourself off the bed. 

You opened the door, and of course, it was Wanda. 

Loose joggers, hair in a topknot, hotel slippers like she owned the place. A granola bar in one hand, water bottle in the other. The look on her face said she knew exactly what she was walking into. 

“Thought I’d find you marinating in your feelings,” Wanda said, walking in without waiting for permission. 

You shut the door behind her with a soft laugh that almost caught in your throat. “How’d you know?” 

“Because I know you. And because the second I saw that dinner email I figured you’d either be sleeping, crying, or composing an emotionally complicated photo essay in your head.” She dropped the water bottle onto the nightstand and flopped down beside you on the bed. “Please tell me it’s not the crying one.” 

You cracked a smile, even if it didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Not yet.” 

Wanda peeled open the granola bar and offered you half, a smile reaching her eyes when you took her offered half. 

For a while, neither of you spoke. You just sat, shoulders brushing, the quiet full of history and comfort. 

“I saw him watching you on the bus.” she spoke softly. 

You didn’t look at her. “I know.” 

“He looked wrecked y/n.” 

Your throat tightened. “So did I.” 

Wanda’s hand found yours, squeezing. “You’re allowed to be hurt, you know. You don’t have to hide it.” 

“I know,” you whispered. “It’s just, it’s harder when he’s here. When he’s real again.” 

Wanda nodded. “You think you’re prepared for that moment. That you’ll be cool or detached or emotionally evolved. And then boom, there he is, and it’s all back.” 

You bit the inside of your cheek. “I’m not mad that it still hurts. I’m mad that part of me still -” You cut herself off. 

“Still loves him?” 

You didn’t answer. You didn’t have to. 

Wanda leaned her head against your shoulder. “You don’t owe him anything tonight. Not a look. Not a smile. Not forgiveness. But you do owe yourself kindness. So if you want to go to that dinner and fake-laugh at the trainer’s dumb jokes just to survive it, I’ll be right there doing it with you. And if you need to ditch halfway through and eat vending machine chips in this room instead, I’ll do that too.” 

Your throat ached with unshed tears. 

“You always show up for me,” you murmured. 

Wanda bumped your shoulder. “Yeah, well. You’d do the same. But also I’d like to see you in that black top you packed. The one that makes you look like you run an art gallery and secretly ride a motorcycle.” 

You laughed, finally—a soft, breathy thing that pulled something loose in your chest. 

“Okay,” you said, wiping beneath your eyes. “Okay. Let’s get ready.” 

After Wanda left you to get ready in her own room, you stood in front of the full-length mirror near the closet, still wrapped in a towel, hair damp from the shower you had forced yourself into. Your suitcase lay open at your feet like a challenge, clothes folded in half-organized piles, none of them quite right. 

You stared at yourself for a long moment. Water clung to your collarbone, slid in slow droplets toward your chest. 

Part of you wanted to dress down, blend into the background like you always did when things felt too loud inside. But Wanda’s voice echoed gently in yout ears: 

You don’t owe him anything… but you do owe yourself kindness. 

And maybe kindness tonight meant feeling a little powerful. 

You pulled out the black top, the one Wanda had mentioned. It was simple, but sharp. Sleeveless, with a soft drape at the neckline that hinted at confidence you didn’t always wear. You paired it with dark jeans and low boots, brushed a warm shimmer over your cheeks and added a swipe of deep rose to your lips. 

Nothing loud. Just enough to feel steady. 

You clipped on a pair of small gold hoops, running your fingers through your hair to give it shape, and stood back to look at the final version of yourself in the mirror. 

You didn’t look like the girl on the ice with Bucky Barnes. Or the girl who had waited for calls that never came. 

You looked like y/f/n y/l/n. Bruin's photographer. A woman with your own damn light. 

Still, your hand hovered over your necklace—a delicate gold chain with a tiny camera charm you hadn’t taken off since college. Bucky had given it to you the night before he left for the draft. 

You let your fingers graze it for a beat too long, then turned away. 

The elevator ride to the second floor was quiet. The hallway buzzed faintly with voices as you neared the Montrose Room, golden light spilling out from the open double doors. 

You paused just outside, taking a slow breath. 

Inside, the space was warm and softly elegant. A long dining table stretched down the center, already surrounded by staff and players. A buffet lined the far wall, and someone was pouring wine into glasses at a side station. It smelled like garlic, fresh bread, and some kind of roasted meat. 

You spotted Wanda across the room waving you over with a subtle nod. 

You moved toward her, weaving past a group of assistant coaches and an equipment manager. Conversation buzzed around you; laughter, chairs scraping lightly, the kind of team banter you’d grown used to tuning out when you were behind the lens. 

Wanda had saved you a seat at the far end, tucked just enough away from the center to offer breathing room. You slipped into it gratefully. 

“You look good,” Wanda said as she leaned in. “Like, boss bitch good.” 

You gave her a dry smile. “Let’s hope I don’t sweat through it.” 

But before Wanda could respond, the room shifted. 

A slight hush fell, one of those subtle, collective shifts of energy you only noticed if you were paying attention. 

You turned toward the doorway. 

And there he was. 

Freshly showered, damp curls falling across his forehead, dressed in dark slacks and a slate button-down that pulled slightly across his chest. His team jacket hung over one arm, slung casually like he didn’t know the effect he had walking into a room. 

He scanned the space, eyes grazing across people, until they landed on you. 

For one second, just one, time dropped out. 

Your breath caught. Your stomach folding in on itself, sharp and sudden. 

His expression didn’t change. Not much. But something flickered there, an ache. A memory, sharp and swift. 

He didn’t look away. 

Neither did you. 

Then, slowly, he gave a slight nod of his head. Almost imperceptible. A gesture meant just for you. 

You lifted your chin a fraction. Not defiant. Not open. Just steady. 

The moment broke when the head coach clapped a hand on Bucky’s back and drew him further into the room with a grin and a loud welcome. 

Wanda reached for her wine. “Well,” she murmured. “That wasn’t nothing.” 

You reached for yours too. “No,” you said quietly. “It really wasn’t.” 

Dinner unfolded around you like a movie you weren’t fully watching. 

You kept your eyes on the people closest to you; Wanda, a few assistant coaches, some of the PR staff you saw daily, but you felt Bucky across the room like a pull in your chest, a thread stitched into your ribs that tugged tighter every time he laughed or spoke. 

He was seated just a few spots down from you, angled across the table. Not close enough to speak without raising your voice, but close enough to feel the heat of his presence in every cell. 

You caught him watching you twice, once when you tipped your head back to laugh at something Wanda said, and again when you leaned in to share a quiet word with the video analyst beside you. Both times, when your eyes found his, he didn’t look away. 

Neither did you. 

But you didn’t smile. And he didn’t either. 

The tension settled like static around the two of you. 

As dessert plates were cleared and a few of the younger players got up to grab seconds, you excused yourself quietly and stood, moving toward the water station near the back. 

You were reaching for a glass when you heard the quiet, familiar scrape of a chair behind you. 

And then, his voice, low and close. 

“‘Scuse me.” 

You turned, but too late. He brushed past you, his shoulder just barely grazing yours. 

The contact was fleeting, but it lit your nerves like a struck match. 

You caught his scent, something clean, woodsy, familiar in a way that made your stomach twist and your chest tighten. 

Bucky didn’t stop walking. 

But as he passed, his fingers ghosted across the rim of the water pitcher like he needed something to do with his hands. Like he knew you were watching him. 

And you were. 

God, you were. 

Back at the table, Wanda gave you a look that said everything. 

You just shook your head and sipped your water like your heart wasn’t crawling up your throat. 

The hotel dining room had thinned out to soft murmurs and clinking glasses as the night grew later. Most of the team and staff had already made their way to the elevators, laughter echoing faintly from the lobby as goodbyes were exchanged. 

You stayed behind, lingering near one of the empty tables, your fingers loosely wrapped around your half-full glass of water. The glow from the sconces along the wall cast a soft amber hue across the room. You felt him before you saw him, his presence, a shift in the air behind you. You didn’t move, didn’t speak. 

Bucky stepped up beside you, close but not touching. Not yet. 

They stood there in silence for a long moment. No words. Just the weight of four years, of all the could-have-beens and never-should-haves hanging between the two of you like a fog. 

When you finally glanced over at him, you found his gaze already on you. 

And then, softly earnestly Bucky spoke. 

“I’ve been thinking about what you said the other day,” he said. “Back at the shoot.” 

You didn’t respond, but you didn’t look away either. 

“About how missing someone doesn’t mean you get them back.” 

Your throat tightened. Those words had haunted you for a long time that night haunted you more after you’d said them aloud to him. 

Bucky exhaled, his voice low and steady. “You were right. I know nothing I do can erase what I did. And I know I don’t get to just ask to go back.” 

Your expression softened, just barely. You didn’t trust yourself to speak yet. 

“I’m not asking to pick up where we left off,” he said gently. “I know that’s not fair to you. But I’m here now, and I just - I want to try. To build something that makes sense between us again. Even if it’s not what it used to be. Even if it’s just a way to be around you without all the silence.” 

You looked down at your glass for a moment, then placed it gently on the table. 

“I don’t know if I can do that,” you said quietly. 

Bucky’s brow furrowed. “Because it still hurts?” 

You nodded once. “Because I don’t think I could survive losing you again.” 

Those words landed heavy. Bucky’s jaw flexed, his eyes shining under the soft light. 

“I would never let that happen again,” he said, voice rough with emotion. “I know I made the mistake once letting the noise, the pressure, everything drown out what mattered most. But I’ve changed. I’ve had to. And I will never put us in that place again. Not you, not me.” 

You blinked hard, and for a moment, you looked like you might break again. But you didn’t. You stood tall, still guarded, but not closed. 

“I want to believe you,” you whispered. “And i think part of me already does, because a part of me always will."

He nodded, slowly. 

“That’s enough for me,” he said. “I don’t need everything. I just need a beginning.” 

Silence fell between them again, but this time, it didn’t feel sharp or strained. It was quieter. Gentler. A soft space where something might start to grow again. 

You glanced down at the floor, then back up at him. “This doesn’t fix everything you know that right?"

“I know,” Bucky said. “But maybe it’s a step.” 

Your lips curved, barely a flicker of a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes but held promise. 

“Maybe.” 

He didn’t push for more. Didn’t reach for your hand or ask for one more chance. 

He just stood there with you in the quiet, letting you know without words that you weren’t alone in this anymore. 

And for the first time in a long time, you didn’t feel like you had to carry it all by yourself. 

The hallway was quiet as you walked back to your room, the low hum of the hotel’s dim lighting buzzing faintly above you. The long day pressed into your limbs, but your mind felt strangely light. 

Bucky’s voice still echoing softly in your ears. “I just need a beginning.” 

You stopped in front of your room, slid the key card into the lock, and stepped inside. The door clicking shut behind you. The air in the room was cool and still. Familiar. Safe. 

You leaned back against the door, your eyes fluttering closed. 

It wasn’t forgiveness yet. It wasn’t even closure. But it was something. A breath. A beginning. And after years of carrying the ache of what you’d lost, tonight felt like the first time you hadn’t felt buried under it. 

You crossed the room slowly, placing your boots by the chair, your fingers brushing over the neatly made bedspread. Outside the window, the city blinked on, lights stretching into the distance like tiny stars. 

Maybe, you thought. 

Maybe this didn’t have to be as complicated as you’d feared. Maybe the heartbreak you’d both endured had carved out space for something new to grow—something gentler, steadier. 

You were exactly where you’d dreamed of being. Photographing for the team you’d loved since childhood. Carving your place into this fast, shining world. And Bucky—he was here too, standing tall in the dream he’d chased all his life. 

You had both made it. 

So why couldn’t you be happy? 

Why couldn’t you, in your own way, be happy together? 

You slid under the covers, the warmth of the sheets wrapping around you as you exhaled slowly, deeply. 

Maybe this was your step. Not toward what you used to be, but toward who you were now. 

And for the first time in years, that thought didn’t scare you. 

It gave you peace. 

And as your eyes drifted closed, you let herself believe just a little that maybe they could move forward. Together. 

Maybe this could be a start. 

[imagine-it-was-us]

love me not pt. 1 || Carlos Sainz

Inspiration: Ravyn Lenae x Rex Orange County "Love me not"

Author's note: Okay. First of all. I just clicked with this song. On repeat for the last month. And of course, when I have an obsession like that, the next thing is "which one would suit this?" and it was Carlos. But second thing – I know nothing about the man. So of course, everything is pure fiction. Finally, I put the vote earlier, if I should split it in five chapters or post it whole. Let's meet in the middle – let's make it a trilogy.

Pairing: Carlos Sainz Jr. x female reader

Warnings: mentions of nsfw, drinking, ghosting, toxic relationships.

Summary: They started as a spark – fast, reckless, impossible to ignore. One night turned into something more. But when love feels like a push and pull, when you only know how to leave before you're left… how do you stay?

Word count: 2k+

They say one of the hardest things to tell when you meet someone new is whether it's chemistry or compatibility. That slow-burn, meant-to-be magnetism, or just the thrill of something new pulling you in too fast. 

Usually, one of the people involved is emotionally educated enough to catch it and point it out – to step back when needed, to draw the line between what’s fleeting and what’s real. But when two people who've never truly known what love feels like sense that first spark, things don’t burn slow. They ignite.

Carlos saw her before he knew he was looking. Somewhere between sipping a drink that cost too much and forcing a smile at another stiff conversation, his eyes landed on her across the room. It wasn’t dramatic. There was no slow-motion, no spotlight. Just... stillness.

She wasn’t even trying to be noticed. That was the worst part. Or maybe the best. She just existed in a way that made the space bend around her. Laughing too politely at some old man's joke, glass in hand, other arm crossed like she was holding herself up. Her smile didn’t reach her eyes, and that, somehow, made her more unforgettable.

Carlos wasn’t unfamiliar with attraction. That wasn’t new. He’d had his fair share of fast flames and blurry mornings. But this was different. This wasn’t lust. This was gravity.

She was the kind of person you feel before you understand why. The kind that forces you to notice the parts of yourself you usually keep hidden. And somehow, he knew that she wasn’t new to leaving wreckage behind. That she’d been wrecked, too. So when their eyes met across the noise, and she didn’t look away first, something shifted.

When she was in his hotel room hours later, pressing her body against his and tearing through the fabric of a shirt that cost more than most people’s rent, it felt like a win. 

The sparks between them didn’t flicker. They crackled. Every movement was fast, impulsive,  like they were trying to outrun something. Her fingers dug into his back with the same urgency as his grip at her waist. Like they weren’t sure whether they were trying to pull each other closer, or hold themselves together.

The room was full of heat, motion and unspoken things. Lips on skin. Hands grasping like they needed proof the other was real. Not love, nowhere near it. There were just two people trying to feel something intensely enough to matter.

Sex was great. Of course it was. But it wasn’t the sex that stayed with Carlos.It was after.

When the chaos died down and the air between them finally cooled, neither of them moved. They should’ve rolled away. Should’ve mumbled something about early calls or tight schedules. Should’ve treated it like every other late-night mistake dressed up in good lighting. But they didn’t.

Instead, she turned her head toward him, cheek pressed to the pillow, one leg still tangled with his. Her eyes were softer now, the armor slipping. And somehow, that unraveled him more than anything else.

They talked. At first, just the easy stuff – the chaotic rhythm of race weekends, the blur of airports and hotel lobbies, the strange loneliness of a life spent in motion. They joked about always packing too light or too much. The weird comfort of never fully unpacking anywhere.

But then it edged deeper. That kind of depth that sneaks up on you. She talked about the constant change. How her work kept her moving so much she forgot what a full closet looked like. How she’d gotten good at goodbyes, so good that hellos started to feel dangerous.

He told her about growing up in a world where performance came before presence. Where love felt conditional, like something earned with results, not freely given.

They both spoke like people who had grown up with absence. Who knew how to spot silence in a crowded room. Who had learned that being strong often just meant being alone, and surviving it. There were long pauses between their words, but they weren’t awkward. They were loaded.

He’d never talked like this with someone he’d just met. Hell, he barely talked like this with people he knew. She didn’t ask for more than what he gave, but she listened like it mattered. Like he mattered. And that stayed with him longer than the warmth of her skin. Longer than the press of her mouth on his. Longer than he wanted to admit.

They both had this look in their eyes, like they didn’t expect anyone to stay. Like they’d learned not to ask people to. And somewhere between his hand resting lightly on her hip and her voice barely above a whisper, something unspoken was built. Not a promise. Not even a beginning. Just a pause in the chaos. They fell asleep like that – pressed into each other, not out of passion, but out of a need to feel like someone was there.

When morning came, they didn’t rush. They exchanged numbers with tired smiles and half-laughed at the idea of keeping in touch. They both knew they’d see each other again. F1 was small, in its own strange way. He was a driver. She was behind the scenes, managing one of the big sponsors’ campaigns. Their paths would cross.

But still.

Neither of them reached out. Not because they didn’t want to. But because wanting to was unfamiliar territory. And when you’ve built your life around not needing anyone, desire feels like weakness.

So the number sat untouched. No message. No check-in. Just potential, quietly buried under habit. Because even if something felt different, acting like it meant something – that was a risk Carlos had never learned how to take.

And neither had she.

When someone crashed into him, he knew it was her before he saw her. Even though they’d hooked up almost a month ago, the scent of her perfume was stitched into his memory, woven in with the unforgettable, unexplainable moments they’d shared that night. She instinctively grabbed his arms to steady herself, sincere apologies spilling out before she even looked up and met the deep gaze of his dark brown eyes.

“Oh, Carlos. Hi”, she said calmly. 

One might expect some unresolved tension after weeks of silence – the awkward kind that lingers in the air like smoke. But not between them. They were too used to being temporary in people’s lives. Too practiced in slipping in and out without a trace. So this unexpected encounter didn’t carry any hard feelings. Just a faint, charged curiosity.

“Well, it was bound to happen, no?” Carlos chuckled. They were working in the same environment; avoiding each other forever was impossible.

She smirked, brushing a crease from the front of his fireproof suit before stepping back, putting just enough space between them to make it feel professional.

“Yeah, I guess the universe had to throw me into you. Literally.”

He tilted his head, one corner of his mouth lifting. “You always crash into people you ghost?”

Her lips parted in mock offense, though a sliver of guilt flickered in her eyes. “Hey, I didn’t ghost. I… floated,” she muttered, the first excuse that came to mind.

The truth was, she had been thinking about him. Catching glimpses of him in the paddock during the last few GPs, stealing glances that never quite turned into anything more. But she was too stubborn to admit that one night left its mark. That it stayed with her longer than she thought it would.

Carlos laughed. “That’s not a thing.”

“It is now,” she shot back. “And for the record, you didn’t text either.”

He shrugged, hands sliding into the pockets of his race suit. “Didn’t know if you wanted me to.”

There was a beat of silence – not awkward, but full. 

Carlos had wanted to. He’d stared at her number in his phone more than once, thumb hovering over the screen like it might burn him. But something in him pulled back, the same way it always did.

It wasn’t pride. He’d been down this road before – where something felt too good, too real, too much. And every time, the ending looked the same: someone wanting more than he knew how to give. So he’d simply learned to stay in control, keep people at just enough of a distance that they couldn’t see the whole mess underneath. The real attachment – that was the risk. And that was the one thing Carlos wasn’t willing to lose control. At least, not yet.

She knew she wouldn’t be getting a deeper answer than that, so she switched the topic — but kept the conversation alive.

 “So, you racing angry or calm today?”

“Always calm.”

“Liar,” she said, and he loved how easily she called him out.

Carlos looked down, then back at her. “You staying for dinner after the GP?”

She hesitated just long enough to make it interesting. She liked that she could be unapologetically herself around him – teasing, bold, entirely unbothered. And the best part? He could take it. He didn’t flinch.

“Depends.”

“On?”

“Whether or not you’re still lying after the race.”

Now that fate had thrown them another shot, she wasn’t going to let him off the hook so easily. She wanted more than half-answers this time. Even if the idea of letting someone close terrified her, she was ready to risk it, but only if he was willing to do the same.

Carlos smiled wider now, like she was already in his plans.

“I’ll drive honestly. You bring the wine.”

And just like that, they walked off in opposite directions, but the space between them had changed. It wasn’t distance anymore.

It was anticipation.

This time, they didn’t bail on each other. No vague texts. No unspoken hesitations. They showed up exactly as promised – on time, present, and willing. The so-called dinner never even made it past the idea of a table reservation. Instead, they wandered through quiet streets of the unfamiliar city, aimlessly but together, like people who weren’t looking for anything specific except more time in each other's company. Eventually, the night led them to a beach just outside the city. The sand was cold, the sea restless, but they stayed anyway, perched close on a weathered bench as the hours slipped past them.

And just like that first night, their walls came down like dominoes. The conversation wasn't forced. It spilled out naturally, full of ranting about the strange carousel of their lives, the constant travel, the loneliness of hotel rooms, and the exhaustion of pretending everything was fine. They swapped stories from their past, bruised memories that shaped who they were or the way they loved. There was no big moment, no dramatic declaration. But somewhere between her laughter in the dark and his quiet listening, they both stepped into something deeper. Without a question being asked, the decision to move forward – as something more – was made. It just happened.

One night turned into another, and another after that. Then came the GP weekends where they were no longer on opposite sides of the paddock – she stayed in his hotel room, and her coffee mug started showing up beside his toothbrush. She began texting him songs at odd hours, filled with lyrics that reminded her of things she didn’t know how to say out loud. He started sending pictures of the cities he passed through without her: skyline views, soft dawns through rain-blurred windows, little snapshots that quietly said “I wish you were here”. Her name wasn’t etched on his doorbell, but there was space for her in his closet in Monaco. There was a rhythm now, a new kind of normal. And maybe they weren’t saying it out loud, but they were building something. Letting each other in – slowly, imperfectly, completely.

So imagine her surprise when, one night, while partying with some of the other drivers in a packed Monte Carlo club, she saw his hands wrapped around somebody else.

next part

[chericos]

SHUT UP AND DRIVE CHAPTER ONE: gear up

masterlist. || 2.2k

The scent of gasoline filled the garage. Sunlight streams through the oversized glass doors, pooling onto the polished concrete floor and glinting off the sleek frame of your car. Your pride and joy—a beast of a machine with a matte black finish and deep pink accents—sits waiting for your attention. Tools are scattered across the workbench nearby, a chaotic mix of wrenches, sockets, and screwdrivers, each coated in a fine sheen of oil.  

Hunched over the open engine bay, you work with the kind of precision that comes from both necessity and obsession. Your hands move deftly, tightening a bolt here, testing the throttle there. The faint purr of the engine vibrates through your chest, grounding you in the present for the first time in weeks. For a fleeting moment, excitement stirs in you. It’s familiar. Comforting.  

The peace doesn’t last.  

“You know, hiding in the garage isn’t going to fix everything.”  

The sharp voice startles you, and you glance toward the open doorway. Utahime stands there, clipboard in hand and exasperation etched across her face. Her sharp, professional outfit—a deep navy blazer and pinstripe slacks combo—looks wildly out of place against the gritty backdrop of the garage.  

Without looking up from your work, you twist the wrench tighter and mutter, “I’m not hiding. I’m working.”  

Utahime steps inside, her heels clicking softly against the concrete. “Hiding. Working. Same thing at this point,” she says, her tone dry. “You haven’t been to a single event since the... incident.”  

The word makes you freeze, it barely lasts a second, but it was just long enough for her to notice. Gritting your teeth, you keep your focus on the engine. “Can we not call it that? It’s not Voldemort.”  

“Fine,” she snaps, crossing her arms. “What do you want me to call it? The breakup heard ’round the racing world? The reason you’re trending on Twitter every other day? Because that’s what it is to everyone else.”  

Setting your wrench down with a clang, you finally meet her gaze. “I’ll show up. I always do.”  

“Oh, really?” she says, arching a brow. “Because last I checked, showing up means more than tinkering with your car like it’s a safety blanket.”  

“It’s called preparation,” you counter, the bite in your voice sharper than you intended.  

“Preparation for what?” Utahime throws her hands up in exasperation. “To stay in here forever?” Her tone softens as she lets out a sigh, but the frustration lingers. “You’ve been cooped up here for weeks. You can’t half-ass this season like last time. Le Mans isn’t just a race; it’s the race. No more late-night runs for thrills, no more headlines about your ‘personal life.’ Focus.” Racing isn’t just about the car. It’s about you. Your mindset, your presence. And right now, the scouts for Le Mans are seeing someone who’s gone completely radio silent.”  

You groaned, reaching for the rag to wipe your hands, avoiding her piercing gaze. “I am focused. Just because I’m not making dramatic speeches about it doesn’t mean I’m slacking off. And just because I’m not broadcasting my every move doesn't mean I’m “radio silent,” 

Utahime arched a skeptical brow, glancing over her clipboard. “First qualifiers are next weekend. Maki’s already clocked two practice runs, and Nobara’s been studying every corner of the Le Mans track like it’s her SAT. Meanwhile, you’ve been—what? Fixing your car?”  

“Hey, Camie is more than a car. She’s a masterpiece, and now she’s offended. We’re focused, stop worrying.”

“Focused,” Utahime repeated, her skepticism dripping from her voice. “Focused would mean you’re out on the track, working on your times, not holed up in your fortress of solitude.  

“Maybe I like my solitude,” you mutter, tossing the rag onto the workbench, a pout making its way onto your face.  

“And maybe it’s not doing you any favors,” she fires back. “Look, I get it. The whole thing with Megumi—”  

“Don’t.” Your tone is sharp, cutting her off mid-sentence. The room feels heavier now, the words hanging unspoken between you. “This isn’t about him.”  

Utahime’s expression softens, but she doesn’t back down. “Whether you want it to be or not, everyone else has made it about him. About you and him. If you don’t remind them why you’re you, you’re going to lose control of the narrative. And worse? You’re going to lose that Le Mans spot to him.”  

Now that… that hit. You clench your jaw, glaring down at the open hood of your car as if it might offer some magical solution.  

“I’m not going to lose to him,” you finally say, your voice low but firm.  

“Then prove it,” Utahime challenges, stepping closer. “Because Megumi’s out there training like his life depends on it. He’s not distracted by social media, drama, or whatever it is you’re doing in here. He’s racing. And you? You’re stalling.”  

Her words sting more than you care to admit, and for a moment, silence blankets the garage. The hum of the engine seems distant now, overshadowed by the weight of her honesty.  

Finally, you sigh and slam the hood of your car shut. “Fine. I’ll hit the simulators later. Happy?”  

“Ecstatic,” she deadpans, though there’s the faintest hint of relief in her expression. “But don’t just hit the simulators. Go upstairs. Talk to your team. They’ve been trying to drag you out of this funk for weeks.”  

You smirk faintly at her choice of words. “I don’t do funks.”  

“Call it whatever you want.” She gives you one last pointed look before turning to leave. “Just show up. That’s all I’m asking.”  

As her footsteps fade, the silence of the garage settles in once again. The car gleams under the sunlight, a testament to your meticulous care—but it isn’t enough. Utahime’s right. Racing isn’t just about the car.  

Grabbing your (empty) water bottle, you take a deep breath and head toward the house. It’s time to face the world, whether you like it or not. And you were going to show them that you’re better than ever.

You push open the door to your house, stepping into the chaos you call home. The sharp scent of motor oil clings faintly to your jacket, but it’s quickly replaced by the clean, crisp scent of the indoors. The foyer opens up into a spacious living area with polished marble floors that gleam in the soft sunlight streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The stark white walls are adorned with framed posters of old racing events, rock concerts, and abstract art, all splashed with animal prints and neon pink. At the center of the room sits a large black leather couch, adorned with a fluffy pink throw blanket draped over one arm and mismatched pillows shaped like skulls and roses.

The coffee table is littered with evidence of your late-night antics—half-empty energy drinks, stray playing cards, and a small stack of glossy magazines featuring you and your teammates in various articles. In the corner, a tall, potted snake plant struggles to survive, its leaves curling as though begging for more attentive care.

The open-concept kitchen flows seamlessly into the living room, with gleaming black marble countertops and pendant lights hanging from above, their matte black and tarnished gold fixtures adding a touch of flair. A pink neon sign reading "Eat Fast, Drive Faster" hangs over the stove, casting a soft glow across the room. The place is clean—for now—but the faint smell of burnt toast lingers, evidence of Nobara’s recent cooking attempt.

The grunge charm extends to the little details: a shelf near the staircase crammed with trophies and medals, the pride of the team, and a mishmash of knick-knacks—a chipped pink skull figurine, a tiny replica of your car, and a Polaroid of the team from your first big win, framed in black. 

As you step further into the house, the faint thrum of bass from Nobara’s room upstairs mixes with the sound of simulated engines roaring from the game room. Somewhere, Panda’s deep laugh echoes, followed by the unmistakable crash of something heavy hitting the floor.

“Who broke something this time?” you call out, kicking off your boots by the door and hanging your jacket on the hook labeled ‘Speed Demon’—a label you swear you didn’t put up.

In the kitchen, Maki is sitting at the counter, sharpening one of her knives with a whetstone. She glances up as you walk in, her expression as sharp as the blade in her hands. “Just your ego, probably,” she says with a smirk.

“Still babying that car of yours?” she teased as you walked in.  

“Better than babying a weapon collection,” you shot back, grabbing a water bottle from the fridge. “What’s the deal with the knives anyway? Planning on taking out the competition?”  

“Just prepared for anything,” Maki said with a smirk. “You could learn a thing or two about that.”  

You smirk, walking away from the fridge. “You’re hilarious. Keep working on that. Maybe one day you’ll have fans like mine.”

“I don’t think I want any of those. I’ve got a blade and a flawless record.”

“Good for you, Miss Terminator,” you shoot back before making your way to the living room. It’s alive with energy, the heart of your chaotic little universe. You settle onto the black leather couch, its cold surface softened by the worn-in comfort of the pink throw blanket and a plush skull pillow you hug to your chest. Nobara is sprawled across the opposite end of the couch, her legs dangling lazily over the armrest as she scrolls through Twitter. Panda is cross-legged on the shaggy pink rug, fiddling with a miniature die-cast model of your car, occasionally making it "zoom" across the table to annoy Nobara.

Maki—finally leaving the kitchen—has claimed the pink velvet armchair in the corner, her posture rigid and imposing as she continues sharpening her knife. 

“Did you see what people are saying about you and Megumi?” Nobara says, looking up from her phone with a grin. “Twitter’s on fire about you two. Apparently, someone spotted him at the circuit yesterday, and now everyone’s debating who fumbled who again.”

You groan, sinking deeper into the couch. “Can we not? I’m tired of hearing about him.”

“Oh, come on!” Nobara teases, tossing her phone onto the coffee table. “You have to care a little. The people want to know: did you dump him because he couldn’t handle your vibe, or did he dump you because he realized he peaked?”

Panda snorts his laugh so loud it startles Maki, who glares at him. “I’m Team Megumi fumbled,” Panda announces, raising his hand (paw) like it's a vote. “The guy’s too moody to handle someone like you. You’re all speed and chaos. He’s... whatever the opposite of fun is.”

“Broody?” Nobara suggests.

“Exactly.”

You roll your eyes but can’t help the small smile tugging at your lips. “Thanks for the support, Panda. Super helpful. It’s totally not like you know the whole situation firsthand.”

“But,” Panda adds with a mischievous grin, “you did ghost him at that after-party last year. So maybe it’s mutual fumbling?”

“That party doesn’t count,” you retort, throwing the skull pillow at him. “I had better things to do than listen to him complain in the corner all night.”

“Like what?” Nobara smirks, dodging the pillow Panda tossed her way.

“Win a race, maybe?” you reply. “Something he didn’t do that night, by the way.”

Maki lets out a sharp laugh from her chair, finally looking up from her knife. “You’re all idiots. Who cares about whatever high Twitter wants to get off on? Just get over it and focus on the qualifiers.”

“Thank you, Maki, the only voice of reason,” you say, raising your water bottle in a mock toast.

“Don’t thank me yet,” Maki responds. “You’ve barely touched the simulators, and from what I hear, Megumi’s been practically living at the circuit. If you don’t get serious, he’ll wipe the floor with you.”

The room goes quiet for a moment, the only sound is the faint bassline of Nobara’s playlist drifting from the speaker.

“I’m not worried about Megumi,” you say finally, your voice steady. “He can train all he wants. I’m still faster.”

Nobara raises an eyebrow but doesn’t push further. Instead, she leans back, stretching her arms over her head. “Alright, enough yapping. Let’s hit the simulators. If we’re serious about this season, we need to start acting like it. And Y/n, if you’re not on that track tomorrow, I’m dragging you there myself.”  

You give her a halfhearted grin. “Yes, ma’am.” 

“I’m calling dibs on the first run.”

“Dream on,” you say, standing up and tossing the skull pillow back onto the couch. “If anyone’s going first, it’s me.”

“Oh, so now you’re serious?” Nobara teases, following you toward the stairs.

“Always was,” you shoot back with a smirk.

The energy shifts as the team heads upstairs to the simulator room. The playful banter fades and it's replaced by the sharp focus that comes with a race. Even with the change in vibe, the camaraderie is there—an unspoken reminder that, no matter what happens on the track, you’ve got each other’s backs. There’s only one thing left to do.

It’s time to gear up.

break room!

I still suck at dialogue... but there is SLIGHT improvement (I think)

anyway! the break room is just gonna be the teams' hobbies!

maki has a knife collection, she guards them like they're hr birthed children. no one knows what she uses them for...

nobara runs a youtube channel, she mainly does blogs around the house but sometimes she streams game nights

panda has an insane amount of pokemon cards. he has pushed people on the streets while trying to find them on pokemon go (yes this is based on one of my friends)

megumi was definitely only at the circuit trying to get over it

get ready to turn on the ignition

taglist!

@brideads @sweettenderheart @sh0ot1ngst4r @bertqut1 @favbisexualh0e @Fushiguruzzzz @anonymity222 @harryzcherry @Janneeeexdxc @veevei @lightshowerrr @jasminasblog22 @gumims @samshine03 @yeehawnana @starrysho @1l-ynn @dovellici

if your tag isn't working please fix your settings or you will be removed!

also please comment if I can use you as a twt user!

[sp0o0kylights]

Adopt a Jock Part One / Previous Part / Part 10.1 (you are here)

A03

Chapter 10 is complete and will be fully uploaded to A03 this weekend when I can get around holiday shenanigans. It's very long so tumblr gets it in parts. I'm sure I could make a Thanksgiving food pun there if I tried hard enough but alas I am not Steve nor Dustin.

Apparently, if you stumbled into supernatural shit, you were rewarded with a mountain of legal paperwork so absurdly thick that Gareth was almost positive it included a government-approved execution clause for anyone reckless enough to speak about things better left unsaid

So, here they were: barely a week past the lab incident, eating lunch, keeping their heads down, like their entire world hadn’t been turned upside down.

(He couldn’t even appreciate the pun.)

“She keeps looking over here.” Tiff’s pen tapped out a furious rhythm, her gaze fixed on one Nancy Wheeler, “And she’s been following us.”

“Well according to Steve she knows about--you know.” Gareth said, keeping things vague in hopes it would prevent any visits from men in black suits.

“I’m sure she just wants to talk.” Jeff said with a note of sympathy.

The fucking traitor.

“I’m sure we’re not allowed to talk.” Stewart muttered darkly, pushing his peas around his lunch tray with a fork.

“Only with people who don’t already know.” Grant tried to argue, and that rapidly dissolved into an argument regarding NDA’s and tricky legal language that Gareth tuned out in favor of his new found hobby--doing his level best not to think about anything beyond his lunch and what new D&D character he wanted to play.

His last one died in the prior game, and though Eddie had--weirdly and entirely out of character--offered to revive it, Gareth had waived him off.

They needed some normalcy right now, and if that came at the cost of Gareth’s beloved druid meeting her maker, then so be it.

Plus a new character was a great distraction.

(He was set on playing a noble elf known as ‘Gregg from Accounting’, but a second dwarf named Iron the Chef had been tempting…)

“She’s coming!” Tiffany hissed, slamming her pen down.

Mourning the loss of an easy, drama free lunch, Gareth sighed and prepared himself.

“Hi.” Nancy said, announcing her presence with quiet determination, books stacked in her arms and chin raised defiantly.

No one said a word back.

“Jonathan let me know what happened, and I wanted to say that I’m sorry you got pulled into all of this.” She paused, clearly thinking her words over, before adding; “Steve, Jonathan, and I used to practice.”

Nancy stopped again, this time blatantly waiting for one of them to say something.

She got more stares in return.

“Given that things sound a little open ended, and that there were injuries, I thought it might be good to start up again. Steve suggested if we do, you all should come too.” She finished, bulldozing right through her own awkwardness.

“Practice what?” Grant asked, confused and trying to cover it with suspicion.

“Defensive measures.” Nancy answered.

Seeing their unchanged blank stares, she gathered her books in one arm, formed a finger gun with her free hand, and mimed shooting in such a deadpan manner that Gareth almost burst into disbelieving laughter.

While he was haunted by visions of Nancy Wheeler holding a gun, Tiff loudly picked her pen back up, making enough noise that all eyes went to her.

“You beat my score on Mrs. Click’s practice test by two points.”

“Uh--yes?” Nancy said, blinking at her.

Tiff's eyes narrowed. “I’m kicking your ass on the final.”

Another dumbfounded blink.

“Okay?”

“Tiff’s coping, as are we--no…defensive measures necessary.” Jeff said, in a desperate bid to soothe things over, “We appreciate the offer.”

She nodded, seemingly placated by his response. “Actually, where is Steve? I wanted to talk to him too.” Nancy asked, changing topics with ease. “I haven’t seen him all day.”

“Ah-ha.” Tiff muttered under her breath, as if catching out what Nancy really wanted.

Stewart kicked her ankle.

“He’s with Eddie.” Grant said, covering the sound of their resulting scuffle.

“He’s been spending a lot of time with Eddie lately.” Nancy noted, in that same neutral tone the Feds spoke in. All fake nice without giving a single thing away.

It was a little terrifying.

“We all spend a lot of time with each other.” Tiffany shot back, hackles very much raised and not bothering to hide it. “We’re friends. That’s what friends do.”

“Man, we are vicious today!”

“She’s really sore about that grade.” Stewart covered, offering a sympathetic pat to Tiffany’s shoulder (who looked an awful lot like she was going to bite his hand for it).

Did Nancy Wheeler even know about the weird academic rivalry Tiff had with her? Gareth took one look at Tiff’s gritted teeth, and thought better of it.

“I wouldn't be if I was able to properly finish that essay,” Tiff motioned to the now hopelessly crumpled paper underneath her pen, “ instead of rushing it because I had to pull someone out of a lab--”

“Nancy’s right.” Jeff cut in, in another desperate attempt to distract them all from eating each other. “I haven't seen much of Steve or Eddie today.”

He turned expectantly to his right. “Gary?”

Gareth frowned back at him.

“Why would I know where they are?”

“Oh,” Stewart said, far too innocently. “You haven’t realized you’re their assigned zookeeper?”

Wadding up his napkin was second nature. So was launching it at his friend's head, who expertly (and unfortunately) dodged.

“So you’re saying you don’t know?” Grant asked, a smile creeping across his face.

Gareth opened his jacket, fishing around for a moment as if he was searching for something, before pulling his hand back to show off his extended middle finger.

Pity he actually had the answer.

“They’re in the drama room. Steve sweettalked Mr. Barns into letting them set up early for Hellfire’s game.” He grumbled, ruining the entire effect.

“See?” Stewart said smugly.

With deliberate slowness, Gareth raised up his other middle finger before waving them both in a circle.

“Fuck you, fuck you--”

“Not in your lifetime.” Tiffany answered, to multiple chortles.

“Don’t bother them, Wheeler.” Gareth continued, ignoring the assholes he called friends to turn back to Nancy. “They’re setting up for the Hellfire’s last game of the year and Ed’s is a little…obsessive about it.”

As in he was known to be a complete and utter terror in the days leading up to his grand finales but Gareth wasn’t telling her that.

These games were a big deal for Hellfire as a whole. Precious things they looked forward to and the finale game was something they often worked several months, if not a solid year, to reach.

This year's game had more riding on it than any one prior. Hellfire’s shared sanity, for example, and a shining piece of normality they all found themselves desperately needing.

(Plus the problem of Eddie flunking again--and not telling anyone.

See--Eddie had been touchy the first time he hadn’t graduated and even with the appearance of monsters and government lackeys, Gareth expected this year to be even worse--but the Steve of it all added a rather explosive emotional element.

“You still have most of Hellfire.” Gareth had pointed out, when he’d hitched a ride home a few days prior and found the paper declaring Eddie’s super senior year a lost cause. “You know you’ll still have them after they graduate too, right?”

“Because they’re going to be looking forward to their old pal Eddie while in college, sure.” Had been the clipped response.

“They will.” Gareth said, with a level of assurance he hoped Eddie could feel. “And if that’s the concern, then you’ll definitely still have Steve.”

Who hadn’t gotten into college, and openly admitted to refusing to try now that monsters were back.

“I guess.” Eddie had said, looking like a deflated party balloon.

In typical Munson fashion, he seemed to realize he was giving away more “real feelings” than he’d intended too, and changed the subject with an energy that Gareth knew was fake.

He hadn’t called him out on it though, and equally, he had not called out the mania Eddie had slowly been succumbing to since that fateful day. He’d get over it--Gareth knew he’d get over it--if they could just make it past the point where Eddie’s own brain informed him the world was ending to prove it.)

All of them deserved a break, and a place to put aside all the stupid shit and simply have a good time, and heading off Steve’s nosey ex-girlfriend before she could cause problems would go a long way to help.

“I’m sure they can spare two minutes.” Nancy was saying, mid creation of the exact problem Gareth was hoping to avoid.

“No--uh,” He flailed about for a reason she couldn’t, and the longer she frowned at him the more his brain simply vanished all forms of higher thought. “Don’t?”

Nancy’s expression soured, mouth twisting in a line Gareth very much did not like. “I’m sure they--”

“Tell us what other things you practice. Besides, you know. The pews.” He interrupted frantically.

Under the table his foot struck out, and though he had no idea who he’d struck he hoped whoever it was understood what exactly he was trying to do.

“The pews?” Nancy echoed, after a painfully long moment.

“You know? Pews!” Gareth mimed a gun, and then made “pew” noises while firing it.

Besides him, Jeff gave a very Harrington-like sigh.

(He’d been doing that a lot lately, Gareth made a mental note to mock him for it.)

“You cannot tell me you guys only practice with guns.” Tiffany huffed. She had not been the kicked party, but thankfully, hadn’t needed the nudge to catch on. “What happens if you run out of bullets?”

Nancy gave her an odd, almost calculating look.

“We use whatever else we have on hand.” She said flatly.

Which just boded so fucking well for the rest of this conversation (and Gareth’s life, given he was uncomfortably aware of the things that went bump in the night.)

“Well, give us an example.” Tiff continued, and given the now increasingly concerned looks that the rest of Hellfire was darting between her and Nancy, Gareth knew the rest of his idiots hadn’t caught on.

On a piece of paper he scrawled--and the underlined twice, for good measure;

‘Go. Find. Byers!��

--and then chucked it at Grant’s head. Who thankfully opened it, even if he made a face while doing so, before proceeding to pass the note around as Tiff and Nancy traded increasingly pointed words about weapons training.

“When you’re in a situation, you use whatever you have on hand. I would assume you knew this, given what I heard happened the other day.”

“Yes, but wouldn’t it make more sense to train and carry with backup weapons rather than just hoping you find something on the way? What if the--what if we’d been in the woods?”

Gareth watched the note travel from person to person, until it was dropped back in front of him.

‘You go find him.’ Someone had scrawled, followed by multitudes of doodles, two of which featured army-hat wearing dicks driving tanks.

Then and there, he decided that perhaps his friends truly did deserve death should a similar situation arise in the future.

Useless. They were all useless.

“You’re welcome to make a suggestion, Tiffany.”

“I will. I’ll make a list even.”

“Good.” Nancy smiled, with all her teeth.

“Fine.” Tiff returned, looking half feral.

Was this some type of weird mating ritual between academic types? God, they were scary.

‘Well, that definitely won’t come back to bite us in the ass.’ Gareth thought wryly as Nancy stormed off in the opposite direction of the drama room, tapping the note against the table. He glanced at the rest of the group, who appeared to be attempting to tempt Tiff out of her snit by way of asking her what dramatic bullshit she thought Eddie would be pulling in the finale.

If nothing else, he decided, they’d prevented ruining Eddie’s day--and possibly, their entire night.

Nothing, save more fucking monsters or equally evil government lackeys could manage that.

(Pity that Gareth had forgotten the third most powerful force on the planet when it came to wrecking plans.

Middle schoolers.)

xXx

The day had dragged but they'd made it, and Eddie in turn, had made that wait worth their while.

The lights in the drama room were low.

The entire table had been set up with such care and drama that Gareth almost couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Goblets lined both sides, each filled with a dark red liquid Gareth knew damn well could not be wine.

Candles--real ones, had been lit, casting shadows across Eddie’s face as he lounged in his throne, a master in their element.

A castle, meticulously crafted out of wooden sticks and painted a dark, forbidding gray towered in front of Eddie down at the end, with the layout of the insides crawling down the table atop carefully gridded paper.

Monstrous figurines stood in a row off to the side, like little soldiers, planted right in front of a plain, if not comically large, cardboard box.

It was elaborate, meticulous, and half the items had clearly been stolen from Steve’s house, if not outright decorated by the man’s own hand.

“Welcome, my friends.” Eddie purred, breaking the spell that had fallen over Hellfire.

“Oh my God.” Grant breathed, jostling Gareth’s shoulder as he pushed inside.

“Dude, you outdid yourself!” Stewart added, voice awed as he took it all in.

“He had help.” Steve confirmed, materializing at Eddie’s shoulder. He leaned forward, adjusting something in front of Eddie, ignoring the immediate angry swat and hissed warnings about “ruining the moment, Steven!”

“Glad to see you putting your mom’s party planning skills to good use.” Jeff teased, but no one missed the way he ran a hand down the table, staring giddily at the spread.

Steve gave him a shrug, but even in the dim light Gareth could see how pleased he looked.

It was magical, and Gareth felt something come alive in his chest that he’d privately thought the manticore had killed.

A childish sort of excitement, bubbling up as he realized he was about to have a damn fine time.

This, of course, is when the actual children came in.

“I made a timeline.” Dustin announced, shouldering his way in between Jeff and Grant to slam down a massive piece of paper.

“Oh my God where did you come from!?” Stewart yelped, started as more and more children suddenly swarmed Hellfire’s table.

“The middle school is literally next door. We walked.” Max rolled her eyes as she took a seat next to Tiffany. “What idiot let you guys light candles in here?”

El fell in right next to her, stealing what was clearly intended to be Grant’s chair.

Who looked like he’s about to say something about it until he caught sight of her delighted face.

Gareth would have laughed at the obvious way Grant’s shoulders slumped as he accepted his fate, if his own chair hadn’t just been usurped by Michael Wheeler.

“A timeline?” Steve asked, before Eddie could surge to his feet and kick the brats out.

(They all watched him jerk anyway, like he’d intended to do just that and barely caught himself.)

“Uh, everything?” Dustin scoffed, waving a beat up folder in the air. “We took it all the way back to when we first met El.”

Next to him, Lucas had stepped up to the table, running a hand down it in much the same way Jeff had. “We decided it might help us figure out where the manticore came from.” He said absently.

A riot of emotion exploded over Steve’s face, made all the funnier by the fact that it was entirely at odds with the setup he’d so lovingly created.

“I’m sorry, did we not hear the Chief of Police? He’s investigating this, our involvement is over.” Steve made a slashing motion with his hand, as if that would hold them all off.

(Gareth, who once watched all of these children fight each other over an arcade score for three consecutive days, knew it was a lost cause.)

Dustin made yet another scoffing sound in return.

Given how often he seemed to make them, Gareth wondered if he had problems with a sore throat.

“I thought we all widely agreed Hop’s investigation skills are terrible.”

“Hello?” Stewart said irritably. “We were about to get started?”

Eddie swung himself into a sitting position and made like he was going to stand up, likely to pounce on the opening Stewart had just given.

Pity Steve once again, beat him there.

“Yes, but he’s not investigating, is he? We,” Hellfire’s jock made another motion, this one a circular twirl of the hand. Gareth was starting to wonder if the gestures are directly linked to his stress level. “already did that part. He can now do the part he’s good at, which is fixing it.”

“He’s not good at fixing it, look at what happened with the demodogs!”

It was at this moment Gareth made his fatal mistake. In hindsight, he should have known better than to ask out loud,

“Okay, can someone please explain what the hell’s a demodog?”

Several protests, groans, and pencils are flung his way for it.

(“Do you know how often that word has been thrown around!?” He’d defend much, much later. “You guys keep saying it but not what they are!”

“If you stopped eavesdropping all the time maybe you wouldn’t be wondering about such things.” Eddie had responded snidely.

“It’s not my fault you keep talking about this shit when I’m right there you asshat--”)

“What, you didn’t think there were actually feral dogs in Hawkins did you?” One of the kids asks incredulously, like he can’t possibly believe anyone is so stupid as to buy into it.

“They were like the manticore, but small and more, well, doggish.” Dustin dismissed, this time with a Harrington flavored hand waive of his own. “Ask Steve, he was there.”

Gareth turned to do just that, D&D campaign be damned (He would not apologize for wanting to know what else might be out to kill them all even if the finale was technically on, sue him) to find Steve had slipped right into mother hen mode.

“No.” He spat, charging forward as he flapped his arms around, like the children are a flock of birds he can scare away. “You are not sucking anyone into this, and we are not getting involved! You heard Hop!”

Mike rolled his eyes. “Don’t be a coward, Steve.”

“I’m not a coward, I’m someone who doesn’t need another near death experience! There’s not a reward if you have five in a row, dickheads.”

Seething and not bothering to hide it, Eddie picked up the massive gold goblet in front of him and took an obnoxiously loud sip out of it.

“I’m also going to remind you that Henderson here,” Steve stopped behind Dustin to rattle his, “is going to camp in a few days? I believe the rest of you also have similar engagements.”

It was Mike’s turn to scoff.

“Lucas is only in summer school until 3 and camp doesn’t start for another two weeks. We have plenty of time!”

“It’s not summer school,” Lucas protested, eyes darting to Max and back as if she wasn’t aware the kid was a nerd. “It’s a creative writing program--”

“Yeah, well, the rest of us are busy.” Steve fired back. “So any theories you have, you can take and shove right up your ass.”

“Why is it always the ass with you Steve? Do you have an ass fixation?”

Gareth watched as Eddie immediately choked on the dyed Mountain Dew he had been chugging down, hacking so hard tears welled in his eyes.

Jeff shared a pained look with Gareth over the table as Grant pounded him on the back.

“I do not have an ass fixation, Henderson--”

“Okay.” Tiffany clapped her hands together, the sound ringing out throughout the drama room.

“Here’s the deal. Summer break is two days away. Steve is right--most of us here are working, if not preparing to go to college. No one needs to go snooping around where we aren’t wanted, and we definitely do not need anymore injuries. Kapeesh?”

Henderson immediately turned on her. “So we’re just gonna trust the guys who fucking started all this!?”

“Given they also have better ways of handling it, yes. We are. Hopper told them about Stewarts goo, they sent some suits in to kill the manticore, and thanks to El’s heads up we caught things ahead of time for once. Can’t we just enjoy that?” Steve was beyond worked up now, repeatedly running his hands through his hair, only to fix it, pick at it, and then repeat the process again. “For fucks sake Dustin, Eddie just stopped limping!”

“I don’t think it’s over.” Mike muttered angrily, pushing a finger against Tiffany’s water bottle.

She grabbed it before it toppled over, glaring at him.

“El, do you feel anything?” Steve spoke like he was invoking a god and not an undersocialized twelve year old.

“No.” She admitted, after a long almost uncomfortable pause. “I do not.”

Steve pointed at her victoriously. “There you go!”

“But--”

“No more buts!” Steve shrieked, before seemingly to realize he’d done so. He coughed, and then said; “I thought you dorks would be storming in here trying to get Eddie to DM for you, not harassing us about the Upside Down.”

“You guys are playing D&D?” Lucas asked, as if he hadn’t been salivating over the spread for the last five minutes.

“I really like your cleric.” Will said quietly to Jeff, having leaned over to look at his character sheet at some point during the argument.

“Will, aren’t you a Dungeon Boss?” Steve asked, to the horror of those around him. “Why don’t you go sit by Eddie, I’m sure you’d enjoy seeing how he does stuff.”

A wince rippled through the members of Hellfire.

There was simply no way Eddie Munson, a man known to be possessive at best, would ever allow any of them to even glance at his notebook, let alone his entire spread laid bare behind his screen.

Those were his secrets--the result of too many late nights and an easy contributor to his failing high school yet again--and this was the grand finale.

Steve sitting next to Eddie had been miraculous enough--and that was with Eddie actively demanding he sit there, in a vain attempt to drag Steve out of his issues.

Fearing the worst, Gareth snuck a glance at their glorious--and notoriously ridiculous--leader.

Eddie sucked on his teeth, the noise painfully loud in the abrupt silence, eyes on Byers the Younger before they drifted back to Steve.

Who clearly had no idea he’d put his foot in it.

Tiff looked ready to break a pencil, eyes glaring a hole in Eddie’s head as if daring him to disappoint the group's golden retriever while Grant, Jeff and Stewart had all magically found something else to look at.

Gareth himself hunkered down, waiting to see how this would play out.

One more painful, pulsing second and then Eddie seemed to come to a decision, rolling out his hand and gesturing Will closer.

“Indeed Baby Byers,” He dropped into one of his many DM voices, something deep but alluring. “come closer and learn from the master of masters. Perhaps you’ll find something here to take back to your own campaigns. Something truly…terrible.”

He waggled his eyebrows at Dustin as Will’s Party groaned, though none of them put up much of a fuss once they saw the sheer smile that overtook Will’s face.

With the unique combination of embarrassment and pride, Will took his place next to Eddie.

Steve beamed in the corner, clearly pleased with himself and it was not lost on Gareth (or anyone else in the know) that Eddie preened only after sneaking an obvious look at Steve’s face.

“God he has it bad.” Stewart muttered, only to hiss when Jeff not so subtly jabbed him with a pen.

Gareth just shook his head, and gave Eddie a grin that said he would absolutely be getting shit for this later.

“Stevie, be a dear and fetch more chairs would you?” Eddie drawled, as he settled back into his throne, baby Byers happily checking out the items he had laid out behind his DM screen.

Which Gareth supposed was Steve’s punishment for inviting the kids along, but then, Eddie may as well have been bossing the jock around all day regardless given the look of the place.

(He’d certainly taken advantage of doing just that while his leg had been healing.)

That was their mess though, and Gareth happily put all thoughts of monsters, murder, men in black and every other awful M word aside to inside pull out his luckiest D20 die.

“Hellfire,” Eddie boomed as the all finally settled, “It's time to show the kiddies how it's done. Let’s roll!”

“And Dustin bitches at me for my puns.” Steve loudly complained as he came back into the room with chairs.

Eddie shushed him again.

[oddlydescriptive]

Reset, Chapter 2

Series Masterlist

Full A/N below- please read previous A/N if you're just getting acquainted with the story! A bit of development for this slow burn, but I will be posting several chapters today that will bring us all the way up to things getting exciting!

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August 22, 2022- Findel, Luxembourg

The wheels hit the tarmac with a heavy thunk, the sudden shift in gravity making you instinctively press back into your seat as the plane slows down, rolling toward the gate. Your muscles are stiff, sore from the awful angles you contorted yourself into for the past twelve hours, but there’s no time to dwell on it. You barely hear the pilot’s announcement, barely register the sound of seatbelts clicking open around you, the shuffle of passengers stretching, retrieving bags, making groggy conversation.

You just breathe, long and steady, pressing your palm into your thigh to ground yourself.

It’s real now.

The last twelve hours have been a blur of data, race footage, and mind-numbing technical documents. You’d thrown yourself into studying, devouring every detail about Spa, about the AlphaTauri AT03, about anything that might give you a sliver of an advantage. At some point, exhaustion had forced you under, and you’d managed to sleep- not well, and not for long, but enough to keep yourself from completely burning out before you even landed. You don’t know if it’s enough, but it doesn’t matter. The only thing that does is the fact that you’re here.

You pull your duffel from the overhead compartment, the strap biting into your shoulder as you shuffle down the narrow aisle, down the jet bridge, through the airport corridors. The Luxembourg terminal is sleek, modern- glass walls, clean lines, an unbothered hush to the early-morning crowd. It’s almost enough to make you feel like this is just another trip, another airport, another connection to some middle-of-nowhere racetrack.

Almost.

You exhale slowly, shoulders still tight from the flight, standing just a little too upright at baggage claim as the conveyor belt lurches to life with a mechanical groan. Around you, the other passengers shuffle forward in loose, disjointed clusters- bleary-eyed and half-present, tugging their carry-ons behind them, faces lit by the glow of phone screens. You barely notice them. Your focus is locked on the mouth of the belt, waiting for the first bag to appear.

The seconds stretch, and you can feel the flicker of unease curling in your stomach, the kind of unease that only comes when you’ve placed your entire fate in the hands of an airline’s baggage system. It would be inconvenient- spectacularly inconvenient- if your gear didn’t make it. Not just your clothes or your toiletries, but your helmet, your gloves, your boots- everything. The tools you need to do the only thing that matters this weekend.

You can handle a lot- jet lag, exhaustion, even the gnawing anxiety clawing at the edges of your composure- but showing up to the most important race of your life with nothing? That’s not a setback you have time to recover from.

Then, finally- there.

Your race bag drops onto the belt with a dull thud, and it’s impossible to miss. It’s enormous, practically the size of a small coffin, its navy fabric scuffed and faded from being tossed in and out of transporters, cargo holds, and garages across America. You muscle it off the belt, the weight familiar, grounding.

You sling your duffel over your shoulder, grip the handle of your race bag, and start toward the exit. No hesitation, no adjusting straps or rolling out sore shoulders- not yet. Every second counts. Every person standing around re-packing their duty-free bags or stretching out the stiffness from the flight is another body you can get in front of in the customs line. You can adjust in line.

The weight of your bags pulls at your arms as you weave through the terminal, stepping around half-asleep travelers and families trying to wrangle children, past the slow-moving group of businessmen already back on their phones as if they never left the ground. The overhead announcements blur together, voices in multiple languages calling out baggage claim numbers, security reminders, gate changes. None of it matters. The only thing that matters is putting one foot in front of the other, getting through this final checkpoint between you and some fresh-fucking-air.

Customs.

You slip into line, shifting your duffel to your other shoulder, adjusting your grip on your race bag. It’s moving, at least- steady, slow, but moving. You take the opportunity to pull out your passport, flipping it open, rolling your shoulders back as you force yourself to breathe.

The line inches forward. A woman ahead of you fumbles with her boarding pass, patting down her coat for something lost in a pocket. A man argues softly with an officer over the contents of his declaration form. The customs agents work through their endless queue of travelers with the same disinterested efficiency you’d expect.

When it’s your turn, you step forward, placing your passport on the counter. The officer barely glances at you at first, flipping it open, running his eyes over the photo page before thumbing through for an empty page. He’s got plenty of options- there aren’t many stamps. A handful from trips to Mexico, a couple from the occasional race in Canada. But there- right near the middle of the booklet, pressed between the folds of your life before now- is Japan.

The ink is slightly faded, but the memory is sharp.

A feeder series race under Puerta Performance. One of the biggest, most competitive wins of your junior career. A stream of races where everything clicked, where you’d finally felt like you belonged in the conversation. You had flown in alone, carried your own damn bags, worked on your own damn car- elbow to elbow with the one real mechanic the team had, and then, somehow, you had won.

It had been your first real, international win. And it had done nothing for you.

The officer glances up, his face still unreadable. "Business or pleasure?"

"Business," you answer automatically.

He nods, flipping back to the front, glancing from your photo to your face, making sure they match.

"And how long will your visit be?"

You hesitate- because you don’t actually know. "A week," you say, because it’s less likely to have you corralled in a plexiglass room than saying as long as they’ll let me stay.

The officer hums, pressing the stamp to the page with a firm thunk, sliding your passport back toward you. "Welcome to the EU."

You don’t waste another second.

Snatching the passport off the counter, you tuck it away and haul your bags back into motion. You’ll check the taxi company on your way- just move. Get outside, get in the car, point your feet somewhere closer to the track and figure out the rest as you go.

Snatching the passport off the counter, you tuck it away and haul your bags back into motion. You’ll check the taxi company on your way- just move. Get outside, get in the car, point your feet somewhere closer to the track and figure out the rest as you go.

The wheels of your race bag clatter against the sleek tile floor as you push forward, dodging clusters of travelers, sidestepping a family stopped dead in the middle of the walkway, their kids wrestling over a stuffed animal. Someone’s wheeling a cart stacked with oversized luggage ahead of you, moving at a crawl, and you veer around them, your steps sharp, determined, relentless.

You're not rushed, not in the way that people sprinting to catch a flight are, but you're moving, too fast for someone who technically doesn't even have anywhere to be yet. But you do. The track. The garage. The sim. Work.

Your mind is running just as fast as your feet, the hum of the airport, the PA announcements, the scattered conversations in a dozen different languages all blurring together into static behind the sheer force of what comes next.

Four days.

Four days until FP1.

Four days to go from a long shot to something real.

Four days until you’re sitting in a Formula 1 car, in an actual race weekend, on one of the most legendary circuits in the world.

Your brain jumps tracks, recalibrating, running through everything you’ve learned, everything you still need to absorb. The AT03’s handling characteristics- where it struggles, where it thrives. The high-degradation nature of Spa’s tarmac. The elevation changes. The brutal forces through Eau Rouge and Raidillon. The moments in Yuki and Pierre’s footage where the car fought them, where the rear stepped out just enough to need a correction, where the chassis didn’t quite stick the way a Red Bull would- where it wouldn’t tolerate the lines of a more aggressive driver.

The air outside is going to be crisp, maybe damp, but you barely register the thought. You’re too busy calculating, adjusting, trying to fit yourself into the space you haven’t even stepped into yet. The exit is just ahead. You can see the doors, the hazy gray of the early morning sky beyond them, the promise of movement, of getting out.

Then- 

"Miss LeChriste?"

The voice cuts through the fog of your thoughts, smooth, precise. Not quite questioning, not quite commanding. It’s the tone of someone who already knows they have the right person. You blink, your mind needing an extra half-second to pull itself out of the high-speed loop it’s been running. You turn toward the sound. A man stands on the curb closest to the exit, holding a sign with your name on it.

Oh.

Your momentum stutters, feet slowing as your brain processes what you’re looking at. 

You’d expected a taxi. Maybe some impersonal email from a logistics coordinator telling you to grab a rental from the airport desk, something with a budget cap and a manual transmission. 

That’s what you’re used to- IndyCar, where teams cut costs at every possible turn, where travel arrangements were a patchwork of last-minute flights, hotel points, and the cheapest rental car they could justify expensing. Or, if you were really lucky, maybe one of the mechanics would swing by and pick you up in their own car, some beat-up old diesel with empty energy drink cans rattling around in the backseat, the heater stuck on max, a roll of duct tape on the dashboard because you never know.You’d piled into the passenger seat of sun-bleached hatchbacks, squeezed between spare parts and duffel bags, making small talk while rolling toward whatever motel your team had justified that weekend.

But this?

This man is wearing a suit. A pressed, properly fitted chauffeur’s suit, complete with a hat, standing in front of a sleek black car that definitely isn’t some bottom-tier economy rental.

"Uh, yeah. That’s me."

The driver nods once, crisp and efficient. "Right this way, Miss."

Miss.

You almost snort. Nobody calls you Miss anything. You barely get your name half the time.

You hesitate for the briefest second before stepping forward, gripping your race bag a little tighter. It’s ridiculous, but you feel out of place already, being ushered toward a private driver like you’re someone important.

There’s something about the way he says it that reminds you- this is Formula 1. This isn’t Indy, where you might be scrounging for a last-minute rental, squeezing into whatever compact car they gave you at the desk, hoping the hotel is decent enough to have a working coffee machine in the morning.

No.

This is Red Bull money. This is the first, quiet luxury of an operation that is so far beyond where you’ve been that you barely know how to process it. The kind of money where they send a driver- a chauffeur- to meet you at the airport before you’ve even turned a wheel for them.

The part that you’re really stuck on? This isn’t the top of Formula 1. This isn’t a private jet, a five-star concierge service, the kind of excess reserved for world champions. This is the bottom of the rung treatment. This is standard. This is what they do for anyone under their umbrella. This is expected.

The thought buzzes through you as you follow him toward the car, your feet moving before your brain has even finished catching up. The air outside is crisp, damp from last night’s rain, and the sky is the washed-out gray of early morning. The exhaustion is there, creeping at the edges of your mind, but it doesn’t matter. You’re still running on adrenaline, on the sheer force of need, but none of that really registers because- 

What the fuck is this?

This isn’t your world.

The driver reaches for your race bag, and for a moment, your immediate instinct is to pull it back, to haul it into the car yourself, because that’s what you’ve always done. You carry your own gear. You load your own luggage. You do it yourself, because no one else is going to do it for you.

But his hands are already on it, lifting it into the trunk with the ease of someone who expects to be doing this. Like it’s normal. Like it’s his job.

You exhale through your nose, shaking off the instinct to tell him you’ve got it. Instead, you climb into the backseat, sinking into the plush leather, the scent of clean upholstery hitting you as the door shuts with a quiet thunk.

Outside, the sky is gray, a thick European morning pressing against the glass as the driver pulls away from the curb, the urban sprawl of Luxemborg slipping into something quieter, something greener. You know, logically, that the scenery outside is incredible- lush countryside rolling into the Ardennes, sweeping hills, dense forests- but you don’t spare it a second glance. You don’t have the time for it.

You haven’t looked out the window once.

Instead, your mind is still on the flight, still running through every second of the last twelve hours, every bit of information you devoured somewhere over the Atlantic.

Spa.

You’d watched every inch of Spa.

Every braking point, every apex, every trick of the circuit that separated the competent from the champions. The Red Bull driver portal had given you access to all the film you could ask for- every onboard lap, every telemetry breakdown, every millisecond of data available. You’d watched the best of it, the ones who had conquered this place.

Max, Checo- their onboard film from this very track last year. The big boys. The cleanest, fastest lines that Spa had to offer. The best-case scenario. The way Max bullied his way through the wet, the way Sergio managed his tires on a track that could go from soaked to bone-dry in minutes. They were aggressive, clinical, perfect.

Yuki and Pierre’s onboards- this season, especially.  A different perspective. Your perspective. The same car you’d be driving. The AT03 wasn’t the RB18, not by a long shot. It lacked the raw dominance, the brutal efficiency, but it was the best AlphaTauri had managed in years. You studied how it moved, where it suffered, where it thrived. The way Pierre fought understeer through S-turns. The way Yuki handled the tricky mid-sector when the tires started to go. The places where they struggled, where you might struggle.

You absorbed it all.

You should be intimidated. You should be honored, overwhelmed by the fact that in just four days, you’ll be on the same track as the real legends, racing on one of the most historic circuits in the world.

But you don’t have time for intimidation.

You don’t have time to sit here and marvel at the fact that you’re about to put a Formula 1 car through Eau Rouge, that you’re about to barrel down the Kemmel Straight at 300 kilometers an hour.

You have four days. Four days to be good enough to make someone, anyone, just… notice. 

You shift in the backseat, adjusting your posture, rolling your shoulders back to shake out the stiffness. You’d finally shucked off your race suit after landing, stripping out of it in an airport bathroom, standing at the sink and taking a long, long look at yourself in the mirror before forcing yourself into something that wouldn’t get you laughed out of the boardroom when you arrived at the track. A fitted jacket, dark jeans, your best attempt at looking like you belonged.

The racesuit had been a reminder, a necessary weight of shame on the flight. But now? Now, you needed to look like someone they’d take seriously. There’s no room for shame, no room for weakness where you’re going.

You take a breath, steadying yourself as you glance down at your phone, skimming through the notes you made mid-flight.

Tire degradation. DRS zones. Elevation change data. Sector time comparisons.

The car isn’t even close to the track yet, and still, your brain is there.

The driver barely says a word, but you can feel his occasional glances in the rearview mirror, maybe wondering what exactly he’s transporting. Maybe wondering if the girl sitting stiffly in his backseat, scrolling through race data at seven in the morning, is actually human.

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August 22, 2022- Spa-Francorchamps Circuit, Belgium

The paddock is in pieces when you arrive, barely recognizable as the polished, high-functioning heart of a Grand Prix weekend. Temporary flooring is being laid down. Trucks are still reversing into position. Forklifts beep relentlessly as they maneuver crates full of equipment and spare parts into the skeletons of hospitality units. Crew members are swarming everywhere, setting up gantries, rigging screens, connecting endless tangles of cables that will power the broadcast feeds and telemetry systems by the time Friday rolls around.

You weave through it all, your race bag rattling behind you on uneven asphalt, escorted by an AlphaTauri staffer who barely introduces himself -Ignacio?- before setting off at a brisk pace. You don’t mind. The chaos feels oddly comforting- this kind of frantic, half-formed scene is something you know well. Setup days at Indy weren’t so different, at least in terms of sheer logistical madness.

What’s different is the scale.

Even in its unfinished state, this place radiates money. The equipment, the infrastructure, the sheer size of it all- everything is dialed up to a level you’ve never touched before. You pass Red Bull’s hospitality build, where scaffolding and tarps still cover half the façade, and for a split second, you think maybe that’s where you’re headed.

It’s not.

You’re led into the actual racetrack offices instead- concrete hallways and plain glass doors, a far cry from the polished luxury the public sees when the paddock is camera-ready. This is the backstage, the practical side of the circus, where decisions happen before anyone ever hears an engine fire up.

Your escort leaves you at the door of a conference room, gesturing for you to go in. You smooth your jacket, square your shoulders, and step inside.

They’re all waiting. You register them, of course, briefly as they all look up.. A set of suits that look like they may have slept even less than you in the last twenty-four hours, two bright eyed, pleasant looking professionals decked out in team kits. But they’re not who earn your attention first. It’s not Mattia Spini that gets it, either. It’s not even Franz Tost- to most, you’d be crazy not to defer to him first- he is the man that this entire opportunity rides on, after all. 

But that’s not the truth. Not entirely. Because the Godfather is here. 

Helmut Marko.

He’s not seated at the table with the others. Instead, he stands off to the side, leaning against the windowsill like he’s still trying to decide if this meeting is even worth the energy of taking a proper seat. His arms are crossed, head tilted slightly, expression settled somewhere between bored and mildly inconvenienced. He looks at you the way a banker looks at a loan applicant with no credit history- no malice, no warmth, just a quiet, clinical assessment of risk versus reward. It’s not dismissive, but it’s not encouraging, either. It’s the exact amount of respect you’ve earned from him so far, which is to say- none. Not yet.

It’s not a surprise. If anything, you’d expected worse.

Helmut Marko isn’t just some team advisor who drops in for the important meetings. He’s the architect of the entire Red Bull driver development program- the gatekeeper of every seat that exists within this brand. Every junior driver with a Red Bull patch on their chest lives under his thumb, or the thumb of someone who does. He decides who gets opportunities, who gets second chances, and who gets left to rot in feeder series obscurity.

And if you’re not his, if you didn’t come up through his system- if you weren’t plucked from karting at age 12 and molded in the image of what Helmut Marko believes a Red Bull driver should be- you’re already starting with a strike against you.

You’re twenty-two. By Helmut’s standards, that’s practically geriatric for a driver who still needs to prove themselves. Most of his prospects would have either succeeded or washed out entirely by your age. They would have either earned a seat, or been shuffled off to sports cars, endurance racing, somewhere that didn’t matter to him anymore.

But you’re here.

And that’s the part that matters.

Because Helmut Marko doesn’t suffer charity cases. He doesn’t tolerate time-wasters. The fact that you’re standing in this room at all means that, somewhere along the line, something about you caught his attention. Maybe it was your handful of substitute drives this season and last. Maybe it was something Christian Horner said. Maybe it was sheer desperation on AlphaTauri’s part to find anyone who could possibly hold the line in Yuki’s absence.

It doesn’t matter why.

All that matters is that Helmut Marko allowed this meeting to happen. He doesn’t have to like you. He doesn’t have to be impressed. He just has to leave the door open exactly this much. It’s your job to kick it the rest of the way in.

You move like you belong here. Like this is normal- being thrown into a meeting with a room full of people who hold your future in their hands. Like you weren’t on the other side of the world less than twenty-four hours ago, driving a shitbox for a team that treated you like nothing.

The first few minutes are pure formalities. Introductions, pleasantries, nods exchanged. You shake hands with everyone, making sure your grip is firm, your eye contact direct. You sit where they gesture, hands folded in front of you, posture perfect. Professional, measured. No jokes, no awkwardness, no nerves.

Franz Tost sits at the head of the table, his posture composed but his expression unreadable. Franz starts with the basics- introductions, a brief overview of what they’re hoping to achieve this weekend. You keep your tone perfectly professional, measured, micromanaging every aspect of yourself to project exactly what they need to see. Capable. Likable. Smart enough to understand the stakes. Hungry enough to take whatever they give you. You ask exactly the right questions at exactly the right moments- about the car, about expectations, about media requirements, about everything that will determine whether or not you make it to the weekend.

To his left is Mattia Spini, the man who will be your race engineer this weekend- if you earn the car. He’s quiet, thumbing through the small stack RedBull’s assembled that you can assume is all your career -your life’s work- mounts to, on paper.

The legal team- the two suits- sit with carefully neutral expressions. When they slide over a stack of documents that might as well be a brick, and you pick up the pen without hesitation, signing where they point, asking the occasional smart, concise question to show you’re paying attention.

Media relations is here too- the kitted-out pair you had noted before. You nod along to their every ask, perfectly agreeable. You’ll do every interview they want, every promo shot, every press availability. You don’t care. You’ll stand in front of cameras all day if that’s what it takes to earn the seat.

"I’m happy to do whatever the team needs."

It’s not a lie. It’s not even an exaggeration. You will do anything.

And then, it’s your turn. You pull your own packet from your bag- a meticulously prepared file containing every piece of critical data they could possibly need about you. The Holy Bible. This is your life’s work- not the measly six or seven pages they had scraped together and set in front of each seat before you arrived. Mattia takes the folder without much thought at first, flipping it open with the kind of casual disinterest of someone who has sat through way too many meetings just like this one. But the second his eyes land on the first page, the shift is almost imperceptible- almost.

You see it, though.

It’s in the way his fingers slow against the edge of the paper, in the way his posture changes just slightly. His gaze sharpens, scanning the structured layout, taking in the color-coded tabs along the side, the neatly labeled sections that break everything down into digestible, categorized data points.

His brow creases just slightly, his fingers smoothing over the paper as he scans the biometric data. Stress tests, reaction times, endurance tracking. He turns another page, and another. Height, weight, exact body measurements for suit fittings, seating position requirements. Flip. Car history, setup preferences, personal notes on what has worked for you and what hasn’t. Flip. On-track strengths, biggest flaws, areas you’ve personally identified as weaknesses and your own methods of mitigating them.

You keep your expression even, but you know exactly what’s happening here.

Mattia is a data guy. That’s how he got this job in the first place. Numbers, telemetry, analysis- it’s what he does. He’s used to drivers walking in with an opinion on how a car should feel, sure, but not with this. 

Because this? This is what he does. This is his job. Synthesize the data, break it down, make it digestible, work on it with the driver. Not the other way around. And that’s interesting.

Tost glances at him briefly, but Mattia doesn’t look up, doesn’t acknowledge the way the room has subtly shifted. He keeps flipping through, fingers moving slightly faster now, like he’s searching for something, like he needs to confirm that this is actually what he thinks it is.

“Did Dale Coyne’s engineers put this together for you?” Mattia’s voice is casual, but the surprise isn’t hidden. It bleeds through the edges, slipping into the slight lift of his brow, the way his fingers hesitate for half a second before flipping to the next page.

You almost laugh- almost. Because the idea of those half-competent, half-bored bastards at Dale Coyne assembling something this polished, this comprehensive? It’s ridiculous. Those men wouldn’t waste the paper to print you a fucking data readout, much less do you the courtesy of organizing your career data into something usable. And if they had? It wouldn’t look like this. It wouldn’t be color-coded within an inch of its life, wouldn’t have cross-references or a table of contents, wouldn’t read like a military dossier written by someone who knows exactly how much weight every ounce of detail could carry.

“No,” you say smoothly, keeping your face as neutral as your tone. “I keep all my data myself.”

There’s a reaction. A small one, but you catch it- Mattia’s head tips just slightly, the folder resting heavier in his hands now, no longer just a pile of papers but a point of interest. His fingers tighten against the edge, not out of irritation but out of concentration. It’s the look of a man who’s just found something unexpected in a sea of the predictable.

You know this moment. You know it.

Because your mother, Marissa LeChriste, made sure you could recognize this kind of moment before you could even spell leverage.

Marissa is a masterclass in influence- not the shallow kind you see on social media, but the real thing. The art of making herself seem indispensable to a room full of men who hadn’t planned on respecting her, let alone considering her. She can read a person like a teleprompter, knows exactly how to shift her tone, adjust her posture, time her smiles. Knows the exact point where charm turns into control, when friendliness becomes power.

You grew up watching her do it- absorbing every glance, every pause, every moment where she turned skepticism into loyalty. Your first major sponsorship? It wasn’t talent alone that landed you that. It was Marissa, walking into meeting after meeting armed with laminated proposals, strategic data points, and a smile so warm it was damn near a weapon.

And God help the poor bastards who said no- because Marissa never walked out of a room without leaving at least one person regretting it.

So when Mattia’s posture shifts- when his fingers curl just a little tighter around the folder- you see it for exactly what it is.

This isn’t a foot in the door. You’re not stupid enough to believe that. You’re a long way from safe, a long way from in. But this? This is a crack. The smallest sliver of daylight peeking through a door that should have stayed sealed shut. And if there’s one thing Marissa LeChriste taught you, it’s that a crack is more than enough.

Because a crack can become a gap. A gap can become a doorway. And a doorway, with enough pressure, with enough carefully applied force, can be shoved wide open until the whole goddamn wall collapses.

You can work with a crack.

It’s quiet- the way the room adjusts around you, your bible, your life laid out on the table. A glance exchanged between Franz and Mattia, a note scribbled down by one of the legal guys, a slight shift in how the media reps hold themselves, sitting forward like maybe- just maybe- you could be someone worth building a campaign around, if even just for a weekend. They’re not sold, not yet. But they’re considering it. You can feel the air change, like the whole meeting tilts half a degree in your favor.

Helmut doesn’t react.

He hasn’t so much as blinked in your direction, not since you sat down. But you can feel him watching, the same way a snake watches something small and scurrying across the ground, waiting to decide if it’s prey or just scenery.

That’s fine.

That’s good enough for now.

Because here’s the truth: the business side of this? It’s not hard for you. It never has been. You know how to smile at the right people, how to dress the right way, how to be charming without being threatening, how to crack a joke that makes people want to root for you instead of against you. It’s all manipulation, but not the ugly kind -  it’s survival. And you are fucking excellent at survival.

But none of that -  none of the paperwork you just signed, none of the polite nods from Franz, none of the cautious optimism radiating off Mattia -  none of it matters unless you can back it up where it counts.

On the track.

You can dazzle them in the boardroom all you want, but this sport isn’t won in a goddamn boardroom. It’s won with lap times. With split-second reactions. With the brutal, intimate understanding of what a car needs, what it can take, what it’s asking for through every bump and twitch of the wheel. If you can’t master that, everything else -  the marketing, the PR games, the networking -  it’s all just performance art. A nice, neat obituary for a career that never got off the ground.

You won’t be that driver. So you ask for one thing. Not money. Not special treatment. Not even extra setup time with the car -  because you know that will get you about as far as asking for a unicorn. You ask for the only thing that will actually make a difference.

“A dedicated sim rig,” you say, voice level, hands folded on the table like you’re asking for something as ordinary as a cup of coffee. “Set to car specs. Six hours of uninterrupted drive time every day until Friday.”

Mattia blinks, caught slightly off guard by how quickly you’ve shifted from polite first impressions to cold, practical demands.

You keep going. “I don’t care when. Middle of the night, middle of the day. I’ll work around the press obligations, the strategy meetings, the media work -  all of it. But I need six hours. Preferably eight, if you can swing it.”

The room goes quiet.

Not hostile, not disapproving -  just quiet.

Because you know what they’re thinking. They’ve had rookies before, juniors promoted too soon, kids drunk on their own hype. They’ve seen the swagger, the bravado, the ones who show up convinced that talent is enough, that instinct will save them.

But that’s not you.

You don’t believe in talent like it’s some divine gift. You believe in work. In attrition. In being the last one standing when everyone else has burned themselves out. You believe in cramming yourself so full of knowledge that instinct becomes irrelevant-  you won’t need instinct, because you’ll already know.

You don’t have the luxury of leaning back on raw talent. You never did. You came up scrapping for every seat, scraping every inch of track time you could get, making your own damn data because no one else was willing to care enough to collect it for you. And now?

Now you’re at war.

Not with Mattia, not with Franz, not with Liam or Pierre or even Max-fucking-Verstappen.

You’re at war with yourself.

With the version of you that lived in the Dale Coyne pit, who ate shit and smiled politely and took every ounce of disrespect because you thought it was the only way to keep your career breathing. With the part of you that still remembers your parents taking out a mortgage on a paid off house just to buy you a seat at that team. With the younger version of you that believed you could make it in this sport if you were just good enough.

There is no "good enough" here. There’s only ruthless.

And if it means you work yourself into the fucking ground for the next four days, so be it. If it means you sleep three hours a night and run on caffeine and adrenaline, fine. If it means you fake your way through every press conference, smiling so wide your cheeks cramp, then collapse in a heap of exhaustion afterward, you’ll do it. Because there’s no going back. You will burn yourself to the ground before you let this opportunity slip.

Mattia glances toward Franz, some unspoken communication passing between them, and then he nods. “Done.” You’re certain it’s not a concession. You’re certain it’s not a favor. You’re certain it’s a test.

You’re certain they want to see if you’ll actually do it. If you’ll show up to that sim rig at some ungodly hour and run laps until your eyes blur, until the seat bruises your back, until the muscle memory starts to override the fear gnawing at the edges of your composure.

They want to see how badly you want this.

They have no idea. They have no idea that you will work every single person sitting here under the table. They have no idea you won’t stop until you’ve outworked every strategist, engineer, pit crew member practicing tracking the tire with his gun. That you’ll outwork the race marshalls, the officials, the fucking janitor sweeping the crusty, smushed french fries from the grandstand floorboards come Sunday night.

“Thank you,” you say. They have no fucking idea.

════════════════════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══════════════════

Hey guys! Happy season kickoff! Apologies for being gone for so long, I've spent the last few weeks editing and re-writing like a madman as I wanted to be able to bulk publish at least to where the story starts to get more involved with Max, which meant I had to hold back the earlier chapters. So, enjoy the next few posts, we will settle into a more regular updating schedule soon. I promise we are getting to the meat soon- but I want to really nail this exposition, fully flesh out the characters and their relationships with others because it makes everything hit SO much harder when we get to where we're going. Just lean into the ride, it will be fun :).

Working on getting a series master list up for easy navigation. As always, your response and interaction are a huge part of how I stay motivated to do what I do, thank you to everyone who followed, reblogged, or commented on the introductory chapter! I read every single one and so appreciated!

[snowflakes-and-cupcakes]

— this is what forever feels like x mathew barzal

chapter 2: crash landing (onto you)

♡ word count: 3.3k ♡ contains: cursing, reader has a panic attack, Barzy continues to be an insatiable flirt main ♡ prev ♡ next

Soon enough, there comes a point in your new-old life that you decide to just try anything. Sitting in a cafe near Hope’s apartment on a weekend, you spend the morning reworking your professional website and freshening up your accounts on Fiverr and Upwork. You don’t have much writing that’s new, but after a nice reshuffle and some new narrative introductions, you count yourself satisfied.

You’ve always been able to make a story out of almost anything. Emotive, persuasive—that’s your thing. 

The only thing you can’t do is persuade yourself to either open your Google Drive or close your laptop and go do something else for the day.

Around you, the cafe is quiet. This is the kind of place where people like you come to be calm, to find your peace—maybe get some work done, maybe shut the world out for a little while. A couple perches on a cushioned window seat, reading side-by-side. They look in love, and you hope it lasts for them. A middle-aged woman furrows her brow while she taps furiously at her laptop, writing. She looks professional—maybe she’s a professor, or maybe a researcher. 

Your latte, sitting in a mug-for-here next to your water bottle, isn’t warm anymore, but you still pick it up and take a sip because, damn it, you paid good money for that. 

You bite the inside of your cheek and click over to your Google Drive, staring at the color-coded folders.

There’s a pink one that says small town manuscript.

It’s your manuscript: the second draft of a still-untitled romance novel that feels like a pipe dream. According to the date on the folder, it’s been fourteen months since you last touched it. It’s a surprise—2022, really?—the way time eats away at itself, slipping through your fingers. Life started moving too fast, racing past you. Holidays left you exhausted. Losing your job and hopping between freelancing gigs activated your fight-or-flight response.

And, sure, you’re a fighter, but who’s going to work on a romance novel when they’re fighting for their next paycheck?

Maybe your ex—your ex, the finance bro; your ex, the son of two lawyers and grandson of a politician; your ex, the trust-fund baby—could have done a little more to make you feel safe. Isn’t that what relationships are for? Isn’t that what you’d been writing about?

You open the document.

You read the last chapter you’d been editing, and your chest squeezes. A lot of people read romances for the hot heroes, but this chapter is important to you. It’s focused entirely on the heroine when she discovers a strawberry plant she potted has flower buds on it. It’s a pivotal moment, the point at which she starts opening herself up to the hero, finally.

She didn’t believe in that little plant. Her well-meaning neighbor in the small town she ran away to gave it to her, and she was convinced she’d kill it as soon as a plant could be killed.

But you were the one who let your heroine have flowers instead of failures, weren’t you?

You watch the cursor blink after the last line. You read the final paragraph over and over again.

And then you delete it.

You don’t bother to rationalize why. You don’t think about how you could have changed a word here or there, or what exactly about it made it feel wrong to you. You just delete it and let it stay gone, leaving a blank space that, hesitantly, you begin to fill with new words.

It’s the same idea told in a different way. You let her have her flowers, and you take out the bittersweetness you gave her before. Stripping the sadness and leaving the joy, you watch your heroine fall in love with something she made herself. She’s in control of her story now, and you’re just the conduit, the one giving her the life she deserves.

It also feels like pulling teeth, every word put down and not backspaced to oblivion a hard-won battle. It takes so much out of you that, half an hour, the rest of your latte, and a minor headache later…you wrote two sentences.

You sigh and slump backwards in your chair. It’s two sentences more than you’ve written in a long, long time, but you still feel mortified that something that used to come easily to you feels so foreign now. You remember the early chapters of the book, and you remember being happy with them, but the thought of going back to reread your work now makes you feel sick.

Who was that girl? Who was the good writer inside you, and where did she go?

You even think of the girl who sat in a bar and laughed with a man she just met, a man way out of her league, and then let him take her on a cheap diner date. That girl laughed with that man for three hours.

Where did she go?

Who the hell are you kidding? You’re a fraud.

You slam your laptop shut and wince as the woman tapping away at another table abruptly stops, glances up at you, and lowers her brow in disdain. Blushing hard, you avoid her gaze and start shoving your things in your bag. Your phone is what you grab last, but it vibrates in your hand and you make the mistake of looking to see what the notification says.

Mom: Baby, do you have a weekend free? I want to come out to the city—so lonely without my best friend.

The world freezes and you have a momentary flash of dizziness, as if gravity flipped upside down. 

Maybe not telling your mom about being back home—the nicest, shortest way you can describe what happened to you—isn’t the best idea. She thinks you’re still in the city, and since you spent the final, unknowing months of your relationship avoiding everyone else to try to patch the holes between you and your ex, you haven’t seen her in…too many weeks.

Guilt eats at you because of that, and then takes a second bite because you felt a little less suffocated without her constant texts and calls. Your family has always been a disjointed one. For years, you had to force yourself to unpack the dynamic while you were still living in it, and you still didn’t have everything figured out.

You know it’s pretty normal to have divorced parents. Being an only child is normal, too. Your dad moved south after you graduated high school—hard, but not out of the ordinary. Your mom isn’t very close with her siblings—how many times have you heard that before?

But you’ll never forget Hope’s face when, during your first week of college, your mom called you four times in seven days for two hours apiece. Nor when, after you missed a good morning text, your mom called the university directly and a Public Safety officer did a wellness check on you.

You’d been sitting in a dorm room full of your new friends, and seven years later, the pity and confusion on their faces still makes you breathless.

Now, your mom follows up with a second text.

Maybe I can come stay with you? We can see a show, go shopping, get our nails done, maybe stop by a museum? Whatever you want!! Oh, and brunch!

You stare at the text, already growing anxious.

You shouldn’t feel like this, you think, but you do, and you don’t understand it yet. This is the kind of thing that takes years to name, but you’re in it now and you feel like you’re drowning.

You press a hand to your mouth as a sob races out. Your cheeks warm—so does your neck, your chest, and all the way down to your toes—because you know Laptop Lady is glaring at you. The humiliation of crying in public is a new low for you, but you can’t make it stop. 

You’re panicked that it’s happening in the first place. 

You’re panicked that you don’t have the words to figure out why.

You’re panicked because you’re failing everything around you, especially yourself.

So, you’re having a breakdown in a cafe. This isn’t normal at all.

The tension in your chest is unrelenting as you try to pack up your things and leave, hindered by your shaking hands. You feel like you can’t breathe, crushed under the panicked certainty that everyone in the room is watching you. 

All you want is to fade into nothingness and hide from everyone until you get your shit together. Why, why, why are you like this?

“Oh,” you hear someone say. The sound is close, and it hangs in the air with a hint of foreboding. “Jesus.”

You recognize that voice, and you bury your head in your hands because please don’t be talking to me, please don’t be looking at me, please don’t be coming toward me. That’s the absolute last thing you need; not only talking to anyone, but talking to him. Of all the cafes on Long Island, what are the odds you’re both in the same one? He doesn’t seem the type to get coffee at a cozy little spot like this. You didn’t even think the team was around—weren’t they just on a road trip?

Fate is a bitch, and you hate her.

The chair across from you scrapes over the floor, and about two hundred pounds of pure man settles onto it. He’s moving gingerly, like he’s aware of his size, his strength, and he’s trying not to scare you with it. Sweet, your brain supplies.

“Um.” Mat clears his throat. “Are you…”

You don’t move an inch, and you leave your head in your hands while you stare down at the table, reconsidering all your life choices. “I’m fine.”

There’s a pause. “I want to agree with you and I also want to say you’re clearly not fine, but both of those feel like the wrong answer.”

A sound comes out of you, but you’re not sure if it’s a laugh or a sob. You lower your hands, but you look away, unable to look at him right now. Your pride is just too fractured for that, especially given how you feel right now.

“You really can’t look any more put-together than that?”

You hug yourself, hands coming to rest on your biceps and giving yourself a squeeze. It’s an old, self-soothing habit that’s not doing a whole lot right now. A part of you wonders if that’s because you’re not alone while you’re doing it.

“I just had a bad day,” you mumble. “You can go.”

He doesn’t move. “Do you have somewhere to be?”

Swallowing, you shrug. “It’s complicated. I mean, I can go—uh—home, but Hope’s home and I don’t want her to see me like this.”

You also don’t want another reminder that your life is such a mess right now. It’s frustrating, painful—the way you bounce between feeling proud that you’re stumbling forward and feeling useless because you’re here in the first place. Such opposite feelings have no business occupying your brain at the same time, you think.

You thought.

His knee rapidly bobs, and you feel it as it gently jostles the table. He’s tense like he wants to bolt somewhere—probably as far away from here, from you, as physically possible. You can’t blame him. 

The girl he took on a date is a basket case. Who would want anything to do with that?

“Let’s go to the park,” he blurts. You stare at him, and he continues seriously, “You don’t want to be around people? Cool. Let’s go find some trees. Cold Spring Harbor is pretty close.”

But he’s no one to you. You’re not his responsibility…and yet you feel a shocking lack of panic over the fact that this guy you went on one date with is personally offended that the universe gave you a bad day. “But you’re not— You don’t need to—”

“I want to,” he replies with a shrug, then braces both his hands on the table to push himself up. One of those hands clasps your shoulder when he’s at your side. “Let’s go. Maybe we’ll catch the sunset.”

Mat buys you another latte and a black coffee for himself to go, and then he drives you to the state park twenty minutes north. The car is silent, and you try not to breathe, feeling like you’re not meant to be here.

You had one date with him, and now he’s taking you to the park in the middle of a cold snap because he found you sobbing in a cafe. You feel unhinged, insane. You feel his pity reaching into the depths of your heart, and you wonder if he’d mind if you crawled under a rock and died.

Even if he does mind, it’d probably be for the best.

He puts the car in park and pulls up the trail map on his phone. There are only a few other people here, judging by the fact that his is the third car in the lot, and you can hear two dogs barking in the distance once you’re standing outside.

He rounds the car and bumps you with his elbow. “Follow me,” that wordlessly says.

It’s also a little demanding, maybe even a gentle threat. It means, “We’re going to walk until you feel better.”

The simplicity of walking in silence strikes you. It’s necessary, but there’s something more, some kind of understanding that you’ve never felt with someone else before.

The park trail winds upward, climbing high over the hills to offer a view of the water stretching on and on into the bay. You’ve always loved the water and its calm endlessness, its possibilities presented so peacefully that it feels like a shrug, like an “of course.”

Though the two of you are dressed warmly, neither of you expected an impromptu hike, so you take the trail slowly in your sneakers. It gives you a chance to linger, to look, to breathe; for once, you’re grateful to be forced to slow down. He has a beanie pulled down over the tops of his ears and gloves on his hands, but his cheeks still turn red and his breath still comes and goes in exhales of white haze. He steals glances at you, checking on you and wondering when it’s okay to break the silence, but it’s not that the silence is bad.

It’s the opposite, actually. The calm rush of the water mixes with the rustle of the wind through bare branches, of dogs barking and crunching on the snow. Even the cars in the distance seem to settle down, their hum background noise you need to really strain to hear.

You don’t bother.

“I ran this trail,” he says abruptly, “after this really bad string of games in my first full season. I was playing, you know, I was out there, but I was doing pretty much nothing. I felt like I didn’t belong with the team. I felt…alone. It was like I made the biggest mistake of my life even though I knew coming here was what I wanted.”

You can tell there’s more for him to say, so you just stay in step with him, walking side by side while he makes the slow, mental approach to his point.

“I wanted to clear my head without being around anyone, but I also liked knowing people were just over there,” he gestures back toward the town, which felt deceptively far away because of the line of trees blocking the view. “It’s a habit now. If something’s ever weighing on me, I come here, go for a run. These trees, I mean…they know all my secrets by now.”

He laughs and looks at you, sheepishness in his lopsided smile. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this.”

“Because you brought me here,” you reply. It’s obvious, isn’t it? Maybe it only is to you. “Did it help? That first run?”

He grins, tipping his face up to the clouds and squinting at the silvery glow. “Scored on the Rangers two days later.”

You both give the silence a moment of breathing room before he asks, “Want to talk about what happened at the coffee shop?”

Well, no. You don’t.

You spend about five seconds wondering if he’d buy it if you tell him it’s not a big deal, but you quickly get the impression that he, like the trees, will keep your secrets.

You blow out a breath and wait for the vapor to fade into mist before you open up, just a little. “I moved back here because I got dumped. It was bad.”

Understatement of the year. You shrug your shoulders, feeling self-conscious, but add, “You and Hope are the only ones who know that. My mom still lives here and I didn’t tell her. I don’t want to. She texted me about coming to visit in the city, and it reminded me that I’m keeping things from her.”

“Oh,” he says, and he’s sure he’s contemplating running for the hills. You’ve revealed a little piece of yourself that you think is ugly, that you think you shouldn’t feel. No one likes complicated things—especially not from near-strangers.

But then, you feel him looking at you. You feel him drift a few inches closer while he walks. He shifts, hesitating. His elbow moves, his shoulders roll, and then his hand slides out of his pocket so it can tentatively rest in the middle of your back. Your breath catches, you look at him, and he’s looking back.

Something hopeful but unsure passes between the two of you.

“I’m sorry about everything that happened before we came here,” he takes a breath, “but I’m glad we did.”

“Me too,” you say. “I feel so normal around you.”

That’s just a simple way of telling him he makes every single one of your nerves fall into quiet harmony, silencing the bad and leaving you aware and curious for whatever good may come.

He gives you a long look, and one side of his mouth tips up. He’s seconds away from teasing you, and you love the anticipation of that. “Yeah? Me too.”

As you walk together, his hand remains where it is and his pace slows to match yours. As much as he likes to chatter at you—or anyone else—normally, he’s quiet now. Walking through the snow with Mat, a cold breeze on your face while the harbor ebbs and flows below you, you feel a peaceful something blanket all the anxiety you felt to get you here.

At this point, when your panic recedes, you usually feel guilt over having those feelings at all.

Right now, you don’t.

Right now, you just tip your head against Mat’s shoulder and let him hold you. He so clearly wants to that it would be rude of you not to let him.

Really.

There’s an overlook partway up the path, two adirondack chairs and a table covered in ice. He tugs you toward them, wanting to give you a break that he himself definitely doesn’t need, and he makes you sit in his lap.

“One pair of wet jeans is better than two,” he says matter-of-factly, then tucks his chin against your shoulder while tucking you against his chest. “Just sit.”

Your heart is racing. You know he feels it beneath the sturdy arm wrapped around you, but he doesn’t say a word. Instead, he presses his cold cheek to yours, and you both wait and watch while reds and oranges paint the winter sky.

It turns out Mat was right about catching the sunset after all.

@barzygirl13 ♡ comment below or on the main post to be tagged please!

[unabashegirl]

Different 2 | College HS

Harry's quiet, routine-driven life changes one weekend when he meets Y/N through a mutual friend at her party. She comes from a superficial, materialistic world with absent parents who believe money solves everything. Despite their differences, something clicks that night, and Y/N can't stop thinking about him.

Author's note: though I would finally share the second chapter of Different since so many people have expressed their interest on it. I just posted chapter 25 on Patreon and though it would be a good idea to post one here too.

check out my patreon (starting at $2) and get full access to all 25 chapters and much more :)

word count: 2.5K

“Harry!” Mitch barged into the quiet library. Some laughed at him, while others shushed him.

“Quiet, please! Mr. Styles, please remove yourself and your friend if you can’t keep your friend in order.” Harry frowned and began gathering his books and notes. He could feel everyone’s eyes on him, so he kept his head down as he exited the room, with Mitch following closely behind.

“What do you want?!” Harry demanded as he made his way toward his dorm in search of some quiet.

“She is playing today,” Mitch almost yelled, wearing a big smile. “She is one of the captains of the soccer team.” Harry held his breath as he listened to the news. He felt his hands getting damp and moist. The mere thought of her being so close to him made him nervous.

“So?” He brushed it off, trying his best to act like he didn’t care or hadn’t been thinking about her the last couple of days. “What do you want me to do?”

“We have to go to the game and see her, fucktard,” Mitch insisted as they left the building. “Come on! I saw the way you looked at her! I know you like her.”

“She has a boyfriend!” Harry snapped back.

“Who?” Mitch stopped him, “That Brian guy?” Mitch laughed heavily, throwing his head back, only irritating Harry even more.

“Emma told me all about him. They used to date, and he is still hung up on her, but she is done with him. Emma told me that Y/N thinks he is too superficial.” Harry sighed, running his hands through his hair. The last thing he wanted was to get his hopes up. “Let’s go to her game!” Mitch repeated, “Come on! I am not asking you to propose to her.”

“Fine, but can you shut the fuck up about it already?” He needed some silence, just so he could pull himself together before seeing her again. She probably doesn’t remember us, he wondered. Harry had always thought Y/N was the type of girl who had multiple friends yet never remembered their names, and he felt like his name had been long forgotten.

They went back to their dorm and worked for a few hours before heading to the fields.

“I had no idea so many people came to these games,” Harry pointed out as they walked up the bleachers.

"Everyone is here to watch a bunch of girls running around in shorts.” Just as Mitch shared, the teams entered. Harry’s eyes instantly scanned the sea of girls in search of her. He spotted her running up while pulling her hair into a messy ponytail. She stood by her coach, who seemed to be having a conversation with one of her teammates.

Y/N was happy. She enjoyed playing soccer. It had first started as a hobby and before high school ended it had developed into something more. She spoke to the rest of the team. They nudged one another and laughed. That was until the coach approached all of them. The entire team quieted down and started trailing behind her.

“I would do her,” Ezra Hart mumbled to his friend. He was known for playing with girls and using his good looks to get away with things. He was on the men’s soccer team. Harry had known him for years. They had even gone to the same high school.

The game quickly began. The players began moving fast. Everyone was yelling, and the referee kept blowing his whistle.

Y/N was receiving passes and placing the ball center, but at the same time, everyone was going after her. At one point, they kicked her and threw her on the floor. The referee whistled and pulled a yellow card on the opposing team.

It was a free kick and Y/N was taking it. Harry had clenched fists by his sides. He was nervous for her. The referee whistled and Y/N kicked the ball.

She scored.

Half-time came around and Harry watched as Y/N ran in their direction.

“Hey!” She smiled and kneeled by them. “Hey Mitch.” He smiled at her widely.

“You are doing great out there,” Mitch complimented her. “You are kicking ass.”

“Good. I am happy you are entertained,” she giggled and turned her attention to Harry. “Could you wait for me after the game? I need to ask you something.” Harry simply nodded, not being able to put the right words together. She gave them one last smile before running back to the bench.

“Styles!” Ezra Hart called out. Harry looked up at him, slightly intimidated by him. In high school, Ezra would embarrass him in front of everyone, and things hadn’t changed that much since. “Where do you know her from?” He scowled as his friends stood behind him for support.

“Met her at a party,” Harry shrugged and turned his attention back to the game.

“That makes no fucking sense. Are you fucking her?” His friends laughed, “Nah, there is no way. You probably get too nervous and can’t even get it up.”

Harry pulled on the strings of his hoodie, trying to shield himself from the laughs and comments.

Y/N played with the same rhythm but didn’t score any more goals. Roughly twenty minutes before the game ended, she got substituted. She sat down on the bench and started taking off her cleats and shin guards.

The game finally came to an end with the home team taking the victory. Y/N disappeared but quickly reappeared with her gym bag and a coat.

“Hey,” Y/N smiled as they all walked towards the parking lot. “Are you alright?” Y/N could sense that his mood had changed. Harry gave her a quick nod and tried his best to give her a reassuring smile. “I don’t usually do this, but I wanted to know if I could have your phone number.” Harry stopped walking and faced her.

“Y-you do?” Harry stuttered, not believing what he had just heard. Y/N giggled and nodded simultaneously, leading him toward her car. “But—” he stopped himself, trying to keep all the negative thoughts out of his head.

Y/N threw her bag on the backseat, then leaned against the side of her car.

“But what?” She frowned, “Is there anything wrong?” Y/N asked innocently in a soft and sweet tone that could bring any man to his knees.

“N-no,” he shook his head and reached back, taking his phone from his back pocket. Harry handed his phone to Y/N so she could type her number.

“Do you need a ride to your dorm?” she asked as she typed his number on hers now.

“No. Mitch will walk with me.” Harry looked around for him, but he couldn’t spot him.

“Just get in the car, silly!” she said, getting in. Harry nodded and quietly got in.

“Why are you so nervous around me?” Y/N asked as she stopped at the first red light. Harry shook his head as he tried his best to be confident. “Are you sure? Because that’s the last thing I want.”

“I am fine,” he bit down his lip and turned to look at her. Her hair had started slipping out of her ponytail, but it didn’t matter because her facial complexity always kept her looking stunning. “Does that hurt?” Harry pointed to her scraped knee.

“Not really. The skin is just a bit sore,” she ran her hand over it.

“It was a rough knock,” he pointed out, remembering how they had kicked her off her feet.

“Here, right?” Y/N asked as she pulled up to his dorm. She had asked around, and they had told her where he lived. It had been a bit stalker-ish, but it hadn’t been with bad intentions.

“Thank you for the ride, Y/N.” She really didn’t need to do that. It was a short walk from the fields to the dorms. Although Y/N knew it was cold, and it had already gotten dark. He didn’t want to leave. He wanted to stay with her. Harry could listen to her speak for hours, yet he knew that she was a busy girl. “Could you do me a favor?” he asked as he got out of the car.

“Sure!”

“Can you please text me when you get home?”

“I—I mean if you want. You don’t have to if you don’t want to,” he babbled.

“I will, don’t worry,” she said just before he shut the door.

“Who was that?” one of Harry’s roommates asked as he walked into the building.

“A friend.”

“Is that Y/N Y/L/N? You are friends with her?”

“Yes. She is very nice,” he muttered before heading upstairs to finish some work, take a shower, and go to sleep. He kept checking his phone, and before he shut off the lights, his phone notified him of a text.

Hey, I just got home. I am okay. Goodnight ❤️

It was simple, but it was enough to make him smile and get his heart pumping quicker.

chapter 3

[everyandanything]

The final chapter is up and I’ve only been crying all weekend about it !!!

And now I’m going to be sappy on main for a second so all the apologies in advance totally feel free to click the link above and ignore the "keep reading" button lol

But genuinely wanted to thank everyone who’s read this silly little story. I started this back in July with the thought, “but like what if… Darry got jumped? 🧐 and no clue how to do any of this. And all of you have been so kind and loving and welcoming to me and this fic that grew into something way bigger than I could have ever imagined. This fandom genuinely has some of the coolest and most creative people in it and I’m so inspired by you guys every day.

All that to say, anyone who’s read this story, or commented, or liked, or have been saving it until it’s finished, or have had to put up with me clogging the outsider fanfiction tag for the past 5 months, thank you so so much for going on this journey with me. I’ve had the best time sharing it, and putting the poor Curtis brothers through it (rip).

And I know I say this every time, but I’m so serious please come chat with me about this or all things outsiders, because I’m currently in mourning over this being over and need the distraction 😔🫶🏻

So, without further ado, the last chapter of Born a Grease (except for whatever one shots I inevitably write to cope with my withdrawals from no longer writing this).

Hope you all enjoy, and until next time!!

[joeliz99]

“You, Always.”- Danny Ramirez

Warnings: Slowburn, Friends to lovers, RPF fic, Fluff, Multi-part series

(In case you missed the first four chapters, click here)

Part Two

Where we begin again

Fifth Chapter

Three months after NYC. A summer in Miami. No time like the present.

Danny was back in his hometown for two weeks, a short but much-needed break before diving back into work and a massive new project that awaited him. The first few days were spent with family, relaxing and recharging. But as his second and final week approached, he couldn’t shake the thought of (Y/N), who now lived in Miami as well. He hadn’t heard from her since he’d texted her his number, and since both of them were over-thinkers, they hadn’t managed to spark a real conversation over text.

That night, lying in bed, Danny couldn’t help but reach out, sending her a text message before he regretted it for good.

"Hey (Initial)! Hope you're doing well. I’m in town for a couple of weeks and thought it’d be nice to catch up if you're up for it. Let me know what you think. See you soon! :)"

When (Y/N) saw his message, she froze for a moment. It had been a while since they last spoke, and she hadn’t expected him to reach out after sometime. She’d wanted to respond right away, but her schedule was packed. Hours passed, and though she saw the ‘read’ status on her phone, she couldn’t find the right words or moment to just do it.

Danny, after noticing hours had passed, began to doubt himself. Maybe he had misread the whole scenario. Perhaps she really wasn’t as interested in reconnecting as he’d hoped.

In reality, it wasnt that she wasn’t interested. She was just busy and, honestly, a little overwhelmed by it all. The next evening, after mentally editing her response a few times, she hit ‘send.’

"Hey! Sorry for the late reply. I’ve been caught up this weekend, but let’s plan something for the week. What are you in the mood for?"

Thursday of that same week, (Y/N) hurried through the streets of Miami, trying to get to the ice cream shop on time. Of course, today of all days, everyone at the office had needed something from her, pushing her lunch break nearly twenty minutes late. Now, someone was already waiting for her.

As she neared the shop, she slowed her pace, taking a deep breath to regain her composure. Outside, Danny sat at a table, focused on his phone, his posture relaxed. (Y/N) adjusted her purse and walked toward him, catching his attention as she approached.

“Oh hey! You made it.” A smile spread across his face as he stood, greeting her with a side hug and a quick kiss on the cheek.

“I’m so, so sorry. Work’s been crazy today—I hope you don’t mind the change of plans.”

Danny laughed, shaking his head. “Not at all. I’m chill with whatever. It’s good to see you.”

(Y/N) smiled as they headed inside, scanning the array of ice cream flavors.

“You eat anything yet?” Danny asked after a beat.

She shook her head, still focused on the options in front of her.

“Want to grab something else first?”

“What? No, no. I’m good. Ice cream’s better than real food anyway.”

Danny shot her a half-smile, clearly unconvinced. She caught the look and glanced back at him.

“I like your hair,” she said, changing the subject. “It looks longer than the last time I saw you. Actually, I think this is the longest I’ve ever seen it on you.”

“Oh, yeah.” He ran a hand through it absently. “I have to shave it all off for a project, so I figured I’d just let it do its thing for now.”

“Are you serious? What a waste of good lucious hair.”

Danny laughed, shaking his head as they paused to place their orders.

Outside the day felt warm and with a thick scent of freshly baked waffle cones wafting from the shop behind them. (Y/N) and Danny sat down on a bench and entertained themselves in a casual conversation while the occasional murmur of passing conversations mixed with the distant hum of traffic.

“So, I’m kind of curious… Where do you work again? I don’t think we ever talked about that.”

(Y/N) pulled the spoon from her mouth, tilting her head as she considered the question. “I work at a marketing agency as a Content Production Assistant. I handle all the audio editing for their productions and stuff like that.”

Danny hummed, nodding as he swirled his spoon through the melting edges of his ice cream. “That sounds cool. Do you like it?”

She hesitated. “I guess… yeah. It’s not exactly where I want to be, but I don’t mind it. It pays the bills, I’m getting real-world experience, and I’ve gotten more comfortable with my work. I just wish I had more time for my own projects.”

Danny took a slow breath, his gaze drifting toward her, resting his elbows on his knees. “You’ll get there,” he said. “When I got out of college, I struggled bad. At one point, I was juggling three jobs while still trying to stay on top of auditions and callbacks. I was desperate for anything.” He chuckled, shaking his head. “It took me a long time to get to where I am now, and honestly? I still feel like I’m barely getting by.”

“Shut up.” (Y/N) rolled her eyes with a smile. “You’re doing amazing.”

Danny turned to her with a smirk, tapping his spoon against his cup. “Yeah? So that means you’ve seen me on TV?”

Her posture stiffened. She licked her lips, suddenly more focused on her ice cream as she stole a quick glance at him.

“Ohhh, so you have!” His grin widened.

“Uhh…” She stayed quiet, gauging his reaction. “Actually… I haven’t. Like… at all.”

Danny’s smile faltered. “Wait, are you serious?”

(Y/N) bit her lip, suppressing a laugh when she noticed the slight flush creeping onto his cheeks.

“This is embarrassing… Why would you say I’m good if you’ve never seen me?!”

“Because!” She laughed, nudging him with her elbow. “I’ve seen you in your element. I know you’re good.”

Danny exhaled dramatically, slouching back against the bench. “Okay. I’m done with this conversation.”

“No, no! Wait.” She nudged him again, her grin playful. “I actually do want to know what you’re working on. Are you gonna tell me about your next project?”

Danny turned his head slightly, giving her an exaggerated, unimpressed look before shaking his head.

“Oh, come on. Don’t be such a baby, Danny. I said I’m sorry.” She playfully punched his arm, and though he said nothing, a small smile crept onto his face.

“Well, it’s good that you’re sorry… but I really can’t say anything for legal reasons.”

“Oh.” She blinked at him.

Danny smirked, barely holding back a laugh.

“Guess you’ll just have to wait until it’s out in theaters.”

(Y/N) was about to fire back a playful remark, entertained by the easy rhythm of their conversation, when her phone started to ring. She ignored it at first, hoping it would stop on its own. It did—only for a series of text messages to pop up on her screen.

Her eyes scanned the messages quickly, and as she reached the last one, her expression shifted.

“Are you serious?” she muttered, exhaling sharply as she read it again.

Danny, catching the change in her demeanor, leaned slightly toward her. “You have to go?”

She nodded with a frown. “Yeah… Apparently, my lunch break was supposed to be shorter today whether I wanted to or not. We have a last-minute client meeting, and I have to be there.” The disappointment was clear in her voice. “I’m really sorry, Danny.”

“Don’t apologize. It’s not your fault.” He smiled, already standing up and taking the empty cup from her hands to toss it in the trash. “At least we got to hang out for a bit. We’ll plan something next time I’m in Miami.”

“Right… Sure.” She tried to return his smile, though it came out a little sheepish. Leaning in, the girl gave him a small hug. “Thanks for reaching out. We’ll stay in touch, alright?”

“Sounds good to me. Now go before they call you again.”

(Y/N) nodded, waving once before hurrying back toward her job. Danny stood there for a beat, hands in his pockets, watching her go before turning in the opposite direction.

But as she walked, something nagged at her. It had all felt too short and too fast. Even more-so when she had taken her sweet time to actually plan something decent with him. And now, the reality settled in—she probably wouldn’t see him again for months. Maybe longer.

Before she could overthink it, she pulled out her phone and dialed his number.

Danny glanced at his screen, momentarily confused. Had she called by mistake? Still, he answered.

“You butt-dialed me or something?” His laughter was the first thing she heard.

“No, not really.” She hesitated only for a second. “When exactly are you leaving Miami?”

“In two days.” His tone shifted slightly, curiosity creeping in. “Why?”

“Are you busy tomorrow afternoon?”

“Uh, no, not really. I was just gonna spend the day with my mom. Why?”

“Would she hate me if I stole you for a couple of hours?”

Danny let out a chuckle. “I doubt she’d hate you for any reason in the world, to be honest.”

(Y/N) smiled, knowing damn well he was right about that.

“Then I’ll see you tomorrow after five. I’ll send you the details later, okay?”

“Sounds perfect. I’ll see you tomorrow, Miss (Initial).”

“See you tomorrow. Bye.”

As she hung up, a smile tugged at her lips, her chest suddenly feeling lighter. What she didn’t know was that on the other end of the call, Danny felt the exact same way. After all, maybe going back to being friends wasn’t going to be as hard as it seemed.

The next day rolled in, and thankfully, (Y/N) was on time and much more relaxed than the day before. She waited at the park, casually snacking as she watched people stroll by, some walking, others riding bikes along the path. The sun was beginning to set, casting a golden hue over the scene, and the usual Miami heat had softened under the evening breeze.

Just as a new playlist started playing in her earphones, she felt a tap on her shoulder. She pulled out one earbud and glanced over her shoulder.

“Hey,” Danny greeted her with an easy smile.

“Oh, hi!” Her own smile mirrored his as she took a quick look at him from head to toe, checking if he was dressed for the occasion. He was—comfortable athletic wear, a hat, and, as always, the same chain resting on his chest.

“Let’s go. We’ve got places to be!” she announced, already starting to walk.

Danny chuckled, shaking his head at how naturally she spoke to him, as if they had just seen each other minutes ago. He followed her lead, still unsure of their destination, until they stopped in front of a rollerblade rental shop.

“You’re kidding.” He looked from the skates to her, eyebrows raised. “Are we roller skating?”

(Y/N) nodded nonchalantly.

He let out a laugh. “Did it even cross your mind that I might not know how to do that?”

“You don’t?” She tilted her head, though she didn’t seem all that concerned.

“I do,” he admitted. “But you didn’t know that.”

“I guessed.” She simply shrugged. “ I don’t, by the way. Figured it would be a good time to try it out.”

Danny stared at her, half amused, half baffled. “Bro, what? Are you crazy?” He laughed again, shaking his head. “I cannot wait to see how this ends. You’re unbelievable.”

(Y/N) finally laughed, not bothering to argue as she went ahead with the rental process. Before he could protest further, she handed him a pair of skates and dragged him back toward the park, just steps away from Miami Beach.

They sat on a bench, helping each other lace up their skates. Danny stood first, testing his balance before extending both hands toward her.

“Alright, come on,” he said, steady and sure. “Let’s see if you survive this.”

(Y/N) took his hands, already laughing as she wobbled to her feet.

The moment (Y/N) was fully standing, she realized she had made a mistake.

Her feet wobbled dangerously beneath her, rolling in opposite directions as she clung onto Danny’s hands for dear life.

“Oh—oh no, wait—” she stammered, trying to steady herself.

Danny, already grinning, barely held back a laugh.

“Oh, this is bad” he said dramatically, his grip tightening to keep her upright. “I thought I was gonna have to help you a little but you might actually die.”

“Shut up!” she whined, struggling to find her balance. “This is harder than it looks!”

Danny, completely at ease on his skates, skated backward while still holding onto her, making it look effortless.”

“See, the key is—”

Before he could finish his sentence, (Y/N) yelped as her foot slid forward too fast, and just like that—bam—she hit the pavement.

For a split second, there was silence.

Then, Danny lost it

“Oh my god—” He doubled over, laughing so hard he had to brace himself against his knees. “That was amazing. I wish I had my phone out.”

(Y/N) groaned from the ground. “ Can you please not?! “

“No, no, I’m motivating you,” he said between chuckles, offering her a hand. “Come on, get up. Let’s try this again.”

She took his hand and, with his help, got back on her feet. This time, she lasted about ten seconds before her legs betrayed her again.

Thud.

Danny clutched his stomach, laughing even harder.

“I swear—” (Y/N) glared at him from the ground. “If you laugh one more time—”

“Sorry, sorry!” He wiped a fake tear from his eye. “I’m done, I swear. Come on champ. Get up.”

He held out a hand again, and after a second, she narrowed her eyes at him but took it anyway.

“Alright,” This time Danny pulled her closer so she had no choice but to hold onto his shoulders for support. “We’re gonna take this slow. No sudden movements.”

(Y/N) nodded seriously, gripping onto him like her life depended on it.

“Good.” He smirked. “Now… say ‘Wheee!’”

She blinked. “What?”

He suddenly pushed off, skating forward with her clinging onto him.

“Danny, NO!”

Her scream echoed through the park as he burst out laughing all over again.

Two very long hours passed—and after an embarrassing number of falls—(Y/N) finally started to get the hang of it. She still wasn’t graceful, and Danny never missed an opportunity to have fun with it, but at least she could move without immediately wiping out.

By the time they returned their skates, both of them were starving. So, without much thought, they walked to a nearby burger spot, grabbed their food, and made their way to the now-dark beach.

The sound of the waves filled the quiet space as they sat down on the sand, shoes off, letting the night breeze cool them down. Danny took a big bite of his burger, chewing thoughtfully before turning to (Y/N).

"Alright, I’ll admit it," he said, stretching his legs out in front of him. "That was way more fun than I expected. Even if you’re all bruised up and traumatized after it.

(Y/N) scoffed, nudging his arm. "You know what? You’re actually a hater. There’s no need to mention that stuff.”

Danny laughed, shaking his head. "Yeah, yeah. But seriously, this was great. We need to do it again."

(Y/N) smiled, resting her chin on her knee as she looked out at the water. "I’d love to. Just gotta figure out when we’ll actually be in the same city again."

Danny hummed in agreement. "Yeah… schedules are a pain. But we’ll make it work. Even if it takes months, we’ll plan something.”

"Deal," (Y/N) said, holding out her pinky.

Danny grinned and locked his pinky with hers without hesitation. "Deal."

For a moment, neither of them said anything, just enjoying the cool breeze and the comfortable ease between them.

However long it took, they both knew this wouldn’t be the last time.

————————————-

Still wanting to read more? Here are some other Danny’s shots to read. You’re welcome!!!

[wordsintimeandspace]

A Love Like Ours (1/5)

Martin has long been fed up with his family who's still trying to pair him off with a woman. When his cousin's wedding is coming up, Tim has the solution for him: he's going to pretend to be Martin's boyfriend. A foolproof plan, if it weren't for their feelings getting in the way. Feelings for each other—and for Jon. Meanwhile, Jon is having some kind of emotion about this whole fake dating thing, but it isn’t jealousy. Certainly not. He couldn’t even tell you who he’s jealous of. Jon/Martin/Tim, rated T, ~2.3k words in this chapter. Read on AO3!

The tape recorder finally clicks off. In the silence that follows, Jon lets out a breath of relief and slumps back in his chair. He takes off his glasses, rubbing his eyes. God, he's exhausted. He's been working too much this week, despite Martin's nagging and Tim dragging him out to the pub one evening, but at least he met Elias' quota of recorded statements. And it's Friday afternoon, so he nearly made it to the weekend.

With a groan Jon picks up his mug, only to find it empty. He scowls at it for a moment, and finally heaves a sigh and gets up to get himself a refill.

The Archives are quiet when Jon leaves his office. Only Sasha is at her desk, too engrossed in a book to notice him. Jon leaves her be, and turns to the break room instead.

He stills in the doorway when he catches sight of Martin standing at the counter, kettle in hand and four mugs placed in front of him. His laugh echoes through the room, bright and carefree. There's a grin tugging at his lips and his shoulders are loose and relaxed, and Jon can't help but notice, once again, how beautiful Martin is when he's like this. He's gotten a lot more comfortable around Jon these last few months, but seeing him like this is still a rare sight. It never fails to take Jon's breath away.

Martin shifts, revealing Tim sitting on the counter beside him with a matching grin on his lips. Martin hands Tim a mug of tea, and what happens next takes Jon's breath away for a whole different reason.

Tim's grin grows impossibly wide. He slings an arm around Martin's shoulder, leans in closer than is technically appropriate for the workplace and says, in his most honeyed voice, "Thanks, snookums."

Jon's mug hits the floor with a mighty crash.

Martin squeaks and flinches so hard he nearly spills tea all over Tim. He whirls around, eyes wide. All the colour drains from his freckled cheeks. Jon has no doubt he's sporting a similarly horrified expression.

"What," he rasps, "are you doing?"

"It— it isn't what it looks like!" Martin rushes to say, voice a pitch higher than usual.

Behind him Tim snorts, as if trying—and failing—to suppress a laugh. "Actually," he says, leaning forward with an eager expression. "What would you say this looks like, Jon?"

Jon blinks, incredulous. "E-excuse me?"

"Tim," Martin says, pained.

"I just want some feedback!" Tim grins, hopping off the counter to escape Martin, who looks determined to silence him by all means necessary. "Was that convincing? Not convincing? Too much? Just cheesy enough to convince Martin's homophobic family that yes, he is actually gay, thank you very much?"

"They're not homophobic," Martin protests automatically before pausing for a second. "Not all of them, at least."

Tim rolls his eyes. "Sure. That's why they still try to set you up with whatever young lady currently available."

"Tim," Martin says again, voice shaking with emotion, and Tim stills. A guilty expression flits across his face.

"Sorry, mate." He gives Martin a sympathetic pat on the shoulder before turning to Jon. "So. That's what we're doing."

Jon stares at them for a long moment, gears turning in his head. The puzzle pieces still refuse to connect into a picture that makes any sense. "You're… what?" he finally tries. "You're dating and playing it up to make Martin's family understand you're serious?"

Tim bursts out a laugh, while Martin's blood abruptly rushes back into his cheeks. "Not— not actually dating," he says hastily, cheeks flaming. "Just— you know. Pretending to."

Jon blinks. Understanding hits him like a freight train. A complicated feeling rises in his throat. It's big and messy and sharp, and he doesn't quite know what to name it. He doesn't want to examine it in more detail to find out what it is. "I— I see," he finally manages to get out.

Martin nervously bites his lip, fiddling with the hem of his sleeve. "It's just, I mentioned to Tim before how my mum and my aunt always try to set me up, and, uh, I got a bunch of family events coming up, with my cousin getting married and all, so Tim just—"

"Martin," Jon interrupts, harsher than he intends to. "You don't need to explain. I suppose it's none of my business. But I have to request that you keep this nonsense out of my Archives. It's hardly appropriate."

Martin nods quickly, not meeting his eyes. "S-sure."

Jon nods sharply, and turns on his heels. Fleeing seems like the best course of action, before any of these messy feelings sitting heavily in his stomach burst out of him. Only when his office door slams shut behind him does he remember that he never got the tea he wanted. He curses quietly, and gets back to work.

~~~

"Well," Tim says with a wince as he watches Jon rush out of the room, "that could have gone better."

"Oh, you think?" Martin snaps. He flinches and takes a deep, shuddering breath. "Sorry. It's just… Jesus, Tim. You could have told him a little more delicately."

"I know, I know. I'm sorry. It ran away with me a little." Tim sighs, taking in the frown on Martin's face. "Look, we don't have to do any of this if you don't want to. It was just a spur of the moment suggestion. We can just forget about this if you prefer."

Martin heaves a long sigh. He takes his mug of tea and sinks down into a chair at the break room table. Tim watches him for a moment before sitting next to him.

"I do want to do this," Martin finally says, wrapping his fingers more firmly around his mug. "I don't know how else to make it through the wedding. I'll just start yelling if my aunt introduces me to any more friends of the bride who just happen to be single."

Tim's lip twitches. "We can't have that. Not during the ceremony."

"My cousin would murder me. Or I would murder someone. I don't know."

"Well, good that you have me to keep all of you Blackwoods out of prison."

Martin huffs out a laugh. "Thanks, Tim. I really appreciate this."

"Of course." Tim reaches out to squeeze Martin's hand, and then… Tim just leaves his hand there. Martin's skin is pleasantly warm. And, well, they should get used to this, at the very least. Tim needs to be able to hold Martin's hand in front of his family if they want to be convincing. Ideally without all of his feelings spilling out of him. Christ, he can hardly confess his undying love to Martin just because he touches him. Especially not after he just suggested that they can totally platonically pretend to be dating. Like it's no big deal.

"D'you think Jon is okay?" Martin says suddenly, and Tim can't help but wince. He takes his hand away. Because that is the whole problem, isn't it? Martin is hopelessly in love with Jon. And that's precisely why Tim needs to keep his own feelings in check, and just be Martin's friend.

"Sure," he says, as nonchalantly as he can manage. "Why wouldn't he be?"

"I don't know. You don't think he was… weird, just now?"

"I always think Jon is weird. You know, in a good way. It's endearing."

Martin laughs softly. "It is. Sorry. I'm probably just overthinking this."

Tim bites his lip, considering. He can't help but wonder, once again, if Martin might prefer to do this whole fake dating thing with Jon. They've been getting along well recently, with lots of lunch breaks spent together with just the two of them. He wonders if Jon might agree to it. He thinks he might, despite his gruff demeanour, if it means helping Martin in this particular case. But he doesn't dare to speak the idea out loud. Poor sweet Martin would surely get his hopes up if he does this with Jon and… well. Let's just say that Tim is painfully familiar with Jon's rule not to date his employees. He's just saving Martin the heartache. Even if it means heartache for himself.

"Hard not to overthink it, really," Tim finally says. "So, brunch with your family this weekend, right?"

"Uh, yeah." Martin rubs his neck. "It's not going to be a huge thing, just my mum and my aunts. And the cousins."

"Right." Tim pauses. "How many cousins are there again? I think I lost count last time you tried to explain."

Martin groans, although there is a smile tugging at his lips, and launches into the whole spiel again. Tim leans back, smiling as he listens. Whatever happens—even if this whole thing crashes and burns—at least he'll have this. Spending time with one of his best friends, helping him out of a tough spot. Tim just hopes it'll all be worth it.

~~~

About half an hour after the incident in the break room, which left Jon tragically tea-less, there is a knock at the door. Sasha pokes her head in, a steaming mug of tea in her hands. Jon sets down the statement he's been trying—and failing—to focus on for the last while.

"Ah, thank you," he says as Sasha sets the mug onto his desk.

"Credit goes to Martin, to be fair." Sasha smiles, leaning her hip against his desk. "I'm just doing the delivery."

Jon blinks, startled. Martin usually brings the tea himself. That he sends Sasha to do it is more than a little unusual. Unless, of course, Martin is avoiding him after he just snapped at him. Jon can't blame him, really. "I see. Still— thank you."

There must be something on his face that makes Sasha's smile slip. "Are you okay, Jon?" she asks softly.

"O-of course." Jon winces at how raspy his voice is and clears his throat. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"I know that Martin and Tim just broke the news to you. I'd understand if you're upset about it."

Jon scoffs. "That's hardly something worth getting upset over. Besides, aren't they only pretending to be dating?"

Sasha's eyes narrow, and Jon realises with ice-cold clarity that he just made a monumental mistake.

"So you would be upset if they wouldn't be pretending?"

"Don't be ridiculous," Jon protests. His cheeks burn, and he quickly reaches for his mug of tea to hide it.

Sasha's face softens. "Look, Jon," she starts slowly. "I know you still like Tim and—"

Jon chokes on the first sip of tea. That wasn't the direction he expected. Sasha watches him, confused for a moment, before her eyes go wide. "Wait, Martin?"

"N-no!" Jon splutters between coughs. "I don't… I don't like them. No."

Sasha is so close to the truth. The truth that he tried so hard to bury deep within him for weeks now, dredged to the surface with just a few pointed questions. Jon can see it in her eyes—the exact moment she understands that the answer is not Tim, not Martin, and also not neither of them.

Jon has to look away. The expression on Sasha's face is too close to pity, and his eyes are already stinging.

"Oh, Jon." Sasha rests her hand on his. It's warm and comforting, and Jon soaks it up for a few precious seconds before pulling away.

"I'm fine, Sasha," he says with as much resolution as he manage. It's admittedly not a lot, but it also isn't nothing. At least his voice is steady, even though it feels like the rest of him is falling apart.

"It's okay if you're not. I'm here if you want to talk, okay?"

Jon lets out a shuddering breath. His chest aches. "Thank you. I appreciate it, I truly do. But it's fine. It has to be. It's none of my business what Tim and Martin are doing, even if they would enter a romantic relationship."

Sasha looks like she wants to argue, but eventually she lets out a sigh. "You're too hard on yourself. I'm just worried."

"Your concern is noted."

With a roll of her eyes, Sasha pushes herself off his desk. "Don't be a dick."

Jon winces. "Sorry. I'm not trying to be. It's just— it's been a long week."

"Then don't work too long today. I think we'll all be off soon."

"Ah, sure. I'll try. Have a good weekend, Sasha. And thank you for the tea."

"You too. Try to have some fun, okay?" With that Sasha breezes out of the room, closing the door behind her. Jon is left alone in his office, a hollow feeling in his chest.

He doubts the weekend will be very restful. He already can't stop thinking about Tim and Martin, and all the small things that fake dating might entail. Holding hands and arms wrapped around shoulders and lovingly gazing into each other's eyes. A kiss perhaps, on the cheek, or on the lips if they're trying to be really convincing. All the things that can so easily turn from fake into something solid, something real. Jon is not an idiot; and he's read enough romance novels to know how this sort of thing usually turns out.

The thought makes his chest ache. And then he feels terrible for feeling terrible. He meant what he said to Sasha—it's none of his business. He already missed his chance with Tim, back in research when they decided not to pursue a relationship any longer when transferring to the Archives. And surely he did the same with Martin, with how he treated him at the beginning when he was frustrated and overworked and out of his depth, and let it out on his poor assistants.

Jon groans. He tries hard to push all of those pesky feelings away, and gets back to work.

[endwersed]

WIP Wednesday

Tagged in last week by the amazing @eevylynn ❤️

I'm currently editing chapter nine of the poets are right, so here is just a li'l snippet of that! Full chapter expected out this weekend 😊

-

“Hi!” Eli says.

Derek’s jaw clicks as it works around his thick swallow.

“Hi,” he echoes back, the single word coming out more than a little bit breathless. “I... I’m Derek.”

“I know,” Eli replies breezily, twisting his neck to shine his grin back and forth between his fathers for a second, settling onto just Derek eventually. “So. Do you wanna come see the backyard? I got a new lacrosse stick for my birthday a few months ago, you can help me practice?”

Stiles feels as though he could say with relative certainty that Derek would say yes to doing literally anything that Eli wanted right about now. Tossing a lacrosse ball around, letting Eli kick him repeatedly in the nuts, a literal demonic summoning ritual out underneath the old oak tree. If it was on Eli’s to-do list for the day, Derek would probably be agreeing to it in a heartbeat.

Luckily for him, it seems to be just a little light sports on Eli's agenda.

Clearing his throat, Derek nods his head jerkily, transfixed eyes never leaving Eli’s grinning face. Stiles does not miss the way that Derek's trembling hands are slowly flexing and unflexing at his sides.

“Of course, that sounds – that sounds great.” Derek blinks rapidly, like he is trying to shake off the escalating intensity of his stare. With a small tip of his head, he finally manages to tear his gaze away from Eli, sliding it across the room and over to the Sheriff. “It’s, uh – it’s nice to meet you, sir.”

As soon as today’s visit was pencilled in, Stiles made sure to have a very stern and very frank conversation with his dad. A clear talk to assert that, no matter what either of their opinions on Derek might be, they are not allowed to behave in any manner but perfectly civil and passably polite while in front of Eli.

The kid needs a chance to develop a relationship with his other father without Derek and Stiles’ history coming into play. This is about Eli, his dad had agreed, grumbling and eventual, after a hushed and heated argument ended only by Stiles’ proverbial foot stomping down onto the ground.

Which is the reason – Stiles thinks, at least – that his dad’s reply to Derek is simply a quick and only slightly clipped, “Yes. Likewise.”

Stiles tucks an arm behind his back to lift a subtle thumbs up in his dad's direction. His dad huffs in vaguely grouchy response to it.

“C’mon,” Eli says, wasting no time at all in wrapping his fingers around the crook of Derek’s elbow and beginning to tug him over to the door leading out to the backyard. “I’ve been waiting to test this thing out for ages. Grandpa can’t play with me anymore because of his back, and pops just plain sucks at lacrosse.”

“Thanks, kid,” Stiles deadpans as they pass him.

Eli does not even pause his steps as he throws a cheeky grin towards his pops.

“Sorry,” he says, sounding anything but, just a second before he yanks the door open and starts pushing a still mostly bewildered Derek through it. “See you later!”

-

Low pressure tags ❤️ @raisesomehale @crownofstardustandbone @dear-massacre @hedwig221b @lucky-bishop

[wiktorianala]

My oc's + characters they were based of in one way or another

I got bored of sewing, maybe gonna continue on weekend, but anyway i decided that it's time to make smthng more with Bouney 'n Handy so there's a lil drawings and if someone is interested in me yapping about them, story, 'n other stuffs then click here \/

Oki, so I'll start with at which point they were based of well, Salad and Madotsuki. Starting from Handy because this will take me less time. She was created waaay later, at moment when I wanted to start working on comic, so I had to make second character just so Bouney wouldn't be only one, well i wanted to make her an object head of some kind to match with the fact that Bouney's head was created out of rotated eye. It is not anymore but that was honestly how I created this little freak. Fine but coming back to topic I wanted to give her some kind of object, and I'm honestly shit when it come to making any decisions myself, so with my friend we just looked throught my entire sketchbook and we found drawing of Madotsuki with hand palm effect (because I was pretty much fixated over this game and bigger part of sketchbook had Yume Nikki drawings), so we just picked hand. Now, with Bouney it's longer story, just like I said, I created him way earlier, so first thing he got after Salad were simple plain clothes 'cuz I'm layzy and absolutelly didn't wanted to bother with drawing anything complicated over and over again (and I picked Salad, because once again, yes it was my fixation at that time, and I want to remind that thos are two different times btw). So at the point when I wanted to start making thos comics and when I already had character designs I had to give them personalities and story, and the story... it was pretty different from what it is now. First vershion of it was too about a empty world and all thos stuffs, this didn't change, but main difference was the fact that in earlier ver Bouney was only living creature in this world. Handy was more of some kind of imaginary friend that appeared in his head due to loneliness there. (this a bit was based out of Salad too, because, ya know, empty weird world, clearly not very sane main creature character 'n thos stuffs) Plot mostly was just like in current vershion pretty goofy 'n just some "everyday stuffs", but at some points it was getting pretty heavy and sad. AND YES I KNOW THAT IT SOUNDED MUCH MORE INTERESTING, honestly at some point even I liked it more in this way, but there were two main reasons why I changed it. First one, fact that Handy wasn't really a physical person caused some technical writing issues that maybe been not that hard to fix, but as once already I said- I'm layzy, so I didn't wanted to be bothered by them. And now second and honestly more important reason (at least for me), it was time when I was making 2nd re-write of "Fragments of Sanity" plot (rn I'm working on 3rd, and I hope last one, because I want to finally make it into comic too) and I mean first version of it was pretty, well sad (I can't really find better word for it), but on second version? Oh boy, let me tell ya this shit is even worse (and main reason for this is probably because I dunno when but Mike ended up being at least in his personality and behavior (not by plot) a bit of self insert). So I didn't really wanted both of my projects to be like that, and I wantd at least one of them to be one with wich I could more goof around, so yeah, I've changed it. Well I guess that's all I wanted to say? I dunno. I know that in 95% no one is about to read this, but anyway I feel at least better when I can yap somewhere about some certain stuffs, and hey, ain't that for what blogs even exist? For people to yap, and do stuffs they like? Damn after writing for such a long time about them I guess I have a need rn to finish this god damned 3rd chapter. So yeah, now that's all.

[kiwi-luminaryofthestars]

03/14/2025 Progress Update:

TLDR: A little over 1K more drafted today, we're at a bit over 17K. Draft is very close to complete. ETA for draft is this weekend, hopefully editing done by next weekend. Then however long it takes to beta!

Got into my writing mode as soon as I got home (made a whole fire in my fire pit and everything) AAAND got super distracted because I forgot about the open house tomorrow. So, had to clean, fold laundry, do dishes, tuck away tarantula enclosures, etc. Then read Believe's awesome fic (GO READ PLS) and about to proofread watermelpm's Kokichi character analysis (that is ALSO cool and you should read when she posts, will link when she does).

All just to say I think more than 1K drafted today is an accomplishment for all I had going on lmao. And we are extremely extremely close to ch 5 being completely drafted. I'd say probably less than 1K words away (DO NOT HOLD ME TO THAT, YOU KNOW ME AND MY FUCKING YAPS).

Most happy news of this is I finally feel like I got my head around the second section, which was killing me. Shuichi was just not clicking for me and I think I tweaked his motivations/thought process enough to get it where I need it. I'm still iffy on the conclusion of the section and will likely ask beta if it's adequate or if another idea I had to end it is better (SO EXCITING having a beta for this thing btw, though I'm gonna have such a hard time not spoiling for them).

Otherwise, it's just wrapping up the third section and we gucci to start editing. Which I don't anticipate taking me TERRIBLY long because I already have tweaked so much of this draft that I've sorta edited a bit already lmao (I try not to let myself do that but we broke the rules a bit this time).

In other uhhhh baby writing news, I sorta wrote 1K of a one-shot idea between last night and this morning lmao. My friend is the only one privileged to know about said project rn (because they gave me the idea when I was talking their ear off about Kiwi lore lmao) and it will probably stay that way for a while, 'cause idk when I'll finish it (I gotta at least get ch 5 and 6 out, then f&f chapter 2 probably; I'm gonna have to make a list of projects on my tumblr or something now lmao). BUT BUT it's an idea that I'm literally in love with, like I can't explain to you how much I like it. Mostly because it's another self-indulgent one and using my own niche knowledge in random ass shit. Write what you know!

JESUS LONG UPDATE SORRY!! I gotta be up in 5 hours... So I should probably fucking actually proofread this analysis and go the hell to bed. Hope you all have a lovely weekend! I'm gonna write hella these last two days of spring break, I'm excited!!

[wildernessuntothemselves]

i just read your writing update, story time before you take your very earned and deserved departure after feeding this fandom and multiple others such dynamic and life changing stories. When I first started on tumblr I was a BTS girl down. I would read Jungkook fics like they were crack. I was 18 at the time. Then I stumbled on “Free the Animal” and I loved that fic hard. I was a sucker for angst and toxicity 😭. Then I read the rest of your Jungkook fics. I was in my prime reading era. Then when I started university this app get me through the tough times. During the pandemic I lost interest in BTS and I was like damn 💔 do I not like kpop anymore but then, I got into this group we call TXT. I ended up folding so hard. At the time I was reading Harry Styles fics on Wattpad (I went back to my roots the first year of the pandemic). Getting into TXT and Seventeen brought back the want to read tumblr again. 2021 came and I went back to tumblr reading about Seventeen, TXT, and then eventually Enhypen. I was a heavy Seventeen reader down ⬇️. Until I stumbled across this fic that was around 3.5 long and it said Part 1. Coming from Wattpad I was always a big fan of plot, storylines, and just a good time reading long ass stories that made me feel something.

That 3.5k story was what I call a Shakespearean masterpiece. It was “You are my queen now” when I tell you I read the synopsis and I immediately was like I must read. Now I was/kinda still am the type of person that would wait for the fic to finish to read in full. I was/am the type of person that needs a type of setting to indulge in a long fic. So, when I first stumbled across YAMQN I set it aside so when I did read the story it would be done. It was summer 2023 I was house sitting my aunts house for the weekend with my sister and cousin. It was quiet and peaceful and I was like this is the moment. That day I read that story like it was my lifeline. Chapter 1-11 I read in one day and I couldn’t be done be done with so I saved that last of it for when I was ready to let go 😂. 2 months later i finished. It had changed my brain waves and just life in general. When I tell you I have told my friends about this novel you put out. I up to this day think about the story. Then you released Jealousy, Jealousy and I was so hooked on your writing all my self control stopped every time you would post I would scroll down to the poll and vote for Beomgyu. Why you may ask ? I don’t know I just love the man 😂. Then you said SEQUEL to YAMQN and I SCREAMED and CRIED. I was in my 2nd prime reading era because of you.

During this time, I decided to look at your masterlist because I was gnawing at my walls to read more. Now this is the full circle moment I saw your wrote for BTS and when I clicked on it my face went 🤯. When I realized you were the person who wrote “Free the Animal”. I was like please that’s you 😭😭. The person that got me into my prime reading era with BTS is the same person who got me into my second reading era with TXT.

As for you leaving I am both sad and happy. Sad because your stories got me through things and happy because you are choosing yourself and what you want. I am relieved you are leaving this account open because I reread YAMQN chapters at least twice a month to get me through life and I did enjoy talking to you. Life got hectic and I lost a lot of time to read and write to authors but, once those final chapters drop I will be reading and dropping an ask. I will miss you but, I will continue to come to your page and read the amazing life altering stories you left behind and reminisce. If you ever come back I will be here and if you don’t I wish you nothing but the best in life and in health. Quite literally thank you for your service 🫡 until next time. 🥹💛

It was summer 2023

please i love how you wrote this like you were describing a life altering event hwifhwiufwflzjc that's so funny and endearing. i've had people tell me before that they rediscovered me through various fandoms and it's so interesting how we all ebb and flow through the kpop fandom life. my bts days feels like a different lifetime honestly and it's so funny to see people going through the same thing and meeting me again under another fandom

yamqn was such a gift for me and i'll forever be grateful to that story for giving me the best readers a writer could hope for. i still live in that universe too. it's my comfort universe and i wish i could've written for it forever.

thank you so much for your support and i do hope we meet again

[snowangeldotmp3]

haunted hawkins please you absolute MENACE to my HEALTH with that snippet amy adams screaming dot gif

what can i say i love Pain and Angst hehe. lucky for you i have TWO pieces from haunted hawkins (though one of them might be scrapped bc i was on a scream kick…but in the realm of haunted hawkins robin and nancy DO have a few non-paranormal encounters. so.)

FIRST UP: the killer and the final girl (aka the scream chapter)

“There’s two of them,” she mutters, paralyzed by her own fear. Nancy’s head whips around, fear present in her gaze, too. “What?” “Killers,” Robin says, mouth suddenly dry and full of cotton, “there are two killers. One of them makes the call, the other does the killing.”

SECOND: The Lab (or, the name i just now gave this chapter outline bc this idea just slapped me in the face so i had to write it down)

“Robin, do you hear that?” Nancy stops, tilting her head around to seemingly get a better listen. Robin does hear it, a chittering that’s eerily and horribly familiar. The hairs on the back of her neck rise, and dread rolls through her stomach. One hand grips the nail-bat tighter, the other reaches for Nancy’s shoulder. “Nance,” she murmurs, “we need to leave. Now.” Nancy nods, grabbing whatever files she can and shoving them into her bag. A scraping sound on the metal door urges them faster, but Robin fears that they might be too late. When they look back through the dimly lit hallway though, all they see is a person. Nothing monstrous or evil, nothing to make the hairs on the back of Robin’s neck raise like it does. The lights flicker. Nancy shoves the last of the files into her bag, and Robin hears the familiar click of the hammer on Nancy’s revolver. The lights flicker again. Robin squints, accidentally making eye contact with the man. The man convulses, head jerking before a sickly, squelching noise emits from him. And then, His face opens up. Almost like the— “Demogorgon,” Nancy breathes. She freezes, if only for a moment, but Robin’s pretty sure she’s never seen her freeze, ever. Robin raises the nailbat, fingers dancing on the grip. Ready to swing, ready to fight. Two more demo-dogs join the lone one. Each one having a face that belongs—or belonged—to a person. Unless they were part human. Robin’s no expert on demogorgons, but the last time she checked the demogorgon wasn’t also a person. Which means two terrible, terrible things: One: there are more demogorgons, which means there are more Upside Downs, which means infinitely more headaches for them. Two: these are not your average, run of the mill demogorgons. These are were-demogorgons. Which means that somehow, in this Upside Down, the demogorgons have evolved. Which leads Robin to her final point: They are royally fucked.

wip weekend <3