#and something about a less than optimal home life

[goldensunset]

diversity win! the guy trying to remake the universe in his own image is autistic

[daisystwistedgarden]

if you can't date for love, date for money.

ruggie bucchi remembers receiving this advice well. back when the news of his acceptance into night raven college felt like a dream, when the congratulations and well wishes from his neighbors back home clung to him like the subtle glow of streetlights at night. those days felt... fragile. breakable. there was a subtle tension in the air as he pondered whether the haughty halls of the academy would change him into someone he didn't recognize. he knew hunger pangs and cool nights on the savannah, not whatever bullshit academia had in store.

some of the folks his age-- deeper into their twenties, a bridge he had just begun to cross, with more life experience and cynicism under their belts-- had made jokes about him getting hitched to someone with enough money to give him a good life. money. status. no worries about where your next meal is coming from or if treating a broken leg can leave you homeless. hey ruggie. make sure you pick real good, okay? maybe if your in-laws are rich enough, you can get us all out of here!

ruggie was never one to have romantic fantasies. his ideal partner had a fat wallet and a retirement fund, a formless blob devoid of anything other than the sense of security only money can provide. rich kids just didn't get it. the scars of poverty ran deep.

why, then, did he not follow that advice given to him all that time ago?

his feet carried him across the icy steps of ramshackle, dry knuckles shoved into a threadbare coat, letting the puff of warm air from his tired sigh keep his nose from freezing over. he let himself into ramshackle dorm with a customary knock. the warm crackle of the fireplace greeted him, chasing away the clod draft he'd brought in as he left the entryway.

"i got some extra thaumarks from leona today." he announced upon spotting you in the common room.

"and i got my paycheck from the mostro lounge!"

your smile was infectious. an involuntary shyeheehee left his lips as you scrambled up to your feet, throwing your arms around him in greeting as he teased you for your eagerness.

getting paid was the excuse you had for making dinner together biweekly. when the strain of bills felt less heavy and spirits were lifted, you'd venture out to sam's shop and pick up something to make together. it was a night of luxury, of indulgence, the two of you feeling spoiled to have a meal your classmates would more than likely scoff at.

you were not the rich suitor of ruggie's dreams. magicless and lost in a new world, you'd managed to scrape by doing odd jobs and living in the rickety shack known as ramshackle dorm, all without complaint. he saw himself in you. scrappy. clever. there was an optimism in you that enticed ruggie to stay, even if it meant scraping by for the foreseeable future. "date for money, not love" was a proverb lost to the wind the moment you held a spoon up to his lips and urged him to try whatever you'd been mixing in that pot across the kitchen.

... well, not all advice is good advice. ruggie would rather spend the rest of his life shoving thaumarks into mason jars with you than in some spoiled rich person's mansion, anyways.

a/n: ruggie bucchi, contender for Most Boyfriend twst character of all time

[bucketbueckers]

LAYUPS & LAYOVERS

pairing: paige bueckers x fem!reader wc: 2.9k content warnings: language, fluff, author is southern and doesn't understand how snow or marketing works, plot where there doesn’t need to be plot synopsis: It’s Christmas Eve and you’re in Connecticut, exhausted and just trying to get to Minnesota for a work conference. You could cry when it’s announced that all flights are being halted due to the incoming blizzard. Irritated, tired, and overworked, you pray for a miracle, although it takes an unnatural shape in the form of a six foot blonde athlete who’s just trying to make it home, too. Late night airport conversations lead to something more. notes: merry christmas eve from my delusions to yours! the last chapter of irp was super heavy so here's my apology and christmas gift (do i drop another one tmr...i really dont wanna write chapter 8 😩). i hope you all enjoy this short n sweet lil ramble i threw together and happy holidays 🫶

This can not be your life right now.

It’s actually kind of impressive how all of the stars aligned on this one particular night to fuck you over. You’re not a terrible person. You hold the doors for everyone, give up your seat on the bus for sweet old ladies, and you always allocate a portion of your paychecks to donate to Wikipedia. By all accounts, you should be overwhelmed with good karma, although it seems your luck has depleted on this night and this night alone.

It all started on the 20th when you flew out to Connecticut. You work a cushy job as a marketing consultant for the WNBA, which means you spend a lot of time in the air and across the country trying to unfuck – sorry, trying to optimize and rejuvenate – the state of the league and its teams. It’s a task easier said than done. Nobody seems to want to listen to you until they realize that your master’s degrees in marketing and business analytics actually mean something and aren’t just really expensive pieces of paper that you hang in your office. You spend a couple of days in Uncasville talking strategies to boost ticket sales and to gain more traction; they’re the only professional team the state has – it should not be hard to get people to show up if you can market it right, but here you are.

Connecticut is nearly a bust. It’s cold and you spend two full days in meetings getting talked over by men who think they understand numbers and branding. Then, on the third day, the front office suddenly realizes what you’ve been talking about (this shit was covered in your sophomore year intro to marketing class, but hey, the less people know, the more you get paid, so who’s really complaining?) and the trajectory of your trip makes a sudden turnaround. On the 23rd and early on the 24th, you help the Sun roll out the new optimizations, and what do you know? Ticket sales surge by 17%, including some season tickets, all is well in the world and it’s a goddamn Christmas miracle.

Then, all is suddenly not well and you remember that Christmas miracles are for people not surrounded by idiots. Your boss emails you just before you leave for the airport: The Lynx need your help. I’ve sent you tickets for the first flight out of Connecticut. Meet with them on the 26th. Said “flight” departs from Connecticut at 8:30pm on Christmas Eve, which means you’re not even in Minnesota until 12am if you’re lucky, which means you have to figure out hotel arrangements so you can take a nap because you’ve barely slept in five days, which means you have to figure out how to be nice to people again because the Sun front office has you pissed all the way the fuck off.

So, you’re tired, overworked, extremely irritated, and hungry, although that last problem is solved by airport Subway. You just hope that doesn’t come back to bite you in the ass, either – you firmly believed that you were better off betting all of your money on black rather than taking the chance on airport food, but you didn’t have much of a choice and your stomach was growling. You eat, settling in a chair at your gate, and patiently await for your plane to arrive.

Then, the overhead PA clicks on with some static noise, announcing, “Flight 932 to Minneapolis and all other flights exiting Hartford will be delayed due to inclement weather. I repeat–”

The blood rushes to your head. Your eye twitches. There’s a crying baby somewhere in the airport and you can’t take it anymore. Honestly, what’s stopping you? Flying a plane cannot be that difficult. You’re pretty persuasive. You can tell TSA you’re just young for a pilot and you’re not wearing a pilot’s uniform because it’s Christmas Eve and what are you, the feds? All you’re really asking for at this point is a nap but there’s no way in hell you’re making it to a hotel in these conditions and the chances of you sleeping in an airport with all of your belongings out for someone to grab are even lower.

A commotion towards the check in counter commands your attention. You turn, dreading the eventual crash out of an airport Karen, but it’s better than the crying baby who still hasn’t shut the fuck up.

“Please, there’s gotta be something else you can do,” a tall, broad-shouldered blonde is begging, her hair pulled into a loose ponytail. “It’s Christmas Eve, I have to get home.”

The lady at the check in counter sounds sympathetic when she responds. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but our hands are tied. We can’t send our planes out in this weather, but if it eases up, the next flight out should have you arriving in Minneapolis by tomorrow afternoon.”

You hear the blonde groan, her tone sounding something like, I can’t fucking believe this is my life, which is a sentiment you whole-heartedly agree with. “Can you please lemme know if there’s anything earlier?” she pleads. “Like, if by the grace of God this weather clears and we can leave sooner.”

“Of course, ma’am. All updates will be announced.”

The response is almost robotical, but you can tell the receptionist is trying her best, too, and the last place she wants to be is hanging out at the airport on Christmas Eve. The blonde sighs, thanking her, and from the corner of your eye, you watch her hike her bag up over her shoulder and she moves to sit directly in front of you. That’s when you truly get a good look at her, at the dejected blue of her eyes, the chisel of her jaw, the logo on her hoodie. Paige Bueckers is no stranger to you. You grew up watching ball, so obviously you’re familiar with her game – any self-respecting basketball fan is. But by virtue of your job, Paige Bueckers is a name that makes your marketing heart beat just a little faster. Ever since Dallas won the lottery, you’ve been all over their marketing team. Paige’s entire existence and the chance she gets drafted to Dallas is the sole reason the Wings’ tickets are flying off the shelves. She’s the most marketable college athlete there is right now, one of the top rookie prospects for the league, but one look at her face in person and you’re forgetting all about your job. Her jaw is tight with a simmering anger, and honestly, you feel terrible for her – she already spends so much time away from her family and here she is trying to get out of Bumfuck, Connecticut, so she can be home in time for Christmas.

You find a little bit of bravery when you raise your voice slightly to ask her, “No luck?”

She looks up, glancing at you and taking in your features, and laughing slightly when she realizes you’re genuinely just trying to make conversation and not trying to get a soundbite out of her. “You heard that?” she asks sheepishly, sinking a little in her seat to get comfortable. You pretend to not notice her manspread.

“Well,” you begin, glancing over at the receptionist. “The desk is like, ten feet away.” She laughs again and nods, murmuring touche under her breath. “932 Minneapolis?” you ask, referring to your flight.

Paige nods again, quirking a smile. “You stalking me or sum’?”

You shrug your shoulders, a coy smile on your face. “Just observant,” you quip.

Paige grins fully. “What about you?” she asks. “You work for the league?”

At that, you can’t help your surprise, raising a brow. “How’d you know that?”

“Just observant,” she throws your words back at you. You laugh. “Kidding. I see your ID pokin’ out of your bag. You from here, or they got you workin’ on the holidays?”

“Work,” you respond. Paige whistles lowly. “I’m a marketing consultant. Been up here for a few days working with the Sun, then I’m heading to Minnesota to fix the Lynx’s bullshit.” You blink, registering your words, blushing as Paige laughs. “You did not hear that. I’m usually nicer to my employers.”

“They got you workin’ and flyin’ out on Christmas Eve,” Paige points out. “You should be meaner.”

You incline your head in a nod, huffing. “All of this for office potlucks and dental coverage,” you joke. “Don’t quit basketball.” Paige grins again and you’re suddenly reminded of your manners. “Sorry, I didn’t even introduce myself.” You do as such, only mildly surprised when she stands to shake your hand and introduces herself, too, which is honestly kind of endearing. Then, she plops into the empty seat next to yours, smiling widely.

“So, marketing consultant,” she says, her tone nonchalant as she gets comfortable next to you, extending her long legs across her suitcase. “How often will I get to see you?”

You glance at her, raising a wry eyebrow. “Are you flirting with me?” you ask.

Paige shrugs a shoulder, smirking. “A little. Is it working?”

“Maybe a little,” you admit. You can see the pride that shines in her eyes. You roll your eyes in amusement, still in slight disbelief, but you redirect back to her question. “Honestly, probably a lot. The league is super messy from a business perspective and their actual marketing sphere isn’t that great, either. As soon as you get drafted I’ll probably have to fly down to whichever poverty team you land at and teach them how to market you.”

“Yeah?” she asks, and despite the tease in her tone, she does seem interested. “How would you market me?”

“How much time do you have?”

“Well…” Paige glances down to her watch, then out the windows where snow falls in heavy sheets. “Looks like a lot.”

You snicker. “Alright. Bear with me, okay?” Paige nods in earnest, her attention fully on you as you begin to ramble. Truthfully, you did like your job when you were able to do it. The issue is and always will be the idiots you have to work with who overlook your credentials. “So, I’m not thinking about your personal brand at all. Like, that one’s already incredible. Your PR team did their big one with you. But the issue with athletes like you, wide-eyed and fresh out of college with an insane resume of endorsements, followers, deals, whatever – the issue is that whatever team you get drafted to is gonna want to rebuild their entire image around you. Think Clark, Brink, Reese, Jackson, Cardoso. It’s textbook – you advertise the person who’s gonna get you the most clicks, the most sales. So, how can we use that to actually grow the game, the league? I’m talking about longevity. There’s so many people tuning in for you that don’t know shit about basketball, and honestly, they’re gonna be scared to ask questions.

“So we push something corny. Social media segments with a catchy name like Ball With Bueckers or some shit where you break down basketball plays, rules, the stuff you’re gonna see and hear when you watch a game. What’s a pick and roll? A screen? Why is she getting fouled for blocking that shot, isn’t that what she’s supposed to do? Education, interest, loyalty, and competition sells. Stories sell, too, which is why the league is still trying to push the Clark/Reese rivalry. That’s old news, though. A more compelling story would have been the Fever/Sun rivalry, especially after the Sun beat the Fever and the Fever hired their coach. Or Fever/Wings, for reasons I’m not gonna ruin your night with.” Paige laughs at that, and you smile, clearing your throat and trying to find your train of thought. “So, when I’m undoubtedly called in to fix your team’s mess, that’s what I’d be suggesting. People already love you. Using that connection to get them to love ball, too, is my goal.”

“You’re really passionate about this,” Paige comments, her lips quirking into a slight smile. You can’t help but preen a little, flushing. “Like, about basketball. You really care about the sport. Feels like that’s harder to find lately.”

“Well, I was too short to play it, so gotta settle for something, right?” you joke.

Paige looks you up and down. You’re wearing sweatpants and a baggy sweatshirt from college, but her gaze is shameless, appreciative despite your casual airport wear. She chuckles, a disbelieving noise building in the back of her throat. “Nah. You’re what, 6’5?”

You laugh, rolling your eyes. “Try a foot less. But I appreciate you for believing in me.”

Paige smiles, nudging you a little. “I was serious, though. You’re super passionate. I like that.”

“Still flirting?”

“S’not everyday you get snowed in at the airport with a pretty girl,” Paige says, her gaze warm, and you can’t help but blush again. “Gotta shoot my shot, you know?” She mimes throwing a ball, her wrist bent, and you shake your head fondly. Admittedly, she did have you – hook, line, and sinker. You enjoyed the conversation, her company. There were certainly worse people to be stuck with, but you’re glad it was with her.

You shrug your shoulders. “Shoot away,” you say. Her subsequent grin is wide and you find yourself drawn in just a little further.

She asks you virtually everything under the sun – where you grew up, where you went to college, the team you were rooting for, and you answer. You tell her you’re an Atlanta native, born and raised, although you moved up north to study at Columbia. You were 8 when the Dream was founded and that was your team, no ifs, ands, or buts about it. At 10, you watched them win the eastern conference finals on your birthday and that was easily the moment your life changed. Basketball was your future and that much was certain. She asks how you landed the league job (connections, a thick resume, and lots of persuading), how you adjusted to the constant traveling (lots of caffeine and really good concealer), and the hard-hitting question of, are you satisfied?

For that, you really had no answer. Sure, you’re always busy, and that’s better than the alternative of sitting in your office and watching the seconds tick by. You’re good at what you do and your job makes a positive impact on the league. Your colleagues will be who they are; your work speaks for itself and that’s what you pride yourself on. But there’s always going to be a small part of you that yearns for something more, like someone else to share your life with. Someone who sits, and listens, and engages with you; someone who loves basketball just as much as you do (even if it’s a different type of love), someone who’s steady and spontaneous and adaptable.

Then Paige is smiling at you, her gaze warm and soft despite the below freezing temperatures outside; she’s listening, and engaging, steady, spontaneous, adaptable, and probably the only person in the world whose love for basketball could rival your own. You’ve known Paige for all of three hours and it’s nearing midnight in an airport in Connecticut, but it’s Christmas Eve and she feels so right. You would really like to see where this goes, and judging by the way her fingertips brush your knuckles, you think she might like to see that, too.

The two of you talk all through the night, waiting for the weather to ease up. The conversation never slows and you’re certain you’ve never smiled or laughed this much in a long time. It takes you twelve hours of delirious conversation to realize that your luck never depleted. Paige was your overwhelming karma, sent by some sort of Christmas miracle to answer all of the wishes you’d kept to yourself for years. The stars aligned not to fuck you over, but to trap you in an airport with Paige Bueckers, and you find that she’s possibly the best Christmas gift you could have ever gotten.

When the weather finally clears and your plane arrives, you find that your seats are right next to each other – and, well, fate works in funny ways, doesn’t it? You’re both exhausted, but when she lowers the armrest and wraps her arm around your shoulders, pulling you into your side, you can’t help your relieved sigh, leaning into her chest. You and Paige sleep through the entire flight. You dream of soft blue eyes, the lingering scent of her cologne, the promise of how this could last.

You land in Minneapolis and you eventually have to go your separate ways. The two of you exchange numbers, saying your goodbyes, although Paige doesn’t let you get anymore than three feet away from her before she’s catching you by the wrist and pulling you into her. Her hands are cold against your cheeks as she kisses you gently, something deep and lingering and a confirmation that tastes like ‘you and I aren’t done here.’ The falling snow lands gently on your cheeks, melting under the heat of your blush, and you can’t help your smile, interrupting your kiss as the both of you dissolve into laughter. Paige kisses you again, something softer that leaves you feeling warm all over despite the chill, and you thank your Christmas miracle for leading you here.

[holllandtrash]

fragile line | daniel ricciardo

pairing: daniel ricciardo x driver!reader

You and I walk a fragile line I have known it all this time But I never thought I'd live to see it break

what happens when the driver daniel falls in love with, ends up being the one who brings his career to a screeching halt? word count: 7.7k (im so sorry) warnings/tags: fluff-ish, plot with implied/very little smut, angst, mclaren danny, zak brown (gross), some incorrect f2 stats but whatever, time jumps, really just a lot of angst, its a rollercoaster

“What do you know?”

“What do you know?” Daniel repeated the question back to you, the emphasis making it clear as day that you both carried the same career-altering information. 

His signature grin and comforting optimism were nowhere to be seen. Instead, Daniel’s expression could be described in a variety of ways. Solemn, disappointed, hurt. 

“What was I supposed to do?” You asked, going straight to the defensive. You couldn’t be helpful in this scenario, you just needed to explain yourself. He wouldn’t understand it from your perspective, but you had to try. 

“Not take the seat,” he offered a solution, as if it was that simple. “My god, I mean, they’re cutting my contract early, Y/N. For you.”

“For the sake of the team,” you corrected. You had no say in this. McLaren had plenty of driver options for the 2023 season. There were rumours of Daniel’s contract coming to an end a year early anyway, everyone heard them, everyone ignored them. The only thing that remained uncertain for a while was who would replace him should the rumours be true.

You. 

“You don’t even like McLaren.” You told him, voice raising a little as if that helped get the point across. “You’ve struggled with this team since day one.”

“That doesn’t mean I want to stop racing.”

“McLaren is not the team for you and you know this.”

Daniel scoffed, eyebrows twitching, “Did Zak tell you to say that?”

It was a rhetorical question, but Daniel noticed the way your bottom lip quivered. He caught the way your eyes dropped from his, even just for a split second. There was something unspoken between you, something that weighed on your mind and Daniel stepped forward, wanting to know what exactly it was. 

“Zak-” you started, reluctant to even say this. “-he doesn’t know I’m here. I’m not supposed to be here. I’m not supposed to talk to you or anyone about it, not until your announcement comes out.”

Here meaning Daniel’s flat in Monaco. The place you spent more nights at than your own. You played it off by saying his view was better but that was such a bullshit answer. Daniel’s flat always felt more like home than yours ever did. 

You had formally met the Australian driver a few years ago, but god did time fly. It was at a race in Monza. You could pretend you didn’t know the date but of course you did, you had it memorised. September 3rd, 2020. There was no way you could forget the day your life changed for the better. 

Or possibly, for the worse. It was up in the air at this point. 

You were new to the Formula 2 series. The only female driver on the grid as you raced with Prema alongside Mick Schumacher. F3 proved to be quite a successful stint for you and you had your eyes set on the coveted Formula 1 series. You wanted to be in the big leagues. 

Daniel saw that. He saw how determined you were to not only make waves in Motorsport, but to make something of yourself. You trained just as hard, if not harder than the other drivers in the junior series and Daniel had seen that for a while. He was often surprised to see you at the hotel gym, already working up a sweat when he walked in at a little after 6am. He would be even more surprised when he saw you there in the evening when other drivers went and called it a night or even went and celebrated. 

Your race weekends were the same as F1 weekends, but you just had limited ones. It was a shorter season, less intense, but whenever you were there. Daniel saw you. He saw you and he paid attention. He even rooted for you, very publicly as well whenever he could, despite the two of you never having exchanged a word. 

The first time you heard about Daniel cheering you on was after the Monaco race, quite early on into your first season. You qualified 7th, not ideal for a track like Monaco where the opportunities to overtake were far and few between, but somehow you did it. And then you did it again. And you could say it was luck but it was really smart strategy and an insane amount of driver skill that had you finishing fifth. In Monaco. 

Those were Daniel’s words. He was asked pre-race if he watched the F2 run and he said of course. He said he “wouldn’t have missed it for the world,” wanting to see what you could do this weekend. 

“It’s not luck, she’s incredibly talented,” Daniel had told the Sky Sports reporter. “She’s doing big things in the series, and I’m rooting for her. Truly. It’s rare a driver comes around with such raw natural talent, where you look at them and you know racing’s just in their blood, but it’s in hers. I would love to see her in Formula 1 one day.”

You watched that interview clip about twenty times. Daniel Ricciardo, the Daniel Ricciardo who had won Monaco a few years back, was complimenting you. He was rooting for you. 

It wasn’t until Monza, nearing the end of your season that he finally approached you. 

“I want to work with you,” Daniel said, straight to the point. You were in the middle of stretching in the hotel's fitness centre. It was only Thursday, the race weekend itself had barely started but Daniel knew he’d find you in there. 

You pulled your airpods out and looked up at him in the mirror, “You what?”

“I want to work with you,” Daniel repeated, this time sitting down on the floor next to you. He kept your stare in the reflection. “I’m not a trainer by any means, but I want to work with you. I want to see you in Formula 1.”

You were flattered, honoured really, but you didn’t know what that entailed. “Work with me how?”

“Well, regular fitness training for starters,” he said. “But managing, really. I want to help you with everything that it takes to move up. Media training, mental preparedness, finding sponsors, getting you in touch with the right people. Let me help you, Y/N.”

You weren’t sure what brought this on. Part of you was convinced it was because he knew this would look good on his behalf. If you did make it to Formula 1 and Daniel’s name was attached to yours, he’d look like a genius. A hero. He would be known as the first person from F1 to publicly support you. 

But that wasn’t what it was at all. When you agreed and accepted his help, you soon came to learn that Daniel didn’t want to be in your spotlight at all. He found the opportunities that you needed and then stepped back. He didn’t mention to the media at all that he was helping you, he didn’t see a need to. He saw your potential and he truly wanted to help you make something off.

So there he was during the off season, meeting you in London where you resided. He trained with you, set you up with the right people, did weekly check-ins, he really was like a sort of manager. 

He was there during pre-season testing the following year, literally. He stood in the Prema garage like he was just another member of the team. No one really questioned it, not when you said he was acting as a mentor to you. Everyone loved Daniel’s presence there and he was told he was welcome whenever. 

He was there during race weekends whenever he could find time in his own busy schedule. He was never there during the actual race, needing that time to prepare for his own, but he always watched from his drivers room or had someone in his ear updating where you were and what was happening.

He was there in Silverstone, when you crashed during Saturday's Sprint Race.

It was one of the last sessions of the day, Daniel had already finished qualifying and he was standing in the back of your garage, arms crossed over his chest, eyes glued to the screen. 

He was the first voice you heard when you spun, losing the breaks in mere seconds and all you could do was brace yourself for the impact of the barriers. 

“Tell me you’re okay.” Daniel’s voice came through your radio. Not your engineer, not your team principal. Daniel. “Say something, sweets, tell me you're okay.”

Sweets, he called you. But only ever in private, or in front of close friends. What started as a joke when you complained about him not having any sweets in his flat the first time you visited in Monaco, stuck. 

But everyone had access to the team radios. It could be heard by other engineers, other teams, fans even and those watching at home should F1TV choose to broadcast it.

Of course they did. They aired the exchange for everyone to hear and it spread like wildfire. It was all anyone on social media could talk about. 

“Say something, sweets. Tell me you’re okay.” 

“I’m okay,” you sputtered out, hands shaking as you unclenched them. It was an instinct to pull them off the steering wheel and tuck your arms to your chest, physically bracing where you could. 

“Good,” Daniel breathed out a very obvious sigh of relief. “Good.” He paused, and then with a quiet chuckle added, “What the fuck was that then?” 

You laughed in response, needing the humour at such a traumatic time. You had crashed before, but this was a bad one. You didn’t even need to step out of the vehicle to know you were lucky to not feel any immediate injuries, but there was a ringing in your ear and the adrenaline was preventing you from really understanding the damage your body had sustained. 

It wouldn’t have helped, though, to have gotten an earful, not like it was your fault anyway. It also wouldn’t have helped if you were asked again and again if you were okay. The more people asked, the more stressed you would grow. Daniel knew you needed a bit of lightheartedness at this time. 

“No brakes, Danny,” you answered through a soft laugh.

“That just sounds like an excuse to me,” he muttered, the sarcasm evident even through the crackling radio.

“Are you going to continue to question my driving abilities or are you going to send medical out here to help me?”

That whole interaction went viral. From the radio message, to the clips of Daniel accompanying you to the medical centre, to the photos of the two of you smiling in the paddock despite the bruising on your body, the concussion you were diagnosed with and the instruction from the doctor that you were not stable enough to race on Sunday.  

Which sucked, to put it plainly. But you were with Daniel. He made the situation bearable. With his arm around your shoulder, he walked you to the car at the end of the day, having waited with you the whole time. 

People speculated, of course. Questions were asked. 

Why was Daniel Ricciardo paying such close attention to you? Why did he get over the radio when he crashed? Why did it sound so flirty? Had he been in your garages the whole time and no one noticed? Was he a mentor? A friend? More?

You had put out a statement when you got to the hotel, thanking everyone for the kind words and well wishes. You shared that you would not be driving on Sunday and you also shared that you were thankful for the support of Daniel Ricciardo, your mentor, who reminded you that even the best of the best crash out sometimes. 

Mentor, you publicly called him That’s what he was, right? Or trainer. Or Manager. Or friend, really. There were a lot of words to describe his relationship to you. 

People online didn’t believe it. They thought there was more because, who looks at each other like that if they’re not fucking? 

But you weren’t. Honest to god, that line with Daniel was never crossed. You never even considered it. Always content with his companionship and his advice, you didn’t want anything physical or romantic. 

At least, you thought you didn’t. 

Daniel dragged you into his room instead of letting you go up to yours because you were under strict instructions to not be left alone for the next twelve hours should the concussion worsen. 

“I’m glad you’re okay,” he said, handing you a glass of water. “I know I joked over the radio, but I was worried. It wasn’t a pretty crash.”

“Are any crashes pretty?”

He sat down next to you, closer than normal considering when he rested his arm over the back of the couch, his fingers were within the distance needed to play with the strands of your hair. 

He sucked in a breath through his teeth, “I guess it depends on the driver. I make the crashes pretty.” 

The comedic gasp you let out as you clenched your chest had him laughing. 

“Daniel Ricciardo, are you calling me ugly?”

“Don’t twist my words!” He exclaimed, eyes squinting as his smile widened. “I said I was pretty.” 

You hummed, “You pretty much said I made the crush ugly.” 

“I didn’t say you were ugly,” Daniel playfully tugged on a strand of your hair. “You’re not- I mean, you-”

And then the humour faded. He met your eyes, his hand fell to your shoulder. He was still smiling but it was the sort of gentle smile one wears when they figure out the answer to a question that had been eating at them for a while. 

Something clicked for Daniel. At this very moment. 

He wasn’t going to let it escape him. 

“Pretty doesn’t do you justice,” Daniel told you, voice lowering. “You’re breaktaking, Y/N. On the racetrack, at home, at events, you put everyone around you to shame. And it’s not- it isn’t just your appearance, it’s you. Everything about you. Your heart, your charisma, the way your eyes light up when you smile but only if you’re talking to people you like,” he chuckled, having experienced it first hand and having seen the way you don’t look nearly as pleased when someone you dislike approaches you. 

You were speechless, though. Frozen where you sat as this admission came out of seemingly nowhere. 

And Daniel was attractive, that was an undeniable fact, he was everything anyone could ever want in a man. But you never allowed yourself to look at him the way other people would. He was your trainer, manager, mentor, friend. 

You had no words to explain the way he was staring at you now. Nor could you explain why it made you feel more alive than driving a racecar at inhumane speeds ever could. 

Daniel took another breath, eyes never leaving yours. “You are unlike anyone I have ever come across and I know, in my lifetime, I will never find someone who could ever compare to even a fraction of who you are.”

There was no way you could continue to be just friends after those words passed his lips. 

You kissed him. You had to. It wasn’t like there was anything you could say that would match what he had already said, nor could you even find the words. 

You kissed him and Daniel pulled you onto his laps, your legs moving to straddle either side of his hips. His hands roamed your body, sliding up the Prema shirt you still had on as your tongue roamed every possible inch of his mouth. 

His hand gripped your waist, rolling you over top of him so you could feel in a matter of seconds how this conversation had now taken a turn. His cock started to harden, constricted by his pants, but you still felt it underneath you each time he shifted, each time you grinded against him. 

When you reached for the hem of his shirt and pulled it off, Daniel leaned back, both of you taking that second to catch your breath and question if you were really going to do this.

“Is this a mistake?” You whispered, your thumb gently tracing over his lips. Your working relationship was perfect. This could ruin everything. You had fears, doubts, worries. One night could lead to dozens of complications. 

But Daniel shook his head and all of those thoughts vanished.

“No,” he said, sounding so sure of himself with that one syllable. “I’ve made plenty of mistakes in my life but you are not one of them.”

That was the only validation you needed. You kissed him again, more lust, more passion, than before as Daniel stood up, carrying you towards the bed at the back of the room. He dropped you down on the edge of it, smiling at the squeal that escaped your lips.

Daniel wanted to worship you every way he could. He was gentle with you, with your body, as he dipped his head between your thighs, making you feel a wave of euphoria that no one had ever brought you too before. 

It wasn’t until you were begging for more did Daniel realise he didn’t need to be gentle the entire night. He slid two fingers past your folds, lifting his head and hovering his body over yours, wanting to feel your desperate breaths hit his face as he rapidly thrusted his digits in and out of you, your walls clenching around him.

When he attached his lips to that spot on your neck, his teeth pressing against your skin, you saw stars. Daniel’s motions didn’t let up as you came around his fingers, loving the way your legs shook and how you dragged your hand through the hair on the back of his head.

He was cautious about doing anything else, knowing you were injured, he didn’t want to overstimulate you or cause any more pain. 

But you needed him. You reached for the zipper of his pants and tugged it down, telling Daniel you wanted this, as if the way you looked up at him didn’t already make that perfectly clear. 

He was careful when he entered you, patient. The tip of his cock slid past your folds slowly and he kissed your collarbone so gently you almost didn’t feel it as you adjusted to his size, quiet moans emitting from the back of your throat. 

He had praised you before, but only ever at the race track, so there was something so familiar yet so foreign about the way he whispered against your skin. It lit a fire within you.

“You take me so well, sweets,” he fought back a groan as your walls tightened around him when you clenched your legs. “So good for me.”

It was safe to say the dynamic between you two changed after that night. 

Daniel adored you already, admired you greatly for your achievements and growth in the sport. But now he fought with himself every weekend, knowing that he couldn’t touch you how he wanted. He couldn’t show you the attention he so desperately wanted. He couldn’t kiss you when you got that podium in Belgium, despite finding a way to sneak out of the pre-race duties for a second to run to the barrier to be there for you with the rest of the Prema team. 

Whatever was going on between you, it was unlabelled and it was private. The rest of the world didn’t need to know you were sleeping with the man you looked up to, the one who helped you become a great athlete in such a short period of time. 

People continued to speculate. You were private, sure, but you weren’t overly careful. 

You were seen landing in Monaco over the summer. You were spotted hanging out with Daniel on plenty of occasions. Even though you kept your hands off of each other and refused to act like anything more than friends out in public, you were different when you returned after the break. You both were. Everyone noticed. 

Daniel was, if it was even possible, happier. And you were less stressed it seemed. While you were still fighting a constant battle of being the only female in F2, it no longer seemed as heavy because the weight of it wasn’t just on your shoulders anymore. Daniel was there too. 

It wasn’t just physical, what you had. The emotional connection you shared was undeniable. Daniel was always there for you, and you, him. During the bad days, the good ones, and everyday in between. 

When you finished the season 5th in the drivers championship, the only person you wanted to celebrate with was Daniel. He was so proud of you. He watched you go from finishing 13th last year to 5th. He played a huge part in that, but when you tried to tell him that, he only brushed it off, saying that it was all you, he was just happy to be there for the ride. 

It was his idea for you to test drive for McLaren at the end of the year, too. ‘We’ll get you in a real F1 car�� he said. And you didn’t question it when the offer was brought forward to participate in a few practice sessions. It was exhilarating and terrifying and you cried tears of joy when you stepped out of his car because this was what you dreamed of. Driving a Formula 1 car. 

Now you just needed a permanent seat and Daniel wanted that for you too. He was your biggest supporter, and you only grew closer as the days went on.

You met his family over the holidays. He spent New Years Eve in London with you. 

When the season started again, he spent more time with you and Prema. When there were no scheduled F2 races during F1 weekends, you accompanied him in the McLaren garage. 

At this point, quite a few people knew you were together, or at least they assumed it.

You didn’t post about it, you didn’t want to, you didn’t need to. Daniel didn’t need to show you off, nor did you feel obligated to let everyone know you were with him. What you had was private, it was sacred, it was only for the two of you. 

But of course whenever you had a good performance, whether it be from a practice session, qualifying or a race, he’d share your celebration picture to his Instagram story. 

“Would you ever do a shoey?” Daniel asked you one Tuesday night, zooming in on a photo of you, more specifically on the smile on your face as you clenched your second place trophy from Imola on Sunday. 

You rolled your eyes but the smile was impossible to hide as he came up behind you and wrapped his arms around your waist, tugging you into his chest. 

“Next time you win,” Daniel suggested with a laugh. “I expect a shoey.”

“I’m not Australian.”

“You’re dating one, sweets.”

You never actually discussed what you were. The term boyfriend-girlfriend seemed so childish. Dating was, in a sense, accurate, but again, there were no labels. He had your heart, you had his. That was the only thing that mattered. 

“The world doesn’t know that,” you pointed out. 

“They kind of do,” Daniel kissed your cheek, giving your side a squeeze as he stepped aside to help you prepare dinner. 

You weren’t even sure when you fell into such a domestic lifestyle but there you were, practically moved into Daniel’s place in Monaco at this point  and he was at your side, chopping carrots for the salad while you prepared the chicken breasts. 

“A shoey would confirm it,” you glanced up at him, but the smile on his face told you he wasn’t completely against the idea. 

Daniel stepped behind you, fingers playfully pinching your waist, “Just think about it. If you don’t want to, you don’t have to. I just reckon it would be entertaining for everyone.”

He didn’t bring it up again, not even when you got third in Spain and didn’t do it. It was your first time getting a back to back podium since you started racing and of course it was something to celebrate, but the idea of a shoey made your stomach churn. You weren’t sure if you were ready for the world to know about your commitment to Daniel. 

You walked a thin line, being with him. And while you enjoyed every possible minute spent with him, you knew the world was cruel. The second you officially went public, you’d lose respect in the motorsport industry. 

The only female F2 driver dating an F1 driver? How scandalous.

Despite the rumours, the correct rumours, you were still in a bubble with him. You could pretend you were just friends, close friends. The tabloids had nothing to go off except your polite interactions and maybe a little too friendly smiles and so what if you were there in the McLaren garage cheering him on? 

You were his biggest supporter and he was yours.

But it didn’t help that while your performance was improving, his was rapidly declining. While you had less races than his, already your stats were better. You qualified in the top 5 for the first three races. You finished second in Imola, third in Spain, already better than how you started the season last year.

Monaco was next. Daniel loved Monaco, you both did. Everyone did, it was the pinnacle of Formula 1. 

It was unfortunate that your weekends ended up so drastically different. 

Daniel qualified 14th and then finished 13th. He wasn’t proud of it, but he did his best to hide his disappointment for you, especially since you were starting on the front row, P2, for the feature race. 

And somehow, you won. 

After trailing behind Drugovich for the majority of the race, you were starting to believe you would finish behind him too. And you probably would have, had there not been a safety car almost six laps after he boxed for fresh tyres, giving you the advantage of newer tyres and less wasted time. It was a strategy your team was banking on, waiting for a safety car. It was risky, but it paid off. Overtaking was nearly impossible with Formula 1 cars, but you had a better chance in your series and somehow, by the grace of god, you did it. You pulled ahead and swiped the lead from Felipe. 

You made history that weekend. The first female F2 driver to not only podium, but to win at Monaco. You gripped that first place trophy so tight your hand turned red. 

Usually, F2 didn’t draw nearly as big of a crowd, but this weekend was different. Everyone was a fan of the series after that performance, a fan of you. You saw people in the crowd wearing Red Bull gear, Ferrari merch, McLaren hats, and they were all applauding you. 

Of course, you were blown away by the support. Hearing your national anthem play was an incredible sound. There were tears in your eyes and your entire body was trembling, yet somehow you managed to find Daniel. Right in front, with your team. 

He was so proud of you. 

Despite his shitty qualifying, despite knowing he had such a low shot at earning points at his race that was in just under an hour, he was there for you. You couldn’t tell if he was cheering the loudest, or if you were just so prone to finding him in a crowd that you couldn’t process anything or anyone else. 

You weren’t sure what came over you, but once you grabbed the champagne bottle, you found yourself taking your shoe off as well. As Felipe and Théo started spraying their bottles in celebration, you poured the bubbly liquid into the sole of your racing shoe and lifted it up to your lips, pointing directly at Daniel who couldn’t believe what he was watching. 

It was rancid, as you figured it would. It was champagne out of a sweaty shoe, you knew it wouldn’t taste good, but it was a shoey and it was for Daniel. Felipe patted your back, laughing at your reaction and muttering something about how Daniel would get a kick out of that. 

He was right, but Daniel wasn’t the only one who found it entertaining. 

Your name was once again trending following the Monaco Grand Prix. Not Checo’s, even though he won the F1 race. Your name. 

Not that you really cared that night. How could you care about what the internet was saying when the man you were with told you that he loved you for the first time? Nothing online mattered, not when Daniel took your face in his hands and told you he was madly in love with you. He was proud, he was happy, he was in love. 

And you knew you loved him too. You had known this for a while. Monaco was just the perfect time to say it. 

After going about as public as you could without physically coming out and saying you were dating the Australian driver, Monaco was the perfect place to tell him you loved him. You were on cloud 9, you were making history, you were in love. 

You continued to deny, or at least ignore, the rumours that followed, still. You both did. You were in love with each other, not the whole world. Things would get complicated if you announced you were dating. You were vying for a Formula 1 seat and you wanted it without Daniels’ influence. 

But at the following race in Baku you were asked similar questions. 

“Your shoey last week, did that have anything to do with Daniel Ricciardo being there to cheer you on? You two have gotten pretty close in the last few months, he’s one of your mentors, isn’t he?” 

You shifted your weight to one leg, wondering what the fuck kind of post-qualifying question that was. You had just completed three back to back podiums, you were on a hot streak now, starting third at this next race and the reporter only cared about what happened at the podium celebration last weekend.

“Sorry, did you have a question about this week's race?” You asked, and when he stammered over his words, you just nodded and walked away, a tight smile on your face. 

Daniel’s conversation went a bit differently. 

“Y/N’s shoey last week, we all saw it. Was that your influence?”

“Yeah I never thought she’d actually do it, it was sweet,” Daniel laughed. “It was great though, I happily pass the tradition onto her.”

“She’s really come along in Formula 2 since she started back in 2020, do you think she has what it takes to be Formula 1’s first full-time female driver?”

“Absolutely,” there wasn’t a shred of doubt or hesitation. He was happy to talk about you, to explain to the rest of the world why you were up and coming and should be taken seriously as a real contender for a Formula 1 seat. He probably would have continued on if his PR rep hadn’t pulled him away, reminding him of other duties.

The next few races were similar to your first ones. A couple more podiums, some outstanding qualifying sessions, more history being made. Your phone was blowing up weekly, everybody wanted to talk to you now and you knew Daniel had something to do with it. Him constantly sharing the faith he had in you did wonders for your reputation. 

You might have been on top of the world, but you were well aware you were alone up there.

Daniels’ performances were anything but newsworthy. He had gotten a few points in Austria and France, but nothing to be extremely proud of, especially when he compared his 9th place finish at the Red Bull Ring to your first place podium, making it your second one this season. 

He never let his disappointment for himself and McLaren stand in the way of your achievements. In fact, you didn’t often speak about the races when you were together. You were aware Daniel was having issues with the team, with Zak, with the car, but he didn’t want to weigh you down with his own problems, even though you assured him time and time again you could handle it. 

Really, if Daniel had come to you with his struggles, you would have thought twice when Zak Brown approached you prior to the Hungarian Grand Prix. You probably would have slammed the door to your drivers room in his face if you knew how Daniel was being treated at McLaren. 

But Daniel held his cards close to his chest while Zak laid his all out on the table.

“If a spot opened up for you,” he said, after spending the last ten minutes talking about the rich history of the team and praising your accolades. “Would you consider it?”

It wasn’t an official contract, just the start of a conversation that could lead to one.

Of course you thought of Daniel. And Lando, having grown close with him simply through Daniel. 

“For 2024?” You asked, knowing both of them were set to continue driving through to at least the end of 2023. 

“No,” Zak shook his head. You didn’t like how harsh his tone had turned, having no remorse for what he was about to say. “Daniel’s contract would be ending early.”

You leaned back in your chair, fingers tapping the table as you tried to recall Daniel ever telling you that he was leaving McLaren. “Is he- he wants out?”

“It’s mutual,” Zak assured you. “He knows we can’t give him the car he wants and unfortunately, he’s not delivering what we need. We had high hopes with Daniel, but the working relationship isn’t what any of us thought it would be.”

It’s mutual. Those two words was all it took to convince you that Zak Brown and Daniel had already had a conversation about this, about terminating the contract a year early. 

It didn’t help that Zak brought up your test sessions in the McLaren from last year, pointing out that you had better times than Lando, even. He went on to praise what you were doing this year at Prema and said, multiple times, that you would be an asset to McLaren should you choose to go that route.

And who were you to turn that down?

A team principal of a Formula 1 team wanted to sign you. Was it unfortunate that it was Daniel’s seat? Yes, obviously this situation was less than ideal, but he wanted out. You were convinced he wanted out, that he was done with McLaren. A 45 minute conversation with Zak Brown convinced you of that.

You should have been wary when at the end of the conversation he said, “Don’t tell anyone about this, yet. You know how the public can be, let’s just keep this to ourselves for the meantime.”

“But I can talk to Dan, right?” You asked. 

Zak knew you were dating Daniel, it was a little harder to hide that from his team than it was the rest of the world. Maybe that’s why hesitated before answering, knowing that keeping a secret, something as big as this, from a partner had the potential to cause chaos.

But he shook his head, “Between us, yeah?”

And you listened to him. You wanted that Formula 1 seat so of course you followed orders. 

You desperately wanted to talk to Daniel about it, but you knew you couldn’t. And either he sensed that something was off, or he was dealing with his own problems again and wouldn’t share, you really couldn’t tell when the summer break started and things just seemed…different. 

You didn’t go to Monaco for starters, even though Daniel invited you to. But there were so many meetings with Zak and the board at McLaren that it made more sense for you to stay in London for the start of the break. 

Daniel didn’t call as often and you wanted to give him space, knowing that this break was probably needed for him. You expected he was out with friends, letting loose, getting the weight of a horrible season off his back even if just temporarily. 

The plan was to go to Monaco for the last week and a half and then travel to Belgium together. You had to delay that plan, however, when Zak called you and said it was official.

The 2023 seat was yours. 

You wanted to celebrate, with Daniel, but how could you celebrate with the person you were replacing?

It was strange that Daniel had said nothing to you about leaving the team during the summer break, especially since Zak had said time and time again they were on the same page, that Daniel was ready to leave. The only thing that crossed your mind was he was given strict instructions to not say anything to anyone either, at least until McLaren went public with the news. 

But with it being official, with you having just signed on the dotted line, you were tired of keeping it to yourself. You may not have been able to share the news with anyone else, but you had a right to have a conversation with Daniel about it.

You didn’t know how he would react. Surely he’d be happy for you, right? You were getting a seat in Formula 1, something that both of you desperately wanted to happen. And again, you were under the impression the departure from McLaren was mutual. He would be happy that someone he loved was taking his seat, right?

Right?

You had to tell yourself that the entire ride over to his place. You unlocked the front door to his building and took the elevator up to the fourth level. You didn’t think to knock, knowing he never locked it when he was home so you pushed open the door and stepped in, your suitcase trailing behind you.

You were happy to see him. He was always a breath of fresh air, despite the odd distance between you, you still loved him. You always would. He muted whatever was playing on the screen and stood up from the couch when he heard you walk in.

Usually, Daniel would greet you with a kiss.

Usually, he’d be smiling so hard his jaw would be hurting.

Usually, he was happy to see you.

You left the suitcase by the door and met him halfway, only he stopped walking when there was about a foot of space between your bodies. To you, it felt like you were still miles apart.

“Do you have something you want to tell me?” He asked, arms crossed over his chest. 

Your heart sank. 

You had convinced yourself, Zak had convinced you, the whole back of house team had convinced you, that Daniel was aware of this upcoming change. That the termination was mutual. You taking his seat might have been a surprise, but it was never supposed to be a blindside.

“What do you know?” you asked. 

“What do you know?” Daniel repeated the question back to you.

You were both fully aware of the exact same information. Daniel was leaving. You were taking his seat. Only, you had been informed this much earlier than he had.

“What was I supposed to do?” 

“Not take the seat,” he scoffed. “My god, I mean, they’re cutting my contract early, Y/N. For you.”

“For the sake of the team,” you said and then added, “You don’t even like McLaren. You’ve struggled with this team since day one.”

“That doesn’t mean I want to stop racing.”

“McLaren is not the team for you and you know this.”

Daniel scoffed, eyebrows twitching, “Did Zak tell you to say that?”

“Zak-” you started, finding it difficult to hold his stare. This wasn’t the Daniel you knew. “-he doesn’t know I’m here. I’m not supposed to be here. I’m not supposed to talk to you or anyone about it, not until your announcement comes out.”

He rubbed his hands over his face, taking a few steps away from you. It hurt, watching as he tried to physically distance himself from you. Like being in too close of proximity would set him off.

“I struggled with the team, yes, but I’m not ready to give up racing. You have now left me without a seat.”

It was easy for Daniel to blame you, you were standing right in front of him. You were quite literally the driver set to replace him.

But the real villain was Zak, for not having opened up this line of communication earlier. For making you believe everyone was on the same page. It was Zak’s fault for rushing to end the contract with Daniel instead of putting in the effort to work with him. He saw the shiny new toy that was you, that Daniel helped create, and he wasn’t going to let someone else take it first.

Daniel wanted to blame himself too, but he wouldn’t let himself think about that until much later. He was the one who did everything he could to help you grow in this sport. He was the one who introduced you to Zak and the rest of the McLaren team. He was the one who got you in the car for the practice sessions, his car. Foreshadowing at its finest.

“You are unbelievable,” Daniel spoke quietly, heated with anger but his words were like ice as they sunk deep into you. “After everything I’ve done to help you for you to betray me like this, I just- I don’t think-”

You knew where this was going and you wanted to put a pin in it before he could finish any of his thoughts.

“Don’t finish that sentence, Daniel,” you whispered. “Please. Please, we can figure something out.”

“There’s nothing to figure out,” his mind was made up. “You took my seat.”

“Wouldn’t you rather it me than someone you don’t know? Someone you don’t trust?” You tried to turn this around, have him look at the positives, if there were any. “Daniel, everyone on the grid loves you, you’ll find a new team. One that helps you grow and get to where you want. McLaren isn’t that, we both know it.”

“I think you should go,” was his only response. 

“If I hadn’t signed that contact, someone else would have,” you pointed out, grasping at straws here, painfully honest straws, but straws nonetheless. “Piastri, O’Ward…McLaren had options, Dan. Aren’t you at least happy for me that I out-qualified all of those guys?”

Daniel actually laughed, “You want me to be happy for you? Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Dan-”

“Leave.”

“I’m not leaving.”

“You need to,” he was stern. He was angry. He was done. With you, with the team, with everything he used to love and cherish. He was done. 

You thought you knew Daniel. You thought you knew how this conversation would play out. You figured it would still be rocky, but god you now realised how naive you were to believe you could still make things work. 

“I love you,” you told him, because what else could you say except remind him that you were so hopelessly in love with him, that he was all you would ever want in life. 

Except, that wasn’t exactly true, was it?

You wanted a seat in Formula 1 too. You just never thought you’d have to sacrifice one dream for the other. 

Daniel’s stare was cold. He only looked away for a second to nod his head towards the door behind you, “If you loved me, you wouldn’t have done this.”

You stepped forward, desperate at this point because how could he do this? How could he throw away what you had, over a seat?

Or was it you, who had ultimately thrown away what you had when you sat down with Zak Brown all those weeks ago?

It pained you to think about the strong possibility of that being the case.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, because you were. You were sorry about how this turned out, how he was betrayed, how this was coming to an end. You grabbed hold of your suitcase and nodded, backing up towards the door, “I really am sorry, Dan.”

He didn’t believe you. Why would he? In his eyes, Formula 1 was more important to you than he was. A career decision that benefited you, but ruined him, mattered more than your relationship. It was a bold move, a cold move, one that you didn’t think would lead to this.

Neither of you could have predicted this. On September 3rd, 2020, when Daniel first said he wanted to work with you, neither of you thought it would end like this.

Just as you grabbed the handle of the door, Daniel opened his mouth, wanting to get the final word in. And you really wished he hadn’t because those final words destroyed you. 

“I’ve made plenty of mistakes in my life, but I never thought you would turn out to be one of them.”

You said nothing. You walked out of that Monaco flat with your head low and your heart even lower. You couldn’t even be excited about the next season, or the remainder of this one where you had the potential to finish in the top three. 

You weren't happy, you were empty, you were defeated. And painfully so, you were also still in love.

Despite what was said, you knew it would take a while to get over Daniel. He was your rock for so long, he was always there for you and even though he could disappear without so much as a second thought, your feelings couldn’t, the memories couldn’t. It would take a long time until you felt whole again.

You didn’t know it yet, but the decision to take that McLaren seat would haunt you as you moved forward in your career. 

This was not going to be the last time you ever saw Daniel. 

part 2 haunted

[n4rval]

hi I just wanted to say your tags on the gaster poll posts are so correct yessss (always enjoy your takes just in general). thank you for being one of the seemingly very few people out there who also believes there's no way the timeline works for gaster and alphys to have been colleagues. however, him haunting her benevolently is something I'm 1000% here for <3 (also I hope your finals went well and you get to have a nice relaxing break!)

HII HELLO HI im glad you like them!!! knowing you read these motivates me to keep being Absolutely Very Normal About Him on the internet

personally it's less of a believing thing and more of a come on it's written right there thing, but since we're here.

behold! dingus timeline. (and the hottest of takes with freshly baked personal headcanons otherwise what am i doing)

Not a skeleton?

Isn't 201X too early?

Indeed, not a skeleton, but rather, some guy. Something about how monster's bodies are manifestations of their SOUL, and him oddly resembling a strange looking man does well to represent his insatiable curiosity and love for creating. (things humans are known for in a better light)

On the other hand, you will be pleased with how fascinated he is by "FLESHLINGS AND THEIR CALCIUM DEPOSITS".

And then they fucking died.

201X is the year the first human fell into the underground, and shortly after, the royal family has moved to New Home. This means some decent exploration of the cavern has already been made. Scientists could very well already have been working on optimizing life underground, with special attention to the large and ever growing new capital.

My idea? As this idiot has been aiding exploration with his antics, Gerson was the one to appoint him to Asgore. Something about his talent with turning garbage into non-garbage. With a little patience and getting familiar with his odd manerisms, it was not too long until he got to be the prince's weird godfather.

Cracking already?

And everyone was devastated, mainly the close family. Not only that, but amidst your mourning, the one couple responsible for your unrealistically high standards for romance just divorced. Is love even real anymore. You eat ants with your cereal and your work consists mainly of convenience improvements and absolutely nothing groundbreaking. What's the point of breaking that pesky barrier again? Child murder? Come on.

That's the Wingdings PATIENCE and BRAVERY encountered in their adventure. Dear god, you're lame. Aren't you some kind of genius? Get yourself together! And together he got his self, now, he has children to look after. Surely there must be some other way. He must stop coming up with new flavours for chips and find some other way.

... Dear god, the King is going to kill them.

BONES and DT

Listen. He's old. You got your wrinkles, he's got his cracking. What? You meant to point out some major event of injury must have been responsible for his current state of deformity? Well, he's old AND heartbroken. That's a direct blow to the SOUL, okay.

Jokes aside (kind of), doing any lasting damage to a monster is quite difficult given their magic forms can easily be healed through, well, magic. They can, however, eventually "fall" (wink wink) and dust away with age - which cannot, however, be fixed with magic.

With a little determination however ...

Something about the anomaly.

He found it, the other way. It was the bones all along, the so needed sustainance for channelling such a high concentration of that power. Well, not necessarily, but a boney structure will endure much more and last much longer than a meaty one. Also, it looks so cool.

You know this guy, he gets first dibs on any and all dubious substances that might or might not deal the last hit to the nail on his coffin dust urn(?). And when it all works out (dubious), he might as well play a little. What kind of things can he make? With the material properties of these calcified remains infused with his own magic, animated with determination.

Some new, powerful magic tricks?

A new kind of monster, maybe?

DARK, DARKER, YET DARKER.

There is a lot of interesting things one can do with isolated DT, aside from making bones rattle with life - for example, peeking onto the complex layers and ramifications of what composes reality. This is when the already kooky scientist grows a little mad; manic, if you will. This is the Wingdings sans was familiar with.

Time travel this, resets that, blah blah blah alpha timeline, the anomaly, the angel, the anomaly again, all things that only make sense to him and his illegible mess on the black board. The lack of detail is killing him, he needs to know what it is - what it does, why it does, how it does. Not to stop it, no, there is no stopping it.

Rather, an overwhelming need to understand it.

He falls somewhere in recent history, details of it left ambiguous. The shattering, combined with the amount of DT running in his magical... mathematical physiology, rendered all of his self but an espectator of his reality; confined to the code and unable to do anything but watch, powerless before the nature of his very being, like a corrupted program.

It is all rather frustrating, besides the burden that is coming to terms with simply not existing anymore, watching was pretty much all this research was and now ever will be. That is, until something interacts with him. It is different from the tragic prince, whom no matter how much DT he's accumulated, he is just as confined to this world's rules as other elements. Not this one, not the force from beyond. Not "YOU".

He makes it a mission to reach out, despite the limits of the code, to give away bits and pieces of him and see if you bite. But not too much, he's seen how you tend to exhaust a world for knowledge, something he can oddly sympathize with. I mean, what will you do once you find everything? One cannot fully know a person.

Maybe in another world, prophetized by a cute, little white dog. A much better world for everyone, without so much as war or disease, his greatest creation yet. And he could invite you to it, to experience bewilderment, to be reminded of wonder. If it could even help you, wherever you are, to deem your own world worth of partaking ... then the experiment was a success.

[ms0milk]

I will be participating in the absolutely amazing @ficsforgaza initiative!

PROJECT GUIDELINES.

kindly review these links for detailed answers to any questions you have about the initiative (or send me an ask) overview | how-to | FAQ

HOW DOES IT WORK?

make a donation, (including eSims) send me a redacted screenshot for proof via dm or ask, and make your request :) you may put your donation towards one or more of the below wips, or spend it on a specific request. you will receive credit in published pieces!

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LET'S WRITE

you can sponsor wips or make individual requests (sfw/nsfw alphabets, drabbles, headcanons, multi-char, one-shots, etc etc.)

rate | USD $1 = 100 words. I will write individual requests up to $100/10k, but don't let that stop you from donating more or multiple times (nsfw alphabets | USD $10).

fandoms | bnha, jjk, kny, hq!, aot, csm, aoex, & dunmeshi

when wips are 50% sponsored, I will get to work. requests filled immediately

WIPS

sparks x fly | bkg x winged!reader

recent graduate and new rookie agency owner, Dynamight, is anxious to get into the field and bloody new gear, but a moving-day collision with some shitty winged civilian turns into his own feathery nightmare when she shows up at an established agency– as their new chart-topping rookie no less. fist fights, shoujo manga, bathroom surgery, hawks as your terrible boss, hyperhidrosis, wings are kind of a hassle, fire escapes, hearing aids, drunken rescues, feather care, a hero ball, and secrets kept under oath of death. (rivals > lovers)

cw varies by chapter, in general: violence/injuries, inevitable smut, kats has mellowed out some but isn't a peach, reader has dapple brown wings but is otherwise not described in detail. i love personality hire x grouch w too much in common

3,100/30,000 words sponsored !

a simple show of treason | sanemi x reader

sanemi's tsuguko no more, your hashira promotion is just over the horizon! one more untimely death and you'll have the job security you've longed for. nightmares, injuries and lost time, a lost life safe at home, unrequited love– soon it'll all be worth it. your mentor doesn't share your optimism however, and you find him near at all hours of the day. no more or less moody than usual but overbearing and always on the precipice of saying something.

cw nsfw, mdni. part three of my sanemi/tsuguko series, ie the smut™. long-waited confessions, starving love. reader w vagina, teasing, banter, penetration, oral (reader receiving), clingy nems.

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we're so bad at our jobs | mechanic!choso x writer!reader

writing is a famously lucrative career field, it's why you're only $30 short for the oil change that cost $35. the quiet mechanic shrugs at your short change and tells you not to worry– not that you hear him. not when he shakes his hair out of its messy bun and wipes at the grease on his cheek with the back of a big fist. you find yourself at the car shop a lot suddenly, never stopping once to think why a mechanic would be so blood-spattered.

cw nsfw, mdni. down bad reader, deer in headlights choso. car sex, reader w vagina, penetration, fingering, oral (giving/receiving), moisture on all conceivable surfaces. i just think choso is weak for strong-willed women.

2,100/5,000 words sponsored !

Hymn to Black Water: Annexes | prince!bkg x royal gaurd!reader

what happens after Takoba? What do Aldera and the world have in store for our royal captain and her prince? dragon nests, oaths, a promotion of sorts, and the need to always be near.

cw: varies by chapter, in general: violence/injuries, periodic smut, two idiots in love & situations. a continuation of Hymn to Black Water (+80k) which is coming to a close soon (hardly acquainted > begrudging teammates > enemies > bewildered friends > lovers > soulmates)

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the rest is up to you! get creative my loves >:)

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chain boarders by the inimitable @cafekitsune !!

[mxliv-oftheendless]

Lord of the Rings Characters as Studio Ghibli Characters

Because my mom and I just watched all the Lord of the Rings and Hobbit movies and I am also obsessed with Studio Ghibli, I thought this would be fun! So here we go!

Frodo – Nausicäa (Nausicäa of the Valley of the Wind

Both simply want to protect and save their homes (Frodo with the Shire and Nausicäa with the Valley), and although they can fight, they consistently choose not to, and choose to be kind instead.

Sam – Pazu (Castle in the Sky)

Both have similar arcs! They have a friend they are ride or die for, but when the friend sends them away, they have to make a choice to go home or go back for their friend anyway—and they choose to have courage and go back.

Merry – Kiki (Kiki’s Delivery Service)

(Merry was kinda hard ngl) I think he and Kiki have growing up in common. They learn the hard way that life isn’t how they thought it was or would be, whether by being thrust into a dangerous quest or going off to grow up alone; and although this sobers them up a bit, they never lose their optimism and instead figure out what they can do to keep their heads up.

Pippin – Chihiro (Spirited Away)

Like Merry, Pippin was thrust into the whole Quest unexpectedly, as was Chihiro (and yes I’m aware Pippin knew a little bit in the books but bear with me). But both have a common goal of helping others (for Pippin it’s Frodo, and for Chihiro it’s her parents), and maybe they don’t know exactly what they’re doing, but they survived their journeys.

Gandalf – Zeniba (Spirited Away)

Zeniba is just as powerful as her twin Yubaba, but rather than use her power for greedy purposes, Zeniba chose to live a quiet, simple life in the forest. Similarly, Gandalf is one of the Maiar—an all-powerful wizard who consistently implies he could decimate everyone in his way. And yet, he interacts with people, he loves hobbits, he uses his power to entertain and delight people; he consistently chooses a simple life.

Aragorn – Howl (Howl’s Moving Castle)

Both run from something—Howl from any supposed “national responsibility” and Aragorn from his family history. But both come into themselves and both find a reason to fight. Although I think Aragorn is FAR less concerned about his appearance lol

Legolas – Haku (Spirited Away)

Legolas was also hard, but I went based on vibes and Haku fit those vibes. They’re both beings that have a strong connection to nature, Haku being a river spirit and Legolas being a Wood Elf.

Gimli – Dola (Castle in the Sky)

Gimli and Dola both appear gruff and crude at first, insensitive and not caring about anything except their goals. But as time goes on, it is revealed they are very caring people who love their friends and families, and they’re actually pretty soft inside after all. And both have a love for treasure!

Boromir – Ashitaka (Princess Mononoke)

Both Ashitaka and Boromir have a lot going on—Ashitaka obviously has his curse that’s eating away at him and has to spend the entire movie contemplating his own imminent death, and Boromir has the weight of his father’s expectations and the desire to defend Gondor and save his people. But they are both very noble people who try to do the right thing even if they may not know what exactly the right thing is, and at the very end they stick to their morals and end their films with honor.

That’s all for now! I may do a part 2!

[bitchlessdino]

Would you like a receipt? Pt. 2

Part 2 of my Valentines collaboration with @svthub hosted by my wifey @wongyuseokie thank you so much for creating this collab, we love you so much. here is part two in case you missed it pt. 1 Pairing: Childhood bf!junhui x working class afab!reader Genre: fluff, slight angst, slice of life, smut Word count: 4.3k tags: mentions of alcohol, adult activities under the influence, second chances, exes to ???, childhood friend/boyfriend!junhui, teasing, unprotected sex, soft turn needy jun, biting Summary: Coming across a grade school ex-boyfriend while you worked a shitty seasonal job around Valentines was not in your 2024 bingo card. author note: finally to my dear valentine @skyechild. it feels like so long since i wrote a fully fledge smut and i'll be producing more. I hoped you've enjoyed it mio, happy valentines day again 💘

Tag: @shiningstar-byulxx @misssugarlips @tommolex @hoeforhao @homerunhansol @dkakapizzaboy @junhui-recs @svtup @buffhoshi @meowmeowminnie @caratochan @lovebot4han @6969lilithcat @camisun93 @emmmui @toruro @jeonride @novalpha @nvmrljk @feat-sun @tinkerbell460 @aaniag @tacosandbitch

Your relationship with Junhui ended when he abandoned you. 

Of course, you remember him. He is the first guy you’ve ever dated and all of a sudden in the height of your relationship he mysteriously moves away without a trace. You were left in the dust, wondering what it was for him to leave you alone without warning, much less a goodbye. Back then, neither of you had the privilege of owning a cell phone nor any other way to contact each, even so, how would you call god knows who where?

Despite the abrupt and unexplained departure, hope flickers within your tiny eleven-year-old heart; an inkling whispers that you might cross paths again. However, the reality your adult self faces is starkly different from the innocent optimism of your youth. Those hopes of reuniting in fruitful harmony died along with your dreams of living out dreams beyond reality. You know better than that now. However, meeting him again, unexpectedly, reopens old wounds for the same reasons that severed your connection years ago, yet at the same time also opens up new possibilities you have yet to discover about yourself.

“I know you have every right to hate me.”

“What’s there to hate you for? Something came up. That’s fine.”

You busy yourself with your work a day after Valentine's during the lunch hour, which you woefully choose to take. You say woefully once the doors are open and the singular customer you come across is the very man that left you hanging all of last night. His eyes round with guilt, he strides right towards you, and nothing but apologies spill from his lips.

You are usually a person to hold a grudge–with your background of servitude and duty, you have no luxury to–but Jun seems to bring out that side of you. That childish side that you’ve repressed for so long. The kind that hoped their parents would take them to the carnival and pay for overpriced popcorn and cotton candy.

"I understand you might harbor some…resentment towards me, and you have every right to feel that way."

You scoff under your breath. "What's there to hate me for? Things came up, and that's perfectly acceptable."

"It's not fine." Jun trails behind you as you briskly navigate the aisles, replenishing the missing items, all while avoiding his eyes. The fluorescent lights hum overhead, casting a sterile glow on the shelves, and his shadow shades over any shelf you stand in front of–constantly in your line of vision. "I should have given you an earlier heads-up. You waited for me."

You meticulously scan the shelves, your fingers deftly selecting items with practiced efficiency, nonchalantly proceeding with work. "And I went back home; it's okay. Have a good day, sir. Remember, only paying customers are allowed in the store."

Immediately, Jun hastily seizes several boxes of candy, the crinkling of plastic punctuating the sudden flurry of movement. His fingers fumble slightly as he attempts to maintain composure, but the visible tension in his posture betrays his true emotions. He carries the candy with him as he trails behind you, a silent acknowledgment of his disrupted intentions. "I'll be buying these, don't worry."

You expel a loud sigh, the weariness evident in your demeanor, before retreating to the counter. There, you rest your arms against it in annoyance, the cool surface providing a brief respite. "Junhui, you're not buying these."

“Yes, I am.”

A challenging exchange unfolds between you, and Jun leans in, determination flickering in his eyes. You cross your arms. "What will get you to leave?"

“I’ll leave…if you tell me you never ever want to see my face again. That you wish me the worst and you truly want me out of your life.”

You fixate your gaze on him, a long moment passing as you process the weight of his terms and conditions.

“I never ever want to see your face again. I wish you the worst, and I truly want you out of my life.”

A moment of silence hangs heavily, and Jun lets linger longer than it should. “...I’ll be honest, I didn't think you’d actually do it.”

You offer a nonchalant shrug, your face maintaining a stoic expression. "Well."

His smile fades, and he retrieves his wallet with a subtle sense of resignation. A handful of bills gracefully leave their sleeves, and he places them gently on the counter before you. "Then, I'll leave. The candy is for you.”

As he takes tentative steps toward the exit, the atmosphere thickens with unrelieved tension. He can't resist the urge to steal glances back at you every few seconds, revealing the inner turmoil that accompanies his departure. The weight of unspoken words and unresolved emotions hangs between you like a translucent veil, urging you to let him go, yet a lingering hesitation looms in the air.

“I can’t eat all this candy,” you mutter from behind the counter, your gaze meeting his with a blend of understanding and resolve. The subdued lighting from the overhead fluorescent lights casts a muted glow on the scene, intensifying the bittersweet nature of the moment. It's as if the very atmosphere is a canvas, painting the emotional undertones of a strained encounter.

He attempts to suppress a grin, the corners of his lips betraying a flicker of amusement. "Keep them, give them away. Whatever you want." You lightly flick at the edge of one of the candy boxes. The faint rustling of plastic emanates from the candy boxes, their contents cascading over each other in an unstable tower reaching the height of your chin, yet somehow its stands tall.

"You should take some, considering you bought it anyway."

He glances back at the candy, hesitating for a moment before responding. "Then I'll get it later." His hands hover over the door handle, caught in the indecision of departure before a ghost fo a smile appears on his lips. “When I come back.”

The ambient sounds of the store, the soft hum of the air conditioning, and the intermittent creaks of the floor fills the deafening silence. The door handle finally yields to his touch, and the door opens with a muted chime. He steps halfway through, still tethered to the threshold. The quiet rustling of the candy boxes accentuates the pause, and he turns back to you, a question lingering in his gaze.  The fluorescent lights overhead continue to cast their gentle glow, creating a subdued ambiance that amplifies unspoken tension that you tried damn hard deescalating.

A beat passes, and you nod towards the candy. "Okay. When you come back." The words hang in the air as a subtle invitation. With a final nod, he steps out, the door closing softly behind him, leaving you in the quiet aftermath with the candy boxes.

Uncertainty takes residence in your thoughts, including the consideration that perhaps you meant to reunite with Junhui. You still have shattered pieces of your youth, reminding you he has the power to hurt like he’s done before. Yet, a weariness settles in—a weariness with the familiar routine, the predictability that has defined your interactions. Throughout your life, your every move has been strategic, a means of survival for yourself and your family, driven by the imperative to secure their well-being. Maybe it's time to defy convention and take it back to your roots, do what present-day you wouldn’t dare do.

You meet as expected, coming out of your work in your casual attire usually hidden behind an obnoxiously loud candy sales apron, muted in colors that paired well with the night. Junhui stands before you, a bundle of roses–bigger than you’ve ever seen–is hold up with endless ribbon and his iron grip. “A cliche, but I figured you were overdue one. This obviously doesn’t make up for anything–”

“I appreciate it,” you interrupt. “It’s the kindest thing someone’s ever done for me to be honest.”

“Well, good,” he grins, “But I have much more planned.”

It’s funny. The last thing you expect on thursday–the day after valentines–is to be on an helicopter several thousand feet in the air overlooking the town and their handful of buildings in every corner. You look as if discovering color for the first time with the bright lights under your feet looking like stars, insignificant yet blinding where you sat. You glance over at Junhui in shock as he smiles at your amazement, finding you the most profound thing he’s seeing tonight.

Dinner is given, considering that was the original plan, but dinner in the nicest restaurant a town over with a private room to yourselves isn’t. Junhui, stylish in a simple navy button-up and lack of blazer left in the aircraft with no remorse, picks through with chopsticks his perfectly cooked wagyu steaming from the scorchingly deliciously broth that coats it before putting it in his mouth. 

You follow after him, not forgetting to dip rich and decadent flavors the sauce he personally curated for you. Having only ever eaten to survive, you’ve never had hot pot before and Junhui looks as if he’s an expert.

“The way I will miss this every day the moment dinner is over,” you pick up sauce from the corner of your lip with your tongue, a film of umami dancing on your tastebuds. 

“I still can’t believe you’ve never had hot pot before,” Junhui expresses in disbelief. “You have not lived until a molten piece of wagyu melts in your mouth.”

“Yeah,” you softly chuckle knowingly. “Out of my price range most days, if I’m being honest.”

“Right. Just kind of the life I always knew, I hope I get to share it with you more.”

Your eyebrow raises by a fraction. “More?”

An airy laugh escapes from Junhui's lungs as he picks up another piece of perfectly cooked Wagyu and places it on your plate. “More.”

You swallow a lump in your throat, following the delicious gift bestowed on your plate before facing him. You don’t know why your hands are clammy, you’re just having dinner in a restaurant you wouldn’t otherwise know about in another town dropped off in a fucking helicopter. “Jun. I didn’t come here to rekindle a relationship from when we were kids.”

His hands falter, dropping strength as he picks up his food. “I know…I was just. I was just happy to see you.”

“Really? Then why did we part like that?”

“Like what?”

“Without a goodbye.”

A look of resolve washes over his flawless complexion, “…I didn’t expect it either. My parents made it their life’s mission to give me the life that they thought I deserved and wanted. To them, that meant a life without, well, anything short of the best. Whatever made our family looked good.”

You fork through your food, a mixture of curiosity and frustration etched across your face. “You could’ve at least told me.”

“I didn’t know we were going until we flew off. I wish I had, I would’ve stopped that plane at all costs. Come back to this town for work, thinking everything’s changed. Then I saw you, I was ecstatic. Like, a piece of me still left behind in this town.”

You laugh in disbelief. “Jun, you’re joking. I’m not anybody.”

“You were the last real friend I had. The last authentic relationship I had with anyone my age. All business, no pleasure. When I left, I was trained day and night, molded into this perfect model exec. Perfect to continue my family’s business. Well, almost perfect.”

Your gaze lingers on him, unraveling the layers of his confession that starkly contrast with his captivating exterior. His chocolate hair is illuminated by the light of the dangling chandelier, his body is hugged by the luxurious cotton as if it were a second skin. Despite the opulent surroundings, the genuine humility he exudes speaks volumes about his character. He is perfect.

"Well, you seem to be pretty damn perfect from where I'm standing."

He shakes his head, putting another piece of meat on your plate, followed by a piece of shrimp. “That’s far from it. It’s funny you’ve gotten to see it all. Me messing up. I try not to let that happen to often.”

“So Valentine’s Day…it was all because of work?”

He nods, a subtle grimace betraying the weight of his responsibilities. “The one and only dreaded mistress.”

Junhui has worked all of his life until this moment, even in his desperate escape from reality. It’s a weight on his shoulders, constantly beckoning at him for his attention, and somehow having their vice grip on his collar. He knows it's unhealthy, but it’s all he’s ever known. All the socialite dinners, the charity events, the several hours long meetings on a daily basis. It’s the life he has always lived. 

Then comes you, someone a sight for sore eyes. Age obviously has had its way with you but it did not rid you of your grace or gentle gaze. You had that look even young. Someone who only spoke of kindness and sincerity, even now with him, who stood you up hardly 24 hours ago. He could at least make up for it. He wasn’t sure if it was to you or himself.

The clinking of silverware against plates punctuates the conversation, the atmosphere heavy with the unspoken. The restaurant buzzes from the crack of the door, oblivious to the palpable remorse for a relationship–even friendship–that cease to exist in your private room.

“She isn’t good to you?”

“She’s…demanding. Do you remember when that kid Wonwoo stole your juice box without looking and every day after for the rest of the year?”

You scowl, recalling the glasses-dependent little boy. "What a brat. I couldn't stand him."

Jun laughs, sensing the lightheartedness in your tone. “Kind of like how he stole something you love, your favorite apple juice, that’s what work has done to me: stolen my happiness at the end of the day. It’s…exhausting.”

“I understand that. I’m in a similar situation. Working to live is what all we can do nowadays.”

Junhui holds up his drink for you to clink. “Fuck adulthood, am I right?”

You grin, lifting the glass. “Let’s not talk about work then. To live the night to the fullest.” Your cups clank and you drink your first of many glasses of wine of the night.

You end up relearning about Junhui, hearing about his likes, dislikes, dreams, and what he’d do if he wasn’t him. It’s strange. You don’t go on dates but here you are with Junhui, one of the most interesting men you’ve ever met and you’re enjoying yourself. You’re enjoying his presence.

Perhaps you’re enjoying it too much.

Your work clothes find themselves on the floor, your arms dangling from from his taut body to feel the tension of his muscles gather your flesh in his grasp. 

How did you get in his apartment? You swear up and down that you had just been in the restaurant.

You gasp as his lips find your neck, cascading kisses over your skin and his hands find the fullness of your thighs. Your hands run through his hair with reckless abandon, tugging from the root and breathing against his ear. You feel a shudder run down his spine and he lifts you off the ground, wrapping your legs around his waist as you’re enveloped in soft giggles.

You utter his name in a heated whisper, feeling the friction of his bulge against the plush of your stomach. You grasp his face, looking into his eyes that were blown out from lust, and trace over his features wordlessly. A hint of a smile creeps against his mouth before reuniting with you in a liplock, softly giggling against your lips.

“You taste like wine,” he presses a tender kiss, “I like it.”

“You’re just a little drunk,” you sweetly respond, squealing as you meet with the cushion of his mattress adorned in the most lush sheets. His playful gaze peers over you in piqued interest, kneading into your flesh as he ravishes your body, eliciting moans that delight him to the point of hardening.

You feel it swelling under your palm and you find yourself smiling, drunk on not substance but fantasy, as in this moment, it feels like you are living in a dream. At this moment, you’re not working multiple part-time jobs to make ends meet and send money to your family. You’re living. There's no pressure, only bliss; and right now, bliss is being in Junhui’s touch.

His clumsy yet gentle hands strip you to your skin, slipping you out of your straps and embracing every inch of your body. You reciprocate, roaming his body in light strokes, taking him by his hips. 

“Are you sure about this? Are you sure about me?” Junhui cautiously asks, fingers threading through your hair.

“I’ve never been more sure of anything,” you respond, voice laced with ease.

You extend your arms, beckoning him to come closer, but you sense the tension in his muscles. Worry graces his eyes as he hesitates, and he voices his uncertainty, saying, "I'm not sure if you are."

“Junhui…” your hands caress his arms, goosebumps pebbling his skin. “I want you so bad.”

“I want you too.” His legs anchor on either of your sides, towering over you. “I don’t think I wanted anything—anyone as badly as I want you.”

His words sober you up, oxygen stolen from your lungs. Your lips parted for nothing to come out, a wordless ponder in what he had meant. You slip off his grasp with his gentle release, his head bowing down in view. “But I shouldn’t do this. Not in your state.”

“But—“

“I shouldn’t have even gotten this far, but I’ll be holding myself back from now on.”

He picks himself up, and the draft immediately hits your flushed skin. He picks up your abandoned clothes and tucks them under his arm before making his way to a wardrobe. He pulls out a set of silk pajamas and sets them at the end of the bed. “I’ll wash your clothes and you can sleep in these. They might be a bit big, but they’ll be comfortable.”

You’re speechless as he walks away, disappearing behind the heavy door of the bedroom you’re left alone in. You weren’t sure how to feel. Unwanted. Betrayed. Disappointment. However, sleep offers no time for deliberation, and the amalgamation of fatigue and alcohol becomes a potent concoction for slumber. Lost in the enveloping darkness, your body succumbs to the overdue rest. Resolving to deal with it in the morning, you surrender to the oblivion of sleep.

It’s a morning unlike any other, starting with the fact you decide not to be at work today like you should’ve been, but you’d soon regret that later. That thought is interrupted by Junhui bringing you breakfast, setting it on the bedside table to take the space by you. “Did you sleep well?”

You slowly nod, emerging from the sheets you’ve found temporary comfort in. 

“I left you some hangover medicine, just in case.”

“Thanks, Jun.”

“And I’m sorry for leaving you here by yourself. I wasn’t sure if I could handle being alone with you in a room.” He shifts in bed, weight dropping deeper into the mattress. “I’m glad I stopped things before we–I did something I’d regret.”

“...I wouldn’t have regretted it.” The bed sheets fall past your thighs to reveal your bare legs, cool air brushing against your warm flesh. You notice how his eyes lower to your exposed skin, his hand visibly tingling with urge. 

Words hitch in Junhui’s throat before he clears it, speaking as he averts his gaze. “Still. That would’ve been a very, very bad idea.”

"That's very considerate of you," you say, inching closer to him. “Wish you were considerate enough to wake me up early enough to go to work, though.”

Guilt sweeps across his features, he releases a soft chuckle of disbelief. “I skipped out on work too. Guess we’ll both be in some load of trouble.”

“Best we make it worth it, right?” 

Food would not saite the hunger in your body. It craves much more than it can offer. Junhui only knows half an idea of what that is.

You quickly pick up where things were left off from last night, finding yourself topping over him with purpose, meeting his lips in a feverish frenzy, and finding that sense of abandonment. Junhui, lost beyond comprehension in your heat, takes only a split second to compose himself and undo his clothes as you undo yours. Warm familiarity swells his chest touching your skin as his fingers dig in your hips. He sighs against your lips and all he can think about is making up for lost time.

“Gosh, you’re so big, Jun.” Your hand runs along his shaft, gliding it against the slit of your heat. Jun inhales, latching around your vicarious wrist, catching the subtle darkness in your eyes that halts the saliva running down his throat. “C-condom?”

“I’m safe. Don't worry,” you let out, a sultry laugh to follow.

“I figured, but the other thing?”

“I’m protected from that too,” you whisper, grinning. “Anything is on the table.”

His face reminds you of strawberries and cream, sweet and red. He lowers his gaze timidly, unable to suppress his smile, almost too precious not to bite into. Almost.

You press his cock between your folds, letting your heat melt around him and you mewl over his size. He softly moans caressing your shape and letting you have control as your teeth nip at his shoulder. The cushion of your thighs crushes around his body in an iron grip, working him between your walls. 

You lift your upper body for display, kneading your breasts that’s used to the constant confinement of a 12-hour work day before guiding Junhui to join you. Eagerly, he follows, feeling your flesh spill through his hands, your nipples growing stiff as he twists them between the pads of his fingers. Stars in his eyes, he instinctively thrusts up you, and stuffs his cock deeper back in you, watching the plushness of your body land safely back into him.

You stumble to maintain your form, utterances of religion on your tongue. You lick your lips and latch to every inch of his throbbing hunger. His name comes out in choked breaths, complimenting him without the prestige vocabulary, and you grind into him until he disappears inside you. Your eyes flutter in contentment, the kindling fire in your abdomen burning a bright glow.

“Shit…”

Junhui a hand claims the back of your neck, pushing your head down until he meets your lips once again. It’s so gentle yet lustful, almost like love, but you know to suspect otherwise.

In an instant, he flips you on the bed, landing you on your side. Your body, experiencing too much ecstasy to protest, allows Junhui to take reign and is pleasantly surprised with his choices.

“I swear I have more self-control,” He defends before his hand gingerly makes its way between your legs, and the pads of his fingers find your clit in a sensual caress. “Just…just not today.”

Your arousal creates a film of sex on his fingers, building pleasure as his cock regains his paces, fucking into your steady, controlled rhythm. It’s delicious, tantalizing, and makes your back arch at every thrust, but you know he’s holding himself back. You know there’s more in him. 

“More, Jun…”

“Too…soon…”

He bites his grunts into your side, sandwiching you between him and the mattress, and he ruts into you only a fraction harder. His patience has you desiring for more, compelled to lure him into a drastic reveal of his inner demons. Your head turns to him, eyes oozing in need and conviction, and you softly jut out your lip to plead. “Please, Jun…”

“I’ll cum…too soon…” he whines.

You force your hand, then your hips, slamming back against him, needy and desperate. It's filthy with the look in your eyes, the bounce against his lap, the blood rushing over Jun’s whole body down to his disciplined cock. His length runs along the slick of the walls, the walls that feel only narrower as he grows bigger. He swears under his breath he can’t take it, fucking you loud and clear until the clash of your skin was comparable to the sound of drums. 

Before Junhui is determined to savor every thrust, now he only wishes to seek a newer form of enlightenment in every inch of your body. Your hands ball into the sheets, gaining a foundation, and your eyes start to roll back into your skull, now you savoring every hasten jerk of his hips. No longer delicate and kind, but relieving yet electrifying. 

You embrace every corner of him until your climax explodes like a bomb, traveling to all parts of your body and you can no longer recall where you are. Your legs spasm, toes curling, hips writing, and it doesn’t stop. Not for a while.

Junhui hardly notices as he’s lost in his own pleasure, your swollen clit between his fingertips. Your voice muffles as it falls against the sheets, although he expects them to be incoherent as he is now with only sex on his mind. 

Eventually, his gut tightens, a surefire sign that it would soon enough come. His arms crush around your body as he lifts you against him. He pounds deep and hard into you, your pleasured sounds of ache growing smaller as his thrust does, and he floods every ounce inside you. He hears your shattered breath against his ears, unearthing his own before his body limps and falls over on the bed.

Both of you needed escape for your own reasons, reasons being much similar than you realize. Now all that left is breakfast, and the ponderance of what’s to become of this after. One suspects more to come, seeing this as only the beginning of something different, maybe even good. The other is ready to face reality, go back to daily routine, and do what’s needed to be done.

Unsurprisingly, you are the latter.

[i-am-the-oyster]

ALBUMS

Where's The Beef?

According to the man himself, Paul can bash out a song in the time it takes Linda to whip up a soyasome supper. But is this necessarily a good thing?

By Chris Ingham. Illustration by Richard Camps.

Paul McCartney

Flaming Pie PARLOPHONE

McCartney sans band again. Self-penned, played and produced, apart from contributions by Jeff Lynne, Ringo Starr, Steve Miller and son James McCartney.

I'VE STOPPED TRYING TO JUSTIFY LOVING solo McCartney. Of course some of the work of the last 27 years has been slack and misjudged. Yes, his trust in stream-of-consciousness and the inspiration of the moment ("If you're working too hard on something, it probably means its not very good") has left a catalogue with at least as much eccentric, cavalier material as substantial. But if you respond to someone, you respond. A lot of minor McCartney means as much to me as the major. The aloof will sigh; we expect more from a pop giant.

But there is more - the gargantuan Liverpool Oratorio has its moments, his minimalist-impressionist chamber piano piece A Leaf is a charmer, the forthcoming Standing Stones symphony is an intriguing prospect - it's just that these days, pop is only part of what he does. In pop, he's changed the world already, he's had his purple patch, and he hasn't had another genius to run his new songs by for quite a while; that can do things to a man's quality control.

However, though less spectacularly ambitious than the serious work, there is much to be enjoyed here. The indisputable melodic flair, the uplifting, doe-eyed optimism, the daft rockers, all here on Flaming Pie, an album in the McCartney tradition of pretty good, nudging upper middle. If you're hip to him, that's all you'll need.

Though not reaching the coherent, miraculous heights of Band On The Run (1973), it's miles better than the interminable live albums or his last, the heart-sinkingly ordinary Off The Ground ('93). Better, too, than the aberration of Give My Regards To Broad Street ('84) and the not-as-bad-as-you've-heard Press To Play ('86). So, it's probably on a par with Flowers In The Dirt ('89) which, though lauded at the time as a major return to form (prompted, no doubt, by the red herrings that were the awkward McCartney-McManus collaborations), now seems no better/no worse than the slick, unfailingly tunesome Tug Of War ('82) or Pipes Of Peace ('83).

What noses Flaming Pie ahead of the pack, however, is a return to the engaging home-made quality of his earliest solo work. Back in do-it-your-self, down-home primitive miniaturist mode, back on deep-groove drums and bluesy guitar, there are echoes of McCartney (1970) and Ram (1971) here, and it all has an authentic ring of auteur about it. It's not that Beatley, but it's very McCartney.

Some of it is positively reckless, there's a determination to follow the mood, have a laugh, see what happens. Three songs here are little more than jams. Flaming Pie was a self-imposed challenge to finish a track with Jeff Lynne in four hours (like you do). Funny, surreal lyrics, a cracking 3 Legs-type vocal, a thunderous Why Don't We Do It In The Road/Don't Bring Me Down groove and some hilarious, cack-handed barrel-house piano; this is the track I'm playing visitors.

Ringo and Paul lock into a super-taut, muscled riff on Really Love You and McCartney makes up the song as he goes (like Mumbo from Wild Life but with words); mad, indulgent, but kind of happening. Only the duet with Steve Miller on a slinky Texas 12-bar palls. Two minutes of this good-vibe, one-take blues would have been a treat, four minutes feels like eight.

Interspersing this japery is good and OK Macca fare made better, perhaps, by co-producer Jeff Lynne's ear for detail on over half the tracks. There are no obvious ELO/Wilbury mannerisms and, oddly, the ones that sound most like Lynne don't involve him (both the strangely sinister If You Wanna and lightweight, damnably catchy Young Boy - the one he completed in a couple of hours while Linda was tinkering in the kitchen - feature orchestras of acoustic guitars), though the dry-as-a-bone sound and upfront vocals elsewhere betray Lynne's welcome presence.

Track Listing

The Song We Were Singing

The World Tonight

Somedays

If You Wanna

Young Boy

Calico Skies Flaming Pie

Heaven On A Sunday

Used To Be Bad Souvenir

Little Willo w

Really Love You Beautiful Night

Great Day

The Song We Were Singing is a vivid evocation of an evening with friends in the '60s; the sweet, hazy vocal, the trippy twang of the guitar, the struggle to make "...discuss the vast intricacies of life" scan, the soaring, singalong chorus all combine to give the track an enchanting, stoned elegance. Heaven On A Sunday is prime, dreamy Macca with gorgeously textured sound. It also features his son's debut as Dad trades his Oo You guitar licks with 20-year-old James McCartney's Dave Gilmour ones. Souvenir is an oddball beauty; a soulful, lazy thing with a surprise guitar-riff-from-hell and a psychedelic fade. This is all very encouraging, Lynne appears to have helped McCartney sound more like himself, somehow. To be continued, hopefully.

There are three finger-pickin' solo numbers. Calico Skies is an earnest little love song which develops into an anti-war prayer. Somedays is a portentous song of doubt, always threatening to mean something, beautifully decorated by George Martin's arrangement. Great Day manages to allude metrically to the Vincent Youmans's 1930 standard of the same title and melodically to McCartney's own Big Barn Bed in a sweet, throwaway piece of unfeasible optimism. They ain't Blackbird, but they're fine.

It must be noted that the man's singing is a marvel. The grey-around-the-edges folk-balladeering of Calico Skies, the falsetto blues-croon of Heaven On A Sunday, the deliriously uninhibited rock-shriek of Really Love You re-confirm that McCartney's vocal-style range is without equal in pop. Sinatra's pipes had virtually cracked at 55. What is this guy on?

"No sleepless nights over this one," he told Steve Miller. What with the serious stuff people keep asking him to write, who can blame him? Making this will have been a holiday by comparison.

The World's Greatest Living Melodist crown must lay heavy; here McCartney is sporting his Eccentric Primitive Miniaturist colours. Flaming Pie is a fine reminder of how much they suit him.

Paul McCartney talks to Chris Ingham live from his car somewhere in the great British countryside.

Flaming Pie. Pleased with it?

Yeah, like it a lot actually. It's always good when you're proud of what you've done, because when you're not you're always moaning at the record company about how they don't put posters up, or how they don t get plays and all that. But I sort of don't care. Even if radio doesn't take to it, posters don't get put up and people don't say the right things, I've got a feeling that because I like it, I don't give a shit. I'm not sure that's 100 per cent true but the feeling's there. It feels good. I'm comfortable; there's a lot to be said for that.

Don't you feel like this after each new record?

No, not really. You always enjoy like having a new baby, as it were, but this one feels a bit special. It's like Anthology, people would ask, "Are you worried? Should you have done it? Is it right to do Free As A Bird?" I would say to them, listen, once The Beatles and George Martin have signed off on it, I always get a great feeling that it doesn't really matter what anyone thinks, we're a sufficiently cool enough gang of dudes, it's a question of sod the rest of them. I always used to get that feeling on Beatles albums; hey, it's The Beatles, we all like it, that's a pretty strong opinion.

It's not as easy to get that on my solo records because it's mainly me. I don't have the strength of the Woolwich around me. But on this one, there wasn't much pressure because the record people said, "We don't actually need a record from you for a while, so l started making music just for my own fun.

I think I've given the Anthology a decent interval, my stuff is suddenly ready, asked Linda if she had any photos, she had a great little selection, banged it together and it all suddenly seemed to work and it was, "Oh, there you go.

And I've told the marketing guys, "I don't want any sweat on this record, I don't care if you don't come up with a good idea, we're just gonna have a laugh." It's funny, they don't know where you're coming from, they re so used to that 'gotta get it right, get the right image desperation. Whereas I'm saying it'd be nice, but it's only a record. It really does cool things down.

One big thing with The Beatles, once in the early days we broke down on the motorway going back up to Liverpool in the severe winter, somewhere. One of us said, "Oh, what are we going to do now?" and another said, "Well, something'll happen." And it sounded so naive, we all laughed, "Yeah, something'll happen." Immediately a lorry came up and said, "Wanna lift, lads?" We all piled in. I'm a great believer in that "something'll happen" syndrome. It's like if you allow that space, that bit of peace in your mind, something sort of comes in to fill it. It's all very metaphysical.

You've said, "Songwriting's like the thumb in the mouth." It's interesting that through a worrying time with Linda being ill, you've made an upbeat kind of record. Is there a connection?

Yes, I think there is. When you have a major problem like that, it focuses what's important. I know everyone says that but it really does. For me, my family comes first, and a close second is music and working. I think it stopped me pissing around. I might have made a record and thought, Oh that's OK. But with that and having just done Anthology I thought, No I'm gonna make sure I'm happy with every song on this album. I don't want to waste time. I think that's the main force. If you're just breezing along you can think, Aah I've got forever, it's all great - you can find yourself wasting time. And also having looked at The Beatles albums and running your finger down the tracklist and it's Nowhere Man, Here There And Everywhere, Taxman, bang, bang, bang, every single one is a song you remember. I thought, I'm gonna make an album like that. I sorted a lot of songs and didn't bother with things I was in doubt about. So the whole episode focused me up quite a bit.

You've admitted in the past to feeling daunted by the Beatles' achievements, yet all this full-on Beatlosity of the past 18 months or so seems to have spurred you on.

Yeah well, the sort of plan was to take a holiday. But I'd just be sitting around with my acoustic, writing a song in a power cut in America, played it to a few people and it's "Ooh yeah, that's a good 'un." So I started stockpiling a few with nothing in mind, stuck 'em on a cassette and called them New Songs. Suddenly I had a lot of them. Called Steve Miller, who I'd known and played with once in the '60s after a Beatle session which was aborted because of, ahem, business differences. God, I've just come across a big field full of sheep here. Amazing. But I digress... I'd say to Steve, "look we don't need to get into heavy breathing, let's just knock it off", the way we did that track of his, My Dark Hour. He'd invited me up to his studio in Sun Valley, Idaho, did a track. Returned the hospitality, knocked off a couple more.

You're working with Jeff Lynne again. He'd passed the Free As A Bird test then?

Yeah, that was the audition (laughs). He was sort of George's boyfriend, if you know what I mean, and, you know, you don't want to tread on people's toes. But I'd enjoyed working with him and found him really easy to get on with, we always had a laugh. And I said, "Do you want to come over for a couple of weeks?" He said, "Well, you can't do much in a couple of weeks." I said, "Well, we can do a couple of tracks and mix 'em.."

What was the dynamic between you and Jeff?

I'd show him the song. And then first of all we'd bang it down with a couple of acoustics so we'd have a wash to go against, instead of a click track. It's an old Beatle trick, really. Everything used to have two acoustics, at least. It was mainly me and John showing the guys the song. That's one of Jeff's production tricks, too. I can't think where he got it. A lot of people when I mentioned working with Jeff their eyebrows raised, and I picked up what they meant was he's going to make an ELO of you. I actually had that worry with Free As A Bird. But then I thought, No, we'd worked around it, and even though it was a Jeff Lynne-type production I still thought it sounded very like The Beatles. So I had a chat with him and I said, "I don't want to get into your recognisable sound." He was actually a little bit surprised, I don't think he thinks he has a sound (in surprised Brummie voice), "What do you mean?" He's a very innocent kind of bloke. I said, "If I feel we re getting into a bit of a Jeff Lynne formula, let's find a trick to get round it, subvert it." He was quite into it, actually.

John Lennon said in the late '70s that if The Beatles were still making records, they'd sound like ELO.

Yeah, it was important to Jeff to meet John and have him say, "Oh I love some of those ELO tracks." I liked them, too. It's a bit like Oasis. Anyone who gives such an obvious tribute to you, you either hate it or you love it, and I love it. They're taking our style and proliferating it, if that's the word. ELO were good, you know, pity about the haircut. (Pause) I'm only kidding about the haircut, you'd better put in brackets - he'd kill me. He's still got it.

Given Ringo's and George Martin's cameos, George Harrison remains conspicuous by his continued absence. Is it difficult, given your history and the reported 'artistic tension' on the Free As A Bird/Real Love sessions, to contemplate a Harrison/McCartney collaboration?

I don't know really. To tell you the truth, when I was working with John, it was so, I don't know, so full, you never had a minute, so if working with George never really came up, I got in the habit of not working with him, I never really learned how to do it. When we did Free As A Bird there were one or two little bits of tension, but it was actually cool for the record. For instance, I had a couple of ideas that he didn't like, and he was right. I'm the first one to accept that. So that was OK. We did then say that we might work together but the truth is, after Real Love I think George had some business problems. Er, it didn't do a lot for his moods over the last couple of years. He's been having a bit of a hard time, actually, he's not been that easy to get on with. I've rung him and maybe he hasn't rung back. No big deal. But when I ring Ringo, he rings back immediately, we're quite close that way. You know, I'll write George a letter and he might not reply to it. I don't think he means not to reply to it but it makes me wonder whether he actually wants to do it or not. And if you're not sure, you back off a little. But I love him, he's a lovely guy and I would love to do it. It'd be fun, he's good.

[cal-daisies-and-briars]

❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️🪞🪞🪞🪞🪞🪞🪞🪞🪞🪞🪞🪞🪞🪞🪞🪞🪞🪞🪞🪞🪞🪞🪞🪞🪞🪞🪞🪞🪞🪞🪞🪞🪞

93 for ❄️:

---

Eddie exhales. “Okay. I, uh… I trust you.”

And he does. For whatever reason. He does. 

ix.

A few days later, Eddie books the weekend of the Cardinals game off from work no issue. Bobby is practically giddy to send him off.

“This will be good for you, Eddie,” he says. “I’m really happy to hear you’re meeting, well, literally half way.”

“Thank you, Bobby,” Eddie says, cheeks a little warm. There’s something about encouragement from Bobby that goes further for him than most people. He sees why Buck is sort of hooked on it. It’s easier to believe in yourself, when Bobby believes in you.

For a second, Eddie has the strange urge to tell Bobby everything. To come out to him. To tell him all about therapy and Charlie and that he really is doing better. He’s being better. He thinks Bobby would be proud of him. 

But he doesn’t say anything. 

His mouth simply doesn’t open when his brain tries to convey the thought. 

▪️▪️▪️

Buck is, of course, ecstatic for him. 

They chat about it while restocking the engine that afternoon. He’s tried texting Charlie about it, too. But he must already be traveling to see his brother, because he hasn’t replied yet. 

“Man, this is great,” Buck grins at him when Eddie explains the situation. “This is going to change things. I can feel it.”

“You can feel it, huh?” Eddie raises an eyebrow.

“Yep,” Buck insists. “He’s going to be surly at first, but then he’ll realizes how much he misses you, and he’ll go back to El Paso, and your mom will annoy him-”

“Wait, what?” Eddie asks. 

“You think you’re the only person on earth who finds her annoying?” Buck asks.

“Should you be insulting my mom?” Eddie asks, genuinely unsure.

“Yes,” Buck replies. “After what I witnessed in May? Yes.”

“Fair enough,” Eddie mutters.

“Anyway, your mom’ll get on his nerves, and he’ll be less angry, and he’ll remember, hey, Dad is never this uptight, and boom, you’ll be booking flights to go get him,” Buck says. 

Eddie smiles softly. “I think it’s a bit more complicated than that. But I appreciate your optimism.”

Buck shrugs. 

“Name one time in my life I’ve ever been wrong about…” Buck trails off, looking at a point beyond Eddie. His expression changes. “Uh, hello? Can we help you?”

Eddie looks over his shoulder to see a tall, familiar looking man walk into the station. He’s dressed in street clothing, bouncing car keys back and forth between his hands. It takes Eddie maybe three seconds to recognize him in person, rather than over Zoom. 

Charlie.

Charlie… 

Why is Charlie here?

“Charlie?” Eddie asks. 

Charlie stops short. “Eddie?” 

Buck looks between them. “You guys know each other?”

“Wh-why are you here?” Eddie asks. “I didn’t… I didn’t tell you where I worked.”

“You work… You work here.” Charlie’s face is pale. “This is… Oh, Jesus.”

“You’re not here for me,” Eddie realizes aloud. “You’re here for…”

His brother.

All at once, the dots connect in Eddie’s brain. Like tiny, individual puncture wounds. The brother who’s an addict. Dead sister-in-law. Dead niece and nephew. Both of them left their home state… Now, all Eddie can see is the identical hazel of their eyes. Oh fuck. 

“Eddie?” Buck asks.

“I’m sorry,” Charlie blurts. “I had no idea. Eddie, I had no idea.”

A fourth voice enters the conversation, a few paces away from Buck and Eddie. 

“Guys, what’s going… Charlie?” 

Bobby. 

---

I can't quite give you 99 for 🪞, because of reasons. Gonna wrap up the first chapter after this snippet. So here's something:

---

Another shrug.

Fair enough. How does a kid know how to screen a potential parent? Again. She’s just six.

“Well, how about this,” he suggests. “I’ll tell you a bit about me, and you can stop me and ask whatever you want? Or tell me anything about you?”

“Okay,” she says, then takes a sip of juice. 

“Alright, so,” Buck says, then trails off a little. This is harder than he thought. “Well, you know I’m a firefighter. And that’s kind of my favorite thing. But… Uh, I also like to cook. And be active.”

Why is he saying this like it’s a dating profile? 

“Uh, okay, and… I have an older sister. Maddie. I have a niece. My best friend, Eddie, he’s also one of the firefighters you met… He lives around the corner. He’s super fun.”

Dove looks a little overwhelmed with all the information. None of this means anything to her. At least not yet. 

Buck takes a deep breath and recalibrates. 

“Have you been to the zoo before, Dove?”

She shakes her head. 

“Well, I really like to go to the zoo. Maybe you and I can go together sometime?”

Dove considers this. 

“Okay,” she nods. “To see reptiles?”

Buck smiles. She really likes those reptiles, huh? 

“Absolutely,” he promises. “There’s a whole big building full of them.”

“Cool,” she says, a coy little smile on her face. Like she’s nervous about finally getting something she wants. 

“What’s your favorite reptile?” Buck asks. “Crocodiles?”

“And turtles,” she says. “And tortoises.”

“Oh, yeah. They’re super cool, too.”

“They take their houses with them,” she announces. 

“They do,” Buck nods. “That’s pretty neat.”

[lorimay2862]

Twin-Cuisine Technology: Mastering the Art of Dual-Basket Air Frying

In the realm of modern kitchen appliances, the dual air fryer stands out as a revolutionary tool. With its unique twin-basket design, this appliance offers unparalleled convenience and versatility, making it a must-have for any home chef.

What is a Dual Air Fryer?

A dual air fryer is an advanced version of the traditional air fryer, featuring two separate cooking baskets. This allows users to cook two different dishes simultaneously, saving time and energy. Imagine preparing crispy chicken wings in one basket while roasting vegetables in the other—without any flavor crossover.

Key Features of Dual Air Fryers

"The dual air fryer is designed to enhance your cooking experience by providing flexibility and efficiency."

Separate Cooking Zones: Each basket operates independently, allowing for different cooking times and temperatures.

Large Capacity: Ideal for families, dual air fryers can handle larger quantities of food.

Energy Efficiency: Cook multiple dishes at once, reducing overall cooking time and energy consumption.

Versatility: From frying and roasting to baking and grilling, the dual air fryer can do it all.

Benefits of Using a Dual Air Fryer

Why should you consider adding a dual air fryer to your kitchen arsenal? Here are some compelling reasons:

Time-Saving: Cook two dishes simultaneously, cutting your meal preparation time in half.Healthier Meals: Enjoy your favorite fried foods with up to 75% less fat.

Convenience: With pre-set cooking functions, making a variety of dishes is a breeze.

Easy Cleanup: Most dual air fryers come with dishwasher-safe baskets and accessories.

Popular Dual Air Fryer Models

Several brands offer high-quality dual air fryers. One notable example is the Toshiba Small Rice Cooker, known for its versatility and user-friendly features.

How to Use a Dual Air Fryer

Using a dual air fryer is straightforward, but here are some tips to get the most out of your appliance:

Preheat: Preheating ensures even cooking and optimal results.

Use the Right Temperature: Different foods require different temperatures. Refer to the user manual for guidelines.

Shake the Basket: For even cooking, shake the basket halfway through the cooking process.

Experiment: Don't be afraid to try new recipes and cooking techniques.

Maintaining Your Dual Air Fryer

Proper maintenance can extend the life of your dual air fryer. Here are some tips:

Regular Cleaning: Clean the baskets and accessories after each use to prevent buildup.

Check for Wear and Tear: Inspect the appliance regularly for any signs of damage.

Store Properly: When not in use, store your dual air fryer in a cool, dry place.

Conclusion

The dual air fryer is more than just a kitchen gadget; it's a game-changer. Whether you're a busy parent, a health-conscious individual, or someone who loves to cook, this appliance offers something for everyone. With its twin-basket design, versatile cooking options, and user-friendly features, the dual air fryer is set to become a staple in modern kitchens worldwide.

For more information on dual air fryers, check out this highly-rated model.

About Toshiba

Toshiba is a well-known brand in the home appliances industry, offering innovative and versatile products designed to make your life easier. One of their popular products is the Toshiba Small Rice Cooker, which features 8 cooking functions, Fuzzy Logic Technology, and a 24-hour delay timer.

For more information on Toshiba's range of products, visit their official website.

Additional Resources

Understanding Air Fryers

Toshiba Small Rice Cooker

[melanieph321]

Ruben Dias x Reader - Friends With Benefits Part 2/6

Summary - Reader and Ruben have been in a friends with benefits situation for over three years now, with Reader eventually looking for something more serious. But what does Ruben want?

Enjoy!

One day, out of the blue, you decided to take a leap of faith and try online dating. You had heard stories of successful relationships that had blossomed from such platforms, and figured you had nothing to lose. Little did you know that your journey would be a peculiar one.

Your first encounter was with a man who called himself Dr. Alan, a dentist by profession. On your first date, he enthusiastically talked about tooth decay, dental floss, and his collection of teeth-shaped souvenirs from around the world. You found yourself captivated by his unique quirkiness at first, but soon realized that his obsession with teeth trumped any chance of a meaningful connection. And so, that was the end of that.

Your second encounter was with an individual named Mark, whose chauvinistic mindset was apparent from the moment you sat down at a local coffee shop. Prior to entering the coffee shop you got a text from Ruben, a picture of his junk to be exact. He had been sending you alot of those lately, his way off telling you that he needed attention. Usually you would entertain his needs by sending him risky pictures of yourself with a hand between your legs or something similar, but for now you left his messages on read, as you desperately tried to wrap you head around this online dating sceem.

Turns out Mark was a sexist, though. Firstly he wouldn't stop boasting about his position as a top executive in a prestigious company, dismissing your passions and achievements as trivial. He believed that a woman's place was in the home, serving her husband's every need. Unable to tolerate his toxic views, you swiftly left, determined not to be reduced to someone's subordinate.

With your optimism faltering, you hesitated before delving into the realm of online dating for the third time. You eventually matched with a man named Eric, who seemed charming and sincere in your virtual conversations. However, upon meeting him, you quickly discovered that Eric was nowhere near the person he had presented himself to be. He belittled the waiter, made offensive comments about other patrons he'd met online, and spoke about himself incessantly. It became clear to you that Eric was simply awful, consumed by his own reflection and devoid of compassion for others. You excused yourself politely, feeling a sense of relief as you walked away from what could have been a disastrous connection.

"Are all men pigs?" You asked, a hint of a sigh.

"Yes." Ruben groaned, rolling over to lay his back after letting himself nut inside you.

You had answered one of his "You up?" texts in a moment of weakness, resulting in him dropping the location of the hotel that he was staying at for the weekend. The two of you had been going at it until morning. This was usually the part where you kicked him out of your apartment, however, you were on his turf now, unable to do that.

"Why are all men pigs?" You said, refrasing the question, in hopes of a less arrogant answer from Ruben.

"Why?" He yawned. "Pigs like to eat don't they? There is nothing better than eating a woman out."

"Get out!"

You nudged his warm body out of the bed. At least you still had the power to do that.

"What did I say?" He chuckled.

"That all men are pig because all they want to do in life is eat pussy."

Ruben threw his hands up in defense. "I can only speak for myself."

"Yeah, well, it would have been better if you didn't speak at all."

Ruben cocked his head to the side, watching you curiously as you sat with the hotel sheets cradled around yourself.

"What?"

"You look beautiful." He said.

"In the morning?" You snorted. "That must be the greatest lie you've ever told."

"No lie."

He returned to bed, puckering his lips as he leaned down towards you. You kissed him out of habit, although it did cause a stir in your abdomen. Calling some beautiful prior to kissing them should be off-limits in a friends with benefits situation.

"You want to ride around with me while I run some errands?"

You smiled against his lips. "Since when do you want to..."

"It's a yes or no answer, Y/N."

You pulled back, taking him in, as he stood hovering over you. You were a bit suprised that he hadn't asked you to help tame his morning wood yet.

"Sure, Ruben." You nodded. "I'd love to."

After a quicky in the shower the two of you were off in Ruben's Mercedes, driving around town, running minor but not pointless errands.

As you drove through town you found yourself pleasantly surprised. This wasn't just any ordinary errands run. Instead, Ruben turned the mundane tasks into meaningful conversations. You spoke of dreams and aspirations, of the joys and challenges of life. You realized that beneath the smooth-talking exterior, Ruben possessed a deep understanding and love for his family. It was evident in the way he spoke about his parents and siblings.

"What are you, Y/N, like 25?" Ruben drove with one hand, the other resting on your thigh.

"I'm 24, I'll be 25 next month."

"So you're like me." He shrugged. "Why are you in such a rush to get into a relationship and start a family?"

"It's not the same for men and women, Ruben. Women have a need to settle down early, whilst men can go around throwing around their seed into whomever they please to."

"I disagree." He chuckled. "Women can throw around...whatever they like to throw around, with whoever they wish to."

You rolled you eyes, turning your head to look out the window. You passed the coffee shop that you and your date, Mark, had gone to. This reminded you to text your next date where to meet up tonight.

"How old are the guys your seeing anyway?" Ruben drew your attention back into the car.

You shrugged. "27-32"

"See, now that's too young. No wonder they've all been pigs."

"Too young?" You frowned, "Those are grown men, Ruben."

"On the outside, yes. I say you have to subtract about five years of a man's age to figure out his level of maturity."

"That's bullshit and you know it!"

Ruben turned his head to look at you, suprised by your sudden outburst.

"That kind of talk just shows your lack of accountability and it's pathetic."

"Well, I'm sorry to disappoint you sweetheart, but there's about a billion of other men like me out there and unless you up the age preferences on those dating apps your on, you're going to encounter most of them."

You felt like crying, but only because Ruben was right, so fucking right.

"Could you just drope me off, my apartment is not too far from here."

"Don't be silly, Y/N." His hand squeezed your thigh. "I'll drop you off in front of the building."

"Thanks, but I have to pick up my dress for tonight. The dry cleaners is on the way."

"Three dates in three nights, I see. I guess you're on a spree?"

"Four actually."

"Wow, and you call me a fuck boy."

You hit him in the shoulder. Angry that Ruben made it hard for you to stay mad at him.

"Y/N."

You perked up, hearing the way Ruben said your name. He had parked the car along the sidewalk, ready to drop you off.

"Yes?"

He turned to you faced you in the passenger seat.

"If you ever get into trouble with one of these guys that you're seeing, just call me, alright?"

"Then what?"

His eyebrows furrowed.

"Then what will you do, Ruben?"

His hand under your chin brought you forwards, pressing your lips against his own. He did not let you pull back until you winced for air.

Ruben grinned once you did.

"I hate you."

"I know."

Taglist:

@kathb59

[geekywritings]

“Home stopped being a place when you entered my life.”

(Quick info: I’m also taking writing prompts and suggestions for this handsome Jedi! ;) )

_______

How long have the two of you been traveling together? It must have been months. So many weeks of planning, fighting and surviving. Every day, Cal gave you new hope that all of this wasn’t in vain, that you stood at least some chance against the mighty Empire, that any of your actions actually mattered.

But as the war continued, you began to grow tired. No matter how big your victories, the Empire just seemed to grow stronger by the day. You had lost so many comrades and friends on the way already…

Looking up from the holo table, you stared at Cal, as he explained the next mission to your little group. Merrin was listening with a passive expression on her face, while Greeze looked openly skeptical. This was dangerous, but the red-haired Jedi seemed convinced that you were on the path to uncovering something grand. Something to help the rebellion in a new way.

“I don’t know, kid…”, Greeze started after Cal had finished. “It could be chasing nothing more than a legend…”

“Or it could be a real chance.”, the Jedi argued back and once again you found yourself admiring his optimism. Or perhaps it was desperation cloaked in hope. “We just have to try…”

“I agree.”, Merrin jumped to his aid. “It could be a safe haven for all of us. For Cere and her project. And for thousands of others.”

Suddenly all eyes were on you, as they awaited your opinion on the matter.

“It might be nothing more than a legend…”, you began. “But I trust you, Cal. So let’s see what we can find.”

What he promised was nothing less than a new home for those trying to escape the ruthless reign of the Empire. A place to start anew and build something untainted by war. If this mystical place was more than a rumor, of course.

Honestly, it sounded too good to be true to you. There had been only one home you had ever known: The Jedi Temple on Coruscant. Everything that came after that was just a hiding place, a temporary shelter, a location where you constantly had to watch your back or tongue.

The Mantis felt different, but it wasn’t home either. Not really.

The crew split up, each returning to their tasks. Greeze busied himself with dinner, while Merrin went to study some artifact she had recovered from her latest trip. You wandered back into your room, hoping to meditate a little, but couldn’t get into the right state of mind. Thoughts of this possible hidden haven kept spinning in your head, making you almost restless.

The whizz of the door opening had you looking up, surprised to find Cal entering.

“Hey… thanks for your support back there.”, he spoke, hand nervously going through his hair.

“I mean what I said, Cal. I trust you. Or I wouldn’t be here.”, you began. “Besides, at least half of your crazy ideas worked well enough so far, right?” A little humor to lighten the mood, and it worked, as both of your lips drew upward a little.

“But you also looked hesitant.”, the Jedi became serious again, moving to sit on your bed, while you stayed on the floor, eyes locked on his form. Curious green eyes stared back at you, waiting for you to speak.

“It’s not about the mission itself.”, you began, trying to sort your thoughts into cohesive sentences. “I.. I just find it hard to consider any place home again, after…” You left the rest unsaid, knowing full well that Cal would understand.

He nodded solemnly, reaching out a hand to place on your shoulder. “I know what you mean.”, he began slowly, as you tried your best to concentrate. His mere touch had your heart beating so damn loud, heat rushing through you. It had started weeks ago, and you still struggled to get these feelings under control.

You couldn’t be falling in love. Especially not with Cal Kestis. A fellow Jedi survivor. And a man dead-set on whatever mission he chose for himself. He would never love you back, you were certain, and you wanted to avoid the heartache.

Yet every time he reached for you, sought your company in private, you found yourself falling for him all over again.

“But even if it’s not a home for us, it could be for others.”

You nodded quietly. He was right. This wasn’t just about you. It was about so many others that deserved a better life. You were thinking about what to say, when Cal continued, voice low, but steady.

“Besides, home stopped being a place when you entered my life.”

Eyes widening, you stared at him with lips parting in surprise. What? What did he mean by that? You were sure your heartbeat could be heard all across the galaxy at this point, as you tried to wrangle your feelings into place.

The hand on your shoulder wandered higher, pushing some of your hair behind your ear, before coming to rest on your cheek. He was smiling now, his eyes full of gentleness and… was that affection? Longing? Love?

“Cal…”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

He was about to retreat his hand, but you were quick to place yours on top, holding him against your cheek.

“Do you mean this only as a friend, Cal? As a comrade on the battlefield?”

You had to know. Had to be certain before you laid your heart open to him. Seconds ticked by like small eternities before you heard him breathe one simple word: “No.”

He couldn’t prepare for what you did next. Heck, you yourself weren’t prepared for it. You just closed the distance between the two of you, pressing your lips to his.

Cal froze for a second, but before you could think he might not enjoy it, he was kissing you back, hand moving from your cheek to the back of your head, making sure to keep you close. Your own arms had sneaked around his neck, keeping him equally tight against you, as you gave in to the longing you had felt for so long.

“I love you…”, you breathed between kisses.

“And I love you, starlight.”, he said, slowly pulling away to look at you. “And for as long as we are together, it doesn’t matter where we are.”

It was true. He was your home as much as you were his. But that wouldn’t stop you from trying to find a shelter for others. You simply had to try.

[bananaofswifts]

Taylor Swift’s catalog re-recording campaign continues with a thoughtful version of 2010’s Speak Now that tempers teen angst with the ageless quality of lullabies and folk songs.

Taylor Swift emerged in 2006 as a 16-year-old wunderkind with a gift for articulating all the intimacies and humiliations of falling in love. But throughout her early career, her image was predicated on her youthful innocence as much as her outsized wisdom. Swift “does not drink or swear or flash cleavage,” remarked a profile from around the time of her third studio album, Speak Now—a point that stood in opposition to peers like Miley Cyrus and Demi Lovato, who were quick to jettison their tween-friendly branding. Swift seemed to take up the mantle of youth role model with pride. Though she was careful to never disparage anyone directly, she told The New Yorker in 2010, “I don’t feel completely overcome by the relentless desire to put out a dark and sexy ‘I’m grown up now’ album.”

Speak Now, released in 2010, emerged at an inflection point in Swift’s life. She had recently turned 20 and moved out of her parents’ home, had toured the world, and, as evidenced by gut-wrenching tracks like “Dear John” and “Last Kiss,” had experienced heartbreak that shook her sense of emotional security. On this album, she struggles to balance her love of fantasy and escapism with her new responsibilities. Throughout Speak Now, she asks, How do you believe in fairytales and also acknowledge the depth of your pain?

As with her previous re-recordings of early work, Speak Now (Taylor’s Version) remains largely faithful to the arrangements and lyrics of the original. But Swift is not the same singer she was at 20. In more recent material, her starry-eyed optimism has been replaced with nuance and caution. She’s learned to voice regret as much as rage; in songs like Lover’s “Death by a Thousand Cuts” and Reputation’s “Dress,” she drinks and allows her sexual fantasies to run wild. On the new recordings of old Speak Now songs, her maturity is revealed not through the words themselves, but how she chooses to deliver them. The angry songs are presented with a sigh rather than a vindictive grin. The songs about heartache are sung carefully and patiently. It feels less like she’s sending a message to any particular ex than she is conveying a generalized weariness about how draining young adulthood can be.

Written between the ages of 18 and 20, the original tracks on Speak Now depict Swift clinging to her girlhood like someone trying to hold water in their palms. “Never Grow Up,” an acoustic ballad, was ostensibly written for young female fans. But by the end the song reveals itself as a means of mourning her past self. She promises the impossible: that no one will ever leave her deserted, that there will be no pain in her life. “Innocent,” a song about forgiving someone who wronged her, evokes the subject’s childhood—chasing fireflies, relying on someone bigger to get things off the shelf—in order to find something worth redeeming in them. Thumping rocker “Long Live” uses images of castles and dragons to celebrate the larger-than-life experience of touring with her band. It’s full of love but sung in the past tense, as if to memorialize the moment while it was still happening. Hearing these songs on Speak Now (Taylor’s Version), there’s less fear and more gentleness. Losing some of that teenage angst makes the songs less immediately enthralling: In the originals’ jagged inhales, sneered words, and ad-libbed laughter, you could hear how deeply these stories affected their author. Hearing her sing them now, they sound slightly anonymous, more like lullabies and folk songs than expressions of pressing concern.

Swift’s youthful naivete peeks through in the way she sings about other women. In her professional life, she had benefited—however passively—from comparisons to women deemed less wholesome and pure. And in her songwriting, she depicted them as unworthy rivals and master manipulators. In “Speak Now,” Swift’s narrator disrupts a marriage ceremony in hopes of separating the groom from his snotty, overdressed bride. On “Better Than Revenge,” she chastises a woman who supposedly stole her boyfriend. She later revised the sentiment, saying in 2014, “No one can take someone from you if they don’t want to leave.” Since the announcement of the re-recording, it has been speculated that she might edit the song’s most cutting and criticized lyrics: “She’s better known for the things that she does on the mattress.” On Taylor’s Version, this line becomes, “He was a moth to a flame/She was holding the matches.” The change feels half-hearted: Diss tracks aren’t supposed to be respectful. No one listens to “Better Than Revenge” expecting a measured response or nuanced feminist take. The song was satisfying precisely because Swift captured the nearsighted perspective of a teenager; in the attempt to distance herself from that person, she sacrifices resonance for optics.

“Dear John” remains the emotional centerpiece of the album, and one of the most devastating songs Swift has ever written. Across a lonely, warbling guitar lick and patiently unfurling blues-rock arrangement, she details mistreatment from an older partner: his wild oscillations between hot and cold, his ever-moving goal posts. John Mayer, whom the song is ostensibly about, was 32 when he dated a 19-year-old Swift in 2010. The new version, released by Swift at the same age that Mayer was then, is more powerful than ever. It provides a showcase for her deeper vocal range, and the way she enunciates each syllable adds weight to every word. When she belts out his name in the chorus, she sounds completely in control.

Since 2010, Swift has written another song about a torturous relationship she was in at age 19, presumably the same one. “Would’ve, Could’ve, Should’ve,” from last year’s Midnights, reveals the lasting impact of the memory. She wails, “Give me back my girlhood, it was mine first.” It’s colored the way I hear “Dear John” and all of Speak Now: This wasn’t run-of-the-mill teen angst or ego that Swift was singing about back then. It was a coming-of-age moment turned crisis of faith, the kind of experience that reveals people’s capacity to inflict hurt. When you’re a 19-year-old girl curious about the world, it’s often implied that older men with deep eyes and brooding stares should be your teachers. But the lessons they offer are not always the ones you expect. Growing up is learning how to hold that knowledge without giving up hope of finding the pleasure and love you deserve.

Like prior album re-recordings, Speak Now (Taylor’s Version) includes a handful of newly released tracks that emerge “from the vault.” Hayley Williams joins for “Castles Crumbling,” which repurposes the same fairytale imagery from “Long Live” to relay her paranoia about a dramatic fall from grace. On “I Can See You,” which sounds more like the inky, lilting trap-pop on Reputation than anything on Speak Now, Swift describes an illicit workplace romance with sultriness and authority that stand apart from the album’s otherwise chaste perspective. On the breezy country-pop song “Foolish One,” Swift reminds herself that she is not the exception to the general rule that if someone is acting disinterested, they probably don’t want to be with you. Just one album prior, she was so confident in her exceptionalism that she re-wrote Romeo and Juliet as a love story starring her. Now, she tempers her romantic fantasies with pragmatism and a sense of jubilant freedom, encouraging a younger self to broaden the scope of her desire.

This re-release doesn’t benefit from the same novelty as Fearless (Taylor’s Version) in 2021, when the endeavor of re-recording her catalog to regain control over her masters felt rare and exciting. And musically, the Speak Now material doesn’t stand up to Red (Taylor’s Version), which presented perhaps her strongest album along with an extended version of fan-favorite “All Too Well” and a number of excellent vault tracks. In recent weeks, news of the latest re-release has been overshadowed by intrigue and minutiae from her current Eras tour. Throughout Speak Now (Taylor’s Version), Swift sometimes mutes the messy adolescent impulses that gave these songs their spark. But elsewhere, she divests from fantasy archetypes—the knight on a white horse, the helpless child—that once limited her. Think of the new Speak Now as a call and response between who she was and who she is: a teenager full of questions about what it means to grow up and an adult woman who’s still turning them over to find new answers.

[ourloveisforthelovely]

What Friends Are For

Regulus Black/Sirius Black AU

Summary:  Sirius didn't believe that Regulus was a death eater. It takes seeing things for himself to realize that his little brother is gone.

Pairings: Regulus Black x Reader. Remus x Sirius

Rating: Teen

____

“This place is falling apart.”

Sirius commented as he looked around the nearly deserted Diagon Alley. James and Remus only nodded in agreement. No one really wanted to accept that the place that once brought them so much joy as children was now shit wrecked due to the stupid war. Neither Remus, Sirius, nor James wanted to think about how much their worlds had changed since graduating from Hogwarts.

They were supposed to be young adults enjoying their time before settling down…but that wasn’t happening. All three men had to grow up much faster than they wanted to.

“Hopefully everything can get back to normal soon.”

James said hopefully. He wanted to be the optimistic one, as usual. James wanted to give Sirius and Remus something to smile about. He hadn’t seen his two best friends smile in some time.

“Yeah, maybe.”

Remus murmured. He knew that James wanted to be optimistic and didn’t have the will to knock the optimism out of him.

We could all use the optimism.

Remus thought as Sirius elbowed him in the side.

“What is it?”

Remus asked. Sirius motioned to the other side of the alley where none of that then Regulus stood. You stood next to him whispering lowly while looking around for anything “off.”

“Wonder what they are doing out here?”

Remus asked. Sirius rolled his eyes. He hadn’t seen his younger brother in some time. It really was no shock to Sirius that Regulus didn’t notice him. Regulus wouldn’t notice Sirius if the two men were trapped in a crowded elevator together. Sirius knew that part of this was Regulus’ own choice. To Regulus, Sirius was dead to him and Regulus didn’t talk to dead people.

That didn’t make the sting of seeing Regulus any less painful. Whether they were speaking or not, Sirius still cared for Regulus. Seeing his younger brother was just another brutal reminder that Sirius had missed so much of his younger brother’s life over the past two years.

No longer was Regulus the kid that Sirius remembered. Now Regulus was a grown man. He had definitely grown into his haughty good looks. Something about Regulus worried Sirius though. Something was “off.” Regulus looked as if he had been awake for too long. He looked exhausted and whatever the two of you were whispering about was probably the reason why.

“Maybe looking for furniture for their new dream home?”

James replied. It was no secret to Remus, Sirius, or Remus that you had agreed to marry Regulus. There was a ridiculous marriage announcement in the Daily Prophet that made Sirius gag. While Sirius wasn’t shocked that you were marrying Regulus (the two of you had been attached to each other since childhood) he was shocked to see the wary expression on your face. Typically, you were always smiling. You were the one happy piece to Regulus’ moody puzzle. Today, you didn’t smile at all.

Regulus placed a hand on the small of your back and led you into the shadows of Knockturn Alley.

“Is it me or does the happy couple look like they don’t want to be followed?”

Remus said. Sirius frowned a moment longer before going off after the two of you. He didn’t know what he was going to say when Regulus turned around and started throwing hexes at him but for now, Sirius didn’t care. If the two of you were up to something then he wanted to know about it.

Rumors of Regulus being a death eater had reached Sirius some time before but he never thought much of it. Even if the Blacks supported Voldemort, surely Regulus would use that brain of his to say no…or so Sirius thought. Regulus wouldn’t let him down like that.

No, not my brother. Slytherin or not, Regulus wouldn’t join some moron. Whether we talk or not, Regulus is still my brother and I know him.

Sirius nodded at the thoughts going through his mind. He didn’t want to accept that Regulus was no longer the dreamy-eyed boy who loved poetry and art. Regulus wasn’t the boy that had actual dreams of doing something good with his life…and Sirius would never believe otherwise. He knew that there was good in Regulus.

James and Remus hurried after Sirius. They had a feeling whatever they were about to witness would tear Sirius apart in some way. Unfortunately, they would have to be the ones to “pick up the pieces.”

Sirius stopped and quickly hid beside a wall as the two of you stopped outside of a dimly lit pub. He watched as Regulus turned around and glanced over his shoulder. Regulus was clearly looking out for anything that should raise concern. Sirius breathed a sigh of relief when Regulus seemed pleased with seeing nothing but darkness.

It was you that stopped Regulus before he moved to open the door. You looked suddenly afraid and started to speak rapidly to Regulus.

“Come on Reg, don’t be doing something stupid. Don’t be putting her in danger too.”

Sirius whispered to himself. Regulus reached out to cup your face before whispering softly. He gave you a gentle smile that made Sirius sigh a sigh of relief. Regulus was kind to you. The relationship didn’t look like the kind of relationship that Walburga and Orion had. Orion would have never, in a million years, looked at Walburga that way. He sure as hell wouldn’t have comforted her.

Regulus leaned down to kiss you as the door of the pub opened. None other than Augustus Rockwood stood on the other side. He looked between Regulus and yourself with a sickening smile.

“Password?”

He said loud enough for Sirius to hear…then came the kick in the balls Sirius wasn’t expecting. Regulus rolled up his shirt sleeve and there on his arm was the dark mark.

Reg, no!

Sirius yelled in his mind. Seeing the dark ink on Regulus’ snowy skin made every fiber of Sirius’ being go crazy. Like Regulus, Sirius wasn’t great at emotions (having them, sharing them, feeling them) now he was a hurricane of rage and sheer heartbreak.

Turning away, unable to watch anymore, Sirius turned and stormed back to where James and Remus stood. Sirius couldn’t bring himself to meet their eyes.

They knew.

“Sirius…”

James started but stopped when Sirius shook his head.

“I’ve got to get out of here. I can’t stay a moment longer.”

Sirius was gone in the blink of an eye leaving Remus and James alone. James took a breath before meeting Remus’ eyes.

“You should go after him. He’ll need you.”

Remus frowned.

“He’ll need you too. He is going to need the both of us more than normal.”

James only nodded. There was nothing more that either man could say that the other wasn’t already thinking. Both James and Remus knew that Regulus was a death eater. They had known for a long time but hoped they were wrong…for Sirius’ sake. Now, given his reaction, both knew their fears were confirmed.

“We’ve got him. That’s what best friends are for.”

______

@amelie-black @jessyballet @knreidy1 @justfinishthis @fific7 @criminalyetminimal @mimisparkle12 @teletubiswszpilkach @siriuslyceleste @golddustwomann @littleshadow17 @georgeweasleydumbhoe @ell0ra-br3kk3r @livshifts @jsjcue @stelleduarte @millies0bsimp @coffeeaddictednymph @readtomeregulus @rogue-nyx88 @i-love-scott-mccall @s-we-e-t-t-ea @taylor-will-be-the-death-of-me @buttercup-beeee @f4iryluvy @saramaple @missgorldafirst @gugggu6gvai @yousmellllikecaca @jag9000 @quinis @haroldpotterson @mentally-unstable-hoe @yousmellllikecaca @goldensunshineshit @aurorasnape12 @ad-astra-again @ravenhood2792 @play-morezeppelin @rubyroscoe1 @spideyxalmighty @lucasfilms77 @un-lovesherself @dumybitch @melaninnbarbie @marichromatic @lostarc24 @padf00ts-l0ver @brokencasbutt67-writer @authoressskr @moldy-old-boot @hankypranky @summer-novak @shaylybaby2032 @emiwrites3reads @knight-of-gleefulness @deanwherescas @wontlookaway @sprnaturallover @li0nh34rt @tas898 @shitfaceddaniel-blog @untoldshortsofthefandoms @mycuddlycorner 

[happy-hermit]

WAKE UP BABE NEW LAST LIFE SCAR ANGST JUST DROPPED !!!

Basically the premise of this one is that once everyone returns to hermitcraft from last life, Scar’s hair starts turning white as a side effect of isolation and loneliness :) I have made this man very sad. Enjoy!

Part Two

( @stiffyck @hopepetal )

———

Scar sleeps for maybe three hours that first night back on hermitcraft, a combination of residual respawn pain and an endless supply of nightmares keeping him firmly trapped in that hazy state between awake and asleep — not to mention the added feature of a pretty much permanently elevated heart rate. But he’s home, so. Maybe that still counts for something, even if it doesn’t feel all that different. Just another place that he’s alone.

(He’s always known that he can be a lot to handle. He knows that he’s loud and excitable and takes up space. It just— didn’t used to feel like a problem before. Now he knows better.)

Pale rays of muted sunlight are filtering through the window behind him as he sits up in bed, groggy and still sore. Jellie is having no issues with her own sleep schedule, still curled up by his leg with her eyes closed. She looks content, and if only one of them gets to sleep well, Scar is glad that it’s her. She deserves it.

Probably the only reason he notices it as soon as he does is because it falls right in front of his face. Literally.

Hair is tickling at his eyes, and Scar has a hand halfway raised to brush it back before it registers that something is… strange. He grabs the chunk of hair by the ends and tries to focus on it, eyes crossed and vision blurry as he attempts to figure out what his sluggish mind is telling him. It’s just his hair. It’s a little longer than he usually has it, sure, but he’s been putting off a haircut, and— Wait.

Scar throws back the covers and scrambles out of bed, pajamas twisted and limbs like jelly as he makes a mad dash to the mirror on the opposite wall. He’d checked last night, he knows he did, and it had been back to normal, it had all been brown again, he’d checked—

His reflection is staring back at him, wide-eyed and horrified. At the front of his hair is a single streak of bright, stark white. His heart skips a beat and then trips over itself to make up for it, pounding in his chest. He exhales shakily, hand coming up to brush over the section but dropping before it makes contact. Scar blinks. It’s still there when he opens his eyes.

Okay, don’t panic, he thinks, absolutely panicking. It’s just a little bit, it doesn’t mean anything. Just— don’t jinx it.

Mechanically, he gets dressed for the day, donning his Swaggon outfit and pretending that everything is normal, that it’s just another day, that the last few weeks never happened. Pretends that there aren’t bags under his eyes. He tucks the white streak of hair into his top hat and pretends that that doesn’t exist, either.

He doesn’t know what he’s going to do today. All he really feels like doing is hiding. Not a very Scar thing for him to do, but maybe that was what everyone wanted. What did it say about him, that the first time everyone had a choice on whether to be his friend or not, he ended up alone?

Maybe it was their gentle way of telling him they didn’t want him around. Maybe they’d been trying to tell him for forever, and he’d always just been too stupid to notice.

It’s just an opportunity to be better, he tells himself, forcing an optimism that tastes bitter on his tongue. He just has to be someone new, is all. He has to become someone that they’ll want to stick around. And if that means being around less in general, then— Well. He can do that.

He can be better.

First, though, he has to be someone that they don’t feel obligated to worry about. The white hair is not helping.

(He doesn’t even know where it came from, in Last Life. One day he’d pulled back the hood on his cloak and his hair had been white. Maybe it’s a vex thing he isn’t aware of. He’d ask Cub, but he’s supposed to be trying not to be a nuisance. He can figure it out himself. It’s not a big deal.)

He checks the mirror one last time before he leaves his base, making sure that nothing obvious is out of place. He gives his reflection a weak grin in an attempt to hype himself up, and drops it when it doesn’t work. It had looked hollow. Fake. It hadn’t reached his eyes.

Huffing a little in morose irritation, Scar turns around and looks down at Jellie, sitting on the edge of his bed and gingerly licking her paw. His smile comes a bit more naturally, this time.

“What do you think, Jellie?” Scar asks, voice a bit hoarse. He clears his throat and hums in thought. “What should we do today…”

Usually, on a day where he had nothing better to do, he’d find the other hermits and bug them. Maybe even play a prank, or ramble about various build ideas, or help them with their block palate. Now the thought of doing so is enough to tie his stomach into knots. It makes his heart beat a little bit faster. He can’t.

He used to think that they didn’t mind his company. Now, he just— Well, he’s finally noticed, is all. They’d been too kind to tell him. It’s his turn to be kind and give them space. Even if it hurts.

He’ll work out what he’s been doing wrong — what he did to make them leave him alone on that mountain. He just has to figure out what exactly would make them want to stay. Maybe he just has to be less… himself.

“How about we start with some fresh air, huh?” Scar pets Jellie on his way by, rifling through his desk for his worn notebook and a semi-sharpened pencil. He puts them in his inventory and turns back to his cat with a smile. “We’ve got a brand new project to work on, Jellie! And I think everyone will like it. Or— Well, I hope they will.”

It’ll be a bit like a present. A gift from him to everyone else. He’s going to make it the best he possibly can. He can fix things, he can. He has to.

With a new sense of purpose, Scar stumbles into his shoes and slides down the ladder out of the Swaggon, Jellie tucked safely in her little messenger bag. His body aches sharply when he hits the ground, the old injuries from the game making themselves known; an arrow wound to the chest, burns down one side of his body, lungs still sore from drowning. The injuries aren’t actually there anymore, of course, but he’s always had a tough time on respawns. The pain tended to…linger, for a while. On rare occasions, the injuries even scarred.

Regardless, he ignores the pain, adjusting his hat and setting off down the path to find somewhere to brainstorm. It’s a nice day today, with clear skies and a gentle breeze sending wildflowers swaying in the grass. The Boatem Pole is still standing, even though the village had been empty for weeks as they played Last Life.

(It had been Mumbo and Pearl’s first game. He hopes they’re doing okay. He would check, but… )

New idea striking him, Scar changes direction and starts towards the Boatem Pole, smiling a little up at it, remembering that first day. (They were kind enough to let you stay, and look at what you’ve done. Nothing but make them regret it.) His smile drops. They probably wish they’d turned him away. His chest aches, and he twists the strap of his messenger bag in a white-knuckled grip. Jellie meows, quietly, confused, and Scar is guilty of so, so much.

“Sorry, Jellie,” Scar says softly, and pets his cat even softer. She rubs her cheek against his hand. There is so much that needs to be fixed.

He exhales shakily, walking to the edge of the Boatem Hole and peering down, making sure that no one else is there. All he can see is the void, and so he equips his elytra and jumps. He holds carefully onto Jellie as he glides down, eventually landing safely on the floor of the meeting room with the hopping minecarts. The machine is turned off, currently, and the minecarts are still and silent. He could learn a thing or two from that.

Scar lets Jellie out of the bag and watches for a moment as she explores, chasing and swatting a nearby bat. He giggles a little, then sighs softly and sits down, pulling out his notebook and pencil, flipping to a blank page and folding down the corner to keep his place. He chews absentmindedly at the eraser on his pencil as he thinks. Where to start?

Well, any good project needed a name.

At the top of the page he writes it, tongue poking out between his teeth as he focuses on making it neat.

‘Operation: Be a Better Scar :)’

He adds the smiley face on a whim, and it makes him crack a little smile of his own. This is supposed to be a good thing. This is one project he can’t back out on.

Underneath, he starts a checklist. His brow furrows, biting at his pencil again. What first?

(There’s too much to fix. You might as well just leave.)

Forcibly, he shakes his head. That’s the last resort. Maybe it’s selfish, but he doesn’t want to go. Redirecting his focus, he puts his pencil to the paper.

1) only be somewhere if I am invited

There, that one should be easy enough. Seeing someone out and about was not an invitation to just walk up and start talking. Not anymore, anyway.

Feeling a bit more confident, Scar gets to work on writing more rules.

2) don’t doth bother busy hermits

(No one wanted to listen to him talk while they were trying to build, he figures.)

3) no pranks! unless helping someone else’s prank

(Grian came up with better ones anyway, and he could still have fun!)

4) no rambaling

(Self-explanatory, even if it’s hard to spell. He talks too much.)

5) build less stuff

(Grian had been teasing him about how big his starter base is. Maybe it had been real irritation. He takes up too much space.)

6) no shady deals

(Annoying, he was sure.)

7) be more help

(The hermits always needed more materials.)

8) less dying

(He knew that thought it was funny sometimes, but it had to get irritating, right? Picking up his stuff and having to wait for him to come get it.)

9) no mobs around bases

(He’d blown up part of Grian’s alley, that one time. He can’t do it again.)

10) be happy

(Pretend to be. They shouldn’t have to feel obligated to help him. They shouldn’t have to be uncomfortable just because he is.)

Finally, Scar rereads what he’d written, wracking his brain for more. He can always add stuff later, but he’d rather have it all done now so he can get started.

He doodles in the margins as he thinks: a cartoonishly angry bdubs; Jellie peeking over one of the numbers; Mumbo with a lopsided mustache; a tiny desert with a single cactus; a few sketchy flowers. Eventually, he gives up on coming up with anything else, closing the notebook and tucking it back into his inventory.

“We’ve got a good start, Jellie,” Scar says happily, looking down at his cat where she sleeps on his lap. He scoops her up and puts her back in the messenger bag for the flight home. “I’m feeling good about this.”

Or at least, he can pretend he does. The ache in his chest and the twisting in his stomach and the white in his hair doesn’t have to matter.

(Rule number ten. Be happy.)