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dreamauri · 27 days ago

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♪ — 𝗠𝗬 𝗡𝗔𝗠𝗘 𝗜𝗦 𝗕𝗥𝗨𝗧𝗨𝗦 max vertsappen x dutch! fem! driver! reader ( angst ) fic summary . . . when admiration and worship morphs into an obsession that borders on rivalry and hate, even as it remains tangled with traces of reluctant respect. From studying his every move as a young fan, Yn transforms into his fiercest competitor, driven by the need not just to beat her childhood idol, Max Verstappen, but to utterly dethrone him. (5.7K words)

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You pull off your helmet with a fury that blurs your vision, the weight of the day’s mistakes turning everything to red. You’d been so close—so damn close to taking the lead from him, only for Max to pull that brake test, sending both of you into the barriers. Without a second thought, you dropkick your helmet across the gravel, your scream piercing the air.

He’s already out of his car, stalking toward you with that smug, barely-contained anger in his eyes. The type of anger that’s wrapped up in confidence and control, the kind that shows he doesn’t care, not really.

“Are you out of your mind?” he barks, his voice clipped, only the faintest bit breathless. “What the hell was that?”

“You! You were what the hell that was!” you shout back, stepping forward until a marshal wedges between you, holding you both back with outstretched arms. “You pulled that damn stunt! You think you’re untouchable, Verstappen, but you’re not!” Your words echo across the track, catching the attention of everyone nearby.

Max’s lips curl into a mocking smirk. “Untouchable? Coming from the one who can’t seem to finish a race without nearly taking someone out?” His laugh is bitter, biting, and it grates on every nerve you have left.

“When did you turn into such a coward?” you hiss, every word as sharp as the tension in the air. “Or did the idea of losing to me start to get under your skin?”

Max’s face twitches, just for a second, but he covers it up with a shrug, like your words meant nothing. “Get real, Yn. You’re reckless. This sport has no place for someone like you if you’re going to risk both our necks out there.”

But as the marshals pull you apart, each of you going in opposite directions, the heat simmering in your chest turns from anger to something almost painful, a question that’s been lying dormant for too long: When did I start hating him so much?

In the quietness of the shower back in your drivers room, the memories come rushing back.

There was a time when you couldn’t even imagine hating Max. A time that you looked up to Max. You can see it now, your younger self glued to the screen, watching every race, every move he made on the track. Back then, he was a hero, a force you admired, your inspiration as you fought your way through karting, Formula 4, Formula 3.

It was one of those post-race interviews, back in the early days, when a reporter called you “Mini Max.” They’d smiled at you, waiting for your reaction, and you’d laughed, your cheeks flushed as you spoke about how much you looked up to him. It felt like an honor, a small victory, to be compared to him.

But somewhere along the way, admiration soured into frustration. Somewhere along the way, you started to hate him—hate that he seemed so invincible, that he could still overshadow you, that no matter what you did, he was always a step ahead.

Now, the thought of finishing behind him feels like a betrayal to the younger version of you, the girl who once dreamed of standing shoulder-to-shoulder with her hero. No, now it’s no longer enough to be near him. You need to beat him. You need him to feel what it’s like to lose.

★ ☆ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

While he was enjoying the off-season, probably relaxing on some distant beach enjoying his winder break, you were here—training, pushing yourself past every limit until your muscles ached, until you couldn’t remember anything but the fire burning inside you. You wanted to be better. You had to be.

You’d already stolen one of his records: youngest F1 driver. But it wasn’t enough. You wanted more. You wanted his wins, his titles, his legacy. Every drop of sweat, every missed social event, every sleepless night—all of it was for one thing: to dethrone Max Verstappen.

“You’re pushing too hard,” your performance coach warned one day, watching you with concern as you struggled to complete yet another lap on the simulator, your hands trembling with exhaustion.

“I’m not stopping until I’m faster than him,” you gritted out, voice strained, but you didn’t let up. You couldn’t. Because every time you closed your eyes, you saw him there, his smirk, his arrogant confidence, and it made you push harder, faster, ignoring every ache and pain.

Pre-season testing felt like a curse. The moment you hit the track, frustration settled in like an unwanted passenger, sitting heavy in your chest as you struggled with the car’s every turn. You needed something perfect, something that could carry you past him, but instead, the car felt like it was working against you, resisting every command.

“Is this really the best we can do?” you snapped at your engineer after another failed lap. Your tone was sharp, the bite in your voice making him flinch.

“It’s early, Yn,” he replied cautiously, not quite meeting your eyes. “We still have time to make adjustments.”

Time? You wanted to laugh, but it felt too bitter. There was no time—not when you could feel Max somewhere on the track, clocking in faster times in his rocketship, his team perfecting every detail while you were stuck here, in a car that felt like it was holding you back.

“It needs to be better,” you said quietly, your voice barely more than a whisper, but every ounce of frustration bled through. “I need it to be better if I’m going to beat him.”

★ ☆ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

As the season began, you avoided Max like he was some kind of curse, the plague even. Every time you saw him across the paddock, your jaw clenched, and you turned away. Every glance he threw your way felt like a challenge, and every interview brought questions you hated answering, questions about him, about your rivalry, about your chances against him.

The roar of the crowd was still pounding in your ears as you climbed out of the car, adrenaline coursing through you as every nerve thrummed with frustration. The race had been brutal—more than it should have been. You’d fought for every inch, every corner, only to have Max come up behind you on that last lap, reckless as always, clipping the side of your car and puncturing a hole right near the rear wing.

You tore off your gloves, tossing them to the side before stepping closer to examine the damage. The deep gouge was blatant against the pristine paint, a mark of just how close he’d come to forcing you out completely. Your fingers traced the edges of the hole, the anger simmering hotter with each second as you replayed the moment he veered in your direction, testing you in a move so blatant you couldn’t ignore it if you tried.

A nearby camera crew caught the scene, the lens aimed in your direction as you ripped off your helmet, pushing damp strands of hair from your face. You barely registered the red light on the camera, too consumed by the frustration boiling over.

“He really had to pull that move, didn’t he?” you muttered, voice dripping with bitterness as you wiped sweat from your brow. “Typical Max. God, he’s such a… such a bitch.”

The words came out low, rough, but it was enough for the camera to catch them, the red light blinking like it was in on the joke, laughing with you, or at you, whichever it was. You let out a huff, half-expecting him, Max, to have heard it somehow, already imagining his response—a smirk, a raised brow, maybe some cocky comment about how close he’d gotten to overtaking.

As you ran a hand over your face, trying to shake off the rage, you felt someone approaching from behind. You didn’t need to turn to know it was him. Max’s presence was unmistakable, like a storm looming over you, too close, too intense.

“What?” you snapped, finally spinning around to face him. He was already out of his helmet, his blue eyes fixed on you with that unreadable look that made your blood boil all over again.

“What? No ‘thank you’ for keeping it interesting?” he replied, his tone light but his gaze sharper, more calculating.

“Oh, sure,” you retorted, a bitter laugh slipping out. “Thank you for trying to send me into the wall with that last move. Real sportsmanship, Max.”

He tilted his head, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You don’t seem to mind getting a little aggressive when it suits you. Didn’t think you’d be this sensitive about it.”

“Sensitive?” You stepped closer, eyes narrowed. “That was reckless, even for you. I’m not surprised you’d think putting both of us at risk is somehow a good idea.”

Max’s smirk faded, a flicker of irritation crossing his face. “If you can’t handle the pressure, maybe—”

“Don’t,” you cut him off, words coming out like steel. “Don’t you dare imply that I can’t handle it. I was still ahead of you, even with that stunt. Maybe you should stop hiding behind dirty tactics and see how long you can actually stay in front without them.”

The air was thick with tension, and you barely noticed the media crew and team members pretending to busy themselves nearby, clearly trying to avoid interrupting whatever this was turning into.

Max let out a slow breath, his expression softening just enough that it threw you off for a second. “Believe what you want, Yn. Just remember who crossed the line first.”

His words were like a taunt, but they left a hollow ache in their wake as he turned, walking away without another glance back. You clenched your fists, feeling the heat of the camera still on you, catching everything.

Fine. Let them see, let them know you weren’t about to let him get away with this. If Max Verstappen wanted a rivalry, then that’s exactly what he was going to get.

★ ☆ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The roar of the engines echoed around the track, every corner a battle between you and Max. Your car was an extension of you, a machine honed and perfected for moments like this, pushing you to the very edge as you fought for P1 in the sprint race. Max was right there—just inches away, as relentless as ever. Every overtake, every daring cut into the corner, was met with resistance from him, as if he refused to let you have even an inch of track.

“He’s defending like mad,” one of the commentators said, awe in his voice. “You have to wonder if they’re aware of how much this fight feels like Caesar and Brutus. Max as Caesar, of course, with Yn gunning for him like Brutus.”

Your focus sharpened even further, the comparison strangely invigorating, pushing you to take every move with more aggression. If they wanted a Brutus, they’d get one.

When the race ended, you crossed the line right behind Max, fuming and breathless but satisfied with the chase. It was in the media pen afterward, your mind still replaying every maneuver, that an interviewer brought up the commentary.

“Did you catch what they were calling you out there?” the interviewer asked with a sly grin, clearly relishing in the drama.

You raised an eyebrow, tilting your head. “No, what?”

“They called you ‘Brutus.’”

You blinked in surprise, a mix of confusion and amusement flitting across your face before you brushed it off with a shrug. “It’s fitting, isn’t it? Brutus was victorious in the end.” You tried offering, looking at the bright side and giving a small smile, letting the interviewer chuckle as you shrugged off the implication. You knew there was a bite to your words, an edge that hinted at more than a friendly rivalry.

Meanwhile, in Max’s own interview, when they informed him of the new nickname, he barely batted an eye. “Yeah?” he said, cocking an eyebrow. Then he gave a small, careless nod. “It’s fitting, ’cause she’s a brute.” There was a half-smirk on his face, and the way he said it was practically a challenge. You could practically hear his voice, even though you were nowhere near him.

The next day, you stepped onto the track with a new kind of energy, a thrill of anticipation in your veins. As you took your position on the grid, a chant from the crowd filtered into your helmet. You could hear it even over the sound of engines revving, the murmur and shout of the crowd growing stronger: “Brutus! Brutus! Brutus!”

The name had taken hold, and there was something about it that set your blood on fire. You embraced it, straightening in your seat as though you were some kind of warrior, sent with purpose to take down Max. It felt like you weren’t just racing for yourself anymore; you were embodying something larger, a symbol of the one who dared to challenge the reigning power.

You glanced to the side where Max’s car sat in P1, his familiar helmet tilted as he prepped, no doubt hearing the same chant. If he looked your way, you didn’t see it, too wrapped up in the energy that was now backing you. You were Brutus, and you were ready to show everyone, including Max, just how fierce you could be.

★ ☆ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Each race felt like peeling back another layer, another page in a book you couldn’t stop reading, even as it tore at you. Max had become everything that drove you—every late-night practice, every reckless risk taken, every corner claimed just an inch sharper. You’d built your entire career studying him, dissecting his strengths, cataloging his weaknesses, carving out a strategy with every heartbeat set to match his.

But that irony twisted in your gut like a knife. It was almost poetic, really: you’d spent years learning him, watching him, emulating him until you’d become something terrifyingly similar. It was as if you’d built yourself in his image, shaped your own ambition around his fire, around the relentless hunger he brought to every race. But the thought was bitter, cold. Every time someone compared you, every time they pointed out how alike you were, it felt like a betrayal.

A betrayal to the younger you, to the version of yourself who’d watched him with awe, who’d traced his lines on paper with stars doodled around his name. The one who had once seen him as a symbol of everything good and pure about racing.

Now, he was nothing more than a hurdle you couldn’t ignore, one you refused to let stand in your way.

But no matter how much it hurt, no matter how much you resented him for being the goal you chased, you couldn’t stop. You wouldn’t. Not until every accolade, every win, every record was ripped from his hands. Not until you stood there, victorious, knowing it was your name on everyone’s lips. Even if it meant becoming the very thing you hated.

★ ☆ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The music pulsed, pounding through your chest as you leaned over the bar, nursing your drink with an intensity that bordered on dangerous. Tonight had been supposed to be an escape—a distraction from the simmering frustration that came with finishing just behind Max. Again. You could still feel the clench of your hands around the wheel, the image of him just a few seconds ahead as you crossed the finish line etched behind your eyelids. You wanted to forget it all. Lose yourself to the numbing, pounding bass and the warm haze of alcohol.

But that small sense of victory shattered the moment you caught sight of him across the club. Max. His eyes were on you, his presence impossible to ignore as he stood near the VIP section, laughing with friends, drink in hand. You groaned, tipping your drink back in a quick gulp. Of all the places...

You tried to ignore him, focusing on the dance floor, the bodies swaying around you, anything but the fact that he was watching your every move. But the alcohol mixed with the adrenaline still buzzing from the race, and that tiny, vengeful part of you wanted to prove something—to remind yourself you didn’t need to dwell on Max Verstappen.

But then you felt it: a warm, familiar touch wrapping around your waist. An arm pulling you back gently, firmly, into a chest that you knew too well.

"You know," he murmured, voice low, his breath warm against your ear. "You’re just like me."

The words sent a shiver down your spine, and you hated the way your heart reacted, a mix of anger and something else you didn’t want to name. You tried to wriggle free, stumbling slightly as the room spun around you. “Get off, Max. Go celebrate somewhere else.”

But he didn’t let go, his grip steady, holding you against him. “Come on, Yn,” he whispered, his voice dropping an octave. "Let me take care of you. I'll take care of you."

His words wrapped around you like a taunt, like an invitation. You wanted to resist, to pull away and leave him there, but your head was foggy, your limbs heavy from the drinks, from the heat of his breath. You could barely manage a scowl as he pulled you closer, his hand steady against your waist.

“I don’t need your help,” you muttered, your words slurred but defiant.

“I know,” he murmured, his voice a warm murmur in your ear. “But I’m still here.”

Your mind swirled, the beat of the music fading to a low hum as you let yourself sink into his warmth, barely remembering how you’d stumbled out of the club, your legs unsteady as he led you down the hall to his suite.

★ ☆ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The next morning, you woke with a start, your head pounding as the light filtered through the hotel curtains. You groaned, burying your head in the pillow. You weren’t home—this wasn’t your bed. Slowly, memories of last night seeped in, fractured and surreal. The club. The warmth of Max’s arm around your waist. The soft rasp of his voice in your ear.

And then it hit you. The sex, the moaning, the positions, the kissing, biting, fighting, fucking. All of it.

You sat up, rubbing your eyes, only to feel a warm hand on your wrist, pulling you back into the bed. “Leaving already?” Max’s voice was thick with sleep, his blue eyes meeting yours with a soft, unreadable look.

You tried to pull away, the instinct to run screaming through your hazy mind, but he caught your chin gently, tilting your face toward him. “Stay,” he whispered, brushing his lips against yours, soft and unhurried, as if he had all the time in the world.

Your mind raced, half of you screaming to push him away, but the warmth of his mouth, the way his hand cupped your face—it was both maddening and disarming. Just for a moment, you let yourself lean into him, your guard down, all your reasons to hate him slipping through your fingers like sand.

The aftermath of the kiss felt like whiplash. Your initial hesitation morphed into pure, seething anger, and you shoved Max’s arm off, pulling yourself away. The alcohol may have clouded your thoughts last night, but clarity came barreling through now, sharp and laced with regret. You needed to get out—fast.

Throwing off the covers, you stormed to the other side of the room, grabbing your clothes off the floor with an urgency that matched your pounding heartbeat. As you shoved your legs into your jeans, Max stirred behind you, still sprawled half-asleep, reaching out as if to pull you back down beside him.

“Yn,” he murmured, voice thick with sleep, a lazy grin tugging at his lips. “Why the rush? It’s not like you’ve got anywhere better—”

“Don’t,” you snapped, jamming your arms into your jacket. Your voice was clipped, your hands shaking as you fumbled with the zipper. “Just… don’t. I don’t know what I was thinking last night. This—” you motioned between you two, fingers trembling with irritation “—this was a mistake.”

Max sat up, that grin fading as he registered your expression. “Wait—hey, just hold on,” he muttered, pushing the blankets off and scrambling to find his boxers. You didn’t wait, storming toward the door, but his voice pulled you up short.

“So you’re really just going to walk out? Pretend this didn’t happen?” He was struggling into his pants, one leg half in as he hobbled after you.

You turned to him, words cutting through the morning air like a knife. “Yes, Max. I’m walking out because that’s exactly what this was—a mistake I’m leaving behind. We’re nothing alike, no matter what you want to think.”

He swayed, one hand against the wall as he finally managed to get his pants on, his eyes narrowing. “Are you sure that’s what this is? Or are you just scared to admit that you don’t hate me as much as you say you do?”

You paused, heart catching in your throat, looking at him for what felt like a minute before laughing bitterly, hoping your pause wasn’t too long for him to notice. Your heart ached. “You’re delusional. The only reason I was here was because I was too drunk to know better.”

Max took a step closer, eyes glinting with a challenge. “Then why don’t you tell me to stay away? Tell me to stop following you. I will, right now, if that’s what you really want.”

You faltered, your gaze flicking to the door, the pull between you both undeniable and frustrating. You could feel his stare digging into you, asking you to turn back, to stop pretending that he didn’t know you better than you wanted him to.

But instead, you gripped the doorknob and turned it, your knuckles going white. You didn’t say anything. Why didn’t you?

And before you let him say anything, you stepped through, slamming the door behind you.

★ ☆ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

You were sitting on the couch, eyes glued to the screen as another race played out before you. It wasn’t your own; it was one of Max’s races from a few seasons back. Your thumb hovered over the rewind button, your attention focused solely on catching every turn, every move he made. You leaned forward, squinting as you watched his lines, his techniques—any crack in his armor that might finally give you the edge you needed.

Behind you, your mother and father’s voices clashed in the kitchen.

“If you’d bothered to pick up the dry cleaning like I asked—” “Oh, don’t start. Just because you’re married again doesn’t mean you get to dictate my life, Liza.”

You tuned them out. Their back-and-forth was almost as predictable as Max’s lines around a slow corner; it was white noise now, nothing that could break your concentration.

Just as you spotted something—maybe a half-second hesitation in his approach to the apex—your father walked into the room, arms crossed, a smirk on his face as he eyed you and then the screen. He leaned against the doorframe, clearly amused.

“Still glued to that Verstappen kid, huh?” he teased, shaking his head. “I swear, it’s borderline obsession at this point.” He held something up, something that made your heart skip a beat—a familiar little notebook, worn and creased, with your childish doodles on the cover.

You looked at it, your chest tightening. The old notebook you’d kept as a kid, filled with every scrap of information about Max you could find—techniques, race strategies, his overtakes, his lines…everything.

He walked over, dropping the notebook onto your lap with a chuckle. “Remember this? You used to practically idolize him. Stars, doodles, the works,” he said, a slight hint of nostalgia in his tone. “You’d scribble notes while watching his races, your little hero.”

You swallowed, flipping open the notebook slowly. There it was: your handwriting, a little messy but full of enthusiasm, each page packed with observations about Max’s races. “Quick on the throttle here,” “Stellar defense move,” “Perfect line through Turn 4.” Some sections even had little stars around his name, doodles you’d drawn in the margins. Little hearts you hadn’t even noticed you’d drawn. Back then, he’d been like a god to you, the driver you’d wanted to be like, even surpass one day. The admiration on those pages was almost embarrassing now, a reminder of how innocent and naive you’d once been.

“Maybe I used to admire him,” you muttered, closing the notebook with a slight flush. You looked back at the screen, at the Max on the track, now an opponent, someone you wanted nothing more than to beat. “But that was before I knew what he was really like.”

Your dad laughed, clapping a hand on your shoulder. “Sure, sure, whatever you say. Just keep your obsession in check, alright? Wouldn’t want Max to get a restraining order.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t shake the feeling of those old memories lingering. The stars, the admiration—they were still in the notebook, a record of a time when you’d looked up to Max, and in a way, it reminded you of why you’d wanted to race in the first place. But now, you had something more to prove, and none of those doodles and stars could make you forget that.

The notebook lay open in your lap, one page showing a neatly drawn corner with “Max’s line” scribbled beside it. You had been meticulous, even back then, mapping his every turn, his every strategy like they were holy instructions, some sacred blueprint of how to be the best.

“Honestly, Liza, I’m not the one who left the thermostat set to Arctic!” Your dad’s voice cut through the hum.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t know I had to run every single thing by you,” your mom snapped back. The sharp clink of a pan hitting the stovetop made you wince, your focus wobbling before you found it again.

You sat down heavily in your sim rig, the notebook clutched in your lap. Flipping through its pages, you skimmed over the small stars and scribbled praises, memories spilling out like ghosts as you stared down at all those words you’d once used to describe Max: quick, flawless, untouchable. A tiny part of you wanted to laugh at yourself; the other part ached, the way you did when you realized something beautiful had soured beyond repair.

You loaded up the AI program, Max’s settings set to the hardest mode. The muffled argument from the kitchen filtered through the walls. Your parents were at it again—voices low but tense, each word prickling at the air, growing louder with each moment.

“And what about last weekend? Who took Kendra to her recital while you were out playing golf with your buddies?” your mom accused, her tone biting.

“Oh, please, because I didn’t already spend hours making sure her car was fixed?”

You shifted your focus to the screen, finally blocking them out as you took off into the first lap. The AI Max was fast—just as aggressive as he was in real life, lunging to take the inside line at every turn, leaving barely an inch between his virtual tires and yours. You held on, matching his speed with ease, remembering every note, every trick you’d taught yourself just to keep up with him. Lap one down. You’d beat him.

“Oh, come on, Frank! If I had a dollar for every time you pulled that excuse,” your mom continued, voice muffled but unmistakable.

“Then go ahead, keep tallying, Liza. I’ve got a list a mile long if we’re counting grudges!” he fired back.

You reset the sim, sending the AI Max to challenge you again. The screen flashed, and you were off, Max’s virtual car zipping ahead as you pushed your own car to keep pace. The tension built lap by lap, each turn taking you closer to a victory over him—even if it was only a pixelated version. A feeling of triumph stirred in your chest as you overtook the AI at the final corner, winning another lap, then another.

Another loud clang from the kitchen pierced the air, followed by your mom’s frustrated,

“Can we at least agree to stop shouting for once, Liz?”

“Sure, sure, until you find another reason to bite my head off,”

But by now, it didn’t matter how loud they got; you couldn’t shake the realization sinking in as you felt the weight of the notebook in your lap. You’d beaten him here, again and again.

Your gaze had dropped back to the pages in your lap, flipping through more of those pages, each one carrying fragments of that old adoration. Back when he was more than an opponent, back when he was someone you idolized, maybe even more than that. You felt your eyes burn as a tear slipped free, catching on your cheek.

You clenched the notebook tightly, fighting to shove down the wave of anger and resentment. When had it shifted? When had this fierce obsession turned into something ugly, something that kept you up at night, wanting nothing more than to knock him off that pedestal and destroy him?

The ache twisted deeper as you whispered, almost to yourself,

“Why did you have to ruin it, Max?”

★ ☆ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The Abu Dhabi sunset cast an intense glare over the grid, heat rising from the track in waves as the entire circuit buzzed with anticipation. This was it—the final race, the decider. The season had been a brutal, relentless tug of war, and every inch you’d gained had been hard-won, paid for with countless hours and sacrificed peace. Yet all that melted into a charged, quiet tension as you stood on the grid, looking straight into the piercing gaze of Max Verstappen.

He looked calm. Unshaken. A flicker of something unnameable crossed his face as he watched you, that damn smirk just barely tugging at his mouth. It was the same cocky expression that haunted your memories, the one that lit the spark of anger you’d fanned all year. You looked back, hard, steady—fighting the urge to let your lips twist into something bitter. All you wanted, all you needed, was to cross that line first. To watch him falter, just once. You could almost feel the weight of the wish pressing into your chest, every quiet, secret prayer you’d ever made for him to fail. You wanted it so badly that it felt wrong—like holding fire too close to your heart.

Just let him crash, you thought. Just once. You closed your eyes briefly, wishing with all the intensity you’d buried over the years. It was twisted, immoral maybe, but you was past caring. This was yours to win.

The lights went out, and with a roar of engines, you launched forward, you world shrinking to the roar of your own car and the blur of track under your tires. Corner after corner, you battled, inches apart, daring each other to break first. Max was relentless, always in your mirrors, always pushing you to your limits. They danced around each other with a precision that spoke of rivalry, yes, but something more, too—years of watching each other, of studying each other’s moves like rival chess masters waiting for the inevitable mistake.

But it was Max who finally cracked.

A few laps from the end, as you watched him from your mirrors, you saw it happen in real time. He’d miscalculated, his car swinging out too wide, the split-second error sending him straight into the barrier. The force of it made you gasp, the sound of his car hitting the wall ripping through your chest, catching you off guard. Your hand tightened on the wheel, breath coming fast as the seconds dragged on.

“Is he . . . is he okay?” you asked, your voice shaky as you came through the radio. “Max? Is he okay?”

There was a pause, and then your engineer’s voice cut in, calm and steady. “He’s fine, Yn. Focus. Just bring it home.”

Those words, simple as they were, snapped you back into the race. The track blurred around you as you pushed, pushing yourself as hard as your car would allow. When you crossed the finish line, your screams rang out over the radio, your engineer’s laughter joining you as the reality of it finally sunk in.

“Yn, you did it! You’re the champion!” he shouted, laughter bubbling over the line. “You are the world champion!”

“World champion!” You screamed, slamming your hands on the steering wheel in pure and overflowing euphoria. “Oh my God! We did it!”

You let out another whoop, a wild, unrestrained sound you didn’t recognize. Pulling into parc fermé, you climbed out, eyes bright as you leapt onto you car, your fists thrown in the air as cheers erupted around you. It felt surreal, everything you’d been fighting for finally, finally in your hands. Your team rushed toward you, their faces alight with joy as they lifted you up, your arms outstretched as you soaked in the moment, your heart swelling.

But as you turned to face the crowd, the energy draining just enough for clarity to creep in, your gaze locked on him. Max stood just outside the circle of people, his helmet still in hand, his expression unreadable. You almost froze, the swell of triumph slipping, replaced by something else. You forced yourself to look away, turning back to you team and pulling them in closer, their arms slung around your shoulders as they lifted you onto their shoulders, chanting your name. Their support grounded you, lifting you from the gnawing doubt you hadn’t expected.

As they set you down, your heart hammered, still buzzing from the race. But in that instant, you felt it—a pang of something like regret as you looked at him again, standing alone, just watching you.

Max took a small step forward, a soft, almost hopeful look in his eyes. “Congratulations,— Yn! Congrats—” he called out, his voice barely rising above the roar of the celebration around them.

But you didn’t move toward him. Your team pulled you back into their cheers, and you let yourself be swept up, allowing the thrill of victory to drown out everything else. As your team lifted you onto their shoulders. And as the cameras flashed, the crowd cheered, and your name echoed around the circuit, you held onto the knowledge that you’d won, even if a small, nagging voice reminded you that you’d left something behind in the process.

the Dutch national anthem now plays for you.

this is the longest one shot I've written so far, someone hold me

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oh-obrien · 1 month ago

Text

GRID ACE 0.4

Gamer Reader x Lestappen SMAU

AHHHH PART 0.4. Honestly this is helping me grow my creativity and learn to love a new fandom even more! Sorry for the brief disappearance, being an adult with a big girl job makes me cry sometimes hehe!!

As always all pictures are from Pinterest and reader has various face claims!

Please leave me requests.

I have a part five planned for this... one shot style

With that LET’S GO

Masterlsit / Previous Part / Next Part

F1forthegirls Fans seem to think the picture added to y/n’s story yesterday was considered a soft conformation of her involvement with both drivers and them arriving to the paddock together this morning is their first public outing

User1 The real question is did they all leave the same hotel together this morning?

-> F1forthegirls I hate to be that person but if they all arrived together this morning it can be assumed they left the hotel together.

-> User2 I’m staying in the same hotel as most of the crew and drivers and saw them leave together this morning! They got off the elevator together and Y/N was sandwiched between the two of them while they waited for their car.

-> User3 the plot is getting thickerrrrrrrr

User4 is anyone able to find details on if they all have their own rooms or not?

-> F1forthegirls we report on the information we are given, we will not invade the driver’s privacy to try and confirm an speculations.

-> User3 respectful queens

-> Xx.y/n.xX is it really respectful when every single move I make is currently being watched and talked about?

-> User4 OH MY GOD

-> Xx.y/n.xX I was actually being kind of serious but okay...

-> F1forthegirls If you'd like to reply to us directly feel free to DM us! We'd be happy to share your side also!

-> Xx.y/n.xX 🙄

User3 are we not going to talk about Y/N/ being annoyed in the replies??

-> User2 Like no girly you're the one who chose to step out into public with these men and post THAT on your Instagram story for the whole ass world to see

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

User5 WAIT this is INSANE, the FIA really said give the girlies what they want with COTA.

-> User6 NO because I NEED to know who's behind this tomfoolery. They really said HERE YOU GO when they gave us Lestappen pressers.

-> User7 Ferrari and RB are doing a fan event together later too.

-> User5 their media teams know what they're doing. You'd think they'd want to quash any rumors flying around. Two drivers in a relationship with the same girl???

-> User8 Not to be THAT person but they're potentially looking at pulling in a pretty new demographic to the sport and they'd be fans of arguably two of the most recognizable teams in the sport.

-> User9 No because that's smart... maybe this whole thing had been an RB pub stunt and Charles just got pulled in??? Lando too TBH.

-> User8 RIGHT??? Pulling in the gamer girlies with max and Y/N streaming together first and Charles and Lando just kind of got dragged into it.

-> User10 I feel like they were going for a love triangle and Max and Charles are just too nice for that and it turned into whatever this friendship is. Lando and Y/N just give sibling vibes, McLaren is bound to get some fans from that dynamic also.

F1forthegirls We would once again like to state that we personally will not speculate on the driver's personal relationships on this page, our twitter is purely for news. If you want a more in depth take on F1 news each week tune into our podcast that releases Monday at noon eastern time!

-> User11 we don't speculate on drivers relationships here but we will absolutely do it on our podcast. we love hypocritical queens. Please leave Max, Charles and Y/N alone.

-> User12 girl this is not a good look they're public figures

-> User11 Public figures who still deserve privacy

-> User13 I think they deserve privacy but if they are in a poly relationship I don't think y'all realize how good and bad this could be at the same time

-> User14 I don't think Red Bull and Ferrari of all teams would be overjoyed to see their two top drivers in a relationship with the same girl.

-> User13 But consider the fact that this would really be one of the first public poly couples of such a high status

-> User15 I work in marketing in motorsports and the teams would either dive head first with marketing or absolutely not allow it to be public.

->User14 From a contract standpoint they'd need to write in so many NDA's for Max and Charles so they can't share team information or anything.

-> User15 They probably already have those NDA's in place...

->Xx.y/n.xX do I get a say in this conversation or?????

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

Xx.y/n.xX just added to their story

REPLIES ARE DIABLED FOR THIS STORY

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

Xx.y/n.xX just posted

Tagged @ Maxverstappen1 , @ Charles_leclerc

Liked by Maxverstappen1, Charles_leclerc and 34,688 others

Comments on this post are limited

Xx.y/n.xX Mama told me to only date winners, so I picked two. As Miley Cyrus once said "It's a party in the U.S.A."

-> Yourbestfriend HARD LAUNCH OF THE CENTURY

-> Xx.y/n.xX 😘

Maxverstappen1 ❤️

-> Charles_leclerc 💕💕

-> Xx.y/n.xX @ maxverstappen1 Char put two hearts I think he wins

-> Charles_leclerc I also got first place in the actual race Max only got first in the sprint 🙄

-> Xx.y/n.xX @ maxverstappen1 he has a point Maxie

-> Landonorris ew save the nicknames please

-> Xx.y/n.xX I'm sorry mister 5 second penalty I didn't say you could speak.

Liked by @ maxverstappen1

-> Danielricciardo C O L D

-> Xx.y/n.xX please Danny, it was a burn. I lit your ass on fire with that one @ Landonorris

User16 IM SORRY WHAT IS THIS HARD LAUNCH

-> Redbullracing an admin approved one 👍

-> Scuderiaferrari 🤭

-> User17 NOT THE ADMINS GIGGLING OVER THIS

-> User18 Admins commenting makes me think they aren't joking with this one

-> User16 No like the admins are literally insane for this.

User19 this is going to make or break the F1 community

-> User20 I just want to know the dynamic

-> User21 Lestappen girlies are QUAKING in the wake of this one

Danielricciardo SO I PUT MY HANDS UP THEY'RE PLAYING MY SONG

-> Xx.y/n.xX THE BUTTERFLIES FLY AWAY I'M NODDING MY HEAD LIKE YEAH

-> Danielricciardo I will make sure they play this BANGER at the afterparty

-> Xx.y/n.xX Like it isn't first on my list Mr. Ricciardo

-> Danielricciardo @ georgerussell63 @ alex_albon @ landonorris you British boys will be shaking in your boots hearing this one at the club

-> Georgerussell63 Yee Haw 🤠

-> Alex_albon please I'm a seasoned pro with this one

-> Landonorris you doubt my abilities when drinks, me and y/n are mixed together

-> Xx.y/n.xX 🫡

Oscarpiastri MOM, DAD... and dad??? YEAH.

-> Xx.y/n.xX SON

-> Xx.y/n.xX @ mclaren I like this one more tell Lando to go off track more often

-> Landonorris I'm not buying a round tonight now

-> Xx.y/n.xX please, as soon as T-Swift comes on you're a GONNER

User22 BUT WHY IS Y/N EXPOSING ALL OF THEM KIND OF HYSTERICAL.

-> User23 the girly we needed and never knew it

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

Maxverstappen1 just posted

Tagged @ Xx.y/n.xX , @ charles_leclerc

Liked by redbullracing, Xx.y/n.xX and 56,678 others

Comments on this post have been turned off

Maxverstappen1 that you COTA!

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

Charles_leclerc just posted

Tagged @ Xx.y/n.xX , @ Maxverstappen1

Liked by landonorris , maxverstappen1 and 68,842 others

Comments on this post have been turned off

Charles_leclerc BEST. RACE. EVER.

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

Tag list : @that-one-little-soybean @menagerofmischief @delululeclerc @evermoreandroyalblue

#f1 fanfic #f1 imagine #formula 1 fanfic #max verstappen imagine #charles leclerc imagine #formula 1 imagine #charles lecrelc x reader #lestappen imagine #max verstappen x reader #MAX VERSTAPPEN IMAGINE #lestappen x reader #f1 smau #f1 social media au

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osachiyo · 1 year ago

Text

✦ "open your legs for me, baby. I wanna see you." + n. chuuya ✦

✧ pairing ૪ chuuya nakahara x fem!reader

✧ content warnings ૪ nsfw content (mdni), brat!reader, sex toys (vibrator), tit slapping, like one spank, petnames, degradation, humiliation, office sex etc

✧ word.count ૪ 1.2k+

⇆﹒event details & m.list

"name-san, are you okay?" tachihara asked, brows furrowed in worry as you squirmed in your seat, looking distressed. "h-huh? oh− I'm.. fine," you somehow squeaked out, the vibrations between your legs unbelievably distracting. you shouldn't have acted out like that to chuuya, who was now having a whole lot of fun tormenting you in front of your co-workers. tachihara shared a concerned look with gin, "if you say so.." you nodded, trying your best to not look weird. unfortunately for you, though, you had to give an important report to your boss, mori. today. how in the fuck could you forget?

"t-that's all, boss," you stuttered, earning a raised brow from the doctor. "alright, you may leave now," he sighed, brows slightly furrowed and you hoped he didn't know what was going on− praying to god that he didn't notice the slick running down your thighs, forming wet splotches on your tights. walking out of his office, you finally felt like you could breathe− thighs trembling as the vibrations increased, was he trying to get you killed? you were about to take a step before someone grabbed you by your wrist, chuuya. yelping and letting yourself be dragged by him, you could see the cocky smirk on his handsome face− you wanted to slap it off his face so bad. he took you to his office before slamming the door shut, locking it with a click, "so? how're you holding off, baby?" he teased, snickering at the little pout sitting on your pretty lips, " 's not funny, chuuya!" you stomped your foot, making him smirk and hook a thumb under your chin, rubbing it gently, "oh yeah? was I too mean, sweet girl?" he mocked, tone dropping an octave to let you know he was still pissed off about your stunt last night. what were you thinking edging him for that long? "now...." he hummed, shoving all of the paperwork off his desk before pushing you towards it, the corners of the table digging into your behind, "why don't you show me how much of a mess you've made, doll?" he rasped, gloved hands massaging your soft hips. "open your legs f'me, baby. wanna see you," he groaned, large hands pushing your knees apart to gaze at the damp spot on your mesh black tights. he could practically smell your arousal and it had him salivating like a dog− you gasped as rough hands ripped a hole through your tights, cute lacy panties peaking through and he snapped.

he didn't even bother taking your clothes off− just ripping your tights further before pushing your panties to the side, rubbing your clit up and down, two gloved fingers slipping inside of you to reach for the vibrator, smirking when his fingers brush against it before pulling it out and chucking it to the side. chuuya shoved his fingers back into you, and you could feel your hips bucking, thighs about to close when his unoccupied hand cracks against your thigh, effectively keeping your legs open for him. he pulled his fingers out of your cunt once he deemed you're wet enough, sticking the soaked digits in his mouth and lapping your arousal up, groaning at the taste. "such a sweet fuckin' pussy, yeah? could just eat you the fuck up," chuuya growled, flipping you over so that your stomach pressed against the table now, perky ass facing him and he licked his lips. "you don't deserve it though, do you? fuckin' brat," he spat, fingers digging into your cheeks to spread them apart, slotting his bulge in between. you whined, feeling his hot breath against the shell of your ear, rough hands now gripping your hips as he slowly grinded into your ass. "nuh uh, wouldn't be such a mm!− brat if you paid more attention to me−!" you got cut off by a loud 'smack!' ringing through the office, a cry escaping your lips at the harsh sting on your ass. "shut up." he scoffed, ripping apart your panties and unzipping his slacks. a shaky breath left his parted lips as he rubbed the tip of his flushed cock on your slit, slapping it against your clit a few times before sinking into your gooey hole. your breaths grew laboured, perfectly manicured nails digging into the polished gabon ebony of his desk, leaving small indents on it. "yeaahh, good girl−" his forehead rested on your shoulder, "such a good fuckin' girl when you stop yappin' like a bitch, huh?" you could basically hear the cocky smirk in his strained voice, a gasp leaving his throat as you purposely clamped around him. his hand wrapped around your throat, putting enough pressure to leave you dizzy as he growls into your ear, "behave, brat." a smirk tugged on your shiny lips, taking pride in rendering a port mafia executive into a growling and grunting mess. it made you feel powerful, in a way.

but that smirk didn't last for long, as he reached for the vibrator again, an evil laugh leaving him at the wide-eyed look on your pretty face. "oh don't give me that look, baby. promise this'll feel sooo fucking good, okay?" he grinned, turning the vibrator on before reaching down and holding it down to your clit, hissing out a curse when you clench around him even more, back bent to a perfect arch and god did you look sexy. his hips finally started thursting, balls clapping against the plush of your ass as you tried your best to not fall on the desk− though it was getting harder by the moment.

your tits bounced every time he thrusted into you, the obscene sound of skin against skin filling the room, making you hope no one passes by chuuya's office right now− fuck, that would be embarrassing. the vibrations suddenly went up, abruptly cutting off your train of thoughts, while his hand that was previously on your throat moves to your bouncing tits instead, ripping the buttons before squeezing the soft flesh between his fingers. he loved the way your tits basically spilled out of his hands, a whine escaping your throat when he slapped them around while chuckling cruelly. "what happened to that smartass mouth of yer's, huh?" each word was punctuated with a brutal slam of his narrow hips, fat cock hitting all the right spots inside your walls. the hand cupping your tit slapped it punishingly, tears starting to form on your glazed over eyes.

"dumb fuckin' slut just needed some good cock to fill her up? that right, baby? y-yeeaah−" he whined, thrusts growing erratic as he presses the vibrator on your clit harder, snapping the scorching hot rope of pleasure inside your tummy and you gushed− squirting all over his hand, cock and desk, mouth forming an 'o' shape as all thoughts but chuuya left your mind− the unbelievable pleasure dumbing you down to a shaking, moaning mess.

chuuya whined shamelessly, throwing the vibrator somewhere before slamming you down on the desk, his hand pressing down on the dip of your back to create a perfect arch for him and that was his last straw before pulling out− stroking himself desperately to search for his release. he came with a grunt a few moments after, spurting his seed all over your ass− some even landing on your pussylips, coating them with a milky sheen.

the only thing going through your head right now was− you needed to do this again.

©sachiyoh— do not copy, plagiarize and repost my works to any platform, reblogs are very appreciated♡

TAGS »»————> @hopefulpain @inkmooon @constant-existential-terror @nda-approval @mellieellie @lxverss @lynxxyyy @nanamibeloved

@sorahatsumi @himebwrries @nopethenope @neviex @fyodorisbbg @stygianoir @saharei @x-lunawrites-x @munnaitorei @emyyy007 @dearhoney-31 @the-foreigner @angoisfine @hannzai @honeycombflowers @yuiiasathesilly @kaithegremlin @poisonedslop @sukiischaotic @squigglewigglewoo @boba-is-good @cupidszvlvr @ashthemadwriter @4xxxv @bloobewy @mrs-bakugou @hauntedsol @ask-me-or-not @hanakotateyama @qqingque @lunaeheroine18 @kissesmellow21 @dazaichuuya69 @xxsilverjackalxx @gettinshiggywithit @leftrunawaybanana @deaths-presence @sugaredpersimmon @rjssierjrie @iheartpieck @angelof-darkness @otakudul @dazaisimpletmereadfanficspls @hellokitty-4-lele @scinclaitnoir @aly-insanity @kemis-world @bisexuawolfsalt @thateldribitch @chuuya-brainrot

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onceuponatown · 22 days ago

Photo

Elizabeth Cochran was born on May 5, 1864 in Cochran’s Mills, Pennsylvania. The town was founded by her father, Judge Michael Cochran. Elizabeth had fourteen siblings. Her father had ten children from his first marriage and five children from his second marriage to Elizabeth’s mother, Mary Jane Kennedy.

Michael Cochran’s rise from mill worker to mill owner to judge meant his family lived very comfortably. Unfortunately, he died when Elizabeth was only six years old and his fortune was divided among his many children, leaving Elizabeth’s mother and her children with a small fraction of the wealth they once enjoyed. Elizabeth’s mother soon remarried, but quickly divorced her second husband because of abuse, and relocated the family to Pittsburgh.

Elizabeth knew that she would need to support herself financially. At the age of 15, she enrolled in the State Normal School in Indiana, Pennsylvania, and an added an “e” to her last name to sound more distinguished. Her plan was to graduate and find a position as a teacher. However, after only a year and a half, Elizabeth ran out of money and could no longer afford the tuition. She moved back to Pittsburgh to help her mother run a boarding house.

In 1885, Elizabeth read an article in the Pittsburgh Dispatch that argued a woman’s place was in the home, “to be a helpmate to a man.” She strongly disagreed with this opinion and sent an angry letter to the editor anonymously signed “Lonely Orphan Girl.”

The newspaper’s editor, George A. Madden, was so impressed with the letter that he published a note asking the “Lonely Orphan Girl” to reveal her name. Elizabeth marched into the Dispatch offices and introduced herself. Madden immediately offered her a job as a columnist. Shortly after her first article was published, Elizabeth changed her pseudonym from “Lonely Orphan Girl” to “Nellie Bly,” after a popular song.

Elizabeth positioned herself as an investigative reporter. She went undercover at a factory where she experienced unsafe working conditions, poor wages, and long hours. Her honest reporting about the horrors of workers’ lives attracted negative attention from local factory owners. Elizabeth’s boss did not want to anger Pittsburgh’s elite and quickly reassigned her as a society columnist.

To escape writing about women’s issues on the society page, Elizabeth volunteered to travel to Mexico. She lived there as an international correspondent for the Dispatch for six months. When she returned, she was again assigned to the society page and promptly quit in protest.

Elizabeth hoped the massive newspaper industry of New York City would be more open-minded to a female journalist and left Pittsburgh. Although several newspapers turned down her application because she was a woman, she was eventually given the opportunity to write for Joseph Pulitzer’s New York World.

In her first act of “stunt” journalism for the World, Elizabeth pretended to be mentally ill and arranged to be a patient at New York’s insane asylum for the poor, Blackwell’s Island. For ten days Elizabeth experienced the physical and mental abuses suffered by patients.

Elizabeth’s report about Blackwell’s Island earned her a permanent position as an investigative journalist for the World. She published her articles in a book titled 10 Days in A Mad House. In it, she explained that New York City invested more money into care for the mentally ill after her articles were published. She was satisfied to know that her work led to change.

Activist journalists like Elizabeth—commonly known as muckrakers—were an important part of reform movements. Elizabeth’s investigations brought attention to inequalities and often motivated others to take action. She uncovered the abuse of women by male police officers, identified an employment agency that was stealing from immigrants, and exposed corrupt politicians. She also interviewed influential and controversial figures, including Emma Goldman in 1893.

The most famous of Elizabeth’s stunts was her successful seventy-two-day trip around the world in 1889, for which she had two goals. First, she wanted to beat the record set in the popular fictional world tour from Jules Verne’s Around the World in Eighty Days. Second, she wanted to prove that women were capable of traveling just as well as—if not better than—men. Elizabeth traveled light, taking only the dress she wore, a cape, and a small traveler’s bag. She challenged the stereotypical assumption that women could not travel without many suitcases, outfit changes, and vanity items. Her world tour made her a celebrity. After her return, she toured the country as a lecturer. Her image was used on everything from playing cards to board games. She recounted her adventures in her final book, Around the World in 72 Days.

In 1895, Elizabeth retired from writing and married Robert Livingston Seaman. Robert was a millionaire who owned the Iron Clad Manufacturing Company and the American Steel Barrel Company. When Robert died in 1904, Elizabeth briefly took over as president of his companies.

In 1911, she returned to journalism as a reporter for the New York Evening Journal. She covered a number of national news stories, including the Woman Suffrage Parade of 1913 in Washington, D.C. Elizabeth often referred to suffrage in her articles, arguing that women were as capable as men in all things. During World War I, she traveled to Europe as the first woman to report from the trenches on the front line.

Although Elizabeth never regained the level of stardom she experienced after her trip around the world, she continued to use her writing to shed light on issues of the day. She died of pneumonia on January 27, 1922.

#nellie bly #women's history #feminism #journalism #history of journalism #social justice #women's suffrage #progressive #women's rights

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illbegottenfaith · 6 days ago

Text

lucky pt 2 - theo nott x reader

after the Felix Felicis incident, your relationship with theo has dramatically changed, for better and for worse

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

a/n - by popular demand! rip my title tho the best alternative I could come up with was ‘feminine ass-kicking’ but idk if that’s too out there. also I’ve started part 3 too! (which should be the final part) this was kind of inspired by gilmore girls season 6 :)

tropes/warnings - academic rivals to lovers, angst, slow burn, miscommunication

word count - 2.1k

The Felix Felicis incident had given the both of you much to think about. Outwardly, you maintained the appearance that nothing had changed between the two of you, taking snipes at each other every now and then. But every night, before you’d fall asleep, your mind would wander back to that evening at the Astronomy Tower, the sight of Theo and the harsh contours of his face softened by the forgiving setting sun. Every night, he asks if you have anything else to say. Every night, you shake your head.

And as much as you’d like to pretend otherwise, things had changed between you. Theo became more reserved, somehow, less determined to spar with you. Your fights didn’t hold anywhere near the spark they once did. And you hated it. You hated that it bothered you, you hated that it upset you, you hated that it was all you could think about every time you were in the same classroom as him. It just wasn’t fair.

What also wasn’t fair was your entire group falling sick the day before an extremely crucial Potions project was due. They were all more than apologetic, but it didn’t change the fact that months worth of work to complete in one night if you wanted even a semblance of a chance at passing.

Which was how Theodore Nott found you in the library late one night, pouring over five gnarly tomes on Potions from the Medieval era, writing what looked like three essays at once. You flinched when you heard a noise near the bookshelves, and your mood wasn’t much improved when you saw who it was.

“Trying to read every book in one night, L/N?”

You wanted to roll your eyes. After weeks of stunted conversation, now that it was just the two of them, he was suddenly feeling chatty?

“I'm busy. Buzz off.”

Ignoring you, Theo crept closer, tilting his head to read what you were haphazardly scribbling.

“The Potions project? But we started that months ago. And it’s due tomorrow.”

You swept the papers up out of his sight. You were already in a testy mood to begin with and you were in no mood to have him crow over your bad luck.

“What part of ‘buzz off’ don’t you get?”

“Where are your groupmates?”

“Sick.”

“Sick?”

“They all went on some Hogsmeade trip together, the whole lot of them. They all caught it from each other and they’re supposed to be stupidly contagious.”

“But their reports should be fine.”

“They were, until Madam Pomfrey declared them a biohazard.” Your head was beginning to hurt from the bottled-up frustration. You knew it wasn’t their fault for falling sick, but now you had to pull an all-nighter just so you wouldn’t fail. You stood and walked past him to the shelves, pulling out any and every book that remotely looked like it might help.

You glanced at the clock, mentally calculating how much time you’d need. There was no way you could get it all done by 9 am. Feeling quite proud of yourself for successfully giving Theo the same cold shoulder he had been giving you the past couple of weeks, you walked to the library telephone and started dialing the number to Slughorn’s office. One of the only people who could help you now was Jeeves, Slughorn’s teaching assistant, provided he was in a good enough mood.

“Jeeves, hi. Yes, I know it’s late, but I was wondering if you could delay the Potions project submission by just an hour? I’m sure Slughorn wouldn’t mind. It’s just my entire team fell sick all at once, and Madam Pomfrey threw out everything they’ve touched in the past three days, including their reports. I know it's due 9 am but couldn’t you bend the rule a little, just this once? For me?”

You rubbed your forehead anxiously, an unpleasant expression on your face as you tried to follow whatever Jeeves was yammering about punctuality. When he moved on to the importance of personal accountability, you felt like you were going to combust if you didn’t shut him up soon.

“Y’know, Jeeves,” you interrupted with a dramatic sigh, dropping your voice, “just the other day I was thinking about that one Quidditch match you had played a couple of years back. Yes, that one game you subbed in for the Chaser? I have to say, you’re no slouch yourself out on the pitch. You sure look like you know your way around a broom. Yes, exactly, way better than those oafs on the team. I always thought it was a shame you didn’t make the cut - one hour. Yes, yes, that’s all I need. Thank you, thank you!”

You hung up, already feeling much more hopeful with the one-hour extension. All that was left to do was slave away for the rest of the night, and by morning you’d have a more than acceptable report ready.

“…what was that?”

You started, having nearly forgotten who was with you. “What was what?” You asked, half-distracted, once again absorbed in rearranging the layout of your Potions project.

“That, with the - ‘you look like you know your way around a broom?’ Really?”

You glanced at Theo, frowning. “Well, how do you get what you want?”

You turned your gaze back to the book splayed out in front of you, missing the brief look of longing that passed over Theo’s face. “Hmm. Bribery, mainly.”

“Right,” you said slowly, a hint of sarcasm in your tone underneath the flurry of activity. “That trust fund isn’t going to spend itself, now is it?”

“My trust fund doesn’t kick in ‘til I’m 25, tesoro.”

You wanted to kick yourself when your heart fluttered over the stupidly endearing pet name. You didn’t realise how much you missed it. “Oh, oh, of course. Mr. Moneybags here is just absolutely rolling in it even without his trust fund. How could I forget?”

“Mr. Moneybags? That’s the best you can come up with?”

You huffed without any real annoyance. You walked over to where Theo was lounging as he lazily watched you spin like a top between the bookshelves. He had the decency to sit up slightly as you approached and dumped the stack of papers into his lap.

“Look, Nott, I’m on a time crunch here. So either help me or get out.”

Theo looked up at you without a trace of mockery in his otherwise teasing blue eyes. You willed yourself to not look away.

“Yes, ma'am.”

You made the mistake of holding his gaze. A beat passed, then two. It seemed that it was surprisingly impossible for either of you to look away. Finally, you snapped out of it, mentally giving yourself a good shake as you hurried out of his magnetic field back to the table. If you didn’t know any better, you’d have thought you were flirting with him.

“Wha -?”

“Toast. From breakfast.”

You glanced around the room bleary-eyed, seizing Theo’s wrist a little harder than necessary as you blinked the sleep out of your eyes. As much as you hated to admit it, last night had gone better than you could have ever hoped. It helped to have another pair of hands and a brain that was almost as good as yours. Unfortunately, you must have nodded off at some point,

Cursing as you finally made out the time on his watch, you peeled off the piece of parchment stuck to your face and continued writing, even as every muscle in your palm protested. Theo rolled his eyes and stuck the toast in your mouth, which you mindlessly nibbled on for the next hour or so.

When you were finally done, you stuck your group’s names on the cover page and the two of you hurried down to Slughorn’s office a little before 10 o clock. Jeeves, good man that he was, was still in. But your relief was short-lived.

Jeeves did an insufferably exaggerated impression of reading the time as you walked in. “It’s 2 past 10. I’m afraid I can’t accept your submission.”

This was it. You reached your limit. You weren’t running on what was at most 2 hours of sleep just for some self-important dimwit of a teaching assistant to refuse your submission.

You grabbed the collar of Jeeves’ shirt, manhandling him with hours' worth of frustration. “Listen here, Jeeves. You will accept my group’s submission if you want to walk out of here with every part of your anatomy intact. You will take these essays I have here and you will accept them graciously, Merlin help you if you don’t.”

“What happened to using your feminine wiles?” asked Theo, thoroughly enjoying himself.

“Yeah, well, now I’m more in the mood for a feminine ass-kicking. Jeeves, come on. ”

You only released him when Theo placed a calming hand on your wrist. He reached into his pocket, offering something to a very red-faced and highly affronted Jeeves.

“C’mon, Jeeves. Maybe we could make this more worth your while.”

You hesitated, torn. On the one hand, you were raised better than to bribe people or accept financial aid, especially when you didn’t really need it. On the other hand, this project was worth 40% of your grade and Jeeves was being a little bitch.

Jeeves mulled over the coins in his palm, taking his sweet time appraising them. Just as it looked like he was about to ask for something a little more, you slammed a hand on his desk.

“Alright, fine, hand it over.”

Once you’d finally successfully submitted your project, the two of you walked out of Slughorn’s office in a daze. Without the stress of the impending deadline to act as a buffer between you, a certain awkwardness started to set in. Theo had his hands in his pockets, rubbing at a scuffed patch on the floor with his shoe.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you started, but he waved off your protests. Still, no one pulls an all-nighter for just about anyone.

“So how much did you give him?”

Theo sighed. “L/N.”

But you were already pulling out your coin purse. “It can’t have been more than what I have on me now.”

“Y/N.” You stopped counting out your coins. He was looking at you strangely, like he didn’t understand what he was doing either. “Forget it. Really.”

Reluctantly, you pocketed your coin purse. A hysterical sort of giddiness was starting to set in. “We did it.”

“You did it.”

Maybe it was the long night of endless writing or your grumbling stomach. Maybe it was the sleep deprivation. Or maybe it was the way he was looking at you now, with a smile so sincere like he was genuinely so proud of you. Whatever it was, you took a step towards him, and then another before throwing your arms around his neck.

It was a little less dignified than you would have hoped, what with you trembling with barely any sleep and the vestiges of caffeine-induced adrenaline and him having the audacity of being a whole head taller than you since sixth year. But he steadied you before you could tip back, his arms resting around your waist. You had never shaken hands, much less hugged each other, but something about it felt so warm, comforting, familiar. The feel of his solid body pressed against yours didn’t feel so terrible.

But as you pulled apart, you caught sight of his expression, and your face fell. He wasn’t smiling like you, not anymore.

“I’m sorry,” you blurted out, immediately feeling like the biggest idiot in the world. He still wasn’t smiling, but he didn’t look angry either. He looked - you couldn’t tell how he looked. He reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear almost regretfully, before turning to leave.

“Don’t.”

Theo paused. He didn’t turn to face you.

“Don’t do this, Nott. Don’t be cold. Don’t be distant.”

He adjusted the shoulder strap of his satchel. If you didn’t know any better, you’d say he was nervous. “I have Charms to get to.” He turned his head slightly but not enough to meet your gaze. “You should get a proper breakfast.”

And then he left, as if he had no idea what you were talking about. As if the last twelve hours hadn’t occurred. As if he hadn’t felt the void festering between you the past couple of weeks.

As if he didn’t care about you.

#theo nott x reader #theo nott #theodore nott #theodore nott x reader #theodore nott x y/n #theodore nott x you #theodore nott angst

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hazelsmirrorball · 1 year ago

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Rockstar girlfriend II. | Hazel Callahan

Rockstar! Hazel Callahan x Popstar! Reader Summary: Hazel Callahan and Y/n L/n have to be in a pr relationship, but both of them can stand each other. Warnings: Enemies to lovers! Enemies to lovers! Enemies to lovers! Heavy makeout session, smoking. English isn’t my main language a/n: Wrote this in class so I hope you gusy enjoy! Plus I’m really grateful on all the love you gave to the last one

part one. part three. part four. part five

Heart throb and Rock sensation, Hazel Callahan from the band ‘The Bottoms’ was caught making out with a C list celebrity.

Every press was good press or at least that was something her manager tried to convince her that being associated with Hazel Callahan was a good thing for her career. She wanted to agree but seeing the picture stare back at her with that damn headline made her go insane. She couldn’t believe it was even possible to be more pissed off at Hazel Callahan, more than she once was. Hazel got praised for the things she did. Rock sensation and Heart Throb and what did Y/n get? C list celebrity? Was this some type of cruel joke? Did Hazel personally know the writer of the article? Was she fucking them? Either way she was on the editors good side and also on the press good side.

The picture had gotten a lot of attention, like a LOT of attention. The publicity stunt had done its job spreading like wildfire. Hazel’s ring covered hands gripping onto her ass while Y/n moaned into the kiss. Hazel white tank tops rose up whilst Y/n’s skirt was almost at her stomach. Both of the girls' hair was a mess and both of them look like they enjoy the kiss.

The picture haunted Y/n’s head, there was evidence that she was melting into her biggest enemy's touch. Everything was a constant reminder of that. Instead of Y/n falling asleep pissed out of her mind because of some random shit Hazel did now she found herself falling asleep flustered. The only thought running through her head was Hazel's hands running all over her body and her sweet kisses. She had heard through other celebrities that Hazel was a good kisser but never would it cross her mind that she was going to test that theory. When Y/n tried writing a song she would find herself unconsciously trying to find words that rhyme with Hazel. If the lingering touch wasn’t enough all Y/n could see was the damn picture of them making out. In very elaborate almost pornographic fan edits, news articles and magazines, t-shirts, everywhere. Even Brittney went to the point of making that picture her wallpaper to mess with her.

Things were different now, not a good different, but different. She still despised Hazel; the only thing that had changed was the kiss between the two and the fact that people now knew that they didn’t hate each other. So their PR team was actually onto something because song streams from both sides were upping by the minute. Gaining followers left to right, both fandoms trying to uncover which song was dedicated for who. Every drama reporter and Late Night show host tried contacting their management team just to get the scoop on what was happening between the two. So management made it their mission to ride that heat of the moment.

That’s how Y/n, Isabel and Brittney found themselves backstage in The Bottoms concert. Management wanted people to link Hazel with Y/n as the “Rock Star girlfriend” so after fighting for her manager for what felt like hours she found herself pushing past people to find Hazel. Her management team wanted fans to see Y/n wearing something that belonged to Hazel, so they would think they were a couple.

Y/n looked at the door in front of her, Hazel name written in her messy writing on a small whiteboard. Her hand reached towards the door handle, slowly opened the door to the dressing room. Y/n instantly scrunched up her nose as the smell of cigarettes overtook her nostrils. She looked around the dark room in front of her furrowing her eyes. The room was filled with half empty beer bottles, pizza boxes, several cigarette budds, dirty shirts and other things she couldn’t even understand what they were. They had only been here for a day, how was it possible for her to make such a mess.

“Aren’t you going to say hi to your favorite girl?” A voice spoke, making Y/n turn towards the couch watching how Hazel inhaled the smoke from her cigarette. Hazel leaned back comfortably onto the leather couch, her leather covered legs spread open as she looked at her with barely open eyes. Y/n’s eyes followed her lips watching how the smoke slowly escaped her lips. She could feel her face turn red cursing herself for feeling like this in front of her.

“Hello.” Y/n barely managed to get out, not knowing what to say. Usually she would bitch out at Hazel with ease. Going off for hours annoyed at the girl, but now she was a flustered mess, imagining those leather pants rubbing against her thighs.

“L/n? You are usually very vocal? Ever since our little work session you don’t know what to say. My hotness finally caught up to you?” Hazel replied, tapping her cigarette on the ashtray next to her, stubbing it out. She sent a smile her way, running her now available ring-covered hands over her pants slowly. Hazel smirked watching how Y/n’s eyes didn’t leave her hands.

“Shut up” Y/n mumbled, gaining her composure glaring down at her, her anger once again showing up. Hazel let out a chuckle not moving from her place looking at Y/n through her long eyelashes. Y/n noticed the hint of a mischievous look in her eyes. What was she thinking about?

“What? Is my little D lister bitch flustered? Remember this is all professional, L/n. If it weren’t for this stupid contract I wouldn’t let you five feet near me. You are lucky that I even touch you.” Hazel replied tauntingly, sending a smirk her way. Her arms stretched against the backrest of the couch. Y/n lips scrunched up as she furrowed her eyebrows pissed off out of her mind. Y/n moved towards Hazel pulling her towards Y/n by the silver chain that adorned her neck.

“Let me tell you something, Callahan. I don’t want this. If it weren't from my damn manager fighting with me to be here, I would be anywhere but here. So don’t get too cocky, like you said this, this is professional. So you can call me an actress, because your touch didn’t do shit” Y/n gripped on her chain harder as Hazel looked up at her fake shook covering her face. Her hands reached up in a defensive manner while her gaze turned in her usually cocky one.

“They don’t call me a master with my hands just because I’m good with the guitar, sweetheart. I know how to differentiate a fake moan from a real one and what you did wasn't fake.” Hazel reached out towards Y/n pushing a string of her hair behind her ear sending a shiver up her spine. Y/n searched for the words to say but she couldn’t find a word in the dictionary to make a comeback. Hazel hands reached towards her waist pushing Y/n down on her lap.

“You look stressed, why don’t you take a smoke?” Hazel continued reaching for the table next to them, handing her the box of cigarettes. Y/n looked down at the cigarettes in her lap and slowly looked up at Hazel taking in every inch of her.

“I don’t smoke” Y/n replied, looking to the side. Hazel took the box of cigarettes in her hand, taking one out and placing it on her lips. She quickly bucked her hips up still holding onto Y/n with one hand to slip out her lighter. Hazel pushed the end of the lighter against Y/n chin making her look at her.

“You are tense, you need to ease down. So help me out, pretty girl” The said while gripping onto the cigarette on her teeth. Hazel handed the lighter to Y/n waiting for her to light it up. Y/n slowly leaned in, turning the lighter on the flame hitting Hazel’s skin making her glow. Y/n looked at Hazel’s closed eyes, the messy smokey liner surrounding her eyes caused a small smile to form on her lips. Hazel slowly gripped on her waist to make her continue. She slowly lights up the cigarette resting her hand on Hazel’s cheek. Turning off the lighter and placing it on the table next to her, not breaking eye contact with Hazel.

Hazel closed her eyes inhaling the smoke for a few seconds keeping the smoke inside her mouth. She removed the cigarette slowly searching for Y/n’s eyes leaning towards, her lips hovering Y/n’s lips. Hazel placed the cigarette down on the ashtray slowly placing her thumb in between Y/n’s lips slowly opening them up. Hazel blew out the smoke on to Y/n’s mouth. Y/n closed her eyes, humming from the sensation. Y/n attached their lips together finding herself in the same predicament as a few days ago. Both girls fighting for dominance not wanting to lose the upper hand.

But before Hazel could even do anything else, Y/n’s had moved her lips from hers and latched onto her neck. Y/n left sloppy kisses on Hazel’s neck, she kisses all over trying to find Hazel’s sweet spot. After a few seconds a soft whimper escaped from Hazel’s lips making Y/n smirk into her neck. She worked on that area whilst Hazel bit her lip in an attempt to cover her moans.

“If you aren’t vocal, I’ll stop sweetheart” Y/n replied imitating Hazel's usual tone , blowing against the freshly done hickey. Hazel glared at her, taking her by the neck and pushing her against the couch pinning her down. Y/n looked up at her pissed out of her mind, while Hazel smirked her chain hanging against her face softly hitting her nose.

“Never forget who’s in charge” She replied, letting go of her neck and moving off her heading towards the door.

“Where are you even going?” Y/n asked looking up from the couch. Hazel chuckled turning towards her.

“I’m going to do a show, so don’t miss me too much” and with that Hazel was gone.

Hazel maybe had won the fight but Y/n was going to win the war. The next morning news articles made Y/n wake up in joy. Headliners making her go insane but this time in a good way.

Y/n L/n, popstar sensation, making it known that her bass playing girlfriend is hers.

...

Thank you for reading!

next part

[previous part]

#hazel callahan x you #hazel callahan imagine #hazel x reader #hazel callahan #hazel callahan x reader #bottoms movie #ruby cruz x reader #ruby cruz #kit tanthalos x reader #kit tanthalos #lesbian #wlw #sapphic

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jesncin · 8 months ago

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I hope Superman fandom as a whole will one day understand that if you truly want to commit to the immigrant allegory, scenes like Lois shooting Clark with a gun or her jumping off a building to prove he's Superman pair really badly with that allegory.

I know some fans like to say "Superman was always an immigrant allegory" and while I get the sentiment of retroactively looking at how the lives of his creators inform the character they made, we also have to acknowledge that the allegory was never consistent to begin with. The original Superman comics were fun gags and shenanigans. Superman Smashes the Klan wouldn't stand out so much if his immigrant identity was consistently integral to his character.

And if you're going to commit to Superman being an immigrant, then you've got to be open to changes on staple Superman lore. So much of this fandom is dedicated to nostalgia, references, canon events, "but Lois does that in the comics! It's not Lois Lane if she doesn't do crazy things to prove who Superman is!" without considering how that is contextualized in the allegory.

I still get so many comments on my Clois comics but especially the Private Interview comic saying "I've never seen Superman this way before" from even longtime fans of the character. Honestly, I never saw him that way until I read Smashes the Klan. Since then I want people to have that recognition of themselves in him too. But that means being brave with changes! Maybe it's okay for this version of Lois to respect Superman's boundaries. Maybe an Asian Lois can be more than an aesthetic shallow retread of white Lois.

These characters are more than callbacks and references. The reason they persist throughout many versions is because they hold themes. Lois isn't just "stunt girl reporter obsessed with Superman and THE TRUTH", she's also a jaded reporter hardened by life who finds hope again in Superman. Superman isn't just "save cats from trees" guy. He's an alien immigrant, and you can make a ton of new stories from that lens alone.

#ramblings #media criticism #jesncin dc meta #<- I will update this tag #“you're writing Lois different!” yeah no kidding I'm committing to the allegory of immigrant solidarity that doesn't exist in canon #I'm also committing to the belief that BIPOC characters aren't just white characters with flavor but whole different experiences #that should be explored! wragh had these thoughts for a while #jesncin talks maws #this is a superman smashes the klan supremacy blog

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caesium-55 · 8 months ago

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—everything is orange. [ ii ]

pairing: lando norris x kpop idol! reader

summary: a racecar driver who needed a fake girlfriend to dispel rumors and a kpop idol who needed publicity for her song. somewhere in between orange cars and orange sunsets, stands something they're afraid of naming.

warning/s: graphic description of blood and gore, body insecurity, lando might be a lil ooc

masterlist.

God bless Jinnie Jo and her overly prepared self because you thought you’d die when you got attacked by the damn shellfish allergy in the car on the way to the hotel. It's fortunate that Jinnie happens to carry around your allergy meds. You dry-swallow the tablets without hesitation, uttering your thanks to Jinnie.

“Song Dan-ssi gave me a list of your allergy meds before we left,” Jinnie tells you. Warmth floods your chest. Manager-nim may be in another country but he never fails to take care of you. You're definitely going to buy something for Manager-nim when you return to Seoul. A jacket perhaps?

The first thing you do the moment you enter your hotel room is kick your boots off, take a warm shower, and reunite with the love of your life—the bed. The mattress swallows you whole and you let out a content sigh as you allow your body to sink in it. Not even ten minutes later, you grab your bag, which you have haphazardly thrown on the bed, take out your phone, and open the X app. You type Lando’s name in the search box.

username1: i am disgusted by the people who still support lando norris like yall really support a man who got a girl pregnant and refusing to take responsibility? i just know mclaren is lying when they said he's not the father

username2: justice for the girl that lando norris got pregnant! he should be kicked out of mclaren!

username3: that girl lucky bc her baby daddy is THE lando norris. she should tell us how he fucks in great detail

You cringe. Your fingers tap the three buttons at the upper right corner and without hesitation, pressing report. You continue to scroll down the tweets, reading them one by one as the clock ticks.

username4: what lie will mclaren tell again to protect little lando norris?

Your phone pings. A notification bar appears on the upper portion of your phone screen. You have received a message. You stop reading the tweet and open your messages app.

unknown number: hey

unknown number: this is lando

unknown number: your boyfriend?

unknown number: the fake one

You immediately save his number in your contacts. You name him Lando Norris.

you: hey there

you: do i just call you lando or

lando: you can call me baby

You snigger at his flirting attempt. Ten points for trying, Lando Norris.

you: okay baby

lando: 😳

lando: okay

lando: we agreed on hard launching each other in socmed right?

you: yah

lando: i kinda don't have a picture of you?

lando: pr told me to ask you if you can send me one

lando: i’ll send you one too

you: i have an idea

you: put me on your story

lando: yeah im planning to do exactly that

lando: have you been listening to what we talked about earlier in the meeting?

you: then delete it after a few mins

lando: wait why

you: make it look like you did it on accident

Your first mistake in your first PR relationship with another idol is that you immediately hard-launched each other on Instagram after Dispatch released his pictures kissing a guy in a bar. People got skeptical and most of them called out your relationship as a PR stunt. They called you a cover up, which you were, but they weren't supposed to know that.

You're not going to make the same mistake twice.

lando: and this will work?

you: let's not shake the confidence i have

lando: 😂

you: people are already expecting mclaren to set a pr stunt so you can gain the public’s hearts back

you: u have to make yourself look like you never needed a pr stunt in the first place, that you’re not trying to win the public back

you: people will catch up if you suddenly post that you have a girlfriend in the middle of your hot issue

you: netizens are quickwitted theyre not as dumb as most of us think

You hope you're explaining it well. You're trying to make your point as clear as possible but it's hard. You forgot the other English words you’ve learned.

lando: okay i get ur point

lando: i’ll do what u want

lando: someone has to tell pr what u planned though

lando: it's not going to be me

Fuck the PR. You're not going to tell them and let them have a field day tomorrow. That's what they get for expecting you to sign that stupid first contract they made.

You open your camera app and take a quick selfie.

No. Your nose looks too big at that angle.

Again.

Now, your forehead looks like an airport.

Again.

Your teeth are showing. The coffee stains are visible.

Again.

you: *sent a photo*

lando: i

lando: help me with the caption? my braincells flew off

you: idk not good at captions

you: just say hello loml or smth

This is the story you want to tell:

You met Lando a year after you departed from ORACLE in Australia.

You have a mutual friend—named Tori Allen—who introduced you to one another. Tori Allen does not exist. She's just the fictional side character of your love story.

You started out as friends. Lando is freshly out from a breakup and you’re just trying to live a quiet life after your fall from grace.

You talked for months because of your mutual interest in cars. Eventually, you started going on casual dates.

You asked Lando to keep it secret. He said yes in respect to you. HAN Entertainment already released a press statement regarding your mental health status after the 2021 incident so the public would assume that this was the reason why.

The relationship turned serious three months before Lando’s scandal.

Lando never got the girl pregnant. He never touched that girl. He was loyal to you.

Jinnie almost breaks down the door the next morning. You open it before she can do so. She angrily stomps inside your room and you close the door behind her. Her face is red, her expression taut.

“It's seven,” your eyebrows crease together. You make a quick glance at the phone in your hand. 7:22, the clock in your lockscreen projects. “You told me we are supposed to meet at twelve.”

“McLaren PR called me up,” Jinnie informs you. You’re beginning to get an idea where this conversation is going. “You didn't do what we agreed on.”

“And what did we agree on?” you cross your arms over your chest. You flutter your eyelashes innocently at her.

“That you’re going to choose photos to post on each of your accounts and let PR handle the captions. Norris posted something immediately without PR checking it and deleted it!”

“Did he tell you that it was my idea?”

“No, but I know that it was and it turns out I’m right. You just confirmed it.”

“Did it work?” you question.

“I can't with you!” she throws her hands up in the air, frustrated. “We are supposed to follow orders!”

“No,” you say. “You are supposed to follow orders. That's what Yoon PD-nim told you. He told me to do what I believed was best.”

You open X. Lando’s name is at the top of the trending list. You press his name and read through the tweets that appeared.

username5: LANDO NORRIS WHAT IS THIS BEHAVIOR

username6: EVERYONE HERE ARE THE RECEIPTS *screenshot*

username7: is this what you call the freudian slip lol

username8: I AM NOT CRAZY GUYS LANDO ACCIDENTALLY STORIED HIS GF IN HIS PUBLIC ACC

username9: he deleted it so quick too 😭 im sure the man panicked

username10: HE CHEATED ON HIS GF AND GOT A GIRL PREGNANT??!?

username11: for all we know he didn't even bang that girl 🤷 his girlfriend’s pretty hot he’s definitely not cheating on her

username10: men cheat on their pretty wives and girlfriends all the time

username12: not lando norris that man’s in love LOVE can u see his caption

username13: the caption??? lando’s pretty smooth with his words

username14: he’s taking smooth operator lessons from carlos

username15: im crazy but what if this is just a pr stunt 🤔

username16: girl he won't delete the story in a panic if it's a pr stunt

username17: he was definitely going to post it in his priv and made a mistake 😭

username18: very lando of him

username17: he stronger than me bc if my girlfriend was that pretty, her face will be flooding my instagram

username19: ignore lando, his girl tho 😳

username20: he called her loml omgggg

username21: booo luisa’s prettier

username22: fok off and move on

username23: lando can you fight? meet me at the kfc parking lot and let's fight

username24: probably not but he can run you over with his car

username25: i swear ive seen that girl before i just cant pinpoint where

username26: IT'S [NAME] EX MEMBER OF ORACLE WE HAVENT SEEN HER SINCE 2021

username27: so he bagged a kpop girlie??? lando got game dayummm

username28: isn't [name] an illegal street racer? that's why she got kicked out of the group right?

username29: an f1 racer and a street racer couple 😳 omg what in booktok is this

username30: she's not a streetracer she only watched the street race

username28: she told you that herself?

username30: her company did

username31: THEY CANT BE DATING OMG LANDO YOU CAN DO BETTER SHE DOESN'T DESERVE TO BE A WAG

username32: and u think ur better than her?

“It's working,” you state. You turn to Jinnie, raising your phone in the air and waving it. A smug smirk spreads to your lips. “It's working.”

Nobody is doubting the relationship like the time with Minhyung. This is a good start. Now, onto the next part.

“So are we really going to keep having lunch dates until your race?” you poke the shrimp on the plate with your fork. You're having pasta again. In the same place, too. It sucks but you swallow the food and smile as if you’re enjoying the meal.

For today's outfit, Jinnie chose a Valentino Garavani black midi dress paired with Jimmy Choo Antia leather sandals. Lando matched your outfit with a black silk button up and off-white pants. You’re both playing the “looking like a couple” card well.

“I believe so,” Lando says. You mentally count the days of the calendar in your head. The FP1 is scheduled to begin in two days. “By the way, I’ve been meaning to ask….”

“Hm?”

“The team didn't scold you a lot, did they?”

“They didn’t,” you give him a tight smile. Did he worry? For you? That's very sweet of him. “Why would they? My plan went great.”

Lando nods, “It did. You’re good at this.”

You smile at his compliment, shrugging a shoulder. I’m supposed to be good at this. I have no other choice.

“Let's show them our story,” you say. “Show, not tell. People are more inclined to believe actions rather than words. Show them the story we want them to know and we don't answer their questions early so we can keep the attention and the curiosity on us. Once the timing is right, you answer their questions, one by one. This is risky because if we don't act right, we’re done….”

You set the fork down and finally stop terrorizing the poor shrimp. It's completely obliterated now.

“But I believe we can act right,” honesty bleeds through your words. “You're lovable and you already act like a sweet boyfriend without trying.”

Lando purses his lips and averts his gaze. You see pink dusting his cheeks.

“I try.”

“Nice try,” your words come out dry. You give him a thumbs-up. “Also, I’m full.”

“You only ate half your plate,” Lando points out.

“The portion is too big. I’m a light eater.”

HAN Entertainment is partly to blame for that. You got accustomed to their extreme diets and small meal portions that you cannot even eat more than a small bowl of rice.

“Do you not like the food?” he asks, concerned.

You don’t answer the question. Instead, you lace your fingers together and rest your chin on them, leaning slightly forward.

“I have another plan. Wanna hear it?”

You still don't like having attention to yourself. The feeling of having eyes watching your every move, waiting for you to make a mistake still terrifies you. But attention, the right kind especially, is a weapon. You need a weapon to fight this war. A war to build your career again.

“Keep them on their toes,” the instructor of your PR training class once said. “Give them what they want piece by piece, just enough to keep them wanting more, but never give them everything.”

Until now, you still abide by her teachings. God bless Kim Gaon-ssi and her big brain, wherever she is now. She resigned from HAN entertainment a year ago.

It's been a few days since Lando pulled that stunt in his Instagram story and yet, the attention you're receiving from the fans is not simmering down. You didn't expect anyone to be this involved or curious about a driver's love life but here everyone was.

You wake up at seven and then proceed to spend an hour on your phone while lying in bed to push all the sleepiness away from your system. You leave your bed at nine, change out of your sleeping wear, perform a whole morning ritual inside the bathroom, and by eleven, you send Jinnie a message to get brunch and invite her to eat together inside the privacy of your hotel room. She arrives after fifteen minutes with hotel service food. You eat until twelve thirty and after eating, you begin to get ready.

The free practice session is at 5:30 PM. You can afford a bit more time to get ready so you shower again. It took you nearly two hours. In the meantime, Jinnie prepares your clothes.

You mentally thank the heavens when you see trousers neatly folded on your bed. If Jinnie forces you to wear dresses again, you’re going to lose it. You're conscious of how big your thighs look. You don't even have a thigh gap. Big thighs, small ankles, and muscular calves. They're just a few of your numerous bodily insecurities.

Jinnie pairs the Moon Choi black back pocket trousers with a Dior Toile de Jouy Sauvage silk top. For the shoes, she chooses a pair of white Fila chunky sneakers. She helps you apply your makeup and fix your hair. To finish the look, you grab your black cross body bag, smart watch, sunglasses, and a black ball cap.

Jinnie snatches the ball cap from your hands and replaces it with a McLaren ball cap. A tacky orange with the number four. You raise your brow at her. She gives you a pointed look, a look that says: don’t even try to protest. You sigh, resigned, and pull it onto your head.

She scans your appearance, dragging her coal eyes from the top of your head to your toes. She huffs, satisfied.

“You look perfect.”

Perfect is the goal.

Jinnie drives you to the race venue. She drops you off at the parking lot. She's not happy with it. Jinnie wanted to come. You told her no. You can handle this little act alone. You don’t see an ex-idol with a manager, do you?

The moment you exit the car, you slip on your mask. Figuratively and literally. You tip your ball cap upwards to scan your surroundings, searching for the way in. You carry your phone in your right hand and your paddock pass in the left. Lando gave it to you during dinner yesterday.

A racing event is crowded with people. That's a given. Perhaps not as crowded as a concert but still crowded nonetheless. A stage will not separate you from the people nor a barricade. Unfortunately. You have no bodyguard, no manager, no HAN Entertainment staff.

You're not here as ORACLE’s [Name] but as Lando Norris’ girlfriend.

Your feet lead you to a path where there are less people. You message Lando that you’ve arrived. He replies in a matter of seconds.

lando: ill come and get you

lando: wait for me

You remove your cap, fix your hair, before pulling the cap on. You spot a man with a Nikon DSLR standing a good distance. He is wearing a cord around his neck. The word MEDIA is printed in bold white letters. Your lips curl a little underneath your face mask.

It is show time.

During your trainee years, acting classes are mandatory. You know the basics. You're confident that you're good at acting. If you weren't, the company wouldn't have pushed you to act in two dramas as a side character during your rookie years. You received a reward for your performances, too.

To look lost, you have to keep glancing around you as if you’re contemplating which way to go. You have to look unsure of your actions. Hesitant. You have to constantly look at your phone as if you’re reading directions in it or texting someone to tell you where you should be going. You have to scratch your nape a few times to express nervousness. You're in a place you don’t know, it’s natural to be nervous.

Someone is bound to approach you and help you. When they do, you remove the cap but not the mask and then hope they know who you are. When they don't, well…. that's a problem for future you. You haven't thought that far.

“Hi, excuse me, do you need help?”

You perk up. Orange fills your view. A group of four girls have approached you and they all wear twinning McLaren merch. You can see that three of them sport the number four in their shirts, Lando’s race number. You involuntarily swallow.

There was a case once where a rookie actress got beaten up by her idol boyfriend’s fans promptly after the release of their dating news. Fans can be so jealous to the point of violence. It's a toxic fan culture. That's why so many Kpop idols resort to keeping their relationships private and secret. You hope you won’t get beaten up.

But also, given that they’re McLaren and Lando fans, there is a high possibility that they’ll recognize you. Which is exactly what you wanted. So you push that stupid fear aside and keep the show going.

“Hi, uh,” you remove your cap and lower your face mask until it's bunched up below your nose. “I’m kind of…lost? Do you know the way to the, uh…”

You forget what it's called. McLaren garage? You don't remember the exact word Lando used. You're still not confident that you know the difference between a paddock, a garage, and a livery.

“Wait, I know you!”

You purposely widen your eyes.

“You’re Lando’s girlfriend!”

You smile sheepishly, scratching your cheek with your finger.

The girls break out into loud and high-pitched squeals. Their voices are so shrill that you cannot help but wince. You motion for them to quiet down. Inwardly, you want them to keep being loud. Loud enough to warrant the attention of the photographer, your target.

“Oh my gosh, oh my gosh, oh my gosh, we absolutely have to take a selfie!”

You barely understand her rapid spitfire of words until she takes out her phone. Panic instantly swells within you.

This is not the plan. You only wanted one person to take the necessary picture. Not this.

You hastily slap your hand over the lower half of your face. You stagger backwards and stumble against a sturdy wall. Your hands fly out to your sides as you feel yourself lose your balance. Two hands grip your shoulders and you hear a surprised woah! from behind you. You lift your head.

It's not a wall. It's Lando.

His beautiful, beautiful eyes gaze down at you. The colors look lighter under the sun. His thick brows are furrowed together, his forehead creasing.

Lando spins you around so you're face-to-face with his hard chest. You squint at the multiple logos printed on the long-sleeves he’s wearing. Is this what he wears when he races? He swiftly takes the McLaren ball cap off your hand and puts it on your head. His hand remains tenderly flat on your shoulder blade, the other lays on your cheek as if he's trying to cover your face. You tug your face mask up and rub your throat.

“Hi,” Lando greets the girls sweetly. This causes the eruption of another wave of high-pitched squeals. “I’m sorry but do you mind if we keep the cameras away? Our relationship isn't out and as much as possible, we’d like to keep it that way. Can we respect my girl’s privacy please?”

He sounds exactly like a male lead in a romance Kdrama. You know it's fake, that the both of you are playing roles, but his words and the way he delivers them so effortlessly makes you momentarily doubt if he's really acting. It causes a butterfly to flutter in your stomach and your pulse to steadily accelerate. His hands are large and warm and for a moment, it makes you wonder if this is what security feels like. If this is what it feels like to be loved.

Then, you get reminded that it is all an act.

How can actors not fall in love with their co-actors when acting can feel this real at times?

“Thank you,” you hear Lando say. You miss the previous parts of the conversation because of the thoughts that invaded your mind.

“You look so cute together, oh my god. I’m going to die,” the fangirl adds. Lando’s chest vibrates as he chuckles, the sound deep and warm.

“We need to go, sorry. Enjoy the race today.”

He taps his thumb against your shoulder blade and he starts walking, his hands not detaching themselves from your skin. You keep your head low as Lando guides you away. In your peripheral vision, you see the photographer’s camera pointed towards the two of you. A self-satisfied smirk plays on your lips.

“How did I do?” Lando asks the moment he removes his helmet. He is sporting a bright grin, so bright that you're sure it’s going to make the sun envious, as his fingers comb through his damp curly hair. A few stray strands are stuck on his sweaty forehead. You feel the urge to sweep them aside for him.

You search through your mental thesaurus for the synonyms of the word amazing and have chosen: “Impressive.”

Light beads of sweat trickle down his face and neck. A McLaren staff member comes and hands him a towel to wipe them off. Lando thanks her and she leaves. He thrusts the towel towards you. You blink in confusion.

“Will you do the honors?”

“Can't you do it yourself?”

“But you have to play the part of a sweet girlfriend, am I right or am I right?” You roll your eyes at his cheekiness, rising to a stand. You place the McLaren jacket in your hands on your chair. Lando handed it to you before he climbed into the car. You don't know the reason behind his action. Nevertheless, you held the jacket for him.

You take the towel from his hands, your fingers grazing with his. Lando’s smile threatens to split in half as he puts his hands behind his back, parts his legs a little, and then bends down so you won't have a difficult time wiping his sweat for him. You're not that much shorter than him and your height difference is perfectly reasonable and comfortable but you're still grateful that he's doing this for you.

You don't wipe his sweat. Instead, you pat them out. Patting is gentle on skin. The towel will simply absorb the sweat on his skin. Rubbing the skin can lead to skin irritation and inflammation. Lando’s eyes flutter close at your actions and you swear you see him leaning against your hand.

“You raced good today,” you praise him.

You have zero idea on what happened in the past hour. The cars went around in circles. Then, they time their laps. They’re not even racing each other. You thought they would.

In all honesty, you think the entire thing is a bore. The street races you went to when you were a teen were more fun. A minimum of three drivers gets injured every race and it's highly likely someone ends up dead, which is your messed-up definition of the word fun.

You’re more interested in the special guest who decided to grace the track with its great reptile presence. A dinosaur. Kidding, it's just a lizard. It looks like it was surveying the scene and strategizing a great dinosaur invasion.

Lando's chest swells, “Well, I have to impress my girl.”

He opens his eyes and they meet yours. They're twinkling with mirth.

“Color me impressed then.” Despite your words, your tone is unimpressed.

He smiles impossibly wider, now showing his full set of pearly white teeth. He bites his bottom lip. You stop patting his sweat and lower your hand to the side.

“You don't have any more races tonight?” you question. Lando straightens.

“Later at 9 PM.”

“That's quite late.”

“It is?” Lando’s head tilts to the side a little. “Do you sleep early?”

You hardly sleep at all. You have a hard time maintaining regular human sleeping and waking hours. Like the other half of the world population.

“That's not it,” you shake your head. “I kind of just expected that the next practice session would be tomorrow morning.”

“Singapore usually holds night races. Track temperatures are low and the organizers can broadcast the race during peak viewing hours in European time,” Lando explains. “And they hold two practice races a day because it only lasts an hour.”

“That makes sense.”

“Are you hungry?” Lando questions, smoothly redirecting the conversation to food.

“I could eat.” You're not particularly hungry. You're not full either.

“I know a good place that sells these amazing wraps.”

Wraps sound enticing. You can't remember the last time you've eaten one.

“Lead the way.”

You chew on your beef wrap slowly as your eyes focus on the screen of your phone. The voices of the sports announcers live broadcasting the ongoing race fill Lando’s driver room. After buying the wrap, he brought you to his driver room so you can enjoy the privacy as you ate. You appreciate the thoughtfulness. You don't think you can eat outside. So many people can see you.

username33: LOOK AT THESE PHOTOS I AM GOING FERAL

username34: HOLUP LANDO'S GIRL WAS IN THE PADDOCK??? ON THE DAY I DECIDED NOT TO GO?? EVJSNSVSISKS

username35: girlie was hiding 😭 she deliberately went through the back of the paddock so no one can see her going to the garage

username36: my friends and i met her today! she looks like she's lost and as fellow mclaren fans, we went to help her and she was so sweet omg and so so shy too. we tried to take a pic with her but lando arrived and told us to respect his girl’s space

username36: and i quote “do you mind if we keep the cameras away? our relationship isn't out and we’d like to keep it that way. can we respect my girl’s privacy please” WHEN I TELL YOU I MELTED ON THE SPOT

username37: girl he really said that???

username38: i’m her friend and yes he really said that 😭

username39: little lando norris is not so little anymore

username37: pls tell me you backed off immediately

username38: we did!! we kinda feel bad now that we discovered she's been battling anxiety since 2021 and that she doesn't like having photos of her taken

username40: NO BECAUSE THE WAY LANDO IS SO PROTECTIVE OF HER?? THE WAY HE SPUN HER AROUND AND PULLED HER TO HIS CHEST?? THE PROTECTIVE HAND ON HER BACK?? HIM COVERING HER FACE?? WE ALL KNOW [NAME] HASN'T BEEN IN THE PUBLIC EYE SINCE 2021 BC OF MENTAL HEALTH ISSUES AFTER HER SCANDAL AND LANDO REALLY TRIED TO PROTECT HER

username41: bae i think you forgot that he's also the reason why [name] is gaining attention again bc he accidentally storied her in his insta

username40: that's why i said tried bestie

username42: i cant believe im crying over this LANDO NORRIS U BETTER TREAT OUR GIRL [NAME] RIGHT

username43: im waiting for @hanentertainmentofficial to say smth

username44: girlie’s career flopped and now she's leeching off lando’s money smh 🙄

username45: bestie she never needed his money she’s already rich from being an idol

username44: correction ex kpop idol, her money’s probably already running out

username45: bestie she's still richer than you while you're 14 (your bio says your 14) and still living with your parents

username46: AND THAT'S VERY SLAY OF HER,, YOU CAN'T EVEN GET A RICH MAN TO LOOK AT YOU

username47: that girl who claimed that lando is her baby daddy is suspiciously quiet rn

You turn your phone off and toss it inside your cross body bag. A sigh flies past your lips as you lean against the back of the couch, setting your unfinished wrap down. Your eyes flutter close. They're beginning to sting. Too much reading.

Sleep latches its claws on you and you allow it to take you.

You stand in darkness, allowing the deafening silence to swallow you whole. Suddenly, a thousand eyes appear. Unblinking. Bloodshot. They're bulging out of their sockets. In unison, the eyeballs move and lock on your figure. Judging. Judging. Judging. Your body trembles at the weight of a thousand gazes. You can’t breathe. You can't speak.

Please stop looking at me.

Please.

I’m begging you.

Stop.

The eyes slowly became bigger and bigger. Then, they disappear. You let out a shaky exhale. You turn around and the world becomes a blinding white.

Cameras. Thousands. No, millions of them. The loud clicking noise fills your ears. Your hands stretch in front of you, trying to cover your face and your body from them. You can only squeeze your eyes shut.

Silence.

The scene changes.

You register the feeling of sand getting stuck in between your toes. Your eyes slowly flutter open. The overcast skyline and the rising tides, the telltale ingredients of a brewing storm over the horizon, can be spectated from the shore. You recognize this place. This was a place you swore you're never going to step foot again.

Jeju.

You hear your mother’s gentle voice whisper your name behind you, causing goosebumps rise on your skin and your entire body to stiffen. It's not the name you own now, but the name you were born with, the name she gave you, the name you lost when you moved to Seoul.

She calls your name again. Again. Again. And again. You ignore every single one.

She stops.

You slowly turn around and you see your mother standing there, a few steps away, barefoot like you and wearing a dress. You remember this dress. She wore it when she was pregnant with you. She keeps the photo in her wallet.

No Eun Ha looks as beautiful as she was in your childhood memories. You greatly resemble her. The eyes most especially. That's why looking at mirrors feels more like a punishment to you more than anything else.

The word “Eomma” rots inside your mouth.

Your Eomma smiles at you. It's empty, her smile. When she smiles, they never reach her eyes. That's the way it has always been. For a second, you consider apologizing.

Eomma, I’m sorry that you have to raise a child you didn’t want. I’m sorry for stealing the light in your eyes.

You don't grow the courage to say it out loud.

No Eun Ha remains smiling. You notice that the edges of her lips curl higher and higher until the smile begins to look unsettling and sinister. Then you see the skin on her cheek tear apart as her smile grows and grows. Blood drips down slowly to her neck and stains the top part of her dress. She opens her mouth into an inhumane size and you see a thousand razor-sharp teeth lining up inside it. Everything is a gory red.

You scream in absolute terror.

She says your name again, her voice this time is not as gentle as you remember.

You wake up screaming and in cold sweat. You fall from your bed and onto the floor on all fours and begin vomiting your guts out. Nothing comes up. Only saliva. You break into pathetic sobs on the floor. Terror is a familiar feeling but you will never ever get used to it.

You don't know how many hours have passed. The floor used to feel cool against your skin but now, it's never been warmer. You still don't possess the strength to leave the floor. Your body feels as if it's being anchored down giant stones.

You're exhausted. You’ve done nothing but you feel exhausted.

You want to run.

You want to run away from this pain and exhaustion.

You need a life where you're no longer exhausted.

Desperately.

A sudden shriek interrupts the silence that wraps the air. A woman's. You don't even flinch. You know it’s just Jinnie. She's the only one who has access to another keycard of your hotel room.

When Lando’s panicking face comes into view, you are shocked. So shocked that you involuntarily raise your arms and accidentally hit him below his jaw. He stumbles backwards, not expecting the blow. He let out a pained groan, hand clutching the area you hit. You quickly rise to your feet, a thousand apologies already on the tip of your tongue. This action, however, triggers a wave of vertigo. Your vision blackens temporarily, your knees giving out at your own weight. Reflexively, you grab hold of the nearest thing beside you, the mattress to soften your fall, before your shaking knees meet the floor.

“[Name]!” Lando’s voice is so loud, you flinch.

When your vision returns, his face is the first thing you see.

“Good morning,” your voice is flat and rough.

Lando hisses and his large hands cradle your cheeks. You're suddenly made aware of how large his hands are. They can cover your entire face with how big they are.

“You're pale,” his voice wobbles. “Shit.”

You want to pass out again. His hands feel so, so comfortable and so, so warm that you want to sleep with this feeling.

“Hey, hey, don't close your eyes. [Name]—” Lando hands move swiftly. One second he’s holding your face. The next second he’s lifting you up in his arms. “Jinnie, call an ambulance!”

The word “ambulance” causes you to wake up. Like really wake up.

Oh, shit.

You struggle in Lando’s arms, “Andwae! No ambulance!”

You pry yourself away from Lando, hopping down to the floor, but the man doesn't retract his hands completely. He still holds onto your forearms to support you as you try to stand.

“No. Just no. I’m fine.”

“[Name]!” Jinnie scolds. She's finally functioning again. She froze in shock when she saw you earlier.

“I’m fine!” you shout. “I’m fine! Really!”

When you get caught that you're weak, you retaliate.

You grit your teeth and clench your jaw.

“I’m. Fine.”

They don’t believe you. You can see it in their eyes. However, they're not going to argue with you. You know they won't.

“I’m going to shower,” you announce. Lando’s grip on your forearm tightens just as you pivot your heels to head to the bathroom.

“I think it's best if you stay today.”

“We all agreed that I’m going to be in the paddock from the practice sessions until the race night.”

“I’ll tell the PR team that you won't go today.”

Your brows furrow.

“Just… Rest for today, okay?”

You turn quiet. Hesitantly, you nod.

“Thanks.”

He turns to Jinnie and tells her, “Take care of her for me. I’ll visit after the qualifying.”

And like that, Lando Norris leaves the hotel room.

#lando norris #f1 x reader #formula 1 #formula one #f1 imagines #fanfic #kpop idol! reader #ln4 fic #ln4 #ln4 x reader #lando norris x reader

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sunshine-daisies-library · 10 months ago

Text

starry eyed lies | ashton irwin x pop star!reader

author's note: had been cooking this one for a while, might be really sloppy bc i had zero time to work on it lol

summary: as a publicity stunt to boost the popularity of five seconds of summer, ashton is forced to fake date you, a rising pop star that has stolen the hearts of listeners around the world.

warnings: fighting, social media, cyber-bullying?, swearing, mentions of weed, fake dating trope, Ashton is labeled a "bad boy" lol, angst

word count: 11.0k

It was supposed to be a simple “fix-all.” Following the tour for Sounds Good Feels Good, the boys were running on a high. Their names were known all over the world, and they were loved by all girls for not only their music but their looks, too. But with a running high, things must come to an end, as the boys began to falter on their positive fame streak. From negative articles to drama tabloids being released about them, the boys were torn apart by critics and haters alike for their rock star-bad boy attitude. Wherever they made a mistake -one drink too many or ending up in another drama with other celebrities- the press was right there to pick them and prod them where it hurt. The boys’ hands were tied, and it looked like it was the end for their band as they knew it.

“I’m really at a loss here,” their publicity manager sighed, holding a news article in her hand. On the headlines it stated “Aussie Punk Rock Boys Strike Again: Another Party Gone Wrong.” Depicted in the photo were Luke and Ashton’s headshots taken by the L.A.P.D. It was yet another public disturbance report with additional fines allotted because they were under the influence. On top of that, Luke was still underage and not allowed to drink.

“I mean, really,” she pressed, tossing the paper onto the coffee table. “Another disturbance report? I thought I told you guys to cut down on parties and alcohol. What were you thinking?”

And to be completely honest, they weren’t thinking. With press on their backs and paparazzi following them everywhere they went, the boys felt completely constricted. Stress was building up in their systems and they lacked an older figure -someone more knowledgeable in the music industry- to guide them through their early onset of fame. One mistake after the other just egged each other on, leaving them feeling hopeless and self-destructive. It got to a point where Ashton considered doing one last big stunt to end his career entirely. At least then he’d finally get to go back home and away from the drama.

But he couldn’t do that to his boys. His best friends he more so considered brothers had dreamed of moving to L.A. and making music for everyone to hear. Hell, it was his dream, too. He couldn’t possibly throw all of that away for his own selfish desires. Ashton still had to admit that he was getting tired of constantly being under the spotlight with little reward from it.

“I’m sorry Manuela,” Luke said, hanging his head low. “It won’t happen again, I promise.”

“I hope I can count on you guys when you say that,” she said, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Because there’s only so much I can do on my end to get you guys out of the hole you put yourselves into.”

Michael leaned over his knees, determined to make things right. “Tell us what we can do,” Michael insisted. “We can clean ourselves up, we swear. We promised to take this break as a time to fix ourselves and really focus on our music.”

“See, that’s the thing,” Manuela pointed out. “Taking a break is the perfect opportunity to get out of the spotlight and focus on bettering yourselves. But, completely escaping the press and media will make you guys fade out of the music industry. So we have to find an even balance between the two.”

“How?” Calum asked curiously. A frown rested on his tired face. Anyone could tell the bad press was getting to him. It was getting to all of them. “Everyone practically hates us.”

Manuela grabbed the remote from the table and turned on the TV, connected to her computer. “That’s where we come in,” she started, sharing her screen to the boys. “What we need is a fresh face that’s receiving positive feedback to get you guys on everyone’s good side again.” She flicked through meaningless graphs and percentages of social media engagement and views on YouTube for their tour diaries and music videos. Ashton winced at the downward trend for each graph. “My team’s first option was One Direction. But considering the break they decided to go on, it’s obviously not a viable choice anymore.”

“So who do you have in mind?” Ashton spoke up, flicking his hand up to ask his question.

Their publicity manager clicked the remote to change slides. On the screen was a beautiful girl, smiling at the paparazzi. You looked shy, definitely new to the L.A. music scene but confident nonetheless.

“Woah, y/n l/n?” Michael awed. “I’ve listened to her music before. She’s sick.”

“And also America’s new pop princess,” Manuela informed them. “After touring with Taylor Swift as her opening act for the 1989 tour, she’s gained considerable popularity. She’s just moved to L.A. and records at the studio a couple blocks down. She’s new to the industry, but she’s promising.” Manuela switched off the TV and turned to the boys. “And she’s probably your only option.”

“Hold on,” Ashton said. He was struggling to wrap his head around this. “What do you want us to do with her? Record a song with her? Not to be rude or anything, but her music genre doesn’t mix well with our type of stuff, and I don’t feel like writing lovey-dovey shit.”

Manuela chuckled at his immediate disgust at the idea. “No, we weren’t thinking that,” she reassured him. “For now, at least. What we need is a good influence in your lives for the public to see. Someone like y/n.”

“So what now?” Ashton raised an eyebrow. “We just knock on her door and become best friends?”

“Ash,” Calum scolded him, smacking his knee. “Be nice. y/n and I are mutuals on social media and she’s had nothing but nice things to say about us.”

Manuela snapped her fingers. “Exactly,” she agreed. “Calum and Michael are already acquainted with her. We need a bigger step to bring you guys into the limelight.” The older woman turned to Ashton, ironically the one member that was most against this whole ploy. “We need you to date y/n.”

The four boys let out shouts of differing emotions. Michael was shocked, Calum was confused, Luke was jealous, and Ashton was no doubt opposed.

“Why him!” Luke whined. “He doesn’t want to do it, let me! I’ll gladly date her.”

Manuela shook her head, adamant on her decision. “It’s gotta be Ashton, I’m afraid,” she said. “His “bad boy” persona is the most detrimental to your overall image. He’s got to be the one. Not to mention, y/n requested him specifically.”

“Oh great,” Ashton groaned, voice dripping in sarcasm. “The plan is to sell me off as some pop star’s boy toy? How come she’s in on it and I have no choice?”

“That’s not the plan,” Manuela told him firmly. “It was created in agreement between her team and yours. She needs all the publicity she can get to boost her fame and, well, you guys are aware of your own situation. It’s all for show, Ashton. All we ask is a few dates in public and even a kiss or two for the press.”

Michael snickered. “He won’t have a problem with that,” he muttered under his breath.

“But,” Manuela cut the boy off. “We’re not asking you to marry her. It’s just a few months and then an amicable split. She’s going on tour at the end of the year, and you boys are going on your writing retreat. By then, both of you will be able to part ways and your relationship will be a thing of the past. She gets the publicity, your reputation gets fixed. It’s a win-win situation.”

“Not for me,” Ashton fought back. He wanted nothing to do with this. Hell, he didn’t want anything to do with the band anymore. Each night, he plotted excessive plans to escape his prison called L.A. and fly back to Sydney to be with his family. He was sick of the lights, the glamor, the fame.

He glanced back at his friends. His heart clenched at the dark bags under Calum’s eyes, and Michael’s uncharacteristically extra pale complexion from the lack of sleep. Anxiety had riddled the entire band, and it was clear on Luke’s hands where he had been picking at his fingertips. They were a wreck, and Manuela made it seem like he was their last hope. If he said no, they could pack up their things and go home. He’d get what he wanted all along. But Ashton couldn’t let go of the sparkling looks in their eyes when they received word from One Direction that they wanted them to open up for their concerts. He saw hope in their futures, saw something bigger in store for them. In some way, Ashton could still see that innocence in their eyes, blocked slightly by their stress and nerves. He was their last chance to bring that optimism back.

“I’ll do it,” he gave in. The boys let out whoops of joy, tackling Ashton into a hug. Ashton was frustrated beyond belief, but he faked a smile just to see his boys get their spark back.

–

Ashton was immediately regretting his decision the moment he stepped foot into the restaurant. The restaurant was too expensive for his taste, the kind of eatery that sold mediocre food primarily for you to post on social media for your “friends” to envy you. If this place was your idea as Manuela mentioned, it was only a mere insight of your personality. And without even meeting you yet, Ashton was beginning to loathe you.

The musician checked his watch again, keeping his head down and away from any prying eyes. You were ten minutes late, and if you kept this up, Ashton predicted you wouldn’t even show up. Ashton swore under his breath, growing more and more annoyed by you. He never should have agreed to this plan.

Suddenly, you came bursting through the door. Your eyes peered around the store before finding Ashton’s, immediately heading to the table he had saved. Ashton fought the urge to roll his eyes at your lack of sunglasses or hoodie. It was like you were begging for attention. Which, now he thought, you probably were.

“I’m so sorry I’m late,” you apologized profusely, setting your bag on the ground and pulling out your notebook. A waitress immediately went to your table to take your orders. Ashton had only wanted water, but you ordered one milkshake and a side of cannolis. “Traffic was terrible, as per usual in L.A. I suppose. And then my publicity manager asked me to get my hair down for today, then she scheduled a nail appointment-” You took a deep breath, running out of air from talking so quickly. “I feel like a dress up doll,” you joked, giving the Aussie a sheepish smile.

Ashton, however, was not amused. He barely returned your smile, his eyes narrowed in annoyance. “Whatever,” he murmured. “Let’s just pretend to look happy when the press gets here. We were supposed to have a ten minute prep time but since you decided to be late-”

“I didn’t decide to be late-” you fought back incredulously.

“We only have three minutes max to plan something good for the press to take a picture of,” Ashton finished, sending a glare your way for interrupting him halfway.

You huffed, deep in thought before concocting something paparazzi worthy. “Just follow my lead, okay?” you said, watching a swarm of paparazzi approach the restaurant. The waitress set down your order and was about to dash off when you asked for two straws.

Ashton raised an eyebrow at your idea, not exactly following along. You stuck the two straws into the glass, taking a healthy sip from it. You let out a moan of delight, smiling to yourself at the taste. Ashton fought the urge to chuckle at your almost innocent-like demeanor. He coughed to cover up his laugh, still stubborn enough to maintain his grudge against your tardiness.

You took the paper wrapping of one straw and glanced up at the drummed in front of you. Tying the wrapper together, you raised the knot up. “Tug the other side,” you instructed.

Ashton gave you a pointed look but pulled the wrapper nonetheless, pulling until the paper gave way and snapped in half. The knot remained on your end, making you cheer in victory.

“I still don’t understand what the hell you’re doing,” he grumbled.

You ignored him, closing your eyes and whispering to yourself. Ashton leaned back, not fighting back an eye roll. “Great,” he muttered. “I’m on a date with a weirdo.” How was this supposed to get the band good publicity?

Opening your eyes again, you set the wrapper down. “I was just making a wish,” you explained as if it was the most obvious thing. “You never did that before? Tie a knot in the straw wrapper, pull, and whoever gets the knot gets to make a wish.”

“That’s,” Ashton took a deep breath. “The biggest load of bullshit I’ve ever heard in my life.”

You scoffed playfully, cocking your head to get a good look at the paparazzi. More photographers approached the windows, taking hundreds of photos of the two of you. “Try smiling more,” you told him. “Maybe people wouldn’t crown you with the “bad boy of the band” title if you did.”

“I’m not the bad boy of the band,” Ashton retorted, smiling nonetheless. It was a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, but it satisfied the press who started flashing their cameras more frequently at the sight of it.

Snorting, you took his hand and weaved your fingers together as you took another sip of your -now shared- milkshake. You let out a quiet giggle despite no one saying anything funny.

“You’re terrible at this,” Ashton deadpanned.

“I’ve seen people do this in movies,” you responded, shaking your head as if he said something unbelievable.

“Doesn’t mean it’s a good idea,” he said back, responding to your head shake with a chuckle.

You hummed, turning away and muttering under your breath, “Look who’s talking.”

Ashton couldn’t help but be amused by your clever comebacks. He never expected you to be able to keep up with his sarcastic comments. But here you were, dishing them out faster than he can create one.

“Anyways,” you continued breezily. “You’re so the bad boy of the band.”

“What makes you say that?” he asked, readjusting his position in his chair to prepare himself for whatever response you’d curated.

You took a pause to collect your thoughts. You took a bite of your cannoli as you thought to yourself. “First off,” you swallowed the remaining bits of the pastry. “In your first album, you’re the only one looking away from the camera frowning. Luke’s looking away, but at least he’s smirking a little bit. That’s big bad boy energy. And the bandana? Come on, you’re trying so hard to be edgy but I see your smile behind the drums.”

Ashton rolled his eyes for the millionth time that day. “Good to know you’ve done your research.”

“I have to get to know my new fake boyfriend,” you waved him off jokingly. “What am I supposed to do? Go into this blind? Surely you’ve done some research about me.”

The Australian musician hesitated to respond. “I may have skimmed the binder?” he responded, a little bit embarrassed. He didn’t expect to have to know everything about you and your career.

You squeeze his hand, reminding him you were still intertwined. “It’s okay,” you assured him. “We’ll have plenty of time to get to know each other later.”

You both turned to the windows and noticed the swarm of photographers only grew in size, all of them in huddles behind cars. “You think we gave them enough to look at?” you asked. Not waiting for a response, you placed a couple bills on the table and pulled Ashton up with you.

“Where are we going?” Ashton questioned as you both braved the outdoors, instantly getting bombarded by the paparazzi. Taking on a protective boyfriend role, Ashton wrapped an arm around your shoulders and lent you his sunglasses to wear.

“Don’t worry!” you said, raising your voice a bit due to the loud calls of interviewers calling out to them. “I know a place!”

You sprinted down the street and took a sharp right, tugging Ashton along with you. Impressively enough, you were fast enough to lose the press. Soon enough, you found the place you were looking for and dove in.

The drummer blinked a couple times, trying to regain his sight after the millions of flashes nearly blinded him. Once his vision turned back to normal, he looked around the room to see a relatively empty restaurant. The lights were dim and gave the feel of a speakeasy but also had sweet handmade decorations adorning the walls. The place was endearing to him, somehow, because of how unabashedly unique it was.

You directed Ashton to your favorite table in the back corner while you went up to the counter to order for the both of them. By the time Ashton had gathered his bearings in his seat, you returned with a tray full of food.

“Welcome to the “Quilted Corner,” you introduced him to the cafe. “Everyone’s favorite eatery in the darkest corner of Los Angeles. And by everybody I mean probably just me and five other people.”

Ashton nodded dubiously, understanding the unique name for the place once he got a good look at the grandma-esque decorations.

“And what do you have in your tray of horrors?” he asked, raising an eyebrow at the assorted foods.

You began to divide the food between the two of you, the mountain of greasy foods slowly turning into a valley and then nothing at all.

“I’m going to change your goddamn life, Irwin,” you declared, taking a napkin and wiping your hands with it. “This is the order Granny Stevenson -the owner- recommended to me when I first came here. I was lost in the city looking for a place to duck and cover from the paparazzi and came across this lovely place.”

You gestured to the spread of foods. “This is the “homesick cure,”” you told him. “It consisted of two double cheeseburgers, a side of fries, and a milkshake. All completed with Granny Stevenson’s special sauce.”

“And a heart attack,” Ashton deadpanned.

You ignored his statement. “This place is really special to me,” you confessed. “It actually cured my homesickness and Granny Stevenson is a grandma-away-from-home to me. This place is where I go to write songs or just get away from it all.”

Ashton poked at his order, a thin film of oil coating his fingertips. “I don’t see the inspiration factor here,” he said, his nose scrunched up. “It just looks like another fast food place in America.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, sad mis-fed rockstar,” you said with a smirk. You pointed at the one last item you didn’t mention. “Behold the Grandpa Stevenson special.” You held up the dish and smelled it deeply. “A blueberry cheesecake made in-house with all the love this place can put into it. Name a place that sells that kinda love, Ashton.”

“I’m pretty sure Burger King sold that at one point in a mall food court,” he snipped back.

You narrowed your eyes at the pessimistic drummer. “Not sold with love,” you reminded him. “Besides, they actually make this stuff here. No processed shit, only love.”

Ashton scoffed, turning his head away from the table. Love. What a load of bullshit. If you were gullible enough to buy into the “love” this restaurant sold you, you definitely wouldn’t make it in the cut throat music industry. You were too innocent. It was only a matter of time until those producers and media companies tear you apart like they did with him and the band.

Despite his negative attitude, he took a fork and tried a piece of the cheesecake. The light dessert just about melted on his tongue, the flavors of cream, blueberry, and cinnamon dancing along his tongue. It was the best thing he’s ever tried.

“Told ya,” you sang, eating your own meal with a knowing smirk on your face.

Ashton feigned a look of disgust. “You didn’t tell me shit,” he grumbled. “It tastes like every other cheesecake.” That was a lie. It wasn’t like anything he’d ever tasted. Somehow, it tasted like home.

You tried to wipe your messy face with a napkin. “No one that thinks this is an average cheesecake makes that kinda face.” When Ashton didn’t understand, you sighed, preparing to make the same face. “It’s the look you get when you touch down in your hometown after an eleven hour flight. Or the face you make when you write a banger bridge for a song you’ve dedicated weeks to. Or it’s the look you get when everything makes sense in the world.”

Ashton stabbed his cheesecake and shoveled more of it into his mouth. Pure Heaven. “Whatever,” he huffed.

The two of you finished the rest of your meal in silence, aside from sighs of content from you because the food was that damn good. You finished off your milkshake, but not before picking up the straw wrapper and tying a knot, just like you did at the cafe before.

“Pull away, rockstar,” you instructed. Reluctantly, Ashton followed suit and tugged at the paper, the knot ending up on his side this time. You cheered, clasping your hands together. “It’s your turn now! Your first wish that shall be granted by the straw gods.”

Ashton shot you a look before tossing the wrapper to the side. “I don’t really care for wishes,” he stated plainly. You frowned at his negative attitude and that look alone made Ashton’s heart lurch. He instantly felt bad for the way he’s been treating you; it wasn’t your fault the press hated him. But still, he couldn’t help but put some blame on you. It was better than wallowing in self hate, he supposed.

“It’s okay,” you collected yourself. “You can save that wish for when you need it.”

“I’m pretty sure I’m not going to need it,” he responded sarcastically.

You chuckled, taking a bite out of Ashton’s cheesecake. He let out a shout of protest but you paid no attention to him. “Trust me,” you assured him. “There’s always a time when you need a wish in L.A.”

–

“She’s weird,” Ashton grumbled, readjusting the cuffs of his button up. The boys were preparing for their interview with Buzzfeed in their shared dressing room, fighting for space in front of the mirror.

It’s been a total of three months since you and Ashton started your fake relationship and the media has been eating it up. They followed the both of you everywhere you went, hiding in cars and in alleyways to get a glimpse of the so-called happy couple. You played your part well, holding his hand in public and kissing his cheek whenever you had the opportunity. From the public’s point of view, Ashton was just as taken by you as you were with him. The media fawned over his boyish grin and blush whenever you’d readjust his beanie in the winter cold.

On your end, you were genuinely falling for the boy. Behind closed doors, he was just a boy from Australia, new to the fast paced life of being a celebrity. You saw through his cold facade, slowly cracking through the walls he put up around his heart, and you had a feeling you were growing on him. He’d still quip sarcastic comments and roll his eyes, but you didn’t miss the small smile that would rest on his face when he thought you weren’t looking. As rare as his genuine smiles were, you relished those moments because it was the only times you’d see the real Ashton, not the one he’s put out for the paparazzi.

Ashton, however, was still holding out his grudge against you, albeit very weakly. His tough exterior was indeed toppling slowly. Your kind nature was just too sweet to not find you a little endearing. Ashton would never admit that you had grown on him a little, and a small part of him possibly looked forward to your weekly dates. He learned so much from you, it was as if he never wanted to stop listening to you. Not that he would tell you that, though.

“That’s all you’ve ever said about her,” Michael shot back, glancing at the mirror to check his hair one more time. “Come on, mate, it’s been three months. Surely you have something new to say about her?”

Calum agreed wholeheartedly. “Yeah, she’s come to the studio during her breaks from recording. That’s not even in your dating contract but she still does it.”

“Not to mention she gets us coffee every time,” Luke piped up. “That coffee is addictive, where does she get it?”

Ashton couldn’t help but smile at the thought. He knew you’d always stop by the Quilted Corner -no matter how far of a walk it was- to pick up some coffee. And he knew you always tried to be slick about it, but he’d always catch you tucking away a slice of blueberry cheesecake in the band’s fridge, just for him. He’d never mention it, though. He wanted to let you have your fun.

Calum let out a shout, pointing at the drummer accusingly. “Aha!” he cheered. “I knew she was growing on you!”

“What the hell are you going on about, Cal?” Ashton demanded, exasperated by his friends’ antics.

Calum continued his childish shimmy, the other boys gleefully joining in. “You got that dumb smirk on your face,” Calum smugly pointed out. “You’ve got it bad for y/n, don’t you.”

Before Ashton could respond, the director shouted, “Five minutes till shooting!” Glaring at the boys to keep them silent, Ashton made his way to the chairs in front of the camera, silently praying for this interview to be quick and over with.

“Welcome to Buzzfeed, boys,” the director’s assistant approached them with a smile. She was petite but her voice was strong and insistent. “Make sure to always look at the camera, but above all, smile and don’t look down. The viewers want to see your faces, okay?” Nodding in confirmation, the boys readied themselves for the camera as the assistant swiftly moved out of the way.

“Yeah Ash, don’t doze off dreaming of y/n,” Luke snickered into his ear, making the other boys chuckle along with him -aside from Ashton, of course.

–

The interview went as well as one could expect. The questions about the boys’ past were still continuously brought up but the boys answered the questions with grace they could only credit to Manuela. Luckily enough, the interviewer seemed to enjoy their responses, noting a significant maturity in the boys. They seemed to have gotten over their party phase and turned into serious musicians during their break from tours and parties.

“Final question is for Ashton,” the interviewer shuffled through their papers. “Sources have spotted you and new singer songwriter y/n l/n around L.A. quite a bit following the end of the North American 1989 tour. Now, you both have confirmed your relationship and made it very clear you two are together. Has y/n been an influence in the reshaping of your image in the media?”

Ashton bit the inside of his cheek. Just remember what Manuela rehearsed with you, he thought.

“Yeah, y/n’s been great,” he answered, trying to not sound as monotone as he did during his practice runs. “She’s been such a great influence to me and the boys, always keeping a positive outlook on things. I learn a lot from her, and I’d like to think she’s learned quite a bit from me, too.”

“Like jumping into the neighbor’s pool at midnight?” the interviewer jested, referencing the one time Ashton had drunkenly trespassed his neighbor’s home while they were on vacation.

Ashton tried not to cringe at that one memory, heavily wanting to keep that part of him in the past. “Definitely not that,” he laughed awkwardly. “But definitely in a sense of navigating newly received fame and things like that.”

“That’s great to hear,” they hummed. “Should we be expecting anything from you guys? Maybe a collaboration of some sort?”

The drummed shrugged his shoulders honestly. “It’s all up to her,” he responded. “We’re still taking a break from touring, but we do have an album in the works. Writing music with her is definitely on the table, for sure.”

Ashton wasn’t sure what word vomit was spewing from his lips. Last time he checked, it wasn’t up to you whether or not you wanted to collab with the boys (you were clearly apprehensive about invading his space), he didn’t want to write music with her (possibly due to the fact that the last time you had a joint writing session, he was stuck staring at you curled up on the other side of the couch; you were just mesmerizing but he’d never admit that aloud), and he hated lovey dovey shit (because he hated the warm feeling brewing in his stomach whenever you’d smile or laugh at his jokes). But it wasn’t like he liked you, right? He had to focus on his career, his boys, his life. Not a relationship that’s destined for failure no doubt because of the media.

“I’m afraid that’s all the time we have for you guys, thank you so much for coming to our studio today!” The interviewer finished off the closing statements for their interview while Ashton was left inside his head.

Truth be told, he was conflicted. He had, in fact, gotten significantly closer with you, closer than he’d expected to be at the very least. He still tried to be closed off, tried to push you away from him so he wouldn’t get attached and heartbroken in the end. You just made it so damn difficult.

“Nice responses, Ash,” Michael patted his shoulder as they gathered their things in their dressing room. “Really downplayed how much you liked her there.”

Ashton raised an eyebrow while picking up his phone from the side table. He was stupid enough to not look at the text messages. Particularly the ones from you that stated you were on your way to the studio for your own interview.

“What are you saying, Mike?” Ashton asked tiredly, tired of the relentless teasing and questions he’s gotten about you all afternoon.

“Mike’s saying that we know you’re in so deep with her,” Luke spoke up from the back as he slipped on his jacket. “Like, L-word close with her.”

Love? Why the hell would he love you? This was all a fake set up for their careers, why didn’t they get that?

“Can you guys knock it off?” Ashton snapped, finally raising his voice. “I don’t like y/n and I never will. I don’t even like her as a friend. She’s obnoxious, annoying, and so unbelievably difficult to work with; the two of us will never work out. And thank God for that because if I have to spend more than 10 months with her to save your asses’ careers, I’m leaving the fucking band.”

“Ash-” Calum said meekly.

“No!” he cut him off harshly. “I’m sick of being pushed around like a fucking doll for publicity. The band was doomed from the start because the press won’t leave us the fuck alone. And using y/n as a last Hail Mary is as stupid as it is useless. She’s going to be nothing more than a washed up young celebrity like the rest of us and fade to the past.”

“Ash!” Michael stopped him. “That’s enough, we get it.”

Ashton didn’t piece together their hastiness until it was too late. He turned around to see you standing before them. He didn’t even hear the door open. Your eyes were welling up as your mouth was slightly opened by his outburst.

“Hi guys,” you weakly greeted them.

Ashton took a step forward, freezing when he saw you stagger back. “y/n,” he whispered, unable to know where to start with his apology.

“I have an interview in ten minutes,” you informed them quickly. “I’ll see you around later, yeah?”

You seemed to have taken that as final as you pushed them out of the dressing room and closed the door shut. You didn’t move from the door until you heard all of their footsteps trail off and out of the studio. You let out a shaky breath you didn’t even know you were holding in as you hang your head low. And to think you thought he actually might have liked you, too.

A knock interrupted your thoughts. “Ms. l/n?” a voice spoke up. “My name’s Ryan and my buddy Shane and I wanted to know if–”

“Sorry,” you said, opening the door sheepishly. You hoped your face wasn’t giving away your embarrassment and hurt you were experiencing. “I-um, I think I need to be alone for a sec.”

“Oh!” the taller one exclaimed. “To call Ashton? I think I saw him walk that way.”

You bit your lip, nodding painfully slow. “Yeah,” you croaked. “Thanks, I’ll be headed there soon.”

You didn’t leave any time for debate or questions as you pushed through the pair and walked in the opposite direction, straight to the bathroom. The two men glanced at each other in concern.

“What’s up with her?” Shane asked.

Ryan only shrugged his shoulders. “I guess it’ll remain unsolved,” he mused wisely.

“That’ll be a great name for a show one day!”

“I know right?”

–

You were lucky that there was enough conflict in both of your schedules to postpone your date to three weeks after the interview. To say you were anxious was an understatement. You picked at your fingernails as you waited for Ashton to arrive at the park.

You were conflicted with the entire agreement. A part of you wanted to end the agreement, rip the contract into shreds. Ashton was right, wasn’t he? This plan was useless, and your fifteen minutes of fame were almost up. It was only a matter of time until you were no longer relevant. Then what would you do? You’d have to go back home and start over, and maybe that’s better than what you had for yourself now: a fake relationship for attention.

But at the same time, you had fallen hard for Ashton. Behind his rough exterior was a shy musician that was passionate in what he did. He loved music, but loved his friends and family more. You admired him for that, realizing that he only had a harsh image because he was protective of who he loved. You only wished that he saved that part of himself for you, too.

“I didn’t think you’d come,” a soft voice spoke behind you.

You turned around on your bench to see Ashton standing, hands sheepishly in his pockets. His cheeks were red from the cold as his eyes were trained on the ground.

“Of course I did,” you responded somewhat brusquely. “It’s part of the contract, afterall.”

Ashton scoffed, making you raise an eyebrow irritatedly. You had every right to be a bitch to him. He was the one bad mouthing you in the first place. Your mixed emotions had sat in your stomach for the past few weeks. Your anger was winning out the heartsick feeling.

“What are you scoffing about, rockstar?” you quipped, disgust filling your tone instead of affection as it usually was in the nickname you gave him. “I signed that paper as much as you did.”

“It wasn’t like it was my fucking idea,” he shot back, frustration fueling his voice. He pulled at his hair and laughed, but there was no humor behind it. “In case you forgot, I was forced into this bullshit! And to think I was actually going to apologize to you.”

“About which part?” you shouted back sarcastically. “The part where you called me obnoxious and annoying? Or how about when you couldn’t stand to spend any more time with me or else you’d quit the band? Oh I know! How about when you called me a washed up celebrity? Take your pick, rockstar! You’ve got plenty to choose from!”

“Don’t fucking call me that!” he raised his voice higher than he ever had before. “God, I’m fucking sick of you and your “holier than thou” bullshit! You’re only in this shit for the money and the fame. I’m tired of playing this game and being a fucking plot device to launch your career! Maybe if you actually had substance instead of putting up the “innocent girl from a small town” act, people would like you more! Because Jesus fuck I don’t!”

What Ashton failed to realize was that your ten minute grace period between meeting and the paparazzi coming was up. The photographers circled around you like predators stalking their prey, starving for anything to satisfy their appetites. You were too caught up in your argument, too, oblivious to the prying eyes of the public.

“Don’t act like you’re so perfect,” you spat. “You want my honest opinion about you? I think you’re nothing but a stuck up member of a boyband who’s pissy because the attention’s no longer on him anymore. Face it, Ashton! You’re just like everybody else here! Self-centered, fucked up, and ignorant as all hell. Maybe that’s why the media fucking hates you! It’s not because they twist your actions, you just are a fucking terrible person and it’s about time you realized that!”

Ashton silently seethed, opening and closing his fists as he tried to find the right words to say. “You really think that?” he asked in a low tone. He wasn’t really sure if he wanted to hear your response. Despite his harsh words, he truly craved your validation and he knew that he wasn’t going to hear what he wanted.

“Yes,” you swallowed. “I do.” Silence filled the cold air as you stood at a standstill. The air filled your lungs like icy needles, not yet thawed for the seasonal change that was yet to come. It was like a test between the two of you. Who was going to be the first to bite the bullet and say what’s been on your minds?

You made your decision. “Let’s end this,” you said, voice wavering. “Let’s put the both of us out of our misery and end this once and for all. I think we both got enough of each other.”

Ashton was taken aback. He thought the same thing, but he didn’t think you’d be the one to say it. If he was being honest, he didn’t want to end it. If he could spend the rest of his life on a tightrope, teetering towards anger and frustration for eternity just to be with you, he’d do it. But he knew he was hurting you as much as you were hurting him. He knew what he had to do.

“Good,” he agreed, mustering enough strength to not cry right there. He really was losing the one good thing he had going for him. And it was all his fault. “I’ll have Manuela reach out to your manager. You can..lose my number, I guess.”

“If that’s what you want,” you told him smoothly. On the inside, you were crumbling apart.

Ashton forced a nod. “Yeah, that’s what I want.”

–

He didn’t expect things to get as bad as they did. Ashton knew the paparazzi was everywhere, he always did. But dammit, he got so lost in his anger that it slipped his mind. And the one time it did, everything went wrong.

But for the first time, the blame wasn’t on him. Not in the eyes of the media, at least.

Is America’s Sweetheart y/n l/n Actually a Monster?

Pop Princess y/n l/n rips Australian Musician Ashton Irwin Apart

End of an Era: Irwin-l/n Break Up is Messy and Unexpected

Even on Twitter, you couldn’t catch a break.

#y/nl/nisoverparty

#y/nl/nisasnake

#y/nisthebiggestbitch

#y/nl/nisOVER

On every magazine and gossip column was a picture of your encounter with Ashton at the park. Lucky for Ash, the media only got a glimpse of your rant at him and didn’t get any footage of him yelling back at you. To the public, he looked like the innocent party while you looked completely wicked.

Oh God, Ashton thought. I just ruined her life.

The weeks that followed were rough. Manuela called for a group meeting and told them that their ratings have gone through the roof. 5 Seconds of Summer were finally back on the good side of the press and were labeled as the “innocent boys from Australia” that got “led down the wrong path.” Manuela was happy that her plan had worked; 5SOS is back on track, but she was disappointed at what it cost.

“Is there anything we can do to help her?” Michael asked at the end of the meeting.

Manuela pressed her lips together. “I’m afraid not,” she sighed. “y/n’s manager cut off all ties with us. I think we got the message that she wants nothing to do with us.”

Calum checked his phone, cringing at the amount of tagged posts he was in. All of them bashing you and everything you’ve worked so hard to create.

“We have to do something,” Calum pleaded. “She’s not just a coworker; she’s a friend. She’s always been there for us, even if Ash wasn’t here, she’d come by. We can’t leave her hanging like this.”

“Ash,” Luke turned to his friend, blue eyes pleading and desperate. “Can you talk to her? Maybe we can work something out. Anything.”

Ashton stammered before he responded. What could he do? He was the very last person you’d want to see right now. He got you into this mess and painted you out to be a monster. The blame should have fully been on him. You wouldn’t have yelled at him if he didn’t push you over the limit.

“Why should it be me?” he asked. “She hates me.”

Michael scoffed at his friend, clearly upset at his poor attempt at weaseling his way out of this. “You’re joking,” he deadpanned. “She adored you. Whether you liked her or not she was your biggest supporter. When you weren’t around at the studio, she talked the world about you. You may have not liked her, but she loved you. So you have to fix this.”

“Boys, relax,” Manuela insisted. “I’m certain her publicity team has a plan set for situations like these. She’s probably going to keep quiet for a while then re-emerge into the public scene again once the public wounds have healed. So it’ll be in her best interest and yours if you keep quiet and not cause a scene. Not when the public finally has a positive outlook on you.”

“That’s so..” Luke huffed defeatedly. “Wrong.”

Manuela patted his knee comfortingly. “That’s the music industry, love.”

–

You truly fell off the face of the earth. Ashton was at a loss. After the presumed “silent break” you took, he thought you’d get back into the swing of things. Media tabloids had died down, and it seemed like the public had forgotten about your argument and moved onto the next interesting thing. But you didn’t come back. Not even to your studio, the place remained empty. You didn’t respond to his calls, all of them going straight to voicemail. Your manager only picked up her phone once, insisting he stopped calling if he knew what was best for him. Not even your friends answered his frequent dm’s.

Your instagram was dormant. The last post was of Ashton a month back, playing his guitar and smiling down at his lyric book. He didn’t even realize you took that picture until you posted it. He was a little shocked that you kept it up, considering all things, but at the same time you didn’t post anything anymore. You used to post everyday, updating everyone about your hectic life. All that was left were the photos that remained on your page. Ashton had caught himself too many times scrolling through, just to see your smiling face again. He beat himself up over the fact that his last glimpse of you in person was nothing but a broken shell of who you once were.

Ashton pushed the door open, entering the last place he thought of that you could possibly be in. The smell of the restaurant was the same as it always was, full of spices and sweets that made his mouth water. But he had to stay focused. He needed to find you and talk to you.

Behind the counter, an older couple approached him. Ashton immediately recognized them as the Stevensons, the couple you adored more than their own food. It seemed like they recognized him too once they reached the counter space.

“You must be Ashton,” the older woman said, readjusting her glasses. Her wrinkles appeared as she greeted him with a smile, a sign that she lived a life full of laughter and smiles. The kind of life you confessed you wanted desperately. “y/n has spoken so highly of you.”

Ashton ducked his head, blushing at the compliment. Even when you were gone you still managed to light up the room and make him seem like a better person than he actually was. “That’s actually why I came here,” he told them. “I was wondering if you had seen y/n come by.”

The gentleman beside Mrs. Stevenson shook his head. “Afraid not, son,” he responded. “Not for a while, actually. We were quite disheartened about that, but that girl is always so busy, isn’t she?” Ashton smiled, trying not to wince as he cringed on the inside.

“Let me make you something, honey,” Mrs. Stevenson insisted, rushing to kitchens before he could refuse.

Mr. Stevenson ushered Ashton to the booths, away from the restaurant regulars. Ashton ran his fingers through his hair, the rain soaking his brown locks. Spring was a bitch with the rain, but he knew how much you loved it. “What brings you here, son?” he asked. “You usually come with y/n. Don’t tell me she’s in any sort of trouble now, is she?”

Ashton sat down, dusting off his jeans. “Not exactly,” he answered honestly. “H-have you not heard in the gossip tabloids?”

“Oh no,” Mr. Stevenson waved his hand. “We were never one for those magazines. Sarah is always strict on rechilut.”

Ashton nodded along. “I did something wrong,” he confessed heavily. “And I hurt y/n. Not physically, but honestly it feels worse. I want to make things right, but I don’t think she even wants to talk to me.”

“That’s nonsense,” Mr. Stevenson insisted. “y/n would never cut ties with people like that. Especially you, she was very fond of you.” It seemed like everyone knew that except for Ashton himself. “y/n talked to me like I was her own grandfather. Now, all my kids are grown up and moved out of California, so they don’t come around much. I appreciated her company, and I know for a fact that you shouldn’t give up on her.”

The drummer’s shoulders slumped guiltily. “I don’t think I deserve that,” he told him. “I was awful to her. I did everything wrong. I don’t think she’d believe me if I told her I loved her all along.”

“Do you really love her?” Mr. Stevenson asked him softly.

Ashton looked up into the older man’s gray eyes. He saw so much life, so much wisdom in them. If he looked deeper, he saw himself in his eyes, the him he missed all along. “Yes,” he answered truthfully. “I really do.”

Mr. Stevenson patted his shoulder affectionately. “Then lead with that,” he advised him. “I’ve lived a long life, Ashton. And most of my life has been spent with my dear Sarah. If there’s anything I learned from that, it’s that sometimes you need to shut the hell up and let your love speak for you.”

Ashton let out a tearful chuckle at his advice. Mrs. Stevenson rushed out of the kitchen, a steaming plate in hand. The older woman set it on the table in front of him.

“I hope you don’t mind that I guessed what your homesick cure was,” she said sheepishly. “Artie said I should stop guessing but I had a gut feeling on this one. I was right for n/n, I hope I was right for you.”

Mrs. Stevenson set down the plate to reveal a healthy serving of spaghetti and a glass of water on the table. Ashton’s heart clenched at the sight. “Did I get it right, dear?”

Ashton couldn’t even respond, he just nodded wordlessly like a child on Christmas morning, eager to play with his toys. Mrs. Stevenson chuckled at his response, ruffling his hair gently like a mother would. “Eat it while it’s hot, honey,” she told him. “And I’m sorry, but it seems like someone forgot to order another package of straws. You’ll have to drink from the glass, I’m afraid.”

Artie stood up from his side of the booth, playfully rolling his eyes. “I’m on it, honey,” he responded, following closely behind his wife. Before leaving to the kitchen, he turned around and gave the boy a wink.

Left to his own devices, Ashton tucked his hand into his jacket and nearly jumped out of his seat in shock. Pulling it out, he realized it was the knotted end of the paper straw wrapper from so long ago. Turns out he really did need that wish.

“Let me make things right,” he wished in his head. “I just want one last chance to do the right thing.”

Setting it on the table, all Ashton could do was hope that whatever was out in the universe heard him.

–

Soon enough, you did emerge from the shadows of your hiatus. You were lucky to have a loyal enough fanbase to keep you afloat, and your tour was still set for that summer. You were grateful for the fans that stuck around, and the new ones that came along the way. It was a rough journey, but you tried your best to power through it to the best of your ability.

Now, you were in your dressing room at the venue you were expected to perform in, an absolute fucking wreck. You were curled up on your couch, trembling and unable to even raise your head from your chest. Sobs filled your room, but you insisted to every manager and passersby that you needed to be alone and fix it yourself.

To tell the truth, you never truly recovered from the media frenzy that took you and Ashton by storm. You knew you had every right to turn the tides on him, revealing to the world that he wasn’t the perfect saint everyone painted him out to be. But you didn’t, and no one on your publicity team was able to figure out why.

The reason was that you were still unexplainably attached to Ashton. Somehow, even though he put you in the situation where everyone started to hate you, you couldn’t help but now be able to understand why he acted the way he did. How he was overprotective of the boys and acted out of self preservation simply because of how cruel the media could be. By no means did you excuse him for putting you in that situation, but you still grasped some understanding.

The difference between you and the drummer, however, was that he had a support system: his boys. You were practically alone to deal with the mess, cornered and vulnerable.

You were shaking frantically in your room, unable to free yourself from your thoughts. Only one look at your phone caused your entire psyche to crumble. One fucking tweet about you shook your confidence. Some anonymous user critiqued your music, only attributing your success to your past “relationship” with Ashton. Those simple words broke down the walls you were just beginning to rebuild, and now you were stuck in your dressing room, thirty minutes before you were called onstage.

Meanwhile, Ashton was navigating through the maze backstage looking for you. A bouquet of your favorite flowers were in one hand, a handwritten card in the other. He figured you’d be somewhere backstage, prepping for your show. He didn’t count on you being in your dressing room since you told him in the past that you loved to watch the crowd from behind the curtains.

But to his shock, you were still in your pajamas hyperventilating on the couch. Ashton has witnessed this before; he’s experienced this before. But seeing you go through the same struggles he and his boys went through caused his heart to ache even more.

“y/n?” he called out to you. You didn’t respond, eyes still trained on the ground as your grip around your legs tightened. Ashton set his things down on the side table, instantly kneeling in front of you.

“Ashton?” you finally spoke, voice raspy and exhausted. For a split second, you thought you were actually hallucinating, envisioning the one man you needed but feared the most. But his cologne wafted into your nostrils, alerting you it was him in the flesh. “What are you-” You heaved a deep breath, choking out a sob. You could barely take the overwhelming stress towering over you like a deadly ocean wave. It was only a matter of time until it took you under and swallowed you whole.

“Love, I’m going to need you to breathe,” he instructed, his hands finding yours. In your anxious state, you were able to distract yourself from your worries at the mere touch of his calloused fingertips. It was a silent calling to you, gently beckoning you back into reality but not quite succeeding.

Ashton took your hand and pressed it against his chest, tucking it underneath his slightly unbuttoned shirt. His warm skin electrified your palm, making your heart race -not from the anxiety- but from butterflies. “Pay attention to my breathing and try to copy it, okay?”

At first, you struggled to listen to his instructions. You worked on your anxiety with your therapists over more sessions than you could count. You tried box breathing, yoga, and even journaling but nothing ever calmed your nerves, especially after the media went after you.

But suddenly, you concentrated on the slow rise and fall of Ashton’s chest. The way his chest hair tickled your palms in a way that made you want to scrunch your nose at the feeling. How his heart was beating nearly out of his chest but you could tell he was trying to minimize it so he could attend to your needs first.

You felt your Ashton.

Moments that felt like hours passed until your breathing went back to normal and your tear stained cheeks dried. Ashton kept your hand against his chest, occasionally squeezing it to bring you back to reality when you teetered back into spiraling. This time, though, he rose from the ground and sat beside you. You let him move your legs over his lap as he practically held you against him. His smell was overwhelming. You could smell his cologne and shampoo, even the faint scent of weed from off his lips. He was intoxicating. He was the drug, dangling above your head, and you were weak, enthralled, captivated, addicted.

You found yourself leaning in to kiss Ashton, a real kiss this time. No corner of the lip bullshit that the press ate up every time. You didn’t expect him to kiss you back with the same fervor as you, hand wrapping around your waist and the other behind your head. It was sloppy, wet, and all shapes of perfect that you couldn’t describe. The taste of tea and weed transferred from his lips to yours as he pulled you in deeper. You gripped his shirt in your fist, hoping in your mind to mold your body against his and disappear from the world, anything as long as you were with him. His love was your poison and, at the same time, your cure.

Reality began to sink in, making you push Ashton away forcefully and standing on your feet. He flew back into the couch, eyes wide and lips swollen. His perfectly slicked back hair was a gorgeous mess, curls gracefully falling down his face. Confusion riddled his face as he watched you curl back into yourself.

“What are you–”

“I shouldn’t have done that,” you whispered, unsure if you were saying that to him or yourself. “Why did I do that?”

Ashton stood up and reached for your hand, only for you to jerk back. “D-don’t touch me!” you exclaimed, scared of your own volume. Anxiety began to knock at your door once again, creeping in like a deadly virus into your system. “How could I be so stupid? Haven’t you put me through enough?”

You started to pace around your room, Ashton watching you move frantically back and forth until he got dizzy. You murmured to yourself not so quietly, scolding yourself for your stupidity and cursing him out for his enticing nature. All over again, Ashton was seeing you crumble.

“y/n, stop,” he ordered firmly, gripping your shoulders. You jerked to a stop, pausing to look Ashton in the eyes. You found yourself getting lost in the pool of hazel, wide eyed and entranced. “You’re going on stage in twenty minutes. Whatever’s going through your head right now, quit it. All of that can be put on pause until after the show, you hear me? And if that voice in your head brings it up while you’re out there, shut it down. What matters now is you, your music, and your fans. Fuck that voice telling you you’re anything short of great.”

In his empowering speech, you forced yourself to listen to his words, ignoring the person those words were coming from. Taking his advice, you cleared your mind of the past few months and only focused on this moment: your first concert of your North American tour.

Rushing to get ready, you scrambled around your room to prepare your hair and makeup. Ashton picked out your clothes for the concert, something simple that you absolutely adored but you paid little attention to the way your heart pounded at the thought. And in those twenty minutes, you were set for the show.

Your microphone in one hand and guitar in the other, you made your way straight to the stage. Ashton followed close behind you to ensure you didn’t misstep or forget anything. Mere inches away from the stage, you whipped your head around to meet his gaze just one more time.

“Thank you,” you whispered gratefully. “I know we haven’t talked, but thank you. Can I look for you after the show?”

Your heart shattered at the shake of his head. “I’ve got a plane to catch right after your show so I can’t come by after,” he told you remorsefully. “But if you’ll have me, I’ll be right here when you come back from tour. Maybe then we can start again, correctly this time. None of the cameras, scripts, or any of that, yeah?”

The sound of your name being chanted by the crowd was nearly deafening, but his words reached your ears and you smiled softly at him. In the corner of your eye, your stage manager pointed at her watch to inform you it was time to go up. Wordlessly, you pressed your lips one last time against his.

“Don’t be a stranger, Irwin,” you told him, turning on your heel and pushing through the curtains. The crowd shrieked and screamed at the sight of you, instantly bringing a proud grin to Ashton’s face.

This was only the beginning of something new and truly beautiful, Ashton thought to himself, hands in his pockets as he made his way to the VIP section.

–

Several months have passed since your North American and European tour and it has been almost a full year since you started your publicity stunt with Ashton. Throughout the tour, you and Ashton -and the boys, of course- kept close contact with each other, never going more than a day without a phone call or video chat. Over this period, you felt like you finally got to know the real Ashton, not bits and pieces he’d accidentally let slip when he first got to know you. This time, he was real and genuine, and that only made me love him more.

You tiredly dragged your suitcase up your apartment complex’s stairs, heaving at the ridiculous weight as you made your way down to your apartment. You didn’t expect to see a certain hazel eyed drummer standing behind the door when you unlocked it.

“Surprise,” he said sheepishly, balloons and blueberry cheesecake in hand. Tears instantly filled your eyes, you dropped your suitcase and wrapped your arms around his neck, nearly causing him to drop the dessert.

Truth be told, you weren’t expecting to see him so soon, if at all. Your journey with your mental health has been a long one, and there were plenty of ups and downs. A part of you -one you were a little ashamed of- didn’t expect him to keep to his word that he’d be here now. Despite the plenty of calls and talks you had to rekindle your relationship, that nagging voice in the back of your head kept on asking “what if?” What if he took back what he said about wanting to start over? What if it was all in your head, and he never wanted to see you again? But without fail, Ashton was there, willing to rebuild your relationship into a close-knit friendship. And now he’s here, asking to make it something more.

“You’re here,” you murmured into his chest, taking in his smell that you missed so dearly. “I didn’t think you’d come this soon. How did you even get in?”

Ashton pulled away, holding up your spare key. “Your friend gave it to me today,” he explained.

Grinning you brought him back down into a hug before settling in and opening the box of cheesecake. Taking out two forks, the two of you ate straight from the box and caught up on everything, though there wasn’t much considering how often you both talked while you were away.

“I’m really grateful you let me back in,” Ashton spoke up once the box had emptied.

You were half listening, polishing off the plate of its sweet crumbs. “You let yourself in, silly,” you snorted, not quite understanding what he meant. “You’re the one who got a hold of my apartment key.”

Ashton chuckled, shaking his head in disbelief. “Not that,” he laughed. “I mean letting me back into your life. I still don’t think I deserve it.”

“We talked about this, Ash,” you leaned back, setting your fork down. “We both said things we didn’t mean that day. We recognized it and we worked from it. We’ve moved on, and we’re friends. I think you deserve it as much as I do.”

Ashton’s cheeks were tinged red as he tried to think of the right words to say. “I know,” he started. “But sometimes, I wish we had..more.”

“More?” you raised an eyebrow. It took another second of you watching the drummer blush in embarrassment and vulnerability before it finally clicked. “Oh.”

Ashton stood up abruptly, wiping the invisible specks of dust off his jeans. “You can forget it,” he rushed in humiliation. “I-I just couldn’t stop thinking about that night of your first concert, how it felt, how you felt- and-”

“Ashton, slow down,” you giggled, standing up, taking his hand and tugging him toward you. A small smile rested on your face. “I still think about that night, too,” you confessed honestly. “And I want that, too. Whatever it is that you want.”

The drummer looked up from your intertwined hands and into your eyes. He swore he saw stars in them. “Will you be my girlfriend?” he asked. “Again?”

You pulled him down into a kiss, your lips craving his all over again. “Yes,” you answered confidently as soon as you backed away to catch your breath. “I will be your girlfriend. Again.”

The two of you shared a laugh, enjoying the silent but welcoming comfort of each other. Standing in the middle of your kitchen, lips coated in sugar and blueberries.

“What was your wish?” Ashton asked, pulling you closer to him as he broke the s. “Back at that restaurant when we first met?”

You hummed in thought, eagerly pressing your lips against his one more time to relish the moment. “My wish was that whatever we had back then,” you whispered, letting him in on your secret. “turns into something more.”

“Well your wish came true, didn’t it?” Ashton smiled, a warm feeling bursting in his chest.

You leaned your forehead against his, eyes fluttering closed. “Yes, Ash,” you said. “Yes it did.”

please like and reblog if u enjoyed! <3

#5sos #ashton irwin x reader #5sos fic #5sos imagine #ashton irwin angst #ashton irwin #5sos fanfic #5sos fanfiction #ashton 5sos #ashton irwin fluff #ashton irwin imagine

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artiststarme · 11 months ago

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Come to Poppa

Based on a prompt sent to me awhile ago from @yaoiprofessoryuki. I'm sorry it took so long but I hope you like it!

~*~*~*~

Steve was never close to his dad, not like a father or son should be. They never played catch in the front yard or camped out in the woods. They certainly never talked about sports or girls. The closest they ever got was performing elementary science experiments at the kitchen table until his mother scolded them both over their own laughter. One day though, everything changed. Out of nowhere, Steve became less of a son and more like a roommate that coexisted in the same house.They lived in the same house and their paths intermittently crossed when they were both in the house at the same time, but their relationship was gone.

Nevertheless, all Steve wanted after fighting the demogorgons with the kids was to see his dad. He craved the comfort that only a dad could give through all-consuming hugs and emotionally stunted advice. His dad was a scientist, surely he could ask him just what the fuck those monsters were. If anyone could understand, his dad would.

But after waiting up all night and into the next day, his dad didn’t come home. His secretary didn’t pick up the phone when he called and the hospital had no records of him. His dad was just gone, disappeared just like all the evidence of the demogorgons. Steve’s mom filed a missing persons report with the Sheriff’s office but even their investigations were moot. It was like his dad fell off the face of the earth.

***

After their 1984 encounter and getting the absolute shit kicked out of him by Billy, the kids start hanging out at his house. His mom had taken to leaving for weeks at a time at the drop of a hat to avoid thinking about his father and Steve was climbing the walls in order to escape some of the oppressive loneliness that the house seemed to ooze. He thought the kids would find it fun to have a big house to themselves to make a mess in and just be kids away from the responsibilities of the Upside Down. He was wrong.

Eleven froze as soon as the door swung shut behind her, her eyes on the family portrait that hung in the living room. In it was a sixteen year old Steve, his mother in her nicest dress, and his graying dad. It was one of the last pictures that they all looked happy in. But Eleven wasn’t looking at the picture in happiness or curiosity, she was looking at it in horror.

“El? What’s wrong, what’s going on?” Mike stood between her and the photo, his hand comfortingly rested on her shoulder.

All the kids surrounded her and Steve just followed her gaze and looked at her in confusion. When Dustin saw him looking back and forth, he snuck a peek before his eyes widened in sudden realization. “Holy shit, guys! Look at the picture! Steve, how the hell do you know Dr. Brenner?”

Steve’s eyes scrunched in confusion, “what? I don’t know a Dr. Brenner.”

“There’s a picture of the two of you right there!” Lucas flailed his arm towards another picture of the two of them in black suits at his cousin’s wedding.

“And right there,” Max added, pointing at a picture of Steve holding a report card with straight A’s and his dad beaming with pride to his left.

“That’s not Dr. Brenner, that’s my dad. Martin Harrington, not a Brenner,” he said while rolling his eyes in exasperation. The imagination of these kids was going to make him lose his mind one day.

“No, papa.”

“Eleven, that’s not the man that hurt you. That’s my dad. He was boring and dorky, he wouldn’t hurt anyone.”

“Papa!”

“I think she would know who experimented on her for years,” Lucas said, rolling his eyes.

“Not if she thinks it's my dad!” Steve was really reaching his limits. He’d just wanted the kids to have fun for a day, he hadn’t expected slander against his dad.

“What if it's the same person? Your dad and Dr. Brenner,” Dustin pondered.

Steve just shook his head. “There’s no way, my dad worked at the Department of Energy for the government. He ran research experiments on electricity and water and shit. He never worked with kids!”

“The Department of Energy was just a cover up for the experiments on kids!” Mike screamed.

That was the last line for El. As soon as Mike raised his voice, she flinched and threw the family portrait to the ground with a flick of her wrist. The frame splintered and the glass shattered upon contact with the fireplace tile. Most disturbingly to Steve though was the long tear in the photo separating his dad from him and his mom. An unfortunately positioned shard of glass had separated his dad from his family in the portrait just as an unknown force had in reality.

“Hey! That’s one of the last pictures I have of him! He disappeared last year and you just ruined our last picture together. Fuck Eleven, he’s not your papa.” Steve dropped to his knees next to the broken frame without regard for the glass and fretted his hands over the portrait.

“He’s a monster!” El yelled, an accusing finger pointed directly at the ruined canvas in his hands. All of the pictures on the walls fell to the floor with a deafening crash. In a single moment, all remnants of his dad were erased from the living room.

“No! You’re ruining everything, stop! My dad was just a nerd that loved science. He might’ve been a little strict about grades but other than that, he’s a good guy!”

“Steve, we are telling you that that is Dr. Brenner. I don’t know why he has a different name at work or why you don’t know what he did at work but it is him. We met him last year and he’s missing because… Well, we’re pretty sure El killed him or at least really hurt him. That’s why he didn’t come back.” Dustin delivered the news as gently as possible but his words still registered like a knife in the back.

“What.”

Suddenly, Steve saw everything differently. The missed basketball games, the unexplained absences and late nights at work, the weird interest in his experiments. It felt like the loving dad that he grew up with was a stranger he never knew at all. The kids didn’t seem to notice his shock or the fact that they had just ruined his life. They continued arguing amongst themselves until Steve tuned back in.

“What if Steve knew about it? For all we know, he could've had a part in it! Maybe that’s why he wanted to join the Party. He could be reporting back to Dr. Brenner right now!” Mike ranted. Jesus Christ, Steve hated that kid.

“You really think Steve had something to do with it? I’m pretty sure he’s failing at least three classes right now. There is no way someone would use him as an accomplice in a conspiracy this big,” Dustin shook his head and sent a wink at Steve as if he was defending him. But Steve didn’t take it that way.

They knew about his dad’s disappearance and were now insulting him? Fucking shit, he’d risked everything for these kids; his reputation, his old friends, his relationship with Nancy, his life! And they still doubted him and saw him as an idiot. They saw him as a traitor that would work as an accomplice to torture other kids. Fuck it.

“Get out.”

“Steve, Mike didn’t mean-”

He cut Lucas off with a glare. “Get out! I don’t want you here. Just get out!”

They all walked out with varying degrees of guilt until Steve was left alone with nothing to do but look at the ruined family portrait with its shards of broken glass and cry about the injustice of it all.

My Permanent Tag List: @doubleb11 @nburkhardt @zerokrox-blog @newtstabber @i-less-than-three-you @carlyv @pyrohonk @ksherlock15 @conversesweetheart @estrellami-1 @suddenlyinlove @yikes-a-bee @swimmingbirdrunningrock @perseus-notjackson @anaibis @merricatty @maya-custodios-dionach @grtwdsmwhr @manda-panda-monium @lumoschildextra @goodolefashionedloverboi @mentallyundone @awkwardgravity1 @devondespresso @gregre369

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#does the timeline continue as normal after this or does this change everything?#what if Robin takes pity on Steve when he goes back to Mrs. Click's class on Monday and befriends him then?#Eddie sees the fallen king hanging around the Buckley band kid and befriends him too #stranger things #pre steddie #pre robin #steve harrington #eleven hopper #mike wheeler #dustin henderson #lucas sinclair

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kaizsche · 7 months ago

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in my dreams, you love me back

a starlight/homelander fic set during s3e06, a missing scene (kind of) inspired by red velvet's in my dreams.

warning: delusions. angst. more delusions and more angst.

note: thank you thank you thank you so much to DelightfullySad and @finnismyoriginalsin for being the numero uno numba one enabler. if it weren't for them i wouldn't be here writing for starlander. i owe them my life. period.

crossposted on ao3

He felt the absence of her presence like a phantom limb.

They have been inseparable the past few weeks. Ashley had coordinated their schedules to accommodate their PR relationship stunt. Where he went, Starlight naturally followed. Silly interviews about their relationship and public appearances were staged.

He even began to enjoy her company despite her corpse-like enthusiasm. The moment he realized this, he began seeking more of her. His lips lingered long after their perfunctory kisses and his hands, he found, if not at the small of her back, were either wrapped around her waist or intertwined with the softness of her hands.

There was an odd moment of embarrassment but also smug satisfaction when a reporter wrote an article about them. How sweet! Homelander can’t keep his hands off his girl!

John supposed his recent business venture as the new CEO of Vought made him forget about everything else. He was lost in the technicalities and in turn had lost sight of what was important.

Starlight. Annie.

To make matters worse, Soldier Boy rose from the dead, his appearance a cause for immediate concern. Nobody at this moment would be able to make the connection that Soldier Boy was behind all the explosions but the instant someone did would be ruining everything he worked hard for.

Before that could happen, he needed to kill Soldier Boy. Fast.

That was when he remembered.

“Don’t you think that maybe the best way to handle this is to find him?”

If there was anyone who had information about Soldier Boy, it was Annie. Though, if it had been a day since she hadn’t reported back to him on the matter, maybe she wasn’t better off.

Her apartment was empty, much to his confusion. He was under the impression that she was scheduled to shoot an advertisement for a skincare company and yet her costume sat idling inside her walk-in-closet.

For a moment, his traitorous mind entertained her connection to Soldier Boy’s reemergence.

What did you expect, you fucking idiot! A distant voice in his mind screamed for attention. You killed her ex, you think she wouldn’t retaliate?

John whimpered, But she did it first.

Just shut the fuck up and let me think.

He spied his gleaming reflection off a white telephone and dialed Ashley’s office.

She answered on the first ring. “Starlight? Where the fuck are you—”

“Where’s Starlight?” He questioned, ignoring the sudden spike of her heartbeat at the sound of his voice echoing from Starlight’s telephone. In Starlight’s room.

Ashley answered with a long suffering sigh, “I don’t know, Sir. She just took off without informing anybody.”

He drummed his fingers in silent contemplation, his eyes taken to examining every intimate detail of her room and stopped, glaring lasers at the offending image positioned right next to her bed.

“Alright. Call me when she comes in.”

He left the comfort of her room not before accidentally bumping into her framed picture with Hughie.

You’re acting like a spoiled brat.

John dismissed the voice as he retreated to his quarters. It continued to whisper nasty things in his ear that Annie was likely an accomplice. He knew how much Butcher and his skinny side-kick Hughie (who happened to be her boyfriend) detested him. John wouldn’t put it past them to summon Soldier Boy in an attempt to level the playing field.

The voice grew louder, snapping insults in his ear about his weakness—that he had too much humanity in him. That it was disgusting and he was absolutely embarrassed to be him.

He grabbed for the remote blindly in an effort to distract himself.

“...he children had all signed a letter thanking Starlight and Homelander for their generous donation to the hospital. Starlight met with patients with kidney failure whose lives were dependent on machines. They are on dialysis three times a week for four hours — until they can have a transplant. The process, however, takes years because of a shortage of donors.”

Annie sat cross legged, surrounded by children. She held a children’s book in her hand, reading to them in silly voices. Different camera shots of children bursting into laughter at her antics flashed through the screen, some of it even catching teary-eyed parents.

The scene changed. Annie was speaking to a kid with sunshine locks and blue eyes.

“Dominic for instance has been…”

A lump formed in his throat at the sight of her arms around the boy. The screen transitioned to another shot of Annie cradling him in her arms like a babe as she spoke with a doctor.

What the fuck? Get your shit together, man!

He closed his eyes, lost in the image of Annie and the boy.

John you fucking halfwit! Get back here! I’m not done with you yet! JOHN! YOU MOTHERFUCKER—

He stirred to the faint sensation of being rocked to consciousness.

“Dad!” The voice screamed. “Wake up! I’m going to be late for my recital!”

John stuffed his head deeper in the sinking softness of his pillows. A hand snatched it out of his chin, his forehead making contact with the headboard in a loud bang.

“Wha…” A woman mumbled beside him.

“The fuck?!” He exclaimed.

“Mooooommm! Dad said a swear word!” Before he could recover from the damage upon his forehead, there was another blow to his head—too soft to ever bruise him but a hit that took him off guard.

He rose to meet the attacker, the heat of his lasers igniting the low rage simmering within him.

And stopped at the peculiar yet welcome sight of Annie’s bed head and her legs tangled in cream sheets. A smaller figure dressed in pajamas blocked his figure, meeting his rage with a smug smirk so reminiscent of his own.

“Pay up!”

He blinked. His throat was so dry he was simply unable to respond. Bewildered, he sought Annie’s help.

She frowned, but complied nonetheless. Annie laid a hand on the girl’s shoulder, her voice raspy in the quiet morning.

He was unable to follow their conversation for he had been occupied with the room he seemed to have been sleeping in. It was a modest bedroom, he noted, filled with mementos. There was a compilation of images of his unlived life with Annie.

His temple throbbed with the effort of remembering. A continuous ringing occupied his hearing the more he examined each picture. Memories flickered in his mind like sifting sand through a screen.

What is reality and what is not?

At the center of the images was a baby girl swaddled in his colors.

Something itched at the back of his head, a memory long forgotten.

“Wendy?” He tested.

His daughter faced him with a beaming smile, her lips thinly pursed like his own but she had her mother’s nose.

“Are you—”

John tackled the two of them in a tight hug, dotting kisses to whatever part of their faces he could reach. Twin echoes of shrill laughter brightened the morning as they struggled against his sudden display of affection.

“Dad, stop! It tickles!” His daughter cried, short of breath.

He pulled away, reluctant to not be within her presence but remembered the urgency of the situation. “Chop chop, ladies! We don’t want to be late for the recital!”

Annie smiled at him with a question in her eyes once Wendy left to go prepare for the big day.

“What was that all about?”

He leaned to press a gentle kiss against her lips but moved to her cheek at the last second. Somehow he knew she didn’t like to kiss with morning breath.

“It was nothing.”

Her soft fingers gripped his wrist, “Are you sure?”

John chewed on the inside of his cheek in contemplation. Should he tell her the truth? That he wasn’t the man she married but a fraud? A momentary lapse of insanity to give peace to his troubled mind? But doing so would be akin to ruining the dream.

John wasn’t quite sure he was ready to face the world just yet.

And so, he said, “I love you.”

“I love you t—”

His consciousness spoke to him in loud banging noises. Like what he did as a child when he begged for any scrap of attention.

Welcome back, you fucking pussy. I’ve taken the liberty of actually getting our shit together. This’ll be the last time you do this to me. Do you hear me, you absolute piece of—

John heard her before he saw her. He had locked on to the gentle cadence of her heartbeat drowning all but the sound of her.

Annie sat down, sighed, and cleared her throat.

He moved without knowing, driven by the remains of his dreams, seeking her touch. The comfort, the soothing balm she alone could provide.

“I’m really glad you’re here.”

When all he wanted to say was, “I love you.”

He continued, driven by the questioning look in her eyes so reminiscent of the wife in his dreams.

“I missed you.”

When he wanted to tell her, “In my dreams, you love me back.”

#homelander #starlight #annie january #the boys #the boys fanfiction #the boys fanfic #starlander #homelight #starlight x homelander #homelander x starlight #angst #homie needs a hug #:((((#kaizsche gifs #kaizsche fics #[john & annie — “i'm really glad you're here.”]

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yesimwriting · 1 year ago

Text

Final Girl (Part 10)

Final Girl Masterlist (updated chapters 1-10 and extras, asks/extras involving the final girl fic verse are under the tag ‘final girl fic’)

A/n i’m leaning towards starting to write shorter chapters in order to be able to update a little faster but idk

Series Summary: Y/n can’t believe that she has to leave the only home she’s ever known just because her mom’s latest boyfriend has a house in some town in California. Just as she’s starting to think that Woodsboro might not be that bad, something life altering happens after she agrees to sleep over at Becker’s house. Now her name is practically synonymous with Ghostface’s.

Chapter Summary: The aftermath of learning that a certain redheaded journalist is making you a focal point of her true crime novel.

----

In the least cynical way possible, sometimes I think a part of my mom craves conflict. Not in a narcissistic or violent way, just in a protective one.

She doesn’t pick fights for the sake of having them, she doesn’t tear into things for the rush of adrenaline or to feed some complex. My mom likes standing up for people in a way that would be annoyingly self righteous if it was any less genuine. Any incident that could be interpreted as blood in the water has her diving in head first, ready to ward off any potential sharks.

That’s why nothing about this rampage is surprising. She’s been pacing the length of the kitchen without giving the phone in her hand a break, typing out numbers at an unbelievable speed, only occasionally pausing to flip through the phone book on the counter.

“Well then put me through,” she stalls long enough to put a hand on her hip, “Not to an assistant, not to the station, or the publishing company. Get Gale Weathers on the phone. Now.”

This is the third time she’s pulled this stunt since I walked into the kitchen to grab a pity snack. The way she presses her lips together tells me that this time hasn’t been any more successful. “She’s too busy? Well, I hope she’s not too busy for a law su--” Something cuts her off. My mom blinks. “Hello?”

“I told you that threatening to sue people wouldn’t work over the phone.”

She pulls the phone away from her ear with a sigh. “It’s not a threat if I mean it.” The phone is placed on the counter as she turns her attention to the phone book. “That woman can’t do this. You, and your legal guardian, never consented to your likeness or story being used.”

Unfortunately, that’s not completely true. Or, at the very least, it’s not that concrete or straight forward. When something’s news, information becomes a lot less easy to claim as personal or yours. Especially if personal information is kept vague enough. The second I was attacked by Ghostface and the news reported it, a lot of me in that context became a lot less legally sound. I’d have to prove it defamed me or hurt my life, which can’t be done before the book comes out.

“We can’t prove that until the book is out.”

She sighs, “There has to be something.” My mom taps her manicured nails against the granite counter top.

My stomach twists with helplessness as the most urgent issue rushes to the front of my mind. It’s more than just someone taking advantage of my trauma or the fact that books are so much more permanent than any news headline ever could be. Books take time to come out, to circulate, which means that this tell all could reach its peak during my college app season. Princeton could see this. All colleges could see this.

“Mom...” I can feel the tremor in my voice, but I can’t bring myself to stop it.

In a way, isn’t this best case scenario? Compared to what could have happened? Isn’t this such a small thing compared to what happened to Casey? I know this, but I can’t quite bring myself to feel it fully. Not when it comes to something I’ve worked for my entire life.

“What if--what if this gets in the way of Princeton?”

She presses her lips together, watching me openly in a way that’s become familiar. “Oh, pumpkin,” she breathes, moving across the counter to pull me into a hug, “I’m sorry you’re going through this.” I squeeze her tightly. “And that I don’t know what to say or how to help.” She smooths my hair down gently. “But when it comes to school, all you can do is keep up your grades and when the time comes, write the best essay you can. And if they’re stupid enough to turn down your weirdly-good grades and insane resume, then screw Princeton.”

Despite myself, I smile. Those soft digs at my type-A-ness aren’t lost on me and the sense of familiarity I get from them instantly make it easier. “Thanks.”

“Yeah, and if you want, you could always write your own tell-all book that would outsell hers because yours is from the--”

“Excuse me?”

She lets go of me, taking a step back at my offense. “I’m not telling you to write it, I’m just saying a published book would look good on an Ivy-league application.”

Sometimes I’m so crazy about school that I forget my mom is also capable of insanity. “Mom!”

My mom lets out a sigh. “What? You’ve been obsessed with Princeton since your dad gave you his old college sweatshirt in the third grade, but now I’m crazy?”

She’s half joking and I know she’d never actually push me to write something like that, but my stomach still turns. Yes, I have made a ton of jokes about having no morals when it comes to college apps, but it’s different now. Anything that has to do with that Ghostface stuff feels tainted. I don’t want success from him. I don’t want anything good from Casey’s death.

I pick up the spoon that’s sunken into my partially melted bowl of ice cream. “I am not exploiting this.”

She holds her hands up in defense, “It’d ruin Gale’s book, jump start your career in journalism.” My mom extends an arm, asking for my spoon. I sigh before handing it to her. She eats a healthy spoonful of ice cream. “Two birds, one stone.”

I scoff, taking the spoon back and eating my own spoonful. "You’re sick.”

My mom steps back form the counter. “Just a suggestion.”

I’m about to assert my previous point when the doorbell rings. I raise an eyebrow at my mom, silently asking if I’m expecting anyone. I’m not so I just shrug, moving away from the counter and towards the door.

There’s a chance it could be Wells. He’s at work, but it wouldn’t be the first time he forgot his keys. I peak out the window and am instantly pleasantly surprised. I’m more excited than I can justify as I reach for the front door’s lock.

The door creaks open and I fight down a grin. I don’t know why they’re here, but I don’t mind the unexpected visit. I had been planning on moping and rotting in bed until school.

“Hey,” I mumble, latching onto my surprise.

Stu flashes a warm smile in greeting, “Hey, sweetheart.”

I wrinkle my nose at the nickname despite its tameness. My mom’s way too close for that. I’m torn between making a joke about it and avoiding drawing attention to my concern and giving Stu a reason to push. I settle on looking over at Billy. He’s standing in a way that feels a little stiff.

There’s a chance they called first, since they usually do when they come over through the front door instead of just showing up at my window. “If you called, my mom’s sort of taken over our phone line.” They both already know about Gale’s book and the fact that she’s editing it to include me, since they were both there when I found out. That still doesn’t make it easy to talk about, “She’s hunting down Gale Weathers.”

"Then I’m scared for Gale Weathers.” Stu raises his eyebrows, exaggerating concern.

Billy nods once, “She deserves it.”

That’s true. I wasn’t exactly kind to her during our brief meeting, but she ambushed me at school after I was attacked. But that can’t be enough to justify what she’s doing now, especially without so much as a ‘heads up, you’re in my book’ phone call. If you’re going to potentially ruin someone’s future because they happened to have survived a serial killer, it wouldn’t kill you to call first.

“Anything...else up?” Stu’s question surprises me. Maybe I didn’t react fast enough or I still look as worried about all of this as I feel.

I don’t want to get into the details of my concern. I freaked out in front of them enough after I saw Gale’s announcement on TV, but there’s no way I can get away with acting like I’m perfectly okay with it all now. I guess I’ll go with deflecting, “Just my mom being a total college obsessed psycho.”

The corner of Billy’s mouth tilts upwards, almost a smile. “You had to get it from somewhere.”

I glare at him in a way that I really hope is cutting. “Shut up. I’m not psycho.”

“I’ve seen the Princeton poster in your roo--” I shake my head sharply, extending an arm to softly punch Stu’s arm.

He stops, more out of surprise than decency. I drop my voice to a low whisper in order to explain, “My mom’s not that distracted, and she doesn’t know you’ve ever been in my room.” Stu grins at my seriousness. “And she can never find out.”

This only makes him grin more openly, “Keeping secrets for me?”

“I’m not above kicking you guys out.”

Billy sighs, a defensive huff. “I didn’t do anything.”

A slightly too aggressive you brought him here almost slips out, but I manage to stop it. Maybe if I was in a more joking, lighthearted mood I’d let myself make that kind of aggressive joke, but I’m moody and there’s a good chance my irritation will slip into that. it’ll taint the comment and make it something a lot more serious than it’s supposed to be.

“Yet,” I settle on, trying to feel as easy as the comment.

He frowns, eyebrows pulling together like he just watched me kick a puppy. After a second, Billy parts his lips, but he doesn’t get to say anything back.

“Who’s at the door?” My mom’s voice carries from the hall and to the entryway, a moment later she appears. I turn my head in time to see her polite smile, a little irate thanks to how the last day and a half have been. “Oh, hi, Billy, Stu.’’ Her greeting is flatter than usual as she barely takes a second to look up from the phone. “Come in, come in.”

I step back to create space for them to come in. Despite my mom’s instinctual fall back to politeness, she barely notices the difference as she hits redial before pressing the phone to her ear. “Do you guys want anything to drink or...are you hungry or...going...” She trails off, attention visibly shifting as she waves us off, “Hello, can I--look, that’s great, Jocelyn, but I need to get in touch with your supervisor?”

With one last force-of-habit smile, she turns away from the entryway and walks out. I walk towards the front door, instinctually shutting and locking it. “That’s basically my life now.”

“Poor thing,” Stu’s voice is thick with false sympathy, “Your mommy’s fixing everything for--”

“Shut up.” The reply comes out too quickly, too serious.

Stu blinks once, clearly not expecting the hint of actual tension and hostility that managed to press itself into the two words. “Someone’s moody.”

I squeeze my eyes shut for a long second. “Sorry, I didn’t--” Sighing, I try to force the stiffness out of my body. “This book thing’s starting to get to me. I know that’s not an excuse, I just--” I don’t know how to explain the knot in my throat or the nerves in my stomach.

The thought of this one thing I was delusional enough to think that I might be able to one day put behind me being everywhere is starting to claw at my insides. That helplessness is being amplified by a strange form of guilt, because I’m the one that’s still alive, so why should I get to complain?

“Hey,” Stu interrupts my derailing train of thought. He places a hand on my shoulder, “No hard feelings, okay?”

I nod, irritated at myself for the tears I feel burning in my eyes. “Okay.”

“You wanna get out of here?” Billy’s question is so low I almost convince myself I made it up. But then he lets out a breath and tacts on something else, “...Or we could go upstairs or watch a movie or whatever?”

The offer is so gentle I nearly melt. “Did you guys want to do something?”

They did come here, probably for a reason. Not that they never come over just to hang out, but they usually have some kind of plan or suggestion, like going over to Stu’s or driving around or watching a specific movie.

“Just wanted to see how you were doing.” Billy’s reply comes out slowly, his eyes not fully focused on me. “We called and you didn’t answer, and after the news thing...”

That’s fair. I did leave Stu’s house pretty fast after the Gale Weathers thing and haven’t talked to anyone outside of my house for over 24 hours. Usually people worrying about how I’m handling things makes me feel uncomfortably hollow, but this doesn’t make any of that come up. Maybe it’s because they’re not making it feel like pity.

“Uh...” There’s honestly not much that seems fun right now. A part of me still wants to crawl under my covers and pretend that nothing else exists, but they’ve pulled me out worse moods before. “I can show you guys that album I was talking about?” The offer feels weak, a little hollow. Stu squeezes my shoulder before relaxing his arm. “The CD’s in my room.” I shrug, looking between the two of them, “Or we could do whatever.”

“You’ve been talking about that CD for a long time for someone who always forgets to bring it.” Stu’s not even trying to hide his accusation as he starts walking down the hallway.

I cross my arms, giving Billy a look that asks if he can believe all I have to deal with. “Yeah, I’m just worried your top 20 pallet is too complex for our tastes to ever overlap.”

Stu scoffs, “Yeah, I’m the one that’s into top 20.”

“Out of the three of us?” Billy’s question rivals Stu’s blatant sarcasm.

I fight down a smile as Stu turns his head enough to glare. The display of irritation is short lived, because Stu has to turn back around to avoid tripping on the first stair step. He nearly misses, but recovers so quickly I wouldn’t have noticed the misstep if I hadn’t been looking at him. Sometimes his stability surprises me, because Stu’s energetic and lanky enough to warrant being a little clumsy, but he’s a lot better at not tripping than me.

We walk up the stairs, the only sound filling the space is my mom’s voice, too far for any specifics to be made out.

“I think I miss your mom not trusting us.” Stu lets out a wistful sigh.

Rolling my eyes, I push open the door to my room. “Don’t worry, she’s just distracted.”

Even though my mom’s phone tirade is definitely helping her be so easy, I know what he’s talking about. When Billy and Stu first started hanging around, my mom felt the need to hover a lot more. She’d check up on us a lot more than she would when I was alone with Sidney or Tatum. My mom would also make a lot of jokes and comments in order to pry as (not so) subtly as possible. Slowly, she became more accustomed (or maybe desensitized), to them and now my mom acts a lot more normal in front of them. When they leave, she normally still pushes a little, usually through humor, but it’s a lot more tolerable now.

Stu walks into my room before I can, walking towards my bed. “We’re growing on her.”

I sit down next to him. “Or she finally gets that you two barely register as guys to me.”

Stu moves, intentionally bumping his knee into mine, hard enough to make my knee move. Once he has my attention, he flexes an arm. “I’m all man, angel.”

There’s an exaggerated quality to his reaction that I can’t tell if I’m meant to take seriously or not. It’s the uncertainty that makes me let out a slight laugh. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

He turns his head, leaning back slightly as he presses his palms into my comforter. “Then how’d you mean it?”

My face feels a little warmer than before and I can’t figure out what that’s about. I’m used to Stu pressing after comments like this. Sometimes his humor focuses on making someone feel uncomfortable. Retreating or acting awkward gives him a reason to keep pushing. But I have no good way to answer.

I wipe my hands on the fabric of my jeans. “Don’t start.”

“Maybe I don’t get it.”

I stand, throwing him a dirty look as I move towards my CD player. “Maybe you’re full of shit.”

He huffs, “Mean.”

My fingers skim the row of CDs on my desk before finding the one I’m looking for. I use my nail to pop open the case. “Yeah, I’m a real bully.” Billy, who’s been lingering near my desk, opens my CD player before I can. I set the disk in place. “Can you believe him?”

Billy shakes his head once, a few strands of hair falling out of place with the motion. He picks up the CD case and starts studying the back of it. “I can’t believe you can’t.”

Stu lets out a distracted sound of protest. I wouldn’t be surprised if I turned around and found him fidgeting with something. My room’s not a total disaster, but I’ve been too busy moping to fully clean it, so there are a lot of contenders for things Stu could be messing with. I can’t think of anything that’s within his reach that’s embarrassing or important, so I let it go. Billy seems a little tense and considering the headspace he was in the last time I saw him, figuring that out is important.

“Fair,” I hum, shutting the CD player, “You uh--” His eyes flit upwards, away from the CD case. The look is kind of stiff, but not annoyed or wary. It makes me realize that I don’t really have a good way to finish my sentence. Asking if someone’s okay never feels natural. Especially when he’s only been here for a few. “You okay?” I force myself to focus on the CD player, messing with the volume instead fo just hitting play. “You seem a little tense.”

He sets the plastic case down. “I’m okay.” Billy straightens, shifting his weight off of my desk. The movement is small, he hasn’t even taken a full step, but the change makes him feel a lot closer. “Just can’t believe she can do that.” His tone takes on such a hard edge it takes me a second to realize what he’s talking about. Is the book thing really bothering him that much? “To you, to--does she think she’s untouchable? That guy’s still out there, what makes her think he won’t find her and rip that bitch’s--”

Billy cuts himself off with no warning, eyes focusing on me. I blink. Billy might come off as intense and reserved before you know him, but he’s never seemed explosive or prone to emotional impulsivity like that. Even when I briefly thought he could have been the killer, he never came off as aggressive. He never even held the fact that I put his life in danger and accused him of being a serial killer against me.

This tension is new and it came from feeling defensive over me. The realization that it has something to do over me makes me more antsy than Billy’s actual words.

“Woah,” Stu says through a dry laugh. “Relax, dude, there’s no need to write the next news story for her.” Stu swings an arm over my shoulder. I’m still stuck on what just happened, so it takes me a millisecond too long to weakly attempt to get Stu off of me. He pinches my shoulder, the nail of his thumb digging into my skin just enough for it to register as stinging. “You’re in poor Billy’s head.” I can’t tell if Stu’s teasing is meant to be sympathetic towards Billy or accusatory towards me. “Give the boy a break.”

My chin briefly tilts downwards, a compulsory movement that seems to genuinely want to listen to what’s clearly a joking command. “I’ll try.”

Stu relaxes his hold on me, dragging his thumb up and down the exposed skin of my shoulder, soothing the skin he accidentally irritated. I extend my arm, turning on the music absentmindedly. The room doesn’t exactly feel tense, but I feel a lot smaller than I did a few seconds ago. I don’t know if it’s because of the dip into a gory, too real topic or Stu’s comment or if I’m still just irritable.

“Guess it’s not your fault,” Stu hums, squeezing my shoulder once, “You can’t help being lovable.”

I try to keep myself focused as I adjust the volume of the first song. “That’s true.” He lets go of me and I stand a little straighter. “We all have our faults.”

Billy lets out a breath that’s suspiciously close to a laugh. “Yeah, your only flaw’s that you’re too perfect.”

“You were the one ready to support a murder for her,” Stu defends bluntly, “Not saying that Gale Weathers doesn’t deserve what she gets.”

In all honesty, I had been so distracted by the way the book would affect me and my chances to get past the Ghostface thing that I didn’t even think about the actual killer. This could get him to hurt someone else. Gale Weathers could be making herself a target, but I find the thought unlikely. The more I reflect on why he left me alive the more I think that it might have been because there’s more of a story when there’s a survivor. He joked with me about the final girl thing. He also called me once without attacking anyone. The asshole probably gets off on attention.

Gale Weathers is probably the safest person in this town. The more she talks, the more attention he gets. It probably also helps his ego because he knows everyone’s after him and he hasn’t been caught. It’ll probably get him to hurt someone...just not her. Not that I hope Gale gets stabbed, it just makes her choices that much more selfish.

I scratch the back of my wrist, staring at my open palm. The tiny white line, the scar carved into the skin of my hand seems bigger right now. “I don’t--it’s not like I want Gale to get hurt.”

“No one’s saying you do,” Billy says, voice patient.

I sigh, a part of me wishing this hadn’t come up. This was the last thing I wanted to think about, that’s why I’ve been ignoring calls and just focusing on homework. I walk away from my desk and sit down on my bed before slumping back semi-dramatically. If this is how Billy and Stu are acting, everyone at school is definitely going to start treating me weirdly again. Maybe Gale will be there, trying to chase me down for a quote.

Ugh...maybe I can get my mom to bully the principle into letting me homeschool for a few days. A week maximum. Or maybe she’ll let me pretend to have mono or something. I have most of my textbooks here and I could get assignments from--

My bed dips, cutting off my train of thought. I turn my head enough to see Billy. “I--” His voice comes out so low I’m surprised I even heard him over the music. “I didn’t want to bring all of that up for you.”

There’s a softness there that makes it easier to genuinely shake my head dismissively. “It’s okay.”

His eyes briefly meet mine. “I also didn’t uh--didn’t want to freak you out or--”

“You didn’t.” That’s true, at least in the way he meant it. That level of anger over something that only really affects me did surprise me, but it’s not like he scared me. He hesitantly focuses his attention on me. I prop my head up on one elbow, watching him carefully. “You’re not as scary as you think you are.”

Billy tilts his head, his lips tugging into an uncertain smile. “Oh, yeah?”

He’s probing, likely trying to trick me into a compliment. “You’re losing your edge.” I keep my voice as nonchalant as possible as I drop my elbow and lay down again. “I think it’s all the time around me.”

His eyebrows draw together like he’s seriously considering my hypothesis. “Valid theory.” The bed moves with no warning, the space to my left indenting. Billy lays down next to me without moving to make sure there’s enough space between me and the headboard. His arm presses into mine. “All the time in here can’t be helping either.”

Billy does come over to my room a lot, usually crashing here when he needs to avoid his dad and doesn’t want to talk about it. Recently, though, he hasn’t been around as much. I didn’t think too much of it until I went over to Stu’s and saw that Billy wasn’t up for much of anything. “It’s the exposure to all the fluffy pillows.”

“Probably.” Something warm brushes against the back of my wrist. Billy carefully traces an invisible line up my forearm. “This song’s nice.”

The warmth of validation tugs at my chest. “It’s my favorite one on here.” He follows the same trail back down the inside of my forearm. “I think you’ll like the uh--” There had been a specific one on the track list that reminded me of a few songs he had shown me before. I list the titles in my head until I remember the right one, “Fourth track.”

“Hm,” he hums in a way that doesn’t feel dismissive, just relaxed.

The bed shifts again. I crane my neck back, eyes straining to see behind me. After a second, I make out Stu circling my nightstand. “This is new.” He’s picking something up. Stu sits back down, making it easier to see what’s caught his attention.

Oh. Not new, but I don’t blame him for not having my bookshelf memorized. “Not new.” He turns the book onto its side, studying the worn spine as if to confirm what I’m saying. “Just haven’t read it in a minute, thought it might cheer up.”

There have been few problems that American Psycho and Patrick Bateman haven’t been able to at least help. It didn’t make me feel a lot better, but it was nice to distract myself from a real life murderer with the fictitious kind.

Stu pauses, skimming the back of the book. “A little dark for a pick me up.”

“It’s well written.”

That’s true, and its commentary on social values and the rise of well off, stockbroker success and the culture that’s developed because of it is interesting and a creative analysis of society’s values. It also helps that despite being written with only a few redeeming qualities and being the literal villain (and weirdly misogynistic), I might have the smallest bit of a thing for Patrick Bateman. Not that I’d ever go for anyone like that in real life, but my fascination with his character is definitely a guilty pleasure. A guilty pleasure they really don’t need to know about.

He thumbs through the pages, attention focused like he’s actually reading it all that fast. Stu nods once, setting the book down at the edge of my bed before picking up a sweatshirt I almost forgot was still on my bed. He takes a second to feel the fabric of the sleeve before loosely folding it. Stu leaves it next to my book before laying down.

We’re all lying horizontally now, but Stu’s backwards, his head closer to my torso and legs than anything else. The position makes it easy for me to secretly move my hand and softly flick his shoulder. Stu snaps his head in my direction, expression so shocked and slightly horrified I might as well have slapped him.

It’d probably be smart to backtrack, but I’m clearly in no mood to make intelligent decisions, so I let myself laugh. The sound is a quick, too-smug giggle. Stu’s eyebrows pull together at the sound, the look concerning in its seriousness. I move to pull my hand back, but my reaction is too late. Stu throws his hand forward, grasping onto my wrist. I yank back once, had enough to be considered serious. Stu squeezes tighter, pulling my arm forward with an ease that embarrasses me.

“Stu!” A partial squeak, a partial laugh.

He squeezes my arm to his chest, forcing my body to lean forward. I squirm, attempting to slip out of his grasp. I come close to escaping when I twist my arm back and turn my wrist without warning him, but Stu recovers. Growing desperate, I use my free hand to shove his shoulder. That backfires, too, encouraging him to use his other hand to keep me trapped.

The play fight escalates, both of us trying to win without getting up or seeming too invested. My wrist makes a cracking sound as I finally slip out of his hold. He’s quick to throw his arm forward and grab me again. Before I can even think to react, Stu tugs my hand upwards and briefly nips the side of my hand.

I gasp so dramatically one might think he tried to gnaw off my entire hand. “Did you just bite me?” Stu laughs, finally letting me take my arm back. I take a second to examine my hand, even though his teeth barely touched me. After deciding that my unmarked skin will one day recover, I prop myself up on my forearm and look over at Billy. “He fucking bit me.”

Billy turns his head, unbothered by our conflict. “You started it.” There’s an underlying smugness that makes me want to shove him. I frown openly, not caring if I get accused of pouting. He sighs, holding up a hand. “Fine. Let’s see the damage.”

“I didn’t even touch her.”

I roll my eyes at Stu’s defense. Did it hurt? No, but it was deeply offensive. “You’re lucky I don’t bite you.”

Stu lets out a breath, “Sweetheart, you can bi--”

“Do not.” I keep my voice stern as I look at Billy’s waiting hand. He asked to see the damage, but there really isn’t any. The skin beneath my thumb wasn’t even grossly damp. It was more about my shock. But I still listen, setting my hand on his.

Billy pulls on my hand gently, studying my skin intently. He even takes a second to bend my fingers and stretch them back out. “Think you’ll live.”

I nod, letting Billy take his time still examining my hand. “Optimistic prognosis.”

He shrugs slightly, his shoulder bumping into mine. “Only if you’ve had all your shots.”

Stu’s scoff and offended, “Fuck off,” are nearly drowned out by my laughter. Billy sets my hand down between us carefully. My giggling fit is drawn out by the rush of fondness in my chest. These two really are so much weirder than people realize and I wouldn’t change it for anything. Wow. They really are my best friends, and maybe arguably the most important people in my life.

Feeling this close to anyone usually makes me want to be flighty. I’m not used to it when it comes to people I haven’t known my entire life, and there’s an inherent nervousness when it comes to growing attached to people you don’t completely know. It is kind of weird to feel this close to them and I haven’t even seen Billy’s room yet, so it makes sense that sometimes it feels different than what I’m used to.

“What are you thinking about?” The question takes me by surprise, breaking the easy silence that’s been carried by the soft music.

I blink at Billy’s words, a small part of me reacting like I’ve been caught doing something embarrassing. “Uh...nothing.” Fairly true. It’s not like my train of thought was focused or made much sense. Still, though, I should probably give him something more so he doesn’t assume that I’m trying to hide a mental break down. “...That you’re one of my best friends and I’ve never been to your house before.”

Stu lightly squeezes my forearm. “You’re not missing much.”

“You bit me,” I mumble, “What do you know?”

He relaxes his hold on me in order to run his knuckles up and down my arm. “It was a love bite.”

“Like a feral cat.”

Stu scoffs. “This is why Billy doesn’t want you at his place.”

Wow. Rude. I part my lips, ready to insult him. “Okay,” Billy interjects, “Don’t start again.” A part of me’s offended by the defense. I should be able to fight Stu over this. “You guys are kids.”

I glare, “Rude.”

“Fine, let him bite you again.” My nose wrinkles, but before I can say anything, Billy continues, “And he’s not wrong, you’re not missing much.”

He’s probably right, I’ve just been thinking about it a little more than usual. “Until I see it, I’m going to think that your bedsheets are bright pink.”

“Actually, they’re bright purple.”

The sarcasm comes out so quickly, so casually, I almost think he means it. “Nice try, but I’m still assuming neon pink.”

He sighs, “It’s neon now?” The question’s mumbled, and before I can say anything back, Billy sits up.

Stu turns onto his side, eyebrows drawn together in order to silently ask what’s up with Billy. “What are you doing?”

“If she’s going to make up things about my room until she sees it...” He walks away from my bed, stopping close to my door. “We should get it over with.”

Oh my god?? I don’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t that. I also wasn’t prepared for the wave of excitement buzzing in my chest. I sit up too quickly, too telling. “Really?”

It’s a casual thing that I really don’t want to make weird, but I wasn’t angling to get him to take us over there. And the thought is nice, they’re my best friends and a bedroom gives insight into a person. It’s also the perfect distraction after everything that’s happened today.

“Yeah? Really?”

Billy shrugs, already reaching my door. “It’ll be better than whatever she makes up about it.”

A good point, because I was already thinking about ways to work in an assumption about him having zebra print lampshades and posters pulled from pre-teen magazines. “Am I getting that predictable?”

He raises his eyebrows and Stu tries to conceal a laugh. I roll my eyes as Billy returns the question, “Getting?”

“Haha.” Why do I hang out with them? I take back all the warm, fuzzy thoughts about them.

I push myself to my feet, looking for my shoes. Stu sits up, waiting for me to find my sneakers. Because I was planning on hiding in my room until school, I almost didn’t change out of pajamas and now I’m glad I changed into some leggings and a comfortable shirt this morning.

My shoes were hiding underneath a pillow. I free them and sit on the edge of my bed to pull them on. Stu taps my knee, getting me to turn. “What?”

He pats his lap once, implying something I don’t get. When I don’t react quickly enough, Stu sighs and bends forward. He pulls on my laces. “I can--” It’s too late, he’s already looped them once and is working on doing it again. “Double knotted?”

Stu squeezes my ankle after tying my last shoe. “You trip too much for me not to.”

I scoff, “You were almost nice.”

“I’m always nice to you, angel.”

rolling my eyes, I move to stand after Stu straightens.

“Grab a jacket,” Billy mumbles, “It’s cold.”

If my mom could see this, she’d never make another joke about him again. Actually, she’d probably say he’s one of my only friends with good sense. “Nerd.”

He gives me a more-than-slightly-annoyed look as I reach for the jacket hanging on my desk chair. I make a point of holding up the jacket before folding the fabric over my arm.

----

It’s a lot harder to not look like a little kid on a field trip than one would think. Maybe it’s the jacket that’s gone from neatly folded over my arm to a wadded up lump pressed snugly into my chest, held in place by my crossed together arm. The spring in my step could be part of the problem, a slight bounce that has to be a result of the touch of fall chilliness in the air and has absolutely nothing to do with internal excitement. That’d be way too dramatic.

Billy unlocks the door and pulls it open. Stu walks in first, I follow. We walk down a short entryway that leads to a main living area. The living area is put together, radiating a neatness that almost feels clinical. Maybe that’s an exaggerated way of taking in the precisely angled arm chairs and the glass figurine that’s sitting on the coffee table, but I can’t help the thought. It has to be a byproduct of the ‘organized chaos’ my mom raised me on, a stack of magazines in the living room that never seem to fully straighten and unmatched pillows that get paired together to tell a story.

The space is nice, though, some underlying factor I can’t pinpoint making it still feel a little homey. It’s almost like the room’s covered by an invisible cloak that makes it clear that people live here, that this isn’t some open house. I take my time looking around the room, trying to find a source for this feeling.

There are a few framed photos, but none of them revolving around family enough to offer a homey feel, just pictures of a little boy growing up. The fuzzy one of the boy at maybe the age of six stands out on the coffee table, his smile reveals a missing tooth in a way that makes it a personal favorite. For a second, I think the subtle lived in atmosphere could be coming from the few knick knacks on the coffee table and book shelf, but quickly rule that out. Sure, they’re objectively nice decorations but they don’t fit together in that way. There’s no way a dad didn’t pick them out.

I guess the feeling comes from the details. The most comfortable looking arm chair is the one closest to the bookshelf even though that corner of the room is almost a little too cramped for the two to sit next to each other. The rug matches the walls and the couch in a way that makes the cream colored pillows seem sad and out of place.

“Is it everything you thought it’d be?”

Stu’s voice snaps me out of my train of thought. I nod once, stepping towards the coffee table. My hand reaches forward, picking up the picture of the kid with the missing tooth. “Oh, most definitely.”

Billy sighs at the same time Stu lets out a quick, easy laugh. “That’s a good one.”

“Put it down,” Billy mumbles halfheartedly, but it’s too late. Stu’s at my side, taking the smooth frame. He holds it up and then down, squinting like he’s studying a complex work of art. “This was a mistake.”

I grin, “Once again, most definitely.”

“You used to be a real softie.” Stu delivers the comment in a way that feels almost factual. I bite down a joke about how used to feels like an exaggeration as Stu sets down the frame.

Billy frowns a little too pointedly. “Yeah, I was the one that was sensitive.”

I turn my head towards Stu, who’s stiffer than he was too seconds ago. There’s definitely a story there. “What’s that about?”

“Don’t listen to him, sweetheart,” Stu pouts, lazily extending an arm in my direction. “He’s always been jealous of me.”

Mhm. I roll my eyes, sighing as I reluctantly step forward and meet him halfway. Stu squeezes my shoulder. The gesture is gentle enough, but I still halfheartedly try to push him off. “Yeah, jealous sounds like the right word.”

He huffs. “Don’t be mean.”

I force my thumb downwards. My nail pinches at my skin a little but it works, I get in between the fabric of my shirt and Stu’s palm. He curves his hand to give me the space I need. “I’m never mean.” He tries to squeeze my thumb down flat. “Seriously, though,” I turn my head enough to look at Billy, “Story?”

Billy tilts his head just enough for me to notice and his eyebrows pull together. The feeling that he’s silently trying to tell me something I can’t interpret tugs at me briefly. He straightens his stance before I can read too much into the look. “Imagine that with the impulse control of a seven-year-old, that’s the story.”

Stu being a former terror is a topic that’s been touched on before. Usually, the issue with befriending people that have known each other their entire lives is that you’ll never have the childhood experiences together. You’ll never know whose parents hosted the sleepovers or who had constantly scraped knees or who went through an embarrassing obsession with some child targeted franchise.

It’s a fair thing thing to be intimidated by. And normally, it’d sting from time to time, but with them it rarely does. I like hearing the stories, like the details that come up.

Stu scoffs in complaint, fighting back with renewed interest as I come close to freeing my shoulder.

“He used to have a thing for bugs,” Billy offers after a second, “Didn’t like when people would mess with hives and-and food routes or whatever.”

The hand on my shoulder nearly goes slack. I blink, twisting my neck to look at Stu, whose staring straight ahead. “Shut up.” The words come out uncharacteristically passive, and maybe even a little flat.

Picturing Stu as one of those insect fact kids wouldn’t come to me naturally, but it does kind of fit. Not the defending them, but the interest in something that gets people to react.

“Really?”

Stu sighs, “Not really.” Again, a surprisingly flat defense. “I didn’t have a thing...just thought they were...” He lifts one shoulder in a shrug, “Cool.”

“So cool you had to put a beetle in Valerie Thompson’s cubbie.”

...And there it is. I laugh despite myself, imagining a second-grade Stu and some poor girl getting into some kind of argument and then later finding something crawling between her crayons and coloring sheets. Maybe it’s a good thing we met when we did. Little me could be a monster in her own way, a way that wouldn’t have fit theres. “That poor girl.”

“Valerie Thompson had it coming,” Stu says, “Y’know what she was like.”

I don’t know if it’s weird that I assumed that Stu was talking to me or both of us instead of just talking to Billy. The comment was small, offhanded and focused on a topic only they know about. It’s fair for him to not be talking to me. Rationally, I get it. That doesn’t mean I like it, though.

I’ve seen them interact in ways that make it feel like everyone else is invisible. They get each other like that. Anyone that’s around them long enough to see them relax has to get it. It’s the kind of understanding that makes people insecure about their own best-friendship. Not that it makes me feel like that. Most of the time.

Something about it right now burns more than usual. My feelings aren’t hurt, I’m not upset because that wouldn’t be fair, but I’m not comfortable and breezy either. That just makes it worse, why does it feel different now?

Maybe my irritability is a result of multiple things. All I’ve had to today is a few spoonfuls of the ice cream that I mainly picked at so that my mom wouldn’t worry and I’ve had no water. The whole book thing has been stressful, too, and the pulsing ache of a migraine is starting to settle behind my right eye.

It was nice of Billy to invite me over because I asked, but maybe it’s too early for me to be out again. Maybe what I need is the safe enclosure of my bedroom, dim lighting, and a nap.

I try to shake off my discomfort by acting on instinct. The instinct of a feral toddler that isn’t getting enough attention. I twist my thumb, poking his hand with my nail. I’m not being mean about it, but I could have been gentler. Stu doesn’t react, which only adds to my annoyance.

My knuckles bend, giving me the space I need to get enough leverage to separate Stu’s hand from my arm. He lets me.

“Guess he hasn’t changed that much since he bit you today.”

The direct comment has me easing slightly. I get myself to smile. “Clearly.”

Billy takes a partial step forward, “You good?”

I scratch the back of my arm, trying to ground myself in the present. Be normal. “Yeah...just tired.” Which is true enough. I wipe at my face, pinching the bridge of my nose in an attempt to control the dull pain. “And I feel like I’m getting a headache.”

He nods, expression cloudy. “You want tylenol or water or...something.”

Pull it together. I force my hands to my side as I shake my head once. “I’m okay, just spaced out for a second.”

“You need to lay down?” Stu tilts his head, watching me like a part of him thinks I could faint.

My fingertips press into my side. “I’m good, it’s just a migraine.” This is what happens when someone decides to write a book about the most traumatic thing I’ve ever gone through. “Probably just stress.” They’re staring attentively. I can’t blame them for their concern. If I freaked out right now, this wouldn’t be my first meltdown. The fact that it’s warranted makes everything feel like too much. “Can we get back to analyzing Billy’s baby pictures? I think I saw one with a pool floaty on the bookshelf.”

“Baby pictures are low tier.” Stu briefly lifts a hand before dropping it dismissively, swiping at the air. “The real making fun of Billy’s in his room.”

“Really?”

"Yep. All the angst.”

Intriguing. “All the angst and pink sheets, right?”

“Neon.”

Billy sighs once, reluctantly stepping forward. This is all out of his control now. “You two don’t need to be around each other.”

He walks past the couch, approaching a hall that leads away from the living room. Stu turns his head the second Billy’s back is to us. “So jealous of us.”

Despite myself, I smile, finally feeling a bit more at ease. “So.”

We walk down the hall together. Billy’s fully ditched us, but Stu knows where we’re going. The hall is short, we pass one door before Stu stops us in front of one that’s partially open. He opens it fully with a gentle push and walks in without a second thought.

I’m still stepping into the room when the bed creaks loudly thanks to the sudden addition of Stu’s weight. He’s making himself just as at home as he does in my room, rolling onto his stomach to reach for a pillow to tuck beneath him.

Billy sighs from his desk chair, moving his legs off the foot of the bed. “What did we say you were? Seven?”

Stu cranes his neck, glaring at Billy before relaxing again. “And a half.”

“Feels generous.” The joke comes out instinctually, but my attention’s already divided.

Billy’s room is made up of deep blue-grey walls, not quite dark but nowhere close to light either. All the furniture is made of dark wood that matches the hardwood of the floor. The room is decorated a little neater than one would expect for a teenage boy, a few posters that are sized too well to not have been picked out carefully. They’re movie themed, though nowhere near as openly gory or sexualized as the one’s in Stu’s.

Everything’s also nicely organized. Like, even more organized than my room. No clothes on the floor or laundry sitting in a basket or on a chair in a pile that’s left to grow until it eventually topples over. What I can see of his desk is also put together, no assignments or unfinished books or projects cluttering the surface.

I walk towards the bed, siting down on the edge. The comforter is navy blue and a lot softer than I thought it’d be. His sheets are dark colored, neutral plaid. Not hot pink or an obnoxious shade of purple, unfortunately. I can’t bring myself to mind being wrong. The space is really Billy in a reserved sort of way. It fits him.

“No pink sheets.” Billy’s voice snaps me out of my analysis. It’s a good thing, too, because I was probably seconds away from touching things on his bookshelf and messing with the lamp and being nosey about knick knacks. I’d feel worse about the desire to pry and investigate for entertainment’s sake if both of them weren’t constantly looking through my things.

My hand brushes the edge of the sheet that’s folded over. “Disappointing.” I twist awkwardly to better look at him. Billy’s bouncing his leg, not looking at anything in particular. “But besides that, it’s nice and not as embarrassing as Stu said it’d be.”

Billy’s eyebrows draw together, “As?”

Stu props his head up on one elbow despite the fact that most of his arm sinks into a pillow. “Look through his underwear draw and then we’ll talk.”

I laugh, surprising myself with how loud and genuine it is. The suddenness aggravates the background soreness of a headache. I ignore it. “You’ve looked through his underwear drawer?”

“It--” Stu cuts himself off with a sigh that sounds suspiciously close to a laugh, letting his head fall back onto the pillow.

Our laughing fit ends as Billy stands up. “Where are you going?”

He walks around the bed, barely glancing over at me to answer, “Give me a second.” ...Okay? “Don’t look through my underwear drawer.”

“No promises,” Stu calls after him.

Billy doesn’t react, extending an arm and instinctually half-shutting the door. Stu adjusts, forcing himself to sit up. He’s farther back on the bed than me, but his legs are so long his knees are nearly level with mine. “We’re not really gonna do that are we?”

Stu half laughs-half scoffs, wrinkling his nose and scrunching his eyes together in pretend disgust. “I’m good.” I smile. “We can tell him we did, though.”

“We should also tell him we found something really embarrassing.” Stu raises his eyebrows and I immediately regret it. I scoff, reaching back to smack his arm. “Not like that, I meant like a stuffed animal or something.”

“Don’t you have stuffed animals?”

My posture stiffens, a tiny part of me offended that he’s implying that my children are something I should be embarrassed about. “That’s different.” I frown, thinking of the one stuffed animal that lives on my bed and the few that live around my room. “And you said you liked them.”

Stu never said that, but he has implied it. Nothing crazy, just a few debates between a duck my mom had given me as a child and a bear from my grandparents. He even asked about their names.

He shrugs, turning towards me. His knee taps against mine. “I’m not complaining.” I narrow my eyes, skeptical if this is leading into some kind of joke. “As long as Daisy leaves Blueberry alone.”

I fight down a laugh, because laughing would undo all of the work I’ve put in to convincing him that making up lore about my stuffed animals is something he should stop. “You made that up.”

He tilts his head, “That’s what Daisy wants you to think.”

“I don’t even think you actually remember which one’s Daisy and which one’s Blueberry.”

Stu gasps like I’ve slapped him. “Daisy’s obviously the duck with the--the sweater--blue sweater with daisies--and Blueberry’s the bear in overalls.”

This time, the giggle slips out. I’m still not convinced he’s not making fun of me in some way or setting up for some kind of joke, but the way he grins might make it worth it. “Too easy. Which one’s Jellybean?”

He presses his lips together to demonstrate serious thought. “The...bookshelf one. The bunny with the--the ears.” Stu lifts a hand, using his fingers to try to draw something long and floppy in the air. “The grey one.” I grin. “And the last one’s French Fry, the dog on your desk for good luck.”

“Okay,” I manage reluctantly, a confession pulled out like a tooth, “You did a good job.”

Stu’s smile impossibly widens, reaching forward to wrap an arm around me. “I know my girl.”

I sigh, mumbling a quick, “Not your girl.” Stu ignores me, squeezing me to him a little more confidently. “And you know I don’t actually think French Fry’s lucky anymore, he just lives there.”

He scoffs, “Don’t talk about French Fry like that, babe, all he does is guard your homework.”

I frown, craning my neck to look at him, “Are you making fun of me?”

“No,” he breathes the word out in a way that makes it feel like the opposite of what it means.

Some joke about how French Fry’s going to have to start guarding me from him is almost out of my mouth when something creeks. Billy’s opening the door, a glass in his hand. He extends the glass towards me. I take it instinctually, even though I have no idea what the water’s about.

��Drink,” Billy says, already moving to the other side of the bed, “For your head.”

Ah. Not the first time Billy’s blamed an issue on me not drinking enough water. Even though I didn’t ask for anything, the gesture makes my chest feel warm. I take a few long sips. “Thanks.”

Billy nods once, sitting at the edge of the bed. Stu twists himself to make it easier to look at Billy. “You know she just said French Fry’s not lucky.”

“Wow,” Billy shrugs, a distinctly sarcastic lilt to his shock, “That’s blasphemous.”

I roll my eyes before drinking some more water. “I just meant that I’m not like five and that I don’t actually think he can bark away the bad grades.” A barely covered laugh overlaps with the last of my words. I snap my head towards Billy. “What?”

“Bark away the bad grades?” Okay, it sounds dumb now, but when I was younger the thought of doing my homework in the presence of French Fry was comforting. A school counselor recommended him to keep me calm during tests and now he’s just a good omen. “You just--you don’t seem like you were that weird a kid and then you say--”

“I was not weird!” A little defensive for someone that was in the fourth grade with a stress plushy. “I was--I was like one of those kids that was basically an extra excited old person.”

Stu’s arm slips off me as he adjusts the way he’s sitting. “Yeah, that sounds normal.”

Really? After what’s been established about him? “Okay, bug boy.”

He glares, openly offended. “It wasn’t like that.”

“Sure.”

“Okay.” Billy’s interjection tells me that he’s hitting his petty fight limit earlier today than usual. He only tries to preemptively intervene when he’s hitting a specific wall that Stu and I make people realize they have. “Before you guys start fighting like little kids, have you had lunch yet?”

Unless you count a bowl of ice cream that ended up abandoned in my kitchen...

Stu sits up a little more, “Nope.” He turns his head enough to look at me, “What about you, angel?”

I tap my nails against my knee. “Not yet.”

“Wanna go to that pizza place?” Stu offers, already moving towards the edge of the bed to stand.

The thought of food isn’t particularly appealing, but I’ve moved past the stage of panic that made the thought of eating nauseating. What is nauseating is what could happen if I go out in public. Gale Weathers has been nonstop promoting her book. What if someone recognizes me? It was bad enough when the attack first happened and my school was buzzing with journalists...Now things are confirmed and Gale Weathers can’t keep my name out of her mouth.

My grip on the glass of water tightens, “Sure.”

“We can do something else if you want?”

Ugh...a selfish part of me wishes I had it in me to pretend not to hear the hint of uneasiness in Stu’s voice. I could shake my head and say that pizza’s good, blame my hesitance on the beginnings of a migraine and sleep depravation.

“It’s not...” Both of my hands grasp the glass. I press my thumb against the rim with enough tension to leave a red line indented into my skin. “She’s still talking about it and--and I saw some other show doing a segment on it and my name came up like three times in the five minutes that I watched.”

It’s going to take over my life. Slowly but surely, it’ll take more and more. The buzz will die down and the side stares and not-so-mumbled comments will stop, because they did before. But then the book will come out and it will start again, and by the time it stops being super relevant it’ll be linked to my identity. Colleges will see it, any job that requires a background check will find it in seconds, and all it takes is for one person to find out and then it’s everywhere.

What if I get into a great school and start making friends and then one person realizes they’ve seen my name before or looks into Gale’s career for whatever reason and then suddenly it’s everywhere? It’ll cling to me like a shadow, the label of victim the kind one and the conspiracy theorists...

“You don’t have to put up with it.” Billy’s voice is low, almost unfeeling. I don’t get what he’s saying. Billy understands my question before I can ask. “The Gale thing--if she wants to use your name every two seconds to promote her book, you should let her know you’re not okay with it. Don’t make it easy for her, you’re not helpless.”

The sharpness in his tone doesn’t feel aggressive, it’s urging. Honest. “Sorry, that was--”

“Don’t be sorry.” I mean it. The directness and the lack of coddling forced me out of my the-world-is-ending spiral. My mom’s trying to track Gale Weathers down logically, but with someone that doesn’t mind playing underhanded to get what she wants, you have to work the same way. She ambushes people all the time. “I think I needed to hear it.”

Gale’s office is probably in a public directory, and if it’s not, she’ll probably try to find me at school. There’ll be a chance to tell her off, a chance to stop her. Or at least, to get her to stop mentioning me like I’m a tagline.

“We’ll take her down,” Stu encourages, gently bumping his fist against my arm, “After food.” He stands up, the bed shifting beneath his weight. “C’mon, if anyone looks at you, I’ll beat ‘em up.”

I roll my eyes, letting Stu pull on my free hand until I stand up. “You offer to do that a lot. I think you just want to beat someone up.”

“Nah, if I did, I’d just punch Billy.”

Billy lets out an exhausted sigh as he stands. “Seriously?”

“What? I’d say I’d punch her, but she scares me a little.” Considering how often Stu and I do fight each other, I really doubt it. “She fights dirty.”

“Yeah.” Billy’s agreement comes out suspiciously fast as he opens the door. “I’ve seen her kick your ass.”

----

a/n billy and stu when someone else takes advantage of y/n’s trauma: 🤯🤬

also next chapter should be a lot messier hehehe

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#scream #scream x reader #scream 1966 #billy loomis #billy loomis x reader #stu macher #stu macher x reader #ghostface #ghostface x reader #poly!ghostface #Poly! Ghostface x Reader #finagl girl fic

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