#what's the point of coming up with great strategies

[wyattjohnston]

feeling like the sun never sets - trevor zegras

summary: maybe the player her dad hates the most isn't belle's wisest decision. it's definitely the most fun, though.

word count: 17k

note: this is set in 2022. special shoutouts go to @blueskrugs for hearing about this fic for approx 1000 years, and to @comphy-and-cozy for making sure it makes sense <3

playlist: love by mistake by bad suns | lost in california by little big town | heaven is a place in my head by bad suns | but daddy i love him by taylor swift | swimming in the moonlight by bad suns

“Bold strategy, Cotton,” Belle said, the corners of her mouth lifted. “Too bad it didn’t pay off.”

Belle hadn’t intended to say anything to anyone, perfectly content to sit in her own little corner of the arena and keep to herself the entire weekend, but the words had slipped out of her mouth the second she saw the bright yellow Average Joe’s jersey of Trevor Zegras.

Trevor swivelled and he took a moment to find her behind the crowd of people passing through. His smirk was devastating when he caught sight of her. She didn’t break eye contact even though it was her first instinct.

“I scored, too. Might be rigged.”

“Someone should have made a call to Toronto,” Belle agreed, referring to the review system used for in-game goals.

He was standing right in front of her, looking up at her through distractingly long eyelashes. The electrical box she was sitting on was a great vantage point. She wanted to sit on it all weekend if it meant he looked at her that same way.

“I’m Trevor,” he said, his right hand coming to rest so close to her thigh that she could feel his thumb brushing her skin through her tights.

“Is there anybody here this weekend who doesn’t know that?”

Belle placed her hands on the edge of the box, leaning in closer to Trevor—so close that she could feel his breath fanning across her face. She parted her legs, pressing into his hands where they were still pressed against her thighs, and he stepped easily into the newly created space.

“And what’s your name?”

His question came with a near constant flickering of his gaze between her eyes and her mouth. Belle kept her eyes locked on his, though she did not miss the way he licked his lips.

“Isabella.”

Trevor pressed closer. “I don’t get your last name?”

“No.” Belle couldn’t help but throw her head back and laugh at the idea. “You absolutely do not.”

“Why not?”

She hooked her foot around the back of his left leg, delighting in the effortless way he moved just a bit closer. She was still laughing when she said, “If I told you why not, I may as well just tell you my last name.”

“So, you’re someone’s sister?”

“I might be.”

He paused so slightly that she might have imagined it before his eyes glimmered with a mischievousness Belle never wanted to be without. He said, “At least tell me if I’m going to get my ass kicked.”

“Oh, yeah,” Belle said as she nodded confidently, knowing that her face conveyed a challenge he was going to accept. “That’s basically a guarantee.”

Belle woke up the next morning thinking of Trevor and the way his thumb against her thigh had had her stomach flipping, remembering how close their faces had been. She’d dreamt about it. About more. About everything.

She woke up the morning after that feeling the same way, but with an added element of disappointment that she hadn’t seen Trevor at all the day before. She’d stayed clear of the actual All-Star games, as she’d been asked to, and sat in the stands by herself to watch as a fan—even if she was the most casual amongst them.

The day after the game, when Belle had expected everybody to clear out as early as possible to finally get in what they could of a vacation, she wandered into the hotel lobby to see two people drawing the attention of everybody else standing around—the woman in the pair’s white dress left only one conclusion. She stopped to get a better look at everybody around her, to see if she’d missed some gossip, but it looked like everybody had missed the gossip judging by the raised eyebrows.

Belle spotted Trevor amongst the chaos and, desperate for an explanation, beelined towards him—standing casually beside him for plausible deniability if required. He was smiling as she approached, and the gentle hand on the back of her elbow was fleeting. If anybody had seen that, or the tinge of pink that grew on the tops of her cheeks, that plausible deniability would be stripped. Luckily, everyone was distracted.

“The fuck is going on here?” she asked, having to raise her voice to make sure she was heard. “Are they getting married?”

“That’s my best friend!” Trevor shouted, bouncing up and down to get a better look over the crowd, “He didn’t say anything! I have no fucking clue what’s going on. I’ve gotta go—do you want to come?”

She thought about it hard, the energy was contagious, and the need to know what was going on was nearly enough to sway her. Except: “I promised I’d have lunch with my dad.”

Trevor’s face lit up, “Another bit of info to file away. I’m gonna work this out. Call me Sherlock Holmes.”

“Alright, Sherlock,” Belle said with a roll of her eyes, shoving Trevor in the direction everybody was moving in. “Go watch your friend get married.”

Belle took her time answering the door, expecting it to be her father stopping by to say goodnight after having to leave lunch earlier than anticipated. It was a little petty, but he’d left her at the table alone, so he could stand and wait at the door for a minute or two.

She peaked through the peephole first, just to delay a second longer; seeing Trevor on the other side made her increase the speed of her movements.

“You cannot be here!” she chastised, hauling him into the room by the arm and slamming it shut behind him. “Everyone knows what room I’m in. If someone sees you—”

“I’ve been thinking, and I think I’ve worked it out,” he said, unperturbed by her outburst. “If you were Isabella Tortorella that would be pretty funny.”

Belle dropped Trevor’s arm, shifting her gaze to his feet. She said, meekly, “I am. Isabella Tortorella.”

The ensuing silence was palpable, and Belle didn’t want to look up. It wasn’t usually a secret she kept—not usually something that made any difference to her life—but she’d heard the way her father spoke about Trevor both when he was being recorded and when he wasn’t and could only imagine that Trevor was well acquainted with it.

“Only I would get myself into this situation,” Trevor said, slowly. Cautiously.

Belle did look up, then, to see the wry smile that had formed in his face. She sighed, wondering if her fun had been ruined before she even had any.

“Nobody else has hit on me at all. No players, no handlers, no journalists—just you.”

“I’m probably the only one who hasn’t seen you with him.”

“Probably.”

A laugh bubbled out of Trevor’s throat, and Belle was caught up in the sound of it, caught up in the unashamed way he said, “I’m gonna get my ass kicked.”

She was halfway through a step towards him when another knock at the door had every muscle in her body locking up. She put her finger to her mouth, silently telling Trevor to keep quiet, and walked towards the closet.

She mouthed ‘get in’ as she slid the door open, and when Trevor didn’t immediately move Belle again grabbed him by the arm and dragged him towards it. He protested, though managed to stay silent, and she did her best to make her eyes wide in an attempt to beg him to play along.

In a harsh whisper, she said, “If anyone finds out you’re here, we’re fucked.”

He conceded, not before he pressed a rushed kiss to her mouth and smirked when Belle leant in for another after the first ended too quickly. She slid the door closed on his smug expression.

Belle knew she was right to hide Trevor away when her father was standing in the hall on the other side of the door.

“Hey, Daddy,” she greeted tersely, still not impressed about being abandoned for a lunch she hadn’t organised.

John Tortorella wasn’t an intimidating man, not to Belle anyway, but he did have an undeniable presence to him that she recognised might give some that impression.

“I just wanted to come say goodnight and apologise again for leaving lunch.”

“There was a wedding I could have gone to,” Belle said, barely controlling her foot from stomping petulantly. “I know that this is a work weekend, Daddy, but you asked me here to spend time with me and aside from half an hour last night and the world’s shortest lunch I haven’t seen you at all.”

“I know, Bella, and I’m sorry. I bought you something to make it up to you.”

That wasn’t a surprise to Belle, and not just because she could see the Valentino box he was holding; she had a nice little collection of expensive things bought purely as apologies. Inside the Valentino box was a black locò small shoulder bag which he definitely hadn’t gone and bought himself, but the poor person he’d sent on an impromptu shopping trip had chosen very nicely.

“Thank you. It’s perfect,” she said, as sincere as she could manage. “I was just about to get ready for bed, though.”

“I’ll see you for breakfast in the morning. Promise.”

Belle nodded once, stepping out of the door to let it close on her father’s face. His promises were empty.

Throwing her gift onto the bed as she went and not even caring enough to watch it bounce out of its box, Belle slid open the closet door to see Trevor staring at her, waiting.

“Daddy?” His question came so quickly and with so much accusation that Belle rolled her eyes and turned her back on him.

“Lots of people call their fathers that,” she huffed at him as she sat down on the end of the bed with her arms crossed over her chest.

“You’re an adult, though.”

“I’ll call my father whatever I want to.”

Trevor pulled out a chair from the small dining table in the corner and set it down directly in front of Belle. He sat with his legs spread wide, his knees either side of hers. Belle had put her hands behind her and was starting to lean back onto the bed, only to be drawn back closer to Trevor when he rested his elbows on his knees.

“So, your dad is John Tortorella.”

“Is that a problem?” she asked. Even though her voice was not without challenge, she was dreading that the answer would be ‘yes’ even if she would fully understand.

“Not for me,” Trevor answered, easily, without pause. “Is it one for you?”

“He can never find out. I don’t really want to know what would happen if he did.”

Trevor’s eyebrow twitched upwards. “Your dad’s an asshole. Shoulda let him see me in here.”

“It would burn our entire relationship to the ground,” she scoffed. “I don’t ever get to see him, and you want me to parade you around when I finally do?”

“You don’t ever get to see him? Doesn’t he work out of LA?”

Belle averted her gaze. The last thing she wanted was for Trevor to see any of her insecurities, but counting to ten and breathing exercises were sure to give her away. She kept her eyes on the wall behind him, doing her best to keep her voice even when she said, “Sometimes. He’s not usually there long enough to see me.”

He shifted, his hands either side of her thighs, his thumbs brushing at the bare skin exposed by her skirt—the electricity shot through her entire body. He leant in, his weight shifting to his hands on the bed and Belle let her eyelids flutter shut.

“You sure you don’t want to burn that relationship to the ground, Bella?”

“Call me Belle. Please.”

His breath was warm against her lips. “I can do that, Belle.”

Getting Trevor’s phone number hadn’t really been part of the plan when he’d snuck out sometime in the late hours of their night together in Vegas, though Belle had ended up with it. She’d also ended up with a promise of a repeat performance as Trevor lingered in the door to her hotel room stealing kisses that Belle wasn’t doing much to withhold.

From the phone number came Snapchat. Belle warily accepted that one, having received far too many unsolicited dick pics to think very highly of the app. Trevor had behaved, to her surprise and delight, and the pictures he did send—even the ones no doubt intended as thirst traps—were always sure to brighten her day. She was slowly getting to know his teammates through the photos and videos, none of them looking particularly willing to have the camera in their faces but Trevor loudly announcing their names in an unnatural enough way that Belle knew it was purely for her benefit.

He was the first to suggest they ‘hang out’. Despite how well behaved he had been in the two weeks since the All-Star Game, the ‘u up?’ text had come across as entirely natural and expected.  Belle knew long before she received it that she was never going to say no.

Hockey wasn’t, and never had been, a passion of Belle’s. She knew more about it than she cared to admit—both as a sport and as a business—despite having paid minimal attention to it after the age of ten. It was impossible to ignore with her dad being who he is and being incapable of leaving his work at the rink, but everything she’d learnt about hockey as a teenager had been against her will even if she’d retained it all.

Which is probably why it felt so weird to turn on her television and actively seek out a game.

The Ducks weren’t good—and Belle didn’t need to be actively following hockey to know that—but she was interested in seeing Trevor play a real game, not silly three-on-three All-Star games, so she pulled her drafting table and stool within line of sight of the television and went to work.

It wasn’t as productive an evening as she would have liked, but the pencil designs were easily fixable and not at all final, it was just annoying to be halfway through a skirt idea and lose it because the television distracted her for five minutes whenever Trevor’s name was mentioned. Which was a lot. Belle wasn’t sure anybody else was even on the ice for the Ducks. Though, perhaps she just didn’t recognise the other players enough to remember if they were talked about. Perhaps she just didn’t care enough about them.

There was one name she knew as someone who had played for her father rather recently. Her father didn’t particularly like him, either. The feeling was almost definitely mutual.

By the end of the game, Belle had more than a couple rough designs and a plan for a few summer dresses—if she started early enough, they might actually be done come June.

The end result was frankly depressing, and Belle packed up her drafting table to the sound of her father’s post-game analysis.

Belle didn’t find out about Trevor’s birthday until one week before when she got a Snapchat around midnight Sunday—meaning it was nearing 2am in New York—of Trevor wearing a party hat. It was immediately followed by a video of someone forcing a party blower into his mouth and demanding he make it make the noise while someone (or some people) cackled in the background. There was an accompanying high-pitched giggle behind the camera which Belle would never admit to playing over and over.

No response or further Snaps were sent until the next morning when a far too hungover Trevor called her from his hotel bed to let her know he was alive, and that he was celebrating turning 21 with his best friend Jack—and their respective teammates Jamie & Ty. The high-pitched giggle belonged to Jack’s girlfriend. Belle was happy that information came without prompting.

She had coaxed out of him—and it had taken more effort than she’d expected—for him to tell her that the team were going out after their game the day after his birthday. It would be a Monday night, and she had an early class on Tuesdays, but she batted her eyelashes on the FaceTime call and asked if he’d be bothered by her conveniently being at the same club.

“I want you there,” he admitted, mumbling into his pillow. “But you wouldn’t be there for me.”

“I can just be the girl you find and hook up with. Nobody will even know who I am.”

Trevor had, at that, buried his face further into his pillow. Belle waited him out, wrapping her free arm around her body and trying not to let the uncomfortable silence consume her.

After what felt like an age without him responding or even moving, she slowly said, “I don’t have to. We can celebrate your birthday another time.”

“No, no,” Trevor said, and Belle watched his brain come back online. “You aren’t worried about being recognised?”

“Most guys in the league who would know me haven’t seen me since I was a pre-teen, dude.”

“Sonny played for your dad in Columbus like two years ago.”

Belle rolled her eyes. Sonny was the name she’d recognised when watching games. She knew there would come a point, if she continued whatever she was doing with Trevor, that Sonny might become an obstacle. She didn’t anticipate it being a very large obstacle.

“Then we don’t let me be seen by Sonny. Easy.”

And, as a result of that conversation, Belle was getting dressed up on a Monday night and convincing her longest standing college friend, Karla, to join her. Karla didn’t take much convincing—she was typically the one dragging Belle around LA, after all—and Belle would have felt worse about having her exit pre-planned if Karla hadn’t also decided to spread word that they were going out clubbing. If Belle was lucky enough, they’d be on their way to the next venue before they even realised she was missing.

Wearing the shortest dress she’d ever had the courage to whip up and the highest heels in her closet, Belle’s legs were on show to the fullest extent. Any of the—admittedly minimal—insecurities she harboured had disappeared with the pre-game and the stress-free entry into the club that came with no longer needing her sister’s ID.

Karla held her hand as they immediately made their way to get drinks, trying not to get separated in the already incredibly busy crowd. Belle let herself be pulled through people as they weaved, her attention on the VIP booths she knew Trevor would be at. There was no way she was going to walk directly up to them and announce her presence—not with the risk of being recognised—so Trevor would have to find her.

“There are some big guys here,” Karla shouted into Belle’s ear when they had stopped. “You always pick the best nights to go out.”

When she finally had a drink in her hand, the ice cooling her otherwise sticky palms, Belle again let herself be pulled around to a high table someone had managed to secure. There was enough happening around her to prevent her thoughts from getting obsessive; the girls she was with were all creating game plans based around guys they saw, only for the plans to change when the next guy walked past. It was easy enough for Belle to play along without letting on that her plans were set in stone, not when there was an endless parade of good-looking guys who had clocked that they were being checked out and kept walking back and forth.

At least one of them had to be a teammate of Trevor’s, just going on the size of them. If she wasn’t specifically waiting for Trevor, they all would have caught her attention just as much as they had her friends’. There were a few unconscious adjustments of her cleavage, regardless. Complete with ego boost when she noticed that they were looking.

Belle dragged Karla to the bar again for the next round of drinks, and very much wished she’d gone alone when she finally spotted Trevor. He wasn’t close enough to get his attention without drawing the attention of the rest of the club, so Belle did her best to direct Karla to the end of the bar closest to him.

Karla was saying something in Belle’s ear, but she could only hear every third word. She nodded along, hoping that it was the right response, and sneakily manoeuvred her way through a crowd of people lining up for drinks until they were the next in line to order. The timing was perfect.

Belle had looked back over towards Trevor, just as he was glancing around the bar. Their eyes met and his whole face lit up in such a way that the friend he was with immediately looked at Belle, too. She just smiled back at both of them and tracked Trevor’s movements while he was getting the bartender’s attention and pointing towards her and Karla.

Karla was oblivious to it all, ordering their drinks when they were being pushed against the bar’s edge by some impatient people behind them, until Trevor’s bartender put down two shot glasses in front of them.

“A shot of whatever you ladies would like from that guy over there,” he said, pointing at Trevor—and Trevor’s friend who was bemused but no less interested.

“Belvedere,” Karla said without a moment of hesitation. Belle rolled her eyes but nodded when the bartender prompted her for an answer.

It was the smoothest shot she’d ever done and came with a small worry that she’d never be able to stomach a bottom shelf shot again. Trevor didn’t stop watching the entire time.

With the shot done, their original vodka soda orders in hand, Karla was clearly heading back to the others. Belle wrapped a hand around her wrist, tugging her gently so that she could shout in her ear, “I’m gonna go talk to them. Do you wanna?”

“One drink? You are not that easy.”

“Maybe I am.”

“Whatever. I’m not,” Karla said as if it wouldn’t take more than thirty more minutes to have her sitting in someone’s lap. “I’m watching from across the bar. Be safe.”

It must have been on purpose that Trevor’s friend was gone by the time Belle reached him. She was thankful that she didn’t have to pretend to introduce herself, and even more thankful that his arm could settle around her waist as he easily pulled her flush against him.

“You always drink top shelf?”

“Only when we can get some poor sucker to pay for us.”

He smiled—not a smirk, but something between self-effacing and amused—and Belle felt herself leaning towards him before she really knew what she was doing. To her friends, she no doubt looked easy as she melted into his mouth, all space disappearing from between their bodies.

“You good to get out of here?”

“I don’t want to cut your birthday short,” Belle said, her mouth still pressed to his. She added, though it was a struggle, “I can go back to my friends.”

Trevor’s hand met hers, their fingers entwining as if it were second nature. He told her, “I don’t want to go back to mine.”

They didn’t even get close to his friends as they were leaving, just a simple look in their direction across the crowded bar, and Trevor was guiding Belle out the doors and past the bouncer.

“Your friend is hot, by the way,” Belle said as she was pressed up against him, fighting off the cool breeze by tucking herself against Trevor’s front, her hands wrapped around him and in the back pockets of his jeans.

Trevor laughed, “Yeah, he does alright.”

It wasn’t the first time that Belle had been at Alex and Quinton’s place—which was quickly becoming Alex, Quinton and Rio’s place—and it looked like every college dorm or frat house she’d ever set foot in. It never looked any different between visits, even with Rio doing her best to make it feel like less of a biohazard.

Belle had met Rio in her first ever class at UC Irvine, nearly four years prior, and while Rio hadn’t finished her first semester of college they had remained close friends. The introduction of Alex Turcotte into Rio’s life had been a welcome change to their friendship. Alex playing hockey in the LA Kings organisation had put Belle on edge at first, and the few warnings sent Rio’s way about hockey players were ignored for the better.

Rio ushered Belle inside, talking over the raucous being created by the boys in the next room. Before they could go in and Belle could greet them, Rio pulled her aside and into the tucked away kitchen.

“One of Alex’s friends is here, he’s single,” Rio said, her eyes lighting up. “He plays hockey, too.”

“Does he know people who don’t?” Belle asked, running through every other time she’d been anywhere with Alex and his friends.

“I mean…” Rio paused to think. “Not in California? Not really, anyway. Most of his friends are his teammates.”

Belle hummed and nodded, unsurprised. As little time as she’d spent growing up in hockey herself, she’d been around it and hadn’t failed to notice that it was insular. She knew enough to understand that it may have been different at a younger age, but once they reached the NHL there wasn’t a lot of branching out. It seemed there was even less branching out if they had spent any time at all in the USNTDP.

She was even less surprised by Rio trying to set her up with one of Alex’s friends. Again.

With a conniving smile, Rio took Belle’s hand and pulled her from the kitchen into the living room where Alex was playing a video game with his friend.

His friend, Trevor.

Trevor looked back at Belle and Rio for just a second before he turned back to the screen. Belle may have imagined hearing the snapping of his vertebrae when he realised who she was and looked at her again. Rio nudged Belle with her hip. Belle pursed her lips and shook her head at Rio. Rio didn’t need any ammunition.

The boys continued to play their game, Belle only able to identify the rapid sound of gunfire coming from the speakers, and she dragged Rio back into the kitchen away from the noise. She let Rio fill her in on the life of an AHL WAG, as she did every time they caught up, before the conversation moved onto Belle. It was harder with Trevor in the next room to be vague about the guy she’d been sleeping with. Normally she was very forthcoming with any and all information that Rio wanted about any of her hookups whether short or long-term, but knowing that there was every possibility that something might give her away or that Trevor might walk in and hear had Belle keeping her mouth shut—it made any conversations about Vegas difficult when Rio had been expecting tales of a debauchery filled weekend only for Belle to brandish the handbag she’d been bought as a platitude as the most exciting thing that had happened that weekend.

“Please,” Rio scoffed. “Your dad buying your love is so far from news. If you’d come back without something, then I’d be surprised.”

“Fine, I guess you don’t want it?” Belle asked, challenging Rio with a raised eyebrow. Rio challenged Belle, direct eye contact being made only moments before her eyes flicked back to the Valentino bag. Her resolve immediately crumbled.

“For real? You’re really gonna give it to me?”

“I don’t need any more bags. He doesn’t even know what this looks like,” Belle said, emptying the few things she had been carrying onto the table. “Merry Easter or whatever.”

Belle collected the items she’d emptied and pushed them into a neat pile at the edge of the already crowded table—her sunglasses, phone and a ChapStick that was definitely going to be absorbed into the mess—whilst Rio inspected the bag in awe. It was then that the boys walked in, Alex rolling his eyes at the sight.

“Don’t be jealous, Alex, we all know I’m her real Sugar Daddy.”

“How am I meant to surprise her with anything when she gets it all from Torts?” he complained, standing behind Rio’s chair to peek over her shoulder. “Trevor, this is Belle. Belle is John Tortorella’s daughter. It’s freaky.”

“My biggest fan. Say hi for me.”

Belle, unsure of how to act like she didn’t already know who she was, just nodded at him with what she hoped was a confused expression on her face. He sat down in the seat beside her, stretching out much more than was necessary, and Alex sat down in the seat closest to Rio—closest meaning that he pulled the seat so that it was basically touching hers. Trevor’s hand dropped under the table as he leaned forward casually, finding Belle’s thigh with ease and splaying his hand across it.

They ordered from Uber Eats, the boys deciding something that would fit loosely within their meal plans, and Belle tried the entire time to carry on their conversation as if Trevor’s hand wasn’t gradually moving further and further up her thigh. The only thing that was saving them from being caught was Rio being enamoured by Alex and Alex being generally oblivious to everything that ever happened around him.

After they’d eaten, they headed out into the backyard to swim. The weather had been growing sunny and warm for the last week and Belle never needed to be asked twice to get into a swimming pool. She pulled her dress over her head without a care as she walked through the sliding doors and kicked her Birkenstocks off to the side as she picked up pace and ran straight for the water.

When she emerged from the water, she saw Trevor standing near the door, bemused, with her dress in his hands. Rio and Alex were less confused only because they’d seen her do the same before. Many times.

“Come on in!” she shouted to all of them. “The water’s fucking freezing!”

The others were slow to enter the water, even the boys taking their time to acclimatise.

“You’re mad at me for buying Rio nice things but you’re too cheap to even heat your pool,” Belle said to Alex as she watched him timidly stand on the steps of the pool.

“I make AHL money,” Alex countered, somewhat aggressively.  It may have been because his masculinity was being challenged, but it was equally as possible it was because the water was not very welcoming. “I cannot afford to heat a fucking swimming pool through winter.”

“Get your best bud, Trevor, to help you out. He’s making NHL money, right?”

Trevor grinned. “I knew you know who I am.”

“Mr Michigan,” she said snidely. “Turned my father into a fucking meme.”

“He did that himself—I just scored a goal, babe.”

Belle swam closer to Trevor where he was still standing on a ledge, only knee deep in the water, and let him get caught up in her really, willingly, being in his space for the first time that day. It was enough of a distraction that she was able to take him by the wrist and pull him into the water.

He surfaced after a momentary scramble, spluttering only briefly before realising that he and Belle were inches apart. She tracked his eyes as they darted to her mouth. Belle looked at him and felt an invisible tug drawing her closer to him.

“I might start paying to heat this thing over winter,” Alex said to Rio, oblivious to the sudden splashing caused by Trevor putting a hefty amount of distance between himself and Belle.

When Belle looked back to Alex and Rio, she immediately redirected her attention to avoid the twinkle of delight in Rio’s eyes.

Keeping distance between herself and Trevor became Belle’s main goal for the rest of the afternoon. It had to be done in a way that wasn’t so obvious Rio would notice—and she was noticing everything—and in a way that didn’t have Trevor pouring unconsciously. Belle wasn’t sure she managed to prevent either, and, by the time they finally pulled themselves out of the water, Rio was actively making sure she and Trevor were left alone together. Maybe she was just taking Alex into the shower so they could be alone together. Belle couldn’t be certain.

When they were officially alone—the water rattling through the house's old pipes assuring them of that—Trevor crowded into Belle’s space, his hands on her hips and the cool, wet skin of their stomachs pressed against each other.

“You didn’t want to tell me you were friends with my buddy’s girlfriend?”

“You didn’t want to tell me you were buddies with my friend’s boyfriend?” she countered. “How the fuck am I supposed to know who you’re friends with? You aren’t on the same team. You should hate each other.”

“Babe, I don’t hate anyone. Free love and all that.”

Belle rolled her eyes, ducking the kiss he was about to press between her eyes to wrap a towel around herself. Trevor was visibly disappointed.

“They’re trying to set us up because I once asked her if she could set me up with Quinton.” She started to dry off, every movement of the towel over her body drawing Trevor’s attention from where it had been seconds earlier.

Trevor’s staring didn’t cease, even as he said, in utter disbelief, “He’s Canadian.”

“Oh no,” Belle deadpanned. “The horror.”

Trevor made no moves to dry himself, but he did pull Belle into him and half used her towel to do so. Belle was happy to let it happen as long as she could hear the pipes.

“Why am I here and he isn’t?”

“He’s got a girlfriend. Apparently, my interest in guys is transferable.”

“I mean, it is. You’re already sleeping with me.”

There was nothing she could do but roll her eyes, the arrogance he was exuding was more of a turn on than she wanted it to be.

She struggled to pull her dress over her head, the towel not having removed the final dampness from her skin, but Trevor came to the rescue and once again crowded into her space. His fingers lingered against her ribcage, and he tilted his head down to stare at her with a longing she didn’t want to disappear.

“Come over,” he said, his voice low.

Belle sighed, breaking eye contact solely to stop herself from letting him have his way with her in her best friend’s kitchen, and said, “I’ve got class in the morning.”

“I’ve got skate,” he told her, his lingering fingers leaving her skin to pull her dress down her body. “I’ll drive you to class and pick you up after.”

She met his eyes again, nodded with the smallest smile on her face and, in an instant, Trevor was stepping back and running around the house grabbing as many of his belongings as he could remember.

They didn’t bother to wait for Rio and Alex to resurface from their shower. Trevor was shameless in yelling that he and Belle were leaving and that there was “no need to stop fucking for our sake”.

It was far easier for Belle to follow Trevor out of the street without anyone to take note of her driving the opposite way she was meant to.

Belle stared down at her phone, the Torts (Dad – Emergency) ID sending chills down her spine. In any normal situation, Belle had no issues getting texts from her dad; it was just different when her head was resting in Trevor’s lap, ignoring that he was getting harder and harder by the second so that they could finish another episode of Succession. Trevor’s hand stilled where it had been massaging her scalp, and she knew he’d seen the name.

At least he hadn’t called her, she supposed.

“What does he want?” Trevor asked.

Belle opened the text, sighing when she said, “His travel agent is about to call me. My mom’s birthday is soon.”

“You can’t call the agent on your own time?”

“He knows I won’t,” she admitted. It wasn’t one of her favourite things about herself, but leaving California during the school year hadn’t been something she was known to do since she moved for college. At least not without it being organised for her.

She sat up and paused the show. The travel agent wasted no time in calling—she was probably on the phone to Belle’s dad when he sent the text, and Belle did her best to sound unbothered by the interruption.

Pleasantries were exchanged, though they were kept brief, before the travel agent launched into the beginning of her plan, “The eleventh is a Monday this year, which I know isn’t great for classes—”

“Yeah,” Belle interjected, “it’s nearly Finals.”

“—but I think if you fly out Friday night or Saturday morning and leave first thing Tuesday morning you would only have to miss one day.”

Belle rolled her eyes at how rehearsed it sounded; it was entirely plausible that this was her dad’s plan, and he’d sent someone else to be the messenger.

“Can I just mute for a sec and work out what I’ll have to miss?”

“Take your time.”

Belle muted her phone and looked to Trevor expectantly. He raised an eyebrow as unfortunately he had not yet learnt to read her mind. She asked, “Do you know your schedule?”

“Not past the end of this week, why?”

“Does the captain send out a group text every Sunday?” she asked as she started her search for the Ducks’ schedule. Trevor leaned over her to see her screen, his chin resting on her shoulder.

“Not the captain, but, yeah, we get messages. Also, when we need to know about road trips.”

“Looks like you’ve got an East Coast trip they haven’t warned you about yet.”

“Oh, no they did tell me that, sorry. I didn’t realise it was soon.” His apology was followed by him muttering the order of the games, Philly, Carolina, Florida, Tampa.

Belle let him mumble, though she stood up to walk around the room as she flicked between the schedule and her calendar to see what it would look like for her to be gone while Trevor was.

“Who’s your captain?” she asked, mostly to stop Trevor from trying to commit the road trip to memory with his repetitive mumbling.

“Ryan Getzlaf.”

“Oh!” Belle squeaked, pleasantly surprised to hear a name she knew. “He’s been around for ages. He won silver at Worlds in 2008. Second in points for the tournament.”

“How do you know that?” He leant forward, his elbows resting on his knees. “I thought you didn’t care about hockey.”

“I was like seven,” she said with a shrug. “I loved my dad and wanted him to love me, and I thought the way to do that was to memorise stats from Worlds that year.”

“You knowing that is way hotter than you think it is.”

“I’ll tell you all the stats you could ever want to know about it, just let me finish this.”

Belle unmuted the call, turning her back on Trevor just to get through the conversation, and confirmed that the dates she suggested were perfect, that leaving the Friday night was her preference, and hung up after barely saying goodbye when Trevor decided to press himself against her back.

“Are you really turned on by me knowing hockey stats?” Her question was not without a laugh—a laugh that turned breathy when he pressed his lips to her neck. “Babe, you have no idea.”

Belle enjoyed that the Ducks seemingly cared enough about the sleep health of their players that they shelled out for good mattresses in the furnished apartments they organised. It certainly made waking up easy, even if it made getting out of bed hard.

Trevor was nowhere to be seen when she woke, the apartment quiet and peaceful. He was likely sitting at his breakfast bar, scrolling through his phone, but there was the possibility that he’d gone to the gym. She wasn’t quite used to being left alone in his apartment, even though he did it every other time she was over, but it was what it was.

She reached towards the bedside table for her phone—another win for the Ducks, because he for sure wouldn’t have a bedside table otherwise—and then, when her phone wasn’t there, pushed her hands underneath her pillow. When she didn’t feel her phone, she groaned and pulled herself out of bed to rummage through the pockets of her jeans. Then underneath all the clothes they’d left on the floor. Then she pulled the duvet off the bed and threw the pillows onto their clothes.

Glaring at the mess of sheets and the chaotic array of clothing on the floor wasn’t solving Belle’s problem, so she had to admit defeat. She opened Trevor’s drawers and pulled out the first shirt she saw that didn’t immediately appear to have a graphic of some description plastered across it and then cringed as she picked up her panties when the shirt didn’t extend as far down her thighs as she wanted.

It turned out to be a good thing that the shirt hadn’t been quite so oversized to not wear panties when she walked down the hall towards the kitchen and, instead of finding Trevor at the breakfast bar, she found Trevor and a friend sitting on the couch.

Belle stopped in her tracks, staring straight at Trevor, and pointedly not looking at the guy he was sitting with. The guy looked vaguely familiar in a way that all hockey players did.

“I—uh,” Trevor stuttered. “I texted you. To tell you.”

“I couldn’t find my phone. Was hoping you could call it.”

Trevor nodded, pulling out his phone. Belle didn’t move when she heard the very faint ringing of her phone in the bedroom. Her eyes darted to the other person sitting on Trevor’s couch and back to him.

“This is Jamie. Jim. Jameson. Teammate. Best friend. J, this is Belle. Isabella.” Trevor’s face froze for a moment before he said, rather hopelessly, “Belle,” instead of any sort of descriptor.

“I have heard a lot about you,” Belle directed at Jamie, friendly as she could be.

“I’ve heard nothing about you,” he said, entirely unashamed and utterly bemused, “but I think that mighta been on purpose.”

“Yeah, as intended,” Belle confirmed. “The real secret is that I’m John Tortorella’s daughter, so… If you could also keep a lid on it, I’d owe you one.”

Jamie blinked once at Belle, then turned to Trevor. “Do you go out of your way to make your life hard?”

Trevor glanced at Belle out of the corner of his eye before he shrugged at Jamie and said, “Life’s not that hard, bro.”

It lingered in the air, Trevor’s pride, Jamie’s bewilderment, and Belle’s slight annoyance at their secret getting out. She stretched out the early morning tightness in her back, the movement causing the shirt to ride up and draw the eyes of both boys; Jamie’s snapped immediately back up to her face, where Trevor’s lingered long enough that Belle felt her cheeks go red.

“We were gonna get breakfast,” Trevor said, breaking the silence. “Wanna come?”

She shook her head, “I’ve got class. Can you drop me at home on your way?”

“Course. Jimmy’s driving.”

“Sure,” Belle nodded. Whoever was driving, it made no difference to her. “Call my phone?”

Her phone was hidden underneath the bed, so far underneath it that Belle just laid flat on her stomach, staring at it with her arm outstretched, trying to work out when exactly it would have gotten there. She heard Trevor walk back into his bedroom, and felt his hand tap her ass cheek. He was smirking when she emerged from under the bed; they’d be right back on it if she wasn’t going to be late for class.

Jamie drove an old Nissan Altima—and Belle only knew that because her sister had driven the same thing and been kind enough to let Belle learn in it. It wasn’t quite the car Belle expected an NHL player to be driving, and she wondered if that was Jamie quirk or if the league was doing better about teaching the young guys to be sensible with their ELCs. Trevor’s brand-new Wrangler did point to it being the former.

“Are you the girl Z met on his birthday?” Jamie asked. She knew for a fact that he wasn’t the friend Trevor was sitting with at the bar because that friend was approximately a thousand feet tall and didn’t have a contrasting complexion.

“We met at the All-Star Game,” Belle corrected. “But, yeah, I’m the girl from his birthday.”

Belle didn’t see Jamie’s arm stretch out before she heard the thump of his hand against Trevor’s chest and the accompanying yelp out of Trevor’s mouth. Jamie said, “I finally get why you didn’t say a fucking thing about Vegas.”

“I told you about the game,” Trevor argued, “that Machine Gun Kelly was there, and about Jack’s wedding.”

“Yeah,” Jamie snorted, the incredulity in his voice causing Belle to snigger, “and not a single fucking word in there about wheeling any chicks.”

“I was not wheeled,” Belle said, disgusted, cutting over Trevor’s weak rebuttal. “I wheeled Z.”

“I’d believe it, yeah.”

Belle, letting a real laugh bubble out of her chest, held a closed fist in between the front seats and nudged Jamie with it to get his attention. “Dirty fuckin’ dangles, boys.”

Trevor protested loudly, flailing an arm out to swat Jamie’s hand as he fist-bumped Belle. He missed in his frustration.

As they pulled up outside of Belle’s apartment building, Trevor opened his door and got out of the car. Belle furrowed her brow, more of face contorting when he let the door fall shut behind him and he waited for her to get out, too. Jamie didn’t appear at all confused by the scenario, just started clicking next on every song that came up on his playlist.

“You gonna walk me to my door, or…?”

“I’m sorry,” he said, not without some tightness in his voice. “I know you didn’t want anyone to know.”

His actions clicked into place. Belle scoffed, wrapped the arm not carrying her bag around his neck and pressed their lips together.

“It's fine,” she assured him, even if she wasn’t totally sure of it herself. “Jamie’s cool, right?”

“Course. The coolest.”

“Then we’re cool, Trevor.”

His shoulders loosened underneath Belle’s arm, and he leant down to kiss her again. There was a moment where it was verging on deepening, on Belle pulling him up the stairs and into her apartment, but it was fleeting as Jamie’s palm landed on the car horn.

Belle, after fighting with her slightly dodgy lock as per normal, pushed open the heavy front door and stood in its way so that it wouldn’t shut on Trevor and all of the food she’d so kindly let him carry up from the car. He turned to her after she’d let the door shut, silently asking for where exactly he was meant to put everything down and Belle cringed as she looked between her dining table and kitchen counter and the distinct lack of space on both of them.

“We may have to eat outside,” she said sheepishly, bundling Trevor to her small balcony so that he could put down their food.

She disappeared back into the house, re-appearing with some spray and paper towel to clean off the dust from the table and the chairs.

A little out of breath after running the cleaning products back inside, she apologised as she sat down, “I promise it’s not usually that bad I’ve just got like three projects going right now and nothing else has a home. I’m untidy, but it’s not a biohazard. I swear.”

“Babe,” Trevor mumbled through a mouthful of fries, “You’ve seen my place; there’s probably at least three biohazards in there.”

That would be true if he didn’t have a cleaner come through once a week, but Belle appreciated the sentiment, nonetheless.

She kicked her feet up under the table, rested them in Trevor’s lap, and watched in amazement at the frankly inhuman speed he ate a larger order of In-N-Out than she’d ever seen anyone order before. They were empty calories, too, so she knew he’d be rooting through her fridge for something to eat later—the mental checklist of her fridge happened quickly, she wasn’t sure there was much in there, but they would make do.

“You said before that you’ve got three projects going on—I know you said you sew stuff, but I thought it was just like… fixing stuff.”

“Well, yeah, I mean, I can do that no problem,” Belle said, quickly swallowing what was left of her burger and pushing the remainder of her fries towards Trevor who took them without a second thought. “At the moment I’m making a sundress and then a dress each for me and my friend for graduation.”

Trevor perked up, “Can I see?”

“They’re just dresses,” she shrugged. “They’re not that impressive.”

“Bullshit. Show me, I wanna see.”

His enthusiasm was, as always, contagious, and Belle agreed to show him what she’d made. It was no longer impressive to her that she made her own clothes—or at the very least, tailored anything she might have bought—because she’d been using a sewing machine since the age of thirteen when her Nonna had given up on teaching Belle’s older sister, Nicola.

Trevor was made to wash his hands before he got close to her overcrowded dining table, just as Belle did herself, because there was no risking any grubby fingers touching the carefully selected fabric. The sundress wasn’t a big deal; it was the graduation dresses that she didn’t want to risk having to start over.

“These are the bodices for my friend’s dress—the top bit,” she clarified, gesturing to her torso. “I’m at the point where Karla needs to come over and I need to pin everything while she’s wearing it, so I know it’s perfect. That probably needs to happen soon.”

“And yours is there?” he asked, pointing to Belinda, her dress form.

“Yeah. Mine will be a bit easier because she’s made to my exact measurements. I just can’t ever gain or lose any weight until the end of time.”

So fast that Belle didn’t see it coming, Trevor’s hands were on her hips, and she was being spun so that her back was pressed firmly against her chest.

He said, into her ear in a low, husky voice, “Good thing you’re already a fucking rocket.”

The season had ended—early and poorly for the Ducks—and Trevor had disappeared off to New York. It wasn’t a surprise that he’d done so, and Belle hadn’t expected him to stay behind just for her. Especially when her parents and sister had flown into Los Angeles for a few days.

She also hadn’t expected Trevor to be on the phone with her from the minute she finished showering to the second she walked out her front door. She knew that at least a small part of him wanted to be there to watch her graduate, it just wasn’t feasible. So, instead, he’d kept her calm as she dressed and did her make up, his eyes nearly bugging out of his head as he got to see the final dress she’d crafted from scratch.

“Has anyone ever told you you’re hot?”

“Just this one guy,” she said, quickly and mindlessly, mostly focused on her reflection where she was trying to get her dress to sit right. “It’s getting a bit weird.”

After silence hung in there, Belle turned her attention back to her phone to see if the call had disconnected, just in time for Trevor to ask sheepishly, “You’re talking about me, yeah?”

She grinned, “Yes, babe. I have to go; I’m already kinda late. I’ll call you later. I might be drunk.”

“You better be wasted when you call.”

“I will be!” she exclaimed, blowing kisses through the phone as she pressed the red X multiple times whilst also trying to wrestle open her front door and push the phone into her purse.

She ran down the stairs of her building, chunky heels saving her from toppling as she had no hands free to grab hold of the railing. Her graduation cap was nearly blown away in the wind, and the garment bag holding the robe was close to getting tangled around her legs—that was typically not of note, except that her mother and sister were standing at their rental car looking exasperated.

“Are you trying to trip and break your nose this morning?” her mother sighed, taking the garment bag and placing it into the trunk.

Belle ignored her, distracted by her sister grabbing onto her, complimenting her dress and being kind enough not to hug her and crease it.

“You’ve really outdone yourself with this one, Bella,” Nicola said, standing back to take in Belle’s creation.

Belle curtsied, dramatic and lavish, delighting in Nicola’s applause.

It hadn’t escaped her that her father was still sitting in the car, and she could hear him talking on the phone gruffly and with rising volume, but she let Nicola keep complimenting her so that she couldn’t dwell on it for longer than a few seconds.

She was hurried into the car by her mum so that she could drive rather recklessly to campus so that they would only be a little bit late for the time Belle was told to arrive. They arrived just as her father was ending his phone call, and there was just enough time for a hug and a compliment about graduating before Belle was running off.

A BA in Business Economics from UC Irvine wasn’t as prestigious as Nicola's BA in Psychology from Princeton—and was even more undermined by Nicola’s dedication to a PhD—but a boring office job in economics of any type was far from Belle’s goal. It was a means to an end if she wanted to be able to live off her own designs and creations.

In the scheme of things, a surname beginning with T wasn’t the greatest thing for a Graduation ceremony, but she did get to sit beside Karla. Their complementary dresses were hidden by their robes whilst sitting down, but it was evident as they walked across the stage—Karla first, then Belle—it was a nice extra flourish on an early important moment.

The best flourish, the true capstone moment of the day, was the text waiting for her when she was finally back to her phone. Trevor had pulled up the livestream on the television in his family phone and apparently gotten his family around to watch for her—someone they had never met.

Belle truly had no expectations that Trevor would actually show up at La Guardia to pick her up; had been waiting for a text to come the entire flight with an apology for not being able to make it.

It never came, though, and Trevor was standing at baggage claim with his hands low in his pockets. Belle spotted him first; he wasn’t looking at anything in particular, seemingly just staring into nothingness and ignoring the buzz around him. It meant that she was looking at him when he noticed her, his eyes lighting up and a smile taking over his face. Hers did the same on a less grandiose scale, and her chest lightened with the final confirmation that he hadn’t left her to fend for herself.

She wheeled her carry-on to him, letting it drift away as she reached him and wrapped her arms around his waist, his arms over her shoulders, and buried her face into his neck.

“You got a haircut,” she said solemnly as her fingers reached up to play with the hair on the back of his neck—or the hair that used to be there.

“I told you I was.”

“I know,” she moaned petulantly.

She stepped away with a sigh when the conveyor belt started to move and then swayed into him until he tucked her under his arm.

It was disgustingly domestic and not something Belle could say she was used to, or that she was totally ready for or comfortable with, but it would hurt to take away from the moment if she dwelled on it.

Having Trevor pick her up and drive her to Bedford was for the best, as it meant that she wasn’t able to dwell on the fact that she was about to meet his family—she’d done enough of that on the plane. She wasn’t going to ask out loud if Trevor thought his parents would like her even if the thought had lingered through her head for hours. Days.

She let herself get lost in the urban landscape of The Bronx, rolling her eyes when she realised that Trevor had taken them slightly out of the way just so he could excitedly point out Yankee Stadium to her.

“I was born here,” she said pointedly. “We moved to Tampa not long after, so claiming that doesn’t feel super right, but we came back for a few years and lived in Manhattan.”

“You’re a Yankees fan?” Trevor asked, taking his eyes off the road with a dramatic head turn.

Belle pointed back to the road and rolled her eyes, “No. Devil Rays, baby.” She threw up some devil horns just to make Trevor laugh but it did not elicit that reaction she expected.

“No.”

“‘No’? What do you mean ‘No’?”

“You grew up in New York!” he exclaimed, as if she hadn’t just told him about that. “You can’t grow up in New York and not be a Yankees fan.”

“Mets fans across the city just felt the sudden urge to commit murder,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest. “I grew up in Tampa. I was like eight when I moved to New York, my allegiances were made. If it was going to be any other team, it’d be the Red Sox because of my dad.”

A full body shiver seemed to overtake Trevor’s body, and Belle laughed at the dramatics. She took the opportunity to go on a slight rant about how seriously men took sports that Trevor was unable to make a good argument against.

It was over by the time they'd left the city, not even really real to begin with, but it all seemed inconsequential as the city gave way to the suburbs. None of it was shocking—it’s not like they were in the middle of nowhere—but it was different to Los Angeles, and it wasn’t something that Belle usually mentioned even when heading to see her parents’ in Connecticut. Was nothing like what she had gotten used to seeing in Columbus.

“You got the white picket fence, 2.5 kids, American Dream childhood,” she said, not even noticing that she’d said it out loud until Trevor glanced at her briefly and made a confused noise.

“Huh? So did you.”

“In Tampa and Manhattan? No. And Columbus is a shithole,” she said, unapologetically. “I guess the one year in Vancouver was the closest I ever got, but my dad wasn’t around. He was on the road. Or at an arena somewhere. Your parents gave a shit.”

“I mean… I guess? That’s not my fault, though.”

“I’m not—I’m not mad. I knew, like, somewhere in my brain. You’re a white hockey player from New York, who got shipped off interstate to play hockey before you graduated high school.”

“Your dad has coached multiple NHL teams. You came from more money than I did.”

“Oh, no, that’s… actually not what I meant. Just that, like, both your parents put a lot of effort into getting you here.”

“Your parents love you,” he said softly. Belle knew it was just a generic something to say in that part of the conversation, and she would have expected it from anyone.

She sighed, and shrugged, before saying with a feigned laissez-faire attitude, “no, I know. I’m just realising that it’s in a different way to yours loving you.”

Trevor’s hand came to rest on her knee, a light squeeze to let her know that he didn’t know what to say but that he was there.

The rest of the drive was mostly quiet aside from the music Trevor had playing. Belle was horrible company in that moment, and she knew it, but it was combining with the heaviness in her stomach at the knowledge that his parents weren’t too far away.

Trevor provided no peptalk in the car when they pulled up to a nice two-storey house—distinctly lacking traditional picket fence—and Belle didn’t have time to decipher if that made her feel better or worse, because he was opening her car door and gesturing for her to go towards the house even as he was heading back to the trunk to grab her cases. The multiple cases. She knew when she was packing that she would be going straight from Bedford to her parents’ place in Connecticut; she hoped his parents knew that. It looked like she was about to move in.

She needn’t have worried, though, because his parents were waiting for them, opening the front door before they could even reach it, and she was being embraced by hugs and kisses and welcomed inside for something to eat.

“We are so excited to have you,” Julie assured her, likely noticing Belle’s hesitation. “Trevor hasn’t stopped talking about you since he got here.”

“Mom.”

“Now, not to have this talk right away but if we can get it done we don’t have to have it again—you are welcome to stay with Trevor in his room. We’re not stupid, we know what young adults get up to—”

“Oh my god.”

Julie powered on through Trevor’s protests, “—but we aren’t ready for grandchildren just yet and would prefer not to be woken up by the practice of any being made.”

“Just fucking kill me now,” Trevor all but shouted, taking Belle’s hand and pulled her directly up the stairs and away from his parents.

Belle didn’t truly comprehend what had happened until they were alone again, and she couldn’t keep her mouth from hanging open.

“Ignore her,” Trevor stressed. “Two seconds that took. Two seconds for her to be the most embarrassing mom ever.”

They didn’t spend much time with his parents while Belle was in Bedford, which made sense in that Trevor was twenty-one years old and probably didn’t want to spend the entire day with his parents—though he had been particularly lenient in letting his younger sister, Ava, crash most of their days. Julie and Gary were always sitting in the living room when Trevor and Belle got in, though, even on the nights when they walked in after eleven. Belle wondered if that was purposeful, if they were waiting to make sure all their kids made it home safe, or if it was part of their normal routine. Trevor never seemed surprised by it.

As they entered the house after a long day trip to Coney Island, they popped their heads into the living room to say hello and goodnight.

“I love your dress, sweetheart,” Julie said, causing Belle to twist a little and fan out the bottom of her sundress. “Did you make that, too? You and your friends’ dresses at the graduation were gorgeous.”

“I did, yeah,” Belle beamed. Thank you.”

“I always wished I’d learnt to sew. Being a seamstress would certainly have come in handy over the years, I think.”

“I’m not really a seamstress. Mostly a wannabe fashion designer? The making just kind of happens as an extension.”

“Either way, Belle, you’re excellent at it and I am jealous of your talent.”

“I could make you something,” Belle said excitedly. “Like, it wouldn’t be hard—well it might be because I’d have to take your measurements here and then make it back in LA without you being able to try it on. But, anyway, we can if you want. I think everyone should have at least one piece of clothing made just for them.”

“Ava will kill me, you know.”

“It won’t be quite the same, but I’m sure I have something in my suitcases that I can tailor for her. It shouldn’t take too long.”

Julie smiled, a disbelieving type of smile that Belle was grateful for because it would definitely take too long to change a dress by hand and it seemed like Julie wouldn’t hold her to it. Belle would make something for Ava another time.

Gary shooed the pair off to bed, shortly after, reminding Trevor that he’d booked an early tee-time and that he didn’t want him slowing down the game just because of a poor night’s sleep. Julie rolled her eyes at Belle, promising that they would get brunch.

Up the stairs, Trevor watched Belle change from the bed, his eyes never leaving her for a second—she wasn’t even sure he blinked. She wasn’t even putting on a show for him, the day having been too warm and long to put in more effort than she needed to change into one of his shirts.

“You don’t have to make her a dress to make her love you,” he said when she’d turned her back on him to apply the final steps of her skincare routines in his tiny excuse for a mirror.

“I like making clothes for people,” she said with a shrug, looking at him in the reflection.

She caught him pouting when he said, “You haven’t made me anything.”

“What do you want?” she asked, turning around. “Matching summer set?”

“What?”

“Like shirt and shorts from the same fabric. Matchy matchy.”

She took a few steps toward him; into the grabby hands he’d extended out towards her.

“Will you wear a dress from the same fabric?”

Belle bit into her lower lip, shaking her head dramatically to show him that she had to think long and hard about it. She pushed her full weight onto him, his hand moving to her ass without hesitation, and pressed her mouth to his. It was hardly a kiss with both their mouths broken out into full smiles, especially as she squeaked out a ‘maybe’ that had him rolling them over so that he could tickle her sides in protest.

Going to Michigan to hang out with Trevor and his frat boy friends would have been easier than fronting up at her parents’ place in Connecticut, but Belle only realised that when Nicola, her older sister, pounced the second they were alone in the same room.

Their parents had welcomed Belle in happily, her mother pulling her into a hug and her father with a perfunctory kiss to the top of her head, before shooing her up to her old bedroom to unpack her bags. They meant well, she knew, but their welcomes never felt like the homecoming she knew her friends got. Or like the one she’d gotten in Bedford.

Nicola, on the other hand, never left Belle alone. They had been inseparable throughout their lives and only the distance between Princeton and UC Irvine had changed that.

Despite the load of washing Julie had let her do prior to leaving New York, Belle still had no shortage of unwashed clothes in her suitcase. It did have her wondering just how many times she changed clothes throughout the day—she’d only spent a week with Trevor’s family, but her laundry pile looked like the far side of a four-week vacation. Nicola noticed, judging by how carefully she watched Belle sort everything into piles from where she sat on the bed.

“Where did you come from?” Nicola asked as Belle was nearing the end of her first suitcase.

“Garfield?” Belle answered, trying to keep a waiver out of her voice and purposely not looking anywhere in Nicola’s directly.

“Bullshit,” Nicola countered, with enough vigour that Belle was sure their mother would have heard it from downstairs. “You did not come from Cali. You haven’t seen real sun in weeks by the look of you.”

Belle tried to deflect, “Nobody—”

“—from California calls it Cali,” Nicola mocked. “Where were you?”

Belle sorted three more items of clothing to allow herself time to decide if she really wanted to tell Nicola the truth. She always did tell her the truth, though, so it wasn’t much of a decision. It was even less of a decision when she finally looked at Nicola who was staring back at her looking sad and betrayed.

Belle sighed, “New York.”

Somehow—and Belle would never know how it was possible—Nicola’s face shifted into an even sadder expression as she asked, “You went to New York without me?”

“Not the city,” Belle assured her. “Just… New York.”

Nicola was sitting perfectly straight on the bed, still staring at Belle. Belle knew that she was expected to say something, to provide additional information that she did not want to speak out loud, though she kept her mouth shut and returned to sorting out her laundry.

“Are you seeing someone?” Nicole pressed, finally realising that she’d need to prompt any answers from Belle.

“No,” Belle said as she pulled out the dress she’d been wearing when Trevor ate her out in the bathroom of his friends’ restaurant. Her cheeks were definitely warmer for the thought.

“What’s with the hickey then?”

Belle’s hand slammed onto the side of her neck as she silently cursed Trevor, but at least she had a reason to be turning bright red.

Through gritted teeth she told Nicole, “It’s just sex.”

“If it was just sex, you’d tell me. Fuck, you’d tell me if you were seeing someone. Like, what are you hiding? Is it a hockey player or something?”

A beat of silence filled the air.

“Why would it be a hockey player?”

Another beat.

“You’re dating a fucking hockey player.”

Belle’s head snapped so quickly to look at her sister that she felt a twinge, though she still managed to snap, “I’m not dating anyone.”

“No, you’re just sneaking around and going to New York for dick appointments. Who is it?”

“No one.”

“Bella… Why won’t you tell me? We used to tell each other everything.”

“Because it’s bad.” Belle grimaced. “If Dad finds out then it’s even worse, so…”

“The only players I’d imagine him caring about are Dubois or Zegras.”

Belle stared at Nicola unwaveringly, her mouth pulled tight.

“Bella… No…”

“It’s not a big deal,” Belle said, her voice pitched high and her shoulders pressing up against her earlobes. “It just is what it is.”

Nicola was staring straight through Belle, her eyes tracking back and forth over the imaginary line between Trevor Zegras and Pierre-Luc Dubois. Her eyebrows pulled together when she asked, “Which one is it?”

Belle’s inhale was audible throughout the room. “Zegras. Trevor.”

Nicola whistled low, her eyebrows no longer knitted together but now in her hairline. Belle looked away again, and she was glad she did when Nicola’s next words were: “Dad’s gonna kill you. The both of you.”

“You can’t tell him,” Belle pleaded, earning a low laugh from Nicola.

“I’m not gonna be the one to fucking tell him.”

For all the faux arguments Belle and Trevor continued to have about which baseball team was the right choice, heading out to a Dodgers game to see them take on the Astros wasn’t really that hard of an ask.

It was mid-September, the regular season nearly at an end, both teams were top of their division, and the weather was so perfect that Belle couldn’t have said no if she’d wanted to.

The perks of Trevor being Trevor was that they were given Loge seats behind home plate. For two people who weren’t Dodgers fans, they had done alright. She hadn’t even had to fight too hard for him to not wear his Yankees cap.

Of all the things that had been hardest for Belle to get behind was Jamie not making an appearance. Trevor and Jamie had moved in together the moment they were both back in California, and Belle had gotten accustomed to Jamie being around 24/7. Even if it was just to divert some of Trevor’s energy.

Belle returned to her seat and handed Trevor a beer. She sat back next to him, settled into the arm he had thrown over the back of the seat and prepared herself for the next innings.

The Kiss Cam was running. Despite her eye roll, Belle’s eyes were glued to the screen and the people on it who all took far too long to realise they were being filmed.

Her judgement was misplaced.

Despite staring straight at the screen, it took the loud raucous of the crowd around her and Trevor’s leg nudging playfully against hers for her to realise. 

“No, no, no,” Belle said when she saw her face etched across the big screen with Trevor’s right beside her.

She turned her head just in time to see Trevor leaning towards her, preparing for a show-stopping kiss no doubt. She was out of her chair in a heartbeat and didn’t even look back to see Trevor’s reaction as she stormed away.

The crowd was deafening with people jeering at her as she retreated up the stairs as quickly as she could. It would have been even more embarrassing if she tripped up them, and she felt her stomach completely bottom out as the toe of her shoe clipped one. It was only a slight tumble, but enough that more than one person nearby laughed.

The people on the concourse were luckily none the wiser, so she was able to slow down and walk at a normal, less attention-grabbing pace which was all well and good until Trevor started shouting her name and it bounced off every concrete wall to become head achingly loud.

Pulling him into a stairwell felt like her only option, even though it offered no real privacy. There was no conversation she wanted to have in that moment because getting out of the stadium and away from everything was top of her mind but Trevor’s hand on her wrist was keeping her in place.

“Did you know they were going to do that?” she asked, tired and stoic, before he could open his mouth to stay anything else.

“What are you so worried about?” he asked, uncertainty and disbelief pouring off him. “Your dad’s not going to find out.”

“Wanna bet? Trevor, I know how social media works. What’s going to happen is that somebody has got the entire kiss cam recorded and then somebody recognises you, so it gets shared to hockey Twitter. From there, all it takes is one person recognising me before everyone’s blowing up Torts to tell him.”

His voice turned incredulous. “Who? Who is going to recognise you and care enough?”

A bat connected with a ball, the sound resonating throughout the stadium quickly followed by the roar of the crowd. Belle didn’t even flinch.

“Paul fucking Bissonnette,” she answered, unable to resist the eye roll.

“Biz?” Trevor asked, the disbelief and incredulity increasing tenfold as he finally dropped her wrist to throw his hands in the air. “Why the fuck would Biz know who you are?”

“Because he wants me on the fucking podcast to share secrets about Torts. I’m gonna ask you again: did you know they were going to do that?”

Trevor grew small, and Belle’s stomach sank.

“They said they might.”

“Jesus, Trevor… I asked for one thing.”

“One? Belle, it’s been six months, and half a dozen people know we’re together. It’s insane.”

“We’re not—” Belle paused when her phone started ringing, the vibration sending shockwaves through her entire body. “We’re not together and we never were.”

The caller ID that flashed up was, unsurprisingly, Torts (Dad – Emergency).

Belle didn’t say another word to Trevor before she answered the call and walked away.

It was too warm for Belle to be curled up on her bed and tucked under the duvet—she’d spent a lot of time in that position, though. With no classes to go to, no job to be at and no Trevor to take her anyway, she had become a recluse in the week since the baseball game.

Her phone was on speaker beside her, Nicola telling her about something that had happened during her classes, but Belle was desperate to know something else.

“Has he… said anything to you?”

“No,” Nicola answered, quietly.

Her dad hadn’t tried to talk to her at all since he called after the Kiss Cam. It was an embarrassing conversation to say the least, made worse by the looming shadow of Trevor in the stairwell as she walked down it.

“He’s pretending I don’t exist, isn’t he?”

“There might be a bit of that…” Nicola admitted. “What happened when he called, Bella? I want to help, but I can’t if neither of you are telling me.”

“You can’t help,” Belle told her morosely. The reflection of her in the mirror near her bed was too much to bear with the conversation having shifted, so she rolled over and tucked herself further under the covers. “He asked me if I had made it my life’s mission to embarrass him. He asked what he’d done for me to spite him. He thought he raised me better than to date a hockey player, and definitely better than to be with someone like Trevor Zegras. You know, I’ve never heard him say a person’s name with so much hatred and we watched him throw JT Miller under the bus when he was his coach.”

Nicola’s poorly stifled laugh filtered through the phone and Belle wanted to crack a small smile but couldn’t find the energy to do so.

“You know he doesn’t hate anybody, Bella,” Nicola said after recovering, her voice soft yet serious. “He’s just a hard ass who doesn’t know when he crosses the line with tough love. He certainly didn’t hate Miller outside of hockey.”

“Well, he crosses that line when somebody fucks his daughter.”

“Which can’t be a surprise…”

“No.”

“We had that conversation when you got back from your little vacation with Zegras’s family.”

“Yes, I know, Nicola. I just… fuck. I don’t know how to make any of this better.”

The phone line went so quiet that Belle checked if the call had failed, but no, Nicola was still on the other end.  A few moments passed without either sister saying a word, just listening to the nothingness in the air.

“Are you sad about Dad or are you sad about Trevor?” Nicola asked, her voice tentative like she was expecting Belle to reach through the phone and ring her neck.

No response was given; Belle didn’t know.

Belle couldn’t have said what she was expecting when she showed up at Rio’s house. It absolutely wasn’t for Alex to walk past her as she stood at the front door and mutter ‘bitch’ under his breath.

After finally pulling herself out of bed and half-heartedly searching for some jobs—she would need one if she was cut off by the father who still wasn’t speaking to her—she realised that maybe she should call back the friends who had been trying to talk to her. Karla’s photos from somewhere on the Tenerife Sea were easy to react to with a heart, but Rio’s increasingly concerned texts and voicemails required a personal visit.

Rio was standing in the kitchen, waiting for Belle, who couldn’t get Alex’s face out of her head.

“What did I—” Belle took in a steadying breath when her words were caught in her throat. “What did I do to Alex?”

“Made one of his best bros cry. A lot.”

“Trevor’s been here?”

Rio nodded and Belle sighed to herself. It hadn’t been top of mind that Trevor might have been around. They hadn’t been together in Rio and Alex’s presence since the time Rio had been trying to set them up. As far as Belle was concerned, Rio still had no idea that they already knew each other.

That cat was out of the bag, though.

Rio said, not unkindly, “I’m finding it really hard not to take his side, Belle.”

“I didn’t know there were sides to take.”

“I didn’t even know you were together,” Rio said pointedly, “and, all of a sudden, you’re broken up and he’s getting drunk on my couch, and we have to call Drysdale to pick him up, so he won’t be late for practice. Like, mija, he’s not okay.”

“Don’t you think that this mess is exactly what I was trying to avoid?” Belle’s voice was rising with every word, her frustration with the whole situation only amplified by the safe space she thought she would have having been co-opted by Trevor. “Nobody could know because if people knew then my dad would find out and we end up in this exact same scenario.”

“Do you? Because I think there’s a scenario where he finds out and you and Trevor get through it together.”

“There’s no scenario where he finds out and it’s all sunshine and roses, Rio. Before I’d even left the stadium he was on the phone, chewing me out, and now he’s not talking to me. Nobody’s talking to me.”

Despite the heat in Belle’s voice, a month of sadness and solitude being forced out of her at pressure point, Rio’s expression and body language didn’t change. She was being pointed and matter of fact but not mean.

“I’m sorry that he reacted that way, and I’m even more sorry that it was a predictable outcome. You know I’m sympathetic about him and how he acts,” Rio said with complete, utter sincerity, loosening Belle just a little, only to come in and ruin it immediately with: “That doesn’t mean I see in any of this how Trevor is the bad guy.”

The pressure point getting ever closer, her entire body leaning back into the kitchen counter with the effort that went into snapping, “He coordinated the kiss cam with the Ducks’ and Angels’ media teams. He knew I wanted to keep us quiet.”

“He had no idea why, Belle. Tell me if he’s been lying to me and I’ll take it all back, but I think he’s been telling the truth when he’s said that you never really explained why.”

“Because my dad is John Tortorella.”

Rio sighed and Belle knew it wasn’t at her specifically only because it was a sigh she’d heard many times before where he was concerned.

“In Trevor’s head you were keeping it a secret because you were ashamed of him because you know your dad thinks he’s an idiot. He thought you just didn’t want to be seen with him in public, not that your dad would blow up. He still doesn’t know that.”

“I’m not—” Bell shook her head, the idea playing out in her mind utterly unbelievable. “I’m not ashamed of Trevor.”

“He doesn’t know that.”

The sinking feeling that had been slowly growing in her stomach took hold in a split second, because of all the possibilities about why Trevor was avoiding her that hadn’t been a consideration. As she counted some deep breaths and fixated on the backsplash behind Rio, she realised for the first time that there was maybe no coming back from where she had taken them–and that thought led to her realising that she wanted nothing more than to go back. 

“I’m gonna go,” Belle whispered, taking a few short steps. “Thank you for letting me come over. Sorry for lying to you for so long, and sorry for causing Trevor to be here so often.”

“¡Dios mío!” Rio exclaimed, stepping in front of the door so that Belle couldn’t leave. “Belle, mija, you are my friend. I just want you to be happy.”

“I didn’t get that vibe while you were reading me the riot act.”

“You’ve been so happy for months and I didn’t know why, but now I know it was Trevor, and I don’t want that to end if it doesn’t have to.”

There were no words Belle could conjure that would convey the millions of possibilities flowing through her mind, especially when not a single one of them felt like they would end in anything positive, so Belle merely nodded to appease Rio before slipping out the door.

Finishing Julie’s dress was just as satisfying as finishing any other dress, something checked off her to-do list but with an actual item in front of her to show it. She’d put as much care into that dress as she had her graduation dress, even if it was just meant to be a casual summer dress—even if she didn’t know whether Julie would get to see it, let alone wear it.

Despite not having spoken to Trevor since September, three months prior, with no communication outside of the little snippets she got from Rio, Belle knew she would be doing herself a disservice to not even try to get it to the person it was made for.

Sending the text was difficult, and it was even more difficult having to wait for him to respond.

He didn’t respond instantly like he once would have—oftentimes she had barely hit send before he’d texted back, as if he had their texts open, waiting. He didn’t even respond within the hour.

Or the same day.

The dress was taunting her where it was set up on her bodice. It hadn’t been so bad as she was making it, but when it was sitting there as a reminder that she was being ignored it was a lot harder to stomach. On the third day of silence, Belle tucked the dress into a garment bag, hung it up in her closet and began to consider how long she should keep it before pulling it apart to use the material in another project.

On the fifth day a text came with just a date and a time. It was such a contrast from the last text he’d sent her, still on the screen and tormenting her—him begging her to talk to him. Maybe she deserved the silent treatment. That didn’t matter, though, because it was an olive branch of sorts and one that she had all but given up on.

She put more effort into her appearance on that day than she had in months, without even really expecting it to do anything. Not when Trevor had seen her in all states of being—from incredibly drunk and falling over her own feet, to sobbing hysterically during Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, to ugly laughing at he and Jamie arguing over who was smarter when the answer at that point in time was obviously neither. It made her feel better, though, to look good. Feel confident. Fake it ‘til you make it.

Not once since meeting him had Belle been nervous showing up at Trevor’s place, so it was confusing to be fidgety and tight-chested as she pushed the doorbell and waited.

Waited until the door opened and Jamie appeared in front of her, silently raising his eyebrow.

“I—uh… Trevor?”

“Trevor’s not here,” Jamie said, his body taking up the entire door frame and his eyes scrutinising the garment bag she was carrying.

Belle did her best not to stutter again. “I’m just dropping off something I made for his mom.”

“Sure.” Jamie reached out, ready to take the bag but Belle kept it clutched in her hand.

“Is he really not here? Or does he not want to see me?”

“Pretty sure he went to see Turc.”

“Yeah,” Belle sighed, dejected. “Alex hates me.”

“Don’t know if you have too many fans, right now.”

Jamie was just stating a fact, his voice steady, but, just like it had been with Rio, it hurt Belle in a way she’d not imagined. It felt worse coming from Jamie.

“No. I guess I don’t.” She inhaled, handing Jamie the garment bag. “If you could just tell him that I’ll make any adjustments Julie needs. And also tell him I’m sorry.”

Jamie took the bag silently, looking down at it as though it was going to burn his hand. Belle smiled sadly as she turned away because she didn’t know what else to do.

“You don’t think you overreacted?” Jamie asked before she reached the end of their path.

“No,” Belle answered simply as she turned. Jamie’s face contorted. “Look, my dad wasn’t mad that I was seeing someone and that I’d kept it a secret. He wasn’t even particularly mad about the secret part. He was mad specifically about the Trevor part and didn’t talk to me for a few months.”

“He hates Trevor that much?”

“It’s exactly what I said would happen.”

He didn’t believe her—just like Rio hadn’t, like Nicola had struggled to—but Belle was beginning to wonder if that even mattered. It wasn’t a secret to anybody in the hockey world that John Tortorella had a high disdain for Trevor Zegras, so Belle couldn’t work out why everyone was surprised by any of it.

Jamie wasn’t speaking, his face saying all it needed to. He must have known John Tortorella’s reputation, he definitely knew what had been said about Trevor publicly. Maybe he was coming around to understanding.

“I miss him,” Belle told Jamie, her shoulder shrugging sadly. “My dad actually called me last week to make amends. All I could think the entire time was that Trevor made me happy and—not to get super fucking Freudian—my dad didn’t.”

“Shouldn’t you be telling Trevor all this?” Jamie asked, his voice having changed from its matter-of-fact nature to something softer.

“Yeah, well, I told him that that was done and asked when I could drop it off, and he told me to come this afternoon, so.” Belle swallowed the bubble that was growing in her throat. “Made it pretty clear.”

Jamie nodded, once. “I’ll let him know you came around.”

Belle turned back around, continuing back to her car. She managed to keep somewhat composed as she walked, though her chest did begin to heave the further she got from Jamie. She hadn’t heard the door close, but with her heartbeat beginning to thump in her ears she couldn’t be sure that it hadn’t happened.

The floodgates opened when she was securely inside her car, her shoulders shaking and a sob wracking her chest. Tears formed in her eyes with such ferocity that all she could do was hunch over the steering wheel and wait until they had subsided before she could leave.

The text came through the next day. Belle wondered how long he had been home before he sent it.

The dress is great. My mom will be in town next week. You should give it to her.

Belle’s nerves had been at an all-time high for more than a week. She hadn’t even been so nervous when she went to take the dress to Trevor in the first place—Jamie had confirmed what she’d already assumed, but the confirmation that Trevor hated her enough to purposely have her deliver it when he wasn’t home had her worried for what would happen when he did see her.

If anything would happen.

Maybe she would just be there for Julie to see the dress and then be marched out the door never to be seen again.

All possibilities needed to be considered.

She pulled out a dress she’d been making in tandem with Julie’s dress, one that she’d finished purely to distract herself from everything that had been happening. One that she’d worked on when she was too strung out to put the required attention into Julie’s dress.

The house looked no different than it had when she’d been met with Jamie at the door, aside from Trevor’s car being parked in the drive which was a relief but still only helped a little to ease the crushing weight on her chest.

She was walking towards the house when the door opened and Trevor walked out, his gaze mostly fixed on the ground. Belle froze mid-step.

“We can probably go have a talk before?” Trevor suggested as he got closer to her, finally looking directly at her. His hand started to rub at the back of his neck. “Like, not in front of my parents?”

“Yeah. Yeah, we can. Are we… Do you want me to drive?”

“Just a walk?”

Belle didn’t want to go for a walk—her dress wasn’t made for it and her sandals prioritised form over function—but she wanted even less for Trevor to give up on her before she’d even had a chance to talk, so she nodded hastily and only turned her back to him to unlock her car and throw her bag inside.

There were a few moments of silence to begin the walk; not an awkward silence as she had expected but it still lingered as they waited to see who would talk first. 

Belle knew that it probably had to be her.

“You didn’t have to talk to me,” Belle said tentatively, one hand clenched tightly around her car keys to keep her focused. “You could have just given her the dress.”

Beside her, Trevor’s hands were buried deep in the pockets of his jeans, his shoulders hunched. “Jamie yelled at me a bit for getting you to come over when I knew I wasn’t going to be there.”

“Everything everyone has said to me since September… I deserved it. I’m not surprised you didn’t want to see me.”

“That’s kind of the problem, though,” he said. Belle hated that she could hear wetness creeping into his voice. “I did want to see you; I just didn’t know what you would do. I didn’t want you to yell at me again.”

“I shouldn’t’ve done that,” she admitted. “At the game.”

“Jamie said that Torts didn’t speak to you for ages,” Trevor told her, confirming that Jamie had spilled everything. She wasn’t mad about it or even surprised. “I guess I get why you were mad.”

“But you didn’t get why I was mad until he told you what I told him, right?” she clarified, her conversation with Rio running through her mind. “Because I hadn’t made it clear enough why I didn’t want anyone to know about… About us.”

“I still don’t really get it.” He took a half step, almost as if he had forgotten to walk momentarily. “You said right at the beginning that you didn’t want him to find out, and I guess I thought you were joking just because it’s kinda funny.”

“I embarrassed him, apparently,” Belle said, her eyes rolling. “Because of all the hockey players in the country, or even in California, I had to pick the one he’s got a public grudge against. Like, as if it matters to his image who I let put their dick in me. It’s none of his business, you know? And sure, I don’t want my dad to hate me but fucking Christ he doesn’t need to be so dramatic.”

“Is that all it was?”

“You make it sound like getting yelled at by your dad for embarrassing him on a national scale is a daily occurrence.”

“No—I’m just the guy you let put their dick in you?”

Belle stopped walking, the questioning taking up so much of her brain power that she couldn’t be trusted to move her legs as well as think it over. Too much effort was going into churning the words over and reaching out to wrap her hand around his forearm and stop him in his tracks. His eyes, flickering between her arm and her face, brimming with tears.

“I know that I said we were never together.” She sighed. The whole conversation at the baseball had been on a loop in her head for months. “I was wrong. I was mad and I’d like to think that if it had been brought up in any other moment I wouldn’t have said it, but I did. I’m sorry.”

“It was the most serious relationship I’ve ever been in. I took you home to meet my parents.”

“It was the most serious I’ve been in, too. I know that I didn’t introduce you to anyone or anything, but I wish I had. I wish people knew. Like Rio. I wish she and Alex had known.”

“I didn’t tell him. Well, until after. When he found out from Twitter anyway.”

“I—I know,” Belle stuttered. As much as she had known that Trevor had kept everything to himself just as she had asked, it was something entirely to hear him say it out loud with a tightness in his voice that she couldn't bear. “I shouldn’t have asked you to keep it from your friends like that. I don’t know what I’m doing. Ever. And I really fucked this up.”

“I’m sorry, too. For last week. For not realising that your dad is actually a bigger asshole than I thought.”

“What would you have done if you’d known that? It doesn’t change anything.”

“Sure, it does. I would have let him see me in Vegas. I would have burnt it down then and gotten it out of the way. He shouldn’t have that control over you.”

The only thing Belle could do was shrug. She didn’t disagree, but realistically it wasn’t something she would ever have let happen. Things may have changed since Vegas, but at that time it wasn’t a possibility.

Moving along the sidewalk felt appropriate, and Trevor quickly fell back into step beside her. It also made it easier to not be looking directly at him when she asked, “So, what are we doing?”

“What do you want?” he asked back, cautious and slow.

“Being one hundred percent honest? For you to forgive me and magically forget that any of this ever happened.”

So much time elapsed between her statement and Trevor’s response that Belle started taking deep breaths and preparing herself to be told that not only was that the dumbest thing anyone has ever said, but that Trevor was ending their conversation. She kept her eyes forward, focusing on the house at the end of the street and the guy on his roof trying to string up Christmas lights, and squeezed her hands into fists so tight that at least one of her nails was breaking skin.

“I don’t know if I can do all of that just yet, Belle.”

“No, I—I get that. I shouldn’t have said that. It was so stupid.”

Trevor cut her off, “I want you to come back and see my parents and hang out and maybe take it a little slow.”

“Yeah, yes!” Belle said, quickly and loudly, so that Trevor wouldn’t have the time to take it back. “We can do it however you want. I—I missed you so much.”

Everything around Belle seemed lighter in that moment, and the Christmas lights at the end of the street turned on at the perfect time. She bounced on her toes, spinning around to wrap her arms around Trevor’s neck, pulling him close and revelling in the easy way his arms wrapped around her waist. The even easier way he pulled her closer. She may have imagined the press of a kiss against the side of her head but she really didn’t think that was all in her mind.

Back at his house, after doubling back on their walking path hand in hand, Belle did her best to be comfortable around his parents. Trevor told her that he hadn’t said anything to his parents about what had happened and had brushed off the Kiss Cam things they’d seen as no big deal. Julie, after complimenting Belle on the dress, commented that that afternoon was the happiest she’d seen Trevor since she arrived in California.

Trevor didn’t deny it, just smiled even wider with his eyes firmly fixed on Belle.

One Week Later

would love to hear your thoughts, this one took forever <3

[petit-papillion]

Some great insights from Zach Brown (not to be confused with McLaren's Zac Brown) on the importance of tyre management and the strategy Ferrari had planned for the first stint at the 2024 Spanish Grand Prix...

[waywardsalt]

tag rant but man i fuckin hate the new direction for loz

[ruesol]

Play fighting with Boxer!Sukuna

Note: Reader is referred to as girlfriend at one point.

Masterlist

“Babe.”

“Not right now.”

“Babe.”

“Sukuna, I promise I’ll be done with this book soon.”

He huffed and fell back onto the couch. He had been trying to get your attention for the past 30 minutes but you were adamant on finishing your book. This is all the fault of that damn community book club your coworker recommended you join. Now whenever, you’re off work and Sukuna doesn’t have to train, you’re reading. Usually the two of you spent almost all your spare time together but now you spent half of it reading your newest book for your weekly discussion. You always did your best to spoil him with kisses and cuddles but it was never enough.

Book club be damned, he needed you to be superglued to his side every single second.

“My girlfriend has a side man and he’s made of paper,” he huffed to himself as he watched you intently read. What was so great about your book anyway? Was it worth ignoring your gorgeous (and shirtless) boyfriend? He even had a tattoo of your name on his left pec and you were still choosing to smother a book with your attention.

Sukuna’s wallowing turned him creative- he stood in front of you, trying to make sure your guard was down. You didn’t look up which meant that you were still engrossed in your book. His hand swooped in and swiftly snatched the book from you. “Sukuna,” you groaned. “Give it back, I was at a good part.” You got up to grab it from him but he raised it above his head. “Kiss me.” You glared at him and gave him a quick peck on his lips. “Done, now give it.”

“No,” he nonchalantly replied. “But I kissed you.” You wondered why he was being particularly irritating today.

“That was me begging for a morsel of your attention. Now cuddle me if you want it,” he said and cheekily smirked.

You ignored him and hopped trying to get your book. Sukuna simply dodged your sad attempts and laughed every time you missed. “I don’t even know why you’re trying.” You gave him a pointed look at his comment.

“Okay, fine, you can have your book if you beat me in a fight.”

“What? That makes no sense.” You couldn’t believe this man. “It seems like a fair challenge to me,” he said as he walked to a particularly high shelf and placed your book on top of it. “You know I can just use my stepping stool for that, right?” you said before scoffing at him.

“Then it’s a good thing I hid it.” His sarcastic smile was now pissing you off. “But you literally fight for a living. You have the upper hand.”

“I’m in love with you. Use that as a distraction. Come on, let’s go to the ring.” You were speechless as he dragged you to the fighting “ring” (also known as your bedroom).

Since you had a smaller frame than him, he agreed to let you have the first hit. You sighed and braced yourself. You didn’t have much of a strategy except for charging at him with such a high speed that he’d fall on the bed and would accept defeat.

But as soon as you were in close distance, he caught both your arms, turned you around and threw you on the bed. He didn’t give you a second to get up before he straddled you. “Haha!” he exclaimed. Seeing you all riled up underneath him was a sight he was used to but it never failed to awe him.

“Feels familiar, doesn’t it?” he asked as he began to lower himself to face you. “This is so unfair! You’re like 200 pounds, I can’t even move you,” you said as you tried to push him off. Sukuna grabbed your hands that were fighting him and he playfully wrestled them. Who knows what would’ve happened if he used his real strength.

Thank goodness for your quick thinking because you remembered that Sukuna was extremely ticklish so you pulled your hand out of his grasp with all the strength you could muster up and started poking his sides. “Babe!” he yelled before toppling over to his side.

It was your turn to straddle him and before you could pin his arms beside his head, he caught yours and pulled you down to him. He wrapped his muscular arms around you and tucked your head under his chin. Your cheeks were mushed against the very tattoo of your name.

You were literally stuck in one position. The more you tried to move the tighter he’d hold you. “Sukuna, you cheater. Why do I always do this to myself?” You sighed, accepting defeat.

Sukuna kissed your forehead and laid you both on your sides, still not letting you go. “Sweet, sweet victory,” he whispered to himself.

-•-

I need to be (lovingly) smothered by a beefy nerd. Someone like Clark Kent.

[controld3vil]

letting them pick your weapon

pairings: yelena belova, bucky barnes, john walker, robert reynolds/sentry, ava starr/ghost, taskmaster (comic ver.), alexei shostakov/red guardian x gn!thunderbolts!reader

synopsis: The fact that you value their opinion catches them off guard.

notes -> working on requests rn, but inbox’s still open !! I WANNA WRITE MORE tags/cw: inaccurate characterization/have not seen the film, minor scene mention (it’s in the trailer!), descriptions of weapons (flash bombs, bucky’s grappling hook, retractable shield, emergency teleporter, static boots, weapon gauntlet, combat enhanced gloves) headcanons can be read as platonic/romantic

YELENA BELOVA

-> believed you were joking at first. her? you have lost your mind if you thought she would be a good idea to offer advice to. but because it’s you, she’s willing to consider your preferences and style of combat. most of the team already use guns, tactical knives for hand-to-hand combat. you’re a great candidate for any challenge, so she’s not going to pick something easy. if you wanted easy, you would’ve asked someone else. 

“Well, I’m flattered you think so highly of me,” The former Black Widow turned to you with a delighted grin slowly spreading across her face. It’s obvious how smitten she is after your suggestion regarding the weaponry. Valentina had experts for those kinds of things: weapons, gear, and training. Yet, you sought her out for her opinion. Yelena rarely swoons at compliments, but you make her feel lighter on her feet on rare occasions. 

“Is it so wrong not to?” you jest with a smirk. You continued down the hallway of the Tower. The armory is built with a fingerprint pad at the end of the hall. Once you are allowed access, the bulletproof doors open. 

“You’ve got quite the selection,” Yelena notes, her eyes scanning the close-combat display. A few new additions catch her eye – one’s she’s certain weren’t there last week. It’s obvious you favor hand-to-hand combat over long-range, but she has no intentions of making this easy for you. Yelena knows you enjoy pushing boundaries, not just with weapons, but with strategy, roles, anything that keeps you one step ahead. “You’re still positive you want my advice?”

“Of course!” You beam, scanning down the aisles of the collection Valentina has managed to grab for the team. This was something you wished you had, and not just a temporary use. Still, you’re unfazed by Yelena’s pondering. “You’re one of the best I know of.” 

“That you know of,” She corrects, placing her hands on her hips. She’s thinking carefully now. What to give you. Would you like what she suggests? It shouldn’t matter as much, but Yelena now considers your combat style. The way you navigate around the battlefield, how you look both ways before crossing an alleyway. You’re very meticulous when it comes to closed operations, which is why she works so well with you. 

You see her grab something from a barrel, close to the heavy weapons. She holds it in her hand, feeling the weight of it. Her palms bounce the spherical object up and down as if it were a baseball and not something to be messed with. Yelena seems satisfied, as you can tell by the glint in her eyes when she turns to you. Her grin is devilish as she picks up a few more and lays them out in her hands. 

“Flash bombs, huh…” Your expression is neutral, studying them like an ancient artifact. You rarely use them, as it really depends on the mission. If it were a search and rescue, you wouldn’t think to use flash bombs. But then again, it’s slowly that you realize how typical your preferences are. “Never used them.”

“Exactly the point,” the ex-assassin beams with a lighthearted jab. “We rarely use flash bombs– makes it more fun when we do.” 

“So you’re suggesting them because you think they’re fun?” You crossed your arms, a smug smile tugging at your lips. You knew better than to expect Yelena to take your request seriously. She was trying to make peace with a past she rarely spoke of. But still, she had a way of making her life a hell of a lot more interesting.

“Flash bombs are like party tricks–best when no one sees them coming,” she said with a pout, holding one up like it was a priceless treasure.

BUCKY BARNES

-> question your mental fortitude. are you serious? but then he listens to you spouting about his days as the Winter Soldier. he doesn’t think highly of those days but the way you boast about his expertise is almost bizarre. do you admire him? that makes him feel oddly appreciated and conflicted. however because of your persistent pleas (you said please once!), he complies and leads you to his room. 

“Where did you think we were going?” The team leader grumbled, eyes fixed ahead as he passed Walker’s door without so much as a glance. There was a hint of playfulness in his voice–subtle, nearly invisible–but you caught it. You always did with him. 

He didn’t look at you. He rarely did when he was in one of these moods. Still, you followed close behind, practically on his heels like a loyal, overly eager puppy. And you couldn’t have looked more pleased. Because the truth was, you never expected to be allowed into Bucky’s room. 

“I mean no one’s allowed in your room,” you said, your voice light, stating the obvious. 

That made him stop. 

Bucky turned to look at you, his expression unreadable. To anyone else, he probably seemed annoyed–grim even. But you had spent enough time watching the subtle gestures to notice the truth. The slight droop in his eyes. That flicker of something softer. 

“Well– you’re the leader,” you added quickly, voice quieter now, “and out of respect, I just… never thought I’d be invited.” Now he looks at you even more deeply. Great, now he looks like a kicked puppy. 

“I mean, I appreciate the kind assumption, but really–” he pauses, eyes locking onto yours with surprising intensity. “You’re always welcome. If you need anything, that is.” 

You nod, taking in the quiet sincerity in his words. For a moment, it felt like you two had cleared the air. The weight of the conversation felt lighter, more comfortable. 

When he opens the door, he steps aside to let you enter first. 

Bucky’s room is nothing out of the ordinary. It was plain and expected, maybe, but not without hints of the man who lives there. A few photos hang crookedly on the wall. Clothes are scattered on the floor, like they were left there in a hurry or maybe forgotten. He doesn’t spend much time here, but it’s undeniably his space.  

“Sorry for the mess.” He passes by you and heads to his closet. You watch as he grabs a case, pulling it down with the kind of care that says it’s something important. You have no idea what’s inside, but you can guess. What screams Bucky Barnes? Probably a custom-modified handgun. Maybe a combat knife with a story behind it.

“Here it is,” he says, setting the case down on the bed. You stare at it, curiosity buzzing as he unlatches the safety lock. His gaze flicks to yours for a split second before he opens it. And when you finally see what’s inside, you can’t help it. 

You laugh.

Bucky turns to you, almost abruptly. “What’s so funny?”

Your eyes cross his. “Is this the grappling hook you used to destroy that military vehicle when you were chasing us?” Recognition flickers in his face. The realization hits him–it is the same one. And for a moment, his expression is as unforgettable as the day you first saw him, tearing across the empty drylands on that motorcycle like something out of a war film.

“Oh… right,” Bucky says, rubbing the back of his neck, guilt creeping into his voice. “Sorry. I didn’t exactly plan that part out.”

“It’s alright…” You said softly, placing a hand on his shoulder. The light streaming through the window catches the gleam of his metal arm, making it shine with an almost haunting beauty. “We're past that now.”

His eyes held a longing, a deep, mysterious intensity that you couldn’t quite figure out. He glances back at the grappling hook, it’s been since the beginning of your journey together as a team. He hasn’t used it since then, storing it as a keepsake, but now he’s looking at you.

“It’s yours now."

JOHN WALKER

-> gives you a skeptical look. you know yourself best, why would you go out of your way to ask him? doesn’t turn down the suggestion, but will constantly ask you why. He's been in the military, served two tours in Afghanistan. All he’s ever good for is punching things and shooting. And now, Valentina has given him a mediocre shield in place of Captain America’s. It’s safe to say he doesn’t choose his weapons, he earns them.

“I thought Yelena would be the one to ask, not you.” Walker doesn't seem just mildly annoyed; no, he’s genuinely in disbelief. No one’s ever asked him for a weapon before, and while his options were somewhat limited, he’s beginning to think that with the super serum coursing through him means he’s capable of more than he used to be. But his go-tos have always been the same: his shield and gun.

“You’re a strong guy,” you shrug casually, stripping off the protective gear you’d brought along. The two of you had just finished an operation, and the exhaustion was settling in, yet you couldn’t ignore the curiosity that spurred your suggestion. “I trust your instincts.”

Walker just stares at you, the look on his face speaking volumes. Seriously? He’s caught off guard. After everything that’s happened, now you’re asking him? But you can see he’s weighing your words, even if it’s only for a moment.

“You should trust your intuition,” he says, his tone softening just a little, though the faint skepticism still lingers. “Choose whatever you’re comfortable with.” 

“Comfortable?” You raise an eyebrow, pretending to think it over. “Well, if comfortable means picking a weapon that might get me killed, then… sure, I’m all in.” You smile, as if this were no big deal, even though deep down, the weight of your decision isn’t lost on you. “I trust you enough to make it interesting.” 

The former soldier exhales, clearly irritated, though mostly with himself. You weren’t going to give up, and he knew it. If he let this go now, you’d just come back tomorrow with the same question. You were rarely this persistent, but when you were, there’s no way of convincing you out of it. He could either make a decision now or risk you asking him again later. 

“Fine,” he muttered, scanning the armory. 

As you busied yourself, putting away gear and organizing supplies, Walker moved around the racks, his eyes flickering over the options. But the more he looked, the more he found himself caught in a mental loop. 

The rifle? Too heavy. That pistol? Not enough range for someone with your skills. That polearm? Too awkward for you to wield efficiently.

Finding a weapon that matched your needs, something that fit your style, was proving to be harder than he anticipated. He muttered under his breath, his frustration slowly building. Then he stole a glance at you, assessing. His eyes narrowed, running through the possibilities. He paused. The mission… in that moment. He remembered how you struggled to dodge the bullets while also taking down some thugs. His gaze lingered for a moment longer before he sighed and reached for something on a high shelf. 

Before he makes it down, you’re already by his side. 

“Whatcha got there?” You look eager, excited by the fact that Walker was this tolerant of your persistent pestering, that he’s willing to go through with his promise. 

“A retractable shield.” He removed the cover, and there it was. The shield was smaller compared to Walker’s, but confident in size to contract in and out like a gadget. It had a charred black matte finish, with dark silver lining across the edges. It had an adjustable cuff. It resembled similarly to a Wakandan shield, which Bucky saw during his time there. It was beautiful. “It was a prototype Valentina had ordered for me, but I never used it. I got this one already,” he gestured to his shield, clasped behind his back. 

“If you like, you can keep this one.” 

“Wait—really?!” 

“I mean— I don’t use it, so it’s all yours,” he says delicately, placing it into your hands. “I can teach you a few tricks, too, if you like.”

ROBERT REYNOLDS/SENTRY

-> extra extra nervous. you asked the guy who doesn’t need weapons or any kind of gadget to fight. if any of the members were in the room, they would be looking at you like you were crazy. bob’s first answer is no, but after seeing you pout at his refusal, he’s quick to please you. but then again, he has no idea what he’s doing. 

“Okay! Knives, guns—uh, what are you looking for?” You appreciate the effort of his trying to act like he knows what he’s doing. But he’s trying desperately to meet your expectations. Bob looks nervous, like a lamb to the slaughter in the weapons room, jumping from cabinet to cabinet, looking at all of the variety. 

“Just something new to try out,” You grin, letting his nervous energy follow him around. You stand by the doorway and watch as Bob tries to analyze each piece of equipment. 

“Uhm—are you looking for something practical or—“ 

“Bob,” that startles him, making him freeze momentarily before meekly turning to face you. He was expecting you in mad rage, yet you weren’t. You just had a cute, goofy smile on your face. “Pick something with your heart. I know whatever you choose will be fine.” 

It’ll be fine. He thinks to himself, before nodding, allowing his nerves to slowly subside. Bob takes a deep breath, and in slow strides, he reaches out to something. 

When he turns, your gaze follows, all innocent and cute. 

“Ahh, an emergency teleporter!” You’re in awe because it was something you didn’t think Bob would pick as his first choice. There were plenty of gadgets you thought of— force fields, bulletproof vests, iron-plated brass knuckles. 

“Thought it might come in handy,” he nervously laughs, fiddling with the device, not knowing what to do with his hands. “Uhm— you know, in case you have to go on missions with me— and I don’t know— if something were to happen—“ 

You could practically see his thoughts unraveling from where you stood, Bob always rambled when he was anxious. But the fact that he was worrying about your safety left a warm, fluttery feeling in your chest. 

“Hey– I get it,” you say gently, taking the teleporter from his hand. Only then does he realize he’d been speaking out loud, not just thinking it. He freezes, suddenly stiff and wide-eyed, like a deer caught in headlights. Embarrassed and tense. You offer a reassuring smile, one that says you don’t mind if anything, you appreciate it.

“It’s smart to have a backup plan,” you add. “And hey, maybe once this mission’s over, we’ll use it to teleport straight to that pizza place.”

AVA STARR/GHOST

-> pokes fun at you. jokes about all the possibilities of how you’ll slip up with whatever item she picks. obviously you don’t take it to heart, but ava’s light-hearted nature is a breath of fresh air— after so many grueling missions, her jokes are something that keeps you motivated for the next. need advice on using the element of surprise? she’s your gal! 

“I mean, come on–sneaking in with suppressed pistols but still blowing the whole operation?” Ava giggles, clearly enjoying herself while you look away, pretending to be interested in the horizon. 

“It was one of my first missions, okay?” you snap, pouting as a hot mix of embarrassment and irritation bubbles up inside you.

“Yeah, yeah—amateur,” she teases, ducking her head and biting back another laugh. 

“Oh, like you didn’t have any screw-ups when you started?”

“Don’t even get me started.” 

You raise a brow. “Well? I’m listening.” 

“I’m not telling you,” Ava says with a teasing hum as she strolls toward the armory, already scanning the gear selection menu. You trail after her, fuming. 

“I just told you my most embarrassing story, and you won’t even share yours? That’s not fair!” Steam practically pours from your ears. You’d laid bare your humiliating failure, and Ava–cool, composed Ava, refuses to give even a scrap in return. 

But instead of responding, she flashes a sly smile. “Because I got you something better.” She stops in front of a reinforced gear locker, a sleek metal container stacked with tactical essentials: vests, gloves, helmets. Everything you’d expect. But apparently, Ava has something different in mind. You pause, watching as she places her hand on the scanner. With a soft click and mechanical hiss, a hidden shelf slides out. 

It gleams. Brand new. Sleek like fresh sneakers out of the box. Ava hums before she accesses the armory, heading to the gear selection. 

“For when you’re trying not to sound like a herd of elephants,” she smirks, nodding to a pair of matte-black static boots. She leans casually against the frame, one eyebrow raised in silent amusement.

You blink at her, deadpan.

“Seriously?” 

“I mean, I can hear you walk from your bedroom to the kitchen–from my room,” Ava says, casually shrugging like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. 

You blink. That’s new information.

“Wait… I’m just a loud walker?” She gives you a pointed look, and suddenly it all clicks. “That explains why Walker’s always giving me weird looks,” you mutter, half to yourself. “Guess my feet have a mind of their own.”

Ava snorts. “No, love–you just have really bad shoes.”

TONY MASTERS/TASKMASTER

-> looks your way in deep silence. for how long you’ve known each other, you’re starting to believe tony chooses not to talk. he expresses much more with his actions, such as offering you extra bullets, or medical tape if things go south. tony is an experienced man with many talents, he’s able to copy and replicate his opponent’s moves. he’s done the same with teammates, with you when training, allowing you to point out the mistakes you hadn’t seen there before. sometimes you think he knows you better than yourself. 

“A weaponized gauntlet, huh?” you say, not even pretending to be surprised when Tony hands it to you, seemingly out of thin air. No trip to the armory, no formal request. Apparently, Tony knew you were going to ask him about this and waited for you to ask. 

You study the gauntlet closely, fingers tracing its sleek design. Every button, switch, and panel feels deliberate. Precise. You press one. Click! A retractable blade slides out with satisfying ease. Another press–a grappling line. Then a short-range stun charge. Then a blinding flash ejector. You can’t help it. A grin creeps across your face.

This was so him. 

Tony embodied versatility in his work. He didn’t rely on brute force–he struck with speed, precision, and timing. This gauntlet? This gauntlet was just like him: tactical, efficient, and sharp.

“Thank you,” you say softly, still a bit in awe as you reset the device to its default mode. Your eyes are locked on the gauntlet, taking in every detail. But Tony’s? His eyes haven’t let you once. 

If the circumstances were different, you might’ve mistaken this moment for something romantic.

“It’s pretty neat, has everything I need,” you say, trying to fill the silence with something, anything. You don’t mind the quiet, not really, but sometimes the stillness between you feels too heavy not to break. Tony doesn’t reply. Not verbally, at least. But you can tell his focus has shifted, drawn in closer. He’s leaning slightly toward you now, just enough for you to notice the space closing. 

You feel compelled to try the gauntlet on. As you unfasten the straps and slide it onto your wrist, it clamps down, not tightly, threatening. More like a perfectly fitted bracelet. Secure and purposeful. There’s a subtle hum as the device calibrates, adjusting to the shape of your hand. The pressure eases, and it begins to feel more like a part of you than an accessory. Almost like a second skin. 

Tiny scanners flicker along your fingertips, mapping them precisely–each digit now linked to a specific function, a silent promise of the power you had. You lift your pointer finger, and almost instantly, a blade slides out with fluid precision. 

“This feels like straight-up nanotech…” You murmur, raising your wrist toward the ceiling light, eyes wide with wonder. You probably look like a kid on Christmas morning. If a civilian saw you now, they might assume you’d completely lost it. 

“Where did you even get this?” you ask, unable to hide your curiosity. Tony tilts his head, deliberate and unreadable. You already know he won’t answer, but that never stopped you from asking him pointless questions anyway. It’s become a quiet repetition between you. 

You lower your arm, bring the gauntlet down to chest level–just enough to create a sort of invisible line between you and him. A barrier, but a playful one. 

“If you ever need it,” you say, mimicking his earlier head tilt with a smile, “just ask.”

ALEXEI SHOSTAKOV/RED GUARDIAN

-> very excited. so excited you asked him! alexei is really a lovable guy— even though he often doesn’t use any weapons or gadgets, he thinks of his teammates whenever he goes out window shopping. he sees a new brand Glock 19 by the window? yelena would love it! an energy stabilizer on the dark web? bob’s gonna flip! but you? good old you get special treatment because he’ll personally get you whatever you want. 

“When I heard you needed a new weapon, I was so happy!” Alexei beams as the two of you make your way into the living room. His accent thickens with excitement as he waves a hand. “Not in a bad way, of course, but it’s good, da? Trying something new!” 

“You get me, Alexei,” you say, arms crossing instinctively. Apparently, you weren’t the only one picking up on your growing restlessness. Same weapons, same tactics, and same rhythm, it all started to feel stale. You figured switching things up might help you see things differently. 

Everyone on the team had their niche. Alexei, with his brute strength. Bucky, his guns, and that metal arm. Ava could phase through about anything. Everyone had their thing. And you? You’d been stuck in the same position for far too long. 

“That is why I was so excited when I found this,” he says, crouching to pull a box from under the couch with a mischievous grin. 

Your brows lift, your curiosity piques. “What’ve you got?”

“Close your eyes!” he orders, and you obey, hands outstretched like a kid waiting for a surprise. Behind your closed lids, you hear the ripple of tape, the crinkle of bubble wrap, and then clank... a solid metallic sound, followed by the stretch of fabric. Then something is gently placed into your palms. 

It’s lighter than you expect. Smooth and flexible, but as your fingers trace further, you find the contrast, the cold, hard metal beneath the fabric. 

“Open your eyes!” he announces, barely able to contain his excitement. 

You do. And you’re impressed.

Combat-enhanced gloves, sleek Kevlar-weave across the surface, making your hands feel impossibly light and agile. Carbon-titanium plates reinforce the knuckles and strike zones, and the inside? A smart gecko-grip polymer, designed to boost grip on any surface. 

You stared, stunned. Not just by the gloves, but by the fact that Alexei went through the trouble to find them. Valentina might have gotten you something, if she wasn’t constantly ranting about budget cuts. But this? This came from someone who genuinely wanted to help. 

“You really are the best,” you say, laughing softly as you wrap your arms around his neck, the gloves still clutched in your hands. He lets out a big, satisfied huff of a laugh, and when you pull back, his smile nearly outshines the room.

Who could hate him? You hadn’t known Alexei that long, but somehow he already understood you better than most. 

“I know you like your shooting and whatnot,” he says, mock innocent. You roll your eyes and give him a playful jab to the shoulder. 

“But I also know,” he grins, “you really like punching things. So I thought–'Hey, you know who’d love combat gloves?’”

You can’t stop smiling. It actually hurts a little, but you don’t care. 

“Then I saw them, just sitting there in the market! I couldn’t believe it. Like the universe wanted me to buy them for you!”

“Universe said received,” you say, voice bubbling with gratitude and affection. You look down at the gloves, then back at Alexei. You’ll get him something too. Not because you owe him, but because it’s rare to be known like this. And his gift? 

It’s perfect.

[no-144444]

a little better - c.leclerc

꩜ summary: charles puts a bit more effort in and it seems your bond is becoming stronger.

꩜ pairing: husband! charles leclerc x fem! pregnant! wife! reader

꩜ a/n: would yall want more parts of this? pray tell :0

part one (this can be read on it's own tho but this just gives more context)

“My love!” he called out as he came in the door. While Bahrain hadn’t been great, he still wanted to come home before the triple header ended. He’d been around the house so much during the break that not seeing you had become weird. In the past few weeks, he’d really noticed how different your lives had become now. Long gone were the late-night phone calls that used to define your relationship. Replaced only by text updates on things that concerned you both. He tried asking how your day was, but you just turned it straight back on him and started discussing strategy and asking how he was feeling. Long gone were the small flirty or sweet texts throughout the day. It seemed you were allergic to your phone before 9pm at night, or maybe you just knew his routines so well and didn’t think he’d want to hear from you before that. Which broke his heart. 

Apparently everyone else had noticed it too. Carlos had thought he was in the process of a divorce when he went to him about it. All of Ferrari assumed you two were separated and trying to figure out how to co-parent. It made him sick. Mostly, because he knew it was all his fault. Where was the Charles that used to speak about you everyday? Where was the Charles that defended you to the press so fiercely when you first entered his life? Where was the Charles who wasn’t a complacent, selfish asshole, who cared about his family and work for them, not himself? That Charles was gone. Or just hidden, somewhere, deep inside of him. He just had to… bring him back from the dead. 

“Charles?” you questioned, getting up from the couch and scrambling to hide something. He stopped in his tracks as you turned to face him. “What are you doing here?” 

“I wanted to see you,” he admitted, trying to see what you were hiding. He snapped his attention back to you. “I got you these,” he smiled, handing over your favourite flowers. You looked dumb-struck. 

“Oh,” you said, blatantly surprised. “Well, thank you,” you smiled back at him. “How was your weekend?”

“You know how my weekend was, mi amour,” he shook his head. “How was your weekend?”

Again, dumb-struck. If this was the standard he’d actually set for his love life, he was pathetic. “Oh, well… It was good. I watched the race, watched Arthur’s race. Umm…” you thought for a moment. “I went to Maria’s baby shower. Looked around for Montessori's. Called my parents. Went for lunch with your mom,” you shrugged. “Pretty simple.” 

He nodded, the smile on his face never leaving. “That’s good. Seems relaxed.” 

“It was,” you shrugged. There was a silence. An awkward silence. He would have punched his past self in the face. How were things awkward with his own wife? “Have you eaten?” 

He shook his head. “N-no, not yet. Just… got a flight straight here.” 

You nodded, seemingly shocked by his being there. 

“What were you working on, there?” he pointed to the couch and whatever object you were trying to hide. You looked down. 

“It’s stupid,” you shook your head. “Doesn’t matter.”

“I care,” he assured you, taking your hand. “I want to see.”

You took a deep breath and picked up a half-finished quilt, the crochet needles still in. It was all of the cars on the grid, but the Ferrari had his number on it. “Just… like having something to do with my hands when I watch tv. It’s stupid, I know-”

“It’s wonderful,” he whispered, emotion catching in his throat. How could he neglect you for so long? His wonderful, creative, caring, loving, intelligent wife. “I think it’s wonderful.” 

“You do?” you questioned, your voice small. He nodded, his eyes clouding with tears. 

“I do,” he nodded, wiping his eyes. There was a silence and he wrapped an arm around you (as much as he could, the bump was in the way). “We’re going to be parents,” he whispered out. 

You nodded, a small smile on your face. “We are,” you were in quiet contemplation for a moment. “Do you want to see what I’ve done to the nursery so far?”

Another promise he’d broken, but alas, this was progress. You were here, you were talking, and you were close to him. He’d take whatever he could get from you. 

“I’d love to,” he smiled and took your hand as you led him to the nursery. You opened the door and inside was a sanctuary. Playmats, toys, a diaper changing table, etc. It was yellow, and overlooked Monaco bay, the wonderful sight it was now as the sun set. His breath caught in his throat when he saw the mini helmets of his on the windowsill. The little pockets of Ferrari merch. Odes to him. He could’ve cried. “I’m sorry,” he whispered out and your face fell. “I’m so sorry,” his voice cracked. 

You turned back to him.“Charles, what–”

“You never call me Charles,” he whispered, wiping his eyes. “It’s always Char, or Charlie, or love, or something else, but it’s never Charles. It’s too impersonal, remember?” He placed a hand on your cheek. He was referencing a night many years ago, when you said you’d only call him Char from then on. You were only friends then, yet he knew he was in love with you from that moment on. The way you smiled when you said it, the view of Mt. Fuji behind you, couldn’t compare. He just stared at you all night long. 

“I don’t have to call you Charles-” you offered and he let out a teary cough. 

He took a deep breath, gathering himself again. “It’s not that I don’t want you to,” he sniffled. “I want you to not want to. I want you to feel close to me again,” he admitted. “And I know that has everything to do with me, and nothing to do with you, but please baby, I can’t lose you.” 

“You haven’t-” you stressed, but he cut you off again. 

“When was the last time we went on a date that wasn’t a public event?” he asked. You were quiet. 

“When was the last time I did something nice for you before today?” 

You were quiet. 

“When was the last time we had sex?”

“I'm pregnant-” “So your libido should be heightened,” he sighed and you looked down at the floor again. “When was the last time you felt loved by me? Cared for by me?”

“Tonight,” you shrugged. “You liked the blanket. You didn’t think it was stupid.” 

“I don’t think anything you do is stupid,” he shook his head, his eyes focused on you. “But before then? When?” 

“Maybe Monaco last year? When you ran up to me at the barrier and kissed me in front of everyone,” you shrugged, acting like that hadn’t been the memory holding you together for the past 8 months. “When you said you won it for me and your dad and Jules.”

He sniffled again and nodded, though his heart was aching. “I’ve really fucked this up, haven’t I?”

You didn’t speak. You just leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek. “Let’s get some food, yeah?” 

That didn’t leave much room for questioning. He followed you to the kitchen where you already had food cooking. Soup. Something comfortable and diet-approved as always. Catering everything to him. You sat across from each other and ate. 

“How has the pregnancy been for you?” he asked. 

`”We don’t have to get into that now-”

“I want to,” he pushed. “If you want to.” 

You breathed out. “It’s… difficult. I’m in pain quite a lot, but I’m really excited to meet her,” you smiled softly. “I’m pretty scared about doing the delivery on my own, but my mom and your mom said they could be there, so that’s nice. My parents are going to come and help out the week I’m due and stay with your mom for two weeks, so that should be good. They’ll come over to help me out during the day and any nights I can’t do it on my own, since you’ll be racing,” you listed it all off, as if it wasn’t his biggest failing that he couldn’t be there. “So yeah. Scared but excited. What about you?” 

He cleared his throat. “I’m excited too,” his voice was somber. “And I think I’d want to be with you in the delivery room… if you’d let me.”

“You don’t have to miss a race for me. I understand Charle- Char,” another knife in his heart. “I was just being dramatic and hormonal that day. Your career is important. You’re ambitious. It’s one of the things I love about you.” 

He shook his head. “I want to be there. I really want to be there.”

“I don’t think Ferrari would let you-”

“Fuck ferrari,” he scoffed. “You’re my wife! If they can’t understand me wanting to be there for the birth of my child then I think I might be on the wrong team. Bon sang, je ne suis pas un robot de course.” (fuck’s sake, I’m not a racing robot). 

You let out a small chuckle at how pressed he was getting. He stared back at you. 

“What?” he questioned, a smirk creeping onto his lips. 

“Nothing,” you shook your head, that small smile on your lips as you turned your attention back to your food. He shook his head and chuckled. “I missed you,” you admitted, the candle between you two lighting your face with a wonderful warm glow. 

“I missed you too,” he reached across the table, taking your hand. “And I’ll be there for you, I promise.” 

“Get it approved by Ferrari first,” ever the logical one. “Then we’ll talk about it,” you answered. “And this,” you signalled around you, and he knew you meant the whole night. Him caring. “Has to not just be a once-off, alright?” 

He nodded. “I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you. I promise.” 

Something about the way he said it made you believe him. You didn’t know if it terrified or exhilarated you. Either way, you had a long road to walk, but he would actually be there now, not just a figure in the distance. 

And that felt a little better than before.

navigation for my blog :)

ferrari masterlist

taglist:

@awritingtree @boherahpsody @janeh22 @dustie-faerie @anayaverse @buckybarnessweetheart @scriptedinkbyxim @ferrarisstrategy

[jungwnies]

F1 GRID | somewhere along the way, friendship fades

୨ৎ : featuring : max verstappen, lewis hamilton, george russell, carlos sainz, charles leclerc, lando norris, oscar piastri ୨ৎ : synopsis : childhood best friends drift apart, their connection fading with time. and years later, meeting again.

୨ৎ : genre : angst, sad themes ୨ৎ : tws : arguing ୨ৎ : word count : 3499

୨ masterlist ৎ

ᡣ𐭩 a/n : i was watching "our little secret" on netflix and i got inspired to do this :c def a 10/10 watch

ʚ・max verstappen

the smell of burnt rubber and stroopwafels defined your childhood. growing up as the daughter of one of the engineers, your playground was the karting track, and your partner in crime was max, who seemed to never catch a break. scraped knees, stolen frites, and endless races—it was always a competition. and even though he was faster, you never let him win easily.

“you’re getting slow,” you’d tease when he’d lap you, and he’d fire back, “or maybe you’re just not trying hard enough.”

but childhood doesn’t last forever. as max’s talent propelled him forward, your worlds began to split. he moved to monaco, chasing the formula 1 dream, while you stayed home, building a life far from the roar of engines.

the breaking point came during one of his rare calls. you told him about getting into university, excitement bubbling through the phone.

“that’s great,” he said, but his voice was distant. “i’ve got a strategy meeting. i’ll call you later, okay?”

“but max—”

the line went dead before you could finish.

you never called back. neither did he. the silence was deafening, only broken by headlines about his victories.

years passed. you built your career, surrounded yourself with people who cared about you. still, there was always that quiet ache, a max-shaped hole you couldn’t quite fill.

...

fate intervened in monaco, of all places. a work trip brought you to the grand prix weekend, and there he was—older, sharper, surrounded by reporters. the boy you knew had grown into a man, but the familiar intensity in his blue eyes was still there.

he spotted you, and for a moment, time rewound. “you’ve got to be kidding me,” he said, smirking as he pulled you into a hug.

“you’re really here,” max said, his voice even but his eyes giving him away.

“don’t sound too surprised,” you replied, crossing your arms. “monaco isn’t exactly hard to find, and my dad forced me to accompany him.”

he huffed a laugh, scratching the back of his neck—a gesture you remembered all too well. “it’s just... been a while.”

“whose fault is that?” you shot back, eyebrow raised.

his grin faltered, replaced by something softer, more sincere. “mine,” he admitted, no hesitation. max had never been one to dance around the truth. “i messed up. i thought... if i focused on racing, everything else would just stay in place. but it didn’t. i didn’t.”

you blinked, caught off guard by the honesty. “and now?”

“now?” he shrugged, his lips twitching into a small smirk. “now i know better. or at least, i’m trying to.”

you rolled your eyes, but your chest felt lighter. “trying might actually suit you.”

“don’t push it,” he said, his grin returning. but his hand brushed yours, lingering just long enough to say what words couldn’t.

the two of you walked along the harbor, the chaos of the grand prix fading into the background. max talked about the weight of expectations, the need to prove himself, and you found yourself telling him things you hadn’t said aloud in years.

“you know,” he said eventually, glancing at you, “you were the first person to beat me. that’s why i kept coming back.”

you laughed, shaking your head. “don’t tell me i’m your origin story, verstappen.”

“i’m serious,” he said, his tone light but his gaze steady. “you pushed me. you still do.”

“and you still hate losing,” you replied, your smile widening.

“only to you,” he said, and for once, there was no teasing in his voice—just max, stripped of the bravado.

as the sun dipped below the horizon, you realized the years apart hadn’t erased what you meant to each other. instead, they’d made it clearer. and standing there with him, the boy who always chased the fastest lap and the man who’d finally stopped running, you felt like you’d found your way back home.

ʚ・lewis hamilton

the skate park beneath the london flyover, painted with graffiti and echoing with the rattle of skateboards, was where it all began. you and lewis—two kids with scraped knees and bigger dreams than you dared to say aloud. he was magnetic even then, always the showman, flipping tricks with effortless swagger while you rolled your eyes, trying not to laugh when he wiped out.

“you see that?” he’d grin, brushing off the dust like he hadn’t just landed flat on his back. “one day, everyone will.”

you’d shake your head, hiding your smile. “maybe if you stop showing off and stick the landing.”

those nights under london’s orange-tinted sky were your sanctuary. but dreams have a way of pulling people in different directions. lewis chased his at 200 mph, trading the skate park for circuits around the world. and you? you stayed grounded, carving out a life with your own quiet determination.

the drift wasn’t dramatic, just... inevitable. the calls came less often, the texts faded, and soon the only glimpses you had of him were on tv, his victories splashed across headlines. you were proud, of course, but it didn’t make the distance hurt any less.

years later, the rhythm of a jazz club in soho pulled you in. the smoky air, the hum of conversation—it felt like stepping into another world. and there he was, sitting in the corner, surrounded by friends, his laugh carrying over the music. he looked... different. calmer, more self-assured, the bravado softened into something real.

his eyes met yours across the room, and the recognition was instant. that signature grin spread across his face, and before you could overthink it, he was already walking toward you.

“it’s been a minute,” he said, his voice warm, familiar.

“a few laps around the world, at least,” you replied, crossing your arms but unable to stop your smile.

he introduced you to his friends—musicians, artists, people with the same kind of restless ambition he always had. the conversation flowed easily, stories and laughter filling the gaps left by the years. lewis talked about the weight of being at the top, his growing love for music, fashion, and using his platform for something bigger than himself.

“you’ve always been good at making noise,” you teased, and he laughed, that bright, unrestrained laugh you hadn’t heard in so long.

the night stretched into dawn, the city quieting as he walked you home. the streetlights cast long shadows, and for a moment, it felt like you were kids again, sneaking through the city after curfew.

“you were always my reminder,” he said suddenly, his voice low. “of where i came from. of what mattered before all of... this.” he gestured vaguely, as if the world he now lived in was too vast to put into words.

“and you were always proof,” you replied softly, “that even the wildest dreams aren’t out of reach.”

standing on your doorstep, the first light of morning brushing the horizon, it hit you—this wasn’t just a chance meeting. this was a reconnection, built on the foundation of a shared past and the people you’d become in the years since.

“don’t disappear again,” you said, half a command, half a plea.

“not a chance,” he replied, that grin softening into something more serious. “i’ve got too much catching up to do.”

as he walked away, the city waking around you, you felt it: the bond you’d thought you’d lost was still there, stronger for the time apart. and maybe, just maybe, this was the start of a new chapter you hadn’t seen coming.

ʚ・george russell

the beach at brancaster felt like a time capsule—same crashing waves, same salty breeze, but now heavy with memories you couldn’t quite shake. summers here used to be everything. you and george, running barefoot through the sand, laughing until your sides ached, dreaming of futures too big for this sleepy little town. he was the dreamer, always looking ahead, while you stayed grounded, the one to remind him where he came from.

but dreams pulled him away. karting turned into formula 1, and suddenly, the boy you shared chips and inside jokes with was a name on TV, surrounded by lights and cameras. the texts slowed, then stopped. he didn’t say goodbye—you weren’t sure if that made it better or worse.

years later, you came back. the town had changed, but the beach hadn’t, and neither had the ache you felt when you saw him standing there, surfboard in hand, staring at the water like it might hold answers.

“you’re here,” he said, voice softer than you remembered.

“so are you,” you replied, trying to sound casual when your heart was doing backflips.

the conversation was awkward at first, years of silence sitting heavy between you. but as the sun dipped low, you found yourself talking like you used to—about life, dreams, and all the things you didn’t say before.

“i messed up,” george admitted finally, staring at the horizon. “i thought chasing my dream meant letting go of everything else. but i never stopped missing you.”

you wanted to be angry, to tell him how much it hurt, but instead, you just sighed. “you’re here now. that’s what matters.”

and maybe it was. because as the tide rolled in, washing away the old scars, it felt like a new beginning—not perfect, but something worth holding onto.

ʚ・carlos sainz

the spanish sun blazed down on the dusty karting track, heat shimmering off the asphalt. carlos was already revving his engine, leaning out of his kart with that trademark grin—the kind that got him out of trouble more times than you could count. "you ready, or are you still fussing over those tires?" he teased, voice playful but competitive.

"some of us like to win without excuses," you shot back, trying to mask your smile.

that was always the dynamic: his fiery, carefree confidence against your calculated focus. you made each other better, but more than that, you were each other's constant—until you weren't.

his talent took him places you couldn't follow. as carlos climbed higher, from karting circuits to formula 1, the calls came less, the visits stopped. he’d always promised, "don’t worry, we’ll figure it out," but the silence between you became louder than any excuse he could give. you told yourself it was fine, that this was just what growing up looked like. but it still hurt—a kind of quiet ache that settled in your chest every time his name flashed on a headline instead of your phone.

years later, you found yourself at a grand prix—not for him, not really, but you couldn’t stay away. the roar of engines, the smell of burning rubber—it all brought you back to those summers when life was simpler, when the world was just the two of you and a dusty track.

after the race, you wandered near the paddock, unsure if you wanted to see him. but before you could decide, you heard his voice: "¡tú! no puede ser…" (you! no way…)

you froze as carlos jogged toward you, his face lighting up in a way that made your chest tighten. "what are you doing here?" he asked, pulling you into a hug before you could respond.

"just watching the race," you said, trying to sound casual. "looks like you’ve gotten a bit better since karting."

he laughed, running a hand through his hair. "and you’re still a pain in my ass, huh?"

you fell into step beside him, talking as if the years hadn’t stretched so far between you. he opened up in a way you didn’t expect—about the pressure, the loneliness, the weight of expectations he never asked for. "sometimes, i miss the old days," he admitted quietly. "it wasn’t perfect, but… it felt real."

"it was real," you said softly, meeting his gaze.

the night slipped by as you talked about everything and nothing, the gap between who you were and who you’d become slowly closing. as the paddock emptied out, he turned to you, his expression uncharacteristically serious.

"i let you down," he said, voice low. "i got so caught up in everything… i didn’t mean to lose you."

you sighed, the bitterness you’d held onto finally starting to loosen. "i let you go, too," you admitted. "but maybe we’re both here for a reason."

a smile broke through his guilt. "then let’s not waste it," he said, his hand brushing yours as if testing the waters.

and just like that, it felt like the beginning of something new—different, but maybe even better. under the dim glow of the paddock lights, with the distant hum of the city, you let yourself believe in second chances.

ʚ・charles leclerc

the monaco grand prix had always been your thing. after every race, you and charles would sneak onto the track, the echo of engines still ringing in your ears. he’d climb the barriers, striking a dramatic pose like he’d just won. “take a picture! i need proof for when it’s real,” he’d say, grinning as you rolled your eyes but clicked the photo anyway.

back then, it was simple—just the two of you, two dreamers chasing something bigger. he was the wild one, always pushing limits, and you? the voice of reason, his constant tether. but as the karting trophies turned into f3 contracts, things shifted. the calls became shorter, the silences longer.

“you don’t understand!” he snapped one night, frustration simmering in his voice. “this is my life now. my future.”

“and we’re not part of that?” you shot back, fighting to keep your tone steady.

his face faltered, a flicker of guilt crossing his features. but then came the stubbornness, the pride. “this is bigger than us,” he said quietly.

those words broke something between you. and the silence that followed stretched for years.

...

monaco hadn’t been in your plans this year, but your friends dragged you to the paddock. the glitz, the champagne—it all felt so distant from the memories you held of sneaking around with charles, pretending to be part of the action. and then, there he was. sharper, leaner, every inch the f1 star. but when his eyes locked on yours, the familiar spark was unmistakable.

“still sneaking into races?” his grin was crooked, teasing.

“you’re one to talk,” you quipped, unable to suppress a smile.

he muttered a quick excuse to his entourage, then turned back to you. “come on. let’s see if the harbor’s still our spot.”

as you walked, the years apart melted away. the easy rhythm returned—teasing, laughing, sharing the unspoken weight of the years. he opened up about the pressures, the loneliness. you admitted the regret, the what-ifs.

“i never stopped missing this,” he said, his voice quieter than you’d ever heard it. “missing you.”

“same,” you replied, meeting his gaze. “you were always...charles.”

“what does that mean?” he asked, a laugh escaping, but there was an edge of nervousness to it.

“it means you’re impossible. but you’re also...you.”

under the stars, by the water’s edge, the pieces fell back into place. his hand brushed against yours, tentative, before settling there. “so, is this where you tell me to stop being impossible?”

“never,” you said, smiling. “you wouldn’t be charles if you did.”

and for the first time in years, it felt like you were exactly where you were meant to be.

ʚ・lando norris

the fields of somerset were your world once, filled with the roar of go-kart engines and lando’s endless laughter. you two were inseparable—best friends with big dreams, racing not just for fun but for a future you both believed in.

“one day,” lando had said, his grin so wide it was almost ridiculous, “we’ll both be there, except i'll be on the track, and you'll be cheering me on."

“in your dreams, lando,” you shot back, playfully shoving him.

but then the dream started to come true, lando got faster, better, and soon, he was gone, swept up by the racing world. at first, he called after every race, sending photos and jokes to bridge the distance. but the calls became fewer, the texts shorter, until one day they stopped altogether.

“you’ll always be my mate,” he’d promised before he left. but you weren’t so sure anymore.

years passed. you moved on—or tried to. then, one day, you found yourself at silverstone, sitting in the grandstands as the engines roared to life. lando was on the grid, his helmet unmistakable. it felt strange, watching him from so far away, like a stranger instead of the boy you once knew.

after the race, you lingered near the paddock, unsure why you stayed. you didn’t even realize he was there until his voice cut through the noise.

“wait—wait! is that…?” lando stopped mid-step, his wide eyes locking on you. “no way!”

you tried to play it cool, shrugging. “just thought i’d check if you’re still slow.”

his laugh was instant, that same contagious laugh you hadn’t heard in years. “still cheeky, i see. c’mon, don’t just stand there.”

before you could protest, he dragged you into the paddock, his energy as chaotic as ever. it felt awkward at first—forced small talk, apologies buried under nervous jokes.

“i messed up, didn’t i?” he blurted suddenly, his grin fading. “i got caught up in… all of this. forgot what mattered.”

you looked at him, surprised. “yeah, you did. but… i guess i get it. it’s a lot to carry.”

“still,” he said softly, meeting your eyes. “i should’ve tried harder. you didn’t deserve that.”

you sighed, the tension in your chest easing slightly. “well, i’m here now, aren’t i? so stop being sappy and tell me how you survived that awful start.”

he laughed, a mix of relief and gratitude in his expression. “god, you're still an ass. don’t go disappearing again, yeah?”

“only if you don’t.” you snap back, with a cheeky smile.

as the night went on, the awkwardness gave way to something familiar—something that felt like home. and as you left the paddock, lando jogging beside you, stealing chips from your hand like nothing had changed, you realized it wasn’t too late to start over. the bond you thought was lost was still there, waiting for you both to remember how to hold on.

ʚ・oscar piastri

the family barbecue was meant to be casual—just a gathering of old friends and neighbors at the piastris’ home during the off-season. you hadn’t planned to go, but your parents insisted. “it’ll be nice,” they said, not knowing how wrong they were.

you spotted oscar almost immediately, standing by the grill with his dad. his posture was the same, hands stuffed in his pockets, but everything else felt different. gone was the boy you knew, replaced by someone who looked sharper, more distant—someone who belonged to a world you’d never been part of.

the last time you’d spoken was years ago, before his meteoric rise through motorsport. back then, you were the ones sharing data sheets, racing each other at karting events, and joking about who’d make it to formula 1 first. “we’ll always stick together,” he’d said, almost solemnly. but as the sponsorship deals rolled in and the calls stopped, you realized how naïve that promise had been.

you didn’t approach him right away. instead, you lingered by the drink table, hoping he wouldn’t notice you. but oscar was nothing if not observant.

“hey,” he said suddenly, appearing at your side. his voice was quieter than you remembered, less certain.

“hi.” you didn’t look at him, keeping your eyes fixed on your cup.

“i didn’t know you’d be here.” he sounded awkward, almost nervous, which was strange for someone who now handled press conferences with ease.

you shrugged. “didn’t really plan on it.”

a beat of silence stretched between you, heavy and uncomfortable. he shifted his weight, running a hand through his hair. “look, i—i’m sorry. for everything.”

you finally turned to him, eyebrows raised. “for what? forgetting i existed?”

his face fell, and for a moment, he looked just like the boy you used to know—unsure, searching for the right words. “i didn’t mean to. things just… happened so fast. and i didn’t know how to balance it all.”

“you could’ve tried.” the words came out harsher than you intended, but you didn’t regret them.

he nodded, his gaze dropping to the ground. “you’re right. i should have.”

another silence fell, this one softer, less suffocating.

“so,” you said eventually, crossing your arms. “what now? we pretend like nothing happened?”

he looked up, meeting your eyes for the first time. “no. i don’t want that. i just… i’d like to fix this. if you’ll let me.”

you didn’t answer right away, letting the words hang in the air. but then you sighed, a small smile tugging at the corner of your lips. “you’ve got a lot to make up for, oscar.”

his own smile broke through, hesitant but genuine. “i’ll start now then.”

and for the first time in years, you felt like maybe—just maybe—there was still a place for you in his world.

© 2024 jungwnies | All rights reserved. Do not repost, plagiarize, or translate

[rhiannonsknife]

what abt a pt 2 where Jackie and r are sharing a room while the nationals are happening and after their little.. session they had, r was not talking to Jackie at all not even for team strategies. which made things easier at first for Jackie but she also began to dread it. And at one particular match one of the opponents keeps fouling r to the point that r cant play no longer and Jackie gets really mad and does something to get herself kicked off the pitch and then she storms to the locker room to comfort r

── WHAT’S THE NAME OF THE GAME?

— summary: part 2 of this.

— warnings: as always: implied cheating & internalized homophobia. angst. some nsfw content. so mdni. i did not beta read this. also i don’t know shit about soccer.

jackie thought this would be easier. she had really thought this would be easier.

the moment she told you to stay away after what happened in your involuntarily shared hotel room, she’d convinced herself that it was for the best. that she could pretend it hadn’t happened at all. that she could focus on nationals, on playing her best, on not getting distracted (on, for once, not feeling the constant urge to have you knuckle deep inside her whenever you’re around).

and for the first couple of days, it seemed like her plan was working. you were quiet, distant even, avoiding her in a way that should have been a relief. you didn’t so much as glance in her direction, and when coach called for team strategies or drills, you kept your responses strictly professional, never sparing jackie a single unnecessary word. on the field, you played your own very best and the yellowjackets were on a winning streak.

at first, she appreciated it. you were doing what she’d asked; giving her the space to breathe, to push down the confusing feelings that threatened to overwhelm her every time she thought about the way your lips had felt on hers. the way you felt around her fingers, or sounded like, moaning her name into her ear.

then, jackie started to notice the absence.

you weren’t laughing at shauna’s jokes during warm-ups. you weren’t offering quiet encouragement to the team before a big play. you weren’t you, and jackie hated how much it bothered her.

and now, as she’s watching you take the brunt of foul after foul from one of the opposing players during this match, she realizes just how much it’s been eating away at her.

the atmosphere at nationals is everything they’d hoped for: electric, buzzing with the kind of energy jackie lives for. no match in wiskayok or states could ever compare: the crowd roars, flags waving in a sea of team colors, a sharp contrast to the quieter games back home. it’s is everything you’ve worked for. it’s supposed to be jackie’s moment to shine.

she should be focused, completely dialed in, but her mind keeps slipping.

from the moment the whistle blew, she caught herself sneaking glances in your direction: watching the determined set of your jaw, the way you throw yourself into every play despite the thin layer of tension that still lingers between you two.

jackie forces herself to focus, calling out to shauna as the ball sails across the field. shauna moves into position, linking up with tai to create a well practiced formation. she knows they’re the best team here. she knows they can win this thing easily if she would only focus.

the yellowjackets are good -great, even- but jackie can tell this opposing team is different. they’re aggressive, physical in a way that goes beyond the rules. it’s the only reason they’ve come this far.

she spots it immediately the first time the girl fouls you.

it’s a hard shoulder to the side, not enough to draw the ref’s attention but enough to send you stumbling. you recover quickly, brushing it off like it’s nothing, and jackie tries to shake it off with your same kind of ease. out of all the girl’s on the team, you were always on the rather calm side, never drawing any negative attention on your playing.

but it happens again. and again.

the same girl -tall, broad-shouldered, and wearing a number 8 jersey- zeroes in on you like she’s got something to prove. a shove here, an elbow there, and jackie feels the frustration building every time you go down.

by the first half, it’s impossible to ignore. you’re limping slightly now, favoring one leg, but you haven’t said a word about it to anyone. jackie’s jaw tightens as she watches you adjust your shin guard, her fingers itching to grab you and force you to sit out.

“focus up, jackie!” tai yells in passing, snapping her out of her thoughts as the ball rockets toward their side of the field.

thankfully, her captain instincts finally start to kick in. she redirects the team, shouting commands as she positions herself to intercept the play. for a few fleeting moments, she’s back in the game, back in control.

and then it happens.

number 8 takes you down again, this time with a brutal sweep of her leg. you hit the ground hard, and the sharp whistle of the referee barely registers over the sound of jackie’s own heartbeat pounding in her ears. the opposing player doesn’t even have the decency to look sorry. she smirks as she turns away, and something inside jackie snaps.

“that’s it!” she yells, storming across the field before anyone can stop her.

she shoves the girl, hard enough to make her stumble. serves her right. “what the hell is your problem?” jackie demands sharply.

8 stands, shoving jackie right back. the two of them are nose to nose now. “you’ve been playing dirty all game!” jackie growls, her fists clenched. “don’t think i haven’t noticed. stay away from her!“

the ref, who’s been turning a blind eye to all the fouls against you, finally steps in, blowing the whistle. he’s already annoyed with the confrontation, but jackie’s not done yet. the other girl laughs mockingly and then, she goes too far. she shoves jackie again, and this time it’s not just a gentle push. there’s force behind it. jackie’s chest tightens with a surge of adrenaline, and -all at once- she’s done holding back.

before anyone can stop her, jackie swings. It’s quick, instinctive, and lands right on 8’s nose audibly. the crowd gasps. the ref immediately pulls out the red card, the one that signals ejection from the match.

jackie’s chest rises and falls rapidly, her breath sharp and ragged. she doesn’t even seem to notice the red card being held up in front of her, or the shouting of the other players. she’s focused on one thing and one thing only: you.

“you’re done!” ref calls, his voice firm, cutting through the chaos. jackie doesn’t care. instead she’s turning, walking off the pitch with an intensity in her steps that matches her anger. somewhere behind her, shauna is calling her name, but jackie doesn’t stop. she doesn’t even look back, heading straight for the locker rooms.

when she bursts in, you’re sitting on the bench already, trying to ice your visibly swollen ankle.

“jackie…” you start, startled by her sudden presence, but she cuts you off.

“you’re hurt.” her gaze is hard as she stands in front of you, however her hands tremble at her sides. “that player- she-“

“you don’t need to do that,” you say quietly, lowering your eyes. “i can take care of myself just fine”

jackie pauses, her anger slowly deflating as she watches you with a huff. “why didn’t you tell anyone? why didn’t you let them stop her?” she demands. at least her voice is softer now.

you laugh bitterly, shaking your head.”what are you even doing here already?”

jackie lets out a short, breathy laugh, still a little wound up from what happened on the field. she kneels down in front of you, leaning forward to rest her hands on her thighs, trying to catch her breath. “you really think i’d just let that girl get away with it?”

you stare at her, puzzled, eyes wide, the throbbing pain of your ankle momentarily forgotten. “what do you mean?”

jackie rolls her eyes. “i might have punched her...in the face…and i might’ve gotten kicked off the field…but i wasn’t gonna stand by while she kept fouling you like that!”

for a moment, you’re silent. jackie, the jackie you’ve been avoiding ever since…well, since everything happened, just punched another player on your behalf. she can claim that it’s only because you’re one of her teammates all she wants. you know its not just that: last time shauna was fouled by the defense in another match, she hardly batted an eye: she just scored a stunning penalty kick right into the top left corner of their goal, sending the yellowjackets to the quarterfinals of nationals.

this isn’t about her being the captain, with a certain responsibility. this is about you getting hurt.

knowing that makes your heart beat a little faster.

then again, there’s a deeper part of you that’s conflicted. jackie just did something for you that no one else could. she went against everything she’s been trying to keep her distance from. and now, here she is, back in the locker room, having broken her very own rules all over again.

you swallow, trying to keep your emotions in check. “i didn’t know you cared that much”

jackie meets your gaze, her eyes softening a fraction as she looks at you. “of course i care. you think i’d just let some random player get away with hurting you, especially when it’s been happening all game?”

you stupid heart stirs a little more, but you force yourself to try and push the feeling away. you can’t get lost in this. not now. she said it herself: this is nationals.

“well, thanks,” you say softly “you didn’t have to do that”

jackie’s expression falters for a moment, her lips pulling into a slight pout. “i know i didn’t have to” she looks down at her hands, then back at you. “but i couldn’t just stand there and do nothing…”

a beat of silence passes between you. you both avoid verbalizing the unspoken words hanging in the air. what does this mean? jackie’s gesture feels like it should mean something more.

and, still, you see the way her lips part, the way her chest rises and falls. you both linger in that charged moment, close enough to feel the intensity of the air between you. close enough, even , to feel the warmth of her breath on your face.

it’s just a second -an instant, really- but it feels like it lasts forever. you lean in slightly, jackie kneeling on the floor between your legs. all you can see is the way she’d looked at you that night, lingering above you, pleading you to cum for her. that same girl is in front of you now, just inches away, leaning in to kiss you.

jackie pulls back abruptly, breaking the moment with a quick intake of breath.

the anticipation shatters, vanishes to nothing.

“i’ve been thinking…” she clears her throat and looks away shamefully. your heart drops. “maybe we should just…let it go,”

you blink, confusion creeping up on you. “let it go?”

jackie exhales slowly, rubbing the back of her neck as if trying to find the right words. “yeah. let the…whatever the hell happened between us that night just be…whatever it was” her eyes flicker toward you, still avoiding your gaze. “it was a mistake, you know that. and i don’t want it to mess with the rest of the trip. we’re here to play, not to…complicate things!”

you don’t let your disappointment show. you can’t. you’ve been here before. you know the drill. you’re just a teammate. a friend. and she’s someone else’s girl. she’s jackie taylor. golden girl of wiskayok. team captain of the soon to be national soccer team champions. she’s not yours. she’s not even gay, as she so often reminds you.

you aren’t the same. you can’t just pretend that last night didn’t mean something to you. you still feel the heat of her skin on yours, the way she held you, the way it felt like maybe, just maybe, you were something more than what jackie is suggesting right now.

“yeah. i guess you’re right,” you say, your voice an attempt to sound casual, but your heart’s not in it. if jackie knows you half as much as she will sometimes, when it fits her narrative, claims to, she’ll be able to see right through you. and if she does, she doesn’t let it show.

“friends,” she mutters, as though trying to convince herself as much as you. “it’s the best option. teammates, friends…nothing else. we’re good like this, right?”

you nod, the words stuck in your throat. “yeah,” you finally manage to say, though it feels like a lie. “yeah, we’re good”

you’re not sure how long you’re sitting in the silence of the locker room, jackie’s words replaying in your head. friends. nothing else. jackie, sitting a few feet away, picks at the tape on her shin guards, avoiding your gaze. her jaw is tight, her focus resolutely on the task in front of her like it might keep her thoughts from slipping into dangerous territory.

eventually, the muffled sound of cheers erupts from somewhere outside. you blink, drawn out of your haze. it’s distant, like it’s coming from the stands, and for a moment, both of you freeze.

“did they-“ jackie starts. the door bursts open before she can finish the thought. nat rushes in first, her face flushed with excitement. “we’re going to finals!” she shouts. “we won!”

you are on your feet before the words fully register. her grin is radiant, and despite everything, it tugs at something in you. you can’t help but smile back.

“hell yeah!” jackie shouts, throwing her arms up, momentarily forgetting her red card-induced sidelining. nat is already disappearing back down the hallway, cheering as she leaves, leaving the two of you in the wake of her excitement.

jackie turns to you, her grin faltering for a split second before she catches herself. “guess we’re not going home yet,” she says lightly.

you nod, swallowing the lump in your throat.

the days leading up to the finals are surprisingly… normal. sharing a room with jackie has somehow become easier, the tension between you two settling into something quieter, almost manageable. she’s careful not to cross any lines, and you do your best to pretend that everything is fine. most nights, you fall asleep to the sound of her breathing from the bed beside yours, trying not to think about how much you wish she were closer.

the final game day arrives with a quiet kind of chaos: everyone is jittery, buzzing with a mix of nerves and anticipation. breakfast is loud and hurried, the conversation dominated by what-ifs and strategy talk.

by the time you’re all in the locker room, the energy is electric. the coaches deliver their final pep talks, their words met with nods and murmurs of agreement. jackie’s red card suspension has been lifted, thanks to some technicality that coach martinez fought tooth and nail for, and the relief on her face when she found out was palpable. she’s been in full captain mode ever since, her voice steady and commanding as she rallies the team. it’s the jackie everyone knows, the leader. for a moment, you can almost forget the jackie who whispered your name like a prayer in the dark.

the game itself is brutal.

you’re exhausted by halftime, sweat dripping down your face as you gulp water on the sidelines. jackie, sitting a few feet away, is equally spent but doesn’t show it. she leans forward, her elbows on her knees, her eyes scanning the field.

the second half is even harder: the score remains tied, each team clawing for an edge. jackie is everywhere: pushing past defenders, setting up plays, rallying the team when spirits start to flag.

the clock ticks down, and the tension is unbearable. with less than two minutes to go, jackie gets the ball. she’s at midfield, her path to the goal blocked by only two defenders. for a moment, everything seems to slow down. you can see the determination in her eyes, the way she sets her jaw as she calculates her next move. it’s the same look she’s had at states. right before she scored the winning goal.

then she’s off, cutting through the defense. jackie flakes left, then right, her movements precise. the opponent goalkeeper charges, but she doesn’t falter. instead, she fires the ball toward the net.

it slams right past the girl and into the back of the net.

the final whistle blows. just like that, it’s over. you’ve won.

the others are screaming, hugging, completely overcome with the weight of the victory. you’re champions. national champions.

you stand frozen for a moment, stunned. the chaos swirls around you: van jumping into taissa’s arms, shauna laughing breathlessly, but your gaze cuts right through it, landing on her: jackie is at the center of it all, her face lit up proudly while the other yellowjackets swarm her, pulling her into a mass of celebratory hugs. she’s laughing, elated and beautiful. then her eyes meet yours.

before you can even think, you’re moving, your legs carrying you across the field. jackie breaks away from the group just as you reach her, like she’s been waiting for you all along.

the impact knocks the air out of you when you wrap your arms around her, but you don’t care. her body is warm against yours, still buzzing with the same energy that carried her through the game. you bury your face in her neck, and the scent of sweat, grass, and the faintest trace of her perfume fills your senses. it’s overwhelming. intoxicating in a way that only leaves you clinging to her even harder.

“you did it,” you breathe against her skin. “jackie, you did it!”

when you pull back, your hands linger on her arms, your fingers brushing against her skin. jackie’s eyes are bright, her smile softer now. it’s in that moment, with the roar of the crowd fading into the background and jackie still holding onto you like you’re the only thing keeping her grounded, that you realize it once more:

you’re in love with her, hopelessly so. there’s nothing jackie can say or do that’ll undo what has happened between you. you’ve just won the national championship, and yet the only thing you care about is her. not the victory, not the title, not the way she others pull you in all over again, lifting jackie up over their heads. shauna and tai hoist her onto their shoulders, the team cheering louder as they parade her around like the hero she is. she laughs but even then, as she throws her arms out, her gaze keeps finding yours.

all of it is white noise to you, drowned out by the way your heart aches for her. for jackie, the girl you’ve been in love with all along.

even the plane ride back to wiskayok is still filled with laughter and celebration. the team is crammed into the too-small seats, the aisle filled with chatter, half-shouted stories of the game blending into the hum of the engines. van, a few rows back, holds court with her usual flair, dramatically reenacting jackie’s winning goal. “and then: bam! top corner!” she exclaims, raising her arms like she’s the one scoring the goal all over again.

shauna, seated just ahead of van, rolls her eyes at the performance, but even she can’t fight the small, amused smile tugging at her lips. it’s softer than you’ve seen in weeks, the tension that had been hanging over all of you finally giving way to relief.

jackie sits beside her, her head leaning against the window. she’s been quieter since the game ended, her energy subdued, though she’s smiled for every photo, every cheer, every teammate slinging an arm around her. now, as the plane dips lower, the landscape of new jersey coming into view, she turns to you briefly, her lips curling into a small smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

“you okay?” you hear shauna ask, her voice low. jackie’s attention shifts to her and just like that, the moment is over.

“yeah,” she replies, her voice almost drowned out by another round of laughter from van’s direction.

the plane lands with a jolt, and the team gathers their bags and spills out into the terminal.

van is still recapping highlights to anyone who will listen, gesturing wildly as tai nudges her forward. nat lags behind, whereas misty chatters at an exasperated coach martinez, her bag swinging dangerously close to his knee. everyone still seems too giddy to settle down just yet.

that’s when you spot him: jeff is leaning against a pillar near the baggage claim, his letterman jacket slung over one shoulder. there’s an edge of excitement as his eyes lock onto jackie.

your stomach twists as he steps forward, arms open.

you don’t even need to glance at jackie to know what’s coming, yet you can’t stop yourself. your gaze drifts to her, and the shift in her demeanor is immediate:

it’s like a mask slipping into place, a version of jackie you’ve seen a hundred times before but can’t stand to watch now. she meets him halfway, throwing her arms around his neck as jeff pulls her in for a kiss. it’s too much, too public, too perfect. she’s never been this affectionate with you in front of anyone before and now she’s clinging to him like she can’t bear to let go, her laugh too bright, her smile too wide.

you stand frozen, your bag slipping slightly from your shoulder as you watch jackie kiss him again. you try to tell yourself it doesn’t matter, that it’s all for show. that she’s just playing the part she’s always been told to play. but the way jackie looks at him is enough to shatter whatever fragile hope you’ve been holding onto.

the rest of the team starts to disperse, everyone heading off in their own directions, but you can barely move. jeff drapes his arm around her shoulder as they turn toward the exit, his voice low and teasing as she tilts her head up at him, laughing again, the sound growing fainter as they walk away.

most of the girls are gone by the time you snap out of it. from the corner of your eye, you notice nat still hanging around; she’s leaning against a wall nearby, her duffel bag slung over her shoulder. when your eyes meet, she pushes off of it and walks over.

“need a walk-out?” she asks casually.

you hesitate, then shrug. “sure. why not?”

the two of you walk in silence through the terminal, the automatic doors hissing open as the evening air hits your face. outside, the parking lot is dotted with cars and families, a chaotic mix of reunions and goodbyes. you glance around, half-hoping your parents will already be there so you can get away. no such luck.

nat pulls a pack of cigarettes from her jacket pocket, tapping one out and holding it between her lips as she flicks her lighter. “you okay?” she asks, breaking the silence. her voice is low, her words unusually measured.

you shrug again, kicking at a loose pebble on the ground. “yeah. why wouldn’t i be?”

nat raises an eyebrow and takes a drag from her cigarette. “because i’m not blind,” she says matter of factly.

“what’s that supposed to mean?”

the faintest hint of a smirk tugs at her lips. “just saying…i’ve been paying attention. you and taylor aren’t exactly subtle, you know?”

you face heats up, and you cross your arms, looking away. “we’re just friends,” you mumble, the words -jackie’s words- bitter in your mouth.

nat laughs, shaking her head. “yeah, sure. friends.” she pauses. “look, i’m not gonna give you some big speech or anything, but…i’m sorry. i know it sucks” she flicks the ash from her cigarette, watching the glow of the embers fade in the breeze. “jackie is… jackie,” she continues, her voice quieter now. “she’s always gonna want to be what everyone else needs her to be. you don’t have to do the same”

you blink at her, “what are you saying?”

“i’m saying, let it go. before it messes you up worse than it already has.”

you don’t respond, the words caught in your throat. nat seems to sense it, because she pats your shoulder lightly and steps back. “your parents are here,” she says, nodding toward a car pulling up nearby.

you glance over, and sure enough, your mom is leaning out the driver’s side window, waving you over. when you turn back to nat, she’s already walking away, her bag slung over her shoulder again.

“hey, nat,” you call after her. she stops, glancing back at you with a raised brow. “thanks,” you say, though you’re not entirely sure what you’re thanking her for.

nat nods anyway, a small smile flickering across her face before she turns and disappears.

you sigh, hoisting your bag over your shoulder as you head toward the car.

by the time you get home, the celebration feels like something you imagined instead of lived. your family is thrilled, of course, their pride radiating off them as they shower you with congratulations, asking for every detail about the game and the trophy.

you mumble something about being tired, brushing off their excitement with a weak smile before retreating to your room.

only there, it really hits you.

the frustration, the hurt, the overwhelming ache of wanting something you can’t have. it bubbles up inside you until you can’t hold it in anymore.

you grab your pillow, pressing it to your face, and scream into the fabric. tears burn hot against your cheeks, spilling over as you bury your face deeper into the plush. your shoulders shake with the effort of holding it all in, even though there’s no one around to witness it.

the unfairness of it all claws at you. the way jackie can kiss you like the world starts and ends with you, only to turn around and act like it meant nothing to her. she can smile so effortlessly at jeff, leaning into him like he’s the answer to everything, when you know that he’s not.

you can still feel the ghost of her lips on yours, the touch of her fingers. you still hear her laugh echoing in your ears, but it’s all tainted now, wrapped up in the image of her clinging to him at the airport as if you were never even there.

but the worst part, the part that truly breaks you, is knowing that even if she never chooses you, you’ll never stop waiting for her to.

[fluffy-and-feral]

Tim Drake Is Clueless About Flirting (And jason Knows It)

[Team strategy meeting]

Kon, whispering:

“You’ve got that ‘I’m concentrating but also adorable’ vibe.”

Tim:

“Thanks! I’ll make sure to keep ‘adorable’ in my notes.”

Jason:

“Notes? He thinks flirting is a bullet point.”

[Later, in the common room]

Kori: “You’re so cute when you don’t realize you’re the center of attention.”

Tim: “I’m just focused on not tripping over my own feet.”

Jason: muttering “I’m the only one who can see the chaos and no one’s helping.”

Rose: “Tim, you’re like a puzzle wrapped in a mystery.”

Tim: “I’m just trying not to get hit.”

Steph: “He’s the only one who can be both clueless and dangerous.”

Tim: “Thanks, I think?”

Jason (from comms): “Clueless is your middle name, kid.”

[Hallway, Young Justice HQ]

Bart: grinning “Hey Tim, you ever think about how fast your heart races? Because mine sure does around you.”

Tim: blinks “I think I’m just out of breath from running laps.”

Jason (watching from the side): “That’s not running laps, that’s called a panic attack. Also, he’s flirting with you, not the other way around.”

Tim: “Wait, what?”

Bart: “Relax. I’m just saying you’re cute.”

Jason: facepalm “I’m losing my mind over here.”

[Training room, Young Justice HQ]

Cassie: grinning “Tim, you’re surprisingly strong for a bookworm. You sure you don’t want to spar sometime? Maybe I could show you a few moves… or more.”

Tim: adjusting glasses “Uh, sparring sounds great! Just don’t hit too hard?”

Jason: from the sidelines “She’s flirting. He thinks it’s a workout plan.”

Cassie: “Flirting or training, it’s all about heart rate, right?”

Tim: “If that’s true, I’m definitely winning.”

Jason: facepalm “Someone save this kid or me.”

[Training room, sparring match]

Miss Martian, smirking:

“Careful, Tim, I might have to use my telepathy to read your thoughts. Hope you’re thinking about me.”

Tim, oblivious:

“I’m mostly thinking about how I’m going to survive this match.”

Jason, watching:

“I swear, if one more person flirts and he thinks it’s friendly advice, I’m adopting a pet raccoon just for the company.”

Jason: “Okay, listen up. Everyone’s flirting with you. Like, nonstop. It’s not a compliment buffet—it’s flirting.”

Tim: “Flirting? Like… being friendly?”

Jason: exasperated “No, Tim. Friendly doesn’t come with heart eyes and whispered compliments.”

Tim: “I thought that was just how heroes talk.”

Jason: “You’re hopeless. I’m starting a support group.”

[Batcave, late night]

Jason (throwing up his hands):

“I’m done. Tried explaining the flirting thing to Tim a million times. He’s still clueless. So, I’m adopting a raccoon. Meet Steve. At least Steve won’t flirt back or ignore me.”

Tim (confused):

“Wait, you’re serious?”

Jason:

“Dead serious. Steve’s got more sense than half the team.”

Tim:

“…Does Steve think I’m adorable too?”

Jason (grinning):

“Steve’s smarter than you. He definitely knows.”

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

Like her or not, we're now on the same side and this woman knows what she's talking about. She suggests actionable steps steps we must take to win ourcountry back from the fascists.

From Liz Cheney

Dear Democratic Party,

I need more from you. You keep sending emails begging for $15,while we’re watching fascism consolidate power in real time. This administration is not simply “a different ideology.” It is a coordinated, authoritarian machine — with the Supreme Court, the House, the Senate, and the executive pen all under its control. And you? You’re still asking for decorum and donations. WTF. That won’t save us. I don’t want to hear another polite floor speech. I want strategy. I want fire. I want action so bold it shifts the damn news cycle — not fits inside one. Every time I see something from the DNC, it’s asking me for funds.

Surprise. Those of us who donate don’t want to keep sending money just to watch you stand frozen as the Constitution goes up in flames — shaking your heads and saying, “Well, there’s not much we can do. He has the majority.” I call bullshit. If you don’t know how to think outside the box… If you don’t know how to strategize… If you don’t know how to fight fire with fire… what the hell are we giving you money for? Some of us have two or three advanced degrees. Some of us have military training. Some of us know what coordinated resistance looks like — and this ain’t it. Yes, the tours around the country? Nice. The speeches? Nice. The clever congressional clapbacks? Nice. That was great for giving hope. Now we need action.

You have to stop acting like this is a normal presidency that will just time out in four years. We’re not even at Day 90, and look at the chaos. Look at the disappearances. Look at the erosion of the judiciary, the press, and our rights. If you do not stop this, we will not make it 1,460 days. So here’s what I need from you — right now:

⸻

1. Form an independent, civilian-powered investigative coalition.

I’m talking experts. Veterans. Whistleblowers. Journalists. Watchdog orgs. Deputize the resistance. Build a real-time archive of corruption, overreach, and executive abuse. Make it public. Make it unshakable. Let the people drag the rot into the light. If you can’t hold formal hearings, hold public ones. If Congress won’t act, let the country act. This isn’t about optics — it’s about receipts. Because at some point, these people will be held accountable. And when that day comes, we’ll need every name, every signature, every illegal order, every act of silence—documented. You’re not just preserving truth — you’re preparing evidence for prosecution. The more they vanish people and weaponize data, the more we need truth in the sunlight.

⸻

2. Join the International Criminal Court.

Yes, I said it. Call their bluff. You cannot control what the other side does. But you can control your own integrity. So prove it. Prove that your party is still grounded in law, human rights, and ethical leadership. Join. If you’ve got nothing to hide — join. Show the world who’s hiding bodies, bribes, and buried bank accounts. Force the GOP to explain why they’d rather protect a war criminal than sign a treaty. And while you’re at it, publicly invite ICC observers into U.S. borders. Make this administration explain — on camera — why they’re terrified of international oversight.

⸻

3. Fund state-level resistance infrastructure.

Don’t just send postcards. Send resources. Channel DNC funds into rapid-response teams, legal defense coalitions, sanctuary networks, and digital security training. If the federal government is hijacked, build power underneath it. If the laws become tools of oppression, help people resist them legally, locally, and boldly. This is not campaign season — this is an authoritarian purge. Stop campaigning. Act like this is the end of democracy, because it is. We WILL REMEMBER the warriors come primaries. Fighting this regime should be your marketing strategy.

And let’s be clear:

The reason the other side always seems three steps ahead is because they ARE. They prepared for this. They infiltrated school boards, courts, local legislatures, and police unions. They built a machine while you wrote press releases. We’re reacting — they’ve been executing a plan for years. It’s time to shift from panic to blueprint. You should already be working with strategists and military minds on PROJECT 2029 — a coordinated, long-term plan to rebuild this country when the smoke clears.

You should be publicly laying out:

• The laws and amendments you’ll pass to ensure this never happens again• The systems you’ll tear down and the safeguards you’ll enshrine • The plan to hold perpetrators of human atrocities accountable • The urgent commitment to immediately bring home those sold into slavery in El Salvador You say you’re the party of the people? Then show the people the plan.

⸻

4. Use your platform to educate the public on rights and resistance tactics.

If they’re going to strip us of rights and lie about it — arm the people with truth. Text campaigns. Mass trainings. Downloadable “Know Your Rights” kits. Multilingual legal guides. Encrypted phone trees. Give people tools, not soundbites. We don’t need more slogans. We need survival manuals.

⸻

5. Leverage international media and watchdogs.

Stop hoping U.S. cable news will wake up. They’re too busy playing both sides of fascism. Feed the real stories to BBC, Al Jazeera, The Guardian, Reuters, Der Spiegel — hell, leak them to anonymous dropboxes if you have to. Make what’s happening in America a global scandal. And stop relying on platforms that are actively suppressing truth. Start leveraging Substack. Use Bluesky. That’s where the resistance is migrating. That’s where censorship hasn’t caught up. If the mainstream won’t carry the truth — outflank them. Get creative. Go underground. Go global. If our democracy is being dismantled in broad daylight, make sure the whole world sees it — and make sure we’re still able to say it.

⸻

6. Create a digital safe haven for whistleblowers and defectors.

Not everyone inside this regime is loyal. Some are scared. Some want out. Build the channels. Encrypted. Anonymous. Protected. Make it easy for the cracks in the system to become gaping holes. And while you’re at it? Stop ostracizing MAGA defectors. Everyone makes mistakes — even glaring, critical ones. We are not the bullies. We are not the ones filled with hate. And it is not your job to shame people who finally saw the fire and chose to step out of it. They will have to deal with that internal struggle — the guilt of putting a very dangerous and callous regime in power. But they’re already outnumbered. Don’t push them back into the crowd. We don’t need purity. We need numbers. We need people willing to burn their red hats and testify against the machine they helped build.

⸻

7. Study the collapse—and the comeback.

You should be learning from South Korea and how they managed their brief rule under dictatorship. They didn’t waste time chasing the one man with absolute immunity. They went after the structure. The aides. The enforcers. The loyalists. The architects. They knocked out the foundation one pillar at a time — until the “strongman” had no one left to stand on. And his power crumbled beneath him. You should be independently investigating every author of Project 2025, every aide who defies court orders, every communications director repeating lies, every policy writer enabling cruelty, every water boy who keeps this engine running. You can’t stop a regime by asking the king to sit down. You dismantle the throne he’s standing on — one coward at a time.

⸻

Stop being scared to fight dirty when the other side is fighting to erase the damn Constitution.

They are threatening to disappear AMERICANS. A M E R I C A N S. And your biggest move can’t be another strongly worded email. We don’t want your urgently fundraising subject lines. We want backbone. We want action. We want to know you’ll stand up before we’re all ordered to sit down — permanently. We are watching. And I don’t just mean your base. I mean millions of us who see exactly what’s happening. I’ve only got 6,000 followers — but the groups I’m in? The networks I touch? Over a quarter million. Often when I speak, it echoes. But when we ALL speak, it ROARS with pressure that will cause change. We need to be deafening. You still have a chance to do something historic. To be remembered for courage, not caution. To go down as the party that didn’t just watch the fall — but fought the hell back with everything they had.

But the clock is ticking.

And the deportation buses are idling.

* * * *

UPDATE AND NOTE:

I have received (what seems like) several hundred copies of a document allegedly authored by Liz Cheney entitled, “Democrats, I need more from you.” The “letter” was not authored by Cheney, but by someone who does not appear to have a readily identifiable profile as a pro-democracy activist. The purported author, “Dr. Pru Lee,” may not be the real identity of the author.

Setting aside the mysterious source of the letter, it has struck a chord with many Democrats. Indeed, many of the copies forwarded to me are accompanied by emails that express some sense of satisfaction that the author has criticized the Democratic Party for its failures and laid out a sensible plan for a path forward.

I suspect the letter was written by a Democratic consultant or insider who is upset with the progressive wing of the party and/or the grassroots movement. The author says, in part,

Yes, the tours around the country? Nice. The speeches? Nice. The clever congressional clapbacks? Nice. That was great for giving hope. Now we need action Don’t just send postcards. Send resources.

Many of the “recommendations” in the letter aren’t realistic—either in a reasonable timeframe or ever. For example, the letter demands the Democratic Party

Form an independent, civilian-powered investigative coalition. Deputize the resistance. Join the International Criminal Court. Fund state-level resistance infrastructure. Stop campaigning. You [the Democratic Party] should be publicly laying out: • The laws and amendments you’ll pass to ensure this never happens again • The systems you’ll tear down and the safeguards you’ll enshrine • The plan to hold perpetrators of human atrocities accountable.

I endorse the author’s passion and understand how the author has managed to channel the anger of rank-and-file Democrats toward their party. But it simply isn’t productive or helpful during this moment of crisis to devote our resources to attacking the Democratic Party.

Here’s a thought experiment: If you have forwarded the above letter to your closest one hundred friends and relatives, try drafting a sequel that begins, “Dear Republicans, I need more from you . . . .”

The virtue of the “Dear Republicans” version of the letter is that it shifts the focus to where it belongs: On those who are enabling Trump, rather than on those who are resisting him.

Is the resistance perfect? No. Is the Democratic Party perfect? No. Are congressional Democrats perfect? No. But compared to their Republican counterparts, Democrats look like heroes of democracy, warts and all.

Democrats aren’t the problem. They are the solution. Be part of the solution. We can sort out the credits and debits after we reclaim democracy!

[Robert B. Hubbell]

[slutoru1207]

i NEED more viltrumite mark vs modern technology 🙏 like reader tries to teach him more about phones, games, computers, other tech stuff………… PLEASE 🙏

here ya gooo beautiful

Viltrumite Mark vs. Modern Technology

Mark Grayson x Fem!Reader

You had just gotten back from another day of saving the world, your mind buzzing with all the things that had happened. You were ready to relax—maybe grab a snack, scroll through some memes, and catch up on a show. But, of course, Markwas already sitting on the couch, his eyes narrowed at the screen of your phone, looking completely lost.

"Uh… hey," you said, trying not to laugh at his confused frown. "You okay there?"

He looked up at you, blinking a few times, clearly frustrated but trying to hide it. "I just don’t get it," he said, his voice low and serious, like this was a matter of great importance. "What is the point of these... 'apps'? Why would anyone use this device for something other than its intended purpose?"

You raised an eyebrow, walking over to sit next to him. Mark was holding your phone like it was some kind of foreign object—completely out of his element. A small part of you found it endearing how this Viltrumite warrior, who could destroy entire cities with a single punch, was utterly flummoxed by something as simple as a smartphone.

"It's not just for 'calling people,' Mark," you explained, pointing at the screen. "Here, let me show you how it works." You swiped through the phone, opening your social media feed. "You can use it to talk to friends, watch videos, play games, or even read news. It’s like a small computer, in your hand."

His brow furrowed further, his eyes scanning the phone like he was trying to decode a complex alien artifact. "So… I can talk to anyone with this thing, no matter where they are?"

"Exactly!" you said with a grin. "See, that's a video call. You can talk and see each other at the same time. It's like magic, but it’s technology."

Mark squinted at the phone in your hand. "I still don’t understand. This tiny thing has more power than the communication systems I used to help the Viltrumites conquer planets… I guess I’ve been living under a rock."

"You’ve been literally living under a rock," you teased. "Come on, let me show you something fun." You handed him the phone, unlocking it. "Let’s play a game."

"A game?" He looked at you like you had just suggested that he solve a galactic puzzle with no instructions. You swiped through the apps until you found a game that was simple but addicting: a puzzle game that involved matching colored blocks.

You handed the phone over to him, and for the next few minutes, Mark's intense focus was on the game. You watched as he tapped away, trying to make sense of the mechanics, his lips muttering to himself.

"This is… harder than I thought," he admitted after a while, his competitive side clearly coming out. "I don’t understand how anyone could be good at this. I’ve fought intergalactic armies, but this... this is a different kind of challenge."

You couldn’t help but laugh. "You’re doing fine, Mark. It’s just about strategy. Just think of it like a mission. You have to plan ahead."

Mark’s eyes glinted with determination. "I can do this," he said with a grin, leaning forward as he swiped the phone with more force. A few minutes later, he finally cleared a level, and his face lit up with victory. "I did it!" he exclaimed, making you giggle at how proud he looked.

You smiled. "See? It’s all about strategy, just like your battles."

Then, you decided it was time for something a bit more advanced. You pulled up your computer and opened a video editing program. "Alright, now this one’s gonna be tricky. It’s how I make some of my videos. I think you’ll find it interesting."

Mark looked at the screen, his eyes narrowing. "That’s a lot of buttons," he said, clearly overwhelmed. "How am I supposed to know what any of this does?"

You sat next to him, taking a deep breath. "Okay, let’s start with something simple. This is your timeline where you can add clips and sound. You can use this tool here to cut and arrange them." You showed him the basic steps, your hands guiding his, even though he didn’t quite get the concept of “editing” yet.

He paused, looking at you. "You create these videos yourself?"

"Yeah," you replied, “I like to make them when I have free time. It’s relaxing, you know?"

"I see..." Mark said quietly, his eyes watching you as you spoke. "It's incredible that you can create something like this with just a computer. I’ve never had to do anything like that before. All I’ve ever known is fighting... saving the world."

You chuckled, nudging him playfully. "Well, you might just be a hero in battle, but you’re definitely a rookie when it comes to this tech stuff." You paused, giving him a warm look. "But it’s okay. I’ll teach you all the cool stuff. Slowly."

Mark blinked, his cheeks flushing a little as he gave you a sheepish smile. "I guess I can’t be the hero in everything, huh?"

You reached over, lightly brushing your fingers against his. "Not if you’re busy being a nerd with me," you teased. "But don’t worry, you’re still my favorite superhero, even if you’re not exactly up to speed with every piece of technology in the world."

Mark chuckled, shaking his head as you both turned back to the screen. Maybe the Viltrumite warrior still had a lot to learn about Earth, but for now, he was happy to learn from you.

[journalsfromjupiter]

𝖩𝖩𝖪 𝖷 𝖫𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝖨𝗌𝗅𝖺𝗇𝖽 🏖️ - 𝖯𝖺𝗋𝗍 𝟤! Part 1.

• • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •• • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •

📍 The Speakeasy, Post-Recoupling

You sat between Shoko, Yuki, and Utahime, their bodies angled toward you in a wall of support. Yuki had a hand on your thigh. Utahime was already two sips into her wine and ready to square up. Shoko, true to form, looked terrifyingly serene.

But your face? Blank.

You didn’t need comfort. You didn’t need words. Not really. You needed strategy.

You were here to find love. Explore your connections. And if that bastard didn’t think he found a good enough one in you?

He could suck it.

“You okay?” Utahime asked gently.

“I’m great,” you replied, tone flat but biting. “Freshly single. Ready to flirt with anyone that breathes.”

“God, I love you,” Yuki muttered, toasting her glass to yours. “And FYI? That dress? You ate. Absolutely cooked the recoupling.”

“I would’ve slapped him,” Utahime said. “Deadass. Just a little backhand. Nothing violent.”

“I think she did worse with that smile,” Shoko added. “I saw him flinch.”

“He regretted it,” Utahime murmured, wine glass swirling lazily in her hand. “You saw his face. Man looked like someone just told him gel was being discontinued.”

“He’s an idiot,” Yuki added with a toss of her hair. “And Mei Mei’s not even his type. She’s just… available. Convenient. Strategic.”

You blinked slowly. “He picked her.”

The table went quiet.

Yuki reached for your hand, but you pulled away—gently, not harsh. Just enough to let her know: You weren’t crying tonight.

“I’m not mad,” you added, and your voice was cool. Too calm. “He did what he thought was right. He explored a connection. That’s the point of the villa, right?”

“…Okay but exploring a connection doesn’t mean getting your back rubbed during recoupling speeches.” Utahime shot back.

Suddenly, a knock tapped lightly on the Speakeasy wall. You all looked up.

There stood Choso, drink in hand, hoodie sleeves pushed halfway up his arms, face soft with concern.

“Reader?” he asked quietly. “You okay?”

You blinked, while Shoko raised an eyebrow but scooted over, letting him sit next to you.

“That was…” He frowned, trying to find the right word. “...ugly. That was ugly.”

You almost smiled. “I’m fine, Choso.”

“You want a drink that isn’t poison?” he offered, holding out the cup. “Suguru made it. So, like. Low poison. Trace amounts.”

Before you could respond, Suguru himself strolled in, followed by Haibara—who already looked like he was gearing up for the group gossip circle—and then Kento, who looked at you the way a stern older brother looks at his younger sister’s ex.

“Seriously?” Haibara said, flopping on a beanbag. “He recoupled?”

“No one saw that coming,” Suguru added, arms crossed. “Not even Mei Mei. She looked shocked as hell when he actually said her name.”

“He was quiet all week,” Kento muttered. “Didn’t talk much about her. Just… brooded. Swam a lot. Looked at the sky. I assumed he was constipated.”

“I just assumed he was dumb,” Yuki shrugged.

You sipped your drink. “He is dumb.”

“He said it every night,” Haibara added, frowning. “‘I’m not gonna fold. I’m not here to waste time. I know who I want.’”

“And then…” Suguru waved his hand dramatically. “He folded. Like laundry. Expensive, stupid laundry.”

“He thought Reader’d pick someone else,” Kento said. “That’s why he did it.”

“Still stupid,” Haibara added. “You don’t bet against your girl unless you know she’s gonna switch.”

📍 The Bedroom, Post-Recoupling

Satoru sat on the edge of the bed he now shared with Mei Mei, elbows on knees, fingers tangled in his hair. He was staring across the room—at your bed.

Well. Your empty bed.

He hated it.

He should feel relieved. He made a decision, right?

But all he could feel was that awful silence between the two of you before Casa. The way you hadn’t looked at him. The way you kissed Suguru—ugh—and how it still made his chest burn, even now.

Mei Mei walked in, slipping beside him, her perfume soft and cold. She placed a hand on his arm and let it trail down in soft strokes.

“You okay?” she asked, kissing along his neck like she didn’t just watch him die a little on national television.

Satoru’s jaw tightened. “Fine,” he muttered.

He stood quickly. “I need the bathroom.”

Mei Mei blinked. “Want me to come—?”

“No,” he said too fast. “Just… I’ll be quick.”

He left the bedroom. But not for the bathroom.

No—he beelined straight to the Speakeasy.

📍 The Speakeasy – 10 Minutes Later

You were mid-laugh at something Haibara said—some exaggerated re-enactment of how Sukuna apparently tried to flirt with Yorozu by comparing her to a “perfectly ripened fruit.”

And then the door slammed open.

Everyone turned.

Satoru stood there. Ruffled hair. Breathless. Looking positively unwell.

Shoko immediately leaned back with a slow, lazy grin.

He didn't even glance at anyone else.

“Reader?” he said, voice low and rushed. “Can I… uh… can I pull you for a quick chat?”

A pause.

You slowly crossed your legs, glass still in hand. Your girls didn’t move. The boys didn’t speak. It was like the entire villa held its breath.

You took a sip. Tilted your head. “Now you want to chat?”

He winced. “Please.”

Another long pause.

And then, finally, you uncrossed your legs and stood slowly. Tossed back the rest of your drink. Straightened your dress. Smoothed your hair.

“Fine.”

But as you walked past him, you didn’t touch him. Didn’t look at him.

Didn’t give him anything.

Except your silence—and that hurt worse than a slap.

📍 The Fire Pit, Round Two

You were sitting down while Satoru stood in front of you.

“I’m not gonna lie,” Satoru started, hands shoved in his pockets, pacing. “I didn’t think you’d be alone. I thought... you were gonna move on.”

You raised a brow. “So you recoupled because you were scared?”

“I—yeah. I guess. But—Reader, come on. You kissed Suguru.”

“In a challenge. You actively picked Mei Mei.”

“That was different—!”

“Oh, of course it was.”

His voice faltered.

“I don’t know what we’re doing,” he said quietly. “But I do know I miss you. I slept next to her and all I could think about was you. About how mad you’d be. How you’d look-.”

You stared at him. And then—

“Do you get how messed up that is, Satoru?” you said, voice low but firm. “You picked her. You chose her. No one made you. Not me. Not the game. You did it, because you were scared of getting hurt, so you hurt me first.”

Silence.

“I know,” he said. Barely above a whisper.

And you? You just laughed once—sharp and tired.

“Maybe next time you want to prove something,” you said, standing up, “try not to prove you’re a coward.”

And you walked away.

The cameras zoomed. The music swelled.

Satoru just stood there, alone at the fire pit, staring after you like the fool he was.

• • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •• • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •

📢 "Tomorrow night… tensions are still sizzling after the most shocking recoupling of the season…"

"And when a new challenge reveals some steamy secrets—"

"—let’s just say, someone’s about to get pied. Literally."

• • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •• • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •

Tags: @lulu1771 , @ilikecats003 , @jsprien213 , @beverly-991

[dear-ao3]

Sorry i tried to scroll past but, i know nothing about f1 other than max verstappen is fast, my dad doesnt like lewis hamilton, fast car goes in a loop and sometimes expodes. Could you give me a crash course in f1 drama? Im very intrigued. Whats the tea as it were?

a terribly loaded question, but i will do my best. i’ve talked about some of the drama before like the red bull second seat and the chronicles of haas but allow me to briefly try my hand at explaining the nightmare that is the upcoming silly season

under the cut we go

silly season is when the drivers go through contract renewals, extensions and switches. usually it’s confined to the first half of the season (march-july) but it has been known to extend all the way to the last race of the season and they like to switch people around at random sometimes. driver contracts are complex, there’s a lot of money involved and basically You Are The Face Of The Team so if you have a shit season then you make the team look bad. but at the same time you could have a shit season because you have a shit car. it’s sticky stuff.

so. there are only twenty seats in formula 1. 10 teams. each team gets two drivers. (there’s also reserve drivers but we’re not going to get into that). who ends up with a contract is largely up to the teams, they can pull the contract out from under people they can also cut you mid season. they’ve done it before.

of the 20 drivers on the grid, 14 of them have contracts expiring at the end of the year. yes. 14. you see how this could get complicated.

so let’s meet the teams.

red bull racing. they came first this year (and last year) in the championship. like aggressively first. like they won the championship by over 350 points. they are definitely the team to beat. but if you end up with a seat at red bull, you do have to deal with max verstappen being your teammate and he won all but three of the races last year. he’s the golden boy. red bull are also notoriously silly when it comes to contracts and famously swap people mid season who aren’t performing.

mercedes. merc is home to 7 time world champion lewis hamilton and they have won the championship a great many times, though not since 2021. they are kind of in their flop arc and their car the last 2 years has been pretty garbage, but they have still made it work because they were able to come in second last year.

ferrari. god help the poor little meow meows with a ferrari contract. ferrari is a notoriously great team and they’re trying to get back to the top again but their strategy every single time has fallen short. to the point where their drivers are the ones doing the strategy in their cars while driving. they came in third last year and have been decently consistent at getting first in qualifying and then getting beat by max verstappen on race day.

mclaren. they’ve definitely worked their way up over recent years. they ended fourth last year and have had some championship wins before but not nearly as many as say merc and ferrari. their team ceo (owner? director?) is a little interesting and their car started out a pile of flaming hot garbage at the beginning of the year but they did manage to get their shit together.

aston martin. they are owned by canadian billionaire lawrence stroll, father of lance stroll (one of the drivers for the team). they’ve undergone several name changes over the recent years (force india, racing point, etc). they positively slayed at the start of the season and then one day they sucked. they finished fifth in the championship.

alpine. the frenchest french team. they’re (i think?) still partially owned by the french government. both of their drivers are french. (their drivers also hate eachother but we’ll get to that. just know they’re in the middle of a modern french civil war). they had the opportunity to have a good rookie driver (oscar piastri) this past year but in a thrilling twitter battle, he publically flamed the shit out of them and went to mclaren instead (and slayed). they're usually solidly middle of the pack. they ended sixth in the championship.

williams. williams has been one of the back of the grid teams for the last many years but they have finally started to get their shit together and don’t quite suck as much as they used to. all of the points this year were scored by only one driver though (except one but we’ll get there). they came in seventh.

alpha tauri. they are the sister team of red bull. so technically redbull owns both teams (meaning they can swap drivers between teams. they like doing this.) they’ve just kind of been There for awhile but they did slay towards the end of the season when one of their drivers led the race for several laps. basically tho, this team is the gateway to redbull. they came in eighth.

alpha romeo. recently renamed to stake f1 team (but sometimes they are going to be called kick sauber. this is a whole other drama post and i’m not getting into it). they’re also just kind of there. generally unproblematic. seems that really great drivers who get ixed out of a contract for a younger driver end up here or young drivers who are in their early years are here before they go to a better team. they ended ninth this year.

haas. oh haas. goofy team. they suck. point blank they suck. they keep loosing sponsors because they suck, they don’t win ever (one time they came first in qualifying last year). they cursed themselves in australia in 2018 by not tightening their tires and its been downhill ever since. they came 10th. their team principle got let go (fired?) who’s to say today.

so those are the teams. it is important to note that:

-there is a cost cap. each team is allowed to spend no more than 135m per year.

-not all cars are equal. some things are standard. they all undergo the same testing. but the cars are all very different. so you can be a good driver but stuck in a shitty car. which makes it impressive if you are doing well in a shitty car.

let’s meet our drivers!!!

starting with the guys who’s contract is not ending in 2024:

max verstappen. 3 time world champion. 26 years old. general beast on the track. he dominated the whole season. he’s currently racing for red bull and has a contract with them through 2028.

lewis hamilton. 7 time world champion. 39 years old. he drives for mercedes. he will not leave mercedes until he retires. he really really wants to win an 8th world championship and is willing to stick it out a few more years as long as merc still believes in him. his contract expires in 2025.

george russell. the other merc driver. 26 years old. hes aggressively british and says thinks like blimey unironically. walking meme. got his merc seat in 2022 right when they entered their flop arc by getting his tractor of a williams to finish second in qualifying in the middle of a rainstorm. his contract expires in 2025.

lando norris. mclaren driver. 24 years old. he has notably never won a race in his five years of formula one (mostly because right when his car finally was good enough max verstappen was 20 seconds ahead of anyone) but he is regarded as Very Good. he has only ever driven for mclaren. and even though there is another year left on his contract there is mass speculation that he will not renew his contract with mclaren after it expires and he may move up to one of the top teams (red bull, merc, ferrari) (tho i think he doesnt hate himself quite enough to go to ferrari). his contract expires in 2025.

oscar piastri. the other mclaren driver. 22 years old. this was his rookie season and he positively slayed. like people compared his rookie season to lewis hamiltons rookie season. he also had the positively funniest start to his rookie year because alpine announced that he would be driving for them (he had been their reserve driver and in the alpine academy) and he posted a tweet that basically said yeah thats false i never singed anything with you and im going to race with mclaren instead (he dodged a bullet) and then alpine tried and failed to sue him for $4m USD. he signed a contract extension with mclaren this year and his contract expires in 2026.

lance stroll. aston martin driver and son of the aston martin owner. hes doing ok, tho there was conspiracy that he wanted to quit and have a tennis career awhile ago. but basically since his dad owns the team it seems that hes guaranteed a seat for as long as he wants one.

so now. moving onto the good shit. the people who have contracts expiring in 2024. hold onto your hats people.

charles leclerc. (everyones favorite slutty little soup can). 26 years old. he is currently at ferrari and he has been since 2019. notably, he was given the longest contract in the history of ferrari after a stellar rookie season at sauber (renamed to alpha romeo, renamed to stake f1) where he got the tractor of a car consistently into the points. having the longest contract in the history of ferrari was a flex at the time, but now its likely how he will introduce himself at therapy sessions. ferrari have fucked this man left right and center up the ass with a plastic lunchroom spork. hes talented, he can drive, and he can drive well. but the strategy that ferrari has absolutely sucks. either something is wrong with the car (see him blowing out his gear box on the formation lap in monaco, his car completely crapping out and spinning into the barrier in brazil before the race even started) or they fuck up his pit stops or put him on the wrong tires and honestly its just frustrating. but will he leave??? likely not. you'd have to pry ferrari out of his cold dead hands and at this rate that might be where this is headed though there has been some minor speculation of him going to another team like merc or red bull, but merc doesnt have any open seats and red bull is a whole other dumpster fire of drama. ferrari are going to have to pay him a boatload of money to make him stay.

carlos sainz. the smooth operator. 29 years old. ferrari driver. previously carlos was at toro rosso (renamed to alpha tauri), renault (renamed to alpine), and mclaren before signing with ferrari. he has been at ferrari since 2021 and has voiced that he would like to stay with them for however long he can. there is speculation that lando might replace him at ferrari (but landos contract is not up until 2025) and there is also some speculation that alex albon might replace him. while charles is clearly the golden boy at ferrari, carlos is slightly slower but also definitely consistent. he was THE ONLY non red bull driver to win a race this past year, in Singapore after max verstappedn was knocked out of qualifying by alpha tauri reserve driver liam lawson (more on him later) and because he basically came up with his own strategy in the car while he was driving.

sergio perez. aka checo. red bull driver. 33 years old. and oh boy here's where we open the can of worms. checo was previously at racing point (renamed aston martin) and it was very near the end of the 2020 (?) season and he was out of a contract. he had a bonkers race where he was knocked to the back of the grid and then overtook everyone and somehow ended up winning (there is more to that story but just trust me) and christian horner, red bull team principle, mr ginger spice and definite disney villain called him and said congrats sir you have a seat at red bull! well. fast forward. hes been causing problems. problems as in crashing a lot, generally not doing great and pissing the crap out of red bull. it is basically guaranteed at this point that he will not be getting a contract extension. there was actually talk this year of him losing his seat mid season to one of the alpha tauri drivers, because remember, red bull owns both teams and they can switch them whenever they want to (and they have!) but ultimately this did not happen. even though checo has a seat at red bull until the end of 2024, its mass speculated that he is going to get switched with an alpha tauri driver, probably daniel ricciardo (more on him shortly) mid season because there is a speculated clause in daniels contract that says that if checo isn't performing well in the first few races daniel is getting his seat.

daniel ricciardo. 34 years old. alpha tauri driver. man oh man what a guy. outside of being the prankster of the paddock, he has one of the most batshit careers of anyone currently on the grid. he started out at red bull and was showing real talent and skill and was on track to win things (and was!) and was there until the end of 2018 when max verstappen (his teammate) started getting preferential treatment and also red bull started having a lot of problems with their engines (which were being outsourced from Renault (now alpine) and another team on the grid) and well very very long story short he made the surprise move of the century and decided to sign with Renault (which makes no sense they're the one with the engine problems) and was there for 2 years before moving again to mclaren where he was reportedly not treated very well and had a hard time driving the car so they mutually ended his contract with them early and he basically retired at the end of the 2022 season and became a red bull reserve driver. then halfway through the 2023 season alpha tauri ixed one of their drivers, nyck de vries, because he wasnt doing well and promoted daniel back up to a full time driver at alpha tauri (which we know is only a step down from red bull) but then he broke his hand in a crash in zanvort (?) and then he was replaced for a few races by formula 2 driver liam lawson (who we will also talk about) and then he came back to finish out the season in alpha tauri after he was cleared. daniel has admitted openly that he never should have left red bull and he was given bad advice to do so. hes towards the end of his career at this point and its well known that he Really Really wants to finish out his career at red bull again. he and max have already been teammates before and they do work well together and daniel is great driver (see his comeback in texas (or maybe it was brazil?) this year). so. Pretty Sure that daniels going to get either an extension at alpha tauri or go up to red bull. thats what we all want. get this man in a red bull we need him there biblically.

liam lawson. now technically liam is not actually a formula 1 driver. hes a formula 2 driver, but he was daniels replacement for five races and there has been some speculation and some confirmed news about him so hes getting included. when he was racing for f1 he was at alpha tauri. hes 21 and looks like he belongs in the movie grease. no one was expecting him to slay in formula 1 and he positively knocked everyones socks off. the scene: Singapore. which, if you'll recall, is the one race that a not red bull driver won. this was largely because liam lawson slayed the absolute game in qualifying. the qualifying part of racing determines what order the cars start in on the grid for the race and theres three parts, the first two parts the bottom 5 drivers each time get knocked out and then the top 10 complete for the last 10 spots. liam lawson knocked BOTH max verstappen and checo perez out of qualifying in the second round by going very slightly faster than them, effectively fucking up red bulls race and allowing carlos to win. and he also scored points in that race, which no one was expecting. now thats all fine and dandy, but here's the speculation: hemlut marko (im pretty sure) (who is somehow decently involved in the decision making at red bull though i couldn't tell you how) said that he thinks that liam lawson will be in an f1 seat no later than 2025. meaning that he will probably get offered a contract this year. and hes already raced for alpha tauri. red bull have sunk a good amount of money into him. they clearly want him. so if he gets offered an alpha tauri seat in 2025, that means theres a good chance danny rics is going to red bull. do you SEE how the plot here is THICKENED

yuki tsunoda. age 23. currently at alpha tauri. and fun fact, the only alpha tauri driver to race there the whole year. he had three separate team mates. he is slaying and hes often slept on. he has a bit of a temper and likes to shout on the radio and also hates working out (they had to force him to move to italy or something to work out, long story) but hes been kinda killing it. he led several laps in the abu dhabi race this year and hes decently consistent. people think theres possibility that he could get moved up to red bull on account of the fact that he is younger than daniel and clearly has more years in him,, but there is also possibility that he might not because red bull like to make stupid decisions. and if he doesnt get moved up to rebel, will he stay with alpha tauri? we don't know.

alex albon. age 27. currently a williams driver. alex albon is another one with a batshit career. he started out his rookie year in 2019 at alpha tauri then got moved up to red bull halfway through the year when red bull decided that pierre gasley wasnt doing a good enough job (more on him later) and stayed with red bull for a solid year and a half until he lost his seat in 2021 to checo. he has been with williams for the last two years and is basically carrying the team. like. williams as a team scored 28 points this year. and alex albon scored 27 of those 28 points. and as we know, williams is still kind of in their shit arc (though they are doing much better. they didnt score any points for a solid 2 (?) years. so this is an improvement.) and if you can get a shit car to perform you catch the eye of bigger teams. now, alex has already been a red bull driver. and he was on the cusp of podiuming two separate times when lewis hamilton ran into him. this (among a few other things) basically killed his chances at getting resigned at red bull because he wasnt ""performing"" and red bull are bitches who love to win. but some people think that red bull should give him another shot. like daniel, hes already been max's teammate and he can definitely drive. but theres also talk he might go to ferrari because ferrari think that he might compliment charles's driving style (or something). but going to ferrari at this point is kind of suicide. so.

logan sergeant. age 23. the only american on the grid. the other williams driver. he just finished his rookie year. he scored a grand total of one single point this season, in texas, and it was because charles leclerc and lewis hamilton both got disqualified because the floor of their car had more wear (by literally less than millimeters) than it was allowed to, bumping him up from 12th to 10th. he has never done better than alex albon. he was also the very last driver to get a contract for 2024, with williams waiting until i think december of 2023 to announce his contract extension. clearly, hes on thin ice. but people have also said that he needs time to get used to formula 1 (other people have pointed out that oscar piastri slayed his rookie season this year and this statement about needing time is largely false). where logan ends up next year though will largely depend on how well the 2024 season goes for him.

fernando alonso. 42 years old. many people like to point out that oscar piastri is actually younger than fernando's racing career. he won tiktok creator of the year (somehow) and is also a 2 time world champion. he retired a few years ago, just to show back up again and slay. during the first half of the season when aston martin had a zoom zoom car he killed it, and then they had problems on top of problems and he didnt do well. except for that one race in brazil where he came in third, beating checo by literally .05 seconds. he hasn't really made any hints about retiring a second time and he is kind of carrying aston Martin right now (he scored 205 points this season, coming in 4th and tying in points with charles leclerc, lance stroll only scored 74 points this year.) and they did have their best year yet this year. (though they are relatively new).

pierre gasley. 27 years old. french. drives for alpine. the french team. previously he raced with toro rosso (now alpha tauri), then got promoted to a red bull driver in 2019, then halfway through the season they decided he wasnt doing a good enough job and he got demoted back down to alpha tauri. then he won a race with alpha tauri just to stick it to red bull. after the great oscar piastri contract twitter war, he was signed as alpines second driver, with Esteban ocon being the other driver (more on him soon). estie bestie and pierre (both french) were childhood friends and now hate each other for unknown reasons and basically feuded on the track for most of the season. french civil war at alpine. he scored 62 points in 2023 and came in 11th. not really sure where he will end up, it is possible that he will stick it out at alpine.

esteban ocon. 27 years old. also french. currently driving for alpine. another one with a silly bonkers career. he started out at force india and had a baller few seasons there but his teammate at the time was checo, and checo didnt really cooperate with him too much and caused some drama that cost estie bestie some places and some points. max verstappen also beat him up in the garage once. thats not really relevant but it did happen. anyway, after the owner of force india was arrested for .... i don't remember what maybe it was embezzlement or bankruptcy or something money related, the team was backed by lawrence stroll and became racing point. but all of that happened mid season and lawrence was basically like look ill back you guys for now but next year my son gets a seat (lance) so one of you two (checo and estie bestie) have to go. and ultimately they let estie bestie go even though he was more consistent because checo had more sponsors and they needed money. so he was out of formula 1 for a few years (but was a merc reserve driver) and then went to Renault, which then became alpine. he did come in 12th though overall this season, just behind pierre. so. will alpine keep both him and pierre and keep the civil war going? whos to say.

nico hulkenberg. 36 years old. haas driver. in his 200+ f1 races he has never been on the podium and he really really wants to be on the podium. unfortunately this will never happen in a haas because haas fucking sucks. and everyone knows it. he is getting towards the end of his career though. though! stake f1 will become the mario Andretti and audi team in 2026 (don't question it) and they have supposedly voiced interest in nico. so we will see if he hangs on that long to end up at audi. for now tough, hes definitely hating it at haas. though, haas are going to have a different team principle next year so maybe that will change things. i have a sneaky feeling through that haas will probably end up with another 2 rookie drivers because everyone else is smart enough to not race for them.

kevin magnussen. 31 years old. haas driver. hes another deeply interesting character. he has had one podium. in his rookie season. in his first race. and none since. kevin started at haas in 2017 and then left at then end of 2020 when he basically got kicked off because the team needed money and they wanted to bring in drivers with more sponsorships. these drivers were mick schumacher and nikita mazepin. so kevin basically was forced to retire after the 2020 season. this went decently well for haas. until russia invaded ukraine right before the start of the 2022 season and, well, nikita was Russian and it was never distinctly proven that his dads company (who was sponsoring the team) wasnt also funding the invasion. so nikita got fired and they were literally like 2 weeks out from the start of the season, down a driver. who are you gonna call? kevin magnussen! and hes been back ever since. but hes clearly getting annoyed with haas. there was one great clip from this year where his car caught on fire and he kind of just stared into to, clearly hoping it would burn for a long time. so the likelihood of him extending his contract is looking slim.

valtteri bottas. 34 years old. currently a driver for stake f1 (alpha romeo, kick sauber, whatever you wanna call it). previously, he was a mercedes driver and notoriously helped lewis hamilton win a great many championships, until he lost his seat to george russell in 2022. there was a rather awkward part of the 2021 season where valtteri knew that he was out of a merc seat the following year and kind of just chose violence. he slayed. then he went to alpha romeo, grew a mullet and made a calendar of his ass. quite the glow up if you ask me. hes also very interested in cycling. honestly though, i have my own personal speculation that hes going to retire at the end of this year.

zhou guanyu. 24 years old. driver for stake f1 (alpha romeo/kick sauber, etc etc). hes doing alright. he just finished his second season, in his first season he was majorly out qualified by valtteri but this past season he managed to out qualify him a good 6 times. which is decently good for the tractor of a car hes driving. its possible that he could get a contract extension, but like logan, its probably going to depend on how the 2024 season goes for him.

and thats all the drivers. theres also a few others i didnt talk about, like some other f2 drivers who want seats and mick schumacher, who is currently a merc reserve driver, all of which could be contenders for f1 seats. but one things for sure. this is going to be the silliest fucking silly season.

feel free to add on and peer review me

[letters-to-lgbt-kids]

My dear lgbt+kids, 

Allow yourself to start ridiculously small. 

This is likely not brand-new advice to you. There are a lot of „depression hacks“ to be found on tumblr that are based on this core idea: If you don’t have the energy to get up and shower, keep wet wipes on your nightstand. If you don’t have the energy to assemble a sandwich, eat the ingredients separately. If you don’t have the energy to brush your teeth, swish some mouthwash. If you don’t have the energy to wash dishes, use paper plates. 

But you don’t need to have severe depression (or any health issue at all) to be allowed to start small. It can be a great strategy for any positive change you want to introduce to your life. 

That applies to all those general „improving your health and wellbeing“ things: if you want to eat more vegetables but hate the hassle of preparing them, buy them pre-sliced or frozen or canned. If you want to exercise more but feel out of breath after two minutes, just exercise for two minutes. If you want to read whole books again, start by reading a few sentences. 

But it also applies to things like exploring your identity or experimenting with your gender presentation. You don’t need to have all the answers before you start trying things: If you want to wear makeup but don’t feel ready yet, you can try lip balm. If you may want short hair, you can just try out a little bit shorter for now. If it feels too early or too difficult or too vulnerable to ask your friends to help you try out a name or set of pronouns yet, you can try them out by using them for a character in a game you play or a story you write. 

Sure, for some people diving headfirst into new experiences really works best - and if that’s you, good for you! No need to fix a running system. But I dare say the vast majority of people will just stress (or even burn) themselves out if they try to rearrange their whole life in one day. 

Let’s get back to exercise as an example here. You may feel like exercising for two minutes is ridiculous, like it’s hardly worth it to even start working out if you are gonna stop in two minutes anyway - after all, you probably don’t have the inner picture of becoming someone who exercises for two minutes. You want to be someone who exercises. Period. You may worry that, if you allow yourself to start small, you’ll get stuck on that level. 

But if your starting point is pretty much „zero minutes of exercise a week“, the first step will be to build up the routine at all - not to crunch impressive numbers. 

Otherwise, you may pick out a great 30 minute workout video that matches up with your inner vision of becoming a fitness enthusiast… and then, because you’re not used to exercising at all, you will almost certainly fail at actually following it for the full 30 minutes, and then you may feel so demotivated and embarrassed by your „bad experience with exercise“ that you give up on exercising altogether. And end up with zero minutes of exercise again. 

If you set a goal you can actually achieve, you give yourself the chance to have a good experience with exercise. You give yourself the opportunity to actually see yourself accomplish that goal and stick to that new routine. You allow yourself to actually build up a exercise habit. The habit can always become longer or more intense, but it needs to exist in the first place. 

The same is true for exploring your identity. You don’t need to start by coming out to everyone or changing your legal documents or wearing a dress, high heels and makeup. It’s okay to find your own „two minutes of exercise“. 

Small steps aren’t fake steps. They’re important and brave - and sometimes they’re exactly what you need to get started on your journey to happiness. 

With all my love, 

Your Tumblr Dad 

[drferox]

So I have been massively burnt out this year, partly due to illness and separation stress, but I have been trying to do all the self-care things that I encourage people to do when you’re trying to make a brain be well, and one of those is writing fiction.

Just short fiction, because my brain balks at the idea of picking up the really big, long neglected projects. But short fiction is still fiction and if I write enough of it, then maybe I’ll build up enough momentum to pick up the bigger projects again.

So I thought that maybe if I can write enough fiction, because there’s a bit of horror flavour running though these pieces, I could narrate them for YouTube and work on the momentum for yet another project that fell by the wayside between the MS, relationship breakdown and single parenting.

Which is why I searched for ‘how to run a scary stories YouTube channel’.

And boy oh boy did that induce some rage.

I genuinely hold the art of writing in high regard, and I recognise that it’s a learned skill and difficult to do. All creative pastimes are. But there are a bunch of ‘entrepreneurs’, and I use the term with a great deal of sarcasm, that have decided to use A-Bloody-I for every single part of telling a story, except one. And for that single piece that they do not outsource to a computer program, they simply copy what has worked for other people.

There are videos providing instructions for people about how to use A-Bloody-I to:

Generate a YouTube channel name, banner and profile picture

Generate a story of the desired word length

Generate a fake voice to narrate that story

Generate a background image and thumbnail

At which point why did they even bother? They don’t even listen to the story that they generate before uploading. I know it’s all about the dream of money, they think 5 minutes of work every day will earn them an income, but what they have generated is soulless garbage.

The results have all the dressings of a horror story, but they don’t have the body of one.

It is like fae realm food- looks a little too good and all the reflections are wrong if you look too close, but it won’t satisfy the way the real thing does. You can’t really live off it.

But the more I know to look for it, the more of it I find. Particularly with fake voices, that seem to have trouble with words like vague or Dalek for some reason.

My main solace here is that these ‘entrepreneurs’ seem to be employing the same strategy in their own niche, flooding themselves with endless AI generated content coming from the same one idea, so at least they get to create their own hell I suppose.

[mahowaga]

THE TRIWIZARD TOURNAMENT FOR THE BEAU IDÉAL OF IDIOCY | N.K. — PROLOGUE

SUMMARY: you're supposed to be in the stands, eating snacks and talking strategy with your friends, enjoying watching the three champions battle for the triwizard cup. you're not supposed to be entangled in what seems to be your own personal (hell) triwizard tournament.

PAIRING: ravenclaw!nanami kento x hufflepuff!fem!reader | mc’s best friend yu haibara, insufferable asshole fushiguro toji, no-nonsense house-elf ryomen sukuna CONTAINS: hp x jjk au, (friends who are) idiots to lovers, romance, fluff, crack, profanity PLAYLIST: the course of true love never did run smooth WC: 8.2k WARNINGS: a slur thrown, an almost fistfight, a fainting spell, just mc being a clown

series masterlist | next

— PROLOGUE: A TRIFECTA OF TRAGEDIES TO PUT ALL OTHER DISASTERS TO SHAME

(First and foremost, a person’s purity of blood should have absolutely nothing to do with how they are treated. Isn’t it their heart that should be pure, after all? 

That’s the mentality you try to live by.)

In retrospect, you should have known better than to ask Fushiguro Toji, the insufferable dark haired (and pure-blooded) boy from Slytherin who only interacted with people of, and you’re quoting him directly here, the same stature as I, to be your date to the Yule Ball. What had quite possessed you to even go up to that intimidatingly long bench in the Great Hall on which he had lounged on with such repose alongside his friends is knowledge that’s probably hidden behind some kind of paywall. For the time being, you’re okay with letting it elude you. What you aren’t okay with is how he had completely shut you down without so much as giving you a chance to state your business.

You aren’t surprised. No, you’d pretty much expected this. Why on Earth would Toji go with the likes of you? Well, there’s no need to wonder because here are some, if not all, of the reasons why:

You are a Hufflepuff. (In Toji’s eyes: “The house where all of the leftovers go.”)

You are a Muggleborn. (Again, from Toji’s point of view: “What the hell is that?”)

You had come up to him with a piece of fabric that you’d sewn yourself - a simple necktie - a golden yellow with a dotted pattern that resembled spots of dark ink that someone had spilled (this hadn’t been the intention but you’d decided to roll with it) - and had offered it to him, telling him that you two could coordinate your outfits by matching the tie with a hairband you’d sewn for yourself (same pattern and everything; because you are nothing if not dedicated to the cause). (Toji: “That’s the ugliest fucking thing I have ever seen.”)

It sounds worse than it is.

Actually, scratch that. It’s a nightmare given sentience. You’ve just gotten yourself embarrassed in front of basically the entirety of Hogwarts. And if that isn’t enough, the students and staff of the two visiting wizarding schools are here, probably enjoying your public humiliation. Lovely.

But no, you’re not surprised. This is Toji in a nutshell. You’d expected as much. If anything, you’d hoped he would have a change of heart (similar to how he’d helped you during Potions the other evening, but that appears to have been a trick of the mist now that you look back at it and really think) and say Yes, I thought you’d never ask!

Hope is such a dangerous thing.

You just stand there in shock more than anything else, looking into his eyes, as dark as the soul swirling inside of him, the color of tar, trying to force yourself to say something. Right now, you’re hyper aware of everyone and everything, including the way the din of the Hall had died down the moment Toji had opened his mouth.

Focus. You need to move, or speak, or both.

Finally, you’re able to coerce your brain to communicate with your vocal chords. “I can change the color of the tie,” you say meekly.

Inwardly, you want to facepalm yourself. Are you serious? You think the tie is the problem here?

The Slytherins perched around Toji snicker, because they (and you) know what’s coming. He’s going to rip you an entirely new one and send you back to the Hufflepuff common room with your tail between your legs and a newfound resolution to never cross paths with him ever again.

He cocks his head at you, as if he’s simultaneously amused and irked that you were still talking to him. His eyes narrow ever so slightly, his brow raised in disapproval.

You have to get out of there. This feels like a natural disaster waiting to happen. (It is.) And yet, you find yourself rooted to the spot.

(This isn’t quite the way you’d imagined you’d realize that, deep down in the recesses of your body and mind, you are somewhat of a masochist. This is the only explanation you can offer as to why you’re still standing above Toji, the tie in your hand, awaiting a very rude awakening.)

“Listen,” Toji says, his voice deep and gravelly and it almost makes you want to swoon (but you can’t and you don’t because this boy is evil incarnate), “I don’t know what made you think you could just, I don’t know, walk up to me and start talking, but I think you should walk away while I’m still being nice.” He shrugs, flashing a charming smirk at his friends. “Or not,” he says, standing up and towering over you. You feel yourself shrink into yourself. “Your choice, Mudblood.”

Son of a bitch.

The necktie will be covered in blood and creases by the time you’re done with Fushiguro Toji.

You grip the tie so tightly you can feel your nails digging into your palm, the fabric doing absolutely nothing as a buffer.

Walk away? You want to scoff. Not a chance. You might’ve considered walking away, running away, even, just minutes ago, but he’d just insulted you. Now it was a whole different ball game.

He notices your clenched fists and smiles. He reaches into his robe lazily for his wand.

You huff. If Toji is going to fight you, he is going to fight you hand-to-hand. You know, the way Mudbloods like you do.

What good is a wand when you’ve already gotten your face punched in twice before you can even cast a spell?

The entire Hall is engulfed in pin-drop silence. It’s almost calming, in a cathartic way. Like a battlefield before the battle, just both sides with their eyes closed and their palms pressed together in prayer.

You raise your fist, the spotted tie wrapped messily around it, ready to throw hands. Toji, in turn, raises his wand with a sense of detachment. He doesn’t care.

“Enough,” comes a voice, calm and certain and authoritative.

You curse under your breath, but don’t bring your hands down. You’d be damned if you let your guard down in front of Toji.

“Head Boy Nanami,” Toji drawls, pointing his dark wand at the boy in question. 

At the mention of his name - well, his title and his surname - your heart begins to hammer in your chest. This is bad. Very bad. You don’t want Kento to see you like this. (It’s already horrifying enough to have the entire school and more watch you get rejected and then almost get into a fistfight, but the fact that he’s seen it makes everything infinitely worse. It’s bad for business.)

And so you do the only logical thing you can think of after turning your head to meet Kento’s gaze, those hazel eyes of his burning into yours, asking you if you are out of your mind: you pass out.

(Passing out on command is a gift. Or a curse, depending on how you look at it. You don’t even remember how you figured out you could do it, but hey, it seems to have worked in your favour.)

The first thing you see when you open your eyes are your best friend’s own staring down at you. They are filled to the brim with sheer delight and pure entertainment. His smile pulls the whole look together. You wonder how long he’s been sitting on the wobbly wooden chair next to the bed with that smile on his face. Knowing him, probably the moment you’d been brought into the hospital wing.

“Don’t start,” you groan, turning your head away from him and resting your forearm across your eyes. So dramatic.

Haibara grabs your arm and pulls it off of your face. He looks way too ecstatic for someone whose best friend had just embarrassed themself in front of everyone and Head Boy Nanami.

Your arm flops back down onto the crisp white linen sheets of the bed. You sigh and avoid his eyes, though it’s proving to be a daunting task seeing as how he’s now inches away from your face. (Hey, that spot on the ceiling looks real interesting right now!)

“You know,” Haibara starts, already trying to suppress a giggle, “when you said you were going to find yourself a date to the Yule Ball, I didn’t think you were talking about Fushiguro.” He pokes your side and you flinch, smacking his hand.

You roll your eyes. You really don’t want to have this conversation right now. You’re still reeling from humiliating yourself in front of Head Boy Nanami.

Why are you fixated on one person? You literally gave all three wizarding schools gossip for days.

That thought isn’t comforting either, but it’s the former that’s going to keep you up at night.

You feign nonchalance. “Right,” you say, “and who, pray tell, did you have in mind?”

Previously, you’d thought Haibara’s grin couldn’t get any wider, but you’ve been proven wrong. That boy is like a drop of sunshine that evolved into a human. This is great, except for the fact that you are currently allergic to sunbeams.

His glee sickens you.

It’s like he’s trying to suppress his laughter. “You already know my answer, genius.”

There it is. Of course he knows. And he knows because you’d told him. On more than one occasion. Haibara, he’s so handsome. How can he walk around looking like that all day? It’s crazy. And when your best friend had asked you, point blank, by the way, if you had a crush, this had been your response: Absolutely not. How dare you insinuate such a baseless accusation?

You had lied.

And you’re about to do it again.

“I barely know him. Why would I ask him to be my date?”

He purses his lips in disappointment, though it does little to mask his amusement. While he helps you sit up, he cocks his head and looks at you. “Come on,” he huffs. “I introduced you two to each other for a reason. Make my efforts worthwhile, please. This is the perfect opportunity.”

If you hadn’t just had the most horrific experience of your life, you might’ve considered it. Unfortunately, that’s not how life works, at least for you. So you shake your head.

“He’s clearly not interested in me.” You pull the blanket off of your legs and swing them off the side of the bed. Haibara scoots his chair back to give you space, his gaze still fixed on you. “Besides, we barely even talk. The only conversations we have are in the hallways on our way to class. ‘Good morning’ and ‘Good evening’. That’s it.” You take a breath. “I don’t know him like that.”

“And you know Toji like that?”

Well. He has a point (as much as it gagged you to hear it). You’re obviously not going to make this known.

“Look,” you start, steepling your fingers together as you rest your elbows on your knees, “I asked Toji out because, well, he was nice to me.”

It’s Haibara’s turn to be gagged. “He was what?” he asks, his mouth open. “We’re talking about the same person, right?”

You nod, and suddenly the information that had been hidden behind a paywall is accessible to you. (The payment was probably your public abashment earlier.) Your palm flies to your forehead.

“Oh my God,” you say, standing up quickly. Haibara mirrors you, his arms held out in case you topple over. (He thinks you’d actually fainted from the stress, and not just from the sheer willpower of wanting to remove yourself from the situation.)

“Haibara.” You put your hands on his shoulders, your eyes wide. “I know why I asked Toji to be my date.”

You pause for dramatic effect, and he urges you on. “I’ll bite, but you literally just said it was because he was nice to you.”

It’s all fitting together like the pieces of a very flawed jigsaw puzzle. The kind where there are corner pieces in the middle and middle pieces in the corners. Utter chaos.

Shaking your head at Haibara, you start to pace in front of the small bed, your hands clasped behind your back.

“It was during our Potions class two weeks ago,” you start, nodding to yourself as you recall the memory. “We were making that thing-” you snap your fingers, trying to pull the name of the elixir from the edge of your mind -”felix felicis. Next thing you know, he was high on his own supply. But I didn’t know that, because I didn’t think he was dumb enough to try something he’d made without verifying it with the professor first, so when he came over to talk to me he was the sweetest he’d ever been and then I thought I could sort of help him change his ways and grow.” You spread your hands triumphantly. Remembering things was hard. You were proud of yourself.

Your best friend, on the other hand, was anything but impressed.

He frowns, his brows knitted together tightly. “Toji has hated Hufflepuffs and Muggleborns since forever,” he says, waving an arm out. “What is wrong with you? Why would you think he’d just, I don’t know, suddenly develop a conscience just by being around you?”

Because you’re an idiot, that’s what. An idiot who had hoped. Really, you should’ve known better. Haibara is right. But, yet again, you refuse to give him the satisfaction. So instead of acknowledging his words, you shrug.

“I was just willing to give him a chance. See if he really did want to turn over a new leaf.” And it’s the truth. There is no other reason that you can think of for having pulled quite the risky stunt, not unless there’s something your subconscious isn’t telling you.

That’s something you’ll unpack later. (Years later, you hope.)

Haibara opens his mouth to say something, maybe to tell you that you are the bane of his existence and have zero brain cells (true), but you cut him off.

“I’m going back to the common room.” You shrug your robes on and straighten your tie in the tiny mirror at the bedside table. “I’m hoping that you and I can put this whole Toji situation behind us, and by that I mean please don’t bring it up ever again because it’s a lack of awareness on my part and no, I will not repeat what I just said because you’ll use it against me as leverage.”

And then you wave, and you’re off towards the staircase, leaving behind a baffled and thoroughly entertained Yu Haibara to fix the sheets.

You’re not paying attention to where you’re going. In fact, you’re not sure you’re even on the right staircase that leads to the kitchens. (You’re royally screwed!) You’d just wanted to escape Haibara’s inquisitive gaze, and dashing right out of the hospital wing seemed to be a better option than passing out again (although that was always Plan C. Don’t ask about Plan B.)

The necktie is still in the pocket of your robe. You brush your hand against it, wanting to grab it and throw it right down the labyrinth of stairs, gone forever.

It’s not the tie’s fault.

It isn’t. It doesn’t deserve to be treated like a piece of garbage. Especially not after you’d poured your blood, sweat and tears into sewing it two nights ago after waking up in a cold sweat having dreamt about showing up to the Yule Ball with a date who’d forgotten who his date was because he couldn’t tell her apart from the rest of the attendees.

What a nightmare.

You pull the necktie from your pocket and look at it. It’s crinkled from where you’d grabbed it earlier, ready to make Toji see stars.

A sigh escapes you, more of relief than irritation. It’s salvageable, at least. There’s nothing a little ironing can’t fix. Well, that or a spell. Unfortunately for you, you don’t know what the magic words are.

All of your attention is focused on the tie as you descend the stairs to the kitchens. There’s a sickening squelching sound that cuts through your train of thought, and you realize too late (an understatement) that you’ve just stepped on the Forbidden Step.

Shit.

You look around hurriedly for someone, anyone, to come and help pull you out. Curses possess your tongue, aimed at either yourself, the stupid staircase or that damn tie, still clutched in your hand, now squished into your palm with the stress. (You’ve created a multi-purpose tie: it’s a formal accessory, a hand wrap, and, of course, the newest addition! A stress ball. Your ingenuity is outstanding.)

Quite how long you’re standing there with one foot sunk deep into the innards of the staircase and the other braced on the step directly above you aren’t sure. Physically, it feels like it’s been a day. Mentally you’ve relived the horror of a few hours ago at the Great Hall with Toji about a million times.

No good ever comes from a stationary body paired with an idle mind.

You keep thinking about what Haibara had said about Toji. Should you have even bothered to ask him out? Should you have asked out someone else instead? You know, the one guy you’ve wanted to talk to since the moment you’d met him. The guy who’s always been there when you made a fool of yourself and who’s never said anything to make you feel bad about it. (He can’t say anything anyways - you barely know each other.) The guy you find extremely handsome and charming and smart and everything a Ravenclaw embodies - yep, no guy other than the one and only-

“Need help?”

You’d scream if you didn’t want to protect your last sliver of dignity.

You look up to meet his eyes, those eyes that always seem to be scrutinizing your every move, questioning, wondering, thinking. A pained smile inhabits your face (you need to look good no matter what, especially in front of him).

“I’m good, thanks,” you say, waving him off, that stupid smile still making the muscles in your cheeks work overtime.

Kento tilts his head as if he is not convinced. He crosses his arms. “Are you sure?”

“Yep,” you say, even though your legs are aching and you really, really want him to pull you out. (But you can’t ask him, you’ve already embarrassed yourself in front of him once today and you’re not sure you can handle a double whammy.) “I’m just,” you pause, looking for a word that would remove all suspicion, ”chillin’.”

His eyebrows shoot up the moment it comes out of your mouth. You honestly didn’t expect anything less - Kento is very observant and does well at reading people, so he knows you’re lying.

“Just chillin’?” he asks. The corner of his mouth twitches as if he’s trying to suppress a smile.

“Just chillin’.” 

Please go away, Kento.

The shake of his head tells you that he doesn’t plan on leaving anytime soon. At least, not before he wins the game of tug-of-war between you and the truth. You need to do something to make him let his guard down and leave you alone, as much as it pains you to think. Here he is, your raging crush, in all his glory, offering to help you, of all things, and you want nothing more than to turn him away.

Haibara would love this. He’d love seeing you suffer. He’d probably say something like, This is the perfect opportunity to get to know him.

Actually. Hold that thought. This is the perfect opportunity to get to know him. Ask Kento about himself and make small talk and he should be totally and completely charmed by you that he’ll forget that you’re halfway sunk into a staircase.

(Thank you, Version-of-Haibara-who-lives-in-your-head.)

“So,” you start, resting your cheek in the palm of your hand, your elbow on your knee (this just pushes your leg further into the stair, but you’ll do anything to appear nonchalant), “how goes the second task for the tournament?”

Kento doesn’t miss a beat.

“Let me help you.”

You shake your head adamantly. (Operation Ask-him-about-himself is a bust. At this point, you are beginning to realize that you are digging yourself a hole and once you are deep enough, the dirt that covers you will be your chagrin.) “I’m fine.”

He runs a hand through his parted blonde hair, the color of straw. Very pretty straw. (Who said that?) A sigh escapes his lips. “This isn’t as embarrassing as you think it is. You know that, right?”

You almost choke. See, you’d known he was a master at reading body language, but you hadn’t known just how good he was. Now you know, and it makes you feel oddly exposed. And also slightly humiliated because you thought you were doing a pretty bang up job of hiding your emotions.

“It’s not that!” you protest, trying to stand up as straight as you can. “Look at me, I really am fine here. Trust me.”

“You look like your calves are starting to burn,” he says.

You scoff. He’s too good. Your calves seem to light themselves on fire the moment he mentions it, and you bite back a grunt as you fix your stance.

He steps closer to you. His hand twinges at his side. You’re about ten inches away from him, and he’s down on his knee to be at eye level with you. If your family didn’t have a history of cardiac disease, you’re about to be at the start. Your heart begins to hammer in your chest, thumping erratically, like there’s something in there begging to be let out. The proximity is suffocating.

He holds your eye contact as if it’s a gun pointed to your head.

(You’ve had a crush on Nanami Kento ever since Year Four. You’d known that your best friend, Yu Haibara, was really close with Kento, having been together since they were kids, but you’d never asked Haibara to introduce you. You preferred to appreciate Kento from a distance, because, let’s be real, he would never notice you, let alone be interested in you the way you were into him. But then Haibara, unprovoked, mind you, had dragged you to the owlery one evening after classes during Year Six, and you’d come face-to-face with the boy you’d been dreaming about for years.

It had been an awkward conversation, more so for him than you. You had been quite a mess, stuttering and stumbling over your words, while he’d been the poster boy of tranquility and composition, and after a few minutes you’d excused yourself, feathers dusting your head, and rushed back to the common room, your face beet red because of a thousand emotions.

As uncomfortable as you’d felt that evening, you didn’t blame him for it (no, you’d done all that yourself) and continued to admire him from afar. Having him inches away from your face now is doing things to you.)

Your brain is running at a million miles per hour. You process everything the only way you know how: by making a list.

Nanami Kento, your crush of three years, is squatting in front of you, approximately ten inches away from your face. His hair is neatly parted, his sunburst eyes are trained on yours and his mouth is twisted slightly into what you can only assume is a smile.

You have had the misfortune of stepping onto the Forbidden Step, AKA one of many trick steps in the Grand Staircase that causes its victim’s leg to sink right through it. You wish you had been paying more attention.

The step has such a hold on your leg that you don’t see any other way out other than to accept help from someone else - in this case, Kento.

You have embarrassed yourself more times than you can count today, but the only person you’re really worried about is Kento. He’s your crush. You’ve always tried to act your best around him. Now he’s had the pleasure of seeing the following: a) Toji breaking you down to your blood status, b) you getting ready to scrap with Toji, c) you passing out (on command, you might add) for the sake of your self-respect the moment you saw Kento in the Great Halll, and now d) you stuck knee-deep in one of the steps, claiming you are just ‘chillin’’.

Having a crush is exhausting. You have to be orderly every moment of every day because you can’t do anything compromising for fear of losing whatever respect he has for you (it’s down to zero percent now, you’re sure).

You give up. You’re hungry, you’re tired, and you need help. The fact that it’s him there to assist by chance is not your business. You’ll take what you can get. Your reputation is already tarnished in his eyes anyways. If he’s offering out of the goodness of his heart or solely because he is the Head Boy and that’s what Head Boys do (you have no idea), who are you to argue? He’s your only chance, because the staircase seems otherwise deserted. How fortunate for you.

You exhale slowly. “My calves are burning,” you mutter, looking away.

“I thought you were just chillin’,” he says. Your eyes snap to his, and he’s smiling, enjoying your discomfort, but you’ll be damned if you don’t admit that he looks drop-dead handsome when he smiles. It feels like when the sun peeks out from behind the clouds after a period of rainfall.

Focus, please.

Before you say anything else, however, he reaches his hands out for you. You realize you’re still holding the tie in your hand and press it into his palm. The faint breeze dances across your sweaty palm, now free of the fabric. This is humiliating. You can’t hold his hands with the slick sweat. You wipe your palms on your robes hurriedly.

When you look back at him, ready to grab onto his arms, he’s looking at the spotted tie in his hand.

It’s silent for a few seconds, the sound of the cogs of his mind turning.

Kento looks up at you, his face strangely devoid of any emotion whatsoever. You can’t gauge what he’s thinking (then again, you are no connoisseur at reading people).

“Sure, I’ll go with you.”

Confusion floods into you like a dam had just broken. “Huh?”

He holds the tie up, the scrunched up fabric trailing limply. You cringe at the visual. “The Yule Ball,” he says simply. “I’ll be your date.”

You want to die. He cannot be serious. You never even asked him. It’s not like you don’t want to go with him - he is literally at the top of the list of potential dates, but he’s also at the top of the list of dates who would reject you (Toji is right beneath him) - so his words turn you inside out.

(If he’s serious, you’re 0 for 1 on your list of dates who’d reject you. That’s right, there are only two names on that list. Send help.)

You’re beginning to short-circuit. There’s only so much that can happen in a day before even you start to wear yourself out. This is just overkill.

Get it together, you hiss at yourself. You need to say something to clear up the misunderstanding. (Where did he even get this idea that you were asking him to the Ball? Was he asking you? No, that couldn’t be.)

“Oh. Oh, no, that’s not-”

“Aren’t you asking me?” he asks, arching a brow. He looks so innocent when he lifts the necktie again, as if that’s supposed to explain anything.

You make an attempt to grab the tie from him. That damn thing was the bane of your existence. “Give me that back. It’s hideous.”

He holds it just out of your reach. “No, it isn’t.”

You roll your eyes in exasperation. You’re sure you’d have it in your hands already if you weren’t buried in the innards of a staircase right now. Skill issue. “It is,” you insist, desperation creeping into your voice. “Don’t argue with me, Kento. And I don’t need you to come with me just because you feel bad for me. I know you saw everything earlier.”

“I did see everything with Fushiguro,” he admits. He lifts a shoulder. “I do feel bad-” When he sees your expression, your narrowed eyes, observing his every move, he holds his free hand out in a placating gesture. “I do,” he says slowly, “but that’s not why I want to go with you.”

That’s not why I want to go with you.

Want. Is he insane?

Keeping your cool is detrimental to the situation right now. “You’re a bad liar, Kento,” you say, shaking your head. His brows raise. “Now give me the tie back and we can forget this happened at all.”

It dawns on you just how stubborn and straightforward Nanami Kento is when he says he’s keeping the tie and drapes it over the back of his neck so it hangs like a scarf. It’s a gaudy contrast to the blue and silver of his tie, the crisp white t-shirt, the dark robes lined with that striking sapphire blue. He’s definitely out of his mind.

This is where you start to lose your calm (if that was even something you had) and your insecurities leak into your words.

“You cannot be serious, Kento,” you huff, spreading your arms. “You’re popular and handsome and smart and the Head Boy. You’ve probably got a ton of dates lined up for you. Go with one of them, okay?”

“Right. Because you’re going to ask Toji again?”

Wow. Just wow. He went there (he’s right to). He’s just like Haibara, if not even worse, though you don’t mind because it’s Nanami Kento. (That is a crappy excuse.)

Leave it to Kento to hit you with the cold, hard truth.

You take a minute, and avoid his gaze while you’re at it. There are a million things running through your mind. A billion, even.

First, Kento wants to go to the Ball with you. He thinks you were asking him. And he said yes. He also seems to be oddly attached to that ugly necktie. Even now, when you sneak a glance at him, he’s still squatting, but now he’s looking down at the ends of the tie, running his fingers along the silky fabric. He seems thoroughly entertained.

And let’s not forget how he completely violated you by bringing up your failure with Toji. You want to bury your head in the sand and become one with the hermit crabs.

If he wants to attend the Ball with you, let’s indulge. This is what you’ve wanted, after all. Maybe this time won’t be so awkward.

A knot forms in your stomach at the thought of being his date to the most anticipated event of the year. All eyes will be on him. And then all eyes will slide to the person next to him, and everyone will be thoroughly disappointed. You know everyone wants him to go with someone more popular, like Utahime, the Head Girl.

You decide to roll with it, swallowing all of your doubts and fears. There was no point in letting your thoughts fester over things other people wanted. You have Kento and you have a date to the Ball. (And, it seems that Kento isn’t going to make the Toji incident a big deal. That’s an automatic plus.)

You take a deep breath. Kento looks up at you, waiting.

“Okay,” you nod. “But I’m scrapping the whole matching accessories thing."

“No.”

You let out a scoff again. The audacity he has is immeasurable. It’s also slightly attractive (don’t tell Haibara).

“What?” you ask, hoping your ears were just malfunctioning.

“No.”

You narrow your eyes. “Is that all you say?”

His eyes widen for a millisecond before they slip back to normal. “No.” A flush crosses his face. “I mean, yes. I mean-” He pinches the bridge of his nose with a defeated sigh. “We’re keeping the tie and headband and we’re wearing them and we’re going to the Ball together, okay?”

He’s bold, you’ll give him that. Butterflies flutter about your stomach at his words. You feel like you’re in a dream (one of many that you’ve had before) and the only thing grounding you is the fact that you are literally grounded. In a step.

Still, you don’t like the necktie. A few hours ago you’d thought the tie was your magnum opus, but now, looking at it contrast against his house’s colors, all crinkled from you transferring all your stress (and sweat) into it, you decide that if he wants a tie, you’ll at least make it look better.

“Let me change the color,” you suggest. “It looks like Hufflepuff’s colors. I can do blue for you.”

“No.”

Here we go again.

“Give me a break,” you whine.

He shakes his head, looking at you as if he can’t believe you would even suggest such a blasphemous thing. “I like it as it is. It doesn’t need improvements.”

You try to protest, but his opinion is set in stone and he won’t be swayed. It’s infuriating, but you can’t bring yourself to argue with him about it anymore. You just want to be pulled out of the step and run along to the common room. Well, you’ll hit the kitchens first - Sukuna will be thrilled to hear about your trainwreck of a day.

You finally, despite how painful it is, agree to keep the necktie in its original form. (At this point it’s just to appease Kento.)

Still, you can’t help but make a playful jab at him (your stomach roils with fluttering). “I can’t believe you’re forcing me to go with you.”

He laughs, and it’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever heard. It’s a soft chuckle but you’ll take it. It feels like flowers blooming in the morning sun.

“I really am,” he says, smiling. His eyes are sparkling as he looks at you. You look away, your cheeks warming.

He holds his hands out for you. “Come on.”

You try to avert your eyes, blindly reaching for his arms - his strong, solid arms that you were gripping with all your might - and he holds onto yours as he pulls you out.

You groan as your foot is dislodged, the freedom almost akin to ecstasy, and subsequently stumble right into him with a grunt.

He catches himself with one hand on the banister and the other around your waist.

Your blood is rushing in your ears, your heart beating way too fast to be deemed normal, your face as red as a rose. You’re looking anywhere but at him. You can’t. You’re pressed against him, hands grabbing at his robes, and you can hear his heartbeat (which, for the record, was almost beating as fast as yours).

“Are you okay?” he asks softly, almost tenderly.

You step back, slightly woozy from the effort - you could have stayed in that position forever, you fear - and place a hand on the banister while you rub your leg. There’s definitely going to be a bruise tomorrow morning.

His hand lingers on your side for a moment before he lets go.

He’s looking at you. Those eyes that appeared to hold entire galaxies inside of them, swirling angrily, waiting to be released into the universe. Those same eyes that were also currently holding your gaze with a compassion that you didn’t know what to do with.

(You have wanted to be in this situation with Kento for years. Maybe not with the whole Toji thing or passing out or being stuck in the stairs, but definitely close to him, and most definitely to be going to the Ball as his date. But now that you have it in the palm of your hand, you have no idea what you’re supposed to be doing. You’ll just have to freeball it.)

“I’m fine,” you say quietly, your voice cracking (how embarrassing). “Thank you.” Your smile looks more like a grimace than anything else. He probably sees it too, that’s why his lips quirk up.

He nods. “Okay, then.” He flaps his hands at his sides, and it’s oddly endearing, because he looks like a kid who doesn’t know what to do with his hands. “I’ll see you in class, then?”

“Yeah.” You give him a thumbs up. (You don’t know why you did that.)

He chuckles again. (You’re elated at the fact that you’ve made Nanami Kento laugh twice, which is more than the amount of times you’ve actually seen him laugh outside of this interaction.) “Try not to pass out anytime soon,” he says, then starts to go up the stairs, his shoulder brushing against yours as he passes. Your body tenses at the contact.

You’re already blushing from his little jab, but when he stops and says, “And just so you know, I took points from Slytherin because of what Fushiguro called you,” you almost drop down from a heart attack.

There is no way Kento is real. He’s so- ugh. He’s a drug and you’re high on him. (You can only imagine what it’ll be like at the Ball if this is how you’re acting around him after only about half an hour.)

You clear your throat. You turn, but his back is facing you.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you call out.

He shrugs, and looks at you. “I wanted to.” He keeps walking up the steps, then pauses. “And I can. So I did.”

And then he’s gone, onto the next flight of steps, leaving you standing there in utter disbelief, clutching the banister with a bruising grip.

Nanami Kento is going to be your undoing.

You make your way down the stairs to the kitchens, your brain feeling like it's been mixed into a slushie. Your thoughts are all over the place and the only thing you can really recall is that you’re somehow going to the Yule Ball with Head Boy Nanami Kento as your date. 

What you need right now is a nice warm meal and someone to talk to who isn’t Haibara (because you wouldn’t hear the end of it from him) and you know just who to go to.

The kitchens of Hogwarts have always been something of a safe haven to you. When everything is too much to handle - the studying, the extracurriculars, the infinite trials that come with dealing with people - the kitchens have got your back. Plus, the house-elves don’t judge, they love to make conversation (most of them), and hey, it’s free food. What’s better than free food? (And the fact that no one really cares about the kitchens, which is sad, but it works in your favor when you want to run away from people.)

You’ve always thought the way to get into the kitchens is bizarre, and that’s saying something since you’re literally in a school that teaches magic. The whole tickling pear thing is really pushing it. Why can’t it be something like waving your wand around in front of the portrait while saying something like Fruit basket, fruit basket on the wall, let me in so I can eat it all? (Honestly, the lack of imagination is insulting.)

Unfortunately for you, tickling the pear is the only way in, so you comply (but you are anything but happy about it).

You turn the handle and open the door.

The lights are brighter than the sun, and you squint, trying to adjust. You can’t see yet, but you can hear, and smell, and right then you can hear the sounds of trays being set down onto the countertops, of feet pattering across the tiled floor, of soups and broths bubbling in huge pots, the scents of freshly baked bread, ground spices, roasted meat and, oddly, the smell of buttercream frosting as it’s piped onto cupcakes.

When your eyes deem themselves ready to open, you see the elves running around the vast area of the kitchen, all in a rush, all busy. They’re all wearing aprons and tea towels with the Hogwarts insignia on them, some splattered with flour and sauces, others clean and bright.

You’re looking for one elf in particular, though you’re quite familiar with all of them by now (you’ve had seven years to get acquainted with them - it’d be pretty embarrassing if you couldn’t tell them all apart from each other in a lineup).

As you peer deeper into the kitchen, through the pots and pans and utensils, someone calls out to you. Your attention snaps to the voice.

“Here to get some sandwiches, young lady?” Eso asks as he cuts the bread in half. He smiles at you brightly, and you smile back. Eso is three feet tall, give or take, with a small tuft of dark hair that he spikes with cornstarch (his words, not yours) and grey eyes as large as tennis balls. (You have never told him, but since the other house-elves don’t grow hair like he does, you’ve always referred to his pride and joy as the Handful of Hair That Could. He’d probably snap his fingers and transfigure you if you ever told him, though.)

You shake your head. “Not hungry,” you say, walking over to him, still scanning the room for the one elf you’d come to speak with. “What kind of sandwiches are these?”

He cuts the bread and holds up one for you to see. You don’t really get a good look because of how fast he’s moving and so all you catch is a bit of lettuce, and you nod and say it seems tasty.

Eso gives you a quick huff, as if it could be anything but delicious.

Your eyes catch on an elf moving at what you can only assume are supersonic speeds near the ovens.

Bingo. You make your way over, greeting the other house-elves as you try not to mess their flow up.  Some of them offer you something to eat, but you decline - your stomach is still disagreeing with you ever since the staircase and Kento.

“Hello, Sukuna,” you greet, sliding next to him.

He’s one of the older house-elves; he’s been around for a long time and has seen things you couldn’t even begin to imagine. He can come off as gruff and dismissive, but after you’d befriended him out of sheer persistence you’d realized that he was quite the sweetheart deep down. (Now that you think about it, he probably just gave up on trying to repel you and is now just entertaining you for the sake of it. Ah, what the hell, sure, you’ll take it.)

He looks up and sees you smiling down at him. You try to crouch, or, to take a page from Kento’s book, squat so that you’re not towering over him, but he waves you off. He hates it when you try to stoop to his level. Literally.

Sukuna’s skin is reminiscent of a manila folder, and it looks about as strong as the contents of such a folder - easily torn. That doesn’t mean he’s weak. Absolutely not. No, Sukuna is quite possibly one of the strongest people you’ve ever met. The guy can lift a whole oven with one hand. One hand. It gags you every time.

His eyes are a different story. He’s the first elf you’ve seen whose irises are the deep shade you only find in the purest of the purest garnets. You could get lost in them if you stared for too long, it’s almost hypnotizing.

“Young miss,” he says, setting down a tray of dough on top of the oven. He’s waiting for the batch inside to be done (yet another thing you wonder about - why can’t they just use magic to cook the food?). “What brings you here today?”

You shrug, trying not to vomit out all the reasons at once. “I always come here.”

He gives you a skeptical look, his brows raised, unimpressed. “Unlike Master Geto,” he mutters under his breath, getting back to work.

At the mention of Hogwarts’ champion Geto Suguru, your eyes widen. “What about him?”

Sukuna shrugs. “Master Geto always comes in here and steals food.”

You bite back a laugh. “You know, that would be right, actually.” As true as it sounds, you feel the need to defend Suguru’s honor. “He’s a nice person, you know,” you say (even though you barely know him). “He’s the champion of Hogwarts for the Triwizard-”

“We are all well aware,” Sukuna cuts in. He snaps his fingers and the oven door opens, blasting you with heat. You jump back with a yelp, shielding your face with your arm.

While he works to put in a new batch of pastries, he continues, “Master Geto brought a young lady with him the other night. They had some of the eclairs together and drank tea and then left.”

Your brows raise. “I didn’t know anyone else came to the kitchens,” you murmur.

The house-elf catches your gaze, which is focused on the tiled floor, and smiles. “You’re still a regular here, young miss.”

You realize how pathetic you must look to him. (Is it time to make another list, this time of things to tell, AKA rant about, to Sukuna? You should hold off on the lists for a moment.)

There’s a stool in the far corner; a small three-legged thing that wobbles on one end. You move over and drag it a bit closer to the ovens, not so close that you’ll get hit with the heat again and burn your face off, but close enough that Sukuna won’t have to strain to hear you and have to stop what he’s doing to listen (if he even cares).

You begin to tell him about your day, from asking Toji out to Haibara making you think about things you’d rather not to Kento finding you stuck in the steps. While you speak, he replies with a grunt or mutters something under his breath (still unsure if he’s talking to you or not). 

It feels good to get it all off your chest. And Sukuna doesn’t hold back with his opinions and he’s not biased. He’s perfect for a fresh set of eyes and ears on your dilemma.

When you’re done, you’re practically out of breath, and your ears are burning, not from the heat, but from your embarrassment.

Sukuna takes a minute, tending to the pastries, before he turns to you, crossing his arms over his chest. His ears, resembling that of a bat’s, flutter for a moment while he thinks of how to reply back to you.

After a minute, he sighs, tossing you a fresh pastry. You catch it, raising your brows in confusion.

“Master Nanami is a bright young man,” he says slowly, his eyes running over your face, probably trying to see if you’ll have any reaction to his words. You do, you get even redder. He smiles, almost triumphantly. “Sukuna thinks you’re being ridiculous about everything.”

You sit up straighter, feeling insulted. You’d just opened up your heart and soul to the house-elf who was practically one of your closest friends (only from your end) and this was the thanks you get? Being told you’re overreacting. How dare he. Why you ought to-

Sukuna knows what you’re about to say before you even say it. He always does. Perks of being old, you assume.

He holds a hand up. “Eat the pastry, young miss,” he says. “It’ll help you see things clearer.”

(Turns out you were just hangry. Sukuna really had you thinking he had psychic abilities and whatnot, what with being able to tell you just needed to eat something to feel better. And you’re fighting demons to even admit this, but the pastry tasted like heaven on earth.)

So Sukuna thinks you’re being an idiot about the whole thing. Whatever. He doesn’t know what it was like being in the Great Hall with Toji. He doesn’t know what it was like having Kento obsess over that stupid tie while you were stuck deep inside of a step. The next time you see Sukuna (in a few hours) you’re going to give him a piece of your mind (no, you aren’t). For the time being, you’re left to figure out how you’re going to survive the Yule Ball because, and it hits you like an eighteen-wheeler going one-twenty miles an hour, you don’t know how to dance.

(In retrospect, maybe Toji rejecting you is a good thing, because you can’t even begin to imagine how he’d react when you tell him you don’t know how to do a simple waltz. He’d drop you as his date, no doubt, leaving you scrambling for someone else who’s willing to teach you.)

A/N: thank you so much for reading, i really hoped you liked this chapter! i know it was quite long, i promise the others will be between 3-6k tops, save for one other chapter. i really have to thank @gojover for quite literally pulling me out of my cave and hyping me up to write. (sometimes with a gun to my head /j) and allow me to give @admiringlove a shout out for being yet another one of my cheerleaders. (art by elitamasan on X)