#The last name to first name pipeline is real

[joeytime]

Maxiel Hogwarts Au...

If you asked Max what he thought of Hogwarts, he would likely make a joke about pigs and insult their quidditch teams.

He isn't sure it's smart to do that now, in the middle of the Hogwarts' grand hall, completely surrounded by Hogwarts' students and staff. He isn't sure he could escape even if he had his broom.

"Wow, you really hate Hogwarts." The dreaded hat says atop his hair.

Shut up! Max thinks furiously at it. Get out of my head!

Everyone stares intensely at Max, not daring to breathe while the fate of the member of the national quidditch team is being decided. Even the teachers are at the edge of their seats, other than Dumbledore, he seems to know where Max will inevitably end up.

"Little quidditch champion. Everyone is expecting" The hat says, as if it's life of forever moving from head to head to call one of four words is somehow a greater destiny than Max's.

It's not. Max knows he will go on to succeed in life, and win as many quidditch championships as he wants and then retire on an island in The Maldives with a butt load of cash while the hat is left in a dusty room, waiting for it's yearly use. Max wants to reach to rip it up but it would not be wise to do so in front of Dumbledore himself. His hands stay in his lap, frown etched on his face.

"Impatient. Immature." Max's fingers twitch slightly. There is only so much backtalk one can take from a hat.

"Violent and uncaring, wherever will I put you?" Max doesn't agree with that description, he cares plenty, about winning that is.

"Foolish. Foolish boy." It doesn't hurt, Max has heard those words plenty of times.

Max sulks.

It's a beat of silence before the suspense reaches its climax. "Hufflepuff! " The hat hollers, not bothering to consult Max on it's decision. Which is very rude and impolite.

The entire room erupts into chaos, screams of "What! " and "No way! No way!" echo throughout the hall.

Max can't help but agree, he thought he might end up in Gryffindor or Slytherin, maybe Ravenclaw if he was super unlucky. But Hufflepuff? His father was going to disown him. The media are going to have a field day. Well they were going to already, regardless of which house Max was put in.

Dumbledore moves to pull the hat off of Max, the treacherous thing whispers one last time: "Things will make sense in time. Be patient. Do not mope."

Max doesn't mope. Verstappens can't mope, so he doesn't.

Dumbledore gently guides a slightly speechless Max to the Hufflepuff table, pushing him into the seat before winking and walking off.

Max wants to burn down this school.

Cheers erupt from the Hufflepuff table, hands coming to pat him on the back and fawn over him.

The other tables seem miserable at the prospect of losing out on a quidditch champion.

"Oh my god! Hi! Hi! Oh my god! It's you!" A boy excitedly chatters to his left, other students crowd around him and Max suddenly finds that he can't breathe. It's like he's small again, after being knocked off his broom by an overly excited big kid. He had fallen to the ground, too exhausted and overwhelmed to get back up.

His father had been mad, really mad. He hadn't slept well again after that.

"Guys! Guys! He doesn't look so good. " Whoever that is, is definitely right, Max can hardly breathe, he tries to use the breathing technique his father taught him after his first match, control his breathing. It doesn't work, it only causes the panic and urgency in his veins to surge. It did work, it's purpose was to put him on guard, not calm down.

He curls into himself, hands around his ears to protect from the deafening sound of crowds cheering. His bubble of personal space is of course pried and poked at. Fans never had any self awareness when it came to these matters and his father never did have sympathy for personal space.

Hands are pried away from him, he can hear outraged screeching at the action. His own quidditch team's screams when he was 6 years old and pulled away to join the older kids. They thought it wasn't fair that a small boy climbed the ranks faster than they did.

"Hey! Hey! Everyone back up right now!" The entire opposing team bombarding him in an attempt to stop him. The referee's reprimand that fell on deaf ears.

The people at his sides are replaced and gentle hands hold him back up, out of the ball he curled himself into.

Max doesn't dare look up, too afraid at the thought of seeing his father's judgemental look.

"Hey, are you okay? " Max turns his head, soft, gentle, warm eyes, concerned. Jos was never concerned, he was the uncaring one! Not Max!

"I'm fine. " A repeated response, practiced again and again every time he came home to his mother.

The teen with the soft eyes gestures for another boy to sit on Max's other side. The boy opposite Max looks on in concern.

"Hello. I'm Daniel Riccardo, I'm a prefect of Hufflepuff, it's nice to meet you." The gentle boy says, eyes still filled with concern.

"Max Verstappen. " Max manages to choke out.

"The boy on your left is Yuki Tsunoda and that's Lando Norris." Daniel gestures to the boy sitting opposite Max, who waves shyly.

The ruckus Max's sorting caused calms down and everyone settles down to listen to Dumbledore's welcome back speech which luckily does not mention Max.

Max feels strange between Riccardo and Tsunoda, like dread wrapped in false cotton. Norris also peers at him from time to time, creep.

They're sent back to their dorms. Max tells Riccardo that he can get there on his own but the older boy frowns and insists that he takes Max. Max thinks his father would be disappointed at his complacency but he doesn't have the strength to fight it.

Riccardo leads him to the kitchen, Max wants to snap some insult about him being a goody two shoes and how this is none of his business. He holds his tongue.

Riccardo gestures to a specific barrel, looking more worn out than the ones around it. He taps a certain beat, perhaps it's a secret code. That's childish, Max decides, they are not children playing in a fort.

The barrel swings open.

Max grimaces at the small tunnel.

"Here, you try tapping it." Riccardo puts Max's hand to the barrel.

Max repeats the rhythm perfectly. Memory exercises were part of his training.

Once Riccardo is satisfied, he points at the tunnel, almost as if he wants Max to crawl through it.

Max scrunches his nose, seriously? The older boy points more urgently and Max relents, shoving himself through the tunnel.

Well, not shoving, he's not really big, a fact his father loathed, putting him on diets with large sums of proteins and even attempting to use transfiguration spells before it was put to a stop by his mother.

Max wished his mother had not stopped his father. Maybe he would have an excuse not to join this god forsaken house.

It's an agonizing 5 second crawl before he pops out the other end right in front of Lando Norris, the boy before.

Daniel appears behind him, putting a hand on Max's shoulder.

"So Max, this is the Hufflepuff house. You know Yuki and Lando. That's Oscar, Nico and Valtteri." Riccardo urges the boys to come forward.

"It's Verstappen. " Max declares, Riccardo quirks an eyebrow and the rest of the boys look equally confused.

"Hi! I'm Lando! I'm like a huge fan, do you mind signing this for me? " The boy's yellow robes are somehow orange.

Max's PR training kicks in and he smiles one of those sickly sweet smiles that his father loves to wipe off his face before ordering him to smile again. His posture straightens and he reaches a hand around the younger boy's shoulders, patting him on his back once, twice. Just like he rehearsed.

"Sure! " His tone is so obviously a faux sweet as he reaches to retrieve the black marker from his back pocket. The boy has stars in his eyes and Max feels guilty, he always does. He's a fraud.

He signs the hat from his national team, the one he left behind.

He wishes he didn't.

"Hey, are you okay Max? " Riccardo asks, looking weird again.

"I'm doing great, how are you? " His PR trainer said asking back these questions were endearing, cute. Max's father had mocked him for that act, his trainer had been fired after that.

"How about I bring you to your room? Would you like that?" Riccardo asks, Max smiles again, nodding.

"Sure." Norris waves enthusiastically as Riccardo leads him out of the common room and into his private room.

"Are you alright? Max?"

"Call me Verstappen."

"Verstappen. Are you alright?"

"You can go, Riccardo. "

"... Call if you need anything."

When the prefect leaves, Max wants nothing but to burst into tears. He flops onto the bed.

The next day he drags himself out of bed. Even if classes don't start till 9 and the sun hasn't risen yet.

Jos expected him to continue his strict training regime. He was almost tempted to skip it and lie to his father but he thought he better not after his humiliating sorting from yesterday.

Now, alone, Max can see the Hufflepuff room properly. It's... It's all gentle lighting, none of the bright fluorescent lights his room had. The chairs looked comfy and the many plants lazing around the common room tempts him to join them.

Perhaps that would be a better fate, turning into a plant to live the rest of his life in the common room. His hand lingers on his wand, mind on a spell his professor taught him when he was just 9. He didn't.

When he had crawled out of the Hufflepuff room, fully dressed, broom in hand, the sun was just peaking from the horizon.

The halls are empty, some portraits mutter as he walks by. His father's portraits never moved, other than those instructed to. For example, a painter that never stopped moving his brush or a surfer never to take a break from the sea.

Making his way to the Hogwarts field, he stretched, slow and patient. His bones crack from the exhausting day he had before.

The field is decent sized, not as big as the one he played in during national championships, bigger than the one his father made him run laps around till he fainted.

He glides through the air easily, flying comes easily to him. If he were to be given his own time and freedom he thinks he would likely still be a top player in the school leagues.

It's better that he was hurled up though. Better to have reached the top by sheer force of his father's training.

He thinks about his national team, he's a reserve, too young to play officially but the team has him in some practices and he attends smaller competitions for them. Max suspects it's more about having a claim on Max when he comes of age.

He's 15, he still has 3 years to choose which team he wants to go to. By then, he will make his own choice. He will not do whatever pleases his father anymore.

The golden snitch twinkles near the end of the field. Max pretends not to see it.

It is fun, sometimes, tricking the golden snitch, allowing it a false sense of security. Like a tiger cub playing with a cricket.

His father would get mad at him if he did it for too long, he was upset his son couldn't catch it at once. Which Max could, he just didn't see the fun of it.

The fluttering golden ball is in his hands before it can even think of escaping.

Max briefly wonders if the snitch can possibly think, he lets it flutter away, repeating his game once again.

In the golden light of the sun and shaded path of the clouds, the wind whizzes past his ears, he falls into the familiar rhythm of flying, sometimes he makes his own obstacle courses, weaving through imaginary hoops.

By the time the sun reveals itself fully to watch Max fly, he realizes that a crowd has gathered around under him, star-struck Hogwarts students watching, mouths open and everything.

He flushes slightly, he may have had many adoring fans due to his membership in the national team and young age but come on! These were his peers.

Max lowers down, checking his watch to see that it is indeed 8.30am and he has to run if he wants to get to class not drenched in sweat.

He waves slightly to the crowd, zipping to the house dorm even though he's probably breaking several school rules.

He knocks the tune and enters quickly, still high from the adrenaline of flying.

He climbs out of the tunnel only to come face to face with Daniel Riccardo, his face stern and stony.

"Verstappen! You can't just sneak out like that!" Daniel's expression softens when he sees Max.

Max knows he feels pity even if Riccardo knows nothing about his life.

"I of course did not sneak out, I left my room and went to the field." Max doesn't think early hour training counts as sneaking out, going to parties in the dead of the night is sneaking out.

"Max, we were worried. I went into your room and you weren't there. Thought you'd been kidnapped by the other houses to play quidditch for them or something... "

Max considers this briefly, Riccardo knocking on his door gleefully, freezing when he doesn't get an answer. Did his blood pressure spike? Did he throw Max's door open in desperation only to find the room empty?

Max grimaces.

"I went to go training... Sorry..." Max stands awkwardly, hands by his side like a child being punished by a parent.

Riccardo sighs. Max wants to cry.

"Please forgive me, I'm of course sorry, I will do anything!" Max cringes inside, begging with someone other than his father is a foreign concept.

Riccardo has a cheeky smile on his face, Max is almost scared.

"I'll forgive you... Only if you call me Daniel!"

Max groans inwardly, well he's also partly relieved but Daniel doesn't need to know that.

"What will it be Max? Will you call me the d word? Or will you suffer in my never ending spite! "Daniel's grin grows.

" Fine. "

" Fine, who? "

"Fine. Daniel."

Max flushes, weird.

Daniel looks elated.

[buckybarnesluvr]

The Winter Don

//Pairing// Mob Boss!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

//Summary// You were sent to kill him. One knife, one shot. Instead, Bucky Barnes has you pinned in his penthouse—bruised, soaking wet, and straddling his lap.

//Word Count// ~2.6k

//Warnings// fingering, rough sex, PIV (use protection!!!), m&f orgasm, metal arm kink, dominance/submission dynamics, choking, possessive behavior, consensual power imbalance, violence

You only had one shot.

One knife. One breath. One silent step in the marble hallway of a Neapolitan church before he turned around and caught you.

Metal fingers closed around your wrist, and the blade clattered to the floor. You barely blinked before your back hit the wall and his body pinned you there—solid muscle, wet leather, the scent of rain and something expensive you couldn’t name.

“Finally,” he said.

You didn’t flinch. “Don’t move.”

“I’ve been waiting for you.”

His voice was calm. Unshaken. Like you hadn’t just tried to carve his throat open. His flesh hand rose, slow and unbothered, unbuckling the collar of his black coat. Like he was bored.

“They sent you with one knife?” he asked. “Either they underestimated me, or they overestimated you.”

You pressed your knee up between his legs—sharp and sudden. He caught it with his thigh, grunted once, then smiled.

God, he was beautiful when he smiled.

“Cute,” he said. “Try that again and I’ll break your kneecap.”

He didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t threaten you like a man used to making noise. Just stated it. Calm. Cold. True.

James Buchanan Barnes. Il Don Invernale. The Winter Don. Rumored to run every black market pipeline south of Milan, and to kill without leaving a mark. Hydra’s ghost. Naples’ king.

And now, the man breathing against your cheek with his metal hand wrapped tight around your throat.

“You gonna scream?” he asked.

“Should I?”

He tilted his head, leaned in, and smiled like sin. “Only if it’s for me.”

You spit in his face.

He laughed. Actually laughed. A short, ragged sound like he couldn’t remember the last time someone made his blood run hot.

Then he dragged you out of the church, into the rain, into a black car. You fought. He didn’t care. You swore you’d kill him.

He said, “Get in line.”

Now you’re in his penthouse. In his lap.

Wrists still sore. Lip still split. And his fingers tracing the bare skin of your thigh like you’re already his.

“You’re quiet,” he murmurs, voice low, mouth near your ear. “Not so mouthy now, are you?”

“You haven’t asked a real question.”

He hums. “Fair.”

He presses his thumb into the inside of your thigh, where your pulse beats fast.

“You’re not gonna tell me who sent you, are you?”

“No.”

“You gonna beg when I make you come?”

You laugh once. Sharp. Bitter. “Keep dreaming.”

He shifts beneath you. You feel him—hard under those tailored black slacks, slow and steady, like he’s been hard since the moment you pulled that knife on him.

You’re still wearing your ruined blouse, wet with rain. One side torn. He looks at the exposed lace beneath and exhales like a man trying to keep himself from doing something unholy.

“I should kill you,” he says, palm sliding higher, fingers grazing where you’re already wet. “I really should.”

You tilt your head. “Then why haven’t you?”

He looks up at you. His eyes are hungry. Calm. Dangerous.

“Because I want to fuck you first.”

Your breath stutters. He feels it. Smiles again.

“I want to fuck the fight out of you,” he whispers. “I want to see how many times I can make you come before you forget why you came here in the first place.”

You should spit in his face again. You should claw at his skin and bite his jaw and remind him who the hell you are.

But when he slips two fingers into your panties and slides them through your folds, you arch into his hand.

His eyes darken.

“Wet,” he murmurs. “You gonna lie to me again, sweetheart?”

You grit your teeth. “It’s adrenaline.”

He presses two fingers inside you. Deep. Slow. Filthy.

“Sure it is.”

You bite your lip so hard it almost bleeds. His thumb circles your clit with calculated precision, the kind that comes from a man who doesn’t guess—he knows. He feels the way your hips twitch, hears the change in your breath, watches your mouth fall open.

“You come on my hand,” he says, “and I might let you ride my cock after.”

You hate him. And you hate that it feels this good.

His metal hand wraps around your throat, thumb under your jaw as he fucks you on his fingers, fast and deep. You tremble. You clench. You break.

You come hard. Shaking. Crying out into his shoulder. Clawing at his shirt like he’s the only solid thing in the world.

He groans, pulling his fingers out slow.

Then he lifts them to his mouth and sucks them clean, eyes on yours the entire time.

“That’s mine now.” he murmurs.

You try to stand. He yanks you back down onto his lap, grinds up into you until you feel the shape of him between your thighs.

“Where do you think you’re going?” he asks, unbuckling his belt.

“You said if I came, I could ride you.”

His hands drag your panties off in one rough motion. “Then do it.”

You slide down onto him. Slowly. Tight around him. His breath hitches and his fingers dig into your waist like he’s trying not to lose it.

“Fuck, baby,” he groans. “So fucking tight.”

You start to move. He doesn’t let you. His hands keep you there, grinding slow circles into his lap, keeping him deep inside while your head falls to his shoulder.

“You tried to kill me,” he whispers. “And now you’re dripping on my cock.”

“You haven’t won.”

He thrusts up once. Hard.

You scream.

“I haven’t even started.”

He fucks you like a man with no time and no conscience. Brutal, deep, relentless. His metal fingers leave bruises on your hips. His mouth moves against your neck—biting, sucking, claiming.

“You want to kill me still?” he pants.

“Yes—”

He slams into you harder. “Then do it. After I fill you up.”

“You’re a fucking psychopath—”

“Maybe. But you’re still taking every inch of me like you were made for it.”

You come again, this time with your head thrown back, spine arching, fingers clawing into his shoulders. He follows with a growl, coming inside you, holding you down while he empties into you, twitching deep, cock pulsing.

He stays there. Buried. Breathing hard.

“You try to leave,” he whispers, “and I’ll make you scream like this in front of every man who hired you.”

You open your mouth to threaten him again.

But all that comes out is his name.

And his smile says he’s already won.

[oddlydescriptive]

Reset, Chapter Seventeen

Series Masterlist

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You didn’t get flown out for the final race. Didn’t get a dress code email for the prize giving ceremony. Didn’t get a hotel keycard left in an envelope at the front desk. You watched the last race of the season from your dorm, curled up on your twin bed with a plate of freezer dumplings and a laptop that buffered at least twice before the stream caught up.

Red Bull won everything, obviously. Verstappen took the final checkered flag like it was inevitable. The team celebrated in a blaze of champagne and perfectly lit content loops. You closed the window before the podium interviews even started.

No one called. No one needed anything.

And honestly, that made sense.

You’re still under contract through December 31st- still, technically, Red Bull property- but AlphaTauri’s already been announced. You’re not just development anymore. You’re not just RedBull Racing anymore. You’re forward-facing. Pipeline material. And while no one has said it aloud, the shift’s been happening for weeks.

They’re phasing you out.

Quietly. Gently. Efficiently.

Your data access had been the first thing to go- little changes, gradual redactions. You still had log-ins, but fewer dashboards showed up when you used them. Then the assignments started thinning out. Weekly reports became biweekly summaries. Dev meeting invites stopped appearing unless someone had a specific question for you. A sim anomaly. A question about a comment you had left on the braking data a few weeks ago. 

It’s not personal. It’s not even cruel. It’s just… logistics. And you got it. You get it. You do.

You’re not their girl anymore. Or, won’t be. Not in the gears-and-axles sense. You got exactly what you wanted. You’ve stopped being a cog. Now you’re something shinier. Something public. A face. A product. A name.

You’d had more access than you probably should’ve from the beginning. More control. More input. They’re only pulling back what they’d loaned in the first place.

Still.

You’d built your entire life around this place since they dumped you on the factory steps in August-  broke, jagged, desperate, hungry for anything more than the Indy career you had torched to the ground. This badge. These halls. The windowless sim rooms and bitter instant coffee and shared dorm showers. It’s become your whole ecosystem.

And now?

Now you’re bored.

Not in the casual, oh-I-have-nothing-to-do sense. Not in the Instagram scroll, maybe-I’ll-go-for-a-run way. You’re untethered. No real tasks. A measly four calendar holds before the end of the year. No Gavin- he’s traveling with the team.  No Alessandro- burning PTO like a matchbook before the winter build surge. No Danny- off wrapping up his last days with McClaren. Stuck, just like you. Stuck, right here in purgatory.

Lying on your back in a sterile little dorm room with your legs curled up like a child and your phone battery at nine percent. Watching the forced-air heating ruffle a stray paper on your desk, trying not to fall asleep before the year-end party even starts.

It’s not loneliness, exactly. You’ve survived worse. Objectively, you have zero complaints.

But it’s quiet in a way that makes your skin itch.

There are big things coming. Huge things. A race seat. Brand deals and sponsors. Points, even, if you play your cards right. But right now? Right now you’re still technically Red Bull. Still on their payroll. Still sleeping under their roof.

You’re not part of the machine you live in anymore. And the weight of that contradiction is making you feel… something. Not numb. Not sad. Not exactly.

Just unmoored. 

The day’s gotten away from you in your spiral- cold gray light stretching thin across the dorm ceiling, your phone buzzing occasionally from across the room and left unread. You should be doing something. Hair. Makeup. Picking out an outfit for this evening’s staff year end party. Anything.

Instead, you’ve just been… still.

You can’t quite name it. The feeling in your chest like a tether’s been cut. The quiet hum of weightless boredom, pressed under the skin like a bruise that never quite blooms.

You’re still training. Still working. You show up to the gym like it’s your job- because it kind of is. Because it’s the only thing that hasn’t shifted beneath your feet lately. The rhythm, the discipline, the ache. It reminds you of the summer. The purgatory of Jos’s house. The hours you carved open just to fill them with movement. With sweat. With anything that kept you from unraveling entirely.

But this has been different.

Since you got here- since the AlphaTauri shook the marrow out of your bones and left you wrung out and trembling for your life in an ice bath- you’ve been training with intention. Not just survival. Not just control. Not just maintenance. You’ve been trying to build.

For the first time in your life, the goal isn’t to disappear.

It’s to expand.

IndyCar never cared if you were strong. They cared if you were light. No driver weight minimums. Junior series, whatever flavor you drove in any given year, same thing. Lighter was faster. Coaches, engineers, principals- always asking the same questions.

How light can you get and still drive? How many days can you go without carbs before your body starts eating your reflexes?

Smaller was better. A decade of conditioning that turned your own hunger into an enemy. Every pound scrutinized. Every calorie accounted for. Racing in those worlds meant being barely there- meant learning to cut yourself down until you fit inside the mold.

The only real advantage to being a woman in that system? You were already small. Naturally lighter. It made the weight targets a little easier- sometimes. While your male teammates were scraping muscle off themselves to make weight, skipping meals and running hot just to cut grams, you were coasting in under the line. Not because it was healthy. Not because it was fair. But because being born smaller meant you starved less.

But now?

Now you’re in F1.

Now there's a minimum. A fixed number. Now it doesn’t matter if you’re naturally small- because every pound you don’t carry is another pound your competitors get to fill with power. With strength. With muscle that helps them outdrive, outmuscle, outlast you.

You’re no longer rewarded for taking up less space. You’re punished for it. So you’ve changed.

You’ve been eating like it matters. Training like it’s math- input and output, time and tension. Your body, for the first time since before you got your first period, isn’t a compromise. It’s becoming a weapon.

You sit up slowly. Peel off your clothes. One layer at a time. Hoodie, socks, leggings, tank. Until you’re just in your underwear and bra. Cotton. Soft. Familiar.

Then you reach for the full-length mirror leaning against the wall and drag it onto the bed with you. Set it up agasint your pillows so you can see yourself. All of you. Up close.

And then you look. Really look. Take stock.

Your thighs are thicker now. Solid. Corded with new muscle, the kind that moves when you shift and flexes without trying. They press together, heavy and warm and proud. They flow into hips that have grown wider, fuller, more anchored somehow. Your waist is still there- narrow, defined- but the curve from rib to hip to thigh is smooth and deep and fucking stunning.

You twist slightly, propping yourself on one arm, and turn your attention lower.

Your ass is outrageous.

You blink. Then smile. Every inch of it earned from loading squats three times a week until you might have cried with exhaustion. It lifts high and round, fuller than it’s ever been. It’s the reason most of your jeans have become… hazardous, lately. You only have a handful of pairs left that fit at all, much less well. The shape is almost surreal- like someone photoshopped you and forgot to undo it. But it’s not fake. It’s earned. It balances the line of your back, the curve of your hips, the strength in your thighs.

You shift your hips again, slowly. Watching the way everything follows. The drag of your skin, the flex and pull of muscle. And it’s not just power. It’s not just the function of it.

It’s beautiful.

There’s a sensuality to it that catches you off guard.

Not sexual. Not quite. Not the kind of thing you’d show off for someone else. This isn’t about being wanted. You haven’t been touched in months. Haven’t been kissed. Haven’t felt the pressure of someone else’s palm against your skin or the heat of a gaze that wanted this body.

And that’s okay.

Because right now, this moment isn’t for them.

It’s for you.

You look at your stomach- still lean, but no longer hollow. Muscle built up through dedication, not revealed by deprivation. Your shoulders roll back as you shift upright, and your back pulls taut, muscles threading together like ropes under skin.

And then your eyes land on your chest.

Your bra- nothing fancy, just plain cotton- stretches over you in a way it never used to. Full. Rounded. Heavy in a way that’s new. Like your body finally got the message that it’s safe to have things now. That you’re allowed to take up space.

You trail your fingers from your sternum outward. Over the shape of yourself. The dip of your waist. The rise of your hips. The flare and the fullness and the heat pooling under your skin, not from desire- but from recognition.

This is not the body you left America with.

Not the one built for hunger. Not the one that fought, that starved, that was sold in sponsorship dollars and calories just to survive. Not the same one that felt powerless and drowned and vulnerable in pits full of men with egos that outpaced their cars.

This one is yours.

All of it. The strength. The softness. The sex appeal.

And yeah, it’s probably a little vain, the way you pose. The way you tilt your chin and arch your back and stare at your own reflection with a smirk you didn’t know you still had in you. But you don’t care.

You love her.

This new shape. This new presence. This walking, breathing proof that you are here. You deserve this space. You are every inch of who you make yourself to be. 

You pull your knees up to your chest, still sitting on the bed, mirror between them, and rest your cheek on your own shoulder, watching the way your arms curve around yourself. 

It’s not lost on you how much trauma lived in the old body. In the bones that didn’t bend. In the skin that always felt too tight. In the way people looked at you like a novelty or a threat or a product.

This body isn’t for them.

It’s for you. For who you’re going to be. 

And it’s perfect.

Eventually… you move. Not quickly. Not decisively. Just… gradually. Like heat returning to numb limbs. You get up, still in your underwear, and pad barefoot across the cold dorm floor to the narrow wardrobe tucked beside your desk. It’s small, just to hold the things you can’t afford to let wrinkle. You’ve only opened it a handful of times since you got back from Brazil.

The contents aren’t much. A few basics. A pressed pair of jeans with a sharp, precise crease ironed down the front. Slacks. A simple blazer. At the right end, your suit hangs crisp in its plastic wrap, the one you wore to push your contract at Helmut, back when the words “development driver” still felt like something borrowed. 

You touch the fabric out of habit. The pants look… impossible. Maybe, if you hold your breath and pray to Sara Blakely and her Spanx gods- oh, and don’t eat all night- but honestly, you’re looking forward to the catering spread. Besides, it’s just the staff party- it’s really not that serious.

You let them hang.

Instead, you let your fingers walk a few hangers to the left. Fingers brush something soft. Velvet. Rich, forgiving, quietly festive. Not ugly sweater festive, but more like ‘yes, we are acknowledging it’s December.’ You pull it forward.

The dress is red. Not race-car red, not attention-demanding. Just… warm. A little saturated. The kind of color that makes your skin look golden and your hair a little darker in contrast. Sleeveless. High-necked. Hits just above the knee. Enough stretch to move with you. To let the body you’ve built exist without apology.

You hold it up to your chest, glance toward the mirror still propped on your bed, and nod once. Quietly. Like you’re letting yourself agree with the version of you that smiled at her own reflection twenty minutes ago. It’s not a statement dress. It’s not supposed to be. 

You pull on a pair of black nylons- semi-sheer, a soft little balance between flirtation and formality. The kind you used to wear for media days in junior formula, when you wanted to look polished but not severe. They slide up with the faintest whisper, snug but not constricting. They feel like intention.

Shoes next- your simple black pumps. Not casual, not party heels. Just clean, classic. You slip them on and they still fit the way only leather can- with loyalty. Like no matter how much the rest of you changes, these shoes will still love your feet. That feels like something. A single, stable detail in a body and world that’s otherwise brand new.

You perch on the edge of your desk to do your makeup rather than move the half-clean laundry that lives on your chair. Try not to sit in your compact while you plan your face.

Nothing heavy. Nothing loud. Just light coverage. A little shimmer. A soft sweep of blush across the apples of your cheeks that makes you look sunlit, even under factory-grade fluorescents. You gloss your lips with something pink and sheer, add a touch of mascara. Pretty. Festive. The kind of face that looks like someone you’d want to talk to at a work party without checking a credential first.

Your hair’s a little unruly from lying around until it air-dried, but it still curls easily under your hands. You twist it up in loose, polished sections, pin it in place, and finish it with a narrow ribbon tucked just above the nape of your neck. The bow is barely anything- thin, dainty. Just a little touch.

And when you finally step back from the mirror and take it all in- dress, tights, pumps, makeup, the slight shimmer on your collarbone- you don’t feel like a driver or a ghost or a PR obligation. Not really.

You feel like a girl going to a party at the end of the strangest, most transformative semester of her life. A little out of place. A little nostalgic for something that hasn’t even fully ended. Quietly proud. Quietly melancholy.

You smooth your hands down your dress once, just to feel the fabric hug your ribs. Time to say goodbye- quietly, professionally, beautifully- to the place that made you feel like someone valuable again. Even if they’re already learning how to do without you.

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

The party’s better than expected.

Not flashy, not loud- just the hum of conversation, the clink of glasses, the low warmth of staff laughter echoing against the high factory walls. Someone’s strung lights across the ceiling beams, giving everything a soft golden tint. There’s music playing low from the overheads, just enough to keep the room moving. Food’s decent. Little platters of fussy fingerfoods that strike a balance between upscale and approachable. Drinks are free. Everyone’s at that perfect midpoint between polite and tipsy.

You’re leaned against a high table near the edge of the floor, nursing something red and fizzy in a plastic flute. The dress is holding up. The shoes haven’t betrayed you. And you’re laughing- real laughter, open and soft- because Ollie from dev is holding court like his life depends on it.

“I swear to God,” he’s saying, wide-eyed, one hand gesturing wildly, “the second I mentioned it, he looked at me like I’d confessed to a murder.”

Nicole’s giggling politely beside him- dark hair curling over her shoulders, dress tastefully low-cut, clearly groomed and pressed to the nine- and Ollie is doing absolutely nothing to hide the way he’s looking at her.

It’s not subtle.

He is making full, direct, devotional heart eyes every time she opens her mouth. You’re only half listening to the story at this point. Mostly you’re laughing at the sheer audacity of his infatuation. Like he doesn’t even care that you’re standing right here, clocking every stolen glance like it’s your actual job.

Ollie says something else- something about a lost data package and a RedBull fueled all nighter that left him hallucinating on his drive home- and Nicole tilts her head, clearly humoring him.

“That’s… so wild,” she says, all doe-eyed and glittery.

Ollie looks like he’s going to combust. You have to bite your lip to keep from laughing again. You sip your drink instead, cheeks warm. For the first time all day, you feel… present. A little girlish. A little like you belong. And yet, despite the comfort of that- you feel it. 

You can feel Jos moving through the room.

It’s not oppressive. Not threatening. He’s not circling like a shark, and you’re not prey. It’s just… something you’re aware of. Like tracking a storm in the distance. You always know where he is.

And honestly?

You’ve resigned yourself to it.

You know he’ll find you eventually. That’s the nature of Jos. He always does. Always appears at the edge of a moment you thought was yours, all gravel-voiced analysis and heavy handshakes and that particular brand of European proximity that makes everything feel more intimate than it should.

And you’re not exactly afraid. You never have been.

If anything- God, you almost missed him.

Jos is a lot. An exhausting amount. But he’s also sharp. Dangerous in the way only brilliant men can be. Talking to him is like fencing with live wire- strategic, quick, crackling. But you’ve never felt like the target. Not really.

You’re not sure what that makes you.

An ally, maybe.

A co-conspirator.

Because Jos doesn’t talk to you like you’re lucky to be here. He talks to you like you’re a weapon. Like you’re leverage he trusts to understand what you’re worth. Like you’re playing a game with him- and unlike with most men in this sport, with Jos, the game doesn’t end with you losing. You think. Probably. So far, at least.

Still, there’s a sliver of something colder beneath it all. A flicker of discomfort you haven’t fully looked at yet. You don’t let yourself think about that too hard. Not here. Not now.

Instead, you set your drink down and laugh again- high and bright, because Ollie has just managed to turn a telemetry error into a flirtation, and Nicole is playing along like she might just let him win. You play with the ribbon in your hair, glance sideways across the room-  And, sure enough, Jos is watching. Not close. Not obvious. Just… waiting.

You adjust the strap of your dress, smooth your hands down the velvet one more time. Your glass is nearly empty. Nicole’s laughing again, Ollie’s blushing so hard it’s a health concern, and somewhere across the room, Jos Verstappen is waiting for you.

So you decide- fuck it.

If he’s going to find you anyway- if he’s already watching- you might as well meet him on your terms. Even if those terms are flimsy. Even if they exist mostly as a way to keep your spine straight and your voice level and your heart from pounding through your ribs.

You slip away from the table, leaving Ollie mid-laugh and Nicole mid-smile. Neither of them notices you go.

You push off the table and cross the floor without fanfare. Slow, steady, unbothered. Your heels click softly against the concrete. The lights above throw gold over your shoulders, and you hold your posture just right. Not stiff. Not girlish. Just composed. Whole.

You don’t know what compels you, exactly. It’s not submission. It’s not allegiance. It’s something quieter. Resignation, maybe. Or- God, maybe curiosity. You’ve danced around this enough times to know it’s coming. He’ll find you eventually. Might as well see what happens when you make the first move.

Jos tracks you the whole way. He’ss standing near the back, half-shadowed by a pillar and positioned with surgical precision- close enough to be in the mix, far enough that no one casually wanders into his orbit. He’s talking to someone from powertrains, nodding along like he’s interested, but his eyes flick toward you the moment you cross the floor.

Not obviously. Not openly. Just with the kind of stillness predators have right before they strike. Arms folded. Drink untouched. He shifts his weight once, almost imperceptibly, like he can’t believe his luck but is already plotting how to use it.

You keep your shoulders relaxed. You walk like you have nowhere in particular to be.

Jos smiles when you reach him. It doesn’t quite touch his eyes.His gaze flicks over you once- just once- but it’s loaded. Evaluating. Not lecherous, but not empty either. Like he’s cataloging the value of your appearance for some unseen ledger.

“There she is,” he says, low and pleased. “I was wondering when you’d come say hello.”

You smile. Easy. Controlled. “Thought I’d save the best for last.”

He laughs once, a short sound, dry and amused. “I like the dress.”

You resist the urge to fidget. “Thanks. Needed something that fit.”

Jos’s eyes flash at that- just a brief glint of approval, the kind that makes your skin feel seen in a way that’s not quite comfortable. Not inappropriate. Just intentional.

You sip your drink- what’s left of it- and let a small silence settle between you. The music hums along in the background. Conversation rolls across the room like static. You glance over your shoulder once, scan the space like you’re keeping track of exits. Then turn back.

And with practiced casualness, you say, “You hear about anything running this winter?”

Jos’s attention sharpens, just slightly. Barely a twitch in his jaw. But he clocks it. You keep your eyes on the middle distance and take a sip of your drink- mostly for the pause it offers- and then, casually, like you’re mentioning the weather: “I’ve been a little bored.”

Jos tilts his head. Interested. “Is that so?”

“Just... stir-crazy.” You keep your tone light. Bright. “Haven’t been in a real car since they flew Max in for brake testing.”

He gives nothing away. Just waits.

You glance out over the room like it doesn’t matter, like you’re not carefully placing each word. “I was thinking- if anything came up. A testing slot. A rally drive. Anything like that.” There. Gentle. Palatable. No pressure. Not desperation. Not even an ask, really. Just a statement. A floating suggestion.

Your voice doesn’t shift. Your shoulders stay easy. But your stomach coils tight. Because even now- even with this new body, this new deal, this new version of you- there’s still something about asking that feels like folding. Like peeling open your ribs.

Jos’s mouth twitches. Just the corner. “Hm.” That’s it. Just that. But you know him well enough to catch it. That sound- small, smug, delighted. It’s the sound of a trap closing.

Because you came to him. Because you asked.

No matter how subtle. No matter how casual. You asked. And it thrills him. Because Jos Verstappen lives for this.

He hides it well- he always does- but it’s there. The faint shift of weight toward you. The satisfied tilt of his head. The way his eyes sharpen just slightly, like the game he’s been playing has finally started to swing in his favor.

“You want me to make a call?” he asks, smooth and quiet, like it costs him nothing.

You lift a shoulder. “Only if it’s not a headache.”

He hums, looking away for a moment, already flipping through names, contacts, favors- building the scaffolding in his mind. He lets the silence stretch just long enough to prove he holds the reins. Only then does he speak.

“It wouldn’t be a single-seater,” he says finally. “Rally, most likely. Scandinavia. Snow. Cold. Not much exposure. Barely any pay.”

You don’t hesitate. “Send my paycheck straight back to the team,” you say. “Call it a sponsorship. I don’t care what it is.”

That gets his attention.

Jos studies you, eyes narrowing just slightly. Not with suspicion. With curiosity. Like he’s just thrown a line out, expecting it to hang in the water for a while- and you bit down before it even landed.

It was a test. A measure of your grit. Of your desperation. Of your understanding.

And you passed.

He leans back ever so slightly, nodding once, like he’s filing something away. “That sounds like a good time, does it?” he asks, tone dry but edged with something almost amused.

You hold his gaze. Steady. “Yes. It does.”

Another beat. He looks at you for a moment longer- really looks. Like he’s trying to figure out if you’re naive or ruthless, and whether or not it matters.

Then, almost fondly: “You’re smart to ask.”

There’s no threat in it. But there is a temperature. A charge beneath the compliment. He wants you to know you’ve made the right choice. That you’re wise to seek him out. That there’s more where that came from, if you stay close.

Jos smiles again, all teeth and calculation disguised as generosity. “I’ll be in touch. Keep your gear bag packed.”

And just like that, you’ve traded yourself for a favor. You feel it settle in your ribs. Weightless. But not free. The kind of thing that won’t show up in contracts or inboxes, but that you’ll carry all the same. Jos slips away only a moment later.

One minute he’s promising to make a few calls, and the next he’s clapping someone on the back and gliding into another conversation- like he hadn’t just offered you a taste of something sharp and sweet with a leash hidden inside.

You’re left standing near the perimeter of the room, drink still in hand, blood still humming from the conversation. It's not adrenaline exactly. Not fear. Just the slow, uneasy swell of something that feels like a contract being signed without ink.

You can feel him before you hear him. The shift in temperature. The static at your back. Max. Predictable, honestly. That Jos would drop you off right in his periphery. Fitting, truly. Inevitable.

You don’t see him approach- he moves like a shadow under a locked door. Silent. Sure. Unwanted.

But this time? You’re not caught off guard. You’re not off balance. You’re not scrambling to please, or prove, or endure. You’re tired. Bone-deep tired. The kind of tired that scrapes everything polite out of your chest and leaves nothing behind but sharp teeth and sharper instincts.

And you’re not afraid of him anymore.

Max takes position just behind your left shoulder, close enough that the heat of him skims your skin without touching it. Like a dare. Like he wants you to turn.

You don’t flinch.

You just wait. He wouldn’t have stepped forward if he didn’t have something to say. Fucking say it, Max.

“You really going for the full set, huh?” he says at last, voice low and dry. Venom tucked under every syllable like it’s something elegant. “Sponsorship. Seat. Verstappen family holiday invite.”

You blink once. Slow. Unbothered. “Jesus.”

You turn your head over your shoulder- just enough to catch the line of his mouth, the cut of his eyes. The disdain’s still there, as always, but there’s something else now. Something darker coiled just behind it. “Is this your idea of a Christmas card?” you ask.

He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t have to. The accusation’s already in the air between you. He’s not here to be clever. He’s here to see what you’ll do.

You inhale, sharp and silent. Then pivot on your toe, full-body now, facing him square for the first time. He’s close. Closer than you expected. Closer than anyone should be in a room full of champagne and fairy lights and factory staff pretending they aren’t watching.

You meet him at eye level. No posture. No smile. No spin.

Just you.

“I’m sorry I’m not subtle enough for you,” you say, voice steady. “But some of us don’t have the luxury of pretending we don’t need favors.”

You take a half-step forward. Not aggressive. Not passive. Just enough to reclaim the space he thought he’d filled.

“Look,” you go on, tired and clear and done with it, “I’ve got nothing to sell but my drives and my time. That’s it. So yeah, if Jos wants to hand me a favor, or a drive, or a fucking photo op, I’m going to take it. I’m going to smile, say thank you, and take everything he gives me. Because I’m not in a position to be picky.”

His jaw tightens. Barely. Just enough.

And maybe you should stop there. But you’re so fucking done. With him. With this. With the way he’s hovered all season like a storm cloud and acted like you were the one blocking the sun.

So you don’t stop.

“Seriously,” you add, biting now, “why are you standing here? Why don’t you go find another junior employee to intimidate? Do some scouting for next season. You love that shit.”

Max doesn’t blink. Doesn’t budge.

But his silence isn’t power anymore. Not to you.

In two weeks, you’re out of his factory. Out of his immediate orbit. You’re done tiptoeing through his moods like they’re weather patterns. So you lean in. A breath closer. Just to twist the knife. Just because you can.

“Or maybe,” you murmur, “you want me to yell at you again.” His expression doesn’t change. But his pupils sharpen. You see it. The flash of it. That dark, sick little thing he doesn’t want to name.

You remember it. That day in the boardroom. The way he stood there, watching you unravel like it was art. Practically licking his fucking chops in the blood of a kill. Like he’d finally pulled the right string and the whole thing came tumbling down and God, wasn’t that just so satisfying.

You raise your brows now, almost playful. “Seemed like you loved it.” The air between you tightens.

Not with fear. With something else.

Something heavier. Twisted. Threaded through with adrenaline and ego and the fact that you don’t technically need to be any nicer to him than he deserves anymore- but fuck, you’ll still take the last word.

Your drink sweats in your hand. Somewhere, someone across the room laughs too loud. A champagne cork pops. Max breathes in. Sharp. Controlled. You can see the words on his tongue. You can see the war inside him- the want to snap back. To grab. To tear. But he doesn’t.

He flicks his gaze down your body instead.

Not long. Not crude. Just one slow, scalding drag of assessment. Like he’s not even sure if he’s sizing you up or taking you in. Then he tilts his head. Just a little. Voice flat. “Careful.”

You smile. Not sweet. Not kind. Just knowing. “Or what?” you say, cool and easy. “You’ll call HR? Kick me off the team?” You let the smile grow sharp. “Oh, wait. You can’t. I’m already leaving.”

His eyes narrow- barely. He’s trying so fucking hard not to react. To be cool. Detached. Unbothered. And he almost pulls it off. Almost. Because this? This isn’t a fight.

Not yet. This is play. The sick kind.

Two wild animals circling the same patch of dirt. Teeth bared, tails twitching. Neither of you quite sure if this is about dominance or the last laugh or mutual destruction- but God, don’t you both want to find out.

You take a sip of your drink. Cool and steady.

And Max- quiet, scalding Max- just stands there. Watching.

Your phone vibrates in your clutch.

You wouldn’t normally check it in the middle of a cold war reenactment with Max Verstappen, but almost everyone on your short, carefully curated no-Do-Not-Disturb list is in this room, except your parents and-

You pull it out.

Danny Ricciardo [8:42 PM] bailing on mclaren. headed your way. party still good or should we find a pub? 20 mins out

You blink. And then you smile. It hits like a burst of light- like someone cracked open a window in a room you didn’t know was suffocating you. Danny.

Your maybe-friend. Your only safe person in the entire Red Bull ecosystem. Someone who isn’t looking at you like he’s devastated you’re leaving, or like he’ll forget your name the second the paperwork clears, or like he’s waiting for God to strike you down mid-sentence.

(Max, that last one. That look is all Max.)

You type fast.

You [8:43 PM]still rolling but up to you. everyone here keeps looking at me like a kicked puppy. wouldn’t mind a drink that doesn’t have ‘compote’ or ‘infusion’ in it.

There’s no reply for a minute.

Two.

Five.

Max, then, checks his phone beside you, his thumb hovering just a little too long. You glance at him- because you can’t not- and for the first time, he looks mildly annoyed. That makes you feel excellent. The night does have hope after all. You sip your drink just to keep from smiling.

Your phone buzzes again.

Danny Ricciardo [8:51 PM]let’s go out. I’ll text when I’m close.

You straighten, pulse skipping just once. You’re not going out in this. Not with Danny. Not to a pub. Velvet dress? Ribbon hair? Absolutely not. 

You glance at Max, who’s still scrolling, now with an expression like he’s trying to burn holes through his phone. Good. He can stay here with his bad mood and his weird dad. You’ve got plans. “Bye,” you murmur, not bothering to wait for him to look up.

You disappear through the side doors, heels clicking across tile. Up the stairs. Down the dim dorm hallway that’s somehow still home even when it’s already starting to forget you.

Inside your room, you move fast. Dress peeled off in one motion. You keep the nylons- they add a little warmth, and they make you feel like your legs have a little secret armor- and pull on a pair of shredded black jeans. High-rise, frayed knees, familiar as a favorite memory. A memory that is a little tight over the ass, but it’ll do.

A sleeveless top. Tighter. Cropped just enough to make your waist look like something sculpted- enough that it just barely kisses the waistband of your jeans. Black, because of course it is, but with a slight sheen that catches the dorm light.

You let your hair down. Shake it out. Pin the bow back in, low at the base of your skull.

Quick check in the mirror- yeah. That’ll do. Cute. Sharp. A little youthful. A little fuck-you. A little fuck-me. 

Exactly right.

You grab your jacket. Lip gloss. Your phone. And when you leave this time, it’s not with a sense of something ending. It’s with a thrill in your chest like maybe- finally- something is about to begin. The all black is fitting- like Danny’s come to save you from your own funeral. 

You’re practically skipping by the time you spot the rental SUV idling just past the front doors.

Factory lights still gleam overhead, pooling muted white against the cold pavement. You’re flushed from the party, from the hallway sprint, from the stupid quiet thrill of knowing someone actually wants to see you.

You wave once, already grinning.

Danny rolls the window down, half laughing already. “There she is! Backseat, Hollywood.”

You stop short. “What?”

He grins wider, too casual. “You’ve got the back.”

You blink. There’s a half-second- maybe less- where your brain tries to find a joke there, or context, or anything to make that sentence mean what you want it to mean.

But then you round the side and open the door- 

Oh.

Okay.

That’s fine.

This is fine.

Max is in the passenger seat, half-turned toward the window, jacket collar flipped up like he’s shielding himself from the entire world. He doesn’t even look at you. Your brain tries to recalibrate.

Because you’d assumed. Of course you did. Danny texted you. Danny said let’s go out. Danny is your friend. And for a few fragile minutes, you let yourself believe that meant just you and him. That it would be easy. Familiar. Comforting.

And now- 

Now you’re crawling into the backseat behind the same man you had a little verbal sparring match with not seven minutes ago. Perfect. 

You clamber awkwardly across the console, half-kneeling on the leather, and stretch your arms around Danny in the world’s least ergonomic side hug.

He laughs, warm and immediate. “That’s one way to say hi.”

“You’re lucky I’m flexible,” you mutter, chin nearly in his shoulder.

“You’re lucky you smell good,” he shoots back, arms slipping around your waist just long enough to squeeze.

You pull back, cheeks pink from wind and exertion, and slide fully into the backseat.

Danny eyes you through the rearview mirror. “You look nice.”

You roll your eyes, adjusting your seatbelt. “You say that like you’re surprised.”

“No, I’m saying it like you’re trouble.”

From the front, Max shifts. Says nothing.

You glance at the back of his head. His silence is louder than the engine.

Great.

This is going to be fun.

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

You’re practically folded over the center console, laughing about something stupid- Danny said a phrase wrong, or you did, and now the two of you are tangled in some inside joke Max doesn’t understand and doesn’t want to. You’re taking up space like you live there- laughing, leaning in too close to Danny, warm in a way Max hasn’t seen from you in weeks. Maybe ever.

And it’s not just the posture. It’s the presentation.

Your hair spills over your shoulder, catching the light from the streetlamps overhead. Loose. Shiny. Feminine in a way that makes his throat tighten.

Your shirt rides up slightly at the back, just enough to reveal the soft curve of waist where the jeans cling a little too perfectly- black denim, snug in all the places that would make anyone stare, especially now, with your new body- louder, prouder, stronger than the one Max last saw at a weigh-in this summer. Sheer black nylons that aren’t entirely see-through, but just enough to make his eyes linger before he can snap them away. 

He doesn’t look. He shouldn’t be looking. He isn’t looking.

But he can’t stop seeing.

He tries not to. Shifts in his seat like that’ll stop his peripheral vision from functioning. Like the heat creeping under his collar isn’t his problem to deal with.

He hates this.

Because it’s not just the way you look- it’s the way Danny’s looking at you. The way you’re looking at Danny. All warm and open and lit up from the inside. Like Danny’s safe. Like he’s yours. Like he’s seen something Max hasn’t.

There’s a ribbon in your hair.

A fucking ribbon.

Tied low, trailing down the back of your neck where your curls fall loose and messy, like you meant for them to look that soft. That touchable.  But Max can’t stop looking at it. He hates that bow. He hates what it implies- what it softens. Like you’re approachable. Sweet. Like there’s anything gentle about you. 

And he hates that it works.

Danny said it first- you smell good- and Max hasn’t been able to un-smell you since. Now Max can’t stop noticing. Something soft and expensive and a little sweet, something that clings to the heater vents. Wraps around his throat. It’s subtle. Effortless. Exactly the kind of scent that doesn’t try to draw attention but does anyway. Warm. Light. Clean. A little vanilla, maybe. A little powder. Something soft and domestic and utterly disarming, soaking into the the edge of his patience with every breath. 

He wants to roll down the fucking window.

You look good. And that should be annoying. Just another fucking thing about you that takes up too much space. But it’s worse than annoying.

He hates all of it. He hates how cute it is. Not loud. Not styled to seduce. Just naturally, infuriatingly attractive. He wants to make Danny turn the car around. Wants to shout something just to ruin the mood you and Danny are building without even trying.

Because it undermines everything. The bow, the perfume, the gloss on your lips- none of it belongs on someone like you. Someone who’s clawed her way into every room, swinging elbows, spitting fire, refusing to take a single inch without drawing blood.

But now you’re in Danny’s car looking like this?

Like a girl?

Because for the first time- the first time- Max doesn’t see you as a rival, or a nuisance, or a pressure point to push until you scream.

For the first time, he sees you as a woman.

And he hates it. Hates that it’s you. That it’s now. That it's happening at all. Because you’re not supposed to be this. You’re supposed to be sharp edges and smug retorts. A storm in a Red Bull polo. Someone to fight with. Someone to prove wrong.

You’re not supposed to be cute.

You’re not supposed to be beautiful.

But you are.

And now you’re glowing in the backseat like some perfect fucking contradiction, all honeyed edges and storm-wrought eyes, and Max- 

Max can’t breathe.

Because the same power that makes him want to throw something through a wall every time you talk is the same thing that’s pulling at his nerves right now. That’s twisting under his skin like a wire.

You are so goddamn alive.

Every room you walk into, you change the temperature.

Every time you speak, you rearrange the gravity.

Max clenches his jaw. Because the worst part- the part he can’t admit, even to himself- is that this isn’t new. Not really. That presence you carry, that fire, that thing that pisses him off every time you open your mouth- that’s what this is. You’re a problem. You’ve always been a problem. 

And now he’s seeing what that problem looks like in black jeans and soft perfume and a bow tied at the back of your head like a dare. You’re not just a problem. You’re alluring. You’re dangerous. And Max is hating every single fucking second of realizing it.

When the car pulls up in front of the pub, you unclip your seatbelt with a soft click and glance between the two of them.

“I can check it out first,” you say, hand already on the door. “Make sure it’s halfway subtle. Not filled with factory staff or a Max fan club.”

Danny huffs a laugh, but you’re already slipping out- shoulders squared, leather sneakers hitting pavement with that easy, practiced rhythm that says you’ve never once considered asking permission to take up space.

You cross in front of the SUV, slicing clean through the headlights. And for a second- just a second- Max forgets to breathe.The way your hips move. The way the sheen of your tights catches the light through the ripped in the denim at the back of your thigh. The bow bouncing softly behind your hair as you go.

Danny’s eyebrows shoot up.

He’s watching, too. Staring, really. Full tilt. Blatant.

And not in the way Max is- bitter and defensive, trying to smother it before it spreads. Danny’s looking like someone genuinely pleased to see you. Someone who likes watching you walk. Someone who wouldn’t mind seeing you keep going and not come back, just so he has an excuse to follow.

And Max- 

Max hates that, too.

You disappear into the pub, shoulders back, posture casual. And the moment the door swings shut behind you, Danny exhales.

“Jesus,” he mutters. “She looks good.”

Max doesn’t respond. Doesn’t look. Tries not to. But he can feel you out there, just like he’s always been able to feel it- occupying more than your share of the air.

Danny exhales through his teeth, a little laugh catching at the end. “She always like that?”

Max flicks his eyes toward him, annoyed already. “Like what?”

Danny shrugs, eyes still tracking the door you just disappeared behind. “You know. All... that.”

Max doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have an answer. He doesn’t know what that even means. The ribbon? The legs? The presence?

Danny glances at him. A little softer now. Still watching the door, but quieter. More careful. “You knew her first, man. What’s her deal?”

There’s a beat of silence.

Max could say a dozen things.

Her deal?

Where would he even start?

He could say you are stubborn. Sharp-tongued. Obsessive. You don’t bend unless something breaks you. You’re exhausting and impressive and sometimes so fucking loud in his head it drowns out everything else.

But the truth is simpler. The truth is worse.

All Max really knows is how much it takes to break you.

That’s it.

How long you can hold your breath in the fire. How much pressure you absorb before something cracks. What your voice sounds like when you’ve been holding back a scream for hours, for weeks. What it’s like to push you into a corner until the only thing left is fight.

It’s not knowledge. It’s pathology.

And it makes him feel a little sick.

He looks away, jaw tight. “I don’t know her.” And it’s the truth, but it doesn’t feel like the right thing to say. Not when Danny’s looking at him like he wants a reason to justify feeling something warm- like he’s hoping Max can explain the thing Danny’s become infatuated with. But Danny doesn’t push. Cuts himself off as your figure comes darting back across the parking lot.

You push open the car door and duck back in, breath puffing in the cold. “It’s decent,” you report, tugging your jacket tighter. “Not a lot of quiet corners, but if we can get y’all to a table fast, there’s a good chance we can get a drink or two in before the whole town realizes Verstappen’s here for pint night.”

Danny snorts and grabs the handle. “Copy that. Deploying cover fire.”

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

The three of you head inside. It’s warm, a little cramped, but charming in that British-pub-on-a-Friday kind of way. Low ceilings, scuffed wood, red walls. A few tables of locals already deep into their second round, but no one looks up long enough to register who just walked in.

You claim a booth near the back- narrow, loud, good enough- and offer to grab the drinks. Danny rattles off his usual, Max mutters his without looking up, and you head to the bar, sharp-heeled and half-smirking as you go.

You come back balancing three pints in your hands, pushing one toward each of them and settling into the seat across from both. Max takes his without thanks. Danny gives you a soft, sideways look that you pretend not to see.

Small talk kicks up, carried mostly by Danny. Easy stuff. You all pretend for ten minutes that the last few months haven’t been a professional and emotional meat grinder. You have problems. Danny has problems. Max has problems. You talk about none of them. Instead, racing gossip. Car updates. A truly unhinged story from Danny about a team principal with food poisoning in Singapore. You didn’t need to know that much about Zak Brown, honestly, but you’re laughing anyways.

And then, half a beer in, Danny leans back. One arm stretched across the booth. His gaze lands on you.

“So.” He takes a slow sip. “Hollywood. You talked to anyone since moving?”

You blink. Oh. “Like… romantically?”

He lifts a shoulder. “Or whatever you call it when it’s mutual.”

You nearly choke on your beer. You cough once, cover your mouth, and wave a hand like it’ll clear the air. “Oh my God.”

Danny laughs immediately. “That bad?”

“That’s hilarious,” you sputter, wiping your mouth. “Genuinely. Peak comedy.”

Max shifts slightly, glass still in his hand but eyes cut sharp across the table. Maybe you shouldn’t talk about your life in front of him, but honestly, there’s nothing to tell. Not really. 

You shake your head. “Danny. I live in a dorm room above the factory. Everyone I interact with is either married, under the age of twenty, or- ” you gesture lazily, without even looking- “him.”

Danny turns to glance at Max and immediately huffs a laugh. “Right. Right.”

Max doesn’t blink. Just lifts his beer and takes a long, steady sip.

You lean back in your seat, finally grinning. “Where do you think I’m meeting people? The break room? Am I supposed to flirt with the espresso machine?”

Danny’s shoulders are shaking now, head tilted back in open laughter. “Listen, I don’t know your life.”

“No. But you should. Because it’s deeply, profoundly celibate. Probably for the best. I don’t really plan on doing the whole distance thing.”

Danny’s still grinning when he gestures with the rim of his pint toward you. “Okay. No distance. Fair enough. So, theoretically- if someone not married, not a minor, and not mean,” he says, throwing a glance at Max that’s almost too quick to track, “were to, say… express interest. Someone from F1. That’d be off the table?”

You raise an eyebrow. “From F1?” The suspicion in your voice is thick enough to chew on. Profound. Amused, because this is a joke, clearly.

He shrugs, feigning innocence. “What? We’re not all emotionally stunted.”

You snort. “Okay. Let’s break that down.”

Danny lifts his hands. “I’m just asking questions.”

“Uh-huh. Let’s fuck one of my new coworkers,” you say dryly, “whose dating pool is a puddle. Like, I have seen more water on the floor of my shower.” Danny nearly spits his beer, but you keep going. You’re on one, now. 

“Yeah, fantastic idea. Let me join the glorious tradition of passing around the same three girlfriends like a paddock carnival prize. I’ll get murdered in my sleep by a group of jealous ex-WAGs and my tombstone will just say ‘should’ve known better.’”

Danny’s howling now, and even he looks slightly ashamed about how funny he finds it. Max hasn’t said a word, but you can feel it- the bristle, the shift in his posture. That thing he does when he’s trying to stay above it and failing completely. Like he does not want to appear to be enjoying this conversation in any manner, yet can’t quite help it.

And then he speaks. Mistake. “They’re not all like that,” he says, quiet but pointed.

You both turn to look at him. Just one of those slow, synchronized movements that would be funny if it weren’t so precise. Danny raises an eyebrow. “Oh?” You just sip your beer, staring at him over the rim.

Because if Max Verstappen- the reigning king of WAG turnover- is about to defend the honor of the grid, you’re going to need another drink.

And you both wait.

And Max?

He says nothing. Because he can’t. Because his most recent ex was literally the mother of his former teammate’s child. Kelly. Kelly fucking Piquet.

She was with Daniil. Had a baby with him. Then moved on to Max like it was a change in season. And Max, to his credit- or to his utter lack of shame- never said a word. Just took what he wanted, like he always does.

The silence stretches.

Danny takes a sip of his beer. You take another.

And the look you both give him- matching, amused, pointed- is louder than anything either of you could’ve said. Max doesn’t flinch. But the muscle in his jaw ticks.

Yeah. That’s what you thought. Down, boy. 

The conversation drifts. Eventually, even Max and Danny start talking- about tire strategy, about something ridiculous Christian said in a meeting last month, about a simulator bug that made the steering rack twitch even under a full shutdown like a haunted marionette. You know the one. You had to unplug the wheel entirely each night just to keep it from scaring the shit out of you after 9 pm. 

You half-listen, sipping your beer, watching the crowd thicken near the bar. Observe the slow turn of a face or two across the room- but everyone goes back to their own beers, their own conversations.

You’re part of the table, but not the conversation. Just a warm body holding one corner down. And honestly, it feels kind of nice. To not be the one driving the story. To let your posture soften, to let your brain go quiet for a minute.

Max is talking to Danny now- something about the setup in Brazil and how god-awful the outside line was that weekend. You’re half-listening, enough to track the rise and fall of his voice, the occasional gesture of his hand, but your mind drifts.

Danny is still nodding along. Still laughing in the right places. But you notice it- once, twice, then again.

His eyes keep darting over to you.

The first glance is quick. Curious, even. The second lingers longer. Long enough that you glance up and catch it. He doesn’t look away. By the third time, he’s full-on watching you.

Like you’re the most interesting thing he’s seen in weeks. Like maybe he’s not just being polite anymore.

You glance down at your drink, the rim of your glass smudged with a faint print of gloss, and try not to fidget. It’s not romantic. Not exactly. But it’s focused. Intentional. He’s looking at you like he forgot what Max was even saying.

And Max notices.

You feel it in the fractional pause in his cadence. The way his voice flattens slightly at the edges. His story loses shape. His next sentence tapers off like he’s forgotten the punchline or just doesn’t feel like delivering it anymore.

There’s a lull- brief but open- and Danny jumps on it like he’s been waiting all night for the gap. Turns to you fully.

“You really are fun, you know that?” he says, leaning a little closer, the kind of grin on his face that usually means trouble- but not in a mean way. Somewhere between beer two and beer three, and all of him just buzzing with charm and distraction.

You blink, startled out of your haze, but smile anyway. “I hope so. Would hate to be boring on top of everything else.”

Danny’s smile softens. His voice drops half a register. “No. Not just fun. Like- bright. You glow when you’re around people you like.” That makes you pause. It’s sweet. Really sweet. And unexpected. You’re not exactly sure what to do with it.

Not in a romantic way. Not really. It’s just Danny being Danny- charming, loose around the edges, ADHD running the conversation like a DJ with a broken crossfader. You’ve gathered that he’s always this side of a flirt, especially after a couple drinks. But still, something about the way he says it lands. The way his attention keeps snapping back to you like a rubber band.

You smile, wide and sheepish. “You’re just saying that because I got the drinks,” you tease, nudging his foot under the table.

Danny laughs. “Maybe. But it’s still true.”

Max, across from both of you, exhales like he’s trying not to audibly gag. And then- because he cannot help himself- he drops the hammer. “Right,” Max says, voice flat. “Just wait ‘til you see her lose it in a meeting. Then you’ll really see her glow.”

You blink.

Danny turns.

Max sips his beer, casual. Lethal. “Full meltdown. Everyone stopped talking. I think someone apologized to her, which was insane, because she was the one yelling.”

You can feel the flush rise up your chest like a fuse.

Because how dare he. You stare at him. Stunned. Furious. You can’t even speak yet.

Because he left out everything.

He left out the weeks of poking and prodding. The whispered digs. The anonymous feedback dropped into your reports. The pointed questions in front of senior staff. The deliberate redactions in your sim notes that made you look wrong even when you weren’t.

The mother-fucking-Diet-Coke.

He left out how he made you snap. Just this. This version. You, unhinged. Overreacting. Embarrassing. And now he’s feeding it to Danny like you’re some unhinged liability who just couldn’t keep her pretty little mouth shut in a meeting.

Max takes a slow sip of his beer. God, he looks so fucking pleased with himself.

But then- Danny laughs. Hard.

You blink again, confused.

Danny’s eyebrows go up. “No way. Her? C’mon.”

He looks at you, grinning. “You? You’re the meltdown type?”

Your mouth opens, words fighting their way up your throat, then closes again. Because what are you supposed to say? That it’s true? That you did raise your voice, that you did storm out, that you did send a stack of paperwork flying over the top of Max’s head and let it rain down like confetti? 

That Max got what he wanted?

Danny leans back. “Nah. Don’t believe it. Not Hollywood. Not our girl.” He says our girl, like Max might share a claim to any part of you but your absolute contempt. 

You glance at Max. He’s still staring into his glass. But his jaw is tight now. Just slightly. Like the moment didn’t go the way he planned. Danny bumps your foot under the table again, teasing. “You’d have to be a menace to get her to snap.”

You lean forward slightly, eyes still locked on Max, voice just loud enough to cut through the hum of the pub.

“Yeah,” you say. “A real fucking menace.”

Max doesn’t flinch. But his next sip of beer is sharp, and silent. But you can’t gloat on it for long, because there’s something about the room, the bar, the energy that’s… changing. You sneak a glance over the boys.

A couple glances from across the pub. Someone nudging someone else. A phone tilted in your direction, not discreetly enough. The laughter from your table a little too loud, your faces a little too familiar.

You’re not famous-famous. Not like them. But you’ve got enough edge now that your name rings a bell. And when you’re sitting across from two men who look very much like Max Verstappen and Daniel Ricciardo on a Friday night, wearing a shirt that fits a little too well and a bow in your hair that people seem to notice more than they should- it adds up.

You clock it before either of them. So you slide your empty glass across the table and say, “Time to go.” No one argues.

Outside, the air is colder than you expect. Your breath fogs. Max shrugs into his coat without a word. Danny smiles, easy and relaxed, spinning his keys once before offering them to you.

“You good to drive? We can get a cab if we need to.”

You nod. “One beer. You guys had, what, two? Three?”

Max grunts. Danny grins, a little shrug, boyish. “I was thirsty.”

You slide into the driver’s seat. Max takes the passenger side without asking, which- yuck. Bad manners. Danny climbs in back. The plan’s simple: drop them off at the hotel. You’ll take Danny’s rental car back to the factory, bring it back to him tomorrow.

Easy.

But when you pull up to the curb, the quiet lingers just a little too long. You put the car in park. Danny leans forward between the seats, voice low and warm.

“You want to come in? Just for a drink. Hotel bar or my room- whatever’s less weird.” You blink. Not thrown off, not uncomfortable- just surprised. Max stiffens beside you. Danny’s smile doesn’t waver. “Just to hang out. You’ve been in factory jail for weeks.”

You glance at him. Then Max. Then back again. “I mean- sure,” you say, casual. “I’ll come in for a little.”

And that’s when Max says it. “I’ll come too.”

You turn.

Danny blinks.

Max’s expression doesn’t change. Still casual. Still detached. “If we’re doing a nightcap. Why not.”

Danny hesitates. Just a beat. “You literally said you were going straight to bed.”

Max shrugs. “Changed my mind.”

You stare at him. “You really don’t have to- ”

Max cuts you off. “I want to.”

And that’s it. Decision made.

You press your lips together, amused despite yourself. Danny sighs, a little dramatic. “Alright. Boys’ night plus you, then.”

You shake your head and kill the engine. “Don’t make me regret this.”

Max’s jaw ticks as he gets out. He’s already regretting all of it. But the idea of Danny and you alone- in a hotel bar with mood lighting, or on a couch, or anywhere near a bed- is worse.

If Danny falls for you, Max won’t survive it. He is not losing custody of his best friend to you.

So tonight?

He’s not letting either of you out of his sight.

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

One drink turns into four.

You’re not even sure how. One minute you’re perched on the edge of the couch in Danny’s hotel suite, shoes still on, sipping something floral and deceptively strong. The next, you’re flat on your back on the carpet, legs splayed out under the coffee table, laugh-crying into your forearm.

You can’t breathe. You cannot breathe.

Because Max- Max- is pacing the room, red-faced and animated, shouting over Danny while they argue about whose fault it was that the side of Max’s caravan sheared off halfway through their marketing stunt at the RedBull Ring five years back.

“No, no, no- you hit me!,” Max says, pointing aggressively with his gin and tonic like it's a laser pointer of truth. “You always do this- !”

“I was being cinematic!” Danny yells, already wheezing. “It was for the shot!”

“For the shot?! It was a caravan, not a drone sequence! You tipped my caravan over!”

You’re howling.

There are tears streaming down your face. Your stomach hurts. You’re half convinced you might actually piss yourself on the floor of a Milton Keynes hotel if they keep going. And you don’t know if Max is actually funny or if you’re just drunk enough to believe he is- but either way, this is the funniest thing you’ve heard in weeks.

Maybe ever.

You manage to lift your head just enough to wheeze, “Please stop talking- I can’t breathe- ”

Danny falls off the arm of the couch, landing next to you in a heap. ““I was winning!!” he gasps again, absolutely beside himself.

Max throws his hands in the air, grinning like a lunatic. “You were going to kill us!”,

You’re laughing so hard now that it’s silent- just your mouth open, body shaking, face buried in the hotel carpet.

You should not be this happy. Not here. Not now. Not with them. But God, for the first time in months, the ache behind your ribs isn’t heavy. It’s light. Not this isn’t terrible, not this is actually kind of enjoyable, but genuine, rib cracking fun. 

You can’t help but think it again, horrifyingly, as he gears up for another round of arguing with Danny. Max Verstappen- stone-faced, growling, rage-fueled Max Verstappen- might actually be funny. The world is upside-down. And you’re just drunk enough to love it.

At some point following drink four, Danny tries to scoot closer to you on the couch.

It’s not dramatic- just a lean-in, knee bumping yours, shoulder dipping slightly in your direction as he cracks open another story. You don’t really clock it. You’re still laughing, still breathless from whatever Max just said about how fucking terrible the sausages they cooked at the end were.

But Max sees it.

Max clocks it immediately.

And before Danny can even shift his weight again, Max moves- fast and thoughtless, dropping down right between you like he’s claiming a spot that was always his. “I mean, you could taste the propane,” he cuts in, reaching across you both for a half-empty can of tonic. “I think that’s when I realized I am an awful cook.”

Danny blinks. His arm is still outstretched where it was trying to find the back of the couch behind your shoulders.

Now it’s hovering awkwardly in midair behind Max’s neck.

You blink too, a little disoriented, because now Max is suddenly close- like really close- one leg pressed against yours, his shoulder brushing yours every time he gestures. He’s not even looking at you, just ranting about how Danny “none of it was the same after he left,” but the space between you has evaporated.

Danny tries again a few minutes later- after he stands to make another round of drinks, another bout of story-laugh-shouting that has you giggling into your wrist, head thrown back against the couch cushion. 

Danny drops on the arm of the couch as he hands you your drink, shifts toward you. Barely. Just trying to close the distance. Maybe bump your shoulder. Maybe nudge his knee next to yours again.

Max leans back.

Elbows wide. Legs spread. Like he’s stretching- only somehow, his stretch ends with his knee fully pressed against yours and his arm slung behind you on the couch. Not quite touching you. But close enough that the heat of him is a presence. Enough to make you stand too, vacate the space Max clearly needed to manspread into, and drop down on the far side of the couch. Max between you and Danny. Again. It’s fine. It’s better even, because you can kick your feet up.

Danny narrows his eyes. Clears his throat. Mate, you are fucking this up for me. 

Max doesn’t even glance at him. Doesn’t notice. Or rather, he pretends not to.  Just keeps sitting there.

Because as far as he’s concerned, he’s just protecting his friend. That’s all. Keeping things in check. Hogging Danny, maybe, but only because he doesn’t want him tangled up with someone who ruins everything she touches.

That’s the reason.

And it keeps happening. You’ve noticed, even through the gin haze.

Every time Danny leans in- just slightly- Max inserts himself like it’s a sport. When Danny shifts toward you on the couch, Max shifts further. When Danny makes a joke, Max cuts in before you can answer. When Danny starts a story, Max finishes it.

You’ve moved to the armrest. Then the cushion beside it. Then leaned onto the floor with your back to the couch.

Each time, Max finds you.

It’s gotten to the point where you’re halfway through a laugh and suddenly there’s a knee pressed into yours and Max is talking again, louder, sharper- about you, at you, through you.

Like just by existing, you’ve ruined something that was his.

You try to ignore it.

Try to keep drinking. Keep smiling. Talk less, if only it means trying to hang onto the little bit of joy left in the night.

But the last straw comes when Danny tosses an arm across the back of the couch, joking about some fucked up F1-themed wedding he saw on Instagram- complete with matching helmets- and Max just has to cut in.

“Hey, maybe you can sell your wedding to SkySports,” he says, all casual menace. “Or maybe not. Wouldn’t want a public meltdown broadcasted when you go full-bridezilla.”

Your entire body stills, because what normal fucking person would ever say that? 

Danny freezes, stares at Max. You stare at Max. Danny stares at Max. You stare at Max. Danny stares like his favorite dog just shit on the floor of the White House. And for a long moment, the room is just… quiet.

Then, you turn your head. Slowly. You speak. Too sweet. “Max?”

He glances over, cocky as hell.

You smile. Bright. Lethal. “I would rather lick the inside of a fucking racing boot than sit next to you for one more minute.”

Danny chokes on his drink. You stand, grab your phone, and type out a rideshare request in record time.

Max shrugs, already halfway smug. “I’m just-.”

You cut whatever bullshit he had loaded up off at the knees. “-you were just shutting the fuck up, thanks.”

You don’t even wait for a reply. Just turn to Danny- softening your expression, letting the warmth return. “Thanks for tonight,” you say, and mean it. “I had fun. I’ll see you around.”

And then you’re gone. Door swinging gently shut behind you.

Danny stares at it. Still holding his lowball glass of ice. Still seated on the couch, still half stuck in the dream where he was supposed to be the one walking you out. Getting a real date set. Maybe a kiss, if he’s being wishful. At the very least, not ending the night like this.

Max exhales. “You’re welcome.”

Danny turns slowly. “Sorry?”

Max shrugs. “You were about to make a mistake. I saved you.”

Danny just stares. “You think she’s a mistake?”

“I know she is.”

“Right.” Danny nods, lets it hang for a moment. “Cool. Cool cool cool.”

Silence.

Max sits back like it’s a game he just won. Like he didn’t just gut the night with a single, well-placed knife between her ribs.

“I liked her,” Danny says, finally. Quiet. Not for sympathy. Just the truth.

Max doesn’t say anything. Because he could see Danny liked you, at least a little. And he did fuck it up. On purpose. He watched Danny lean in- watched him light up like you were something precious- and he couldn’t let it happen.

Not because he wanted you. But because Danny did. And something about that felt too threatening. Too unstable. Too real. So he ruined it.

And he’s still not sorry.

Because in Max’s mind, he didn’t sabotage Danny’s shot with a good thing- he saved him from a bomb that hadn’t gone off yet. He just doesn’t know how to explain that in a way that doesn’t make him sound like the jealous asshole he refuses to believe he is.

So instead, he leans back. Folds his arms. And lets the disappointment settle between them, thin and quiet and heavy as sleep.

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

Series Masterlist

A/N: Back from the dead with a 31 pager! Definitely struggling a little bit recently, and I hate that feeling of being 'in debt' to you guys with chapters, so I am going to try to make a push for a few releases this week, don't hate me if it doesn't go accordingly.

On my hands and knees begging for feedback and your commentary on the story as it quite literally is my only mental reward for the hours I am putting in. It makes my little ADHD brain go brrrr

[souliebird]

[[and then I met you || ch. 5]]

Series: Daredevil || Pairing: Matt Murdock x Fem!Reader || Rating: Explicit

Summary:

A one-night stand years ago gave you a daughter and you are now able to put a name to her father – Matthew Murdock. Everything is about to change again as you navigate trying to integrate your life with that of the handsome and charming blind lawyer’s and Matt realizes he needs to protect his new family from not only Hell's Kitchen but from the world.

pt: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4

words: 4.4k

It has been one week since you saw Matt Murdock on the evening news, and it feels like it has been a complete whirlwind. First, you reintroduced yourself to him and let him know he was a father, then you had a nice little outing, and to tie it all up, a trip to the doctors to confirm what you already knew. 

Matthew Murdock is the father of your daughter.

It is nice to have an official statement from a doctor and now you can start the process of changing Minnie's paperwork to include his name. You have to go to the courthouse to file for an updated birth certificate. Matt has very kindly offered to take that task on for you - he goes to the courthouse often for his job and he knows the ins-and-outs of navigating legal paperwork. You just have to go and drop off the right documentation. 

You had a brief call last night, after Minnie had been put down, and decided that you would visit his office today to do just that. You are going to kill two birds with one stone - hand over what needs to be filed and give Matt more time with his daughter. 

To your great surprise, your timid little Mouse absolutely adores him. She was not happy to have to be at the doctor's office yesterday and was on the verge of tears before he showed up. Her whole mood shifted, and she had spent the brief time you were in the waiting room and exam room telling Matt about different things around them. 

You have a feeling, when you sit down and tell her the truth, she is going to be thrilled. 

You told her that you are going to visit Matt at work today, and all morning she has been hunched over her sketchbook making pictures for him while you try to get in some hours at work. Try being the key word, as you've been thoroughly distracted by today's news cycle. 

You were half listening to a puff piece about something or other when breaking news flashed across the screen. A neighborhood in Connecticut has been leveled by some sort of explosion, killing hundreds. They don't know if it was an accident or some sort of attack - the epicenter of the blast was a school, so it could potentially be either. You pray it was a freak accident, some faulty pipeline or a weird meteor, because the world doesn't need any more horribleness in it. 

The idea that it might have been an attack makes you nervous. You've been through two horrible attacks on New York, and you didn't realize another big event so close to home would shake you so hard. 

It scares you that you have to raise Minnie in such a harsh world, where monsters of all kinds are very very real and you don't know who you can rely on. The police and government have been shown to be all kinds of corrupt and people who can shoot laser beams fight each other in the skies. 

You end up clocking out and going to sit with Minnie to get yourself to stop your doom-listening. She's got a few drawings scattered around the table and you pick up the one closest to you, smiling at her handy work. 

You recognize the shapes as her interpretation of people - oblongs with stick arms and noodle legs. Unknowingly, she's made her first new family portrait. There are three blob-people all holding hands: you suspect you're the big orange one with a smile, Minnie is the little pink one in the middle with what you guess are pigtails, and Matt is the black one with red eyes, who is also holding a stick. To confirm, you ask her.

"Is this one Mister Matt?"

Her head shoots up and a big grin spreads across her face, "Yeah!  And that's you and that's me and we're gonna go to the zoo!" There is a little flurry of motion and suddenly you are getting a picture show. She holds up the paper she was working on - there's another family drawing, but this time there's green scribbles all around you and a blue square with zig zags all over it. You guess that is some sort of animal. 

"You want to go to the zoo with Mister Matt?" You ask, examining her masterpiece.

"Yeah!" She says, pulling over another picture that you know are her versions of flowers, even if they are all different colors. "And the park!"

"And the park? Wow, that's a lot of things to do. Do you want to ask him if he wants to go to the zoo with us when we see him today?" Minnie eagerly nods at the question and that makes you smile. "Okay, we can invite him to the zoo. When are we going to the zoo?"

The question makes her bounce in excitement, "My birthday!" 

You laugh at her enthusiasm and give her a little back rub, "Exactly. We're going to go for your birthday. And get a big cake with whatever you want on it." That makes her a giggly mess and you temporarily forget all the bad things in the world. 

You hand her back her drawing before kissing the top of her hair, "How about you finish this one up and we get ready to go see Mister Matt? We can only visit for a little bit, because he's working, but I bet he'll love everything you made him."

Greedy little hands take back the paper and instantly Mouse is hunched back over her zoo scene, purple crayon in hand. You get up and go to make sure that you have everything you need to bring to Matt in order. You are extremely lucky that the doctor has the ability to print out things in Braille, so you don't need to make an extra stop to get things translated. 

You debate bringing Matt lunch, but ultimately decide against it. You don't want to push too much too fast, and you think it might be a little weird for his coworkers, to see a random person bring him homemade lunch. You know he hasn't told anyone yet about yourself and Minnie - he had shyly admitted it didn't feel real until the test results were given and you completely get it. 

You tidy up until you spy Mouse dropping her crayons into her bucket and cleaning up her drawing area. You let her do her thing, then approach, "Let's put your drawings with the other things we need to give Mister Matt. That way they won't get lost or wrinkled."

She nods like you've just said something very wise and gathers up her stack of papers before handing them over. There's five in total; the three she showed you and two more full of colorful lines. You decide you'll listen in on her explanation to Matt on those two, as you're curious as to what goes on in her little mind. 

Once everything is safe and ready to go, it's just a matter of getting shoes on. You go with your sensible sneakers while Minnie opts for her frog themed Wellingtons. The plan is for both of you to walk to the office, and after one final wallet-keys-phone check in your purse, you head out hand-in-hand.

It's mid-morning, so foot traffic is decent, but not heavy - nothing that makes Minnie too uncomfortable. Dark clouds are gathering on the horizon, and it makes you wonder if the rain that has been promised in the forecast will be coming sooner than expected and you are glad this outing is the only one you have planned. Taking Minnie around in the rain is never fun. It always seems like everything becomes more bustling in the rain and trying to navigate that with a crying toddler just makes you want to cry as well. 

But the promise of her new favorite person and mild weather has her walking like the born and bred New Yorker she is - a determined little pout with no nonsense steps. No one will be trying to sell her things on the sidewalks once she gets bigger. If she had a different personality, you'd want to teach her to say "Hey, I'm walking here" just to hear a toddler say it. 

As you spy the building Matt's office is in, you realize you should have sent him a text to say you were on your way. You did let him know vaguely what time you planned to stop by and he had assured you that they had no appointments - it was catch up on paperwork day - but that didn't mean walk-in clients hadn't come by. You're so close to already being there that you think the gesture is pointless, so you just keep walking until you get to the building.

"This is where we are going," you tell Minnie as you approach. You scoop her up to show her the business directory on the outside of the building. There aren't very many plaques to begin with, so it's easy to find the Nelson, Murdock, and Page one. "That is where Mister Matt works with his friends."

She leans out and feels over the embossed sign, running her fingers over the different letters. "'M'! For Minnie!" She says, pointing out the letter with a big smile. 

"Exactly. Mister Matt's last name starts with M, too. That word is his last name - Murdock."

That gets her to turn back to the sign, fingers dancing over the letters, brows knitting with curiosity, "How is it spelled?"

You spell out Murdock for her and Minnie repeats each letter after you. You do this a few times until she's able to say it out loud on her own. You don't know how long she'll retain the information, as spelling isn't really on the board yet, but you're happy she's interested. You set her back down and she makes a beeline up the steps, grabbing and pulling at the door with all her three-year-old strength. 

The lobby to the building is sparse, with basically only an elevator and staircase, with a door to what you suspect is a supply closet. "We're going up two staircases," you tell your daughter. 

"Two!" She confirms before taking off towards the stairs. You have a brief moment of panic that she's going to zip up both sets faster than you can catch her, but to your great amusement, she grabs a hold of the banister with both hands and pretends to use it like a mountaineering rope to climb the stairs. She even adds little fake huffs and puffs. You follow behind her, ready to catch her if she slips. She doesn't, and when you get to the floor Matt's office is on, she turns to beam at you, clearly proud of herself, "We did it!"

"We did it," you parrot, offering out your hand again. She takes it and you lead her to the correct door. The same plaque that was on the exterior of the building also hangs beside their door and Minnie astutely points to it.

"Murdock!" 

"That's right, it says Nelson, Murdock, and Page."

"Can I knock?" Mouse asks, raising her fist to do just that.

You hum, then gently explain, "This is business, which means work. For work, we don't have to knock. We can go in if it is open."

As soon as you say that she's opening the door and marching inside and you quickly follow her. 

Matt's law partners, Foggy and Karen, are in the reception area with a man you assume is a client of theirs, talking in hushed annoyed sounding whispers. He radiates intimidation, with a huge black eye and what looks to be a makeshift cast made of duct tape around his right wrist. The three of them turn to look at you and you get the sense Minnie had the right idea in asking if she should knock first. 

Your little one quickly latches onto your leg, turning timid in the space of a second and you can't really blame her. Part of you wants to turn and run. 

Karen recovers first, breaking away from the two exasperated men to step towards you and going into receptionist mode, "Hi. You were here last week to meet with Matt, right?" 

"Uh, yes, that's right. Is he, uh, available?" You ask, feeling like you no longer know how to speak English. The energy in the room is not a pleasant one and you very much feel like you've interrupted something important.

"He's on a call currently but I'll let him know you are here," Karen replies in a voice far kinder than what she uses to address the men behind her a beat later. She turns to them and points to the office you know is not Matt's. "In there. Now."

Foggy throws up his hands, like he's frustrated with whatever is going on and disappears into the other room. The man you don't know doesn't follow, eyes on you and your daughter as Karen crosses the room to knock on Matt's door before opening it and slipping into the office. You quickly decide you are not going to make eye contact with him, instead ducking your head and putting a comforting hand on Minnie's head. She's practically hidden herself behind your legs, clinging to your pants so tightly you fear they might rip.

"I like your boots," the man says into the quietness. You expect him to sound like gravel, but his gruff voice is rather soft, and you get the feeling he understands how to talk to children "My daughter used to have boots like those."

 Part of you wants to tell the man to not talk to your daughter, but that would be rude and just because he looks like he's been through the ringer doesn't mean he's a bad man. You decide to let her determine how she wants to proceed.

You feel Minnie poke her head out from where she's hidden herself. At first, you don't think she's going to reply, as you know how she is, but she surprises you yet again by mumbling out, "They're froggies." 

"Yeah? You like frogs?"

Mouse somehow tightens her grip, "I like animals." She presses her face against your leg, then admits, a little louder, "we're gonna to the zoo for my birthday."

That makes the man smile, and that changes his whole demeanor. Suddenly he looks friendly and kind and not like he's likely to stab you, "That's a good place to go for your birthday. How old are you gonna be?"

Before she can respond, the door to Matt's office swings open and Karen stalks out, followed by Matt, who seems much less agitated than everyone else. The blonde points to the unknown man, a little scowl on her face, "What did I say?"

The man holds up his hands defensively, stepping away from Karen and towards the office he was previously told to go in, "Alright, alright, I'm going. I'm going." That doesn't seem to help soothe her at all, as she grabs the man by the bicep and frog-marches him to join Foggy, closing the door behind them. 

"They didn't make you wait long, did they?" Matt asks, bringing your attention back to him. There is a cut on his lip that wasn't there the last time you saw him, and your instinct is to ask if he is okay, but you don't know if you are at that level with him yet.

So instead, you address his question, "No, no, we just got here."

He motions back to his office, a smile spreading across his face, and you almost forget about the cut, "Come on back and we can review everything." 

Minnie lets go of your pants only to take your hand again and you lead her into the other room. As you pass Matt, she looks up at him and gives a tiny wave.

"Hi, Mister Matt."

Matt's shoulders visibly relax at her greeting, and you can't help but start to smile, "Hi, sweetheart. How are you doing today?"

"Good! I maded you pictures," she says proudly. That causes him to pause as he starts to follow you into his office. You can tell he is surprised by the news - his voice gets a little choked up when he responds.

"You made me some pictures?"

"They are very good pictures," you advise, squeezing Minnie's hand slightly before letting go, "Do you want to tell Mister Matt what you drew for him?" She nods eagerly, so you point to one of the chairs in front of his desk. "Go sit like a big girl and you can tell him."

She makes a dash for the chair, and you take the time to address Matt, "I'm sorry, I should have called ahead."

He shakes his head, and as he walks past you to go behind the desk, he reaches out and brushes his hand along your arm. A little shiver runs up your spine at the touch and you tell yourself the action was so he could orient himself. "Not a problem, I knew you were coming. How is everything?"

"Everything is good," you reply, a little shyer than you intend to. "I, uh, have everything for you. Is there anything else I need to fill out?"

Matt shakes his head, "Just a signature and date. You've done all the work for me already. I don't think I've ever had to file where I don't need to actually do anything but sign the document. It's a refreshing change."

"Do you know how long it will take to process?" You ask as you move to join Minnie in sitting. "The website gave multiple timelines and I just want to be realistic."

Matt takes his seat with a cocky grin, "Not long at all, I know a few judges I can ask to push it through."

You flush at the idea of him asking a favor to a judge on your account, "That's not necessary, Matt, I don't mind waiting."

He shakes his head, getting that soft look again, "I don't want to wait. I want it to be official in the eyes of the government."  

His words make you feel even warmer, and you distract yourself by pulling the file with all the paperwork out of your purse and pass it over to him. "Minnie's additions are at the bottom of the stack. The last five pages"

His fingers twitch slightly, and you wonder if he wants to flip right to those. You get your answer quickly.

"Minnie, is it okay if I go over the paperwork with your mom before you tell me about your pictures?"

"It's okay!" She replies, her voice much more cheerful now that you are alone with Matt. "Do you needs help?"

Her sweetness makes Matt smile more and he shakes his head, "Not right now, sweetheart. I need to read, and I can do that with my fingers, but after that you can help with some other things."

"Okay," she says happily, kicking her feet a little bit.

You catch her attention and motion to your purse, "Do you want a toy while you wait?" 

She shakes her head and beams up at you, "No thank you, I'm a big girl!"

Both you and Matt chuckle at her declaration and he moves to open the file. 

"There's multiple copies of everything," you tell him as you move onto business, "One printed text and one in Braille for the courts and the same for you. I have the same at home, as well. They are bundled in packets. The court papers are on top, Braille first."

He thanks you then begins to read the forms. Mouse sits up straighter in her chair to try and see what he is doing. She can just peek over the edge, and she watches in fascination as his fingers move over the pages. You wait quietly, not wanting to distract in any way. 

"Everything appears to be in order. We will just need a signature," Matt says after a minute. 

"Should I do that now?" You ask. The response is him offering you a pen, so you lean in to sign the various forms. As you set each document aside, Matt adds his own signature. It is silly how giddy you feel just having the forms finally completed. You don't know how long you've had just blank copies, waiting to be filed. 

"And done," Matt says with a final flick of his pen on the last page. "I'm going to the courthouse on Tuesday, so I'll get it processed then. I'll push to get an updated certificate as quickly as possible."

You have to bite your lip to keep from smiling like a crazy person. This isn't some dream or far off fantasy. Matt isn't just saying he wants to be Minnie's father. He is following through, with urgency. This is something he wants and it's almost surreal for you - you are so used to promises being broken and no one being on the same page as you in your desires. Even if this is all for Minnie and not for you, it is still on the edge of overwhelming for you. 

You never thought you'd be so happy over paperwork. 

"Thank you, Matt," you whisper, leaning back into your seat to sit properly.

Immediately, Minnie parrots you, thanking Matt even though she has no idea what is going on.

"No, thank you. Thank you both," he says, and you wonder if he is also holding back from smiling. He gathers the papers and sets them aside before running his fingers over the folder you gave him and addressing his daughter. "Okay, sweetheart. Do you want to come tell me what you drew?" 

You expect Minnie to stand on the chair and even prepare yourself to balance her, but that does not happen. She hops down and scurries around the desk to be at Matt's side and a moment later, he is pushing his chair back and she is climbing up into his lap. Embarrassment rushes through you - she's only ever behaved like this with you. She actually used to fuss and cry if anyone else tried to hold her. You haven't seen her sit in anyone else's lap since she had a say in who gets to hold her.

"Minnie!" You scold but Matt quickly shakes his head as he helps her up.

"It's okay, I don't mind," he tells you even though he looks completely shocked. If he wasn't her father, you wouldn't allow this, especially with someone so new to her, but he is her father, even if she doesn't know, so you don't tell her to get down.

Instead, you give a stern frown, "Minnie, you still need to ask before climbing on anyone, okay? Can you apologize?" 

Your little girl nods, then looks up at him, "I'm sorry, Mister Matt."

"It's okay, sweetheart. Like I said, I don't mind, but your Mommy is right, and you should ask so I know you are there. Next time, you'll know. Now, your Mommy said there were five pictures. Which do you want to start with?" He asks, scooting his chair back to the desk while wrapping one arm around Minnie's waist to keep her secure. 

Once she's able to, she leans in and picks up the first drawing in the stack. It is the family portrait, and you quickly get your phone out so you can record this interaction as Minnie lays out the picture. She then takes Matt's free hand and guides it to the paper before letting go to point at the circle that represents him.

"This is you," she tells him. He quickly finds where she is pointing and begins to trace the figure. 

"That's me?" And there is definitely more than a little bit of emotion in his voice. 

"Uh-huh, and that is me and Mommy and we're gonna go to see the duckies. Mommy said we can go again. But we're gonna get ice cream too. And a balloon," she says, moving her little finger all over the page. 

You watch Matt's finger follow hers - first over the doodle of himself, then Minnie's, and finally yours. Then, he traces back to the center figure. "We're holding hands?" He asks tentatively.

"Yup!" She answers, popping the p. "Mommy says we gotta hold hands if we go outside." 

Matt licks his lips a little and you see his muscles flex under his jacket as he holds Minnie a little more firmly to his chest, like he doesn't want to let go of her. "That's a good rule." 

"Mommy makes good rules," your little one replies wisely. That makes your ego sing a little. Mouse has always been good at doing what she's told, and you are proud that she understands your rules keep her safe.

Before she moves onto the next picture, you gently prompt her. "Sweetie, was there something you wanted to ask Mister Matt?"

Matt's head jerks up at that, looking right to you with brows slightly knit. Minnie bounces in his lap just a little, squirming so she can turn to look up at him, "I'm gonna go to the zoo! For my birthday! Do you wanna go?"

His lips part in surprise at the question and before you know it, he has both his arms wrapped around Mouse, hugging her to him. She instantly responds, looping her little arms around his neck and squeezing back. He rests his cheek against her head, and you see him slightly rock her from side to side. "I would love to go with you to the zoo, sweetheart."

Minnie giggles into his neck and you one hundred percent know that the transition to suddenly having two parents is not going to be hard for her at all. It might be confusing because Matt won't be living with you, but you have never seen her so comfortable with someone who isn't you. You know it's not just because he gave her a toy. They just click together so well.

You switch from video to your camera so you can sneak as many pictures as you can of Matt and Minnie hugging. They've completely forgotten about you and that is a-okay. 

In this moment, nothing else matters to you - not the strange man in the other office or the devastation a few states over or all the other trivial things that nag you and make your stomach turn. 

Your world is right in front of you and for the first time in a very, very long time, you really, truly believe everything is going to be just fine. 

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[davenporttf]

Bear Trap

Jake was a total dick and he was fine admitting it. He had the body to compensate for his short temper and overall unlikeable personality. He liked to think of himself as a real tradie through and through. He didn't care what the other guys thought of him because he knew he could do the job of three men by himself. When it came to the ladies, he was fine cutting things off after they started getting feelings. "Who hurt you?" the last one said when he broke it off. He smiled and replied "That'd be you for having to listen to you."

The crew had been working on a new apartment complex for a few weeks. The days were long and the middle of summer brought some very hot afternoons. Jake was working on installing a new water pipeline to the complex and removing the debris from all the jackhammering. They had been going at it since 7am and with the sun now beaming over him, he was feeling dehydrated. He forgot to bring his own water and was starting to regret it. He signaled over to the other guys that he was going to take a quick 15, and started walking towards the next door apartments.

Typically the neighbors next to their projects hated seeing them because of all the noise. He would see the dirty looks from the balconies but he would just wave at them to piss them off. Today he was going to play nice though, and beg for some water with a smile and an arm flex.

He went up to the first door and rang the doorbell. A few moments later, a loveable bear named Greg answered the door. He filled the door with his sturdy frame, and smiled at Jake. "Can I help you?"

"Hey man, sorry to bother you but I forgot my water today. Could I trouble you for some?" Jake said with the most charming smile he could manage.

"Yeah, of course! Why don't you come in and cool off and I'll grab you some water. I have the AC on." Greg offered kindly.

Jake was not about to pass up some free AC despite his reservations. "Yeah sure. Thanks, man." He entered the studio apartment looking around at Greg's very tidy apartment. "Have a seat on the couch, I'll grab you something to drink" Greg said as he walked to his kitchen.

Jake continued to look around and noticed some of the pride flags posted around the living room. "Awe fuck, a fag. Just great." he thought to himself as he took a seat on the sofa. He didn't like how all the gay guys looked him up and down. He worked hard to look good for the ladies, and felt uncomfortable when men shot glances his way. He had the urge to leave but the AC was feeling great against his skin, so he shoved his disdain to the side.

Greg could sense the hatred from Jake, and his overall douchebag demeanor. He had seen him for a few days now arguing with his coworkers and catcalling the women walking by. He didn't like the ripped guys, and tended to go for bears like himself. He had been living alone for a few years and with the rent about to go up due to the complex being built nextdoor, he was struggling. He didn't have an extra room to split with a roommate, and he wasn't having much luck in the boyfriend department. In the kitchen, Greg came up with an idea to fix his problem. He pulled out a bottle of water from the back of the fridge that he bought from a specialty store he frequented.

Greg walked back into the room and handed Jake the bottle of water. "Here ya go! Feel free to enjoy the air for a bit. You guys really seem to be working hard out there." Jake didn't waste a moment, and started chugging the water. The water tickled going down his throat and the water tasted so refreshing. He continued to chug the water as a bubbly feeling developed in his abdomen. Gurgles began to become audible as his stomach started to expand outward. Jake could feel his waistline pushing out against his jeans becoming more uncomfortable by the second. The water was too refreshing to stop so with his other hand he unbuttoned his jeans and pulled them down to make room. Jake's pecs softened and inflated, losing definition. His arms became heavier with his biceps growing more doughy. His face rounded and lost it's definition with his chinstrap widening to a full beard.

With one hand on his belly rubbing it for comfort, Jake finished the bottle and looked around at his new form. He wanted to be disgusted with himself but his grip on his prior life was slipping away. He was liking the way he felt more powerful by his size and ran his hands all over. He looked around at the apartment feeling more at home.

"You look good handsome." Greg complimented as Jake looked up at him. Jake could feel himself growing attracted to Greg, especially his handsome features. Memories of them meeting out by the construction yard surfaced. He was always on the heavier side and the crew loved how strong he was moving around the debris. Greg had walked by one day and he couldn't help but catcall him. Luckily, Greg was flattered and found Jake extremely attractive sweating in the hot sun. Moving in together was the greatest thing to happen to him, and it helped that they could split the rent.

Jake started to paw at the bulge in his briefs, thinking of how sexy his boyfriend was. "What's say we cool off more in the shower?" Jake said devilishly. He got up and walked over to Greg adjusting to his newfound size. He took Greg by the hand and lead him into the bathroom for some much needed fun.

[svmjaeyvn]

love maze, s.jy.

chapter three pairing: jake x afab!reader word count: tbd (series)

masterlist

add yourself to the taglist here!

genre: college!au, mutual friends, fake dating, smut.

synopsis: an unfortunate encounter, drunken mistakes, and a sort of (definitely) stalker leads jake sim ‘dating’ his best friend’s childhood crush.

or, your life gets intertwined with a rich boy’s in attempt to not get sued by his crazy personal fangirl and like with all good cliches, sex overcomplicates things.

contents: smut, sort of strangers to fuck buddies to lovers pipeline, childhood best friend!jay, mentions of best friend! yunjin, curly haired & mixed reader, uni!au, rich nepo baby!jake, enha frat boys, lots of kissing, fake dating turning into fwb real quick, totally way too into it for it to be fake early on, big booty reader that’s jake’s obsessed with, partying and alcohol use, slight violence, he fell first and harder trope, stem bf & writer gf, (kinda overly) possessive jake, some angst to spice things up, daddy issues, hyper independent reader who struggles with her feelings, fluff and happy ending!!

a/n: hello~ i’ve never been a tumblr girly but i have went through my w*ttpad era back in 2018 so bare with me y’all. this will be a series but not that long (i hope) so pls look forward to it. warning tags will be placed before each “chapter” to specify what to expect. pls pls reblog and interact, i’d love to have feedback and see what your thoughts are. okay! yay, for now enjoy and thank you sm :D

MDNI, 18+

tap below to continue

CHAPTER THREE: CONTRACT

previous masterlist next

word count: 4k

warnings: cursing, mention of slight violence, mention of alcohol, mentions of your drunk self trying to jump jake’s bones, pet names

a/n: omg hi more ppl are starting to read this so exciting how do i do a tag list or whateva

"GET YOUR ASS up," You feel a heavy presence on the top of your head, waking up from the previous alcohol induced slumber that allowed you to stay asleep until the afternoon. Pulling the pillow away from your face which Jay had decided to throw on top of you as a wake up call, you blinked slowly to adjust to the change in light.

Jay stood on the opposite end of the room, folding up the comforter that was previously on the floor with narrowed eyes. His sweats hung low along his hips, his upper half shirtless while his hair had been shaken of the water from his shower, sticking up in a few awkward ways due to his lack of brushing.

"It's 1:30," He speaks up, gesturing toward the digital clock that was hung up along his wall, the modern sleek look of it blending in nicely with his decor.

"My head," You mumble, grimacing as you sat up. A small snort comes from the boy, pointing toward the water bottle and smaller white container on the bedside table.

"Your ass wouldn't stop rolling around last night so I had to sleep on the floor," Jay huffs, picking up the lone pillow he took down with him in the middle of the night. "Should've just let you and Jake hook up, he would've had to dealt with you," He adds on through a mumble, not intending for you to hear but didn't care if you did either way.

Picking up your head, your brows frown as you sat up. Jay lets out a small laugh, your hair sticking up in all directions due to being pressed against the pillows all night and slight smudge to your make up. Rolling your eyes knowing you probably looked as bad as you felt, you pick up the pill bottle and water, popping two into your mouth and swallowing it down with the drink that your body desperately needed to rehydrate.

"What're you talking about?" You finally ask, wincing at the hoarse sound of your voice. Coughing a few times to clear it, Jay watches with a face that displayed his disgust in more ways than one.

"You done?" He asks once you finally still in your fit. With a bored look, you reluctantly nod while he sends you a sarcastic smile back. "You're telling me you don't remember anything from last night?"

Pausing, you attempt to recall the previous events. Everything became a blur after heading to the dance floor, unable to pinpoint what was real or not. "Uh, aside from drinking a lot, no," You shrug, not seeing the problem considering the handful of times you've blacked out, most of which in Jay's care so he should've been used to it. "To be fair, I'm pretty sure I drank a lot of that poison punch Jungwon made—"

With an obviously disgruntled sigh, Jay interrupts you by holding up his phone. You squint, attempting to see before holding out your hand, sending him a pointed look knowing your eye sight wasn't the best. Holding it up close, the video replays and your eyes widen seeing you and Jake on one of couches downstairs, it being undeniable as you're seen on his lap, practically dry humping in the middle of the party that seemed in full swing while making out.

Your mouth falls ajar, horrified by your intoxicated self's actions. You barely even knew Jake, sure you've seen him a few times and sure, he sort of (definitely) saved you but that didn't open up a connection. Did it?

"Do you remember trying to fight Bianca James too?"

You blinked, tilting your head in confusion. "Who?"

Jay runs a hand across his face, turning away not knowing what was worse: you not knowing the millionaire trust fund baby's name or the fact that you didn't remember almost ripping her extensions out the night before.

"Bianca James? Daughter of the CEO that's dominating the business industry right now? The girl who literally gets driven around by a chauffeur to campus?" He rambles, obviously exasperated by your lack of knowledge though it was generally something everyone knew.

"The one with the botched nose job?"

Jay's face falls flat, throughly surprised that that was what you remembered of her reputation. "She got it fixed,"

"Well I don't know I'm not a business major! And I live off campus, everything that I know about school popularity comes from you guys," You answer with a shrug. "Yunjin says she's a bitch, so whatever it was, it was probably deserved that we were hair pulling. I play nasty when I'm drunk, you know that—"

"Bianca's has had a crush on Jake for like, four years. Their families have been in a partnership ever since Jake's dad wanted to expand to the West with the company. She's crazy, once she graduated last year she followed him here to Uni. His parents are pushing for them to get together because it'll make her happy which'll make her dad happy,"

You frown your brows, not seeing the point of his ramble. "Okay? So she's obsessed with him. That's not my problem, Jake's a known playboy either way so why does it matter if we hook up? Not that we did obviously since I ended up here but still,"

"She called you a dirty skank because she showed up to the party in the middle of you and Jake jumping each other on the couch. You, being drunk off your ass with mixed light and dark liquor, told her that just because she didn't have anyone to dick her down for the night didn't mean she had to make it everyone's problem," Jay deadpans, rather unamused while you bite back a laugh.

"I mean... yeah and I stand by that,"

"Point is, you two went back and forth until you got tired of it and tried to walk away but she pulled you back and you jumped on her. She started screaming, you were dragging her by the hair while Jake and Heeseung had to pull you off 'cause she didn't know how to fight and you were going in on her like we were back in high school," Jay explains in full while you nod along, his words causing your spotty memory to come back piece by piece to confirm he was right.

"Oh," You mumble, staring down at your hands. Your previously manicured nails were rough, one of them chipping on one hand while the other had a press on nail broken off, leaving your natural nail underneath evidently scrapped up and red. There was a slight redness to your right hand, the knuckles beginning to bruise in the smallest spot but aside from that, there were no other injuries on your end. "Damn, my bad. Party foul I guess,"

Jay shakes his head, unable to comprehend how you didn't remember a lick of last night but seemed relatively fine. Watching as he walked toward the bathroom, you shot your head up.

"Shit, Jay, I'm broke. What if she sues me?"

YOUR NOSE SCRUNCHES up at the incoming call, the unfamiliar number not ringing any bells causing you to press the reject button for the third time. You were sprawled out under one of the large trees on campus, your blanket that you always tucked away in your car for sunny days coming in handy as the weather grew warmer, allowing for you to wait between your classes while enjoying the fresh air and sun. You were perched up against the tree stump, headphones in listening to music with a book in hand.

The music pauses once again, the shrill of your ringtone causing you to let out a small groan in frustration. Decidedly having enough of the unknown number not getting the hint or leaving a message, you press accept to connect the call.

"Hello?" You speak first, the line quiet for a beat too long.

"Would it kill you to ever answer the phone?"

"You sound like my mom," You snort before realizing Jay had been the culprit in your interruptions. "Whose phone are you calling me from? Idiot I almost blocked you, kept stopping my music,"

"My phone died, this is Heeseung's number," Jay answers with a shrug, though you couldn't see him before he shakes his head. "Anyway, it's important obviously since I kept calling—"

"You couldn't have sent a message to let me know it was you and not a spam caller?"

"You're in deep shit," He finishes, ignoring your comment causing you to frown your brows. "Jake's looking for you, so just, don't be surprised if he shows up randomly,"

"What're you talking about?" You ask, not following the conversation at all. It had been a near week since the events of the frat party. No word had come of it, the first two you walked around rather cautious, prepped to run away if anyone came up to you with a stack of legal papers but nothing ever came. Living off campus, having entirely different areas of study, and not lingering for longer than needed for your classes allowed for you to stay entirely under the radar and out of Jake or Bianca's sight.

"I don't know, he went home yesterday and came back this morning saying he had to talk to you. It's important I guess. He wouldn't tell me but I'm assuming it has to do with last weekend," Jay explains, not being much help in providing context causing you to roll your eyes.

"Well obviously, I never spent more than three minutes around him before that," You huff, shutting your book and beginning to collect your things. "It's fine, he doesn't know my schedule and I go home after my last class so I can avoid him for now,"

"Uh,"

"What?" Pausing in your process, you take Jay's silence as a bad sign of him being an idiot. "Jongseong tell me you didn't tell him where I was,"

"I only told him that you'd be on campus for lectures today and he asked till when and I said till like 4 but that was before he explained why!" Jay rushes, words jumbled together in attempt to save himself. "I didn't tell him where, you're a lit major, the English department is huge and he has classes today too so it should be fine—"

"You're such an idiot," You breathe out, eyes widening at the convenience of the man of the hour that seemed to be wandering aimlessly looking around. Picking up your bag and slinging the blanket over your head to cover up your features, you begin to walk to opposite way, ignoring the poking leaves that still clung to the material. "I'm gonna kill you Jay, seriously he's looking for me which gives Bianca fuel to actually sue me if she wanted to cause she's crazy and already doesn't like me,"

"Well she has a reason,"

"She started it," You shoot back, voice almost a whisper into the phone in fear of speaking too loudly and gaining the brunettes attention that was across the way. In reality the sight of a bright red blanket being tossed over a persons body in the middle of comfortable heat was enough to gain anyone's attention, not that you were thinking clearly in the first place though. "I only regret it cause she's rich, stupid rich with the ability to ruin my life,"

There was another voice that was muffled through the line, Jay bickering with the owner. With a sigh, he speaks directly into the phone. "Alright, Hee wants his phone back so I gotta go. You're welcome by the way, you know, for the heads up,"

"Whatever, charge your phone I'll text you later," You mumble, bidding a goodbye to the boy who agrees and soon the line clicked, indicating that the call was ended. Looking around, you stop short realizing that you were headed in the wrong direction that your lecture would be. Slowly turning in attempt to find where Jake should've been, you pause with no sight of him. Assuming that the blanket was blocking your peripheral vision, you spin around fully only to let out a rather loud yelp in surprise.

Jake's eyes widen, shushing you and sending the few heads that turned a sheepish smile, reassuring that everything was fine. Catching your breath due to the sudden jump scare, you shake your head at him.

"What're you doing here?"

"Why're you avoiding me?"

You purse your lips at his retort. "Who says I was avoiding anybody?"

Jake lets out a small snort, picking one of the leaves off of the blanket with a pointed look. "Right, so you regularly go around like this?"

Wordlessly, you pull the blanket off of your body, Crumbling it up against your chest, one hand reaches out to flatten your hair that was sure to be sticking up in a few places. "Yeah, Thursdays. That's my thing, it's been cold, you know?"

Deciding against going back and forth, Jake checks the time on his phone momentarily. "How important is your next class?"

"Why?" You question, his answer being a reflection of what yours would be.

He shrugs half heartedly, looking around before his eyes settle back on you. His expression nearly unreadable, the smile he forced onto his lips not reaching his gaze causing your stomach to turn involuntarily. "Lets go eat,"

YOU SAT AWKWARDLY picking at the basket of fries between the two of you. You ended up on opposite sides of a booth in a well known burger place on campus, two drinks and the fries between you the only things ordered though Jake insisted on getting whatever you wanted.

You weren't necessarily hungry, having your lunch not too long ago and the thought of packing down a messy burger while having a sort-of serious conversation didn't seem like the best idea. Thus, the two of you sat silently, the soft music that played throughout the restaurant being the only noise to fill the space between you.

Taking a sip from the lemonade you ordered, you played with the garnish that was added to the rim. Growing antsy with the silence, you let out a small sigh. "Hey, uh, I didn't miss my lecture just for us to sit here right?"

Jake, who had seemed to be in a daze staring at the salt and pepper shakers at the corner of the table, blinks at the sound of your voice. Processing the words, he shakes his head. With a clear of his throat, he speaks. "No, no, sorry. I'm just trying to figure out how to explain this to you,"

"That's reassuring," You hum, sarcasm dripping from your words.

"Bianca is trying to cause trouble now because of what happened," Jake finally blurts, not knowing which way to start so he figured ripping off the bandaid would be best.

Your eyes widen slightly, stiffening up at the new information. "Jesus christ I didn't think she'd actually try to sue me over extensions,"

A small snort came from Jake, amused by your words as he shakes his head. "She's not quite there yet," He reassures, the tiniest of smiles quirking at the corners of his lips. "She did, however, go cry to her dad per usual. Word about me and you got back to my parents and they were on my ass about what happened,"

You tilt your head, not following where the conversation was meant to head if it weren't you ending up in legal debt. "Okay?"

"I had to lie," He starts off, wearily holding up his hands to show he meant no offense causing your suspicion to grow.

"About what exactly?"

"Well, keep in mind if I didn't then you probably would've gotten served papers over even held in a jail cell overnight," Jake clarifies, one of his hands awkwardly scratching the back of his neck as he diverted his gaze to the tabletop, studying the lines of the wood. "As far as they're concerned, we're in a relationship,"

You blink, half expecting him to laugh it off and say it was all a joke. However, the grimace on his face in prep for your reaction spoke more truth than you'd like to acknowledge. "Okay... why exactly did you tell them that?"

"Because by saying you were my girlfriend, my parents were able to convince Bianca's dad that it wasn't technically your fault. She came by looking for a fight because she wanted me, even while I was in a relationship," He shrugs, taking a small sip from the bubbly soda that was rather untouched on his end. "She had been traveling around Europe for the past month so it's believable, I said we were fairly new either way,"

"So basically your parents think we're in a relationship," You sum up, finding the confession not as serious as he made it out to be initially.

"And so does Bianca, who goes here too," Jake adds, watching as you pinched your brows together, beginning to puzzle together what he meant by that.

"No,"

"Yeah," A sheepish smile took place on his lips, attempting to lighten the blow while you shake your head in denial. "If she finds out we're not actually together she'll go right back and snitch. Without me backing you up I'm sure she'll convince someone to get back at you, so for now we need to act like it's real,"

You sent Jake a bored look. "You're telling me that we have to fake date? The whole boyfriend-girlfriend thing and all?" He nods along, albeit hesitant but confirms your questions. You narrow your eyes, confused by how rather nonchalant he seemed by it all when offering such a thing. "What's in it for you?"

"Sorry?" Jake stutters, surprised by that being your first question.

"What do you get out of this? We barely know each other, I doubt this is out of the kindness of your heart,"

He pauses, lips pursing together with a slight nod. "Bianca's been pushing for us to get together since she transferred here," Jake admits, rolling his eyes at the thought. "Because of how ambit she is, my family encourages it. As long as she's happy, her dad will be happy, and in return it'll benefit them. But they’re not unreasonable. At least for right now, they'll back off because of said girlfriend,"

"You know, if I knew making out with you would lead me to this much trouble, I would've never let you dance with me," You sigh, watching as his expression morphed into a rather amused one.

"You kissed me first,"

"No I didn't,"

"You did," A smirk plays at the corners of his lips, satisfied with your uneasiness. You didn't remember much of that night, even after the spotty memories came back so it was highly probable what he said was true. "You were eager too," Pulling down the collar of his shirt, your eyes widening seeing the small cluster of bruising along his collarbone, presumably from your doing due to how faded they looked, almost healed but still noticeable. "Didn't take you as a girl who liked to leave a mark,"

"To be fair, I don't acknowledge my black out days. That's a whole different person," You shrug, gesturing for him to put the shirt back in place to keep the tacky hickeys out of view.

Reluctantly, Jake readjusted himself. Though the small laugh that left his lips didn't go unnoticed, feeling significantly more at ease now that the brunt of the conversation was over with and you seemed to take it better than anticipated.

Suddenly clapping your hands, you begin to dig through your backpack. Pulling out a piece of paper from a notebook and a pen from the front pocket, Jake watches as you began to scribble on the sheet. He could see the numbered list you began to make, leaning in closer to catch a glimpse of the words.

"Okay!" You smile, turning the sheet around and placing the pen down beside it. "Add or change anything that you want," Pushing the paper towards Jake, you allow him to take a second to read the mock contract you've created, the guidelines in your do's in dont's to the relationship agreement.

"Number one, don't get attached?" Jake reads aloud, slightly surprised by that being your highest priority along with the wording of it.

With a small shrug, you nod back. "All cliché movies always put down don't fall in love, I don't want to jinx it" You explain. "Personally, I've never had a problem with friends with benefits situations. The main thing is to never get attached though, so that's number one,"

He hums back, in silent agreement with your words and finding it comforting how not phased you were. Maybe it was because he'd been running away from a certain someone's grasp for a year but the nonchalant nature in how you approached the potential relationship seemed refreshing.

The rest of the list had general rules: no unnecessary PDA, no outside relationships during the duration of the agreement, always stick to the story, only tell those absolutely necessary of the agreement (ie Jay), don't make it weird after the contract ends, contract end date, April 3rd (?).

"Why April?" Jake asks, counting the days in his head to see it would be a near four months out.

"My birthday's the 27th. I don't want to be in a fake relationship on my 21st birthday, I'd like to get legally drunk and potentially hook up with whoever I want in peace," You snort, planning out the break up to have three weeks of separation to avoid suspicion. "I mean, we can always end it earlier that's just, the cut off ya know? Play it by ear,"

"Alright," Jake agrees, finding it reason enough. "What counts as excessive PDA?" You raise a brow, expecting him to know the answer in itself but he sheepishly shrugs, a boyish smile playing at his lips. "What? I tend to touchy in a relationship, I just want to know the boundaries,"

"As long as you're not constantly trying to make out with me everywhere we go we should be fine," You answer, narrowing your eyes as he nods, seemingly taking a mental note of it. "How touchy are you?"

"Very," Jake admits, running a hand through his hair. "I don't know my ex made me take one of those love languages test and physical touch was like, 70% of it I think,"

"Okay.. good to know," You mumble, not exactly surprised by the random fact considering even with friends and the handful of times you've been around, Jake was always very affectionate to the boys. "Mine goes acts of service, quality time, and then touch," Figuring you'd be playing the part for a while, it would be beneficial for you both to know what would be expected in a real relationship.

He hums. You watch as he pulls out his phone, beginning to type without a word to you. Raising a brow, slightly annoyed by his lack of attention to the ongoing conversation, you relax as he puts it down. From the upside view you had, you could see the title of the new note he made which read '___ FACTS' with your love languages listed below. A smile breaks way onto your lips, unable to keep it away causing Jake to tilt his head, confused by your sudden amusement but he couldn't help but quirk a smile of his own at your infectious expression.

"How do you feel about nicknames?" He instead asks, changing the topic without hitch.

"I'm good with any that aren't overly corny,"

"So no baby cakes?" You immediately shake your head, wincing at the name. "Sugar plum?" Somehow worse, you disagree though a small laugh left your lips as he began to list absurd pet names. "Pookie bear?"

"Never any of that," You emphasize, covering your face out of embarrassment while Jake grins, finding your reaction rather humorous. "I'm basic, a good baby or even sweetheart would suffice,"

"Babygirl?"

You scrunch up your nose, a small shrug on your end causing Jake to raise a brow out of surprise, half expecting you to turn it down straight away. Your response only furthers his less than innocent thoughts. "That only works when I'm drunk and horny,"

He clears his throat, a small nod to himself before he responds. "Good to know,”

[kalkiethinks]

SCAM ALERT

TLDR: If a commisioner ignores your instructions, sends you a ton of money upfront via a check asking you to deposit and send back a portion of money- DO NOT. So back in Nov 10 I got an email commission which started okay: "I hope this message finds you well. I am reaching out to you because I am impressed by your portfolio and believe your artistic style would be a fantastic fit for an upcoming project I am coordinating.

I am currently in the process of assembling a team and I need a talented illustrator to collaborate on the title, Pandemic: Precaution and Prevention. Your work stood out to me due to its vibrant colors, character choices and attention to detail.

If you are interested, I would love to discuss the project further and provide more details about the scope, timeline, and compensation. Please let me know if this opportunity aligns with your current availability and if you would be open to discussing it further.

He wanted to create 6 group illustrations that would be printed and handed out for students 18-25 that would equate to $6000 at a 9 week turnaround. This raised an eyebrow but thought they were just a generous client. I gave him my procedure pipeline, starting with a min deposit upfront as a show of good faith. Also told him holidays are busy so will we start next year? He says that's fine. So far okay. "Considering the amount to be paid for the job, cashiers check or bank certified checks is our best bet. My sponsor doesn't use online payment platforms. He's an old-fashioned businessperson. The check will be issued and mailed to you and you should receive it within 5 days. Please get back to with your details in the format below:" Another raised eyebrow in this digital day and age but I've done previous freelance work that used mailed checks so I was alright with this. Only released my contact info and bank name.

Now the red flags pop up: On Nov 19 he sends this: "How are you doing today ? I'm so sorry for this, sincerely I do not find it easy to write this to you this moment , I have been so busy lately, the check is been made out for $6,000.00 which is cover for both phases. The sponsor asked for immediate refund for the 2nd phase as soon as the check clears your bank then you could proceed with the first 1-3. The 2nd phase is been postponed until further notice due to the sponsors personal issue, I will provide you the tracking information via USPS as soon as I have it so you could have it tracked yourself to know when exactly it will be delivered. My sincere apology for the inconvenience and do have a great day." So my requests were completely ignored, tells me a check is on the way with the full lump sum and I have to return half that amount. This is one method I've heard scammers get access of one's bank account with the poison check and you end up paying that half with your own actual money. Checked with friends and my own bank, sounds like a scam. Check arrives, and doing 30 minutes of Googling reveals so much warning stuff:

-So the names on the client email (Nicholas Jarry), and this name on the USPS (Christopher Williams) revealed on the first results are both famous sports players. One is a funny coincidence, two is suspicious. -quick Google of what a Keybank check is like, get an old warning about what to look for in legit checks, also tried calling Keybank on how to verify a check and explaining the scenario. -the address on the USPS belongs to a residential house that had another business also registered to it before that has gone inactive. -The Ace Cafe is real, but everything is inconsistent. The Hillcourt Dr address leads to a residential house, there is no LLC, and the logo belongs to a legit Orlando location that had closed last year and is opening in a new location, the address not matching whats on the check and names do not match either Jarry or Williams.

I've already reported this issue to the FTC and while they can't help me do anything with this particular scammer I'm now passing this around to new artists to know what to look out for when too many little suspicious things add up.

[fbfh]

Hey! Then in hoo it is mentioned that Leo has dealt with a lot of bullies and horrible people since Esperanza died, I could ask for something like him and his s/o going to do something normal like shopping and end up running into one of these people And they keep making fun of Leo so his s/o defends him and comforts him or something like that(sorry if it seems confusing, English is not my first language haha)

first of all your english is great babes!! not confusing at all <33

ah yes. the bitchy girls. the asshole mean girls who have a fucking superpower for sniffing out adhd and autism and other neurodivergent traits like fucking blood hounds. the devils in lululemon leggings and nike sneakers who worship the ground hailey bieber walks on and keep their marc jacobs tote bags full of knives to stab anyone and everyone in the back with the moment the see an opportunity to.

those girls.

Leo's been able to avoid them for a while. Drew was the worst at camp, but she was a watered down version of them - Leo realized at some point that Drew adopting those traits was her own way of dealing with shit, and the more time she spent at camp since Piper became head of cabin, the more chilled out she's gotten.

There were barely any mean girls at MIT, none he had trouble avoiding at least. But now he's here, back in the real world, shopping for groceries for your little apartment you have together. And in the real world, fresh out of nursing school, is Emily. The exact same Emily from the school he went to before camp half blood. At 15, Leo went through a lot of shit. School was hell, his foster family was so bad he ran away enough to be sent to the wilderness school, and he was at one of the lowest points of his entire life.

You don't know who she is, but from the look on Leo's face, the sudden, sharp drop in his energy, the way he starts picking at his hands and gets all jittery. He hopes he can get away with it, hopes she won't even recognize him.

"Oh my god... Leo Valdez?"

you grimace at her voice, the way she mispronounces his last name, and your hackles rise. She looks at you in shock, seeming to hold back a laugh.

"Wait, is he your boyfriend?"

She says it like it's some joke, like this whole thing is hilarious.

"He used to be so awkward!" she giggles, "Wow, you look exactly the same."

Leo can read you like a book, and he knows you are SO pissed off for him.

"Yeah," You say with an equally sarcastic smile, "I had no idea you guys were the same age, you look so much older. I never would have known you guys were in the same class."

She blanches a little, and you double down.

"Leo actually just graduated top of his class at MIT. He has, like, a dozen job offers already." You smile at him proudly. "So how about you, are you... doing anything?"

"Mhm." She nods, the humor suddenly gone. "Nursing school. I just started."

"Oh," you nod, glancing over at Leo and sharing a subtle look with him, "well, we better get going, we have some open houses to get to."

As you walk away, still close enough for her to hear, you mutter to Leo, stifling a smile.

"Wow. The mean girl to nursing school pipeline is real." You chuckle, "And like, she does know it's not 2016 anymore, right? Cause her eyebrows don't seem to..."

He's so surprised that after an interaction with her, after all these years, he actually feels... okay. Outside the shithole of high school, with you by his side, she doesn't seem nearly as intimidating as she had. He's not sure how you got him to realize that so quickly, but he realizes that there's nothing that feels that intimidating when you're by his side. And you're right, her eyebrows are just as awful as her personality.

[sulatni-ree]

a tweet on my timeline of a youtube comment on gem's afterlife smp: the movie video made me wonder: what do people think of when they hear "life series"

so,,, in my head, there are two:

~ long post ahead

modded life - mostly empires smp members; one life, xlife, afterlife, new life, sos (honorary, the smp plays with a "life-respawn system" too anyways)

vanilla life - mostly hermitcraft members; third life, last life, double life, limited life, secret life, real life, wild life

my personal minecraft smp pipeline was xlife - empires - hermitcraft - last life (and the rest of the vanilla lifes), then i also watched afterlife and sos as they uploaded. just thought it would be nice to have a label to distinguish the two "flavors" of life series, if you will, in my head.

some stuff i found out after doing some digging on these SMPs and realizations:

people would prolly consider a life series a,,, "life series" if it has the word "life" in its name. personally, i like to think of a life series as hardcore with a twist which is why i consider sos as an honorary one.

main reason for the "vanilla" and "modded" titles: vanilla lifes mostly try to keep itself vanilla, while modded lifes are usually MODDED with new biomes, mechanics, mobs, etc.

it confused me a bit at first how the vanilla lifers managed to have a pretty consistent roster compared to the modded lifers, then it hit that the modded lifes are long-term SMPs that last for months to maybe over a year per "season", while the vanilla lifes are short-term, consistently taking 6 to 8 weeks (or 2 months max) only.

the modded lifes don't actually belong to the same "life series" unlike the vanilla lifes: they're all independent series. i just like to tack the "modded life" label on them for simplicity's sake + the creators involved have becone consistent anyways

limited life & sos are both similar in the sense that technically, there isn't a set number of times you could die compared to other SMPs on the list. your respawns in limited life depend on whether your 24 hours on the server is out, while sos depends on its own "life currency": fate coins. it would be fun to see the CCs play with these kinds of twists where whether you get a chance to respawn has a variable of sorts.

one life (season 1) was first published on May 15, 2016, making it 8 years old as of writing this and the oldest life series in this list

one life also had 3 seasons from May 2016 to March 2019, making it the longest life series

the shortest life series is double life, running for 6 weeks from June to July 2022

if you were to order all the mentioned life series by date started, you'll have: one (2016), x (2019), third (2021), last, afterlife (2022), double, limited (2023), new, secret, sos (2024), real, wild

the only modded lifers that have been in every "season" of the modded lifes are joel smallishbeans, joey graceffa, lizzie ldshadowlady, scott smajor, and shubble

lifers that have been in both modded and vanilla versions are scott, joel, lizzie, jimmy, gem, pearl, scar, & martyn (and oli, if you count his snail appearance on wild life)

with 12 "seasons" between both the modded and vanilla lifes, it's pretty amazing that a concept for a series has only been repeated once: afterlife & new life with the origins mod (didn't they repeat the concept because they wanted to see more origins?)

andddd i think that's all !! feel free to add more thoughts below, or correct me with any misinformation :]]

(this made me want to rewatch cleo's LimLife + finally start jimmy's xlife, shubble's sos, and/or pearl's new life,,, wish me luck o7)

[yiffos-official]

I am willing to give you or anyone else on tumblr the skills and advice the helped me get my dream job

the idea of working for TEK a few months ago would just be a fantasy

my background in education is English. I learned what I know now on my own and only by random chance.

This is why I am so critical of the linux commumity on tumblr.

They're tagging themselves as -official when they can't provide casual end user support.

They're entirely too horny to be in this sphere. Computers and linux should not be about how much you want to fuck/be fucked by X

it will deter end users

This is very cool that you will help other tumblr users with this stuff; i may actually take you up on this at some point :3

(my tone here is /g, /pos, /nm, /lh)

I do, however, kind of disagree with the other points. I think that for any other social media it's correct, twt or fb does not have the culture to make these sorts of parody accounts viable or not-counter-productive to increasing the linux market share. But I don't think that tumblr is the same.

I think that tumblr does. I think the tumblr community has always been this somewhat ephemeral yet perpetual inside joke culture where almost every user is in-the-know, and new users to the joke are able generally able to catch on quickly to it due to their general understanding of they way tumblr communities operate.

IMO, it's a somewhat quick pipeline of:

\> find first "x-official" blog -> assume it's real -> see them horny posting about xenia -> infer that RH corporate would probably not approve of such a blog

I can appreciate that it might be intimidating to seek out help as a new linux user, and especially a new linux & tumblr user, but looking through these blogs, you do see them helping out people ^^. heck, my last post was helping someone getting wayland working on an nvidia system.

The main goal of these blogs is not to be a legitimate CS service to general end-users. they aren't affiliated with the software their blog is named after, so in many cases they *cant*. The goal is instead to foster a community around linux, creating a general network of blogs of the various FOSS projects that they enjoy.

I think that final sentiment, of these blogs detering end users, is most likely counter to their actual effect on end users who are considering switching to linux.

We all know a lot of tumblr is 20 or 30 something year olds who have just stuck around since ~2012ish, and new users to tumblr join with pre-existing knowledge of the culture and platform. Almost anyone coming across these blogs are going to be people who can see the "in" joke, and acclimate. I do highly doubt that a random facebook mom who's son convinced her to install mint on her old laptop would find tumblr, find a -official blog, scroll through said blog, and be detered from using mint.

The other side of this is that any tumblr users who come across these blogs, be it with an inkling of desire to switch to linux or not, will see a vibrant and active community that fits very well into the tumblr community. They remember, or have heard of, the amtrac & OSHA blogs, and are therefore probably aware that this is a pre-existing meme on here.

In all likelyhood, this will probably further incentivize them to make the switch, as they would be more attracted to a community of their peers over a community of redditors telling them to read the arch wiki repeatedly

I can, on the other hand, definitely see that for people who have difficulties with parsing tone, and especially sarcasm, would have trouble with this. TBH, I have these difficulties (hence when I was speaking to you yesterday I used the /unjerk indicator, as I couldn't tell what the tone of the conversation was), and so it took me a little while of being in this weird "I'm 99% sure these *aren't* official, but what if?". I have been there forI think that maybe being more transparent with the fact that the blogs are parodies is probably important. I'm guilty of this, and after i post this, i'll add it to my bio.

[asaraviapt]

[EN] Video Game Writing Resources!

Hello! My name is Andrea--I have been writing for games since 2018, and even worked as a writer at Firaxis Games from 2022 until April of 2023. So, I knew a few things about narrative design--but what the fuck is it? Recently, I gave a talk about the fundamentals and history of the field of narrative design. In Spanish. So, let's talk about it in English--the "what," "why," "how," "when," and "who," of narrative design! What is narrative design? Narrative design is not just writing--it's a huge part of it, but designing a narrative system involves implementing narrative content into the build of the game. So there is a technical learning curve to it. Personally, I watched and obtained certifications in Unreal Engine 5 and Unity in order to be aware of the limitations of each engine. I used the free trial of LinkedIn Learning, but courses about this engine are available in these websites: - https://platzi.com/ - https://www.arkde.com/ - https://www.domestika.org/?query=unity - https://www.coursera.org/ Why do we need narrative design? In order to create an interactive story that the player feels a part of, narrative designers are mandatory. It's not a responsibility that can be placed on other designers (then we would be entering crunch territory) rather someone who specifically specializes in both creative writing and game design is needed to explain within the context of the game's story why the mechanics work in a certain way. Imagine if a Telltale game did not have dialogue, for example--what would we be left with? Or if The Last Of Us did not convey a narrative through its environments.

Narrative designers are needed so that all of the departments are in sync and understand the story that they are trying to tell. For example, if a game takes place in a haunted house that was abandoned, we need all hands on deck. The narrative designer can explain to the environment artists why there are so many holes in the living room--perhaps the last tenants of the house were a rowdy bunch. Or, they can tell the sound designers which planks of wood are the most rotten and need a loud sound effect to highlight how it has been abandoned. How do I become a narrative designer? There is no one way to become a narrative designer. Some people start in QA and transition into the field, I have also witnessed engineers and doctors wanting to get into narrative design. I do recommend having the following (at least): - A passion for storytelling. - Deep understanding of the mechanics of the game and the player experience. - Communication skills are incredibly important--can you describe your story in a concise way to your peers in a Confluence page?

Documentation skills are also a massive plus.

Very basic understanding of game engines and limitations. You don't have to be a computer science major, but know what your requests will entail. If you have an idea of a cutscene, can the engine handle it? Will the animators have enough time? Is it within scope?

If you can, attend game jams! They are an amazing way to network with amazing people and get a feel of what the game production pipeline is like.

Additionally, I highly recommend the following resources: First, the free resources! ~It's free real estate~

Look up Twinery tutorials. (https://twinery.org/) Not only is it free, but you can use it on your browser. More importantly, you will learn about branching narratives and can create your own games within a few minutes--the interface, though it requires a bit of coding, is incredibly easy to use and there are a lot of tutorials available online.

Download Ren'Py (https://www.renpy.org/) and watch tutorials. It's free, and there is a huge community of visual novel developers who may need help with narrative designers, writers, editors and even translators. An amazing resource that a colleague shared was this Discord with visual novel developers--if you have an idea, feel free to connect with artists and voice actors here! https://discord.gg/nW5yn4FE

Network, network, network! Follow narrative design and game writer groups on Discord, Facebook and even LinkedIn. -- An amazing convention that is online, free and accessible regarding narrative design is LudoNarraCon.

If you go to itch.io you will see a list of game jams that you can attend to for free! Some game jams that I have attended and had a positive experience are the following: - Woman Game Jam. I encourage folks from marginalized genders to attend this game jam, as we have a large pool of mentors willing to help in every single discipline at any time due to the global nature of it. It is a safe and inclusive space for women and nonbinary folx who want to get into the gaming industry! - Global Game Jam. Self explanatory, it has some in-person opportunities but you can also attend remotely. - Greenlight Jam. Do you have an idea that can not be done in only 48 hours? The Greenlight Jam is amazing, as it lasts four weeks--which allows narrative designers to develop complex narrative systems and even record voice lines for a more complex project. Side Note: Even though most game jams have a time limit, I do encourage narrative designers to develop and polish the prototypes and levels created during game jams to have portfolios and writing samples that stand out!

Work With Indies is a job site that publishes job opportunities--including ones in writing and narrative design. Additionally, their Discord has some networking events with writers so you can connect with them.

Other websites that not only publish jobs but include networking events are Hitmarker.net (this is their Discord), IndieGameAcademy (link to Discord),

Newsletters! A lot of experienced game writers have newsletters dedicated to the craft, to name a few that I highly recommend: -- Greg Buchanan's newsletter. Rounds up game writing news every Tuesday, and includes job opportunities. -- Bright Whitney's newsletter. A studio founder with amazing insights regarding game design and thoughtful narrative, Whitney's threads are extremely insightful. -- Susan O'Connor's blog on The Narrative Department. In addition to providing free knowledge regarding world building, narrative design, game writing and other specifics of the craft Susan interviews industry professionals and alumni who offer testimonials that have amazing advice. -- GDC talks about narrative design. Though I recommend the GDC vault as well in the next section, I highly recommend the GDC talks regarding not only narrative design but the development of your favorite titles!

Now, for resources that may not be free--but I highly recommend, as someone who used them first hand. - The Narrative Department. This post is not sponsored by them at all, however it is rare to find an instructor as kind and hard-working as Susan O'Connor who has been a narrative designer in historic AAA, AA and independent titles. Known for her contributions in Tomb Raider, Batman: The Enemy Within, and BioShock to name a few (imdb is: https://www.imdb.com/name/nm1897248/) her Game Writing Masterclass offers a certification in everything related to game writing. A few subjects she touches on are: -- Characters and how to make them compelling. -- Barks and ambience writing. -- Dialogue, backstories and scripts. -- How to work with other departments. And more! Additionally, you would obtain access to a huge alumni network full of game writing professionals working in independent, AA and AAA studios! Not to mention that all of the assignments completed in the class will look amazing in a portfolio as game writing samples. - GDC Vault. Though I have an opinion on the price tag of GDC tickets and the vault, I would definitely include it as it has resources from several studios, writers, narrative designers and more! When was narrative design formed? When can I become a narrative designer?

That's a wonderful question. Narrative design, as a term, was first used around the 90s but became more established between the 2000s and 2010s. So, although the field is relatively new, and there are not a lot educational resources available, consider yourself part of an innovative field that is exponentially growing! Recently, a game developer asked when was the best time to keep an eye out for job openings. And a harsh truth about the gaming industry is that it is extremely volatile--layoffs, downsizings and startups rise and fall. This is not meant to deter anyone from pursuing a career in narrative design, but rather I am including it for the sake of transparency. We cannot predict when a studio is going to layoff their employees, or when they cancel unannounced projects. Unlike most industries where we know for a fact that recruiters keep a sharp eye for candidates in Q1 and Q3, a piece of advice I received from a mentor of mine was to try to predict when projects are going to need more stories. There's the release of a game, and then there is the addition of additional narrative content--and for this, they will more than likely need associate/entry/junior level narrative designers, writers and quest designers. But--this is related to searching for a job as a narrative designer, and I can write a novel about that (and will edit this article to redirect folx into it.) So, keep an eye out for huge game announcements. Then, cater your resume to what the studio is looking for in a narrative designer. Now, to finish off this article: Who is a narrative designer? If you have a passion for storytelling and games, and have participated in game jams, congratulations you are a wonderful narrative designer! Make sure you always include that you are a narrative designer, and not an aspiring narrative designer--it makes you stand out amongst applicants. That's all I have for now--feel free to interact, comment and share! Let me know if I missed something and I will be sure to add it.

[unofficially-ace]

Star thoughts/liveblog (spoilers ahead ofc)

- If Splashtail is holding kittens hostage have you guys tried….driving him out? It’s literally one guy against the whole of Riverclan, just keep him away from the kits and there won’t be an issue???

- The conflict is kinda stupid I can’t lie, this could be solved if everyone in Riverclan wasn’t such a dumbass

- Cloverfoot is going to die in this battle I can smell it

- I can’t believe we’re getting fascism explained to us through warrior cats

- Berryheart fell down the crunchy mom -> alt right pipeline real

- This book is making me like Tigerheartstar wtf

- Frostpaw I would die for you

- Harestar you’re the most annoying mf ever please die

- What is it with Riverclan and their camp being turned into a prison every other series

- Graysludge and Mistslime are objectively hilarious names

- What happened to Splashtail being compelling why is he just cartoonishly evil and insane now

- There are not enough supporters of Splashtail to make give this any stakes come onnnn, he has like 5 people actually on his side

- I love Berryheart she’s so fucked up

- Wtf is Owlnose doing, why is he siding with Splashtail for no reason??

- Sunbeam you are so stupid my god

- ‘She didn’t realise what she was doing’ yes she did lmao

- RIP Berryheart you were the most compelling villain of the series

- That makes 2 dead female villains and we’re stuck with the boring male one….

- Owlnose you just killed someone don’t try and make me feel bad for you

- ‘The last thing she ever did was save you’ just like Curlfeather….the parallels…

- This feels like setup for Froststar ngl

- I can’t believe Nightheart is the only guy with a braincell here

- Is fogstar going to be a thing??? She hasn’t even been mentioned once before this book

- Riverclan is so stupid it actually pains me

- Why are we still calling them Greysludge and Mistslime that’s literally so mean lol, just call them by their apprentice names

- The tension is actually really good

- Not exactly liking how Splashtail seems to be genuinely mentally I’ll and that’s why he’s evil…

- He’s fuckin dead and we’re only halfway through?? Now what?

- So glad Frostpaw got to be the one to kill him though, that was so satisfying

- Riverclan you can justify all you want but at the end of the day you’re fuckin stupid

- The second he started doing murders y’all should’ve turned on him and it would all be fine

- Hi Mothwing when did you get here

- Lol fuck those guys (fognose and breezeheart)

- Goddamn Berryheart’s funeral scene is some of the best writing I’ve seen in a warriors book for a while, these are genuinely interesting emotions to explore

- Ewww I don’t wanna think about frost having a crush on splash stop bringing this up my god

- Oh fuck yes Frostpaw and Curlfeather angst

- If the rest of this book is just emotional conflict I will be more than happy with it

- Don’t kill off Frostpaw I swear to god

- Kate Cary I’m putting my trust in you

- This scene would make an incredible animation

- Might be my new favourite chapter of warrior cats ever holy shit that SLAPPED

- Fuck off Nightheart I need more Frostpaw

- Having Nightsky and Nightheart is so confusing

- Thunderclan can’t go two seconds without an argument (usually started by Lionblaze)

- I kinda love this type of conflict, it’s much more interesting than Splashtail being crazy

- Podlight is still here???

- Tree does something as a mediator for the first time ever

- Who tf is emberstar (if they’re relevant in Riverstar’s SE then I haven’t read it lol)

- The fact that I genuinely can’t tell if Frostpaw will survive is so good

- Please let the rest of the chapters be Frostpaw I don’t gaf about the others right now

- Whistlebreeze is the cutest name

- Frostdawn!!!! Also cute as fuck

- ICESTAR REALLLLL LETS GO

- Oh my god this chapter is gonna make me cry

- Sunbeam is pregnant and I want to explode

- And that’s a wrap on ASC , genuinely actually enjoyed this book, especially the second half. The emotional conflict was really interesting I gotta be honest, Frostdawn’s almost-dead scenes were so fun and had really good tension. The conflict with Splashtail ended up getting really stale, I’m glad he was killed halfway through because I couldn’t have dealt with that being dragged out for a whole book

[lovelesscatholic]

My Story as a Loveless Catholic

Apologies in advance for how all over the place I just know this is going to be.

My whole life I’ve been an atheist. I was only six years old when the thought ‘Is God real?’ entered my head. I concluded, rather quickly, no. At the time, I assumed it that it was just a wise tale that adults told kids for the questions we didn’t actually have the answer too to try and explain the world better. It was always a surprised to me by how scandalized the adults reacted to me when I expressed this belief but little me reason that they were simply putting on an act for the children who held a belief in God. I generally had no idea how serious people took their belief in God and religion.

Until I started middle school and learned about holy wars, the crusades and colonization. This was also around the same time that gay marriage was being heavily debated and I saw with my own two eyes how hateful and vitriol people became in what they believe to be in the name of God. This baffled me. Even though I lack the belief in God, I was still under the impression that it was an accepting and inclusive ideology cause how can an ideology claim to be ‘loving’ if it isn’t?

I was outraged that an ideology I believe to be untrue was seemingly responsible for so much inequality and injustice. This prompted me to try and educate myself more about atheistism and I decided to do so by following more atheist YT creators (this, ironically, lead me to being a victim of the 2016 YT right wing pipeline but that’s a story for another day) and I learned just how much of a chokehold Christianity had in American politics and society. At that point I became a full blown anti-theist and believed that the world would be a better place if religion cease to exist.

My parents are illegal immigrants from Mexico and had been trying for years to get their residency. In April of last year, my mom was told she would have to return to Mexico for her green card. We were told that, if all goes well, she would only have to spend a week in Mexico. In her interview, she admitted to bringing my brother, her then 3 year old son, with her when crossing border. For that, she was denied her green card and was told she would have to ‘beg for forgiveness’ for things to proceed. In the meanwhile, she would have to stay in Mexico.

My mom and I are very close. She is the only person I can say with confidence that I love. We were separated for three months. I didn’t cry but I slept a lot, became hyper aware of my body, something always hurt, something always felt off. We were reunited in July and I was given two option; To go back home or stay in a country I’ve never been in for an infinite amount of time. I chose to stay. And I’m glad did. I can make a whole list of reasons why, feeling more connected to my culture then ever before, the strong sense of community, learning a whole new way of living and thinking. But I know what the number one reason would be; I found God.

Our host family had a family friend who was a Pastor. He rarely visited before but started visiting more often for my mom’s stake as he felt she needed guidance more than ever. He would stop by every morning or early afternoon and to bless us. At this point, I’ve relaxed in my beliefs, no longer considered myself an anti-theist as I understood that there was virtually no way to  eradicate religion without full blown genocide as culture and religion are heavily intertwined. But I still consider myself an atheist and intently opted out of prayers and blessings, which was very much an option here. But something told me to join in on the prayers and blessings. So I did, and each time, I felt myself grew more and more at peace. At first, it was just a simple prayer and blessing but then Father started bringing wafers for communion. Father asked if I ever had my First Communion. I said no and found myself early wanting to do one, which he agreed to do for me.

On November 24, 2024, I had my First Communion and ever since, I feel more….light, like I have access to certain kind of peace, that I didn’t have before. I’ve fully embraced Christ since. I started praying more. First before and after a meal, then before bed. Now I pray when I wake up, before and after meals, Angleus in the afternoon, and before bed. I also started reading the Catechism of the Catholic Church recently, though I haven’t been it very far.

Now here’s the thing, I’ve been identifying as apothiplatonic for almost five years at this point, greyfamilial for a few months. I don’t really identify with love outside of a romantic context. I don’t label myself as loveless but I do agree with the idea that love is, ironically, over romanticized and we’ve given too much credit to something we can’t even seem to properly define. It isn’t magic, it isn’t inherently powerful, and it doesn’t make any harm done go away. I think a good and  relevant example would be, American Christians saying it’s all done out of love when they pass legislation against women, queer people, and other minorities. I’m not about to get into a debate about their own feelings, that’s between them and God. But I will say that it ultimately doesn’t matter to the rest of the world, they’re doing harm and their love does not make up for it. Some would argue that they don’t care about the world, just want to please God. But why would God be please by you doing harm to His children? By denying them their rights? By denying them the humanity God gifted them with? I know White Americans like to think of themselves as God’s favorites but I promise you they’re not. I would never do anything to harm any group of people and will always try to make them feel safe and accepted cause that’s what I believe to be right. I don’t have to love them to do all this.

I don’t love God. You would’ve thought that this was a point of inner-conflict for me. But it really wasn’t. Developing my relationship with God came pretty easy, even if it came with the usual amount of tough questions and self reflection one does when discovering Him for the first time. Sure, a lot of people emphasized love when talking about their relationship with Him and good for them. But that’s not the relationship I have with Him. I never felt the need to explain myself to Him. He’s God. He’s my creator. He made me aplatonic. He made me greyfamilial. He understands me ore than anyone. I still follow Him and His commandments, I still trust Him with my life, I still believe in His plans, I still worship Him. I don’t have to love Him to do all that.

Though there’s still a lot I wish to talk about, I’m gonna end it here. If you made it this far, thank you so much for taking the time out of your day to read this and I hope my rumble served you well in any way. Again, sorry if it’s messy. I would like to keep this raw and it’s first time I’ve ever put everything into words. As you read, I’m still relatively new to my faith and still learning more about it every day. But my belief and relationship with God is strong and will only grow stronger from here.

Again, thank you and God Bless You ❤️

[howlinchickhowl]

It's been a minute since I played tag! (And also apparently since I've made a tumblr post from scratch because I could not for the life of me find the make a new post button 😑) I'm getting in on this one early before too many people tag me in it and I get overwhelmed, but thanks to @gardenerian and @gallawitchxx for waving me over.

Under a cut because I am a talkative little so-and-so today

name: howl 🐺 (aroo)

age you are mentally: I am a thousand years old I'm a newborn baby i'm ready to retire I'm not ready for senior year to be over I've seen too much the world is brand new i hate not being in control i cannot be put in charge i'm only small! you understand.

top 3 fics that came out last year (that you can remember at this point lol): being the most predictable bitch alive and second and thirding mel and bee when I say OLD HABITTTTTTSSSSSS by @whatthebodygraspsnot , guaranteed to satisfy by @catgrassplantdad and this one didn't come out last year but it was UPDATED last year to my great and incredible joy and I may have been so excited I forgot to comment on the new chapter which I will be doing immediately after I re-read it but Selfless Acts of the Illegal Variety my beloved, by @abundanceofnots

add in any authors who you read all of their things: I have not been able to do a lot of reading the last couple of years but certainly folks whose works get me real excited are those above, ray, jessie, and ellie, then of course @gallawitchxx @gardenerian @iansfreckles @whatwouldmickeydo @suzy-queued @the-rat-wins @captainjowl @sam-loves-seb @biblionerd07 (and if @gallavichy ever decided to start writing again I would legit leave my job in the middle of the work day to go somewhere private and scream and then read whatever it was)

fave artist/band/singer/group your discovered last year (has to be new to you, not new): Last year for the first time in maybe a decade I bought a ticket to a concert that no one had asked me to accompany them to, so I think I'm gonna have to say Remember Monday, petty queens.

one thing you learnt last year that you’re taking into 2025: sometimes asking for help is the only way to get to the finish line.

was it a good year or bad year? indescribably bad.

is there anything superstitious you do to try and continue that vibe or absolutely change it? i'm not really a superstitious guy? I feel like the only way you change the vibe is just by straight up changing it.

fave WIPs you're following into this year: I am not up to date on what is being updated, but I am always praying for updates on a few things - Elevator Music, Selfless Acts (again! I'm greedy!), Let The Bodies Do the Talkin', Things Beyond Mistake, Tender Hearts and Other Maladies - can you believe before this fandom I literally would never read a fic unless it was finished? and now I'm surrounded by all these amazing works I never would have known the joy of if I had kept that nonsense up! Read WIPs folks! It's joyful!

are you doing any January ‘get healthy’ things? I wouldn't call it a 'get healthy' thing, but after several years of living on everyone else's schedule I am choosing this January to try and 'be healthy' by listening to my body and not do anything it doesn't want to do.

more random questions ~~ did you consider yourself an avid reader before you found fanfic? for sure, I am the bookish girl to fic monster pipeline. She is me.

do you read books as well as fanfic? yes (but not as many as I used to!) or no: fanfic or die -- I struggle to read books when I am struggling, so I end up reading fic instead, but I am always reaching for a book, even if I don't end up reading it. So far this year though I'm on my third book so far!

what are you doing to survive this january so far? Sleeping, eating, saying yes when I want and no when I want, sleeping some more, taking my dog for a walk, ignoring my bank balance, reading, writing.

woo tag game! We did it! I am tagging everyone who I have tagged in the body of the post, as well as @heymrspatel @callivich, @sleepyfacetoughguy @mickeyheartian and @gallavichsuperfan , and everyone who has tagged me in a game this last year, I see you keeping me in your hearts and minds and I appreciate you!

[mariacallous]

On May 16, the gaming and entertainment news site Dexerto tweeted an image from the forthcoming game Assassin’s Creed Shadows featuring one of its protagonists, the Black samurai Yasuke, in a fighting pose. Across scores of replies, some voiced optimism, others fatigue with Assassin’s Creed’s now 14-game-long run, and a very vocal few expressed frustration and anger that a Black person was at the center of the narrative.

“Gonna pass on the DEI games,” wrote one blue-check X user, referencing the acronym for diversity, equity, and inclusion. “Why Wokeism?” asked another. Comments full of racist and sexist language filled the thread.

A more articulate undercurrent of these reactionaries, across many online forums, had a more specific set of complaints. Some alleged the race of the real Yasuke was never known, others that he wasn’t a samurai but a retainer, and another claimed he was never in combat.

These were all fairly elaborate conclusions to draw about a guy from 1581 who’s been depicted as a samurai in Japanese media many times, including in the 2017 video game Nioh and Samurai Warriors 5 in 2021, as well as his own animated series on Netflix.

They also may have been the last bit of armchair history we got on Yasuke if the conversation hadn’t been sustained by a set of accounts looking to build yet another front in the online culture war, fueling what some have been calling Gamergate 2.0. Whereas the Gamergate of 2014 focused on trying to drown out feminist voices, and the voices of women of color, in gaming culture, this second incarnation seems focused on pushing back against diversity in games of all kinds. Yasuke just stepped in their path.

The resurgence of the Gamergate moniker came earlier this year in reaction to the work of Sweet Baby. Staff at the small consultancy received a wave of harassment this spring stemming from misinformation and conspiracy theories claiming the company was a BlackRock-backed outfit trying to force diversity into games. (It’s not affiliated with BlackRock and merely advises on characters and storylines.) As the controversy around Assassin’s Creed Shadows intensified, several posts mentioned Sweet Baby, even though company CEO Kim Belair says the firm didn’t work on the game.

“I think it just comes with the post-Gamergate (late-Gamergate?) territory,” Belair wrote in an email to WIRED. “To a certain kind of person, largely trolls, we're synonymous with their idea of ‘wokeness in games’ or a vague idea of ‘DEI,’ but it's ultimately reflective of the overall misinformation that fuels this campaign.”

Gamergate was not the first harassment campaign conceived in the bowels of 4chan and its affiliate websites, but it was perhaps their crowning achievement. The attacks against developers Zoë Quinn and Brianna Wu and media critic Anita Sarkeesian, among others, ranged from doxing to rape and death threats. Its tenets and tactics eventually proved valuable in bringing people into the burgeoning alt-right movement. Even Pizzagate and QAnon can, in some ways, be traced back to what was happening with gamers online in 2014.

“Gamergate was a recruiting ground, a pipeline to leverage the loneliness, discontentment, and alienation of young men—often white young men—into alt-right politics, extremist misogyny, and outright white supremacy and Nazism,” Thirsty Suitors narrative lead Meghna Jayanth told WIRED.

If the early days of social media incubated a cultural cold war, Gamergate turned it hot. Frustrated that they were no longer the sole demographic being catered to, Gamergaters saw “the growing visibility of women, not to mention their incomprehensible insistence that games cater to their perspectives as well, as an unwelcome intrusion in a space that does not belong to them,” Laura Hudson wrote in WIRED at the time. As a result, they wanted more than debate, they wanted blood—and nothing really stopped them from going after it.

Ten years later, aggrieved gamers are focusing on other forms of diversity and inclusion, which is how Assassin’s Creed Shadows’ Yasuke has become the latest point of contention.

While only so much can be truly known when it comes to history, accounts suggest Yasuke (the real one, not the video game character) was a man presumed to be from west Africa who served the Italian missionary Alessandro Valignano. He accompanied Valignano to Japan where he served Oda Nobunaga at the daimyo’s demand. Yasuke was presented with the trappings of a samurai: a house, servants, a sword. He would go on to be with Nobunaga, or near him, at the time of his death, before seeking his heir Nobutada and joining him in battling those responsible for Nobunga’s death, though unsuccessfully.

While Yasuke’s history is fascinating and mysterious, much of the fuss over him has concerned whether he was officially a samurai, a depiction that has shown up in media several times in and outside of Japan. Some insist that he may have instead been a retainer, page, squire, or sword-bearer. Others decrying his inclusion in Shadows said he looked gay.

“There is no easy way to separate the many threads of what we are seeing within the Yasuke backlash,” says Paula Curtis, a postdoctoral fellow at UCLA’s Terasaki Center for Japanese Studies. “There are legitimate complaints about the developers’ decisions regarding representation and historical engagement … There are also many discriminatory responses to the game that have been anti-Black, misogynistic, and politically motivated.” It’s important to note, Curtis adds, that Shadows’ fans and commentators, and the issues they’re raising, aren’t uniform.

When Japanese historian Yu Hirayama tweeted there was “no doubt” as to Yasuke’s samurai status, he was treated to a tirade of abusive replies in English, including one claiming he brought “dishonor to [his] family and Japanese history.”

Amid the backlash to Yasuke’s inclusion in the game—and specifically to his role as a samurai—Ubisoft, the game’s developer, issued a statement saying that while the company “extensively collaborated with external consultants, historians, researchers, and internal teams at Ubisoft Japan” on the game, “some elements in our promotional materials have caused concern within the Japanese community.”

Without saying specifically which aspects caused concern, the company added that it was taking this “constructive criticism” into account as it prepared for the game’s November launch, and apologized. (Ubisoft did not respond to a request for comment on this story.)

Jayanth believes the apology was a case of misplaced appeasement.

“The alt-right's fundamental drive is hatred of the ‘other,’” she says. “Even if we cleansed our games of women, non-white people, queer people—which is their ask, and one we absolutely should not give in to—they would turn to insufficiently ‘masculine’ depictions of white men. This movement exists only in opposition to some polluting ‘other,’ an enemy that must be manufactured if a real enemy cannot be found.”

Revisionist approaches to history have seen a rise in recent years, especially in the interest of enshrining an idealist sense of a traditionalist past as an ahistorically conservative utopia.

“You see this in the false assertion of a purely white Middle Ages or the denial of war atrocities in World War II,” Curtis says. “Bad-faith actors may cherry-pick historical sources in order to craft specific narratives, completely ignore sources that do not support their views, or appropriate historical symbols as rallying cries to their causes.”

The proponents of Gamergate 2.0 have veiled their scorn for Assassin’s Creed Shadows’ inclusion of Yasuke within concerns for historical accuracy. Much Like the Gamergaters of old, who insisted they were defending ethics in gaming journalism and not harassing women they felt needed to be put in their place.

Gamergate then, and Gamergate now, are both ultimately about the sensitivities around who saw representation and how, made disproportionately important by how disempowered and alienated modern people feel. As games have made room for a wider array of characters, the gamers at the center of the backlash have seen this progress as a form of persecution. Games are changing, and as much as those upset over Yasuke’s inclusion in Shadows want to push back, they may not be able to stop that.

“It's certainly been strange to see us tied to a ton of games we've never worked on simply because people perceive ‘wokeness’ or progressive ideas in them,” Sweet Baby’s Belair says, “but maybe it's indicative of a greater truth that Gamergaters miss: No external consultancy is forcing studios to make their products more diverse or more progressive. The change, whatever you think of it, is coming from inside the house.”

[lucystark12]

mike wheeler and jaime lannister are the same character and that also means byler is real 🥳

my last post about game of thrones versus stranger things where i talked about writing and what went wrong with dan and david did pretty well so i figured id elaborate just a bit on my quick side note i had in there about mike reminding me of jaime because it’s something i literally cannot shake. they are so similar it causes me extreme amounts of stress. and im on a two hour flight so i have time to explain it all to you 🥳🤗

to begin, my favorite stranger things characters are mike and nancy and my favorite game of thrones characters are sansa and jaime. if you already see a pattern, then you’re on the right track, because yes, i am a believer in the misunderstood character who is widely hated amongst fans but is arguably the best written one in the given source material. sansa and nancy are both fundamentally similar characters- they both start out as naive girls who are very singularly focused on their reputation and how they’re perceived by the people around them. this is evident in nancy’s relationship with steve and with basically every single action sansa takes in season one of game of thrones. through being forced into a dangerous environment however, both characters learn to shed the ideas they had about what it means in their given world to be “successful” and “important.” i tend to love characters like that because their so realistic. even if we aren’t all being abused by kings or shooting demegorgans, most of us can relate to wishing we were something we weren’t and having to learn the hard way that it’s just better to be yourself

i just wanted to get the nancy sansa pipeline out of the way first before i talk about mike and jaime, because where nancy and sansa are similar, jaime and mike are practically twins.

let’s look at both characters at the beginning of their respective story-

- mike is 12 years old and knows close to nothing except for the fact that he wants to be able to protect the people he cares about. throughout the first season, we see mike’s guilt for not being able to find will metaphorically eat him alive, coming to a head at the cliff scene where when his other best friend is in threat of being harmed, he decides that he would rather die than not be able to save someone he cares about again.

- jaime is mike on a twenty year delay, but his story begins about where mike is at in ~season 3. however, when jaime was about 15, he was appointed to the kings guard, a position he partly sought out to be close to cersei (his affair partner (and sister but that’s a conversation for another day)) (also, mike acts the way he does when will goes missing partly because he’s lost somebody he subconsciously loves too and if you don’t think mike has been subconsciously in love with him this whole time ily but womp womp ur wrong) but also partly sought out because of his notions of what it meant to be a knight- it means that you’re fighting for the people and essentially saving as many as you possibly can. jaime is a character who cares very much about the people around him, similarly to mike. jaime’s situation comes to a similar head when he kills the king to prevent him from essentially bombing the capital city and killing half a million innocent people, which in doing so he puts his own life and reputation at risk

these characters are both so similar because they both value life. they are willing to sacrifice themselves and their reputation in the interest of other people. this is who they both are at the core of their person. however, at some point throughout their arc they both go back on their previous behaviors. they don’t so much regret the way they behaved, but the pressures about their roles that have been put on them by society lead them both to believe that their behavior is wrong in some way.

with mike, i’m talking about how affectionate (?) he was with will in season two. i’m naming what happened after the whole hospital “best thing i’ve ever done” sequence and before season three as mike going through the same thing jaime does in the period between when he kills the king and when the show starts. i think in both of these time frames, the two of them start to have this realization based on the people around them that what they did was wrong and won’t be widely accepted. jaime’s king slaying was treasonous and mike realizes that his love confession coded monologue to will in the hospital wasn’t necessarily normal behavior. this is also the exact time period in which the raegan bush election is happening. they literally probably voted during season 2. id also like to point out that both of them come from very rigid and strict families. and if you’re denying me this for mike, they have a raegan bush sign in their yard.

now we pick up in season 1 for jaime and season 3 for mike. this is where im going to bring up the singular most important part of both of their respective arcs- the love triangle. season 1/3 are the most important times for both melvin and jercei (?). melvin is at peak affection, and basically mike’s entire story for a good portion of this season revolves around her. this is basically the peak of jercei because it’s right before they get separated and their whole dynamic changes. but uh oh! there’s trouble in paradise for both! suddenly mike and el are broken up and jaime and cersei are separated by the war of the five kings. this next part bleeds into season 2/3 for jaime and season 4 for mike, when mike and el are quite literally separated.

so, both of them are separated from side one of their love triangle, who both are using as a gateway to solve what they think is their biggest flaw- jaime his narcissism and mike his sexuality. then, and this is one of my favorite little parallels, they are both literally escorted home by the other side of the triangle, where “home” (hawkins for mike, kings landing for jaime) serves to say the truth about who they are as people that they weren’t quite ready to face before they set off on their respective physical journeys. (mikes trip to california, jaimes push north)

obviously in stranger things mike and will literally go back to hawkins together. in game of thrones, jaime gets captured by the opposing army and is escorted back to the capital by a knight for the opposing army, brienne, under the condition that he will safely return the king’s sisters to him. throughout both of their returns home, they both are forced to come to terms with their feelings just a little bit. jaime admits the truth of his kingslay to brienne, and mike is given the painting. i don’t think mike has put ANY of the dots together on the painting yet, but once he does, this will serve as a HUGE influence on his character development and relationship with will (another thing i could talk about for hours). then they both get home, and jaime’s view starts to shift just a little bit… he starts thinking “hey wait… maybe brienne is onto something. maybe i don’t have to be so terrible all the time and conform to what society wants me to be.” now obviously we don’t know if mike is thinking this way yet, but my guess is that he probably will start having a similar thing next season.

the reason both brienne and will are so important to their character arcs are because in the context of the love triangle or decision their romantic interest is making, they serve to symbolize non conformity and embracing the truth about who you are and what you stand for. brienne isn’t conventionally attractive like cersei and actively goes against what was expected of women at the time. being with will would make him a part of a gay relationship, which was very nonconformist at the time. where cersei and eleven serve in the relationship to show pretending, insecurity, and lies since they are literally the exact opposite of brienne and will. and guess who doesn’t lie? FRIENDS.

so, what i’m saying is that will is essential to ending mike’s character arc just like brienne was to jaime, and that if stranger things fumbles the bag and doesn’t make it happen like game of thrones did, then mike will live in infamy as an unfinished character who had a stupid ending just like jaime did.

also, i am a “jaime should have killed cersei and then died in the fire with her” truther and similarly believe that mike should sacrifice himself in the last summer to come full circle to the sacrificial person he used to be. i also don’t believe in happy endings because they’re boring ❤️

this is why im SO FUCKING NERVOUS about mike. i’m literally having ptsd god help me! 🤗🤗 pls matt and ross learn from the mistakes of your elders and break the game of thrones curse!! as daenerys targaryen would say- BREAK THE WHEEL!!