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satellite-evans · 18 days ago

Text

all of me (loves all of you)

Pairing: Lando Norris x reader

Summary: When the podium isn’t enough to quiet his self-doubt, you remind Lando that love isn’t earned by perfection — it’s already his, always.

Word count: 2.7k+

Warnings: fluff, self doubt

A/N:

English is not my first language, so I apologize if I made any (grammar) mistakes. Feedback, requests, talks, vents, recommendations or just simple questions are always welcome.

Happy reading xxx

I do NOT give permission for my work to be translated or reposted on here or any other site.

Bahrain was finally quiet. The grandstands, once alive with cheers and chants, had long fallen silent. The floodlights still burned bright against the ink-black sky, but the world beneath them felt hollow now — empty seats, scattered tire marbles littering the track, and the faint, lingering scent of burnt rubber riding on the dry desert breeze.

But none of that seemed to reach Lando. He sat slumped on the padded bench tucked into the far corner of the McLaren hospitality suite, as still as if the world had stopped moving around him. His race suit, half unzipped and limp around his waist, clung to him like the weight of the entire day had settled into the fabric. His hands rubbed over his face again and again, palms dragging slow and hard like he was trying to scrub away more than sweat — like he could erase the whole day if only he rubbed hard enough.

You stood by the door, frozen for a moment, watching the man you loved fall apart piece by piece in front of you. There was something especially painful in the quiet — no cameras, no interviews, no engineers offering consolation or stats. Just Lando and the crushing, invisible battle playing out in his head.

Slowly, you crossed the room. Your footsteps were soft, but the hush was so deep that even the sound of your breath felt too loud. You lowered yourself to your knees in front of him, placing a careful hand on his knee, your thumb brushing the edge of the scuffed fabric.

“Lando…” you tried, voice barely above a whisper.

But he didn’t lift his head. His eyes stayed locked on the floor, unfocused and distant, and when he spoke, his voice was low, flat, and bitter.

“I shouldn’t be happy about today. I don’t deserve to be.”

Your heart clenched at the sharp edges in his tone. You knew how hard he’d fought — you’d seen every lap, every desperate overtake, every second shaved from the gap on the timing screen. And yet here he sat, wrapped up in the belief that it wasn’t enough.

“You finished P3. You made the podium,” you said softly, your fingers curling around his knee, grounding him. “That’s not nothing, Lando.”

He let out a dry, humorless laugh, the sound empty and sharp enough to cut through you.

“A podium because I got lucky with the safety car and half the grid got their strategy wrong,” he muttered, shaking his head slightly. “I couldn’t even nail the start. Simple thing. I messed that up too.”

You shifted closer, your hand moving up to trace the deep furrow that had carved its way between his brows. His skin was warm under your touch, but the tension there was iron-strong, unyielding.

“You fought your way through the field,” you whispered. “You didn’t give up. Not even with the penalty hanging over you. You drove your heart out today.”

His eyes flicked up at last, meeting yours, but there was a distance behind them — like he wasn’t really here, like his mind was still out there on the track, replaying every lap on loop, cataloging each mistake.

“It’s not enough,” he said, barely audible. “I’m not enough.”

Your throat tightened at the weight those words carried, the way he seemed to believe them so completely.

“Baby,” you murmured, sliding your hand into his, lacing your fingers through his even though his grip didn’t return the squeeze. “Why are you so hard on yourself?”

He leaned back against the cold wall, his head tipping back, exhaling the kind of breath that sounded like it had been trapped in his chest for hours.

“Because I don’t feel like the guy people think I am,” he admitted quietly. “Everyone looks at me like I’m some future world champion. Like I’m supposed to be special. But every race I just... prove I’m not. I sit in the car and I tell myself I believe — I force myself to believe — but the second something goes wrong, it’s like... I can’t hold onto it. It slips away before I even cross the finish line.”

Your thumb brushed slow circles over the back of his hand, but his shoulders stayed rigid, braced against something you couldn’t fight for him.

“You know I see you, right?” you said after a long silence. “Really see you. Not the results. Not the press. Just you. And I’ve never thought you were anything less than enough.”

His lips pressed into a thin line, and for a second you thought the words might reach him, but he only shook his head, voice cracking as it spilled out.

“You see the best parts of me,” he said, barely more than a whisper. “But I don’t deserve it. I let everyone down. I let him down.”

You blinked, puzzled by the shift in his tone. “Who?”

There was a pause, and you watched him swallow hard, his throat working around the words.

“The kid I used to be,” he answered finally, his voice raw and unguarded. “The one who believed this was all going to be worth it.”

And in that moment, you understood. No amount of comfort, no perfectly chosen words, no pep talk could close the space between the boy who dreamed of this life and the man who now sat doubting it all.

Without another word, you stood and crossed the room, grabbing your phone from the side table. Your fingers scrolled through your gallery until you found it — a photo you’d saved long ago. Tiny Lando, crammed into his too-big karting suit, clutching his very first trophy with both hands. His smile stretched from ear to ear, eyes shining with pride and hope, completely untouched by the world that lay ahead.

You walked back to him and placed the phone in his lap, not forcing him to look, not saying a thing.

But when his eyes finally dropped to the screen, you saw the faintest shift in his expression — the crack in the wall he’d built around himself.

“Look at him,” you said softly, your voice steady but tender, anchoring him even as it wavered with your own emotion. “That’s who you’re talking about, isn’t it?”

Lando’s fingers hovered above the screen, barely grazing the edges of the photo. His thumb traced the outline of the little boy — the oversized helmet cradled in his arm, the too-big karting suit swallowing his frame, and that impossibly bright smile stretching across his face. His throat worked around the lump that had lodged there, but the words never came. He just stared, like the past and present had collided in his hands.

“You’re tearing him apart,” you whispered, your voice cracking like your heart had. “Every time you talk like this, every time you convince yourself you’re not enough, you’re not just hurting you. You’re hurting him. That little boy didn’t grow up dreaming of being perfect, Lando. He didn’t care about mistakes or bad days or people doubting him. He just dreamed of racing. Of standing on that podium, wearing McLaren orange, fighting with everything he had until the very last lap.”

You watched his jaw tighten, his lips pressed into a thin, unsteady line, and his eyes glistened under the harsh fluorescent light. His whole body seemed trapped between holding it all in and letting it all go.

“He didn’t care about grid penalties, or if some commentator called it ‘luck’ on the broadcast,” you went on, your hand gently curling around his, grounding him. “All he wanted was to grow up and do the thing he loves. And today... you did that. You did it for him.”

The tear came quietly, slipping free before he could stop it, trailing down his cheek. His hands lifted to his face, palms pressed against his eyes, his voice breaking as it finally slipped free.

“I just...” His words crumbled around the edges. “I don’t feel like I’m good enough. Like, ever. Not on track. Not for the team. Not for you.”

Your chest ached at how raw he sounded, how honest. You reached for him, gently curling your hands around his face, guiding him to meet your eyes. You didn’t let him look away, not this time.

“Hey,” you whispered, your thumbs brushing away the tears as they came. “You are more than enough. For all of us. For me. I don’t love you because you stand on podiums, or because of the stats, or how many people believe in you on the good days. I love you because you’re you. Even the parts that don’t believe they’re worth loving.”

His lips quivered, his shoulders shaking under the weight of everything he’d carried alone for too long. He let out a fragile, unsteady breath, the faintest hint of a smile flickering through the sadness.

“You know...” he said, voice barely holding together, “even when I lose... I’m still winning. Because I’ve got you.”

You leaned in, pressing your lips to his in a soft, lingering kiss — not to erase the ache, not to fix what couldn’t be fixed in a night, but to remind him you were still here. That you always would be. The kiss was slow, steady, the kind that said more than words ever could. When you finally pulled back, you rested your forehead against his.

“And you’ve got me,” you whispered against his skin. “Always.”

The room fell quiet again. The world outside the walls of the hospitality suite kept spinning — engineers packing up, transporters rumbling to life, the desert wind sweeping away the last traces of the night. But inside, the quiet was different. His hand stayed wrapped around yours, fingers holding on like he’d finally stopped freefalling, the photo of his younger self still glowing faintly on the phone screen beside him.

Eventually, his head tilted against your shoulder, the weight of the night catching up with him, exhaustion finally tugging at the frayed edges of his posture. His voice was quieter now, stripped of the sharpness from earlier, soft and almost childlike.

“Do you think... he’d be proud of me?” he asked, barely louder than the hum of the air conditioning.

You turned your head, resting your cheek against his hair.

“I know he would,” you murmured. “Because you’ve done everything he dreamed about. And you’re still the same kid at heart — still chasing it, even on the days it hurts.”

Lando’s exhale was slow, and for the first time all night, it wasn’t heavy. Just tired. Just human.

You sat there until the voices outside faded entirely, until only the night remained pressing against the windows, quiet and vast. It was you who finally shifted first, gently squeezing his hand.

“Come on,” you whispered. “Let’s get you out of this suit. You’ve done enough for one night.”

Reluctantly, he let you pull him up from the bench, his body stiff from sitting so long, but when he stood, it was like some invisible part of the weight had lifted. You helped peel the rest of his race suit off, folding it neatly and setting it aside, and he changed into the soft hoodie you’d brought — the one he always reached for when the world felt too loud.

As you both made your way back to the hotel, the silence between you wasn’t heavy anymore. It was easy. His hand found yours again as you walked through the dim, empty corridors, and you could feel the difference in the way he held it — like he was no longer gripping to stay afloat, but just holding on. Because he wanted to.

Later, when the hotel room door clicked shut behind you, he didn’t say much. Just dropped his bag on the floor and sat at the edge of the bed.

“Will you... stay with me a bit longer?” His thumb brushed absentmindedly over your side, almost like he was afraid you’d slip away if he didn’t ask.

You leaned your head against his, answering without hesitation. “Always.”

A long pause followed, his breath steady but his body still tense, like sleep wasn’t ready to fully take him yet. After a while, his voice came again, quieter this time.

“Can we... I don’t know. Just—be close. I don’t wanna think. I just... need you.”

His honesty cracked something new and tender open inside your chest. You tilted your head, pressing a soft kiss against his temple.

“Let’s wash the day off, hm?” you murmured, running your fingers through his curls. “You’ll feel better.”

He nodded slowly, almost childlike in the way he let you guide him off the bed, his hand never leaving yours as you both padded toward the bathroom.

You turned on the shower, waiting for the water to warm as the steam began to curl into the quiet space. When you glanced over your shoulder, Lando was still standing there, hoodie sleeves pushed up slightly, eyes flicking to you and then away like he was still stuck somewhere between the racetrack and the little boy in that photo.

You reached for him again.

“Come here,” you said softly.

He stepped closer, close enough that your hands could slide up beneath the hem of his hoodie, helping him peel it away, and then the rest — each layer like shedding a little more of the doubt clinging to his skin. You slipped out of your own clothes too, and when the water was ready, you guided him in first.

The heat wrapped around both of you, and for a long moment neither of you spoke. You stood chest-to-chest, the sound of the water filling the space, your arms sliding around his waist, holding him steady. His forehead dropped against your shoulder, and you felt the way his chest rose and fell, slow and deep.

“You don’t have to say anything,” you whispered into the wet curls at the nape of his neck. “Not tonight.”

But after a few quiet beats, his voice broke through, hoarse but honest.

“I don’t know what I did to deserve you.”

You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, brushing your fingers across his cheek. “You didn’t have to do anything to deserve me, Lando. You just have to be you. That’s enough. You’ve always been enough.”

His throat worked around another wave of emotion, and his arms slid around you, holding you tighter now, more grounded.

“You make it easier to believe,” he whispered.

You smiled, pressing a kiss against his damp shoulder. “Good. Because I’m not going anywhere.”

The rest of the shower passed like that — quiet, simple touches. Your fingers combed gently through his hair, rinsing the day’s sweat and grime away, while he let his hands trace slow, absent patterns along your back. Not rushed. Not complicated. Just the kind of closeness he’d been aching for, the kind that told him, without words, he wasn’t alone.

When you finally stepped out, you wrapped him in one of the oversized hotel towels, your hands smoothing it over his damp shoulders. He let out a soft, tired laugh under his breath — the kind that wasn’t about being fixed, but about finally breathing a little easier.

“Thanks,” he mumbled, voice scratchy but warm. “For all of this. For you.”

You cupped his face again, gently, looking at him like he was the only thing that mattered. “There’s nothing you could do that would make me stop choosing you. You don’t have to be perfect. You just have to be you.”

He leaned into your touch, eyes closing for a moment, and when he opened them again, the weight in them was still there — but softer, not so sharp.

You climbed into bed together after that, the covers pulled up, his body pressed close to yours, limbs tangled like he couldn’t quite bear to let the space grow between you. His head nestled into the crook of your neck, breath evening out little by little, and as the minutes passed, you felt the tension finally slip from his muscles.

Before sleep finally claimed him, he murmured one last thought against your skin.

“Maybe I’ll start trying to believe it. If you do.”

You smiled, holding him tighter. “I already do. And I’ll keep reminding you until you do too.”

The night settled fully around you both, and this time, it wasn’t silence filled with doubts — it was peace. And even if tomorrow brought the doubts back, for now, this was enough.

And for him, that meant everything.

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yllwjktscult · 1 month ago

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(Un)lucky- a blessing or a curse? pt.1/?. A yellowjackets fanfic

!!! disclaimer- english is NOT my native language so there for sure will be grammar mistakes!!!

edit: made a playlist for this fic so you can feel worse🥰🫶🏻 -> here

edit: next chapter -> here

!!platonic yellowjackets x reader!! but! it MIGHT be romantic one later on, i still dont know if i want to make it romantic or nah (if yes it would be lottie x reader or lottienat x reader but fr i dunno yet)

WC: 4.8k

TW: depression, suicide thoughts, anxiety, psych institute, mention of selfharm, alcohol, drugs and overdose. In short, this whole ff is a TW itself. It is not a HAPPY fiction, at the end there might be happiness but not for the first few chapters:,) so if you are looking for a happy fic, LEAVE 😭 you have been warned sweetie🥹

AN: However if you STILL want to read this cause you are interested, i am putting a trigger warning to where the selfharm or overdose will be talked about, you can skip that part:] its not detailed, but it could trigger someone, so just in case it will be there.

Also! lmfao the drawing was made poorly at 3 am, but it fullfills the purpose of what i tried to describe and had in my mind soo, just dont look at it too much (its picture with a lots of lines so it would look like a drawing, i was so f lazy to actually draw the whole thing, i admit)

also i see this as 3-4 part story, but dunno yet, we will see🙂‍↕️

anyway enjoy this shitty fanfic🫶🏻

(Un)lucky to you, you couldnt go with yellowjackets, to go with them to nationals, due to getting a horrible flu 2 days before they were supposed to fly.

You werent on the team, but you were their "lucky charm" as they loved to call you. Each time you went to their game, they won.

They were your friends, close friends even.

Till this day you dont know if getting sick was a luck or curse.

Thats why you are now curled up in a ball in your bed in a psych ward institute, feeling empty and lonely after another electro shock therapy that you have been getting a lot lately.

A single tear fell down your face as you hugged your knees to your chest more.

You cant believe its been over a year since they were proclaimed dead and since your life took a turn upside down. When everything turned dark. Since you lost yourself. You still remember that day like it was yesterday, even tho its been a year since your breakdown and when the hell started. A loop you cant escape.

You closed your eyes as you curled up more into a ball, hugging your knees as you repeated "they are dead, they are dead" all over again. Thats what they have been telling you for months anyway, especially after electro shock therapy when you are the most vulnerable and easily to be manipulated during the few minutes after it.

╚══ ❀•°❀°•❀ ══╝

(flashback)

Its been a month since their plane got lost somewhere on their way to nationals.

You couldnt sleep, coulnt eat and were checking news every single moment you could. Hoping, no scratch that, you were WISHING to hear that they found them all alive and healthy. You felt in your heart that they are alive, you feel it..

You grabbed Lotties hoodie she lent you when you were cold one time on one of their games, its an ugly blue and yellow color, significant to your highschool (p1), but you were happy to wear it that time due to too being cold. You never returned it, and honestly you didnt even want to, its not like Lottie minded that. Nat gave you one of her old school team jacket (p2) too so you are warm, you were shivering like a chichuana that night because you just wore a tshirt and a flannel as you sat on bleachers cheering for them as you always did, they all laughed at your shivering state that time, but were smiling at you with pure adoration. Taissa gave you her beanie (p3) so you arent that cold.

They all adored you, you might have not been on the team, but sure they treated you like you were. After all, you all were friends and loved each other.

With a sad smile you put the hoodie on and as well the jacket, its raining today and you have this weird feeling inside of your chest, like anxiety and no matter how much you try to shake it off, you cant. You just shruggled it off, its probably the lack of sleep, stress, sadness and lack of energy in your body since you dont eat that much ever since they went missing. All you can focus is "what happened to them and where are they".

You wore Lotties hoodie and Nats jacket for the past month almost on daily basis as a form of comfort.

You couldnt check the news today like you always did before going to school due to being late, so with a quick motion you grabbed your backpack from the ground and went to school with this uncomfortable feeling in your chest, clinging onto the clothes of your lost friends, deep in your thoughts.

As you walked to school you could see some of you classmates giving you those sad looks you grow to get used to over the past month. Everyone in school knew how close you were to them. And everyone knew you didnt take the news well. But today, they were different, they felt different, they were filled with guilt and pity.

The weird feeling in your chest grew more intense the more you get closer, it felt like a gut feeling that something is wrong as you took steps closer to the school front door.

Hugging the jacket closer to your body as you went thru the front door and met with more looks like the ones outside. You knew something is not right.

"Everyone please meet im gym in 10 minutes" was heard from the announcement thru the reproductor from the principal office, she only uses this when theres something important. The uncomfortable feeling grew in extreme now, your chest tightening, your fingers getting cold, a lump in your throat forming in your chest and you are getting nauseous.

You didnt like this feeling, not at all. Its the same one you had, when you got caught cheating on your test in sixth grade.

As you sat on the gym bleachers in the front row due to being the only empty spaces avaible, everyone was whispering, but you couldnt make out what it was, you felt uncomfortable with all those stares.

"Hello everyone" said the principal into the microphone as the rest of the teachers stand next to her with sad eyes and serious expressions. And you knew something is not right.

"As most of you know, today, our beloved yellowjackets, coach Scott and coach Marinez with his sons and pilots were proclaimed dead after one month of intense searching of their missing plane" the principal said with a sad tone as she looked around.

Your heart stopped, your whole body freezing at her words. Your breath stoping mid breath take. You couldnt believe what you were hearing. No, they are not dead. They cant be. They are alive.

You feel them. You still feel the connection.

You stand from your seat "w-what? n-no they cant be dead, they are NOT dead" you said with a shaky voice snd disbelief written all over your face as you looked at the principal ignoring the sad pity expression of your classmates and teachers "t-they are NOT dead. I- I can feel them" you pointed at your heart "t-they are not dead" you repeated. "They cant be dead" you whispered as your eyes filled with tears and the feeling that you had since morning overtaking your body completely.

The principal looked at you with sad expression and said into a microphone "i know its hard to believe, but they proclaimed them dead an hour ago sweetie. Im so sorry, i know they were your best friends" she finished with a sad smile looking at you.

Your whole world stopped and started spiralling when the news set in .

You could feel your heart pounding in your ears, a slow heartbeat. A ringing in your ears grow higher. Coldness going thru your body, fingertips being ice cold and knees growing weak.

The uncomfortable feeling in your chest grew to a point you could feel it in your veins as you started hypervilating. All those memories of your friends filling your brain, all those moments you laughed, moments you shared, moments of when you were just happy filling your brain as tears starts to roll down your face as you repeated "no" all over again and before you even knew it, you fall down on your knees with shaky hands clutching the jacket that you wore and belonged to Nat like your life depended on it as you rocked yourself back and forth on your knees.

You didnt know that you were having a breakdown. You didnt know that this moment was your last day of peace.

A last day, when you were you.

You didnt know you fell into a psychosis that will last a for months.

Before you knew it, the principal went from the stage with other teachers right next to you, trying to calm you down even when they were panicking inside, but it didnt work out, they couldnt help you to calm down, so they called an ambulance that took you to hospital, where you got sedatives and stayed a day and night in there.

The next 2 months were in blur, you were either drunk or high on drugs. Constantly out of your mind. Running from your thoughts, hallucinations and feelings. You barely spoke to anyone, unless it was someone who gave you drugs or someone who would bought you alcohol. When you were in school, you were barely present, you were physically there, but mentally you were somewhere else. Your grades dropped drastically, but you could care less. The pain and emptiness was just too much for you to bear, so you drowned them in alcohol, drugs and sleepless nights you sometimes shared with strangers who offered you those things you couldnt get due to being underage in exchange of funny business with them. You didnt care anymore so you did it. Even tho you hated it. But thats what you deserved, you thought. You deserved to hate yourself.

You did everything you could to stop the empty feeling in your chest. The feeling of missing your friends. The guilt of being alive when they are not. The guilt of not being able to do anything about it. The guilt to be able to breathe and live your life when they cant. You knew they were alive, you KNEW it. You feel it. You still feel them. Even after 3 months since they went missing. You felt it in your heart and gut, that they are alive.

As you left the bed of one of the guys from college you met just 3 hours ago and dont even remember his name, the one who bought you alcohol and drugs. You grabbed Lotties hoodie that you wear basically on daily basis now from the ground and put your jeans back on yourself and you left his room.

!! (tw:mention of selfharm and overdose) !!

When you got home, you felt all those feelings again. The alcohol and drugs are not enough anymore. They last just for a few hours now. They last few hours before you start seeing them again, or randomly hearing them calling you, telling you they are alive.

The things that helped you escape for the last 3 months are not enough anymore.

As you sit on your bed, looking into nothing, completely wasted, tired, helpless, lost and just done with pretending everything is okay. You looked to your left, knowing the razor is there, you put it under your book to hide it from your parents.

You standed up, took the book into your hand, looking at the shiny razor that the moon was shining at, making it more pleasant and beautiful than any other days.

You gently grabbed it in between your fingers and putting the book into its previous position.

Sitting back into your bed, playing with the razor in your hands, thinking whether you should do it or no.

You knew it would be an escape. You could be with your friends again if you just did it.

You wanted to do it so badly. You wanted the pain to stop forever, you wanted to be free from all of it, and not just for a few hours.

But you couldnt, the feeling in your gut telling you that they are still alive is still there.

With a sigh and one swift move, lotties hoodie is off your body, making you sit on your bed just in your bra and jeans.

You looked at your body, seeing all those old and new scars and cuts you made over the last 2 months. You were punishing yourself.

Only if you werent sick you could have been with them. Either dead, but with them or whenever the hell are they now. With tears in your eyes you cut yourself again and again and again, until your brain was satisfied with it, like you did in the past few weeks. Making a slight relieve from the mental pain with a physical one.

This wasnt the moment that lead you to psych ward where you were for over a year.

No.

It was your overdose that happened few weeks after this.

You overdosed accidentally at a party few weeks later and you were so close to the end of the misery, but (un)lucky to you, someone called an ambulance on the party you sneaked with the same guy from college.

You woke up the next day in hospital, where your parents were with you. Your mother crying as she held your hand waiting for you to wake up snd your father with stoic face snd guilt snd hurt flashing in his eyes.

Unknown to you, your parents were informed about your cuts and scars all over your body that you were hiding. And even all the drugs and other things in your system.

(end of mentioned selfharm and overdose)

That day, your father decided you are going into a psych ward. They both saw how their child is destroying herself in front of their eyes. They both knew you were hurting, still believing your friends are alive. You told them few times you randomly saw them, talked to them or even felt them. But they werent here.

It was just your brain playing tricks.

(end of flashback)

╚══ ❀•°❀°•❀ ══╝

And thats where you are now, 19 months after the plane crashed. In a psych ward, because your life ended the day your friends were proclaimed dead.

Dead without you being able to tell them you loved them. Without hugging them last time. Without seeing their faces one more time.

After months of therapy, after multiple shock therapy and other tortuous ways you rather forgot. You started believing they are indeed dead. Its been couple of weeks since you gave up. Since you, for the first time being locked here, told your therapist 'they are dead' in defeated voice as you started believing.

Knowing you will never get a closure of what happened to them. The plane was never found, their bodies were never found. There still was a chance, but then again, its been 19 months..

They are dead.

You accepted it.

You accepted, that they are never coming back. That your friends are never coming back.

That you will never see their faces again.

You will never tell Lottie you liked her more than a best friend should.

You will never listen to your favourite bands new music with Natalie as you always did.

Never tell a new joke to Van.

Never ask Jackie for her opinion about clothes.

Never show your drawings to Shauna.

Never talk about your random thoughts with Misty.

Never talk about your new view of bible with Laura Lee.

Never ask about opinion to Taissa when you needed her to give you a realistic point of view.

And never hear a sarcastic remark from Mari again..

You were officially defeated. You accepted that they are gone and as well your old self.

You accepted all of that few weeks ago in a therapy session, you were forced to say it out loud, write it and say each girls name with "x is dead and never coming back. She died in a plane crash'.

╚══ ❀•°❀°•❀ ══╝

Now you are sitting in a common area, drawing as you listen to the television news. Not paying attention to it at all. You felt dead inside, empty and defeated. You were sketching, feeling a little happy that you were allowed to do that again.

You werent allowed near anything that could cause you harm unless you were under vision of someone, usually your therapist or a guard.

You didnt know what privacy is at this point.

You grew attached to one of the guards in here. Her name is Martha, a 50 year old lady who was sweet to you.

She, even tho she shouldnt, after almost every electro shock therapy you got and was there, went to your room and was with you until you fell asleep, rubbing your back, telling you random stories and sometimes sneaked a lollipop to you.

Life sucked, but Martha was shoving sympathy and giving you comfort you havent felt in months. She knew why you are here. She was there the whole time of your stay in the psych ward.

You didnt talk to anyone.

After your overdose you went kind of nonverbal.

Barely speaking.

You still dont talk that much.

You dont want to talk, you lost your will and has no desire to talk. But with Martha, you sometimes talk.

"Breaking news the girl soccer team Yellowjackets that went missing 19 months ago was found alive. They were found in canadian wilderness in critical condition. Only few of them survived"

The voice of the guy in the news cathed your attention as you eyes shot back into the screen of the television from your sketch book.

He was at the airpot and you saw few of them walking out of the plane. A very small amount of people wearing black hoodies over their heads as security hid them from paparazzi and cameras.

You looked at Martha with wide eyes, shaky hands and Martha looked at you with pure shock and panic from across the room as she started walking to you. She knew you will not take that well.

"d-did you see that t-too or im going crazy again?" you asked above whisper with a shaky voice as you started panicking inside, tears filling your eyes as you started breaking the pencil in your grip as you looked at Marthas face with tears.

You were getting better, you havent had a hallucinations in months. You havent seen their faces for months. You thought you were getting better..

Martha pulled you into a hug and started rubbing your back, holding you tightly, trying to calm you down, not wanting you to go into a psychosis again or getting a breakdown or hurting yourself again (you were put on a suicide watch couple of time during the few months there, thats why you werent allowed to be near anything sharp).

"yes i did, you are not crazy sweetheart. You were right the whole time" she held you close to her chest as she whispered with panic and disbelief in her face that you couldnt see as other guards ran to you both.

Same expression on their faces.

But they knew the protocol, they knew that they had to sedate you in order to calm you down.

The whole personal knew about you. After all, you were the youngest patient in here. They knew why you were here and they all saw you how defeated you were for weeks now.

How broken you become.

You were still alive but dead inside. You were a walking corpse for weeks after you admitted that your friends are dead. You became the last problematic patient here. You did ehat you were told, you didnt argue, you didnt fight, and you took your medication without any tricks (for a few months there you didnt take it, you kept it hidden in your mouth or throw it up afterwards). They were seeing your hope/life leave your body completely.

Which made some of them heart break. When you first got there, you were snappy. You used to talk in your room to yourself, saying the girls name, pretending like they are here (you saw them, due to hallucination), you were fighting against the guards when they had to take you to electro shock therapy. You were fighting with therapist and telling everyone that they are alive for months. So seeing you so defeated and so broken made some of them feel bad. They knew the things they had to do, they knew that some of the treatment wasnt even legal, but they HAD to go thru the protocol. After all, this was the most prestigious psych ward near Wiskayok.

The guards look at Martha and she looked at them as she held you closer 'im so sorry sweetie, you know we need to' all you could do is just to nod, you were done fighting back. After all they all just did their job and you needed to feel calm, knowing you would crash out if you didnt get that sedatives, so you cling to Martha and closing your eyes.

Wanting this feeling to go away.

They were dead. They were dead and you didnt hallucinate them for months, so why now?

One of the guards put the syringe with sedatives into your shoulder whispering a silent sorry.

You woke up in your bed, chained down. With a sigh as you knew why. Martha and you talked a lot. Well, technically she talked and you listened and sometimes answered or asked a question. She told you, that if theres a huge trigger for a patient and it gets triggered, theres a protocol they need to follow. They sedate the patient and meanwhile they are out, they chain them into their bed, so they wouldnt hurt themselves or others.

"oh my sweet girl" Marthas sweet voice breaks your thoughts as you look at her with this hollow look you keep giving everyone for weeks. Martha sits next to your bed as she holds your cheek, rubbing it gently as her eyes are filled with tears.

"you were right the whole time" she smiles at you "you were never crazy, my poor little girl" a single tear falls down her cheek.

You hated seeing her like this, so with a horsed voice you answered her which made her heart swell even more.

"no i was not, they were dead. They are dead. They died when the plane crashed"

you said with empty eyes.

"but they found them, they are ali-" Martha couldnt finish the sentence because you cut her off.

"No Martha, they are dead. They dont exist anymore. They died 19 moths ago"

Martha just nodded before she was called somewhere else. Leaving you all alone, chained to your bed.

You were telling the truth tho. They died. They are dead. Those girls are not the same ones you once knew. They are different people. Even if they survived, they are dead. Same as you. Even tho, you are breathing. You died the day when they were proclaimed dead 18 months ago a month after they dissapiered.

All you could feel was nothing. After all those electro shocks you went thru, all those horrible treatments, and all those medicaments you started taking, you lost all your emotions. All you could feel is emptiness, a hollow hole inside your chest. You mourned them and gave them your goodbye weeks ago, or even months ago now. You dont know how long its been.

You dont even feel happy that you were right about them being alive the whole time. You dont feel anything really. You just laid in the bed like a lifeless body, staring into nothing. With this empty feeling in your chest you have had for months now.

╚══ ❀•°❀°•❀ ══╝

Couple weeks later, you were sketching in your sketchbook again with Martha by your side as you both sat at a table, your legs criss crossed, wearing the ugly psych ward white clothes you have on yourself for more than a year now. You havent spoke a word for weeks now. Last time you did speak, was like 2 days after the news in television, asking Martha to tell you who were the survivors.

When she told you it was Lottie, Nat, Taissa, Van, Misty, Travis and Shauna all you did was just nod.

You are sketching in your book with this empty look in your face you have had for months. Martha sitting by your side watching you.

You enjoy her company a lot, she provides you comfort in some way. Sometimes you wonder if your paths would cross if it wasnt for you being a patient in a psych ward she works for. But who knows.

That was before Martha looked in front of her, where standed Lottie in her outside clothes with two guards by her side.

Marthas eyes widen and looked at you in panic.

Lottie sat next to you on a chair. Her heart breaking at the sigh of you, still not noticing her presence yet. You looked empty inside.

Unknown to you, after few weeks after they got rescued, each one of them asked about you after they got more comfortable to get back into society. They wondered why you havent reached out to them. Why you havent showed up. It was so unlike you and it made them wonder. After they all were done with doctors and therapy sessions. Their parents told them what happened to you (Lottie told Nat). They told them how you had a crash out, overdosed on drugs and got put into a psych ward where you have been staying for over a year.

Lottie asked her father for more details, demanding to know where you are. All of them wanted to know your current situation.

So when Lottie found from her father and read your file, she told everyone. They all couldnt believe that their friend, who was so full of life, their "sunshine" their "lucky charm" and someone who brought so much comfort and love, ended up like this. They all read the file. Their heart breaking at the details of it.

They all wanted to visit you, but they didnt want to make your situation worse. They all wanted to hug you, they all wanted to tell you how much they missed you, how they thought of you during the 19 months out there and how much it meant to them, that you didnt give up on them being alive. They just wanted to give you the love you always gave them. But they knew, they cant do that, yet.

So thats why Lottie is now sitting next to you, staring at you with this face you grew so familiar with in here. A look of guilt, pity and sadness.

Martha still didnt say anything, she was just staring at you and Lottie. The guards were near and ready to jump if it was needed.

"hey.." said Lottie quietly, her heart breaking at the sigh of you. You looked so broken, you looked like a child. So innocent snd so broken. Your eyes were empty, your face emotionless as you drew into your sketchbook.

"hey" you said quietly without looking at her as you continued to draw.

"whatchu drawing" Lottie asked gently as she looked at the drawing. She wanted to say so much, she wanted to hug you so badly, but she was informed by the psych crew to not do that.

Without a word you pulled the sketchbook to her, showing her the drawing as you finally looked at her.

And Lotties heart broke even more. Your beautiful eyes that once held so much life and love, were now empty, filled with pain and sadness. The dark circles under your eyes and visible weight loss since the last time she saw you broke her heart and it took everything in her not to pull you into a thigh hug.

"its beautiful" Lottie said with shaking voice as she tried not to cry as she looked at the drawing and then at you again.

Martha put a hand on your shoulder

"Sweetheart, its time for your pills" she said gently, rubbing her hand on your shoulder.

You looked at her "okay" you answered her quietly, as your grabbed your sketchbook and standed up, looking at Lottie with this empty eyes of yours. You thought for a moment before you ripped the page and gave it to her.

"You liked it maam, keep it" you said before you started walking away to where you get the pills. Leaving Lottie flabbergasted, confused and heartbroken with Martha and the one of the guards leaving right behind you, just in case. And the other one staying to escort Lottie back.

Lottie looked at the drawing and heart swelling, until Martha broke the silence. Putting a hand on her shoulder.

"Im so sorry sweetie, she does not recognise you. You dont look like the way she remembers you. She thinks you are a stranger" Martha says with a gentle voice and Lottie has to keep everything in her to not cry.

"how?" Lottie asks above a whisper as she looks at the drawing thats in her hands.

"its probably all the electro shocks she went thru sweetie, it fucked her brain and memory. She does not even remember her favourite color" Martha says sadly with a gentle tone as she rubs her thumb over her shoulder. Trying to comfort Lottie as much as she can.

After Lottie leaves the psych ward, the rest is waiting outside for Lottie. When they see Lotties state, they knew it went badly.

"how is she?" asked Misty hopefully even tho she knew its probably a stupid thing to ask, she read your file, they all did.

Lottie without a word runs and hugs Nat tightly and cries into her shoulder "she does not remember me, she didnt recognised me at all. She called me maam" Lottie sobs into Nats shoulder.

Everyone gets quiet at that, letting the words set in.

"w-what do you mean?" Taissa asks with a tone that cant be even identified.

"T-they said its the electroshocks, that they fucked her brain and memory. She doesnt even know her favourite color" Lottie wipes her tears and hands them the drawing.

They all feel sad as they sees it.

Its a drawing, a detailed one. Its a memory of you all, well, technically a picture you took with your camera of the memory. It was after one of the games they won. Their faces were blurred out, but they all could tell which one was who, the faces might be smuggled, but they knew it was them (p4). It was identical to that photo.

"oh god.." Van puts a hand over her mouth, looking up to the sky as she tries not to cry.

Nat eyes fills with tears and her mouth slightly open. Shauna is looking at the picture with every emotion going thru her head and Taissa and Misty are loss of words.

(to be continued...)

the drawing:

(just try and pretend its good okay?😭 i tried my best for it to look like a drawing)

tagging as i promised when i will post it, so you dont miss it @priyajoyy @zhivaxo 🫶🏻

(if you like the story and will not want to miss the next one let me know ill do a tag list:] )

Please remember this is a fiction and its just pure imagination of my sick mind (so some things will not be 100% correct to the original yllwjks story and as well some of the things i will write in this story, aka how psych ward works, i have never been in one as a patient, however i did visit one, so its not 100% accurate, so keep it in mind🫶🏻)

i just hope you enjoyed my sad ass writting (it will get worse)

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nero-vanderwolf · 3 months ago

Note

Either Makoto’s losing his mind, which is entirely possible, or everyone is starting to remember the loops.

Makoto stands on the rooftop again, staring at the stars as he leans against the safe part of the railing. They twinkle brightly, a glimmer of light among the dark night. A beacon to remind him of the hope that burns faintly in his chest.

The door behind him creaks opens, and he catches a strangled noise from whoever was in the doorway. The sound of clicking heels tells him it was Mitsuru who made that noise, and the glittering red nails on his shoulder solidifies his guess.

“What are you doing up here, Yuki?” Mitsuru asks, and her voice sounds strained. It doesn’t make sense- she never had that reaction before that loop-

“Couldn’t sleep. Don’t worry, I’m making sure to stay away from the damaged rails,” Makoto mumbles halfheartedly, looking over at her. For now.

Mitsuru’s face is pale as she nods, as though she’s scared of something. “My apologies... I thought- Mm. I thought you were about to do something reckless.” She clears her throat. Makoto stares at the ground. He knows what happened, but the fact that she’s worried scares him. She shouldn’t remember what happened. But he does.

He was falling. He had reset the loop (again) after failing to save Shinjiro (again). As he plummeted, a scream rang through the air, and through the blur of tears and hair Makoto saw a shock of red high above- the rooftop, most likely. He landed funny on the ground, his arm snapping at a weird angle. The shock of red disappeared, the world went dark, and he woke up in bed.

“I’m gonna go back to my room. Have a good night, Mitsuru-senpai,” he says abruptly, desperate to end the conversation. Desperate to escape Mitsuru’s memory. He turns on his heel, hurrying towards the door and all but sprinting back inside and down the stairs. Falling is much quicker.

The mirror is shattered again, his palms are sliced open again, Junpei comes in again. He checks Makoto for wounds again. He sees all of the remnants of the loops. Again.

There’s a new one on his back from the last loop he went through. The one where Junpei watched him fall, the one where they made a codeword.

He looks at where Junpei stands beside him, tapping his foot in that way he does when he’s nervous. Shaking out the nerves, he had said once. Makoto’s surprised he still remembers that- he’s been forgetting more and more lately. He tries not to think about it.

“Junpei. Do you know the codeword?” He asks, and Junpei looks at him with a furrowed brow.

“What codeword, dude?” He asks, and Makoto takes a breath.

Here goes nothing. “Messiah.”

Junpei’s eyes widen, and he’s in front of Makoto in a second, hands a steady weight on his shoulders. “Dude! So I wasn’t tripping with that note? You really are-?”

“Trapped in a timeloop? Yeah. Have been for a while. Some of them only last a few weeks, some a few months. Every now and then it lasts until March 5th of next year.”

Junpei stumbles back in his shock. Makoto misses the weight of his hands. “Wha- dude, that means you’ve been in the loop for...”

He falls silent, trying to work out the math. When he’s done, he stares at Makoto with a look that makes him sick.

“Makoto, you’ve been in the loop for at least seven years. Are you okay?” He says. Makoto sits on the floor. Feels the glass slice his hand more. He stares at the blood that now speckles the shards, that stains his palms. He’s lost years of his life to this loop, and yet no one has aged a single day. The idea makes his head hurt, so he tries to stop thinking about it.

He’s gotten good at that.

The next time he resets the loop, he forgets to check again. He forgets to check if anyone is nearby before letting go of the railings. He’s getting sloppy as the loops go on, as he loses more and more time.

He feels a hand grab his arm before he can fully start the fall. Craning his neck, he sees Yukari staring at him in terror. Her expression is nauseating, and he finds himself wishing that she had simply let him fall.

“Makoto! What the hell are you doing-!?” She cries, tugging him back onto the roof. He lets himself fall onto solid ground, squeezes his palm as he feels skin scraped up by the concrete. He might have even smacked his head, if the blurriness in his eyes is any indicator.

“Makoto.” Yukari’s voice is the same as Ken’s. The same as Junpei’s. The same as Mitsuru’s. Like he’s some wild animal that’s in danger and they’re trying to get him to safety. Like he could lash out at any moment.

And he does. He sits up and scratches at his skinned palm and stares at the blood that trickles down his arm. Anything to feel something, he had told Junpei once. Anything to remind himself that he still exists, that he hasn’t become a spector doomed to haunt the loops forever.

“Don’t,” he says, curling into himself. Yukari doesn’t look angry, but he wants to run away. Don’t, he says. Don’t ask why. Don’t mention the dead look to his eyes, the sickly pallor of his skin, the way he threw himself over the railing without hesitating. Don’t. Don’t.

“I’m going to. What was that all about!?” She demands, placing her hands on his shoulders. The weight is grounding, but he doesn’t want to be grounded. He writhes away from her, clutching at his clothes and trying to remember how it feels to breathe without the stench of gunpowder and death in your lungs. He can’t do it.

“You won’t believe me,” he says, his voice shaking. He tries to sound bored, like he doesn’t care. He ends up sounding dead. His words sound weak, like a flimsy excuse to not tell her. Yukari scowls, and Makoto knows she feels the same.

“Bullshit,” she says, and Makoto tenses. Her tone is angry. He’s ready to run. “Do you really think, after everything we’ve been through, that I wouldn’t believe you? You could say the weirdest thing and I would believe you- because I trust you.”

She isn’t angry. He ignores the pounding of his heart. He crosses his legs, pulls his jacket further around him. Whether it’s to protect himself from the chill of the rooftop or the truth, he doesn’t know.

“I’m stuck in a timeloop. In order to reset the loop, I have to die.”

It’s gotten easier talking about this. About his death, about the loops. Even if Yukari won’t remember, it still feels nice letting another person know.

She stares at him for a moment before hugging him. Her arms are warm against his body, and he trembles against her.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry-” he mumbles, feeling the burn of tears welling up in his eyes. Is he crying because she saw him? Is he crying because it feels nice to share his burden with someone else?

Is he crying because he shared his burden in the first place?

Yukari hugs him tighter. “Don’t apologise. I love you, Makoto, I’m here for you. Don’t apologise.”

Makoto shakes his head. “Don’t. You won’t be here next loop, you’ll forget about it, I’ll be alone again-”

Yukari sits back on her heels. “Let’s come up with a codeword, then. Something you can tell me so I’ll know. Something like...”

“Messiah,” he says. “It’s the same codeword Junpei and I have. Having the same word will be easier, right?”

She nods. She’s smiling, holding his hand and talking about whatever she can. He knows it’s to keep his attention off of the railing just a few feet away.

He doesn’t reset the loop that night.

OOOGHH HES BEEN HERE FOR SEVEN YEARS??? GAHHH?????!!!??! also VERY glad to know that the codeword actually works after the loops are reset AND NOW WE GOT YUKARI YAYYYY!!! i really like that more of the SEES are getting in on the loop maybe we can finally help this guy (makoto) 💔

#nero answers #persona #persona 3 #p3 #persona 3 spoilers #p3 spoilers #inbox fic #p3 time loop

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inkolnito · 9 days ago

Text

Paddock Confidential - Prologue: Monza murmurs

Pairing:

Oliver "Ollie" Bearman x ??? (Original Female Character )

Minor background pairings reflecting the real-life F1 grid (e.g., Charles Leclerc/Alexandra Saint Mleux)

Summary:

Rising F1 star Ollie Bearman navigates the intense pressure of his rookie season with Haas, juggling demanding team expectations and his close ties to Ferrari under the watchful eye of Fred Vasseur. His biggest challenge lies off-track: guarding his relationship with the enigmatic and fiercely private girlfriend, whose surprising motorsport knowledge and aversion to the spotlight hint at a complex past connected to one of the sport's icons. As Ollie fights for his future, their secret world threatens to unravel amidst paddock gossip, rivalries, and the ever-present Drive to Survive cameras. When exposure becomes inevitable, they must confront the consequences and find a way to navigate the relentless glare of the F1 world together.

Warnings and Notes:

Warnings: Depictions of anxiety, stress related to high-pressure environments (F1), mentions of past trauma (related to privacy/media intrusion), media scrutiny/harassment, potential minor F1-typical language.

Notes:

This is a work of fiction using real people (F1 drivers, personnel) as characters; their portrayals, actions, and relationships are fictionalized for the story.

The air in Monza vibrated, a deep, resonant thrumming that wasn't just heard but felt, travelling up from the historic asphalt, through the soles of Ollie Bearman’s racing boots, settling deep within his bones – the lingering ghost-sound of F1 engines. The paddock pulsed with a frantic, almost visible kinetic energy, the unique, high-strung caffeine-and-adrenaline frequency of the Italian Grand Prix weekend, amplified tenfold by the passionate Tifosi already chanting beyond the gates. Sharp September sun, unforgiving under a piercingly blue Lombardian sky, glinted off multi-million-dollar transporters and surgically clean hospitality units. The air itself was a thick cocktail: the acrid bite of sun-baked asphalt, the sharp tang of tortured rubber, the sweet perfume of high-octane fuel, all cut through with expensive cologne and the distant, comforting aroma of espresso. Beneath the undeniable chaos lay the meticulous, clockwork routine of the global racing circus, a world built on staggering speed and even more staggering pressure.

Right now, Oliver Bearman felt the full weight of that pressure, a tangible burden beneath the bright red fabric of his Prema Racing polo. He gave an unconscious tug at the collar, the high-tech material suddenly feeling inadequate against the simmering heat. Free Practice 1 for the crucial F2 feature race yielded P3. Strong, solid, respectable – but maddeningly, crucially, not P1. Not the dominant, statement-making pace needed to keep his championship aspirations blazing against the relentless onslaught of Pourchaire and Martins, rivals who seemed to conjure tenths from thin air with infuriating ease. His focus narrowed, replaying the session, the frustration tightening his chest. Hadn't there been something else during that blur of laps? A flicker at the edge of his vision while pushing through the Parabolica, like a heat haze mirage near the pit wall taking the shape of someone sketching intently near the timing screens? A figure impossibly still amidst the frantic activity, snagging his attention for less than a heartbeat before dissolving back into the shimmering air as he wrestled the car through the corner. A trick of the light, he’d told himself then, dismissing the fleeting image. Focus fatigue.

His mind snapped back, relentlessly looping the data Marco had shown him minutes ago. That micro-hesitation turning into Ascari, a subconscious lift costing vital momentum. That fraction too much wheelspin exiting the Parabolica, tyres scrabbling where they should have hooked up. Milliseconds squandered through tiny imperfections, bleeding inexorably into tenths, tenths that translated directly into grid slots, tenths that could mean the difference between glory and also-ran status come Sunday. Marco, ever the calm Italian voice of reason, had methodically pointed out tweaks – a click less rear wing, a damper adjustment. Ollie had nodded, absorbed it, offered his own feedback on the car’s balance, but the corrosive knot of frustration tightened its coils. He knew the time was lurking in the car, in his inputs. He just had to find it, wring it out. Execute. Flawlessly.

“Ollie! Good pace, keep pushing!” Massimo, a cheerful Prema coordinator, offered a thumbs-up. Ollie summoned his default grin, the cheerful, slightly toothy one for sponsors and fans, though it felt stretched thin. “Thanks, Massimo! Yeah, we’ll get there.” He needed the sanctuary of his driver room: hydrate, stare at more data overlays, search for those elusive fractions, maybe force down some pasta before the intense pre-qualifying briefing. Tunnel vision. That was the Monza mantra. Block out the noise – the complex championship math, the swirling paddock gossip about 2024 seats, the intoxicating, terrifying whispers linking his own name to F1 outings. Whispers that felt frighteningly concrete this season, the pressure ratcheting up with every mention of potential 2025 opportunities, especially that rumoured Haas seat… a future hanging precariously on delivering results like today. Focus only on the car, the track, the next apex.

He wove through the throng – mechanics carrying tyres like offerings, journalists angling for quotes, sponsors’ guests looking privileged and slightly lost, focused drivers from other series. The paddock ecosystem, a hierarchy laid bare in colour-coded lanyards and team logos. As a Prema F2 title contender, Ollie commanded nods, respectful greetings. He kept his head slightly bowed, eyes tracking the paving stones, mind deep in calculations, trying again to dismiss the fleeting image of a dark-haired figure glimpsed earlier near the F1 garages – someone still, observant, utterly unlike the usual paddock fauna, who had melted away before he could register more than an impression of quiet intensity.

Rounding the imposing, reflective facade of the Red Bull hospitality unit, the pathway narrowed into an unavoidable bottleneck. He deftly sidestepped a clattering catering trolley, murmured an unheard “Sorry,” mentally clearing distractions, visualising the perfect pole lap, hitting every apex…

And walked straight into someone. Solidly. Unyieldingly.

The impact was firm, jarring his forward momentum. A soft gasp – definitely not his own – then the distinct thwack and clatter of dropped items scattering across the hot tarmac.

“Oh, sorry! My fault, completely wasn’t looking.” The words tumbled out on autopilot as his head snapped up.

His apology died on his lips. Standing less than a foot away, regaining her balance with surprising lack of fluster, was the girl from those fleeting glimpses, no longer a phantom but strikingly real, and strikingly different. No team kit, no logo-free chic. Just a faded black t-shirt for some obscure band, ripped-knee black jeans, and heavy, scuffed Doc Martens that looked like they’d seen more miles than half the transporters here. Her raven hair, absorbing the fierce sunlight, was knotted loosely at her nape. Her eyes, wide for just an instant before narrowing with unnerving, assessing speed, were a startlingly clear, cool grey – the precise colour of a winter sky before snow. An ink smudge, dark against her pale skin, marked her high cheekbone like an accidental tribal marking. She looked utterly unfazed by the surrounding chaos, almost… detached from it, as if the multi-million dollar spectacle was merely background noise.

Scattered around their boots lay the source of the clatter: a thick, spiral-bound sketchbook, its plain black cover worn smooth at the corners, now lying open. Loose sheets of quality drawing paper fluttered precariously, alongside well-used sketching pencils and a grubby kneaded eraser.

For a suspended heartbeat, the frantic world seemed to contract into a pocket of unexpected silence around them. The paddock buzz faded to an indistinct murmur. There was only the stillness of this accidental encounter, the arresting sight of this girl who seemed both utterly out of place and fiercely self-contained, and the vulnerable evidence of her creativity exposed on the ground. The air between them felt suddenly charged, humming with a different kind of static than the usual paddock electricity.

Ollie, pressures momentarily vaporised, reacted purely on instinct. “Oh, heck, your stuff. So sorry. That was clumsy. Let me help.” He dropped into a crouch, reaching for the sketchbook.

She knelt simultaneously, her movements fluid, economical, surprisingly quick, yet undeniably protective of her work. “No, it’s fine. My fault too.” Her quiet voice, perfectly audible, held that subtle, intriguing cadence – Finnish flatness smoothed by Swiss precision? It nagged at him again.

Their hands brushed reaching for a rolling pencil. Not just a brush – his fingers grazed the back of hers, skin against skin. An unexpected warmth, a live-wire jolt completely unrelated to the ambient heat, shot up Ollie’s arm, tingling sharply all the way to his shoulder blade. He snatched his hand back as if burned, the flush creeping up his neck feeling suddenly incandescent under her cool gaze. Her expression gave nothing away as her slender, surprisingly strong fingers closed around the pencil.

He focused on gathering the loose sheets, his movements feeling clumsy compared to her neat efficiency. He handled them carefully. The drawings were really good – sharp, dynamic, analytical. A McLaren's aggressive aero lines captured with confident strokes. The coiled energy in a mechanic’s shoulders. Distorted reflections on a visor. Then he saw it: one detailed a complex rear suspension assembly with startling accuracy. Another captured the precise angle of attack of a front wing – unmistakably the bright red Prema car, his car, navigating the Rettifilo chicane just moments ago during practice. The detail was uncanny, capturing the exact load on the tyres, the slight flex in the wing. How did she know that specific detail, observe that exact moment with such understanding? It wasn't casual observation or fan art. This was the kind of innate understanding someone gained growing up immersed in it, absorbing technical details like osmosis, perhaps sitting beside an engineer father pouring over data late into the night. Could she be the daughter of someone senior? Someone like Allison, maybe, known for his sharp technical mind? Or one of those notoriously private Ferrari engine gurus from the V10 era, names whispered with reverence but rarely seen? The Finnish hint in her voice sparked a wilder thought – Räikkönen? Ollie almost scoffed aloud at the sheer absurdity. More likely someone technical, someone who passed on not just a name, but a way of seeing, an intimate knowledge of the machine. The leap felt strangely, disturbingly logical, even if the exact connection remained elusive.

Who is she? The question hammered, sharper now, focused. Not F2/F3 personnel, not media, not a guest. An enigma, sketching suspension parts and his specific car with an insider’s eye, like she’d inherited the right, yet utterly invisible to the paddock's intricate social radar.

He gathered the last sheet and held the pile out with the sketchbook. “Here you go. Hope nothing’s… uh… too damaged or smudged.” He mentally kicked himself for stumbling.

She took them, her cool grey eyes meeting his directly again, steady, analytical. They lingered for a beat longer than strictly necessary, holding his gaze. For a fleeting instant, he thought he saw something else flicker deep within their cool depths – amusement? Curiosity mirroring his own? – before it was shuttered again behind that unnervingly appraising look. It felt far more personal, more penetrating, than any camera lens. He noticed her small, intricate silver Ouroboros ring glinting on her right index finger – a symbol of eternity, cycles, fitting for someone who felt so separate from the paddock's frantic, linear rush towards the next session.

“Thanks,” she repeated, her voice still quiet but firm, resonant. She tucked an errant strand of dark hair behind her ear with ink-stained fingers, revealing tiny silver hoops climbing her cartilage. The gesture smudged the dark mark further across her pale skin, less accident now, more deliberate abstract marking.

“No problem. Again, really sorry. Paddock’s mad today…” He trailed off again, feeling like an idiot under her unwavering gaze. He desperately wanted to fill the silence she seemed so comfortable inhabiting, to ask her name, ask about the drawings, about her, but an invisible boundary, a palpable sense of reserve, held him back even as it paradoxically drew him in.

She offered a minuscule nod, barely a dip of her chin, expression compellingly unreadable, clutching the sketchbook defensively to her chest, knuckles white. They stood caught in that peculiar bubble of quiet intensity, an island while the paddock river flowed around them. Curious glances registered the scene – the bright red Prema driver opposite the striking, dark-clad girl – but slid off, unable to penetrate the stillness.

Ollie fought the ridiculous, boyish urge to say anything to extend the moment. Logic screamed briefing, qualifying, focus. But another part, newly awakened, was utterly captivated. He opened his mouth – discard politeness, just ask, Who are you? – but the moment evaporated. She was already turning, breaking the spell with effortless finality.

A final, fleeting glance back over her shoulder – utterly impossible to decipher, dismissal mixed with maybe faint curiosity, or just neutral acknowledgment – and she straightened. Then, with surprising speed and fluidity for someone in such heavy boots, she stepped back into the main flow of traffic heading towards the F1 end, merging seamlessly, almost unnaturally quickly, into the crowd, vanishing as if she’d simply decided to cease being visible. Her destination wasn't the glittering F1 hospitality units, despite the pass clipped discreetly to her belt suggesting easy access. The raw engineering here, the F2 machines stripped bare, perhaps his machine specifically, held her focus. That's what filled the pages clutched against her chest. Only a faint scent lingered where she’d stood – charcoal and something else clean, cold, faintly metallic, like the air after a blizzard or distant rain on frozen ground, utterly foreign to Monza’s heat.

Ollie remained crouching for another second, staring blankly, stupidly, at the empty spot. The patterned asphalt looked suddenly ordinary. The noise, the heat, the relentless energy of the paddock rushed back into the vacuum, louder, more oppressive. A strange wave of disorientation washed over him, like surfacing too quickly from a deep dive.

Who on earth was that?

The question lingered, sharp, insistent. He’d met thousands in paddocks, but no one, no one, had registered like this. Her quiet intensity, jarringly different appearance, startling skill, unnerving direct gaze, that hint of Finnish coldness, her phantom-like appearances and sudden, complete disappearance… Deeply, profoundly, distractingly intriguing.

“Track’s rubbering in nicely, eh?” Arthur Leclerc’s amused voice cut through his thoughts, closer than expected. Ollie looked up, startled out of his reverie again. Arthur stood grinning down at him, one perfectly sculpted eyebrow arched in patent amusement. Arthur always looked effortlessly cool, even in the sweltering Monza heat. “Or are you planning to propose to the tarmac, mate? Lose your car keys down a drain, perhaps?”

Ollie scrambled awkwardly to his feet, the heat rushing back to his cheeks with renewed force, embarrassment warring with the lingering image of cool grey eyes. “No! Just… uh… nearly knocked someone over. My fault.” He gestured vaguely towards where the girl had disappeared. “Did you see her? Dark hair, black t-shirt, carrying a sketchbook?”

Arthur’s grin didn’t falter, but his eyes scanned the area Ollie indicated, a flicker of genuine confusion in his expression. He looked back at Ollie, amusement returning full force. “Sketchbook? Mate, I didn’t see anyone like that. Saw you nearly trip over your own feet, yes, but no mysterious artist.” He chuckled, shaking his head. “Maybe the heat’s getting to you already? Or the pressure? Seeing things?”

Ollie frowned, glancing back again. The crowd flowed on, oblivious. Had Arthur really not seen her? She’d been right there. Had she vanished that quickly? Or was Arthur just teasing him? The uncertainty prickled. Was she real, or just a figment of his stressed imagination? He brushed imaginary dust off his knees with unnecessary vigour, forcing his mind, wrenching it almost physically, back to the immediate, pressing priorities. Qualifying. Points. Championship. Focus. Get your head in the game, Bearman. Stop thinking about mysterious girls who might or might not exist.

“Right,” Arthur said slowly, clearly not believing Ollie for a second and enjoying his flustered state. “Well, try not to collide with any more phantoms before quali.” He clapped Ollie firmly on the shoulder, the camaraderie genuine despite the teasing. “See you at the briefing. Don’t be late.” A final, conspiratorial wink, and he headed off with characteristic smooth confidence towards the cluster of F2 hospitality units further down the paddock lane.

Ollie took a deep, steadying breath, inhaling the familiar mix of fuel and rubber, consciously trying to push the vivid image – and now the unsettling doubt – out of his mental workspace. Focus. He gave his head a firm shake, trying to physically dislodge the lingering image and the questions it provoked. He set off again towards the red sanctuary of Prema hospitality, stride determinedly purposeful once more.

But the tight knot of performance pressure in his gut felt… altered. Not gone, but overlaid with a persistent, buzzing hum of curiosity, a distraction he couldn’t afford but couldn’t immediately shake. An unexpected variable, a fascinating question mark – now possibly even a hallucination? – abruptly inserted into the complex equation of his make-or-break weekend. He felt an unsettling certainty that this wasn’t their last encounter, that this brief, clumsy meeting held more significance than any qualifying lap. The girl with the winter-sky eyes and the impossible knowledge… she wasn't random. She felt connected to this world in a way he couldn't grasp, yet utterly apart from it. Why was she here, sketching F2 suspension parts, why sketch his car with such intense, analytical focus? The question hooked itself deep into his mind, refusing to be ignored, a puzzle piece that didn’t fit, demanding attention even as the clock ticked down to qualifying.

The intensity of the Monza weekend faded into the relentless rhythm of the F2 calendar. Races came and went – the flyaways, the final push towards the end of the season, each bringing its own unique pressures, triumphs, and frustrations in the tightening championship battle. Ollie found himself scanning the crowds more often than he cared to admit, searching unconsciously through faces in Melbourne, Baku, Monaco, Silverstone, for a flash of dark hair, a distinctive band t-shirt, or those unsettlingly cool grey eyes. But the 'Monza phantom,' as Ollie had started calling her in his head, remained elusive—a ghost seemingly confined to the sun-baked tarmac of that one encounter. The memory lingered, a persistent question mark at the back of his mind, even as the focus shifted to the next challenge: the demanding, high-altitude slopes of Spielberg.

Next chapter

#oliver bearman #OB87 #f1 fanfic #ollie bearman #ollie bearman x reader #f1 x reader #formula 1 x reader #ollie bearman x oc #f1 x oc #fanfiction #Paddock Confidential

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permian-tropos · 27 days ago

Note

strychnine > rat poison meme, you're truly suffering from success

Let me answer this with an essay for some goddamn reason.

The resource management mechanics have always been a source of comedy. Sometimes it's from taking a mechanic extremely literally, eg. does Artemy rush and crush his tinctures in P2? Is that the arbitrary reason why the bottles can't be reused (it's probably more to do with not contaminating them, but it's not super consistent what contents count as contamination)?

Or sometimes it is absurd without needing to nitpick, eg. in P1 you can catch rats in a bag and race them for money. Yes it's silly, but it's kind of a metaphor for the three protagonists competing to cure the town in their own ways. You're meant to consciously or subconsciously realize, watching your rat double back on itself and miss the obvious goal in front of it, that you're the rat. Put a pin in that thought.

When it comes to the mental health mechanics in P3, they're still taking feedback on them and tweaking them to make them challenging but also immersive, so there's time to let them know if anything is too absurd. But if done right in the final release, it will emphasize how important Daniil's mind is for him to function. You'll be constantly reminded that this isn't something to take for granted.

I also have a feeling that Daniil's apathy death represents the constant urge to kill himself he's dealing with, but the fact it turns everything into black and white film suggests it's not "canon" that he literally could shoot himself in any circumstance, right in front of anybody. The time travel mechanics involve him replaying his memories, chopping them up, and editing them as if they're a tangible film reel (for some reason that makes me think about famous incidents of Soviet censorship of physical media, and the supernatural turn that takes in Disco Elysium lore? maybe there's a connection here). If you let apathy sink in, that represents him—or you the player—giving up on playing this particular section, on editing this section of the film. He gives in to the suicidal impulse in part because you've relived this part of his ordeal wrong, and he abandons that reality to try a new one.

Which brings us to the strychnine. It is a poison, but a very small amount can make you high, and historically, people took that risk. It seems like there isn't a sensible limit to how much of it you can ingest as Daniil Dankovsky, though. Daniil's mind is fracturing more and more as he relives and rewrites his own memories. Keeping him immersed in the reality of each memory involves feeding him poison to get him high. What does that tell us? That he's not reliving these events so that he personally can survive them. Even if giving up on trying to fix the past is a suicidal act, the effort of trying to fix the past is also suicidal, self-sacrificial. This is how it was in Marble Nest. He wasn't reliving the day over and over to escape his own death—at one point he considers shooting himself to contain the infection.

The comedy of Daniil eating "rat poison" is in the impression that he, like suggested by the P1 rat races, is in fact one of the rats. His time looping seems so futile and doomed, and he is forcing himself to do it anyway by overdosing on a stimulant that was used in his time by athletes and academics, to the point where it transforms into its other, more dehumanizing use, killing vermin.

#pathologic #pathologic 3 #daniil dankovsky #asks #idk why I did this. I felt the urge #it’s MY joke and I say we have to take it seriously now 😤

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6feathered6siren6 · 4 months ago

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Again & Again(Time loop reader part 5)

Authors note: So my friend say I have to warn you about the angst at the end, this is mostly fluff as I promised but here it is! Anyway, the next part, this is the longest one so far! Enjoy!

P1, P2, P3, P4, P5(here)

『01:13』

Japan was on your bucket list of places to go, especially for when you were with Misaki. In the first loop, sure, it became blurry, but the fun moments you had with them(Even if you were with Ronin), were a pin point for you. So visiting them was a thing for you to do, you also owed them something, so seeing her would be good.

It was February, another month of love, but it felt normal to you after so many times experiencing it. You felt Misaki to pick a place to meet up and allow them to set up what you guys would do. Looking at the time at your watch, you saw it was reaching closer to noon. You have a feeling that she might be running late. Sighing with a smile on your face. You looked up at the tall buildings around, it’s vastly different from what you are used to.

“I’m here! I’m here!” You know that voice, looking to see Misaki running towards you. Immediately embracing you into a hug. “You’re here! Like actually real! OH MY GOD! I’m really glad that you are here!” They let you go, staring at you with a wide smile. They grab your hand, “I got so many things planned for us. BUT!... Are you hungry? Because I am!”

Allowing them to lead the way, you felt that sweet, loving feeling again. Sickly sweet. Take a breath, and just enjoy the moment.

–

Misaki took you to a good cafe, the food was cute and decorated, and the desserts were delicious as well. Misaki took photos of you and the meal you guys had, sharing it with others on the server. And after leaving the cafe, she led you to an arcade. Immediately inside, they challenged you to get the most tickets. And being unfamiliar in an arcade, you felt the excitement fill you.

Shooting basketballs and hoops, racing Misaki(which 3 wins, 5 loses), shooting digital guns(Misaki having experience shooting guns is cheating), air hockey, and some random games you find. But reaching a claw machine, seeing a black cat with a goofy face. It reminded you of a certain someone.

Playing the game, and losing a couple times, you finally got it. It now holds into your hands. Hearing the goofball, you hid your new-found gift for them, and found them cheering as tickets poured out of a machine. Misaki won, but you didn’t mind. Just feeling so soft as the first time you fell in love with them, it was a moment that you would want to remember for a long time.

Pooling the tickets, you guys got a few gifts, and Misaki got you a massive bear that was near black with red accents. Holding it in your arms, it was soft. You wished you could keep this through the loops, but knew you couldn’t, so you want to keep how it feels and everything to memory. Misaki got a matching bear with your favorite colors, naming it ‘Love bug’.

Going to one more place, holding the bear in one arm and holding Misaki’s hand to the other. Misaki wanted photos with you, so heading to a photo booth, you guys took a few photos. Some that are cute, very couple poses, holding hearts between each other, and then some that were funny or goofy. Getting one each so both of you can remember this moment.

It was time to head to Misaki’s place, it was getting closer to the sun setting as you both adventure to their place, holding their hand. It was a moment you were going to burn into your memory for a long time. She filled the silence with ramble about how the date was going, and even how they loved seeing you here with her.

Reaching to their place, placing the bears inside their place and heading onto the roof. Ending it off with stargazing. Your other gift lies right next to your bear and you would give it to them after you guys get in from the stars.

A blanket and a few pillows around the both of you, them leaning against you as you look up to the stars with your arm around them. They giggled and talked about the stars, and you also did, naming them with them.

Grabbing your attention when talking about a job, when she accidentally shook you when there was a shooting star.

“Shooting star!” Pointing at it before looking at you. “Make a wish, hot stuff!” You felt like there were stars in their eyes but you did make a wish.

To not be alone in these loops. And to stay with everyone.

“Sooooo…” Misaki’s smile is almost like a chester grin. “What did you wish for?”

“Can’t tell, or it won’t come true, Love.” Immediately, they groan.

“Fun killer.” Moving their head away from you, looking back at the stars. Laughter escapes your lips as you saw her head turn away from you.

Getting inside from the cold air, grabbing the blankets and pillows. Before cuddling up together again, you gave them the cat plushie, encasing you into another hug. The red and black cat was now in Misaki’s hands.

“It’s so cute! Daw~, I love it so much! A mini me as a cat!” Their smile was worth the failures you had to endure to get it. “Misaki Junior shall be your name!”

–

The date was nice, a different change in pace from dealing with the loops. Their head was on your chest, silently snoring away. You brushed a bit of their hair away. It was nice, not having to worry about Victim nor Creator. Maybe… you should take a few loops as a break.

『01:14』

It was finally time that Angel got a break, she was pretty stressed for the past week, and now she invited you to her apartment. The agreement was to go to her house, you had a gift in mind. Luckily, if you didn’t know something about her, Ronin can help.. Ish. But it was still useful, you know she would like it.

You were holding the at home spa supplies and the gift. You were in front of her door, knocking it. It was a few moments before the life-like angel opened the door for you.

“Come in! I got chocolate cooling on strawberries and hot chocolate warming up.” She leaves the door open as she walks away from it, leaving you to close it. Putting the spa supplies onto the counter, she softly hums as she also puts the freshly cooled chocolate covered strawberries. They looked amazing, not just the usual chocolate with dark chocolate sprinkled on, but like art, the white, milk, and dark was designed on each one. You could see the hard work she put in. About to grab one to try it, to just get your hand slapped.

“Later.” She lightly glared as she pointed at you. Before giving her soft smile, grabbing the bags you brought and placing it onto the couch. Then seeing the gift bag. “Is this?”

“I had Ronin help me with the fabric.”

She laughed as she pulled it out. It was a blanket with two fabrics tied together, like those couples who made them on the short video app. Her side was a fluffy pink with white clouds on them tied with your fabric that complement it. She rubbed her hand over the fabric that Ronin helped you pick. She had an entirely soft smile that said it was a good gift to give. Something she could wrap around herself and remind her to take a moment to rest. “Thank you.”

“Come on, we have a million step face cleaning process to do, Sweetheart.” You leaned your head on her shoulder with a grin, and she glared at you for saying her many step spa treating is long. But she’ll show you.

–

Watching a movie with your head on her shoulder, munching on the strawberries with hot drinks nearby. Both face masks cover both of your faces, being careful not to mess it up as you eat. She hums to the musical notes to the movie as she paints your nails to her eye color, showing a way that you’re hers. A moment of sweetness.

“What time is it, dear?” She softly asked as she didn't bother looking up from her painting your nails. You hummed in affirmation for her to continue.

Looking over to your phone, “11:10… wait no, 11:11. Why?”

She smiled, looking up from your nails. “One, it’s getting late, so please stay here, I'd rather make sure you are safe. And make a wish! 11:11 is known for people to make a wish on.”

You paused, before smiling. “Alright, done. And are you sure, I can go home.”

“Stay, plus it allows me to make sure the face mask is on until a point.” She looked back down, finishing up the last nail.

‘I want someone to stay with me.’

『01:15』

Seeing the tall man looking at his phone, you rush towards him. “Sorry, I’m late, V.” Panting as you finally caught up to him.

He smiled as he saw you, putting his phone into his pocket. “What caused the late arrival?”

“A kid got lost, so I helped them get to their mom.” You brushed off your clothing.

He gave a small breathless snort, grabbing something out of your hair, a few pieces of dandelion fluff. “Were you wishing for something as well?” Let the dandelion fluff blow into the wind.

You shook your head. “I wasn’t, but what’s on the agenda?”

He started walking off, with you beside him, “An animal shelter, I hope you don’t mind also volunteering with me.”

You shook your head, “Nope. I don’t.”

“That’s good, I’ve done my research with this shelter, this one is great, treating the animals correctly. And, I was able to volunteer for a day.” He walked beside you, glancing your way a few times. But V was good at looking into things, well, except for finding if you were a killer in a past loop, which luckily, no blood was split in this loop.

–

At the animal shelter, they housed not just the normal cat and dogs, but other animals, you see ducks, birds, and hamsters. There is probably more there. You were holding a cat, covered in white fur with bright blue eyes. Petting the cat that rests in your lap, as you look up, you see V talking to the owner of the shelter, he sent you to pet the cats.

From the way he was gesturing and sent you away, it might be business. Distracting yourself with the cat in your lap, maybe… maybe getting an animal when all these loops seem like a good idea.

–

Moving on to the bird room, after he finished whatever it was, you had a couple around you, a few white doves, and other birds with species you can’t remember. You have two on your arms as another on your head, while there were several on V, he was loved by the birds here.

The doves in your hands hopped off back on to their branches as well as a few others as other volunteers started to pour bird seeds. V, with a few feathers on them, started to walk over to you.

“If there was an animal you would take care of, what would it be, Love?” He said as he placed his hand on your back, gently pushing you to another room.

“An animal?” You softly hummed to yourself as you pondered. In a past loop, when you were with V, he brought a cat service animal to his place. So maybe that. “A cat?”

He gave a soft smile, “A cat? They are quite entertaining and do offer good companionship when you get through their tough shells.”

“Like Ronin?” His smile dropped as he rolled his eyes. Making you laugh, “Sorry, sorry. Too good to pass up.”

Shaking his head, he opens the door for you and leads you out of the bird room. “Well, let’s not mention that cretin name during our date. On another note, let’s go to one more animal room then head to my dwelling.”

Keeping the smile, you nod.

–

He adopted a stray from the shelter, from what the paper you read. The pup was kept in a fighting ring before he was saved. And now’s V’s dog. V has challenged you to name the pup, you have a bird named after you by V. What would you name the pup… The fur on the pup was near white, a near snow color. Snow… Lumi? Looking into the light blue eyes that belong to the dog. Lumi.

“Lumi,” You said as you pet the dog’s head, smiling. V smiled as he continued to carry the dog to his place.

『01:16』

Ronin has picked out a date for the both of you, an adventuring one. Exploring abandoned buildings. He gave you no notice, just to go to a place and wait for him there. Of course, he made sure you didn’t know what place he picked except for a location to be picked up. A car honks at you and you see Ronin in the driver seat. He just kept pushing at it, it was near midnight.

Running over and opening the passenger door, “SHUSH! People are sleeping nearby!” He took his hand off as you sat down.

“Had to make you run faster, time wasting, Darlin’.” As you put your seatbelt on he started driving. “I got a place we can look into. A grant adventure. And it’s haunted.”

You took a breath in, great, this should be fun.

“And surely, some gruesome inspiration for you as well.” He had one hand on the wheel the other on his door rest, keeping his eyes on the road, it was a cloudy night as well.

The car ride was quiet, leaving you to stare at the scenery passing by, finally reaching your designation. He opens his door, after parking the car, you get out a moment after. Looking around, the building around looks run down, and oldish. The windows were broken and graffiti was covering the walls.

Wrapping his arm around your shoulders, “Well, come on, we got places to see, and ghost stories to find.” Pulling you with him, walking in the ruined build was interesting.

The building looks run down, wallpaper was ripping, ceiling looks like it’s falling down, and… was that a rat? Ew. You heard laughter for your disgusted face. He continued to pull you further into the building, the male grinned as he looked around.

The building was just a run down warehouse. So boxes were everywhere, same as what they seem to sell… You crouched down and picked up what seems to be… a pop-can, dusting what you can, it used to be some canned meat. Feeling grossed out a bit, you let it drop, and walked next to Ronin as he stared at the metal that seemed like it dropped a while ago.

“Do you think someone died there?” He pointed at the metal.

“Really, Ronin?” You raised your eyebrow at him.

“What? Just think about, Darlin’, a perfect murder that anyone can get away from.” He messed up your hair as he started walking away from the crashed metal.

Again, following him to what seemed to be a basement, the both of you pulled out your phones, flashing light against the stairs. Ronin made you go first, so feeling the adrenaline dread fill your veins. Finally, reaching the basement, the lightbulbs were smashed, so glass was in certain areas that you could avoid.

Cardboard was everywhere, ripped and dirty boxes were making walking hard. Ronin was nearby, when you heard something rumble. You pause, flashing your light at the direction of the noise. Taking a step forward, it was a bit louder, catching Ronin's attention now. Itching closer, something jumped out, freaking you out. Making you unbalanced, luckily, Ronin made sure you didn’t fall. Catching you with that smirk, one that screams he was enjoying this.

Looking at what jumped it was a cat. Leaving Ronin laughing, “Aw, got scared by a kitty cat.”

Getting off of his arms, and brushing yourself off, “You’re a cat!” Picking up your fallen phone, no cracks luckily, and glared at the wine red haired male. Leaving him to laugh again.

After walking around the warehouse, there was no ghost, just destroyed rumble and stray animals. Ronin got bored and wanted to head to his place, after all he did promise to play on his gameboy with you.

『0̶̹̠͕͋̓̀͝1̵̟̮̱͎͊̈́:̸͚̪̠̙̯̫̰̄͑̐͘̕͝1̴̠͎͖͎͉̹͕͕̹̅́̀̊̑͠7̸͔͍̥͉͚͇͗͊́̆̔̑̕͜ͅ』

Something was off, even after joining the server, something was off. Something makes your hair stand up. Something drastic, right?

Ronin was looking at you differently, like he was thinking deeply.

He invited you into a call while you were preparing your dinner. Talking about murder, well, until you said something that happened a bit into the future, without realizing it.

His end was silent.

“Ronin?” You asked, you stared at your phone. “Are you good?”

“Darlin’, what do you think about abandoned buildings?” He said, like he was thinking. But that was the last loop date with him…

“It’s something, why?”

“Afraid of cats? Jumping out?” You paused. Did… is he…

“Ronin…”

“You know my last name, don’t you?” His voice was a bit deeper.

“I do.”

It was silent before laughter. “This has to be fucking magic. Damn, fucking deja vu.”

“That I… still don’t know about.” You placed your cooking instrument down.

Ronin has joined the party. The fucked up cycle of Time loops. And it’s the first reset he’s enduring. You know there is going to be so much more for him.

-------

Author's note: So about that poll, how we feeling? :)

#killer chat #killerchat #fanfic #gender neutral reader #x reader #killer chat ronin #ronin beaufort #ronin killer chat #killer chat v #killer chat visual novel #killer chat vn #killer chat angel #killer chat game #killer chat misaki #misaki katsuo #time loop #canon x reader

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rollingsins · 2 years ago

Text

Quinn Bailey Must Die, p3

P1 | P2 | P3

summary: Sam falls, a little harder. Tara formulates a plan. all hers universe.

warnings: (+18), Tara is (was) Ghostface, language. Implied sexual content.

pairing: tara carpenter x reader, sam carpenter x quinn bailey

word count: 4.3k

a/n: enjoy babes! let me know your thoughts, as always

Quinn’s touch scalds.

She’s all rough hands and wild lips, moving quicker than Sam’s alcohol-addled brain can keep up with.

Sam remembers moaning.

She remembers the fascination: soft, warm, wet.

She remembers Quinn looking over with heady eyes, and pressing the softest kisses to her lips before she drifts off to sleep.

And she remembers thinking: Tara’s going to kill me.

When Sam wakes, she immediately wishes she hadn’t.

It's like a knife through the brain. Dry lips, dry throat. Her neck aches, though she isn’t sure why.

And then she feels a very different ache, somewhere else.

Her eyes shoot open.

Memories flood back to her. The night. The wine. Quinn.

Fuck.

“Morning, you,” Quinn purrs as she nudges her head between Sam’s legs, “Thought I’d help myself to some breakfast.”

Sam panics.

She almost throws Quinn off the bed in her effort to retract, as if Quinn’s touch burns her.

“Stop.” Sam says, drawing her legs over the bed.

She stands, and then realizes she’s completely naked. Her cheeks burn, and she hastily reaches for her bathrobe. She tilts it around her body, arms crossed.

“Don’t get shy on me now, Sam,” Teases Quinn, “It’s nothing I haven’t seen already.”

“Fuck,” Sam says. She had it right last night: her sister is going to murder her, “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

Quinn sits up, a little uneasy.

“Okay,” Says Quinn, slowly, “Now you’re starting to hurt my feelings. What’s wrong? Sam? Talk to me.”

“You shouldn’t be here,” Sam says, urgently. Her mind is racing faster than she can speak. Panic surges within her chest, revulsion burns deep in her stomach - though, in all fairness, that might be the hangover. She pushes it aside, “God, we shouldn’t have done this-”

Quinn tilts her head. A flash of hurt flickers through her features.

“Okay…” Says Quinn, “But we did. And it was amazing. Wasn’t it?”

It was.

But that’s neither here nor there.

“God, Quinn, that’s not the point-” Sam hisses. She touches her head, flinches at the pain coursing through her body, “We shouldn’t have slept together. I’m straight, for god’s sake-”

“Yeah,” Quinn says, narrowing her eyes, “You looked real straight last night with your fingers inside my-”

“It’s time to go, Quinn,” Sam interjects, “You’ve got to go before Tara sees you-”

“I’m not leaving you like this,” Quinn protests, reaching out to touch Sam’s arms. Sam flinches away.

“Sam-”

“Quinn.”

Quinn blinks.

“Stop it,” Sam snaps, “You need to go. Now. Right now. Get your clothes, you’re leaving.”

Quinn stares a moment.

“Fine,” She says, reaching for her shirt. She gets up, completely naked, and Sam averts her gaze.

Quinn stands for a moment and it looks like she wants to say something.

But she doesn’t.

Sam’s heart drops as she realizes what’s about to happen.

Quinn’s going to put on her clothes and go barging into Tara’s room.

Wave Sam around like a trophy she’s conquered.

A Carpenter sister, she’d brag, I finally got one.

Because that’s what this is, isn’t it?

But she doesn’t.

Quinn pulls her clothes on, eerily silent.

She leaves with a final mournful look towards Sam, and a quiet shut of the door.

Sam sighs with relief.

She drops the robe and heads back to bed and hopes when she wakes, this nightmare will be over.

It isn’t.

Tara’s looking at her a little funny when Sam finally emerges from her bedroom, near noon.

You’re sitting next to her, arm looped around her waist.

“Hey Sam,” You say, tilting your head, “How are you feeling?”

Sam looks over, a little confused, “How am I feeling?” She asks.

You tilt your head towards the empty wine bottle on the coffee table.

“You didn’t drink all that alone, did you?” You ask, question in your voice. Tara narrows her eyes. As if she stares at Sam hard enough, the truth will come spilling from her lips.

“I feel fine,” Sam lies, “How was your night?”

“It was a little hard to sleep,” Says Tara, with all the subtlety of a bulldozer, “With all the noise coming from your bedroom.”

Sam purses her lips.

“Guess you finally know how it feels, Tara,” Sam says, a little grouchy.

Tara folds her arms.

“Who’s the guy?” You ask, tilting your head, “Is he still here?”

Sam takes a long swig of water.

“Nope.” Is all she says.

You hum.

“It’s just… well, Tara and I- we didn’t think it sounded like there was a guy at all in there,” You say, treading carefully.

Sam freezes.

She looks over at you, trying to mask the guilt in her eyes.

“You think I just masturbated myself to sleep?” She asks, voice wry.

“Don’t be gross, Sam,” Tara snaps, “We know you were banging a chick. Who was she?”

“Tara,” You hiss, smacking her, “Subtle. We said subtle.”

Sam swallows.

You offer her a kind smile.

“You can tell us, Sam, there’s no judgment here,” You say, “We think it’s good you’re experimenting with your sexuality, isn’t that right, Tara?”

Tara looks over at you, aghast, “No,” She says, and then winces as your elbow juts between her rib, “Ow- babe-”

“It’s just- we wanted to check that person isn’t Quinn Bailey,” You interject, hurriedly, “Because we love you, Sam, and we don’t want her taking advantage of you.”

Sam sighs, heart in her throat.

You’ve got her now, she knows. Because who else would it be?

“Girls,” She tries to steer, “I can look after myself. You don’t need to worry about me.”

“That isn’t a denial,” Tara says, flatly, like she’s caught her, “Sam, please tell me you’re not serious. Please tell me you haven’t completely lost your mind.”

“Tara, it doesn’t have anything to do with you,” Sam says, “Leave it alone, please?”

Tara huffs, frustrated.

“It has everything to do with me,” She says, “Your poor dating choices already got me stabbed once, remember?”

She lifts up her shirt to punctuate her point. The car from where Richie had stabbed her trawls along her abdomen.

“I’m not dating Quinn,” Sam says, with a roll of her eyes, “I was feeling lonely last night and I made a mistake. Okay? Happy?”

“No, not happy,” Says Tara, “I want you to cut ties with her, Sam. I want you to tell her you won’t tutor her anymore.”

Sam grits her teeth.

“That’s not going to happen, Tara,” Sam says.

“Make it happen, then Sam,” Tara insists, “I mean it. You’re banned from seeing her.”

Sam’s eyebrows fly into her hairline.

You shift, then sigh.

“I’m banned from seeing her?” Sam asks, lips curled, “Banned?”

Tara nods.

“You heard me,” She says.

Sam refrains from laughing.

Instead, she reaches into the kitchen cabinet for an aspirin. She retrieves an empty bottle and sighs.

“I’m going to CVS,” She says, with a mumble.

“Sam,” Tara says, “Promise me.”

“No, Tara,” Sam says, “Back off, alright? I don’t tell you what to do with your love life. Don’t tell me what to do with mine.”

She grabs her coat, and slings it over her shoulders.

Tara’s hands ball into a fist.

“She’s using you. You have to know that, right?” Tara calls as Sam walks out the door, “You’re her consolation prize.”

Sam slams the door.

And you round on Tara.

You smack her, lightly, across the arm.

“Ow.”

Tara looks up at you with wide eyes.

“This is your fault.” You hiss.

“My fault?” She asks, in disbelief, “My fault?”

“I told you to be nicer to your sister and now look at what you’ve done. You pushed her right into Quinn’s arms!”

You reach out to smack her again.

Tara pulls back, outraged.

“That girl is like a piranha, you said it yourself,” She says, voice hot, “Sam could be a nun and married to Jesus Christ himself and Quinn would have still have her face down in the pews of some church.”

You blink.

“Oh,” You say, “Is that right? She’s that irresistible, is she Tara?”

Tara groans.

“Don’t turn this on me, baby,” She whines, “I karate-d her for you, remember?”

You let out a puff of warm air, arms crossed.

Tara looks over at you, a little helpless.

“What do we do?” She asks.

You sigh.

“I’m not sure we can do anything,” You admit, “Sam already knows everything. And… she’s kind of right, Tara. You can’t ban her from seeing Quinn.”

Tara looks over, a little unhappy.

“That’s unhelpful, babe,” Tara says, “I need you to go into psycho mode. Like when Quinn was hitting on me.”

It’s your turn to glare.

“I did not go into psycho mode,” You say, voice hot, “You were the one who put her in a headlock.”

Tara sits down, shoulders tight.

“Somehow I don’t think putting her in a headlock is going to keep her away from Sam.”

You settle down next to her, rub her arm.

“Look,” You say, with a sigh, “You’re right, Quinn’s using her. And Sam will see that, eventually. She said it herself - it was a mistake. Maybe we don’t have to do anything.”

Tara huffs.

“Quinn’s going to hurt her, YN,” She says, “Like Richie did. Sam’s never had a you. Just shit-head boyfriends who break her heart.”

You take her hand. Ignore the inappropriate flutter that settles in your belly at her words.

Tara thinks, hard.

“We need a plan.” She decides.

“Tara-” You protest, but Tara jerks away from you, the expression on her face final.

“Babe, you told me to be nicer to Sam and so I’m doing it,” Tara says, “I’m going to protect her. From that - walking bear trap.”

“Tara, I meant saying please and thank you,” You say, pointedly, “I meant you not icing her out over stupid arguments.”

“This is better than that,” Tara insists, “Anyone can say please, only a sister can stop you making the worst decision of your life. Please, babe. We have to do this. For Sam.”

You sigh.

Quinn Bailey is a menace. You’ve seen it first hand. And you love Sam. You don’t want to see her hurt anymore than Tara.

“Fine,” You say, a little reluctantly, “For Sam.”

Tara presses a quick kiss to your lips and then pulls back, looking determined.

“Operation Kill Quinn Bailey,” She suggests.

“No,” You say, “Absolutely not. You’re not-”

“Not for real, babe,” Tara says, “Metaphorically. Operation Metaphorically Kill Quinn Bailey.”

“It’s a little wordy,” You say, eyeing her.

Tara thinks a moment.

“Operation Quinn Bailey Must Die,” She says, finally, “Like that dumb movie you like, babe.”

“Operation Quinn Bailey Must Die,” You repeat, with a grumble, “How come every movie I like is dumb and every movie you like is a masterpiece?”

“We can’t all have great taste, babe,” She teases, and then stands up, looking stern.

“If we have a plan, then we need a team,” She says, whipping out her phone, “I’ll call for backup.”

Quinn’s not in the library at eight.

Sam tilts her head and watches the entrance, frowning slightly.

They hadn’t spoken - not since that morning, though given their last encounter - it shouldn’t surprise Sam.

Persistent, is Sam’s view of Quinn, doesn’t give up. Ever.

And yet here she is sitting in the library alone.

Sam pulls out her cellphone and calls Quinn’s line.

It rings once, then twice, before dialing out.

Sam pinches her eyebrows together. And tries to ignore the sinking pit in the bottom of her stomach.

She had been kind of mean. She’d all but thrown Quinn out of the house in a panic.

But before she can marinate on that thought, Quinn’s name is flashing across the screen of her phone.

“Hello?” Sam answers, far too quickly.

Quinn’s quiet a moment.

“Hi, Sam.” She says.

“Where are you?” Sam asks, checking her watch, “We said eight every night.”

“I figured you didn’t want to see me, anymore,” Says Quinn, “Not after last night.”

Sam pauses.

“Last night was…” She hesitates, “A mistake. But it doesn’t have to get in the way of your tutoring.”

Quinn sighs.

“I think it already has,” She says, “Bye, Sam.”

And then she hangs up.

Sam cooks dinner, feeling a little glum.

Last night had been a mistake. She didn’t expect it to go so far, with Quinn.

For all accounts - Quinn refusing to tutor with her should be a good thing.

Right?

Instead, Sam feels as if she’s just been dumped.

“Are you alright, Sam?” You ask, leaning over the kitchen counter, “You seem… a little down.”

“Fine,” Sam answers, transferring the salmon onto the plates, “Could you please get Tara for dinner?”

Dinner’s awkward.

Sam knows Tara wants to say something. She’s fizzing in her seat, barely touching her food. Look of contemplation on her face like she wants to say something that might get her in trouble.

Sam sighs.

“Tara, just say it,” She says, sounding tired.

Tara crosses her arms.

“I think I said all I needed to say this morning.” She says, eyes narrowed.

“Perfect,” Says Sam, “Are you going to eat?”

Tara thinks.

“I just want to know, Sam,” She says, “Do you seriously think Quinn slept with you for any other reason than to get back at me?”

You touch her arm.

Sam sighs.

She drops her fork.

“If you must know, Quinn doesn’t want to see me anymore,” Sam says, with a growl, “Not after I kicked her out this morning. So, I guess you got your wish, Tara.”

Tara blinks.

You reach out to touch Sam’s hand, “Sam, I’m sorry-”

“It’s fine,” Says Sam, “Can we please just eat and stop talking about Quinn Bailey?”

“Alright.” Tara says, voice even.

She tilts her head.

“This food is… good, Sam.” Tara says, voice a little gruff.

You side eye her.

Sam looks up.

“You haven’t even had a bite.” She says, pointedly.

Tara scoops up a mouthful of Salmon and chews it, somewhat obnoxiously.

“Good,” She says, mouth full “Really, good, Sam.”

You rub her arm.

Bless her for trying, even if her attempt is a little unnatural.

But Sam’s in a bad mood, clearly.

She stands, quite abruptly.

“I’m just going to eat in my room, I think,” She says, after a moment, her eyes sad, “I’ll see you guys later.”

She takes her plate, and you just watch her go. Shoulders tight, lips pursed.

You sigh as Sam quietly shuts the door, rubbing your eyes.

But Tara looks pleased.

“Operation Quinn Bailey Must Die is a success,” She says, happily when you shoot a look over at her, “Don’t give me that look, babe, you know you’re happy too.”

You consider this.

Quinn cutting ties with Sam is probably the best of all the outcomes, regardless of Sam’s mood.

“I suppose,” You say, and bite your lip, “Be extra nice to Sam this week, okay babe? Why don’t we cook for her tomorrow night? Make her feel special.”

Tara nods.

“Alright babe,” She says, pressing a kiss to your lips, “Anything for you.”

She thinks for a moment.

“And for Sam.”

Sam toils overnight.

Sleep doesn’t come easily, tossing and turning and throwing pillows against the wall in her frustration.

Near three, she picks up her phone.

Sam doesn’t know if it’s the lack of sleep, or the burning sadness in the pit of her stomach - but whatever it is, dials for her.

“Sam?” Quinn asks, a little groggy, “Are you okay?”

She shifts, and Sam just blinks into the darkness.

“Sam, it’s three AM, what’s wrong?” Asks Quinn, with a little more urgency.

“I-“ Sam says, and she pinches her eyebrows together, “Sorry. Nothing's wrong. I just… wanted to talk to you.”

“Okay,” Says Quinn slowly, “About tutoring? Because, Sam-“

“Not about tutoring,” Sam says, “About… the other thing.”

Quinn pauses.

“The sex thing?” She asks.

“Were you sleeping with me because you couldn’t have my sister?” Sam asks, unable to keep the thought to herself any longer.

Quinn huffs.

“Fuck you, Sam,” She says, “Fuck you.”

“That’s not an answer,” Says Sam. Her nails dig into the skin of her thighs, a little fearful of the answer.

“No,” Says Quinn, “I wasn’t sleeping with you because I couldn’t have Tara. Happy?”

Sam blinks.

“I don’t know if I believe you,” She says, swallowing.

“Then don’t believe me,” Says Quinn, voice flat, “It’s not like we’ll see each other anymore anyway. Goodnight Sam-“

“Don’t hang up,” Sam whispers.

Quinn pauses.

Sam closes her eyes, the blood rushing to her ears.

Quinn is a question mark. But Sam’s lonely and sad and she knows there’s only one thing that will get her to sleep tonight.

“Would you come over?”

You wake up to Tara between your legs, smiling down at you devilishly.

“Morning baby,” She says, smile wry, “I dreamt about you.”

You sigh as Tara presses her lips to your neck, her hands moving down to run down the length of your thighs.

“And what was I doing in this dream?” You ask, voice husky.

Tara smirks.

“You were on your hands and knees,” Says Tara, “Which is where you’ll be in about thirty seconds-“

Your stomach flips. Your mouth falls open.

Tara smiles, and takes your stunned silence as an opportunity to pull your sleep shorts down your legs.

Arousal floods through you.

You take her lips in a searing kiss, pulling her shirt over her head.

And then you hear a moan.

You pause, retracting from Tara, slightly.

She’s confused too, tilts her head to figure out if she’s heard wrong.

But then you hear another moan.

This is a moan you know.

One you’ve had the unfortunate experience of hearing before.

It’s Quinn Bailey.

“Motherfucker.” Tara swears, and her attention is no longer on you.

She grabs her shirt, cheeks flushed in anger as she climbs out of bed.

This time it’s Sam who moans.

You groan, falling back into the bed.

“How has this happened?” Tara asks, running a hand through her messy hair, “We go to sleep and Sam’s done with her, and then we wake up and Sam’s doing her.”

“Let’s not overreact-” You attempt, but Tara huffs, shaking her head and pacing up and down your tiny room.

“Relax, baby,” You say, trying to pull her back down. She’s glaring at the wall between the bedrooms as if it might melt. Potentially take Quinn in the process.

“Why don’t we go to brunch?” You suggest, biting your lip, “We can go to that little place that does the Mickey Mouse waffles you like.”

“Now is not the time for brunch,” Tara growls, “I’m going to go downstairs and pull the fire alarm.”

“That’s illegal,” You say, holding her arm to stop her standing, “Not to mention ridiculous. You can’t stop Sam having sex, Tara.”

“I don’t care about Sam having sex, babe, I care that’s it with Quinn.”

She looks over at you, a little helpless.

“What do we do?”

Sam moans from the next room. Quinn grunts. Your bedroom table shakes, slightly. Tara looks as though she might punch a hole in the wall and drag Quinn through by her hair.

You rub her back.

“Come on, don’t stress about it,” You say, pressing a kiss to her cheek. And then you think.

“Why don’t we do that thing you’ve been wanting to do?” You suggest, biting your lip.

You had been saving it for a special occasion.

But right now it’s the only thing you can think of to take Tara’s mind off Quinn and Sam.

Tara shakes you off, looking stressed.

“Babe, you want me to fuck you in the ass while my sister is getting nailed by Quinn Bailey in the next room?” She asks, agitated.

You sigh.

“I suppose not,” You mumble. And then you stand.

“Come on, Operation Quinn Bailey Must Die is back on,” You say with a grumble as a particularly loud chorus of moans sounds from Sam’s room, “Let’s rally the troops. They’ll be done when we get back. Surely.”

“You told her to what?” Tara hisses, across the table of the diner you’re all crammed around. Her Mickey Mouse waffles remain untouched.

You have a hand on the small of her back, trying to calm her racing heartbeat.

And so far it isn’t working.

Mindy, Liv and Chad are here to help enact her operation.

The ‘Ghostface Hunters’, Mindy had called you.

The ‘Quinn Killers’ Tara had corrected.

“You told her to sleep with Quinn?” Tara says, aghast.

Mindy huffs.

“I didn’t think she’d actually do it,” Groans Mindy, “I thought Sam was strictly dickly.”

“Never underestimate the charms of beautiful woman,” Says Liv, quite seriously and Chad nods, “If I didn’t have Chad, I’d probably sleep with her too.”

Chad smiles, as if the thought is appealing to him.

You roll your eyes.

“Why is everyone going goo-goo-ga-ga for her, she’s not even that pretty,” You huff.

“It’s not about being pretty, YN,” Says Mindy, with a shrug, “It’s a confidence thing. Women like being pursued. Quinn’s good at pursuing. The world’s her oyster.”

“Back to Sam,” You say with a huff, “What’s the plan? We need her to know Quinn is using her.”

“Why don’t we just tell her?” Asks Chad, looking confused.

Tara huffs.

“Thanks genius,” She says, “We already tried that, obviously.”

“We could plant drugs in her backpack to get her kicked out of NYU.” Suggests Liv, happily, “Chad knows a guy.”

“Let’s try to keep things legal.” You intervene, hastily.

Chad furrows his brow.

“If it’s Tara she wants, why don’t we just give it to her?” He says, after a long moment.

You blink.

Bile rises from your stomach and settles in the back of your throat.

“Excuse me?” You ask, voice a little hot.��

“It’s not a terrible idea,” Says Mindy, “We know Quinn wants Tara, right? And that’s the only reason she’s going for Sam?”

Chad and Liv both nod.

You cross your arms.

“Yeah, so? She’s not getting Tara.” You say with a bite.

Mindy rolls her eyes.

“And she won’t YN, relax.” Mindy says, “But if she thinks she might have a shot with Tara- then boom! We send her a few flirty text messages, get her to agree to send some back and send the evidence to Sam.”

Tara thinks.

“Isn’t that a bit mean-spirited?” You ask. The thought of your girlfriend sending sexy texts to anyone who isn’t you has you feeling like you want to punch something, “If Sam actually likes this girl, she’s going to be heartbroken.”

“Better her be heartbroken now than before she has time to actually fall for Quinn,” Mindy says with a shrug, “What do you say?”

Tara looks over at you.

“It’s not the worst idea, babe,” She says, with a murmur, “I mean, if it proves to Sam Quinn isn’t serious about her, what can it hurt?”

“I don’t want you sending nudes to other girls,” You say, voice tight, “I don’t care if it isn’t real.”

“Not nudes, babe,” Tara assures, “Just messages. Mindy can send them from my phone. That way it isn’t even me.”

The group is looking at you, a little expectant.

“Maybe we should revisit the drugs.” You say, trying to quell the raging tide of fire within your chest.

Tara kisses you.

“You asked me to look out for Sam,” She says, “This is me doing it. This is me protecting my sister.”

Her eyes are wide, like the chocolate buttons scattered across her Mickey Mouse waffles.

“Please?” She asks.

You sigh.

“Fine,” You agree, but you’re not overly happy about it, “Mindy sends them. I don’t want you talking to her.”

“Deal,” Says Tara, and she seals it with a kiss, “We’re going to get rid of this sex-pest once and for all.”

“Should we do it now?” Asks Chad, “While Sam’s still with her? With any luck, she’ll see the message.”

“No,” Says Mindy, “It’s too obvious. We need her alone. If Quinn knows Sam’s around she won’t bite.”

“She’ll bite,” Liv promises, “Tara is hot.”

It’s Tara’s turn to rub your back.

You shoot a deathly glare to Liv.

“To gay girls,” Liv clarifies quickly, “She’s hot to girls who are into that.”

“This will be good, babe,” Tara says, pressing her lips to the shell of your ear, “For Sam. This will be good for Sam.”

When Quinn’s finally done with her, Sam is a sweating, heaving mess.

Her body aches, pleasantly. Quinn nestles into her side, tugs Sam’s comforter around both of their bodies. And then presses a lingering kiss to her neck.

“Is this going to be us?” Quinn asks, voice a tease, “I’m your midnight booty call?”

Sam hesitates.

“Sorry,” She says, “I’ve never done this before. Not with a girl.”

Quinn’s lips purse.

“Me neither,” She assures, voice soft, “But I think we’re getting the hang of it.”

Sam hums.

“My sister thinks you’re using me.” She says.

Quinn sighs.

“I know,” She says, “I know she’s your sister and all, but I think she thinks a little too highly of herself.”

Quinn looks up at Sam, blue eyes wide.

“I fuck a lot of guys,” She says, voice soft, “But I don’t often fuck them twice.”

She lets it hang.

Sam frowns.

“I don’t know what that means.” Sam admits.

Quinn laughs.

“It means you must be special,” Quinn says, “Tara? I would have slept with her once.”

Sam crinkles her nose.

Quinn grips her hips.

“I would have slept with her once and then dodged her calls,” Says Quinn, “Because she didn’t mean anything to me. None of them mean anything to me.”

“But I do?” Sam asks, voice skeptical.

Quinn smiles.

“You do,” She says. She leans up, takes Sam’s lips in a soft kiss, “I promise.”

Sam isn’t sure.

This is all new to her; the girl, the girl-sex, the fact that this girl wanted her sister before she ever laid eyes on Sam.

But Quinn’s eyes are round, her grip on Sam is tight.

Her words sound honest.

It’s been so long since Sam’s had someone be honest with her.

And so Sam closes her eyes.

And lets Quinn encompass her.

#all hers #qbmd #scream #scream vi #scream v #sam carpenter #tara carpenter #tara carpenter x yn #tara carpenter x you #tara carpenter x reader #jenna ortega #jenna ortega x y/n #jenna ortega x you #jenna ortega x reader #ghostface!tara #mine #fanfic

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