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jo-harrington · 3 months

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Stranger Than (Fan)Fiction - Prologue: Crossover

Summary: Everyone wishes that they could have an Eddie Munson in their lives. In a strange turn of events, Eddie wishes that he could meet you, his favorite character from a cult classic 80's TV series. And he's about to get his wish.

Word Count: 3.9k

Pairing: Eddie Munson/Fem!Reader

Warnings/Themes: No-Upside-Down AU, Minor Angst, Fluff, Isekai, Mentions of FOI-compliant events

Note: Hello and welcome. I'm very excited about getting to expand on this idea; it's going to be a wild ride. Please note as you head in, and as we get into further chapters...this fic is going to be a little mind-fucky and a little bit self aware. This is my love letter to and my criticism of fanfiction, but at the end of the day, we're still gonna get to fall in love with Eddie and get some kind of Happily Ever After. This is my guarantee.

You can find my masterlist here.

Please do not interact if you are not 18+.

Enjoy!

May 2022. Such a weird time.

A time of uncertainty, a time of change. A time where the world seemed like it had been torn apart and was slowly being knit back together again.

But then a switch was flipped. Something happened. An old season ended and a new one started and with that start came something new. Someone new. And suddenly, countless people began to yearn for this new person in their lives.

A new, old person. Eddie Munson.

Joy ignited. Creativity sparked. Millions of words written and read. Edits made. Art drawn. Merch bought.

So many voices crying “why isn’t he real. WHY ISN'T HE REAL.”

If there was a god, he would let them have their own Eddie Munson. And if there was a Satan, he would let them sell their souls for Eddie Munson.

That’s just not how the universe works.

At least…not this one...

October 1985. A different kind of place and time. Still weird.

But Eddie Munson was real.

Sometimes to his detriment.

And for the most part, it was alright.

He played guitar, laughed with friends, mocked bullies to protect the people like him that were considered less than. He'd overcome hardships of one sort or another for most of his life, he could keep at it for a little while longer.

It would be his day week month year sometime soon.

Wouldn't it?

But until then, he would bide his time. Hopefully, this year, he'd pass all of his classes and finally graduate. Get to flip that douchebag Higgins off and snatch up a long-awaited, and well-deserved diploma.

What made it all easier, what softened the blow...was you.

It was silly. He knew that. Ronnie used to tease him on Wednesday nights when he needed to run home because he had a "standing date with his girl."

"Your girl doesn't even know you're alive," she'd scoff as he bustled her into the van. "She isn't real."

No...no you weren't.

Why couldn't you be real.

See, for the past...however long Eddie had spent his late nights half-assing homework, planning campaigns for Hellfire, working on music, and watching a television show. His guilty pleasure, a show about the ups and downs and upside downs of living in a sleepy suburban town: Port Geneva.

A show where you were his favorite character.

And crush.

You weren't the main character--in fact, you were just the main character's quirky best friend--but you were a fan favorite, as much as he could tell. You'd only been in the background during the first season, but before long you were front and just-left-of-center. And last year, you'd even gotten a two-episode arc in the season finale as you turned the small town on its head by announcing, a month or two before graduation, that you were quitting school to follow your dream and become an artist.

And man...Eddie had been there.

He'd actually missed those episodes airing when...well, when everything happened with his father and the heist...and the house...and Paige.

He'd missed a lot of episodes that season. Missed seeing you come into your own as he tried and failed to come into his.

Thankfully Wayne--and Eddie wasn't a believer but whatever deity in charge needed to bless his Uncle Wayne--had the foresight to tape those episodes for him.

Those tapes would be cherished 'til the day he died, because they had truly gotten him through those tough days after everything.

He wished he had seen them when they aired, maybe...maybe he would have made some different decisions if he had.

Of course, Eddie had already loved you before then.

Since he had first laid eyes on you, actually.

He was sure that if you were real, you would be the one to understand him more than any of his friends. See the real him. In return, he would understand you, be there for you too.

He already had been. He'd seen you cry countless times, he'd laughed with you, celebrated your successes and mourned your failures. He'd been there for you when you crushed on that dickhead Mark, and then had your heart broken by the careless jerk.

And somewhere deep down inside of him, when he was sitting in that jail cell after he wasted his phone call on Paige and he felt the weight of the world bear down on his shoulders…he wished that you were real so he could have called you instead.

If you were real, Eddie's life would just be a little nicer.

He knew…he just knew.

Of course, in the mean time while he wished with every fiber of his being that you would walk into his life, he brought you to life in other ways. During mid-season and summer hiatuses, he would write you into his DND campaigns. His friends knew, they always called him out for it.

"Are you seriously making her an NPC man?" Dougie would scoff and throw a D20 across the table at him.

"No, what are you talking about?" he defended and threw the die right back at his friend. "This is Spiria the Bold."

"Uh huh," Jeff rolled his eyes. "Sure."

By his imagination and his pen, you became a powerful warrior, a sharp-tongued trickster, a seductive mage. You became anything he wanted you to be--most often with a companion and lover that mirrored him--and everything he knew, deep down, that you were.

And then the unthinkable happened.

September ‘84. He and Wayne were in the checkout line at K-mart. Cart stacked with new clothes and school supplies and groceries. When suddenly...there you were. Right in front of him.

Alright, not you. Per se. But your face, smiling alongside Samantha and Patrick and Scotty and Bill on the cover of the TV Guide.

On Set with the Stars of Port Geneva.

Wayne was the one to snatch the magazine from the rack and add it to their bounty, a knowing smile on his lips as he shook his head.

He knew Eddie needed a little pick-me-up.

Or a big one.

How could he have known this would be anything but one...

Eddie scoured over the pages once they got back to the trailer. He was hoping there would be a big enough picture of you that he could cut out and tape to the otherwise barren walls of his new room. And there was; you were leaning against the back of your signature pastel blue Volkswagen Beetle, arms across your chest, head tilted to the side with the signature scrunched smile you gave when you were embarrassed.

He adored you.

Before he took scissors to the page, he read the interview with your actress.

He wasn't too keen on her, even though she had your face.

The illusion that Rosemary Glass was really you had been shattered the first time he'd heard her voice on a radio interview; instead of your perfect and familiar middle-American speech...Rosemary's voice was accented.

Not to mention, she sounded pretentious.

Gross.

Still, he could look past that annoyance if he got some kind of insight to what the next season would bring for you.

Hopefully not a new love interest. His heart could only take so much.

...gives us a tour of the Patterson and Son's set, one that is forever enshrined as the setting of Patrick and Samantha's first kiss. "Oh I'm actually not fond of that scene," Rosemary confesses. "Yeah it's sweet, and the way I bring Sam in so Pat could confess his feelings but the...when I fell down? It was not scripted. And I was honestly shocked they kept that in. But fans seem to think she's clumsy now because of it. That I'm clumsy. When I just tripped over a wire. It's quite awful, really." We ask Rosemary to tell us what she'll miss most, now that the show is coming to an end...

Eddie went rigid as he read those words.

The show...coming to an end?

"What?" he exclaimed into his empty room. "No, no, no."

He carefully examined the article again, then turned back to the beginning of the feature, only to feel his heart stop in his chest.

The title of the feature was like crit hit.

The final killing blow to his already weak constitution.

One Last Summer in Port Geneva - On the Set of the Final Season

The final season was a sham.

Eddie savored every episode, though. Of course he would!

He would enjoy every last moment with you that he could get before he lost you forever. But...he hated it.

It was lazy writing--seriously what were they thinking--and a quick, cheap means to tie up all the loose ends they'd set up over the years. He could tell they tried to deliver as fulfilling a finale for the extensive cast of characters as they could. Still, he was sure he could have done better.

Samantha and Patrick got engaged after graduation. That was lame.

Bonnie finally quit the bakery to open her own cafe the next town over. Didn't anyone remember that she wanted to quit because she wanted to be a vet instead? That was the whole point of her! She didn't want to follow in her family's footsteps and she was doing just that.

And you? You took a backseat.

Instead of leaving town right after graduation--something that you had followed through reluctantly to make your parents happy even though you had just resolved to put your own happiness first for once--you stayed to help Pat plan his proposal.

Your big adventure, your big push for your dreams, were on hold again. You played second fiddle over and over until the final episode.

Eddie was grateful to have you for a little longer, but...once again annoyed that you were looked over--over and over, just like he was--when you had already proved that you were worthy of top billing.

Worthy of being the main character for once.

Still, at the beginning of the series finale, you packed your bags, cashed in your savings account, and drove out of town. The future was yours, just like it was always meant to be.

And Eddie cried.

The whole time tears streamed down his face as you said your own watery goodbyes. He might have even waved as you stuck your hand out the windshield to say goodbye to your friends as your car idled at the last stop sign. You blew a kiss to everything you knew and loved then started on your way into the unknown, car getting smaller in the distance right before the commercial break.

He held his breath for the final scene: a walk through the house where it all started and then Sam smiled her signature hopeful smile as she shut the door on the audience.

The screen faded to black for one final time and he exhaled.

"It's over," he muttered in slight disbelief, suddenly unsure of what to do with himself.

Port Geneva was over, and you were gone for good.

It was a strange feeling.

Heartbreak, mourning, disappointment? He couldn't really know for sure. Empty was the best way to describe it; the lack of feeling. It was infuriating. Port Geneva was just a television show, he attempted to rationalize for the nth time since he started watching. You were just a character on a tv show; how could you mourn for someone and something that wasn't even real?

You hadn't actually died. He could still see glimpses of you if he wanted, whenever Rosemary Glass' next movie came out or something.

But that wasn't you.

You were gone, for all intents and purposes, and it was a blow that hit Eddie hard.

How could he go on without you?

Devastated, he got high that night after he stewed on his grief. He day-dreamed and monologued to an empty trailer about a universe where the two of you were together, where your travels took you to Hawkins, of all places, and you fell in love with him, just like you were supposed to.

If the walls could talk, they would have a fantastic tale to tell. One with heroes and misunderstandings and love at first sight. One with a horrible, unseen foe and many pitfalls and dangers that exceeded anyone's wildest imaginations. One with a magic door that led to the happily ever that was beyond well-deserved.

Grief did wonderful and terrible things, after all.

He woke up for school the next morning with cotton mouth and a vague outline of a story that did just that: brought you to Hawkins to fall in love with him and all of the other things that seemed like nonsense once he was in a more right-minded state.

The only problem was that it was all in his English notebook. And he didn't need anyone finding that.

"Fuck," he groaned and ripped the page out. He shoved it into his bedside drawer, where it would be doomed to a crumpled and forgotten future.

Or until he needed a condom.

Which, considering how everyone had doubled down on their disgust of him, wouldn't be any time soon.

But there you stayed.

Put away, like old obsessions and childish things, to be ignored and forgotten.

At least for a little while.

Eddie tried.

He did.

He kept you and Port Geneva out of sight and mind as much as humanly possible. It was the most effort he had really put to anything tangible in the past year.

The series ended at a weird time--during the middle of the season--and some investigative journalism show took over its time slot. Barbara Walters couldn't hold a candle to you, so it wasn't difficult for him to keep himself rooted in reality on the nights where he typically indulged in his silly fantasies.

The daydreams that he had were limited to lyrics for Corroded Coffin originals and ideas for Hellfire, and nights were spent alone in the darkness of the living room, with his reflection in the television set to keep him company as he tried his best to do homework that he'd already done before.

Before he realized, though, the school year was coming to a close and he was--big shocker--on the brink of failure. It wasn't until Higgins called him into his office, again, that you made your violent resurgence into his life.

There was a tentative truce between Higgins and Eddie for a while.

Civility was a strange thing for both of them. They actively avoided one another, save for a snide jab here and there, and Eddie tried to stay out of the Principal's Office as much as he could.

That is, until Higgins was forced to tell Eddie that he needed to repeat his repeat senior year.

"Don't act like I want this at all," he sneered at Eddie who tripped over a reaction. "I'd rather have you out of these halls for good. You drop out one year, then you re-enroll and you fail another. Try to make the most of it this time Munson; I don't want to have this talk again."

Eddie grumbled the whole drive back to the trailer, and he fell onto the sofa with his head in his hands once he got in.

"Which one of the fates wrote this stupid plot for me now, as if last year wasn't enough. You can't make this stuff up sometimes."

He laid there, wallowing in his misery for hours, days, years, until it got dark enough for headlights outside to be noticeable as they shined through the window. There was a glint of a reflection that caught his eye and had him turn his head.

"TV," he sighed and reached out as though he could touch the set and stacks of tapes neatly piled below. “The cause-of and solution-to all of life’s problems.”

He contemplated his life for a few more minutes.

He could make the most of the final few weeks of the school year. He could set himself up as a willing and reliable pupil for these last few assignments and tests, even though they wouldn't mean very much.

He could do all of these things so that when he walked into the halls of Hawkins High in the fall, on his absolute last first day of school--whatever deity or powers-that-be willing, because how "getting the hell outta dodge or he would die here" turned into "two extra years in that shit hole" he could only attribute to cosmic intervention--the faculty would already know he would try his best this time.

It would show them he was serious about graduating and that he would succeed despite all odds against him. Finally.

He could do this.

Or...

He could put in one of the tapes from the stack and scrounge for loose bills left over from his last few transactions and order a pizza. Pretend like he didn't exist for a little while.

And given the choice?

Eddie Munson chose the latter.

And he continued to choose the latter throughout the summer and even into the fall.

Nights that he didn't already have plans were spent in front of the television.

They were cherished nights with you.

Aside from his VHS recordings, he found a channel that showed reruns of Port Geneva after 10pm. Two hours of small town shenanigans that might very well be found just outside of his own door--if he only went and looked--with you just there, making your appearance every so often and catching his eye.

Homework was sometimes left halfway done on the coffee table until he needed to switch out a tape, or change the channel, and he spent more time filling his heart than enriching his mind, so to speak; he knew all of this school stuff already anyways.

Third times a charm and all right?

He talked to the screen more often than not, tried to warn you against one disappointment or another. Sometimes, if he was watching one of his tapes, he'd pause right on your face and just talk to you. Mundane things, usually, like Ronnie's last phone call home or some album that got released and a song he thought you might like.

Other nights, like tonight, he got vulnerable. Moments where life seemed a little extra trying, and he'd confess his feelings to your image.

Knelt on the floor in front of the coffee table, warm light bathed his face promising comfort as he spoke, and the din of static emitted from the television set, akin to an angel's voice...beyond understanding of humans.

He'd never been one for church, but this kind of confessional was sacred enough.

An eternal bond, just you and him.

He stopped his ramblings at that thought.

It was a strange moment of clarity.

Where had that come from?

"I..." Eddie looked down at himself, a foot away from the television set, remote clenched in his hand. Then he looked at you, soul-filled eyes just beyond the glass, not looking at him, only...through him, just past him. "What am I doing?"

What was he doing? He was...he wasn't a kid anymore who could hide in his dreams; well, honestly he was always going to do that, but this was different.

One minute he felt the weight of the world lift off his shoulders as he told you about his troubles, and the next it was all back, heavier than ever, as he realized how silly this all was.

And here he was, wasting his life knelt at your altar.

It wasn't holy. It was pathetic.

You'd never answer; you weren't real.

"Why?" he asked aloud, jaw clenched. He gripped the remote tightly. "What did I do to not have...someone? Huh? What have I ever done to be alone? That I have to rely on a fucking television character to feel understood. And now I'm losing my mind talking to myself, talking to you, at midnight every night. Why am I here wishing that you're real? Why couldn't you just...be...real?"

If there was a God, he would let Eddie Munson have you. If there was a Satan, he would let Eddie sell his soul for you.

And that's how he knew neither of them existed: you didn't exist either.

Eddie hit the eject button on the VCR and was about to shut everything so he could go to bed, when there was a crash outside.

Crashes in Forest Hills weren't abnormal--someone backing into trash cans, losing traction on the icy roads in the winter, and the one time Mrs. Dawson kicked her husband out and threw all of his things out the window--but it was something he'd gotten used to since he came to live with Wayne.

This crash, however, started a ruckus.

Someone was yelling and that stupid dog across the way started barking.

Eddie was a lot of things...but a dramatic gossip was definitely high on the list.

What else was there to do in the Midwest?

He grabbed his cigarettes from the bowl full of junk on the coffee table and stepped outside, fully intent on plopping down on the old couch on the porch to smoke and watch the scene unfold.

A car crashed into the telephone pole; didn't look like there was much damage but it had run through some trashcans and might have clipped the drivers side mirror off of Mrs. Mayfield's car. The same Mrs. Mayfield who was on her own porch being held back by Max as she yelled.

"Are you kidding me? It's fucking midnight!"

"Mom! Stop!"

"The car, Max!"

Maybe there'd be a fight.

He barely got his cigarette lit when he noticed--really noticed--the offending car: a powder blue Volkswagen Beetle.

He blinked several times and then rubbed his eyes, thinking it might have just been a trick of the light or something.

Or it was a coincidence.

Or a dream.

Maybe he'd had a heart attack and died in front of his television or something?

Plenty of people drove Volkswagen Beetles. He was pretty sure he'd even heard Nancy Wheeler asking her parents for one as a graduation present.

But with the same license plate number?

The same one from the show, the same one that was in the TV Guide all those months ago. The same one on the makeshift poster he had taped on the wall next to his bed, that he'd run his fingers over to "kiss" you goodbye countless times, just like he did to his guitar.

"It's just dark," he tried to convince himself, "and I'm tired, and...and..."

It was a coincidence. It was a dream.

He repeated the mantra over and over in his head like a lifeline.

It was another fan like him who just used fantasy to make their life a little better. That's all he was trying to do too, right? He could understand; hell, if this was a new neighbor, maybe he'd be able to chat with them about the show. Wouldn't that be something?

Eddie was so distracted making up endless excuses for himself that he didn't notice Mrs. Mayfield as she threw her hands up in the air with an exaggerated "I'm calling the police. He didn't hear Max holler at her mom to calm down, or see the tail lights of the Beetle turn off either.

It wasn't until the driver's side door swung open and a sneaker-covered foot crunched against the gravel that he forgot all the excuses he was conjuring.

And his heart stopped as the driver got out of the car and stood in the faint glow of the streetlight.

Because that driver was you.

Next Chapter: Alternate Universe

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goldsbitch · 4 months

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That one Christmas flight

summary: Y/N and Lando Norris are seated next to each other on a long flight. Innocent little Christmas tradition that Y/N does every year brings them just a little too close.

warnings: fluff, one-shot (whops a lie!), meet cute

Christmas. Y/N felt like an alien walking among people. It was impossible to avoid it. It was present in songs, in decoration, in fashion, online and on the news. Everywhere.

It's not like she was a grinch or anything. Nor was it because of some tragic incident causing trauma. Just pure fatigue from all the logistics and travel connected, which most kids of divorced parents faced every year.

Flying from Japan back to England, from her mother to her father, was a chore that seemed unavoidable. Her mother was kind enough to splurge on first class ticket for her, which her fancy Tokio job allowed. Ever since fours years ago, she continued a tradition that was introduced to her by a fellow Christmas traveller - the most stylish sassy French woman, who often spend the holidays on a plane. She would get herself and who ever was sitting next to her a glass of champagne and chat them up. Y/N has never laughed so much in her life like she did when she met this woman - so she took the tradition as her own.

Lando's plan wasn't to be on a flight from Japan to London on the 24th of December. He had so little time with his family and friends that this secret work trip to the Honda factory was really pushing him into staying with McLaren for the following years and not switching to a different team. This whole situation was like fuel for his current headache.

Y/N second guessed her tradition when a super gorgeous looking boy, who seemed to want anything but to be bothered, was sat next to her. She was used to having older people sitting next to her. Anyway, tradition is a tradition, so she eventually got up to order the classic. She nearly turned back at the thought that this guy was giving off some serious "I'm a dick" vibes, he had barely acknowledged her since she sat down. Luckily, she ignored this feeling.

When a glass of champagne appeared before Lando, he was sure it was a mistake.

"Well, to Christmas," his neighbor toasted. While he thought that she was a rather good looking girl, he was in no mood for a fangirl.

"I'm very sorry, um...I'll be happy to take a photo with you or something, but I am not in the best mood for a interaction with a fan."

She gave him a baffled look.

He continued. "Look, I'll be more than happy to sign anything. Or a photo, just as long you keep between un on which flight you saw me."

Y/N put her glass down, this was a first one.

"First of all, sorry for invading your private time. I have this stupid tradition of having a glass with whomever I'm destined to spend this Christmas flight. Guess I was mistaken. Second of all, I have no fucking idea who you are. So, calm down." She downed half of her glass. Of course this stupid year would include an asshole like this. Oh well.

Lando was confused for a moment and immediately after that he felt like an idiot.

"Apologies," he slowly replied, somewhat baffled. "I thought you were a fan and I'm just not in the mood for that." Y/N rolled her eyes and downed the rest of her champagne. "I'm Lando, by the way."

"Is that a stage name?"

"No, " he laghed. "I think it was a random decision of my mom."

"Interesting. Y/N," she introduced herself, without looking at him.

There was a weird tension in the air. Lando was determined to break it. Y/N was currently casually offended.

"Let me get you another one so that we can have a toast."

"Great, getting drunk is also an option. Hate flying sober," she joked.

Another glass was brought by a smiling flight attendant.

"So, how does this work?" Lando asked. Y/N was a person easily annoyed, however as quickly this came it also ended.

"Fine. There are rules, btw."

"Of course there are."

"Ehm, ehm, " she cleared her throat. "So, this tradition was started by Madame Tatanova and from now on, if you find yourself on a plane on 24th or 25th of December, you need to toast with your fellow neighbor passenger and answer the following: why and for how long-"

"I will have to write this down, I have a memory of a dead chicken."

"-I'm not finished! And then you follow up by your biggest regret and one thing nobody knows. The purpose of this is to gain or pass on wisdom and use the opportunity you'd normally miss by blasting up your headphones." She's done this for four times now, still the introduction was missing the "Madame Tatanova magic". Maybe one day.

"Ok..." Lando was not following yet, but he was keen on doing so. She raised her glasses, as did he.

"Cheers, to Christmas flights."

"Cheers, " he replied and they both sipped their champagne. "Wait, I have a question - what would you do if I did not speak English? Or if I was deaf?"

Lando was being his cheeky self and Y/N was not having it. She answered the question with a look.

"Got it! Anyway...what was the question?"

"Why."

"Why? Why is the sky dark or....?"

"Why are you on this plane."

"I'm trying to get to London from Tokio."

"I swear to god, I will ask to be seated somewhere else, Orlando."

"Lando, actually."

"If you say so..."

"Huuh, I'm going back from a work trip. And since you claim not to know me, I can probably tell you more than I should. Um, imagine I am in a band, right? I'm singing for a band and every few years they change their lead singer, one of the two actually, and I'm a the lead singer who might go to a different band now. But it's not clear yet and super secret actually. So, please keep it to yourself." Lando felt like someone who has just discovered speech and this was the first time he was using it. "Does that make any sort of sense?"

"Sort of I think. So you're cheating on your band?"

"Uhh, I'd say checking out options."

"Remind me never to date guys like you," she joked and immediately regretted that. Y/N was not good at flirting and did not want to appear creepy.

Lando passed on this comment, still not sure if he could trust this girl. "So, what about you? Why?"

"The curse of the divorced parents. One lives in London, the other one in Japan and I'm a package they pass each year," she said rather bitterly.

"Sorry to hear that."

"Yeah. I get to see mom twice a year and it's all always so planned and predictable. I would kill for spontaneity."

"Take me with you next time, I'm sure she'll be surprised." "Yes, she is a big fan of British guys, that's why she divorced one!"

"Great, happy to follow that route!"

Y/N started to relax a bit. This could be good, actually. "Ok, so now. For long are you staying in London, Lando?"

"Only few weeks. Then our music season starts. "

"Yeah, the one with all the singing, of course."

"Yeeah."

Y/N laughed a bit. He was suprisingly easy to talk to.

"So, how long?"

"A week. Then I'm off to Bologna."

"Uuuh, fancy that!"

"Yeah, I'm studying history there."

"Bologna is the one with the old university?" he asked, pretending he has never heard of that.

"No, not really, they just opened. Last year we did not have chairs, because the shipment got delayed," she replied with a dry tone.

"One does always study better while standing. I believe it was Socrates, who said it."

"Oh, yes. They teach you this at the singing music school?"

"Exactly. We were never allowed to sit."

They continued to chat all the way through the airplane dinner, getting few more glasses of champagne during that. Their laughter was interrupted by a flight attendant, who acted on a complaint from a fellow passenger. They both fell asleep watching a movie. Y/N woke up few times in the night and observed the boy next to her. Knowing this was the best Christmas plane encounter she ever had. Lando woke up as well, feeling strangely happy about the fact she was resting her head on his shoulder.

"Wait." Lando stopped her at the entrance to customs hall and pulled them both behind a column, so that they could not be seem by bystanders.

"Yes?" she turned to him.

"This might be weird, but can I kiss you?" Y/N looked at the boy in a hoodie standing in front of her, cheeky guy suddenly appearing nervous. He was absolutely gorgeous. She hated the fact he was random guy on a plane to London and not to Bologna.

"Yes. Must be midnight somewhere. So it could be like a New Years thing."

"Yeah. Just an airport thing." With that he kissed her. Just two young people having a little moment of silence. His kiss was a light slow brush on the lips. He cupped her cheek and her hand brushed through his curly hair. First kiss usually does not take long. For a person passing by, this would appear like kiss these two shared a thousand times before.

When they eventually parted, it all seemed a bit surreal.

"We never got to the second part of your Christmas interview," Lando commented.

"Well. Let's say that the one thing nobody knows is that I just kissed a random guy from the plane. And that my biggest regret is that we will never see each other again." For the first time, she was this bluntly honest with somebody who had just kissed her for the first time. It felt intoxicating.

Lando smiled. "See, I knew we had something in common."

Lando was usually not so open with his crushes, if he could even put her in that category.

"Don't worry. I won't search for you online or anything. I want to keep the mystery of Lando alive."

He kissed her once more, before they parted.

Their hearts felt a little more heavier than usual on midnight that New Years Eve. Both standing surrounded by their favorite people, yet with the one they would wish to kiss being impossibly far away.

part 2

_________________________

@superlegend216

#lando norris #lando norris x reader #lando norris x you #lando norris fanfic #ln4 imagine #formula 1 #formula one x reader #f1 fanfic #f1 imagine #lando norris angst #meet cute #fluff #lando norris fluff #formula 1 fluff #formula 1 fanfic #oneshot fanfiction #ln4 x reader #That one Christmas flight

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greynatomy · 5 months

Text

take me or leave me

leah williamson x reader

obsessed with this song. my musical era is back.

anyone here watched rent? if you want a visual of how reader kinda acts while performing, click this link.

masterpost

———

You met Leah when she attended an awards show two years ago. You’d sat at the same table and got to talking. She asked for your number and the two of you would be texting and calling all the time.

Eventually, she asked you on a date, taking you to dinner at a secluded section in the restaurant. That night was a night that you could never forget. She let you talk about your career and passions while you did the same for her.

You were from two different worlds, being well known in your own ways, but understand each other, for the most part.

Two years in, and your relationship still strong. You did have some arguments here and there, that’s normal, but what you learned over the years was how jealous she could get. It was amazing to have someone love you so much that they don’t want anyone coming in between that, but sometimes her jealousy becomes too much, like today.

You invited her and some of her friends to a night out with some of your friends. Your two worlds colliding once more.

Being in a relationship with you, she knew how many people ‘desired’ you. You’ve been a public figure since you were a teen. You’ve had costars who’ve tried to date you, others who openly flirt with you and always reassure Leah that she’s the only one you want. She knows that. Doesn’t mean she has to like the way men and women throw themselves at you.

Today was another one of those days, except this time her jealousy seemed to have amplified. Your friends traveled all the way to London to visit you, Leah inviting some of her Arsenal teammates, meeting at a little karaoke club.

Just an hour of being here, Leah’s mood sours. She keeps seeing people coming up to you, some were fans and some who ‘wanted to get to know you’ and not in a friendly matter. It came to a point where she started to ignore you, staying by her friends.

You’ve had enough of it, so you thought of a way to grab her attention. You grabbed your friend Alex and walked up to the person in charge of the karaoke performances. Leaning down to his ear, you whisper your song choice, he gives you a smile and a thumbs up.

“Alright, alright!” He announces on the microphone getting everyone’s attention. “We’ve got some broadway royalty with us today! Here to perform a classic from hit musical Rent, Y/N Y/LN and Alexis Thomas.

That got Leah’s attention. She directs her eyes towards the stage where you and Alex stood, microphones in hand. Leah or her friends didn’t know this musical, none of them have ever been into broadway musicals so they didn’t know what to expect. You knew this would get her more jealous, but this is what she gets for ignoring you.

Every single day I walk down the street I hear people say "Baby" so sweet

Ever since puberty Everybody stares at me Boys, girls I can't help it, baby

You look to where Leah sat, shrugging your shoulders.

So be kind And don't lose your mind Just remember That I'm your baby

You point a finger towards her.

Take me for what I am Who I was meant to be And if you give a damn Take me baby or leave me Take me baby or leave me

You take your coat off, revealing an outfit that shows more skin than Leah would like. You walk over to where she sat, draping the coat over her shoulders.

A tiger in a cage Can never see the sun This diva needs her stage Baby, let's have fun!

You walk around to your girlfriend, pulling her chair back and sit sideways in her lap, arm draped over her shoulder.

You are the one I choose Folks would kill to fill your shoes You love the limelight too now, baby

You take the strap of your top, slowly dropping it from your shoulder, teasing her.

So be mine But don't waste my time Cryin', "Oh honeybear Are you still my, my, my baby?"

Leah’s arms wrap around your waist, pulling you closer.

Take me for what I am Who I was meant to be And if you give a damn Take me baby or leave me

You turn in her lap, now straddling her, the hand not holding the microphone grabs the back of her neck, yanking her face to yours, nose barely grazing.

No way, can I be what I'm not But hey, don't you want your girl hot? Don't fight, don't lose your head 'Cause every night, who's in your bed?

She tries to hold onto you as you climb out of her lap. You place a hand on her chest, pushing her back and give her a flying kiss, walking back to the stage.

Who, who's in your bed? Kiss, pookie

Alex starts her part. You’ve both sang this song together so many times that the routine is muscle memory.

It won't work, I look before I leap I love margins and discipline I make lists in my sleep Baby, what's my sin?

Never quit, I follow through I hate mess, but I love you What to do with my impromptu baby?

She starts stalking towards you as you back up, running a finger up your arm. She grabs at your face softly, bringing your face close to hers.

So be wise 'Cause this girl satisfies You've got a prize, so don't compromise You're one lucky baby

Leah squirms in her seat, not liking how you and your friend are touchy, steam practically blowing out of her ears. Her friends start to tease her, jealousy easily seen in her face.

As the songs finishes, Leah is quick off her seat, rushing towards you. She grabs your wrist, pulling you towards what you assume the restroom. You turn your head towards your friends and Leah’s teammates, giving them a wink.

Shutting the bathroom door, she pushes you against it, leaning down so you’re face to face.

“What was that?”

“What was what?” You ask innocently.

“That’s little show you did there?”

“Oh, that.” You extend the ‘a’. “That’s just a little something me and Alex love to perform.”

“Was all the touching really necessary?”

“Yes.”

She looked at you shocked. “What d’you mean ‘yes.’”

“The only way I thought to get your attention after ignoring me all night.”

“People were all over you!”

“And what did the song say? Something like ‘Take me baby or leave me.’”

You give her a quick, but passionate kiss, pushing her away. Making sure to fix yourself it the mirror, you give her a wink, leaving a stunned Leah in the restroom.

#woso x reader #greynatomy #woso #woso imagines #woso imagine #leah williamson #leah williamson x reader #engwnt #engwnt x reader #rent

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lazyjellyfish300 · 3 months

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A Day Off at Miguel's🥗📺💜

Miguel O'Hara x Fem reader

A/N: my 300 follower celebration blurb I just typed up impromptu. Sorry if it's a little messy. Just the classic, your boyfriend is an ahole and Miguel is your shoulder to cry on comfort vibes. ;) I got carried away. Word count 2.4k

TW: a little angst, cheating, some violence/threats nothing too graphic, your ex is mean and Miguel handles him for you, other than that just fluff.

------

You stared down at the sidewalk with your hands on your knees, hyperventilating, a sick feeling pooling in your stomach which you surely thought would spill itself onto the street. You wanted to break something. You wanted to fight somebody. Your no-good, lying, cheating hoe ass boyfriend, or the skank he had in YOUR bed with him when you unfortunately walked into the scene of the crime. Maybe both? Definitely both. You don't even know anymore.

I'm gonna quit my job, leave the state, change my name. I'm so over everything and everyone... nobody's there for me... fuck, let me call Daniela...

*Ring* *Ring* .....

c'mon girl pick up, I know you have no service in your cabin in Switzerland with your sugar daddy but I need you right now....

*Ring*...... You have reached the voicemail box of...

FUCK

You try so hard not to throw your phone, but then you get an idea. Maybe Miguel? No, no way..he's your co worker...not going to lie, the tension was there, but you kept it short with him because you had a boyfriend. He had been your mission partner for about 6 months now, you came in to fill in for Jess when she went on maternity leave. He was really grumpy at first, but he slowly let his guard down when he saw how kind you were.

Even the times when he snapped at you, you just responded in a calm voice, giving him a smile. On Valentine's when you found out he was going to be alone, you bought him a heart filled with chocolates, some teriyaki flavored beef jerky, and a little teddy bear who had a sticky note in his paw that said, "From your secret admirer." He recognized your handwriting anyway from all the paperwork he did. He didn't have the courage to ask you about it. He became softer, feeling bad for when he was harsh with you.

There was a time when you both got done beating the crap out of another Vulture that was terrorizing folks at the DMV that you turned and looked at him and already caught him staring. But for the first time you didn't look away. Miguel turned a deep red and cleared his throat. "Do you...um..are you hungry? We could get lunch after this?"

Your heart fluttered for a moment but you remembered that you had a boyfriend back home. If he went out on a lunch date you knew you'd feel a little jealous too.

"Oh...um..." Shit shit shit.

"I have to meet my boyfriend after this. I'm sorry..."

Miguel nodded, trying to pretend like he wasn't disappointed but it showed all over his face anyway. "Of course, of course...no worries..." he stayed silent and opened a portal back to Nueva York and walked through.

He never asked to hang out again after that.

Now, knowing your now ex-sack-of-shit boyfriend was doing you dirty anyway, you figured you wouldn't mind risking it all right now.

----

Miguel headbutts a man who was trying to rob an elderly woman. He sees an incoming call on his watch as the man lays sputtering on the ground, while the old woman fans herself in relief.

Miguel's eyebrow raised but he answered it, putting it on bluetooth. "Hello?" He throws the robber over his shoulder.

Your tear stained voice comes through on the other line. "Miguel...?"

Oh that sweet voice of yours saying his name like that. Stay calm.

"Hey..." He throws the robber in the backseat of the cop car and nods to the chief. "Aren't you still on your day off?"

"Yeah I w-was...but um..." you sniffle, more tears coming down. You just need a hug right now.

Miguel pauses. It's more obvious now you're crying. It makes him feel sadder and more concerned than he has a right to be.

"I was gonna surprise my boyfriend...I walked in and..." You can't maintain your composure.

"And what?" Miguel asks, his voice worried now. "And what? Where are you?"

"Can you just come get me please?" You cry and stutter, lip trembling. "I n-need y-you..."

Miguel's heart melts. Is it bad he's low-key celebrating this moment in his head right now?

"Of course. Send me your location. I'll be there in about 10. Do you need anything?"

"All my s-stuff is still in the apartment but he won't let me in...he kicked me out after cheating on me and told me since I never gave a shit about this relationship, he doesn't give a shit about my stuff and I can go find somewhere else to s-stay..."

Miguel feels his adrenaline rising. "I'll get your stuff for you. Don't worry about it. Let me talk to him."

"That's not necessary..." You suddenly feel nervous but a little flattered at how protective he sounds. "I d-don't want you to hurt him..." You knew he would snap him like a twig if he wanted. "Promise...?"

Miguel pauses. "I won't. I'm approaching your street right now,I think."

You look up and sure enough you see him walking briskly towards you. His heart breaks when he sees you like this, your eyes puffy, heartbreak worn all over your face.

"I'll be right back..." He starts jogging up the stairs to your apartment.

"Miguel! Just get my stuff don't worry about him! Miguel!"

He doesn't hear you. Your ex answers the door with an annoyed look on his face.

"I'm here for your girlfriend's clothes." Miguel says, the storm seething underneath the surface.

"Ah, so she sends the work side piece to get it for her, typical!"

Miguel grits his teeth. "I'm not her "side piece" as you put it. I didn't come here to fight. I'm just here to get her things and then I'll be on my way."

Your ex huffs, "I could give a shit what that bitch wants!"

Miguel clenches his fists. "Don't speak that way about her."

Your ex stands up, chest puffed out despite being overpowered by Miguel's height. "And what are you going to do about it? This is my house, motherfucker. When she gave you her sob story did she leave out the part where she spends all her free time at work and forgets about her boyfriend who put a roof over her head? What was I supposed to do?"

Not cheat, for one...Miguel's face is red with rage, trying so hard to keep his promise.

Your ex wears a shit eating grin. "Wanna hit me, big guy? Go ahead. Tell me you're a goddamn cuck without telling me."

Miguel turns to the side and blows air out of his nostrils. Shortly after there's a crash and the sound of Miguel's fist pummeling the smug look off your ex's face and the screams of his mistress when she saw the commotion.

Miguel reemerges some time later with your small pink duffle bag. "I grabbed you some sweatpants and a couple pairs of underwear. I couldn't find your toothbrush...I'm sorry."

You shake your head. "oh my God...no, it's okay. Thank you so much Miguel..." You take the bag and look through it. "What happened? What'd he say?"

Miguel looked at you with a poker face, the sight of your ex's bloody face shooting across his memory. "He honestly didn't say much."

That would be the one and only promise he ever broke to you.

Miguel took you to the department store and let you pick out any toiletries you needed. He watched you with a gentle look on his face as you tossed a toothbrush, toothpaste, floss, some makeup wipes, your skin cleanser, some lotion, pads, tampons, a couple scrunchies, chapstick, and anything else you thought you might need into the cart while he pushed it.

He paused when you got to the shampoo and conditioner, only getting the travel size. "That's all you need?" He asks.

"Yeah, it'll only be for a few days until I can go back and get the rest of my stuff."

Miguel shakes his head and puts the liter size shampoo and conditioner in the cart. "Let's get the bigger size just in case."

You look at him, puzzled.

He gives you a shy smile. "You're... you were planning on staying at my place, right?" His heart pounded on the inside.

You nod your head and try to play it off. "Y-yeah. I mean, I don't want to intrude or anything, you know?"

Miguel grins. "Not at all. I have a spare bedroom you can use." Since he's a gentleman.

You smile and nod, can't help wondering how long this sleeping arrangement will last.

After checking out and he foots the bill at his insistence, you two go back to his place. His apartment is small but sleek. It definitely screams neat freak but he's very welcoming and shows you to your room. It used to be Gabby's old room but he eventually just turned it into an unused guest room. The curtains were still pink because he didn't have the heart to take them down.

You smile and sit on the bed and he walks into the kitchen to order food and give you time to settle in.

Soon, you're sitting on the couch together, shaking your bowls from Cava and you're sipping an extra large iced tea, swirling the drink and hearing the ice cubes clatter against the plastic, humming in satisfaction.

"What should we watch?" Miguel asks, sitting back and looking over at you.

You look at him then look at the clock. "Don't you have to get back to work?"

Miguel shakes his head. "Nah. Today's about making you feel better."

You smile but feel a little guilty, "I don't want to take up too much of your time."

Miguel gives you a soft smile, "You can make it up to me another time. What movie are we watching?"

You give a soft chuckle then look at the menu he's browsing on the TV. "Ummmmm, 13 Going on 30." You answer, taking a sip.

Miguel looks at you. "You sure a chick flick is the right answer right now?"

You nod. "I like watching romantic movies when I'm going through break ups. It's very cathartic."

Miguel raises an eyebrow but puts it on at your request. "Okay... Don't say I didn't warn you..."

He ends up being right and your lip is trembling at the end. Miguel looks over at you and gives you an endearing smile. He scoots closer to you, just a bit but, you close the gap immediately and just throw yourself in his chest, crying into it. Not caring that you're just friends or this is the longest time you two have ever spent alone together, wanting nothing more than to just be held by him.

Miguel freezes, his hands in mid-air, but they gently come to rest on your shoulders. He plays with your hair, letting you cry it out in silence. His body feels warm as he holds you, as though this is where he was supposed to be this whole time.

He's just sorry he couldn't have been there sooner and you had to get your heart trampled on for it to happen eventually. He feels on top of the world, but simultaneously aches at seeing the sadness coming out of you, wishing he could absorb it from you completely.

Your breathing slows down, shuddering a little as the last of your sobs come out, and sit up and wipe your eyes. Miguel looks at you, running a thumb down your chin. He gives you a teasing grin. "Told you you'd cry."

You give a little snort. "Whatever. I just got cheated on dude, cut me some slack here."

Miguel smiles and nods. "You're right, you're right. I'm sorry..." His voice lowers a little bit. "But really, you deserve so much better than that."

You nod slowly, blowing your nose. "Thanks Miguel...I just don't get how he threw two years down the drain for some chick he just met..."

Miguel nods, tucking some hair behind your ear.

"It has nothing to do with you. Usually when people cheat, it's because there's something wrong with the one who cheated. You didn't cause this at all."

"Yeah but, maybe if I didn't work so much..."

"-Work's not an excuse," Miguel says gently, cutting you off. "You don't use anything as an excuse to hurt the ones you love. I mean if I was in his shoes..." Miguel clears his throat, "hypothetically, of course..."

A small smile forms on your face at the mention of you being his.

Miguel fumbles a little bit with his words, the facade shielding his true feelings unable to stand any longer, causing them to be painfully obvious. "....uhem, well, I definitely wouldn't hurt you like that." he said abruptly, looking away.

"If I was yours, huh?" You give him a cheeky smile, your face still puffy from tears, leaning on your elbow.

Miguel shakes his head. "We don't have to focus too much on that part... I was only giving you an example..."

"Or a suggestion....?" You ask, your stomach starting to jitter a little bit.

Miguel huffs and looks down, then looks at you again, the air becomes thick. "I was only..."

"Just admit you like me, Miguel." You say in a soft tone, your hand coming to rest on his leg.

Miguel has been waiting for this moment for months, but somehow now that it's right in front of his face, he's shy and scared as hell.

"I...." he looks at you, his jaw tensing as your eyes go half-lidded, coming to rest so subtly on his lips. "I....," he repeats. He's stuck with nowhere else to go. Your eyes are holding him captive.

He just goes for it, cupping your face with one of his hands and pulling you into a warm kiss. Your cheeks are still a little wet under his touch, but the feel of you causes him to melt away as the kiss slowly gets a little more deep, your tongues beginning to softly mold and explore the other's mouth. His lips plump and soft, his calloused hands normally rough handling your waist with careful touches as they chase your worries and your sadness away.

Miguel breaks the kiss gently for just a moment, his mouth mumbling into yours, "I wanted to do that for so long..."

You smile and hum in agreement, peppering little kisses all over his face, making him chuckle.

And so the rest of the afternoon and night was spent lazily on the couch. Watching movies and even cartoons you both loved as a kid, eventually dozing off until Miguel woke you up about 10 pm, and you both ended the night cuddled in his bed.

The alarm on his phone was set for 6:30 am the next morning so you two could have enough time for a shower and coffee before you headed to work.

You never left his side after that.

----

💓

#miguel o'hara #miguel atsv #miguel ohara #miguel x reader #miguel o'hara x reader #spotify #atsv miguel #miguel o hara fluff #miguel o'hara fluff #miguel ohara fluff #miguel o hara x y/n #miguel ohara x fem!reader #miguel o'hara imagine #Spotify

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violets-and-books · 9 months

Text

The Crows watching Horror Films

Kaz:

Loves horror movies

Is basically the perfect horror film watcher

Watches intently

Never jumps at the jump-scares, the most you'll get out of him is a startled 'oh'

Always guesses who the mystery killer is

Always guesses it correctly

Loves slasher films

Inej:

Not a big fan of most horror films

Likes the final girl trope

Prefers sci-fi horror to anything else

Will rant about the pseudo-sadist, purity-obsessed horror films and why they can be better to anyone who'll listen

Won't go out of her way to watch a horror but will make an effort if A) Kaz wants to or B) It's made by a diverse minority of some kind

Jesper:

Hates horror films

Watches them because Kaz and Wylan like them

Loves watching them with Wylan because it gives him an excuse to cuddle up to his boyfriend

"are you scared?" "no" (literally shaking in his seat)

Is that one guy who screams at the screen like a goat

"I wish Milo was here, I wish Milo was here, I WISH MILO WAS HERE, I WISH MILOOOOOOOO-"

"ThAt'S nOt WhErE bLoOd Is MeAnT tO bEeEeEEEEEEE-"

"Wy, hold me, I'm scared" "The film hasn't even started yet-"

Jumps at every jump scare. Every. Single. One.

Wylan:

Likes horror films, especially ghost ones

Finds them cathartic

Has long conversations about themes and analysing horror with Inej and Matthias

Has seen all the classics

Likes gothic horror films

Is the only one who'll put up with Jesper's antics

Can't watch slashers - too violent

If he gets scared, he'll cover his ears and scream in short bursts until he isn't scared anymore

Matthias:

Is that one guy who'll analyse the film while watching it

Points out how scientifically incorrect all the kills are

Has very specific catagories for what counts as a horror film

Loves cult films, especially the Wicker Man

Can't watch haunting films, hates them so, so much

Nina:

Doesn't like horror films

Makes fun of Jesper for being so scared but then screams just as loud as him

Yells and swears at the characters for being so stupid

Ended up practically glued to Matthias' lap, if she didn't start out that way

"NO ONE would be that stupid to actually do [X]"

Quotes Scream at every given opportunity

(whenever someone on screen has sex) "Ooooooooh, you gonna diiiiie"

Kuwei:

Laughs at the jumpscares

Not even like a nervous laugh, plain out, hilarious laughter

Knows everything about how the films were made

Loves horror, possibly even more than Kaz

"Jes, are you scared? You can hold my hand if you want"

Has to sit a safe distance away from Wylan at all times to avoid being murdered

Explains how they did that stunt on screen as the stunt is happening (but will shut up if asked nicely)

Really likes body horror

#six of crows #six of crows hc #six of crows headcanons #soc #soc hc #wylan van eck #kaz brekker #inej ghafa #nina zenik #matthias helvar #jesper fahey #kuwei yul bo #horror films #wesper #helnik

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meanbossart · 4 months

Note

so does DU Drow have a breeding kink or

Well, here's the thing, he fetishizes (in the very classical sense of the word) most "gross" things or at least what he perceives as gross or outside normal human - or elven or whatever - expectation. He also has a weird sense of humor. I think when he and Astarion started fucking properly and he fell into bottoming he saw that as being "the girl" (reminder that he's also a drow - or at least looks like one. Drows have very strict gender roles and their culture centers a lot around reproduction - which he also finds hilarious) and started half-jokingly dirty talking like that and it may or may not sometimes devolve into something more serious LOL

They must talk a LOT of nonsense during sex in general. I'm a big fan of the idea that spawn Astarion's sexual behavior, once he's comfortable and drops all the performativity we see during the game, is just sloppy and messy and kind of embarassing as all sex between people who are intimately familiar with each other tends to be. Him going along with this and being a little turned on despite the ridiculousness of the concept is in a way a very stupid bit of characterization i chose for him as much as it is for the drow lmao

#ask #DU drow

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scribblesofagoonerr · 2 months

Text

God loves a trier though, right? | Inner Demons

⟫ Alphabet Challenge, G - God loves a trier though, right?

Pairings: leah williamson x teen reader, arsenal wfc x teen reader

Hi, sorry for the wait on this. This is a bit scrappy, not been proofread at all and I'm currently battling a headache while writing this so apologies if it doesn't make much sense, like at all!

I'm overwhelmed by the amount of support on this. It's definitely become one of my favourite things to write!

As always, my asks are open for anyone to drop me any ideas’ on this fic or anything else that people would like to see be written, however, I am only comfortable writing anything platonic though :)

Reader returns from the hospital, which leads to a heart-to-heart with some usual classic teenage sarcasm.

TW: heavy angst and mentions of SH, MH, suicide and death.

"Home sweet home" Leah pulls the car into the driveway and turns off the ignition, turning to look at you.

You fake a smile in the blonde's direction as you tug at the sleeves of your hoodie to fight the urge. "Glad to be home" You speak quietly.

You knew going home wasn't going to be as easy as you thought it would be, the reminder was right there in front of you.

A reminder of what you did, what could have been your end.

Until Leah had walked in and saved you.

You didn't really want to die, the voices on the internet were just too much to deal with.

The hate from the fans. The pressure from the media.

At times, everything can be overwhelming. But, being home makes it easier to regain control of being able to hurt yourself.

If you're being honest, that really does scare you.

The vague memory from that night still haunts you as you walk through the flat, sending a chill up your spine.

"Bubs?" Leah calls out to you, as she watches you freeze as you pass the bathroom.

"Uh, I'm... I'm a bit tired. Think I'm gonna have a nap" You tell her, slowly moving in the direction of your bedroom.

"Alright, I'll go and cook us some dinner. I doubt you've eaten much in the last few days if hospital food is anything to go by huh?" Leah jokes as she presses a light kiss to the top of your head. "Have a good nap, I'll wake you up when it's ready, yeah?" She adds.

Slumping into your own space, you glance around your bedrom and you're glad to see it's exactly how you left it.

You had missed your private space when you was in the hospital and you're just glad enough that the blonde hadn't gone to the extreme measures of removing your bedroom door at least.

"So the girls wanted to come around tonight but I thought it was best to hold off for now" Leah slides the dinner plate in front of you, you can't help but smile when you see it's smiley faces and nuggets.

One of the only things that Leah can actually cook.

You actually missed the small things like that while you were on an extended stay in the hospital.

"Sure" You agree as you reach for the ketchup bottle and squeeze a decent amount on your plate. "I'll be able to see them tomorrow at training, won't I?" You ask.

"Bubs" You can tell Leah is cautious to speak.

"I can train, can't I?" You look directly at the blonde as you await her answer.

Although you have a feeling that you're going to be sitting on the sidelines for a while.

"I have to train, Le! I can't put it off. I've gotta be ready to be selected for the matchday squad!" You insist as you stab your fork into a chicken nugget.

You watch as Leah frowns and hesitates to speak and that confirms your thoughts about it.

"We have a meeting tomorrow with Jonas, Kim, and some of the other staff at the club to discuss things--" Leah begins to explain, starting to eat her own dinner.

"I'm being sidelined?!" You interject in disbelief.

Leah shakes her head as she swallows her food before she speaks. "I didn't say that, Y/N" She states.

You can't help but scoff. "But you sort of did. I can't be sat on the bench-- I can't do it!" You try to insist. "I... I need some kind of purpose. I need a reason to get up in the morning!" You fight back the tears that threaten to spill.

You have to play. You have to be able to do that. You can't have that taken away from you.

"Bubs, let's just see what is said tomorrow. Okay?" Leah frowns and tries to take hold of your hand as you snatch it back.

"I have to be on the pitch, Leah. I can't be sidelined. I... I just can't do it" You state as you push your chair back and bolt up from the table.

"Where are you going?" Leah asks, confused.

"I need to get out. I'm going for a walk, or is that not allowed now?" You sneer as you move to walk over to the coat rack and grab one of your jackets.

"I'll come with you" Leah stands up from the table.

You huff and roll your eyes. "I don't need to be monitored. I want to be alone" You all but plead with her.

"I... I can't let you do that. You know I can't" Leah shakes her head in disagreement. "So we either go for a walk together, or we don't go at all" She states sternly.

"Guess we're both going then, wonderful" You mumble sarcastically and shove a pair of trainers on.

"It's cold out here this evening" Leah mumbles as she tries to pull her jacket more around to try and get warm, you decide to take a walk alongside the canal not too far away from the flat as you always thought clearer when you were near water.

"You didn't have to come with me" You mutter as you keep your hands shoved in your pockets.

You'd never been too much of a fan of the cold, but you just needed an escape as you felt like the walls were caving in around you being inside the flat.

"You know that I did" Leah replies quietly, exhaling a sigh.

"Oh yeah, of course, that's cos' I'm on suicide watch, right?" You can't help but joke with the blonde.

Leah tenses up at the mention of the subject that's joked about so casually as the two of you walk alongside the canal.

The blonde can't help but try and reach for your bicep to try and pull you away from being too near to the edge of the water.

"You can relax a bit Le, I'm not gonna try and off myself again" You continue to crack jokes about death like you're talking about the weather. "Although jumping into the water seems like a great idea" You add.

The blonde clicks her tongue. "I wish you wouldn't say things like that sometimes" She states in disagreement as she hesitantly looks at the water, trying to pull you back from the edge.

"It's the easier coping method" You quietly admit as you shrug your shoulders as you linger dangerously close to the edge of the water. "How deep do you think it is?" You ask, looking in the direction of the blonde.

"Come away from the water" Leah tries to pull you away from the edge again.

"Why? Afraid I'll actually jump in" You fire back as you can't help but laugh slightly. "You know I can swim, right?" You ask her.

"I know you can swim, but..." Leah looks nervous as she eyes your every move.

"But you think I'd rather try and purposely drown instead?" You wonder, already knowing her answer.

Leah shakes her head and exhales a sigh. "Y/N" She states in a knowing tone of voice that you knew all too well.

"The pressure is too much sometimes, the media... They can be ruthless" You admit quietly, looking back out to the water in front of you.

"I know" Leah replies just as quiet, waiting for you to speak again.

You tug at the sleeves of your hoodie and bite your bottom lip. "It's all too much sometimes. Sometimes I think the world is against me" You tell her, honestly.

"Bubs..." Leah starts to speak.

"Why were you and Katie fighting when I was in the hospital?" You change the subject, refusing to let your vulnerability show.

Leah exhales another sigh. "It's complicated" She says.

"Bullshit" You can't help but scoff and roll your eyes.

"Language" The blonde scolds.

"Well, why aren't you?" You repeat the question, wanting to know the answer.

"Well, adults have disagreements sometimes" Leah states, looking out to the water.

You resist the urge to roll your eyes. "C'mon Le, I'm a not naive kid-- Why're you not getting along?" You feel like you're constantly repeating yourself right now.

Leah exhales a sigh and hesitates to speak. "She just thinks that my decision was wrong, to allow the doctors to detain you in the hospital" She explains.

"I know that. You guys were literally fighting about it right in front of me" You remind her with the usual teenage cocky attitude you have.

"She thinks you should've been at home instead, with all of us watching out for you" The blonde defender continues to explain. "But Y/N... I don't know how I can keep you safe when you're at home. You joke about death so casually, I'm so scared that I am going to have to leave you alone, that when I come home, I'll find you lying dead on the floor in a pool of your own blood. At... At least this way when you were in the hospital, I knew you were safe and you couldn't hurt yourself" She confesses the truth.

The truth that leaves an eerie silence.

"I knew you were safe and you couldn't hurt yourself" Her words were like a continuous loop in your head.

Her confession hits you suddenly, leaving you feeling numb.

#woso x reader #arsenal x reader #woso #woso fanfics #leah williamson x reader #leah williamson #woso imagine #heavy angst #woso one shot #awfc x reader #arsenal x teen!reader #leah williamson x teen!reader #arsenal wfc x reader

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formulaforza · 1 year

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miss americana & the heartbreak prince

—01. all american girl —word count: 6.4k —warnings: none :) —a/n: this is queued so I'm sound asleep right now but trust when I wake... I will be throwing up about having posted this

It’s nine in the morning on Friday, and the kindergarteners at Robinson Elementary are getting picked up from the gymnasium and taken to their classroom to start their day. It’s nine in the morning on Friday, and their teacher, Chris Elliott, is running four minutes late to the first day of the U.S Grand Prix. Her fingers flatten down stray flyaways, working in tandem with the extra strength hairspray she found in the back of the Walgreens beauty aisle last night. Her makeup is strewn about in chaos atop the stark white marble countertops, a single folded piece of toilet paper in the trash can, remnants of her lipstick kissed onto the fibers.

She played it safe on the outfit today, still hasn’t been able to pinpoint exactly what the dress code for this race is supposed to be. Her Dad has been no help–he can get away with wearing jeans and a short-sleeve button-up just about anywhere he goes. More is expected from her, though. Three days, three outfits, always walking the line between casual streetwear and Kentucky Derby without a fascinator. She settled for something painfully classic and American, figured a European sport would be eating up the concept of everything being bigger in Texas. Levi’s, a white tank top, and a beat up pair of cowboy boots should do a good enough job at letting anyone curious know she’s authentically American, without screaming out for attention. That’s the goal for the weekend; blend in and keep Dad company.

Dad, who is not-so patiently tapping his foot against the floor, watching pre-race coverage of the Dixie Vodka 400 on his iPhone 7, is a guest of honor for Ferrari this weekend. It was a classic Bill Elliott commitment, one he makes and then forgets about until he’s getting sent an email a month ago to remind him. One he makes when he forgets his son is racing the same weekend. That’s how Chris ended up here with him, instead of her Mom or instead of Chase or Chandler. They’re all in Florida for the Cup Series. Well–Chandler isn’t. Chandler’s at her hot-shot job in the big city living her life blissfully away from racing.

She can count on a single hand the amount of times her dad has missed a Cup Series race in the years since his retirement. Even if he’s moved on from driving the track, racing is in Elliott blood. It comes easier to them than breathing does. Chris won’t be the first to admit it, but she's the NASCAR nepotism equivalent of a Baldwin baby. She’s no Kennedy, the first-families of NASCAR are closer to the Petty’s and the Earnhardt’s, but, you ask a NASCAR fan about the Elliott Clan and you’re sure to get an earful. Champion, Hall-of-Fame inductee father, supergenius transmission and engine mechanic uncles, and a superstar fan-favorite older brother, the Elliott family racing history spans generations of fans.

Never the Danica Patrick-type, Chris has always preferred to watch the races rather than compete in them, but she still grew up at the track and was always up for a trip to visit her dad at the auto-shop.

“Mums,” her dad says, peeking his head around the corner into the hotel bathroom. It’s a stupid nickname, Mums, Chrysanthemum. She’d roll her eyes if it was anyone but Bill still calling her by it. “We gotta go, darlin’.” Chris nods at him in the mirror, flattens her hands along her thigh and tucks one final strand of her bang behind her ear, and then they’re finally leaving the hotel for the track.

It’s a strange kind of first for Chris, in that it’s not really a first at all. She’s been to COTA before, multiple times. Hell, she watched in the garage when Chase won the inaugural Cup Series race here in May last season. She’s even been to the U.S Grand Prix before, back when it was still in Indianapolis, when Chris was too young to remember if it was big or if she was just little. She’s used to the crowds, spends almost every weekend with upwards of fifty-thousand people, but this? This is the kind of crowd she can’t fathom being among, and it’s only Friday. If it takes them an hour and a half to get through traffic on a practice day, she can only imagine what the next two mornings have in store for her.

“No antics today,” Bill tells her in the car. “They’re not like us. Trust me, I know.”

Last time you went to one of these races, you were still a driver, she wants to tell him, but doesn’t. He doesn’t take well to the implication he’s an old man. Walking into the paddock with a yellow pass hung around her neck, FERRARI-GUEST-17 and a picture of the team logo popping up on the screens at the turnstiles, she’s beyond taken back by the pomp and circumstance of it all. She’s barely through the entrance and she’s already spotted half a dozen people who could buy her without it making a dent in their pockets. It’s nothing like walking around a NASCAR track. There isn’t a single Bud Light knight or backs sunburnt into American flags or t-shirts turned muscle tanks. It’s just… rich people. Lots and lots of rich people.

In the Paddock Club tent, Bill manages to find a couple of his old buddies. Guys he raced with back in the day who’ve turned up for whatever with whoever this weekend. It’s unsurprising, stock car racing is nowhere near as exclusive a club as Formula One. They aren’t any of the guys Chris remembers being a part of her childhood, none of them pseudo-uncles in the way some other drivers were. You’re all grown up, they tell her, note her height and her features and one of them even asks if she’s in college yet. She plays along, pretends she remembers them fondly and that they haven’t been on the recipient list for the annual Elliott family Christmas newsletter for the past thirty or so years. His buddies are much more comfortable talking about Chase, anyways, about his racing and his fiancee and his little boy than they’ve ever been talking about Chris or Chandler. The concept of a quote-en-quote girl dad wasn’t such a thing in the nineties.

Chris makes small talk with one of the wives. They can’t be that far apart in age, she’s definitely of a different generation than her husband. Gross. Chris lets the woman lead the conversation; she talks about the polka dots on her skirt and Chris’ cowboy boots that are, apparently, perfectly authentic.

They separate from the group of former NASCAR drivers and their child brides within the hour. Bill has to be in Ferrari hospitality by one o’clock for a special meeting. He’s still not sure what he did to get selected for this specific group of people who get to do a hot lap with one of the Ferrari drivers, but he isn’t about to ask any questions that might get him out of it. He sets off to hospitality and Chris sneaks out of the paddock and into the rest of the track.

There’s only so much to see inside the paddock. Hospitality after hospitality after hospitality, just in different colors with different modern structures with pictures of different cars. She wants to experience the event, not just the rich people who can pay their way into the upper echelon of the pinnacle of motorsport. If she’s going to be on her own for an hour and a half, she might as well be fully and truly on her own.

She ends up in the beer garden. More specifically, the bar tent. You can’t separate a NASCAR fan from the Natty Light. The pass around her neck gets her into the VIP area of the tent, which… feels like an antithesis of itself. Her phone buzzes in her back pocket when she’s waiting on her bottle from the bartender. It’s her dad.

Brad Pitt is here. Crazy.

She makes quick acquaintances with a couple who looks about her age. She compliments the girl’s denim jacket and then she’s in. The DJ is playing country music with a techno backtrack at the other side of the tent and they all three spend a good fifteen minutes trying to decide if they love or hate the set. “It’s not the worst thing I’ve ever heard,” the guy says.

“It’s definitely not the best, though,” Chris winces, spots a Ferrari pass hanging with the VIP one around the girlfriend’s neck. “Are you guys here with Ferrari?” She asks.

“Oh, “ she says, looks down at the pass and fiddles with it for a moment. “Yeah, Will’s a golfer and they invited him for a tour and to do this golf event with ESPN.”

“Oh, that’s sick!” Chris nods. “Have you guys ever been here, or is this your first time?”

“We’ve come every year for…” Will starts, looks to his girlfriend for the rest of his sentence.

“Four years,” she nods. “What about you?”

“This is my first time,” Chris explains, leaves out the technicalities because she barely cares about them, doesn’t expect a stranger to even half-care. “My dad’s here with Ferrari, and I’m here to babysit my dad.” She laughs.

The woman nods, makes a quiet ah sound. Will asks for clarification. “You guys lose each other, or something?”

Chris nods. “Or something.”

Charles sees her before he hears her. She appears in his peripheral on the top floor of Ferrari Hospitality, moving swiftly through the groups of strangers with a confidence that makes you think she owns the place. He half-prepares to excuse himself from his current conversation–not that he’s understanding more than forty-percent of the words coming out of this guy’s mouth–to take a photo with the short brunette bee-lining it over to him.

“Excu–”

“I think I saw Brad Pitt on my way here,” she says, and the man he’s been talking to for fifteen minutes laughs. Oh, he thinks, that’s mortifying. She’s not here to intrude on his conversation and ask for a picture. She’s here with this guy.

“This is my Chris,” Bill says.

“Hi,” Chris says. Chris. Chris. Chris is a woman. A woman extending her hand, thin and well manicured with a single ruby ring, for him to shake. “Chris.”

“Charles,” he says, hesitates. “You are not what I was expecting.”

There wasn’t much he understood from Bill Elliott during their hot lap, not that Bill didn’t talk. Charles just didn’t have the focusing capabilities to drive the car in an entertaining way while also deciphering the thick southern drawl of the man sat in the passenger seat. It was thick, heavy, and sounded like maybe he’d smoked a pack a day for a few years. That, or he was straight-up making up words in a bit that only he was in on. One thing he did understand, though, was the kids’ names. I have three, he’d said, Chandler, Chase, and Chris. He’d assumed all boys. Chandler, Chase, and Christopher. Christian. Cristiano. The last thing he was expecting was a beautiful girl with a firm handshake.

“You were expecting me?” She asks, and her voice is a million times easier to understand than her father’s.

“No, no. He just,” He gestures absently to Bill. Chris doesn’t break eye contact. She has wonderful eyes. “I thought Chandler, Chase, and Chris are three brothers.”

“Oh,” She laughs like it’s not even close to the first time she’s had to follow behind her dad and correct the miscommunication, and a piece of her bangs falls loose from its tucked position behind her ear. She fixes it without thought. “Well, you’re one for three.”

She asks Bill about the hot lap, asks if he had fun and he laughs. They’re very laugh-oriented people, he’s noticed. Laughy and almost intimidatingly good at holding eye contact. He’d always heard Americans had an issue with eye contact, and if that really is the case, these two practice their active-listening skills enough for the rest of the country. Their kindness is in their expressions, soft eyes and small smiles that keep you from feeling like an intrusion on the conversation. He notes all of his findings internally, categorizes them together as if he’s spent the last ten minutes looking at anyone but her.

She’s horrendously his type. It’s painfully apparent with every passing moment. The hair and the face and the build and the smile. Just, God.

“Why didn’t you do one?” He asks, “A lap?”

“The need-for-speed bug skipped the women in my family, unfortunately.” She tucks her hair again. He wonders if she’s growing it out or if she always keeps it at such a length that it’s just too short to stay where she wants it to.

“We could go slow,” he offers and she chuckles, closing her eyes long enough to roll them without him actually seeing them roll.

“I don’t believe you.”

“It’ll be fun, I promise.” He’s never been good at flirting, always found it off-putting in the beginning, trying to walk the line between what one person finds fun and another person finds horribly uncomfortable. Once the dust settles, he can manage, but making those first few moves? He might as well be a deer in headlights. Semi-truck headlights.

“I don’t know,” she says, drags out the vowel sounds and he’s oblivious to whether or not she can tell he’s only making this offer as a chance to spend more time with her. He’ll get an earful for it, no doubt, but if she agrees it’ll be worth it. Bill chimes in, eggs her on with a guilt trip. You should do it, don’t be a party-pooper. Charles wonders if Bill can tell he’s flirting with his daughter. Probably not, he’d bet. “Okay,” she says, and his stomach does a celebratory flip. Before he can say anything more, Mia is pulling him off somewhere. He hadn’t even seen her coming, but he fills her in on the walk.

“Domani c'è un'aggiunta al programma dei giri veloci.” There’s an addition to the hot laps schedule tomorrow, he says. Mia glares at him and he pretends not to notice, flashes her a toothy-grin as an unapologetic apology.

When she’d agreed to do a hot lap with the gorgeous racing driver standing a foot away from her, she assumed it would be forgotten the moment he stepped away from the conversation. She never would have agreed to it if she actually thought it was going to happen. Chris was sorely mistaken though, when later that afternoon, a man dressed head-to-toe in Ferrari red finds her to gather her information. 1:10, he tells her through a thick Italian accent, be in hospitality at 1:10.

It was wonderful, really. Perfect, fantastic, great, legendary. This is an amazing opportunity. She isn’t going to regret agreeing to this, no chance. Even for the queen of optimism, this one is hard to put a positive spin on.

There is no underestimating just how much Chris hates going fast. She’s never liked it, spent the majority of her childhood getting carsick in a vehicle maxing out at forty miles an hour. Her sister and brother used to think she was faking it just so she could always ride shotgun. She’s not even allowed to drive the car if she’s with her dad or her brother because they can’t bear it. To her, a speed limit is just that, a limit. To everyone else, it’s a minimum.

Her only hope is that she doesn’t vomit all over an expensive supercar at 1:10 tomorrow afternoon, or worse–the cute guy driving the car.

In the meantime, she can distract herself with the Green Day performance and remind herself that only so much can happen in five minutes. Anyone can survive five minutes.

– – –

They eat the continental breakfast at the hotel the next morning. Bill has pancakes and Chris has cereal because, as she’ll tell anyone, there’s just something about cereal from a plastic container. She’s also three coffees ahead of where she was this time the day before, all of her nerves personifying themselves as desperation for caffeine. She’s responding to a work email on her phone while Bill has a call with Chase.

Somewhere on a race track in Florida, Chase is calling between practice and qualifying sessions. They talk every day during a race weekend–Bill and Chase–and it’s almost never about racing. Her dad might drop an occasional that’s not what I would’ve done or a well, that looked like fun, but that’s usually the end of race-talk. They used to fight like cats and dogs about driving when Chase was younger, so much so that Chris’ mom banned them from talking about racing inside the house for three straight years. The who of them are better now, now that Bill’s been able to let Chase find his own way and go through his own racing journey.

“Your sister is doing a Hot Lap today,” Bill says, and Chris can hear Chase’s laughter from the muffled speaker.

Bill and Chris are driven to the track on Saturday because traffic is so bad. It’s hot and windy and Chris has her window rolled down the entire drive, her fingers dancing through the dry air. She’s always loved the heat, the sun shining down on her skin, kissing her in a million different places all at the same time. She loves the heat, and the heat loves her.

The morning flies by. They start the day with a tour of the Ferrari garage, where they’re introduced, or re-introduced, to their drivers. They end up with a couple other very important people hunched over Charles’ car while he explains how much pressure needs to be applied to the brake pedal for the car to actually brake. Bill eats the semantics up, cars and their mechanics run thick in his blood, braided deeply into his DNA. Chris, however, has always enjoyed the more delicate things in life; the pink hair bows and the dollar store makeup kits and spinning herself dizzy in a flowy summer dress. She never spent exorbitant amounts of time at Dad’s engine shop or Grandpa’s Ford Dealership, it just wasn’t in her lane of interests. She sips another coffee–her fifth of the day–and listens attentively to Charles talk, bites her smile at his wild gesticulations. He’d make a good kindergarten teacher, she thinks, with his huge personality.

When the whole tour group is being shuffled out of the garage to be replaced by a new set of prying eyes, Charles makes a passing comment. See you later for the world’s slowest hot lap, he remarked, put his hand on her shoulder and gave it a soft squeeze as he moved past her.

She doesn’t know why, but she’d convinced herself that it wouldn’t actually be him she would be doing the lap with. It was qualifying day, after all. Surely, he had about a million and one better things to be doing than driving a random girl around a track a few times. She figured it would be a driver, but not one of the drivers.

After lunch, she makes her way back to Ferrari hospitality, to where she was told to be waiting at 1:10. She’s the only person who looks like they’re here on instruction. Nobody else is nervously picking at their cuticles or vibrating in place as a reaction to their seven coffees that morning.

She spent the night before grilling her dad about his experience, forcing him to give her a moment-by-moment breakdown of everything he remembered happening, from the safety briefing to the conversation afterwards. But, when it came time for Chris to actually do hers, there was no safety briefing warning her about the million different ways she could die. Instead, the same man who’d tracked her down the day before escorted her from the top floor of hospitality to the bottom, out the back into what she can best compare to an alleyway, and then to a red supercharged Ferrari.

Charles is there, talking to what appears to be a personal photographer and another man dressed in Ferrari garb. She re-introduces herself for a third time in twenty four hours. “I know your name, Chris,” Charles says, smiles and shakes her hand anyway. She doesn’t like the way her brain reacts to him saying her name like it belongs on his lips.

“Duh,” she laughs, “sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

“Right,” she nods. “Yeah, sorry.” Charles laughs out a sigh, cocks his head and smiles. Chris bites her tongue not to apologize again. It’s a reflex. She puffs out her laugh and shrugs.

If she manages to make it out of these couple laps with her life and the contents of her stomach still intact, she’s sure to still look like a clown–a fact she realizes as she pulls the tight helmet over her head. She’s worn racing helmets a handful of times, but it’s not muscle memory to her in the way it is to him. It takes her a minute to tighten the chin strap just right and despite his genuine offer to help her, Chris turns him down and blindly works her fingers under her neck until it’s just right.

“Why don’t you get a fun Hot Laps helmet?” She asks while she fights with the strap.

Charles knocks on the side of his helmet with his knuckle. “Custom fit. Safety reasons.”

Chris knows, she was just messing with him. She nods like she never could’ve guessed that was the reason. “My safety doesn’t matter?” She comments, pulls the strap tight for the final time.

“You think I’m going to crash?”

She shrugs. “Maybe.”

“I would never crash with Chris Elliott in the car.” There he goes again, saying her name all annoyingly French and nice and easy.

“Whatever,” she says, turns away so he can’t see her squished cheeks flush pink against the polyester. He opens the passenger side door for her, knocks his knuckle on her helmet this time, and horribly mocks both her words and accent before shutting the door behind her.

Chris has her seatbelt buckled before he can get around the front of the car and into his seat. Her leg bounces anxiously against the floor mat. Charles starts the car and moves to shift into drive, but stops short. “Are you scared?” he asks, and in a moment of vulnerable honesty, she nods. She’s more than scared. She’s terrified, and despite his brief attempt to reassure her that it’s going to be fun, her leg is still bouncing when they peel off from the group already awaiting his return.

A hot lap, she’d come to learn in the last day or so, would be more accurately referred to as hot laps–plural, multiple, several. Three, to be exact. One out lap, one push lap, and one cool down lap. Three laps. Hot laps. They should really start referring to it as a plural.

The best thing she can compare it to is a roller coaster. The turns share the feeling you get at the tipping point, right before your body thinks you’re free falling. Her stomach is left behind three turns back and it never really catches up to the car once they start. The straights are like that first hill, fast and crazy in a way that pulls from her lips screams she hears before she consciously chooses to release. It’s like a roller coaster, if the person sitting next to you is completely unaffected by the ride and spends the entire time trying to carry out a conversation with you between your screams and their giggles. It’s like a roller coaster, if the cart never leaves the ground.

On the cool down lap, when they’re going at a speed that allows Chris to pick up her soul when they drive through turn four, he asks her if she’s single. It comes at her from left field.

“Are you flirting with me?”

He laughs, takes a hand off the wheel and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Yes!”

“Oh,” she says softly. If he notices the surprise in her tone, he doesn’t mention it. “I am.”

“Can I get your number?” She swears that his fingers are shakier than before as they hover over the paddle shift. They were sure-footed just minutes earlier, she’s sure of it. She’s sure of it, but there’s no way it’s a genuine observation. There’s no way she’s making him nervous.

She laughs, because what on God’s green Earth is a European Formula One driver going to do with a small town American girl’s phone number?

“I’m not abandoning my dad for a hookup,” she says, and he rolls his eyes, repeats the question. “Why do you want it?”

“Because, Chris Elliott,” she wants to scrape the way he says her name out of his voice box and pin it in a scrapbook. It’s like a tick, the way it burrows into her skin. Nobody should be allowed to make her name sound like that. “You are a very beautiful girl, and when a guy sees a beautiful girl, they act like an idiot and ask for her number.”

“Oh, my God,” she giggles, shakes her head and looks out the window like it might ground her, or like it might reveal that she really is in some fever dream state and none of this is real. She’s not even in Texas, maybe. That’s how insane this whole conversation is to her.

“Too cheesy?” He asks, grimaces. She shakes her head, holds her hand out for his phone.

“Just cheesy enough.”

When they get back to where they started, someone asks Chris if she’d had a good time. She nods, flattens down the static-electricity charged flyaways on her head and tells them yes, even if she’ll be just a little bit nauseous for the rest of the day. It’s not a lie, either, she did have fun. She was scared out of her mind, but in a way that makes her happy she did it.

They pose for a photo together in front of the car, the picture snapped by the only guy with a camera around his neck, the only one besides Chris not covered head to toe in Ferrari branding. When they pose, Charles’ arm wraps around her lower back and, almost like he remembers himself in the middle of the action, his hand doesn’t close around her side. Instead, it hovers just beyond her body, open and stiff and flat. How gentlemanly. “Good luck tomorrow,” she says.

He nods his thanks, “I hope I see you around this weekend,” he adds, and then they go their separate ways. Good thing, too, because she’s still blushing over it when she gets back to her dad in the Champion’s club. Bill is too distracted by the live feed on Chase’s qualifying laps on his tiny phone screen to notice Chris’ presence, much less the coloring of her cheeks. He qualifies third and they celebrate quietly with drinks from the bar and FP3 on the big screens.

They stumble into more NASCAR old-timers while in the Champion’s Club and Chris spends the time fifth-wheeling their conversations about Chase and watching the second half of qualifying on one of the TVs.

She doesn’t really understand the format of the weekend. In theory, she understands the basics, didn’t have to read Formula One for Dummies on the plane ride over, but the intricacies of it are beyond her. In NASCAR, drivers are split into two groups and then are only given, at max, two laps to set their qualifying times. It varies depending on the track that weekend, but it always hits some of the same points. From what she can gather from the low-volume televisions mounted on every surface around her, F1 is definitely different.

They head back to the hotel directly after qualifying to ‘beat the traffic’ which is code for Chris is still nauseous and they’re both feeling a little too heat exhausted. They stop for dinner on the way back, at a barbeque place right by their hotel. Bill orders the chopped brisket with potato salad and Chris gets the pulled pork sandwich with a tomato zucchini salad.

Chris has been really busy with work, with settling into the new routine with her new group of students, and Bill wants to hear all about it. She always struggles in September and October, feels inadequate every time the other teachers find their footing with their new class weeks before she does. It’s the first time alotta ‘em have been in a school, Bill reminds her and she shrugs it off, tries to find something more upbeat to talk about.

Chris and Bill have really gotten close over the past couple years. Growing up, she and her sister Chandler were massive daddy’s girls, had him wrapped around their little fingers from the moment they came into the world. But, when Chase started to really take racing seriously, the girls lost a lot of their dad to their brother and spent the majority, if not all, of their time with their Mom. As a teenager, Chris did what all sixteen year old girls do and rebelled against any and every rule in the book. While Chandler was touring colleges and getting 1550s on her SAT and singing in the church choir, Chris had other plans. Whether it was stubbornly refusing to clean her half of the shared room with her big sister, ratting Chase out for coming home at 2am drunk, or sneaking out of the second-story window to go out with her all-too-old boyfriend, she tested all of the waters. It wasn’t until college, until she moved away to Athens and was out of the house for the first time in her life that she realized just how important family was to her. She’s been attempting to make up for lost time since.

That night when she plugs her phone into the charger and shuts it off for the night, she realizes she’d been half expecting a late night text from Charles. It didn’t come, and disappointed isn’t the right word for the tiny little pit in her stomach because she wasn’t really expecting anything to come from typing her number into his contacts. It’s not disappointment, it’s something closer to acceptance or rejection, maybe. It’s not like he would’ve been searching out anything but a hookup, anyways, and Chris made it perfectly clear that she wasn’t into that idea.

She would never hear from him again, and that’s how it should be. The whole interaction turning into anything but a story she can tell in a couple months when she’s drunk would be entirely too complicated of an outcome.

She doesn’t let herself think about it any longer, leaves her phone face down on the side table and tucks herself into bed.

– – –

Traffic on race day is true-crime inducing. They’re driven, again, escorted and still spend an hour and a half in the backseat of an SUV. Bill and Chris watch from the VIP stands and Chris has never seen anything like this, especially not at COTA. Even Talladega and Daytona barely hold a candle to this spectacle.

If she has one critique, it’s that F1 should really hire some B-List at best celebrity to scream drivers, start your engines! At the start of the race like they do in NASCAR. It would really add some flare, she thinks.

She and Bill share Chris’ airpods, one in each of their ears listening to the NASCAR broadcast. Charles starts twelfth, for whatever reason. She can’t be bothered to look into it, knows it’ll probably be a penalty she doesn’t understand and she’ll be tumbling down a rabbit hole before she knows what’s happened to her.

While it’s not Chase’s best race–he finishes fourteenth with a single sigh from Bill–Charles puts on a show, fights his tires all the way up into third.

They watch the podium celebrations on the TV screens and nobody looks happy to be up there. They look miserable, almost, and she understands it to an extent. It’s hard to have energy after a race, she’s witnessed it first hand more times than she can count. It’s hard, especially at the end of the season. Burn-out is real, but still. They look bored. She didn’t know spraying champagne could look so tired.

Bill grumpily flies them home to Georgia late Sunday night. He’d wanted to wait until Monday morning, after all the billionaires and their super-jets take off right after the race, but Chris refused to miss another day of work this early in the school year, not when she was already going to be missing time in December for her brother’s wedding.

Bill’s been flying planes since before any of his kids were born. His most recent purchase is a Cessna Conquest II that he uses to fly the family around for short distances. In another gene that skipped the females in the family, Chandler, Chris, and their mom all prefer to be passengers. Chase, however, followed in Dad’s footsteps once more in becoming an avid aviation fan.

By the time they take off, any thought Chris had of getting a text from Charles has faded far into obscurity. He’d probably gotten dozens of numbers from girls this weekend. He was probably at a club somewhere right now still pulling women. Women more his type, probably. He seems like he’d be more into the refined type, the girls without the ‘cheap’ accents who were all worldly and spoke seventeen languages fluently and had long legs that carried them down runways across Europe every other weekend.

Little southern girls get texts from little southern boys, that’s how it goes. That's how it’s always gone, and Chris is beyond naive to think anything different for even a moment.

She grades papers on the flight home. Purple pen, because she thinks that color is fun and red is too cruel to grade with. Puffy stickers for everyone, even the kids who aren’t anywhere near the right track because she doesn’t want anyone to feel less than just because they struggle a bit more. Chris has always been a firm believer that the student is never the problem. If someone isn’t learning what she’s teaching, she needs to adjust the way she teaches it to cater to their learning style.

It’s her job to teach them, not their job to learn.

Joris has been laughing at Charles from the hotel room armchair for fifteen minutes now, beyond entertained by his best friend’s restless pacing, providing absolutely zero aid to his current predicament. This act has been going on for some time now. Charles, pacing for five minutes before pulling out his phone and typing up an opening message to Chris. Each time, he starts to read it out to Joris and then stops himself short, deletes it, and paces for five more minutes.

Hey, Chris. This is Ch–no, that’s stupid.

Sorry it took me a minute to text–absolutely not.

What’s up? It’s Charles, how–someone should just stop him from speaking to women all together.

There’s half a dozen renditions before Joris breaks. “Mate? What is your problem?” He finally asks. “It’s just a girl.”

“I know,” Charles sighs, “I know.”

“Then why can’t you send her a text?”

“Because.” He doesn’t really know why he can’t land on a message, why everything he types sounds entirely too casual or formal or nothing at all like what he would say to another human being. This isn’t a problem that he’s used to having. It’s the in-person flirting that fucks him up, not the texts and DMs and comments. She was just… he doesn’t know what she was. She was just. End of sentence.

It’s no help that he doesn’t know American texting culture, unfamiliar with how long he’s supposed to wait to send a message or what he’s supposed to say in the opening text.

“Here,” Joris says, holds his hand out for the phone. “I’ve got the perfect text.”

“Don’t send it,” Charles warns, but passes the phone to his friend.

“I… won’t,” Joris says slowly, struggling to multi-task. He doesn’t type for more than a few seconds and then hands the phone back to Charles, with the message already sent. Charles’ look of sheer panic is met with a smile and a chef’s kiss from Joris.

She turns her phone off while Bill is shutting the plane engine down in the hangar. Because of his love of aviation, Bill had bought some land out in the woods a couple decades ago and turned it into the family’s private airstrip for their planes. Elliott Field, they coined it, stored all their extra vehicles out on the property. She slips it into her back pocket as her and Bill disembark and lock up the place, and the entire time she can feel it vibrating, the notifications from the hour and a half flight catching up now that she’s on the ground again.

It’s not until she’s in her car that she checks them, pulls her phone out to plug it into the aux and play some music for the drive back to her house. Right at the top of the dozens of notifications is a message from an unknown number with an unfamiliar area code.

[one unread message] the notification reads. She unlocks her phone to check the message.

She closes the messages app on her phone and opens up Spotify, shuffles her favorite playlist. She doesn’t reply to his text, doesn’t know if she wants to or even what she might say back. She’s sleepy, more than ready for bed after a long weekend in the sun, excited to be back with her students bright and early tomorrow morning.

The text from the cute race car driver can wait for another day. An issue for tomorrow, maybe.

masterlist next chapter>

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obae-me · 20 days

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Hello, and welcome to another installment of niche content containing another mash of my two special interests. Written out of boredom at the airport. Today's edition, fueled with my excitement of being able to go to none other than Miku Expo 2024, I give:

The Brothers As My Favorite Vocaloid Songs!

Yes, I know, please, quell your excitement. I know everyone was waiting for this one. I will take no criticisms or judgments, only enthusiastic additions.

Warning: While nothing stated in this post needs a full content warning, if anyone decides to look up these songs, many songs themselves have plenty of individual warnings, so please search with caution.

Lucifer:

Now, the song I think he'd actually enjoy listening to is Daughter of Evil. It's got tragedy behind it, the song is a bit more classical/waltzy, exactly the kind of thing he likes. However based off his vibes alone, I'm gonna say Honey I'm Home. Mostly because I love Ghost and Pals but also because religious trauma. And I know other people agree with me because I've seen fanart of it.

Mammon:

I think Mammon would listen to Sand Planet. Oo, or Bring it On. Do I have a detailed explanation as to why? Not really in so many words, but it just seems like something he'd listen to, I feel it in my bones. I will not be taking any questions. Now the song I think he embodies? Wildcard. I mean, the whole motif is about playing cards, it's upbeat and fast paced and I love it and I love Kasane Teto even more.

Levi:

I will physically fight anyone who doesn't think Levi listens to Rolling Girl at least once a day (I won't actually fight anyone but I feel very strongly on this matter). It helps him get through hard times but it also makes him cry. Which...same, Levi, same. But if Leviathan were to be a song itself, I'd have to pass it over to Volt Tackle by Deco*27. Pokémon, talking about fighting and struggling at first to capture someone's love? Oo, or Digital Girl. It's got him written all over it. (Or if I want to be sad, give him Anthropophobia)

Satan:

See, Satan is hard because I never know if I envision him listening to heavy metal or if he prefers soft melodies. And, I mean, I know he can like more than one genre at once, but picking THE song I think he'd listen to is hard... but if I'm going off of what I like as well as gut instinct... Abstract Nonsense. Now, selected off his character, I'd have to pick Hikari Yo. It's just very emotional and desperate and the poor demon boi is like that on the inside quite a lot. WAIT or Pathalogical Facade! Oo, lots of options for Good Ol Satan.

Asmo:

Easy, he'd love Gimmie×Gimmie and I don't think I need any further explanation on this opinion. I actually think Asmo would unironically like a lot of vocaloid songs, personally. And as for his songification, I handpick Aishite, Aishite, Aishite. And I know there's a lot of different people's interpretations to this song and everything and people get very... I guess territorial when it comes to this song (at least from specific corners I've seen) but it makes sense to me. It's a really popular song and it's hauntingly beautiful and it's about wanting to be loved and adored and this is MY post so I can say whatever I want about it.

Beel:

Beel is another one that's hard for me to pin down... I think his music taste (joke not intended) is rather eclectic. He probably actually has no real preference other than more upbeat songs to make it easier to work out to. In which case I get to pick whatever I wish. For him I would make him listen to Happy Halloween. I don't care what time of year it is, it's cute and upbeat and about getting treats and it's one of my favorite songs ever. Now one to embody him?... Goodness that's even harder. I would love to say Appetite of a People Pleaser, but Beel's not a people pleaser... I actually don't know! Maybe I am a sham of a fan. I am open to suggestions for my baby Beel.

Belphie:

You know I have to pick Tokyo Teddy Bear. This mans is too edgy not to listen to it all too often. Plus, it's a classic. And, you know I have to make this all even sadder by giving him the song Error. Because I like to make myself cry. And Belphie needs a good cry, let's be honest with ourselves.

I'm also going to add the Distortanist as an honorable mention for unhinged Lesson 16 Belphie.

#legitimately so worried about posting this for some reason #oh my god #but im gonna do it anyway #obey me #obey me shall we date #obey me nightbringer #obey me headcanons

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sleepynegress · 6 months

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So, I'm Watching Dollar Tree The Gilded Age: The Buccaneers (I apologize that this is a long one folks because of ADHD Romantic Period Drama w/ ~Color~ tangents)...

Okay... So, I have to preface this by admitting that Bridgerton never has been my great big thing. It's a cake sculpted from cotton candy.

Pretty and sweet, but not much substance. And very much leaning on the "fantasy" so everyone can enjoy the costume romance fun (but it does please me to see my marginalized players, playing well...). -Using an author's works as a base, who not only started with an all-white palette but was flippant and insulting in response to the idea of inclusion... And yet...

I'm just saying, it is something that the woman who walked away from ABC because an exec didn't respect her enough to get a Disney pass for her family, went on to make that lucrative author's uplift deal with, instead of say, Beverly Jenkins. I love underdog romances that aren't the typical het white bread. Give me the canon gays (I never got slash...but I love when it's canon, especially with color), the big girls, the dark brown skin girls, the Black couples, and the interracials, especially when both are BIPOC and there's no lag in charm/looks in the lighter half in some expertly lit, dressed, confection that makes everyone look as gorgeous as they actually are and there's all kinds of soft plotting and chemistry. Bridgerton for all its lazy ways of handling color, gave that. Everybody is hot. And the people that studios have typically just pretended either weren't "invented" yet or were all living horrible tortured lives of enslavement got to get the sweet costumed wooing, will-they-won't-they, ~romance~ treatment. But... being an obscure Black history nerd... I'm neurodivergent, so I have some deep-dive GEMS that I'll mention here that I NEED TO SEE DONE WELL, before I die. FYI I called Dido Elizabeth Belle a good 8 years before that was actually made. It is frustrating to see some of the ACTUAL interesting capacities in which some actual existing Black folks in history who did live interesting, not tragic lives, not given the big glossy budget, well-written renderings they deserve... In lieu of what has now, firmly taken hold as a trend, colorblind casting in known white works. See recent adaptations of David Copperfield, Persuasion, Tom Jones, & Great Expectations,

and now, this The Buccaneers (which like I said, is Dollar Tree, and *worse* the colorblind cast sister Conchita is using her regular-eggular Cali accent and...is not a compelling actress & her man is a jar of mayo) and baby...them costumes are Reign-levels of anachronistic/bad. It's the lazy jump onto the trend Shonda exploded, and Mr. Malcolm's List started (yeah, that short film was put on YouTube a full year before Bridgerton debuted). So, my point... Instead of *just* doing colorblind casting in old classic white period works... I need to see these ACTUAL GREAT stories of and/or written by or about the colorful people who lived in those societies. And this is where it could get long... but I'll do my best to keep it short... EXAMPLES that were gotten right and those *I need to see adapted*: ____

Interview With The Vampire is inclusive color-AWARE casting... The showrunner went beyond and actually rewrote the narrative to make sure the inclusion wasn't lazily done, but actually improved the depth of the source IMO. And I believe the showrunner is a queer white man. It just takes empathy and effort.

Passing... is a moody slow-burn horror based upon an actual work written by a Black woman in that period, and adapted by a white-passing WOC who not only lived the theme, but rendered it expertly.

Belle is often pointed to as a good example, but my nerd-ass knows Gugu's beyond AMAZING handling of the material elevated it.

Too much was changed from the reality of her life (IMO), still...Most period dramas are about as "true" and yall know I was not a fan of Sam Reid's over-dramatic ass in this... (yelling in that damn carriage for what?!) but he is PERFECT in IWTV. Sanditon being made, despite the typical side-character Black character issues...really was a reset because Miss Austen had already envisioned, in her day and above her class(!) a Black heiress as a character getting the Austen treatment, w/o any modifications the salty and ignorant would prefer to think is beyond "true history". ----- I have a little hopeful part in my brain that wishes it had the power to will capable adaptions of the lives of Carlotta Stewart Lai - middle-class educated Black woman who became a teacher & lived an "Anne of Green Gables" type of Edwardian life (more interesting really) surfing, having "bathing parties," and teaching Hawaiians with her Black family, Portuguese, Hawaiian and Chinese friends on the big island... Her life was w/o the stereotypes people assume all Black Americans lived in Victorian/Edwardian "America".

Gustav Badin, a Black man who was "Chessmaster" of the Swedish Royal Court in the 1700's...was in charge of the Royal family's secrets after the Queen's passing, really gives me intelligent queer Black man energy in his portrait and lived out a non-tragic life in a VERY white space many don't know we occupied.

And The Hunters... Who already have a short film and I've posted about it here... but I would LOVE to see an actual rendering of their lives in the Klondike, with their gold and silver prospects and son grandson Buster and daughter Teslin in Edwardian Canada.

(that is Teslin at the highest point in the photo, named after the lake she was born at)

(and the Hunters' grandson Buster ice-fishing)

All this to say... Now, that I've thoroughly veered away from my review of a middling show... I WISH THESE DAMN SHOWRUNNERS used a little effort in research and imagination and gave us more "true to life" renderings of Black life (and life of color, in these romanticized spaces) that isn't tragic nor the patronizin inclusive "fantasy"... That feels like it's smirking at me while saying "we know you weren't ~really~ here, but here! have a cookie!!" These people existed.

You don't have to *just* make inclusive versions of white works with the lie that you have to do that because thee above people ~didn't exist~. Nor do you have to be lazy when you do!! (see: IWTV) Right now, for me... It feels like for the most part we're in a period of very shallow "advancement" in period rep. And I'm saying if little old me can find the actual stories that could make AMAZING true history-based media. Why can't the more powerful people do the same?? P.S.

You already know I'm fresh off being mad about that shitty Bass Reeves show...but I'm even madder because I can't even say, "just make sure its made by Black people," because Jeymes Samuel (AKA Bullitts) gave us skinny biracial StageCoach Mary!!!

---NO!! I will never stop being mad about it!!

DO BETTER!! Have the empathy and care for the material, regardless, and don't rest on "I know what I'm doing because I'm Black" That male gaze won out over truth in The Harder They Fall *smh*

P.P.S I get the feeling the lazy adaptions are about cash-grabbing, what they see as a trend, and being all the ready to jump back into the whitewashed business as usual, that ain't true to *all* actual histories nor (as Austen proved) fictions of those eras or spaces.

P.P.P.S. On The Glided Age!! I do love that the Fellowes drama has Erica Armstrong Dunbar (known for her book and research on Ona Judge -another figure whose story needs to be adapted!!!- the Black woman who successfully escaped enslavement from George Washington's household and was doggedly pursued by him throughout her life) and Salli Richardson-Whitfield as producers... so, Denee Benton's Peggy is authentic... but as much as I like The Gilded Age, I want to combine Fellowes comfort drama... with a CENTRALIZED Black character... Why can't someone do all of it correctly?? WHY??!!!

#I am so sorry...#I may have to attempt to do a video essay on youtube to truly cover what I want to fully say in this..I #blah blah #meta #the buccaneers #the gilded age #bridgerton #black history #marginalized folks in period dramas in comfort period drama is what I want #and done WELL!!#give me sarah forbes bonnetta's life

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tfyoulookingatgiuxs · 7 months

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Hello! I’ve read a bit of your stuff and really like it. Could you do a cute secret relationship story with Billy Hargrove x fem reader pls.

Thank you!

• Hmm...why not? It would be interesting. Worth a try! (I'm not a big fan of Billy but I'm happy to be able to satisfy your requests).

Together Forever

Billy Hargrove x Reader

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: You and Billy have been engaged for more than two years in secret, without the knowledge of the citizens of Hawkins but also without the knowledge of the boy's father. You both want only one thing, to live together. And staying in Hawkins is not part of your plans.

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: Fluff, fem!reader, bad language, use of Y/N, you're surname is Williams, daddy issues, abuse, sigarettes, secret relationship.

𝐀/𝐍: Here it is! This is the first request, I really hope I exceeded @unamused-boss expectations Sorry for my English, this is not my native language. Please support new writers and reblog. Hope you enjoy! (DIVIDER NOT MINE)

In Hawkins the air was cold and this week the forecast said it would bring down the flood. You savored the air which made you smile. You never hated rain or gloomy weather, in fact you found them relaxing and perfect for drinking a nice cup of milk or hot chocolate, as if you were back in winter close to the Christmas period.

You moved some leaves as you crept further towards the house, a classic house and welcoming and tidy on the outside. You were in the garden, but hey, let's calm down, you're not going to rob! But you are looking for the window to the room of Billy Hargrove, your boyfriend. Yes exactly. You Y/N Williams, an ordinary student at Hawkins High, engaged to the big and strong Billy Hargrove! You didn't believe it either, to tell the truth. You were not popular, much less well-regarded by most of your classmates, you were silent and perhaps even mysterious, you were good at school, sure, but you had a temper that perhaps half the students at school envied, and that is precisely what triggered a connection in you and Billy the day you met.

In his eyes you were normal, nothing that Billy cared about, you were just like all the other girls, but he changed his mind as soon as you won a verbal battle with him, leaving him breathless. No one dared to challenge him and especially with such confidence, but you, you were the first girl to do so, and it left the students shocked for at least two weeks. You seemed like sworn enemies, after that spat neither of you tried to annoy the other so as not to start a war, but in reality you realized that in the end you weren't that far apart, in fact you could even say they were quite similar.

You remembered when you and Billy attended Mrs. Davis's classes, which were really boring. The boy wouldn't stop giving you glances and giggling every now and then, only to both get scolded and sent to the principal. The students were tired of this, you were seriously cat and dog! Unbearable! But what people didn't know was that both of you weren't teasing each other to cause anger or annoyance to the other, but it was totally the opposite, they were pure and true digs. At first you didn't notice, you thought it was normal, something for friends. But apparently this was not the case. From secret friends you have become secret lovers.

Wow...

You seriously didn't expect this...you had to be honest about this. After you both got together you saw a side of Billy you never thought you'd seen. From the obnoxious, arrogant, vulgar and popular boy he was, he had finally revealed himself: kind, loving, difficult and sweet.

In short, never judge a book by its cover, right? The same thing apparently goes for people.

But now you're wondering... why in secret? Why were you two secret friends and now secretly engaged?

This was because Billy had a great reputation at school and was afraid of being criticized by others. You felt very sorry for him and you understood it. In Hawkins High, gossip is the fruit of its existence and if there wasn't anyone to criticize or make fun of, what would the students of this fucking school do? Exact. Just nothing. This is why you understood that your school was perhaps the shittiest of all. They would torment not only Billy but you too. You showed such confidence and superiority towards Billy that day and now you are friends? In short, something that cannot be heard!

You have therefore decided to keep the matter in secret so as to be left alone.

As for the relationship, well, both of you were actually ready to no longer hide and face those dick faces, but you immediately backed out when you found out that Billy's father strictly forbade going out with you and doing anything. something more productive in his life. The boy had never told you about his family until that point and when he told you about his father you were horrified by it. His father was a violent and aggressive man, he hurt him while demanding respect from his son who he threatened or even beat if he disobeyed, a father that no one would like to have...

The night you and Billy got ready to go out on a date, he called you and canceled without telling you why. Then when you met and talked about it you became calm again and consoled him. Billy vented and it hurt, you couldn't know what it meant to live in that hell. For your boyfriend, however, it was fine, especially when he met you, for him you were an angel, one of the most beautiful and sweetest girls he had ever seen, for him, you were a divine salvation from his torment, and if he had to suffer all this to stay with you then he would have tolerated it.

Seriously, this guy turned out to be more amazing than you thought.

For his father you were just an adventure, a simple whore with whom Billy would be satisfied and therefore he ordered him to leave you alone and look for something to earn, since Billy recently left school.

In short...a beautiful but complicated relationship.

You arrived in front of his closed window and as soon as you saw his figure from behind while he was lifting some weights through the glass, you knocked and he turned around. He smiled at you showing his docile face and opened the door for you. Most of the time it was you who barged into his room to visit him, unlike him, other than part-time work, you had nothing to do.

“My bad girl barges into my room again, I should start worrying” He said teasingly as he helped you up. You smiled "Nah, you don't need it, I'm used to it by now" you both gave each other a kiss on the lips as a greeting. That afternoon, all members of Billy's family were out: Max was with his friends, Susan was shopping and his father was at work.

"How are you?" You asked as you eyed his weights. It was now a legitimate question to ask every time you saw him training. An outside observer might think he did it to maintain his beautiful physique, true. But he also does it to let off steam...Billy does nothing but lift weights to vent an enormous anger that he is holding back. He smiled sweetly at you "Good darling, don't worry. Training doesn't hurt me" with this the boy winked at you and moved a lock of hair from his face and then placed his palm on your cheek "And what about you? How is my girl?" He smiled one of his own and you couldn't help but giggle, he loved teasing you with these silly nicknames and you couldn't help but blush and flatter yourself.

"Very good, today I received my pay at work and I got an excellent grade in biology!" You said as you ran a hand down his chest. "But didn't you hate biology?" He said as he invited you to sit on his bed. His room was tidier than you remembered it from two years ago. Billy was messy, and let's say he put his things in plain sight, thank goodness that since he got engaged to you he started hiding inappropriate things to make you feel at ease.

You sat on his bed with your back against the beige wall of his room, he stood next to you.

"Yes, it's true, but I wanted to improve myself, I have to be good in all subjects to improve my future" You said taking his hand "Aren't you tired of all that studying?" Billy said taking a cigarette and placing it between his thin lips "To be honest yes, I really fucking can't stand the thought of opening another literature book or something" You laughed at the idea. Despite being a studious girl, you have never loved studying. So many things, so many poems, so many equations and bullshit like that, in short, enough! Too much! "But, you know, I'm doing it to do better in the future, so I'll have more job opportunities" Billy let out smoke from his mouth and you smelled the smell of tobacco in your nostrils "What would you like to do in the future? In short, it seems that you already know what you want to do with your life, sweet girl" he said looking at a fixed point "Actually, no, I don't know, there are many things and I couldn't decide" He seemed surprised by your answer but then it took him a while to answer you.

"Well there aren't many things you can find here in this shitty town, God, I wish I could get out of here" He finally said almost whispering as more smoke spread into the room. This statement of his made you think...

You never really thought about staying in Hawkins, the city, as welcoming as it was, was also a bad place that you really wanted to escape from, you don't like the people, much less the mayor who runs it. Thinking of wanting to move to have other opportunities and change your life seemed like an impossible dream. You looked at Billy and you looked at him "I share your thoughts, if it were up to me I would leave here too, maybe to New York, or I don't know, to Boston, there are many places outside of here where I would like to spend my life. Instead you Billy, where would you go?" He looked back at his fixed point in front of him. He remained silent for a while and then answered you with a smile "California...I would like to go back there" he said it with a note of sadness and your heart melted. You knew how much he wanted to return to California, after all it was one of the most beautiful places for him, because of his precious memories with his mother.

“Maybe then we would go together…” You said resting your head on his shoulder feeling his sweaty skin “Together?” He seemed paralyzed by your proposal and you nodded “That's impossible darling…” he gave a light chuckle but his tone didn't seem joking, it was as if he wished that proposal had come true. "Why do you think it's impossible?" He shook your hand as he placed his cigarette in the nearby ashtray "Because that's how it is. Look at us, I work as a lifeguard and earn little anyway, you on the other hand are still studying, moreover my father wouldn't allow me to go back to California, he says that he hates it and that neither Max nor I should go back, and also because he wouldn't approve of me going with you" True. He wasn't wrong and this made you stay silent for several minutes thinking about how to find a solution.

You knew it was absurd, in short, Billy was now an adult, if he wanted to leave and move somewhere else it wasn't his father's business, but by now the man seemed to have taken control of his life too and this had taken you by surprise. . The father wanted Billy, like Max, to stay close to them so as not to worry Susan, who unlike the man was worried about the two and certainly knowing that one of the two was too far away worried her, so much so that she asked her husband to order both him and Max to stay in Hawkins in the future. But that didn't mean you would have given up.

"You know, in California there are many chances of finding a job and someone like yours earns well there. Then if I managed to graduate here I could very well walk away with the money I earn from part-time work" He smiled "You planned the your life plan?" You looked at him with a grin "our life plan, you are part of my life, Billy" she immediately smiled so much that he blushed but shook his head "No. With me your future will only be turbulent and then as I said before, it's impossible"

"Nothing is impossible Billy. Together if we want we can do it, obviously if you want to do it" you raised your head and he took a deep breath and kissed you. You laughed in the sweet kiss "Of course I want" You smiled again "Only, my father worries me"

“Don't worry about him, I actually already have an idea for this” you smirked evilly as you stroked his golden locks. Billy looked at you for a while to then understand what was going on in your little head "My smart girl" He said as he approached hungry for another kiss, you laughed "Have I always been or am I wrong?" You both gave each other more kisses.

Exactly two more years passed. It was a rainy night. Midnight. The streets of Hawkins were deserted as the rain got heavier and heavier. A wonderful night, especially for the two of you. You had recently graduated and had saved money, and Billy had done the same thing with the little he earned.

You headed towards the boy's window only to see him land on the ground and take out his bags trying to make as little noise as possible. You on the other hand, had brought yours too and helped Billy by trying not to get him and his bags wet thanks to your umbrella. You gave each other a kiss while the adrenaline was rising. It was the big day and you were as anxious as you were excited. You both headed to the boy's car putting down your bags and stuff and got into the car.

“Are you sure Y/N?” He said holding the steering wheel tightly, you nodded "Yes, remember that together we can do it" you reassured him and he nodded happily. He seemed reborn, new and fresh, a different person. He was about to leave that old life full of suffering to start a new one with the love of his life, you and for you he would also trigger his father's wrath. In the meantime you took a cigarette and started lighting it with the lighter "Ok, together forever, darling" he told you and then put on his sunglasses, you laughed since the sun wasn't out, but he was ready to leave and to adjust to the place “California, we are coming” You said in a confident tone as smoke spread through the car.

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