A Top Gear AU in which Remus is a disaster from the off, Sirius unravels at the seams, James grows a frontal lobe, and Lily has a secret. Throughout, there will be cars, catastrophes, and caravan conkers. And in the end, maybe- just maybe- they'll find something worth all of this bollocks.
x Spotify playlist here
Asterisms - 11k, 3/3, Complete
Sirius is a geologist at the Natural History Museum in London, and one day in late December, a boy called Teddy loses his toy in the dinosaur exhibit.
formula 1 rpf (lestappen):
a study in respiration - 7k, 1/1, Complete
Sometimes you find your breath in someone else’s lungs, someone else’s mouth. As if, for the entire time you have been on Earth together you have harboured the same air, the same fire.
You are each the shoaling sand, the spaces between grains, the tarmac below, a turn well met. You are each the victory.
older fics below the cut:
one day I might return to destiel; we'll see where the brainrot goes.
“Hold there, this is good. Tighten Camera Two on the Tweedles. Switch between wide on One, Frank.”
Mutilated by Remus’s child army, gluey glitter is smeared across the Astra’s cracked windscreen, dazzling in the winter sun. Spaghetti drips from wing mirrors like carrion, and one of said mirrors has been pulled out, as if from the root. The doors and their handles are choked with a mix of white flour and soggy egg and green slime, clumps of shell rolling down the side. Rising out of the sunroof is Remus, waving neatly with his wrists like the old Queen.
Behind the car trails a swarm of schoolchildren, uniforms besmirched by indiscriminate foodstuffs, and arranged like they’ve just left the island from Lord of the Flies. Some have streaks of green over their cheeks like camouflage. Two of the tallest pupils hold the windscreen wipers like spears— and a couple others skip, banging empty glitter tubs with wooden spoons.
Baking in the surprisingly strong early winter sunlight and the radiated heat from the runway tarmac, it reeks.
Sirius, shaking his hair out of his face to compose himself, all-too-aware of being filmed, slow claps, impressed. “Professor Lupin,” he smirks.
Marauders/ Wolfstar Top Gear AU in which Remus is a disaster from the off, Sirius unravels at the seams, James grows a frontal lobe, and Lily has a secret. Throughout, there will be cars, catastrophes, and caravan conkers. And in the end, maybe- just maybe- they'll find something worth all of this bollocks.
oh man i love a rainy bank holiday. bacon roll inbound, fresh flat white, just a day of writing and editing ahead. bonus points for miami gp at the very hospitable time of 6pm with max back on the front row again.....
the next chapter of full throttle is now fully written which means I am now entering Editing Hell, which will (mild spoiler) probably be easier for me to endure than the nine circles of torment i put sirius through in these c15k words
as it's been so long since I last posted i wanted to share a little snippet below! much love. it's coming soon xx
It had all been going so well, Sirius thinks.
Debbie, his stern-faced instructor, checks the various straps constricting his torso and thighs with a terse, military precision.
So well. My whole life, really. Up until, oh, maybe about three hours ago?
James, beside him, wears a manic, fixed grin. His familiar glasses sit underneath his goggles, making him six-eyed. Sirius could make that joke — doesn’t. Prongs adjusts them with a gloved fist and wiggle of his nose. Neither action does anything to clear the faint fog tickling the edges, misting his view.
“Don’t worry, that’ll disappear in the air,” Debbie tells him after pulling Sirius’s chest strap tight enough to force breath from his lungs. “There. No looser.”
“Feels like a corset,” Sirius mutters to the camera pointed in his face. Pauline gives him a pitying grimace from behind it, also done up in gear. “Not the sexy kind.”
“There’s no unsexy kind of corset,” James jokes.
“Children in Need,” Pauline reminds him tersely, as a runner adjusts Sirius’s lavalier microphone and audio pack. Someone prods at his helmet-mounted GoPro, double checking against a laptop.
“We’re not live yet, though?” James says, jumping a little from foot to foot in his big boots and eyeing where the camera would normally flash red.
“Not til you hit the big one-mill,” she confirms.
“We might not hit a million,” Sirius says.
“We will hit a million,” James affirms, nodding solemnly. He pats Party Moons 2, strapped to his stomach. He — It has had its lower legs chopped off, and its joyful raised arm folded. The stiff cardboard has been concertina-d in order to fit behind the straps lacing across Jamie’s front. It is an unwitting, insentient accomplice in their huge, enormous, monumental idiocy.
Sirius can’t look it in the eye, for a few reasons.
The plane, a Cessna 208 Caravan, wheels along the tarmac of the Surrey aerodrome behind them. The breeze plays with James’s dark hair, and he nods at Debbie diligently, rattling off the final safety checks. Sirius isn’t paying nearly as much attention as he should be.
He just keeps thinking of how good he almost had it.
