Danica, she/her, constant procrastinator and writer of long titles a writing and thirsting sideblog. please do not interact with unless you are 18+. follows & replies back from @slvrarrws tracked tags #slvrarrwswrites & #slvrarrws
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The stories on this blog feature real life individuals, but are works of fiction. While the stories may reference actual events, as a whole my writing should not be taken as fact or as an accurate record of the lives of the people I write about.
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Oneshots
Everything is Fine (It's Not Fine)
Rating: Mature
Fandom: Formula 1
Individuals: Mick Schumacher, Sebastian Vettel, Fernando Alonso, Lewis Hamilton
Ship(s): Mick Schumacher/Sebastian Vettel, mentioned Mick Schumacher/Fernando Alonso, Sebastian Vettel/Lewis Hamilton
Words: 7,708
Summary: Inspired by @kritischetheologie‘s There's No Need To Show Me Round, Baby (I Feel Like I've Been Here Before) a prompt fill for Round 1 of the F1 Kink Meme.
Trigger Warnings: mentions of a panic attack, potential suicidal thoughts. please read the full warning at the beginning of the fic
We Said Friends Forever, But I Made Myself a Stranger
Rating: Teen
Fandom: Formula 1
Individuals: Pierre Gasly, Charles Leclerc, Christian Horner, Max Verstappen
Tags: alternate universe, angst, self-doubt/imposter syndrome, working too hard to escape your problems and as a form of self-punishment, somewhat self-destructive behavior, depression probably, 2019 F1 Season, 2020 F1 season, Piarles if you squint, mentions of covid quarantine
Word Count: 11.6k
Playlist: Spotify
Summary: Pierre and Charles have been best friends for almost as long as either of them can remember, but as time goes on, Pierre feels them slipping further and further apart as Charles’ stars continue to rise as his own remains the same.
Notes: This fic very loosely follows the early part of Charles' time with Ferrari but instead of being a Toro Rosso and Red Bull driver, Pierre is a sim and reserve driver for RBR.
At the end, there’s mentions of covid as it pertains to the 2020 season (delay to the start of the season, quarantine, mask wearing, no fans at races etc.), so just a heads up!
Read on Ao3 Instead
Learning to Lose is Different Than Learning to Let Go
Rating: Everyone
Fandom: Formula 1
Individuals: Sebastian Vettel, Daniel Ricciardo
Tags: 2022 season, hurt/comfort, fluff, retirement talks, my way of coping with silly season this year, fuck McLaren for the Daniel situation
Word Count: 4.3k
Playlist: it’s time to go by Taylor Swift
Summary: The call came in just before midnight when Sebastian should have been asleep, but was lying awake in bed, body too exhausted from the weekend to be productive, but mind racing so fast it made him restless, the mess of sheets tangled around his legs due to the many times he’d rolled over, trying to find a spot comfortable enough that sleep might find him. The number was one that he’d had saved into his phone years ago, but not one that he used often, the name usually only coming up in the one group chat they shared, used only for GPDA business. He wouldn’t consider the two of them particularly close despite the one season they’d shared as teammates, but they’d always gotten along and Sebastian appreciated what he brought to the sport both on and off track.
Ao3 Link
Christmas on the St. Helena
Rating: Everyone
Fandom: Extreme E
Individuals: Molly Taylor, Johan Kristoffersson. Mentioned: Nico Rosberg
Ship(s): can be read as Molly/Johan if you want it to be
Warnings: n/a
Tags: fluff, drabble
Word Count: 1,806
Summary: The Inaugural Season of Extreme E is over and the Rosberg X Racing drivers are heading their separate ways for the holidays.
Ao3 LinkRating: Mature
Fandom: Formula 1
Words: 7,708
Individuals: Mick Schumacher, Sebastian Vettel, Fernando Alonso, Lewis Hamilton
Ship(s): Mick Schumacher/Sebastian Vettel, mentioned Mick Schumacher/Fernando Alonso, Sebastian Vettel/Lewis Hamilton
Summary: Inspired by @kritischetheologie‘s There's No Need To Show Me Round, Baby (I Feel Like I've Been Here Before) a prompt fill for Round 1 of the F1 Kink Meme.
i saw these pictures and i had a thought. sorry or you're welcome
The last person Lewis wants to hang out with as he’s taking a breather in one of the booths at Jimmyz is Max Verstappen. So, in accordance with the luck he’s been having the last--three years or what, that’s exactly the person who sits down next to him, loose and sweaty, starting to talk before Lewis has had a chance to ask him what the fuck he’s doing. Lewis promises himself he’ll play nice for five minutes to jack up his good karma and then he can tell Max to beat it.
Fifteen minutes pass and then Lewis has to admit he’s kind of enjoying himself. Max is tipsy and talks too loudly but he’s also listening to whatever Lewis is telling him with wide, spellbound eyes. He’s long-winded and goes off on tangents, but he’s also sort of funny. A little mean, when he talks about Checo, a lot mean when he talks about Toto. And when someone Lewis knows comes by to hand off a baggie with a few tablets in it, Max isn’t a bore about it and just mooches one off Lewis, gingerly places it on the pink flat of his tongue before he swallows it.
“Hey,” Max says earnestly, when Lewis finally does get ready to get a move on. “I liked this. You’re cool.”
“Uh,” Lewis says, blinking. Cool. Okay, sure. “Thanks, mate. Yeah, this was fun.”
“Thanks,” Max says, grinning wide, face flushed. “If you want to like, get out of here, let me know.”
Lewis’s brain flickers, like his mind’s got bad wifi and needs to buffer. For a moment there, he thought--it sounded like. Which is. Ridiculous in too many ways to count. And he’s had experience counting those, the last few years.
“For what?” He asks and Max shrugs.
“I was thinking about sucking your dick,” he says thoughtfully. “But of course, whatever’s fine with you.”
Lewis blinks. Blinks again.
“No, thank you,” he says carefully and Max shrugs again, slides out of the booth.
“Okay, no problem. See you!”
“Yeah,” Lewis says faintly. “See you.”
He watches Max shoulder his way through the crowd, broad back straining against his white shirt. Then, Lewis pulls the baggie out of his pocket and counts the remaining tablets.
///
He was just fucking with Lewis. Lewis comes to that conclusion after thinking it over carefully for longer than he would like to admit. There’s no way that--Max Verstappen. Come on. Max Verstappen. There’s just. There’s no way. He was trying to mess with Lewis. Typical Max. Everyone’s like, Max doesn’t play games, but they don’t see it--Max absolutely plays games, it’s just that he’s bad at it and it doesn’t get to Lewis. Nice try.
“Lewis?” Bono’s voice asks in his ear and Lewis realises he’s driven into the pit lane and is now sitting in front of his garage as his team scrambles around him. “Is there something wrong with the car?”
It’s just FP2, thank God. Lewis closes his eyes and thunks his helmet back against the headrest.
“I think my front wing needs an adjustment,” he says.
“Does it now,” Bono says, voice drier than desert sand and Lewis can’t help but laugh.
“Shut up, man,” he says and Bono snorts.
///
He was trying to throw Lewis off his game. That must be it. Somehow, he’s found out that Lewis is--that Lewis, sometimes. Or maybe he just guessed. Lewis hasn’t been bothered, exactly, to hide it, lately. People will hate him whether he is or isn’t and if he says he isn’t they’ll just think he is, so. Max is just trying to get in his head about it. Clearly, he thinks Lewis is going to be a threat next year and is setting the groundwork for undermining him. He must think Lewis is insecure or something. Like Lewis hasn’t had to deal with more important and challenging things than Max Verstappen. With any luck, he and his fraternity team will mess up the new regs and he’s back fighting in the midfield with Esteban Ocon and Nico Hulkenberg where he belongs.
“Are we boring you, Lewis?” Toto asks and when Lewis looks up, the entire room is gawking at him.
Yes, Lewis thinks. They’re discussing turn six, the graphic on the screen tells him. The car’s bad there. Lewis knows because it’s bad everywhere. Next to him, George is staring at him with his giant, wet eyes, face so, so serious. Lewis is blocking his number the second he’s on the plane to Maranello.
“I was just thinking,” Lewis says. “What if we up the brake balance, by about four degrees.”
“Hm,” Toto says. He whips back around and from the corner of his eye, Lewis can see Bono biting back a grin.
///
It can’t go on like this, so Lewis gets Max’s address from a devilishly amused Seb and knocks on his door on a Wednesday afternoon.
“Lewis!” Max says as he opens the door and Lewis barges in.
“What the fuck,” Lewis says. “Are you playing at?”
“Playing at?” Max trails behind Lewis. He’s wearing tragic skinny jeans, discoloured white socks. If this man’s queer, Lewis is the Pope.
“In the club,” Lewis says and Max frowns in confusion.
“When you--” Lewis nods when Max motions to the coffee machine and then shakes his head. “No, wait, I’m not staying. I’m just hear to ask you what the fuck you were playing at, offering to blow me at the club.”
“Oh!" Max says, pausing his coffee making and turning back to Lewis. “I thought it might be nice to suck your dick. At the club.”
“Bullshit,” Lewis says and Max shrugs again. He keeps doing that. His shoulders are very nice.
“It’s just an offer, I of course know there’s lots of history, between us, so if you don’t want to, that’s--”
Lewis is standing in Max’s kitchen, getting explained by Max as to why Lewis won’t let Max suck his dick. Maybe the porpoising truly broke his brain. Maybe nothing since Saudi 2021 has been real and Lewis will wake up tomorrow and win his eighth like he was supposed to.
Whichever way, Max is lying his ass off, trying to convince Lewis he’s for real. He doesn’t know what Max’s play is, just that it’s hinging on Lewis not calling his bluff and you know? Fine. Lewis will play. Lewis hasn’t been able to play for a while, due to the car being so bad that Lewis sometimes still thinks it’s a very elaborate joke, but Lewis still knows how to play. He’s been dying to play.
“Okay,” he says. “Suck my dick, then. If you're so keen to.”
He’s going to enjoy seeing the expression on Max’s face. Doubt. Disbelief. Shock. Max better be getting used to Lewis having the upper hand again, because he’s planning on keeping it.
“Lovely,” Max says. And then he drops to his knees.
going against the spirit of this ask game by not suggesting a song and not a pairing instead of a pairing and not a song: remi wolf - cherries & cream!
cherries & cream - remi wolf -> any kind of favour, george pov
she doesn't know you about you and i, and in my head, i'm asking: is it wrong? are you fearful? do you regret? be careful. if she's perfect, what are you here for?
George is awake before Alex, the muted light of the British morning creeping through the curtains and falling across his face until he has to open his eyes. They’re under the top sheet, duvet kicked down to the end of the bed, and it’s chilly even though it’s technically summer. Next to him, though, Alex is warm, his breath coming slow and steady, all of the tension worked out of his body. The sun is catching the soft hair on his forearm, turning it lightly golden. He smells like George’s body wash. When he wakes up — George doesn’t want to know what’s going to happen, what he’ll say. There’s a horrible twisting in his stomach: guilt without the absolution of regret. He wishes he could just exist in this moment forever, a tiny fragment of time where everything is okay, the second before the other shoe falls.
He rolls onto his back and squints at his phone to check the time. It’s early still, too early to be awake, but before he can bury his head back in his pillow, he sees that he has five unread messages and a missed call from Carmen.
Carmen
i’m home now, if you want to talk
i really don’t want to keep fighting about this. can you just admit that you were being weird after? i don’t care, i just don’t get why you’re mad. i thought you had a nice time.
are you ignoring me? i really do have a meeting in the morning, i wasn’t just saying that
honestly george. i just want to know that you’re okay
whatever. see you tomorrow, i guess
The first one had been delivered while he and Alex were still sitting in the bar, with the rest spaced in half-hour intervals until, clearly, Carmen had given up and gone to sleep. When George sees the time she called, he realises it was probably when he and Alex were in the shower, Alex pressed up against his back, his hands working shampoo into George’s hair.
In the few seconds it takes to scroll through the messages, his heart-rate picks up, blood rushing in his ears until he feels like he can’t breathe, chest tight. His fingers feel numb when he fumbles his phone back onto the bedside table. He doesn’t know what he was expecting, doesn’t know what he feels so afraid of. The idea that maybe she would just know, that she’d be able to tell from 50 miles down the M1, that she would save George the indignity of admitting that he hadn’t been able to get over his best friend, is ridiculous, but. She was up late, clearly — worried about him for no reason: that’s his fault too.
He felt like a joke already, a horrible, needy joke, and now, on top of everything, he’s been cruel.
George curls over on his side, fitting into the space against Alex’s back. Alex’s breathing is still slow and sleep-heavy, and he tries to match the gentle rhythm. He reminds himself that Alex isn’t going to be freaking out. Alex isn’t going to think about it twice. George was just there, convenient. When Alex wakes up, he’ll take five minutes to get himself together and then go home; for him, it’ll be like nothing happened. He’s always been better than George at keeping things reasonable and proportional, compartmentalised.
He runs his hand up Alex’s side, rucking up his top, indulgent while it’s still allowed. He settles with his palm over Alex’s heart, feeling the light beat under his fingers, something to steady him for the rest of the day, the rest of the season. It feels like a waste when he falls back asleep — a waste of the little time he’ll get to have Alex like this.
When he dreams, it’s of Alex fucking him, about the way Alex had pressed him against the mattress, possessive and overwhelming, and the second time he wakes up, he’s hard. Mortifyingly, he realises that he’s been rutting up against Alex’s arse in his sleep, moaning a little under his breath as he nuzzled into Alex’s neck — it’s like the universe is determined to leave him without a shred of dignity, without a single acceptable excuse for his actions.
There’s a relieving minute where he thinks Alex could still be asleep, that he got away with his wanton show of desperation, then Alex says, his voice clipped, “Morning.”
George jerks away, feeling caught. “Sorry,” he says. He doesn’t know how many times he’s already said it to Alex, but it doesn’t feel sufficient. He’ll never learn when to stop, when enough is enough. “It’s, um. I didn’t mean to.”
“Obviously, you were asleep,” Alex says, sounding annoyed. George wishes he could see his face, but he’s already out of bed, bent over to pick his clothes up from the floor. “It’s fine, honestly.”
“It was—” George starts without thinking, cutting himself off before he can say nice. Nice to have Alex in his bed. Nice to wake up with him there. Nice to have gotten to kiss him, after wanting it for so much time. But it shouldn't be nice. It shouldn't have happened at all, and Alex shouldn’t have to think about George’s feelings like that, shouldn’t have to worry about the farce that is his life.
“A mistake,” Alex says, after the silence stretches on too long. His tone makes it seem like it’s already been decided, established from the start. He’s still looking for a sock, head turned toward the floor, and George has to satisfy himself with looking at the strong line of his shoulders, clear and tantalising even hidden under George’s borrowed jumper. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell her.”
You can, George wants to say. You should, please. Make me say it, make it so I can’t take it back.
“Thanks,” he says instead, the word thick and clumsy on his tongue.
Post Met Gala 2016, Lewis/Nico with a hint of Lewis/Miles, 1.2k
In the end, Lewis can’t bear to go to the afterparty. He can’t imagine cramming himself into a booth, nodding his head to the glitzy thump of American dance pop, and watching Miles dance and drink and flirt like he didn’t just alter the course of Lewis’s life. So he takes a car back to the Manhattan apartment—drives it himself, even, silent behind the wheel—and sits in the underground parking garage with the engine still running until the worst of the emotion drains out of him. If he was always going to leave alone, it was better that he left on his own terms.
He shuts off the car, ducks out and orients himself towards the elevator. It must have started raining when he was inside the Met, and now it’s all seeped underground, dripping from the concrete ceiling and pooling in the potholes on the garage’s asphalt. The heels of his loafers click and echo. He steps inside the elevator when it arrives.
His apartment is a swanky two-bedroom on the ninth floor that Nicole picked out for him when he was sufficiently big-time to require a base in New York. He still remembers clutching her to his side in this exact elevator while she teetered in her heels, drunk and cold after a night out. That was years ago. He blinks, realizing he hasn’t yet selected his floor. The elevator lurches into motion a moment later, and Lewis’s stomach clenches.
He’s still seeing Miles in his mind’s eye when the elevator opens on his floor. The fucking striped suit. The bleach blonde fucking hair. Miles was seated next to Rihanna, which meant it was impossible for Lewis to make any kind of impression. He blows out a tense breath, halfway down the hallway to his door. As if Miles would want him that way.
Lewis twists the key in the lock, and nudges the door open with his shoulder, expecting the dim stillness of his empty apartment. Orange light spills into the hallway when the door opens instead.
Lewis squints against the light. His head is pounding like the hangover is already kicking in.
“You look rough,” says Nico.
Lewis blinks rapidly, as though shaking a nightmare, but it really is Nico. The shape of him resolves, hunched over a bottle of rum at Lewis’s kitchen island. His blonde hair is too short to flop in his face like it used to. Lewis shuts the door behind himself and kicks his shoes in the vague direction of the closet.
“What are you doing here,” says Lewis. His voice is deadpan and gravelly. Like a smoker, or someone who doesn’t care.
“I saw you on TV,” says Nico, lifting his glass and swirling it around. There are only a few millimetres left, and the bottle is half empty. “You’re… really doing it.” He raises the glass to his lips, but doesn’t drink. “You’re growing out of me.”
Fuck it, Lewis thinks, tossing his keys on the island and sliding into a seat across from Nico. He gestures for the glass, and Nico tops it up obligingly and slides it over. When Lewis drinks, he knows he’s tasting Nico’s saliva on the rim.
“Another one,” says Lewis. Nico tips another few fingers of rum in the glass and Lewis tosses it back. The last time he and Nico were this civil in such close proximity was the beginning of 2013, before Nico was married.
“What are you drinking to?” says Nico, watching Lewis sip on his third glass, cheek resting in his palm, blue eyes limpid underneath the pendant lights.
Lewis sucks down another bitter sip. “I met someone,” he says.
Nico raises an eyebrow. Lewis doesn’t know what reaction he was expecting.
“He’s a fencer,” says Lewis. “Tall, blonde, stylish.”
“And where is he now?” says Nico, glancing around theatrically. It doesn’t have the intended effect, probably because Nico is completely wasted.
“Probably fucking Rihanna,” says Lewis. “Fuck.” He presses his face into his hand. His cheeks are numb. Nico snorts across the island, wiggling the glass out of Lewis’s lax grip and pouring himself another drink.
“I know something that will make us both feel better,” says Nico.
Lewis unburies his face from his hand and fixes Nico with a serious look. He’s only here because Lewis gave him a key when he was still sleeping around on Nicole, and because he saw Lewis on TV and booked a flight to New York, apparently. Nico’s lips are wrapped around the rim of the glass, where Lewis’s just were. He doesn’t look like he’s expecting much.
“No thanks,” says Lewis.
Nico shrugs. “Fair enough. I’ll try again in the morning.”
“How do you figure?” says Lewis.
“I don’t think either of us want to sleep alone tonight,” Nico hazards.
“And what if you’re wrong?” says Lewis. He wants another drink, but he’s still got another twenty minutes before his last few catch up with him. He might end the night kneeling over the toilet bowl. It’s a good thing Nico’s here after all.
“Feel free to send me packing,” says Nico. “I don’t think you’re going to, though.”
Lewis presses his fingertips into the granite countertop. He watches the flesh under his nails turn white. “You’re really fucking irritating, you know,” says Lewis.
“I know,” says Nico, tilting his head.
“You fucking did this to yourself,” says Lewis, gesturing. He doesn’t even know what he’s doing with his hands, other than showing that he’s angry. “You stranded yourself at my apartment because you wanted to test me like this.”
“Test you?” says Nico.
“Yeah,” says Lewis. He can hear himself slurring. It’s remarkable that Nico is still speaking so elegantly. “You want to measure how much I want you.”
Nico snorts. “I’m getting the sense that it’s less than you used to. I fucking miss wanting you, though. I’m sorry your fencer is straight.”
“Yeah,” says Lewis, choking on a little laugh. He misses it too. There’s a hole in him where his feelings for Nico used to be. It’s like the black spot that you see when you stare at a lightbulb for too long, when the rods and cones in your retinas get so excited they burn out. “Come on,” he says, sliding out of his seat.
Nico trails after him, towards the bedrooms in the back of the apartment. “I told you you weren’t going to,” he says.
“Shut up,” Lewis tells him. When he reaches the bathroom, he digs a spare toothbrush out of the mirror cabinet and hands it to Nico. “Wait your turn,” he says.
Nico makes a funny face at that, but he backs out of the bathroom and leaves Lewis to fumble drunkenly around the bathroom for his cleanser and his toothpaste. He finishes up after an indeterminate age, mouth thick with the taste of rum and spearmint, like the foul aftermath of a mojito, and pads out of the bathroom, head spinning.
Nico is sitting on the foot of the bed clutching his spare toothbrush when Lewis enters the bedroom. “I’m finished,” says Lewis, lamely. He strips his shirt off and tosses it at the laundry bin. Nico disappears into the bathroom. Lewis tries to conjure Miles, if only to torture himself, but his thoroughly intoxicated imagination can’t manage it. At least something worked. He slides into bed between cold sheets and buries his head in the pillow. A few minutes later, Nico joins him, tenting the sheets at Lewis’s back.
“Goodnight, Lewis,” says Nico.
Lewis shuts his eyes and carefully doesn’t think about what the fuck he’ll do tomorrow morning when he wakes up sober with Nico in his bed.
“Goodnight,” Lewis croaks, willing sleep towards him.
a collection of statistical improbabilities (9k, Logan/Alex, uni/college au, Explicit)
Logan’s two month study abroad is thrown into jeopardy when his housing falls through. Looking for new accommodations last minute, he meets Alex, a grad student behind on rent, with a fold out couch.
pairing: alex albon/logan sargeant
rating: g
college!au, rule 63!alex, rule 63!logan
wc: 2.3k
After a month of not talking, Alex pays her old biochem classmate Logan a visit.
(read under the cut)
“You can’t just text me?” Logan asks, watching Alex kick her shoes off at her bedroom doorway and toss her backpack on the floor. It hits Logan’s floor with a thud, and Logan winces. One of the sisters on the floor below her has already complained about the top floor making too much noise, and she’s pretty sure they’re just a few heavy footsteps away from a write-up to Standards.
Confused, Logan scrunches her nose. “How did you even get up here, anyway?”
“I know Georgie really well. She let me in,” Alex says, running a hand through her damp, shaggy hair. “What, you think I shouldn’t be allowed in here just because I’m not one of your sisters?”
Logan tucks her feet under her butt, feeling out of place. It’s not fair. She’s in her sorority house, in her own bedroom, sitting on her own perfectly made bed, and Alex is making her feel weird. She always finds a way to do that, and Logan can’t figure out why. Why is she even here?
“I didn’t mean it like that.”
Alex sits on the edge of Logan’s bed and smiles at her, shrugging. “Anyway, why would I text you if I can just see you? Tri-Delt’s right by the gym. I figured I’d come see you and check our project grade with you before I go home.”
The gym. That explains why Alex looks so… Well, she looks like she’s just worked out. Logan can even smell the cheap shampoo the gym provides on her hair. Even if she uses that sulfate-loaded crap three times a week, Alex’s hair still seems to fall in just the right place, like it is now. Logan’s hair would actually crumble.
Logan fiddles with the end of the haphazard ponytail she’d thrown her hair up in while struggling with a physics problem. She probably has bumps everywhere and hairs sticking out. She wishes she’d been given, like, two minutes in front of the mirror before Alex burst in.
“Grades are out today?” Logan’s chest tightens.
“I ran into our TA in the weight room. He says they’re out.” Alex looks at Logan’s laptop. “Wanna pull up Canvas and see?”
“Sure,” Logan says, unfurling her legs and putting her laptop on her lap.
She eyes Alex. It feels surreal, to see her sitting on Logan’s bed. It’s been a month since they submitted their biochem project, and in that intervening month they’ve only seen each other in class, in passing and texted a few times. Logan had tried to put Alex out of her head. After all, before they were randomly assigned as partners for the project, she hadn’t even known Alex existed.
Now, Logan has all these random facts about Alex rattling around in her head all the time: she’s not in Greek life, she’s co-captain for the women’s rowing team, she’s acing biochem and probably failing her mandatory lit class, she has four siblings and a thousand pets, she’s so witty it made Logan feel like she had to run to catch up to her, she’s somehow warm and remote at the same time.
They’d worked on their biochem project for the first two months of the semester and in those two short months, Alex had wormed her way into the core of Logan’s brain. Logan’s sorority sisters had teased her for liking a GDI so much, while others had gently prodded to ask her why she liked Alex so much.
The question always felt so…unanswerable. Logan had so many reasons for liking Alex, and yet none of them seemed to really cover it. She’d ruined their budding—friendship? Logan’s not even sure—-by the end of the project, anyway, so it’s not like it even matters anymore.
Her hands feel sweaty as they type the password to her computer, her entire organism overly conscious of Alex’s presence. Logan’s played the events of their last night together in head so many times, it feels like it happened to someone else. They’d spent the entire night in the basement of the library, finalizing their project before submitting it just before deadline. Maybe it was the long hours, the sleep deprivation, the fact that they’d spent all evening delirious and laughing at how ridiculous the project was. Logan’s not sure.
All she knows is that Alex walked her back to the Tri-Delt house, and just before she turned to go, Logan kissed her.
Then turned and shut the sorority house door behind her.
It’s hard to say what happened after that. Alex didn’t text Logan that night, or the next day. Not that they texted all the time, but usually Alex would send a meme, or a picture of one of her pets, forward from Alex’s family group chat. That week, nothing came to Logan’s phone. Biochem was canceled that week as a reward from Professor Vowles for completing their project, so they didn’t see each other in class, either.
When they saw each other again, Alex took her usual seat next to Logan, but it wasn’t the same. Logan wasn’t sure if it was her, overthinking everything, or if Alex was acting differently—but it didn’t matter. Logan could read between the lines. Alex wasn’t texting her, wasn’t sneaking glances at her during lecture, wasn’t giggling over private jokes with her. Just her default unreadable-but-affable coolness. Whatever had been forming between them, if it even was anything, was gone. They would just have to go back to being classmates again.
Logan’s spent the past month getting used to that idea. Getting used to her normal life, before Alex ever came along.
And now Alex is here, sitting on her bed.
“Um, is it in the Assignments or Grades tab? I can’t remember what Professor Vowles does.”
“Wait,” Alex says. Without Logan noticing, Alex’d scooched over to sit next to her, back against the headboard.
“What?” Logan takes her hand away from the cursor.
“Let’s make a wager,” Alex says, smiling. Sly. “Over-under. I think we got 97% or higher.”
“What are we betting?” Logan asks, raising her eyebrow. Her bedside lamp is behind Alex, casting her in shadow but framing her in light. Logan can just barely make out her long, straight eyelashes, the way they point downward, not upward. “Also, we definitely did not make 97 or higher. I’m pretty sure we left out some stat values.”
“Okay, so you’re betting we made 96 and under. Easy.” Alex draws her mouth to the side, as if thinking. “Loser has to do one thing that the winner says.”
“Just one thing?” Logan says. She can feel her heartbeat quicken. After quitting sports in her senior year of high school, her competitive spirit has mostly laid dormant, but Alex always figures out a way to revive it.
Alex laughs. Reflexively, Logan smiles. She always feels like she won something when she manages to make Alex laugh.
“Feeling lucky, Sargeant?” Alex asks, elbowing Logan in the waist.
“Ow, bitch,” Logan says, before she can stop herself, and Alex laughs harder. “Fine, one thing.” She doesn’t even know what she’d make Alex do, if she won, but for the first time in her life, Logan’s hoping she made a mistake in her schoolwork.
“Pretty sure Jimmy puts his grades in the Assignments tab,” Alex says.
“So annoying,” Logan mumbles, clicking on the tab. “Also, quit calling Professor Vowles that. It’s weird and gross.” Ignoring Alex’s snort of laughter, Logan scrolls down her assignments to find the last graded column and sees:
“Oh my god?” Logan says, forgetting to care about losing. They killed it. Alex lets out a whoop. A loud one. Logan’s definitely getting written up to Standards for excessive noise.
“That doesn’t even seem possible,” Logan says, clicking the grade. It’s not a hyperlink, but clicking it over and over makes it feel more real. “This is like, 60% of our overall grade.”
“We just make a good pair,” Alex says, slinging an arm around Logan’s shoulders. “Smile, Logie. We only need a B on the final to get an A in the class. And we’ll study together, so.”
“That’d be nice,” Logan says absentmindedly, picturing the two of them in a study carrel together. Shoulder to shoulder, doing flashcards. Just the thought makes her feel excited, which in turn makes her feel sort of pathetic.
“Yeah?” Alex says. She looks a little caught off-guard, as if she was expecting Logan to refuse to study with her. “Well—okay, nice. We’ll study together.” She smiles again, the dimple just under her lip deepening.
Logan smiles back, unsure of what to say. All Alex ever seems to do is disarm her. She tangles her fingers in her ponytail again. “Well, you won the bet.”
Alex’s eyes brighten. “I did.” Her grin widens, but then it seems to waver, as if Alex is losing her confidence. “Don’t be pissed about what I ask for. You can always back out, too.”
“A bet’s a bet,” Logan shrugs, trying to seem nonchalant. For reasons she can’t place, Logan implicitly trusts Alex not to ask her to do anything outside of her comfort zone. Still, some part of her trills with excitement, curious to know what Alex wants out of her. Logan’s never been able to figure that out.
“Ah–” Alex reaches up and scratches the back of her neck. “I–” She laughs. “Fuck, it’s hard to actually say it.”
“C’mon,” Logan urges. “You’re making me nervous.”
“I’m not trying to,” Alex protests. She gives Logan a look. “For once, that is.”
“Dude,” Logan says, elbowing Alex. “Just say it.”
“Fine, fine–impatient–” Alex says, rubbing the spot where Logan elbowed. She eyes Logan. “Don’t stare at me. Look to the left, or something.”
“Oh, my god,” Logan says. “Fine.” She turns to the left, but only just so that she can keep Alex in her peripheral.
“Okay. Perfect. Thank you,” Alex says. Logan hears her take a deep breath.
“Er- do you remember the night we submitted our project?”
It’s as if Alex dumped water over Logan’s head.
She blinks as images of that night hit her with force–the way Alex’s eyes reflected the streetlights above, the soft curve of her lips, shimmery with the tinted Burt’s Bees she borrowed from Logan’s pencil case. The quiet darkness of their campus, well past midnight on a school night. The way Alex looked so strong, hauling both her heavy bookbag and her gym bag on her shoulders, but so soft in her oversized sweatshirt. She’d looked so Alex, in all of her frustrating, confusing glory. She’d become so familiar, but she was still so unknown. In that moment, Logan wanted to cling onto Alex and never let go. Figure out what made her tick and make her like Logan enough to cling back.
She’d never felt that way about anyone. In the past, with her boyfriends, she’d only waited endlessly for that feeling to come.
So she’d kissed Alex. It'd seemed like the only thing to do.
“I do,” Logan says. The words are hard to force out. She feels hot in her t-shirt and athletic skort. “I remember.”
“It’d be really great if you did—uh—what you did, again.”
Logan jerks her head to look at Alex. Alex is turned away, looking at the wall, but the back of her neck is red. “Wow, that sounded really lame,” she says. “I think I might kill myself.”
Before she can stop herself, Logan laughs. When they worked on the project, Logan and Alex had a running competition of who could go the longest without saying “I’m going to kill myself,” and neither of them made it to an hour. Just thinking about the tally sheet they kept makes Logan laugh harder.
Then she realizes—Alex wants Logan to kiss her again. Logan laughs again, helpless to her own joy.
“Stop laughing. Why are you laughing? God, I’m going to kill you instead,” Alex says, turning around, but she’s smiling, and her smile only grows when she looks at Logan.
“Fine,” Logan says. “Kill me.” She leans in, shocked that she isn’t shaking. The past month of agony—afraid that Alex was disgusted by the kiss, wondering how she felt, if she felt the same—was wiped away in an instant, the emotional void filled in with sudden, unbridled hope.
“Are you going to do it or not–” Alex says, and Logan kisses her.
It feels like their first kiss, because Alex isn’t ready, but then she responds. She kisses Logan back. A hand cups Logan’s cheek. Logan grabs Alex’s arm, clutching her bicep. Strong, and soft. She leans backwards until she can feel her headboard pressing into her spine, and Alex follows her, until she’s practically crouched between Logan’s legs.
When they part, Alex’s face is, for a moment, just as sweetly astonished as Logan feels. In the next moment, she smirks, and it would play perfectly if she wasn’t breathless.
Logan kisses her again.
“So, the exam,” Alex says. Logan snorts, turning onto her side to face her. She feels a slight tug from where Alex’s fingers are laced in her hair.
It’s late—probably close to 1AM. Alex is showing no sign of going home. Logan feels cozy and comfortable and ready to fall asleep, head pillowed on Alex’s arm, their legs tangled.
“The exam,” Logan says.
“Wanna bet I’ll get a better score than you?” Alex asks. She grins as she looks at Logan, eyes aglow with something warm and playful.
“You wanna bet?” Logan laughs. Alex laughs too, her thigh sliding up higher between Logan’s. Logan feels a pulse of heat in her belly. “What else could you ask from me?”
Logan watches Alex’s dark eyes drop to her mouth, and almost can feel the way it tracks down to her neck, her chest, then back up to her face.
I would love to see your bullet points for a Lewis/Mick Regency AU.
idk if you're gonna like this anon but it's what you're gonna get
lewis and seb met at university and have been friends ever since. they both love travel and adventure and studying the natural world and getting in ridiculous arguments about it at meetings of the geological society. the only difference is that lewis has always said he'll never marry; he loves his freedom too much. his younger brother is engaged and can carry on the family name.
seb, on the other hand, has been engaged to mick schumacher for as long as lewis has known him. michael and norbert had arranged it forever ago, and seb seems happy enough about it. lewis likes mick; it's the sort of match seb deserves. they're just waiting for mick's debut season to finish, and then it will all be settled.
and then a scientific expedition to gibralter goes down in a storm. with sebastian on board. nobody makes it to shore.
what else is lewis supposed to do? mick has no other suitors. there hadn't been any need. it's what seb would want: someone who knows and likes mick, who isn't just after his fortune. and lewis has never wanted marriage, really, but...but he can't be alone with this. mick accepts his proposal with tears in his eyes, and lewis thinks they have that in common.
the wedding is small, just close family. they do it at the church near the schumacher estate, partially so lewis can pay his respects to michael and partially so lewis doesn't have to set foot in the church where they grieved sebastian ever again. and then lewis takes mick home. lewis would happily let mick spend his time as he will, but mick seems determined to be a proper husband. he explores the grounds; joins lewis for dinner every night; immediately supplants lewis as mrs. cullen's favorite in the household. in the cold winter months, he comes up with a plan for expanding the vegetable garden come spring. lewis tries to hide his tears when mick tells him about it. mick comes to his bed for the first time that night. the letters from sebastian, one for each of them, arrive the next day from calais, where the merchant ship that rescued him has come in to port.
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ok you mentioned like. a sebmichael medieval arranged marriage thing a little while ago but never writing it but i’ve been thinking about it ever since and i need to know more ofc it’s entirely up to you whether you want to share but pls know that if you decide to write or publish it in any format i will be it’s biggest fan
thank you for this anon!! some rambling below the cut.
I do not currently have any plans to work on this fic; I'm about 6k into Space Sebcedes and also just agreed to step in and write a fic for a playlist exchange, so that's what's down the pipeline for me right now. I also just put so much humiliating "what the fuck does :pleading_face: mean use your words I don't speak bottom" yearning into saltwater and gasoline so it might be a hot minute before I yearn on main like that again. (if you like absolutely desperate yearning and Ye Olde Historical Whatever, you may also like the collection of vibes in the cottagecore sico bedtime story. I may be tossing some more on that pile pretty soon)
however. the sebmichael arranged marriage is one of my absolutely favorite thoughts to periodically chew on. vibes wise, it's basically set in the Fantasy Fanfic Middle Ages (TM); for those of you who want a historical touchpoint, think approximately eleventh-century soctland, insofar as we've got a general tendency towards the consolidation of power into kingdoms but we still have a series of kingships, warlords, constant skirmishes over borders, what have you.
anyway michael schumacher is an absolutely terrifying warlord in the process of some Territorial Consolidation Through Conquest. does he already have at least one dead wife? like, maybe. sebastian vettel is the terrified blushing virgin to be wed to him. Yes, sebastian is absolutely going to grow into being a Powerful Spouse Consort and also Horny As Fuck. we play the hits here on kritischetheologie dot tumblr dot com.
I might never write this because I just don't actually think I can be bothered doing the amount of worldbuilding I would need to do to make something hit in a serious way, but if I went for it on just vibes I would feel kind of cringe and gross, so instead I just think about michael in like bloodstained leather fucking seb on a fur rug immediately after returning from battle. that's what we're on about.
anyway some fic recs if you want Deeply Formative Arranged Marriage Shit (fun fact this is one of my few favorited tags on ao3 dot gov what does that fucking say about me):
the lady of storm's end, 148k, sansa stark / stannis baratheon, this fucking rewired my entire selfhood when i read it
she who would be queen, 98k, r*ylo, nobody fucking @ me about this
and I love this place, the enormous sky, 11k, bellarke, grounder!bellamy (if you like arranged marriage this ship has SO MUCH)
of weddings and warfare, 82k, hermione granger / remus lupin, also just search the entire "marriage law challenge" that was the SHIT
