--- Amped Hearts ---
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Pairing: Regina George!Daniela Avanzini x Rodrick Heffley!masc!gn!reader
Synopsis: In the fading chords of a dying garage band, a desperate guitarist, you, reaches for the untouchable Daniela Avanzini, igniting a slow-burning symphony of pride, longing, and the quiet unraveling of a girl who was never meant to fall.
Warnings: fluff, use of you/they/them
Notes: Hi this is from here. I saw an edit of Regina x Rodrick and I decide to change the route of the whole fic. Rodrick plays drums but I don't know anything about drums so I decided to use guitar here. Also hint of maphinz lol. Please read the note at the last part. Sorry for any grammar or spelling mistakes. If there's any obvious mistake, do tell me :))
masterlist
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Your band is about to break up.
It isn’t a loud, dramatic implosion, but a quiet, fraying decay, like the duct tape on your Vans giving up one thread at a time. It is a sickness of silence in the group chat. It’s the way Matt tunes his bass with a little too much force, a prelude to a snap. It’s the résumés Jess leaves open on her laptop screen, tiny white flags of surrender. It’s the way Alex looks bored whenever you play in your garage, his eyes glazed over with the future he’s already accepted. It’s a slow death by a thousand paper cuts of reality.
Daniela Avanzini is not a girl who makes sense in your life. She's a girl who gets picked up in black cars with leather seats, who drinks iced coffee through glass straws, and walks like the hallway owes her rent. Her hair always looks professionally blown out. Her bags are leather-bound fortresses that cost more than your last three paychecks combined, and her perfume leaves a ghost in the air, a whisper of jasmine, coffee, and expensive choices. She is a carefully curated masterpiece, and from every angle, it feels like the world bends its own rules just to keep her in a perfect light.
And you? You are a walking afterthought, a dog-eared page in a pristine book. You live in a uniform of a hoodie layered over a flannel, sleeves perpetually too long, a shield against a world that feels a little too sharp. Your fingers are a roadmap of calluses from guitar strings, your shoes held together by hope and some shoe glue. You are the lead guitarist and reluctant heart of your band, a garage rock band that’s one missed rent payment away from becoming a ghost story you tell your future, more sensible self. You fold records into paper bags at a grimy store after school, the cash you earn a flimsy bridge to new strings and late-night cartons of ice cream that you share with your bandmates in melancholic silence.
So the idea, the grand, tectonic-shifting plan to approach her, feels like an act of madness. It’s like asking the sun to light a single, flickering candle. But desperation is a language of its own, and you are fluent. You love your band with the same fierce, all-consuming fire that Daniela seems to reserve for her position as cheer captain. The thought of it all turning to ash in your hands is unbearable. You have to believe that somewhere, beneath the layers of gloss and brand names, there’s a flicker of understanding. That’s the hope you cling to as you jog to catch up to her pace, a frantic smile plastered on your face.
“Hey Avanzini, I would—”
“—No.” The word is a razor blade sharp. She glances at you, a fleeting inventory of your entire being, and her eyes are unreadable pools of obsidian. The disgust isn’t overt yet, just a subtle tightening at the corners of her perfect mouth. She repeats herself, as if for a child. “No.”
That’s it. A full stop carved into the air between you. There is no follow-up and no room for a question. She hasn’t even let the sentence leave your mouth, and she’s already buried it. The single syllable is a physical blow, a punch to the gut that leaves you winded. Embarrassment crawls up your neck, but you swallow it down and keep walking beside her, like a satellite caught in her orbit.
“Okay, I get it, no means no,” you start, the words feeling clumsy and loud next to her composed silence. “And I know you have no idea who I am, but just… listen. You donate to charity, right? Think of this as a charity case. One gig. I’ll owe you for life. I’ll be your personal errand-runner. I’ll—”
Daniela stops dead in her tracks. The motion is so abrupt you nearly stumble. She turns, and the look she gives you could curdle milk. This time, the disgust isn't subtle. Her eyes do a slow, deliberate crawl from your worn-out shoes to your messy hair, and you feel every frayed edge, every stain, every imperfection catalogued and dismissed. In that moment, the chasm between your worlds feels vast and uncrossable. A faint, cruel smirk touches her lips as she sees you falter, your words dying in your throat.
“No.”
And then she’s gone, a mirage of perfection walking away, leaving you standing in the middle of the hallway like a piece of forgotten luggage.
—
Maybe starting with the queen was a tactical error. You should have approached the court first. Someone familiar. Someone like Manon.
The first time you ask Manon for a favour, it’s not a big deal. At least, it doesn’t feel like one. Not when it’s over cheap coffee from a nearby coffee shop and a mutual understanding of shared tiredness. Manon is easy to talk to, easy in the way someone becomes when you’ve shared a bench, a detention, or an unspoken moment of knowing school is eating everyone alive, just in different flavours. You met Manon in a gig you had with your band, she complimented your music and from then on, she became one of your friends.
Manon, bless her heart, doesn't even flinch when you ask her. She just tilts her head, her curls bouncing a little, as she says, "You're asking me to get your band into one of Daniela's parties? That Daniela? My Sophia’s friend Daniela?" You know it’s ridiculous, but that’s your only solution for now. It’s not like you can come up with one, in a snap of a finger.
The question hangs in the air, smelling of burnt coffee and absurdity. But it's your only rope.
You nod, lips pressed around a straw poking out of a bottle of off-brand cola. Your hoodie sleeves are pushed up to the elbows, stained faintly with something from a part-time shift. “Look, I know it’s a long shot, but we’re on life support here. I'm losing money on booking for gigs. Alex is about to go full solo acoustic artist on us, Jess is planning our funeral, and Matt keeps sending me short compiled videos of failed musicians who now design spreadsheets for a living. I’m at the end of my rope, Manon. We just need one shot. One night for people to hear what my bandmates can do.” You take a breath, the desperation tasting like rust in your mouth. “I tried talking to her. She looked at me like I was something she’d scraped off her shoe.”
Manon laughs, a genuine, chest-deep sound that makes you feel a little less insane. “Alright, you tragic musician. I’ll talk to Sophia. And Sophia will talk to Daniela. But I’m making zero promises. You know Daniela’s music taste is… curated. She doesn’t really do… well, you.”
“She doesn’t listen to anything that wasn’t played at a Chanel runway,” You mutter under your breath, but Manon hears it. She smirks, shrugs, and finishes her drink. “Look I’ll try ok? I love your band, I’ve told Sophia about you, but Daniela is a different story.”
And that’s the beginning.
—
The text from Manon is short and not at all sweet. “Sorry. It’s another no.”
The week after becomes less a montage and more of a series of strategic, nerve-wracking skirmishes. You decide that if you’re going to be a ghost in Daniela’s periphery, you might as well be a noisy one.
On Monday, armed with new intel from your network of two (Manon and Sophia), you skip lunch. You find her in the library’s quietest corner. You walk up to her table holding a venti iced coffee and a single, perfect dandelion—her favorite flower, according to Sophia. You place them directly in front of her and slide into the opposite chair, breaking the sacred silence. She looks up from her textbook, her eyes flashing with fury. She whispers, her voice low and dangerous, “What do you think you’re doing?”
“A peace offering,” you whisper back, leaning onto the table. “I’ll leave after this, just hear me out. One performance. Three, maybe four songs. After that, we’ll vanish. You can even unplug the amp mid-song if you think we’re horrible. Which we’re not.” You let the desperation show in your eyes, a raw, unedited plea. “Avanzini, just one performance and that’s it. I will never bother you ever again. I promise. And I always keep my promises.”
You see it then—a flicker. A subtle shift in the tectonic plates of her composure. She sighs, a sound of profound weariness, and closes her book. “How did you get my order and how did you know I’d be here?” she asks, taking a deliberate, slow sip of the coffee. Her eyes, fixed on yours over the rim of the cup, wait for your answer.
“I was curious so I asked Manon, who asked Sophia, who is your frien—”
“Okay, stop. I get it,” she says, waving a hand. “Do you think a drink and a flower will get you what you want? You’re a musician, correct?” A challenge enters her tone, a faint smirk playing on her lips. “Is this how musicians persuade people now? I know you can do better than this. Especially for me, right?”
Your mouth goes dry. Being this close to her is like standing too near a bonfire, all heat and dangerous, hypnotic light. Her eyes, a complex shade of brown flecked with gold, make your stomach feel like a mosh pit. The sharp line of her jaw, the way a single strand of hair falls across her forehead—it’s a masterpiece in motion. The gig is the goal, the mission, but a treacherous little thought whispers in your mind, maybe a chance with her…
“Jesus Christ, are you even listening to me?” Daniela says, her perfect eyebrows knitting together. The spell is broken. “Whatever, I’m leaving.” She scoffs as she packs her bag, but you watch, stunned, as she carefully takes the dandelion and tucks it between the pages of her book before grabbing the coffee. You stand, ready to follow, but she stops and fixes you with a look that freezes you in place. “Don’t even think about it.”
You don’t. You just watch her go.
—
On Wednesday, you take her advice. You decide to do better. After asking Sophia for the cheer schedule, you make your way to the parking lot. And as Daniela emerges from the gym door, you stand by her car, your acoustic guitar in hand, and you start to strum a familiar, haunting melody, from her favourite song, according to a reluctant Lara. But before you can sing a single word, she’s on you, grabbing the front of your shirt as she pulls you closer, her face inches from yours. “Are you insane? What do you think you’re doing, again?” she silently shouts, her voice a furious whisper.
Being this close, seeing the fire in her eyes, smelling the faint scent of rain on her skin from the gym’s air conditioning, it makes you smile, a real, stupid, genuine smile. “Really, Avanzini? I was just about to serenade you. To show you how worthy we are. I took your advice. A musician persuades with music. And I even picked your favourite song, because you said I could do better.” Your cheeky smile widens.
Her grip loosens, confusion clouding her anger. “And who told you about my favourite song?”
“Lara. I tried asking you yesterday, but you told me to, and I quote, ‘shove my guitar up my ass.’ Not very nice, by the way.” You feign an innocent, wounded look. “Avanzini, just one performance. That’s all my band needs.”
She sighs, a long, ragged sound, and glances around. A few people are starting to stare. It’s one thing to be the centre of attention. It’s another to be the centre of a scene with you. The discomfort is plain on her face. She’s not used to being seen with someone whose edges are so frayed.
“Look, don’t ever pull a stunt like this again, you hear me?” she says, her voice low. And in return you just nod, still smiling. Whatever she’s saying with those pretty lips, you’ll agree.
“Meet me tomorrow. Same time, library. And no grand performances, okay? Now go.”
You nod again, opening her car door for her like a valet. “Bye, Avanzini. Take care.”
Maybe this time, the answer will be different.
—
“No, you are not performing at my party,” Daniela says flatly the next day. Her voice doesn’t rise, but the edge in it is diamond-cut. You’re standing outside the library, hands full, her signature iced coffee in one, and the other in the strap of your backpack. The words hit you like a physical blow.
“But why?” you ask, your voice hollow, trying to hold her gaze but already bracing for the next blow.
Daniela rolls her eyes, but something flickers behind the gesture. “Because I don’t even know what your music sounds like,” she says, a flicker of logic in her cold tone. “Why would I let you perform if I’ve never heard you?”
Your face lights up. The hope you thought was dead comes roaring back to life. You hand her the coffee and dig through your backpack, pulling out a jewel case adorned with random, cut-out letters from magazines, like a punk-rock ransom note. Inside is a CD and a piece of paper with a handwritten tracklist.
“I’m so glad you asked,” you say, a triumphant grin spreading across your face. “Here. We burned a few copies. There are only five in existence. One for each of us, and lucky you, you get the last one.” You give her a theatrical wink. “And if you want a live performance, we have a small gig tonight at The Dive, you know? The open bar nearby. We can dedicate a whole set to you. An exclusive, curated just for Daniela Avanzini.”
Daniela stares at the CD like it’s something contagious, then carefully, she takes it from your hand. Her fingers brush yours for a second and you swear you see her stiffen. She then mutters something under her breath.
“Sorry?” you asked her with genuine confusion written on your face.
“I said…” she clears her throat “What time?”
Your lips part in surprise, then curl into a slow, stunned smile.
“Eight. We go on at eight.”
She nods once, turns away, and walks to her car — the CD still clutched tightly in her hand.
She doesn’t say she’ll come. But she doesn’t say she won’t.
—
Daniela tells herself she won’t listen. She tells herself she’s just going to throw the CD in her glove compartment and forget about it. And yet, the moment she’s alone in her car, she slips the CD into the player. The first track crackles to life, it’s loud, messy, and your guitar sounds like a beautiful scream. She drives with it playing, the windows cracked just slightly. The scent of jasmine from her wrist mixing with the sharp tang of your guitar distortion, she tells herself that it’s not her cup of tea, but as the track ends, she doesn’t switch it off.
Daniela also tells herself that she’s not going, not because she doesn’t have time or she’s occupied for the night, but because this, you, and your band, is a pure glitch in her world. And yet later, she’s standing in front of her closet with five outfits on the bed, Lara on her phone asking for some outfit advice, and one thought repeating like a hook in her chest. “What is wrong with you Avanzini?”
—
The Dive smells like old wood, cheap beer, and ambition. At 7:38, she’s there. The lights are low and golden, the floor sticky in places, and the crowd a strange mix of flannel, glitter, and borrowed eyeliner. Daniela slips in through the back, sunglasses still on, even though it’s nearly dark inside. She keeps to the shadows at first, tucked in a booth alone. And then she sees you.
You’re on stage, tuning your guitar, your forearms looks veiny as you twist the tuning pegs, sweat already clings to your back. Your shirt is a little too tight in the shoulders and arms. Your eyes then flick up sensing someone looking at you, and as you scan the room, she swear your gaze lands on her.
She looks away first, removes her sunglasses, then the music starts.
It’s louder than she expected. Gritty and imperfect but there’s something beneath the feedback, something that threads itself under her skin, a kind of ache that blooms in her ribs. You’re not the vocalist, but you move like someone feeling everything. Each chord you play is a strike, it’s deliberate, tender, and feral. When you close your eyes, your whole body leans into the sound. You don’t perform like you want attention all to yourself. You’re performing like you’re trying to survive.
And that’s what draws her in, because in her world she’s used to being the centre of every room. But in this chaos of yours? You are the gravity that pulls her in. Something sharp twists inside her chest. A kind of envy she doesn’t have a name for. A kind of wanting she doesn’t want to admit. And when the set ends and the applause swells and when your eyes flick across the crowd and land on her, she forgets to breathe.
You genuinely smile at her. Like a silent thank you, and she felt like she’s the only person in the room who matters. She hates how much she wants to chase that smile all the way backstage.
—
When you walk toward her after the set, your bandmates close behind you, her whole body tenses. She’s planned a dozen things to say, something witty or cold but all of them dissolve when you stop in front of her, cheeks flushed, shirt damp with sweat, and eyes bright.
“Avanzini,” you say breathlessly, still buzzing. “Thanks for coming. This is Alex the vocalist, Matt the bassist, Jess in sticks and—”
She barely nods at them cause her eyes don’t leave yours.
“Can I borrow you for a second?” she asks too quickly.
You nodded as you looked at your bandmates with a tight smile and in exchange they looked at you with teasing ones. You then follow her outside into the cool night air. “So, did we pass the audition?” you ask, leaning against the brick wall. And when she doesn’t answer right away. Her arms cross over her chest like she’s holding herself together, you waited for her with no expectations.
“You were loud,” she says, avoiding your gaze. “And you sweat a lot.”
“But that’s rock, well garage rock. And I don’t sweat a lot, it's the condensation of the room, not me.”
She finally looks at you, an unguarded expression on her face. “Why?” she asks. “Why do you care so much, you know, about this?”
You looked at her with confusion until it dawned on you. You’re not ready for the question, but you answer honestly. “I told you,” you say, your voice serious for the first time. “They’re my family. Music is the only thing that’s ever felt like home. And home is about to be foreclosed on.”
She’s silent for a long moment. Daniela looks at you intently, she’s used to memorising dance routines, in fact it only took her minutes to memorise the cheer routine yet she can’t seem to memorised you. Not that she’s incapable of it, but maybe she doesn't want to, maybe she’d rather look at you all the time, let it all sink in and come again.
“Saturday,” she says finally. “My party. One set. Three songs. And for God’s sake, try to look presentable. Don’t embarrass me.” She turns to leave, but you call after her.
“Hey, Daniela?” She pauses.
“Thank you.”
She doesn’t look back, but you see her shoulders relax just a fraction.
—
The night of the party, you play like your heart might never beat again. You wear your best or what passes for it not just for the stage, but in the quiet hope that Daniela might see you differently tonight. Performing has always been your sanctuary, your home. You thrive in the exchange of energy, the way the crowd rises and falls with each strum, each lyric. But tonight, your eyes catch hers and everything else slips into static.
Daniela is luminous. Effortlessly divine in a cropped top and loose, low-slung pants, she moves with the kind of grace that makes time stutter. A drink in one hand as she nods along to the music, and you find yourself playing louder, like your guitar could be the language she understands. And when she smiles, the whole room is just a backdrop. In that moment you knew, you’re done for. That’s it. You're head over heels for Daniela Avanzini.
You could write a hundred songs from this one look. You want to and you know that you would. Every chord, every lyric, every breath, just hers.
But then you see him.
Some frat guy in a white polo and jeans, confident in that glossy, effortless way. He leans in too close. She turns away from you and toward him. Her smile now belongs to his joke, not your melody. Their laughter, shared like a secret, that cuts sharper than any guitar string ever could. You try to shrug it off, try to lose yourself in the rhythm, but there’s a bitter knot curling inside you. Jealousy? Insecurity? Both, maybe. Whatever it is, it burns.
You keep playing. The crowd jumps, sways, sings. But your gaze keeps drifting back, like a song stuck on repeat. They look good together, in a magazine kind of way, polished and untouchable. And maybe you always knew. Maybe you’ve always known. Daniela Avanzini belongs to a different orbit. One with velvet ropes and perfect lighting. One where you’re not a performer, you’re a cause. A charity case she took pity on for one night.
You thought you cracked something open that night at The Dive. You thought maybe she saw you. But now she’s back in her world, and you’re still on the outside, watching her from the stage like a dream you were never meant to hold.
—
You don’t wait for the applause to fade. Even before the final chord stops humming in your bones, you’re slipping your guitar over your shoulder and mumbling something about feeling sick. Your bandmates nod, a mix of concern and post-show adrenaline dulling the edges of your lie. You don’t wait for questions. You move through the crowd like smoke, brushing past smiles and laughter, heading for the back door where the night air waits, cool and quiet. You offer Manon, Sophia, and Lara a small wave, one they barely catch, before disappearing into the dark with your guitar in hand and your heart dragging behind you.
Inside, Daniela is still glowing from the set. Something about the way you played, the way you looked at her, it sparked a warmth she doesn’t quite know what to do with. There's a wild, nervous energy in her chest, an urge to say something real. To tell you that you weren’t just “nice.” You were electric, magnetic, and impossible to look away from.
Tucked behind her back, she’s holding a bouquet of dandelions, a little soft offering. Similar to the gesture that you did in the library. Something about it felt right, maybe even romantic. But when she finds Sophia talking with your bandmates, you’re already gone.
“Oh they left early,” Sophia says. “Said they weren’t feeling great.”
Daniela blinks, the words hitting like cold water. She hadn’t expected that. She’d thought you’d stay. Maybe find her in the crowd. Maybe ask her what she thought. Maybe just talk to her once more. The disappointment comes quietly, a somewhat sharp ache she wasn’t prepared for.
She presses the bouquet into Jess’s hands with a forced smile. “For the band,” she says, brushing it off like it’s nothing. But it was something.
And after that, the rest of the night feels dim. The lights are still flashing, the music still loud, but it’s all gone grey. She finds herself scanning the door more times than she wants to admit, but you’re gone. And somehow, so is the rhythm.
—
You spend the next week treating her like a fire alarm, seen, heard, and avoided. Because every time you spot Daniela Avanzini across a hallway, every time her laugh cuts through the noise, the feelings from the party come rushing back, that bitter cocktail of being out of place, out of reach, and far from enough.
You’ve caught something worse than a crush, a full-blown, no-cure, deep-in-the-bone affection for a girl you were never supposed to have a chance with. And you know better. You know it’s a hopeless cause. So you pull away. You keep your head down. You become absence in motion.
Until one day, she finds you.
It’s lunch. Your sanctuary of invisibility. And then, a hush falls. The cafeteria buzz quiets like prey sensing a predator. You hear the scuff of expensive boots. And suddenly, she’s standing at your table.
Daniela Avanzini.
Unlike the time you ambushed her outside the gym, guitar in hand and heart on sleeve, she doesn’t flinch at the crowd. She wants them to watch. She wants it known that she’s looking for you.
“Why are you ignoring me?” she says, voice low but cutting. A blade wrapped in velvet.
You glance up, startled, mouth halfway to your soda straw. “How’d you know I was here?”
“I asked Sophia. Who asked Manon,” she replies, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Her arms are crossed and her expression is pure offense.
You look down at your tray, as if food can shield you from the truth. “I’m not ignoring you,” you lie. “I kept my promise. Remember? After we performed, I said I’d leave you alone.”
For a second, her face softens. Then out of nowhere the bratty armour clicks back into place like she’s afraid of being seen too clearly. “That’s the stupidest promise I’ve ever heard,” she scoffs, loud enough for the nearest tables to hear. “And Sophia once promised during a party not to make out with Manon in my guest room again, so that’s saying something.”
You blink. “What?”
“Whatever. I’ll see you after class. Don’t even think about hiding or running somewhere, Manon gave me your schedule.”
She spins on her heel and vanishes into the cafeteria like a storm. You sit there, stunned, chewing air and regret.
—
Later that day, your class ends. You’re at your locker, trying to shove a broken zipper back into place when it happens, a proof that your band’s set at the party meant something. A girl from your Maths class approaches, the kind of pretty that feels like sunlight through blinds, warm and not overwhelming. She compliments your performance, asks about your next gig. For a moment, the ache in your chest eases. You smile, laugh, crack a dumb joke, and feel a little lighter.
Then the air shifts. The shadow arrives before the voice.
Daniela Avanzini. Again.
“What’s this?” she asks, tone dipped in poison. Her gaze sweeps the girl from head to toe, all judgment and sharp angles. “Shopping for a groupie?”
The girl, who you didn’t even catch her name, falters. Her confidence crumbles under Daniela’s stare, and she mutters a quick excuse before slipping away, flushed and flustered.
You whip around, jaw slack. “What was that?!”
Daniela crosses her arms, defiant. “So I guess musicians really are players. Especially guitarists. Moving on fast, huh?”
“What are you talking about?” you say, exasperated. “Moving on from what? There’s nothing to move on from!”
She doesn’t flinch. Her eyes narrow. “I leave you alone for an hour and you’re already charming other women?”
You’re speechless. And she took advantage of it as she steps in closer.
“So I guess the party meant nothing to you, huh?” she says.
“Remember charity work, right?” she says, stepping even closer. Her voice drops into something quieter — not softer, but more dangerous. “You said you owed me. You said you keep your promises, correct?” You’re stunned silent. She’s too close.
“So,” she murmurs, her words curling around your ribs like smoke. “Take me on a date tonight.”
You blink once or maybe thrice, just enough to make you aware that you are not dreaming.
“What?”
“You heard me right. I don’t like repeating myself.” She leans in, eyes alight with challenge. “Did I make myself clear?"
You open your mouth, but nothing comes out.
“Good. I’ll see you at seven.”
And before your brain can catch up, before your heart can slow down, she turns and disappears into the crowd once again, like a storm retreating just before the sky breaks open. But then, halfway through the hallway she pauses. She turns struts back like she forgot something. She then stops in front of you again, her perfume threading through your breath.
“Oh,” she adds casually, making sure people around the hallway can hear her voice. “For tonight, make sure to wear that shirt you had on at my party. The black one. It’s my favourite. Okay?” she adds as she uses her fingers to tap you under your chin.
You’re left standing there, pulse roaring in your ears, certain of only one thing. Whatever Daniela’s saying with those pretty lips, you’ll agree.
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I’m so sorry to the anon who requested this! I misread the prompt, I saw masc!reader instead of masc!fem!reader, so I ended up using they/them pronouns instead of she/her. Also, sorry that this took so long to finish. I've actually had this sitting in my GDocs for a while now because I’ve been planning to work on my “rich x broke” trope 'series'. It includes 'Steel and Silk' which was originally meant to be Daniela's, 'Separate Worlds' is Sophia's, and the last one which I haven't finished yet, will be for another member. But since Sophia fits the sugar-mommy-ish vibe more, I ended up giving her "Steel and Silk" instead. So, this story became my way of finally including Daniela.
I’ve got tons of stuff sitting in my drafts, so don’t worry — I’ll try to release them once I manage to finish it lol. It’s just that my imagination only seems to kick in when I’m somewhere I really shouldn’t be writing fanfics.
Anyway, sorry again and I hope you guys like this one! :)))