#ongoing stories

🍒 ⋆ 🍑 🎀 𝐻𝑒𝓎, 𝒜𝓁𝒶𝓇𝓌𝓎𝓃𝓃𝒾𝓉𝑒𝓈❣ 🎀 🍑 ⋆ 🍒 Welcome to the Masterlist of all my Formula 1-inspired stories, a cozy little home for every chapter I’ve written and will write. From unexpected pregnancies to emotional slow-burns, you’ll find them all here neatly organized.

This post will be updated regularly, so feel free to check back often or bookmark it if you'd like. 💭

Thank you, truly, for every read, reblog, comment, like, share, or whisper in the tags. Your support means the world to me. You keep this tiny universe of mine alive. 🌙

With all my love, me 🫶

✨ Special thanks to Firefly Graphics for the gorgeous dividers I’ve used in every post. I’ve been using them since I started, and they’ve truly made my stories feel complete. Thank you for creating such beautiful, free resources. 💗

✅ ᴄᴏᴍᴘʟᴇᴛᴇᴅ ꜱᴛᴏʀɪᴇꜱ:

ʟᴀɴᴅᴏ ɴᴏʀʀɪꜱ

🍼 ᴜɴᴘʟᴀɴɴᴇᴅ (ꜰ1 x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ʟᴀɴᴅᴏ ɴᴏʀʀɪꜱ ᴀᴜ | ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ + ᴅʀᴀᴍᴀ)

✒️ ᴡʜᴇʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱɪʟᴇɴᴄᴇ ᴛᴏᴏᴋ ʜᴇʀ (ꜰ1 x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ʟᴀɴᴅᴏ ɴᴏʀʀɪꜱ ᴀᴜ | ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ + ᴅʀᴀᴍᴀ + ʀᴇᴅᴇᴍᴘᴛɪᴏɴ)

⏳ᴛᴏ ʟᴏᴠᴇ ʜɪᴍ ᴀɢᴀɪɴ, ʙᴇꜰᴏʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴇɴᴅ (ꜰ1 x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ʟᴀɴᴅᴏ ɴᴏʀʀɪꜱ ᴀᴜ | ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ + ɢʀɪᴇꜰ + ᴡʜᴀᴛ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ’ᴠᴇ ʙᴇᴇɴ)

💍ᴛɪᴇꜱ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ꜱᴛɪʟʟ ʙɪɴᴅ (ꜰ1 x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ʟᴀɴᴅᴏ ɴᴏʀʀɪꜱ ᴀᴜ | ꜱᴇᴄᴏɴᴅ ᴄʜᴀɴᴄᴇꜱ + ʜᴇᴀʀᴛᴀᴄʜᴇ + ʜᴇᴀʟɪɴɢ)

🫱🏼‍🫲🏼ꜱᴏᴜʟꜱᴛʀᴜᴄᴋ (ꜰ1 x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ʟᴀɴᴅᴏ ɴᴏʀʀɪꜱ ᴀᴜ | ꜱᴏᴜʟᴍᴀᴛᴇꜱ + ʟᴏɴɢɪɴɢ + ꜰᴀᴛᴇ)

🧜🏻‍♀️ᴇᴠᴇɴ ᴀꜰᴛᴇʀ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏᴛʜɪɴɢ (ꜰ1 x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ʟᴀɴᴅᴏ ɴᴏʀʀɪꜱ ᴀᴜ | ꜰᴏʀʙɪᴅᴅᴇɴ ᴀᴛᴛʀᴀᴄᴛɪᴏɴ + ᴍʏꜱᴛᴇʀʏ + ꜱʟᴏᴡ ʙᴜʀɴ)

🛏️ʀᴏᴏᴍ 713 (ꜰ1 x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ʟᴀɴᴅᴏ ɴᴏʀʀɪꜱ ᴀᴜ | ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ + ʜᴇᴀʟɪɴɢ)

✈️ ꜰʟɪɢʜᴛ ʀɪꜱᴋ (ꜰ1 x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ʟᴀɴᴅᴏ ɴᴏʀʀɪꜱ ᴀᴜ | ꜱʟᴏᴡ ʙᴜʀɴ + ᴘᴏᴡᴇʀ ɪᴍʙᴀʟᴀɴᴄᴇ)

🌅ʙᴇꜰᴏʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴜɴ ꜱᴇᴛꜱ ᴅᴏᴡɴ (ꜰ1 x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ʟᴀɴᴅᴏ ɴᴏʀʀɪꜱ ᴀᴜ | ʜᴇᴀʀᴛʙʀᴇᴀᴋ + ꜱᴇᴄᴏɴᴅ ᴄʜᴀɴᴄᴇꜱ)

ʟᴇᴡɪꜱ ʜᴀᴍɪʟᴛᴏɴ

🕶️ʙᴇᴛᴡᴇᴇɴ ʟᴀᴘꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ʟɪꜰᴇᴛɪᴍᴇꜱ (ꜰ1 x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ʟᴇᴡɪꜱ ʜᴀᴍɪʟᴛᴏɴ ᴀᴜ | ᴄʜᴀɴᴄᴇ ᴇɴᴄᴏᴜɴᴛᴇʀ + ᴍʏꜱᴛᴇʀʏ)

💌 Lost? Looking for a chapter? Just want to scream about something? My inbox and asks are always open.

💬 Please like, reblog, comment, or tag your chaos, I read every word, and your reactions breathe life into my writing.

I received a comment on one of my stories that I hadn't updated in months. And the comment was very motivating, short but they let me know just how much they like the story and I actually ended up writing a new chapter within the next week.

No reaction on the new chapter and I'm just sitting here not getting it.

I don't know. Maybe I'll get another comment when it once again takes me months to update the story?

But why not comment when you read the chapter? I mean usually my muse decides which story to work on but there are occassions I want to write but don't know on which story and in that case I usually go by popularity of the story. The less comments a story gets the less likely it is that I force myself to sit down and work on it.

I don't know. I just don't get it. And it makes me kinda sad. And it's not like we're talking about indepth paragarphs of comments here, I get that those take time and need to be done when you have the time. I get that, I write those comments on stories and it takes a lot of time and often at least one reread of the chapter.

I'm talking about the "great story, liked the new chapter can't wait for the next one" comments. Which I love and appreciate just as much. I just like reactions and to me a kudos isn't much of a reaction. It's a "this story's alright and I'll read it but it's not good enough to use words to tell the author how I feel about it." And that might be unfair but it's just how I feel.

Now I'm wondering if I'm the only one who feels that way about kudos. Let me know your thoughts on them.

I guess my rant is done and I'm going to try and get my as out of the self-pity zone it is currently in and into doing something productive.

Nestled amongst tall and twisting trees was a long carriage road. It made its way through a gently curving path that offered views of immaculately maintained grounds of brilliantly cut hedge figures and masterfully sculpted statues. When the path finally did open completely, it would be to reveal Tavish Manor. It was a wonder to behold, artistic in its design, sacred in its placement of rooms, and the air around the manor was eerily still. No sounds of birds or wildlife seemed to pollute the air. Gardens of seemingly endless flowers bloomed year-round, roses and many other blooms exploded in a rainbow of colors. To the outside world, it was a picturesque home. 

To Countess Hestia Tavish, it was a well-decorated cage. She had inherited so much when her father had died and sadly when her mother perished of delicate self-decoration with a blade. Fortune, land, and title all transferred to Hestia, the only child and sole heir. Really it was a guess that her father was dead, he’d simply vanished one day and perhaps that betrayal had been what drove her mother mad? Not that it really mattered, it was all Hestia’s and she had her own battles to deal with. 

Such wealth, power, and well...her mother had passed on her beauty as well...Hestia dealt with circling wolves from all corners of her day to day life. Suitors claiming protection and not a chain of servitude. The Crown even urged her to accept, some low toady urging caution in solitude. 

In fact, one such letter now lay burning in the fireplace, the sudden surge of fuel to the fire making the flames spark to life and illuminated the darkest corners in the study. Hestia sat upon her father’s desk, a glass of wine in one hand while the other rested upon the desk, fingers splayed and tapping to some unheard rhythm. 

Hestia Tavish took on certain traits from both her parents. Dark obsidian hair from her mother and father, unnaturally green eyes with flecks of gold from her father, and well...her full lips that ticked up into a less than amused smile had come solely from her mother. She wore, at the moment at least, a black gown that hugged her form in a way that no priest of the light would approve of. In the adjacent room was the sound of chamber music, a slow and grim waltz playing through the air. She entertained the nobles with their requests, every now and then it garnered her a month or so of peace before the next demands came in the form of tactfully written invitations. Pushing away from the desk she moved into the room, her face turning mask-like as she dawned a forced smile and played hostess. 

Faint ticks filled the air as Kat stared down at the pocket watch in her hand. Less than twenty-four hours until she’d be on vacation, not even sure if Victoria was going to show, but she held out hope. This was something that was supposed to bring her ease and relaxation, yet there was a slight bit of stress still in the back of her mind. She hasn’t been away from the Unit for a full week before, to be disconnected from the on goings of the City. While she knew the Unit was in good hands, she still stressed a bit. She had learned to know nothing but this life.

With a soft sigh she slid the golden watch back into her pocket, staring ahead at the wall in her office that was covered in papers, pictures and reports. There were various pins of different colors stuck across the collage of papers and maps, some connected by corresponding colored string. Kat idly cracked her knuckles as her gaze drifted over each pin, following each thread. There was a sudden knock at her door, the first meeting before she left. 

“It’s open.” She called out, keeping her gaze on the wall. She knew who it was, her Head of Intelligence.

(Long read below the cut. Snippets and small details of the inner workings.)

Hide...run away and hide. That was the only option that her dear brother could offer to them? Siida refused to believe that was the only choice. She had seen her students, her charges turned to little more than visceral wallpaper and those that remained were now likely enslaved or worse. 

It wouldn’t stand...it couldn’t stand. 

The Matron of The Nine refused to give up. She’d always been the voice of hope, but now it seemed she would have to wield both a salve for healing and a blade for vengeance. Having nearly lost all that she loved, the little flower was preparing to grow thorns. 

If Lazarius was not willing to stand and fight...Siida knew she had other realms to call upon...and at this moment, the cost of such help sounded reasonable. 

'I don't know, it's . . . ugh, I'm so tired of this, Squiddles. He just keeps . . . he's just so petulant. I'm so tired of coaxing it out of him, I'm sick to death of it. I hate it when he does it. I hate it! All I ever want to do when I'm around him is . . . DO SOMETHING -- anything, anything at all, just move something --, but he never lets me. I can't make him behave, I can't seem to get him to behave, even though I know exactly what to do if only I had my chance. And when I do have my chance, I don't do it. I keep getting so attached. I can't seem to stop . . . .'

She is shaking her head, with that tormented inward look I am now familiar with, the look which reveals to me how helplessly near the surface of her mind is the great dark ocean which might unleash the mind-tweaking torrents I fear above all things.

'Fine,' she says. 'That's what I thought. Now would you like to talk about something else?'

'No,' I tell her. 'I'd rather not.'

'Fine,' she says. 'So, how are you feeling today?'

I take a deep breath. I am steeling myself to speak again.

'Dear reader,' I say, 'I'm going to ask you to give something a chance. Contemplate an entire life. Put it all before you and think about it: a history, beginning to end, the history of a person in whom you have an interest. Imagine it from the inside, imagine it as he might have imagined it: you, as it were, writing your memoirs. Everything that happened, everything that you remember, all the little details you'd never imagined would be important.'

'I'd rather not,' she says.

'I'm not asking you to imagine everything. I'm only asking you to imagine one thing. Imagine, like, one moment, any moment. Just take it. Not everything that ever happened to you. Just one thing.

She is looking down at the table, twisting her napkin around, twirling it. I can read her expression now. It is the same expression I have seen in myself when I am trying to bear up under a weight that is too great for me, too great for my strength, but which I must bear anyway because I have no other choice. She knows, and I know, that she cannot bear the weight of my great darkness, but she carries it anyway because she has nowhere else to put it. At times, she has to accept the fact that a task she cannot manage will not be done, and go do something else. But for now, this is how we are; and therefore this is what we are doing.

'Okay,' she says. 'Where?'

'Anywhere,' I say. 'ANYWHERE. Just so long as it is nowhere where anyone else is. You know what I mean? Nobody else's life. It has to be this one right here.'

I look around. There is no one here. No one is near us. We are at the beck and call of a handful of attendants in a bleak, dilapidated office on the edge of nowhere, and nobody else is around, or seems likely to be, for any appreciable length of time. Perfect.

'Alright,' she says.

'Imagine,' I say.

'Hold on,' she says. 'Imagine what?'

Anything, I think. So long as it isn't a death.

An imaginary life, alright, alright, I think. Think of anything. Anything at all you want. Any little thing. Any tiny thing. Anything that happened.

Just a moment, I think. The important thing is that it is a moment.

'A moment,' I say. 'And then nothing. Okay?

'Okay. Okay, I understand. But . . .'

'DO SOMETHING,' I snap. 'ANYTHING! '

'Well, you're not getting this,' she snaps back.

I want to say something but I can't say anything. The words are near my lips but not in my mind. Why is my head still so dark?

'You're right, I'm not getting this, I'm NOT GETTING IT, you're not even giving me a chance,' she says.

I hate it when she says that. When she says that, she makes it sound like I am holding back, and holding back in order to get what I want, which is not true. I do not want anything, nothing! I want to be just . . . one . . . please . . .

'I am getting you a chance,' I say.

'Then give me the chance!' she snaps.

What is this? What is going on?

'I want you to do something,' she says. 'I want you to imagine an imaginary life. I want you to imagine and then I want you to tell me about it. I'm not making this up. I actually want you to do this.'

It seems like it shouldn't be so hard, not that hard anyway. The hard part is inside. The hard part is that he does not listen to me, the hard part is that he is not behaving, the hard part is that he is inside something, something that I do not understand, something too big to understand, something that the other person does not know about -- but I know, I know what he is, and I know what he is not, and I know that I have to say the words, the words have to come out of my mouth -- I have to say the words because --

Do something, Dear Reader, please do something, give me just a moment --

When I saw him, at first I didn't know what it meant. I had never seen him before, but I knew immediately, at first, that the man who was sitting by the waterfall was my Michael. And I knew that he was called Michael, and that he was fine. But I did not know who he was, or what I was. I only knew that my Michael was fine.

I didn't know what he was doing there, or what I was doing, or where I was. I also knew that he was looking at me. I also knew that we knew each other. I also knew that he was the reason for everything.

Goodbye, Squiddles, she says.

I am on my own.

'Dear Reader,' I say, 'this is all I wanted to say.'

'Goodbye,' I say.

And then, as if by accident, she lifts the lamp on the table and moves it, so that her face is suddenly in shadow.

Deep within the bosom of the Stranglethorn Jungles, there was a camp. Nestled among the tall tree’s and lit up by a singular campfire and armed with only three souls. Siida, Marseille, and Zalra. They’d come here on business pertaining to the order and seeking revenge for the actions taken against the House...against Lazarius. 

Siida had sat and spoke with her friends for some time before retiring for what remained of the evening. At the first light of dawn they would meet with their  foe head on. No tricks, no disguises, but simply as they were. It was in this simplicity that Siida found herself unable to sleep. How would she handle this creature?

It was first and foremost in her mind that the magister needed to suffer, to know the weight of his transgressions...but how to do this without spilling blood?

She was to be or already was Matron. She needed to stand tall and carry the same weight as the rest of the council...so in that light she cast herself, plotting the night away. 

When dawn came, she had her answer and knew full well the price that would need to be paid. 

.:. Tarnished Wings .:.

What do you do when everything you know is yanked out from under you? When the world you knew was exciting and full of wonder kicks you out on the street and tells you to "go get a job", how do you deal with the ordinary? This is the question Silver Sense is faced with. A very unique individual, faced with a very ordinary problem. And he may just find the most wondrous answer.