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immoral-stranger · 1 day

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𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐂𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐊𝐢𝐝 // 𝐋𝐒𝟐

Summary: “I’m tired of acting like I’m not in love with you,” — Or, the one where two people are experiencing the worst year of their lives respectively. Falling in love shouldn't be that difficult on top of it all, right?

Pairing: Logan Sargeant x Fem! Reader (team photographer, skater girl™, has tattoos and is vaguely bilingual)

Word count: 23.3k

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI ❀ Angst: panic attacks, anxiety, self-deprecation, mention of medication, anxiety disorders and ADHD. Reader has a shitty family as well. Smut: penetrative sex, they're needy as hell, otherwise very vanilla. Fluff: she fell first, he fell harder, a bunch of silent crushing on each other, a very sappy and happy ending. Other: inaccurate timeline and race results.

A/N: I'm back! I planned this before Zandvoort and before Logan got dropped and didn't feel like changing it to fit reality, so Logan gets to finish the season in this fictional universe. He also get's to go to Indycar because I'm sad and maybe delusional. Please tell me what you think ♡

Oxfordshire, UK

The rain drizzled down as you cruised around the almost empty parking lot on your board, the drops making little sounds as they hit the brim of your rain hat. February in England wasn’t that great—no snow, just rain and cold weather. Awful, but doable for someone who had a skateboard stuck to their feet ninety percent of the year.

You were early, which was uncommon for you. But Angie had told you to come early, and you didn’t want to screw up on what was technically your first day on the job. Having someone you saw as an older sister as your boss had its pros and cons.

“Should you really be skating in the rain?” Angie called out, standing underneath the awning above the main entrance, shielded from the rain. Her Williams-blue raincoat was pulled up to her chin, and you could see her visibly shiver from the cold.

You had received a similar jacket, amongst a lot of other team gear, in advance for your first day. It wasn’t exactly your style, but you guessed that wasn’t the point of having team gear in the first place. Or any kind of work uniform, really. The coat kept you warm and dry, that was all that you could ask for.

“Can’t you see how slow I’m going?” you protested, laughing at her cautiousness.

You knew what you were doing. It wasn’t advised by anyone to skate when it was raining outside, but casually riding in a flat, empty parking lot at a slow speed, just to not get your shoes wet, wasn’t dangerous. Not for you, at least. You had been skating for close to two decades.

Angie had asked you to take some pictures of the building, and then take pictures of all the team members as they arrived at the factory.

You had held a camera in your hands for almost as long as your feet had stood on a skateboard. The two interests kind of coexisted and fed off each other as you grew older. Only photography was able to make you money, though.

You’d read in an article that the Williams factory was supposed to be modest in comparison to McLaren’s or Red bull’s spaceship-like buildings, but this was still huge to you. And you hadn’t even gotten inside the building yet.

As cars filled the parking lot, you snapped photos of the people going inside. Mechanics, engineers, people on the communications team—it seemed like everyone was present for this pre-season meetup. Maybe it was because it was the last one before the team flew off to Bahrain.

Some smiled at you as they spotted the big DSLR camera in your hands, others walked right past. Angie seemed to know almost everyone as she greeted them by the entrance. Sure, she was some kind of high-up marketing manager, but recognising so many people seemed excessive. Or maybe just impressive.

She’d given you a crash course in Formula 1 as she had hired you. You had heard her talk about her job on many occasions, even catching a race or two when it was on television, but you quickly realised that you didn’t know half as much as you probably needed to.

It was hard for you to even pinpoint who were the Williams’ drivers as they both came walking across the parking lot. Angie’s immediate perked attention and widened smile told you everything you needed to know. You would need to get good photos of them both.

You tried your best to remember who was who, and when you recalled that one raced under the Thai flag and the other for the US, it was quite easy.

Alex was tall, and happy. He walked with quick steps to get away from the light rain, greeting Angie with an effortless hug. He had no problem smiling when he saw you with the camera, raising his eyebrows at your stance on the skateboard.

Logan wasn’t far behind. He looked younger, and less confident in the way he carried himself. His steps were slower as he too made his way under the awning. He reminded you of kids you’d gone to school with, with their boyish charm and cluelessness. He was young, and sweet—maybe even beautiful.

You could see it all as you lifted your camera to spot him from the viewfinder. His smile didn’t form as easily as Alex’s had done, but when it did, and he flashed you his stupidly perfect and pearly white American teeth, you couldn’t help but feel how the corners of your lips turned upward. This was going to be a difficult year if you already were developing a minor crush on the first cute boy you’d seen.

“Who’s Paddington?” Alex asked Angie after he had greeted her.

You could overhear him perfectly fine as you pretended to take some photos of the main building.

“What? Oh, because the red bucket hat?” she chuckled, shaking her head. “That’s our new team photographer.”

Logan too gave Angie a quick hug. After all, she was one of the more tolerable people forcing them to do social media content.

He laughed at the nickname Alex gave you. Logan would’ve gone with Tony Hawk over Paddington, but maybe that was because he found the fictional little bear with a red hat and a blue coat to be a very British reference.

“She looks about twelve,” Alex remarked, watching as you adjusted something on the lens, your movements precise and confident despite your youthful appearance.

Angie laughed again, the sound warm and contagious. “She’s the same age as Logan.”

Logan playfully pouted at his two colleagues joking. He guessed the both of you looked young. Maybe too young to be in such a professional setting.

“She’s my best friend’s little sister. I’m mostly being kind by offering her a chance to work with us,” Angie continued to explain, raising her voice slightly to get your attention.

She didn’t really need to, because you had heard every single word of their conversation.

“That’s her way of secretly telling you that I’m severely underqualified for this job and I’m using it as an excuse to travel the world,” you said under your breath, your gaze still fixated on the viewfinder as you slowly skated towards them.

Same, was what Logan immediately wanted to say, but instead he just laughed, unsure of how well his self-deprecating humour would translate.

You stepped off your board, before popping it up with your foot on the tail end to grab it with your hand. You hadn’t expected them to laugh, because it wasn’t exactly a joke. You guessed it kind of came across as one, though.

You told Alex and Logan your name, gently reaching out your hand to shake theirs, but Angie’s hand pulling down the brim of your hat over your eyes stopped you in your tracks.

“I have a feeling you’re going to be stuck with Paddington around here,” she laughed.

“The Williams hat you gave me can’t stand the rain,” you argued, fixing the hat back into place.

It was true. The cotton of the team hat she had given you would’ve been drenched at this point. But you still appreciated her effort because she thought the hat was more your style than the classic baseball cap that most of the other employees sported.

“You’re such a child, you know that, right?”

That was something you’d heard all your life, because you somehow always turned out to be the youngest one at every family function. You didn’t take it as an insult when Angie said it, though. She had valued what you brought to the table for as long as you could remember. Maybe that was the only child within her showing through.

“That’s kind of on you, Angie,” you pointed out. “If you hadn’t been mostly kind, I wouldn’t be here to annoy you.”

You saw how Angie wanted to argue back, but was interrupted by the sound of your ringtone. Teenagers by My Chemical Romance. You had intention behind it when you initially picked it (something about rebellion and fuck the system), but now it was mostly a running joke that you couldn’t let go of, no matter how many times you swapped phones.

You also loved the embarrassment that flashed over Angie’s face as it interrupted her. Alex and Logan couldn’t help but laugh as you excused yourself to answer.

Logan watched as you slowly cruised over the parking lot, phone up to your ear as you talked to whoever it was over the phone. He heard you raise your voice, speaking in a language he didn’t recognise, or at least didn’t understand.

“Her family sort of… resents her? So, I did what I thought was right.”

Angie felt the need to explain as the three of them heard you start to argue. She knew it had to be your mother calling, because you had given up on arguing with your father already.

“Is she at least a good photographer?” Alex asked with a sigh.

“She’s the best.”

. . .

Melbourne, Australia

. . .

The season started with a whirlwind. You definitely hadn’t mentally prepared for the challenge it would be to travel nonstop, and even if you had some downtime, the anxiety of always being on the move didn’t leave your body. Before you had the chance to experience a new city, you had to be thinking of when you were going to the next one.

And you were rusty. You didn’t yet have the right mindset to be in the position you were in, constantly forgetting things and not getting the perfect photos. You’d done sports photography for a long time, but there was a difference in speed between x-games sports and fucking Formula 1.

That was why you found yourself back at the hotel in Melbourne, riding the lift to your floor to retrieve some equipment you’d forgotten in your room, your body teeming with nerves and embarrassment over what had just transpired. While Formula 1 was a travelling circus with a lot of important and famous people, you hadn’t expected to actually run into anyone that would leave you speechless. You were usually too good at talking.

As you exited the lift, you spotted Logan in the hallway, looking like he was about to enter his own hotel room. Your speedy steps interrupted his actions, and even if you two hadn’t really had a one-on-one conversation before, you had to tell someone about who you just ran into.

“I just made a fool out of myself in front of Keegan Palmer,” you exhaled loudly as your steps came to a stop in front of him.

“Who?” Logan questioned, holding the door to his room open, a little bit taken aback by your boldness.

“Olympic skateboarder,” you clarified. “He’s kind of a big deal, and he’s friends with Lando somehow.”

Logan remembered something about a famous skateboarder in the back of his mind as he let out a short laugh. “So, what did you do? Ask for a selfie?”

“I wish. No, I just ran into them in the lobby and couldn’t form a sentence because I was shocked. I literally froze,” you groaned, rubbing your temples as your emotions started to settle.

As they did, you took in Logan’s expression. While you hadn’t necessarily talked much before, you had taken a lot of photos of him. He always portrayed a certain charm, even when he was focused on racing or unaware of the camera. He didn’t do that now. Something seemed off with him from his blank stare at you. He was there, able to laugh at your awkward interaction, but he wasn’t present.

“Shouldn’t you be at the paddock?” Logan asked after a moment of silence.

“I forgot an SD card in my hotel room,” you explained. “Shouldn’t you be at the paddock?”

His face twisted in disbelief. “You haven’t heard?”

“Heard what?”

“I’m not driving,” he answered plainly, but the words landed heavily. “Alex is taking my car because they don’t have a spare chassis to repair the damage from his crash yesterday.”

You blinked out of confusion as you raised your eyebrows. “Is that even allowed? It’s your car.”

“I don’t know, but it’s probably for the better,” Logan shrugged with a certain nonchalance. “I don’t want to make a big deal out of it.”

“You’re paying for a mistake that he made. It is a big deal,” you argued.

You’d practically ran up to him to talk about your embarrassing moment that you had failed to even acknowledge what kind of mood he was in. That was a bad habit of yours—badly reading people and basically running them over with your talking.

And here he was, feeling like shit over a decision that no one thought was possible. He probably had no will to talk about some skateboarder with you.

You noticed the way his hands trembled slightly, holding a tight grip on the door to the point where his knuckles whitened. The realisation hit you at the same time his expression shifted, his bravado cracking under the weight of something much deeper, his breath coming quicker than normal.

“Mate, are you okay?” you asked him softly.

“I’m fine,” he muttered, but his wavering voice betrayed him.

Logan wasn’t angry at the team, or at Alex. He knew that it was the right decision because Alex would have a better chance to score points. He probably would’ve made the same decision if he were team principal.

He knew he wasn’t good enough to deserve a chance.

He knew he wasn’t good enough to argue his case.

He knew he wasn’t good enough.

It was killing him inside. Logan wanted to flee the scene. He wished he could rewind time five minutes and just walk into his hotel room instead of stopping when he heard your steps. He wouldn’t have had to explain this to you. He wouldn’t have had to feel this way in front of another person. It had been bad enough when he got the news in a conference room filled with team members.

This was different, though—you two alone in a hotel corridor.

He felt like he was choking, like the feelings inside of him wanted to come out but he had no idea how to let them out. He couldn’t get enough air in his lungs, no matter how heavily he breathed. He’d never felt like this before.

“You’re having a panic attack, dipshit,” you stated.

It sounded like you were joking, but in reality you were fighting concern with humour. You could see exactly what was happening to him, all too familiar yourself with the overwhelming feeling of when anxiety finally catches up with you.

Logan looked at you, eyes wide. “N-no, I’m not. I’ve never—” he stammered, shaking his head.

“You haven’t had one before? Oh, fuck.”

It hadn’t even crossed your mind that people in their twenties could’ve gone their entire lives without experiencing an anxiety attack. You could handle them quite well after years of being a miserable child and teen, but Logan didn’t look like he knew what was even going on. The first one wouldn’t always be the worst one, but right now, this would be hard on him.

You took a step closer, your heart suddenly racing. You didn’t know if he wanted you to touch him, so you acted hesitantly at first. But by his shocked expression and shaking hands, you knew that he needed help calming down. He looked lost, like the ground had suddenly shifted beneath his feet and he didn’t know how to steady himself.

“God, here—” you reached out, grabbing his hand, your fingers firm but gentle. “Just hold my hand.”

You dragged him into his room, to get privacy if someone entered the floor. He collapsed against the door as soon as it shut, sliding down it to sit on the floor. You crouched in front of him, now holding both of his hands to stop their shaking and to centre his focus.

“Mimic my breathing, look at my chest,” you instructed, guiding him as you took deep and steady breaths, making sure that he could see the tempo in which they rose and fell.

Logan couldn’t get any words out, but he tried his best to calm down. He was slowly able to sync his breathing with yours, the tightness in his chest and the pounding in his head easing as he got enough oxygen in his system again. The feeling inside was still foreign to him, like it wasn’t palpable at all.

He realised he was crying when he felt a cold tear slide down his cheek. He wasn’t sure when was the last time he had cried in front of someone, but he was past the point of embarrassment.

You didn’t seem to care about it anyway. You had a kindness in your eyes that was unexplainable to him, and he wondered how you knew how to deal with this so well.

“See?” you whispered after a moment. “You’re okay. Just keep breathing with me.”

Logan closed his eyes for a second, feeling his wet eyelashes hit his cheeks. Your voice grounded him and he couldn’t think of anything else in the moment. He couldn’t think of racing. He couldn’t think of Alex.

He thought of your unwavering grip on both his hands, sending a calm feeling through his body. He thought of the sound of your steady breathing, making it easy for him to follow.

He slowly opened his eyes to look down at your intertwined fingers, your thumb rubbing soothing circles on the back of his hand. Logan had seen that you had tattoos before, but now was the first time he was close enough to distinguish them.

Like patchwork, they lined both of your arms, getting cut off by the hem of your Williams t-shirt right before your shoulder. They looked like doodles. There was a disco ball, and flowers, and a stamp from your home country. As his eyes trailed further, he could see a few on your legs as well, revealed because you were wearing shorts. You had a tattooed band-aid on your knee and a ghost on skateboard on your lower thigh. He assumed they had a connection.

“I like your tattoos,” Logan heard himself say, voice thick from the tears.

You glanced at him, a smile tugging at the corners of your lips. The tenseness of your body softened, relieved that he seemed to be coming back to himself. “You do? You don’t seem like the type.”

Logan shook his head, wiping his face with the back of his hand. “Oh, I’m not—but I like them on you.”

He grabbed your hand again afterwards, unsure of why but relieved that you just continued rubbing absentminded circles. You flexed your arm slightly, turning it so that Logan could get a better look of the inked designs.

“What are the paw prints for?” he asked, genuinely curious now that his mind had space for other thoughts. You had four little black paw prints on the inside of your arm.

“My parents dog,” you said, warmth filling your voice. “A golden retriever named Tater Tot.”

He chuckled, a sound that felt foreign after the weight of his emotions. “They have tater tots outside of America?”

“Barely,” you replied. “Which is a shame because I love them. We went to Florida on vacation when I was a kid, and I think I ate about a thousand tater tots from the hotel buffet.”

“Florida?” Logan dared to look at your face fully now, intrigued. “I’m from Florida.

“I know, Logan.”

You laughed gently. His Americanness didn’t go unnoticed by anyone in a place like this, where most of the team members were European. It was also one of the few things that had stuck with you from Angie’s rambling about her job—that she had to work with an actual Florida man, like they were mythological creatures.

“We went to Orlando. Disney World and all that, y’know?”

“Yeah, the classic American pilgrimage,” he smiled, then hesitated. “Have you been back? To America, I mean.”

You shrugged, your expression shifting to something more neutral, as if you were weighing the pros and cons in your mind. “No, it’s not really… something I want to do? With war criminals as presidents, and guns at grocery stores—oh, and no butter on your sandwiches?” You shook your head dramatically. “That’s my personal hell.”

Logan laughed again, feeling a slight stinging pain in his chest that he decided to disregard. If he kept on breathing deeper, he knew that it would go away on its own.

You watched as he winced, even if he tried to hide it from you. You took a moment to breathe with him again before continuing. “I have a friend who moved to San Francisco, though. She lives with this skateboarding collective and uh, it seems really nice.”

That was maybe the only reason you would go to the US, for more than the American grands prix of course. It was an old university friend who skated competitively. Even if you weren’t on the same level, you still felt like a month or two on the west coast could do your head and mental health a favour.

“That might be a bucket list thing for me,” you explained, at which Logan smiled.

You observed his face, glossy blue eyes from tears and messy blond hair from the chaos he had just experienced. A certain hopelessness lingering in the air that you tried to not think about too much. It was still too early to tell how the season would end.

“I feel a lot calmer now, uh… so thank you for all that,” he said, showing gratitude. He didn’t know how you’d known exactly what to say, but you had pulled him back from the edge, and that mattered more than anything.

“Yeah, distraction tends to work quite well,” you replied, giving him a knowing look. “You should maybe talk to someone if this becomes a reoccurring thing.”

His smile faded, but he nodded. Logan didn’t know now what this could lead to, but maybe he needed to prepare himself for feeling like this. He kind of wanted to talk to you about it, making a mental reminder to ask if panic attacks were common for you.

“We should probably get back to the paddock,” he murmured as realisation hit him.

He would have to face a lot of questions, and he was destined to put on a brave face, showing that this wasn’t something that had bothered him.

“Only if you feel like it. I don’t care if we get in trouble,” you said, reassuring him.

He shook his head, dropping the hold he had of your hands as he stood up and smoothed out his shorts.

“I’ll be alright, I think.”

. . .

Miami, USA

. . .

It became a thing for you to calm Logan down.

You'd said it yourself: It was too early to tell how the season would play out. But race after race, you grew more certain—this Williams car might just be the worst on the grid. And while you knew close to nothing about the engineering and mechanical side of things, you realised that neither did most of the audience. That was why people started to blame the drivers instead.

It didn’t really get to you—until Miami. That was when you felt anger over racing for the first time in your life, but absolutely not the last.

The Miami sun had been relentless, casting a hot haze over the track and the bustling energy of the crowd. The faint smell of burnt rubber lingered in the air as you clutched your camera, squinting through the lens, trying to spot the cars as they zoomed by in a blur of colour and speed. The piercing sound of engines roaring filled your ears, but it was a sudden crash that made your heart drop.

You hadn’t been too far away from the exact barrier when the crash happened. And when you realised that it was Logan, getting pushed off the track by Magnussen for a measly 18th position, you felt rage inside. He didn’t even get to finish his home race because of someone else’s carelessness.

By the time you made your way to the garage, the race had ended. The sound of people cheering for Lando’s first win was still deafening. Logan was checked by the medics but had been released soon after. When you found him, he was sitting in his driver’s room, still in his racing suit with his helmet beside him, his face flushed red and tense. His eyes met yours through the open door and you hesitated going to talk to him at first, but with a slight nod, he showed that it was okay.

“Sooo… Magnussen is a cunt,” you blurted out, leaning in the doorway, the words escaping before you had a chance to filter them.

Logan couldn’t help but huff out a laugh in frustration. It was an empty laugh, the kind that didn’t quite reach up to sparkle his eyes with any genuine effect of your humorous words. Instead, the only thing adding light to his eyes were the tears threatening to fall. You’d seen it before.

You felt heat rise to your cheeks as you realised what you had said. “I’m sorry, I don’t actually know him, that was really harsh.”

“Well, I’m glad you said it because I’m not allowed to,” he muttered in response, looking down at his hands, pulling at loose skin from his cuticles.

He sighed loudly, leaning to rest his head on the wall behind him. You moved his helmet to sit beside him, knowing now that you weren’t pushing any boundaries. You wouldn’t exactly call yourselves friends—you didn’t really know anything about each other—but having travelled and worked so closely together for two months now, you were starting to learn how his post-race emotions functioned.

“I think I might be the living embodiment of it could be worse,” Logan stated.

“Yeah, you could be in that series where they race electric scooters,” you joked.

The corners of his mouth turned upward for a split second, then he thought about how the people racing scooters probably were having more fun than him this season.

A silence settled between you, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. You watched him for a moment, noticing the tension still visible in the tight set of his jaw. The weight of the season was bearing down on him—the constant pressure, the unfair expectations.

“You don’t have to stay,” he said softly, eyes downcast.

“I want to,” you replied without hesitation.

He looked up at you, fully taking in your appearance. Miami made everyone hot and bothered, and not in the good way. A sheen of sweat coated your forehead, and your skin had gotten more golden from being under the sun. Just as he spotted a fresh scratch on your elbow that he assumed was from skating, he also acknowledged the shirt you were wearing.

It wasn’t the William’s kit. It had his face on it, with the American flag and a bald eagle behind him. Perfectly oversized in your street-style-skater way. The text on it said wtf is a kilometer.

He snorted out loud, getting your attention. “I like your shirt.”

“It’s cool, right?” you replied, tugging at the hem. “A little girl from the fan zone gave me this friendship bracelet too.”

You reached out your wrist for him to see, baby blue beads rattling together. He carefully moved his fingers to twist it, showing him how white alphabet beads spelled out his surname, right there on your wrist. You were fully decked out to support him today… and he hadn’t even managed to finish the race.

As his hands moved, you saw how they were practically shaking, something his nerves caused him to do. It was an uncontrollable response to the adrenaline and pent-up frustration.

“You’re not alright, are you?” you asked gently.

He didn’t answer at first. Instead, he stared ahead, eyes glassy. Then, after a moment, he let out a shaky breath. “Can you say something to distract me? Tell me something about you that I don’t know.”

You realised why he asked that. Like with the tattoos in Melbourne, distraction had worked on his anxiety before. You didn’t know if he had experienced more panic attacks or if he had tried to talk to someone about what had happened, but if you could help even a little bit by just yapping, you would do it whenever he asked.

You thought for a second, thinking of something light-hearted to tell him. An idea popped into your head as you pulled out your phone from your pocket. “Oh, I started this instagram diary thing to get some use out of all the photos and videos I take. That should tell you everything about me.”

The screen showed a grid of colourful photos, and Logan immediately scooted closer to get a better look. They were themed and edited to match together with long captions to actually mimic a diary. Your account was relatively small, mostly followed by old friends and members of the Williams team.

You didn’t really have anything to hide, so you handed him the phone to let him scroll freely. There were weekly posts, one from every country you had visited thus far and also ones from when you were back in England. He’d learnt by now that you weren’t English, but lived with Angie and her fiancé Matthew during this season, only because employees needed to be based in the UK.

“You really get out there and explore every time we’re in a new city?” he asked, slightly amazed after stopping at the post from Australia. It was a photo dump with everything from the beach, to a skatepark, to you enjoying the nightlife.

“Yeah, but my schedule is not as busy as yours,” you replied, your lips curving into a small smile. “You should join sometime, maybe not to a skatepark, but for dinner or karaoke.”

“You got to do karaoke in Japan?” Logan wondered, scrolling back up to see the post you had made from there.

Cherry blossoms, sushi, a skate shop with custom decks. Logan had seen that you had gotten a new board with The Great Wave off Kanawaga on it to match your blue Williams clothes, but he didn’t know from where. The last picture of the post was from a bar lit in neon lights, something written with Japanese characters. He assumed that was where the karaoke had taken place.

“Yeah,” you grinned, thinking back to the night. “Angie does a mean Michael Jackson impression.”

Logan had a hard time envisioning Angie singing in front of people. She was in her early thirties, and while she was lovely, she was also kind of stiff. Maybe it helped being on the other side of the world.

He shook his head, an amused scoff escaping him, but then his eyes drifted to an older post, further down your feed. It was multiple posts actually, all aligning together in an explosion of colours. It was collages of pictures, that, when zoomed out, depicted a picture in and of itself. They were all of a girl with bright pink hair.

“What’s all that?” he asked, tilting the phone for you to see better.

“It’s a project I did for university, like a mixed media thing where we had to turn photos into an art piece of a different kind,” you explained.

You said it simply, but Logan was beyond impressed at how much time and precision it must’ve taken. First to take and develop what seemed like a million photographs of the same person, and then to make a collage out of them, basically using the pictures as building blocks to make a much larger version of said person.

“Did you go to art school?”

“Oh no,” you laughed softly. “I did political science with a minor in photography. My entire family is made up of lawyers, so that was always my plan A.”

He looked at you curiously. “So why aren’t you in law school now?”

“Because I got rejected by every single one I applied to,” you dead-panned, tinged with a kind of self-deprecating humor. “I’m not that smart, Logan. Angie practically saved my life by letting me join her.”

There was a brief pause, a moment of vulnerability hanging in the air.

It was ridiculous really, how it all had happened—how you had been shaped your entire life for one future and then achieving nothing of it.

You were the youngest of three siblings. Your brother was fifteen and your sister was ten when you were born. It was obvious to everyone except your parents that you were an accidental pregnancy.

Being that much younger, you always felt behind because you were never on the same intellectual level as the rest of your family. Then, when you finally caught up in age and was supposed to be seen as an adult, you still couldn’t succeed in the things your siblings had succeeded in. You never got into a nice university, and while you just narrowly managed to graduate, it would have never been enough to get into law school no matter how hard you tried.

School was never your thing. You found joy in art and sports, but you never had the concentration to sit down with your nose in a book to learn things. It took your parents a long time to realise this, because your siblings had never had any problems. Your brother was the youngest chairman ever at your father’s law firm, and your sister worked for the World Court in The Hague.

You never stood a chance, but no one saw that.

Angie was your sister’s childhood friend, and when she found out about your failed attempt at law school, she was the one to arrange this job for you. She knew that it was never your dream to do as the rest of your family. Your parents still didn’t see that.

Everyone said that all they wanted for their children was for them to be happy and healthy, but that wasn’t really what they wanted. They wanted them to be like themselves, or even better—they wanted them to be better than themselves. And when the first two children actually managed to be better, who wouldn’t be a little disappointed in the third one?

Logan’s voice brought you out of your spiralling thoughts. You watched as his eyes softened, and he said with pure honesty, “I think what you’re doing now is way cooler.”

“Yeah, but my parents, and grandparents, and siblings do not,” you shrugged, the compliment washing over you but not quite sinking in.

“What would you have been doing if their opinion didn’t matter to you?” he asked, his voice suddenly louder.

You contemplated for a moment, startled by his question and change of mood.

“I would have skated a lot more, maybe even competitively. Or started with sports photography earlier. Not done political science, that’s for sure,” you said. “What about you?”

“I think I’m already supposed to be living my dream,” he answered, but his voice lacked conviction. “I shouldn’t feel this… sad, I should be enjoying what I have right now because Sainz is taking my seat next year.”

“Carlos? Jesus, that’s the downgrade of the century,” you blurted out without thinking, and Logan’s head snapped towards you, surprise in his eyes.

“What? Do we think the Williams car will magically compete with Ferrari next season?” you chuckled. “No, it will be hilarious to hear him complain over the radio.”

You hadn’t given him the time to answer, but he would’ve said something similar to what you did. He was reluctant to laugh, but he knew it was true.

As he let the laugh out, he was immediately stuck by how freely he did it. He’d felt the same kind of weight over his chest like he had in Melbourne earlier. With the medics, and with the engineers, and with James. He didn’t feel that now, he could laugh without thinking of it. Without thinking of how his future was still very much undecided. You’d done it again—distracted him out of total anxious paralysis.

“Do you know what you’re gonna do?” you asked.

“I’ve got absolutely nothing figured out,” he admitted.

“Then I think we should use Lando’s win as an excuse to get absolutely wasted.”

. . .

Montréal, Canada

. . .

Canada was cold, like actually freezing. And it wouldn’t stop raining. You tried to do your job the best you could, but when your shoes were soaked through and raindrops had started to trickle down the inside of your coat, getting good photos was impossible. So, you had to give up with capturing the track and the crowd and opted on finding something content-worthy in the garage instead.

Logan found you on the floor of the garage, sat on your skateboard, using it to slide across to capture the car in some sort of panoramic view he assumed. He didn’t say much, leaving you to work in peace as he went on to focus on his own things. He could spot you in his periphery every now and then. You still wore your red bucket hat because of the rain, and your worn-out Nikes squeaked against the slick flooring.

He heard Alex enter his side of the garage with a ringing laughter, patting his shoulder as a way of greeting him.

“Might I ask why Paddy is on the floor?” he asked, voice laced with amusement at the girl in front of them, basically folded in half to get the perfect photograph.

You looked up at Alex from your position, the camera still held up like a shield between you. The flash went off as you sneakily took a picture of the two drivers. “Angles, baby. Angles,” you grinned.

Alex tilted his head, crossing his arms over his chest. “What angle is that exactly? My double chin?”

“Don’t worry, you look great,” you reassured, standing up again.

Logan could see how your eyes searched for something, and when he spotted your lens cap laying on a nearby table, he reached out to give it to you. You nodded slightly as a silent thank you, surprised at how observant he’d been.

He would’ve never admitted it at the time, but how easy the word baby left your lips definitely lingered on his mind. It didn’t exactly help that it was Alex you’d said it too, even if it was in a jokingly manner.

You continued working, changing cameras from digital to film, capturing the team as they prepared for the race to start. You only stopped to go outside to photograph when a hailstorm hit the paddock.

Logan saw you enter the hospitality, drenched from head to toe, your blue coat having turned navy from the rain. Your eyes watched the hail in miraculous awe. He spotted you shivering from the weather, your hands having a hard time holding the camera as the cold gnawed at your fingers.

You felt him before you saw him, his quiet energy sneaking up on you, standing behind you as hail and raindrops hit the glass panes of the Williams hospitality building.

“Here,” he said, holding out a steaming mug.

You blinked, momentarily confused by the gesture. “I don’t drink coffee,” you reminded him. “Everyone says I’m hyper enough without caffeine.”

Logan’s lips curled into a small, knowing smile. “I know that,” he replied. “It’s mine, but you can use the mug to warm your hands.”

“Oh…” Your voice trailed off as you reached for the mug, the warmth radiating from the ceramic a stark contrast to the cold that had settled in your bones. Your fingers touched his as you grabbed it, almost feeling igniting a hotter fire than the boiling hot coffee warming you. “Thank you.”

Logan watched you in that silent way of his, the hailstorm outside temporarily forgotten as the world seemed to shrink down to just the two of you.

You glanced up at him, your heart doing a ridiculous fluttering thing it had started doing whenever he was close. His gaze was steady, searching yours with a familiar, unspoken understanding that had developed over months of working together. A soft chuckle escaped your lips, the sound surprising even you, thinking back on how he had handed you your lens cap earlier. And now this, too.

“Why do you always seem to know what I need before I do?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” he said, voice low enough for you to just about hear him.

It took you a while to understand what he meant. Then it hit you, that your comfort—your distraction—was what he needed. And you did it without him asking. Ever since tears had fallen from his blue eyes on that hotel room floor somewhere in Melbourne.

. . .

Later, the race began and came to an end.

The rain had stopped and the streets had dried up, leaving an eerily quiet race tack left under glimmering city lights. As you skated the paddock, weaving through the lingering crowd, the adrenaline of the race still pulsed through you, but it was dulled by the quiet aftermath.

You hadn’t really had any time to talk with anyone, being out by the track all race. While the race was disappointing, the cars had at least been a pleasure to photograph as they sprayed water around them.

You spotted a group of team members ahead, their heads low, conversations muted. Among them, Logan’s familiar figure stood out. You pushed off your skateboard with a quiet flick, coasting toward him. His ears perked up at the sound of the wheels against the concrete. As you got closer, you set your foot down, slowing to match his pace.

“Soo… uhm,” you started, voice unsure.

“Yeah, we don’t have to talk about it,” he said quickly, his gaze locked on the asphalt in front of him as he continued to walk slowly, you riding beside him.

You both knew what it meant. A double DNF, a race weekend that spiralled out of control, and hours of work undone in seconds.

“We can, if you want to,” you offered.

You glanced at him then, really looking at him for the first time since before the race. He looked tired, but more than that—defeated. And yet, he was trying to be strong. You offered him a chance to vent, even though you both knew it wouldn’t necessarily help. Not when you couldn’t pinpoint a defining factor as to why the weekend had gone to shit. It wasn’t his fault. It wasn’t Alex’s fault. It was just a mess to race in this much rain.

Logan let out a deep breath, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m not sure anyone on the team would want to talk about today,” he admitted.

You could only nod, completely understanding that it was probably best to be quiet about the race. You were better off distracting him, like you usually did.

“You wanna have dinner? A little pick-me-up? Maybe Alex and Lily will want to join.”

Logan huffed a dry laugh. “They’re having what Alex calls DNF therapy.”

“Do I wanna know what that means?” you questioned, acting intrigued.

You didn’t need to ask. You understood what it meant. But you asked anyway, to see if Logan would explain it to you.

“No, you don’t,” he replied short, shaking his head.

“How about room service and a shitty movie instead?” you suggested.

“You’re starting to know me so well,” he said. He then paused, the realisation settling in as he glanced sideways at you. “I guess you’re my DNF therapy, huh.”

You tried to stop yourself from making the conversation take a turn. You really did. But the joke was there, right in front of your eyes, looking so damn tempting.

“I’m not having sex with you, Sargeant,” you said sternly.

Logan blinked, his eyes wide for a second before he burst out laughing. He raised his hands in mock surrender. “Noted. Loud and clear.”

For a brief moment, a tension so thick formed between you that you could almost feel it taking up space in the cold, still slightly rainy air. It was quickly replaced by the laughter—the easy banter you usually had with Logan.

But the thought lingered in your mind longer than it should have. In reality, you probably would’ve done it. If he asked you, that is. Sex with Logan, huh. The heat that rose to your cheeks was almost painful. Your infatuation had been visible, right there on your face, if only Logan had been confident enough to see it.

You had to push these thoughts away. You didn’t need things to be complicated between the two of you. Even if this stupid crush you had on him was starting to become harder to ignore.

Instead, you nudged his arm playfully before pushing with your foot to skate in front of him, glancing back over your shoulder with a grin. “Come on. Let’s go order some overpriced food and find the worst movie possible.”

. . .

Baku, Azerbaijan

. . .

Azerbaijan was hot, like actually blazing. You could feel sweat running down your face and back every time you were out of the air-conditioned garage to photograph. By the time race day came around, you already had blisters on the inside of your thighs from chafing, and your skin was warm to the touch from being burnt.

The moment you had now, on the Sunday morning, to sit inside and edit some photos was therefore sacred. It was the first calm and, more importantly, cool moment you’d had in days. The torment the heat had on your body had still left its mark. You couldn’t get comfortable. You couldn’t get your heart to stop racing. You wouldn’t have called it anxiety, but since this morning, you were now sure that heat exhaustion wasn’t the only thing you were feeling.

Your mind was enough of a twisty place. Now, when it wouldn’t shut the fuck up, it was like a constant stream of emotions just overwhelming you.

At least, the photos you had taken during practice and qualifying turned out sick. You’d tried out a new long exposure technique that really captured the speed even in static form. And you had definitely gotten better at candid portrait photography, which was a huge part of your job. Editing was usually the simplest part for you, but when the photos were so close that you could count the subject’s individual eyelashes, it was easy to get flustered.

You finished the editing and decided on asking both Alex and Logan for their favourites before sending the content to the media team. It wasn’t something that was required from you, but you also knew that having your photo taken could be difficult.

With your laptop in your hand, you walked to their driver rooms, rounding the corner to be met with a wide open door into Logan’s.

“Logan, I—” you started, your breath catching in your throat at the sight in front of you.

There he was, in workout shorts but no shirt, lounging in his room before changing into his race gear. He didn’t even have time to look up from his phone before you were rambling out an apology, ready to run out of the room—hell, maybe even the garage.

“Oh fuck, shit, I’m sorry,” you hurried to say, feeling your pulse quicken. You hoped he didn’t notice how your mouth hung open or the way your eyes darted everywhere but his torso.

“What’s up?” he said, straightening his back and running a hand through his hair.

His casual confidence made everything about your reaction feel even worse. He didn’t mind you seeing him shirtless, so why the fuck did you have to care so much?

“I just…” you stammered, losing all sense of vocabulary as your eyes deceived you, glancing at his chest. “Forgot how to English.”

Logan let out a gentle laugh, and you mentally told yourself to get your shit together.

“I have some photos for you to look at,” you said, holding up your laptop that had been your reason to barge into his room in the first place.

“Right, right,” Logan nodded. “Let me put a shirt on first.”

Your mouth moved before your brain could stop it. The moment the words left your mouth, you wanted to crawl into a hole and disappear.

“No, I get it. I’d be shirtless too if it was socially acceptable.”

He froze mid-step, his head slowly turning back to you with a raised brow.

You’d said no. In milliseconds. Like you were opposed to him putting a shirt on. Like that was a totally normal thing. Then, you just had to mention yourself being shirtless. So, you were forced to wonder if he was thinking about you without a shirt on as much as you were thinking about him without one.

Well… you didn’t necessarily have to think. He was already standing in front of you shirtless. That was a known fact.

The moment you thought he might actually flirt back with you, it was like you could see how the tension washed away from his face.

“It’s hot, right?” he asked, moving some things out of the way so that you could place your laptop on the table in his room. A part of you thought he wasn’t actually talking about the temperature.

“Way too fucking hot,” you mumbled as your fingers shakily hovered over the mousepad. Your heart was racing and your body was overheating. You didn’t dare look up from the screen, afraid of what you might see in his eyes—or worse, what he might see in yours.

He overviewed the photos, pointing out some of his favourites. You’d gathered quite quickly that Logan had an amateur interest in photography. He didn’t shy away from complimenting your work or from asking questions about certain shots he found special. That didn’t make the rushing heat flowing to your face any better.

“You alright?” you heard him ask as you closed the laptop shut, your photo viewing session done for now. You couldn’t really focus, a ringing sound hitting your ears.

You swallowed hard, nodding. “Yeah, just a lot to do. I’ll see you after the race.”

With that, you dashed out of his room, on your way to find Alex instead. You couldn’t keep doing this to yourself, but that didn’t exactly matter. Either way, you were in too deep, and you knew it.

. . .

The Williams car was decent in Baku—fast on the straights, as expected. Alex got points and Logan wasn’t far from archiving it too. Still, it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t the most depressing result—he would manage this weekend without once collapsing like an anxious mess. That was a win in his book nowadays.

Logan walked with Alex from the media pen, adrenaline in his steps, talking freely about whatever came to mind.

“Did she show you the photos she took during practice yesterday? She used some kind of long exposure. I don’t know what it’s called or how she did it but it looked so cool—”

“Logan,” Alex stopped him.

“What?”

“Take a breath, you’ve been talking about Paddy for like five whole minutes,” Alex teased, a grin tugging at the corners of his lips. “I get that you like her photography, but this is borderline obsessive.”

“I’m not obsessed,” Logan defended. “You were the one who brought her up in the first place anyway.”

“Mate, all I did was ask if you’d seen her. She didn’t take any photos as we exited the cars,” Alex explained.

Logan shrugged. “I haven’t seen her since before the race.”

“Me neither, that’s why I asked.”

Realisation dawned upon Logan that something wasn’t alright. You’d seemed sort of unbalanced earlier in the day, but he assumed that was the heat and a massive workload. It wasn’t something he hadn’t seen before, and you seemed to quietly get through every hurdle in your way anyway. He would be blind if he didn’t see your embarrassment to barging in on him shirtless, but he had explained that reaction away too in his head. He mostly found you cute, but that didn’t have to mean anything.

He couldn’t find an explanation for this, though. Even after shit races, he looked forward to seeing you with your camera held high every time he exited the car, got weighed, or was walking to the media pen. But you hadn’t been there today…

His emotional support photographer hadn’t been there. Sure, today’s race wasn’t that bad, and he didn’t necessarily need you as a distraction for his anxiety. But you didn’t know that. That had to mean that something had happened to you.

“Angie, where’s Paddy?” Alex asked as they entered back into the Williams garage, practically running into the obviously stressed-out marketing manager.

“Uhh…” Angie hesitated, not lifting her eyes from her phone. “Still with the medical team, I think. She passed out during the race. Heatstroke, most likely.”

Logan froze. He didn’t understand why he cared so much, but for some reason he did. He cared about you, and he cared so much that he was about to act irrationally.

“She passed out? How are you so calm?” he questioned.

Angie shrugged, far too nonchalantly for his liking. “It’s a million degrees outside, heatstrokes are bound to happen—”

Logan didn’t wait for another word. He was already moving, cutting through the garage with purpose.

Alex shouted after him, “Logan, where are you going? We have debrief soon!”

“Tell them I’m not coming!” was all that he yelled as a reply.

. . .

The air in the small, sterile room seemed to hum with the tension that had followed you since you woke up.

“Miss, how are you feeling?”

You blinked, still trying to find your bearings. It took you a second to even see the medic that was talking to you. The heat clouded your vision like a mirage. Your mouth was dry, your skin sticky from sweat, but at least you were conscious. They’d placed you in a secluded room in the makeshift medical area, lying on a stiff and temporary cot.

“It’s a lot better now,” you replied hoarsely, managing a weak smile. “Still have a slight headache, but I guess that’s normal.”

You didn’t know if it was the bright fluorescent lighting or the heat still affecting you, but your eyes burned and your head pounded. You felt the instinct to rub your temples, but was hindered when you felt an IV-needle inserted in your arm.

You didn’t know how long you’d been out. You weren’t even sure what had happened really. One second you were in the garage, trying to get a perfect shot of Alex making his pit stop. The next one, you have a vague memory of being moved into the medical area and multiple people’s voices buzzing above you.

“Yes, it is. Do you know what happened?” the medic asked. His voice was kind as he stood by your bedside, an iPad in hand with information.

“Uh, I… passed out? Did I hit my head?”

“No, no, you didn’t. You should be lucky that garage was filled with people to catch a falling lady,” he joked lightly.

You smiled, albeit a bit forced. You looked at the medic’s name tag, trying to make out the letters with your clouded vision. Amir. That was a pretty name. At least your brain was working somewhat.

“We just want to observe you for a little longer to make sure you’re no longer dehydrated, otherwise you should be completely fine. Are you on any medication now?” Amir continued by saying.

You thought for a second. “Yeah, wait… I can never remember the names.”

Looking around you, you were thankful to see your camera bag with your phone inside placed neatly on a table next to the cot. You moved carefully to reach it, opening your notes app to show Amir the prescriptions you had written down.

“I take those daily for ADHD, and uh… those for anxiety when I feel like I need it,” you explained, pointing at the screen even though it hurt your head to look at it.

Amir nodded and tapped something down on his iPad. “Did you take one today?”

“Yeah, one of each.”

“Good to know. I’ll go get you something for that headache,” he reassured you before leaving, letting his hand gently squeeze your arm as an act of thoughtfulness.

You closed your tired eyes for a moment, a feverish cold sweat catching up to you, making you realise just how uncomfortable your Williams kit was, practically glueing your warm body to the cot.

The door clicked shut softly behind the medic as he left, but it wasn’t long before you heard it creak open again. You looked up, expecting Amir, but instead, it was… Logan.

You blinked, a little confused. His blond hair was slightly damp, still sporting what was obviously helmet-hair. He looked tired, maybe as exhausted as you felt, yet he stood there, hesitant for only a moment before stepping inside.

He shouldn't be here. He should be debriefing with the team, or doing interviews, or—

“What the hell did you do?” Logan asked, only half-teasing as real concern bled through in his voice.

“Apparently I passed out,” you answered, trying to downplay it with a weak smile.

Logan sighed, the tension visibly draining from his body as if seeing you alright, even in this condition, was enough to ease the worry that had been weighing on him. You were sure you looked like a complete mess—sweaty, shivering, barely able to keep your eyes open.

He moved inside the room, sitting down on a stool next to your cot. You turned to look at him, feeling his intense eyes on you already. You didn’t know what to do, or what to feel. Your system was already cooked, fried up completely from feeling bad all day to passing out in front of a crowded garage.

“So, uhm… you’re just as anxious as I am?” he asked nervously, tilting his head.

Your stomach twisted. It didn’t take you long to realise that he had overheard your conversation with Amir—about the medication, about your diagnoses. It wasn’t a secret in any way, you just hadn’t planned to tell him about it unless he asked. Your magical cure to dealing with his anxiety was… two decades of dealing with your own.

“Not that it’s a competition, but I’m way worse,” you joked.

Not fitting in at school, not fitting in at home—it would make anyone anxious out of their skin. And younger you were surrounded by people who didn’t know how to deal with it—to deal with you. Your family labelled you as a sad child, or god forbid sensitive, and sort of just accepted your anxious responses to every minor thing. Doctors and therapists called you emotionally intelligent, but you never found that to be a compliment, like it was a positive thing to be so aware of your own problems.

Logan stared at you plainly. “Do the meds help?”

You scoffed. “Yeah, they do. Just not against heat exhaustion.”

You saw how Logan’s expression stayed the same, slightly emotionless, slightly annoyed at how you just couldn’t help yourself from joking about the situation. You’d experienced it before—how people disliked you for it.

“You don’t have to be here, Logan. I’m fine,” you added, shying away from looking at him.

That broke his demeanor. He was quick to grab your hand, careful with the IV-port connected to your inner elbow. His grip was firm but tender, grounding you in a way you hadn’t expected.

“I want to be here,” he shortly replied. There was no room for debate.

You wanted to protest, to tell him that he didn’t need to babysit you, that he had more important things to do. But the truth was… you weren’t fine. Not really.

You were used to keeping to yourself, even in busy places like the paddock. You were used to the chaos and noise of your family, where attention was either forced or withheld, never calmly showed. Silence was your refuge. You were talkative, sure, but you had learnt early on that asking for help meant admitting weakness—something that wasn’t welcome in the household you grew up in. As a kid, you would shut down when you felt this overwhelmed. Even now, sat in a medical room after collapsing for heat exhaustion, that old instinct was there, tugging at you to shut down.

Logan, however, was still there, unfazed, waiting.

Maybe he wanted to tell you how it was slightly reckless to feel this bad and not inform anyone, but he also understood more than anybody—that admitting a weakness while doing a job people questioned your talent for—wasn’t something easily done, or something that would even help your cause in the end.

But he didn’t say anything. He just held your hand, breathing steadily. His fingertips traced upward to one of the floral tattoos you had on your forearm. His touch felt… gentle. Intimate, even, your clouded mind envisioned. It sent a shiver through you—not from the feverish cold sweat, but from something else entirely.

“How did the race go?” you asked, swallowing down emotions, more to change the subject than anything.

“Not important.” Logan shook his head. “What? I mean it. I’m focused on you now.”

You tried to roll your eyes, but the effort was too much. You could feel yourself unravelling, the exhaustion too heavy to ignore anymore. He noticed it too.

“My father called me this morning,” you blurted out after a moment of silence, surprising even yourself. “I think that’s why I was feeling so off today.”

Logan, again, didn’t say anything, just waited, his gaze steady, patient. He wasn’t rushing you, wasn’t pushing you to say more. He was just… there. He’d learnt from you, you slowly realised—to let anxious people talk when they wanted to talk and to distract them when talking would only make things worse.

“We haven’t talked in months,” you admitted, biting your lip. “So, I thought… I thought he was finally going to be the bigger person and actually show some interest in my life and the job I’m doing.”

Logan nodded slowly, sensing the conclusion before you even voiced it. “I’m guessing he didn’t?”

“He called to offer me a job at his firm because one of their legal assistants is going on maternity leave.” You let out a bitter laugh, the sound hollow. “I’ve been working and travelling the world for half a year, making a name for myself, and he still doesn’t believe that I can do it.”

It was funny, how the first man to ever break your heart was your own father. And he hadn’t done it with malicious intent, but because he was just too blind to get to know his own daughter.

Your breath hitched, and before you could stop them, the tears spilled over, silent but insistent. You wiped your face with the back of your hand, embarrassed by the vulnerability, the rawness. “I’m sorry, I don’t know why I’m crying.”

“Don’t apologise. You’ve seen me cry enough times to know that it’s okay.”

Logan’s grip on your hand tightened just a fraction, a quiet reassurance. You didn’t have to suck up the tears and build up a façade to prove that you were unbothered.

“He doesn’t need to believe in you for you to succeed,” Logan said quietly, his words like an anchor to your focus. “You can do it, actually, you are doing it.”

And the first time in your life, you allowed yourself to believe that maybe, just maybe, he was right.

. . .

Austin, USA

. . .

Austin was… disappointing.

That was the word of this season. Disappointing. Because no matter how hard it looked like Alex and Logan were pushing themselves and the cars—they got nothing out of it. Now, Logan knew for certain that he wasn’t coming back to Formula One next season. As much as Logan had wanted to go out on a high note, to leave with his head held high, reality didn’t allow it.

The only moments that really brought him any sort of joy nowadays were the ones off track. Especially the ones with you. He didn’t like to overthink it because it was complicated, and God knows he wasn’t in the right state of mind for anything complicated. But calling it platonic? That would be a lie. It wasn’t necessarily love either, just a deep understanding of each other.

Like now, on the Sunday evening after the disappointing race, when you and him spent time in his hotel room, watching a movie that was so bad and eating room service food that was so tasteless. You were there, for him, as a distraction, as a constant. You laughed at the ridiculousness of the plot, made sarcastic comments about the actors, and occasionally hummed along to the cheesy soundtrack. You showed him attention and affection when he quite literally felt like the worst person in the world.

“I should probably go to my own room,” you said, trying to hide a yawn as you spoke. The food finished a long time ago and the end credits rolling on the TV-screen at the end of the bed.

Logan looked at you over his shoulder from his position on the bed, the one he’d been sinking into from exhaustion since you’d both entered his room. He was laid on his side, back turned to you. You were sat against the plush headboard, your hair looked a mess as you leant your head. He’d been quiet for a long time, barely even laughed during the movie’s funnier parts. But now, he slowly shook his head as he looked at you.

He didn’t want you to leave.

You silently agreed to stay for a little longer by just a look from your eyes. He turned his back to you again and you reached for the remote to turn off the TV. A static and quiet sound of air-conditioning the only thing audible in the hotel room. You shuffled behind him carefully, letting yourself lie down with your front facing his back. You didn’t dare to move under the covers like he had, only his blond hair and shirtless shoulders peeking out.

“They should’ve just sacked me off before the summer break,” he finally muttered. You saw how a breath left his lungs, weighing him further down into the mattress. “Or after the crash at Zandvoort. Y’know? Just done something to get rid of me so that I didn’t have to feel this way.”

He hadn’t talked like this in a while. You’d heard it a lot earlier during the season, when there were talks of him getting replaced after every race he didn’t score points. The talking never stopped, but Logan’s attitude definitely changed. He was indifferent to it, and that was scary to see—someone so young, kicked to the ground repeatedly, that his dreams lost their importance even to himself.

He’d been more careful with you since Baku. You thought maybe that had an influence on him too. He didn’t want to crowd you with emotions and anxiety when he now knew that you didn’t have it easy either. You didn’t think that was fair. You had never once felt like he added on to your anxiety. He only made it better.

“You’re not saying much,” he added quietly, as your silence became too much for him.

“For once in my life, I thought I’d try out what it’s like to be quiet,” you responded, but there was no bite in your voice. It was gentle, sympathetic—not joking like you used to do. “No, I’m sorry. I was letting you vent. It sounded like you needed it.”

Logan's body slumped further as he exhaled, realising that you were right.

“Logan, listen,” you said. “It would make no sense to sack you off. No possible replacement would be able to adjust in time for a better chance at points. Williams is doomed this season no matter what if they can’t give both cars equal machinery.”

Your words hung in the air, not offering a solution, but trying to relieve him of some of the guilt he had piled on him.

Without thinking, your fingers began tracing a pattern on his back, just by his exposed shoulder blade. Small, mindless circles—something to occupy the space between words. You weren’t even aware you were doing it until Logan spoke again.

“Are you doing one of those children’s rhymes?” Logan asked with a slight amusement as he recognised the pattern your finger was moving in.

“Who says they’re just for children?” you joked.

“X marks the spot, a circle and a dot…” he started, trailing off with a soft laugh. His voice was muffled by the pillow he was lying on, but you could hear the faint hint of a smile in it.

“Wait…I don’t know the right order in English,” you admitted, a little embarrassed as you lifted your finger from his skin.

“Do it in your language,” he suggested in a heartbeat.

“But you won’t understand it?”

“I just like listening to you speak,” Logan said softly, sincerely.

“Really? I’ve been told that I sound like a muppet before by English speakers,” you questioned, feeling a flush rise in your cheeks despite yourself.

That wasn’t a lie. Muppet. Cartoon character. Or just any national stereotype people could think of. You’d heard it all.

Logan chuckled, the sound vibrating through his chest. “Is that why you try to not have an accent?”

“Yeah, I guess so,” you shrugged. “It was either a borderline offensive British accent or sounding like I’m one of the Kardashians.”

He felt a short breath fall on his naked shoulder, something between a giggle and a huff. He could imagine the look on your face—smiling, trying to not be too loud for the room’s sombre atmosphere.

You did as he asked, tracing the rhyme onto his back in the way you remembered your mother doing it to you as a child when you couldn’t sleep. His skin was tan and slightly freckled, feeling smooth under your fingertip. You whispered the words quietly in the language you knew best.

“I love how you sound when you don’t care,” Logan said after a moment. “And in your native language.”

You raised an eyebrow in confusion. Not that he would be able to see your expression anyway. You had no idea that he’d even heard you speak in your native tongue before.

“When you’re on the phone with your family and so on,” he continued. “Your tone changes, it’s more melodic.”

You’d always been self-conscious about your accent, always trying to blend in, to sound like everyone else. Again, it was one of those things that had always made you feel just a little bit inadequate. A little bit less than the older people around you. But here he was, appreciating the very thing you tried to hide. Loving it, even.

“Thank you,” you whispered, voice barely audible as you let your head fall forward, your forehead resting gently against his shoulder blade.

You stayed like that for a moment, tracing his back, savouring the quiet, intimacy of the moment without needing to explain or define it. You could’ve told him that you liked him. Your lips were only centimetres away from kissing the bare skin of his shoulder. You sensed that it was not the best time to try messing with his head and digging up your emotions to the surface, so you squashed them down all over again.

Logan fell asleep first, but you weren’t long after. Right there, behind him. That was never your plan, but a tired mind did whatever the tired mind wanted to, you supposed. Now that it had happened, you couldn’t bring yourself to regret it. It didn’t end up being an issue until morning came around.

It was early—earlier than what it needed to be—when the sun broke through the curtains and filled the room with light, evidently waking you. The daily alarm you had set on your phone wouldn’t be ringing for another hour or two.

You had slept fine. Nothing disrupting you. Nothing waking you. You didn’t even dream. When you woke up, however, you thought you might be dreaming.

During the night, your positions had changed. Somehow, you weren’t behind Logan anymore, with a safe distance. No, he was spooning you. An arm lazily draped over your stomach and his warm breath tickled the skin of your neck every time he exhaled.

Nope, you definitely weren’t dreaming.

You laid as still as you possibly could, tensing your entire body, gathering that he was fast asleep. But, you had to move at some point. Your body would go into rigor mortis if you didn’t. And you were scalding hot. Falling asleep in a sweatshirt, Logan’s arm hugging your waist. It was all too much for you.

That was when you felt it. You accidentally shifted your legs, moving further back. You felt him, poking the back of your thigh. Hard, frustrated, large. A warmness spread through your body as you realised it, making the climate even more unbearable in that bed. You knew that it was involuntary. It was just how the male body worked sometimes. You knew that this wasn’t some indication that he reciprocated the feelings you harboured for him.

Somehow, that wasn’t even the worst part about it. You could feel his heartbeat racing, as his chest was so close to your back. That was the worst part. Like this was exciting him, or making him nervous—even in his sleep, even involuntary.

You were going to die. This was about to kill you. And you’d let it happen. You wanted it to kill you.

You had to get out of here, and that was now.

You sure looked comedic, trying to get out of that bed quickly while also not waking him. Like a newborn giraffe, attempting to stand up for the first time as a heavy comforter clung to its body.

But you did it, shutting the heavy hotel room door behind you, eyes darting around the hallway of rooms, looking to see if you’d been caught by anyone. Just as you started to walk to your own room, a voice from down the hallway stopped you.

“Why were you in Logan’s room at the ass crack of dawn?”

You spun to meet Angie’s gaze, and she came up to you, just having left her own room, dressed and ready for the day. You were in yesterday’s clothes and makeup, looking positively frazzled. She read your expression in a second.

“Oh my god,” Angie gasped, her hands flying to her mouth. “You slept with him!”

“No, no, I promise I did not!” you defended quickly, voice laced with panic. “Or, I mean—” you fumbled over your words as you watched Angie try to not burst into laughter. “We fell asleep next to each other, but we did not have sex.”

“I don’t really care what you did or did not do with him, because I trust you to still be good at your job. I just—” she paused, her face softening as she looked at you, the big sister mentality coming into place even though you shared no ties of blood. “I want you to know your worth, and that race car drivers are notorious for being—”

You cut her off, voice steadier than before. “I know my worth,” you said, before adding with a dramatic sigh, “I just happen to be on sale for a certain sad and anxious American.”

“I get it, it happens to the best of us,” Angie nodded, her lips curling into a smirk. “You think you know what rock bottom feels like and then all of a sudden you want to fuck the blond guy.”

You could only laugh at her unusually crude words. Maybe it hit too close to home for her.

“You’re engaged to a blond guy, Angie,” you pointed out.

Matthew’s hair was almost white, that’s how blond he was. He most certainly had some Scandinavian in him. Logan would be considered brunet in comparison.

“Like I said, it just happens,” she shrugged, draping an arm around your shoulder. Back to comfortable camaraderie. “Let’s go get breakfast, lover girl.”

. . .

On the other side of the door, Logan had woken up by the sound of it slamming shut. It took him a moment to piece together what had happened. His increased heart rate. His throbbing morning wood. You, running out of his hotel room before he could wake up. What the fuck did this mean? God, he felt like dying. Or maybe just taking a really long, cold shower.

. . .

Mexico City, Mexico

. . .

“This is a waste of your time,” you called out from across the park, feeling the warm wind sweep through your hair as you carved the side of the bowl. You pushed your weight into the deck, the skateboard responding to your every shift, gliding along the concrete.

While you’d gotten to skate in some impressive parks around the world this year—this one in Mexico might take the price for being the best. It was gorgeous, in an area that you could tell flourished with graffiti and street artists. The concrete was smooth, the bowl was deep and large enough. The local skaters were talented and ranged from kids with their fathers to groups of teenagers.

“It’s not wasted time if it’s with you,” Logan said from his seat by the edge of the bowl, his eyesight focused through the little viewfinder on a vintage polaroid camera.

You’d both been asked to go to dinner with some team members after the Mexican Grand Prix, but you had answered honestly with how you’d much rather go explore this skatepark that you had heard amazing things about. Logan had answered with less honesty that he was too tired. With one look, you could tell that he silently asked to join you instead.

He was happy to just sit in the evening sun, looking out over the people skating, and stealing a camera from you to take some photos. You’d given him a polaroid camera that was only for your personal use. The film was getting expensive and your case of developed pictures was getting full, but you knew the memories would be worth it.

Logan wasn’t sure that he was very good at photography at first. He was too impatient to wait at the film developing, thinking he’d ruined most of the shots before colour even started showing on the little squares of film.

But he hadn’t ruined them. He just had to wait. And after he had waited, he was pretty damn proud of the outcome. There were gorgeous murals, a lot of the setting sun, some of kids skating around—but most of them were of you. The sun kissed your skin, and the sweat from your ride clung to you, but still, there was something about the way Logan saw you through that camera lens. Young, sweet—maybe even beautiful.

You rolled your eyes at his cliché words, pushing the tail of your board to get a bit more speed as you curved around the deep end of the bowl. Your body had memorized the movements of skating so deeply that you no longer thought about them; you just moved, instinct guiding you. It was moments like this when everything else fell away, and you were simply alive.

Logan snapped another picture, the click of the shutter audible even over the distant chatter of the park. You could tell he was smiling, even though the camera obscured half his face.

“You’re such a shutterbug!” you teased, your board coming to a stop just below him in the bowl.

“And you’re very photogenic,” he shot back without missing a beat, the sound of the shutter following swiftly after.

He could only imagine what the picture would look like without it having fully developed yet. Your high pitched laugh materialising in a wide smile with crooked teeth. You looked like a little train conductor in your striped denim boiler suit, worn-out to the point of tearing, showing off banged-up knees and elbows from never enough wearing protective gear.

After what felt like hours of skating, you finally called it a night, and the two of you began to walk back to the hotel. The buildings around you, old and worn, were painted in soft pastel shades that had faded with age. Mexico City had that effect—beautifully chaotic, with stories hidden in every crack and corner.

You were still buzzing with the adrenaline from skating, unable to stop yourself from laughing every few minutes. It was a lightness that came from doing something you loved, and being with someone who, in his own way, seemed to love it just as much.

Out of nowhere, you pointed up, a giggle bubbling over. “Look!”

Logan followed your gaze, his eyes landing on a pair of old, beat-up Converse dangling from a power line overhead.

“I’ve always wanted to do that,” you said, half to yourself. “Isn’t that used to mark a spot for drug dealers?” Logan asked, brow raised in amusement.

“Maybe. But it’s also used to commemorate things. Graduation, marriages, all sorts of stuff.” You gave him a playful smirk. “You know, to mark a memory.”

“You should do it, to commemorate this year.”

“Actually…” You trailed off, biting your lip. “I’ve been thinking about getting a tattoo to commemorate this year.”

His eyebrows shot up, clearly interested. “Really? What of?”

“Not sure yet. Something small, meaningful. I’ll figure it out.”

Logan hummed in approval, then looked pointedly at your shoes. “You know, you could commemorate this moment by tossing those sneakers up there. God knows they’ve seen better days.”

You glanced down at your well-worn Nikes, the soles starting to peel, the laces frayed. The cobalt swooshes had practically turned a faded navy-brown shade instead. Thinking about it, your suitcase was filled with other sneakers too.

“I mean, you’re not wrong. But how am I supposed to walk back to the hotel?”

Without hesitation, Logan smiled. “I’ll carry you.”

You scoffed, shaking your head. “No, you won’t.”

His response was swift. He knelt in front of you, leaning down to untie your shoes with an easy, confident motion.

“Logan,” you protested softy, when you really had nothing against it.

“Come on, just do it,” he coaxed, glancing up at you.

Who were you to say no to a man on his knees? You decided on listening to him. Stepping out of your shoes, you felt the warm ground beneath you, hurting slightly from tiny rocks and dirt digging into the soles of your sock-clad feet.

You tied the shoes together by the laces and with a pathetic first attempt, you launched them high up into the air, no way near the power line. Logan let out a little laugh in utter disbelief because he found the action so endearing.

“It’s harder than it looks!” you defended.

“That’s what he said,” he joked under his breath as you tried again… and again.

Thankfully you were decent at other things, because throwing was not your forte. You were about to give up as you tossed one single last throw, groaning out of frustration as you tried your best. With eyes closed, you hoped for the best. A slow applause from Logan made you dare to look. And surely, there were your blue Nikes, dangling on the power line above you.

“Oh my God, I did it!” you exclaimed, throwing your arms up in triumph. “Logan, take a picture, please!”

He chuckled, snapping a quick shot with the polaroid as you stood under the shoes, grinning like an idiot.

Before you knew it, Logan had swept you off your feet, literally, hoisting you onto his back. You kicked your legs weakly in protest, though your laugher told him you weren’t actually mad. Graciously, he even picked your skateboard up, sticking it between his arm and ribs.

“No, no, put me down. This is not working,” you squealed, feeling like you were about to fall off, your arms instinctively wrapping around his neck for balance.

“I’m not putting you down,” Logan retorted as he started walking with ease down the sidewalk with you on his back. “You’ll hurt your feet.”

He shuffled you higher up on his back, his hands grasping tightly around your legs. You were scared he was going to drop you, or worse, fall over because of the weight.

“Put me down.” You tried your best to sound serious, but it did nothing, he just kept on walking. The hotel was only minutes away and he didn’t show any signs of slowing down.

“You’re enjoying this,” Logan accused. “I know you are.”

You leaned your chin on his shoulder, finally giving in. “You've carried me this far, you might as well take me home.”

As you approached the luxurious hotel the team stayed at, Logan didn’t set you down until you were in the lift, earning looks from both guests and workers. Neither of you cared. He set you down gently, your sock-covered feet making a soft thud against the lift’s marbled flooring.

He gave you your skateboard back, shifting uncomfortably in his spot as the lift started moving upward. “I had fun tonight,” he whispered to you.

You leant against the wall, a loud exhale escaping you. “So did I.”

As you watched Logan, the laughter that had filled the air moments ago now gave way to something quieter, something more charged.

He took a small step towards you before you could even think, his face soft but his eyes intense, searching yours as if waiting for permission. There were a million things you wanted to tell him, to interrupt him, just to make sure—but the weight of the unspoken pulled you both together, speechless.

Your heart pounded in your chest as his gaze flickered down to your lips, then back to your eyes. You could feel the heat radiating from his skin, your heart racing in sync with his as your lips hovered inches apart. He was just as nervous as you were.

You both closed your eyes, anticipation tingling through you, waiting for that inevitable spark—

“Hey!” Alex’s voice cut through the moment like a knife as the lift doors opened with a ding. He blinked at you both, stumbling away from each other, a curious smirk tugging at his lips. “Where are your shoes, Paddy?”

You stared at him, dumbfounded, and then down at your sock-clad feet. “Uhh… on a power line?”

Logan laughed, shaking his head. His cheeks were burning from what had almost happened, and from getting caught by Alex. It was so obvious. If only your rooms had been on a higher floor.

. . .

Las Vegas, USA

. . .

You changed after Mexico, and Logan took notice. You worked longer hours—a lot more than you needed to. You didn’t find the time to go exploring. Or if you did, you didn’t post it to your instagram diary. You also drifted apart from Logan. Your conversations were shorter, your movie nights extinct, and you being a distraction for him was exchanged with you saying that you had more work to do. You became a ghost in his world, present but not truly there.

It didn’t matter how many times Logan tried to talk to you about it. The message was clear. You’d shut him out. And he couldn’t for the life of him understand why.

Your evening in Mexico City had been magical; at least that was what he felt. And even though Alex had interrupted at the worst possible moment, Logan still naively thought you’d be able to go back to that magic if you got a chance alone together.

But you were busy in Brazil, and the promotional aspect of the Las Vegas Grad Prix was nothing short of crazy. Some might even have called it torturous. He just didn’t find the right time, and you didn’t even make the time for him to try.

The stumbling, awkward times he had tried—Logan couldn’t even form a sentence. He’d interrupt you when you were working, or catch you just as you were about to go to bed. It was never good enough. His emotions had shifted insanely fast, or maybe they had moved at a slow pace for such a long time that they now felt like a tidal wave hitting him straight in the heart.

He liked you.

Your obsession with tater tots, your inability to sit still, your love for shitty movies, your ability to always match the colour of your sneakers to your work clothes. It was all the little things. Your way of treating him like he wasn’t wasted potential or fragile like fine china. That you knew how to deal with him, like this season wasn’t the end of the world.

And the worst thing was that he was pretty damn sure that you liked him back. Yet, you were running.

. . .

You weren’t there to bother him when he finished the race in Las Vegas. You didn’t stand there with your camera, ready to get an unflattering picture of him dripping with sweat. And it wasn’t like in Baku, where he had sensed something was wrong immediately. This was calmer, and Angie just told him that you were back at the hotel when he asked.

He got a point in Vegas, but you weren’t there to capture it. He got to look happy in pictures for other photographers and he got to finally express some happiness in the post-race interviews. And while a part of him was over the moon, he couldn’t stop thinking about how it seemed like you hadn’t even seen him accomplish it.

That was why he now stood outside of your hotel room, freshly showered and changed but still buzzing with adrenaline, a shaking fist knocking lightly on the door.

He shifted his weight, unsure if he was meant to be here, but he needed to see you. He needed to talk to you. He needed to actually kiss you, without interruptions. The both of you needed to celebrate, to feel a night of joy after this nightmare of a season.

The girl who opened the door looked tired, clad in sweatpants and a hoodie draped over her head. Your makeup-less face showed dark circles under your eyes—something that had gotten worse in the last couple of weeks. You looked like you were on the move, already with your shoes on and your suitcase packed, standing right in the doorway.

Logan saw it, but in his excited state—he didn’t immediately connect the dots.

“I got points—,” Logan started, his voice brimming with pride before he corrected himself, the enthusiasm in his tone softening slightly. “Well, one point, but still.”

“I know, Logan,” you replied gently. “I’m proud of you.”

Even if you hadn’t been at the paddock tonight, you hadn’t kept your eyes off the livestream for even a second. You may even have shed a tear as he crossed the finish line.

Logan beamed for a second, the glow of the accomplishment still warming his chest. “You weren’t there after the race, so I thought I’d come see you now,” he continued, a hint of nervousness as he paced uncomfortably in place. “A bunch of us are going out to dinner—”

But then his attention drifted. His brow furrowed, his attention drawn to the luggage again as realisation dawned.

“Why is your bag packed already?”

You looked at the suitcase, the same realisation flashing across your face as if you'd forgotten it was there, or perhaps hoped he wouldn't notice, and then back up at Logan with a visible uncertainty. You shook your head as you knew you had to explain it to him.

“They’ve agreed on an exemption from my contract,” you said quietly. “I’m not working the last two races.”

“B-but why?” Logan stammered.

“Because I asked for it,” you shrugged with an audible sigh. “I have a flight to catch tonight.”

Logan felt his stomach drop as he took in your words. “Wait, you’re going home?”

“No,” you scoffed. “I’m not sure I’m welcome there.”

The weight of those words settled heavy between you both. Logan was unsure of what to say. He felt like he knew more about your family than you let on, but he hadn’t expected you to be this lost. He thought you were still figuring it out, like him.

He swallowed hard. His mind raced, piecing together the fragments of the conversation, but nothing added up. “Then where—?”

“I’m starting out in San Francisco,” you said, cutting him off before he could finish. “And then I’ll see from there on.”

San Francisco. You’d mentioned it numerous times before. You had friends there. Professional skateboarders. It made sense that was where you were running to. It made sense that you had been distant these last weeks. Because this couldn’t have been an easy decision for you.

“I know we’ve talked a lot about your future, but mine is just as uncertain, and I need to do something about it. I can’t go home to a place where I don’t belong. I need to find my own ground.”

You were almost desperate as you spoke.

Logan took a step closer, still having a hard time grasping what was even going on. “Wasn’t that what this year was all about?”

“It was always a fixed-term contract, you know that. Angie just bought me some time to figure things out,” you explained.

“So, running away is you figuring things out?” His words came out sharper than intended, and regret instantly washed over him.

“Logan,” you said, almost pleading now, as if asking him not to push any further.

Maybe you weren’t running away now. Maybe you had already ran, the start of this season being your first stop.

“I’m sorry, I just—” Logan paused, his hands gesturing toward you as if he wanted to hold on to something, anything, to keep you from slipping away. “I have something to say to you.”

“I know you do,” you replied instantly, not letting him speak any further. Your voice creaked as you felt a cry clogging up your throat. “Trust me, I do too. But it’s not the right time for either of us. It will only complicate things.”

Logan opened his mouth to argue, but shut it just as quickly. The words he longed to say hung heavy in his throat, unsaid and unacknowledged. He knew you were right. He knew it. But the words felt hollow in the face of you leaving. The question hung in his throat, unspoken. Would you stay if I asked?

You both knew that the answer to that question would be yes, in a heartbeat. He couldn’t ask that from you. He would never be the one to hold you back. You had enough people against you. He needed to be with you, even if that meant oceans apart.

“Is this goodbye, then?” His voice cracked as he asked it.

You shook your head slowly, reaching into your carry-on bag. “I have this for you.” From the depths of the small bag, you pulled out a simple, leather-bound photo album, perfectly pristine, and handed it to him.

Logan looked down, fingers tracing the edges before opening it. Revealed was a collection of photos you had taken over the past year—candid shots, moments of him between races, behind the scenes. His chest tightened as he looked at the first one, an image of him laughing, helmet in hand, caught mid-conversation with his team. You had always seen him differently, and now, looking at these photos, he could see how much it meant to you.

There was a mixture of digital, film, and polaroid pictures, all signed with the corresponding city and date. You’d started this collection when you were simply work acquaintances. The best photos were the ones that had nothing to do with racing. Sightseeing, views from hotel room balconies, and restaurants with the local cuisine.

His ultimate favourite that you had included was the one he had taken of you in Mexico, barefoot with your sneakers hanging over you on a power line.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner,” you said, the guilt clear in your voice. “I didn’t know until this morning—”

“You don’t owe anyone an explanation,” he cut you off gently, his eyes still focused on the photos.

You bit your lip, still on the verge of tears. Seeing him so captivated by your year together in photos made it much harder.

He looked up, gently closing the album, and with a quick motion, he had embraced your body, wrapping his arms around you with a loud sigh. His t-shirt was soft against your skin as you felt it grow wet from your tears that had finally fallen. You could feel his heartbeat, ticking impatiently.

“Do you think I’m making a mistake by leaving?”

Again, if he said yes… You would rethink everything.

“No, I think you’re doing what you need to do.”

Logan was determined.

“I really have to go now,” you said softly, but you didn’t make any effort to move away from his embrace. You leaned into him instead, your head resting against his chest. You felt his trembling breaths, almost like a stuttering, keeping him from crying out loud.

“Just a couple more seconds,” Logan whispered into your hair, his arms tightening around you. “I hope you find what you’re looking for,” he added, a slight tone of hope noticeable.

“I know we both will.”

Finally, you pulled back, but you left the goodbye unsaid. You reached to squeeze his hand as a last gesture. You’d never been good at goodbyes, so you left it to the lights. The soft glow of the Las Vegas skyline was the only thing illuminating the hotel hallway as you flipped the switch and slipped out the door, making a beeline for the lift.

It was the end of an era. Logan knew it before the year had even started. He just hadn’t imagined it to feel this important—to feel this uncertain. He hadn’t imagined you. And when he started to imagine you, it was already too late. It had always been too late.

He tried to tell himself that he hadn’t lost you. But it felt strangely like it.

Logan stood still in that hotel corridor for way too long, staring at the spot where you had been. This was the way it had to be, but he wasn’t sure that made it any easier.

. . .

Fort Lauderdale, USA

. . .

Logan went home after the season ended. He stayed for the prize giving ceremony. He stayed long enough to say goodbye to the people that it mattered to. Then he went home, and he wasn’t sure how he would look back at his past experiences. Now it mostly hurt, but still—he had made it there in the first place.

Home meant Florida this time. England, or Europe in general, had been his home for most of his conscious life, yet he never felt homesick for it. That was until now, when it wasn’t his home anymore. Florida was nice, it was always just nice. The weather was warm and the beaches were pretty, but when he was sunburnt to the point of peeling and had sand in his shoes, he missed the bleak English mornings with rain pattering against the windows.

He signed for Indycar in the end, and when the season started in March, Logan found it refreshing. He loved racing, and he loved that he got a chance to do it again. He didn’t love the pressure put on him, mostly by strangers on the internet. He didn’t love the rookie title because he wasn’t treated like a rookie. He’d raced in the pinnacle of motorsport, he should know better. He should be better. Logan tried to not let it get to him, because in the end—he was the one that had made it to the pinnacle. Not a lot of other drivers could say that, especially other Americans.

You liked every single one of his Instagram posts. Commented when he did well in races. That was the closest thing you two had to communication. Logan understood you, though—that you needed to leave when you had the chance to. He couldn’t have changed that. He wouldn’t have changed that.

He thought of messaging you, but he had a hard time figuring out what to say. Writing down something long in his notes app, only to cringe at himself seconds later. Nothing seemed right and nothing seemed fair, like he was guilt-tripping you into reminiscing the last year. He knew what he felt for you, but he could never force you to be closer to him, to give up your chance at exploring and finding yourself. It was better to just let you live, but he knew what you felt for him too, that was why it was so hard for him to stay away.

Stuck between a rock and a hard place.

Logan liked every single one of your Instagram posts as well. You kept up with the diary, even if the travelling wasn’t as rapid as under the racing season.

He saw pictures of you all over the American west coast. You were on cable cars and steep streets in San Fransisco. You were skating in Venice Beach, surfing in Santa Cruz, and hiking in Yosemite. You went on road trips up north to go to concerts in Portland and Seattle for bands that Logan had never heard of.

You hadn’t been kidding when you said you had friends there. The skateboarding collective you lived with in Cole Valley was a never ending stream of eclectic people coming and leaving.

Your closest friend was the girl with bright pink hair that he had spotted on your Instagram before from your numerous university art projects. She skated on a competitive level and you would join to take photos of her.

Another one of your friends was a boy who looked strangely like Timothée Chalamet. He was a tattoo artist who would go skating with you at night to spot pretty sunsets. He tried not to be jealous. He should have confessed his feelings for you to even have a reason to be jealous.

Your posts became more scarce during the early summer. When you posted a slideshow of pictures of Tater Tot with a long caption about his passing, Logan understood why. He felt tears forming in his eyes as he watched the pictures of you and the golden retriever, the fur around his face having faded and his nose all pink from old age.

He felt like reaching out to you even more after that, especially since you were back home with your family and he could only imagine how that felt for you. When you posted a picture of a new family dog not too long after, with a normal boring dog name that he could tell you hadn’t chosen, he felt a slight anger inside.

You went skating around Europe after that, the girl with pink hair by your side. You posted a video of Angie trying to skate while in Barcelona, and Logan connected the dots that you had gone to the Spanish Grand Prix. He liked that you were still welcomed by the team, but he was unsure if he would’ve gotten a similar treatment.

On a weekend without racing, Logan was back home in Fort Lauderdale. He spent the evening with his brother and some friends in their backyard. He was there, but he didn’t feel present. Something you had taught him stemmed from anxiety. It wasn’t as bad as it was during his last F1 season, but he still liked to look at your pictures as a distraction when he felt anxious. The stories they told were still better than what was going on in his actual life.

“Since when are you interested in skateboarding?” his brother's voice broke through his focus. Logan barely had time to register him hovering over his shoulder before he took a seat across from him, sinking into a deck chair with a teasing grin.

Logan didn’t realise that he had a video of yours on repeat. It was you in a skatepark in Copenhagen, landing a trick you’d never done before.

“Oh, I’m not—” he started, his tongue suddenly feeling clumsy in his mouth as he fumbled for an excuse. “It’s the old Williams photographer, she’s travelling to all these places to skate. It’s quite cool to see.”

His brother raised an eyebrow, clearly not buying it. Logan flushed under the scrutiny, knowing full well that his brother could read him like an open book. He didn’t just think it was quite cool. He was invested—and not just in the skateboarding.

“A girl, you say?” his brother pressed.

“It’s not like that, she’s on the other side of the world,” Logan protested quickly, slipping his phone back in his pocket as if to hide any evidence of his admiration.

His brother could only laugh at his poor attempt of conviction. “Would it be like that if she was closer?”

Logan froze, unable to answer. His brother was able to read his expression all too well again, his smile softening as he watched Logan carefully.

“I am taking that as a yes.”

. . .

Oxfordshire, UK

. . .

Angela and Matthew Thompson, read the sign outside of the rented out manor house. Somewhere in the English countryside, as the evening sun cast a golden glow over the courtyard. You’d snapped photos of the garden and the exterior, but the sign stopped you for a moment.

You found it odd, firstly seeing Angie be called by her actual first name and then secondly, not by her maiden surname. You guessed that was what it was like—getting married. The formal side of it all, at least.

Click.

You got a quick photo of the sign before you entered back into the manor. The big ballroom was filled with the soft murmur of guests and the rustling of chiffon dresses.

The ceremony had been earlier during the day, a small gathering with only immediate family around. You’d only been there because of your duty to photograph the entire thing. Otherwise you probably wouldn’t have. Angie’s cousin was her only bridesmaid and Matthew had his closest childhood friend as his only groomsman. Both their parents were present as well, and Angie’s grandmother had been ring bearer. Adorable, that was the only way to describe it. Quaint and quite literally perfect, in the manor’s rose garden with birds chirping and a violin player.

Click.

You stood in the doorway to the ballroom, adjusting your camera, scanning the scene for the perfect shot. You found it in two of the party’s younger guests, looking at the wedding cake with temptation in their eyes. The was just something about kid’s in formal clothes. A little crooked bowtie and sparkly silver ballerina shoes.

The reception was bigger, with friends, distant relatives and work colleagues invited. Your family was included in that, but you had gotten good at keeping a distance and they had gotten better at ignoring you instead of arguing with you. That was some sort of improvement. Having the excuse that you were technically working was also in your favour, even if Angie probably wanted to drink you under the table and get you dancing one of Matthew’s rich colleagues.

There hadn’t been a dress code beyond formal, but somehow a lot of the guests seemed to match, making the photography blend together in perfect hues. You couldn’t wait to edit and put them together. Sage green, baby pink and light yellow. The men and their suits in tones of beige and blue. You guessed that was the English summer in colours.

You were never really one to dress up nicely. You preferred something practical, but even you felt a little whimsical tonight. A periwinkle dress and white heels—a complete juxtaposition of your usual streetwear and sneakers.

Click.

You managed to get a picture of the happy couple from far way. Candid, when they thought no one was watching. Those were usually the ones that turned out the best. No posing, no fixed smiles. Angie showed a wide and almost painfully happy grin as Matthew whispered something in her ear, sneaking in a kiss on her cheek. Only they would know what had been said when they, years down the line, flipped through the photo album from their special day.

That was the beauty of photos. The secret stories they held.

You smiled to yourself, getting lost in the scene that showed through the viewfinder, shifting to find something new and equally magical in the movements of the ballroom.

Suddenly, all you could see was one singular familiar face.

You blinked, not believing your eyes before you zoomed in. Tall, blond, blue eyes catching the light—talking to a man you recognised as a Williams engineer. It couldn’t be… but it totally was.

In a navy tailored suit, his tie slightly loosened, he raised a champagne coupe to his lips. He smiled at something the engineer said, flashing his teeth. You took a picture, and then one more—it was achingly familiar, yet so different.

It was like he knew he had a camera pointed towards him with how quick he reacted. He hadn’t even seen you when you took the first one, but by the time you were about to take a third one, his face was turned completely towards you—looking at your lens, looking at you.

And of course, he waved. He smiled and he waved.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

He quickly excused himself to the engineer and was then set on only you. He crossed the room with easy confidence, threading through the crowd. Since when was he so smooth?

You lowered your camera as your breath got caught in your throat, finally looking at him not through the viewfinder.

“Logan,” you whispered, voice softer than expected.

He said your name with an easy familiarity, one you’d almost forgotten. It pulled you back six months in time in mere seconds, as if nothing had changed.

“Uhm, H-how did you get here?” you stammered, cursing yourself for sounding so surprised. You should’ve known he’d be here. Angie’s wedding had been a big talking point even back when he was driving for Williams.

“There’s these things called airplanes,” he teased, the corners of his mouth quirking up. “Ever heard of them?”

You rolled your eyes, but your smile was impossible to suppress. Silence fell over the two of you as you struggled to find ways to continue the conversation. The tension was palpable, stretching thin as if either of you could snap it with the wrong word. Logan looked lost too, like the confidence he thought he had washed away when he finally got close to you.

You’d thought about it—what it would be like to talk to him again if you ever got the chance. Being speechless was never in those thoughts.

“You’re hair has gotten long,” you blurted out, desperate to fill the silence and because it was honestly the first thing you noticed to be different about him. His blond hair had grown longer, with a slight wave to it, almost curling at the ends.

“Is that a compliment?” Logan mused.

“Yes,” you were too quick to reply. “Or, I think so. It’s different.”

Logan chuckled softly as you winced at how clumsy you sounded.

“So… you work weddings too?” he asked, glancing at the camera still in your hands.

Great. He was shit at small talk too.

“Only when it’s Angie,” you answered, trying to sound at ease. “I promised to make her look gorgeous even before she met Matthew.”

You did not remember the first time she asked you. It was a decade ago at this point. But every time you had taken a photo of her—professionally and privately—she liked to remind you of how she felt like no one else ever had captured her fairly, or flatteringly. She was always your biggest fan, even when you were just taking grainy pictures of your friends at the local skatepark.

“Can I see?” Logan asked and you handed him the camera without a doubt.

There was something so familiar in the gesture, like muscle memory kicking in. You used to share everything with him. You were happy to know that even through it all, he at least still cared about your photography.

Before you could even react, he raised the camera and snapped a picture of you, completely unprepared. The flash was too bright, and you squealed in surprise.

“Dude, what the fuck?” you exclaimed, blinking away the aftershock of the flash.

Logan raised an eyebrow. “Dude? You’ve turned American!”

You couldn’t help the laugh that escaped you. “I have not turned American.”

Logan joined your laughter, but only for a second—something on the camera catching his attention instead. He looked at it intensely, only for you to realise that it was the photo he’d taken of you. Overexposed and blurry. Not perfect in any way, but candidly capturing a moment.

“My god, you look lovely.”

He said it softly, like an afterthought, like he didn’t mean for you to hear it.

Heat crept up to your cheeks as he handed you the camera back to you. You couldn’t look too long at the photo he’d taken of you, so you pressed the button to show the one taken prior. It was him, of course—smiling as he had clocked you from across the room.

“So do you,” you said, showing him the picture of himself. “Happiness suits you.”

Logan’s smile faltered for a moment as you surprised even yourself with your honesty. You realised how he could overthink what you had just said—like happiness was something new for him to express. And maybe that was true. But it was a sad realisation, and a mortifying thing for someone else to have discovered about oneself.

Before an uncomfortable silence fell between the two of you, a familiar voice broke through the moment.

“There you are!” Alex’s voice was bright, his cheeks tinted pink from champagne and dancing. “I’ve been looking for you!”

You turned, grateful for the distraction, as he came up and enveloped you in a hug. You smiled, hugging him back, telling him how you’d missed him.

“Logan!” he exclaimed as he turned his attention to him. “It’s so good to see you.”

They did one of those awkward side-hugs that men insisted on giving each other. Logan said something similar in response, his voice warm but his eyes still flicked to you. You gathered from just that little interaction that their departure must’ve been stretched and difficult. They were good friends, for christ sake, but Williams had made everything toxic.

Alex beamed. “Well, come on! It’s my turn to pester Paddy with a camera. Scoot together.”

Before either of you could protest, Alex grabbed your camera, leaving you both standing there, shoulder to shoulder. A fire burning through the fabric where your bare shoulder touched his blazer.

Click.

. . .

After long speeches, and first dances, and consuming too much wedding cake, you found yourself on a balcony, taking a breather, looking out over the garden. You heard the door open behind you, and it was like you could feel that it was his presence. You let out a small laugh as you kept your eyes focused on the view.

“What are we looking at?” Logan’s voice came soft and steady beside you, making you turn your head.

“My sister sharing a cigarette with a Williams mechanic,” you scoffed, nodding towards two figures below the balcony.

Your sister, known as an overly ambitious goody two shoes, wasn’t only sharing the cigarette—she was shotgunning it. Your past self would’ve wanted to go tattle to your parents, but now you were kind of glad to see a human, imperfect side of your sister, acting promiscuous with a greasy mechanic.

There was a brief silence as the evening air wrapped around you. Logan slipped his hands into his pockets, shifting his weight slightly.

“How’s it been? With your family and all?” he slowly asked, trying to make it sound casual.

“They still treat me like a toddler, if that’s what you’re wondering. But we don’t argue anymore—just pretend each other doesn’t exist,” you scoffed.

He glanced at you, the hint of a frown on his face, but didn’t press further. Instead, he pulled out his phone from his suit pocket as it vibrated, the faint sound breaking the quiet between you.

You let your eyes linger on him for a moment. The small gesture shouldn’t have meant anything, but something about the way his fingers moved so delicately over the screen made you pause. Then you saw it—the photo behind his clear phone case.

“That’s from Mexico,” you said without thinking.

Logan glanced at you, then back at his phone, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Yeah. My favourite from the album you gave me.”

You blinked, remembering the moment instantly—tossing shoes over a power line, him carrying you home, Alex doing what he did best—interrupting.

“I know it’s slightly pathetic, but that was one of the best days of my life,” Logan admitted, shying away from looking at you.

It had been one of the few peaceful moments amidst the storm of races, pressure, and long, chaotic nights. It was supposed to be just another moment, but it had become more. You both knew it meant so much more.

“It’s not pathetic, Logan. At least, I don’t think so,” you reassured him. Your heart clenched at his honesty, but you felt it all the same as him.

Logan let out a small breath of laughter, but the smile that accompanied it didn’t reach his eyes. He slid his phone back into his pocket, but the photo lingered in your mind. Logan glanced back at the ballroom, then back at you, his gaze lingering as if he was working up the courage to say something else.

But then his eyes dropped, right to where your arm touched against your ribs, a small glint of ink peeking out, darker than any of your other tattoos. Logan froze.

“That’s my number…” he said, his voice soft with disbelief.

You felt your breath hitch as he stared at it. You instinctively rubbed your fingers over the tattoo, tracing the outline of the small F1 car inked delicately with his racing number on the nose. You suddenly felt very exposed, but not in a bad way. You moved your arm to give him a better view.

“What other number could I possibly have picked?” you wondered, tilting your head. “I did tell you that I was planning to get one.”

His hand nervously reached for yours, his thumb brushing over the tattoo with tenderness, touching you in a way he hadn’t before. The new ink sat just centimetres above the tiny paw prints you had in memory of Tater Tot. Logan could’ve cried on the spot.

“I really like it,” he whispered.

He dared to meet your gaze. You stood there in silence for a moment, the weight of everything between you suddenly heavier than ever. His thumb continued to caress the tattoo.

“Are we okay, Logan?”

He exhaled as you asked it, out of relief it seemed.

“I thought everything would be different, seeing you again,” Logan explained. “But I strangely feel like nothing has changed since Vegas.”

You nodded, a smile creeping up on your face, as you could only agree with him. The distance, the time apart, hadn’t dulled anything between you. If anything, it had only clarified what had always been there.

In the background, you could still hear the music play loudly from inside the ballroom. Your sister and her mechanic were long gone from the garden. You had nothing to worry about and everything to win.

“So… how do you feel about dancing at weddings, Sargeant?”

. . .

The manor had rooms for all the guests to stay overnight. You stumbled into yours in the small hours of the night—tipsy from champagne, tired from dancing. Logan was right behind you, laughing at you almost falling over from trying to unclasp your heels.

“Need some help there?” Logan teased.

“I’ve got it,” you mumbled, finally getting them off to feel the carpet against your bare feet.

Logan took a stance by the window, hands shoved into the pockets of his navy suit pants, looking out onto the moonlit garden. His jaw was tense, a sign that he was thinking—no, overthinking.

You watched him for a moment, how his fingers flexed slightly in his pockets, how his shoulders rose and fell with a breath, before you went into the en suite bathroom, desperate to get your makeup off after wearing it all day. It was an oddly familiar feeling, being alone with him in a hotel room.

The rest of the wedding had been so lovely. It hadn’t mattered much about what had been left unsaid, but instead what mattered was the way you acted towards each other now. You had been bracing yourself for the moment it all would break loose the entire night, ever since your eyes met his across the reception hall, but you had no idea how to start.

It turned out, you didn’t have to.

“You wanna know something?” Logan’s voice was slow, his back still turned against you, as he spoke. He waited for you to say something, but all you did was mumble a huh from the bathroom, clearly more focused on your makeup than on him.

He took a breath, slowly turning to you. He felt himself melt at the sight of you—in your pretty dress and a squeaky clean bare face. His gaze held yours, and in that quiet second, the world shifted.

“I’m tired of acting like I’m not in love with you.”

The words slipped from his lips easily, almost like they had always been there, waiting for this moment to escape.

You froze in your movement, putting your skincare back in your makeup bag, not sure that you had heard him correctly. “What?”

“I said,” Logan repeated, a touch firmer, “I’m tired of acting like I’m not in love with you.”

You stepped away from the sink, opting to stand in the doorway instead as you watched him—how emotions washed over his face like colours melting together in a sunset. You had a hard time hiding the smile that began to form on your face. “You’re in love with me?”

Logan shifted, looking almost sheepish as he rubbed the back of his neck. “Don’t look so smug,” he muttered, though a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “You’re gonna make me regret saying anything.”

But you didn’t feel smug—not in the slightest. Your chest instead filled with warmth, something dangerously close to… well, love.

“Well, excuse me for being a little happy about the fact that you love me back,” you said, almost argumentatively, crossing your arms.

“Back? You love me too?” Logan walked closer, almost stumbling as he passed the corner of the bed.

“Yeah, dumbass.” You rolled your eyes at his oblivion. “I’ve had a crush on you since before you even knew I existed.”

“A crush?” Logan chuckled, a sound full of disbelief and a little wonder. “How long have you—”

“Since Baku,” you interrupted, your voice quieter now, more serious. “I think I’ve loved you since you stayed with me in Baku.”

That admission hung in the air, heavy with memories of long flights, foreign cities, whispered conversations in crowded spaces, and the closeness that had grown between you. Logan stared at you like he couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing.

Maybe the two of you hadn’t exactly known what the other wanted to say, that last night in Vegas. Or maybe, neither of you could’ve expected the intensity of emotions that would come to the surface when you finally did get to say what you had wanted to.

“Why are you still standing so far away?” Logan took a deep breath, his heart pounding against his ribs. “Come take what’s yours,” he then whispered, his voice a soft command that sent shivers down your spine.

You didn’t need to be told twice.

Without another thought, you exited the bathroom and crossed the room in a few quick strides. You felt your pulse thrumming in your ears as you reached him, and without hesitation, you slid your hands up his chest, feeling a steady heartbeat beneath your palms.

Logan’s arms closed around you, his warm hands brushing the skin of your back, exposed by the low hem of your dress. He pulled you closer, until there was no space left between you.

His lips found yours, soft and sure. You melted into the kiss, into him. This time, there was no one to interrupt you. Months of longing and unspoken feelings poured into one single moment.

As soon as Logan felt you smile against his lips, he was sure world peace was achievable. With more confidence, he kissed you with a feverish intent, slipping his tongue in your mouth, falling backwards onto the mattress with you on top of him.

Moving your legs, you straddled his lap, sinking down comfortably on top of him while you put your arms around him. He rested against the bed frame, hair getting messed up as your fingers played at the nape of his neck. You continued to kiss, his hands rushing to touch your body—one on your cheek and the other on your waist. Your dress bunched up around your thighs as you pressed closer to him, feeling the heat of his body through layers of fabric.

You pulled apart after a moment, but only far enough to inhale, your noses still touching. The room was dead quiet, save for the panting sound of your breathing.

“You have no idea the things I’ve wanted to say to you,” Logan murmured, resting his forehead against yours. “The things I’ve held back…” he added softly, his thumb now gently stroking the side of your face.

“You could tell them to me now,” you teased, sneaking in a small peck. A smirk tugged at the corner of Logan’s lips. “My brain can’t really focus when you’re sat on me like this,” he said, his fingers tracing slow circles along the exposed skin of your upper thigh.

You bit your bottom lip, brain filled with lust and sudden bravery. “Unzip me, please?”

“Should we— I just don’t want to rush anything,” Logan mumbled out of nervousness.

“You don’t think a year worth of tension is enough?” you whispered, smiling.

Logan swallowed, his hand daring to move behind you. The sound of your zipper easily sliding open filled the silence between you as his fingers delicately touched your exposed back. His eyes never left your body as the thin straps fell off your shoulders, the top half of your dress pooling around your waist. With a soft tug, you were all exposed. The white lace of your bra doing almost nothing to conceal your chest.

You were privy to his persistent stare at your body. You couldn’t pretend you weren’t, and your satisfaction was hard to withhold, a devious smile forming on your lips. His hands moved under your skirt, gently lifting it over your head, revealing delicate white lace panties that matched your bra.

“Did you plan this?” Logan had to fight himself to not let his jaw physically drop at the sight of you.

He held a certain emotion in the way he looked at you. You’d seen desire before in a lover’s eyes. This was softer. This was different. Devotion, maybe. Love, most definitely.

“Better safe than sorry,” you shrugged.

With a soft exhale, he chuckled in utter disbelief. Dipping his head, he couldn’t help but kiss the valley between your breasts, nipping and sucking at the soft skin. His hair tickled against your neck as his mouth explored, surely leaving a mark or two.

With a quick movement, he unclasped your bra, discarding it as he continued to kiss your skin. Your breasts, your collarbones, your neck and jaw. He even moved to kiss a spot on your arm, making sure you took notice at how his lips gently pressed against your tattoo of his racing number.

You both took a moment, letting your eyes linger on each other’s. It was hard to find things to say, but you guessed the silence, panting breaths and growing humidity were enough to express what you both wanted.

Your fingers diligently started to unbutton his shirt, leaving kisses on his neck and sternum as each inch of his skin was revealed for you. When you reached the last button, your hands dangerously close to his lower stomach, Logan moved swiftly to remove his shirt in one go, tossing it on the floor to land next to your dress.

Immediately, you sunk your fingers back into his blond waves, tugging lightly as you kissed his swollen lips. He matched your ferocity, sliding his hands from your waist down to your ass, squeezing over the soft lace. Both of you groaned at the feeling of your hips grinding down onto the fabric covering his growing hardness, almost a surprised feeling at how quickly it all had evolved.

“I’m starting to think you might like me or something,” you giggled, like an angel.

Logan wanted to argue. He wanted to say something witty. But he had no choice. With your wandering hands, all he could do was bite down on his lip to drown a pathetic moan trying to escape. With your wandering hands, you pulled his zipper open, helping him out of the rest of his clothes.

His cock sat hard in the space between your bodies, and as you tentatively touched him, feeling hot and heavy in your hand, he whined out a sting of curses. His stomach flexed as he ached for real friction, your hand only lazily stroking him. He groaned, head falling back to hit the headboard. The loveliest of pinks suffused his cheeks, a trail of rose-coloured blotches lingering all the way down his chest.

He tried to drag you closer to him with a firm grip on your hips, desperately searching for more. His hand found its way down between your legs, gently touching over a wet patch that had formed on your panties.

You hummed at the sensation, kissing his jawline, feeling him tense at your touch. “Can I ride you?”

“Mhm, yeah… you want that?” Logan panted, gentle little breaths pushing past his lips.

Nodding enthusiastically, you placed your bottom lip between your teeth as you looked at him, eyes darkened. “I have condoms in the bathroom,” you said getting off of his lap, walking over. At the loss of touch, Logan couldn’t help but audibly whine.

You made a point to shake your hips as you walked. You knew you had his eyes on you. After fetching the little foil packet from your makeup bag, you stopped in the doorway to pull your underwear off, dragging the flimsy lace agonisingly slowly down your legs as Logan could only watch.

“You look heavenly,” he whispered as you towered over him to kiss him, before straddling his lap again, your naked body finally touching his without anything in between.

Logan swallowed his moans as you carefully tore open the condom packet and rolled it over his sensitive length. He helped you lift you up on your knees, enough to align himself with your soaking entrance. A year of tension really was enough foreplay. Fluttering around him, you adjusted to all of him, carefully and slowly moving into a perfect rhythm.

You couldn’t be held responsible for the words and sounds leaving your mouth as you rocked against him. His hands gripped your waist and then your ass, kneading the soft flesh, spilling out between his fingers. You heard him suck in a breath as your fingers got entangled in his hair, gently pulling at the ends.

“Logan,” his name left your mouth with a delicate whine.

“Hm?”

You needed him to look at you. Logan’s hand found home on your cheeks, keeping his eyes tightly locked with yours as you connected in the most primal way. “Tell me I’m yours,” he whispered gently, feeling himself bottom out inside of you.

“You’re mine, all mine, baby,” you reassured, finding his lips for a messy kiss.

Slowly, you started bouncing faster, Logan’s hands guided you, helping you with every move, rise and fall. You were both stuttering out moans at the almost overwhelming feeling—the wetness, the squeezing, the friction.

It didn’t take long before you were both panting, flushed messes, the movement slowing down as the desperate feeling of release grew stronger.

“Are your legs getting tired?” Logan asked, voice hoarse. “F-fuck, let me help.”

He tilted you, shifting to a more horizontal position, as he wrapped his arms around your waist, letting you bury your face in the crook of his neck, sucking and kissing wherever you could reach. With forceful thrusts, he up fucked into you, digging his fingers into the fat of your hips to pull you even closer.

He took care of you. Your tits bounced against him as you moved together. The tension inside of you only growing and spiralling. Logan reached between your bodies, moving his limber fingers to circle your puffy clit.

You repeated his name through broken moans, all choked and caught in your throat, as he continued his mission. Through deep breaths, you got lost in the scent of him. Cologne, musky and warm. It was almost distracting, until he reached a soft spot, thrusting inside of you.

“I’ve got you,” he reassured. “I’m right here, let it all out.” Logan brought you over the edge. You bit down on his shoulder as the feeling washed over you, a white fire lighting from inside of you. His writhing against you told you he wasn’t long after, filling the condom as he rode out both of your highs. He rested still inside of you for a while as you both caught your breaths.

You needed help to get off him, your legs still shaking. With a tired moan, he slipped out and you collapsed on the bed next to him, feeling the sheets ruffle around you. Logan glimmered under the moonlight seeping in through the windows, as sweat stuck to his flushed skin. His outgrown hair falling over his forehead.

You faced each other on the bed, your voices barely above whispers, not necessarily thanking each other, but more just mumbles about how special this felt. Logan’s hand found your arm, delicately tracing the car tattooed on your bicep. It tickled, so you let out a breathy laugh as you placed your hand on top of his.

Logan’s lips curled into a lazy smile as he felt your reaction. “Did you get any other tattoos?”

“Nope,” you replied, shaking your head lightly. “I think you’ve seen them all now.”

There was a softness in his expression that made you feel safer than ever before. It was the kind of comfort that came with time, with knowing someone deeply and being known in return.

“When did you know that you liked me?” you asked suddenly, thinking back to your own admission about falling for the sight of him through your lens before you had even had a conversation together.

“In Australia,” he said after a beat, his voice gentle. “You were talking so fondly about tater tots.”

“Tater tots?” you echoed with a grin. “That’s when you knew?”

You had a feeling it wasn’t only about your love for fried potatoes, thinking about what had happened just moments before that conversation. He had started to like you because you cared about him in a moment where he felt his weakest.

“I was quietly observing you before that, but I think that was our first actual conversation,” Logan said, reminiscing. “And then,” he continued, his tone growing softer, “I just kept falling for you. Every city, every race, every little thing you did.”

Your heart warmed in your chest as his words washed over you. You felt the pull of the past, the shared experiences, the way your lives had intertwined across the globe.

“Seeing you throw your sneakers over the power line in Mexico made me realise that I love you,” Logan finally whispered.

“I love you too,” you mumbled against his lips, reaching to gently kiss him again… and again.

Afterward, you left the bed to take a moment for yourself in the bathroom. Discarding the condom, peeing to prevent a UTI, staring at yourself in the mirror for an undisclosed amount of time. You looked like a mess, but a beautiful mess—with splotchy love bites and scratches.

You turned the shower on, knowing that you wouldn’t be able to sleep if you didn’t get the clinging feeling of sweat off your body.

“Are you getting in with me?” you asked Logan, peeping out behind the bathroom door to hide your naked body, spotting him still sat on the bed, the sheets covering him.

Logan lifted his gaze from the floor, meeting yours with a slow smile. He didn’t move; he only tilted his head in thought. “Why does that feel more intimate than what we just did?”

“Because it is,” you hesitantly answered, fidgeting with your fingers as your nails tapped on the door.

It didn’t take long for you both to be drenched and humid in the warm water of the shower, not having any hurry of getting out, steam fogging up the bathroom. You were just enjoying the closeness for now. Body against body. Your hands massaged his scalp as you washed shampoo out of it.

“Soo…” Logan began, dragging out the word, droplets were falling from his hair over his face. “What happens now?”

“Round two?” you teased, buying yourself a moment to think about the actual implication of his question.

Logan chuckled, but waited for a true answer. Round two was inevitable. He was asking something deeper.

“I’ve got nothing to do and a newfound love for racing and the US,” you finally said, easy as pie. “You should take advantage of that.”

“I think I might,” he smiled. “Life is a lot better with you close.”

You reached up to cup his cheeks, the pads of your thumbs gently rubbing over his pink cheekbones. His eyes looked onto yours, pulling you closer as his hands found the curve of your waist, the water still falling on you like an outburst of rain from a stormy sky, electricity unloading.

“We’ll be alright, I think,” you mumbled, gracefully placing a kiss on his wet lips.

Logan’s voice echoed softly in the bathroom, words leaving with an unusual certainty.

“I’m starting to think so too.”

Thank you for reading! ♡ Please comment, reblog, like or send me a messenger pigeon.

I'm calling this beast my best attempt at a fix-it fic. This was a nightmare and tumblr's paragraph limit is my mortal enemy. I had to remove like three scenes to even fit all of this which messed up the timeline like crazy. The title is from Worst Case Kid by Tommy Lefroy!

#my writing 🪐#f1 x reader #f1 smut #logan sargeant #logan sargeant x reader #f1 #formula 1 #formula one #f1 imagine #f1 fic #f1 fanfiction #logan sargeant smut #ls2 #f1 fanfic #logan sargeant imagine #logan sargeant x you

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olderthannetfic · 2 days

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I accidentally killed my own desire to write, and I need some advice. To be really blunt about it, what's the point of writing? When I would spend lots of time laboring over making a good story with a plot and characters who were in-character and connecting all the dots narratively so payoffs were satisfying, my reward was dead silence and virtually no clicks. I posted some mindless smut to my side account one day and got more hits in a day than most of my other works combined got in a year. I know, I know. "Write for ~*~yourself~*~" is the common response. It's the "be yourself!" of writing. It's supposed to be a magical phrase that'll make everything okay. But... I don't like knowing that something I spend months working on won't be read by anyone while something I write in a car while bored got thousands of clicks. I don't like making something I'm proud of and then no one ever looks at it. That's not fun for me. It's not fulfilling.

For a solid decade, I've tried to ignore how the level of interactivity in fandom is falling. Fewer comments. Fewer kudos. No comments in the bookmarks. You put your tumblr and Discord in the AN and get a handful of asks and one person who adds you, talks to you twice and then ghosts you. Most of the comments are "well, actuallys", made even more annoying by them being wrong as opposed to actually correcting an error. I avoid fandom drama, wank, and infighting. I don't engage with things I know will make me unhappy. I try to be happy over in my own little corner. I comment on every single work I read. I want people to enjoy fandom. I used to.

Some dumb smut I wrote in 40 minutes gets five times the hits of the writing I'm most proud of, and it gets it in just under three months. I am not a great smut writer. I haven't stumbled onto an incredible talent I had that makes it so the issue is that I'm so amazing my smut brings all the boys to the yard. People just don't like what I write and put effort into. It's very likely that despite 20 years of writing fic, I suck at writing. And people enjoy my writing most when they don't have to put up with anything substantial and can just skip to the sex.

So for the last eight months, when I write, I just sort of give up. Close the Word doc without saving. No one will read this. No one cares about this. There is no fan eagerly awaiting every update like I await updates from my favorite authors. There's not even someone saying, "update soon!" Close the Word doc. Delete old WIPs. There's no point. I do not tell stories worth reading. I used to. In the FFN days people genuinely enjoyed my work. I'd never have had an opportunity to do the 'I won't update until I get 3 reviews' thing because getting that many on a chapter was usually something I'd do overnight. Post before bed. Wake up. Read the reviews before school. I peaked in high school, I guess.

And now I'm just sort of lost. I still have lots of ideas. Ideas for fics fall into my head all the time. That's never been a problem. What I don't have is any motivation to write them. What's the point of writing? If no one else is reading, I guess the point would be so I could go back and read my own story and have fun with it. Write for myself. But I can review the story and have fun with it in my head without writing it down. It's substantially faster and more importantly, isn't incredibly depressing.

So, at the risk of definitely being calld the second-coming of True Art Anon or a troll or validation-seeking or haha mentally ill haha... what's the point of writing?

Okay, so write porn in a car while you're bored.

Look, you can whine all you want about my response, but what you've written here is blatantly about depression.

Lots of people in fandom are still interacting. And no, it isn't just on fics that are objectively written to some pro fiction standard or whatever. Teenagers still breathlessly review poorly spelled cracky masterpieces about this year's big anime and so forth.

Yes, there may be reasons why you in particular are in a slump when it comes to fandom friendships or "plz update" comments. We can talk about that. But this ask is all gloom about fandom in general. That's not realism: that's you having a problem.

As for why a person should write: because the actual hours you spend doing the writing are fun.

If they aren't pleasurable in some way, find another hobby.

But if you want an answer to the age old "Why did my 5 minute fic get 1000000x more asspats", I've seen meta about this for literally decades.

The most likely reason is that the fic we write quickly and without much thought often feels fresher and more fun. The things we labor over endlessly can feel overworked. Even in cases where they don't, they're often heavier subject matter or more niche subject matter. On top of all that, we just care more, so even a high level of feedback doesn't really feel like enough for the effort and care we put in.

Do you really need me to tell you why you don't feel the same as in high school when things were fresh and new?

Go read up on combatting burnout or dealing with post-college anxiety or managing stress in a dead-end job in your 30s or finding meaning in your 40s or whatever is going on.

Everyone goes through fallow periods in fandom and in life.

Feeling reinvigorated has to do with internal factors and some general life circumstance stuff. It doesn't have that much to do with number of kudos. That's just the surface trigger for a mood that was already there.

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ambiguouslady42 · 3 days

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Pairing: Hajime Umemiya x Fem! Reader

CW: Oral (f/m receiving), food play, vaginal sex, creampie, mention of a scar.

Summary: You go on a strawberry-picking date with Umemiya. Later, you decide to make chocolate strawberries and the rest is history.

WC: ~2K

Tags: @pixelcafe-network, @awkwardchick87, @jellyfishsart,

@missvulpix212, @hayatoseyepatch, @peachsukii

@entirelysein-e

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT.

Strawberry season is coming to a close. You dislike the summer sun, but your Ume loves seeing plants be happy and blooming. He surprised you today by picking strawberries at a local farm. The batch he grew for you disappeared quickly into whatever sweet delights you created. He loves that you’re able to find every possible way to use what he grows. With the varieties of strawberries (about 9, to be exact), you knew this was the perfect date for today. He could help you choose the best ones to use for today or for tomorrow. As you’re picking your strawberries, your hands are slowly grazing his as you’re choosing which strawberries you’re going to take home tonight.

Both of you are reaching for the same strawberry and your hands just bump into each other in this instance. There is no need for an apology because you’re both giggling because you think so alike. You take this opportunity to kiss his cheek. He loves the small affections that you give him. A kiss on the cheek, a soft kiss on his hand whenever he holds it, and the gentle embrace you give him when he’s not expecting it.

With your strawberry basket in hand, you are satisfied with the bundles of strawberries you picked out. Red and luscious, you’re thinking about what you can make tonight. As you’re both getting home, you decide to slip into something more comfortable. You decide to go for the button-up night dress, it’s freeing to wear after being outside in the fields. Your handsome man is wearing a white T-shirt and pyjama trousers. Anytime that he could wear that white t-shirt, you catch yourself gazing at his strong arms. Whenever he stretches, you like that you could see his exposed torso. He’s looking at you with those crystal eyes; you could gaze into them and get lost in them forever.

Despite the heat, you are feeling decadent. Thinking about what’s in your pantry, you remember you have baker’s chocolate that would go perfectly with these sweet strawberries. You’re heating the chocolate and making sure you’re not burning it. As you're using the spatula to stir carefully, your Ume decides to sneak up on you and wrap his arms around your waist as you're working on your decadent treat.

“You can’t have any right now until I'm done with ALL of them”, you say in a teasing tone.

“I’m not here for the strawberries, I just wanted to feel you close to me right now,” he says softly as he’s holding you tighter.

“Isn’t this what someone says if they want something?”, you ask him coyly.

“Maybe, perhaps.” He begins to gently tug on the night dress to expose your left shoulder. He’s slowly peppering you with soft kisses on your shoulder, trailing towards the nape of your neck. You know that he’s touching one of your weak points, but you will not relent.

“You… have…. to wait. I’m nearly done here.” Your response tells him that you’re going to relent to him.

“How much longer?” He begins to work his way to the right side of your neck and peppering kisses on your right shoulder. You feel that you are melting to his touch. His nose begins to nuzzle on the back of your neck. He can smell the faint hint of sun lotion and your sweet scent. It’s even sweeter than the strawberries you picked.

“There, last one!” You quickly turn around and kiss him. He holds you just a little tighter. You run your fingers through his white, soft hair. You love the way that it curls outward. You permit yourself to show him hungry he makes you for his touch. As your hands are rummaging through his perfect hair, his hands begin to explore your body. His hands gently lift your night dress, and he places his fingers on your hips. He begins to twirl his fingers on the elastic of your underwear. You begin to laugh in between the kisses and try to grab his hands from further touching you, but he uses this as an opportunity to hold your hands. He pauses kissing you to pepper your hands with the affection you desire.

The softer kisses are always preferable at times. So tender and sweet to the touch, you feel the electricity coursing through your body. There’s still a small ache in your sex that desires to feel him everywhere. He takes this moment to return to holding you and he lifts you on the kitchen counter. He has you cornered and he embraces you as he now wants to explore your body through those soft kisses.

“Ume…I…need you,” you whisper to him.

“I know, my beautiful sunflower,” he tells you in between his kisses.

He decides to undress you right in this space. Every button that he unbuttons, he rewards you with another kiss. You know that you’re his, but each time feels more special than the last. As he reaches the last button, he feels hungrier for you than he was earlier. Your nearly exposed body and underwear are right in front of him. At times you feel self-conscious because of the stretchmarks and the scar on your right rib. He doesn’t mind; he’ll always find you beautiful.

This time, he chooses not to tease you and begins to fully expose you on this kitchen counter. You begin to feel shy and wrap your arms to hide your breasts. He slowly walks towards your decadent dessert and picks two of them up; He takes a bite and knows that this sweet strawberry was prepared perfectly. However, he knows that he is eager to taste you instead. He walks towards you and feeds you your creation. As he does, he grabs your hand, so you can hold the strawberry. As he hands it over to you, it exposes your breast to him. He begins to gently suck on your nipple. You can’t decide which feels better, the taste of your decadent dessert or the sensation that your Ume is making you feel. You become distracted and are moaning rather than eating.

He stops to look up at you. As gentle as his gaze is, he leans closer to whisper, “I want you to finish eating your strawberry before I make you cum.” The whisper alone makes you moan, but within seconds, he’s trailing his way to get in between your legs. You feel his hot tongue playing with your clit. You proceed to continue eating your strawberry. The taste of the chocolate and the juicy sweetness of the strawberry combined with this sensation make it much more euphoric than you can imagine. As you finish the entire strawberry, you feel the urge to come building up. He proceeds to place one finger in between as he’s playing with your clit with his warm tongue. You’re leaning further back into the counter space.

“Ume…my love…right there…” You feel like you want him even more. You long to feel his girthy cock inside of you. “My…love…I’m going to need more of you. This…isn’t going…to…” You can’t bring yourself to finish the sentence as you’re coming. He proceeds to kiss you between your thighs and kisses his way back up your torso, trailing his tongue around breasts, and choosing to give you kisses on your neck.

“Mmm, I think my sunflower needs just a little more…would you agree?” as he looks at you with dishevelled hair.

You feel speechless as he walks to grab a plate of your strawberries. He hands them off to you before he proceeds to carry you to your bedroom like a bride. He gently places you on the edge of the bed. You proceed to eat a strawberry as you’re watching him turn around and take off his shirt. You see the muscles on his back and the slight scratches that you left from the last time.

You get up and feed him a strawberry this time. You proceed to hand it off to him this time as you get on your knees to take off his pants. Ume is trying to concentrate on the sweetness of the fruit as you’re licking his exposed cock. You lick it and you slowly begin to kiss the tip of his cock before taking it in. The sweet taste of the fruit lingers as you are sucking his cock. You love that his cock at this point tastes like the fruit that you prepared earlier. You feel hungrier as you place your hands on his hips. His hands are rummaging through your hair and he is slowly beginning to thrust himself further into your mouth. He wants to save his cum for somewhere else. He makes you stop and lifts you to kiss you. You love how you can taste him and he can taste you with each kiss exchanged. The plate of strawberries is in the centre of your bed.

“I have an idea, how about I feed you some strawberries…as I’m making love to you?” He asks as he’s kissing your shoulders once again.

You know that he will take care of your needs in the bed. You long to feel him inside of you. You nod and agree with his proposal. He gently places you on your side of the bed. The plate of strawberries is next to you now. He proceeds to position himself to enter you from the side. He gently begins to thrust into you. His arm reaches out to the strawberry as he proceeds to feed you. You begin to giggle because you can’t decide again which is more pleasurable, him or the taste of the strawberry. For each thrust, you’re able to bite into the fruit and finish it quickly. He kisses your back as you proceed to reach for another piece. The sensation of his cock inside of you as you’re eating is delightful. He begins to hold your leg up as you feel his pace quickening.

“Mmmm…darling! Right there. Please…don’t stop.” as you’re grasping your hands into the sheets.

“Do you… want to feel… me deeper inside of you?” he asks you in his softest voice.

“Ye…s…Ume, I…want… all of you inside of me.” It’s becoming more challenging to concentrate on making coherent sentences. Your Ume knows that you’re nearly at the finish line. He decides to lay you flat on your stomach.

“Please…I need all you.” You beg him.

“Don’t worry, sunflower…you’ll be able to feel all of me.” He tells you. He covers your back with kisses as he places his cock back inside of you. You feel his cock going deeper and you feel yourself wanting to scream. He sweeps your hair to the side to make sure he can see the right side of the neck and shoulder. He is gently placing kisses as he is going deeper and slower than he previously was.

“When…you’re ready…please finish inside of me. I need to feel all of you tonight.” You command him as you’re releasing another moan.

“As you…wish.” He responds to you by picking up his pace. He pins your hands to the bed as he fully claps them. His cock went deeper and faster. His balls are now slapping against you.

“Umi…I love…you so…much. I want to be…yours…” you say so quietly.

With this, he begins to cum inside of you. You feel the warmth of his cum between your legs and he continues to keep his cock inside of you. He showers you with kisses and draws hearts on your bare back with his fingers. He slowly pulls out.

“My sunflower, you were magnificent tonight. As sweet as these strawberries, if not sweeter,” he whispers to you before giving you one more kiss.

He proceeds to grab the plate that is still next to you. He can fully savour the labour of your love.

#wind breaker x you #wind breaker x reader #wind breaker fanfic #wind breaker smut #wind breaker fluff #hajime umemiya x reader #hajime umemiya x you #umemiya x reader #umemiya hajime x you #umemiya hajime x reader #umemiya x you

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solxamber · 2 days

Text

Dragon's Favourite Sacrifice – Trey Clover x reader

Trey finds himself volunteering to be the human sacrifice to you in place of his siblings. What he didn't expect was to become your housekeeper instead of being eaten.

Crossposted from my ao3!

The village doesn’t know how to react when Trey volunteers as a sacrifice. He’s fully prepared for the worst, thinking back on all the horror stories the elders tell about the dragon god—the terrifying, ancient being that can destroy their village with one swipe of a claw. At least, that’s what everyone says.

But it had to be done. The village is on the brink of disaster and their last hope was the dragon god that lived in the mountains. The villagers began to proclaim that this was happening because they forgot to send a sacrifice in recent years. And when the current sacrifice chosen turned out to be one of his younger siblings, Trey had no choice but to volunteer himself.

As he approaches the temple, though, Trey wonders why the place looks like it hasn't been touched in years. Not exactly what you’d expect from a wrathful deity.

Maybe they just don't care about keeping things tidy before eating their next victim?

The inside of the temple is surprisingly cozy, but he doesn't have time to think about it. You, the ancient dragon, make your entrance—or rather, you wander in, yawning, and blink at him like you've just woken up from a really long nap.

“Hey… uh, are you the dragon god?” Trey asks, clutching the bundle of supplies he'd brought along.

You stretch, wings fluttering lazily behind you, before giving him a confused look. "Who else would I be? The village’s lost pet?"

Trey blinks. This is not what he was expecting. He was ready for a quick, brutal end. Maybe some fire and brimstone. Not... this.

“Right.” He clears his throat. “I’m Trey, from the village. They sent me as the sacrifice.”

You squint at him like he's just told you the most ridiculous thing you've ever heard. "Sacrifice? They still do that? I haven’t asked for a sacrifice in… decades. I was actually happy to not have my nap interrupted by scared humans. I was going to help with the crisis anyway."

Now it’s Trey's turn to stare. “You… don’t want the sacrifice?”

"Nope." You shrug, completely nonchalant. "You can go back to the village if you want. Or, if you're looking for a change of scenery, the village on the other side of the mountain is kinda nice."

Trey lets out a small sigh, but it’s not exactly relief. “I… can’t. If I go back, they'll think the offering was rejected. My siblings could suffer for it."

You pause, then nod thoughtfully. "Ah, yeah, human politics." You click your tongue. "I hate when that happens. Well, just so you know, the past sacrifices? Yeah, they all ended up in the village on the other side of the mountain."

Trey’s jaw drops. "Wait… what?"

"Yeah." You nod sagely. "They all thought the same thing—'Oh no, the dragon’s gonna eat me'—but I just sent them over there.”

He blinks at you again, trying to absorb all of this information. "So… you don’t actually…?"

"Eat people?" you finish for him, giving him a strange look. "No. That’s gross. Why would I do that?"

Trey's lips twitch upward. A beat of silence passes before Trey clears his throat again. "Mind if I stay, then? I can cook, clean, and—"

You give him a sideways glance, and your eyes light up. "Wait. You cook?"

"Yeah," Trey says, still trying to grasp that he’s negotiating his survival with a dragon.

A slow grin spreads across your face. "Well then, you’re hired. Welcome to dragon duty."

Trey’s not sure whether to laugh or cry at how anticlimactic this has all turned out. He’d prepared himself for noble sacrifice, but instead, he’s somehow signed up for dragon housekeeping duty. With a deep breath, he puts on a smile. "So, uh, what do you want for dinner?"

From that moment on, life with you is… surprisingly comfortable. Trey, ever practical, makes himself useful.

He handles things with the same calm practicality he’d use back in the village, except now, there’s a giant, sometimes snarky dragon looming over him as he goes about his tasks.

He spends his days cooking, tending to the temple’s neglected gardens, and even baking pastries—though you still don’t believe him when he says there’s no oyster sauce in his sweets.

“You’re pulling my tail,” you mutter, eyeing the perfectly innocent-looking cake Trey’s set out in front of you. “I can taste something weird in it.”

Trey just smiles. “Oyster sauce. Definitely.”

You huff, giving up on trying to figure him out, and focus on enjoying your meals and new company instead.

One evening, after a particularly good dinner (with no discernible oyster flavor, much to your disappointment), you glance at Trey lounging by the fireplace. He's been here for a while now, and you find that you're quite enjoying his company. In fact, you're enjoying it a little too much.

"So, you’re not as terrifying as the stories make you out to be," Trey comments one day, setting down a plate of food.

You snort, flipping lazily on your side. "Thanks, I guess. Humans are always so dramatic."

"And the drought?" Trey asks, raising an eyebrow.

"Taken care of," you reply with a smug smile. "Already brought in the rains.”

He nods and settles down next to you, holding a book from the library that you never bothered to visit.

Well, it's now or never. “So,” you begin, almost casually, “I’ve decided.”

“Decided what?” Trey looks up from the book he’s reading.

“That you’ll be my mate.”

He nearly drops the book. “Your... what?”

“My mate.” You stretch your wings, trying to look as imposing as possible—though you’re pretty sure Trey isn’t intimidated by you anymore. “You’re the first human who actually stuck around. And you can cook. That’s mate material.”

Trey is, understandably, at a loss for words. “…You’re serious?”

“Completely.” You flash him that grin again, all teeth and playful confidence. “Unless you’ve got a better offer somewhere else?”

Trey pinches the bridge of his nose, but the smile tugging at his lips betrays him. “No, I think I’ll stick around.”

And just like that, Trey Clover—the supposed human sacrifice—finds himself the mate of a centuries-old dragon. Maybe this wasn’t the fate he expected, but all things considered… it could be worse.

At least the dragon likes his cooking.

Masterlist

#Trey clover x reader #trey x reader #trey clover #twst x reader #twisted wonderland x reader #twst #twisted wonderland #trey x you #trey clover x you

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kibbles-bits · 3 days

Note

any voxval fics you’d recommend?

Ah, yes, voxval fics... The one ship that finally made me cave and read explicit stuff. I am now numb to everything.

Everything.

I'll only be posting completed fics. Warnings, almost all of these are explicit. A couple also have Angel, you know, suffering.

And please mind the tags.

First off is a couple of favs that I always go back for a reread:

Corrupted Love by DoveFactory (Words: 149,495)

In a moment of blind desperation to one-up Alastor, Vox puts himself in a compromising situation that leaves him worse for wear. His state triggers something in Valentino who decides to change the nature of their relationship.

The title and summary of this is so misleading I thought it was going to be a dark fic but nope. The Vees are a bunch of goobers and Valentino always wins. I would scream about this every time it updated. I love the characterizations and their banter it almost made me forget there's sex in like every chapter. Honestly I wish there was more tags referencing the character/story stuff.

Virtual Reality by passthevoxcord (Words: 7,634)

Vox gets tired of his cybernetic biology being a barrier to his sex life, so he starts a new project to fuck Valentino in VR. Val will try anything once, but he has something else in mind.

This one ends up being so sweet I want to die. passthevoxcord's other fic, Only a Shadow, drives me nuts but its a WIP and hasn't actually gotten to the voxval yet.

choke behind a smile by gloriousmonsters (Words: 19,881)

"I'm not scared by extreme, although I doubt I'll find it interesting. What is it?" Valentino's eyes narrow slyly over his smile. "If you aren't scared, why do you need a warning?" Vox has everything under control in his new business partnership with benefits. His emotions, his unfortunate desires, the little mind games they play. Even Valentino himself. When Val offers an invitation to a special show he's performing, Vox knows it's a dare, and knows he has to take it, show Val that he can't be scared or destabilized. He has no idea of how deep under his skin the show will get.

Everyone's so normal. I love this Valentino. There's another Valvel fic that has the same Valentino I also recommend called bad girls go backstage.

Great Expectations by MarenRose (Words: 11,280)

“It’s his goal. Those three simple words. If he could get to hear them once, could let the reality of their meaning and spoken existence occupy his mind for only a few indiscernible moments, then maybe, Vox could learn to see the appeal of this god forsaken holiday. He might even learn to ‘love’ it too.” Or: Vox hates Valentine’s Days. His prick of a ‘wife’ is just too damn hard to please.

This miiiight have been the fic that made me Lock In on voxval? I'm not sure. It's sweet. Alastor is hilarious.

biting keeps your words at bay by Subedarling (Words: 1,511)

“You can’t hit me,” Valentino says. He’s practically vibrating with rage. “You’re not allowed to—you can’t hit me!” Vox sneers, cruel and mocking and hopefully masking the way his heart is breaking apart inside his chest. “Baby, I can do whatever the hell I want.” A decade into their partnership, Vox and Valentino have their first and last physical fight.

This might be the only non-explicit fic in this list. I am all for Val being the worst just because he's Like That. But I will not say no to an implied tragic backstory. I read this one a lot and want to die. Can I draw this. I want to draw this. Oh my god I have free time I can totally draw this...

And my other recs:

Just For The Record by PeppermintWalrus (Words: 13,795)

Vox is thrilled about his new film enterprise with his business partner, ready to build a lucrative empire for the denizens of hell to experience true cinema, in the only genre their depraved minds desire. There’s just one problem that he finds out too late; Valentino has never filmed porn before. Vox decides that some... hands-on teaching, is necessary to save their production.

Yeah you read that right.

a putrid feeling that i've addressed by spoondrifts (Words: 5,162)

They weren’t a couple because Valentino was pathologically noncommittal and Vox simply knew better. He tried the whole romance thing with a certain radio demon a few decades back, and he’d learned his damn lesson. Hell just wasn’t the place for that sort of cutesy bullshit. Also, he was pretty sure that Valentino was straight up incapable of love, which was both par for the course for Vox’s friendships and amazingly convenient—things couldn’t get complicated if there was nothing to complicate in the first place. Or: Full Moon, Vox/Val edition.

Haha I love pain. I lied, this is the second non-explicit fic.

Little Miss Hellion by DoveFactory (Words: 10,657)

Hell’s worst married couple spends a day of family bonding at a beauty pageant doing whatever it takes to make sure their daughter takes home the crown, because failure is never an option for the Vees. Pilot AU where Vox and Valentino are married and Velvette is their adopted daughter.

It's more Vees than voxval but they're married so.

The Art of Pimping by MarenRose (Words: 9,161)

Desperate to close a deal with one of the most lucrative investors in Pride, Vox does the unthinkable and pimps out Valentino for a one-time date. What could go wrong?

Val's attitude in this one is funny and Vox. Yeah. Vox made a mistake.

You Found Me by passthevoxcord (Words: 4,338)

Long before Velvette came along, it was just them. Vox and Valentino. Valentino and Vox.

Sobbing.

Something Less Than Dishonest by daphnerunning, Galiko (Words: 33,931)

He isn’t expecting the way Valentino walks, for some reason. Maybe it’s the extra limbs. Maybe it’s the wings. Maybe it’s the heels. Vox had skipped briefly through a few of the slut’s movies, for research, and isn’t expecting the way Valentino moves in person to feel so… Different. “…You must be my four o’clock,” he says, standing and offering a hand. Oh, shit, he’s huge. Valentino towers over him, easily would without the stripper heels. Vox is not afraid of heights.

Vox is so offensive in this it loops back around to hilarious.

Red Skies and Valentino by alternatedoom (Words: 86,050)

"Vox and I are special friends, doll. Go give him a kiss," Val says to the boy.

Angel does not have a good time. But the Voxval is nice.

before you go by xoTsundoku (Words: 4,426)

Before Alastor came into their lives, Vox and Valentino were happy. Maybe they still can be.

A Farewell to Ghosts by Accidental_Ducky (Words: 37,149)

"What do you think that is," Vox demands, pointing at the new guy. Valentino turns, eyes raking greedily over the man's body. He's gorgeous, skinny in a heroin chic way with big blue eyes and blond hair that falls just so across his eyes. "Hot." "Don't fucking call the ghost hot!"

The only human AU I've liked so far. Love the character interactions. Vox and Val are hilarious.

God I hope I didn't miss any. There's definitely some good WIP ones out there.

#Hazbin Hotel #Vox #Valentino #Staticmoth #Voxval #fanfiction recommendation #Asks #Anon

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asktehkoopz · 8 hours

Text

HAPPY 10TH ANNIVERSARY TO ME! 🥳

What a crazy decade it’s been, too! I’ve met a lot of good friends, people I still talk with daily and hang out with in person to this day! Despite things not being perfect in the Nintendask community (as I learned much later, haha, I kept in my lane), I still personally cherish the years I spent making art for this blog. It was my passion project for a while, but unfortunately it slowly drifted away from my grasp.

I can’t say if I’ll ever update with the tenacity that I once did. In fact, I can almost guarantee I won’t, but I like being able to come back here every once in a while to drop some new art sometimes. :]

I had a lot of big swings that I wanted to do in regards to the koopz’s arcs, some MUCH more fleshed out than others (namely Lemmy, Wendy, and Morton’s were lacking), and I’m almost positive I won’t be able to get to them in full.

So how about a big spoiler dump, huh? Every plot point, every plan, every character concept that was going to occur will be beneath the cut! If you wanna wait on me to maybe get to them over the course of another decade, please, by all means don’t read beyond!

If you’re hungry for what was cooking upstairs, then scroll on! And thank you guys for the outpouring of support I’ve constantly gotten with this blog! 💖 (Also for real, this read-more is mega long, so seriously prep yourself. Here’s the google docs version that might make it easier to read! If you have any questions about the plot stuff, uh. Maybe I'll answer them OOC?)

Also bonus comparison images! EW!!

TL;DR: The prophecy was a sort-of fake created by Kamek! It started out real, but after it officially stopped existing, it was perpetuated on accident/for emotionally selfish reasons! It didn’t start out that way when I planned the blog, but it eventually became that over the course of development discussion with BoomPom mun! Eventually the koopz were gonna give up their star child prophecy magic nonsent and live their lives how they wanted to. The end!

THE LONG VERSION

Version 1.0 of AskTehKoopz (then AskIggyAndTehKoopz):

The star children prophecy was loosely based on the Yoshi’s Island DS concept of “star children”. Each koopaling (and Bowser Junior) were imbued with an inherent, powerful magic when they were born to help them take over other kingdoms (as mentioned in their various bios). This changed both their ability to inherently harness magic as well as changing their species, explaining their strange features, specifically their pointed ears and wildly colored hair (the pointed ears admittedly did come later during the wedding arc).

The koopalings had always been planned to be unnatural magikoopas, but at the beginning of the blog’s inception, it was not concrete what exactly they each were. This will be covered below.

Version 2.0 of AskTehKoopz:

If you look in their bios, you will see that they are each noted as “Magikoopa(?) + (Where they were born)”. This, along with their last names, were a hint as to their original species. This was added circa 2017 when their bios/references were finally updated.

Originally they were the following:

Roy - Bullet Bill

Iggy - Toad

Morton - Hammer Bro

Larry - Yoshi

Ludwig - Koopa Troopa

Wendy - Bombshell Koopa

Lemmy - I don’t knoooowwww

An additional twist had been introduced during this stage as well:

This set of koopalings (and Junior) were not the first set of prophesied star children.

Affectionately named “The Alpha Koopz”, these are what you might know as the DiC cartoon koopalings: Bully, Cheatsy, Kooky, Kootie Pie, Big Mouth, Hip, and Hop. These seven, along with a young!Bowz were the first set of star children. Back then, Bowz did not see them so much as kids he needed to take care of. Moreso they were “guys who he’s forced to do magic alongside”, despite Kamek’s pressure to be more attentive to them as the eldest. He was considerably more reckless back then with his power as well.

As aggressive and mean and selfish as the blog koopz are, they don’t surpass the sheer annoyance and danger the alpha koopz put themselves in, mainly due to Bowz’s negligence.

And because of this unfettered, reckless behavior, they managed to doom themselves to a “Game Over”, shattering the prophecy and allowing their set of star child powers (along with Bowz’s) to shoot off and embed itself into the next set of vessels. This is also why the blog koopz are “in the wrong order” with regards to their age.

In addition to gaining these star child powers, echoes of their memories and actions and dynamics exist in some of the koopz tendencies:

This is why Lemmy gravitates towards Iggy (Hip and Hop’s closeness). Cheatsy is why Larry is a kleptomaniac. Kooky is where Ludwig’s “crazy laugh” comes from. Kootie Pie is where Wendy pulled “Daddykins” from.

How did they game over? As of right now, it was a mundane and tragically, incredibly avoidable fate, one that echoes Bowser’s many in-game endings: Bully simply fell off the roof of the castle, plunging into the lava moat below. The alpha koopz had little restraint and they encouraged one another to constantly do dangerous things. Walking along the giant chains of the castle without his wand was one of these dangerous things.

If Kamek had had the power to*, if Bowz had desired to see them as more than nuisances and instead helped them learn restraint, if they had realized that despite their immense power, they weren’t invincible, they most likely would have been the koopz that were blogging.

Whomp whomp!

(*I don’t have a good place to stick this, but to put it shortly, the reason Kamek had to be hands off with the alpha koopz is because he used to have a place in what was basically a high magikoopa council. He was assigned to train Bowz to fulfill the prophecy when he was first born with his star child powers. Bowz was NOT a very good student and put himself and many others in danger as they searched for the other 7 star children. When the council hit their last straw, they nearly elected to execute Bowz, who was a child at the time, and start the process over. Kamek traded his spot in the council to spare him, as he had grown attached to Bowz. Bowz overheard this discussion and shaped up quickly. Kamek has never found out Bowz knew of this deal.)

Version 3.0 of AskTehKoopz:

All of the above in 2.0 still happened, however there is now an additional twist.

The prophecy’s a lie! Sort of!

This one was on BoomPom mun. I joked about an article referring to Kamek as a koopaling and unfortunately we came up with something tragic:

Kamek was ALSO part of a set of koopz BEFORE the alpha koopz! Whoa!

Back nearly 100 years ago, there was supposed to be a prophecy. It wasn’t Koopa Kingdom specific, just a general “Well whoever can harness these powers will be able to take over”, it just happened to be the Koopa Kingdom that found out about it first (they were a group of some mix of archeologists and scientists, I don’t remember fully*). It was a once-in-a-lifetime chance. These powers would awaken and they HAD to find someone to use them. Kamek, along with these 7 other kids/teens, were given the opportunity of a lifetime to essentially be vessels for this crazy power to help bring this prophecy to life (literally signing their souls away. The powers NEEDED a soul to latch onto and a body to stabilize itself with).

(*I think that BoomPom mun and I vaguely discussed they might have been the same people who ALSO were the ones who created the cores for the splorches that eventually became Sol, Simon, and Scotty. Yet another experiment that went terribly wrong. These guys are on FIRE. 0-2!)

So Kamek and these 7 formed a really tight sibling bond pre- and post-power. But uhhhh you really shouldn’t be giving crazy raw magical prophecy power to children. Absolute bonkers idea.

Despite their extensive training, it didn’t end well. They genuinely worked so hard to try to be the ones to help bring empires to their knees, but they were only children. I didn’t have a specific incident, all I recall was that the power was WAY beyond their control, and all 8 of them died.

Except.

Through some fail-safe Kamek set up prior to their last hurrah to revive all 8 of them (he felt something might go wrong when they did what they did), Kamek was revived. Alone.

Left in the ruins of what their own powers did to them, Kamek had to live with the guilt that he lost the prophecy, but more importantly, he lost his family, too. Unless he did something about it.

So, despite what a terrible idea it was and how dangerous it might have been, knowing these powers were linked to his sibling’s souls, he decided “I know the prophecy was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. But I’m gonna make it happen again somehow. I do not care.” And with the star child powers he still had, he tried to revive them again. Despite the blood, sweat, and tears poured into the ritual, it didn’t work.

Years passed, he’s on the magikoopa council and eventually, after finding kid!Bowz, he’s like “...Hey wait a minute, I weirdly recognize you.” (Magic vibes, general demeanor, etc.) He discovers wow! The prophecy is back on! I did it?! I DID IT?! Soon he recognizes slowly that each of the powers/souls got transferred to a random kid they need to find.

So they find the alpha koopz (i.e. cartoon koopalings) and uh. Yeah they’re all bratty asshole versions of his found family, but well. It does bring him a strange comfort knowing they’re slightly living on regardless. However Hip and Hop are weird. Like. Finishing each other’s sentences, acting in tandem, etc. It’s extremely bizarre. And he’s not really sure WHICH of his siblings Hop is?

Unsure how, but he finds out oops, after restarting the prophecy for a second time, his star child powers got sort of weird because KAMEK WAS SUPPOSED TO BE DEAD. The other 7 star child powers traveled with the souls that stabilized them, however Kamek’s star power DIDN’T HAVE A SOUL TO TRAVEL WITH CAUSE… KAMEK IS ALIVE? So that raw star power was like “Ummm… Uhhhh…… Where do I go? I need a soul to latch onto, I am an insane amount of power…” Luckily Hip and Hop are twins, so naturally, it latched onto Hip’s soul and shares a soul between the two of them while also trying to make its own soul, but it can’t do it right. Super fine and no issues happen because of that at all. They aren’t offputting and weird, I promise.

So Hop was essentially SUPPOSED to have Kamek’s soul pre-packaged with the power, but Kamek is still very much alive, so it’s sort of. Trying to make due. It’s both halfway between Kamek and Hop while ALSO soulless but ALSO trying to use Hip’s soul to ground itself while ALSO trying to artificially make a soul for itself. It’s a mess. Just understand Hop’s star child powers are a mess because Kamek is still alive.

Of course, like in 2.0, the alpha koopz’s Game Over happens, and the prophecy is broken again. Kamek assumes “Well. That’s the end of that. I don’t have enough magic power to try and restart it again, because half of it was in that freak child, so I definitely can’t do a second round of that.”

Everyone in the Koopa Kingdom, including Bowz, are like “Don’t worry, there’ll be another way we can fulfill this prophecy! They came back the first time! People were wrong that it was a once-in-a-lifetime chance!”

Kamek plays along with it, being like “Yep, that definitely happens naturally. Obviously we’re going to have another set of star children. There were no outside forces that made it happen a second time.” You know. Like a liar.

However, SURPRISE! ROY AND IGGY SHOW UP! AND ROY’S ACTING LIKE ONE OF HIS SIBS! OH GOD, I DON’T THINK THIS HOW ANY OF THIS IS SUPPOSED TO WORK. I LITERALLY DO NOT THINK THIS IS A PROPHECY THING ANYMORE. DID I ACCIDENTALLY TRAP MY SIBLING’S SOULS IN A NEVERENDING EXISTENCE LOOP CURSED TO LIVE VICARIOUSLY THROUGH OTHERS FOR ETERNITY? ALSO WHO THE HELL IS IN THAT ONE? (LOOKS AT IGGY)

(This is actually what this sketch on turtle-pen was about, with Kamek’s concern over them not being messed up, like how Hip and Hop were, haha)

So uh. Yeah, Kamek isn’t sure WHY the cycle is continuing, and he’s almost positive the prophecy’s not even really a thing anymore, but the star children stuff sure is! And the powers/souls are already super unstable by the time they get to blog koopz, and it only gets worse as time passes! (One of the earliest examples of that magical decay was Roy suddenly getting an impulse to shave his head to match Bully/pre-koopz “Roy”. Eventually this kind of thing would start happening later on down the line in higher frequency with the other koopz as well. This is actually what the third sketch on this post was alluding to. In fact, Iggy’s is actually the most unstable magic of them all, because ever since the fake-out death with Kamek, whoever got HIS star child powers was always going to be the weakest/most unstable magically. More about this will be covered in Roy’s section below)

The Koopz

What order did they all end up at Bowz’s?

I talked about how each of them got to the castle in their bios, however if you can’t piece it together, the order is Roy/Iggy -> Ludwig -> Morton -> Wendy -> Larry -> Lemmy. Junior, I think, showed up between Wendy and Larry. Bowser just walked in with him one day. None of them know where he came from.

Why is Iggy a vegetarian? Also why are his eyes like that?

I’m gonna keep it buck: Iggy is a vegetarian purely because I wanted an excuse to make him monster-y sometimes. In 2.0 Koopz, I justified it by the star child power (being inherently a magikoopa power) not meshing well to him being a Toad, playing off the idea of Toads and Koopas being diametrically opposed.

There was a sliding scale of “how lizard” someone was based on how well their species reacted with magikoopa magic (I only remember Iggy being the most “lizard-y” and Larry being the 2nd most “lizard-y”, This is also why his eyes are like that and why he and Larry have split tongues) Eating meat weirdly triggered some primal urge in him due to the magikoopa thing, I guess?

In 3.0 Koopz, I genuinely have no reason why he can’t eat meat or has weird eyes since I got rid of the lizard-y scale, I was gonna figure it out later, haha. The 2nd pic is actually him after accidentally eating Pom’s burger when his veggie burger got swapped at a restaurant.

Who was that kid in the flashforward meme?

That’s Ozzy, Iggy and Pom’s kid! He melts! :) (cw for body horror and blood in that link) But it’s okay, he gets better!

To put it plainly, in 2.0, Pom accidentally gets some of her DNA in Iggy’s clone nonsense, and oops they have a kid now. He is NOT genetically stable. Drama ensues, and they have to figure out how to get him to not completely unravel.

At first, we thought that maybe Iggy should have him melt and clone him again without the memories of melting and present it as something he worked tirelessly on (and BoomPom mun drew an excellent comic about Pom’s reaction to it), but we couldn’t justify any way for her to forgive Iggy for basically replacing Ozzy, and Poggy was just too important to us to break up. We were stumped.

And long story short, the book Ludwig was reading when he was in se7en-sib’s world was one about DNA cloning. (But that’s spoiler stuff for se7en sib’s blog that I won’t get into, heh heh) And Ludwig, despite it being the perfect opportunity to have Iggy traumatize and disappoint Pom, tells them about it and that they should visit se7en-sib’s Kamek somehow to fix it. (He does fix it! By melting Ozzy and recreating him again. HOWEVER Ludwig and Iggy have to swear to secrecy about it. They take that shit to their graves.)

So he’s better now!

ROY:

Roy had started on the path of his biggest plot points being covered (him finally ending up with Boom and slowly showcasing his natural inclination to being a leader, despite NOT wanting to be), but I didn’t get his biggest two out of the way (one of which I’m glad I didn’t get to yet): Roy cheating and Roy almost dying.

Koopz 1.0 - Roy was going to be transphobic (specifically enbyphobic. This is actually one of the reasons he doesn’t like Larry all that much), but over time he’d learn that that’s a personal problem. He specifically had a lot to unlearn of his biases of what inherently makes someone a man/woman. Ludwig’s transition was fine with him, but Larry “switching” didn’t make sense to him. (His definition of a “man” was severely warped by his abusive father) This is actually still canon, but he learns better, of course.

Roy was also going to cheat on Boom via a night of drunken infidelity. The big twist was going to be that it was with a woman, and along with him, we find out that he’s bisexual. After some thinking it over, I ultimately decided, despite the drama that would ensue, I didn’t feel particularly comfortable perpetuating what I didn’t realize was a “cheating bisexual” stereotype. Morton’s bi as well, so maybe it would have been fine? But I was like “Uhhhh noooo I shouldn’t do that.” (I wish I could find the pic BoomPom mun drew in reference to when they got locked in a room together by Pom and Iggy to “talk it out”. Boom was punching the wall next to Roy and it was real dramatic. Oh well!) There was also a discussion about a compromise of him sleeping with other people, but letting Boom know about it beforehand? It was gonna be MESSY, haha!

Koopz 2.0/3.0 - Him coming out as bisexual changed to what was going to be a comic with Roy confronting the fact his hypermasculinity was exacerbated because he felt that not being solely attracted to men was a win for his shitty dad. (It makes sense in HIS head: being gay but also being hyper-masculine and liking pink was to piss off his dad. But if he’s actually also attracted to women, then his dad gets what he wants, right? For him to like women?) It was going to end in a sweet moment where Boom reassured him being bi didn’t mean his dad was right about him.

Now to Roy almost dying. Hoo boy. So as mentioned, the star child powers they all got were already quite unstable. As time went on, things started unraveling at a quicker pace. Roy started having weird flashbacks/visions in his dreams (only telling Iggy), which are of course visions of the alpha koopz. Soon enough all the present-day koopz would start to have moments where they physically re-enact something the previous star children did. This was especially prevalent when certain koopz interacted with one another (like if Lemmy and Iggy brushed by each other, suddenly they’re acting exactly like Hip and Hop again for a short while). These moments not only got more frequent, but longer as well.

And we’d build up to Roy, like Bully, on the roof, the rest of the koopz in their hazy, lucid states, encouraging him, like the alpha koopz did so long ago. None of them would be really in their right minds, it was all going to be very dramatic. There was gonna be rain and everything, building up to the inevitable of the cycle being broken again.

What’s the difference this time around? Roy’s dating Boom. And Boom solves this the only way he knows how: by clocking Roy in the face before he almost slips and falls. So Roy gets knocked out, which manages to knock ALL the other koopz out of their weird stupor.

This plotline gets resolved by the koopz having a heart-to-heart with each other, with Bowz, and with Kamek, who comes clean about the whole prophecy thing, which isn’t quite real anymore (due to the 3.0 change). Professing how he just missed his family and didn’t want any of this to happen nor did he know any of this was going to happen.

Ultimately they’d come to the conclusion that they need to let these weird soul/magic things go, to stop anchoring their souls and not allowing them to move on, and to let the koopz live how they were supposed to. Kamek can’t guarantee they’ll be able to even harness magic anymore, or honestly if this would even work, but they end up performing a VERY extensive, painful, and tiring ritual that allows Kamek closure, allows the blog koopz to meet the alpha koopz for a moment, and allows them to live their normal lives. (As koopa royalty, but you know.)

There was also a planned Nintendask event where Roy was going to raise his father from the dead to confront him about his shitty behavior. Chaos was going to ensue and there was going to be a small “Zombie apocalypse” event similar to the revolution arc that occurred.

IGGY:

The main things with Iggy had already pretty much occurred: Hooking up with Pom -> Love poisoning himself -> Confrontation with Ludwig about it -> ??? -> Profit. Honestly there truly only one plot point that didn’t get to be touched on, and that’s Marilyn! (Those who follow turtle-pen probably know Marilyn)

Koopz 1.0: Like I said, at first the star child powers were going to be specifically magikoopa and make Iggy super weirdly unstable magically. He at first would dye his hair blue/yellow/pink (Hop’s colors. This is pre-alpha koopz) to not stick out in Toad society. His parents were a LITTLE worried about his nonconformity. He was going to run away from home, because oops he ate meat and hurt his parents pretty bad. I THINK at one point this switched to him accidentally killing them, but we don’t talk about the Edgy Koopz Era. This was switched back to harming them pretty soon after.

Koopz 2.0: After the introduction of the Hop thing, it now became less “He dyed his hair to fit in” and “He dyed his hair because he Mysteriously Doesn’t Know Why.”

Truly the biggest change/introduction was the inception of Marilyn. HE IS… Once again a thinly-veiled excuse to shove some favorite tropes onto Iggy. BoomPom mun and I got super into the Jekyll and Hyde musical (specifically with Anthony Warlow), and we went “Iggy should get a Hyde thing going on”. So in combination with the weird “can’t eat meat lest you go sicko mode” thing, we decided to justify it by making it be Iggy try to get rid of his “lizardness”. (This was when the lizard scale still existed) It manifested as Marilyn, who REALLY hated Iggy and REALLY liked Pom. Shenanigans ensued.

Koopz 3.0: Once the lizard scale was taken out, we were like “Uhhhh Marilyn shouldn’t exist anymore”, however unfortunately I love him. So YOU REMEMBER THAT LOVE POTION ANTIDOTE THAT POM GAVE IGGY THAT MADE HIM SICK? Yeah Marilyn came from that now. That weird star child magic latched onto this manifestation of emotions that became his own being (you can see it in the last two pics here). Sue me, man.

You can read more about him on turtle-pen, but the end-game was that Marilyn was sent to Sol’s lab to work for him so he could be humbled and he fell for Bob. A huge nerd. He also became besties with Scotty. The end.

Outside of this, I really had no other big sweeping plot points for Iggy to cover, other than him and Boom learning to get along, potentially meeting Boom and Pom’s actually alive parents (This was only briefly discussed with BoomPom mun, and we didn’t plan much further than that other than AU discussions), and the introduction of Ozzy.

Oh and Iggy was also going to come to terms with IDing as agender during 1.0, but I ultimately never got around to confirming it.

MORTON:

I believe really the only big plot situation that was going to happen for Morton was developing further about his crush on Birdetta only for him to get turned down. I was juggling seven kids, man.

Other than this, I don’t think I ever fully explained how he lost his leg? It was implied in his flashback, but his father (a hardass) was the type to be like “Speak when spoken to” to a degree that was unhealthy. At the military base he was raised on, he managed to get a pretty bad cut on his leg, but, in fear of his father, he never spoke up about it. It developed sepsis and well you know how that goes.

LARRY:

Koopz 1.0: The biggest change was Larry getting hit with the Edgy Koopz Beam as well, similarly to Iggy. He was normal, then shifted to being more violent, back to being normal again.

Koopz 2.0: Even in 1.0, Larry was always planned to have been dealing with depression and anxiety via… self-medicating. However 2.0 is really what changed the cause from intrinsic to extrinsic. The main thing that exacerbated his smoking habit, depression, and anxiety was that he found out they weren’t the only set of kids Bowz had dealt with. I don’t know how, but he somehow managed to find out about the alpha koopz. He kept that secret to himself, but it not only made him feel replaceable/used, but it soured his opinion on Bowz as a whole.

Ultimately Larry was going to get therapy, discuss with the other koopz what he knew about the previous star children, and eventually ween away from his drug habit. I can’t find the post, but I did mention it when doing some ask meme about rating ships and someone sent in a Larry/Weed one and I went “0/5”, haha.

LUDWIG:

There’s honestly not much to say here. Truly most of Ludwig’s arcs have been concluded: his crush on Pom has been wrapped up, him coming out to the koopz as trans (officially) has happened, and he’s on track with his HRT.

The only current plan that had been in motion was to more properly have him and Iggy talk it out and Pom be a wingman for him in his further romantic endeavors.

I suppose that there were also potential plans for him and Scotty to end up together because. Um. They’re cute. (There was also a mild discussion of him and Trudy as well, but there was a lot more discussion between BoomPom mun and I about him and Scotty!)

WENDY:

Similarly to Morton, Wendy didn’t have much going on on her end in regards to big arching plot points either, other than ending up with Chuck eventually and also confronting her insecurities with feeling like she’s not very special!

LEMMY:

And like Morton and Wendy before him, uh. Lemmy didn’t have much! The only planned thing was the drama of his type 1 diabetes diagnosis and that’s IT. Maybe bring back his mom since that was touched on?

Endgame for the Koopz:

They were going to give up their star child powers and return to normalcy, as mentioned in Roy’s section. However they’re still royals so of course it’s still a weird and exciting life for them. I believe they all still end up with the ability to use magic, but it’s much more elbow grease then they’re used to working with.

Roy was going to have a kid with Boom! Unsure if biologically/magically or adopted. Somehow they get their little girl, Stevie, though! I think Roy would also get in touch with his estranged sister that I only just realized I haven’t brought up (4th pic here!).

Roy and Larry were going to end up as co-DJs together working at a nightclub.

Iggy and Pom were gonna have Ozzy, and honestly? Kinda just continue to get into crazy shenanigans. Iggy wanted to rule the Koopa Kingdom but somehow he manages to get convinced not to. (He would NOT be good at it) Iggy would also get in touch with his parents again. They really did miss him after all of these years.

Ludwig and Wendy are going to be the ACTUAL co-rulers of the Koopa Kingdom. They were both so hard-headed and stubborn about it, fighting tooth and nail to make it to the top, Bowz just crowned them both. I think Ludwig also would get in touch with his bio-family as well.

I don’t remember in full what was going to happen with Morton and Lemmy as their end game? Lemmy might have become a circus performer and Morton the military general of the Koopa Army? I really don’t recall to be honest!

And that’s it! That’s all the plot I remember! If you made it this far, thank you for reading!

#nintendask #asktehkoopz #koopalings #super mario #10 year tumblrversary #I HAVE. 20 MINUTES TO SPARE BEFORE IT WAS NO LONGER THE 26TH. Also just so it's clear YES the last pic's colors are a reference to SMB3!#also yes I did blatantly steal your redraw idea BoomPom but I THINK I told you this hIOLKJFD #ALSO ALSO SHOUT OUT TO THAT PERSON IN FEBRUARY WHO SENT AN ASK SAYING THAT LUDWIG'S ARC WAS A PERFECT PLACE TO CAP OFF KOOPZ #genuinely helped me come to terms with potentially not updating anymore ;v;)b!! because. You're right!! character growth!!#iggy koopa #roy koopa #larry koopa #ludwig von koopa #wendy o koopa #morton koopa #lemmy koopa #iggy draws

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tanadrin · 2 days

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Was there anything actually juicy in Clinton's emails? The media behavior reads like half an attempt to appear more principled b/c of the criticism they got in 2016, and half an attempt to swing the election for Trump because he's better for their business.

not super juicy. i do think there's a differential in how the media covers trump vs other candidates (even other republicans) bc he's so bizarre and they don't know how to handle them, but i don't think it's as calculated as "he's better for their business"

you have to remember that conservatives have spend decades screaming about how the media is unfair to them and biased in favor of liberals and bc media figures want to be the important biased neutral arbiters of democracy (bc that is how they perceive themseves) and they want to try to preserve access to political figures, they have spent a lot of time and effort trying to perform neutrality. this doesn't work of course--there's a reason why the right eventually spawned its own media ecosystem; no amount of bending over backwards to both-sides issues like global warming will appease basically dishonest actors--but it has produced this weird asymmetry where they report on trump like he's a much more normal candidate than he is, reported on his administration like it was a much more coherent realization of policy goals than it was, and sane wash a lot of statements that are either simply incoherent or are menacing and deranged. and they reassure themselves that he can't possibly mean the menacing and deranged things, or that if he does he won't be able to realize them, and after all wasn't the first trump term pretty OK after all?

obviously, i think this is a mistake--the first time around trump was impeded by his own incompetence and that of the people under him, and the fact that, not really knowing what to expect, some actually sane people ended up attached to his administration. i don't think that's likely to be quite the same in a second go-round. but normalcy bias is powerful. it affects a lot of people who aren't journalists, too. and even if you think he isn't likely to succeed, i think the responsible way to report on someone declaring that they are going to attempt to deport millions and seize direct control of major cities and shut down media outlets that offend them is to report that they intend to sdeport millions and seize direct control of major cities and shut down media outlets that offend them, not to try to interpret their pronouncements through the lens of anodyne "economic policy" or w/e. if the flagship outlets of media were really making a rational risk-benefit calculation on whether a second trump term would be good for them, they would be much more strenuously opposing him, because he has promised a scorched-earth campaign of revenge against them, you know?

but actually a lot of the dysfunction of american political coverage is the result of a social incentive structure that's been slowly emerging for more than forty years, driven in part by the incestuousness of the beltway media-political environment and the self-conception and ego of media figures. honestly i think it started as the conspiratorial right moved into mainstream conservative and republican politics in the last three decades of the 20th century. in order for that conspiratorial attitude to really take hold, you had to creative a social structure that isolated people from the broader political consensus, to get them to stop trusting shared sources of authority and information, and that resulted in sustained attacks against the supposed flagrant bias of american news media as a whole, and this process accelerated as distinct right-wing outlets like fox were established. but it was a frog-in-the-pot situation, and many republican politicians were willing to take on this new style of rhetoric that seemed to win votes (and no doubt many believed it to some extent, since it flattered their preconceptions).

but eventually the break became too great--birtherism, the tea party, qanon. mainstream republican politicians realized they'd called up something they couldn't put down; but it was too late to right the ship. trump is the avatar of all that conspiracism and rage, and he took over the republican party. but the tectonic social forces that produced him have been slow and kind of indirect, and a lot of people are still coasting on attitudes and approaches to politics that are ten, twenty, thirty years out of date.

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googleitlol · 9 hours

Text

This oneshot is more the length I thought the other one would be, a little under 2500 words. Hope it packs just as much emotion in it, enjoy!

TW: Dead Dove, severe burns

Dove Masterlist:

Samadhi

How on earth did things end up like this?

“Hey.” Sun Wukong, the Great Sage Equal to Heaven, looks down to his left to see his engaged. His beloved Dove gives him a worried look as she puts a hand on his shoulder. She looks stunning, she always does. “Something is on your mind, Peaches.”

The two of them stand on his somersault cloud, Wukong’s arm is wrapped around Dove’s waist to keep her close so they can both fit on the soft platform. It moves slowly to their destination where others wait for their arrival. He could make the cloud go faster, but he doesn’t want to. He can’t help how fear grips his heart in anticipation for what they are about to attempt. “It’s nothing.”

“Over a decade we’ve been on this journey together, and you think you can still lie to me?” She frowns, her expression more annoyed than anything else. It shifts back to worry as her hand shifts up to hold the side of his face. “We’re supposed to confide in each other, My Love.”

Sun Wukong hums with a small smile, though he can’t hold the facade when she gives him that concerned look. Amidst these last twelve years, she’s become one of the few people that can read him like a book. “I just want this to work. I can’t stand seeing you like this.” His free hand reaches out to her outstretched arm that holds his face. He’s gentle as he encloses his fingers over the wraps that envelop her arms, his thumb brushing back and forth over the material. Wukong has seen the bandaging over her abdomen, the burns that scar her hands. Despite it all, the mortal he’s promised his life to smiles.

“How could it not? I know you three can do this.” Dove reassures him, the fire in her eyes bright as he leans into her touch.

He just has to tell himself this is it. It’ll be over after this. “How is it healing?”

Her hand retracts, and Wukong lets go of her arm so she can inspect it herself. “I’ve taken care of enough burns to know what I’m doing.” She laughs a little, maybe to make light of the injuries. When she looks up to see his furrowed brows, she sighs. “Maybe in a few days, after Iron Fan and your brother have a few days with their boy, we can visit them for dinner. It’ll be nice to hold Red Son without the fear of him bursting into flame, hah.”

“Red-Brat is more like it.” The sage mumbles under his breath, earning him a light slap on his armoured chest.

“Wukong!” Dove scolds with a sharp glare, and he lets out a chuckle.

That baby could burn her a thousand times, and she’d still defend him with her life. “I know, I know, he’s just a kid.” He can’t help the smile that finds its way onto his face, he loves seeing her jump to his nephew’s defence like that. Gods, never would he think someone could hold compassion for another that does them harm. Wukong will always love her for that compassion.

Despite her wounds, his engaged has held a soft spot for the boy since the moment he was born. With how destructive Red Son’s fire is, Dove’s ability to soothe the infant quickly became a crutch that pained him to see used. Wukong still doesn’t understand her patience, not when the baby nearly kills her as an everyday occurance. Still, she showers Red Son with love. He only wishes she had been that forgiving when they first met. It would have spared him a massive headache.

“Look at me.” Dove’s voice draws him back to the present, the determined look in her eyes captivating his attention. “It’s going to work.”

Even with the soothing presence of her gift, he doesn’t need it to ease his worries. Not when the confidence in her voice puts his troubles to rest. “I know it will.” As he speaks, she leans up to place a kiss over his forehead. “I can’t worry when I have you with me.”

Her smile is warm when she looks up at him. “I love you, Peaches.”

“I love you, Dove.” Wukong pulls her closer to his side, and his beloved rests her head on his shoulders.

Dove breathes a content sigh, her eyes focused on the sky ahead. “Maybe after this, we can ask Sanzang for a little break? We could visit Flower Fruit, spend some alone time together.”

Wukong hums with a small laugh. “Alone time sounds nice… y’know, with all the other monkeys crowding around us to get a look at their soon-to-be Monkey Queen.”

“Hah! I can’t wait to meet them properly.” She smiles, and Wukong looks down to take in what he can of her features. He can’t wait for when they retrieve those scriptures and they can go home, to stay. When this journey started, all he wanted was to be free from the burden of helping the monk and his cranky companion, but she changed that. Now, all he wants is to wake up each morning with Dove by his side, so he can take in those features in dawn’s light in their home.

“It’s settled, then.” He sighs before turning his attention back to the route ahead. “We’ll visit the little guys tonight. Master should be fine for one night without us.”

“With our luck, don’t jinx it.” That gets him to laugh. He supposes Dove is right, he shouldn’t say anything to risk their chances of a battle-free night. When she lets out a soft exhale, Wukong can feel himself relax just a bit more. “I can’t wait to get a proper tour of my new home with you.”

~~~~

It was supposed to be simple. Split the fire and find someplace to hide his own ring. Easy as that.

DBK won't have to deal with his home burning down every other day and call Dove to calm down his hot-tempered son. Sun Wukong admits, the kid is cute when he isn’t burning everything to the ground. Dove is so fond of him, how can he not like the little guy? Still, he hates every time she’s asked to help him. Dove has been burnt in her efforts to tame his flame, and relying solely on her to ensure a little kid doesn’t destroy the world isn’t a viable option anymore. Nor is it one he’s comfortable with.

The air is heavy among all who stand with the sage. Sun Wukong stands in a circle with his master, the Demon Bull King, and the Third Lotus Prince, Nezha, with the baby Red Son engulfed in flames in the centre of them all. The Monkey King’s brothers, Wujing, Ao Lie and Bajie all stand behind their master, and Dove stands a few paces behind to her Peaches’ right. She has to be on standby in case the separation fails, but it won’t. Like Dove said, this is going to work.

His master steps forward and taps his staff against the drawn out circle on the ground. “For the Samadhi Fire to be split into three, you must harmonise your energies.” He instructs, and the three chosen all look to one another with a nod.

The circle lights up, illuminating with life as it begins. The glow from the markings on the ground encapsulates Wukong’s vision, blinding his peripherals so that all he can focus on is the ring that begins taking form in front of his hands.

It’s a little surprising, how it feels at first. Wukong isn’t sure what he was expecting, but he thought there’d be more… pain involved? Maybe it’s because he can only feel a third of the fire feeding into the ring that takes shape in front of him, but it’s a little underwhelming. He’s taken the brunt of the Samadhi Fire before, he knows it can hurt, but this? Sure, he can feel the heat of the flames pretty strongly, but it's nothing he can't handle. It’s no wonder he was chosen as one of three that could withstand it. Maybe Nezha is having more trouble than him, the lotus prince has always been a bit of a baby compared to the other immortals he knows.

There’s a few flames that lash out more than the others, but it’s easy enough to keep them under control. “You know, this is kind of easier than I thought it would be.” He laughs a little, and that’s when his focus slips. That’s when it all goes wrong.

A flame lashes out as the baby in the centre shouts, and fire shoots out towards the three rings. The sheer force knocks Wukong onto his knees. The other two ring-bearers in the circle shout out at the sage, too late to stop a wave of fire that spews out in every direction. His dragon brother, Ao Lie, is quick to respond to flames that hurtle towards their master and takes a hit head-on. The Monkey King is quick enough to jump back to his feet and take this next hit easily.

But then he hears her scream.

Wukong freezes, Dove’s voice shooting ice through his veins. His eyes shoot wide at the sound of his worst fears coming to life. “Dove!” He hears Wujing call out to his love before heavy steps rush to her location just out of his view.

He moves to turn his head before she shouts. “NO! Don’t– haa… Don’t look, don’t let him…” She shouts out, her voice twisting in anguish, “Don’t stop, Peaches! The ring is almos–” She can’t even finish the sentence before letting out another shrill scream.

Every bone in his body is pleading for him to turn around, and it takes every ounce of willpower not to. His heart is thundering in his chest, fear claws at his skin as he begs himself to focus on the rings. She won’t stop screaming, she won’t stop screaming–

“Dove?! Dove!!” She can’t answer him, can she even hear him?! Gods, he can’t see her! His eyes shut tight, and he fights every fibre of his being not to abandon the ritual and run to her side as Bajie and Wujing shout from behind.

“It won’t go out!”

“It can’t go out!”

Wukong shakes his head, their voices pushing him to the brink of madness. “Dove, please– hang on!” Help her, he needs to help her, shit, he has to move, she needs help! Help her, help her!!! She’s screaming, she isn’t stopping she won’t stop– she’s screaming! Even when she stops, he can still hear her screaming. Her voice rings in his ears.

When the rings fully form, Sun Wukong’s drops to the ground. He turns to run to his love, only to choke back a gasp when he sees her. The fire that had been burning its way up her body whisps away with the rings now complete. Left in their wake and in the arms of Wujing is a limp body.

The sight of her alone is nearly enough to send him falling back. Her entire lower half and right side of her body is covered in fourth degree burns. Her clothes are singed and melted into her skin, into her arms and torso. There’s muscle tissue visible in the meat of her hands and along her legs from where the fire had its fill. All over her body are contrasting amalgamations between charcoaled skin and raw pinks of every shade, even the white of bone pokes out from her right shoulder and knuckles.

“Dove!” He doesn’t waste another moment rushing to her side. Despite her injuries, the woman still breathes. Each inhale is laboured, every exhale pain from her burning lungs. Her voice barely carries to shout when he moves her from Wujing’s arms to his own. “No, no… no, no no no! Somebody help!”

His head whips around to those that now surround them, Demon Bull King hiding away his son’s face from them while Tripitaka rushes to their side. He gasps at the sight of his friend, his staff dropping with an echoing clang. “Master, please!” Wukong begs, his voice never before sounding so desperate.

His master crouches down slowly, his eyes never leaving her, his first companion on his journey. “They’re… they’re too severe.”

“The hell do you mean, too severe?!” Wukong snaps, but the monk can’t even move to flinch. “She’s dying! We have to do something!”

He looks back to Nezha, his brothers, anyone! “Please! There has to be something– we can’t–”

“Peaches…” He barely hears Dove, her voice holds only a shell of the life it did a mere hour ago. He looks down at his love, only now can he realise how blurred his vision is when he can barely make out her features. There’s tears streaming down her face, her eyes are open but unfocused.

Her breathing is ragged as Wukong holds her hand in his. “Shh, shh… it’s okay, Dove.” His voice cracks, he needs to comfort her. “Don’t try to say anything, we’re gonna help you. We–”

His head whips back up to the friends that have gathered around them. “We have to do something, now! Master, there has to be a way! Nezha, there must be something, I won’t let her die! Please!”

“Brother…” Bajie rests a hand on the sage’s shoulder, and Wukong snaps his head up to him. But his brother isn’t looking at him. His gaze is focused on Dove and–

He can’t feel her. That calming presence he’s so used to walking with every day. It’s gone. She isn’t breathing.

“…Dove?” Wukong checks for a pulse, but he finds nothing. His heart sinks. “Dove? Dove, please– Dove?! We said everything would be okay after this.” His voice feels strained, it’s throbbing, there's somethings choking him.

“Dove, don’t do this to me– please! Please!”

“Dove! Dove!”

The king throws his head back in outcry, his queen limp in his arms. His voice is bloodcurdling, his scream so visceral it shreds into every soul present. Wukong pulls the shell of his love into his chest and sobs, burying his head into her shoulder. Her body is warm, but it isn’t her warmth.

He can’t feel her. Why can’t he feel her in his arms anymore?! This isn’t what was supposed to happen, how could this happen? How on earth could things end up like this?! He was supposed to stop her from getting hurt! “Please, Dove… we’re visiting home tonight, remember?”

“…We’re going home tonight.”

#good thing this is just an au and nothing like it will ever happen in the main story 😃👍#pls don't hate me #marc helped me come up with this i only take partial blame #dead dove do not eat #peace of mind #pom #sun wukong x reader #little dove #lego monkie kid #lmk sun wukong

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aziraphales-library · 15 hours

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Hello! Thank you for the role you play in this fandom, I don't know what we would do without Aziraphale's fic library

Today I wanted to ask if you knew fics where Aziraphale and Crowley are bitter exes who end up realizing later that they haven't stopped loving the other.

Thank you 💛

Hi! We have #getting back together and #reunion tags you can check for plenty more fics like this. Here are more to add...

Even Now, I Still Love You by Zakani_Donovan (T)

It had been 6 years since Crowley had last spoken to Aziraphale, and considering their nasty little breakup, he hadn't expected their next conversation to start with them suddenly being neighbors.

Down to the River by CemeteryAngel725 (E)

Twenty-five years ago, Tony Crowley walked out of Azi’s life and broke both of their hearts. Since then, Azi has been living in suspended animation, working in the army/navy surplus booth he inherited from his dad and writing horror novels. Now Tony is back from the city, flush with success and wanting to catch up with Azi. Should Azi risk his heart and try to reclaim what they’ve lost? Or is it too late to start over?

Reason Enough by ffonippop (E)

Crowley and Aziraphale’s entire relationship spanned just a little under eleven months. If dissected, the entire affair can be categorized very neatly into three parts: a rocky beginning, a rocky middle, and a rocky end. It devastates Crowley, how something that was so promising and held so much potential could end in such a shitstorm. Diminished to nothing but a hungover, sad, and lonely stain on his couch, Crowley is left to wonder if it was always going to end this way— or if it’s ended yet at all.

Like a Martyr, Not Enough (The Decoy Bride) by vines_and_vellichor (M)

Author Aziraphale Eastlowe had been a dutiful son for the entirety of his life… mostly. After a bout of teenage rebellion, he learnt that disobedience only brings misery and heartbreak to those he cares about; it’s better for everyone to toe the line and make the most out of the plan that has been laid out for you by your family and God. When a courtship with the famous Christian singer Gabriella Archer presented an opportunity to exit the dog-eat-dog world of city life, the last thing he expected was an existence plagued by writer’s block and a wedding so enticing to the British press that the privilege of a private ceremony was tantamount to successfully teaching a duck to play the accordion. In desperation, they turn to Taddesfild, a remote island in the Outer Hebrides, to marry. Things go south when a convoluted plan by Gabriella’s agents culminates in hiring local resident Anthony J Crowley as a decoy bride to put the paparazzi off the scent. The very person Aziraphale distinctly remembered dumping nineteen years ago. The situation is less than ideal: his fiancee is missing, the island is infested with bloodthirsty photographers and he has just accidentally gotten married to his ex.

Borrowed Words by sunrisesinthesuburbs (M)

Anthony J. Crowley, best selling author, has writer's block. He could blame the Accident, but deep down he knows his block started way before. He hasn't written anything in too long, if we choose to ignore the dozens of unsent letters addressed to the angel he lost two decades ago, when he moved to New York City. When his best (and only) friend convinces him to take a little vacation in a small town in Connecticut, he expects peace and quiet. He doesn't expect to see the smile that still haunts his dreams again. Apparently, small towns are full of surprises, and how late is too late? The world stops spinning on its axis or, at the very least, Crowley stops breathing. This is absolutely impossible. He forces himself to swallow, to take a deep breath, as he doesn’t want to scare this girl off. Muriel, who is still smiling, all bright and wide and just like- Oh, God. “A bookshop, you said?” He chokes out. This is impossible, and he’s being ridiculous. He is in London, this is just a sick coincidence and his stupid brain playing stupid games. “Yes, you can see it if you turn around.” Crowley doesn’t move. “It’s called A. Z. Fell Books.” Now, the world definitely stops spinning.

Sinking Ships by AppleSeeds (E)

The world is practically on fire and it feels like nobody's doing anything about it, but Crowley's outlook brightens considerably when a new member arrives at his local climate action committee. Crowley is immediately smitten, and is thrilled when he and Aziraphale become fast friends, although he can't help but hope they might one day become something more. When all of his wishes come true, Crowley starts to feel like life couldn't possibly get any better. He can picture exactly what his future is going to look like, until something happens that feels like a powerful bolt of lightning has struck and split Crowley's life right down the middle, with everything before that moment on one side, and everything that is to come - scorched, lifeless and devastated - on the other. With the help of a counsellor, Crowley begins the difficult journey of picking up the pieces and working through what's happened. When Aziraphale unexpectedly comes back into his life, Crowley finally has the chance to get some answers, revealing that the truth is very different from what he was led to believe. Now he just needs to figure out whether that changes anything.

- Mod D

#good omens #ineffable husbands #ineffable partners #break up #getting back together #adult omens #human au #mod d

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charlie-thewitch · 12 hours

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Chapter III

⚠️Warning⚠️ Implied SA ⚠️

He came back. He came back. He came back. He came back. He came back. Gege came for me.

That's all that is currently running on Shen Yuan's mind. A constant stream of "Gege came back for me" and "He saved me" drowning anything else.

"Hehehe..." little giggles escape him as he looks at the other carry the demonic cultivator as if he weighed nothing at all. Grumbling about having left the cart and horse too far from the illicit encampment where the auction was being held at. Gege is so cute. All grumpy as he is.

Shen Yuan is honestly riding such a high right now. Head cottony and heavy, but unbelievably light at the same time. Is blood even getting to his head? Does he even care anymore.

He was so scared.

The guards in charge of the slaves were already taking liberties with the... Women. Some more girl than woman. And one or two kept giving him looks. The same looks that Shifu's friends would give him, that intent that makes him want to shed his skin, burn it, and wash the ashes in the river.

He... Knows, alright? He already knows men find him pretty enough. He knows what those looks mean. He also knows where to kick and where to stab to make them stop. But the fear reflex never leaves, neither do the nightmares.

But he was unarmed. They took his knifes and his poisons and his cultivation! He was prey again. Was vulnerable and scared like before. Before he managed to trick Shifu into training him and letting him keep weapons at all. What is the use of cultivation if he is helpless at the mere presence of a fucking rope.

...But Gege came for him.

Shifu used to make fun of him with that. Laughing and laughing at how not even his twin wanted him, not even his parents.

Poor little orphaned slave; couldn't save anyone, not even his mother, nor his brother, nor his sister.

"Why did you stop walking. Come here and be usefull" Gege quips, and it takes him back to reality enough to notice they are in a little clearing. Completely surrounded by trees a simple horse-pulled cart waits for them with said horse tied to a tree a little ways of the side. It's brown, with white spots and appears to be calmly eating the fresh grass. Shen Yuan is immediately smitten.

"Cute!" He doesn't even aknowledge Gege's orders to not move and don't touch things because he is already across the clearing, offering his hand to the horse to sniff at. He- She? Is so cute and calm, already letting him caress her muzzle affectionately. "Such a good girl. So tranquil and elegant. What pretty lashes you have"

"I just fucking told you to not touch anything" Gege walked swiftly to where Shen Yuan was getting to know the mare, taking her reins brusquely to walk her back to the cart. He doesn't even look at Shen Yuan, hasn't for a while.

It's fine, Shen Yuan knows Gege doesn't want him, no one does. He is usefull. Nothing more, nothing less. Gege wants to know about his past and probably will kick him out of his sect after he gets it and that's ok. Why would Gege keep him anyways? Shen Yuan may have a little cultivation but he could bet a novice disciple of one of those fancy sects could kick his ass in seconds!

And that is seriously fine. Shen Yuan has a plan after all. He just thought of it but a plan is a plan!

He just needs to find a way to be usefull a little longer. He has maybe 4 memories about their mother and that'll last him maybe a week if he reveals them bit by bit. After that he needs something else to get Gege to keep him a little while longer, but it's definitely a start.

If he can get Gege to get attached to him maybe Shen Yuan can even see him once in a while! Maybe Gege's sect needs servants? He knows how to do that. Perhaps he isn't a great cook but cleaning is easy enough, he's been doing it for decades after all.

"Get on"

Shen Yuan is starting to notice Gege is very bossy.

He doubts Gege will want him to sit next to him on the drivers seat so Shen Yuan climbs onto the cart from behind. Maybe he steps on the demonic guys dick, maybe not. It's not like he can protest anyways. Shen Yuan sits as close as he can to his brother without touching him.

"Ready" Gege doesn't answers, but Shen Yuan is starting to guess their first conversation was the outlier and his brother actually talks very little.

Prev - Next (soon)

#shen twins #Atticwifed Twin AU #shencest #svsss #shen yuan #shen jiu #shen qingqiu #svsss au #jiuyuan #scumcum #sy: if i'm a good boy maybe gege will want to see me once a year #sj: keep calm. dont scare him. once we are on qjp and he cannot escape i will make him my pet #surprise? sy is extra traumatized #different flavors of trauma

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abbysimsfun · 2 days

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Sims In Bloom: Generation 2 Pt. 54 (The Game Tried to Take MY SON!)

cw: toddler peril. I learned a lesson about playing with unpatched mods but I played up a bit of drama despite not accepting what happened as canon. Only shot of Ash is above because more felt gratuitous for something that technically never happened because I reversed it.

The quiet house unnerved him. Conrad knew something wasn't right. He texted Heather, and in less than a minute his phone rang. "I'm sorry I didn't text," she sobbed through the phone. "Ash's daycare called and I...I...I'm at the hospital with him now. Doctors have him sedated."

"What happened?!"

"It was daycare," she repeated. "They said he was on the slide but then they looked away and...and they thought..." She broke down, and Conrad felt her pain through the line. Her fear shook the phone in his grasp.

"It'll be okay. I'm on my way there."

He embraced her when he walked through the door to St. Sims Hospital, and she fell into his arms. "He'll be okay," he assured her, but he didn't know any better.

"How did this happen?" she cried. "What kind of mother lets her son-"

"Stop. This isn't on you."

"If I didn't work so much, I could have been home with him. Maybe I could have..."

He pulled her close, feeling every tense muscle in her rigid body. "This isn't on you," he repeated. "And we're not gonna lose him. We'll all get through this together. We're a team, remember? That means Ash, too."

She was quiet. "Conrad... Do you believe in curses?"

"Like witches?"

She frowned as her thoughts pounded against her skull. "I don't know. Maybe. Maybe mermaids? But Mortimer Goth told me a story once about cursed Landgraabs, and I know how it sounds. But when Ash came along I thought about it a lot more than I should, and then I had to give him their last name. After tonight, I feel sick to my stomach. What if I cursed my son by giving him Malcolm Landgraab for a father?"

"There's no way Ash is cursed," he said quickly. "I know you're scared for him, but curses aren't real and Ash is one of the luckiest kids in the world. He'll get a Landgraab trust fund and he's got you for a mom."

She managed a smile, but when the doctor emerged from the pediatric care unit, she raced over to hear word of her son. "How is he? Oh, Watcher, please let him be okay..."

Dr. Serra smiled. "He hit his head pretty hard, but other than a headache for a few days, we think he's going to be fine. We want to keep him overnight for observation, but he's awake and he's asking for you."

Heather's whole body breathed with relief as she embraced her son's doctor. "Thank you!" she sobbed. "Thank you so much!"

Behind her, Conrad felt his muscles loosen. He'd been so focused on Heather, he didn't even notice his own fear at the thought of Ash in peril. "Thank you, Doctor. We're so grateful."

Dr. Serra smiled. "You must be Conrad. Ash asked for you, too."

Ash would recover quickly, but Heather wasn't so sure about herself. Even with Conrad's unflinching support, she felt torn apart by guilt over her son's near-fatal accident while she'd been working.

She was always working, trying so hard to earn enough to buy out her clinic from Ash's other family. ->

<- Previous Chapter | Gen 2 Start | Gen 1 Summary | Gen 1 Start

WCIF St. Sims Hospital? Sims 4 Gallery build by @pihe89/pihe89. Stunning build, simply put, and very popular (so many copycats). And it comes with a science lab and alien wormhole nbd. Two floors, so many varieties for rooms. Why would I build when people are this talented? It's in a second save and I'll use it again for babies, but hopefully we're not back here for any tragedies anytime soon.

How did this happen?!? Needless to say, Heather's guilt is also mine. I had too many mods and tested fate playing before updating them all! I played some Ultimate Decades Challenge generations and still have the Children and Toddlers Can Die mod installed (I like having options, I guess?), which only kills toddlers with hunger if I'm not mistaken. I was also having some mod issues after the Lovestruck update and didn't realize it until this happened, but the toddler needs bars stayed in the green while their needs deteriorated and I didn't know. Only the toddlers!

So I followed Conrad to work and when he came home Ash was gone and Heather had the 'lost a child' grief moodlet. Cue my internal scream! I revived him instantly with MCCC because this is not UDC and I have plans for this kid! I was so shocked I didn't take any screenshots of the whole disastrous event, but I couldn't pretend it absolutely didn't happen. And honestly the accident ties in with Heather's nagging fears the curse could be real, which is the one unintended benefit of this whole thing.

#sims 4 #sims 4 gameplay #sims 4 screenshots #sims 4 legacy #sims in bloom #ts4 #ts4 gameplay #ts4 legacy #ts4 screenshots #sims 4 story #ts4 story #legacy challenge #sims legacy #ts4 legacy challenge #gen 2 #brindleton bay

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saintsbuffy · 22 hours

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You’re an angel, i’m a dog.

Pairing: Lucanis/Rook Lucanis/Rook/Spite

TW: injury detail, heavy sexual references, abuse, grief, suicidal idolisation, implied non con, spite being a freak, possession, substances.

Word count: around 5000

Chapter: 2/?

2 - DEVIL LIKE ME

— Rook is injured, Lucanis tries to help.

Lucanis - Bold

Spite - Italics

We've been waiting for this haven't we.

Spites familiar voice echos in Lucanis's head, the feral creatures nails claw his mind as the shadow figure takes form beside him.

Rook tentatively approaches as Lucanis glances around the room before pulling over a large crate for him to sit on and gesturing for Rook to take the armchair opposite him. Even though the crate is slightly too small for him and a few inches shorter than the chair it manages to hold his weight and leaves him eye level with her.

She's watching him and he moves the equipment to one side, careful to pick up any glass shards as he piles tubes and viles into a corner and stacks the books clearing the space between them. His face remains a mask of ease but she can't help but notice the small bead of sweat that forms at his brow. When was the last time he had hosted a girl in his room? He couldn't remember. Come to think of it, when was the last time Lucanis had hosted anyone in his room?

Lucanis shifts in his seat, crossing and uncrossing his arms. He had always been bad at making small talk but now he felt like he'd forgotten how to speak entirely. After a moment the silence is broken by a low humming noise, some variation of a song his grandmother would sing to him many years ago. The noise fades in and out but Rook dosent react, Lucanis is the only one who can hear it.

Quiet.

The girl is studying he realises. Head cocked to one side she watches how he moves and breathes, her guard his up, her discomfort increasing and yet she dosent make a move to leave.

"So..." Rook rests her arms on the oversized chair, one knee crossed other the other, fingers tapping on the edge. "Are you going to tell me how you did that thing out there." She raises her hand and seems to be trying to project her power but all he sees is empty air.

He had felt her magic approaching of course, the thrum of power had given him plenty of warning. The spell she had encountered had taken almost a decade to perfect, he had spent countless hours working on it with his Cousin. The barrier could be locked to one room and only lasted as long as the creator was present. It was supposed to keep out any magic users that didn't possess the Dellamorte bloodline. Clearly it was faulty if Rook had gotten through. He'd have to ask Illario about that when he next saw him.

"I am not entirely sure." Lucanis takes in the way her eyes waver, she doesn't seem annoyed that the spell had managed to stuff her magic but curious, perhaps slightly hopeful? "I do not use many spells, my specialities lie more in weapons and potions. My cousin helped with this one, you might have seen him around.”

She can see that from the display on his desk to the objects that fill his room and line the shelves, a few swords hanging on rusty nails that stick out of the stone.

"Ah, the handsome one." Rook recalls, as he shoots her an unamused look. "So could you, create a spell or a potion to stop it?"

"Why would you want to stop it?" He queries watching the way her hand goes to a chain around her neck, the small opaque crystal attached to it resting just between her breasts, Lucanis moves his eyes away quickly. His gaze goes back to her face then to the wall behind her as he avoids her eye contact.

He had seen the necklace before but had never gotten a good view of it, in fact he could not recall a time he seen her without it. No bigger than a marble, the edges jagged but dull enough to not cut into her skin. Whatever it was it meant something to her. Another piece of the puzzle.

"I mean, to help control it. Like the way your daggers seem to hold power, I can't have another mission go sideways because of me." A half truth.

He does not have to look her in the eyes to know that's not exactly what she meant.

"Perhaps you should ask Emmrich about that kind of stuff, maybe he could make you some sort of object to hone your energy."

In his time here Lucanis had seen the man do incredible things with his gifts, he had even come to him for help occasionally to identify any objects found whilst out on missions.

"I don't think that would work." Her lips pull into a grimace as she continues to fiddle with the silver chain. "And besides i'm not really sure how to feel about the old man, he frightens me a bit." Rook was both equal parts unsettled and intrigued by the man and his skeletal companion.

Lucanis raises an eyebrow but lets her talk.

"Don't tell him I said that though, you two are friends right?"

She recalls the few times she had watched Lucanis enjoying himself over dinner and drinks, in the library studying whatever it was he was searching for. Out of everyone here the two men seemed to click, both quiet and strange in their own way.

"I do not know him that well." Lucanis does not have friends. He is here to complete his contract and keep his home safe, that’s all.

Misunderstanding his blunt reply as sarcasm, Rook laughs. It's muffled by a hand over her mouth.

His chest tightens, wondering what it would sound like to hear a full true laugh from her. He wanted to find out. There was no question that Rook was attractive. Her elven features mixed the human way she spoke and carried herself made most people find her off putting. She tried to make herself invisible, had spent her first weeks at the Lighthouse brushing off everyone's attempts of inclusion but Lucanis had seen the way she made their companions laugh without even trying, the way her smile lit up a room. She didn't even have to try, he couldn't stand it.

Had the room always felt this small? Of course it had he was sleeping in a dammed storage closet for gods sake.

The desire that coiled low in his stomach was not as easy to ignore now as it was when he'd first laid eyes on her. All it takes is one moment of wanting and a mirror image of Lucanis draped in shadows manifests through the table. The creature contorts and twits its body, limbs cracking into place until it's crouched beside Rook. Lucanis closes his eyes reaching deep inside to sever that tie between man and demon but it's already started to knot. The door a-jar.

Lucanis grits his teeth as Spite inspects her, but the more he tries to shut him out the more the demon takes form. His discomfort and Rook's distraction only seems to make Spite more excited as it moves from side to side head twisting like a starved animal about to feast.

I can see why you're so fascinated by her. Such a pretty little thing.

Spites hand is less than an inch away from caressing Rook's cheek, hand going, lower, lower, until it comes to rest just below where Lucanis can't see under the table. Lucanis lets out a disgruntled cough, clearing his throat then scoots his crate back from table.

Spite's eyes snap up at him, and it lets out a laugh the look of hunger fading into a feline grin.

Leave us. Do. Not. Touch her.

You can't make me.

If you're going to stay, be quiet and behave.

Spite lets out a whine and glares back at him but obeys hands up in surrender as those glowing eyes ablaze. Some days Lucanis could push him out if he really tried. It would take all his strength and then some but each day was different. Recently the active days seemed to be outweighing the quiet ones. It had taken him years to train his mind against the demon, to build up walls and keep the doors locked. But no matter how badly Lucanis wanted him gone he would always let Spite back in.

There was no one without the other, they depended on each-other for survival. He had wasted almost his entire life trying to find a cure for this curse placed upon him and had come to accept the grim fact that if he wanted to live, Spite would be along for the ride.

Fine, fine. She's all yours. I won't touch her...unless she asks us to.

Lucanis stands to his full height kicking back the crate, he moves through the shadow demon purposefully causing the the smoke to separate. As Spite's form reconstructs itself it watches him as he places two china cups onto the table, both different sizes and designs. Rook lets out a small yawn as she waits, utterly unaware of the domestic currently playing out between the demon and the man as she watches Lucanis. There's a clattering of boxes being moved and rearranged then he lights a flame under what appears to be some sort of homemade stove. After a few minutes he returns with a steaming pot and the smell of coffee fills the small room.

Rook holds out her cup for him as he pours out the dark brown liquid until it reaches the top then fills his own. Now that he's closer she can see the black power under his nails, a cluster of tiny white scars standing out in contrast against his tan skin. She wants to ask about the experiment he was doing when she had interrupted him earlier or pry more about her magic but it's late and she's exhausted. Shes beginning to ajust to the dim candle light, the subtle warmth the flames gave off as the occasional gust of cold air moved past her and the presence of the man sitting opposite her.

Sure, it was a bit awkward and she wasn't sure if he was utterly repulsed by her or just had invited her out of civility but Rook had been searching for a distraction from her restless sleep and she had found one. They didn't need to speak, to fill the silence, just being in each others presence was enough. Maybe it was the adrenaline wearing off that had made her feelings intangible but could swear she felt a strange sort of comfort when she was with him.

Instead of voicing the million questions she yearned to have answered Rook leans back in her seat against the worn velvet and lets the cup warm her hands as raises the it in a thanks then takes a sip. It's bitter and warm, not hot enough to burn but the taste leaves an unwelcome flavour on her tongue. The disgusted expression on her face forms because she can stop it. Lucanis is waiting for her reaction.

"What? No milk or sugar?" Rook's voice sounds strained as she gulps down the liquid mid sentence forcing herself to take another sip.

She'd had coffee before, at the training camp it was valued as much as gold. But that had been a watered down version, reheated and shared between large groups, whatever Lucanis had was strong and fresh. Perhaps this was another thing she'd have to adjust to.

The corner of Lucanis's mouth raises, those full lips forming an almost smile as he watches her drink before trying his own.

"I like it black." He states before refilling his cup.

Rook hides another nervous laugh and gives him in a look that says of course you do. She would not make a very good spy he thinks.

She coughs as she reaches the bottom of the cup wiping a hand over her mouth before placing it down and pushing it slightly away from her. A fake smile of gratitude plastered across her face.

"Thanks for the coffee, and the company."

Lucanis's doesn’t seem to register the comment, his gaze entirely focused on the spot just behind where she sits, eyes occasionally flicking to check that she hadn't moved then back again to not so empty space. The humming song starts again.

There an obviously tension between Rook and Lucanis but neither of them quite wants the moment to end. Lucanis had never been very good at making friends, hell, he struggled enough as it was to keep loose acquaintances. But since he would be staying here for the foreseeable future he might as well try to be civil with her. He couldn't leave now, not when he was so close to finding a cure, not when he and his cousin had a chance at freedom, not when this girl was before him could be the key to everything. Regardless of his intentions Rook had played a part in his rescue and he would be indebted to her until the contract was completed.

I think she's starting you like you. Thats a first, should we tell her what we really are?

I thought you were staying quiet.

How can I when I can hear all your thoughts. I wonder what she would say if you told her what you want to do to her-

Spite seems to forget what it was saying as the creature stops mid taunt, turning in a circle sniffing the air its hollow eyes turn from Lucanis to Rook and back again.

Oh, this is going to be fun.

Lucanis's temple is throbbing as he rubs the palm of his hand against it trying to mask the feeling with more questions. If he could keep her talking for long enough maybe he could gain back enough control for Spite to leave them.

"When you have these nightmares, what do you see. Tell me about them."

Straight to the point then. Rook thinks, it would be easy for her to lie about it but she has nothing to lose.

"You want me to help you or not?" Lucanis barks out when Rook doesn't immediately answer. He doesn't mean for his tone to come out like that, cruel and disingenuous. Every step he makes towards Rook feels like another two back into the dark.

"Sorry-" She starts only to be cut off by his raised hand.

"Stop apologising." He shuts her down. "Just start from the beginning, anything you can remember might help us to better understand your...situation. When did they start."

She should be sorry, she was a Mage who had killed tens, if not hundreds of innocent people. Even if she had been following orders, even if it had been an accident, she had killed, no man would ever mourn one less Mage in the world.

You have more blood on your hands than she does.

I take no pleasure in killing, unlike you.

It’s impolite to lie Lucanis. I know you get off on it as much as I do. Oh look you've made her cry…

Spites observation panics him for a moment but when he looks at her there's no tears present. The only evidence of sadness is a fait sheen to her pale eyes, that haunted look he had seen before in the mirror on his own face. Greif.

As Rook recalls her nightmares and the memories that interlinked them she wished, not for the first time that they had left her to die in that rubble. How was it fair that the gods got to pick and choose who gets the power of creation, of life and who gets that of death and destruction. How she longed to be able to bring her friends back from the dead, reach down upon the earth and feel the roots grow.

"I think they must have started when I was a child but I could never remember anything, only waking up to find myself screaming. The night after the first time my magic manifested there was a thunderstorm, I started dreaming about this woman, I can't recall her face but it was like she was glowing in green flame."

Lucanis's focus is wavering as he tries to hang onto each of her words, something about green flames, a wolf, the sound of thunder, demons and the veil. His time is running out. The pain was behind his eyes now, vision blurring as he blinked over and over trying to shut it out.

"Lucanis." Rooks voice brings him back for a moment. "Are you alright?"

Smells like blood.

Get out of my head.

Can't you smell it? Let us taste her, just this once.

I said, GET OUT.

But Spite was right. The metallic tang in the air was undeniable, he could smell it. A shudder of dread snapped him back into reality. He was looking at her how, really looking. Had Rook always looked this pale? Her eyes were hollow, sunken in slightly and ringed with grey. Her lips parted as she paused mid sentence.

"You are bleeding." Lucanis's voice startles her as she has a moment of confusion before the realisation sets in.

She shifts the seat back a few inches looking down at herself before placing her hand to where the black shirt was sticking to her side. When she brings it away her palm is covered with a fresh coating of blood. Her mouth forms a silent 'oh' as she places her hand back against the wet shirt and holds it in place.

Before Lucanis can stop her she stands up swaying slightly using her free hand to steady herself against the table as he rushes to her side, the crate he was sat on lets out a screech against the stone as he flys across the room towards her.

Told you I smelled blood.

"LEAVE US." He doesn't mean for those words to be voiced aloud. Lucanis's voice comes out through gritted teeth, if Rook notices him speaking to the air she doesn't react - too focused on trying not to pass out.

It's not the blood that makes Lucanis feel like he's going to throw up but what comes after. This is how Spite feeds, the demon can't touch her in its usual state but pain, death and bloodshed calls to it the way a holy man might call upon the gods. When in battle the bond between Spite and Lucanis is forged from violence, all it takes is for the first kill to commence and then two become one. Most days the demon can do little more than cause him headaches with taunts and mind games but in battle Spite can take over fully possessing him and using Lucanis's body as a vessel for violence.

He wasn't sure if Rook's injuries would be enough to let Spite in all the way there was no rule book for this kind of thing but he didn't dare send her away. Not when she was in so much pain, not when seeing her in pain caused him so much.

With one arm under hers and the one carefully hooked around her waist so not to touch the wound he guides her to the table and holds up her weight against his own until her legs secure against it, the table is low enough that when he pushes her back slightly she's able to sit on it without much strain.

"Keep pressure on the wound." He leaves her for just a moment hurrying across the room and pouring out something that look like water onto his hands then wiping them clean on his sheets.

Lucanis was not healer but had learnt survival young and patched himself up after many a battle. He had been nine the first time he'd had to fix a dislocated bone, thirteen when he learnt how to stitch his own wounds.

Rook winces as she feels the throbbing pain grow, her skin heating as sweat begins to coat her skin. She has no idea how long it’s been bleeding or when the stitches had ripped. It was as if until she saw the blood there had been no pain and now it felt like she had an arrow in her side all over again.

When Lucanis returns he's holding a pile of clean cloth and a bottle of clear liquid. "I'll need to redress the wound and clean it."

Rook continues to look down at her side fingers now slick with her own blood she acknowledges him with a faint noise that he can’t make out.

"I need you to look at me. I don't think Varric will forgive me if I let you bleed out on my table." That earns a pained laugh. "This is going hurt." He adds.

"Okay." She nods again this time meeting his eye as Lucanis hand holds her chin to look at him. Defiance lives in her eyes but she agrees to let him help her, this is a woman who does not want to be pitied or saved. He knows exactly how that feels.

Lucanis lets her go and pushes his sleeves up further until the material can't go any higher up his biceps. With little effort he rips the cloth into strips and places it onto the table beside her along with the bottle. Slowly, cautiously, he stands infront of her assessing the situation. Rook moves her body slightly so that she's turned half to the side giving him better actress to her and her hand beings to pull up the bottom of her shirt.

"Do you want me to stop, it's not too late. I can wake one of the others-"

"No it's fine." Rook cuts him off. "It really doesn't hurt that much." Her face says otherwise.

It would be easier for him to remove her top completely but the thin material leaves little to imagination, it's clear Rook wears nothing underneath. Instead Lucanis pulls a dagger from his belt and cuts away at the ruined fabric leaving only enough to cover her. The bulk of the bandages are almost completely soaked through. As he unbinds them from her ribs and throws them onto a pile on the floor Rook swears when the wound is exposed to the cold air.

We could have her right now, on this table.

"It's not as bad as I thought, but you're to need to sit still for the next part. Drink this." He holds the bottle up to her lips and lifts it so she can drink, one hand underneath to catch anything that spills.

Rook splutters and coughs as it burns the back of her throat but takes a few gulps as Lucanis lets out a loose a breath.

With the old bandages removed and blood wiped clean he can now see only three out of the eight stitches had torn open, and other than the irritated red skin around the wound there’s no sign of infection.

"That was fucking disgusting. Do me a favour and just keep talking. If I don't pass out from this, I might die if you serve me anymore beverages." Rook states, eyes closed as she lets out a low whimper whilst Lucanis begins to wipe away the blood. “And if I die.” As grits her teeth. “I will come back and fucking haunt you.”

Such dirty words for such a pretty mouth.

Don’t look at her.

Imagine the sweet sounds she would make.

"I'm not very good at talking." Lucanis confesses, undeterred by her empty threats.

He doubts very much that she would want to hear about how he'd spent almost his entire childhood being experimented on in a cage by the only maternal figure he'd never known.

"Oh i've noticed." Her eyes are wide and alert now, pupils dilating. "Seriously say anything, sing a song tell me a story, make something up. Tell me about possessed life, I bet he's here isn't he, the demon, is he here? Is he a he?"

Rook might not have been thinking clearly to start but now she’s racking her brain for everything she learnt about this man so far. Not only was she about to let an almost stranger - at best coworker, operate on her in a storage cupboard she was about to let a man possessed by a demon to do it. Other than overhearing Neve refer to the demon as 'Spite' once she had no idea if that was its name or what it even was.

Did demons even have pronouns?

"It's here, it likes the blood." If Lucanis was trying to comfort her he was failing miserably.

From the corner of his eye Lucanis can see spite crouching beneath the table, its slightly see through finger poking at the small pool of blood on the ground. Despite the finger going through the blood and stone floor Spite puts it into its mouth and pretends to lick the finger clean.

Delicious.

"Great, well there's plenty of that here. Sounds like a charming guy." Rook lets her head fall back and stares up at the ceiling as she waits for Lucanis to fishing threading the needle.

Lucanis bites down on his bottom lip as he finishes threading the needle then sterilises the wound with what smells like alcohol. He dabs at the blood with no warning and she clutches back as it stings sending shivers down her spine that make her want to kick him.

"What does it feel like?" She asks the corners of her eyes glistening but again, no tears fall.

"At first I thought my soul had been split in half. But now, it’s more like having two sets of hands instead of one, eyes in the back of my head. The power is…unimaginable."

He pulls her skin together holding the flesh with a forefinger and thumb as the needle pushes through for the first stitch. Over rooks deep breathing he swears the faint sound of thunder booms overhead.

"I have heard sories of demons that can possess men. The Grey Wardens knew a lot about dark magic. How did you come to be this way? I mean what happened to you. You weren't born like this, were you?" Rook seems to be sitting straighter now, the tonic kicking in and numbing some of the pain.

"That-Is none of your concern."

"Does it hurt?" Rook knows she should probably change subjects from the strain in his voice but when she looks up at him the answer is written all over his face.

"Yes and no." The look of agony is gone in seconds and he's back to concentrating on her wound.

His hair despite being tied back falls over his shoulder as is long enough that she feels it brush against her bare skin. She can feel his warm breath against her torso and the occasional faint tickle of his beard as he gets too close.

"Does it hurt right now?" Rook wonders looking around the room as if she would find a demon spawn hiding in the shadows, but she sees nothing.

"You don't have to worry about me. You are the one bleeding."

The second stitch is though.

"I'm bleeding all over your bedroom and you won't even tell me how you got possessed by a creepy demon, wow." Rook tries to make an exaggerated gasping sound but it's cut short as the third stitch goes though and the wind is knocked out of her. "Fucking ouch."

"You are very dramatic." He was glad she couldn't see his faint smile as he continued to work.

This was good, if she’s was coherent enough to make jokes and swear at him hopefully she wouldn’t pass out anytime soon. Lucanis makes a mental note that Rook often uses humour as cover when she's hurt.

The pain has faded to a dull ache now, Rooks body already starting to feel a bit stronger with each passing moment but her mind is still hazy. She’s trying to stay awake but all she can think about was how wants him to never stop talking. Each word keeps her tethered to this plane. That accent, she could listen to it forever.

“We are almost done.” Lucanis moves closer to her - his large body is almost completely covering hers as he leans so that he can tie the bandages around her back. He stops half way realising he can't quite reach it without the possibility of hurting her. Rook feels his hand lightly touching her shoulder indicating which way she needs to move as she swings her legs back round to give him better access.

Now Rook sits on the other side as he leans over, legs hanging over the table, back facing him. He doesn't mean to stare when he looks down at her exposed back but there's no helping it as his eyes travel from the bottom of her spine to the top of her half ripped shirt and the array of scars that covered almost every inch of skin in between. Some more faded than others, the freshest couldn't have been more than a year old. Each one thin and precise line, this had been no accident, she had either been forced to take a beating or let someone do this to her.

"Arms up." He instructs as she strains lift them with little protest but manages to keep them held in place long enough for him to loop the cloth around.

He begins to tie the fresh bandages around her, one hand laying flat across her ribs to keep them in place. The rough contrast of the tips his fingers brush against the exposed skin above her bandages. Once he's sure the bandages are tight enough he feels himself moving without thinking. Rook doesn't react as a finger traced the outline of a particularly deep bit of scar tissue that falls almost directly in the centre of her spine.

He had seen this kind of torture before, often inflicted on disobedient soldiers or deserters. It was possible to get rid of most scars and wounds with certain kinds of magic, for cosmic or personal reasons he had seen it done more than once. But some were not as easy to remove as others and perhaps she had chosen to keep them as a reminder for what had been done to her. He shouldn’t care, it was none of his business.

He could feel the demonic energy that ran in his veins drumming under his skin as he flexed his hand by his side. He was only human-ish after all.

Who did this to you? He wondered. I will make them beg for my blade. He should have no right to care. He had done that and worse to his own enemies, what made seeing it on her so different? Spite who had had been suspiciously dormant the entire time Rook had her wounds tended to was now flicking in and out of existence behind her. The demon Rook from its crouch by her side and for once the demon had nothing to say.

They were both thinking the same thing.

"These are not from battle." Lucanis states as he pulls the cut up edge of the shirt back down to cover what he can see of her side.

"No, they are not." Rook answers as she moves off the table to stand. Her cheeks have more colour to them now he notices as she refuses his help when she steadies herself. "Thank you, I think i've ruined your night enough. I should get going now."

Lucanis accepts her thanks with a nod not sure what to do now. He wants to ask her to stay. Only so he can keep an eye on her incase the wound gets worse of course. He couldn't exactly offer up his bed, a girl like her deserved to sleep on beds of silks and feathered mattresses.

In his first week at the Lighthouse he had been given a large room in the north wing with a plush four poster bed and a dozen pillows. It had felt like he was suffocating in the comfort of that bed, he had tried removing all the bedding on the second night. Placing the mattress on the floor on the third then welcoming the cool stone against his bare back on the fourth. None of it had worked. He felt like a dog without the comfort of its cage. It had been years since he'd slept on anything more comfortable than a couple of crates pushed together with a blanket over the top. Not that he slept much as it was.

As Lucanis begins to put away his things he can feel eyes on him as Rook stands as if she's waiting for him to say something. "Right, of course." Lucanis clears his throat then grabs something off his bed and passes it to her. "Get some rest if you can, i'm no healer so you should probably get somebody to look at that in the morning if you can."

Rook takes the shirt from him and begins to pull her old ruined one over her head with one hand as Lucanis turns to give her some privacy. He can feel his blood heating as the awareness that she’s half naked in his room sinks in. She places the discarded top on the pile of bloody cloth and bandages and cringes as she takes in the mess around the room. Dried blood on the floor, glass on the table, the door hanging on its hingers. After today she didn't think she would ever be able to face him again.

His cream collared shirt reaches her mid thigh, the size of it looking ridiculous on her. She was shorter than the average elf and even though Lucanis was tall for a human he only had a few inches on her but his build had made the shirt seem least thrice her normal size. When she finishes dressing Lucanis is still facing away from her - arms resting against the table as he tried not to think about what Rook might look like in his shirt. He can hear Spites perverted thoughts begin to pile up in his mind making him want to flip the table and its contents scores the room. Instead he re arranging his work and places the books back onto the table as he finishes cleaning off any trace of blood, any trace of her.

"Goodnight, Rook." Lucanis mumbles.

The way he says it sounds like goodbye. So this was it then.

"Goodnight."

Rook waits a few more seconds to see if he will turn back and then, she’s gone.

end chapter notes -

everyday i learn something new about his family and backstory (thanks twitter)

this chapter was only meant to be 3k long but i ended up writing about 6k and cutting it down a bit, their dynamic is so fun to write. anyone has information, head canons or theories about him pls share id love to hear them!

do we hate grandma or not? (i think we do)

as always @/saintscain on twitter, hope you enjoyed

#dragon age #dragon age spoilers #dragon age veilguard #veilguard spoilers #lucanis dellamorte fic #lucanis #lucanis dellamorte #lucanis x rook #rookanis #lucanis x spite x rook #lucanis fic #my work #da4 spoilers #datv spoilers #datv #dragon age: dreadwolf

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