#I DO understand the numbers well enough to USE them

[whyohwhydoris]

This. This right here. And, even if you play online, there are good tools that don't put money directly in the pockets of a company which treats far too many of its employees poorly, and is increasingly trying to turn D&D into a micro-transaction laden hell.

To start: Books are, for the most part, permanent. Sure, they can get damaged, but WotC can and will change D&D Beyond on you without notice. I play with a large club, and I have actively seen problems where players have built and specced characters, only for changes on the backend to effect how the characters play.

But, more importantly, if you use the books and use the character sheet and roll your dice? I have noticed that most players are better when they do these things.

This isn't to say you have to use paper though, at 36 dollars a year for D&D beyond, you can buy enough pens paper to play a lot. And, of course, there are those for whom tools like D&D Beyond are important for accessibility (though, I would still prefer to see other tools used, that isn't on those who need the accessibility so much at the community to make the tools comparable).

But, when you are looking through the books as books, when you are actively cross-referencing, when you are writing things down and taking notes you start to understand the systems more fluidly.

This is really obvious with spells. Because a lot of spells are picked once and kept, a lot of players will only ever use well-known spells like fireball. This is exacerbated by tools like D&D Beyond, where it is difficult to look through all the spells you can take and compare them. But, having the book in front of you lets quickly look at spells, compare them, consider them related to each other. It is easy to flip between two pages and read text. It is hard to load back and forth through 3 different web pages on your phone. D&D beyond tanks spell discoverability.

It also makes using your abilities harder because you have to conform to WotC's classifications of your abilities. You know how you want to play your character - this means you can easily format your sheet to bolster your character. Do you have two features you like to combo together? Make the notes next to each other. Is there an obscure rule interaction you're abusing? Put the page number on your character sheet. Is some campaign revaluation really important? You're already charting your character - notes are an easy extra.

So, that's great, but how does that make players better? The example that jumps to mind is find familiar. Rules-as-Written, the Giant Fly is a valid form for the find-familiar spell. It's a large creature with a flying speed, and would be a willing creature. A level 1 wizard could have a flying mount. D&D Beyond will not suggest this to you. What it will do is quick link to the stat blocks for the creatures suggested in the spell. This limits the way a player views the mechanics. It become mentally prescriptive. Where as using the books requires you to look up the stat-blocks independently, and makes it more obvious that what you're looking for is a CR 0 Beast statblock, any CR 0 Beast statblock, to choose as you please. To me, a better player is the player who realizes that interaction, and who can now interact with the mechanics directly, and not just by selecting off a menu. It's the difference between cooking your own meals and buying frozen dinners.

Similarly, D&D Beyond doesn't make it easy to scrawl "True Strike @ Level 7" next to your cantrips to remind yourself that your greatsword (Graze mastery) wielding Eldritch Knight should take the cantrip at level 7 (when "War Magic" kicks in) for a guaranteed 1d6+int radiant damage per turn. When you get cantrips at level 3, Truestrike isn't actually that good for an Eldritch Knight - it lets you change the damage type, and makes the attack magic, but neither of those is super important at level 3. By level 5, it is an actively bad choice. But at level 7, it becomes a really quite good choice. But that series of interactions is hard to see when you're trying to interact with your character as they are at level 3 or 5, and not actively cross referencing all the time.

But, I think the most important example I can think of is filtering information. A lot of abilities, spells, and equipment have large text blocks that you need to be able to extract the key facets of. What I see at the tables I play at and DM is that players are constantly reading entire paragraphs of text to find the small segment about what they are allowed to do. When you play the game with a character sheet and the books, you can write down the 2-3 important facts you need, and a page number. I actively see players with paper play more quickly. They know that their Second Wind is 1d10+Fighter Level in healing. They know that their spell is doing damage and slowing the enemy. And more importantly, they know this before their turn. They're better able to plot out their plans because their reference isn't also the tool they are using to mechanically play the game. But Also:

We have already seen WotC justify removing things from the PHB because "no one used them" and making decisions which make the books less useful, and which have unintended rules consequences. D&D Beyond exists solely at the discretion of these knuckleheads. But your books, once they are in your hands? Your character sheets and your notes? They are untouchable.

For example: the 5.5e PHB has no lists of common gods in it (despite having a cosmology sitting in the back of the book). This is despite the fact that both the Paladin and the Cleric strongly suggest you are worshiping a god. While this is not a requirement of the class, it is an important part of the theme and feeling of D&D - and it has been stripped out. And so, instead of providing a tool that tables can choose to ignore, it has been wholly removed.

For example: Jeremy Crawford got butt-hurt when people pointed out that Dragon's Breath can be twinned, and it's an amazing combo. This got nerfed by errata - but not for any mechanically sound reason. Similarly, the cantrip Booming Blade was powerful when used with the twinned spell feature - and was again on the receiving end of an errata. On D&D Beyond, you have to live in the walled garden of these decisions. And more worryingly, we've seen their (poor) efforts with Sigil, which will constrain and curtail your ability to ignore such arbitrary decisions even more.

For example: The 5e PHB is formatted so that class spell lists are immediately next to the spells theirselves. This makes intuitive sense if you are needing to cross-reference your spell options with the spells theirselves. But the 5.5e spell lists now exist in the classes. This has two consequences. 1) It is now considerably harder to cross reference your spells, as you're flipping between at least the class and spell sections. 2) It is considerably harder to use features like Magic Initiate, or sub classes like Eldritch Knight or Arcane Trickster, who must now cross reference two or more separate class sections. 3) This has the unintended consequence of making a class's spell list an implicit class feature - this means that an accurate rules-as-written interpretation can state that Eldritch Knights and Arcane Tricksters cannot cast scrolls as neither the Fighter or Rogue class has a spell list with-in their class. Collectively, these kinds of changes are being made everywhere through the books, with evidence of a lack of intentionality, forethought, and care in doing so.

As WotC increasingly try to use churn-as-profit methods like they have with Magic the Gathering - making incremental changes which are monetized and with a designed date of expiry - in D&D, these kinds of changes will add up, but more importantly you will lose access to the older resources. Already it is more difficult to run a 5e campaign in D&D Beyond. The only reason you still can is because WotC needed 5.5e to be "backward compatible" because they knew players were not going to be willing to invest in an entirely new edition. They knew they couldn't sell the new product if they jettisoned the old one. And they are also likely to continue the trend of diminishing the books. There is less lore, and sometimes less important lore, in 5.5e. There is no indication that WotC isn't going to continue dumming down spells, nor any indication that they are going to be more serious about ensuring mechanical ruggedness. The art is more eurocentric than ever. There is less flesh on the bones of this game than ever. And all of that is going to directly affect D&D Beyond. It will not effect the books you have now. They cannot undo what has been done in the real world the way they can in the digital one.

I may not be openly vocal about it but I am a certified dndbeyond hater. Have been since day one. Log the fuck off, cancel your account, and stop paying hasbro rent on your imagination. I'm serious.

"OH but it's so useful to help remember all my character abilities and spells"

No it's not. You've only been tricked into thinking it's easy because you're a fucking Ipad baby who's let your brain be sandpapered smooth by corprorate UI design. The moment the wifi cuts out or your app fails to load you're going to forget how to play your character and you're going to eat up precious session time looking it up on your phone.

"but there's so much text, I could never keep track of it all!"

PAPER, motherfucker. Read your abilities and either transcribe them into a word doc to print out or grab a notebook from the dollarstore. Writing them out this way will not only keep them on hand but help you learn how they work in the first place. Doodle in the margins, apply cute stickers, and spill things on them like god intended.

"But how will my DM be able to see my stats and track my damage?"

Why the fuck does your DM need to manage your character sheet? That's your job. Keeping track of your abilities and doing minor math is part of the fun of the game, and the moment you let a computer do the gruntwork you've put up another barrier between you and the character you've created.

Don't even get me started on people who pay for digital dice skins when real dice are right there. Real life illustration of Plato's cave.

[sudsnribbons]

porch-swing angel. | b.a

dbf!beau arlen x f!reader

MDNI

warnings: age gap (reader is legal to drink, beau is early 40s), use of petnames (sweetheart, darlin', ect.), loss of a parent, beau being a sweetheart, oral (f rec.), exhibition, dub-con if you squint (both are under the influence), drinking, ooc beau? cum eating? i think thats it! lmk!!

wordcount: 2,432

a/n: beau arlen has consumed me. i've seen like 1 episode of big sky so don't come for me. this is a result of insomnia and access to my notes app. very loosely inspired by 'porchswing angel' by muscadine bloodline! hope you enjoy!!

first it was the fridge light. easy fix, right?

a few youtube videos later and that was back in business.

but then.

almost like the universe had it out for you–

the shower.

that god awful noise as it would drip just loud enough to keep you up.

you put it off for a week, figuring it would subside.

you never were that lucky.

---

your fathers best friend,

beau arlen.

sheriff arlen and your father go way back, they met in highschool. your father went to college and got married shortly after. beau? well despite his unruly teen years, became a man of the law.

you had moved into your dad's place right after he passed. along with the deed to his beautiful home, was a note from your father.

"if you need anything, arlen is right next door. he'll take care of you sweetheart."

- love, dad

your heart ached as you read the note, secured by a magnet on your fridge.

you really had tried not to call him. it had been over 6 months since your father had passed. you had lost a father, yes. but beau? he had lost his bestfriend. you didnt want to bother him if at all possible.

yet here your are, house phone in hand, dialing that all too familiar number on the wheel.

one ring.

two rings.

three-

"hello?" beau's voice filled your ears.

silence.

is it too late to hang up?

"hello? anyone there?" he asks, southern drawl making your face heat up.

"beau.. uhm mr.arlen-sheriff arlen-" you stumble over your words, regretting the call all together.

"you alright sweetheart?" he asks, voice sounding worried.

"yeah—uhm my dad left your number?" you mutter nervously over the line.

"right, what can i do for you sugar?" god that voice.

"my shower broke and i tried to fix it and i've watched what felt like 100 youtube videos and i-" his voice halted your babbling.

"ill be there soon sweetheart. i get off at 5." he smiles through his words, happy to help.

"5 it is sheriff." you anxiously play with the phone cord, wrapping the coil of wire around your fingers.

"beau. call me beau." he corrected.

"right—beau." you nodded in understanding and hung up. placing the old phone back on the dock.

---

to pass the time, you decided to make the recipe you'd put off for so long. brown butter chocolate chip cookies, couldn't be too hard right? you've made cookies countless times.

easy peasy–

is what you thought you'd say, but after burning the butter 3 times you almost gave up.

4th time must be the charm because they turned out perfect. flaky salt sprinkled over the cookie tray, to compliment the sweet.

almost comical how perfect your timing was, as soon as you plated the cookies there was a knock at the door.

wiping your hands on the patchwork apron, you rush to open the door.

there he was. even more handsome than he used to be if that was even possible.

you hadn't seen beau since your parents split up, ending up with your mother in tennessee.

you'd almost forgotten just how handsome he was.

grey streaks peppered in his beard, the start of the sunset reflecting the light just right enough to see them.

"sheriff–beau, come in." you corrected yourself, moving to the side so the man could come in.

"smells good in here, what d'you make?" he questioned, walking straight into the kitchen just as he'd done many times before.

smiling down at the plate of cookies, and sink full of dishes from your little endeavor.

"you can have as many as you'd like, i just need my shower fixed." you gestured to the plate, pulling the apron over your head and hanging it on a hook by the oven.

"payin' me in cookies?" he joked, picking one up and taking a bite.

"if you'd let me." you smiled as you watched his eyes light up at the taste. "new recipe, you like 'em?" you ask, leaning your back against the oven.

nodding, he groans "lord yeah–best cookies i've ever had." you smiled at the praise. "your wife ever make you any cookies?" you questioned.

you had to–i mean look at him. you were desperate to know, any woman would be a fool not to pounce on the opportunity.

"not married sugar." he laughed, finishing the cookie.

awkward.

wiping his hands over his denim-clad thighs he huffed out, "so whats wrong with this shower you were talkin' about?" he questioned, starting up the steps and down the hall. you followed like a lost puppy, he knew this house a hell of a lot better than you did.

following him into the bathroom, "'s leakin' all over my floor." turning the dial on the out-dated shower, you quickly turn it off and watch water leak from the side.

he watches and nods, "jus' needs some caulk." he waves it off like its a simple fix.

your voice gets caught in your throat as you cough. "i'm sorry what?" your face is beat red.

"ca-ulk sweetheart. the seal. s'gone bad." he pronunciated the word slowly, quickly retrieving your mind from the gutter.

"oh right–right of course." you replied, brushing your hair behind your ear.

"m'off tomorrow, ill swing by lowe's and get some. fix ya right up." he smiled, exiting the bathroom and heading downstairs.

meeting the man in the kitchen, you bent down in the cabinet to get some tupperware. pulling the blue bowl from the shelf, you pack some cookies away before sealing the lid.

sliding the tupperware towards beau, "can't eat a dozen cookies by myself. you wanna take these home and help me out a little?" smiling warmly at the man to persuade him, as if it took much.

"thanks sweetheart. ill be over 'bout 2 tomorrow. that work for ya?" he asked, wrapping his fingers around the bowl, making it look smaller than it was in his hand.

"2 works for me!" you said as you walked him to the door.

---

your alarm tried to wake you up, 4 times. damn you and heavy sleep. what finally got you was knocking at the door. shooting up from bed, you glance up at the clock 2:15pm.

fuck.

springing out of bed like some cartoon character you stumble around your room trying to get changed out of your pajamas, "'m comin'! one second!" you yell, shuffling through your closet to find a hoodie to just throw over the tank-top you'd slept in.

you decided on a dark blue hoodie, embroidered with 'big sky high, class of '01'. leaving on the shorts you had on, socked feet pattered down the steps and to the front door.

"mornin' to you too." he smiled, taking in your disheveled appearance.

"didn't mean to sleep that long." you rubbed your hand over your face, stepping to the side to let the man in.

"s'alright. haven't seen that thing in a while." he laughed, pointing to your hoodie.

looking down, you replied. "oh yeah–it was dad's. did you have one?" you asked.

walking up the steps, you followed behind him. setting the lowe's bag in the floor before he answered you. "that one is mine darlin', your dad graduated in 2000." he smiled looking down at you.

blush crept up on your skin, "oh i didn't know." he shook his head, "you're alright, looks better on you anyways." beau muttered, pulling stuff out of the bag.

filling the gun, to re-seal everything he started, "you plannin' on stayin' for good?" you nodded, leaning on the bathroom sink watching him work. "yeah i think you're stuck with me arlen." he shakes his head laughing, continuing to work with your company. "s'good. get's lonely around here with your dad gone." his mood dropped–so did yours, at the mention of your father.

"well y'got me now, and i bake killer cookies." you smile down at him crouched in the floor, trying to lighten the mood.

"damn right." he smiled and stood up, "n'more leaky shower." wiping the excess off the gun onto his jeans. "my savior." you reply and he laughs. both of you heading back downstairs.

"what do i owe you beau?" you ask the man, starting to grab your wallet from the counter. beau was quick to shake his head, "m'not takin' your money darlin'." he insisted, "how am i supposed to repay you?" you questioned. "jus' keep savin' me some of those cookies yeah?" he ran a hand over his beard. "of course." you smiled at the man.

"did you say you were off today?" you asked, leaning against the counter. "i am, why d'ya ask?" he questioned. "well i was gonna make some dinner, i didn't know if you wanted to stay for a plate?" you offered and he was quick to accept. "haven't had a home cooked meal in too long, i'd be a fool not to." he replied.

---

it was around 7:26pm when you finished up with dinner. you made a simple baked chicken with a few sides, and the help of beau.

the two of you sat on your porch, sipping on a beer beside beau in the swing. "you even old enough to drink?" he asked teasingly as he popped the can tab. "thought you said you were off today sheriff." you joked back.

it felt so easy—domestic almost, the way you two fit perfectly in the porch-swing. the breeze blowing your hair ever so slightly. sun casting on your face, lighting up your eyes. the same ones you could have sworn just watched beau stare at you. looking over at the man you couldn't help but smile.

"what's in that pretty little head of yours?" he asked, brushing your hair behind your ear. "nothin." taking a sip of your beer–liquid courage, "thank you for fixin' my shower beau." he nodded, bringing the can to from his hand to his lips. "s'no problem. told your old man i'd take care of ya." you nodded, grateful to have someone to fall back on when you needed it.

your arm brushed his as you leaned forward, setting the can on the table in-front of the swing. cicadas filled the air with their voices, sun behind the mountains and trees. the porch light lit up the two of you. warm amber-like light casted over beau's face, all you could do was stare at him. like he could disappear at any moment. like you had to memorize every freckle and wrinkle on his face. "got a starin' problem sweetheart." he chuckled lowly, taking another drink from the chilled can. trying to ignore what you were doing to him.

this was wrong.

your his late bestfriend's daughter.

knowing your dad he'd rise from the grave and beat his ass for even thinking about you like that.

but god were you beautiful.

seeing you in that hoodie was what really dealt him in.

his hoodie.

and now? you sat beside him, bare thigh brushing against his denim-clad one.

he felt the heat radiating off you, and it was driving him insane.

you sat, nursing a beer beside him. so unbothered and casual, yet so perfect at the same time.

he had to get out of here. do something.

beau's resolve was crumbling more and more each time your eyelashes fluttered.

he leaned forward setting down his empty can. heavy hand fell on your thigh as he started to get up. "i better go home, it's gettin' late." he tried, to convince himself more than you.

not wanting the night to end, you were quick to protest, "wait–don't go yet." he stood in-front of you, waiting for you to say something.

you searched for a minute, trying to find something–anything to say. when you came up empty handed, you did the only other thing you could think of.

leaning up on your tip-toes you pressed your lips to beau's, eyes fluttering as you quickly pulled away.

eyes wide in shock, you covered your mouth "beau im so sorry i don't-" you started to apologize but he simply shook his head, leaning down to meet your lips with his again. "tell me to stop and i will." he muttered, forehead against yours. looking up into his eyes, "don't–need you beau." he smiled, hoisting you up in his arms.

your arms wrapped around his neck, legs finding his waist. he walked you back until your back hit the siding of the house. kissing down your neck, the friction from his beard sending chills down your back. "m'gonna take care of you sugar." beau muttered against your neck. sliding down the thin sleep shorts you had on from earlier, the fabric pooling around your knees. the cool breeze of summer air hit your core.

pulling the shorts fully off, throwing them somewhere on the porch-swing beside of you. beau traced your slit, "no panties darlin'?" he asked, "almost like y'wanted this." he teased you, and it was working. sliding one finger inside. "i–fuck i did." you mutter with a gasp at the intrusion. beau smirks, satisfied with his effect on you. "soakin' wet for me angel." pushing another finger in, he starts to curl his fingers upward. as he kept brushing against that spongey-spot, you felt the band in your stomach wind tighter and tighter. "c'mon sweetheart let go for me." his words filled your ears and he kissed your lips, taking every moan that escaped your mouth into his. "oh beau!" you cried out as the elastic snapped, and white heat flushed over your body.

brushing the hair out of your face, beau carried you over to the porch-swing. setting you down, he found your shorts that were discarded earlier. bringing his fingers to his mouth he groans at the taste, "sweeter than those cookies y'made me." you cover your face, and beau guides your shorts back up your legs.

sitting beside you, he traces your thigh. the loud ringtone on his phone broke the silence between you two. looking down at the number he sighed, "i gotta answer this." you nodded. he was the sheriff.

you watched as his demeanor changed as he listened, "okay–ill be there in twenty." your heart dropped, you didn't want him to leave. especially not after that.

the call ended and he looked at you with those green eyes, "im sorry darlin' they need me at the station." he leaned forward to kiss your lips, and you nodded in understanding.

"this isn't over angel." he shot you a smirk as he got in his truck, turning the ignition and pulling out of the gravel driveway the two of you shared.

[hehe-hoho-ohno]

As mentioned in my earlier post, Two Car Train is officially discontinued.

However, as an extra bonus for the Tumblr crowd, I'm putting the unfinished chapter 5 beneath the cut, which you can read if you want to.

[[I will be using square brackets to fill in missing scenes.]]

Station help up a hand, motioning for Lian to stop. “Did you hear that?”

They had been heading back to the settlement, earlier than Station would normally start the trek back but he didn’t want Lian to be out here when night fell.

“You mean the Pokémon?” Lian asked. “It sounds like a fight.”

“Yes,” Station agreed grimly, then took off at a sprint. “It’s hurt.”

“Wait! Wait up!” Lian hurried after him on his much shorter legs. “What are you doing? You’re supposed to run away, not towards it!”

If anything Station only quickened his pace, hoping he would be able to finish the battle before Lian caught up so he could keep the kid out of danger. He crested the hill, and spotted a flock of rufflets harassing a small curled up form. That wouldn’t do. He slid down the slope towards them and tossed out a pokeball.

Magikarp sailed towards the gang like a frisbee, crashing right into the middle of the flock and startling them into taking fight.

“Karp!” Magikarp splashed cheerfully.

“Bravo! Well done. Thank you.” He returned her to her ball and crouched down next to the cowering machop. “Greetings! Don’t be afraid. We are here to help!”

It hesitantly uncovered it’s head and looked up at him. The rufflets had done a number on it. Station offered it an Oran berry. It didn’t take it. He placed it on the ground. “Your cab needs maintenance and I don’t have enough supplies on me to heal you completely.”

It didn’t seem to understand any of that, boggling at him in complete confusion. “The most efficient course of action would be to take you back to the settlement and heal you there.” He pulled out a pokeball and it flinched back, kicking its feet to scuttle backwards.

Station pulled back. “I won’t hurt you. It’s only a pokeball. For transport. You’ll be safer inside.”

“What. Is. Wrong with you!?” Lian panted, having finally caught up. “What are you doing?!”

“It needed help,” Station said and pointed at the machop. It almost felt too obvious to be worth mentioning but Lian had asked.

Lian threw an exasperated hand towards the sky. “Great. Now we need help.”

Station looked up. The rufflets had not dispersed and were circling above them, flying in formation in a way that reminded him of a… dance.

Shit.

“Ah,” he said, sounding much calmer than he felt. “That’s bad.”

“Indubitably,” Lian agreed.

The birds blurred together and dove towards the ground.

“We should run,” Station said.

“I concur,” Lian said, already booking it.

Station glanced down at the machop, who had curled up again in fright. “Please don’t punch me,” he muttered and scooped it up, cradling the machop to his chest. It squeaked in surprise but, fortunately, it was too startled to punch him.

He dove to the side as the giant fusion plunged down, talons raking the ground where they had been. Shit! That was too close. It beat its many wings and ascended again, preparing for another attack.

He easily caught up to Lian and soon began to outpace him. Even though his instincts screamed at him not to, he slowed down so that he lagged behind Lian. After all, it would be the slowest group member who got targeted. Should they pick him up? Lian certainly wouldn’t appreciate it, but that was the least important factor right now. But he was already carrying Machop. Carrying two passengers might be slower than travelling separately.

“Look!” Lian pointed ahead. “We’re almost home!”

Suddenly, what Station needed to do became crystal clear. He couldn’t lead the rampaging Pokémon into the settlement.

Station turned on his heel and unclipped a pokeball from his belt.

And cornobbled the fusion, knocking it out of it’s flight path and sending it crashing into the snow.

“What are you doing?!” Lian wailed.

[Station and Lian fight the fusion and win!]

——

“We have arrived at our destination.”

Machop looked up at him, confused. Station crouched down so he was at her level. “This near where we met, yes?”

She bobbed her head.

“Right. So.” Station absentmindedly rotated her pokeball between his fingers. “You are all better now. Fully operational! That is good. I understand that when you acquiesced to capture it was under duress. A temporary solution to an emergency situation. That’s over now.”

“Chop?” She cocked her head, uncomprehending.

“You can go home,” Station said. “You have the option. I will release you, if you wish.”

She warbled and stepped closer to them. She hesitantly placed her hand on his wrists, light as a butterfree. She didn’t seem to comprehend what he was offering.

“Don’t you want to go home?” Station asked. “Don’t you have things to do, places to be? You were taken quite abruptly. Isn’t there anything you want to return to? Things you left undone?”

She stared at him with a concerned sort of confusion.

“Don’t you have family? Friends? …Aren’t you loved? Isn’t there someone, anyone, who will miss you, if you do not return? Someone who will look for you if you’re not at your station?” He practically begged her. “You didn’t even get to say goodbye. So you can’t. You can’t stay. You’ll be homesick. And lost and confused and…”

She reached up to brush at his cheeks and dab under his eyelashes with a tender sort of awkwardness. He reached up to grasp her hands to keep her from poking out his eyes out by accident. Machop’s hands were wet. So was his face.

Station swallowed, suddenly aware of the lump in his throat. “Sorry. My apologies. I got off track.” He flicked her ball open, intending to snap it at the hinge. “It’s a bit of a waste, but I can’t recall a release method that doesn’t involve breaking the ball so…”

Machop let out an alarmed cry and tugged the pokeball away from them, cradling it to her chest.

Station glanced between his now empty hands and her. “You want to keep it? A little unorthodox but I don’t see why not. Be your own master… or something.”

She sat down in the snow with a huff, protectively shielding the ball from Station.

“Isn’t that cold?” he asked. She narrowed her eyes at him. “I suppose you would be used to it.”

After some hesitation, Station shuffled around so that he was sitting beside her. Yep. He was right. It was cold. And wet. A bit miserable all around. “You seem upset. Are you mad at me?”

“Mmm.” She looked at her feet and petted her pokeball, as if it were something alive that needed comforting.

“Is it because…” and he couldn’t believe he was saying this. “You would rather stay? With me?”

Machop jerkily nodded.

“…Why?” He didn’t understand. Was her previous life truly so terrible? Or maybe it was different for Pokémon. It wasn’t uncommon for Pokémon to couple themselves to promising trainers. Gligar and Magikarp had certainly been eager to join him. Still, Machop didn’t seem like the type who would like to pursue battling. What would prompt her to leave the only home she had ever known?

Machop leaned against him, pillowing her head against the crook of his arm.

The whole point of this exercise had been to give her a choice. To give her an opportunity that Station had not gotten. And she had made her decision. It was not the answer that Station had been expecting but, unfathomable as it was, it was her truth.

“I see. If that’s is truly what you want, then it would be an honour to have you with us.” He opened his hand expectantly. “Don’t worry, I won’t break it unless you change your mind.”

With some hesitancy, she retuned the ball to him. Station pulled it back before she could enter it again and she squeaked in betrayal. “Sorry, I just wanted to let you know that you can change your mind. This is a standing offer. If you ever want to be released you just need to to tell me, okay?”

“Chop,” she grumbled and vanished into the pokeball in a flash of light.

With a huff of amusement Station reattached her pokeball to his belt. He stood and shook off the snow clinging to his pants and coat.

The area around him had grown so foggy it was difficult to discern the world around him. Coupled with the snowfall covering his tracks, it was impossible to tell the way he had come from. The fog had set in so quickly and he hadn’t even noticed. It seemed… unnatural.

Slow clapping sounded from behind him and he spun to see Volo’s figure emerging from the haze, mist curling around him like drapery. His uncovered eye shone through the gloom, glacial blue.

“Oh, how sweet,” he drawled, rolling his eyes.

Station squinted at him. “You are not Volo.”

Not-Volo spluttered, mouth opening and closing rapidly. “How did you-?! No! I am Volo! What makes you say that?!”

“Volo would act more like…” Station smiled widely, leaned forward with a hand on his hip and waggled his pointer finger. “My, what a showing from my favourrrrite customer! Putting my pokeballs to good use I see! You weirdo, you!” He winked. “Have you remembered anything yet?”

Not-Volo’s lip curled. “V- I would not fucking say that.”

Station shrugged, letting his smile and the persona drop. “Maybe. Maybe not. His eyes are definitely grey though.”

Said blue-but-should-be-grey eyes widened as it’s hands (already lengthening into claws) flew to it’s face, as if it could feel the imperfections. It snarled and yanked at the illusionary bangs, tearing off the illusion like an orange peel, until frayed away into the ghostly fur of it’s real body.

“…Do I know you?” Something about it seemed familiar. He tilted his head. “Didn’t I give you berries that one time?”

It stilled from tearing at it’s mane,

[Station catches a Zoroark]

——

[Station becomes Lady Sneasler’s Warden]

[Station and Lian talk about how Lian is upset that Station was made a Warden before him]

[platypusisnotonfire]

I’m annoyed by irrational numbers

I know they’re real numbers

They exist

But they are infinite? But not. They are decidedly NOT infinity. But they are….infinitely repeating

It’s like infinity into atoms compared to infinity into the universe but like

They’re also REAL FREAKING NUMBERS that can define finite objects (circles for instance)

I’m not happy about them

[lustraveil]

"Absolutely it would be you." there's a familiarity of his deadpan, dry humor coming back to him. It's easy to in his company. "Your voice could move the heavens themselves." he plays along, "that's what you expected to hear, right?" knowing his best friend well enough to know that sort of thing was what he was used to hearing from people around him. Knowing he's unfazed by that sort of thing, unless it comes with a small subdued joke.

Something about being in Satoru's presence makes it easier to feel lighter. Even if only for a few moments at a time. The hand in his squeezes, and though nothing's actually said verbally out loud, Suguru feels it. Intuitively knows his best friend. The unspoken words in between. He hears him. The part that wants to know and understand. He knows. Of course he knows. They've always known how to read between the silence. Suguru doesn't look over, but his thumb still drifts over Satoru's knuckles, almost apologetic in his motion.

Once he feels his cheek press to his shoulder, Suguru doesn't seem to flinch. Doesn't lean in either, but he allows his weight to rest there naturally. A quiet acceptance of the closeness that's always been present between them. And once again, he listens, softening at the easy tone of Satoru's effortless ability to fill the silence. Keep doing that. With that, he adjusts the throw pillows behind them subtly. Not because he actually needs them, but because Satoru might. So, he nudges them both backward, guiding them gently to settle onto the makeshift futon.

"You still can't teleport that far?" his tone quiet, and curious, but actually intrigued. "What happens when you try?" Genuine interest as always in these things, he doesn't say he wishes he was there too. He doesn't need to. There's subtleties in small gestures, like in the way his fingers haven't let go of Satoru's. In the way he's still listening to him.

Finally, he turns his head slowly to glance at him. There's a number of expressions that are all left unsaid on his face. Gratitude. A touch of guilt. Appreciation that Satoru keeps trying so hard, and he recognizes it. He exhales, knowing he has to effort something in return. "This is probably one of the only weekends we'll have off in a while," he points out, his tone casual, but the subtext is evident. I know what you're doing. Subtle appreciation. With that, he lets go of his hand long enough to roll onto his back, folding one arm behind his head, elbow bent to prop it up slightly.

"If I've got the time?" he repeats, "Like it's not already a given." arching a brow as he slowly reaches for the remote, clicking off the TV, the room now falling into a gentle quiet. "So..." he tilts his head a little closer, eyes catching his in the dim light, "You're staying?" It's not really a question. He already knows the answer, and still.. he wanted to hear it from him anyway.

// @infinitie

“No way. It’s a real thing that can happen! You ought to be a bit more afraid of one day forgetting mine. I’m told that I have the voice of an angel. A once in a lifetime song.” … said only by his sycophants. But he’s purposely keeping things light hearted between them. Their silences are usually comfortable, but there have been far too many spells of it with a total lack of communication between their missions and classes. Satoru doesn’t consider himself particularly clingy, but things have been different for everyone since last spring. He’s not sure what to make of these changes. When people say change, they usually think good, but Satoru is afraid of the direction this could take.

Satoru laughs. “It would be me. Right? Right?” Who else could it be? He knows him like the back of his hand. At least… he’d like to believe he does. 

Satoru tries to not let his face falter as he squeezes Suguru’s hand. “That’s fine.” But I want to get it out of you eventually, Satoru thinks, keeping an eye on Suguru’s face. It’s haunted in a way that Satoru wants to understand, with the dark circles and the newfound gaunt in his cheeks – it’s killing him that he isn’t, but he won’t force something out of him. He adjusts his glasses with his free hand before he presses his cheek to Suguru’s shoulder. 

“Well.” If you won’t tell me what’s up… I’ll tell you what’s up with me. Cover the silence up, since that’s what he does best. “Today I had a mission out in Fukuoka; it’s a nice city. I’m still working on my teleportation, and I don’t feel comfortable teleporting that far just yet, so I had to take some trains there. It was grueling. I wish you were there.” He wishes that he was there for more of his missions, really. “But! I got more than enough pay to treat us tonight, so I guess that’s the bright side. And enough for this weekend! We could do all sorts of things... or we could be lazy, if you've got the time.” 

@lustraveil

[homocidalpotat]

Please do not send me asks for donations

Here's why (for if you find that statement hard to understand):

I have NO money to give you.

I don't have a big enough audience for my asks to get noticed.

I am a minor, and most of my followers/mutuals are too.

It makes me feel extremely guilty.

Seeing pictures of injuries or hospitals etc are triggering and/or upsetting for me. These pictures often have blood, gore, extreme medical situations, hospital environments, etc. I'm not saying I don't feel sympathy for them, I'm saying I do not want to see that.

They are always worded in a way that makes me feel like I am a murderer if I don't donate.

I said I don't want them, and my boundaries should be respected. They make me feel uncomfortable, and sometimes triggered or upset.

I can't tell what is a bot/scam and what isn't.

I get a lot of spam from this.

Please, just respect the fact that I have said this.

If you want this in your pinned post, please don't credit me. You can copy the words or take a screenshot with my username cropped out. You can reblog this but please don't go on about how awful your experiences have been. I get it, but also if you spiral two much you might end up accidentally saying something bad. This post has led to a lot of hate anons and harassment, so I would rather not have too much attention. Thanks...

I am pro Palestine and want to do everything I can to help but I'm not financially or mentally well enough to do much. I'm not in support of these people dying. Also, this post isn't just about Palestine. It's about ALL asks for donations. I'm not doing favouritism or racism. I just can't deal with it. Don't harass me for expressing boundaries. This post applies to people of all nationalities and backgrounds. Every situation- war, poverty, injury, anything. I'm not discriminating. I'm not being a zionist or a racist or an ableist. It's a boundary.

Yes, this post might seem controversial. But I did literally make this for my own personal experience and didn't expect it to get more than 12 notes or so. Don't add opposing views because quite frankly, it's none of your business. It's not my problem and I didn't mean for this post to get so many notes. Don't use the number of notes as an excuse to fight me. I just want a peaceful Tumblr experience. Also, if you are reblogging this, don't trauma dump. I keep notifications on for this post so that I can block people harassing me before shit escalates, so I can see every reblog. You can screenshot and repost if you want to talk about your problems, but honestly its no better seeing people saying "I'm bankrupt and I just got kicked out by my family. I also have a history of abuse and those images are so triggering that I want to die". That doesn't help me. Make your own post to say that. Please.

I am taking this post off private after slightly modifying it. Any conflicting arguments based on this post will result in my blocking and reporting of you. If you do not understand my point of view, make sure you fully read the post before saying this. I made this post for my blog. If you have any questions or don't understand this post, send me an ask that is composed, calm and polite, and I can talk it through with you.

Please note that by sharing this post, you are more likely to be targeted by bots and scams. You are also more likely to be harassed. Please be safe.

[aw-dag]

Section 1557 is the law that guarantees trans protections in the us. Saying she supports that law is not “not giving a shit about trans rights lol” just because you don’t know to what law she is referring.

Lovely how libs has spent a year going "yeah well Harris is gonna back and fund a genocide but at least she will stand by trans people in the US" just for her to come out as not giving a shit about trans rights lol

[jedi-starbird]

Alpha-17 and Obi-Wan being friends (derogatory) on 17's part and friends (threatening) on Obi-Wan's part is such an underrated dynamic

They could be so funny and terrifying, like Obi-Wan went through a soul shredding experience with Alpha-17 as his only company. They're friends because what else are you gonna be after you witness each other at absolute rock bottom from torture.

It's like 'dog put in cage of cheetah who's threatening to go crazy', except the dog is a grizzly bear and also threatening to go crazy.

Emotional support trooper except the trooper in question has never done any sort of supporting in his life and is actively an emotional distress trooper to a great number of the CC batch.

I want them texting everyday, I want Obi-Wan mailing handmade BFF bracelets to Alpha and Alpha sending pics back of him flipping off the camera but still wearing them, I want Alpha using Obi-Wan to keep track of and occasionally terrorize his cadets, I want 17 ending problems in the GAR (like Krell) before they begin because Obi-Wan has him shipped out on a personal transport at the first opportunity, decked out with slug-throwers Obi-Wan got him for his decant-day.

Natborn officers think this is all just an odd indulgence of General Kenobi, the Vode, however, correctly identify it as a goddamn threat and their danger assessment of Obi-Wan ticks up significantly.

When Alpha arrives on Kamino, Shaak Ti presses a shiny new comm into his hand. It has the Jedi Order symbol painted onto it alongside a smiley face sticker, and it pings immediately with a new message: Hello! I hope you're settling in well!

Alpha stares at the message, stares at the singular contact named 'OWK' and then stares Shaak Ti in the eye as he pitches the comm straight into the ocean. Shaak Ti's serene smile only grows larger as she calmly reaches into her robes and pulls out an identical comm, only this one has a frowny face sticker, and presses it into his hand. It lights up: I'm afraid we've bonded, Alpha :). Alpha shuts it off and pockets it with resignation.

Cody arrives on Alpha-17's personal recommendation.

A-17: He's the most difficult little bastard I have. You're perfect for each other. OWK: Thank you, he's very handsome :3 A-17: No. Stop.

The first thing he asks once he gets comfortable is who his general is texting so much that has him swinging his legs and twirling his hair. Cody assumes it's Anakin, given they seem joint at the hip anyway, but little does he know Obi-Wan's ability to consistently have the Weirdest Relationships Ever.

"Oh, it's Alpha-17, I understand you're familiar with each other?" Hmm. OK. Cody.exe is experiencing a processing error, please hold. He exits the room instead of answering. The next day he peeks over the General's shoulder when he's texting and sees walls of rambling messages from Obi-Wan. Alpha-17 replies every hour with a single text: Lose this number. Obi-Wan giggles. "He's so funny." he says.

When Obi-Wan meets the rest of the CC batch, Cody makes sure to stand perfectly angled so that he can record the reactions when his general cuts off their introductions with "Oh, no need, Alpha-17's told me all about you." It's always immediate FEAR.JPG followed by a slow spiral of What The Fuck.

What do you mean by that General. What does that mean Cody. What do you mean they text. No. Cody. What the fuck is happening, Cody. Alpha-17 doesn't have friends he has enemies and enemies he tolerates enough not to shoot on sight.

OWK: Wolffe reached for his vambrace? when I mentioned you A-17: That's where he keeps his spare knife. OWK: Hm that does explain the way he eyed me up, ambitious. A-17: Clearly not enough, he should have followed through. I taught them better.

[wtfaniii]

I can do it alone, but he can also save me

Fem reader x Hwang In-ho / Fem reader x Hwang Jun-ho

Part 1 Part 2

"Jun-ho's girlfriend was a decorated policegirl, strong and brave, she, along with Gi-hun were taken to the games to stop them, however, there was a setback in between"

Note: Thank you for welcoming me so well on this platform! I'm still learning how to use it, sorry, Wattpad is my thing LOL But I'm understanding it more now

Warning: Maybe some drama? Some violence and discreet flirting

The reader doesn't know who is In-ho, Jun-ho refused to talk about his past with her, so she is engrossed in the true identity of this handsome man.

Well, the plan hadn't worked out the way they wanted.

They had taken away their trackers and any object, even the smallest, that they could use to defend themselves.

—Now what do we do... —Gi-hun muttered more to himself but audible to the girl in front him.

—I think the best thing to do now would be not to die —she answered seriously, the vows had been made and unfortunately, despite Gi-hun's attempts to persuade the players to withdraw, staying had been the final decision —For now we must eat if we want to win the next game —She added holding out in front of him the food the guards were giving them, but he refused to take it, he looked so lost in his own mind that she had no choice but to sigh and sit down next to him.

—Come on, open your mouth, belly full and heart happy —Jung-bae, Gi-hun's friend sitting on his right side, spoke while holding a spoon with the egg in front of his face.

—Last time I was here, many innocent people died —Gi-hun said, looking at his friend seriously. He wanted to convince him that everything he said was true and that they should leave there as soon as possible.

—Help us then.

There was a third voice that caught the girl's attention, it was number 001, the one who had the decisive vote and preferred to stay, whoever had the blue circle was a suicidal person from her perspective.

The rest of the players surrounded them waiting for some advice or positive words from the previous winner.

The girl just listened attentively to each of them, but the most interested was 001. He asked him more concise questions and spoke confidently, as if these games were not very different from the ones they played at recess when they were little.

Something that seemed curious to her.

He felt her gaze so turned it towards her so he could look the police in the eye.

Of course he had investigated her, from the moment she searched for her boyfriend on land and sea, he wouldn't say it out loud but his brother was lucky because if it hadn't been for her him would be dead under water.

Her eyes looked at him with caution and analysis, like a cat looking at a dog with distrust but ready to scratch if the situation arose.

He found it interesting.

After the rest of the players left, 001 stayed with them to continue talking until the conversation increased in tension, Gi-hun complained to him, if he hadn't voted for the circle they would have left there.

—Fine, let's stop this conversation now, there's no point in blaming each other —Jung-bae said to avoid any upcoming fight.

—That's right, now what we have to do is be prepared for the next game —She said —We have a bit of an advantage —added, looking at Gi-hun.

—I would like to join too —said number 388 jumping out of his bed.

He introduced himself as Dae-ho and the conversation changed from the winning player to the navy and the fact that both he and Jung-bae had been members.

It seemed like they would get along well and be a good team, however, the atmosphere became tense again when the purple-haired boy with the number 230 threw player 333 to the ground, being followed by 124, who kicked him in the face.

—¿Shouldn't we tell them to stop? — Jung-bae asked.

—Yes...

Seeing that neither of the two men was going to intervene, the girl stood up and walked towards them.

—That's enough, two against one isn't fair.

—You better stay out of this —Thanos pointed at her angrily, but after looking at her closely, he let out a laugh and clapped his hands, which echoed throughout the room and caught everyone's attention —I know you, you... policegirl, you arrested me a month ago.

Now she remembered it too, of course, that snobby rapper who tried to bribe her after she caught him buying and transporting drugs but she decided to ignore him and walked to 333 to shake his hand. —Get up

Before he could accept her kind gesture, Thanos pushed her back failing to knock down.

—This is not your playground, policegirl, I can do whatever the fuck I want here.

She remained silent, still with head held high, she was not afraid of him at all, she could easily defeat him but did not have time to do or say anything when 001 intervened.

—That's no way to talk to a lady.

She could defend herself, she didn't need any man to speak for her, however, that sentence seemed quite chivalrous, Jun-ho also intervened for her from time to time and that was a gesture that inevitably made her smile.

A smile that In-ho noticed.

—Is she your girlfriend? Or do you just fuck her? —As soon as he finished the word, In-ho already had him firmly held by the hair.

124 ran towards them with the intention of helping the purple-haired boy but in the blink of an eye he was already on the ground, the girl had knocked down with a kick.

With just three blows, In-ho subdued Thanos and pinned to the ground.

She silently analyzed him again, those movements were too precise to be from someone without experience, he could have been part of the police or even the navy.

They were congratulated with applause when the 230 began to gasp for air and forgiveness. As returned to their place, they both formally introduced themselves by giving respective names, a sign of trust.

Once again In-ho confirmed what thought, she was a respectable and valuable woman, one he would like to challenge more than should have for having gotten into these games.

N/A: I wanted to make a fic with a theme like that HAHA

[harunayuuka2060]

Ace: The Headmage said he found a way to connect MC to their parents, right?

Deuce: Yeah.

Ace: Does that mean after they’ve said their goodbyes, they and our MC will switch back?

Deuce: I hope so. I'm missing our Prefect.

Ace: Hoho, Deuce! You're acting like a husband now!

Deuce: Sh-Shut up!

Crowley: This artifact allows you to communicate with someone across any dimension—though you’ll only have five minutes to do so.

MC: I understand.

Crowley: Well then, I will give you some privacy. *exits the room*

MC: ...

MC: (At this time of day, my parents should be home... but if a call comes from an unknown number, Mom will definitely be the one to answer.)

MC: ...

MC: *uses the artifact and after a few seconds, the call has been connected*

Their mom: Hello?

MC: ...

MC: Mom...

Their mom: MC? *starts crying* Oh you naughty child! Where are you?!

MC: Haha... That doesn't matter right now. Mom... I've missed you and Dad so much. I'm so sorry for disappearing without a word.

Their mom: ...

Their mom: *her voice has gone soft* Are you eating well?

MC: *is tearing up* Yes... By the way... I've got some news... Just promise you won't get mad.

Their mom: What is it? You didn't join any illegal activities, did you?

MC: *chuckles* No, Mom. I want to tell you... that I got married.

Their mom: MARRIED?! YOU'RE A MINOR! HOW IS THAT EVEN—

MC: Don't worry. We're all the same age.

Their mom: ...

Their mom: Wait a second. Are you not only married to one?

MC: *chuckles awkwardly* Yes... I'm happily married to two.

Their mom: *gasped* Why you—

MC: Mom, this call will end in a few seconds. I hope you will support me and my marriage.

Their mom: ...

Their mom: Okay. Yes. I support it. Your Dad too even when he's being quiet.

MC: Thank you... I love you, Mom... Dad...

Their mom: We love you too.

*The time's up and the call is disconnected.*

MC: ...

MC: *wipes their tears*

Deuce: How's your call with your parents?

MC: They gave us their blessing... I feel so relieved now.

Ace: But five minutes wasn't enough, no?

MC: Still... after all this time, I finally told them everything I needed to say. For that alone, I’ll always be grateful—even for just five minutes.

Ace and Deuce: ...

Ace and Deuce: *smiles*

Deuce: I'm happy for you.

Ace: Same.

MC: What are you doing?

Ace: We have this feeling that our spouse will be back.

Deuce: And before you two switch back, we want to pamper you one more time.

MC: ...

MC: By giving me clothes and jewelry? Can I even take these?

Ace: We won't know, but you should've something on you to show that you're already taken.

MC: ...

MC: Is that how you feel too, Deuce?

Deuce: Yes... Sorry...

MC: ...

MC: Okay.

Ace: ...

Ace: Deuce, can't we hug them?

Deuce: You'll never let them go.

Ace: Tch.

[all-purpose-dish-soap]

im begging you to make more shapeshifter!141 tormenting witch!reader pleek

since you said pleek :)

65 / 1.1k / part 2 of shapeshifter familiars!141 tormenting witch!reader

...

You pour two warm cups of cloudy sloe ale—one for you and one for Price. You're the only one who feigns enough interest to sip it.

Price laces his hands together and leans forward. "I didn't come for blood."

None of them did, apparently. You curl your hands around your tin cup. He wasn't supposed to come at all. He visits when the moon is full. That was the deal. "I understand that."

Price’s gaze flicks to a bit of drying blood on your hand, and you feel his displeasure at the sight. "Then you also understand my irritation when I learn I've been kept in the dark."

"About what?"

"A number of disturbing reports from the townsfolk."

"Hm." Tension rolls through your muscles before you force them to soften. "I wasn't aware you spent time in the village. Do you visit often?"

Price doesn't like your coyness. His voice loses some of its politeness. "The villagers have become too savvy. They forge protective charms. They invoke holy names. They line the thresholds of their homes with salt and rue." He leans forward. "Now, how would they know to do that?"

You swallow delicately around the lump in your throat. "Old folk tales, I imagine."

"Folk tales?" He chuckles. "They're not paying protection money to cupboard sprites. Old tales don't teach them how to bless trees and cut the lumber into cradles."

"Then I wouldn't know. The villagers don't speak to me on principle."

"Then you have no knowledge of this? You’ve accepted no coin from them in exchange for your talents?”

"You know I'm banned from trading in the village market. The guards would take my head off the moment they caught me inside the walls."

“Maybe so. But there are other ways of propagating information, aren’t there?” Price leans back, arms crossed. “Rumors spread.”

You scoff to sound braver than you are. "They've puzzled out how to keep you away from their daughters. It has nothing to do with me."

Price's blue eyes flicker. "We’ve been quite careful with our food source. Gone out of our way to be discreet. They shouldn't suspect us of being in the area, let alone come up with protections against our kind."

You tilt your head in a stiff shrug. "Maybe Soap let one get away."

"Soap is brash. Not sloppy." Steel creeps into his voice. "He's more likely to bite his tongue off than spill our secrets."

You go to sip your ale again, but Price's fingers latch around your wrist as you raise it.

"Careful with that." His grip tightens as he forces your hand back down to the table. "You'll inebriate yourself if you're careless."

You slowly release the mug. After a long beat, he releases your wrist.

He doesn't say anything else, but you can't meet his eyes. The cold metal of his rings still burns against your skin.

He studies you in silence. The dry glint in his eye tells you he doesn't need to pry for what you're hiding from him. He knows already. But a deal is a deal, and you're under his protection. "Regardless of the reason, our feeding options are suddenly limited. If you insist on keeping my boys half-starved, we'll travel outside our territory to offset your stinginess."

"Fine. We’ll suspend our contract."

"Certainly not."

Your jaw sets. "A temporary suspension of our terms would serve all parties' needs well enough, would it not? You seek your fill elsewhere."

"I will seek it where my needs are most pressing."

"I don't have the means to leave my hut. I assure you I'll keep to myself until you get back."

Price smiles, and your heart sinks. "Another witch might. You?” He hums. “Besides, you know how they get when they're deprived."

You’re hyperaware of Ghost's shadow falling over you. His rough hands cover the back of your chair. It creaks in his grip. You squelch the instinct to cover your blind spot and, fisting one in your skirt under the table to steady your nerves, keep your back to him. You also ignore the gleam of two other sets of eyes behind Price, hovering in the pitch-blackness of your kitchen.

“That’s kind of you,” you say finally, “but there’s no need to be overprotective.”

Price stands. He pours the last sip of your ale out onto the soft dirt floor. You hadn’t even seen him pick it up. "We'll come for you tomorrow night, witch. You'll travel with us."

Your head spins. No, no, this isn't how it was supposed to go. You covered your tracks. You planned perfectly. He can't just uproot you—can't just kidnap you like this.

"No, I—" You stand before you realize it. All four shapeshifters turn back to glance at you. Price looms halfway out the front door. You steady yourself with a white-knuckled grip on the table. "I'm not leaving my home."

Price takes in the defiant look on your face and the tense, brittle set of your body. "No? Hmmm." He rubs his beard. "We're in a tight spot, then. Ghost, what do you think?"

The scars on Ghost's tight scowl gleam in the candlelight. "I think she owes us a meal, and we expect to eat. One way or the other."

Gaz scoffs. "There’s a proper solution."

Soap grins. "We could just take her, you know. Suspend the contract and make her come with us."  His eyes light up. "We could have a lot of fun on the road."

"Not if there's a fight," Gaz says, eyeing you. "She can make real trouble if she wants to."

"No' if she knows what's good for her."

"That's enough," Price says. He looks back at you. "Lads are in a mood. They've been feeding from the villages as a stop gap, and they're not nearly full. Their tempers are short, their stomachs are growling, and they have energy to burn. You understand?” His gaze steadies on your neck. “We'll be back tomorrow night. You'd better be ready to go or else ready to give them a full meal."

Soap’s grin sharpens. The implication is obvious. Payment is payment. If you don't give them what they want, they'll take it by other means.

They turn to go. Ghost is the last to step over your threshold. "Blood won't be enough," he says. Then he's off, a black dog bounding into the night.

...

← part 1 / [part 2] / part 3 ➡

more Price / more Ghost / more Soap / more Gaz / masterlist

[l0lita-luv]

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ “Polar Opposites!!”

Fluff+Smut!!

Summary-Some fluffy hcs about you and Vi, along with other arcane characters. And some sweet sex at the end.

Warnings-Use of y/n, reader is described as hyper!fem, Powder still exists, Caitlyn is a friend, Vander, Mylo, & Claggor are still alive, Switch!Vi, Mostly Sub!reader, Fingering R!receiving, Oral R!receiving, pet names: Angel, baby, sweet sex :)

a/n- Wrote this before act lll came out so…

men dni!!

Sfw!!

Vi has always loved the way you dressed. Your frilly dresses and skirts, not to mention your adorable little shirts. When she first saw you, she just knew she had to have you!

When the two of you met, she was wandering the streets of Piltover going to visit Caitlyn. But when she saw you struggling to carry your groceries, she sprinted to help you

“Hey! Uhm-let me help you with that!” Vi said nervously, “Oh thank you so much!” You beamed at Vi’s kindness. She almost melted when she saw your adorable smile.

“You ok?” You asked snapping Vi out of her trance, “Oh yeah! Uh no problem!” Vi stumbled helping you carry your groceries to your car.

“Could I maybe get your number?” You both asked in unison.

Everyone who knows her is so sick of hearing about you, specifically Powder

“Did you see what she wore today? It looked great on her right?” Vi said rambling to Powder once again, “Mhm…she looked great Vi.” Powder said her voice dripping in annoyance. Sighing as Vi opened her mouth once again.

But when everyone meets you they understand why Vi is so utterly in love

When Powder sees you she’s just so stunned by your clothes, hair and everything about you!

She’s tries to contain herself from stealing the bow in your hair

When Claggor and Mylo meet you, their very akward

Stumbling over their words, and saying things most would find offensive!

Vi was obviously staring them down the whole time

When you first met Caitlyn, you were a bit scared of her…why? Well because of the amount of stories Vi has told her about you, you were afraid you would make a horrible first impression

But when Caitlyn greeted you with a warm smile and a hug, you knew everything was fine.

Overall, everyone loves you

She also likes how your style and hers clash

Def calls you angel, doll, and love

She tries to act tough whenever the two of you are out but behind closed doors, she’s such a sap

Buys you whatever you want!

“Baby…can I get this?” You ask holding up a pair of heels. “Of course you can! They would look great on you.” Vi responds looking at the price tag nervously.

But it was worth it! Because let’s just say you payed her back…

Nsfw!!

Absolutely loves when you wear skirts and dresses

Lowkey gets annoyed when you try to take it off

“Babe-“ Vi tries to speak between kisses, tugging your skirt up. “Keep it on!” Vi manages to get out.

You love when Vi gets like this, you pay her no mind continuing to grind on her lap making her groan as you took your shirt off.

You were so focused on teasing her you didn’t even notice when she took of your panties, until she slipped in a finger only to pull out and rub your clit sweetly. “Vi!” You squeak, “Please…”

She only smiles at you, flipping the two of you over so that you can be under her. Quickly taking off her shirt.

“What do you want Angel?” Vi asks taking one of your nipples between her fingertips pinching them, making you whine. “Y-your mouth…” You whisper loud enough for her to hear.

Vi chuckles softly at your desperation, leaning forward to kiss you making her way down to your throbbing cunt. Almost immediately getting to work, she was eating you like you were her last meal. “Oh!” You yelp, reaching for Vi’s hair tugging her head closer. If even possible, she starts moving her tongue even faster making your moans louder.

You practically start screaming when she enters a finger pumping it in and out gently, looking up at you. “Think you can take another Angel?” Vi asks sweetly her face still buried in your cunt. “Yes!” You whimper your legs beginning to twitch. Vi gently slipping in another finger, her pace being generous.

“Vi…” You whisper, “Hm?” “Kiss me…” You whine. Vi comes back up, her fingers still moving. Leaning down to kiss you passionately, “I love you Angel.” Vi says, reaching for your hand, holding it. Your grip became tighter as you came undone, moaning into her mouth. “I love you too baby.” You respond back, catching your breath.

[ohisms]

✱˚｡⋆ ↪ 𝐈 𝐒𝐄𝐄 𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐄 . ( a collection of dialogue prompts from the film the hobbit : the desolation of smaug . adjust phrasing as necessary . )

this is no chance meeting , is it , [ name ] ?

take back your homeland .

what if i were to help you reclaim it ?

that's not the worst of it .

we have another problem .

what did i tell you ? quiet as a mouse .

will you just listen ? i'm trying to tell you there's something else out there .

the bear is unpredictable , the man can be reasoned with .

come away from there , it's not natural . none of it .

it's obvious , he's under some dark spell .

you'll be safe here tonight ... i hope .

we grow in number , we grow in strength .

death will come to all .

there are others like you ?

you're running out of time .

a darkness lies upon that forest .

i would not venture there except in great need .

go now while you have the light .

this forest feels ... sick . as if a disease lies upon it .

something moves in the shadows unseen , hidden from our sight .

if our enemy has returned , we must know .

i would not do this unless i had to .

you've changed , [ name ] .

you must stay on the path . do not leave it . if you do , you'll never find it again .

is there no end to this accursed forest ?

we're going around in circles , we are lost .

the sun . we have to find the sun .

we're being watched .

they're growing bolder .

not just a thief , but a liar as well .

i myself suspect a more prosaic motive .

i have seen how you treat your friends .

you turned away from the suffering of my people .

a hundred years is a mere blink in the life of an elf . i'm patient . i can wait .

did he offer you a deal ?

shh ! there are guards nearby .

you were supposed to be leading us out , not further back in !

are you mad ? they'll find us .

please . please , you must trust me .

this is not a nice place to meet .

why now , [ name ] ? i don't understand .

a human sorcerer could not summon such evil .

in our blindness , the enemy has returned .

the enemy is preparing for war .

i started this . i cannot forsake them , they are in grave danger .

you want me to cast my friends aside ?

i think we've outrun the orcs .

we've no weapons to defend ourselves .

do it again , and you're dead .

what makes you think i would help you ?

no doubt you have some hungry mouths to feed .

oh , come on - enough of the niceties .

i would like to know who you are . and what you're doing in these lands .

we need food , supplies ... weapons . can you help us ?

i'd wager there are ways to enter that town unseen .

for that , you'd need a smuggler .

there was more he could have told us .

i don't care what he calls himself , i don't like him .

we don't have to like him , we just have to pay him .

i've been bled dry by this adventure ! and what have i seen for my investment ?

if you value your freedom , you'll do as i say .

folk in this town are suffering .

you'd do well to remember ; we know where you live .

it's a small town , [ name ] , everyone knows where everyone lives .

who would have the nerve to question my authority ?

you promised us weapons .

death ! that is what you'll bring upon us .

have you forgotten what happened to [ name / location ] ?

let us not be so quick to lay blame .

join us when you're healed .

[ name ] , you belong with the company .

i belong with my brother .

we have no time to wait , we're on our own .

the evil that is hidden here ... i command it reveal itself .

you have keen eyes , [ name ] .

let all those who doubted us rue this day !

i know these walls ... these halls , this stone .

i do not know what you'll find down there .

it never ceases to amaze me . the courage of hobbits .

if there is in fact a live dragon down there , don't waken it .

come , now ... don't be shy . step into the light .

there is something about you , something you carry .

there you are , thief in the shadows .

i did not come to steal from you .

do you think flattery will keep you alive ?

what else do you claim to be ?

truly , you are mistaken .

you have nice manners , for a thief and a liar .

i know the smell and taste of dwarf .

they are drawn to treasure like flies to dead flesh .

did you think i did not know this day would come ?

you should leave us .

and go where ? there is nowhere to go .

the dragon , it's going to kill us .

i kill where i wish , when i wish .

my armor is iron , no blade can pierce me .

i need you to distract the guards .

time to do what , to get killed ?

yes , i'm afraid . i'm afraid for you .

you're not yourself .

the darkness is coming ... it will spread to every corner of the land .

you were only ever a means to an end .

i will not part with a single coin . not one piece of it .

your reputation precedes you .

you have no equal on this earth .

i think our little game ends here .

so tell me , thief ... how do you choose to die ?

we've given him the slip .

there may be a way out .

it's our only chance , we have to try .

i've heard tales of the wonders of elvish medicine .

that was a privilege to witness .

i will not die like this . cowering . gasping for breath .

if this is to end in fire , then we will all burn together .

perhaps it is time i paid them a visit .

this isn't their fault !

you care about them , do you ? good . then you can watch them die .

i am taking back what you stole .

you will take nothing from me .

i laid low your warriors of old . i instilled terror in the hearts of men .

this is not your kingdom . these are dwarf lands .

revenge ? revenge ?! i will show you revenge !

i am fire . i am death .

what have we done ?

[tastesousweet]

⭒ blurb : podcasting

bf!hamzah x poc!reader

summary: based on this ask!!! little blurb of the times you pop up on the ooc podcast

mickey speaks: this was so funny to write!!! also i need to be hamzah's gf yesterday bitch

─────────── · · ୨୧ · · ───────────

hamzah having you in an episode with mandy and martin

“oh wow this couch gets kinda tight when four people are squeezed on here” hamzah says while adjusting a few pillows

“yeah,” martin starts before addressing the audience, “and, well, you’re probably wondering ‘who the heck is that?!’” he gestures his hand over to you, beside hamzah with your legs folded and knees lying against his thigh

you can’t help but smile as hamzah introduces you, “and, yeah, believe it or not i have a girlfriend.”

“i’m right next to you so i’d hope they believe it” give a soft giggle

“only hamzah would announce he has a girlfriend with ‘believe it or not’” mandy adds and hamzah throws a hand up in the air in defeat

★

martin: “i can’t help but think this feels like in middle school when people were just group dating all the time”

hamzah: “was group dating that common? i don’t remember that”

you: “i remember certain friend groups at my school doing that but i definitely wasn't participating”

mandy: “this isn’t really a group though martin, more like a double date? there’s four of us”

martin: "it's not all about numbers mandy sometimes there's just a vibe"

★

martin: “but you two have been dropping hints about dating for a while now”

you: “yeah, we’ve been doing a little soft launching here and there”

martin: “i like that term a lot actually”

mandy: “i think it’s cute, but i've seen a lot of people online that don't use it properly”

you: "i agreeeee, like you didn't soft launch by posting the back of his head if we already saw the front of it a week ago- we know who he is!!! there is no mystery"

martin: "oh so the appeal is the mystery... almost like scooby doo?"

hamzah, nodding his head: "mhm... exactly"

you: "it's always two dumb bitches telling each other-"

you and hamzah together: "exactlyyyyy"

martin looks over to mandy as the two of you laugh: "oh come on this is their first episode together and look at them mandy! we have to be cuter, come on. lock in."

hamzah: "hey no need to be jealous, my friend."

hamzah pats martins thigh

mandy: "so what was that right there?"

hamzah: "you wouldn't understand..."

martin: "no but seriously mandy you never soft launched me- only hard"

mandy: "there was no need to??? next time i'll do it i guess"

you, laughing: "next time???"

hamzah is sat in thought for an extra second before he replies to martin, making them both laugh

hamzah: “okay martin you said like that term so much? boy, now imma soft launch these nuts in your mouth”

you: "and i know you were thinking on that joke for a minute"

martin, through laughs: “okay, okay, enough”

hamzah, wiping his eyes: “well, now the jig is up. you know it's all aired out and public”

martin: “yeah... a hard launch on the podcast, that’s crazy bro”

you and mandy, mocking: “that’s craaazzyy brooo”

★

hamzah answering your call during a podcast

martin: “hamzah whenever you buy clothes from the store or get it shipped in the mail always wash your clothes!”

hamzah: “i do wash my clothes but if it’s new that doesn’t make any sense”

martin: “so you’re just gonna open it up and put it on?”

hamzah: “yes!”

hamzah’s phone starts ringing

martin: “and wow. now look who’s breaking the phone rule!”

hamzah: “stop shhh. it’s y/n”

he answers, hamzah: “hey what’s up?”

you see the mic in his hand and widen your eyes, you: “oh shit, i’m sorry to interrupt”

hamzah: “it’s okay i have something to ask you now anyway.”

you: "okayy.. do you wanna go first or me?"

hamzah: "you go ahead"

you: "okay quick- is this business casual enough for an event tonight?"

hamzah: "nobody is doing business lookin' that hot, you can't be serious"

you: "kay thanks"

hamzah, jokes: "you are not anyone's office siren, girl"

you: "i'm gonna hang up"

hamzah: "no!!! i need to ask if you wash your clothes after you buy them."

you: "if they smell like stale water and factory chemicals, yes"

hamzah: "martin is educating me on the importance of this unimportant thing right now."

you: "and you should listen to him, stinky"

martin: "thank you!"

hamzah: "oh nahhh, now i'm gonna hang up"

you: "mkayy bye, sorry for interrupting! bye martin!!!"

martin: "byee"

★

you drop something off at the warehouse studio while they’re filming

hamzah: "what was that noise?"

martin: "i don't know..."

hamzah: "it sounds like someone's actually trying to break in, what?"

martin: "were you expecting company?"

hamzah: "no, were you?"

martin: "no...i mean let's ask the audience"

martin turns to the camera, concerned

hamzah: "okay i'm actually about to go check. this is weird."

it cuts to a clip of hamzah sat again and you peeking your head in the frame to wave

hamzah: "nevermind. it was just my sweet girlfriend bringing us lunch, sorry if that scared you guys."

martin: "should we make like a super artifical thumbnail for clickbait? somethin' like; 'someone tried to kidnap us in our studio!'

hamzah: "no"

★

they have a trolling episode where you and mandy both sub in and act as martin and hamzah for an entire episode

mandy: "you know i find it crazy how we manage to talk about nothing for an entire hour"

you: "this is the talent people expect from us bro! and if we ever get too boring we can always discuss the state of sabrina and barry's relationship."

mandy: "true. and don't make fun of me but everytime man-crush monday comes around i'm always picking barry..."

you: "well if i can't make fun of you then i'll just stay quiet for your sake."

taglist -★ (some of u didn't ask to be tagged but have frequently liked my hamzah content lol, just lmk if you'd prefer not to be tagged!!!)

@sirenedeslily @333michelle @thatmartinkitten @@maybankfr @imsosillygoofylol @certainfestivalnerdshepherd

[solxamber]

Burn Wild — Leona Kingscholar x reader

Always so close, yet so far away. Leona pushes it down—he keeps pushing and pushing, until one day, he lets it break.

(it's a happy ending, i swear)

Leona Kingscholar has always known his place in the world. From the moment he learned to walk, to stand tall under the endless, unforgiving sun of the Sunset Savanna, he has been acutely aware of how people see him. They don’t need to say a word—he feels it in the heavy silence that follows him into a room, in the guarded glances cast his way.

Most are terrified of what he represents: the second prince, a shadow of the royal bloodline, someone who could inherit a kingdom but never will.

Others fear him for his strength, the quiet, coiled power beneath his lazy exterior, or for his sharp tongue that cuts deeper than any blade, cleaving through pretense and weakness alike.

“Lazy,” they whisper behind his back, as if the word can sum up the depth of his disdain for this farcical game of status and power. “Unmotivated,” they say, because they can’t understand why someone with the world laid at his feet doesn’t fight harder to claim the throne, to claw his way up and tear it from his brother’s grasp.

They’ll never understand. They’ve never felt the weight of a crown that will never be theirs, the hollowness of a title that means nothing but second best. Let them carry that burden for just a day, and see how long they last.

He could laugh at how little they know.

If he could trade this title, this empty prestige, for even a sliver of genuine acknowledgment, he would. To be seen—not as a prince, not as some spare destined to live in the shadow of his older brother—but as Leona, the man. The individual.

The soul that yearns for more than the scraps of attention thrown his way, like bones to a dog. But life, he knows, isn’t fair. It wasn’t made to be. And for someone like him, it never will be.

So he doesn’t hope for fairness. He doesn’t look for understanding. Instead, he pushes it all inward, presses it deep into the corners of his heart where no one can touch it.

When people try to get close, when they think they can soften his edges or pry into the depths of his guarded soul, he meets them with sharp words and a glare that freezes them in place.

They’ll never know how much easier it is to be feared than to be seen, how much safer it feels to keep everyone at arm’s length.

He is second in line, but he’ll never be second to anyone. He’ll make sure of that. He’ll keep himself locked away, out of reach, untouchable.

If they can’t see past the crown, past the sharpness in his words or the laziness they accuse him of, then they don’t deserve to know him. Let them think he’s content in the shadows, in his naps and biting remarks, in the mask he wears so well.

There’s no use wishing for something different. He’ll never be number one, and that’s a truth he’s long since swallowed. But even so, a part of him, buried deep where even he rarely dares to look, still longs for more.

For a world where he isn’t just the spare, where he isn’t second to anyone. A world where someone might see him—not the prince, not the title—but just him.

But that world doesn’t exist, and it never will. So he keeps it all buried, locks it all behind a wall of indifference, letting the bitterness settle in his bones. Maybe, in the end, it’s enough to live in a world that has no place for him.

At least that way, no one can ever mistake him for someone else’s second choice.

Leona doesn’t actually nap. He just lies there, eyes half-lidded, watching the sky or the flicker of light on the walls. Sleep doesn’t always come; it’s not that he needs it.

No, it’s the weight of disinterest, the apathy that’s soaked deep into his marrow, making it seem pointless to do anything else. Why bother? When every glance cast in his direction is the same hollow reverence for a title, a prince without a crown.

When no one bothers to look past that thin veil, why should he try to show them anything more?

There’s a strange kind of comfort in that inertia, a quiet understanding that nothing will change. People like things easy, predictable.

They would rather see the lazy, unmotivated prince who naps through life than ask why. It’s easier for them, and maybe even for him.

But then, there are those like Ruggie. Leona likes people like him. At least Ruggie’s honest. The kid wants what he wants, makes no illusions about it. There's a rawness to his hustle, the clarity of someone who doesn’t pretend to care about who Leona is beyond his utility.

But you? He never bothered to learn your name, never even gave you a second thought. You would be like the others, surely. Just another face in the crowd. Another person who would pretend to care, only to be drawn by the allure of who he was supposed to be.

So when he overhears your voice one lazy afternoon, chatting with Ruggie like it’s the most natural thing in the world, he almost doesn’t bother to look. Almost. Boredom, though, is a dangerous thing, so he tilts his head just slightly, his gaze barely cracking open to take you in.

There you are, talking, smiling with Ruggie like you’ve never had a care in the world. He watches the way you casually hand over your lunch, like it’s the most effortless gesture. Not out of obligation, not for any hidden motive. Just... because.

It grates on him. That smile of yours, that careless generosity. It makes something bitter stir in his chest, gnawing at the edges of his quiet disdain.

You have no idea, do you? That simple act, that thoughtless kindness—it’s not going to change anything.

It won’t make the world any softer for you, won’t stop it from grinding you down until you feel as jaded as he does.

He closes his eyes, shutting you out, trying to shake off the irritation curling around his ribs. Maybe that’s the thing that gets under his skin the most—that privilege of yours, of someone who hasn’t been broken yet.

Of course, life never lets Leona catch a break. He’s dealt with enough by now to know that any moment of quiet is always followed by something—someone—determined to disturb his carefully cultivated indifference.

This time, it’s you. Paired with him for some group project. The usual routine would be simple: the others would either be too intimidated to approach him, or they’d accept a bribe, a few coins to make it easier on both sides. But you? No, you seem hellbent on dragging him into this.

He still remembers the first time you approached him after class, all bright-eyed and earnest, asking for his number like you had no idea who he was. No idea what kind of reputation he held.

He stared you down, letting his eyes narrow into the glare he knows works every time—cold, dismissive, enough to make anyone with half a brain turn and scurry away. But you didn’t.

You tilted your head, smiled at him, as if the weight of his stare didn’t bother you in the slightest. That moment felt like a spark catching in the dark, a flicker of something unfamiliar in his chest.

But Leona, who has long since mastered the art of burying unwanted feelings, shoved it down without a second thought. That’s how it’s always been. If something gets too close, too real, he locks it away, deep beneath layers of practiced indifference. He’s never let anyone chip away at that wall, and he’s not about to start now.

Yet, you’re relentless. No matter where he goes to escape, you somehow find him. He’s sure Ruggie’s been eating like a king for weeks, considering how often you bribe him for information.

You show up in the strangest places, dragging your backpack along, always with that same smile. And, slowly, Leona starts to let you in—not that he’d ever admit it. Not out loud, not even to himself. But for the first time, he lets someone work with him, just to get you off his back.

But there’s something else too. Leona struggles with control. His whole life has been shaped by what’s been taken from him, what’s been denied. Every opportunity to exert control, to hold power, he seizes it, because it’s the one thing that can’t be stripped away.

So when he gruffly barks orders at you, expecting a flash of resistance, a bite back, he waits. And again, there’s that smile. That stupid, persistent smile. You don’t challenge him; instead, you calmly suggest changes, as if negotiating with a lion was just another part of your day.

And for the first time, Leona feels that flicker in his chest burning a little brighter. He doesn’t like it. It’s unfamiliar, and everything unfamiliar is dangerous. That’s the mistake he made before—letting himself believe that anything good could come from letting his guard down. He locks it down again, hard, throwing the key to the furthest corner of his mind.

He won’t make that mistake again. He’s too old, too wise for that now. But the flame, small and stubborn, remains.

Leona Kingscholar knows exactly what he's capable of. Spelldrive isn’t just a game for him—it’s an arena where his talent roars, where his strength becomes undeniable. He knows he's good. Better than most, and yet… not better than him.

Malleus Draconia—towering, unbeatable, and utterly maddening in his ease. The prince of the fae seems to glide through every match, effortless, as if strength itself bends to his will.

And it gnaws at Leona, festers in a corner of his mind that he tries to forget. Malleus has everything Leona could want—power, status, recognition. And the worst part? It’s never enough for Leona to just be good, not when he knows that the world will never see him as anything other than second best.

Another match, another loss to Diasomnia. Another bitter reminder that no matter how hard he fights, talent doesn’t always win. It’s routine now, this pattern of disappointment, of watching the scoreboard flash their defeat while pretending it doesn’t matter.

His teammates look to him with expectation, but Leona only feels the dull weight of inevitability. It’s almost boring how predictable it all feels.

So he does what he always does—retreats to a corner, far from the chaos and the murmurs of his dorm. If the world insists on making him second, he’s learned how to disappear from it.

Leona stretches out, the familiar lethargy settling in like an old friend. His mind tells him to sleep, to let the world fade for a while, but it’s not sleep that drives him here.

It’s the apathy, the exhaustion that sinks deeper than bone. It’s the bitter taste of realizing that no matter how sharp his claws, no matter how strong he is, there’s always someone stronger.

He doesn’t expect anyone to follow him. But the soft rustle of footsteps makes his ear twitch, and he cracks an eye open, irritation already curling in his gut. It’s you. And for a brief moment, he waits for that stupid smile—the one you’ve been plastering across his path ever since you barged into his life. But today, there’s no grin, no lighthearted quip. You look at him with something else. Concern.

Leona stiffens. He knows the look of pity well enough to recognize it, but this isn’t pity. No, this is something far more dangerous—concern. For him. You sit beside him in silence, no words, just the quiet presence of someone who isn’t there to challenge or undermine, but simply to be there. And then you hand him a bottle of electrolyte water, no fanfare, no explanation. Just a gesture, simple and clear.

It feels like a sudden shift in the air. Like a trap laid bare, exposing parts of him he thought he’d buried beneath layers of resentment and indifference. Leona feels naked under your gaze, like you can see past the layers of arrogance and self-assurance, straight into the parts of him he doesn’t let anyone see.

He can’t decide if he wants to snap at you, tell you to leave him the hell alone, or if he wants to let himself drown in the unfamiliar warmth of your presence.

He knows you’re friends with them—Diasomnia, Malleus, all of them. You’re in their orbit, always close enough to the winning side. You could be anywhere right now, basking in the afterglow of another victory, but you’re not.

You’re here. Sitting beside him, looking at him as though he isn’t second. As though he’s worth more than what everyone else sees.

So he asks you, with a low growl edging his words, why the hell you’re here. And your answer is so simple it almost infuriates him. You wanted to be here with him. No pretense, no hidden motives. Just that.

Leona should push you away, should throw up every wall and bury whatever strange warmth is trying to flicker to life in his chest. But instead, he does what he’s good at—he pretends none of it matters.

He settles down again, using you as a pillow, as if this were nothing more than another nap, another way to escape.

But when your fingers brush through his hair, slow and gentle, something inside him stirs. The flames he’s kept buried for so long, the ones he’s always tried to suffocate, flicker just a little brighter. For the first time in a long time, Leona lets them. Just this once. Just for a moment.

Leona doesn’t waste his time on other people’s messes. Why should he? If someone gets tangled up in their own poor decisions, they ought to figure it out themselves. No one ever held his hand, no one pulled him from the darkness when it crept too close.

So he’s learned to stay indifferent, aloof—disconnected from the endless chaos that surrounds him.

So when he sees you in the middle of a heated argument, your back up against the metaphorical wall, three people towering over you, he tries—he really tries—to let it slide. It’s none of his business.

You can figure it out. Why wouldn’t you? You’re always smiling like the world bends for you anyway, always so… relentless. But there’s something about the way those three loom over you, the sharp glint in their eyes, that makes it hard for him to settle back into the lazy apathy that clings to him. He closes his eyes, feigning disinterest, willing himself to ignore the situation.

But then, he hears something that makes his ears twitch, something that slices through his indifference like a blade. You're defending him.

Defending him as though it’s second nature to you, like it’s not even a question. He strains to hear the words, letting them wash over him like a foreign melody—merits he didn’t even know he possessed, traits you speak of like they’re so obvious, like you’ve been holding them in your heart all this time.

It’s the strangest thing. The tension in the air thickens, the argument escalating, voices growing sharper. And before he can even think about why he’s doing it, Leona Kingscholar stands.

He pushes off from his nap spot, his movements slow but deliberate, each step carrying the weight of something he doesn’t quite want to acknowledge yet.

When he gets close, the three people glance at him, and his glare alone is enough to send them scattering, as if the storm that rumbles within him could tear them apart with just a look.

And then there’s you. Standing there, looking at him with that same damn smile, as if the danger you were just in doesn’t bother you at all.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" His voice is low, rough, the edges of frustration still clinging to it. He grabs your wrist, dragging you to a secluded corner, out of the public eye, his grip firm but not harsh.

You blink up at him, unbothered by the ferocity in his eyes, and answer with a simple shrug. "I was just telling the truth."

"It doesn't matter if it's the truth," he snaps, the words leaving him more sharply than he intended. "You could’ve gotten hurt, idiot. You don’t need to get involved in something like that. Especially for someone like me."

For a moment, he expects you to falter, to back down like everyone else always does when they realize the danger. But you don’t.

You stand your ground, and that damn stubbornness that seems to be the core of your being lights up in your eyes. "Leona, I’m not gonna stand there and listen to them trash you. You’re more than they’ll ever understand, and I won’t pretend otherwise. I’m not afraid of them, or anyone."

He stares at you, something twisting deep inside his chest. In the middle of this argument, he realizes something he’s never let himself believe before: you chose him. Not out of fear, not out of obligation, but because you genuinely see something in him worth defending. You chose him, even when it meant putting yourself at risk.

Before he can stop himself, before his mind can catch up to what his heart is screaming, he pulls you close, crashing his lips against yours. The world seems to tilt, everything else fading as your hands reach up, steady and sure, pulling him closer. You kiss him back without hesitation, and when you finally break apart, you press your face into his neck, shy but somehow still so sure.

When you whisper softly, your breath warm against his skin, “I chose you, Leona,” the words settle into him like a promise. His chest tightens, the flame that’s been smoldering for so long finally breaking free, burning brighter and wilder than he ever thought possible.

He lets it. He lets the fire consume him, for once not pushing it down, not pretending it doesn’t exist. Because for the first time in his life, Leona Kingscholar is someone’s first choice.

And he lets the flames burn wild.

I'm not even kidding I made myself tear up while writing this because he's so special to me.

Masterlist

[pucksandpower]

Breaking Point

Charles Leclerc x Ferrari!Reader

Summary: Charles Leclerc finally reaches his breaking point after the disaster that was the United States Grand Prix. Something needs to change … and that’s where you come in

“Again, again!” Charles’ voice rings out, echoing through the debrief room, “How can we mess this up? I was on pole!”

Fred Vasseur looks down, sighing, but trying to maintain composure. “Charles, it was a miscalculation—”

“A miscalculation?” Charles retorts, eyes blazing, “This has been a trend all season, Fred. It’s not a one-time mistake. It’s systemic.”

Carlos, looking uncomfortable, tries to chime in, “It wasn’t just about strategy, you know the car—”

“Oh, I know the car,” Charles snaps, “And it was built against my driving preference. But it’s not just that. It’s everything. The poor race strategy, the unnecessary swap, and now being disqualified as if my day has not been bad enough!”

Enrico Cardile, the team’s technical director, steps forward, “Disqualification was not anticipated. We followed the regulations to the best—”

“Enough with the excuses!” Charles’ voice cracks with emotion. The weight of the season, the betrayal he feels, finally makes him see red. “Every time there’s an excuse. We’re a team and yet somehow it feels like I’m constantly battling not just our opponents but Ferrari as well.”

A deep silence settles.

The head strategist, Ravin Jain, finally speaks up hesitantly, “We thought the one-stop made sense. The data suggested—”

“Data,” Charles interrupts bitterly, “The same data that led to a decision that every other team on the grid laughed at! Did the data also suggest swapping me with Carlos? Or was I being punished for being able to manage my tires?”

Carlos, despite himself, looks hurt. “I didn’t ask for the swap,” he mutters.

Charles takes a breath, looking at his teammate, “I know. It’s not your fault, hermano. But I need to trust the team’s decisions. And right now, I don’t.”

Sporting Director Diego Ioverno tries to mediate, “It’s been a tough season, Charles. Everyone is understandably stressed. Let’s sit down, review everything together, and find a way forward.”

Charles shakes his head, “That’s what we said last time. And the time before that. And the twenty times before that! Empty promises, meetings, discussions, and then what? Nothing gets done and there is another disaster waiting to happen.”

Fred tries one more time, “We’re as frustrated as you are. We’re a family. We’ll figure this out.”

Charles scoffs, “I can’t keep being let down and used. Not like this.”

The room falls silent once more, a heavy cloud of disappointment and tension hanging in the air.

Carlos reaches out, placing a hand on Charles’ shoulder, “Things will get better.”

Charles meets Carlos’ gaze, nodding slightly. But the fire in his eyes has not dimmed, “I need to believe in this team again. But right now ...” He pauses, “I have a call to make.”

He turns, leaving the room filled with introspective silence. The team is left behind, grappling with their own emotions, knowing that actions will always speak louder than words.

***

Charles steps out into the warm evening air, taking a moment to compose himself before dialing a number he knows by heart but hasn’t touched in months.

“Hey,” Charles’ voice is a low rasp, every ounce of weariness evident.

Then a pause, as he listens to the voice on the other end.

“Yeah, it’s me ... look, I know what I said earlier this season. About handling it myself.” He takes a deep breath, letting the weight of it all settle.

A longer pause, broken by Charles’ intermittent nods and “Uh-huhs.”

“Every race feels like it’s been one disaster after another. And it’s not just the car, it’s everything. I can’t ... I can’t keep doing this to myself.”

He listens closely.

“I told them today, laid it all out. But it’s like talking to a brick wall. They listen, they nod, and then? The same mistakes. Over and over.”

He shifts his weight, the sound of his shoes scraping on the gravel echoing softly.

“I know, I know I told you not to get involved ... but maybe ... maybe that was a mistake.” He sounds defeated, a man at the end of his rope. “I need help. Real help. Maybe it’s time you step in.”

Charles is silent, absorbing whatever the person on the other end is saying.

“No, it’s not about leaving the team,” Charles’ voice is earnest, desperate even. “It’s about respect. Trust. It’s about feeling like I’m not constantly fighting against the tide, not just against other teams but within my own garage.”

A long pause.

“What I mean is, maybe some changes within the team would be good. Fresh perspectives. New faces, perhaps. Somewhere I can trust the decisions, the strategy ...”

He sighs.

“I just want to race, you know? Without all this drama. Without constantly wondering if I’m being set up to fail no matter what I do.”

Another pause as he listens, nodding, lost in the gravity of the decision he’s about to make.

“Thank you. Really. Let’s talk tomorrow? Lay out all our options?”

There’s a moment of quiet, only the sound of his breathing, the distant hum of the circuit, the world slowly dimming around him.

“Thanks. Goodnight, Y/N.”

***

“Emilia,” you call out, and before a moment passes, your ever-efficient personal assistant is by your side.

“Yes, Y/N?” Emilia asks, perfectly poised.

“I need the jet prepared. We’re heading to Mexico City,” you say, voice steady and determined though inside, the turmoil from the phone call with Charles still lingers.

Emilia raises an eyebrow slightly, a silent question in her eyes. “Any particular reason?”

You sigh, looking away for a moment, reflecting on the weight of the legacy you carry. “Scuderia Ferrari needs my direct attention. I trusted them to handle things, but ... it’s clear that has not been happening.”

Her eyes flash with understanding. “Of course. I’ll have the jet ready. When do you wish to depart?”

“Tomorrow morning, early.”

She’s already typing into her tablet. “I’ll book you the Presidential Suite at the Four Seasons. Will you be needing a meeting space there?”

“Absolutely,” you nod. “On Wednesday, before the Grand Prix. Organize for all team personnel to meet in the hotel conference room. And Emilia ... they are not to know the reason for the meeting or that I’m the one calling it.”

Her eyes gleam with a hint of mischief, “Mystery and surprise. I love it. Consider it done.”

A small, wry smile tugs at your lips. “Thank you. And can you make sure Charles knows about my arrival? But ask him to keep it quiet.”

“Of course. Anything else?”

You pause, taking a moment to consider. “Just one more thing. Make sure we have everything we need to review the team’s decisions and strategies for this season. Every little detail.”

Emilia nods. “Absolutely. Everything will be arranged as per your instructions.”

You take a deep breath, “Thanks, Emilia. This … it’s about preserving a legacy, and right now, that legacy is on shaky ground.”

She places a reassuring hand on your shoulder, “If anyone can steer this ship right, it’s you.”

***

The door to the conference room opens with a low creak, and the room immediately falls silent. Everyone turns to see you entering, your presence commanding every ounce of attention.

“Good afternoon,” you begin with ice-cold authority. “Thank you all for meeting on such short notice.”

There are murmurs of acknowledgment but no one dares speak up.

“I’ve reviewed our performance this season,” you continue, pacing the length of the conference room, letting each word sink in. “And to say I’m disappointed would be an understatement.”

Fred shifts uncomfortably in his seat, eyes darting around the room. You lock eyes with him, “Fred, you promised change. But the only change I’ve seen is our team’s steep decline.”

“I understand your frustration,” Fred stammers, “We’ve faced challenges—”

You cut him off sharply, “Challenges? Every team faces challenges. What matters is how you overcome them.”

Several team members look down, uncomfortably shuffling papers and avoiding eye contact.

You turn to the strategists, “Your decisions have cost us dearly, time and time again. Your inability to read a race situation, to adapt, to strategize effectively ... it’s quite frankly appalling.”

One of the strategists, a middle-aged man named Roberto, speaks up defensively, “We did our best with the information we had.”

Your eyes narrow, “Your best? Tell that to Charles, who has been left out in the cold race after race.”

Moving on, you address the engineers and designers, “Our car has issues that should have been rectified at the beginning of the season. Yet here we are, still struggling.”

An aerodynamicist named Lucia, clearly agitated, stands up. “We’ve been working tirelessly, trying to find solutions.”

You level her with a gaze, “Then maybe it’s time we look for people who can find those solutions more efficiently.”

Lucia’s face reddens, “You can’t just—”

“Actually I can,” you interrupt, “And I will.”

Your attention turns to Xavi, Charles’ race engineer, who has been noticeably silent. “Xavi, your dynamic with Charles has not been the slightest bit helpful. His feedback, his needs ... they’ve fallen on deaf ears.”

Xavi, trying to defend himself, says, “It’s a two-way street. Charles can be difficult.”

You shake your head, “Charles is a world-class driver. It’s your job to bridge any gaps, not widen them. I checked and it turns out that constantly repeating we are checking like a broken record is not beneficial for race performance!”

Taking a deep breath, you make your announcement, “Effective immediately, Roberto, Lucia, and several other strategists, engineers, and aerodynamicists that a personal audit revealed as detrimental to team performance relieved of their duties. Xavi, you too are let go.”

There are gasps around the room, the weight of your words sinking in. Roberto stands, fuming in anger, “You can’t just dismantle this team!”

You lock eyes with him, “I’m not dismantling. I’m rebuilding. And if that means letting go of every one of you who can’t uphold the standards of Scuderia Ferrari then so be it.”

Fred finally speaks up, “And what about me?”

You lean in, “Consider your position on very thin ice. I expect results. And fast.”

You straighten up, the room thick with tension, “Scuderia Ferrari is not just a team, it’s a legacy. My great-grandfather would be rolling in his grave to see what has been done to his beloved team. I will not stand by and watch it crumble.”

With a final, piercing gaze around the room, you pivot on your heel and exit with a flick of your hair.

***

You lean against the cool wall, taking a moment to gather yourself after the emotional intensity of the meeting. The hallway is quiet save for the distant hum of voices but soon familiar footsteps make their way around the corner.

“Charles,” you call out softly as spot the driver.

His green eyes, clouded with a mix of emotions, meet yours. “Y/N.”

“Are you okay?”

He hesitates, “I wasn’t expecting all of that.”

You nod, “It was long overdue. I should have intervened much sooner.”

Charles runs a hand through his hair, clearly trying to process everything. “It’s ... a lot. I didn’t think you would actually step in like this.”

You sigh, “I hoped I wouldn’t have to. But my bisnonno once said that aerodynamics are for people who can’t build engines, and right now, it sure seems like Ferrari can’t do either.”

Charles chuckles dryly, “You have a point. It’s been ... frustrating.”

You gently touch his arm, trying to reassure him, “Enzo also believed that dreams become bigger, much bigger, to build a car that doesn’t slow in the curves, that flies without leaving the ground. I want that dream for you. For us.”

He looks at you, “It’s all I’ve ever wanted. A car that allows me to race to my full potential.”

You nod, thinking of the iconic red car and its tremendous legacy, “I know. And we’ll get there. Remember, racing cars are neither beautiful nor ugly. They become beautiful when they win.”

A smile tugs at Charles’ lips, “I haven’t won in too long. I almost forget what it feels like.”

You step closer, “That is going to change. I’m here for the long haul. To rebuild, restructure, and reclaim the Ferrari legacy. Glory will be dressed in red once more.”

He nods and swallows thickly. “Thank you, Y/N. It means more than you know.”

You smile softly, “We’re a team. And I promise to do whatever it takes to see us on top again.”

***

Early that Friday at Autódromo Hermanos Rodríguez, you gather the team in the garage.

“Good morning, everyone,” you begin. “I know it has been a whirlwind these past few days but I want to set the tone for this weekend.”

Fred, still adjusting to the new dynamic, nods silently from the back.

“We haven’t had the time to implement any physical changes to the car,” you continue, “But they are coming. For now, the difference will be about being smart … being strategic.”

Charles listens intently, his gaze occasionally drifting to the newcomers in front of him.

Speaking of the new additions, you gesture to the two people standing on either side of you, “I’ve brought on Marit Nilsen as our Principal Strategy Engineer and Claudio Segreti as Charles’ new race engineer. Not only are they exceptional engineers but also global chess masters.”

There are murmurs of surprise and interest among the crew. The world of Formula 1 and professional chess has rarely, if ever, intersected.

Marit, a tall woman with striking blonde hair, steps forward, “Chess is all about strategy, foreseeing the opponent’s moves and countering them. That’s what we’re here to do but on the track.”

Claudio, with his dark hair and deep-set eyes, adds, “Every move and decision we make will be precise. We’ll anticipate, adapt, and overcome.”

Carlos clears his throat, “So what’s the plan for free practice?”

You smile, “Today, we observe. We learn. We see where the car stands, where our strengths and weaknesses lie.”

As free practice commences, there’s a different energy in the garage. Marit, with her sharp analytical mind, quickly picks up on patterns, working closely with Claudio and Carlos’ engineer to ensure both drivers get feedback they need.

There’s a visible shift throughout the weekend. The team, rejuvenated by fresh perspectives, operates with a renewed vigor. And while the car may not have upgrades yet, new strategy quickly begins to make a difference like anticipated.

Qualifying sees Charles securing P3, an unexpected but welcome result. The garage is full of cautious hope but Marit and Claudio remain focused, already planning for the race to come.

Race day dawns and the tension is thick. You pull Charles aside, “Remember, things have changed. Believe in the strategy and the moves we make.”

He nods, “I trust them. And I trust you.”

As the lights go out and the cars roar to life, Charles delivers a performance that’s both calculated and aggressive. Every pit stop and every overtake is orchestrated like a chess match.

The race sees Charles finishing in P2 and Carlos in P4, a significant improvement from recent races.

The garage is a mix of tentative elation and relief.

Marit thoroughly reviews the race data, “This is just the beginning. Once the car upgrades are in place, the board will be ours.”

The sun sets on the Mexico City Grand Prix, but for Scuderia Ferrari, a new dawn is on the horizon.

***

“Fabiano Turati,” you muse, looking at the impressive portfolio before you. “Aerospace engineer, a key player in the development of hypercars for Agnellotti Motors, a professor at Politecnico di Milano. But never in F1?”

Fabiano, with salt and pepper hair and an air of quiet confidence, smiles slightly. “It’s not for lack of offers. I have just always believed in pushing boundaries outside of traditional paths.”

You lean back, intrigued, “So why Ferrari now?”

His eyes scan around the garage, “A challenge. An opportunity. A legacy to uphold. And, to put it simply, I think I can make a difference.”

You nod, appreciative of his candor. “We have three races left this season: Brazil, Las Vegas, and Abu Dhabi. Realistically, how much can we improve?”

You can practically see the gears in his brain turning, “In terms of complete redesign? Not much. But in terms of optimization and efficiency? Quite a bit.”

By the Brazilian Grand Prix, Fabiano’s influence is evident. While not a complete transformation, the SF-23 sports streamlined wings and a refined rear diffuser, maximizing what the current design allows.

“Initial feedback is good,” Charles reports after the practice session. “There’s a notable difference in the corners.”

Carlos chimes in, “The balance feels better.”

The improvements are evident, with both Ferraris finishing just off the podium. But Las Vegas poses a new challenge: a circuit unfamiliar to all teams and drivers.

“This is anyone’s game,” Marit says, examining the track layout.

Fabiano nods, “This weekend will be all about adaptation.”

The Las Vegas Grand Prix is an exhilarating rollercoaster. Charles fights for a podium finish, narrowly missing out but showcasing the SF-23’s newfound prowess, while Carlos secures a solid sixth.

As the season finale in Abu Dhabi looms, anticipation runs high. The Yas Marina Circuit will end the year with a test of Ferrari’s mettle.

Post-race, with both Ferraris finishing on the podium after avoiding a pile up that took out multiple opponents, there’s a sense of satisfaction but also of hunger.

“We’ve made progress,” Fabiano says as the garage winds down. “But next season, we’ll aim for a car that is not just evolved but fully revolutionized.”

You smile, “With you on board, I truly believe we can. The future is bright for Scuderia Ferrari.”

***

“Look at her,” Fabiano muses, admiration clear as the blueprint for the SF-24 is spread out before you both in your Maranello office.

“She’s a beauty,” you agree, tracing your fingers over the schematics. “If she performs half as well as she looks ...”

“She will,” Fabiano leaves no room for doubt. “We’ve streamlined the aerodynamics, enhanced the power unit, and made significant weight reductions.”

Carlos walks in with a grin on his face, “Is this the beast we’re taming next season?”

“That’s the plan.”

Charles catches your eye from where he lingers by the door. “It’s a fresh start,” he murmurs, approaching the table almost reverently. “I feel it.”

Over the following weeks, you rarely leave the factory other than to sleep and shower. You immerse yourself with the team, observing wind tunnel tests, joining strategy sessions, and even trying your hand with pit stop drills.

One evening, after a particularly long meeting, Charles finds you in the lounge, sipping an espresso. “Mind if I join you?”

You gesture to the seat across, “Of course not.”

He sits and just looks at you until you get the urge to fidget. “I’ve been thinking,” Charles begins, “About the changes, the car, and ... us.”

You raise an eyebrow, “Us?”

Charles smiles slightly, “You and I. We’ve spent so much time together these past weeks. I’ve gotten to know you, not just as Y/N Ferrari but as ... Y/N.”

You flush and not just from the hot coffee, “I feel the same. It’s been ... refreshing. Getting to know the man behind the helmet.”

He leans forward, elbows on the table, “There’s this great little place just outside Maranello. Quiet, hidden. I was thinking, maybe, dinner?”

Your heart skips a beat but you maintain your composure, “I’d really like that.”

The winter in Maranello unfolds, and as the SF-24 takes shape, so does the bond between you and Charles.

Between brainstorming sessions and late-night discussions about optimal setups, there are stolen moments: shared glances, lingering touches, and dinners that stretch long into the night talking about anything and everything.

Carlos teases, “Seems like the new car isn’t the only thing igniting sparks.”

You roll your eyes but there’s no hiding the smile tugging at your lips. You don’t try to deny it. Why bother when you hope it might be true one day?

***

r/formula1

Posted by RaceRundown · 6 hours ago

First look at the SF-24! Thoughts?

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RedFever · 6 hours ago

This could be the machine that keeps Ferrari at the top. Just look at those lines!

⇧ 2.5k ⇩ | Reply | Give Award | Share | Report | Save | Follow

PitStopPundit · 5 hours ago

Getting major 2004 vibes from this. Could be a dominant year for the Scuderia!

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***

You step into the air-conditioned motorhome, grateful for an escape from the Bahraini heat. Charles and Carlos, race suits unzipped around their waists, are animatedly discussing their first day of preseason testing with the SF-24.

“Last year, we didn’t have to sandbag because the car was, well … genuinely that slow,” Charles laughs. “But this time around ...”

Carlos grins, finishing his sentence. “This time, we have an ace up our sleeves.”

You nod, “Just remember, it’s only testing. We still have to see where we truly stand.”

The race weekend finally kicks off and the paddock is full of speculation. After a deliberately unimpressive showing during testing, no one expects Ferrari to be a front-runner.

Yet, when the lights go out, the SF-24 does not just impress …. it dominates. Charles takes P1 with Carlos not far behind in P3. And the world takes notice.

The next few races see a rejuvenated Ferrari. In Saudi Arabia, Charles and Carlos deliver a nail-biting duel with Red Bull, securing a double podium. Australia is a tougher battle, with Mercedes coming to form, but Charles clinches a respectable P4.

The Asian leg of the season has its highs and lows. In Japan, despite a torrential downpour, Charles masterfully handles the wet track to clinch the top step. On the podium, he points up at the sky and then shapes his fingers — first into a one and then a seven — a silent tribute to his late godfather and mentor.

However, China proves challenging and sees the SF-24 struggling unusually with tire degradation. But as Miami approaches, the team regroups and Charles takes a commanding win under the Florida sun.

Then comes Imola, the first of Ferrari’s home races.

As the sun shines brightly over the circuit named after your great-grandfather and grand uncle, you find yourself walking the track alongside Charles. The weight of racing on home soil evident in his eyes.

“Everything okay?” You check, sensing his nervous energy.

He looks at you and taking a deep breath. “Racing in front of the Tifosi at home always feel different. I want to make them proud.”

“No matter what happens today, they will be proud of you. The whole team will be proud of you. We’ve come so far.”

He smiles, visibly lighter. “Then let’s give them a race to remember.”

And it is nothing short of spectacular. Charles starts P2, but with determination and brilliant strategy, he overtakes Max in the final lap and secures a victory for Ferrari on home soil.

The roar of the crowd, the sea of red flags, the tears in Charles’ eyes as he stands atop the podium — you make a promise to never forget this moment.

As the sun sets on Imola, the Scuderia Ferrari team comes together, basking in their victory.

As Charles, champagne-soaked and beaming, pulls you in for a damp hug, it is clearer than ever that this season is only the beginning of a beautiful journey ahead.

***

“Norris is approaching on a flying lap. Make sure not to impede,” Claudio’s voice comes through crisp and clear over the radio during the dying moments of Q3 for the Monaco Grand Prix.

You can practically feel Charles’ concentration from where you’re seated on the Ferrari pit wall. The narrow streets of Monaco leave no room for error … Charles knows this better than most.

“Copy,” Charles responds, adjusting his position on the track just enough to give Lando the space he needs to pass while keeping his own momentum.

The clock is ticking and Charles needs a perfect lap if he wants to clinch pole position.

“Tires are feeling good. Pushing now,” Charles says, rounding the first corner with precision. The SF-24 dances around the iconic circuit, the roar of its engine echoing through the streets.

From Casino Square to the hairpin and through the tunnel, Charles’ driving is flawless. Every apex hit and every corner nailed.

“Final sector, Charles. Make it count,” Claudio encourages.

And he does. Crossing the line and jumping to the top of the timing board.

The garage cheers but there’s no time to waste. Tomorrow’s race is what truly matters.

***

Race day in Monaco is always special, but today, with Charles starting from pole, there’s an electric tension in the air.

“Lights out in ten,” Marit announces over the intercom.

Charles, already in the zone, simply nods.

And then he’s lined up on the front row.

The lights illuminate one by one. Then, in a heartbeat, they go out.

The race is on.

Charles gets a strong start, holding off challengers through the initial turns. The streets of Monaco are notoriously difficult for overtaking, so track position is everything.

“Maintain the pace. Tire management is key,” Claudio advises as the laps progress.

As the race unfolds, strategy becomes crucial.

“Plan to box in two laps,” Marit instructs through Claudio. With with Verstappen close on his tail, everything must be executed perfectly.

The pit stop is lightning-fast, the crew working in synchrony. Charles emerges just ahead of Max, who had followed him into the pits.

Throughout the race, Charles’ skill shines. He manages his tires, navigates the backmarkers, and keeps a razor-sharp focus.

The final laps approach. The team, the spectators, the entire Principality holds its breath.

The chequered flag waves and Charles crosses the finish line to takes his first home win. The elation, the pride, the sheer emotion of the moment is overwhelming.

“Monaco, Charles! You’ve won Monaco!”

Tears in his eyes, Charles responds, voice choked, “We did it! This is for Monaco. This is for Ferrari. Grazie mille. Merci beaucoup.”

The team gathers beneath the podium, celebrating their victory and the hometown here. Charles quickly sprays the two drivers beside him before aiming the bottle at the sea of red cheering in front of him and soaking his team in champagne.

He thinks back to how this weekend ended last season and let’s his elation wash away the years of dejected he faced before.

Things are different now.

***

“I’ve never seen Monaco come alive like this after a win,” you shout over the pulsating music in one of the city’s many upscale clubs.

Charles grins, leaning in closer so you can hear him. “It’s the magic of a home race victory!”

As the night turns to early morning, alcohol flows freer and the laughter grows louder.

The Ferrari team loves any reason to celebrate and they’re certainly making the most of the location.

Charles pulls you to a quieter corner of the VIP section. “Have you ever danced with a Monaco Grand Prix winner?”

You roll your eyes at the attempt at flirting but laugh as you accept his outstretched hand. “There’s a first time for everything.”

The two of you dance, losing track of time.

The world blurs around you. All that matters is the magnetic pull between you two which has been simmering for so long that it is threatening to overflow.

Charles pulls you closer, his lips brushing your ear. “There’s something I’ve been wanting to tell you.”

You relish in the warmth of his breath against your skin. “What’s that?”

“I’m drawn to you,” he admits, eyes searching yours. “Not just because of tonight but ... there’s something between us. I feel it. And I think you do too.”

You swallow hard. “I do.”

He hesitates before wrapping an arm around your waist, “Come with me.”

Without a word, you both exit the club, making your way to his apartment. The air between you is thick with anticipation but also vulnerability … openness.

Once inside, he gently pushes you against the wall, lips crashing onto yours. It’s passionate and intense, like a dam that has been waiting to break.

Charles pulls away slightly, “Are you sure about this?”

“I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life,” you whisper, eyes locked with his. “But ... Charles, not just for tonight. I don’t want this to be just a result of a victory high or the Monaco night air.”

He cups your face, thumb brushing your cheek. “I don’t want that either. This isn’t about the race or the party. It’s about us. I think it’s been about us for a while now.”

“Then why didn’t you say something sooner?”

He chuckles softly. “You think it’s easy, being around you every day, wanting to be close but maintaining a distance for the sake of professionalism? To spend every evening when we’re in Maranello sitting across from you at dinner and wishing that I could call it a date? But tonight,” he pauses, eyes searching yours, “Tonight felt different.”

You waste no time to draw him closer. “No more waiting then.”

***

Canada’s Circuit Gilles Villeneuve echoes with the roar of engines and the cheers of fans. Charles dominates the track, mastering the chicanes and the notorious Wall of Champions.

But the race isn’t straightforward. Mid-race, strategy suddenly changes when an unexpected rain shower soaks the track. However, the new strategy team you’ve brought in makes all the right calls and Charles takes the chequered flag.

In the Spanish sun, it’s a different story. The high-speed corners expose a slight flaw in the SF-24 which leaves Charles fighting valiantly but finishing third.

Despite the setback, you see determination in his eyes. “We’ll get them in Austria,” he promises.

True to his word, at the Red Bull Ring, he dominates. The SF-24 suits the straights and fast corners. Charles takes pole and leads every lap, building a gap that the competition can’t close. The victory feels even sweeter given the circuit’s name.

Silverstone proves challenging. There’s fierce competition, and while Charles doesn’t win, he’s involved in one of the most thrilling wheel-to-wheel battles of the season with Max Verstappen. They exchange positions multiple times, showing pure racing talent. In the end, Charles finishes a proud second after a photo finish.

The Hungarian Grand Prix tests the team. Tire strategy becomes paramount. The SF-24 shows vulnerabilities in the surprisingly sweltering conditions. Still, Charles’ impeccable driving and some cunning strategy calls earn him a place on the podium.

At the Circuit de Spa-Francorchamps, Charles shines brilliantly. He conquers Eau Rouge and Raidillon like few can, making it seem effortless. The SF-24 feels perfectly balanced and he takes another win, smiling at the Ferrari flags waving high in the crowd as the Monegasque and Italian anthems play.

Through it all, you see Charles grow not just as a driver but as a leader and beacon of hope for the team and global fanbase. He is not just driving for himself or for Ferrari, he drives for everyone who believes in him.

***

The warm Italian sun pours golden light onto the expansive villa overlooking Lake Como. The water below sparkles, mirroring the sky. For a brief moment, the hectic world of Formula 1 feels miles away.

You’re lounging under an oversized umbrella, Aperol Spritz in hand, while Charles emerges from the pool, beads of water cascading down his toned physique.

“That swim was perfect,” Charles grins as he flops down beside you.

“You were in there for ages! Trying to turn into a fish?”

He shakes his head like a wet puppy, making you squeal as you try to escape the splashes. “Just preparing for our yacht trip. Besides, I have to burn off all those pasta dinners we’ve been having or else I won’t fit in the car by the end of the month.”

“The troubles of a professional athlete,” you laugh, “I’ve been indulging and I’m not even sorry.”

That evening, the two of you share a quiet moment on the terrace. Soft jazz floats from inside and cicadas buzz rhythmically.

“Remember our first race together?” Charles starts. “It feels like a lifetime ago.”

“I never imagined we’d be here. But I am so glad that we are.”

He meets your gaze, his eyes reflecting the same heat you feel. “Me too. These moments, away from the track with you ... they’re special.”

The following week, you find yourselves on a luxurious yacht off the coast of Sardinia. Charles’ family and both of your friends are aboard. The sun decks echo with laughter, music, and the soft lapping of waves. There is never a quiet moment and you relish in the sounds of happiness.

As you stand by the railing, watching Charles and Joris race each other on jet-skis, Arthur slides up beside you. “So, how’s life with my big brother?”

You laugh, “It’s an adventure every day. But honestly, I wouldn’t change a thing. It’s wonderful. He’s wonderful.”

Arthur nods, “I’ve never seen him this happy, you know?”

You smile warmly, your gaze drifting to where Charles has somehow fallen into the water and is now splashing his friend. “He brings out the best in me, just as I hope I do for him.”

***

The gentle lapping of the Mediterranean waves seems like a distant memory as you find yourself in Zandvoort.

“Quite the change of scenery, isn’t it?” Charles chuckles, standing beside you as the sea breeze of the Dutch coast tousles his hair.

You laugh, “A bit but I’ve missed it. Nothing beats the excitement of a race weekend.”

And what a weekend it was. Charles, against all odds, comes out on top at Max Verstappen’s home race. The Dutch crowd offer begrudging respect as Charles takes the top step.

And then, Monza.

Monza is different. There’s an electricity in the air that cannot be replicated anywhere else. It’s the home race of Ferrari … the cathedral of speed.

“Do you know,” you tell Charles as you both walk through the paddock, “I used to come here with my grandfather as a child. This track ... it’s steeped in history. I’ve always loved it.”

“Winning here was like nothing else I have ever experience,” he reflects. “Let’s do it again. We’ll write our own chapter in history this weekend.”

Qualifying is a nail-biter. Charles pushes the SF-24 to its limits, dancing on the edge of control.

“How are we looking?” Charles checks in.

“You’re on provisional pole,” Claudio responds over the radio. “But push on the last sector. Max is close and getting closer.”

And push he does. Charles clinches pole with a margin that leaves no doubts about the capabilities of both the driver and the car.

Race day, the atmosphere is fever-pitched. The Tifosi, in their sea of red, wave their flags and banners, chanting Charles’ name like a prayer. As the lights go out, the battle rages. The strategy is aggressive, a one-stop that requires Charles to defend position in the latter stages of the race.

“Lap 45. Push now, we need widen this gap,” Claudio instructs.

The tires scream in protest as Charles further carves out a lead. But as the laps tick down, Verstappen and Piastri close in.

“Drive smart and hold them off. Four laps to go. You’ve got this,” Claudio urges him on.

Going wheel-to-wheel with Max through the Ascari chicane, Charles pulls ahead. The Tifosi roar, their energy and sheer will pushing him on.

“Last lap. Bring it home!”

And he does.

As Charles crosses the finish line, the crowd erupts. The track is soon packed with red as fans flood the track, surrounding the podium.

From the sea of faces, one voice stands out — yours, “You did it, Charles. Monza is yours.”

He lifts the trophy high, a tear in his eye, “We did it. This is for Ferrari … for the Tifosi … for us.”

***

The streets of Baku and the lights of Singapore both witness the magic that Charles and the SF-24 weave together. Two more wins, two more steps closer to the championship.

And then you find yourselves in Texas.

“Do you remember this time last year?” Charles asks.

“How could I forget? It was the phone call that changed everything.”

Charles laughs but there’s a weight to it, “For both of us. It was a disaster ... pole to sixth and then the disqualification. All because of...” He doesn’t finish the sentence, the mismanagement of the team a heavy shadow neither of you can forget.

“You’ve grown since then,” you point out gently, “The team has grown. Look at where we are now.”

He nods, taking a deep breath, “One year. So much has changed. From one of the worst days in my racing career to ... this.” Charles gestures around, to the revamped team, the transformed car, the very atmosphere of competence that permeates every corner of the Ferrari garage.

“I can’t believe we’re here,” he whispers, “The championship is within our grasp. Right back where it all went wrong.”

You take a moment to pull out your laptop and open a data sheet, “Here’s the breakdown. If Max gets P2 in both the sprint and the race, you need P1 in both. That’s how we seal the championship this weekend.”

Charles’ eyes scan the spreadsheet, “That’s ... a tall order.”

“But not impossible. Not for you and not for this team,” you assure him.

He chuckles again but it’s brighter now, “With you in my corner? I know anything is possible.”

***

The energy is electric when qualifying day arrives in Austin. You find Charles in his driver’s room, eyes closed in focus as he visualizes the track.

“You ready for this?”

His eyes pop open, determination burning in them. “Ready. Let’s show them what we can do.”

Qualifying unfolds in a blur of fast laps and bated breath. Charles pushes the limits, wrestling the SF-24 around the bumpy circuit.

“Time for one more lap. Give it your all here,” Claudio radioes through.

Jaw set, Charles squeezes all he can from the SF-24. Silence falls as he crosses the line … broken by cheers as his new lap time is set.

Pole position for the second season in a row.

Charles sheds his helmet and rips off his balaclava. “Yes! That’s how we start a weekend!”

The sprint shootout and race similarly see Charles launch cleanly from P1, building a gap early.

“Verstappen is matching your pace, don’t let him get within DRS range,” Claudio advises.

“Copy,” Charles responds, focused.

A late charge from Max raises tensions but Charles keeps him at bay, taking the chequered flag and the eight points.

“That’s the way to do it!” You shout as Charles enters the garage.

“Grand Slam in the sprint, now time for the main event,” he grins.

You rally the team Sunday morning. “Remember, the start is crucial. The car that lines up in P2 has led by the end of lap 1 for five years in a row. We need full focus.”

It seems like barely any time has passed before Charles takes his spot on the grid. Lights out, tires screeching, he holds the lead through the first lap madness.

“Nicely done,” Claudio praises. “Manage those tires now.”

The pit stop strategy is executed flawlessly. Charles takes his second stop, emerging ahead of a charging Verstappen.

“Ten laps remaining,” Claudio counts down.

Charles responds with measured confidence, “Let’s bring it home.”

In the closing laps, he is poetry in motion, hitting each apex and maximizing every straight. Max closes in but Charles is perfect to the millimeter.

“Charles Leclerc,” Claudio’s voice cracks with emotion, “you are the World Champion!”

Eyes wet, Charles radios in, “Yes! Yes! Yes! We did it! Thank you guys! This is unbelievable! Grazie, grazie mille, grazie a tutti! It’s been an incredible season with all of you. This is for the team, for Ferrari, for all the fans, and for everyone who has supported me. We brought it back to Maranello! I’m speechless ... grazie, thank you!”

In the garage, celebrations in full swing, you lean in with a laugh, “Don’t worry, I checked with the FIA — the plank is up to regulation this time.”

Grinning, Charles pulls you into a passionate kiss as the team hoots and hollers around you.

The World Champion smiles so bright he makes the Texan sun look dull in comparison.

You would do anything to make sure he feels like this every season. You will do anything to make sure he feels like this every season.

***

The winter sun casts a warm glow on Maranello as you walk beside Charles into the Ferrari factory. The off-season buzz of activity fills the air as the team prepares for next year’s challenges.

Charles looks at the sleek lines of the new SF-25 with anticipation. “She’s beautiful. I can’t wait to see what she can do.”

“This one’s special. She’ll be fighting for the championship again.”

“Yeah?”

“You heard me right,” you say with a smile. “I made you a promise. Last season was just the beginning.”

As Charles turns for a briefing, you spot Fred across the room. Your relationship has evolved and he now respects the authority you wield for the team’s benefit.

Approaching, you extend a hand. “I wanted to say, you’ve led the team well this past season.”

He grasps it firmly. “We share this success. Thank you for being the catalyst we needed”

You know there will still be challenges ahead. But Ferrari has been reinvigorated. Its racing spirit has been reignited.

That evening, Charles joins you on the terrace of the home you both share when in Maranello and wraps you both in a warm blanket to fight the chill. “Can you believe what a year it’s been?”

You shake your head. “It’s been a dream.”

He pulls you close. “The dream is just beginning and it’s a dream I hope we never wake up from.”