#Illusion of Certainty | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

softshuji · 2 months ago

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𝟐𝟐:𝟓𝟎𝐏𝐌 - 𝐇𝐀𝐈𝐓𝐀𝐍𝐈 𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐃𝐎𝐔

Title: Say Yes

Summary: The first time Rindou asks you on a date, you reject him, thinking he's going to break your heart. Lucky for you, he's willing to prove why you should say yes to him.

cw: fem!reader, some mentions of insecurities, Rin calls you princess, Ran makes an appearance. But that's it! Reblogs appreciated!

You think it’s a joke the first time Haitani Rindou asks you on a date. He’s a Haitani after all, and you’re under no illusions about what that means for you and all the ways he could hurt you if you let him. Creative ways, that you’re convinced you could never recover from in the near future, the pieces of yourself you would spend years putting back together.

So you don’t. You walk away, reject him politely with a smile and an incline of your head, and you can almost imagine that he has a girl lined up the next day to ask as a quick replacement of you because He’s a Haitani after all, and he has a reputation that means more than either of your hurt feelings.

Rindou pretends he isn’t crestfallen, the drop of his small and placid smile that does little to hide the avid redness of his cheeks is all too apparent when you purse your lips. His eyebrows shoot up and he coughs, or rather pretends to, into his hand and steps back, the heat on his neck crawling along the slope of his back.

‘You’re….. You’re saying no?’ He asks, as if he doesn’t quite get it, because he hasn’t prepared for this eventuality, for going home to Ran to break the news, as if he’s a schoolboy with a crush, dragging his feet with dejection.

‘I am, I’m sorry Rin.’ A shake of your head, a feeling of deep nausea and a regret that holds the weight of years of friendship, now potentially wasted.

‘Oh.’ He kicks at the gravel, the blue silk of his hair falling in waves over the smooth arc of his forehead, and you resist the urge at a time like this, to sweep it back. ‘Can I ask why?’

No, you want to say, the word caught on the wind whipping through your hair. It’ll only make it harder. Harder to look forward, harder to resist, harder to keep at your word.

‘You’re Rindou Haitani.’ As if it’s an explanation in itself, as if it assuages the guilt and the longing and gets the point across, that he could never not hurt you in any way you could recover from. ‘I don’t think you’d be happy with me.’

You think it’s easier to lie, to pretend that the burden that comes from knowing you is too much for any one person to bear, especially when that person is your best friend, instead of the fact that the uncertainty of his life is too much for you in turn. That there could be a day far or perhaps not so far, into the future where the uncertainty becomes the certainty of his death, where he does not come back at all.

‘You don’t know that,’ he says, fierce determination blazing in his eyes, the slight tremor of his voice. He thinks he could be happy with you, or content at the very least. Maybe you could watch as he climbed to the top with Ran, the Doll at his side, his partner in all things. He’s convinced he has it all planned out perfectly, the house, the marriage, the kids you’ll have, even what colour you’ll paint the walls, because despite himself, Haitani Rindou is meticulous in all things concerning you.

You tilt your head to the side, a knowing smile playing on your lips that you hope hides how much it pains you to break him like this, to break yourself along with him, cracks in the eggshell of your friendship you hope can be repaired in time. ‘I do Rin. You’re a Haitani, you’re used to the life.’

He knows it’s an explanation and he doesn’t begrudge you for it, for the way you step back and keep your distance, your bottom lip pulled back as you bite it nervously, a hand playing with the ends of your hair as he knows you’re prone to doing. He wants to be angry, wants to rage at you, throw all the excuses he thinks will suffice for coming to terms with the rejection, vitriol and jealousy and bitterness all curling together on his tongue. He swallows, the bump of his smooth throat sliding under the blue scarf that kisses at the dip of his chin and pushes it down. Down. Down. Tucks it safely in the pit of his stomach where it can ruminate till he’s let off the steam that prickling at the skin on his neck.

‘I see.’ He pulls back the flowers, scrunching the plastic wrapping in his white knuckles behind his back, the burn of shame and regret licking at his cheeks, hot enough to instantly melt the snow that sits on the cut of his cheekbones. ‘Can we still be friends?’

It aches somewhere, when you swallow against the tide of anxiety in your chest, a vice that clamps down on your tongue, hot and heavy and weighted with longing. You wonder how easy it would be to let yourself be swept away by him, the beautiful fullness of his laugh, the smile that’s reserved for you, quick and easy and big, all engulfing even, to let yourself run along with him as he climbed to the top, hand in unlovable hand.

You soften, reach for him with one gloved hand, finding his fiddling with a button on his coat and brush your thumb across his knuckles, swinging it this way and that, like you have not broken his heart, like you are nothing more than a single passing memory. ‘Of course we can. We’re best friends Rin, nothing will ever change that. If you still want me that is.’

‘I do.’

‘Even now?’

He takes your hand, as if it’s a response and knowing that despite it all, his big words, he’ll wallow in self pity, the heat of your rejection biting at his chest, he’ll come to terms with it in his own way. It is all his fault, and the wind that cuts across his cold lips seems to chant with shame at him for it, for the fickleness of his feelings, for straying far from what he knows.

But it happens. You swing back into life and the easiness of your friendship that has always permeated the comfort between you remains, albeit hardened now, by what Rindou thinks are his one-sided feelings. He remains as steadfast in his efforts as usual, propelled more so now by the fact that he feels he must win you over, to make up for the duplicity of his feelings.

You think it’s cute that he is less than subtle with his affections now that they are out in the open. The chocolates that sit at the table when you return home, a bar of chocolate orange, a note on a yellow post-it, a heart and a terribly drawn sun that tells you enough, the trinkets and gifts that are somehow discreetly placed around your apartment, necklaces here and there, earrings, new books you hadn’t spoken about to anyone that wasn’t him and it burns you with self-loathing that despite yourself, you cannot let him go without peeling yourself open at the same time.

The regret is acid pooling in your stomach.

The same regret and shame that tickles your throat when you reach for the phone at night, and your thumb finds his name with a moon and a heart, the grainy picture of him sleeping with his mouth parted, blond silken hair clinging to his forehead, to his shirt. He rolls over in bed, hears the first sniffle, cut through by a crack in the signal, and bounds from the door, keys in one hand, his jacket only half-slung, whipping in the wind as he races to your apartment.

'Princess?’ It’s uncertain, halted, hesitant even, as he slides open the bathroom door, the ends of his hair wet with rain, glasses foggy and hands clammy with the chill of the wind.

‘Rin?’ You look up, eyes red-rimmed, the wad of wet tissue in your hands falling apart.

And Rindou knows, of course he does, what your kind of bravery looks like. You've been sitting on the floor crying, the tears fast and free flowing and salty on your cracked cheeks and he doesn't judge, he knows this is you being brave, he knows he has no right to judge what your kind of brave looks like, the way in which you piece yourself back together.

So he holds you, one hand on the small of your back, the other tucking the hair behind your ear as you hiccup and the drool slips from your dry lips. He holds you, and holds you and holds you and rocks you with his eyes fluttering shut, and perhaps your hair will get caught on the thin screws of his glasses, but you don't care right now. All that matters is that he makes you feel less pathetic, less like you're falling apart on the cold bathroom tiles of your shabby house.

‘It’s okay,’ he says and you almost believe it, almost believe he can put you back together with his lithe skilled fingers, trace the cuts along your heart with tenderness and paint them gold again.

You love that he waits it out, waits for it to pass, the cloudy storm that ends with you on his chest, softly snoring, your tears dried on cheeks that feel taut and tightened with the line of silvery drool slipping between your parted lips, mascara tracks, that have found a home on the soft grey of his shirt.

‘Let’s get you into bed yeah?’ He whispers to the tiles, to you now slumped against him, the creases of your pajamas pressed into his side and carries you to bed, slipping in beside you, curling your hair around his fingers, your ribs under his hands, heartbeat pulsing against his skin. He hardly blames you for it, the rejection that’s weeks in the past. Part of him almost thanks you, for protecting yourself from him, from all the danger and blood and death that comes with him. Like you said, he is used to the life.

You love that when you wake, he is that much softer with you, a hand on your back as you pad to the bathroom, to the kitchen, the coffee hot, the croissants and pastries fresh, a wordless kiss to your temple, fresh clothes and towels, the bathroom clean of the wads of tissue that bare witness to your moments. He never mentions it, but kisses you again, just shy of your mouth, the dip of your chin soft under his lips when he sees you off for work again.

‘Be safe okay? For me?’

Because he knows you’re capable, knows you’re strong, knows you are his weakness in a way nothing else is, knows that if something happened to you, you’d take a bigger part of him than he could ever take of you. Or so he thinks.

‘I will. You should be safe too.’

Because you know he’s capable, know he’s strong, know he is your weakness in a way nothing else is, know that if something happened to him, he’d take a bigger part of you than you could ever take of him. Or so you think.

You love that he comes back, time and time again. After every fight, every argument, every word of vitriol spewed back and forth, hateful words thrown with negligence and jealousy, embittered feelings you know deep down come from love, he comes back to you.

‘Princess?’ He says, and waits on the other side of the door in the rain, the film of his glasses now foggy with condensation, ends of his hair clinging to the exposed goosebumps breaking out on his neck, the grey sweatpants now a darker shade of charcoal from where he has slugged through the storm to get to you, his first priority always.

‘What do you want?’ It comes out harsher than intended, the bite of your still-fresh and ripened anger cutting at your tone. It hurts, it always does when it comes from him, the arguments that are wrapped in love, care, the attention he could give to anyone but chooses to give to you, and the regret that boils in your stomach when you realize that fact.

‘I want us to talk.’ Proactive as ever, because the option to find solace anywhere else, with another girl even, has never occurred to him. Because he loves you, and even if the sentiment isn’t shared, he thinks he can love you enough for the both of you.

‘I don’t want to talk to you right now.’ But you push open the door, hand him a towel, and touch his cold and pallid cheek, because the promise of seeing him, in all your pain and bitterness, hurts less than not.

‘Not an option,’ he says and holds you, cold lips that brush just shy of the hot pulsing pressure point of your neck, warmed by the constancy of you. He smells of petrol, metal, the cold chill of winter, and against what you assume is your better judgement, you find warmth in the crook of his shoulder, the warm swell of his chest and arms that instinctively come around you, pressing your hips to his.

It would be easy, to give into the thrill for a night, to let yourself forget, reach out to him and grab at the promise, however temporary, for the risk of tasting him in all the ways you’ve imagined you can. You know he tastes of strawberries, tastes of the night and the moon, sweet and dangerous and warm, familiar and mysterious at once.

You tell yourself, you tell Ran, he is just like this, that Rindou for all his brutality, for all the rough edges sharp enough to cut, for all the barricades smoothed down by time, he is just kind, he is just loving, he is just like that.

‘I thought you’d have known him better than that by now.’ And Ran sighs in that way older siblings do, half exhausted, half fond, and all pride in his Brother. ‘Rin doesn’t do things for anyone else.’

It changes at some point.

Some point when you wake before him, nestled into his side, the warm breath from his parted lips lifting the hair now pressed against the pillow, an eyelash dancing on the perfect curve of his cheek. He looks best like this. Unguarded, the frown that usually graces the slope of his forehead now smooth, the bridge of his nose rubbing at the cotton of your shared pillow, and the soft blue of his hair resting on the sharp line of his jaw.

You press a tiny kiss to his collarbone, trapping him between your legs, his hands resting on your hips that press flush against his.

‘Watching people sleep is creepy y’know.’ His voice is rough and broken by the sluggishness of sleep and you can hear the smirk in it, the lazy languid curve of his lips that never fails to make the heat rise to your neck.

‘You do it all the time.’ A whisper that kisses at his clavicle, eliciting a shiver that rolls along his spine, the perfect bones and muscles flexing under your touch.

‘S’different. You’re pretty.’

‘So are you. Really pretty Rin.’

‘Think so?’

‘Don’t fish for compliments with me, that’s shameful.’ You jab lightly at his side, the smile threatening to break out across your lips now peaking through with full force. The sun that cuts across his cheek rests on the swell of his bare shoulder, the black ink that whirls along the flexing tendon of his arm soaking up the light. This is him, your Rindou. Soaking up the light as if it belongs to him, because it does, because everything does, because you would hand him the world if he so much as looked at it.

He laughs, a throaty chuckle that reverberates against your chest, dangerously, achingly close, a flimsy t-shirt away. ‘You’re too smart, my smartest girl.’ And buries his lips against the warm juncture of your collarbones.

‘And Rin?’ You ignore the way your voice wavers, the way it threatens to pull you back into what you know, the safety of your enclosed familiarity, the trapped bird looking out to freedom.

‘Mhm?’

A beat, prolonged, heady and weighted with love, years and memories. ‘I think I’m ready.’

‘For?’

‘To say yes.’ The pressure aches in your chest, the courage is a vibrating pulse in your blood. This is it, this is the deep breath and the plunge.

It’s strangely exhilarating to let go of it, the build-up of weeks of longing, of clutching onto his stomach as you bury your face against the broad swell of his back, muttering his name in your sleep, his lips only a breath away, a singular moment of decision away.

His eyes snap open, his hands pulling back instinctively from your hips to cup at your jaw, eyes narrowed, glowing with anticipatory longing, dull with the shimmer of sleep. ‘You mean it? That’s not a joke? If it’s a joke-’

You shake your head adamantly, his palms rough against the curl of your cheek. ‘Not a joke. I’m sorry, my indecision hurt you. I think I was afraid.’ This last part is broken, snapped into a whisper that curls along your tongue.

It had been true, it had always been true. Because he’s Haitani Rindou, and you know he could break you, snap you in half, shred the pieces of you and spit you out, that you would have to trust him not to.

‘No, no Princess, don't ever apologise for that. You really mean this though?’ Damn him for the shake of his voice, for the wobble of it as he closes the distance between you.

‘I do.’

‘You want this? You want …me?’ He knows it’s meticulous, extreme, that he must only bridge the gap to find his answer. But he has spent so long, nights reaching through the darkness for your warmth, a hand moving across the cold bed, looking for the space where he thinks you ought to be, to not do it right this time.

‘Yes.’

He deliberates, searches your eyes, for the genuineness he loves in you, for the openness, for the love he has craved and never asked for, for what you have given to someone like him so freely.

‘Can I kiss you?’ He asks, and his thumb brushes against your lips, against the softened pout, the dip in your chin that slices the sunlight in half as it spills over his shoulder.

Your heart smashes against your ribs, knocks the air from you so completely that your pulse rings in your head. You think this is the point you take the leap, jump into the unknown, knowing you’ll be caught either way by him, knowing he will catch you every time you fall. It's conscious, a decision weeks or months in the making, a step off the edge, the wind rushing at you as you fall.

So you do it.

You say yes.

And he kisses you. And kisses you. And kisses you.

a/n happy birthday to the boy himself, sorry this is a little late I did try to be earlier i've been slumped w work and stuff but I wanted to get this one out there. a kiss for the wonderful boy

taglist: @reiners-milkbiddies @prettyiolanthe @sugusshi @snakegentleman @haitaniapologist @lonnie19 @nafarsiti @bejeweled-night-33 @ranscutedoll @qiiuusoup-xo @hoetani @sinfulseashell @burnishedcrown @nikokopuffs @mitsuwuyaa @haruwuchiyoo @mochimiyaas @bertholdts--butt @theaonlax @blackfire2013 @wotakuhime @severellamahottub @stargirlstabber @intheafterall

#tokyo revengers #tokyorev x reader #rindou haitani #rindou x reader #tokyo rev #tokyo revengers x reader

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hello-from-nrc-infirmary · 4 days ago

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Vern's Hometown: Centennial Celebration

Book 5: Finale

Chapter 3: Sunset

Formal is irrelevant. The firelight gains prominence as daylight fades. More logs are added, allowing smoke to fill the air. The younger children slowly leave for their beds. Others stay, laughing with friends. Their joyful cacophony is almost drowned out by the rambunctious music.

Smoke and ash wisp into shadows. The kaleidoscope of prancing images twirl around them. An illusion of flowers dance underfoot. If any attempted to touch them, they would vanish.

Soot is kicked up with every step. Vern's stained skirts flare out on another spin. It's strange and comforting to have a partner. A familiar dance he can do in the deepest of sleeps now flutters anew with every beat. A few steps bring them back.

Sweat shimmers across their foreheads. The minutes and hours bleed together. One melody into another. An iridescent fish ballet weaves around the dancers. A bubbling laughter spills from Vern. Steel smiles, his own airy laugh joins in.

"What's... so funny?"

The sprite meets his gaze breathlessly, "I'm... really happy."

"Eh?"

Joined hands lift above to spin around. The area around them is barely a blurr. Focus returning to Steel, the sprite tries to calm himself. "I-is he still umm..."

"Yeah, on my six."

"... let's um... not think about him," Vern tries. His head feels light, a mild dizziness buzzes down from it.

".. okay."

He welcomes night's breath cooling his skin like autumn rain. Vern can tell when some musicians would take a break and join back in. A simple rotation, yet easy to get lost in. Forgetting the world is hard, yet indulging in a moment is effortless.

For this bubble in time, emotion vibrates the air. Colorful shapes morph to each beat. It has been too long since his muscles felt like a newborn foal finding it's footing. Who is keeping who from collapsing is unclear. The firm earth underfoot is the only certainty.

A gasp from the onlookers is nearly drowned by the rhythm. A string pulls at his mind. His eyes want to follow, yet a turn blocks his view. His brow creases as he attempts to see behind Steel. "Ver.."

Pink dusts the sprites cheeks. It's only one word, a fraction of his name. The syllables spoken softly warms him. Tearing his focus back to his friend, he tries to stay on his toes.

"Almost," Steel winks, "we have to finish this one."

"Y-yeah," Vern manages a dizzy nod. His amber eyes sting, but not from the smoke. A soothing wave rolls through his veins, easing his tension. He almost misses a familiar, icy crack.

Chapter 4: Dusk

A tight spin jostles his focus. Flashes of magic collide. The music falters as smoke billows through the remaining crowd. Vern squeezes his eyes shut against it. Tucking himself against Steel, he waits for the air to settle. He flinches, as a drop hits his cheek.

"Er.. sorry."

The sprite swears the liquid away. Checking his bandages, he finds an inky substance he's well acquainted with.

"It's alright, I um..." he pauses, ducking as Steel casts another counter spell, "don't mind."

Sparkling green mist flares from Vern's hands. Vines burst from the ground to restrain Victor. "Enough!"

Snowflakes drift around them. Citizens that stayed murmur in uneasy awe. The spring sprite trembles slightly, his muscles begging for rest. "Do you forfeit the challenge?"

There's a rumble underfoot. Stumbling, Vern's spell loosens as spikes of ice shoot out of the dirt. He's tackled. Air is knocked from his lungs despite the cushioned fall.

"You alright? Any injuries?"

Vern slowly blinks up at Steel, gasping while registering the questions. "U-umm... I'm fine... I think..."

"Why," Victor's voice rings out above the chaos, icicles forming in the air around him. "Why do you reject everything I do for you?!"

Ooc// Welcome to the final boss fight.

Tag List: @nrcbookclub @castaway-achlys @nightonthemountain

Songs for the dance:

There's Nothing Holding Me Back by Shawn Mendes

A Bar Song (Tipsy) by Shaboozey

I Don't Wanna Wait by David Guetta & OneRepublic

Roundtable Rival by Lindsey Stirling

Élan by Nightwish

Songs for Everyone vs. Victor:

It Ends Tonight by All-American Rejects

Liar by Jelly Roll

Ready For This by All Good Things

Trophy Hunter by Within Temptation

#Vern's hometown #Centennial Celebration #stealing steel #ooc// finally...

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imorynn · 1 month ago

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.𖥔 ݁ 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐈 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐚𝐥𝐰𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐛𝐞 𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐧 | l . calderu

.𖥔 ݁ pairings : lilia calderu 𝓍 fem!human!reader

.𖥔 ݁ word count : 4k+

.𖥔 ݁ genre / contains : angst, though fluff, mild suggestive nsfw content / smut, descriptive writing, heartache ? :,> this is somewhat scrambled due to lilia’s unilinear visions and experiences, apologies if it makes no sense — there really is no sense when it comes to love

.𖥔 ݁ tags : @multixfan @etherynn @dymttz @spicelevelofthebible @honeypiperpizza123 @rydermovies @emilynissangtr @astrophiliaxx @derry-n @beachhausu @ludoesartandstuff @weemswife @witchymadness @aggieharkness @yourgirlxp @mrsines @klien2000 @yourbasicqueerie @asimpforwomen @shinramyunnoodles @babythere @kenzie-floops @confuseuniverse @lady-darkswan3 @mgruiz @liliastriangle @thegoddamnfeels !!

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ inspo :

author’s note : I’m having mixed emotions on this — but we rise ! I hope I didn’t disappoint, lol, and I hope you enjoy ! <333

── THE ELDER WITCH exhaled, the words — a benediction she learned centuries ago from the person she adored with the entirety of her fractured existence — whispered to herself in hopes for some sort of grounding, of sense. “Time is an illusion that helps things make sense. Life is just a collection of moments.”

And for her, those moments within the Path, this awaiting led to you.

The threads of time swirled around her, a tapestry of every moment she had ever lived. Each gap — the whispers of lives she had touched and lost — folded in on itself.

And then, she came across the picture-framed ones she kept tucked in the furthest walls of her mind, that held more significance than anything she perhaps had ever come across with — she saw, felt you.

It unraveled with a scent: citrus, wildflowers, a dash of jasmine, and salt air, so vivid it captured her breath. Her vision blurred, and when it receded, she was no longer on the Road but seated on the bed of soft grass atop an acquainted sunlit hill, her hand, ringed and aligned with centuries of age of the current timeline she existed in, clasped within yours. Your skin was as soft as she recalled, though there was the subtleness of lines of age and slight callouses, and your eyes — matured, crow’s feet kissing the corners — were ignited with that same love that always grounded her.

Your warm-hued eyes marveled at the celestial lights above, as they had such countless times before, while she marveled at how the gleams illuminated your face. It was impossible to take in the beauty of her world when her attention was wholly claimed by the simple presence of someone who outshone it effortlessly.

“You’re here,” she whispered in wonder, jaw trembling.

You smiled, the corners of your mouth lifting gently. “I’ve always been here, Lilia. Just like you’ve always been with me.”

The world realigned. She perceived the warmth of the Sicilian sun on her face, the texture of the grass beneath her fingertips. Yet she also feels the icy bite of the trial chamber, the sting of her flashing visions as it reaches its breaking point.

“I miss you, darling,” she breathed out. Tears spilled freely now, golden light mingling with the wetness on her cheeks. “Every moment, every gap — it’s always been you.”

Your hands cradled her cheeks, thumb swatting away her tears before lovingly soothing the furrows between her brows. There was that expression she adored so much etching your features; the subtle purse of your lower lip, the tiny frown of your brows mimicking hers, your fingers sliding into her hair and thumbs ever so gently applying pressure against her temples. You always tended to do that to alleviate the spasms of pain within her head. “And you’ve always been back then,” you softly said. “Every time you look, you find me. And when you let go, you’ll find me again.”

The picture unfurled like silk, soft and weightless, winding through her thoughts with the slow, relentless certainty of ivy claiming a wall. It filled the voids left by centuries of solitude, stitching together fabrics of what had been lost. Lilia’s mind fractured and healed all at once, each shard of memory glimmering with vivid clarity until they bled into one seamless vision — no, memory.

It began with the kiss of the earth against her back, the cool grass cradling her like a lover’s embrace. The blades stroked her bare skin, whispering in voices only the night could carry. Above her, the heavens stretched vast and infinite, their dark expanse jeweled with stars that shimmered like ancient sentinels, humming faintly with a secret music only she could hear. The moon hung heavy and low, a silver chalice spilling its light over the hills, bathing the world in a spectral, ethereal glow that blurred reality into something dreamlike.

And then there was you, the axis around which this memory revolved. You had led her here, your fingers laced with hers, pushing your joined palms into the soil, your grip firm though never enough to hurt, always overwhelmingly sufficient in tenderness, as though you feared she might drift away. She remembered the sound of your laughter being muffled into her neck —low and abundant, threaded with the warmth of your kiss that made her chest constrict. It had danced on the breeze, mingling with the rustle of plains and the soft cadence of her heartbeat.

“You’re incorrigible,” she had teased, her voice carrying that familiar edge of dry wit, smile half-hidden by the shadows.

“And you,” you had countered, your belief steady as the earth beneath her, “are breathtaking.”

Her breath had hitched at the weight of your words, at the way your mouth skimmed hers, the brown globes of her eyes fluttering to meet yours. They glowed in the moonlight, vibrant and deep, the kind of eyes that subsided edges and pierced defenses in the same glance.

“I know,” A smirk pulled at her lips but you had seen through her deflection, as you always did.

The memory shifted, folding deeper into itself, until it was your touch that filled her senses. The pads of your digits brushed over her wrist, a touch as light as the wings of a moth, trailing up her arm in a wondrous, deliberate exploration. She released a breathless laugh as your fingers grazed a sensitive spot along her ribs, her body twisting away before surrendering to the warmth of your hands.

“Must you always explore everything as if it’s some ancient relic?” she murmured, her features mirthful and highlighted with affection when her own touch pressed into the slight muscle upon your shoulders.

“With you,” You exhaled reverently, “always.”

Time itself seemed to bend, the minutes stretching and seeping like liquid silver as if the universe had conspired to give you an eternity at this moment. When you leaned closer, her lips rose to meet yours in a kiss that was neither hurried nor restrained, but something in between — a perfect, soft, seeking, and utterly consuming motion. It was grounding and dizzying all at once, a tether to the present even as it pulled you both deeper into something far beyond time. Her mouth deepened its mold against yours, fingers tangled in the fabric near your neckline, pulling you toward her with an urgency she could barely disguise, afraid to let even an inch of space exist between you.

The stars above seemed to blur as her vision hazed, her senses overwhelmed by the way your hands moved over her body. You touched, savored every bit of her as though you were etching every curve, every angle, into memory. The fabric of her dress was discarded, long forgotten somewhere upon the dewy grass, her skin exposed, kissed by the moon’s gaze. Each touch, each kiss, each stare sent ripples through her, a heat that seared and soothed in equal measure, the kind of touch that made the rest of the world fall away.

“You’re staring again,” she said softly, her tone teasing but laced with tenderness. A smirk tugged at her lips, her expression as knowing as it was inviting.

“Perhaps I am,” you admitted while cataloging every line of her face, committing it to eternity. “Is that so wrong?”

She pretended to think, her thumb brushing along your cheekbone, her touch lingering. “I suppose I’ll allow it,” her statement feigned seriousness when the subtle purse of your lower lip met her fingers. “But only because you’re so endearing about it.”

Her teasing faltered as her gaze held your own ; astoundingly dazed, love lodged deep and swirling within your pupils. Your fingers brushed a strand of hair from her face. The moment lingered, suspended in the infinite quiet of the night, until she tugged you back down and her lips found yours. This kiss was different — softer, slower, a communion more than an act.

The world around you converted into a tapestry of sensations: the cool press of the grass, the hum of crickets in the distance, the faint rustle of leaves above, and the heat of her skin against yours. Her hands wandered as yours did, tracing the structure of your jaw, the dip of your spine, her touch feather-light, deliberate. She murmured your name, the sound of it breaking from her lips like a reverent prayer.

When the memory descended from its high, the two of you laid entwined beneath the stars, her head resting on your chest, her fingers creating an idle dance over your collarbone. The moonlight illuminated her face, softening the sharpness of her features, casting her in an otherworldly glow.

“I think the stars envy you,” you muffled into her hair, voice rough with dread yet threaded with exhilarating sincerity.

“Flatterer,” The word was gentle, almost unguarded. Her taunting slipped away when she lifted her head to look at you, the dark stands of her hair spilling around her like a dark halo. For once, her expression was unmasked. And then you smiled — lopsided, hopelessly enamored and devoted to your voice, your truth.

“Say it again,” A glimpse of teeth came in that pretty grin of hers, her palm resting over your heart as she pushed herself up towards you.

“The stars envy you,” you exhaled into her mouth, brushing your thumb over her temple. “Because even they can’t shine as brightly.”

She did not tease, nor did she deflect. Instead, she leaned further in, her lips brushing yours in a kiss so delicate it felt like starlight. The vastness of the night melted away within the canvas of the picture, leaving only the two of you— eternal, infinite, unbroken, constant.

Another one of many images — moving, fleeting — was not vivid. It was muted, as though viewed through a fogged window. Sicily, her childhood, the golden glow of a summer afternoon flittering through olive trees. She was younger then in this memory, her dark curls tied back, and you were there — human, ephemeral, your vibrant-hued irises holding her attention as if nothing else in the world mattered. You would laugh, leaning in to tap her on the forehead with a playful finger, uttering something along the lines of how she would forget this moment one day.

But she did not. It stayed, buried somewhere between the gaps.

“Do you remember?” the familiarity of a maturing voice — your voice — murmured now, faint and impossibly close. She felt it more than she heard it, the weight of your words pressing into her chest.

“I always remembered,” Her speech trembled in deep agony. “Even when I didn’t want to.”

The second-motioned picture came in fragments, like the shards awaiting to become the entirety of a mirror. A candlelit room, the fragrance of melted wax and rosewater mingled with your pure essence. Your touch brushed against hers as she fumbled with her first deck of tarot cards. She had been anxious —terrified, really — and you had smiled so softly, your thumb soothing the back of her hand. The warmth of it seared and lingered, long after you were gone.

“You’ll figure it out, Lili,” you’d murmur then, your tone tender but edged with something deeper. She wanted to believe you then. But time had not waited for you. You, with your transient human life, had slipped away, leaving her to walk centuries without you. Without this. “You always do.”

And she had. But the cost of figuring it out was an eternity of gaps, of not being able to live, breathe, bask in the presence with you. A life experienced in fragments, one piece lost, constantly missing.

The evening air was a symphony of fragrances — the tart zest of citrus blossoms mingling with the languid sweetness of jasmine, threading itself through the thick, velvet dusk of Sicily. In moments like these, the world seemed to hold its breath, silencing its usual hum as shadows unfurled like ink across the cobblestone lanes. The burnished glow of the setting sun kissed the strands of chestnut hair framing her face, its light clinging to each wave as though reluctant to let go. Lilia sat close, her hands gripping the folds of her deep amber gown with quiet desperation as if the fabric alone could anchor her against the bruising weight of a world that so rarely understood the depths of her soul.

You were well aware of the truth however, even when others only saw the quiet girl hovering at the fringes of every gathering — the one whose sharp tongue could cut like a blade when pressed, her gaze shadowed by an ancient, unspoken grief. She was more than they realized, more than even she might admit. There was a strange and wondrous duality to her, something both delicate and unyielding, as though she were spun from the gossamer of dreams yet tempered by the unrelenting weight of reality. A witch, a seer — an enigma bound to the relentless march of time, yet adrift within its labyrinthine folds, forever chasing something lost amidst its shifting currents.

“Talk to me, my love.” Your hand reached for hers, the barest graze of your fingertips against her skin. She flinched — an instinctive reaction, not born of fear but of deeply ingrained habit. Lilia rarely allowed herself to be touched; it tethered her too firmly to the here and now, making the voids in her existence impossible to ignore. Yet tonight, she did not withdraw. Her hand softened beneath yours, tentative at first, before settling into a quiet stillness. And when she allowed herself to meet your gaze, you could not avoid the way all oxygen retreated from your lungs. Those eyes of hers were a deep, liquid brown, luminous yet guarded. There was a fragility in them, something akin to a startled fawn — wide and unshielded — yet rich and consuming, a molten warmth that seemed to pull you into its fathomless depths.

“Do you really believe…” she began quietly, voice barely more than a whisper, as though the night might steal her words away if she spoke too openly, “… that time is nothing but an illusion? Just to make sense of things? That everything we see —” her free hand swept outward, sketching the contours of the horizon where the sun had all but disappeared “ —isn’t moving forward or backward, but simply existing all at once? The past, the present, the future… layered together, thin as paper, like the pages of an endless book waiting to be read in any order?”

Your head hitched slightly to the side, stare remaining on her as you attempted to carefully intertwine the threads of her utterance. It was ordinary for her to do this — to speak in fragments and what seemed conundrums to others, as though her thoughts were too vast, too intricate to be bound by the simplicity of ordinary speech. Yet you had comprehended to follow her, to acknowledge and navigate the labyrinth of her mind with tranquility and without hesitation. “I do believe…” you inhaled, voice slow and measured, discerning each word before releasing it, “I believe it is true, and it may mean that every moment we have shared still lingers, suspended somewhere in the folds of time. That no matter what comes next, you and I will always be here, or there — together, untouched by what lies ahead.”

Her lips went ajar, and for a fleeting moment, she stared at you as though you had unraveled some great, unspoken truth. Then, a laugh escaped her — not loud, but soft and bubbling in the air, the kind of sound that contained a dab of wonder laced with skepticism. “You make it sound so effortless,” Her wrist shifted slightly, her palm turning to press flush against yours. Slowly, her fingers wove between yours, the connection deliberate, clutching. “But it’s not,” she said, her voice tinged with an angered sorrow. “Time isn’t kind. It doesn’t care for love or loyalty, for promises whispered in the dark. It only takes — relentlessly, endlessly — until all it leaves behind is emptiness. Nothing to hold onto anymore.”

There was a rupture within the melody of her voice, a trembling note you had never heard before, and it sharply churned through your chest, tightening around the delicate rhythm of your heart.

“Lilia,” Her name tumbled from your lips like a prayer, as if it alone could bind her here with you. You leaned closer, the space between you shrinking, hoping the proximity could shield her from the pressure of her own despair. “Time cannot take this,” you whispered, making an effort to keep those words steady despite the storm swirling inside of you. “Not us. Not what we’ve created. Not what we are.”

She turned to you fully then, her gaze scrutinizing yours with an intensity that felt like it could peel back time itself, every curve, every shadow of your features etching to her memory, her heart. The last rays of sunlight wisped into her dark locks, igniting them in hues of amber and gold, a fleeting halo that crowned her in the fragile light of the dying day. At that moment, with the world balanced on the edge of twilight, you thought she had never looked more achingly, devastatingly beautiful.

“What if I lose you?” she inquired brokenly. The question barely broke the stillness, but it hit like a tempest splitting open the sky. “ What if I’m stranded here, holding the ghost of you, while you… drift away? I’ve seen it happen before. Loved and been left behind, bound to memories that never let go — I’ve lived it, y/n. ”

Your hand rose with a leisured tenderness, fingers curling for her face to nestle there. Her skin was warm — a living contrast to the cold fear roiling beneath your ribs. Her breathing hitched, an unspoken plea — when your thumb brushed over the curve of her cheekbone. “Then you’ll find me again,” your usage of tone a quiet anchor even as your touch surrendered to their quiver. “In the shadows of yesterday, in the light of tomorrow — wherever your steps take you, wherever the road may lead you, wherever your soul resides, I’ll remain here. I’m going to be here for as long as life allows me to be there with you.”

Her eyelids fluttered shut, lashes trembling like leaves caught in the faintest breeze. For a heartbeat, you believed she might shatter, that tears would slip through the cracks in her silence. But when brown orbs met yours once again, there was something more — something delicate, like the first blush of dawn breaking against an endless night. A fragile hope lingered there, hesitant yet alive, the weight of eternity had lessened, if only the slightest. In that flicker of belief, you saw the unvoiced truth: perhaps she would not have to carry forever alone after all.

She leaned into you, the motion so unguarded it stole the air from your lungs. Her forehead lightly kissed yours, and at that moment, the world seemed to narrow, folding into the fragile space you shared. The pieces of curls upon the crown of her head brushed your skin, soft and untamed, carrying the faint scent of rain or something equally fleeting. You could feel the unsteady cadence of her breath, each exhale a confession — you were not certain if it was for her, or you. “You’re not afraid of me,” she said, her voice fraying at the edges, trembling under the weight of her doubt and wonder.

“Why would I be?”

Her mouth hoisted into a wry smile. “Because I’ve seen things—terrible things — deaths, catastrophes. I’ve been hunted, chased out of places. I’ve predicted tragedy more times than I can count. People look at me and see a curse.”

“Ah, but when I look at you,” you ascertained with a lopsided though earnest smile while the pads of your fingers danced over her cheek, “ all I see is Lilia. My Lilia. The girl who taught me how to see the world differently. Who made me discover that time isn’t a straight line, but a song — messy, beautiful, endless.”

A wisp of a giggle ruffled through the air, and you felt her ease into your touch. She sensed you wavering, however, and she was met with your pondering expression. With the way you looked at her, the way you coiled her insides. “You will remain my constant, Lilia. And I’ll always be yours.”

Lilia’s eyes slowly lulled open, and they moistened with something heavy and tender. “Even when you’re not here? Even when… you’re gone? When I’m gone?”

You nodded, bringing her hand to your mouth and pressing a kiss to her knuckles. “Even then,” you promised. “Time’s an illusion, right? It’s always happening—happened, happening, will happen. And we’ll always find each other again.”

You knew she was seeing something given the distance in her gaze — possibly a version of this moment, maybe another lifetime. She spoke with fervent certainty. “I’ll hold onto you, even when I’m lost.”

You grinned, leaning closer until the tip of your nose nuzzled down the prominent bridge of hers. “You won’t be lost. Not as long as you have me to come back to.”

For a stretched-out while, neither of you uttered a word. There was goodness within silence when you were with the person you felt most comfortable with. The reality revolving around you seemed to cease, leaving only the hum of the ocean, the rustling of grass and leaves and the rhythm of her breathing, of your breathing ; twined, unyielding, steady.

She traced the lines of your palm with her thumb, memorizing the richness of your skin, the delicate strength beneath it. She felt you watching her, her gaze steadying, her time gaps temporarily stilled. Her fingers tightened around yours, her grip firm but trembling, her nails slicing your skin with the faintest pressure, a touch that felt like a plea.

“Promise me something,” She stated this lowly, unevenly, yet urgent enough to command the world to halt.

“Anything,” you softly responded, the word carrying more than a vow—it was surrender.

“Remember this,” she said, the weight of her heart pressing into every syllable. “Even when you’re somewhere I can’t follow, even when I’m lost in my own far-off place. Keep this moment alive. Hold it for the both of us.”

You answered her not with a voice but by closing the distance, your lips meeting hers in a way that was not rushed or faltered. It lingered, it soared, it ached, soft yet infinite, like a vow etched into the unseen threads binding you both to this point in time. You poured yourself into it — into her— as if promises could be spoken in silence, as though the blazing sun and soon moon paused to witness.

When the kiss ended, you stayed close, her forehead brushing yours for an instant before she tucked herself into you. Her head came to rest beneath your chin, her body burrowing into the hollow of your frame, trying to root herself there, to this currency, to your soul. “We’ll always be back then right?” she drowsily murmured, yet Lilia had this power of making things feel certain for you, steady.

“Always,” you planted a kiss to her temple, your arms tightening around her as the sunset seemed to nearly draw to a close and the night to a beginning, the stars above shimmering softly in quiet agreement.

The final piece of the picture — the memory, the moment — came like a rush of wind, nourishing her lungs and lifting the weight from her shoulders. It was you, standing at the edge of a cliff overlooking the sea. The sky was painted with hues of orange and pink, the air tinged with salt and the faint sweetness of lemon groves. You turned to her, your expression warm and unguarded, and for a moment, she forgot what it meant to live in pieces.

As the Salem Seven screeched when the balance of gravity reversed, their darkness descended into the piercings that indicated none other than Death.

Her coven was safe, their bonds unbroken, but Lilia was already somewhere else. Warm and all -encompassing. She let go of everything except the picture she clutched onto, the memory of you.

And there you were.

Waiting for her, your arms open, your smile soft, your eyes as brilliant as they had been centuries ago. She, in all her youth, stepped forward, the heart encapsulated within her chest swelling as if it had remembered how to feel whole, before hoisting her skirts and diving into your arms. There was only you, and the softness of your touch, and the faint scent of citrus and jasmine that had always reminded her of home.

“You found me, darling,” her words went muffled into the fabric of your shoulder, tightening her hold on you.

“You found me, Lilia,” her name being spoken by your lips, assisted with the sensation of them against her flushed cheek, her nose, her forehead, felt like the closing of a circle . “I told you. We will always be back then. Time does not matter.”

It did not, she realized that now. Time was the illusion. Love was the constant.

⸻ ᥫ᭡ 𓂃

#agatha all along #lilia calderu #agatha all along x reader #marvel #rio vidal #agatha harkness #patti lupone x reader #patti lupone #lilia calderu x fem!reader #lilia calderu x reader #lilia x reader #marvel studios #jac schaeffer #𝐢𝐫𝐲𝐧 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐬 ── 🎐ᝰ.#Spotify

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jellybonbons · 8 months ago

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Playground Love

ೀ older!Leon Kennedy x fem!reader

Tags: hurt/comfort, age gap (unspecified but reader is an adult), a lot of self doubt, talks about mommy and daddy issues, pet names (angel, princess, sweetheart).

W/C: 1.0k

A/N: studying? who is that? Anyways, this was supposed to be a cute ‘sitting on his lap would fix me’ but I got hit by existential crisis at 2am so angst.

"Wow, dating an older guy? That's so sophisticated!"

“Are you sure about this? Don’t you think there’s a reason why no one his age is dating him?”

"You get to date someone older? That's not fair! All I get are immature guys my age."

"Darling, I know you're an adult now, but dating someone significantly older... it just worries me. Are you sure you're on the same page?"

I love him.

At every reaction, you find yourself repeating the same phrase in your mind. It was a simple truth that anchored you amidst the swirl of opinions and doubts. Every concern, every envy—you faced them all with the same unwavering declaration.

But do you really love him?

The question lingered like a shadow, casting doubt on the certainty you had clung to so desperately. You couldn't shake the nagging feeling that perhaps you were merely caught up in the allure of dating someone older, mistaking infatuation for love. Or was it that you longed for attention from an older guy who could fill the void your absent father left?

You craved the paternal presence you had been denied, and in him, you found echoes of the guidance and affection you had longed for.

"Dating someone older? Isn't that a bit... strange?"

"Why? Age is just a number, right?"

"Yeah, but... do you really think you're at the same stage in life?"

Oh, how naively optimistic you were.

Perhaps you have been too quick to dismiss your loved one’s concerns, too eager to embrace the illusion of love in the arms of someone—his arms—who offered the fleeting promise of stability and security.

“But he makes me feel loved and safe,”

“Does he?”

Was your love truly built to withstand the test of time, or was it merely a fleeting illusion, destined to crumble beneath the weight of your differences?

“Darling, can we talk for a moment?”

“Sure, Ma. What’s on your mind?”

"Well, I couldn't help but notice... you seem quite taken with this new guy you're seeing."

"Oh, you mean Leon? Yeah, we've been spending some time together."

"He's... older, isn't he?"

"Um, yeah, he is."

"I see... darling, I just want to make sure you're being careful. Dating someone older can bring its own set of challenges."

"I know, Ma. But he's different. He understands me in a way no one else does."

"I'm sure he does, dear…but promise me you'll take things slow and really get to know him before things get too serious."

"I promise, Mama.”

You've broken many promises with your mama, but why did this one hurt? Is it because you partially blame her for shaping you the way you are? Is it because she married your father? Maybe she would have lived a happier life if it weren't for him, if only.

But you thanked her, both her and him, for the lesson learned, for the wisdom imparted, for the love that had always been there, and for helping you recognise the kind of partner to avoid.

You stood before the polished wooden door of Leon’s home office, your hand hovering in uncertainty over the ornate doorknob. Each second felt like an eternity as you battled with the torrent of doubts and fears that raged within you.

You needed him, wanted him to hold you, and tell you that everything would be fine.

But what if he couldn’t understand your doubts? What if your confession shattered the fragile illusion of your love?

With a steady breath, you pushed aside your apprehensions and grasped the doorknob, steeling yourself for the conversation that lay ahead.

“What’s up, sweetheart?” His voice, gruff yet soft and reassuring, always managed to send shivers down your spine, freezing you in place. You couldn’t find the words to speak, and your throat suddenly dried.

Sensing your hesitation, he beckoned you closer with a gentle smile. You could see the experiences he went through, the complexities of adulthood etched into the lines that creased his weathered face.

“Come here, angel. Sit on my lap while I work.”

You obeyed, crossing the threshold into his office, your feet padding on the wooden floor as you made your way to him. Settling onto his lap, your linen dress pooled around you, the fabric soft against your skin. His arms encircled your waist, pulling you close, his rough touch sent warmth flooding through your veins.

You inhaled his scent, a mixture of citrus and wood, with a hint of something familiar: whisky. You thought he quit. Ready to question him, you opened your mouth, but he stopped you before you could question him.

“Don’t worry your pretty head, princess. I only drank a glass, I promised. I’m just a bit stressed.”

“Mm, okay,” you replied, pushing aside your concerns for the moment as you melted into the warmth of his embrace.

You found solace in the familiar embrace of Leon's arms, the weight of your doubts momentarily forgotten as you leaned into his chest, burying your face against him. A few of his buttons were undone, allowing the soft hairs on his chest to brush against your face.

"Is everything alright, angel?" Leon's voice, soft and concerned, pulled you back to the present moment.

"Yeah, everything's fine. I just want to stay like this, with you," you murmured, the words slipping out before you could second-guess yourself.

His arms tightened around you, drawing you closer, as if he could sense the hesitation in your voice. "Me too, princess. Me too," his stubble pricked your forehead as he murmured against them.

Oh, how weak you were. His voice and touch alone melted you into a puddle, and all your problems seemed to vanish in his embrace. Your mama wouldn’t be happy with how you turned out; she wished that you would never let a man make you weak like she was.

Closing your eyes, you allowed yourself to sink deeper into his embrace, letting go of the weight of your doubts and worries. In this moment, all that mattered was the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against yours.

Perhaps one day, when the time was right, you would find the courage to open up to him about your inner struggles. Until then, you cherished this moment, clawing in the warmth of his love.

Pressing a tender kiss to your forehead, Leon whispered softly, "I love you, angel.”

“I love you, too, Leon, always,” you replied. The words were a vow of unwavering devotion and love…was it really?

All women become like their mothers. That is their tragedy. No man does, and that is his.

- Oscar Wilde

#leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy angst #leon kennedy fluff #resident evil 6 leon #death island leon #infinite darkness leon #damnation leon #vendetta leon #dividers by fairytopea #✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡ ˚

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hypvalsqr · 15 days ago

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NOTICE: THIS POST IS ABOUT GETTING MURDERFUCKED AND MIND CONTROLLED BY A SCARY HOT TOXIC LESBIAN WITCH.

A lot has been said with regards to Enchantment being the true "most frightening/unethical" school of magic. I don't think you all quite grasp the full picture.

By the time the witch entered the house two of us were already dead. It was an insult to magic, really. Me and the other students had set up all of these sigils and wards and psychic defenses and yet hadn't considered that someone could slaughter us from outside, without ever laying a finger on us. It was me after all that had...but she'd made them attack me! And they looked like..

No matter. I don't have the luxury of time or guilt. She'd made me kill them. She did it. And she just stepped inside the house. I could feel her presence when she crossed the threshold. Like something slithering through reeds in the night. Something passing beneath your boat. I heard another distant scream. A girl? One of the underclassmen maybe. I had to move fast.

I wiped the blood off my blade and refreshed its evocation-edge. I headed to the front door of the classroom and waited to hear another sound. A flurry of magic missiles thumped into a wall upstairs. It was clear, and I rushed out into the main hallway, beneath the grand stair. In the corner was my favorite spot, an unassuming armchair with a potted plant next to it. If I stood in the just right way and wove some simple layers of illusion magic I could become completely invisible to all but the most trained illusionists.

I grasped my dagger.

I waited.

I heard two girls scream to the right of me.

On the opposite side of the house now, still upstairs, I heard a chorus of men scream war cries and the house lit up with lightning and flame and ether for a brief moment before falling silent. Save one voice. It was the Archmage. I'd never heard him speak like that before.

"No! No. Please! Fuck. NO! I can't move. What did you do to me? What did you do to them? Answer me! Your magics are foul. You-"

Then another voice, a woman, spoke with presence, "Hush. They're sleeping. You wouldn't want to wake them."

"Stop. No. No, please stop not that. Not-" Then he broke off into a series of unhinged wails. There was a thumping through the house. Then another, and another. Steadily I began to recognize the sound of an executioners axe crunching through vertebrae.

The Archmages last words, confoundingly, were "Thank you." Then silence.

I reached out with a simple life-detection spell. That was my mistake. It confirmed that the only two people left alive inside or out the house were me and the witch. I also detected her quickly whipping around and walking towards my location. Shit. Fuck. SHITSHITSHIT. I cut the life detection and shifted to the opposite corner of the room, taking my 'cloak' of invisibility charms with me. Just in case.

That's when I heard her in my head.

"I see you, little one."

She's bluffing.

"You're funny. Out of all the people in this school you're the only one who thought not to attack me head on. Or to mount some pitiful attempt barricading me out. Why is that?"

I gripped my dagger tighter to my body.

"I think, or at least I hope, it's because you will be more fun than all of these wastes." She stepped out into the open at the top of the stairs. As expected from a Witch of Enchantments, she was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen in my life. She wore an inky green ballgown, stained red at the feet. Her collarbones and face were exposed and seemed to shimmer in the light. Every breath of hers let out a jet of glimmering pink particles.

"I won't know if you are until I get a peak inside that head of yours."

I heard a girls scream to the right.

What?

That couldn't be...she screamed again. And again. Coming from all angles. My heartrate picked up. This scream was familiar, I'd heard it a few minutes ago. But the more it echoed throughout the house and pounded into my brain I realized with a growing certainty that this scream was mine. It was my voice. This was the sound I would make when I die. How did she know that? How could she?

She took a step down the stairs but instead of descending she floated out gently into the space above me.

"Well, wherever you are in this room - plotting your little ambush - I'm curious. Give me your best shot. Let's see what you're capable of."

She had her back turned to me, about 5 feet off the ground. It was an easy kill. I should have seen it was too easy, or that she was clearly goading me into striking. But something inside me wanted to. It felt like I needed to. So I took my dagger and with a great leap I thrust upwards directly into her spine.

I felt it sink through her muscles, into her guts. I blinked and was face to face with the Archmage. My knife in his stomach. The light fading from his eyes.

The oldest trick in the book. I fell for it thrice, and now I was surely dead. I tried to cry but instead of tears I felt fingers, soft and delicate on my cheeks.

She whispered in my ear from behind, "Good job, darling. That was so wonderful. Now it's time for you to give up, alright?"

"Okay!"

I broke my useless dagger in half and dispelled all my defensive magics. The school had decided to-

"-hire a new teacher who was going to show you real magic. And-"

turn me into a real witch! I didn't need anyone else but her. I was on my knees now, looking up at her gorgeous face. Her brown curls framed her amber eyes and ochre brown skin. She was perfect. She would take care of me. She was saying something to me still that I couldn't quite understand but she was smiling and petting my head and face all over while she said it so it must be good. Then she turned to walk out the door. I stayed kneeling because she hadn't ordered me to follow her yet, I had to follow my Witch's orders. She walked out the front door and turned left out of sight.

"AAAHHHHH! AuughG ASNnOOO NO PELase OGH AH!!" I scrambled backwards on my hands up the stairs. The terror had returned all at once unexpectedly. I think I'd managed to hit her once but I wasn't sure. I had to get moving or she would find me again. My dagger was missing, shit she must have disarmed me but when? And my head was spinning. Did she do something to me? I have to assume no. Just keep moving. As fast as you can up the stairs. God, I was so cold. Had I been hit? Was I bleeding? I took stock of my body as I went up the stairs and noticed I was suddenly freezing cold. My robes were...gone...and the stairs were snow and...

"What? Get over here."

Dreams in waking. Nightmares in sleep. Walking backwards. Falling deep.

"Oh, sweetheart did you get caught up behind me?" My Witch clicked my collar into place around my neck as we stood in the snow outside the house, "Silly me. I should have told you to stick close to me. The enchantments will turn off whenever I'm out of sight," she leaned in close as she conjured a chain and attached it to my collar, "Did you get scared?"

"Mmm! Yeah! You walked outta the house and I got really scared and missed you and it was really weird I didnt. Uhh, I don't uhm-"

"Shhh, it's okay. I'm going to take you back to my cabin and lock you up somewhere nice and safe until I can turn you into a good student. But only if you behave. Can you do that for me?"

I nodded while staring into her eyes, feeling a warm blanket of security and joy cover my naked body as it was dusted in snowflakes.

"Thank you!"

WILL CONTINUE IN PART 2

#my writing #witchposting #empty spaces #i guess?#battlemageposting

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ferrstappen · 2 years ago

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the first one l Charles Leclerc imagine

a/n: so, I just KNOW Charles is a girl dad. I know three is his sweet spot, but idk if the boy would be the middle child or the youngest. what do you think? also, I'm working on requests and the collection pls trust me, but I'm a law student trying to hold my life together and not having a nervous breakdown every day <3

this first piece of dad!Charles is from this request <3

pairing: Charles Leclerc x female reader.

genre: dad!Charles, fluff.

warnings: mentions of pregnancy, not proofread bc I don't have time for that shit.

summary: Charles tries to prepare to be the best dad for his daughter, even if she's just two days old.

It wasn't fun being heavily pregnant.

Yes, the illusion and excitement of a baby coming to complete your family was an emotion neither you nor Charles had the proper words to explain. Friends and even strangers affirmed it was going to be the most magical moment of your life, that you wouldn't even be able to imagine life before your daughter.

But that wasn't relevant now, it was the furthest thing on your mind, sleep being the only thing remotely important at the moment, and it didn't seem to come as a faint light was coming from the opposite side of the bed.

Charles was shirtless, probably cold while slightly propped on some pillows, reading something on his Kindle, a small frown noticeable between his brows. He clearly was very concentrated on whatever he was reading, the only thing that made his attention shift was the light groan you let out. Of course Charles' instantly put his attention on you, the muscles on his neck showing with the fast movement.

"What happened? Are you okay?" He asked you, his eyes fixed on your figure, very carefully placing his hand on your swollen belly.

"No, I'm not okay because I can't sleep and I have to sleep since your daughter is sucking every bit of energy and space left on my body, and to make matters worse, the light of your kindle makes it impossible to sleep," You said with a pettish tone, but Charles wasn't fazed, after almost nine months he was used to the mood swings. "I'm so sorry, honey. I'm being such a bitch I'm sorry," and before you could stop, tears started streaming down your face, and that gained a reaction from Charles.

"No no no no, chérie. It's okay, it's just the hormones, it's fine," He carefully rubbed your swollen belly, feeling how the baby moved relentlessly. "Why do you move when mama is trying to sleep, mignonne?" Charles asked his unborn daughter, knowing with certainty she was listening to him.

"Because she's your daughter, why else?" You answered and he laughed, playfully rolling his eyes. "What are you reading in there, anyways?" This time you placed your hand on his hair, knowing Charles loved the little touches of affection.

He sheepishly smiled, "It's this book I found about pregnancy and the first weeks of the baby," he answered with a quiet tone, likely waiting for you to mock him.

Instead, fresh tears started streaming down your face, again. Sending Charles into a panic, again. "No no no no, chérie!"

✨✨✨✨

The apartment looked like a mess, the baby had arrived just two days earlier and didn't have time to even think about cleaning the extremely spacious penthouse overlooking the ocean, only focused on the little lilac bundle sleeping on her crib.

Since you left the hospital in the morning, where you asked for privacy and to not have any visitors, friends were constantly texting if now was a good time to visit you and the adorable newborn. You could've sworn every person in Monaco had made their way inside your family home.

First it was Carmen and George, with Alex and Lily, with a gorgeous bouquet of lilies for you, and carrying a large Zara kids bag with multiple cashmere onesies and clothes that would probably last a couple of weeks since, as Charles read on his book, babies grow up "very fast". Charles got a pat on the back.

Then followed Fred, with a huge basquet for both you and Charles, courtesy of the entire Ferrari team, and lots of small Ferrari merchandise.

Fred wasn't even out the door when Carlos and Isa quietly made their way inside, now with a bouquet of pink roses and a gorgeous and timeless Louis Vuitton baby blanket. Again, Charles received a pat on the back from Carlos as you carefully placed your daughter on Isa’s arms.

Charles had the biggest dark circles you’d ever seen under his eyes, and you probably looked worse, dealing with the recovery of your own body after giving birth. Right when you thought you could take a nap, Max, Lando, Kelly and Penelope arrived.

Of course they tried to make a statement, with multiple balloons, Gucci and Burberry bags for the baby. Of course Max was a natural holding her, cautiously kneeling for Penelope to see her. Lando nervously laughed and the only thing he was able to say was "she's so tiny", telling you he'd hold her when she was a little bigger.

It was almost 3 PM when Charles forced you to lay down, reminding you of the stages of healing after giving birth as he read in the book. It didn't take long for you to fall asleep, waking up every ten minutes because, apparently, mother instincts didn't take very long to kick in. That's why you immediately woke up when you heard low voices, quickly recognizing the voices of your in-laws. Carefully getting up and trying to look presentable, you walked towards the nursery.

No one noticed you, both Arthur and Lorenzo enthralled by their niece while Pascale held her, whispering sweet nothings in French as her granddaughter placed her tiny hand around Pascale's thumb.

Then, Charles demeanor changed.

You could see it as soon as Pascale placed the baby in Arthur's arms. His back tensed and he stood straighter, instantly moving closer towards his younger brother.

"Arthur, you have to hold her head," Charles told off his brother, carefully placing Arthur's hand on the baby's head.

He still was standing closely and worried, hand on his chin while staring at his brother. "No, Arthur don't move your arm like that," Again, he fixed his brother's arm. "No, Arthur fix your stance, you need to hold her still," His breathing was getting faster and then he couldn't take it anymore.

Arthur was perfectly holding her, but Charles simply couldn't bare with the fact of his brother making a microscopic wrong move and something happening to his daughter, his mignonne, é carina.

"No, give her to me, you're doing everything wrong." Charles carefully took his daughter off Arthur's arms.

Ignoring Arthur's shocked face and Pascale's amused expression, everyone noticed how the baby nuzzled in her papa's arms, instantly yawning and moving her hands as if she was trying to reach him; Charles instantly relaxed, feeling her against his chest and knowing she was okay because she was with him.

"I'm sorry, Arthur. I think he's kind of overprotective," You said entering the room. Pascale immediately approached you, asking how you were feeling and how much pain you were in.

"Poor her, honestly. She's doomed to have Charles as her shadow forever, she won't be able to go to school or anything!" Lorenzo chimed in, making everyone laugh, except for Charles of course.

"You haven't told us her name! We've been calling her mini (Y/N)," Arthur asked, admiring his niece from afar.

The only reason Charles lifted his gaze was to find your eyes, which you took as the cue to take your place next to your family, resting your head on Charles' shoulder.

"Josephine. We are still thinking about the second, we're seeing if Jules fits," You announced, Charles giving a bright smile to his family.

"I'm thinking of Josephine Sofia Jules Gia Leclerc," Charles said. Everyone in the room looked at each other with curiosity.

"She is not having four names, Charles!" The answer came quickly from you, the tone revealing this wasn't the first time it was discussed.

"Okay then, three?"

Josephine, that's what's clear.

#charles leclerc fluff #charles leclerc au #charles leclerc imagine #charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc one shot #charles leclerc #dad!charles leclerc #charles leclerc x female reader #charles leclerc x you #f1 x you #f1 x reader #f1 fic #f1 fanfic #charles leclerc fanfic #charles leclerc fic

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thechekhov · 11 months ago

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Dungeon Meshi Quick Reacts: CH40

Laios is apparently only good at drawing monsters.

You guys have no faith in him! Come onnnn

To that point, if the shapeshifters that are left are the most similar to the real selves, doesn't that prove that Laios actually knows them best? The other, easily-discounted shapeshifters were easily singled out as fakes because they were so caricature like.

The remaining fakes are just minutely different from the real selves. Chilchuk has slightly larger eyes, Marcille's hair is thinner, and Senshi has sharper features. What that says to me is that Laios is actually the BEST at reconstructing them in his mind.

Unfortunately, that. Kinda makes it harder.

Welll.......yeah. No, that makes sense.

This is a problem you all created 😂

This is legitimately making me question everything. Because like... Marcille A is acting pretty sus. But they've been through a lot, so maybe she's just depressed?

Oooooooh someone minmaxed into gayness. That's certainly a dependable strategy.

FAKE!!!!! He's the fake! Senshi would never deplete an ecosystem completely like that!!!!

ah yes, all sorts of nutrition. White rice is known for its nutrition like...... (looks at smeared writing on hand) carbohydrates and scant amounts of folates. Yep.

HE IS HANDSOME, BUT NOT "B"!! "A" IS ALSO HANDSOME!! THEY'RE BOTH HANDSOME!

.......guys. GUYYS.

Laios, you're such an absolute loser and I love you but please. Please turn on the autism. Just this once, please turn on the autism beam and point it at your friends. Please

"all of them! Everyone is fake! Including me!"

Wouldn't that be a plot twist.

why are both the chillchucks upset at this suggestion? shouldn't the real ones be relieved?

Illusions with physical traits, though? Is that not obvious once you start roughing it up with it? If something can be physical enough to fight, why not just use that thing to overpower the adventurer, then?

....so it's a vampire created illusion?

Okay, so because I saw someone else post this page to my dash about a week ago I'm actually fully aware of what comes next, and I can say with certainty that it does not ruin it. At all.

I gotta say, as a weird little kid that practiced barking like a dog and mimicking dog howls, this is making me feel SO SEEN. He's just like me fr.

And the fact that they're all supporting his talent........friendship is magic.

I'm so intrigued by this man and how his mind works.

Love is not letting your dumbass furry friend climb into the wolf enclosure at the zoo and try to fight the alpha of the pack.

This is. So real. I've never seen a manga commit SO MUCH to the weird little man trope, and I love Kui-san so much for this. This is true representation.

Dumbass recognizes dumbass. This is why they're friends.

I WAS WONDERING ABOUT THAT. I also didn't remember it!

Oh, hmm.....

I'm relatively certain the hand that Marcille grasped in the last chapter WAS the cat's hand. That means the cat followed them - but because no one knew she was there, the shapeshifter didn't create any illusions of her. That means she was just hiding out, observing everything.

Is she just sleeping in there curled up on the rice?

Ahhh, so it was a distraction.

#dungeon meshi #dungeon meshi quick reacts #delicious in dungeon #dungeon meshi liveblog #chekhov reads dungeon meshi

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danytherelentless · 1 year ago

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They Will Suffice

Jon Snow x fem!reader

summary: a pleasurable moment during your pregnancy with your husband

warnings: smut, illusions to sex, fingering, sweet talk, a little bit dirty, pregnancy, slight pregnancy kink (if you squint really, really hard)

The wind is howling and furious outside, it rattles the shutters of the windows and whistles through the gaps it manages to slither through the walls creating a chill in the air in spite of the warm pipes within the walls of the castle.

You lie in bed with your husband, a quiet and comforting moment between two lovers. Basking in the afterglow of love-making leaning back into his strong arms as they wrap around your front and caress you belly.

His bare knuckle grazes where your child kicks. A budum rhythm over and over again.

"It appears we have awoken them," you muse, looking up to see him. His handsome face is wrought with concentration, dark brows furrowed close.

"He," he corrects you.

You huff a laugh, "he? So sure are we?"

"Yes. I dream of our son in your arms. Of him playing in the Godswood with Ghost," he presses a kiss to your brow.

"Every man wishes for a son. But dreams will not make our child grow a cock if they do not already possess one," you warn. You can't help but feel a little nervous at his surety of a son. What would happen if you birthed a daughter instead?

"I would not be disappointed with a little daughter, my love. I just know that this..." he strokes the underside of your belly where there is another thump, "is our son."

You hum in acknowledgment, a small smile curling at your mouth.

"And what shall our son's name be?"

"Edric," his response is instant.

Your eyes soften, "for your father?"

"Hm. Little Ned," he is smiling now, a small, beautiful and oh so rare thing. It makes your heart swell and tears well up in your eyes.

"When we have a daughter you shall name her," he tells you, as if it is a certainty.

"And what if we shall only have sons? Or only this one child?"

"Then you can name them too. You're the one doing all the hard work," he tells you.

"I suppose you are right. Though you certainly take care of me," you respond with a teasing grin.

"I do now, do I?" he teases right back, one hand going further down to your .

"Mhm. I find myself quite satiated in your presence."

"Careful, I might become unbearable with all this flattery," his teeth graze at the side of your face. You sigh as you sink further back into his arms.

"We can't have that now, can we?"

His hand slips between your thighs, your knees parting some more to allow him better access.

"I find myself not fully satiated tonight, however," you continue, a stir in your lower belly, an urge to squeeze your thighs tightly together.

"Oh. We can't have that now, can we?"

His fingers slide between your folds, already slick once more. He had already cleaned you up after your previous bouts of love-making quite nicely, though is appears it was for nought as you would soon be a mess again.

"I'm not sure I have such energy as you," he admitted as he slid a curled finger into you, thumb circling your nub. A moan broke past your lips as he moves much to slowly.

"Well... your fingers will have to suffice," you let out another broken moan as he gathers your wetness and slides in a second finger.

"Hmm, so wet. So warm," his lips are pressed against the side of your face, teeth grazing the flesh as he whispers his sweet praises into your ear.

His practiced movements speed up, your knees part wider. His cock is hardened somewhat against your back, though not nearly at full mast.

"I can't believe I have you, so perfect, so tight, right in my arms," he speaks, lips dragging across your jaw as you throw your head back against his shoulder.

His fingers curl further, rubbing along that soft spot inside of you which had your thighs twitching and your eyes rolling back as your nails dig into his flesh.

"Right there," you moan, breathless, "please."

"Please what? What do you want?"

"I want to cum. Please make me come," you let out a louder moan.

His movements speed up, "come for me, wife. Finish for me."

You reach your peak, your third that night, fingers curling into the flesh of his thighs, a high, broken keening sound passing your lips, eyes squeezed tightly shut and mouth forming an 'o'.

"So pretty," he strokes your thighs and swollen belly, "so perfect."

You don't hear what he says next as you are lulled into a peaceful slumber, howls of the wind distant to your ears as his warmth envelopes you whole and drags you down to the depths of rest.

comments are greatly appreciated, don’t be a stranger :)

you can find me on Wattpad and AO3 by danytherelentless

let me know if you would like to be added to the tag list for any of my works (character specifications and smut or not)

#jon snow x reader #jon snow x you #jon snow smut #jon snow imagine #jon snow #asoiaf x reader #asoiaf smut #got x reader #got x you #got smut #smut #fluff

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piastrixpole · 2 months ago

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sweet thing

pairing: fernando alonso x fem!oscar piastri

genre: smut

warnings: age gap, dom/sub, housewife oscar, manipulation, rimming, vaginal fingering, anal fingering, cock warming, body worship, breeding, pregnancy kink, controversial young gf oscar x dirty old man fernando, mark webber haunts the narrative

read on ao3 instead

In theory, Fernando knows it’s wrong—he understands it as a concept, like a rule that he can intellectually grasp but that has never fully settled into his conscience or lack thereof. Yet that’s as far as his morals stretch; he has drawn the line only at knowledge, not at action. Anyone can sit on the outside and argue that what he’s doing is undeniably and thoroughly wrong. They can preach morality, dissecting every choice he’s made, but if they were in his shoes, if they had felt the pull as intensely and for as long as he has, they wouldn’t hold up as well. The temptation has been there for years, sweet and insistent like the scent of caramel lingering in the air—just close enough to make his mouth water, always out of reach. If they had been tormented by that allure, teased by the idea of indulgence yet bound by restraint, they would have cracked long before he did.

He’s always been vaguely aware of the girl. She was, after all, Mark’s protégé, and anyone close to Mark tended to draw a certain level of intrigue from him. There was something about her—a quiet determination, maybe, or the way she shadowed Mark with such focused intent—that had him keeping her in the corner of his mind, even if only distantly. She lingered in the background of his thoughts, like a half-formed puzzle he couldn’t help but consider now and then, a curiosity that felt both familiar and elusive.

Fernando was far older, seasoned by the world in ways that had stripped away any illusions he might once have held. She, on the other hand, seemed impossibly young—untouched by the shadows he carried and still cocooned in a kind of innocence he’d long since forgotten. It was part of what intrigued him, this contrast between them: her wide-eyed certainty, the way she followed Mark with such unwavering belief. Her innocence almost felt like a challenge, like a reflection of something he might have been once, if he hadn’t made the choices that had led him here. Yet, despite her youth, there was a spark in her that he couldn’t quite dismiss. She had a presence he found himself watching, curious and wary, as if it held the potential to change things he hadn’t realized could be changed.

And then, somehow, she invaded his life. It started subtly, back when he was wrestling with his own regrets at Alpine—second-guessing every choice that had brought him back into this relentless, unforgiving world. She was their reserve driver then, an eager presence on the fringes, absorbing every detail, ready to take on whatever was thrown her way. He’d promised Mark he’d look out for her, to make sure no one—neither the staff nor the higher-ups—would try to use her for their own gain, to protect her from the more ruthless side of the sport. And he had. He’d kept her out of the crossfire, watched from a distance, ensuring she stayed untouched by the industry's harshest realities.

But no one had asked him to make any promises for himself. There was no rule against him feeling the pull of her presence, no oath keeping him from becoming entangled in her orbit. And so, without quite realizing how it happened, he found himself drawn to her, feeling his own self-control slip, as if some part of him had been waiting for this collision all along.

At first, Fernando kept it tame, maintaining an air of innocence that softened his edges and put her at ease. He was careful, measured, like a spider weaving its web slowly, each thread laid so delicately that she never sensed herself being ensnared. He spoke to her with easy confidence, the older mentor guiding the up-and-comer, his gaze lingering just a second too long but always friendly enough to evade suspicion. He knew precisely how to feed her attention in small, digestible doses, inviting her trust, making her feel safe.

When they were alone in the garage, his touches grew bolder, hands drifting to places they shouldn’t, lingering for the briefest moments—just enough to spark something in her mind without giving anyone else reason to notice. His grip was firm, possessive even, subtly asserting his presence in her thoughts, a silent message that told her she was his to guide, his to influence. And before long, that message had planted itself deep, binding her without a single overt gesture or word, until she was entwined so fully in his orbit that pulling away no longer felt like an option.

Things were still unfolding far too slowly for Fernando’s taste. Despite his careful advances, she seemed maddeningly oblivious to his interest, leaving him to wonder if she was truly that naïve or simply playing an excruciatingly hard-to-get game. Frustration simmered beneath his patience, and he was beginning to doubt whether he’d miscalculated. But then, the situation shifted, a stroke of luck handed to him in the form of her contract drama.

His own move to Aston Martin had been, as usual, entirely self-serving—Fernando had rarely made a decision without a hint of selfish ambition guiding it. Yet, he’d known, somewhere in the back of his mind, that leaving his Alpine seat open would likely bring her into the fold. Mark had been working tirelessly, negotiating with McLaren, laying out a clear path for her future. Or at least, he had been. But then, things unraveled in the worst way possible. Missteps and misunderstandings left Oscar Piastri with his seat instead, and she was left without a position at all. McLaren, concerned about the controversy of hiring a female rookie with all eyes watching, backed off entirely. In the end, Alpine refused to take her back, leaving her caught in the fallout, isolated and painfully aware of how precarious her footing in the sport truly was.

She’d masked her devastation well, shielding herself behind a steely exterior to ward off criticism and public pity. But Fernando saw through it. He had spent too long observing her to miss the cracks in her armor, the subtle way her shoulders slumped or how her gaze would harden at any mention of the ordeal. He could read her now, and he knew that her heartbreak was real, lurking beneath her carefully controlled expressions.

It was that vulnerability, perhaps, that finally opened the door he’d been knocking on for so long. The disappointment and isolation she felt had worn down her defenses, making her susceptible to the comfort he offered. Fernando had no intention of wasting the opportunity, and he was all too willing to be the one she leaned on in the absence of anyone else. In her lowest moments, he became her confidant, her solace—the one person who understood. And just like that, she had stepped deeper into his web, exactly as he’d planned.

Now, she was his. She trailed him through the paddock, attentive and loyal, ready to support him through each race, her presence as constant and obedient as a shadow. Mark remained none the wiser, still believing Fernando’s interest in the young girl was nothing more than a mentor’s concern, a natural extension of the responsibility he himself had once shouldered. Fernando had downplayed his interest masterfully, mirroring Mark’s protective demeanor to deflect any suspicion. As far as Mark knew, Fernando’s watchful eye on her was just another layer of guidance, the kind of steady hand an older driver offered to someone so young and fresh to the sport.

But reality was far different. What Mark saw as mentorship was, in truth, a claim. Fernando had woven himself so tightly into her life that she barely knew where her decisions ended and his influence began. He’d become her confidant, her anchor, someone she trusted implicitly in a world that had already let her down. And it was exactly where he wanted her—close, loyal, and bound to him in ways no one else understood. He enjoyed the secrecy, the quiet knowledge that she was his alone, that beneath the facade of support was a bond infinitely more possessive and profound than anyone could guess.

Mark would probably have a heart attack if he could see her now. Unknowingly being corrupted by a man old enough to be her father. To Mark, she was still the eager young driver he’d taken under his wing, the one he’d been so careful to shield from the darker side of racing, convinced that her talent deserved nothing but purity and respect. He’d trusted Fernando to do the same, to protect her from the sport’s rougher edges and ensure she stayed on a path untainted by power games or external ambition.

But if he saw her now, standing so close to Fernando, her loyalty already shifting, her trust reshaped and twisted into something far more complicated, Mark’s world would shatter. Fernando had blurred those boundaries with practiced ease, taking on the role of mentor only to turn it into something far more personal, drawing her in with that slow, calculated charm. In Mark’s eyes, Fernando was still the veteran teammate who’d promised to look after her; in reality, he was the one leading her astray, and she was far too ensnared to even see it.

Like Fernando said, it was easy to claim the situation was morally wrong. Not when he’d finally gotten a taste of her. Now that he’d tasted what he’d been chasing, he knew there was no turning back. Right and wrong had become blurred concepts, abstract lines that faded the closer she came to him.

He could still see the way her eyes softened when she looked at him, the way she trusted him without question—a trust he knew he hadn’t earned the way she believed. But for Fernando, that trust only deepened his claim, reinforcing the thrill of having crossed every boundary they weren’t supposed to. It was too late for second thoughts, too late for restraint. Now, she was his, and nothing—certainly not something as frail as morality—was going to change that.

The fabric barely covered her upper thighs, the microskirt hugging her form in a way that was almost scandalous. Fernando couldn’t help but admire his own handiwork; investing in that tiny skirt had been a stroke of brilliance. He’d indulged her all day, sparing no expense as he treated her, rewarding her with anything her heart desired. And now, as she stood in front of the mirror, twirling slightly, her eyes gleaming with satisfaction, he saw just how perfectly it fit. One small movement, a shift of her hips or a slight bend, and it would leave nothing to the imagination.

He’d carefully, steadily eased her out of her former constraints, erasing any trace of modesty she once had. Modesty was a useless relic now, one she had no reason to cling to. Fernando had made sure of that, just as he’d ensured she understood she no longer needed to hide from him—or from anyone. She was his now, accessible to him whenever he wanted, and she understood that fully. There was no pretense left, no hesitation; she was exactly where he wanted her.

Fernando smirked in satisfaction as she twirled around to show it off at various angles. Normally skirts weren't his thing but this one was fucking hot. The pleated material sat comfortably on her hips and ended just below her pussy.With a newfound energy and confidence Oscar practically glowed. “I love it, papi ,”she exclaimed, her voice bright with delight. The words hung in the air between them, a mix of admiration and something deeper that made his pulse quicken. He could see how the skirt had transformed her, drawing out a boldness that only amplified her allure. It was a perfect reflection of what he had nurtured in her, the shift from shy naivety to unapologetic self-assurance. In that moment, surrounded by her laughter and enthusiasm, Fernando felt a surge of possessiveness; she was his creation, and he couldn’t help but relish in the satisfaction of knowing he’d awakened this side of her.

For the longest time he’d built up her confidence. Their shared time at Alpine had crippled her self esteem and she constantly felt insecure in the way she looked. Wondering why on earth Fernando Alonso, who could have anyone, had chosen her. But it was so liberating to be his. With Fernando she could turn off her brain and not subject herself to thinking. He always told her she was far too pretty to concern herself with that. He’d broken her down to her deeply concealed but authentic self unbeknownst to her.

When racing was no longer an option, he’d been right there, stepping in to fill the void. As she struggled with the loss of her dreams, he had eased her pain, quietly reinforcing the bond between them. Now, with him, there was no need to fret over what was next. All that mattered was being by his side, supporting him, just as he had been there to support her. The complexities of the past faded away; now her world revolved around him. She embraced her role wholeheartedly, finding a sense of purpose in being his confidante, his partner, a steadfast presence in his life. Being there for Fernando, creating a home they shared, acting as his perfect stay at home girlfriend felt like the fulfillment of something she hadn’t even known she’d needed.

They settle into a routine quickly. Fernando comes home from a long day at the factory and Oscar’s there concentrated over the stove wearing a slutty little apron that had been gifted to her by Fernando. It’s a tiny piece of fabric that barely covers the front of her, some of her cleavage spilling out of the sides that may or may not have been Fernando’s intention. And of course, it's backless so her sweet bubble butt is greeting him as soon as he walks in the door. His gaze follows down to the matching thigh highs she has on, hand-picked from their extensive collection paired with an adorable pair of kitten heels. Fernando found himself entranced, unable to look away as he took in the sight before him. It felt as if time had stopped; the world outside faded away, leaving just the two of them in this intimate moment. He studied how the thigh-highs clung to her skin, the way they transformed her from a young girl into someone undeniably sultry. In these moments, she wasn’t just Oscar; she was a vision, and he could feel a primal need rising within him.

“Hi honey,” she rests her hand on his shoulder to lean in, kissing his cheek gently. “How was work?”

“Long. Dinner better be ready,” Fernando demands. There’s a hard edge to his voice that makes Oscar’s knees weak with lust. It’s the kind of edge that promises bruises and sore hips come morning.

“Few more minutes.”

Fernando groans dramatically, and Oscar purses her lips against a smile. “Just while the potatoes crisp. Let me take your jacket.”

Fernando does just that, letting Oscar trail her fingertips over his shoulders in a slow, teasing manner, finally getting the chance to really admire the suit he had worn today. It's grey, with a crisp white undershirt that exposes itself more with every tug, a far cry from the usual team wear that Aston Martin has Fernando in usually.. The green tie looks good against his skin, tan and unmarked- a fact Oscar wants to change.

She pulls the jacket off and takes it to the closet by the front door, hanging it up and diligently doing up the buttons at the bottom so it wouldn’t wrinkle.

“That apron looks so good on you, mi amor ,” Fernando purrs.

“Thank you, sir,” Oscar blushes, feeling the familiar pull in her gut at his words.

“House looks good too. Thank you for cleaning up.”

“It’s my job,” she brushes off the praise as if she hadn’t been dying to hear it all day.

Fernando smiles. “I know. You’re just my cute little housewife. What else would you do all day if I’m not around to fuck you?”

Hot white liquid iron burns through her veins. Her cheeks go red, chest squeezing. “Nothing. I wouldn’t do anything.”

Fernando sighs dreamily. “House smells great too.”

As if on cue the oven beeps.

Oscar smiles and takes Fernando’s hand gently, guiding him over to the dining table and pulling out the chair for him.

Fernando slides in, sitting patiently while Oscar fixes his plate for him. She piles it high, probably more than what Fernando could realistically eat on his diet, and serves it in front of him with as much grace as she can muster.

A hand trails up the back of her thighs, leaving a gentle smack on her round cheeks. His fingertip brushes against the lace just about covering her cunt, teasing and coy. “Thank you, honey, you’re such a good girl for me.”

There it is again. Good girl .

The praise and the pet names are sending her to outer space.

If she was floating on her own, she’s completely discombobulated now. It doesn’t even feel like she has a body, mouth full of love that coats her throat so thick she could barely speak. “Thank you.”

“Thank you, cariña . Does mi linda pequeña esposa want to keep me warm while I eat?”

Oscar nods dumbly. “Yes please.”

Fernando sits back a little.

Oscar gracefully goes to her knees, careful of her apron that flattens across his thighs. She shuffles around awkwardly to settle between her husband’s.

Fernando doesn’t move to help her, just starts eating quietly above her.

Beneath the table, it’s like a little cave, only adding to her floaty headspace. It’s so safe here between Fernando’s legs, like nothing in the world could ever hurt her. She trusts him completely and knows Fernando will take care of her no matter what, even if the sky begins to fall or oceans rise, he’ll keep her safe.

She loves Fernando’s thighs. She rubs over them in the suit appreciatively just once, adoring the strength of muscle beneath her palms before she goes for his belt, undoing it carefully. The click of the metal resonates in the air as she pulls it open, along with the button on his slacks.

Oscar carefully pulls his soft cock from his pants and underwear. Her mouth is already filling with drool as she gives him a tentative lick, earning a warning grunt. She’s not there to get him off, she’s there to keep him warm, so that’s what she does, pulling the soft, thick head into her mouth, letting the heavy weight settle across her tongue.

“Fixing me dinner,” Fernando cards his fingers in the soft golden hairs in his lap. “Cleaning the house, getting on your knees for me, you’re such a buena esposa for para mi huh?”

Oscar hums in appreciation around him, sucking softly.

She could stay there forever, Fernando stroking her hair while she keeps him warm. She feels so useful like this, so loved and cherished.

Oscar lets her eyes slip shut, sucking every now and again but never enough to get her off no matter how much she aches to feel him hit the back of her throat and choke her on his dick.

Tap.

Oscar tries not to smile around the cock in her mouth. She taps Fernando’s thigh back.

She has such a good husband, always checking on her and caring for her. Her heart soars with unrefined love.

Time passes strangely like this, much as it had the entire day. It takes her a moment to register Fernando’s words sometime later. “I’m finished amor , put me up now.”

Oscar whimpers. She doesn’t want to move.

“Quit being such a cockslut and listen to me.” his voice goes sharper.

Wanting to be good for him, she pulls off with a wet pop.

She’s not ready to get up yet, she feels at home here. Her mind helpfully supplies this is your place. Cook for him, clean for him, get him off. It’s what you’re meant to do.

Oscar knows it’s a terrible, outdated belief, a gross, nasty stereotype of a wife. It’s not realistic. It’s barbaric. But being that for Fernando gets her off like nothing else.

Giving in, she tucks Fernando back into his pants and crawls out from under the table, wiping at the spit coating her lips. Eyes wide, she stares up at Fernando for a second, drinking him in.

Fernando gives her plenty of time, petting her cheek while he regathers himself enough to stagger to his feet.

“Why don’t you go start dishes.” He commands easily, giving Oscar the direction she so craves.

Oscar nods. Right, she needs to keep up with her house duties even when her husband is here.

She gathers Fernando’s plate and clears off the remnants into the trash, carrying it over to the sink.

Oscar fills it up with water, well aware of Fernando watching her closely. His gaze scorches everywhere it touches, lighting her on fire with a burning intensity.

She keeps her eyes on the dishes in the sink, not even looking up as the man approaches her.

“Dinner was so good, cariña ,” he kisses her cheek, wandering hands trailing anywhere they can reach. “I think you deserve a treat.”

Oscar gulps. “Thank you.”

Fernando slowly gets down on his knees behind her and oh, Oscar knows where this is going.

She’s spreading her legs apart before Fernando even asks, getting down on her elbows in front of the sink happily.

“What a slut. I didn’t even tell you what your treat is and you’re already acting like this?”

“Mm excited papi, I’ve been waiting all day,” she bites his lip.

Fernando reaches back up under her apron, pulling the thong down and off this time so she’s nude beneath it, helping her step out of them so she doesn’t trip. Fernando tosses them somewhere behind them and pulls the apron up once again to get access to Oscar’s tits. Instead of throwing it over as he had done previously though, he lets the fabric fall back around her front, and that is a feeling in and of itself. It’s lewd and tantalizing to feel the soft brush of his hair against her ass as he noses up her thigh, but then Fernando is grabbing handfuls of her butt, pulling her cheeks apart so he can lavish a broad swipe of his tongue before she can get used to any one sensation of the multitude she’s feeling right now.

Oscar moans, loud and unabashed. It feels so good, even with the plug that blocks her from licking the place she most wants him to the most. The burn of his beard is wonderful, she hopes her thighs will stay pink with the itchy scratches after this, wants to feel it every time she sits down and be brought back to this moment.

She gets so lost in the wet, hot tongue prodding at her rim and sucking in places just to make her squeal she forgets what she’s supposed to be doing.

Luckily Fernando is there to remind her, to tell her what to do when she can’t think for herself. “Do the dishes, baby, be a good girl.”

She nods frantically as if Fernando could see her.

Hands shaking, she grabs the plate in the sink, scrubbing over it. It doesn’t get clean nearly as well as it needs to, but she can’t manage to do a good job when Fernando’s tongue is poking at her rim, licking her most intimate area.

She’s going to explode.

“Papi, please,” she whimpers, practically speedrunning the dishes. She doesn’t care, she can’t care, it feels too good. It’s too vulgar, too lewd, the way his tongue laps around the base of the plug still in her ass, licks over her slit, and leaves trails of spit that leaves her feeling wet and needy. “I’m finished!” she announces, all but throwing the final fork. “I’m finished, please!”

Fernando pulls back, breath hot against her in the confined space. “Good job, baby. Why don’t you finish cleaning up the rest and come join me when you’re done?” he asks with one final squeeze of her ass.

Fernando stands, already walking off towards the living room again, completely unaffected while Oscar can hardly stand, panting helplessly against the sink on wobbly knees.

It’s probably killing him to not help clean up, Oscar can’t help but think. Fernando always helps clean up, especially since he’s near useless when it comes to actually cooking.

“Yes , papi,” she calls back. Even her voice trembles.

Mind blissfully blank, she makes quick work of clearing off the table and packing up the leftovers to eat later when they’re done with the scene, trying not to think about the spit slicked between her cheeks that slide with every step she takes.

Soon enough she’s drifting over to the couch where Fernando is sitting with his thighs wide apart, arms stretched over the back of the couch looking relaxed and comfortable.

He perks up when he notices Oscar approaching, sitting up a little in his spot.

“There she is, mi hermosa esposa. Come here,” he pats his thigh invitingly.

Oscar floats over to him, not hesitating to straddle his thigh and settle onto his leg.

Fernando pulls her in for a kiss, tender and sweet. Oscar clutches at the button-up shirt he wears, holding onto the fabric like a lifeline when that hand settles back into her hair, using it to tug her neck back. She can’t even cringe away at the tickle of his lips against her neck, kissing and sucking at the skin as if she didn’t already wear bruises from their activities the night before, and the night before that, and the night before that-

Fernando works at the skin until it turns pink beneath his tongue, lapping down her neck until he’s at her chest. He pushes the material of her apron up, the sleeves around her shoulders doing nothing to hold the top of it up anymore. The second her chest is exposed, Fernando is latching on to her nipples, pinching one while he kisses and sucks on the other.

Oscar can’t help but grind down against his thigh at the feeling, and the lewd sight is something even better, going straight to her cunt to watch how his husband sucks at her chest, moving on to the other nipple to give it the same treatment. They pebble under his touch, giving him something to nip at that makes Oscar gasp pathetically. She’s so sensitive there, a fact Fernando knew well with how often he exploited it.

The sound only encourages him to bite down harder, pulling the delicate nubs, twisting to make her squirm and plead for more. “ Papi , please!”

“No,” he chastises with a pinch to her ass. “You don’t ask for anything tonight, got it muñeca ? You take what I give you.”

Oscar jolts, nodding along quickly to show that she gets it, she does, she can’t think but she can understand her place, she can be good.

Fernando gives her poor boobs a break. Her nipples ache in the chilled air when he pulls back with another order. “Lay down for me, okay baby? Put your legs in my lap.”

Oscar eagerly does just that, resting her head on the armrest she had been bent over this morning.

She stretches long, porcelain legs out over Fernando’s lap, eager to know where this is going to go.

Fernando smirks, stroking over her hairless legs covered in the white sheen of the thigh highs. His chuckle is low and dark as he asks, “You’re just a pretty little fucktoy, aren’t you? You don’t even think, you just do whatever I say huh?”

The subtle degradation wedges its way beneath her skin, searing into her flesh like a brand.

“Yes papi , just for you.”

“That’s right because what am I?” Fernando asks, hand hovering over her but refusing to touch her neglected cunt so it’s dripping between her legs.

“ Papi !” Oscar whines. “You’re my esposo .”

She lays there beneath the harsh glow of the tv in the slowly darkening room, completely naked and exposed for Fernando. Her cunt- dripping down her thighs now- twitches in approval, the lovebites littering her neck and chest throbbing.

“That’s right, baby. You belong to me,” Fernando takes her in hand, slowly rubbing down her slit, drawing a cry of relief from her. “Your body belongs to me. I can do whatever I want to you huh?”

Tap.

“Yes papi , anything.” he agrees mindlessly.

Tap.

“Good. Now you’re going to lay here and let me play with you while I watch tv. I need something to do with my hands,” he says dismissively, sitting back against the couch.

Like she’s nothing but a toy. Literally.

Fernando won’t even look at her.

The first stroke of his hand makes her hips jerk up, chasing the feeling she’s long burned for. Fernando lets her get away with it once, something for which Oscar is grateful. It takes a lot of mental energy to stay still after that. She clings onto the couch, pinches the fabric of his slacks, claws at the cushions, anything to keep her from squirming around in the cruel, painfully slow touch.

Burning . She’s burning up.

Oscar’s flush grows down the length of her chest, the tight ball in his abdomen becoming a solid rock of arousal. She bites her lip to contain her needy sobs, on the verge of begging for more, endlessly more. All she can think anymore is how desperate she is to cum, to find release.

He’s doing nothing but fingering her but it feels like it goes on for hours, her cuny tightening and tightening with every languid stroke, every swipe of his thumb over her clit or rough pounding of her G-spot..

She pants and rocks up but Fernando takes his hand away when she does. At least she earns his gaze back on her, even if it’s accompanied with his ire. “No. You’re going to lay there and take it, got it?”

It’s almost more painful to not be touched right now so she nods and cries into the cushions.

She’s completely on display like this, but she imagines that’s what Fernando wants. A good wife to spread their legs for him whenever he wants for however long he wants. Fernando has all the control here, every last ounce of it. She’s never felt more safe . Taken care of. She leaves it all up to Fernando, trusting him to know what’s best for her, and if being edged well into the night is what’s best for her, she’d take it and say thank you for delicious torture.

“Thank you, papi,” she breathes out in response to the thought, trying to keep her hips still. She’s so overstimulated though it’s agonising. The muscles in her abdomen tense with the urge to fuck into his hand until she cums.

“For what?”

“Taking care of me!” Her hips jerk anyways.

“Stupid slut can’t listen,” Fernando takes ahold of her thighs, holding her down cruelly. “What happened to my good girl huh? You’re being a bad-”

“Yellow.”

Fernando freezes.

“Yellow.” She repeats, tears squeezing free from the corners of her eyes.

He removes his hands from Oscar.

The comedown is painful without the stimulation but it’s necessary.

“Are you okay?” Fernando asks, worry soaking his words.

“I’m not…” she struggles to say it. She doesn’t want to fuss or disappoint but if he says one more word like that Oscar will want to do nothing more than curl up and hide. “I’m sorry.”

“No amo r, tell me.”

“I know I was being bad but… I don’t want you to say that I’m bad. It makes me feel… bad. Not in a sexy fun kind of way tonight, not like this.”

That’s the best explanation she can give for it. It’s not the most eloquent phrasing but it’s hard to describe how being told she’s bad makes her feel. It latches onto her heart and squeezes all the blood out, it turns her skin to ice and freezes over the rational part of her brain that knows Fernando loves her. It hurts .

“Okay,” Fernando’s tone is comforting, so full of understanding. “So no punishments?”

“Umm… no. Not tonight. I’m not trying to get out of it!” she tacks on at the end.

“Hey, I know. I know what you’re trying to say. If you don’t want to hear stuff like that then I won’t say stuff like that tonight.”

Her voice comes out smaller than she meant for it to. “Just tell me I’m good?”

“I can do that,” Fernando smiles softly. “Now, what’s your colour? Do you need a break?”

“I’m good,” she finds her wrist.

Tap.

“Why don’t I take mi dolce esposa to bed then, huh?” Fernando coos, falling back into the role with ease. He takes hold of Oscar’s clit again, playing with it lightly. “You gonna spread your legs for me? Take my cock like a good girl?”

Oscar bucks into his touch, delighting when there’s no reprimand for it. “Yes papi. ”

“Good, get up then,” he slaps a hand down on Oscar’s ass, drawing a whimper from her as she scrambles to get up.

Oscar may be slightly taller, but Fernando is strong.

He stands and scoops Oscar up bridal style in one fell swoop, surprising her as she yelps and clings to him at the sudden change.

Oscar adjusts quickly, wrapping her arms around his neck.

Fernando’s beautiful eyes land on Oscar’s before he’s pulling her in for a kiss, so much softer and sweeter than the rest of the night had been.

When he pulls back, he carries them down the hall to their bedroom, flicking on the lights on his way past the threshold.

“Hands and knees, baby,” Fernando tosses her down onto the bed.

Oscar forces her body to move, pulls herself up onto her hands and knees.

Impatiently Fernando grabs hold of the plug, Oscar gasping out a whine as it’s pulled out of her and tossed to the sheets. She’s left empty and gaping as Fernando undoes his pants again, though not for long as he slips two fingers inside of her ass and then three deep into her cunt to make sure she’s stretched well enough. Once he deems it sufficient, he pulls his fingers out, Oscar quaking with anticipation.

The zipper of his pants is deafening.

Fernando doesn’t even bother taking his pants off all the way, just pushing them down around his thighs with his boxers to pull his cock free, lubing it up and sliding into her cunt so fast Oscar can hardly keep up. That same zipper digs into her ass painfully but she can’t find it in herself to care, adoring the mixture of pain alongside the bliss of finally being full of Fernando’s cock. “Fuck baby,” Fernando breathes. “You feel so good. You’re my good girl huh?”

“Yes, yes, I’m your good girl papi, I-” she can’t even finish the sentence, wind knocked out of her as Fernando starts fucking her, never giving her time to adjust. He knows she doesn’t need it, he knows a slut like his wife can take it.

Tap.

Oscar waits to feel that shock of pleasure, for Fernando to start really fucking her, but it never comes.

He’s not even trying.

They have had sex so many times Oscar has lost count. They’ve done it in every position imaginable, in every location possible , it doesn’t matter, Fernando knows where her G-spot is, how to fuck her to make her see stars.

But as Fernando begins thrusting in and out, he doesn’t even try to aim, using her like… like a cock sleeve.

She sobs, trying to fuck herself back on his cock to hit it herself but Fernando doesn’t let her.

She opens her mouth to beg, but remembers his earlier words. She’s not allowed. She can’t beg, she can’t move, the best she can do is let herself be used, dragged back and forth, fucked but never good enough.

It’s because it’s not about you. It’s about making him feel good, your pleasure comes second.

She cries freely, overwhelmed with the feeling of it.

Fernando speeds up, thrusts becoming uneven. “I’ve got the perfect esposa huh, baby?”

Yes, yes, yes, I’m the perfect wife I’m good for you, I’m so good please-

“Shh, I’ve got you, baby, you’re so good for me,” Fernando soothes.

She didn’t even notice she was talking out loud.

Fernando cums, hips stuttering and stalling inside her. The way he fills her up is amazing, she loves it, but she needs to cum already holy shit “mm take all my cum pequena …want to give you a baby mi amor , you’d look so pretty knocked up from a dirty old man like me, the perfect mami to our kids.”

She’s held in place as her husband comes down from his high. When he’s ready to move again, Fernando pulls out, the lewd feeling of cum dribbling out of her making her sob all over again.

He turns Oscar over onto her back, tracing teasingly over her clit once again and scooping back up the cum left oozing from her opening, before fucking it roughly back in with his fingers..

“Oh god, Papi, papi, papi-” she chants and cries. She can’t last, there’s no chance, it feels too good, too much after too long.

She spills over Fernando’s hand in record time. She stops breathing, muscles seized up as she finally finds the well sought-after relief she’s needed all day. Her eyes squeeze shut, clinging onto Fernando who works her through the blinding, all-encompassing pleasure. Her vision goes white, head spinning, ears ringing, every muscle in her body locked up painfully tight with each shot of cum that drapes over Fernando’s hand.

Slowly, she remembers to breathe.

Suddenly everything is so overwhelming.

She clings onto Fernando sobbing into his shoulder. The stupid button-up shirt is still there, blocking him from the skin-on-skin contact she needs right now.

“Hey, I’m here,” strong arms wrap around her, holding her tight. Fernando’s voice is quiet and soft, familiar with the way the more intense scenes like this can overwhelm Oscar.

She knows that. She never doubts it for a second. “I love you.”

“I love you too. You okay?”

Oscar nods into his neck. “Mm floating.”

“How about we take a bath? And I can pamper my beautiful wife.”

Oscar giggles at the term. “You’d have to actually marry me first.”

Fernando stiffens.

The reaction is unusual, to say the least. Did they not just spend an entire day pretending to be husband and wife? How many times did Fernando call her his wife today, a million?

She must have said something wrong though. Did Fernando not enjoy this? Or was it the thought of marriage that made him clam up?

He’s pulling away before Oscar is ready, leaving her sitting on the bed shivering.

“I’m gonna go start the bath alright? You just sit here and look pretty,” Fernando strokes over her cheek before disappearing out the door.

The tears that beat at the corner of her eyes are unbidden but she couldn’t control them if she tried. Her body feels weak and sluggish, she needs Fernando back to hold her, to tell her it’s alright, that she did good. Why would he leave her like that? Why would he stiffen up and get all weird?

It’s as if she blinked and Fernando is back, shushing her gently and cupping his hands in her slightly smaller ones. “Hey, baby, what’s wrong?”

Oscar just shakes her head. She can’t say the words.

“Do you still want a bath?”

She nods.

Fernando helps her stand, holding her tight through the cramped hallway as they make their way to the bathroom.

The mirror is already beginning to fog up, something she’s grateful for. She doesn’t even want to know how much of a wreck she looks like right now.

She steps out of her stockings and heels and slides into the warm water, sighing in relief. The warm water replaces some of the cold that had seeped into her bones, made even better as Fernando slides into the tub behind her after hastily shucking out of his own clothes.

Things are quiet and hazy as she comes down.

Fernando respects that, only engaging her in conversation when he’s ready.

“Are you okay, Oscar?”

The use of her name brings her out of the fog just a bit. Absently she realizes she hasn’t heard it very often today, maybe once this morning? She doesn’t know.

“Yeah,” she replies.

“What got you so upset?”

What’s she supposed to say? ‘You don’t want to marry me’? No. Nu uh.

“Nothin. It was just a lot.”

Fernando wraps his arms around Oscar’s chest, squeezing. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah.”

“You still seem down. Did you not enjoy something about tonight?”

Pretty eyes plead with her over her shoulder. She sighs, willing the tears that well up inside back again. Her voice is thick as she says, “You don’t want to marry me.”

“What? Oscar.”

There's her name again. That’s her. Oscar. He’s not a wife, just Oscar.

“Look at me.”

She looks up slowly. Fernando smiles sweetly, reassuring with a chaste kiss to her bitten lips.

“I would love to call you my wife for real,” Fernando grins.

“Really? Even if Mark kills you.”

“Really. Especially if Mark tries to kill me. Can we talk about it more when you can think a little better?”

At that Oscar can’t help but huff out a laugh. “Yeah. I don’t think I’ve ever came so hard in my life.”

Fernando bonks his head against Oscar’s shoulder, letting him know everything will be okay.

Oscar’s hand finds his, and while he struggles with the words, he lets him know he feels his reassurance.

It wasn’t much—just a touch, a small gesture—but it was enough. He didn’t need words to convey the weight of his reassurance; he simply wanted Oscar to know he was here, unwavering.

After a pause, Oscar’s fingers slide over Fernando’s, hesitant but steady, finally resting over his hand. She glances down, struggling to find the right words, but in the silence, her grip tightens, a quiet thank you that says everything she can’t. In that unspoken exchange, surrounded by nothing but the soft hum of the world around them, Oscar lets Fernando’s presence settle her nerves, reassured by the comfort of knowing she’s not alone in this.

#f1 fic #abby's writing #f1 fanfic #f1 smut #formula 1 smut #oscar piastri smut #fernando alonso smut #oscar piastri #fernando alonso #f1 #formula 1 fic #hangs head in shame #oblivious girl oscar you endear me so much #oscar piastris canonical spanish kink (real)

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