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russellsppttemplates · 7 months ago

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I'm right here! (Oscar Piastri)

People seem to forget you're dating Oscar

Note: english is not my first language. Another Oscar piece 🫶

Thank you so much to everyone who likes and reblogs, your feedback is appreciated 🤍 and I'm taking requests so if you have any ideas or concepts you want to share, feel free to do so as I'll try to get to them the best I can!

my masterlist

Cw: jealous themes

Tag list: @myloverjk-blog @hiireadstuff @c-losur3

"Do you think this will translate as well on the track though?", Phil, the head of the engineering department, asked as you showed him the latest set of data.

"Even with the interval we've set for changes, these numbers show it could improve performance, especially in race pace", you pointed to the calculations on the side.

"We would only have it for Miami, though", he reasoned, "we don't have enough time to get this done for Shanghai and I don't think it would be wise to test this in a track we haven't raced in five years", Amelia argued as you nodded in agreement, "but it looks promising - good job, Y/N", she patted your back.

"Would you feel comfortable talking about it in the meeting with Zak, Andrea and the mechanics? You have been the one working the most with this, makes sense for you to be the one taking point. Lando and Oscar should join you as well - I think they're doing something on the Sim", William mused.

"Absolutely! Yes, Oscar said he was driving a new set up and strategy Tom also wants to discuss in the meeting", you offered with a smile.

"Having insider information makes this easier - I don't have to check every single e-mail and wonder about things, especially Oscar's schedule", Amelia chuckled, rubbing your shoulder before she got up.

As everyone gathered in the meeting room, you set your laptop up so the latest data would be seen by everyone as you spoke about the changes, "we don't think nor expect this will be ready for China, but we're hoping to have the new package in Miami already - gives us enough time to work on it and the track there is ideal for us to have an idea of how this could play out for the rest of the season", you concluded.

"I agree - I think China will be damage control racing and we're accepting it as it goes", Andrea stated.

"We just need to get going with these then and also get the guys to try it out on the- Oh! Speaking of the devil", Zak chuckled as Oscar and Lando stepped inside the meeting room.

"So that's that, I think - thank you for all your work and let's hope we can bring some points next weekend", the British driver said before everyone scattered out.

Closing your laptop and getting your tablet, you held them against your torso so you could go and set them back to your station before lunch. You didn't make it very far as Oscar stood just outside the room, his hand snaking up your back carefully as he didn't want to startle you.

"Good morning, love", he smiled, kissing your cheek and walking with you.

"Morning, Osc", you kissed his cheek back, "how was training?", you wondered.

"Same old - went for a run this time, though, it was nice enough outside", your boyfriend offered as you reached your desk, tidying it a little bit before leaving to get some lunch, walking hand in hand.

You didn't expect to fall for a driver, especially after the relationship you had with Lando. You behaved like siblings, often pranking eachother, and it had helped you grow more confident around him and the senior staff when you felt you were all but a small intern. Over the years, you grew more comfortable as your ideas and pitches would get considered and tested, finally feeling like your place was well earned and that at the right time, the development would come to bring McLaren to the top where it belonged.

When Oscar joined the team, however, you didn't expect to feel the way you felt about the Australian driver. He was handsome, very shy and very kind and thoughtful as he sat all through the meetings as you explained the changes. Jeopardising your career was something you didn't want to do, but after some not so careful touches and glances, the team assured you it wouldn't be an issue in case you and Oscar were to pursue a relationship together.

"Here's my favourite team-mate! And she brought Oscar with her!", Lando joked as you sat at the same table as him.

Swatting his neck playfully, you sat down next to him so you could face Oscar as he put his tray down, "I will revoke new updates package from you and you'll be stuck in the midfield", you taunted before you started eating.

"Do you want to spend the night at my place? I need to sort a few things out still this afternoon, but I'm hoping I can leave on time today", you squinted your eyes.

"What do you mean on time?", Lando quirked an eyebrow.

"Yesterday, she got so caught up in the calculations, I barely got a text out of her when I asked her if she wanted to have dinner with me", Oscar chuckled as you held hands on top of the table, playing with his fingers, "what was it you texted me? 'I'm having a breakthrough' I think it was", your boyfriend offered.

"I did, though! Amelia checked it over and we might be onto something - I have to go to Race Base this afternoon so they can check them out", you shrugged your shoulders."We're spending the whole afternoon in the sim", Oscar checked with you, "when you get off, then we can leave together - how does that sound?".

Coming back to your place after you stopped by the supermarket, you set the bag on the counter and pulled out all of the ingredients you bought to make sure the dinner would be suitable and appropriate to Oscar's plan.

"I haven't had a proper cuddle today", Oscar pulled you to him, beggining to litter kisses on your forehead all the way to your cheeks and jaw, "I can't ever do this at the center", he mumbled against your neck, tickling you.

"We could, just where there are no other team members", you giggled before cupping his cheeks, "which happens to be nowhere most of the time", before you kissed his lips.

"I'm going to start working on the chicken", Oscar said after you stole a few kisses, "are you going to be in the Center for the race?".

"No, I'm travelling with the team", you smiled as you took the fresh pasta out of the bag, "which means we can spend more time together - and people will actually see us together", you mumbled the last part.

"People know we're together, love", he smiled, cutting up the last bit of garlic and tossing it in the pan.

"Sometimes it doesn't seem like it - they didn't see me in Jeddah and the rumours flew out of control", you wiped your hands on the kitchen towell before hugging Oscar's back, resting your cheek between his shoulder blades.

"You know how the media works - they see the smallest hint to something they want to see and then they're there", he offered, taking one of his hands to squeeze your hip, "you're the one here, aren't you?", he tsked.

"Where are you going?", Oscar asked as he saw you grab a tablet and push the chair back under the table, "I thought we could have some time together now".

"The stewards picked out eight cars at random to get checked over a few components - Mike and Barry are waiting for me", you offered, pecking his lips quickly, "hopefully they're just not messing around with our schedule because everything is supposed to be how it is!", you smiled before you started to walk out.

"I'll go with you, then", your boyfriend assured, "can't have you go to the wolves on your own when you can have company, beautiful".

Oscar walked up to the building with you, kissing your temple before you stepped inside, "I left some data from the sprint for you to look at, and tell Lando I also left a file for him with his tire deg - I told Will to do it, but he might forget!", you alerted before letting him go.

Knowing how long it would take, he went back to the McLaren garage, stopping whenever fans snapped a couple of pictures or autographs.

By the time you were back in the hotel room after the sprint and qualifying, Oscar went to the bathroom so he could have a shower, leaving you to lay on the bed and scroll through social media.

You looked at the photos the media team had posted, along with the stories where you could spot yourself in the background and spotted a few comments as you flicked through the carrousel of pictures, the comments under it weren't something you hadn't seen before.

Hear me out, Oscar and Elaine are the perfect match

I know, right? 😭 honestly, they need to get together! They would be so cute together

She's so polite and put together, but I get rhe vibe that she's really shy too, they would be perfect for eachother

Are we forgetting Y/N? aka Oscar's girlfriend

I still can't believe the people at the top have let their engineer date a driver

Y/N's way too out there, I call PR relationship

She couldn't even build a great car, I'm not sure why you would defend her

She was literally the reason the car and the turnaround last year and we started getting podiums?

These have been the best 12 months in terms of development, what are you on about? Just because she's with Oscar, you can't dig at her like that

The last few comments don't come up too often, but you had to admit it was nice when they did even if they did nothing to the way you felt.

The green eyed monster took over more times that you'd like. You work with numbers, probabilities and direct correlations, so it was hard to miss the reason behind how you were feeling.

"Why are you looking at your phone like that? You promised you wouldn't work once we got back to the room", Oscar warned, using the towell to dry his hair before he looked at you again.

"I'm not working", you mumbled, locking the phone and setting it on your stomach, pondering whether or not you should talk to Oscar about this.

"That long silence tells me that there is something bothering you", Oscar began, "I'm not saying you have to talk about it right now - I won't force you to -, but I'm here for you when you want to do it", he offered earnestly.

"I'm jealous of you and Elaine", you stated, earning a quirked eyebrow from your boyfriend.

"Me and Elaine? The communications' intern?", he looked for some clarification.

"Yes!", you answered loudly.

"We don't - I don't even spend that much time with her, what do you mean?", Oscar asked.

"I know you don't, but people online seem to think you should! First, it was that actress that McLaren invited for Abu Dhabi - the weekend where Natalie and Naomi kept approaching us because they wanted to chat and there was actual visual proof we were together after all the rumours -, now they're saying how you should go out with Elaine!", you admitted, "they're all saying you really should have someone and that she should be the one to go, that she has all the qualities you should look for and I-", you took a big breath in, "I'm literally over there, every single day of the races - in the garage, sometimes in the pitwall!", you stated, "I barely do any races from the Center anymore, so it's not like people forgot that I exist!".

"Love, I'd never do that to you - you're the only person I care about like that", Oscar replied instantly.

"I know you don't, but it hurts to see", you admitted, "comments people make about my boyfriend and how he really should start dating someone when our relationship is public - I'm there, I see them, they see me!", you let a tear fall down your cheek, "there's only so much I can do to make it obvious, Osc!".

Oscar sat down next to you on the bed, throwing the towell on the floor for the moment so he could pull you to face him.

"Y/N, I didn't know it was bothering you so much, I don't even notice all of that", your boyfriend craddled your face in his hands, thumbs wiping the tears that continued to fall and looking into your eyes.

"I never told you and I know you don't read all of the comments", you reasoned, "I just thought it would stop at some point! Everyone keeps saying that you should have someone and I want them to think I'm that someone - because I am!", you said bitterly.

"Is there something you'd like me to do? That would make you feel better about it?", Oscar combed your bangs away and behind your ears.

"What can we do anyway? Have you walk around with a t-shirt that says "I have a girlfriend - Y/N, the engineer"?", you scoffed.

"I will do that if you think it will help - throw in a headband with "Y/N's boyfriend" too if it helps!", he tried to pry a smile out of you.

"Don't be silly", you playfully shoved his chest before holding his hands in yours, "I honestly have no idea what to do, but I know I want it to stop without putting our jobs on the line", you pouted.

"Maybe an Instagram post from us then? Something chilled but serious enough so anyone can get the hint - and I wouldn't mind arriving into the paddock with you in the morning", your boyfriend suggested.

"Oscar, I have to be there way earlier than you need to", you argued.

"Then I'll be there earlier, I'll have breakfast there with you and we'll spend more time together in front of everyone - as much as you feel comfortable with", Oscar offered you an assuring smile, "I don't want anyone else the way I want you, I don't love anyone the way I love you, Y/N".

Smiling at the honesty and safety he was transmitting you, you kissed his lips, starting with small pecks before one last long kiss, letting your foreheads touch as you pulled away, "thank you, Osc, I love you".

The next morning, reporters were surprised when they saw the McLaren driver show up in the paddock so early, his hand laced in yours as they asked a couple of questions.

"My girlfriend had to come in earlier, so I thought I'd join her and see a little bit of the preparations", Oscar replied before you continued to walk to the McLaren hospitality.

"Is it bring your boyfriend to work day?", Anna asked after her usual morning greeting.

"He's always with me at work though", you squinted before giggling, "but I really need people to know he's mine and that I'm here!", you half joked.

#oscar piastri imagine #oscar piastri x reader #oscar piastri fanfic #oscar piastri x you #oscar piastri fluff #oscar piastri fic #f1 imagine #f1 fic #f1 fanfic #f1 x reader #f1 x you #f1 fluff

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literaryvein-reblogs · 2 months ago

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Writing Notes: Fight Scene

How to Write a Convincing Fight Scene

In practice, writing a realistic fight scene for your novel is one of the hardest things you’ll ever do.

That’s because fight scenes can be boring to read.

A movie allows the audience to take a passive stance and have the action wash over them.

In contrast, reading a fight scene requires the audience to activate their imagination.

The audience must participate in constructing the fight scene from your clues and seeing it play out in their mind’s eye.

That’s a lot more difficult than getting it fed to you visually.

Below are strategies for writing fight scenes.

Fight Scenes Should Move the Story Forward

The very first rule for fight writing (and writing any scene in general) is to ensure that it moves the story forward.

Say “no” to gratuitous fight scenes that only show off fancy moves or writing skills.

Here’s the easiest way to find out if your fight scene moves the story:

Delete it.

Now, read the scene before and the scene after.

Can you still make sense of what happened?

If the fight caused some type of transition in your story, keep it in.

And remember: Not all transitions are physical. Some are mental.

You don’t always have to discuss the physical aftermath.

You can also explore the mental fallout after a fight.

This can be how the fight moves the story forward.

Fight Scenes Should Improve Characterization

Because reading a fight scene can get boring quickly, it’s important that you focus on more than the bare-knuckle action.

Use fights as a way to explore your character(s) and provide more insight on the following:

Why does the character make the choices that they make in the fight?

How does each choice reinforce their characterization?

How does each choice impact their internal and/ or external goals?

Is this conflict getting the character closer or further away from their goals? How?

What are the stakes for each character? What do they stand to win/lose?

What type of fighter is the character? What are their physical or mental abilities? (Remember that not every protagonist will be a trained assassin, so they’re prone to make sloppy mistakes during a fight.)

Use the fight scene to reveal necessary information about the characters.

Be sure to give the reader a glimpse into the character’s soul and not just into their fighting skills.

Fight Scenes Shouldn't Slow the Pace

In movies and especially in real life, fights go by quickly.

But in literature, fight scenes can slow the pace.

That’s because you have to write all of the details and the reader has to reconstruct the scene in their minds.

However, if you employ certain literary devices into your narrative, you can actually create a taut fight scene.

Here are some tips:

Write in shorter sentences. Shorter sentences are easier to digest. It also speeds up the pace of a story.

Mix action with dialogue. Don’t just write long descriptions of what’s happening. Also, share the verbal exchange between your characters.

Don’t focus too much on what’s going on inside the character’s mind. Introspection happens before and after a fight, not during.

Keep the fight short. Fights should never go on for pages (unless you’re discussing an epic battle between armies, and not individuals).

Hit ’Em With All the Senses

One of the best ways to get visceral when describing a fight is to activate every sense possible.

This includes sight, hearing, taste, touch, and smell.

Think of how you can use these five descriptors in your writing to immediately transport the reader to the scene.

Sight

Perhaps the most obvious.

You’ll describe exactly what the characters are seeing and what the reader should pay attention to in the scene.

Hearing

Is a little more delicate.

A fight scene is a perfect time to introduce onomatopoeia into your narrative.

Onomatopoeia - a word that sounds like what it is describing.

Try using more subtle examples, such as:

Boom, Clang, Clap, Clatter, Click, Crack, Creak, Crunk, Fizzle, Gargle, Groan, Grunt, Gurgle, Hiss, Howl, Hum, Knock, Plod, Rattle, Roar, Rustle, Sizzle, Smack, Splash, Splatter, Squeal, Tap, Thud, Thumb, Whine, Whisper

Taste

Be careful with going abstract here.

Instead of using phrases like, “he could taste fear in the air,”

go for something more concrete like, “blood mixed with strawberry lip gloss was a strange taste.”

Touch

Perhaps one of the easiest senses to convey.

Describe how the characters feel and interact with each other physically.

Smell

You often see or hear a fight, but can you smell it?

In person, what would the fight smell like? Probably sweat.

Consider other scents, such as the ambient aroma in the scene.

Example: If the fight takes place in a car garage, there may be the lingering scent of motor oil and tire rubber.

Don’t be afraid to add that into the scene to introduce a different dimension.

When Writing a Fight Scene, Edit, Edit, Edit

A good story is an edited one.

The same rule applies to fight scenes.

A sloppy fight scene can slow the pace of your story and/or confuse the reader.

When editing your fight scene, keep the following in mind:

Don’t include a blow by blow of what happens in the fight. After your initial draft, remove non-essential details that can slow down reading.

Delete flowery language. Extra words drag the pace. Remove every single word that you can.

Consolidate characters to reduce reader confusion and frustration.

Source ⚜ Fight Scenes (Part 2) ⚜ Words for your Fight Scenes Word Lists: Fight ⚜ Poking/Hitting ⚜ Panting ⚜ Running ⚜ Pain

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on-leatheredwings · 8 months ago

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House Arrest

Yandere! Batfam / Bruce Wayne x (Fem!) Reader

For a request, Munchausen's syndrome by proxy with Bruce? Like, he keeps reader sick so she can't leave him or interact with someone outside the family. And maybe the rest of the batfam is in on it?

[a/n: Didn’t know if you wanted this platonic or not so I didn’t specify! In my head its romantic with bruce though lmao]

> word count: 1581

> Tw: gaslighting, munchausen’s syndrome by proxy, yandere-typical behaviors!

You sit in anticipation, foot tapping against the stone floor. There’s an entire miniature hospital set up for you down here in the Batcave. Respirators, diagnostics machines, and other expensive medical equipment that would be better served in Gotham General.

Helping people recover.

So patients could some day leave.

You used to love being in the Batcave. It was the family’s little secret. When you officially joined the family, the Batcave was now your secret as well. But ever since falling ill months ago, bedridden with a sickness whose cause continues to elude everyone… being here is depressing. You now notice it’s damp down here. Dark. Lifeless.

Bruce sits at the Batcomputer, the screen’s light painting over his face in a green wash. You watch his eyes scan line after line of your results. Reminds you of a typewriter. Methodical. Orderly. Nearly inhuman. When he sighs, your heart stops.

Fuck.

He turns to you, face grave. “You’re still ill.”

Your eyes start stinging with an onset of tears that you furiously try to blink back.

“... H-How ill? How bad? Am I any better?” you ask, as if bartering with him will make the situation any different. As if bartering with God ever made any difference for mere mortals such as yourself.

Bruce’s face is still.

“You haven’t improved.”

Your hopes crash down around you like glass. You aren’t better at all? Even though you haven’t had a fever in weeks? Even though you’ve been working out with enough energy to keep up with Damian? He was exerting perhaps only 10% of his effort, but still. Your lymph nodes aren’t even swollen anymore. Tim had told you as much, accidentally contradicting Bruce’s insistence that they had been earlier that morning.

“But I feel better,” you croak. You hear footsteps behind you approach and you swallow drily, nearly hissing at the offender. It’s Dick, and damn him. You don’t want to be placated right now.

“Are you experiencing any headaches? Shortness of breath?” Bruce asks, eyes still trained on you. You try to recall.

“... I may have had a migraine this morning…” At Bruce’s weary shake of the head, you blurt, “But it’s passed. I’m perfectly fine. And no shortness of breath.”

“... I’m sorry. But if you’ve been having symptoms like that, along with your being immunocompromised…” Bruce doesn’t even have to finish the sentence. You won’t be leaving the Wayne Manor grounds for a long time.

Fuck.

You feel a hand on your shoulder. You look up and see Dick, whose face is somber but offers an encouraging smile.

“Well, I’m back in town for the time being. We can hang out all the time.” His expression brightens as an idea pops into his head. “And I can call Tim, Jason, Duke–! Maybe even Cass and Steph… We can have a board game night tonight!” He sounds as chipper as you are miserable.

Damian approaches from behind, leaving the shadows. His arms are folded. “If that’s the case, I’ll humor Grayson and let him capture some of my fleet for once.” A popular choice was Risk, perfect for the family who’s entire lives revolved around combat and strategy. But you didn’t want to play Risk again. You didn’t want to have a board game night, no matter how many of the family came. You wanted to see people.

Other people. Everyone here is your family.

You want fucking friends again. You wanted a job again – a sentiment you would’ve laughed at even just five months ago. You wanted any semblance of a life again.

Bruce’s eyes haven’t left your trembling form once, two chips of slate-gray peering over steepled hands.

“Thank you, Dick. Damian. But I think she could use some time alone.”

Dick’s hand releases your shoulder, retracting as if burned. None of them are the boss here. It’s Bruce who is my warden, your mind whispers darkly.

“Right! Don’t want you to feel overwhelmed.” Dick sees himself out, taking Damian with him. “See you tonight.” And that feels like a sentencing to your fate.

Now the two of you alone, Bruce stands, offering his arm wordlessly. You know what this means. You take it, linking yours with his without thought or protest. Bruce liked to ensure you were always within his reach, as if you were prone to fainting spells. This was less humiliating for you than him carrying you through the estate, you suppose.

“Why, yes, let’s take a turn around the grounds!” you used to exclaim, making your voice posh and British, mimicking the regency romance movies you had been watching all the time.

Now, months later, you just sullenly allow him to lead you. Your surroundings pass by and you vaguely recognize that you are exiting the Batcave, walking through the manor, and out into the never-ending expanse of a well-kept lawn.

It’s a sunny, idyllic spring day after months of overcast winter.

And thank god you could still traipse outside when you wanted, even if fenced in. Bruce told you when you had first fallen ill that he had installed some high-tech, anti-air pollution gadget. Wayne Manor was effectively your own personal bubble. Fresh air was the only thing keeping you sane, lately.

You two pass by the garden, a labor of love Alfred started. You and Damian tend to it now… and mainly the latter, these days. You haven’t had any energy for gardening as of late. Fatigue is a symptom, you hear Bruce’s voice whisper in the back of your mind. But you don’t feel fatigue… rather, just depressed. But of course, isn’t fatigue a symptom of being depressed…? A familiar brain fog crawls into your mind. Your head was starting to hurt.

You look across the lawn, onto the horizon. Gotham’s dark skyline sits there, enticing. When night falls, it’ll glimmer and twinkle with light. There is a whole world out there. And, God, you love the Waynes, but they aren’t the world. You need to distract yourself. Bruce, ever the lover of pleasant silences, is going to have to distract you from thoughts that make you want to leap off the second story balcony of your bedroom.

Should you ask, “How’s work?” No. You find you don’t care.

“How’s Jason?” you say instead, feeling Bruce stiffen at the mention of his most tenuous relation.

He wasn’t around as much, but when he was, he was always relaxing with you in your room. You have a whole shelf for the knick knacks he brings. “Don’t worry. They’re clean,” he’d snort at his former mentor, because Bruce required everything to be thrice sanitized before coming into your possession.

“... Better.”

You’re glad. That’s one good thing, you guess.

“Bruce,” you croak.

He looks at you, face alight in expectation.

“Maybe I should just go,” you say, small and weak. Your eyes don’t leave the sight of Gotham skyscrapers, stretching to the sky. Bruce stills, stopping you both in your tracks.

“What do you mean, ‘go’?” he says carefully.

You remove yourself from his arm and gesture to the city. “Just go. Leave. I mean, I can’t stay here forever.” Bruce looks genuinely confused, as much as he can.

“Of course you can.”

“No, I can’t!” you screech. Frustrated, you tear at your hair. “I can just be an outpatient somewhere– I can go for hospital treatments every week– or everyday– whatever!

Bruce places his hands on your shoulders.

“You don’t know what you’re saying.”

Rage flares in you and you gnash your teeth at him. By now, that all-too-familiar brain fog has flooded your brain. But you try to fight it. You have to fight it. Like trying to crawl out of rapidly-sinking quicksand, you fight it.

“I-I know what I’m saying. I’m saying–”

“You’re saying to just let you die,” Bruce sharply returns. “To give up, let you die, and leave us to grieve.”

“No–”

“Stephanie.”

You meet his eyes again at the name, which are resolute and as blue as ever.

“Cassandra. Duke.” Your stomach churns, imagining their smiling faces, turned into ash as your hypothetical passing. “Barbara.”

“Bruce,” you croak, pleading inwardly for him to stop.

“Damian.”

“Tim.”

“Jason.”

“Dick. Alfred.” You duck your head and your eyes meet the ground. The listing of all your loved ones pinches your heart, and you feel nauseous. You weren’t trying to leave them. You didn’t want to leave them at all.

“... Me.”

Your eyes sting with tears again. Why did he have to make it sound like that? Like you were seeking some selfish want, rather than trying to improve your quality of life. You feel your ambition and desire wane under the weight of guilt. You feel all sense of struggle start to disintegrate, lost to the fog in your head. Lost. You’ve lost.

Bruce’s eyes scrutinize you.

“As I suspected. You’re acting delirious. Manic. Delusional.”

Any semblance of protest dies in your throat.

“What?” you say. But Bruce is already leading you away towards the looming doors of Wayne Manor, away from the green of the grounds. Away from the light of the sun, and away from the skyline. He comforts you with familiar lines on the way to your bedroom.

You need rest. Alfred will brew his tea for you. I’ll call the kids to come tonight. We can play Risk. He pats your shoulder, stroking soft, deceptively warm circles with his thumb.

“You just need some rest.”

And not for the first time, you believe he may be right.

#yandere batfam #yandere bruce wayne #bruce wayne x reader #tw gaslighting #bruce wayne #mine

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jesswritesthat · 2 months ago

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Shinsō Hitoshi: Friends?

Fandom: BNHA // MHA — [ Masterlist ]

Summary: ~1.2k, fluff

• U.A. had a rumour that Shinsō was only ever late to (L/n)s’ side once, but he hasn’t let anything touch them since. But just how true is it?

Warnings: Potential spoilers

>>>>——————————>

It was a renowned fact that you were perfectly capable of defending yourself in dangerous situations - as well as dishing out your own dangerous attacks.

In this instance, it made sense that yourself and Shinsō were often paired together since he joined Class 2A as you seemed to compliment one another on the field and during training drills.

Hero course third years naturally had the respect and attention of a majority of their juniors, especially since you were all involved in the war. It became useful for when you assisted in their training lessons though and due to Shinsōs’ connection with Sensei Aizawa, he was requested - and you by proxy if it was a team focused protocol.

The set of five students you were both up against were the cleverest so far, you’d noted that when you’d knocked out two of them only to realise they’d sacrificed themselves as bait so the remaining three -two as Hitoshi wrapped the aerial student up- went all out on a combo attack directed at you.

Now you could take this hit, and then use the debris as a cover to counterattack. However, you never had the chance when you saw a familiar cloth bind your attackers’ limb and derail his trajectory into the dusty floor whilst the other received a swift counterattack on your behalf and it was all over.

“Thanks Hitoshi.” The two of you shared a fist bump to celebrate the victory.

“The tactics you used allowed you to survive the longest against Shinsō and (L/n) at 2 minutes, however exposing yourself to danger should only be a last resort…”

As Aizawa finished his teachings and set the assignment of improving their times for the following weeks session, a few students began their idle chatter regarding the exercise. How they’d seen similar behaviour on various accounts.

On occasions when you were in danger, they’d seen Shinsō use his binding cloth to pull you out of the way or neutralise the attackers. They’d seen him put himself between you and an onslaught or push you out of the way. In every circumstance that he was in your radius, and you on the rare chance were in firing range, he’d protect you over himself at any cost.

That’s what heroes do though right? And Shinsō Hitoshi had a greater determination to prove that than most.

This was… different somehow. You were different.

You were certainly friends as you were seen together fairly commonly, but Shinsō was closer to Izuku and Denki, whilst you associated more with Mina and Kirishima. Maybe they were reading too much into this?

———

It was only when the young group were brainstorming strategies did the topic arise in depth.

“I heard from seniors that Shinsō was late once, and he hasn’t let (L/n) get touched since.” One of the group claimed proudly.

“Late? Like to school?”

“No idiot. Apparently (L/n) was up against a villain last year and put themselves between civilians so I found the footage.” The student quickly fished for her phone, playing the video to her peers.

It displayed you taking a nasty blow when acting as a shield, strong enough to draw blood. Shinsō just managed to catch you in his arms before you hit the floor unconscious - a deadly rage sparking in his violet eyes when taking in your condition and looking back to the villain.

“Biggest mistake of your life.”

“Hah! The mistake was—“

It was over instantly, Brainwash took ahold and the rest was wrapped up undeniably quickly. Then the video ended leaving the students gawking.

“Ouch.” One of them winced. “I’ve never seen Shinsō look so angry. That villain was tied up unconscious quicker than anyone could blink.”

“Yep. (L/n) has never taken major hits with him around since.”

“We could use that to our advantage right?”

“Exactly…”

———

The following week you were called upon once more to evaluate their (hopeful) improvements to their previous strategies. Although it was Present Mic supervising this time so it was far more deafening in comparison.

When facing the top scorers from last week, both yourself and Shinsō noticed the adjustments in their tactics but hadn’t quite deciphered their endgame. It was when they staged an attack for you and minimised Shinsōs’ movements to a point that prevented him from getting to you in time did it come to fruition.

You could dodge though, except when one of their quirks went haywire and lead to an explosion large enough to decimate the rocky terrain into a crumbling landslide.

Naturally you’d used your quirk to get the other student to safety which limited your escape time, but with Shinsō and the others out of harms way you were a little reassured. At least until a desperate cloth bound your abdomen - immediately pulling you from an array of thrashing boulders.

You went crashing into a solid chest, toned fishnetted arms enveloping you as effortlessly as breathing. You felt the racing of his heart, the raggedness of his breath, and the warm sigh of relief when he’d pulled his mask down with one hand.

“Hitoshi?”

“Are you alright?” His tone was slightly lower, angling himself slightly so it was spoken near your ear rather than to anyone else.

“Yes but, why are you always saving me?”

His eyes widened for a moment, pulling back slightly in brief surprise like you’d unravelled a personal secret.

“(L/n)! Shinsō! I’m so sorry I dunno what happened - my quirk just— I didn’t mean for it to—“ The panicked first year came bounding over the rocks frantically issuing apologies which Shinsō was admittedly grateful for.

“What matters is that you’re okay, and so are your friends - uh mostly.” You managed a brief glance at the trio who’d cornered your comrade, all of them groaning and rubbing their heads whilst the perpetrator simply shrugged.

“They prevented me from my objective. I had no choice but to incapacitate them.”

“Alright alright, shows over! You may’ve beat your time but the risk wasn’t worth it. I’m sure Aizawa would agree.” Mic chastised, adjusting his glasses to send a daring glance their way.

“Yes Sensei.” The group bowed in apology, the rest of the class both concerned and amused with the whole ordeal.

“You can all help clean up, you can practice quirk management, and you two can let go of each other now y’know.” Mic pointed at each of his targets, raising a bemused brow when landing on the two of you.

Immediately you’d stepped apart, awkwardly locking gazes and snapping back to Present Mic rather guiltily. Though you soon had a moment to yourselves once clean up began and Mic lectured them on quirk control.

“Hitoshi, you know I can handle myself right?”

“I know. But seeing you get hurt once was bad enough, and knowing I hadn’t arrived in time to save the one person I—“ He shoved his hands in his pockets, deadpan gaze remaining on your figure prior to flicking to the ground. “It doesn’t matter. You know how it is.”

“I do. I’d be upset if I couldn’t save you too.”

A meaningful look was exchanged, one that communicated more than words possibly could, and you pretended you hadn’t seen the heavy scarlet dusting the skin of Hitoshi as he pulled his scarf up.

“Since today has been smashing, shall we have an early dinner at the dorms? Maybe watch a movie too?”

“That was terrible.”

“But you appreciate it~”

“I tolerate it.”

The pair of you left together, you laughing as you spoke with Hitoshis’ admiring gaze never leaving you.

In the midst of clearing the collateral damage, the first year class watched on in awe.

“Huh. Maybe they’re more than just friends.”

“Maybe? Hah yeah right!” Present Mic only laughed, oblivious to the entire glass snapping to him in utter astonishment.

<——————————<<<<

[ Masterlist ]

#bnha fluff #bnha imagine #bnha scenarios #bnha x reader #bnha shinso hitoshi #hitoshi shinsou #shinsou x reader #hitoshi shinso x reader #mha shinsou #mha imagines #mha x reader #bnha imagines #anime x reader #anime imagine

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youronlydarlin · 10 months ago

Text

warning: ouch my feelings, kinda sappy, kinda sad, you give Simon purpose and he vow's to love you forever or sum

Gimme a soft Simon. A domestic Simon.

Simon who starts the day by kissing the sleep away from your eyes. Gruff voice, lightly chuckling at the groan he gets from you. Never were the type to appreciate your sleep being interrupted. It's a competition to see who succumbs to 'who first. Will you fall for his strategy to lure you out of bed, or will he crumble at your sleepy state and let you sleep in five minutes more?

Simon who kisses the pads of your fingers at random. You'd rest your palm atop of his, not minding the difference in size. Or how rough, and calloused the texture is to your skin. He holds it so gently, and slowly brings it up to his lips. Kissing each finger, praising them for how hard they work everyday. Saying that his own hands will always be there for yours.

Simon who peel's your oranges for you. His hands were never ment to be gentle. Used to the violence that came with war, fist's that were used to pull triggers and crush skulls, slowly getting used to kneading dough, or folding your laundries.

Simon who gets better and better at living normally again. He's never even knew a life like this was possible when all he's ever seen was the ugly side of the world. Then there was you. Sometimes he lays awake on the bed, seeing you sleep so comfortably next to him. You know of his line of work, and his bloody history, but never once did it turn you away from him. And he's sure that if he had you back then, and someone asks him what he does everything for. He'd confidently say 'you.

Simon who loves it when you notice his improvements, and praise him for it. He keeps your words close to his heart, like a badge of honor. All the other military achievements, and titles he's earned could never even add up to the way you say 'l love you. Leaving him breathless each time.

Simon who's glad he always comes home in one piece. Rather than dying, it's the thought of leaving you alone that breaks his heart. Imagining you in his funeral, breaking down, and begging for him to come back is what keeps him on his toes during missions. Reminds him that there's someone at home that's waiting for his return. That there's a home to return to. But till then he'll treasure every day, and keep dreaming of tomorrow.

a/n: umm, this was kinda bad sorry. Still tryna work my way around grammar, but I hope you enjoy! Take care of yourself always, sweets!

Yours, truly,

–dolly

#cod x reader #simon ghost riley #simon riley x reader #simon ghost x reader #ghost x reader #cod ghost #x gn reader #gn reader #female reader #x male reader #x female reader #cod imagine #I'm kinda a sap guys #I dunno

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whencyclopedia · 6 months ago

Photo

Utah Beach

Utah Beach was the westernmost of the five beaches attacked in the D-Day Normandy landings of 6 June 1944 and the one taken with the fewest casualties. Paratroopers were also dropped behind Utah, and despite being widely dispersed and suffering heavy casualties, they managed to secure this western flank of the invasion and liberate the first French town, Ste-Mère-Église.

Operation Overlord

The amphibious assault on the beaches of Normandy was the first stage of Operation Overlord, which sought to free Western Europe from occupation by Nazi Germany. The supreme commander of the Allied invasion force was General Dwight D. Eisenhower (1890-1969), who had been in charge of the Allied operations in the Mediterranean. The commander-in-chief of the Normandy land forces, 39 divisions in all, was the experienced General Bernard Montgomery (1887-1976). Commanding the air element was Air Chief Marshal Trafford Leigh Mallory (1892-1944), with the naval element commanded by Admiral Bertram Ramsay (1883-1945).

Nazi Germany had long prepared for an Allied invasion, but the German high command was unsure where exactly such an invasion would take place. Allied diversionary strategies added to the uncertainty, but the most likely places remained either the Pas de Calais, the closest point to British shores, or Normandy with its wide flat beaches. The Nazi leader Adolf Hitler (1889-1945) attempted to fortify the entire coast from Spain to the Netherlands with a series of bunkers, pillboxes, artillery batteries, and troops, but this Atlantic Wall, as he called it, was far from being complete in the summer of 1944. In addition, the wall was thin since there was no real depth to the defences.

Field Marshal Gerd von Rundstedt (1875-1953), commander-in-chief of the German army in the West, believed it would be impossible to stop an invasion on the coast and so it would be better to hold the bulk of the defensive forces as a mobile reserve to counterattack against enemy beachheads. Field Marshal Erwin Rommel (1891-1944), commander of Army Group B, disagreed and considered it essential to halt any invasion on the beaches themselves. Further, Rommel believed that Allied air superiority meant that movements of reserves would be severely hampered. Hitler agreed with Rommel, and so the defenders were strung out wherever the fortifications were at their weakest. Rommel improved the static defences and added steel anti-tank structures to all the larger beaches. In the end, Rundstedt was given a mobile reserve, but the compromise weakened both plans of defence.

The German response would not be helped either by their confused command structure, which meant that Rundstedt could not call on any armour (but Rommel, who reported directly to Hitler, could), and neither commander had any control over the paltry naval and air forces available or the separately controlled coastal batteries. Nevertheless, the defences were bulked up around the weaker defences of Normandy to an impressive 31 infantry divisions plus 10 armoured divisions and 7 reserve infantry divisions. The German army had another 13 divisions in other areas of France. A standard German division had a full strength of 15,000 men.

#History #UtahBeach #D-Day #NormandyLandings

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bruhnze · 3 months ago

Note

Can you write something about Lucy dealing with adhd, or somthing with Ona too

Eres incorregible - Lucy Bronze x Ona Battle

summary: fictional story about Lucy Bronze and having adhd, this is written because multiple people had the request of such a fic.

wordcount: 2554, a little one🥺

warnings: none

Eres incorregible

Lucy Bronze had always thrived on a fast-paced, high-energy lifestyle.

As a professional footballer, her life was a whirlwind of training sessions, matches and constant travel. She had enough new incentives every day to keep her from being bored, her job was perfect for her. Like how she got the opportunity to live in France for two years.

But when the COVID-19 pandemic struck, the world suddenly stopped and so did Lucy’s rhythm. Without the daily demands that usually kept her grounded, Lucy found herself struggling with an unsettling stillness.

In the early days of lockdown, Lucy’s restlessness took over. With no challenging workouts or team meetings to attend, she threw herself into home projects with the same intensity she brought to the pitch. She redid the entire house interior, tackled every little task she had put off while living in Lyon, and when that was done she even repainted the outdoor fence. But once everything in and around the house was in perfect order, Lucy found herself with too much time on her hands and too little to do.

With no more home improvements to make, her energy turned inward. She obsessively watched her football matches, replaying them over and over again. She studied the games, analyzing every move, every strategy, until the matches blurred together.

Desperation for new challenges led her to learn to breakdance, following how tutorials on how to stand on her head and do the worm, skills she even convinced her girlfriend at the time, Keira, to learn with her. The two of them spent hours mastering these ridiculous feats, laughing until their sides hurt, but the laughter wasn’t enough to fill the void.

Lucy tried to keep herself occupied with online campaigns and challenges, including the Nike Living Room Challenge. She worked out in the garden for hours on end, sometimes pushing herself through five-hour sessions just to stave off the boredom.

Despite all this, the days felt endless. Her usual six hours of sleep dwindled to four or five, the quiet nights stretching out. The days getting more and more repettative.

The constant boredom began to take its toll. Little irritations flared up between her and Keira. The tension simmered under the surface, small arguments breaking out over nothing, the kind of friction that only arises when two people are confined together with no escape.

During one of her weekly online meetings with her psychologist, Lucy was asked a question that she hadn’t expected: “Have you ever thought about whether you might have adhd?��.

The suggestion caught Lucy a little off guard. She had always been a bundle of energy, but she had never considered that there might be a reason behind it. The psychologist referred her to a psychiatrist, who conducted a thorough evaluation. After a few sessions, some alone, some with her parents or with Keira, the diagnosis was confirmed.

Initially, the diagnosis didn’t change much for Lucy. She didn’t feel different, but with tips and tricks the specialist offered her to manage her energy and focus, she actually delt a lot better with all of the access energy she had and got less stuck in her head.

Lucy and Keira even attended some therapy sessions together, learning how to navigate their relationship now that they had a better understanding of that side of Lucy.

Without her usual outlet of intense physical exercise, Lucy took up some new hobbies like cooking, baking, painting and even building LEGO sets. These activities helped, providing her with some sense of structure and accomplishment throughout the days.

When life began to return to normal, Lucy noticed how much daily exercise had been essential for clearing her head. With her regular training back in place, she found it easier to focus on other responsibilities, like answering emails and managing her personal life. The physical exertion also improved the quality of her sleep, and for a while, everything seemed to be falling into place.

However, years later, the challenges resurfaced when Lucy underwent knee surgery. Now playing for FC Barcelona in Spain, she hadn't really thought back on the quarantine period for a while, until it all started to feel a little familiar again.

Forced to take a break from football, Lucy found herself once again trapped between the walls of her home, an apartment without a garden this time, unable to channel her energy into the sport she loved.

Her girlfriend, noticed the change immediately. She and Ona had ofcourse spoken about the fact that she had adhd, but she had explained that she managed really good because she had sports as an outlet for her energy.

Ona observed Lucy climbing the walls, more restless than ever, biting her nails until they were raw. The living room had become a makeshift football dome, with Lucy watching game after game, analyzing the performances of herself and other great defenders. She even started studying the stories of up-and-coming male footballers, determined to use this downtime to improve her own game, even with her dodgy knees.

But the obsession took its toll. Lucy started skipping entire nights of sleep, her mind too wired to rest. She spent every waking hour thinking about football, neglecting everything else.

When she and Ona had dinner, Ona couldn’t help but notice that while Lucy was still physically present, her mind was elsewhere, consumed by her own thoughts. Ona didn’t mind picking up the slack around the house, doing all the choirs as Lucy was recovering, but she couldn’t ignore the growing distance between them.

One evening, Ona finally voiced her concerns. “Lucy, have you thought about talking to a professional? I’m worried about you.”

Lucy was taken aback by the suggestion, but Ona’s sincerity struck a chord. Realizing the strain her behavior was putting on their relationship, Lucy scheduled an appointment with her psychologist, who advised her to talk to the psychiatrist again. During their session, the psychiatrist suggested trying medication to help manage her adhd, explaining her behavoir was coming from the fact she wasn’t physically challenged anymore.

Lucy was hesitant. She didn’t want to take anything that might be considered a performance-enhancing drug, like Ritalin or Adderall, which could be seen as a form of doping. After discussing her options, Lucy was prescribed Atomoxetine, a non-stimulant medication.

At first, the change was remarkable.

Lucy began helping with household chores again, her day-night schedule normalized and she was more engaged in conversations with Ona. She even started going out with friends again and attending training sessions to watch and connect with the team again. It seemed like things were finally looking up.

But as the weeks went by, Ona noticed some troubling things. Like that Lucy had stopped eating breakfast, brushing it off by saying she just didn’t feel hungry in the mornings anymore. Ona felt like her once vibrant spark seemed to dim and while she no longer bit her nails, Ona missed the little sign that Lucy was feeling stressed or excited, even though she always told Lucy to stop it. Lucy had become a shadow of her former self - calm and composed, but emotionally distant.

Their physical relationship also suffered. It had been a while since they had been intimate and while Ona didn’t want to push Lucy, she couldn’t ignore the growing gap between them.

Even when Lucy had been recovering from her knee surgery, she had found ways to make their relationship work. But now, Lucy seemed uninterested, as if the medication had dulled not just her restlessness but her passion as well.

One night, as they lay in bed, Ona decided to confront the issue.

“Are you happy?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Lucy, already half-asleep, blinked in confusion. “Hm? I don’t know, yes… why?”

“You just seem a little distant,” Ona replied, turning on the bedside lamp to see Lucy’s face.

Lucy sighed, pulling Ona closer as if to shield herself from the truth.

“I don’t really feel like myself,” she admitted after a long pause. “But everything is going so much better now. I’m functioning better. Isn’t that what matters?”.

Ona sat up, her expression full of concern. “For who, Lucy? For me? Because I’d rather have you back - the real you - even if it means things aren’t perfect all the time.”

Lucy’s heart ached at Ona’s words. “I’ve been a bad girlfriend,” she said softly. “But I’m trying to do better. I can do the chores now, I’m not obsessing over football as much… I’m trying.”

“But you’re not you, Lucy,” Ona said gently. “Your emotions are dulled. I miss the happy Lucy who danced while making breakfast, the silly Lucy who made me laugh every day and kissed me. I’d rather have that Lucy back, even if it means you’re a little more chaotic.”

A tear rolled down Lucy’s cheek. “Have I not been kissing you?” she asked, her voice tinged with sorrow. “I love you, Ona. I don’t want to lose you.”

Ona leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to Lucy’s cheek. “You’re not losing me, I know you love me. And I love you too—every part of you, even the messy bits. Maybe it’s time to talk to the specialist again, see if there’s another way. I don’t care if you’re a little crazy sometimes. I just want you to be happy.”

Lucy nodded, her heart heavy but hopeful. “I’ll talk to her again. Maybe a lower dose, or… something’’.

“We’ll figure it out together, okay? You don’t have to go through this alone,” Ona reassured her, holding Lucy close, ‘’if it were up to me we ask her if you can stop taking the meds’’.

In the following weeks, Lucy worked closely with her psychiatrist to adjust her medication. She got a schedule she followed to gradually reduce the dose so that she will have the most chance to not get any symptoms from quitting.

She started dancing in the kitchen again, even if her knee wasn’t fully recovered. She found joy in the little things, cooking breakfast with or for Ona, walking their dogs Coco and Narla, and yes, even obsessing over football. But now, there was a healthy balance. She still had her intense focus, but it was tempered by the love and support of the people around her. Mostly Ona. And now, even though she’d stopped taking the medication, she seemed to be in a better headspace then before, she talked a lot with Ona, giving her a insight into all the things she found difficult, so that they could tackle them together.

Ona was really sweet and caring, she knew it was hard for Lucy to not be able to practice the thing she loved the most in the hole world and tried to be as much of a supporting factor to her girlfriend as possible.

One night Ona came back home, Lucy had been at the hospital today, a final check for her knee, if it was cleared Lucy could start training with the team again on Monday. She hoped Lucy had gotten good news, she had texted her about how it had been, but she hadn’t gotten a reply even though the appointment had been in the morning. A little hesitant she opened the door, afraid Lucy might’ve had bad news.

She was met with the sight of a house way cleaner than she knew she had left it. She heared soft music playing in the kitchen.

‘’Luce?’’ she kicked her shoes off and dropped her bags.

Ona stepped in to the appartment and a lovely smell of dinner that was being prepared entered her nose. She walked to the kitchen and saw Lucy stirring up some vegetables.

She smiled as she observed her for a few minutes, a happy Lucy was the best Lucy, she always loved the English defender, but on moments like these she felt her heart beating a little faster. The casually swaying her hips, the humming with the music and the fact that Lucy had been so sweet to clean the house and prepare dinner, it was perfect.

Ona walked to Lucy and wrapped herself around the taller woman from behind, her unanounced touch made Lucy jump slightly, a soft chuckle escaping her lips. “Hey, baby, you’re home,” Lucy said, her voice tender.

‘’Mhm’’ Ona hummed against the muscular shoulders, ‘’you are my home’’.

Lucy put the fire a little lower and took Ona’s hands to give her a little space to turn around, ‘’hello’’ Lucy smiled, with a loving gaze she leaned in, her lips meeting Ona’s in a gentle, affectionate kiss.

It was a kiss that spoke volumes, soft and lingering, a silent promise of comfort and togetherness. The tender pressure of their lips was complemented by the gentle brush of Lucy’s fingers against Ona’s cheek, a subtle yet profound gesture of the love and care they shared. For a moment, the outside world faded away, leaving only the warmth of their embrace and the sweetness of their kiss, which reassured them both that things were good between them.

Lucy felt a renewed sense of determination. No matter what challenges laid ahead, she knew she would face them with Ona by her side. After all, she was Lucia Tough Bronze, unstoppable both on and off the field.

With a playful glint in her eyes, Lucy pulled back slightly, looking at Ona with a mischievous smile. “Did you know I’ve won everything in life?” she asked.

Ona, catching the sparkle in Lucy’s gaze, tilted her head with a knowing smile. She had seen this look before, the blend of Lucy’s playful charm and genuine affection. “Oh? what makes you say that?” she chuckled, ready for another of Lucy’s cheesy lines.

Lucy’s smile widened as she took Ona’s hands in hers, holding them gently. “Because I have you,” she said, her voice filled with sincerity and emotion. “Honestly, I feel like the luckiest woman in the world. With you by my side, everything just feels perfect.”

Ona’s smile deepened, touched by Lucy’s words. “I love you too Lucy.”

Lucy’s expression softened as she gently cupped Ona’s face in her hands and pressed a tender kiss to her lips. “No, I mean it. You’re perfect,” she said quietly. “I love that you’ve been so patient with me, that you see and care about the real me.”

Ona leaned in and kissed the taller woman gently. “Ofcourse, speaking of caring about you, I assume things went well with the doctor?”.

Lucy’s expression clouded for a moment. “I texted you, right? Everything went well,” she said with a bright smile. “I’m back to training with the team again.”

Ona raised an eyebrow and chuckled. “Actually, no, you didn’t text me. But I’m glad to hear it was good news,” she said, giving Lucy another affectionate kiss. “I almost started missing your silly distractions.”

“Hey!” Lucy protested playfully. “They’re not silly, they make people laugh.” She pulled out her phone and began scrolling. “I swear I sent you a message.”

After a few moments, she chuckled. “Oh, I sent it to my mom instead. Oops.”

Ona shook her head with an amused smile and gently took Lucy's arms, pulling her into an embrace. She nestled her head against Lucy’s shoulder, savoring the closeness. ‘’ets incorregible’’ she chuckled.

#woso fanfics #lucy bronze x ona batlle #lucy bronze #lucy bronze x reader #woso #woso imagine #ona batlle #adhd #ona batlle x lucy bronze #ona batlle x reader #ona battle

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ohtobeleah · 9 months ago

Text

Secret Sacrifices // Jake Seresin

Chapter One: [Mermaids Don’t Exist]

Summary: Jake continues to plays your knight in shining armour when tensions rise between you and an overly intoxicated patron. Bob brings up a mutual memory.

Warnings: Jake Seresin x F!reader. Witness Protection F!reader. Sexually degrading comments made towards reader. Sexual tension, trauma. Mentions of death & violence.

Word Count: 3.5k

Author Note: Still not writing as much as I once was but I’m getting back into the swing of things. Any comments, thoughts or concepts are welcome!

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

Dreams mainly occur when the body falls into a stage of sleep referred to as R.E.M. Rapid eye movement occurs when the brain and body are finally able to completely rest. But that doesn’t necessarily mean that when your body is able to rest, it allows you to do so.

“We’ll find you, Y/n!”

Nightmares are typically thought to be an evolutionary conserved trait. Some researchers believe that nightmares provide a rehearsal for life-or-death situations. Before you lived one? You would have said something along the lines of ‘that checks out.’

“No no no no please, Patrick, stay with me—“

Some researchers believe nightmares to be a practical experience for many people as it allows the brain to run through multiple different algorithms to find the most desirable strategies, and solutions to often critical and complex situations.

From a procedural standpoint, simply imagining doing an action can improve your performance.

“I love you—take Charlie.”

This applies when we simply imagine doing an action such as playing the piano or running for your life after being run off the road, it activates something called a mirror neuron.

“You have no idea what you’re dealing with here, girly.”

In theory, the more nightmares you have, the more of those algorithms your brain is able to run, and the more prepared you’re likely to be for the daily struggle of survival.

But evolution herself is seen by the scientific community more so as a tinkerer than as an inventor.

“Oh god—please, not my baby, please! Someone! Help us!”

So, that’s probably why you have the same nightmare over and over and over again every single night.

Every morning you wake in the same way, with your face pressed into your pillow and your chest sinking into your mattress. Secretly, every morning you wished that your pillow would have suffocated you in your sleep so that today would forever be unobtainable. But you couldn’t do that, no. Not when the only way to bring a sense of worth to your life was to keep putting one foot in front of the other.

With a groan and a look that spoke volumes to your lack of self-esteem, you rolled onto your back and let out a heavy sigh. Your hands were quick to shield your eyes from the mid-afternoon rays beaming into your bedroom via the slightly cracked windows.

“Your name is Y/n Y/l/n, you are doing the right thing.”

Guilt and grief aren’t linear emotions. They don’t have a perception of how much time has passed. Realistically it had been three years, six months, and two days since your entire world had been flipped upside down. But every morning, after seeing your husband bleeding to death as he sat pressed against the steering wheel, and having held your five-year-old son in your arms while he took his last breath, the wound was reopened.

And the clock always resets.

“Ah, there she is.” You couldn’t help but hang your head in shame almost. Penny’s glare from behind the bar was as piercing and sharp as it was endearing and playful. Like a woman who took no shit from no one. “You know, you’d think management would be here on time more frequently than whatever the hell this is.” All you could do was take the semi-serious scattering from the owner of the bar you’d been lucky enough to be set up with a pretty good gig at. “Get over here and give me a hand will ya?”

“Sorry, Penny—” There wasn’t much more you could say to justify yourself. You woke up late, got ready slowly, and got lost in the steam of your mid-afternoon shower as you fought off the existential dread that was your current situation. “Flat tyre,” You shrugged like it wasn’t that big of a deal that you were currently twenty-three minutes late for your shift, “I’ll make it up to you.”

“Yeah well, you can start by clearing off the table by the piano,” Penny smiled as she nudged her head in the direction of the unruly table of patrons that had surely had far too much to drink. “Think Rick’s had a little more than his liver would care to admit.”

“Yeah righto,” you sighed as you came behind the bar, doing up your apron as you looked around at the utter mess that had become the place. “I’ll sort him out.”

North Island wasn’t somewhere you ever saw yourself living, but that was the real kicker in all of this. You didn’t mind the picturesque town with clear blue skies and water that mirrored it. But being the outsider, being the new resident, being the Hard Deck’s newest manager was all some of these people saw you as. Six months in a small Naval town was barely a dint in the years some of these families had been living here.

“Aw hello, Brewer!” Rick Spencer, the resident rioter, cooed as he beamed your way. For someone in their mid-sixties, he surely went alright. “What brings you in on this fine Saturday afternoon?”

Typical - If you could have, you would have rolled your eyes so far into the back of your head you would have fallen over. Instead, you chose to smile and settle into the nightlife festivities with a can-do attitude and a rather cheeky smile.

“Came to check on you, Spence? How’s everything over here boys?” It wasn’t uncommon for you to entertain the banter most of the patrons would give you. Most of the locals had caught on quickly that you enjoyed a good laugh every now and again but also knew how to handle your own.

But there's always one in every group, isn’t there?

“Would be a hell of a lot better if the barmaid was a little more topless! Right boys!?” A man you hadn’t seen before interrupted before a roar of ‘yeahs’ and agreements were made. Fists and beer bottles along with spirits alike slammed against the tabletop. “Come on girly—” The man continued as you stood there holding the empty bar tray, ready and waiting to collect the empties that littered the table. “Get your kit off.”

“I don’t think so, boys,” You politely declined the offer of public indecency. “Perhaps in another lifetime.”

“Sorry about him, Brewer,” Rick explained as he shook his head and stood from his seat at the booth. “My nephew’s here for a few days.”

“Yeah well, so long as he remembers I run the joint and can have him tossed any time,” You replied sternly. “Keep him in line, Rick.”

“Oh come on now, sweetheart, I was only joking!” The man you only knew as the nephew chuckled as he overheard your comment. “It’s slim pickings around here anyway, you just look like the best of a bad bunch is all.”

“Hey!” That voice, that far too familiar voice echoed through the crowd. “You speak to her, or any woman for that matter, like that again? So help me god I’ll punch your teeth right through the back of your skull.” Jake snarled as he came to stand in front of you with his back nearly pressed right into your chest. “Got it!?” The close proximity, the overwhelming aroma of the familiar cologne, and the notes of burnt orange and bourbon made your heart warm. It all had your heart beating against your chest with a force so intense you thought it might break through.

“Yeah right,” the man only known as the nephew agreed. “Sorry, sweetheart, I’ll get on the waters for a while.”

“That and a pretty big tip should call us even,” you added with envy conviction laced in your voice that you even had yourself fooled that everything was alright. “Let me just grab these empties for you fellas.”

You didn’t mess around with it, you simply let the group fall back into their regular chatter as you filled your tray.

Jake stood with crossed arms a little off to the side, eyeing off all the men who sat idly. Fucking pricks.

“Been here all of five fucking minutes—” Jake could sense your frustration as you turned into him. At first, he didn’t move, he simply stood there drinking you in as you held the now full tray of dirty glassware.

“You didn’t have to do that for me,” was all you said.

With wandering eyes, Jake didn’t miss a single inch of you.

“I know,” Jake smiled softly as he reached around to lead you back to the bar for a moment to decompress. His hand gently fell to the small of your back as you walked side by side, “I know you’re capable of taking care of yourself, but just because you’re capable? Doesn’t mean you have to go it alone.”

Alone, that’s all you’d ever been for the last three years.

“Yeah, yeah I guess you’re right,” the sigh that left your body allowed your shoulders to relax as you placed the tray onto the bar and slid it over for Penny to take. “Thanks, Jake, I owe you one.”

Jake Seresin had never been the kind of guy who saw himself settling down. But when he first saw you, that thought hadn’t left his mind.

“Name a time and place,” Jake teased as he sent you a wink. It didn’t take Jake long to find himself at home up by the bar, perched on one of the bar stools as he entertained his favourite bartender. “I’ve always wondered what our first date would be like.”

“Do I look like I came down in the last shower, Seresin?” You knew Jake had a thing for you, it wasn’t all that hard to put together. But it could never work, not in a million years. Not when you were playing pretend on a professional basis.

“What’s that even mean?” Jake asked as he leaned his elbows on top of the bar, grinning ear to ear as he pressed your buttons more.

“It means—“ You cooed as you leaned into his space, making it known that the flirting was welcome, but the end goal wasn’t in sight. “I know you’re just trying to get in my pants.”

“Pretty good-looking set of pants if I do say so myself,” Jake teased as his eyes trailed down the expanse of your body, then back up. Those emerald cities of his were full of complex wonder and undoubtable loyalty. Something you could never give back. “But despite the fact I think you’re pants would look a hell of a lot better in a pile on my bedroom floor, I’m not just doing any of this for a chance to, well, you know what I mean.”

You did know what Jake meant, and for all intents and purposes you could admit to yourself that it sounded very tempting. But you knew what the repercussions would be.

“Jake, that’s all very sweet of you,” you felt as if you had this very conversation every week. The gentle let down. The kind-ish conversation where you reminded the overly-confident and somewhat self-assured Aviator that you weren’t looking for love or lust, or anything. Besides, there were already too many people looking for you. “But you know, as much as I think you’re a good guy and friend, I’m not interested.”

Jake stood silently before you, drinking in all that was you. From the lines etched into your forehead to the small scar that ran through your left eyebrow. He wasn’t listening, there was just something about you. Something so intriguing that he couldn’t stop trying to win you over. He couldn’t stop trying to get you to give him just one chance. One chance was all Jake wanted to convince you he wasn’t everything he knew people had told you he was.

“What would you say if I asked you to–” Before Jake had a chance to finish his question, the echoing sound of a glass shattering into smitherings against the wooden flooring, interrupted his train of thought.

“OOOIII– TAXI!” It was almost as if all the patrons, besides Jake that was, had all congealed into one as they yelled shouted and cheered towards the man who had dropped his glass. With a heavy sigh and a quick roll of the eyes, you knew you would be the one who ultimately had to clear the mess.

“I should probably get back to work.” The silence that came from Jake was deafening as you pulled away from where you had been standing far too close to a man you thought you didn’t want. A man you couldn’t have even if deep down you really wanted. Life was unfair like that. You couldn’t have anything you wanted, anything you loved. Anything that made you happy in the smallest of ways.

“There’s really no chance of getting you to agree to just one date, is there Brewer?” Jake watched as you made your over to where you kept the cleaning supplies in a small section behind the bar.

“If you already know that then why do you constantly make such an effort?” It was the look on your face that told Jake everything he needed to know. There was no chance in hell he was ever getting that date.

But Jake Seresin never gave up without a fight, and he sure as hell wasn’t about to now.

“Because you gentled me, Brewer,” Jake Seresin had never been the type of person who wanted to settle down. He was always so content with the relations he chose to have and the way he chose to have them. Short simple quick flings. Girlfriends who lasted no longer than a year and one-night stands he’d promise to call but never got their numbers. But then there was you. “No one’s ever done that before.”

“Please don’t put that on my shoulders, Jake,” You weren't sure how to respond to that, how to process that kind of admission. “Just lay off the heroics for a while alright? I don’t want people getting the wrong impression.”

“That impression would be?” Jake questioned like you’d just insulted his very being. That it would be a crime to love him.

“Jake, I have a job to do alright,” It wasn’t that you were angry or upset that Jake cared for and about you. It was more frustration on your part for not being able to act on your own feelings towards him. It had been three years since your husband died. Three years since you felt the loving embrace of another human being. That alone was enough to frustrate anyone. “Please, just–just, I need to get back to work.”

The thing about nightmares is that they often don’t stick to their own parameters. Sometimes, you end up living a nightmare more often than you dream one. Right now? As Jake looked at you like you’d just shot him through the heart, you knew you were wide awake. Living a nightmare that continued to punish only the good.

“You’re untouchable,” Jake sighed to himself softly as he shook his head in defeat. “The untouchable woman who won’t let anyone in, you’re too proud or something aren’t you?”

“It’s just–” All you wanted to do was explain yourself, pull Jake aside and let him in on why you couldn’t allow him to love you the way you wanted him to. But no words came out as you stood there holding the old dustpan by your side.

With every blink, you saw flashes of Patrick. The love you lost too soon, too suddenly. He made sure to haunt your dreams to keep you safe. For a brief second of all-consuming anguish, you saw him too. Standing right behind Jake, warning you not to. “I need to get back to work, I’m sorry.”

“Right,” Jake clenched his jaw when he felt the word vomit about to spew from his lips. He wasn’t mad, rejection just wasn’t something he was familiar with. “When you get a chance, put a Budweiser on Bradshaw’s tab.” Jake pressed his lips together into a fine line of regret, instantly kicking himself for pushing. He knew he shouldn’t have, but the chase was as addicting as it was thrilling. With a simple knock of his knuckles on the bar before, he turned on his heels. Leaving you to stand there in your own self-loathing.

Your heart sank as you watched Jake shove his hands into the pockets of his jeans with a head that hung so low you almost wondered if his neck would be sore. Guilt, shame, it all felt the same. But you couldn’t let Jake in, you couldn’t allow him into your life more than what you’d given him over the last six months.

You’d tangled yourself in barbed wire so you couldn’t be reached by anyone. Unknowingly bleeding when as it digs into you more and more. You would think the touch of skin on yours wouldn’t be so terrifying, but you’d been bruised before. You couldn’t allow Jake to fall into your web of lies that kept you safe from harm’s way. If hurting him was the only way to keep him safe, you’d hurt him twice over every single day.

Perhaps it would be safer to stay the untouchable woman.

***~***~***~***~***~****

As a child, there was magic in the mundane. You often found yourself missing the mermaids among the koi in the pond, their glittering scales reminiscent of a childhood fairytale. Summer mornings you’d make bouquets out of the same flowers adults would now mow away while wrinkling their noses at the weeds.

You often wondered to yourself when the awe of the day-to-day faded away and when you stopped believing in your ability to see mermaids in the momentous world around you.

“Another round fellas?” You tried not to think too much about the way Jake’s eyes burned into you like a fiery sunbeam as you stood behind Rooster. “Same old same old? The usual orders of Bradshaw’s table?” The squad, affectionately known as the Daggers erupted into laughter all the while Rooster remained silent and brooding.

“You are all bleeding my dry,” Bradley sighed as you made the rounds and collected all the empties onto your bar tray. “Seriously, I know you aren’t all working for free, cough up.”

“You could– just apologise for being a Neanderthal and I’ll close it out?” Your statement left a bad taste in Rooster’s mouth, he wasn’t one for apologising for things he didn’t think he’d done wrong.

“I could,” the brooding moustache-having man replied. “But it’d be an empty lie.” There was something about Bradley Bradshaw that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand to attention. He wasn’t necessarily a bad person, he was–an only child. He probably never imagined mermaids among the koi.

“Appreciate the honesty there, Bradshaw,” you chuckled deeply as you finished you collecting all the empty glasses and beer bottles. “Guess the next rounds on you.”

“Here here,” Coyote chimed in with a Cheshire Cat grin. “All in a hard day’s work there Rooster, you always know how to piss off the barkeep.”

“Works out in our favour,” Bob smiled as he passed you two empty glasses. “I don’t think I’ve paid for a drink of my own in a few weeks now.”

“No, you just keep trying to convince everyone Brewer here was your first kiss,” Phoenix smirked as she finished off her beer.

All the air inside your lungs felt like they had been sucked right out. The chills that ran down the expanse of your spine made your blood run cold. You stood tall with your now full tray of old beer bottles and empty glasses and sent a polite smile Bob’s way.

“You still riding that wave?”

“You just really look like Y/n from Nurellun Public,” Bob countered with an almost pleading tone. “She was my first kiss by the sandpit and I remember she had a little yellow dot in her right eye.”

“Brewer has a yellow dot in her right eye,” Jake decided to enter the conversation from his place in the corner of the booth. “Tell you what Floyd, you must have been one shocking kisser if you got Brewer here to change her damn name.” The table erupted into a loud boisterous laugh as the Weapons System Officer sunk a little lower into his seat.

You felt for Bob, being the butt of the joke was never a good feeling. But when your case officer relocated you to North Island, he didn’t bank on one of its locals being your first snog. You hated gaslighting the guy, but you had no other choice. Bob Floyd had to stay in the era of Meridamis and weed bouquets.

“Like I told you last time Bob, you’ve got the wrong girl,” It was as nonchalant as it was dismissive. “My first kiss was with Johnny Bennett out at some random guys shed.” You had gotten used to lying about your life and who you were. At the very beginning it was almost impossible, but three years on? You’d gotten pretty good at playing pretend.

Only you wished it could be with the mermaids in their fairytales. But much like all those mermaids and all those fairytale stories……you didn’t exist. Much like Johnny Bennett.

***~***~***~***~***~

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#secret sacrifices // jake seresin #jake seresin x reader #jake seresin x you #jake seresin x y/n #jake hangman fic #jake hangman imagine #jake hangman seresin #jake seresin fanfiction #jake seresin imagine #top gun hangman #top gun fandom #top gun fanfic #top gun fanfiction

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dilemmaontwolegs · 1 year ago

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Not A Verstappen: A New World {4}

Pairing: Charles Leclerc x fem!driver!reader x Lando Norris Summary: The 2023 season can't all be sunshine and rainbows, not when the Red Bull team look impossible to beat. Warnings: 18+ only, nsfw, angst, smut WC: 2.7k F1 Masterlist NAV: Sibling Rivalry One || Two || Three NAV: Gridlocked One || Two || Three || Four || Five || Six || Seven || Eight || Nine NAV: A New World One || Two || Three || Four || Five

notaverstappen Miami

liked by charles_leclerc, landonorris and 78,283 others

notaverstappen: I'd hit that (the volleyball of course) view all comments

Miami Grand Prix “Holy shit, those fuckers are fast.”

Lando barely looked up from where he lay on the bed with his head hanging off the end. He wasn’t interested in what you were doing, he was in a world of his own and wallowing with a bag of rainbow Twizzlers. Charles’ mood wasn’t much better after his 7th place finish, thanks to another famous Ferrari strategy, but he did turn away from his phone for a second to see what you were looking at on your laptop.

You were busy reading the data from the race and watching the replay, trying to find any room for improvement, but it wasn’t looking promising. Your pencil could attest to that as it began falling to pieces from where you chewed on the end of it and you weren’t going to be able to make many more notes with it.

Pausing the video, you grabbed your phone and called Max. “What the hell kind of rocket did Newey build?”

“Hello Max, how are you? I’m great, thanks for asking,” Max huffed, making you roll your eyes.

“I drove perfectly today, and I couldn’t get within 25 seconds of you. I just don’t understand it. Can you send me your data?”

You clenched your teeth at the scoff he made. “You know I can’t do that. And don’t even try the whole ‘but I’m your sister’.”

“But I am your sister, and it’s so humiliating to go from racing for first place to just racing for the bottom step of the podium.” Your hand tightened around your phone and your eyes burned even after screwing them closed. “Please, Max.”

“I can’t,” he said quietly. “But…if you visit P on Wednesday while I’m at the factory the sim might be left in the race set up.”

Charles jumped at the squeal you gave. “Thank you, thank you. You’re my favourite brother again.”

You hung up the phone after a quick goodbye but your smile disappeared at the shake of Lando’s head. “What?”

“Humiliated with third place,” he muttered as he looked to Charles for back up. “Is she serious?”

“I think so, but you know what Max is like when he doesn't win.”

“He throws a tantrum, I’m not throwing a tantrum - I just want to know how to do better. I need to show Red Bull that it should be me in that seat.”

“Okay, and then what? What happens if they offer it to you? You know how toxic that place was, you know how bad it was for your health - how can you want that again?” Lando took your phone and dropped it on the bedside drawer as he knelt beside you. “Answer me.”

“I don’t want the seat,” you corrected him, kneeling so you were eye to eye. “I just want to prove the point.”

“What point is that? Everyone already knows you are the best driver, you’re the World Champion.”

You felt your hands turn to fists at your side as they began to tremble and you were unable to control the outburst that followed. “That it wasn’t the fucking car, Lando! You think I don’t hear them all talking behind my back, saying anyone could have won if they had my car.”

“Woah, let’s just cool down,” Charles interjected with a hand on each of your shoulders.

“No, Char, I am going out of my mind here. I have had to sit through interviews and read news articles getting absolutely slated by reporters telling me I’m nothing without the Red Bull seat.” You fell back on the pillows and bundled one to your chest as you turned away from your boyfriends. “I know third place is something to celebrate, but this is about more than winning.”

Charles’ hand came to rest on your hip and he gave it a gentle squeeze. “Come on, mamor, let’s go get you some chocolate.”

“I’m not on my period,” you grunted as you shook his hand off you. “Are you trying to be condescending or is this just coming naturally?”

“I was trying to be nice, but you want to act like a spoiled child. Lando, coming?”

You felt them both climb off the bed and felt their absence like a punch to the gut. You clenched the pillow tighter to your chest as silence filled the hotel suite but it didn’t replace them.

“Fuck,” you swore as you threw the pillow across the room, launching them all one after another as waves of emotions crashed over you. They didn’t like losing either so surely they could understand why you felt the way you did - but obviously they did not. Exhausted from the race, and argument, you collapsed in the middle of the bed and bundled yourself into the blankets, wrapping them tightly around you. Within seconds you were fast asleep, but it wasn’t a restful sleep - not when you were alone.

You felt even more exhausted when you woke to the pre-dawn light filtering through the gap in the curtains. Soft snores sounded beside you and you found Lando and Charles cuddled for warmth since you were still wrapped tighter than a burrito in the blankets. The fact they had returned to you and not one of the other beds in the suite eased something strange in your chest and you knew you had to make it up to them. You didn’t know what came over you, but you had been a bitch to Charles especially.

You carefully laid the blankets over them and closed the door behind you.

The streets were busy for the early hour and as the sun broke the horizon you wandered aimlessly until a scent caught your attention. You followed the saliva-inducing smell until you reached a large square with a market setting up in the centre of it. Key Lime pies and Cuban sandwiches made your stomach grumble while the fresh fish and stone crabs had the opposite effect.

Shopping bags dug into your wrist as you tried to carry them and balance the extra large pie, but you managed to make it back to the hotel suite without dropping either. Charles was in front of the coffee machine that was warming up with a whirring noise but he moved the instant he saw you walk in.

“Where have you been, chérie?” he asked as he took the Key Lime pie and placed it on the table before helping take the bags of fresh fruit and hot sandwiches too. “I was worried when you weren’t answering your phone.”

“Sorry, I had my hands full.”

“What is all this?”

You looked at your feet as you shrugged. “This is my ‘I’m sorry for what I said when I was hungry’ apology. I was a bitch and if you want you can totally pie my face.”

“It’s been a long few weeks, you can be forgiven for snapping,” he said softly as he pulled you into his arms, and wiped a dollop of meringue across your cheek. You gasped at the sticky smear running down your cheek and Charles smirked before dipping his head down and licking the sweet topping off. “Now go wake up Lando before there’s no pie left.”

Monaco Grand Prix The cancellation of Imola’s race made for a nice, albeit unexpected, break and you had made the most of it after helping with the clean up. Yuki started it and convinced Pierre to help, who convinced Charles, who convinced Lando. You would have rather slept the rainy week away but it had been quite a heartwarming event in the end - until the silt and mud mess began to reek and you were happy it was time to leave.

“On a scale of one to ten, how much did you stick to your training schedule over the break?” Kristian asked as he keyed data into his iPad.

“Negative three, if I had to guess,” you said with a laugh. “I mean, you shovel dirt for 12 hours a day and survive on a salad. I had carbs, dude, but I would have burned it off too, so relax.”

“But you haven’t and that was two weeks ago,” he frowned, turning the iPad around to show the graph slowly climbing. “What have you been doing since?”

“I went skiing with Charles in Austria and cycled the Pyrenees with Lando so lay off my ass. Fucks sake, man.”

It was almost time for qualifying to begin but you weren’t able to focus properly as you stormed your way down the line of motorhomes to McLaren. You could hear his music playing before you reached his room and it spilled out into the hall when you opened the door.

“Hey baby,” he greeted with a smile that dimmed as he saw your mood and he turned the music down, “what’s wrong?”

“Kristian, with a K, pissed me off.” You dropped onto his couch and stretched out before lifting your feet up so Lando could sit down too. He slipped your racing boots off before laying your feet across his lap and pushed the legs of your race suit up your calves so he could give you a little massage. “He practically called me a lazy bitch.”

“I doubt that,” Lando said with a roll of his eyes. “If he actually did, we wouldn't be here talking about it, we’d be getting ice for Charles fist.”

“Okay, wise guy, I might have been paraphrasing…”

He chuckled at the admission and you yawned as the massage began to relax you enough to doze off.

“Sorry, love, it’s time to go,” Lando woke you with a kiss to your cheek and you found you had curled up into a ball while you slept. “We can have a proper nap after quali.”

You ignored Kristian’s presence as you entered the garage and shrugged your race suit up over your shoulders on the walk over to your race engineer. “How’s everything looking?”

“We are running with the setup from FP3 but we will still monitor the rear braking temperatures,” Chris said as he gathered his notebook to take to the pit wall. “It doesn’t look like there should be an issue again.”

You nodded before pulling on your balaclava then helmet and climbing into the car that had been warming up.

“And that will be P2, that is another front row start for tomorrow. Nicely done.”

You grinned inside your helmet as you waved to some of the fans while you finished your cool down lap and asked, “How did Charles and Lando do?”

“Leclerc is P3 and Norris is P10.”

“10? He was doing faster sectors than I was,” you muttered as you remembered seeing the times on the big screens around the track.

By the time you pulled into the pits you had found out that Charles had impeded Lando on his final flying lap, resulting in the poor time. You knew he wouldn’t have done it on purpose but your stomach sank when you went to Ferrari only to find Charles on his way to the stewards - his forlorn face knowing he was going to get a grid penalty at his home race.

There was hardly any talk around the table that night when you got home. Lando was picking at each single grain of rice with his chopsticks and Charles just stared at his bowl before sighing and pushing it away.

You silently rose from the table and felt their curious eyes follow you as you disappeared into the bedroom and changed into a racy set of lingerie that still had the tags on. You had bought it as a surprise but never had the chance to wear it, so what better time to test it out then when both men were clearly in need of a distraction.

You knelt in the middle of the bed after you sent a message to the group chat and waited patiently. There was a quiet vibration of their phones on the table, the scrape of the chair legs over the tile floor, the padding of bare feet through the apartment, and the soft gasps of air they inhaled at the sight.

“Fuck me,” Lando whispered before he drew his bottom lip between his teeth.

“Moi aussi.”

“That is the plan,” you teased, drawing your fingers over the lace trim on your thighs. “But only if you can play nicely with each other. Hmm? I think you should kiss and make up.”

You held out a hand to each one and gave them a tug onto the bed and into each other's path. Their quick reactions stabilised them before they could crash and they shared a chuckle as they settled face to face.

“I’m sorry, amor,” Charles murmured, reaching for the curl that always flopped over Lando’s forehead. “I didn’t mean to ruin your shot.”

“I know, I’m sorry too,” Lando said, equally as soft before he caught Charles open hand and kissed his palm. With apologies over, their eyes turned to you. “Now, baby, where have you been hiding this?”

You winked as you made yourself comfortable on the pillows at the headboard and parted your legs. Their chests filled with a big breath in and a grin grew on their faces until both their dimples showed. “You like them?”

Lando’s head bobbed with his quick nods and he fell onto his forearms as he settled between your legs, his fingers teasing the line of your slit through the crotchless panties. “I like them a lot.”

You snapped your legs closed as he started to inch forward and he looked up with a pout as you warned him. “I said kiss and make up. A proper kiss.” It hurt to deny him, your body screaming at you for denying you both the pleasure of his touch, but you were quickly rewarded when their hands tangled in each other’s hair and their tongues fought for dominance.

An achy throb grew between your legs as they were pushed open by Lando’s shoulders as he fell back beneath Charles’ body. Lando looked quite pleased with himself as he bared his neck for the sloppy kisses Charles was leaving and his eyes rolled up to watch you enjoying the scene yourself. A pained curse tumbled from his lips when you reached for the thin material covering your breasts and pulled them aside to palm them as your hips rocked beneath Lando’s heavy body.

“Okay, you two are good now,” you breathed as you rolled your nipples between your thumb and forefinger. “I want my kiss.”

Charles peeked up from where he pinned Lando beneath him, the pressure pushing Lando’s nape over your clit and eliciting a moan from you. “I don’t know, ma petite, I kind of like this show you are giving us.”

You teased them further as they shifted to get a better view. Lando turned to watch you too and Charles sat behind him, his hands trailing down Lando’s front as delicately as he played the piano. You waited until his palm rode over the erection tenting his shorts before you grew impatient.

Two pairs of eyes, one blue and one green, followed your hand intently as you raised it to your lips and swirled your tongue around two digits and they moaned, knowing the feel of your tongue doing the same to their cocks. Their eyes fixated on your fingers as you spread your legs and touched yourself for them, the pleasure quickly spreading as you watched Charles stroking Lando’s length in time to your ministrations.

“Look how wet she is for us, mon cher,” Charles purred as he teased a thumb over Lando’s sensitive tip until he shuddered. “Don’t you want a taste?”

Lando’s lips parted to agree but a needy whine escaped and the sound went straight to your core, your back arching in delight.

“Please,” you begged your boyfriends, their eyes almost black with lust. “I need more than my fingers.”

Lando whimpered as Charles fist unfurled from his cock but the loss was only momentary when the Monegasque whispered in his ear. “Go on, give her what she needs.”

“What about y-?” Lando asked over his shoulder after he sent his shorts flying off the bed and pressed his erection to your dripping entrance. The words died as he saw Charles eyes following the curve of his spine before settling on the swell of his ass. “Oh.”

Charles chuckled and sent a wink back. “I’ll get what I need.”

Click here for the next part.

#lando norris x reader #charles leclerc x reader #lando norris fanfic #charles leclerc fanfic #lando norris imagine #charles leclerc imagine #Charles leclerc x reader x lando norris #f1 rpf #f1 fanfic #f1 imagine #f1 x reader #f1 x y/n #f1 x you #lando norris x you #charles leclerc x you

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leclercskiesahead · 3 months ago

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Excerpts: [First stints] The opening stint saw graining and high degradation for all runners and lap times rose sharply from around Lap 10 onwards. On Lap 14 [Norris] was called to box for new hard tyres. He then emerged behind Ocon – and Ferrari saw a small opportunity to cover him, and so boxed Leclerc the next lap. Unfortunately for Leclerc, it didn’t work out for him and he was undercut by Norris. Leclerc’s complaints on the radio at stopping to emerge behind the McLaren were met with reassurance that the race was most likely a two-stop, and it was the correct point to box. Piastri then covered both one lap later. In [Sainz’s] opening stint, he was too far behind Norris to attempt an undercut and Ferrari were still considering the one-stop possibility. Therefore Sainz pushed to extend as he thought it was too early to stop. Later, he reported that the graining was improving and lap times may recover. This was important information for Ferrari. Sainz was then called to pit before being undercut by Hamilton so the lap time improvement was crucially not seen by the other teams. [Second stints] As graining emerged on the hard tyre for all three leaders, [they had to decide] when to stop for the final set of hards. Piastri was asked if he thought a one-stop might be possible, but said no. [On Lap 32,] Leclerc is given the ‘box to overtake’ call on Norris as Ferrari looked to attempt an undercut. But Norris then pitted, prompting Leclerc to stay out. He was then told they will extend the stint to build a tyre delta. In the second stint running in largely free air, Sainz pushed Ferrari discussion on the one-stop strategy possibility. The pit wall and Sainz discussed whether they should cover Hamilton’s second pit stop or remain on the one-stop option – with Sainz favouring the latter after reporting that his tyres were still good. At this point the information is given to Leclerc that Sainz is targeting a one-stop strategy. Leclerc agrees that it is the best opportunity to win and immediately begins work on the tyre saving required to pull it off. [McLaren third stints vs Ferrari staying out] [Having boxed with 15 laps remaining,] Piastri needed to average 1.5 seconds per lap quicker [than his pre-stop pace] to make the pit stop beneficial. His first lap after the pit stop was indeed 1.5 seconds faster than before. However, he had five back-markers to overtake as well as Sainz. The back-markers cost variable amounts of lap time and Sainz then cost Piastri around two seconds of race time – which is crucial when considering Piastri only finished 2.6 seconds behind Leclerc at the flag. So although Leclerc then took the plaudits and the glory on the Monza podium, he couldn’t have pulled off such a famous victory without the help of his Ferrari team mate.

#big brained strategist doing bryan bozzi's job for him #carlos sainz jr #scuderia ferrari #f1 #monza 2024 #interesting perspective i hadn't thought of was ferrari timing carlos' pit so other teams couldn't see his tyres improving #so only they know the recovery potential on the tyres #seems like ferrari considered a one-stop but charles' side of the pitwall balked in reaction to mcl's strat (orange text)#then only after carlos had his discussion with ricky they realised they shd consider it again (red text)#ppl been shitting on mclaren for being too reactive to/worried abt others in their strat and ferrari nearly made that same mistake #carlos strategises his own win and/or has outright pace on everyone: useless driver has never won without ferrari sacrificing leclerc!!!#charles gets wins again after two years because carlos played the team game: renowned professional doesn't know what she's talking about!!!#the real sacrificial lamb #too bad oscar and tom didn't say “they are sacrificing carlos” in his final stint

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nenelonomh · 8 months ago

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45:15 pomodoro ~ study technique

the pomodoro technique was developed in the late 1980's by francesco cirillo, who was a university student at the time. here’s how it came about:

struggling to focus. cirillo found himself struggling to focus on his studies and complete assignments. feeling overwhelmed, he sought a way to improve his productivity and concentration.

the tomato timer. inspired by a kitchen timer shaped like a tomato (known as “pomodoro” in italian), cirillo decided to experiment with time management methods. he set a two-minute timer for himself and challenged himself to stay focused for just two minutes.

twenty-five-minute work intervals. building on this idea, cirillo refined the technique. he divided his work into twenty-five-minute intervals, which he called “pomodoros”. during each pomodoro, he worked diligently on a task without distractions.

short breaks. after each twenty-five-minute work interval, cirillo took a five-minute break. these breaks allowed him to recharge and maintain focus.

longer breaks. after completing four pomodoros (a total of one-hundred minutes), he rewarded himself with a longer break of fifteen to thirty minutes. this cycle helped him manage his time effectively.

some challenges that people face with the pomodoro timer include: facing interruptions and distractions, task switching, ridgity, ignoring breaks, perfectionism and fatigue.

this is why some students choose to partake in a 45:15 pomodoro, as it allows them to spend more time on their tasks, and then they can enjoy a longer break.

longer intervals allow for deep focus. some students find it difficult to switch tasks every twenty-five-minutes, preferring to immerse themselves in a topic for a longer period.

certain academic tasks, such as extended essays, research and programming, require sustained attention. longer pomodoros accommodate this better.

it's important to remember that everyone has different levels of focus and a unique productivity rhythm. it's important to test out different structures and strategies and learn what works best with your natural flow.

❤️ joanne

(images are from pinterest)

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ross-hollander · 5 months ago

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Lesser Known Legends...

...of the Inner Sphere and Beyond: everyone knows their The Bounty Hunter and their Black Marauder, but some notables never seem to really find the fame they deserve. For instance...

"The Grinch", name unknown, attacked Christmas tree farms in a pine-green Hatchetman across the Commonwealth in the years following the Jihad; speculated to have been disgruntled with the omnipresent holiday season sales advertising. Never apprehended. The damage was estimated to have been in the tens of millions.

Willy Divou, the "Red Paper Clip Bandit". Started in a raggedy CattleMaster, broke into military bases ranging from the Capellan Confederation to the furthest reaches of the Combine, swapping for a new, better 'mech each time. Arrested and executed after being baited with a rumors of an 'experimental improved Atlas'.

Theodora Mirene, the "Brick Wall". A Civil War mercenary whose grotesquely modified Stalker avoided differing weapons restrictions and parts availability in the various systems she operated in by not having any. She butted and body-checked over twenty enemy 'mechs down over her career, before retiring from battle strain.

Toni Anathol, "The Solaris Menace". Active from 2904-6 as the only person to ever reach double digits (27, all told) for streaking in the 'mech arenas. Was captured when he twisted an ankle brutally mid-run, but fans demanded his release. His career was over after that, though he received the only official Solaris Medal of Spontaneity.

"The Possum Pilot", spotted across numerous battlefields but consistent in their tactics during the Andurien Crisis. Always piloted an Archer so dilapidated as to appear to be a wreck, then sprung up and fired on unsuspecting FWL troops. Killed when stepped on by a Zeus that took them for underfoot wreckage. Body was unidentifiable.

Susan Ravenwater, "The Party Bus", a Hell's Horses pilot active during STAMPEDE with a dicey strategy of ordering every Elemental in their Nova onto their 'mech, and moving as a flanker to drop twenty-five Elementals into the fight when the enemy was fighting what they assumed was elements of a standard Star.

"Big" Boots A. Tajag, a mercenary for the Dominion during their war against the Combine. A dedicated Trebuchet pilot who practiced the self-taught "art of 'mech-jitsu". Never scored a confirmed kill in the field: only ever knocked over or tripped enemy 'mechs. Died to a Locust whose reverse knee joints baffled his technique.

Jared Hada, the "Turtle of Terror". Piloted a massive, over-armored Rifleman which would drop into planetside docks and depots, firing on anyone trying to enter or leave until a ransom was paid for access to the supplies. This worked until a Lyran supply depot simply waited him out, breaking in and arresting him when he fell asleep during the standoff.

#3151posting #mechwarrior #battletech #battletech memes #battletech meme #rh.txt #battletech mercenaries

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fangsandfracturedhearts · 1 year ago

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Fangs and Fractured Hearts

Chapter 2: Reunion

Summary: After embracing eternity as a vampire spawn under Astarion's wing, the Crimson Palace becomes a haunting symbol of the man he once was. As his personality unravels into a dark abyss, you flee. A year of hardship unveils the harsh reality of existence as a vampire spawn.

Just as all hope seems lost, a twist of fate reunites you with Astarion, revealing a glimmer of hope amidst the shadows. As you navigate the complexities of your relationship, you must confront the unsettling truth behind the Rite of Profane Ascension and the devilish secrets it holds.

In a race against time, you embark on a daring quest to save Astarion from his descent into darkness. With each choice you make, the stakes grow higher, testing the limits of your courage and determination.

Will Astarion find redemption, or is he destined to succumb to his own inner turmoil?

Word Count: 4.9k

Pairing: Ascended Astarion x female!Tav Spawn

Warnings: Possible spoilers. Eventual Explicit Content. Slow Burn. Thoughts of Suicide. Violence. Blood. Injury. Mature Content.

Instinctively, you drop into a crouch as your eyes scour the shadowy tree line. The scent of damp earth fills your lungs, mingling with the pungent, sickly-sweet aroma of powdered iron vine that clings to the air, a reminder of the Gur hunters lurking nearby. You can sense them, hidden in the murky gloom, yet all you see are dark silhouettes merging with the night.

The world around you is alive with the sound of rustling leaves and the distant call of nocturnal creatures, but your focus narrows. You move with practiced precision, each breath deliberate as you mentally catalogue potential hiding spots and escape routes. This alley, with its crumbling brick walls and tangled underbrush, could easily become your tomb.

You test your footing, grinding the toe of your boot into the soft earth. The recent rains have left the ground slick with mud, and you can feel the treacherous squish beneath your feet. One misstep could mean a tumble, a sound that would betray your position to the hunters closing in.

Your senses become razor sharp as the scent of powdered iron vine thickens. It’s almost suffocating, making your eyes water. You blink rapidly, forcing yourself to concentrate. Then, as if the night is holding its breath, you begin to hear it—the rhythmic beating of hearts, thrumming like war drums. Squeezing your eyes shut, you count, straining to discern how many are trailing you.

One, two, three, four, five—six.

Fuck. Too many.

Kneeling behind an abandoned, overturned wagon, you feel the weight of dread settle in your gut. Your mind races through strategies, the adrenaline coursing through you like fire. A head-on assault would be suicide; these Gur are not only seasoned monster hunters but also fuelled by vengeance after the chaos in the temple beneath Szarr Palace.

They inch closer, methodical in their approach. You can feel the air grow heavy with their malice, the thundering resonance of their hearts providing a grim soundtrack to your predicament.

With a deep breath, you begin to move, keeping low to the ground, inching away from your hiding spot. An angled corner ahead offers a glimmer of hope—a chance for cover and, if you’re fortunate, an escape route. Your boots sink into the thick, gelatinous mud, each step producing a squelching sound that echoes like a death knell in the tense silence.

What had Astarion said? Roll your foot down, starting from the heel, one joint at a time. How many joints are in a foot, anyway? You scoff inwardly at the memory. He had attempted to teach you the art of stealth but deemed you hopeless when you struggled to improve your footwork after several lessons. The truth is, you hadn’t put in the effort you should have. The way his brow would furrow in frustration was both amusing and utterly adorable.

Maybe I should have taken those lessons more seriously.

Rounding the corner, you spot a dark figure standing at the fork in the path ahead, a hulking silhouette poised and ready. Your breath catches as more hunters emerge from the long grass, their expressions grim, eyes glinting with malice. The slow, muffled footsteps approaching from behind signal that you’re being herded, their strategy unfolding perfectly.

It’s no surprise they anticipated your movements; they’ve corralled you into this cramped alley, executing a trap with chilling precision. You feel the walls closing in, your options dwindling. Panic surges within you, a primal instinct screaming for flight.

Your gaze darts among your assailants, absorbing the tempest of loathing and disgust that saturates their crazed eyes. You can practically taste the acrid hatred in the air. To them, you are nothing more than an abhorrent monster to be eradicated. Their hearts pound wildly in their chests, a morbidly rhythmic cadence that only amplifies your rising fear.

Steeling yourself, you settle into a defensive stance, grounding your feet against the mud. You reach out to the Weave, inviting its familiar, comforting presence to envelop you. It flows through you like a warm embrace, saturating every fibre of your being, a soothing balm against the chaos around you. The palm of your hand warms as you prepare to cast, spells swirling through your memory, each one a reminder of your power and restraint.

But you’re not here to kill. The thought sends a wave of nausea through you. You refuse to become the monster they think you are.

“Impero tibi.” The words spill from your lips, infused with urgency.

The spell takes hold, and they crumple to the ground, sleeping soundly as a babe, giving you a crucial opening. The remaining hunters react instantly, hurtling themselves toward you with wild shouts of fury.

Speaking the words for Misty Step, you feel your body dissolve into a silvery fog just as a hunter lunges, his sword aiming for your heart. In an instant, you reappear atop a nearby roof, the cool night air brushing against your skin. A few of the hunters stumble back, momentarily taken by surprise at your sudden escape.

Seizing the opportunity, you cast a flurry of spells, incapacitating several hunters before they can regain their composure. You tread a fine line, careful not to kill, even as it complicates your ability to defend yourself. These hunters are victims too, just as you are in your misguided attempt to help Astarion reclaim the joy that was stolen from him long ago.

You shudder at the thought of the countless souls you’ve condemned to suffering, including the Gur's innocent children. You refuse to add more blood to the crimson tide you’re already floundering in.

No more unnecessary bloodshed.

A hunter lunges onto the roof, roaring with rage as he swings his blade. You barely manage to dodge, but the steel tip grazes your snowy skin, slicing a shallow gash diagonally across your chest. The metallic tang of blood fills the air—your blood—saturating the breeze with its coppery scent, a reminder of your vulnerability.

Snarling, fangs bared, you leap to the roof of a nearby small shack, desperate to put some distance between yourself and your pursuer. But as your boots thud against the worn wood shingles, you realize you’ve made a grave error. The shingles are rotten and unstable, shifting beneath your weight. You lose your balance, crashing to your knees as you claw at the splintered wood, searching for anything to grip onto. There’s nothing—just decay.

You tumble off the edge, hitting the boggy ground in a heap.

Before you can recover, the hunters seize you, yanking you to your feet and thrusting your back against the splintered wall of the dilapidated shack. The timber creaks ominously under the pressure, and a cold, razor-sharp dagger presses firmly against your neck. Panic surges through you as a scroll flickers and dissolves in the dim light of the low-hanging crescent moon, shadows dancing like wraiths.

You force yourself to focus, reaching for the Weave, but it eludes you, dissipating like mist in the morning sun. The putrid stench of powdered iron vine and sweat overwhelms your senses, twisting your stomach into knots.

Did they bathe in the stuff? Good Gods.

“Where is your master?” The lead hunter growls, eyes burning with fury.

Your what? Oh…

“I don’t know.” The words slip out, heavy with resignation. They won’t believe you, but it hardly matters; death is inevitable.

“Where is he hiding, spawn!?” The hunter barks, spittle flying from his lips.

Spawn. This is what the so-called hero of Baldur’s Gate has been reduced to.

You struggle against their grip, but their hold tightens, the faint tang of a Giant’s Strength potion lingering in the air around them. Trying to escape would be futile; they’ve prepared well, having hunted you with knowledge and intent. You shouldn’t have expected anything less.

Frustration bubbles over, and you bare your fangs. “Did I stutter? I said, I don’t fucking know!”

How long have the Gur been tailing you, hoping you’d lead them back to him? Why can’t they find him without you? In the last few weeks spent together, Astarion had barely concealed his identity; he was a man who turned heads wherever he went, his very presence a magnet for attention.

The truth lingers heavy in the air—these hunters, blinded by rage and vengeance, are drawing closer, and your time is running out.

Maybe he left Baldur’s Gate?

The thought strikes a mournful chord within your soul, echoing a bittersweet melody. There’s a small comfort in the belief that he is nearby, even if he remains unseen and untouched. On some nights, when the moon hangs high and the stars twinkle like distant candles, you gaze up and find solace in knowing he’s out there somewhere beneath the same vast cosmic canopy.

“Kill her. She either can’t or won’t give him up. She’s useless to us.”

The hunter nods, a ghoulish smile stretching across their face as they draw the stake from their hip. A strange wave of relief washes over you at the prospect of your own demise—no more fear, no more pain, no more gnawing hunger. It sounds so peaceful. Your eyelashes flutter as you close your eyes in resignation, preparing yourself for the final blow.

Will it hurt? You’ve never seen a vampire staked before. Is it a slow demise, like the sun devouring you layer by layer, or a quick end? Will there even be a body left behind, or will you simply burst into ash?

The whispering hiss of a blade being drawn reaches your ears just before one of the Gur holding you lets out a sharp yelp. Their fingernails dig painfully into your skin as their hand is wrenched from your arm.

“What was that?” The hunter shouts, breath ragged with confusion.

“I don’t know! I didn’t see any—” Their voice trails off, fading into a frightened murmur that dissipates into the gathering shadows.

You squirm, desperate to shake off the grip holding you against the wall. Panic surges through you as the remaining hunter lunges forward, stake aimed directly at your heart. Their eyes bulge with terror, darting about wildly. As the stake draws nearer, you instinctively squeeze your eyes shut.

A fitting end to my sad story, if nothing else.

Suddenly, a gust of cool air sweeps across your face, and the force pinning you to the wall is yanked away. You stagger forward, arms flailing as you strive to regain your balance.

What in the Hells?

Your eyes snap open in astonishment. Silvery moonlight spills over alabaster skin, illuminating the chiseled features of Astarion’s face. A gentle breeze carries the all-too-familiar fragrance of him, sending your heart racing.

He grips the hunter by the neck, lifting them off the ground with an effortless grace. The hunter kicks and thrashes, desperation written all over their contorted face. Rasping gurgles escape their throat as Astarion tightens his hold, slowly squeezing the life out of them.

“Please, don’t!” you whimper, panic lacing your voice.

Crimson eyes flash in the moonlight, locking onto yours with an intensity that takes your breath away. Gods, he’s even more beautiful than you remember.

He sneers at you for just a moment before closing his eyes, cocking his head slightly, as if bracing himself for something painful. In a fluid motion, Astarion hurls the Gur into the wall with a resounding thud. The hunter collapses, unconscious but alive, their body a crumpled heap at the base of the shack.

You finally exhale a shaky breath of relief, but it’s short-lived. A searing pain radiates from your abdomen, sending muddled black orbs dancing in your vision.

Looking down, you see the stake protruding ominously from your side. The hunter didn’t hit their mark, but they hadn’t completely missed, either. A tightness constricts your chest as panic begins to rise.

Without thinking, you yank the stake free. It tears from your body with a sickening squelch, leaving a gaping wound behind. Blood pools around your feet, the sticky warmth soaking into the ground. The stake slips from your trembling fingers, clattering to the floor.

You press your palm against your side, glancing up to meet Astarion’s gaze as your vision starts to narrow.

“… Astarion?”

Dizziness washes over you like a tide, and your knees buckle. The last sensation you register is Astarion’s arms wrapping around you, his voice a sweet melody before darkness envelops you.

Awareness flickers in and out like a candle caught in a draft as you slowly begin to regain consciousness. Your eyelashes flutter, and a herculean effort is required to pry your eyes open. They feel weighted, as though shackled to your skull, and part sluggishly. Blurred shapes loom in the dimness, twisting and undulating in rhythm with the relentless pounding in your head.

Where am I? What in the Nine Hells happened? Focus… I need to focus.

A nauseating drumming reverberates between your ears, making concentration an uphill battle. Vague snippets of memories begin to surface, clasping together piece by piece, the jagged edges of recollection cutting into your thoughts.

Shadowheart.

The forest.

Hunger—all-consuming, insatiable hunger.

The sickly-sweet scent of powdered iron vine.

The Gur.

Dismay floods through you, a tidal wave of panic, and you leap from the confines of the large, four-poster bed. Agony radiates from your side, searing through your nerves like fire, igniting each fiber of your being. Your legs buckle beneath you, knees colliding painfully with the chilled floor. Trembling, you grit your teeth, fighting back a cry as the stabbing pain momentarily overwhelms you. As the agony subsides, your vision begins to sharpen, the chamber gradually coming into focus.

No... No, it can’t be...

A handful of candles flicker, casting a warm glow that struggles to penetrate the oppressive darkness. The room is grand, lavishly decorated with opulent furnishings, yet it feels emptier than a hollow echo. Despite the extravagance, you would recognize this place anywhere.

The Crimson Palace.

Pushing yourself off the floor demands more effort than you’d like to admit, leaving you lightheaded and disoriented. Chilly air caresses your skin, and it dawns on you that you’re clad only in undergarments, bandages snugly wrapped around your chest and side. A hot flush of embarrassment erupts within you, rising like a rogue wave. If your skin could redden, you’re certain you’d be as crimson as Karlach.

Your eyes scan the room, landing on a clean robe laid out neatly on a nearby chair. Grateful for the modesty it offers, you slip it on, the fabric soothing against your skin. The floorboards creak underfoot as you clumsily attempt to tiptoe toward the closed door, your heart racing with a mix of anxiety and determination.

I really should have been a better student.

The door hinges emit a soft whimper as you carefully ease it open. Peeking through the small crack, relief washes over you to find the adjoining hallway devoid of any lurking threats. You step forward cautiously, each footfall a delicate negotiation with the ever-present faintness that caresses the edges of your consciousness, making your balance precarious. The faded wooden floorboards groan beneath you, their voices a mocking chorus to your struggle.

Voices drift into earshot as you approach the end of the hallway, starting as a distorted murmur before sharpening into clarity. Instinct howls within you, urging you to flee, but you recognize that voice.

Shadowheart.

“She’s coming home with me!” Shadowheart bristles, her tone laced with tangible agitation.

Astarion’s voice, in contrast, is a velvety dulcet that sends shivers down your spine. “Don’t be foolish. She’s not safe with you, nor are you with her.”

Shadowheart crosses her arms, shaking her head in disbelief. “Are you seriously asking me to just... just leave her here with the likes of you?! Did the ritual rob you of your intelligence as well as your soul, Astarion?”

“Come now.” His words are honeyed, draped in a beguiling tone you know all too well. “Don’t play stupid, my dear. The Gur will stop at nothing to capture and kill her. She’s not safe with you any longer. Surely, you want what’s best for her, don’t you? I can keep her safe.”

“Safe?” Shadowheart snorts, exasperation clear in her voice. “That’s rich, coming from you.”

A flicker of anger flashes across Astarion’s features, and he slams his fist onto a nearby desk, the echo reverberating through the air. “She had a choice!” He snaps defensively, voice tinged with a desperation that pulls at your heart.

“Tell yourself whatever lies you wish, Astarion.” Shadowheart’s smirk is triumphant, clearly relishing the effect she has on him. “It doesn’t change the facts.”

“Do shine your divine illumination on these ‘facts’ for me,” he retorts, the sarcasm dripping from his words.

Her eyebrow arches, clearly unfazed. “Now who’s playing stupid?”

The tension crackles in the air like electricity, and you inch closer, straining to hear more, heart racing at the thought of being the center of this escalating confrontation.

You try to make sense of it all, but the haze of confusion still clings to your mind. A mix of dread and hope churns in your stomach as you weigh your options. You could burst into the room, confront Astarion, and demand answers. Or you could slip back into the shadows and hope for an opportunity to escape.

But Shadowheart. You cannot leave her here with him. “She stays!” Astarion growls, his voice a low rumble like distant thunder, threatening to unleash a storm.

Shadowheart plants her feet firmly, hands on her hips, projecting defiance as boldly as a lioness defending her cubs. “Over my dead body.”

“Well…” Astarion’s fingers glide to his chin thoughtfully, a sly smile creeping across his lips like shadows in a dimly lit room. “Why didn’t you say so? That can certainly be arranged.”

They’re so engrossed in their escalating quarrel that they fail to notice you standing in the wide archway of the study, a silent observer caught in the undercurrents of their tension.

It’s hard to believe we were all friends once.

“Will you two give it a rest? Good Gods!” You interject, frustration bubbling to the surface like boiling water.

Startled, their heads snap towards you in unison, like two predatory beasts drawn to an unexpected sound. Shadowheart’s eyes widen, flooding with relief at the sight of you. She rushes forward, arms enveloping you in a gentle hug that feels both comforting and disconcerting. Your thoughts whirl with the troubling temptation to bite her. Your body stiffens uncomfortably, fists clenching as your nails dig deep into your palms, battling the appalling desire to sink your fangs into her lovely, tender neck.

I won’t do it. I won’t!

Shadowheart notices your discomfort almost instantly and releases you, stepping back with her hands raised in a placating gesture. “I’m sorry. I forget myself.”

You muster a tight smile, but it feels fragile. “It’s okay.”

Astarion’s voice cuts through the moment with unsettling bluntness. “You’re bleeding all over my new rug,” he remarks, his tone aloof, lips pursed in faux disapproval. “Again.”

“What?”

His gaze drifts down to your midsection, and following his stare, you see a wet maroon stain blossoming on the front of your robe. Blood drips onto the plush rug from the hem, swaying around your ankles like a dancer caught in a mournful waltz.

Shadowheart digs into her bag, her movements quick and purposeful, and tosses you a healing potion. “Your wounds were too dire for me to heal completely, I’m afraid.”

You grimace as you bring the vial to your lips, the syrupy liquid sliding down your throat like molten tar. Healing potions, like all potions, have never been particularly palatable, but since your transformation into a spawn, everything tastes like ash—except for blood, of course.

As the potion begins to take effect, the pain blissfully recedes, settling into a dull throb, but it doesn’t completely vanish, lingering like an unwelcome guest. You cringe as you swallow the last drops, the sickly-sweet residue clinging to your tongue. “How did you find me?”

Shadowheart glances back at Astarion, who stands casually, arms crossed, exuding an air of boredom that belies the danger lurking just beneath his surface. Your bewilderment must be evident on your face.

“Oh, don’t look so surprised, darling,” he drawls, amusement dancing in his eyes like flickering candle flames. “I am more than capable of seeking out assistance when I choose. I am many things, but a healer is not one of them.”

Shadowheart shakes her head, rolling her eyes with a huff. “I was as surprised as you are when he showed up. I very nearly plunged a stake through his ribs right then and there.”

“You would have died in the attempt,” he replies nonchalantly, a dark, malicious smile spreading across his face like the encroaching shadows of dusk.

Blazing with the red-hot fury of the Hells, Shadowheart glares at him, her eyes sharp enough to slice through steel. He revels in the discomfort he creates, the snicker of delight escaping his lips like a snake uncoiling.

Despite her fiery demeanor, exhaustion clings to Shadowheart like a heavy cloak. Dark, puffy bags form beneath her eyes, betraying the sleepless night she’s endured—likely spent tending to you while enduring Astarion’s endless taunts. You can’t help but want to pull her away from him, away from the danger that lies coiled within his charm. He doesn’t take kindly to being challenged, and those who dare often find themselves facing dire consequences.

Your defiance has earned you many nights in the kennels during the months you’ve lived here; you were never as obedient as he expected you to be.

“You look exhausted, Shadowheart.” You wield your silver tongue, hoping to persuade her to leave. It’s the only way you can think of to ensure her safety. “You should go home and rest.”

Her brows knit together, a slight furrow marring her otherwise determined expression, jaw clenching as she glances between you and Astarion. The apprehension in her gaze is palpable; she’s afraid to leave you alone with him.

I’m scared, too.

You try to mask the fear gnawing at you, plastering on the most soothing smile you can muster, though it feels like a frail mask over a tempest. “I’ll be right behind you.”

If he allows me to leave.

She sighs heavily, the sound escaping her lips like a soft autumn breeze rustling through fallen leaves. “Fine, but I expect to see you later, and if I don’t…” Her voice trails off as she turns to Astarion, the weight of her words hanging in the air like a thundercloud ready to burst. “I’ll kill you, Astarion, even if it’s the last thing I do.”

“It would definitely be the last thing you attempt,” he replies, a smirk dancing on his lips, delighting in her threats as if they were the finest of wines. He bows shallowly, a mockery of elegance. “It was lovely seeing you again, flower.”

With a final exasperated grumble, Shadowheart stalks down the hall, her silhouette disappearing like a flickering candle in the wind, leaving you alone with Astarion, whose gaze settles on you with a hawkish intensity. It feels like the weight of his stare could crush stone, and you shuffle your feet under his probing glare, wishing for the ground to swallow you whole.

He is truly a sight to behold. The yellow candlelight flits and flickers in the deep scarlet hue of his irises, casting an almost otherworldly glow that seems to dance in tandem with the shadows lurking in the corners of the room. Astarion holds himself with an elegant confidence, each movement precise, commanding attention like a maestro conducting a symphony. It’s no wonder so many unfortunate souls have met their grim fate after making the mistake of falling for him, mesmerized by his masterfully executed masquerade.

Just as I did.

But as you look at the man standing before you, there is something hauntingly different about him. Astarion’s face is still as beautiful as you remember, every sharp angle and delicate curve accentuated by the warm flicker of candlelight, yet it feels as if you’re gazing at a reflection warped by rippling water. His eyes, once cold and calculating, are now emotive, shimmering with a depth of red that speaks of hidden desires and unspoken, you almost can’t even think the word, but you think you see pain. They draw you in like a moth to a flame, stirring a mix of longing and dread within you.

You squint, trying to reconcile the familiar with the unfamiliar. What happened to him? This man looks like Astarion—his tousled silver hair catching the light like spun moonbeams, his smile still bearing that tantalizing hint of mischief—but there’s an unsettling softness in his gaze that wasn’t there before. It’s as if the polished façade he once wore with such confidence has cracked, allowing glimpses of something more raw and vulnerable to seep through.

A flicker of confusion dances in your mind. Could this truly be the same man who had once held you in thrall, locked you in your room, took you to the kennels like a naughty pup? The differences are subtle yet profound, like shadows shifting in the corners of your vision.

You find yourself captivated yet cautious, drawn to the complexity that now envelops him. Is this the Astarion you knew, or is it merely a mirage crafted by your own desperate hopes? Your heart races, a tumultuous storm of emotions swirling within. What lies beneath this surface? There’s perhaps a flicker of emotion portrayed in his features, a glimmer of humanity peeking through the cracks of his polished façade.

Questions tumble through your thoughts, each one heavier than the last. It’s as if you’re looking at a masterpiece that has been altered—brush strokes of pain and longing layering over the vibrant colours of charm and seduction. As he inches closer, the familiar tension electrifies the air, yet it feels different, charged with a vulnerability that leaves you off balance. The sweet, bitter scent of nostalgia lingers between you, and for a moment, you wonder if you can reach out and touch the remnants of the past, or if it will only burn your fingertips.

With a deep breath, you swallow the uncertainty, your heart caught in a net of intrigue. Who is he now, really?

Even though fear runs like drifting ice through your veins, you find his presence oddly comforting. You desire nothing more than to run into his arms, to feel the warmth of his embrace wrapping around you like a protective cocoon, safe from the horrors of the world outside.

How many nights alone did you spend, tears slipping silently down your cheeks like raindrops on a windowpane, missing him? You prayed to any God who might listen, longing for him to knock on your door, to reclaim you from the abyss. How often did you dream of running back to him, begging for his love like a lost child seeking solace?

Too many. Far too many nights spent in childish fantasies that twisted like vines around your heart.

This isn’t my Astarion—not anymore.

A mournful sigh escapes your lips, thick and heavy as you swallow the lump in your throat, blinking away the tears that threaten to spill like raindrops from a stormy sky.

“Positively elated to see me, I see,” Astarion purrs, his voice deep and alluring as he takes a step closer, closing the distance.

You instinctively take a step back, the instinct to flee clashing violently with the yearning to run into his arms. It’s an odd sensation, this simultaneous pull towards him and away from him, as if you’re trapped in a web of conflicting emotions. Astarion raises his hands in a gesture of feigned innocence, his expression momentarily shifting to one of remorse, but it vanishes so quickly that you question whether it was ever real or merely a trick your mind conjured in its desperation.

“Why?” Your voice emerges as a barely audible, timid whisper.

His brows knit together in confusion, a frown etching lines into his flawless skin. “You’re going to have to be more specific. Why what?”

“Why save me?” The question hangs in the air, heavy and laden with uncertainty.

Astarion leans forward slightly, curiosity mingling with something darker in his gaze. “Would you have preferred the alternative, darling? Should I have just let those vile Gur put you down?”

“Yes,” you say bleakly, the word falling from your lips like a stone dropped into a still pond, sending ripples of disbelief through the room.

There had been a serene kind of peace in that thought, a whispered promise that your suffering would finally end. It would have been a merciful reprieve from the nightmare you are trapped in, an escape from the swirling chaos of your life.

His eyes widen, surprise etching itself across his features, the shock hitting him like a blow. A wave of disquiet washes over him, and he straightens, staring at you as if seeing a ghost. He seems uncertain how to respond, and a torrent of almost imperceptible emotions flicker across his face in rapid succession, each one a fleeting glimpse of the turmoil beneath his carefully constructed mask. But as quickly as they appear, they vanish, replaced by the cold stone veneer he wears so expertly.

“You die when I let you.”

Master List of Chapters: Fangs and Fractured Hearts

If you're interested I write another fic with Spawn Astarion x Tav called - Shadows of the Past

AO3 [Crossposted]

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