#as it is the first track to be played in its end credits and was used in a promotional trailer at gamescom 2023

[lopposting]

The original waltz, "Fascination", written in 1904, and quite fitting to the game: composed by a man who had italian origins, but written in france.

Do you ever think he imagined people still like his song?

[satorulovebot]

so scarlet it was, maroon | chapter one

✧₊⁺ pairing — satoru gojou x journalist!reader

✧₊⁺ chapter summary — you get the chance to meet the infamous gojou satoru while working on your journalism project at suzuka circuit. what could you possibly want from him?

✧₊⁺ word count — 6.3k

✧₊⁺ warnings — nsfw (minors dni), age gap, alcohol use, mature themes, mentions of cheating, substance abuse, themes of marriage and divorce

✧₊⁺ notes — hello everyone! i asked you awhile ago on a poll which series you would like to see after cursed seas and f1 gojo won the poll and then i posted the masterlist and everyone wants it so you get it now. so here it is. and NO its not happy NEVER expect happiness from me because im allergic to it. also the reader being nosy af is inspired by me and my parents telling me i should be a journalist with how nosy i am.

series masterlist // pinterest moodboard // general masterlist

next chap. the husband and his wife

You moved to Tokyo with your family when you were younger.

You grew up in a rural part of the country, surrounded by farmers and people either ready to retire or nearing the end of their lives. Your parents hated living there, and so did you—for one, there were hardly any kids to play with, and two, as your father would say, "too many old fuckers lying around."

When you moved to Tokyo, your family decided to celebrate by taking you to a Formula 1 race. Your dad thought it would be perfect for the two of you since fixing up old cars had always been your daddy-daughter activity.

You didn’t like the idea of racing at first—the noise was too loud, and the idea of people speeding toward a black-and-white checkered line seemed ridiculous. But the moment you heard the roar of the engines and watched the lights go from red to green, you were captivated, a fascination that would stay with you for years.

When you got your first computer, you began looking up videos of F1 drivers. One day, you stumbled across a video titled “The Biggest F1 Scandals in History,” and that was when you decided you wanted to go into journalism.

You were nosy, to say the least. So, it was no surprise to your parents when you announced to them that you wanted to pursue journalism as a career. Your father reminded you how you’d always been curious, listening in on others’ conversations and keeping up with the latest school drama.

When you applied for journalism school, you were accepted into one of the top programs in the world—Sophia University. Your parents were proud that you’d made it into such a highly ranked school for journalism in Japan.

You were now in your fourth and final year at Sophia, and enjoying your journalism class. Recently, your professor assigned a project: write a story about a major pop culture figure of your choice, and for extra credit, get an interview with them. Your professor knew it was damn near impossible, but he was always optimistic that one day, someone would get that interview and he could retire in peace.

That project led you here: Suzuka Circuit, Japan's main Formula 1 track. Your chosen figure was none other than Gojou Satoru—F1's biggest driver in recent years. He was your father's favorite among the new-generation drivers, known for his string of controversies since he started on top of the persistent rumors of his heavy drug use before races.

You had managed to snag a media passs from your professor when you mentioned doing an F1 driver for your project. He was able to pull some strings to get you into the media booth, getting you a closer look at Gojou Satoru in person.

You watched the pre-race preparations closely from the media booth, your fingers hovered above your notepad as you waited for the race to start. You were determined to get a good grade on this project, and that meant adding every single detail to your report about this race.

It was about time for the drivers to gather in their garages, each wearing headsets and ready for the pre-race briefing. The briefing typically covers the race start, various pit stop scenarios, and a detailed weather report. Before each race weekend, they usually spend time in a simulator of the track they'll be racing on, preparing them for the upcoming race.

After about thirty-minutes the racers came out of their garages in their respective cars. They each line up based on the results of a quaifying session that takes place before the race, slowest qualifier in the back, fastest in the front. Gojou Satoru was at the front of the grid, which meant he was one of the qualifiers who had the fastest time.

You waited around for a little while longer turning your attention to what was happening around you. Eventually, you made your way back to the front of the media booth as the race started, ready to report.

The engines revved as each driver began preparing for the start of the race, each car vibrating on the starting grid like a beast straining at its chains. Gojou sat at the front of the lineup, his hands loose on the wheel, fingers tapping in a steady rhythm as he waited for the lights to turn green.

The roar from the grandstands faded, becoming a blur of sound as the lights ticked down: red, red, red, red… green.

He slammed the throttle, feeling the raw force of the car’s engine kick him back into his seat as he tore down the straight. Other cars jostled for position behind him, all fighting to claim the inside line into the first turn.

Through his earpiece, he heard the voice of his race engineer, Shokou, calm as ever. “Clear on turn two, you’ve got five-tenths on Hayashi. Stay tight.”

But Gojou barley heard her. The car was an extension of him, responding to his every thought, every split-second decision. He pushed down the straights, his right foot heavy on the accelerator, taking corners at speeds most drivers wouldn’t dare attempt. The sound of his tires skidding against the asphalt, the blur of the track side barriers, the lights of Tokyo reflecting off his mirrors—it all blended into a single, perfect rush.

Gojou could see the next turn ahead, a tight chicane that could send the best drivers into the barriers if they weren't careful. He braked hard, turning the wheel with perfect precision to angle the car through. He could feel the back end wobbling, but he didn't flinch, drifting perfectly as he swung back onto the racing line, gaining another second on the pack.

He could almost hear the collective gasp of the crowd in his head as he slipped through the chicane. This was his playground. Every race was a chance to remind the world why he was the best.

“Coming up on a DRS zone,” Shoko’s voice crackled in his ear, grounding him, though he was already on it

He waited for the perfect moment, watching the rear-view mirror to see the faint outline of Hayashi's car. He pressed the DRS, and his car shot forward, the drag reduction giving him a temporary speed boost that had him pulling away, putting him in the lead.

The track opened up ahead, the second sector full of wide, sweeping turns. Here was where raw speed mattered more than anything. Gojou pressed down hard on the accelerator, the engine roaring in response. He leaned forward, watching the track fly by, the white lines blurring as he focused entirely on the road ahead.

For a second, the sound in his earpiece went dead, the faint sound of static filling his ears. Then Shokou was back. “You’ve got Yoshida closing in on your tail. He’s pushing hard.”

Gojou glanced up at the mirrors, his eyes catching the bright blue and orange of Yoshida's car looming larger. The familiar thrill sparked in him. So, Yoshida thought he had a chance, did he? Well, he’d show him otherwise.

“Copy,” he muttered into his mic, eyes narrowing as he took the next corner, barley touching the brakes. He felt the tires skid but he managed to control the drift, knowing any slip would open the door for Yoshida to slip past.

He whipped into another straight, his hands steady on the wheel as he hit a top speed.

His foot didn’t so much as twitch as the engine’s roar morphed into a high-pitched scream as the car closed the distance.

The curve ahead was brutal—a tight 90-degree bend that demanded precise timing.

In a split-second decision, he did something no one expected. He braked late, his heart pounding as he cut the turn at a speed that sent the back end skidding. The tires gripped just in time, allowing him to pull out of the corner without losing traction. He could almost feel the shock reverberating as he regained control, his lead still intact.

As the laps wore on, his body moved on instinct, every gear shift, every turn becoming a single, fluid motion. One lap. Two. Three, with two pit stops between. He counted them off one by one, his mind buzzing with the pure rush of speed and the heat inside the car, barely noticing the time passing. The crowd faded into nothing, the world shrinking down to the track and his car.

The final lap. This was it.

“Box this lap if you’re in trouble,” Shokou’s voice crackled again. “Tire degradation is high.”

But Gojou’s grip on the steering wheel only tightened. His front tires were holding out—barely. It would be tight, but he could make it. He’d run this last lap on sheer determination alone if he had to.

“Negative, Shokou. I’m taking it,” he replied, and then turned off the earpiece, tuning out everything except the track and the car in front of him.

He launched into the final lap, throwing caution to the wind. Yoshida was right on his tail now, close enough that he could see the gleam of his headlights in the mirrors. But Gojou didn’t back down. He took each turn aggressively, blocking Yoshida's attempts to pass, forcing him to fall back every time.

The last chicane loomed ahead, his final obstacle before the finish line. He tightened his grip, the wheel trembling under his hands. He took the chicane fast, too fast, almost feeling the wheels lift off the ground as he flew out of the turn. The car rocked, but he held steady, pushing the pedal to the floor.

The finish line was in sight, a faint white line at the end of the straight, and with one last push, he crossed it, the checkered flag waving in his periphery as he tore past.

It was only after he’d crossed over the line that the realization hit him—he’d won.

The cheers erupted in the stands, the roar of the crowd filling his ears as he slowed down, the adrenaline still pumping through his veins. He could hear Shoko’s voice crackling back in as she shouted, “You pulled it off, you insane bastard.”

Gojou grinned, leaning back in his seat, still buzzing. He’d done it again, just as he always did.

The moment he climbed out of the cockpit, Gojou was surrounded by his team. Shokou was the first to reach him, her usually composed face split by a wide grin. She grabbed his helmet and thumped him on the shoulder hard enough so he actually felt it though the layers of his suit.

“You reckless son of a—”

“Language, Shokou,” Gojou interrupted, grinning as he yanked off his gloves, waving to the rest of the Tokyo Jujutsu Racing team that swarmed him.

“Do you know what it’s like to watch you pull stunts like that? I’m gonna need a raise after today’s heart attack,” she muttered.

“Oh, come on, Shokou. That was just a little fun.” He stretched his arms over his head. “Where’s my confetti?”

“Coming right up, your royal highness." Someone handed him a bottle of champagne, still cold and slick, and he twisted the cap, spraying a wild arc of foam that showered his team and nearby fans.

His PR manager, Nanami, clapped him on the back. “You’re insufferable."

“That’s what I’m here for,” he said, lifting the champagne bottle in a mock toast, flashing him a grin. The media’s cameras clicked and flashed, capturing every moment as his crew continued their congratulations.

The crowd pressed close against the barriers, shouting his name, waving homemade banners with scribbled slogans and his number embellished with the colors red and black. He walked closer, one arm raised, acknowledging the fans, letting their cheers fill him up, louder and louder with every step.

But as he continued walking, his gaze caught on something—or rather, someone—just beyond the crowd.

At first it was just a hint curiosity, the way your gaze was fixed on him. A bit removed from the chaos, you leaned against one of the barriers with a media pass hanging around your neck, arms folded as you watched from a distance.

Gojou slightly narrowed his eyes, holding your gaze longer than he'd held any fan's tonight, as if he was daring you to look away first.

“What the hell is that about?” he muttered under his breath, gaze moving back to Shokou for half a second.

“Hm?” Shokou followed his gaze, but her eyes slid right past you, uninterested. “Press. You’ll get used to it. Come on, they’re all waiting.”

He forced himself to break the stare, clearing his throat as Shokou ushered him toward the media pen, where a lineup of journalists waited, all armed with recorders, microphones, and notebooks.

He fielded the usual questions—how did it feel to win, what was his mindset, what was he thinking on that last turn? His answers were always the same practiced ones, words sliding out like clockwork.

“Well, Mr. Gojou, what would you say to those who believe your racing style is a little… aggressive?” one journalist asked, a little smirk on her face as if she thought she was catching him off guard.

He snorted. “They can call it what they want. I call it winning.” He shrugged. “I don’t come out here to play it safe.”

A few reporters laughed at his remark, clearly interested in what else he had to say as a fresh wave of questions started.

Somewhere behind the flashing lights, he saw you again, lingering a few feet behind the crowd of reporters with that calm gaze fixed on him. You didn’t raise a recorder or a camera, didn’t even make an effort to push closer for a question. You just… watched.

It was disconcerting.

“Gojou!” Another journalist waved a microphone his face, snapping his attention back to the current situation. “What’s the next step for you this season?”

He forced a smile, eyes briefly looking back to you before he focused on the question. “The same as always,” he said. “Push harder, get faster, and give everyone something to talk about.”

The crowd laughed again, though, he barely heard them, too focused on the strange woman staring right into his soul. The two of you locked eyes and you have him a small nod, as if acknowledging that you were in fact staring into his soul.

“Well, I think that’s enough,” Shokou said suddenly at his elbow, pulling him out of his thoughts. “They’ll have plenty of time to hound you later.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he murmured, though he let her guide him away. Still, he couldn’t help glancing back over his shoulder, hoping to catch one last glimpse of you.

But you were already gone.

Gojou slipped away from the crowd, weaving through the bustling garage and dodging the congratulatory slaps on his back, the endless rounds of handshakes, and the celebratory shouts. He ducked past a few journalists, ignoring the barrage of questions still hurled his way, his smile slipping as he finally found the door to the bathroom.

Inside, the cool, sterile silence was jarring compared to the noise outside, but he let out a sigh of relief, his heart hammering in his chest. He clicked the lock and leaned against the sink, running his hands over his face, staring at his own reflection in the mirror.

The victory high had worn off, leaving behind a familiar pressure he could not cope with. It settled on his shoulders like an old, unwelcome friend.

He hadn't realized how much tension he was carrying in his shoulders, how deeply it would itself into him when he was alone. The race had been perfect, his win flawless, but he could feel the exhaustion radiating off of him, a pulsing throb being his eyes. He clenched his jaw, glaring at himself in the mirror.

“Pull yourself together,” he muttered, his voice barely audible.

But his words fell flat, swallowed up by the silence. In the mirror, his own eyes stared back at him, tired, almost hollow.

He reached into the pocket of his racing suit, fingers brushing over the small, familiar packet hidden in the inner lining. It was a stupid habit, a reckless one really, but it was one he hadn't been able to shake, no matter how many times he tried to quit. He could practically feel the temporary relief in the palm of his hand.

He closed his eyes, running his thumb along the edge of the packet before pulling it out, setting it on the counter next to the sink. He ripped it open tapping a small line onto the smooth counter top. It was like his fingers had a mind of their own, as if it was part of his routine of suiting up or gripping the wheel.

The powder glinted under the bathroom’s harsh fluorescent lights, almost mocking him with its simplicity. Just a quick escape, just enough to take the edge off. That’s all he needed.

He leaned down, closing one nostril and inhaling sharply, feeling the sting as the powder hit his nose. He straightened his back, blinking hard, the world around him sharpening as his mind cleared. A small, humorless smile tugged at his lips.

He leaned back against the sink, tilting his head up to stare at the ceiling, feeling his heartbeat slow, the tension in his muscles fading away.

But it didn’t take long for the guilt to creep back in, that hollow feeling settling in his chest, a reminder that this wasn't the answer. He knew it. He knew exactly what he was doing to himself, how he was destroying his body from the inside out, how it could all come crashing down. And yet… here he was.

“Fucking pathetic,” he muttered to himself, his voice echoing against the tiles.

Suddenly, there was a knock at the door, jolting him back to reality.

“Gojou? You in there?” It was Shokou. “They’re waiting for you out here.”

He stuffed the empty packet back into his pocket, brushed the last of the substance off of the sink, and glanced in the mirror one last time to check his reflection, making sure there was no trace left of his momentary escape.

Taking a deep breath, he squared his shoulders, forced a smirk, and unlocked the door.

Shokou was standing there, arms crossed, her gaze scrutinizing as he stepped out. She didn’t say anything, but her judgmental eye lingered over him for a split second too long.

“You good?”

“Never better."

“Right,” she said, clearly unconvinced, but she dropped it, gesturing for him to follow her.

As the celebrations continued, Gojou weaved his way through fans and team-members alike who were still wrapped up in their post-race celebrations. He scanned the crowd, hoping to find the strange woman from earlier who he noticed had a press pass, thinking you would be here.

And then he saw you, leaning against a stack of crates near the garages, observing the current scene with the same judgmental eyes that Shokou had. The media badge hung from your neck, swaying slightly as you shifted your weight, pulling out a notebook and flipping through it, seemingly absorbed in what you were currently doing.

He cleared his throat as he approached, the echo of his footsteps giving his presence away.

You looked up, your brow raised as he came closer, a hint of intrigue flashing in your eyes.

“Looking for something?” you asked, not moving as he stopped in front of you.

“You could say that,” he replied, slipping his hands into his pockets, his gaze darted to the notebook in your hands. “I couldn’t help but notice you earlier, off in the shadows. Didn’t feel like joining the crowd?”

“Not my style.” You shrugged. “I’m not here to cheer. I’m here to report.”

“Journalist, huh?” he drawled, tilting his head. “What’s your angle?”

“The truth,” you said, a little smile pulling at your lips as you studied him. “Not everyone’s a fan of that, I know.”

“Depends on what you call the truth. But I’ve got a feeling you’ve already got your version.”

"How perceptive. I’m doing a piece on your racing career, your achievements, but… the public wants a fuller picture, don’t you think?

“Not sure I follow. Everyone knows what they need to know.”

“Not quite,” you replied, flipping through your notebook. “There’s more than just racing stats when it comes to Gojou Satoru, isn’t there?”

“Care to elaborate?”

“People say you’re… unraveling. Your recent ‘questionable decisions’ are starting to paint a different picture, don’t you think?” you said, tapping your pen against your notebook. “The accidents, the fines, the constant change in pit crews—”

“Is this some kind of witch hunt?” he interrupted. “Because I’d hate to disappoint you, princess, but I’ve heard it all.”

“Maybe so.” You leaned in a bit, meeting his stare. “But what about the whispers that aren’t out yet? The suspicions about you cheating the drug tests, your team shielding you—” You paused. “There’s a lot of money on your success, Mr. Gojou.”

“Money and racing have always gone hand-in-hand, don’t you think? You’d have a hard time finding someone out here who hasn’t bent a rule or two.”

“True enough.” You titled your head slightly. “But even the most golden careers have a way of losing their shine.”

"Tell me—do you enjoy tearing people down for a living?”

“Only if it’s warranted,” you replied unfazed. “People aren’t interested in perfect stories. They want the flaws, the dirt. It makes it all more real. At least that's what my professor believes."

“You’ve got a wicked mind, I’ll give you that. But I hope you realize you’re not the first to come sniffing around for the ‘real story’.”

A pregnant pause settles between you before you asked, “And what about her?”

A beat passed before he answered. “Who?”

“Your wife. She’s been… noticeably absent from the press circuits. And rumor has it things aren’t exactly picture-perfect between you two.”

“Rumor has it,” he repeated. “Guess you know how it is in this business. There’s always some rumor or another.”

“So it’s just a rumor, then? All the time apart, the missed events, her name suddenly missing from every headline. You’re saying there’s nothing to it?”

“People are eager to make stories out of nothing. My private life is just that—private.”

“That’s interesting,” you murmured, not looking away. “Because the most recent stories about you and her—they’re awfully detailed. People are noticing, wondering why she’s suddenly… disappeared from the scene.”

“Let them wonder. Like I said, people will talk. And it seems like you’re more interested in gossip than journalism.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Journalism is about uncovering the truth,” you countered. “But it seems like you’re more comfortable brushing things under the rug than addressing them.”

His smile returned, his carefully crafted facade sliding back into place as he straightened up, glancing away from you, clearly bored of the conversation. "Maybe someday you'll get the truth you're so desperate for, but it's not going to be today."

Before he walked away completely, he gave you one last look, his tone playful but laced with a hint of warning. “Be careful what you dig up, princess. Sometimes the truth’s more trouble than it’s worth.”

And with that, he turned his back to you, disappearing into the crowd.

Gojou returned home after the long night of celebrations had died down, the adrenaline from the race long gone, now replaced by a gnawing emptiness that felt like it might hollow him out. His penthouse was in the hear of Tokyo—a sleek, modern apartment with floor to ceiling windows overlooking the neon-drenched skyline.

As he opened the door, the soft him of the city below was drowned out by the sound of footsteps, His wife, Hana, appeared from the hallway, her arms crossed tightly across her chest, her eyes narrowed. She was dressed in a sleek black outfit, her dark hair pulled back, a looking a frustration etched onto her face.

“You’re late."

“Didn’t realize I was on a curfew,” he replied, shrugging off his jacket and tossing it onto a nearby chair.

“Don’t act like that.” Her eyes flashed as she followed him into the living room. “You missed the dinner with my parents again. They’ve been asking about you, wondering why you’re never around.”

“Hana, I just won a race,” he replied, exasperated. “Sorry if I wasn’t in the mood to play the doting son-in-law tonight.”

She scoffed, crossing her arms tighter. “Of course, it’s always about the race with you. Everything is about that damn career, isn’t it?”

“You knew what you were signing up for when you married me.”

“Maybe I didn’t know it would mean you disappearing for days, weeks sometimes, chasing whatever thrill you think you need to feel alive.”

“What’s your point, Hana? We’ve had this argument a hundred times.”

“The point is, Satoru,” she said, voice trembling with anger, “that you seem to care more about everything else than this marriage. I’m just a fixture in your life, something you come back to whenever you need to check a box or show face. But you’re never really here.”

He let out a harsh laugh, the bitter sound filling the apartment. "Here we go again. Hana, it’s not like you’ve been some shining example of commitment either. You’ve known what this is for months.”

“What this is?” Her voice rose, cracking slightly as she repeated his words. “What exactly is ‘this,’ Satoru? A sham? A partnership for appearances? I thought you loved me…"

“I can’t keep doing this,” she continued softly, her voice breaking. “The lying, the pretending. It’s exhausting.”

“So what do you want me to say, Hana? That I’m some perfect husband?” He gestured to himself, shaking his head with a smirk that looked almost pained. “We’re both guilty here. Let’s not act like this hasn’t been a slow-motion train wreck.”

“Fine. But do me a favor—at least act like you care when people ask. Because every time I hear some story about you, another scandal or rumor, it’s like a slap in the face. My family, my friends—everyone’s talking. They see the headlines too.”

“Fine. But do me a favor—at least act like you care when people ask. Because every time I hear some story about you, another scandal or rumor, it’s like a slap in the face. My family, my friends—everyone’s talking. They see the headlines too.”

“What do you want from me, Hana?” he asked quietly, the fight suddenly draining out of him. “You want me to pretend I’m someone I’m not?”

“I want… I wanted the man I married. The one who cared, who had dreams."

“Then maybe,” he said finally, his voice almost a whisper, “it’s time to stop pretending.”

As Gojou stood there running a hand through his hair. Hana paused, her expression shifting from something resigned to something wounded.

“And there’s one more thing."

He looked at her, brow furrowing. “Fucking Christ Hana, what now?”

“Do you think I’m stupid, Satoru?” she asked, folding her arms tightly across her chest. “I know what’s out there. The rumors. The whispers about who you’re with when you’re not here. Or maybe you think I don’t hear them.”

He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Hana, they’re just rumors. You know how the press is—they’ll twist anything for a story.”

“Twist what, exactly? Why do they have something to twist in the first place?”

“They don’t have anything. It’s just the media looking for something to make people read. Speculation sells.”

“Right. Speculation. But funny how it’s always about you, always linked to another woman.”

“That’s because I’m under a microscope. People love to create scandals, especially with someone like me. And you know that better than anyone.”

“It’s not just them, Satoru. People talk, and it’s not just baseless gossip. I’m not naive. I hear things from people close to you, people who actually know you.”

“You really believe them? You think I’m out there, risking everything for some—” He stopped himself, biting his tongue.

“Do I? I don’t even know my own husband anymore. Maybe I should ask them. Or maybe I should ask you directly, Satoru. Are you seeing someone?”

“Why are we even doing this?”

“Because I want the truth. Just once. I deserve that much, don’t I?”

“Believe what you want, Hana. I don’t have anything else to say.”

“Then maybe that’s all I need to know.”

Gojou stormed out of his apartment, his hands clenching and unclenching as he tried to shake off his frustration. He'd had enough for one night. His heart was pounding and the last thing he wanted was to be alone with his thoughts. He needed to get out, to drown the anger with something that could at least help him forget.

The bar he found was tucked away down a dim side street in Shibuya. It wasn't anything fancy–a dark cry from the glitzy nightlife he was used to–but it was dark and quiet which was exactly what he needed. He slid onto a bar stool and motioned for a drink, not bothering to pay attention to what the bartender poured.

He sipped his drink in silence, trying to tune out the night and all the noise in his head. The alcohol burned down his throat, but it was a welcome distraction that numbed his anger and frustration. He was almost on his third drink when he noticed someone sitting in the corner of the room, hunched over a notebook, tapping her pen against her cheek in thought.

She's cute, he thought to himself. He squinted trying to get a better look at the young woman, and he immediately recognized, it was you.

Of all the places he'd expect to see you, this shitty bar wasn't one of them. You looked so absorbed in your work, like you were piecing together something for a story. Satoru's curiosity got the better of him, and he stood up carrying his drink as he made his way over to where you were sitting.

"Well, well," he said, leaning against the back of the chair across from you. “Didn’t peg you for a bar rat, but maybe I was wrong.”

Your head snapped up, and your eyes widened slightly in surprise. “Gojou Satoru. What a surprise.”

“Mind if I sit?” he asked, already taking the seat.

“Didn’t think someone like you would end up in a place like this. Celebrating?”

He gave a dry laugh, swirling the glass in his hand. “Something like that.”

“So, what are you doing here, really? Figured you’d be at a fancy cafe, writing about some important news story.”

“Maybe I am. Research is research, even if it’s in a bar. Maybe it’s you I’m writing about.”

“So I’m your new project, huh?”

“Maybe. It’s part of this little journalism course I’m doing. We’re supposed to pick a public figure and write a profile. Someone who’s got a… colorful public image.”

“Colorful, huh?” He smirked. “Guess I’m your lucky target. Hope I make an interesting subject."

“Interesting is one word for it,” you replied, a faint smirk tugging at your lips. “What’s got you so quiet tonight? I thought you’d be surrounded by fans somewhere.”

He shrugged, taking a long sip of his drink. “Not in the mood for fans tonight.”

“Tough race?”

He laughed humorlessly, shaking his head. “Not the race. Just… life, I guess.”

“So,” he said, leaning in. “tell me about this little journalism course. You planning to make a career out of stalking poor drivers like me?”

“It’s a bit more complicated than that. We’re learning how to ‘uncover the truth’—or at least, that’s what they say. So far, it’s been a lot of digging through archives and learning to ask the right questions.”

“Right questions, huh?” He arched an eyebrow. “Let’s hear one. What would you ask me, if I were your ‘colorful public figure’?”

“Alright, Gojou. How does someone at the top of their game manage to keep it all together? All the races, the publicity, the pressure… don’t you ever feel like it’s too much?”

“Honestly?” He ran a hand through his hair, glancing away. “Sometimes, yeah. It’s not as easy as it looks, being the guy everyone thinks has it all together. But people don’t care about that part. They just want the show.”

“So you put on the show.”

“Guess that’s what it comes down to.” He laughed, but it sounded hollow even to his own ears. “People don’t want to see a guy crack under pressure. They want the image.”

“But what do you want?”

No one ever asked him that, as if what he wanted didn’t matter.

“What do I want?” he repeated, a slight smirk tugging at his lips as he tried to dodge the question. “Maybe another drink.”

I’m serious. Behind all of that… what’s left?”

“Honestly? Sometimes I don’t even know anymore. It’s like I’ve been going so fast for so long, I can’t remember what it was I was chasing in the first place.”

“Maybe that’s what you need to figure out, then.”

He looked at you, and the faintest trace of a genuine smile broke through. “Maybe.”

The two of you sat in silence, and he found himself grateful for it. You didn't press or pry at him and he thought that he could just be himself, even if it was just for a little while.

“Alright,” he said finally, nudging your notebook with his finger. “So, future journalist, you really gonna write all this down? Make me sound like some tortured artist?”

You smirked. “I’ll try to be kind. Maybe I’ll even leave out the part where you go to bars alone and pretend to be mysterious.”

“Ouch,” he chuckled, holding up his drink in mock surrender. “Noted. But I expect a copy when it’s published. Autographed, obviously.”

“Obviously,” you replied, laughing as you clinked your glass against his. “But don’t expect it to be flattering.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

As the conversation continued, Gojou found himself leaning in closer. You both let the drinks keep coming, though it was less about how much alcohol you were consuming and more about the way the words spilled more easily between you two.

“So,” you asked, taking another sip of your drink, “what’s it actually like out there? Everyone sees the fame, the money, the cars, but… what’s it really like?”

He exhaled, tapping his fingers on the edge of his glass. “Honestly? It’s… intense. There’s this high to it, this adrenaline. Nothing like it. You’re pushing yourself and everyone around you to the edge," he tilted his head. “But sometimes, it feels like the line between winning and crashing out isn’t as thick as people think. You cross it once, and that’s it—you’re done.”

“Doesn’t that scare you?”

“A little. But I’m more afraid of what happens if I stop. It’s like… I don’t know what I’d be without it. Guess that sounds stupid.”

“No, it doesn’t. I get it. When something’s all you know… giving it up is like giving up a part of yourself. Scary as hell.”

“Exactly. Guess we all have our addictions, huh?”

Shit. Did he say too much?

You didn’t push, just gave him a quiet nod. “So, what’s Tokyo Jujutsu like? It's one of the toughest team on the grid, right?”

“You know it. They’re tough as hell, no room for error. And they sure as hell won’t give you a second chance if you mess up.”

“Sounds brutal."

“Yeah, maybe. I guess I like the challenge. Or maybe I just like proving people wrong.”

“Enough about me," he continued. What about you? What’s the deal with this journalism project? Are you trying to make a name for yourself by exposing all my secrets?”

You laughed, shaking your head. “Believe it or not, my goal in life isn’t to ruin yours. I actually think it’s fascinating, learning what drives people, what keeps them going, even when things get messy.”

“Messy? What makes you think my life is messy?”

“Oh, please. Gojou Satoru’s life is one headline after another. You’re practically the poster boy for drama.”

He feigned a hurt expression, placing a hand over his heart. “You wound me. I’m just a guy trying to make a living, you know?”

“Right,” you said, rolling your eyes. “Just a guy who happens to have a dozen scandals and an equal number of speeding tickets.”

“Hey,” he laughed, leaning back in his chair. “I’m a professional, okay? That’s all part of the job.”

The two of you continued to chat into the night. Gojou found himself relaxing, caught up in the rare comfort of talking with someone who didn’t expect him to play a part. He could just… be.

At some point, the bartender announced last call, and Gojou glanced at you, smirking. “Guess that’s our cue.”

You stretched, gathering your notebook and tucking it under your arm. “Thanks for the, uh, ‘research material.’ It was… enlightening.”

He laughed, standing and grabbing his coat. “Anytime. But don’t go making me look like a complete asshole in your little project, alright?”

“No promises."

Outside, the air was crisp as he faint hum of city traffic the only sound as you stood together on the quiet street. Gojou slid his hands into his pockets, looking at you.

Outside, the air was crisp as the faint him of the city being the only sound as you stood together on the quiet street. Gojou slide his hands into his pockets, looking at you.

“Maybe we’ll run into each other again."

“Only if you’re brave enough to handle more questions.”

“Oh, I’m plenty brave. But we’ll see if you’re as good at digging as you think.”

You rolled your eyes, laughing as you turned to leave, throwing him a casual wave. “Goodnight, Mr. Gojou.”

“Goodnight,” he echoed, watching as you disappeared down the empty street.

In that moment he realized, he never did catch your name.

© satorulovebot 2024 please do not repost, plagiarize, or translate my work.

[lightseoul]

Congratulations!!! 🎉🎊 How about #5? 🫣

thank you, love! tagging also @tsunderelover07; thank you for playing <3

(this is lightseoul's 2k milestone event ft. bakugou katsuki! to play, view the numbered list of prompts here, then simply send an ask with your chosen number and i'll whip something up!)

warnings. includes themes concerning depression; negative affect in general. read at your own risk.

5. "I'M NOT LEAVING SO GET USED TO ME." (1.3k)

ever since who-knows-when, the goal has always been simple.

pain alleviation.

at least, in theory, it sounds simple. when you think about it, it’s nothing like the seemingly insurmountable task of getting a master’s degree, neither is it as grandiose as finally finding a partner and settling down.

but for someone like you?

well, it’s the best you can muster on most if not all, days, really.

and today’s a textbook example of that.

you squint at the small text displayed on your phone screen, the blue light hurting your eyes in the darkness that’s enveloping the entirety of your studio unit. the clock reads 6:08 PM, but the lack of light cannot be credited to the sun’s waning presence—your black-out curtains have been drawn since, what… yesterday?

the past few days have gone by in a complete blur, you’ve lost track of which day it is.

you’re about to put your phone down in favor of stewing in your bed and debating whether or not you have the energy to order yourself some dinner when your phone chimes its familiar ringtone, indicating a text message.

picking it up, you recognize the id right away.

(6:09 PM) katsuki💥: Omw. Want me to pick anything up by the store?

shit.

now you know it’s a friday.

mustering the little strength you have left, you type out a reply as quickly as you can. before you can think twice about what you just wrote down, you hit send.

(6:10 PM) you: actually, can i take a rain check? i don’t think i’m the best company rn.

sighing, you finally place your device beside you, opting to stare at the off-white ceiling.

you hope bakugou actually listens to you for once and doesn’t press like he usually does. when you first met him in the same agency you both interned for three years ago, you instantly caught wind of how mind-bogglingly stubborn the guy is. but it wasn’t until you became great friends, strangely enough, that you realized the extent of his tenacity. you never thought you’d end up being best friends with the budding hero you found yourself disliking since day—

your train of thought is rudely interrupted by your stomach growling, and you decide then and there that the one thing you can do to alleviate your pain for today is to feed yourself.

you repress the urge to groan in pain as you slowly sit up and move to shimmy your feet into your slippers.

but you don’t even get to reach your kitchen when the telltale sound of your lock clicking echoes through your foyer, almost instantly followed by the door bursting wide open.

you know you should be alarmed, but there’s only one person who can and has the audacity to use your sole spare key without your explicit permission.

still, you don’t fight the frown that takes over your face as you haul yourself to the doorway, watching the man closely as he toes off his trainers and puts them neatly beside your everyday sandals, nonchalant as ever.

“i thought i told you i’m taking a rain check,” you immediately cringe at how rough your voice sounds from unuse.

bakugou stands upright, placing what looks like a bag of groceries on top of your kitchen counter before rounding you and approaching the windows like he owns the place.

“you asked me if you can,” he shoots back as he opens your curtains. “the answer is no.”

a familiar surge of anger pulses through your body. you clench your fists in an attempt to ground yourself—you know from experience that mouthing off on your best friend would do nothing to lessen your pain even if it seems oh-so appealing at the moment.

“…well, don’t expect me to host you. i actually had other plans tonight.”

“is that so?” comes his signature snarky reply, the man turning to regard you. “does your plan include starving yourself ‘til you fall asleep?”

your frown deepens. “i was just about to order dinner before you showed up.” you debate for a second whether you should say the next thing, ultimately deciding fuck it. “now i don’t have an appetite anymore.”

that was a blatant lie. you’re famished, but he doesn’t need to know that. you just needed to be alone right now.

bakugou’s face hardens at your retort. his jaw clenches ever so slightly, in a way that tells you he’s trying to be patient but is getting frustrated.

when he doesn’t say anything, you shuffle back to your bed and sit on the edge of it, ready to wait him out on his exit.

but bakugou katsuki isn’t anything if not stubborn.

“i heard from mina you called in sick again today,” comes his gruff voice.

damn your closest girl friend turned co-worker and her running mouth.

“so?”

bakugou sighs from where he’s now standing in front of and looking at you. “how many leaves do you have left?”

at the mention of it, your stomach drops in dread. an all-too-familiar pulse of anxiety also shoots through your veins. “…two.”

two sick leaves left, and it’s only motherfucking july.

silence befalls the two of you, but it’s not the comfortable kind that usually lulls you both whenever you’re alone in each other’s presence. no, this quiet is borderline irritating, and you can practically hear the gears turning in the man’s head as he processes the fact you’ve been trying to grapple with yourself for the last few weeks now.

the fact that you’re absolutely fucked.

before he can comment on your situation or say anything uselessly placating, you pipe up. “but don’t worry about me. i know you have a lot on your plate right now.”

at that, bakugou scoffs, and your features instinctively contort in annoyance at the sound.

you’re trying to be nice, for god’s sake. something that takes so much of you lately when it used to come naturally your whole life.

you purse your lips in a tight line. “look, if you’re just gonna keep on being an asshole, it’s better if you just leave.”

instead of turning a 180 and giving you your solitude, however, bakugou crouches down on his knees until you’re face to face.

you suddenly become acutely aware of the fact that you haven’t washed your face nor brushed your teeth since yesterday. despite your exasperation with the guy, you hope he doesn’t notice.

if he is noticing, though, he doesn’t mention it. instead, he reaches out and uncharacteristically gently brushes out a strand of hair from your face, tucking it behind your ear.

“i’m not leaving, so get used to me.”

with that, he moves to stand up and maybe make his way to the kitchen to cook you dinner, but your reflexes work fast enough for you to grab his wrist before he's out of reach.

bakugou freezes in his tracks, eyes drifting from the grip you have on him to your face, a confused expression etched on his features.

“…just leave, kats,” you barely manage to get out, unable to meet his gaze. “i’m really not the best company right now.”

you brace yourself for another scoff over which you were absolutely going to smack him, but it doesn’t come. instead, bakugou merely coaxes his wrist from your hold before clasping your hands together.

you look up at your best friend, stunned at the rare gesture.

his face is solemn and grip firm when he replies. “don’t i get to be the judge of that?”

[seattlesellie]

ok. can we talk about going with ellie to the mall because i think it would be… interesting.

(fluff ‘n a little bit of smut so mdni! 🎀 also wrote this ages ago and it’s so bad so excuse me!!! and reader is v fem)

౨ৎ when it comes to ellie williams— i believe she will throughly let you walk her like a dog. quite literally following you around the shops hand in hand— to the point where you’re merely dragging her around. at first, she’d be super chill and relaxed, but one hour later after seeing you try on the same dress three times already— she’d start groaning on and on. “babe… do we really have to go fucking zara again?”, when you tell her that you just regret not buying a certain top, she’d be so adorably pissed off, her eyebrows all furrowed together, just thoroughly confused. she would probably want to stop and eat some food every 5 seconds. “zara… or mcdonalds” ,weighing the two options on her hands and clearly placing the mcdonalds option way higher.

౨ৎ if there’s an arcade— you know her ass is fully stopping in her tracks, begging you to come and play some games with her. obviously, you oblige, because she’s giving you the biggest and cutest puppy eyes you’ve ever seen, and maybe she’d stupidly jump up when you say yes. she ends up beating you in every single game— and it's so painfully obvious that she’s been there about 17 times already.

“ellie, you’re only winning because you’re here every single day. you’re like a totallll loser” you defend, after she’d been gloating about her winning streak for 5 minutes straight. unsurprisingly, she just denies it. 

“i swear— ive never been here before, babe”

“els, be honest” you warn.

“okay— been here like once with jesse”

“once?”

“once… plus like five” and at that— she turns around, and places her hand behind her back, so you can intertwine it with yours. she’s sooo beating you in bowling.

౨ৎ while you’re browsing through clothes — shed be hugging you from behind tightly, as she kisses on your neck and silently begs for your attention.

“this skirts super cute, right?” you chirp, pointing at the plaid mini skirt and slowly tracing the soft fabric with the pads of your fingers.

ellie has her chaste lips right on your pulse point, and she’s barely even looking.

you pick it up, and she moves closer behind you with her hands still clinging on to your waist. “cute, right?” — you can feel ellie’s smile slowly form on your neck.

“yeah, babe… you’re very cute. thought you knew that already, though”

౨ৎ when you pull out two pieces from the rack (amethyst purple & floral purple) and ask her which color will fit you better, she just rolls her eyes and huffs. “babe… you cannot be serious they're the exact same”, to you, they are NOT. but ellie fully doesn’t get it at all.

౨ৎ put her in a gamestop— and it’s like she won the lottery. browsing through the different controllers, now its your turn to tease and tell her they’re all the exact same. put her in a NINTENDO shop and its literally over. her eyes are twinkling and sparkling, and shes borderline skipping through the store trying to find cool figurines. when she sees a bowser plushie (her mariokart main, duh) she picks it out so fast, and then tries to find you a plushie too— a princess peach or a kirby or whatever you want. she goes to pay, and when you leave the store with your two adorable new plushies inside the bag— ellie fully side eyes you. she has something to say, and you know it. she sighs deeply— “think theyre fucking in there?”

“if they’re anything like us… theyre fucking in there— oh my god, babe… bowsers humping her ass, look” —

she’s literally moving them inside the bag.

౨ৎ okay, so you’re done paying at zara (with her credit card but let’s not… talk about it), ellie left about 15 minutes ago because she was tired of looking at the clothes and she said that place looks like a mental asylum. you’re walking out of the shop with the bags in your hands, and you see her sitting on one of the random mall couches with a random grey haired middle aged man. weirdly, they seem to be in the midst of an incredibly intense conversation. you twist your face because what the fuck and;

“waiting for the wife, huh?” she asks him, manspreading on the chair with her hands resting on her thighs. they’re both staring at the store’s entrance, both sighing heavily. “that i am…” the old man huffs, and ellie chuckles to herself. “me too man… me too”

౨ৎ five minutes later — you find them talking about fucking bathroom tiles.

“i told her i wasn’t going to do marble— but she fucking insisted on it”

you walk a little closer, and ellie is still heavily rambling about floor stuff (?) you have absolutely no clue about.

“els…? ready to go?” you chirp, smiling warmly at the stranger. “gimme a sec” ellie looks at you from the corner of her eye, and keeps going. they’re exchanging numbers because they need to start thinking about how to build a new patio, and he has some “awesome fucking tips, man”

౨ৎ ellie places her hand on your shoulder as you’re walking away, and squeezes. “he was such a cool dude” she remarks, with a stupidly dumb, satisfied smile.

“ellie… he was like, sixty five”

“so? we bonded, babe” she shrugs.

“about floor tiles?” you ask her, and she begins rubbing little circles on your shoulder as you both stray further away from the shop.

“amongst other things” ellie chews on the inside of her cheek. should she say it?

“what things?” you smile sheepishly at your girlfriend, who’s seemingly nervous for some reason.

“you know… his wife…” she bites her cheek even harder now. she should definitely not say it. “my wife” okay— there it is.

her wife.

ten whole seconds of absolute radio silence pass. ellie thinks she might have said too much, but ellie doesn’t know you’re fighting for your life trying to hold on to your tears that are threatening to erupt.

her wife.

“you’re proposing here then, i assume?” you’re trying not to sound emotional, trying not to sound like your hearts about to burst out of your chest and start doing cartwheels on the malls pavement.

“nah… definitely somewhere way classier. like… bora bora, or the food court”

“food court?”

ellie has to stop. ellie has to stop and hold your hand.

“yeah… so i can hide the ring inside your burger n’shit. then you like… choke on it, then i save you… then not only am i a fuckin’ hero, i also get to like… marry the most beautiful girl i’ve ever seen. and she has to say yes—” there’s no point in swallowing down your toothy smile now. “cause like… i saved her life, y’know?” as much as ellie’s joking, ellie’s cheeks are burning up.

“will you… say yes, though?” she balances her weight from leg to leg, and averts her gaze. mmhm— what an interesting sign!

the way you place your hand on the back of her neck and kiss her hard— that’s definitely a yes.

ellie won’t propose to you in the food court, though. in fact, she has this elaborate plan she has been thinking since about a month into your relationship. that, you’ll never guess.

౨ৎ mall ellie is ALL pda. she doesn’t let go of your hand like ever and constantly needs little kisses on the cheek. she bought you a cute new top? kiss on the cheek. cute dress? kiss on the cheek and on the nose. she doesn’t want you to say your thank you’s, she’d much rather you show them.

౨ৎ when you’re at a lingerie shop… suddenly she comes fully alive. its literally as if someone infused her with seven shots of caffeine and she can’t seem to be able to stop handing you different bra’s, panties, and sexy little nightgowns.

“that’ll look so fucking hot on you” & hands you the sluttiest thong youve ever seen. “that— will drive me fucking crazy” & hands you a sheer bra she can imagine your nipples poking out of.

“wanna eat you out in that” as she hands you a little nightgown and you’re like “ELLIE!” and slap her arm her because a 60 year old woman literally just heard her and looked like she was about to have an aneurysm.

“actually— wanna eat you out in that… and in that too… and in that— oh my god look baby they’re crotchless” wiggling her eyebrows and swaying the fabric in the air.

౨ৎ obviously… she wants you to model them for her. it’s funny, how she didn’t give a fuck when you tried a cardigan on or a hat or saw a cute purse, but now she’s demanding to go inside the dressing room with you and stare you down in the mirror like a perv. she watches you strip out of your clothes and you purposely do it extra slowly, taking your time removing the bra… and now, she’s just leaping out of her sit.

“nope— doing that for you…” she unclasps it, stands behind you and immediately gropes your tits. she gives you sweet little kitten licks and kisses on the neck, whilst maintaining full eye contact with her hands on your boobs from the mirror, and you can’t help but whimper when she takes your hardening nipples between her fingers and rolls them in her thumb. “ellie… were in public” you hiss, bucking your ass onto her crotch.

“we’re not in public, were in a dressing room…” she whispers, like she knows best.

“plus, i gotta test these little panties out… s’for you, y’know?”

ellie makes you sit on her lap to watch it up close, until she’s fully satisfied and is sure that they fit just right, and that she can see herself peeling them off of you. “give me a little wiggle, babe”, she rasps, as her hands roam over your naked waist.

“a wiggle?” you giggle, and burry your face in the crook of her neck.

“like… grind yourself up against me. gotta test the fabric, make sure you’re… comfortable” and— of course you do. you grind yourself up against her thigh until you forget what you even came to the mall for.

ellie’s eyes are fixated on you, taking in your little silent whimpers as you “test the panties” out.

“think… fuck— think we gotta buy them now… soaked ‘em all up, huh?” ellie pants, as she helps you grind your body back and forth. when ellie looks down on her thigh, truly just to watch how your pussy lips swallow the drenched material, ellie comes to an extra conclusion as well. there’s a sticky wet patch, almost heart shaped, over her denim jeans.

“shit… babe, look at that mess…”, she holds you by the back of your neck, and guides your head down. “mhm… gotta buy me some new jeans” your breath cages inside your throat as you begin to stutter, “sorry, el… didn’t mean to”

“oh fuck no… it’s… shit— so fuckin’ hot”

anyways, mall ellie is a menace.

[seventh-district]

Midnight Hour

With the warm haze of sleep fading from you, your brow furrows as your right hand presses lightly against his lower abdomen, your thumb sweeping up and down in a small attempt at a comforting motion. You quietly call for his attention, voice still thick with sleep.

“Star? Is everything okay?”

His typically silent breath suddenly hitches, and his head angles down to face you. Now that he’s turned toward the light, you catch the way his eyes shine, and the way the light reflects off of what you quickly realize are tear tracks, running down his cheeks.

You awake in the middle of the night to find your lover in tears.

Pairing: Astarion x Reader

Word Count: 3,139

Content Warnings: [crying (obviously)] [non-specific mentions of Astarion's past trauma] [this fic was written by someone who hasn't actually played the game and that might show in the details/the lack thereof]

Blinking your tired eyes open, you squint at the light of the crackling fire in front of you. Closing them again, you let out a soft sigh as you try to guess at the current time. Given that you woke on your own, you’re assuming it’s likely close to, but not quite, time for you to take over tonight’s watch shift.

Your group has fallen into a routine where you pair off into teams of two, and a different team keeps watch each night. Tonight’s turn belongs to you and Astarion, and he’s taken the first half of the shift as usual. You usually, ironically, sleep your best on the nights that he keeps watch, in spite of only getting half the amount of sleep as you do on the nights another team has the job.

You suppose you can credit the fact that, at the end of the day, Astarion is a creature of the night. Something about knowing he has the upper hand when it comes to any unwanted nighttime visitors your group may encounter is… reassuring. To you, as well as to the others in the group, loathe as some of them may be to admit it. That is, once they all felt confident in his promises to not make a surprise midnight snack of them, at least.

Tonight is a bit of an exception, though, and you’re not quite sure what woke you early this time. You typically sleep soundly until he gently coaxes you awake, nails combing through your hair, voice soft and apologetic in your ear. He’s always somewhat reluctant to wake you, but he does so nonetheless, having learned his lesson after the first time he made the executive decision to let you sleep the whole night through. His arguments of “You really looked like you could use the rest.” and “What’s one sleepless night? I can sleep when I’m dead.” didn’t hold much water in the face of the way he dragged ass through the entire next day.

In “the spirit of fairness” and “proving that he can stick to an agreement,” he never tried to take the whole shift by himself again. It definitely didn’t have anything to do with how guilty he felt when he heard the disappointment in your tone when you awoke that first morning and discovered he hadn’t stuck to the plan. Definitely.

Laying there in the quiet, you try and fail to pinpoint what feels different about tonight. You don’t hear any strange noises, nothing feels unusual, and blinking your eyes open again you raise your head a bit to look around the fire. The rest of the group are circled around the other sides of the heat source, sleeping soundly. You figure that you’re probably just getting used to this routine by now, and your body simply woke up around your usual shift change time on its own.

Still, that doesn’t explain the vague, unplaceable feeling that something is just… off.

You let out a sigh that turns into a yawn as you stretch and roll away from the fire onto your back. Letting your head roll further to the left, your eyes land on the familiar sight of your lover’s back as he sits in his usual position beside you, diligently watching your six.

He’s taken to placing his bedroll right next to yours, insisting that you lie between the fire and himself. You couldn’t really argue with his point that he can’t feel the cold anyways, so there’s no need for him to be the one next to the fire. Nor could you argue with the benefits of having him as a line of defense between you and whatever lurks beyond the reach of the firelight.

The feeling of security and protection that he provides you with is still relatively foreign to you, and a soft smile blooms on your face at the warm feeling it brings. Your smile then falls a bit as you remember the silent question you ask yourself on the regular, of whether or not you provide him with the same.

You roll the rest of the way to your left, and shuffle further toward him, closing what remains of the small gap he’d placed between the two of you. Lying halfway on your bedroll and halfway on his, you curl your body around his seated form, bringing your right arm up and gently placing a hand on the right side of his waist. He flinches slightly, and if this were earlier on in your relationship, you’d retract your hand. He’s long since informed you though that his reaction to unexpected touch is simply involuntary, and as long as it’s you, you’ve no need to pull away.

You recall the quiet, restrained desperation in his voice when he first explained it to you, all but begging you not to pull away. He can’t control the way his body reacts to touch, given that before you, he couldn’t recall the last time being touched meant anything other than pain. In spite of that though, he wants it. He wants you. That’s obvious in the way that he, without fail, immediately relaxes under your gentle touch once his mind and body process that it’s coming from you. The way he’s come to not only relax, but to lean into it. Lean into you.

You’d never push past his boundaries, never in a million years, but he’s made it quite clear after about a thousand of your quiet requests for consent at every minor touch, that he’s entirely welcoming of your non-sexual physical affections. Getting the man to verbally admit that he actually enjoys cuddling with you, without the truth being concealed beneath a heavy layer of playful banter and practiced, honeyed words didn’t come easy, but he came around to it in his own time.

So, you don’t pull back, instead following through with the motion and slowly snaking your arm around his waist. You press your front against his lower back and curl around to rest your left cheek atop his left thigh. You can’t help but notice that he doesn’t relax into you in the way he usually does, and your head turns to the right a bit, struggling to get a half-decent look at his face as you’re both turned away from the fire light.

He remains tense, still, and unresponsive to your movements, gaze seemingly locked dead ahead of him, staring out into the dark forest.

With the warm haze of sleep fading from you, your brow furrows as your right hand presses lightly against his lower abdomen, your thumb sweeping up and down in a small attempt at a comforting motion. You quietly call for his attention, voice still thick with sleep.

“Star? Is everything okay?”

His typically silent breath suddenly hitches, and his head angles down to face you. Now that he’s turned toward the light, you catch the way his eyes shine, and the way the light reflects off of what you quickly realize are tear tracks, running down his cheeks. He’s actively crying, tears dripping from his chin, and now with his head tilted down at you they take a different path, running down to converge and fall from the tip of his nose.

You nearly bolt upright in your shock, quickly unwrapping yourself from him and clambering around on all fours until you’re sat down in front of him, your hands gripping tightly to your upper thighs in worry. His wide-eyed gaze followed your every movement, and even now that you’re sat still in front of him, his eyes still dart around, frantically scanning you, for what, you don’t know.

“What- what’s going on?”

You keep your voice as quiet as you reasonably can in spite of your shock and concern, not eager to wake your companions and have everyone witness… whatever this is.

He doesn’t respond, looking just about as lost as you feel, shaking his head in silence as more tears fall. It’s one hell of a sight, and it suddenly hits you that this is the first time you’ve ever seen him cry.

Unsure of what to do and what even caused this, you resist the urge to wrap him in a hug, not wanting to overstep in this unfamiliar territory. Instead, you glance back over your shoulder and once again see and hear nothing of note before trying another question.

“Is there a threat? Did you see something that scared you, honey?”

He takes a long moment to answer, seeming unsure, before eventually settling on another shake of his head. His lack of confidence in his answer isn’t the most reassuring thing at the moment, but given that you aren’t detecting any danger either, you decide to believe that he really didn’t see any threat. At least, not here. Not right now, in the present moment, in front of him. He seems about halfway here and halfway gone, and if your growing suspicions are correct, he’s probably been sat here lost in the dark corners of his mind for a while now, given the state he’s in.

You catch movement to Astarion’s right side and watch as Karlach raises up from her prior position sprawled out face-down on her bedroll, propping herself up with her forearms beneath her. Her expression of concern is too aware and her eyes are too awake for her to have just now woken up, and you quickly gather that she’s probably been awake and laying there long enough to have heard your questions and Astarion’s lack of any verbal response. She doesn’t say anything though, and doesn’t move, just letting the situation unfold and keeping a watchful eye on the darkness behind you.

Relaxing slightly at the knowledge that someone else is awake and helping to keep watch now, your focus shifts back to Astarion, who’s gaze has moved to his lap, tears still falling fast. It’s almost unsettling, the way he cries. There’s no sound, no movement, his breathing is hardly even affected, nothing more than the occasional shaky breath to give away any sign of struggle at all. You don’t have to guess why it’s like this, given what he’s told you about his past. You’re sadly certain that he learned to cry like this ages ago. Silent and still, sat alone in the dark so no one would notice.

You don’t want to think about the sorts of punishments he’s endured as a result of showing such pain and emotion, but your mind pulls from what experiences he’s shared and offers up a few anyways, making you begin to feel sick.

Leaning down and trying to catch his gaze, you ask another question.

“Astarion, are you with me right now?”

He blinks, more tears spill, and his lips finally part as he responds to you with a strained whisper.

“I’m trying to be…”

You smile in spite of your current emotions and the general mood of the situation, doing your best to be something positive, something gentle, something safe for him to focus on.

“There you are…”

You say it to yourself as much as to him, relieved to finally hear his voice, as laced with pain as it sounds. You hold out your hand near where his lie balled into fists in his lap, offering him contact without forcing it on him.

“I want you to keep trying, okay? Do your best to come back into the present with me. You can take my hand, if you’d like?”

He stares down at your offered hand for a long moment before shakily unballing one of his fists. He hesitates, fingers trembling, before reaching out and placing his hand in yours. His skin is even colder than usual and slightly damp to the touch, and you couldn’t be less put off, or give less of a fuck about the messy state of him right now, or ever, if you’re being honest. You just want to help him, however you can.

You curl your warm fingers around his palm, wanting to pull him into a hug so badly but restraining yourself, letting him call the shots.

“You’re okay now, Star. You’re safe right now, here with me. We’re safe.”

He’s quiet for another long moment as he shuts his eyes tight, taking in your words. His other fist unfurls, and his body trembles almost imperceptibly.

“I… I’m sorry… I’m sorry…”

Your heart breaks.

“Honey, you have nothing to apologize for. Nothing at all, I promise you.”

He shakes his head in disagreement, his voice an insistent whisper.

“I shouldn’t be doing this.”

Your shoulders drop from where they’d been tensely held up, body slumping with a silent sigh as you watch him still try to hold this wall up between the two of you. You’d made it past a number of his walls already, but this one… this one you’ve yet to be granted access behind.

“It’s okay to cry, you know?”

Another shake of his head, this time with far more force behind it, almost vehement.

“No.”

You soften your voice, insisting.

“Yes. It is. You can cry now, Astarion. No one’s gonna hurt you. No one’s gonna judge you. I swear on my life, that’s the truth.”

His breaths become more labored, uneven and shaking.

“You aren’t his anymore. The old rules don’t apply. You can let it out, now. No one, and I mean no one, is going to punish you for it.”

His eyes pinch closed and his head shakes hard side to side, like he’s fighting his own mind, and his hand opens and closes like it wants to grab onto something. He then moves, wrapping his free hand around your arm and suddenly you’re being pulled toward him, desperately, insistently.

You follow the motion as he continues to tug at you, first leaning forward and propping yourself up with your other hand on the ground as he continues to pull you closer. You quickly gather what he wants as he lets go of your hand in favor of latching onto your other arm, pulling you upward, choking back tears all the while.

You raise up on your knees and his hands move once again to hook beneath your arms as you allow yourself to be pulled up onto his lap with physical strength you keep forgetting he possesses. Hooking your legs around his waist, you wrap your arms around his shoulders and pull him into you. His arms wrap tightly around your waist and he buries his face into the fabric of your shirt at the collar, muffling the soft sound of his crying which has now turned to full-blown sobs.

He’s still shockingly quiet in spite of it all, and you imagine it’s a mixture of being unable to let go of what’s ingrained into him, and not wanting to alert the entire camp to his current breakdown.

Your thumbs stroke up and down in place on his back, not wanting to let go of your hold on him but still wanting to give him some sort of comforting motion to focus on. Besides, you figure petting across the entire expanse of his scarred back might do the opposite of calming him down, so you refrain and keep your arms wrapped firmly around him. Turning your head down toward his, you whisper to him in between soft kisses to his temple.

“That’s it, love. Let it out.”

“You’re safe now, Astarion, I swear.”

“There’s nothing wrong with this.”

“I’m so proud of you.”

“You have every right to cry. No one ever should’ve taken that away from you.”

He grips you even tighter as you shower him with painfully unfamiliar affection and acceptance, comfort unlike anything he’s ever felt before in his horribly long life. His forehead presses against your right shoulder as his crying slows, trying to ground himself and catch his breath. You make a point of holding him securely against you, breathing slow and deep to give him an example to follow.

You catch movement in your periphery and glance over at Karlach as she quietly sits up and makes a series of silent lip movements and hand gestures that you don’t entirely grasp. You work them out to mean that she’s gonna take over watch for the rest of the night, and you can rest with Astarion. You send her a grateful look and mouth a “thank you,” to which she waves you off with what you think you read as a silent “don’t mention it” on her lips.

After a short while spent focused on slowing down his breath and bringing him fully out of his memories and back here with you, you whisper quiet words in his ear.

“Your work is done, Astarion. You can rest now.”

You mean it in both possible interpretations of the words, and he seems to understand that, his body finally relaxing against yours for the first time tonight.

“You wanna lie down with me, love?”

He seems like he almost nods, but stops himself, whispering back in an exhausted voice, scratchy and thick from crying.

“Someone has to keep watch.”

You hesitate to inform him that Karlach has already taken over that role for tonight, sure that he’d get no sleep at all if he knew she’d witnessed this. You know you’re gonna be awake watching over him for the rest of the night anyways, so instead, you offer a compromise.

“I can hold you and keep watch at the same time, love. Just… let me sit and you can lay against me.”

He gives the suggestion a moment of thought before nodding his head, reluctantly loosening his hold on you. You maneuver the both of you carefully so as to avoid allowing his tired eyes to catch sight of your obviously awake companion sitting behind him.

It isn’t much of a task considering his eyes are halfway closed already, his only remaining focus locked on you. You settle down at the head of his bedroll, guiding him to lie down and bringing his head to rest in the center of your lap.

Your hands take turns gently combing fingers through his white curls, and you feel his tense shoulders begin to relax at the feeling. You bring a thumb down and gently stroke over the lines creasing his brow, quietly encouraging him to release the tension he likely doesn’t realize he’s holding. You watch him pull in a deep, albeit still slightly unsteady breath, and you can practically feel the relief that washes over him when he exhales.

Words aren’t necessary between the two of you at this point, not in this moment, but you offer him a few anyways, hoping they’ll resonate in his tired mind as he slips into sleep.

“You’re safe here, Star. Rest easy.”

A/N: Like I said in the CWs, I haven't played the game for myself (yet!) so I only know what I've seen in the hours of (mostly Astarion-focused) scenes I've watched on YT. As a result, this might have read a bit funny if I've gotten certain details wrong. For instance- I have no idea how resting at the camp actually goes, whether or not someone keeps watch all night, etc. Also I'm not sure if Astarion even needs to actually sleep or if he meditates/falls into a trance and just calls it sleep, but for the sake of simplicity, (and me being clueless,) when I say he falls into sleep just assume he's doing whatever he'd normally do to rest. On a different note- this little fic was inspired by a combination of two things. The lovely art and additional commentary on this post, by @velnna , and also by me listening to Midnight Hour by Sierra Eagleson on loop for like, an hour, and daydreaming up this specific scene before proceeding to write it out. It is a beautiful song that is now the title and theme-song for this fic, and I encourage you to go give it a listen if you haven't heard it already. Header Image Source: x

[37sommz-archive]

✼. THRU SPACE 'N TIME | GRID DYNAMICS.

NOW PLAYING: michaela's grid dynamics. ✼. view:⠀masterlist⠀⸻⠀join the taglist⠀⸻⠀request.

✹.⠀⠀،،⠀ALEXANDER ALBON.

Bonding over their mutual dry sarcasm, Alex and Michaela are another underrated pairing on the grid. Though not exceptionally close when compared to their other grid friendships, there is a lighthearted respect for one another that underscores all of their interactions. Michaela regularly voiced her missing Alex’s presence on the grid during his brief hiatus from the track and Alex claims Michaela was the first driver to congratulate him upon his return. As regulars on each other’s personal Instagram profiles, they’ve subtly played into fans’ expectations of a monthly Albon dump on Michaela’s secondary page.

✹.⠀⠀،،⠀FERNANDO ALONSO.

Fernando is admittedly one of Michaela’s racing heroes. Aside from his clear talent, Michaela has been vocally in support of his “villain” approach to racing, though she admits she doesn’t have half the courage needed to pull off some of his stunts. On Fernando’s end, he has always identified Michaela as a blossoming force on the grid who would be capable of domination if given the right team behind her. 

It’s a little-known fact that Michaela’s signing with Aston Martin was actively encouraged by Alonso who insisted the team allow the two drivers to compete against each other for points. In his view, the two would flourish in an environment where they were encouraged to outplace each other. To Fernando’s credit, his approach has worked pretty well for the team in its development of a more competitive reputation on the grid, for which Michaela has repeatedly thanked him.

As teammates, the two spend a considerable amount of time together having grown quite comfortable in each other's presence. From the occasional humorous quip during press conferences to their iconic tiktoks, Fernando and Michaela's partnership has been her most successful at the Formula One level.

✹.⠀⠀،،⠀PIERRE GASLY.

Of all the drivers on the grid, Michaela shares the most extensive history with the Frenchman. As her first teammate after joining Prema to race in the GP2 series in 2016, Michaela has not been shy about expressing how thankful she was for Pierre’s consistent inclusion of her in a sport that had been continuously unwelcoming. Though their beginnings were an awkward mix of pubescent introversion, by the end of their season together Michaela was a regular guest with Pierre’s family when her own family could not make the flight from Australia. Accordingly, Michaela is quite close with Pierre’s mother, Pascale, who is never seen without a #37 pin on race weekends. 

The next three years of their friendship would be strained by Pierre’s move to Super Formula in 2017 while Michaela remained at the Formula Two level. Their friendship would recover, however, after Michaela was selected for the 2019 grid as a driver for Alfa Romeo. Since then, Pierre has continued to be one of Michaela’s most vocal supporters, regularly extending cheers her way through passive comments during press conferences. 

However, their close comfort with one another is often mistaken for a bitter rivalry. especially after a particularly tense moment at the 2022 Monaco GP where Pierre pulled off a choppy overtake with Michaela calling him a “cunt” over the radio. The swirl of rivalry rumors never seems to fully go away with their limited interactions on race weekends, but their dual-family dinners tell the full story.

✹.⠀⠀،،⠀LEWIS HAMILTON.

As the two black drivers on the grid, the two have always been silently protective of one another. In a similar vein to her admiration of Fernando, Lewis has always been Michaela’s greatest motivation in believing that she was capable of reaching Formula One despite the matters of her race and gender. Accordingly, Lewis was the first of the senior drivers to pass his personal number to the driver in her rookie season. 

To this day, the two conduct quiet check-ins with each other whether grabbing a gourmet lunch in Monaco or sitting front row at Fashion Week. One of the more underrated pairings, the other drivers recognize the unique bond the two have and marvel at Michaela’s ability to chip away at Lewis’ guarded exterior.

✹.⠀⠀،،⠀CHARLES LECLERC.

Another set of former teammates, Michaela and Charles were admittedly not very close during their time at Prema in Formula Two. The running joke of “Sommers falls just short behind Leclerc” rings uncomfortably true for the Australian who first experienced a taste of Il Predestinato’s reign after finishing 2nd in the Formula Two Championship. Though that simple fact never bothered her much, the media storm that continues to cloud over any semblance of tension between the two bothers her to no end.

As the two have matured past that tense 2017 season, they’ve found common ground in the issues that frustrate them within their careers. Similar to the sense of pressure she shares with Max, Michaela shares a passionate frustration with Charles in the face of a less-than-beneficial strategy. In particular, Michaela’s second season at McLaren and Charles’ 2022 season with Ferrari brought the two almost infinitely closer as they bonded over not the nicest words vented about their respective teams. In fact, Charles was the one to convince Michaela to take a risk in signing with Aston Martin after the 2022 season, a decision he never lets her forget turned out quite nicely for her driving style.

Aside from their shared tempers, Michaela and Charles spend quite a bit of time together privately, frequently attending tennis matches alongside their partners—and Pierre. Their friendship is a fan favorite though the two rarely publicly outside of Instagram comment sections and press conference giggling.

✹.⠀⠀،،⠀LANDO NORRIS.

Though Lando and Michaela have known each other since 2014 when they both competed in the Ginetta Junior Championships, it wasn’t until their rookie Formula One season that the two exchanged their first words. While Lando fervently claims that Michaela was quite removed from the other drivers in the championship, they both know the hidden truth of Lando’s bashful shyness in the face of the then taller, more competitive Australian. Despite the rocky start to their friendship, their first two seasons in Formula One were marked by a noticeable growth in recurring bits and shared inside jokes. 

That growth was initially spelled out to be a dream pairing for McLaren after they signed Michaela to a two-year contract in 2021. Placing two extraordinarily talented drivers with a rare competitive respect for one another seemed to be the right choice for the papaya team until the two actually began racing during the 2021 season. Disaster for the two drivers quietly drew closer throughout the bulk of their first season as teammates with glimpses of the future lying in terse shoulder checks after particularly competitive races. 

The discord between the two McLaren drivers became clearer in 2022 after Michaela publicly voiced her frustration with their overwhelming support of Lando despite her outperformance of the British driver in all but two races in those two long years. The tension between Michaela and the rest of the team came to a head in Sao Paulo when she was ordered to give way for Lando to pass her into 3rd place so she could defend against Carlos in 5th. Despite begrudgingly following the orders, Lando would collide with Leclerc to receive a penalty and be forced to retire later on with gearbox failure. With a new order to compete for points, Michaela would win the race but be left to celebrate on her own with the rest of the team retiring early to discuss adjustments with Lando. 

After the season closer in Abu Dhabi, Michaela would sign a joint statement with McLaren stating she would not be pursuing another contract with them and would instead be joining Aston Martin. The disastrous season for the Australian only stifled her friendship with Lando who found himself less than happy with the grudge she would hold against him for their entire tenure as teammates. In the two seasons since then, the two have spoken on short occasions in attempts to repair their friendship. Though they seem to be on less bitter terms with one another, their interactions are kept brief in public between tight-lipped smiles and the very rare return of an old joke.

✹.⠀⠀،،⠀DANIEL RICCIARDO.

As the only Australians on the grid until Oscar’s promotion in 2023, Michaela and Daniel bonded over their mutual distaste for English cuisine and endless homesickness. Admittedly a bad influence, Daniel brings out Michaela’s wild side often dragging her along into his X-rated jokes and late-night adventures in the cities they visit.

Though their vibrant friendship is frequently exploited for PR purposes on Drive to Survive and Formula One promotional content on YouTube, the two prefer being matched up together due to their similar energies. Michaela’s image, carefully crafted by her Press Officer Beata, always comes tumbling down as she giggles at Daniel’s shenanigans, letting out the off-color expression with the ease of a wide smile adorning her face. 

The normal tense in her shoulders naturally relaxes whenever Daniel enters the room who is more than aware of his calming effect on the younger Australian. Most recently, the two have attempted to indoctrinate Oscar in their more extroverted ways. Michaela in particular has taken Oscar under her wing at press conferences in her own way of simulating the state of ease Daniel places her in.

✹.⠀⠀،،⠀CARLOS SAINZ.

Before 2023, the extent of Carlos and Michaela’s interactions was limited to shared eye rolls across the press conference room and a rare Sommers-faulted crash at the 2021 Canadian Grand Prix. Though fans mourned the lack of interaction between the two favorites, their friendship suddenly burst onto the public radar after Michaela appeared in one of Carlos’ vlogs in early 2024. 

Since that surprise appearance, they’ve been somewhat unsuccessful at hiding their shared camaraderie in the public eye. Giving into the public demand for their interactions, Carlos and Michaela have slowly opened up about their friendship, giving the occasional insight through seemingly empty comments. Though not much is known about just how close the two are, it’s frequently pointed out that Michaela was a guest at Carlos’ sister’s wedding despite not being publicly announced as one. 

Privately, Carlos is possibly Michaela’s closest friend on the grid with Carlos Sr. even musing that he had hoped the two would get together, much to their mutual genuine distaste for the idea. In Michaela’s own words, Carlos is the only driver she trusts with her precious puppy Tilly. Carlos has casually echoed that sentiment claiming that the two push each other to continue to be at the top of their performance, encouraging each other through the roughest of times in both their career and personal lives.

✹.⠀⠀،،⠀YUKI TSUNODA.

When Yuki first entered Formula One, there was an unspoken expectation that he would get on quite well with Michaela. Paradoxically, the two bring out the absolute worst in each other. Amongst the glaring jabs thrown at each other in press conferences, there lies an animosity that both intrigues and bewilders everyone in and around the Formula One world.

The discord between the two shortest drivers was placed center-stage through a screaming match in the pits after Yuki spun out of a turn, taking Michaela with him and handing them both a DNF in a critical race for the Australian. Since then, the two racers have done their best to exchange as few words as possible, keeping the strife cold for the sake of their teams’ best interests.

✹.⠀⠀،،⠀MAX VERSTAPPEN.

If you asked the other drivers if they thought Max and Michaela would have gotten along, they all would have responded with resounding dissent. Despite the odds, however, the two have only become parters-in-crime through their time competing against each other. As two naturally ultra-competitive people Michaela and Max have bonded over the pressure they both feel to deliver—admittedly in different ways—every weekend. Though most of that pressure is relieved in late-night rants over the phone, they do find levity in making fun of the press every chance they get. As such, the two are rarely placed next to each other in press conferences unless they’ve finished with a very familiar Verstappen-Sommers podium. 

Max is another driver who’s particularly vocal about his support of Michaela’s “trailblazing”. Though the media frequently attempts to bait him into forced high praise of the Australian driver, he makes it a point to call out journalists who center her gender in a less than well-meaning way. One of the more iconic Mickey and Maxie moments came after Max shut down a reporter fishing for an unflattering story while ignoring her glorious winning finish. 

Off duty, the two spend quite a bit of time together whenever Michaela finds herself in Monaco. Joining him for simulation streams and being pictured spilling their secrets over drinks has led to an abundance of deranged shippers and secret romance rumors. The two find the fun in the rumors, playing up their dynamics when they become aware of fan presence during their private outings. However, they’ve both been more than clear that their friendship is nothing more than that, leaving no room for their partners to be harassed by crazed fans.

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[charles-leclerizz]

EPISODE 01 : Start your engine

🏁 EPISODE AGE RATING : U/A 16+ [contaings swearing]

🏁 GENRE : Drama, Action, Sports, Romance

🏁 WORD COUNT : 10 K [ 10 , 366 WORDS ]

🏁 MUSIC SUMMARY : THE GREATEST BY SIA, PUMPT IT - BLACK EYED PEAS

🏁 CREDIT [S] : "BEHIND THE SCENES" BANNER, NETFLIX PLAY BAR BY ME [@charles-leclerizz], TEXT DIVIDERS BY @cafekitsune

🏁 TAGS : MUTUALS GET INSTANT TAGS [@vroomvroomcircuit, @disneyprincemuke, @verstappen-cult, @starkwlkr, @sailing-with-100-ships, @foreveralbon], OTHERS [@weekendlusting, @woozarts, @mellowarcadefun, @paintedbypoetry, @33-81, @kazuha-pista-badam, @inejghafawifesblog,d3kstar], IF YOU WANT TO BE TAGGED, PLEASE SEND IN AN ASK !

DIRECTORS CUT : first episode children, better get soome snacks and a drink, and i highly reccomend looking at the masterlist, aisha's profile and the porsche f1 team links, since they will explain everything. It is also recommendeed you first read the trailer, which is once again found on the masterlist below.

Masterlist · 🪷 Aisha · 🪷 Porsche F1 Team · 🪷

The opening credits of the series begin to play, revealing bold block letters reading,

“Bahrain 2025”

And in the background, the black fades to reveal an aerial view of the landmark circuit, a staple of the history that defines Formula One. As the shot zooms in, we see the morning mist rolling over the grey, freshly re-laid tarmac of the track leading up to the garages of each of the 10 teams, most of them shutdown and blocked away from prying eyes. Though, as the camera moves forward, the view widens and we can see at the very end of the line, the Porsche garage emitting a yellow glow.

The acrylic entrance leaks hues of gold whilst we finally approach the opening where we see Aisha jumping in place, a set of Bose x Porsche headphones sat on her ears, the white body and metallic automobile logo on the muffs bouncing with her movements.

She looks up from her focussed point beneath her, facing the camera that zooms in and captures the determined flare within the pools of her eyes.

 The music, already beginning its powerful bass bursts, dims and briefly we can hear her laboured breathing as she stretches her hands above her and unzips the tight athleisure jacket that she had worn previously for warmth. The adidas logo crumples as she throws it away, revealing a cropped sports bra, white with grey stripes at the sides containing an embroidered Porsche logo on her left breast.

Soon enough, the music comes blaring back and the camera merely turns to follow her body as she begins to run away from the safety of her team enclosure. The scene ends with her exiting the shot, running down the initial straight of the first ever track she will race as a formula one driver.

“Aisha, what drives you in the world of Formula One?” A deep, cryptic voice off camera asks the driver sitting in shot. She smiles menacingly and leans back against her seat, her hands planted on her elegantly crossed legs as she adjusts the low cut, ‘V’ collar of her waistcoat, the colour matching the iconic Porsche guards’ red, of the rest of her risqué pantsuit.

“What drives me?” She chuckles, a low, raspy amusement that reverberates against the stormy backdrop behind her, “The competition, the domination, it runs in my blood;” She leans forward, as if the camera crew were privy to her obvious need to achieve. Aisha’s thin, golden bangles on each of her wrist’s jingle as she goes to adjust her volumous hair, “it’s not about the winning, it’s about obliterating the finish line.” She shrugs nonchalantly, despite the aggressive competitiveness that crackles in the air.

The voice chuckles at her threatening demeanour, yet continues, “Some media outlets commented on your driving style, since F2 and F3. They say it’s violent. What’s your response?”

Aisha bites her lip, thinking on the best way to diplomatically answer the question, despite her need to curse the people who doubted her.

Instead, she sighs with faux disappointment and her wide, mascara rimmed eyes move down to her rouge and gold nails whilst one of her fingers comes to slip beneath the platinum stud that sits comfortably on the left of her nose.

“Violent?” She asks, her voice barely above a murmur, “They could’ve been more descriptive.” She rolls her eyes once before inhaling, “Try...relentless. When I’m on track, behind the wheel, it’s war. And I aim to be the last one standing, if you can’t get with the program, move out the way. Cause I’m here to win.”

Her promise of no mercy is palpable as she shifts minutely in her seat, tapping her nails against one another whilst waiting for next question.

“What about the rest of the grid?” The interviewer prompts, treading carefully with his words, “Any words for them?”

Aisha scoffs under her breath, uncrossing her legs and flipping over the golden dainty necklace that rests within her exposed cleavage, the glinting logo of her team catches the light whilst she adjusts herself.

“Why words? They’ll know what I’m here for when I pass them. They’ll feel it, the fear, the resignation. I’m a whirlwind, all they can do is get swept up in it, this season, I am not racing against them, their teams or even their car; I’m racing against their hatred of losing to me.”

She smiles at the camera, eyes crinkling at the sides as her nose scrunches, a pure juxtaposition to the threat that peeled out of her mouth like scalding, hot water.

“Before we end. For your fans, what do you want them to know?”

“Hold on for your life, they’re about to witness history on the track. Cause I’m not here to make friends, I’m here to fuck shit up.” Aisha grins wickedly and laughing loudly at the flurry of reactions off camera from the crew that stood behind the myriad of wires.

Three different scenes are overlayed one another, the first being of Lewis Hamilton, giggling at someone off screen before focussing his large doe eyes onto the interviewer who also sat behind the large camera.

The second being 3X world champion Max Verstappen, who sits heavily onto the provided stool and sips at the can of the sugary energy drink in his hand, Max stared at the camera, a bored sheen coating his crystalline blue irises as the third, and final driver’s scene overtakes his.

This time Charles Leclerc enters the identical set, the Ferrari golden boy had narrowly escaped his fans-who’s screams of joy could be heard in the background as he waved a final time and pocketed a bright red, branded Ferrari pen whilst sighing, glancing around haphazardly.

“Lewis”

Hamilton perks up at his name, smiling serenely, prompting the interviewer to continue.

“The world of Formula one is ablaze about new entry, Aisha Patel. Do you think, as a seasoned professional, she has what it takes to compete?”

Lewis whistles lowly, leaning back against his seat and wraps his arms around himself, “Damn- starting strong huh?” He snorts once before re-adjusting his posture, “Y’know, we’ve heard of her up here. And she’s talented, but obliterating F3 and F2 does not directly auto-translate to domination on our track.”

“Is that scepticism that I hear?” The interviewer chases after the hesitation in the driver’s voice, like a dog after a juicy bone.

“Call it...” Lewis arches an eyebrow as he mulls over his words, “Healthy cautiousness. I’m waiting to see how she handles the pressure after the lights go out.”

“Max”

Max hums lazily, as though he had one too many bubbling seltzers that sat, pristine on the refreshments table, “Yeah?”

“Aisha Patel.”

Max clenches his jaw at the sound of her name.

“She’s said to rival your aggressiveness on track, what are your thoughts on her joining your world?”

Max scoffs at the seemingly preposterous statement, “What about her? She’s aggressive, so what? It’s skill that matters here in the big leagues. Give a baby a steering wheel to a supercharged car, that’ll be aggressive. I’m not holding my breath for her. “

“That sounds like someone who’s threatened?” He probes the already on edge driver.

“A threat?” Max chortles as if someone had offered him a mere penny for his thoughts, “I haven’t been threatened since kindergarten. I’ll let her have her try at the status quo, take one for the team and all.”

“Charles”

The alarmingly red adorned man tilts his head inquisitively at the interviewer, his gentle smile popping his dimples.

“Miss. Patel has been said to be relentless on track, throwing caution to the wind. Your thoughts on her violent debut?”

Charles hums as he nods his head, “It’s nice to see fresh blood on track, bonne, she’s certainly caught people’s attention. Let’s see if she’s all bark and no bite.” He mummers the French praise before shrugging at the end of his sentence.

“You’re excited to compete against her?”

“Of course- who wouldn’t be? New team, new driver. The more varied the sport, the more interesting.” He answers neutrality laced into his words, despite the excited glint in his eye.

“Thank you for your insights.” The interviewer thanks the men in their tapes, each of them reciprocating with equal politeness.

“Of course,” Lewis grins and claps his hands, turning to start chatting once again as he dismounts from the chair, already walking away.

“No problem,” Max nods his head once, stepping down from his seat whilst receiving a fresh can of Red Bull.

“Cheers mate,” The camera captures Charles leaning forward to shake the interviewer’s hand whilst patting his shoulder, before detaching to go and talk to the gaggle of Ferrari personnel who had gathered within the filming shed.

The 2025 drivers had gathered onto the Bahrain track, the relentless mid-day sun beating down on them as a few of them had the pleasure of black umbrellas being held above them, whilst other’s held small hand-fans in the large palms, basking in the cool breeze that the battery powered trinket provided.

Aisha walked out, her racing shoes tapping against the tarmac as she made her way towards the others. A few Porsche employees trailed behind her, one of them stayed closer behind her, offering her a metallic, grey hand-held fan along with a chilled bottle of water.

“Thanks,” She murmured, brushing the hair that managed to escape her ponytail, “It’s fucking boiling.” Aisha complained, tugging at her fireproofs whilst another employee came up to her, patting her face with a setting powder as an attempt to dry her skin.

“Can’t really help it, love.” The media admin, Sarah, pointed out removing her focus from one of the jittery interns to the driver, “Now- you’re going to walk out, fans are going to see you. Are you sure you don’t want to hide your face right now?”

Aisha cracked open the bottle in her hand, having pressed the condensation coated plastic against her forehead long enough. She faced away from 2-3 people surrounding her to peak past the acrylic barrier, onto the track, where the rest of the drivers stood haphazardly scattered around the starting position boxes that had been freshly painted onto the concrete polymer.

“It’s fine, I think I’ve already heard all their opinions on me.” Aisha groaned, fanning her face again as she kicked a non-existent pebble beneath her toe, “What could go wrong?”

She peaked out again, like a tense meerkat, only to be surprised with her teammate, Pierre chatting with his former partner, Esteban Ocon. His racing suit was already zipped up fully as he basked in the fan’s unintelligible shouts and squeals, the thick, grey fabric stretched over his body nicely as the different sponsor logos morphed to the wrinkles and dents of the cloth.

“He’s already out there.” She hissed, “Making me look like shit.” Aisha banged the back of her crown against the wall that provided her with the much-needed shelter, from both the sweltering rays and the assessing gazes of the crowd above.

“Nonsense lovey.” Sarah assured her, picking at the hem of her fireproofs and pressing a few of the sweaty, stray strands of hair back into position, “Pedro’s just catching up with some friends.”

“Pierre.” Aisha corrected, pulling up her identical suit from hanging lowly from her waist to her shoulders, thankfully she still had time to leave it unzipped.

“Whatever.” She flapped her hand dismissively, “Baguette man isn’t doing anything you won’t have to.”

“Okay,” Aisha breathed out, keeping her lips taught and still as her rouge lipstick was touched up by another Porsche jersey adorned worker, “My helmet?” She looked around, patting herself, as though it would appear out of thin air.

Sarah looked around her surrounding, panicked, before snorting and pointing to the ledge behind the group, “There ya go babe.” She leaned past Aisha to knock on the head gear.

“I’m a mess,” Aisha whined, picking up her helmet whilst rubbing the glossy exterior with an open palm, she runs her fingers over her last name that’s printed on the back.

“A hot mess.” Sarah corrected her, hooking their elbows together whilst ushering forward the teenage interns next to them- their hands shaking with apprehension as they gripped the phones in their hands, the gadget recording each moment.

Aisha stilled slightly as her foot contacted the tarmac, the crowd already hushing with undivided interest on her mere shadow. She could feel anxious sweat begin to build up on the nape of her neck, flushing her face and glistening against her skin.

Finally, after a few minutes of inner turmoil, she allowed Sarah to guide her out within the crowd of other team’s media escorts and her fellow drivers. The grandstands erupted with chaos, the rushing of footsteps- scrambling to take the first photos of her in her debut, the unravelling of flags, the patriotic colours burning against the pristine plexi-glass barriers and multiple little girls shouting happily at her image.

Aisha forced a smile onto her face, the unexpected praise soothed her blushing ears as she waved up at the viewing boxes.

“Well, well. Nobody’s ever screamed like that for me.” A voice creeped up behind her, causing Aisha to whip around with a cautionary hand on her chest.

A cheeky grin greeted her, “Lando” Aisha breathed out, leaning to the side of his stature to acknowledge the rabid paparazzi behind of them with a tight-lipped nod.

“Hey,” He greeted her, bouncing on the balls of his feet and tapping the top of his helmet that sat squeezed between his arm and waist, “You nervous?” Lando tipped his head boyishly, his curls falling over his forehead, hazel eyes softening as he watched her.

“Not really,” Aisha lied, “do you need to pee?” She looked at him anxiously, watching as he stopped bouncing like a full bladdered toddler, and stood still. Lando chuckled under his breath and opened his mouth to answer, until he lurched forward under the weight of a heavy arm that hung from his shoulders.

“Little Lando Norris.” Daniel chuckled, rubbing his knuckles over the younger’s head, and snorted when Lando pushed his hand away stumbling out from his hold, “Already chatting up the newbie?” Daniel looks at Aisha with a smirk, “I think his pubes finally grew in.” He faux whispered, his voice gritty as he winked.

“I’m not chatting up anyone,” Lando smacked Daniel between the eyes before walking backwards, next to Aisha, “Just catching up.” He shrugged, side-eyeing her, gauging a reaction from her steely expression. Luckily, he got one, Aisha’s eyes widened slightly, her eyelashes fluttering to match her hearts faster pace as she slowly turned her head to meet his eyes.

“Catching up?” Daniel inquired, suddenly interested, “You guys know each other from before?”

“Yeah, we karted together.” Aisha crossed her arms over one another, before accepting a cold can of thumbs up from a staff member, “Still remember how he shit his pants.” She mumbled.

“I did not!”

“What the fuck.”

Both men exclaimed at the same time, Lando blushing a furious red and Daniel cackling loudly- leading to not only the attention from the other drivers that stood in a 200m vicinity but also Aisha snorting out her drink from her nose.

“I did not shit my pants.” Lando gritted out the last part, to stop prying ears of the other men approaching to become privy to his humiliation.

“You did though?” Aisha arched a brow at him, “I passed by you on the last lap, therefore winning-“ She poked her outstretched pinkie from her can into his puffed up chest, “And that made you so mad, that you shit your pants.”

“Oh god,” Daniel wheezed, taking support on his shorter teammate who had trotted up to join the conversation. Yuki scrunched up his face, tilting away from the force of the elder before looking at Aisha sympathetically,

“You excited?” He grinned slightly, showing off the gap between his front teeth.

“Definitely. How could I not be?” Aisha looked down at Yuki, shifting her weight slightly as an attempt to lower herself, “The crippling pressure? The thousands of viewers? The weight of both of my country’s on my shoulders?” Aisha blew a nonchalant breath from between her lips whilst waving her hand in front of her face, “No biggie.”

The three men stared at her, blank expressions on their face, one of them pressed their lips together, smacking them and creating an equally awkward “popping” noise for the group to bask in.

“I meant more like, the race and stuff..” Yuki mumbled, scratching the back of his head before yelping when Daniel smacked the nape of his neck, “But yeah, what you said works too, fo sho, no doubt, no doubt.” He corrected himself hastily.

“Fo sho?” A fourth voice chimed in, this time with a French lilt to his words, “Who’s got yuki talking like that?”

Aisha looked away amusedly from the smaller driver to the voice, her eyes widened at the blaring red that adorned the man in front of her.

“My period wasn’t due until after the race.” She commented, meeting the man’s intense gaze, “Are you here to ask if I’d like to continue watching?” She tilted her head innocently.

“Ah, I see.” He scrunches his nose at her, “You’ve got our baby Yuki talking like that.”

“Hey, fuck you man.” Yuki protested, throwing his arms up with a huff.

“I know you want to,” The seemingly french-man retorted back with a shameful wink,

“You wink like you’re trying not to cry.” Lando pointed out.

Aisha clapped her hands at her revelation, “That’s what it looked like!”

Lando shrugged, as though it was obvious.

“Okay I’m sorry, I’m not here to start the next French revolution or whatever-“ She mumbled, holding out a polite hand as a civil greeting.

Though, she was not met with his acceptance immediately, instead the three men surrounding her grimaced and hissed through their teeth- Daniel shook his hand out like he had just burned himself. Aisha looked around, oblivious to the reason for their reactions and jolted her hand out to the man.

“I’m from Monaco,” He snarked, accepting her hand begrudgingly, “Not France.”

“Could’ve fooled me.” She shrugged in reply.

“Charles” he gritted out, squeezing Aisha’s hand tightly- a poor attempt to veil his distaste, “Charles Leclerc, Ferrari driver.”

“Really?” Aisha squeezed harder, taking a step back to roll her eyes over his bright red suit, “Couldn’t tell.” She snorted.

“Right, well” Lando coughed, reaching forward to peel away both of their hands simultaneously, “This was fun. Meeting new people.” He took Aisha’s hand in his but dropped it quickly when she looked down at their conjoined fingers. Lando coughed, the tips of his ears blushing a furious scarlet, before he shifted to glance at his oh-so-interesting boots.

Luckily, the situation was saved by one of the administration workers clapping their hands and speaking robotically into a megaphone, “drivers, please make your way to your positions.”

The seasoned drivers around her began to exit their conversations and walk towards the bleachers style setup at the start line of the circuit. At least 12 black, metallic chairs sat in a row behind a small plaque, displaying bold white font that detailed the circuit name and the iconic formula one logo sprawled along the edges of the display board.

“Didn’t need this fucking helmet.” Aisha hissed to herself, jogging to one of the Porsche employees that stood at the edge of the camera shot, handing off the piece of equipment, before making her way back to the crowd.

She zipped up her suit and removed the piece of elastic from her hair, letting the noir waves fall down her shoulders as she scanned the already in place men in front of her, thankfully Pierre waved at her and ushered for her to take place next to him, standing behind the pair of Mercedes drivers who were snickering at some joke the other had just told.

Aisha huffed, clasping her hands behind her waist whilst jerking her head side to side due to odd strands of hair tickling her eyes and nose, before she could exasperatedly wipe her face with her hand, a pair of fingers had come and brushed against her nose. Aisha minutely followed the soft pads across her cheek before trailing her gaze up to the origin, Lando met her eyes, his own irises blown out as his hand lingered by her cheek- his thumb twitching across her skin before he coughed and re-took his position.

“Thank you,” She murmured beneath her breath, neutralising her face against the onslaught of obnoxious camera shutters and piercing sun rays.

“No problem,” Lando nodded slightly, his eyes flicking back to her face, tracing her features with his shy stare, “You did great in qualifying, yesterday.” He hastily complimented.

Aisha tried to fight against the blush that made its way up her neck, “thank you,” she snipped, pressing her lips together as a futile attempt at hiding her girlish smile.

Lando huffed out a laugh, turning his neck to grin at her, “anytime.”

Finally, the pictures had come to a stop, and the long-barrelled cameras were packed away and the grid were herded to a large, open roof truck. Another admin worker trailed behind the last driver into the pen-like vehicle, stepping up the stairs to hang back from the railing after locking the gate, “everyone’s here?’ she asked, giving a once over the flocked in men, and woman.

“Aisha, you’ll be first to talk to Lawrence,” She met eyes with Aisha, who was already waving to the rowdy fans who had collected at the banisters of the grandstands, “And then it’ll be whoever’s closest.”

The lady nodded once when the drivers thanked her, then she caught Aisha’s gaze again and she smiled reassuringly, “See you guys around.” She waved and dismounted from the railing with a jump.

The large platform began to move as the truck silently hummed to life, Aisha moved from her comfortable position at the back of the area-leaning against the matte, black railing towards Lawrence who smiled excitedly at her approaching figure. As she knitted through the small groups of 3 drivers littered in her path, she continued to wave at the fans who shouted and screamed at each subtle view they managed to glimpse of her.

“Aisha! Hi!” Lawrence greeted her, offering his hand for her to shake and swivelled around to collect a microphone.

“Hello, hello.” Aisha grinned back, accepting the long piece of tech from him, comically rotating it in her hands observing the porous black material that had been painted with a flaring red to create the F1 logo.

“So, you’re finally here! The big leagues, and yesterday’s qualifying must’ve been very exciting.  We’ve all been so blown away with Porsche’s car, and your performance. P5 ! Amazing. Walk us through what you’re feeling right now?”

“I mean, it’s a confidence booster of course, qualifying top 5- but I think that along with that it’s proving to myself and other little girls like me that it isn’t about who you are, but what you can do, regardless of gender or background.” Aisha nods once, leaning her elbow against the railing to crane her neck around and take in the track that lay ahead of the speedily moving vehicle.

“It’s great that you can showcase your talent and inspire young minds, but with that said- there’s obviously a pressure that comes with entering such a male-dominated sport.”

Aisha stilled slightly, her eyes wide and unblinking for a beat, “I mean, there’s always going to be extra expectation on you when you’re breaking barriers. The way I see it, this is an opportunity to pave the way for future generation, so really, its fuels my success and goes to show that gender or race, doesn’t correlate to your ability on track.”

“Well said, and while we’re on the topic of your determination, whilst being in the spotlight almost 24/7 and the battles on track, how do you maintain focus? It must be overwhelming.”

Aisha chuckled, turning to look at the other drivers, a few of them had tuned into her interview not-so-subtle whilst others were still deep in conversation, “I mean, when you’re battling against jumbo sized toddlers, and then being put under the loving spotlight of the media, I agree, it can be pretty overwhelming sometimes. But then I remind myself, why am I here? What am I here to do? And at the end of the day, it’s just me, the car, and the track, so I really don’t mind it too much.”

She shrugged at the end of her sentence, flipping her hair over her shoulder before unzipping the thick race suit. Revealing her tight, fireproofs beneath, the Indian flag sat proudly on her shoulder whilst her team logo lay sprawled across her chest along with the sponsor logos littered across the rest of her front.

“You make it seem so easy Aisha,” Lawrence laughed, oblivious to the tension that had gathered in the young woman’s shoulders and the tightness of her eyes that had increased tenfold throughout their conversation, “Last question before I let you go, to all of  your young fans gathered here today-“ he pointed up to the bleachers that came into view on the straight that the truck was approaching, where multiple younger children stood, jumping in their spots as their Porsche hats bobbled on their heads, “-what would you tell them? Especially those who are most likely facing challenges in their racing journey?”

Aisha smiled serenely, imagining herself in the seats that sat so far away from her, what her younger self would long to hear to make her racing career just a little bit easier, “To all the younger dreamers, never let anyone else tell you your limits. They may say to stop, but you need to believe that you can keep going. Chase your passions relentlessly because if you do, then the only barriers will be the ones we allow ourselves to see. Keep fighting, because one day, you’ll see that you’re right where you need to be.”

“Wow” He sighed, hand on his heart, “That inspired me.” Lawrence laughed heartily, “Finally, maybe just a few words in your native language, now from what I know you spent at least 3 years living in India? For your education?” He looked at her questioningly, waiting for her response.

Aisha nodded happily, “Yes, I did! so you want a message in Hindi? There are so many languages in my country, but sadly I’m only fluent in Hindi, despite being Gujarati myself.”

“That would be great, please do.”

“Sabse pehle, main apne sabhi fans ko bahut saara pyaar dena chahti hoon. Aap log mere liye inspiration ho, aur main hamesha aapke saath hoon. Aap sabka support mere liye bahut important hai, aur thank you kehna chahti hoon.”

[First of all, I want to give a lot of love to all my fans. You are an inspiration for me, and I am always with you. All your support is very important for me, and I would like to say thank you.]

“Amazing, thank you so much Aisha,” Lawrence gently took the microphone away from her and offered a grateful smile before looking towards Fernando who had made his way towards the pair.

���No problem,” Aisha stepped away, patting the eldest driver’s back once before turning away and making her way towards Lando, who had already been looking towards her, waiting for her to approach him, along with Oscar and Logan who were engrossed in conversation.

The scene fades away from the three seasoned drivers and in the blackness another title appears, “RACE DAY” and following this the Porsche garage is finally revealed for the first time, much like the other teams the hard acrylic surfaces were decorated with the team colours and many engineers, technicians and workers were rushing around whilst other’s begaan to detach the hydraulic tubes from the cars in preparation for the first race of the season.

Before the first car revved up with anticipation, the halo was shown displaying the driver number and surname, “GASLY 10” and with that, the tubes were removed and the driver’s engineer pulled away, removing the iPad from Pierre’s gloved hands, allowing him to speed off towards his starting position.

The camera pans over to the second car that is yet to exit the garage, the driver within seemed to be hurriedly re-reading the car statistics, consuming that data over and over again, the scene rotates from the back of the car towards the front, where from beyond the middle column of the halo we get a glimpse of the large helmet following her heads sporadic movements, the Indian and British flag printed onto the front side of her head gear, peeped in and out of view as she handed away the tablet and she pulled on her gloves that lay waiting on the chassis in front of her.

With a confident thumbs up, she followed one of the Porsche employee’s guiding movements towards the other racers who sat in their cars, waiting for the start. Maintaining an even pace, she passed by the other cars, the exposed carbon fibre of Esteban’s Alpine in P10 and bright orange of Oscar’s McLaren in P7. She found her box waiting for her car as she pulled in and slowly removed her foot from the acceleration as she joined the grid in waiting for the formation lap.

The music faded away, to allow Aisha’s monologue to play over the still of the onboard camera, “This is it, I thought to myself, all the years of hard work and sacrifices have led up to this moment. This isn’t like F3 or F2-“ the live replay of the sleek interior of her F1 car is replaced by exhilarating moments of on track battles from her previous racing leagues, “- this is F1, where dreams are trampled on and shattered if you can’t keep up.” Her voice trembles slightly as we hear her take a deep breath in and the cars are overtaken with a new scene.

We see Aisha, in the same deep red sultry pantsuit, her side profile contrasted in the shadows as her chest rises and falls, “I remember the moment exactly, I told myself ‘Aisha, soak it in, the cheers and the feeling of other’s dreams, their expectations, cause it can make or break you.” She laughs incredulously at herself, “dramatic I know.”

“But it was electrifying, the whole thing, the thrum of the engines, the anticipation. I have never felt anything like it. But it’s everything I’ve trained for and everything I’ve wanted since I was little and racing go-karts.” Snippets of the raging, overwhelming sound of spluttering go-karts overtake the screen as one after another, we see young Aisha, drowning in an oversized sponsored uniform cut through the chequered ribbon.

“To the other drivers on the grid, it’s just the first race of the season, but for me, it’s my debut, it’s the first and only chance to prove that I’m meant to be here.” Aisha claps her hands, and the bursting flashes of her karting days cease, and we’re brought back to her, sitting in the tall stool, legs crossed over elegantly as she waves her heel back and forth, “The countdown began, and it’s lights out and away we go.”

The red lights above the Bahrain track fade away one by one, Crofty’s voice is matched with hers, and just as the sound of the engines crescendo, the scene ends.

“Right Lando- “

The young British man makes his way into the stool, wobbling slightly as he flails his hands before rocking back to stability. He lets out a relieved breath and crosses his arms over his chest, his fingers absent-mindedly playing with the golden, volt bracelet on his wrist the Luis Vuitton logo glinting in the light from his absent-minded movements.

“Hi, yes, I’m here.” Lando looked up at the interviewer, his eyes bouncing between the 3-4 different camera’s capturing him from odd angles, “Which-“he pointed at one of them, “-which one am I looking at?”

The interviewer laughed before leaning forward and tapping the lens of the middle-most camera, “This one.”

Lando breathed out, “great” before adjusting the pillowing fabric of his hoodie and stared straight into the glass barrel in front of him, “I’m Lando Norris, and I race for McLaren Formula one team.”

“We ehm we didn’t need that. It- it’s different from Drive to Survive,”

Lando cringed and rubbed the back of his head, causing the bracelet to ride up beneath the sleeve of his hoodie, “My bad- “

“Don’t worry about it, Now-“The sound of cue cards being shuffled could be heard, “Onto the first question, we’ve heard rumours about you and Aisha, especially during your karting days, care to elaborate?”

Lando sucks air through his teeth as he smirks, “Me and Aisha…” He looks down to his hands, fingers finding purchase on the angled charm of his bracelet, “We go way back, I mean, it was either me or her who were winning the races, she was,” He sighs heavily, his eyes starry as he looks back up to the camera, “She was, no, she is everything.”

“Can’t help but notice the bracelet that you have on, anything significant?”

“It’s symbolic, I guess?but nothing too big.” He shrugs it off, hiding away the jewellery from prying eyes.

The interviewer presses their lips together, humming whilst shuffling the cards once again, “Right, of course, but some fans have already started to notice that you and she are…close.”

“Close? We’ve always been close, it’s like electric with her, it’s hard not to be attached to her talent.” Lando smirks playfully, winking at the camera, “Karting with her was so intense, we pushed each other to the limit, and I will always hold her and those memories close to my heart.”

“Seems like obsession,” They laugh.

“Oh, it most definitely is, I mean, have you seen her?” Lando flourishes dramatically with his hands, as though the woman was sitting right next to him.

We are brought back to the first driver’s briefing of the season, mere days before the Bahrain Grand Prix, Aisha had just sat down next to Pierre and began to chat amicably with her new teammate, bouts of laughter erupting from the pair momentarily.

The camera pans from the bonding partners to Lando, still hiding his head between his palms in embarrassment, though from between his ringed fingers we see his emerald irises peeking through the gaps, staring thoughtfully at the enrapturing driver who was currently fiddling with the van clef, indigo bracelets that shimmered around her wrist.

Oscar, who was also curiously watching the woman jogged Lando, snapping the man out of his trance, “Mate- you’re drooling,” He poked his teammate’s cheek.

Lando slapped away the finger that prodded his face, “I am not.”

“Whatever you say,” Oscar hummed, turning his attention back to the administrator who was flipping through a few data filled papers, bringing their mouth closer to the bendable microphone. Oscar leaned into Lando, bumping their shoulders together, “Just be careful.”

Aisha breathed out a sigh, capping the black, matte Bulgari pen, slipping it into the awkwardly small purse that hung from her shoulder. She slammed the driver’s door of her car, having just finished a load of signing and smiling with fans, her main objective was to get through the security scanners peacefully.

“Hey stranger,” A voice came up behind her, tapping her arm.

“Lando,” Aisha tried to contain the quiver in her voice, “I thought you already got in.” She adjusted the neckline of her top, the tight sleeves hugged her shoulders and left her skin exposed to the warm sun.

“I did, I just needed something from my car and then I saw you,” He grinned at her, tapping his key card against the scanner, walking seamlessly through the rotating barrier, “You look like you’re about to walk a runway.”

Aisha laughed, tucking a straightened lock of hair behind her ear, “Thanks, you look…” Aisha assessed his outfit, a pair of light blue baggy, Levi’s and one of his own merch hoodies, “normal.” She cringed at her unnecessary honesty.

Yet, Lando just laughed and nodded his head in agreement, “Yeah- compared to you.”

Aisha continued to walk through the paddock, the British driver at her side whilst she waved to those personnel that passed by. She looked down at her own clothes, a neat, navy, off-the shoulder top that hugged her chest in all the right places was tucked into a grey mini-skirt, compliments of one of the many brand ambassadors of her team, the item was paired with a thin brown, gold buckled belt along with knee-high go-go boots.

“You could say that” She conceded, adjusting the golden Porsche chain that clung to her neck, “I was wondering…”

“Yeah?” Lando pocketed his hands.

“I you wanted to get dinner. For old times’ sake?” Aisha leaned forward on one foot, tilting her head hopefully before coming to a stop and waiting for his response.

Lando beamed widely, his eyes sparkling, “Definitely, I would be an absolute idiot to turn you down.”

Aisha blushed and looked down at the bracelets on her wrist, multiple layered golden chains which reflected light against her face in the most euphoric way, “Great, I’ll ju-“

“AISHA, oh my god it’s really her, AISHA!”

A shrill, young voice erupted from behind the pair, and a group of 3-4 young girls came running up to the pair. Aisha laughed to herself, plucking out the pen once more.

“Hello,” Aisha greeted the pre-teens who surrounded her, two of them dressed in a signature papaya orange whilst the other two sported metallic, silver Porsche merch, “You guys look so good!”

She accepted the hats and odd poster that the girls shyly handed her, “We’re so excited to see you race! You’re the only one who looks like us.” One of them spoke, her copper toned, youthful cheeks bobbed up with her smile as her long, black ponytail weaved with her excited movements.

“That’s so sweet, I think I might just win the race for you.” Aisha opened her arm for the girl to step into as they took a photo.

“Ehm, Lando, could we get an autograph as well,” Another one asked, already unfurling a second poster along with presenting the enraptured male with a sharpie.

“Absolutely! How could I resist?” Lando accepted the pen and began to sign the poster along with some newly presented items that the other two girls had produced.

“Thank you, guys, so much!” Aisha waved off the girls and turned back to Lando, already handing over her phone for him to enter in his number.

The young fans were squealing on their way back to their parents, who were just as excited for their young daughter’s interaction, “Did you guys see the bracelet?”

“What bracelet?” Another one asked, carefully rolling up her poster and handing it to her father, who tucked it under his arm and offered his hand for her to take.

“Lando’s, the one he wore for the whole of last season…” She adjusted her cap, looking confusedly at her three friends.

“Oh…I didn’t.”

“Neither did I.”

The screen faded away from Lando, sitting with his teammate whilst gawking at Aisha and we’re brought back to the present, the on-board camera of the Porsche is aimed at the lights that have just gone dark and all at once, a symphony of rubber against concrete fills the scene.

Aisha navigated turn one with ease, emerging from the throng of cars still in P5, her grip tightened on the steering wheel as she focussed every ounce within her body on the track ahead. The bright spotlights above her cast a blinding hue over the grandstands, illuminating the eager fans from around the world, their flags waved in their air as they watched with anticipation when she approached Lewis from behind, pressuring the world champion ahead as they weaved into the next turn.

Aisha aimed for the apex, seeing the slightest gap for her to slip past, as she pointed the head of her car towards the opening, she held her breath and pressed on the throttle. Aisha lurched backwards as she could feel the crackles of her under-board hit the track with each increase in speed she made, yet she managed to dodge the Mercedes car and fly down the straight, maintaining her tyres as best as she could.

The radio thrummed to life in her ear as her race engineer, James, began to speak, “Great work with Lewis, already around 1.15 behind you. Take care of your tyres for now and defend.”

Aisha breathed heavily as she continued to meet the corners and walls with barely an inch to save herself as a highly effective attempt to prevent more overtakes, “Got it.”

She continued her pace throughout the laps, the continuous build up over 20 rounds had inched her closer and closer to Carlos who was struggling in P3, his braking getting worse and worse with each sharp turn.

“James- how much closer do I need to overtake?” Aisha gritted out, flitting her eyes to the large, white metallic DRS sign that entered her limited field of vision.

“Only a bit more Aisha, it’s time to push.”

Aisha stepped harshly onto the gas, her engine thrumming all around her as she charged closer to the bright red Ferrari ahead. She could see the rubber of the tyres in front burn and smoke with every swerve. The roar of her engine filled her ears, drowning out the noise of her own heartbeat as she braced herself for the challenge, “Here we go,” she murmured, voice firm and steely with determination.

She surged her car forward, pushing her machine to the limit as she matched Carlos’ pace with precision and determination, the desert heat bore down in mirage-like waves as the two drivers danced on the razor’s edge of competition. One by one measly lap, the distance shortened until they were wheel to wheel, and all Aisha could do was grit her teeth until she could taste the tangy calcium as she continued the precipice of a wipe-out, the promise of a podium too good to lose.

Aisha’s heart pounded with exhilaration as they hurtled down the straight once again, soon enough the pair were met with the sharpest corner yet, Aisha pushed further and Carlos relented, edging away meekly to allow her to slip by. The crowd’s cheers washed over her, a wave of euphoria crashing over her senses as her heart swelled with triumph.

“WOO! P3!”

“Amazing work Aisha, halfway there. Get some distance between you two.”

“I can take on Checo,” Aisha promised, her aggressive spirit burning deeply within her core as her eyes narrowed into the back of one of the red bulls.

“Go for it, but be careful, your tyres aren’t that good.” James warned her, his voice crisp with caution.

“I got this.”

Aisha revved up once her power had flashed a promising green on the screen in front of her, “It’s time to pounce.” She promised herself whilst flicking the DRS button with her thumb, letting the flap behind her quiver open, the force launched her forward like never before as the lap count leached into the 40’s, Checo hadn’t yet pitted, neither had she, and suddenly, it was a battle of the wills.

She tried all that she could, nudging her nose into the smallest of gaps and backing out when he had angled himself predatorially, grazing her front wing enough for her heart to jump into her throat, “What the fuck is he doing? Fucking cocksucker, he wants to kill me or what?” Aisha had to remind herself to lower her voice.

“It’s within regulation, keep pushing you’re approaching DRS again.” James assured her.

The car trembled beneath her, like a jaguar waiting to pounce again after one failure, she pressed again. This time she nipped Checo’s wheel, causing for him to quickly move out of the way, narrowly missing a spin-off and allowing Aisha to speed into P2.

“FUCK YES! HOLY SHI-“

Aisha’s celebration was cut short when a dangerous thrum approached her rapidly, she attempted with all her might to duck and weave into and out of his path, but Checo was relentless, continuously rubbing against her wheels and forcing her to utilise her power.

“Fuck, fuck what the actual shit?” Aisha screeched as she continued to sloppily defend, her anger bubbling up like hot water.

The red bull growled and pounced in front of her, clipping enough of her front wheel to send her spinning. Aisha shouted with malice, throwing up her hands as her wheels began to rotate rapidly, “BASTARD!”

Her vision blurred as the world around her continued to haphazardly shift, the fans above stilled with trepidation as they watched her strangle her wheel with both hands and wrangle the car back into position.

“Okay, so that’s P5- P5, Piastri, Sainz, Perez and Verstappen in front of you,”

“Copy.” Aisha grumbled darkly, manoeuvring the vehicle so that she could continue to viciously speed down the final lap, murderously defending her position as her stomach finally settled and head stopped pounding with adrenaline.

The race ended with Crofty heartily congratulating her over the commentary,

“And Verstappen has won the Bahrain grand prix! with Checo in P2 and Sainz in the Ferrari in P3. Now the fans have spoken, and new-comer Aisha Patel has been voted driver of the day, rightfully so, securing a solid P5 finish after a challenging battle on the track. it's fantastic to see her scoring valuable points in her debut race. And let's not forget the incredible debut of the Porsche F1 Team! It's clear that they're a force to be reckoned with in the championship.”

A view of Max passing through the finish line is shown, sparks flew behind his car as he speeds through and turned into the parc ferme. Aisha is also shown, her eyes steely from within her helmet and as she stops her car she clambers out of the cockpit and rips of her headgear, a scowl evident on her usually cool face.

She pushes open the gate to the media pen, narrowly avoiding Max, who spared her a dark glance from over his shoulder before turning back to the interviewer.

“Yeah, people make stupid decisions sometimes,” She heard him answer the unintelligible question. Aisha could already feel the anger burn her throat as she whipped her head around and met Max’s eyes, he stared back, an inferno raging within his blue iris’. She opened her mouth to speak but was stopped by her Media manager, pulling her away gently, Aisha followed tearing her eyes away from the Dutchman. Yet, she could still feel his heated gaze on her.

Aisha scoffed passing by Carlos and Checo, who were conversing in fast Spanish, and headed towards the common media area, where eager and ravenous reporters began to clamber on top of one another as they caught sight of her sweaty face and stringy hair.

“Aisha! Aisha!”  They called, loud voices breaking through the microphone and blowing through the audio.

Aisha huffed and went towards the tell-tale white microphone, the sky sports logo sprawled all over the foam cover,

“Hi Aisha, congratulations on the P5 today,” Mark started, holding the microphone out for the visibly annoyed driver.

“Thank you,” She snipped, but blinked a few times before forcing herself to continue, “Y’know could’ve been a P2 finish for Porsche today, but I’m happy with both Pierre and I’s finish, at least we scored some valuable points.” Aisha robotically recounted her PR training.

“Definitely a tough break for you out there,” He nodded solemnly, “Care to walk us through what happened with Checo on lap 43?”

Aisha sucked in a breath, looking behind her where her PR person stood, arms crossed over her Porsche shirt as she shrugged, “Yeah, of course, it’s disappointing end to my race, P2 would probably be a dream, but Checo made a-“ Aisha bit her tongue momentarily, looking into the few dozen camera’s pointed at her, until she noticed Checo’s reflection walking behind her, heading to the cool-down room, “-a dickhead move absolutely dangerous, there was contact because he couldn’t use his eyes, and that caused me to spin out. It’s racing, I know, but you don’t see race winners or legends making moves like that.” Aisha hissed.

Mark stared at her, mouth agape before he recollected himself and forced a flabbergasted laugh, “Well, that’s one way to put it.” The other surrounding reporters were close to drooling at the mouth, their own mics pushed further through the gaps as they imagined the debaucherous headlines they could create from her outburst.

“How were you feeling during that moment?”

“Truthfully?” She tilted her head, “Pissed, but you probably didn’t you marky-moo, my radio probably told you that. But after I managed to regain my original position, I was more determined to just finish the race with a solid end.”

He laughed at that but stilled when Checo emerged once again from the cool-off room, “Checo!” Mark called, oblivious to the thunderous haze that overtook Aisha. She checked behind her shoulder, and her upper lip curled with malice,

“I’ll let Checo say his bit- “She murmured, “Excuse me.” And left the pen, heading towards the Porsche garage whilst avoiding eye-contact with Lucy, her fuming PR manager.

“Hey! Checo!” Aisha called out, throwing down her headphones, leaving her race engineer in concerned confusion as she approached the red bull driver, amid his team, oblivious to the storm about to hit him.

“Oh, hey Aisha-“

“Do not, hey, me.” She snarled, “What the fuck was that on track? Were you trying to kill me back there? You could’ve overtaken me in so many other ways.” Aisha approached him, prompting Checo to take a simultaneous step back, hands raised.

“It’s racing Aisha, I had to make a split-second decision.”

“We all make decisions, Perez,” She snarled, hands balling up into fists, “You don’t see Charles or Carlos or anyone with half a brain doing what you did? You messed up my race!” Aisha’s voice begins to raise, drawing attention of the red bull personnel, since the pair had manged to slowly move up to the entrance of the garage, and prompting a few camera men, who were following around Lando and Oscar to pan over to her.

Aisha groans, smacking her palm against her head a few times as a display of aggression before turning back to a very sweaty, nervous driver, “Never mind my race- you had fucking so many other options, why? Why did you decide to clip my wheel? Is it because being overtaken by a woman was so embarrassing, for red bull’s number two, you couldn’t handle it?” Aisha mocks him, before starting to approach his frozen form, a violent fire burning in her eyes and spreading to her limbs, igniting them with her fury.

Just as there was merely a centimetre between the two, a pair of strong arms hooked themselves around her elbows, holding her hand away from Checo, who had started shouting about his “personal safety”.

“Are you fucking stupid?” A gruff voice whispers into her ear.

Aisha kicks out, a futile attempt to free herself, “Let me go,” She whips her head around, her hair flying,

“Can you stop? I will literally knock you out.” The voice continues, grunting when her foot narrowly misses his groin.

“Fine-“ She huffs, going limp as she shoots daggers into Checo’s retreating back being escorted by a flurry of blue clad workers, “Fine, let me go,” She mumbles.

The man drops her onto the floor instantly, allowing her to stumble over her feet. Aisha finds her footing once more and spins around to meet his eyes, “Max?”

Max stares down at her, his eyes squinted with annoyance, “Who else? You’re in front of the red bull garage.” He rolls his eyes and steps a large stride away from her.

Aisha blinks once. Twice. Before scoffing and crossing her arms, “Yeah. Thanks.” She snarks before walking away from him, leaving the dutchman standing, fuming in his spot. She manages to skip over the McLaren crowd but had attracted almost half a dozen cameras on her, the large intimidating lens’ were pushed into her face haphazardly, narrowly missing her face a few times.

Aisha had to hold herself back from stealing the cameras from their holders and smashing them onto the ground. She could feel a self-depreciating throb begin to build in her head, the memory of all the idyllic children watching her, and those who had felt represented by her made tears prick at her eyes. In that moment, with too many lens’ focussing on her quivering lip, she hoped that they wouldn’t catch the salty sadness that threatened to stream down her face

The post-race interview scene fades away, and a familiar red bull jersey is announced into the scene, the dark blue merging pleasantly with the dark grey background. We’re introduced to Checo’s frame, a placid smile on his face.

“Hi checo,” The interviewer greets the driver, who nods in acknowledgement, “Well, Bahrain was an intense time for you, especially the on track accident with Aisha, would you care to talk us through the whole thing?”

Checo clears his throat briefly, “Yeah, uhm, it was a tight battle with her, and she was holding her ground y’know, but I saw an opportunity to make a move and I took it.” He shrugged once, reverting his gaze away from the camera, “And, as an unfortunate by product, she ended up spinning out, but it’s racing, these things happen.”

“I think everyone knows that she seemed quite upset about the incident, did you have a chance to speak with her afterwards?”

“uhm, people say things when they’re angry, and Aisha was frustrated but I’m here to win races, that’s what I’ve been hired to do. Once again, it was a choice that I had to make, and it’s hard to consider everyone’s emotions while I do it.”

“Max, we recently interviewed Checo, and he had some…words to say about the situation in Bahrain, specifically with Aisha after the race. Now, we saw that you had intervened just in time, what was going on during that moment?”

Max shifted in his chair, slipping down slightly, and crossing his arms over his chest, “Yeah, I could see that the situation was escalating, with Aisha getting increasingly angry, it would’ve ended pretty badly.”

“You sound so sure about that.”

“Trust me, I know anger when I see it, and I know that races can get heated especially when avoidable occurrences aren’t avoided, but I also think that emotional regulation is crucial to compete.” He distractedly runs a thumb over his bottom lip.

“Does this change your initial views on Aisha entering the sport? Since you were pretty, pessimistic.” The interviewer cringes just as the words escape their mouth.

“I wouldn’t say I was pessimistic,” He quickly rejects, “But I think she had something to prove, just like any of us, she isn’t exempt from it. And she, raced like any of us would’ve in the moment, so do I suddenly think of her as a saint? No, but do I think that she’s building up to something? Maybe.”

“Aisha!” A voice calls from behind her, Aisha smiles at the fans who had offered her a notebook to sign, she watched them walk away before responding,

“Yeah?” She tucks away her pen into the silver, Porsche gym bag that hung from her shoulder.

Lando jogs up to her, tapping his card against the scanner before pushing through the gate and reaching her side, “Great race, you handled it...well…” He trailed off, unsure of how to spin off his compliment.

Aisha laughs at that, throwing her head back, ”It’s okay Lando, you don’t have to say anything” She tugs at the sleaves of her tight black jacket, the hugo boss label stretched over her chest as she pulled at the fabric, “I- I can get pretty mad,” Aisha shrugs, kicking an imaginary pebble with her shoe, rustling her oversized tracksuit bottoms, the three parallel lines on both her legs fluttered with the airy clothing.

“Yeah, that probably didn’t go down to well on camera,” He itches the back of his head, “I actually came to ask if you’re staying at the same hotel as the rest of us, Oscar took my car and I’m stranded.”

“Lando…” She sighs, adjusting the strap of her bag, “If you wanted to ride in my Porsche, you could’ve just said so.” Aisha gestured to her silvery 918 Spyder, the high-end sports car shimmered beneath the spotlights of the private car park.

Lando hissed through his teeth and grinned, “You caught me.” He held his hands up, “It’s the only way I can be photographed in the car without causing an uproar.”

Aisha tilted her head at him, “Oh, so nothing else is convincing you?”

“Hmmm, that, and maybe the very beautiful and scary woman who drives it?” Lando offered, holding out his hand for her to take.

She looked down at his open palm before searching the area around them, the rest of the grid had departed long before, leaving just her car and another in the parking. Aisha squinted her eyes at the remaining automobile, a Honda NSX, the only owner being none other than a certain grumpy blonde, who was more focussed on his back seat than on the couple who still stood in the middle of the concrete.

Accepting his hand, she revelled in the feeling of her fingers intertwined with his, soft skin against coarse knuckles, a warm aura enveloped her being as she guided them towards her car, pulling out the flat fob to click open the expensive machine.

Yet, as she watched Lando retreat into the passenger’s seat with an amazed, “oh damn.” and went to unlock the trunk to slip her duffel bag into, she felt an icy gaze glued to her back.

Aisha turned once behind her to where Max was sitting in his driver’s seat, eyes glued at first on Lando, an unrecognisable expression painted on his face before he slowly slid it up to her face, and his once oddly neutral gaze turned into an annoyed squint.

With that, the dutchman tore his eyes away from a now, slightly agitated Aisha, towards the open road and pulled out of the car park, speeding away to what she assumed would be the hotel.

“Hey,” Lando leaned over the dash, reaching for her hand that rested on the headrest of her seat, the other braced on her car door as she watched the retreating Honda, “You okay?”

Aisha jumped out of her disturbed haze, and back to where Lando was now rubbing his fingers over hers that had tensed enough to turn her milky brown skin into a pale white, “Yeah- I’m fine, just checking for reporters.”

“I’m that embarrassing?” He teased, watching her intently as she fastened her seatbelt and smiled at the sound of the purring super engine.

Aisha snorts, “No- not at all, just making sure that McLaren’s golden boy isn’t photographed inside a Porsche- with the grid’s certified crazy woman.” She pressed on the gas.

“Yeah, but…what if I want that?”

“What?” Aisha’s eyebrows knitted together; eyes still glued to the unfamiliar roads ahead as the GPS stopped squawking at her for a brief moment.

“I don’t care if you’re the crazy woman…You’re just, you. I don’t care about the rest.” Lando smiled lazily, his eyes studying her quickly flustered face.

“You’re a horrible flirt Norris.” She grumbled.

[magicalbats]

Kinktober 2024 Day 4: Sampo x Reader

Rating: R-18+

Word Count: 7082

Warnings: afab!reader, Silvermane Guard reader, size difference, age difference, handcuffs, cunnilingus, cumming untouched, cum in pants 🤭 dubcon, piv, mentioned stomach distention

A/N: So I'll fully admit that part of what went into this was me being petty lol ofc I was excited to write for Sampo again anyway, but I got a comment on the first fic I did for him that accused the reader of being underage. When she most certainly was not. If that was the angle I was going for, trust me, you'd know about it. So I played up the size difference big time in this one and made our reader a sweet little virgin for him to take advantage of 🤭

⭐

It’s not every day that Sampo Koski finds himself on the sharp end of a Silvermane Guard’s short sword and for that he has to give you credit. 

The fact you’d managed to track him down at all, let alone way out at the far edge of the old abandoned city is impressive enough on its own. Not many could have accomplished even that much. But to then face him by yourself rather than calling for backup? 

Well, it looked to him like you were just chomping at the bit to sink your teeth into some trouble. 

“I’ve got you cornered now, you crook. Make any sudden movements and I’ll run you through. You’re under arrest.” 

That was all well and good, but as he looks down the length of your very pointy sword he understands why it's not one of the standard issue halberds you’ve got pointed at his face. You were tiny in comparison to him and hardly the sort of girl he’d call intimidating. He could probably take you, sword or no sword. In fact he’s sure he can, considering he must’ve had at least a hundred pounds on you easy, and yet … the clear glint of challenge in your eyes makes him reconsider that choice. Although he’d come out on top eventually that didn’t mean he wouldn’t suffer a few puncture wounds for it along the way and he isn’t quite convinced he can afford that price. Getting into a tussle with you probably wasn’t worth it. 

Feigning defeat, he lets out a heavy, long suffering sigh and slowly lets go of the bag full of smoke bombs sitting on top of the rickety old table. Just as any good con man knows when to quit while he’s ahead, Sampo recognized that now was the right time to throw in the towel. He could always figure something out further down the road, after you’d put your little sword safely away.

And besides. You did strike him as someone who might be fun to play with for a while. 

So he harmlessly lifts his hands up in what should have been the universal gesture of surrender but you jolt as if he’d just reached for a loaded gun. The blade aggressively bobs with the involuntary flex of muscle and nearly takes off the end of his nose, surprising an undignified squawk out of him. A bit on edge, yeesh. 

“Alright, alright. Let’s just calm down and take a few deep breaths, okay? You could really hurt someone waving that thing around like that!” 

“Be quiet!” You hiss up at him. 

Keeping your weapon leveled at the center of his face, you take a step forward as if to close the distance but he’s quick to scuttle back a pace. It’s not like he really had much of a choice, your eyes flashing dangerously as you follow after him. 

“Do not even think about trying to escape, you damned nuisance. In the name of the Amber Lord and under order of the Supreme Guardian, I’m taking you into custody.” 

“Sure thing, missy. I hear ya’ loud and clear!” He says, trying to laugh it off even as he dances back on his toes to keep at a safe distance. If he just maintained his cool long enough you’d eventually let your guard down. Probably. “But you’re not going to have anyone to arrest if you poke me full of holes! Say, here’s an idea. How about you put that oversized butter knife away and then we’ll talk this out, hm?” 

“As if I have anything to say to the likes of you.” 

“Oooh, come on. Don’t be like that.” His hapless chuckling abruptly cuts off with a not entirely feigned gulp when he backs all the way up into the wall. With nowhere else to go, Sampo can only tip his head back with a dull thump against the aged and decaying wood when you bring the end of your sword so close that he almost goes cross eyed trying to track its movement.  

Sure, he’d admit you were good and evidently not the sort of person who would make the mistake of underestimating a much bigger opponent just because you had him at sword point but that didn’t mean you wouldn’t slip up eventually. He just needed to bide his time, pick his cards right and do what he always does best. 

Playing the fool. 

“Okay, look! I’m ever so sorry for whatever crime you think I may have committed to make you come after me like this,” He croons in his most convincing, well practiced tone of solicitation. “But I’m sure this is all just one big misunderstanding. If you’d just give me a chance to explain myself I think we’ll get this sorted out in no time and then we can both be on our merry ways. Come on! That only sounds fair, doesn’t it?” 

Eyes narrowing up at him, you haughtily lift your chin as if in outright defiance of his entreatment. “You are not entitled to fairness after all the scams and cons you’ve pulled on other people, you blue demon. I’m afraid I have no pity to spare for you this time.” 

“I can see that.” Sorely grumbling under his breath, Sampo drops his attention down and to the side to fix on a seemingly random spot on the floor. He can see you shifting slightly at his peripheral, restless and maybe just a little nervous now that you were face to face with the supposed scourge of Belobog. Although it was obvious you were well trained you were still just a bit too naive and trusting if you were really going to fall for that old trick. 

“As long as you cooperate and don’t make this any harder than it needs to be,” You intone, indeed reading his body language as that of defeat. “Things will be much easier for you in the long run. I’ve got you cornered with nowhere to go. Just give up and come peacefully.” 

Slowly taking one of your hands off the hilt, you reach back with a careful motion for something in your supplies pack. He has a few guesses what it might be, of course, but you don’t quite make it that far. Sampo spots his chance when the backward stretch of your arm pulls your gravity off center just so to make you redistribute your weight more on the left leg than the right. It’s slight enough to be almost imperceptible to the average man but average man Sampo Koski is not. 

His arm snaps up to grab at your outstretched wrist like a striking serpent, your eyes going big and round when he redirects your sword away from him with a smoothly controlled jerk. Your reaction time is quick though and you start to bring your other hand back around to restore your grip. The following rush of motion happens so fast that most of it is just adrenaline fueled muscle memory on his part. 

Blindly reaching for you with his opposite hand, Sampo pushes off from the wall so he can use his greater size to spin you, effectively trading places. He shoves you back with a bit more force than he’d intended to and the resulting thump makes the old rafters rattle in protest. The impact seems to force all the air from your lungs, momentarily stunning you, and he takes quick advantage of that opportunity to snag your other wrist so he can slam it back against the groaning wall. At the same time, he presses into you with his weight to fully pin you there and stop you from struggling, effectively trapping you in place. 

It’s over in an instant. 

Letting out a faintly shuddering breath, Sampo tips his chin down to look at your face. Glaring right back at him, you visibly gnash your teeth and try to push back on his hold with your sword hand but it’s no use. Not only is he bigger and stronger than you, but he’s heavier too. Just as he’d expected then. You were a bit too undersized to take him on. 

“Guess you should have called for backup, eh?” He teases you, letting his mouth curl into a sleazy grin that just seems to further grate on your nerves, given the way you make a wild attempt to thrash yourself free. 

In truth he finds it rather cute for all of five seconds until your desperate twisting brings one of your knees up a little too close to his crotch. His smile drops immediately, and he quickly wedges his thigh into the space between your legs to further limit your range of movement. Couldn’t have you incapacitating him that easily, now could he? 

And the sharp gasp you pull in at the nudge delights him to no end, especially when you go stockstill between him and the wall. The startled look on your face is priceless and he can’t quite stop himself from cooing at you as he dips his head down to get a better view. Such a pretty thing for a Silvermane. It seemed a real shame that you were wasting all your time and energy putting yourself in danger for nothing more than a few cheap medals of honor. Perhaps he could change that though. 

“Now, now. There’s no need for all this nonsense, is there? If you’d wanted a piece of ol’ Sampo Koski so bad, all you needed to do was ask. I’m not so cruel and cold hearted to deny a cute little thing like you.” 

Even through two layers of clothes, both his and yours, he can feel the vague sensation of your pussy squeezing against his thigh. It makes his cock twitch in fast growing interest as he wonders what your cunt must look like, what it tastes like. And although it’s hard to tell through the uniform, he suspected your tits were big and juicy too, given the way they heavily shift under your clothes when you give a weak jerk against his hold. Oh, but he couldn’t wait to help himself to you. 

First though … “Why don’t you go ahead and drop that sword for me, sweetheart? Hm? Be a dear, won’t you?” 

“Bastard - -!” 

Obviously you weren’t going to willingly give up the fight anytime soon, so he makes careful work of readjusting his hold on your wrist. Sampo’s hand greatly dwarves yours just as the rest of him does and it’s easy for him to twist it at just the right angle to make your fingers go lax. With a wordless cry from you, the blade noisily clatters to the ground which he quickly uses his other foot to kick away. Reluctantly going still, you shoot him a wary, guarded look that brings the smile back to his face. 

“There. That’s much better, isn’t it? Now if you’ll just relax a little bit we can - -“

His grip on you barely eases up for a second and you’re yanking your hand free with a violent lurch to smack him right across the face. The hit itself does more to surprise him than any pain that might come with it, and his head jerks to the side with a dramatic ‘oof!’  

So impressed by your gumption, he doesn’t immediately react so you have enough time to twist in his hold and slam your boot into the back of his knee. He crumples just like that, hitting the ground at your feet, but you’re quick to follow him down. 

Throwing yourself across his back, you frantically grab at his arms to yank on them and he’s so bemused by the whole thing that he just lets it happen. It takes a great deal of effort on his part not to outright laugh when he was getting such a kick out of this, instead playing along with a series of lilting grunts and ‘ow, ow, ow’s that he hopes are sufficiently convincing. What an interesting woman who would choose to wrestle with a man double her size after she’d already been unarmed. He couldn’t wait to see what you’d do next. 

Panting heavily, you at last manage to get his arms wrenched behind him and you dig your knee into his spine to force Sampo all the way down on the dirty floor. He can hear you fumbling with your pack as much as he feels it when you’re sitting on top of him, but this he just lets happen as well. 

And with a sudden, triumphant exclamation of victory, you viciously snap a set of handcuffs around his wrists to secure them in place. 

As you start to ease off him with a shuddering sigh of relief, he gives his fingers an experimental wriggle to flex his arms and test the give. Nice and tight. Ah well. It wasn’t the first or last time he was going to find himself in this predicament. 

“There. I’ve got you now.” You wheeze, gingerly climbing to your feet to stand over him. Moving forward, you reach down to fist your hands in his shirt and roughly yank him up. He almost decides to give you a hard time about it but you’re doing such a good job that he doesn’t quite have the heart to make this any harder for you, so he helpfully gets one of his long legs under him so he can push himself to sit upright on the floor. 

Craning his neck back, Sampo looks up at you with a sly Cheshire Cat grin although it evidently is not the kind of expression you’d been hoping for after all that. With a bothered hiss between your teeth, you bend down to shove at his broad shoulders and force him back against the wall before straightening again. 

You’re still trying to catch your breath when you take a step back to survey your handiwork. Taking advantage of his first opportunity to do so, he appreciatively drags his attention over your vibrating body to take note of everything and commit it all to memory. The Silvermane uniforms were not designed for women, hence why so many altered theirs to better suit their needs and mobility, but you’d left yours almost completely unchanged. It was hard to get a good idea of the figure you were hiding underneath all the layers, but he was confident it would be good. His intuition rarely ever steered him wrong on such matters. 

“So,” He says at last, keeping his tone friendly and conversational. “You’ve caught me. Congratulations. What are you going to do now?” 

Shooting him a wary look, you bring a gloved hand up to wipe a bead of sweat off your cheek where it had started to run down. “What do you mean? I’m taking you back to Belobog and throwing you in jail where you belong. I’d think that should be obvious by now.” 

“Eh, sure. You could do that, and I’ll even admit it would be the logical thing to do. But don’t you think there’s something else you could do instead? A far more fun and exciting secret option that I can see you haven’t thought of yet.” 

Brows knitting in genuine confusion, you look down at him like he’s just sprouted a second head. “Have you gone mad? I have no idea what you’re trying to say, you big oaf.” 

Allowing his grin to take on a sharper, more pointed edge, Sampo gives his shoulders a meaningful shrug as he tips his head to one side. “Ooh, are you really that naive or are you just pretending not to know what kind of position I’m in right now? Well, I’ll tell you something, little miss Silvermane Guard. You can’t fool me. I know good and well how you reacted when I had you pinned you up against the wall a moment ago and now I’m completely at your mercy. So why don’t you just help yourself? I won’t even put up a fight, promise.” 

He throws you a saucy wink, and you immediately choke on a sharp intake of air as you reel back. Honestly he’d think it a bit dramatic if it weren’t for the way your expression darkens with unmistakable fluster and embarrassment, clueing him in that you weren’t simply playing up the innocent maiden schtick to keep your pride. 

And his brows take a very expeditious trip up to his hairline with that realization. “Don’t tell me … you really hadn’t thought about it? Oh me, oh my, could it be you’re actually a virgin standing before me in the flesh? You poor thing.” 

“O - of course not, you fiend! How dare you speak to me like this!” 

“But if that’s true then … surely you must not have any problem making a wager with me, hm? I mean, if you’re so experienced and knowledgeable in the ways of the adult world there’s no way I’d win, right?” 

His smirk grows when your eyes widen to the approximate size of dinner plates, just staring down at him like a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming vehicle. Oh, but this was too rich. You’re doing a horrible job of pretending like you were at all comfortable with the direction this has gone and he can see his window to strike gradually revealing itself. You would have been easy enough to sucker in just about any other situation, especially for someone of his caliber, but like this? When he already had you so rattled and disoriented? This was going to be like taking candy from a baby. 

“I can see I have your attention.” He goes on, speaking in a slow, confident drawl now. “How about it then? I’ll even give you the advantage by promising to only use my mouth. No hands or — other extremities, just to keep it fair.” 

You look like you just might faint dead away as you surreptitiously glance down at his lap before snapping your attention back up with a wordless cry. “W - what are you even talking about? Why do you think I’m going to strike a deal with a criminal like you, Sampo Koski?” 

“Ah, so you do remember my name.” He graciously inclines his chin, every bit the performer at home on his stage even for an audience of one. “And I know you’re going to strike a deal with me because I can tell just how hot and bothered you’re getting from over here. You haven’t been able to stop thinking about your pussy since I pinned you to the wall, have you? Yeah, thought so. Alright. Here’s the deal, sweetheart. Give me five minutes, that’s all I ask. Just give me a chance to rock your world and if I can't make you scream for me in that time you win. I’ll go along peacefully with you back to Belobog. You won’t even hear another peep out of me the whole way, scouts honor.” 

“Wha … and if you win?” 

“Then you’ll take these handcuffs off and let me use my hands for a little while.” 

Squeaking shyly at the salacious waggle of his brows, you quickly turn away from him to look elsewhere. He watches you fidget and squirm for a drawn out moment, clearly wracked by indecision while he patiently waits to find out what you’ll choose. It was a bit of a gamble, sure, but he was no stranger to low odds bets and he was relatively confident you’d take the bait. After all, carting him all the way back to Belobog by yourself would be no easy task. 

And just as he’d expected, the promise of having a willing captive eventually wins out against your common sense and you slowly turn back around towards him. Your eyes stay downcast, preferring to look at the floor rather than at him, but that doesn’t particularly bother him much. 

Especially not when you bring your hands forward to hover at about waist level, uncertainty and nerves making you hesitate. 

“Should I just …” 

Breathing out a terse sigh through his nose, Sampo bumps his head back to rest against the wall with a knowing smirk. “That’s right. Slide your pants down and come here.” 

You look like you’re going to back out after all for the stretch of a single heartbeat but then you seem to hastily gather your resolve, mouth settling into a firm line when you reach down to fumble with the front of your slacks. The pristine white fabric slouches around your hips as soon as you get them unfastened but you stubbornly keep them held up while you shuffle forward to stand before him. 

Still smiling, Sampo inquisitively cocks his head to one side and you glare at him as if in warning before at last shoving your pants down to pool around the boots they’re tucked into. Your panties quickly follow suit to leave you bare from the waist down and nervously fussing with the bottom hem of your uniform jacket which you tug at to cover yourself. It’s plainly obvious that you’re a mess of nerves, not at all comfortable with being even partially naked in front of another like you’d wanted him to believe, but that was all right. He’d fix that soon enough. 

“Closer.” He murmurs, coaxing you with a grin. “I can’t reach you like this. No hands, remember?” 

You suck in a rough breath and hold it in your chest for a harrowing moment. 

Abruptly squeezing your eyes shut, you yank the front of your jacket up and shuffle into the space between his bent knees to offer your cunt to him. And Sampo immediately feels his mouth start to water when he gets his first good look at you just a hair's breadth from his face. 

The curls framing your pussy look soft and ticklish, a perfect place to lose himself in, and your inner thighs are soft with a welcoming pudge that begs to be squeezed. He’d have to save that for later though, and he gives his lips a quick swipe with his tongue before leaning up to dip his mouth close. 

“Such a pretty girl,” He says, low and husky, to make sure you can feel his breath wafting against your skin before he actually touches you. “I don’t understand how you’ve possibly gone this long without having anyone eat you out but it’s okay. I’m here to remedy that for you. Just relax for me, alright?” 

At your flustered little whimper, assuring him you were doing everything but relaxing, Sampo places a lingering kiss to the curls that pad your cunt. He takes his time with it as he slowly works his way down to the apex of your mound where the fleshy seam starts and he gets his first taste of you with a quick flick of his tongue. You jolt as if he’d just electrocuted you via static shock, swaying on your feet. But you stay right where you are, which he had to give you props for, merely squeezing your thighs as if to shut him out. 

Tipping his head at an angle, he presses up into the tight, hot space to startle a mouse squeak out of you. The insistent nudge of his mouth forces you to adjust your footing for balance and you reluctantly shuffle into a wider stance as he buries his face in you. His olfactory senses are immediately overwhelmed with the smell of your cunt, your taste where it settles on the back of his tongue. Slightly bitter and salty, and yet so incredibly flavored with sweet notes of arousal that he was sure to remember it for as long as he might live. 

His cock eagerly flexes in his pants to push up at the zipper as if trying to escape on its own accord while he continues to nuzzle into you, kissing and licking at fleshy lips to part them. Each lap of his tongue brings a fresh taste of you with it and he quickly realizes just how wet you really are as he worms his way into the slick crease of your body. It was clear he excited you way more than you were willing to let on and that pleases him a great deal. No wonder he’d been able to feel your pussy clenching on his thigh if this was how sensitive you were. 

“Oohh, that’s - -!” You cut off with a flustered gasp when his tongue at last nudges your clit, a barely there, featherlight caress, but still more than enough to make you judder for him. How cute. He wasn’t even going to need five minutes at this rate. 

Grinning into your cunt, Sampo undulates his wet tongue up to massage over that tender little button just gently enough to let you acclimate to the sensation. The last thing he wanted was to scare you off by going in too hard too fast but, to his continued delight, you warm up to it quickly enough. He can feel the shift in your body language when you start to relax into it, shyly jutting your hips out to better offer your pussy to his mouth. And you just keep getting stickier and stickier for him, saliva mixing with slippery arousal to leave your slit a mess with the viscous gossamar. 

He can barely contain his own excitement when he at last starts to lick you in earnest, flicking his tongue up to swipe through fleshy creases and folds, bumping against your swollen clit head on. You beautifully jerk in response, hands fisting the bottom of your jacket into a wrinkled mess until you at last give in to the urge to reach for him. 

Your fingers feel heavenly in his hair as you grab onto his head, even when they fiercely shake because of what he’s doing to you. Whining low in your throat, you again start to fidget and twist your pelvis as if to escape the onslaught of his attention and yet … you don’t actually move to pull away nor do you shove at him. You just stand there and take it while Sampo batters your poor little clit back and forth before finally sealing his lips around you to suckle. 

That seems to make your knees almost give out, and you mewl a sensitive sound into the otherwise still and silent building when you weakly rock against him, clutching his hair so tight he thinks you might actually pull it out. Oh well, though. It would be well worth it once he won this little wager and got to put his hands on you. 

“Oh! Nnghnn … gods, that’s …”

He suddenly pulls his head back with a loud, wet, obnoxious smack of his lips. 

Chuckling softly under his breath at your frazzled whine, Sampo tips his head back to look up at you again. “Amazing? Wonderful? The best gosh darn feeling you’ve ever experienced? Well, little miss Silvermane Guard, are you still feeling so confident now?” 

You shoot him a deeply embarrassed look accompanied with a soft, helpless whimper that rushes straight to his cock. It was clear enough that you didn’t know how to fully process any of this and you weren’t confident enough to take the lead either, to use him for your own pleasure like he so wished you would, but that was alright. He was keen to teach you a thing or two before this bet was finished. 

“Do me a favor,” He husks, spreading his legs wider out across the floor to lessen some of the uncomfortable strain in his pants. “Turn around and back up on me. Hey, don’t look at me like that! It’s not so strange a request, is it? It’ll still feel good, I promise.” 

“B - but that’s - -“ 

“A great idea, of course!” He cuts you off with a playful wink. “Just trust me. You won’t regret it.” 

War wages across your face for a drawn out moment while you try to parse through this no doubt confusing situation. It’s a difficult thing to do though when your pussy was coated in slick and sticky saliva, begging for more attention that he wasn’t going to give you until you either complied or made him. 

He would have been perfectly happy with the latter, truth be told, but ultimately the former wins out. You were just needy enough not to let common sense cloud your judgment and you stiffly disengage from him so you can shuffle back half a step. 

Hands reaching down to hike up the back of your jacket as you spin around, showing off your (frankly amazing) ass, you nervously glance over your shoulder at him for further instruction. “Like this?” 

“Yeah, that’s right. Now back up, and don’t be shy about it. Pretend like you’re going to sit on my face, mmkay’?” 

You give him an exceedingly strange look before clearly deciding it wasn’t worth it to question him any further. He could see the flustered resignation in your expression even from where he was sitting, and he draws an anticipatory breath to brace himself when you finally start to nudge back on him. 

If he’d had the use of his hands he would have been happy to yank you down and hold you in place no matter how much you squirmed and whined about it, but. Well. We can’t have everything we want in life, now can we? 

Instead he has to make do with watching you slowly inch back towards him, stiff and halting even as his cock restlessly flexes inside his slacks. Unable to take the waiting any longer when you still hesitate at the last moment, he leans forward to meet you halfway and he shoves his face tight into the cradle between your legs, eliciting a startled squeak of surprise from you. 

But then he opens his mouth wide, dragging his tongue from the starting dimple of your slit all the way up to your entrance where he teases you with the suggestion of penetrating you with it, and you seem to completely forget your initial reticence all at once.

Choking on a half formed moan, you blindly push back on him as you arch your back to better settle your cunt against his mouth and receive his attention. The force of it shoves his head back against the wall with a dull thud, making him groan a heavy sound into you, but it’s not near enough to deter him. Neither is the way you effectively cut off his air supply like this, making it almost impossible for him to breathe save whatever little bit he can pull in from his mouth. If anything it just fuels his own excitement to even greater heights as he hungrily laps at you now, swirling his tongue round and round your clit to leave you uncontrollably twitching against him. 

And as the seconds continue to tick by in this fashion you become increasingly more fidgety and antsy until you’re all but writhing on his face with stiff, unpracticed swivels of your hips. It smears your cunt across his nose and mouth in the process, the rush that comes with it shooting straight down to his throbbing cock where it pitifully strains against the zipper, in need of a good tug or two. It probably wouldn’t have taken a whole lot to have him shooting hot ropes everywhere and he once again finds himself sorely wishing he had his hands. 

But his inability to touch himself just seems to make it ache all the worse while, conversely, you appear to be enjoying yourself quite a bit despite the dire tinge in your stretched thin voice. Sampo can tell you don’t know what to do, how to make any sense of what’s happening to your body, and it just spurs him on to attack your defenseless clit with even greater ferocity. 

Burn everything, he couldn’t even recall the last time he’d been this hard. 

And then you say it. 

A breathless, tiny little, “M - Mister Sampo!”

That’s all it takes to make him cum, his hips stiffly rolling against the floor while he creams all over the inside of his underwear. He can hardly breathe through it, grunting a masculine sound into your cunt while the sensation of his fast cooling load bleeds into the front of his pants. In truth he’s so lost in the surge of fast pumping endorphins and potent adrenaline that it takes him a prolonged beat to realize that you’re cumming too. 

Crying out in pleasure, you shake and judder through your release far longer than he does, sucking in one frantic breath after another while you sensitively squeal his name for the whole building to hear. If this had been anywhere other than the old city the two of you probably would have had a couple of good Samaritan’s running to check what was going on to make a woman cry out like that and he’d quickly find himself on the sharp end of another Silvermane weapon. 

But luckily you are in the old city, not Belobog, and he slouches back against the wall with a heaving groan when you finally pry yourself away from him, still twitching with the lingering remnants of your orgasm. He only needs to take one look at you, legs trembling like a newborn foal while you try to orient yourself, and he knows what he needs to do. 

Recovering much quicker than you do, Sampo leans forward even when it just makes his underwear give a wet squish at the change in position and flexes his arms to test the full range of motion allotted to him by the cuffs. They don’t even budge but that wasn’t a problem. He has enough room to flick his hand up and out, summoning a small blade of wind to slice clean through the metal chain connecting the two links with a barely audible rattle. 

He quickly brings his hands around and reaches for you, grabbing onto your hips before you can react or even realize what’s happening. Completely ignoring your squawk of surprise, he yanks you down into his lap to sit on his still achingly rigid cock and he curls himself over you, chuckling softly at the way you gape up at him in barefaced shock. 

“W - w - wha —“ 

“Oh, did I forget to tell you? You’ll need something a bit stronger than that if you want to keep me locked up. Surprised?” 

Keeping one arm secured around your middle, he reaches down with the other to splay his fingers across your rapidly flexing stomach and then drags it lower to dip between your legs. You gasp and twist in his hold, uselessly smacking at whatever part of him you can manage to reach, but it’s all an effort in futility. He already had you trapped in his clutches despite all the squirming, and his gloved finger takes a casual swipe through the creases of your messy cunt to make you jolt. 

“Well, well, would you look at that. I’d say I won our little bet, wouldn’t you? That means I get to put my hands all over you and … other things too, isn’t that right?” 

“Wait! You can’t - - nnghn!” 

Tossing your head back when he finds your sopping wet entrance and pushes one finger inside to feel the stretch, you seethe up at the ceiling. He’s acutely aware of your body trying to reject it and keep him out, but you were much too slippery to stop him even when your thighs valiantly squeeze shut around his hand. 

“That’s a tight fit.” He murmurs, perfectly offhand while he makes casual work of slowly thrusting his digit in and out of you. Your pussy softly clicks with the motion, so wet for him that the smooth material of his glove slides easily through your constricting passage. The only response he gets is a sharp, overwrought hiss while you halfheartedly try to shove at his arm. 

It was likely too soon after your orgasm when the nerves were still vibrating and tender, so he decides to take pity on you at least for the moment. Carefully withdrawing his hand from between your legs, he instead reaches up to yank at all the buttons and latches on your jacket to get that undone too. He couldn’t wait to see those tits for himself, and not even all your fitful writhing was enough to deter him from it. 

You harp at him the whole time of course but Sampo just coos at you to relax while he fumbles to get the inner thermal shirt yanked up around your neck. With his chin tucked over your shoulder he has the perfect vantage point to look down at the soft white bra that holds your breasts in place and he takes a moment to indulgently squeeze at them through the material, kneading the flesh until you finally relent with a harried moan. 

Only then does he hook his finger into the band and tug it down. Realizing what he’s doing, you make a desperate attempt to swat his hand away but the moment your tits spill out into the air you violently shudder so hard it seems to temporarily immobilize you. Punchdrunk and dazed, you reluctantly allow your head to loll back against his shoulder as he sets his sights on the stiff, pebbled peaks of your nipples. 

“What do you know, Sampo Koski’s intuition is always right it seems.” He murmurs, quite pleased with himself as he tweaks one of the buds to leave you moaning in his lap. “I had a feeling these were going to be nice and juicy. Are you sure no one’s ever played with these before? You look like you’re enjoying this …” 

You give a weak, faltering little mewl in response, tense fingers digging into his forearm where you’re clutching onto him for dear life. Chuckling a husky sound into your neck, he nuzzles against you to kiss and nip at the vulnerable skin there before slowly working his way up. Still idly toying with your nipples, pinching and pulling at them, he brushes his mouth across your cheek to finally claim those kissable lips for himself. 

And you let him do it, groaning hotly into his mouth while he kisses you deeply and lays total claim on your person. There isn’t an inch of you that he won’t have touched by the time he was done, and the knowledge that he was undeniably going to be your first fills him with a sick sense of pride. The signs were all there, even if he did tease you contrarily. And oh, how he was going to wreck you for any other man. It would always be him who you thought of, comparing everyone else to the so-called crook who so expertly turned your own body against you on the floor of an abandoned building in the old city, and wasn’t that just the greatest punchline of all? 

“Are you gonna’ be good for me?” He says at last when he carefully reaches under you to unfasten his pants, lips brushing yours as he speaks. “Gonna’ let this dirty old man have his way with you, right here, right now? Just like this? Hm?” 

Lost in the stupor of your arousal, you blithely nod for him even as a brief flash of uncertainty crosses your face. It seemed that some part of you understood his intention, the full brunt of the implication of what he was about to do to you, but you were too far gone to stop it and it was already much too late. Sampo has his cock fished out and he pauses only long enough to give it a perfunctory tug, smearing his own spend over the length of it to help lubricate the way. 

Angling it up, he blindly nudges through your soaked cunt until he feels the dip of your entrance, so wet and creamy against his tender glans it makes him suck in a slow breath. You go ramrod stiff in his hold, lurching forward as much as you can with his forearm still locked around your middle while your hands frantically ball into his jacket sleeves. There was no escaping it though, not in the wholly defenseless position he’s got you in, and you wordlessly cry out when he starts to push up. 

A rattling breath puffs out of him as your pussy slowly spreads open around him, granting him entry to your body. The overwhelming heat of you accompanied by the too tight squeeze makes him glad for his first orgasm, premature though it may have been, because he isn’t so sure he could have held it back otherwise. Your guts are alive around him as he gradually sinks deeper and deeper into you, aided by the help of gravity. Vulnerably curled up on his lap like this, the only thing you can do is take it. 

And you do take him, beautifully in fact. Every inch of his cock gradually slides into the tight embrace of your inner sleeve until he at last settles against the end of you with nowhere else to go. You wail a pitiful sound at the pressure that pushes in on your organs and choke on a tiny little sob as your trapped legs futilely kick at the air. It wouldn’t have helped much even if your pants weren’t tangled around them though, not when Sampo already had you fully impaled on him. 

That'd been the deal, right? 

Well, maybe it hadn’t been stated out right but that should teach you not to make deals with shady businessmen or Fool’s. 

Rumbling a low sound of pleasure as he slides his hand around, caressing over the faint bulge created by his cock through your lower stomach, Sampo nuzzles at your face again to get your attention. He wanted to make sure you weren’t drifting off to la-la land on him, and when you tip your head to blearily glance up at him with a deep felt shudder, he allows himself a sly smile. 

“Let me hear you scream my name again, pretty girl.” He purrs, narrow hips bracing to angle out of you so he can slam back in. “And don’t forget the ‘mister’ either. I think I rather liked how that sounded.”

⭐

Crossposted: here

[frvnkcastles]

May I have something where it dort of explores past sh? Where the reader is cutting mango or avocado I the palm of her hand and cuts through the shin into her hand and she just stands there for ages just staring as she's bleeding weighing up how much she can get away with on accident without frank bringing in Matt the Human Lie Detector, and she goes in for a second swipe when frank comes back from the shower and she tries playing it off like she just cut her hand and hea right up in there wanting to help but he notices the partal deeper in the top end so its been done over again? Right over the crease over her palm fluff and comfort please?

THE WAY I HELD YOUR HAND ➵ F. CASTLE

Summary: You give in to the urges and Frank helps you with the aftermath.

Warnings: SELF-HARM, hurt/comfort, feminine nicknames, language

Word count: 1.2k

Author’s note: This is a heavy one, so read with caution (or skip entirely if you feel like it might be too much!) I’m sending you so much love anon, I know from experience what a struggle it can be to stay sober but I believe in you! Stay strong, you deserve to heal <3

With Frank’s support, you had managed to abstain from harming yourself for a while now. He gave all the credit to you — he was just along for the ride, and you were the one who did all the work. Nevertheless, he had been a massive comfort, always distracting you when you felt the urge and encouraging you to try again if you fell back into the cycle. You wanted to get rid of the habit of hurting yourself, anyway, but he gave you extra motivation to do it, as you really wanted to prove to him that you could do it and make him proud in the process. Of course, he was proud of you no matter what, but whatever it took to give you the boost you needed, he was okay with.

So, with him constantly by your side, you started to unlearn the knee-jerk reaction of hurting yourself and grow out of it. It had been a long while since you had succumbed to the compulsion, and you didn’t think you would lose yourself to it anytime soon.

That was why you were surprised yourself with how quickly you changed your mind. It had been a long, tiring day and maybe that explained your struggle to slice through the mango you had grabbed in the need of a snack — either way, the knife slipped and in the blink of an eye, you had cut your palm open. Blood began seeping out and you froze on the spot, unable to move or react in any way.

You stood there, staring at the wound that painted your skin redder by the second. You dropped the mango on the kitchen counter and swallowed hard, your thoughts laser-focused on what had been an accident but suddenly felt so fateful. Instead of trying to stifle the bleeding, your first instinct was to watch it dribble down your wrist and wonder how long you could drag this out. You were thrown right back into that old state of mind where you let the pain linger, where it felt like you were punishing yourself, and deservedly so.

You knew Frank would worry. And you also knew that he wouldn’t buy any flimsy stories about it being an accident — which it was, at first, but before you fully even processed what you were doing, you were swiping the knife across your skin once more. All those old feelings came rushing back, causing you to lose track of your surroundings. You couldn’t focus on anything else except the mixture of relief and regret pounding at your head and heart, and you let the moment go on for longer than you should have.

”Sweetheart, what happened?” Frank’s worried voice broke through your trance, his large hand coming to cradle yours with his eyes wide and alert. You hadn’t noticed him getting out of the shower, and immediately, you felt embarrassed about being caught, but you couldn’t get a single word out. ”Darlin’, you’re bleedin’. Shit”, he went on, his usually calm voice trembling with panic. You didn’t blame him, there was a lot of blood dripping onto the counters, after all.

”It—it was an accident”, you stammered out, shaking off your daze as you watched Frank grab the kitchen towel and wrap it around your hand to apply pressure and stop the bleeding.

”Gotta be more careful, sweetheart. This ain’t just a small cut”, he acknowledged with a heavy heart, his protectiveness kicking in as he kept squeezing the towel against your palm. The burning pain made you grimace, the gravity of the situation finally sinking in, and you felt horrible guilt blossom in your chest as you realized you had undone all your progress within moments.

You fell into silence, fearing how Frank would react if you admitted you had deliberately hurt yourself, but he figured it out even without your admission. He gently removed the towel after a couple of minutes of pressure, and above the bigger cut, he could see the second one you had made on impulse. He frowned, inspecting your hand before looking up at you, only to instantly pick up on your troubled expression.

”Baby, I don’t think this was an accident”, he probed gently, not wanting to make you any more uncomfortable than you already were, but he also couldn’t leave it unmentioned. His heart raced in his chest, concern for you coursing through his veins as he watched you look away from him. ”Hey, hey, hey. Talk to me, sweet girl, what’s goin’ on? You haven’t been’ doin’ this for a while now. Did somethin’ happen?” he went on, tilting his head to catch your stare but you were too ashamed to face him.

”It really was an accident at first. But then I… I just got reminded of what it was like and I couldn’t control the urge and—and I just…”, you rambled, not even entirely sure what had come over you, what would be good enough justification. A tear slipped from your eye and you sniffled, wishing you could undo what you had done, but at the same time feeling like you deserved further pain for your mistake.

Nodding in understanding, Frank reached with one hand to wipe your cheeks while supporting your palm in the other. ”Alright, sweetheart. I’m real sorry I wasn’t here to help you through it. But I’m here now and I’mma make sure we get this all cleaned up and we can keep talkin’ about it, yeah?” he promised, not a hint of judgment in his voice as he calmly reassured you.

”I’m so sorry. I don’t know why I did it. I was doing so well”, you spoke shakily, so upset that you would have to start all over again. But Frank didn’t see it that way.

”Oh, baby, you’re still doin’ well. It’s a setback, but it ain’t the end of everything you worked so hard for. Givin’ in once doesn’t mean you’re a lost cause. You can always stop again. You’re incredibly strong, hear me?” he insisted, having complete faith in you, and it soothed your thumping heart a little to hear it from him.

”I feel like I let you down”, you confessed quietly, finally looking him in the eye, and his heart ached at your words. He understood that he played a big part in your recovery, but he hadn’t realized just how much you valued his opinion and support.

”You could never. Never, got that? I’m always in awe of you, sweet darlin’, and nothin’ will ever change that. I can’t even imagine how tough it gotta be to fight the urge but you do it, anyway. That’s fuckin’ amazing”, Frank swore, meaning every word. He cupped your face with his free hand and leaned in to kiss your forehead, staying connected to you for a moment before pulling back and locking eyes with you.

”I love you, yeah? I know you can do this”, he added, and with a careful nod, you promised to at least try. He gave you the smallest of smiles, almost impossible to even notice, but you knew just how much care and affection it contained for you.

”Thanks, Frankie”, you returned the smile, warming his heart.

”There’s my girl”, he praised before turning back to your hand. ”Think we gotta pay a visit to the emergency room, sweetheart. Might need stitches”, he declared, and sighing, you supposed he was right.

But with him by your side, it would be okay, and you would bravely fight the urge next time it would dawn on you.

[golvio]

I think the metanarrative reason for the Princess being put into an antagonistic role in the “intended story structure” instead of being the protagonist is a big hint to her true nature.

While the protagonist gets to have the POV and make the major decisions that determine the story’s resolution, the antagonist is the one who actually makes things happen. Even when she’s not an antagonist and you’re working together, she’s still making things happen solely by being the only visible character present. Her mere presence changes things.

It’s very, very difficult to have a story without some external force or another character acting upon your protagonist and pressuring them to make a move. Even stories told primarily in flashbacks have the main character interacting with something, even if only in the past tense. A story where the main character just sat there, never interacting with anyone or anything, never having any experiences to learn from, would be incredibly boring. Simply having someone else there to talk to and play off of is enough to get things to move again.

Contrast this with The Narrator’s ideal story, which is a Wholesome™️ story where the main character does what they’re told and then never has anything bad happen to them ever because, as the only character left in the story, they’re safe from conflict, change, or heartbreak. Sure, it might not be a controversial story that would upset someone, but it’s also incredibly dull and unfulfilling. The credits roll and that’s it? That’s all we get?

It’s absolutely hilarious to me that, while The Narrator inserted his echo into the Construct under the conceit of being the literary device that’s the vehicle delivering the story to the reader, he really sucks at storytelling. He can’t build rapport with his audience (us) because he doesn’t understand what we want or how to persuade us beyond vague moral arguments with no emotional hooks whatsoever. He’s so inflexible and refuses to allow alternate interpretations that he can’t handle when things go off script, and can’t get the story back on track when we start going off the rails short of pulling a deus ex machina (which only works when the audience still has enough faith in him to take him seriously as storyteller instead of doing their own thing). Things only get interesting when the Princess gets involved. Things only move forward when she forces the issue, particularly in the Nightmare route, where you refuse to commit to a choice out of fear of potential consequences.

A friend of mine who recently did their first playthrough commented on how the underlying quest to collect perspectives for the Shifting Mound was basically an improv session. I think they’re right on the money. Each chapter is like a game of “Yes, And” between you and the Princess that continues until neither of you can think of anything else. The developers mentioned in an interview that Shifty M. only arrives to take the vessel home when the story “ends.” That is, when there’s nothing left to do. Improv is one of the genres of performance that best encapsulates Change in its demand for adapting to circumstances and new information, so of course The Narrator would be against it, preferring simple, linear narratives.

People tend to become fascinated with antagonists because they’re the ones who make things happen. Adding an antagonist who’s also a person is one of the easiest ways to start building a story. By making the Shifting Mound and her fragments our enemy and requiring us to get within talking distance in order to slay her, The Narrator shot himself in the foot by making Her the most compelling and interesting character by default.

[chronic-escapixt]

His Rose ~ Part 4

(Kai Parker x Bennett OC fanfiction)

content warnings/tags ~ Dark fiction, murder, abuse, trauma, dubcon, CNC, smut, daddy kink, dom!kai, p in v, degradation, humiliation, rough sex, age gap, unhealthy!dom/sub dynamics, dacryphilia, fingering, biting, choking, innocence kink, hair pulling, edging, overstimulation, safe word, aftercare, manipulation. Minors DNI

I don't claim ownership of The Vampire Diaries or its characters. All credits go to the rightful owner(s). I only own my original character(s).

Word count: 1.7k

K.P. Masterlist

Their hips rolled together, breathy moans and vocal praises tickling her ear as her nails scraped down his back. Kai would work her over for hours with unyielding stamina until the ecstasy of their cumulative passions mellowed her into post-sex bliss and utter exhaustion. She’d snore softly after drifting off to the sound of his heartbeat while he’d stay up and watch her breathing slow and her body snuggle into his chest for warmth. Completely vulnerable, too easy to wrap his arm around her little neck and squeeze the life out of her but Kai resisted those intrusive thoughts only because for his plans, he needed her alive.

He had her trust by playing the “nice guy”. Sure, it was boringly cliché and there was only so much that vanilla sex would do to satisfy his darker urges but he’d be whatever she wanted if it got him out of this hell hole by the next eclipse.

Rose lost track of where she ended and Kai began, his possessive hands always on her body. Following her around like a lost puppy before pulling her close and resting his head on her shoulder, his unspoken way of telling her to hurry up so they could get back to spooning. If they were in the car, he drove with his left hand while his right slipped under the hem of her skirt, fingertips tapping rhythmically on her inner thigh until it drove her crazy. And he loved to grab her ass, enjoying the adorable squeals that escaped her when she was caught off guard.

All alone in the bathroom, she reclined back in the tub, steamy suds relaxing every aching muscle he gave her. She felt naked without him on her body, yet cherished the short periods of privacy she could carve out for herself.

Knock! Knock! Knock!

“Yes, Kai…” She rolled her eyes but couldn’t get too annoyed. He usually came knocking after 20 minutes but this time, at least half an hour passed before his impatience got the best of him.

“Rosyyy… are you almost done? You’ve been in there foreverrr…” he whined through the door.

“I’ll be out soon,” she sighed, sinking deeper into the water.

He groaned dramatically, hesitating before retreating to her room to wait. Plopping down on the bed, he immediately took notice of a dark leatherbound book peeking out from under her pillow. Did she have a secret grimoire, perhaps she was planning to cross him after all and wasn’t as clueless as she seemed? He flipped through the pages, but there weren’t any Latin incantations, just dates and little entries.

He read the first line that caught his eye:

The first time he fucked me, I knew he was holding back, so afraid he’d break me but I was too afraid to let him know I loved the pain.

“No fucking way...” This was too good to be true, just to be sure, he flipped to the end where he found her frilly signature. With confirmation, he eagerly read another passage.

I want him to ruin me. Split me on his cock until I cry and push him away then choke me and fuck into me harder, push my face down and suffocate my sobs in my pillow. I wanna be reminded exactly who I belong to.

Her confessions became more depraved with visceral descriptions of her needs, filthy fantasies contrasting with the adorable way she curled her letters and dotted her I’s with little hearts. He was so focused that he didn’t notice her come in.

“Hey, give me that!” He got up and blocked her attempts to reach her journal with one hand while he read on. “Kai, stop it. You’re invading my privacy!” She bleated. his eyes flashed to her with a stifled laugh.

“Relax, Rosy… you’re the one who left your diary open on the bed. I just came in here to wait for you and I almost sat on it. When I looked down, let’s just say some of the things you wrote were… enlightening.”

Shame broiled her face and tightened her throat but maybe she could lie her way out of this, “I-It’s not mine… I found it…” She squeaked. His brow raised, clearly not buying it. An exasperated sigh left her. "Just give it back, Kai… I need to get dressed because I have laundry to do and I have to start the marinade for the-"

He snapped the book shut, reached out and squished her hot cheeks in his hold, wrenching her face upwards to meet his burning gaze. “Look at me.” Instantly she obeyed, the sudden base in his voice sending a pulse directly to her needy cunt. “Guess what? I know all your little secrets, and you're not going anywhere until you tell me everything. Every kink, every need, I wanna hear it all from your pretty lips.”

In one motion, he released her, ripping the towel from her dripping body, her back hitting the mattress with little effort. His hand snaked up her thigh, fingers meeting her clit, drawing little moans as he rubbed out slow figure 8s.

“I-I didn’t-”

“Don’t deny it.” Two fingers slipped inside her while his eyes returned to the page, flipping through until he found what he was looking for. “... It says here, you want me to ruin you. What do you mean by that?”

“I don’t k-”

Kai grunted and bit down on her earlobe, hard enough to shock her and elicite a ragged whimper from the back of her throat. He released it and growled, “If you lie to me one more time, I’ll flip you over and make your pretty ass all red..” He loved the way that made her quiver, “But you’d like that wouldn’t you?” His warm minty breath fanned across her cheek.

She bit her lip and looked away, so he pinched her clit until she cried out her response, “YES, I’D LIKE THAT!”

“Mm, that’s my kinky girl. Now answer the first question."

“… I-I want you to be rough w-with me,” she stuttered in a small voice.

“Tell me how..”

Rose swallowed down her last bit of pride. “I- I want.. want you to use me… push me to my knees and f-fuck my throat… bend me over and rail me so hard I can’t think straight… want you to pull my hair and bite my shoulder when you.. cum inside m-me...” She continued until he gave a satisfied hum.

“Good girl, see how easy that was?” He cooed, moving to release her hair from its loose bun, allowing the caramel tendrils to messily fall around her face. The sudden tenderness made her dizzy.

He pumped in and out while rolling her clit between his fingers, drawing out one confession after another until her lips parted, eyes blown wide as he dangled her between pleasure and desperation, so tempted to grind her hips and take it, ride his hand to her heart’s content, yet too afraid of the punishment he’d inflict on her if she dared. Arousal soaked the sheets beneath her thighs, he had her right where he wanted her.

“There’s one more thing, isn’t there?” His lips formed a cocky smirk.

“huh…?” She uttered, too overwhelmed to understand.

“C'mon, you know what you want... to be overpowered, held down and punished when you try to struggle… I’d make you take it all at once and you couldn’t do anything to stop me,” he summarized smugly, licking his lips.

“Oh god, you read that part too..” The embarrassment made her want to recoil and disappear in the mattress, her hands raised to cover her face.

He yanked her wrists down. “No, none of that, no hiding. I honestly find it impressive you managed to convince me you’re a vanilla angel when you’re really just a perverted slut.”

Her jaw slackened, the shock of his degradating words biting into her. “Kai-”

“Nuh-uh, that’s not my name. What’s my name, Rosy?” Her melted brain buffered as he took to scissoring her walls apart, preparing her. “What’s my name, hmm?.. the name you wrote on every page…”

Just as she realized, he sped up. “..daADDY!” She yelped as her belly tightened violently.

He removed his digits when she clenched down, chuckling at her little whines and whimpers, cruelly denying her another orgasm.

“Damn right I’m your daddy… but if you insist on being treated like a brainless fucktoy, we should have a.. what do you call it?”

“… a s-safe word?” she uttered.

“Exactly that! How about… ‘eclipse’ ? If you want to stop for whatever reason, just say it and that's your way out, understood?”

She nodded her head slowly but he frowned, not satisfied with her lack of response.

He lifted her chin. “Use your words, princess.”

“Yes daddy,” she mewled sweetly, making his hard cock swell in his shorts.

“Now that we have that sorted out,” he stuffed his slick covered fingers down her throat, stroking her tongue as she keened at the flavor, “I should let you know I’ve been keeping my own secrets, but you wouldn’t have any idea because I’m not a silly girl who writes them down for anyone to read. I know you hide this part of yourself because you're afraid people will judge you but I don’t. I want to know everything so I can do all those things to you and more that you couldn’t even think up in your dirty little diary...”

He had her flipped on her stomach and raised her hips, her only warning the rattle of his belt before he slammed into her sensitive core, burying himself to the hilt in one stroke. It hurt so good the pain tore a ragged cry from her throat as her tiny cunt struggled to take all of him but he didn’t have to pretend he cared anymore because he knew she loved it, evident by the way she leaked down his balls while holding onto the quilted comforter for dear life.

He yanked her up by the base of her hair. “Isn’t this what you wanted, babe?” He husked. Her response, an indiscernible whine. His tongue darted out to taste the tears that already streaked her pretty face. “Aw baby, did I ruin you already? What a shame, I’m just getting started.”

Holding her by the back of the neck granted him more leverage to pull her into each thrust reaching deeper, pounding her gummy cervix. "Fuckkk.." he groaned.

“Daddy, please,” she sobbed out, walls writhing around him, the intensity rendering her with barely enough strength to reach back and splay her fingers across his lower abdomen, arms turned to jelly just before she could try to push at him.

"Stop that. You practically begged for this," he growled, snatching her wrists in one bruising grip while landing two harsh slaps to her right cheek in a show of dominance. She screamed.

Her juices squelched between their bodies but she was too far gone to feel ashamed. “I know you're close... just let go, cum on my cock, baby... just like that," he whispered, breath hitching as she came on command, her little back arching into him by pure instinct as her brain had long gone gooey. He got off on the control. Strong arms linked around her convulsing body as he fucked her through her release while warding off his own, wanting to prolong her torment a little longer.

He let her top half melt into the mattress, her face buried in the pillow while his powerful hands captured her pelvis, continuing the assault on her battered cunt. She pulled at the bedsheets with white knuckles.

“One more… I know you’ve got it in you.. just one more princess, c'mon, wanna’ feel you cum hard this time.” He groaned through clenched teeth, snapping his hips at just the right angle that had her keen with each thrust. Her cunt hugged him like a slippery glove made just for him. Sweat dripped down his brow and gravely moans escaped his lips as she tightened and creamed around him with a muffled cry.

Her glossy eyes fixated on the ceiling as she regulated her breathing, not blinking yet not at all focused. Kai carefully wiped her down with a damp rag. Her silence made him worry that he’d taken it too far. Hurt her. Scared her, so much she’d never let him touch her again- or at worst, refuse to help him leave. He was desperate to know what she was thinking or at the very least hear her voice to ease his mind.

“Hey Rosy..” he reached down and caressed her soft cheek, “Rosalina?” he whispered softly.

She nestled her face into his palm, the corners of her lips raising weakly as she breathed out.

“Thank you, daddy.”

[cantcompetewhereudontcompare]

A complete deconstruction: Louis Tomlinson is a terrible songwriter. Part II

In part one, I debunked this assertion that Louis' songwriting was "crucial" for 1D. That post, I know, was probably quite boring and full of statistics, but I think it was important to be able to go to the fun part now.

Now we get to prove that he's not a good songwriter in the slightest.

POINT 1. He can't play instruments

Louis Tomlinson has been in the music industry since 2010. He was in a band when he was a teenager and he auditioned for the X Factor twice before he got in (2008 and 2009).

Despite all of that, and the millions he's racked in and rubbing elbows with incredible musicians, he still cannot play an instrument proficiently.

I stopped paying attention to him when the band broke up, but I've actually been asking around and digging to see if I was wrong about this before sitting down to make this post. Turns out, I'm not.

For instance, he has never played an instrument in one of his albums, and he barely ever does his backing vocals. He doesn't do ANYTHING ELSE either.

These are the personnel credits for his first album. He didn't even play the tambourine in it. In fact, he only did background vocals in 1 song out of 12.

For his second album nobody bothered to transcribe the personnel credit to its Wikipedia page, so I had to manually check song by song on Genius. You can skip this list as it's super long and nobody cares. I'm adding it because I find it super funny that SO many people are involved in his albums and he's, well, not. But his fans will tell you he's the songwriter of the century.

Vocals:

Louis Tomlinson — lead vocals (all tracks)

David Sneddon — backing vocals (12)

George Tizzard — backing vocals (2, 3, 5, 6, 9, 14, 16)

James Vincent McMorrow — backing vocals (1, 7, 13, 15)

Rick Parkhouse — backing vocals (2, 3, 5, 6, 9, 14, 16)

Robert Harvey — backing vocals (2)

Stephen Sesso — backing vocals (4)

Theo Hutchcraft — backing vocals (10, 11, 12)

Musicians:

Alex Thomas — drums (10, 11)

Carlo Caduff — drums (8)

Christopher Illingworth — piano (11)

Dan Crean — percussion (3, 4), drums (3, 4)

Fred Ball — percussion (1, 7, 13, 15), keyboards (1, 7, 13, 15)

George Tizzard — piano (2, 5, 6, 9, 14, 16), acoustic guitar (2, 5, 6, 9, 14, 16), keyboards (5, 6, 16)

James Birt — drums (2, 5, 6, 9, 14)

James Vincent McMorrow — guitar (1, 7, 13, 15), drums (1, 7, 13, 15), percussion (1, 7, 13, 15), keyboards (1, 7, 13, 15)

J Moon — bass (1, 13, 15), guitar (1, 13, 15), percussion (1, 13, 15), keyboards (1, 13, 15)

Joe Cross — guitar (10, 11, 12), bass (10, 11, 12)

John Foyle — synths (1, 7, 13, 15), bass (1, 13, 15), guitar (1, 7, 13, 15), drums (1, 7, 13, 15), percussion (1, 7, 13, 15), keyboards (1, 7, 13, 15), piano (15)

Liz Hanks — cello (10)

Mike Crossey — keyboards (3), bass (3, 4)

Nicolas Rebscher — guitar (8), keyboards (8), bass (8)

Paul Walsham — drums (12)

Rick Parkhouse — electric guitar (2, 5, 6, 9, 16), bass (5, 6), bass guitar (16)

Robert Harvey — electric guitar (2)

Stephen Murtagh — bass (9)

Stephen Sesso — acoustic guitar (3, 4), electric guitar (3, 4)

Tobie Tripp — strings (6)

END OF BORING BLOCK OF TEXT

Anyway, this time around he didn't even do backing vocals on 1 track. I'm not saying he should play the cello or the synth, or even bass. I'm not saying he should do every instrument like an absolute prodigy, but the LEAST a MUSICIAN can do if they're this incredible of a songwriter is participate in any capacity aside from lead vocals. At least on one track. One instrument. The fucking tambourine. SOMETHING.

I checked his other singles (the ones that aren't on either of his albums), and aside from (shared) backing vocals on Miss You, he also doesn't have any sort of credit in any of them. He has 34 recorded tracks total (12 in his first album, 16 + 2 bonus tracks in his second one, and 4 standalone singles) and aside from the lead vocals (duh) he only does backing vocals IN TWO. And NOTHING ELSE.

For comparison's sake, in his debut album Niall plays guitar in 9 out of 13 tracks, in his second album he does background vocals in 9 out of 16 tracks, plays guitar in 6 out of 16, and acoustic guitar in two additional ones, and in his third album he does background vocals in 9 out of 10 tracks, and plays harmonica and piano in track 6.

In his debut album, Harry does background vocals on every track, plays guitar on track 4, and the omnichord in tracks 1 and 4. In his second album he does background vocals on all tracks except 11, plays the dulcimer on track 10, and acoustic guitar on track 12. In his third album he does background vocals on all tracks, plays the glockenspiel on track 10, keyboards on track 11, and the tubular bells on track 4.

And Niall and Harry are not exceptional, top notch, creme de la creme songwriters. I'm comparing Louis to them because they were his peers, have the same background, and had the same opportunities to learn their craft for the same amount of time.

I could also compare him to Shawn Mendes, who plays guitar and keyboard in his own albums. Or even to someone like Olivia Rodrigo, who played the piano in her debut album. Billie Eilish played multiple instruments in her latest album. Taylor Swift has become quite lazy, but she used to play multiple instruments in her albums. Adele plays instruments on her albums as well. So does Lady Gaga. Someone like The Weeknd plays multiple instruments in his albums.

Not every popstar plays instruments, but those who don't 1. aren't regarded as great songwriters and/or 2. do other things, such as producing or stacking vocals. Like, Ariana Grande isn't a huge instrumentalist, but she does her own vocal engineering, for instance.

If he at least played a single instrument live, we could look past this, but he's been in the industry professionally for close to fourteen years and he has never, not once, performed a song while playing an instrument.

He toured the fucking world TWICE as a solo artist and never picked up a guitar for a single song.

The most we've seen of him with instruments is idly stroking a guitar for a couple of seconds twice that I can find (here and here) and then he once, in 2012, played 15 seconds of a song by The Fray on a keyboard.

He has posed with guitars a bunch

And he has footage of himself looking forlornly into the horizon as he "plays" guitar, but that footage is muted while he talks about himself very seriously on top of it.

He also has an entire music video where he acts like he's playing piano on top of someone else playing it (Duck Blackwell), which would be all fine and good if he had actually ever even hinted at being good enough to play an entire song on the piano. Both Taylor Swift and Harry, for instance, have similar music videos (in Cardigan Aaron Dessner is playing piano, in Falling, Kid Harpoon is playing). But we know that Taylor and Harry both can actually play (and have both played piano or keyboard in their own albums as well, just other songs).

It's a Thing that he doesn't play instruments nor does melodies. His often writing team Liam, is on the record saying that he would do melodies while Louis did the lyrics while they were in 1D.

He said it first in 2017 in a fan Q&A:

Fan: When you were in One Direction, you and Louis were a really strong writing team. As you've transitioned into solo stuff, have you felt really strongly about working on music vs lyrics more? Liam: To be honest with you, I've never been much of a lyrics man. I kind of bungle along with the lyrics. I'll be honest with you, sometimes lyrics just feel like homework. So when I'm sitting down to write I'm more of a melodies man. I like to just escape a little bit. There's a lot of pictures of me asleep in the studio, it looks like. But I'm not asleep. That's just where I go to when I'm trying to think about what's gonna come next in the song (...). I'm kind of more of a melodies person, I'd say. Louis was always more for the lyrics

Then he said it again in 2023 in an interview with a Chilean media outlet (note how Louis doesn't even do the lyrics alone haha):

"Whenever I was in the studio with Louis, I'd kind of do the melodies and then Louis would kind of do the lyrics with Jamie (Scott), and I'd kind of zone out whenever there were words on the page."

Louis said it as well in an interview with Radio DeeJay in 2022.

"Personally, for me, it's always been easier to write lyrics than melody and music, but I think it's like, each to their own in that."

He also said this in 2022:

“Sometimes, it’ll depend on who you’re working with, sometimes you kinda lean on whatever their side is. For me, 9 times out of 10, I come into the room with minimum a concept, or a lyric, or a title or something I want to talk about. And again, my strength lies in lyric, I’m trying to get better…So we’ll have a concept, and then probably some, one of the lads I’m working with will pick out a guitar line, we’ll find a melody about that and try and match the title we started with to what were writing.”

I think we can thoroughly confirm that Louis is not proficient with instruments. Add to that that he even confirms himself (two years ago, so 12 years into his career), that he has an easier time writing lyrics than melodies and music and that he's not really that good at writing melodies. There's nothing wrong with it, everyone has their own strengths, but it's the combination of things that makes it sting.

He has never played an instrument in public, he has never played an instrument in one of his albums, he only did background vocals for 2 out of 34 songs, and he AND Liam both say his strength isn't melodies. He's even outright admitting that his co-writers often come up with his melodies.

Songs aren't just lyrics. The melody of a song is just as important (some would argue, more important). If he himself admits that he has issues with melodies and music, then you can't just decide that it doesn't matter and he's "an incredible songwriter" anyway. He's simply not. If you like his music, then what you like are the co-writers he chooses to work with.

POINT 2. He's not that involved in his own songwriting process

I'm not saying that he's not involved at all or that he never writes anything, but he's not the driving force behind it. He's not the main songwriter, the one who commands the room, the one who comes up with everything.

How do we know this? It's pretty simple.

For one, the amount of collaborators he has.

Walls had 34 songwriters in 12 tracks. THIRTY-FOUR. Huge block of text incoming (used for impact):

Sean Douglas

Jamie Harman

Stuart Chrichton

Cole Citrenbaum

James Newman

Stephen Wrabel

Bryn Christopher

Andrew Jackson

Duck Blackwell

Levi Lennox

Julian Bunetta

John Ryan

Amish Patel

Jim Lavigne

Danny Majic

John Mitchell

Justin Franks

Noel Gallagher

Dave Gibson

Jacob Manson

Iain James

Wayne Hector

Steve Robson

Matthew Burns

Jason Reeves

Ali Tamposi

Andrew Watt

Ed Drewett

Yei Gonzalez

Jamie Scott

Johan Carlsson

Joe Janiak

Valentina

Louis, obviously

Of course, not every songwriter was on every track, but you can't possibly have a vision if you're working with this many people for a single project. There was only one sample (Noel Gallagher on Walls), so it's not even a Beyoncé case, where she had many songwriters but it was because she was sampling a bunch of songs.

This many people on a single, very short, project simply means that there wasn't a unified vision and a unified leader. How can you possibly make an album sound cohesive if it was written by two entire soccer teams and their benches?

Faith In The Future was much more concise in terms of its collaborators with fourteen (seventeen if we count producers), which is not a small number, but it's more standard for a pop album. So props to him for narrowing it down, I suppose.

The problem here, and with Walls and all his other singles, is that there are a lot of cooks on every song and Louis doesn't seem to be the primary songwriter in any of them.

I don't want to be hypocritical, so first I'll address that Harry's debut album also had a lot of writers in each song, but there was a caveat there, Harry's first album was written in a retreat in Jamaica. All the songs had the same names because he just gave blanket credit to everyone present.

The main producer of that album was Jeff Bhasker, so he got writing credit on every song. Then Tyler Johnson was basically an assistant to Jeff, and he also got credit. Ryan Nasci and Alex Salibian were engineers who were helping with the mixing, and they also got writing credit on every song. With two exceptions, 1. Two Ghosts, which Harry had written when he was in 1D in 2014/2015. 2. Sweet Creature, which he wrote alone with Kid Harpoon. The rest of the 8 tracks on HS1 were written by the same six songwriters. The total number of songwriters + producers for HS1 is 9, including 2 former 1D songwriters who got credit for Two Ghosts.

Another caveat here, is that if you read my last post, you know we can tell the % of songwriting of each collaborator. Harry was the driving force behind every single HS1 song, Jeff, Tyler, and Mitch got minority credit, while Alex and Ryan got a small percentage.

For instance, with Sign of the Times (the lead single and most successful song of that album)

Ryan Nasci + Alex Salibian = 9.5% Mitch Rowland + Tyler Johnson + Jeff Bhasker = 40.51% Harry Styles = 50%

Harry has primary credit on every single song on that album, FYI.

For Fine Line, the team was tighter. There are still 9 names total but the average number of co-writers goes down in half to 3.6 per song, because the core group is smaller (Harry, Tyler, Kid, and Mitch) and the add-ons are just there in one or two tracks. Harry also has primary credit on almost every single song (except Lights Up, where he has 40% credit and Tyler Johnson has 45%).

In some songs, such as She, he has 80% credit and the other 3 split the remaining 20%. This screenshot is old, Kid Harpoon has since signed to GMR so we can no longer split his and Harry's %, but that happened after the release of Fine Line, and luckily I'd saved these.

For his third album, the team is now 7 (with Harry, Kid, and Tyler doing the bulk of the work), and the average songwriters per track is 3.07. Sadly, since Kid signed to GMR I can't get a breakdown of the % anymore.

One day I'll make a post about this because I think it's so telling, in terms of Harry as a musician, but I just wanted to get this out of the way. I HATE hypocrisy, and I'm not going to bash Louis for something if the person I support is doing the same. He's not. And I needed to show that.

So, for his first album, Louis had the 34 songwriters I mentioned above + 5 extra producers. Each song had an average of 4.25 songwriters.

For his second album, Louis had 14 songwriters + 3 extra producers. Each song had an average of 4 songwriters.

The average in and of itself isn't that bad. It's pretty standard for pop musicians. The thing is that the standard pop musician isn't constantly gloating about his songwriting prowess and doesn't have a fanbase that constantly boasts either.

If Louis had primary credit in his songs, even if he had a lot of collaborators, I couldn't really fault him for it. Alas, he does not.

As I said in the other post, Louis' PRO is PRS, which is British. Foreign PROs have to collect through an American one, usually ASCAP or BMI. It seems like Louis collects through BMI. Why? Well, because

In songs where all the other songwriters are with BMI, BMI controls 100%, meaning, also Louis' part. We can't say what % each of them wrote, but we can infer that this means Louis is collecting royalties through BMI.

Anyway, there's nothing really all that interesting about the % of his writing credits. All songs have an equal distribution among all participants, except some notable ones (and I'll get to that in a sec). The fact that everyone gets the same % of credit on every song is... well, telling. It's impossible for every single collaborator to have contributed the same amount to every single song in every single case. That's just not what happens when you have a group of 34 or 14 people writing an album.

Louis made a point, particularly with his second album, of working with artists as opposed to professional songwriters:

“Through my own experience, sometimes, with a ‘professional’ songwriter (...) they write hits for a living, that’s their livelihood. So to ask them to go in the room and want to write an album track, sometimes those are difficult things to ask for. ‘Cos the back of their mind they’re thinking 'but if we shape this like a single, who knows?’ and all of a sudden, again you’re changing the song. Whereas with artists, they completely understand this is a 16 track album, track 11 is as important as track 1.”

What he calls a "professional songwriter" takes this job as a 9 to 5. That person will split % evenly and call it a day, unless there's some very specific reason to get more or less credit. But Louis was writing as a collaborative effort with a group of people who he calls artists. This wasn't a job for them, this was art.

They didn't all contribute the same, so why should they all get the same %?

It does save me time, because 99% of the songs look like this:

If there's one songwriter from ASCAP among 4 songwriters, and he gets 25% and the other three divide the remaining 75%. Pretty straightforward, each get 25%. You're free to look it up yourself.

The notable exceptions are Only The Brave

We know Louis is with BMI, and BMI only controls 5% of the song. So the other two songwriters split 95% of the writing credit (this isn't surprising because it's known that Louis hadn't actually written in this song. Seems like they threw him in a 5% for some reason).

And Just Hold On

Steve Aoki has 25% and the other 75% is divided among four people (we don't know how, though, but it suggests that Louis has slightly less than Steve).

Anyway, I'm bringing this up because I'm trying to be as fair as possible. You can be very charitable and believe that Louis was the driving force behind every song and he just generously gave away equal writing credit for people who didn't do as much as him. But that's simply not true. He got equal credit when he didn't contribute to those songs equally.

You can actually look up what the people involved have said, and if you're honest with yourself, you will conclude that Louis was not the driving force behind his own music.

Louis said this about the process of writing his songs:

“9/10 melody will come first, but before any of that happens we normally talk about a general concept on what we want to get across, what we want it to sound and feel like. Then it kind of just happens naturally, really.”

So they come up with a concept, then go to the melody, then the song comes up from that. Cool.

Now, remember that quote I posted above? About how he has a hard time coming up with melodies and how he leans on whoever he's writing with?

“Sometimes, it’ll depend on who you’re working with, sometimes you kinda lean on whatever their side is. For me, 9 times out of 10, I come into the room with minimum a concept, or a lyric, or a title or something I want to talk about. And again, my strength lies in lyric, I’m trying to get better…So we’ll have a concept, and then probably some, one of the lads I'm working with will pick out a guitar line, we’ll find a melody about that and try and match the title we started with to what were writing.”

He gives them an abstract concept and whoever he's writing with comes up with the melody, and then they go from there. That's not an equally collaborative effort. "Whoever he's working with" is doing the bulk of the work while all he does is say "yes" and "no" and give vague concepts and ideas.

Let me be clear, this isn't bad. Most pop artists work this way. It's FINE. But those artists aren't considered proficient songwriters and are usually belittled for their small contributions, while Louis is out there talking himself up as a songwriter and his fans eat it up and attack his peers.

If you can't write music, or play instruments, if you don't come up with the melodies, and you get help to come up with the lyrics, how exactly are you "a great songwriter"?

The answer is that you're not.

But let's actually see what Louis has to say about his songwriting process. I looked up quotes to see if he has any insight that would point to him being more involved, having some technical (if base leve) knowledge, being knowledgeable about processes or any sort of musical element and I found absolutely nothing. I could be missing it — as I said, I stopped paying attention to him years ago. But I do think I'm a pretty good researcher, and still found nothing.

But since I'm very charitable, I decided to use two long-form sources where he specifically talks about his second album.

The following is a track by track breakdown of his second album he did on Twitter. It's basically just his tweets for every song. If you're already familiar with this you can skip it. I'll discus it in an abridged way anyway.

The Greatest: "[It] was written in London with [co-writers]. It was always written as a tour opener, but also made sense to start the album off with a bang."

Written All Over Your Face: "Love the guitar line that comes in towards the end. Rob Harvey working his magic."

Bigger Than Me: "[It] was really important for me making the record. It gave me the confidence early on in the process. Ambition [sic] chorus vocally but suits a big show and us singing it together."

Lucky Again: "This song started of [sic] with this like hypnotic guitar riff Jay Moon came up with and we built the song around that. Feels like a good driving song."

Face The Music: "Me and Dave Gibson wrote [it] together in LA. One of my favourites on the album! Love that opening lyric. Did so many great sessions with Dave!!"

Chicago: "[It] was written in LA with Dave. Love the lyric and the concept."

All This Time: "I've always loved [it]. Just feel like a feel good tune from the off. James had a great vision for this song."

Out Of My System: "[It] was such a moment in the studio. I was with Nico and Dave was on zoom. I wanted to write something that had a bit of danger to it and had the title. Nico straight away played the riff and we were off."

Headline: "I think [it] was the last song for the album. Red triangle lads smashed the production and the academic for writing it. Made some subtle changes but loved the song as is."

Saturdays: "It felt emotional writing recording and performing this song. There’s something about it. Love the trainers lyric as well! Joe cross absolutely smashed the production, love the way the song grows.

Silver Tongues: "Had such a great few days written with Dave Sneddon, Theo Hutchcraft and Joe Cross. [It] is defo one of my favourite on the album. Love everything about this song!"

She Is Beauty We Are World Class: "Written in the same few days as the last two songs. Dave turned up with this picture on his phone of the title ‘She is beauty we are world class’ it was taken in the toilet mirror of a train. Felt like a weird place for such a poetic sentiment"

Common People: "[It] is about Doncaster having a place on my album. Such a big part of who I am. Love the simplicity of the song and the lyric.

Holding On To Heartache: "[This] is a song I’ve always loved. I’m glad I found a place for it on the deluxe. The middle 8 takes it to another gear as well! That’s going to be a fucker to sing night after night haha!"

That's The Way Love Goes: "Also one of my favourites. Always loved dry your eyes by the streets and wanted to write a similar concept. Again love the strings at the end!"

Overall, he had one sort of technical comment to make, about Holding on To Heartache. "Middle 8" is when a song switches up/adds new elements. He's saying that the song had a switch-up and it took it to the next level.

The rest of "songwriting notes" are:

I wrote [song] with [name of collaborator]

We wrote [song] while [activity] in [place]

[Collaborator] had a great idea and we built on that.

I love [part or sound of the song]!

The only commentary on what he wanted from sound is about That's The Way Love Goes. He liked a song by a band and he wanted to recreate it. Of course, he doesn't say what he liked about that song or that band and what he wanted to recreate. Is it the drums? The ambiance? The backing vocals? The reverb? Does he even know?

He never talks about coming up with ideas himself — it's always one of his collaborators coming up with something and then building up on that.

He also never mentions specific instruments or sounds that he likes. Reading these, I definitely he believe he was there when the songs were written. I believe he told his collaborators, in very vague terms, what he wanted the songs to sound like, and I believe he told them what he wanted the songs to be about. But so far, I have no reason to believe he had any of the knowledge necessary or took any of the necessary steps to achieve those sounds.

Of course, this could be just off the cuff commentary and not serious, so I can't take this as the only contributions and opinions he has on his album, can I?

Give me credit for how charitable I am... Let's give him one more chance. This time, going by his track by track video. He's going to discuss every single song and the album as a whole in detail. It's a one-on-one interview posted directly on his YouTube channel.

He starts off discussing how different his sound is from his last album and worrying about alienating fans, but he doesn't describe what's different or why. Why would it alienate fans? I don't understand why he's so vague. It just sounds like he has no idea what he's talking about.

About The Greatest:

"I think straight away, from the off, Fred Ball did a really — goes way beyond my musical comprehension — but really really clever kind of opener, really slaps you round the face."

That's all the songwriting commentary we get about this song. His collaborator did something he didn't really understand but it was sick. He's not starting off very promising...

About Written All Over Your Face:

“That’s a song where straight away I can picture Rob Harvey, he’s a brilliant lyricist but also brilliant with melody as well. He sang out that melody and from the off, once we had that lead part — I don’t want to say the song wrote itself, but it kind of really set the tone for the kind of style that we wanted to do.”

Someone else came up with the melody and the song "wrote itself". Well, he didn't want to say that it wrote itself, but he also didn't say what it did do, so I'm going to believe that it did write itself. It certainly doesn't sound like Louis wrote it.

About Bigger Than Me: Nothing. He just talks about what the song is about. No insight on its composition.

About Lucky Again: He repeats what he said on Twitter about the hypnotic melody someone else came up with setting the tone for the song. It's completely normal for an artist to bounce ideas off collaborators, but it's slightly worrying that every single time it's someone else's idea that he builds on. Are none of this ideas his own?

He then talks about post-production of the album, and I said to myself, "Oh, he's finally gonna give us some insight!" Nope.

He just said that it was hard because he was on tour, and he'd say yes to something and then he'd regret it, but being on tour affected the way he made decisions because he was being influenced by the shows.

And this actually grinds my fucking gears. What did he say yes to and why did he regret it? What part of the shows influenced the songs and how?

This man has now been a part of releasing SEVEN profesional studio albums. And he can't name a single specific production note he gave?

"I wanted this instrument here because of this reason." Or "because of the live shows, I realized I preferred a crescendo of the melody." Or even "I asked the background vocals to be this way because of this reason." LITERALLY ANYTHING. He can't articulate a single music-related thought. It's actually impressive (derogatory).

He expands on how he thinks he writes better in the UK (?????) and when he starts his writing sessions midday instead of early in the morning (????????) because he doesn't want it to feel like work (IT IS WORK!). None of this is technical songwriting stuff. Next he's gonna describe his BREAKFAST on songwriting days. HOW IS THIS RELEVANT TO A TRACK BY TRACK ANALYSIS??

These anecdotal details are great when surrounded with technical commentary. They're shallow and ridiculous when surrounded by literal empty space.

He waxes poetic about how cool the people he worked with are (which is great!) but he doesn't really get technical about why he likes working with them other than "attention to detail" and "really fucking cool." At this point it feels like he's writing an essay and he's trying to run the words.

He mentions being inspired by Arctic Monkeys... again.

And The Snuts (one of his openers on tour). He mentions nothing specific about the sound of either of these bands, because that'd probably kill him on the spot. The only specificity we get is that he grew up close to Sheffield, where AM are from. In case you forgot he's a Northern Lad From The North.

"And it wasn’t until I heard that DMA’s record and how Stuart Price had produced it and of course they’re using some of these modern, trendy, radio, whatever word you wanna use to describe it sounds. They do it in a really authentic way, it’s not in there just because it’s trendy, it’s in there because it serves the song."

"Modern, trendy, radio, whatever word you wanna use to describe it." I don't wanna use any words, Louis, you're the one nit!! Describe it?? have NO IDEA what he's even saying here. This was in 2022, what was dancey, modern, trendy, and radio in 2022? As it Was?? WHAT IS HE TALKING ABOUT??

I actually went and played some DMA's to try to understand what he's saying. Their most streamed song is a chill-out version of Believe (the Cher song), the only dancey, trendy, modern thing about that song is the inspiration. it's literally chillout pop. The second most streamed song sounds like old Coldplay + bossa n stone. There is nothing modern, dancey (does he mean EDM?) or trendy about any of this. I'm losing my mind. This man is musically illiterate.

About Face The Music:

"I am not the most sophisticated musical listener, I kinda like songs like this that have got that wall of sound that will give you that energy. Again, it’s easy to kind of imagine in the live context."

This is actually hilarious, because Louis is so musically illiterate, that he just used a real concept (Wall of Sound) to describe something that doesn't apply in the slightest. "Wall of Sound" is a concept by Phil Spector (who, incidentally, is a convinced murderer). It consists on duplicating or triplicating a certain sound and making it build up on itself to the point where the sounds are indistinguishable from each other. For instance, you play the piano, then you replicate that on a keyboard, then you replicate that on a synth, and you mix them together in such a way that you can't tell each instrument from the other, you just hear the result.

The most famous example of a Wall of Sound song is God Only Knows by the Beach Boys. It can be applied to any genre and sound, but because of the nature of how you mix it, it tends to have an almost orchestral sound and it works well in very grandiose songs that sound kind of ethereal. Another song that uses Wall Of Sound is Halo by Beyoncé or Set Fire To The Rain by Adele.

Face The Music does NOT do this in the slightest. You can very clearly hear each individual instrument (derogatory). Louis is using the very real and tangible musical concept of Wall Of Sound to describe this because the song is loud. He probably heard of the concept in passing and took the meaning of it in its face, a literal wall of sound, as in, loud (and this song isn't even that loud — he's a pussy).

This is why I say this man isn't a great songwriter. He's been in the industry for FOURTEEN YEARS. Can you imagine being a professional songwriter and going to the studio with someone who can't articulate a singular musical thought? And he's worth millions while you're struggling to pay rent?

He used this expression wrongly twice so far, btw. (After the interviewer says it's a festival song) "Yeah, yeah definitely but you still kind of got that sing along chorus but dressed up with enough of that wall of sound behind it."

About Chicago:

"Sometimes what I find challenging, is I can see the picture or I can hear the song or I can see the concerts in my head and sometimes it’s quite hard to articulate that cause you’ve got such a clear vision in your head and you just want someone else to be able to read your mind, go ‘Yeah that’s what Im talking about!"

You know what you could do to help you with this Louis? Study music theory. Read a book. Watch a documentary. Listen to literally any music. He can't articulate it because he knows nothing about music and can't play any instruments. I believe wholeheartedly that he has a vision for his albums. It's not that hard to conceptualize a sound in your head, if you're able to hear and have lived in this world for a couple of decades. But it's very, very hard to translate that into words if you don't know the first thing about music theory.

Other than this, he just discusses being vulnerable in his lyrics in Chicago. Cool, not really technically about songwriting, but whatever.

About All This Time:

"I think Fred did a brilliant job on this. And again this is something where I know what I like, but in terms of a production, it wasn’t as if I had loads of notes to give on this. It’s a little bit more me taking a risk, doing something slightly dancier."

I hadn't listened to this man's album, and good lord I wish I hadn't taken research for this so seriously. This has got to be one of the worst songs I've ever heard. But I was curious as to what he meant with "dancier." And I mean, I guessssss??? I don't think this song has any idea what it's supposed to be.

Notice how he said he didn't have any notes to give? He just let the man do his thing? He shouldn't have. Perhaps notes would have killed it and ended its misery.

About Out Of My System:

"That was a song, again, where we started out with a guitar riff. I went into, I want to say, definitely Arctic Monkeys, maybe Teddy Picker, maybe Dancing Shoes, and I was listening to it on the way to that writing session. I went in and I said to the lads, Nico and Dave ‘I want to write something as punk as I can get away with’ and that’s when Nico straight away came up with that really kind of punchy riff. And that riff kind of sums up the song, really, that kind of danger and that kind of energy."

I don't even know where to start.

Once again, he doesn't come up with a melody, he doesn't come up with a song. He goes to the studio, tells other (more talented) people "I want a song that sounds like this", the other (more talented) people come up with a riff, and that's how he builds the song. THIS IS YOUR GREAT SONGWRITER??? He's using his co-writers as ChatGPT in human form are you fucking kidding me?

The AUDACITY to compare Teddy Picker or Dancing Shoes to whatever it is he's trying to do actually offends me. Teddy Picker and Dancing Shoes are two technically flawless songs that sound tight and fresh 20 years later.

If you've never listened to Teddy Picker, I implore you to press play here.

Now go and listen to Out Of My System. Don't get me wrong, OOM isn't nearly as criminally offensive as All This Time. The musicians playing it (not Louis) are competent enough and it doesn't sound bad. It also doesn't sound good. It's a 6/10 song. It sounds dated, like a 2000s Christian rock band doing a Limp Bizkit but if the lead singer had to leave and they let the son of the pastor take over for shits and giggles.

He's also SO BASIC. I love myself some Arctic Monkeys, but does he not know any other bands? If at least he picked songs that weren't incredibly cliché I could overlook his fascination with the most obvious choice he could reach for over and over. But no, he chooses a huge single and a cult classic. If anything, I think Out Of My System is more similar to Perhaps Vampires Is A Bit Strong But... (still kind of insulting to a quality song, but more appropriate). But I doubt Louis has ever listened to any song of theirs below 100M streams on Spotify. I already covered that this whole indie rock thing is all a front and he's a Top40 poppy boy at heart here.

About this song, he actually does give a morsel of technical commentary, saying he recorded the vocals right after a show to get a rougher edge. I mean, I don't think he needed to wait until after a show to get a rougher edge to his vocals. They're rough 24/7, but anyway. The one insight on something technical and it's about the one thing he obviously knows about, since the lead vocals are his one and only job in his albums.

Then he talks about touring, and about one of the million indie garage rock bands with multiple white boys that all sound the same that he has in his "festival." And then about his "festival." Then for some reason he gets on to talk about his bucket list and skydiving. And I'm here wondering WHEN IS HE GONNA START TALKING ABOUT SONGWRITING?

About Headline:

"Um, yeah this was the last song that we got on this record and I’m not gonna lie, it was like 85% finished when I heard it. Well, it was finished, um and there was just a few things across the lyric that were good, that were great but they just didn’t feel true to me so we kind of remolded it, reshaped it so it felt kind of relevant to this record."

So the song was done when he got it and he just touched a couple of lyrics. Color me surprised. His voice sounds like nails in a chalkboard on it. Worse than I've ever heard it. I can't believe he put this out to the world.

He says it kinda sounds like Blossom when they do their 80s sound. I mean, he's not completely off. I would say that the song sounds like a The 1975 or Bleachers reject if Matty Healy/Jack Antonoff had swallowed several sheets of sandpaper. I guess I'll give him props for knowing another indie English rock band aside from Arctic Monkeys and the ones that do his "festival"?

About Saturdays:

He talks endlessly about lyrics and Doncaster and........

Anyway, then he says this:

"Again goes way above my musical comprehension when he mentioned at the time I’m like I don’t really know what you’re on about there but Joe, did Joe Cross do something brilliant with Saturdays and there is little to no bottom end until the drums come in which is about halfway through the song now, once you hear it and listen back you kind of miss it you’re like where is it and then when the drums hit in every single time it just feels like a slap around the face and that was one of those moments for me where just thankful to being for being around these brilliant musicians because that’s not a trick I could pull out your sleeve."

He thinks having the drums come in mid-song is revolutionary. BEYOND HIS MUSICAL COMPREHENSION. Bless his heart. The fact that he admits that this is something that he could never come up with himself simply blows my mind. He was 30 years old when he did this, btw. He sounds like a child who's setting foot in the studio for the first time ever.

He's gonna lose his mind when he finally hears In The Air Tonight for the first time.

He then adds:

"I have a very, what’s the word? I’m not, you know in terms of when I speak about music there is no musical education there it’s all on feel so I rely on people like Joe to bring that incredible musicality to the production."

Really? I never could've guessed... Maybe you should tell your fans, as they have somehow convinced themselves you're the best songwriter to have graced this earth.

About Silver Tongues:

"Sonically I think it’s really clever because the first time people hear it you kind of get into a false sense of security where it comes in with the piano and it feels really emotional. It feels like you’re gonna go into a ballad and then straight away the production kicks in so that’s something again in the live show I think that’ll be a moment."

He's endlessly fascinated by the most basic musical concepts. It's kind of sad. Starting a song slow and upping the tempo is not "really clever," Louis. It's been done a million times. You literally "wrote" End Of The Day in 2015. Were you asleep the entire time? Huh??

About She Is Beauty We Are World Class:

He repeats the story he told on Twitter. Then adds this:

"That was that was an interesting moment I think this is where we said, “let’s really try and go all in on the dance-ier sound of things” because I kind of allude to it on like All This Time but like it’s not quite as like trancey as this is. Almost has that kind of DMA’s lift with it with the instrumental that comes in on the post chorus."

I haven't listened to a ton of DMA's music, but the few tracks I did listen sounded nothing like this. It cracks me up that he doesn't have the lingo to describe music genres. We saw it painfully when he kept describing hip hop, rap, and trap as "urban" back in the day, but the fact that he keeps describing electronic music/EDM as "dancey" and "trancey" is super funny. Like, EDM does have the word "dance" in its name, but nobody calls it "dancey", Louis. You sound like an old man.

About Common People:

"I'm from Doncaster, and me friends, and me family, and Doncaster, and I'm just a lad from Doncaster."

About Angels Fly:

The technical commentary is limited to "it has a big chorus." Moving on.

About Holding On To Heartache:

"It's a bit more pop. I think fans will like it." is the extent of his analysis. He's actually incapable of uttering a single technical sentence. It's incredible.

About Lucky Again:

He gives lots of credit to one of his collaborators (Vincent McMorrow), which is nice of him. Once again he cannot articulate what's so good about good ol' Vince. He's just "an absolute genius" and "constantly challenging different ideas." What those ideas are, we won't find out.

He then starts to talk about a concept, loses train of thought mid-sentence, and he says (and I quote) "We’ll just scrap that. I can’t remember what it was… fucking some line." Why wasn't this edited out? I truly cannot even begin to understand.

About That's The Way love Goes:

"Me mates, and Doncaster, and me mates..."

He then again talks about having a Wall Of Sound, and at this point I'm getting extreme second-hand embarrassment because I can totally picture him describing loud songs like that in front of very well educated musicians, who in turn would have to contain their laughter and do their very best not to correct him.

And that's the end of it. I think I've given him enough opportunities to talk about songwriting. He doesn't know the first thing about it.

When I say I want him to talk about technical stuff or about the process. I mean stuff like this:

"'Fine Line' I wrote during a gap in the tour. It was January 2018 and I was at my friend Tom's house, who I work with, and we just started strumming this thing, and we started layering these vocals, and it turned into this 6-minute thing. (...) I wanted it to turn into something else at the end, I wanted like a big crescendo ending. While we were in Bath, Sammy [his engineer] started playing this little thing on the piano, and I tweaked it a little bit, and I was like 'That has to go at the end of Fine Line.'"

Harry for NPR in 2019

I don't need him to discuss this sort of thing as if he was a Juilliard professor. But just... some idea of the technical aspects of it. Like layering the vocals, wanting a crescendo. And HE did it, HE tweaked it, HE got the idea of adding it to Fine Line. It's a collaborative effort, for sure, but he's an integral part of it, because at the end of the day it's HIS song.

"That's just a voice note of my ex-girlfriend talking. I was playing guita and she took a phone call — and she was actually speaking in the key of the song."

Harry for Rolling Stone in 2019

Super simple and short, but it explains an artistic decision (adding Camille's voice at the end of Cherry), and why he made it, and how HE made it, how it was his idea and his decision, and why, musically, sonically, he chose to do it.

"It's a weird one. It started simple, but I wanted to have this big epic outro thing. And it just took shape as this thing where I thought, 'That's just like the music I want to make.' I love strings, I love horns, I love harmonies —so why don't we just put all of that in there."

Harry for Rolling Stone in 2019

More about Fine Line. Concise information about what he wants in music instead of "oh I have it in my head but I can't put it into words."

Harry: One of the songs on my record, She, we got James Gadson who played on all the early Bill Withers stuff. He's like 81. And he came and played on the record. We were like, putting down like a demo drum-thing, and we were like, "Oh, we love the sound of these drums." And they [the engineers] were like, "Oh, he's still alive." So we just got him to come play! Zane: Can I ask you what you got out of that session? When you actually got to experience a player who was inspiring the sound you were searching for, and you got to actually witness the player... Was it the feel...? Cause we can try to recapture all we want, but only one person can play like Gadson, right? Only one. Harry: Yeah. I think it's one of those things that, like. I mean, with all instruments, but with drums, and with live drums, you just can't get the feel from a machine. You can have it so it so it makes your chest drawl, but there's like a groove and a feel and a swing, that someone who's that seasoned, who has just played on anything and everything and is such a master...

Harry for Selects Beats 1, March 2020

DO YOU UNDERSTAND? A songwriter involved in his own music knows at least surface level technical stuff and can off the cuff talk about them in conversation, because he lives them. He's there as they happen. He makes the decisions and he understands what's going on. Even if they aren't a proficient drum player, they still have some level of understanding.

Same interview, talking about doing his own backing vocals:

"I do all the harmonies. I can go pretty high full voice, and then there's like a falsetto bit, and then if I'm doing really high harmonies, you wanna get like that Queen-y thing. I have like a squeal thing that's pretty up there, which you don't wanna do too often, but... I have a funny video of me recording some harmonies from the record. I'll send it to you. It's definitely squeal-y. I usually stack my own harmonies. I can't remember when I started doing it, but I try to get a crowd sound, so I just do each harmony in a different accent. And you end up with someone Scottish in there, like a French guy. And you go like London, Northerner, couple of Americans, and you end up with like an amazing crowd."

I'm using Harry as an example because he's an artist I pay a lot of attention to who has the same background and has been in the indistry for the same amount of time as Louis. They share the same resources to learn and educate themselves, perfect their own profession.

I don't think Harry is necessarily a prodigy, but he's an actual songwriter who's involved every step of the way.

And this is what I wanted to close with.

"I think that the first cut that changed it for me was the Steve Aoki song with Louis Tomlinson. I just wrote that with this amazing writer Eric Ross (...). We just wrote a bunch of stuff together, and we wrote that, and one day a couple of years after it was written I got a text, and it was like, 'Hey, Louis Tomlinson is cutting this.' And as a One Direction stan I lost my shit."

Sasha Sloan, co-writer of Just Hold On.

"Louis Tomlinson’s track ‘Silver Tounges’, from album ‘Faith In the Future’ recorded @80hertz | Engineered by @gj_atkins, recording to a Studer A80 1” tape machine (courtesy of @studio_magnetique) | Produced & written by @joejrcross"

Caption by the studio where Silver Tongues was recorded

"I was in with Andrew Jackson and Duck Blackwell, two of my collaborators, Louis wasn't there, my manager had a meeting with his management and they said 'Louis is looking for songs', the brief was like Oasis and I was like 'I don't think he should do Oasis so let's give him a pop ballad." Bryn explained that the trio didn't know much about Louis but were aware of Johannah's death and decided to channel that into the song. "It was a little bit weird, we don't know him, we don't know what he went through," he said before adding: "But we did it and we're bringing our own elements, we've all lost people so we were putting our own words into them. "We sent it to his team and he was like 'Oh my God, I've been waiting to write this song but I couldn't,' I heard that he'd been encouraged to 'write a song about my mum but I couldn't' he'd heard bits and was like 'This is it. This is what I was feeling. This is all that I wanted to do'. And so then he went, came in and wrote a bit more like the middle eight and yeah, then he released it."

Bryn Christopher, co-writer of Two Of us

James Vincent McMorrow via instagram (he has archived all posts prior to the end of 2023, so this is gone now)

I'll be fair and include this quote by Theo Hutchcraft:

"I absolutely love these lads and being part of [Louis Tomlinson's] masterplan and creative vision has been a total joy. He deserves it all."

It does absolutely nothing to convince me that this "masterplan" and "creative vision" was anything other than him giving out vague notes that he couldn't otherwise describe.

This is what Harry's collaborators have to say about him:

"The other thing that happened with me not being there at first was that Harry got to lead the room. He didn’t have to sit there and constantly feel like he’s got to defer to me. Harry was the boss. And they all just bonded so hard and it just became the dream scenario, and everyone contributed in such a fantastic way. (...) I wanted it to be something that Harry really felt was his baby, making his creative mark. With me, if it comes from the artist, that’s the best thing. If it’s real, people are going to know it’s real. (...) I’m hopeful that we’re gonna do many more albums—this is just the beginning. But I thought it was really important to set the tone of, “We’re gonna do exactly what’s in your heart, Harry.” (...) And what a luxury to have Mitch and Ryan, where they could come up with an idea and it could just be tracked and sound like a record instantly. And that’s how “Sign of the Times” happened. Harry was playing it on the piano and we fleshed it out a little bit. Then he jumped on the mic, I played piano and we cut that whole record in three hours."

Jeff Bhasker, producer of HS1

"He had asked for a specific guitar, which I loved. He knew my music well enough to request a specific sound from a specific instrument. I got there and he said, 'Let's eat.' We ordered food, we sat, we talked, we laughed. (...) And then we went in and spent the day recording. When I watched Harry track his vocals, it was a singing lesson in its own way."

Ben Harper, who played guitar on Boyfriends.

"One of my favorite parts of the session was after the session, because as I was loading out all my gear Harry invited me to stick around because he wanted to finish the song right then and there. To get to watch Harry in his process was eye-opening, and I learned a lot. He orchestrated the vocal harmonies like a classical composer, spot on, note for note. He just stacked them perfectly in pitch, one better than the next, and it was really eye-opening to see somebody step on the mic and have the parts orchestrated in his head. I’ve never seen anything like it. actually."

More of Ben Harper

“Day one, we’re writing a song, and [Harry] came up with this piano part. And then I was like, ‘Oh, that could be faster. And you could do this chord, and we could do this.’ ” That evolved into “Late Night Talking,”

Kid Harpoon, producer of Fine Line and Harry's House

We recorded the song at Rob Stringer’s house in England. We moved all the furniture out and put a drum kit in the TV room. “As It Was” was done in that setup. Harry came in with a riff idea, and we ran with it. It’s a funny one because it happened so quickly that I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to recreate that magic again — it was just so good. Lyrically, what I love about Harry on this whole album, is that he has a lot to say but he can tease meaning. What’s going on in his life is intertwined in that song, and in that line, “Harry, you’re no good alone.” I love the way he built the lyrics across his whole record, so when I think about “As It Was” I think about the whole album, to be honest.

More from Kid Harpoon

I could go on...

If Louis isn't interested in that sort of thing, that's fine. He doesn't have to be an involved songwriter. But then his fans should act accordingly. The Hags, specifically, who continue to pedal this idea that Harry is dumb, a puppet, who takes credit for his producers ideas, who can't explain the songwriting process. The projecting is off the charts. And it's why I needed to include this section about Harry.

There's actually a final part to this series, which is analyzing his lyrics. I thought I might be able to put it in this post, but it's already long enough, so I'm going to split it.

But bottom line, there isn't a single musical bone in Louis' body. He's not curious or interested in music, clearly. He got lucky he got put in a band because his looks fit what the producers of the X Factor were looking for. And he got lucky that his bandmates were charismatic, naturally talented, and also good-looking.

He could perfect his voice, he could learn instruments, he could study music. He could do something to improve. He's had the time, the money, and the resources for a very long time. The fact that in almost 15 years he hasn't, isn't just telling of his lack of natural talent, but also of his own lazy personality.

[kylesvariouslistsandstuff]

The Subtle British Pop Culture/Timeline In CHICKEN RUN

On occasion, I've pointed out when the original CHICKEN RUN is set.

It's often been written that CHICKEN RUN was "set in the '50s", a sort of vague descriptor of its rather dreary post-war England setting. One could assume that from the technology present in the movie, and the homages to 1950s prisoner-of-war films. The obvious ones being STALAG 17 (the number 17 is on the main hut that the chickens all plot in) and THE GREAT ESCAPE. The character Fowler was of the mascot division of the Royal Air Force during World War II. All that talk about his medals. Chocks away!

The easiest way to pinpoint when CHICKEN RUN is set, at the earliest, is knowing what the songs are.

The chickens, in a hut, dance to a cover of Joe Turner's 'Flip, Flop and Fly', Turner's original was released in 1955, an early example of a rock n' roll song. Britain certainly had rock n' roll in a pre-Beatles era, but it doesn't seem as well-known to the average American as American rockers - you know, Elvis, Little Richard, etc. - are to Brits.

Later in the film, Rocky the rooster is jamming out to 'The Wanderer' by Dion.

The song first appeared in North America in November of 1961 - both as a single and as an album track on RUNAROUND SUE (the title track another big hit for him), and if you look in the opening credits sequence, Mrs. Tweedy works with a calendar that says "November"... However, 'The Wanderer' was first released in the UK in January of 1962. And it doesn't seem like much time has passed since the opening credits and the end of the movie...

'The Wanderer' reached #10 in the UK, which was great for an American rock/pop song over there... If anything, the movie is likely set in November/December 1962, so that was plenty of time for 'The Wanderer' to climb the charts, and then be played on the radio every once in a while. Things took a little while in a pre-streaming age, ya know? *waves cane* *I'm actually not that old, nowhere near lol I just love this kinda pop culture history*

So CHICKEN RUN is still kind of a post-war/pre-Beatles England, and it's set in a secluded location inhabited by a middle-aged couple who likely wouldn't have had any idea what was going in the teen beat scene. The Beatles' 'Love Me Do', the single that really put them on the map in the UK, was released in early October of 1962. Being their first true single (not the 'My Bonnie' recording they did in Germany with Tony Sheridan), it charted at a great #17 in the UK... Which of course was nothing compared to what was to come, the strings of #1s, or at least close to that. 'Please Please Me' was the second single, released in January 1963, it hit #2 in the UK. Beatlemania pretty much becomes a thing in the UK by the middle of 1963... It would take a little while for us yanks to catch the fever...

Anyways, CHICKEN RUN is set in November/December 1962. Or maybe it's 1963, who knows, but I think it's pre-Beatlemania rural England. Yorkshire to be exact.

It's kinda funny how the Disney animated ONE HUNDRED AND ONE DALMATIANS shares some similarities in this regard. That film was released in January 1961, and is set in both London and rural England. Its second half during the late fall/early winter no less. The puppies arrive in October, as stated in the film, and the film ends during Christmastime. Snow everywhere, dreary atmosphere, etc.... And then you have the Tweedys in CHICKEN RUN. Mrs. Tweedy is kind of a combination of Cruella de Vil *and* Jasper. She's got the contempt for animals like Cruella, and is taller and the brains like Jasper. Horace, the shorter, pudgier one in the equation - who is onto what the animals are doing but isn't believed, is totally Mr. Tweedy.

That brings us to the recently-released CHICKEN RUN: DAWN OF THE NUGGET... The sequel swaps prisoner-of-war movies and World War II imagery for James Bond and MISSION: IMPOSSIBLE. Spy movies in general.

One look at Mrs. Tweedy's high-tech new factory shows that in *spades*. But the folks at Aardman Animations did their homework, a lot of the details and background design and such, it legitimately looks like the lair of a supervillain in a '60s spy movie. Much like how Nomanisan Island does in THE INCREDIBLES, another very midcentury modern-inspired movie and franchise. There's also that charming UPA-esque cartoon on how the chickens are processed into nuggets, great stuff there. I also kind of get a bit of a Gerry Anderson vibe here, too. He was known for marionette shows - done in a process called "Supermarionation" - like THUNDERBIRDS and CAPTAIN SCARLET AND THE MYSTERONS. I assume most of the crew behind these movies grew up watching those shows.

And of course, a big indicator... Towards the end of the film, all the chickens - brainwashed by mind-control collars that make them all happy-go-lucky - are being forced up an escalator to a popcorn chicken death. In this pretty creepy sequence, they're all doing this while Cliff Richard's 'Summer Holiday' plays in the background. The bright, pastel-colored set adorned with simplistic countryside-looking hills that these chickens are brainwashed in before they are to be ground into fast food is reminiscent of vintage British and European children's programs. I was thinking of stuff like THE MAGIC ROUNDABOUT and such, which was also a stop-motion production.

Oh yeah, 'Summer Holiday'. That song came out in January 1963, it was the title song for a movie that was *huge* in England when it first came out. Cliff Richard is the prime example of a pre-Beatles British pop/rock star, I feel he's almost synonymous with that period of British pop music before John, Paul, George, and Ringo showed up. So, CHICKEN RUN 2 is set *after* January 1963. Plus, Ginger and Rocky's daughter Molly needed some time to grow up a bit.

Either this was intentional or not, but it strangely adds up. It's pretty chronological, either by accident or they made sure they didn't have too many anachronisms... Other than the cartoonishly high tech of Mrs. Tweedy's Fun-Land Farms, but then again, the pie machine in the original CHICKEN RUN was kind of improbable too. But that's the fun of the CHICKEN RUN movies, so it's a staple.

And even in other Aardman works, there are fun nods to British pop culture and media. For example, in WALLACE & GROMIT: THE CURSE OF THE WERE-RABBIT, Art Garfunkel's 'Bright Eyes' can be heard on the car radio in one scene. Garfunkel is American, yes, but 'Bright Eyes' was composed and recorded for the soundtrack of the British animated classic WATERSHIP DOWN. Just in case you've never seen or even heard of that movie. WATERSHIP DOWN is about rabbits, and in the WALLACE & GROMIT movie, they're dealing with rabbits! Quite clever.

Another favorite of mine is in FARMAGEDDON: A SHAUN THE SHEEP MOVIE. Of course, Shaun the Sheep is spun off from WALLACE & GROMIT, he appeared in the short film A CLOSE SHAVE. The second SHAUN THE SHEEP movie brings in science fiction and aliens, a real 180 from the small-scale first film. At the end of the film, the Farmer accidentally gets onto the UFO and is not on Earth anymore! Before they get him back, a song called 'Forever Autumn' can be heard playing on a radio.

'Forever Autumn' is a rewrite of a Lego commercial jingle composed by Jeff Wayne in 1969, with lyrics by Gary Osborne and Paul Vigrass. The two lyricists recorded the first version of that song in 1972 for an album called QUEUES. A couple years later, Jeff Wayne got the idea to do a musical version of H. G. Wells' THE WAR OF THE WORLDS. A musical album, bringing in several mostly British talents to retell - through story and song - the British sci-fi staple. 'Forever Autumn' was covered for the album, with lead vocals sung by Justin Hayward of The Moody Blues. Of course, another British group... all for the section of the album in which the protagonist - a journalist - fears his wife had been killed in the Martian invasion. "'Cause you're not here." Which is the lyric heard in FARMAGEDDON when they realize that the Farmer went to outer space!

(It takes a special kind of skill to take such a depressing song and make it FUNNY in any context.)

Anyways, those are just a couple examples off the top of my head. Aardman's work is distinctly British, to the core. And the CHICKEN RUN movies give me a fascinating idea of when they are set, a very cartoon British '60s.

[soprawrites]

In the Dark

Shinji Hirako x reader

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨🎃୧ ⋆ ˚｡⋆ Prompt 3 from Spooktober Prompts List

🕸️ CW: sfw, established relationship, gender-neutral reader, fluff, haunted houses

🕸️ WC: 1,233

🕸️ Notes: Wanted to write something small for Halloween! Saw the prompt from the list and immediately thought of Shinji. Divider credit: @estrelinha-s

It’s a crisp fall night, the moon high up in the sky and casting down its silvery glow. It’s the perfect night to cuddle up with a nice cozy blanket, warm mug in your hand as you read a book or watch a movie. Instead, however, you find yourself at a Halloween festival with Shinji. He had surprised you with a date, saying that the two of you should partake in the festivities before the spooky season is over and done with. You went along with him, curious to see where he would take you.

The festival is decorated with all sorts of Halloween decor; pumpkins with faces carved into them, skeletons propped up throughout various areas, fake spider webs lining bushes and trees, lights strung about and giving the place an orange glow. The people working the event are also dressed in costumes, adding to the vibe. There are a couple of food stalls selling themed treats and various goods vendors as well. The festival also contains a couple of attractions; a small pumpkin patch, a theater that’s playing Halloween movies, and a haunted house. Eerie music plays in the background completing the atmosphere.

“Well, whaddaya think?” Shinji asks, a wide toothy grin on his face.

“It’s cute! Definitely gets me in the Halloween spirit.”

“Good, let’s go to the haunted house!” Shinji grabs your hand, leading you towards the very end of the festival where the haunted house sits, dark and looming.

“Shinji, right off the bat? Don’t you want to do something else first? I think I saw that we could carve our own pumpkins over there.” You point in the opposite direction toward the pumpkin patch, pulling your hand out of his grasp and trying to halt him in his tracks. He glances back at you, an annoying and cocky smirk on his face.

“What, ya scared?”

Rolling your eyes, you sigh playfully. “No, that’s not it. Don’t you wanna save the best for last? I don’t want to do the house right away.”

He glances at the haunted house and then back at you before his face splits again, a teasing gleam in his warm brown eyes. “It’s ok if ya don’t wanna. All ya hafta do is admit it.”

“Ugh, fine! You want to do the haunted house so bad then let's go and get it over with.” You rush past him in the direction of the haunted attraction, standing in the short line. Shinji follows after you, snickering at your reaction as he stands next to you. You fight the urge to smile from his laughter—it always makes you laugh without a doubt—but you can tell that he can see the amusement on your face.

As the line moves down, your turn gets closer and closer as you hear screams coming from the inside of the building. When it’s finally your turn, the attendant gives you a smile that sends a shiver down your spine before wishing you both good luck. Shinji holds his hand out to you as you walk inside the house. “Wanna hold my hand?”

“It’s ok.” You ignore him as you take a look at the decorations around you, Shinji huffing and rolling his eyes at your dismissal. It seems they’re going for a more old-fashioned theme, the house having rugged vintage furnishings and decor. If you recall correctly from the sign outside, the house is supposedly haunted by the old lord of the estate and his victims. It’s a somewhat classic theme, but you're interested to see where it goes nonetheless.

“This place is way too gaudy fer my tastes.” Shinji criticizes as he eyes an ornate table in one corner. “Hmm, you think? Don’t you have a lamp similar to that though?” You question, pointing out to an antique lamp that looks very similar to the one Shinji has in his room. “Mine looks nothin’ like that.” He dismisses, an impassive expression on his face. You raise your eyebrow, about to retort when a loud bang sounds behind the both of you. Startled, you jump as you glance behind you and see a scare actor looking at you creepily. Exchanging a glance with Shinji, the both of you continue your pace down the hall, working your way through the haunted mansion.

As you make your way through, a variety of jump scares occur; flickering lights, more loud and creepy noises, and actors coming out to surprise you. You take them all in stride, only a handful of them scaring you and making you jump and stand a little closer to Shinji. You can feel the smug aura radiating off of him whenever that happens and you just know that he’s thriving off of seeing you scared and moving closer to him. Though you bet he wants more—to see you clutching onto him or holding his hand—you don’t want to give him that satisfaction.

You both finally make your way toward the final bit of the haunted attraction, the exit in sight. Before you can make it any closer to the exit, however, the lights suddenly go out, making you unable to see anything in front of you. It’s a bit unnerving as you try to feel around in front of you, not wanting to trip.

“Aww, are ya so afraid of the dark that ya need me to hold yer hand?” You can hear the smug smirk in his voice, but before you comment on it his words hit you. “Uhh, I’m not holding your hand Shinji.” There’s a brief moment of silence as Shinji processes what you said.

“Then whose…”

His voice trails off, when suddenly the dim lights flicker back on. You blink your eyes a couple of times—having gotten used to the dark—when the sight before you makes you pause. Shinji is standing in front of you, holding hands with a scare actor dressed as a dead old lady who is staring at him with a haunted look on her face. He lets out a short yell as he yanks his hand out of her grasp, grabbing your wrist and making a beeline for the exit. You’re laughing, tears coming out of your eyes, as he drags you out and away from the haunted house. He doesn’t stop until you’re further away from the attraction.

“Alright, ya can stop laughin’ now. It wasn’t that funny.” Shinji grumbles, mouth set straight and looking unimpressed.

“Oh! Sorry, sorry. Right.” You take a deep breath to compose yourself but when you look at Shinji, you start laughing again. “Sorry, I just,” a few more giggles slip past your lips as you wipe a stray tear from the corner of your eye, “it was just so funny! You should’ve seen the look on your face.”

He rolls his eyes at your hysterical state, but seeing the way you laugh—face bright and uninhibited—has him softening his face, smiling gently. If you laughing at his expense is a way for him to see you radiant and lively, then he’d do it all over again just to see you smile.

“Whatever.” He grabs your hand, lacing your fingers together. “Wanna carve those pumpkins now?”

“Sure! I’m gonna try to carve your face just now so that you can see how funny you looked.”

On second thought, maybe he takes it back.

[ghcstao3]

I saw your tags, you have challenged me!

Scary Show AU (cw for cannibalism and murder)

Ghost is a very well-known yet still semi-anonymous Voice Actor for spooky shit. There's a huge following for him because, regardless of what role he's playing, he does a phenomenal job. He's only listed in the cast list as "S.R.Ghost"

Typically he plays the role of the creatures in this super popular show called "Cryptid Season" which follows a gang of college kids desperate for extra credit in their Biology class so they hunt cryptids as evidence/to study for their papers. He does the voice over and some of the motion capture (he's a big dude) for the monsters and such, his most famous one being "Goatman" (from the demonic Goatman's bridge in I think Texas?)

Meanwhile Soap is this animator who's starting to become really popular, and he announces a new show in the work: "Consume", where he voices one of the two lead roles. It's presented as a show about a normal, if not very lonely man, being tormented by a demonic presence in his home.

Plot twist: dude's actually a cannibalistic serial killer and ends up quickly befriending the demon. The demon helps make the man harder to track by police forces in exchange for the bones and souls of his victims.

Cast:

Soap as the killer

Ghost as the demonic entity

Gaz as a detective who's new to the case but also best friends with Soap's character

Price voices the seasoned detective who's been working this case "too damn long"

Ghost and Soap ABSOLUTELY fall in love while recording scenes together. The banter, the flirting, the sexy scenario of cutting up a corpse together; it's too much not to fall in love irl

(actually such a big brain idea but I don't know how you'd write it tbh lmao. Maybe the show itself, where the boys keep their names? Idk the original idea turned into something much greater)

took a minute to figure something out i'm ngl but i did. something (in any case i would love to see your proper takes(s) if you'd be up to it, seeing as it's your idea!! i feel like i couldn’t do it justice)

-

Just like any other actor, Ghost had to audition for the role.

His agent books it for him without consultation, knowing the project would be right up his alley—horror, monsters, no face required—and Ghost makes no argument in sending in his tape. He recognizes this process and takes no issue with it, and once out of his hands, he waits patiently for a congratulatory offer or a gentle rejection.

Just like any other movie, or show, or what have you. Consume is no different.

Supposedly. At first.

John "Soap" MacTavish is... many things. He's charming, according to most. Talented. A joy to be around. A man who wears more than several hats of a project, which certainly tells of someone trying to worm their way into the commercial industry.

He has the spirit and creativity, Ghost will allow him that. But he also doesn't know when to stop talking as soon as the important work is done.

Is Soap professional? Sure. Does Soap make sure all jobs are done with efficiency and done well? Yes, he does. Does it make him any less of a nuisance to Ghost? Absolutely not.

But Ghost would be damned if the project doesn’t find its way into his soft spots, despite its nature. He’d be damned if he doesn’t fall in love with Soap’s animations and the hard work and craft he puts into them.

Then he blinks, and the pilot is premiering. It does well (again, considering its content), and Consume is properly green-lit.

Which is when Soap proposes the idea of recording their lines in the same room. Together. Facing one another. Because banter, and chemistry, and whatever other reasons he insists upon.

Personally, Ghost wants to decline. He’s always felt somewhat awkward when recording as such with anyone, but professionally? He couldn’t really say no, could he?

And it is awkward, at first. There’s more takes than usual, and Ghost can sense Soap’s frustration, though the man never expresses it. He just plasters on a tight smile, calls for a break, and pulls Ghost aside.

Surely, surely this is where Ghost gets fired. This is where Ghost is told he’s going to be replaced, where he’s told to say goodbye to Gaz and Price and wish them luck, and move onto his next gig. This is where—

“Have I done something wrong?”

Soap’s face is so earnest. So painfully sincere.

Ghost clenches his jaw. Shakes his head.

“No, I—“ He sighs. “Just have to get used to the… face-to-face. Let’s—I’ll try again.”

Soap smiles wider, now, as he nods, something kind and warm and brilliant.

The second try goes much smoother. Ghost takes a deep breath and eases himself into scripted dialogue, into witty banter and subtle flirts like it’s any other project.

They continue to record lines as such, just the two of them, each episode at a time. At some point, Ghost worries, the line between script and show and reality gets blurred. At some point, he fears, that flirting becomes genuine.

And what would he know—the reviews only get better as that line becomes less and less clear. Natural, real-feeling dialogue, critics say. The relationship is authentic, claim viewers.

The love is actually heartfelt.

And fuck, if that doesn’t make Ghost realize a few things about himself.

About Soap.

Consume is no different, his ass. He might have to have a stern talk with his agent in the near future.

(Or not.)

[deltastra]

My Thoughts on Sonic the Hedgehog 3 Trailer

ITS HERE. AFTER NUMEROUS RUMOURED RELEASE DATES, THE TRAILER IS FINALLY HERE. GUYS I DREAMT THIS TRAILER LIKE 4 TIMES THESE PAST 6 MONTHS I WAS GOING INSANE. SPOILERS FOR THE TRAILER BELOW!!

THE DETAIL?! I LOVE IT SO MUCH. I JUST KNOW THE SHADOW ESCAPE SCENE IS GOING TO BE FIRE.

Ok so I love how compared to Sonic's soft-looking quills which looks more like fur, Shadow's quills look more spiky and rough. It's so clear that they are parallels that even their designs beautifully contrast.

"Shadow's story began a lot like yours Sonic. But where you found family and friends, Shadow found only pain and loss"

This gives me hope that they will actually adapt Project Shadow in its truest form. Especially seeing the G.U.N agents point their guns at Shadow and Gerald Robotnik who appear to be grieving. While I don't expect them to show Maria's death, I hope they at least imply it. (I feel bad for the actress but a lot of fans will cheer for her character's death because it shows that the writers care about following the source material lol)

Okay so one thing that is different is that instead of Sonic being framed and hunted by the government, he is instead asked for assistance to track down Shadow. Makes sense for their universe given the first two movies. However, I do hope Team Heroes end up betraying the authorities and let Shadow escape.

WE ARE GOING TO GET A NIGHT CITYSCAPE FIGHT I LOVE THESE TYPES OF FIGHTS AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH

ALSO KEANU REEVES SOUNDS GREAT AS SHADOW!!

AND THE TELEPORTATION? I LOVE IT! Looks like they won't portray it as "Chaos Control" but it's fine I guess!

THAT RUNNING ANIMATION ACTUALLY LOOKS MORE MENACING THAN THE GAMES WHAT THE HECK?! THAT'S SO WELL DONE!

THE FIGHTS DEFINITELY IMPROVED BASED ON THE FEW SCENES WE GOT!

Okay so this is giving me hope that they won't make Team Sonic work with the authorities. Looking at their faces, it gives me the impression that they took away their dad (possibly he is the one being framed?)

Well Jim Carrey did ask for the fat suit! Looks like he's going full Eggman now!

Bro they're doing this on purpose at this point. Man I love Agent Stone so much.

OKAY SO I KNEW THAT HE WILL HAVE A MOTORBIKE CAUSE OF WHAT PEOPLE SAID THEY SAW AT THAT CON WHERE THEY PLAYED THE TEASER BUT MAAAAAAN.

HE RLLY PULLED UP ON SONIC WITH A BIKE.

OH MAN THAT DETAIL

AKIRA REFERENCE OF COURSE THEY HAD TO!!!!!

OH HE LOOKS SO COOL IM GOING TO EXPLODE.

THIS. This is why I love night cityscape battles. They look so beautiful.

WAIT SO GERALD IS ALIVE IN THIS UNIVERSE...INTERESTING. I love how the actor matches Jim Carrey's Eggman!

OKAY SO FIRST OF ALL GUYS, GOD THIS TRAILER WAS LIKE 5% OF WHAT I SAW IN MY DREAMS SO IM HAPPY.

Jokes aside, perfect. I love this trailer so much and it was worth the hype. I'm so excited to watch this movie despite the few minor events that they changed in order to properly incorporate this story into the movie universe.

I doubt Amy or Rouge will appear but that's fine. Maybe for a post-credit scene I think.

Shadow is definitely the star of the show here. The detail on his quills, his voice, and his behaviour is all so good. I'm sure they'll give Shadow's character justice. I'm assuming Project Shadow will be the prologue in the movie before the title card drops but thats just me predicting stuff!

AAAAAAAAAAAAH IM SO EXCITED GUYS HEHEHEHE