#but next year there will be even MORE fibre!!

[theonottsbxtch]

LOVE - LOCKED | FC43

an: this is based off of this request and i hope you like it bc i had sm fun writing a romantic slightly angsty thing i cant wait to hear what y'all thin, i also think it may be slightly rushed tho so lol ALSO LOL WE'RE GONNA PRETEND CARLOS IS YOUNGER IN THIS BC I NEEDED HER TO BE HIS OLDER SISTER

summary: carlos' sister has lived her life completely separated from him and their family name, instead she went and made a name for herself in the tennis world - she likes her life like that. that is until she meets franco colapinto

wc: 8.7k

The roar of engines, even from a distance, unsettled her.

They reminded her of the long days her father and brother spent in garages, the low rumble of motors and sharp tang of fuel in the air. Those were the hours she’d spend alone, working on her serve in the empty court across town, each hit ricocheting off the walls with a hollow, lonely echo. Her own choice, of course. She’d had no interest in the world of carbon fibre and grease, no desire to be the girl who simply tagged along, her name always in her brother’s shadow.

Now, years later, she’d become someone entirely on her own terms. A name people knew on its own — Vázquez de Castro — a name that meant something outside of her family, outside of her brother’s fame.

She slipped her phone into her bag and looked around the chaotic pit lane. Journalists, engineers, teams in matching shirts, faces alight with anticipation for the weekend's race. She knew she’d stand out here; her face might be familiar, but she was a stranger in this world.

The hum of voices around her faded as she felt his gaze. She’d been hoping to move through unnoticed, just a face in a sea of faces, but there he was: tall, familiar, unmistakably Carlos. His brow furrowed in surprise as he caught sight of her, his quick steps carrying him closer before she had a chance to dodge. She braced herself, turning to him with a calm that she didn’t quite feel.

“No aquí,” she murmured, her voice low, hoping that would be enough to keep curious ears at bay.

He paused, just a moment, his expression softening in understanding, and he tilted his head, his face somewhere between a grin and a frown. “You came.”

It wasn’t an accusation exactly — more surprise than anything. But she couldn’t miss the faint hope in his eyes, as if he thought she might be here to see him, to share a piece of his world after all this time. She let his words linger for a beat before she replied, her tone steady.

“I was invited,” she said, giving a slight shrug, “by Fernando.” She gestured vaguely in the direction of the green and silver canopy, keeping her tone casual, but she saw his shoulders fall ever so slightly.

He nodded, glancing away for a moment, his jaw set. “Right. Fernando.”

There was something she wanted to say, something to soften the look in his eyes, but the pit lane was crowded, the eyes and cameras trained on every inch of the paddock sharper than she’d ever expected. They’d notice anything. And the last thing she wanted was for the papers to start spinning stories, putting her under a headline right next to him.

She touched his arm briefly. “Te hablo en el hotel. I’ll speak to you at the hotel.”

As she made her way toward the exit, ready to slip back into the background and disappear, she heard a voice calling out just over the rumble of engines and chatter.

“¡La princesa española!”

The words were unmistakable, lilting and clear, even with the crowd and machinery all around. The Spanish Princess. The nickname made her falter. It was something she sometimes heard on the tennis courts in Madrid or whispered by fans in distant cities when she played in international tournaments. But here? She scanned the area, puzzled at who would recognise her in this world of racing.

When she turned, her eyes met those of someone unfamiliar yet striking. He was tall, with an easy, disarming smile, his race suit gleaming with the bright, bold colours of his team’s livery. He looked young, not much older than she was, but he carried himself with that unmistakable energy she’d seen in rising stars before. The rookie, she realised, though she hadn’t kept up enough to know his name.

He held her gaze a moment too long, that same smile lingering as he approached, his eyes sparking with something between amusement and curiosity. She felt herself tense, almost involuntarily, her instinct telling her to slip away, to avoid whatever came next.

“Es realmente la princesa española,” he said, his tone playful yet certain.

Then it hit her.

Franco.

That was his name.

Franco’s grin widened as he closed the distance between them, his eyes bright with an almost boyish enthusiasm. “Soy un gran admirador de tu trabajo,” he said, his Argentine accent softening his words. “I’ve watched almost all your matches — I love the way you play.”

She blinked, taken aback. This wasn’t the usual kind of recognition she got, especially not here. She could count on one hand how many times she’d been recognised in public. She looked at him, trying to reconcile this confident young driver with the earnest fan in front of her.

“¿Me conoces?” The question slipped out before she could think, her voice tinged with disbelief.

He raised an eyebrow, his smile never faltering. “¿Quién no te conoce?” he replied, with a touch of humour. “La princesa española, queen of the clay court, unstoppable backhand — yeah, I know you.”

There was something genuine in his tone, something that set him apart from the usual strangers who said they knew her. 

And before she could stop herself, she found herself almost smiling. She cleared her throat, searching for a response, but her mind was blank. What could she say? That she knew nothing of him, or any of these people — that she had only set foot here today by chance?

She settled for a simple, “Gracias.”

Franco’s curiosity didn’t waver. He leaned in slightly, folding his arms with an amused glint in his eyes. “So, what brings la princesa española to the F1 paddock?”

She shrugged lightly, careful not to reveal too much. “I’m here as one of Fernando Alonso’s guests. Aston Martin.” She left it at that, hoping he wouldn’t dig further. Noticing that she looked a bit like another driver on the paddock. Thankfully, he didn’t.

His grin only grew wider, and she had the feeling that her mystery intrigued him. “Well then, if you’re one of Fernando’s guests, that means you’re not tied to my team,” he said with a glint of mischief. “Come with me — I’ll give you a tour of my garage. It’ll be like… a private tour.”

She hesitated, her gaze shifting back toward the exit, where she’d planned to slip out and leave all of this behind. If she went with him, there was a chance people would recognise her, start to connect her with her brother’s world. She’d spent her whole career carefully avoiding this — the headlines, the whispers, the inevitable questions about why she’d chosen such a different path. But the look on his face, that open, boyish enthusiasm, was hard to resist.

She let out a sigh, then looked up at him with a sudden, defiant glimmer in her eye. “Screw it. ¿Por qué no?”

His whole face lit up. She could practically see the excitement radiating off him as he extended his hand, his confidence a little too easy, a little too certain. She eyed his hand for a moment before raising an eyebrow and crossing her arms.

“Modales,” she chided, her tone playful. “I’ve known you for five minutes. We’re not dating.”

“Yet,” he replied without missing a beat, a spark in his eyes.

Despite herself, she smiled, a real one, something she hadn’t felt since stepping into the paddock that day.

He led her through the bustling paddock with an easy confidence, weaving between crew members, equipment, and cameras as if none of it could touch him. She was impressed, though she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of saying so. The chaos of the pit lane, the narrow spaces and the clang of metal, all seemed to bend around him.

When they reached his team’s garage, he stopped by a young assistant stationed just outside, who looked at them with curious eyes.

“Do me a favour,” he said, barely containing his grin, “and grab a VIP lanyard for Williams’ guests, will you?”

The assistant glanced at her, his eyes widening slightly in recognition before he nodded and ducked away, returning a moment later with a crisp, team-branded lanyard. Franco took it with a pleased smile, then held out his hand for hers. She unclipped the Aston Martin lanyard from her neck and handed it over, watching with a mix of surprise and amusement as he replaced it with the one from his own team.

“There,” he said, adjusting the lanyard’s position with exaggerated care. “Now you’re officially part of the team.”

She couldn’t hold back her smirk. “You know, I don’t think lanyards change allegiances so easily.”

“Maybe not. But I do think it’s an improvement.” He winked, stepping back to admire his handiwork. “Besides, the only lanyard you should be wearing here is mine.”

She laughed, caught off guard by his unfiltered charm, as he held out his arm with an exaggerated flourish. “And now, mi princesa, a grand tour.”

He led her into the garage, his tone switching between informative and teasing as he explained the various stations. “Over here, we have the engineering bay — where the magic of data happens.” He gestured toward a row of monitors displaying endless streams of numbers. “And these guys in the corner? They’re the wizards of aerodynamics. Make a mess, they won’t let you forget it.”

As they moved through each section, he offered her a glimpse into the world of F1, his energy and excitement almost contagious. She watched him with quiet intrigue; he seemed to belong here completely, as if he thrived in the chaos and intensity of it all.

“Now, over here,” he continued, leaning a bit closer to her as they approached a sleek wall of tires and tools, “this is where I go for my pre-race pep talks. I think it helps the tires, too.”

She arched an eyebrow. “You talk to the tires?”

“Only on occasion,” he said with a mock-serious nod. “And they listen. Or at least, I hope they do.” He grinned again, that glimmer of mischief in his eyes. “Besides, they never talk back.”

She couldn’t help but roll her eyes, but there was a smile in it, one she couldn’t quite suppress. He was disarming, funny in a way that felt refreshingly different from the sharp, serious world she’d known. He noticed the hint of a smile and held her gaze, leaning in just slightly.

Before she could say anything else, Franco led her deeper into the garage, weaving through the maze of tools, car parts, and engineers, who looked up now and then with curious glances. She followed, intrigued despite herself, and finally, unable to keep silent, asked, “Where are we going?”

“You’ll see,” he said, shooting her a look over his shoulder that was both charming and infuriatingly vague.

He stopped in front of a nondescript door tucked away from the bustle of the main garage. She glanced around, realising they were in the private part of the team’s area. He opened the door to his driver room, gesturing for her to step inside. The room was small but comfortable, filled with team memorabilia, spare racing gloves, and a neat rack of team-branded clothes. Before she could take it all in, he went over to a stack of neatly folded shirts and pulled one from the pile.

He turned back to her, holding up the shirt with a proud smile. “Here,” he said, offering it to her. “Wear this tomorrow.”

She raised an eyebrow, glancing between him and the shirt with mock scepticism. “Bold of you to assume I’d wear your merch.”

His grin only widened. “I think you’d look great in it,” he said, undeterred. “Besides, it’d be an honour to have la princesa española in my colours.”

She took the shirt, running her fingers over the soft fabric, and met his gaze with a slight smirk. “I’ll think about it.”

“Good enough for me,” he replied, his eyes glinting with satisfaction. He looked like he wanted to say more, but just then, his phone buzzed on the nearby table, and he glanced at it with a slight frown before pocketing it again.

“So,” he continued, his tone shifting to something a little more casual, “what are you doing for dinner?”

The question surprised her. She hadn’t planned on lingering much longer after her brother’s race prep finished. She hadn’t planned on any of this, really. But he was watching her expectantly, and for a moment, she let herself consider it.

“Dinner?” she repeated, raising an eyebrow in mock suspicion. “You’re not very subtle, are you?”

“Not at all,” he admitted with a grin. “What do you say? Let me take you out. I promise I’m as good at picking places to eat as I am at tours.”

She couldn’t resist a small laugh. “Alright,” she said, glancing up at him with an easy smile. “I’ll see you for dinner.”

He opened his mouth to say something more, but just then, a voice called out from down the hallway. “Franco man, we’ve been looking all around for you!” A team manager appeared in the doorway, looking equal parts exasperated and amused.

Franco sighed, flashing her an apologetic look as he straightened. “Duty calls,” he muttered with a smirk. He lingered a moment, as if reluctant to leave, then glanced back at her with a warm smile.

“I’ll leave you to it,” she said, feeling a thrill she hadn’t expected. “See you tonight.”

He nodded, his grin returning full force, then turned to follow the manager out, giving her a final, backward glance that lingered just a second too long.

Back in her hotel room, she brushed a final touch of mascara over her lashes and glanced at her phone, where a text from Franco glowed on the screen.

Franco: “Ready whenever you are. No rush. See you soon :)”

She couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at her lips. Tonight felt surprisingly… normal. Like she was just someone getting ready for a date, no stakes attached. She straightened her dress, checked her reflection, and took a steadying breath.

A soft knock at her door snapped her from her thoughts, and she felt a small flutter of excitement, assuming it was him. But when she opened the door, her breath caught.

Her brother stood there, his expression a mixture of confusion and something she couldn’t quite read. She masked her surprise quickly, stepping aside to let him in, though her voice was firm. “I can talk for a bit, but I have plans tonight.”

“With Franco?” he asked, eyebrows raised.

She narrowed her eyes slightly, caught off guard. “How did you know?”

He gave a soft, humourless laugh, crossing his arms. “I saw you two in the paddock,” he said. “And I overheard him talking about it in the garage. Apparently, he couldn’t stop telling anyone who’d listen about his ‘date with la princesa de España.’” He looked at her, and his voice softened. “So why is it you have no problem being seen with him, but not with your own brother?”

His question hung heavily in the air, the familiar tension between them settling back into place. She took a breath, struggling for the right words. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to be seen with him — it was the weight of everything that came with it. The press, the fans, the inevitable comparisons. She could already see the headlines if they were spotted together, her name placed directly beside his, stripping away the hard-won independence she’d fought for.

She sighed, glancing at him. “It’s not… about you,” she said carefully. “It’s just… everything that comes with it. You know how it is.”

He shook his head, looking slightly hurt. “I don’t know, actually. I’ve always thought we were supposed to be in this together. But I feel like… I don’t know, like you’re just trying to run from anything that connects us.”

She sighed, leaning against the doorframe, her voice dropping to something softer, more serious. “It’s not that I don’t want to be seen with you,” she said, choosing her words carefully. “I just don’t want to be known as Carlos’ sister everywhere I go. I’ve worked hard to build my own name, my own career, and sometimes… being around you, it overshadows that.”

Her brother studied her, his face a mix of understanding and something else, a flash of protective instinct. “You know, if you date Franco, you’ll just end up being known as his girlfriend,” he said, raising an eyebrow.

She let out a soft laugh, shaking her head. “It’s just a date, Carlos. Nothing more.”

He shrugged, his mouth quirking in a small smile. “Yeah, well, with him, nothing ever stays ‘just’ anything. Just saying.”

She rolled her eyes, but there was a warmth behind it. “Thanks for the concern, but I’ll be fine.”

They shared a quiet moment of understanding before she gently nudged him toward the door. “Go get some rest. And good luck tomorrow. I’ll be cheering from the sidelines.”

The evening was soft and cool, the sky painted in shades of violet and indigo as the city stretched out below them. The balcony they’d stepped onto was tucked away from the bustling noise of the hotel, private and intimate, offering only the sounds of the night breeze and the occasional far-off hum of the city.

Franco had arranged it all—quiet, serene, away from prying eyes. The dinner was simple but elegant: a few delicate dishes of fresh seafood, wine that wasn’t too heavy, just enough to let the conversation flow freely. It was just the two of them, and she realised as she stood there, her hand brushing the railing, how rare that felt.

She’d worn a dress that was understated, yet elegant—a deep midnight blue that mirrored the evening sky, the fabric light enough to catch the breeze. She hadn’t given it much thought; it wasn’t for anyone but herself. But when Franco first saw her, the look in his eyes told her that, maybe, it had been the right choice after all.

His gaze lifted from the table where he had been adjusting the wine glasses, and the moment he saw her, the words spilled out before he could even stop them.

“Dios mío, qué hermosa estás.” His voice was low, his gaze sweeping over her with a mixture of surprise and admiration.

She felt her cheeks flush, the compliment unexpected but not unwelcome. She had been nervous about the evening, unsure of what this was or what it would become. But his words, simple and sincere, relaxed something inside her.

“Gracias,” she replied with a small smile, feeling the warmth in her chest spread, her eyes meeting his.

He stood up, taking a small step toward her as if to take in the full picture, his gaze never leaving her face. “I swear,” he continued, his voice filled with genuine awe, “I didn’t think it was possible, but you’re even more stunning than earlier. It's like... you're glowing.”

She laughed softly, shaking her head. “I think you’re just being kind.”

“No,” he said firmly, shaking his head as he closed the distance between them. “I’m not the kind of guy to throw compliments around just to be polite. Te ves increíble, you look incredible.”

After a decent amount of eating, a stretched out silence, Franco spoke up. “So,” he began, his voice casual but warm, “what’s it like to be the la princesa española outside of tennis?”

She raised an eyebrow, taking a sip of her wine. “I don’t really think of myself as that,” she said lightly. “It’s just a nickname.”

“I don’t know,” he teased. “I think it suits you. You have a... regal air about you.” His eyes glinted with mischief as he added, “I’m sure you’d never get away with being late for anything. Everyone would just wait for the princess to show up.”

She rolled her eyes but smiled nonetheless. “You really are persistent with those compliments, aren’t you?”

“Solo con la verdad,” he said with a grin, leaning back in his chair, clearly pleased with himself.

The evening unfolded easily after that. They spoke about everything and nothing: about their childhoods, what had brought them to this point in their careers, how it felt to always be in the spotlight. She told him stories from her tennis matches, and he shared wild tales of racing, of the constant pressure and adrenaline.

But it was the quieter moments, the small pauses between their words, that felt the most significant. When he leaned in to pass her the bottle of wine, their hands brushed, and the air seemed to thicken for a moment. His gaze lingered a bit longer than it needed to, and she noticed the subtle way his smile softened when their eyes met. She wasn’t used to this — this ease, this comfort that felt so unforced — but it was exactly what she hadn’t realised she’d been searching for.

“You know,” Franco said, his tone thoughtful, “I can’t remember the last time I had a night like this. Just—” He waved his hand toward the view, the quiet that surrounded them. “It’s nice. To not be rushing off to something. No cameras, no expectations.”

She looked out over the balcony at the skyline, the city lights twinkling in the distance. “I know what you mean. There’s always so much noise, so many people trying to pull you in different directions. It’s rare to just… be.” She turned to look at him, her voice lowering slightly. “It’s a little surreal, actually.”

His gaze softened, and for a moment, there was a silence between them that felt like a shared understanding. He leaned forward, his elbows resting on the table as he looked at her, his expression genuine. “I’m glad you’re here with me tonight. I’m glad I got to spend this time with you.”

Her heart did a little flip at the sincerity in his voice. She wasn’t sure what she had expected from the evening, but this — this felt right.

“So,” he continued, his voice lightening again, “any chance I can convince you to wear my team’s shirt tomorrow?”

She laughed, shaking her head. “You’re relentless, aren’t you?”

“I am,” he said with a wink, “but only because I know you’d look amazing in it.”

She rolled her eyes but could feel the warmth in her chest spread. “I’ll think about it,” she teased, mirroring his playful tone.

The conversation drifted back to lighter topics, the evening unfolding with ease as the world seemed to blur around them. As the night deepened, they shared stories, laughter, and quiet glances that spoke volumes. It wasn’t the fireworks, the grand gestures of a first date. But it was something else — something that felt like a beginning.

When the last of the wine was finished, and the candles flickered low, Franco stood, offering her a hand to help her to her feet. He didn’t say anything at first, but his eyes told her everything. His fingers brushed against hers, and she didn’t pull away.

As the night grew later, the air around them cooled, and they moved to the edge of the balcony, gazing out over the city. The quiet was comforting, the soft hum of distant traffic the only sound breaking the stillness between them.

She let out a small sigh, her mind wandering, and with it, the weight of everything that had brought her to this moment. She looked up at him, caught in the calm but uncertain about what this night might mean.

"Well, this has been lovely," she said, her voice light but tinged with something else. "But, just so you know… this is probably going to be our only date."

His eyebrows furrowed, his smile faltering for just a fraction of a second. “Why?” he asked, his tone suddenly laced with concern. “Have I done something wrong?”

She met his gaze, her chest tight for reasons she couldn’t quite place. There was no logical reason for her to feel that way — he had been nothing but kind, charming, and genuine all night. But there was still that lingering sense of hesitation, a wall she wasn’t sure she could bring herself to tear down.

“No,” she said quickly, shaking her head as if to reassure him. “You haven’t done anything wrong. It’s just… I don’t know if I can do this.”

He looked at her for a long moment, studying her face. The playful glint in his eyes dimmed, replaced by something softer, something quieter, as if he were trying to understand her better.

“I’m not really a person who runs from things," she said, her voice lowering slightly, unsure how to put her thoughts into words. “But there are parts of my life I’m... careful about. I can’t help but keep them to myself.”

She hesitated, feeling a strange tug in her chest. For the first time in what felt like forever, she found herself wanting to share something personal, something she had hidden away. She took a breath and let it slip out before she could second-guess herself.

“I have a brother,” she began, looking out at the city below them, trying to steady her voice. “He’s a Formula 1 driver.”

Franco froze, his brows knitting together in confusion. “Wait... what?”

She glanced at him, a slight laugh escaping her lips at the look of genuine surprise on his face. “Yeah,” she said with a sigh. “Carlos.”

He blinked, his surprise turning into a quiet sense of disbelief. “Carlos Sainz?” He repeated her brother’s name, almost as if he were trying to process it. “I had no idea…”

She looked at him, a slight sadness settling in her chest. “Most people don’t,” she said, her voice quiet now. “I never tell anyone. I’ve worked my entire life to be known for me—for what I do, not because of who I’m related to. I don’t want to live in someone’s shadow.”

Franco didn’t say anything at first, letting the silence stretch out between them. He was thinking, she could tell. It was as though he were weighing her words, weighing the tension in her tone. Then, slowly, he spoke, his voice steady but sincere.

“With me, you wouldn't,” he said, his gaze meeting hers with an intensity that took her by surprise. “You wouldn’t be in anyone’s shadow. Not if you didn’t want to be.”

She was quiet for a long moment, his words sinking in. Part of her wanted to dismiss it, wanted to keep pushing away the idea of anyone in her life stepping into that shadow. But there was something in his eyes—something honest and unwavering—that made her hesitate. He wasn’t offering her fame or status. He was offering her something far simpler. The space to be herself.

Then, he said something that made her heart skip a beat.

“I’ll be your WAG,” he said, his voice surprisingly matter-of-fact, his smile just a little crooked.

She laughed, a quick, startled sound. “What?” she teased, shaking her head. “Are you serious? ‘WAG’—really?”

He leaned in slightly, the smile still on his face but his eyes unflinching. “En serio. I’m serious.” he added with a little more emphasis, the words flowing naturally from him.

Her laughter died down, replaced by a brief, curious silence. She was still processing his words, still trying to understand how it had escalated from a simple dinner to this.

“You’re joking,” she said softly, unsure whether to laugh or take him seriously.

“No,” he7 replied, his voice now calm, almost earnest. “I’m not. Look, I get it. The whole ‘WAG’ thing... it sounds ridiculous, I know. But the way I see it, we’d be a team. You’d have my back, and I’d have yours. No shadows, no expectations, just us. What we make of it.”

She took a step back, crossing her arms as she considered what he was saying. The idea of it felt foreign, a little intimidating, but something about it also felt right in a way she hadn’t expected. No grand gestures, no drama. Just… us, as he’d said.

“Don’t you think I’d look good in a sponsored Channel crop top?” he joked, and the thought of it made her laugh.

Before she could stop it, however, her mind flashed to her brother, to the years of keeping her life private, to the way she had fought so hard to remain in the background of her family’s legacy. And yet here was Franco, offering something different. He wasn’t asking her to be a part of his world—he was offering her a partnership, an equal footing.

For the first time that evening, she allowed herself to truly think about what that might mean. To be seen, not as someone’s sister or someone’s girlfriend, but just as herself.

“Maybe... maybe it’s not such a bad idea,” she said quietly, her voice uncertain but filled with a growing sense of possibility.

Franco looked at her, a quiet confidence in his eyes. “Entonces, we’ll figure it out together. No shadows. Just us.”

“Just us.”

“You better wear my shirt tomorrow,” he said, his voice teasing but hopeful.

She smirked, folding her arms across her chest as she looked at him. “I’ll think about it.”

He raised an eyebrow, leaning slightly closer. “You better. I’ll be watching.”

She laughed, shaking her head at his persistence. “We’ll see.”

The next morning arrived with the usual rush, the anticipation of race day filling the air. She woke up to a sunlit room and a few messages on her phone, the familiar bustle of the paddock already beginning to take shape outside her window. As she moved around the room, preparing for the day ahead, her mind wandered back to the previous evening.

She stood in front of the mirror, brushing her hair back into a sleek ponytail, glancing over her outfit choices. She’d packed a nice pair of fitted trousers and a smart blouse for the day. But then, as she opened her suitcase to grab something, she saw it—the shirt.

It was sitting on top of her suitcase, folded neatly, the soft fabric of his team’s shirt catching the light. The sight of it made her pause. She could feel a flutter of uncertainty in her chest as she stared at the shirt. It wasn’t like her to let herself be swayed by someone else’s request. But something about Franco, about the way he’d looked at her, made her reconsider.

She bit her lip, considering her options. The shirt was casual, simple, but it also felt like a statement. She could wear it for him, just this once, maybe just to see how it felt. There was no harm in that, right?

She grabbed the shirt, examining it for a moment. It was an understated design—his team’s logo in the corner, a soft fabric, nothing too flashy. It wasn’t the sort of thing she would normally wear, but for some reason, she felt drawn to it. And then it hit her—maybe it wasn’t about the shirt at all. It was about the confidence to wear it, to stand beside him and let the world see her as she was, without hesitation.

She had a moment of inspiration.

Instead of simply slipping it on with jeans like she’d imagined, she decided to give it a bit of a twist. She styled it with an oversized blazer, the sleeves rolled up just enough to show off the shirt underneath, and a pair of high-waisted pants. The look was effortlessly cool, edgy, but still very much her. She paired it with a pair of sleek, minimalist sneakers, and, just before she finished, added a bold red lip to complete the ensemble.

When she looked in the mirror, she felt a sense of pride. It was a simple shirt, yes, but it was her way of wearing it. And somehow, it made her feel like she was making her own mark, not hiding behind anyone else’s expectations.

She grabbed her phone, checking the time, then sent Franco a quick message.

“I thought about it. I’ll wear the shirt. But only because it goes with my outfit.”

She added a playful winking emoji before hitting send, knowing that he’d appreciate the humour in it.

The morning was just beginning to pick up its pace as she finished getting ready. The weight of the day’s events, the race, the energy of the paddock, all began to settle in. But for the first time in a while, she felt a small sense of excitement, an eagerness she hadn’t expected. It wasn’t about the race itself, but about the people she was meeting, the connections she was making, and—perhaps most unexpectedly—what might lie ahead with Franco.

She was just about to head out of her hotel room when there was a knock on the door. She knew that knock—steady and familiar. Taking a deep breath, she opened it to find her brother standing there, his usual calm exterior softened by a quiet intensity in his gaze.

“Can we talk?” he asked, his voice low, his eyes searching hers.

She nodded, stepping back to let him in. She could tell he was a bit surprised when he saw the shirt she was wearing—the shirt of a rival team. He glanced at it, one brow raised slightly, but he didn’t comment, just closed the door behind him and leaned against the wall.

He took a deep breath, as if he’d been building up to this. “Are you… thinking of seeing him again?”

There was something tentative in the way he asked, a kind of brotherly concern that she hadn’t seen in a long time. She shrugged, trying to keep her tone casual. “Maybe. I’m considering it.”

He nodded slowly, looking away for a moment, gathering his thoughts. Then, almost hesitantly, he said, “Why are you okay with being seen with him, and not with me?”

The question landed heavily between them, and for a moment, she didn’t know how to answer. She looked at him, seeing the vulnerability in his expression, the unspoken hurt in his eyes. It was rare for him to open up like this, to say exactly what was on his mind. She let out a long breath, searching for the right words.

“It’s different,” she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Different how?” he pressed, his tone gentle but persistent.

She met his gaze, feeling a lump rise in her throat. She hadn’t realised just how much this division had affected them both, how much it lingered in moments like these. “I never felt like I was a part of your world,” she admitted, her voice trembling slightly. “It wasn’t just about you. It was Dad, too. He… he made it clear that I wasn’t cut out to be a part of it. I wasn’t… enough. Not like you.”

He looked at her, the quiet hurt in his eyes turning into something deeper, something sadder. “I didn’t know you felt that way.”

She gave him a small, sad smile. “How could you? You were busy making him proud. And you were great at it. I always saw how he looked at you, how proud he was of everything you were doing. He saw you as this… continuation of him, of his legacy. But me… I was never part of that.”

He shook his head, running a hand through his hair as he processed her words. “I never wanted it to be that way. I thought you just didn’t care about what we were doing. I thought you were happy doing your own thing.”

“I am,” she said, and she meant it. “Tennis is my world; it’s where I feel strong, where I feel like I belong. But… it didn’t come without sacrifices. I grew up watching you and Dad bond over racing, and it was like there was this door between us that was shut for good. I could watch, but I couldn’t be a part of it.”

There was a long pause, her brother absorbing her words, the weight of years of misunderstanding settling between them.

“I wish I’d known,” he said finally, his voice soft, tinged with regret. “I thought… I thought you didn’t want to be a part of it. I thought it didn’t matter to you if Dad and I had that bond. But I get it now. I see what it must’ve felt like, standing on the outside.”

They stood in silence for a moment, the weight of unspoken years filling the space between them. And then he added, “You know, you don’t have to keep yourself hidden to be in my life, right? I get it now. But it doesn’t have to be like that.”

Her throat tightened, a wave of unexpected emotion rising within her. She’d spent so long feeling like an outsider in her own family, so sure that her brother had never noticed. But now, here he was, standing in front of her, wanting to bridge that gap.

“It’s hard to just undo it all,” she admitted. “Sometimes, it feels easier to just… stay on my own path. To keep these things separate.”

He nodded, understanding. “But if you’re thinking of seeing Franco… letting yourself be part of his world… doesn’t it mean you’re ready to be seen? To be yourself, even in places that are unfamiliar?”

She considered this, his words striking a chord deep within her. He wasn’t wrong. She’d spent so long hiding parts of herself, keeping herself separate to avoid comparison or judgement. But with Franco, she hadn’t felt the same need. For once, she had felt like she could be herself—no shadows, no expectations.

“I think… I just want to find something that’s mine,” she said finally. “A space where I’m not just ‘your sister,’ where I don’t have to carry someone else’s legacy.”

Her brother gave her a soft, understanding look. “You’ve already done that. You are more than just my sister. You’ve made a name for yourself that has nothing to do with anyone else. You’re not living in anyone’s shadow… but if you ever want to step into our world—my world—I’d like to be part of yours too. Just… let me be there for you, even if it’s only sometimes.”

She nodded, feeling a sense of warmth, a sense of connection that hadn’t been there before. Maybe there was room for both worlds, after all. For the first time, she felt like she didn’t have to choose.

“I’ll think about it,” she said softly, echoing her words from last night.

He smiled, a hint of relief in his eyes. “I hope you do.”

With that, he gave her a quick, reassuring squeeze on her shoulder, a wordless acknowledgment of the unspoken bond they shared. And as he left, she felt a sense of closure, a feeling that maybe, just maybe, she didn’t have to keep running from her family’s legacy to be seen as her own person. She could walk her own path, even if it sometimes crossed into theirs.

She arrived at the paddock a little while later, weaving her way through the bustle of race day, her heart beating a little faster than usual. Wearing Franco’s shirt under her blazer felt like a small, bold choice—one that had her both excited and slightly nervous. She walked through the crowd until she reached his team’s garage, where the energy was already crackling with anticipation.

As soon as she stepped in, Franco spotted her from across the garage. His face lit up the second he saw her, and he immediately started making his way toward her. When he was close enough, he lowered his voice and said in Spanish, a playful gleam in his eyes, “Wait here for just a second. Don’t move.”

Before she could respond, he turned and jogged back toward his driver’s room, leaving her standing in the middle of the garage, a little bewildered but smiling to herself. She watched as he disappeared into the room, curious about whatever he was planning. Within a moment, he was back, holding a bouquet of flowers—a mix of deep red roses and bright sunflowers, their colours vivid against the greys and metallics of the garage.

“For you,” he said, handing them over with a grin, his accent warm and lilting. His eyes softened as he added, “To celebrate your first race day as my guest.”

She took the bouquet, feeling a rush of warmth as she held the flowers. “You know, you didn’t have to do this,” she said, trying to hide the smile tugging at her lips. “I’m just here as… well, just as me.”

“And I think that’s worth celebrating,” he replied smoothly, his gaze locked on hers with unmistakable admiration. “Besides, you didn’t say no to the shirt, so I think I’m allowed a little celebration, no?”

She laughed, her cheeks warming as she looked down at the bouquet. “Alright, fine. You win. Thank you—they’re beautiful.”

Franco glanced around the garage, then leaned in slightly, dropping his voice to a playful murmur. “You know, you’re even more beautiful than I remember from last night. I thought maybe I was exaggerating, but… no. I wasn’t.”

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t help the smile that spread across her face. “Careful, or I’ll start to think you’re trying to distract me from the race.”

“Maybe a little,” he admitted, chuckling. Then, as if struck by a sudden idea, he looked around the garage again and spotted one of his engineers nearby. Franco gestured to the man, who quickly nodded, understanding exactly what Franco was after.

The engineer handed him a headset, and Franco turned back to her, holding it up. “Here—so you can listen in and watch from inside the garage. You’ll get the best seat here.”

She blinked, surprised by the gesture. “Are you sure?”

“Absolutely. You’ll get to hear all the comms, see how it all works up close. Plus”—he leaned in, his voice low—“you’ll have an excuse to stay around here.”

She shook her head with a smirk, taking the headset from him. “Alright. But only because you’ve convinced me with flowers and shameless flattery.”

“Good,” he replied, his grin widening as he watched her settle the headset over her ears. “I’ll keep it coming if it means you stay.”

As the team began their pre-race preparations, Franco showed her the best spot to watch from, and he took a few moments to explain some of the technical details. She found herself captivated, not just by the race, but by the way he was so eager to share his world with her. His enthusiasm was infectious, and despite herself, she felt the thrill of race day in a way she hadn’t anticipated.

Before he had to step away to start his own warm-up routine, he gave her one last look, his gaze holding a touch of that familiar mischievous glint. “Enjoy the show, princesa. And don’t go falling in love with the cars now—they’re not as charming as I am.”

She laughed, giving him a playful shove. “No promises.”

Franco winked, backing away with a grin as he joined the other drivers and team members preparing for the race. She stayed in the garage, feeling the weight of the headset and bouquet in her hands, both of them symbols of the way her world had shifted in just a few days.

As she watched him walk away, his words echoing in her ears, she realised just how different today felt. For the first time, she wasn’t just watching as an outsider; she was here, part of the energy, sharing a moment in his world, just as he’d promised. And maybe—just maybe—she was finally ready to be a part of something new.

The race was intense, the roar of engines filling the air as she watched Franco’s car weave through the track, making his way up from P16 to P12, gaining positions one by one with determined precision. Her heart raced with every turn, every overtake. She’d never felt the thrill of Formula One from this close before, and she found herself completely absorbed, balancing her attention between the live race and the screens in the garage that tracked every driver’s progress.

And then, in the final laps, her eyes moved to another part of the screen—a familiar car that was in the lead. A red car. Her brother was out front, defending his position with expert skill, pushing with everything he had toward the finish line. She held her breath, fingers tightening around the edges of the headset as she watched the seconds count down. When he crossed the finish line in first place, a feeling she hadn’t expected washed over her—pride, pure and radiant, filled her chest. She found herself clapping, cheering, a bright smile spreading across her face.

Franco, having just finished his own race and done the mandatory weigh-in and debrief with his engineers, finally found her in the garage. He looked exhausted but happy, his face still flushed from the adrenaline of the race. When he walked over, he paused, noticing the way her eyes were glued to the screen as her brother celebrated his victory, lifting his fists in the air in triumph.

“You’re glowing,” Franco murmured, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips as he watched her reaction.

She blinked, glancing back at him and realising how giddy she must look. “I didn’t think… I didn’t think it would feel like this. I’m just… so happy for him.” Her voice was breathless, filled with a genuine joy she couldn’t hide.

He chuckled, reaching out to brush a strand of hair away from her face. “Then you should go to him. He’s probably waiting for you.”

She shook her head, hesitating, her gaze flickering back to the screen. “No, I couldn’t. I don’t… I don’t belong over there, with everyone. That’s his world.”

Franco tilted his head, giving her a knowing look. “Maybe that’s true most days. But today, you belong there just as much as anyone else. He’s your brother. Go celebrate with him. You’ll regret it if you don’t.”

She bit her lip, uncertainty still holding her back. “I wouldn’t even know what to say.”

“Start with congratulations,” Franco said, flashing her a gentle, reassuring grin. “Trust me, it’ll be enough.”

He gestured toward the edge of the garage, where the barriers separated the track from the paddock. After a moment’s hesitation, she nodded, taking a shaky breath as he guided her forward. The crowd around them was roaring with excitement as her brother’s car was pulled into parc fermé, fans and teammates celebrating around him. She could feel her heart pounding, each step filling her with a mixture of anticipation and nervousness.

At the barrier, Franco gave her hand a quick squeeze. “Go on. I’ll be right here when you’re done.”

With that, he released her hand, and she took a step forward, catching sight of her brother through the haze of people and cameras. He was laughing, practically glowing as he embraced his team, still basking in the thrill of his victory. And then, as if sensing her, he turned and saw her standing there, just beyond the barrier.

His expression softened, and a smile broke across his face, one that was filled with surprise and unmistakable happiness. Without a moment’s hesitation, he made his way over, reaching out to pull her into a tight, heartfelt hug. She hugged him back, feeling the last remnants of the old distance between them dissolve as she held her brother close, finally sharing in his moment.

When they pulled apart, he looked at her, pride shining in his eyes. “You came,” he murmured, his voice filled with a quiet gratitude. “I didn’t think you’d be here.”

She laughed softly, tears threatening to sting her eyes. “I wouldn’t have missed it. I’m so proud of you.”

He grinned, leaning in to press a quick, brotherly kiss to her forehead. “Thank you. It means a lot that you’re here. Really.”

As the team around them cheered and the cameras continued to flash, she felt the enormity of the moment—a sense of belonging, not just as a tennis player, or his sister, but as herself.

She grinned at her brother, reaching up to ruffle his hair in a rare show of sibling affection. “Te quiero mucho, hermanito,” she said, her voice filled with warmth and pride. “I’m so proud of you, you know that?”

His smile softened, and he looked at her with a mixture of surprise and gratitude. “Te quiero también,” he replied, wrapping her in one last quick hug. “Thank you for being here. Really.”

The moment was brief but profound, a quiet reassurance that, despite the different worlds they had each chosen, they were still connected. He glanced back toward his team, who were waving him over for post-race celebrations and interviews.

“I have to go,” he said, releasing her. “But I’ll see you later?”

“Of course,” she replied, giving him a nod and a small wave as he returned to his crew. She watched him for a moment longer, feeling a sense of pride she hadn’t felt in years—one that was entirely unclouded by the complexities of the past. Then she turned and made her way back toward Franco’s garage, her heart still racing from the intense energy of the day.

When she found him, Franco was waiting near the garage entrance, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, a proud smile lighting up his face as he saw her approach.

“You did it,” he said softly, admiration in his eyes. “You finally let yourself be a part of all this.”

As she reached Franco, he turned to face her, his expression softening with a mixture of pride and relief as he took her hands in his. Her heart pounded, the intensity of the day lingering between them like a magnetic pull. She gazed up at him, her breath catching as she saw the warmth in his eyes—the genuine care and admiration there, as if he saw every part of her that she had worked so hard to keep separate.

Without a word, she stepped closer, her hand moving up to rest gently against his cheek. He tilted his head slightly, his gaze searching hers, as if waiting for her to close the last small gap between them. Finally, she leaned up, closing her eyes as her lips met his in a slow, lingering kiss.

The world around them seemed to dissolve, the roar of the crowd and bustle of the paddock fading as the kiss deepened. His hands moved to her waist, pulling her closer, his touch both steady and tender. She felt the warmth of him seep into her, grounding her in the moment, and she responded instinctively, fingers threading through his hair as he held her tighter. There was a gentleness in his touch, but an undeniable passion too, a desire that built slowly between them.

Time slipped away as they shared this unguarded moment, the boundaries she had set for herself crumbling with every heartbeat. She could feel the strength in his arms, the quiet reassurance he offered, and a warmth that sparked through her, as if he was silently promising that he would be there, no matter what.

When they finally broke apart, both of them were breathing a little harder, their foreheads touching as they lingered close, unwilling to step away. Franco’s thumb traced a gentle line along her jaw as he looked into her eyes, his gaze filled with an affection so deep that it nearly overwhelmed her. “I needed that push,” she murmured against his lips.

His arms came around her, but he laughed as he pulled back just enough to meet her eyes. “Come on,” he said with a teasing glint, “the cameras have probably caught enough kissing for one day.”

She chuckled, letting him lead her back toward the quiet of his garage, away from the noise and eyes of the crowd. For the first time, she felt an undeniable sense of belonging—not just to the world she had worked so hard to create for herself, but to this moment, with him, with her family. She’d finally allowed herself to be part of it all, and it felt right in a way she hadn’t expected.

the end.

[trashpandacraft]

i really like seeing posts about how other people are processing their fibre, so i thought that i'd add ours. we bought a couple bags (about three kilos—this photo is only half) of raw fleece at sheep and wool, and now have it all washed out and cleaned up.

the most helpful boys in the world were very interested in what we were doing, and frankly far less suspicious of the large tub of water than i would've preferred for them to be.

anyhow, about a kilo of fleece got dumped into the tub and arranged to be as aligned as possible. in future washes, i didn't bother with this and didn't find that there was much a difference, and certainly not sufficient difference to justify the time and effort spent carefully laying it out.

i imagine that this is different if you're washing a whole fleece and things are already more or less aligned. if you're washing a bag of of fleece that's just been plopped into the bag, i would suggest not bothering.

the small bag at the end were some locks that we'd picked ahead of time to see if they washed up nicer. (spoiler: they did not.)

worth noting is that we have one of those bathtubs that's short but deep, so this isn't as much water or space as it looks like.

if you've ever wanted to see how water-resistant wool is, here's a great example. these photos were taken the next morning, and some of the fibre was still totally dry, despite having carefully pushed it all underwater before we headed to bed.

after about twelve hours of soaking, this is what we had—the water doesn't look that dirty in the second photo, but you can just barely see a cloud of dirt at the edge of the mesh bag we were using to hold the wool in place in the tub. (it was just laid on the bottom of the tub, and meant that we could easily move the wool up or down the tub, or lift it out entirely, without having to move it much.)

anyhow, soaking water from this batch went into a bucket to feed my wife's plants. (and then the next batch i fucked up and drained it. 🤡 it's amazing they put up with me, tbh.)

wool got moved safely away from the water, and then it was time for the hottest tap water we could manage. our tap runs at well over 60c/145f, so we didn't bother to try to make it any warmer. as it was, i was very grateful that we'd bought the extra heavy duty kitchen gloves.

we added a couple splurts of dishsoap (palmolive) to the tub, then carefully let the fleece spread itself out again, which doesn't take much encouragement, thankfully. and then we fucked off for a while.

twenty minutes later, the water looked like this.

my hand's in the water to about my knuckles in that photo, and as you may notice, it very much appears that i have no fingers.

second wash. our friend the very large mesh laundry bag helped hold the fleece first away from the drain, and then from the tap, and we did it again just like the first wash.

another twenty minutes, and we had this.

you can almost believe that i've got fingers! progress!

this post offers a great look at what it looks like when lanolin is leaving a fleece. we have incredibly soft water, so most of their findings weren't especially relevant to our washing, but the visual guide is fantastic, especially since it took them so many changes to get things clean.

so again, drained, refilled, and resoaped, then left to sit for twenty minutes. and this time, i came back to this!

a whole entire hand! fingertips and everything! i was sort of surprised, honestly, since fine wools have a reputation for being really lanolin heavy, but after this batch of fleece i went down to two washes, and feel like it was more than sufficient for 90% of it. (there was a chunk of merino/bond cross in a later batch that was a little shorter and more lanolin heavy, and likely could've used a third wash, but i'm using that to make rolags and it's going fine, so whatever.)

anyhow, fleece clean! rinse time!

this looks like fleece in water, because that's what it is. we did two rinses, and that seemed plenty sufficient to get out all the suds.

next we spread it out as gently as possible onto a cheap sweater drying rack and hung it on a giant screw that's sort of inexplicably sticking sharp-end-out of the eaves of our porch. (and you'd be like 'that sounds normal, lots of people have screws or whatever to hang things,' to which i'd say 'it does! except that there are three of them and the placement is utterly bizarre, and this is the only one that you can hang anything from.' my best guess is christmas lights, but why a screw? why sharp side out? how sharp side out, at that?)

wool, drying! and the hated roses that have been blooming all fucking winter and are continuing to bloom and are getting bigger and now have spawned more roses somehow, and now we have a bunch of red roses, too. when we moved into this place a year and a half ago there were only white roses. we don't know where the red ones came from, nor do we know why the roses are suddenly VERY TALL—see how in this photo, they don't even clear the top of the wall? now they're like 50cm over it. eighteen inches over it. why. i hate them.

i will continue to hate them unless they become tall enough and self-support enough that they accidentally shade our office, in which case i will hate them slightly less but i'll be mad about it.

and now we're done! that's a lock of nice clean wool! all we did before this photo was fluff out the tips a bit.

i combed some out, and it's pretty good!

nice little nests of combed top. the wool's slightly different colours because, like i said, it wasn't a fleece, it was just fleece, if that makes sense, so there's a bit of a range of colouration in there. but there's much less loss than i'd expected, even combing it out, and all up this was a much easier and less miserable process than i'd feared it would be!

i've put off buying raw fleece for a long time, partly because i've mostly lived in apartments and haven't had a ton of space in which to wash it, and partly because i'm disabled and was afraid that doing it would be too much physically, but it turns out that i probably could have done this a lot sooner, and also that it's not really that hard on the body. the worst of it for me was bending over the tub to fill/refill and then get the wool onto the drying screen, which was a little rough, but definitely not so rough i wouldn't do it again.

(we then did this several more times to get all the fleece washed, and i can already tell you: we're gonna do it again.)

this is the first time i've done raw fleece that had lanolin in it, so please don't take this as an authoritative resource, but that's what we did, and it worked really well and was a lot easier than i'd feared, so i figured i'd share.

[yet-another-heathen]

On conditioned whumpees...

Y'know, I think one of the things that people get wrong with conditioned whumpees is their rules. Specifically, when a whumpee was in long term captivity/training and they later get released or escape.

Most people write them as latching onto a caretaker or new whumper, and begging for new rules so they know they're doing something right. A new set of laws to live by, a new framework to behave to.

And that's... not really how conditioning works.

Conditioning means automatic reactions. Your body doing something that was trained into you without consulting your brain first.

There is no decision making. There is no choice. The trigger hits, and you are immediately performing the correct action regardless of anything else.

You're told to kneel? Your knees have already hit the ground. You're supposed to be standing in one part of the house when a certain noise is made? You've launched into movement before you even realize what you heard.

These rules are woven into the fabric of your body. And they are insurmountable. The conditioning overrides emotion, internal conflict, hesitation, beliefs, wants... everything.

Your whumpee may very well hate what is being done to them, and after the moment has passed they're cursing themself and their whumper. They're still a person on the inside. And that person is still very much alive. Most of the time, they will have some level of awareness that what's being done to them is wrong. They'll be angry. They'll be hurt. And they will hate that there is nothing they can do about it.

But the next time that trigger occurs, the response still hits them exactly the same.

So now take your whumpee out of that situation. They ran away, were rescued, were sold. They got out. Now they're with new people, a new caretaker, a new whumper. Or they're on their own and trying to make their own way in the world.

But those conditioned responses are still there.

There's no turning them off. You don't just replace them with new rules. They are in your every fibre. They have been built into the very framework of who you are.

The next time someone says the word "kneel", your knees are on the ground again. No matter where you are, or who you're with. The response happens before you can stop it. If they don't know why, everyone looks at you like you're insane. And you feel like you are.

Deconditioning is an agonizing process that takes more effort than I can even begin to describe to someone who's never experienced it.

Every time they hit that trigger, that response will still be there. Over, and over, and over, and over.

Breaking those rules down takes YEARS. And it is a constant effort that the whumpee has to choose to undergo every single time. Progress is measured milimeter by milimeter. You're told to kneel, and you kneel. You're told to kneel, and your mind catches up with the fact that you already did it— but a little sooner than it did before. Then a split second sooner. Then as you're doing it. Then you feel the impulse just before your knees hit the ground. Then you have a split-second of resistance before you go down. On and on and on and on, inching toward progress despite the fact that you're fighting with all your might. And that progress is anything but linear.

You don't just start obeying new rules. You don't latch on to your caretaker's new way of doing things and drop everything that you were conditioned to do before. These rules don't just get replaced.

Conditioning is not a belief system. It's a flinch response. Programmed deeper than the instincts you were born with.

You can be ordered not to obey the old command, and moments later when the trigger comes, you will anyway. Because in conditioning, the action comes before the choice.

These rules, these laws of your existence, come above everything else. And if your new whumper wants to replace them, they are going to have to beat the new rules into you so often and so severely that the pain becomes stronger than the old conditioning. At which point, the newly desired response will very, very slowly start to take over.

You're not swapping out new rules. You're layering new, worse conditioning on top of the old. And your brain will spend time stuck in that split-second between both responses before one finally grows stronger than the other. And even then, the change will not happen quickly.

That is what your conditioned whumpee is up against. That is what makes it such a horrible—HORRIBLE— and powerful tool.

[kumezyzo]

it's heartbreaking that suguru geto doesn't accept your love. you didn't come from a family of sorcerers, so in his eyes, you got lucky with a powerful technique. you got lucky that you didn't get swallowed up by the unfamiliar world of jujutsu.

it's embarrassing, really. you pining over someone who doesn't really respect you. he remembers when he found out that you didn't come from a family of sorcerers. he thought it was pathetic that you hid it from them.

but you couldn't care because his smile was so pretty, and his voice was so kind even when his words were laced with pure hatred. you ignored his judgemental glances and the way he shrugged you off. if it were up to him, he would have never chosen to bring you into his inner circle. but you were one of the strongest. and satoru loved having you around.

perhaps satoru just simply loved you. although his love was never simple, was it? he looked at you like you were the only beauty in the world, like you were far more perfect than perfection itself. that alone was almost nauseating. he didn't care that you didn't come from an important clan because you were so strong and you held your own.

even when fushiguro toji brought you to the brink of death, satoru thought you were strong. suguru, on the other hand, had not. even if he didn't say it to your face, he found other ways to let you know he blamed you for riko's death. you were supposed to be as strong as him and satoru, and somehow, you ended up on deaths door, and fushiguro toji barely hurt. god, did he hate you.

he hated how you smiled when they came to visit you in your hospital bed with bandages wrapped around your body. he hated the way tears filled your eyes when you saw apologized for not doing your job. he loathed the way satoru and shoko hugged you, telling you they were just glad you were alive. could they not see that you didn't need their pity?

what he hated even more was how you were the only one who seemed to care when he started losing weight and the bags under his eyes grew deeper, darker. he hated your soft and kind voice, asking, "Are you okay, Suguru?"

"....huh?" he turned to you with eyes void of any sort of emotion. but that was soon replaced with disdain. he looked away, going back to stare at the short grass of the sparring field.

you hesitantly scooted closer to him. "you haven't been yourself.... i know satoru said you're losing weight, but -"

"it's none of your business," he spat out your name in a way that made you want to hide. his voice no longer sounded like a soothing breeze. there was something different in his eyes, something so painfilled that you yourself felt your soul crumble. "shouldn't you be training with shoko or flirting with satoru?"

"satoru? what... suguru, i dont- look, doesn't matter," you turned to face him better with a sigh. "i just want to make sure you're okay. you haven't been okay, and i want to help you -"

"well i dont need you fucking help," he said with finality, walking away from you, his cursed energy oozing off of him darkly. it was like his energy was attacking you without him knowing. you could feel his darkness- no- his pain in every fibre and crevice of his being.

that was the last time you saw suguru geto for the next eight years. he went on a mission and never came back. you wished that it had surprised you when you found out that he had killed a village of innocent people. but it wasn't. in the time you had after your last conversation, you saw how much hatred was behind his eyes. it was your first heartbreak. the heartbreak of your first love.

idk what this is, really. its kinda based on a fic i wanna write, but this will have to do for now. 😁 -nony

[endless-ineffabilities]

The Bolter (part one)

Steve Rogers x f!Reader

synopsis : Steve carries out his decision to return to Peggy, aiming to live out the rest of his days with her. But this means he's leaving everything behind - he's leaving you. Did he make the right choice? Will there be anything left with you to come back to?

in this chapter : Steve is about to walk out of your life, causing you to let go of everything you two have, and everything that could be.

📝 yes, the title is inspired by Taylor Swift's upcoming song The Bolter. In my interpretation and in this story, it is meant to symbolize someone who runs from someone or something. A potential relationship. A loved one. And the choice is not easy, one that may bring a lot of remorse or catharsis? Anyhow - Steve IS a bolter. In the beginning, at least.

themes/warnings : language, angst!!!, pining, unrequited love, Steve is kind of an asshole for leaving (but we love him anyway)

word count : < 1k

main masterlist ▪︎ series masterlist ▪︎ next chapter

This is it.

This must be what true heartbreak feels like.

Steve, your best friend and the unrequited love of your life, has decided to volunteer to return the Infinity Stones to their respective timelines. Very noble of him.

But he also confessed that he plans to stay with Peggy, now that he finally has the chance.

They can have the dance that was stolen from them, decades ago.

Steve can be with his true love it seems. And that person is just not you.

Well, fuck my life.

"Doll," he smiles ruefully, both of your hands encased in his, "say something."

Say something, he says. What is there to say - I'm in love with you, I want you to stay with me? Don't leave me? I want you stay - for Bucky, for Sam, for Nat. For everyone. For me?

What can you fucking say that will ever be enough? In the 7 years that you've known Steve, you've grown to love him. As a friend, as family. Then, almost inevitably, as the only keeper of your heart. And he knows this.

But he's still leaving. Because, at the end of the day, Peggy is the keeper of his heart.

To you, Steve has always been everything good. Golden boy perfection, with a heart that would put a saint's to shame. Sunshine, laughter, companionship, standing tall and unwavering in his ideals. His gleaming red, white, and blue tendrils snaking their way into the very fibres of your being and taking root.

But now, all you feel is empty. You were angry, when he first told you, days ago. You had almost screamed at him, told him how unfair he was being. You made a long, drawn-out case for Bucky. How he doesn't deserve this. But really, you were making a case for yourself.

Stay, you had said.

He simply smiled, without any mirth. Not like his usual on-brand Steve Rogers gesture of sincerity. He smiled and it did not reach his eyes. He was sad, or maybe he pitied you. And that made you even angrier.

Until minutes later, when you finally broke down, and sobbed quietly in his arms.

"I hate you," you muttered against the creases of his shirt.

"I love you," he said back, and you hated him even more for it. He doesn't get to say that to you, in that way. Not in the same way he would say to Peggy.

Now, right before stepping onto the platform that will cause him to vanish from your life, he says it again.

"You do know that I love you, right?" His smile is genuine, if not a little nervous. He hoped you would be as accepting as Bucky, and send him off with just a rueful look. A gentle, final word. A sweet farewell that he can take with him as a reminder of all the times you spent together.

"I know," you breathe, relenting. Steve does not like that your eyes are glazed over, empty. Like you're not taking him in at all. You take notice of the resulting sag in his shoulders, out of character from the dignified stride he sported as he was saying goodbye to the others.

A big part of you wants to remain indignant. So what if he's hurt or uncomfortable due to your coldness? It serves him right.

"Come here," he whispers, and it comes across a silent plea. Come here? Will you, please?

You take just one small step closer, but he is already ahead, wrapping his arms around your frame. Your stony mask breaks as your cheek presses against his chest, away from his view. His chest plate glistens from your tears, but you don't have it in you to wipe them away.

When he pulls away to look down at you, his heart breaks. He cradles your face in his hands as you look up at him through wet eyelashes, and it's almost enough to make him consider staying.

But then you say, "It will all be okay, Steve." You gingerly pry his hands from your cheeks, giving them a comforting squeeze. "We will be okay."

You look behind you, where Bucky stands watching the exchange, and he offers an encouraging nod.

You take a step back, mustering everything that you possibly can, all the love you have for Steve, to give him one last genuine smile.

"Go get your girl."

Read part two here.

The way I was making myself upset while writing this - god I love angst!!! ~~~

I was gonna keep going, make it even more brutal, but I'll save that for the upcoming parts. It will have some Bucky x reader as well 🖤

God Bless America('s ass).

oh, and let me know if you wish to be tagged!

[fireinmoonshot]

idea for a tyler owens one shot. he broke off the relationship years ago and then you see each other again. maybe you go out for drinks and one thing leads to another. kinda inspired by the song bad idea right by olivia rodrigo.

A/N: Thank you so much for sending this request in. I'm sorry it took me like a week to get around to writing and posting. I hope you like it. I honestly had so much fun writing this one. I'm not sure how closely inspired it is by the song, but I tried my best to give it that same kind of vibe! 😊💗

You knew that going home was probably a bad idea, but it’d been years since you’d gone back and after a particularly hard couple of months, home was the only place you wanted to be – even with the threat of seeing Tyler around. That’s why, when you’d gone out with friends two nights ago to celebrate your return to town, you hadn’t been surprised to run into him.

The two of you had exchanged pleasantries, saying a quick hello before you’d headed back to your friends. You weren’t avoiding him, but you weren’t particularly interested in a conversation with him either. After all, he had been the one to break things off between the two of you a few years ago. 

It’d been a fairly amicable break-up, but that didn’t mean you wanted to be best friends. Especially since you hadn’t seen him in years. 

You’d assumed that the one interaction at the bar would be the only one. That you likely wouldn’t see him again before you headed back home or before he headed off chasing storms again. Until you woke up to a text the next morning. 

It was nice seeing you again last night. Would you wanna catch up over a drink?

Every fibre of your being told you to say no, but somehow you’d texted Yes back. 

You didn’t put too much effort into your appearance or dress up to meet him at the bar he’d suggested – one you used to go to a fair bit when you’d been together. You hadn’t been there since. Tyler had seen the best and worst sides of you, so you knew he wasn’t going to care if you showed up in your best outfit or your pyjamas. 

It was the smile he gave you when you walked towards the bar and saw him waiting outside for you that made you question whether thiswas a bad idea. You pushed down the feeling in your stomach – the same one you used to get around him before. 

“So, how’s the city treating you?” Tyler finally asked when you were both sat down inside, a drink in front of each of you. “Not being tempted into moving back home?”

You laughed and shook your head. “No, it’d have to take a miracle to bring me back home, I think. The city is nice. I wouldn’t call it home, but it’s as good as these days.” You decided to refrain from telling him about the stressful few months at your job, as well as some drama with your landlord. He didn’t need to know about those things.

Tyler, though, had always been able to see through you.

“It’s nice? It’s as good as home? I’m not convinced.”

You stared at him for a moment. He could still do that, even after not seeing or speaking to you for years? It felt like the time had never passed between you, and you weren’t sure if that was a good thing or not. You leant towards not, and you knew your friends would agree. 

And… was it possible for Tyler Owens to have gotten more attractive?

“How’s the team? Have you blown up on Youtube yet?” You decided to attempt to change the topic before you got off track or before you said something you’d probably end up regretting. Tyler had asked you out here tonight to catch up, not to rekindle. 

Tyler let out a long sigh, obviously irritated with you changing the subject, and then  switched, his annoyed expression breaking into a grin. “You mean you haven’t been keeping up with our Youtube channel? C’mon, darlin’, we’ve got a million subscribers and you’re telling me you’re not one of them?”

“I’m really not,” you couldn’t help but let out a laugh. “I don’t make it a habit to keep up with what my ex-boyfriends do, funnily enough. But I’m glad to hear the channel has worked out for you guys. I guess there’s a real market for storm chasing these days.”

“I mean, I tried to keep up with what you were doing, but Boone eventually convinced me to stop once he caught me checking your Instagram right before a chase,” Tyler laughed softly, then paused, as if he was surprised at himself for admitting that right to your face. “Anyway, Youtube is going well and the team are great. Storm season starts soon, we’re all hoping it’s gonna be a good one.”

You paused, your drink half way to your mouth. “You check my Instagram?”

“Key word there was checking, darlin’,” Tyler said. “But yeah, at the start, of course I did. I broke up with you, you left not long after. I had it in my head that I was the reason you moved away, even though you told me I wasn’t, but I still wanted to know that you were okay, that the city was all right and that you were safe.” 

The desire to come clean and tell Tyler everything about your life in the city had never been stronger. You wanted to tell him about your irritating landlord, about the way your refrigerator in your apartment kept breaking down and the air conditioning never worked, about how everyone at work kept looking down on you despite your experience, about the fact that you’d been on so many dates in the last few years since you moved, but none of them came close to Tyler. 

But you couldn’t.

Instead, you took a very long drink from your glass and then sat it back on the table. All the while, Tyler looked at you, reading you with those eyes that he could see through you with. 

“Things aren’t great in the city, are they?” He asked softly.

You didn’t have to tell Tyler anything because he already knew. 

Hearing his words, the soft way in which he spoke them, and seeing the way he looked at you, suddenly became overwhelming. This man, the one you’d been in love with years ago, the one you used to tell everything to, the one who used to be your home, was sitting right in front of you again and making you feel like you mattered again, after months of being made to feel invisible in the city.

“Will you excuse me for a second?” You didn’t give Tyler a chance to respond before you were up, making a beeline for the front door, desperate to get some air. If you stayed in that bar any longer, you were sure you’d end up making a bad decision. If Tyler kept looking at you like that and making you feel like the version of yourself you were years ago, you worried you were going to become that person again. 

You let out a breath of relief as you stepped outside the bar, the cool evening air hitting you. It was still spring, the air not quite cold but nice enough to be refreshing on your skin as you walked to an emptier spot just down the street, away from the crowd which had spilled out of the bar the later it got in the night. 

It didn’t come as a surprise to you that Tyler followed you. He always wanted to make sure you were okay when you had been together, and that clearly hadn’t changed, especially with the way he’d just been talking to you. 

He sidled up beside you, making sure to give you enough space, knowing that you needed it. “Sweetheart,” he started. “I know I’m probably the last person you wanna talk to right now, but you know you can talk to me, don’t you?”

You met his eyes and nodded. 

“I know I’m your ex, but I still care about you. Probably more than I should.”

You’d never wanted to kiss a man more in your whole life.

“Why more than you should?” You asked, taking a step towards him and noticing the way the look in his eyes changed as he looked at you. 

“Because I should’ve moved on by now.”

“But you haven’t?”

Tyler swallowed. “It’s only ever been you.”

In that moment, nothing could stop you from closing the distance between the two of you, cupping Tyler’s cheeks in your hands and pressing your lips to his. Tyler was quick to kiss you back and you could tell that for the both of you, it was just like coming up for air after years of drowning without each other.

He wrapped his arms around you, holding you close to his body as his lips moved against yours, tongue sweeping across your bottom lip. The fact that you were out on a public street, not far from a crowded bar, didn’t cross either of your minds. All that you could think about was each other and the feeling of each others lips.

When, eventually, you needed to stop for a breather, Tyler rested his forehead against the top of your head, his breathing heavy. “I take it we’re not just talking tonight, darlin’?”

“Not tonight,” you admitted. “We probably shouldn’t have done this, y’know?”

“I know,” Tyler agreed. “But if you think I’m ever letting you go again, you’re wrong.”

You let out a small laugh. “I said it’d take a miracle to bring me back home, Ty.”

His face broke out into a grin. “Didn’t I tell you miracle is my middle name?”

[miabebe]

Where you return

Scenario - After almost a year of no contact, you meet an old fling at a wedding.

Pairing - Model! Reader × Racer! Mingyu, Model! Reader x Pilot! Wonwoo

Genre - smut with a bit of plot hehe

Word Count - 7K

Warnings - Switch! Mingyu, Brat tamer! Wonwoo, Oral (f receiving), ties, fingering (self), protected sex, unprotected sex, multiple orgasm, mild angst

So let's talk about fuck buddies Mingyu and Wonwoo,

You've been getting the strange feeling of being watched for a long time now but it genuinely surprises you when you scour the crowd and your eyes meet Mingyu's. His presence takes you aback for a bit but you guess it makes sense that he was invited to the wedding of two of Seoul’s most famous celebrities. You're still surprised though, that of all the people in the wedding, he's looking at you.

You smile at him, giving a small wave, just to be polite, for old times sake. The way he smiles back has your heart clenching - you miss him. You really really miss him. But when you see him walk towards you, you excuse yourself away from there. Not again, never again.

You try to avoid him pretty much all day but every time you sneak a glance at him, he's already looking at you. You can tell he wants to talk, you can tell he's upset that you're not giving him a chance but you can't afford to. It took you months to finally be in a space where you had got it together. If you let him in again, this time, it would break you.

Your attempts weren't successful for long though.

When the cocktail party starts, you grab a small bite of hors d'oeuvres and take a walk around the hotel, settling down on a small bench in the garden, staring at the strangely cut grass. You could really do with a drink but you have a shoot tomorrow evening; you figure it would be better to not indulge in alcohol right now. But even after so long, as though he had read your mind, you see a pair of shoes walk up to you and beer bottle being held out.

You look up at Mingyu, knowing he's finally caught up, leaving you without an escape so you simply take the bottle from him and set it aside. Mingyu settles on the bench next to you, not too close like you meant something to each other but also not far enough to be considered strangers.

The first thing he asks is if you changed your number and you nod. He probably didn't expect you to completely disappear from his life the day you confessed you can't keep sleeping with him anymore but you did what you had to save your sanity. He then asks how you've been. You say you've been fine. You really have. You've been a lot busier than usual - you've got more brand deals and shows and shoots lined up for the next 6 months, you managed to move out from that little shared space with your girlfriends and find your own place, you were meeting people, going on dates, it was all going great.

Mingyu confesses he's not been too well. You knew that, you saw the news. Ferrari's most famous F1 racer takes an indefinite break to tend to his health. You always knew between racing, dieting and working out, Mingyu was struggling with his health so you were glad he took some time off for himself but now that you see him, you can tell he's far less happier being on a hiatus. You want to offer him comforting words but you've never really been good at that so you just hold his hand and stroke it softly. You instantly regret it because the look he gives you breaks your heart a little - you know what he needs, you know you can give it to him. But it would mean you break all over again.

Mingyu searches your eyes for some response, leaning closer. It takes every fibre in your body to move away from him softly shaking your head. But when he softly whispers please, you can't help but give in, allowing him to press his lips onto yours. First he's softly kissing then slowly devouring you to the point you couldn't breathe anymore - it's electrifying, it's dizzying, it's reminiscent. When he finally parts from you, he buries his face your neck, muttering how much he missed this. You chuckle, asking if none of his other fuck buddies kissed him. He claims he hasn't slept with anyone since you left and you freeze.

Why, why, why now?

The first time you saw Mingyu was 3 years ago. He had just won the Italian Grand Prix and was celebrating with his team in the very hotel you were staying at during calender shoot in Milan. The exact moment you first locked eyes with him was when he walked past you at the hotel lobby with his arms swung over the shoulders of two of your fellow colleagues. When you saw them the next morning, they could barely walk which wasn't ideal given "the walk" was practically the biggest part of modelling, yet somehow you wanted a taste of that. The following few days when you kept bumping into him, you could tell he had his eyes on you, but you were in no hurry. You wanted to see how this would pan out.

Eventually, after a whole lot of seductive glances and deliberate smirks, you found yourself under him having quite literally some of the most mind blowing orgasms of your life. Apparently Mingyu was just as satisfied because the morning after, when you exchanged identities and he discovered you too were based in Seoul, he proposed the two of make this recurring occurrence. From that day then on, the two of you had a lot of sex, pretty often and pretty intensely. The underlying message was always clear though - it was just sex. You were aware it wasn't exclusive and that he was sleeping with other people but you weren't - Mingyu gave you what you needed and more.

But you never understood if sex was all he wanted from you, why he never behaved like a fuck buddy? Why he made you stay the night and made sure you got a good night's sleep? Why he always woke you up to the best possible breakfast? Why he cooked for you on some nights, why he talked to you about his life, why he showed you sides of him that he never showed the world? How on earth were you not supposed to fall in love with him?

But love was not on the table in this arrangement. Not only for some ridiculous reason was it against his contract, Mingyu was not interested in dating anyone - he simply wanted to sleep around. And now he tells you he doesn't want anyone else?

You might be willing to put your body in his hands one more time but you could not do that to your heart and that's why, you peel yourself away from him muttering you have a long day tomorrow and should turn in for the night. Mingyu walks you back into the hotel, following a few feet away, perhaps just heading back to his own room. But just in case, to make matters clear, you tell him one more time that you have no intention of picking up from where this messy relationship was left off. He says he understands.

He always understands. Every time you cancelled on him because of work commitments, he said your career was more important, he understands. Every time he was in the mood and you weren't, he said that was totally okay, he understands. 1 year ago when you told him you were catching feelings, he said given the nature of your relationship, its natural, he understands. When it was apparent that he didn't feel the same way and you proposed to end this arrangement, yet again, he understood. He always said he understood, yet you feel like he never really did. He really didn't know how just how much felt for him.

Before he leaves, just so you can stop wondering, you stop him to ask one last question. Why didn't he sleep with anyone else after you? He says he didn't want anyone else. He steps closer and says nothing ever felt like what they shared. If it were up to him, he would've never let it end. You're not sure if he means just sex or more. Either ways, your resolve breaks and you make the stupid move of pulling him into the empty lift with you, pushing him up against the wall, kissing him with a passion that was somehow still so alive between both of you.

It's miraculous, the way you managed to reach your room without taking your hands or mouths off each other. You do notice that even the scattered presence of people in the corridor didn't make Mingyu pull away from you - till a year ago he did all he could to not be seen with you. He must really need this tonight.

The moment you step into the room though, he parts from you only for long enough to kick his shoes off and strip off his dinner jacket. When you unzip your evening gown and slip it off you shoulders, Mingyu let's out a groan. He hadn't realised you were wearing garter belts underneath that, he didn't think he could possibly be more turned on right now. You expect him to kiss you once again but instead he pushes you against the wall and falls to his knees before you, running his hand down your leg, mouth hot on the insides of your thigh. Your hands struggle between running through his hair and trying to hold on to something, anything behind you. It becomes a whole lot worse when he throws a leg over his shoulder and latches his mouth over the cloth of your thong which was already barely covering anything. Not only were you already craving this man for months now, but with the mere sight of him looking up at you from between you legs, it takes barely a few ministrations of his mouth and with a shudder you fall apart.

You can feel his canines against your thigh as he smirks, glad you're still so reactive to him before letting you go, only to turn you around, your hands palming the wall. He whispers a soft fuck as he moves aside the little cloth and runs his tongue between your folds making you practically shake at the overstimulation. Sensing you need a minute, he moves his attention to your ass, placing butterfly kisses on the cheeks as his fingers work the belts of your garter, pulling it down with your stockings.

As you step out of them, you turn to him and pull him up to his feet by his collar, untying his tie as he unbuttoned his shirt. Through the most part of your arrangement with Mingyu, things mostly went his way. You'd meet whenever he was free, whenever he wanted to meet, wherever it was convenient and safe for him. Not this time. This time you wanted the upper hand and you'd take it.

Mingyu complies, watching curiously as you push him towards the bed and onto it. Taking his hands you whisper you want to try something and he nods lazily but his eyes widen as you tie his wrists together with his tie. Instructing him to scoot back, you undo his belt, pulling down the remainder of his clothes, as he leaned back against the head board. He's practically gaping at you standing at the edge of the bed, slowly taking off your bra then your thong, the remnants of your earlier orgasm leaking down your thigh, making his mouth literally go dry. It takes everything and more for Mingyu to stop himself from pinning you down and eating you out. You are all he wanted. Needed.

You get on the bed, crawling on top of him, legs on either side, your face was hovering just a little above his, grabbing his painfully hard erection. You see he's biting his lip, holding back his groans as you run your thumb over his slit, sliding on a condom which he didn't even notice you unwrap. Promising to suck him off good in a bit, something he knew you particularly enjoyed, you align him under you, slowly sinking down his length, I really really need you to be inside me right now.

Its been so long, Mingyu missed you so bad - the way you felt around him, just the sight of you so close to him, the sound of you as he practically split you open, your warmth no longer accustomed to the size of him. It makes him mad that he allowed this to happen, that he let you walk away from him. He swears he'll fix it - he will treat you so good tonight, your body would never forget him. You would never forget him. But for now, he'll let you use him however you want - you deserve it and he knows eventually, you'll cave in and he was willing to wait however long that takes.

When you finally adjust to his girth, you start moving, grinding your hips, soft whimpers leaving you and he asks if you're okay, if it feels good. You simply nod, moaning in response, and Mingyu encourages you to move however you want, struggling to keep his hands to himself instead of grabbing your hips, and slamming himself into you, hitting those sweet spots that were still committed to his memory. For now, he resorts to grabbing your boob in whatever angle he can manage only for it to be smacked away.

Hands to yourself, you can put that mouth to use.

Oh gladly.

Mingyu immediately takes a nipple into his mouth, swirling his tongue over it and your hands leave the headboard and thread into his hair, gripping the roots, lost in pleasure. It takes two words, Mark me, for Mingyu to finally snap out of his compliant facade, mouth, tongue, teeth, all working madly against your skin. You never used to let him mark you, it was hard to cover up when you worked but somehow today you don't care. You want him to take you in any and all ways possible, you want him to claim you - few hours of make up would take care of the rest.

You can tell his hands are itching to grab you as you pick the pace, the knot in you tightening. Pulling away from him, you lean back, one hand taking support of his thigh behind you, another rubbing circles on your clit, trying to chase the feeling in the new found angle and Mingyu thinks he might just go crazy. He loves it. He loves seeing your pretty eyes roll back for him, he loves seeing the red marks blooming on your neck and breasts, he loves the way your lips part and the moans spill. You are a masterpiece and he has been such an idiot.

He can tell by the loss of rhythm that you were close so he moves aside your hand and works your clit himself. Part of you wants to take his hands and pin them above his head and ride him to oblivion but you don't think you can, you don't think you have it in you, not when he's making you feel this good. Untying his knot, and throwing his tie away, you whisper please, begging him to help and finally, finally he takes control but much to your disappointment, he pulls you off him. Just for a second though, before he flips you over, your back hitting the bed and he's looming above you, plunging back into your heat, so fast and so deep, you almost black out right there. You beg him to keep going and he promises not to stop, groaning that you feel so good around him, you were so good for him. Within a few seconds you feel the coil snap inside you, your moans muffling against his shoulder, as he stilled, allowing you to ride out your high, feeling you clench around him in a way that made his head spin.

Come on baby, just a little more. He coos in your ear, hooking his hands around your legs, pushing your knees to your chest, ramming himself into you again and again, trying to reach his high before you were too overstimulated. But like a good girl you take it obediently, asking him if he really didn't sleep with anyone else and maybe you could consider letting him come inside you and just at the thought, Mingyu groans, emptying his load into the condom, still deep inside you.

He tries to catch his breath lying on top of you, head buried between your boobs as you softly stroke his hair. He had no idea if you were serious or if you were simply trying to rile him up to finish him off, but either ways, the first thing he's going to do the moment he steps out of here is get tested - he wants that offer to be on the table. For now though, he'll take what he can which was far more than what he thought he deserved - he would make up for everything. Anyways, the night was far from over - you promised him a blowjob and he was dying to taste you again.

After a very very long night, you wake up the next morning to Mingyu softly shaking you, whispering your name. Last night before you passed out in his arms, you made up your mind to one of two situations the next morning. Either Mingyu would be gone before you wake up, proving last night was indeed just a temporary distraction. Or he's ordered breakfast to the room as usual and was waiting for you, which meant nothing changed for him - he was still looking for the same thing from you.

Instead he looks like he came fresh out of the shower, and behind him, your suitcases are packed and stacked. Seeing you fully awake he flashes you a sweet smile, dropping a kiss on your forehead, reminding you that you had a flight to Tokyo soon. He tells you to freshen up while he brings your luggage down and helps you check out, and then he'll drive you to the airport. Looking at the watch, realising just how late you are, you panic and hurry to the bathroom as he leaves the room. When you finally make your way downstairs, he's sitting at the breakfast area, beckoning you over with two plates of food. Walking over to him, you smile.

But when Wonwoo sees you at the wedding, its a whole different story.

Is he supposed to feel angry, is he supposed to feel upset, Wonwoo has no idea. The way that guy is talking to you and the way you don't seem to mind, it makes him more uncomfortable than he can explain. He looks at the back of that greasy slimeball's head - the sheer audacity to assume he's even half as good enough for someone like you. But what can he do? It's not like he had the right to say anything.

Honestly, you are not the least bit interested in the overly gelled hair, child of a man before of you who was clearly trying to get into your pants. You're more interested in Wonwoo's reaction, rather in his lack of reaction to the, frankly, quite embarrassing act going on here. Truth be told, you're a little disappointed when he walks away.

Earlier today when you were getting dressed, you wondered if Wonwoo would attend the wedding - the town was a small place so of course everyone was invited to the pastor's daughter's wedding but Wonwoo was a busy man, particularly on Fridays. Seeing him here now though, you realise things have changed too much - his schedule, your relationship with him and the way he looks at you, it's all different now. You excuse yourself away from the twice your age neanderthal and walk out of the church, wondering why these changes were affecting you.

You were the one who ended your little arrangement almost a year ago. When you realised that Wonwoo's gestures were more than just what fuck buddies did for each other, you confronted him about it. He confessed he was starting to catch feelings, that it took him a while to realise but he thinks he's falling for you. You couldn't have that happen. You had made it very clear to him in the beginning itself - you didn't have the time for a relationship. You were still facing your early day struggles, trying to make a name for yourself in the modelling industry and you couldn't afford to be in a relationship. It would have been unfair to whoever you were with to only receive a part of you and never in whole because you didn't have the capacity to indulge another person in your life.

So rather than continuing to see him and constantly reminding him of what he can't have, you decided it was better to set him free and remove every trace of yourself from his life. And you did, apologising and disappearing over a year ago.

Seeing him at the wedding now though, was a bump in the road you didn't expect. You wanted him to move on, you wanted him to forget you and clearly he had done both, yet it bothered you. Weren't you worthy of at least a greeting? For the sake of being courteous? Sure you missed having sex with Wonwoo, god did he know your body like no one else, but you also just missed having his presence in your life. You feel unfairly stripped of something that wasn't even yours but it's fair enough, you left him. You don't get to walk back whenever you want, that's not your choice to make.

You turn around to go back in to find your girlfriends again when Wonwoo steps out of the doors, adjusting his glasses. You're surprised when he smiles at you, walking up, hands in his pockets. You smile too, taken aback by the interaction, as he strikes conversation about the weather. He also talks about the wedding, the groomsmen, the chaos with the misplaced ring that happened earlier - he's not making more or less conversation than usual, it's as though for him, nothing changed. When the topic of the guy earlier comes up, he laughs saying he was watching and would have swooped in if it looked like you needed any help. It's only when his phone rings that he excuses himself, promising to catch up later. You really do see it now. He was no longer in love with you.

As he walks off, Wonwoo realises that he was most definitely, still very much in love with you. It surprises him because over the last year he had been thinking of you less and less. He didn't resent you for turning him down - you always had the clarity he didn't. It was always meant to be about sex, he was the fool who emotionally invested himself. After you were gone, he took the time to really think and realign his life choices, pushing you to the lower ranks on his list. He thought he did a good job, in fact, he hadn't thought about you at all in the last 3 months but seeing you again today was like the dam he built to bottle everything in had finally cracked and burst open.

Sometimes Wonwoo hated how he felt for you. You were not some magical addition that came into his life and changed it for good, you were a part of it for as long as he could remember. As children the two of you didn't interact much - you lived a street down his house, he went to an all boys school and you to an all girls, your paths never crossed. He had heard of you from his friends though, you had quite the reputation for dating around but he only met you in high school when you were in a relationship with the captain of his school's football team. Back then Wonwoo wasn't the least bit interested in you. Sure he thought you were beautiful but he had his eyes on that cutie in the robotics team. After graduating high school, he didn't see you again, until 3 years ago, that night...

A part of you wishes that night never happened, then today it would make sense if Wonwoo was talking to you and treating you like you were just another acquaintance. Okay, maybe he doesn't love anymore but was he still not the least bit interested in you? Here you are, trying your best to suppress your every urge watching him in his stupid white shirt with those stupid rolled up sleeves and that stupid vest sinching his waist. Did he not feel the same for you?

Apparently not. Evidently all he's being is a gentleman. He rescued you from that guy from earlier on the dance floor by truly swooping in and taking you into his arms, only to politely let you go when the other man backed off. He offered to hold your flowers and help you with your dress as you walked out of the church, finally done for the day. He even drove you home, stopping right in front of your house, wishing you a good night.

You however didn't step out of the car, confessing that you didn't want to face your mother tonight - you were in no mood for a discussion on why everyone in the town but you seemed to be getting married. He first asked about crashing with any of your other friends for the night but when somehow all of them seemed improbable, he offered to take you to his house.

You had been to his house before, many many times in fact, during those two years. Though you were both based in Seoul and this town was about 2 hours away, on some weekends, Wonwoo would drive you here to see your mother. Since his parents lived with him in Seoul, his house here used to be empty and free for the two of you to fuck around whenever needed.

When you walk in, nothing much has changed, it's all just how you remember it. You wish it was the same between you and Wonwoo too but it isn't. He leads you to the guest room, handing you a fresh set of towels, mentioning some of your clothes from when you were last here are still in the cupboard if you want to change. Before you can ask him why he still has them, he disappears into his room, door softly shutting behind him. You wash up, looking through all that you left behind, each skimpier than the next. You settle with a pink satin set that's barely covering any of your chest, the shorts went way too high up your ass. Unfortunately that's the largest piece of fabric you own here.

You slip under the warm covers but somehow sleep is just not coming to you. There's too many overwhelming emotions - a strange sadness regarding Wonwoo, an undeniable loneliness seeing the happy couple in the wedding, and in general, a weird sense of purposelessness just suffocating you. Tossing and turning till you just can't take it anymore, you make your way downstairs to the kitchen, grab a snack that you know you shouldn't be having and sink into the couch.

You didn't think you were being too loud but about a minute later, Wonwoo makes his way down in his pajamas, rubbing his eyes behind his glasses, a worried look on his face. When his eyes fall on you though, you can see them slightly widen and his Adams apple bob. Maybe you had a little effect on him after all.....

You apologise and claim you weren't sleepy so he joins you with a snack of his own, sitting down on the couch opposite you. It's like the days the two of you used to hangout - just chilling in each other presence, engaged in casual conversation, laughing about the world around that always seemed so weird. Today too you talk about your school days and childhood in this town. You talk about where your other friends from high school were settled now. You talk about the two of you somehow managing to successfully chase your dreams. You talk about when the two of you met for the first time.

It was when you were flying to Paris for your first ever international show. Luck was clearly not on your side because there was some terrible mishap with the engine and fixing it would take all night. As you sat with the rest of the passengers, the cabin crew and pilots walked by and your eyes fell on the last man in the line. He looked so familiar, like someone you knew back home but you didn't want to assume. To your surprise, after a while, he sits down next to you, having changed out of his uniform into a simple tee and jeans, glasses sitting on his nose. It's then that you immediately recognise him, of course it was Wonwoo, the infamous gamer boy.

You both end up engaging in deep conversation, first over coffee, then over dinner and then over a walk around the hotel the airline had assigned to you for the night. There was a strange tension between you two, maybe because of the mix of a familiarity and novelty and it was strong enough to have you moaning under him that night in his hotel room. And also the following day in your hotel room in Paris.

You had parted ways after that, simply exchanging socials until one day about a month later, he messaged you that like you, he too was in Milan. You promised yourself to behave and that you would just meet for a meal. But the moment you turned up in that low V neck black dress of yours and saw him in that black shirt that fit him oh so well, you knew neither of you were really here for dinner so you both immediately headed back to your room, getting tangled in the sheets, fucking each other all night instead. The third time was in Seoul itself, during the after party of a brand launch. That time the two of you barely waited till you reached a room - he made you fall apart around him in his car till the windows fogged up before he took you home and had you again.

After that, it was pretty evident that the two of you liked having sex with each other. You don't really remember who suggested the idea but you do remember discussing how as of now, relationships were more of a burden than a pleasure and that being fuck buddies was probably the best idea.

That went on for 2 years. You'd call on each other whenever you were free, sometimes at home, sometimes in other countries when your schedules coincided - those were so much more thrilling. You did actually spend time with each other outside sex too - you'd get take outs at night, you'd take the city tour bus together, you hung out at clubs. It was all going great till that night when you ended it.

To your surprise, Wonwoo softly says it was a little unfair of you to end things that day. You might have thought you were protecting him from being hurt but he was no child. He didn't expect you to like him back nor did he want to change the nature of your relationship - he too was not willing to be in a relationship if you remembered right, he flew too frequently to dedicate time for anyone. You did remember, you knew, yet you were scared of somehow damaging him if you allowed yourself to stick around him for your own selfish reasons. He says he wished you let him figure things out on his own rather than making the decision for him like he was some irresponsible high schooler and not a mature adult.

For a minute you don't know what to say. He was right, you did what you thought was best, never really taking into consideration what he thought. In your attempt to save him from pain, you had stupidly ended up hurting him because of a decision you made over a split second.

Sitting up, you apologise. You were inconsiderate and hasty and you shouldn't have been. Honestly, you never wanted it end, you were in fact happiest when you were with him. Even that day, you had come to him with something specific in mind.....

Wonwoo raises an eyebrow in question but you shake your head. After he encourages you to tell him a few times, you finally, softly whisper and it's followed by dead silence. You start panicking and to make things worse, he excuses himself, gets up and leaves you there, all alone. Bringing your knees to your chest, you bury your face in it - why why why did you have to open your mouth?

He returns though, clearing his throat to let you know he's here and when you look up surprised, your lips part in awe and insides clench in desire. He's wearing his uniform.

You had only ever seen him in it once, specifically the day you first saw him. He was always incredibly cautious and careful with it but your mind had envisioned him taking you wearing that way too many times. The day you left him, you thought of bringing up the idea but the conversation had spiraled into something else entirely.

You mutter that it's unfair that all you get to do is look and he cocks his head at you, running his eyes down your body. Of course. You too are dressed in that pink satin set that drives him absolutely crazy, and all he got to do was look. He mentions that this uniform was old and he doesn't really care for it and you echo his words - your pajamas didn't matter either. Somehow in those few words you've exchanged intentions and permissions and before you know it, hands around his neck, you are kissing him, hot and heavy, months of need pouring in. Wonwoo groans into it, hands moving from your hips to your ass, finally getting his hands on you the way he's been dying to.

With a tap on your thigh, he instructs you to jump and you do, wrapping your legs around his waist as he carries you up to his room, your mouth working hard on his neck, kissing, sucking, marking him. When he reaches his room, he throws you on the bed and stands back, simply looking down at you, practically fucking you with his eyes. You feel exposed under his gaze but not ashamed as he points to his nightstand with his head and there you see the familiar sight of your hair tie, sitting on it, like it always does. Maybe not everything had changed.

As you reach for it, a warm feeling blooms in your chest which quickly turns searing hot when you notice Wonwoo slowly starting to unbutton his suit jacket. He's purposely torturously slow, letting that feeling between your legs burn with anticipation and so you decide to play a game of your own. Pulling your hair into a high pony, just how he liked it, you quickly strip out of your shorts and spread your legs letting him see. Wonwoo truly had the kindest eyes and the sweetest smile so when they darken hungrily and his mouth presses in a hard line, you feel triumphant, knowing you are successfully pushing him to the edge. But he simply continues to unbutton, and then take off his tie, leaning against the bed post. You proceed to run your fingers between your folds, rubbing circles on your clit before sliding them down and inside you. Now he's mad.

Stop.

Make me.

But he doesn't do anything. Wonwoo wasn't usually very tolerant of your brat behaviour, he loved to put you in your place but today, he wanted to let you have your way. He would deal with you his way after you've played out your fantasy - afterall he wasn't going to let this night get over any time soon. He simply watches as you pump your fingers faster, thumb working your clit, head thrown back, pretty moans leaving you. You're so fucking hot, Wonwoo wishes he could tattoo this sight on the front of his brain. He grabs his camera from the shelf nearby and clicks a picture just as you pull your fingers out and frantically rub your clit, feeling your high crash against your walls as you clench around nothing.

You're surprised he let you go this far - you were hoping he'd put his fingers in you, they always felt so much better. Instead he's just watching his capture of you in the camera you love so much - he always took such flattering pictures of you. Sighing softly, surely thinking of what all he could do to you, he unzips his pants.

Mouth first.

You know he wants you to get on your knees but you smile at him sweetly, further spreading your legs.

Sure, you can taste.

Wonwoo laughs. You've become so audacious suddenly, he's going to have so much fun ruining you later. He's about to take his jacket off when you softly shake your head at him. He complies, getting to his knees, pulling you by your legs to the edge of the bed, and instantly running his tongue between the folds. Fuck. You let out the most euphoric sigh, sinking into the sheets, gripping them. You forgot how good he was with his mouth.

Wonwoo forgot how good you taste, groaning as he savoured you, mouth latching around your folds. He loves the way you keep trying to grind your hips for friction, forcing him to hold you down by the thigh. He loves the sounds you make when he let his hand travel up your body, under that flimsy silk, and grabs your boob, squeezing it. He loves when you rake your fingers through his hair and throw your head back, moaning his name. He thinks he loves you even more when you come around his tongue, and look at him, breathless and flushed as you prop yourself on your elbows. He thinks he loves you the most when you grab his camera from the bed before can and take a picture of him, smiling happily at him, smiling because of him.

The sight of Wonwoo between your legs, sitting on his ankles in that uniform of his, glasses slightly fogged up, chin and lips shining with your arousal... it might just be the sexiest thing you've ever seen. You sit up, leaving the camera behind, taking his face into your hands and kissing him, tasting yourself all over, as he dived his tongue into your mouth. Not leaving you, he strips his jacket off his shoulders, whispering against your mouth.

Knees.

You're about to get off the bed and down in front of him when he grips your thighs, stopping you. He will have your mouth later, right now he really really need to be buried inside you. He watches as you obey, scrambling back and turning over, getting onto your knees, ass up, just the way he likes it. He strips out of his pants, pumping his raging erection in his fist - he could come simply at the sight of you, waiting for him like this. He takes another picture, committing the scene to memory because who knew how things would take a turn after tonight? He had to seize every moment.

He makes sure to ask if he needs to use a condom. The two of you always used it with others, never with each other but given the last few months... you shake your head - you've been safe. Knowing that he has too, he mutters a soft good girl before easing into you slowly, groaning as you try to adjust to his girth, rubbing soft circles on your ass, encouragingly. When your whimpers die down and you beg him to move, he does, gripping your hips and thrusting, slow at first but quickly picking the pace when you ask for it.

You feel yourself nearly drool at how good he feels buried inside you, so deep, hitting all the right spots he had discovered not long after you started hooking up. You too know his sensitive points so though you're barely able to breath, you tease him saying it seems like he's lost his touch. Instantly he plants a leg in the mattress and pushes your face down into the pillows as he holds both your hands behind, against your lower back and goes feral.

Oh you had been waiting for this. The way he pounds into you is wild, with the amount of brute force he knows you can take and he knows you like it because your practically leaking down your thighs. When you feel the pressure building inside, he lets your hands go, allowing you to bring it to your clit and rub yourself, carnal sounds leaving your mouth as he fucked you faster. Within seconds, hearing his ragged breath instructing you to come, you fall apart around him, moaning loudly into the sheets, breathless. Trying not to overstimulate you, he slows down, watching almost hypnotised at the way he buries himself into you.

You hear the click of the camera one more time before he leans down, softly placing a trail of kisses up your back, reaching your ear. You tell him you can take it and encourage him to continue and finish off, but he whispers.

I'm sorry.....I don't think I can stop loving you.

You freeze.

Wonwoo senses it and he understands, pulling out of you, and you turn around to look at him. At the Wonwoo who had seen both your body and your soul at its barest. Wonwoo who was not just the guy you slept with every other night but also the one you sent your favourite memes, paragraphs of rants and deepest worries to. Wonwoo who knew exactly what take out to get for you, which movie you watched with all your attention and which you liked to be distracted in, when you needed sex and when you needed him. Wonwoo who sometimes knew you better than yourself yet somehow the both of you didn't realise what you felt for him.

He's utterly confused as you take off your top and push his unbuttoned shirt off his shoulders. When you lie on you back, hold your hand out and whisper, come on baby, don't you want to fill me up, Wonwoo feels like he just died and entered heaven. You pull him down by his neck, kissing him fiercely, as he aligns himself and enters you once again, groaning into your mouth. Running your nails down his back, you beg him to cum inside you, that all you want to feel is him and within a few more strokes he shudders, groaning as he empties himself in you.

You didn't even realise when the two of you fell asleep. You vaguely remember him cleaning you up, untying your hair and softly running his fingers through it. You remember removing his glasses, kissing his cheek and curling up in his warmth. And that's how you wake up, held his arms, his breath soft against your head.

He wakes up to you reaching for his camera, holding it up and clicking a picture of you lying on his chest. You show it to him excited as a new found warmth blooms in his chest, looking at you fit against him so perfectly. When you slide off the bed and wear his shirt, pulling your hair into a bun, he doesn't ask anything but his mind is full of questions. You tell him you need water and he offers to get it for you but you refuse saying you'll be back in a second, you still didn't get the chance to blow him anyway. Wonwoo smiles as you walk away.

A/n - I overwrote but hey, I wanted to write fuck buddies who were not in college and had different professions, they needed lot of back story okay.

[carbondioxidewater]

The girl is yours

What happens when Shiu falls in love with Toji's gf?Randomly had that in mind, enjoy! (I love angst so much hehe <3)

Toji x fem!reader, Shiu x fem!reader

warnings: angst, mentions of killing

word count: 834

Intense, passionate, transcendental.

That's how you would describe your relationship with Toji. You two were inseparably and irrevocably in love. Anyone could see it, especially your closest friend - or could you even call him that? - Shiu Kong.

It was true, you spent a lot of time together - the three of you. He was Toji's handler after all. Whenever Toji could take you with him on a mission, he would, protecting you and showing off at the same time. How crazy he was for you.

When he couldn't, because the mission was too dangerous and he had to fully concentrate on it, he left you with Shiu. He trusted him.

Even if Shiu refused at first - not wanting to play the babysitter for Toji's girl - he didn't really have a choice, so that whenever Toji was finished killing people (or whatever was his mission), the first thing he could see was you, the first thing he could do was kiss your pretty lips - hungrily, as if it's been years since he last had them on yours. And Shiu? He eventually grew used to your presence next to him.

He grew used to it so much that it was straight up torture for him whenever you weren't at his side for once and accompanied Toji on his missions. It wasn't long before he craved you and he knew he was doomed. Not only Toji was undeniably in love with you now, you managed to evoke the same feelings in Shiu.

But no one noticed, because he swore to himself he would never act on those hidden feelings, keeping them safe and secret from the outside of his rapid beating heart.

And Toji didn't notice - not until that one time when Shiu protected you from a sudden threat not even Toji would have been quick enough for to block. And when he hugged you after, Toji could see all the longing in his melancholic eyes, his emotions pouring out into the soft embrace of his strong arms around your much more fragile body.

But Toji didn't say anything, he didn't do anything, he just glanced back at him knowingly when you found your way back to him, sliding your arm around his, and bid goodbye by a simple nod upwards.

From then on, he noticed even more the feelings Shiu harbored for you and he couldn't believe he had been so blind to all of this before. But he didn't treat him differently from then on.

Because after all, he still trusted him.

And he almost felt bad for him if it wasn't you he liked, because you were so oblivious to the slight change in his behavior whenever you were around that no one would even take the possibility of him being infatuated with you into consideration if they didn't know of it beforehand.

Toji could see the hurt in his eyes when your gaze shifted from Shiu to him after coming back from another rough day, seeing how you immediately lit up in his company - your smile filled the heart of one and simultaneously broke the one of the other.

Shiu even helped you surprising Toji oftentimes while breaking on the inside because he knew he could never have you, that this side of you will never be dedicated to him, that you'd always be Toji's girl.

But that was only half true, because one day, Toji didn't make it, one day he didn't finish his mission. And Shiu knew it, because before Toji even went on this mission, he pulled him aside and had the talk with him.

To know Toji knew of his fondness towards you for so long shocked him less than the fact that he still let you around him after this revelation.

"I'm entrusting you with her safety. Love her for the both of us, 'cause I won't be able to anymore."

Those were his last words. And he promised him he would fulfill his last wish, even though he knew Toji didn't want to leave you with every fibre of his being, he just got himself too deep into dangerous affairs.

And Toji smiled, because after all, he still trusted him. Now more than ever.

And slowly, after a lot of time, he kept his promise. If out of hurt or out of comfort, you gradually started to let Shiu in. You let him console you with his love and eventually accepted him as a partner. But there was always a glimmer in your eyes, a glimmer of sadness that still made you cry yourself to sleep some nights - after so many years. He couldn't do anything. The loss broke you.

He was your partner, but not your lover.

And he knew that you'd never be able to truly love him. Not the way you loved and keep loving Toji. He is the love of your life and will continue to be.

Now he had you, but you were still Toji's girl.

[ceesimz]

I Did It All.

"Alexia Putellas, what do you have to say about leaving the pitch for the final time?"

Twenty years done, not enough. Twenty years more, too much. A discrepancy far more complex than it needs to be.

Days spent treading the same grass that legends of the past had once done, winding and weaving fluidly through near faultless defences, roars of awe following as stars returned back to their rightful place in the sky with each jump of celebration.

Nights spent in clubs and restaurants, surrounded by people high on glory with medals around their necks, a privilege some may argue wasn't warranted. Though, when stadiums filled to their capacities chanted just one name over and over as if it was the holiest sacrament of Catalunya, fighting against that was as close to blasmephy as one could get.

To now slip off into the unknown, leaving behind only a name that no longer gave way to the presence of a figure the fields didn't deserve. The future would never know her, only her name, only her stats, only her achievements. Perhaps it was best to keep it that way.

Decades of critics speaking in such a way it was almost sacrilegious, months of shame in the media for purely being a human in the worst era of her life, weeks of slander and insults for fighting for rights in a system built to spite her, twisting her kindness into a weakness. But always, the rightful figure rises, pulling the sword from the stone and raising it to the skies in triumph. The crown could get heavy, but not once did it falter. Not once did it fall.

With the final few imprints of her boot studs as she stepped off of the turf, she simply relinquished the responsibility and handed the legacy over to the next generation, trusting them indefinitely to carry the honour in the same way she did. It wasn't just the handing over of a torch; it was the exchange of a rite of passage, a way of life, and a promise to uphold the standards of excellence and righteousness she had engraved into the sport she gave her life to. This passing of the baton wasn't solely focused on the end of something though, no, it was the beginning of something far more important than people could understand. It was time for the up-and-coming stars of the sport to take the pen and write their own chapters into the history books, encompassing the opportunity to build something even more empowering than those before them.

Allowing the armband she had worn with great pride to slip off her arm, she shed the weight of a thousand battles, all of the lessons she had learnt from each victory and each defeat now etched into every fibre of her being. The world watched as she exited the field for the last time, an understanding wordlessly divulged between millions at the recognition that this was a landmark moment.

Kaleidoscopes of nostalgia flitted past her eyes as if it were an old film roll, freeze-frames of time portraying unimaginably euphoric moments. Only for them to never be experienced again. Though every cheer, every chant, and every image of a shirt worn with her legacy stitched into the fabric of it, flooded through her veins, and would for evermore.

The high regard her peers held her to, whether she had come across them on the pitch time after time or never met them at all, was a testament to the irremovable mark she had left on the beautiful game. Other countless memorable figures that were desperate to meet her, brands desperate to work with her, all these examples of her undeniable impact.

Alexia Putellas never cared about being immortalised in her sport. She was just a girl from the outskirts of Barcelona, chasing a dream with her loved ones holding her hand along the journey. Some of those hands had slipped away as time went on, but that meant she only gained more guardian angels to watch over her. With a family as tight-knit as hers, each member past and present a constant reminder of her purpose, she never lost faith. Sure, there were moments where it faltered a little, but no matter how much people tried to make a mockery of her failures, she would step back up; each comeback better than the last.

Her longevity was unrivalled, performing to the highest standards near enough all the time, even when others didn't deserve to witness it. Still, she gave away every part of herself to a sport that tried to silence her and failed to give equity until the latest moment possible. Always undervalued and unappreciated in her place of work, but did that stop her? Dampen her spirits? No, of course it didn't. And she had ample evidence to prove it; awards, trophies, medals, and most importantly to her, an easier path paved for those following in her footsteps.

The final chapter was about to finish though, the book of a near flawless career soon to slam shut.

Football would feel the loss of her absence, but like the story of Ozymandias, the dust will blow over and erase her stature, the nature of the sport will run its course and she'll be a figment of the past. Her time had come, and she had done everything and more of what she needed to do.

She moved from an ever-present figure to just a silhouette with a few steps.

Here, now, at the crescendo of a note-worthy career run, there was only one way to answer such a question.

"I did it all."

[deakyjoe]

Not A Place, But A Feeling

Pairing: Joel Miller x Reader (fem, she/her)

Category: angst and maybe a little fluff idk

Summary: They say home is where the heart is. And your heart is with Joel Miller.

Warnings: 18+, age gap (reader is mid 20s and Joel is 56), a rewrite of episode 3 basically, kissing (!!), groping (!!), implied smut, mentions of death & suicide (Bill & Frank, Sarah), reader is Bill & Frank’s adopted/surrogate daughter, guilt, sadness, grief, loss/bereavement

Word count: 3.9k

A/N: In celebration of Pedro’s birthday, have something I’ve been working on for literal months <3

Consider buying me a coffee :)

Bill and Frank were dead.

Their corpses sat rotting away in their bedroom, the door locked shut, as Ellie read their goodbye letter, a note of upbeat confusion in her voice. You couldn't blame the kid, she'd never met either of them.

Joel stood next to you rigid, unsure what to do or say as he just listened to the final words spoken by two of the few people he'd chosen to trust in this world.

You, on the other hand, felt as if the universe was crashing down around you. All blood had escaped from your body, seemingly draining out from your feet, as your head floated around in a storm of lightness that threatened to knock you unconscious at any moment.

Bill and Frank had raised you, the former finding you abandoned as a toddler when the outbreak had started. You'd stayed shut away in their own private community for years, Tess and Joel being the first people you could remember meeting that hadn't been your surrogate parents. And when Frank had come up with the genius idea to dump you in their responsibility so you could socialise some more and see the real world, you'd been all too eager to sneak back into the QZ with them.

You were beginning to regret that enthusiasm.

"And take care of our girl for us, we know you will." The final words of the letter hung in the air for a moment as Ellie lowered the paper into her lap, eyes flicking between the two people stood in front of her.

Joel said nothing. And you ran.

The front door almost fell off its hinges with the force of you swinging it open to get to the front yard. Barren flowerbeds were quickly flooded with the contents of your stomach. You retched at the floor, nothing else coming up but the feeling of needing to vomit still strong.

They were dead. Dead. Gone. Forever. What were you supposed to do now?

Your legs trembled beneath you, struggling to keep your weight as every fibre of your being just wanted to give up and collapse into the ground. This wasn't supposed to happen.

Trying to shake the feeling off, you pushed yourself into an upright position and started walking. To where? You didn't know. But this is what you used to do when you needed time to think, time to clear your head, time to escape. You walked the town. You hadn't had that same ease in the QZ, it was nice to have it back now. Even in the worst scenario.

You couldn't dwell on this for too long. People died. Regularly in this world you lived in for that matter. It was an inevitability. The loss of Tess had been a warning sign of that only recently. You'd been taught not to grieve too much, you didn't have the time for it. And it wouldn't change anything.

But you still ached, feeling as if a part of you had been ripped away and stolen for eternity. So, you walked.

Joel had watched you leave out of the corner of his eye, not surprised by your reaction at all. It was a little understated if anything. The men who had raised you were dead. Nobody coped well with the loss of family, he knew that better than most.

"You should probably follow her." Ellie said, looking towards where you'd abruptly left the house.

"She'll be fine." He insisted, rolling his shoulders back and taking in the room around him. He'd have to figure out everything for himself now that Bill wasn't around to help. So he got started on that, distracting himself by creating a mental list of inventory the group of you would need for your journey. And all of it was bound to be lying around here somewhere.

Ellie could only watch as Joel ignored what he really should have been attending to and took to wandering around the house instead, staying careful to keep clear of the downstairs bedroom.

It took two hours for you to reappear in the house again, acting as if nothing had happened.

You strolled in to find Ellie rummaging through a dusty old box with your name plastered on the side of it in block capitals, the black ink slightly smudged.

"Hi."

Her head snapped up to meet your eyes. "Oh, hi. I found this."

You shrugged. "My music collection, right?"

She visibly relaxed and smiled. "Yeah." Ellie wasn't a shy kid by any means and she certainly didn't have any trouble with her confidence or prying, but she liked you and didn't want to overstep since you'd been nothing but nice to her since you'd met.

You nodded. "I think I've got an old Discman around here somewhere if you want to take some of it on the road with you."

Before she had a chance to respond Joel stomped back into the room, gaze landing on you. He didn't say anything but his expression was questioning. You just gave a short nod which was enough for him.

"Take a shower and I can find some clothes for you both." You said, collapsing into one of the wooden chairs. It creaked under your weight but you paid it no mind.

The both of them could tell you still were not feeling quite right but didn't push it, Ellie disappearing upstairs to take advantage of the luxury of a shower that was actually hot with good water pressure. Joel silently followed you to a closet where the stash of unused clothes was stored away.

You found jeans for him and Ellie, a t-shirt for the young girl and a plaid shirt for him. It was one of Frank's. Joel watched you silently as you hesitated before passing it over to him. Luckily, neither of you had to fill the tense silence that followed as the shower switched off upstairs.

“I’ll go give these to Ellie then you can shower.” You mumbled, pushing past him when he gave no more than a grunt of acknowledgment.

You don’t know what you expected from the man, he wasn’t exactly well-versed in emotional support. Just something a little more would have been nice. You pushed the thought aside as you knocked on the bathroom door.

“Yeah?” Ellie called back.

“It’s me. I’ve got you some clothes.” You were slightly turned away from the door in case she decided to open it.

“Oh! Okay, hang on.”

There was muffled rustling from the other side before the bathroom door opened a crack and a hand stuck out.

You laughed and gave her the pile of clothes. “Should be some spare toothbrushes under the sink too. Maybe some toothpaste. If you’re, I don’t know, feeling extra hygienic.”

“Feeling extra hygienic.” She echoed back in amusement. “Thanks!”

The bathroom door slammed again and you rolled your eyes.

“You’re welcome.”

You trotted down the stairs to find Joel hovering by the door to the kitchen, surveying his surroundings. You recognised that look.

“What do you need?” You asked.

He shook his head. “Nothing. I’m fine.”

You sighed. “Don’t tiptoe around me, Joel. What do you need?”

His gaze shot back to yours.

Tense silence hung in the air for a few seconds.

Just as he opened his mouth to reply, Ellie came bounding down the stairs and collapsed in front of the box of CDs again. She didn’t seem to notice the staring contest going on between the two of you as she rifled through the music rapidly.

Joel’s mouth closed again momentarily before he appeared to change his mind. “You good here for a while?” He directed at Ellie.

The young girl glanced up from the box and nodded, finally noticing the atmosphere in the room.

Joel turned back to you and tilted his head towards the front door. "Let's take a walk."

You followed him silently as he walked past you and out the front of the house, not stopping his fast pace until he was well away from the building.

Falling into step beside him, you debated whether you should be the first to speak. Thankfully, you didn’t have to think on that for too long because as you reached the point where the boutique was coming into view, Joel stopped and suddenly turned on you.

"You should stay here."

The statement felt like a knife in your chest. The way he said with such finality, such conviction. Like he’d been thinking it for a while. You wondered if that had been his plan all along.

"What?" You didn’t let your confusion and hurt go amiss from your tone.

Joel could only repeat himself. "Stay here."

You scoffed. "Why would I do that?"

"It's safe." He pushed through clenched teeth.

You nodded. "Safe."

"Your home."

He’d completely lost you.

And yet you nodded slowly again. "My home."

He nodded tightly, wishing you'd stop repeating everything he said in that sardonic tone.

You clicked your tongue quietly. "You think this is my home?"

"Yes."

You glanced at the row of derelict buildings next to you, the cracks on the ground, the dead grass. "The place I left years ago, where I had no friends, where my parents have recently killed themselves, you think that's my home?"

Joel had never heard you directly refer to Bill and Frank as your parents. It pained him to hear the word used in such a horrific scenario. But he didn’t let up.

"You grew up here."

You laughed humourlessly. "You grew up in Texas. Do you still refer to that as your home?"

He'd like to. But didn't. "No."

"And what is your home, huh? What do you think of your home as, Joel?" Your brows furrowed together as you watched him thinking about it.

Sarah.

Tommy.

Tess.

...You.

You didn’t let him answer. "Bet it's not a place, is it?"

You were right.

You knew that so you carried on. "Bill and Frank were my home. Now they're gone. Tess was my home. But guess what? She's gone too. Tommy's gone fucking M.I.A.! So what am I left with, Joel?"

Him.

"I'm left with you." You shoved at his chest, surprised by your own strength when he took an unsteady step back. "So if you think that I'm going to stay in this fucking ghost town alone instead of following my home wherever he goes with that girl who needs us, then you really don't know me at all."

You went to push past him, to leave his ridiculous suggestion behind and maybe go clear your head with a hot shower, when he stopped you with a statement that felt like the knife he’d already plunged into your chest was being twisted around to hurt you even more.

"Tess promised Bill and Frank that we'd look after you."

The scowl on your face deepened and Joel knew he'd given the wrong answer but it was the only answer he knew to give.

"Is that what I am to you, Joel? A promise that Tess made?"

He didn't respond.

A sting that threatened tears bit at the back of your throat. "Because if I'm a promise that someone else made for you then fine, I'll stay. I won't burden you with having to take care of me anymore." You ran a hand down your face. "You've got your hands full with Ellie anyway."

“That’s not what I meant.” He tried.

And failed.

“Then what do you fucking mean?!” You wailed, fingers clawing at your scalp in frustration. “Do you want me to stay here for me or for you? Just spit it out, Joel! So I understand what the fuck you want!”

Joel Miller was an intimidating man. He marched around with a permanent frown on his face, his tall and broad figure parting any crowd that saw him coming. That's why, when he took a few sudden paces towards you, you inched back a couple steps. It was instinct. He was a killing machine. And he didn't look too happy with you right now.

But the pure shock that rocketed through your system when his large hands landed on each of your cheeks and he crashed his mouth against yours would have been enough to keep a whole city's electricity running for a month.

You froze for a moment, eyes fluttering shut in surprise, not sure what to do with yourself. Joel Miller was kissing you. Joel Miller was kissing you. Out of every possible outcome, you never could have predicted this. The older man who you had adored quietly for years and trusted with your life, with your soul, was kissing you.

Your fists curled into the front of the shirt he’d been wearing for days, fabric a little stiff with dirt and grime, using it as leverage to meet his lips halfway.

He kissed you hungrily, like a man starved, devouring everything he could possibly take from you. Fingers tangled in the back of your hair, tugging roughly to elicit soft whimpers out of you. He licked into your mouth hotly, tasting as much of you as possible.

The feeling of your palms sliding up his chest seemed to knock him out of his stupor, detaching himself from you and taking a couple of unsure steps back.

He looked at you surprised, almost like he couldn't believe he'd done that. "I-"

"Joel..." You trailed off when he gave you a warning look. So you went for another approach. "I thought you and Tess..."

His face tightened in frustration. "No."

You didn't believe that. "No?"

"No." He gave a subtle shake of his head. "Never."

He seemed adamant. And sincere. So you chose to believe him.

You weren’t shocked when he looked at you for just a couple of seconds more before spinning on his heel and started walking back in the direction of the house. He was like that. Joel seemed to enjoy ignoring his feelings.

But then he changed his mind and looked back at you again. "We can stay a couple of days and then we need to move again."

You nodded slowly. "Okay."

He tilted his head up towards the dull sky for a moment before turning again and stalking off.

You waited until he was out of sight before following him. If he was conflicted on what he’d just done, then pestering him with your presence certainly wasn’t going to help.

When you got back to the house, Ellie was still sat on the floor.

She didn’t even look up as she spoke to you. “The old man’s showering, thank god. Thought my nose was going to fall off.”

You stifled a laugh and set about finding out if there was any food in the pantry that was still good to eat. You knew there was an endless supply in the basement and garage, but something slightly fresher was more likely to satisfy the three of you for the next couple days you were apparently staying. Managing to find something mildly edible and leaving it out for the two of them to eat, you informed Ellie she could help herself to anything in the house before making your way upstairs to find some of your own stuff to wear in what used to be your old bedroom.

You’d miscalculated how long it would take Joel to wash away the days worth of dirt as he emerged from the bathroom just as you walked past it, hair damp and slicked back and new-ish clothes on. He looked good. Very good. And somehow better than usual.

You swallowed thickly and slid past him into your old bedroom, not saying a word as he watched you go. The knowledge that he felt something for you, you didn’t know just what yet, was weighing down on you. What were you supposed to do with the idea that he maybe liked you just enough to want to kiss you? Joel wasn’t the kind of man to suddenly open up about his feelings and tell you he was hopelessly in love with you. Maybe he was pre-outbreak, you thought. You’d like to have known the him that existed pre-outbreak, you decided. But he certainly wasn’t that man now.

You pushed your door shut behind you, leaning against the wood and letting out a long exhale. God, why had he decided now was a good time to make this more complicated than it already was? You almost despised him for it.

Shaking the thoughts away, you found yourself some clothes and traipsed to the shower. The hot water and steam would clear away the temporary worries whilst you figured out how you were going to address your own feelings for him. Sure, you’d always known you’d silently harboured a thing for Joel. But you’d always assumed that nothing would ever come of it, he was a lot older and Bill would kill him if he ever caught wind of anything, so you’d buried the feelings deep down inside of yourself. Until today apparently. When he’d decided to dig it all up by kissing you.

You scrunched your eyes shut and forced that thought out of your head. The memory of the way his lips felt against yours, the way his hands, his very large hands, held you, the way his tongue licked into your mouth, the way he groaned lowly deep in his chest.

Thoughts. Forced. Out. Gone.

The rest of the day was uneventful. The three of you ate in silence before Ellie declared she was tired and you told her she could sleep in your old bed. She seemed ecstatic with that as she’d admitted to snooping earlier and thought that the mattress looked comfortable. You’d laughed and waved her off. Joel had then mumbled something about supplies and had disappeared into the basement.

You took that as your opportunity to speak to Bill and Frank, something you’d wanted to do since Ellie had first read that letter. So you hauled yourself up from where you were sitting, padded down the short hallway to the room where their bodies rested, and promptly sat down right outside the door.

You spoke to them silently in your head, giving them updates like you would’ve done were they still alive and you were just visiting. Telling them about life in the QZ and what you’d been up to. In retrospect, it seemed ridiculous. But at the time, it felt right.

When you were done, you just closed your eyes and leaned your head back against the door.

"Don't go in there."

Your eyes shot open at the deep voice to find Joel standing a few feet away from you. Of course. Who else would it have been?

"I'm not. Just wanted to sit with them for a minute." You sighed and squinted your eyes at him. "I know that sounds crazy."

He shook his head in disagreement. "I understand."

There was a brief moment of silence.

He broke it. "It's late. You should go to bed."

"Ellie's in my bed.”

"Master bedroom." He countered.

You frowned. "I thought that's where you were sleeping."

"Couch." Joel’s line of defence was unwavering; you didn’t really know why considering you were having a simple conversation about sleeping arrangements.

So you pushed on. "Couch? Why? Isn't that uncomfortable?"

"I've slept on worse."

"What's wrong with the master bedroom?"

He hesitated. "That's where Bill and Frank used to sleep. Feels like an invasion."

Oh.

You hummed and nodded your head. "That's why I can't do it either."

"You can't stay here all night."

"I've slept on worse." You repeated his words back to him, surely he would understand.

He nodded and slowly offered out his hand. “Come on.”

You almost didn’t take it, shocked that he was doing it. But after a moment’s pause, you slipped your hand into his and let him pull you up. And when he didn’t immediately let go, and started to pull you towards the couch instead, you thought you might have a heart attack.

When the two of you reached your apparent sleeping grounds for the night, Joel turned back to look at you. Only to find that you were a lot closer than expected. He didn’t like the way you looked up at him because it reflected a grief he’d only ever seen in himself. It was too personal, what you were feeling. He hated it. And yet, he couldn’t help but feel tempted by it.

He’d already crossed that boundary once. What was once more?

You were less surprised the second time Joel Miller kissed you. In fact, you were more relieved.

One hand cupped your face, keeping you grounded, the other clutched at your waist, keeping you close. Whether that was for him or for you, you weren’t sure. But you weren’t going to complain either way. And when the two of you fell back onto the couch all bitter memories of loss, of grief, of confusion, of him all went away.

Joel could only wish that he was on the same mental path.

This was so unbelievably selfish of him. Bill and Frank trusted him with your safety and security. And here he was on their couch, the memories of their lives still dancing around him fresh, kissing their daughter as he groped and grabbed at you with lust fuelled energy. It was more than lust, Joel knew that, but the ghosts of Bill and Frank didn't.

You were on top of him, full weight pushed against his body, and Joel could think of nothing but how fucking soft you felt under his touch. He ignored the betrayal of two of his only friends, ignored the glaring age difference, ignored that he was feeling what he should have felt for Tess. None of it mattered when your skin was warm and velvety in his palms. None of it mattered when your tongue slid against his and you swallowed the soft groans he'd accidentally let loose every now and then. None of it mattered when you whispered his name against his lips almost checking like his was still there with you. And of course he was. He'd never leave you from this moment on.

He'd continue to be selfish and ignore all the reasons why this was so wrong because it just felt right. Like you'd said, he was your home. And you were certainly his. Maybe he could afford to be selfish for once in his life.

The kisses were sweet, almost as sweet as you, but Joel could feel you yearning for more. Your fingers itched against him, twitching in anticipation. He understood perfectly as he felt the same, letting his hands drift to wherever they wanted. And you had no complaints, arching into his touch as much as you could.

The two of you were like horny teenagers, making out on the couch and trying to stay as quiet as possible so as not to wake the rest of the house. The rest of the house being Ellie in this scenario. Although the teenager wasn’t stupid; she’d felt the tension as soon as she’d met the two of you. Even if you both appeared unaware of it.

The sun dipped below the horizon.

Hands dipped below waistlines.

A war raged through Joel’s mind. This was wrong. So unbelievably wrong. But you felt so right.

He broke away momentarily, running a thumb along your bottom lip. “Maybe you should sleep.”

You only nodded at him, eyelids half closed and pupils blown. Joel just kissed you again. Maybe his moral dilemma could be a problem for the morning.

A/N: When I say this has been sitting in my drafts for ages, unfinished, but calling to me. Glad I finally got around to completing it :)

[strawberryspence]

Because I am obsessed with the famous trope here’s another one that kept me up all night.

Steve and Eddie dated right after Vecna in ‘86 and it’s perfect. They date each other and it’s like two puzzles clicking together. But they’re young, foolish and they both have mountains of trauma. And sometimes, the passion and love, just isn’t enough to keep a relationship going.

They have a messy break up that has Eddie packing all his stuff up in ‘88. Eddie goes to LA or New York, either way that’s where he gets discovered. He then goes on to write some very angsty and angry rock/metal music about the break-up that gets him up on the map.

Steve hates it. He hates it with every fibre of his soul because it’s one thing when you and you ex still have the same friends and have to be civil with each other, but it’s a whole other thing when you open the radio and this man you dated, this man you loved and cared for and failed is just out here singing it for the whole world to hear.

And yeah listen, it’s petty and dumb. But Steve writes his own fucking songs, it’s not the direct response to Eddie’s song but it’s close. By that time it’s already ‘90 and Eddie’s made a whole name and career out of their relationship. Steve writes the songs, he sings, and he sends the damn demo to almost fifty different companies. And he gets picked up by one company.

Steve takes the pop star route, and with his looks and his somehow amazing vocals, by ‘94 Steve’s on the charts with Whitney and Mariah. The whole Party has solemnly promised to not get involved with their petty songwriting fighting anymore. They also haven’t spoken in person in almost six years, and the only way they communicate now is through the freaking songs.

There’s not a lot of overlap with the rock and pop community, and no one notices it until ‘05. It’s one fan that makes this one blog post talking about this weird freaky coincidence in Steve Harrington and Eddie Munson’s songs. It becomes a whole thing, like someone from Hawkins pulls out the yearbooks and finds out that they could’ve known each other. Their faces are splashed together into every magazine and celebrity entertainment shows.

They don’t say anything about it. No one comments about it for a few years and it infuriates the public even more. The next time Steve comes out with a song, Eddie comes out with another song a few months after and it’s once again a literal conversation about their relationship.

The whole thing continues until ‘11 and by then there’s blog dedicated for all the clues. It’s now a long running thread, and it gets updated when there’s another clue to this massive confusing puzzle. There’s a whole subsection with names of every Party member and how they connect the two artists together. There’s freaking flow charts and pictures and family trees.

It only ends when Eddie finally posts two pictures on Twitter. The first one is taken backstage. All you can see is Steve’s back, but you will know it’s him because of his hair. He’s standing at the side of the stage, and on the stage is Eddie Munson singing. The second one is a picture of Eddie sitting in a couch as Steve looms over him, hands crossed on his chest. Eddie’s signing his own album with a smirk, while Steve glares at him. If you zoom, you can see the sign on the album saying, “To Steve. This album is for you.”

The caption says: “Me and my biggest fan. Circa 2004.”

Steve replies to the original post saying: “You’re sleeping on the couch tonight.”

Eddie deletes the post and reposts it with: “Me and my wonderful, gorgeous, talented husband. I can’t believe I am married to THE Steve Harrington.”

It’s the first time the term “break the internet” is ever used.

Turns out, they were just writing the songs to spite each other and to add fuel to the fandom fire. (In an interview, Eddie says, “It’s our foreplay.” and Steve doesn’t talk to him for a solid 30 minutes for running his mouth. It only lasts for 30 minutes because Eddie made it up to him by using his mouth for something else.)

[leafington]

𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙢𝙤𝙧𝙚 𝙞 𝙙𝙧𝙞𝙣𝙠 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙞𝙣, 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙡𝙤𝙣𝙜𝙚𝙧 𝙢𝙮 𝙣𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩𝙨 𝙜𝙚𝙩. - kento n.

content warning !! - enemies to lovers w nanami (i caved), blackfem!reader, ngh modelceo!reader, ceo!nanami, me putting my business and entrepreneurship knowledge to use, light intoxication, suggestiveness at the end

a/n - IM BACK YALL WOOOOOO, sorry for making u wait @jellicatty 🙁

For years, Nanami has held himself to competition with you and your company. If he had a tier-list of all the people he hated, you were a close second to Gojo. To say he hated your guts was an understatement, some thought he just had some sort of lingering grudge, others assumed you two just got off the wrong foot but they couldn't be far from wrong. That man practically wanted you dead, and that's a hard call to make from someone who was raised well.

His mother was nothing short of a good woman, she taught his son to do great things—respect elders, women, and children alike, offer up his seat to those who needed it more than him, never pray upon someone's downfall no matter how hard they made his life. Each and every time he comes across your presence, he closes his eyes and mentally apologizes to his mother.

Your being insinuates such hatred within him. The way you arose to popularity out of nowhere due to what? Daddy's money? Your looks that earned you sexiest woman alive four years in a row? He wasn't accepting that 'model starting their own company' bullshit, not that he didn't believe one couldn't, just not you.

He recalls the very first moment he met you, three years ago when you made his life hell. 'Japan's Top Model, L/n Y/n, announces her official clothing line.' Who knew a simple headline could turn his future upside down? At the time, he'd only heard of you once or twice over a news article or a random scandal that just so happened to sneak into his algorithm. But this was different, it effected him in every way possible.

Suddenly, he has competition. 'LVS' stocks had reached a pinnacle point within just a few weeks of launching, he'd never seen those abbreviations before, the next, his own business was constantly being compared to by this new threatening company. All things after that basically consisted of Nanami fighting for his top spot. You can't even describe how upset he was when he first met you. A beautiful woman, buttering up the chairman into letting you attend the business meetings that he [Nanami] went to, pretty tits bouncing when introducing yourself to the other members of the council, and that gleam of something in your eye when you finally met with Nanami.

"So you're the one hogging No. 1?"

He doesn't give a damn how many of the other pervs fell for your charm, to him, you were the devil in disguise.

Nanami Kento despised you with every fibre of his person. Even at this formal event.

"Sexiest woman alive"? Damn right you were. He can see how easily the others fell for you, if he didn't have his head screwed on tight, he would've been the next one to take you in the office.

That black sleeveless maxi dress kept him on his toes the entire night, curves and assets prominent. The way you held your glass of sparkling rosé, chatting it up with whoever that unfortunate soul was that thought they would get you in their bed after this was all over. Nanami held his own drink, a good amount of scotch that'd get him through the remainder of the event without bashing someone's head in. He's trying to listen to his colleague brag about his latest product of his work that's been selling well, but you being in his line of sight smiling and giggling seemed way more appealing.

In no way is Nanami a man who occupied himself with women, until he found a good place to settle and retire, a relationship didn't have any room in his life. To the best of his abilities, he ignores the now reciprocated exchange of stares, only sipping from the modern glass whenever he felt he needed the extra loosening.

And loose he was.

You look good. Too good. He turned his head to avoid indulging, not with the woman who's downfall he's prayed upon. Though it's far too late because that scotch is getting it's moneys worth having already downed three glasses and bringing him closer and closer to the woman he claimed he loathed.

His compliments were unlike anything he's ever thought of you. "You look stunning tonight." "Your stylist did an amazing job." "The pictures do you no justice." Drunk words are sober thoughts as they say. His eyes were telling more than his words, he wanted you bad.

Compared to any other elderly male he knew what to say to have you feel won over, even if you were well aware of his hatred towards you. So.. though it was just for a night, you returned the favor. Addressing his compliments with your own, insisting that the media makes such false claims about his person, feeling him up, and eventually dragging him to the bathroom to show him exactly how you shot to the top.

"You minx." He hisses as your kisses trail lower from his jaw. "Oh? What happened to all that talk you were doing?" You effortlessly tug his tie off, allowing it to hang from his neck. "Do you do this with every man you want to surpass?" He grits, fighting his natural urges to give in. "Very few, only the ones that act uppity and look good in a suit."

"Fuck... I hate you so much."

©2024 leafington dont steal please!! :)

[formulatrash]

really want to hear what you think of the daniel ricciardo firing? I was thinking how almost every driver has this trajectory where past their prime they end up with poorer and poorer teams. Going from maybe championship contending teams to midfielders, then backmarkers before they eventually just slip out of the sport. Only the actual real greats get to properly hold onto the bargaining chips for very long. Like, Michael Schumacher retired with ferrari, came back with merc before finally leaving. Lewis got to pick his teams all his life and now he's going out on a high with ferrari (I presume this is his last dance). Even fernando has had a decent run, which would have been better if he was good at maintaining relationships with teams ig. But yeah, wanted to hear what you think of driver swaps and unceremonius firings as someone who knows the sport so well. And any daniel anecdotes if you're in the mood. hope ur having a good day <3

I've been thinking a lot about it tbh. It's such an... undignified exit. Extremely Red Bull but not what you would expect to happen to Daniel, who's always been a bit of a favourite child there.

He got the early call-up to HRT, replacing Narain Karthikeyan mid-season in 2011 and then him and JEV took the Toro Rosso seats the next year. At the time, the Red Bull programme was probably the most vicious it's ever been, all psychological warfare in rubbish flats in Milton Keynes and Daniel Ricciardo was probably the person who came out of it the best.

the offcuts of the time are easily identified: half of them are in Formula E and most of them are champions now (soz Robin) but it's strange to think that someone who thrived in that harsh world ended up discarded by a much softer version of it, so many years later.

Red Bull were not ready for Daniel Ricciardo to leave when he did, when he decided not to take the chance on Honda and to go to the Renault works team. I know it's often styled out with the Drive To Survive narrative that he was leaving to not be second driver to Max but the Honda thing was much bigger and a lot of people thought Max might be an idiot for staying. after only one year with Toro Rosso Honda didn't look as outright bad as we did the previous year with McLaren but there were still reliability issues and it wasn't the fastest power unit. that Sakura then went on to build an invincible, unfailing, ultra-efficient PU was not written in the stars at all.

I don't, honestly, know if he would have thrived staying at Red Bull - his descent might have been quicker, as the disparity between him and Max could've opened up very fast, in those years of the car turning dominant.

Daniel's problem as a driver is that (and he's said this himself) he's not especially technical. when he has a setup that suits him he's extremely fast but he doesn't know and isn't interested in the further technical details of it and I'm not sure that's actually possible to sustain a career at the top of F1, now.

he had started to suffer with it a bit at Red Bull and it was partly why the car was going more and more Max's way. Renault, I think, were in such a different place - a lot of their problems operational - that he was able to make a bigger difference there through his experience at a top team. McLaren the story wasn't exactly writ large as flayed open and strewn around the track like bits of carbon fibre: Lando could ask for what he wanted from the car, Daniel couldn't.

so: do I think that things would have gone wildly differently if he had stayed at Red Bull? no. he might have won a few more races and he might have found himself in a tororossoalphataurivcarb again a few years earlier.

I think something notable about his career is that it leaves a lot more questions than, say, Alonso's. even though there is no real reason for Fernando to have come back to F1, let alone moved from Alpine to Aston Martin because his championship winning days are coming up for two decades ago, he is still there. and it's reasonably clear why: he is as competitive as the car allows him to be, teams value him as a consultant who can also get to Q3. he does numbers on tiktok.

Ricciardo's departure from McLaren was baffling to both him and the team, neither really able to explain what had gone wrong. and believe me, if the team could have found a way not to be losing points in the constructors championship they would have, they were not sabotaging a driver they were paying millions to, in theory, outperform their other one.

but McLaren sometimes are baffling. despite all the changes in the team since Ron Dennis left, I could well believe that a factory capable of making the 2017 chassis might well not be able to fix their 2022 one. the start of 2023 certainly seemed to support that theory, until that transformative upgrade package made it clear they'd worked out what they needed to do, probably somewhat due to having drivers who agreed with each other.

was going back to Red Bull and then VCARB a good idea for Ricciardo? there were other moving parts there, like the fact Horner didn't really want De Vries anyway and definitely not compared to how hyped up he was to have Ricciardo back. the plan absolutely was to put Daniel in the Red Bull but then he was injured and didn't quite perform how they were expecting.

I asked JEV about it when it was announced because they used to be best mates and teammates and JEV turned down a Toro Rosso offer himself, after his second FE championship. also because I can get away with asking JEV that sort of thing and walking away with my head still attached to my body.

He said "I mean, it’s something I’m looking at from far away. When you make a decision, he has all the information in his hands that you or me or many other people don’t have, so I’m sure he made the right decision. I mean, then it's going to be a question of how he performs against Tsunoda and also against Perez.

"In Formula 1, you need luck, it’s quite well known but you need to put yourself in the position where you you have luck. So if he stayed in his position, I don't think it would have put himself in a position to to be lucky. Now he’s in a position where he can either be lucky or unlucky. It's only up to him but at least his destiny is in his hands."

what he meant by creating his own luck was that if you're in a reserve role you're Schrödinger's driver: maybe good or bad and no one will know until they put you in the car. by accepting the VCARB drive Ricciardo chose to open the box and find out if his career, otherwise in quantum suspension, was alive or dead.

if the first time he left F1 people were still looking for answers, this time it feels more that no one wanted to find them out.

this year the gap is smaller to Yuki, points-wise and it's not that Daniel's been destroying chassis every other week or something, it's just that his time seems to be up. there's no real point having him in the VCARB when that's supposed to be the junior team and he's underperforming too much to get a chance back at the top team. is Perez also underperforming too much to keep his seat there? yes and it's likely to lose Red Bull the constructors but given that, you'd promote Tsunoda not Ricciardo.

F1 is an odd world because if everyone was honestly objective, it would be clear that, no, they are not the 20 best drivers in the world. they are the 20 drivers that most fit into F1 in the world. and Daniel Ricciardo certainly fits into F1 - the outpouring for his final race was about his place in the sport's culture, more than his performance in it.

his dropping was as undignified as the Red Bull Junior Team tends to make it. messy, speculated about in the press extensively, with a lot of leaks and lack of clarity. both theatrical and unceremonial. in all honesty it doesn't compare to, say, Daniil Kvyat managing to leave ToroRossoAlphaTauri four separate times or the vicious decimation of Brendon Hartley or to throw it back far enough, the way they treated JEV. like, hey, at least Helmut Marko just wanted to fire Daniel since Barcelona but didn't imply it was because he was on drugs. but ranking brutality and ugliness in firings is as redundant as the drivers.

did it, particularly, befit a 35 year old with 13 years of experience in F1? no, you wouldn't expect a 35 year old with 13 years of experience in F1 to be in that position. Ricciardo got the strange opportunity of a do-over but that doesn't really exist, you cannot go back to the version of yourself that stepped in mid-season and made his way to a top seat. even racing in circles there's track evolution.

if I was writing this as an article I'd be going back and editing to put the Schrödinger's stuff higher up and calling it like "Daniel Ricciardo finally gets answers on F1 career, just not ones anyone wants" because I don't know, got to put some snappy shit in the headline haven't you. But I'm not and I can't be bothered.

I do think there's something to that, though. to there being an answer this time, as opposed to with McLaren. he exited F1 as he entered it: mid-season, to and from a team no one thought he was going to stay at and I suppose that's an interesting start/finish line under a career that will probably fascinate people more than a lot of champions'.

[thebestofoneshots]

Gilded Constellations | wolfstar x reader

Series Masterlist

Pairing: Wolfstar x Reader Word Count: 4.3K Warnings: none Prompt: You meet Sirius and Regulus at a family vacation in the Caribbean, but things don't go as planned and you end up losing contact once the trip is over. Years later your family moves to England and you get accepted at Hogwarts where you finally meet Sirius once again, along with all of his friends. One of them with a mysterious secret, that you'll uncover as you embark on your own Hogwarts adventure.

Chapter 1: Summer Breeze 

2 years ago - Summer 1974 

Every summer holiday, your parents would take you on some elaborate vacation to a different place. This summer was no different from that, except that they’d contacted some of their old friends in England to plan a trip together. Your father was set on making you more fluent in English and had the brilliant idea to force you onto making some English friends. 

While you weren’t too excited about spending your summer with a pure-blood family, since your mom had not-wizarding grandparents, you decided you were not going to be a snob and actually try to make some friends. Your parents never told you that the Blacks didn’t know about your mom’s ancestry though, especially after your great-grandmother made a huge effort to hide that side of the family when the racist stuff started getting worse. It wasn’t a secret to you, only to the rest of the world. 

“Are you ready sweetheart?” Your mom asked, looking stunning in her white beach dress. 

You closed your suitcase and nodded, walking towards her and your dad in the centre of your living room. You stood in a circle and in the blink of an eye apparated in a completely different place. You were in the middle of a giant Lobby, looking straight toward the front desk. It was an open space, there were fountains in the centre and large logs of wood holding a stunning ceiling with floating balls of some wood-like fibre, you could hear the waves crashing onto the shore somewhere in the distance. It looked elegant yet rustic at the same time. On the side of the Lobby, a metal plate spelled 

Mayan Occultum Hotel  The #1 Hotel for Witches and Wizards in the Caribbean:  Costa Maya 

Followed by 5 shining golden stars that spun  around every couple of seconds. Your father had his head up and looked around to try and find his old friends. 

Sirius had been dragged to this. While to anyone a vacation in the Caribbean might sound like a dream, to him it was no other than an absolute nightmare, not because he disliked the beach, in fact, he quite fancied the idea of spending some time relaxing under the sun after the finals, the issue here was that he wasn’t going with his friends, no James, No Mooney, no Wormtail. No, he was on a FAMILY vacation, which meant he’d have to spend like 2 weeks locked up in a hotel in the middle of nowhere with a bunch of people that hated him. He threw in as many muggle-like clothing items he’d gotten from Andromeda into his suitcase, just to spite his parents and hopefully keep the other wizard family, the one that had the brilliant idea to invite his family to the hotel to come along with them, at bay. He was not interested in making new friends, he was not interested in talking to any that were of his parents at all. After all, they probably would be no other than a bunch of Slytherin snobs. 

By the time his mother called him down to the chimney to travel through the floo network, he’d even made sure to add in a pair of Doc Martens to his suitcase, the most punk thing he had gotten his hands on thus far, all thanks to Moony who’d showed him how to order things from a catalogue. He was wearing a leather jacket, ripped black jeans and a pair of Converse shoes, not a very beachy outfit, was it? 

When his mom saw him she almost ordered him to go back upstairs to change but Orion said they were late and basically pushed Sirius onto the chimney. He was the first to arrive, Regulus was next, with a very suitable wizard attire, his parents had come soon after. 

Once your dad spotted Orion among the crowds he went straight to greet him, your mom followed alongside him and you lagged behind just a bit. 

“It’s wonderful to see you again, Orion, you look as dashing as the last time we met,” your father said. 

Orion chuckled lightly “I could say the same about you Silas! This must be Avis,” he said as he turned into your mother “I remember as if it was yesterday when you wrote me that you’d found the love of your life.” 

Now it was your father who chucked “Walburga,” He nodded towards her, she set her hand out and he gave a courteous kiss. Had they forgotten to tell you were meeting royalty or something? Your parents were rarely this formal with his friends.

Regardless of the odd formalities, you stayed behind them as they caught up, “These are my children,” Orion said pushing forwards two boys, one dressed as a wizard and one with very muggle-like clothes, “This is Sirius,” He pointed at the taller boy, “and this is Regulus,” he said pointing at the smaller one. 

Up until then Sirius had maintained a disagreeable face but had been polite enough to your parents so as not to seem like an ass, at least they weren’t overly dressed, they looked like a normal family on vacation, not like they were going to the queen’s wedding at the beach. But his expression changed when your mom moved to the side and he saw you for the first time. 

“This is my daughter, (Y/N),” Your father said, placing a hand on your back and pushing you just slightly forward. 

“You’ve got yourself a beautiful young lady, Silas, why have you been hiding her behind you?” 

“Our (Y/N) is a bit shy,” Your mom excused. 

“Just like our son,” Walburga said as she placed a hand on Regulus’ shoulder, with a huge suspicious smile growing on her face. You would’ve taken a step back had it not been for your father’s hand still on your back, Sirius noticed. He’d straightened his back right after you appeared in his field of view, he almost felt self-conscious, of his outfit (probably because of how hot it was), of his hair, he hated feeling that way, but there was something about you, he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Curiosity, it had to be that. He was curious about you. 

You responded with an awkward smile, by then your father was already pulling Orion toward the front desk to check in. 

“So (Y/N), What year are you in?” Walburga asked, you couldn’t help but notice how beautiful she was, in a dangerous sort of way, sharp features, a smile that even if it looked kind, hid something behind it. Like a mermaid luring you in before she drowns you, you thought. 

“I’m starting my 4th,” You replied politely, trying to hide how intimidated you felt while talking to her. 

“Oh,” she said, sounding almost a little disappointed “Like Sirius.” Had she said her child’s name with disdain or was it just your imagination? Perhaps it had something to do with the way the boy dressed. 

“I’m sure they’ll become great friends,” your mom said looking at you, then at Sirius and then back at you. 

Walburga nodded but did not look very happy with the idea of you making friends with her older son. Regardless, you’d been interested in talking to the boy the moment you spotted him from the distance, he looked like the vocalist of a rock band. If it had not been for the fact that your parents introduced you to him, you might have lived on assuming he was some sort of celebrity. 

In the midst of the awkward silence your father and Orion came back. Your father smiled towards you, almost apologetically “Sweetheart there is an event for couples on the other side of the hotel, Orion and I thought it would be good to spend some time there to catch up, would you mind exploring the rest of the hotel with the boys?” 

Well, there goes your family vacation, makes sense after all, your father had been looking for an excuse to move back to England for a while, maybe he’d talk to Orion about the ministry jobs available, Orion did have the politician look going for him. You forced a smile “Not at all Dad, it’ll be fantastic to get to know them,” you hoped that did not come out as ironic as you meant it. Although Sirius' snicker from behind gave you the impression it was not like that. 

Your dad handed you and the boys a map each “We’ve enhanced them, that way we can always find you.” 

Your smile only tightened but you kept it until they were out of sight. Once you made sure they were far enough you pulled your wand out and murmured “incendio,” causing your map to slowly burn itself, you let it drop once the fire was too close to your hand. 

“Did you just use magic? Aren’t you 14?” Regulus asked with a frown. 

You turned to him with a smile “There are many qualified wizards around us,” you responded opening your arms to gesture at the amount of people surrounding you “Besides, this hotel is part of the Occultum line, anyone that has studied at least until year 2 is permitted to use magic–” After hearing this words Sirius used incendio to burn his map as well, you raised your eyebrows towards him and then continued “–that’s why my parents picked it, they wanted me to spend some time practising spells for the next year.” 

Regulus only settled his map on a nearby suitcase that was soon sent flying away, presumably towards its own room, proving how unnecessary the magic you’d both used had been “I heard there was an orchestra at noon, maybe we can go there?” He suggested. 

“Sure, I guess…” You said before grabbing a pamphlet that mentioned all the activities the hotel had going on that day, but one seemed a tad more interesting “What about his one tho?” You said pointing at something written on the paper. 

“A muggle movie screening?” Regulus asked with a grimace, Sirius, on the other hand, seemed a lot more interested in it. 

“Let’s do that! Sounds fun!” Sirius decided, took the pamphlet from your hands in an action that would’ve been rude had he not done it with such grace, and started walking towards the direction the pamphlet indicated. 

“Not sure Mom and Dad would like that,” Regulus argued as the two of you followed, lagging behind Sirius only slightly. 

“Of course, they wouldn’t,” You agreed with him, but caught up with Sirius soon after “Regardless, dear Reg, is not like they’re going to know, we all got rid of our maps.” 

His frown didn’t leave his face even after he caught up with you, walking by your side, instead of his brother’s. Weird, you thought. 

“And don’t even think about telling dear mommy and daddy about it Reggie!” Sirius warned. 

Regulus didn’t fancy how quick you’d gotten comfortable with giving him a nickname, regardless he decided to go with it, it was probably better to stick to Sirius to make sure he didn’t cause some mischief that would have the three of you grounded for the rest of the summer, or your lives, whichever came first. 

The three of you arrived at the “cinema” area quickly enough. “Well, even if the movie is bad, the experience will be authentic.” 

“You’ve been to a cinema?” Asked Sirius impressed. 

“Last summer while I was in New York,” you explained, “very similar to this one, ‘bit more run down.” 

“And your parents allowed you?” Asked Regulus, almost judging. 

“Perhaps they would’ve If they’d known,” you replied with a mischievous smile. 

The three of you walked to the stall and asked the lady attending to give you 1 large bowl of popcorn and three butter beers. The lady grabbed a large bucket and threw some kernels inside it, followed by a block of butter and a sprinkle of salt, she then murmured “calidium.” Hot air started coming from her wand, heating the kernels and having them pop in front of your eyes. 

You leaned in closer to Regulus and whispered “They didn’t have that in the cinema I went to.” 

The lady continued with her task and started serving the butter beers when Sirius decided to speak up. 

“What’s the sorting hat popcorn?” 

“You spin the thing, and a block of candy will come out, we add that to the corn before popping and when it does, it becomes sweetened popcorn with the colour of your house, it’s inspired by the Hogwarts sorting hat,” She explained. 

He nudged you, “You should try it, see which house you’d be in if you studied with us,” He said with a smile. 

“That’s ridiculous, random candy cannot be as wise as the sorting hat,” Regulus complained. 

You shrugged “Seems like a fun deal,” You said, walking towards the fun-looking machine and spinning the wheel. A dark block of candy came out and you handed it to the lady. After she performed the same spell as last time, minus the salt, the popcorn started to pop, turning into different shades of grey, gold, green and silver. You turned to the boys “Which house is that?” 

“Seems like you’re in between,” the lady replied. “The popcorn is not as accurate as the sorting hat I’m afraid.” 

“In between what?” 

“Slytherin–“ started Regulus. 

“–And Gryffindor.“ finished Sirius, the air seemed to tense up in that minute and you just had to do something, so you threw your fist inside the bucket and grabbed a couple of them, popping them in your mouth. 

“Who cares? I highly doubt I’ll ever be in Hogwarts anyway,” You said as you grabbed one of the buckets and your mug of butter beer. “Can I also have some of those?” You said pointing toward the every flavour beans, the lady nodded and handed you a box. 

“The movie starts in 15 minutes,” said Regulus after looking at the time in the giant magical clock. 

“Excuse me, what’s a magic projection?” You asked the clerk near the door. 

“It’s the movie, but with special magical effects, like things that come out of the screen and several other effects, it’s immersive,” he explained and you nodded, definitely not like the muggle cinema you’d been to before. 

“I didn’t know such a thing existed.” 

“It’s a program in development, a very talented new-maj called Drey started bewitching films just 2 years ago, they became very popular in the industry, and this is one of her newest projects.” 

Before Regulus could open his mouth Sirius spoke “That sounds fantastic! Can we walk in already?” He asked with the most charming smile you had ever seen and after the clerk nodded he dragged you both inside. 

“I’m still not fascinated by this idea,” Regulus complained. 

“Don’t be such a party popper Reg,” You said, throwing a popcorn at him. He brushed it off his coat and started looking at the ads on the screen. 

You then threw one in the air and caught it with your mouth, it’s something you’d seen muggles do in the theatre you had been to last year. 

“Shoot one,” Sirius said, you shot a popcorn and he’d easily caught it, he then winked and motioned for you to send another one. You did, but the third time you grabbed an every flavour bean instead, he also caught it and bit on it with ease, grimacing right after. 

“Treason!” He said after forcing it to go down his throat “I demand her head!” he added while exaggerating his expressions in a very Alice in WonderLand Queen of Hearts-like attitude, then he relaxed again “That was awful, and no warning either!” You just laughed in return, “no wonder the popcorn wanted you in Slytherin” he said, Regulus rolled his eyes. 

“What flavour was it anyway?” You asked, to drive the conversation away from the house topic, which clearly was a sensible one. 

“Your mom’s,” he replied. After understanding the implication of his answer you gasped and playfully hit him on the arm “Sorry, sorry, It was something like sewer water or something, one of the worst I’ve had in my life.” 

Regulus looked at the box and then at you “You want one too?” You asked politely, while there seemed to be some kind of tension between the two boys, neither of them seemed particularly evil, or mean, if anything Regulus was rather shy compared to his loud brother, almost like he did not want to get on the bad side of his parents, something Sirius didn’t really seem to care much about. He quietly nodded to respond to your question and you shot one towards his face, it unfortunately didn’t land on his mouth and fell to the side. He was about to call it off but you didn’t let him. “It’s ok if you don’t get it the worst I’ve had in my life.” 

“Peaches,” he replied with a smile. 

“Unfair,” Sirus said as he crossed his arms and took the box from you “It’s your turn.” 

“I’m terrible at catching with my mouth,” you warned, but he threw one at your face anyway. It landed on your eye, thankfully you closed it first. 

“Shit, I’m sorry,” He said, grabbing your face with his two hands to check if you were ok. Did he not know about personal space? “You OK?” He was so close you could smell his breath, it was minty and fresh, despite having had popcorn already. 

“Yeah, I’m good,” you said, shaking him off and picking the jelly bean from your shirt, where it’d fallen after attacking you “Got fast reflexes,” you said before popping it in your mouth, you grimaced. 

“What was it?” Regulus asked. 

“Lime I think, it was very sour,” you said, turning towards him “Guess you’re the lucky one between the three of us.” Regulus smiled awkwardly as a reply and then the screen turned on. 

A lady showed up on the screen “Welcome, witches and wizards, this is the newest rendition of the magical cinema series. Welcome to this incredible adventure in which you will face a terrible creature, the dangers of the sea and the world as told from a muggle perspective. There will be a lot of water, hope you brought your bathing suits.” She disappeared shortly after and then the titles started rolling in. 

It was actually a beach movie, funny when you remembered that the beach was just a minute's walk away from where you stood. And it was definitely NOT like an ordinary muggle film, there were splashes of water in your face, things crawling on your seat, smoke, smell and even the shark would get out of the screen and swim all over the room. It was thrilling, to say the least. 

When the move was over the three of you were soaked, the boys had their fluffy hair clinging onto their faces as you walked out of the theatre. But they also looked happy, Sirius was thrilled, unsurprisingly, but even Reg seemed at ease, even if he had gone to a “muggle thing”. 

“We should go see the beach now,” Sirius said. 

“Just hope Larry Vaughn is not the mayor here,” you responded and cracked a laugh from the two brothers. 

The three of you then walked towards the beach area, there were lounge chairs with umbrellas on top, some beach beds and a stand where you could ask the house elves to bring you different special drinks. As you were sitting down in one of the chairs you overheard some wizards passing by. And you couldn’t help but to be enthralled by their conversation. Regulus was sitting by the end of the bed, looking wearily at the sea and Sirius was taking off his jacket and laying it on the back of the bed for it to dry with the wind, he was rocking a David Bowie shirt underneath. “Hey (Y/N) do you want anything from the–“ 

“–Shhhh,” you said as you gestured for him to listen to the conversation as well. 

“Yeah, the ziplines were amazing, it’s fantastic the hotel counts with muggle transportation all the way to the parks,” one of the wizards said. 

“Do you think we should go again,” asked the other one. 

“No, Mom said we’d go to the ruins tomorrow, something about magical vestiges or whatever.” 

That’s when you stood up “Hey!” You said with a smile “Sorry, we kinda overheard you talking about the… what did you call them? Zip lines? We were wondering what park you were referring to.” You really could be charming when you wanted to. 

“It’s Xplore,” one of the boys replied. 

The other grabbed his backpack and handed you a brochure “I took this one from the park, maybe it helps,” he said with a bright smile as well. 

“Thank you, you’re a darling,” you said before going back to your beach bed, sitting on the side, next to Sirius, Reg was still sitting on the end of the bed, but he clearly did not like where the conversation was going. 

“You even got them to give you a brochure?” Sirius mused. 

You shrugged and set it on the centre of the bed, opening it up just to realise it was in Spanish. 

“Reg speaks some Italian,” Sirius said motioning towards his brother. 

“I’m not translating any muggle propaganda.” 

“It’s NOT propaganda,” you argued, “regardless I came prepared,” you said as you took out your wand, waved it and whispered “tradussere.” The letters of the page started changing and soon enough it was all in English. 

“I thought you needed to speak the language to be able to do that,” Reg said. 

“You do, and I can only manage to make it last a couple of minutes, so we better hurry,” you replied. 

XPLORE  Jungle adventure park with zip lines, amphibious vehicles, whitewater rafting and underground rivers.  Prices start at $1500 MXN  Experience a true adventure on your trip to Mexico by flinging through ZIP lines, swimming on underground sacred rivers and riding amphibious vehicles in the Mayan rainforests. 

On the brochure, there were also photos with people wearing climbing gear and helmets. People swimming in dark but beautiful cabins, it really looked like an adventure-filled experience. 

You and Sirius gave each other a look after reading “WE HAVE TO GO,” you said to each other at the same time. 

“No, we don’t HAVE to do anything,” said Reg “In fact, we CAN’T.” 

“Come on Reggie, it sounds super fun,” you argued, trying to convince him. 

“Mom and Dad would kill us before letting us go,” he reasoned with Sirius “You don’t need to make things worse between you and them.” 

“I do, especially if they act like racist bastards,” Sirius bit back defensively. 

“Sirius,” Reg said with pain in his eyes, clearly he cared about his brother, but Sirius seemed to be too pissed off to even consider that. 

“I…” you thought about it for a second “They don’t have to find out…” 

“What?” Reg asked, turning his face to you. 

“We just have to pick a day that’ll be very busy for them and go then, one with many activities. Besides I’m sure my father and yours are just so eager to catch up that we won’t see them much this summer…” 

“I’m not gonna do it,” Regulus said with conviction “It’s a terrible idea, you shouldn’t do it either,” You were far too excited to notice the fear in Regulus' eyes, had you been more observant, maybe the mess you’d get into later could’ve been avoided. 

“Clam down Reggie, it’ll be in and out, they’ll never find out,” Sirius reasoned, “We need to be perfect in picking the day,” he said turning towards you. 

Regulus denied with his head and pulled a book out of his bag as you and Sirius continued planning your escapade. 

You’d be in charge of the money exchange process since you already had done it before and knew how the entire process worked, Sirius would make fake muggle passports for the two of you, so you could get rid of the parental signs and age requirements they ask for in the park, Regulus, as he’d said before, would stay, but he’d make sure to cover for you in case you parents started looking for the two,  he was still against it, but you had convinced to at least do that for you. 

After days of careful planning, the opportunity finally presented itself, your parents would have a very busy schedule with some magical presentations happening at the hotel and the three of you would have the day to yourselves. 

“So… tomorrow, we have everything?” You asked Sirius. 

He nodded “Fake passports, the money, the bus that’ll take us there.  We’ll depart at 7, the park opens at 11 because it’s a Tuesday, but we’ll be dropped off at the city and from there, we have to take a taxi or something to get to the park.” 

“Perfect.” 

“You know, you can still call it off,” said Regulus, peering from his book, “At least consider it tonight.” 

The two of you turned towards him, every time the subject came up, Regulus would say something similar “It’ll be ok Reg, just promise you’ll cover for us,” you pleaded. 

He took a deep breath but turned his face towards you and nodded unconvinced “Just be very careful, you don’t know how angry our parents can get.” 

You took that as an exaggeration, after all, Sirius had played it as such for the longest time. You couldn’t have been more mistaken. You should’ve listened. But the idea of a day full of adventure next to Sirius was just too intoxicating for you to pay attention to the alarm system activating in your head, after all, the minute you’d met Walburga you’d known something was wrong with her. 

“We’ll be fine, Reg, stop acting like a chicken,” Sirius said, diverting your attention again.

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A/N: Most Poly!Marauders fics are oneshots, where the relationship between characters is already established, and they're all happy and pleased with it. No issues, no drama, but I WANTED the drama. Couldn't find it, so I set myself up to write the story behind the stablished relationship. I wanted to know how they started dating each other, the jealousy, the will they won't they, because getting into a poly relationship can't be an easy task, and I wanted to explore that story. If you're interested: Welcome to Gilded Constellations!

[amyriadofleaves]

outside it starts to pour — neuvillette | chapter thirteen

synopsis: in the limelight of fontaine, the prying eyes of its people never truly tears their gaze off the iudex and you, the présidence du conseil d'état, which makes for baseless rumours to fester and echo throughout the theatrics of opera. you and neuvillette are challenged by the reputations the both of you are expected to uphold, and the weighty decision to navigate these intricacies rests upon the discerning judgement of fontaine's archon.

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ao3 : wattpad  ˚　.˚　　

⌗ pairing : neuvillette x fem!reader ⌗ feat : neuvillette, reader, furina ⌗ warnings : BLOOD. lots of it. inflicted trauma (both mentally and physically I fear...) ⌗ word count: 5.8K

Neuvillette watches you disappear around the bend to your residence, your stride as unmoving as ever. Were it within his power, he would’ve accompanied you to your very doorstep for no more of the lurking dangers that had come to bite your blind spot: a robber, perhaps, or perhaps your door had rendered itself faulty. Yet, in truth, despite his pitiful ignorance in denying that it was merely an excuse, every fibre of his being itched with the desire to see you — even if it meant for only a second longer.

Lady Furina once teased that without you in his presence, he resembled a lost, weeping dog without its master; and at the time, such a bold claim seemed borderline preposterous when made against The Most Impartial Man to Grace Teyvat. Yet, now, with no one but you running circles in his lawyering mind, he thinks Furina wasn’t so wrong.

What had you done that had the conservative faction onto your every bone? He dwelled upon the thought amidst the expected strain of your silence in the coach; and when you left, his chest swelled inexplicably of something he could scarcely articulate — something that evoked fear and a second thing; something the fine workings of his brain and the candid nature of his tongue are much too afraid to admit. Because he had spent the greater part of this year saying that he loved, and loved, and loved you — yet always with a measure of restraint. 

Because no person in the world can fathom, let alone bear, the burden of calling the woman who hates them their lover — and yet, there Neuvillette is, with his heart laid bare on his sleeve, yet hopelessly unable to lift the cloth off it — because God forbid he breaks his word; and the Iudex never breaks his word. Not unless it’s for you.

 Cut to his blood. Let it spill. And only then will they see how every cell of his body spells your name, into every corner, every crevice the reddish wine of life wishes to touch.

He never questioned why you hated him so much. Many people despise him, wish to have him burnt at the stake. But he had come to accept this bitter truth long — but that was before; before he caught the glint in your eye whenever you smiled — however fake or real. And that was when his heart caved in on itself, to make room for one extra person, despite how difficult you were, and still are.

A pit settles in his stomach, and he cannot help but wonder if whatever it is that is ailing him derives itself from himself, or from you — because if it were from you —

“Uhm, Monsieur? Where to?” The coachman has his elbow resting against his own headrest by the sheer effort of him attempting to grab Neuvillette’s attention — and that he does — just, with a little bit of difficulty involved. 

Neuvillette’s blinks, slightly shaking his head to stir him back to reality. 

If anything was to take his mind off things, it would be work. So, with a resolute sigh, he gathers himself and straightens his tie along with his posture.

“Ah, right. The Palais Mermonia, please.” He says this with a sort of modest dip of the head, possibly in shame, but more likely because he almost feels as if caught, subpoenaed into telling the world what he had just thought about.

He settles back against the cushioned seat, the moonlight making the blue accents of both cloth and body only fade into a natural monochrome. As the coach rumbles along, he thinks of you.

Archons save you, because whatever it is, you aren’t making a safe trip to your doorstep. 

You try to disregard the echo of the footsteps mirroring your own— but from what happened earlier today, you can’t say you aren’t at least a little on your toes. A brief scrape of the wheels of the coach against the tarmac makes its final note within your vicinity before fading into the void of silence, and you mutter a prayer, however severed your belief is with the Heavens above, for someone to come save you.

Trepidation rumbles through your veins like the bass of a drum, and it rings through your already pounding head, making you a puppet to fear’s instrument. A mild shake to your head only presses the incorporeal needle deeper into your head. In an attempt to divert the discomfort, you rub your temples profusely. But, your efforts are relayed out to you in vain as you falter in your steps.

You hear a split second delay of the mimicker; and this time the step resounds a metre closer than a minute ago. Panic drives you through the streets. Reaching for the dagger up the garter wrapped around your torso, the polished sheen of the blade gleaming in the light. You hold it aloft, meeting the tight knit of your eyes in its reflection, every feature bending into every curve of the metal; but you also catch the ominous smirk of a hooded man from behind you.

Your blood runs cold. The sole of your heels rest in discomfort against the merciless cold of cement below your feet. You come to an unideal outcome: this is a do or die situation, and dignity be damned if you don’t at least leave with claw marks. You inhale sharply, the stinging tang of the winter air cool against the violent heat of your skin. 

“If you’re here just ‘cause you were sent by Monsieur Moreau, I’d suggest you return to your quarters,” you start, steeling your heels into the cement of Fontainian soil. “and tell him to kill me himself.”

A rustle of cloth ripples through the wall of dull citylife, and you almost instinctively make a turn to confirm your statement — but you realise with horror that this isn’t some assassin sent by your father. 

The man ruptures into hysterical, maniacal laughter. “You won’t have to do all that work, Birdie.” 

His mania only ticks at your stuttered stride. You stumble to make up for the blunder, working your pace (your beauty sleep is forgotten, and you’ve long gone walked past your apartment complex). “After twenty-five years, this is how you ask for forgiveness?”

“I am not here to ask for forgiveness. I’m here to take you out myself.” 

You whirl, making a move to slash at the arm blanketed by the veil of black he wears. “Couldn’t do that the first time?”

He groans, clutching at his forearm before feeling at the warmth of the liquid between his fingers. The heart encased behind your ribs threatens to break, and your fear only spikes when that look you’ve grown to know washes over his dead, dry eyes. “Still afraid to hurt me, aren’t you?”

“Oh, I’m far from afraid.”

He reaches for his own blade, and though you had gone years without seeing him, you cannot help but feel a pitiful tug of hurt in your chest. The chill of steel grazes that very spot, and you instinctively wrap your fingers around it to give yourself space between yourself and your possible cause of murder. “I don’t know, why don’t you tell me?”

You respond with you slicing his side, and he hisses — the sound of it honey to your ears. A trance washes over you in your indulgence of watching the man who terrorised you suffer, and as he stumbles backwards, the blade leaves with it. 

A grunt of effort sounds from him and he reaches to slice your neck. A slight tilt of the head mitigates the blow to your right cheek, blooming in a clean line of crimson. In your haze, you are blinded with bloodlust, mindlessly throwing blows before your wrist is caught in his stronger, firmer hold — and this is where your dread festers.

Your mind flashes in a frenzy of this specific scenario, where your father throws you on the ground and places a prop sword to your abdomen — but the weapon curled around his hand is not a prop sword, and you aren’t five anymore.

The only lifeline you had slips from your hold, clinking against the floor. There’s no time, and there’s certainly no room to dwell on your weapon; because you are about to get stabbed, and there’s nothing you can do about it. 

Rebellious hands meet malicious ones, and you are doing everything in your power to pry the blade away from meeting your stomach. 

And this is where you make your mistake.

Your diversion from left to right gives your father the perfect leeway to slam down with no force upwards — and you only realise this when your grip loosens and metal digs into your skin. 

A guttural scream escapes from the very depths of your throat. When you feel the meticulous handiwork of dissolved thread rip from either side, a panicked sob threatens to leave your lips before a hand slams onto your mouth, muffling your every sound. 

I keep getting distracted, you think, the wound Clorinde inflicted on you spilling open in memories and sputtering crimson.

Perfectly slicing the scar he dealt you in your teen years, you’re certain he’s out for more than just blood. He’s out to annihilate you — to silence you; for what can be uttered by a corpse?

It isn’t a lethal spot to stab, but, in some way — it is. Why would he stab through the crevice of your right rib, the one that your mother sacrificed in all the superiority of man? Some part of you hoped with a childlike wonder, that your relationship as father and daughter would bring him to relent, to feel remorse for murdering your mother. 

But you realise he had done the same to you as he had done to her. He was just as cruel, and just as unfeeling.

Your mind flickers to Neuvillette, your accusation of his lack of emotion a droplet of water in the ocean compared to this absolute villain of a man standing over you, 

Your eyes meet your father’s, and you feel like a rabid dog: helpless, violent, and a loser all the same. 

Despite it all, he smiles, the corners of his lips dripping with malice and apathy, the look you’d come to face in all your worst dreams. “You really are like your mother. Weak, a pushover, unable to stop when the possibility presents itself.”

Your eye twitches, and you wrench his hand away from his hold on your face. Blood spills from your busted lips, and it sputters at your attempts to speak. You let out a desperate grunt of effort, finally getting out what you think might be your final words. “S—sounds a lot like you’re talking about yourself.”

He flinches at your words, the leer once etched onto his face a faulty circuit. “How dare you,” he snarls, tightening his grip on the blade. Blame it on your delirium, but it is almost as it wrings the blood on the steel, causing it to seep further into the fabric of your blouse (despite how desperately the cloth of your shirt clings to your skin, it seems to drink in the pour of blood as if parched). “You ungrateful, stubborn girl — you know nothing of power.”

Bravado. One would view your father to be a composed, successful man; but you are his daughter, no matter how much it pains you to admit it — and so you can see the cracks (bravado) in his facade just as easily as you can put up yours. One would see a broken man. You just see evil brimming in flames through the cracks of his skin.

“I know… I know enough,” you manage, voice barely clawing above a whisper. “And I know power just as much as you know selfishness.”

He winces, pulling the blade back as if to strike once more, but for once, you are quicker. With a surge of adrenaline, you ball your left hand to reduce the strain on your right, and relish in the momentary satisfaction the crack of bone brings as your fist meets his chin.

Your father staggers back as if drunk, and you squint at the notice of him diverting the direction of his heels, almost admitting defeat, admitting his plan of escape. Foolish; he had never changed his ways — mostly because you never told him that his cowardice always stayed with him. Because he always left.

Your blade is but a few steps away from you, and so you wriggle your arm with a sort of hastiness you never thought you had. It almost seems to increase in distance the more you reach for it, the sheen of the curved dagger dulling in tandem with your effort. With your eyelids shut in an attempt to regain some semblance of strength, your fingers finally brush against metal, and you grasp it with a disregard for your grip around the sharp edge. 

You look up, and panic. Managing another blow to his ankle, a shard of ice manifests from your hand. Aimed at his Achilles heel, you shut your left eye. The shard veers off course, slicing just shy of its mark. Shit. His scream of agony resounds like an orchestra in your ears.

Taking advantage of his disorientation, you clutch at the wound, chewing on your lip to muffle the screams that threaten to burst uncontrollably from the very depths of your throat. Pain ripples through every ounce of your being, but you force yourself to stand, weighing on your left heel. 

The chill of more unforgiving ice shoots from the tips of your fingers, wrapping snuggly around the ankles of the man who shoots you an indiscernible stare. Sometimes I forget I can do that, you think, loitering around the cool glow of blue around your waist. He’s backed against a wall, legs frozen into the ground, and there’s no where he can run to.

“You underestimate me, Father,” you grit, bringing your blade to his neck, the anxious pounding of his heart made obvious by a tense vein acting as a metronome of his unadmitted fear. “I am not my mother. And I certainly am not you.I’ve worked my way up the ranks fair and square.” 

The unbothered facade doesn’t hold up as well as you’d like, and a quiver leaves your lips. 

His glare reflects back into your own, and instead of a witty remark, he only scoffs. “Fair and square? Watch your mouth,” he tuts, shaking his head in disbelief. “Madame Lavigne. Willingly giving up the House of Moreau for nobodies like the Lavignes. And the Neuvillette name!”

“At least my mother died a death of honour,” you mumble, seething with blinding rage, that, under the blanket of irrationality, tells you her death was not of honour. It was of humiliation. 

To be cursed wealth and to raise a child birthed out of wedlock — that is a legacy of no worth. 

To claw at the decadent marble floors stained by a person in which carries himself with the arrogance of man, the sinful coin of those left bloodied under the heel of his boots, is degrading in its whole entirety.

A cruel, spiteful quirk of his lip morphs the wrinkles of his skin into a wicked mocking of his age, and he shivers with rage. “And you think you will?”

The blade at his neck falters, and so does your will. Blood trickles down your face, and even more down your legs, burgundy reveries tracing their course down to the very pads of your heel. “If that’s the question you choose to ask, I don’t think you know me at all.” 

He tips his head back (as if he could go any further, given the distance between his skull and the wall), letting the blood drip in the absence of a dagger. “I think I do.” “P — prove it.” Your vision falters for a sudden, lurching moment, and you find yourself digging your feet deeper into the grooves of the city tarmac. 

“Kill me then,” he commands, the authority of conman and a father blurred in the dim light of night. 

“You’re making me prove I know you well enough,” Your voice lilts. “That is not what I asked.”

He persists, voice now a constant demand echoing amongst the other phantoms of the same voice, except this time, his tangible voice. “Stupid girl. Kill me.”

You should know that your father is the last person to do what you ask — but can you blame yourself? That’s all you’ve ever wished for. All you’ve ever prayed for.

(but could you call it a prayer? another, more foolish version of you sounds. it says: a prayer is whatever you say on your knees.)

With all the strength you have left, you press deeper into his skin, until you feel it give way with a pool of blood. Another push, and he’d be dead. Perhaps you’d be, too. Killing him won’t stop your own bleeding.

The teeth that anchor your tortured gasps give way to an unbidden dam of tears, each sob a betrayal of your own will. It flows — the pain — in salty rivulets, ebbing in silent streams down your bloodied cheeks. Why do you show sadness in the face of a man that just so happened to be the cause behind your own assassination? To this, you have no answer.

His expression sours into that of a grimace. “You’re weak,” is what he chokes out, gulping for air to spit out more words you think will haunt you for all the days you are blessed (cursed) to live.

“You disappoint me.”

It’s childish — how you awaited the next words with the manner of your old habit: rehearsing his lines in your head. You always find that they’re not quite what you expected.

And in that moment, your realisation comes in grim, gnawing waves. The two of you have come to an agreement; and for this you are somewhat bitterly grateful.

You would never kill your father.

This does not mean you aren’t entitled to feel rage. Rage for what he had just done to you. Rage for what he did. 

Archons, you’re struggling to stand because he just drove a blade through your stomach.

And so you give him one last warning by wrenching the dagger out of your abdomen and mirroring the action to his kidney.

His scream is no longer an indulgence, but an overdose. Your mouth parts to shoot another jab, but you find you have nothing else to say. This does not stop you from searching his eyes for an answer, and within their depths, you find everything you need.

Your knees threaten to buckle, but you make yourself a promise not to show yourself weaker than you already are. Sliding with the tips of your toes, your mind springs to make a choice. You aren’t bothered enough to turn and have your father watch you return to your house. Clorinde lives too far off the city walls.

There is only one person you can think of. And with a thawing, yet stiff heart, you pick the kindest of the three evils.

It is safe to conclude that the Iudex of Fontaine has found himself mired in more distress than revelation on Lucien Moreau.

Moreau’s reputation in society is nothing short of a good, upstanding citizen — a man shooting his way up the ranks through very legitimate means. According to accounts, his dealings in business are only transacted through honest income — his wealth easily to link — traced back from esteemed family fortunes and heirlooms. The house of Moreau has always been in favour of the public.

Every document on Moreau’s particulars state the same thing: businessman; trader on occasion; wealthy by inheritance. Businessman, trader on occasion, wealthy by inheritance. All sixteen syllables of those words recur in an agonising mantra as he pores further into the records — because how can Neuvillette ever hope to protect you if there’s nothing incriminating on him?

He’s simply a man who specialises in exports.

The Iudex’s frustration can only mount as his fingers rake in a dance through his already mussed hair. Searching relentlessly for inconsistencies, he finds nothing but a man poised to perfection. But Neuvillette, the Ordainer of Justice, should know full well that no man is perfect. Not even him.

From trade logs to financial statements, connections, he finds his search fruitless. 

So Neuvillette comes to a conclusion: he is not to achieve anything driven in such a state of lassitude. He draws in a sharp breath, slips the documents into a file, places it to the top of the stack of cases, and leaves.

He adjusts his hair at the foot of the office door, and realises that he is the only source of sound in the whole of the Palais. The tips of his ears suggest a sharper edge to his hearing, and though it’s somewhat true, he wonders if this is where his age comes to attack his senses. A little birdie would suggest the eerie quiet of the night is a much more unsettling endeavour than one of crickets. Although Neuvillette is not one for superstition, he still takes this thought into consideration as he tugs his glove further up his sleeve, briefly recalling your anthology of fallacy perched on one of your shelves.

A creak sounds from one of the hinges, and his eyes draw into slits, as if to hear better. How awfully peculiar, he thinks; his hands aren’t anywhere near the knob.

Another creak comes to manifest in the door’s screws, and another, and another, until it gives way under the weak weight of whatever’s on the other end. He fully expects a bull to come barreling through, but he sees… you?

What a sight. You’ve come to crawl to sit against the doorframe for support, clutching tightly around the small of your waist. The blazer you’d worn earlier today is nowhere to be found, leaving you in nothing but a soaked dress shirt clinging onto every morsel of your skin — and pants, of course. Bloodied and bruised, your lips twitch into a dazed smile. 

“Hey.”

“Mon — [Name], who did this to you?” His first instinct is to pull you up and bring you to the couch, but judging from your state, it would be far more agonising than if you were to just lay where you are. 

With the back of your palm, you wipe the crimson staining the corners of your mouth. “What does it matter? I would still bleed if you knew.” 

Neuvillette squats down to level his gaze to yours, before his attention dips to the blood seeping from a gash from your side. Against his accord, he winces. 

A breathless chuckle escapes through the gaps in your teeth. “That bad?”

“No, no, not at all. Let me help you,” he says, watching the way your head tips, almost submitting to the loss of blood. In a frenzy, he reaches out to cup your face, tapping your cheek to stir your eyes open. “Whatever you do, do not close your eyes, not now.”

Your forehead crinkles in distaste, but you force yourself awake anyway. He reaches underneath you, touch feathering lightly around your figure. “No — I’ll — I’ll stain your robes,” you deny, muttering helplessly, clenching your fingers around his arm. 

Does she not recall I’ve had another robe made after I gifted her my own? he frowns, a pinch amused at the thought.

“Then let it stain my robes,” he assures, throat bobbing in boyish anticipation. Your head struggles under the effort of you nodding, and so he wastes no time in scooping you up, the warmth of your beading blood soaking through his clothes.

(He thinks he’s just been cleansed with the ichor of a goddess, but surely the impartial Judge Neuvillette mustn't say such things, lest the Archons realise where his heart truly lies. Blasphemy! he thinks they shout.)

Your lids threaten to fall under the weight of exasperation, and so, with a light poke to your temple, you are disturbed by Neuvillette’s act of keeping you awake. The groan that grows to morph into a whimper brings the Iudex to stutter in his tracks; what should he do? Should he cool you down?

He comes to a drawing conclusion that it would be best to set you down on the leather couch before choosing his next course of action. With all softness, he cups the back of your head, slowly laying you down. His soaked hands abandon their hold on you, and given your lapse in judgement, you shudder at the loss of warmth. 

Neuvillette pretends to not notice it.

He turns his back to you, rummaging through his drawer, his hands coming away with a cluster of gauze. Multiple things slip from his shaking grip, and it takes an idiot to realise why: he is panicking, afraid (and for the first time in his life, a solid verdict cannot dictate how to heal his injured wife).Reaching for more, the cadence of an angel commands him to stop.

“Neuv… Neuvillette,” you sigh, eyes clenched tight in light of your bleeding. If he hadn’t known any better, he would’ve turned as fast as the words leaving your lips. 

Orpheus had fallen victim to it with Eurydice, and Neuvillette had once doubted his integrity. In all renditions, Orpheus turns because her silence has driven him mad; he turns because he thinks they have triumphed; he turns on instinct at the sound of her stumble.

For if all it would’ve taken was for him to resist that backward glance, why did he falter? 

But now he knows why. And he hates that he does.

“I know, [Name]. It will be alright.” 

You let out another noise, and this time it’s an agonising scream that tears the very bases of your diaphragm. 

You certainly are no Eurydice, and he certainly isn’t Orpheus. 

And regardless, he turns.

He rushes, but he feels that his pace is sluggish, comically slow. Your hand is in his before you can even blink, but nothing beats the feeling of your father's blade embedded in you like some sort of morbid heirloom. This is one battle scar you wish not to put on display.

Neuvillette makes space for himself on the couch, his focus trailing down the streams of blood that begin to crack as they dry. He resorts to another solution, but for whatever reason, he thinks you wouldn’t be partial to it.

“I can meld this wound shut, but I must ask you to steel yourself of the pain. Do you believe you could endure it?” He searches your pained, constricted look for a response, and believes he finds one.

With desperate eyes, you nod. However hard you try to avoid his look, it still bores into you, almost relentlessly.

“Just — hold onto me should the pain become too much to bear.” He still has a layer of cloth to get through, and he fears you wouldn’t like it. So he asks. “May I — ahem — undo your…”

“Archons, just do whatever you have to do.” Noted. Extreme cases of duress do not appear to shut your brattish tongue.

He works gently at the buttons of your dress shirt, prying the cloth apart to reveal an absolutely gnarly sight of grime. Looking past the blooming bruise around the perimeter, he places one hand around the curve of your waist to steady his other hand, which glows, almost neon in the light.

Pinching the fingers of his right hand together, he mimics the thread of a stitch through your skin; and as he diverts his eyes, he still sees you, brimming with something more than hurt. Lady Furina once corrected him — said that hurt was not anguish. 

Anguish. What a strange word for such a strange feeling.

He strains his hand that hovers over your abdomen, and you bite into your palm to muffle your cries. Neuvillette’s eyes flit to you just in time to catch your act of fruitless respite — and without his usual calculations, he offers his hand, beginning to trip over his own words as if he’s never spoken before.

“Uhm. Here, you can squeeze here.” 

If things were any different, he would’ve smiled the moment you registered the lack of sophistication in his diction (well, he thinks you do; but that’s enough for him). However, things are the same, and instead, he’s drowning in the tenderness of your agony. A playfulness buried under the need for survival.

To his surprise, you reach for his wrist — causing him to almost lose his focus, and it’s already showing! The blue glow emanating from his right dims immediately ever so slightly at the little distraction: you.

Just before the skin’s fully stretched taut and the wound is melded closed, you let another grunt of pain. 

“Did I do something?” Neuvillette asks, a little too frantic — even to his liking.

You squeeze harder on his wrist. “I think my fa— assailant poisoned the blade.”

“Do not worry. I may not be Sigewinne, but I know how to work my way around poison.”

Your chest rises in a short-lived sweetness of a laugh before you shrink back again, grimacing in pain. “I sure would hope you do.”

“Alright, I hereby suspend any further laughing for the foreseeable future,” he chastises, albeit a little playfully. He does not recognise the twist in his chest that begins unravelling at the sight of you loosened up under some sort of anaesthetic of induced delirium.

You are sound asleep, and as far as he knows, this is the most peaceful he has seen you; other than when you were passed out in your office. Similar circumstances, different couch. You sure do love your couches.

He hadn’t moved one bit, subjecting himself to a most unpleasant position on the leather seat. Given the limited legroom, he’d considered bringing you to one of the guest rooms, but he didn’t intend on disturbing your slumber, either.

Given the way you’re frozen stiff, he assumes you haven’t had rest like this in weeks. He takes meticulous steps in cleaning the blood from your cheek, and even more scrupulous effort at the tear of your lip, curved in a perpetual frown. He worries if he hurts you, even in slumber.

God, even leaving his office to search for antiseptic ailed him to the point where he constantly looked to see if you were fine. He worried to wake you even when the cotton pads reached to clean the blood underneath your fingernails, the dried tears that never fell from the cliff of your eyebags.

He lets the wads of cotton pile in the corner of the couch, scooting closer to get a clearer view of your face. Even dirtied, your skin glows like porcelain in the dim light — and he doesn’t even realise what he’s doing until you shift your sleep.

Neuvillette, Chief Justice of Fontaine, does not know the truth of power ballads and poems. He does not know how to reenact what mortals love to speak of. Somehow, he manages to find all his answers in you.

He just doesn’t know if you find the answers in him.

Rain stirs from the outside, pattering violent drums against the windows, before eventually reaching into the confines of Neuvillette’s heart and ripping them open. To the naked eye, he is just tending to a wound. To the trained eye, he hopes they see a man tending to a wound.

Leaning closer to wipe the fresh blood that begins to bloom once again, he moves to the slope of your nose, then to your brow, and further, and further upwards. His lips threaten to meet the temple of your face, exigent, brimming with want. Neuvillette has never learnt how to want.

Before he can draw any closer, your eyes flutter open, and he frantically acts as though he’s in the midst of cleaning your face (he briefly argues that kissing is an act of sanitisation, though he knows full well he’s conning himself).

Your glassy gaze peeks through your lashes, meeting Neuvillette’s stare in a solemn greeting. 

What does one say to someone who has awoken in the early hours, just shy of midnight? Good morning? Good night? Whatever the dilemma is, it washes away at the sound of your voice breaking the wall of silence. “It’s okay. Go on, do what you were going to do.”

“I was merely tending to your injuries.”

“You know what I mean.”

Is there anything in the Fontainian Legal Codex that states anything of a divorce prompted by terrible romantic advancements? Because if there isn’t, he might be the sole inspiration for a new addition to a five-century-old book of law.

Your lips thin in drowsy impatience before bringing a hand to delicately trace his chin, guiding him to you with the touch of what one might mistake for a divine atlas. It’s soft beneath your calloused palm, almost reverent, the act of navigating the map etched in the fine lines of your skin a fervent current.

It is sweet, almost. Doing what is encouraged, but what is also prohibited — your own rules broken by a sick hand. Your sick hand. You are supposed to be strong, firm. But firm be damned if this is the only time you can indulge in regretful desires before your father kills you — properly this time.

Neuvillette’s lips against yours is a gentle war, the first touch of dawn, strings of sun prodding you awake.

He feels you lean forward for more, but he presses you down, afraid of hurting you any further. Desire is an odd, odd thing. Why the tug at heart? Some part of him tells him it’s simply guilt. But emotions aren’t simple.

You are the first to pull away, but not enough to rid yourself of him. 

“I couldn’t help it. I’m sorry if I confuse you. I am confused myself.” What you really think of is the begrudging mercy of your blade, the one set to slit the throat of your own blood. But you are weak, you tell yourself, succumbing to the horror of your father’s prophecy. For you truly are frail, and that front you put up won’t hold forever. 

He, however torturous, manages to make space between the two of you. However far he searches, he finds no semblance of culpability. That’s what makes it wrong. Impartial as he may be, he has just erred in judgement, but he thinks it’s okay. That it’s justifiable.

But is love justifiable in the face of court?

a/n: aaa KISS KISS KISS ive been dying to write this chapter for a while!! I thought it would be best to write the majority of the chapter in neuvillette's pov to really build it… I thought it'd be nice to explicitly talk about reader's impulsiveness and fluctuating moods. and I think we know where she gets it from ermmm mm m please lmk what u think of this chapter n and feel free to write your predictions hehe

taglist : @sek0ya, @souxiesun, @11111112222222sblog @floffytofu

[asumofwords]

Smoke, Fire and Ash

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence, death, forced marriage, and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on.

This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: You are the eldest daughter of Rhaenyra and Daemon Targaryen. You are forced to navigate the difficult surroundings of your upbringing and the eventual disintegration between your family and the Hightower's relationship. What will happen when your older and estranged uncle suddenly takes a more sinister interest in you? (Dark!Aemond x Reader)

Masterlist

Characters: Aemond Targaryen X Reader, HOTD characters.

Note: Hello angels! Here is another chapter! I did end up splitting it though because it was getting way too long and its my birthday this week so I may not be able to update as much as I would like to because I will be busy with friends and family! Anyways, thanks for all the love as per usual!!! I hope you enjoy <3

Chapter 66: Tides

Tides are something that are never sure.

You could never truly anticipate their movements, whether they would rise quickly or slowly, dragging the oceans swell up the rocks of the shore. Some men could argue that they could foretell the next drag of the sea, determined by the moons waxing or waning. But those men were fools, for the ocean has more than just the skies that guide it. Storms and winds, creatures, and Gods all have a say in what the frigid waters will do. 

With each push and pull of the waves came your salvation. With every waxing and waning moon, came your deliverance. People were often like tides themselves, changing each and everyday, with no discernible pattern.

As is knowledge and power.

Power was something that morphed and contorted, bending to whoever’s will was strongest, but even they could not hold that raw force for long. For power would never truly bend, just as the tides would never stay the same. 

Always changing. 

Always moving.

Always fluid. 

Like you. 

In the past year, you had changed and just like the tides, morphed and been bent, contorted and swelled, rose and fallen. A metamorphosis like the insects Helaena had always loved. And yet with each passing day, you feel your own tides within, pulling and pushing you. It weighed heavily on your mind, dragging you down beneath the waves, ripping the breath from your lungs as you felt yourself drowning in the torrent.

The task you had been given was no ordinary feat, and if it were anybody else, they would have surely broken by now. Given up, and played their hand too early. Raised a white flag and uttered ‘I surrender’. But you could not give up. You could only give in. And that was a distinction that you continually reminded yourself of. 

You were not giving up.

You were giving in. 

Giving in to the pressures of a man you were cursed to lay with. Giving in to the role you had said you would play. Giving in to the actions you so desperately wished to avoid, in order to protect yourself.

To give yourself more time.

To not be a steadfast fool and show your hand to the vipers you nested with. If you acted too quickly, they would smell a plot, and any little freedom you had been given would be swiped up, and the reality of death would be far sweeter. 

Though every fibre of your being screamed at you to hurt them, to maim them, to act quickly, and keenly with the blade of your mind that you had been sharpening each night since the usurpation, but you knew that it would be foolish. A plot played out too quickly and stupidly. Any fool could have seen that. A patient mind would get you to better results, and you had to a game to play. 

Wait and see. 

Wait and listen. 

Wait and deliver justice with a swift hand and a sharp mind. 

If you were to follow your desires, to follow the screaming voice which called at you in your dreams, the whispers of Lucerys and Helaena echoing behind it, you would fail, and all of this would be for naught. Your mother would lose everything, and you would lose your life.

The Greens needed to think you were broken, complacent, tired, and troubled, but not too much so. If you were to bend the knee and submit entirely, Alicent and her enablers would know something was afoot. And so you had to play the dangerous game of waxing and waning, pushing and pulling, listening and waiting, until the time was right.

Until the time you could call upon the Gods to give you your strength and deliver a raven requesting star fruit. 

But for now, you had to wait. 

It was not giving up, it was giving in. 

A distinction in which meant life or death. 

If you were the tides, then Aemond was your moon. Your temperament depended on the weather that he would bring. Would it be rain? A torrential downpour that seeped into your pores? The water rising until you drowned in it?

Or would he leave you high and dry. A sudden drought that had you thirsting for more, itching for more. Scratching at the earth in search of something, anything, to sustain your frail body, withering in the burning heat and loss of your own essence. Your own being. The very core of who you were. 

Or perhaps he would be a lovely summers day.

One where you may bask in the warmth of his light, and feel the soft rays kiss upon your skin, his breath on your face lingering far longer than the storms he would bring. You would forget, for a moment, to give yourself peace, that he had brought any storms at all. That he was not a man who changed with each day, that he was not a man who had brought such destruction.

If not for the sake of the crown, then for the sake of your sanity. 

Or would he freeze you out and let his bitter frost nip at your fingers and toes?

Would his passion burn you like dragon fire? Melting your body into his with every touch. 

It was inevitable, inescapable, unavoidable. 

Like how the sun slips behind the mountain tops, darkness blanketing the valley below, but you know that it will rise on the morrow. Just how the creatures in the trees and on the ground know, that as the darkness passes, the sun will shine again.

But it is more of a question of not if, but when. 

When would it pass? 

When will it pass? 

The tides come and go with the moon, pushing you away from your desires and pulling you back roughly, dragging you over the jagged rocks and reefs, their sharp edges cutting through you. The tides rage with the storms but they will always rescind back to calm. 

Aemond was the moon, and you were the tides, and he predicted and controlled your rise and fall, just how you have grown to predict the uncertainty ahead. 

There is only one guarantee in your life, and that is not knowing what is next. 

And so you must build yourself a ship, to sit atop the tides, to sail over them with their swell and recession, rather than succumbing to it and sinking into the waves. You needed to be smart, you needed to be patient. 

You needed to wait. 

What knowledge could you surely give your family to help them? That Aemond resents his brother still, and that the Maester was an ally? But is that all? 

That was knowledge that you knew before you were wed to him. 

You could not offer that as a sign to strike. For your family to come forth, dragons and fire, for the same standing as you had before. A standstill. Feet stuck in the dirt on even playing grounds, except you had no access to Vermithor. And so the hill sloped upwards towards the Greens.

And so you had to wait. 

A letter arrived some few days later from your family, asking for your wellbeing and updating you on theirs. It was comforting to know that you still had some form of contact, and when you had asked Aemond if you were to fly to witness Jacaerys’ union to Baela, he had hummed and given you a non-answer. 

You had written back to them and gave them the answer that you had recieved, a shaky maybe to your presence. A subtle, no. No absolute yes. It was all that you could give for the time being, and you would bite your tongue, lest he gouge it out with his talons.

One morning when the maids were readying you for another day by the sea, you had gazed at yourself in the mirror, far more than you had previously, and noticed a change in your appearance. Though the weight you had lost due to your arrival and the subsequent events had come back, there was a hollowness to your eyes. 

Your smiles never quite reached them, and the once vibrant violet looked almost dull and murky, as if beneath waters or behind storm clouds. A darker shade sat on the skin beneath them, making them appear almost hollow, but even still, your cheeks held colour, and your lips were less bitten and raw than they had been. 

Even your fingers had been given a lull in the usual assault your teeth or nails would give them.

But your eyes were something you could not look away from. 

As the girls brushed your hair, you stared at yourself. 

Who was she?

She looked like you, but was she really you?

But it was you. And you had changed.

And you would remind yourself of this.

Aemond had spent most of his days with Aegon and the small council, working with them with tasks for the realm, and then bringing his scrolls and tomes back to the chambers, his sharp nose in a book almost each and every night. 

After you had last spoken, after he had last told you of this so-called prophecy, there was a shift between the both of you. A stand still of your own. You were in the eye of the storm. The eye of his storm. The winds and rains had stopped, and the sky had opened up to show light. A path out. A way up. 

Just as Lucerys had thought he had found.

You anticipated the moment when Aemond would surge up through the clouds and swallow you whole.

You would not tempt him.

That afternoon, you had spent much of your time walking through the garden, looking at the various plants and flowers. You stopped your steps as you looked at a bright purple patch of flowers. It stood on a long stalk with fingerlike leaves, five points to each one, as it stood straight and tall. The flower itself looked almost bell shaped, or perhaps like a hood that a monk from the Sept may wear. 

Its appearance alone screamed danger. Natures own warning.

It looked familiar, and you made a note to yourself to look in the library for a tome on florilegium.

When you had returned to your chambers that evening, Aemond was sitting at the table, bent over a particularly large black tome, sharp nose pointed down to the page. He had hummed a greeting to you, not lifting his eye from the script as you entered. 

He had not touched you since that night, spending most evenings hunched over the table with piles of parchment and tomes, writing and reading beneath candlelight well into the darkness. You would retire to bed, expecting him to follow you, but he would not, continuing to write and read, shuffle papers and hum to himself softly. 

It was an oddly calming sound, a background noise of assurance that his attention would not be on you.

When you had asked him what he was doing, he had told you that Aegon had given him much work to do, and would be spending most evenings like that. 

But what had surprised you most was that he had apologised to you about it.

“I’m sorry that I am not more present. Aegon has given me things that he should be doing, but if I don’t, no-one will, and the realm will dissolve into chaos.” He had grumbled beneath his breath, as you stood beside him, looking at his messy script. 

You had told him you understood, and went to bed quietly and fell quickly into sleep. But this evening was different, and when he had greeted you with a short hum, you had expected yet another evening dining together on a table which had scrolls and tomes hurriedly shoved to the side to make room for the plates. An evening of his writing lulling you to sleep. 

Instead, you sat yourself by the fire, thinking of the flower you had saw in the gardens. It was so familiar to you. You could have sworn you had read about it somewhere, or had been told about it. But nothing could spring to mind.

Was it Hooded-Trumpet? Angels Locks? 

What was it called?

“What are you thinking of?” Aemond’s voice pulled you from your thoughts.

“Some flowers I saw in the garden, I have forgotten their names.”

“Hm, one of the Septa’s could tell you.”

If you were to ask them, and it turned out to be poison, they would know of your plotting and report you to the King. 

“It will come to me, I am sure.” You replied, tongue in cheek as you thought hard. 

“We are to dine with the King again.”

You sighed loudly into the chambers, turning to look at Aemond who was placing his quill in its holder, gathering the loose pieces of parchment in hand to stack them into a pile atop the open page of the tome. 

“Must we?” 

“We must.” Aemond replied, popping the ’t’ at the end as if he too was dreading the evening. 

“Can we not dine here?”

“The King has requested our presence.”

There was the tide again. 

“You are more and more a Prince Regent by the day with Aegon too busy in his cups and whores.”

You were testing the waters.

“It is my duty.”

“Is it not his duty to rule the realm, and listen to the people? Is it not his duty to read tomes, and write letters?” You pushed.

Aemond was silent, his eye rising to your face as he looked at you beneath his brow.

A silent warning. 

You bowed your head and stood, looking out at the water. The sun had lowered behind the horizon and the chambers began to darken. The tides would shift, you just did not know when.

Aemond came to stand beside you, looking out at the water. The smell of sandalwood and leather curled around you.

It was a familiar smell, and something that you had grown to like. Something you had grown to anticipate wherever you were. The occasional waft of his scent curling up from your dresses, when you would enter the chambers, or when he was nearby. Sometimes you would smell it in the gardens, and you would turn your head to look for him, but he was never there. 

“When is my nephew to be wed?” Aemond asked, eye still on the ocean. 

You turned your head to look up at him, almost in shock.

Was this his answer?

“Soon I believe. They had written to ask again if we would be attending.”

Aemond hummed.

“Should I write to tell them to expect us?”

“No.” 

Aemond turned on his foot to pour himself, and you, some wine, coming back over to hand you your goblet. You did not grasp it as you looked at him.

Aemond pursed his lips as he sipped from his own cup, still holding yours out to you, which you eventually took from him, bringing to your own lips as you looked back out at the water. 

“The King will not allow it. I have already asked.”

Fuck the King. 

You nodded your head and stayed side by side until you had both finished your wine, and the had knight come to the door to escort you to the dining hall. You were still taken back that Aemond had asked for you to go. Even if it was escorted by he himself, but still, he had tried. And Aegon had said no. 

You sat in the seats that you always did, with Aegon opposite you, and Alicent and Otto on either side of him, whilst the rest of the council filled the empty chairs. The food was placed upon the table and Alicent spoke a small prayer to the Seven.

You often wondered what she prayed for when alone, did she pray for vengeance? Penance? 

The council had seemed to grow more relaxed around your presence, as though they were finally accustomed to you being there, or they were assured that you would not be a threat. Larys spoke of whispers with no meaning and even offered to go on a walk with you again. You had responded politely and said that you would surely take him up on his offer. 

The night continued with conversations that held no interest to you, and so you listened in to words here and there, hoping to hear something, anything of use. 

Your patience was rewarded.

“There is some troubles down in Flea Bottom, but nothing our guards and knights cannot handle.”

Your ears pricked up. 

Trouble in Flea Bottom?

You reached to grasp your goblet of wine, feigning that you had not heard Lord Wylde speaking to Grand Maester Orwyle. 

Orwyle was a Maester who had served your Grandsire, and turned cloak against your mother. He was an old man, with dark skin, and eyes blacker than coal. In his youth he could have been a handsome man, but now his hair had receded, and his years on earth had wrinkled him. 

Otto and Alicent spoke across the table to Aemond with Aegon, and you strained to listen to the other two whispering.

“…Rhaenyra…if she…supporters…laws…”

Your name pulled you from your eavesdropping.

“I asked how it is to have your husband back.” Aegon smirked, cheeks flushed from wine and crown crooked on his head. 

His hair looked unkempt, unbrushed and oily, tucked behind his ears and out of his face, with smaller strands that had escaped crossed over his forehead. For once, his coat was buttoned up to the top, coming just under his chin, high on his neck.

It looked as though the coat was holding his head upright. 

“A relief, though he spends most of his time reading and writing the nights away. I fear I have lost him to the book.”

“Aemond you must find time to rest.” Alicent softly cooed, head tilted as her hands came together in front of her, elbows on the table. Maternal instincts alight.

Here was your in. 

“I have told him to no avail.” You began, looking at Aemond before back at Alicent, “He rarely comes to bed, and spends much of his time hunched over the table by candlelight for all hours of the night.”

Aemond hummed beside you, “Merely performing my duties.”

“Are they your duties, or the Kings?” You questioned.

“My duties?” Aegon cocked his head to the side, looking at you, “Do you question my rule?”

Otto shifted, and you saw Larys lean into the conversation.

“I merely question if my Lord Husband should be burdened with playing the role of Prince Regent without the title.”

Aegon laughed angrily, pushing his tongue into his cheek as he looked at the both of you. 

“Is this because he is now too busy to warm your bed? Do you sit and wait for him wanting as he neglects your needs?”

Heat rose in your cheeks. 

“Aegon.” Aemond said lowly.

“Merely a question.” Aegon leant back in his chair, the one larger than the rest, “Is your cunny missing my brothers cock?”

“You are a spineless little worm.” You sneered, leaning forward towards the table.

“Tell your whore to watch her tongue.” 

The sound of a chair scraping the floor cut across the room as Aemond jumped from his seat, watching Aegon like a hawk. His brow was drawn and eye narrowed, jaw set tightly into a line as he clenched his teeth. 

Aegon however, looked up at his younger brother in vicious delight. 

“Aemond.” Alicent uttered, desperate to cool the mans temper and ease the tension. 

The King laughed. 

Aemond breathed heavily, and you craned your neck to look up at your husband as he towered over the table, hands bawled into tight fists at his side. His knuckles turned white and you watched as he shifted on his feet, one inching to move behind him. 

A fighting stance.

“All in good jest, brother. No need to get your breeches in a knot.” Aegon smiled cruelly.

You whispered to your husband, looking up at him as he did not take his heated gaze away from Aegon.

“Besides,” Aegon continued, tone teasing, “We all know that her mother is the Whore Queen…Perhaps her blood runs thick in your wife.”

You dug your nails into your palm and stared at Aegon.

Would he be able to scream if you dug out his throat with your hands?

“Say it again.” Aemond growled quietly, looking at his brother. 

“Enough.” Alicent commanded, looking between her two sons. 

Aegon lifted his hands in mock surrender, but Aemond still did not seat himself, standing impossibly stiff as he kept his gaze on the King. 

“Sit.” Aegon smirked.

Aemond did not.

“Your King commands you.” Aegon grinned, watching as Aemond’s face twitched, and moved slowly to sit back down in his seat, hands on his lap as his fingers dug into the flesh of his thighs. 

“Aemond.” You whispered again, and yet the Prince would not take his brother from his sight, staring at him like a predator waiting to pounce. 

You pulled one of his hands from his lap, holding it in both of yours as you began to lift it. Aemond’s head turned, taking his eye from Aegon for one moment to look at you. You brought his hand up to your lips, calloused and scarred, fingers warm but stiff, and placed a soft kiss to his knuckles. Trying to soothe him. 

Trying to soothe the storm that brewed. 

A puff of air left Aemond’s nose as he looked at you, and his fingers squeezed your own. You let a tiny smile grace your lips, an assurance that it was okay, an assurance that you were fine, that he was fine, and released his hand. 

For the remainder of the night, you and Aemond both ate in silence before excusing yourself to your chambers. Alicent and Larys watched you both closely as you looked up at Aemond to see if he was to turn back around and slide a knife between Aegon’s eyes.

He didn’t.

The walk back was tense but not in a way that you were used to. This time, Aemond’s animosity was not pointed towards you, and instead his brother. For once, you did not fear this anger. 

You realised that Aemond could help you. 

You needed to get him to help you.

You needed to convince him that you loved him.

When you entered the chambers, Aemond barely said a word, looking at the pile of parchment on the table waiting for him, but moved to pour himself some wine at the side of the room. He had sat at the fire and drank, and you had joined him, allowing him to his thoughts and you to yours. 

Aemond could be swayed to you. 

He could. 

You needed to use his hatred towards his brother carefully. 

Like a cleverly spun web, it needed to have no faults, and needed to be made with precision.

What was the name of that flower you had seen?

Wolfshood? Snakebean? Bells of Triumph?

The maids came to ready you for the evening, and once you were in your chemise, and your hair had been released from its braids and brushed loosely down your back, you had made your way to bed, watching as your husband moved to sit back at the table to continue his writing and reading. 

A man truly dedicated to his duty.

“Aemond.” You called out to him softly, sitting up in your shared bed.

The light of the chambers was low, and only few candles were lit, most of the light coming from the dwindling fireplace. Aemond looked up to see you, a vision of beauty, all soft and Valyrian, silver hair warmed by the light of the fire, and eyes sparkling in the dark. 

“The hour is late.” 

Aemond continued to stare at you, stood beside the table which demanded his attention, but as did his wife. 

“Come to bed.” You cooed, reaching over to pull the sheets back on his side. 

Aemond looked at you and then down the the table beside him. Eye roaming over the tomes and parchment, piles of scrolls with ink pots and quills. A large candle sat in the middle of the table, its flame flickering and dancing, wax slowly melting down its sides. 

In a split decision, Aemond leant forward and blew out the candle on the table, making his way across the room to crawl into bed beside you. 

He came when you had asked him.

The heat of his body radiated beside you as he moved to blow out the candles surrounding the bed, his long hair laying down his back, brushed and silky, tickled your shoulder as he leant over you. 

Darkness covered the chambers and you settled into the pillows beside him, laying on your back as you blinked in the dark up at the ceiling. Aemond did the same, the both of you lost to your own thoughts and worries.

As sleep slowly began to pull you under, a name popped into your mind. 

Monkshood. Wolfsbane.

You had to hold back your grin. 

You knew you had recognised the tall plant. 

You hummed a tune inside your head, a song the Septa had sung once, long, long ago, in the gardens when you were young, and Lucerys was only three, and she had warned you of plants to not touch and just see.

Monkshood, Wolfsbane, Devils Helmut, three,

Five fingered leaves with sharp teeth on me.

Beware my root, my stem, my leaves, 

My pretty head of flowers tease.

A seed or petal, a touch or sip, will leave a man without his wit. 

Within the hour, a day or so, my poison reaps what has been sowed.

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