#he’d rather bare all the weight that let the be in dangers way

[pucksandpower]

Changing the Game

platonic!Fernando Alonso x mentee!Reader

Oscar Piastri x Reader

Summary: motorsport can be cruel, especially for young women aspiring to make it to Formula 1, but when Fernando notices a driver who deserves more than the unjust cards fate handed her, he decides to do something about it … and your life will never be the same

The roar of engines fills the air, blending with the faint scent of gasoline that clings to the paddock like a memory. Fernando walks through the chaos of the Formula 3 circuit, hands in his pockets, sunglasses firmly in place.

His presence is a subtle disruption, not loud, but noticeable. Drivers and engineers glance his way, some nodding in respect, others too focused on their tasks to do more than acknowledge him with a brief flicker of recognition.

He’s been watching the race, the sun high overhead, a burning reminder that summer has a way of dragging things out. Yet, time has felt elastic today, stretched out by the tension of the track and the surprising twist that caught his attention.

A young driver — no, more than just young — barely seventeen, the only female on the grid, had sliced through the competition with precision and ferocity. Her car, marked by the number on the side, had danced on the edge of control, flirting with danger at every turn but never losing its rhythm. When the chequered flag waved, she’d crossed the line in a solid third, inches from second, and not far from the top spot.

He’d seen talent before, of course. It’s part of his world, spotting it, nurturing it, sometimes crushing it under the weight of competition. But something about you caught his eye. There’s a sharpness in your driving, a clarity of purpose that’s rare. He wonders where you’ve been hiding.

As the cars pull into the pit lane, the usual bustle takes over. Engineers swarm around their drivers, debriefs start, and helmets are tugged off with a mix of relief and frustration. Fernando watches from a distance, scanning the crowd until he finds you. You’re standing by your car, tugging at your gloves with a sharp motion, frustration etched in the tightness of your jaw. There’s a fleeting moment where you pull off your helmet, shaking out your hair, and Fernando notices the absence of something.

Sponsors.

Your race suit is practically bare. The car too, minimal branding, the kind that signals a driver struggling to make ends meet rather than one who’s just claimed a podium finish. He frowns, tilting his head slightly as he watches you. It doesn’t make sense. A driver that good should be swimming in offers, drowning in endorsements.

He catches the eye of a paddock official nearby, someone he’s vaguely familiar with — one of those types who always seem to know more than they let on. Fernando strides over, casual but direct. The official straightens up, clearly surprised to have Fernando Alonso approaching.

“Who’s the girl?” Fernando asks, nodding in your direction, though he doesn’t really need to. You’re the only one who fits the description.

The official glances your way, then back at Fernando. “Y/N Y/L/N. She’s been turning heads all season.”

“Not enough, apparently.” Fernando gestures vaguely at your race suit, his tone making it clear he’s talking about the lack of sponsorship. “What’s going on there?”

The official hesitates, glancing around as if to make sure no one’s listening. He lowers his voice slightly, a conspiratorial tone creeping in. “She’s good, real good. But, you know … she’s a girl.”

Fernando’s eyebrows shoot up, a sharp flash of irritation sparking in his eyes. “So?”

“So,” the official continues, shifting his weight uncomfortably, “sponsors and academies, they’re … cautious. Not sure if she’s got the staying power. And you know how it is, they’re more willing to take a risk on a kid who fits the mold.”

“The mold,” Fernando repeats, his voice flat, incredulous. He lets out a breath, shaking his head slightly. It’s 2019, and this is still happening. It shouldn’t surprise him, but somehow, it does.

His gaze returns to you, still standing by your car, now deep in conversation with your race engineer. There’s a fierceness in the way you talk, the way you move your hands as if trying to will the universe to bend to your will. Fernando recognizes that fire — it’s the same one he’s carried in himself for years.

But there’s more than just frustration in your eyes. There’s something else — determination, maybe, but tinged with something darker, something that’s been carved out of too many disappointments. He knows that look too. It’s the one you get when you’re tired of proving yourself over and over, and yet, you keep doing it because there’s no other choice.

Fernando’s decision is made in an instant. He doesn’t overthink it; he never has. That’s not his style. He approaches you with the same casual confidence that’s defined his career, weaving through the bustle of the paddock until he’s close enough to catch the tail end of your conversation.

“... could’ve pushed harder into turn four,” you’re saying to your engineer, frustration coloring your voice. “But the grip just wasn’t there.”

Your engineer nods, making a note on his tablet, but before he can respond, Fernando steps into the space between you.

“Grip’s one thing,” he says, his voice cutting through the noise around you, “but timing’s everything.”

You turn, eyes widening just a fraction as you realize who’s standing there. Fernando catches the flicker of surprise that you quickly mask with a polite, if guarded, smile.

“Fernando Alonso,” you say, your voice a careful mix of respect and curiosity.

“In the flesh,” he replies, a hint of a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. He glances at your car, then back at you. “Nice drive today.”

“Thanks.” The word comes out clipped, like you’re not entirely sure what to make of him yet. He can tell you’re used to being judged, sized up and dismissed by those who think they know better. But Fernando’s not here to judge.

“Third place,” he continues, as if he’s thinking out loud. “But you had the pace for second.”

Your eyebrows lift slightly, and for the first time, a hint of a real smile breaks through. “Yeah, I did. But things don’t always go as planned.”

“No,” he agrees, “they don’t. But you’ve got talent. Real talent.”

You study him for a moment, your expression shifting from guarded to something more open, more curious. “Thanks,” you say again, but this time it’s softer, more genuine.

There’s a pause, the noise of the paddock fading slightly as you both stand there, sizing each other up. Fernando knows this is the moment where most people would make some kind of offer — advice, mentorship, maybe even a contract. But he’s never been one to do things by the book.

Instead, he tilts his head slightly, a playful glint in his eyes. “Do you like ice cream?”

You blink, caught off guard by the sudden change in topic. “What?”

“Ice cream,” he repeats, his tone light, almost teasing. “Do you like it?”

“Uh … yeah?” You sound more confused than anything, but there’s a hint of amusement creeping into your voice.

“Great,” Fernando says, as if that settles everything. He steps back, gesturing for you to follow him. “Let’s go get some. My treat.”

You stare at him for a moment, clearly trying to figure out if he’s serious. But when you see that he is, a slow smile spreads across your face, and you can’t help but laugh, shaking your head in disbelief.

“Okay,” you say, still laughing a little as you start to walk beside him. “Why not?”

And just like that, the tension that had been hanging over the paddock seems to dissipate, replaced by something lighter, something that feels almost like hope.

***

The ice cream shop is a short walk from the circuit, tucked into a corner of the small town that’s hosting the weekend’s race. It’s the kind of place Fernando imagines has been around for decades, unchanged except for maybe a new coat of paint every few years. The neon sign in the window buzzes faintly, its pink light reflecting off the glass as he pushes the door open, holding it for you as you follow him inside.

The cool air is a welcome relief from the heat outside, carrying with it the sweet, unmistakable scent of sugar and cream. The shop is quiet, just a couple of kids sitting by the window, licking at cones that seem far too big for them. Behind the counter, a bored-looking teenager perks up as the door chimes, her gaze sharpening as she recognizes Fernando.

“Can I help you?” She asks, her voice brightening as she tries to act casual, though it’s clear she’s a little starstruck.

Fernando nods toward you, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Ladies first.”

You hesitate for a moment, then step up to the counter, glancing at the array of ice cream flavors displayed behind the glass. The choices are written in chalk on a board above, but your eyes are immediately drawn to the rich, golden brown of the dulce de leche. You point to it, giving the girl behind the counter a quick smile.

“Two scoops of that, please,” you say, and then, after a beat, “with as many toppings as will fit.”

Fernando raises an eyebrow, amused as he watches you. The girl behind the counter doesn’t question it, scooping generous portions of the creamy ice cream into a cup before moving over to the toppings bar. You lean over the counter slightly, studying the options with a critical eye before making your selections — caramel drizzle, chocolate chips, a handful of crushed cookies, a sprinkle of nuts, and a final flourish of whipped cream on top.

When the girl hands you the cup, it’s practically overflowing, a masterpiece of indulgence that’s almost as impressive as your driving. You turn to Fernando, already reaching for your wallet.

“I can pay for mine,” you say quickly, but Fernando waves you off, already pulling out his own wallet.

“It’s on me,” he insists, his tone making it clear there’s no room for argument.

You open your mouth to protest, but the look he gives you stops you in your tracks. There’s something gentle in his eyes, an unexpected warmth that makes you pause. You let out a small sigh, putting your wallet away as you give in.

“Fine,” you mutter, though there’s no real annoyance in your voice. “But I’m getting you back for this.”

Fernando chuckles as he orders a simple vanilla cone for himself. “We’ll see about that.”

Once he’s paid, the two of you find a small table near the back of the shop, away from the kids and the counter. It’s quiet, almost private, with the hum of the freezers and the distant chatter of the other customers filling the silence. You sit across from him, carefully balancing your cup of ice cream as you take your first bite.

The first taste of dulce de leche is heavenly, the caramel sweetness melting on your tongue as the toppings add layers of texture and flavor. For a moment, it’s easy to forget about everything else — the race, the frustration, the uncertainty of it all. There’s just the ice cream, the coolness of it on your tongue, and the rare sensation of simply enjoying something without a care.

Fernando watches you with a faint smile, his own ice cream barely touched as he leans back in his chair. He doesn’t rush to fill the silence, letting you savor the moment before he finally speaks.

“So,” he says, breaking the quiet, “tell me about your situation.”

You glance up at him, the spoon pausing halfway to your mouth. There’s something in his tone, something gentle but probing, that tells you this isn’t just small talk. You lower the spoon, setting the cup down on the table as you consider how to respond.

“It’s … complicated,” you begin, though that word hardly covers it. You let out a small sigh, your shoulders slumping slightly as you lean back in your chair. “I mean, I’m doing everything I can on the track. My results speak for themselves, right? But it’s like … it’s like none of that matters.”

Fernando nods, encouraging you to continue. There’s no judgment in his eyes, just a quiet understanding, and that makes it easier to keep talking.

“Every race, I’m out there giving it everything I’ve got,” you say, your voice growing more animated as you go on. “I’m right up there with the best of them — sometimes even better. But then I look around, and I see these other drivers, guys who are barely scraping into the points, and they’ve got major sponsors backing them. They’re signed to F1 teams’ academies, they’ve got a clear path to the top. And me? I’ve got nothing. No sponsors, no academy, no security.”

You pick up your spoon again, stirring your ice cream absentmindedly as your frustration bubbles to the surface. “It’s not like I haven’t tried. My team’s tried too, but no one wants to take the risk on me. They all say the same thing — ‘You’re good, but we’re just not sure if you’re what we’re looking for.’ Which is just code for ‘You’re a girl, and we’re not willing to bet on you.’”

Fernando doesn’t interrupt, letting you vent. He’s heard stories like this before, but it never gets any easier to listen to. The sport has its issues, and while things have improved over the years, the barriers you’re facing are still all too real.

You sigh, running a hand through your hair as you shake your head. “It’s so frustrating, you know? I’m out there proving myself every single weekend, but it’s like I have to work twice as hard just to get noticed, and even then, it’s not enough. My parents — they believe in me, but they’re practically killing themselves to keep me racing. They had to take a second mortgage on the house just to get me into F3 this season. And every time I don’t get a sponsor, every time another academy passes on me, it’s like … it’s like I’m letting them down.”

Your voice cracks slightly at the end, and you quickly take another bite of ice cream, as if that can somehow keep your emotions in check. But Fernando sees the way your hand trembles just a little, the way your eyes have lost some of their fire, replaced by a weary resignation.

“It shouldn’t be this hard,” you say softly, almost to yourself. “I know the sport is tough, but it feels like I’m fighting a battle that’s rigged from the start.”

Fernando takes a deep breath, choosing his words carefully. “It’s not fair,” he says, his voice steady, grounding. “You’re right, it shouldn’t be this hard. But sometimes, the fight isn’t just about winning on the track. It’s about changing the game entirely.”

You look at him, your eyes narrowing slightly as you try to gauge what he means by that. There’s something in his tone, something determined and unyielding, that makes you believe he understands more than he’s letting on.

“Changing the game?” You repeat, the words feeling heavy in your mouth.

Fernando nods, leaning forward slightly. “Yeah. Look, I’m not saying it’s going to be easy. But if anyone can do it, it’s you. You’ve got the talent, you’ve got the drive, and you’ve got something most people don’t — resilience. You’re still here, still fighting, even when the odds are against you. That says a lot.”

You bite your lip, absorbing his words. There’s a part of you that wants to believe him, that wants to hold on to that hope, but there’s also a part that’s tired — so tired of fighting an uphill battle, of always having to prove yourself over and over again.

“I just don’t know how much longer I can keep doing this,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. “What if it’s not enough? What if I’m not enough?”

Fernando’s gaze softens, and for a moment, he sees a reflection of his younger self in you, back when he was first starting out, hungry and determined but unsure of how far he could really go. The difference is, he had the backing, the opportunities that you’ve been denied.

“You are enough,” he says, his tone firm, leaving no room for doubt. “The problem isn’t with you. It’s with the system, with the people who are too scared to see things differently. But that doesn’t mean you stop. You keep pushing, keep showing them what they’re missing. And if they can’t see it, then we’ll make them see it.”

You blink, surprised by the intensity in his voice. There’s a conviction there that’s hard to ignore, a belief in you that you’ve been struggling to find in yourself.

“We?” You ask, your voice tinged with cautious hope.

Fernando smiles, a small, determined curve of his lips. “We. You’re not alone in this. I’ve been where you are, in a different way, but I know what it’s like to have to fight for everything. And I know what it’s like to have someone in your corner who believes in you.”

You stare at him, processing his words, the implications of what he’s offering. There’s a warmth in your chest, a spark of something that feels dangerously close to hope.

“So what now?” You ask, your voice steadier.

Fernando leans back in his chair, his gaze never leaving yours as he takes a thoughtful bite of his ice cream. There's a moment of silence, the weight of everything unspoken hanging between you, before he finally speaks, his voice calm but resolute.

"Now?" He sets his cone down on the table, his expression sharpening with purpose. "I make some calls."

***

It’s been a few weeks since that day at the ice cream shop, and Fernando hasn’t been able to shake the conversation from his mind. He’s been in the sport long enough to know how things work, but hearing it from you, seeing how the system has worn you down despite your undeniable talent, it struck a nerve. It’s been a whirlwind of phone calls, favors cashed in, and quiet meetings behind closed doors. But now, standing at the arrivals gate at Heathrow Airport, Fernando knows it’s all been worth it.

You come into view, wheeling your carry-on behind you, your eyes scanning the crowd until they land on him. A look of surprise crosses your face, quickly replaced by a hesitant smile as you make your way over.

“Hey,” you greet him, a mix of confusion and curiosity in your voice as you pull your suitcase to a stop beside him. “So … what’s this all about?”

Fernando just grins, taking the handle of your suitcase from you with a casualness that leaves no room for argument. “You’ll see,” he says, cryptic as ever. “Come on, the car’s this way.”

You follow him out to the parking garage, throwing him sideways glances, clearly trying to piece together what he’s up to. Fernando’s only response is an amused smile as he opens the door for you, waiting until you’re settled in the passenger seat before loading your luggage in the trunk.

As he pulls out of the airport and merges onto the highway, the silence between you is comfortable but charged with anticipation. You keep glancing over at him, your curiosity growing with every mile.

“You’re not going to tell me where we’re going, are you?” You finally ask, your tone hovering between teasing and exasperation.

Fernando chuckles, shaking his head. “Nope.”

You sigh, leaning back in your seat, but there’s a glimmer of excitement in your eyes that wasn’t there before. “I’m trusting you, you know,” you say, half-joking, half-serious.

“And you won’t regret it,” he promises, the confidence in his voice almost contagious.

The drive is longer than you expected, taking you out of London and into the countryside. The scenery shifts from the urban sprawl to green fields and quaint villages, the roads becoming narrower and winding as they head deeper into the heart of England. It’s not until Fernando takes a turn down a private road, leading to a sleek, modern complex surrounded by high fences, that you begin to piece it together.

“This can’t be …” you start, your voice trailing off as the full realization hits you. “Is this-”

“Mercedes HQ,” Fernando confirms with a grin as he pulls up to the security gate. He rolls down the window, exchanging a few words with the guard, who quickly waves them through.

You’re silent as he drives into the parking lot, your eyes wide as you take in the sight of the Mercedes-AMG F1 Factory. It’s one thing to see it on TV or in photos, but to be here, in person, is something else entirely. Fernando parks the car and turns to you, catching the look on your face.

“Nervous?” He asks, though he already knows the answer.

“A little,” you admit, swallowing hard as you unbuckle your seatbelt. “Okay, a lot.”

He chuckles, getting out of the car and coming around to your side to open the door for you. “Don’t be. You belong here.”

You hesitate, still processing everything, before nodding and stepping out of the car. Fernando grabs your suitcase from the trunk, but you barely notice, too busy taking in your surroundings as he leads you toward the entrance.

The interior of the building is just as impressive as the outside — modern, sleek, and buzzing with energy. Everywhere you look, there are people in team gear, some hurrying between offices, others deep in conversation. And then, as if the situation couldn’t get more surreal, Lewis Hamilton appears in the lobby, flanked by Toto Wolff.

Your breath catches in your throat, and you stop dead in your tracks. Fernando pauses beside you, a knowing smile on his face as he watches your reaction.

“Fernando,” Lewis greets, his smile widening when he sees you standing next to him. “And you must be the young driver I’ve been hearing so much about.”

You manage a nod, but words seem to have escaped you entirely. It’s not every day that you come face-to-face with a five-time world champion and the team principal of the most successful F1 team of the modern era.

Lewis chuckles at your speechlessness, his demeanor as relaxed and approachable as ever. “Don’t worry, we don’t bite,” he says, extending his hand. “It’s good to finally meet you.”

You shake his hand, your own grip slightly shaky. “I … It’s an honor,” you stammer, your voice finally finding its way back to you.

Toto steps forward next, offering his hand as well. “Welcome to Brackley,” he says, his tone warm but with the same underlying intensity that’s made him such a formidable figure in the sport. “Fernando’s told us a lot about you.”

You glance over at Fernando, a mix of gratitude and disbelief in your eyes. This is so far beyond anything you could have imagined when you first got his call.

Lewis gestures for you to follow him down a hallway, with Toto and Fernando close behind. “When Fernando reached out to me,” Lewis begins, his tone casual but sincere, “and told me about your situation, I knew we had to do something. Talent like yours shouldn’t be held back by anything, least of all by something as ridiculous as a lack of sponsorship.”

You’re still reeling from the fact that Lewis Hamilton knows who you are, let alone that he’s gone out of his way to help you. “I … I don’t even know what to say,” you admit, your voice soft with emotion.

“Don’t worry about that just yet,” Toto says from behind you, his tone light. “Let’s get you settled in first.”

You follow them through the labyrinth of hallways, trying to absorb everything at once. Fernando stays close, a steady presence as you make your way deeper into the facility. There’s a sense of purpose in the air, a kind of quiet determination that’s palpable even as people move around with the calm efficiency of a well-oiled machine.

Eventually, Lewis stops outside a conference room, holding the door open for you to enter first. You step inside, the space cool and sleek, with floor-to-ceiling windows offering a view of the meticulously kept grounds outside. A large table dominates the center of the room, and as you approach, you notice a folder sitting at one end, the Mercedes logo embossed on the cover.

You hover near the table, not daring to sit until someone tells you to. Fernando catches your hesitation, nudging you gently in the direction of a chair. “Go on,” he says softly. “This is for you.”

You sink into the chair, your heart pounding as you look at the folder in front of you. Lewis and Toto take seats across from you, with Fernando settling in beside you. The atmosphere in the room shifts slightly, becoming more formal but no less supportive.

Toto reaches for the folder, sliding it across the table to you. “This,” he begins, his voice calm and measured, “is an offer to join the Mercedes Junior Team.”

You blink, sure you must have misheard him. “The … Mercedes Junior Team?”

Lewis smiles, nodding. “We believe in your potential,” he says simply. “And we want to give you the opportunity to develop that potential to the fullest.”

Your hands tremble slightly as you reach for the folder, your mind racing. This is it. This is the chance you’ve been fighting for, the one you never thought would come, at least not like this. You open the folder, your eyes scanning the first few lines of the contract inside. It’s all real — your name, the terms, everything.

“We know it’s a big decision,” Toto continues, his gaze steady on you. “Take your time to go through everything, ask any questions you have. But know that we’re serious about this. We want you on our team.”

You’re overwhelmed, the weight of the moment pressing down on you, but it’s a good kind of pressure, the kind that comes from knowing you’re on the verge of something life-changing. You look up at Fernando, who’s been watching you quietly, and there’s a look of pride in his eyes that makes your chest tighten.

“I don’t … I don’t even know where to start,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper.

Lewis leans forward slightly, his expression gentle but serious. “Start by believing that you deserve this,” he says. “Because you do. And we’re here to help you every step of the way.”

There’s a long silence as you let his words sink in, your fingers tracing the edge of the folder. This is everything you’ve been working toward, everything you’ve sacrificed for, and now that it’s here in front of you, it feels almost too good to be true.

But as you look around the table — at Lewis, Toto, and Fernando — you realize that this isn’t just a dream. It’s real. They’re offering you a future, a chance to prove yourself at the highest level, and they believe in you enough to make it happen.

You take a deep breath, steadying yourself before meeting their gazes again. “I … I don’t know how to thank you,” you say, your voice thick with emotion.

“There’s no need for thanks,” Toto says with a small smile. “Just show us what you can do.”

Fernando places a reassuring hand on your shoulder, his voice low and encouraging. “You’ve already done the hard part. Now, it’s just time to make it official.”

You nod, the weight of the contract in your hands feeling lighter now. “I’m ready,” you say, your voice steadying with newfound resolve.

Lewis grins. “Welcome to the team.”

***

The months following your signing with Mercedes have been a whirlwind. Every day brings something new — testing, meetings, media obligations, training sessions — but through it all, Fernando remains a constant presence. He’s there for every debrief, every important conversation, and when he’s not by your side, he’s only a phone call away. The mentorship he offers is invaluable, not just because of his experience but because of his belief in you.

Today, though, feels different. The season is winding down, and you’ve been expecting a bit of a lull, maybe even some time to catch your breath. But when Fernando calls you to meet him at a quiet café on the outskirts of town, there’s a certain energy in his voice that you can’t quite place.

You arrive at the café to find Fernando already seated at a table near the window, his sunglasses pushed up onto his head and a cup of coffee in front of him. He looks up as you approach, a small, almost secretive smile playing on his lips.

“Morning,” you greet him, sliding into the seat opposite. “You’re up to something, I can tell.”

Fernando chuckles, taking a sip of his coffee before setting the cup down. “Maybe I am,” he says, his tone teasing but warm. “How are you feeling about next season?”

The question catches you off guard. “Next season? I mean, I haven’t really thought that far ahead yet. There’s still so much to do now.”

He nods, leaning back in his chair as he studies you, a hint of something more serious in his gaze. “Well, it’s time to start thinking about it,” he says, pulling an envelope from his jacket pocket and sliding it across the table to you.

You raise an eyebrow, your curiosity piqued as you reach for the envelope. “What’s this?”

“Open it,” Fernando encourages, his eyes never leaving yours.

You do as he says, your fingers careful as you tear open the envelope. Inside is a single sheet of paper, neatly folded. You unfold it slowly, your eyes scanning the top of the page.

Carlin Motorsport — Formula 2 Contract Offer.

Your breath catches, and you look up at Fernando, disbelief written all over your face. “Is this … real?”

“Very real,” he confirms, his smile widening. “They want you for next season. Full-time seat, competitive car, the whole package.”

You’re speechless for a moment, the weight of the offer sinking in. Carlin is one of the top teams in Formula 2, a proven stepping stone to Formula 1, and they want you. It’s everything you’ve been working toward, but the reality of it is almost overwhelming.

“This is …” you start, your voice trailing off as you try to find the right words. “I don’t even know what to say.”

He reaches across the table, placing his hand over yours, his expression softening. “You’ve earned this,” he says, his voice gentle but firm. “You’ve worked hard, proven yourself, and now it’s time to take the next step.”

You nod, still trying to wrap your head around it all. “But how? I mean, why would they choose me over anyone else? There are so many talented drivers out there …”

Fernando squeezes your hand, drawing your attention back to him. “Because you’re one of the best,” he says simply. “They see it, just like I do. And they know you’re going places.”

You take a deep breath, the reality of it finally starting to settle in. “Carlin … Formula 2 … It’s really happening.”

“It is,” Fernando confirms with a smile. “And you’re ready for it.”

There’s a long pause as you sit there, the contract still in your hands. Fernando watches you carefully, his gaze thoughtful. Then, as if sensing that there’s something more to discuss, he leans in slightly, lowering his voice.

“There’s something else I need to tell you,” he says, his tone shifting to something more serious.

You look up, your heart skipping a beat at the sudden change in his demeanor. “What is it?”

He hesitates for a moment, choosing his words carefully. “I’m planning to return to Formula 1 in 2021.”

The news hits you like a bolt of lightning, your eyes widening in shock. “You’re … coming back? To F1?”

Fernando nods, his expression unreadable. “Yes. I’ve been in talks with a few teams, and it looks like everything is lining up for a comeback.”

You’re stunned, your mind racing to catch up with what he’s just said. Fernando Alonso, returning to Formula 1 … it’s huge, and the implications of it start to sink in. “That’s incredible,” you say, a mix of excitement and apprehension in your voice. “But what does that mean for … us? For everything we’ve been working on?”

He’s silent for a moment, his gaze intense as he considers your question. “It means that while I’ll still be around to support you, I won’t be able to be as hands-on as I’ve been. I won’t be able to be your full-time manager anymore.”

The words hit you hard, and you feel a pang of anxiety start to creep in. Fernando’s been your rock, the one who’s guided you through every step of this journey, and the thought of losing that constant presence is unsettling.

“But,” he continues, his tone reassuring, “I’m not leaving you in the lurch. I’ve already started talking to some people, and I’m going to make sure you get a manager who’s the best of the best. Someone who knows the sport inside and out, who can give you everything you need to succeed.”

You nod slowly, trying to process everything he’s telling you. It’s a lot to take in— the offer from Carlin, Fernando’s return to F1, the changes that will come with it — but there’s a part of you that understands. This is the nature of the sport, constantly evolving, constantly moving forward.

“I’m happy for you,” you finally say, your voice sincere. “Really, I am. You deserve to be back in F1, where you belong.”

Fernando smiles, a genuine warmth in his eyes. “Thank you. And you deserve to be in F2, racing at the front, showing everyone what you’re capable of.”

There’s a pause, the weight of the moment settling over both of you. Then, Fernando’s smile turns a bit more mischievous as he leans back in his chair.

“But don’t think this means I’m going to go easy on you,” he says, a teasing glint in his eyes. “I’ll still be watching, making sure you’re giving it your all.”

You laugh, the tension breaking slightly at his words. “I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

He nods, satisfied, before finishing off his coffee. “Good. Because the hard work isn’t over yet. If anything, it’s just beginning.”

You take a deep breath, feeling a renewed sense of determination settling over you. Fernando’s right — this is just the beginning. The road ahead will be challenging, but you’re ready for it. And with his support, even if it’s from a distance, you know you can handle whatever comes your way.

“Thank you,” you say again, your voice full of gratitude. “For everything.”

Fernando just smiles, standing up from the table and offering you his hand. “Come on,” he says. “Let’s get out of here. We’ve got a lot to prepare for.”

You take his hand, rising from your seat, and together you leave the café, the future stretching out before you, full of possibilities.

***

The hum of the F2 paddock is a mix of nerves and excitement, a constant undercurrent of energy that seems to electrify the air. It’s the first race of the season, and you can feel it. The mechanics are moving with purpose, checking and double-checking every detail of the car. Engineers are glued to their screens, analyzing data with furrowed brows. And you, in the midst of it all, are the picture of focus — calm on the outside but with a fire in your eyes that tells Fernando you’re ready for this.

He stands a few feet away, leaning casually against the garage wall, but his eyes are on you. Always on you. He’s seen you grow over these past months, watched as you’ve taken every challenge head-on, and now, as you prepare for your first F2 race, he can’t help but feel a surge of pride.

Yuki Tsunoda, your teammate, walks over, helmet in hand. He’s grinning, but there’s a trace of awe in his expression as he glances between you and Fernando. “I still can’t believe it,” Yuki says, shaking his head slightly. “Fernando Alonso, here in our garage, supporting you. It’s surreal.”

You chuckle, giving Yuki a playful nudge with your elbow. “Believe it. He’s stuck with me now.”

Fernando smirks, pushing off the wall and walking over to the two of you. “Yuki, how are you feeling about today?” He asks, his tone friendly but professional.

Yuki straightens up, clearly wanting to impress. “I’m ready. I’ve been looking forward to this all off-season. Just want to get out there and race.”

“Good,” Fernando nods, his eyes sharp as he assesses Yuki. “Remember, the first race sets the tone. Keep your head down, focus on your own performance, and the results will come.”

Yuki nods, absorbing the advice. “And you?” He asks, turning back to you. “First F2 race … How are you feeling?”

You shrug, but there’s a determined glint in your eyes. “Excited. Nervous. Ready. All of it.”

Fernando can’t help but smile at that. He’s seen that look in countless drivers — right before they go on to do something special. “You’ve got this,” he says, his voice low but full of conviction. “Just do what you do best.”

You give him a small, appreciative smile before turning back to the car, where the final preparations are being made. Fernando watches you for a moment longer, feeling the weight of the day. This is a big moment, not just for you, but for him too. He’s invested so much in you, not just as a driver but as a person, and now he’s about to see the fruits of that labor on one of the biggest stages.

Yuki eventually heads back to his side of the garage, leaving you and Fernando in a comfortable silence. He steps closer to you, lowering his voice so only you can hear. “Remember, it’s just another race. Don’t let the pressure get to you. You’ve done this a hundred times before.”

You nod, your expression set with determination. “I know. I just need to stay focused.”

“Exactly,” Fernando agrees, his hand resting briefly on your shoulder. “And remember, I’m here. You’re not doing this alone.”

There’s a brief moment of silence between you, the noise of the paddock fading slightly as you take in his words. It’s a reassurance, a reminder that no matter what happens out there, you have someone in your corner who believes in you completely.

The minutes tick by, and soon it’s time for the drivers to head to the grid. The mechanics push your car out of the garage, and you follow, helmet in hand, Fernando right by your side. As you walk, he gives you last-minute reminders, his tone calm but firm, designed to keep you centered.

“Trust your instincts,” he says. “You know the car, you know the track. Let the race come to you.”

You nod, absorbing every word as you approach your car on the grid. The other teams and drivers are milling about, final checks being made before the start. Fernando stands with you by the car, watching as you put on your helmet and climb into the cockpit. There’s a buzz of activity all around, but for a moment, it feels like it’s just the two of you.

He leans in close, his voice carrying over the sound of the grid. “Remember why you’re here. Show them what you’re made of.”

You glance up at him, your visor reflecting the intense determination in your eyes. “I will.”

And with that, the crew steps back, and it’s just you in the car, the engine roaring to life around you. Fernando takes a few steps back, watching as you complete the formation lap. His heart pounds in his chest, a mix of nerves and anticipation. He’s been in this position countless times, but it’s different when it’s someone you’ve invested so much in.

As the cars line up on the grid, the tension mounts. Fernando’s eyes never leave your car, his mind running through every possible scenario. He knows how unpredictable these races can be, how one small mistake can change everything. But he also knows that you’re ready. He’s seen it in your training, in your focus, in the way you’ve handled every challenge thrown at you.

The lights go out, and the roar of engines fills the air. The race is on, and Fernando’s eyes are locked on the screen, watching as you navigate the chaos of the first few corners. It’s a tight pack, cars jostling for position, but you hold your ground, staying calm and composed even as the pressure builds.

Fernando barely breathes as the laps tick by, his focus entirely on you. There are moments where his heart leaps into his throat — close calls, tight overtakes — but you handle them all with the skill and precision of a seasoned driver. You’re pushing, but not too hard, balancing aggression with caution in a way that impresses even him.

Midway through the race, you find yourself in a battle for position with one of the more experienced drivers. Fernando can see the tension in your driving, the way you’re pushing the car to its limits. But he also sees the intelligence in your approach, the way you’re sizing up your opponent, waiting for the right moment.

“Come on,” he mutters under his breath, his eyes glued to the screen as you make your move. It’s a daring pass, squeezing through a gap that’s barely there, but you make it stick. Fernando lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, a small smile tugging at his lips.

“You’re doing it,” he whispers to himself, pride swelling in his chest.

The race continues, the intensity never letting up. There are moments of sheer brilliance, and moments where Fernando’s nerves are stretched to their limits, but through it all, you remain unshaken. Every lap, every corner, you’re proving exactly why you belong here, why Carlin chose you, and why Fernando believes in you so much.

As the race nears its end, you find yourself in a strong position, battling for a spot on the podium. Fernando’s heart pounds in his chest, his hands clenched into fists as he watches the final laps unfold. It’s a nail-biter, the cars ahead of you just within reach, and he can see you pushing, giving it everything you’ve got.

“Come on, come on,” he murmurs, his eyes never leaving the screen. “You’ve got this.”

The final lap is a blur of speed and adrenaline, but you’re right there, closing in on the car ahead. Fernando can feel the tension in the air, the entire Carlin garage on edge as they watch you make your move. It’s a daring overtake, one that requires absolute precision, but you nail it, sliding into third place just before the final corner.

Fernando’s heart leaps as you cross the finish line, securing a podium in your very first F2 race. The garage erupts in cheers, but he’s already moving, heading out to meet you as you bring the car back to the pits.

When you climb out of the car, the smile on your face is all he needs to see. You did it. You proved yourself, and in a big way. Fernando is the first to reach you, pulling you into a tight hug, his voice full of pride.

“You were incredible out there,” he says, his words muffled slightly by the cheers around you. “Absolutely incredible.”

You pull back, your eyes shining with excitement. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”

He shakes his head, his smile wide. “You did this. You took everything you’ve learned and you made it happen. This is just the beginning.”

Yuki comes over, grinning from ear to ear as he claps you on the back. “Third place in your first race? You’re making the rest of us look bad!”

You laugh, the tension of the race finally melting away as you share the moment with your teammate and mentor. But even as you celebrate, Fernando’s mind is already thinking ahead, planning for the future. This is just the first step, and he knows there are many more to come. But for now, he’s content to stand here with you, knowing that you’ve just taken a huge leap forward in your career.

As the celebrations continue around you, Fernando steps back, watching you with a mixture of pride and anticipation. He’s seen something special in you from the start, and today, you proved him right. But he knows this is just the beginning, and he can’t wait to see where this journey takes you

***

Fernando sits at the head of a sleek conference table in a high-rise office overlooking a bustling cityscape. The room is all glass and steel, exuding an air of professionalism and success. It’s the kind of setting where big decisions are made, the kind of setting where lives are changed. He glances at his watch — just a few minutes before you’re supposed to arrive.

To his left is a man in his late forties, dressed in a sharp suit that screams old money and prestige. This is Carlos Mendes, a veteran in the world of motorsport management. Carlos has a reputation for being ruthless when it comes to getting his clients the best deals.

He’s represented world champions, negotiated multimillion-dollar contracts, and navigated the treacherous waters of sponsorships with the skill of a seasoned general. Fernando had carefully chosen Carlos, knowing that you would need someone who could not only protect your interests but also push for the best opportunities.

On Fernando’s right is Sophie Duclair, a high-powered talent agent whose client list reads like a who’s who of global sports and entertainment icons. Sophie, with her sleek bob and impeccably tailored outfit, is known for her ability to secure top-tier endorsement deals that go beyond the traditional boundaries of sports.

Luxury brands, fashion houses, and even Hollywood producers trust her judgment implicitly. She’s the one who can take your rising star and catapult it into a whole different stratosphere.

The door to the conference room opens, and you walk in, dressed casually but with an unmistakable air of confidence. It’s clear you’ve grown more comfortable in these kinds of environments, but there’s still a trace of curiosity in your eyes as you take in the room and the people seated at the table.

“Good to see you,” Fernando says, rising to greet you with a warm smile. He motions to the empty chair next to him. “Take a seat. We’ve got a lot to discuss.”

You sit down, glancing at Carlos and Sophie with polite curiosity. Fernando leans back in his chair, folding his hands on the table. “Let me introduce you to Carlos Mendes,” he says, gesturing to the man on his left. “Carlos is one of the top managers in the business. He’s going to help guide your career from here on out, making sure you get the best opportunities on and off the track.”

Carlos nods, his expression serious but welcoming. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he says in a deep, authoritative voice. “Fernando has told me a lot about you, and I’ve been following your progress. You’ve got a bright future ahead, and I’m here to make sure you reach your full potential.”

You smile, a mix of gratitude and anticipation in your eyes. “Thank you. I’m looking forward to working with you.”

Fernando continues, turning to Sophie. “And this is Sophie Duclair, one of the best talent agents in the industry. Sophie has a knack for securing deals that align perfectly with her clients’ personal brands. She’s here to help you navigate the world of endorsements and partnerships.”

Sophie smiles, her demeanor warm yet professional. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you,” she says, her voice smooth and confident. “I’ve been keeping an eye on your rise in F2, and I have to say, the opportunities are endless. There are brands out there who are going to want to associate themselves with your story, your talent, and your image.”

You nod, clearly intrigued but still processing the magnitude of what’s happening. Fernando notices the slight furrow in your brow and steps in to guide the conversation.

“Here’s the thing,” Fernando begins, his tone serious but encouraging. “You’ve been fighting against the odds, and that’s what’s made your story so compelling. A lot of people might have seen your gender as an obstacle, but we’re turning it into an asset. You’ve already proven you belong in F2, and with the right guidance, we’re going to show the world that you’re not just a great driver — you’re a game-changer.”

Carlos leans forward slightly, his eyes focused on you. “Exactly. The motorsport world is evolving, and brands want to be associated with that evolution. They want to be seen as forward-thinking, inclusive, and ahead of the curve. You’re in a unique position to offer them that opportunity.”

Sophie picks up the thread seamlessly. “But it’s not just about slapping a logo on your car or your race suit. It’s about aligning with brands that resonate with who you are and where you want to go. That’s where I come in. I’ve been in talks with several companies that are very interested in working with you.”

You look at Fernando, and he gives you an encouraging nod, urging you to speak your mind. “It sounds … amazing,” you begin, your voice steady but thoughtful. “But I want to make sure that whatever deals we make, they’re the right ones. I don’t want to just be a face on an ad — I want to represent something real.”

Carlos smiles, clearly impressed by your maturity. “That’s the right approach. And that’s exactly why we’re here — to make sure that every move we make is strategic and meaningful. You’ve got the talent and the story, and now it’s about building the brand that reflects that.”

Sophie leans back in her chair, crossing her legs as she regards you with a calculating but friendly gaze. “We’ve already secured two deals that I think you’re going to be very happy with,” she says, a hint of excitement in her voice. “The first is with Cartier. They’re looking to expand their presence in the sports world, and they see you as the perfect ambassador for their brand — strong, elegant, and determined.”

Your eyes widen slightly, clearly surprised. “Cartier?” You echo, the name alone carrying a weight of prestige and luxury.

Sophie nods, smiling at your reaction. “That’s right. They want to work with you on a campaign that’s going to be centered around breaking barriers and redefining what it means to be successful. It’s not just about jewelry — it’s about the story you tell when you wear it.”

Fernando watches as you process this, seeing the mix of excitement and caution in your expression. He knows how big this is, and he also knows how important it is for you to feel comfortable with every step of this journey.

“And the second deal?” You ask, your voice steady but tinged with curiosity.

Sophie’s smile widens. “That would be with Chanel. They’re launching a new line of sportswear, and they want you to be the face of it. It’s a bold move for them, branching out into a market that’s traditionally been dominated by other brands. But they believe in you, and they believe that you can help them make a statement.”

You lean back in your chair, clearly taking a moment to absorb the magnitude of what’s being offered. Fernando can see the wheels turning in your mind, the careful consideration you’re giving to each opportunity.

“I … I didn’t expect anything like this,” you admit, looking around the table. “It’s incredible, but it’s also a lot to take in.”

Carlos nods, his expression understanding. “It is. But you’re not in this alone. We’re here to guide you, to make sure that every decision you make is the right one for you and your career.”

Fernando leans forward slightly, his voice low and reassuring. “You’ve worked hard to get here. You deserve these opportunities. But like Carlos said, we’re going to make sure that every step you take is the right one. We’re not rushing into anything. We’re building something that’s going to last.”

You look at him, and he can see the trust in your eyes. It’s a trust he’s earned over the months, through every piece of advice, every word of encouragement, every push to make you better. And now, as you sit here on the brink of something huge, he feels a deep sense of pride.

“These are just the first steps,” Sophie says, her tone confident and poised. “There’s so much more we can do. But it’s all going to be on your terms. You’re in control of your image, your brand. We’re just here to help you shape it.”

You take a deep breath, your gaze sweeping over the table, taking in the faces of the people who are now part of your team. “I want to do this right,” you say finally, your voice strong. “I want to be someone people can look up to, someone who represents more than just winning races.”

Fernando smiles, feeling a swell of pride at your words. “And that’s exactly what you’re going to do. We’re just getting started.”

The meeting continues, the conversation shifting to the details of the contracts, the timelines for the campaigns, and the strategies for maximizing your visibility. Throughout it all, Fernando watches you closely, noting the way you handle the discussions with a mix of humility and confidence. It’s clear you’re taking everything in, asking the right questions, making sure you understand every aspect of what’s being presented.

By the time the meeting wraps up, there’s a palpable sense of excitement in the room. The deals with Cartier and Chanel are just the beginning, and everyone knows it. There are more opportunities on the horizon, more doors that are about to open. But for now, it’s about taking the first steps, setting the foundation for what’s to come.

As you rise to leave, Fernando walks you to the door, Carlos and Sophie following close behind. “We’ll be in touch with the final details,” Sophie says, her tone professional but warm. “I’m excited to see where this journey takes us.”

Carlos nods in agreement. “You’ve got a bright future ahead. Let’s make the most of it.”

You thank them both, turning to Fernando with a smile that holds a mix of gratitude and determination. "I couldn’t have done this without you," you say softly.

Fernando shakes his head, his smile reflecting the pride he feels. "You’ve earned every bit of this. Now, let's show the world what you’re capable of."

***

The sun dips low over the suburban skyline, casting a warm golden hue over the backyard where laughter mingles with the clinking of glasses and the low hum of conversation. String lights hang from the trees, swaying gently in the evening breeze, and the faint scent of barbecue lingers in the air. You’re surrounded by familiar faces — family, childhood friends, and the newer ones you’ve made in F2. The mix of old and new feels right, like the pieces of your life are finally coming together.

Fernando stands near the edge of the crowd, leaning casually against a tree as he watches you. He’s been here for hours, blending in with the celebration, though he’s always slightly apart, his presence comforting but never overbearing. He’s wearing one of those half-smiles, the kind that makes it hard to tell if he’s deep in thought or just quietly enjoying the moment.

You catch his eye, and he raises his glass — a silent toast that you return with a small grin before getting pulled back into a conversation with one of your childhood friends. They’re reminiscing about old times, laughing about things that seem so far removed from the high-speed world you now inhabit. It’s nice, grounding even, to remember that you had a life before all of this — a simpler one where the biggest concern was which video game to play after school.

As the night wears on, the crowd begins to thin. Your parents are still mingling, clearly proud of the party they’ve thrown. Your mom’s voice carries across the yard as she gushes to someone about how happy she is that you’ve managed to pay off the second mortgage. It was a weight that they never let you see, but you knew it was there, and being able to lift it was one of the proudest moments you’ve had since stepping into a race car.

Fernando, ever observant, notices the moment your shoulders relax as you hear your mom’s words. He takes a small step forward, knowing that the night is winding down, and he’s been waiting for just the right moment.

Eventually, as the last of your friends hug you goodbye and head out, you find yourself standing near the fire pit, the glow from the dying embers illuminating your face. Fernando approaches, his hands casually tucked into his pockets.

“Enjoying your birthday?” He asks, his voice low and warm, like the crackling fire beside you.

You nod, a content smile tugging at the corners of your lips. “Yeah, it’s been really great. I didn’t expect so many people to show up.”

“People care about you,” Fernando says simply. “You’ve made quite an impact.”

You shrug, clearly a little shy about the praise. “I’m just glad to have a night to relax with everyone. It’s been a whirlwind.”

Fernando’s smile deepens. He knows how hard you’ve worked, how much you’ve sacrificed, and how rare these moments of peace are for you. “You deserve it. You’ve earned it.”

There’s a beat of silence, comfortable and familiar, before Fernando clears his throat. “I, uh, have something for you.”

You turn to look at him, your brow furrowing slightly. “Fernando, you didn’t have to get me anything. You’ve already done so much.”

“I know,” he says, his tone a little softer now, as if he’s stepping into more vulnerable territory. “But I wanted to.”

He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a small box, wrapped in simple but elegant paper. You hesitate for a moment, then take it from his hands, the weight of it feeling heavier than it should.

Curiosity piques as you carefully unwrap the paper and open the box. Inside is a delicate necklace, the pendant a tiny, intricate race helmet studded with a single diamond where the visor would be. It’s not overly flashy, but it’s beautiful and unmistakably meaningful.

You stare at it, speechless, before looking up at Fernando, your eyes wide with surprise and something deeper — something like awe. “Fernando … this is …”

He cuts you off with a gentle shake of his head. “You don’t have to say anything. I just … wanted you to have something that reminds you of where you’re headed. You’ve got a bright future, and I wanted to give you something to keep close as you chase it.”

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes, but you blink them away, focusing on the necklace instead. You’re not sure what to say — how do you thank someone for something that goes beyond just a gift?

Fernando steps closer, his voice lowering as he continues, “I’ve come to see you as … well, like a daughter, I suppose. Watching you grow, seeing how far you’ve come, it’s been one of the most rewarding experiences of my life. I just wanted to show you how much you mean to me.”

Your heart swells with emotion, and before you can stop yourself, you step forward and wrap your arms around him, pressing your face into his chest. The necklace is still clutched in your hand, but all you can focus on is the steady beat of Fernando’s heart against your ear.

“Thank you,” you whisper, your voice muffled but sincere. “For everything.”

Fernando’s arms come around you, holding you close in a way that’s both protective and comforting. “You don’t have to thank me,” he murmurs. “Just keep doing what you’re doing. That’s all the thanks I need.”

You stay like that for a moment longer, taking in the warmth and security of the embrace, before finally pulling back. You look up at Fernando, and there’s a connection between you now that goes beyond mentor and protégé — it’s something familial, something lasting.

He gestures to the necklace, a small smile playing on his lips. “Do you want some help putting that on?”

You nod, unable to find the words, and hand it to him. He carefully fastens it around your neck, his fingers steady and sure, and when he’s done, you reach up to touch the pendant, feeling its cool metal against your skin.

“Perfect,” Fernando says, stepping back to admire it. “Just like you.”

You laugh softly, shaking your head. “You’re too kind.”

“No,” he replies, his voice firm but gentle. “Just honest.”

As the fire continues to crackle beside you, the night wrapping around you both like a blanket, you realize that this birthday, this moment, will be one you remember for the rest of your life. Not because of the party or the people, but because of the man standing beside you — the one who believed in you when no one else did, who gave you the push you needed to keep going.

And as you walk back towards the house, the pendant resting against your chest, you know that no matter what happens in the future, you’ll always have this — this connection, this bond, this family you’ve found in the most unexpected place.

***

The noise is deafening as you cross the finish line, but it’s the silence that follows in your mind that makes it real. The world blurs around you; the roar of the engine fades, the cheers from the grandstands become a distant echo. It’s just you and the knowledge that you’ve done it. The chequered flag waves in the distance, a confirmation that you’ve won the F2 championship.

In your rookie season.

The last lap plays on a loop in your mind: the battle with your teammate, the wheel-to-wheel tension that stretched until the final corner, the moment you finally saw a gap and took it. The entire year has been leading up to this, every race, every struggle, every doubt. And now, you’re here. A champion.

The car slows as you pull into the pit lane, your hands shaking on the steering wheel. The radio crackles with voices — your engineer shouting congratulations, the team cheering, but there’s only one voice you really want to hear.

“You did it,” Fernando comes through, calm but with a hint of emotion that he rarely shows. “I knew you could do it.”

A smile breaks across your face, one that you couldn’t suppress even if you tried. “We did it,” you correct him, because it’s true. You’ve always been a team, even when he wasn’t on the track with you.

As you roll into the Carlin garage, the world around you explodes into celebration. Mechanics, engineers, and team members swarm the car, cheering and clapping as they pull you out of the cockpit. You’re immediately wrapped in a dozen hugs, people shouting your name, lifting you off the ground in their excitement.

But even in the chaos, you’re searching for him. And when you finally spot Fernando standing just outside the crowd, his expression is one of pure pride. He doesn’t rush in to join the others, instead, he stays back, letting you have your moment. That’s Fernando, always understanding, always knowing exactly what you need.

You finally push through the throng of well-wishers and make your way over to him. For a moment, the two of you just look at each other, and in that look, there’s a thousand words unspoken.

“Not bad for a rookie,” he finally says, his smile widening.

You laugh, still breathless from the race. “Not bad at all.”

He pulls you into a hug, and this time, you don’t hold back. You cling to him, letting the emotion of the moment wash over you. “Thank you,” you whisper, and you know he understands. This victory is as much his as it is yours.

When you pull back, you see someone else approaching from the corner of your eye. It’s Toto Wolff, towering and imposing as always, but there’s a warmth in his expression that’s almost fatherly. Next to him, Williams Racing team principal Jost Capito, stands with a smile that’s equally as proud.

“Toto?” You ask, surprised. It’s not every day he shows up in the F2 paddock, let alone after a race.

He steps forward, offering his hand. “Congratulations,” he says, his voice steady. “That was an incredible race.”

You shake his hand, still trying to process the fact that he’s here. “Thank you,” you reply, trying to keep your voice steady.

Jost steps forward, nodding in agreement. “You’ve had an outstanding season. You’ve shown everyone what you’re capable of.”

There’s something in their tone, something that makes your heart race with more than just post-race adrenaline. Fernando catches your eye, giving you a slight nod, as if to say, this is it.

Toto exchanges a look with Jost before continuing, “We’ve been following your progress closely, and we believe you’re ready for the next step.”

Your breath catches in your throat. The next step. It’s what every F2 driver dreams of, but it’s never guaranteed, not even with a championship under your belt. “The next step?” You echo, almost afraid to hope.

Jost steps in, his smile widening. “We want you to race for Williams in Formula 1 next season.”

For a moment, the world stops. You blink, trying to process the words, to make sure you heard him right. Formula 1. They want you to race in F1.

“Next season?” You manage to say, your voice barely above a whisper.

Toto nods, his expression serious but encouraging. “Yes. We’ve been in discussions with Williams, and we believe you’re the perfect fit for their team. You’ve proven that you can handle the pressure, and now it’s time to see what you can do on the biggest stage.”

You feel like you’re floating, like this is a dream that you might wake up from at any moment. You turn to Fernando, searching his face for confirmation that this is real. He’s smiling, but there’s a look in his eyes that tells you he’s known about this for a while. He’s always known.

“You’ll be racing in F1,” Fernando says, his voice steady. “You deserve it.”

It’s then that the full weight of what’s happening hits you. F1. The pinnacle of motorsport. And not just racing in F1, but racing alongside the very best in the world. You’ll be on the grid with drivers you’ve looked up to your entire life. Drivers like Lewis Hamilton. And …

Your eyes widen as the realization dawns. Fernando is making his comeback next year. He’s going to be on that grid, too.

“I’ll be racing … with you,” you say, the words barely escaping your lips.

Fernando’s smile is knowing, almost amused. “Yes, you will.”

The thought is almost overwhelming. Not only will you be in F1, but you’ll be competing alongside Fernando, the man who has been your mentor, your guide, your biggest supporter. The man who helped you get to this very moment.

You shake your head, still trying to process it all. “I don’t know what to say.”

Toto places a hand on your shoulder, his grip reassuring. “You don’t need to say anything. Just be ready to show the world what you’re capable of. We’ll handle the rest.”

Jost nods in agreement. “We believe in you. You’ve already proven that you can handle anything that comes your way.”

You glance back at Fernando, and the pride in his eyes is unmistakable. This has been his goal all along — to get you to the top, to see you succeed where so many doubted you could. And now, here you are, about to step into the world of F1.

“I’ll be ready,” you say, your voice stronger now, filled with the determination that’s carried you this far.

Fernando nods, satisfied. “I know you will.”

As Toto and Jost step away to discuss the finer details with the Carlin team, you stand there with Fernando, the enormity of what just happened settling in.

“You knew this was coming, didn’t you?” You ask, giving him a sideways glance.

Fernando shrugs, a hint of a smirk playing on his lips. “I had a feeling. But it was always up to you to make it happen.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “You’re unbelievable.”

He grins. “And you’re an F1 driver now. Better get used to it.”

The two of you stand there for a moment longer, taking in the victory, the announcement, the future that’s unfolding right before your eyes. It’s been a long road, full of challenges and doubts, but you’ve made it. And now, you’re about to step onto the biggest stage in motorsport, with Fernando right there alongside you.

As you look out at the garage, the Carlin team still buzzing with excitement, you can’t help but feel a deep sense of gratitude. For the team, for the journey, and most of all, for Fernando — the man who believed in you when no one else did, and who continues to believe in you now.

“Thank you, Fernando,” you say quietly, but with all the sincerity you can muster. “For everything.”

He simply nods, his expression softening. “You’ve earned it.”

And as you stand there, the future stretching out before you, one thing is certain: this is just the beginning.

***

The winter sun hangs low in the sky as you walk along the rocky path that leads to Fernando’s private track in northern Spain. The air is crisp, carrying the scent of pine trees and the distant murmur of the sea. It’s a world away from the chaos of the paddock, a place where the outside noise fades, leaving only the hum of your thoughts and the weight of what’s to come. The off-season is supposed to be a time to rest, to recharge, but this year, it’s different. There’s no time to lose — not with your first Formula 1 season looming on the horizon.

Fernando walks beside you, his stride as confident and unhurried as ever. His presence is steadying, a reminder that you’re not alone on this journey. He’s been here before, countless times, and now he’s passing on everything he knows to you. This winter isn’t just about physical training; it’s about mastering the mental side of the sport — the side that can make or break a career in F1.

He stops at the edge of the track, the silence between you stretching out as you both take in the view. The asphalt is cold and unyielding, winding through the landscape like a dark ribbon, a challenge waiting to be conquered.

“You know the driving part,” Fernando says, breaking the silence. His voice is calm, measured, but there’s an intensity to it that commands attention. “You’ve proven that you can handle the car, the speed, the competition. But F1 is more than just driving. It’s a mental game. It’s about being the predator, not the prey.”

You nod, knowing he’s right. The physical demands of F1 are immense, but the mental demands are even greater. The pressure, the mind games, the need to be perfect in a sport where perfection is almost impossible — it’s all part of what makes F1 the pinnacle of motorsport.

“Today, we start with the basics,” Fernando continues, his gaze fixed on the track. “How to be a track terror.”

A track terror. The words hang in the air, heavy with meaning. To be feared on the track, to have your competitors second-guessing themselves before they even line up on the grid — that’s what Fernando is talking about. It’s not just about being fast; it’s about being relentless, unyielding, the kind of driver who forces others into mistakes.

“You don’t have to be the fastest in every session,” Fernando explains, his voice low, almost conspiratorial. “You just have to make them think you are. Get in their heads. Make them question their own pace, their own decisions.”

He starts to walk along the edge of the track, and you follow, listening closely. “Every driver has a breaking point,” he says. “You need to learn how to find it. Sometimes it’s in their driving — how they react under pressure, how they handle wheel-to-wheel combat. Sometimes it’s off the track — in how they deal with the media, how they cope with setbacks. Your job is to figure out what that breaking point is and use it.”

You absorb his words, understanding that this is the difference between good drivers and great ones. It’s not just about talent; it’s about psychology, about knowing how to manipulate a situation to your advantage.

“And once you find that breaking point?” You ask, wanting to hear it from him.

Fernando stops and turns to face you, his eyes sharp, calculating. “You exploit it,” he says simply. “You push them until they crack. But you have to be smart about it. There’s a fine line between pushing them to the edge and pushing yourself over it.”

His words are blunt, but you know there’s truth in them. F1 isn’t just a sport, it’s a battle, a war of wills as much as it is a test of speed.

“Take the first corner,” Fernando says, pointing to the sharp turn at the end of the straight. “It’s where a lot of races are won or lost. You need to establish yourself early. Show them that you’re not afraid to fight for position, but also that you’re in control. That’s key — being aggressive, but controlled.”

You nod, envisioning the scenarios he’s describing. You’ve raced at high levels before, but F1 is different. The stakes are higher, the margins narrower. There’s no room for error, but there’s also no room for hesitation.

“How do you know when to cross the line?” You ask, thinking back to the times when Fernando has pushed the limits, often to the point where others questioned his tactics.

He gives a small smile, one that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “You learn,” he says. “Sometimes by making mistakes. But the key is to learn from them quickly. You have to know when to back off and when to push harder. It’s about balance, about knowing your own limits as much as theirs.”

He pauses, his gaze locking with yours. “And sometimes, you have to cross the line. But when you do, you do it with intent, and you don’t get caught. You make sure it looks like a mistake, something that just happened in the heat of the moment. And you never apologize for it.”

There’s a chill in the air, but you barely notice it, your mind focused on every word. This is what you’ve needed, what you’ve been missing. The edge that will set you apart in a field of the best drivers in the world.

“What about mind games?” You ask, curious to know more about how to handle the psychological warfare that comes with F1.

Fernando chuckles, a sound that’s both amused and knowing. “Mind games are everything,” he says. “They start long before you even get in the car. It’s about how you carry yourself, how you interact with the other drivers, with the media. You have to control the narrative, make them think what you want them to think.”

He starts walking again, this time towards the small building at the edge of the track where the team usually sets up. “The media is a powerful tool,” he continues. “You can use them to your advantage, but you have to be careful. Give them just enough to create doubt in your competitors’ minds, but not enough to give anything away.”

You think back to the countless press conferences you’ve watched, where drivers like Fernando have used their words as weapons, creating stories that unsettle their rivals. It’s a game within a game, and you’re starting to see how deep it goes.

“Never let them see you sweat,” Fernando adds, his tone more serious now. “Even when things aren’t going your way, you have to project confidence. Make them think you have everything under control, even when you don’t. And when they stumble, when they show weakness, you pounce.”

The building looms ahead, the door slightly ajar. Fernando pushes it open, revealing a small, sparsely furnished room with a table, a few chairs, and a whiteboard covered in notes and diagrams. It’s a war room, a place where strategies are formed, where victories are planned.

Fernando gestures for you to sit, and you do, feeling the weight of what’s to come. He takes a seat across from you, his expression now all business.

“Let’s talk about racecraft,” he says, leaning forward. “You need to understand that F1 isn’t just about speed. It’s about strategy, about thinking two, three steps ahead of everyone else. You need to know when to attack and when to hold back, when to take risks and when to play it safe.”

He starts sketching out scenarios on the whiteboard, explaining different race strategies, how to read your competitors, how to manage your tires, your fuel, your energy. It’s a crash course in F1 tactics, and you absorb every detail, knowing that this knowledge could be the difference between winning and losing.

“You’ll have a team behind you,” Fernando says, his eyes never leaving the board as he continues to write. “But you’re the one in the car. You’re the one who has to make the decisions in real-time. Trust your instincts, but also trust your preparation. The more you know, the better equipped you’ll be to handle whatever comes your way.”

He turns back to you, his expression serious. “And remember, F1 is a long game. It’s not just about one race, or even one season. It’s about building a career, about consistently performing at a high level. You have to pace yourself, know when to push and when to hold back. It’s a marathon, not a sprint.”

You nod, the enormity of what he’s saying sinking in. This isn’t just about your rookie season; it’s about laying the foundation for a long and successful career. And with Fernando guiding you, you know you’re in the best possible hands.

The session goes on, the hours slipping away as you discuss everything from race strategies to media tactics, from how to handle pressure to how to deal with setbacks. Fernando doesn’t sugarcoat anything; he tells you the harsh realities of the sport, the challenges you’ll face, the sacrifices you’ll have to make. But he also gives you the tools to overcome them, to not just survive in F1, but to thrive.

By the time the sun starts to set, casting long shadows across the track, you feel a mixture of exhaustion and exhilaration. It’s been an intense day, but you know it’s exactly what you needed. Fernando has pushed you, challenged you, but he’s also given you the confidence to believe that you belong in this world, that you can succeed.

As you walk back towards the main house, the sky now a deep orange, Fernando falls into step beside you. There’s a comfortable silence between you, the kind that comes from a shared understanding, a mutual respect that has grown over time.

After a while, Fernando breaks the silence with a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You know,” he begins, his tone light but with a glint of mischief in his eyes, “I’ve been called many things in my career. Champion, legend … war criminal.”

You look at him, caught between a laugh and a raised eyebrow. “War criminal?”

He chuckles, shrugging casually. “Not literally, of course. But some of my tactics, let’s say, weren’t always appreciated by everyone. I was willing to do whatever it took to win — sometimes crossing lines that others wouldn’t dare touch.”

You smile, catching on to his meaning. “And you think I’m ready to follow in your footsteps?”

Fernando’s smirk widens. “I’d be disappointed if you didn’t. F1 isn’t a game for the faint-hearted. It’s for those who aren’t afraid to get their hands dirty when it counts. Just remember … there’s no shame in doing what it takes to survive. And thrive.”

His words hang in the cool evening air, and as you both continue walking, you feel a sense of resolve settle within you. Fernando must notice it too because he gives you a sideways glance, the glint still in his eyes. “Just don’t forget who taught you all this when they start throwing accusations your way.”

***

The Bahrain night sky looms overhead, blanketing the circuit in a velvety darkness punctuated by the glaring lights of the paddock. The roar of engines rumbles through the air as teams buzz with last-minute preparations. Mechanics scramble, engineers analyze data, and drivers slip into their zones. The first race of the season carries a unique kind of tension, a palpable energy that’s almost electric. But amidst all the chaos, Fernando moves with calm confidence as he weaves through the pit lane, eyes scanning for one person.

He finds you standing by the Williams garage, helmet in hand, gaze fixed on the distant horizon as if trying to absorb the magnitude of the moment. It’s your first F1 race, and the weight of it all is evident in the slight furrow of your brow, the focused set of your jaw.

Fernando walks up to you, placing a hand on your shoulder, drawing you out of your thoughts. “Hey,” he says, his voice cutting through the noise like a sharp blade. “Nervous?”

You turn to face him, a mix of emotions swirling in your eyes — excitement, determination, and yes, a hint of nerves. “A little,” you admit. “It’s different from F2. Bigger.”

Fernando nods, understanding all too well. “It is bigger. The stakes are higher, the pressure’s heavier. But you’ve got this.”

You nod, though your grip on the helmet tightens. “I know. I just need to keep my head in the right place.”

Fernando’s eyes narrow, the glint of the night’s floodlights reflecting in them as he leans in slightly, lowering his voice. “Remember what we talked about in Spain. You’re not here to play nice. You’re here to win. You’re here to make them regret ever doubting you.”

A smile tugs at the corner of your lips as his words sink in. This is the Fernando you’ve come to know so well — the ruthless competitor who sees racing as a battlefield, where only the most cunning and unrelenting survive. He’s drilled that mentality into you, reminding you time and time again that the track is no place for mercy.

“You’re not just a driver,” he continues, his tone growing more intense. “You’re a track terror. Make them fear you. Take every opportunity, even if it means forcing them into a mistake. Be aggressive. Be relentless. And if they try to intimidate you-”

“I intimidate them back,” you finish for him, the determination in your voice now matching his.

Fernando’s lips curl into a smirk, clearly pleased. “Exactly. Make them question if they even belong out there with you.”

As he speaks, Nicholas Latifi, your teammate, walks by on his way to his side of the garage. His steps falter when he overhears the tail end of Fernando’s words.

“… If you see an opening, take it. Don’t give them a second to breathe. Push them out of their comfort zone, and when they’re scrambling, that’s when you strike. Hard.”

Latifi’s eyes widen in alarm as he processes what Fernando is saying. He hesitates, clearly debating whether he should approach or back away slowly. Ultimately, he chooses the latter, retreating with a hurried, nervous glance over his shoulder.

You notice Latifi’s reaction and can’t help but laugh. “I think you might’ve scared him off.”

Fernando chuckles, a low, almost devious sound. “Good. Less competition for you.” Then, with a more serious edge, he adds, “He’s not your concern. You’re here for the big players. And don’t forget, every race is an opportunity to show them what you’re made of. Especially the ones who think you don’t deserve to be here.”

You nod, the nerves from earlier replaced by a rising sense of purpose. Fernando’s words have a way of lighting a fire inside you, a fire that burns hotter with every passing second. The crowd noise, the hum of engines, the flashing lights — all of it fades away until there’s only the track and the promise of what lies ahead.

Fernando steps back, giving you space but keeping his gaze locked on yours. “Tonight, you’re going to prove that you’re not just another rookie. You’re a force to be reckoned with. And you’re going to do it with style.”

You smirk, the corners of your mouth curving upward as confidence surges through you. “With style?”

“Absolutely,” Fernando replies, his own smirk widening. “Remember, there’s a fine line between genius and insanity on the track. And you’re going to walk it like it’s a tightrope.”

You slip your helmet on, the visor clicking into place as Fernando’s words echo in your mind. The world outside may be chaotic, but inside your helmet, it’s a sanctuary — a place where you can focus, where every piece of advice, every lesson Fernando has drilled into you, comes together.

He watches you for a moment, pride evident in his eyes. He’s seen your growth, your transformation from a talented driver into something much more formidable. He knows you’re ready for this.

“Now go out there,” he says, voice clear and commanding, “and make them remember your name.”

With a final nod, you turn towards your car, the sleek Williams machine waiting for you. The pit crew is already in position, and the clock is ticking down. But before you step in, Fernando adds one last thing.

“Oh, and one more thing,” he says, catching your attention. You look back at him, and there’s a mischievous twinkle in his eye. “Terrorize everyone out there … except me.”

You laugh, the sound muffled by your helmet, but the sentiment is clear. “No promises.”

Fernando grins, crossing his arms as he watches you settle into the cockpit. The familiar sounds of the car coming to life fill the air, and the anticipation builds. The lights above the pit lane begin their countdown, and you take a deep breath, centering yourself for what’s to come.

As you drive out onto the track for the formation lap, Fernando steps back, his eyes following your car as it weaves between the other machines, each one a potential target, each one a stepping stone towards the top. He knows you’re ready, knows that tonight is just the beginning of what promises to be an incredible journey.

He’s proud of you, not just as a driver, but as the competitor you’ve become under his guidance. And as you line up on the grid, the lights glowing red above, Fernando’s final words echo in your mind.

Make them remember your name.

The lights go out, and the race begins.

***

The Bahrain circuit is still buzzing with energy even after the race has ended. The floodlights cast a bright, artificial glow over the paddock as drivers, engineers, and media personnel move about, some celebrating, others reflecting on the night’s events. The humid night air is thick with the scent of burning rubber and engine exhaust, a familiar and oddly comforting smell to those who live and breathe motorsport.

Fernando stands in the media pen, his eyes fixed on you as you field questions from a group of eager reporters. He’s barely listening to the reporter in front of him, who’s rattling off questions about his own race. He finished just outside the points, but it doesn’t bother him much. Tonight, his focus isn’t on his own performance but on yours.

You’re animated, your eyes bright, still riding the adrenaline high from the race. You finished ninth — an impressive debut for any rookie, especially in a Williams. Fernando watches as you handle the questions with ease, a slight smile playing on his lips. The way you stand, the way you speak, there’s a confidence there that wasn’t present when he first met you. He sees in you a reflection of his younger self, and it fills him with a quiet pride.

“Fernando,” the reporter in front of him says, trying to regain his attention. “Can you tell us about your strategy today?”

Fernando barely hears the question, his attention still on you. You’re laughing at something a reporter just asked, and he catches a glimpse of that mischievous glint in your eyes — the same one he’s seen countless times in his own reflection. He can tell you’re about to say something memorable, and he doesn’t want to miss it.

“Fernando?” the reporter prompts again, sounding slightly annoyed now.

“Hmm?” Fernando finally acknowledges the reporter, but his gaze doesn’t leave you. “What was that?”

“Your strategy today — what was the thinking behind it?”

“Strategy? Oh, yes, the strategy,” Fernando replies absentmindedly, waving his hand dismissively. “You know, just the usual. Push when you can, hold back when you must.” His answers are automatic, but his mind is elsewhere.

The reporter blinks, clearly unimpressed with the vague response, but before he can ask a follow-up question, Fernando’s attention is fully captured by what you’re saying.

A journalist standing in front of you, wearing a press lanyard and holding a recorder close to your face, asks, “Can you walk us through that incredible overtake on Sebastian Vettel? It looked like you had no fear going up against a four-time world champion.”

You smile, a knowing look in your eyes, and then you glance over at Fernando.

“I knew he would hit the brakes,” you say, loud enough for him to hear. You pause for dramatic effect, and then with a wink in Fernando’s direction, you continue, “Because he has a wife and three kids waiting for him at home.”

The words hang in the air for a moment before the reporters around you burst into laughter. The reference to Fernando’s famous quip about Michael Schumacher years ago is unmistakable, and it’s clear that the media eats it up. But more importantly, Fernando hears it, and his chest swells with pride.

The reporter in front of Fernando raises an eyebrow, curious now about what’s just been said. “Looks like she’s learned a thing or two from you,” he comments.

Fernando finally turns to the reporter, a wide grin spreading across his face. “Yes, she has. More than she knows.”

He watches as you continue the interview, your demeanor composed, yet playful. The way you handle the press is impressive — calm, confident, but with just the right amount of charm to keep them on your side. You’re not just a racer; you’re a showman, someone who understands that Formula 1 is as much about performance off the track as it is on it.

Fernando catches snippets of your conversation, listening as you describe the overtake in more detail. “Seb’s a great driver, no doubt about it. But in that moment, I knew I had him. I could see it in his body language. He was playing it safe, so I took my chance.”

“And what was going through your mind when you made the move?” Another journalist asks.

You pause for a moment, considering the question. Then, with a smirk, you say, “I was thinking, ‘What would Fernando do?’ And then I went for it.”

Fernando chuckles to himself, shaking his head slightly. He can’t help but feel a surge of pride. Not because you’ve imitated him, but because you’ve made the decision to be bold, to take risks, and to trust your instincts. That’s what separates the good drivers from the great ones — the willingness to seize the moment, to act decisively.

You finish up your interview, the reporters gradually dispersing to chase down other drivers. Fernando finally gives his full attention to the reporter in front of him, who’s still trying to get something meaningful out of him.

“Fernando, about your race …” the reporter begins again.

But Fernando is already moving, stepping around the man with a polite but firm nod. “Excuse me,” he says, cutting the interview short. There’s someone far more important he needs to talk to right now.

He strides over to you, your helmet now tucked under your arm as you chat casually with one of the team engineers. You spot him approaching and flash him a smile.

“Hey,” you say as he reaches you. “Did you hear what I said?”

“I did,” Fernando replies, unable to keep the pride out of his voice. “You’ve got quite the sense of humor.”

“Learned from the best,” you quip, giving him a playful nudge.

Fernando laughs, shaking his head. “I wasn’t sure you’d actually use that line, but I’m glad you did. The media loves a good story, and you just gave them one.”

You shrug, your smile widening. “Figured I’d give them something to talk about. Plus, it’s not every day you get to pass a guy like Seb.”

“And you did it with style,” Fernando adds, his voice filled with admiration. “You handled yourself perfectly out there, both on track and with the press. You’re making your mark.”

The engineer standing next to you clears his throat, clearly not wanting to interrupt but feeling the need to acknowledge Fernando’s presence. “Great job out there today,” he says, offering a handshake.

“Thanks,” Fernando replies, shaking the man’s hand. “But today’s all about her,” he adds, nodding in your direction.

The engineer nods in agreement before excusing himself, leaving you and Fernando alone in the now quieter part of the paddock. The sounds of celebration and interviews still echo in the background, but here, in this moment, it feels like it’s just the two of you.

“You know,” Fernando says after a beat, “I’ve never been prouder.”

You look at him, surprised by the raw emotion in his voice. “Really?”

“Really,” he confirms. “Seeing you out there today … it reminded me why I fell in love with racing in the first place. The passion, the drive, the thrill of the fight. You have all of that, and more.”

Your smile softens, touched by his words. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”

“You did it because you’re a damn good driver,” Fernando corrects, though there’s a warmth in his tone. “But I’m glad I could be a part of your journey.”

You both stand there for a moment, the enormity of what you’ve achieved settling in. Ninth place in your first race is no small feat, especially in a car that everyone had written off as uncompetitive. But you’ve proven them wrong, and you’ve done it in a way that’s uniquely your own.

“Next time, though,” Fernando says, a teasing lilt in his voice, “let’s aim for top five.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “No pressure, right?”

“Never,” he replies with a grin. “Just a challenge.”

***

Fernando leans casually against the side of the Alpine motorhome, arms crossed, eyes scanning the paddock. The next season’s first race is in a few days, and the energy around the circuit is electric, buzzing with the anticipation of new beginnings. He’s just finished an interview, the usual media rounds, when he spots you approaching, your new Mercedes gear a stark contrast to the sea of blues and pinks around you.

“Ah, there you are,” Fernando greets with a grin as you draw closer. “I’ve got someone I want you to meet.”

You tilt your head slightly, curious. “Who?”

Fernando pushes off the motorhome, beckoning you to follow as he leads you around to the back, where a young reserve driver is checking his phone, leaning casually against the wall. The kid looks up as you approach, his expression polite, maybe a touch reserved, but there’s an unmistakable spark of intelligence in his eyes.

“Oscar,” Fernando calls out, “this is her.”

Oscar Piastri straightens up, tucking his phone into his pocket. “Nice to meet you,” he says, extending a hand with a shy but confident smile. He’s calm, almost too calm for someone his age, but there’s a warmth there, something genuine. You can’t help but notice how composed he is, how his eyes seem to study you without making you feel scrutinized.

You shake his hand, offering a cool smile in return. “Likewise. I’ve heard good things.”

Oscar chuckles softly, scratching the back of his head. “Hopefully, I can live up to them.”

The three of you chat for a while, exchanging pleasantries about the upcoming season, racing, the usual stuff. Oscar is polite, measured in his responses, but there’s a softness to him that you hadn’t expected. It’s like he’s quietly confident, but without the brashness that usually comes with it. Fernando watches the interaction closely, a faint smirk playing on his lips as he notes the way your demeanor shifts ever so slightly around Oscar — more guarded, maybe, but intrigued.

Eventually, Oscar glances at his watch and excuses himself, mentioning something about a debrief he needs to attend. You nod, maintaining your composed exterior, and watch him walk back towards the Alpine motorhome before turning to Fernando.

“Polite cat vibes,” you murmur almost to yourself, a hint of amusement in your voice. Fernando raises an eyebrow, clearly intrigued.

“What was that?” He asks, although there’s a knowing look in his eyes. He’s been around long enough to pick up on these things.

You roll your eyes playfully, but there’s a lightness in your expression that wasn’t there before. “I said, polite cat vibes. You know, like when a cat is super well-behaved, but you just know there’s something more going on behind those eyes?”

Fernando laughs, a genuine, hearty sound that makes a few heads turn in your direction. “So, you think Oscar is a cat?”

“Well, not literally,” you reply, grinning. “It’s just … he’s got this thing, you know? Like he’s really nice, but you can tell he’s got claws if he needs them. And he’s so … calm. I just want to pinch his cheeks and cuddle him.”

Fernando’s laugh turns into a full-blown chuckle, shaking his head in disbelief. “You’re smitten, aren’t you?”

“Maybe,” you say, feigning nonchalance as you fold your arms across your chest. “But it’s just … he’s different. Not in a bad way, just-”

“Different,” Fernando finishes for you, nodding thoughtfully. “Yeah, I get it. But don’t let that cloud your judgment on track.”

You shoot him a look. “Please. I’m not a rookie, and besides, I’m at Mercedes now. I’ve got bigger things to focus on than cute cats.”

Fernando smiles, but there’s a serious undertone to his next words. “Just remember, this is Formula 1. There’s no room for distractions, no matter how polite or cute they might be.”

You nod, understanding the weight behind his words, but there’s still a twinkle in your eye as you glance back in the direction Oscar disappeared. “Don’t worry, I’ve got this.”

“Good,” Fernando replies, clapping you on the back. “Because I’m not going to let you slack off, not even for a second.”

“Wouldn’t expect anything less from you,” you retort, smirking. There’s a comfortable silence that falls between the two of you, the kind that only comes from mutual respect and understanding.

But Fernando can’t resist one last jab. “Don’t go soft on him, okay? I’ve got my eye on you.”

You roll your eyes again but with a fond smile. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

“Of course,” Fernando grins. “It’s part of my charm.”

You laugh, the sound bright and clear in the busy paddock, and Fernando can’t help but feel a swell of pride. You’ve come so far, and he’s been there every step of the way, watching you grow not just as a driver but as a person. There’s a part of him that’s protective, sure, but there’s also a part that’s thrilled to see you standing on your own two feet, ready to take on whatever comes your wa— even if it’s an Australian polite cat.

“Let’s get out of here,” Fernando says finally, leading the way back to the Mercedes motorhome. “We’ve got a race to win this weekend, and I don’t want any distractions.”

You follow him, but there’s a spring in your step that wasn’t there before, and Fernando notices. He doesn’t say anything, though, just smiles to himself. You’re going to be just fine, he thinks, more than fine.

As you walk together, side by side, you can’t help but glance back once more, a small smile tugging at the corners of your lips. Maybe, just maybe, this season is going to be full of surprises. And Fernando? Well, he’s ready for whatever comes next, as long as you are too.

***

The sun hangs low in the sky, casting a warm, golden glow over the vineyard where the ceremony is taking place. Rows of chairs are lined up neatly on the manicured lawn, all facing a simple yet elegant archway draped in white fabric and adorned with soft blush roses. The air is filled with the quiet murmur of guests settling in, the occasional laugh breaking through the serene atmosphere.

Fernando adjusts his tie, glancing around with a mixture of pride and disbelief. How did they get here? It seems like only yesterday he was meeting you for the first time, a determined young driver who refused to be underestimated. Now, here you are, standing at the altar, poised to marry the man you’ve chosen to spend your life with.

Fernando is seated in the front row, just to the left of the aisle, with Mark Webber by his side. The two exchange knowing smiles as the ceremony begins, each lost in their own thoughts. Mark has watched Oscar grow from a promising young talent into a man of integrity and strength, much like Fernando has done with you. There’s a quiet understanding between them, a mutual respect that goes beyond words.

As the officiant begins to speak, Fernando leans over slightly, catching Mark’s eye. “I guess this makes us in-laws,” he whispers, a hint of amusement in his voice.

Mark chuckles softly, nodding. “Seems like it. Didn’t see this coming back when we were racing, did we?”

“Not at all,” Fernando replies with a smile, glancing back at the altar where you and Oscar stand, hand-in-hand. “But I’m glad it did.”

The vows are simple, heartfelt, and deeply personal. Oscar goes first, his voice steady but filled with emotion.

“From the moment I met you,” Oscar begins, his eyes locked on yours, “I knew you were different. You challenged me, inspired me, and made me want to be a better person. In a world that often felt overwhelming, you were my calm, my constant. Today, I promise to stand by your side, through every victory and every defeat. I promise to support your dreams as if they were my own, to lift you up when you’re down, and to love you unconditionally, now and forever.”

There’s a brief pause, the weight of his words hanging in the air. You squeeze his hand, your heart swelling with the depth of his sincerity. When it’s your turn, you take a deep breath, steadying yourself.

“Oscar,” you begin, your voice clear and strong, “You were the unexpected surprise in my life, the calm in my storm. From the moment we met, I knew you were special. You’ve been my partner on and off the track, my biggest supporter, and my best friend. Today, I promise to cherish every moment we have together, to grow with you, and to always be there for you, no matter what. I promise to love you with all that I am, and all that I will ever be. You are my heart, my soul, and my everything.”

Fernando feels a lump in his throat as you finish. He’s never been one to get emotional, but today, sitting here, listening to you pour your heart out, he can’t help but feel a surge of pride and love. He remembers the teenage girl who had to fight for every opportunity, the young woman who never gave up, and now, the bride standing before him, ready to take on the next chapter of her life.

The officiant speaks again, guiding you and Oscar through the final steps of the ceremony. When it’s time for the rings, Mark reaches into his pocket, retrieving Oscar’s band with a small, proud smile. Fernando does the same for you, his hands steady as he hands over the ring you will soon place on Oscar’s finger.

“With this ring, I thee wed,” you both say, sliding the rings onto each other’s fingers. The moment is profound, sealing your commitment not just in words, but in action.

“You may kiss the bride,” the officiant finally announces, and there’s a collective sigh of happiness from the gathered crowd as Oscar leans in, capturing your lips in a kiss that’s both tender and full of promise.

Applause erupts, and as you and Oscar turn to face your family and friends, hands still entwined, Fernando catches your eye. There’s something unspoken between you, a bond that goes beyond blood, beyond words. You smile at him, and he nods in return, his chest swelling with emotion.

The ceremony concludes, and guests begin to make their way to the reception area, where a beautifully decorated marquee awaits. The air is filled with laughter and the clinking of glasses as everyone mingles, basking in the joy of the occasion.

The second dance is a traditional one with your father. You sway gently in his arms as he whispers words of wisdom, of pride, and of love. The moment is touching, a reminder of the family that has always stood behind you, even when the road was hard.

When the song ends, you hug your father tightly, thanking him for everything. But as the music transitions into something new, you catch Fernando’s eye across the room. There’s a moment of hesitation, but then you make your way towards him, your heart pounding in your chest.

“Nando,” you say softly as you reach him, “would you join me for a dance?”

For a brief moment, Fernando is taken aback. He’s always seen you as a strong, independent force — someone who has always forged their own path. But in this moment, he realizes just how much you’ve come to mean to him, how deeply intertwined your lives have become.

“Are you sure?” He asks, his voice uncharacteristically gentle.

You nod, your eyes shining with emotion. “You’ve been like a father to me. I couldn’t imagine today without sharing this moment with you.”

Fernando swallows hard, nodding as he takes your hand. The two of you move to the center of the dance floor, the music soft and slow. As you begin to dance, there’s a sense of calm that settles over you both, a quiet understanding that needs no words.

“I’ve watched you grow,” Fernando says after a few moments, his voice low so only you can hear, “into one of the best drivers I’ve ever known, but more than that … into an incredible person. I’m so proud of you, more than I can ever say.”

Tears prick at your eyes, but you blink them back, smiling up at him. “Thank you. For everything. I wouldn’t be here without you.”

“You would’ve found your way,” he replies, his tone firm. “You always had it in you. I just gave you a little push.”

“A little?” You tease, and he laughs, the sound filled with warmth.

As the song comes to an end, Fernando pulls you into a tight hug, his hand resting protectively on the back of your head. “Remember, I’ll always be here for you, no matter what.”

“I know,” you whisper, your voice choked with emotion. “And I’ll always be here for you too.”

***

The antiseptic scent of the hospital hits Fernando the moment he steps into the delivery wing, mingling with the distant beeps of monitors and the hushed whispers of medical staff. It’s a familiar environment, yet so foreign to him. He’s used to the adrenaline rush of the pit lane, the roar of engines, the calculated chaos of racing — but this, this is something entirely different. He’s been in countless high-pressure situations, but none have ever felt like this.

As he makes his way down the hallway, his heart beats just a little faster than usual, his mind racing with thoughts of you, of Oscar, and of the tiny new life that’s just come into the world. When he reaches the door of your room, he hesitates for the briefest of moments, his hand hovering over the door handle.

It’s not that he’s nervous — Fernando Alonso doesn’t get nervous — but there’s something about this moment that feels monumental, like the start of a new chapter in a book he didn’t even realize he was writing.

He pushes the door open slowly, stepping into the room with a soft smile. The room is bathed in a warm, gentle light, far removed from the harsh brightness of the hallway. It’s quiet, peaceful, with only the faint hum of machinery and the soft breaths of the newborn breaking the silence.

You’re lying in the bed, looking tired but radiant, with a tiny bundle cradled in your arms. Oscar is beside you, his hand resting protectively on your shoulder, his eyes filled with awe and love. When you see Fernando, your face lights up, and despite the exhaustion etched into your features, there’s a warmth in your smile that makes his heart swell.

“Fernando,” you say softly, your voice hoarse but filled with joy. “Come meet him.”

He steps closer, his eyes drawn to the small figure in your arms. The baby is tiny, impossibly so, wrapped in a soft blue blanket, with a tuft of dark hair peeking out. Fernando’s breath catches in his throat as he looks down at the baby, his heart pounding in a way that’s both unfamiliar and entirely overwhelming.

“He’s perfect,” Fernando murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper.

Oscar grins, nodding in agreement. “We think so too.”

You shift slightly, holding the baby out toward Fernando. “Would you like to hold him?”

For a moment, Fernando hesitates. He’s held championship trophies, gripped the steering wheel at speeds that would make others blanch, but this? This is different. This is fragile, delicate, something that requires a gentleness he’s not sure he possesses. But when he sees the trust in your eyes, he nods, carefully taking the baby into his arms.

The weight is nothing — featherlight, almost — but it’s enough to make his hands tremble just the slightest bit. He cradles the baby close, his eyes wide as he studies the tiny features: the small nose, the delicate eyelids, the impossibly small fingers curled into little fists. The baby stirs slightly, his mouth opening in a silent yawn before settling back into a peaceful sleep.

“What’s his name?” Fernando asks, his voice thick with emotion.

You exchange a glance with Oscar before looking back at Fernando, your smile widening. “His name is Theodore,” you say softly, “Theodore Fernando Piastri.”

Fernando’s breath catches, his eyes snapping up to meet yours. For a moment, he’s speechless, his mind struggling to process what he’s just heard.

“Fernando?” He repeats, his voice barely audible.

You nod, your eyes shining with unshed tears. “We wanted to honor you. You’ve been like a father to me, and now … now you’re going to be a part of his life too. It just felt right.”

Fernando stares at you, his heart swelling with a mixture of pride, love, and something else — something deeper, something he’s never quite felt before. He looks down at Theodore, his namesake, and for the first time in a long while, he feels his eyes prick with tears.

“You … you didn’t have to do that,” he says, his voice choked with emotion.

“But we wanted to,” Oscar says, his voice firm but kind. “You’ve done so much for us, for Y/N. It’s our way of saying thank you.”

Fernando swallows hard, nodding as he blinks back the tears threatening to spill over. He’s always prided himself on his control, on his ability to keep his emotions in check, but this — this is something else entirely. This is a depth of feeling he wasn’t prepared for.

“Thank you,” he finally says, his voice thick. “It means … it means more to me than you can ever know.”

He looks back down at Theodore, his heart full to bursting. The baby stirs again, his tiny fingers twitching, and Fernando smiles, the tears finally spilling over as he lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding.

“Grandpa Nando,” you say suddenly, your voice filled with affection. “That’s what we’re going to call you. How do you feel about that?”

Fernando lets out a laugh, the sound watery and full of joy. “I think I can get used to that,” he says, his voice trembling with emotion. “Grandpa Nando. I like it.”

You smile at him, your eyes soft with affection. “I’m glad. You’ve been a father figure to me, and now … now you get to be a grandfather to him.”

The room falls into a comfortable silence, the weight of the moment settling over all of you. Fernando can’t stop staring at Theodore, can’t stop marveling at the tiny life in his arms. He’s held many titles in his life — champion, driver, mentor — but this, this feels different. This feels like the most important role he’s ever played.

As he stands there, cradling the tiny life in his arms, he feels a sense of peace settle over him. This is where he’s meant to be, here with you, with Oscar, with Theodore. He’s not just a mentor anymore; he’s family. And that, more than anything, is the greatest victory he’s ever achieved.

Finally, after what feels like both an eternity and no time at all, Fernando carefully hands Theodore back to you, his heart heavy with emotion. You take your son into your arms, holding him close as you smile up at Fernando, your eyes filled with gratitude.

“Thank you,” you say softly. “For everything. For being there for me, for guiding me, for … for being a part of our lives.”

Fernando shakes his head, a small, tearful smile on his lips. “No, thank you. You’ve given me more than I ever could have imagined. You — you and Oscar, and now Theodore — you’re my family. And there’s nothing more important to me than that.”

You reach out, taking his hand in yours, and for a moment, the two of you just stand there, connected by something deeper than words, deeper than racing, deeper than anything Fernando has ever known.

This is what it means to be family, he realizes. This is what it means to love, to care, to be there for each other, no matter what. And as he stands there, his heart full to bursting, he knows that this, more than any championship, more than any victory on the track, is what truly matters.

This is his greatest achievement.

[mari-reads]

ppl are meanies calling all the heart pirates useless but my hc is that they’re all just nice folks in a tough spot that law took in along the way 🥲

[osarina]

ᡣ𐭩 SNEAKIN' A PIC (ATTEMPT: FAILED)!

FEATURING: fyodor dostoevsky

SUMMARY: you never get to see him like this. is it really so awful that you want to capture the moment eternally? evidently to him, it is. (wordcount: 1.4k; sfw; fem!reader)

AUTHOR'S NOTES: i'll never not make fun of that one panel of him sitting at his computers with his greasy ass hair even if he does look like a pretty princess in every other panel he has. my obsession with naps is being translated into my fics, i already posted a nikolai one posted and also have a dazai one in the drafts HAHA

When you wake up, you feel a weight on your bicep. Your brows furrow a bit in confusion, glancing to your right to where your arm is extended across the bed, but then your eyes fall upon Fyodor, fast asleep and using your arm as a pillow, and you can barely stop the small smile that rises to your lips.

Your arm is numb, but you don’t dare move in fear of waking him up—the clock on your nightstand reads nearly eight am, and you wonder when he finally came to bed last night. You know that he’s been pushing himself day and night to finalize the last parts of his plans, denying himself both sleep and food as he sits at his computers dealing with meetings and preparations 24/7. 

He hadn’t even changed into a pair of pajamas before falling into bed with you, nor had he bothered to get beneath the covers. a part of you wonders if he even meant to sleep, or if he’d just pushed his body too far and only barely made it to the bed before it gave out on him. 

It wouldn’t be the first time. 

You bite back a sigh as your gaze traces over the stubborn man—he always looks delicate in his sleep, in a way that he never does when he’s awake with his eyes shut and his long, dark lashes brushing his cheeks. His expression is the picture of serenity rather than the cold and unapproachable face he wears when he’s awake. 

You think that he’s pretty all the time, but there’s something special about being able to witness Fyodor Dostoevsky in his most vulnerable moments, knowing that you’re the only one he allows to be with him in them. 

You’re half-tempted to reach over to your nightstand with your free hand to try to grab your phone and snap a picture of him. You look over, wondering if you can reach it without jostling your other arm around, but before you can even consider your chances, you hear: “Do not.”

Fyodor’s voice is still thick with sleep. you glance over at him, surprised, but his eyes are still shut, and he hasn’t budged an inch. You wonder if you imagined it, but then his eyes crack open, thin slivers of purple glaring at you.

“Just one for me?” you ask quietly. “No one else will see.”

“No.”

You pout softly but roll back to look at him. He still looks exhausted, the bags beneath his eyes are dark and heavy, and he can barely even hold his eyes open. You reach out, cupping his cheek gently and watching as his eyes slide back shut, a soft exhale spilling from his lips as he lets the side of his face sink back into your arm, dozing back off.

You smile lightly, shifting forward a bit to press your lips to his forehead, stroking his cheek lightly with your thumb.

“I need to get up,” he murmurs, but his eyes are still shut and his voice is thick with sleep. “I need to finish-“

“You will not finish anything adequately in this state,” you chide gently. “If you get proper sleep, you’ll be much more efficient and effective.”

Fyodor looks as if he wants to argue, brows furrowing at your words even with his eyes shut. You only jostle him a bit closer, watching as he shoots you an irate look, but then settles down when he realizes you’re only dragging him closer so that he can rest his head on your chest—a place far more comfortable than your arm.

“Wake me up in an hour,” he finally orders, and you agree absently, knowing that you absolutely will not.

You think, as Fyodor lets himself doze off on your chest, that it’s hard to remember he’s quite literally one of the most dangerous men on this planet. That if he so pleased, he could activate his ability and kill you without a moment’s warning. That he’s a man who is so terrifyingly intelligent that it sometimes comes across as prophetic, and you can’t help but wonder if he speaks the truth when he claims to be led by the Hand of God. 

Your hand smoothes across his back in steady circles, tilting your face down to press your lips to the top of his head. His hair is a bit oily, as he usually lets it get when he deprives himself of basic necessities while he works. You’ll have to convince him to take a bath with you when he wakes up, but you figure it’ll be a battle because you already convinced him to sleep in a little longer, he’ll not want to waste any more time. 

You almost want to pinch him, wondering why everything with him has to be a war when it comes to taking proper care of himself. He rarely even remembers to take his iron supplements on the daily without your prompting, and he knows if he doesn’t take them, he’ll be prone to dizziness and fatigue. For all of his intelligence, you feel like sometimes that you’re a mother dealing with a stubborn child, not your lover. 

“Stop that,” Fyodor sighs, shifting a bit to get comfortable. “Dim your thoughts, dusha moya. I can feel you getting yourself wound up.”

You scowl. “You know, Fedya, maybe you should just drop the whole terrorist plot and become one of those preachers on the radio who pretend to be prophets. Build yourself a cult, make some money. You already seem to know everything, wouldn't be too hard."

Fyodor tilts his head up to look at you, expression so deadpan and unamused that it nearly makes you snort, but you only dip your head down to kiss between his eyes.

"Sleep,” you say, voice softer. “You need it.”

Fyodor doesn’t respond, and when you tilt your head to the side to look at him again, you find that he already dozed back off again, shoulders rising and falling steadily underneath the arm you have wrapped around him. 

You smile lightly and you tighten your arms a bit as Fyodor lets out a puff of air in his sleep, turning his head to lay the side of his face on your chest. In this position, you can see the way his eyes flit beneath his eyelids rapidly, his brain still running rampant even in sleep.

You bring your fingers to his hair to card them through the dark locks, slow and soothing in the way you know he likes, watching as his eye movements slow and his body relaxes into yours. 

Your smile widens a bit before it abruptly falls, laying your head back against the pillow as you finally begin your next challenge: drawing out a battle plan for convincing Fyodor to take a bath with you when he wakes up. 

You sigh to yourself heavily, knowing well that you're about to be facing the most difficult argument of your life with the most stubborn man alive. You can already feel the headache, and you think that you deserve a new picture for your lock screen from how much trouble Fyodor gives you on the daily, but as you side eye your nightstand again and try to calculate whether or not you can reach your phone without waking him up, you feel fingers wrap around your free hand.

You gape in disbelief as you look down to see Fyodor grab your hand in his sleep, as if he knew what you were planning even when not conscious.

Unbelievable, you think bitterly, plan entirely thwarted, but your gaze softens at the sight of him fast asleep on your chest, clutching your hand with one of his.

Maybe you don't need a picture, you realize, because you think there's no way you'd ever allow this image to fade away from your mind.

Still, you think he should severely reconsider his line of work.

Even more so now, in fact, because there is something entirely abnormal about his seemingly perfect foresight, evidently flawless even in his sleep too.

[improbable-outset]

📄 𝐅𝐥𝐞𝐞𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐑𝐞𝐟𝐥𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬

𝐒𝐩𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐞 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

Imagine Miguel, who’s usually so guarded with his emotions, finally feeling comfortable with you. Being with you feels like a fraction of his weight being lifted off of his shoulder.

Even if it isn’t a lot, it still has a huge impact on him especially since he’s grown accustomed to being alone all the time. But with you, he feels safe.

You’re the one person that makes him feel secure enough to let his steel walls down, and he finds himself naturally sharing the weight of being Spider-man— along with his constant fight to maintain the multiverse.

You’re always gentle, understanding, and there’s always no pressure— just offering acceptance. Something he never realised he’d been craving, not since he lost Gabriella’s dimension.

But as he becomes more emotionally attached to you, something starts to feel off. He couldn’t pinpoint it at first, but the nagging feeling refuses to leave him, gnawing at the back of his mind.

Eventually, the heartbreaking truth emerges: you’re not from his dimension. You’re an anomaly, someone who shouldn’t exist in this world.

He felt his whole world spinning and for a moment, he dissociated from his thoughts. He should’ve known it was too good to be true…

How did he not see the signs from the start? Why didn’t he notice the subtle glitches? Was he so blinded by his own emotions that it overshadowed his logic?

He feels utterly betrayed, not by you, but by fate. How could the universe be so cruel as to give him someone who sees him for who he is, only to take it away?

Miguel knows had to send you away, back to your own dimension. It was too dangerous for you to stay here.

The whole process was unbearable to watch, even worse that he had to put on a facade in front of the rest of the Society as you get whisked away by the Go-Home machine.

Later, he stumbles upon you again— or rather, the version of you that does belong in his dimension. But it’s not what he expected.

This version of you is colder, distant. You don’t carry the same warmth that made him feel safe. Every interaction with his version of you was a painful reminder of what he lost.

Whenever he tries to reach out, you only pull away, seemingly uninterested in him. It’s like staring at the face of someone you love, knowing they’ll never see you the same way.

The version he fell for is unreachable, like catching smoke with his bare hands. And he’ll never experience that connection with you again.

Ok this is gonna sound weird but I was inspired by My Little Pony: The Legend Of Everfree after Flash Sentry realises that the Twilight Sparkle he fell for was from another world, not from Equestria High. And the version from his world isn’t the same 🥲🥲

[targaryenrealnessdarling]

Consequences | Five

Word Count: 6.9k~ | Warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI, dark, medieval-canon sexism, heavy dub-con/noncon, DD:DNE, mean Aemond, manipulation, abusing power, gore, blood, violence, major angst, Aemond being a possessive horny weirdo with a power complex, kinslayer aemond, graphic depictions of medieval abortions, choking (and not in a kinky way), p in v, facefuckin (oral, m receiving), choking (in a kinky way), fingering

Series Masterlist  

A/N: okaaaay let’s go, please for the love of god, read the warnings. Apologies in advance to @ewanmitchellcrumbs for this one ily 😚

Everything had changed.

 King Viserys was dead. Aegon thrust on his throne in place of Princess Rhaenyra as his heir. And the maidservants and staff had been locked up for the entirety of it, to quell the spread of rumours. Only when the staff pledged their allegiance to Aegon II as their rightful King before the now Dowager Queen Alicent, were they allowed back to their duties, threatened with death on the basis of treason if they were found to be doing anything they shouldn’t.

 It was the most surreal, frightening experience of her young life. To be clutched at Hedi’s side, shaking and trembling, wondering if she’d ever see her siblings again.

 She wondered if her brother had succumbed to his illness and if her sister was winding herself to the ground with grief, as she had when their parents had died.

 She prayed to the Gods, namely the Mother and the Crone. For equally important things. To keep her loved ones safe, even if it meant that she was put into danger. To the Crone, for guidance. Although she did not know yet what exactly for.

 Everything had changed.

 Aemond pulled her body up from the bed to rest on her knees, to support her weight on her shaking arms and the motion had his cock brushing rather uncomfortably against her cervix. Her entire body felt hot, a stagnant, heavy feeling filled his chambers, as if it were humid inside. His thrusts were harder than they’d ever been before, making her skin ripple with movement of his rhythm.

 A series of hurried and half-pained breaths are all that left her, her cheeks stinging with heat as her tears ran over them.

 “What are you crying for, sweet girl” he grunts, delivering a particularly hard thrust, his large hand slapping her buttock and gripping tightly, “I know you like your Prince’s cock, don’t you, you little slut”

 Slut.

 Whore.

 She whimpered, his fingers digging into the meat of her skin roughly, hoping it would be enough of a response for him.

 Since his father had died, plunged into a civil war between his family. He’d been unpredictable. He would start the day calm enough, sometimes frighteningly so. But now that the days were becoming shorter with the weather, a looming dark cloud forever over King’s Landing, as if the Gods knew the trouble that was afoot, Aemond temper came with the storms and the rains.

 Destructive. Washing away everything living thing in his path.

 He reached down and wrapped his hand around her neck, roughly pulled her back up to meet his bare chest. Aemond’s fingers curled so tight around her neck, that for a split second, she thought that he might actually lose control and snap. But he pressed his lips against her ear, his fingertips harshly tearing at her thin and delicate skin, “Fucking answer me”

 He adjusts the endless thrust of his cock up into her, now they are controlled, deeper, as if trying to hide further and further inside.

 She could feel her air stuck beneath his hand, desperately trying to break free. Felt her head begin to get hot and foggy, vision blurred and her lips move but a barely audible sound is all that came out.

 “Yes…” she whispered. Just saying whatever she could to appease him.

 She had been afraid of him before. Many times. But now, the way he was now, she feared that he might actually harm her and that the damage might be irreparable.

 Aemond laughs against her back, the vibration of it humming uncomfortably in her body.

 Still with one hand around her neck but loosening his grip so that she can breathe once again, she almost weeps at the relief. Aemond chuckles darkly and pushes her back against the bed, grinning when he sees the familiar sheen of tears on her cheeks, watching her breasts rise and fall with the intensity of her breathing. He eases his other hand down her body, over her feminine hips, taking the meat of her thigh in his grasp to spread them apart once again, sighing contently at her glistening cunt, ready to take him again.

 “You are a terrible liar, sweet girl” he coos down at her, lowering his face so that his hair brushes against her nipples. A flash of fear passes her face, but Aemond seems to revel in it.

 He did say once, he would have her fear if nothing else.

 He pulls her by her hair to the edge of the bed, where her head briefly hangs over the edge. She whimpers at the tug on her follicles and it sends a prickling pain down her spine. He no longer holds back his grip like he used to. He swats her cheek, again not in the usual soft manner, but as a means to punish her for the outburst.

 “Shut up” he commands, standing in front of her.

 She looks up at him from where she’s laid as Aemond stands before her, holding his cock proudly by the base, shining with her slick. He prodded his tip against her lips, looking at her wide eyes beneath him. He smelled of sex, of her and his arousal mixed with one another. His hand comes down to her jaw, thumb pressing on her chin to open her mouth and Aemond sighs when he feels her hot, shuddered breath against his cock, twitching with excitement.

 He does it slowly, and plunges into her mouth, watching how his cock disappears down her throat, where the skin around her neck bulges where it's nestled. He feels her breathe through her nose and smirks, knowing that she’s doing as he had instructed her the first time, grinning at her endless obedience.

 “Good, sweet girl…” he growls, burying himself to the hilt within her warm and wet mouth, the head of his cock rammed down the smoothness of her throat.

 Hand still at her jaw for leverage, he cants his hips slowly, grunting heavily at the friction he gets from this angle and the sound it makes. But she herself makes no sound. Not even when his heavy stones sit warm against her face, briefly blocking off her air. Aemond watches as she takes it, her saliva coating his cock just as her slick had.

 Continuing to use her mouth for pleasure he runs his hand down her body, cupping his hand at her sex and running his fingers through her folds, collecting her wetness on them.

 “Perfect fucking cunt”

 He sinks two digits inside of her, his palm delivering friction to her clit at the same time, and he both fucks her mouth and her sex with the same rhythm, taking immense pleasure in the way her body responds.

 It’s out of her control. He plucks the pleasure from her without her even thinking about it. She whimpers around his cock, deeper than she ever thought he could be in her mouth. Her neck bobs with his shallow thrusts and his other hand rests against it, pleasuring himself through it.

 “Fuck-take it” he moans loudly, nearing his climax with accelerating and shocking speed. He fucks his fingers into her faster, intent on making her shake and writhe beneath him. Aemond increases the intensity of his thrusts with it, outright moaning as her mouth trembles around him.

 She whimpers, her insides clenching uncontrollably, painful pleasure taken forcibly from her core, but any sounds she makes are stuck in her chest with the slow, methodical drag of Aemond in her mouth.

 Aemond smirks when her body shudders with overstimulation, more sounds muffled in her chest, giving her some reprieve when he pulls his fingers free and her body sags once again against the bed. Not a moment later, Aemond pushes his hips flush against her face, his seed painting the walls of her throat with a shuddered moan. He feels her gag a bit, still with his cock in her mouth, but he enjoys the slight friction it gives him.

 He stays seated in her mouth for a moment, his hand running through her hair.

“You are so good to me” he breathes as he comes down from the high.

 She felt the warmth slide down her throat, the proof of his twisted, sick attraction to her.

 And when Aemond pulled her up, to kiss her on her lips, she wanted to weep. It was too sacred. A kiss. Something that should be done before all the things he had done to her. Something to bind a love, a marriage. A respect for one another.

But he had kissed her so fiercely, to taste himself on her mouth, and she had known then there was no love. No care. No respect.

 “You won’t leave me now, will you? Sweet girl…”

There were few things in her life that were consistent up to now.

 But her moon's blood had always, always arrived on time.

 No matter how many times she willed it to come, stepping into the privy multiple times a day to find her hand completely dry, void of the usual slick of red, it would not come.

 Just the other night, Alanna had furrowed her brows and mentioned that she had not borrowed her red petticoat for a while and asked if she was feeling okay.

 That was when that hurtling drop of panic erupted in her gut.

 She didn’t understand at the time, what Princess Helaena had said. And she thought of how foolish and stupid she’d felt.

 Cold Tansy.

 The womb quickens.

 Tansy tea. In other words.

 Moon Tea.

 The liquid that so many women used and still used…had to be prepared with a flame before consumption. Had to be brewed fresh.

 She felt dizzy.

 She hid in the privy, so unbearably torn apart by the revelation that she almost made herself sick. Bile rose in her throat but it never came free, and she wretched, her body tearing her apart from the inside. She felt the pain in her womb, the little dragon inside aching to grow, she had felt their flames lick at her spine.

 She tried to muffle her cries with a hand over her mouth, but the hurried sobs inevitably broke free.

 Alanna flung the privy door open and upon seeing the crumpled mess of her bedfellow on the floor, promptly shut it again with both of them inside.

 "Gods…" Alanna whispered, bringing her into a hug, a friendly hand stroking her back.

 If the maidservant hadn't been so upset, she would have laughed. Alanna didn't like to be hugged, or any physical contact at all, even going so far as to lay on the far side of the bed to avoid touching. She found it uncomfortable.

 But right now, it was needed. And the maidservant flung her arms around Alanna, tightening her grip on her as if she was the last person in this realm to be on her side and help. Her hands had clamoured at her back, needing this closeness so badly it hurt. Alanna only shushed her and allowed her to sob.

 "Please…do not tell Hedi…" she begged, with tears still streaming down her face, voice thick with despair. Alanna pulled her face back and sighed, using her thumbs to wipe her cheeks.

 "We have to tell the Quee-"

 "No, I-I need…I need this job. I have to-" she stammers through her weeping, struggling to catch her breath, emotions running higher than they would normally, "-my siblings, th-they need me. They will send me away without my wages and no reference, I-”

 "Shh, shh, alright I will not tell Hedi or the Queen" Alanna cooed, rocking her shoulders softly.

 "Do not tell anyone, please…I-I could not bear it…" she cracks her bleary eyes open, her heart beginning to beat in its normal rhythm again. Her lashes are all stuck together from her tears, cheeks red raw.

 "Who is it, the man? You could not marry?..." Alanna asks carefully.

 It was a nice thought. But one that would never happen.

 She shakes her head, "I cannot say…"

 Alanna sighs, obviously quickly running out of ideas.

 "I can deliver it. I helped my mother when she had my brothers-"

 Everyone would see. Everyone would see you are the Prince’s whore. A child with silver hair.

 "My condition will soon start to show…" she says, resigned. Her hands shake against one another, held as if in prayer to the Gods, "Hedi has such sharp eyes…what am I to do…"

 Alanna was quiet for a long time, trying to wrack her brain for what to do. She knew she could not have the baby, nor could she tell another living soul in the Keep as it would mean she would no longer have a job, no more funds to send to her family and an even smaller chance of a future.

 “Have you any money?” Alanna asks, “there is a woman in Flea Bottom who helps whores when they need it…but…” she says carefully, watching her fellow maidservant’s reaction.

“What are you suggesting?...” she responds with a weak and shaky voice, her grasp on Alanna resting at her arms. Alanna looks visibly pained by the suggestion. Every one of them were devout, pious, to even suggest such a thing as…

 “How much is the procedure…” she asked, making Alanna widen her eyes, surprised that she was considering it.

 “One gold dragon, but it is dangerous-”

 “I cannot afford one gold dragon, ‘tis more than I earn in a year!”

 Alanna sighed, “Whoever the man is, go to him. Appeal to his better nature…he cannot turn you away if he has any decency at all”

 She really appreciated Alanna’s advice, but there was a twisting pain in her gut at what had been suggested. It was something she had heard of women doing before, in desperate times. It could be dangerous. But this woman had done this procedure plenty of times, on women who survived and lived to keep on working.

 There was a chance.

 There was a chance she could keep the job. In servitude still of Aemond, but with the knowledge that she could just drink Moon Tea, prepared correctly, and never have to do this again.

 A future.

 One gold dragon was an incredible amount of money for a common maidservant, well over a year’s wages. It was entirely intentional, gold dragons as a currency was something specifically reserved for the upper classes, and if she was to be found with it…it would arouse suspicion.

 She had to be careful.

 Should she approach Aemond…?

 …How would he react to it?

 Would he dismiss her? Send her to the streets, her and her bastard? Left on the cobblestones to die.

 He cannot turn you away if he has any decency at all.

 Appeal to his better nature.

 It cannot be.

 The words of Princess Helaena were like an incessant bell, echoing around her mind. It was all-encompassing and it took every little bit of strength she had left to not crumble under its weight.

 There was only one problem.

 Aemond was nowhere to be found.

 The Dowager Queen looked out at the skies, darkened and stormy. The rain was loud and oppressive. Thunder and lightning clapping across the sky, sending an intolerable humidity and uncomfortable atmosphere that seemed to sweep about the Keep like a disease. She tugged at the cuffs of her sleeves, opting to fiddle with them instead of destroying herself.

 Her heart was filled with worry.

 Aemond had not returned.

 She waited and waited for what felt like an eternity, not knowing if a day had passed or not. The sun had yet to make its appearance, stuck beneath layers and layers of clouds, towering high above King’s Landing. It was impossible to see a thing. Despair hung so low to the ground that it obscured everything.

 Alicent’s nervous face met the gaze of Ser Criston, who had knocked and walked past the threshold of her chambers.

 “What is it?” she asked nervously, unsure if she wanted the reply.

 Ser Criston stood straight, hands at his side, one perpetually on the handle of his sword at his side, “Prince Aemond has returned”

 She moved swiftly through the Keep, the skirts of her deep green dress in her fists and rushing to find her second son.

 Something was wrong.

 Down the long corridor, Alicent came to a halt halfway, her chocolate brown eyes wide at what she saw. Aemond had rounded the corner, absolutely sodden through his clothes, hair wet and tangled, trying with an annoyed air about him to tear his leather overcoat off his person. A maid followed closely behind, picking them up from where he’d thrown them.

 His eyes were downcast, a stoic expression on his face, which was still covered in drops of rain. His jaw was forever clenched, his lone eye ablaze with fury but also something deep and worrying inside. Shoulders hung on him, as if he had the weight of the world on them.

 “Aemond…” Alicent’s soft voice called to him, hoping to break him from his darkened trance. But he continued on, long legs striding to his one comfortable place. His one haven in the hellhole he had made.

 Her son towered over her as he strode by and she knew something horrible had happened. A mother’s gut feeling never wavers, not once. She knew her boys, in her bones. And she knew Aemond had a temper, but rationales that there was always a reason for it.

 She held his forearm to attempt to calm him. To bring him back.

 Aemond didn’t say a word, huffed and tore his arm away. Not even the soft embrace of his mother could help in what he had done. The sin he had committed. His failure.

 He refused to stop, to explain what he’d done. Everyone would know by the morrow and he need not be there for it, he reasoned.

 Right now, he wanted the safety of his chambers and the warmth and security of being buried inside her. She offered an indifference, a closeness he could not get anywhere else.

 His mother attempted once more to reach out, and without looking at her he roared, as if cornered, “Leave me!”

 He dared not to see the broken and disappointed look on her face, as he knew she would have by the morning. He felt like a child all over again. Weak and feeble. He remembered the way he had crawled to his mother’s arms and found solace.

 But he was not a boy anymore.

 Instead he would find solace the way a man would.

 The way a man should.

 At least as far as Aemond was concerned.

 The little maidservant had jolted noticeably when the chamber doors slammed shut with a force that shook the very stone walls. She held a jug of warm water in her hands, instructed to draw a bath upon Aemond’s arrival, and with the sheer shock of him storming past the threshold had some of it fall onto the stone floor below.

 With parted lips in surprise, her eyes met his form, standing before the now locked and closed doors. He was tall and foreboding, like looking at a wild animal, especially with how uncharacteristically unkempt he looked, with that fierce look in his one eye. His body vibrated with an unseen rage, his chest rising and falling quickly like he had been running. He smelled what she thought was dragon, a musky animal-like smell that clung to his riding leathers.

 He said nothing.

 “Your grace…” she greeted with a quiver to her voice.

 She would never see the internal battle in his mind. The pendulum swinging between kinslayer and dutiful Prince.

 Kinslayer

 Kinslayer.

 She saw him clench his fists until his knuckles were white.

 “Undress me” he commanded, with a low growl.

 She swallowed hard and set the jug aside, brushing her hair that she had unbraided over her shoulder. Daring not to meet his eye, she stepped forward, shaky hands reaching out for his leather doublet, the silver clinking quietly in the chambers. Aemond closed his eye, inhaling deeply when her scent flooded his very being.

 So feminine.

 Weak.

 He was about to drift into the calming waves that her presence offered, floating idly in the depths of her touch when-

 “May I speak plainly, your grace…” she asked meekly once she dropped the leather from his shoulders.

 She had never asked to speak out of turn. Not once. And Aemond opened his eye again, half lidded and looked down at her, his gaze remaining in its stoic manner. But she didn’t meet it, too afraid to, as she folded his doublet over the armchair.

 “Speak then”

 Her hands found one another, fiddling nervously with the skin at her palm, her head lowered.

 “I…wondered if I might request some-”

 “Look at me when you are speaking to me” he interrupted.

 His voice drove fear, deep into her core and she felt the dragon in her womb begin to wake from its slumber. He took her chin in his fingers once more and forced her to look up at him. Her wide, glassy eyes finally met his and she could feel her entire form tremble, and thought, he must be able to feel it too.

 “I wondered if I might request some funds from you” she finally said, in a quiet, mousy manner.

 She had known then. That now wasn’t the time to bring up the subject. But by then it had been too late. His fingers tightened on her chin, to keep her there, to watch him as his brows furrowed in frustration.

 “You said you had sufficient funds”

 He said in an accusatory way. As if her chance before had vanished.

 She inhaled, filling her lungs with the last bit of courage she had.

 Her lips quivered, and the words left her mouth too quickly.

 “I am with child”

 His entire form seemed to go cold, as well as his expression, hooded even further in what she could only assume was anger.

 “You are lying” he dared to accuse, with a firm and ever-tightening grip.

 You wouldn’t lie to me now, would you sweet girl.

 She felt the tears hot in her eyes, entire body shaking. The babe within was hot in her belly at the proximity with their father.

 “I am not” she responded with a quiver to her voice, “I…do not have the funds to…have the procedure…to…”

It was difficult for Aemond at this moment to pin down a specific emotion. So much had happened in the course of a mere few days. For him, for the realm. For the lives of every soul in Westeros it felt like.

 In the morning, everyone would know what he was. A disappointment. Weak. A failure to his family. He would see the sullen look on his mother’s face, when she found out that her entire bloodline was now thrust into danger, on account of what Aemond had done.

 He would lose his place in his mother’s good graces.

 Fathering a bastard. A blatant disregard to his duties as a Prince.

 Just like Aegon had been.

 He could not bear it. To be a kinslayer as well as that.

 He wanted control, something that had been slipping ever so carelessly from his grip since Lucerys was crushed by Vhagar’s jaws. He wanted control of his life.

 Of her.

 And her admission didn’t give him the safety he so craved.

 To think of a bastard in her belly. His bastard. The storms returned to Aemond’s one eye at the thought of even seeing her swell with it. It could not happen. It could never happen. To be reminded of his failures.

 She gasped loud, breath caught in her lungs, as his hand gripped her throat and squeezed. Previously, in the throes of passion, he had squeezed the sides of her neck, so as not to cut off her air entirely. But this time, his grip around her was so tight that his thumb pressed against her pulse point. Her eyes widened, one hand coming to his to pry his hand off her. But he never relented. Not once.

 Ordinarily, a primal part of his brain would adore to see her swell with his child. To see her breasts grow heavy with milk and her stomach taut with his little dragon inside. If she were his wife. If she were highborn, a real lady.

 But she had dared to exist in a moment of Aemond’s most tumultuous times.

 The realm had played a game. Aemond was a loaded cannon and the game was to see which gunner could fire his rage in the right direction.

 And it had been her. Her mere existence as a woman.

 She could feel her head become heavy with the lack of air, her hands clamouring desperately at his to let her free, fear climbing its way up her spine, both at the situation and the look in Aemond’s eye. Calm but with a white hot rage inside.

 He shook her by her neck, “You are mine” he growled at her face, his grip tightening.

 “Until the day you die, you are mine”

 She wished she could die.

 He would never let her go. He would never let her truly live. She would never have a husband. Have children to raise. No ordinary life.

 Gods, take me away, she prayed silently, closing her eyes, as if she felt Aemond might kill her right here and now.

 He pushed her away forcefully, wanting to be rid of her presence as if he could by the click of a finger. Could not bear to see her and her supposed betrayal of his servitude to his family.

 She crumpled to the floor, gasping and coughing, her hand around her neck from where he had grabbed her tightly. The stone floor hit hard on her body, air flooding her head. Aemond, frustrated and wronged, scrambled for the purse on his side table, unknowing and uncaring of the contents. All he knew was there were sufficient funds there.

 He threw it to her crumbled body and watched as she wept on the floor, thinking her pathetic, naive. Weak.

 He huffed and began to unlace his breeches, the only thing now on his mind was a bath, to wash away his sins of the days past.

 “I expect you to return to your duties tomorrow” he said flatly.

 She gasped, choking on her breath as she cried, staring ahead at the purse full of coins.

 “Now leave”

 Not wanting to look at him any longer, she shakily took the purse and held it to her chest. Somehow regaining the use of her weakened legs as she stood to lunge herself towards the doors. Away from him.

 Only when she had regained her breath and strength from the force of her crying, did she look into the bag Aemond had given her.

 Four gold dragons and several silver coins.

 It was more money than she had ever seen in her life. And would likely ever see all at once. She lost her breath at the sight of it, something foreign curling in her gut.

 What she could do with this much money.

 She could leave. Leave this job and go somewhere far. Perhaps even across the Narrow Sea. Away from him, from this life of being his whore. Something for him to release his violent temper upon in the hour of the wolf.

 She held the purse tight to her chest and decided. Made a decision, for the first time in her young life.

 Promised herself that she would have the procedure and flee, far away.

 No more of this, she thought to herself, stroking her sore neck and walking with purpose back to her quarters. For the first time, she’d felt anger at herself, for putting up with the torture for so long. Felt overwhelmed by what the past few days had given her as her fate.

 It cannot be.

Sleep didn’t find her that night.

 A red painted house with the curtains drawn, ask for a woman named ‘Sarria’, is what Alanna had instructed.

 She had kept her hair down and wore a dress she would normally wear to prayer, not her maidservant uniform, not wanting to be recognised as staff for the Red Keep.

 She clutched the purse close to her chest, the coins jingling softly inside with every step she took. It was like he had given her life. A chance. How unfortunate that it had to come from him.

 The air was crisp and it was an overcast day, still so early in the morning that the sun was barely peeking through the narrow alleyways. She had decided to come early, before the market stalls had gone up in Flea Bottom, before the rush of customers would flood the streets. Less chance of being seen entering the home. Perhaps less chance of the Gods knowing what sin she was about to commit.

 But the Gods were everywhere. Could not be caged in as men could.

 After a moment of deliberation, she knocked on the narrow door, barely wide enough for a man to fit through. The red painted house had their curtains drawn even though it was morning, as Alanna had said, perhaps to hide the sins inside. Like a brothel.

 A woman with greying hair had answered, standing in the doorway but not quite showing her entire body, possibly in a manner of guarding. She had bright blue eyes, framed by wrinkles of her years, and she looked impossibly tired from what she had seen over the course of her life. The older woman had looked upon her with curiosity, seeing such a small delicate thing at her doorstep.

 “What can I do for you, child?” the woman asks in a soft, gravelly voice.

 “I wish to see Sarria” she answered quietly.

 The woman’s face fell into a soft frown, a sad one. And her eyes looked her from head to toe, swallowing thickly.

 “Come in, child, quickly”

 Wracked with anxiety, she stepped across the threshold, greeted by a familiar earthy and minty smell that emanated through the home. It was dark and dank, from years of not seeing the sun. The woman shut the door quickly behind her, placing a bolt across it to lock.

 Rather surprisingly, she took her cloak and folded it over an armchair in a friendly gesture, now finally being able to see her young face.

 She guided her to the opposite side of the house, where the smell of mint was stronger. The kitchen was somewhat dusty, but well used. She saw two stoves, lit, with a pot of something brewing hot on top, with the stench of something akin to mud.

 Moon Tea.

 “You have coin, I assume” the woman says, capturing the maidservant's gaze from the pots. The maidservant inhaled sharply, clutching the purse still, fingers gripping it tightly as if it were the last thing in his world. Reluctantly, she nodded and handed the purse to her with shaky hands.

 The woman eyed the contents, perturbed.

 “Are you a whore?” she asked.

 “Excuse me?...” she asked, not quite sure what she meant. The words of the other maidservants clear as water in her mind.

 “At the brothels” the woman said, to which the maidservant shook her head quickly.

 “No…”

 The woman furrowed her brows, “Only whores receive gold dragons, child. Where did you steal this from?”

 She swallowed thickly at the accusation, “It was gifted to me, I swear…” she answered meekly.

 The woman seemed to consider her answer for a moment, holding the purse in her hand as if weighing it. Humming, she took one gold dragon from it and put it in a pocket inside her apron, reluctantly giving the purse back to the maidservant.

“Tell nobody of this, and if you do, I shall deny ever having seen you. Understood?”

 She nodded in return, too scared stiff at the moment to speak.

 The older woman led her to a back room, separate from the rest of the home. A room with no windows and a wooden dining table in the middle. She watched as the older woman spoke to another, much younger woman, one who had long dark hair, also wearing an apron.

 The younger woman approached her with a solemn look, but a reassuring smile, and took her hand to lead her to sit on the dining table. The table was clearly cut from one large piece of wood and weathered over the years, with a big burn mark in the middle of it.

 “This is my daughter, Cassia” the older woman says, “she will assist you, make sure you are comfortable”

 Both of them were soft spoken, careful. It was like being inside a Sept, it was so quiet. They tiptoed around her, like she was a terrified animal, fleeing at the littlest sound.

 They covered the table lengthways with a blanket and propped some hefty cushions at the top and middle.

 “Lay down” they instructed.

 She felt the first signs of fluttering fear in her gut when she laid her head against the pillow, her hands fisting her dress in nervousness as she laid flat against the table. The older woman adjusted the other pillow beneath her bottom, raising her hips. The maidservant swallowed and flinched when the woman named Cassia began to stroke her hair, whispering ‘relax’.

 But it did nothing to quell the nerves.

 “Bend your knees” the older woman said in a soft tone.

 Reluctantly, she raised her knees, but unconsciously clenched them together in sheer terror.

 “Will there be pain?” the maidservant asked through hurried breaths.

 “There will be some pain and blood. But after that, all will be right again”

 Cassia held one of her hands and she squeezed back tightly, grounding herself to where she lay, memorising the pattern of the beamed roof. Counting from one to ten over and over in her head as a means to calm herself.

 This was freedom. After this, she would never go back.

 She would leave.

 Cassia and her intertwined hands, her pupils shaking as they stared up at the ceiling.

 “Will…you tell me what you’re doing?” she asks, without moving her eyes as the woman gently parts her legs and carefully lifts her skirts.

 The woman was quiet for a moment, “It is best not to know” is all she answered.

 Cassia held a cup of a warm, milky looking liquid to her lips, gesturing for her to finish the cup before the procedure, her other hand stroking her hair.

 “What is it…?”

 “It will dull some of the pain” Cassia’s kind eyes looked down at her. There was that reassuring smile again.

 As she drank the musty liquid, feeling her muscles eventually relax, Cassia gave her a wooden pestle, covered with a rag.

 “In case you need to scream”

 She took it graciously, holding it near her chest tightly.

 The patterned ceiling began to blur, and all she felt was the cold touch of the tool against her insides, travelling impossibly further up inside her. Eyelids heavy and breathing hurried but calm, there was only the uncomfortable feelings of a stranger on her most intimate and forbidden of areas. The milky substance left a film on her tongue, seemingly numb now, as were her limbs from the effect of it.

 All the while, she felt the soft caress of Cassia’s hand in her hair, soothing her.

 Cassia guided the wooden pestle to her mouth.

 Her body tensed when the sharp object was cutting, tearing, something inside her. And she’d bit down harshly, her screaming and crying muffled somewhat by the rags that were tied around it. She could feel the little dragon within her fight back, their flames licking at her insides in desperation. A deep desire to exist.

 It is here she realised what Cassia was actually here for. She was not here for comfort, or to make her feel reassured.

 She was here to hold her down.

 And she did, a solemn look on her face as she refused to look down at the little maidservant in pain.

 She nearly made herself sick with the screaming and crying, praying for the pain to stop. And it didn’t stop, not even when the old woman visibly placed the small, slender knife into a steaming bowl of water, the thick waves of steam lingering to the floor and blood slipping off the blade in ribbons. It was a dull, deep ache, in a new place, somewhere chasmic within. It felt like a hole had been torn open, blood pouring from within.

 It was all she thought about as she felt a familiar sticky red liquid begin to coat her inner thighs.

 A knife, the weapon.

 Cassia took the pestle from her mouth and began to prepare the bandages. The little maidservant stared up at the ceiling, praying in a quiet whisper. For forgiveness. From the Mother, for not allowing her babe to be born. To her own mother, for she’d be disappointed in her eldest daughter, for what she’d done to protect herself and allowing herself into this situation. To her sister, for not being there to protect her, knowing all she does now.

 Knowing truly what men want.

 Carefully, and with a deep, warm thrumming pain in her core, both women sat her up. The maidservant shook excessively, deeply troubled by the experience, and her glassy eyes went everywhere else but their eyes, not wishing to see the judgement in them.

 They pressed a red rag against her, as women do with their moon blood, and kept it there while more bandages were wrapped around her legs and hips to keep it there, to stem the ever heavy bleeding.

 There will be some pain and blood. But after that, all will be right again.

 All will be right again.

 She didn’t forewarn her about the pain in her heart though.

 The two women pulled her skirts down, pressed her cloak to her back and gave her the purse again, and she clutched it tightly. Now that it was done, she would go back, sleep, pack her things and be gone by the next morning.

 “Rest now, child. Heat a brick for the pain” the older woman said.

 And without looking into her eyes, the maidservant nodded, and pulled the hood over her head, “thank you…”

 Should she thank them for such a sin?

 Her vision never quite returned to normal the entire journey back to the Keep, and several times she had caught herself from tripping over herself. It felt as if every single pair of eyes that walked through Flea Bottom were trained on her, as if knowing all the dark, sinful things she had done, walking around her in silent judgement that was reserved for women only.

 The pain in her core seemed to dull as she walked through the Keep, quickly making for her quarters. Alanna was at the front door before she could open it, having just finished her night shift, with wide eyes, looking about her form, but settling on her pale expression.

 “Prince Aemond has requested y-” she starts.

 No more.

 “Tell him I am not well” she replied flatly, softly pushing past Alanna into her quarters and shedding the layers of her clothes, the call of her bed and the sheets too great to refuse, “I have been ordered to rest”

 Alanna swallowed, “I shall take your shift, for today only”. It was clear Alanna has no desire to do it, for he frightened the other maidservants significantly.

 If only she knew.

 They lock eyes for a moment and Alanna can see the utter exhaustion behind her eyes. She squeezes both her hands, giving her some semblance of comfort and the little maidservant wonders at all if she should tell Alanna about her plans.

To leave this wretched place once and for all.

 “Thank you, you are a good and kind friend…” she replied with a shaky voice, giving a sad, reassuring smile to her fellow maidservant. Alanna gave one back and immediately put her apron back on, leaving the little maidservant to herself in the quarters to recuperate.

 She placed the heated brick beneath her mattress and shed her clothes down to her chemise, the front slightly tainted with a patch of blood where she had begun to leak through. So she placed some dark blankets against the sheets and placed herself finally in her bed, pulling the linen up to her chest and allowing herself to sink into it.

 Hot tears began to pool in her eyes at the thought of what she had done, feeling the evidence of it sliding in warm blood out of her. She thought of her family and how she longed to see them again, hoped that her little brother was alright and recovering.

 This was freedom, this choice she had made.

 And she thought of where she might go. Somewhere where the sun shines all the time, where the clouds are light and fluffy, where she can feel the sea breeze against her skin.

 Somewhere away from him. Where he could not find her. Torture her.

 Sighing happily at the thought, she sank further into the mattress, closing her eyes to rest off the uncomfortable ache and drained emotions of the day she had so far.

 Sleep, the calling.

 She felt her heartbeat softly in her chest, calmed. And her breath, slow and relaxed. Felt the warmth of the brick beneath the mattress soothe her and the soft hand of sleep curling around her body to take her. It felt like floating into nothingness, airy and free.

 Her name.

 Someone was calling her name, somewhere.

 Her eyelashes fluttered at the sound.

 “Mother…”

 Grief breeds grief.

General Aemond Taglist: @risefallrise @valeskafics

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[thiswasinevitableid]

What It's Worth (Indruck)

A big yeehawgust prompt winner was: Undead Cowboy. This fill is NSFW and does mention blood

The stars stud the sky, the sliver of moon rising from the mesa meaning Duck can see them clearly as he lays on his back in the dirt. 

His bedroll is okay, but the memory of frost in the air makes him wish he’d had time to snag a few more spare blankets. But all he could manage this morning was the essentials.

He wasn’t going to spend a single minute longer in that damn place than he had to. 

They lost the farm in West Virginia two years ago, when Duck was seventeen. His uncle, Papa Newton’s brother, had offered to let the family move to his property outside Santa Fe. 

It seemed like a fuckin miracle. Until they settled in and Duck realized his uncle intended to treat them as free labor rather than family. If he has to polish one more round of dishes he’s gonna throw the whole dinner table out the fucking window. 

A week ago, when his uncle started making noises about finding his “niece” a husband, Duck decided there was no point in sticking around. Not if that’s how his uncle intended to use him. 

So here he is, as far from town as a days ride could get him, hidden from view of anyone on the trails. He’s keeping a small fire up; seems worth the risk to keep the coyotes and cougars from getting too close. 

There are footsteps, barely audible, on the other side of the fire. A shadow, with two red pinpoints about six feet off the ground. 

He doesn’t have a gun; unlike Winnie, his horse, they all belonged to his uncle, and the fucker might call him a thief and send the sheriff after him if he snuck one away. 

“Do not be alarmed.” The voice in the darkness is lilting and weak, “You are in no danger…no danger from…from…”

A thud as the body hits the earth, landing in the ring of firelight. Duck cautiously sits up, buck knife in hand, as the stranger groans and raises up onto his knees with a woozy shake of his head. 

The red Duck saw comes from the glasses the man wears on his narrow nose. His whole face is angles. His hair is silvery in the light, which is odd given the fact he appears only a few years older than Duck. 

“You okay?”

The visitor grips the knees of his pants, “No. I am so very, very thirsty.”

“I got a little water to spare.”

A weak laugh, “Nono, that will not save me. I need…I need…” He tips his head up with a sigh, as if steeling himself in order to make the request, and fangs catch the scant moonlight. 

Duck’s heard the stories about vampires and even weirder things out in the desert. He never put much stock in them; he spent his childhood in the woods, then the desert. He understands how easily folks can spook themselves out in the wild. 

“Please say you ain’t after my blood.”

“I am. I have not fed in so long, I was too ambitious in my travels to Greensboro. Too weak to catch an animal. If I go much longer I will become feral, mindless, draining any passerby until they are a husk” he looks up, frightened, “Please, please help me.”

“Uh.” Duck looks around like someone wrote the right thing to do in the sand. He wouldn’t let a human die of thirst. And he doesn’t want anyone getting their throat ripped out. But this feels like a real good way to trick a kind-hearted traveler into being dinner. 

“I will do anything you ask” a shudder and a groan, making the stranger hunch forward, “take me to bed, ask me for my weight in gold, the keys to the city, anything, please.” He sobs, trying to crawl forward but only making it to the bottom of the bed roll and clutching it.

“Okay.” Duck begins unbuttoning his shirt, “Okay. You can have a drink, but I, I keepin my knife on me, y’hear?”

“Perfectly. I would not begrudge you such measures, not when you are helping me.” He struggles forward until he’s straddling Duck’s knees. He’s dressed like the cowboys Duck watches with envy as they ride past the house, except every piece of clothing is black. 

“Rather impractical in a desert, I know. But I find it suits me.”

“It does.” Duck doesn’t catch the answer in time. The last thing he needs is some fella thinking he’s flirting with him. 

“You are very kind. Oh” he notices Duck pulling his shirt collar to the side, “I need not drink that way, I assume you do not wish me to be any closer than necessary. Your arm will suffice.”

“I, uh, I work with my hands and arms so this’ll be less of a pain in the neck. Or not but, uh, you know what I mean.”

The vampire nods, delicately scooting into Duck’s lap. He shivers as the visitor noses his throat, humming happily. 

“You smell divine.”

“I been on the trail all day, doubt I smell like a basket of roses.”

“Better.” The voice purrs, “now, this will only hurt a moment.”

Fangs sink into his skin and his entire body lights up in pain, telling him to fight, to run like a jackrabbit. Then all at once it subsides, pleasure rolling like a wildfire on the prairie, lighting up nerve after nerve until he wonders if they’ll burn out. 

The vampire has one hand in his hair, supporting his head, the other pressing down on his shoulder, and through the fire crackling in his brain he can tell he’s talking.

“...So good, thank you, thankyouthankyouthankyou.” The deep bite is over, but he continues nipping at the skin, licking and sucking at the blood. He’s wiggling closer, hips bucking a little, making the neediest sounds Duck’s ever heard between his thanks and praise of everything from Duck’s eyes to the way he tastes. 

If he could guarantee the man on top of him would be like this, Duck wouldn’t be half as put off the idea of getting married. 

Gradually, the touch on his neck changes to deliberate licks, the last one ending with a kiss as the vampire sits back on his heels. He looks drunk.

“I..I am very grateful for your help.”

“You don’t say?” Duck teases. 

“Have I not made that clear–oh! Oh it is a joke.” He grins, mouth still a bit red, “You are a very charming human. And my offer stands; you may ask anything you wish of me as payment.”

He could get a train ticket, or the money to buy one. A place to stay. Clothes he didn’t have to fix up to be right himself. 

“That’s real decent of you to offer but I wouldn’t make someone pay me for a drink if they were dyin of thirst. Don’t seem right to ask you to.”

“You are very kind. I will not intrude on you any longer.” The vampire tries to shift out of his lap and hisses. Duck looks down and sees why.

“Y’know, most fellas have a harder time doin’ that once they’re drunk.”

“It, it is nothing” he looks away, embarrassed, “it is merely the natural response to feeling full and safe while in the arms of a handsome man.”

“That so?” Duck licks his lips, “tell you what. Since you biting me got me all riled up, I changed my mind. I want this” he palms the vampire through his pants, “as my fee.”

“Gladly.” Wiry arms drape over his shoulders as Duck undoes the buttons and pulls his dick from his trousers. It’s a nicely sized thing, big enough to be tempting without feeling intimidating, and when he wraps his hand around it the responding squeak is almost a chirp. 

“There we go, sweet thing, lemme get my hands on you.”

“Only if I am permitted the same honor.”

“Hmmm” Duck pretends to think as he steadily strokes the shaft, “dunno, why should I let you feel me up?”

A pout, “Because I will be so very good for you. I was good for you when I fed, wasn’t I?”

“You were, sweet as a peach. Okay, you can touchAHhey” he laughs as hands greedily paw his sides and thighs. 

“Thank you, oh you are lovely to touch, lovely to hold.” Kisses spread across the closing wound on his neck, “what a lucky creature I am to have found so wonderful a human oh, ohohoh” his hips jerk wildly and he cums on Duck’s fingers. 

“Pent up?” He kisses a cheek that he suspects would blush if it could. 

“So it seems. Goodness, such things seldom take me by surprise.” A playful kiss to his ear, followed by a nip, “shall I return the favor?

Duck feels one half of him lean into the idea, the other wrench so far back he thinks it might dislocate his joints. 

“Nah. I’m, uh, I’m too, uh, tired, fuck, not not turned on, uh. Fuck.”

The vampire cocks his head, then nods, “Then I will not press the matter. Would you like me to stay awhile?”

“Yeah.” He murmurs, “Yeah I would.”

Duck nestles down into his bedroll as his visitor gets his clothing back into order, and falls asleep to long fingers in his hair and a gentle voice telling him of the moths and bats fluttering across the desert sky. 

—--------------------------------------------------------------------

He goes home when his uncle finally finds him and tells him that if he won’t do his family duty, he’ll find someone to marry Jane, Duck’s sister, to. 

Jane’s only 14. 

Duck spends the whole ride home hoping the lousy fucker gets thrown by his horse. 

A month later, he’s traveling with the old asshole and the equally cold-hearted, sneering woman he married to a party in Santa Fe. Mr. Indrid Cold, one of the area's richest and most mysterious residents, is said to be in search of a wife, and so Duck is in the most masculine dress he could find, hair still short and chaperones scowling as they enter the fine house off the city square. 

Duck tries to occupy himself in small talk, and while some of the women there won’t give him the time of day, others invite him into their cluster to hold crystal punch cups and whisper some of the most ridiculous shit he’s ever heard. 

“They say he’s a vampire!”

“Don’t be silly, my aunt said she saw him out in broad daylight.”

“Some of them can do that. It depends on their age.”

“Not this theory again, Josephine.”

“I told you, my name is Joe.”

“Anyway, even if your aunt did see him, that won’t help us. They say he throws one of these every few years and no one actually sees him in attendance. He just watches from somewhere so he can learn about us.”

Duck shudders at the idea; this whole thing is already a pain in the ass. It doesn’t need to be a creepy pain in the ass on top of that. 

“Pardon me.” A man with the blandest features imaginable addresses the group, “may I accompany you for a turn around the gardens?”

He’s offering his hand to Duck. 

“Is this a fuckin joke?”

A mild smile, “Not at all. I have been dying to speak to you since you arrived.”

Duck takes the offered hand, lets the man link their arms as they head into the courtyard. The gardens are stunning, if a bit overgrown, and Duck points out where a screech owl has hollowed out one of the trees. 

“Glad they kept the ones that actually grow here. Some folks try to bring the trees from back east out to make their gardens and they just up and die. On account of it bein, y’know, a fuckin desert.”

“That does seem rather ill-advised.”

They talk more about Duck’s move to the desert, and the longer they speak the more Duck feels like he knows the man’s voice. He just can’t place it. 

“I take it you are not a fan of the proceedings?”

“I, uh, I ain’t not, uh-”

“You do not need to lie, Duck.” A small smile. 

“It just ain’t my world.” He looks down at the dress, “rather be in sackcloth than this fuckin thing.”

“Mmm, I imagine you’d make a rather striking cowboy.”

“Like to think so. Aw fuck.” He turns to where the clock is striking eleven, signaling the end of the party, “I didn’t hobnob nearly enough.”

His companion squeezes his arm, “I would not worry too much about that.”

They say their goodnights and he rejoins his aunt and uncle, only to discover that they’ve booked him a room at a nearby hotel while they stay in a finer one across the road. Almost like they’re hoping his being alone might tempt their host into appearing at the foot of his bed like a fucking ghost.

He chucks his party outfit into the corner, the night hot enough that he decides to risk sleeping in the buff. The church on the other side of the square has just finished ringing midnight, and his eyes are going leaden, when there’s a shuff of his window opening. 

He’s five fucking stories up. 

Frozen, he watches a huge, winged figure squeeze through into the room. It’s some sort of fucking moth-man thing, and it’s glowing, red eyes are looking right at him. 

“Don’t come another fuckin step closer.” Duck grabs his boot from the ground, ready to throw it. 

Four arms raise in placation, “You are not in any danger from me, Duck. You were before, you are not now, and you never will be.”

“Your voice…are you the fuckin-”

“-Vampire from your camp? Yes.” Reality snaps for a moment and then the silver-haired man is standing there, clad in a simple black shirt and pants. 

“Holy fuck, I thought vampires could only turn into wolves and bats and shit.”

“My moth form is actually my true one. It is a long story. But the point of it all is: I am also Indrid Cold. And was your companion for much of this evening.” He clips a pin to his shirt and the same bland face comes into view. 

“Jesus.” Duck breathes as Indrid returns to his usual human appearance and sits on the bed. 

“Parties overwhelm me. A small enchantment is the best way to see if there are any guests I wish to know better. Up until now there have not been.” He sets his hand on Ducks covered knee, “why your aunt and uncle sent you here as anything other than a handsome bachelor, I shall never know. You looked so unhappy tonight all I wanted was to take you in my arms and whisk you off somewhere you could be yourself.”

“I, I didn’t mean to hide it from you.”

“I knew at the campsite. I can see the future, and when you rejected further advances it told me what was behind them.” A gentle, fanged smile, “you are a good looking man, Duck. I have not ever seen you as anything else.”

He relaxes, tucks his legs in so Indrid can come closer and stroke his cheeks.

“I throw this party every few years to keep my sire off my back about the matter of marriage. I suspect that may not be the case after tonight.”

“Y’know, getting down on one knee is more traditional than climbing through a window.” Duck teases.

Indrid laughs, “Nothing so rushed. I came because I could not stand another moment away from you. And because do have an offer for you. If you allow me to court you, know that I will never claim ownership over you, nor force you to live as you are not. If you wanted to ride from here to Alaska I would not stop you. Whatever freedom you desired would be yours. I’ve no need to control you, my sweet” he grins, “but I do ask for the chance to make you mine.”

The heat in his voice is clear as a spring sky. 

“That so?” Duck kisses him once, “how are you gonna prove bein’ yours is worth it?”

A longer, deeper kiss, Indrid nipping his lip as he pulls back, “However you wish. Though the idea you are about to suggest is one I am very much in favor of.”

“Yeah?”

“If I might be so bold, ah, I…the futures show you enjoying it immensely if I take my true form.”

Duck hesitates, “Let me see it again?”

The bed groans as the mothman reappears. He’s toffee-brown, chest so downy that Duck’s hand sinks into it. 

“Fuck, you’re real fuckin soft.”

“Thank you” A chirp of pleasure, “oh that spot has been itching for hours.”

“Which part of you did you, uh, see me enjoyin?” 

Indrid opens his mouth, in which Duck can see rows of small, sharp teeth along with the pointed canines. His tongue extends, long and flexible, “ith!”

It should scare the fuck out of him,  but all Duck does is kick the covers aside and lay back, spreading his legs. 

“Get to it.”

“Gladly.” A fuzzy cheek tickles his left thigh as Indrid nuzzles him. Then he gasps as teeth drag down the skin. 

“Do not think I did not notice your reaction to my bite last time. Most humans find it neutral or painful. Few moan as I drink them down.”

“Didn’t even know I was moanin’. Was too busy listening to you be a cute needy thing.”

“I was, wasn’t I.” The tongue teases his folds, “I will be as obedient and sweet as you desire, my darling one, for I do need you.”

Duck wants to say something flirty in reply, but then the tongue pushes into him and he moans. It’s incredible, pressing and teasing, happy little chirrs floating up from Indrid as he takes Duck to pieces. 

When his tongue presses on a certain spot, Duck yelps, and his hands flail for something to grab. They land on Indrid’s antenna, and a pleading, chirping groan breaks from the vampire. 

“Ohhhyes, it’s been ages since someone toyed with those.” He messily laps at Duck’s dick, “mmmf, you could make me do just about anything by pulling on them.”

“Want you to fuck me.” His horny brain blurts it out without warning and he clamps a hand over his mouth. 

“Do you wish me to?” Indrid sits up, wings fluttering shyly and hands soothingly petting Duck’s legs. 

“I do, I really fuckin do, but I can’t risk-”

“You would not be. I cannot have children with humans. At least not that way.”

“You sure?”

“Completely.”

Duck takes a deep breath, “Then come down here and fuckME, oh, ohfuck.” His heels dig into the bed as Indrid sinks into him. His cock must be as strange as the rest of him, if the way writhes inside him is anything to go by. 

It’s also fucking huge. 

“A-apologies.” Indrid is jerking and twitching, clearly trying to keep from moving to fast or pushing too deep, “I, I have never done this with a human before. I did not account for the size, god how tight you are, how small, oh you’re delightfully warm too.”

“Fuck.” Duck groans, tilting his hips to try and fit more inside him. 

“Do not strain yourself. My, my anatomy will do the work in a moment.” He purrs, running two hands through Duck’s hair, “I am here to serve you, not make you exert yourself.”

He says it with such sincere affection that Duck leans over to kiss one, quivering wing. 

“Oh that’s fuckin wild” He gasps as another part of Indrid’s cock presses into him, still flexible but firm, pushing him open. Several spread wider outside of him, catching at his dick and Indrid pushes deeper with hungry, demanding growl. 

Duck doesn’t black out, but if you asked him to describe the what happens next in detail in court, hand on the bible he wouldn’t be of much use. His legs hook onto Indrid’s own, claws dig into his hips, and Indrid’s cock drives into him, his bulk meaning Duck’s face ends up pressed to his chest.

 From there he has no choice but to cling to him, feeling the purr in his chest as he promises Duck he will do this and more whenever he asks, be at his service, be good for him because his body is worth that, because Duck is worth that, and just as tears prick his eyes from the intensity of sensation, from the fact the can feel himself cumming, tightening around Indrid as best as his body can manage, there’s a cascade of thank yous, and then his lover cums in him, so much that it runs back down the shaft and is Indrid trills and thrusts a final time. 

“Goodness” Indrid pants, rolling them over so Duck is atop him, cock slipping free as he does, “that was incredible, but I do feel I must ask if you are alright.”

“Better than, sugar.” Duck smooths his hands over Indrid’s chest, “ain’t sure I can walk for a few minutes though.”

“Well then, if you need anything, I shall simply fetch it for you.”

“Indrid? Did you mean it? About wanting me to stick around.”

“Nothing would make me happier. But if you need time to decide, or if you do not want to stay, I will not be angry.” He grins, tracing a heart on Duck’s cheek, “though I will add, imagine the look on your wretched uncle’s face when he learns Mr.Cold would like you to stay and be courted, and that Mr. Cold has already bought a fine suit the handsome Mr. Newton.”

Duck chuckles, “Yeah, that does sweeten the deal. Ain’t the only thing makin’ it worthwhile though.” 

Indrid chirps happily, and wraps his wings and arms protectively around him. 

(To be fair, his uncle nearly fainting from shock the next afternoon is extremely fucking worth it).

[irkimatsu]

Sweet sweet angsty smut~

This is my third in a series of pieces about Husk being chained up and muzzled by Alastor as a punishment for... something. I've been vague about it, if we're being honest.

Part 1

Part 2

This piece is full on smut, with fem!Reader having sex with Husk while he's chained. Lots of angst; references to abuse, self-harm, substance abuse and withdrawal, all sorts of nasty stuff. But at least you get to comfort Husk through it in any way you can...

---

It’s been several weeks, and neither Husk nor Alastor are budging on their positions in whatever disagreement they’ve gotten into. Until someone gives in, Husk will remain here, leashed to his bed and muzzled, while you do all you can to make his isolation a little more comfortable.

Even with your best efforts, however, Husk’s deterioration has been steady. It’s hard for him to consume anything with the muzzle on, for one thing. You bring him food scraps and alcohol whenever you can, but it’s so hard for him to eat and drink with his mouth blocked like this, and in his weakened state he can only try for so long before his body gives up on the effort. At least he can splash some sink water into his mouth when you’re not there; Alastor gave his leash enough slack to let him use the bathroom, though that likely had less to do with compassion for Husk and more to do with not giving Niffty a disgusting mess to clean up. It’s difficult for him to do, but it’s one thing that saves him from feeling completely helpless. The alcohol and nicotine withdrawal hasn’t been easy on him, either; he’s still regularly self-harming to distract himself, clawing open new wounds over old scabs before they have a chance to heal. His fur is sparse and comes out in tufts when you touch it too much, and his wings and tail are only lined with a thin red fuzz rather than the handsome plumage you’d gotten used to on him. He’s never been a healthy weight due to him regularly replacing meals with alcohol, but he’s wasted away so much that you’re beginning to see the outlines of bones beneath his bare skin.

If he wasn’t already dead, you’d be terrified for his life.

Why is he being so stubborn about this? You’ve never seen him defying Alastor this intensely before. Sure, you’ve seen him talking back enough to receive a condescending scold; you’ve even caught Alastor striking him a few times when neither realized you could see, followed shortly by Husk going off to complete something particularly dangerous or demeaning. Husk had even told you about previous times when he’d been muzzled until the substance withdrawal had him begging his owner for mercy, willing to degrade himself however it took to receive just one bottle of precious, life-granting booze. But from what he’d said before, it usually took him days to break, not weeks.

He’s still not telling you what task he’s so desperate to avoid. “It’s better if you stay out of it,” he always says. It’s been a few days since you’ve asked about it, at his request; it was one of the only times he snapped at you while in this predicament.

“Fucking hell, I told you I don’t wanna talk about it! I spend enough fucking time thinking about it when I’m alone in here! Can’t you let me forget for a minute?!”

Despite your deep concern, you’ll grant his request; it’s part of the least you can do for him.

Neither of you have said a word since you arrived for that day’s visit. You brought him lunch, a bread roll and a miniature bottle of whiskey, and laid his head in your lap so you could feed him. He was able to finish the whiskey, and he weakly chewed some of the pieces of bread you broke off for him, but more than half of the roll sits on his bedside table for now as you gently stroke him between his ears, moving gently as to not dislodge what little fur he has left. His eyes are closed, and his breaths are heavy.

You know you need to stay strong for him, you can’t give him yet another thing to worry about, but it takes so much for you to not start sobbing at the sight of him like this.

“Hey… babe?” he asks, his eyes slowly creaking open, his voice hoarse from how little he’s been using it recently. “Could you do something for me…?” “Anything,” you promise as you continue petting him.

You can barely see his mouth behind his muzzle, but his slight smile is visible in his eyes. “I miss… making love with you.”

“Oh… oh, Husk…” That was the last request you expected when you offered him anything. “I miss it, too, but… not while you’re like this…”

“What? Am I not handsome enough for you anymore?” His eyes glimmer playfully as he speaks, somehow.

“You know it’s not that!” you insist. “I just don’t wanna overexert you. You’re having enough trouble eating.”

“Can’t I at least see you?” he asks. “It’s been way too long…”

Surely there’s no harm in that much? Besides, you do miss his skin against yours… “Of course.” You help him sit up and get settled across from you. He leans back on his hands, drooped ears and lidded eyes making him appear as if he’ll collapse any second, but his eyes stay glued to you for as long as you can.

You’re not exactly in the mood to give him a sexy display. You take off your clothes simply, as if you were only preparing to change them. Despite this, he’s still entranced, his breath growing more rapid as you expose more skin.

“Baby…” he breathes out as you throw your underwear aside and spread your legs, showing him the treasure he hasn’t seen for so long. “Can… can I…”

You nod without letting him finish, willing to accept any affection he can handle giving. He weakly leans forward until he flops down to the bed, his face settled perfectly between your legs.

“Fuck…” he whispers, before taking a deep breath and holding it for a moment. “I’m so thirsty, baby…” You can’t help but gasp as his cold nose rubs up your lips and settles against your clit. His nose may be cold against your skin, but it’s always so comforting, something living; it’s so different from the metal that’s now pressing between your legs, separating his mouth from what he so badly wants.

“I wish we could,” you tell him as you stroke between his ears again, warm breath exhaling from his nose and making you so needy. Normally you’d grab his fur and pull his face in closer, holding him in place while you grind yourself to an overstimulated mess against his hot, rough tongue… but you manage to catch yourself before you accidentally tear out even more of the weak fur that he can’t afford to lose.

An idea suddenly strikes you. “Back up a little?” you ask. Once he finally manages to peel himself off of you, you reach between your legs and sink a single finger into your opening. You gasp and buck at the sensation, teasing yourself as Husk enjoys the show. After you’ve sufficiently excited yourself, you pull your finger out, your slick now coating it, a string still connecting your fingertip to your entrance.

“Come here,” you say, holding your finger out to him. He catches on quickly. He moves closer to your hand and turns his head, allowing you to slip your finger through the side of the muzzle and into his mouth. He moans as he sucks your finger as best as he can from this angle, his tail waving as his teeth graze your skin. He doesn’t pull back until every drop of your cum on your finger has been replaced with his saliva.

“Delicious…” he moans, already drunker on you than he ever is on whiskey, as his tongue pokes out of the side of his mouth in a desperate search for more. Once he finally has to admit that there’s nothing more to be had, he climbs into your lap and buries his face in the side of your neck. His arms hold you tight and his knees squeeze your hips as he presses his muzzle into your skin; he’d be kissing you, at the very least, if there was any way for him to.. “Baby… want you bad, baby…” His words are slow and slurred, tinged with the emotions of a man who could start crying at any minute if he wasn’t so sick of it already. Yet, none of this is enough to drown out the pure need his voice always holds for you in moments like this.

“I want you too, Husk,” you say. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” he responds as he weakly pushes against your body. He’s in no state to pin and ravish you like he has so many times before; it’s up to you to hold him and pull him down with you as you lay back. He spends a few more moments nuzzling against your neck, so desperate to kiss you, before slowly pushing himself up with his paws and staring down at you.

He whispers your name so sweetly as his body sways.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m… fine…” he says, still swaying. “I can…” He stops speaking to take a deep breath. “Please, just let me…”

“Don’t push yourself,” you urge him as you cup his cheeks, fingers threaded through the patchy fur.

“But I need this… please…”

“If you lay down, I’ll take care of you, okay?”

He nods slowly, and allows you to grab his hips and roll him over onto his back. Once he’s flat against the mattress, he spreads his nearly-bare wings out as he settles in, and looks up at you with eyes so tired, but so hungry. He’s still breathing heavily, as if just that much has him winded, but at least now you’re not worried about him falling and injuring himself further.

Looking at his body like this only emphasizes in your mind how much he does not need to injure himself further. He’s fully naked just like he has been on all of your previous visits, leaving no gash hidden from your worried eyes. Your eyes jump from gash to gash, allowing so much worry to build that you barely react when your eyes reach between his legs. You haven’t even been considering that sort of intimacy ever since this started, and this moment can’t get you to start thinking about it yet.

“Husk…” you whisper, trying your damnedest to stop any of your tears from dripping out onto his skin. You lower your face to his chest to kiss a particularly grisly wound; he groans in response. “Am I hurting you…?”

“No,” he says simply as he wraps his arms around you. “Keep going...”

You keep kissing him, showing every injury as much tenderness as your lips can give. The taste of his blood stings your tongue, reminding you further of the hell he’s been through, but you don’t let it stop you from showing the affection you have so many times before. As you kiss him, you trail your fingers over his concave stomach, lightly brushing his skin until your fingertips find his cock. Despite everything, he’s still able to stand at full attention, and he twitches the instant you touch him. You wrap your hand around him and gently squeeze, and he moans softly as his head tilts back, his hips so slightly jerking into your hand a couple times before giving up and lying still.

“Please,” he begs with a struggling exhale. “Please…”

Still stroking him, you move back up his body to press a series of kisses against his muzzle, continuing on no matter how much the cold steel tries to remind you how meaningless the gesture is. “Are you ready?” you ask.

“Please…” he repeats. “Please make love to me…”

You take your hand off his cock and brace yourself by placing both hands on either side of his head. “Anything for you, Husk…” You press one final kiss against his muzzle, letting it linger as you lower yourself onto his cock. You both share a moan, as close to each others’ mouths as you can both get, as you slowly sheath him inside you.

“God…” he murmurs as his claws lightly flex against your back. “I’ve missed you so fucking much…”

You slide up and down his cock, moving slowly and gently, trying so hard to not hurt him in his fragile state. His chain clatters against his headboard with every thrust, but you manage to block out the sound by focusing more on his breaths and moans. So many times before he’s had your brain screaming for you to take him fast and deep, to ride him rough like the wild animal he is… but that part of your mind is dead silent now.

He’s said it before. He’s not an animal, no matter what he looks like now or how Alastor treats him. And you’re determined to reassure him of that by letting him indulge in emotions and desires that are so deeply human.

You lay your body over him and gently curl your hands around the backs of his ears. “Is this okay?” you ask him.

He nods with a small grunt.

“Tell me if it hurts,” you say. “I don’t want to push you too far.”

Another grunt is all you get out of him before you resume moving, your chests sliding together as you rock back and forth. You wonder if this is bothering his wounds, but he’s not saying anything or making any noises to indicate anything like that. As you ride him, you kiss his forehead and cheeks, letting what’s still exposed of his face feel how much you adore him. He grips your hips and starts thrusting up to meet you, but after a few movements, he groans in pain and lets his waist collapse back onto the bed.

“...sorry…” he murmurs.

“You’re okay,” you assure him with another kiss to his forehead. They’re the last words you say for a while; all your focus now is on how you’re moving, making sure this is everything he needs it to be. Tonight, your pleasure is secondary. Both of you remain mostly quiet throughout the act. Not only is this not something that inspires the sorts of screams and filthy talk you love so much with him, but you absolutely cannot let Alastor hear an instant of this. You don’t even want to imagine what he’d do if he knew Husk wasn’t suffering his punishment, if only for a brief moment.

He still feels as amazing as ever inside you, his barbs greedily pulling at your tender walls with every upward thrust of your hips. And yet, you can’t focus on it as you usually do. His girth stretching you out, his throbs when you move at just the right angle, his tip finding your sweet spot and purposefully hammering it until you can no longer see or speak… none of it matters right now. All that matters are his eyes on you, brimming with gratitude and love.

You kiss away a tear before it can roll too far down his cheek.

“I’m getting close…” he whispers, his eyes not leaving you. In most circumstances, your current speed wouldn’t be enough. Hell, you’ve gone this slow to purposely tease him before, edging him on until he finally rolls you over and takes what he craves.

Given the circumstances, though, you can understand why it doesn’t take much this time.

“Go on,” you say, encouraging him with a small smile. “I know you need this.”

He smiles back before a shudder rolls through his body, sending his head rolling back again with another quiet moan. He pulls your hips down flush with his and holds you in place as he grinds up into you.

“Oh god-” He moans your name in between his pleas to the being that abandoned him so much. Soon it’s only your name that he’s saying, each repetition coming out with more urgent need.

You kiss his muzzle one last time, and his heavy breaths brush past your cheeks as he climaxes inside you. You don’t stop kissing him until you’re sure he’s done, determined to see the gesture through no matter how futile it is. He finishes and softens inside you, but doesn’t pull out right away as he struggles to catch his breath.

You’ll let him stay inside you as long as he wants. He deserves it.

“Lay next to me?” he finally asks. You sit up, hoping that your weight over him hasn’t caused him any further distress, and lift your waist off of him. He rolls over on his side, shifting his wings to a more comfortable position as he moves, and once he’s done moving, you settle into his arms. He nuzzles the top of his head under your chin and purrs weakly as he hugs you close. “Thank you…” he murmurs through his purrs.

It abruptly occurs to you that this is by far the longest time you’ve spent in his room over these past few weeks. “Husk? I’ve been in here for a while… should I le-”

“No,” he snaps as he squeezes you more tightly. “Don’t you dare leave…”

“I don’t want to get you in trouble with-”

“Get me in trouble. I don’t fucking care anymore.” His tail lashes as he speaks, not even weakness preventing his feline body from expressing its anger. “He can do whatever the fuck he wants. I’m still not letting you go.” His tail finally calms down as he settles against your body. “I don’t care if he kills me… as long as you’re with me… I won’t let him touch you, I’ll take the blame, I promise…”

No matter how afraid you are for him, you just can’t say no to his pleas. His first act of intimacy with you in weeks, and you were about to leave him in the lurch immediately after? What kind of monster would you be in that case? You already knew that he hates being left alone immediately after sex under the best of circumstances. Leaving him in a state like this could very well kill him via heartbreak.

Instead, you settle yourself into his embrace. His wing may not be able to keep you as warm as it usually does as he drapes it over your body, but you still feel so safe in its embrace.

You’ll do anything to make him feel just as safe.

“I love you,” you whisper, as you try your hardest not to think of this as the last time you ever get to hold him.

[itsstrange]

Bounded

Fandom: MW2

Relationship: Simon “Ghost” Riley x Reader

A/N: Finished playing the campaign a couple days ago and my love for this man has awaken once again. I remember I used to have a crush on him as a kid and those feelings have arisen once again! So, for all you Ghost sluts, this one is for you!

Summary: After a mission gone wrong, both (Y/n) and Ghost are forced to hideout in an abandoned apartment complex, where things soon get interesting.

Word Count: 6.5K

Warnings: (Yes) Injury, Blood, Mentions of Death, Cursing, Smut, Kissing, Confessions, Fingering, Slight Rough Sex, Just Pure Smut. (+18)

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Enjoy! 🔥

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Things went to shit rather quickly. It was supposed to be a simple mission, or at least that’s what Lasswell told them. Breach. Kill. Search for any intel and Get Out. Simple right? No. Not fucking simple at all. They were misgiven information, supposedly there would be a skeleton crew of 10 hostiles guarding the broken down building, not 40, and now (Y/n) is sporting a good bullet to the torso while being carried out by none than other Simon “Ghost” Riley. In other words, the Lieutenant, and the one man that can easily clashed throats with her. Fucking great.

They walked in with six men, now only them two were making their way down the flooded streets of Mexico. Rain poured down on them as they quickly looked for a place to lay low, but every building they’d pass through was either lit on fire, completely destroyed or too exposed. Which gave them the only option to keep walking until they found something much more inviting and secured. However, they were quickly running out of time considering (Y/n) was barely able to stand on her own feet. The bullet on her side was sending white hot pain throughout her body with each step she took, it didn’t look like it because of the rain pouring on them but she really was losing a lot of blood. She was actually surprised she had survived walking two miles without collapsing, then again it was the adrenaline that gave her the strength.

Which quickly began fading off the longer she stood on her feet. Her energy was decreasing now with the adrenaline gone and it didn’t help when unbearable pain shot through her side with each step she took. Eventually, it became too much that she honestly just needed a break. Just five seconds, or ten wouldn’t kill anyone.

“Wait wait,” (Y/n) harshly whispers as she leans her hand against a ruined car, breath coming out in harsh puffs, “Just— Just gimme a minute,”

“Negative. Can’t do that soldier. We gotta keep movin,” Ghost says, voice firm and stiff, with a small hint of worry, which of course she didn’t catch,

(Y/n) let’s out an exhausted sigh through her mouth as she hangs her head. Even that was becoming difficult to keep upright. He should just leave her, save himself, she was only slowing them down and risking both—his life.

“C’mon Nova,” Ghost calls her by her call sign as he carefully pulls her off the car, “We need to find shelter so I can patch ya up,”

“Move it,” He orders as he begins walking, forcing her to do the same, causing a pained groan to leave her lips as the sudden movement causes pain to shoot from her wound,

Placing a bloodied hand on said wound, she slowly walks alongside the brute man, who kept his eyes peeled for any danger and shelter that look safe enough. Even though her heart was thundering in her ears, she would often catch his harsh breaths or grunts as he carried mostly all her weight or would reposition her around his shoulders whenever he’d feel her slipping away. Most of the time she’d do it on purpose to get him to leave her on the ground and save himself from the dead weight, but he wasn’t having it, he’d only tighten his grip on her and would continue walking through the flooded streets.

“Where do you take someone who’s had a peek-a-boo accident?” Ghost suddenly says as he scans the buildings, faint grunts leaving his mouth every once and a while,

“No,” She flatly responds, she’s honestly not in the mood for his ridiculous dad jokes,

“To the I.C.U,” Ignoring her he goes ahead and finishes his joke, which only receives him a breathless scoff along with a small shake of a head,

Dark humor just like his soul.

“You honestly have no filter Riley,” (Y/n) says through gritted teeth when he accidentally applied a little too much pressure on her wound, causing the Brit to apologize as he continues down the street,

Silence settles between them, only the sound of rain hitting the ground, fire cracking in certain buildings, their ragged breaths mixed with grunts and pained groans are heard. (Y/n) felt like they’ve had been walking for years, when in reality it had only been 30 minutes, however, if they didn’t find a place soon she knew her legs would give out sooner rather than later.

About another mile of walking through the flooded streets, hiding from shadows every so often, and tripping over her own feet more than once, they eventually found shelter. It wasn’t the best, but it was certainly better than the other buildings they’ve been passing through. It was good enough to allow them catch their breaths for an hour or so before they had to keep moving, which (Y/n) honestly didn’t care, just as long as she was able to rest for a few minutes.

The moment Ghost kicks open the door, makes sure it’s secured and begins walking through the door it was as if her body knew it was okay to relax now because she suddenly slips away from Ghosts grip, causing her to land hard on the floor with a loud exhausted groan.

“Fuckin’ hell (Y/n),” Ghost curses underneath his breath as he quickly helps her off the floor,

With quick movements he leads her towards a beaten down couch he spots in one corner and gently lays her down. Earning him pained groans as he watches her clutch to her side with eyes tightly shut. Her breathing was coming out in quick short puffs, as she laid on the couch while the lieutenant moved around the small beaten apartment looking for supplies. A minute later he comes back with a kitchen knife, a piece of cloth, and a bottle of what seemed to be tequila but she wasn’t given the chance to observe it properly considering her vision began failing her due to the amount of blood she had lost.

“Soldier, keep your eyes open,” Ghost demands as he hurriedly preps his improvised kit,

“Nova!” He shouts when he catches her drifting, but it was no use, exhaustion was quickly winning over her body,

The last thing she’s able to hear was her real name falling from his lips once again before darkness over takes her, sending her into a peaceful, quiet, dreamless sleep.

******

The sound of thunder roaring and rattling against the walls jolts (Y/n) from her sleep. Brows knitting together in confusion when her eyes stare upwards towards a dark ceiling, and even more so when she notices she’s covered with something. Slightly angling her head she realizes it’s a hoodie, not just any hoodie though, she recognizes it almost immediately. It was Ghosts navy hoodie that he was wearing under his vest, and now it’s draped over her, nearly covering her body from how big it was.

As she slowly peeled the hoodie off her frame, which smelled like cigarettes mixed with gun oil and cologne, the scent of Ghost, she noticed how her side had been bandaged up. Pain still lingered, sending jolts of it with every small movement she made, but at least she wasn’t bleeding out or better yet, dead. Glancing up from her covered wound, she immediately lands them on a figure standing in the shadows next to a window, the light from the moon giving her a clear view of his skull mask and noticing, he was staring right back at her.

They lock eyes in silence for ten seconds, until he averts his eyes outside the window for a second and then slowly making his way towards her. His rifle gripped in both hands, and noticing then, he was only in a dark long sleeved shirt.

“How you feelin?” His deep and hoarse voice matched the look in his blue eyes as he hovered over her, eyes scanning her frame head to toe,

(Y/n) thanked god for the darkness, heat crept up on her cheeks from the way he stared at her. She was even more thankful when words easily slipped from her mouth.

“Hurting. But nothing I can’t handle,” She grunts as she slowly starts sitting upright on the couch,

Right away Ghost was by her side, giving her a hand by gripping onto her shoulder and carefully helping her up.

“Didn’t want me havin’ all the fun I see,” He heartfelt jokes as he goes ahead and walks towards the window once again,

A scoff leaves her lips with a roll of her eyes. She thought quite the opposite.

“How long have I been out?”

Ghost looks down at his watch and then back out towards the window, “Two hours,”

Jesus. She thought to herself. She’s been passed out for two hours, risking both their lives and their location. “We should start moving then, we need to get the fuck outta here,”

“Negative. It’s bucketing down out there and you need rest,”

“I’m fine, Ghost. We need to move,” She argues back, hand clutching to her side while her (E/c) eyes watch him,

He doesn’t say anything, just stares at her and remains his ground by the window. (Y/n) would’ve thought he’s giving it a thought, but she thought wrong because he only turns back around with a firm ‘no’ making a scoff leave her lips as she slowly maneuvers her legs onto the ground and leans back against the couch. Eyes scanning her surroundings and thinking, how the fuck weren’t they caught yet? The building looked as if it was hanging on for dear life, maybe that’s why they’ve been in the clear, they wouldn’t dare walk into this death trap. Lucky for them right?

Averting her eyes back to the man, she observes him from her spot. The moonlight illuminating his iconic skull mask, and the small peak of those dangerous, dark, eyes of his. As she stared at his frame she began wondering how she ever got this far with the man without having to ever see his face, not that she’s been wondering what he looked like under the mask, but a speck of it would satisfy her enough. Then it got her thinking of all the times they were constantly at each other’s throats, both on mission and while resting at the base, which honestly brought a small devilish smile to her lips when deep down she enjoyed their back and forth banter of pure ridiculous things. As much as either one hated each other’s presence, they both knew deep down they enjoyed every single argument. Not that they would ever admit to it of course.

Their arguments only grew when Price would purposely team them up for missions, causing their voice to be heard in the earpiece going at it about the most smallest things. Which eventually causes Soap to mute them in annoyance every so often, he was honestly tired of their bitching but he’s only one voice, they wouldn’t listen to him.

Her mind then wonders to how either one reacts when one gets hurt. She doesn’t know if it’s just her but whenever he gets hurt on a mission, it feels as if her whole blood drains from her body whenever she sees him injured. She’s usually the first to patch him up whenever they’re clear, even if it’s just a graze on the arm, she’s there. But when she’s the one with a bullet, she’s noticed how he becomes very… protective? Firm? Quiet? She didn’t know how to explain it other than serious, more than he already is anyways. Like now, he’s quiet than usual, he’s always humming to himself as he thinks of a way out, or always throwing stupid jokes very once and a while, but now, he’s just leaning against the window in silence, blue eyes scanning for any threats.

And honestly. She’s had enough… of him standing. She knows for a fact that he’s been standing in the same spot like a goddamn reaper, and it’s honestly exhausting her.

“Ghost,” She calls out to him, no answer, so she tries again, this time by his rank, “Lieutenant,”

That got him to look over his shoulder. Eyes firm and dark as they meet hers. Definitely not sending an odd feeling down her spine from the way he glanced at her.

“I think we’re in the clear. You can sit down for now,” She tries, leaning her back to rest against the edge of the couch and closes her eyes,

Even with eyes closed, she can still feel his eyes on her. Watching her in dead silence, feeling the way his stare only burns her skin from how intense it felt. Eventually, about a minute or so, she begins hearing his heavy boots walking around the ruined floor. She didn’t want to open her eyes to see what he was doing, so she kept them shut and focused on the sound of his boots growing louder until she feels the couch dip next to her, along with a heavy exhausted sigh.

He had sat next to her.

I mean where else would he sit down? The floor?

Once again, silence surrounds them. Just the sound of rain, thunder, the low creaking of the building, and the slow steady breathing of (Y/n) can be heard. She eventually begins drifting away once again, her mind relaxing and sending her into a dreamless sleep until..

“Knock knock,” His deep baritone voice startles her, causing her eyes to snap open,

Without answering back, all she does is turn her head towards him with an annoyed look in her eyes. Ghost was fiddling with his gun, then turns towards her when he doesn’t receive a reply, the look he gives her with his piercing blues forces her to go along with his terrible, non appropriate dad jokes.

But that’s what makes him Ghost.

Rolling her eyes she replies back, “Who’s there?”

“I.O,”

“I.O who?”

“Me. When are you paying me back?” The small scoff that slipped from her lips was accompanied with a wide smile, he always found a way to crack her,

As much as she loathed it, she couldn’t stop the small chuckle that slips from her. Slightly coughing she clutches her covered wound when pain shoots towards her side.

“Get shot and I will,” She responds with a shake of her head, wide smile still plastered on her face,

A deep, amused, slightly muffled chuckle slips from the man’s mouth. Ringing beautifully in her ears, she can’t remember the last time she’s ever heard him laugh or even crack a smile, obviously, so the little gesture for sure brought a warm feeling across her chest.

Another wave of silence settles in between them for a few seconds, until he’s speaking once again. Bright blue eyes staring straight into her own (E/c) orbs.

“How you holdin up, really?” (Y/n) remains holding his gaze, feeling hypnotized by his eyes that she suddenly shares the truth about how she really felt,

Not the whole truth, but some of it.

“You should’ve left me,” She softly says, watching the way he slightly squints his eyes at her before looking away with a heavy sigh, then adds, “You should leave,”

“Don’t be daft,” Is all he says, eyes watching the window to his left, “I’m not leavin,”

(Y/n) rolls her eyes at his stubbornness. Why can’t he understand that all she wants is to save his life? Why does he have to be so fucking hard headed?

“I’m only slowing you down,” She pushes again, not noticing the way he shuts his eyes from annoyance and frustration,

“Sergeant,”

“If you leave now you’ll be able to call Soap, let him know your location and get help,”

“Nova,” He warns,

“Save yourself!”

“For fuck sakes (Y/n)! I’m not leaving you!” He finally averts his dark eyes towards her that were laced with rage, annoyance and firmness,

That familiar tension begins rising between them as they glare at one another. Neither one of them wanting to back down.

“You can nag all you want. You’re fuckin stuck with me,” He firmly points out, eyes never leaving hers,

She didn’t know what it was, but the feeling that was building in her chest was becoming too strong to push aside. It was an urge. An urge to launch at him, to grab ahold of him, shake him, slap some sense into him, to just.. touch him. She honestly didn’t know how to explain it nor she didn’t know how to understand it, but what she did understand was how much she craved this man right about now. It was the same urge she’s felt with every argument she’s had with him, she wouldn’t think much of it, until now. It was just too strong to ignore it.

Which is also the reason why her next words shock the shit out of her and causes her blood to grow cold from the sudden question that slips from her mouth after a minute of silence.

“Can I kiss you?” It was a shocking surprise for both of them, causing both their eyes to grow wide at the question,

(Y/n) because of shock and horror. Ghost because of pure utter shock, he was definitely not expecting that to come out of her mouth. He doesn’t respond, just feels the way his breath hitches in his throat the same time his body goes rigid. Hard like stone.

When she knows he won’t stand up and walk away, she slowly and hesitantly reaches a hand towards his mask. Dark eyes watch her slim fingers with caution, as if her fingers were sharpened knives itching to cut his flesh, then let’s out a shuttered sigh through his nose when he feels her small, but skillful, fingers tugging slowly at the hem of his balaclava. His eyes were on her the whole time she slowly rises the mask, then catching the small little exhale slipping out her mouth when she finally gets a view of his plumped pink lips, light scruff covering the sides of his jaw as she continues to rise the mask.

Knowing her boundaries, she leaves the mask just under his nose.

Her (E/c) eyes avert from inviting lips towards his own piercing blue orbs, silently questioning him if this was okay, if it was crossing a line, if it was okay to continue or if he wanted to stop. Little did she know he was burning on the inside for her touch. So many questions were written in her eyes, but before she can actually ask him anything, Ghost licks his lips before smoothly making the first move. Making her breath hitch when she suddenly feels his lips on her own, getting a strong taste of salted lips, dirt, and oil, although, she reacts back rather quickly to the kiss. One of her hands gently cup the side of his face while the other rests heavily against his thigh, even through his jeans, her touch burned his skin. She just had that effect on him.

After the second or third kiss, Ghost slightly pulls away to stare into her eyes, his own orbs searching for any regrets, discomfort, when he doesn’t find any he dives back towards her lips more fiercely. With much more passion, a little rough, but gentle and caring at the same time. Causing the kiss to quickly get heated the moment he slips his warm tongue into her mouth, earning a small whimper from her at the affection. Definitely igniting his arousal even more.

Next thing she knows, she’s gently being pushed down against the cushions with Ghost hovering over her, lips not once parting from each other.

A small groan that sounded more like a whimper shutters in between their lips when Ghost accidentally knocks his hips against hers, already feeling the outline of his harden member rub against her core through his jeans. He continues with his brutal teasing, thrusts becoming more firmer each time he rubs against her clothed core until she’s eventually a panting mess and begging him for more. She felt as if her body was on fire, her skin heating up like a goddamn sauna, even though it was nearly fifty degrees outside with rain pouring down on the roof, she felt too suffocated.

Not wasting another minute he lets his hands travel down her body until they land on her belt. Once unbuckled, he quickly slides her cargo jeans down her legs, lips still not leaving hers, even when a deep, choked groan slips from her bruised lips when he pushes her panties aside and slowly presses his rough fingers against her clit, gathering her wetness before diving two long, thick fingers inside of her. She’s not even sure when he removed his gloves, but she could careless at this point.

“Oh.. ffuck,” She harshly whispers, hot breath fanning over his mouth as he immediately finds his target, twisting and curling his fingers he brushes against that one spot,

A static feeling buzzes through her core all the way up to her stomach before dissolving into a cold shiver towards her shoulders as he continues to torture her g-spot. The sound of her wetness can be heard throughout the ruined apartment as he picks up his speed, her breath coming out in quick puffs with each thrust of his thick fingers. A hand was gripping onto the back of his neck, nails leaving imprints of small moon shapes against his skin as his speed only seems to increase while her other hand held onto his wide shoulder. Fingers curling onto his shirt.

“G-Ghost,” She moans his name as her peak was quickly rising, quickly tilting towards the edge,

But just before she can feel that euphoric feeling, she feels him withdrawing his fingers, earning a desperate sigh from her. Her eyes immediately snap open, confusion settling in her eyes from the sudden action, but before she can even ask she sees him shrugging off his vest before finally unbuckling his belt, awhile still being in between her legs. She then feels the way her mouth goes completely dry, as if a sudden sandstorm invaded her mouth, when she watches him shove his jeans down with one hand while the other reaches inside, pulling out his leaking member.

The head an angry shade of red, precum drooling from the tip with each slow stroke he makes. With the help of the moon light shining through the window, she can tell he was thick, feeling the way nervousness settles at the bottom of her stomach the longer she watches his hand slowly stroke his aching member, but boy did that also heightened her arousal. Quickly settling back in between her legs, Ghost hovers over her, the tip of his dick slightly rubbing against her covered mound as he makes himself comfortable, considering he left her jeans pooled at her ankles and had to maneuver himself in between her legs by lifting and crouching underneath. Taking off her boots and jeans completely seemed like a hassle, a risk he wasn’t willing to take, them doing this was already a risk, anything and anyone can ambush them at anytime, but if they were both being completely honest, that was the least of their worries. For now.

“You sure?” He asks for the first time since everything began, hot breath fanning against her lips as he achingly waits for confirmation,

Which he gets by her quickly nodding her head and reaches a hand to wrap around his member, earning a choked grunt from the man above when she strokes once, twice, before finally guiding him where she yearned him the most. With half lidded eyes he does his best to watch her reaction as he slowly sinks his girth into her heat. Letting her feel inch by inch. Her eyes tightly shut, mouth slightly open while small grunts, moans and whimpers breathlessly fall out, but with the feeling over powering him and the way she curses underneath her breath, he isn’t able to hold his gaze for long.

“F-Fucking hell,” Ghost breathlessly groans against her lips as her tight walls clamp around him,

The one hand he had holding her hips with a careful grip, suddenly lands heavily besides her head as he can no longer support his weight from the way her tightness kept sucking him inside. The air that was once in his lungs had been punched from him as the tightness only made it harder for him to hold back. They breathlessly pant against one another’s lips as he continues to push his hips, until a small yelp rips from her throat when Ghost fully sheaths himself in her heat with one full thrust. Pushing the rest of his member inside of her aching walls.

(Y/n’s) eyes were closed shut as she focused on subsiding the little pain and the feeling of being completely full after what seemed like months. Just because she’s the only woman on the crew doesn’t mean she goes around looking for any man, even if she were the type to just mess around with any guy that paid her any mind just to lose some steam, she never had the time to do so. It was always work with her, if she wasn’t working she was in a meeting, if it wasn’t a meeting, she was getting ready for the next mission, if not she was working out or at the shooting range or simply just tuning her guns. So of course it had been a while since she’s been sexually active.

After what seemed like a minute or so in getting accustomed to his length and focusing on her breathing, she slowly opens her eyes, only for them to catch the moment when Ghost pulls off the remaining of his mask, revealing his flushed, scruff face to her. Dirty blonde locks rested on top of his head, beautifully light skin with a couple small scars claiming their spots on his face, and those eyes. Those eyes that have always seemed dark underneath that mask are now written with a different emotion. Despite the black paint covering those eyes, it wasn’t the cold, brutal Ghost staring down at her, no, it was only Simon Riley staring down at her with those bright blue orbs of his. It was also the look of, uncertainty, hesitation in his eyes that brought out Simon, he was observing her reaction now that she’s seen his face, he was anxiously waiting for her to say anything, but what made another breathless shutter slip from his mouth was the feeling of her small hand cradling the side of his jaw. Her warm, slim fingers rested against his cheek as a small welcoming smile spreads on her face, causing the corner of his lips to tug into a small smirk the same time her fingers slowly make their way at the back of his neck and threading them with his short locks at the base of his neck before slowly bringing his face down until their lips are once again molding with each other.

While lavishing each other’s lips, Ghost—Simon slowly withdraws his hips before thrusting back into her heat with a rough snap, bringing a gasp from her lips. Hot breath fanning against his mouth as he continues with his slow but rough pace. Feeling the way her walls constrict around him only ignites the burning flame in his stomach, causing his pace to quicken, his thrusts becoming much more firmer. Earning breathless moans and grunts to slip from their throats with each snap of his hips.

Despite the lingering pain she felt on her side from the rough movements, she could honestly careless about it, the feeling that quickly starts to build and form into a tight knot in her core helps her push aside the aching on her side. Especially when he repositions his hips a certain angle, hitting that spot in a delicious way that has her seeing stars, and also from the way he breathlessly groans against her ear with each thrust he sends her.

“Simon,” She breathlessly moans his name, eyes tightly shut, one hand gripping onto his wide shoulders while the other held tightly on to the hairs at the base of his neck,

The way she sings his name, his real name, every so often and tugs firmly at his now damped locks, only quickens his pace. Hips thrusting faster and deeper, causing her body to move with each snap, along with the beaten couch. Knowing she’s close to the edge by her constantly moaning his name and feeling her walls clench, Ghost slips a hand underneath her right leg and let’s it slightly dangle from his arm, which not only allows him a little more space to move but also grants him to drive deeper into her womb. Earning another beautiful sound to slip from her parted lips as he doesn’t halt his movements from the new position, instead he only moves his hips with much more force.

“Oh sh-shit!” She cries out loud at the rougher pace, moving the hand that rested heavily on his shoulder to the side of his sweaty neck,

After what seemed like the tenth snap of his hips she couldn’t help the way her nails rake against his skin, leaving painful red marks on his neck, earning a deep groan from the man above who only inflicts the same small pain on her by sinking his teeth on the side of her neck.

“Si-..Sim-… oh ffuck,” Her words immediately falter as a blissful wave of electricity rushes through her, causing her eyes to shut tightly and only dig her nails deeper into his skin as her orgasm slams through her like an anchor reaching the bottom of the ocean,

Mouth agape, eyes tightly shut, fingers gripping onto his hair at the base of his neck, she rides out her orgasm. Wave after wave crashes through her. The feeling was like no other, stronger than anything she’s felt, definitely strong enough to cause her body to start shaking from the intense orgasm that rushes through her, making her feel slightly light headed and making everything around her to sound muffled in her ears. As if that wasn’t enough, he continues to thrust into her, fucking her through her orgasm, fucking her into oblivion, fucking her till she became overstimulated, yet even then, he still doesn’t stop. Only quickens his pace, slamming his hips into her, hands leaving marks on her skin from how hard he gripped her as his own peak starts to rise.

Which didn’t take long. From the way her fingers gripped tightly on his hair, nails raking against his skin, moans, whimpers leaving her lips, and her walls tightening against him had him tilting towards the edge. A couple thrusts later, his hips begin stuttering, his pace slowing down as he was nearing the end. With one final thrust he quickly pulls out just as his seed begins spurting out of him, painting the outside of her folds.

“Fuck!” He groans deeply against her neck as his own orgasm over powers him, leaving his body stiff as a rock as he rides it out,

A soft moan rumbles in her throat as she feels his warmth hitting her core, feeling the way it slides down her folds and most likely onto the beaten couch. Seconds passed as he continued to hover over her, large hands keeping him upright as he gathers his breathing, face buried on the side of her neck while warm breaths fan her sweaty skin. Once the high begins subsiding, he gently places feathery kisses against her neck, definitely feeling the way she shivers from this and only continues in moving his lips upwards; underneath her jaw, her cheek, the corner of her lips before hovering just above them. Noses rubbing together he looks into her eyes, no words, just stares into her (E/c) orbs and hopes whatever he wanted to tell her was readable through his own half-lidded eyes.

She must’ve because just as he closes the little gap between them, he catches the way the corner of her lips tilt upwards, indicating that she knew exactly what he meant through his eyes. The softly mold their lips together, pouring every emotion into it, tongues gently tangling with one another, tracing the outline of each other’s mouths. It was just untold emotions that were being expressed by their mouths, and they cherished every ounce of it.

“Have I paid you back yet?” She questions after breaking the kiss, feeling the way her lips shift upwards against his own,

Blue yes scan her face. Observing her features, the small scar on her upper left eyebrow from a mission, her (E/c) eyes that he has grown to love, another scar on her bottom lip from where an old piercing had been looped around back in her teenage days and finally her smile. Oh how he had fell for her smile, it was the one thing that let him know that she was good, happy, excited, herself. He lived for her smile, loved the way it brought warmth to his chest, loved the way it made his stomach flutter, and it was also at that moment that he knew he had fallen in love with you. Did it scare him? Absolutely. Would he admit it to you? Yes, just not right away. He was never good at confessions, but he did know how to express them towards the right people, and she was definitely one of them.

A small smirk tugs on the soldiers lips, blue eyes softening the longer her stares at her, “Believe you still have a debt to pay once we’re outta here,”

A cheeky smile spreads on her face at his words, obviously liking that idea. After a second or two, his smirk fades away as he slowly bends down to connect their lips once again. She hums into the kiss and only lets her fingers cradle the back of his neck, gently massaging the muscle as they continue to pour their love into the kiss. Eventually, about another 5 or possibly 10 minutes of lazily kissing one another, they part away. Once making sure her wound hadn’t been damaged even more, they silently fix their clothes to get ready for their extraction. Once their vests are safely clipped on their torso, gun safely tucked its holster, they stand by the window as Simon reaches for the button on his radio. Mask still off and gripped with the other hand.

“All stations this is Ghost in the blind how copy?” He gruffly says into his mic, waiting patiently for a response,

Just as (Y/n) places her earpiece in place she hears the most beautiful Scottish accent ringing in her ear, bringing a wide smile on her face, “Lt? Nice to hear you’re voice again,”

“Can’t say the same,” A small smirk tugs on his lips as he glances at (Y/n), causing a soft chuckle to escape from her as she lightly punches his shoulder,

“(Y/n) with you?” The sergeant asks, making her chest warm up from his concern,

“Affirmative,” Simon response firmly, definitely ignoring the way jealousy rises in his chest from the way Soap calls her by her first name and not by her callsign,

A relieved sigh is heard through their comms along with, “Glad to know you’re still kickin’ and breathin’ Nova,”

Still smiling she clicks the button by her shoulder, “Can’t get rid of me that easy big guy who else will keep you out of trouble?”

A deep chuckle vibrates in her ear, “Definitely would miss my partner in crime,”

“I’ve send you our location Soap, give us an estimate on your status,” Simon interrupts their conversation with a crabby tone,

Silence is heard on their line for a couple minutes before Soap is filling their ears once again, “About 15 minutes Lt,”

“Copy,”

A relieved sigh leaves (Y/n’s) mouth, she couldn’t wait to head back to base, see medical, get some grub, shower and fall face first on her bed. What would make it even better if another body accompanied her in said bed, but she knew she wouldn’t have to ask, he’d follow her without question.

“Let’s go home,” She tells him with a warm smile,

Simon looks down at her, chest fluttering and lips slightly shifting upwards as he scans her smile. Switching his mask to his left hand, he lets his right hand softly cradle the side of her cheek before closing the little distance and gently latching their lips together. He pecks her lips once, twice, thrice before moving his lips towards her forehead and letting it linger there for a good five seconds before parting away to glance into her eyes.

“Stay close,”

Her hand softly wraps around his wrist, smile tugging on her lips, “Always,”

Simons lips slightly lift, wishing he can enjoy this moment longer but they both had to get going, dropping his hand from her face he quietly slips on his mask and tucks it in his jacket. Once they were set he grabs ahold of the knob and turns towards her, he sends her a nod which she returns.

“Let’s go,” He states, opening the door and checking his surroundings with his rifle in the air,

Once cleared he motions for her to follow, which she does, right on his heels, never falling behind. Even after Soap had found them and they both safely climbed on board, they never parted away, well at least Simon didn’t. He could have sat across from her, stood next to Soap to fill him in about how fucked up the mission went, but instead, he sat right next to her. A gloved skeleton hand fitting itself with her own, fingers tangling with each other and remaining that way throughout the whole ride back to base. Neither of them caring about who can see, but definitely not being able to hide the way a smile creeps on their face— well Simon was a able to— but not (Y/n) when Soap sends them a childlike smirk when he catches their hands at some point.

They didn’t know it, but he was smirking for two reasons. 1.) He was glad they had finally worked their shit out and finally come to their goddamn senses. And 2.) He had just won 60 bucks fair and square from both Gaz and Alejandro.

Of course neither of them needed to know about the bet that was placed on them, but like always, Simon found out. After witnessing Gaz and Alejandro slide some cash towards a smirking Johnny, he waited for the child to turn around, causing him to collide with his stiff of a body before smacking him upside down on the head, causing a burst of laughter to erupt from both Gaz and Alejandro as the Lieutenant walks away, leaving a pouting Johnny as he massages the back of his head. What neither of them saw, because of the mask, neither of them saw the way a huge grin was plastered on Simons face as he walked away, obviously satisfied and for once extremely happy. The happiness in his chest only grew once his eyes landed on (Y/n) coming out of medical, who was smiling back at him.

He really was home.

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-Hopefully y’all enjoyed this rather long Fic! I’ve actually spent way too much time on this when I should be spending the same amount of time on my Research Paper that’s due this week 🥲

-Anyways, Thank You Guys for your Constant Support! Love Y’all!!

-Also, I’ve already collaborated with an amazing artist for my next Ghost Fic!! So stay tuned for that!! Make Sure to Turn On Post Notifications!! 🔔 For the Updates!!

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[sleepingdeath-light]

thrill seekers ; 18+

requested by ; anonymous (kinktober entry)

word count ; 875

content ; sexually explicit content, anal sex, extreme water play, extreme breath play, drowning, extreme sadist!jeff, extreme masochist!reader

fandom ; creepypastas

pairing ; jeff the killer x gender neutral reader

read also on ; ao3

minors and ageless blogs will be blocked

You’d often joked that you and your boyfriend had experienced ‘love at first fight’ — having met when he’d broken into your bedroom in the middle of the night to kill you as he had to so many others before you. But you’d fought, you’d bickered, and then you fucked with his knife still pressed right up against your throat… and you’d been chasing that high ever since.

Of course the thrill of the knife never truly went away, but Jeff tended to use it sparingly as to ‘keep the magic alive’ (or so he said, personally you just thought he was being a bit lazy and couldn’t be arsed with cleaning it enough to safely use in the bedroom), so you resorted to other methods of thrill seeking in the bedroom. Role play was a big one — fake kidnappings, role reversals, getting tied up and blindfolded so you don’t know what’s gonna happen next, and so on — but you also got a taste for more dangerous things like suffocation.

Jeff fucking loved suffocating you when you had sex: putting bag over your head and pulling it so tight he can see every movement of your mouth as you gasp and pant and moan whilst he plays with you; wrapping his hands around your throat and tightening just enough to see your eyes widen with fear whilst he fucks you like an animal, only tightening his grip to startle rather than kill; slapping a hand over your mouth and nose whilst he pounds into you from behind, only releasing you when he can tell you’re reaching your limit. Acts like that were more than common between the two of you and you were always looking for something new to incorporate into your sex life — a new risk to take, a new high to chase — and you found that in a random documentary one of Jeff’s roommates had been watching in the common area.

Drowning.

Well, simulated drowning anyway. Fucking with your head underwater and your life completely in his hands. Enough risk to get you both off and you knew that he could be quick enough to do it without you being out in any serious risk of dying.

It was perfect, and you tried it out that same day.

—————

This might very well be the best decision you'd ever made as a couple; the hot weight of his body pressing down against you combined with the icy chill of the water mixed in the most delicious way — adrenaline flooding your system whilst white hot pleasure rushed through your veins. You were caught between the need to survive and the need to respond to everything he was doing to you, fighting your own instincts by biting down on your lips so harshly that your blurry vision was overcome with a haze of red (the coppery flavour lingering on your trembling tongue as you continued to swallow back every moan, groan, and grunt that threatened to spill from the base of your throat).

You struggled to keep your eyes open for very long, and the rough treatment your body was receiving made the water very unstable, but you did manage to catch brief glimpses of your boyfriend through all of the ripples and waves. Though what little you did see was more than enough to let your mind’s eye paint a delightfully erotic picture of sights, sounds, and sensations: the scabby red edges of his ear-to-ear smile growing bloody and broad, lips twitching with a laughter you could just about hear, his expression distorted so completely that his face was little more than a smear of white, black, and red to you; the singed black edges, frayed and jaggedly cut, brushing down against his scarred shoulders, occasionally tickling against your bare chest whenever he’d lean down to get a closer look at you as you struggled to hold your breath (so close you could finally see those wide, lust-dilated, eyes of his staring intently down at your as they came in and out of focus); the thickness of his cock as he pounded relentlessly into your ass, so harsh that even all of the lube you’d used did little to ease the combination of pleasure and pain he was inflicting upon you — but that only got you off more; the familiar roughness of his palms as he pressed down on your shoulders, forcing you deeper underwater when you started to struggle and thrash beneath him, something darker flashing in his eyes for a few seconds as your vision started to go an unsettling black around the edges, before he finally relented and pulled you up and out of the water by your throat. Strong and merciful, but no less sadistic as he watched you splutter and cough with a glee and pleasure so distinct that you didn’t need to see him to know.

The throbbing of his dick inside of you and his loud panting were dead giveaways to his enjoyment. And you knew that the moment you caught your breath, you’d be plunged straight back into the cold depths of the bathtub once again to be used and fucked and screwed until he was content and the water no longer ran clear.

You couldn’t fucking wait.

[quinloki]

Snow Topped Mountains

Merry Christmas @mewiyev \o/ I am your secret santa! ❤️

I hope you enjoy this short story and bonus art (I have been wanting to try to draw Katakuri ever since you made me a Massive Fan of him, your art style, and Maren, so I hope you enjoy it!)

Words: 1,274 Characters: GN Reader, Katakuri CW: None, I believe, horror-undertones.

The storm had passed, and so you were ready to head and and assess any damages, and if you were lucky maybe track some fresh game with the newly fallen snow.

Except now you were staring at the largest body you’d ever seen in your life. You would’ve mistaken it for the beginnings of a hill, but you knew the area better than anyone, and no storm was enough to move mountains.

You watched, nearly mesmerized by the sight, as the man’s massive chest rose and fell, in a steady rhythm. He was most certainly alive, for now, but unconscious. You, barely the size of one of his arms as far as you could tell, now faced the rather daunting task of trying to figure out how you could hope to save him.

And if saving him was going to result in your own untimely end or not.

Unable to simply leave any creature to its fate, dangerous or otherwise, you began to move. You had enough rope, and large enough tarps, all used for the village’s festivals. You might live up in the mountains to maintain the shrines and offerings to the gods during the hard times, but you weren’t ostracized.

“Fortunately for both of us you collapsed near the trees.” You mutter, tossing a weighted length of rope up into the branches and getting it tangled into place. It took you thirty minutes to get a network of ropes secured into the evergreens, and nearly an hour to get the tarps threaded on the ropes. The process was faster when you had a helper or two, but with the impending storm even your usual help wasn’t on the mountain.

Maren was going to be upset he missed the excitement.

The passing of the storm hadn’t cleared the skies, but it had abated the wind, so the labor of setting up the ropes and tarps was enough to keep you warm. You ran ropes in the middle of the small network, pulling a sort of functional roof together. It wouldn’t keep out rain, but it would let the fire’s smoke out and warm up the space inside.

You apologized to the large man as you had to practically climb him and a few times as you worked. Two hours later you could start hauling the ropes, pulling the network taut, and creating a massive tent around the still-breathing giant of a man.

With the tent in place you began to clear out the snow. You weren’t far from where you lived so you were able to get some tools to make it easier, but it took another hour just to clear enough to start fire. Once you got the fire rolling you started clearing the snow away from the large man.

The more you cleared away, the more you were amazed he was alive at all. He was barely clothed. Pants, boots, and a sleeveless vest. The scarf wrapped around his shoulders and lower face was fluffy and probably warm, but not nearly warm enough. There was no way you’d be able to get him out of the little clothing he was wearing so you decide to set up a few smaller fires around him. If he moved when he woke up, he’d just snuff out the smaller fires, but the extra heat would help dry the clothes faster.

The only thing you had to get off him were the boots. Though it was tempting to just simply light them on fire directly, you had no way to hope to replace them. At least the rest of his clothes could’ve been replaced by the tarps, but shoes were another matter. If they didn’t dry fast enough his toes could rot or get frostbitten. Either way he could lose them, or die to the fever and risk of infection.

You didn’t just spend almost five hours of effort to have your mystery man die to complications after the fact.

Unfortunately, the boots were neither loose-fitting, nor buttoned, zippered, or otherwise clasped. After some fruitless tugging you pulled out your hunting knife and carefully cut down the side of one, and then the other, pulling them free and dragging them away. You set up another fire, and began the jog through the snow to get back to the cabin.

Towels, a sleeping bag, some dried food, a pot, one cup, one large bowl, herbs and tea, and back to your makeshift tent. You’d need to keep an eye on your patient throughout the night, and that meant keeping him dry, the fires going, and keeping yourself fed. It’d be another day at least before Maren was going to be able to ascend the mountain, and you’d just have to hope he decided to bring more food than was needed for the two of you when he did.

Getting back to the tent you see your patient hasn’t moved. If not for the steady breathing you’d be worried he was truly done for. The fires were doing an amazing job, and once you set all the gear down you had to take your coat off to avoid sweating in the toasty tent.

Grabbing a couple towels you began to dry his feet, using some dry soap and talc to help ward off any other risks of mold or rot. The sheer size of him was a bit boggling. You’d seen giants before, and he wasn’t nearly as large, but you’d seen giants roaming the flatlands while you were in the mountains. If they hadn’t been giants you wouldn’t have noticed them at all from such a distance.

Once his feet were taken care of, you tended all the little fires, and stoked the largest one. You let a little heat, and a lot of smoke out, with a kick to one of the flaps, letting the rush of air hurry the new smoke out of the top of the tent before it gathered too thickly.

Walking over to his head you regarded your patient, taking note of his appearance with an attentive eye. Your only concerns before now had been if he was alive or not, but taking a moment to actually look him over was… surprising.

He had handsome features, cropped reddish hair, and tattoos that laid easily over an impressive physique. There was an ease on his face right now that wasn’t reflected in the finer lines found there. Stress and worry were etched deep, but his current state of unconsciousness left him looking at peace.

Whatever weighed so heavily upon his shoulders while he was awake, it made little impact on his sleep. Or at least this sleep, as unbidden as it must have come.

Temptation pulled at the corners of your mind, a desire to pull the scarf away from his face. It wasn’t worn for warmth, not with the distinct lack of winter apparel overall. So it was only fair to think he wore it hide his features. It wouldn’t be quite right to sneak a peek when such was obviously avoided, but the curiosity was strong.

Before you could settle your internal struggle yourself, the main fire cracked loudly, drawing your attention back to it. You went around and tended the smaller fire first, kicking the tarp open for a second to rush the small accumulation of smoke clear before minding the main fire.

Once the fire was set you felt it.

A gaze upon your back.

Eyes that held you in place.

Even as your own gaze was frozen on the fire before you, you knew what was happening. An assessment. One that could end in gratitude.

Or not.

[vegangremlin]

I have been thinking lately about why body positivity doesn’t extend to other animals. For the entirety of my dog’s adult life, he was ‘overweight’. For the entirety of his adult life, vets told us he needed to lose weight. And you know what? We tried to make him lose weight, and in the end, the only way he’d be a ‘healthy’ weight was if he was barely eating anything. And that would’ve had to be long term. I don’t know, but that sounds a lot like the miserable extent us humans can go to when we feel shamed by societal standards and beliefs. And it’s for sure no way to live your life (and frankly dangerous, regardless of being a so called ‘healthy’ weight).

So why is starving other animals okay, if it’s for the sake of weight loss? Vets did not seem to care that my dog lived a healthy life aside from his weight. He went on walks and played everyday, he was not given 'bad' food. But apparently none of this mattered, all because he didn't look like the vets idea of a 'healthy' dog. So they told us to feed him half his regular amount of food mixed with water or mashed pumpkin. We were essentially being told to starve him. Because let's be frank, only eating half your regular amount of food mixed with water or pumpkin sure isn't going to keep you feeling full for long.

Moreover, the warnings I was given about my dog’s weight exactly mirrored the warnings I was given by doctors. I have hypermobility and was told that it was important I never became overweight, as this would increase my risk of arthritis. My dog was told he needed to lose weight, or else he'd be at greater risk of arthritis. I personally haven’t investigated whether being a higher weight actually does increase your risk, but haven’t we discovered that (overall), being a higher weight isn’t often the cause of these things? But rather the fact that medical (and veterinary) practitioners are more likely to not take your problems seriously if you’re heavier?

Just like when a fatphobic person looks at a larger bodied person and might think ‘they should have more control’, someone might look at an ‘overweight’ dog and think ‘they should be more controlled’. Because really, when it comes to weight, it all seems to go back to control. How controlled you are, how controlled you are. Human and nonhuman alike. We’re all affected by these harmful beliefs, and I don’t believe they will ever be properly addressed until we recognise that it isn’t just us humans who suffer.

[avi17]

for the kiss meme!!! hobie/pavitr, 24!!! if that's a repeat of one you already have, lmk<3

24) A kiss in danger

New York- whichever New York this is, Hobie doesn’t even remember right now- is spinning.

They land less-than-gracefully behind a dumpster, Pavitr’s swinging awkward and off-balance while supporting Hobie’s full weight. The piled bags make a halfway decent cushion as Pavitr sets him partway down, unhooking the guitar strap to move it aside before letting him fully collapse onto his back.

"Puttin' me right back in the rubbish, eh?" Hobie chuckles, pulling the bottom half of his mask up as though that'll make breathing with a few probably-cracked ribs any less painful. There’s blood seeping into the fabric from the gash where his forehead connected with brick hard enough to smash through. "I've slept in worse."

Pavitr yanks his own mask off, breathing hard, his perfect hair even a little out of sorts. His sweat-shiny cheeks flush darker with embarrassment. "Shut up, it was the closest place I could think of to hide you." He glances nervously down the alleyway, before snapping back to Hobie and kneeling “What were you thinking, running right back into the fight after that? You can barely walk straight, let alone swing or anything else!”

"Told you I was fine,” Hobie retorts, trying a bit pathetically to push Pavitr back and drag himself into a halfway proper sitting position. Everything around him still feels like it’s moving, as if he’s dipping through the sky between buildings rather than flat on his arse on the pavement. “Takes more’n a crack to the loaf to keep me out long.”

Pavitr obviously isn’t having it, and he pushes Hobie’s mask up further, lifting each of his eyelids in turn to examine his unfocused pupils, wiping away the still-seeping blood with the pad of his thumb. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

“Numbers’re a tool of capitalism…oughta abolish ‘em…” Hobie mumbles, which is definitely a real view he holds and not absolute bullshit to make up for the fact that right now he’s got no idea. Pavitr hisses something in Hindi that he doesn’t understand but that has to be a curse based on the tone alone. It's sweet that he's so worried.

Shit, he's fuckin' beautiful. Both of him.

…Alright, that's not great, maybe Pavitr's got a point. But Hobie managed to string up his universe’s Vulture last week with his eyes still stinging and watering from tear gas- whatever the villain of the week can throw at him, he’s had worse. And this one’s no fuckin’ joke- he’s not leaving Gwen and Pav to deal with it on their own. Not that he doesn’t trust them- ‘course he does, and he can’t say that for many- but he’s not about to let them be the ones to get hurt because he let himself get knocked around one too many times.

Spiderman always gets back up- nah, that’s bullshit. He doesn’t care what Spiderman is supposed to do. But Hobie Brown does always get back up, without anyone but himself telling him that he has to.

He pushes again, harder this time, and manages to get a foot and a hand under him, ignoring the wave of nausea that hits him as he starts to rise. “Alright, I sat for your li’l checkup, let’s get back innit.”

He opens his mouth to say something else, but doesn’t quite manage, on account of Pavitr grabbing a handful of the front of his suit and yanking him in for a kiss.

Surely he can blame the concussion for the way his brain all but short-circuits.

He’s…fuck, he’s dreamed about this, even if this isn’t remotely how he pictured it happening. He’d have a hundred questions right now if his head didn’t feel like it was full of rocks. As it is, all he can think is how soft Pav’s lips are, warm like sunshine- perfect, just like the rest of him. And hell, it’s such a cliche he’s almost embarrassed to think it, but it’s like time stops for those few moments, letting them breathe the same air, letting Hobie memorize the feel and the taste of him in case this never happens again.

He doesn't even notice the twinge of his spider-senses, because they've been screaming for hours as it is-

-Until a nasty crash echoes from the direction of the fight and Pavitr's lips pull away from his, and he moves to sit, to follow them- and he can't.

...Wanker's webbed him to the goddamn wall. He'd be angry if he could see straight, if he was in any fit state to tear his way free. As it is, he's a little impressed, and more than a little struck stupid by the lingering feeling of the other boy’s lips on his. Pavitr is glaring at him, nostrils flared, and now is absolutely not the time to tell him that he looks even more gorgeous pissed off like this.

"If you are too stubborn to take care of yourself, then I will do it for you,” he snaps, wiping a smear of Hobie’s black lipstick and blood- far too attractive on him, criminal really- from his mouth before pulling his mask back on, disappearing back under Spiderman’s blank white eyes. “Gwen and I can handle this, I promise. I’ll be back the moment it’s safe.” His voice sounds softer, gentler than it did a moment ago, cracking a little as the worry slips through. He sounds more like himself, he sounds...it sounds like he really cares. And yeah, they're friends- or...something now, who knows what- but Hobie's still getting used to people caring.

...Or maybe Hobie’s just starting to hallucinate. Jury’s out.

Pavitr begins a running start down the alley to web himself back into the air, only to turn awkwardly mid-step, gesturing to the dumpster. “Just- stay there, okay?” he calls back, and Hobie snorts, wheezing out a pained laugh.

As if he’s given him any choice on that.

“Oi, Pav, hang on-” he starts, struggling pointlessly, but the other Spiderman is already gone, leaving him with the rubbish and the absolute mess of his thoughts.

“...Bollocks.”

[heilith]

Night by Night

For @noldorinpainter and @scyllas-revenge​

The Fluff bingo, Bed sharing with Boromir. It’s not all fluff, but I think it’s not that bad. :) Hope you find it interesting. The title sucks, I know.

Tagging @glassgulls​ @lathalea​ (you asked!) @mismaeve​ Not sure who else likes the Captain here. 

Night by Night

You were quite generous with him this night.

It’s been an hour since you took in a soundless breath and shifted yourself closer to him, burying your face between his shoulder blades.

Your nose was cold. Not the thing a man was meant to notice, when a fine lady graced his bed with her presence.

Holding in his inhales and exhales, Boromir bent his arm at an awkward angle and rummaged behind his back for the blanket to pull over you and himself. The only action he could afford, pressed down to the sheets with the soft weight of your embrace.

You grunted in your sleep, making him freeze with his hand still midway back to its place, but the alarm was false this time, just like many times before.

He had no means of telling when it had begun. The night he opened his eyes to find you next to him was weeks away by now. Whether he stayed awake for hours or let the exhaustion pull him into the vortex of uneasy dreams, there always came the moment when you stole into his door like a thief or a soul that had found no rest, your eyelashes down and untrembling - only to slip out of it with as little noise, when the dawn cast its pinkish rays over the walls of his lair.  

A nice dilemma your first visit had posed him. His duty as an officer had been whining for him to share a few words with the tower guards, who, apparently, had better things to do than to catch intruders, roaming around the castle and tumbling into royal chambers at their whim’s command. Alas, he had to shut it up grudgingly. Such an exposure was certain to ruin your reputation, and he didn’t expect any personal satisfaction to come out of that for him.

What gave him satisfaction, though, was meeting you in plain daylight the next morning. Your empty greeting pleased him inexplicably, more than a blush of embarrassment would have – a stranger surprise than that he’d got from your visit so long after midnight.

Unsettled by his own response, Boromir gave in and went with the flow. It took him little to persuade himself you never were a half of a threat to his well-being than you were to his peace of mind.

…You whispered something again, your lips as good as caressing his bare skin. His thoughts dashed in the direction he’d rather not follow.

It was worth the cruelest ridicule. He was torn between the wish to succumb to his urges, and the so unbecoming and so unfamiliar feeling of reverence. Somehow, at some point he’d missed completely, you had become a thing not to be fouled. Not to be touched - not even in his mind.

For now, he had enough willpower to sacrifice for the sake of the thing he had no name for yet.  

But wasn’t it cracking in so dangerous a way now…

Your hand was limp, as he stroked your fingers slowly, one by one, then all of them, cursing your deep slumber, your warm body, your peaceful face.

You bolted upright in bed the moment he was already staring into the abyss, as his mouth was moving from the inside of your wrist and up…  

“He woke up.”

Your voice had an unpleasant husky croak to it. Or that’s what he forced himself to admit against the thrill of hearing it break the silence of the night finally.

Boromir sat up still, staring into your face.

You were staring, too – into nowhere, and your eyes showed huge and unfocused, and limpid like molten gems.

Slowly he reached out and removed the strands of hair, falling over them in a messy curtain.

You were still sleeping.

The relief was rivalling the disappointment. He couldn’t contain a bitter laugh, the sound making you only more alert.

“He didn’t, love,” the lie left his lips without strain, “You come here.”

The way you nestled into his arms was almost painful, until he drew you in closer than it seemed possible, and you sighed, leaning back into him sluggishly.  

The morning was coming with an unpleasant surprise for you, thought he, savouring your scent, that was mixing with his at each small breath of yours.

Perhaps, it was time for him to seek for the words to explain how he’d found himself in your bed.

For this one was certainly not his bed any longer.

[alexanderlightweight]

For your Wednesday prompts - chained to the bed that I think you've alluded to? Please? Thank you!

ahahaha this went in such a different way then i intended to when i first started but yes i've alluded to it and alec is actually very happily and consensually chained to magnus' bed in guided by my unchained heart

like it's a very literally alec is happily chained to magnus' bed. because magnus would joke about it and after he quit the clave, alec showed up and was just 'so were you serious? because i have no pressing obligations anymore and i don't want to be anywhere else but with you'.

i hope you enjoy this

<3 lumine

-

Evangeline is at least fifty years older than Magnus Bane, but she’s never had the same prestige as he.

When she and Lorenzo Rey are contacted by the clave, because Bane has once again reached too high, it’s with barely hidden glee that she accepts.

Magnus Bane has kidnapped a shadowhunter commander and the clave is displeased.

At least, that’s the story she believes until a magical platinum chain is tight across her jugular and Rey is staring at her in shock.

—

Magnus isn’t expecting the treachery.

That’s what hits him the hardest.

Magnus is used to being in danger, it’s a part of who he is and his rank.

 That doesn’t mean he has the same understanding when he’s watching Alexander duck under a fireball, or hearing the snarl that comes from his boy’s mouth as a second one grazes Alexander’s arm. 

Magnus is temporarily locked out and away from him.

Magnus’ own wards keep him separate as they work to decontaminate the poison he was dosed with before it will let him near his boy.  It means that Magnus watches with anguish as he calls his wards to action and every magic available to respond to Alexander’s defense while Magnus physically cannot.

Because two warlocks made an appointment with Magnus and Magnus hadn’t thought a single warlock who remembered the last twenty years and Magnus’ part in the war would ever betray him to clave. It seems he was mistaken which is something he’s going to rectify as soon as he gets Alexander out and somewhere safe.

But then he doesn’t need to.

Alexander kicks up, grabs the chain attached to his ankle and Magnus thinks in relief that he’ll break it, use the failsafe command.

Instead, Magnus watches with surprised relief as Alexander ducks under magic and leaps up, higher than possible by a mundane. His movements are sharp and precise as he wraps the chain around a vulnerable neck and then drops himself to the floor to avoid the next blow of magic. The force of Alexander’s rather impressive form and the magic contained in the chain mean that there is a cracking, sizzling noise as the chain sears through sinew and bone. 

The second attacker shrieks in horror and the magick flickers.

Magnus is nearly free to help and until then he watches as Alexander struggles to use the blood soaked and now glowing chain to block magical attacks and slowly press his way closer to Magnus.

Of all the people, Evangeline Rose and Lorenzo Rey were not two that he’d thought to worry about. Which seems to have been a mistake, seeing as both warlocks entered Magnus’ domain in goodwill, and both broke it.

Suddenly the oppressive weight of his own security magic is gone, and Magnus moves.

He catches the chain Alexander is wielding in one hand and yanks his boy to him, catching him with ease and delighting in the relieved adoration Alexander looks at him with.

His boy is half feral and covered in blood but all of that gentles the moment he registers Magnus’ touch on him.

“Magnus, you’re okay.” Alexander murmurs and then he’s kissing Magnus, uncaring of the fact that he knows Magnus was brutally poisoned mere moments before. Poisoned badly enough that Magnus’ own magic wouldn’t let him near Alexander for fear of infecting him. 

“You’re in fine form yourself.” Magnus teases gently, licking blood off of Alexander’s chin as his magic stringing Rey up. Rose already dead by Alexander’s own hand. “You were splendid to watch, though I did wonder why you didn’t break the chain.”

“It’s less likely someone can get me out of your territory if the chain stays on.” Alexander says, like his words don’t have Magnus’ heart galloping in his chest. Because Alexander would rather be disadvantaged in a fight than risk being taken from Magnus.

“My precious Alexander—” Magnus murmurs and he kisses Alexander’s jaw before he turns with a furious click of his platinum lined boots. “Is there a reason, Lorenzo Rey, that you’ve come to a High Warlocks home under invitation and then proceeded to not only attack me, but Alexander. Who is under my intimate and immediate protection?”

“You kidnapped a clave commander, Magnus. It’s not surprising the clave wants him back, no matter if you've somehow convinced him into thinking otherwise.”

It’s Alexander who responds, lips curled as he sneers at Rey, “I’m no longer a commander of the clave.” He says, voice thick with anger, “I am also no longer a shadowhunter. I have no ties beyond blood to those of the clave or of Alicante. While I cannot resign my name and inheritance without disowning my family, I assure you, no one in Alicante has a say in what I do. Or where I go.” Alexander waits a beat for it to sink in as Magnus chokes Rey, ensuring he keeps silent until Alexander is done. “I am now the nephilim consort of a High Warlock, not a shadowhunter commander. Neither you nor the clave have any say here.”

Rey swallows, throat straining against magic and Magnus watches in amusement as his yellow magic flickers in distress.

When Magnus finally allows him to talk, he tries to speak before he can even properly breathe.

 “I didn’t know, Bane. We wouldn’t have come if we’d known what he was to you. We never would have gone against the Elders like this.”

It is perhaps one of the most grievous crimes another warlock can commit, going after the consort of a Council member or High Warlock and Magnus is both, Rey has no one to save him now.

“I’m sure the Council of Elders would be willing to at least hear you out, however I’ve never been one to forgive and forget and this was quite unforgivable.” Magnus tells Rey and he’s tempted to just rip the man’s spine out. 

“Why didn’t you announce it?  There were rumors of you playing with a shadowhunter but nothing about a consort!”

Magnus laughs, because of course Rey is arrogant enough to demand answers when his continued existence is still up in the air.

“Alexander is mine and mine alone. What would it matter if I announced it sooner, or later?” Magnus asks, taking a moment to kiss Alexander’s cheek and use magic to clean his boy up from unworthy blood. “He belongs to me whether I tell anyone or not. No Elder or High Warlock has ever been reprimanded for not announcing their consort sooner, Rey. 

“You just want to see what kind of power you’ll get from a nephilim consort.” Rey spits out, “you don’t deserve that kind of power, Bane.”

“Well, he already has it.” Alexander drawls out, sending Rey the kind of look he sends ants and mundanes, “not that it matters as he was plenty powerful before. Or have you never actually faced him?”

Magnus can’t hold back after that, not with Alexander staring at Rey in contempt and at Magnus in adoration and Magnus uses a mere fraction of his power to ensure Rey stays alive.

Then he slowly begins to rip the man’s spine out.

“Come darling, lets clean you up.” He murmurs to Alexander, because Rey’s death with take a while and that means they have plenty of time for Magnus to coax his boy into a soothing bath for the two of them. They might even be done before Magnus’ magic is done with Rey, which means plenty of time to pick out an outfit before Magnus introduces Alexander to the Labyrinth or the Elders. 

[capricioussun]

4am time to post massive snippet from a note I will not be sharing the rest of <3

Personally, I see UF Papyrus as having self worth issues not so much in the way of self hatred or low self esteem (under the bravado he puts out), but rather that he hinges his self worth almost entirely on how useful he can be. It’s put a tremendous strain on his own inner relationship with himself, that he almost lacks a sense of self. He becomes what he needs to be, to survive, for acceptance, in the hope of “earning” love admiration, to keep them safe. As long as he’s successfully doing those things, nothing else matters.

He’s convinced himself of that so much, so thoroughly, that he never lets himself fail, never lets himself give up. Because if he does, then what’s the point? What’s he there for? If he can’t even do what he sees as the bare minimum, what good does he do by existing at all?

Whenever I think about surface scenarios at length, there’s almost always some point he stumbles into an existential crisis. He has such a genuinely hard time understanding the reasoning “just because”. His entire life has been means to an end but the end wasn’t an ending at all.

Despite wanting friends and acceptance and affection, those have always been a “waste of time”, or even dangerous. A vulnerability waiting to be exploited. He and Sans always stuck together because it was the smart thing to do, because no one else knew them like they knew each other, because they knew beyond a shadow of a doubt they could always trust each other, and that was rare. The concept of Sans actually caring about him, enough to want to be part of his life simply because they’re brothers, isn’t entirely alien, but it’s never been enough before. If he isn’t useful to Sans, why would they bother? And since they don’t live together anymore, and Sans has Toriel to cook and clean, and he actually likes, seeks her company, why would Sans want anything to do with him?

Would he want that? Well of course! Not that he’d easily admit it, but he’d felt like he’d lost the right to being part of Sans’ life “just because” a long time ago. Back when he started feeling like more trouble than he was worth. When they barely had any food or stable shelter and it seemed like all he ever managed to do was annoy Sans or get them in trouble. Sure, he’d managed to “make himself worth it” by “pulling his own weight” eventually, but that set the standard for him.

He and Undyne were fierce allies, Captains of the North and South, she’d known him since he was a teenager, they’d looked out for each other. Maybe they each had different priorities, but at the end of the day, through even the roughest of patches, they’d formed a strong loyalty to each other. But they weren’t friends, don’t be ridiculous. The notion that she would choose to spend time with him for any other reason than that they work together is absurd. Sure, maybe they’d taken comfort in being able to relax around each other enough knowing the other wouldn’t stab them in the back, but again, that was just something to take advantage of being so rare in their society. If their furthering of trust building no longer benefits them, why would she want that? What does she gain from talking to him about “unimportant” personal matters anymore?

Frisk, Frisk at least he understands. They’re just a child, after all, they need protection and guidance. When children are young they also still need more “emotional” support, too, they’re still learning how the world works. But once they’re older and more capable of handling themself, of course they won’t need him anymore. That’s just how it works, they won’t need the protection, they wouldn’t gain anything from dealing with him beyond what would be expected professionally, and perhaps maintaining a few personal ties to help support a strong working relationship as well.

And it’s bizarrely self contained, too. He doesn’t automatically view others’ relationships through the same lens because so much of why he views his own this way stem from the burden of responsibility that’d been impressed on him from an incredibly early age, first by Gaster, then Sans, then Asgore. Sans and Toriel care about each other, simply because they do, just as Toriel cares for Frisk and Undyne and Alphys care for each other. But for him, he has to earn it. He has to be worth taking up space in someone’s life, he has to serve a purpose because he was made to serve a purpose, and it’s only exacerbated by how deeply he’d come to view his own intrinsic personality traits as negative.

Being kind, believing in the greater good, looking for the best in others was a quick way to get dusted and Sans tried desperately hard to teach that to him when they were living on the streets, because he had to. A good natured little kid like him would’ve been swallowed whole by their world and it was all Sans could do to teach him to repress and reject those tendencies. He needed to harden up and learn to prioritize himself but he never did because that contradicted with his “serving a purpose” mentality and led to Papyrus prioritizing the well being of everyone else first, but prioritizing his own well being enough to make sure he survived to be able to otherwise prioritize them.

But interests and innocence and kindness and seeking affection were bad. They were bad and would get him, and thusly Sans, killed. Loving and being happy and showing positive feelings are bad and so, inevitably, when faced with understanding he could be loved just because, he doesn’t understand why. What is there to love about someone who just is for whatever reason he needs to be?

False confidence was one key to surviving, part of his facade, but if asked why, he’d only be able to insist he is admired and respected for technical attributes. His strength, his status, his ability to protect, his loyalty, his intelligence, his ingenuity. The things that make him able to serve his purposes. He doesn’t consider the fact Sans is endlessly inspired by how immutable his kindness is. He doesn’t consider the fact Undyne thinks he’s hilarious and similarly admires his commitment to helping others. He doesn’t consider the guards might actually be loyal to him because they trust him not because of his status or power but because he’s always looked out for them, even when their own king would not.

He is incapable of seeing himself as an entire monster, and thusly incapable of understanding others can. That they could like, even love him, for every facet, not just the ones he wears proudly, pinned to his chest, a painstakingly crafted mask designed to earn approval. Maybe, maybe he might learn how to take it off, on purpose, and be able to see himself in the reflection. But I think it’d take a very, very long time.

[snakeoil2]

“Now, I think that, seeing as you’ve been running about the world, you might be able to talk to Krimmic. Make him understand that running off isn’t all it’s cracked up to be,” Kallum said, turning a focused look onto Yoku. It wasn’t a glare, but it was a loaded expression. Yoku had never been good at reading people.

Eventually the two managed to reach the hall where the trio may have gone down. It was quite easy to follow the path of destruction. They stumbled upon the three harassing the kitchen. 

For a moment, the three were surprised to be chased down by a stranger. They tried to run again, but Yoku nabbed Krimmic before he could join the others. Lifting him up, Yoku studied the young kobold. He looked about five years old. Not yet full grown, he still had another year or so before he could be considered matured. His scales seemed to be a muddy red hue, except for his underbelly, which was a dirty white. Krimmic’s large ears dwarfed his miniscule horns. A thick brown fabric tufted by white fur was draped over his body. 

Two facets stood out to Yoku though. On his back was a long spear, for a kobold. It might have been a little short for most humanoids though. Oddly, a portion of the spear was made out of… bone rather than steel. The Dragon Fang Lance. It was a mark of pride for the tribe, but due to its size and weight, few kobolds ever used it. Other than that was a band wrapped about Krimmic’s wrist. A brass band studded with rubies and sapphires. It marked one as a leader amongst the kobolds. Kallum had himself one such band. But the one on Krimmic was different. It took Yoku a minute to recognize the magic in it. He didn’t have a clue what it did, but it was there.

Krimmic crossed his arms in defiance. He was a big, dangerous warrior of the clan, ferocious and strong. Alas, he stood barely up to Yoku’s shins on his own, so Krimmic’s authority was somewhat undermined.

“You’re Krimmic?” Yoku asked. Sure, the band pretty much confirmed it, but it was good to double check. “Yeah, so what?” Krimmic replied. “I think we need to talk,” Yoku said, easing himself to the floor. Krimmic was still about three feet off the floor, Yoku didn’t trust him not to dash. “So, you’re interested in running off? How come?” Krimmic scoffed. “Shouldn’t you know? You already ran off looking for glory and whatever.”

Oh. “Kallum, can you and the others get out?” “Yoku? What is it?” “I need to talk to Krimmic alone.” “… very well.” Kallum ushered out the kitchen staff. While he could press the issue, he’d had no luck swaying Krimmic. If Yoku had a way to do that, to connect with the lad in a way he couldn’t, it’d be worth it. Krimmic glared up at Yoku. This might be a tough sell.

“So, interested in adventuring?” Yoku said. “What are you after?” Krimmic’s face softened a bit at that. “Well, I want treasure! I want myself a massive hoard!”

“Oddly, adventuring isn’t the best way to get treasure. You think, oh, I can just run wherever I want, plundering who knows what, but then you get told about all the fees various guilds insist upon, and also food, lodging, and all the equipment you need to just get through every place. You need to get really lucky to get a job that pays well enough to cover it’s own cost. That’s assuming it doesn’t kill you outright,” Yoku explained.

Krimmic’s face had long since eclipsed listening and traveled to incomprehension. It was apparent that he had considered the logistics of this about as much as Yoku had.

Not at all. “What do you mean? How do you get jobs?” “You get lucky.” Krimmic was downtrodden upon hearing of the far more realistic life of an adventurer. Yoku didn’t really want to break his dream, even if he had talked to Kallum about getting Krimmic to stay. “Y’know what? Let’s make a deal,” Yoku said. He wasn’t completely sure about this, but he had an idea. “I’m planning on taking over Pakan. When I’ve got a base all set up, I’ll invite you over. You can get some experience for the whole adventure thing. Until then, you gotta stay here. How’s that sound?” Krimmic pondered the offer for a second. It seemed like he would accept, but there was a nagging voice in his head, pushing him to ask a simple question. “Why do you think I should stay?” Yoku heaved out a sigh. He knew someone would ask this question. “When I set out, I wasn’t sure the clan would be safe. I wanted to try and become so ferocious no one would dare threaten you guys. Instead, I abandoned you, right when the Conqueror appeared on our doorstep. I should have been there, instead I left. I don’t want you to go through that too.” “But. But you came back! You saved us!” Krimmic cried. “I still left. I don’t want anyone else to know how it feels to abandon those who depend on you.” Krimmic seemed… surprised?… to hear how Yoku felt. The idea that he’d abandoned the kobolds… Krimmic didn’t think he had. Klyps hadn’t thought so. Keef… Keef hadn’t been a part of the clan when Yoku left two years ago. “Alright,” he heard himself say. Krimmic wrestled with the fear that Yoku had now given him. The fear that without him the clan might be in trouble. “Great!” Yoku smiled again. “Now, do you know any good kobold rangers? I need to track a few people down.” “Well, Klyps is probably the best tracker in the clan,” Krimmic said. “Really? What happened to Krag?” Yoku asked. “Not able to smell a thing since Klyps jammed an onion up his nose.” “Ah.” /\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Krimmic stared out the open window. There was a cart out in the yard, right by the gate. It was loaded high with maps of Pakan and some of Keep Rememberance’s best guesses as to where the tribes may be, some food, and one kobold carrying a sizable crossbow, for her. Her horns were more silvery than Krimmic’s, and her scales more brown than his Otherwise, it was quite difficult to tell them apart. They did have the same mother. Klyps had an anxious expression. She wanted a journey just as much as Krimmic did, but traveling all alone was worrying. Sure Yoku was a great warrior with numerous accomplishments under his belt, but the strength of kobolds was numbers and wits. Just two kobolds were not safe. Krimmic looked to his left as a voice rose. Keef was a new addition to the clan, sneaking his way in while they’d gotten themselves liberated from the Conqueror. His scales were far redder than the rest of the clan, and his underbelly far more yellow. His most distinguishing feature though were the pair of goggles over his eyes, followed closely by his bandolier of vials. Keef thought himself an alchemist, to the dismay of all involved parties. Krimmic enjoyed having him around. His many tricks were very useful… if they didn’t blow up in your face. “We could sneak on there. Yoku doesn’t seem too bright,” Keef suggested. But Krimmic was already shaking his head. “Yoku had me promise I wouldn’t go, he’s… he’s worried about the tribe,” Krimmic protested. “He always is.” Krimmic and Keef jumped as Kallum appeared next to them. For an ancient kobold in a wheelchair, he could be horrifically quiet. Was he invisible? Had he just greased his wheels? How did neither of them notice? Kallum turned a sad gaze out the window. Yoku was trundling back inside, grabbing the last few notes before they all took off. “Yoku ain’t none too bright, not at all. But he cares about us, and wants us safe. Whether that means trying to build us a home away from home, or fighting someone who hurt us. I think that if you went with him you’d be safe.” Krimmic and Keef glanced at each other. This kobold was the one immovable force which had stopped them from roaming free. And now… “Sir, are you saying we can-” “I’m saying that someone lost an important notebook, and Yoku’s spending a fair amount of time looking for it. I doubt he’d notice a pair of stowaways under a dozen blankets,” Kallum clarified. He put his hands to his wheels, and rolled off. Krimmic and Keef shared another glance, and shared a mischievous grin. 
/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Yoku never really talked about his ability to see soul’s strings. It’s not that it was some big secret, it just wasn’t terribly important. It was honestly annoying. He’d look around and see dozens of strings springing into the sky. Different strings meant something, but Yoku never bothered to learn the details, passed learning how to turn off the special eyes. But when three soul strings rose from the cart, and only one person was supposed to be there, he knew something was up. Yoku turned to Kallum, a single questioning eyebrow raised. Kallum returned the look with a coy smile. Yoku got in front of the cart. He picked up the handles, and began to walk down the road. Klyps kept trying to make small talk, obviously intending to run interference for the two stowaways. “Alright, you two can come out,” Yoku said once they’d gotten out of range of the Keep. One kobold head popped out, shortly followed by a second. “How’d you-” “Did Kallum tell you to come?” Yoku’s tone brooked no argument. If the answer was no, he very well may have tossed them all back to the Keep. “He-he did. He believed you’d be able to keep us safe,” Krimmic stammered out. Yoku let out a gruff sigh. “Fine, but you two had better have something to contribute.”

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Sergeant Daniels sat at her desk. She was finishing up her report. Her higher ups had been mentioning having a band of Falkran Mercenaries try and clear out Pakan. If she couldn’t provide tangible proof of progress before then, they might be out of luck. Sure, they all wanted to see an Epanak unburdened by the Conqueror’s presence, but the little progress she had made being wiped away as the success and skill of these mercenaries? Unacceptable. Sergeant Daniels would take this fool, this brute, this villain, Yoku, and forge from him someone who could fend off each and every fragment of the Conqueror’s broken legions. A commotion erupted from the corridors of the barracks. Yoku had returned. Wonderful, maybe they could have a meeting on how they should go about finding the many tribes of… what is that. Daniels watched as a trio of kobolds, not even up to her hips, rocketed past, leaving a trail of robbed soldiers in their wake. Those soldiers, of course, did not stay in their wake for long, lest they be bowled over by a storming Yoku. Daniels had her work cut out for her.