#how they blend one into the other back to back and end up making like a 10 minute narration of events

[sparkletastic-cookiedough]

Barbara calls Damian-Robin her “little brother”. I’m not using a version of Barbara Gordon that has a romantic relationship with Bruce.

That being said, reincarnating into different bodies probably messes with a lot of things, not just family structure.

//-\\-//-\\

Barbara Gordon knows she’s strange, even before the memories come in.

She’s incredibly smart for her age. She’s enrolled in a class for gifted children, and even then she learns quickly and easily. She’s incredibly advanced for her age. It’s as though she already knows everything the teachers tell her. She’s best at science and math, but she has skills in other places. The first time that she opens a book on Psychology, she feels as though she’s already read it dozens of times.

She learns to hide her intelligence once certain people take notice and start questioning things. After all, no human should be able to do calculus at eight years old, so it’s no wonder a few conspiracy theorists tried to kidnap her…

Barbara Gordon learns how to hack, how to hide her presence, how to use a computer with the same ease she learns everything. Somewhere in her mind, she already knew it.

She learns to run, to evade, to fight back in case a few weirdos try to kidnap her again.

Few things actually feel new to her, but when they are new, it feels wonderful.

She becomes obsessed with reading mystery novels. Sometimes she can predict the ends, but most times she’s on the edge of her seat trying to figure it out.

She has a strange relationship with the idea of Bruce Wayne. He’s a local celebrity, but something about the guy always feels fake to Barbara. She gets the feeling that he’s hiding something, but doesn’t have any proof. At the same time, he feels familiar. It’s comfortable to hear that he’s doing well.

And then there’s Batman.

She loves the local hero. She wants him to be safe, she wants to help him, she feels like she belongs at his side.

It’s completely irrational. No one would let a child out on the streets of Gotham. The thought of someone so young fighting crime makes her tense.

No one except Batman, apparently, because only a few months later, Robin shows up in a yellow cape and elf boots.

Thus, Batgirl makes her debut. If she can take out the nastier criminals, that means Robin doesn’t have to deal with them.

Fighting crime comes as easily as the rest of things- it’s a skill that she feels she’s learned before, and is relearning. Occasionally, she reaches for a gun that doesn’t exist. She tries out pistols at the shooting range at the police station, but none of them feel right.

She sticks to her makeshift Batarangs. Making her own equipment is the perfect blend of familiar and not-familiar. She learns the fundamentals of engineering with ease, then applies them with a bit of trouble. It’s thrilling to learn how to make a grappling hook from scratch, while not having to work too hard to master the physics behind it.

She meets Batman. Instantly, she feels oddly protective of the man, as though she’s supposed to be looking out for him, not the other way around. It’s difficult to express this idea when he constantly beats her at sparring.

Still, she’s better than him when it comes to technology, and she outclasses him by far when it comes to psychology.

She takes on Robin as a bit of a little-brother figure. Something about the role feels natural to Barbara.

This leads her to learning the identities of Bruce Wayne and Dick Grayson. It leads to her becoming their unofficial family member.

She loves Alfred. She cries the first time she meets him, but she doesn’t know why.

Then, she starts strange dreams. Dreams of being a different person: taller, thinner, less muscular. Faces and names are blurs, but are becoming clearer over time.

What’s weird about these dreams, is that many of them are true. She can remember the grand opening of a factory, smiling next to a man she thinks of as her husband, then watching the CEO of a shipping company fall off a stage. The event, as Barbara found out with some digging, was televised.

It actually happened. Arthur McKinley fell off the stage. His stupid green suit is exactly the same as she remembers it.

Some memories- if that’s what these are-aren’t provable, or might be false. She remembers seeing technology that doesn’t exist, a land with a green sky, dancing with a pirate, riding a dinosaur, hundreds of little things that never happened, probably could never happen.

She doesnt tell Bruce. She doesn’t want to worry him with her problems. Something about that logic feels familiar yet again.

Barbara isn’t interested in romance. The guys her age feel really immature. In her dreams, she’s married. She feels romantic love.

She’s never felt that outside of a dream.

Then she dreams of a little baby named Bruce, and she knows just whose memories she’s been getting.

Zatanna Zatara ends up explaining things to her. She’s a reincarnation. Over time, her memories will continue to come in, and her personality will start to blend with past versions of herself.

It’s odd. Some days her body feels entirely wrong. She looks in the mirror and sees a stranger. She writes down the wrong name on a test at school, gets questions on history tests wrong.

It adds up. Eventually, she tells Bruce.

The conversation is long, and full of tears. Bruce learns he doesn’t exactly have his mom back- Barbara isn’t exactly the same. Time has changed them both.

Martha was Bruce’s mom, and Barbara could never be that for him. Bruce isn’t a child anymore, Barbara reading him a story before bed wouldn’t feel the same.

Even after gaining Martha’s memories, Barbara is still different. She doesn’t understand the mechanics of reincarnation, so she doesn’t know why. She just knows she has separate tastes and interests, she has different opinions, she has different quirks and traits.

Then Barbara remembers a summoning ritual- one for the king of ghosts.

Before long, she’s smiling at the Ghost King, reunited once more.

“Hey Danny.” She says.

“Hi, Jazz.”

Royal Bats

DP x DC Prompt

Danny and Jazz always were together in life, and they would remain together as siblings whenever Jazz would reincarnate as a mortal again.

Jazz reincarnated a lot, wanting to experience the different things in those dimensions she chose with a fresh start and no memories. She had many adventures in her new lives, with Danny beside her as her 'Imaginary Friend' whenever she was a kid and her 'Guardian Angel' during the rest of her lives.

This new life she has reincarnated in has her living as a rich woman with a loving husband and a kid. The first time he's seen her have one in her many lives. He couldn't save Jazz or her husband's lives because of Clockwork, who had sent him on a small mission related to time.

When he returned to the dimension with Jazz's new life, he arrived at the funeral for Thomas and Martha Wayne, with their Ghosts behind Bruce. Martha, or Jazz again, had embraced Danny in a hug and told Thomas the basics of who Danny was to her, but before they left, Jazz left some parting words to Danny.

"Look after my son, little brother. Protect him like you how you protect me."

So Danny does. He follows Bruce around while he's training to become Batman. And when Bruce returns to Gotham to be Batman, he helps him with Lady Gotham. With each kid Bruce brings into his family, Danny duplicates himself to help each of them.

Danny had killed the Joker after his resurrection by Bruce when the Clown was alone. He couldn't do it while the Joker was living, as he needed to follow the rules, or else he would have had more paperwork to sort through.

Danny had been telling Jazz and Thomas about their son and what he's been doing about his feats, his children, and his friends. They did support Danny's decisions on killing the Joker. He felt a tug on his core, the tug that happens when he is being summoned, so he quickly said his goodbyes to Jazz and Thomas and accepts the summoning.

What shocks him is seeing that he's in the Watchtower, with the Justice League there, including Bruce and his children. All of his seriousness is drained out of him, and he smiles at Bruce and his family.

"My nephew, it is good to finally speak to you"

[summertimemusician]

Linktober 2024, Day 1, Mirror (Self)

Alright here we go again.

Technically a sneak peak of a bigger thing to come in the future that I'm repurposing, and the result of my final playthrough and readthrough before EoW dropped being Four Swords Adventures and that made me sad about Shadow Link again.

Note that this is for the Four Swords Adventures iteration of Shadow Link that might evolve into an LU Shadow, not Dark Link in either LOZ or LU, I have other plans for him.

This one shot was brought to you by Scars by The Crane Wives, Ribs by The Crane Wives, Ruin by The Amazing Devil and Two Minutes by The Amazing Devil because the author's playlist decided to be incredibly cheeky when they blacked out to write this like an ancient seers being cursed with visions and then called mad and hearing they've been put up for execution.

As always the nature of the relationship can be romantic or platonic, mostly due to the author's time constraints and further plans.

Anyway enjoy the reading!

It was cold.

The sort of cold after a wildfire, when everything's turned back to ash, the sort that left burned your vision white after the flames licked through your veins and left an ache in your bones. He shuddered, coughed black onto the stone floor, shaking with a muffled whimper.

It never got any easier, being dragged from the Dark World and into the Realm of Light, the goddesses' world itself revolting against an intruder, wanting the wound torn asunder into their oh so precious realm cauterized. To purge the intrusion and smite it where it stands.

Too bad for them (and for him), his master didn't particularly care about what the world wanted. Didn't particularly care that he hadn't grow accustomed to the pain or the cold, he had to stand up. There was work to be done.

(Shadow gritted his teeth, willed himself not to think about the prophecy of a golden haired princess- because whether he liked it or not, it was prophecy. As those with divinity running through their veins are wont to spill from their throats so carelessly- of violet eyes and a smile a third moonlight and hands holding a hammer.

It always hurt more, after one of the heroes liberated one of the maidens, or the jewels, the pain lingering for days afterwards and carving a home in his metaphorical bones. But just this once he'd take the cold bite of the Four Swords over the pain in the hole in his chest that Vio's betrayal had left, something that felt so much worse than every other time before.

Just this once he wished that maybe, just maybe, the hurt would be too much to bear, that he wouldn't wake up again-

Why? Why does it hurt so much but he's still here? He already knew the Light was uncompromising and unforgiving, but he thought them at least above curses.)

His ears twitched as soft, almost silent footsteps came up to his side. Someone crouching by his fallen form, setting a cautious hand over his own that Shadow couldn't help but draw away from with a hiss, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the world again, to your face, carefully blank as you guided him to lean against your side, a silver choker with a crimson gem winked mockingly at him, the shade closing his eyes and going boneless against your side.

Shadow was so, so tired.

He heard you quietly sigh, plucking his cap from his head and running your fingers through dark amethyst, smoke and mist made hair. "I told you so."

"Shut up." He grumbled, nuzzling further into the crook of your neck. One clawed hand curling against your free wrist, digging into the skin. Absentmindedly noting there were new scratches just above the metal.

It was routine by now, the warmth of your existence against his own a welcome balm, not quite of the Realm of Light where it's unpleasant, not too close to the Dark World where he felt like melting back into the embrace of the darkness, only to howl in agony at being dragged out.

Memories not quite his own bled into his mind all the time. How you'd shape ice into flowers for the princess in winter with nary a though, of blinking and from one second to the next you'd have whatever sword he had hostage if you though it was time for a break with a smile brighter than the sun.

His master had changed that though. It took months for you to stop trying to claw the collar out and to stop trying to fight Vaati.

(Funny how holding a mage's dragon as a bargaining chip is just as effective as kidnapping a ruler.)

Your gaze flicked to the polished obsidian of the Dark Mirror, to the gold, ornate frame. "The offer is still open, you know. Let me take the suffering from you."

"No." He scowled, leaning back to glare into your eyes, a hint of fangs poking out from a maw struggling to keep the shape of a human jaw, "You helped him. Helped them." Shadow spat, there is that hurt again.

You shrugged, a movement that's just slightly awkward as you flinch, "That I did." You confirmed simply, it almost made Shadow see red as he leaned away, knocking your hand from his head in the process, but if there's anything him and the heroes shared, was a lack of a desire to hurt you. It was a little grating to be honest, "Vio even offered to take me with him, to be honest."

"Then why didn't you leave?" He demanded.

Why did you stick around?

Your eyes shuttered, a hint of conflict in your pursed lips. Before you found your words, they come out softly, "You wouldn't believe me if I told you why. You'll just have to find out yourself."

You tug your wrist from his grasp, and Shadow lets you go.

(Stubbornly pushing down on memories and emotions that arearen'tarenotanymore quite his.)

You stand and turn away, pushing the curtains away from your sight, you turn your tired eyes to Shadow with an emotion he can't put a name to. "Just keep it in mind that there's more than one way to end this. Nothing is truly inevitable."

Shadow watches you go. 'There's nothing that can be done. He tells himself, hand hesitating above the Dark Mirror, briefly, it curls into a fist. The hero's original self stares back at him.

'… Does he really believe that?'

He shakes his head, and focuses on willing the Dark Mirror to show him his counterpart.

His chest still hurts.

[ladysqueakinpip]

not me lying wide awake at 5:30am on a sunday on my day off bc after almost a full year I finally FINALLY realized the implication of the end of remember them from the cyclops saga

[dbphantom]

maybe i should have gone into practical effects instead of computer science...

[snek-of-eden]

Just a heads up, AMVs are a bit different from edits: AMVs usually take all of a song or most of it, and set it to arranged clips formed to tell a bit of a story. They're longer and typically made using a movie editing platform like Adobe, Final Cut, or applications like that. Edits are shorter, they tend to use repeating clips or 'poppy' filters/transitions, and they're usually made on platforms like Capcut which require a lot less effort and experience. They're both super cool and valid, just different. If you want advice on edits, there are so many cool editors out there and I'm sure one could help you with resources.

I primarily use Final Cut Pro, but I'm pretty sure this stuff will work in most video editing platforms. I use a computer to edit.

So for the ones that i've done, i start with picking what media i want to make the amv out of (raeda, arcane ect.) and then i go to Spotify and scroll through my playlist to try and find a good song. that's a really hard part for me, but some criteria I use to pick is: finding a song with defined beats (good for scene changes), interesting lyrics, and not too long/short. You can usually shorten the beginning or ending or the song, so don't worry about it too much. Then I listen to the song on repeat a few times, and decide what the theme of the amv will be - sad and slow, energetic and fast, hopeful? That's just to get an idea of how you want your finished product to be.

Then (I'm not sure this is the best way and I'm open to suggestions but this the only way I've figured out how to rn) I go to a music platform like Soundcloud or Spotify, copy the song link, then use a platform like spotifydown.com or similar to convert the song to mp3 and download it. Try to make sure that the artist you're using lets their song be used on platforms like Youtube copyright free.

After that, I start compiling clips. There are two ways I know how to do this. 1: You can search up [Fandom/ship] screenpacks or compilations on Youtube and then go through them, screen recording clips you think will look good in your AMV. Shots with action and shots where the camera is moving are best in my opinion. Try to make these fit the theme of your song (sad, happy ect.). You will need way more than you think you will, and you'll likely have to go back for more. On a computer, these will save to files, which you can then drag and drop into the media section on your editing platform. 2: Some people (usually on Instagram or Tumblr) have high definition downloadable full episodes/movies of your media. With credit, you can generally download them and drag and drip them into your editing platform.

Once you've got your clips in the media section, drop your mp3 file in and put it in the section where you actually work on your video. You'll have to have some knowledge of how your own application works - most of that can be found online. Choose where you're going to start your music, and then begin dragging all your clips into the timeline. (If you dragged in whole episodes, clip them down first and delete unnecessary parts.) Then start arranging them and cutting them down so they work with the beat of the song. Continue this until the whole thing is clipped.

After that, you'll want to crop the borders of all clips to be the same size (i only know how to do this in fcp, sorry). For colour filters, they'll differ with each platform so I suggest looking up a tutorial for your platform. For making the words you put look good (I'm assuming you mean lyrics), there'll likely be a lot to choose from in your app, but the main thing is to make sure they show up at the same time as they're sung in the song - too early or too late is a big turn off, and you can change when they show up by dragging them back and forth on your timeline. Really common text effects like the purple sparkles or comic sans usually look a bit cliche.

For blending scenes with each other, just changing over scenes without a transition is fine. That's probably what you'll do in the beginning. It looks better on fast paced things, especially when you've got movement in your scene (ei. someone swings a hammer from left to the right edge of the screen, and it quickly cuts to someone moving in that same direction in another clip). You can also experiment with transitions that fade into one another, and a whole bunch more. These will be pre-made, and can just drag and drop them where you want.

Keep remembering to watch your AMV back from the beginning, tweaking things and making sure to change anything that makes you feel 'uncomfortable' to watch, whether that be a clip going on too long or being too short, or not having enough movement. Don't be afraid to delete clips if they're not working, and switch them around to try new things. It'll take a lot of trial and error to figure out, but it's so fun so definitely give it a go!! Hope this was somewhat legible and helpful, and feel free to dm me if you want to know something specific, i can probably show you on my mac and if not we can figure it out together :)

For the love of GOD someone needs to sit my ass down and teach me how to make amv’s bc I NEED to make a Raeda edit to Hoziers Cover of Do I Wanna Know that starts from Raines perspective and turns to both of theirs BECAUSE THAT WOULD HIT!!! Or GOD FORBID “BE RUDE TO ME” BY GIGI PEREZ

[shotmrmiller]

simon who can afford a better flat than the budget friendly flat he lives in but won't move. johnny doesn't understand. he wants to blame it on simon being the enigmatic, intentionally perplexing man he tends to be but he has a flat.

he doesn't have to. he's got no significant other, no kids (that he knows of, god only knows if simon's got a bairn somewhere. it makes him heated thinking about it. he's it's uncle, damn it.) why does he rent here when living in base is free?

the question answers itself when he's over one evening, empty beer bottles on the table, amber glass reflecting the warm glow of the lone lamp overhead. the television is on, volume turned down, blending with the other sounds of the night— the distant barking of dogs, the quiet hum of simon's fridge, the occasional car passing by outside.

the conversation had died down already, not like they don't spend almost every waking breath with each other at work and they'd been sitting in a comfortable silence when there was a sudden, sharp knock at simon's door.

it startles johnny, reaction instinctive as he reaches for his hip, hand curling around the grip of his holstered gun but simon seems relaxed. he pins him with a look and mutters, "s'alrigh'."

what does he mean it's alright? it's 'witchin' hour'' as his mam calls it, who could possible be at his door? he cranes his neck to look and—

it's you, standing up here with a flour-dusted apron, small hands holding a warm pastry, the steam twisting and curling off of it. you're exude homely charm, soft face glowing from the corridor's light (or maybe it's at the sight of seeing simon, who knows?) he can smell it in the air, sweet, inviting.

what johnny finds interesting enough to send a quick text to kyle is how simon is looking at you. as if you're handing him more than just a custard tart, but also a little piece of heaven, a fragment of a dream he hopes to have one day.

"'m sorry, simon. i wasn't aware you had any company. i just really needed to stress bake or i would've gone off the deep end and end up in prison."

violent little bonnie. he can see the appeal.

simon cups his hands over yours (he definitely did it as an excuse to touch you) as he takes the treat. if you make food to unwind and give it to your neighbors, johnny oughta move in next door too. he'll never turn down free food.

"don't worry about it." johnny's eyebrows shoot to his hairline at the softness in his tone, bottle halfway to his lips.

clearly more than a passing fancy.

"i'll just uhm, if you're friend wants some too—" but simon gently interrupts you before he can ask for some of that sweet comfort too.

"he's not hungry."

cruel, cruel bastard. he'll remember this day, jot it down in his calendar. when he gets a girl of his own, he'll be sure to do the same.

johnny wonders if you've got a crick in your neck from looking up at simon as you speak hushed words, meant only for him. can he get at least a nibble of that tart?

you shoot johnny a shy ㅤsmile before turning around and simon closes the door, turning back to the warming beers, golden tart in hand.

even the plate it's on is cute.

"ah can see the hearts in yer eyes, lt."

johnny can practically hear the air parting as simon's fist cuts through it, aimed at his head. he avoids it with practiced ease. "ooh, touchy. ah'll leave ye be if i get a bite o' tha'."

he doesn't gets not even a crumb because simon is selfish.

(simon moved here purposefully because he knows you live here and can't be at peace without knowing where you are at all times. there's a tag inside your favorite pair of shoes you left out in the hall once to dry after a hard downpour. the bakery you work at is down the street, if he looks out the south facing window, he can see you going in and leaving work. he likes to let himself in your home and smell your cushions. took one of your shirts too but at least made sure it wasn't one of your faves. he has to wash it every other day)

[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.

[pomefioredove]

need overblot boys with epel, and floyd with a reader that randomly lore drops as if they're an old dad like "yeah lol my old school had a shooting once....anyways *SNOREE*" and when asked they just agree and walk away and never elaborate whatsoever💀 if you feel uncomfortable feel free to delete or ignore‼️love ya pookie💥

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ a reader with a backstory

I got u 🫡🫡

summary: wacky reader lore type of post: headcanons characters: riddle, leona, azul, floyd, jamil, vil, epel, idia, malleus additional info: romantic, reader is gender neutral, reader is yuu

you find new ways to raise Riddle's blood pressure every day

little guy is worried enough as it is

you've already got your school work, taking care of Ramshackle, taking care of Grim, taking care of all the other freshmen, taking care of-

well... you get it

the last thing he needs is to hear another one of your stories

"oh, yeah, that's like the time I got stabbed"

"????? WHAT??"

what's entertaining to you and ADeuce is mortifying to Riddle

if you're not careful you'll end up sleeping on the floor in his room

where he can keep a close eye on you

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

you're like Leona's little court jester

and he takes you with him everywhere

it's not easy to get a genuine laugh out of him, after all

besides, what's so bad about a little dark humor? it's not like you died or anything

he knows you're a resilient little thing

and you seem to love telling him about "that time you crawled into a drainage pipe", anyway

you make him laugh; he likes you

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Azul indulges you

his white noise machine stopped working last month and you make for excellent background ambience

so, he lets you talk yourself in circles about your school work, your friends, Grim, Grim again

and then you drop the most HEINOUS bombshells in the middle

"blah blah blah Grim, blah blah Crowley, blah blah, that one time I got lost in the woods for a day, blah blah-"

he loses his train of thought every time

now, Floyd is the complete opposite

he will hyperfocus on the most mundane details

and ignore the bombshells

will give you an, "oh, that's cool" to your ghost story but will find you the pair of socks you mentioned liking three months ago

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Jamil is just fascinated by you

you as a person, of course

but also the fact that you're still alive

one night, he's explaining the reason he makes all of Kalim's food and you're like

"oh, yeah, I get it. I got mold poisoning once and hallucinated for a week"

?????

then you go right back to asking him about the recipe

sitting on the counter, as happy as could be

"HOW ARE YOU STILL ALIVE!!!"

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Vil is used to this

he knows that look on your face

he will shush you with a finger to your lips before you even start

"don't tell me, I'm stressed enough as it is"

he's going to break out if you keep at it

he finds you quite... macabre

which is entertaining until he sees you going down a flight of stairs without holding onto the railing and remembers all those stories you'd told him

he's just... concerned for you, that's all

and he does NOT appreciate Epel for encouraging it

"tell us more about the time you fell down that hill into that pile of rocks, Prefect!"

:D

like a kid in a candy store

learning new Lore is like the highlight of his week

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

"talk about having a high luck stat..."

Idia is more entertained than anything

he thought these kinds of things only happened in anime, but...

...there you are

it sounds like you experience more in a single month than he has in his whole life

and you know what?

GOOD

you can keep your freaky real-world experiences!

he'll just live vicariously through you

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

poor Malleus

he's been putting so much effort into learning and blending with human culture, and now here you are with your terrifying stories

you tell him in such earnest, too

you seem so... unbothered by it

perhaps humans are less fragile than he thought?

of course, he shouldn't have underestimated you in the first place :)!

then you come over for dinner one night

"hahah, yeah, last time I was at someone's house their grandma threw a lamp at my head and I got a concussion"

Silver and Sebek both go >_>

Lilia goes <_<

and then Malleus is there like, "ah, another fascinating tale :)"

[trashytracktales]

Ma'am, I just found your profile and I'm in love with your writing. I would really like to make a request that you made (After McLaren's victory today I was inspired haha)

Could you please write a short one for Lando where he and his girlfriend enjoy the WCC celebration party so much that they don't even have time for themselves (not that it's a big deal for them), but in the next morning the reader wakes up feeling Lando half hard on her back, while they're spooning, so she decides to wake him up with a handjob. So one thing leads to another and they end up having a slow, intense and delicious morning sex.

(if you don't feel comfortable writing, please just ignore. I will totally understand)

Orange glow | LN⁴

💌 REQUESTED by anon ──── Thank you so much for your support! Enjoy this one 🤍

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

𐙚 summary ──── After McLaren wins the 2024 Constructors' Championship and Lando dominates the Abu Dhabi GP, the night is full of partying. But the real celebration happens in the morning, hidden between the sheets, and far away from the outside world.

𐙚 pairing ──── Lando Norris x she/her reader

𐙚 rating ──── explicit

𐙚 category ──── F/M

𐙚 warnings ──── +18, mature/sexual content, fluff & smut, descriptive language, unprotected sex, swearing, established relationship, mentions of alcohol and drinking, post-race tension, spooning, slow morning sex, shower sex, hyping each other up, reader tries to be funny towards the end, quick Lily Zneimer cameo.

𐙚 word count ──── 3.5k

𐙚 date ──── Dec. 9, 2024

𐙚 a/n ──── I literally have a list of requests piling up, but I had to jump on this one immediately after last night, oop. I'm a Ferrari girlie through and through, and I'm not going to get into the details of how many times I cried this season, however, I'm so proud of the McLaren boys, and everything they've accomplished. A season to remember for sure. Now let the horrors (winter break) begin 🥲👍🏻

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

THE WEEKEND STARTED with a lot of pressure, even though the odds were in their favor. And it continued that way on Sunday, after Oscar's Turn 1 incident. Luckily, Lando's teammate had managed to claw his way back into the points by the end of the race. Lando, on the other hand, had been untouchable ever since the lights went out, his car gliding through each lap with precision and speed as if he was running on hopes and old dreams.

His girlfriend watched it all unfold from the garage, her heart constantly in her throat as every sector time flashed on the screens. When the checkered flag finally dropped, she could finally breathe, knowing how much Lando has been stressing about it, especially after the weekend in Qatar.

By the time the podium ceremony begins, the entire paddock is buzzing; she's absolutely sure that no place on Earth is ever as loud as the paddock when someone wins.

Tonight, it's her boy.

In the sea of radiant faces, Lando manages to spot her without any issues and, for a brief moment, their eyes meet. He raises the bottle in her direction, grinning mischievously, before pop it on the podium step and shaking it up, drenching his team principal and the two Ferraris from head to toe.

She laughs, her chest warm with so much pride and love.

After that, it takes Lando a couple of hours before he finally makes it back to her. Post-race duties pull him in a hundred different directions — sometimes simultaneously — media interviews, debriefs, and lots of photo sessions. But when he sees her waiting outside the McLaren hospitality suite, he breaks away from the crowd without hesitation.

“What's a pretty girl like you doing here, hm? You should've waited inside,” says Lando, his voice low, but full of warmth as he wraps his arms around his girlfriend.

He smells faintly of champagne and sweat that mixed with his perfume and natural scent, a heady blend that reminds her of everything he’s just achieved for both himself and his team. The adrenaline it's still floating in the air, and she can feel the buzz of it in the way he's touching her.

“I did,” she replies, looking up at him. “But it took forever, and I got bored.”

It doesn't take long for camera flashes to capture the moment, and Lando takes off his cap to cover their faces, as he leans in to steal a gentle kiss from her before heading back inside.

THE MUSIC IS pretty much deafening, and the lights are a kaleidoscope of neon orange. The celebrations continue into the night, while Lando is — oh, so shockingly — the life of the party, moving from one group to the next with a constant drink in hand, his laughter ringing melodious above the bass.

She stays close but lets him have the spotlight. This is his night, after all, and she wants him to enjoy every single moment. Still, Lando always finds ways to include her by dragging her onto the dance floor for a song, or pulling her into photos with the team, and brushing kisses against her temple as they weave through the crowd.

It gets tiring at times, so she chooses to disappear for a couple of minutes back at their table; a good opportunity to regain control over her breathing, and maybe down another shot. This time, she finds herself watching Lando moving anything but gracefully on the dance floor. He looks like he's yelling, while aggressively gesturing in Oscar's direction, the two of them laughing over something she can’t hear. The sight makes her chest tighten with affection, though. They both seem so carefree right now, so unburdened, and she realizes how rare that is. The season has been the longest ever, and it was filled with so much pressure and expectations. But tonight, all of that has melted away.

“Having fun?” she hears a soft voice from behind her, then her senses are invaded by a faint floral scent.

She turns in her seat to see Lily, her cheeks flushed from the heat, with her smile as contagious as ever.

“More than I expected,” she finally replies, returning the smile and raising her glass to take another sip. “It’s hard not to when I see them like that,” she adds, pointing at their boyfriends.

Lily laughs, nodding slowly. “On the way here, I overheard that they want to get a tattoo in Zak's honor.”

“Oh, fuck no.”

The two girls exchange a look, their eyes locking in a silent agreement. It's their cue to step in, take control, and save their boyfriends from their drunken selves.

It’s past three in the morning when the party starts to wind down. Lando finds her near the bar, his hair a tousled, curly mess and his shirt unbuttoned. He looks exhausted but genuinely happy and satisfied, his eyes bright with the lingering adrenaline of the night.

“Ready to head back, mon amour?” he asks in a broken French accent, slipping an arm around her waist.

She nods, leaning into him. “Thought they'd never wear you out.”

“Pff. FYI, I've got plenty of energy left,” he says determined, smirking down at his girlfriend and watching as her thin fingers button up his shirt.

She giggles, knowing it's not even close to the truth, “Of course you do.”

The ride back to their hotel is quiet, proving her that she was right to not believe him earlier. Lando rests his head against her shoulder, his hand holding hers, fingers intertwined on top of her lap. She can feel the tiredness creeping in, but her heart is still skipping a beat every time Lando brushes his thumb over her knuckles.

When they finally step into their room, he lets out a long sigh, kicking off his shoes and collapsing onto the bed.

“Fuuucking hell. I can't feel my toes, is that fucking normal?” he mumbles into the pillow.

She chuckles, sitting down beside him to take her heels off. “You just turned a two-syllable word into four, so you tell me. I could barely keep up with you, baby. I'm not surprised you're absolutely wrecked,” she admits, lowering herself over his back to give him a small kiss on the cheek.

He sighs, flipping his body the other way, looking up at her with a tired but content smile. “Totally worth it, though.”

She places another kiss, to his jaw this time, her fingers gently caressing his cheek. “I'm so proud of you, pretty boy. I hope you know that.”

Lando's eyes soften, and he reaches up to take her hand in his, letting it rest over his chest. “Couldn't have done a lot of things without you... You kept me sane this season.”

She shakes her head, but he squeezes her hand, his expression earnest. “I didn’t—”

“Baby, I mean it,” he interrupts her vehemently, “Thank you.”

They don’t talk much after that, the exhaustion of the night catching up to them both. Finally, when they change and slip properly under the blanket, they fall asleep together, the hum of the city below fading into the background.

THE EARLY SUN spills into the room, casting long shadows over the tangle of sheets. She stirs first, her senses awakening to the quiet hum of Lando's soft snoring. Usually, she would push him on the other side so she won't hear him anymore, but she knows how tired he was just a few hours ago.

His arm is slung loosely around her waist, holding her close to him as if she might disappear. She shifts slightly, and that’s when she feels him — it — a familiar pressure nestled against her ass, half-hard and stirring with his own slow wakefulness.

A small smile tugs at her lips as she stays still for a moment.

The rest of Lando's body is relaxed against hers, but even in his sleep, he responds to her presence, which makes her heart race. Carefully, she reaches back, her hand slipping under the waistband of his boxers. The moment her fingers curl around his cock, Lando lets out a soft, muffled groan, instinctively pressing closer. At that, he wakes slowly, the low sound rumbling in his chest as he tightens his grip around her waist.

“Mm... ‘morning, baby,” he greets her with a thick, rough voice, filled with sleep. However, there’s a teasing edge to it as he pushes his hips more intently into her hand.

“Good morning, champ,” she murmurs in a playful tone, her hand continuing its lazy strokes, rubbing the sensitive head of his cock in circles with her thumb.

He hisses, pressing his lips against the nape of her neck, his warm breath sending a shiver down her spine. “You waking me up like this just because I won?” mumbles Lando, his lips curling into a soft smirk against her skin.

She lets out a quiet chuckle, but doesn’t reply, focusing instead on the way he hardens fully in her small fist, the weight of him in her hand so familiar and thrilling.

“Fuck, I lose it when you touch me like that,” says Lando, fully woken up by now. “Feels so good, baby.”

Hearing that, she perfects her strokes, feeling the pre-cum coating the palm of her hand, smiling mischievously when she manages to pull another moan out of his mouth.

“Do you have to be somewhere today?” she finally asks.

Lando sighs in pleasure, his hips eager to move in the same rhythm as her hand, “Not until after lunch. Why?”

He knows where she's hinting with her innocent question, but he enjoys hearing her talk.

She laughs lightly, feeling his cock begin to throb slightly in her grip. “I just wanted to celebrate some more.”

Lando's hand slides down her body, instinctively, warm and purposeful, as he grips her thigh and drapes her leg over his hip.

“Alright then,” he whispers, his voice low and filled with a lazy, husky need.

Before she can speak again, he shifts behind her, freeing his throbbing cock and lining himself up, pressing into her in one slow, languid motion, thankful he has such easy access to her so early in the morning. Her breath catches in her throat, her hand clutching at the sheets as he fills her completely, the heat of him spreading through her like fire.

“Lando,” she breathes in sharply, her voice tinged with need, her ass pushing back against him.

Lando's arm tightens around her waist, pulling her even closer as he starts to move. His pace is slow, deliberate, each thrust a deep, measured push that sends shivers down her spine. The angle is perfect, his hips pressing against her as he drives into her from behind, her leg draped over his to open her up to him completely.

“Oh, god,” she moans, bringing her free hand to the back of Lando's head, lightly tugging at his hair.

“You always feel so good in the morning, baby—fuck,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against her shoulder as he moves. His free hand slides up her body, cupping her breast under the fabric of his shirt she's wearing, and teasing her nipple between his fingers. “So warm and ready for me, I could slip inside even in my sleep, hm?”

As a response, her head falls back against his chest, her hand continuing to thread through his hair as Lando buries his face in her neck. Each thrust is so agonizingly slow, almost testing her patience, but every single one is filled with a quiet intensity that steals the breath from her lungs. His hands are suddenly everywhere — cupping her breasts, brushing over her stomach, gripping her hips as he pulls her back against him with undeniable strength.

“Shit,” he murmurs against her skin, his voice low and reverent, “You make me so fucking hard,” Lando adds breathlessly. “So perfect around my cock every. Single. Time,” he accentuates the words with each thrust.

His sleepy voice sends a fresh wave of heat through her, her body trembling as she grips the sheets tighter, trying to hold on to the feeling of him fucking her like that. Too soon, their movements grow less coordinated as they both near the edge, their breaths coming faster, blending together in the quiet room.

“Lan…” she gasps, her voice breaking as his hand slides lower, his fingers finding her clit.

“Come on my cock, baby. I’ve got you,” he whispers, his voice rough with need as his fingers work in time with his slow, deep thrusts. “Let go for me.”

“Oh, fuck,” she cries out, her thighs wanting to press together in pleasure, but Lando's other hand holds her open for him, the slick sound of him pushing in and out of her pussy, an exquisite melody for his ears.

Soon enough, her body tenses, her moans turning into soft whimpers as she comes, her release washing over her in waves that leave her legs shaking. Lando follows moments later, his thrusts growing erratic before he stills inside her, his body shuddering as he presses himself as deep as he can.

They take a long moment to breathe, their bodies joined together. His hand brushes soothing circles over her stomach, his lips pressing lazy kisses to her shoulder and neck, before pulling the shirt over her head so he can feel her in his arms without any obstacles.

“You’re dangerous as hell when you wake me up like this,” he finally speaks, his voice raw.

She laughs, her body still humming with the aftershocks. “Are you complaining?”

“Not even a little,” he admits, pulling her closer and nuzzling into her neck, inhaling her scent.

They stay just like that for a while, making her wonder if Lando fell back asleep, but then he presses one more kiss to her shoulder, his lips lingering there as he shifts, pulling gently out of her. The instant emptiness draws a soft gasp from her, and they both feel the warmth of their shared release slipping between them, dampening the sheets beneath.

He lets out a quiet chuckle, his hand trailing down her thigh before slipping back between her legs. Slowly, his fingers press into her fucked out pussy, gathering as much cum as he can so he can push it back inside.

“God, you're so dirty, baby,” he murmurs against her ear, his voice a mix of affection and playful reprimand. “You should probably take a shower, I'm just saying.”

Her heart starts racing again at the sweet sensation of his fingers, but she doesn’t let him have the last word. She finally turns around in his arms, wanting to see his pretty face bathed in the orange glow of the morning. Her lips find his in a superficial kiss, as one of her hands wraps around his body, pressing firmly against the small of his back and pulling him closer. As their bodies press together, his cock rests between their stomachs, still half-hard and slick with the remnants of their orgasms.

She breaks the kiss just long enough to smirk up at him, her voice teasing as she murmurs, “Yeah? Look who’s talking.”

Lando groans, his head falling back against the pillow as he laughs softly. “Touché,” he whispers, his hands gripping her waist.

Before she can say anything else, he flips them over, pulling her on top of him with an effortless motion. She straddles his hips, her thighs pressing into his, her pussy pressing down on his length. They both exhale at the wet feeling between their bodies, but none of them dares to make another sudden move.

“I wanted to take you in the middle of the dance floor last night,” admits Lando, his hands sliding up to cup her hips, his fingers brushing the sensitive skin there.

“Why didn't you?” she counters, her voice playful as she leans down to kiss him again.

“You would've let me, wouldn't you? Fuck you where everyone can see how pretty you look with my cock inside you?”

She presses one more kiss to his lips, mostly to shut him up, “I'd let you fuck me anywhere you want, my love.”

Lando's fingers tighten around her waist, making her whimper against his jaw, “So fucking easy for me, baby. You're gonna end me one of these days.”

“Not today, though,” she exhales abruptly, fucking her hips onto Lando's length, with no intention other than teasing him.

“Behave,” he says softly, cupping the back of her head in his palm so he can pull her back into a sinful kiss.

They linger there for a while, the morning hues catching in the strands of his messy hair and the faint sheen of sweat on their skin. It’s warm, so intimate, and entirely theirs — a connection that no one can take away nor break.

Eventually, Lando lets out a mock-serious sigh, his hands sliding up her back, stopping roughly at her thighs to squeeze her. “Alright, gorgeous. Shower time. Before we ruin these sheets completely.”

She laughs, climbing off him and wincing slightly at the sticky mess between her thighs. He catches the movement and smirks, playfully slapping her ass as he sits up.

“Come on,” says Lando, taking her hand and pulling her towards the bathroom.

The shower is already steaming up when they step inside, the hot water cascading over their bodies. Lando's fingers are lazily tracing patterns on her back, hers tangling in his wet hair as they share languid kisses under the spray.

“Do you even know what you mean to me?” he whispers, his voice low and filled with adoration. His hands trail up her back, fingers tracing her curves, memorizing every inch of her, all over again. “What you do for me? God, I don't need anything else.”

Her cheeks warm, though whether from his words or the water, she isn’t sure. She tilts her head up, her smile soft and full of affection for him. “Lando, I’m just here for you. You’re the one out there doing the impossible every single day. My champion.”

He lets out a quiet laugh, shaking his head as he presses his forehead against hers. “You're so sweet, love. But you know I'm not a champion yet, my team is.”

Her hands slide up his chest, fingers resting over his heart as she gazes at him, her voice steady and determined. “You are McLaren, Lan. You and Oscar, hold everything together. It's a great responsibility, and I've seen what it did to you this year. The good, the bad, and everything in between.”

For a moment, Lando goes silent, his eyes softening as he takes her in. The quiet between them is filled with the sound of the water, and everything he wants to say to her but can't. It'd be too soon, and he has a habit of letting his mouth loose when his emotions get the best of him.

She notices that, and she knows he's working on it, that's why she won't let the moment grow too serious, “Though, to be fair, Oscar has done you and McLaren a lot of favors this season, no?”

Lando’s startled laugh echoes off the tiled walls, and he pulls back to look at her, his grin wide and mischievous. “Oh, yeah? Is that what we’re doing now?”

Before she can respond, he presses her back against the cool tiles, his hands gripping her thighs as he lifts her slightly, her back arching under the contrast of the chilled surface and the hot water.

“Lando!” she gasps in surprise.

“You take that back,” he growls playfully, his lips capturing hers in a possessive kiss that knocks all the air out of her lungs.

Her laughter dissolves into a moan as he pushes into her again, slow and deep, filling her completely. Her legs wrap around his waist, anchoring herself against him as he pulls out all the way, only to slam back inside, setting a rhythm that’s somehow both lazy and desperate.

The shower fills with the sound of water splashing and the soft, breathless moans that escape her lips, her head falling back against the tiles as he buries his face in her neck. His hands grip her thighs harder, holding her steady as he thrusts deeper, each motion pulling gasps and cries from both of them.

“You saying Oscar’s better than me?” he teases, his voice strained but filled with humor.

“Maybe,” she jokes, breathing out sharply, her nails raking down his back as she arches into him. “But you’re doing a stellar job convincing me otherwise.”

Lando's laugh is low and breathless, turning into a groan as he quickens his pace.

For a lot of people, winning means lifting a trophy above their heads, but for him, it's the rhythm of their bodies moving together — a louder kind of triumph that manifests into delicious moans and whimpers.

It's the kind of podium he will never get tired of stepping on.

Thank you for reading!

None of my works are available for reposting on other platforms. Reblogs, likes, and comments are deeply appreciated ♥︎

© trashy track tales, 2024

[steor-ra]

Bring back the dead (1) (2)

Y!batfam x neglected!Gn

(Read author's note in the end for more information/updates!)

Sometimes you've wondered if there's a another universe where you'd be happy.

Perhaps in another universe, you would have a loving, caring family, much like the other kids at the park who always have genuine smiles on their faces while you look on with enviousness and a heavy heart as a child. You've always wondered, though, what if things had turned out differently, what if your mother had truly wanted you as a child so you wouldn't end up with your biological father, or maybe bruce payed more attention to you instead of that stupid costume and crowl.

Your stomach would sometimes churn at the prospect of being loved; it didn't seem right. Perhaps you didn't enjoy the sound of being loved because you've become accustomed to feeling neglected. It no longer hurts when Bruce passes past you or you see any of your siblings hanging out.

Maybe you just don't know what it's like to feel loved.

you've seen how Bruce cares for others, including Gotham's villains, to whom he pledged to defend everyone strolling down the shallow street full of evil.

You've seen how he'd be there if Dick was seriously injured, how he'd be comforting Dick as you stand beside the bed Dick is lying on, completely discarding you, as if Bruce is presenting you with a reality you've always desired, shoving it in your face that the only time you'll ever receive attention from him is through your imagination. it hurts to see that Bruce could actually care if someone is hurt, no matter how big or small, whereas, despite being deeply scarred by an abusive drug addict mother, you knew that Bruce won't care if you are dying right now; there are other problems in Gotham he needs to deal with. Atleast that's what you thought, maybe there's a tiny bit of hope?

It's perplexing when you feel the green-eyed monster tighten your heart when you witness the Wayne 'family' joyful without you because your gut always tightens the same way when you imagine yourself standing alongside them.

It just didn't stick right to the fantasies of being doted on like Damian by his siblings, admired like Dick, constantly praised for your intelligence like Tim and Barbara, having your father's attention the same amount as Jason, being cared for like Stephanie or Cassandra, and being loved by your father, Bruce.

The family was odd, to be sure, but that didn't stop them from being so talented that you stood out like a sore thumb; sometimes you just wish that, aside from Alfred, at least one of them wasn't a vigilante who would rather fight criminals who killed a child than admit that they themselves had killed one.

But what if you had a much more different life than this one?

Maybe you'd be an only child; you've always felt like one, but maybe now that your siblings are gone, Bruce's attention would be focused to you, and maybe you two could finally go on father-child dates. You can't picture what Bruce would be like during it though; will he still be the cold 'father' to you? Or will he be compassionate, like he is with Damien? The questions wrecked your fantasies, so you abandoned them, just as your mother did to you.

Or perhaps you'd be the oldest; like Dick, you'd have younger siblings who would look up to you, see you as a figure, and possibly love your younger siblings in ways you never were. You'd adore your first baby sibling till the last, making certain not to disregard anyone, like Dick did to you.

Or maybe you'd be one of them, one of the bat-vigilantes, fighting alongside them, with many skills to blend in with them; maybe you wouldn't be neglected now that you're a vigilante; you'd be in Batman's care, and he'd give you attention through training; and maybe Damian wouldn't harass you for being "useless" just because you're not on their team. As a vigilante, you might get harmed all the time, but it wouldn't make a difference in this reality, would it?

It aches to know that the only way you'll ever be able to receive affection is through fantasy, even if the imagination felt cold and lonely, which probably because you didn't know what it feels like to receive warmth from your family.

It's complicated but that's okay. You won't ask for it now that you know you're dying without ever experiencing love from your supposed father, Bruce, or being saved by Batman, all in the name of protecting others who are worthy of his presence.

You are not afraid of dying, but the idea of being alone during it is frightening. You feel sorry for yourself, knowing that you will be alone until your dying breath.

Even until your last breath, you'd be mumbling their names like a broken mantra, praying for them to save you, the same way you had when you still believed in their promises.

It hurts so much. everything aches in both ways.

In comparison to the other kidnappers, the kidnapper is brutal and shows no mercy. This time, the adductor is the well-known Joker, and you're frightened This is the same villain who carelessly attempted to beat Batman nearly every day, who viciously murdered your brother Jason, and who rendered Barbara crippled. Joker is the guy who wrecked your family, so hearing his name should send shivers down your spine.

You screamed in agony as the joker tore your nails one by one; your head ached, and all you could hear was a loud pitch ringing. You're covered in bruises and blood, from head to toe.

It didn't help that all you could think about was the possibility of dying without anyone knowing, which terrified you. All those nights and days of ignoring you in order to save the city meanwhile when you're genuinely in need of help from your family whom are heroes, will also ignore it, and it breaks you.

Are you actually a burden to them? Are you truly that worthless that you can't be spared this torture? Not to be rescued by your own father? Is anyone considered part of a family? All you did was ask for a savior coming from your vigilante family. Was that a lot to ask for?

Suddenly, all of the pain felt numb, and a knife has been plugged into your chest, leaving an aching hole where your heart should be. The nasty, jagged bit of steel soaked in thick red that dripped from your chest became your best friend; it sticks closer to your heart more than anyone else has ever been.

The ringing drowned out Joker's maniacal laughter as he crackled at the way your eyes went blank and your body slumped.

"Aw man~ this bird is sooo boring" he sighs dramatically "no wonder brucie didn't care"

"Poor you~"

And with that, you fell unconscious

Dick has never felt so guilty since his parents' deaths and for making the Robin a legacy, causing some deaths and permanent damages, but those feelings fail in comparison to the guilt he is experiencing right now. The more he watches the videos you've made over your time at the mansion, the more he wants to scream and rip his hair out.

He thinks it's lovely at first because you enjoy capturing your life through vlogging; that was the first thing he learned about you, and if he brings you back, he'll make sure to learn every single action. But you're of legal age to do and go whatever you want, and he knows that, the guilt of not knowing your age is killing him, and the realization that he and others have practically disregarded you your entire existence stings. He's supposed to be a figure to everyone; he's become one to whatever child Batman comes, as well as others all across the world, so he feels bad that he wasn't a brother figure to you. God knows what trauma you've been through being neglected all your life.

But that is beneath the point. He's currently looking back to the day you were first brought to the manor. Alfred was the one who welcomed you and offered you a digital camera to entertain yourself. Dick knows this because he saw it at the beginning of the video.

The video quality is awful; he figured because this was filmed years ago, there isn't a date specifying when it was made; still, you're cute; the first time he sees your face, he's stunned. When did you get that cute?

When he first met you personally, you appeared lonely, shy, and sad. It's like he is witnessing a totally different person on the video. Was his first impression of you mistaken all along? He's ashamed to admit it, but the way he first saw you was one of the reasons he avoided you; he didn't expect to ignore you for the rest of your life though. He feels like a jerk.

"I'm finally going to meet my real dad; I can't believe it's Bruce Wayne as well! I wonder if I'll also meet his sons, or my brothers," you grinned at the camera as you showed around the house. "It's sooo big; I hope I could play hide and seek with them, I love that game"

Dick couldn't help but smile at your grin, which turned into a grimace when he realized they'd never engaged with you properly. He groaned and went to the most recent video. This time, you're older, with heavy circles under your eyes; you appeared exhausted, but you smiled at the camera anyhow.

Candles have laminated the room, and a little cupcake is placed in front of you. And Dick's heart dropped when he spotted the calendar behind you, only 5 months after you taped this, and it was your birthday. Dick remembers spending the weekend at the manor with his siblings and, apparently, everyone else except you. His eyes saddened as you began singing Happy Birthday to yourself. There are cracks between some lines, yet your voice is soulful, even if you appeared soulless at the time. Dick can't help but be impressed by the way your voice sounds in Harmony.

The video ended when tears has finally fallen from your eyes , and dick is a mess; he was sweating, his eyes were dilated, his hair was tangled from how much he was nervously pulling it, and he appeared to have witnessed something horrible. Oh God, his chest is clenching so hard that he can't breathe. He feels like a monster.

He grabbed his phone with shaking hands and searched for you on social media, but there was nothing. There is nothing for websites. There's some humor about you in papers, but whereabouts are you currently There is nothing. And Dick knows that he needs to ask for Bruce's help, your father. Dick is furious with Bruce right now; how could Bruce not be aware that you had moved out? If he did, why didn't Bruce remind him of your presence? Did your father also ignore you?

Do the family knows about your existence here in the manor?

Dick was about to have a panic attack if a notification hadn't appeared unexpectedly. Dick's heart breaks as he receives a text message from an unknown number with a photo of you unconscious and beaten.

(Next chapter)

(A/n: Thank you for all y'all support, I hope you enjoyed reading this🤗💞 and I'm really sorry for the wait, will repeat though 😓🥲 taglist is broken lol )

Taglist: @nosyrobin @dhanyasri @sheepintherain @hasty-desert @m3ntally-unstable @cupids-pretty-boy @bat1212 @illytian @lilyalone @lafemmii @sweetconnoisseurgardener @ch1cky-093 @shycreatorreview @tdickensstuff4 @vanilliona @theblonde777 @purplelady22 @imacollosssaltitan @brrrr-brain-machine-broke @pi1nkl0ver @fantasyhopperhea @caffeinatedvigilantewriter

[classyrbf]

COME HOME! — TOJI FUSHIGURO

SYNOPSIS...you’re afraid one day he won’t come home, leaving you in a constant state of worry and fear of what could happen especially with his family in on the line

INFO...toji fushiguro x ex assassin fem!reader, fluff with some angst, domestic relationship, megumi is readers bio kid, toji an assassin, mentions of blood, sweet ending, not proofread

OTHER...likes and reblogs are appreciated

i'm sorry for being gone for so long and not writing anything or even sticking to my kinktober plan, quite literally fell into a black hole of unmotivation and writing smut was not helping at all lmao

The night was brutal, cold air striking your skin and the winds were sharp. Yet, you sat by the cracked window, your skin felt like it was on fire. Police sirens flooded the silence and the small dim lamp did its best to light up the room. With your knees tucked to your chest, you sat and watched the cars drive by, one of the streetlights flickering every now and again. Little Megumi slept soundly in his room, tucked warmly in his bed with his favorite stuffed dinosaur. You had been up for hours, waiting for Toji to come back home from his job.

You lived with worry that one day he wouldn’t show up, come back home to you and his son. What he did was dangerous, being an assassin and what not. He always brags about how he’s the best, so fast and strong, silent as a mouse that most of them don’t even get the chance. But, what if there’s someone out there who is strong enough to put up a fight? What if he gets caught? Seriously injured? That’s what makes you worry. You knew what you were getting yourself into from the moment you met him because you also used to be an assassin, but as soon as you found out you were pregnant, that lifestyle was cut short. You’d never do anything to put your son in danger.

Many talks between you Toji about changing what he does, doing something better, safer, always led to arguments. It’s like killing was the only thing he knew how to do. It’s sad to say. But you couldn’t help but love him, and worry for him, care for him. You only wanted Megumi to be safe. The job was a dangerous one. Creating enemies along the way, a target painted on your head. You just needed him to come home. Nervously biting at your nails, your eyes scanned the streets and tops of the grungy apartment buildings. You always wanted to move out of this damn city, but Toji said it’d be too obvious if you two moved somewhere nice, somewhere you couldn’t blend in. As much as you hate to admit it, he was right. You just didn’t want Megumi growing up here, turning out like you or his father. You wanted better for your son.

The rattling of the doorknob makes your head spin, jumping to your feet before even thinking. You were on full alert, hoping whoever walks in was your husband and your husband only. Your eyes narrowed, the bulky frame of Toji stumbling through the doorway, his skin pale and shining with sweat. He slammed the door behind him, groaning in pain as he dragged his feet across the floor and to the nearest chair. He didn’t look too well.

Immediately, you walked out of the living room and into the kitchen, assessing him with a worried look in your eye. “Toji, baby?” You nearly fall over when you cup his face, his nose bloody and lip busted. You don’t even notice he’s holding his side. “What the fuck happened?” You’re cupping his face, eyes scanning his finger when you see the copious amounts of blood on his hands. Lifting his shirt, you see the huge gash on his side. “Fucking hell.”

“Missed you too, sweets,” he struggles to even speak, letting out a pained sigh. “Where’s the kid?” He asks, looking at you rummaging through the cabinets for the first aid kit.

“He’s fine, sleeping. Why?” You glance over your shoulder, snatching the first aid off of the shelf. You kneel in front of him, taking the bottle of alcohol and pouring it straight onto the wound.

“Fuck!” He screams, slamming his hand on the table. “Son of a bitch!” He hisses, clenching his eyes shut. “Could’ve warned me, you know?” He breathed heavily, his chest heaving up and down.

“Would’ve been worse if I did. Answer my questions,” you demand, wiping the blood around his wound while applying pressure.

“Fucker that got me knew about you and the kid. Though…shit—thought someone else might’ve came after you two. I tried getting here as fast as I could,” he sighs. His eyes flutter shut, clenching his fists so hard the whites of his knuckles show. “Don’t worry, I killed him. Obviously.”

“Yeah, he still fucked you up pretty good though.” You shake your head, grabbing the bandage and placing it over the gash. “I told you Toji, we need to leave, find somewhere safer, better. You need to quiet this shit, okay? We got a fucking kid to look out for—”

“Mommy? Daddy?” The soft sound of Megumi’s voice made you spin. He rubs his tired eyes, clinging onto his stuffed dinosaur. “Is daddy okay? I heard him yell.”

“I’m okay, Megs.” Toji flashes a smile. “Mommy’s just helping me with something and then I’ll come tuck you back in, alright? Go back to bed.” He points back to his room.

“Daddy’s okay, baby,” you say softly. Megs just nods and tiredly shuffles back into his room. A deep sigh escapes your lips as you wrap the gauze tightly around his torso before cutting it with the scissors and tucking it under. You toss the scissors to the floor, standing back to your feet to rid your hands of his blood. This is what you were afraid of. This is what you didn’t want. You were a mother now and you knew just how cruel this world was.

You take a rag and wet it under the water before gently lifting his chin, and wiping the blood from his nose. You’ve done this too many times before, it was practically like muscle memory. Stitching yourself up, wiping the blood that seeped into your skin and now you’re doing the same for him. His hands find your waist, squeezing gently while you stand between his legs and Toji forgets about the pain for a moment. His glossy eyes look up at you and he realizes what he has. A wife, a son, a family who cares about him, loves him. You’re always so gently yet so affirmative and he’s reminded why he fell in love with you. You make up every part of him that was missing.

“I’m sorry.” His voice and raspy and delicate. “I know I scared you when I walked through the door like this.” He gently grabs your wrist, pulling your hand from his face. “Look at me, baby.” And when your eyes meet his, he can tell just how worried you are, how much you’re hiding just to seem strong. “I’m sorry.”

Tears well up in your eyes and they’re falling before you could blink them away. “I’m so scared you won’t walk through the door one day, Toji. I wait by the window, watching and listening. Looking out for our baby boy. I don’t want that day to come when you’re not here because of this stupid fucking job,” you cry, looking away from him as you sob into your hands.

His heart breaks at your cries, pulling you down into his chest despite the pain he’s in because he couldn’t care less about that right now. He soothingly rubs your back, placing a kiss on your head. “We’ll leave tomorrow. Everything. Move somewhere else. Start a new life. I fucking promise you. I should’ve listened to you before and I’m so sorry.” His voice shakes with each word. “You don’t know how scared I was to walk in here thinking something might’ve happened to you and Megs. Just thinking about that…fuck…I can’t imagine.” He shakes his head. You cling onto him, holding him tightly. “I love you so fucking much.”

“I love you too,” you sniffle. Lifting your head, you gently caress his cheek with the pad of your thumb, searching his eyes and you see is sadness and sincerity. “Tomorrow. Promise?”

“I promise, baby. Me, you, and the kid. We’ll all get outta here. Go somewhere nice. Maybe a beach, watch him play in the sand?” Toji chuckles. You nod, laughing. “There’s that smile,” he says.

“Daddy?” The little patters of Megumi’s feet make their way into the kitchen. “Are you still gonna tuck me in?” He pouts.

Toji looks at you and then at his son. You hop off of his lap and he stands up as if nothing is wrong, but still walking with a slight limp and his hand holding his side. “Come here, kid.” He scoops him up with arm like he weighed nothing. “How about you sleep with me and mommy tonight, huh?” He reaches to ruffle Megumi’s hair. You walk over to the both of them, your chest feeling warm, a smile adorning your face. Megumi leans his head on Toji’s shoulder, quickly shutting his eyes. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

[eupheme]

k02. accidental stim + thigh-riding | just once

frank castle x f!reader

rated e - 3k

tags: hurt/comfort, references to blood/violence, wound-tending, strangers-to-lovers, implied mutual pining, accident stimulation, thigh-riding, oral sex (m rec), reader has hair long enough to tug, swallowing

You know you shouldn’t look for the handsome stranger that shows up, night after night. Should lock your window, forget you saw him. That’s the smart thing to do, after all.

But you think you might like that he needs you. That you can’t stop thinking about him. That you can’t stop wanting more.

It’s interesting how quickly you’ve become used to finding a strange man on your fire escape.

The first time it happened, it had scared you near to death. A dark smudge in the shadows, when you went to close the blinds before bed.

A sharp jab of fear, realizing there was a body propped up against the railing. Phone in hand, fingers hovering on Wade’s contact when you saw the streaks of red against pale skin.

Still not sure how you got him inside. Spent an hour afterwards scrubbing the traces of him from your windowsill. Smeared fingerprints, the scuff of boots against your floor.

Half-conscious. Blood oozing out from a wound at his temple. A clean washcloth from your bathroom pressed to it, as you started to call for help.

The stranger moved then. A broad hand curled around your wrist. Head tipping back, and you could see those brown eyes from beneath the hood.

“No cops.” He croaked, “No hospitals. ‘m fine.”

You had patched him up the best you could. The urge to help outweighing the ringing stranger danger in your head. A little soothed knowing help was next door.

The night spent awake, watching.

He thanked you the next day. Apologized.

It was in the early morning light that you finally got a good look at him, that dark hood pulled back. Handsome face, quiffed hair, pretty lips beneath the curve of his nose.

Broad, when he stands. Slipping back out the way he came. A devil at night, gentleman in the morning - even with his rough edges.

Thought it’d be the last time you saw him.

You were wrong.

That one night turns into another. Something almost like a routine, except for his timing. Twice a week and then nothing for more. Three weekends in a row, and then silence for a month.

On the second night, the stranger tells you his name is Frank.

On another night, some two weeks later, he tells you that your apartment is the only one within two blocks he can reach from the ground. Only stopped because your window was cracked open. Knew you were home.

Could smell the blend of vanilla and sugar from there. Seemed like a safe place to rest, until he could make it back home.

It should deter you.

It doesn’t.

He’s as layered as the clothes he wears. All dark - black field jacket. The splatter of white, some sort of pattern on the shirt beneath another zip-up.

And red.

Always red. Red dripping from his nose. Bruised shadows beneath an eye. Split knuckles, his hand resting against your knee as you yawn - binding them carefully.

Tucked on your couch to sleep a couple hours, gone by the time you’re leaving for work. Midnight breakfasts that always ends in a “thanks, sweetheart” that leaves you pretending that there isn’t a kaleidoscope of butterflies in your chest.

Never tells you what he does. Never lets you in, other than the slip of his last name.

Castle.

It fits him. Something as strong and formidable as he is, with the furrow of his brow. The grit of his jaw, when your needle pierces flesh.

Never complaining. Content to take what you give him. A wary eye when you pick at those layers, a fingernail digging under a chip of paint.

Always seems to be gone longer, after you do.

The last time he was here, you hadn’t seen him for three weeks. Waiting for a tap on the glass that didn’t come.

Only for your window to creak open, barely heard under the rumble of the storm overhead. Some time long after midnight, closer to dawn.

You knew it was him, in your sleepy haze. Knew the sound of his boots as well as your own. The soft rasp of your name, as you propped yourself up.

The worry quickly tempered, when he crouched to your level.

“One hell of a storm,” Frank rasped, “Just need a place to wait it out.”

The relief has sleep pulling you back under. A muttered “no boots in bed”, as you yawn, followed by a “or wet clothes.”

You don’t think you would have said it, if you were awake. It felt like a dream - something made up. Wishing he would come back to you and then he was.

A low huff. Layers peeled off, as the mattress dips.

In the morning, he’s gone.

You’d think it was a dream, if your pillow didn’t smell like him. If the bed wasn’t still warm where he lay - if you could shake the feeling of his breath in your ear, an arm slung around your waist in the night.

It had felt like something had changed.

That was, until now.

Now, your brow furrows. Blood beneath your nails from where you helped ease the vest from his chest.

His hand covering yours, stilling the shake as you gripped the straps. Your little huff of relief when it’s only bruises and scrapes that bloom beneath, instead of the scattering of fired bullets.

Now, they rests on your hips, as you stand between his spread thighs. His chest bare under the warm light of your bathroom - mottled in bruises but it doesn’t take away the breadth of him. The etched muscles that bunch and flex beneath your fingertips.

Something you’re achingly aware of. Something you’re desperately trying not to think of, as you dab antiseptic around the edge of an abrasion.

His eyes are fixed on yours, even as you concentrate.

It’s something you discovered about him quickly. Frank doesn’t shy away from eye contact. Content to keep his on you, even as you work. Skin heating from beneath his watch.

Could just be him. His work is something dangerous, he never needs to tell you for you to know that. And from the splinters you’ve pieced together, you don’t see him as a bad guy. Or at least - he doesn’t see himself that way.

But a part of you wonders if he watches because he wants to. Something greedy. Unblinking - taking you in like you wish he would.

“You’re lucky,” You muse, thumb smoothing over the bandage, “Think this is the least banged up you’ve been.”

“Lucky.” He huffs, “Suppose you could say that.”

The roll of medical tape clatters against the sink, before slipping down into the bowl. His fingers biting into your hips as you lean to grab it, shifting into his space.

“Careful.” It’s a low warning, rumbled out, “Makin’ it real hard to keep my hands to myself, sweetheart.”

Only then do you notice how much you’ve leaned into him. Your thigh pinned firmly against his spread one. A hand on his shoulder for balance, your tits pressed against his bare chest.

You shift back, but it only makes his hands grip harder. His eyes dark, under the glow of the bulb above - making you feel like you took a blow, yourself.

“Don’t have to,” You manage, “Keep them to yourself, I mean.”

There’s a sharp, inhaled breath. His eyes flicking between yours, as a mark deepens between his brows.

“Wouldn’t be right.” It’s gritted out, “This is your home-”

Your heart hammers behind your ribs, as the hand at his shoulder slips to his neck, “I know. I-, I wouldn’t let you in if I didn’t-”

“Trust me?” Frank laughs, the sound hollow, “Sweetheart-”

The word dies on his tongue, with the sudden slam of a door in the hall - ringing out like a gunshot. A loud voice followed by the pounding of footsteps up the stairs, as you are suddenly crushed against Frank’s chest.

His palm slipping over your mouth, as he shoots to his feet. Crowding you against the bathroom door, shushing your muffled yelp.

You can feel every inch of him pressed against you. Breath held as he leans into you, a thigh nudged snugly between yours. Hands flattened against his chest. Unyielding, as you give a little shove.

Something hard curving against your hip. A rough sound in his throat when you squirm against him again - the words trapped behind his hand.

“Fucking stop,” He growls in your ear, “Someone is out there-“

Your shove turns soft. Stroking up his chest until you’re touching at his jaw. Angling his face to meet yours.

His eyes are wild, nearly black. Deadly focused - their sharp edge flicking down to yours. A beat as he considers, when you point to your mouth.

“It’s my neighbor,” You manage with a gasp, when his grip loosens, “He tries to see how fast he can run up every single stair. Drives us all crazy.”

He goes still. Eyes narrowed, as if trying to figure out if he believes you.

You know what he thought.

Might now know a lot about him, but you could sense the danger he thought you were in. Instincts kicking in, as he believes whatever horrors he faced out there were brought back here.

“It’s okay.” You soothe, “You’re safe.”

His nostrils flare, jaw gritting. Fingers fisting in the fabric of your sleep shirt, knuckles biting into your hips.

“Distract me.” He husks, voice low.

Your eyes widen, “How?”

There’s a sharp jerk of his head, his own dark eyes still fixed on yours, “Any way you want.”

He’s still as stone as your eyes sweep across his face again. A million thoughts running through your head, as your thumb sweeps across a stubble-lined jaw.

Head tilting, until you can press your lips just above, against the sharp cut of a cheekbone.

You can feel his exhale against you. The tightly-strung muscles easing, even as he tugs you closer. Even as you hear the hitch in his breath, the way his head tips towards yours.

You move slow.

The next brushing his cheek.

Another, to the corner of his lips.

It’s then that he moves. A rough groan in his throat as his hand shifts to your chin. Holding you in place so his mouth can meet yours.

Something chaste, that turns hungry. His hips canting into yours, as his tongue sweeps into your mouth.

You let him. Fingers slipping against the short, velvet-shorn hair. Up until there’s something to grip onto, as his hips rocks against yours.

“Fuck.” It’s rumbled against your lips, “Been driving me crazy, sweetheart.”

You moan, as his lips drag to press against your jaw. How his thigh rocks against your core, where you’re still pinned between him and the door.

“Haven’t been doing anything,” You protest, weakly, “Just patching you up.”

There’s the rough huff of a laugh.

“Funny how that works.”

There’s the pounding of your heart, just below his lips. Fingers that trace the waistband of your sleep shorts. Slipping beneath your shirt to grasp at your waist.

Tugging, until you’re rubbing yourself on his thigh. The muscles flexing beneath you as you gasp, nails biting into his bare shoulders.

Trying to avoid the bruises, his skin hot to the touch. Another roll - again and again. A rough grunt each time you press flush, when the imprint of his cock ruts against your hip.

The seam on your shorts catch on your clit. Your breath quickens, as your arousal dampens the thin cloth. A dark patch seeping into the dark denim, but Frank only groans when his eyes flick down to see the gleam.

“Feels good.” You breathe, eyes half-lidded.

His teeth flash white, in the dark room. Pressing harder, until you’re whimpering. Until there’s a building pressure in your belly, toes curling against the worn rug.

“Frank.” It’s a plea, it’s a warning.

“Yeah, beautiful?” His knowing tone, the sweet name sends heat to your cheeks, “You close? Think you can come for me like this?”

You don’t know if you can. All you know is the feeling of his thigh nudging against you, as his boot bounces. The rasp of his stubbled cheek against yours.

“Think you can.” Frank hums, “Think you want me to hear how pretty you sound when you come.”

His name strings out. Fingers teasing, slipping beneath the waistband of your shorts. A rough moan in your ear when he meets bare, slick skin.

Another pulled when your own hand drifts. A palm cupping him, where his clothed cock ruts into your hip. The heel of your hand nudging with the flex of his thigh.

Again, and again. Sweet nothings slipping from you, a heady mix of his name and “please” and “oh my god-”, as your head tips back.

His mouth against your neck, your chin, your mouth. Your cry cut short as his body presses you flush between him and the door.

Fingers slipping down. Beneath the dampened fabric, circles pressed against your clit. Wanting to do this himself, to give this to you.

The pleasure blooms low in your belly. Liquid heat and the release of what feels like weeks of building pressure coursing through you, as he brings you over the edge.

Your orgasm pulsing low and warm, as your hands find his shoulders. Adding fingerprint bruises to one’s he already carries. Ones he’ll look at fondly, when he’s alone.

Frank’s knee only eases from you, when that tight grip on him finally loosens.

The aftershocks still honey-sweet where they thud in your core. Legs like jelly, as your back slips against the door - as you sink to your knees.

You want all of him.

You’re greedy like that - fingers itching to reach out and take. To beg, but your eyes are drawn the bruises. The shadows under his eyes, you don’t know the last time he slept.

There will be more time, later. If you’re lucky.

“Hey. Hey-” His voice is almost worried, broad hands wrapping around your biceps. The words twisting into a choked sound instead, when your hands trace up his thighs. Over the slick patch, darkening the denim.

Eye-level with his hips. Your gaze meeting his, as you press an open-mouthed kiss against the straining curve.

He groans then. Bare chest heaving, as his hands drop to his belt. No words needed, in sync from the nights already spent together - from patching him up in near-silence.

Thumbs hooking into the waistband of dark boxers, tugging down. Your eyes tracing where the dark trail from his belly thickens, hair coarse at the base of his cock.

“Don’t have to.” It’s half-hearted. A tick to his jaw, when your fingers join his.

Another sharp tug, until his cock is freed. Achingly hard, as it bobs in front of you. A pretty shade of pink that grows darker at the tip. A drop leaking from the slit, the head already glossy from where it smeared against fabric.

God, you need to taste him.

“I know.” You breathe, teeth sinking into your bottom lip as you grin, “I want to.”

Leaning forward to taste him. A kiss against the shaft, tongue flattening against velvet skin.

“Wanna take care of you.”

His fingers flex, curling into fists.

Your eyes meeting his, “Think you like it when I do.”

Frank stiffens at your words, a sharp inhale through teeth. But you miss it - lips parting to take him into your mouth. A moan as you suck, feeling how his cock jerks against your tongue.

“Fuck.” He grits - the flex of his hand, as he cups the back of your neck. Fingers twining into your hair, tugging.

“Just once.”

Don’t know if he’s telling you, or if he’s telling himself. But he doesn’t need to tell you.

There’s a part of you is certain each time is the last you’ll see him.

Always hoping he will come back, of course. Looking for him, even.

But never expecting it.

You’ll take what you can get. What he gives you inching further into your mouth - the hollow of your cheeks as you suck, head gently bobbing.

He’s big. You knew he would be, could feel the heft of him beneath your palm. An ache in your jaw already, but it’s worth it - to give him this.

“Just this one time.” He repeats, hushed.

As if he’s not imaging how you taste. Knowing you’re slick and bare and dripping beneath those shorts. Knowing that’s the only layer he’d need to rip away, to find out how soft you truly are.

Wet and warm, for him. A perfect fit for his cock, though he can’t get enough of the way you hum around him.

Forgotten what it was like.

Spit strings between your lips and his cock, when you pull back. He lets you - that grip loosening, though his fingers stay twisted in your hair. Keeping you close, only slipping away long enough for you to tug the shirt from your shoulders.

Letting it pool on the floor, letting his eyes drag over more bare skin beneath. His touch following without thinking - calloused fingers tracing your shoulders. The soft curves of your tits, palm cupping flesh.

The other hand anchoring himself to you again as before. The curved weight against the back of your head - a gentle, encouraging pressure.

Urging you to his cock again. Already missing the warmth of your mouth. Working him back up to that peak again, and then further - as you take him into your throat.

His breathing grows shorter. Those same sounds that slip from him when your needle sinks too deep, knitting skin together.

Given freely now. Muscles flexing as he bucks into your mouth, chasing the pleasure that threatens to snap inside him.

“Shit, baby.” Frank rasps, “You want me to come on these?”

A squeeze against your chest. You make a low sound in your throat, in response. Eyes flicking up, sinking another inch deeper as your fingers grasp onto his jeans.

“Fuck.” The syllables draw out, “Sure, sweetheart. Anything you want.”

His fingers tug harder. The flicker of pain along your scalp blending with the heat that lingers between your thighs.

Keeping your eyes on his as his hips move just a little faster. Air inhaled through your nose as a hand slips up to curl around his base.

Easing off just enough that you can jerk him into your mouth.

Your name comes out ragged, slipped into a moan. A curl of his lips over teeth, panting breath.

“Gonna make me come, honey.” It’s a warning, but your tongue only curls around the head. Waiting to taste him fully, as he groans.

Another choked breath, his head tilting back, before his cock throbs between your lips. Pulsing against your tongue, as your fist works him empty.

Your eyes close then. Senses narrowing down to the sounds he makes. Filthy, as his fingers tug hard enough to hurt, unconsciously rocking into the suction of your mouth with each drop that spills against your tongue.

“Fuck.” He mutters again.

Softer, this time. Fingers suddenly dropping, shifting to smooth over your cheeks. A low hiss, when you ease off him - only for your head to dip forward again. To catch the last errant drop on your tongue, as it flicks against his slit.

Desperate to keep him, like this, for just a little longer. Yours, if only for a moment.

“You wanna stay? Can make you a real breakfast.”

It slips from you, from kiss-swollen lips as your head tips up. His boxers still a mess around his thighs, your fingers still circled around him.

You’d taste like him, if he bent down to kiss you.

He shouldn’t.

He really shouldn’t.

“Yeah, sweetheart.” Frank rasps.

“I will.”

perhaps my imagining of a potential sugar x frank meet-cute??? 😁💖 thank you for reading!!

[sunflowersteves]

um so getting fucked by logan in public place...i mean getting fucked by logan-

(please know the way i'm salivating over this man is downright sinful.)

author's note || babes,,, i feel u. this man is in my dreams 24/7. i lov u for requesting this <3

summary || basically, you defend Logan and he quite literally goes feral.

warnings || fluff, some angst, anti-mutant rhetoric, SMUT [minors dni], P in V sex, praise kink, public-sex, desperation

Logan was used to being alone. It was second nature for him to blend into a crowd and survey the bustling fullness of the night. Usually, he hightailed to the back of the bar, his eyes studying carefully while he nursed the beer in his hand. 

When Logan met you, though, some things changed a bit. Instead of being at the back of the bar, he usually sat right next to you. While he wasn’t much for PDA and often abstained from it, he still let the hardness of his thigh rest against yours. It was such a simple touch, but you knew how much Logan needed to breathe in your presence. It soothed him. 

Tonight was like any other Friday night. You both wanted to go to the bar for a little bit of fun before another mission killed the atmosphere. Logan usually has a beer in his hand and his other subtly resting against your back. His eyes would bore into yours as he watched you talk about your day. It was always something he looked forward to. The ways that your eyes would sparkle underneath the illuminating bar lights. 

The bar was packed tonight, though. Bodies were practically on top of one another—playing pool, dancing to the stereo, or attempting to chat up someone to take home. Your idea to go to the bar had not just been your own. You could hear Logan’s heartbeat race as someone kept bumping into him—despite the very menacing aura rolling off of him. 

So, in response, you were currently nursing a whiskey all by your lonesome. It wasn’t that you were lonesome, it was much of the opposite. Logan had stepped out of the bar for a quick smoke, wanting to calm the nerves that pricked his skin. Logan needed a breather. He never wanted to leave you by yourself—although he knew you were completely fine. He just didn’t want to. You smiled at him with one of those breathtaking ones that caught his breath. 

“Go. I’ll still be here.” You whispered. God, he loved you. It was so evident, yet the years of having a broken heart shattered his ideas of loving someone again. The pain was etched across his chest, back, organs—everything. Add the number of people surrounding him, caging him in had reached an overwhelming capacity. So, he stepped out toward the back and dragged his cigar across his lips. He let the nicotine softly quiet the aches in his chest. 

You sipped the bitter taste of Jim Beam, your body almost shuddering at the hot feeling of liquor going down your throat. You felt the buzz already—not having much of anything to eat despite Logan asking if you had eaten. He handed you a granola bar in the car. He already knew the answer to his question. During a heated discussion with Scott, you had completely forgotten to eat some lunch. 

Logan was as caring as always—rubbing a hand across your wrist to ask if you had anything to eat today. However, your thoughts of him were screeched to a halt from a presence coming straight toward you. 

“Where’d the big guy go?”

Your eyebrow quirks up at the sensation of a tall silhouette behind you. You didn’t respond, though. You and Logan were used to the comments—usually, fans wanting pictures with the well-known X-men. Those you didn’t mind. Men like these, though? The ones that taunt you for your differences, the ones that make your skin itch.

“C’mon. That mutant scum isn’t here anymore. No need to act so tough.” 

You huffed out of your nose in disgust. There was a sizzle underneath your chest that made you want to scream in anger. You held your ground, though, knowing that it wouldn’t help very much. You knew men like these. Any use of your powers could end up with a call to the police and another article about how “violent” mutants are.

Although, not budging made the stranger even more pissed than he was. “You’re too pretty to be with a beast like him. Didn’t you hear, anyway?” This man just wouldn’t stop fucking talking. “The Wolverine hurts anything he touches. He’s a fuck up. A low life. A fucking animal—” 

Now that comment is what made you turn your head. You had heard enough before you slammed your glass on the bar counter. The man beside you jumped in surprise. A scowl on your lips, nostrils flared. “What the fuck did you just say?” 

Logan’s eyebrows twitched as he heard the snarl in your voice. He burnt out the cigar on his skin—slightly wincing at the sizzle of his skin. Worry surged through his chest at the mere idea of your discomfort. A primal need to protect the thing he loves was fogging his brain. The leather of his jacket was straining against the bulge of his muscles as he sauntered back through the bar. His shoulders were taunted back, surveying the bar as everyone’s head turned to you and some guy. 

His eyes widened at the sight before him. You had bunched the collar of the man, lifting him off the floor. Your eyes were wild with anger, your teeth clenched tightly as you spoke to the stranger. “If you ever talk about the Wolverine like that again, I’m going to cut off your head and feed it to your fucking wife—” The boom of your voice echoed through the bar. It was so silent that a pin could drop. 

You could handle comment after comment thrown at you. That, you knew quite well. However, you knew how Logan actually felt about the comments. They called him an animal. A beast. They forced him into something he was always scared of. Himself. You knew him differently. He was Logan. He would make you a cup of coffee every morning, adding a sprinkle extra of cinnamon that he knew you loved. He left fuzzy blankets in his room after the first time you spent the night with him. You commented how itchy his sheets were and ever since, he silently wraps you up in one with an arm attached to your waist. He would place a protective arm in front of you during missions—always assessing the danger to make sure that you would never get hurt. He was so much more than anything they portrayed him as. He was human and everyone—including the team—sometimes forgets that. 

“Darlin’—” You felt your shoulder visibly relax as his large hand enveloped your soft skin. “They’re not worth it.” 

Your heart was beating fast against your ears. You did everything in your power to not throw the man across the room. Your teeth snarled at him—the guy visibly winces, expecting the worst. You slowly lowered him to the ground and let go of his collar. 

“Fucking mutants.” He spits before backing up as far away from the two of you as possible. You turn to move again and the guy gets startled and jumps in fear. Logan squeezes your shoulder to try and ground you once again.

He sees you visibly relax, some regret etched into your features. He knew that you didn’t want to cause a scene but you couldn’t help it. He knew that feeling quite well—when it came to you, he was the same. 

“Let's go home.” 

Logan was silent as the two of you walked out of the bar. You cringed at the pure stillness of the night. You didn’t mean to do more than you should have. It was just an instinct, especially as the vexation flowed through your veins. 

You stop in your tracks for a moment. You opened your mouth to say something which prompted his steps to a halt, as well. “Logan, I’m—” He never let you finish. He grabs your shoulders and shoves you against the brick wall of the bar. You let out a gasp, but it’s quickly swallowed by his mouth on yours. 

His heart is beating fast, echoing against his ears. For once in his life, someone had protected him. Someone had stood up and defended him. Sure, Charles has done that many times, but not from an act of pure love. Charles believed in him. You loved him. 

He has this feeling in his chest. He wantonly has an itch to devour you. He wants to lick the sides of your body and ravish in the pure essence of you. He’d never had this feeling before—this animalistic, pure affection was pounding against his chest. 

“You just couldn’t help it, huh, princess?” He grunted against your ear. His hands caged you in, one resting beside your head and the other deliciously attached to your hip. His teeth nipped at the skin below your ear. “You just wanted to defend your old man, hmm?” He hummed. 

The hand on your hip lowered to your thigh and squeezed the plush flesh. You were wearing a pretty dress tonight, one that you knew he would rip off later. You just weren’t expecting it now. “I just—” He breathed in the smell of your shampoo and it sent a shiver down your spine. “I couldn’t let him talk about you like that, Lo.” 

You let out a whine as he growled against your ear. He was insatiable—unhinged. Something was brewing beneath his stomach that he had never felt before. “Oh, pretty girl. You wanted to protect me?” His lips were at the shell of his ear. You nodded. You almost felt shy now, a direct contrast from earlier. 

Your leg moved to wrap around his own, curling right around his hip. He smirked at the sparkle in your eyes. “Yeah, I know, baby. God, you’re just so fucking good to me.” You were both losing your patience from the pliant kissing and stumbling of limbs. You both were desperate and wanting of one another. 

His lips lowered down your neck. The hand that was caged against the side of your head was now pressed up against your breast. You whined, “They can’t—” You gasped as he squeezed the plush flesh. “They can’t say those things. Made me—” He smiles, lips curling into a little smirk. He moves his arm down to your aching cunt. “Made me see red, Lo.” 

Your hips buck into his hand, the wall scratching against your shoulders as you’re shoved more into the brick. “Yeah? Wanted to hurt him, baby?”

He groaned into your ear at the thought of blood covering your hands from destroying the man trying to insult him. It only fueled more of his fire. He couldn’t take it anymore—mouth still sticking to yours in a gruesome dance across your lips. The saliva spread to his beard, messy and filthy. 

“Wanted—ah—wanted to see him pay.” His hand fully dipped between your panties, bunching up your dress as he lifted you up against the wall. It happened swiftly, yet your mind burned with want and need.

“Fuck. You’re so wet.” He teased your slick entrance, making your legs instinctively pull him closer. “Logan, please.” 

He could smell the way you were leaking for him, spreading the slick around with his fingers. He let out a growl and swiftly unbuckled his belt. He couldn’t wait any longer and neither could you. 

“Can’t wait to fill you. Such a pretty fuckin’ pussy.” He moves your panties with his thumb and swiftly glides in his wide girth. You moan in unison, but you swallow his own and yours with a long kiss on his lips. Your tongues swirl together and you could’ve sworn he pulled you even further. You could feel every inch of him inside of you. He moaned at the stretch of your cunt wrapped around him. “Feel so good, pretty girl. Gonna—fuck—gonna make you mine.”

Your head hits the back of the wall and you start to feel fuzzy in the head. “Lo–” You whine. “Love you.” You whisper into the night air. Something hits Logan in the chest and he can’t help but snap his hips into you even further. 

It makes you see stars, but all Logan can think about is how much he loves you. His chest was burning with something different—something more primal than he had ever felt. It made him want to drool, place his head against you, and live there forever. 

“Love you too, baby.” He grunts. He wanted to do this properly—to be a gentleman. He wanted to take you out to dinner, make sweet love to you, and then tell you those three little words. It completely went out the window when you defended him—when you stood up for him like no one else has. You completely had his back and he couldn’t help but let the happiness burst through his veins. “Love you so fucking much. You know that, baby?”

He makes you turn your head towards him to look him in the eye. You nod immediately, but that isn’t enough for Logan. “Need to hear you, baby. Say it.”

“You love me. I know you love me.” He groans and pumps his cock straight onto your cervix. It makes you squeal at the sensation and he feels the slick run down to his balls. The cold night air made goosebumps on your skin, though, your mind not even noticing. 

“Fuck, I love the way you sound. Don’t be shy, baby.” You fully moan, more than likely the sound echoing across the bar parking lot. “That’s it.” You both were beginning to feel dizzy with love and lust. He couldn’t stop staring into your eyes. He was too immersed in them and he never wanted to look away from them again. 

“Fuck, Logan!” 

“Let go, baby. Let me feel you.” The coil finally snapped as you unleashed the precipice of your orgasm. Your body shuttered against him, all while he was singing praises in your ear. You clench around him so hard that in one thrust, he’s filling you up to the brim. He slowly pumps his salty cum into you, your body convulsing with pure ecstasy. 

You start to giggle in his arms about the whole night. Logan couldn’t help but smile too. You were just too contagious. 

“Let’s go home, Lo.”

He couldn’t help but smile brightly at the thought. He couldn’t suppress the pure joy like he normally could.

“Yeah, okay.” He whispers.

You were home to him. 

He never had to do anything alone anymore. He certainly didn’t have to deal with the demons attached to his hurt heart.

He finally had you.

[mononijikayu]

amnesia — ryomen sukuna.

“Are you… are you playing a joke on me?” Sukuna’s voice wavered slightly as he tried to comprehend the situation. “It’s me. Sukuna. We… we know each other.” You shook your head slowly, an apologetic smile tugging at your lips. “I’m really sorry, but I don’t remember you. I had a really bad accident a few years ago, and… well, I lost my memories. Amnesia. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

GENRE: alternate universe - modern au!;

WARNING/S: sfw, fluff, angst, romance, hurt/ comfort, post - break up, amnesia, hurt, physical touch, memory loss, sadness, pain, pining, slowly getting back together, light-hearted, happy ending, getting back together, depictions of amnesia, depiction of pining, mention of grief, mention of accident, mention of pining, ex-boyfriend! sukuna, amnesiac! ex-girlfriend! reader, domestic uncle sukuna!, nephew!yuji;

WORD COUNT: 9.9k words

NOTE: the entire chapter is a sequel to drunk tonight and is set five years later. sukuna won second place at the poll again and i feel like this is my apology for sukuna for always making him an angst main lead. this was inspired by a filipino film called amnesia girl and its a funny drama-romcom. its available on youtube, but i dont know if there's subtitles!!! anyway, i hope you enjoy this and i hope you know how much i love yall 🫶🫶🫶

ADDENDUM: so......so long sukuna??? (manga readers iykyk)

masterlist

kayu's playlist - side 1000;

if you want to, tip!

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HE LIKED TO THINK HE COUNTED THE HOW LONG IT HAS BEEN WELL. Five long and painful years ago, you and Sukuna parted ways in what felt like an explosion of unresolved emotions and unmet expectations. Your relationship had been a tempestuous blend of fiery passion and constant turbulence, a rollercoaster of intense highs and devastating lows. From the beginning, it was clear that both of you had strong personalities, often clashing in ways that seemed impossible to reconcile.

The reasons for the breakup were numerous and complex. There was the perpetual danger that came with Sukuna's world, a constant reminder that you were living on the edge, with no guarantee of safety or stability. His life was fraught with peril, and the reality of that danger had taken its toll on both of you. You both knew that living under such stress was unsustainable, and it began to fray the bonds that had once held you together.

Your expectations, too, weighed heavily on the relationship. You had dreams and aspirations that seemed at odds with the life you were leading alongside Sukuna. The demands of his world often overshadowed your own needs, leading to a sense of neglect and disillusionment. It felt as though you were always putting yourself second, trying to accommodate the chaos that was Sukuna's life while struggling to maintain your own sense of self.

Despite the chaos and the inevitable breakdown, there was an undeniable connection between you—a bond that neither of you could completely sever. It was a connection that defied logic, a thread that seemed to pull you back together despite all efforts to move on. Both of you had tried to let go, to walk away and start anew, but the lingering feelings and shared history made it nearly impossible to fully break free.

Sukuna, in his own way, struggled with this as well. Even though the relationship had reached its breaking point, he found himself unable to completely let go of what you had shared. He was deeply aware of the toll that the relationship had taken on you, and he knew that you needed to prioritize yourself, your own well-being, and your own path forward. It was a painful realization, one that left him feeling hollow and lost, but he was determined not to be the reason you couldn't move forward.

In his mind, letting you go was the only way to truly show his love for you—to give you the space you needed to heal and grow. Even if it meant enduring his own misery, he accepted that it was a sacrifice he had to make. He knew that holding on would only serve to drag you both down further, and he wasn't willing to be the obstacle in your pursuit of happiness.

So, as time passed and the separation became a part of your history, Sukuna endured his own internal struggle. He remained in the shadows of your life, silently wishing for your happiness while grappling with his own feelings of loss and regret. He respected your decision and tried to move forward, even as he kept a part of himself tied to the memories of what once was.

But even then, you were truly something that made his life more than it was. You were the blossoms of his youth, the hope and vibrancy that had once colored his world. Your presence had breathed life into the mundane, transforming his days from mere existence into something filled with possibility and wonder. 

His elder brother Jin had seen it all those years ago, recognizing the profound impact you had on Sukuna. Jin had often remarked on how you were a beacon of hope, a light that guided Sukuna through the darkest corners of his life. Your influence was undeniable, a force that had shaped him in ways he could hardly articulate.

Yet despite the depth of his feelings and the significance of what you had shared, Sukuna couldn’t escape the gnawing belief that he had ultimately failed you. He carried with him the heavy burden of the notion that he wasn’t good enough—never had been, never would be. The weight of this conviction was a constant companion, a shadow that loomed over every thought and action.

He remembered the countless moments of doubt, the times when he felt that his flaws, his imperfections, and the dangers of his world were too great a burden for you to bear. It was a painful realization, one that left him grappling with feelings of inadequacy. He wanted to be the person who could give you everything you deserved—love, stability, safety. But he feared that he fell short, that he could never truly be the partner you needed.

Even as he watched you move forward, find your own path, and build a life without him, he was haunted by the belief that he had let you down. He was acutely aware of all the ways he had failed to meet your expectations, to protect you from the chaos that had once defined your life together. He thought that perhaps he had been too caught up in his own struggles, too consumed by the demands of his world to fully appreciate what he had with you.

In his quieter moments, Sukuna wrestled with the idea that he would never be good enough for you, that he would never be able to offer you the kind of love and life you truly deserved. This belief became a part of him, shaping how he viewed himself and how he measured his worth. He felt that he had lost you not because of any one mistake or shortcoming, but because he was fundamentally flawed, incapable of providing the kind of relationship you needed.

And so, even as he grappled with his own pain and regrets, he couldn’t shake the feeling that you were better off without him. The memory of what you had shared lingered like a bittersweet echo, a reminder of what could have been and what was lost. He had to come to terms with the fact that he might never be able to offer you the life you deserved, and that acceptance was a hard, painful lesson he had to learn.

Sukuna's struggle with these feelings was a testament to the depth of his love for you, a love that, despite its imperfections and its failures, had once been a source of profound meaning and transformation in his life. Even as he moved forward, he carried the weight of this truth with him—a reminder of what you had meant to him and the painful realization that, perhaps, he would never truly be good enough to have you back.

Sukuna sat in the corner of the room, a half-empty glass of whiskey in his hand, as he listened to his friend's banter. The atmosphere was lighter than it had been in years. Gojo, with his usual grin, was recounting some ridiculous tale of his latest escapade, while Uraume, ever the quiet observer, occasionally chimed in with dry comments that had the others laughing.

But Ryomen Sukuna wasn’t really paying attention. His mind kept drifting back to you—to the way your eyes had softened when you told him you wanted to give “us” a real chance, to the way you’d leaned into him, trusting and vulnerable in a way that made his chest tighten.

“Oi, Sukuna. You’re….” Gojo’s voice cut through his thoughts. “You’re awfully quiet tonight, bud. What's got you all broody, huh?”

Sukuna blinked, realizing he’d been staring into his glass for who knows how long. He knows he spaces out when he’s thinking, but when he’s thinking of you — he suppose the time can go on and he wouldn’t even notice. He looked up to find Gojo’s bright blue eyes fixed on him, a knowing smirk playing on his lips. Uraume was watching him too, their expression unreadable but attentive.

“Nothing. Don’t worry about it.” Sukuna muttered, taking a sip of his drink. “Just thinking.”

“That’s a first from you, hm.”  Uraume teased, earning a snort from Gojo.

“Come on, spill it!” Gojo pressed, leaning forward with that infuriatingly playful grin. “Is it a girl? I don’t mind if it’s a guy, I know you swing that way too! Oh, wait… don’t tell me it’s the girl.”

Sukuna’s dark scarlet eyes narrowed at him. “What are you talking about?”

Gojo’s grin widened. “The one you’ve been moping about for the last five years. Don’t think I didn’t notice, Sukuna. You’ve been different at work lately—quieter, more… I don’t know, introspective.”

“Gojo–san’s right, Sukuna–san.” Uraume added, their tone softer. “You’ve changed. It’s like you’re finally letting go of whatever it was that had you so wound up.”

Sukuna leaned back in his chair, feeling the weight of their words settle over him. He wasn’t used to being the one on the receiving end of their scrutiny, and he didn’t like it. But he also knew they weren’t wrong.

“Yeah, well……” Sukuna began, his voice rough, “I haven't seen her in a long while.. Five years, I think. But I heard…I heard she’s been around. She’s moved around town.”

Uraume raised their eyebrows. “Five years? That’s a long time, Sukuna–san.”

“Yeah. We were together throughout our senior high school and college. Then we broke up after we graduated.” Sukuna sighed, taking a long sip of his drink. The alcohol burned as it slid down his throat, but it did little to ease the ache that had settled in his chest. “It’s been a long time, but… hearing that she’s moved here just brings back a lot.”

Gojo’s eyes widened in surprise. “Was that breakup really that bad?” His usual grin faded, replaced by a look of concern as he sensed the gravity of Sukuna��s words. “What happened?”

Sukuna nodded, his gaze drifting away from Gojo’s intense stare. The room seemed to grow quieter as he delved into the past, the weight of his memories heavy in his voice. “We had multiple breakups. It wasn’t just one—there were several. But the last one was particularly rough. We both cried a lot, said things we didn’t mean. It was messy.”

Gojo leaned in, his curiosity piqued. “Why was it so difficult?”

Sukuna’s face tightened as he struggled to find the right words. “If I’m being honest, it’s my fault. I wasn’t secure in myself. I was jealous, possessive. I couldn’t handle the idea of her moving forward or being happy without me. And that jealousy, that insecurity—it hurt her more than I realized.”

There was a long pause as Sukuna’s confession hung in the air. Gojo’s usual bravado was replaced by a rare, contemplative silence. He took a moment to process Sukuna’s admission, trying to reconcile the man he knew with the vulnerability being revealed.

“That’s a lot to carry,” Gojo said finally, his voice softer than usual. “But it sounds like you’re taking responsibility, which is more than a lot of people do.”

Sukuna’s expression was a mix of regret and acceptance. “Yeah, well, it doesn’t change the past. I know I hurt her, and I don’t think I’ll ever be able to make up for that fully. But seeing her again… it’s brought everything back. The pain, the regret, and the memories of what we had.”

Uraume, who had been quietly listening, spoke up, their tone gentle. “It’s clear you’re still affected by this. Maybe it’s a chance for you to make things right, or at least find some closure. People change, and sometimes, revisiting the past can help us understand ourselves better.”

Sukuna nodded, though his expression remained somber. “Maybe. I’m not sure what will come of this. I just know that seeing her again made me realize how much I still care, how much I’ve changed, and how much I wish things could have been different.”

Gojo leaned back, his eyes thoughtful. “It sounds like you’ve been through a lot, and maybe this is a chance for you to show her the person you’ve become. It might not fix everything, but it could be a step toward healing—for both of you.”

Sukuna’s gaze softened, a flicker of hope in his eyes. “Yeah, maybe. It’s worth a shot.”

The room fell silent, the playful atmosphere dissolving as the weight of Sukuna's words sank in. Even Gojo, who was usually quick with a joke or a teasing remark, seemed at a loss for what to say. His usual bravado was replaced with something more thoughtful, almost solemn, as he processed what Sukuna had just revealed.

For a moment, the only sound in the room was the soft clink of ice in Sukuna's glass as he set it down on the table. He could feel the eyes of his friends on him, but he kept his gaze fixed on the drink, not ready to meet their concerned looks just yet. The silence stretched on, thick with unspoken emotions.

“I hope the best for you, man.” Gojo finally muttered, leaning back in his chair as he exhaled slowly. His tone was softer than usual, lacking its typical teasing edge. “You deserve to be happy too.”

Sukuna snickered. “You must be drunk being this nice to me.”

“Hey! I am nice at all times.”

“Yeah, keep telling yourself that.”

Uraume, who had been listening quietly, leaned forward slightly, their expression gentle and understanding. They had always been more in tune with Sukuna's moods, more aware of the nuances in his behavior than Gojo, who often masked his own sensitivity with humor.

“If you bump into her again, though….” Uraume asked, their tone devoid of judgment, only curiosity and concern. “Would you try and talk to her, then?”

Sukuna finally looked up, meeting Uraume’s gaze. There was a hesitance in his eyes, as if he was still grappling with the reality of it all. “Yeah,” he said, his voice low, almost as if admitting it aloud made it more real. “I would. In a drop of a hat.”

The confession hung in the air, heavy with the weight of all the unspoken feelings that had built up over the years. It wasn’t just the fact that you had come back into his life; it was the realization that despite everything, despite the time and distance, Ryomen Sukuna had never really let go of you. He had buried those feelings deep, tried to move on, but now that you were here again, they had all come rushing back to the surface.

Gojo watched Sukuna carefully, his usual smirk gone, replaced with a rare expression of empathy. He knew Sukuna better than most, knew how much pride had always driven him, how hard it had been for him to admit his feelings even when things were good between the two of you. For Sukuna to open up like this now, it meant that whatever he was feeling ran deep.

“I get it.” Gojo said, his voice unusually quiet. “I mean, you guys were… well, you were everything to each other. It makes sense that she’s still on your mind.”

Uraume nodded in agreement. “It’s not surprising that you still think about her, Sukuna–san. What you had wasn’t just something you can forget, even if you wanted to.”

Sukuna’s jaw tightened, and he looked away, staring off into the distance as if trying to collect his thoughts. “It’s just… weird.” he finally said, his voice thick with the frustration he’d been holding back. “I’ve been trying to move on, to put all of that behind me. But I just….I want to see her again. Even just one more time.”

Gojo leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he regarded Sukuna with a serious expression. “Maybe you’re not supposed to forget, man. Maybe this is your chance to figure out what you really want, to make things right.”

Uraume added quietly, “It’s not too late to change the narrative, Sukuna. If you still care about her, if she’s still on your mind after all this time, maybe there’s something there worth exploring.”

Sukuna closed his eyes for a moment, taking in their words. There was truth in what they were saying, and he knew it. He had spent so long trying to bury his feelings, convincing himself that it was over and done with. But the truth was, he had never truly moved on. And now, with you back in his life, even in this new, unfamiliar way, he couldn’t ignore the pull he felt toward you.

When he opened his eyes, there was a resolve in them that hadn’t been there before. “You’re probably right.” he admitted, his voice steady. “I’ve been running from this for too long. I don’t know what’s going to happen, but I need to see this through. I owe it to myself, and… to her.”

Gojo’s grin returned, but it was softer, more genuine. “That’s the spirit, man. You’ve got this. Just… don’t screw it up this time, okay?”

Sukuna let out a dry chuckle, shaking his head. “Yeah, I’ll try not to.”

Uraume smiled softly, a rare display of emotion from them. “We’re here for you, Sukuna–san. Whatever you need, just say the word.”

Sukuna nodded, feeling a weight lift off his shoulders. For the first time in a long time, he felt like he wasn’t alone in this. With Gojo and Uraume by his side, he knew he could face whatever came next, even if it meant confronting the feelings he had buried for so long.

One more drink and  the conversation shifted back to lighter topics, the tension that had hung in the air slowly dissipated. But the resolve in Sukuna’s heart remained, stronger than ever. He knew what he had to do, and for the first time in years, he felt ready to face it head-on,

As the night wore on, Sukuna couldn’t help but think about the future—about what it would be like to build something real with you this time, something lasting. The thought scared him, but it also excited him in a way he hadn’t felt in years.

Maybe, just maybe, this time he could get it right. And with Gojo and Uraume by his side, he knew he wouldn’t have to do it alone. But the hour is late. And they’ve got things going on in their lives too. So they pay their bills and wave him goodbye.

As he watches his comrades pair off, he is forced to confront a painful truth. Despite years of searching, no one has been able to replace you. The women he's met, the flings he's had—they were all distractions, mere shadows compared to what he had with you. Each time he tries to move forward, your memory pulls him back, the echo of your laughter, the way you challenged him like no one else ever did, and the warmth you once brought into his life, all refuse to fade.

In quiet moments, when he's alone, Ryomen Sukuna wrestles with the possibility that his true love, the one person who could truly understand and match his intensity, might have been you all along. The very thought frustrates and angers him, but deep down, he knows it's true. The idea that you could be happy with someone else, that you could have moved on, is a bitter pill to swallow.

But what can he do? Could he really go back to you after all this time, after all the hurt and pride that kept you apart? The thought of reaching out, of admitting that he hasn't been able to stop thinking about you, is terrifying in its vulnerability. Yet, the more he tries to resist, the more he finds himself wanting you back in his life.

Sukuna has always been a man of action, but this...this is different. It's not about power or control; it's about something far more fragile—his heart, his pride, and the chance of losing you all over again. The question that haunts him now is whether he can swallow that pride and take the risk, whether he can open himself up to the possibility that, just maybe, what he’s been searching for all these years was right in front of him all along.

And that possibility, terrifying as it may be, is the only thing that has ever truly scared him.

Sukuna's inner turmoil grows as the days pass. The world around him, once filled with the thrill of battles and the allure of endless conquests, now feels hollow and cold. He notices how his friends look at him, their eyes reflecting pity and concern. They know him too well, aware that behind his sharp words and defiant attitude, something is eating away at him.

He tries to brush it off, burying himself in work, in fights, in anything that will distract him. But no matter how hard he tries, his thoughts keep circling back to you. The memories come unbidden—your smile, the way you used to tease him, the way you understood him in a way no one else ever did. It's maddening, the way you haunt him, and yet he can't bring himself to let you go.

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IT WAS UNEXPECTED. It was that sort of day once again. Sukuna found himself in charge of his energetic nephew, Yuji, who had just been picked up from school. With his brother Jin and sister-in-law Kaori and Choso tied up with commitments for the weekend, Sukuna was left to manage Yuji. Given that he didn’t have to hit the gym or deal with work obligations that day, it seemed like a manageable task.

Ryomen Sukuna’s house was usually a quiet refuge from his chaotic world, but today it felt oddly empty. He doesn’t really like decorating that much, mostly because he has no time and mostly because he really doesn’t feel like it. But his nephew doesn’t seem to mind it every time he’s here. If there was something to distract the brat, then he doesn’t pay attention to everything else. Well, that and food. As he settled Yuji into the living room, Yuji’s curiosity quickly turned to hunger.

“Uncle Sukuna, I’m starving.” Yuji announced, making a beeline for the kitchen. “Do you have any natto? I could really go for some.”

Sukuna blinked, momentarily confused. “Natto? I don’t think I have any. Let me check.”

He shuffled into the kitchen, opening the fridge and peering inside. His search yielded nothing but a few cans of expired beans and a half-eaten pizza box. Sukuna eats out most of the time, because of work. If he does buy anything, it would be from the last time Yuji was here. And that was….a while ago. And just as much, there was no natto in sight.

“Uh, brat, I think we’re out of natto.” Sukuna said, returning to the living room with a sheepish grin. “And it looks like the rest of the fridge is pretty bare.”

Yuji’s eyes widened in disappointment. “But I was really looking forward to it!”

Sukuna rubbed the back of his neck. “Sorry about that. Looks like we’ll need to go out for groceries. How about we make it an adventure?”

Yuji’s face lit up at the prospect of an outing. “Okay! Can we get some ice cream too?”

Sukuna chuckled, relieved that Yuji’s mood had brightened. “Sure, ice cream it is. Let’s get going before your hunger turns into a full-blown meltdown, brat.”

As they left the house, Sukuna and Yuji made their way to the nearby supermarket. Yuji’s excitement was palpable, his small hands gripping the shopping cart handle as he eagerly pointed out various items he wanted to add to the list. Sukuna, trying to keep up, found himself both amused and exasperated by Yuji’s relentless energy and enthusiasm.

In the aisles of the supermarket, Sukuna pushed the cart while Yuji darted from one section to another, collecting snacks, fruits, and—of course—several packs of natto. Sukuna grabbed a few essentials and, true to his word, added some ice cream to the cart.

As they approached the checkout line, Sukuna glanced at Yuji, who was happily munching on a sample cookie from the store. The small bit of chocolate on Yuji’s cheek made him look even more cherubic and endearing. Sukuna’s lips twitched into a small smile, a rare moment of warmth slipping through his usually stoic facade.

“You know, I think I might need to keep a better stock of food for next time,” Sukuna said, his tone light.

Yuji, still with cookie crumbs on his face, grinned up at him. “And more natto!”

Sukuna couldn’t help but chuckle. The idea of having to stockpile natto just to keep his nephew happy was a new one, but it seemed like a worthwhile endeavor. He ruffled Yuji’s hair affectionately, feeling a soft, genuine affection for the boy.

“You’ve got it, brat. More natto it is.” Sukuna agreed, a rare, relaxed smile on his face.

As they loaded their groceries onto the conveyor belt, Sukuna glanced around, realizing how normal and mundane the experience was compared to the high-stakes, dangerous life he usually led. The simplicity of shopping for food and sharing a lighthearted moment with Yuji was both refreshing and oddly comforting.

Yuji, ever the energetic child, started pointing out items in the store with increasing enthusiasm. “Uncle Sukuna, look! They have those gummy candies you like!” 

Sukuna gave a half-hearted, amused shrug. “Sure, toss them in. I guess I can indulge a bit today.”

As they made their way through the aisles, Yuji chatted away, filling the silence with stories about school and his friends. Sukuna wasn’t really paying attention, his mind elsewhere, when something—or rather, someone—caught his eye.

There, at the end of the aisle, stood a familiar figure. The sight stopped Sukuna in his tracks, his eyes widening in disbelief. It was you.

For a moment, time seemed to stand still. He watched as you browsed through the shelves, seemingly lost in thought. Your presence, once a distant memory, felt so strikingly real that Sukuna’s heart skipped a beat. The years seemed to melt away as he took in the sight of you.

At first, he didn’t recognize you. It was just a fleeting glimpse, the way your hair caught the light, the familiar way you moved. But then, as you reached for something on a high shelf, he saw your face, and his heart stopped.

It was you.

He couldn’t believe it at first. He thought maybe it was someone who just looked like you, or perhaps his mind was playing tricks on him, dredging up memories he’d tried so hard to bury. But the more he stared, the more certain he became. It was you.

Yuji, noticing Sukuna’s sudden pause, looked up. “Uncle Sukuna, what’s wrong?”

Sukuna swallowed hard, trying to regain his composure. “Uh, nothing, brat. Let’s just finish up here.”

But his gaze was fixed on you, unable to look away. You hadn’t noticed him yet, and Sukuna fought with the urge to approach you, unsure of what to say or do. The familiar mix of excitement and anxiety churned within him, a reminder of the past he had tried so hard to reconcile.

Yuji, still unaware of the significance of the moment, tugged on Sukuna’s sleeve. “Uncle Sukuna, can we go over there? I want to check if they have those chocolates I like!”

Sukuna nodded absently, allowing Yuji to lead him towards the end of the aisle where you stood. As they drew closer, Sukuna braced himself, trying to steady his racing heart. He needed to act normal, to approach you calmly despite the flood of emotions.

Without thinking, he handed the shopping basket to Yuji and began walking toward you. The world around him seemed to blur, the noise of the supermarket fading into the background. It was just you and him, the years that had passed suddenly meaningless.

When he reached you, he hesitated, unsure of what to say. His mind raced, a thousand questions and emotions fighting for dominance. He hadn’t expected this, hadn’t prepared for the possibility of seeing you again. But now that you were right in front of him, he couldn’t just walk away.

“Is that you?” He finally said it. He finally said your name. He could feel his entire body shake from nervousness. He didn’t notice until he said it that his voice was rougher than he intended.

You turned to him, blinking in confusion. Your eyes met his, and for a brief, electrifying moment, Sukuna saw the spark of recognition. It was fleeting, but it was there—an almost imperceptible flicker that hinted at a shared past. But then, just as quickly, it was gone, replaced by a polite, detached expression.

“I’m sorry, but…” you began, your voice soft and apologetic. “Do I know you?”

The words hit Sukuna like a punch to the gut. The confusion on your face made no sense to him; how could you not remember him? The realization was like a cold wave crashing over him. He scanned your face more closely, noting the faint scar near your temple and the way your eyes seemed to search his face for something familiar but found nothing.

“Are you… are you playing a joke on me?” Sukuna’s voice wavered slightly as he tried to comprehend the situation. “It’s me. Sukuna. We… we know each other.”

You shook your head slowly, an apologetic smile tugging at your lips. “I’m really sorry, but I don’t remember you. I had a really bad accident a few years ago, and… well, I lost my memories. Amnesia. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

Amnesia. The word hit him like a ton of bricks. All the anger, hurt, and regret that had simmered in him for years suddenly evaporated, replaced by something he couldn’t quite name. You didn’t remember him. You didn’t remember anything about your life together, the love you shared, or the pain that had driven you apart. He stared at you, struggling to process what you’d just told him. The person he’d spent years trying to forget had forgotten him completely. And it hurts. It burns. It…it kills him.

Sukuna’s heart sank as he struggled to process your words. The memories of the past, the shared moments, the intense connection—everything seemed to blur together in a confusing haze. He tried to hold onto the hope that maybe, somehow, there was a chance you might remember him later, but the reality of your situation was clear. You had no recollection of your time together.

“Right…” Sukuna muttered, his voice thick with emotions he didn’t quite know how to handle. “No, it’s… it’s fine.”

“I just… I feel like I’ve upset you,” you mumbled back, your eyes filled with sincere regret. “It’s been like this for a while. I’m really sorry.”

“No, no… it’s okay. Don’t worry about it. It was my fault,” Sukuna said, shaking his head, though the words felt hollow against the weight of his feelings.

You nodded, your gaze sympathetic. “No, please. It’s not. I understand. It must be hard to run into someone who doesn’t remember you. I’m truly sorry.”

There was a quiet moment between you, the weight of lost memories hanging heavily in the air. Sukuna, feeling the sting of both your absence and the reality of your condition, struggled to find the right words. He wanted to bridge the gap between what had been and what was now, but he found himself at a loss.

Before you could turn away, Sukuna took a deep breath, summoning the courage to speak. “Um… could I… could I have your number? Maybe… maybe we could talk sometime. If you’re okay with that.”

You looked at him, a flicker of surprise crossing your face. For a moment, you seemed to weigh his request, and then you nodded slowly. “Sure. I can give you my number. I’d like that.”

As you exchanged contact information, Sukuna felt a mixture of hope and apprehension. The act of sharing numbers was a small step, but it felt significant. It was a bridge to the possibility of rebuilding a connection, even if the past was shadowed by the uncertainty of your memory.

“Thank you,” Sukuna said quietly, his voice carrying a note of genuine gratitude. “I appreciate it.”

You gave him a warm, understanding smile. “Of course. I’ll be happy to talk whenever you’re ready. It’s… nice to have some help with my memories, even if it’s just a little.”

Before he could speak, Yuji tugged at Sukuna’s sleeve. “Uncle Sukuna, can we go home now? I’m tired.”

Sukuna glanced down at Yuji and then back at you, his heart heavy. “Yeah, Yuji. Let’s head out.”

As Sukuna began to walk away, he felt your gaze on him. The pain of seeing you again, only to find that you had no memory of their shared past, was almost too much to bear. The bittersweet encounter left him with a mix of longing and resignation. You smiled at Yuji and then to him. Yuji grinned back at you and waved back. 

“Take care.” you called softly as he left the store with Yuji. Sukuna gave a small, subdued wave in response, his mind reeling from the encounter.

Once outside, he took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. Yuji, noticing his uncle’s somber mood, looked up with concern. “Uncle Sukuna, are you okay?”

Sukuna forced a reassuring smile, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah, Yuji. I’m fine. Just… a little surprised. Let’s get home.”

As they drove back, Sukuna’s thoughts were filled with the echoes of the past and the present reality. The encounter had stirred up old feelings, and the realization that you had lost your memories of him was both heartbreaking and profoundly unsettling. Yet, despite the pain, there was a strange sense of closure, as if seeing you again, even under these circumstances, had helped him come to terms with the unresolved aspects of their past.

As you walked away, Sukuna stood there, frozen in place, trying to comprehend what had just happened. Yuji came up beside him, his eyes wide with concern.

“Uncle Sukuna, are you okay? Who was that?”

Sukuna glanced at Yuji, then back at the aisle where you’d disappeared. He didn’t know how to answer that. He didn’t know how to explain that the person he’d never been able to forget had forgotten him entirely.

“That,” Sukuna finally said, his voice hollow, “was someone I used to know.”

▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃

HE DOESN’T REMEMBER WHAT HAPPENED AFTER. The days that followed were a blur for Sukuna. But he couldn’t help it.  Your encounter in the supermarket had shaken him in a way he hadn’t expected. He tried to push it aside, tell himself that it didn’t matter, that you were just a part of his past. But every time he closed his eyes, he saw your face, the way you looked at him with no recognition, no anger, no pain—just blank politeness. It haunted him.

Yet, fate seemed determined to keep throwing the two of you together. A few days later, he saw you again, this time at a coffee shop. You were sitting by the window, a book in hand, oblivious to the world around you. Sukuna hesitated, debating whether to approach you, but before he could decide, you looked up and caught his eye. There was that same polite smile, and he found himself walking over to you before he could think better of it.

“Hi again.” you said, looking up at him with that same soft, apologetic expression. “We keep running into each other, don’t we?”

“Yeah…..” he replied, his voice rough. He wasn’t sure what to say. The awkwardness between you was palpable, the weight of the past pressing down on him in a way you couldn’t feel. But you didn’t know that, couldn’t know that, so you just smiled and gestured to the seat across from you.

“Would you like to join me?” you asked, your voice gentle, offering a small, tentative smile as you gestured to a nearby café table.

Sukuna hesitated for a moment, his heart pounding in his chest. He wasn’t sure what he was doing or why he was putting himself through this, but there was something about being near you, even if you didn’t remember him, that soothed the ache in his chest. 

“If you wouldn’t mind.” he finally said, his voice betraying the mix of emotions swirling inside him. He sat down across from you, the familiarity of the scene almost too much to bear. Yet, he couldn’t bring himself to walk away. 

You giggled. “I don’t mind. Not at all.”

As you both settled in, the air between you was filled with an odd mix of tension and familiarity. You began to talk—small, inconsequential things at first. You mentioned how you liked the café’s atmosphere, how it had become one of your favorite spots since you moved here. Sukuna nodded along, trying to focus on the present moment rather than the flood of memories threatening to overwhelm him.

“You know….. “ you said after a moment, stirring your coffee absentmindedly, “it’s strange. I feel… comfortable with you. Like I’ve known you for a long time, even if I can’t remember it.”

Sukuna’s breath caught in his throat. He wanted to tell you everything—to pour out the years of pain, regret, and longing he had carried since you’d been apart. But he knew it wouldn’t be fair to burden you with memories you didn’t share anymore. So instead, he offered a small, wistful smile. 

“Maybe it’s just one of those thing.” he said softly, his eyes searching for yours. “Some people just click, I guess.”

You nodded, your gaze lingering on his face as if you were trying to piece together a puzzle. “Maybe. But still, it feels nice. Like I can trust you.”

Sukuna swallowed hard, forcing himself to keep his emotions in check. “I’m glad,” he said quietly, his voice betraying the depth of his feelings despite his best efforts. “I’d like to be someone you can trust.”

The conversation shifted to lighter topics after that, and the tension slowly eased. You talked about your life, your work, and the things you enjoyed. Sukuna listened intently, hanging on to every word, savoring the sound of your voice even if the stories were new to him. 

As the minutes turned into an hour, Sukuna found himself relaxing. The ache in his chest dulled, replaced by a warmth that he hadn’t felt in years. It was as if, for the first time since you had parted ways, he could breathe a little easier. There was no rush, no pressure to define what this was or what it could become. Just the simple pleasure of being in your company again, however different it might be from the past.

When you finally stood up to leave, Ryomen Sukuna felt a pang of reluctance, but he knew this wasn’t the end. You had exchanged numbers, after all, and there was a possibility that this could lead to something more. 

“I’m really glad we ran into each other.” you said, giving him a sincere smile. “I hope we can do this again sometime.”

“Me too.” Sukuna replied, his voice thick with emotion. “I’d like that.”

As you walked away, Sukuna remained seated for a moment, staring at the now-empty chair across from him. Despite the uncertainty of the future, he couldn’t help but feel a spark of hope. Maybe, just maybe, this was his chance to make things right—to show you the kind of love and care he should have given you all those years ago. And as he left the café, he found himself smiling, a feeling of lightness in his chest that he hadn’t felt in far too long.

Like the wind, the days brushed by into weeks, these accidental meetings became more frequent. He’d see you at the park, at the grocery store, at the small bookstore you frequented. Each time, you greeted him with the same warmth, and each time, he felt the walls he’d built around his heart start to crumble a little more.

It was during one of these encounters, when you were sitting together on a bench at the park, that Sukuna realized something had changed. He wasn’t just dwelling on the past anymore. He wasn’t just seeing you as the woman he used to love, the one who’d left him behind. You were still that person, but you were also someone new, someone who’d been through their own struggles, their own pain.

And he’d changed too. He wasn’t the same man you’d walked away from five years ago. The anger, the recklessness, the pride that had once driven you apart had mellowed. He’d grown, learned from his mistakes, and now, sitting beside you, he realized that he wanted to make things right.

There was one afternoon where after you’d both finished your coffees at that familiar café, Sukuna finally found himself gathered the courage to speak again. He’d been thinking about this for days, the words tumbling over and over in his mind until they felt like second nature.

“Hey….” he began, his voice uncharacteristically hesitant, “I’ve been meaning to tell you something.”

You looked at him, curiosity flickering in your eyes. “What is it?”

“I know you don’t remember me, or anything about… us, but I want you to know that I’m not the same person I was back then. I’ve changed. And I want to try again.” He paused, searching for the right words. “I want to make things right for you.”

There was a long silence as you absorbed his words. He could see the confusion in your eyes, the way you were trying to piece together something that felt like a missing puzzle in your mind. You wanted to know what it was. How to be complete, and yet you didn’t know how. Not even if your past thought he was what complete was. Finally, you spoke.

“Sukuna, I… I don’t know what to say. I don’t remember anything about us, about our past. But I can see that this means a lot to you, and that you’ve been carrying it with you for a long time.”

You paused, looking down at your hands, and then back at him. “I don’t know if I can ever get those memories back. But I do know that I enjoy spending time with you, that I feel comfortable around you. And maybe… maybe that’s a good place to start.”

His heart leapt at your words, hope flickering to life in a way it hadn’t in years. This was a second chance, an opportunity to rewrite the story that had once ended in heartbreak. He didn’t know what the future held, or if you would ever remember what you once had, but for the first time in a long time, he felt something close to peace.

Sukuna reached out, his hand brushing against yours, and you didn’t pull away. “Then let’s start there, hm?” he said quietly. “No pressure, no expectations. Just… us.”

You smiled, a genuine, warm smile that sent a wave of relief through him. “Just us,” you agreed.

And for the first time in five years, Sukuna felt like he was finally on the path to something real, something lasting. It wouldn’t be easy, but he was determined to prove that he could love you the way you deserved—this time, the right way.

As the weeks turned into months, Sukuna and you continued to meet, slowly rebuilding a connection that had once been lost. Each encounter felt like a tentative step forward, a cautious yet hopeful attempt to bridge the gap that had formed between you over the years. Yet, instead of the intense and sometimes overwhelming passion that had defined your past relationship, there was a newfound sense of calm and understanding between you both.

There was an ease between you now, a natural rhythm that felt different from the intense, almost chaotic bond you’d shared in the past. In the beginning, it was subtle—a shared smile over a mundane joke, the comfortable silence that fell between you as you walked side by side, the way your conversations flowed without the need to fill every gap with words. The pressure that once loomed over your relationship, demanding definitions and clarity, had dissipated, leaving space for something more genuine and unforced.

You found yourselves slipping into each other’s lives in small, almost imperceptible ways. Sukuna would pick up your favorite coffee without being asked, remembering the way you liked it just by heart. You’d invite him to a quiet dinner at your place, cooking together in the kitchen as you talked about everything and nothing. There were no grand gestures or declarations, just a quiet, steady presence that felt reassuring and right.

This time, there was no rush, no urgency to define what you were to each other. It was as if both of you understood that whatever this was, it needed to grow at its own pace. You’d learned from the past, from the way things had unraveled before, and there was an unspoken agreement that you wouldn’t make the same mistakes again. You allowed the relationship to unfold naturally, letting each moment build upon the last, like carefully stacking stones into a tower that could withstand the test of time.

Sukuna, too, had changed. The man who once wore his emotions like armor, who had always been so guarded and intense, was different now. There was a softness to him that hadn’t been there before—a willingness to listen, to be patient, to let things unfold without forcing them into place. He no longer felt the need to control every aspect of his life, and that included his relationship with you. He had learned to let go, to trust that if this was meant to be, it would be.

And in that trust, something beautiful began to grow. Your conversations deepened, moving beyond the surface-level topics that had once dominated your interactions. You talked about your dreams, your fears, the things that kept you awake at night. Sukuna shared pieces of himself that he had kept hidden for so long, opening up in ways he never had before. And you, in turn, felt safe enough to do the same.

There were moments when the past would resurface, like shadows lingering at the edges of your newfound connection. Memories of heated arguments, of painful goodbyes, would flicker in your minds, reminding you of how things had once gone wrong. But instead of letting those memories drag you down, you faced them together, acknowledging the hurt while choosing to move forward.

It wasn’t always easy. There were still days when doubts crept in, when the fear of repeating past mistakes threatened to pull you apart. But each time, you chose to stay, to work through it rather than run away. And with each challenge you faced, the bond between you grew stronger, more resilient.

Sukuna, who had once been so afraid of vulnerability, found himself looking forward to the moments he spent with you. The walls he had built around himself slowly crumbled, replaced by a quiet confidence in what you were building together. He no longer needed to prove himself, to assert control over his emotions or over you. Instead, he allowed himself to simply be—with you, in the present, without the burden of past regrets or future expectations.

You, too, noticed the change in yourself. The tension that had once gnawed at your heart, the constant questioning of whether you were enough or if this was right, had eased. You felt more secure, more at peace with where you were and where you were going. You trusted Sukuna in a way you hadn’t before, not just because he had changed, but because you had changed too.

As the months passed, the connection between you deepened, solidified by the quiet moments of understanding and the shared experiences that had brought you closer together. There was a sense of contentment that neither of you had anticipated—a feeling that, for the first time in a long time, you were exactly where you were meant to be.

And so, you continued to meet, to grow together, allowing whatever this was to take shape in its own time. There was no rush, no urgency, only the quiet certainty that what you were building was worth the patience and the effort. You both knew that the past would always be a part of you, but it no longer defined you. Instead, it had become a foundation upon which you could build something new, something lasting.

In each other’s presence, you found a kind of peace that had once seemed elusive, and in that peace, you discovered the possibility of a future that was not just better than the past, but truly, deeply right.

Sukuna found himself looking forward to your meetings, the mundane moments that had once seemed trivial now holding a new significance. Whether it was a simple walk in the park, browsing through books together, or sharing a meal, these moments began to stitch together a new story between you, one that was quieter, more deliberate, and infinitely more meaningful.

But beneath the surface, Sukuna wrestled with his own emotions. The more time he spent with you, the more he realized just how much he had missed you—how much he had missed being close to someone who truly understood him. Yet, there was also the constant reminder that you didn’t remember him, that the memories of your past were locked away, possibly forever.

One afternoon, after you’d both finished a long walk along the river, you sat together on a bench, watching the water ripple in the sunlight. The conversation had lulled into a comfortable silence, and for a moment, Sukuna just watched you, taking in the way the light caught your hair, the serene expression on your face.

“Can I ask you something?” Sukuna finally said, breaking the silence.

You turned to him, nodding. “Of course.”

“Do you ever… feel like something’s missing? Like there’s a part of you that’s still out there, waiting to be found?”

You considered his question carefully before responding. “Sometimes.” you admitted. “There are moments when I feel like I’m on the edge of remembering something important, something that’s just out of reach. But I’ve learned to let go of the frustration. I’ve had to accept that those memories might never come back.”

Sukuna’s heart clenched at your words, the weight of your shared history pressing down on him. He wanted to tell you everything—to pour out the story of your love, the highs and lows, the way you had been everything to each other and how it had all fallen apart. But he held back, knowing that it wasn’t his place to force those memories on you.

Instead, he reached out and took your hand in his. “I don’t want to push you more than I already did.” he said quietly. “I just want you to know that I’m here, whatever happens. I’m not going anywhere this time.”

You squeezed his hand, offering him a gentle smile. “I know, Sukuna. And I appreciate that. I’ve come to trust you, even if I don’t remember our past. What matters to me now is the person you are today, the one I’m getting to know all over again.”

Those words gave Sukuna a sense of hope he hadn’t allowed himself to feel in a long time. He was no longer the man who had let his pride and anger destroy something precious. He had grown, learned from his mistakes, and now, he had a chance to show you that.

As the days passed, he became more intentional in his efforts to be there for you, to support you in ways he hadn’t before. He listened when you spoke, offered comfort when you needed it, and gave you space when you needed to process your thoughts. There was a quiet strength in the bond you were forming, a steady foundation that was being built brick by brick.

One evening, after you’d invited him over for dinner, you sat together on your couch, a comfortable silence settling between you after a long day. Sukuna glanced at you, his heart full of things he wanted to say but didn’t know how to put into words.

“I’ve been thinking….a lot.” you said suddenly, turning to face him. “About us.”

His breath caught in his throat, but he stayed quiet, waiting for you to continue. He could feel his heart pounding, the silence between you filled with unspoken tension. You looked at him tenderly, and those eyes—those eyes he had once loved so fiercely—held a warmth that stirred something deep within him. But this time, there was something different in your gaze, something he couldn’t quite place. It wasn’t the same love he remembered, the love that had once consumed both of you. It was softer, more distant, as if it had been tempered by time and the loss of memories.

Sukuna wasn’t sure what that look meant, but he longed for the days when your eyes had been filled with nothing but love for him. He yearned for the intensity, the passion that had once been theirs. But deep down, he knew those days were gone, that you had changed, just as he had. And even though he wished for the impossible, he understood that the love you had once shared might never return in the way it had before.

And yet, he couldn’t stop himself from hoping, from wanting you to look at him like that again, to feel that love again. But he knew, with a sinking certainty, that it was unlikely. Maybe this was his punishment, the price he had to pay for the mistakes he had made, for the years he had spent without you. Maybe fate was just that cruel, giving him a second chance only to remind him of what he had lost.

“I don’t remember our past, Sukuna.” you said softly, breaking the silence. Your voice was gentle, but there was a sincerity in it that made Sukuna’s chest tighten. “But I do know that I feel something when I’m with you. It’s not just comfort or friendship… it’s more. I don’t know how to explain it, but it feels right, being with you.”

Sukuna’s heart swelled with emotion, a mix of relief and longing coursing through him. He had waited so long to hear those words, to know that there was still something between you, even if it wasn’t exactly what he had expected. It wasn’t the grand declaration of love he had secretly hoped for, but it was something—a spark, a glimmer of the connection that had once bound you together.

He searched your face, looking for any sign of the emotions he had once known so well. But all he found was that same tender expression, tinged with a hint of uncertainty. It wasn’t love, not yet. But it was something. And for now, that was enough.

“I’m glad you feel that way.” he said, his voice thick with the emotions he was struggling to keep in check. “I don’t want to rush things, or push you to remember something that might never come back. I just… I want to be here with you, whatever that means.”

You nodded, a small smile tugging at the corners of your lips. “I want that too, Sukuna. I don’t know what the future holds, but I’d like to find out—together.”

He felt a weight lift off his shoulders, the heavy burden of his regrets and fears easing, if only a little. This was far from the ending he had imagined, but it was a beginning, a chance to rebuild what had been lost. And maybe, just maybe, if he was patient and if he allowed things to unfold naturally, there could be something new between you, something that was just as meaningful as what you had once shared.

As you both stood there, the world around you fading into the background, Sukuna couldn’t help but think that perhaps fate wasn’t as cruel as he had feared. Maybe this was his second chance—not to reclaim the past, but to create something new, something even better than what had been before. And for the first time in years, he allowed himself to hope that this time, he wouldn’t let it slip through his fingers.

▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃

epilogue 

A few weeks after your heartfelt conversation with Sukuna, you find yourself at a park on a sunny afternoon. Sukuna had asked you to meet him there, mentioning that his nephew, Yuji, would be joining. You had heard a lot about Yuji from Sukuna—how the kid was full of energy, always getting into something, and how Sukuna had taken on a sort of protective role in his life. You were curious to see this side of Sukuna, the man who had once been all sharp edges and intensity.

As you approach the park, you spot Sukuna first, sitting on a bench with a somewhat exasperated look on his face. Beside him is a young boy, who is clearly trying to balance on the back of the bench with one foot, arms outstretched like he’s performing some kind of circus act.

“Careful, you brat.” Sukuna warns, his tone stern but not unkind. “You’re going to break your neck.”

Yuji, grinning from ear to ear, just laughs and hops down with a flourish. “I’m invincible, Uncle Sukuna!”

“Yeah, well, let’s not test that theory.” Sukuna mutters, but there’s a fondness in his voice that catches you off guard. “Your mom and dad will kill me.”

You approach them, smiling as Yuji notices you and waves enthusiastically. “Hi! You must be the one Uncle Sukuna’s always talking about!”

“Yuji!” Sukuna snaps, looking mortified. “I do not—”

Yuji doesn’t miss a beat, cutting him off. “He totally does! He’s always like, ‘I wonder if she’s gonna remember me today,’ or ‘Maybe she’ll cook something nice again.’”

Sukuna groans, rubbing a hand over his face. “Kid, do you ever stop talking?”

You can’t help but laugh at the exchange, and Sukuna’s embarrassment only makes it funnier. “Nice to meet you, Yuji!” you say, crouching down to his level. “Your uncle’s right, though. You should be careful on that bench.”

Yuji shrugs, his smile never fading. “Uncle Sukuna’s always careful too, even though he acts all tough. But he’s really soft, especially when I get hurt. You should see him panic when I stub my toe.”

“Yuji!” Sukuna’s voice is a mix of frustration and resignation, clearly regretting bringing his nephew along.

You stand up, grinning at Sukuna. “I see you’ve got a little soft spot, huh?”

“Don’t listen to him.” Sukuna mutters, glaring at Yuji, who just laughs and runs off toward the playground. “He’s a menace.”

“Sure, sure.” you tease, nudging Sukuna lightly. “But you love it.”

Sukuna sighs, watching Yuji with an expression that’s a mix of exasperation and affection. “Yeah, well, someone’s gotta keep him out of trouble.”

You slip your hand into Sukuna’s, squeezing it gently. “You’re doing a great job, Uncle Sukuna.”

He gives you a sidelong glance, the corners of his mouth twitching upward. “Don’t start calling me that too.”

“No promises.” you reply, laughing as you both watch Yuji play, his laughter filling the air. It’s a side of Sukuna you never expected to see, and you find yourself growing more and more fond of the man who, despite his rough edges, is soft in all the right places.

[saekkas]

𝐉𝐔𝐒𝐓 𝐖𝐀𝐍𝐍𝐀 𝐁𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐒

summary: in which someone flirts with them, but they're only looking at you.

includes: isagi, nagi, reo, yukimiya, rin, sae, kunigami, kaiser, karasu, bachira, aiku.

notes: this one's shorter than the one before but still, go wild my loves <3

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐍𝐈𝐂𝐄 𝐆𝐔𝐘 who values you very much. is the type to be very secure in the relationship; doesn't like any unnecessary drama and is definitely ready to move onto the next stage. wouldn't really care about the other person but will not tolerate having his boundaries crossed. especially when it's clear that he's yours and yours only.

isagi, yukimiya, bachira, nagi.

his eyes are on his phone, feet tapping against the tiles of the cafe. it's a hole in the wall that he's used to frequenting with you, so much that the staff know your orders by heart. the line is short, seats mostly empty, as the rush hour has passed. the rain is pouring against the window beside him, and he taps his finger on the table to their rhythm.

tilting his head, his eyes find you in the middle of the line. you're focused on the menu, your bottom lip between your teeth as you scan the list of food and beverages. it makes him smile, chuckling under his breath because he knows you'll end up getting what you usually do. he gets onto his feet, wallet in hand, when you're finally set to order.

"hi. good morning, how are you?" your sweet voice tickles his ear as he approaches, his heart warm and sated as you go through your usual routine.

"hey." he presses a kiss to your head, wrapping a hand around your waist. his lips trail down, stopping at your cheek, a smile pressed against the skin as he hears you giggle. "what's taking so long?"

the cashier smiles, amused at the sight. "mornin' i'm great. how about you two lovebirds?"

"we're good," he answers for you both, an easy-going expression on his face. he looks down, scrunching his nose at you while you giggle at his answer. "just waiting for this angel to finish ordering."

"we'll have matcha latte, caramel macchiato, and a blueberry cheesecake please. the usual." he tilts his head, looking for your confirmation. he smiles proudly, chest puffing when you nod your head.

"i'll pay," you say as you show your card to the cashier, smiling at her. he chuckles, letting you take the bill this time. "how much will it be?"

the drinks are out in a second, the green and brown a contrast against each other. there are two pairs of utensils on the plate, and he thanks the staff for their work, taking the tray into his hand. "i'll take these to our table first, okay?" he looks over his shoulder, a gentle look in his eye as he processes just how... domestic this all feels.

"yeah, i'll be there in a minute. i need to go to the bathroom." you smile at the cashier one last time, tucking your purse into your bag. you glare playfully, poking your tongue at him. "don't you dare finish the cheesecake before i'm back."

he pokes his tongue back, a laugh breaking loose from his chest. "no promises."

he sits back down, placing the food on the table as he goes back to drumming his fingers. the rain doesn't look as if it'll be stopping any time soon, wind combining with water to shower the earth clean. he looks at his watch, mentally thinking about making dinner later with you. a smile grows at the thought.

there's a shadow in the corner of his eye that he assumes is you. he smiles, ready to lean over and press a kiss, only to stop when his eyes meet a stranger instead. "sorry." he backs away, a furrow in his eyebrow as he looks around, searching for you. "you've got the wrong table."

"no. it's okay. i've definitely got the right table." the stranger lays it thick with a high-pitched tone, and fluttering eyelashes. "hi, handsome. here's my number."

he watches as she slips a piece of paper onto the table, confusion blending into annoyance when she leans over to take his hand. "look," he says with a frown, pushing his hands into his pockets. he's very obviously looking in the direction you went off in. "you've got the wrong table and i'm already with someone."

"ah but i don't see this someone?" the smile on her face is pushing at his limits. his jaw ticks when she moves to sit beside him. "c'mon, handsome. give me a chance."

the bathroom door by the end opens with a creak, and his head snaps at the sound. before she has time to reach over once again, he's quick to swerve away to your side. you're already eyeing the girl at your table with curiosity, your head tilted in question. "hey, who's that? one of your frien-"

he doesn't let you finish. he's quick to reach for your waist, tugging you into a kiss with a hand cupping your cheek. all negative feelings drain from his limbs, turning him into a puddle of love as you thread your fingers into his hair.

"as much as i love your kisses," you say with a gasp of breath as you look up into his eyes, finding love looking back at you through the orbs. "that was a bit sudden. did something happen?"

"not at all." he shakes his head, nuzzling into your nose. his hands are on the side of your neck, lovingly stroking the skin. "not now that you're here."

you look back at your table, seeing it empty, and the girl from before nowhere in sight.

"shall we enjoy our drinks?" he pushes you with the hand he has on your waist. he sits down first before pulling you to sit right beside him, your hands intertwined under the table. "can't wait to eat dinner with you later."

𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐄𝐍𝐒 𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐏𝐎𝐓𝐋𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓. he won't say no to playful flirting since it feeds his ego but will only respond if you're somewhere near or in his field of vision. he won't give the other person any of his attention if you aren't. will think it's funny that they're trying their best but will either shoot them down in a way that crushes their pride or brush them off as if they don't exist.

reo, aiku, karasu, kaiser.

the bass is thrumming against his skull, a tune that doesn't fit the mall's calm and serene energy. he's sitting on one of those plush sofas in a clothing store outlet, tapping his fingers against his thigh as he waits for you to finish changing. he feels the warning glare the manager's sending, and he snorts as if trying to go into the dressing room with you is a crime. he would be so much more satisfied with you between four cramped walls than in the wide space where people are obviously gawking at him.

"excuse me." someone calls his name timidly, and he cocks his head towards them, wanting to see where this goes. they send him a smile, one that's too teethy and falsely sweet but hey he can't fault them for not flashing his favorite smile; they aren't you after all.

"yes?" his reply is short and blunt, but he sighs when the girl flinches away. you've always said that his resting face looked too mean. he chuckles at the thought.

shaking himself out of his daydream, he shows his best smile. he leans back, arm stretched out against the back of the couch as he adjusts his pose, manspreading. a peacock, you'd once muse when he first did it in front of you. he watches with thinly veiled boredom in his eyes, a juxtaposition to the sickeningly sweet smile on his lips. "can i help you with something?"

the girl flushes, biting her lip and tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. being coy, he realizes with an amused scoff.

"sorry to bother you. it's just- you looked so bored. i thought i could entertain you."

his eyebrow quirks at the word entertain, tilting his head in mock curiosity. "and how would you do that, hm?" he takes her in, taking in her choice of clothing and hairstyle. cute he'd give that much to her. nothing like you, though. she couldn't compare.

he realizes belatedly that the once over was seen differently than what he meant for it to come across. amusement flickers in his eyes when she flushes a bright red, fidgeting on her spot. "you do this often?" he tilts his head, eyes half-lidded, trying to gauge her reaction. "flirting with random strangers in the mall of a hobby, eh?"

"just the handsome ones," she says with a giggle. he watches as she points a finger to the row of clothes, her interest clear as day. "how about we look around? buy some clothes or jewelry so we match."

he chuckles, shaking his head at the thought. he can't wait to tell you about this. right on cue, the door to your dressing room opens, and you step out. his breath gets stuck in his throat, his eyes widening, and a grin making its way to his lips.

the black dress you have on is nothing short of stunning. it tapers off to your knees, the material hugging your curves. he sends you an eager look, one which you giggle at. you turn, showing him the back of the dress, keeping eye contact as you do. his mouth falls and thoughts short circuit as his eyes rake down your bare back, stopping just before your bum.

oh the things he'll do to you in that dress. no wonder the manager was so adamant on not letting him join in on the fun.

"nah," he says distractedly at the girl still waiting for his response. he sends you a wink and a flirty smile, mouthing one moment, before turning back to her. "see that gorgeous specimen right there? yeah i'm hers."

"she and i, we match." his eyes are filled with mischief as he tugs his shirt down, showing off the collection of marks you left on him last night. the skin around his collarbone is red, purple, and bruised. littered with love bites. a symbol of your love he thinks smugly. "see?"

there's pride blooming in his chest, a smug smile forming on his face the moment her eyes widen and the color drains from her face. "i'm not interested in anyone who's not her. so scram." he's quick to wave her away, skipping over to tug you back into the fitting room, this time with him in it.

𝐂𝐎𝐋𝐃 𝐀𝐒 𝐈𝐂𝐄, the type to literally not care at all. will not give them time of day and will appear hostile if necessary. but he'll mostly just look at them, expressionless with dead eyes.

sae, rin, kunigami

there are so many options to choose from, he frowns, glaring at the row of refrigerators stacked next to each other as if they've done something wrong. the supermarket is relatively busy, customers ranging from middle schoolers to elderly. he's in the drink section, passing one fridge to another, looking for your favorite drink from outside the glass, his frowning reflection looking back at him.

you're somewhere in the dairy section, picking out pints of ice cream, and who knows what else. he checks his phone, checking for any new messages from you. i'll head over soon, after i find the popcorn, it reads along with multiple hearts and photos of you smiling beside the ice cream. he shakes his head, tapping a finger against the screen to save the photos.

he pockets his phone, ready to move on to the next isle when he bumps into someone. he huffs, his eyes looking at the girl that's staring right back at him.

"really?" she says with a flirty giggle after she gets a clear look at his face. he remains stoic, hands in his pocket, even as she nudges him on the shoulder as if a longtime friend. "you're handsome but if you don't say sorry when you bump into someone, they'll lose interest. but maybe that's your charm."

he moves to slight past her, not at all caring about her presence, but before he knows it, she's stuck a hand into his back pocket, sending a kiss playfully before bounding over somewhere he doesn't give a damn about. the frown on his lips deepens, but before he has the chance to look into his pocket, you pop up right beside him.

"hey, i can't find the drinks but i've got everything else." he hears you say as you show him your basket full of things, smiling up at him. there are all kinds of things in the basket, ranging from chocolate, popcorn, ice cream, sausages, and many more. tonight is monthly movie night and he tries to shake off the weird encounter from his mind, not wanting to dampen the mood.

he smiles back, leaning down to take the basket from you. the hoodie you have on is his, and it dwarves you. the hem reaches your knees, and he can't see your hands which makes him chuckle all the while more. you told him that you were cold, he knows it's just another excuse to wear his hoodie.

"let's go home." he ruffles a hand through your hair, affection getting the best of him, before taking your hand with his other.

he drops the basket on the self-checkout counter, and helps you scan all the necessary items. he eyes the chupa-chups by the counter and grabs two, strawberry and cola, scanning both and handing them for you to choose. he chuckles when you brighten, choosing the strawberry for yourself.

"i'll take the bags." he takes both bags into his left hand, the other placing itself on your back. he leads you out, shaking his head in amusement when he feels you slip your hand into his back pocket.

"hey what's this?" the tone of your voice has him frowning. "i didn't know you smoke. it's bad for you, ya know?"

looking down at the cigarette in your hand, he eyes the scribble of numbers surrounding the stick. ah that's what she slipped in, he sighs. taking the cigarette from you, he's quick to throw it to the ground, crushing it with his foot.

"i don't," he chuckles at the look of disbelief on your face. leaning in, he plucks the candy from your mouth, pressing a kiss and pushing his tongue in. you taste sweet from the candy he notes, you smell like ice cream too. he's quick to pull back, chuckling when he realizes just how flustered you've become.

"i prefer sweets," he says with a smug smile before popping the candy into his own mouth.

[were--ralph]

why exactly do you dislike generative art so much? i know its been misused by some folks, but like, why blame a tool because it gets used by shitty people? Why not just... blame the people who are shitty? I mean this in genuinely good faith, you seem like a pretty nice guy normally, but i guess it just makes me confused how... severe? your reactions are sometimes to it. There's a lot of nuance to conversation about it, and by folks a lot smarter than I (I suggest checking out the Are We Art Yet or "AWAY" group! They've got a lot on their page about the ethical use of Image generation software by individuals, and it really helped explain some things I was confused about). I know on my end, it made me think about why I personally was so reactive about Who was allowed to make art and How/Why. Again, all this in good faith, and I'm not asking you to like, Explain yourself or anything- If you just read this and decide to delete it instead of answering, all good! I just hope maybe you'll look into *why* some people advocate for generative software as strongly as they do, and listen to what they have to say about things -🦜

if Ai genuinely generated its own content I wouldn't have as much of a problem with it, however what Ai currently does is scrape other people's art, collect it, and then build something based off of others stolen works without crediting them. It's like. stealing other peoples art, mashing it together, then saying "this is mine i can not only profit of it but i can use it to cut costs in other industries.

this is more evident by people not "making" art but instead using prompts. Its like going to McDonalds and saying "Burger. Big, Juicy, etc, etc" then instead of a worker making the burger it uses an algorithm to build a burger based off of several restaurant's recepies.

example

the left is AI art, the right is one of the artists (Lindong) who it pulled the art style from. it's literally mass producing someone's artstyle by taking their art then using an algorithm to rebuild it in any context. this is even more apparent when you see ai art also tries to recreate artists watermarks and generally blends them together making it unintelligible.

Aside from that theres a lot of other ethical problems with it including generating pretty awful content, including but not limited to cp. It also uses a lot of processing power and apparently water? I haven't caught up on the newer developements i've been depressed about it tbh

Then aside from those, studios are leaning towards Ai generation to replace having to pay people. I've seen professional voice actors complain on twitter that they haven't gotten as much work since ai voice generation started, artists are being cut down and replaced by ai art then having the remaining artists fix any errors in the ai art.

Even beyond those things are the potential for misinformation. Here's an experiment: Which of these two are ai generated?

ready?

These two are both entirely ai generated. I have no idea if they're real people, but in a few months you could ai generate a Biden sex scandal, you could generate politics in whatever situation you want, you can generate popular streamers nude, whatever. and worse yet is ai generated video is already being developed and it doesn't look bad.

I posted on this already but as of right now it only needs one clear frame of a body and it can generate motion. yeah there are issues but it's been like two years since ai development started being taken seriously and we've gotten to this point already. within another two years it'll be close to perfected. There was even tests done with tiktokers and it works. it just fucking works.

There is genuinely not one upside to ai art. at all. it's theft, it's harming peoples lives, its harming the environment, its cutting jobs back and hurting the economy, it's invading peoples privacy, its making pedophilia accessible, and more. it's a plague and there's no vaccine for it. And all because people don't want to take a year to learn anatomy.