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larry-the-demon · 1 year ago

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The first thing I can remember, if I’m being completely honest with myself, is not my father. Not the one that sired me, nor the one who raised me. But I don’t feel like that’s particularly unusual--I simply feel a bit bad about it, that is all. Guilt. A son’s guilt. How often in a century does that come around, and only after everything has gone to shit! But that is how it always is.

No--the first thing I can remember, before it all went to shit, before anything, before everything, is the mud. I remember rolling in it, twisting my spine over and digging my shoulders into it so that I would dissolve into nothing but that holy earth. I would trot home, fur covered in the muck of the woods, and I remember someone shaking their head at me, laughing, telling me I was to grow so big and strong one day! The earth loved me so. The earth loved me, as the earth loved all its children, even my mother, even my fathers. The second thing I remember is when I was given my name.

Fenrir, I remember my father--the sire, that is--calling, Fenrir. Marsh-dweller. Come up out of the muck, would you? One would think you were a frog, not a wolf!

I AM a frog! I would call back. Ribbit! Ribbit! I can’t come out of it, this is my home! This is my name! It is a part of me!

…Well. I’m probably more dramatic reminiscing on it than I was as a small boy, but whatever. It’s true, isn’t it? You can’t deny it. It is a part of me, for better or for worse. And oh, how it often seemed worse, later on. How it seems worse now. But that’s irrelevant at this point, if I’m going to tell this properly, and I feel that you deserve to hear this properly. You, out of anyone. So I must take my time about it.

Anyway. After my first few memories--well, I remember my mother, she would echo my name after blood-father called, and the waters would tremble against my furs, sorrow, sorrow. It was suffocating. I did not want to be near it. My father, then, I’d stay near him--but he was a unit with her, they worked together. She was inescapable, unavoidable. I imagine all mothers are.

She had her moments, though. Sometimes, she would pull me onto her lap and stroke my fur how I liked it, rough so that I could feel it in my bones. It was on my mother’s lap that I learned the news of my sister’s leaving.

My sister--she’s another memory. She was rather melancholy, her hair long and lank, shying away from everything that dared breathe life at her. “Scaredy-cat!” I used to taunt her, nip at her heels, but she would only trudge on, as if she did not understand the most intimate language of siblings. I don’t think she ever once turned around to look at me. The mud terrified her.

I’d only last seen her a few days prior, as I sat there on my mother’s lap, as I felt her knuckles drag over each individual ridge of my vertebrae. It was my father, of course, who brought the news.

“She’s left us!” He cried, a little more distressed than you’d expect from the likes of him. “She’s gone.”

My mother stood suddenly; I dropped off her lap like a stone and rolled under the table. “Who.”

And suddenly, my father was himself again. He laughed, his hand slipped behind his head to scratch at the wild shock of red hair that grew upon it. “...Well,” he said.

“You--you!” My mother spat. “You rotten--you trickster god, you, you! You sold her! You sold her to them!” She shook in her fury, her devastation, and the house trembled, I could hear the water calling, sorrow, sorrow, sorrow!

My father only laughed again, and you could tell a little too quick that it was genuine. “Dear,” he said to her, “They would have killed her otherwise.”

My mother went still at that. “What do you know,” she murmured, low and dangerous, “that I do not?”

And my father was all too happy to oblige. “It’s nothing to worry about,” he told her. “Nothing, really. Just precautions. Listen--they gave her an entire kingdom! She rules in a palace, she has riches beyond what you can imagine!”

“And I bet you can imagine nine times as much,” my mother spat.

Here, I thought she was being unfair. My sister--she would have been killed, and now she had a domain to herself! This put her on par with the gods, I thought.

But I stayed under the table. I did not want to be picked up by my mother again. When she touched me too often, I could feel the sorrow seep out of the water and through my skin, until I drowned in it. I think that’s why my father loved her.

Perhaps it's why my brother always hated her more. Not--not to say I ever hated my mother! It’s just--she got to be a bit much, sometimes. We were not the same sort of people. And my brother--well, he was even less her sort of people, though he’d been birthed by her just the same as my sister and I. He was my father’s son, through and through. Same laugh. Same look in his eye. He would tear down the world one day, I was sure of it. He used to chase me, in the marshlands, slipping through the water as if it were all he’d ever known, the only hint that he was stalking me being the glints of sun on his scales. It was great fun. I would gnaw on his fins in retaliation, and he would thrash, thrash about, until we both lay panting and laughing on the shore, until he would finally clam up and wander off for the day, and then I was left to gallivant in my marshes all alone.

He was born hearing my mother’s sorrow in his scales, he told me once. That’s his first memory--my mother’s wails, echoing cries, he told me they bit into his fins the same way I did. Only they didn’t let go. It must’ve been hard for him, especially one born so fit for the water, to hear her, hear her everywhere he went--I know I wouldn’t be able to stand it. I loved my mother, I loved her, but she was--she was all-encompassing, and young beasts do not take well to being trapped.

Eventually, they came for him, too, you know. My mother was less torn up about that one--after all, they dumped him in the ocean, and she could hear him, she could see him, she could call to him. She still didn’t like that he had to leave, though. Shockingly, that was the first time I ever saw my father get hit on the face. These days, I wish I’d seen it more often. He fucking deserved it.

It was on this night that I crept up to him, as the world lay dark and still, and asked why my siblings had been forced to go.

“They chose to,” he told me, then. “It was their will. And someday, it will be yours as well! That’s how these things go, little Fenrir.”

I took that explanation without much complaint, despite knowing that my sister could have been killed. My father wouldn’t lie to me. And so I moved on happily with my life for the next few months, sitting nose-deep in marsh water, burying myself in marsh grass, snapping up every marsh bug my young jaws could find. Fenrir! My father called, sometimes. Fenrir, Marsh-Dweller! Come out of your mud. And always, always, I would run to him, body soaked, chest heaving.

“Fenrir!” He exclaimed once, after I’d raced my way to him. “Child, come with me! We’re going exploring!”

Well--I’d sure as shit never gone properly exploring before, certainly not with my father, of course I was going to go! And so I trotted alongside him happily, stopping here and there to explore this new territory.

“Fenrir!” My father called after me, “Come here!”

And so I bounded to him, great leaps, tongue lolling, only to stop short at his side. “Father,” I asked him, “Who are these?”

“These,” my father told me, “Are the Aesir.”

“Ah,” I said. I did not know what the hell an Aesir was. “I see.”

The group of people stared back at me as I stared at them, a strange curiosity building between us. Once--only once--had a deer not run away at first catching my scent. This encounter reminded me of that.

“Rather big, isn’t he,” someone said, and my father laughed and laughed. By this time, I was as tall as his waist at the shoulder, and still hadn’t grown into my oversized paws. I turned my head away, feeling they were mocking my glaringly obvious lack of maturity. If only they fucking had been, really.

But no--whoever had spoken was dead serious. “Look at the thing’s claws,” he spat, from the back of the group. “You oughta just kill it, Loki. You know damn well how we feel about you and your family.”

My father became a little more serious, though he never stopped laughing, laughing, laughing. “We had a deal, Frey,” he said, “Me and the Aesir. Get your Vanir ass out of our business.”

Well, Frey didn’t take that all too kindly, and he lunged, but someone caught him, pulled him back. Frey thrashed and thrashed, but he couldn't really get anywhere. My father was bent at the waist, he was laughing so hard. I decided I didn’t really get this adult humour.

When the man who had caught Frey finally calmed him, he stepped out of the pack, stood right in front of my father. It was not an intimidation tactic. I was fascinated.

“I only ask that you and your lover stay out of trouble, now,” he said. “I will take care of the rest.”

And my father, he just laughed, and laughed and laughed.

That was the first time I’d ever met Tyr.

The first thing I could say about him with confidence was that he was alright. That day, my father traded me to the Aesir for a little bit of luck, and a little bit of time, all of which he kept to himself. I don’t think I’ll ever understand why they wanted me. They all despised me. I’d say ‘at first,’ but really, that never changed. The Aesir are simply like that. Very immovable, no matter what the stories you hear may be. Set in their ways.

So, I was taken to Asgard. I know, I know, how exciting, the promised land, the holy house of the gods, et cetera, et cetera. Honestly? I never thought it was worth shit. Couldn't find a marsh to save your life. I was stuck with the sun. At the very least, I couldn't hear my mother’s incessant worry. It’s an everyday thought for me, wondering if it’s driven my brother to madness yet. If it hasn’t by now, he’s got the strongest will in all the world.

Anyway. Asgard. They dumped me in a corral, of all places, like I was some sort of livestock--which, really, to them, I probably was--and then they left.

And that was that.

Later on, I learned it’d been someone’s duty to take care of me, but that whoever the fuck had pulled the short stick had simply been too scared, too much of a coward to follow through, and then allegedly they circled through the rest of the gods, who were all--you guessed it--fucking pussies. Anyway. Somehow, some way, I was stuck in that pen for I daresay a week before someone dropped by, and by then, I was starving, pathetic, and miserable, which, in a young wolf, is an understandable thing to be afraid of, but whose fault was that!? But the man who dropped by, he took one look at my pen and said, he said to me, “I’m letting you out.”

When I tell you I would’ve killed my entire birth family and laid their heads at his feet for him just saying that one sentence--well, to be fair, it’s not like I have much remaining care for them, so I suppose that’s not much of a stretch--but he opened the gate. And he beckoned me out. I could barely believe this as it was happening, as I trotted out to stand beside him, my tail pumping faster than it had in years. When he ruffled the hair at the crown of my head, his touch did not shout sorrow! at me, it spoke to me of the joy of a well-won victory.

“What is your name, child,” he asked, and he grinned down at me. Father, I thought, the only person I’d ever seen grin before, but he did not laugh, and besides, his hair wasn’t very red. I cocked my head.

“You held the Vanir Frey back when he would kill my father,” I said.

Here, he did laugh, but it was not the hoarse cackle that my father bellowed, it lacked the depravity, that wicked sparkle he would get whenever my mother’s sorrow leaked a little too harsh into the world.

“So I did,” he said.

“Why.” I asked.

Here, he turned away from me, began to walk. When I did not follow, he glanced back at me. Squinted.

“Well, come along now,” he said, simple as all that, and I crow-hopped after him out of excitement. “What is your name, child,” he asked of me again, and this time I could not resist the desire to tell him.

“I am Fenrir,” I answered, “Marsh-Dweller!”

He hummed, and looked down at me out of the corner of his eye. “I am Tyr,” he told me.

He was like this for most things, in the years I truly knew him--strong, simple statements of fact that drove home rather than dance around the point. A man of action rather than word, but then again, this could be said about many of the Aesir, yes? Tyr turned to me, back then, after revealing to me his name-- "I held Frey back,” he said, and here he paused. I saw his eyes drift from one direction slowly to the other, not afraid, not wary, but simply taking in all that was. Existing.

“I held Frey back because Loki’s death would have been over small insult.” he said. “And if Frey had challenged him with a duel, he surely would have used trickery to slide out of it. Honorless,” he said simply, “honorless death, honorless battle. What law is there if not the law of the sword, Fenrir?” He posed the question to me seriously, as if I had not known only the mud and marshes all my life. I watched him, hypnotized. You cannot understand if you have not met him--it is as with all natural-born leaders. There is simply a draw, a magnetic pull, something within that calls to you; something within you that knows: the desperation will be quelled, with this. He was a man who, in his mere existence, seemed to promise and exude the sort of sanctuary I had craved; here the influence of my heritage seemed to fall silent.

Finally, I answered: “I know no law.”

It was not a proud statement.

Tyr only smiled down at me, his not-Loki smile. “Well,” he said, “Would you like to learn, then?”

And of course my answer was yes; how could I ever turn him down? He walked, and I walked at his shoulder, and he told me all he knew of the battlefield. These were things that Loki had not bothered to tell me, for all I owned were fangs--and yet, Tyr did not seem to care.

“At the very least,” he told me, when I asked him why he spoke to me, “Know the opposition. Simply because the paw cannot hold the sword, the axe, does not mean that you will not cross it, you see?”

“...I see,” I claimed. He nodded. He knew I did not.

“Well,” he said, “then you see that if I didn’t know how the fang bit, I would not know to muzzle it before it did? So you must know to disable the hand before it strikes you down.”

Now, that made marginally more sense to me; it seemed logical.

Well--whatever impression I had made upon Tyr in that moment, in that afternoon, it seemed to have worked in some way or another, and he gathered me out of my solitude in the next afternoon; in this way he would teach me for the majority of my younger years. As time passed--and as I am sure I have told you before--it was Tyr that replaced Loki as the father of my mind, and of my heart. We took our meals together, trained together, he spent the better part of his days with me, back then. It was he who led me out of Loki’s accursed tricks, it was he who taught me the meaning of honour, of the law of this land--it was he who showed me how to skillfully cross my fangs against his sword.

It was this, in the end, I believe, that became the first catalyst, that became what destroyed the life we had built together, as father and son. You see--if your leader is fighting, even if it may simply be for sport, would it not be a spectacle? And so the Aesir preferred to watch as I pitted myself against him, again and again.

My father--Tyr, that is, not--not Loki--encouraged this, he believed it would make his fellow gods a bit less… afraid of me. That’s another thing, though--I understand, I understand being afraid of Loki’s son, but my father, my father was Tyr, I would swear by it! My father was Tyr. I meant them no harm, truly.

I suppose, however, that no harm is not what they saw. For though, in the beginning, Tyr beat me back again and again and again--so much so that I still have the scars across my body--eventually, inevitably, I began to win our little duels, and eventually, inevitably, the gods--well, the gods noticed. The gods noticed even moreso what they had seen all along, that is to say, I no longer only came up to their hips, but my shoulders matched heights with theirs. And unlike most canines, my paws had not been grown into, but rather grew with my body. And the implication here, you understand, was only that I’d grow taller. Stronger.

Pair that with my fangs, that had not chipped under Tyr’s sword, and my claws, which had not dulled across Tyr’s shield, and the Aesir had what they decided was a right proper issue on their hands.

But I wasn’t to know that until a fair bit later.

Well--it’d been quite a while after we’d started this sparring habit, and only a little since I’d started winning, when the gods--other than my heart and mind’s father, that is--decided to visit me--a little home visit, as I was in my pen. Now, this was an unprecedented event, this had never happened before, these gods taking an interest in my existence! And so I trotted right up to the gate, tail loosely wagging, and I asked them, I said, I said-- "You have never visited here before, Aesir, why must it only be my victory over Tyr that brings you? Have you not seen this wolf be lonely?”

Now, I thought I was mighty funny, back in the day. But nary a god laughed, the sick bastards. However, one did step forward; I recognized him as--well, he was very distinctive, wasn’t he, and Loki had spoken of him in passing, sometimes. His blood-brother, Odin. He only had one eye.

Nonetheless, he was still a very perceptive god. At the very least, he understood my greeting to be in jest. However, he still did not laugh, and for that I shan’t forgive him.

“Fenrir,” he said to me, “I propose… A challenge. A game, of sorts.”

“Ah,” I said.

“Do you accept this challenge?” Odin asked of me. And--

“Well,” I said, “I don’t see why not.”

I was rather cocky, back in the day. You know how being young is. Keeps you on top of the world, it does.

“Perfect,” Odin said to me, and beckoned behind him; one of them had been carrying a massive, heavy chain with them. It was now passed forward, and given to Odin, who presented it to me with a rather smug look on his face. “Test of strength. Break the chain you will be bound by.”

It was at this moment that Tyr decided to make his daily visit; he took one look at the congregation and frowned. “Why?” Tyr asked.

“Why not?” Odin asked of him. Tyr had no real response. “And besides, he has already agreed.”

And here, Odin had Tyr trapped--for me to not follow my word, to forfeit the challenge, was to destroy my name, my honour. Tyr frowned in my direction.

“I shall not resign,” I told him, for I should not. Odin hummed.

“Tyr,” he called, “Why not chain the beast? He is yours, after all.”

“Why not indeed,” Tyr muttered then, and took the chains out of Odin’s hands. Back then, I was still small enough for him to reach over my neck without me bending down, easily looping the chain and tethering it.

“Break it,” Odin challenged me. I rolled my shoulders, shifting the material, trying to assess its weakness--but the chain clattered to the ground in some cacophonous declaration of my glory. I frowned down at it.

“Ah,” I said. “I don’t suppose you have a better one? That one didn’t do much of anything, not--not really…”

Tyr looked down at the broken chain, and he looked over at the gathering of the Aesir standing witness. It took a long time for him to look back at me.

“No,” he said. “We don’t. That was our strongest.”

A lot of hushed muttering came after that, for what reason, I can’t say. Surely they’d already known that. Tyr, when he did look at me, would not look me in the eye. He kept giving these quick, furtive glances back to the gods, to his people.

“Tyr,” I said, but he did not respond. He walked over to the crowd of Aesir, he began talking to them, amongst them. Reassurances, I was convinced. Of my strength, of my honour. They did not have to fear me.

And yet they did fear me! And fear me so potently--in the next few days, all I could feel in the air was hostility, thick and heavy as humidity. No one bothered to watch the sparring matches between me and Tyr--which, to be honest, didn’t upset me in the slightest--and in the back of my mind there echoed a solid Clang! Clang! Clang! That while it seemed only a figment of my imagination, also seemed sure to drive me to the brink of insanity in its constant presence.

It felt as if, almost, the sorrow of my mother had come back to nip at my heels again. “Do you hear that?” I’d ask of Tyr, and he’d shake his head, confused, watching me cock my head, straining in vain to figure out what the problem was.

And this lasted for nine days and nine nights. However, on the tenth morning, the world rang silent, and somehow that bit more harshly at my ears than it had any right to.

Tyr came to me early, that day. “I’ve got something for you,” he told me, and I wagged my tail at him; he scritched behind my ears.

“Well, what is it, then?” I asked him.

“Come along,” he said, and as always, I went along; where he took me was closest to the centre of Asgard that I’d ever been. Here, one could touch parts of Yggdrasil, and here, the gods stood gathered once again. Some flinched, as Tyr led me into their midst, some stood still; all looked at me as if they wished he would turn on me, skin me alive as I followed him. But still, they parted for their leader.

In the centre of the gods, where Yggdrasil could be touched, a heavy chain lay tethered to its branch. I understood at once what the infernal noise I’d heard was.

“Ah,” I asked Tyr, “You have built me a better one?”

“Yes,” he said simply. “Twice as thick. Twice as heavy.”

I nodded, dipped my head so he may easily throw it over my neck. And this, this motion was the second catalyst to create destruction between my true father and myself. Indeed, I saw Odin frown at me from the corner of my eye, but then Tyr secured the chain and stepped back. I shook myself, as if to shed water, but the chain stayed secure around my throat. So I began to pull.

Though the chains creaked and groaned, they held fast, the shoulders of the Aesir surrounding me relaxing in a soft, universal motion. My claws dug deep into the soft earth, and though I could feel them wanting to tear out at the roots, still I pulled myself forward, in a sorry attempt at leveraging my own weight against that of the World Tree. The chain dug into my throat, choking and collaring me with a weight that I had never felt before, not even when my mother’s sorrow ate into the very marrow of my bones; this, I imagine still, is what my brother Jormungandr feels, every time he rolls in the waves. I worry for him.

And so I pitted myself against the chain for an hour or two, and the gods eventually became bored, and dispersed, one by one. Odin was the second-last to depart; just before he left I saw him whisper to my father. “He had to lower his head,” he said to Tyr, “He had to lower his head for you to place the chain. That was not the case nine days ago.”

“Young boys grow fast,” was Tyr’s response, “Young wolves, faster. This is not news.”

“Perhaps,” Odin replied, and left.

Tyr stayed, for a while longer. He said nothing more, simply allowed the silence to run rampant. When night fell, that was when he took his leave.

Despite being so close to the centre, where the gods had tethered me remained quiet throughout the day, the only sound being the wheezing of my breath tearing through my throat as I allowed the chain to choke me in my attempt to break free. For nine days I went on like this, paws desperately shoving back against the loose earth, and for nine nights, the chain dug through the thick layers of fur on my neck, the biting cold of its metal harsh against my skin. It was all right in the end, though. Not too bad. Eventually, on this ninth night, the weld of the chain finally tore itself apart with a shrieking groan, the sound echoing around Asgard until the gods came rushing from wherever they’d been before. I gingerly laid down, after that, tail heavily thumping against the ground; before me stood Odin with his hands on his hips.

“Well done, then,” he told me, and I took it at face value.

Well, then, Tyr came to collect me, and I followed him back to my corral. He was quiet on the way back, quiet in a way I’d never seen him before. And he, unlike Odin, did not congratulate me.

“...Did I not do well?” I asked of him. “Did I not bring honour to your name, as the one who raised me?”

“...You did,” he said, “You did.”

And he smiled at me, the same way he had on that first day he had taken me out of my pen years upon years ago. And the day after, when he made his daily visit of my small romping grounds, he did not take me out to play at battle.

Instead, he coaxed my jaw up to stitch back together the pieces of flesh the chain had torn apart, and told me to be careful of my claws.

“Why?” I bade him tell me; he did not answer. Shook his head.

“Have I taught you too well?” He asked me in turn, “or have I taught you nothing? Fenrir,” he said to me, “Fenrir. Careful of your fangs. Your claws.”

Well, then, I assured him I very well would be, what else could I do? But either way, it still took time for me to cajole him back into turning his sword on me. You know how it is.

Anyway. It was only a few days after I’d convinced him to spar again, if I remember correct, that Frey ran near into one of our matches to tell my father that he’d completed his task; it was only a few days after that incident--mostly terrifying for Frey, I assure you, for yet again I had grown; my shoulder now stood taller than Tyr’s head. But no matter--anyhow, only a few days after that, my father led me out of my pen yet again, hardly an extraordinary occurrence, but he led me out, and he told me, “We are going outside of Asgard, now.”

Well, I thought that was mighty fine, no complaints here, and so we travelled on over to--well, to be honest, I’m not rightly sure where, but it was marshland.

Marshland! I had not seen it for years upon years upon years, I had near forgotten its glory! I nearly ran away from him for good, before I remembered myself and came gallivanting back--Tyr was not one for unnecessary things. He had come here with purpose, had he not? And so I asked him.

“Yes,” he said simply, “Yes. We have.”

So I followed him along for a bit longer, until we came upon the rest of the Aesir, gathered in a herd. Now, by this time, I daresay it was a sight I was quite used to. I looked over at Tyr inquisitively.

“One last test,” he told me. “And if you manage to break free here, as well, then on that day you will be accepted into Asgard.”

“Ah!” I said. “This is a good thing! This is a good thing, yes?”

“Yes,” he replied. “Yes. It is. It is a good thing.”

And--well, though I did not want to admit it to myself, it looked as though he was attempting to convince himself of the fact. But I suppose that now that is irrelevant.

Either way--for the third time, I was stood before all the gods of Asgard, but though I searched the crowd, I could see no one holding the chain--but before I could ask, Tyr called for me to look down.

So I did. Frey passed forward--well, I could not rightfully tell what it was, at first, it lay so delicate in his palm. Tyr picked it up, at one end, letting it uncoil. It looked almost as if it were one continuous line of spider-silk, to me.

“This,” Tyr told me, “Is your last chain.”

“...Ah,” I said. “But I daresay it’s nary a chain at all.”

And here, Odin stepped forth, as Odin was wont to do. “Perhaps,” he said. “Still--it is your challenge. Are you one to step down from it?”

“Well--no,” I said, “Not if this is a challenge of honour,” I said, “But I must say, you present this to me in much the way Loki presented me to you,” I said, “With no warning and no understanding.”

“What is there to understand,” Odin asked of me, “Other than you are to be bound, and then to try and break free?”

“Well,” I said, “You told me to be bound by chain, yes? I see no chain here. I will not turn from being bound--but I will not let you win by dishonour; would this--well, would this not bring shame upon all of Asgard, as well, to win by the ways of Loki, rather than the ways of your leader, Tyr?”

“What do you propose, then.” Odin barked, short and curt.

Here, I paused. Honour, honour, honour, that which I had been raised with, that which I had been born without. What did I propose? What could I, that the gods would not deem unspeakable?

“...An oath-hand.” I told him. “I want an Aesir’s oath-hand, place it in my mouth so I may bite it off when you turn on me. I want the Aesir’s honour. Give it to me.”

So Odin turned to his fellow gods, though with wolf’s ears, one can hear clearly anything, so I do not know why he bothered to try to hide his words. Perhaps it was simply the clear disassociation--the exclusion. But that is no true matter to pause over. “Tyr.” he told them, hushed, “Did he not raise the beast? Did he not teach it our ways? Should he not take the downfall for his own foul creation? And besides--is he not Honour? Is he not what the Wolf demanded?”

“Aye,” the gods spoke in unison. “Let it be Tyr.”

Well, Tyr had not fallen back to speak amongst the rest of them, but still he agreed when they told him of their choice. Was he not their leader? Was he not the upholder of their honour? Their law? What other choice did a man such as he have?

But it is no matter, now.

And so, he beckoned me down to kneel before him, so that I may be bound, and he gave the thread to Odin. He placed his hand, he placed his right hand in my mouth, and it tasted like the pommel of his sword, and it was riddled with scars, with callouses. Who knows how many I’d given him myself.

The thread-chain, which I was told later they named Gleipnir--OPEN--Odin wound around my throat, around my chest, around my legs, before he passed it off to Thor, so that he may cast it deep into the mud upon which we stood.

So Thor tethered the chain. I worry for my brother--have I told you? You have told me he and Thor are destined adversaries. I worry for my brother, I do--and Thor stepped back, and Odin stepped back. Of course, when I shuddered my body, there was no shrieking of metal, no groaning of a weld about to crack under pressure. You know this--when you taught me, when I learned of Gleipnir’s name, much later, so too you told me of its contents; this chain had been built by the dwarves. Built by the dwarves, and of all that is un-encounterable in the world! I ask you, I ask you, who could break the un-encounterable?! Even then, I knew, somewhere in the back of my mind.

Tyr’s wrist snapped between my teeth like a little carrot, and his blood, it tasted like the rich copper of any a mortal man, and this, I believe, was the last catalyst--ignore the fact I’d already been bound, it is irrelevant. I lunged for him, beyond him, really, to where the Asgardians milled about, watching as I writhed in the dirt. Here is where I nearly bit Odin, as well, and here is where Odin then took Tyr’s sword from its scabbard and shoved it into my muzzle, into the dampness of the earth, so I would bite no more.

Here, I watched Odin herd the Aesir out of my sight, here I saw Tyr follow, here I saw Tyr follow, for the first time, did I see how he followed. I’d ask you, is that the role of a leader? Perhaps. But see Odin. Odin does not know how to follow. Odin, with all his knowledge, simply does not understand how to. Is that it, then--knowing when to follow, and when to walk ahead? I don’t know.

But the important thing is not that Tyr followed, not really. It is that--well, it is that Tyr left, you see, he left me, and he did not look back, not even as the blood from his ruined arm flowed into the very mud on which I now lay, not even as I called for him. To be fair--back then, I did not know how to speak around the sword, as I do so now--but still, even still--!

There are many things I do not know the answer to, you know, oh how you know; why did they chain me here? Why did they leave me? We both know, we knew always, I would not be let into Asgard. That is not where I am meant to be. So why leave me, other than fear, fear, fear of what, of my fangs? Fear of a crime I have not committed, even now? Please, I ask you--you have told me so many things, have you not. You have told me of Gleipnir’s creation, you have told me of how Tyr sent the Vanir Frey out to find these un-encounterable things, you told me of how Frey begged the dwarves for salvation, salvation from what? What have I done.

You have told me, you have told me of Odin’s rule, you have told me of my father’s fall, you have told me of how he is nothing but Law and Honor, now, nothing of what he was when I first knew him. He cannot--oh, he cannot even wield a sword, now, but whose fault is that? Is this why? For my taking of his being? Of his identity? But if so, why--why bind in the first place. What is the purpose--and if the purpose is fear, I ask, where is the honour. Tyr, Tyr, have I taken even this from you? Has this upholding of law against me taken that which you could not bear to live without? Why would he allow this, why would he allow this of me? I am no creature to carry a god’s oath. Why, why would he bind me?

And I know--you know--the only reason could be the oath of any leader--to protect his people, that which I am not one of.

But in the end, that is all irrelevant. Still, I am bound.

And yet--and yet, I tell you, as you have told me many things, I tell you, someday this world will end, and I will be allowed out of these binding threads. And then, when that time comes, I will take back all that which was taken from me, I will--I’ll start with my marshes.

I will, I will, I must, I must take back these marshes, I will swallow them whole if I have to. I will swallow all the blood in this water, in the mud, I will swallow whatever is leftover of my mother’s sorrow, and then I shall track that trail to the seas, and I will swallow them too, and maybe then my brother will run beside me in peace. I will swallow the trenches he must live in, and the Midgard that scorns his existence, I will swallow whatever kingdom my sister resides in, I will swallow the mountains the accursed Loki was born in, I will swallow the house I grew up in, I will swallow the forest I was traded in, I will swallow the splinters of the first shackles to bind me, and I will swallow the weight of the second. I will swallow the god’s realm, I will swallow Asgard, I will swallow those eternal and compliant gods, I will swallow Odin. I will swallow Yggdrasil, and everything that it holds within its branches. I will swallow the moon, the earth, the sun--!

And then, then I will eat the rest of Tyr, I will crunch his body between my molars, and I will return with him to the marshes, the marshes that bore me, and I will roll my shoulders in the mud again. I stand so tall that even my fang dwarfs him, now, do you see? I--

…But it is only a dream. A perhaps. I won’t break free of here, you and I both know. Even if my claw is long as Thor is tall, this thread still wraps around my neck, this sword still grinds my maw to the ground. I won’t break free again. I--I can’t.

#pov i uhh i have thoughts abt fenrir lol #YEAH IK TECHNICALLY SKOLL & HATI SWALLOW THE SUN & MOON #but thats irrelevant rn. so There #based off the myths i was told as a kid. & the myths i read now. & some other stuff #yeah its not 100% mythologically accurate but thats not the POINT so if anyone says shit. die.#um #norse #norse mythology #norse folklore #fenrir #tyr #jormungandr #loki #odin #original writing #writing tag #larrythedemonswriting #uh. anyway. slay #might post this to ao3 later but if i do. im not linking it

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fearforthestorm · 10 months ago

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maybe someday I will talk about how when iolttmg said that "the first thing you need to be prepared for if you ever meet an artist you're a fan of is you need to be prepared for your relationship to their work to change" it REALLY really was not lying.

#.lyr #just deleted some. WAY too specific and personal tags. haha um.#anyway. no yeah it was really true is this thing.#its not necessarily a bad thing but it IS a certainty.#and its kind of one you dont understand until youve personally experienced it.#i would not change things if i could. but like. its such a specific thing to experience and understand #and not very many people *do* understand it.#and sometimes the not being able to talk to anyone who Gets It is. lonely in a very odd way.#i havent written fanfic in almost a year now. you know that?#you know how isolating it is to not be able to engage with that fandom in the same way anymore?#i know i could still do it i know nobody eould object to it. but i dont know how to balance things anymore and it feels. so weird.#i just need to start writing original fiction probably #but thats so much more daunting. and i miss the way that that kind of fandom community feels.

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maskspurpose · 2 years ago

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what other two fics? just curious, you don't have to answer ofc

LOL no worries um the first one started out as 2nd year watarei but is currently kind of spiralling in terms of scale and may just end up as a general 2nd year-centric fic. kind of encompassing some of my rship headcanons for them and some wataru gender stuff (which is why its been growing in scale because i realized the conclusion im leading towards in terms of gender stuff may be kind of ummmm depressing depending on your own perspective).

the other one is post-canon watayuzu! specifically like one year in the future when tori is the only fine member left at yumenosaki and maybe a bit about the way that might shake of fine dynamics (clearly, since its watayuzu...)

#the gender stuff is 'depressing' in the sense that i think 2nd year wataru has some like Gender Moments but ultimately decides that like #exploration and everything else aside theres Too Much Happening to worry abt this stuff rn so they kind of decide to 'play' a 'boy'#bc thats one less thing to worry about! and ofc we can like argue abt how successful that is considering the theater club stories etc #but um yeah.#the whole premise for that fic was just the line wataru has to natsume abt how like any teenage boy will inevitably crossdress to #impress someone in like a romantic way from rocket start #and how its phrased etc etc #and ALSO me personally thinking it would be rlly funny if like wataru at age 20 or whatever was like hold on. i have gender.#and looking back on idk lesbian romeo and juliet from their third year and being like HOW DIDNT I NOTICE???#hm sorry tag essay and not a rlly coherent one either

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asexualcloud · 1 year ago

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me resisting the urge to say "you made me this way" in a dramatic voice after every minor inconvenience

#im watching across the spider verse and this popped in my brain #how do i tag this #um #yeah #so how are yall today?#im ok #just huffed some nail polish.#what about you?#oh yeah #yeah thats cool #um anyways #im gonna finish the movie now so bye

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tea-blankets-andstars · 1 month ago

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✨✨Notes thing✨✨17 notes each

10 notes: ill drink some water

20 notes: ill eat more balenced snacks

27 notes: ill make sure to eat breakfast every morning

31 notes: ill go to bed before 10:30pm

37 notes: ill make sure my hw is done before i get distracted

50 notes: ill make sure i drink AT LEAST one full water bottle a day

75 notes: ill start working on my book idea

100 notes: ill try to get out of bed before 3pm on weekends

110 notes: ill clean off the top of my dresser

120 notes: ill do whatever you guys tell me to do in the comments

157 notes: ill clean off my old bookshelf filled with baby books

300 notes: ill ask my parents to take me to the docter because i have been feeling dizzy/heart palpitations

670 notes: ill ask my parents about a proper autism diagnosis

um yeah! go at it :/ only 17 notes per person (including likes/reblogs) feel free to tag people

um tags ig??? @aesthetic-writer18 @allonsy-moony @joanofsharks @cheekyboybeth @demon-of-ur-dreams @moonyfr idk thats all i can think of. im going to bed now nighty night

#sof says stuff :)#health #finally doing one of these 😅#notes

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smoshyourheadin · 7 months ago

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Maybe u could do a Spencer besties to lovers? Like they've known each other a long time yk

Thankssss no pressure if ur busy ofc <3

It’s Always Been You

cw: reader has a boyf who she breaks up w bc he’s an alchaholic!! don’t read if you aren’t comfortable, i’ll catch you another time ml 💛

a/n: EEK IM SO SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG THANK YOU FOR BEING PATIENT ANON 🫶🫶💛💛 also im taking this as smosh spence not cm spence so feel free to re-request if you’d like <33 ps, ive written that he listens to pink floyd here so thats who syd barrett is if you don’t know :))

requests r open!!

///

pairing: spencer agnew x fem!reader

florida, 2002

you and spencer were scurrying around in the freshly mown grass of his backyard, playing tag.

“you didn’t get me, you cheated!” you exclaim, ducking as he reaches out to get you again, tumbling to the floor.

“did too!” spencer retorts, his grazed knees dropping to the floor so he can lean over you. he meets your eyes, pulls a tongue, and hoists himself back up to run to his tyre swing.

all 11 years you’d known, you’d known them with spencer. your moms had been great friends since way before you were born, being in the same book club. or was it an art night? you didn’t exactly know, but you did know that because your moms were best friends, so were you and spencer.

as you sprung back up to your feet, your moms watched your antics through the kitchen window.

“whoever can swing the other the highest gets to have the last red popsicle!” he yelled as you ran over

“oh you’re so on!”

your hands gripped the tyre and you pushed like your life depended on it.

“y’know,” your mom said “one day, they’re going to end up together.”

his mom looked over at yours and smiled,

“i’d be surprised if they didnt honestly.”

los angeles, 2024

you walk through the door of your apartment, and you kick the door closed behind you. your bag slides off your shoulder, and you throw your keys onto the dresser next to the door. you only manage a long groan before flopping onto the couch.

“heya, charlie!” you scrunch your face up as you feel your dog’s cold, wet nose press against your cheek, as he gently wags his tail

“i missed you too boy, work was so tiring today.” you work at smosh with spencer, and have done for the past seven years after you left your job at another channel to join him. it was basically the best decision you’d ever made, every day filled with laughs; practically just a 24/7 hangout. you work with spencer on smosh games, but rarely ever go on camera, even if spencer’s there. you enjoy it anyway though.

you sit up and scratch behind his ears. he wiggles his body contently at your fondness. and then your stomach growls. it made sense, it was currently 6:43pm, and you last ate at noon, so you get up and drag yourself to make some mac n cheese.

as the pasta boils your phone starts ringing.

it’s james.

rubbing your hands over your face, you answer the dreaded call from your boyfriend james.

“heyyy~ sweetheart, y’doin okay? you were hic bein’ a bit of a bitch today, didnt answer my calls, what, you hate me or sumn?” he rambles, most of his words just slurring off.

“james, are you drinking again?” your voice is agitated, hearing the chattering and the low bass of a bar in the background.

you know he has a problem, and you’ve tried to get him to stop so many times. but you just can’t. he just won’t take your help.

“wha- i mean- well- no- but um- well y’r just gonna be mad at me like y’allways are” he stammers, not wanting to tell you the truth.

“no, i’m done with this. you say all this to me when you’re drunk, and then act like everything is fine! i’m sick of it! you spend so much time at the bar, and its the only place we ever go on dates, and i just end up babysitting you! so yeah i am mad! but for the last time! fuck you james.”

you hang up.

you start to tear up, the knot in your chest tight as your emotions come rushing to you, face heating up as tears begin to fall. the hissing of something behind you snaps you out of it.

“shit!” you rush over to to your stove, where the water from your pasta spills over the sides, the flames licking at the bottom of the pan.you take it off the heat and turn it off. it looks done anyway. you add some butter, and, of course, cheese. stirring gently, you sob.

james was so nice to you, always showering you with gifts and praise and love. but it was all for nothing. he just didn’t love you like he loved drinking in the end.

pouring the mac n cheese into a bowl, you call spencer.

“hey lemon! how’s my favourite person this fine evening?” you smile at the nickname.

florida, 2007

“spencer, you’re a boy. why are you so complicated? i mean, its just annoying!” you walk into his bedroom after his mom let you in, clearly pissed off. being 16 isn’t fun, especially when boys you like are rude to you.

“what did he do?” spencer doesn’t look up from his computer, just slightly turn his head.

“he said that i must eat lemons because of how bitter i am. i mean come on!” you lie on his bed and watch him play runescape.

“lemon… hmph” he just smiles and continues whatever he was doing on his game.

“what? nothing to say? ugh! you suuuuuck!”

los angeles, 2024

“yeah, i mean, no. i broke up with james.” you sniffle, and eat a forkfull of your food, elbows resting on the cold marble of the kitchen island.

“i mean- um- yeah thats horrible…” he says

“you’re allowed to celebrate, i know you hated him. and so did everyone. but still. im fragile right now!” you giggle through your gentle tears

“well, i mean, honestly? glad he’s gone. he sucked dude. not sure why you didn’t do it sooner. well, one positive to come of this, your pillows won’t stink of beer next time i nap at yours!” he replies, clearly happy for you.

“yeah,” you chuckle at the memory of spencer falling asleep on your bed, then completing his hair smelt like budweiser “that is true.”

“all seriousness though, are you okay?” his voice is genuine this time, filled with concern.

“no, not really. it’s just… different i guess. but, not much has changed y’know? like, it already felt like he wasn’t my boyfriend anymore…” you begin to ramble for at least 20 minutes, only to be met with the occasional ‘mhmn’ and ‘yeah’ from spencer. mid sentence, there’s a knock at your door.

“oh one sec, someone’s here.” you get up from your table and swing the door open to see a very sympathetic looking spencer, two target bags in his hands.

your jaw is on the floor. you were just crying to him over the phone, and he’d stayed whilst going out to get what you can only assume is things like sour patch kids and vanilla ice cream, which you could see at the top of the bag. your favourites.

“girls night?” he smirked and raised the bags at his sides.

all you can do is smile ear to ear, and wrap him in a tight hug. he leaned into you, basking in your sweet citrusy perfume.

“you’re my favourite, spencie.” you say into his shoulder.

as you both walk inside, charlie comes bounding over to spencer, his favourite person.

“who’s a good boy! charlie is!” spencer was now crouchedby your kitchen island, fussing over your dog as you walked to put on something more comfortable. you slid on some track pants and an old atari hoodie. walking back into your kitchen, spencer has unpacked the bags, and is creating his favourite conconction, The Agnew Sundae. basically the most sickeningly sweet ice cream ever. his dad made it for you both in the summer, and it consisted of:

vanilla ice cream

chocolate syrup

caramel sauce

whipped cream

sprinkles

mini marshmallows

chocolate chips

m&ms

and some crushed oreos to finish.

god, you know you’re going to regret this later, but boy was it a good way to cheer you up.

also strewn on the counter was his switch and copy of animal crossing, a few of his dvd’s for you to watch, and his mom’s chocolate chip cookies.

“spencer, how on earth did you get these? your mom lives across the country!” you hold up the baggie, and raise an eyebrow.

he looks up from his ice cream assembly station, and smirks.

“a magician never- ow!”

you cut him off by lightly jabbing his arm

“okay okay, she visited not to long ago - when she took you to the mall? and she gave me these to freeze and keep for an important event. i think she’d agree this is important.” you cant help but smile at his remark. you missed you moms.

“i’ll have to ring her later to thank her.” you say.

the night goes on, and you and spencer sit on the couch under a blanket watching barbie princess charm school. because what else are you going to watch?

as the movie goes on, and the effects of the agnew sundae kick in; you were dozing off on his shoulder. towards the end of the movie, so does he. he drifts off, comforted by your soft hair occasionally brushing against his face.

you stir awake, the sun beaming into your eyes through your semi-open blinds, and you’re hit by a wave of memory. everything that happened last night comes flooding back.

james’ call.

spencer’s call.

spencer showing up for you.

at the latter, you smile slightly. you prop yourself up on the sofa, and notice the absence of spencer’s warmth by you. frowning slightly, you walk into the kitchen.

“morning sleepyhead” his sweet voice rings through the room

“hey. i thought you’d’ve gone home”

“no, im not that mean! who do you take me for?” he retorts, his attention turning back to the pancakes on the stove.

“pancakes? what time is it?” you come up behind him, putting your chin on his shoulder.

“yeah, and it’s about 10:30.” he leant his head on yours, flipping one. you had to admit, they look pretty good.

“10:30!?” you lift you head in surprise, looking at your phone “shouldn’t we be in work?”

“nope, i called us in sick. said my mom was having surgery. which she is, but i made it sound dramatic so we could stay off.” he looks at you, and smiles slightly.

“well, send her my love! i think i’ll go get dressed now.” he hummed, and you left the room.

opening your closet, you pick out a yellow baggy t-shirt and some grey sweatpants. you pull on some fluffy socks, and slip on a zip up hoodie. walking back out into the living room, spencer walks in with two plates piled high with pancakes, drenched in syrup and strawberries

“so,” you say, a fork full of pancakes in your mouth. “whats the plan for today?”

he looks over at you, and shrugs slightly. “not sure, we could go to the book store you like?”

“ah, you know the way to a girl’s heart“ you put a hand over your chest and giggle a bit.

a few hours later, you walk into the store, door creaking just a bit as a small brass bell chimes overhead. the air is filled with a comforting mix of old paper, leather bindings, and a hint of freshly brewed coffee from the corner cafe that you and spencer like to get tea from. you breathe it in deeply, a sense of calm washing over you. as you walk over the creaky wooden floorboards beneath you, soft warm light filters down from antique lamps, and cast a gentle glow over the rows of books. you ghost your fingertips over the cloth spines while the quiet murmur of whispered conversations and the occasional rustling of pages create a soothing background noise, almost like a lullaby. through spencer’s airpods, syd barrett serenades you both, and his voice blends seamlessly with the ambiance of the store.

“anything good today lemon?” spencer says as he shimmies up next to you in the aisle of towering book shelves, his voice like honey rolling off his tongue. his hair was unruly as always, but he looked so pretty in this light. his face was littered with freckles that you wish you could kiss. he’s smiling at you, and it snaps you back to reality, and reminds you of the fact you’re staring at him

“uh, yeah, i think i’ll get this one” you smile back, holding up a copy of memoirs of a geisha by arthur golden

“cool, shayne likes that one i think. but he likes every book so…” he smiles at his own remark “um, you want me to grab our normal seats in the cafe while you pay for that?”

“yes, please!” you reply eagerly, smiling as he walked off.

you walk up to the cashier, an older lady who always gives you a bookmark.

“thank you m’darlin’, have a lovely day!”

“you too mrs bryson!” you reply, heading over to spencer who’s sat in some plush leather armchairs. as you sit in comfortable silence with him, time seems to slow down, and for a moment, it's just you, spencer, the books, and the comforting atmosphere of this charming bookstore.

“i got you your sweet tea.” he says, handing you a plastic cup filled with your favourite tea.

he remembered.

fuck.

you were in love with spencer agnew, and it took you him handing you your favourite tea to realise it.

“thanks spence.” you say, still grasping the feelings in your chest.

while you read you book and drink your tea, you feel your attention drifting to him. you can't help but glance up from the pages every now and then, watching him as he sits across from you, his focus on his own book. his fingers absently tracing the rim of his coffee mug, his brow furrowing as he reads. the way the sunlight filters through the small window, casting a warm glow across his hair, highlighting the subtle streaks of lighter brown among his dark curls. you find yourself smiling at the sight of him, wondering when these small, mundane moments began to mean so much to you. the bookstore is quiet, aside for the murmur of others reading or talking in hushed tones. yet, with spencer sitting just a few feet away, the world feels like it's faded to the background. it's just you and him, sharing this space, this moment. you watch the way his lips move slightly as he reads, how he occasionally tilts his head in concentration, and the way his eyes light up when he finds something particularly interesting. as he looks up and catches you watching him, you feel a rush of warmth spreading through your chest. he smiles at you, a slow, easy smile that makes your heart skip a beat. he raises an eyebrow, and you quickly look back down at your book, feeling your cheeks flush. but you can't help it; your gaze finds its way back to him, like he's the most interesting story in the room. he seems to notice the shift in the air between you. he closes his book and leans forward slightly, his elbows resting on his knees.

“everything okay?” he asks, his voice gentle, his eyes filled with genuine curiosity.

“yeah,” you reply, trying to sound casual, though your heart is racing. “just... glad to be here with you.”

he nods, his smile growing a bit wider. “me too.”

as he settles back into his chair, you realize that this simple exchange has changed something. the air feels lighter, the connection between you stronger. you may have come here to read and relax, but now, sitting across from spencer, you know you've found something else entirely - something you never want to let go of.

as you leave the store, you’re panicking slightly as you realise you don’t know what to do. so instead you make up an excuse.

“i forgot my keys ," you blurt out, looking back at the bookstore. it's a thin excuse, but spencer doesn't seem to notice. he simply nods, a hint of concern in his eyes.

"do you want me to wait for you?" he asks, already reaching for his phone to check the time.

"no, it's fine," you reply quickly. "you can go ahead. i’ll just be a minute."

spencer seems reluctant to leave, but he nods, offering a warm smile before stepping out onto the street. you watch him walk away, his figure blending into the crowd as he heads toward the main crossing. your heart sinks a little as he disappears from view, and you take a deep breath, trying to steady your racing pulse.

the bookstore feels different now. the warm glow and soft murmurs are still there, but without spencer, it's like the color has faded a bit. you stand by the door, uncertain of what to do next. you could go back outside, catch up with him, and just say it. tell him how you feel. but the words seem stuck in your throat, and the thought of laying your feelings bare feels like too much, too soon.

you step back inside, pretending to look for something you might have left behind. the stacks of books seem to stretch endlessly in front of you, a maze of comforting distractions. you wander through the aisles, hoping to calm your racing thoughts, but all you can think about is spencer - his smile, the way his eyes crinkle when he laughs, the warmth of his voice.

eventually, you find a quiet corner and sit down, closing your eyes for a moment. you know you have to do something. you can't just let him walk away without knowing how much he means to you. but the fear of rejection, of changing everything, feels overwhelming.

you realize you need time to sort through your feelings, to figure out the best way to approach this. with a heavy heart, you decide to make your way home, hoping the familiar surroundings will bring clarity. as you step out onto the street, the cool breeze brushes against your skin, and you take a deep breath, trying to calm the storm of emotions raging inside you.

on the journey home, you replay the moments with spencer in your mind, each one a bittersweet reminder of how much he means to you. you know you can't keep hiding your feelings, but you also know you need to approach this with caution. as you unlock the door to your apartment, you make a silent promise to yourself—to take the time you need, to listen to your heart, and to find the courage to follow where it leads, even if it means risking everything for him.

when you get home, spencer tries calling you as he paces around his bedroom, his phone pressed against his ear. the ringing continues, but there's no answer. he frowns, feeling an uneasy twist in his stomach. maybe you're still in the bookstore. maybe your phone is on silent, or maybe you're just busy. he tells himself there's a reasonable explanation, but the doubt lingers.

as he walks to his kitchen, he dials again. this time, the call goes straight to voicemail. his instincts tell him something isn't right. the keys excuse felt odd, and your hurried departure only amplifies his worry. he takes a moment to think, then leaves his apartment, jumps in his car, starts the engine, and drives toward your apartment.

the streets pass in a blur as he navigates through the evening traffic, his mind racing with possibilities. he finds a parking spot near your building and heads to your door. the hallway is quiet, save for the distant sound of a tv from a neighbouring apartment. he takes a deep breath and knocks.

nothing.

he knocks again, this time a little louder. the knot in his stomach tightens. what if something's wrong? what if he's too late? he knocks a third time, and this time, he hears a faint rustling from inside. the door opens slowly, and there you are, standing in the doorway with a look of surprise and confusion.

"spence?" you say, blinking at him as if he's the last person you expected to see.

"i - i was worried," he stammers, rubbing the back of his neck. "you didn't answer your phone, and i - i didn't know if you were okay."

you tilt your head, trying to process why he's here. his eyes search yours, and you can tell he's anxious, almost desperate to explain himself. "i'm fine," you say, "just had some stuff to think about."

he nods, but you can see he's not entirely convinced. there's something else, something deeper. he takes a step back, as if he's about to leave, but then he hesitates. "i - i have to tell you something," he blurts out, his words coming out in a rush. "i like you. like a lot. like i think i love you? and i know it might be weird, and i don't want to mess things up, but I just had to say it - because i couldn't keep it to myself anymore.”

he looks at you, his eyes full of emotions you can't quite decipher yet. you nod, urging him to continue, even though your own heart is racing. there's something in his gaze that makes you realize this isn't just any confession - this is something that's been building for a long time.

"i've liked you since we were kids," he says, almost breathlessly. "i mean, you were always the coolest person I knew. you didn't care what anyone else thought. you were smart and funny and just... so genuinely kind. i remember when we used to ride our bikes around the neighbourhood, and you'd always be the first one to try something new. like, remember when you climbed that huge tree in mr lawson's yard just because you wanted to see the view from the top? i thought you were so brave."

he chuckles softly, his gaze softening as he reminisces. "and then, when we got older, you were always there for me. when my parents split up, and i felt like everything was falling apart, you were the one who came over with a pizza and just listened. you didn't try to fix it; you just let me talk. that's something i've always loved about you. you're a great listener, and you care about people. like, really care."

he shifts his weight from one foot to the other, his eyes locking with yours. "it's not just that, though. It's the little things, too. the way you laugh at the dumbest of angela’s jokes, the way you get excited about your favorite books, and how you always know the right thing to say when I'm feeling down. you make everything feel... lighter, you know? like, even when things are tough, you find a way to make it better."

spencer pauses, his voice growing more earnest. "so yeah, i've um, been holding onto this for a while, and i just, couldn't keep pretending that i didn't feel this way. i like you - a lot. and i don't know if you feel the same way, but i just couldn't not tell you anymore."

he takes a step back, the tension in his shoulders indicating that he's prepared to leave if needed. "i don't want to make things weird between us. if you don't feel the same, that's okay. i just had to say it, because you're the best thing in my life, and i can't keep acting like you aren't."

his confession takes you by surprise, but as he speaks, you feel a surge of warmth in your chest. the words you were struggling to say are suddenly so clear, so obvious. you watch as he starts to turn away, his shoulders slumping in resignation. before he can take another step, you grab his arm and pull him back, your lips pressing against his in a gentle, yet desperate kiss.

he freezes for a moment, stunned by your sudden action, then his arms wrap around you, pulling you close. when you finally break the kiss, you look into his eyes, and there's no doubt, no hesitation.

"it's always been you," you whisper, your voice soft but sure. "you're my person, spencer."

he hugs you tightly, his grip firm and comforting, as if he's afraid you'll disappear if he lets go. you rest your head on his shoulder, feeling the steady beat of his heart against your cheek. it's a perfect moment, one that feels like the beginning of something new, something beautiful.

and as you stand there in each other's embrace, you know that everything's going to be okay, because you have each other. and that's all that matters.

#spencer agnew x reader #spencer agnew #smosh #smoshyourheadin #angela giarratana #amanda lehan canto #arasha lalani #courtney miller #shayne topp

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holllandtrash · 2 years ago

Text

6 to 1 | lando norris (part 11)

pairing: lando norris x leclerc!reader part 11 in the 6 to 1 series (read part 1 here)

dinner with charles and the rest of your family comes with high expectations and heavy disappointments. one thing's for certain, lando's not going anywhere and neither are you

word count: 7.2k tags/warnings: implied smut, literally the worst translated french ever if someone wants to fix it by all means pls help me out, some sad tugs on the heart strings, i think thats it, also poorly edited

There were two sides to Lando Norris.

You already knew of the sweet and considerate side. The one that opened car doors for you, that took care of you even though you never asked to be cared for. This was the side of Lando that you fell hard for because he was all heart and cheeky grins and stupid eye rolls that had you blushing.

And then there was the side that you didn’t even know existed until you woke up to him leaving a trail of kisses down your body before slowly spreading your legs apart. The side that had you seeing stars and screaming his name before you could even register being awake.

Lando was insatiable, to put it simply.

And you weren’t complaining.

How could you complain when he joined you in the shower and pressed his lips to your neck as he pinned you against the porcelain wall. Your cheek against the cold tile, the stream of hot water coming down from above, his cock so deep inside you that you relied on him to keep you upright.

Yeah, you couldn’t complain.

Lando seemed to be on a mission to make you cum more times in twelve hours than you had in the last two years. He got so much pleasure from bringing you to the edge and watching as you spilled over.

You made sure to return the favour. Not even waiting until you were out of the bathroom before dropping down to your knees. Lando has one hand on the edge of the sink, the other hand tangled through your hair. Strings of expletives meshed so well with his encouraging words, telling you how fucking pretty you looked choking on his cock.

And honestly, that first shower was a write-off. You eventually needed to push Lando out of the bathroom to give you the chance to actually get ready for the day.

It was hard for the two of you to keep your hands off each other and to be fair, you didn’t really try. Sure, you put on a show, but ten minutes in and you were by far more entertaining than whatever rom-com you had chosen.

The day got away from you, to say the least.

It wasn’t until Lando asked you what you wanted for dinner did you suddenly bolt upright on the couch, reaching for your phone to check the time.

Lando, who had his hand on the handle of the fridge, slowly backed away from it as he tried to gauge what was going through your head, “Okay, or we could order something?”

“No, no, I’m sorry,” you stood up as you rushed to answer Arthurs text. He was already at your maman’s place and you couldn’t multitask to save your life so you didn’t even try to explain yourself to Lando until you sent Pascale a text saying that you had accidentally fallen asleep and are headed there now. It was a lie, but it was better than the alternative which would undoubtedly give her a heart attack.

“What’s up?” Lando asked, heading back towards you, eyeing your phone.

You dragged your fingers through your hair, “I forgot I promised to go to my maman’s house for dinner.” You turned and headed down the hall, “I need to change..can you- I don’t have any clothes here do I?”

Lando followed you, picking up the mini skirt you abandoned last night and the top that could have quite literally doubled as a bra. All day you had been lounging around in Lando’s clothes, having completely forgotten about your dinner plans.

“Just you and your mum?” Lando asked, he stepped into his closet but there was no way he had anything that was appropriate for dinner.

“Um, and Arthur and Enzo,” you added quietly, finding a brush on top of his dresser and running it through your hair. You kept Charles’ name out of your mouth, not feeling up to bringing him into the conversation.

Lando stepped back into his room, eyebrows raised at your frantic actions, “Did you want me to drive you? We can stop at your place on the way so you can change.”

You didn’t just want him to drive you, you wanted him to join you. But to throw this on him so last second wasn’t fair.

You accepted the ride to dinner, but you kept the invite to yourself.

Lando waited in the car as you ran in and changed, making yourself more presentable. It took under five minutes to put something appropriate on and get rid of any signs that you and Lando had been nothing but tangled limbs and heated kisses and desperate moans for the last 12 hours.

You were thankful that Lando was careful. Any marks that bruised your skin overnight weren’t visible to anyone other than you two. Some were darker than others, but you didn’t let yourself think of Lando’s lips exploring every inch of you, not while he was currently idling outside and waiting for your return.

When you slid back into the passenger seat, Lando waited before putting the car into drive. He nodded his head towards the phone that rested on the dash, your phone, that you had left while you ran inside.

Not only that, but you left it unlocked.

You had nothing to hide, but that wasn’t the issue. The issue was Arthur had texted you twice since you stepped out of the car.

Charles is here btw, seems to be in a fine mood Are you bringing Lando?

When you looked up at Lando, he just had a smug little smile on his face. He wasn’t mad that you hadn’t invited him to dinner, nor was he upset that Charles was there after you purposely avoided saying his name.

“You told your brother about me?” Lando asked, finding the whole thing endearing. It was one thing if the drivers knew you were together, telling your family was entirely different.

“To an extent,” you shrugged, not wanting to make a big deal out of it. “He knows we’ve been hanging out. I think a lot of people do.”

“Hanging out,” Lando repeated, mocking the naive term.

“Well maybe if you asked me out I could tell him you’re my boyfriend.”

“Well maybe if you weren’t so picky about me planning a grand gesture,” Lando flipped the sarcasm on you and you playfully pressed your hand to his cheek, pushing his face away from yours.

“I deserve a grand gesture,” you told him.

Lando nodded in agreement, “But nothing embarrassing?”

“Nothing embarrassing.”

“Anything for the Littlest Leclerc.”

You positioned yourself on the seat so your upper half was practically leaning over the centre console. Lando’s smile had yet to vanish as his gaze darted to every inch of your face, landing on your lips before he glanced up to meet your eyes.

Out of nowhere, you felt giddy. You felt the excitement of butterflies in your stomach. You looked at Lando and suddenly you wanted him to come to dinner. You wanted your mother to see him as someone other than a driver. You wanted him to get to know your other brothers. You wanted to introduce him to the part of your life that no one had ever seen before.

“Come with me,” your quiet request echoed through the car. “To dinner.”

Lando’s eyebrows raised in response. He wasn’t against the idea, but he wasn’t tripping over his words to agree either.

“Are you sure?” He asked. “You don’t think it’s too soon to meet your family?”

“Well you’ve already met my mother,” you pointed out, thinking of the few times they had interacted during race weekends.

Lando rolled his eyes, “You know what I mean.”

You leaned forward, pressing a soft kiss to his lips before smiling. Your nose nudged against his and again, those butterflies returned.

“I want you there,” you said.

“Then I want to be there.”

Two sides to Lando.

And this was the side you were falling incredibly hard for. The side that made you want to show him off to everyone you knew. The side that made you forget why you were nervous to see Charles in the first place.

Lando kissed you once more before he pulled his eyes to the road. You sat back in your seat and your hand stayed connected with his for the remainder of the drive.

——————

You opened the door to your maman’s place, reaching for Lando’s hand as you stepped inside. There was no one in the general area, but you could hear voices flooding in through the balcony. With it being such a beautiful day, you shouldn’t have been surprised to see that everyone was already outside.

Lando was looking around, undoubtedly feeling very out of his element as he stood in the childhood home of another driver. His eyes landed on some old photos and his usual bubbly personality was replaced with solemn and an expression so tense that it had you feeling uneasy in your mother’s own home.

“Hey,” you whispered, squeezing his hand as you stepped closer to him and the wall that held a variety of memories in frames. Lando nodded, acknowledging that he heard you, but his eyes were locked on a specific photo.

It was Charles in a kart, probably about ten years old at the time. Next to him knelt Jules, the biggest smile on his face.

Lando pointed at the young girl balancing on Jules’ knee, a bright red toy car between her fingers. His gaze then turned to you, eyebrows raised.

“I was about five years old, I think,” you said, trying to think back to when exactly that picture was taken. You leaned your head against Lando’s arm as images of your childhood rushed back to you. Some were pure memories that belonged to, others were flashes of stories you had heard that your mind had tricked you into thinking you remembered.

But this day, you remembered.

“I wanted to race too,” a breath of laughter followed that admittance. “Or at least I thought I did. Jules would have never actually let me drive that thing, I was too young, but he put me in and I remember getting so scared. I kept thinking it would start and just take off and it was instant tears for me.”

Lando nudged your side, “Your dreams of being a driver were short lived.”

“Very much so,” you laughed. You tapped your finger against the mini you behind the glass. “Jules gave me a toy Ferrari to keep me distracted and it worked for the most part. But when Charles got in the kart I got scared for him. Jules had to hold me the entire time he was going around the track, assuring me that Charles was safe, that he-”

Lando noticed the way your voice caught in your throat. He slipped his hand out of yours to drape his arm around your shoulders instead, pulling you into his side so he could kiss your forehead.

You told yourself you were fine. You were fine, this was a happy memory, it was a good day. It was just one you hadn’t thought about in a while.

Lando didn’t want you to sit in your thoughts. He propped his finger under your chin, tilting your face up, “Do you think a toy Ferrari would still work to distract you?”

The corner of your lips curled upwards and you rolled your eyes at his attempt at bringing some humour into this conversation.

“No, but maybe a real Ferrari would.”

“Yeah I’m not buying you a Ferrari,” Lando scoffed, turning you both around and away from the photo wall. You glanced at it over your shoulder once more, but when the sliding door to the balcony opened, the pictures were yet again just a memory.

You stepped out of Lando’s embrace when Pascale looked up and saw you. A grin spread across her cheeks and she was quick to put down the bottle of wine in her hands. You practically hopped across the kitchen floor to give her a hug, rocking side to side in her tight embrace.

“Bonjour, maman,” you sighed happily. It had been a few weeks since you had actually spent time with her. When you pulled back she started asking you about the wedding you attended, about London, about what you’ve been up to, but of course she was speaking in French. Lando, who stood quietly behind you, had absolutely no idea what was being said.

“Attends, maman,” Wait mom. You said, cutting her off before this conversation could go further. You glanced at Lando and ushered him over with just a head nod. “C’est Lando.” This is Lando.

Pascale looked at you like you were missing a few brain cells and honestly, you sort of felt like you were. Obviously she knew who Lando was. The question was what was he doing in her home.

“Chérie, je sais qui c'est.” Sweetheart, I know who he is.

Your maman knew Lando as a driver. Someone from a rival team, someone that Charles competed against. She probably didn’t think much of it that he was there, it wasn’t uncommon for Charles to invite another driver or two to a get-together.

But when you reached for Lando’s hand and pulled him closer to you, Pascale’s eyes lit up. There was a faint gasp of surprise, but it was her heartwarming smile of approval that lifted the weight off your shoulders.

You had never brought someone home before, someone that you wanted to introduce to your family. And even though Lando didn’t need any introduction, it was clear that he wasn’t just a driver. Your fingers intertwined with his and your cheeks turned a light shade of pink when Pascale pointed between the two of you.

As your mother, she wanted nothing but happiness for you. She didn’t care that Lando was a Formula 1 driver, all she saw was you clinging to a guy, something that she’s never seen before. There was an obvious connection, one that you hadn’t let yourself have before and Pascale could see that.

“I hope it’s okay that I invited him,” your voice was timid as you glanced towards the patio doors. All of your brothers were out there, none of them had noticed you yet.

“Of course!” she cheered, reaching forward to squeeze Lando’s arm lovingly. “Vous ne parlez pas le Français?”

“No,” you answered for him, feeling Lando tense up beside you as he tried to figure out what he was just asked. “No, he doesn’t speak French.”

“Oh that is not a problem,” Pascale brushed the language aside. She wanted to make Lando feel comfortable in her home, which was just another breath of fresh air for you. At least your maman was supportive, she would be inclusive towards Lando tonight.

Your brothers were another story.

The patio door slid open again and this time it was Enzo and Arthur who walked in. They greeted you from across the room, both in French, but their ‘bonjours’ and ‘ca va’s’ were cut off when they recognised Lando.

“C'est nouveau,” This is new. Enzo teased, his finger darting back and forth between you and Lando as he poured himself a glass of wine.

Arthur glanced out to the patio where Charles remained, “Tu ne lui a pas dit a propos de Lando, pas vrai?” You didn’t tell him about Lando, did you?

Poor Lando, just staring at you waiting for a translation or for you to answer on his behalf. He genuinely couldn’t tell what your brothers were saying, but he hoped it wasn’t anything negative.

“English, boys,” Pascale clapped her hands together as she moved to stand between Arthur and Enzo. She wrapped her arms around both of them, squeezing gently as she smiled back at you and Lando. Both sons had quite a few inches on her but they let her pull them into her sides without any sort of fight. “Lando does not speak French. We will be good hosts, yes?”

“C’est lui qui vit à Monaco,” He’s the one who lives in Monaco. Enzo snorted, earning a smack upside the head from your maman. He held his hand up in defence, palm facing Lando, “Sorry, mate.”

“All good,” Lando chuckled, shaking his head. He didn’t want to put anyone out of place, but Pascale was notorious for making sure her guests were comfortable and respected. If that meant she had to learn another language, she probably would without question.

“Lando, wine?” She offered, grabbing an empty glass from the cupboard.

“Oh he’s not a wine drinker and-” you spoke up, inhaling a sharp breath through your teeth. You glanced up at Lando, “-and I don’t know why I’m speaking for you. You have a voice.”

Lando gave your hand a squeeze, but he didn’t seem offended that you answered on his behalf. If anything, he was a little surprised that you remembered that little detail about him.

“Help yourself to anything in the fridge,” Pascale told him, still pouring a glass for you knowing that you sure as hell wouldn’t turn down wine. She had just stepped around the kitchen island to hand it to you when the patio door opened for the third time.

Charles didn’t even look at you. His eyes immediately went to Lando.

Lando waved awkwardly, “Hey, Charles.”

Completely disregarding him, he turned to Pascale, “Ce devait être un dîner de famille." It was supposed to be a family dinner.

Lando leaned towards you and whispered, “What did he say?”

You shook your head, he didn’t need to know that Charles was already choosing to let this evening turn sour. “Tu peux être poli au moins.” You can at least be polite. You told Charles, only to be met with an eye roll in response.

“So the eye rolls run in the family?” Lando asked.

“Can you just-” you turned to him suddenly, but stopped yourself from being unintentionally rude. Lando was just trying to make a joke, that’s what he did in any given situation. It wasn’t his fault that Charles’ bad attitude was now affecting how you were acting. You placed your hand on his chest, playing with the string of his jumper, “Let’s go outside, yeah?”

Charles turned around as well but Pascale was quick to jab her finger against her son's chest before he could go anywhere, “Behave, Charles.”

It was a warning that held very little merit. Charles would mutter something under his breath in French about how Lando wasn’t actually invited as the group of you all made your way outside. Pascale stayed inside to finish up dinner and you offered to help but one look from her and you both knew you’d be needed outside with the men boys.

The patio was large. The outdoor couch shaped like an ‘L’ was spacious enough to fit all five of you comfortably. But Charles still opted for one of the chairs, resting his leg over the other as he leaned back and watched as Lando made himself comfortable on the patio furniture, or at least tried to.

The second that Lando put his hand on your thigh, Charles’ eyebrows twitched and Lando retracted his hand, leaving it in his own lap.

This was awkward for everyone.

Well, maybe not so much Arthur and Enzo whose heads were moving back and forth between you like they were watching a tennis match, just waiting to see what sort of moves any of you would make.

You hadn't spoken to Charles since you left Silverstone. You weren’t there for him when he DNF’d near the end of the race. You weren’t there to tell him that he still had plenty of chances left this season to do work his way up the standings.

Now was as good a time as any to bring it up, clear the air.

“I’m sorry about your retirement last weekend,” you said, feeling unusually timid. Charles wasn’t someone who you often felt small around. You looked up to him, sure, but you never felt the need to be careful around him, until now.

Charles sighed loudly, “Is this you taking responsibility for it?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Hmm,” Charles scratched the stubble that grew along his jaw. “You don’t think everything you told me minutes before I had to get in the car affected my race at all?”

Nevermind, you weren’t shy to speak what was on your mind. You were annoyed.

“You don’t think leaving your personal life outside the track is something you should probably do?” You retorted, with even more sarcasm than his tone carried. “I mean, you’ve done it before. Weren’t you the one who broke up with Cha literally days before a race weekend and still went on to get a podium?”

“That was different.”

“You’re right,” you scoffed, leaning back against the cushions as you crossed your arms over your chest. “You brought my life onto the track with you in Silverstone. I never asked you to do that.”

To your right, Arthur nudged your side, “Take it easy, Y/N.”

Charles moved on from the topic of the race as his glare narrowed in on Lando. “Vous êtes ensemble, c'est ça?” So, you two are dating?

Lando looked at you, hoping you would, again, either translate or answer for him.

“You know he doesn’t speak French.”

“Toute la famille parle Français,” This whole family speaks french. Charles leaned forward, “You’re just going to show up at my mother’s house and demand everyone speak English for your convenience?”

Lando rapidly shook his head, “That didn’t-”

You promptly cut him off, “Don’t be an ass for the sake of just being an ass, Charles.”

“Mate I don’t want to cause any trouble,” Lando chimed in. His hand went to your leg again and even when Charles eyed the point of contact with disapproval, Lando didn’t move it. “I just like hanging out with your sister. And for some reason she likes hanging out with me too.”

There was that term again. Hanging out. But this time when he said it, you knew Lando was only trying to downplay everything for Charles’ sake. Charles didn’t need to know any of the details of your relationship, he just needed to get it through his head that you were together.

The patio door opened and Pascale came out, holding the glass of wine you had forgotten to grab. You thanked her kindly and without exchanging a word, the mother-daughter bond you shared spoke volumes when you sent a glance across the patio towards Charles.

Pascale tsk’d, shaking her head at the Formula 1 driver, “I said behave, Charles.”

“I didn’t do anything!” Charles retorted. “He’s the one that shows up invited.”

“I invited him,” you snapped.

Enzo leaned forward, directing his attention to Lando to try and steer this conversation elsewhere. He started asking the Brit about his family and Arthur gave you an encouraging nod. Maybe tonight just started off wrong, it had potential to get better.

But of course those were high expectations.

Dinner was horrible.

The glares sent across the table towards you and Lando were impossible to ignore. Charles purposely spoke French and even though Pascale reminded him four times that Lando didn’t understand, Charles only responded that it wasn't his problem.

He was being uncharacteristically rude, and Charles’ reputation was that he was one of the nicest drivers on the grid. That was a reputation you agreed with, up until now.

He was trying to make Lando uncomfortable, trying to find any reason to exclude him, ensuring that Lando knew he didn’t approve of your relationship.

You tried to ignore it, really. You were there to talk to your maman, to catch up with Enzo, to introduce Lando to everyone else in the family.

But eventually you just grew tired of biting your tongue for the sake of keeping the peace.

“You’re insufferable, do you realise that?” You finally blurted out. Arthur and Enzo stifled their laughter and next to you, Lando dropped his hand to your leg. He had been respectful all dinner, keeping his hands on the table where everyone could see, but he knew that you needed the support in the form of a comforting squeeze.

“Big words for the person who pays for all of your trips. There's nothing insufferable about the private jets from Monaco to Spain to London, are there?" Charles barely looked up from his food, shoving his fork into his mouth and letting his words sink in.

“Oh you’ve been waiting to use that line haven’t you?”

Charles ignored you, glancing towards Lando, “You’ve got her trips covered now, yeah?”

“Charles,” Pascale warned. She had stayed quiet for the most part, not wanting to get involved, trying to believe that it was just siblings being siblings.

But it was so much more than that.

“I don’t know why you think I’m so reliant on you, but I can assure you, I’m not,” you shot back, not giving Lando a chance to share his two cents. “But if I was really struggling, there’s about six other drivers on the grid I can call up to help me out. We all know they love my presence in the paddock more than yours.”

Again, Charles chose to ignore you. His stare remained on Lando, “You’re really going to let her talk about the other drivers right in front of you?”

You slammed your hand on the table, demanding that he give you his attention for once. Charles didn’t flinch, but everyone else did. Charles just leaned back in his chair, arrogance painted his face.

“Pourquoi ça te dérange tant que je sois avec lui?” Why do you care so much that I’m with him?

“Pourquoi tu es avec lui? C'est ça la question.” Why are you with him? That’s the question.

You and Charles continued to raise your voices at each other across the table in French, saying anything and everything that came to mind, anything and everything that could hurt the other. Your brothers understood everything, your mother was waiting to see if she needed to intervene, and Lando had absolutely no idea what was happening, he didn’t speak French.

But he understood some phrases.

“Va te faire enculer!” You practically screamed. Go fuck yourself.

Lando was taken aback and he turned to you with wide eyes. You would have loved to excuse yourself from the table at this point, to take Lando and go back to his place, but your mother wasn’t about to let either of you get away with the bullshit that’s been happening all night.

Pascale snapped her fingers, calling for the attention of everyone in the room, but her gaze darted back and forth between you and Charles only. She pointed at you and then at him and then at the kitchen, “Dinner’s over. Both of you, you’re on clean up.”

It wasn’t uncommon in your youth for Pascale to split the household chores between the kids. She had four of them and like any typical mother, she taught her kids the importance of cleaning and pitching in around the house.

But you didn’t even live there anymore.

You would have volunteered to help regardless, but the fact that she was assigning you and Charles to dish duty now that you had finished eating was a telling sign that the two of you needed to work your shit out.

Pascale pushed her chair away from the table and nodded towards the living room as her glare directed at her kids shifted to a warm gaze at Lando, “Come on, Lando, I’ve always wanted to show off baby pictures of Y/N. It’s a right of passage as her mother.”

“Maman, don’t, please,” you pleaded, but it was too late. Lando had practically jumped out of the chair and followed Pascale to the couch.

Arthur and Enzo stood up as well, they didn’t have any interest in reliving your childhood through the photo albums, but they also didn’t want to hang out in the kitchen and be uninvited witnesses to whatever you and Charles were undoubtedly going to argue about.

You stood up from your chair, collecting a few dishes from the table, “I wash, you dry.”

“You always wash.”

“Because everytime you wash you end up breaking plates in the sink and then it becomes a bigger mess for everyone.”

Charles had no comeback for that, he really couldn’t argue with facts. So reluctantly, he found himself standing elbow to elbow with you as you handed him the clean plates for him to dry and put away.

Neither of you said a word.

Which was not Pascale’s intention.

Hearing laughter behind you, you both glanced over your shoulders, catching each other's eyes momentarily before you stepped away from the sink to clear off some more dishes from the table.

Your back was towards Charles when you looked up and saw Lando making his way towards you, a small wallet sized insert photo of you between his thumb and forefinger. You were maybe seven years old there, missing one of your front teeth just in time for picture day at school.

“This is adorable,” Lando told you, “Your mum said I can keep it.”

“You absolutely will not,” you rolled your eyes, stacking the glasses on top of each other.

“You were such a cute kid,” Lando cooed, looking at the picture again. You already knew the question that was going to follow when he turned back towards you, “What happened?”

“Ha ha,” you mocked, flipping your middle finger up at him.

Behind you, Charles cleared his throat. You turned and saw him standing with his back leaning against the counter, arms crossed over his chest with the empty drying rack behind him.

“We can go after I finish cleaning,” you told Lando, sounding apologetic on behalf of how Charles had been treating him all night.

Lando felt bad. He didn’t want you to rush out of there because Charles was making this uncomfortable for everyone. He liked getting to know Pascale and your brothers a bit better. Enzo and Arthur didn’t have a problem with Lando’s presence.

It was just Charles.

“Why?” Lando asked, raising his voice slightly even though this was supposed to be more of a private conversation. He wanted Charles to hear. “I’ve got no plans tonight. We can stay as long as you want. Unless-” Lando looked over your shoulder towards Charles. “Do you want us to leave?”

“I want you to leave,” Charles mumbled and you all but slammed the glasses back on the dining room table as you turned around to face your asshole of a brother.

“Okay, you know what?” you inhaled a heavy breath, hands clamming up in seconds as you suddenly felt very confined within the kitchen. “I have been nothing but supportive of you for your entire career. Is it possible, that for once, to just take a step back and be supportive of me?”

“Supportive of what?” Charles scoffed, gesturing towards Lando. “That you’re dating him? That’s not something I need to be supportive of. It’s not an achievement or a career, Y/N, you haven’t done anything! You slept with a driver, congratulations! Should I call up Pierre and Carlos and invite them over as well? Make it a whole affair?”

You weren’t sure when Lando stepped around the table to stand at your side but you’re thankful he did. He was there to put a loving hand on your arm, rubbing his thumb over your skin as Charles’ words hit you hard. It felt like someone was pressing all of their weight against your chest and you struggled to find your words as much as you fought to take a breath.

You could have screamed at him. You wanted to.

Your brother couldn’t separate you, his sister, from you, his biggest fan. To him, those two things were supposed to coincide.

And for so long, they did.

But that wasn’t the case anymore.

“Okay,” you finally breathed out, voice trembling along with your hands. You were going to pretend like Charles’ words didn’t hurt you and you were going to remove yourself from this conversation before it could take any more difficult turns, before this got uglier. You looked up at Lando, “We’re leaving.”

This was when Pascale interjected again. She stood up from the couch, the painful look of disappointment plastered all over her features.

“Charles Marc Hervé Perceval, apologise to your sister.”

“All the middle names,” Arthur whispered, but unfortunately for him the room was deafeningly silent and everyone heard his little comment. He cowered back into the couch, hoping that if he just stared at Charles long enough, the attention would go back to him.

And it did. Charles shook his head, “I’m not apologising for anything.”

Charles was a lost cause. It was a battle you didn’t have the energy to fight any more tonight.

You reached for your maman, squeezing her hand before going in for a hug. She apologised, of course she did. The last thing she wanted was to see her kids fight.

“I’ll talk to you tomorrow, okay?” You told her and she nodded before moving in to give Lando a hug as well. She told him he was always welcome there when Lando thanked her for the dinner and for showing him the photo albums.

Lando said goodbye to Arthur and Enzo and then reached for your hand, tugging you into his side as you walked out of the house. You waved at Pascale as you made your way towards the car and you could see her expression shift into a glare as she turned around to give Charles a stern talking to before the door fully shut.

Like usual, Lando reached for the passenger door to open it for you, but he stopped you before you could get in by pulling you into his chest.

“Hey,” he whispered, his other hand finding your cheek to tilt your face up to meet his. “I’m sorry about tonight.”

A deep exhale passed through your lips, “You are the last person who should be apologising.”

“Yeah, well, the person who should be apologising isn’t going to,” Lando scoffed. “But you still deserve to hear it.”

Lando kissed your forehead, and then the tip of your nose and when you tilted your chin up just a little more, he pressed a final kiss to your lips before stepping back to let you get into the car.

He slid into the drivers side and had just started to reach for his seatbelt before he let it retract above his shoulder.

“I left my wallet inside, I’ll be right back,” Leando leaned over to give you a kiss on the cheek, opening up the car door again.

“I can go in and get it,” you offered, not wanting to have to subject Lando to Charles again.

“I’ll be two seconds, it’s fine.” He assured you, not leaving any room for discussion. He made his way up the walkway and you watched from the confinement of his car as he rapped his knuckles against the door.

It was Pascale who answered, obviously. She didn’t seem surprised to see Lando, moreso thankful if anything.

“Lando, I’m so sorry,” Pascale said to him again, reaching for his arm to give it a squeeze. Pascale was a very touchy person, Lando came to realise, and you were cautious when it came to physical attention. Lando wondered where your closed off tendencies came from. He also wondered when that shift came between you two when you started to lean into his touches and being the one to reach for his hand first.

“You really have nothing to apologise for,” Lando said, his typical grin making another reappearance. He wasn’t going to let Pascale take responsibility for her son’s actions. He also wasn’t going to let it get to him the way Charles intended.

She invited him inside, asking if he left anything and he told you that he did. But once inside, Charles shook his head and glanced around, “I actually just wanted to get a few more words with Charles quickly.”

Pascale nodded knowingly and pointed towards the balcony. Arthur sent him a smile that could have either read good luck or be careful, but Lando didn’t let himself think too much of it as he crossed the floor and slid the patio door open.

Charles glanced up from his phone and rolled his eyes when he saw who had joined him.

Lando much preferred your eye rolls. They were usually playful and teasing. You were never actually annoyed with him. He didn’t see your eye rolls and think of all of the exit routes like he was doing now as he stepped outside.

Choosing to sit in the chair as opposed to joining Charles on the couch, Lando leaned forward and clasped his hands together atop of knees.

This was strange for both of them.

Lando and Charles were friends. They got along well most of the time. They respected each other as people, as drivers. It wasn’t until Lando became more involved with you did Charles start to see the British driver in a different light.

“You know I would never hurt her, right?” Lando started off by getting right to the point. The line that was drawn between them was you and Lando needed them both to be on the same side of this line, not vying for what they thought was best in their own opinions.

“She’s not thinking about the consequences, Lando,” Charles took him by surprise, not coming back with attitude or with a bitter rebuttal, but with a voice of reason. “She’s happy, sure, but have either of you thought about the media presence in the paddock? What people might say? How might this affect your performance and mine? Formula 1 is hard enough as it is, mate. Racing aside, there are so many external factors that neither of you are considering.”

Lando nodded, piecing together what Charles was getting at, but he wasn’t someone who was easily persuaded. It took Lando weeks to work his way into your life, he wasn’t about to throw any of it away because Charles was sending him an intimidating glare.

“Charles, she’s spent her whole life considering those things,” Lando spoke calmly.

You made it clear you didn’t want a fight and he had your back, not wanting to start an argument either.

“Her own life takes a backseat to support you, to be your biggest fan. She, for the most part, has stayed out of trouble, stayed out of the spotlight so you could shine, so there would be no tarnishing of the Leclerc name. She’s been there for you during the best and the worst of times. All she’s ever wanted was to see you succeed.” Lando shook his head, as he recalled one of your first conversations. “When I took her out in Montreal, she was the one that told me she doesn’t date drivers. That wasn’t a rule you had set for her, that was something she decided for herself. Her fears controlled her, she didn’t want to have to worry about you and someone else during a race-”

“What, so now she’s just going to worry about you?” Charles cut him off and Lando could sense that he was growing more agitated with each passing second.

“No, you idiot,” Lando had to tell himself to keep a straight face. “She’s not letting her fears control her anymore. She’s choosing to believe that what happens in the real world doesn’t affect what happens on the track. She doesn’t want to worry about either of us. She wants to cheer both of us on, and you’re selfishly putting her in a position where she has to choose.”

Lando pressed his palms against his legs and stood up from the chair, essentially ending the conversation there before Charles could think of something else to add, another reason as to why they shouldn’t date that would inevitably go in one ear and out the other.

When Lando reached for the handle of the patio door, he paused before sliding it open, “I’m not trying to take her from you, or from her family. I just want her to be happy and you should want that for her too."

“I do,” Charles agreed, but his words didn’t match the tone, like he was fighting with himself.

Lando wasn’t going to offer any suggestions as to how Charles could stop getting in the way. It wasn’t up to Lando to remind Charles what his place was in your life, that was for him to figure out on his own. Lando simply nodded at the Monegasque driver and walked back inside.

Pascale walked him to the front door, apologising one last time for her son's words and actions throughout the night, but Lando assured her that he still had a great time. She invited him back, telling Lando that she was happy to see her daughter look so at peace for once.

All while Lando was inside your mother’s home, you sat in his car, adjusting the air conditioning and the angle of the seat. You flipped the radio on, but at this time of night there were only remixes and horrible cookie-cutter pop songs that you just couldn’t stand.

You just wanted to distract yourself because Lando was taking a while. He said two seconds but you watched the digital clock on the screen slowly change and it had been at least two minutes since he shut the front door behind him.

You turned the radio off and opened up the glove box, hoping for an instruction manual on how to connect your phone to the bluetooth, but there was nothing in there. So you flipped open the middle compartment next.

There was no manual, but there was a wallet.

Of course you picked it up to confirm it was in fact Lando’s, but then that just left you with the question, why did he go back inside the house?

The light from the front foyer caught your eye and you glanced up to see your mother giving Lando a hug. Apparently he had made quite the impression on her tonight.

You dropped the wallet back inside the compartment and closed it right before Lando reached the car. He slid into the driver's seat and looked at you with his usual cheeky smile, the one that gave him those faint lines around his lips and caused his eyes to squint.

“Find it?” You asked.

Lando hesitated before nodding, “Yeah, was stuck in the couch cushions. Must have fallen out of my pocket.”

And you knew he was lying, but you didn’t question any further. Lando reached across the console to connect his hand with yours as he started to take off in the direction of his flat, jumping into a conversation about your baby photos and how sweet Pascale was, choosing to purposely disregard Charles and his behaviour.

Whatever reason Lando had to go back inside, you didn’t care to ask about it.

You trusted Lando. You knew Lando was someone who would take care of you, even if you didn’t ask for it. His motives, his words, his stupid plan to move up your driver ranking, all of it was pure at heart with nothing but good intentions.

He just wanted to be with you and in return, he hoped you would want to be with him as well.

And against all odds, you were going to make this work.

masterlist here (side note - part 12 (the next chapter) will be the final part)

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