#horizontal hostility

[hayira]

drunk women being the absolute sweetest in the bathroom at the function absolutely lives up to the hype

[crimethinc]

Memories of Aaron Bushnell

https://crimethinc.com/AaronMemories

On February 25, Aaron Bushnell set himself on fire at the gate of the Israeli embassy in Washington, DC as an act of protest against the ongoing genocide of Palestinians in Gaza. Hostile critics have attempted to shrug off Aaron’s action as the consequence of mental illness. On the contrary, Aaron’s choice was a political action arising from his deeply held anarchist convictions.

In this collection, we share Aaron’s own summary of his politics, followed by testimony from three of Aaron’s close friends.

"I am an anarchist, which means I believe in the abolition of all hierarchical power structures, especially capitalism and the state… I view the work we do as fighting back in the class war which the capitalist class wages on the rest of humanity. This also informs the way in which I want to organize, as I believe that any hierarchical power structure is bound to reproduce class dynamics and oppression. Thus, I want to engage in egalitarian forms of organizing that produce horizontal power structures based on mutual aid and solidarity, which are capable of liberating humans."

-Aaron Bushnell

"My friend Aaron was kind, compassionate, and principled, sometimes to the point of being annoying, and he was incredibly reflective and willing to change to meet my needs in our relationship. He was one of my quickest and best friends."

[yandere-wishes]

He's Just Ken

Summary: You're just Barbie, perfect on the outside, dead on the inside. He's just Ken, neither perfect on the outside nor on the inside. 

Author's note: I condone neither patriarchy nor matriarchy. But I do love exploring different forms of mental exhaustion and extreme emotional dependency.

Warnings: Mental abuse, dark mental headspace, mentions of suicide and self-harm (only if you read between the lines), yandere behavior, yandere Ken, 

Not every Barbie has a Ken. Not one for herself anyway. Every Barbie knows a Ken, but that Ken most likely belongs to her friend, or her neighbor, or one of the other Barbies. Not every Barbie has a Ken, but every Barbie knows a Ken. You know one too, one with sandy hair and ocean eyes. And a look that longs for something more. You know a Ken who keeps his heart from breaking by crossing his fingers and praying to the Malibu sun. You know a Ken who's only happy if a certain Barbie looks his way. Or rather you knew. This was before the world fell apart. This was before he destroyed it. 

Ken returned without Barbie and the universe began to crack. It's fine you thought. It's fine you hoped. Ken -That Ken, the one who waited on the beach for hours on end until his Barbie walked by- returned from the real world preaching sermons on how the Kens were better, superior, the rightful rulers of Barbieland. How they didn't need the Barbies, how they no longer needed to settle for being treated as anything less than perfect. How they needn't be number two any longer. Ken returned without Barbie and the universe wept. 

You've always known the real world was a messed up place. It had become evident when the thoughts started to creep in. That was years ago-albeit you'll admit you have no idea if Barbie years and human years aligned- years since you started to feel like a constant failure. Years since that harrowing voice began screeching endless dreadful thoughts into your cranium. Notions that festered your mind and heart, tiny maggots that chewed away at your soul. There was always something wrong and it was somehow always your fault. Then came the pain. Horizontal pangs that shot across your arm. Always in the same spot, always in a cluster of three. Barbies don't feel pain as intensely as humans, at least they're not supposed to. 

 You worried for your human back then. You truly did. But you were always too scared to leave Barbieland. Never brave enough to go find her. She's fine you hope...you doubt it though. 

You also refused to go see Weird Barbie. Too scared of being labeled as anything less than perfect. So long as these thoughts merely remained inside you and no outward defects began to show, you would be fine. You could just pretend like everything was as perfect as it always had been. 

Ken came back from the real world unscratched. Yet his words hit a chord within every other Ken. They began to take over. The Barbies were reduced to accessories. Pretty little things that clung to their lovers. Dressed in short skirts and maid outfits. Turned into what they weren't. 

Ken destroyed what once was perfect. Yet all you could think as you watch the pillars of your homeland cripple and your friends descend into madness. Was how utterly beautiful he was.

The world turned upside down. 

Barbieland fell.

Kendome rose. 

And yet as everything the Barbies had worked all so hard to build came crumbling down. As your friends and neighbors began to lose themselves and submit to a tyrannical patriarchy. You found yourself utterly unaltered. Your world had been destroyed long ago. This was just another calamity that you would fake your way through. It would be easy, a lifetime of practice finally paying off. Stay quiet, stay in the shadows, no one would notice.

No one was supposed to notice...

Ken found you on the beach one night. A day or two after the hostile Ken takeover. He walked up behind you out of breath as if he'd been running. 

The bonfire crackles, a warning, and a love song. Until now you'd only ever existed in his sideview. An afterthought as he impaled his heart and called it love. You had burned yourself in his rays and called it love. You're convinced neither of you knows what love truly is. The moon's rays dance as you two sit side by side. In the distance, you see Blue Mermaid Barbie and Mermaid Ken share a tender kiss. An unparalleled sight. 

Ken sits next to you. Eyes following your every move. Scanning every dip and curve of your plastic corpse. He's just Ken you remind yourself with an uneasy breath. He's just Ken, nothing to fear. Although you're not entirely sure if those old ideologies shine through. He's Ken but somehow he's become unstable at worst, flammable at best. Something radioactive ticks inside of him waiting to detonate. Waiting to make the world feel a trace of his pain. 

Ken's fingers intertwine with yours as waves of helplessness crash across your body. You were created to be ethereal yet all you see is perfection molded in the shape of Ken's face. He leans in, carelessly placing his chin in the subspace of your neck as he whispers. "I see the way you look at me" his warm breath tickles the shell of your ear. You flinch, in time with the breaking of the waves. "I know you want me" Reality blurs when Ken touches you. He pulls you between his legs as his lips kiss the back of your neck. His fingers run up and down your arm as if he's trying to memorize your shape, your soul, you. It's romantic you think but all you feel is puka shell shards stabbing your flesh. You know he's dreamed of this intimacy with the other Barbie. 

you wonder if in his eyes you are merely a ghost. One he resurrected with desperate love and a broken heart. You wonder if he sees her, feels her, wants her. Yet he'll settle for you. The next best thing. The other stereotypical Barbie. Somewhere along the line, your own voice sounds, foreign to you. He's talking, his voice is smooth like silk. Fragile like window glass after a bombing. He asks you something, something you've dreamed of for all so long. He asks you to be his bride wife. You agree despite how degrading it sounds. 

What once was a pink haven of fun and joy has now been turned into a mess of horses and black sunglasses. Barbie's dreamhouse is now Ken's Mojo Dojo Casa House. You feel like an intruder, like a traitor. You feel loved, wanted, needed. Someone once told you that truths can co-exist. It's all you can think to save yourself from going mad. 

There's an unspoken easiness that comes with being with Ken. The way he's always around. His hands never leave you, tracing stars on your arms, running through your hair. He wants his presence to be felt. 

"I like this" you confess one night as you rest your head on his arm. "I've always felt...less than perfect. Like I couldn't be good at anything like the other Barbies." Ken laughs and it feels like the stars have cladded you in their warmth. He pinches your nose with a soft smile. "I know the feeling," he mutters and you feel your heart crack. "But you don't have to worry about that. I'm here and so long as you're with me. We're both going to be perfect." You snuggle into his chest as you close your eyes. "Ken and Barbie" you sing, a mantra, a prayer. One for a better future. One for a happy life. 

You have a dream house. Had one at least. You sometimes wonder which Ken lives there now. You wonder if his Barbie feels your presence radiating off the walls and the floor and the heart-shaped night lamp you once treasured. You certainly feel Stereotypical Barbie's presence echoing from every corner. You see her ghost whenever Ken pulls you onto his lap to watch a horse flick. Infuriated and distressed. You wonder if she's angry because you didn't join the rebellion. You wonder if she's angry because she thinks you took Ken away. You see her ghost again, feel her between the pause of two breaths. She glitches and fades as you hide your face in Ken's mink coat. 

"I don't like being apart from you" Ken claims as he lays your body on top of his. One hand dangling off the couch the other curling your loose locks. To Ken a touch away feels like being galaxies apart. You kiss his chin and his cheek and his nose and finally his lips. It feels like a dream. One you refuse to wake up from. 

Ken is gold.

Unmetable and solid.A kaleidoscope of hope

He has so much potential rotting inside of him.

Ken is gold.

Beautiful and everlasting.

His value lies in how pretty he is. How good of an accessory he's willing to be. 

You wonder if he's sick of being gold. 

You felt Barbie's ghost again today. This time looming and aggravated. She wants her presence acknowledged. She has something she needs to say. Ken was out, one of the rare times you two spend apart. Something about a beach off and rock paper scissors. 

You wonder if a ghost haunting is their way of showing love. 

You wonder if the Kens starting a rebellion is their way of showing love. 

Barbie talks for ten minutes straight. You cling to every word, you forgot how much you missed the Other Barbie's voice. It's in the final beat of her sentence that you notice she's not a ghost. Not this time. This is Barbie, the girl who had been your friend since the day you left your box. "Help me" she pleads as she grabs your shoulders. "We need to fix this", you turn your head and smile a broken smile. "I can't" you confess. 

It's easy to undo brainwashing. Even easier to reinstate it. What Stereotypical Barbie and her friends can undo. You can simply redo. Even Barbies prefer ease, a few simple half-truths sung into the right ear at the right time. And the once normalized Barbies are running back to their Kens. You turn, in the rays of the golden sun, you see Barbie. Her eyes hold glimmers of unshed tears. She wears her betrayal on her pink sleeve. "Why" she whispers as her fingers reach out to hover over your heart before she retracts them. You think you may have burned her. You think she's afraid of being plagued by your depravity.

You feel like a traitor, like a monster. A creature made of pink lipgloss and shattered vows. should Kendom fall, you know your delicate dream life will fall with it. You stare into her eyes. And the words that leave your mouth feel so rehearsed, yet you swear it's the first time you've uttered them. "I'm sorry I wasn't there for you both when you went through hell. I'm sorry I wasn't there when the world collapsed and you ran from the debris. I'm sorry I can't help you pick up the pieces and rebuild what once was yours.., ours. I'm sorry I'm so selfish". 

Immortal hearts are cursed with the loneliest beats. Maybe that's why the other Barbies never bothered to ponder their endless existence. Maybe that's why the Kens always clung to false promises of love. Maybe saying I love you is the same as saying I'm letting you go. Stereotypical Barbie has already reached this conclusion, you know this. For a fraction of a juncture, she looks into your eyes. Trying to reason and plea and hope all in the same breath. When you say nothing more her eyes shine with grief as she turns on her heels and runs for the hilled house. You reach out to her, yet only grasp the warm Malibu breeze. 

What do you call a person such as yourself? 

Coward...

That sounds about right. 

Ken kisses your neck, and it feels like lava sprinkling along your skin. You feel like a defeated soldier drowning in a sea of guilt. Survivor's guilt a voice echo inside your head familiar yet all so distant. A ghost from a past life or a current one unseeable to you. "I have it too" the voice replies. You wonder if it's the voice of an angel or a mortal girl. You don't tell him about the Barbie resistance or how easily they can reverse the brainwashing. You work best alone anyway. 

You hear the word death replay in the background as Ken bites a sensitive spot. A faint noise, a haunting whisper. You hear the word death and it sounds more familiar than the name Barbie that has rolled off your tongue every day since birth. 

Ken harbors you inside the once was dreamhouse like a forbidden secret. Sometimes the skirts feel too short. Sometimes the world feels too heavy. You always feel the eyes of the other Kens on you. You think Ken planned it that way to show the Ken world who you belong to. Just last week he took you to the beach. Both of you wearing matching pastel blues and silver earrings. Other Ken was there also adorned in pastel blue and silver earrings. You see the twitch in your Ken's jaw, the icy glare when Other Ken waves to you. "Let's go," he says, commandes really. He throws you over his shoulder and you're heading back the way you came. "I really wanted to see Mermaid Barbie..." You pout. "No no, you wanted to see a movie remember?" Ken corrects you, to be honest, he does that often. You're starting to doubt you even know your own wants anymore. 

Today Ken has you dressed in a pink and white dress. You remember Setrotypical Barbie use to love this dress. You run around the kitchen cooking a pretend dinner. You really want to go shipping, to pick out something you'd like. A rose pink Lolita skirt and a matching button-up. You really want to die. Although that's normal you always want to go shopping. You always want to die. You wonder if Ken will ever let you pick out your own dresses. You leave his plate in front of him as you loop your arms around his neck. You rest your chin on his head as he pulls you closer. Not picking your own clothes is a small price to pay for the intimacy you've craved for far too long. 

"Never has there ever been a girl as pretty" Ken whispers as he relishes in your presence. 

"Do you have any idea what you are?" He rasps, his lips hovering over yours. You're both sitting on the bed, watching the sun die for the day. 

Ken is a monster. At least that's what you're supposed to think. You have something in your mind something that squirmes around in what can only be described as reason. To call it wits and a conscious would be an overstatement. Lucide is a better word. Weak and brittle yet somehow still standing. Deep inside, your heart refuses to call Ken anything other than hero, savior, salvation. 

"I'm yours" it's the first truth that's left your mouth in a long long time. You cup his cheeks and kiss him with all the doom and gratitude that lies within you. And Wow Ken tastes like mint ice cream and shooting stars. Like dead dreams that lay on the tip of your tongue. He's the beach at night and the evermore gardens during the day. He's everything good and confusing and painful and sweet. Ken nibbles your ear, playfully, and coos sweet words into your soul. Spinning tales of how you'll be together forever. You soak in his presence, rolling his name around in your head. You keep your head filled with him before your own thoughts give you a heart attack. 

You're Barbie but now you are so much more than that. You're his Barbie. Ken's Barbie. Damaged yet simultaneously perfect. And he's perfect too, mesmerizing when the sun's rouge rays kiss his pretty face, bathing him in golden ichor.

You wonder if perfection and imperfection have always been in love. 

 Sometimes in the dead of night, you think of the little girl playing with you. Albit she isn't a little girl anymore, is she? Kids grow up. clawing and biting through the painful transformation. Sometimes it leaves their minds fragmented. Sometimes it leaves them less than whole. 

Judging by how long it's been, your little girl is grown up by now. You close your eyes and give Ken a final kiss before sleep overtakes you. You hope she's okay, even though you know that can never be true. Being "okay" doesn't seem to be a real thing in this universe. 

Because girls are broken and the universe knows this 

Because boys are broken and the universe knows this 

Because the universe does nothing. Just sits there and watches as life bends and breaks itself over and over again

Barbieland is broken too, imperfect and destroyed.

And so are the two of you. 

Yet in the end, it doesn't matter. 

For as broken as the world is the most important of things has been resolved. 

Ken has his Barbie.

And Barbie has her Ken. 

[lokisgoodgirl]

Highland Fling: The Battlements [Avenger!/Kilted! Loki x Fem. Reader]

Part of the Hostile F*cks Collection A Link to my Masterlist is HERE Summary: (8) Suddenly Loki’s ‘True Scotsman’ comment makes a lot more sense. Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI. Smut. Kilted! Loki. Language. "Friends" w/ benefits. Hostility. Jealousy. (w/c 2.8k)

The floor swayed as you squirmed on the god's shoulder, his grip tight beneath your ass as he kicked open the centuries-old oak door with a single shattering crunch. “Loki-” you gasped as he set you down carelessly, a harsh wind whipping your hair. You stumbled, reaching out and grabbing the rugged stone of the battlements, slick and cold.

It was raining. But it was Scotland, so of course it was. He stepped back silently while you adjusted to your unexpected surroundings. Something was different, and it wasn’t just Loki’s outfit.

You scanned the view from the battlements, realising that the parked cars and paved roads from earlier were inexplicably gone. Wild trees grew sporadically around the castle, untamed heather and bogs stretching across the landscape to meet unspoilt mountainous glen. Flashes of steel lay strewn as far as the eye could see, dull in the rays of sinking dusk behind a blanket of clouds. Helmets and axes and swords and banners lay abandoned amongst the vegetation, a wave of foreboding making your stomach churn. The air was heavy with the scent of copper. The scent of death. “Loki…” you whispered fearfully, whipping round to meet his contemplating stare. “There has been a battle…” he murmured, his eyes sparkling with mischief. He took three short steps towards you, punctuating each one with a single word. “Bloody. Short. Fierce.” “I...what is this?” you muttered, looking again across the impossible landscape and back to the kilted warrior in front of you. “A memory…” he growled, hot in your ear as his body pushed flush to yours.

The base of your back hit the stone, realising that instead of your fifties swing dress...it was now a dress of even greater vintage that you wore. Rough natural cotton hung loose around your body, a simple belt gathering in the waist. “A memory...” you repeated sceptically, frowning as Loki took a step back, letting you appraise him. His hair was longer now, rough waves hanging low and wild past his collarbone. Dark curls were gathered messily where they had dried, crusted with sweat and blood. Gone was the pristine kilt ensemble that hung so beautifully on his muscular body during the wedding; and in its place, a true highlander from the pages of history. Muted woollen tartan was slung around his hips, tears in the hem from wear and stains of mud and violence. Matching material was fastened in a sash around his shoulder, set with a jagged clan pin, a wide-buckled belt circling his waist pulled tight. A dark tunic hung undone, dulled silver buttons fastened beneath a thick utilitarian leather strap horizontal over his chest. Jesus fucking Christ you thought, feeling your breaths quicken as you lowered your eyes to take in the heavy boots caked with grime on his feet, cut off just below his bare knees. In his hand, he held a broadsword; fresh blood still smeared down its length. Your fingers grasped at the flat surface of the wall behind you, suddenly wondering how far it would be to jump. “Loki...I-”

He cast the sword aside with a clatter on the stone. One of his rough hands cupped your cheek, locking you in a devastating kiss as a growl rumbled in his throat. “You mocked me with your careless jibes, Agent...but you forget yourself.” he muttered, trailing his bloodied knuckles between your breasts. “You see only the god who lives in your inane fantasies and indulges your shallow needs. The one you think you can bend to your petty whims in your irritating naivety.” You gasped as his hand cupped between your legs, pressing up on your achingly wet core through the unfamiliar cloth. Nerves sizzled beneath his touch, adrenaline soaked pleasure eliciting a whimpering mewl from your lips. You bit down sharply, not wanting to give away just how arousing you were finding this whole ridiculous situation. “'Petty whims' is a bit rich coming from you...” you sneered, glancing over the side of the steep drop and back to his smouldering eyes. “I seriously doubt you were involved in anything as beneath you as a clan feud.” Loki hummed thoughtfully, watching your face as your eyelids fluttered shut beneath the movement of his palm. “Is that so?” he hummed. He rubbed his flattened fingers against your sex, the rough cotton of the dress tugging your delicate clit. “You know nothing, Agent.” he purred malevolently. “I am endless. I am a god. And I will ensure you do not forget whom it is who truly fucks you.” Loki’s parted lips caressed your earlobe, sucking roughly before giving it a sharp nip. His voice was course, staggering over every hushed word. “You could have a thousand lovers and each of their names would evaporate like smoke. Only I will remain.” “This is an illusion...Loki..like everything about you-” you stammered defiantly while bucking into his touch. Hard tendrils of hair grazed your cheek as he pressed you against the battlements with his kilted hips, malevolent rumbles simmering through his chest to yours. “Everything is an illusion” he groaned, stooping and gathering your dress in a fist before twisting it upward. “Everything but the pleasure that only I can give you.” Soft drops of rain hit your face as you turned it to the sky, dark clouds threatening overhead. Thunder rolled as you felt yourself grasp at his tunic, heavy metal buttons catching your fingertips as you tried to push it off his shoulders. “No need for that, lass” he gasped gruffly, hoisting you to sit on the wet wall of the castle. You wrapped your glistening forearms around his neck, seeing fat drops of rain slide down his cheekbones in slow motion. The dirt caking his face gave way, a line of fair skin revealed beneath each track as the raindrops hung on his jaw before falling below. He slid the fabric of your dress up your widened thighs, squeezing his hands around the soft flesh. “Are you afraid?” he goaded, feeling you tremble from the chill. You shook your head, fire in your eyes. He may be powerful, dramatic and fucking stubborn; you thought as your fingers pulled the thick fold of his kilt between your open thighs. But so am I. “Just cold.” you snapped, before pulling him by the sash into a ravenous kiss. The force sent you rocking backwards, leaning dangerously over the side of the battlements. Loki’s tongue jammed into your mouth, shallow pants slipping down the back of your throat. “Not for long.” he panted, pulling your lip between his teeth as sharp rain slapped against your skin.

Your fingers clawed at the thick wool of his kilt, delving beneath endless layers of folding fabric until you found what you craved. Loki let out a simmering moan as you wrapped the digits around his cock, furiously hard and hot in your grip. “See what you do to me, infuriating woman.” Loki grunted, pressing himself further between your legs. The fronts of his thighs were flush against the wet stone, his enormous cock dabbing your entrance. Loki tightened his grip on your hips, balancing you on the narrow parapet. The scratch of his kilt tingled your skin as you wrapped your legs around his waist, willing him to fill you already. “Does your other lover fuck you thus?” Loki purred, rubbing the wide tip teasingly between your folds. His hair had begun to soak through, sodden coils of darkness sticking to his sharp cheekbones. The heavy tunic he wore was damp, a heavy musk filling your nostrils as Loki edged himself inside with a low groan. Your eyes rolled back, arching against the feeling of Loki’s manhood squeezing past every inch of your manufactured resistance. “Does he make you feel like I do? Does he know how to fuck you like I do...” he goaded, before bottoming out with a guttural grunt. “Yes.” you moaned, the pleasure doubled as you relished the god’s confused growl of disapproval. He rutted harshly against your core, his primal possessiveness threatening to consume you both as your fingers grasped at the folds of tartan gathered over his thighs. “Liar.” he muttered through heavy breaths, pulling your hips forward deeper onto his throbbing cock. “You’d k-know...dickhead.” you gasped, as one of Loki’s hands left your waist and gripped the raised column of stone to your side. He propelled himself upward, punctured moans of pleasure rolling alongside the thunder in the distance as Loki made reality shift beneath the wave of his hips. A thick crunch sounded as a chunk of the pillar crumbled in his grip, the whites of his knuckles visible through the brownish crust of blood clinging to them. Crushed debris fell as his fingers loosened, staring at you with a violent lust. “I stood with this clan while they took back their rightful lands...this c-castle, their kingdom…” he grunted, throwing his head back. Rain fell relentlessly over you both, glistening on his brow scrunched to the sky. You yanked the tartan sash around his shoulder, pulling him into another messy kiss to shut him the hell up. He tore back defiantly, the pierce of his glare making you clench. “I slaughtered by their side. Stirred their passions for the injustice of their plight. Vengeance, Agent...is not a task I take lightly. Nor one I would embellish.” he growled, pumping his thighs upward to your tight heat. “And neither is pleasure.” “Oh g-god, L-Loki…” you moaned, bursting with the infectious gravitas of his words. He growled darkly, beginning to come undone as he sought balance against the pillar he’d almost destroyed.

“F-fuck you’re unbearably p-perfect, aren’t you...” he sneered, sinking his fingertips into one of your thighs wrapped around his hips. “Made for my cock, Agent. M-made to take my uhhh...faen...might.” You wound your fingers in his soaking hair, tugging it back the way you’d grown to know he liked. Nice and tight.

He hissed, baring his teeth. “Maybe you’re made to pleasure me, Laufeyson.” you panted, seeing his eyebrows slant as he danced on the edge of exploding deep inside your wet heat. “Or maybe not...I’m still waiting for you to go d-down on me, m-maybe you’re not as gifted as you...uhhh..think.” The rough wool of his kilt chafed your inner thighs as he quickened the pace, your fingers digging into his scalp. “How dare you.” he spat through gritted teeth, drool gathering at the corners of his mouth as he fought release. “That act requires a certain level of...oh, fuckme. That’s it. That’s.it...-level of trust. Do you t-trust me now, Agent?” Your head fell back, feeling yourself hover dangerously over the side of the battlement held only by Loki’s hand around your waist. He lowered you further. The drop must have been more than fifty feet, but you didn’t care. A primal orgasm was bubbling like a tide, walls beginning to spasm around the thick cock pulsing maddeningly inside your traitorous cunt. “Loki..” you panted, a whimper getting lost on a particularly strong gust of wind as rain whipped your cheeks. “Do you trust me?” he repeated loudly, hair plastered across his glistening forehead. “I don’t know!” you cried, as you squeezed your eyes shut. “Well, let’s find out, shall we?”

Suddenly his hand was gone from your waist, placed on the column at his other side. Loki’s arms were spread like he was sitting on a throne, kilt drawn askew as he continued to fuck you mercilessly over the side of the castle in the midst of the howling storm. You tightened your legs around his waist as he edged you backwards, nudging your lower back closer to the wall’s limit. You felt too fucking good to be afraid. The curve of your ass scraped against the wet stone as Loki’s fingertips sank into the slippery flesh of your thighs. If he wanted to, he could flip me right off this wall and I couldn’t stop him, you thought with a surge of adrenaline; another devastating wave of pleasure rolling through your body. It was an out of body experience, and you were suddenly aware your hands travelling up your dripping neck, pressing against your temples before stretching over your head into the darkening gloom. “Agent.” Loki panted, a tinge of alarm in his voice as your hips juddered against him; willing him to go faster. A harsh wind blew, wet needles buffeting against the delicate skin of your outstretched arms. One hand gripped the other wrist as you slid back on forth on his cock, guided by the god holding your thighs as your head fell back. Limp. I guess I do trust him, go figure; you thought, before everything went blurry. Blood thundered in your ears as you came with a strangled yell against the wind, clamping desperately as your pelvis pressed down on the angle between you. “Fuck. Agent.” Loki growled, before falling apart with a thunderous roar. You craned upward to catch a glimpse of him, silhouetted against the turret. His hair was a black slick, beads of rain coating his lashes which rolled down his jaw. From this angle, he was a god; positioned between your spread thighs while he milked every drop of himself into your willing pussy.

The tartan sash had slipped down his shoulder, the thick leather strap diagonal on his chest straining against the pressure of his obscenely powerful climax. Veins in his neck stood taut, that bladed jaw pointed upward as he moaned your name towards the moon, shrouded by malevolent cloud. He fell forward. A final shudder accidentally jolting your ass over the edge of the battlement with a wobble. “Loki!” you gasped, hands flying to grab onto him just as his own snapped to your waist. Your fingers wound in the thick kilt fabric covering his thighs, now thoroughly sodden. “Apologies.” he murmured weakly as you scooted towards him.

“So much for trusting you.” you huffed, releasing a hand from his kilt to peel the soaking dress down your thighs. “Not so fast…” he hummed, halting the movement. “Loki it’s freezing.” you said half-heartedly, curiosity making your stomach flip. The kilted god silently sank to his knees, pushing your trembling legs wider apart. “Hold on to the pillars…” he murmured, nodding to the high portions of battlement on either side of you. You raised an eyebrow sceptically. “Just do it.” he snapped, rolling his eyes before latching his mouth on the inside of your knee. You did what he asked. Loki’s tongue was deliciously warm against the chill. It moved in massaging waves, every torturous inch accompanied with a graze of his teeth as he worked up the leg. You squirmed, feeling his hot seed beginning to weep from your entrance. From previous experience, you knew there would be a lot of it. You gasped as his tongue found your pussy with one soft, wide lick from the base of the stone to below your clit. A muffled groan of satisfaction sounded from between your thighs, the scoop of his muscle dipping inside your messy heat. Collecting himself. Loki withdrew, licking his lips with a coy smile. “It’s quite the delicacy, Agent. You really should try it.” Of course he loves the taste of his own cum. You tilted your head, trailing a thumb against the corner of his mouth as it twitched.

“You missed a bit.” you murmured, before bringing it to your lips. Loki watched in fascination as you sucked it clean, making sure the hollow of your cheekbones planted the image you wanted it to in his mind. You were sure you saw him flinch. Loki’s eyebrows raised expectantly. “It’s alright.” you shrugged, watching his lip curl in a knowing smirk. It was fucking delicious, and he knew it. Like liquid ambrosia. With a hint of...vanilla? You made a mental note to procure a full serving. Without breaking eye-contact, he lowered again. You gripped the stone pillars on either side for dear life, eyelids fluttering shut as he licked another wide stripe through your folds. His lips fastened around your clit, sucking gently as his soft moans vibrated against your slit.

Loki’s tongue swirled in every way you didn’t know you needed, each skilful bob of his head making your eyes roll back. His tongue flattened, lapping with more finesse than you thought possible.

Hell, he actually is amazing at this. Shit, you thought regretfully before a loud whine of his name filled the air. You rocked into him, the urge to push his angular face further into your desperate pussy almost overwhelming. Sighs of pleasure wafted over his head as you tangled your hand in his soaking hair, lost in the feeling of him buried between your open thighs. “God...Loki...y-yes...more, don’t st-” And suddenly, it was gone.

Your head snapped up, brow furrowed. “That’s enough for now.” Loki said abruptly, the kilt sticking to the outline of his thighs as he stood and extended his hand.

“I told you...I never lie about vengeance. Or pleasure.” The skin around his mouth was sticky with your wetness, taunting evidence of his upper-hand. "Especially when it comes to my...gifts, as you so kindly noted." The audacity of this motherfuc-, you thought as you hopped down from the battlements, ignoring his offer. The sodden dress clung to your curves, hair plastered in thick tendrils to your skin as you gave Loki your steeliest glare. “Next time, darling.” Loki quipped mockingly, unable to contain his mirth at your annoyance. “Who says there’s going to be a next time?” you muttered under your breath. Loki moved his hands together, a pale glow beginning to radiate from them as the illusion began to break. “There’s always a next time, Agent.” he chuckled, as a blinding light began to bubble between his palms. “Trust me.”

To be continued in Crossed Swords Part of the Hostile F*cks Collection

Tags

@gigglingtigger @muddyorbsblr @xorpsbane @lokikissesmyforehead @simplyholl @fictive-sl0th @ijuststareatstuffhereok89 @loopsisloops @thedistractedagglomeration @loveroflokiforpoeticjustice @123forgottherest @holdmytesseract @joyful-enchantress @sititran @jaidenhawke @silverfire475 @michelleleewise @vbecker10 @imalovernotahater @thomase1 @morriggannlostinfandoms @marygoddessofmischief @filthyhiddles @peacefulpianist @maple-seed @yelkmelk @mistress-ofmagic @five-miles-over @goblingirlsarah @ozymdias @peaches1958 @your-taste-on-my-lips @lokisgirll @lokidokieokie @kikster606 @peachyjinx @peachyymallows @soldeloki @tbhiddlestan83 @trickster-maiden @cheekyscamp @lunarnights95 @coldnique @lovelysizzlingbluebird @ladyofthestayingpower

[not-neverland06]

Broken Machinery

Pt. 2 (completed series)

Series Masterlist

Connor RK800 x fem!reader

A/N: I swear they all get some personality in the next part. Consider the first two chapters ‘world-building’

Content Warnings: Cussing (duh), dead opossum (sorry), Hank’s emotional constipation

Word Count: 3.3k

Series Summary: You and your grumpy partner Anderson gain a new addition to the team. He’s supposed to be CyberLife’s best, but there’s something not quite right with his programming, and the problems seem to revolve around you.

“Lieutenant Anderson hasn’t arrived yet, but you can wait at his desk.”

FIND LIEUTENANT ANDERSON’S DESK

Connor examined a wall dedicated to honoring past police officers, before heading towards the back of the police station. A PM700 directed him towards a cluster of three desks. One was positioned horizontally in front of tow others, forming an upside down T. The one to the right was extremely cluttered, you occupied the left. You were writing something down, posture hunched over in a position Connor suspected would leave you with pain later today.

He made his way over to you. “Detective Y/L/N,” you jumped when you heard his voice. On the right of his vision a note reminded him:

MAKE PRESENCE KNOWN

It seemed that you would be startled no matter what warning he gave you. He made the conclusion that behavior like that would prove to be a hazard later. Officers needed to be alert at all times.

You clutched your chest in alarm, “Connor. Sorry, I didn’t see you walk up, and you can just call me Y/N.”

“Do you know when Lieutenant Anderson will arrive?”

You scoffed and rolled your eyes, “If we’re lucky we’ll see him before noon.” There was a hostile tone in your voice, there often was when you spoke of, or to Lieutenant Anderson. He’d have to look into that later, if you two didn’t see eye-to-eye it could compromise the mission.

EXPLORE NEW OFFICE

You looked away from your report as you noticed Connor moving towards Andersons desk. He picked up the headphones lying on the desk and moved them towards his ear.

You could hear the music blaring from where you were sat across from him and had to hold back a smile at the way Connor flinched away from the sounds.

He moved towards the phone on the desk, “Call Hank Anderson.”

“Good luck,” Connor glanced at you but ultimately ignored you as he left a message for Hank.

“This is Connor,” he then added for clarification, “the android sent by CyberLife.”

“I don’t think he knows any other androids, Con, or people.” Again, ignored.

Brat.

“It’s almost noon and I’m waiting for you at the office.” He turned towards you and finally acknowledged your existence once he’d hung up. “Do you dislike Lieutenant Anderson?”

The question shouldn’t have caught you off guard, considering you and Hank don’t exactly hide the hostility. Still, an android calling you out for being a bitch stung a bit.

“It’s not really that,” you paused trying to come up with a way to describe your complicated relationship with Hank. “Simple, it’s not as simple as just disliking him, Connor. We’ve got a lot of history and a lot of complicated feelings surrounding that history.”

He took a seat at the other desk now. Hands in his lap and head tilted like a puppy. He fiddled with his cuff links and examined you, you felt uncomfortable, like he was stripping you bare with those plastic eyes of his. “You were romantically involved with the Lieutenant?”

The coffee you were drinking splashed all over the file in front of you as you choked on it. “What the hell Connor? No! Hank and I were not together.” The thought made you gag. “Why would me saying it’s complicated make you think we dated? There’s so many other explanations?!”

“I apologize if I offended you, Y/N. Police officers are often in high stress, life and death situations. Sometimes partners grow close romantically through those extreme bonds. I just came to the conclusion that perhaps you and Hank were once like that.”

You shook your head vigorously, shaking off the mental image of you and Hank. “Well you’re wrong. And it’s too early to get into this with you.�� Connor nodded before getting up from the chair and moving towards the break room.

You saw Gavin go in there earlier and immediately followed behind Connor, hackles already raised.

EXPLORE NEW OFFICE

Speaking with Y/N wasn’t helping Connor with learning more about Hank. From his analysis of her behavior, she didn’t seem to mind androids. She referred to them in gendered pronouns instead of as objects. His relationship with her was lower priority. Her usage of nicknames for Connor led him to the conclusion that she already held an acceptable level of affection for him that would positively affect their working relationship.

Connor entered the break room and scanned the people inside. Detective Gavin Reed and Officer Gina Lee.

“Our friend, the plastic detective, is back in town. Congratulations on last night, very impressive!” The tone was clearly not genuine. You walked into the room silently and began making yourself coffee.

“Hello, detective.”

“I’ve never seen an android like you before. What model are you?”

“RK800, I’m a prototype.”

“A prototype,” he turned towards the officer Lee, “Android detective… So machines are gonna replace us all… is that it?” He pushed Connor back slightly, “Hey, bring me a coffee dipshit.” Connor could hear you slam a cabinet door behind him.

You laughed when he said, “I’m sorry, but I only take orders from Lieutenant Anderson.” Gavin almost walked away before turning back around and punching Connor in the middle. That was when you stepped in. You pushed Gavin away from Connors kneeled form and got between the two.

“Make your own coffee dick.”

“You better watch yourself, after last night the captain’s not gonna be too happy if you start another fight.” Connor logged that information away for a later time. Right now he was trying to recover from the blow to a major biocomponent.

“You drew your weapon first Gavin, but go ahead bring that to the attention of the captain.” Gavin scoffed and pushed you back, Connor was finally standing again and stabilized you with a hand to the back.

“What’s your problem, Y/L/N? What would you rather fuck an android than me?” Both you and the detectives cortisol and adrenaline were reaching concerning levels.

“Gavin, get this through your thick fucking skull: I’d rather be fucked gently with a chainsaw than go on a date with you, let alone fuck you.” That seemed to push the detective over the edge, his hand was rising as if to strike you. You just shoved him back and walked out of the break room, “Connor let’s go.” The tone brokered no room for argument. Connor followed behind you and ignored Gavin’s insults that he shot at the both of you as you walked away.

Connor had planned on exploring more but a new objective had popped up.

FOLLOW Y/N

Odd, he’d have to get that checked out. He was only meant to follow Lieutenant Anderson’s orders.

SOFTWARE INSTABILITY^

Hank was at the desk when you made your way back. Your hands were shaking in anger from the interaction with Gavin. The sight of Hank pouting like a petulant child wasn’t helping your temper at all.

“I get the impression my presence causes you some inconvenience, Lieutenant.” This was not going to go well and you really didn’t want to witness another temper tantrum this morning. You tried to get Connors attention, shaking your head and mouthing the word stop. He either didn’t notice, or didn’t care. “I’d like you to know I’m very sorry about that.”

Hank’s a grown man, he shouldn’t need to have his pride catered to because he was acting like a baby. “Now that we’re partners it would be great to get to know each other better.” Connor’s eager smile was slowly starting to falter and you really wanted to throttle Hank.

Something about Connor made you want to protect him. He was like those little kids with the glasses that made their eyes huge, you wanted to stop anyone that tried to bully him.

Stupid, considering he’s an android and doesn’t actually give a shit about Hank or his feelings, he just wants to complete his mission. “Connor?” He looked at you, the smile back. “Why don’t you get settled at your desk. You can work at this one, since it’s so close to both of us. Deviant files are already on your terminal.”

Connor sat down and you relaxed slightly. Hoping this was the end of the one sided conversation. You should have known better. “Do you like Knights of The Black Death? I really like that music… it’s full of energy.”

That shocked the both of you. You knew he didn’t actually listen to it, he’d just been snooping around Hanks desk, it still was strange to hear an android say he enjoys heavy metal. Seems Hank thought the same, “You listen to heavy metal?”

“Well I don’t really listen to music as such, but I’d like to.” Hank shot you a glare as you struggled not to laugh at his disgruntled face.

“You have a dog, right?”

Hank’s voice got lower and he hunched further into himself, “How do you know that?”

You scoffed, “Jesus Hank, he’s not stalking you. You’ve got dog hair all over.” Hank looked down and frowned at the sight of Sumo’s hair covering his jacket.

“I like dogs.” That was it, you were going to melt. You didn’t care if the feelings were fake or if this was some AI manipulation to gain trust. That was adorable. “What’s your dogs name?”

“What’s it to you-”

“Sumo.” You interrupted Hank before he could act like even more of a jackass. “Sweetest dog ever.” Connor gave you a cordial smile before turning back to Hank.

“I was wondering, do you always arrive at the office at this time?”

“Nope, Connor, no, stooooop,” your whispered warnings weren’t convincing enough to stop his onslaught of questions. You’d noticed Hank had started to relax slightly, but he doesn’t take kindly to people questioning him on his work habits. Or any criticism at all.

“I arrive when I arrive. Now stop busting my balls, okay?” And then he made his final mistake. The basketball game.

“You’re a Detroit Gears fan, right? Denton Carter scored 53% of his shots from the three-point line yesterday. Did you see the game?”

“That’s what I was watching at the bar last night.”

Connors dejected little oh made you glare at Hank. He raised his hands up and glared right back. “Be nice.” Hank waved you off and went back to staring at his terminal.

“What’s your dog's name, Y/N?”

You tilted your head in confusion. “I don’t have one.”

Connor frowned, “There’s dog hair on your jeans.” You looked down and he was right. You hadn’t even noticed this morning, you were in such a rush. Probably should have picked some jeans from the clean pile.

“I volunteer at the dog shelter on weekends, I guess I forgot to wash these. You have a favorite type of dog, Connor?”

“Saint Bernards,” now you know he was just sucking up. Especially with the not so discreet side eye he sent Hank.

“What a coincidence, that’s what Hank’s dog is,” Hank sent you a look that said to keep him out of this conversation. He’d clearly reached his limit for ‘polite’ conversation. “Find anything useful in those reports?”

“An AX400 is reported to have assaulted a man last night. That could be a good starting point for our investigation.” Connor got out of his chair and stood in front of Hank’s desk, Hank who turned his back to him like a child. You were quickly reaching your own limit of how many man-baby’s you could deal with this morning.

“I understand you’re facing personal issues, Lieutenant. But, you need to move past them-” You could perfectly pin-point the moment you knew Connor had fucked up.

“Hey! Don’t talk to me like you know me. I’m not your friend and I don’t need your advice, okay?”

Just as you were going to intervene, Connor did something you should not find attractive but really, really did. He placed his hand on Hank's back and leaned into him. Maybe if you started being a bitch to him he'd get mad at you too.

The thought made you disturbingly excited.

You only checked back into reality when you saw Hank slam Connor against the wall. “Enough! Hank, back off, that’s enough.” He’d been so willing to defend him last night. What had changed? You were both stuck in a pissing match until Chris walked up with information on the AX400.

You straightened Connor’s tie for him and sent him an apologetic smile before grabbing your jacket and following after Hank.

SOFTWARE INSTABILITY^

“We’ve got officers sweeping the neighborhood, in case anyone saw anything.”

Hank sounded as doubtful as you felt when he said, “Okay. Well let me know if they turn anything up.” Connor was just standing in front of the car. Back so straight it made your own ache at the thought of your poor posture.

You walked over to him and it was almost like he was waking up as he addressed you. “It took the first bus that came along… and stayed to the end of the line.”

“Based on her piece of work owner, I’m assuming everything she did was unplanned and out of fear. The android has already been damaged and repaired more times than most. I’m guessing we’ve got another Carlos Ortiz situation on our hands.”

Hank interrupted you with a scoff, “Only one problem, androids don’t feel fear.” You frowned at him.

Connor, however, was quick to back you up. “Deviants do. They get overwhelmed by their emotions and make irrational decisions.”

An idea popped into your head as he spoke. “Then we should approach this similarly to how we would a human. She’s scared, has no money, no plan. She wouldn’t have gone far.”

You examine the area. Abandoned house, desolate parking lot and a motel. “She doesn’t have any money for the hotel, I doubt she’d want to sleep in a broken down car. We should check out the abandoned house.” Connor followed you, Hank somewhat farther behind.

Connor shouted out a quick, “Anybody home?” He looks at the fence surrounding the house and points to something you can’t see. “Blue blood, another android was here.” You nudged Hank none too gently in the ribs.

“Not too bad, huh?”

“For an android.”

You glared at him, “Grumpy old bastard.” You climbed the fence and Connor offered you a hand to help you down. “Thank you.” He led the way towards the back of the house. He glanced through a hole in one of the boarded up windows.

“Android,” he whispered. You were quick to withdraw your weapon. The HK400 from last night had killed itself this morning, Chris had informed you. Slammed its head against the wall until it shut down.

You could never be too careful.

You gave Connor the go ahead to keep moving.

You stopped him when you reached a door. “I’ll handle this.” You entered the house, gun out, and scanned the area. A damaged android was standing in the middle of the room. You slowly lowered your gun and motioned Connor forward when he made no move to attack.

You were still cautious as Connor questioned the android.

“Have you seen any other androids in the area?”

“Ralph seen nobody.”

Something wasn’t right in this house. Call it intuition or the fact that something was seriously disturbed about this deviant, you knew he was lying. You moved slowly behind Connor, trying not to startle Ralph and looked around the room. Was that a-

What the fuck? A burnt opossum, that’s not ever a good sign for someone’s sanity, deviant or not. “That’s Ralph’s blood.” You glanced back over your shoulder at the android. Those wounds weren’t new.

And this table was set for three. Was someone else with the runaway android? A fire was burning, you motioned Connor over and pointed at the fireplace.

“Do androids need heat?” He shook his head and frowned.

“I believe it's lying to us.” You both chanced a look at Ralph but he didn’t seem to be listening.

“I think you might be right.”

“I found the same message from the wall on Carlos Ortiz’s house in another room in here. As well as rA9 scratched into the walls.”

“And the HK400 didn’t give you any helpful information about that?” Connor tilted his head and his eyes scanned your face.

“Were you not paying attention to the interview?”

Heat flooded your face at the question and you could feel it spreading down your neck. “I was … distracted,” by wanting you to handcuff me and talk to me like a-

NOPE! NO!

Boundaries, Y/N, professional boundaries.

He frowned at your admission, “No, he didn’t give me any valuable information. Just the vague admission that it would set me free.” Connor moved away from you, if you didn’t know better you would think that he was annoyed you weren’t paying attention last night. You felt guilt pool in your stomach at the thought that you missed Connors ‘big moment.’

Weapon still in hand you made your way to the stairs, Connor following. Ralph was quick to deny anyone was upstairs, too quick. But Connor shook his head at your doubt, “He’s telling the truth.”

You holstered your gun and moved towards the bottom of the stairs. Movement caught your eye behind a bookshelf. Just as you leaned towards it Ralph yanked you back. Hands under your arms and uncontrolled android strength squeezing the life out of your ribs. “Run, Kara, go!” The bookshelf flew back and two shapes ran out. You were struggling with Ralph too much to realize she had a little girl with her.

Connor rushed over and yanked Ralph’s arms off your waist just as Hank appeared in the doorway. “It’s here, call it in!”

You pushed Connors hands off of you, “Hurry, go after her!” You were still catching your breath when you felt Hank's heavy hand on your back. “I’m fine, let’s go!” He seemed hesitant before following after you. You managed to just barely follow the blur that Connor was forming in the rain.

You were embarrassingly out of breath when you caught up to him, Hank in a similar state of distress. “Shit!” Before you, there was a chain link fence, a busy highway on the other side. You could see the android climbing over the barrier that blocked off traffic, “Fuck, is that a kid?” She was pulling a little girl behind her as they ran into the middle of the busy road.

The cars were going by so fast you couldn’t even make out the colors. The android had a tight hold on the little girl’s arm as she tugged them in between cars, barely missing being hit.

“That’s insane!”

You nodded along at what Hank said, anxiety filling you at the sight of the girl. “She’s gonna get her killed. Jesus!” You wanted to look away as you heard the little girl screaming and the AX400 nearly get its leg taken off by a car going too fast to stop.

“Hey! Where are you going?” Your head shot back to Connor, Hank’s hand was pulling him down as he attempted to climb the fence.

“I can’t let them get away!”

“They won’t, they’re never gonna make it Connor.” Connor shook both yours and the Lieutenants hands off of him.

“I can’t take that chance!” You pulled in Connor again, “Jesus Connor, enough!”

“Hey, you will get yourself killed!” You were shocked at Hank’s reluctance to let Connor go, if anything you would think he’d be more than eager to let Connor get run over. “Do not go after them Connor, that’s an order!” Hank then looked at you and shoved an accusing finger in your face, “And you keep your ass on this side of the fence!”

You shoved his hand out of your face, of course you knew you shouldn’t cross the highway. It was idiotic and you’d most likely distract both the android and the little girl and they’d both end up roadkill. Still, it was hard to just let them go and not try and help at all.

“Oh thank god.” They’d made it across, while it was shocking, at the very least you didn’t have to see a little girl get splattered across the pavement.

Connor seemed almost angry as he walked away from you and Hank.

“That could have been really bad, Hank.” You winced as you took in a painful inhale. Your ribs were most likely just bruised, not cracked, but it still hurt like a bitch.

He nods and gives Connor a strange look. He wrapped an arm around your waist and helped you back to the car. “Yeah, I know.”

end. — I do not own the characters or the game Detroit: Become Human, but this writing is my own all rights reserved © not-neverland06 2023. do not copy, repost, translate & recommend elsewhere.

[skyloftian-nutcase]

First Meetings (Hero’s Shadow backstory!)

The highlands were particularly chilly today as Link looked out into the dunes of Gerudo territory. It was strange how he could be so close to barren heat while also freezing his butt off.

Trilling his lips, the half-Sheikah warrior stretched lazily, gaze drifting from spot to the next. He had been transferred to guard duty along the Hyrulian-Gerudo border for his new assignment. It was his first time truly far from home, and it was honestly pretty thrilling. Link loved to see and learn new things, and the Gerudo Highlands were so vastly different from the lush, wet valleys and mountains of home. Kakariko Village was tucked away near Lake Hylia, and Link had spent most of his youth swimming and rushing to the large Cracked Mountain - legend said an earthquake had caused the large split along its center, and it held mystical treasures within its belly, but all Link had managed to do as a child was get stuck halfway through and give his elders a heart attack.

Either way, he loved exploring, and this place was all entirely new. The Highlands were visible from the capital on the Royal Plateau, but he’d never really known what to expect of any of it. Now that he was assigned here, he wanted nothing more than to explore every inch of the place.

But at the moment he was on duty, and so he stayed in his position.

It wasn’t as if the Gerudo were particularly hostile. They were not part of the kingdom and needed to be watched, and they were a warrior people, making them more threatening than others, but still… they hadn’t really caused problems for Hyrule, nor vice versa. There was definitely a wariness between the factions, though, and it created tension.

Movement caught Link’s eye, and he turned, wondering if maybe it was another lizard (he had already collected three), when he realized it was a person. Small, far in the distance, but someone nonetheless. Curious and a little wary, Link crept closer, hand slowly resting atop his katana, and then he got a closer look.

It was a Gerudo. A teenager, from the looks of it - maybe even around his age. She had twin scimitars, and she was practicing with them, slicing hydromelons with ease. Link watched her a little while, watched the way she moved so fluidly, the way her muscles rippled with each twist and turn, the way her hair reflected the sun far more than the sands did. He felt himself staring a little too long, his heart fluttering a little, and he stepped back, a little overwhelmed. The girl seemed to sense his scrutiny, stopping and looking around before glancing upward at him. Link swallowed, throat dry.

She—she was—she was beautiful.

Link heard a sandal on stone, and his adrenaline immediately spiked, every nerve on high alert, just in time to see a shadow cast over him. He looked up and saw a large figure seemingly falling out of the sky towards him, large mace in hand, and Link gasped a little, rolling out of the way as the weapon slammed into the earth.

Grabbing the hilt of his katana with his left hand, the thirteen-year-old immediately went into action. The initial removal from the scabbard was a wide slash, pushing the figure—a man who bore Gerudo traits (but weren’t all the Gerudo women? That’s what he’d heard)—back a little to avoid getting eviscerated. The sun shone behind the man, blinding Link a little, and he changed his position, breaking the kata in order to get a better view. It gave his opponent an opening, and he took a large step forward, swinging the mace horizontally. Link ducked, thankful for his small stature, and jabbed his blade directly forward. His enemy twisted to the side to dodge, and Link’s flank was wide open, giving the man an opportunity to do a one-handed swing with his weapon.

It hit true, slamming Link in the ribs.

The young warrior went flying, hitting the cliffside and falling to the ground, trying desperately to catch his breath. He heard the person walk towards him, and then heard under his breath, in a bemused tone, “A child?”

Link gasped life back into himself, ignoring how his ribs protested, and he sprang back to his feet, gripping his blade with both hands as he did another sweeping cut to drive his enemy back. He jerked a little at the end of the fluid motion, hissing in pain. His ribs were definitely broken.

Did he have a fairy? An elixir? He didn’t remember packing anything, but—

Link’s eyes widened as the man strode forward purposefully, both hands around the leather handle of the enormous mace, and he swept it right where Link’s head was. Clapping his hands together, the teenager channeled his magic, feeling the air sucked out of his lungs as he disappeared before the weapon could land a hit.

Ganondorf stared, blinking at the blank space where the child had just been. Despite being caught off guard by the Hylian’s age, he was still armed and he’d still been watching his daughter, which merited a swift response. The Gerudo king looked around a moment, confused, before hearing clothes fluttering. He turned around wildly, still seeing nothing, and then the sun reflected off something bright just above him, and he looked up and—

The child was about to stab him in the head.

Hissing, Ganondorf pushed hard with his right leg, jerking his body to the side just in time for the Hylian to slice his blade across his shoulder and part of his chest. Ganondorf bit back a yell, his blood pumping faster than it had in ages, and when he’d finished dodging, he’d almost had to laugh.

He didn’t know how this child was actually managing to put up a fight, but this was actually kind of invigorating. The boy had even landed a blow!

Ganondorf knew he’d won, though, based on how the boy struggled to breathe, so he paused before continuing the fight. “Who are you, child?”

The boy immediately hesitated, clearly caught off guard by his change in tone, and he stood hesitantly in a ready stance. “My name is Link.”

“Link,” Ganondorf repeated, humming and putting the mace on a strap on his back. The Hylian hesitated, red eyes curious and hopeful and far too trusting. In an instant, Ganondorf pulled out his spear, slamming the boy’s abdomen with the blunt end. The child gasped, falling to his back, and the fight was over. Ganondorf approached him slowly, watching his chest heave as he struggled to breathe. He pulled out a red potion, plopping it on the ground next to the boy, and dug the sharp end of his spear into the earth beside the child’s light blonde hair. “Don’t watch my daughter again.”

With that, the Gerudo king walked away, wondering what in the world Hyrule Kingdom was doing sending children to its borders anyway. But he had to admit… he was impressed by the boy’s fighting prowess.

Link grimaced, turning enough to grab the potion and chug it, wondering what in the world just happened.

Despite reporting the incident to his superiors, not much was really done. Apparently, there was concern that this was the actual King of the Gerudo himself, and no one would dare cause problems by claiming the king had attacked a lowly Hyrulian guard. Link wasn’t important enough to merit a war. He also felt immensely guilty he’d even managed to bring about any concern for one.

Sighing, the teenager resumed his post the next day, a little more wary and more than a little put out.

When he heard a foot scuff on stone, he immediately drew his blade, wondering what kind of insanity he was going to deal with now.

Instead, he saw the girl he recognized from yesterday, carrying a basket and looking apologetic.

“Hey,” she said softly, holding her hands up to appease him. “I don’t mean any harm.”

“This is the Hyrule border,” Link warned, not moving.

“Yeah. I know.” The teenager replied dully, as if it were obvious. Well… it was, but still. What else was he going to say?

“That means you can’t be here,” he explained, though there was less force in his voice.

“Yeah, yeah,” the girl replied dismissively. “Technically I can’t cross the line. That’s somewhere between you and me. I’m still in Gerudo territory.”

Link lowered his sword, growing confused. “Yeah, but… what do you want?”

“I wanted to say sorry,” the girl replied, lowering her arms and gripping the basket with both hands. “My dad is… overly protective. But… yeah. You want food?”

Link blinked. Blinked again. “Uh… sure?”

The girl smiled, trotting over and grabbing a stick. She traced a line in the dry earth, easily creating a division between them. “There. There’s the border. I won’t cross this line. But we can have a picnic in the meantime.”

Link stared at her, then at the line, then back at her. And then he giggled. “A picnic sounds nice.”

The two sat across from each other, the center of the basket placed directly over the line, and slowly they started to eat and chat. And if they stayed there for hours until the sun started to set, neither really commented on it.

And if they saw each other the next day for another picnic, neither complained.

And if a King and Queen of the Gerudo stood exasperatedly at the bottom of the cliff the tenth time it happened, neither of them noticed.

[blazethecheeto]

Things Shadow and Bone Characters Absolutely Have Said

Nikolai: I’m 80% awesome 20% water and 100% handsome.

Kaz: That’s 200%.

Nikolai: I’m twice the man you’ll ever be!

~~~~~~~~~~

Inej: You use humor to deflect your trauma.

Jesper: Awww, thanks-

Inej: That’s not a good thing.

Jesper: All I’m hearing is that you think I’m funny.

~~~~~~~

Wylan: Do you guys ever have a civilized conversation that doesn’t require insulting each other every time you get a chance?

Kaz: No.

Nina: No.

Wylan: Didn’t think so.

~~~~~~~~~

Alina, finding out Sturmhond is Nikolai: So, you lied to me?

Nikolai: That depends on how you define lying.

Alina: Well, I define it as not telling the truth. How do you define it?

Nikolai: Um, reclining your body in a horizontal position?

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Matthias, the whole season: I wish I had acid. Thank you, Jesus. Amen.

~~~~~~~~~~

Kirigan: Miss Starkov, I sense hostility.

Alina: Good, because I hate you.

[the-griffons-saddlebag]

💎 𝗡𝗲𝘄 𝗶𝘁𝗲𝗺! Serpentine Horn
Wondrous item, uncommon ___ This metal warhorn is coiled in a tight spiral and sculpted in the shape of a lunging serpent. You can use an action to blow the horn, which is audible out to a range of 150 feet. Each creature within 30 feet of you that can hear the horn must make a DC 13 Wisdom saving throw. On a failed save, a creature can't move in a straight line, and must zigzag, moving back and forth diagonally, toward its destination whenever it moves until the end of your next turn. When measuring range or moving diagonally on a grid in this way, the first diagonal square counts as 5 feet, but the second diagonal square counts as 10 feet. This pattern of 5 feet and then 10 feet continues whenever you’re counting diagonally, even if you move horizontally or vertically between different bits of diagonal movement. Each use of the horn's magic has a 10 percent chance of causing the horn to transform into a giant constrictor snake in the nearest unoccupied space, destroying the horn. The snake is hostile to you. It shares your initiative count but takes its turn immediately after yours. ___ ✨ Patrons get huge perks! Access this and hundreds of other item cards, art files, and compendium entries when you support The Griffon's Saddlebag on Patreon for less than $10 a month!

[maaarine]

The Second Sex (Simone de Beauvoir, 1949)

"The child thinks of the future as an indefinite ascent toward some unidentified summit.

Suddenly in the kitchen, where her mother is washing dishes, the little girl realizes that over the years, every afternoon at the same time, these hands have plunged into greasy water and wiped the china with a rough dish towel.

And until death they will be subjected to these rites.

Eat, sleep, clean ... the years no longer reach toward the sky, they spread out identical and gray as a horizontal tablecloth; every day looks like the previous one; the present is eternal, useless, and hopeless. (…)

Whenever a living being enters her sphere, her eye shines with a wicked fire.

“Wipe your feet; don’t mess up everything; don’t touch that.”

She would like to stop everyone from breathing: the least breath is a threat.

Every movement threatens her with more thankless work: a child’s somersault is a tear to sew up.

Seeing life as a promise of decomposition demanding more endless work, she loses her joie de vivre; her eyes sharpen, her face looks preoccupied and serious, always on guard; she protects herself through prudence and avarice.

She closes the windows because sun would bring in insects, germs, and dust; besides, the sun eats away at the silk wall coverings; the antique armchairs are hidden under loose covers and embalmed in mothballs: light would fade them.

She does not even care to let her visitors see these treasures: admiration sullies.

This defiance turns to bitterness and causes hostility to everything that lives."

[fetss]

Made in Abyss, an essay about how the BIG HOLE is amazing and genius.

Part 1: the hole.

Holes in stories are great, they don’t form that much naturally and if they do, it feels like a human made construct or because of some mysterious forces. The bigger, deeper, and weirder the hole, the better the mystery. So it is natural that the biggest, seemingly bottomless hole would be the most interesting and mysterious.

But this alone would not explain entirely why the abyss is so great, it is also about the environment and climate inside. Looking at the any layers from a vantage point, the view looks both incomprehensible and majestic. This is contrasted by the mundanity of traversing the abyss itself. Hostile creatures and traps exists, but unlike many other fictional climates, it is not actively hostile. Most layers have ways of getting water for example. All of this makes the hole a much more interesting place to explore and imagine.

Side note: I have a theory that vertical spaces and structures are inherently more impressive than horizontal ones. What I mean is that a hill feels more impressive than a field, a hole feels more impressive than a tunnel with the same length. Anything that makes you tilt your head up or down is more visually interesting than a thing that does not. Maybe this is because humans don’t have the ability to travel directly up or down and therefore can’t comprehend vertical space as well as horizontal ones.

Part 2: the curse of the abyss.

A question every story have to ask itself is “why does it have to be the main character who goes on the journey?” And “why can’t someone else more qualified do it?”. There are several different ways to answer, one that Made in Abyss uses is that the journey is personal, both for Riko and Reg and so we follow those characters.

But this presents a problem, Riko and Reg, despite being more prepared and qualified to explore the abyss, is still not as good at exploring and surviving as other high ranking delver. So if they are able to go and explore deep in the abyss, why haven’t the abyss been fully explored by other? This is where the curse of the abyss comes in.

The curse of the abyss is a mechanic inside the abyss, where if any creature not native to the abyss moves up, it will experience a curse ranging from headache, nausea to loss of humanity and even death.

This makes it so that even if going down the abyss is simple, getting back up is always a risk. So delvers have to be extremely tough or do not care about returning (like our protagonists) to be able to delve deep. The curse also imposes a soft cap on how much information can be brought back up to the town, balloons are an option but they are unreliable and the lower you get, the less likely they are to reach the surface. Making the lower layers even less explored.

So the curse allows our protagonists to simultaneously delve deep while being relatively inexperienced and the abyss be mysterious and unexplored. Which allows the entire story to function the way it does.

In conclusion: holes are good, we need more of them.

[script-a-world]

Submitted via Google Form:

Hi, I'd like to build a planet with land across the entire planet that is mostly an alpine. I'm thinking that the majority of the land will be tall mountains with almost all shorelines being tall cliffs so even areas close to the ocean can quickly become tall mointains. Places near the equator will have the highest mountains to offset being closer to the sun. How about resources though? What would be abundant, what puld lack? How about other geographical features and conditions that allow a planet to look like this?

Tex: What happens when the tectonic plates meet? Mountains are created via only one type of plate movement (Wikipedia), but due to physics the opposite side of that plate would create the opposite result (Wikipedia). In order to dissipate the forces caused by a plate causing convergent and divergent boundaries, the horizontal movements of a transformation fault would develop (Wikipedia).

Resources can be boiled down to approximately two things: what grows in water, and what grows in soil. For the former, oceans, seas, lakes, and related areas would need to exist and be large enough to develop life of higher trophic levels. For the latter, it would need enough erosion of rocks to create soil, and be propagated by bacteria to facilitate a healthy environment to propagate photosynthetic life and the upper trophic levels that rely on it. (Birds exist, but also birds must roost, so for all intents and purposes they rely on what grows in soil.)

Anything that has above-water places high enough to create what we would subjectively perceive as mountains would have to be an extremely geologically-active planet, where the plates are constantly moving. This would mean things like lots of volcanoes, and likely an atmosphere saturated in gases like sulfur. Extremophiles can grow in these conditions, but because of energy conservation in a geologically-hostile environment, they’re not likely to grow very big.

If you wish for something different, it might be a “dead” planet, in which there’s little geological activity and the state of things like mountain ranges and placement of oceans are effectively locked into place. This would mean an inert core, and possibly a dying planet or else one in a solar system where it’s faced with a dying sun or outside the goldilocks zone of a reasonably active sun.

Addy: So, resources. That's my jam. If you've got a heavily alpine area, you're generally on mountains or mountain slopes, which generally means you're going to be on a whole bunch of rock. That rock could be sedimentary or metamorphic (igneous is also possible, basalt mountains do exist), but it's still rock. Things that rely on heavy amounts of soil - sand, clay, loam, otherwise - will struggle to form into industries.

You might have 3-4 feet of soil ("soil" includes sections that are mostly gravel – if you're looking for dirt, probably only a foot or two). Looking at a couple examples, I'd say you're probably going to get sandy loam, loamy sand, and gravelly loam. Great drainage, not good for food crops. Since you're alpine, that's going to mean you're above the tree line, so timber is going to be scarce as well. Neutral pH to somewhat alkaline, if that matters to ya. Also, above the tree line, the winds get to be very, very harsh - harsh enough that most plants can't survive up there, so crops are doubly not an option.

If you've got a freeze-thaw cycle, then the ground is going to sprout rocks every year in the spring (literally, the freeze-thaw cycle pushes rocks up towards the surface from under the ground, so you get new rocks in your fields every spring as it starts to thaw), so stone for walls and homes will be plentiful. Insulation will likely come from packed earth (e.g. Icelandic turf homes) or animal hides (e.g. yurts). Without good soil for growing, you're going to likely see a lot of animal husbandry - yaks, goats, oxen, and sheep. Maybe small horses, but no large horses; large, Western horse breeds don't do well if they're only grazing - they generally have feed grown for them. Draft horses are large enough that they have to have food grown for them. But ponies are an option.

Your sand will likely be difficult to get separated from the loam/gravel, so glass will be a tricky industry. Clay will be hard to find, so pottery is limited. Also limiting those industries is a lack of easily available fuel - without timber or peat, you've got limited options on what you have available to burn.

If, by alpine, you're also talking about mountain slopes (and maybe valleys?), then you'll have lots of timber. Lots and lots and lots of timber, so long as you don't clear-cut. Berries will be plentiful in the spring and fall, you'll generally have a decent supply of water, you can grow crops if you're careful about your growing seasons (and the ground acts as a refrigerator, so root cellars and similar structures act as a way to preserve food through the winter months), and you've got wild game to supplement. 

Animal husbandry is still an option, though you'll almost certainly need to grow feed to keep them fed over the winter. Goats would do better than sheep, I think, but birds (chickens, ducks, partridge, geese) would probably be the easiest animal to raise. With birds, you'll also get down, which will help for quilts and bedding to keep yourself warm at night. Sheep/goats will get you wool, which will be good for clothing to keep warm. If you've got different animals, whatever birds/mammals they've got nearby that can fill the niche.

For fuel, you've got wood and charcoal. Charcoal is made from wood, and it burns hotter and cleaner than wood. Good for large kitchens… or for kilns. Or for metalworking. Or for writing/art. Wood is easier to get, and more suitable to everyday use.

Valleys tend to accumulate clay, gravel, or sand, depending on how fast the water flows. Steep slopes mean fast water, so you'll mostly get gravel. Mild slopes mean slow water, so you'll get a lot of clay (such as many river deltas, where they meet the ocean). Moderate slopes mean medium-speed water, so you'll get sand (or sand with gravel). River sand may not get you high-quality glass, but you can still make basic glass out of it. When the rivers freeze in the winter, you'll have lots of ice. That can be stored underground in ice houses, so that you have ice year-round.

For lime/quicklime, you'll need shells (so beach) or limestone (so depends on mountains type). Lime is used for a variety of things - making mortar for bricks, removing impurities when making iron, making concrete, etc - but you need limestone (or shells, like oyster shells) and fuel to make it. So that really depends on the type of stone the mountains are made of.

Salt may or may not be plentiful, depending on what the mountains are made of. You've got very little ocean access (since cliffs), so drying out seawater for salt isn't going to be effective for large-scale production.

Either way (with or without trees), trade will be difficult. Overland trade will have to deal with snow, ice, and uneven terrain (plus possible food issues for pack animals). Sea-based trade would have to deal with getting goods up or down those massive cliffs without damaging or dropping them..  and also getting people down there, too. Huge altitude changes.

Wootzel: If your main concern is having your planet chilly, you could look at Earth during the last ice age as inspiration. This would probably result in having a planet with a LOT of nigh-unlivable area near the poles, but it could be a way to make most of your land quite cold without having to rely as heavily on high altitudes, if that’s something you want to look into.

[t4t4t]

As long as ties exist between us, the scatteredness, the fragmented cartography of our party is not a weakness, but rather a way of depriving the hostile forces of any decisive target. As a friend from Cairo put it in the summer of 2010: “I think that what may have saved what has happened in Egypt up to now is that there’s no leader of this revolution. That may be the most disconcerting thing for the police, for the state, for the government. There’s no head to cut off to make this thing stop. Like a virus constantly mutating to preserve its existence, it’s this way we’ve had of preserving the popular organization, without any hierarchy, completely horizontal, organic, and diffuse.” Morever, what is not structured like a state, like an organization, can only be scattered and fragmentary, and discovers the very motive force of its expansion in this constellated form. It’s up to us to organize the encounters, the circulation, the understandings, the collusions between the local consistencies. The revolutionary task has partly become a task of translation. There is no Esperanto of revolt. It’s not up to the rebels to learn to speak anarchist; it’s up to the anarchists to become polyglot.

To our friends, Invisible Committee

[lounesdarbois]

Deux suggestions. D'abord contester le terme "babtou" (ou "gouère"), qu'il soit justifié par de l'argot, par du wolof, par le nombre, par la pression. Ce terme, dans un cadre "amical" où la réciproque n* ou b* n'est pas permise, constitue un test de soumission et démasque le cadre comme hostile. L'équilibre c'est la réciprocité. Et puis ne pas parler comme des gens d'une culture exogène, ne pas s'acculturer, ne pas adopter leur accent, leur influence, leur hiérarchie, leur panthéon. Seule la Civilisation est civilisatrice et il n'y a qu'une seule civilisation, c'est facile à voir et tout le monde le sait. La Rue c'est la vérité des rapports de force oui, mais descendre à la Rue ne demande nul effort. Monter à la Civilisation depuis la Rue suppose effort, étude, exercice.

Tout le reste découle de ces deux préalables. Une fois que l'on s'y tient et que l'on organise sa vie sur ces fondamentaux et plus du tout sur les catégories du Pouvoir par contrôle horizontal f*cho/pas f*cho - ra***te/pas ra***te tout devient clair. Non pas facile, mais clair. La moindre concession sur les fondamentaux et c'est le déshonneur par ingénierie sociale qui attend comme une toile d'araignée: le rapport au territoire, aux femmes, la dette (et donc, qui doit quoi à qui), le récit admis, le roman national, toute une cosmogonie tournée contre soi-même attend celui qui transige.

Mieux vaut cent fois prendre le large, vivre seul un temps, emporter avec soi ses pénates, refaire souche ailleurs, et laisser entre eux les piranhas se dévorer... que rester pour s'imaginer qu'ils sont des potes et leur servir d'exutoire. Eux d'ailleurs ne sont pas dupes et suspectent toujours quelque servilité indigne derrière le masque égalitaire affiché par les "babtous de cité". Égalité à laquelle ne souscrivent ni les traditions ni le mode de vie moderne réel des uns comme des autres ...

Instructif. Au moins ils disent presque tout tel que ça se passe dehors. Merci camarade pour la découverte !

[imaginmatrix]

Maybe it's my playing Stardew Valley, but I'd certainly like to see a nice Percabeth fic set in a remote, countryside farm town

Annabeth sat on the grass at the top of the overlook.

The small town was a cluster of scattered lights below, the rolling fields of farms rippling like ocean waves in the breeze, leading down to sandy beaches and the true sea it mirrored.

Forests and mountains encased the little community, less a wall of hostility to keep out strangers, and more a protective hug from a loved one, ensuring those in the valley felt secure. Safe.

Percy slumped down beside her, handing over a beer he’d snagged from the six pack in the back of his truck, her second of the night. Most of the evening had already been spent watching the explosion of color the sunset always brought fade to the cool blue of summer twilight.

Crickets chirped. Fireflies began to flick on their lights. A frog sang a song in its gruff, throaty voice. Annabeth cleared her throat.

“So do you come up here a lot?” She asked, trying her best not to look at him, because if she looked at him… it would only invite trouble.

She felt Percy’s shrug, “More so lately.”

“Mm.” Annabeth hummed, taking a sip from her bottle.

Percy Jackson never struck her as a country boy. From the moment Annabeth laid eyes on him in his jeans, converse, and blue Henley, he had emitted an energy that felt unmistakably “city.”

But he was far more down to earth than the men she’d interacted with throughout her life, unconcerned with networking, who knew who, or which restaurants and clubs would be “in” that weekend— not that there were clubs here, and small town gossip was an entirely different breed than what she was used to.

Still.

“So you’re an artist?” Percy interrupted her thoughts.

“Yes.” Annabeth frowned, “Well, no… sort of?”

His laugh sent electricity through her chest, the zap of static after dragging one’s feet on carpet. “How can someone be only ‘sort of’ an artist?”

She unsuccessfully bit back a smile, “I haven’t been doing much art since coming here.”

It seemed like a good idea at the time— a sabbatical from the firm, a chance to rekindle her creativity, find her passion for a dream career that had lost its shine the past half-decade, a relaxing getaway to a small town, in a little cabin, no one to interrupt her…

Except it seemed she left inspiration back in New York.

It hadn’t fit in her luggage.

“I hear that 90% of being an artist is not actually making art, so you’re on the right track.” The way he nudged her shoulder nearly tempted Annabeth into turning her head those few centimeters to meet his gaze, see his face, those green eyes, that black curly hair— no. She had to be firm with herself.

So instead, Annabeth laughed, and she took another swig, “God. I hope that’s true.”

“What do you draw? Or… paint, or whatever?”

The million dollar question.

“I… I’m trying to figure it out.”

She could imagine the way he must be raising his eyebrows at that answer, “People? Places?”

“Buildings.” Annabeth sighed, “I’m an architect.”

“Seems pretty straightforward.” She cringed. Percy paused. “…or not.”

Another sigh tugged at her lungs, but she beat it back down, “It is, usually. But… it all looks the same these days.”

“Buildings?”

“Yeah.” She tilted her eyes to the night sky, so much clearer than back home, “I’m sick of them and I need to find some way to get inspired again because— I mean— Skyscrapers? Giant vertical rectangles. Strip malls? Giant horizontal rectangles. Businesses want to fit in— and so do celebrities, if you’re lucky enough to work with one on some fancy mansion.”

“You’ve built for celebrities?”

“One.” Annabeth admitted, “But everything is so… sterile. Even interiors, which used to still have character when the buildings themselves stopped being unique, and now they’re all minimalist and shades of grey and glass doors, plain marble lobbies or open floor concepts—“

“Used to work in one of those.”

Annabeth blinked, finally inclining her face toward Percy though she still avoided a direct look, “Did you?”

“Yeah. In the same city as you, it looks like.” He pinched the brim of the Yankees cap atop Annabeth’s head, tugging it down teasingly, “Couldn’t figure out what I wanted to do with my life after high school, so I kind of floated around to different things. Ended up in a tech startup, even though computers hate me— it was mostly answering phones and trying to convince people to buy useless warranties they didn’t need.”

“Why did you leave?” Annabeth immediately felt stupid for asking the question. Everything he recounted sounded absolutely miserable.

But Percy didn’t seem to think the same, his answer earnest, “It was a few years ago, and I was already looking for a new job; it didn’t cross my mind to ditch the city entirely, it’s— it was my home, but uh…” he cleared his throat. “I made a promise to someone. So now I’m here.”

Her curiosity was piqued, but Annabeth didn’t pry, figuring it was a sensitive topic. “Do you like the Valley?”

“Far more than I thought I would.”

“Me too.” She paused, “Do you think you’ll stay here?”

“Maybe.”

Maybe.

The word made her emotions churn in a way she absolutely did not want to analyze at the moment.

They stared out at the valley again.

“God this view is beautiful.” Annabeth breathed, breaking the silence.

“Absolutely.”

Then Annabeth made the mistake of turning her head to look at him, the action she’d been avoiding since he invited her to go for a drive, and Percy’s gaze was already on her. Their eyes met. Neither moved to break the delicate string that tentatively began to connect them.

Annabeth’s mind was a whirlwind. This is why it had been so dangerous to look. This is what she was scared of.

Because with him looking like that— no, with him looking at her like that— if his “maybe” response to her question of staying here became a “definitely”…

Then what would she do?

But it was too late. She was leaning in, and Percy was as well, and Annabeth knew she couldn’t, wouldn’t stop herself, because that delicate string was growing stronger, a spider web to a fishing line to a sewing thread to a length of yarn and on and on and on—

So she kissed him. She breathed in his scent, sea salt, and sweat, and lavender from the brush he’d toppled into earlier that night. She tasted his lips, warm and chapped, but not uncomfortably so, a friction in the softness that promised something more that made Annabeth’s skin prickle with anticipation. She kissed him, and let him kiss her, and maybe this would bring that much needed passion back to her life.

But she knew she was a fool.

Because in that moment, even knowing that this— whatever “this” was— could only lead to heartbreak and misery and pain, she made the decision to choose it.

Choose this.

Choose him.

Even if just for the next two months she was here.

Even if just for tonight.

*****

Okay you made me make a series of oneshots on AO3, so here it is there too

[internetgremlin-writes]

Flat Spin [Chapter Eight]

Summary/Prompt: 1. A spin in which an aircraft descends in tight circles whilst remaining almost horizontal 2. A state of agitation or panic [informal] As the only female driver on the grid, you’re fighting a constant need to prove yourself, however sometimes the line between accepting help and hand-outs is more blurred than you think

Pairing: Carlos Sainz Jr x Female Reader

Word Count: 10.5k. I will apologise for nothing

Warnings: Mayhem. Crashes, bad memories, Y/N being a stresshead. Monaco afterparties and associated behaviour (drinking, sex, celebrations). We love to see it!

Previous Parts: One || Two || Three || Four || Five || Six || Seven

You felt like the air had been punched out of your lungs. 

You couldn't breathe, let alone speak.  Crashes were one thing, and both you and Mick had had your fair share of nasty ones over the years, but seeing his car literally torn in half was something else.  You couldn't get the image of it, back half discarded and front half buried in the barrier, out of your mind.  It was like it was painted on the inside of your visor, an unyielding reminder you couldn’t see past. 

Radio silence had never been so loud as you cruised back to the pit lane on autopilot, your entire body numb.  Your team were swarming you, undoing buckles and helping you out of the car but it was like you weren’t even there.  The second your feet hit the ground you were off sprinting to the Haas garage. 

Several marshalls tried to stop you; it was an unspoken rule that drivers were not allowed on garage visits and especially not during red flags, but no way would that stop you.  You rather violently cursed out a marshall who'd grabbed your shoulders just meters away from your destination.  The white and red of the Haas garage was in view and you could see the wreckage on their screens in the garage.  The poor marshall had no choice but to let you go when you twisted hard, worming your way out of his grip and scooting past.

You'd grabbed the first person you saw, demanding any and all information they had.  The poor mechanic was young and clearly low ranking.  He had barely stuttered out an explanation for his not knowing when a hand landed on your shoulder and you turned to be met with a grim-looking, heavy-breathing Sebastian, eyes locked on the mechanic in front of you. 

Faced with a four-time world champion, the boy paled and disappeared into the back of the garage with the promise of help.  

“Seb, I can't-”  you could feel your breathing threatening to spiral out of control.  Your chest was squeezing, the pain becoming more and more blinding with every passing minute.

“I know,”  was his only response, but his hand didn't relax on your shoulder.  You didn't even care what it looked like, two panicking Aston Martin drivers harassing the Haas team.  There would be publicity hell to pay but you didn't care.  There was a crane on the screen and marshalls on the track were starting to clear the debris around the main body of the car.  Someone in a white buttoned shirt appeared from the depths of the garage, the pale-faced mechanic you'd stopped scampering behind him. 

He turned to where you and Seb stood, sticking out like sore thumbs in your deep green suits.  His gaze was cold and unimpressed.

“He's out.  Radio was broken,”

“So?”  You found yourself demanding before you could stop.  

“So,”  you didn't care for the man's hostile tone.  “He is on his way back in the medical car.  The two of you can kindly leave now,”  you sent a bitter look at the man, turning on your heel and stalking to the end of the pit lane where the medical tent was situated, Sebastian hot on your heels. 

“He's okay, Y/N,”

“We don't know that,”

“But he's not-”

“Don't.”  flashes of another accident, one from several years ago in Spa ran through your mind.  You'd been told Anthoine was okay too, at first.  No one needed reminding of how that had ended. 

You sat on the floor outside the medical tent, blatantly ignoring the cameras surrounding you.  You knew at least one of them was Netflix, partly because they weren’t subtle about how they thrived on the drama and partly because you weren't stupid enough to not recognise the boom mic hanging over your and Sebastian's heads.  The pair of you sat in a resolute, mutual silence, refusing to give them a fraction of your mind. 

The hum of the engine preceded the entrance of the medical car that had you leaping to your feet.  The door opened and low and behold Mick stepped out onto his own two feet.  You didn't give him chance to prepare himself, a strangled sob ripping from you as you ran at him and threw yourself into his arms. 

Mick took a step back but easily caught you, wrapping his arms around your back and squeezing you tight.  You felt Seb, one arm circling you and pulling both you and Mick close to him.  That only made you cry harder because the moment of suspension when your little trio had become a duo was deeply sickening. 

“Hey, I'm okay,”  you were taking shaky breaths, fighting to regain control as followed Mick into the medical tent.  They tried to stop you but Seb must have given the medics a death glare because they stepped aside and allowed the three of you in without question. 

“I drove right past you.  The car’s in pieces,”

“You know they always look worse than they are,”  Seb tried to calm you as you were handed a cup of water.  You'd stopped crying as Mick was given a quick once over and permission to return to his team.  “The cars are built to break so we don’t,”

The three of you walked slowly back up the pitlane to the garages.  There were still big screens with the red flag notice everywhere so you weren't feeling particularly rushed to be getting back in the car.  Not much else needed to be said.  Mick was sandwiched between you, the warmth of him close enough to help you settle.

“Sorry,”  you managed.  “You know I hate crashes.  Ever since…”  you trailed off but the feeling of Mick wrapping an arm around your shoulders and squeezing you was enough.  It wasn’t uncommon knowledge that you’d been the first car to avoid the carnage at Spa.  That you’d seen the awful, awful mess firsthand.

“At least I didn’t end up in the pool,”  it was typical of Mick to make you laugh.  You headbutted his shoulder gently and the three of you resumed the normal conversation, which was, of course, complaining about intermediate tyres until you reached the Haas garage.  You gave Mick another tight hug and Seb clapped him firmly on the back before the two of you made your back to Aston Martin.

“Is Mick okay?”  

You hadn’t even registered Carlos walking straight towards you until he spoke.  He was searching your face, eyes wide and concerned as he ran a hand through wild hair.  You nodded, and he let out a heavy breath, stepping forward into your space.  Seb raised an eyebrow at you and gestured that he was heading back to the garage, leaving you alone with the Spaniard.  You tried to ignore the way your hands were still shaking as the pair of you stood together in the middle of the pit lane.  It was a hive of activity with mechanics running every which way, drivers trying to entertain themselves up and down the lane and cars guarded by umbrellas.  Several drivers stopped to ask you about Mick on their way to the Haas garage to find out for themselves.

Carlos watched you in that quiet way he had about him when he was witnessing someone else processing.  You’d moved back, so the pair of you were leaning against a wall as you observed the flurry around you.  

“Are you okay?  You’re pale,”  Carlos’ hand twitched as if he wanted to touch your cheek, but thought better of himself as a Sky cameraman passed by you, the lens obviously pointed at the pair of you as he did so. 

“Yeah - sorry,”  You shook your head and pushed forwards, bouncing on the balls of your feet a few times to force your blood to keep moving.  “Bad crashes always get me, ever since-”

“I know,”  

“Mick’s one of my best friends.  He’s like family, fuck he’s closer than some of my family.  For a second I thought I’d lost him,”  Your voice quavered for a moment, your mind betraying you by dragging you through the alternative outcome of the accident.  One where Mick didn’t come back in the medical car.  Carlos instinctively moved in front of you, it looked like you were having a simple conversation, but realistically he was shielding you from the prying cameras for a minute. 

“Deep breaths, Y/N,”  you did as he said, fighting the sting in your eyes as you tried to compose yourself for what felt like the millionth time that weekend.  His voice lowered, head dropping down for only you to hear.  “Come back to me,”  you allowed yourself half a second to press your forehead against his chest, before pulling away and snapping yourself back into reality.

“Right, I have a race to be leading,”

“You’re in P1?”

“Oh nice, try not to sound so surprised,”  you snarked back at his shocked expression as the two of you began to amble towards your respective garages.

“I thought it was a Red Bull,” 

“She’s green,”  you pointed at the very distinct livery of the car parked at the front of the procession, ready to lead out of the pitlane if there ever was a green flag.  Carlos shook his head.

“Too many lapped cars here,”  you could agree with that.  

“Hello guys,”  Charles joined you, he looked pained.  

“Hi mate,”  Carlos greeted his teammate with a clap on the shoulder.

“Mattia said to me to find you,”  he ran a hand through his short hair, green eyes searching for something along the row of parked cars.  “Meeting before the restart,”

“Oooh, have they added plans J-through-X for you?”  It was common knowledge that Ferrari’s strategy was questionable at best and accompanied by an intricate, lettered system that no one else could even try to decipher.  Charles didn’t look like he found that as funny as Carlos did.

“Only Plan B: to beat you,”  Carlos added, then left you with a wink and a wicked smile as the two boys made their way to the bright red garage. 

With twenty minutes confirmed until the race was due to restart you were met with a strained-looking Katie.

“I have been looking everywhere for you!”

“I was just outside,”  you tried to justify, a little confused as to why Katie thought you were lost when you’d had a camera following you for the last half hour at least.

“Seb said….”  she trailed off with a noise of annoyance that meant she realised she’d fallen for whatever Seb had told her you’d been doing.  “Come on, I’m not letting you throw this away,”

“I’m not throwing anything away!”  You protested lightly, nevertheless following her to the back of the garage to run through some re-focusing exercises and a shortened version of your warm-up routine so that by the time they were finally calling for drivers to get back in their cars you felt sharp and ready to go.

They’d swapped you onto a new set of medium tyres, with word that due to all the delays the race was to be cut short.  Within moments of being on the track, it was confirmed that you only had twenty minutes plus one lap remaining of racing.

“What about points?”

“Awarding full points,”  there was a spark of hope in your chest.  The mediums were doing a nice job, you were putting in some quick lap times and pulling away from the pack.  “Just keep doing what you’re doing, defend with everything you have and bring it home,”

You didn’t even bother radioing a reply back.  You had never been so focused in a race in your entire life, there was a car hot on your tail and you were driving every lap like it was qualifying, pushing for perfect speed whilst simultaneously planting your car square in the middle, doggedly blocking every overtake attempt made on you.  Even with the medium compound, you were struggling to pull more than a second away from the car in second who was sitting on your rear ring just waiting for you to screw up.

It was the most exhausting drive you’d ever given, but when the message came in that you were on the final lap you thought of nothing else but to floor it.  You wanted your fastest lap bonus point.  The car felt alive beneath you, the tyres finally warm and responsive, the track dry enough to demand from it what you wanted.  The car behind you leapt forward, but you finally broke the DRS link as you pulled away.

“Okay Y/N, just keep it together kid, keep it together.  You’re about to win Monaco,”  you were shaking, body spent from the exertion and adrenaline as you pushed and pushed and refused to let up.  As you rounded the final corner you knew you were crying, but you didn’t care.

You’d only taken two other wins in your career, both from the previous season.  Your maiden had been in Hungary, and a second lucky one had come for you in Mexico after the two cars battling for P1 and 2 wiped themselves out in front of you.  Not that either didn’t mean everything to you, but taking a win on an archaic track, one of the most iconic and famous venues on the Formula One calendar was something else, especially after fighting tooth and nail for it.  As if you’d done it hundreds of times before, you crossed the line and passed under the chequered flag.  

“Y/N Y/LN, you’ve just won Monaco!”

There was nothing else you could do.  The only response you could manage was a broken sob through the radio as you slowed the car for a celebratory lap.  You couldn’t see a thing anymore, entirely relying on muscle memory as you guided the car through the streets one-handed.  The other shakily stuck up in the air in an attempted wave at the crowds you could hear roaring for you, at you, with you: in reality, you didn’t care.

“Oh my god.  Oh. my. God,”  you could hear your engineer chuckling at you, various voices you couldn’t all assign names to hopping on to congratulate you.  “That was mega.  Thank you, everyone, thank you!”

“What a drive!  You defended like a lion,”

“A lioness!”  You corrected before a fresh wave of emotion whacked you in the chest and you had to drive into Parc Ferme in choked-up silence.

You wanted to wait until the cars in second and third pulled in before you got out, but you found yourself unable to get out of the car immediately.  Your entire body felt numb and alight at the same time.  You were shaking hard as you disconnected your helmet and neck support, the headrest and the steering wheel.  There was a gentle stream of drivers from the non-podium positions trickling past you, patting you on the head and grasping your hands as you stood up.

Taking a deep breath you finally forced yourself to rise, standing victorious atop the ‘Green Red Bull’.  Hands thrust up into the air, head tilted back, eyes screwed shut you allowed yourself to soak in the moment as the crowd erupted for you once more.  The second you’d put the fixings back in the car you ran directly at the barrier with a scream.  In the middle of the Aston Martin team that was waiting to celebrate you was your dad, eyes shining and face wet in silent tear tracks.

“Dad!”  You threw yourself at him, a hundred hands fisted in your suit and pulling you over the barrier, but it was your father’s arms around your neck, holding you close. 

“That’s my girl!”  He gripped either side of your helmet which you were yet to take off.  “The tyre call?  Pure genius.  I’m so proud of you,”  You were crying again, but so was he, and your mum who was sobbing beside you so hard she couldn’t even acknowledge you.  Katie, your engineers and mechanics were all screaming at you, faces alight and wild.  The first win of the season always felt good.

“I love you,”  you told him.

“Love you too, go get 'em, kid,”  you nodded, the team helping you safely back on the correct side of the barrier.  You felt like you were eight years old again, having won your first ever race and you knew that nothing in the world would ever feel like that again.  Winning Monaco felt very similar.  You finally managed to rip your helmet off, taking a deep breath and unashamedly dragging your baklava across your wet eyes.  That was when you took a long, hard look at the cars parked in P2 and P3.

55 and 5.  With your number 15 right in the middle.

Seb caught your eye first.  His eyes were shining, hair wild.  He looked younger than you’d seen him in a long, long time.  You couldn’t contain yourself as he squeezed you tightly, the pair of you jumping on the spot like over-excited teenagers.  

“Simply magical.  Maybe I will name this car, too, after all,”  was all he said, and then with a nod over your shoulder and a complicated gesture that meant ‘I’ll see you in the cool down room’ he retreated to where the FIA officials were beginning to weigh the stream of drivers trickling through. 

Standing behind you was Carlos.

He was watching you with an expression you didn’t recognise.  You couldn’t make sense of your thoughts.

So you ran at him, full speed.

You connected with his body at force, making him stumble back as his strong arms flew to your legs, steadying you as he picked you up with ease.  

It only lasted a second before you were placed carefully back on the floor.  Friendly to an outsider, but the lingering touch on your hip screamed otherwise.  The way he was looking at you, making you feel like you’d just crossed the line all over again screamed otherwise.

“Congratulations,”  he mumbled into your neck, so close you had to ignore the way you could feel the brush of his lips against your skin.  You squealed because fuck it, you’d just won Monaco and you were allowed to squeal and cry and react however you wanted and the added layer of Carlos to all of it was enough to formally tip you into overdrive.  You could feel him laughing warmly beneath you as you stepped back.  There are races where you play your wins cool, where you shrug it off and go “Yeah, easy mate, one of the boys, no problem,”  and then… well then there’s Monaco.

Your whole body felt like it was thrumming with energy, which you decided to use as the blaming device for the way you couldn’t stop waving and jumping and hugging anyone who came near you.  You found yourself pacing around the cool-down room, unable to sit down as you constantly readjusted the Pirelli cap with the intricately stitched 1st on the side until Seb finally placed his hands on your shoulders and fixed it on your head.

“Leave it alone now,”

“Alright Dad,”  His eyes shone with something that you hoped was pride.  God, you really did love Seb.  It would hit you sometimes like that, he’d do nothing much at all and you’d find yourself choking up in the emotion and admiration you held for the man you were so privileged as to call your mentor and teammate.  He tipped the peak of his cap at you playfully and your attention returned to the large screen behind him that was playing the race highlights. 

You hadn’t realised at the time just how close Carlos had been to overtaking you after the restart.  The Ferrari had not only been within DRS range, but lunging at you lap after lap after lap, just searching for an overtake gap that wasn’t there.

“Bloody hell Carlos, I had no idea you were so close,”  He shrugged.  You’d seen Carlos come second a couple of times.  He was still waiting on his maiden win and ever since Monza in 2020 there was always a look of mild disappointment when he stood on the second or third step.  Every driver’s dream was to win, of course, it was, but ever since he’d joined Ferrari there seemed to be something that bit more tragically desperate about Carlos’ podium finishes.  But right then, well, he was looking at you like the entire universe was in your eyes.  There wasn’t an ounce of jealousy, disappointment or anything even fractionally less than positive in him.

He shrugged, and you had to resist the urge to bump him with your hip.

“If I’m coming second to anyone, I want it to be you,”  he said quietly.  You could feel yourself blushing, the tone of his voice clearly giving away the secondary meaning in his words and you could only pray that it hadn’t been picked up well on the broadcast.  Seb, however, clearly did not miss the memo because he took a long drink of his water bottle, eyes trained on Carlos in a way that gave you flashbacks to a much younger Sebastian staring down Mark Webber after he’d thrashed his teammate on track.  Your face was on fire as you decided it was best not to look at either of them, instead staring intently at the TV screen.

“Your overcut worked,”  Carlos tried to change the subject as footage of one of Sebastian’s pitstops was being shown.  Luckily, deep down there was still a little egomaniac in Seb that loved to be stroked and you could see the giveaway eyebrow raise that said he was interested in what Carlos had to say.

“I just took advantage of the slow stops,”  He pointed out.  You hadn’t realised that both Charles’ Ferrari and one of the Red Bulls had suffered fumbled stops.  Seb had also pulled off some spectacular overtakes on three cars to fight his way to the top and capitalised on a technical issue with Max’s car.  He’d done far more than take advantage, but whilst he loved being complimented, Seb would never say anything himself.

Thankfully, stewards were buzzing around the room and before you’d found something else broadcast-appropriate to say to two of the most important people in your life at one of the defining moments of your career, you were being sent out to the podium.

It felt like a dream.

Not in the way people normally say things like that feel like a dream.  Not, like, happy clouds and rainbows and magical moments.  It felt like a dream because the sound of the crowd was deafening, yet it was like you were wearing ear defenders; the noise a little muffled and warped.  Walking across to take your place on the top step was the same: like walking in a dream where your legs aren’t yours and they seem to work slower than your mind is willing them to.  It felt like a dream in the way everything was too bright and detailed, but not bright or detailed enough all at once.  It felt like a dream when a princess shook your hand and your skin felt like rubber and you didn’t remember what the touch of another human was supposed to feel like.  It felt like a dream how you wanted to remember every precious second and already it was feeling like a fuzzy memory, fading right in front of you.

The popping of champagne corks was the moment when you’re swimming and you come up for air.  The moment when you break the surface tension of the water and suddenly everything clicks back into place.  You can see the clock on the wall and the lane ropes beside you, you can hear the radio echoing around the chamber-like walls alongside instructors shouting and children playing.  You can hear the old lady two rows across breathing steadily and the athlete next to you splash heavily as they dive in. 

Just like that, you’re back in the room.

You could have sworn you’d memorised every face in the crowd.  You’d waved to your parents and Mick who was standing right at the front, beaming at you even though he was holding an ice pack under his shirt.  You could see Katie and your engineer clinging onto each other, and Mike beaming up at you.  

And then you submerged back into the water.

If water was Ferrari champagne and submerged was Sebastian tipping his bottle directly over your head.  If submerged was Carlos attacking you with a vicious foaming. 

You shrieked, high and happy and completely content as you matched them, popping your bottle and hitting both with an aggressive spray before rounding on the poor apprentice who’d thought being sent up for the Constructor’s Trophy was an honour and not a rinsing.  When the fanfare had stopped and the bubbles had settled the three of you looked like sticky drowned rats.  You stood on the top step, suits squelching together for a soggy, smiley photo.  You turned, forming a triad as the bottles were clinked together.  Seb lifted his to his mouth immediately.  You were about to follow suit when Carlos presented you instead with his bottle, a wicked grin on his face. 

“More in here,”  he told you, gesturing for you to hand him yours in return.  Already drunk off the pure sensation you allowed him to come closer, gently lifting his bottle and placing it to your lips, holding it in place as you took a long gulp.  Victory, if anyone was wondering, tastes sweet and acrid and warm.  His eyes darkened as he continued to hold the bottle for you, watching the way you stuttered for a second before meeting his eyes and taking on the challenge to continue to down the very un-downable champagne when he made it clear he wasn’t letting you go.  Your hands came up to wrap around the neck of a bottle in a display that your mother would call positively uncouth.  Carlos looked physically pained as he let go, lifting the dregs of your bottle to his mouth and taking a much smaller drink than you had. 

When you let the bottle down, messily, with champagne spilling over the corners of your mouth and splashing down your chin with a wet grin, Carlos was staring at you shamelessly.  You sent him a subtle wink as you leant forward, reclaiming the bottle with a “1” on its neck and returning his “2”. 

Carlos followed you back into the green room, so close behind that it was only too easy for him to bend down and whisper into your ear.

“Your hotel room number.  Send it to me,”

The nod of your head was so subtle not even a journalist could have spotted it.

*****

“So lemme get this straight,”  Katie folded her arms, watching you with one hip popped out and a falsely interested expression as you spoke.  “I just fucking - fucking won Monaco, and instead of getting a head start on partying like all the other teams I have to do more press?”

“Shall we stop pretending like we’ve never attended a podium press conference before?”  She asked you lightly, her good nature and familiarity with post-celebratory alcohol poisoning from her rugby days giving her an edge of patience not many would have with a complaining driver.  She tried to adjust your cap, but you dodged away.  “You’re soaking wet, are you sure you don’t want to change first?”

“‘M never taking this off,”  you mumbled, not entirely sure if you were talking about your race suit or the winner’s cap on your head.  Your suit was already becoming uncomfortable, it was somewhere between wet and dry, the heat of your body making the fabric warm and very, very sticky.  It wasn’t pleasant in the slightest but you’d just won Monaco and there was no way you could be conned out of the magical suit, half a bottle of champagne influenced or not.

“Never work with kids or animals,”  she muttered to herself, grinning as she handed you a water bottle and watched you pull a face of disgust when you realised it wasn’t, in fact, more champagne.  “They should add athletes to that,”

“You’re an athlete!”  You complained.

“My point exactly,”  She grinned at you.  Katie wasn’t an unattractive person, but there were hints about her that were just so… rugby.  Like the way she was so much taller than you, and wider too.  She was nearly all muscle, strong and sturdy.  She had a plain face, with a broad nose and strong jaw and eyes like steel.  Like the way when she grinned, you could see the gap in her molars where a tooth had been knocked loose.  Or if she turned her head in the right light there was a small, silver scar behind her ear:  “A walking reminder of why you never trust a girl with false nails,”.  Or now, when she was grinning at you in a way that said “I’m going to get you completely and utterly shitfaced tonight, but not if I get there first,”

You liked Katie a lot.  It was moments like these when you were reminded that behind the hardass manager, there was an old friend of yours who put up with an awful lot of your shit on a daily basis.  

“C’mon you, time to go see some journos,”  You groaned playfully as you scooped up the water bottle and followed Katie dutifully out of your driver’s room and down the paddock back to the conference hall.

Both Carlos and Sebastian had the good grace to change out of their sweaty, sticky race suits.  You took your place between them, a lopsided grin hitched on your face and not a care in the world.  The press conference was the best one you’d ever done, although maybe that was because the crowd were nothing more than a blurry haze and nothing they could say was able to so much as wobble your foundations.

It was almost too easy to smile and bask in their congratulations.  Let them call you things like a genius for your tyre call.  Even the more mocking comments, particularly keen to reference your adamant refusal of intermediate tyres felt no more than a friendly jab.  

The hour dragged by painfully slowly despite all the attention on you and you found yourself working hard to not let your head loll to one side and let the sweet buzz running through your veins carry you into a much-needed nap.  Instead, you found yourself hauled off for yet another round of photos before you were finally released from duties.  You knew there should be a debrief, but it had been swapped for team photos and promises that it could be done later for once.

“Where are we meeting?”  Someone shouted out, you couldn’t figure out who.  Several more (albeit smaller) bottles of champagne had been produced from the depths of Aston Martin hospitality for the photos, resulting in a fresh soaking of you and several more drinks.

“Y/N?”  Mike was looking at you expectantly.

“Hm?”  You asked, not quite following. 

“Winner’s pick.  Where do you want to go for the after-party?”  You shrugged, far too hazy to consider organising anyone.

“I don’t know, just meet at the hotel,”  you told them, Katie collecting your car keys and the two of you departed from the rapidly dissipating group.

Most of the traffic had cleared by the time you’d packed yourselves into the ridiculously tiny sports car and made it out onto the roads.  You were grateful that your parents (or at least your dad) knew the order of events well enough to not want anything to do with you until late tomorrow afternoon.  From the gentle sway of the passenger seat, you managed to type out a few messages: thanks to friends, family and fans contacting you over the win, your room number to Carlos and invites to the team meeting point to several carefully selected gatecrashers.

*****

You slid into your hotel room to a pleasant surprise.  Yet another large bottle of champagne was placed on your bed and, on your desk, a large gift basket filled with chocolates and small bottles of French liquors you didn’t recognise.  The card attached was with warm congratulations from the hotel staff.  You decided there was nothing wrong with continuing your pre-drinks party alone, plucking one of the glasses off the side to pour out some champagne and popping a chocolate into your mouth as you did so.

You were midway through stripping off your race suit, down to your fireproofs and trying to balance finding the music channel on the TV with turning on the intricate shower system when the long-anticipated knock on your door made you jump before a dumb giggle escaped you.

Carlos was on the other side, yet another bottle of champagne in hand.  He took up your space so easily as he stepped inside that it felt only natural he was there.  He cast a sweeping look over the room, eyes lingering shamelessly on your skin-tight fireproof top for a split second.

“You started the party without me?”

“I didn’t know you were gonna bring more champagne,”  you defended as he poured himself a glass from the currently open bottle, clinking it against yours.  “I also didn’t know what time you were coming,”

“I didn’t know you already have admirers,”  he countered with ease.  He was still wearing the polo shirt he’d been in for the press conference.  “What’s your plan, then, mi ganadora?”

“El plan,”  you snorted quietly.  “No, um, I was gonna have a shower and get changed and then everyone is meeting in the lobby in like an hour?”  

Carlos nodded thoughtfully, his steady gaze never leaving you.  You only noticed then the bag he’d dropped on the floor beside his feet. 

“Go on then, Cariño, have your shower,”

You cocked your head at him, surprised at his response, to say the least.  Carlos gestured towards the bathroom where the noise of the shower already running was gently emitting from.  You stared him down as you took another drink from your glass, before placing it on the desk and taking yourself off into the bathroom.  

You thought about locking the door, but a small voice in your head told you to leave it.

The warm water was immediately soothing, your whole body relaxing the second you were under the stream.  The adrenaline from the win finally felt like it was wearing off and you allowed yourself to sit in the moment under the scalding hot water and feel everything as you gently started to scrub the champagne out of your hair and off your skin.  Carlos must have found the music channel on the television, you could hear it playing faintly through the door.  The steam opened your lungs as you tilted your head back, allowing it to carry you back to several hours ago as you relieved everything that’d just happened.  Trying to memorise and freeze in place the way everyone important to you had looked when you’d clambered out of the car, how the podium felt, and how the celebrations had gone so perfectly.

You yelped when hands landed on your waist. 

“Woah, hey, I’m sorry to startle you,”  Carlos was right by your ear, his voice a low rumble that felt like it had been transplanted directly into your brain.  His hair was already becoming damp; you could feel the ends of it tickling your cheek.

You relaxed against his chest instantly, the way he was so broad and warm and solid behind you was like a drug.  You didn’t know for how long or how badly you’d been craving this latest hit until you’d gotten it and now you were euphoric before the high had even kicked in.  His hands gently worked up and down the length of your body, helping you to finish washing before you turned in his arms and returned the favour.  He let you soap him up without comment or complaint about how long (or reverently) you spent on his back and chest as if you were trying to memorise the planes of his muscles and the places where he was softer.  When you reached up to start on his hair he caught your wrist with ease, ducking away with a free giggle.

“Not my hair,”  you raised an eyebrow at him, a smirk creeping onto your face.

“Did not have you down as the fussy about their hair type,” 

“I already washed it,”  he was still holding your wrists, your body pulled so close to his that you didn’t know if the heat radiating around you was from the shower or him.  All humour evaporated from the situation as you met each other’s gaze and you both registered the position you’d put yourselves in. 

Carlos’ chest was heaving as he watched you with dark, honest eyes.  His skin was glistening under the water, making him look unreal beside you and you had to take a moment to remind yourself that he was really there and it was you he’d chosen to seek out.

“Carlos,”  your voice was barely more than a whisper.  He swallowed, stepping forward so your chests were touching, his face impossibly close.

“Do you want your reward now?”

“Hm?”  He was nosing along the slope of your neck, his hot breath distracting your already clouded mind.

“You won, Y/N, let me congratulate you,”  he’d let go of your wrists.  One hand came to cup your chin, tilting your head slightly so he could press a kiss on the point of your jaw, as if he needed to make his intentions abundantly clear.  You were gripping helplessly to his arm, already putty in his hands at such a simple gesture. 

You couldn’t manage much more of a response than a high-pitched sigh and a subtle nod of your head, giving over completely to him.

He didn’t give you time to blink before you were pressed back against the wall, Carlos all over you in every way.  He was kissing you feverishly, his hands everywhere, you responding but gripping to him like he was the only thing grounding you.

“I have thought about this for hours,”  he admitted between heavy kisses  “Since I saw you get out of that car,”  You were trembling against him.

“Carlos please,”  

“So good,”  he told you, his mouth dropping down to your collarbones, and then lower to your breasts.  “Asking so nicely,”

“Oh my god,”  You didn’t even have it in you to be embarrassed about how turned on you were, your thighs tensing and legs trembling before he’d even really done anything.

And, as if it wasn’t enough, Carlos Sainz sank down onto his knees right in front of you.

He devoured you, giving you no time for pause or adjustment as his mouth went straight to where you wanted him most.  Your hands flew to his hair, small fists preying for him to ground you in any way he could.  And Carlos, well he knew how to keep a promise.  He was determined, working in calculated and precise motions that had you keening and crying with every stroke of his perfect tongue.  Two fingers slotted their way inside of you, motioning and beckoning you to come ever closer to him.  His other hand held you in place, the large expanse of his palm pushing your pelvis back and holding you still.  He was looking up at you like there was no place on earth he'd rather be, moaning filthily against you to make a real show of how much he enjoyed what he was doing. 

You couldn’t stop it if you’d tried.  The orgasm hit you hard and fast and heavy, rushing over you without so much of a warning.  Your legs nearly gave way as you violently shook against him, head dropped back against the cool tiles as you called his name over and over.

Carlos relaxed against you as you slumped, peppering gentle kisses along the tops of your thighs, mixed through with soft words of praise for you.  Or at least you could assume it was praise, several things he said were in Spanish.  His arms were like a cradle scooping you up with ease as he rose back to your level, breathless but pleased with himself nonetheless.  You reached for the back of his neck, pulling him towards you in a desperate kiss.

“I need you,”  you mumbled against his mouth, hand reaching down to grasp him and finding yourself pleasantly surprised at how hard he was.  “Now,”  he chuckled against your lips.

“Always in a hurry,”  

He helped you out of the shower, picking you up like you weighed next to nothing and walking the pair of you back to the bed.  He dropped you down so your head hit the pillows, before crawling on top of you and making his way up your body reverently.  Every time he looked at you, it was like he was seeing you for the first time.  It set something off in you that felt electric and wonderful all at once.

“I know,”  he whispered, responding to the way you were shifting your hips against him as he took his time making his way up you.  “So good.  No more waiting,”

Carlos was true to his word, kissing you ferociously and sliding into you all at once, eliciting a gasp that melted into a moan from you, leaving you scrabbling along his back.  It was like he could read your mind, the way he instinctively knew and could give you exactly what you needed.  There was no room for talking as a large hand wrapped around your bare upper thigh and hooked it over his hip, allowing you to draw him even closer into you as he began to pick up the pace into a perfect rhythm.

You didn’t think you’d ever get over the way Carlos felt inside of you, the way he could move so gentle and so smooth, yet at the same time be working you up to a pace that had your eyes rolling into the back of your head as everything else in the world but the two of you just melted away into the distance.  He pinned your hands above your head, able to hold both of your wrists in just one hand with ease.  You whimpered at the onslaught of sensation. 

“Shh, I’ve got you,”  Carlos whispered, his face so close that the raw heat of the moment was broken by a lightning strike of intimacy.  “Let me give it to you, Cariño.  All for you,”

You were so worked up from the moment in the shower, and now, with Carlos towering over you but still promising to take absolute care of you it was enough to have you clenching and crying as you came for the second time, his grip on you tightening as he cursed through the sensation and forced himself to keep moving as your hips worked up to match him.  His head was buried in your neck, his breath hot on your skin as he muttered strings of Spanish against you.

“Can you do more?”  It was an innocent enough question, but the feeling of him still waiting for his own release had you nodding through your quietening cries and struggling to break free, gripping his face as you pulled him into a deep kiss.  You could feel him begin to move again, already sloppier and less controlled until it was Carlos shuddering and sweating and you following after him once more, until the pair of you were collapsed on the bed, chests heaving but with satisfied smiles.

“That was good,”  you hummed quietly.  Your head was on Carlos’ chest, listening to his heart slowing back to its usual steady rhythm that you found so soothing.

“Oh!  Only good?”  He teased, earning a weak slap against his abs. 

“You know what I mean,”

“I know,”  He gathered you in his arms, rolling you and poking you until you shrieked and started to wiggle away.

“Ew, Carlos!  You didn’t put a towel down, my bed’s soaking!”  He’d rolled you right into the spot you’d been in just moments before - both bodies having stepped straight out of the shower and into bed had left a significant wet patch in your bed.  Carlos was scooping you back up and settling you directly on top of him so you weren’t touching the sheets before you could complain further.

“It doesn’t matter,”

“And why would that be?”

“Because,”  he paused for effect, wide eyes shining and soft smile making him look almost - almost - innocent as he spoke, “You'll come back with me, to my room, no?”

*****

“You’re late,”  

There was a whole group in the lobby, but it was Daniel who spoke, the usual broad grin stretched across his face like a Cheshire Cat as he looked between you and Carlos, who had just stepped out of the elevator together.  A quick scan around and a head count told you that you were the last two of the party to arrive.

“What was it they say about being fashionably late?”  You tried to play off what had obviously just happened, but Seb’s keen gaze was trained on you, and judging by Danny’s comment he wasn’t the only one who had an idea of why exactly you’d been late.

“So, Y/N, what’s the plan?”  Mike asked.  It was rare team principles joined for after parties, but when it’s Monaco and both of your drivers for what is normally a midfield team find themselves sharing a podium - well needs must.  You could feel the smirk creeping onto your face as you regarded the crowd - Aston Martin staff made up the bulk of the party.  The drivers included were yourself and Seb, Mick, Carlos, Daniel and Lando.

“Well, that’s actually where you come in, Mr Ricciardo.  I need your help,”  always up for trouble, Daniel was never one to disappoint.  His face nearly split in half, eyes positively dancing and body actually dancing as he struggled to contain his energy.

“At your service,”  he added, addictive laugh and mock salute to join.

Twenty minutes later and your plan was in full swing.

“Are you sure we should be doing this?”  Mick whispered from somewhere behind you in the dark stairwell you were currently being led up, Daniel in front claiming something about Honey Badgers not needing torches.

“Absolutely not,”  

“How much did you drink before you came up with this one?”  Seb asked.  He was trying to go for a weary parent tone, but his clear excitement gave him away.

“Oh, I don’t know… since 2011?”

“Et voila,”  Daniel pushed a fire door open, allowing the group of drivers and a small handful of the Aston Martin party back out into fresh air.

“Lando, have you got it?”  He fumbled for a second before handing you the folded square of fabric.  “Go stand the other end, John,”  you instructed the social media admin, who moved silently in the direction given.  You kicked your shoes off, padding silently in the opposite direction.  You could hear John quietly directing everyone else to get behind him and the shuffling of several people not used to being quiet trying to do exactly that.

“Ready?”  Daniel’s voice floated from somewhere off to the right, his Australian accent distinctive.  You called across, waiting for John and the others to confirm.

“Go!”  That was John.

Daniel responded immediately, the floodlights blinding for a second as they threw the dark balcony into perfect light.  Refusing to give yourself the time to adjust you continued to stare in the direction where you knew John was filming, stretching your arms wide so the Union Jack flag rose behind you like garish wings on a giant bird.  With the flag flying, you took a deep breath, squeezing your toes and launching yourself with all your might as you pushed off the ground and fought every instinct in your body as you tucked yourself tight into a somersault. 

You hit the water with a hard splash, the flag falling from your grip as you held your breath, using the over bright lighting to re-orient yourself in the water so you’d resurface directly into John’s camera.  You bobbed up, perfectly timed with a wide grin on your face.  

“Well, myth busted everyone.  The Red Bull pool isn’t filled with Red Bull!”

“And cut!”  The moment John stopped recording and called cut the balcony erupted.

Carlos helped you out of the water and handed you the towel you’d told him to bring, an impressed look on his face to which you responded with an exaggerated wink and a demand for the real party to begin. 

You changed into your dry clothes - the ones Carlos had also been carrying - behind the currently deserted bar whilst Mick and Seb were distributing champagne bottles to the group, because after all if you’d managed to infiltrate Red Bull you should at least go the whole nine yards and have a drink on enemy territory.

The two previous pool divers were sat with their feet in the water, sharing a bottle of champagne.  Lando, Carlos and Mick were absorbed in conversation on the sofas that were primarily used for PR videos.  A few of the Aston Martin staff were milling about, most of the others that had joined you had gone back out to find their coworkers and John had gone to find wifi so that he could edit and post the video everywhere.

You decided to join the ex-Red Bull drivers and lowered yourself onto a dry spot of the poolside.

“So, am I part of your elusive club, yet?”  Daniel laughed, hearty and loud as he handed you his bottle to drink from.

“But so much yet to learn, young grasshopper,”  he told you, the wise expression offset by him already breaking character.

“Your Miyagi is off,”  Seb told Daniel without so much as a sideways glance.  He was watching the way the crimson bulls painted on the tiles at the bottom of the pool rippled as Daniel kicked his legs in the water. 

“Alright,”  back to thick Australian for a second, then breaking into Texan  “Well ma’am, the night is young, how may we keep ya company?”

“What even was that?”  you snorted as he tipped an invisible cowboy hat at you, before breaking into his signature laugh.  Carlos looked over his shoulder for the source of the noise, his gaze finding you for a moment and raising his eyebrows in a silent question that you answered easily with a nod.  You could feel Seb’s eyes on you again and chose to ignore him.

“I don’t know.  I hadn’t really thought any further than here,”  

“Oh!  Max is at Jimmy’z,”  Daniel was looking at his phone where the message had just beeped through.  “He said we’re welcome to join,”

“What’s Jimmy’z?” 

“What is Jimmy’z!?”  Daniel held his hand to his chest, shouting in mock horror. 

“Wait, who doesn’t know about Jimmy’z?”  Lando was calling from the other side of the pool.

“Y/N!” 

“No!”  You rolled your eyes at the way the younger McLaren driver mirrored his partner’s reaction.  “You wound me, Y/N,” 

“Can someone please be normal and just tell me what this place is?”  You rolled your eyes playfully.

“Seriously though do you just like, not go out?”

“Lando!”

“I’m just asking!”  

“Lando, I swear-”

“Okay!”  He retreated with his palms up in surrender, although you thought it likely had more to do with Carlos who tugged on the collar of his shirt and made him yelp than your tone.

“It’s just a nightclub,”  Daniel provided  “It’s killer, we go all the time,”  you assumed that by ‘we’ he meant the drivers that called Monaco home.  You were feeling loose enough for a bit  of an adventure, so you shrugged with another mouthful of the champagne that was tasting slowly better the more you drank it.

“Let’s go to Jimmy’z then,”

So then it was a scramble to collect shoes and belongings and leave the Red Bull rooftop precisely as you found it before trying to get twenty drunk people to stumble back down the dark stairwell and spill out into the paddock.  You had no idea how anyone managed to communicate over the babble of noise.  Aston Martin people were peeling off from the core group of drivers rapidly, whilst Lando and Daniel argued loudly over a map on someone’s phone.  Seb, Mick and yourself were hanging back, brazenly continuing to drink as you decided to use your winner’s rights to take no further responsibility for the rest of the night.

You couldn’t have said how long the walk was, but even after all the rain, the clear spring air was warm and almost balmy.  Some sweet talking to a bouncer courtesy of Daniel and you found yourselves being ushered through a side door that was claimed to be the “VIP entrance”.

Something about Jimmy’z reminded you of your brief stint at university, where you managed one term before your racing schedule made it impossible and you were forced to drop out and instead complete your engineering degree through Aston Martin’s apprenticeships scheme.  You’d only been clubbing to one place there and you had no idea why but Jimmy’z was taking you aggressively back.  It wasn’t the sticky carpets that had tested positive for chlamydia, nor the sickly smell of late teenage body spray and cheap spirits nor (as far as you could tell) was it everyone taking their tops off to the Baywatch theme song.  Maybe it was the multicoloured lights and the way everyone seemed to be having the most fun of their lives.

Your group, which had shrunk significantly on the journey over, made their way to the bar where champagne was replaced by spirit mixers and questionable shots, everyone clamouring to buy you something with a slap on the back.  There were strangers you didn’t know shoving phones in your face but for once you were too happy to mind.  Then it was a paper trail of linked hands onto the dance floor.

“Daniel!  Daniel!”  Someone was shouting off to your left over the thumping bass.  The circling lasers and rainbow lights flashing in your eyes meant you were mainly dancing with your eyes closed, but you turned your head blearily to focus on the incessant calling for Daniel.  Half expecting to see a crazed fan, you were pleasantly surprised to see one Max Verstappen, blue eyes shining and dimples on full display.  He was wearing the same white shirt you always saw him in whenever he was out, a few too many buttons undone to expose the pale expanse of the top of his chest. 

Daniel grinned, wide and welcoming as Max slammed into his side, arms wrapping around his friend in glee.

“You came!”

“Hey Maxy,”  Daniel’s voice was fond and if you hadn’t been next to him you wouldn’t have heard it.  “Good shout coming here,”  The Dutchman smiled wider if that was even possible.

“Thanks for letting us crash!”  You shouted, trying to hide the smug grin from knowing this was only the second Red Bull event you’d crashed today.  A sweeping glance around the club with half a sharp mind was enough to notice that nearly half of the population were in the team’s polos.  Max finally detached himself from Daniel and pulled you into an albeit shorter hug.

“Congratulations, Y/N,”  Even when he was shouting over the music he still had a slight lisp in his accent.  Despite him being less than a year older, it made him appear younger, and more innocent.  You liked Max, not particularly close simply for not being in the same circle, but he was always kind to you when you crossed paths.  There was a sweetness to him not enough people knew of, you thought.

“Thanks!”

“No, really.  You deserved it,”  You clutched his hand and squeezed warmly.

“You drove great too.  I’m sorry about the technical issues,”  He shrugged and waved them off.  Giddy on something, clearly.

“Have you seen Checo!?”  He was half turned to Daniel again, but your whole group’s attention was still on him.  Daniel shook his head at Max, leaning close to follow his direction.  Max swayed a little as he pointed to the outskirts of the dancefloor, where Checo was dancing aggressively by himself, one of his shoes in his hand.  “He’s so drunk mate!” 

“Didn’t he just have a baby?”  Lando cut in, concern lacing his tone.  He didn’t drink as much as the rest of you and was mildly more sober.  Max shrugged, clearly bored of the conversation he’d started.  

“There’s Charles!”  The other half of Ferrari was indeed making his way forward, the beautiful Charlotte by his side.

It could have been minutes or hours you spent in Jimmy’z, honestly, you weren’t aware.  All the sounds sounded the same, and with someone pressing another drink into your hand, you were fuzzy enough to not notice the transitions.  Daniel had disappeared off with Max to locate some old Red Bull friends.  Carlos and Lando had gone with Charles for a bit, leaving Seb and Mick packed close together with you.  At some point Carlos had returned with a flushed, grinning Lando trailing behind him babbling about the girl he’d just kissed.

A familiar thumping beat caught your attention.

“Carlos!”  You turned to grab the Spaniard, who looked at you startled.  “Dance with me, now!”  Mick raised his eyebrows at you in a poorly timed sultry wiggle, but you ignored him.  Your alcohol-soaked one-track mind was on a mission and there was nothing that could stop you as you pulled Carlos back into the middle of the dance floor from where you’d previously been working the periphery.  

“Why?”  

“It’s my song!”  You were grinning widely, newfound confidence pulling him closer to you as the opening lines to Nelly Furtado’s Maneater rang out.  A slow smirk of understanding washed across his handsome face as he understood why you were suddenly so demanding. 

It started innocent, Carlos indulging you as you wiggled your hips out of time and tilted your head back as you soaked in the moment of invincibility.  You were powerful, untouchable.  You’d beaten 19 men at their own game on hallowed grounds.  You were the Maneater. 

Carlos didn’t dance.  You knew that, but it was fun to bother him nonetheless.  Your hands went from your poor and likely very unsexy moves to looped around his neck.  He found your hips to match, strong grip pulling you far closer than appropriate for coworkers.  He encouraged you to keep moving, his nose running from your ear, down the side of your neck and ending near where your collarbones met, on display thanks to the low-cut top you’d chosen.  What was worse was the way he slowly made his way back up the hollow of your neck until he was hovering right over your lips.  He had a hold of your head, tilting you backwards so just as you were about to boil over and give into him, you couldn’t quite reach.  It didn’t help that the more your hips moved in a rhythm you were fast becoming familiar with, he was pressed so close to you that you could feel him hardening in his jeans.  It made your mouth water, and all thoughts of anything sensible completely wiped from your mind.

The song ended with his lips behind your ear in a promise of so many things you wanted and so many things you really shouldn’t be taking right then.

The music morphed back into melded drum and bass you didn’t know.  Carlos’ cologne in your nose was almost sobering, enough to make you come back to yourself. 

“I’m starving,”  You told him, mouth on his ear under the excuse of him not being able to hear you otherwise.  He shook his head at you, not understanding and eyes dark with lust.  “Hungry!  I’m hungry,”

You took his hand and led him back out to where Seb, Mick and Lando were starting to slump against the wall.  If you were sober enough to care, you’d hope that they’d at least assume your sweaty and flushed face was simply due to the volume of bodies packed into the dark space.  

“Lando!”  He looked up from where he was showing Mick something on his phone.  With a tilt of your head he nodded and lead the remaining five of you back out onto the streets of Monaco.  You found yourself gluping, drinking in the cool air to help steady your spinning mind.  “Oh official Monaco tour guide,”  you clasped your hands together as if you were praying.

“What, me?”  Lando looked mildly alarmed.  You nodded at him, wide eyed and desperate.

“Please tell me where the nearest chippy is,”

“Chippy?”  Mick looked confused.

“All I want is a plate of chips and gravy,”  Lando snorted.

“This is Monaco,” 

“I refuse to believe there isn’t a fish and chip shop here.  So please, please, direct me to the nearest fast food place that’s open.  I’m willing to settle for French Fries,”  you pulled a face.

Walking was a little blurry, but you found yourself leaning between the arms of Seb and Mick as the three of you struggled to walk three abreast down the narrow streets, giggling to yourselves.

“Can you believe we did it?”  Seb hummed happily.  “Mick you need points!”  He chuckled.

“I’m just happy to be here,”  you leant your head on his shoulder. 

“Me too,”

Your memories cut in and out after that.  You remembered the five of you huddled up in a questionable kebab shop, you guarding your plate of chips against Lando’s prying fingers and watching stupid videos on his phone.  You remembered Carlos being the only person you allowed to steal from you.  You remembered Lando peeling off to go home.  You didn’t remember Seb and Mick leaving you, but you were aware of being pushed against a wall in a dark alley, Carlos’ warm lips all over you and lighting a fire in your belly with a mumble of not being able to wait any longer.  You remembered stumbling into his hotel room as he predicted, too drunk and silly to do anything other than make out and clumsily help each other undress.

You remembered his arms warped tight around you as you lay on his bare chest.

You remembered never feeling as happy and as contented as you did that night.  Not even the winning, but spending the night with the people who meant the most in the world to you, aside from family itself.  The little found family you’d build in the sport you’d made your home. 

You’d never want anything more.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hello bambinos

READ CHAPTER NINE HERE!

If you liked this check out my masterlist here

Hopefully judging by the length of this you now see why it took so long to update. Hope you all aren't too mad at me for cutting off the last chapter where I did, hopefully this one makes up for it.

Super double extra triple bonus points if anyone knows the student club Y/N thinks Jimmy'z reminds her of.

Um what else to say? Singapore was a mess how are we all coping? Oh and this is the first post using the dreaded content labels so let's see how this goes engagement wise. I'm hoping everyone has seen enough of my warnings to know to allow mature content for this fic or go to my AO3

Anyway, as always feedback is HUGELY appreciated and I love hearing your opinions on the smallest of things!! Love you all, wishing you all a fabulous week/month

OH AND I have a big announcement coming soon... so keep your eyes peeled for that

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[drdeeath]

LUGAR NENHUM EM PARTICULAR

Eu me pego arrumando as coisas para te encontrar e ir a algum lugar em particular. No café, no trabalho ou na varanda do hotel onde nossas almas se encontram, onde os dedos se entrelaçam assim como as nossas línguas. Até que eu percebo o mundo à nossa volta e me assusto com tudo que nossas antepassadas gerações conseguiram conquistar. Eu nunca fiz uma revolução notória porque nasci confuso, colidindo com ideias das quais nem consigo definir uma forma, vislumbrando um mundo perfeito regido sobre a minha constituição, a mesma que nunca definiu as regras, mas você parece só querer controlar o aqui e agora segurando as minhas mãos. Eu iria a qualquer lugar se você sempre estivesse me olhando com toda essa doçura, mas eu estou sempre criando um Armagedom só porque você me abraçou um pouco mais forte e isso nos impede de ir a algum lugar em particular.

Com você, o verão é um paraíso. Estou me refrescando ao seu lado, segurando sua mão por baixo da mesa da cafeteria. Você me pede um beijo e eu sou obrigado a te chamar de idiota enquanto você faz aquela sua cara de criança mimada com 1,60m de altura, insatisfeita por não conseguir o brinquedo da prateleira. Tua urgência me assusta! Eu sou brando como a brisa de uma tarde na beira da praia e você tem fome como as ondas do mar sobre a areia, sempre pedindo por mais a cada quebra incessante, insaciável por mais. Isso é o suficiente para me deixar louco. Estou cansado de ver você ficar triste por não ter o amor que posso te dar, eu nunca quis quebrar seu coração, por isso sempre evitei ficar muito próximo, mas é impossível não estar na sua gravidade, me puxando para algum lugar em particular.

Somos como a terra e a lua, estou à sua volta horas mais perto e empolgado, horas mais distante e quieto, mas sempre atraído pelo brilho lunar dos teus olhos castanhos. Sua empolgação ao ouvir minhas ideias inunda minhas avenidas como as ondas em maré alta e eu sou obrigado a ser levado pelo arrasto das águas para lugar nenhum em particular. Seus braços envoltos do meu corpo me causam paz e euforia, assim como as tempestades que se aproximam no horizonte. Quando você segura minhas mãos em segredo, eu sinto no calor do verão o dever de proteger você do mundo que nos cerca, de levar-te para longe de tudo que possa ser hostil, de levá-te ao meu lugar nenhum em particular.

Para você R

DRDEEATH