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ovaryacted · 4 months

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HOMECOMING

PAIRING: Jackson! Joel Miller x afab! reader || WC: 1.8k

SYNOPSIS: After a long day of patrol, Joel comes home later than he said he would be back. You are just happy to welcome him back into your arms.

CONTENT/WARNINGS: FLUFF. Suggestive content - 18+. Established relationship. Soft & affectionate Joel Miller. Ambiguous age gap (Joel is in his late 50s, reader is 25+). Mentions of early pregnancy. Cute stuff. Banter and teasing. No use of y/n.

A/N: Hey there, been a while. In case y'all forgot, yes I do still write LMAO. This is a little something that I wrote miraculously on my free time, and it is my first Joel Miller piece. I'm also slowly getting back into writing so pls be nice! I did originally write this with the new Pedro Pascal picture as Joel in mind, but I'm a gamer Joel type of girl at heart so that's what I went with. Hopefully, it is enjoyable for those who choose to read it. Any likes, comments, and reblogs are greatly appreciated! Dividers by @saradika-graphics.

➣ TLOU was created by a zionist and is based off of the Israeli occupation of Palestine. Please refer to this link to learn how you can help the Palestinian people.

NAVIGATION | MASTERLIST | AO3

Night fell over Jackson, soothing and quiet as it usually was. You’d think after some time, you’d get used to the stillness that often consoled others in a world full of unsettling clicks and gunfire, but you found yourself troubled with the calmness that followed once the sun went down. The change of the seasons propelled a temperature shift outside; bitter winter exchanged for the rebirth of spring, which hopefully meant the sun would stay in the sky just a little bit longer.

Your face nuzzled into the pillow beneath you, the material not yours to claim, but it wasn’t unfamiliar. Digging your nose further into the bedding, you subconsciously chased the faint scent of pinewood and gunpowder, one of the few things that eased your anxiety. It was a smell you got used to recognizing over the past few years, not that you’ve been keeping count.

Despite the warmth the sheets provided you as you rested on the left side of the bed, your body felt cold, missing a familiar set of strong arms and a welcoming chest pressing up against you. He had told you before he left for patrol that he’d be back before sundown, that was the plan anyway. But you knew better than anyone that stepping outside the protective gates of Jackson always left room for the unpredictable.

In the haze of your dreams, you faintly heard the click of the front door opening and closing, the floorboards of the stairs creaking with the ghost of muted footsteps. You stirred in bed, ears trained to pinpoint the noise, yet too stubborn to wake up entirely. A breeze entered the bedroom before you sensed something else sharing the space.

That’s when you felt the phantom touch of plush lips skimming along your hairline. If you weren’t awake then, you certainly were now.

“Joel?” A call of his name equivalent to a whimper at the sudden contact you craved. You caught the slight intake of breath and the exhale that followed.

“It’s me darlin’. Didn’t mean to wake you,” Joel spoke quietly, the peaceful baritone of his voice awakening you fully. As you sighed, you met his tired gaze with your own, bruised knuckles raising to brush your cheekbone affectionately.

“Things went okay on the patrol?” You questioned him, pleased that he was here with you in one piece rather than focusing on the fact that he came later than you’d like.

“Yeah, had to check something out with Tommy to be sure before coming back. I’m sorry honey, didn't want to make you stay up for me.”

Even if it was unintended, Joel felt guilty whenever he didn’t stick to his word. He was not much of a virtuous man, lived a large part of the past two-plus decades giving less of a shit about honesty and ethics. But when it came to you, it killed him when he couldn’t follow through on his promises, even if things weren’t within his control. The last thing Joel wanted was to upset you or make you worry, but no matter how many times he reassured you of his return, you still tried your hardest to wait for him to come back home, back to you.

“It’s okay, I’m just happy you’re here,” you blinked slowly as his voice filtered through the lagged mess of your head. Leaning your face towards his hand, you kissed the inside of his palm. “Go freshen up and come to bed; I’m cold.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he chuckled with a smile at your forgiveness, parting from you for a second and heading to the bathroom, not planning to make you wait any longer.

You watched his silhouette from where you lay on the bed, fluttering your eyes closed at the sound of running water. When the door opened again, Joel’s broad figure returned wearing a worn-down flannel and some fleece pants he had snagged long ago.

“Scoot,” he jutted his chin to gesture to the right side of the mattress, your side, suggesting to reclaim his on the left. Shifting to the right, you let him slip into the bed feet first, hauling the sheets to cover the both of you. A bulky arm wrapped around your waist and tugged you close to him, your body molding to his like a missing puzzle piece.

“Not too far now,” Joel grinned as you nestled right into his warm chest, seeking his attention and attempting to siphon more of his warmth. It takes you off guard how your nerves instantly settled once you had Joel near you again. In his arms, that was where you belonged—protected, loved, safe.

“I missed you,” you mumbled, eyes shutting to breathe in his typical musk. One of his hands cradled your lower back, thumb running circles into your skin.

“I missed you too, darlin’. Too damn much.” Joel kissed your forehead, drawing lines up and down your back with his fingertips.

His hand moved again from behind you to the front of your body, palming your stomach protectively. A smile crept up on his face as he felt your tummy under the material of the flannel you stole from him, the only thing you preferred for pajamas. The gentle curve of your belly was not yet prominent enough to be overly detectable, but he knew what you carried. Precious cargo. That’s what he called it after you both adjusted to the shock of adding to Jackson’s current population count.

“Still feelin’ sick?” Joel asked you in the room’s darkness, his eyes shifting to watch over your facial features. The moonlight illuminated the edge of your jaw and the roundness of your cheeks, and his chest ached at the thought of witnessing other growing changes over the next couple of months.

“Sometimes. It bothers me, but nothing I can’t handle.” You reassured him the best way you knew how, having to rely on Maria’s advice for all things related to childcare and Ellie being your new overly protective guard and nurse when Joel wasn’t around.

If someone had told you that you’d find yourself alive after the apocalypse in a safe community and pregnant at that, you’d consider them crazy. Yet here you were, carrying a man’s child when you least expected it, a man years older than you with memories of a reality you couldn’t experience or remember. But you didn’t mind; the end of the world didn’t leave much room for strict morals anyway.

Make the most of it. You don’t know when you’ll miss something once it’s gone.

Joel had told you that after the first few patrols you had with him once you adjusted to Jackson, growing comfortable with the stoic and quiet man who grabbed your attention everywhere he went. He shared stories of a time before the world fell apart, discussing things like watching the sunset, listening to music from artists you’ve never heard of, and sweet treats he missed tasting. Things changed after the seventh patrol together, where you saw him smile for the first time after successfully hunting some game for the town.

That night, one thing led to another. It started after some drinks, a hungry and messy kiss on your doorstep that led to clothes on the bedroom floor, and hands pawing at one another. You woke up the next morning with an arm wrapped around your waist and his nose rubbing the back of your neck.

Simply put, you haven’t left since.

“Oh, I know. Can handle a whole lot, strong woman you are.” Joel taunted you a bit, his memory fleeting momentarily and recalling the spitfire you always were with him in particular. He could never seem to tame your spunk and attitude, but he grew to love it like the rest of you.

“Mhmm, real strong, if you ask me.” You held his gaze with a gleam of mischief, bringing your body closer to his wide chest and tilting your chin upwards, silently asking for more than a cuddle.

“You tryin’ to tell me something I don’t already know?”

“I don’t know. Am I?” You were a tease, always have been, jerking Joel’s chain more than he cared to admit.

“Those hormones are messing with your head, darlin’. Got you acting feisty,” he smirked, shifting nearer to your face.

Curious hands reached up to curl through his thick, graying curls. The contrasting streaks along his temple became more noticeable as time passed, matching the graying beard you’ve come to love and adore. He hesitated to let his hair grow out initially, thinking he’d look too much like his younger brother. Much convincing later, paired with hiding the shears, you got the desired result, and now you were lucky enough to enjoy the fruits of your labor.

The kiss was velvety as it was intimate, your tongue lining his bottom lip before he groaned, granting you entrance into his mouth. You swallowed the rumble he released, drawing a path of your touch from his neck down to his lower abdomen. Antsy fingers itched to skim the waistband of the fleece that concealed him, reaching close to the hardness you felt before he seized your hand away.

“Aht aht, no. As much as I want you there, it’s bedtime.” Joel didn’t necessarily want you to stop. Hell, if it were up to him, he’d let you go to town on him however you wanted. But his energy levels were dwindling, and all he wanted to do after a long day was get some proper rest with you in his arms.

“But-”

“Sweetheart, if you let this old man sleep, I’ll wake you up to a real nice surprise in the mornin’.” It was an effortless proposition, easy to keep you at bay until the next day and enough to curb your insatiable appetite.

“Promise?” You beat your lashes at him, knowing the last thing Joel would do was deliberately not provide for your needs, even if that meant having to keep up with you physically.

“Pinkie swear.” Joel gave you another peck before letting you get comfy against his chest once more, cuddling into him as much as your growing belly would allow without being squished. You started to drift off as sleep called to you, listening to the gentle rhythm of soft beating in your ear.

“Breakfast too, Miller.” You murmured to him, peeping how he laughed in the dark with his eyes closed. The pleasant and lively sound made you smile and your heart pound.

“Oh, I’ll feed you. Don’t worry your pretty little head about that.”

The peace in your bedroom matched the serenity that fell over Jackson. Now that you had Joel wrapped around you, you didn’t mind how quiet it was. So long as you have him, you can handle anything that comes your way.

©️ ovaryacted 2024. Please don’t repost, copy, translate, or feed into any AI. Support your fellow creators by reblogging, commenting, and liking!

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tryingonametaphor · 2 months

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Why Will Byers?

An analysis and theory on why Henry/Vecna targeted Will first in season 1 and his plans for Will in season 5

‼️Contains The First Shadow (TFS) spoilers so please proceed with caution.‼️

This is going to be a little long but I’ve tried to give as much context as I can without actually being able to show snippets from the stage play. This is my interpretation of everything that went down as a member of the audience and not as someone who has read up any theories about TFS before. To understand why Henry took Will first in 1983, we have to start with -

Henry and Joyce

From all the times I’ve watched TFS, the one thing that has stuck with me is the final conversation Henry has with Joyce. It’s just before his last confrontation with Patty Newby and before he joins Brenner for good. Joyce is the last person (who doesn’t know about Henry’s powers) that he canonically talks to.

Throughout the entire play Joyce, Hopper, and Bob are investigating the animals dying at the hands of Henry and come to the conclusion that Victor Creel has been the one doing the killing. They get so close to solving the case. In her last conversation with Henry, Joyce tries to comfort him by saying that Victor will pay for his crimes - which makes Henry laugh because she’s so close yet so far from the truth. He gets a little frustrated and says “You don’t get it. But someday you will.” The next time we see Henry make a reappearance in Joyce’s life is during -

The Vanishing of Will Byers

Will is taken into the Upside Down (UD) by Henry. It’s not even a question anymore. All of the context clues from 1x1 lead us to believe that Will’s kidnapping was not by a demogorgon. Will - a 12 year old - miraculously survives a week in the upside down with no food or water. Will is even around the demogorgon a few times in the Upside Down. (Joyce communicating with Will through the lights and then the demogorgon coming after her immediately).

Barb dies the night she is taken but Will stays alive and also somehow manages to talk to Joyce through the wall. Joyce is led exactly to where Will was held at the end of s1 and he makes it out alive. It’s almost as if Henry knew all along that Joyce was the most capable of never giving up on finding her son. Like Henry took Will Byers because he was Joyce’s son. And like he was giving her just enough to know that Will was alive. Even when Joyce and Hopper find him at the end in a state of near death, he’s not injured by a creature. He was being prepared for the next stage of Vecna’s plan -

The Possession of Will Byers

The origins of Henry’s powers happen as such - As a kid, he is transported into the UD (originally coined Dimension X by the government) for a few hours because he touched something he wasn’t meant to touch. During his time in there, he came in contact with the Mind Flayer (MF). According to TFS this is the point in his life when he started getting “corrupted”. Brenner’s dad - who was one of the first people to enter dimension X - had mutated blood after but no powers. Henry was the first person to come in contact with the MF and it’s highly likely he got his powers because of this (This would also track considering how most of the party has been in the UD now but show no signs of having powers). The MF controls Henry for the rest of TFS and Henry grows more power hungry the more he kills.

In S2, Henry presumably sends the MF after Will - who has now had a year to heal from the events of 1983. Will is the only other person in all of ST to have had direct contact with the MF and survived it. Henry didn’t hesitate to kill Billy in S3, but he always gives everyone just enough to keep Will safe. Will himself tells Owens in S2 that the MF wants to kill everyone except him. Will once again survives the entire ordeal and is given a “break” for the next 2 seasons. Except I don’t believe he’s been just given a break. I think Will is -

Henry’s Sleeper Agent.

Ready to awaken in s5. I undoubtedly think that Will is going to have powers. And I don’t think they’re going to be the same as Henry and El. El and the other lab kids get their powers directly from Henry. Will’s powers will be directly from the MF like Henry. I believe this has been Henry’s plan all along and it’s further affirmed by what he tells Will in the recent VR game. That Will will be the key to Henry being able to infiltrate his friends’ minds. Jamie Campbell-Bower also mentioned during the S4 press that to get in character, he set up a display with all of Henry’s victims and targets’ faces on his wall(?), and Will was in the center.

Henry is going to use his connection with Will sneakily and midway through S5 he’s going to awaken Will’s powers (maybe in ep4 - which is said to be titled ‘Sorcerer’ and has young Will in it). Henry is going to try and manipulate his way into making an ally out of Will, and it’s not going to work because -

Will is the Perfect Character Foil.

Will is everything Henry could have been if he had a better support system. He is the perfect character foil. Unlike Henry, Will has a mother who loves him unconditionally and more importantly, believes him. Unlike Henry, the person who Will loves the most (the Patty to Will’s Henry: Mike) is going to love him back and stay by his side all season. No one is going to force them to be apart the way Henry was told to stay away from Patty. Will is not going to be easily swayed even though Henry has spent years crafting him into the perfect soldier. Sure, Henry has seen him heartbroken and sad, but that comes nowhere near to the amount of love and support Will is going to get from his people next season. And they’re going to quite literally defeat Vecna with the power of love and friendship. After that, Will Byers is getting the happy ending that Henry could have gotten.

#stranger things #the first shadow #will byers #henry creel #vecna #vecna/henry/001 #hinting at parallels between #hentty #byler #I could write a whole essay about how Mike and Will are set up to mirror Patty and Henry.#but that’s for another time #joyce byers #stranger things meta #stranger things analysis #stranger things theory #my art #the first shadow spoilers

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miraculouslbcnreactions · 4 months

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If you were to write Lila would you keep her being a con artist criminal with multiple identities but hinted at/revealed it earlier than S5 or would you cut that part down of her character entirely ?

It would really depend on how much space I had to fill. Gabriel is not the kind of villain that you can draw out forever. His story needs to have a clearly planned ending right from the start. In fact, I think they drew him out at least a season too long. So, if I also had to fill eight seasons, I could see myself going the Lila route. I'd just make a few changes. Off the top off my head, here's how I'd handle serious villain Lila as opposed to what canon wrote, which is petty school bully Lila who is entirely unbelievable as a serious villain.

First of all, Lila wouldn't be introduced at the end of season one. While her and Gabriel probably need to have some overlap, that's way too soon. In my version, she shows up at the start of season four and she'd be heavily toned down. We'd know that something was off about her, we may even keep the liar thing, but it would be a lot more subtle. Lies like, "Ladybug rescued me" and "I got to go backstage at a Jagged Stone concert" instead of "Ladybug is my bff" and "Jagged Stone wrote a song about me." Her goal would no longer be gaining peons, but instead gaining true close friends who like and trust her. The reason for this is that Lila is replacing Optigami as Mayura's last sentimonster.

See, season three ended with all those identity reveals and most of the revealed identities are in the same class. That's curious, so it makes perfect sense for Nathalie and Gabriel to want someone undercover in Adrien's class, but they can't do it. So Nathalie makes a sentikid of her own, gives her the power of manipulation, and sends her off to try to find Ladybug and/or Chat Noir by whatever means necessary.

This would give a clear reason for Gabriel to trust Lila, a clear reason for Lila to know all about the miraculous, and a clear reason for Lila to hate Ladybug. In this version, I wouldn't do Nathalie's lackluster redemption. Instead, Nathalie stays bad right up to her death. Perhaps her last act is getting the butterfly to her daughter and ordering her to get revenge on Ladybug and Chat Noir should Gabriel fail. After all, Gabriel can't wield more than six miraculous at once, so it makes sense for him to send Nathalie off with at least one of them while he enacts his master plan just in case it fails.

That's just one potential path to take. I also like the idea of having Lila be someone who came to Paris in order to find the miraculous, but who has no ties to the Agrestes. That would require some pretty big changes to her character, though, as I can't see that type of character caring about things like dating Adrien or being a model or all the other crap that has nothing to do with gaining a miraculous and everything to do with popularity and social clout. Lila canonically doesn't know that Gabriel even has a miraculous until the final of season four, so she basically just lucked into finding one instead of doing anything logical to find it because this show has no clue how to actually write smart, clever characters.

In summary, I'm totally fine with complex, master-manipulator Lila, it's just hard to figure out the best way to make her work when we don't know anything about her backstory or motivation. The version proposed above is just the best I can do to fit her into the role canon placed her in. A role I could easily see later seasons flat out ignoring.

#ml writing critical #ml writing salt #lila deserves better #With how many lies the heroes have to tell for safety reasons it's actually a decent idea to have an evil liar #Someone to give a clear contrast between good and bad lies #Plus liars are fun! I want Lila to be someone I love to hate.

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vampiretendencies · 2 years

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request; jj blurb idea! wearing his clothes for the first time/him seeing you in his clothes for the first time. maybe showering at the chateau but you didn’t bring anything so he gives you a tshirt! hehe literally kicking my feet under the table rn

pairing; jj x fem!reader

warnings; fluff, maybe suggestive

authors note; i was doing the same when you sent this anon in love with this idea ! (req a blurb from below w what’s left on the prompt list, or send in blurb, imagines, & fic ideas) a few more hours until season 3!

other ways to say i love you prompt list

The opportunity to wear JJ’s clothes tainted your thoughts undoubtedly.

Not only because it belonged to him but because everything about JJ’s wardrobe, is so JJ.

No problem with repping any and everything that belonged to your infamous boyfriend. Wether it be wearing his pair of boxers as shorts, a wife beater to slumber in, or a random tee shirt to go out in broad day light.

You just longed for his material to be around your figure.

Congenial and adequate, soft yet comfortable— all elements of his clothes that are alike with JJ.

They are his clothes, after all.

“JJ let go of me!”

Stood smack in the the middle of JJ’s room at the chateau. His window partially open, wind bristling from the night air, making its way through. Whilst the hard wood floors beneath the two of you tracked the imprints of your feet. Bed rolled around in, from you forcing JJ off of you then— merely to let you get up and off of the bed to shower, that you did. Since you came out though, wearing little clothing, (given that there wasn't much of your own items lying around at the Chateau) he hasn't let you be.

He encapsulates you with his sinewy arms, body swallowing you whole. Whilst you forcefully push your hands against his broad, shirtless chest— the skin mellow and thick. Indentations of your miniature hands marking his skin, like your were a rag doll; screaming for dear life.

All JJ could muster was a low, raspy chuckle.

“Say you won’t leave.”

JJ wanted to make love to you all day long.

Not sex.

But emotionally.

To emotionally make love, to have and hold. A day full of luster, every millisecond spent around or with you. To confide in and maybe even shrink you and put you in his pocket.

A keepsake.

“You know I can’t, I don’t have another change of clothes.”

Behind every ‘can’t’ JJ miraculously finds a way, opportunity at hand to see you clad in something of his.

“Lets find you something of mine?”

JJ flicks his tongue, peering down at you due to the fact that he knows he’s won and you aren’t moving a muscle. His hands maneuver themselves to the lower part of your ass, hands habitually grasp the masses with a squeeze of his hands.

“Are you gonna’ give me something to wear then or what?”

You hid your secret giddiness inside, not wanting to be the one to initiate this sentiment— things seemingly working themselves out anyway.

“Actually, baby … just fuckin’ walk around naked … s’even better.”

He acknowledges the glint in your eye, possibly even a twitch that says, ‘get me some damn clothes before I wring your neck.’

“Okay okay, whatcha’ thinkin’ a little Heywards t-shirt action … Bait Shop shirt … ?”

He let go of you distastefully, instantly salivating for the contact again. Walking over to the wooden drawers of his dresser, pulling out multiple options— signaling you to come over and pick.

“Surprise me.”

And you turn around, facing the emptiness of his room, that wasn’t his room, but nonetheless. Rummaging was heard as he hummed and mumbled minuscule things to himself.

“Turn around, pretty girl.”

An off-black brownish t-shirt is thrown into your hands. A decor in the upper left side that read ‘Sex Wax Est 2005’, font circular and embellished with stars on either end.

“Your turn-“

He was already turning around, the gentlemen that he prided on being. You grinned at the cotton beneath your digits, bringing it up to your nose— though it had been washed, his powerful musk still retained it. The silky sensation of yeasty beer and a freshly rolled blunt encompassed your senses.

“Need more time?”

“Just a second, J.”

If only he knew your fixation was obsessive beforehand.

“I’ll just be here … y’know ... missin' my girl."

Feet away, physical touch being his love language fully had a choke hold on him per usual.

After you were done with your inspection you pulled the thin material of your cropped cami past your shoulders, bra clasped tight to your back. Leaving you to remove those lacey pocketed shorts that adorned your body; his shirt lazily pulled past your head, drowning you in its bigger size, falling just to your mid thigh.

The sole way to sleep with JJ disclosed.

You felt more his than you ever had in the past; claiming his array of bib and tucker with exuberance.

His baby suffocating in him.

You cleared your throat gesturing for him to turn around, his mouth gaping open as he's awe struck; open long enough that you were impressed something didn't fly in it.

"Shit you look better than me!"

Ogle eyes whilst his mouth formed a tight-lipped smile, stomach churning and insides wavering at the woman he chose to take part in his life with him.

It may be a shirt to most, but with his person inside of it made it all the more nostalgic, heart growing tender.

"C'mere gotta get a better look at you."

Following suit you step forward to him, lips instantly connecting with your jaw with pure infatuation.

"S'perfect baby."

"Yeah? Think I can pass as the new JJ Maybank?" In the same position the two of you were in minutes ago, except grins are wider and souls aching all the more for eachother; and you mocked him.

"Pass me a beer and a J."

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saintescuderia · 6 months

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pancakes (pt. 1)

welcome a new multi-chapter fic. enjoy.

AKA - the story of how the naive australian rookie befriended the gym junkie F1 hospitality worker with the shoe collection - and inadvertently broke the grid's most treasured and unspoken rule: you don't go for y/n.

series masterlist here :) // the pancakes recipe here :)

P1 - bulgarian split squats

Really, the only way to survive Formula 1 was by going to the gym.

The gym addiction was something that had existed long before joining the circus of a motorsports paddock filled with politics and rumours, as well as the slim fitting uniforms that always seemed to be accompanied by, in your opinion, ugly ass shoes.

Sure, Puma was the offical sponsor but couldn’t they get anything other than the Speedcat? And what even was that name? Speedcat? It was on brand, sure, but at what cost? Really? If Formula 1 was trying to grow its popularity they could honestly start with their dress code. Seeing Christian Horner in Skechers really took the intimidation out of him when you served him his double espresso during the Spanish Grand Prix that one time last season.

One of the perks of working in Hospitality - and there were very few far and in between - was that uniform was not so strict. F1 Hospitality only required an all black service with ‘comfortable shoes.’ This you took for interpretation. Dunks. Jordan 4s. Maybe 1s. Never 13s. Forces were good for a night race - that usually meant more stairs - and Vans were what you reached for in the morning when you knew you’d be working the barista shift. Converse were for ‘throw away’ races.

These were the races where you knew the shoe-care was not important. For example, Silverstone with its torrential UK drinkers who were likely to throw up on your beloved sneakers. Alas, you had learned the hard way when you almost lost your job by rushing to the kitchen to start scrubbing the vomit off your blue and red Cortez during peak lunch.

Never again.

Admittedly, you did try to keep at least one pair of Converse in good care since they were the renowned shoe come leg day.

Another perk of working in F1 Hospitality was that every circuit’s map layout had been drilled into your head. Meaning you always knew exactly where the communal driver’s gym was located at and could therefore get your daily dose of dopamine before dealing with… well, everything.

You silenced the shrill horror that came from the iPhone alarm. 4:00 read the lockscreen, the light shining brightly into your face. It didn’t help that your wallpaper had a photo with a clear blue sky, making the light even harsher in the darkness. You could’ve very well changed it and avoid the pain you routinely go through every morning. But it was this very photo that reminded you why you were getting up in four in the morning in the first place.

You had snapped it during a free practice in Italy that had miraculously lined up with a break in your shift. The sky was clear and the red car was small, but clear on the circuit. Ferrari, of course. You still remember the buzz that circled around the paddock staff that day. No matter who you routed for or whatever bias you had, there was a unanimously acknowledgement that Ferrari winning at Monza was special. He was special.

Then again, you’ve known that long before he stood on that podium in Italy and was given his infamous nickname.

It didn’t even take you ten minutes until you were out the door. Your gym clothes (pump cover included!) were on the one limpy chair that decorated your poor little hotel room, your shaker sat on top of your gym bag with you black high top Converse right beside it. By the time you had made it to the gym, it was a little past 4:15 and you had already scooped in pre-workout into your mouth ready to get through the oncoming pain.

Your hips were a little tight, as per normal. The left side even more so. The hood of your hoodie was up, headphones on and blasting the hardstyle house music that would see you through the next two hours. You went through your usual stretches but with today’s added focus on the lower body.

And then you went about destroying your legs.

It was about an hour or so that Oscar finally sleepily arrived. You weren’t actually sure what time it was but you were up to doing bulgarian split squats - and hating life - and that was usually at the hour mark. You gave him a curious once over, noting the odd choice of clothing. It was a little odd to see a driver in the paddock wearing athleisure that wasn’t their team uniform.

“Bro, it’s five in the morning.” Oscar groaned, shuffling over to come and sit on the bench next to you. You gave another three more reps - Oscar silently watching you groan in pain through the last two - and then finally dropped the dumbbells. You reached over to take a sip of water and checked the phone for the time.

“It’s five thirteen in the morning.” You corrected. It had been just about the hour mark. “Are we training today or?” It wasn’t the first time Oscar had joined you. The reason his neck was getting stronger was because of you. In your opinion, the trainer Alpine had assigned Oscar was a fucking idiot.

“You’re doing legs.” Oscar pointed out, as if that was enough of an answer. He leaned to lay back down on the bench and stared up as he continued to speak. “Drivers don’t need bulky legs. We’ve been over this.”

You had. Many times. You knew he was right. It still would be nice to have someone to go through legs with you, though.

“So train with light weights.” You offered, trying. Oscar just gave you a look that made it clear he was not picking up any type of weights. You shrugged, not deterred. “I’ll do calisthenics with you. Or we can work on plyometrics.” Oscar’s response was to close his eyes and let out a deep sigh. “Fuck it man, do some cardio.” You came to the last resort, coming to kick his legs as you walked past to load up the smith machine with some different plates.

“Piss off Tezza.” The Australian-ness continuing to shine through with the nickname that Oscar had specifically designed for you in respect of your shared citizenship to the ‘land down under.’

Except unlike the blond caucasian boy who loved AFL, grew up in Brighton East and attended Haileybury, your Australian-ness was less obvious. Your accent, for one, wasn’t as prominent since your parents were African immigrants. This, of course, didn’t just influence your speech patterns and accent.

Dark skin, dark eyes and dark hair, you weren't exactly the picture of a 'true blue Aussie.' The rite of public school bullying from those who did look 'Australian' (whatever that meant) had you scoffing at vegemite and preferring to follow EPL and La Liga than whatever the fuck was Aussie Rules Football.

Why is it called football if the players pick up the ball?

Still, when a homesick Oscar Piastri overheard one of the Hospitality staff yell out that that they were going for a 'Macca’s run' between the practice sessions on his very first F1 race weekend, he instantly picked up on the Australian-ism. And he didn’t let it go. And cue the beginning of a friendship that had Oscar Piastri calling you ‘bro’ and shortening your last name as per Australian rite.

Even if you had sworn off that sort of thing.

“Oscar, man, if you ain’t here to train then why are you?” You said, locking the plates in place on the smith machine. You lifted up your hood up and ducked under the bar to rest the metal against you shoulders, the hood acting as a cushion. The starting weight was light enough that you wouldn't have to worry about music for your first set. Besides, if Oscar was here, he could be the entertainment for this set. “You forget that this is a driver’s only gym. You could get in trouble." The sarcasm was all too clear in your voice.

No one used the ‘drivers-only’ gym. It was something that every Grand Prix had set up. Mobile, communal and high-end, it had enough equipment to rival the local 24/7 studio franchise gym that seemed to exist in every neighbourhood. Despite the fact that every driver preferred to train at their own motorhome gym - or that every team had their own mobile gym set up in conjunction to the motorhome - F1 still went about packing up and moving their own studio gym to every single location come race weekend.

If anything, it was a nice stop during the presentation walk during the sponsorship lunches where good old Stefano Domenicali would show off all the amazing resources that the Grand Prix space has to offer.

So, no. F1’s Driver Gym was not used.

The only reason it wasn’t gathering dust was because every weekend it was packed up and moved. That and you woke up at 4am every weekend to destroy your muscles in the familiar red and black equipment.

"You're here." Oscar reminded you. "And not a driver."

You ignored him and just kept up with your repetitions, focusing on engaging your glutes and keeping your core tight. Oscar was silent as you finished your first set. When you finished your last rep, he stood up and came round as you locked the machine. He knew you well enough to pick up the 10kg and help add it to the sides.

"Thanks." You said. Oscar nodded and added the weight to the other side. There was a quiet air for a moment and you went to pick up your headphones to put them back on. Things were getting heavier and you would need music to get through the next few sets.

“I might be leaving Alpine.”

You looked up at Oscar who dropped the bomb and then looked back at your headphones. You sighed and then dropped the headphones back to land in your gym bag. Headphoneless, you went back to the machine and Oscar took your invitation.

“Zak Brown approached me yesterday and suggested something about picking me up for next year.” Oscar said.

You just kept squatting. Oscar was far too removed to yet be aware of - well, everything.

“And with talk of Fernando quitting, I know that Alpine will be calling me up but do I trust that? Honestly Lando has been doing so well and Ocon has always pissed me off.” Oscar watched as you started to struggle.

He stood up and came around to help you but you just shook you head. You pushed through one more rep and then called it.

“He does have a punchable face.” You said, now out of breath. Esteban had always annoyed you and before meeting Oscar, you used to dread the weekends where you were put on Alpine.

Your friend handed you the water bottle sat beside your gym bag before you could even ask. You gave a two finger salute in thanks as he continued on.

“And Lily and I got into this massive fight again! Apparently I don’t communicate enough!” He huffed. “But I sent her flowers and chocolates because she’s going through finals and she likes daisies and Cadbury."

“Yeah, but is that her love language though?” You asked, dropping your bottle and going to stack up the final set of weights on the smith machine. Oscar stood up again to help you.

“Her what?” He asked, handing you the plate.

“Love language.” You answered, still panting, and explained, “You’ve got physical touch, gift giving, quality time, words of affirmation and acts of service.”

“Are you saying people love in specific ways?" Oscar asked, quick to process new information as always.

“Exactly. You did something nice for her, an act of service. Maybe all she wants is a nice, long phone call or maybe some texts complimenting her or something.” You shrugged and then brought up your headphones.

Oscar accepted this, knowing the last set would require music.

He watched you as you settled back under the smith machine bar and went on squatting more than his body weight. He shook his head and ran a hand over his face. He really shouldn't have been surprised at your lack of surprise. Little shocked you. That or your might’ve already known and just kept it to yourself. F1 Hospitality were a part of the Formula One Group and, therefore, were not associated to any one team. They had rotations across all teams and, therefore, every member of staff were required to sign an NDA. Not that ever did anything in this damn place.

Still, Oscar knew that you were one of the few genuine people left in this place.

He knew that there would’ve been so many opportunities where you could’ve easily done something for yourself by recounting something you had overheard while pouring Toto Wolff his coffee or serving Mattia Binotto his lunch. It was the reason why so many teams hired their own internal hospo staff.

It was also the reason why Oscar felt comfortable coming to tell you about Alpine and McLaren before he had even told his own parents, or Lily. The argument with his girlfriend had prevented him from getting any sleep, mulling it over in his mind for hours. Oscar knew you would be able to help him through it all.

And that you would be the only one awake at this godforsaken hour.

By the time you had finished your first set, he was Googling love languages and having a quick read through.

By the time you had finished your second set, he was halfway through doing the love languages quiz.

By the time you had finished your third and final set, he was seeing what the problem was between him and Lily.

“I think Lily is words of affirmation and I'm acts of service." He said, coming up to the machine as you stepped back and pulled down your headphones. You blinked and nodded, still put of breath. "I think I forgot to check in with her and send her some compliments. Tell her I'm proud of her for getting through exams. Especially because she never is one for gifts, really."

You held out your hand to him. "There you go. Growth."

"I don't know what to do about Alpine."

"Call a lawyer."

Oscar pursed his lips and then considered this. That wouldn't be his first move but thinking about it, it was probably for the best. "That's actually a good idea."

"Isn't that why you're here?" You retorted. "Since you're not here to train. Speaking of which, the fuck is that?"

“What?” He asked and realised you were looking at his feet.

“Zak Brown isn’t going to hire you if he finds out that you’re wearing fucking thongs with socks.” You said, finally recognising the flip-flops he wore with some white socks that really needed to be washed.

“You’ve been a great help, thanks.” Oscar smiled. You rolled your eyes and went to your gym bag. Pulling out a pair of white Adidas Sambas, you tossed them to Oscar.

“Put these on.”

“Is my footwear really that offensive to you?”

“We’ll go run the track.” You said then gestured to all of him. “It’ll help you burn all of this off.”

Oscar sighed and did as he was told. He laced up the shoes you'd given him that surprisingly fit his large feet and followed you out to the track. He used his pass to get through since a driver running the track at 5:30 in the morning would just be seen as the dedication to the grind. A Hospitality staff member would just be accused of breaking in.

“Maybe it’s a good thing you’re going through a crisis. I’ve always wanted to do a morning run on the track.” You said with a grin as the pair of you came to the starting line that, in a matter of hours, would be full of mechanics, engineers, reporters, camera crew members and, of course, drivers.

“If I get a seat at McLaren, you can be my trainer.” Oscar said as you both started warming up into a light jog.

"Ha." You snorted. "As if you could afford me, bro."

next ch [2] >

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stepintothelimelight · 1 month

Text

▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄SHE CAN GO HOME, BUT SHE’S NOT GOING TO

┊┊┊✧ ⁺ ⁺ 　° i would do

anything

you want me to…. ✧ ⁺ ┊

PART 4 of the Spitfire Saga

TRAILER: A home race that doesn’t feel like home anymore

(2018!f1grid x fem!Genz!driver!reader, max verstappen x reader (platonic), lewis hamilton x reader (platonic) sebastian vettel x reader (platonic))

For more Spitfire content go to my account and it’s my pinned post since tumblr hates me and won’t let me link anything :)

WARNINGS: FAMILY ISSUES, mentioned child abuse, swearing, gratuitous hurt/comfort, reader’s birthday happens before the gp, mention of a suicidal thought, ANGST, barely edited :)

fc: an assortment of female celebs

Aaaaannnnd ACTION!

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f1: 🇺🇸🦅💥💥💥HOME RACE FOR Y/N L/N 🇺🇸🦅🦅🦅

American fans - be there or be 🟦

📍Circuit of the Americas

tagged: yourusername, mercedesamgf1

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yourusername just shared a story!

this story is no longer available

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You arrive early, per usual, to make sure you have time for every fan, and maybe to catch a glimpse of Taylor Swift, who will be singing the national anthem today.

Your phone call with Seb last night quickly turned into him and Hanna knocking on your hotel room door and enveloping you in their arms. You fell asleep between the two of them, a comfort show playing on low volume in the background.

You hate that it caught you off guard. A small, stupid part of you actually believed that your family - your mother - could love you like they - like she- was meant to.

It was supposed to be fun. You dressed up, treated them to one of the nicest restaurants in Austin. The second they arrived, though, it all turned to shit.

At least your fans are majorly little girls and they couldn’t care less if you’re having widely photographed, public arguments with your older brother after a family dinner turned sour.

Miraculously, you get into the paddock unscathed by prying questions into your personal life. You just get set up in your drivers room for Qualifying and try to put it all behind you. You don’t see Taylor, and unlike any other day, you don’t have the energy to face the paddock.

As you rearrange your hangers for the hundredth time, there’s a knock on your door. You sigh. Most of the team knows that you like your private time before any event, especially your first home race.

“Yeah?”

The door opens slowly. It’s Lewis. Since the beginning of the season, your relationship with him has definitely developed. He’s good friends with Seb and you have a sneaking suspicion that he has told Lewis to keep an eye on you where Seb can’t. He’s become a sort of mentor-slash-friend and you couldn’t be happier, especially since you’ve both signed on for another few years at Mercedes.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” you say.

Lewis sent me this.

“Did you hear about Taylor Swift?” You exclaim. “How cool is that?”

He grants you a trademark half-smile.

“Consider it a belated birthday gift.”

You eyes widen and your mouth drips open.

“It was you?”

He shrugs.

“It wasn’t very hard to convince her.”

You hurry over to him, hesitate for a second, then hug him gently. You’ve never hugged him in a normal setting. You break off of him and stand there, not quite knowing what to say next.

“Home race,” He says awkwardly. Lewis is hardly ever awkward. “Big deal.”

“Yeah.” You don’t mean to sound annoyed. Or tired. Or defeated.

“Family coming? I’d like to meet them. I don’t think I have, yet. “

That’s true. Your mother has been to two Grand Prix since the start of the season and your father and brother one, respectively. They’re busy people, but after last night, some part of you wonders if your mother intentionally schedules conflicts so that they can never make it.

That’s stupid, she says in your head. We love you. You’re the one who makes this whole thing impossible.

When they have shown up, you’ve kept them as far away as possible from cameras, and Lewis draws every camera in every room he steps foot in. Maybe your brother is right. Maybe you hide them because of some secret shame you hold for them. The only thing you’re ashamed of is how complicated your relationship with your family is.

“No. I-“

What?

Sent them home?

Told them to never show their faces around the paddock again?

Cried into Seb’s chest all of last night wishing I was dead because of how horrible they make me feel?

“Couldn’t deal with them today,” you say decisively. The media might see you as a stone cold bitch, so why not Lewis, too.

“They’re your family.”

“They hate me,” you whisper, turning back you your hangers. You’ve never said it out loud. Not to Max or Charles, not even to Hanna last night when she was helping you wash your face through swollen eyes and a runny nose.

“I’m sure they don’t-“

“You’ve never met them. My mom hates me. She loathes me and for the life of me I can’t figure out why. I have given her everything and she still don’t bring herself to even like me a little bit. The rest this I’m too independent, too liberal, not liberal enough, too opinionated, too young, too smart, whatever. My dad and his side wish I went to university and my mom’s side tries to chase the fame. It sucks. It didn’t use to be like this, but it is now.”

You spare a glance back at him. He’s wide- eyed. This is probably the most he’s heard you talk without cracking a joke or bursting out laughing.

“Have you told Seb? Or… Max, Charles?”

“Seb, yes. Max would order a hit on my entire family if I told him this type of thing and Charles would hide the evidence.”

What you told Charles at Christmas, he didn’t acknowledge then and there, but he was noticeably cold to your mother when you brought her to see him.

Lewis studied you, then a look dawns on his face. It’s a mix of dread and fury, but he schools it quickly.

“Y/n,” He says in a very serious tone. “Don’t lie to me.”

Your brow furrows.

“Do they - does your mother or your father hit you?”

It wasn’t the question you’d expected, but it still makes your blood turn cold.

You think for a second, contemplate his expression, run the risks of him exploding if you tell him the truth.

“No…” you trail off. “Once. I made her mad when I was fifteen and-“ you raise your own hand and slap your face. “Never after though.”

She cried into your shoulder for hours after, telling you just how sorry she was, how she would never dream of laying another violent hand on you again.

Lewis’s mouth opens then closes. You purse your lips.

“I don’t need my family,” you whisper. “And I don’t need you to worry about me. I’m fine.”

He gives you a look, one that says:

There’s no way in hell I believe you.

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chalmaxy/nship

chalmaxy/nship: Max and Charles (+Pierre) teaming up to cheer Y/n up 😫 they are sooooo whipped for her (even tho they pretend they hate each other 🙄)

tagged: max33verstappen, charles_leclerc, pierregasly, yourusername, f1

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The video starts with the camera fixed on a very angry - looking Y/n. Her brow is set and her mouth is distorted in a flat line, which of course, is to be expected. She was obviously off her usual top-five worthy game today and has earned herself a starting position of P20.

The interviewer asks her a series of questions that she responds to very flatly and emotionlessly, so much so that her press officer elbows her in the side more than once to get an actual, genuinely not sarcastic answer out of her.

And then -

“Do you think your family issues are the reason you’ve performed so miserably today?”

She stops. Pauses, opens her mouth then closes it again.

“That,” she drags out bitingly. “was an incredibly stupid and insensitive question. Every question you’ve asked me today has been either completely patronizing or borderline inappropriate.”

She shoots a look at her press officer, shakes her head slightly, then leans into the microphone.

“You’ll understand why we’re choosing to cut this interview short.”

And then she turns and leaves the media pen.

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mercedesamgf1

mercedesamgf1: AAAAAaaaaaannnnnddd she’s done it again! A home race win is yet another thing our Spitfire can check off of her bucket list 💪

tagged: yourusername

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user6: Admin really said yes she’s a spitfire yes she’s OUR Spitfire

user7: did anyone else notice how down Y/n seemed up on the podium tho

⮑ user11: Yeah, definitely not the energy we’re used to up there

yourusername: 🖤🖤

⮑user12: girl I need to know the tea behind the story and the tweet 🙏🙏🙏

user7: Call me crazy but she’s the biggest talent of her generation, not Verstappen

⮑ user8: you’re crazy

⮑user9: @/user8: did we not just watch the same race?

user10: she’s making the sport annoying.

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yourusername

yourusername: Great home race win guys! 🇺🇸💥💥🦅💥 lovely to share the podium with maxie and lewie

tagged: mercedesamgf1

liked by max33verstappen, charles_leclerc and 738291 others

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max33verstappen: Get ready, I’m coming to get you in an hour to celebrate

⮑yourusername: I can’t drink here dumbass

⮑user13: MaxY/n confirmed???

taylorswift: So glad I finally got to meet you in person!

⮑ user14: TAYLOR SWIFT WAS THERE AND Y/N DIDNT EVEN MENTION IT???? OH SOMETHING’S WRONG WRONG

⮑ yourusername: 🖤

user15: U go Spitfire!!

user16: Y/n is such a bitch.

lewishamilton: This is starting to sound redundant, but congrats Y/n!

user17: I still can’t get over how rude she was to that reporter

⮑user18: EVERY reporter is rude and/or patronizing towards her. She deserves to bite back once and a while

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True to his word, Max knocks on your door. You get up from the spot you’ve been staring out the window and open it.

He’s dressed up, ready to go out drinking, you suppose. You’ve changed into your pajamas and tied your hair up sloppily.

He arches his eyebrows.

“Ready to celebrate?”

You shrug.

“Not really in the mood. Plus I can’t drink here. You go ahead, tell the team to send me the bill and I’ll pick it up.”

You go to close the door then. He kicks his foot between the door and the doorframe.

“Come out. It could still be fun,” He offers. “It’s your home race. I’d be happy if I won at spa.”

He raised his eyes brows at you and you look down guiltily. You should be happy. You’ve broken a record of some kind, you’re pretty sure, and every other driver dreams of winning his home race.

“You’d be happy because your family would be there to see it,” you say bitterly. “Because then you’d be able to prove to them it wasn’t all for nothing. That you’re not selfish or - or something.”

Max closes the door when he hears your voice tremor. There’s a hard concern in his eyes.

“Go, Max. You should celebrate.”

“I don’t want to anymore.”

You look him up and down. He’s gelled his hair and put on a non redbull shirt. Obviously he’s gearing up for a big night of celebrating.

“Tell me,” He says. “You can talk to me. I’m not a stranger to family issues.”

You scoff and flop onto your bed.

“It’s not a big deal.”

“You love partying. It’s a big deal.”

It’s quiet, except for his slightly heavy breathing. Here’s Mad Max Verstappen, standing at the foot of your bed begging you to confide in him with his eyes. His big, sad, droopy eyes.

You cover your face with the your arm.

“I can’t believe they actually left,” you choke out. “I told them to go and they just … left. The first time my entire family could muster up the time and effort to spend an entire weekend supporting me and they decide to just go home.”

Max moves towards you, hesitates, then settles himself on the floor next to your bedside table.

“Why?”

You huff.

“I don’t know. I push them away. I get on my mom’s nerves. I try too hard to impress my dad. Did you know,” you take a deep breath. “Did you know my mother hasn’t told me good night or I love you in five years?”

He sits and stares out the window.

“Why doesn’t she love me, Max?”

It comes out more pathetic than you wanted it to. Max is probably one of the only people who might get it, just a little.

“Schat…” he trails off. “I don’t know.”

Max is two years older than you. Sometimes those two years feel like a lifetime. You wish he was a lifetime older than you so he would know.

“Maybe…” He trails off. “Fuck. Maybe some people just aren’t made to be parents.”

You squeeze your eyes shut to try and push down the sobs building in your chest. Max, thankfully, doesn’t react when you let out a soft gasp and sniff wetly. He just sits there and stares out the window

Eventually, you curl up in your bed and Max sits a on the other side (on top of the covers, a safe two feet away) and turn on Star wars (The prequels - he’s a huge nerd, surprise, surprise).

Maybe some people aren’t made to be parents.

Maybe some people aren’t made to be daughters.

▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄

✧ ⁺ ⁺ Yelled down the hall

but nobody answered ┊┊┊✧ ⁺ ⁺ 　°

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Aaannnnnnddd scene!

DIRECTOR’S CUT: A short and sad angsty hurt comfort type of thing… next chapter i swear will be happier !!

Want to join the taglist? drop a comment below or message my inbox

🏷️ @octavikravecell218 @laura-naruto-fan1998 @sugarrush-blush @scarletwidow3000 @umm-i-love-u

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hamsternamedmarinette · 1 year

Text

I have so many thoughts on this finale HOLY FREAKING MOLY!!!!!!!!!

First of all I’m surprised at the few posts I’ve seen so far expressing disappointment at how things “wrapped up.” Because I found it pretty obvious that this definitely is not the end!!! But the ending right now, in my opinion, was perfect BECAUSE of that underlying bittersweetness! I know we all hate the idea of the love square keeping secrets from each other, but the alternative to this was to have Adrien’s world COMPLETELY crashing down all at once, and in my opinion that wouldn’t have been satisfying at all. It would have just been uncomfortably tragic. I think it’s much more satisfying storytelling to let him have his moment of peace now, after all this horror, then pick everything up with the next season.

And as for Gabriel Agreste being remembered as the city’s hero, yeah it’s unfair, but that’s honestly why I love it!!!! The idea of the city living in peace and happiness and remembering this man as the good guy, but only Marinette knows the truth??? THAT’S THE GOOD ANGST RIGHT THERE!!!!! I’m so surprised I’m not seeing more people sharing that opinion!!! Like I said, is it fair? No!! Is it gosh darn interesting and intriguing storytelling?? HECK YEAH!!!!!!!!! I’m obsessed!!!

And the way it left off with Lila being the new butterfly miraculous holder!!! Like come on, it’s so obvious that “Adrien being lied to about his father’s identity” isn’t the endgame here. Lila still has proof of Gabriel’s identity as Hawk Moth, and now she’s the Big Bad. I can’t believe I’m the one saying this, given how I’ve felt about this show’s writing in the past, but have some faith in the story, guys!!! It’s clear Adrien’s story isn’t over!

All in all I found this finale epic and awesome and satisfying, and I don’t care if I’m the only one who feels that way, I’m utterly obsessed.

#recreation #recreation spoilers #re-creation spoilers #miraculous ladybug #ml spoilers #мой пост

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myosotisa · 2 years

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i'm starvin, darlin - e.m.

Eddie Munson x Reader

ǁ summary: Since coming back from the Upside Down, Eddie has slowly been changing. Each week seems to bring something different and he finds himself doing things he never thought he would.

ǁ tags: gender neutral reader, no pronouns, no y/n. nickname used (sweetheart). mentions of season 4 final episode and what occurred. canon divergent (every one lived). it's not smut, but smut adjacent. it's sexy

ǁ word count: 2k

ǁ notes: i sat down and wrote an entire one shot in one sitting again. and i am also not going to edit this one. and i do not feel bad for lowercase hozier title, so don't even try me like that. if y'all really like it, i can add a part 2 with smut, but this is it for now

There are still a lot of things Eddie is having to come to terms with since the night his heart stopped.

That night in the Upside Down, laying in Dustin’s arms, he had died. Without a doubt. Dustin had felt his pulse and there was nothing there. And though he didn’t know CPR, had no idea what he was doing, Dustin had laid him down on the ground and started to beat against his chest. Like maybe if he hit hard enough and in the right place, his friend would come back to life.

Somehow it worked. No one bothered to ask why.

But they all knew something was wrong two days later. Eddie, barely breathing and with a weak heartbeat, had been dragged back to the surface and hidden away in the RV they had stolen. Someone watched him round the clock as they debated what to do. If they should try to get him to a hospital, how they’d be able to explain it. But then something miraculous began to happen:

Eddie started healing. All on his own. Way faster than any person should have been able to.

His skin stitched itself back together faster than should be possible, leaving less scar tissue than it should have behind. His chest began to rise and fall in more steady breaths, his heart beat getting stronger, bones resetting themselves with slow and quiet creaks as he laid in that RV bed and slept. He’d been asleep since they brought him back.

The day he woke up, his body had almost entirely healed itself. From the brink of death, having even stepped over to the other side, and now he was almost back to before it ever happened. It had only been a week.

Everyone rejoiced, refusing to question anything weird that may have happened in the Upside Down and just thinking they finally won for once. Max had casts on both her arms but was otherwise unharmed, Steve had recovered from his own injuries at the rate of a normal human and now sported a scar around his throat that he sometimes felt self conscious about. Dustin was on crutches with his broken leg for another month at least. Eddie was alive and whole and back to himself. They’d made it, everyone had made it.

He began to notice more and more things that were different as the days went on.

The first thing he caught on to was that he had the capability to be strong. Way stronger than someone who had recently been bed ridden should be. It was like in the comic books with the Hulk – if he wasn’t paying attention or if he got too emotional, he could easily break anything. A walkman destroyed, a ceramic bowl reduced to shards, a metal pipe bent beyond fixing, the wooden handle of a hammer shattered in his grip. The boys were all present for the hammer incident and sighted it as one of the coolest things they had ever seen. They swarmed him, asking him how he did it, what else he could do, how strong he really was.

Only the other teens, Steve, Nancy, Robin, you, started to look a little bit closer.

When the next few changes became apparent, it was clear something unnatural had happened to Eddie that night in the Upside Down. He could feel other people's feelings. They brushed against his consciousness like ghosts whenever he looked at someone. Happiness like warm rays of sunshine, fear like a shuddering gust of wind, anger like hot coals pressed to his skin. It wasn’t a conscious effort – in fact, there were a lot of times he wished he could turn it off. Whenever he looked too hard at someone, it’s like his brain adjusted to a different frequency and their emotions reached out to him, no matter what they were. And he didn’t struggle to make sense of the sensations like he thought he might, his brain completed the dots easily at first, but then he began to recognize them consciously. It was certainly useful sometimes, especially when it came to you, but it still felt a bit invasive. When he’d explained it to a few people, he assured he tried to ignore it whenever he could, but sometimes he couldn’t help but react. The icey spike of terror he felt when you woke up next to him from a nightmare. The velvet comfort that enveloped you and him when he held you after.

The first time he spoke into someone’s mind it was an accident. Steve had whipped toward him, breath catching in his chest, eyes wide and mouth open in a gasp. Eddie felt it like ice down his spine. “Did you… You did that?” He’d asked breathlessly. It had been so shocking, Eddie wasn’t even sure what’d he said, or projected, or whatever it was.

“I - I don’t know.”

Steve stepped closer, suddenly looking determined. “Try to do it again.”

It was a slithering feeling when he dipped back into Steve’s mind. Like sliding his way in between cracks to a place he didn’t belong, seeping into the forefront of his thoughts to plant one of his own. It made him feel dirty, uncomfortable, and wrong. But it worked. Steve explained it as having a thought like his own but it came out in Eddie’s voice instead. An intrusive thought but not an uncomfortable one.

As with all of the other discoveries, a meeting was called. Dustin, Mike, Lucas, Max, Will, El, Robin, Jonathan, Nancy, Steve, and you. Steve did most of the talking while Eddie sat and looked at his hands. These meetings, while he acknowledged were important for everyone to keep track of his progression into… something, it still made him feel a bit like a zoo animal in a cage. A magician with a magic trick. All the boys immediately begged him to do it to them, they wanted to see what it felt like, wanted to see how easy it was for him to do it.

Nancy and Jonathan had shooed them, catching on to how overwhelmed Eddie was, their excitement and curiosity battering against him like a whipping wind of too much. Once it was just the older people in the room, you crossed over to where he was, kneeled down in front of him, reached out to hold his hand.

Pity felt like someone was pissing in his pants.

“Are you okay?”

How could he say no? How could he admit that he was scared, confused, and feeling more and more like a monster with the passing days? “It’s just a lot. To deal with.”

Your smile was pained as you pushed yourself up onto your calves and wrapped your arms around his shoulders. His came around your waist on instinct, the breath feeling like a wheeze in his lungs as he held tight. Face pressed into your hair with his eyes squeezed shut, he inhaled deep in relief.

That was when the next thing changed.

It was a desire. A need. One he couldn’t place a name to. Like he was desperately missing something, desperately craving something and he didn’t know it was. It crawled under his skin like ants and sent him scratching for a feeling that couldn’t be satiated. No matter what he tried: eating, drinking, masturbating, exercising. The feeling wouldn’t go away. It got stronger day after day, his mind focusing more and more on the void it left behind until it was all he could think about.

Steve threw a little get together at his house once a month or so. Just time for everyone to get together, eat some food, listen to music, play board games, maybe watch a movie. This was the first get together since his hunger began.

He was sitting on the couch on his own, decompressing. While normally he was right in the middle of everything, today it was a lot to handle when he was hyperfocused on the crawling beneath his skin. He had his legs spread wide, hands resting on them, leaning deep into the cushions of the couch in Steve’s basement. While he had initially tried to close his eyes, hang his head back, maybe stare at the ceiling – he couldn’t stop his attention from drifting back to you.

You and Eddie had been friends for a long time. Understandably, you’d gotten much closer after the events in March. The two of you had helped each other through hard nights of nightmares, panic attacks in parking lots, flashbacks in public. You’d been a great comfort to him since he came back. But today your laugh sounded like music. The smell of your perfume hit him even across the room. Each emotion crashed over him in waves, pushing and receding like the tide as he tried to get off your frequency, unentangle himself from you before he did something he didn’t mean to do.

I’m starving.

Your back stiffened, the grip on your plastic cup getting just a bit tighter. A moment of fear quickly shifted to mellowed surprise, curiosity. He’d never spoken into your mind before, hadn’t meant to do so now. But you still shifted, your eyes slowly coasting across the room until you caught sight of him on the couch.

A shock of electricity shot down his spine as you made eye contact, his hands tightening over his thighs in reaction. Unsure exactly what to do, he settled for projecting again. Slithered his way into your ears and settled a respectful distance from the area he’d never been brave enough to venture. Sorry, he offered with a wince, didn’t mean to.

What he didn’t expect was the utter flood of feeling that hit him next. Like a drip of warm honey settling into the space between his hips, pooling there in a subtle swirl as the warmth from it started to diffuse outward. You realized you’d been staring and your eyes flit away, but the feeling didn’t cease. In fact, it only got stronger. Your lower lip caught on your teeth as you shifted between your feet. Things that would be completely normal to see, wouldn’t have anyone looking twice, but Eddie could. Your desire. The want that poured from you like water when your eyes first met his.

Was this the first time? Had something changed between you and him? Or had he just never caught on before?

The ants beneath his skin began to vibrate as he narrowed in on the feeling, on you. Like the part of him that had slithered into your thoughts was now bearing down, digging in for purchase, wanting to stay awhile and feed on this new feeling, what you were offering. It didn’t even occur to him what he was doing, how invasive it might be, how wrong he normally would have felt. All he knew is that it felt like licking at the thing he’d been craving for so long and he was helpless to chase after it.

Sweetheart. It came easy as breathing now, teeth sunk into your consciousness from where you stood across the room. You whirled on him again, another flood of warmth hitting him deep as you leaned your hip against the counter you were standing next to and focused on him. What’s got you so worked up?

He couldn’t even consider how bold he was suddenly being, the fear that he might ruin this friendship well out of his grasp. Especially when your embarrassment spiked along with the want, the pool of warmth now suddenly coming to life to have a heartbeat of its own. Your eyes widened, shifting on your feet again as you broke eye contact. It only took a few moments before you couldn’t help but look back at him again. The buzzing settled further, now like a purr beneath his skin. It was bearable as long as you kept your eyes on him.

You wanna do something about it?

thanks for reading, please reblog and leave a comment if you liked it!

#eddie munson x you #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson smut #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson hurt/comfort #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson fanfiction #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson imagines #eddie munson blurb #eddie munson blurbs #stranger things fanfic #stranger things fanfiction #myos ideas #vampire!Eddie munson #kas!eddie munson #myo4munson

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dilemmaontwolegs · 1 year

Text

The Best Kept Secret on the Grid || Part Two

GR, CL, MV, LH x fem!reader Warnings: angsty drivers, more filth (masturbation, smut) WC: 3k F1 Masterlist || Part One || Part Two || Part Three

“Oh my word, what is going on?” David Croft, the official F1 commentator, was aghast at what he was seeing on the track in front of him and his voice echoed across the paddock from the loudspeakers. “This is looking like a repeat of Australia and nobody wants to see that again.”

You slunk down in your seat and pulled your hat further down your head. Maybe sending those nudes hadn’t been the best idea. It had been four weeks since the last race and to say you were feeling needy was a massive understatement. You hadn’t been able to stop yourself from sending your men some enticing pictures before the race.

“And there goes Gasly, into the gravel. We’ll have to see the replay on that but I think it was his own teammate that made contact with him. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, it was Alpine on Alpine going into the corner and now Gasly will have a lot of time to make up for it. Ocon will be lucky if he doesn’t get a penalty for that aggressive move.”

You looked at the place board and saw the seven drivers who had already retired from the turbulent race. Max was one of them, and he was pissed.

You shoved the phone back in your purse and cheered with the rest of the grandstand as Lewis passed by, holding first position with 12 laps to go. Right on his tail was Charles but the real battle was taking place behind him for the third step on the podium.

It was a dog fight between Fernando, Esteban and Lando with less than a second separating each car. You screamed louder than anyone else as they shot past the lap line and a few heads turned your way but you ignored them. You weren’t even in bed and these guys were making you scream.

Another lap passed without incident but then the fight for third took a dangerous turn when Lando pushed Fernando wide and Esteban tried to take advantage by slipping past on the inside. Fernando ended up grazing his car along the wall while Lando thought he was in the clear only to clip the front wing of Esteban’s car and the two of them careened off the track.

Shock rippled through the crowd as another three cars were retired and their drivers were pulled apart by the marshalls that were trying to clear the track under a red flag. It was messy and you could almost taste the testosterone in the charged atmosphere.

“I don’t even have words to describe this race,” David commented. “That will be the third restart and what a change that makes to the standings. We have Hamilton in P1, Leclerc P2, Stroll P3, followed by Sainz, Russell, Gasly, then miraculously both Williams’ and AlphaTauri’s drivers are almost guaranteed those much needed but elusive points - if they can just stay on the track and cross the finish line in one piece.”

You couldn’t sit and listen to the spectators around you any longer. They all asked variations of the same question - what the hell had happened to the drivers? Blue balls was the answer. That’s what had happened after four weeks with no racing: all those explosive male hormones were building and building, and your nudes had struck the match.

You had been messaging most of the guys over the mid-season break, exchanging scandalous messages and promises of what they could do the next time they were on the podium, but you had stopped short of meeting up with any of them - no matter how much they begged. Your pussy hated you for denying it the pleasure but the waiting only increased the anticipation and made the climax all the better.

Plus the teasing was fun.

You slipped out of the grandstand and made your way to the motorhomes behind another fence for security. Ever since that first wild night you had received a Paddock Pass for every race and become a familiar face to the teams, though they never knew the extent of your ‘friendships’ with the drivers.

“Max isn’t here,” Tommy said just as you reached the door to the luxurious motorhome.

You winked at the Red Bull assistant and pressed a finger to your lips. “I’m just leaving him a commiseration gift. It’s a surprise, so no blabbering.”

The busy man left with a shake of his head and you closed the door behind you, sliding the bolt into place so no unexpected visitors could interrupt you.

Max’s bed was made with the precision you would expect from someone trained in the military, not a racer, and there wasn’t a single crease in the duvet cover.

“You’re such a perfectionist,” you muttered before jumping onto the bed and messing it up. His scent still clung to the pillow and you grabbed it as you rolled onto your knees, shoving it between your legs before hiking your dress up to your waist.

You grabbed your phone and set it up against the headboard as you hit record. “I’m going to miss you tonight, Maxy.” You sucked on your fingers before trailing them down your body and pushing your panties aside. “It could’ve been you I was riding.”

You moaned as you ground yourself shamelessly over your fingers and his pillow. Your head fell back and you grabbed your throat, gently squeezing it as your eyes fluttered shut.

“Oh, Max,” you cried out, rolling your hips faster until the wet sounds of your pussy filled the air and were definitely picked up by the microphone. “You’re going to dream of me tonight when you lay your head on this pillow. It’s going to make you so hard, you’re going to fuck your hand and imagine it’s my cunt squeezing you tight until you explode.”

Your words ignited the orgasm that had been building and you cried out as you came all over his pillow. Your body shuddered from the aftershocks and you tasted the release on your fingers, knowing it would drive him wild when he saw it. “Sweet dreams, Maxy.”

You made it back to the grandstand in time to see the final lap and you were on your feet screaming with the rest of the crowd as Lewis crossed the finish line first, soon followed by Charles and Carlos. You were giddy at the thought of sharing the three of them later and joined the mass of people as they began to make their way down to the track that was opening to the public.

You were well versed at having to push your way through the crowd and you knew you had time to get to the front since the winners were still on the big screen having their post-race interviews. You were only half listening to them as you inched your way closer to the stage.

“There was a very competitive atmosphere out there today, why do you think that was?”

Carlos and Charles looked at each other before looking down to hide the knowing grin they shared but it was Lewis that answered the interviewer.

“I mean first and foremost it is a race, so it will always be competitive. But, I think, for me at least, it’s been a long four weeks off the track and we were all eager to get back behind the wheel and more importantly back on the podium.”

“Speaking of podiums, it looks like our time is up.” He shook hands with Lewis, then Charles and Carlos. “Congratulations once again. Well deserved.”

You reached the front barricade as the guys climbed the stairs to the stage up above and their eyes scanned the crowd knowing you were somewhere among the throngs. Carlos spotted you first and slapped Charles’ chest before pointing your way. You blew them a kiss and gave them a wink, their smiles growing as they stepped closer to the glass balustrade. You crossed your arms and to anyone else it would have been an innocent gesture but from their vantage point it pushed your breasts to the very edge of your low cut dress.

Your phone vibrated in your purse and since you weren’t all that interested in the national anthems playing you pulled it out. Your scoff was swallowed by the sound of the crowd and you searched the shadows around the cordoned off areas to find Max staring back. Even with the distance you could see the harsh cut of his jaw as he clenched his teeth and his arms were crossed defensively over his chest.

You didn’t even bother to address the message he had sent, instead you replied with the video you had taken in his bed. You watched with a keen interest as he reached into his jeans and pulled out his phone.

Blue eyes turned to black as his pupils dilated and he ran a hand through his hair, tugging the dirty blond strands while he fisted his phone on the other. His thumbs flew across the keyboard as he typed his response before turning his back and leaving the celebration while you started at the reply.

You're going to pay for that.

Mummy don't know daddy's getting hot At the body shop, doing something unholy

The heat on the dance floor was quickly soaring as hands roamed your body. Charles’ entire front was pressed against your back and controlled the sway of your hips to the music as his lips grazed your neck and he whispered filthy words for only you to hear.

He wasn’t alone.

Lewis and Carlos’ bodies encircled you, obscuring your obscene display of affection from the dense crowd dancing to the music too. They were taking advantage of the disorienting strobe lights and the fact everyone else was in a drunken world of their own, it was daring even for them.

Charles pinned your hands behind your back, trapping them between your bodies, as Lewis stepped closer and used his thigh to push your legs apart. Cool air rushed in and kissed the heat of your pussy as your skirt rode up higher the more Lewis nudged your thighs apart.

“Hermosa,” Carlos groaned as he noticed the lack of lace panties beneath. “You forgot something when you were getting ready.”

You licked your lips and leaned back against Charles so your dress pulled up even higher and Lewis cursed lowly.

“I didn’t forget anything.”

And when you want it, baby, I know I got you covered And when you need it, baby, just jump under the covers

Your cry was swallowed by the chorus as they descended on you.

Carlos’ fingers were at your entrance, gathering the evidence of your need and using it to glide over your clit while Lewis and Charles left burn marks on your neck from the short beards they sported. Their hands cupped and squeezed and probed until you were lost to the overwhelming sensations and ready to float away like the clouds of dry ice around the room.

“Unless you’re planning to fuck me on the dance floor, we need to go.”

“The idea has crossed my mind,” Charles admitted between sucking at the sensitive skin below your ear.

“Time to go,” Lewis ordered before you could reach for his belt buckle, the only one out of the three men capable of using his head to think with and not his dick.

Carlos pouted as he pulled your dress back into place but he knew it would be coming off in a matter of minutes when he got you upstairs.

The music drifted away as the elevator doors closed in the lobby and Charles pushed you back into Lewis’ arms. “Don’t let her move,” he warned as he dropped to his knees.

Carlos’ hand slapped over your mouth in time to smother the moan that was ready to fill the small elevator when Charles’ tongue teased over your clit. You squirmed as you tried to roll your hips, silently begging for more, but Lewis curled a strong arm around your waist and pinned you to his body.

The floor levels ticked by and the higher they rose the closer you got to heaven.

Everywhere you looked you were blessed with the sight of the men around you and their infinite reflections in the mirrored walls. Even when your head fell back in ecstasy you swayed under the image on the ceiling, spying Charles’ eyes that rolled up to look at you coming undone over his tongue.

Ding!

Charles rose swiftly to his feet, pulling your dress back into place before the doors opened and a body filled the doorway. He already knew what had happened from the dazed look in your eyes and the way Lewis had to support your unsteady legs by holding you against him.

“What the fuck, Max?” Carlos asked as he stepped in front of you, Charles too busy wiping his lips to speak.

You wouldn’t say you were shocked to see him somehow get your room number from the receptionist - he was a world champion - no one would say no to him, even if it was a breach of privacy. You actually found his tenacity extremely hot, that and the way he stood blocking the exit with fire in his eyes.

“Mate, move out of the way,” Lewis said as he shifted you into Charles’ arms, though your legs were no longer trembling.

Max ignored them all and held your stare. “What’s my number, babygirl?”

You shook your head to try and clear the haze that your orgasm and the champagne had brought upon you but it didn’t work and you asked him confused, “What?”

“What. Is. My. Race. Number?” he asked, taking a step closer with each enunciation.

“One?”

“Good girl, that’s correct.” Max smirked as he came to a stop in front of Lewis and looked at you over his shoulder. “I think that means I won.”

“That’s bullshit, you DNF’d get over it,” Charles stated, knowing well enough the pain of missing out on a night with you because he crashed out earlier in the season.

“Wait,” you said, stepping between the four of them. “What if he’s right? What if the reigning champ can have me whenever they choose, off-track too?” You circled around the group seeing them contemplating it. “After today's race standings you all have a shot at winning the championship.”

“Hang on,” Max interrupted but you held up a finger to your lips to silence him.

“My body, my rules. So, what d’ya say boys?”

Lewis, Carlos and Charles looked at each other for a moment before Lewis’ lips parted in a grin. “I’m up for the challenge.”

“Did you not see how fucking messy it was out there today?” Max asked, stunned by the turn of events.

“Fuck it, I’m in,” Carlos chuckled before looking at his team mate.

“Max is right, it’s going to be an expensive season for repairs,” Charles said with a shake of his head before locking eyes with you and starting to smile, “but it’s not my money. I’m in.”

You walked out of the elevator, patting Max’s hard chest as you passed by. “This is what you wanted, big guy. Now, are you coming, or do you want to brood in the hallway all night?”

It was no surprise that he came, and came, and came again.

All of the men were athletes and the stamina showed when they were ready to go round after round. You were an overstimulated mess when you collapsed on the sofa, a sheen of sweat coating your skin. You could barely think with your head on cloud nine and their cum leaking down your legs.

“Our little cum slut is cock drunk,” Max teased as he took a seat beside you and pulled your head onto his lap. “You have another round in you, don’t you, babygirl?”

The sofa shifted as Carlos sat down at the other end, his strong hands starting to massage your feet. “Let her rest for a minute.”

“Just because you have nothing left,” Max scoffed and turned your head to him. His thumb traced your swollen lips with a smirk before parting your mouth. “Some of us can go all night. Right, Hamilton?”

Lewis barely lifted his head up from where he lay sprawled across the carpet, his chest rising and falling fast as he caught his breath. He had absolutely ruined you with the fast pace he had set while he knelt behind you and fucked you until you couldn’t hold yourself up any longer. Charles had been there to keep you up on your hands and knees with a fist full of your hair, right before he filled your mouth with his cock to silence the screams of pleasure.

All Lewis could do was raise his thumb in response as Charles returned to the living room with an armful of water bottles from the minibar. He tossed one to each of the guys before kneeling beside your head and cracking the lid of another and raising it to your lips. The cool liquid quickly soothed your dry throat and chased away some of the exhaustion that had settled into your relaxed muscles.

“Better, hermosa?” Carlos asked as his massage crept higher up your legs.

“Mhmm,” you sighed contentedly, letting your knees part for him. The temperature in the room rose rapidly and even Lewis found the strength to rise from the ground to drink in the sight. You might as well have just hung an open for business sign out and you chuckled at the hungry looks they shared. “Much better.”

Click here for part three.

Tagging: @slytherheign @alwaysclassyeagle

#f1 smut #f1 fanfic #f1 imagine #lewis hamilton x you #max verstappen x you #charles leclerc x reader #carlos sainz x reader #lewis hamilton smut #max verstappen smut #charles leclerc smut #carlos sainz smut

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l4long-winded · 7 months

Note

mad carmy with sassy reader that doesn’t take his shit!!! (smut!)

ask and you shall receive (happy valentine's day, love)

o.s. fire in the freezer

summary: it's opening night and you're stuck inside the walk-in with your boss, carmen. can the night get any worse? (carmen berzatto x afab!reader)

reflection: this took me embarrassingly long. i had a lot to get through these past weeks. i still have a busy schedule with college and life, but i want to do more of these. i have about 3 or 4 prompts i need to get to, but i think i'll be able to manage. also, this might be ooc for some people? idk, it's fiction. please enjoy and feedback is always appreciated!

warnings: cursing, longwinded descriptions, angry!carmy, angry!reader, takes place during the season 2 finale (pretending claire doesn't exist), implied enemies to lovers, reader's pov, reader is a line cook(?), arguing, surprise kissing, walk-in shenanigans, dirty talk, mention of fridge guy, use of the word "slutty," walk-in p in v, unprotected (please let me know if there are other warnings i need to add)

word count: 2,140

( this work has been cross-posted to ao3 )

“What the fuck did you just say?”

It’s alarming how crimson his face appears considering the walk-in’s cold air biting at both your limbs, how you imagine the rising heat of his breath combats the freezer’s chill, puffs relaying the steam building within him. It’s a miracle it doesn’t fume from his ears. Fifteen minutes have passed, fifteen minutes of remaining silent as Carmen mouthed off about the unfairness of the situation, how his cell phone doesn’t have service, how he doesn’t know what the fuck is going on out there when your coworkers have seemingly abandoned the both of you to fend for yourselves. You don’t blame him. You don’t want to be in here any more than he does, but there’s this wretched thing about Carmen that he does when tensions are high and his temper flies off the handle. He gets mean. He becomes hurtful. You’ve worked with him long enough to see it occur, the venomous speech he mutters at a high volume as a tendon in his neck protrudes and the person being yelled at flinches in shock. Though such poison’s never been doused over your head, he’s never directed that anger towards you.

Until now. He inadvertently called you an idiot along with the coworkers busying themselves outside the walk-in. There’s not much they can do about the freezer’s handle breaking, and you both know that, but he’s not calming himself down, nor is he making this easier on you when you’re stuck in the same situation as him. You two are prideful and confident in your actions in the kitchen. Sure, you’ve butted heads a few times and stared each other down from afar, but your relationship’s been tame for the most part.

“I said, ‘Stop acting like a fucking cunt.’” You bark back. So much for being tame. You couldn’t stop the words from spilling from your mouth. Everyone has the grace and privilege of being able to ignore him since he’s locked away here with you, but unfortunately, you’re not as lucky. You don’t appreciate being talked down to and you won’t take it from your boss just because he’s irate and the world is crumbling beneath your feet. You want to head out there and contribute to the restaurant as he does, but you’re also not spewing hateful soliloquies to the one person who could possibly understand what you’re going through. That, and it’s fucking cold in here, you’re irritated by the temperature frosting over your skin. It’s opening night and you’re stuck with your least favorite person in the kitchen—your least favorite person possibly in Chicago. The last thing you’re going to do is sulk near the stored ingredients while he shouts and pounds away at the freezer’s door.

This is his fucking fault. How fucking dare he? Why are you paying for his sin?

Just as it did the first time, the second time renders him, miraculously, speechless. It’s not because he doesn’t have anything to reply back, this is evident in how he purses his lips together and clenches his jaw. You notice it flex as he swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing, previously hidden by the collar he’s now unbuttoned. He stares at you with a pointed gaze, eyebrows ever so slightly knitted inwards. Neither of you has to utter a single word to understand how much you can’t fucking stand each other, how Carmen is purposely holding back since you’ve caught his petulant tantrum and condescended him for it. The absence of sound between you two is grim as if he’s waiting for the apology, but fuck him, you’re not apologizing for shit. Instead, you mimic his facial expression like he’s staring into a mirror, crossing your arms against your chest for good measure to illustrate the guard he won’t be breaking through anytime soon.

Carmen steps forward. It’s a singular step. There’s only backwards to go before you end up meeting the shelves, so you remain where you are. His body heat radiates, prominent not because you’re that close, but because the freezer’s becoming more unforgiving the longer you’re both in here.

“Say it again,” he breathes.

You blink rapidly as if he’s a mirage, as if he’ll disappear, and as if he’s grown two other heads. He wants you to say it again? Is this some kind of a test? It has to be. There aren’t many other options, besides how he steps even closer within your vicinity and away from the locked palisade ahead. The temperature rises, and the fucked part about it is that your body’s instinctual need to survive urges you to collide into his frame to share feverish flames instead of standing in the chilled atmosphere on your lonesome. Carmen’s mandibles buckle, a sign of his bottled intentions, of what he really wants to say. You wish he’d just spit it out rather than goad you into the unemployment line.

“Call me a cunt again,” he dares and confirms your previous thoughts. He’s standing so close, proximity lacking to the point where his hot breath ghosts your nose and cheeks. Again, your instincts urge, and again, you will them to shut the fuck up and let me handle this. How convoluted and capricious you are. Arguing with innate impulses on the inside while arguing with your superior on the outside, fastened to him inside an icy cage as your coworkers take advantage of the kitchen’s liberating space without you. Fuck them too, they haven’t told either of you shit in what feels like forever and Carmen’s acting out of character. He’s not supposed to be with you like this. He’s not supposed to be gazing at you like he’s about to blow up. He’s not supposed to be challenging you into an impossible situation. You’ve called him a cunt twice. Twice. Three times symbolize the three strikes before you’re out.

Well, if you’re going out, you’re going down swinging your bat as hard as you can, spins and all, dirt flying and wind ricocheting. He’s thrown his virulence. Now, it’s your turn.

“Cun—nnnmph,” is not what you expected to utter, but before you could punctuate that final phoneme, Carmen’s mouth swallowed it greedily, and transitioned it into an astonished noise muffled by his lips. Your eyes flutter, searching his face for a way to explain why the hell this is happening, but suddenly, Carmen shifts his head, the kiss he’s sprung on you deepening, and an accidental swipe of his tongue shuts your eyes. All in a matter of two conflicted seconds.

“Thought you,” you murmur between his stifling, repeated connections, “wanted me to,” he’s practically shoving his tongue against yours, “call you a–”

He grunts in frustration. Seemingly towards you. His hands grasp your biceps, forcing your eyes onto his as his breathing shallows out. “Believe me, it won’t be the only time you put a cunt in my mouth tonight,” he says sharply. You don’t know why your thighs tremor. You fault the near-hypothermia.

“Shit, you’re cold,” he states the obvious as his attention turns to his palms on your arms, as if he didn’t just plant such a filthy image in your mind’s eye. His thumbs stroke over your goosebumps, examining your skin with careful scrutiny. If you didn’t know any better, you swear you see worry cross his visage for a moment. His hands aren’t any better, but they’re warmer than your flesh, and skin-to-skin makes this situation a little more bearable. You won’t tell him that, but he seems to have an idea of how you’re not flinching away from his touch. In fact… you’re leaning into it.

“Of course I am. It’s the walk-in,” you say sarcastically. “Wouldn’t be here if you had just called Tommy,” you add, but he exhales a heavy breath through his nose. He shrugs off his jacket to his Chef’s Whites, rolling his eyes, muttering something to himself about Tony, Terry, and Tommy, fucking fuck it all.

“Shut the fuck up, put this on, and turn around,” he hands you the jacket. He had the prerogative of wearing sleeves in here, so he’s not as frigid as you are (temperature-wise, anyway).

“It’ll keep you warm while I fuck you,” he promises, hard gaze on your eyes. You gulp, a desire within you to tell him off for being so presumptive of what’s happening here. Yet, that desire is viciously censored in favor of the desire to do as he says, or more so, the idea of being railed to distract you from how cold you are.

You slip his jacket on, pivoting on your heel, biting your tongue as you lean forward and grasp the metal belonging to the shelves ahead. The inside of his sleeves are already snug and cozy on your arms because of how long he wore it. You hate it. The smug bastard’s not supposed to be right.

You gulp as Carmen’s knuckles graze your lower back, lifting his jacket out of his way for a moment to tug at the waistband of your pants. You hear his breathing stutter, his hand skimming down the sensitive flesh of your ass as his eyes trace over the thin fabric of the panties you chose today.

“Is your underwear always this slutty?” He asks, his voice lower than you’ve ever heard it. To be fair, you didn’t know this would be happening today.

“Find out tomorrow,” you settle for. It seems to be the appropriate response because he groans and kneads at the flesh gathered at your hip as an appreciative gesture. This won’t be the last time this happens. It can’t be.

There’s rustling behind you. You hear the sound of Carmen’s belt before you feel the cold metal prod at the meat of your posterior, sent forward since he’s not fully tugging the leather material from the loops of his pants. It’s just enough for him to get at his zipper, the noise causing your hands to grip the shelves ahead of you even tighter. Carmen’s thumbnail slides along your skin as he tucks his thumb under your panties to position them to the side. The blunt head of him strokes at your entrance, his opposite hand pushing between your shoulder blades to exacerbate the bend at your hips and the pretty dip in your spine.

“You’re really hard for a man who’s surrounded by this much cold,” you mutter smugly. It’s all your doing, revving up his engine through simply challenging him amid his grizzly attack.

However, the smugness dies on your tongue once Carmen pushes in. He didn’t offer you a smartass response, instead offering you the breach of his length, the swollen head of him prying at your soaked walls up until his hips are flush with yours. Your trembling returns and it’s no longer because of the cool air, but because Carmen begins to thrust the second your cunt gives to him. Wrath fades from your mouth, and a moan replaces it, indicating your lust and enjoyment from this, much to your own dismay.

“M’this hard because I was thinking about how fucking warm you’d be around me,” he grunts, leaning over you and jostling you with his strong movements. His pace isn’t brutal, but the pressure of each of his thrusts is. He pulls back and then buries himself as deep as he could go, the sounds of his effort being in the way his hips collide with the flesh of your ass, a smack every time he hits it just right. And fuck, does he hit it just right. The horrible thing is it’ll stroke his massive ego. The great, amazing, toe-curling thing is that it feels like nirvana. The tip of his cock becomes acquainted with a pivotal point within you that has your vision blurred, unable to make out a single label of the cans and containers in front of your face.

“H-how warm is it?” You manage. Somehow. Conversation isn’t your prerogative while you’re bent over and being receptive, gasping for air every time you attempt to shift your hips back into him and he surpasses another inch inside of you. But you’re curious.

“Like a damn furnace,” he answers quickly, increasing his pace just as fast as the sentence leaves his mouth. “Tighter than I imagined,” he confesses, his forehead pressing into your shoulder. Your feet shuffle apart, legs spreading further for him as you pant and do your best not to whine. You can’t give him that satisfaction.

But it’s no use. His name shoots off your tongue like a prayer, a Freudian slip, his middle finger stroking along your clit in time with his bruising plunges.

“Wet, so, so fucking wet,” he continues, “drenching me and setting me on fire at the same fucking time.”

Fuck, you hope they never open that door.

#l4l.writes #carmen berzatto #carmen berzatto imagine #carmy the bear #carmen berzatto x reader #jeremy allen white #the bear fic #the bear #fire in the freezer #l4l.oneshot

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wordbreaker · 3 months

Text

The Red Wolf ★ Prologue

For centuries, the Gods⏤Old and New⏤have flipped coin after coin to decide the fate of the Realm. Now that all seems lost, for the Dead are too strong, the Long Night, too thick, the Winter, too cold, it is now men's turn to play this terrible game. May the Red Wolf bend Time and Blood, Fate and Death before Winter comes and swallows the Dance of Men.

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x GOT!Snow!FemReader* & Aegon Targaryen x GOT!Snow!FemReader*

*Y/N does have a given name at some point in the story, being a bastard and all.

Word count: 5.2K

Warnings: Canon-typical violence, brief allusion to SA

Note: In honor of Season 2 dropping in a few hours... Enjoy a good ol' time-traveler fic from yours truly. As always, English is not my first language. I do apologize if some typos and grammatical errors managed to sneak into this.

HIDDEN BEHIND the few battlements where bodies were not yet piling up, you whispered a prayer to the Old Gods⏤your eyes closed to avoid seeing the battlefield that had become of your childhood home. Desperation made people do funny things. Stupid, naive things, like praying. The Gods had abandoned you long ago, for what kind of Gods would destroy their creation in such manner?

The Long Night had plunged Winterfell into a bath of fire and blood, with the singular smell of Death emanating from it and turning stomachs inside out. You had been soaking in the puddle of your own vomit for several minutes.

It was too much. Too much for you. Death was coming for them all. An unstoppable Death. A Death that walked, that fought, that killed without ever tiring.

You tightened your grip on your sword, Endbringer, forged from the blade of Ice, the last memento of your father, Lord Eddard Stark. It would not be long before you joined him. He and Catelyn and Robb and Rickon. The Stranger had feasted on the Starks without mercy. Soon he would taste your frightened flesh. Would you find them on the other side? Or did Hell reserve a particular place for bastards?

A roar pierced the deafening din of the battlefield and the ringing of your ears. Up there, far from the burning barricades and piles of bodies, Jon, your twin, was riding Rhaegal and burning the White Walkers.

But Death always came back.

Winterfell, seat of the North, was ablaze with dragonfire. The irony would have pleased the rhapsodists, had they been there to sing the fable.

The bards will sing no more when Westeros is but an open grave, a voice whispered to you. You buried it⏤along with everything else⏤under the smell of burning flesh and the clash of swords.

You stood up on wobbly legs. A white strand of hair blocked you vision but you did not care, for nothing could be clearly seen anymore. The smoke from the dragon's fire, the bodies throwing themselves on top of each other, the Dead leaping into the courtyard, the cannonballs flying over the ramparts, the arrows whistling through the air, the buildings exploding. It was all chaos. You dived in it head first, sword in hand.

You had lost sight of Arya an hour earlier. Your little sister was probably fighting for her life in the corridors. You prayed for her. You prayed for Jon, who was fighting the Night King. You prayed for Theon and for Bran. Most of all, you prayed for Sansa, imprisoned in the crypt, perhaps the only place in the North where the dead did not yet walk.

Your thoughts drifted to your father, whose remains lay among the women and children, the weak and the new, the Ancestors and Descendants. As foolish as it sounded, seeing him reborn, even for a moment, in the skin of a White Walker, would give you the courage to fight.

The Old Gods knew you sorely needed it.

You shut out your memories and stumbled to the entrance of the tower. Above your head, arrows pierced the wind and stuck into the ground made of flesh and blood. Enemies, allies, the dead, the living, all merged into one agonising, shapeless mass. Miraculously⏤perhaps the Gods had heard you⏤you managed to reach the tower and immediately rushed down the stairs. You stepped over the fallen bodies, for Death had already stained the stones of the castle, and counted the remaining steps.

It would only take a few minutes to reach the lower rooms.

Of Winterfell, you remembered everything. Seven years had not been enough to erase the precious memories of your childhood. It had gone too quickly, tainted by the horrors and scheming of the South. For a long time, you had wondered what had killed your carefree spirit.

You had first thought your childhood had been crushed along Bran's legs but⏤forced to flee King's Landing at a mere four and ten because you were seen not just as a bastard but as the bastard of a traitor⏤you had soon realised the truth.

Your innocence had died the day Jon Arryn had been murdered, for Death brought naught but bad omens and destruction.

The Starks had gone South and, in doing so, had sealed their doom.

You longed for the years before Robert Baratheon had visited and destroyed everything you knew and held dear. You⏤eager to forget the ravaging war⏤closed your eyes and let yourself be basked in what had been and would never be again.

Sheltered by the porch at the entrance to the Great Keep, Vayon Poole, Maester Luwin and Father were discussing the affairs of the people. You, seven years younger and sitting next to Arya and Sansa, were trying to embroider a flower without pricking your fingers and lamenting over the fact that you could not join the boys who, further down in the courtyard, were practising their swordplay with Rodrik Cassel. Bran was still walking. Robb was breathing and Theon had not yet betrayed them. Familiar faces were everywhere: Hodor, Mikken, Farlen, Hullen, even Gage the cook. House Stark was alive, far from the shenanigans of the Lions and the capital that had damned them.

In the distance, a frail voice mumbled tales from another age.

Old Nan would always knit far-fetched stories.

Except they were anything but. The Long Night had well and truly begun again and, in its darkness, it would swallow up everything you loved: your family, your friends and your people, if they were not already walking with the dead.

A growl echoed through the corridor. You raised Endbringer, ignored the trembling in your hands and continued forward⏤to stop was to die, you told yourself. In silence, you plunged in the darkness of Winterfell's corridors. You squinted your eyes, trying to make out a silhouette, a noise, anything, but the dead entangled on the floor remained dead.

For how much longer? you thought darkly.

Another growl, close by. You swallowed and turned. Two sparkling blue eyes were staring back at you. Shivers ran down your spine. Your hand trembled around your sword⏤your lifeline and perhaps your only chance of escape. You thought of Old Nan and, with only fear and adrenaline for a brain, attacked.

The White Walker let out an inhuman scream, somewhere between a shriek and a hiss.

The sound of Death.

It was tolling your bells.

It put so much force into its blow that you had to take several steps back when you parried it. For a brief moment, you wondered whether Endbringer would resist. Was Valyrian steel mere iron in the face of Death?

Your years of combat training seemed to disappear. No reflexes, no tactics, just your survival instinct to guide and defend.

You did not stand a chance.

The pack survives, a voice whispered to you. But where was Sansa? Arya? Jon? You were the only one in the corridor⏤a Lone Wolf against Death.

You raised Endbringer and brought it down hard on the Other's shoulder. It split the air and the putrid remains of flesh. Its arm fell to the ground, but it began to twitch and reached for your ankles. Its fingers snaked to avoid your heavy sole and came dangerously close to your heel.

A kick and the arm disappeared further away, entangled in a pile of bloody limbs, but you knew it would be back, disturbing as that thought was.

Exhaustion made you heavy and slow. Your blows grazed the creature in front of you without ever bringing it down. Death never wavered. It delivered blow after emotionless blow, the only evidence of the soul that once resided in its body being those two big blue eyes, too bright to be the work of the Gods.

A guttural howl split your throat. Then came a stabbing pain, which burned through your flesh and blood.

The Other had thrust its sword into your shoulder.

You felt the blood trickle down your collarbone, colonising your flesh and armour.

Then you heard it. Above you, a desperate voice screamed.

Dracarys.

You stumbled to the wall and snatched the nearest torch, throwing it at the White Walker. Immediately, the creature writhed in an agony that might have been pleasurable had you had time to admire it, for you seized your only chance of survival and, ignoring your heart pounding against your temples, ran.

You ran and never looked back. To look back was to die, you repeated to yourself. And you, Y/N Snow, were not done with Life yet.

Death would have to wait.

The thick walls of Winterfell were not enough to drown out the shrill cries of the dragons. They shook the centuries-old walls around and above you. The smell of burning flesh tickled your nose and stirred your stomach. The terrible smell reminded you of funeral pyres.

Winterfell was nothing but a pile of rumble and dead, you realised as you passed the disjointed body of a young soldier, too young to fight. You prayed to the Old Gods to spare your twin, your other half, and continued your journey to the lower halls. You passed the library, stepped over more disfigured bodies and made your way through the burnt carcasses of the Others. Everywhere, fire and death embraced in a touch that gave you goosebumps.

The journey from the tower to the halls took an eternity. Fear and fatigue slowed you down, as well as the weight of your armour on your slumped shoulders.

Your body was giving up.

At the turn of yet another corridor, you finally came across a small room, which you hastened to enter. Glancing around, you realised it was meant to be used by servants. The mattress still retained the shape of a body, which was probably no longer breathing.

A sudden howl ripped through the corridor and startled you. Someone banged on the door but you threw yourself against it and held it shut. With a trembling hand, you closed the latch, then the chain, and kept your shoulder pressed against the wood.

"Help me!" someone screamed. "Please! There's too many! I've got a wife... A boy… My boy… Please! Have mercy! Let me in!"

Already, the cries of distress had mingled with inhuman gurgling. You turned your head and closed your eyes before sliding back against the door and bringing your hand to your trembling mouth.

Valar morghulis.

You soon lost track of the minutes, as you weaved your agony through the darkest hours of Westeros.

Other soldiers pounded on the door, but all died at its threshold. Their bodies, still warm, rose up immediately, animated by an evil and ancient force. You ignored their nails scratching against the wood and the inhuman growls that shook it. Blood stained the stone-floor and snaked its way up to you, further staining your already-crimson armour, but you kept your eyes and lips closed. The black behind your eyelids was only slightly different from the Long Night, but it gave you an illusion of protection you could not refuse.

With a trembling hand, you wiped your face, bathed in tears, blood and mud, but the wounds on your cheeks remained open and your tears, wet. The ringing in your ears continued to torment you.

"Pull yourself together, damn it," you whispered angrily.

But already your vision was blurring. The adrenalin had left your muscles, leaving you paralysed with pain and fear. Soon came the sobs that shook your shoulders and tore at your lungs.

At last, your body and mind were coming together to cry out their agony.

A whistle pierced the din of your sadness and put an end to it. You raised her head, frowning. You turned and, just in time, avoided the axe that suddenly slashed the door.

You screamed.

The blade disappeared, leaving a hole large enough to see blue eyes, and came down on the wood again. A hand reached into the hole and tried to grab you, but you threw herself to the floor and crawled away. You clung to the mattress. Behind you, the growling intensified and sent shivers down your spine. No human could make that noise.

The walls of the room closed in on you.

The Old Gods had exhausted their mercy.

It was time to die.

The axe whistled through the air and lodged itself in the mattress⏤a mere centimetre away from your hand⏤scattering strands of straw and bits of flesh on the floor.

How many men had lost their lives on that blade? How many throats slit? Decapitated heads? How many mutilated bodies?

Your hands fluttered around your belt. Your fingers brushed against all the weapons within your reach without ever grabbing one. You looked up. The door wouldn't hold for long. The White Walker was pounding on it relentlessly.

You grabbed the dragonglass dagger Jon had given you⏤I won't be there to protect you. Come back to me alive, he had told you, unaware of the years you had spent defending yourself alone in Westeros. Trapped in the cold at the Wall, how could he have known? How could he understand what had happened to you?

You shook off these thoughts and took a deep breath before standing up on trembling legs. The biting north wind blew through your armour and chilled you, but the sweat dripping down your back still clung to your skin.

You had to leave, but where? Your childhood home, reduced to a graveyard of endless rebirth, was falling into ruin. Soon, the White Walkers would have invaded every room and soaked the stones in blood. How many of your brothers in arms had already joined the Night King’s ranks?

On the other side of the door, the Dead was going mad, his movements, more abrupt. You clamped your hands over your ears and curled up on the floor. You let the dagger drop. Your breathing quickened. You were going to die. Like all the others.

Robb was dead. Rickon. Father. Uncle Benjen. Catelyn. Was Arya still alive or had she abandoned you too? What about Jon? What was the point of staying alive when everyone else was dying?

Another knock rattled the door. You jumped and stepped back, but your shins collided with the mat.

You did not stand a chance.

The door burst open.

The wood exploded in deadly splinters.

The White Walker pounced on you.

An unparallelled smell enveloped you. You screamed and struggled. You clawed at mouldy flesh, struck fragile bones and tore off dirty rags. Blood beaded on your fingers as you deflected a blade from your throat, which the creature's rotten teeth lunged at. You pushed against it with all your might.

The Other fell to the ground and stopped moving.

Your breathing was all you could hear as your heart raced. For a second, you thought it was over, but the White Walker suddenly stood up and crawled towards you.

Death never tires.

You tried to fight it off, kicking it wherever you could reach: on the head, on the shoulders, in the neck... but the creature kept moving. Axe in hand⏤when did he get it back?⏤its skeletal arm split the air and scraped your ankle. You fell to your knees screaming and, in a desperate move, plunged your dagger into its accursed blue eye.

The creature exploded into fragments of ice. A few of them grazed your face.

You swept them away with a wave of your hand.

Down here, caught between your Ancestors and the Dead, victory had a bitter taste. You limped out of the room and wandered through the corridors, which you did not recognise. Winterfell was becoming unknown before your eyes, ravaged by Death and the despair of the unlucky Survivors.

Several times, lone White Walkers blocked your path. You managed to get rid of them, but never escaped unscathed. Their dull blades always pierced your armour and flesh, leaving you aching.

It was not until you reached the west wing of the castle that the screaming stopped and, at last, the calm of the North enveloped you in its thick cloak. The silence made you shiver. How it contrasted with the din of war... It was almost terrifying.

Finally, at the end of a staircase, a new door.

You wasted no time in entering and barricading the room. You slid the wooden palisade into its notches and stepped back, frightened to see a new axe appear.

When you turned round, you gasped at the awful sight the Gods had painted for your eyes. The fireplace at the back of the room lit up a pile of tangled bodies in one corner. The shadows played and illuminated the severed arms, the decapitated heads, the men turned into trunks. Nothing on the canvas was complete; everything had to be put together to become human again.

You staggered back, nauseous and swore before pressed one hand against your stomach. The other covered your mouth in a last-ditch effort to save you but the smell of decay, so characteristic of death, delivered the fatal blow. You turned your head and bent down to vomit your guts out.

"A Wolf far from her pack," a seductive voice said. "Snow seems to have numbed the blood."

You spun around and squinted but could only make out a red cloak. The flames swirled and licked at its ends, but always left the fabric intact. The stranger stepped forward and revealed a familiar face, a worrying face. Her eyes sparkled, hiding secrets that made you shiver. Stories of New Gods and diabolical powers, everything you hated⏤for you were a child of the North and the North prayed to nameless Gods.

You placed one hand on Endbringer's pommel, sat down against the wall⏤opposite the bodies⏤and wiped your lips. The steel of your armour was an icy kiss against them. You relished in the sensation and remained silent. You no longer had the strength to answer riddles. You no longer had the strength for anything.

You just listened to the Living and the Dead killing each other, head against the wall, eyes closed to ignore reality.

Minutes passed, until finally you grew tired of the sound of swords and the agony of men. You opened your eyes and immediately met the gaze of the red witch. Melisandre, you remembered. Ser Davos had said that name with such that you could not have forgotten it even if you wanted to.

You jerked, your armour digging painfully into your ribs, and cleared your throat, but the witch's gaze never wavered.

In the distance, a man screamed for his life. You winced and finally broke the silence.

"I hear the clamour of battle, the cries of pain, the prayers shouted over the blows of swords, but the Night does not give way and the Dead still march. We won't win," you murmured.

You met the witch's eyes but quickly looked away, towards the fireplace where the flames were still dancing, untouched by the torments of men.

"Can't you ask your Lord to save us from this hell?" you mocked.

"The Lord of Light does not interfere with destiny," replied the sorceress, who chose to ignore your blatant irony. "The New Gods weave everyone's prophecies and they have seen just to–"

You scoffed. Your chapped lips stretched into a smirk. You shook your head and laughed. Your lungs hurt like hell but the hilarity made the pain sweet.

"The Gods," you giggled. "Old... New... Seven or one... The Gods abandoned us to our fate a long time ago. Perhaps this is our punishment... to die here without even the comfort of Faith. Our shroud shall be neither prayer nor forgiveness, only the putrid smell of death and the warm bodies of our fallen brothers. Isn't it time to just give up?"

"Why aren't you out in the courtyard then? Among the corpses, looking for Death you so desperately seek? Why are you hiding in this room when your sister and twin are fighting hard against it and heading off to their destiny?"

You looked up at the witch.

"Arya?" you whispered hoarsely. "Did you run into Arya? Is she alive? What of Jon? Why is he here? Wasn't he riding Rhaegal just a few minutes ago?"

The witch sighed, suddenly so human, as terrifying as it sounded, and knelt down in front of you, who watched her with teary eyes. The red-haired woman took your hand and clasped it in hers. Her cold skin sent shivers down your spine, but you made no attempt to free yourself from the embrace.

"Rhaegal is no more. Even dragonfire is no longer enough against the Night King. The darkness is already feasting on his scales."

You pressed your hand against your chest. A nameless agony seized you and tore at your heart. Poor beast, you thought.

There was a time when dragons would only fly from verse to verse in the history books you loved dearly, the ones recounting the fables of the Targaryen dynasty. How many times had you told their fables to Arya, when your sister could not yet read?

Dragons had danced in your imagination throughout your childhood.

Then, miraculously, they had danced over Westeros, brought back to life by Daenerys Stormborn, whom your father had spared. You had not believed the tales at first and had regretted it when the dragons finally danced over Winterfell.

Tonight, dragons no longer danced. Like everything else, they were dying. A tear rolled down your cheek. You wept for this majestic creature, who had also fallen victim to the War of Men.

"No one is immune to the vicissitudes of fate, Rhaella, not even dragons."

You blinked, frowned, and tore your hand away from the witch's grip before grabbing Endbringer.

"My name is Y/N," you corrected, your voice sharp.

"Are you quite sure? Didn't your twin tell you? Of his discovery? Of his destiny? I've told you. No one is immune to his vicissitudes," the witch repeated. "Not even you."

"I don't understand..."

The witch moved closer and took one of your hair, wrapping it around her finger. You clenched your jaw but made no move to interrupt her. Don't struggle or it'll be worse, a snarling and masculine voice whispered. You closed your eyes and tried to bury the painful memories that were clawing to the surface. Hands on your body and in your hair. On your lips and cheeks. Under your dress...

"Did you never wonder where that colour came from? Such white…. You don't see hair like this in those parts. Even your grey eyes, no doubt those of the Wolf, can't hide the warm blood that runs through your veins. Your twin was luckier in that respect, I must admit."

You violently shook yourself off and stood up, your eyes raging, vile memories once again buried deep.

"You do not know what you’re talking about, witch," you spat out the last word. "Flames make your head spin. My father was Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell, Warden of the North and Hand of the King. My mother was but a whore whose true name was lost when that cunt Joffrey Lannister killed my father. Stop this nonsense, or I'll not hesitate to kill you."

"And this fiery rage, this bloodlust? Does it come from the Quiet Wolf, whose honour and calm cost him his head?"

You growled and grabbed the woman's hair. You drew your dagger and pressed it against the woman's milky throat, ready to draw blood. Would it be the singular colour of flames or the common red of mortals?

The witch grabbed the dagger with her bare hand and deflected it. Her fingers remained intact. No blood spattered against the flesh. You blinked, but the skin remained white, immaculate.

Impossible, you thought.

"I can show you. The truth, first. Your destiny, then."

You did not understand at first. It was only when the witch moved towards the fireplace that your eyes widened. You sheathed your dagger and took three large steps back. Your back hit the wall with the sound of steel and for that you were thankful.

"I have no use of your false God."

The witch ignored you and pulled a coin from her cloak before turning to face you once more. It looked like a Gold Dragon, worn and battered.

"Perhaps you would prefer to play a game, then. A game the gods have been playing for centuries, long before you were born."

The witch threw the coin at you. You caught it by reflex and turned it over to look at it. For a while, you caressed it and enjoyed its rough surfaces. The dirt, which the endless passing of hands had collected, masked the King's head, but you knew it was neither that of Robert Baratheon nor of Cersei Lannister's Bastard. Frowning, you began to scrape the coin with the tip of your fingernail. It first revealed a notched crown, then a lean neck, long hair and, finally, a name.

A familiar name, engraved just below the royal silhouette.

A series of shivers ran down your spine as your lips formed the cursed name.

AERYS II.

The Mad King.

"What are you waiting for? Flip it," Melisandre asked.

You opened her mouth, ready to insult her and demand her to stop jesting, but growls cut you off. You turned around.

In the corner of the room, bodies were stirring.

The coin was soon forgotten.

You unsheathed Endbringer, but the sword had lost its frightening glint. It was a miracle of the Gods that it did not slip from your weak and trembling hands. You could feel the burns and wounds that lacerated your palm and weakened your grip.

"What's going on?" you asked as panic ran up your spine.

Fear had already taken hold of your soul and made your knees buckle. Your stomach churned but you swallowed down the nausea.

"The Dead are waking up," the witch simply said.

You could not find the strength to scream. A feeling of despair crawled through your body and numbed your mind. There was no respite from the horror. How much longer would they have to fight? How much longer before everything died and was reborn as something evil?

The flames in the fireplace were still dancing. You glanced at the witch, but she was muttering unknown words, her hands clasped around her necklace.

She wouldn't be of any help, you realised. Already, legs and hands were emerging from the hill of flesh. They charged at you. You stabbed them with your dagger and ran to the fireplace. Growls rose up behind you but you ignored them and buried your fear deep inside before glancing over your shoulder. One of the Walkers was already hopping on one leg in your direction. Melisandre still hadn't woken up from her lethargy.

You did not have much time.

You turned back to the flames, which seemed to whisper incantations to you. They glowed brighter, twisting in a hypnotic dance and brushing against your armour.

Dracarys, they screamed at you.

You did not think, for there was no time, and plunged your hand into the fire, grabbed a burning log and turned to throw it into the pile of Dead. You clenched your fist and watched as the flames engulfed the rag of one of the bodies before spreading to the rest of the pile, turning it into a pyre.

The Dead began to sing out their agony.

You begged them to shut up but they never did.

Several creatures managed to escape the deadly embrace of the flames but, each time, you were there to stab them with your dagger or sliced them with your sword. You defended yourself for what seemed like hours, throwing torches and firewood at the crawling corpses, stabbing the few spared with your dagger and even decapitating the rare bodies that were still whole.

The Dead stopped singing after several long minutes and, at last, the pile of bodies came to rest. This time for good, you hoped. A naive thought, really.

Down here, the Dead never stayed silent for long.

You turned frantically towards the witch.

"We must lea–"

Air ran down your spine. You met Melisandre's wide-eyed gaze, fixed on a much lower point, and followed it. A blade was protruding from your armour. Not your dagger. Not Endbringer. A rusty, broken blade. You frowned and looked up at the witch.

"What is–"

"Do not speak," she ordered.

You touched your lower abdomen, suddenly dizzy. A warm liquid stained your fingers. It was only when you brought them into view that you realised what it was.

I was blood.

Then came the pain.

Everywhere.

Unprecedented.

"J... Jon..." you hiccuped. A wet cough shook your lungs. Drops of blood stained your lips and the witch's porcelain face. "I want... Jon."

Before your frightened eyes, the witch picked up the coin from earlier and placed it in your palm. She closed your fist and enveloped it in hers. You watched her do it, eyes blurred by the pain. Your body was already giving out on you. It was cold, too cold…

Winter is coming, your father said.

My father is dead, you replied.

"Āeksiō ōños."

A voice pierced the fog that was gradually inhibiting all your senses. You blinked.

"W-what are you...?" you managed to whisper between coughs. "... doing?"

Your breathing quickened. Your knees buckled. You tried to free yourself but the witch dug her nails into your hand.

"Stop!" you screamed, terrified.

"Āeksiō ōños. Āeksiō ōños. Āeksiō ōños!"

In your grip, the coin caught fire. The flames devoured the Mad King's head and, with it, your palm. You screamed, feeling your skin getting torn apart by the fire. Nausea turned your stomach. You choked on a mixture of blood and bile and staggered backwards, but the red witch did not let go.

"Obūljagon se jēda se ānogar. Kostagon se mele zokla lilagon isse vīlībāzma se ērinagon toliot vējes. Lord of Light! Come to us in our darkness. Cast your light upon us. For the night is dark and full of terrors!"

Everything went up in flames.

When you opened your eyes, the dead were no longer singing. An entirely different cacophony resounded. Swords and screams deafened you. You tried to speak but your body, numb, remained motionless, your mind, confused, your lips, closed.

Had the Long Night ceased?

The lights were blinding.

There was no light in Winterfell.

Nausea turned your stomach in waves. Too weak to lift an arm, you let yourself drown in it and choked on your vomit before closing your eyes.

"...ko...b…sa?"

Someone was talking to you, you realised, but you did not have the strength to find out who.

"Skoros aōha brōzi issa?"

Your voice faded in your throat. The metallic taste of blood colonised both your palate and tongue. You coughed, the wet sound hurting your chest, and tried to sit up but could not find the strength to do that either.

"Stomach... Blood..." you managed to stammer out before everything went black. Again.

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