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jeonstellate · 2 months ago

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the ghost of legacy

a legacy joins the paddock for the season — and oscar is the only one not keen on befriending her.

ᯓ★ oscar piastri x fem!räikkönen!reader

ᯓ★ brief mentions of weight, sainz-leclerc divorce, & wound; depictions of insecurity, grid chaos, & confusion/denial

ᯓ★ paragraph format — 4.1K words

masterlist

[pic’s full credit belongs solely to its owner]

ᯓ★ direct sequel to the ghost of monza!

ᯓ★ all italian & spanish words in this are from google! yn is kimi räikkönen’s daughter, but there are no physical descriptions mentioned.

ᯓ★ remember how i mentioned that tgom might be my first & only f1 fic? well . . . i’ve been persuaded otherwise :D i have some regrets about this, so i’d appreciate it a lot if y��all can share some feedback <3

The dawn of a season carries fresh, untainted hope. It brings a clean slate in most things — and in everything that matters. It resets the clock back at zero, and draws a mint coat for the starting line. It opens a new book with blank pages, awaiting fresh ink to flow and fill it with something worth remembering.

As poetic as those sound, Oscar can’t care any less. A new season’s a new season, meaning — for the most part — another chance at winning either championships.

For the remaining part? It means coming back to Monza, A-K-A where he met [first name] for three years in a row.

The Italian Grand Prix is still a lifetime away, but there are already moments where he finds himself wondering if she’ll still drop by and ask about Fernando’s whereabouts this season as well. With three consecutive years under their belts, it kind of feels like a tradition by this point. It’ll be too much of a shame if they break it so close to the fifth anniversary.

Honestly, he’s a little tempted to ask the older driver about his niece, but he’s also a little scared of what the other might do if he shows interest. Fernando looks like he’ll slash his tires as a form of intimidation. He doesn’t seem to be above purposely making contact during a race to prove a point, either.

It’s not like he can cut the middle man altogether. He only got her first name. There are a lot of [first name]s in existence. An Instagram search won’t cut it, especially if her profile picture isn’t of herself. A browser search will be just as impossible, if not even more so.

Oscar lets out a sigh without realizing. Is it better, after all, to let the universe decide if they should continue their little tradition?

"It’s not that bad," he hears Lando say next to him. They’re currently in the general hospitality, with a tray of free food they were promised for attending the pre-season ‘grid bonding’ and meetings. As the hospitality doesn’t open until the season officially starts, it’s just everyone in the paddock — the drivers and the crews — occupying the floors.

He looks at his teammate for that, silently hoping he’ll get a clue on what he’s talking about, because he has absolutely no idea what conversation topic they’re currently on. He didn’t mean to zone out but, alas, it’s just so easy to.

He decides to take a shot in the dark, after a moment of not perceiving any clues. He assumes — based on nothing — that he’s talking about the food. "The presentation might be intentionally deceiving."

Lando isn’t impressed. "You just need to gaslight yourself and think it’s good, if that’s really the case."

"No need! It’s actually good!" Pierre interrupts from one of the full six-seater tables. "Try the soup!"

Oscar isn’t really sure if he trusts Pierre’s tastebuds but he thanks him, anyway.

He guides Lando to sit at the eight-seater table next to Pierre’s group, albeit intentionally at the further side so he doesn’t feel pressured to socialize in the beginning of his lunch. He sits on the second seat from the edge, diagonally from the laptop he’s assuming someone forgot to take with them. Lando sits directly across him.

They eat in silence. Normally, one of them initiates a conversation over food. Today, though, Oscar lets his teammate clear his tray without a word. The other had — wisely and questionably — foregone eating breakfast to make the promised buffet worth his while.

He munches on his lunch thoughtfully, uninterested in taking advantage of the free buffet to the fullest. He — as the rest of the grid — has to watch his weight this close to the first race of the season, anyway, to avoid the risk of jeopardizing the car’s speed. He’s not really a fan of intensifying his gym workouts to burn extra calories if he eats way past his normal fill, either.

He zones out while looking directly at the stickers on the laptop cover. He’s not completely foreign to such practice, since his own sisters have decorated their personal laptops with a collection of stickers. As such, he knows how the stickers and their placements essentially show a portion of the laptop owner’s personality and interests.

Deciphering the laptop owner’s interests proves to be a good ‘during lunch’ activity. It doesn’t require a lot of thinking since most of them are pretty straightforward. Some are definitely out of context. The rest are completely obscure to him, which he doesn’t think too deeply about.

Then there’s a selected few that Oscar feels he should know, like the W resembling a fire and the RKN, but is currently blanking on.

The third general hospitality floor, by some coincidence or another, houses all drivers — reserved or otherwise — for lunch. They aren’t the only people on it, as there as also crew members scattered around, but it’s a bit impressive that the entire grid chose to settle on the same floor. Perhaps it’s an (un)intentional consequence of the grid bonding they’re forced to participate in.

Oscar gains more tablemates halfway through his first plate when Ollie and Kimi sit on the edge closest to Pierre’s group. He gains a seatmate when Alex sits next to him and George appears next to Lando.

There’s some sort of harmony in the chaos of overlapping conversations. Even more so when the tables talk to each other without bothering to get up.

Oscar thinks the chaos already peaked when the British and French drivers started defending their respective cuisines from the other’s attacks. Unfortunately, he’s eventually proven wrong when someone makes a deal out of someone else’s entrance to the floor.

"—laptop on a table," he hears a voice say. He can’t see whoever it is, though, since they’re blocked from his view by another.

"Go grab it first then I’ll introduce you to our drivers." The person blocking his view — someone from Williams, judging from the team uniform — moves slightly, allowing him to finally catch a glimpse of the other.

He sees the same Williams polo shirt first. Then— the matrix must’ve glitched.

He doesn’t remember blinking nor zoning out, but the next second he comprehends has [first name] diagonal from him across the table.

It feels wrong — and he isn’t quite sure what ‘it’ is. It is the fact that they’re currently worlds away from Monza? Or the fact that she’s wearing nothing that can get her mistaken as a tifoso?

[First name] gives him a wordless nod of recognition before excusing herself to the rest of the table, her laptop tucked between her arm and side.

"Osc, do you know her?" Someone in front whispers to him. He can’t be bothered to identify which gridmate, though, much less give them a reply. After all, his attention has stuck to [first name] like a moth to a flame.

Oscar has no shame about blatantly listening in on a conversation he obviously isn’t a part of.

"Alex, Carlos, this is our engineering intern for this year," the Williams crew member introduces the three. "She’ll be shadowing your race engineers alternatively."

"I’m Alex Albon, car twenty-three." He watches Alex as the latter holds a hand out for a handshake. "Welcome to team Williams."

[First name] takes his hand, "A pleasure."

Carlos reacts late, so it’s almost as if he’s hesitant to introduce himself. "Carlos Sainz, car fifty-five." Unlike his teammate, he doesn’t offer his hand for a shake. He just nods his head once — which she then returns with the same energy. "I see I got custody of you in the divorce."

[First name] lets out a laugh that doesn’t even reach Oscar’s ears. "[First name] Räikkönen — a child of the Sainz-Leclerc divorce, apparently."

Räikkönen?

Kimi Räikkönen?

Oscar must admit, despite understanding that her father is a former Formula One driver since last year, this revelation is still surprising. It isn’t unexpected, as Kimi Räikkönen was one of his top suspects then, but shock is definitely still there.

Probably because he now has an irrefutable evidence that the ghost of Monza is actually an F1 champion’s daughter.

And because there’s also a small part of him that feels embarrassed for not realizing right away. After all, [first name] wears her father’s number proudly — and her favored RKN logo is close enough to his RKKNN. Quite literally, the answer has been right in front of him this entire time.

"Räikkönen? Like Kimi Räikkönen?" Alex echoes his thoughts unknowingly. "That’s so cool."

"Exactly like Kimi Räikkönen," she replies good naturally. "He’s the one who passed it onto me."

The younger Williams driver is handling the revelation better than he is, as far as he can tell. But maybe that’s because Alex didn’t spend a good year thinking she’s a ghost. "No way."

"Yeah, [first name]," Charles pipes up from his seat at Pierre’s table. "No way you broke the Ferrari alliance!"

[First name] looks over to the side to meet Charles’ eyes. "There is no such thing."

"There is so!"

She doesn’t give the Monégasque the satisfaction of responding. Instead, she just returns her attention to the Williams drivers. "I look forward to working with you, Mr. Albon, Carlos."

She gives them a smile so genuine, the media would’ve scrambled to capture it — partly in disbelief that a Räikkönen could smile like so.

And, for a brief moment, Oscar could’ve sworn [first name]’s smile widens a little when their eyes meet.

(Un)fortunately, she’s gone before he can think too much about it.

The paddock stayed the same with [first name] Räikkönen around, more or less. ‘More’ because the fight for the title is still as cutthroat as the last with new rivalries, without necessarily interfering with the civility between them drivers. ‘Less’ because her presence has caused some drivers to gravitate towards her — unintentionally orbiting her every chance they get.

Fernando is a given. As are Charles and Carlos, based on their already-founded closeness in the hospitality. Alex follows soon after. Then Max.

That’s not an exhaustive list. If it had been, most of the grid would’ve been name-dropped, for sure. Maybe even have all— except one. Oscar.

Oscar doesn’t feel deserving of being [first name]’s friend, for a reason he can’t really put into words. [First name] is . . . [first name]. And he’s . . . just Oscar.

He doesn’t ignore her, of course, nor does he pretend she isn’t there when they cross paths. He just doesn’t go out of his way to be closer than acquaintances and gain her favor. He exchanges brief ‘hello’s with her whenever they meet going opposite ways. He returns her nods and waves of acknowledgment from across rooms, and has initiated them on occasion whenever he spots her first.

He doesn’t take detours to drop her off to her destination. He doesn’t sit with her whenever she’s alone, either. Because then, it’ll be a quiet kind of friendship — and he can’t be her friend.

He’s just her acquaintance, at best, and he’s content with that.

After all, [first name] has more than enough new friends. She doesn’t need him — his friendship, that is.

For her part, she seems to respect the invisible line he has drawn between them. Almost as if she can see it as well as he does.

But, perhaps, it isn’t actually as defined for her. For she has no qualms about crashing his pity party on a sidewalk.

"Are you lactose intolerant?" [First name] appears in front of him seemingly out of nowhere.

Oscar takes a second to process what just happened. Even then, he’s still not sure if he’s understanding correctly. ". . . No?"

She nods, almost approvingly, before handing him a paper bag. "Here."

"What’s—" He starts before she can commence her regular habit of disappearing.

[First name], who is already steps away from him, turns back to face him once more. "My dad says it makes everything feel better."

He lets her go after that, albeit her response just made him even more confused.

When he finally opens the paper bag, Oscar finds a spoon, a bottle of water, and a sealed half-pint of gelato in his favorite flavor.

Something in his chest stirs.

The general hospitality is set to house the entirety of the grid drivers for the nth time this season. Another drivers’ meeting is scheduled to start in thirty minutes, and — in true fashion — less than half have made their way up to the room.

By the time Oscar shows up with a pack of others he met on the way, majority of the rookies are already there. Punctuality has obviously not been drained — or, at the very least, influenced — out of their systems.

"George!" Kimi calls for his teammate’s attention as soon as he spots him amongst the crowd that’s barely entering. "Can we adopt [first name]?"

George’s confusion is evident in his stance. Behind him, Oscar needs to stifle an amused laugh. "What?"

"She sang the Italian national anthem for me!" In all honesty, he isn’t following the Italian rookie’s logic. Thankfully, he isn’t the one who needs to respond. "She can also speak Italian!"

He enjoys the view of the older Mercedes driver buffering for an answer from the seat he secured next to Carlos. Even more so when the younger one of the duo pulls out a pleading look with his "please."

He doesn’t know how he found the strength to, but George eventually replies with a non-answer. "You should probably ask Toto about that, Kimi."

"No! [First name]’s ours!" Alex disproves, protectively. "Get your own [first name]!"

"She was ours first!" Charles joins in. The Monégasque likes reminding people she’s a tifoso first, before anything else, during moments like these. He hasn’t quite moved on from the fact that she chose to intern at Williams rather than Ferrari. "Why do you think she knows the Italian national anthem by heart!"

Lewis lets him do all the talking, as Carlos does with Alex. Both seem to have — wisely — figured out [first name] will put a stop to it soon enough, with or without their varied inputs.

And, sure enough indeed, a high pitched sound comes from the speakers built around the room — which instinctively makes everyone cover their ears.

"Princesa!" Oscar can somewhat hear Fernando scold somewhere behind him. "Stop—"

Thankfully, the sound stops within three seconds — and before they actually have to plead for their hearing.

Ever the nonchalant, [first name] merely scans the crowd of betrayed and confused looks before nodding to herself, "Good." It is then that he realizes she used the feedback to silence the room, with the least energy wasted possible.

He knows there’s a chance that might’ve just sent the room into more chaos. After all, they might all be grown up, but they can also a bunch of children sometimes. It was a fair gamble and yet, somehow, she looks like she was completely certain.

He salutes her for that; for having confidence and conviction on par with that of a Formula One driver.

"You’re our race engineer intern, no?" Carlos inquires before expressing his thanks for the printed meeting agenda she handed him and Alex. "Why are you the one doing all of this?"

She shrugs, "Still an intern."

"Do we get one, too?" Esteban asks for the majority somewhere to his left. It’s a fair question, drivers’ meetings don’t usually have the agenda printed out. It’s usually kept hidden from them, to avoid getting them antsy or, worse, letting them organize their protests.

[First name] points to the Williams logo on her uniform. "I’m only required to make Carlos’ and Alex’s lives a little easier."

They find a stack of meeting agenda copies by the front of the room a minute after she disappears. A sticky note on top reads, don’t pass out if they start fighting.

(She becomes their instant favorite to set up meeting rooms. Unfortunately, the FIA has forbidden Williams to let her facilitate their next turn for the same reason.)

The drivers’ rooms are the most private areas in the paddock. It’s where drivers leave their belongings while they’re out and about. It’s where their visitors usually stay to keep out of the crew’s way until the race. It’s where they sneak in a snooze when they don’t get enough sleep from the night before.

However, despite that, the drivers’ rooms can’t be locked from the outside. The McLaren ones, at least, for the time being while their PIN code lock is being updated.

No one knows about the update except for him and Lando, but he still made sure to stash his belongings inside the lockers instead of leaving them lying around just in case. He has faith and trust in the crew, of course, as he has worked with the majority of them for years, but the garage is also an open space. Someone with malicious intent can easily slip in, unnoticed.

In hindsight, it makes the most sense for someone to slip in when either he or Lando wins a race since the garage will be mostly empty then. Thus, a small part of him isn’t surprised to discover that his driver’s room isn’t exactly the way he left it before leaving for the race he ultimately won.

Nothing is taken, thankfully, and the only thing out of place is the sealed half-pint of gelato on the table — which has a spoon tied on it by a familiar handcrafted OP81 bracelet.

[First name]’s.

There’s no meaning behind her very apparent attachment to it. At least, not in a way that is connected to him personally. For all he knows, she only refuses to stop wearing the bracelet — even at the behest of drivers close to her — because of the young fan that handed it to her.

"You don’t have to keep wearing it."

"I want to."

However, nevertheless, seeing the bracelet with his initials and number around her wrist always spark the same unvoiced feeling in his stomach — the one that grew from what stirred in his chest then.

And, somehow, knowing that she intentionally left her prized OP81 fan-made merch behind almost feels like a concession. Like she’s leaving him behind.

That’s an irrational jump in reasoning. After all, they’re not even friends. He knows that — but, apparently, the rest of his body doesn’t. He can easily blame his heightened emotions and illogicality on the adrenaline that hasn’t completely left his body, but that doesn’t make it any less real.

For a reason he is yet to understand, he’s wholeheartedly convinced [first name] isn’t just letting the bracelet go. She’s letting him go, too. And that thought, however illogically sound, doesn’t sit well in his stomach.

He can’t accept the bracelet with the plausible implication it carries. He can’t accept her concession. He doesn’t want to— He doesn’t want her to give up on him.

(He understands nothing. They’re not even friends.)

Thus, like a man with no time to lose and everything in line, Oscar takes off running before he can even comprehend where his feet are taking him.

"[First name]," he calls in relief when he sees her exit the Williams motorhome the same moment he arrives. His voice comes out a little breathless, a little winded from the impromptu run he did around the paddock post-race. He doesn’t care.

"Oscar," she turns with his name on her lips. Her shock is only evident in her eyes. "What are you doing here?"

"To return your bracelet," he admits, "and to thank you for the congratulatory gift."

She makes a sound of acknowledgement as the shock filters out of her eyes. "You’re welcome. You can keep the bracelet."

Her words sting, like alcohol is poured over an open wound.

(Ridiculous. They’re not even friends.)

"I don’t want it." He says abruptly, instantly regretting the words the moment they’re out of his mouth. "I mean— the bracelet looks better on you."

"I don’t really like orange."

Oscar swallows down the instinct to correct. Protecting the McLaren papaya pride is the least of his worries at the moment. "It goes well with Williams blue—" there’s a hint of desperation in his voice now. He finds it difficult to swallow— "and Ferrari red."

[First name]’s silence stretches. He begins to wonder if she’s back into being a mere hallucination; if he didn’t actually catch her on time and she’s bound to disappear in front of him any second.

He unconsciously holds his breath, anticipatory and unblinking. Praying, almost.

(They’re not friends.)

Then, finally, the silence breaks with her laugh sounding like scoff. She walks towards him with amusement dancing almost unnoticeably in her features. "Okay."

Oscar exhales in relief. He slots the bracelet back around her wrist with a silent promise even he is yet know.

(They’re not friends.)

The season calendar ultimately reaches the Italian Grand Prix, as it does every year.

Oscar, for someone who had been looking forward to it before the new season even started, has forgotten about it as soon as the new season actually began. In his defense, his plate filled at an alarming rate, especially with McLaren’s steel determination to become this year’s World Constructors’ Champion as well. It doesn’t help that he’s already seeing his only reason every weekend, either.

Well, ‘only reason’ might be a little too vague. [First name] is certainly part of that reason, but a big part of it is the tradition they unknowingly made. At least, that’s what he’d like to think, anyway.

Even if it no longer rings true, especially since . . . then.

They’re much closer since, having erased the invisible line between acquaintanceship and friendship. They still do everything they used to do, but now they aren’t limited to just those. They occasionally take detours now. And sit together, when they happen to take a break at the same hour. They hide together, too, when they crave the quietness of being away from everyone else.

Yet, despite the undeniable spike in their time spent together, their tradition at Monza has never been brought up. Not even in reminiscence.

As such, any thoughts about their tradition only lied dormant until the day of. More specifically, when Oscar finally finds himself sitting idle in the McLaren motorhome with a view identical to where he had seen her appear for the last two years.

It’s a bit too late to phone her to drop by just for the unspoken tradition’s sake. So, alas, all he can do now is will the universe to bring her to the McLaren motorhome for any reason it can think of.

Oscar lets himself wallow. He figures it’s better for him to do it now, since his brain refuses to let him think of anything else. He can’t risk jeopardizing his team like that, in case his compartmentalizing ability decides to fail him later.

"What are you doing?" A familiar voice pulls him back to reality. He focuses back to comprehend [first name] standing just outside of his personal bubble, clad in her Räikkönen tifoso gear. He almost forgot how she looks in them, having gotten used to seeing her in Williams colors for the past several months.

He spots the OP81 bracelet resting on her wrist. Its black and papaya theme compliments her red and white tifoso outfit.

A small smile forms at the corners of his mouth. "Waiting for you."

She tilts her head slightly in confusion, but doesn’t question him. "Sure."

He decides not to alleviate her confusion. He just starts walking towards the door, completely trusting she’ll follow him out. He gestures for her to exit first. "Fernando should be in the Aston Martin garage at this hour."

She obliges. "I know." Unlike the previous year where she actively fought to not walk next to him, she doesn’t even bat an eye when he claims one of her sides as they make their way to the Aston Martin area. "I’ve always known after our first meeting, actually."

Oscar can’t quite believe his ears. "Seriously?" [First name] affirms. He suddenly begins to question their exchanges during his first two years in McLaren, skimming through vague memories for clues. "Then why—"

"I needed an excuse," she shrugs nonchalantly. Acting as if she isn’t singlehandedly rewriting the way he views their little tradition. "I had quite the crush on you."

At the bluntness worthy of a Räikkönen, Oscar stops working altogether.

ᯓ★ it’s a little awkward to have an note at the end bc of my tumblr formatting, but it’s important to me that you guys know that yn definitely got banned on purpose. it’s meant to loosely parallel kimi in that grill the grid ep where he lost on purpose so he could leave, heh.

ᯓ★ also! 5/6th way to finishing this, i realized this prolly would’ve been better if i showed yn’s pov— but that was a lil too late, so osc’s pov had to do. yn’s pov would’ve had more angst in it, too, && idk if y’all dig that. lol. in all seriousness, i hope y’all enjoyed somehow <3

#oscar piastri x reader #op81 x reader #f1 x reader #oscar piastri fanfic #op81 fanfic #f1 fanfic #oscar piastri imagine #op81 imagine #f1 imagine #oscar piastri fic #op81 fic #f1 fic #oscar piastri #op81 #mclaren formula 1 #mclaren formula one #f1 #formula 1 #formula one

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lxdymoon0357 · 1 month ago

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hiii, is it possible to request for yandere juvelian and yandere max competing for female reader whose just a simple noble and is overall funny af, but kinda shipes max and juvelian, also if possible can you make her have like a homie bro relationship with regis, thank you! if you want to do any modifications please do! its my first time asking so idk very well 😆

(warnings: I added a little age gap between Juve and Max and reader so reader is a bit older. Reader is a tutor and trainer. Murder, competitions? SA accusations. Eventual Juvax poly, pretty short..weird format, Forgive me!)

Oh no! My ship is falling!

☁ Due to you being a female noble and being close to Regis, you're introduced to help Maximilian sword-train with him and you're also there to train Jubelian on etiquette since you were a young adult. You were a bit younger than Regis, but he trusted you, seeing as you were pretty popular in society's eyes for being a light-hearted and rather funny individual despite the simple title you adorn.

You bow softly to the young lady of Floyen, Jubelian Floyen. Shimmering hair, round eyes and pale, clear skin. Everything a man would want, but she was rather.. manner-less, the softest way to say it and Regis wanted her to flourish.

And who better than you, someone beloved by many around for being so funny and interesting and a social butterfly yet maintaining the noble stature.

Sh bowed back with a sweet smile, and the smile stayed throughout the lesson. You showed her how to bow for a dance as she nodded, taking the position and fixing her dress, gently pulling it down to fit her better and bowed.

Unfortunately, she ended up showing off her cleavage a bit more than she likely intended to, right? You hummed, nodding as you felt butterflies in your tummy— No! You were far too old for her!

And when the lesson ended and she was waving you off home with her father, "Please get h-home safe" Regis said, as he waved you off and once you were out of sight, he waved his hand infront of Jubelian who frozen with a infatuated smile.

Oh you are SO hers..

Regis nodded as you pushed Maximilian backwards, using your sword to block his attack and push him back as Regis hummed in approve, "Faster, your majesty" he said firmly.

But sadly, you used your body to your advance a bit more than Maximilian did, using your sword to trap his lebow and push him back onto the ground, throwing his sword aside as you pushed the tip of your wooden sword against his throat and made a little slashing motion,

"And you're dead." You hummed as Regis looked down with a sigh, handing you a towel, "You were good. But you need to train a bit more"

You said, handing him some water and extending your hand with that gorgeous smile as Regis patted his back as you helped the crown princee up on his feeeet,

"No worries." Regis said as you extended a towel and Maximilian took it, thanking you silently as he stared at you.

Oh that smile. He couldn't wait for it to be all his!

☁ Jubelian would always make herself the finest lady for you and Maximilian would always try to be better even if albeit the two were sort of inexperienced. You always made them smile, somehow.

☁ They both DESPISE each other. Maximilian thinks Jubelian is a very spoiled, pompous brat who is his master's daughter while Jubelian can't stand to have you around Maximilian. The two constantly made snide remarks and even silent ways to kill each other off; ranging from missed assassinations to soft threatening letters.

"Duke Floyen and Lady Juvelian, so nice to have you both this evening." you said brightly, bowing to both in your lacy and extravagant dress as Regis smiled to you. A banquet in your name.

"Thank you for inviting us to your banquet" Regis hummed as you handed him a glass of expensive champagne, "It's always my pleasure" you said

Maximilian quickly walked over as you greeted him too, but far more sweeter than usual. Jubelian noticed his looks on you as Maximilian noticed her look on you, "Crown prince. I'm assuming you met Lady Jubelian?" you smiled sweetly, making Maximilian feel warm as he nodded, stiffly, bowing to Jubelian and Jubelian did back awkwardly.

To you, it looked as if they had feelings for each other and felt shy almost, the crush catastrophe of actions and behavior.

"Awwhhh, how sweet. You two can get to know each, you both look adorable, no, Regis?" you smile as Regis sighed, not really keen on his daughter with Maximilian as you pulled him away to give Jubelian and Maximilian 'time together' making th tow feel disgust at the idea of themselves with anyone but YOU!

"Crown prince, are the word of kindness just not in your vocabulary or what?" Jubelian asked, hissing to Maximilian as Maximilian rolled his eyes,

"Lady Juvelian, wer you always this annoying pompous brat?" he asked, leaning close as the two awkwardly stood aside in a deep conversation, having forced together by you who misunderstood that they have feelings for each other.

"You should know..there is a reason Lady Y/N doesn't want you to close to them" "And there is a reason Lady Y/N spends more time with your father than you."

The two could feel annoyance on each other and wanted to kill the other right now. But instead thee two still continued to look for you.

Usually they'd love to beat the other, but right now, they were busy watching you talk with someone, not even Regis. Regis would be fine, he was almost your brother-figure.

But you invited them to a a little event of hunting, and the two could never deny YOU anything. You were their goddess. But you were also popular, sad thing was everyone came to talk to you.

Maximilian was feeling his fingers graze his sword in annoyance a bit.

Oh my GOD! So fucking annoying..

☁ But one thing is, they're both far more normal to have each other a competition. Other people, not so much. Both of them have a way to kill off their competitions who are not each other. Juvelian uses public humiliation, social suicide and worse before using Maximilian or her father to plant crimes on them and Maximilian is the one to have them executed by accusing them of assassination.

☁ From killing them off during hunting season to standing up for each other in trials where they accused their competition for any crime against them or even treason if strong enough. They're always sure to not lose as they use their titles to help them.

"Oh my god! EWWW!" Jubelian grumbled, feeling the blood of some man ink her dress as Maximilian rolled his eyes, stopping his horse and pulling her up..

His sword had went straight through the man, he was not dead thankfully..just severely injured as he checke the man's vitals, Jubelian grumbled throwing her furry scarf onto the man..She will surely miss that scarf, you gave her so many compliments on it!

Jubelian grumbled, glaring at Maximilian who couldn't care less, this man had tried to flirt with you! No one other than them could do so..

Jubelian sighed, panting a bit, sprinkling her face with some water and using the blood to even make her cheeks slightly rosy, thankfully the sun had already made her slightly sweaty, as she used a little dagger to cut up her dress a bit.

And before anyone knew it, you heard a scream rip through the forest lines, which you and Regis recognized at Jubelian as he you both ran towards it, not caring you both weren't even on horses as someone blew the horse to halt the game.

You both ended up on a sight. Maxmilian calming Jubelian who was crying beside a man, she pointed to the man dead, crying roughly as Reggis scooped her in a tight hug and you cupped her face and checked her out. Maxmilian almost had the urge to throw his sword down and tell the truth.

But fortunately you turned to him, checking his blood covered face,

"Th-the man! H-hah-He..Hee tried to touch me!! And even hu-hurt the crown prince!" Jubelian wailed and by now, everyone was near the place. Everyone was murmuring between themselves, as you felt disgust, pulling Jubbelian and Maximilian close, trying to calm them.

The event stopped, with Maxmilian as a witness and the imperial throne with him, the man was arrested and Jubelian and Maxmilian could barely hide their happiness for you caring for them.

☁ Of-course, sadly to them. You think instead of them with you, the two look adorable together with how much they support each other during trials where harm is to come to the other, not knowing they're all accusations. They both stand scandalized when you both decide to set them up.

"Oh, calm down, Max..I know it's a bit private to not go anywhere with no one to escort us." You hummed as Maximilian was trying thide his happiness and his buzzing excitement..

Alone time..with you!

Well, you said you had a surprise, another little tea party of sorts. He could barely get you outside of his training sessions, but this was fine enough. Even if he had to be early, and with your hands on his eyes..it'll b a little hard for him to take off your clothes.

But he's fairly certain he can hold you up, maybe just ear a whole in your panties and—

"SURPRISE!!" you said loudly and brightly as you sat him down, "open your eyes!" you said brightly as Maximilian did just that only to come into sight with a little certain brat of his swording master, Jubelian Floyen and a little picnic.

Oh for fuck's sak—

"I kinda guessed you both had something going on, it's killing your father, Juve." Juvelian looked down in what you assumed was shyness, but was utter embarrassed. She thought she was going to be roughed up by your warm hands against a tree.

A soft, sweet lady like her, roughed by you..an older, more experienced, popular lady of society who was always surrounded by men and couldn't go through with her tendencies for liking women. But you continued speaking—

"And I'm so happy for you two..but it's getting a tad bit annoying. So I made you two a picnic—", "Lady Y/N-", "Nono, you two will sit down and enjoy", "My grac-", "Oh, don't even try to deny it!"

You giggled, turning on your heels and bega walking off, "Anyways enjoy yourselves!" you said brightly, rushing off to give thm privacy..

Oh fucking hell..

☁ Sure, it does give way into them falling in love and then getting engaged sooner or later. But then, they only reinforce each other into getting you to like them. Constantly inviting you, flirting with you, killing anyone who even dares to ask for your hand in marriage. No woman like you belongs to anyone but THEM!

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nxlx96 · 5 months ago

Text

The Boy Saviour - Oscar Piastri x Reader (she/her)

Hi, this is my first time writing x reader, and the idea came to me at 3am a few nights ago while i was trying to sleep and hasn't left me live ever since. This is also my first time posting on tumblr so bear the simple format.

Trigger Warning: Non-consensual drug use, as in, reader gets roofied in a bar (Not by any named character nor any of the drivers, so rest assured on that sense). There is also recreational alcohol consumption and a bit of off-camera violence.

WC: 8381

Also, this is more of a pre-slash story rather than a romantic one. That's all I have to say, I'll shut up and let you read.

Please let me know what you think!

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · · 𖥸 · · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Post race driver parties are not an uncommon thing, although it is much more frequent in the European leg of the season; when everyone is in the same country or near enough they don’t care for a few hours of commute -Today's crowd was composed of Charles, Oscar, Max, Lando, Alex, George, Pierre, Carlos and as a star guest, Daniel-. These parties were often the perfect way to try and unwind from the pressure of the season and to smooth out whatever incidents happened on track. A few passive aggressive interchanges, three shots and everyone’s usually back to laughing and buzzing along.

Tonight they had followed Charles’ recommendation and gone to a club in the more residential area of Monaco, away from the yacht club and the casino. It was still tightly packed with people dancing on the dancefloor and the bar was busy as the drinks kept on coming, but the people there didn't care much for them and they were able to enjoy themselves without worrying about having too many eyes on them.

They had a booth in the second floor alcove, allowing them an almost full view of the dance floor if anyone cared to look down, but they were too busy roughhousing and laughing. She’d gotten used to it, of course, having grown as a girl in motorsports it’s simply part of the package. But sometimes she still needed a break when they were behaving like that, because while they recognise her as a proper rival, a true competitor despite gender bias, being drunk they sometimes forget they have size and strength to their favour while having their fun, and their brawling and heavy shoulder slaps felt a tiny bit too annoying while tipsy. Overwhelming.

So she excuses herself to the bar, shaking the glass that now only tinkers with half melted ice cubes. She gets a few nods and a stray thumbs up but the chatter continues like before.

The layout of the club had the bar as the centerpiece gemstone, the first thing you see when you come though the main entrance across from the massive dance floor. The dance floor’s design is full of different height platforms, similar to those at Jimmy Z. Their booth on the second floor has a perfect view of all the first floor, except for the public entrance, which is right underneath it.

Coming down the stairs, she followed the platforms' paths that led her to the bar once again, choosing a stool to sit and wait for the bartenders to take her order.

On the wall to her left, the DJ booth rises itself over all the platforms in its own little block, colored lights sprouting from the base towards the right of it, in the corner between the bar and the DJ there is the smaller door they were escorted through, directly from the parking lot behind the establishment. On the opposite wall there's a hallway that leads to what she assumes are the bathrooms, judging by the long queue of women she can see standing in the hallway.

A tap on the countertop brings her attention back. The bartender asks for her order in French, and her basic understanding of the language allows her to order a raspberry mojito without spluttering too much. A sweet enough concoction to help smooth out the straight Vodka shots they downed back at the table.

In no time, a new clear plastic cup was placed in front of her. A tall cup full to the brim with rum and sparkly water. A mix of raspberry puree, lemon and mint sitting at the bottom. She grabs the straw and starts mixing the cocktail, but the ice floating on top, and the decorative mint leaves that float at the top threaten to overflow the cup when she does, so she has to take another bitter sip of almost pure liquor before actually enjoying the sweetness.

She rested her elbow on the bartop and her chin in her hand, alternating between swaying to the music, looking at the bartenders preparing fancy and complicated cocktails and looking around the crowd dancing on the floor. It wasn’t exactly a quiet place, but it did provide respite from the boys’ rowdiness. Occasionally there would be people who sat in the barstools next to her. Some of them made some sort of small talk while waiting for their drinks to be ready, but no one lingered in her space for too long, allowing her to unwind on her own.

♩ ♪ ♫ ♬ ♭ ♩ ♪ ♫ ♬ ♭ ♩ ♪ ♫ ♬ ♭

As a woman in life, you learn to know when to follow your instincts. Call it bad omen, gut feeling or sixth sense. Sometimes you subconsciously register danger before you see or hear something. In this case, she felt a tight coil in her stomach -looking back it might have been more of a natural reaction than not a bad omen-, her adrenaline spiked like she’d been in the car after miraculously avoiding a collision. Her hands trembled a bit as she sneakily tried to look around. There was a couple at the bar two seats to her right, too engrossed in each other to be the source of panic. As she swiped to the other side, her hand caught the straw of her cup, pulling it from inside. She tried to catch it but it rolled over the edge of the bartop, falling to the ground.

Fucking breathe!

Straw forgotten, she grabbed the cup and twisted around in her stool, swiping the room with her gaze. To her other side there was a group of friends rowdily chatting, no different from the drivers’ table upstairs. He made eye contact with one of them, a guy not participating in the conversation. He seemed embarrassed to have been caught staring as he turned red and avoided eye contact. Too shy, too far away, probably not that either. She started scanning the crowd on the dancefloor with her heart almost at her throat.

Without a straw, she was left to swirl the whole cup to stir its contents. No one in the vicinity was particularly close to her bubble, or paying special attention to her, but the sensation didn’t go away. Some movement from the group at her side made her tense up, but it was a small part of them that walked towards the dancefloor. Shy boy included. The ones left at the bar were immersed in conversation, crowding together to hear themselves over the music. So she relaxed again.

She’d been tilting the drink to her lips when she finally realised that her nearly melted ice cubes had sunk to the bottom of the cup, and the whole thing looked cloudy. Her heart stopped in her throat, closing her airways.

I’ve been drugged.

The realisation sinks in, but it feels unreal.

Is this really happening to me?

The glass is on her lips, and she tilts it back, but keeps her mouth sealed; knowing that whoever did it must be keeping an eye on her. Her jaw is clenched so hard it’s almost difficult to breathe. Her first instinct is to throw the whole thing on the ground, but it’s less than half full now. Whatever they put in it has been in her system for long enough. Her next thought is to notify the bartenders, but she hesitates before turning around. There had been no one near enough on her side of the bar to get close to her drink, and she’d kept her hand over it at all moments; but of course the rim was wide and there were gaps between her fingers where someone could have dumped something in. For now the bartenders are also suspicious. Twisting her arm, she sets the drink on the table behind her; uncaring now to leave it unsupervised.

The damage has already been done anyway. She figures.

Her heart rate does nothing to slow down, and her thoughts do not help at all. She is in imminent danger with no way out. She’d left her purse at the booth upstairs, and doesn’t have her phone at hand. She looks up in the direction of their table. Under the strobing lights she can see the crowd of drivers has dwindled down. She can distinguish Alex, George, Carlos, Max and Lando sitting up there; the rest of them might be somewhere in the dancefloor. The idea of trying to get the attention of the guys up there was also discarded, since it will alert her assailant too, and she has no guarantee it’ll get the guys’ attention. Trying to find the others in the crowd sounds just as impossible a task as to find a needle in a haystack.

Her hands shake. The safest alternative that comes to her mind is to run to the women’s bathroom. The crowd queuing in the halfway has reduced, and the hallway looks dark; but it’s her best shot.

Over the corner of her eye something catches her attention. A white button up shit that looks almost fluorescent under the black lights. The figure skirts around the dancefloor, following almost the same path she took to get to the bar, but it’s clear his destination is not the same, since he doesn’t slow down and seems to be aiming for the bathrooms instead.

“Oscar!” She yells before she realises. It might have sounded a bit too strangled, a bit too panicked, but it catches his attention. She’s reaching a hand out to him, and he extends his arm for her to grab as he gets close to her stool.

“Oh hey,” He looks sort of confused, and she doesn’t blame him. They do gravitate to the same groups, But they’re not particularly close friends, so her calling out feels awkward for both of them. “Didn’t realise you came here.” He gestures awkwardly to the bar, but she’s too relieved to have found a safe person she doesn’t even hear what he’s saying.

She jumps from the stool, holding onto his wrist. “Come dance with me!”

He hesitates “... You know I’m not-” She’s still not listening, she hesitates between abandoning her cup at the bar, but grabs it at the last second and turns back to him.

“Just one song, come on!”

“I was going to-” He tries again, but this time she digs her nails into his skin, and desperately tugs him with a trembling hand. He doesn’t put any more resistance, simply trailing behind her as she tries to find a pocket of space for them among the moving bodies. As she walks she feels her blood rushing to her head. She’s feeling too tipsy and woozy for the amount of alcohol she’s consumed; and whatever hopes the whole thing had been in her head crumble like sandcastles at the sensation of her bambi legs. But she has her way out caught in a deathgrip by the wrist, she can still get out unscathed.

As soon as she finds space for them, she stops and turns around to face him, getting close in his space to be heard over the loud music. She wraps Oscar’s arm she’d been tugging on, around her waist, in hopes he can hold her up in case her legs give out and wraps hers around his body too.

She can feel Oscar’s hand in her back, blindly trying to find a patch of fabric to settle on top of. His avoidance of the naked skin of her back settles a minute worry in her mind. Yes, he is a man. Yes, she would probably feel more comfortable coming to her own teammate for help. But Oscar is still safe, he won’t take advantage of her. He is safety.

“Are you sober?” Is the first thing that comes out of her mouth once they’ve settled their positions and start to loosely sway to the beat of whatever song is playing.

Oscar is looking more and more confused at the sudden serious tone of her voice and the way it contradicts the easy smile on her face. She’s still acting up like nothing’s wrong. “Uhh yeah, I came in my car.”

Oscar you blessed man.

“Great! I need you to take me to the hospital right now.” Oscar freezes completely and she tries to keep the easy smile on her face. “Someone put something in my drink and I think I’m going to pass out soon.” His face does something complicated, and one of his hands tries to go for the cup on her hand, but she moves it out of his path, tripping over her own heel in the process. He catches her before she can stumble.

“Why are you still-?” He looks tense in a way she hasn’t seen him many times, he instantly understood the seriousness the situation entails. She’s so glad he believed her, a worry she hadn’t even processed having.

Her confidence starts waving, there is not much time to explain and her voice shakes as she tries to fill him in. “You have to take it- I- I don’t know what they put in- The doctor can… I don’t know-” She feels like she's twelve again, trying to explain to her mother that she accidentally broke her favourite mirror and cut her hand. “They can analyse it or whatever,” she finishes lamely.

She can see it more clearly now, he’s not just tense, he’s angry. At her or on her behalf? She doesn’t know him well enough to be able to tell the difference.

“You’re so…” Careless. Irresponsible. Stupid. Her eyes fill with tears and he feels like a scolded child. “... smart.” He says instead, not following the script in her mind.

“I kno- Wait what?” He shakes his head, moving past the topic. His voice holds urgency now.

“Do you know who did it?” He’s looking past her, scanning the crowd behind her.

“No I- There was no one near except the bartenders… I-I didn’t know if they- A-and I didn’t know who to ask for help!” She sniffs, and clears her throat, swallowing around the tightness in her throat.

He notices her trying to maintain her composure, and smoothes out his expression. “It’s alright. You found me, and I will help you, okay?” In a very unlike-himself moment he wraps his arms closer to her, holding her in a loose hug. Maybe it’s the relief that comes from Oscar’s reassurance that makes her body relax, loosen up. She takes the moment to really get a deep breath, trying to regulate her heart rate, knowing an accelerated heartbeat will only speed the effect of the drug. The music is already hard to hear even with how the deep base thrums in her bones. She lets her head fall forward onto his shoulder and Oscar’s arms tighten around her like a vice, but when she stays standing up he relaxes. “Let’s get you out of here, yeah?” She’s pretty sure she just gave him a small heart attack, but she can’t really find the strength to apologize, so she simply takes another deep breath, this time taking in the smell of his cologne, and nods her head.

She steps back, trying to maintain balance on the small heels of her shoes, and allows Oscar to grab her arm to guide them through the crowd. It’s a bit scary, how fast she seems to be falling under the effects. What would she have done had Oscar not been there?

Oscar is aggressively polite as he makes a path for them towards the exit, loudly excusing them as he pushes through. She walks behind him, gaze set on his broad shoulders. They’re almost out of the crowd when she feels a hand closing in on her arm. She flinches and removes her arm before they can grasp her, and steps even closer to Oscar, almost stepping on his heels. “Oscar-” She manages in a squeaky voice, but he must hear her because he holds together and broathens his stride. The hands do not follow, only shoulder bumps as they make their way though.

They get out the doors in no time. The space outside is deserted, late enough that everyone is either at home asleep or inside the club. Oscar turns to her, scans her and points toward the side street that she assumes would lead them around the building towards the private parking lot. “My car’s this way.” She briefly looks back to the doors, but they stay closed so she nods. Maybe the hand was her imagination, or a simple accidental brush of a hand.

Her steps are still mostly steady but Oscar still keeps a hand on her left forearm, the warmth from his hand is a stark contrast to the cold air of the Monegasque night. The sweat that had layered over her body is cooling off rapidly as they round the building and by the time they’ve walked the length of the side street and caught sight of the actual parking lot, shivers have started to rack her up.

Oscar briefly lets go of her arm to fish the keys from his pocket and she instantly misses the warmth. Now untethered she slows her walking, paying a bit more attention to where she’s placing her feet. He clicks off the alarm and the navy blue McLaren Artura at the other end blinks its lights at them. “There’s our ride.” Oscar is smiling as he looks back, extending his arm for her again, but his eyes stray over her shoulder and the expression freezes in his face.

A hand wraps on the arm that Oscar hadn’t been holding and it feels nothing like the Australian's careful and grounding hold. It burns as it takes a bruising hold of her and tugs her to the side. She stumbles with the force of it, body already feeling too close to a ragdoll to comfort. Her voice is strong but not steady as she demands, “Let me go.” She tries to back away from the foreign body, but her ankle gives up and twists painfully. She stumbles but holds her stance and tries to push away from the nasal french voice speaking at her in a sultry voice. The arm that had been trying to push away from the tall man gets caught from the wrist. The drink sloshes and some of it spills over her fingers and onto her dress.

Just as he’s starting to use his weight against her, a body steps in between them. She collides with Oscar’s shoulder a bit, but her right arm is freed, and she pulls it back towards her. “Get your fucking hands off.” She has never heard him sound so angry. His accent has deepened like she’s never heard before. But he is still gentle as he wraps a hand firmly on her left arm. She can feel him pulling the guy’s hand and prying his fingers open to release her. She uses his back to support herself as she helps pull her arm free from those thick fingers.

Once freed she stumbles back again, but the Aussie has a firm hold on her and keeps her upright. The guy tries to go around Oscar to get her again, and over the driver’s shoulder she looks at his face for the first time as Oscar pushes firmly with his forearm to keep him away. Tan complexion, prince-y dark hair and a well groomed beard.

In any other circumstance she would have said he was attractive, but now she can only feel nauseous at the fake nonchalant smile the guy is sporting. With her muddled brain she half understands he’s trying to excuse this as a misunderstanding. He catches the words ‘friend’, ‘together’, ‘mine’ and ‘drunk’. She has no idea if Oscar even understands what the guy is saying, but he seems set on getting him away from her.

After a more forceful shove that makes the assailant stumble back, Oscar looks over his shoulder and lets go of her, pushing her towards the parking lot. “Get in the car.”

She nods dumbly as she turns in the direction where the lights flashed earlier. The parking lot is only mildly illuminated, but it’s enough for her to be able to locate the Artura among the other luxury cars parked there. There are more confrontation sounds coming from behind, and what sounds very much like a hit, but she doesn’t look back. All her attention and remaining brain power is going to try to reach the car at the end of the parking lot. Her right ankle throbs painfully with each step, and the uneven terrain makes it three times harder, because when the fuck did the pavement turn to gravel?

She leans on a pink Porshe 911 as her legs buckle, the McLaren is right there. There’s the sound of another car starting up, more yelling but she’s already rounding it from behind towards the passenger door. The sound of angry screeching tyres spinning out without traction in the gravel grinds her head and the pain in her ankle is too much; her right leg gives out completely, the other one follows shortly and she’s going down. She tries to drag her hand on the car to find a purchase on something but there’s nothing other than the squeak of her sweaty hand on the polished paint. Her knees take the brunt of the impact, and it stings.

The angry car has sped off, and she’s pretty sure she hears it clip the wall of the sidestreet. She takes a deep breath and lets herself fall seated against the car, knees to her chest, back to the door. Dumly, she notes that the cup still has some liquid on it, its red is just as dark in the low light as the small pinpricks of blood on her knees.

She registers footsteps getting closer to her, and for a second her heart rate speeds up again until she hears her name called by a worried Australian. She bangs her head against the door, willing herself to keep her eyes open as she answers back. Oscar’s footsteps speed up and in no time he’s kneeling in front of her, warm hands on her biceps as he looks over her body. He brings a hand to remove stray pieces of hair from her face and she can see a hint of blood on his knuckles.

“Are you okay?” The words are out of her mouth before she can stop them.

🏎🏎🏎🏎🏎🏎🏎🏎🏎🏎🏎🏎🏎

Oscar cannot believe his ears. “How am- Are you forreal?” An incredulous chuckle escapes him because this girl, shivering on the floor with scraped knees and blown out pupils, who almost got kidnapped by a stranger in a foreign country, is more worried about him than about herself. He shakes his head and wipes his knuckles, showing her the unbroken skin. “I’m alright, see?” Her eyes scan his hand for a second too long before nodding. Her head bobs in a sleepy manner, and he knows he has to hurry. “How are you feeling?”

“Tired,” She’s breathing heavily, but Oscar can’t be sure if it’s an after effect of whatever drug the asshole put in her drink or the exertion of the situation. “My ankle hurts,” He looks down at her feet, still clad in heeled slippers with a complicated ribbon. Neither of her feet looks particularly swollen or bruised for now. “I’m scared…” Her voice is much softer, almost a whisper, but in the emptiness of the parking lot at night, it almost seems to echo.

He grabs her arms again, rubbing up and down “It’s okay, it’s over now.” She keeps shivering under his arms and Oscar doesn’t know if it’s the cold or shock starting to settle in, “Can you walk?”

Her eyebrows furrow and she tilts her head in a terribly adorable gesture, “Walk where?”

“We need to get you into the car”

“But-” She slaps the back of her hand against the car, “I’m here”

Oscar can’t suppress the smile, “Yeah, but unless you’re planning on driving, we need to get you around the passenger side.”

“... Fuck.”

“Force of habit, yeah.” He grabs onto her forearms. Her skin feels cold and sticky with dried sweat. “Come on, let’s get you up.” She pulls alongside him, but as soon as her right foot is firm on the ground, she makes a face and he takes more of her weight as she falters, her other leg not cooperating much.

“Oscar” The slugginess in her voice makes the R in his name sound much breathier. “I don’t think I can walk.”

“Alright, well-” He bends down and swipes her legs off the floor, holding her in a princess's carry. She makes a strangled sound and her arms come to grab at his shoulders. The cup tilts dangerously but she rights it just in time. “Much easier this way.” He makes his way over to the passenger seat and bends his knees to open up the door, depositing her in the seat. “Ah look!” Wedged right in between the seat and the door, is a hoodie he’d abandoned maybe a few days ago. He pulls it and sets it on her lap, taking the cup from her hand. “Think you can get it on by yourself?”

“Mm-hm”

“‘kay, you do that while I figure out where to keep this.” He closes the door and rounds the car again to his seat, looking around the small space to find a safe place to place it without spilling what little liquid remains on it. As his companion wrestles with the fabric, she kicks an abandoned water bottle. “Bingo.” He leans down to grab it. A small shake reveals to still have stale water he poured out of the window before pouring in the remaining cocktail into it. He screws the lid back on and keeps the cup too, just in case. He drops both items in the footrest of the passenger before looking at the occupant. She’s relaxed into the seat, and her eyes are closed. Fear creeps in for a second, “Ready to go?”

thumbs-upHe gets a thumbs up in response. Still conscious it seems. He reaches over and pulls her seatbelt on, knowing he will ignore all speed limits to the hospital. After a second of consideration, he shakes her arm until she’s blinking up at him. “Try to stay awake, yeah?” He grabs his phone, to call Lando. It hasn’t been longer than 10 minutes since he left their table, but he needs someone to call the police on the guy, and let Lando know he needs to get a new ride. He looks at his companion, she’s looking at his phone as it rings in his lap. “If you feel like throwing up let me know, yeah?” He says as he pulls out of the parking lot.

“m’not throwing up.” Her angry eyebrows are back.

“Okay, then you can help me explain to Lando-” Just then, the Brit’s voice comes through the car speakers.

“Heeellooo? Mate did you get lost on your way back or what?” He’s half yelling to hear himself over the music. It’s a miracle he even heard his phone ring.

“No, I’m taking the Alpine princess to the hospital.” He sneaks a look at her as he accelerates down the narrow monaco streets. She’s still awake, biting her lip as Lando processes the words.

“You what! What happened!? The fuck Oscah?”

He’s about to start explaining, but she speaks up “Some guy spiked my drink, I found Oscar and he got me out.” He has to keep his eyes on the road, but he can see out of the corner of his eye how she cuddles up into the seat. “I’m alright… Pinky promise.”

“Lando, listen, I need you to get Charles to call the police.” The traffic light up ahead has turned yellow, but Oscar doesn’t slow down. It’s the middle of the night and there are no other cars around, so he floors it right as it turns red. “I’ll give you a description, and his license plate. I need you to report him to authorities.”

“Fuck.” He says, eloquently. “Yeah I-” There’s a bit of silence from him, but the music is still humming loudly in the background. “I think I see Charles upstairs, I’ll go get him now.” Oscar can hear him speaking to someone, but it’s muffled like he lowered the phone. Almost a full two minutes later he speaks up again. “Kay, got Charles and Pierre here. They want to know if you’re really okay, sprout?”

Oscar is slowing down for a curve. Because as much as he would love to go as fast as during the actual race, he doesn’t know these streets as well, so he has to be careful. The silence stretches for too long, and as he turns to look at her again, he finds her completely asleep.

“Shit, she passed out.” He presses harder on the gas pedal, Lando curses too. “He tried to grab her when we were getting to the parking lot. She twisted her ankle and scraped her knees, but other than that, she’s physically alright.” Streets and buildings blur as he speeds by. “Asshole was as tall as George or Alex. Lanky and tan. Dark hair, beard. I broke his nose, and probably his cheekbone before he ran away.” As he approaches a speed bump, he throws his hand over her chest to prevent her from flying around.

This time it’s a new voice, Charles “He took off running?”

“No, in a car. Porsche 911 Turbo S, Dark green.”

“Did you get the license plate?”

Of course I did, who do you think I am?

“M3T9. He busted a backlight as he drove off, if that helps.”

“I will get on it, do not worry he will not get away.” Despite the noise, Oscar can hear how dark Charles’ voice becomes, and he remembers that Charles is a very prominent figure here; the prince of Monaco who is friends with the actual prince of Monaco.

“I’ll leave you to take care of him, then.”

“Yes yes, I will get him. You just get the petite poupée to the doctors, yes?” He has no idea what that means but it sounds like an affectionate nickname.

Oscar nods to himself in the car, “We’re already here, she’ll be alright” He can see the URGENCES sign of the Centre Hospitalier Princesse Grace. He eases his foot off the pedal, as he turns into the mostly empty parking lot.

“Keep us updated!”

“Will do.”

The call disconnects and he’s left to pick a parking space that isn’t reserved for ambulances. Once he’s turned everything off, he turns to her and shakes her arm, calling her name to try and wake her up, but it’s futile. She’s breathing deeply, sound asleep. He rounds the car and opens her door. He leans over her legs to grab the bottle and scoop under her knees and in the process he discovers she did not manage to get both her arms though the sleeves of his hoodie, and that her right is still tangled inside. He almost huffs a laugh at that. Almost.

Picking her up again feels different than when he did it 10 minutes ago, because her body is too lax, too malleable. This time she makes no sound when he hoists her up, and her head lulls back, stretching her neck over the arm he has under her shoulders. She looks and feels like a ragdoll in his arms as he stands up and uses his elbow to drag the door down and closed; he quietly seethes at the thought of her being like this in the hands of such a vermin.

How anyone could find such an unresponsive body attractive is a question he doesn’t even want to think of. Instead he stops to adjust her neck, letting her head rest on his collarbone instead of the previous uncomfortable position and fixes the hood over her head to cover up her face. It is the middle of the night, but he has learnt that every wall has eyes and that everything can and will be posted online. He has nothing to hide his face with, but protecting her identity in a moment of such vulnerability is his only priority in his mind after getting her help.

He’s careful of pushing the doors with his shoulder. The reception is empty except for the receptionist behind the desk. He sighs inwardly at that. The woman looks up and stands up immediately upon his arrival at the desk, his French skills are nonexistent, so he wholeheartedly hopes she understands English. “We were at a club and someone put drugs in her drink.” The woman nods once, so Oscar takes that as a sign that she does and continues. “She passed out in the car while driving here, like five minutes ago.” He’s not as oblivious as to think he looks innocent holding a dead looking girl, and the face of the woman, carefully stoic, sets his nerves on fire.

“Did she say what was put in it or who did it?”

“No, but she asked me to bring what was left of the drink, because she said you could analyse it to treat her,” He sets the bottle on the counter and hikes her up in his arms. “She’d thought it was one of the bartenders, but as we were getting to the car the guy came and tried to take her by force.” He omits the part where he punched him and instead lets his trump card subtly show. “My friend Charles has already called the police to report the assault.” Despite how common it is, the name must register in her mind, because she makes a double take, between Oscar’s face and the face half hidden in his chest. “Please help her,”

“Of course we will help.” She shakes her head like the thought of them refusing attention was a personal offence. She presses a button behind the counter and rounds the desk to take a better look at the girl in his arms. She produces a penlight from a pocket and gestures towards her. Oscar twists to allow her to get closer. “How long ago did she consume the drink?”

“Uh…” The nurse opens one of her eyelids and flashes her light, studying pupil reaction. “I have no idea, she found me around 15 or 20 minutes ago, she’d already realised by then and didn’t drink the rest of it, but I don’t know how long it was.” He can hear footsteps from behind, another nurse is coming from the personal hallway. “She started shivering too, but I don't know if it was cold or shock. I gave her my hoodie and it has stopped now, at least.”

The woman nods, and as the new nurse comes closer, she starts -hopefully- translating what he’s said in rapid French. It’s like watching Charles, Pierre and Lance gossip during drivers’ parade. The bottle is handed too, and when the exchange ends, the new nurse takes a cursory look, stops at Oscar’s face and mumbles something back before continuing their path towards the next hallway.

“We will get a room set up for her, do you want me to bring a wheelchair in the meantime?”

“No, I’m alright.” She’s deadweight, but not as heavy as Oscar would have imagined, he’s also trained enough during his life, he can hold a few more minutes. The receptionist goes back around the desk and starts asking questions about her for what Oscar assumes is a registry sheet. A new concern sparks in his mind, and he accidentally interrupts one of her questions with his own request. “I don’t know if I’ll be allowed to stay with her, but could you at least make sure she doesn’t get a male doctor?”

Her serious and stoic facade falls at that, and for a second she reminds Oscar of his own mum. “I’ll make sure of that, and I do think you might be able to stay with her. It’ll help her to see a familiar face waking up.” She gives him a reluctant smile and resumes asking if he knows her blood type.

The other nurse comes back just as they’re finishing, and leads him to a room where they’ll be treating her. As he lowers her from his arm, he remembers to mention a detail he’d forgotten. “Hey, uh- Her ankle… She said it hurt, and might have twisted it.”

The nurse nods, and answers in a much more prominent accent. “We will take x-ray of it. Your hand is okay?”

Oscar looks back to his hand. There’s redness on his knuckles and a bruise is starting to form around the bones, but he flexes his fingers a couple of times and it only stings a bit. “No, I’m okay, thanks.”

“Okay, now you wait outside, I call when ready, yes?”

“Yeah, thank you.”

He closes the door behind him and walks to a nearby bench, using the time to update Lando via text. In return he gets told that Charles stormed off the bar, Pierre, Carlos and Daniel in tow. The rest of them are deciding how to carpool home; and that everyone will keep the situation under wraps, including whoever Charles has contacted. He says that Alex will be stopping by the hospital soon, to drop off her forgotten bag and phone and whatever else she’s left at their table.

The receptionist nurse passes by Oscar in the way to her room and lets him know they’ll take her for an x-ray; and that after that, he might wait inside her room if he wishes, in turn he lets her know he will jump out for a second because another friend will bring her stuff from the bar. The woman nods and gives him the number of the room they will take her after the x-ray for him to come back.

His phone rings just as they’re rolling her bed out. He only catches a glimpse of an IV line connected to her arm before they wheel her down the corridor, he too turns away.

Alex is waiting with his emergency lights on. When he sees him come out of the doors, he gives him a tired smile. Oscar leans against the door and they stay in silence for a while. It’s colder out now, or at least it feels like that now that adrenaline is no longer coursing through him. The light sweat he’d worked up earlier is drying cold against his back. He raps his knuckles against the blue paint of Alex’s car, bringing the Thai’s attention to his bruised hand.

“I heard you broke his nose?” Alex’s tone is teasing, if maybe a bit impressed.

“Got a couple hits, yeah.” Oscar closes his fist, the skin tightens over his bones. The memory of a bone cracking under them probably shouldn’t feel as satisfactory as it did. “Should’ve done more.”

It comes much more bitterly than he’d expected, and Alex places a hand over his wrist, patting him “You did more than any of us, don’t beat yourself up.” He reaches to the passenger seat and pulls a small handbag and Oscar spots a jacket hung behind the seat. “You cold?” Alex must have seen his eyes stray, and as he pulls it from its perch Oscar notices the Williams logo on it.

“Nah mate, I’d rather be cold.”

“Ah, come on I can’t let the boy saviour freeze tonight.”

“No, no, never in a million years you’ll catch me wearing Williams merch,” He grabs the handbag and steps away when Alex tries to push the jacket into his arms too. They’re both laughing as the jacket falls to the ground and Alex is left half hanging off his window to grab it. Oscar watches him struggle for a second or five before deciding to have mercy; so he grabs the jacket and stuffs it in Alex’s face, turns on his back and starts walking back to the doors so he can’t attempt to hand it to him again.

“Oscar!” Alex calls between fabric and laughter, and Oscar turns just in time to catch a juice bottle headed straight to his face. A second one follows right after, he fumbles with it since both his hands are occupied, but he manages not to drop it, Alex snaps his fingers in faux frustration at that. “Take care of her!” He says as he starts his car again.

“Will do, mate.” He watches as Alex drives away until his tailgate lights disappear behind a wall, just then he turns back into the hospital. As he makes his way back, he rearranges the stuff in his hands; he holds the purse under his arm since it doesn’t have any straps, and studies the bottles. Alex had gotten orange and apple.

Which one would she prefer?

He has no idea, really. He always sees her drinking either water, isotonic drinks, or energy drinks. Apples or oranges? There is a new receptionist at the desk, and when Oscar rattles the new room number, he is directed to the elevators with instructions to the second floor where lower grade emergencies are treated.

He only has to wait around 10 more minutes before she’s wheeled back in. The initial receptionist seems to be the one assigned to her, as she is the one that stays and explains to Oscar that there isn’t any fracture in the ankle. It seems like just her soft tissue was affected and she’ll get by with wearing a brace and sports tape for a few days. The lower half of her body is covered by the sheets while his hoodie covers the rest. One of the sleeves has been pushed up to make space for the IV, and Oscar can see that her foot is resting on a couple of pillows to keep it raised. Her shoes are in a little cubby under the bed, cubby to which he adds her purse.

He gets told there isn’t much they can do about the drug except keep her hydrated and let her body work it though, because it has already been absorbed by her bloodstream, along with the alcohol she’d consumed. But that the sample analysis revealed it to be non-threatening, it’ll just leave her with a nasty hangover. Despite the slight pessimistic tone, the information leaves him relieved, and he relaxes into the chair he’d sat to wait. He thanks the nurse and watches as a new person in different colored scrubs, carefully and efficiently wraps her ankle in neon blue sports tape.

Before long, he’s left alone with her, with instructions of pressing the call button if anything happens, but to try and rest because it could be hours before she wakes.

He tries to keep himself busy whilst keeping an eye on her. He messages Charles with the name of the drug that was put onto the drink, and the only answer he gets is a demon emoji, a fist emoji, hands clapping and another fist. Confused, he simply reacts with a thumbs up. He updates those who have messaged him to ask about her condition, but doesn’t go further than that. He settles on drinking the orange juice, and leaves the apple one in the bedside table next to her bed, scrolls through social media for a while and checks up on her again, but it has been a long and eventful day, and when his eyelids become too heavy, he doesn't fight them very hard.

🏎🏎🏎🏎🏎🏎🏎🏎🏎🏎🏎🏎🏎

Waking up feels like a heavy G crash. There's a pounding in her head that goes at the same tempo as her heart, and it takes conscious effort to take a deep breath. There's a slight throbbing on her bicep, on the wrist of the opposite arm and a sharper throb on her right foot.

She's laying sideways in a soft enough bed and there is little light from what she can see through her eyelids.

But it doesn't smell like her bed at all.

Instead there's the smell of a different laundry detergent, artificial minty eucalyptus shampoo and a herbal mix. It smells distinctly like men, and the unfamiliarity of it makes her heart race, worsening the pounding of her head.

There's a blank in her memory when she tries to remember the previous night. She knows she was going out with some of the Monaco based drivers, and that she'd abandoned the table at some point. That's where everything starts to get fuzzy.

There are flashes.

A body close to hers in the dancefloor. The cold air outside the club. Falling into the gravel. Hands roughly grabbing at her, and a french accent. Falling asleep in a car.

Panic really does settle in at this point, and tears blurry her vision when she opens her eyes; but the room is nothing like she expects it to be. She's in a single bed, and there is a heart monitor that is displaying her rabbiting heartbeat. A saline drip that is halfway empty connected to the back of her hand.

A hospital?

The light is warm and dimmed, seemingly coming from a lamp behind her. She looks down at herself and finds a hoodie that is not hers, and totally is the source of the smells; but looking under it’s collar reveals the same dress she wore last night.

She slowly turns her head, still wary of the raging headache. The overhead lights are off, and her foot is propped on a pillow under the blankets. She wiggles her toes and twists her ankle. A sharp pain sparks, but it's not unbearable.

The other side of the room is half hidden by the glare of the lamp that makes her blink before her eyes adjust to the light.

A figure is sitting in a chair, sound asleep and covered with a blanket identical to hers. Oscar’s arms are crossed across his chest and his neck looks like it will hurt when he wakes up.

More memories rush to her mind as she turns fully to that side; Lando's voice over the speakers of the car, Oscar's worried face in the dancefloor, his broad back as he pushed another man from her. The light is low, but she can see a bruise forming on the hand where Oscar is holding a half full bottle of juice.

Slowly, she registers the smell of stale car and something so uniquely Oscar that brings tears back to her eyes.

“Oscar?” Her voice is low, croaky and shaky, full of tears when she speaks. But the reaction is immediate, he's awake in a second. His head snaps back into the right orientation and he clutches the bottle in his hand. Maybe she should feel guilty for waking him up, but that is a too complicated emotion to think of right now, instead there is a pool of relief as he meets her eyes, and an immense amount of trust as he whispers her name and detangles himself from the blanket to get close.

“You're okay, you're okay.” It's obvious he doesn't know what to do about tears, his hands move around uselessly and he looks so constipated it's almost funny. “Are you hurt anywhere? I can- I can call a nurse?” His hand finally decides to hover over a call button at the side of her bed, but she claps hers over his instead, and attempts to dry her face with the other.

“No, it's okay. I'm- I'm okay,” She hiccups again, and his other hand comes to rub up and down her arm; an action that also feels familiar and warm. “Thank you, Oscar.” Her voice is still choked up, but very earnest. She squeezes his hand and he squeezes right back.

“You don't have to thank me,” She wipes her eyes again and looks back up at him, he's giving her a half smile that pushes a dimple into existence. It's such an adorable new discovery that she can't help the rush of emotions that comes. She lets go of his hand and sits up to pull him into a hug.

“The fuck you mean i don't have to thank you!?” It sounds half muffled against the fabric of his white shirt. “You saved my fucking life, Oscar” His hands come to wrap around her back and tears spring up again at the thought of what could have been. “He could've-”

“Shhh, let's not think about that, yeah? You're alright and that's what matters.” His hands rub circles between her shoulders, “Charles took care of everything else.”

“What’s that mean?” She sniffs, trying to keep the tears from soaking up his shirt.

“I have absolutely no idea, but he knows people who can hide his crimes, I'm not worried about him.” I'm worried about you, “How are you feeling?”

She takes another deep breath. The smell of eucalyptus and laundry detergent is stronger when it comes from the source. She lets go and wipes her face again with the sleeve of her -his- hoodie. “My head hurts and my ankle stings, but I'm alright,” Thanks to you. “I just feel very hungover.”

“Here,” She hears the shake of liquid, and upon removing her hands, Oscar's is offering an unopened bottle of apple juice. “Alex got us these.”

She grabs it and pouts at him, “It's my favourite. Thank you.” The last line comes out more charged than intended, but that's alright because she doesn't think she'll be able to stop thanking him anytime soon.

Oscar simply smiles like he knows, he lightly shakes his head and starts filling her in on what happened after she “fell asleep” as he says. She has no idea what time it is, but there is no rush right now, she's safe and in good hands, and when sleep starts lapping at her feet, she lets herself be swiped by the tide because she trusts Oscar to be there when she wakes up again.

The end.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · · 𖥸 · · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

well, if you got here, i want to thank you for reading this the whole way through. as i said earlier, this came to me at 3 am and did not leave my head again, so i had to bring it to life. i hope you enjoyed despite the slightly dark topic.

from my research, i learned that not some drugs are undetectable to the naked eye, so always be aware of your drinks and who is close to you. i hope this story stays as a fictional thing and that none of you ever have to deal with something like that.

taka care and thank you again for reading!

Love,

Nini.

#oscar piastri x reader #oscar piastri #formula 1 #f1 #f1 x reader #f1 fanfic

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eelnoise · 1 year ago

Text

pulsewidth (nsfw!)

zoro x fem!reader

masterlist kofi

cw: scent kinks, pussy eating, piv sex on a weight bench idk

an: well, here you go. take my post workout brainrot in fic form. pls ignore any formatting issues i phoneposted this

wc: 1.9k

tagging: @bby-deerling @kaizokuniichan @nina-ya @strawheart-pirate @missmugiwara @sanjisjuul @kibblz-n-bitz @sleepymarimo

You don’t join Zoro for most of his time spent training, but do occasionally bid yourself into the Crow’s Nest to quietly work out alongside him – though far enough away to avoid being the victim of a rogue blade to the gut should you accidentally get too close.

You hum to yourself, generally content in your usual routine that’s become so normal that your mind begins to wander from the monotony of your motions. Even the sounds of Zoro’s blades slashing into a dummy across the room begin to fade into the background and merge with the rhythmic, low rumble of the room’s atmosphere.

Though you're ripped from both your focus and the calm when your ears perk at the sound of your name. You pause your workout, body turning to face Zoro with arms still extended – though your scowl of concentration melts into a relaxed smile as you look at him curiously.

“Do me a favor?” he says, beckoning you over with a wave of his hand once he's sure he has your attention. “D’ya think you could try and dodge some swings?” Zoro asks, motioning to the blades in his hands. "Y'know, kinda like a moving target?"

“Only if you promise not to hurt me!” you tease with a wag of your finger, knowing full well the swordsman would never lay a harmful finger on you.

Zoro rolls his eyes and waves you over again. "I'll try my best to keep 'em to myself," he replies, his gaze glinting with amusement. He shifts his stance, golden earrings clinking together and catching a twinkle in the sunlight – and with two swords at his sides and held at the ready, even the air around him seems to crack with a fierce energy.

"When you're ready," he calls out, waiting for you to position yourself.

You know full well that Zoro's a formidable foe but you’re no slouch in the fighting department either. You circle around him, matching his pace, your own muscles tense and ready.

Zoro makes the first move, his swords slashing out in a blur, the dull edges aimed for your torso. You duck under the first strike just in time, but fail to avoid the second and third. His eyes narrow, his lips curling into a predatory grin as his swords whistle through the air, just brushing past your body.

"Nice dodge," he compliments, spurred on by the challenge you present. He switches tactics, the blades now spinning towards your legs, seeking to knock you off balance. "You move quick."

Sweat runs down your brow, mingling with the salt from your skin as you work to keep up with the swordsman. The air grows thick with the heat of the spar, both bodies dancing in a duet of dodges, near misses, and – when you can't quite keep up with his movements – sharp jabs to your ribs with the dull edge of one of his blades.

The sweat-slicked floor threatens to throw off your footing when you try to dodge a particularly quick swing to the thigh – and it ultimately succeeds in doing so following an unbalanced duck that causes you to slide forward. You spread your arms in a feeble attempt to stay upright, but land face-first into Zoro's bare chest.

Zoro's heart skips a beat as your body collides with his, the wet heat of your skin and the scent of your sweat invading his senses. His swords clatter to the floor, the blades falling from lax fingers as he reaches out to steady you, his hands gripping your waist to keep you from sliding off.

"Not bad," he grunts, the warmth of his body radiating against your own. He loosens his grip, allowing you to stand, but he keeps his hands on your waist, his gaze locked onto yours. "You're improving."

His muscles tense, the urge to wrap you in an embrace almost too strong to resist. Zoro's thumbs brush against the curves of your hips, his grip tight enough to keep you steady, but gentle enough to hint at a desire to explore more.

For a moment, time seems to freeze, and the only thing you can hear is the rapid thump of your heartbeat in your ears. Zoro pulls you closer, his lips meeting yours in a hungry kiss. His tongue flicks against yours, demanding entry as his hands begin to roam, one sliding under your shirt, the other gripping your ass.

Zoro groans, his hand pushing your shirt up to reveal more of your skin. His fingers trail along your sides, lingering over your hip bone and the curve of your waist, the roughness of his skin contrasting with the smoothness of yours.

Your body responds to his, the heat between you intensifying, the air charged with the potency of desire. Zoro's mouth travels down the sensitive skin of your neck, leaving a trail of wet kisses in its wake. He guides you to the weight bench, easing you on it gently – but with the determination of a man who knows what he wants.

His eyes roam over your body, drinking in the sight of your curves, the smoothness of your skin, and the dewy tinge of your breasts. His hands roam to trace their outline, thumb circling your nipples, his touch firm yet gentle.

Zoro’s mouth closes over one of your hardened peaks, sucking gently while his hand cups the other. You arch your back, offering yourself to him, your breath hitching as pleasure begins to spiral throughout your body.

You gasp out his name, fingers finding the length of his toned back as his heavenly ministrations continue. Your body trembles under his touch, each sensation a path to the aching core between your legs.

He releases you with a soft pop before trailing kisses down your body, his gaze never leaving yours. As he reaches the waistband of your shorts, your breathing grows more erratic, the anticipation of what's to come nearly unbearable.

Zoro watches as your eyes flutter shut, the motions of his mouth and hands eliciting soft moans from you. He hooks his thumbs under your shorts and – with the aid of your hips and thighs raising upward – slides them down your thighs.

He spreads your legs wide, his fingers trailing between them and teasing the sensitive skin of your inner thighs. He inhales deeply, his nostrils flaring as he takes in the heady scent of your arousal, His finger slips under your panties and pulls them aside before sliding you down the bench and closer to his mouth. Large hands settle on your hips as he buries his face between your legs, his tongue tasting your folds in long strokes.

Zoro takes hold of one of your legs, hooking it over his shoulder to give him better access to your core. He grins against your skin, his lips brushing against the sensitive flesh, his breath warm and heavy. "So sweet," his lust-drenched voice growls into your ear.

Zoro's tongue flickers against you, the sensation sending shivers down your spine. His fingers graze over your entrance, and in an instant he fills you with two large fingers, making you gasp out in pleasure.

Zoro's tongue circles your clit while his fingers plunge in and out, the rhythm quick and deliberate, each curl that brushes up against the sweet spot inside of you. His gaze fix on your face, watching the expressions flicker across it, drinking in the sight of your pleasure – and with a final, skilled flick of his tongue and a deep thrust of his fingers, you cry out in bliss, your body convulsing as pleasure claims you, overwhelming your senses in a glorious wave of delirium.

Zoro continues to worship you, lapping up your essence until your body calms and your breathing returns to normal. He slips from between your legs, and he rises, his eyes dark with lust. "Fuck," he mutters, adjusting himself to hurriedly tug his pants down, releasing his thick, precum-beaded cock to the hot air of the nest.

"Hold onto me," he says as his grip takes hold of the backs of your thighs. It's a suggestion, but it's the only warning you'll get. He positions himself at your entrance, cock nudging against you. And with a firm but controlled motion, he pushes into you, stretching you wide and filling you full. His lips find yours once more, his tongue invading your mouth with the same ferocity he uses to claim your body.

Zoro groans into your throat, the sound rumbling through your body as he begins to thrust, his hips moving in a steady, driving rhythm. His fingers dig into your thighs, holding you in place tightly while his cock slides in and out with wet, satisfying slaps.

The rocking of his hips becomes more insistent, his movements growing more urgent, his cock hitting all the right spots to keep you on the edge of ecstasy. His breath grows harsher, the beat of his heart pounding against your chest, your bodies moving in harmony.

Zoro's hand slides between the two of you, thumb finding your clit to rub in circles, the motion in perfect sync with his thrusts. The building heat within you flares, the edge of another orgasm sprawling at your senses.

His movements grow more erratic, his thrusts more desperate and fierce, his grip on your waist tightening, his free hand working your clit with a skill that borders on obsessive.

"Zoro!" you gasp out, your body tensing as the pleasure spirals out of control. His name is a plea, a demand, for him to keep going, to not stop, to let you reach that peak.

He exhales sharply as he feels you tighten around him, the slick, wet heat of your sex milking his cock. "Already?" he muses as if he isn’t about to burst as well. His thrusts grow more frenzied, the look in his eyes a mix of lust and possessiveness.

With no time to consider a reply, your orgasm crashes over you – body shuddering and pussy clenching hard around him. Zoro growls, his thrusts becoming more erratic as he nears his own release. With one last, hard plunge, he lets out a guttural cry, his cock pulsating as he fills you with his seed.

He collapses onto you, his chest heaving as he struggles to catch his breath, his lips brushing against your neck, his voice a ragged whisper. "Damn, girl," he mutters, the sharp edge of his tone helping to snap you back into reality.

"What do you mean 'damn, girl'?" You retort with a faux whine and a playful hit to his shoulder. "That was all you, I just went along with it."

"Well, you're a distraction," He chides with a smirk, coiling his arms around you before rolling you atop him. Zoro holds you to him closely, his cheek nestling down into your hair.

You grin, nestling against the warmth of Zoro's chest, the weight of his arm around you a comforting anchor. “Yeah, well, things happen," you reply with an impish grin of your own while your fingers begin trailing up and down the sides of his torso.

Zoro's arm tightens, his fingers linking with yours as you trail them along his skin. "I'm not complainin'," he murmurs, smiling into you.

The two of you lie there, breath in tandem and slowing from exertion. The rise and fall of his chest threatens to lull you into slumber, and you almost let it do so – though you think better of it due to the awkward position that someone else may find the two of you in.

"Take a bath with me, stinky," You say, tilting your chin up to him. "C'mon."

Zoro chuckles at your quip, the sound gentle and amused, before giving a playful nudge to your side. "Alright, stinky.” He says, lifting you up and off of him. “Lead the way."

#roronoa zoro x reader #one piece x y/n #one piece x reader #roronoa zoro x y/n #zoro x you #zoro smut #x reader #op scenario #zoro x reader #one piece smut

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callsign-rogueone · 9 months ago

Text

the beginning of the end

Liam Mairi x reader (Spark!!)

words: 1.0k

🏷️: happy threshing everybody! I realized that it was today and decided to post this scene that I’ve been struggling to find a place for. the title kinda sets the tone for this one and is a major hint… this is not going to be fun for anyone involved. no book spoilers (pre-fourth wing). murder, blood, one mention of puke but it doesn’t actually happen, typical threshing activities, some girlfriends make an appearance, and so does bestie Bodhi, Garrick and his wisecracking, Liam smells like sawdust, Spark needs a hug. crappy formatting because I’m posting from my phone. will fix later xoxo

“I’ve been waiting for someone like you.”

You freeze, your eyes settling on the dark blue mass reflected in the boy’s sword. He looks shocked even in death, and you realize that he’d likely been distracted by the sight of the dragon behind you while you delivered the killing blow. The bastard deserved it, anyway.

But what do you do now? You wrack your brain for any sort of advice from Kaori’s class, but it all blurs together. Don’t show fear, you can’t show blues fear— or was that greens? No, don’t look reds in the eye… fuck. You’re not supposed to even breathe in a blue’s direction.

But if it’s talking to you, that must be a good sign.

Why it chose you remains unclear.

“You have anger in your blood, girl. I like that.”

What. The. Fuck.

You sheath your sword, slowly turning to face her and immediately regretting it. She’s as terrifying as Sgaeyl, but she’s so much closer to you than you’ve ever been to her or any other dragon, either.

“Hold still.”

You don’t have time to respond, your jaw dropping in a scream as she brings a leg up, slashing at your chest. Your entire body seems to burn, skin set ablaze with pain, and you sink to your knees, gasping for breath. Warm, sticky blood pours down the front of your shirt, the metallic smell overwhelming your senses.

You’d probably throw up if you had eaten anything in the last twelve hours.

“Get up,” she orders. “Don’t make me regret this decision.”

You gasp and choke as you rise onto one foot, then the other, keeping your fists clenched at your sides — if you touch your neck, or seem affected by it at all, she’ll probably think you’re weak.

She sticks her leg out — the same one that has your blood still dripping from its claws — silently ordering you to mount. You try to keep your weight off of your right arm, but it’s impossible — it requires all of your limbs at work to climb up.

Thankfully she doesn’t try too many twist and turns as she gets you back to the flight field. It’s already hard enough to stay seated with your vision blurring at the edges and your heartbeat feeling too shallow, too uneven. The cold air pushing against the wound is agony, your shredded flight jacket doing hardly anything to cover it.

You slide down less than gracefully, focusing on not vomiting into the gravel of the flight field.

None of the professors comment on the blood soaking your shirt and crusting over your skin as you approach the dais, looking entirely unfazed.

“Tuilfeargach,” you state to the scribe, gritting your teeth, and Kaori’s eyes widen. “Is something the matter, Professor?” You ask with a calmness that makes his skin crawl.

“No. Not at all,” he rasps, clearing his throat.

Bodhi’s jaw drops as he sees you. “Holy shit,” he breathes, “are you-“

“Just a scratch,” you say firmly enough for him to drop it — something in your eyes tells him that it isn’t up for debate.

Dinner that night is remarkably tense. All of your friends have been chosen, and made it out of the forest alive, but nobody seems too happy about it.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to mend it?” your friend asks softly. She’s been eyeing the bloodied bandage all evening, hardly touching her food.

If she did mend it away, you’d probably just earn yourself a set of new, deeper cuts tomorrow. And you’d rather not spend any more time at the healers. They’d sewed it up, but before that they had to spend a good fifteen minutes tweezing out the tiny pieces of cotton from your shirt that had become embedded in the three long wounds. That was worse than the stitches.

“Smart girl,” she appraises, and you flinch at the voice speaking directly into your mind. You still aren’t used to it. You don’t think you’ll ever be.

“Sgaeyl marked him, too,” you deflect, nodding toward the cut bisecting Xaden’s eyebrow.

“Yeah, but she didn’t maul him,” Garrick argues. “You look like you were attacked by a bear.”

“I find that comparison insulting.”

“Well, it looks badass, at least,” Bodhi offers with a sympathetic smile, changing the subject. “What do you guys think your signet is gonna be?”

Thankfully someone else answers, and the conversation lightens — one of your friends wants to be an ice wielder, another a magnetist, which leads to a debate about whether or not that‘s a thing.

If anybody notices you rise from the table with your half-eaten plate and disappear, they’re smart enough not to say anything.

You drag yourself through the shower and then to your new room, which is a considerable upgrade from the endless row of bunk beds that you’d been in prior. Your reward for surviving and bonding a dragon, you suppose. You’d rather be there than here, if it meant you wouldn’t be in so much pain, and stuck with such a bitch of a dragon. But to do it all over again, like the few cadets who weren’t chosen will have to… you don’t know what’s worse. At least you’re still alive. That’s more than you can say for the boy you’d crossed paths with. Have they found his body yet?

You kneel down, dumping everything out of your bag to find what lies at the bottom. You’re flooded with relief that the soft cream-colored sweater is still there, undamaged. You pull it over your head, biting your lip to hold back a sob as you put your arms through, stretching your stitches.

The sleeves are too long, the cuffs extending past your fingertips. You lift one up to your face, taking a few shaking sniffs. It’s faint, but it’s still there: sawdust.

That’s the last straw — you curl up in the corner of your new, larger bed, and cry for the first time in three months; raw, body-shaking sobs that send waves of pain through your chest.

When you’ve run out of tears, you work your way under the covers, pulling your knees up toward your chest and drifting into a warm, black sleep.

#Liam and Spark #fourth wing #fourth wing x reader #Liam Mairi #Liam Mairi x reader #mine #girlfriendverse

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mostlysignssomeportents · 1 year ago

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Prison-tech is a scam - and a harbinger of your future

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/02/14/minnesota-nice/#shitty-technology-adoption-curve

Here's how the shitty technology adoption curve works: when you want to roll out a new, abusive technology, look for a group of vulnerable people whose complaints are roundly ignored and subject them to your bad idea. Sand the rough edges off on their bodies and lives. Normalize the technological abuse you seek to inflict.

Next: work your way up the privilege gradient. Maybe you start with prisoners, then work your way up to asylum seekers, parolees and mental patients. Then try it on kids and gig workers. Now, college students and blue collar workers. Climb that curve, bit by bit, until you've reached its apex and everyone is living with your shitty technology:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/02/24/gwb-rumsfeld-monsters/#bossware

Prisoners, asylum seekers, drug addicts and other marginalized people are the involuntary early adopters of every form of disciplinary technology. They are the leading indicators of the ways that technology will be ruining your life in the future. They are the harbingers of all our technological doom.

Which brings me to Minnesota.

Minnesota is one of the first states make prison phone-calls free. This is a big deal, because prison phone-calls are a big business. Prisoners are literally a captive audience, and the telecommunications sector is populated by sociopaths, bred and trained to spot and exploit abusive monopoly opportunities. As states across America locked up more and more people for longer and longer terms, the cost of operating prisons skyrocketed, even as states slashed taxes on the rich and turned a blind eye to tax evasion.

This presented telco predators with an unbeatable opportunity: they approached state prison operators and offered them a bargain: "Let us take over the telephone service to your carceral facility and we will levy eye-watering per-minute charges on the most desperate people in the world. Their families – struggling with one breadwinner behind bars – will find the money to pay this ransom, and we'll split the profits with you, the cash-strapped, incarceration-happy state government."

This was the opening salvo, and it turned into a fantastic little money-spinner. Prison telco companies and state prison operators were the public-private partnership from hell. Prison-tech companies openly funneled money to state coffers in the form of kickbacks, even as they secretly bribed prison officials to let them gouge their inmates and inmates' families:

https://www.motherjones.com/politics/2019/02/mississippi-corrections-corruption-bribery-private-prison-hustle/

As digital technology got cheaper and prison-tech companies got greedier, the low end of the shitty tech adoption curve got a lot more crowded. Prison-tech companies started handing out "free" cheap Android tablets to prisoners, laying the groundwork for the next phase of the scam. Once prisoners had tablets, prisons could get rid of phones altogether and charge prisoners – and their families – even higher rates to place calls right to the prisoner's cell.

Then, prisons could end in-person visits and replace them with sub-skype, postage-stamp-sized videoconferencing, at rates even higher than the voice-call rates. Combine that with a ban on mailing letters to and from prisoners – replaced with a service that charged even higher rates to scan mail sent to prisoners, and then charged prisoners to download the scans – and prison-tech companies could claim to be at the vanguard of prison safety, ending the smuggling of dope-impregnated letters and other contraband into the prison system.

Prison-tech invented some wild shit, like the "digital stamp," a mainstay of industry giant Jpay, which requires prisoners to pay for "stamps" to send or receive a "page" of email. If you're keeping score, you've realized that this is a system where prisoners and their families have to pay for calls, "in-person" visits, handwritten letters, and email.

It goes on: prisons shuttered their libraries and replaced them with ebook stores that charged 2-4 times the prices you'd pay for books on the outside. Prisoners were sold digital music at 200-300% markups relative to, say, iTunes.

Remember, these are prisoners: locked up for years or decades, decades during which their families scraped by with a breadwinner behind bars. Prisoners can earn money, sure – as much as $0.89/hour, doing forced labor for companies that contract with prisons for their workforce:

https://www.prisonpolicy.org/blog/2017/04/10/wages/

Of course, there's the odd chance for prisoners to make really big bucks – $2-5/day. All they have to do is "volunteer" to fight raging wildfires:

https://www.hcn.org/articles/climate-desk-wildfire-california-incarcerated-firefighters-face-dangerous-work-low-pay-and-covid19/

So those $3 digital music tracks are being bought by people earning as little as $0.10/hour. Which makes it especially galling when prisons change prison-tech suppliers, whereupon all that digital music is deleted, wiping prisoners' media collection out – forever (literally, for prisoners serving life terms):

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2018/08/captive-audience-how-floridas-prisons-and-drm-made-113m-worth-prisoners-music

Let's recap: America goes on a prison rampage, locking up ever-larger numbers of people for ever-longer sentences. Once inside, prisoners had their access to friends and family rationed, along with access to books, music, education and communities outside. This is very bad for prisoners – strong ties to people outside is closely tied to successful reentry – but it's great for state budgets, and for wardens, thanks to kickbacks:

https://www.prisonpolicy.org/blog/2021/12/21/family_contact/

Back to Minnesota: when Minnesota became the fourth state in the USA where the state, not prisoners, would pay for prison calls, it seemed like they were finally breaking the vicious cycle in which every dollar ripped off of prisoners' family paid 40 cents to the state treasury:

https://www.kaaltv.com/news/no-cost-phone-calls-for-those-incarcerated-in-minnesota/

But – as Katya Schwenk writes for The Lever – what happened next is "a case study in how prison communication companies and their private equity owners have managed to preserve their symbiotic relationship with state corrections agencies despite reforms — at the major expense of incarcerated people and their families":

https://www.levernews.com/wall-streets-new-prison-scam/

Immediately after the state ended the ransoming of prisoners' phone calls, the private-equity backed prison-tech companies that had dug their mouth-parts into the state's prison jacked up the price of all their other digital services. For example, the price of a digital song in a Minnesota prison just jumped from $1.99 to $2.36 (for prisoners earning as little as $0.25/hour).

As Paul Wright from the Human Rights Defense Center told Schwenk, "The ideal world for the private equity owners of these companies is every prisoner has one of their tablets, and every one of those tablets is hooked up to the bank account of someone outside of prison that they can just drain."

The state's new prison-tech supplier promises to double the amount of kickbacks it pays the state each year, thanks to an aggressive expansion into games, money transfers, and other "services." The perverse incentive isn't hard to spot: the more these prison-tech companies charge, the more kickbacks they pay to the prisons.

The primary prison-tech company for Minnesota's prisons is Viapath (nee Global Tel Link), which pioneered price-gouging on in-prison phone calls. Viapath has spent the past two decades being bought and sold by different private equity firms: Goldman Sachs, Veritas Capital, and now the $46b/year American Securities.

Viapath competes with another private equity-backed prison-tech giant: Aventiv (Securus, Jpay), owned by Platinum Equity. Together, Viapath and Aventiv control 90% of the prison-tech market. These companies have a rap-sheet as long as your arm: bribing wardens, stealing from prisoners and their families, and recording prisoner-attorney calls. But these are the kinds of crimes the state punishes with fines and settlements – not by terminating its contracts with these predators.

These companies continue to flout the law. Minnesota's new free-calls system bans prison-tech companies from paying kickbacks to prisons and prison-officials for telcoms services, so the prison-tech companies have rebranded ebooks, music, and money-transfers as non-communications products, and the kickbacks are bigger than ever.

This is the bottom end of the shitty technology adoption curve. Long before Ubisoft started deleting games that you'd bought a "perpetual license" for, prisoners were having their media ganked by an uncaring corporation that knew it was untouchable:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VIqyvquTEVU

Revoking your media, charging by the byte for messaging, confiscating things in the name of security and then selling them back to you – these are all tactics that were developed in the prison system, refined, normalized, and then worked up the privilege gradient. Prisoners are living in your technology future. It's just not evenly distributed – yet.

As it happens, prison-tech is at the heart of my next novel, The Bezzle, which comes out on Feb 20. This is a followup to last year's bestselling Red Team Blues, which introduced the world to Marty Hench, a two-fisted, hard-bitten, high-tech forensic accountant who's spent 40 years busting Silicon Valley finance scams:

https://us.macmillan.com/books/9781250865878/thebezzle

In The Bezzle, we travel with Marty back to the mid 2000s (Hench is a kind of tech-scam Zelig and every book is a standalone tale of high-tech ripoffs from a different time and place). Marty's trying to help his old pal Scott Warms, a once-high-flying founder who's fallen prey to California's three-strikes law and is now facing decades in a state pen. As bad as things are, they get worse when the prison starts handing out "free" tablet and closing down the visitation room, the library, and the payphones.

This is an entry to the thing I love most about the Hench novels: the opportunity to turn all this dry, financial skullduggery into high-intensity, high-stakes technothriller plot. For me, Marty Hench is a tool for flensing the scam economy of all its layers of respectability bullshit and exposing the rot at the core.

It's not a coincidence that I've got a book coming out in a week that's about something that's in the news right now. I didn't "predict" this current turn – I observed it. The world comes at you fast and technology news flutters past before you can register it. Luckily, I have a method for capturing this stuff as it happens:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/05/09/the-memex-method/

Writing about tech issues that are long-simmering but still in the periphery is a technique I call "predicting the present." It's the technique I used when I wrote Little Brother, about out-of-control state surveillance of the internet. When Snowden revealed the extent of NSA spying in 2013, people acted as though I'd "predicted" the Snowden revelations:

https://www.wired.com/story/his-writing-radicalized-young-hackers-now-he-wants-to-redeem-them/

But Little Brother and Snowden's own heroic decision have a common origin: the brave whistleblower Mark Klein, who walked into EFF's offices in 2006 and revealed that he'd been ordered by his boss at AT&T to install a beam-splitter into the main fiber trunk so that the NSA could illegally wiretap the entire internet:

https://www.eff.org/document/public-unredacted-klein-declaration

Mark Klein inspired me to write Little Brother – but despite national press attention, the Klein revelations didn't put a stop to NSA spying. The NSA was still conducting its lawless surveillance campaign in 2013, when Snowden, disgusted with NSA leadership for lying to Congress under oath, decided to blow the whistle again:

https://apnews.com/article/business-33a88feb083ea35515de3c73e3d854ad

The assumption that let the NSA get away with mass surveillance was that it would only be weaponized against the people at the bottom of the shitty technology adoption curve: brown people, mostly in other countries. The Snowden revelations made it clear that these were just the beginning, and sure enough, more than a decade later, we have data-brokers sucking up billions in cop kickbacks to enable warrantless surveillance, while virtually following people to abortion clinics, churches, and protests. Mass surveillance is chugging its way up the shitty tech adoption curve with no sign of stopping.

Like Little Brother, The Bezzle is intended as a kind of virtual flythrough of what life is like further down on that curve – a way for readers who have too much agency to be in the crosshairs of a company like Viapath or Avently right now to wake up before that kind of technology comes for them, and to inspire them to take up the cause of the people further down the curve who are mired in it.

The Bezzle is an intense book, but it's also a very fun story – just like Little Brother. It's a book that lays bare the internal technical workings of so many scams, from multi-level marketing to real-estate investment trusts, from music royalty theft to prison-tech, in the course of an ice-cold revenge plot that keeps twisting to the very last page.

It'll drop in six days. I hope you'll check it out:

https://us.macmillan.com/books/9781250865878/thebezzle

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fiella · 3 months ago

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ron and draco eighth-year friendship headcanon

(needed to put this somewhere)

listen. this dynamic just makes sense. hear me out.

ron can't be arsed to hold a grudge. like, yeah, malfoy was a right prick, but so was he, and honestly? it’s eighth year, the world didn’t end (somehow), and all ron really wants to do is to eat breakfast in peace and rant about quidditch to whoever is within hearing distance.

unfortunately for draco, that someone happens to be him.

of course, at first, draco is deeply irritated. weasley sits across from him at the shared eighth-year table and chatters on about some league scandal, which team is going to annihilate which this season, and whether he should get a broom upgrade. draco does not respond. hell, he probably doesn't even look at ron - he only rolls his eyes in his dramatic manner (which probably encourages ron).

weeks pass, and somehow this is just their thing. sort of.

ron talks. draco listens. or - well, he doesn’t really listen - but yeah, ron is funny. he's annoying but he's funny and weirdly really perceptive in a way draco would have never expected.

one day, ron, completely unprompted, “bet it’s exhausting, yeah?” and draco blinks, all “what?” and ron just shrugs. “bein’ you.”

which is—well.

draco doesn’t know what to do with that.

because here’s the thing: they’re more similar than anyone realizes. draco spent his whole life chasing an ideal he could never live up to, and ron spent his trying to prove he was worth noticing. never quite enough, never quite first. both always watching someone else win.

they don’t talk about it, obviously.

instead, draco sighs, rubs a hand over his face and mutters something about how the harpies wouldn’t stand a chance against the falcons if they’d just fix their bloody defensive formation.

ron grins, triumphant. “knew you were listening.”

and that’s that. they just get each other.

sidenote: somewhere along the way, ron realizes that draco (shockingly) doesn’t treat him like he’s a complete idiot. like, yeah, he’ll sneer and roll his eyes, but when they get partnered in potions, he doesn’t take over or act like ron’s incapable. he just… fixes things when needed, quick and efficient, no fuss about it. doesn’t make a big deal if ron gets something wrong, just mutters “stir clockwise, weasley, not counterclockwise, unless you want to poison the entire class.” and yeah, he’s a prat about it, but it’s funny, not patronizing.

and sometimes (sometimes) draco will acknowledge things in his own dry little way. like if someone brushes ron off in conversation or if he’s getting overshadowed in a group setting, draco will make some offhand comment like, “Yes, let’s all ignore Weasley, as usual. Do carry on.”

it’s mocking, obviously, but it also lands right - like a quiet little acknowledgment.

ron doesn’t mind it.

malfoy, oddly enough, makes ron feel sorta seen.

(PLEASE GIVE ME FIC RECS WITH THIS DYNAMIC - SLASH OR AND (੭ ;´ - `;)੭ ♡)

#harry potter #draco malfoy #dron #draco and ron #draco and ron friendship #hp headcannon #headcanon #hogwarts eighth year #eighth year #fic rec please #ron x draco #ron weasley #hear me out #hogwarts

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the-dixon-effect · 2 years ago

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The way back home

summary: While out looking for Sophia, Y/N is attacked in the woods by a group of men. After managing to fight them off, she heads towards the farm and is noticeably... changed.

word count: 1.5k

pairing: Daryl Dixon x f!reader

warnings: blood, gore, weapons, fainting, usual twd stuff

Your ears were ringing and your vision blurred. Four bodies lay on the ground in a formation that was anything but neat. From head to toe, you were covered in a thick layer of red. Unbeknownst to you, who stood motionless in a bloody trance, you could've easily been mistaken for a character in a cheap horror movie.

You blinked, once, twice. What the hell just happened? You inspected the nightmarish scene and suddenly it was coming back. You had been searching for Carol's little girl... what was her name? Sophia, yes. The last thing you remembered was a dirty hand covering your mouth before you reached for your knife... and the rest was a blur. Upon closer inspection, it became clear that you shot two of the guys with your short-range pistol, one in the head and one in the neck. You scrambled for your knife, which should've been tucked away in its holster, but instead, you spotted it plunged deep into the skull of one of the sickos who came at you. There was a single body left. The largest of the four men bore a filthy grey t-shirt, camo pants and combat boots. You rolled his limp body over to discover a big pool of dark red blood. You had... you had slashed his neck open. Suddenly you felt a pit in your stomach rise to your mouth and- you were about to be sick.

After expelling the only energy you had left in your body, you realised at once what that familiar growling meant, coming from a few metres away. Shit, you thought, you had to get out of here now before the men you killed start trying to kill you again, in a much more gruesome way.

You ran and ran, and could only hope you were going in the right direction. Collapsing beneath a tree, you glanced at your clothes and noticed your loose white tank top was stained completely red. After a little while the adrenaline wore off, and your stomach hurt like hell. Lifting up your shirt, it revealed a nasty cut from one end of your torso to the other. Immediately, the pain spread throughout your whole body and the excessive bleeding was almost unbearable. One of the guys must have slashed at you with a knife in an attempt to get you off of them.

Your thoughts were fading away, and it was getting harder and harder not to pass out right there. Suddenly, you heard a faint voice in the distance.

"Sophia? Sophia!" You could barely hear the voice, let alone tell who it was. Hell, for a second you couldn't remember your own name. A man appeared in your sight, and you didn't know whether to be scared or thankful. Were you hallucinating? As he approached, you noticed that the man was wielding a crossbow... it was- it was Daryl.

"Y/N? Shit, Y/N! Can ya hear me?" you looked up at him, and he could tell just by looking that you could barely keep your eyes open. "Hey, hey, it's alrigh', it's alrigh'. I'm gon' get you back and Hershel's gonna fix you up, I promise."

Hearing Daryl's voice was like a lifeline. Setting down his crossbow on the ground, he helped you up and held you with your arm draped around his shoulder. As you headed back towards the Greene Farm, warm sunlight began to filter through the trees. It felt like your brain was moving at a quarter of the pace it should be, and the sight of the Greene house in the distance, though beautiful, felt like a million miles away as you and the archer trekked towards it.

"Y/N? Oh my God, Daryl, is she okay?" said Andrea as the two of you approached the house. You were a frightening sight to see, especially for certain members of the group that hadn't quite immersed themselves in this brutal apocalypse.

"Rick! She's got a- a nasty gash underneath her shirt. Hershel better take a look at it."

Right in that moment you collapsed on the ground, falling limply out of Daryl's strong arms. The tall grass of Hershel's pasture enveloped your body, and you could no longer hear the great commotion that was taking place. Despite the incredible amount of pain you were just in, sleep was heavenly.

First came a flurry of voices. Then, the white ceiling appeared and several blurred countenances around the room. Strangely, you couldn't remember a thing about how you got here.

"D-Daryl? Where's Daryl?" you asked, innocently. Suddenly, every face in the room turned to look at you. You were pale, very pale, yet you sat upright in the makeshift hospital bed resting on your forearms.

Following a sudden rush of people turning to surround your bedside, you blacked out again.

"Everyone, I would strongly appreciate it if we could give the girl some space," spoke Hershel, calmly.

"Ya think I could stay?" said Daryl.

"Alright, then. Just don't make a big fuss."

This time, you awoke to a cool breeze through the wide open window and noticed only two figures in the room. It looked like... Daryl and Hershel?

Hershel approached you and placed a hand on your forehead, and though you felt extremely hot and clammy, he seemed to deduce that you were going to be fine.

The door swung open and in entered Shane, Glenn and Hershel's youngest daughter, the blonde one... Beth. That was it.

A wave of confusion passed over you suddenly, as if, in a second, somebody has swiftly erased your memory. "Wh- Where am I? What are you doing here?" You sat upright once more and removed the rest of the covers from yourself. Your eyes were wide and a little bloodshot, and your mouth was shaped by a distinct frown.

"Y/N, Y/N, it's alright. Daryl tells me something happened out in the woods. I just need you to tell me the story. It's okay." said Shane, leaning into you.

"What story? What happened?" Tears began to fill your eyes as you spoke and it was like your whole body was consumed in a state of fright. Immediately, you began to hyperventilate as images of mutilated bodies clouded your mind.

"What's happening?" said Beth.

"She's in shock. Everybody out!" announced Hershel.

When you awoke later, you got out of the bed in the back room and entered the living room. Everyone was gathered around, seemingly waiting to find out what on earth had happened to you. Daryl relayed the story countless times to the likes of Dale, Rick, Shane and Maggie. Just like before, they all turned to face you as if you were some lost child, or a deer in headlights. Daryl captured your eyes and noticed how they seemed... different. The same cheerful, good-spirited girl suddenly appeared before him, pale and cold, and with a new thousand-yard stare that didn't go unnoticed by a single member of the group. If they didn't believe how harsh the new world was before, they certainly did now.

"Y/N, sit down," said Dale. His manner was kind yet you couldn't help but feel threatened by anyone who tried to communicate with you.

"Tell us what happened," spoke Rick.

"I- I don't remember..." you declared. Your legs were shaking and you held you face in your hands as you wracked your brain for anything, any trace of a memory of the event that occurred earlier that day.

Bodies.

How many bodies?

"There was... four. Four bodies. Which meant... four guys, I guess?" you looked up at this statement, this time receiving several pitiful looks from around the room.

Shane was about to speak when Rick raised his hand slightly, "Let her talk."

"I don't know- I don't know! There was... blood, there was so much blood," you began, trying to muster up anything you could. "Please can I go back to bed?" At this request, Daryl practically jumped up from his seat to help you and guided you back to the bedroom to rest.

A heated debate had broken out in the front room. How many more of these men are there? Are they dangerous? Is she even telling the truth? For some members, they feared the worst and assumed that this incident would be the first of many to come, involving a new threat; people.

(one day later, at dawn)

You sat with Daryl on the white porch, facing the sunset behind the trees. The trees, in fact, that the two of you had ventured out of the previous day. Although you hadn't known him long, you decided that you enjoyed his company most of all.

"You know, I think I'm going crazy, Daryl," you said, somewhat wistfully.

"Oh yeah, why's tha'?" he drawled.

"I was just walking 'round here, over in the woods. Saw some freak stumbling around. Went to look a little closer, and this sicko was dressed up like some kind of corpse! You know, fake blood and everything. Guess he was just trying to scare little kids or something."

#brandy writes #daryl dixon #twd angst #daryl dixon angst #the walking dead #the walking dead fanfic #daryl dixon fanfic #daryl dixon fluff #daryl dixon x you #daryl dixon x reader #daryl x y/n #daryl dixon x y/n

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nyarumie · 10 months ago

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Dating Headcanons

hoshina soshiro x doctor!reader — 466 words. bullet point format, established relationship, pure fluff

A request from this ask! Dear anon, I hope this was up to your satisfaction 💌 enjoy! (I'm also on a slump rn so I hope it's still good aaaa)

Links: Masterlist | Navigation | Ask box (requests open!)

Soshiro whines a lot when he visits you and finds that you're occupied with more patients than usual. That usually means he can't spend his precious free time alone with you. (It's free entertainment for the officers stuck in your infirmary). Still, it's his only chance to get a "vip" seat as you do your thing, showcasing your expertise as you treat officers and he thinks you're even more gorgeous like this.

You're basically his personal nurse slash caretaker (sometimes. he rarely gets sick) and he can be quite the workaholic, so you barge in to his office whenever he sneaks out of bed to work (scaring some innocent officers while you grumpily stride to his office)

Scolds him whenever officers recount how they got their wounds from training ("I'm not harsh, they caused it themselves!") and yes, the officers told you on purpose, hoping he'll be a bit more lenient next time.

Always sends a small bouquet of fresh flowers for you to keep on your small reception table. Since all of the flowers you display came from him, he knows when exactly they're about to wilt. And each time, the flowers he sends would always convey the feelings he want to tell you the most.

Would ask the cafeteria to pack a full course meal for two and bring it to you. It is a must to eat meals with you everyday, or else he'll be subtly grumpy. No one dares to disturb you during lunch time, even if their life is on the line (not that it ever happened)

If he notices the infirmary being a bit too empty for the day, he'll leave an annotated book to your care, suggesting to read it while you pass time. You'll notice that there are annotated passages saying that "reading it reminded him of you" and how "he hopes his annotations feel like he's reading with you and imparting his thoughts with you." Naturally, you annotate the book too!

He's strong, so he rarely has the need to get treated by you. That's why it was such a shock when he was in a horrendous state after his fight with Kaiju No. 10. You wore a rare, extremely stressed out expression, and he can see your hands shaking as you were treating him, trying to stop tears from falling. But your ragged breaths can be heard all throughout, and you know he won't die, but that didn't help the case at all. He swore to get even stronger so that he won't see such an expression on your face again.

Anyways! He loves kissing you and teasing you in front of your patients, even if he currently is a patient himself. He feels proud that you're paying more attention to him than the others lol

#kaiju no. 8 #axia writes for fun #kn8 writing #kn8 x reader #soshiro hoshina #hoshina soshiro fluff #hoshina soshiro x reader #kn8 x you #kaiju number 8

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short-honey-badger · 1 year ago

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Forgetful Valentine's

The long awaited fic! I do hope you all enjoy what I've whipped up!

Everyone have an amazing Valentine's Day! ❤️❤️❤️

Pairings!: Sir Crocodile x AFAB Reader.

Quick summary : Crocodile is hard at work trying to get the Cross Guild up and running and accidentally forgets that it's Valentine's Day.

4.3k words

Masterlist

Buggy Town was lively as usual. Almost Everyone here belonged to the cowardly clown’s crew, but a few select members had elected to stay loyal to Crocodile. The ex-warlord strolled through the tall tents toward the middle of town where real construction had begun. He had a hand in each building, deciding what and where needed to be built first. Mihawk was uninterested in this side of running the guild, and Buggy was far too incompetent to use a hammer, much less direct a building crew made out of pirates.

Crocodile made his way to the largest building, a hotel slash bar of sorts that housed him and the other leaders of the Cross Guild. It'd been a couple of days since the devil fruit user had been able to rest his head, and he was thrilled at the thought of getting to see you, his wife. The two of you have been together since his relocation to Alabasta, been married for around eight years now. Impel Down and Marineford had been life-changing for both of you, but things were beginning to look up with the formation of the Cross Guild.

Only the people Crocodile thought worthy enough to see him with his walls down knew that he was a bit of a romantic at heart. You were obviously one of them, and he couldn't wait to get back to their personal room, curl his huge frame around you, and go to sleep.

However, Crocodile couldn't help but think that he was forgetting something important- he just couldn't figure out what. He sighs heavily and pushes open the door to the hotel, and his cigar would have fallen out of his mouth if he had not clenched his teeth.

The entire lobby has been decorated in PINK. There are paper hearts and streamers everywhere, and someone has even made cupcakes with cutesy designs. There is a massive banner that spans across the bar, where Buggy and his crew sit at the bar, drinking and having a swell time, and Crocodile feels his heart drop. It's Valentine's Day, and he forgot.

Crocodile has nothing ready, nothing prepared for you. He's been far too busy dealing with the new shipment of crops and lumber coming in. The ex-warlord swears under his breath and spins on his heel, mind working quickly to try and find a solution.

Any other year, Crocodile has gone all out for you. Back in Alabasta, he'd wake you with flowers and a sweet breakfast, keeping the day open just for the two of you. Then he would take you out for an extravagant date, only to bring you back to the casino to feed you expensive fruits and worship you from head to toe. Before the night was over, he would run the two of you a bath, making sure it suited you perfectly before gently cleaning his love of the day's events.

All that changed after Straw Hat came and wreaked all of his plans, but right now, none of that mattered. Crocodile needed to find something - anything to give you. He's already wasted the majority of the day and cursed himself for not realizing what today was again. He could only hope that you would be forgiving.

Crocodile flies out of the hotel, dropping into sand and scattering out through Buggy Town. He comes back together when he finds Mihawk, knowing that the other man would have some fancy, expensive wine lying around somewhere.

The swordsman cocks a brow at him, looking thoroughly unimpressed at Crocodile's sudden entrance. Mihawk takes in the older man's rather erratic appearance.

“Can I help you?”

Crocodile smooths his hair back, settling back into nonchalance. He doesn't want the haunty man's help, but he doesn't have many options at the moment.

“I need a favor, a bottle of wine - strawberry, your most expensive brand.”

Mihawk shifts his weight, crossing his arms and leaning back against the crates behind him. It's not every day that Crocodile of all people comes asking for a favor.

“Why?”

The taller man flicks the ash from his cigar, eyes flickering to the darkening sky. He inhales deeply, lungs filling with smoke and then leaking up into the air. Fuck. This was embarrassing.

“I forgot it was Valentine's Day. I can't show up empty-handed,” Crocodile grumbles and huffs in annoyance when he sees the amused smirk on Mihawk’s face.

“You? Why celebrate such an unnecessary holiday?” Hawkeye inquires, but his eyes shine in mischief. Mihawk knows exactly the reason, but he can't help but want to pick on the other man.

Patience running thin, Crocodile glares down at the pompous bird who looks too smug for his own good.

“Because I don't take the one I love for granted,” he snarls down at Mihawk and revels in the look of anger that flashes across his face before it disappears. They glare at one another before the swordsman ultimately sighs and rolls his eyes as he is being asked to do the most unfortunate thing in the world.

“Fine,” Mihawk drawls and turns on to march back to the hotel, “Only because your wife deserves to have a nice Valentine's.”

Wine now in hand, Crocodile stalks to the back and into the kitchens. He demands the cooks whip up a platter of fine fruits and cheeses, simple things that he knows that you like. As he steps back into the lobby, he catches sight of the rack of cupcakes that sit far too close to Buggy for his liking. He sighs as he steps over to the figurehead of the Cross Guild, clearing his throat and smirking around his cigar at the way the clown shrieks and breaks into pieces.

Crocodile snatches up a cupcake, transferring the bottle of wine to a helpful pile of sand that he summons without a thought, “Who made these?”

Buggy looks about to die in his spot when he raises his hand, cheeks coloring bright red in embarrassment as he admits to baking the cupcakes. Crocodile scoffs at the goofball of a man who somehow became an emperor of the sea.

“Of course you did,” he sneers before turning on his heel and loping upstairs, leaving behind a befuddled and terrified Buggy.

The gator is uncharacteristically nervous when he arrives in front of his door. He can hear soft music playing from within, and his scar pulls tight around his nose when a wince crosses his face. The song is slow and crooning, one that he recognizes as one of the few that you play when you are feeling upset with him. Shit.

I’ve lost all ambition

For worldly acclaim

I just want to be the one you love

Crocodile steps through the door, brows pulling up at the sight of soft lighting and delicate decorations that are just a bit tacky. He cracks a tiny grin, and stubs out his cigar in the nearest ashtray, though the effort you’ve put in here just makes the ex-warlord feel guilty. On he goes, passed the living room, and out to the small balcony where he can still hear the slow tune of the song.

And with your admission

That you feel the same

I’ll have reached the goal I’m dreaming of

You sit in one of the chairs that have been set outside, blanket wrapped tight around your body, and turn when you hear the door slide open. Crocodile catches your eyes, and his shoulders slump in relief when you reward him with a soft smile full of love. You stand, dropping your blanket, and come to his side, simply happy that your husband has made it home before the end of the day.

Crocodile drapes himself over you, setting the wine bottle and cupcake away and then curling his arm around you tightly. He lifts you, tucking his hooked arm under your legs, and you wrap your arms around his neck, pulling yourself in so that you can seal your lips to his, sighing in relief at feeling the man you loved close again. You know that he is busy, and you try not to let how much his absence hurts, but you hadn’t thought that Crocodile would have forgotten Valentine's Day.

You rest your brow against his own when the ex-warlord parts from you, letting out a quiet giggle when he presses a smattering of kisses to your cheeks and nose, though when he stops, you can see the regret still shimmering in his purple eyes.

“Forgive me, doll,” Crocodile rumbles against your lips, “Getting the guild up and running has taken too much of my attention away from you.”

You smile at him, a soft quirk of your lips that Crocodile had fallen in love with over time. He once thought you were mocking him with that easy expression, but now it is one that he cherishes above all else.

“There is nothing you need to apologize for, baby,” you coo softly and smooth a hand along his jaw, feeling the days-old stubble there. You trace the scar that runs along his nose and cheekbones, “I know that you’ve got a lot on your plate.”

Crocodile huffs, leaning into the hold you have on him, “That’s no excuse. You deserve better than this. If I’d remembered, we wouldn’t be spending this evening in the hotel surrounded by fools.”

“It's not very nice to speak about your co-workers like that,” you tease your husband, and the gator just rolls his eyes skyward.

“As if either of them contribute to the guild,” Crocodile grouches and shrugs out of his heavy overcoat and settles into the chair, situating you into a more comfortable position in his lap. Below the chair, sand shifts and slides back inside and to the cellarette. He retrieves two wine glasses and his hand reforms with the stems tucked between his fingers.

“Impressive as always,” you quip and take the glasses, resting them beside the wine and cupcake that you are just now noticing. Your smile turns into a delighted grin, and you snatch up the bottle, reading the label, “You got my favorite!”

Crocodile gives you a smug smirk, feeling proud of himself for doing at least something right tonight, “Thank Mihawk later. He’s the one who had it lying around.”

He disintegrates the cork of the dark bottle and pours them both a generous amount of the pale pink wine, handing you your glass first and then taking up his own, “The cooks are making you that little snack tray you like so much. Always eating like a little mouse.”

You snort at the old nickname, “Not my fault that fruit, cheese, and bread go so well together.”

Crocodile keeps a steady hand on your hip when you lean back over and pick up the cupcake, examining the bright pink icing and chocolate cake, “Who made this?”

The sigh Crocodile disperses is earth-shattering, and you raise a brow at his dramatics, only to smirk when he hisses, “Buggy.”

“See, your business partners are good for something, right?” You point out and take an obvious sip of your wine, then examine the cupcake, wondering which angle to go in at to create the least mess.

Crocodile snatches the cupcake from your hand, setting it back on the table. He didn’t trust you not to get crumbs everywhere, “Enough, you’ve made your point. Be grateful, hmm?”

You scoff at his audacity to think that you would ever be ungrateful for anything the devil fruit user got for you. You quickly decide to show your husband just how grateful you can be by being obnoxious, of course.

You drape yourself over Crocodile’s chest with a dramatic sigh, shifting to cradle his face in both of your hands to press your lips to his in a lip-smacking kiss, “Thank you so much for the wine and snacks to come my sweet, dear husband! What would I ever do without you?”

“Be wineless and snackless,” Crocodile rumbles and snickers at your dramatic display. Seas does he love his wife, so opposite to him, but with a unique outlook on life that he has always admired.

You laugh, catching him in another kiss before settling back down. Crocodile pours you another glass, and you sip it with a suspicious look, “Are you trying to get me drunk, Sir Crocodile?”

The grin that you receive is dastardly, and you are tugged impossibly closer, almost spilling your drink if not for the grip you had on the delicate stim. You shiver when that dangerous hook finds the edge of your dress, and send Crocodile a soft glare when you hear it begin to rip. Cool air meets your thighs when he rips it further, and he leans in, lips brushing against yours as he speaks.

“If I recall, you quite like it when I take advantage of you, Doll,” He rumbles, and his flesh hand smooths up your thigh, thumb dipping in between the juncture of your legs and stroking the soft skin there. Crocodile longs to feel your plush thighs wrapped around his waist or his head. The ex-warlord wasn’t picky. He presses his cheek to his wife’s, breathing you in and leaving a lingering kiss to your ear, “Or am I remembering incorrectly?”

A breathy laugh escapes you, and you turn your face, lips finding his stubbled cheek, “No, you remember correctly.”

You think about teasing him about the fact that he had forgotten what today was but cast the thought away when you lean back and catch sight of the dark circles under his eyes. Your husband looks tired, and your tipsy, lust-filled mind is swiftly reminded that this is the first time that Crocodile has been back to the hotel in days.

The gator raises a brow when he catches the change in your expression, and he sighs as he is subjugated to your concerned fretting until a knock on the door grabs his attention. Crocodile sets you on your feet, hands off his glass to you, and suggests you gather the wine and join him inside.

By the time you make it inside, Crocodile is shutting the door and lopes over to the sitting area where you’ve sat your bounty on the center table. The tray of snacks joins the wine and sweet treat, and Crocodile presses a quick kiss to the top of your head, “Get ready for me while I change, Dear.”

Crocodile smirks at the way you flush at the husk of his voice, and satisfaction curls hot in his chest at still being able to make you blush like a virgin even after all these years.

“Yes, Sir,” You breathe, and his cock twitches in interest. Crocodile leaves before he can say fuck it and go straight to the main course.

With your husband gone, you take in a deep breath and set to “getting ready” as he ordered you to do, which surmounted to waiting for him to get back so that he could manhandle you how he wanted. You help yourself to another glass and pick at the charcuterie board - eating the cupcake too while you’re at it - you’ve already eaten, but you were never one to turn away food.

The sight of your husband dressed down in black sleep pants with a cigar hanging from between his teeth - he’s even taken off his golden hook for the night - makes you smile, affection, and love for the dangerous man who used to infuriate you at every turn. Now, only you had the honor of seeing the suna suna user like this, all soft and intimate, and all for you, his wife.

Crocodile sighs as he settles on the floor where you’ve strewn out pillows and thick blankets, making a cozy pallet for the two of you. He rests his back on the couch, extending his hookless arm along the cushions and taking up his filled glass. He watches you pick over to the record player and switch songs, smirking when the husky voice of the female artist fills the room. You settle back in his lap, and he wraps his left arm securely around your waist.

Your fingers find his scared wrist and trace gentle patterns there. You rest against him and quietly ask him about how the last couple of days have been. You listen to your husband grouch about the incompetent fools he works with a fond grin, occasionally rising to pick at the snack board and feed your overworked ex-warlord just to get him to pause in his rants. You chime in here and there and offer one last time if he wants your help, but Crocodile denies you like every other time.

“I won’t have you out there around those heathens when I can’t be there to protect you. Mr. 3 and Daz are the only two I trust around here,” Crocodile grumbles and pushes away the cracker and cheese combination you offer him. He smirks as he watches you shrug and eat it for yourself.

“Once I get a more stable network, then we can talk about getting you back out there.”

You huff, but agree for now, not willing to argue with the stubborn man right now. You blink when your world suddenly spins, and the next thing you know, your husband is looming over you, scar scrunching up as he grins meanly down at you.

“Enough about work, Doll. I’ve held myself back for your sake, but I’m done being patient,” Crocodile rumbles and stabilizes himself with his left elbow, trailing his flesh hand up your knee and pushing your dress up and around your hips. Saliva pools in his mouth at the sight of smooth thighs, your panties hugging your mound and leaving little to the imagination. He wants to mark you up like his personal canvas and paint you with bites and hickies so that everyone would know who you belong to.

He leans back just enough to tug your dress up and over your head, tossing it behind him the moment it leaves your head. Crocodile hums, pleased at the sight of your bare breasts, though he would have liked to have seen you nice and dolled up for him, “What have I told you about wearing the lingerie I bought you?”

You blush and shake your head, “It just gets in the way.”

“Ku ha-hah, If you would give it a chance, then maybe you would change your mind,” Crocodile grumbles at you and then leans down to mouth at your collar bone, nipping at the delicate skin there. His hand splays across your side, and he slides it down your hip to hook into your underwear. He tugs them down, growing impatient when his cock throbs in his pants.

Any thoughts of arguing about lingerie are whipped from your mind when those sharp teeth of his find one of your nipples and bites. You curse, one hand gripping his shoulder and the other sliding into his hair, nails biting sharply into his olive skin. The tip of his tongue curls around your nipple, sucking gently to ease the sharp pain.

With your underwear out of the way, Crocodile hooks his fingers around your thigh and tugs your legs open, hooking your left one over his hip. The tips of his fingers dig into your inner thigh, and you moan when he nips your nub before releasing the abused flesh and lean your head back to expose your throat when he noses forward. He sucks dark marks into your skin, leaving behind a painting that only your husband would have the pleasure of viewing.

Crocodile drags his hand down your thigh, growling low in his throat when you dig your nails into his scalp again. The tips of his fingers find your cunt, and he slides his middle finger through your folds, smirking against your skin when he feels how wet you are for him. He leans up and sucks his finger into his mouth for half a second, soaking it thoroughly before sliding it back down and finding your entrance with practiced ease.

“Fuck,” you hiss, and your hips jerk at the sudden stretch. Crocodile was a large man, bigger than the average at the least, and that meant everything on him matched his height. His fingers, usually decorated with rings, were long and thick, and the gator knew how to use them to bring you over the edge until you were begging for his cock.

“Too much?” Crocodile grunts out from where he has leaned back to lave his tongue along your throat, sharp teeth nipping, “But you can take it even if it was, couldn’t you, sweetheart?”

You jerk your head in a nod, deliriously with wanton lust, “Of course, Sir. Whatever you wanted from me.”

He laughs against your skin, and then he is moving up to shove his tongue past your lips, groaning at the mixed taste of you and sweet strawberry wine. You suck on the thick muscle that fills your mouth, jaw aching at the way Crocodile doesn't let up. Your thighs shake when he adds another finger, the pace brutal and impatient.

“C-croc, please,” you plead when he pulls away, lips red and smeared with spit, “You're not the only one who's been waiting.”

Crocodile gives you a smirk, not needing to be told twice. You unwrap your arms from his neck, and he sits back on his knees, thumb hooking into the elastic of his pants, pulling them down, and you watch his impressive length spring free. Your mouth fills with saliva, and if you didn't want your husband inside you so badly, you would demand he sit back so you could suck him off.

Instead, you reach out and wrap your hand around the thick base, smirking when you feel him pulse in your hand. You squeeze gently, eyes landing on the thick precum that leaks from his tip. Crocodile rumbles above you, sounding like the animal that he is named after, and the sound sends shocks straight to your core.

Done with your playing, you sit back and tighten your legs around his waist, causing the big man to rock forward.

“Fuck me, Crocodile. Make it up to me for almost missing Valentine's.”

Crocodile's grin is nasty and mean, sharp teeth pearly and on display, “As my wife demands.”

With those words, Crocodile bats your hand away from his cock and takes himself in hand. He guides himself forward, hissing at how tight of a fit you are, swallowing him down until his hips pressed flush against your own. Crocodile lingers for half a second before he is pulling out, dragging along your walls before slamming back in.

You shout, head falling back to the pillows below as Crocodile sets a back breaking pace. You hold on to his shoulders to dear life, his hand tight around your hip to keep you still as he fucks into your cunt. He shifts his knees under you, arm moving to wrap around your waist, keeping you close as he moves to kneel on the ground. This position pushes him impossibly deeper, and you lean forward to rest your sweaty brow against his chest.

Crocodile bounces you on his cock, bodily moving you up and down, and you feel that hot coil of pleasure snap inside of you when your clit grinds wonderfully against his pelvis. He doesn't stop, growling as you clench tight around him and snapping his hips up, dragging his length against your sweet spot.

“You should see yourself,” Crocodile snarls above you, and bends, pressing his cheek to yours, “Stuffed so full with my cock. You like it when I'm rough, don't you baby?”

You nod eagerly, teeth clenched tightly when your husband tightens his grip in your waist and holds you down while he grinds up. You come quickly after that, hands tight around his shoulders and nails digging into Crocodile’s back.

His pace becomes erratic, and Crocodile can feel himself starting to get close. His wife feels too good, and he doesn't fight it when that heat snaps, pulling you down and shoving in to fill you up to the brim. You watch him, taking in the blissed out way, his brows furrowed and his sharp teeth clench. He paints you from the inside, and the two of you look down at where you are connected to see a mix of slick and semean leak out and stain your thighs.

The two of you stay like that until Crocodile grows soft and he slips out of your fucked out pussy with a quiet groan. You stay draped over him, unwilling to move, and feeling exhausted. The gator huffs at you, though he can't pick when Crocodile lets out a jaw cracking yawn. He stands with a heavy sigh, unbothered by the mess left behind as he lopes to the bathroom.

Crocodile switches arms, tucking his handless arm under your ass to keep you help up while he flicks on the tub. It's too hot for him when he steps into the huge tub, but he knows that you wouldn't tolerate anything cooler than molten lava. He adjusts you so that you are mostly submerged, big frame relaxing against the edge of the tub.

He smooths your hair away from your face, a soft smile playing on his lips when he catches your eyes. He leans in and presses his lips to your brow, “I love you, Doll.”

You grin, eyes falling shut, and you press yourself as close as you can to your husband, lips grazing his chest, “I love you too, Crocodile.”

The ex-warlord hums low, a smirk appearing, but you can still see the slight discontent in his eyes. Today isn't how he would have liked it to go, and you both know it. He tucks you close, head leaning back.

“I won't forget next year.”

#fanfic #one piece #reader insert #fluff #valentine's day #valentines day #sir crocodile #op crocodile #crocodile one piece #crocodile #crocodile x you #crocodile x y/n #crocodile x reader #cross guild #masterlist

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skyward-floored · 8 months ago

Text

Whumptober Day 17 - Venom, “we had a good run”

sorry it’s late again here's this thing. I had fun with it at least. Knight trio except for twi <3 Maybe big brother trio. Oldest trio? Minus Time. Something. Idk.

Warnings: spiders, spider bite, battle violence, brief vomiting

Ao3 link

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"This... looks way too similar to a place I’ve been before,” Sky said quietly. Dread sat heavy in his gut as he looked at the dark cave walls, thin cracks of purple spread through the stone, a sort of weight in the air around them. “I can tell it’s not, but... ugh," he continued with a shiver, remembering the ancient cistern's basement.

“Unpleasant memories, huh?” Warriors asked, holding up his borrowed fire rod for light. Sky nodded. “Hm. Well this certainly looks like a nasty place. Let’s hope we have a better time then you did.”

“Yeah, I hope so,” Sky huffed, kicking a little at the ground. “Maybe we’ll get some treasure out of it at least.”

Warriors chuckled, though Sky saw the unease in his eyes as he looked around the passageway. “Well I’ll keep an eye out. You hear that Rancher? Keep that nose of yours out for treasure, huh?”

A hum was the only reply they got, and Sky and Warriors both turned to see that Twilight had fallen behind by several paces, his face creased.

“Rancher?” Sky asked, and Twilight straightened, though his face was pale. “Are you okay?”

“Fine... fine,” he reassured, hurriedly striding back over to Sky and Warriors. Sky saw his legs shake as he joined their sides, and his smile seemed weak. “This place is just... rotten.”

“Yeah,” Sky grimaced. “Try to breathe through your mouth.”

“More then just the smell,” Twilight said under his breath, his face pale.

Sky frowned, but Twilight didn’t elaborate, quietly brushing past him and continuing forward. Warriors exchanged looks with Sky, his face pinched, and they followed after Twilight, Sky intent on keeping a closer eye on the rancher.

The cave stayed fairly straight, but after a while it curved a bit, and Sky grimaced as a sludgy-looking river came into view, purple and gooey. This really was like the ancient cistern.

Twilight wasn’t the only one who grew paler the longer they trekked through the cave, and Sky watched him and Warriors both with an increasing amount of worry. All the dark energy in the area must have been wearing on them, but while Sky could tell it was pretty bad, he largely felt okay himself.

Was the Master Sword helping with that?

He didn’t have much of a chance to think it through though, since it was only a few minutes later that they turned a corner, and the ground shook beneath their feet in a familiar way.

“Watch out!” Sky shouted, and leapt backwards as a cursed bokoblin that looked slightly different from his own crawled out of the ground, yellow eyes rolling unsettlingly.

“What is that?” Warriors exclaimed in disgust as another appeared, nearly grabbing his ankle. Sky leapt sideways and stabbed through the spine of the cursed blin, hampering its movement.

“Cursed bokoblin, don’t let them touch you,” Sky warned, and Twilight skittered away from another one that lurched towards him. “They take several hits to take down.”

“Oh yay,” Twilight muttered, looking even paler as he slashed at one.

They all stayed in close formation as they fought, keeping the undead enemies away as best as they could. There were a fair number of them, but the heroes were able to cut down enough that they were never overwhelmed.

Sky fought more fiercely than normal, able to tell the others were rapidly flagging. It must have been the Master Sword that was keeping him in working order, and so Sky did his best to pick up the slack.

And everything was going okay, until a skulltula leapt from the ceiling, slamming into Twilight before he could move.

“Twilight!” Sky shouted in alarm, but he couldn’t get away from the cursed bokoblins he was fighting. The skulltula wrapped its legs around Twilight, and despite the rancher’s strength, he couldn’t break loose.

Twilight suddenly screamed, and Warriors killed the bokoblin he was fighting and raced to his side. Sky knocked the cursed bokoblins back with his shield and gained just enough time to charge up a skyward strike, launching a beam at the group in a wide swathe.

The monsters fell, and Sky whirled around, running over as Warriors slashed at the skulltula’s head. It screeched and released Twilight, and Sky and Warriors both stabbed the creature in its soft belly.

It curled up with a dying rattle, and Sky and Warriors hurried over to Twilight, who was curled up on the ground and looked even paler than he had before.

“Twilight, did it bite you?” Sky asked urgently, and Twilight managed a shaking sort of nod. “Where?”

“I see it,” Warriors said tightly, pulling Twilight’s tunic up. Right above his belt his shirt was torn, and Sky heard Warriors hiss as he tried to inspect the bite.

“It had a st-stinger, or, or fangs or s-something,” Twilight said, wincing as he tried to curl up further. “Went r-right through, the chain-chainmail.”

Sky glanced at his sword, and grimaced as he saw dark blood staining the blade. That would be why.

Warriors pulled Twilight’s layers out of the way enough to see his skin, and he and Sky both sucked in a breath at the sight. The wound was pale and raised in two spots, blood dripping lazily from the fang bites. A dark ring lay around them, the color of an especially dark bruise, or the infected monsters’ blood.

Twilight moaned quietly, and Sky gave Warriors a frightened look.

“I don’t think a potion will fix this,” he said, and Warriors put a hand on Twilight’s wrist, his face grim.

“No, potions can’t fix venom. We need to get him a fairy,” Warriors said as he felt Twilight’s pulse, then his forehead.

The rancher was already looking paler, and he groaned again, a hand wrapping around his middle. Sky gently pried it off, and Warriors swiped a cloth over the bite, then wrapped a few bandages over it. Sky noticed the job was messier than Warriors would usually be okay with, but he wasn’t looking all that much better than Twilight was.

“I guess we look for the exit then?” Sky said as Warriors put Twilight’s tunic back.

“I guess so. I just hope we find it,” Warriors murmured, and Twilight grunted, shakily raising himself up.

Sky quickly helped him, and Warriors sighed, his shoulders tense as he also supported Twilight. “Careful, rancher.”

“I can m-make it,” Twilight hissed, a hand clutched tight around his waist. “'s not too bad..."

Warriors raised an eyebrow at that, but didn't argue. Sky was sure he was thinking of the last time Twilight had tried to walk off an injury. They got moving then, Twilight supported between Sky and Warriors, his skin looking almost purple in the faint light from the cave. Sky kept the Master Sword at the ready, but no more monsters came to attack them.

Maybe the only real goal was to take one of us out of commission.

Twilight's head lolled the longer they went, sweat beading at his brow. Sky could feel him twitch now and then with odd little tremors, and his weight grew more and more heavy between him and Warriors' arms. Twilight was fading fast, and Sky... didn't know what to do.

Twilight suddenly lurched forward, and before Sky or Warriors could do anything, he was retching violently into the dirt.

He moaned as he finished, his breathing coming in short gasps, and Sky held his hand as another violent shudder wracked through him.

"He can't walk anymore," Sky said quietly, and Warriors exhaled, wiping sweat off his own brow.

"I know. We'll have to carry him," he panted, and Sky gave him a look.

"I don't think you can carry him right now," he said, placing a hand on the captain's arm. "Here:"

Sky handed Warriors the Master Sword, and Warriors gave him an intense look.

“Sky I can’t take this, you’re the only one of us who’s actually functioning.”

“I know, but someone has to carry Twilight, and someone has to be ready to fight in case there’s more monsters,” Sky said patiently, ignoring how heavier he felt not holding the sacred blade. He’d seen Warriors’ shoulders relax the moment he’d touched the handle though, and he knew it was worth it. “You can’t carry Twilight as you are, but I can last long enough to carry him out of here. You can cover us.”

“Take it,” Twilight suddenly rasped, and Sky and Warriors both looked at him. “‘S be... best plan.”

Warriors hesitated, then gave in with a sigh. His hand tightened on the sword, and he nodded at Sky, standing back up.

“Okay. Let’s go, then.”

Twilight could barely move as they pulled him up onto Sky’s back, head lolling and eyes oddly milky. It was a struggle to get him situated, and as Sky listened to his breath still coming too fast, he wished they could let him hold the Master Sword.

They kept going through the murk, Warriors keeping a sharp eye for any monsters. He held the Master Sword in one hand and the fire rod in the other, and between the two they had enough light to see. The sludgy river soon diverged from their path, disappearing into a wall, and Sky wasn’t sorry in the least to see it go.

He wondered if it was possible that they were upriver of the ancient cistern.

Twilight moaned behind him, and his grip slipped from Sky’s shoulders, nearly sending him to the floor. Sky hurriedly grabbed him, and Warriors had to come over and stabilize them both, expression pure worry.

Sky wished he could just hold Twilight in his arms— it would be so much more comfortable for him, but the sad truth of the matter was that Twilight was pure muscle, and Sky was not. Though under normal circumstances Sky could probably pick him up at least. Just not while there was dark magic breathing down his neck, slowly drawing the strength from his limbs, sucking him dry.

Sky’s steps slowed more and more, the dark magic seeping into him like rot. Twilight seemed to grow heavier on his back, trembling and hot, and it was all Sky could do to keep him there.

“Wait, Sky look.”

Sky wearily raised his head, blinking at where Warriors was pointing.

They had come into a large, open cavern, with big purplish rocks hanging from the ceiling. It seemed even darker than the rest of the caves had been, all except for a pale glow tucked on the opposite side from them, warm and... pink.

“It’s a fairy fountain,” Warriors said with a relieved smile, his face a little less pale.

“Down here?” Sky asked incredulously, and Warriors nodded, looking ahead.

“They must be immune to the magic. Or maybe they’re here because of it? Fairies can purify things like this sometimes.” He shrugged and glanced at Twilight. “Regardless, a fairy is exactly what the rancher needs.”

Twilight didn’t reply.

They hurried across the cavern, Warriors in the lead and Sky right behind him. His feet felt like lead but he pushed them on anyway, his head aching from dark magic.

The shadows seemed to grow the closer they got to the fountain, and Sky abruptly stopped, a sense of foreboding so huge that he couldn’t stand it. Warriors stopped as well and turned back towards him, but before Sky could voice his concerns, something leapt from the darkness.

It bowled Warriors over with a shout, making him drop the fire rod. Miraculously he kept his grip on the Master Sword, but since his arms were pinned to his sides by a skulltula’s legs, he couldn’t do much with it.

“Captain!” Sky cried out, and snatched the fire rod from the ground, almost dropping Twilight in the process.

Warriors thrashed against the spider’s hold, eyes wild as he tried to twist away from its head. Sky stumbled towards him as fast as he could, but he was too slow with the weight of Twilight and the dark magic.

Warriors suddenly screamed, and Sky’s heart dropped as his clumsy fingers finally clicked on the fire rod. Fire burst from the tip, lighting up the cavern, and to Sky’s horror, revealed a good two dozen skulltulas all crawling towards them.

Sky cursed under his breath as he shot a blast of fire towards the skulltula still holding Warriors, the fireball making it screech and drop the captain. Sky hurriedly shot another into its face, and the smell of burning monster flesh nearly made him gag.

The Master Sword slipped from Warriors’ grip and clattered to the ground, the captain clutching weakly at his arm. Sky bolted to his side and blasted back another skulltula, another enraged screech filling the cavern.

“It got you,” Sky said, and Warriors nodded stiffly, eyes closed as he panted for breath. “Can you make it?”

“I think... so,” Warriors gasped, a shiver running up his body. “Think... hit a vein, won’t... have long.”

Sky bit the inside of his cheek, heart pounding, and helped Warriors up as best as he could. “Luckily we don’t need long. We can make it.”

Warriors nodded with a held-back groan, and Sky blasted another skulltula that was getting close. It seemed like they were weak to fire, but there were just so many.

He grabbed the Master Sword once he had some breathing room, and between holding two weapons, carrying Twilight, and supporting Warriors as they stumbled towards the fairy fountain, he wasn’t sure if they were going to make it.

More and more skulltulas crawled towards them, joined by the occasional rotting bokoblin. Sky had to use the fire rod near continuously, and interspersed it with slashes with the Master Sword. At least with the blade in his grip again he wasn’t feeling the heavy press of dark magic so much.

Warriors struggled along beside him, Twilight was almost completely motionless on his back, and Sky was beyond flagging, two monsters coming in to take the place of every one he shot down.

Warriors’ legs suddenly gave out, and Sky couldn’t catch him, merely stand over him as he fell to the ground. Dozens of skulltula eyes shone in the dark, chittering and clacking an eerie song as they came closer and closer.

Warriors made a weak sound, and Sky looked back at him, the captain’s dazed eyes meeting his own.

“We had... good run,” Warriors gasped, eyes rolling back in his head as he trembled. “Thank... thank you, Sky.”

“We’re not done,” Sky said fiercely, grabbing both weapons so hard his fingers hurt. “Not yet, we’re not done, just hold on a little longer.”

Sky whirled back towards the monsters, the beasts almost close enough to attack, and he yelled, holding both weapons as high as he could without dropping Twilight.

The Master Sword seemed to warm in his hands, and Sky charged a skyward strike. He felt a buzz in his veins, nearly electric, and the fire rod grew almost unbearably hot in his other hand.

He swung both weapons simultaneously, a beam of light going one way, a huge wave of fire going the other.

It was a bigger blast of heat than Sky had ever seen from the rod, and he watched in shock as it took out a good two thirds of the monsters, the remaining third cowering and screeching from the light.

Sky didn’t waste a moment, dropping the fire rod and grabbing Warriors under the arm with his freed hand. He dragged him and Twilight towards the fairy fountain, his head spinning, legs like stone, the pink light growing ever brighter.

Something caught at his leg and Sky yelled as he slashed it away, spider webbing sticking to the Master Sword. He stabbed at a spider that leapt at him, kicked away another. then threw all three of them into the gap of rock that shone warm and pink.

The heady thrum of dark magic was immediately blocked out, and Sky gasped in relief from his spot on the ground, Twilight squishing his arm, Warriors halfway on top of his leg. A light shone in his blurry vision, and Sky nearly cried with relief as a fairy drifted into his sight.

“Heal them,” Sky wheezed, his eyes falling shut. “Please.”

A worried chime rang in his ears, and as pink sparkles drifted around him and his brothers, Sky relaxed, grip finally easing from the Master Sword’s grip.

#linkeduniverse #linked universe #lu Sky #lu twilight #lu warriors #whumptober #whumptober 2024 #fic #no.17 #we had a good run #tw arachnophobia #writing from the floor #ta daaaah #next fic will come later #lucky it’s already mostly written!#the continue to day ten heh heh heh

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