an F1 RPF Landoscar Omegaverse whump collection by papayabrain
For Whumptober 2025
No.2: ALT 18 “I hate this job”
Chapter summary: Lando gets overwhelmed on media day and Oscar comforts him.
Rating: T
Word count: 1,456
Warnings: sensory overload and panic attack.
Read on AO3 | or read below 👇🏼
~
His skin prickles, and his body shudders every time someone walks past him. There’s no threat, yet tell that to his shaking frame. He’s done this countless times by now. It’s the same routine every race weekend.
Thursdays are always the worst. Long days of camera work, of thinking, talking, people, and he always needs to bury himself in his nest for the rest of the evening afterwards. They all wear scent blockers, and he’s on suppressants until summer break, but certain smells are always heightened inside the paddock. From tyre rubber and exhausts, to food vendors and pungent colognes.
Today is one of those days where every single thing annoys him. There are people in his way, noise seeping through his headphones, and the sun is too bright in the sky. He’s grunting at people in passing, forcing a civil tone in his interviews, and flinching whenever someone tries to touch him, no matter who it is.
He’s in a sour mood, knocking into things, dropping his bottle, desperate for space and peace. He snaps at his team because he’s comfortable enough to do that, then apologises immediately because he’s not an arsehole despite how he’s behaving. They give him grace, shoot him polite, understanding smiles, and he hates it.
His clothes are itchy, he’s shivering, his brain feels like it’s gonna explode out of his skull.
Oscar, bless him, understands all too well. He doesn’t ask if Lando’s okay because he knows he’s not. Doesn’t try to comfort him, to touch him or hug him, because Lando can’t stand to be approached right now. While he sticks close when they have joint media duties, he’s far enough away that he’s not crowding his personal space, and he’s so grateful for it. Osc himself isn’t the most touchy-feely person, but he’s not a cold and stoic alpha either.
He barely scrapes through the fan stage, concentrating on Oscar instead of the crowds. Even walking out had his legs turning to jelly, and he’s counting down the minutes in his head until he can run out of there. His ears are ringing, and the mic in his hands saves him from chewing his fingers off.
As soon as they’re dismissed, Oscar silently offers to take the mic from him, and he’s sprinting.
His heart’s driving a race inside his chest, his limbs are tingling, and his chest feels like it’s got his car parked on top of it. He yanks his hood up, ignores the voices calling after him, and he’s sprinting back to the paddock. Everything hurts. He bumps into people, stammers out a quick apology, eyes blurring and stinging.
He avoids the pack nest like the plague.
Reaching the safety of his driver’s room, he collapses into the nest without taking off his trainers. He buries himself beneath the blankets, the ones that smell like his family, his alpha, and his friends, the comforting scents calming his omega amongst the panic his body is experiencing.
He tries to correct his breathing, but his exercises don’t work. It’s because he’s alone, he realises, and he whines, tears stinging his eyes.
Oscar doesn’t knock. Lando would’ve yelled at him to go away if he had, despite how he feels. If he longed for any company besides his alpha, he would’ve done this in the pack nest.
While his alpha doesn’t enter his nest, Lando feels his gentle hands reach in to untie his trainers and ease them off his feet. He can’t smell him because of the blockers, but his omega purrs at the touch, and Oscar’s alpha rumbles in response, quiet, soft, and sweet.
“Lan, can you hear me?”
He’s still hyperventilating and doesn’t trust his voice. He thrusts a shaking thumb out of the blanket, hoping Osc can see it.
“Good, okay. We’ve got to calm your breathing, baby. I’ll stay out here, but you need to follow my voice. Can you do that?”
Lando shuffles under the blankets, turning towards his alpha. He sticks his arm out, not inviting Oscar in yet, but searching for contact.
A small, soft hand meets his own, and he chokes out another breath. Oscar gently guides it against his chest, and he can feel his alpha’s steady heartbeat through the polo shirt.
“That’s it, great work, Lan. Now try and follow my counts. I’m right here with you.”
He homes in on his favourite voice, lets the warmth and safety of the blankets and Oscar’s heart unlock his chest, and he’s finally able to breathe deeper. It takes him a while to fully come back to himself, for his heartbeat to match his alpha’s, for his breathing to settle fully.
He melts into the blankets, fatigue fast catching up with him.
He doesn’t wanna be alone.
“Please, Osc,” he whispers, tugging on his alpha’s hands. He’s able to cover both of them with his huge one, as though Lando’s the alpha and Oscar’s his omega.
He adores how untypical Osc is. A soft and gentle alpha, such quiet, polite dominance and loud, proud devotion.
Lando’s never been able to get along with alphas who try to put him in his place. Those who believe his chaotic emotional nature needs stern and angry words. They would make him submit, and he would always bite back.
Oscar has never attempted such a thing. He always asks for permission, puts Lando first, and never assumes a controlling role. And his omega thrives.
“You want me inside your nest?” the alpha double-checks.
Lando tugs again. “Please.”
“I’m coming, baby, lemme just get my shoes off.”
They break contact, and Lando can’t help but whine, sniffing and wiping his eyes as he shuffles around to make it easier for Osc to find his way in.
“Okay, Lan, I’m coming in now,” he says, and Lando feels the draught of air as the blankets are carefully lifted.
His omega chirps, tired but happy, and then purrs as Oscar finds him. Lando crawls to settle across his chest, and Oscar’s alpha rumbles gently as his arms surround him with light pressure and extra warmth.
“I’m here,” he reassures, baring his neck so Lando can get at his scent gland. He’s wearing blockers, and Lando whines again because he can’t smell him. “It’s okay, you can take them off if you want. I didn’t want to do it myself and overwhelm you.”
Lando kisses his neck in reply, and Osc strokes a calming hand through his curls. His shaky fingers remove the patches, and his omega purrs again as the alpha’s chocolate scent fills the nest. It’s not sickeningly sweet, but it’s not bitter either, with a tropical coconut streak that reminds him of Oscar’s grandmother’s famous lamingtons.
“I hate this job,” Oscar says into his hair as he finally settles down.
“Why? You handle it fine.”
Osc’s hand softly rubs his back. “I hate what it does to you. I hate seeing you like this.”
“Sorry.”
“Hey, no, this isn’t to make you feel bad. The amount of media shit they have us do every week is exhausting. I just think we need to talk with the bosses about making things easier. Only if you agree, and I’ll listen to any ideas you have, and I’ll be with you through it, so you aren’t alone. I just wanna make things easier in any way I can. I’ll take on more duties if it comes to that.”
Lando buries his face against his neck. “I don’t wanna be a problem,” he mumbles.
“You aren’t, baby. There probably isn’t much to actually change, just a few reshuffles, so you aren’t as overwhelmed. I won’t stop you if you wanna continue as things are, but I just want you to at least listen and think it over. I don’t wanna see you get worse. It’s all up to you.”
Lando takes some deep breaths, melting against the alpha. It would all be his decision; that’s the most important thing. He loves Osc for caring so deeply and for his honesty. He’s not being controlling of his time or space. He isn’t questioning his capabilities. He’s trying to help make Lando’s existence easier because that’s just who he is. Kind, beautiful, and thoughtful.
“I trust you,” Lando agrees, and his omega purrs again as the alpha happily rumbles. “Thank you for looking out for me.”
“Always, Lan. I love you so much.”
“I need a nap,” Lando yawns, and Oscar softly laughs. “I love you too, Osc.”
Sherlock hummed, his lips pressed against the skin of John’s neck. It was still early, the sun just barely reaching their window and bathing the room diffuse light.
It had been Sherlock who’d woken John this morning, with slow but consistent movements of his hips, with his lips attached to John’s skin, pressing, kissing, licking. They’d moved against each other, slowly, languidly, as if following a routine. And even though they did have a proclivity for soft and tender morning sex, it was everything but a routine.
John wouldn’t be able to put it into words if asked, but it was just a bit different every time they did it.
So, this morning, Sherlock had woken John, who’d slowly joined Sherlock in his movements, the press of hips, the feeling of skin against skin, gentle hands, warm mouths.
Afterwards, Sherlock had collapsed half atop John, his head tucked beneath his chin. They’d been silent, with Sherlock absently trying to smooth out a wrinkle in their pillowcase, and John drawing patterns on Sherlock’s back under the blankets.
Until now.
“What is it?” Sherlock asked, lifting his head with what looked like a lot of effort, and John realised he’d got lost in his head again directly after calling Sherlock’s name. Morning sex with Sherlock did that to him.
“I’ve been thinking,” John began, gently nudging Sherlock to lie back down. “About today. And tomorrow. Today’s plan will only work if you agree to my idea for tomorrow. And vice versa, I suppose.” He combed his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, twirling a strand around his finger absent mindedly.
“What plan, John?”
“Yes, sorry.” John chuckled. “Well, I… We had fourteen turns each, and I thought– Well, for tomorrow….” He trailed off, staring at the ceiling and the slowly wandering shadows.
“John?”
“Yeah, right. I thought we could both do something tomorrow? For each other. Namely… Writing a letter?”
Sherlock was silent at that. Sherlock was silent for so long, in fact, that John started to panic a bit, nudging Sherlock’s head up again to look at him.
Sherlock went along willingly enough, and once John saw his expression, his panic subsided almost immediately. Sherlock’s eyes were closed, his smile soft and almost dreamy, his cheek reddened where it had been pressed against John’s chest.
“You like the idea?” John couldn’t help asking anyway.
“I like the idea,” Sherlock murmured, opening one eye and leaning in to kiss the corner of John’s mouth.
“And what about today,” Sherlock asked as he pulled back.
“Today, I thought, we could also do something together, For Hudders, maybe?”
Again, Sherlock didn’t reply to that, but this time John was able to watch the smile unfold on Sherlock’s lips, before he opened both of his eyes and looked down at John, tilting his head.
“And what precisely did you have in mind?”
John shrugged. “Don’t know. Theatre?”
“That’s brilliant,” Sherlock mumbled, sinking back onto John’s chest again. “She’ll love that.”
John laughed, combing his fingers through Sherlock’s hair. “You definitely sound thrilled at the idea…”
Sherlock shrugged with one shoulder. “You wore me out. Give me two hours and I’ll be adequately exhilarated.”
“Alright,” John murmured. “I’ll wake you in two hours then.”
---
“The Fifth Step?” Mrs Hudson beamed, standing in the middle of their sitting room, tea forgotten in the kitchen.
“We hope you haven’t anything on this evening?” John asked, mentally kicking himself for not remembering to ask that before he booked the tickets.
“With Martin Freeman? No love, even if I had something on, I wouldn’t miss a chance to see that.”
John smiled at her enthusiasm. Looking at the way she was clutching the printed paper and swaying slightly, he was rather a little concerned that she’d actually swoon. Well, if not in their sitting room, then maybe at the cinema, once Freeman would appear on screen.
“It’s not the actual play, but we thought this would be nice anyway,” John said, motioning at the tickets.
“It is!” Mrs Hudson confirmed. “It’s great that they filmed it in the first place. Now you can see it at the movie theatres. Maybe there’ll even be a DVD? Isn’t that brilliant!”
John smiled and nodded, glad that their guess at what they’d all enjoy – more or less – had worked out so well.
“What about this Freeguy?” Sherlock murmured into his ear, and John could barely suppress a snort.
“Freeman,” he whispered back. “Martin Freeman. An actor with quite the career. And quite the looks, apparently, but I can’t say anything about that. A certain consulting detective has blinded me for everyone else.”
“Good,” Sherlock said, and it sounded indeed very pleased.
“Ohh, it’s in a few hours already!” Mrs Hudson exclaimed suddenly, startling them. “Boys, I’ve got to get ready. We’ll share the cab, yes? Right, of course we will, silly me. An hour before it starts, do you hear me? And don’t you dare be late, I’ll drag you down the stairs on your ears!”
“We won’t let it come to that,” John assured her, opening the door for her.
“That’s what I want to hear.”
She patted his shoulder, then she was out the door, hurrying down the stairs to get ready.
John smiled at Sherlock. “Well. I’d say that was a success. And we’re not even at the cinema yet.”
“You have the most brilliant ideas,” Sherlock said as if as explanation.
John shrugged, opening his arms for Sherlock.
“We’ll have a nice evening, yeah?”
Sherlock hummed. “Yes. I think we will.”
---
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Summary: Bianca collapses from mysterious illness during early morning drills, forcing Sephiroth to confront fear and tenderness he can neither command nor control.
Pairing: Bianca Moore (f!oc) / Sephiroth
Other Characters: Zack Fair, Angeal Hewley (mentioned), Genesis Rhapsodos (mentioned), Professor Hojo (mentioned)
Possible Trigger Warnings: abuse mention, body horror, collapse, emotional distress, fainting, grief, laboratory trauma mention, medical experimentation, nausea, physical weakness, surveillance, vomiting mention, vivisection mentioned
Possible Tropes: angst, bonded souls, caretaking, canon divergence, emotional hurt/comfort, established relationship, foreshadowing, found family, mutual pining, past trauma, protective behavior, red string of fate, tragic backstory, unspoken love, pre-fall Sephiroth, sane!Sephiroth, author is sleep-deprived
Author’s Note: This piece was created for @flufftober, prompt Day 28 and also for prompt 18 (Swoon) and 25 (Shared Coat), It is also for Sephiroth Week hosted by @week-of-silver-winds, prompt: Day 6 (Broken).
Light seeped slowly into the Shinra Building, gilding the lobby’s marble floors with a pale reflection of sunrise. The dawn light poured through the glass façade, cutting through the last of the night’s shadow, turning the white marble into gold. The chandeliers above, hanging three stories high, flickered to life in intervals: a soft hum of electricity preceding the warm glow of light cascading across banners embroidered with Shinra’s insignia.
The air smelled faintly of steel polish, sterilized air filters, and the distant bitterness of brewing coffee, a sterile peace before the day’s orders began. The polished floor reflected the slow movement of troopers and staff trickling in, their footsteps echoing like metronomes in the cavernous quiet.
Sephiroth stood near the reception desk, posture flawless as always. His hands were clasped neatly behind his back, shoulders squared beneath his long black coat. Today, he had left the apartment without his pauldrons, as thoughts pressed down upon him. This was not like him.
His coat whispered faintly when he shifted, the smooth weight of the leather tracing his form in disciplined stillness. The faint scent of ozone followed him: sharp and clean, like the promise of a coming storm.
His cyan eyes were cool and unblinking, scanning the lobby without truly seeing it, as though his attention was elsewhere and was drawn by the thin, unseen thread that connected him to the woman sitting a few feet away.
Zack Fair sat sprawled across from him, bright-eyed and far less formal. He was halfway through a breakfast sandwich—triple meat and egg—that seemed almost comically large for even his appetite. The younger SOLDIER’s black hair caught the light in wild spikes, his uniform crisp but the turtleneck rumbled just before his brown, leather belly guard with Shinra's logo engraved upon it. He swung one leg idly as he ate, cheerful despite the hour, the mako in his eyes glinting with good humor.
Between them, Bianca perched on a low sofa, cross-legged, a paper cup of coffee held delicately between her hands. A small napkin rested in her lap with a single donut. It was barely touched with some of its powdered sugar dusting her fingertips.
She looked delicate this morning, he thought. Too delicate. Her wings were folded tightly against her back, a tale-tell sign she didn't feel good. The indigo and black feathers overlapped with meticulous precision, as though she feared a single tremor might cause her to unravel.
Her waist-length black hair, streaked with indigo, flowed down her back. Half of the locks were tied high with a white ribbon that had loosened over the course of the early morning. A few tendrils framed her face, clinging to her pale cheeks. Her indigo eyes shimmered faintly beneath the overhead lights. Feline pupils, like Sephiroth's, narrowed at the brightness. A faint shimmer of exhaustion clung to her like a veil. Even her lips, usually quick to smirk, seemed dulled.
Zack grinned around another mouthful. “You’re eating like a bird, B. You need real breakfast if you’re joining drills.”
Bianca smiled faintly, her tone soft and teasing. “Don’t mock the donut, Fair. It’s all that stands between me and insurrection.”
The sound of her voice was light, but Sephiroth could hear the faint rasp beneath it.
Zack laughed, the sound echoing faintly across the empty space. But Sephiroth’s attention didn’t waver from her. He could feel her unease as a subtle tremor beneath his own skin: the thread between them whispering something unspoken. She hadn’t touched the donut again. Since the memorial that SOLDIER held for Shinra a month ago, she ate tiny amounts, but he couldn't blame her. He was doing the exact same thing: not eating.
Her hands, slender and pale, trembled slightly around the cup.
A flicker of sharp and unsteady nausea moved through her aura. Through the red thread that bound them, the sensation reached him like a ghost pain. His stomach tightening, balance momentarily off-kilter.
The nausea came on in waves: uneven, foreign, yet piercingly real. It wasn’t his body that rebelled, but it felt as though it were: a tightening deep in his abdomen that rolled upward into his chest, disorienting in its suddenness. The sterile air of the lobby turned metallic on his tongue, tinged with the faint bitterness of coffee and steel polish.
For a man trained to suppress every flicker of discomfort, the intrusion was startling, no matter how many times he experienced it. It was an echo of Bianca’s imbalance bleeding through the thread that tied them. The world tilted for half a heartbeat, vision sharpening too much, too fast, as if light itself pressed against his nerves.
The sensation didn’t fade so much as it settled, as an unwelcome pulse pushed beneath his ribs, steady and wrong. His muscles tightened instinctively, an old reflex from years of mastering his own body under pressure. Yet this wasn’t fatigue or hunger or the aftermath of combat. It was hers.
He could feel it in the rhythm of her breath, in the tremor of her fingers around the cup. The thread between them thrummed like a struck chord, vibrating with her unease. It was intimate in a way that unsettled him. Her weakness written into his own flesh, and his composure tested by something he could neither fight nor command.
He swallowed and shifted fractionally closer, lowering his gaze to study her.
“You’re pale,” he said quietly. “Cold?”
“A little,” she murmured, voice soft, frayed at the edges. She tried to smile, but it faltered. “It’s just the temperature they keep the building. It's like an icebox.”
He straightened slightly, schooling his expression. Concern warred with discipline, but training won out. “You should have eaten more than that.”
Her lips curved with a spark of mischief, though it didn’t reach her grief-tinged eyes. “Commanding tone, Sephiroth. Careful. People might think you care.”
His response came without hesitation. Steady and quiet. “I do.”
Zack interjected, "And he has positives emotions, ladies and gentlemen."
At Sephiroth's narrowed stare and thin, pressed lips, Zack apologized quickly and placed both of his hands together, contritely, which even had Sephiroth stifle a laugh.
She blinked, as if caught off guard by Sephiroth's earlier bluntness. Then a quick, fragile, brittle laugh escaped her. She rose, pressing a hand to her abdomen as if to steady herself. “I’ll be fine. VR room calls.”
She took one step forward and swayed.
The paper cup slipped from her hand, shattering the calm of the lobby as it hit the marble floor. Coffee splattered across the pristine surface. A dark bloom spread against the pale stone. Sephiroth caught her before she hit the ground. One arm braced behind her back, the other gripping her forearm firmly. Her skin was icy, and her pulse racing. He swallowed thickly as again the nausea hit him.
Through the thread, her panic struck him like a second heartbeat in his own chest. The red string around their wrists flared in the corner of his vision, burning crimson.
Zack was already there, sandwich forgotten.
“Got her,” he said quickly, steadying her other arm. “Easy, easy. Hey, B, breathe.”
Bianca tried to protest, shaking her head weakly. “It’s fine. Just dizzy—”
“It is not fine.” Sephiroth’s voice had gone low: too calm, too controlled to mask the fear that laced it.
Together, they guided her through the lobby, the space stretching endlessly before them. The hum of Shinra’s machinery echoed faintly through the floors. Troopers and clerks turned discreetly away, pretending not to watch as the Hero of Wutai and a First Class escorted the Angel of Shinra toward the private elevators. Whispers followed them. There would be talk tomorrow. The gossip wheel always turned.
When the doors slid shut and after Zack told Sephiroth to call him the moment she was feeling better, the sound of the world outside fell away, leaving both Bianca and Sephiroth alone. The elevator ascendedin silence, the faint vibration of its motion underscored by Bianca’s shallow breathing.
Sephiroth’s hand remained firm on her shoulder, feeling the trembling beneath the layers of her uniform.
When the doors opened, the air shifted. Their apartment was warm where the world outside was cold. It bore the marks of two people who had carved something human out of steel: a soft rug spread over metal floors, plants thriving in the window light, a faint citrus-sage scent from one of Bianca’s handmade charms burning low in a dish. This was ALL her doing, transforming the sterile space into something that looked like life.
Her extra set of boots sat by the door, neatly lined beside his. A half-finished sketch lay across the coffee table, beside a mug of paintbrushes and a feather tucked into the rim.
He guided her to the couch, where she sank weakly into the cushions, wings trembling.
“Stay still,” he said, unfastening his coat and settling it around her shoulders.
The heavy leather dwarfed her, swallowing her frame until she looked impossibly small. She gave a weak, tired chuckle. “You’re too serious sometimes.”
He knelt beside her, eyes fixed on her trembling hands. “You’re unwell.”
“Maybe I’m catching something.” Her voice wavered between humor and fatigue. Her eyes, glassy with exhaustion, flickered toward him but didn’t quite focus. “I haven’t been able to hold anything down. So, I don’t eat.”
"You need to eat." Hypocrite.
Through the red thread, her confusion rippled into him. Beneath it, something deeper—an undercurrent that felt both strange and alive—shifted within her aura. He couldn’t name it, but since last week, it was growing.
Outside, the hum of Midgar traffic began to build: a reminder of a world that never stopped moving. Inside, everything felt suspended.
Bianca pressed her hand to her stomach, voice barely a whisper. "Something’s changing. I can feel it.”
For a heartbeat, Sephiroth didn’t breathe. The light from the window traced the curve of her cheek, making her look fragile in a way that unsettled him. His gaze flicked instinctively to her hand, the small tremor in her fingers, the way she seemed to fold in on herself as though something inside her had shifted, and the body she trusted no longer felt like her own.
The faint sound of the city beyond the glass—airships, engines, the pulse of Shinra’s empire—seemed to fade into a low hum. In its place, he felt the pull of memory: sharp as a blade and just as merciless.
Genesis’s disappearance still carved through him like an unhealed scar. Sephiroth remembered the day Shinra declared Genesis and Angeal “killed in action.” Bianca had bitterly said the phrasing had been clinical, detached. It was as if they thought loss could be archived and filed away, but it rotted someone from the inside out.
He could still hear the contempt in his friend’s voice that last time they crossed blades in the Shinra Building, Would you be the hero?, spoken not in hatred, but in disbelief. That damn poem his friend was always quoting, that had started to define Genesis's life.
Then, he remembered, the accusation that Sephiroth was complacent in the breeding program which tied him to Bianca, which to this day he reverently denied. He was only protecting her from Hojo. No one understood that it was Sephiroth who held in her organs when the scientists had dumped Bianca in their shared room when he was thirteen, how he slept by her on the floor that night, with his hands pressed against the wound until her flesh started to stitch itself together, again.
And then there was Angeal, whose honor had been the last steady thing in their crumbling circle, gone now too. His death passed down to Sephiroth through a single report, stripped of everything human, before the funeral a few weeks later and the memorial almost a year after his death. His old friend had been reduced to a slogan, to a motto. Bianca had protested that, too.
He felt the absence of both men as though part of his own structure had collapsed. Genesis had been ambition set aflame; Angeal, restraint given form. Without them, there was only the hollow quiet of expectation and the echo of orders, and Bianca.
But above all, the ever-present eye of Hojo who always watching through the cameras. Bianca had said Hojo was always calculating, as if their grief were just another variable to measure. Sephiroth could feel it even now: the low buzz of surveillance in the corners of their private quarters and the faint click of hidden lenses adjusting their focus. The man’s gaze lingered like a parasite on the back of his neck. Angeal's words came back to him, 'Protect her, Sephiroth', as if he hadn't his entire life. Her life meant everything to him.
His jaw tightened. “Grief can do that,” he said at last, his tone a study in control.
It was easier to name it grief than to consider that something unknown was happening to her. Not degradation. Hojo had said that her cells could somewhat stabilize even human's exposure to the foreign cells inside Angeal, Genesis, and Sephiroth briefly, but what if something beyond his reach and ability to fix ailed her? He couldn't lose her, too. His heart clenched tightly.
Bianca’s eyes lifted to his, and the denial broke in her gaze before it ever reached her voice. The tears came soundlessly, falling onto her lap like fragments of light. She wiped at them fiercely with the back of her hand, the motion almost angry, as if to reclaim what little composure she had left.
“It doesn’t feel like grief,” she whispered, and the crack in her voice made something in him twist. "It feels like I am dying."
Sephiroth wanted to reach for her. He always did when her mask slipped, but the memory of the cameras held him back. Every touch, every flicker of concern, might be studied, dissected, used. Used against her and him. Protect her, Sephiroth.
So, he stayed still, and the space between them filled with the sound of her quiet breathing, the faint rustle of her feathers as her wings trembled.
And Sephiroth, who could command armies and fell fiends with one blow, could only sit there. He was helpless before something he could neither fight nor understand, as the woman he could not lose whispered that she was changing and was coming undone, and he feared she was right.
This fragile, trembling vulnerability before him? He could not fight it, as he had dragons, behemoths, and abominations. He could only watch. Only curse their upbringing.
The red thread pulsed again, then dimmed, exhausted.
She tried to stand, saying that she felt fine and murmuring about returning to training, but her legs gave out before she’d taken a step.
He caught her easily, but this time, unlike in the lobby, she went still in his arms. Her breath came shallow, her body limp.
He lowered her to the couch, as his heart pounded behind his ribcage. “Bianca.”
No answer: only the faint rise and fall of her chest. Damn Shinra. He was shocked at the thought, but he pushed it away. For now.
Sephiroth gathered her into his arms, holding her close. Her wings folded around her body instinctively. The soft feathers brushed his cheek. The scent of her clung to the air around them.
He rose and carried her to the bedroom. Her mismatched socks peeked from beneath the hem of his coat. The domestic absurdity of it made his throat tighten.
Hours passed. When she stirred, she was cocooned in blankets with his coat still wrapped around her shoulders. Her indigo eyes fluttered open, unfocused at first, and then softened when they met his.
“You fainted,” he said simply.
Her lips curved faintly. “Not my most heroic moment.”
He sat beside her. Papers were scattered across the nightstand: mission reports and status logs. He’d been reading them aloud in a low, even tone to anchor himself while she slept.
“Couldn’t sleep,” he admitted when she noticed. “Reading steadies the mind.”
Her smile was small, tired. “You worry too much.”
He didn’t answer. Instead, he adjusted the coat around her shoulders and brushed a lock of hair from her face. His touch was slow and deliberate. Almost reverent.
“I like when you do that,” she murmured, half-asleep.
His hand lingered a moment longer before retreating. “You haven’t been eating.”
“I can’t keep anything down,” she confessed softly. “Even the smell of coffee turns me.”
He frowned, eyes narrowing slightly. “You should have said something.”
Then, he chastised himself. He had known about the nausea through the thread, but he was too deep within his own grief to say something.
“You’d have told me to rest. And then you’d worry.”
“I already am.”
Her laugh was faint but real. “You’re not supposed to admit that, Seph.”
He met her gaze. “Then I’ll deny it later.”
She sank back into the pillows. Exhaustion softened her face.
“We’re both coming apart,” she whispered. “You just hide it better.”
He didn’t argue. The leash of Shinra had frayed them both, though his mask of composure held. Around them, the apartment breathed quietly. The hum of the city muted beyond the window, the faint clink of rain beginning against the glass.
She stirred again, murmuring, “It smells like rain.”
He looked at her, watching the fragile peace return to her face.
“Rest, Bia,” he said softly.
Her eyes closed. Her thick lashes brushed her cheeks. The red thread between them glowed faintly. Warm. Alive. He felt its pulse echo against his own chest.
He sat beside her for a long time, as he read in silence. The quiet broken only by the sound of turning pages and the rhythm of her breathing. Between the lines of tactical reports, he found something steady. Something human. Something worthy of healing for.
Reaching over to the sandwich he had fixed earlier, he took a bite before putting it back down upon the plate. In that moment, Sephiroth had made a choice. To live. To thrive. To protect her. To pick up her broken pieces and stitch her back together, as he often did when they were children, clinging to each other in that windowless room with just a thin, ratty blanket shared between them in the labs.
She slept. Her wings folded softly against her back, as she shifted upon her side. The storm in her body eased. Her hands slipped beneath the blanket and cradled her belly. He reached over and adjusted the comforter to cover her shoulder once again.
The thread pulsed once more. Not as a chain, but as proof that, even in the cold heart of the machine, something gentle still endured. And for that fragile heartbeat, it was enough and worthy to protect.
I mean this is mostly a PWP but we SERIOUSLY need more Sugar Daddy and Sugar Baby Fratt in the world!!!!
😍🫠🍑🍆🤠💘🥲
Title: Hope Founded in Sugar
Fandom: Marvel
Rated: E
Ship: Frank Castle/Matt Murdock
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Summary: After a long day of work, Frank is enjoying the perks of having Matt Murdock waiting for him at home. A little stress relief is necessary, but he’s happy it’s moved beyond more than the typical sugar daddy and sugar baby dynamic. Not that it doesn’t still make him hot all over, taking care of the man.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Risky Rescue Mission Swoon - @/flufftober 2025 - Day 19
(left off event tagging since I'm filling these out out of order)
Their Sacred Vow: The Courting Years
Author's note: put this right after A Faint Mistake- Evangeline
Callisto
As Evangeline suddenly sagged in her arms, Callisto fought to keep upright. She may be light, but her wings were still large.
There was no hiding this as everyone stopped to stare at them.
Looking around, she caught Mama's eye. Thankfully, she had to say nothing for her to come right away.
"Let's bring her to the study." she said softly as she helped Callisto gather the unconscious avian up. "We should have privacy there."
She just nodded before following her mother as the crowd parted for them. A pang of annoyance went through her as she heard whispers begin. But by some small miracle, non of Evangeline's family were in the immediate vicinity. So they had some time before the ripple of gossip spread. She hoped.
The study was much quieter than the ballroom. And darker. She didn't realize how much everything had been getting to her until it was gone. Knowing Evangeline, she'd probably been feeling the same.
Her mother moved a coffee table further away from the couch. "Lay her here." she said after rearranging some pillows.
Evangeline began to stir as Callisto set her down gently, her wings prevented from moving far by the couch's back. "Where 'm I?" she asked, her eyes barely opening.
Tucking some fallen hair behind her pointed ear, Callisto rested her hand against Evangeline's forehead. No fever, at least. But she was more pale than flushed anyway.
"You're in a study near the ballroom, dear." Mama said kindly. "You gave us quite a fright."
"Oh!!" Evangeline went to sit up, but Callisto pushed her back down as pain flitted across her face.
When her friend looked at her, uncertainty in her eyes, she said, "Don't strain yourself. You've been pale and your breathing has been off all night." She saw Evangeline's eyes dart over to her mother. But before she could continue, Mama interrupted her.
"She's right, dear, you're still struggling with something." she said, giving Callisto a knowing look. Then she sat on the couch beside Evangeline, resting a gentle hand on her knees. Her voice was kind and soft, like it was whenever Callisto or Gareth caught a cold or hurt themselves. "Callisto hasn't told me a thing." she said to the shy woman who'd taken up fiddling with the folds in her skirts. "Nor has Gareth, for that matter." She leaned closer to Evangeline. Callisto could see the look in her eyes. One that always made her choke up when it was directed at her. "But I am a mother," Mama continued. "And I can see you're hurting. So if you would allow me, I would like to help. If not out of my own compassion, then for the fact that you're my future daughter-in-law. Provided Callisto has proposed, of course."
Callisto pointedly ignored the instant flushing in her face to concentrate on Evangeline, who had a wave of mixed emotions flooding in her eyes. The look that finally settled in them both warmed and broke Callisto's heart. Hope, thankfulness, relief… love? She didn't have time to interpret it properly before Evangeline was hugging Mama.
Faintly, she could hear her say a muffled "thank you."
Their Sacred Vow: The Courting Years- Assorted Scenes Pt1
