#And what do i have to look forward to when its over ? | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

bridgetotheskyyy · 3 days ago

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remmick/black female reader. 18+. blood (ofc), cunnilingus, vampire bite amplifies orgasm, infidelity, married reader, praise kink, excessive use of pet names. Remmick refers to reader's vagina as "her." Word count: 3k

notes: this movie owns my whole soul and it's all I've ever been able to think about since seeing it. so yeah I'm one of these guys now. divider by cafekitsune

The gunshot was what drew you out on the porch. Moonlight lit your way into the green of the front yard while you swung your head to and fro, looking for the source of the noise.

Only one gunshot. No more. Your heart hammered. In the bizarre panic you’d been thrust into you would’ve felt better with more, but one …

Someone’s dead.

You ran on legs stringy with panic. Bush thistles cut into your naked forearms as you tried to find your way. You angled away from the car in your driveway to the tentative entrance of the woods. Fireflies did little to light the beaten path, cicadas dizzied you with their incessant chatter.

You nearly lost your footing as the path sloped, and your breath hiked higher, sharp exhales fell from your mouth by your rampant heart.

Nothing. Silence save the busy insects. The humidity stuck the top of your dress to your skin. You looked around, the coverage of trees and thick nightfall gave you little to go on.

Logic creeped through your waning panic. I shouldn’t be out here. Whatever you’d heard was more to do with your no-good husband more likely than not. Had chickens come to roast? Your husband wasn’t a good man, and it would surprise no one, no one at all, if he’d finally gotten what was coming to him. Whatever’s going on out here is probably man’s business, not a woman’s.

But still, you heard what you heard. And if he’d gotten himself roped into something unnatural, what would happen to you? What were you gonna do without him?

Your heart jumped. On your right, you heard it: a cry — a moan of pain.

You followed it, like a woman out of her mind, you followed it, taking light, tepid steps to not disturb twigs and alert anyone to your presence. Anything.

You spoke your husband’s name into the night, uncertainty — fear — laced in your voice. The cry had been distant, but not distant enough. You crept forward.

More sounds. Wet, thick. Like a dog eviscerating its grub. Other sounds nestled alongside those, humane and whimpering, before only the wetness.

Something was … No. Something was being eaten.

Oh, good lord. The story was already written in your head. Your husband had run into some rabid, hungry animal and was being eaten. Was being killed. That’s what it was. Pity and fear grinded in your stomach.

The suspense was too much and you broke into a run, pushing branches out of your way for better access and sight. Your head kept spinning, already miles ahead of your predicament, already planning surivial. You wouldn’t have enough money to bury him properly. The town’s people would take pity on you, though. They’d all know you were just a good woman who’d gotten a poor lot in life … Unless the men who your husband had double-crossed came looking to collect, and when they found out you had nothing to offer? Well … women always had something to offer, something —

The sounds got louder. Thick, disgusting slops and licks. Munching. Your stomach rolled, and you braced yourself for a few seconds before you sprinted out in the clearing, looking for the gun your husband had surely dropped, a weapon of some kind to shoot the —

There was your husband. He lay slack on the ground while another leaned over him. Your husband’s hand laid palm open, the gun a few inches away. Blood pooled underneath both men. The other man’s face was buried in his neck, his hands gripped onto your husband’s — your late husband’s — shoulders.

Your mouth fell open as your mind tried to piece together what you were seeing. No pieces fit. You made some nonsensical, helpless sound —

The man paused, his head, which had been moving sporadically with his meal — meal — stopped. Another awful wet sound, an unlatching, fired into the night, louder than any gunshot in your ears. He began to turn his head, allowing you some access to your husband’s wide-eyed dead stare, and you could just barely make out the white skin of his assailant underneath the sticky blood lathering his cheek and chin.

You backed away, eyes wide and hands fit with tremors.

Red eyes met yours in the dark, a bloody smile. “Well, aren’t you a pretty young thing?”

The white man who had killed your husband slowly returned to his feet, his chest an upside down pryamid of blood. You shook your head. Fear froze you to your spot. Information came to you in horrific clips. Blood. Smile. Fangs. Monster.

Nightmare.

Your mouth opened wider to admit helpless whimpers —

A finger to his lips. “Shhh … Don’t scream,” he said. “He’ll never wake up …” Another smile. “But you can.”

You ran, flailing useless arms as you trampled, desperate to get away from this, to tear yourself from what must be an awful dream. You scrambled on the path, and finally a scream, long overdue, wrenched itself from your lungs.

Something fell from the sky, giving you pause enough for tremors to get the best of you and drop you to your knees. The white man was in front of you now, blocking your pathway to the house.

You fell backward, scrambling away. “No —“ You shook your head. “No, nonono …”

The man gave you another fangy grin, demon eyes and all, as he sauntered toward you. “Whew-wee.” His eyes followed up the trail of your leg, where your dress scrunched around your waist. “God sure did spend a lot of time on you, didn’t he?”

Nothing he said reached you as you looked around hopelessly for something to — what? Kill it? Oh, if only you had the gun. Your dead husband’s gun who’d been —

“Please,” You pled. The man was a few feet away but too close, too close. “Please …”

“Now, now …” He crouched down to your level. “I ain’t gonna hurt you.” A slight grimace on his face. He was pitying you, as one does prey. He angled a hand forward and let the back of his knuckles trace up your ankle as you startled. “Oh, no, there ain’t gonna be no pain with me …”

“Let me go.” You shuddered. You could withdraw no further, your body having backed up against the bulk of a tree. Or that must’ve happened; reason fell away with all your terror having replaced it. “Please, please, I — I got money, we — h — he —“

“Him?” the man said, raising his head. “You mean your husband?”

“Yes!” You answered. “He’s got —“

“Let’s talk about him.” The man delighted himself, knuckles grazing your knee, slowly making its way to your thigh. “He wasn’t very good to you, now, was he?” His other made itself familiar with your second leg, fingers sliding underneath you where dirt and twigs had clung to humid skin. “Left you alone for days, never loved you right.”

Dear lord … You squeezed your eyes shut when you felt his tongue brush from your shoulder to your neck. Something else laid against the fear, something you dare not lend a name for the sake of your soul.

“What are you?” You whispered. “What kind of —“ You hiccuped. “Unnatural creature are you?”

“Creature?” he echoed in playful bewilderment, the tip of his nose brushing your ear. “No creature. I’m a man, with needs and all …” He left a gentle kiss at your jawline. “And I know you got needs, too …”

“See, I know a lot of things about you now,” he went on. “About your marriage, your ways of livin’. How lonely you must be … I’m lonely, too, see.” His voice dropped an octave, one of his hand drifting to the sanctum of your inner thigh while his second held your cheek with fingers sticky with blood sure to be your husband’s. “And … I know how you like to be touched …” Your breath came quick and labored through your nose as he nestled his face in the crook of your neck. “And I reckon it’s been a long while since you’ve been touched properly. Isn’t that right, darlin?”

Why, oh why was this demon echoing what you’d been feeling for so long? In his voice there was trickery, you weren’t thick, but there was something earnest there. You knew what lay aside the fear, but you were a decent enough of a woman to not —

Oh, fuck it. What did decency matter if you were about to die?

“Yes,” You murmured to him. “ … So do it.”

That infernal playfulness returned. “Do what, sweet thing?”

“Do whatever it is you gonna do!” You spat out. “If there are — are creatures like you in the world, I’d rather be dead.” You felt close to tears with this thing looming over you. “Just take me to hell with you …”

He came to hold your face, forcing you look at him, and yet his grasp was strangely gentle. “You really are sad, ain’t you?”

You met his eye until your silence was less defiance as it was confirmation.

“I’m not taking you to hell, honey …” He leaned in; his bloody breath tickling your lips. “I’m gonna make you feel good …”

And he dipped forward into your recoiling mouth and captured your lips in a kiss. A high-pitched whimper from you, as though expecting it to burn, but his lips muffled your dissent.

And then … and then …

God, why did it feel good?

Despite the iron taste of him, despite the depravity, his lips were soft. The rhythm of his kiss was experienced, hungry. He opened his mouth in the kiss to give you his tongue, rolling soft and suggestive against your own. Good heavens, it’d been so long since you’d been kissed like this. Your head tipped backwards, your hair catching on bark, to follow his passionate pace.

“So good …” he breathed against your lips before diving back in.

Your fingers twitched, hands itching to touch him. What remained of your sanity kept them at your sides — not so for him, it seems. Now you’d given him access to your mouth, his hands had begun to roam, thumbing the v of your crotch, the cleavage giving him access to your breasts.

So lost were you in the kiss, becoming more frenzied by the moment, you didn’t notice when he lifted you into his arms and off the ground, his hands cupping your ass and cajoling your legs around his waist. Sharp fangs brushed idly past your lower lip, compelling you to whimper, to shiver.

“Give me a name,” You breathed out, clinging to his cotton shirt, then to his broad shoulders. “Or do I just call you Sat —“

His deep snarl silenced you, lips scaling the sharp protrusion of your jaw. “Remmick.”

“Remmick.” Obviously foreign. No name you’d ever heard of. Your head fell back as one of Remmick’s hands left your ass to rip at the buttons of your dress. His head sunk into your cleavage with whispers of yes, yes. “Not here, please, not with … with him nearby, I can’t —“

A chuckle, feigning helplessness. “Well, you gotta meet me halfway, darling.” Teeth shadowed over a clothed nipple.

You frowned, confused. Lust clouded your deduction skills.

Remmick pulled away to face you, mouth still sticky with drying blood. Lord. “Where’d you come from?”

In order to show him you had to let go of him, and you truly didn’t want to. How far you’d fallen. But … it was so nice to be held. And he was strong. He made you feel like a feather.

Remmick seemed to sense your predicament. “Show me,” he said encouragingly. “Just point me in the right direction and I’ll take you home.”

The flirtatious lilt of his voice went right to your cunt. You told him where he’d find the house, only short of the woods.

He held tight to you. “Now don’t you let go —“

You blinked, the world blurred drunkenly around you and with another blink you were steps away from your front porch, dirtied white wood and all.

You trembled, alert and scared —

“It’s all right, it’s all right,” Remmick shushed you. Lifting your trembling bridal-style.

You faced him, blinking furiously. Surely more of his devillish magic. What had you gotten yourself into?

His eyes wouldn’t leave yours. He took one of your hands and kissed it, on his way to your door step by step. “We’re almost there. Now you gotta let me in.”

Let him in …? What was he on about?

He ran a finger over your lips. “Into your home, sweetie, c’mon.”

He stopped once on the porch and did not move, as though unable.

What kind of monster could ravage another man but not barge in when he felt like it? “I let you in,” you said, confused.

Remmick carried you over the threshold, slamming the door shut with his foot like some perverse scene of newlyweds.

“That’s a good girl,” Remmick muttered.

“Why I gotta let you in?” You asked, ignoring the way his rumbling praise made you feel. “What you gonna do to me?”

He didn’t answer. You were beginning to get scared all over again. Just as you readied to flee from his hold he adled you into a chair.

“Look at you,” he marveled. “Aren’t you beautiful … Let’s get you more comfortable …”

He harassed you out of your dress, tugging it down to your waist, past your legs before throwing it elsewhere. His fingers, tipped with suspiciously long nails, ran over you expertly. His eyes grew a deeper shade of red as you became more exposed, hungrier. He was hungry … just by looking at you.

“Such a kind, giving mistress,” he went on, more to himself than you. His fingers hooking under your panties. “Let me return the favor.”

Your mouth fell open as your cunt lay bare for him. You spread your legs on instinct, breath shallowed.

“Yes,” he said, spreading your lips apart for greater access. “Let me talk to her for a little while, mm …”

With a rumbling grunt, Remmick dove in, a man starved.

Arms hooked around your thighs, he pulled you into his mouth, his tongue brushing into your folds. You moaned, head falling back. You were so sensitive — why? Was it truly because you hadn’t been touched in so long, let alone with such vigor? Forget him, what were you? Having your clit sucked and flicked at while your husband’s body grew cold only a mile or so away?

But Remmick spread your labia apart farther to admit his tongue, running it in circles over your desperate clit hood, and your mind ran blank. You worked yourself out of your bra, flinging it over the chair arm before caressing your tits and pinching at your nipples to amplify your pleasure.

“This is what you like, honey,” Remmick said, mouth full of your snatch. As though he could read your thoughts, follow the trail of your shame. “Don’t even lie — I know, mm …”

You whimpered, fingers running into Remmick’s scalp, curls of black hair tickling your skin. Never had you felt so exposed. You looked down quickly enough to catch his scarlet glance up at you:

He popped one of your petals out of his mouth to mutter, “Such a good girl, letting me in …”

You moaned at both the praise and Remmick’s expert tongue swirling against your entrance, sopping from his work on you. Your legs came around him, your heels digging into his shoulder pads.

“Like that?” Remmick’s breath tickled your cunt, a fang brushing against one of your petals. “Like it when I talk sweet to you?”

“Yes.” Your head swam with the pleasure. “Oh, god —“

“No, sweetheart, it’s me … It’s all me,” Remmick sucked at your entrance “So wet. Want me to give it to you the way he should’ve been givin’ it to you?”

“Yes, yes, oh, please —“

His hand palmed at your inner thigh, tugging you somehow even closer, and you wailed as he wagged his head into your cunt.

“Ain’t had nothing like you.” Remmick ran his filthy mouth over your cunt, slurping and tonguing at his meal with vocal “mms” and wet pops. “How’d I get so damn lucky all of a sudden …”

Oh, you were close, so close, so close.

His nails pressed into your thighs and you knew you hadn’t imagined it — they were growing longer. You were feeding into his demonic hunger, and the knowledge of the power you had over him, no matter how small, sent you gripping tight over the couch, your climax a hair’s away —

“C’mon, baby …” Remmick’s lips and canine teeth danced over your clit. “C’mon —“

You screamed. Suddenly Remmick’s presence at your clenching cunt was gone and he was crawling over you. His hand shot the back of your head as you were lost in your orgasm. He whispered, “I can make it even better for you, darlin.” And you felt the pinch of his teeth at the train of your neck.

Another scream. Pain and pleasure married inside you as you clung to Remmick for — what? Safety? Certainty? All that could be said was you wrapped your limbs around his body for purchase as he ate into your neck. Fresh, warm blood ran down your side, down Remmick’s chest. You shuddered in his embrace, fireflies dancing in your vision whenever you opened eyes previously squeezed shut. Remmick rutted wildly against you, grunting like an animal, and you became aware of a new form of wetness against your stomach, sure to be his release.

There was no coming down, no reprieve. You fisted the back of Remmick’s shirt. He, nothing more than a leech now, shook his head as he ate and ate and ate. And yet there was no friction. Only waves of pleasure assailed you. You felt a pressure at your neck, as though he had delivered something into your skin, like the stinger of a bee.

You don’t remember the pain, only the pleasure of shedding your old human life in favor of an immortal one. You walked into moonlight eager to bathe you. When Remmick accompanied your exit from your home — your old home — his smile was wide and bloodied anew.

“How d’you feel?” he asked, grazing a tender, nigh reptillian hand over your shoulder.

You bent your head. You ran a horizontal line across your chest, brought the finger to your mouth to taste your own blood. You moaned blissfully before answering with, “Why’d you wait so long?”

Remmick chuckled. “I’d already eaten.” The porch creaked as he took a few steps behind you. “And sometimes delaying it makes it better.” He mimicked you, sucking on his own fingers sure to be coated with your wetness. “Sure you can attest to that, sweetheart.”

You quirked a smile. Better, indeed. You didn’t anticipate feeling that good again in quite some time. Your immortal life would have quite a challenge rivaling this night.

You looked up as Remmick nestled his chin in your ravaged neck, his arms around your midsection. You felt his smile at your ear before he pressed the gentlest of kisses at your lobe.

“Bride.”

#remmick smut #remmick x reader #remmick x you #sinners smut #jack o'connell #remmick #remmick sinners #remmick fic #remmick fanfic #sinners x reader #sinners x you #my work

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lotties-ashwagandha · 3 days ago

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JUNE!

(adult) lottie matthews x reader.

two homos rescue a cat during pride month. based on this thing I wrote.

“There’s this cat,” Lottie starts, leaning back against the kitchen island and watching as you chop ingredients for dinner. “A kitten, really. It comes and eats every morning right after you go to work.”

She’s been mentioning cats a lot recently. Lottie has been showing you pictures of cats from the shelter, reading you fun fact lists about the healing frequency at which cats purr, showing you cute cat beds and expensive self-cleaning litter boxes — and she thinks you haven’t picked up on it yet that she’s so very close to bringing one into your home.

You keep up your work with the knife. “Is it a stray?”

“It looks that way. There’s no collar, and it’s pretty skinny.”

“It’s good you’ve been feeding it, then,” you smile, looking back at her before turning to the cutting board again.

Lottie is silent. You can tell she’s tired of dropping hints, but you aren’t sure how on board you are with the idea of both running the wellness center and caring for a new kitten. And not that you don’t have the money together, but veterinary visits are expensive, and you would have to set aside so many of your responsibilities in the first few weeks of care.

Lottie steps forward, running a hand along your back and planting it at your hip. She presses a kiss to your opposite shoulder, leaning her forehead down against it for a second before speaking. “I bought a collar today.”

You nearly cut yourself with the knife.

You hear the smile in her voice when she continues, sarcasm lacing her tone. “It’s not for you.”

You set the knife down and turn around.

“It’s heliotrope,” she tries.

“The cat?”

She gives you a harsh look, tilting her head. “The collar.”

There’s no avoiding it now.

“You’ll love her,” Lottie insists, offering you a smile. “She’s outside right now eating a fresh bowl of food. I got the good kind.”

“The good kind?”

“The expensive brand. It’s luxury.”

It’s no wonder the cat hasn’t strayed far from your front porch.

“Is the cat outside right now?”

Lottie nods, looking over towards the front door and then back at you. She sees your apprehension, but by practice she’s also learned that you’re easily swayed by her. She sighs dismally, leaning back against the kitchen island again. “I used to want a cat so badly growing up. My parents never let me have one, they didn’t want it to shed on the furniture, and then after we were rescued from the wilderness I was never home long enough to care for an animal.”

You listen, allowing her to take one of your hands. You run your thumb over her rings.

“They say cats are good emotional support animals,” she continues. “They can help keep people regulated, they can help manage stress in people with mental health struggles…”

That’s not fair. Now you have to agree.

“Did you buy a litter box, too?”

Lottie nods again.

“We’ll just have to decide on a name,” you say.

Lottie pauses. “You’re on board with this?”

You shrug. “We can’t leave it out there if it’s a kitten, especially if it’s living right outside our house anyway.”

Lottie smiles, releasing your hand and spinning one of her rings around her finger. “Should I go get her?”

“Go get her.”

You watch her disappear out to the front porch, and when she comes back she carries a tiny kitten, white with black splotches around its ears and a long, fluffy coat. It can’t be more than a few weeks old, watching you cluelessly as it’s carried into the house.

Lottie holds her up like a newborn baby. “Isn’t she beautiful?”

She is. You’ll never have children now, because this cat will be your baby above all else. This cat will become your reason for existence together. “I love her.”

“Here, hold her,” Lottie hands over the kitten. “Oh, she’s perfect…”

“What do you want to name her?” You ask, running your hands through the cat’s fur.

“Any ideas?”

“It’s Pride month…”

Lottie raises her eyebrows. “Yeah, and what are you going to name her? Dy-”

“No,” you interrupt. “I don’t know.”

“Pride month is in June, what about that?”

“June?” You look down at the kitten, who has started to drift off in your arms. “June it is.”

“June,” Lottie repeats, looking down at the cat. She wraps an arm around your shoulders, pulling you closer and reaching over with her other hand to scratch behind June’s ears.

June prefers to bat at her bracelets than focus on the affection.

“She has good taste,” Lottie says. “My gorgeous girl.”

You hold up the cat and meet June’s eyes. “If you steal my wife, lady, you’re out of here.”

sexy yellowjackets taglist: @eatingouturmomrn @webism @chaithetics @ahauandthesun @szczurkanalowy @marleymarleymarleymarley @aphrodyk3 @ludasgf @pnsteblnme @il0veb0ttomsthem0vie @neighbourhoodspidey @dorotheareid @jackiesjersey2-0

thank you for reading!!! to see more fics visit my masterlist!

#yellowjackets #yellowjackets x reader #lottie matthews #lottie matthews x reader #lottie matthews fluff #adult yellowjackets x reader #adult lottie matthews x reader

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hamilton-here · 1 day ago

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Your writing is so great, I love it :)

I would love one, where Lewis and the reader are teammates and she has an accident and after that they finally show their feelings for eachother 😊

Have a nice day :)

𝒜𝓁𝓁’𝓈 𝐹𝒶𝒾𝓇 𝐼𝓃 𝐿𝑜𝓋𝑒 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝑅𝒶𝒸𝒾𝓃𝑔

Authors Note: Hi lovelies! Slowly recovering from my sickness. At the moment I’m moving house, so I am very busy. Thank you so much for loving my writing and I hope you have a wonderful day as well. I hope you enjoy! Lots of love xx

Summary: After a devastating crash at Silverstone, Lewis Hamilton and his fiercely competitive new teammate finally confront their buried feelings. Turning rivalry into something much deeper.

Warnings: mentions of a crash

Taglist: @hannibeeblog @nebulastarr @cosmichughes @piston-cup

MASTERLIST

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

The Mercedes garage was alive not just busy, but buzzing, like an organism with a thousand moving parts, each one vital and hyper-focused. Engineers hovered over telemetry screens, scanning data streams with eyes sharpened by caffeine and pressure. Mechanics swarmed the sleek silver machines, torque wrenches hissing, tires being wrapped in blankets like swaddled infants. The air was a heady mix of fuel, rubber, and carbon fibre, undercut by the palpable crackle of anticipation.

But the static in the air had nothing to do with machinery.

It was you.

You stood in the heart of it all, posture straight, eyes forward, your helmet resting against your hip. The shimmering vehicle sat before you, its aerodynamic frame gleaming under the fluorescent lights. Your name, stencilled in crisp black letters near the cockpit, still looked foreign to you. Beautiful. Surreal. Replacing Nico Rosberg wasn’t just a seat switch, it was a seismic shift.

He had stunned the world by retiring right after sealing the 2016 championship, a move no one saw coming. But now the world was watching again. Watching you.

And the weight of that was heavy.

But you didn't show it.

You adjusted the cuff of your fireproof undersuit as someone stepped up behind you.

“Looks like they upgraded the team,” came a voice smooth, amused, unmistakably British.

Lewis Hamilton.

You turned slowly, eyes meeting his. He stood there, casually leaning against the wall, race suit half-zipped and hanging around his waist, arms folded, tattoos stark against the rich brown skin of his chest and collarbone. His curls were slightly damp, and a grin pulled lazily at his lips like he was in on a secret.

He wasn’t just confident. He was magnetic.

You raised a brow. “Still bitter Nico got the title before retiring?”

Lewis chuckled, pushing off the wall to close the space between you. “Not bitter. Just intrigued. Replacing the guy who beat me? That’s a hell of a way to make an entrance.”

You tilted your head. “Are you worried?”

“Only about how many times I’m going to have to carry your ego off the podium.”

You smirked, eyes narrowing. “You might want to focus on staying ahead of me before worrying about podiums.”

There was a beat. A moment too long. The tension hung between you not sharp but charged like a storm waiting for the right moment to break.

He stepped closer, voice lower. “Guess I’ll have to find out, won’t I?”

Before you could reply, Toto Wolff walked in, clutching a clipboard like it was the last shred of his sanity. He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw you two, then closed his eyes like he was already calculating the therapy bill for the season.

“Oh no,” he muttered. “I can feel it. It’s going to be one of those years.”

“What years?” you asked innocently.

“The ones where I regret every decision that brought me here,” Toto said without missing a beat. “Let’s go, people. Media in thirty.”

You and Lewis gave matching innocent smiles.

“No promises,” Lewis called after him.

That afternoon in the press conference room of Albert Park Circuit.

Flashes from dozens of cameras exploded as you stepped onto the stage with Lewis. The air was warm, crowded with the scent of fresh print paper, deodorant, and just a hint of media bloodlust. Reporters practically vibrated with excitement.

Lewis slouched back in his chair with practiced ease, mic already adjusted, one hand on the desk. You sat beside him, back straight, legs crossed, every inch the composed professional. Until the questions began.

“Y/N,” a journalist in the front row started, “how does it feel stepping into the shoes of Nico Rosberg, the reigning champion and are you prepared for the inevitable tension that comes with partnering Lewis Hamilton?”

You leaned into the mic, barely concealing the sparkle in your eyes. “It’s an honour. Nico’s shoes aren’t easy to fill, but I’m not here to fill them. I’m here to win. And as for Lewis…” You turned your head; gaze locked with his. “I like a challenge.”

The room rippled with murmurs.

Lewis arched a brow, then turned to the crowd. “Why do I feel like I’m being flirted with and threatened at the same time?”

The press burst out laughing.

You didn’t blink. “Because you are.”

Toto, seated beside the stage, dropped his pen.

Soon enough free practice 2 was official.

You lit up the track.

Fastest in FP1. Even faster in FP2. You pushed the car to the edge of its capabilities and then some, dancing on the line between risk and brilliance. When you peeled into the garage, unbuckling your helmet and pulling it off, your face was flushed, pulse racing.

And Lewis was waiting.

He stood just outside the engineers' circle, his arms folded, visor already up, suit rolled down to his waist.

“Okay, okay,” he said, clapping once, grinning from ear to ear. “I see you. Coming out swinging.”

You blew a strand of hair from your face. “Gotta keep the world champ humble.”

“You keep this up and you’ll be paying for my therapy.”

“I’m flattered you think I’m worth that kind of emotional damage.”

An engineer near the back of the garage fumbled a wrench with a loud clang.

No one looked at Toto.

That night after completing your nightly routine, you scrolled on your phone in bed, bare feet tucked under the covers. The F1 Twitterverse was melting down.

@f1teatime:

THE FLIRTING. THE SMIRKS. THE COMPETITION. THIS IS A FANFIC COME TO LIFE.

@mercedesgirl77:

y/n and lewis need to GET A ROOM or GET A TROPHY. Either way I’m here for it.

@f1media:

The tension between Hamilton and his new teammate Y/N Y/L/N is already setting up the 2017 season to be unmissable.

The clips were going viral - your smirk, his grin, the toe-to-toe timing charts, Toto’s eternally pained expressions.

You didn’t reply to any of it.

But you watched. You watched the replays of your lap, the press conference, the teasing glint in Lewis’s eye when he looked at you.

You didn’t know where this was going.

But it was already moving fast.

And God, it was going to be one hell of a ride.

You were only a few races into the season, but by the time the paddock touched down in Bahrain, it was clear to everyone:

You were no longer “Nico Rosberg’s replacement.”

You were something else entirely.

The headlines had stopped comparing you to the former world champion.

Stopped framing every move you made in the shadow of the 2016 title winner.

Because the longer you stayed in the car and the faster you went the more obvious it became:

You were nothing like Nico.

Nico had been cold steel beneath the surface. Calculated. Tactical. A chess player in the body of a racer.

You?

You were fire.

You provoked. You teased. You smiled when the red lights went out and snarled when the helmet came off. Where Nico baited with passive aggression, you bantered with bite. While Nico gave quiet interviews, you gave headlines.

Where Nico and Lewis had waged a cold war - all unsaid tension and icy post-race stares as you and Lewis were something else.

Something volatile. Something dangerous. Something alive.

And Lewis?

He didn’t resent it. He thrived in it. Even when you beat him. Especially when you beat him. ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

The desert sun pressed down on the paddock like a spotlight. You sat side-by-side with Lewis during the media pen interviews, legs crossed, sunglasses on, your fireproof undersuit peeled halfway down and tied at your waist. Reporters hovered like vultures, microphones extended, every question laced with the same electric curiosity.

“How’s the dynamic shaping up between the two of you now that we’re into race four?” someone asked. “You’ve already split pole positions and race wins. Is it friendly rivalry, or something more intense?”

You didn’t hesitate. “I think it depends on what you mean by ‘friendly.’”

Beside you, Lewis let out a quiet laugh. “She means she enjoys making me sweat.”

You tilted your head toward him. “Only because you deserve it.”

“You love it.”

“Guilty.”

The reporters lapped it up.

Someone else chimed in. “Y/N, do you think Lewis underestimates you?”

You glanced sideways at him, lips twitching. “I don’t think he underestimates anyone. But I do think he was expecting a handshake, and I showed up with a middle finger.”

Lewis smirked, biting back a laugh.

“Didn’t know you were this charming,” he said under his breath.

“Wait ‘til race day.”

Toto, who was lurking at the edge of the pen like a chaperone trying to prevent a scandal, muttered something in Austrian German and walked away shaking his head. ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

A week later Saturday: Monaco Qualifying

You were flying once again.

The streets of Monte Carlo blurred past in a kaleidoscope of speed, precision and adrenaline. The engine screamed in harmony with your heartbeat as you threaded the car through corners that had claimed legends and yet you treated them like home.

You danced with the track, kissed every apex, flirted with every wall. Sector one? Purple. Sector two? Flawless. In sector three, your rear tires twitched slightly under braking at the Nouvelle Chicane, but you caught it smooth as silk and hugged the inside barrier at the tunnel exit so tightly that the tire brush left a black kiss mark on the guardrail.

The lap was a work of art. Pure poetry in motion. As you crossed the line, your race engineer’s voice crackled through the headset.

“P1. That’s provisional pole. Outstanding, Y/N.”

You exhaled, a grin forming beneath your helmet as the adrenaline washed over you in waves. This was Monaco. This was your lap.

And now, all eyes were on Lewis.

You peeled off your gloves as you sat in the garage, helmet in your lap, eyes glued to the screen. Lewis was still out on track his silver car slicing through the dusk-lit circuit. He was fast. You watched the timing split glow purple in sector one. Then green. And then - Turn 15. A millisecond of instability as he clipped the inside curb. The rear kicked out. He corrected, but he had to lift.

You saw the tenth slip away like water through his fingers.

The screen flashed: P2.

The moment he stepped out of the car, still in his helmet and suit, his eyes went straight to the monitor above the engineers. Then, slowly, they turned to you. He tugged off his balaclava and stalked toward you, sweat glistening at his hairline, jaw tight.

“Seriously?” he said under his breath, voice low enough that no one but you could hear. “You knew I was on a flying lap.”

You stood, arms crossed, unbothered. “What, I wasn’t even on track?”

He tilted his head, annoyed but not angry. Just frustrated. “I want a fair fight.”

You stepped a little closer, the air between you dense with heat and pride. “That was a fair fight, Hamilton. You just lost.”

He stared at you. Long enough that a mechanic nearby awkwardly turned away.

Then his lips twitched. A reluctant smile.

“You’re dangerous.”

You raised a brow, slow and deliberate. “You’re just figuring that out?”

He didn’t answer. He just walked away, pulling his suit down to his waist and muttering something to Bono. But his eyes lingered, and you felt the static he left behind like a spark on your skin. ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

Everything about race day in Monaco felt dipped in gold.

The bay shimmered with anchored yachts, the hillsides were dotted with sun-kissed faces behind sunglasses worth more than most cars, and every lens in the paddock turned to follow you and Lewis as you made your way to the grid. You in P1. Him beside you in P2. Side by side at the front of the most prestigious race on the calendar, the most unforgiving circuit in the world.

When the lights went out, you launched off the line like you were shot from a cannon. The opening laps were clean. Tense. Calculated. Monaco didn’t leave room for wheel-to-wheel chaos, but the pressure was suffocating and Lewis applied it like a surgeon with a scalpel.

By lap 22, he was on your gearbox.

You could feel him, not just in your mirrors, but in your bones. Breathing down your neck, matching your pace, probing every turn. He never committed not yet. But he was watching. Waiting. And you knew what he was doing. He was calculating the moment you’d crack.

But you didn’t.

You defended like hell. Protected the racing line. Blocked just enough without overstepping. A lesser teammate would have moved aside. But you weren’t lesser, and Lewis wouldn’t have wanted that anyway.

No team orders came.

Whether Toto was trusting you both...or screaming into a couch cushion in the hospitality suite was anyone’s guess.

But then, you made one mistake.

Just one.

You stayed out one lap too long before pitting. Your tires were crying out, the fronts beginning to lock in the hairpins. Your race engineer called you in and you dove into the pits, seconds too late.

Lewis had already pitted.

And he’d undercut you.

When you rejoined, it was behind him. Behind traffic. Trapped. Furious.

You slammed the wheel, muttering through clenched teeth, “You clever bastard.”

Your engineer’s amused reply was barely containing laughter. “Copy that.”

You pushed like hell, got past the traffic but Monaco offered no second chances.

Lewis won. And you finished second.

You’d barely unbuckled when Lewis was there at the paddock gate, helmet in hand, sweat on his brow, looking for you. You half-expected the signature smirk, the subtle dig. But he surprised you.

Instead, he just said, “Now we’re even.”

You rolled your eyes and tossed your gloves at his chest. “Enjoy it while it lasts.”

He caught them easily, stepped closer. His voice dropped.

“Oh, I will.”

And then, for a second, it felt like something cracked. Something shifted between the rivalry and the banter. Like maybe it wasn’t just about racing anymore.

The afterparty was held at the Hôtel de Paris, the kind of place where history dripped from the walls and every champagne bottle had its own sommelier. The ballroom was glowing with crystal chandeliers and classical string quartets; elegance wrapped in decadence.

You walked in wearing a black satin gown that fit like a second skin, open-backed, thigh slit high enough to draw attention but not outrage. Your hair was swept up; your earrings sparkled under the low lighting. You knew you looked good.

But the look on Lewis’s face when he saw you?

It was something else entirely.

He stood near the bar, a flute of champagne in hand, wearing a tailored tuxedo with the top button undone and just enough swagger to make it lethal. When your eyes met across the room, something in your chest tightened.

He made his way over, slow, deliberate.

“You clean up alright,” you said, sipping your drink.

He handed you another glass perfectly chilled, of course. “I was about to say the same, but I’m a little distracted.”

You raised a brow. “By what?”

His gaze swept the room, then returned to you sharp, possessive and somehow both a warning and a confession. “By the fact that every guy in this room is looking at you. And I can’t tell if I want to punch someone...or ask you to dance.”

You took a slow sip, letting the silence hang between you. “Maybe both?”

He leaned in slightly, lips near your ear. “You always ruin my smooth lines.”

You looked at him over the rim of your glass. “You always give me something to ruin.”

His smirk turned molten.

And for the first time that night, the racing lines between the two of you blurred. Just a little.

Thursday – Press Conference, Montreal

The media room crackled with the usual pre-race tension of humming cameras, the soft rustle of notepads, lights too bright for comfort. You sat next to Lewis at the long table, arms crossed, legs casually stretched out, the brim of your cap pulled low enough to shade the quiet smirk on your face. Your fingers tapped lightly against your knee, equal parts nerves and anticipation.

By now, it was routine. You and Lewis, shoulder to shoulder, playing your well-rehearsed roles of the rising star and the reigning titan. But Montreal had a particular energy, one that electrified beneath your skin and made your heartbeat a little louder in your ears.

The journalists started off polite enough. Predictable questions. Tire choices. Weather forecasts. Championship predictions. You and Lewis answered like seasoned pros, never missing a beat until one voice cut through the room like a scalpel.

“Lewis, do you think having Y/N as a teammate is pushing you harder than Nico ever did?”

Silence, sharp and immediate, followed. Then Lewis’s lips quirked but not into a smile.

“Y/N doesn’t push,” he said, voice smooth, deliberate. “She shoves.”

Laughter rippled across the room. You tilted your head toward the reporter, resting your chin on one hand, eyes half-lidded with mock innocence.

“What can I say?” you murmured. “I like making him sweat. He said it himself once.”

The laughter got louder. Cameras clicked, trying to capture the side glance Lewis gave you a part glare, part grin.

He leaned back in his chair, eyes on you now instead of the press. “That explains the tire strategy you pulled last race,” he said lowly, just loud enough for the microphones to catch.

Your smirk widened, unapologetic. You shrugged one shoulder as if to say sorry, not sorry.

Between you, Toto let out a long, audible sigh. “I’m going to need blood pressure medication before Austria.”

You and Lewis, in perfect sync, didn’t miss a beat:

“Sorry, Toto.”

The room laughed again, but this time, you barely heard it.

Because when you looked at Lewis again - really looked the tension between you sparked. Not angry. Not flirty. Something quieter. Something simmering. Something you weren’t quite ready to name.

But it was there.

And you both knew it.

On Saturday, the day had drained you. Qualifying had been brutal every sector fought down to the millisecond. You’d taken pole, but only by the skin of your teeth. Lewis was right behind you, less than a tenth off. The debrief had been stiff, full of long stares across the table and passive-aggressive telemetry talk.

You were back in your hotel room now, trying and failing to wind down. Pyjamas on. Strategy notes open. You were on your third read-through of tire degradation predictions and still hadn’t taken in a word. The air conditioner hummed softly. Outside, the city sparkled, golden and wide awake. But you weren’t thinking about the lights.

You were thinking about him.

The knock at the door was soft. Three quick raps. Hesitant.

You blinked. Pushed your laptop aside. Walked to the door, heart ticking faster than it should have.

When you opened it, Lewis was standing there in sweats and a hoodie, hood pulled up. His hands were buried deep in his pockets, and he looked at you like he was waiting for you to tell him to go away.

But you didn’t.

“Couldn’t sleep,” he said simply.

You nodded and stepped aside.

“Same.”

He walked in without another word. Sat on the edge of the bed like it was his own. You crawled back under the sheets, legs tucked under you, trying not to feel the shift in the air.

He didn’t speak. Just scrolled idly through his phone. The glow of the screen lit up his jaw, sharp and unreadable. You pretended to return to your notes, but your eyes kept drifting.

Minutes passed. Quiet minutes. Comfortable, strangely.

There was nothing romantic about it. And yet…it was the most intimate thing you’d felt in weeks.

Eventually, exhaustion crept in, and you let your eyes close. Just for a second.

You didn’t even realise you’d fallen asleep.

When you woke hours later, to the dim blue light of dawn bleeding into the room - Lewis was gone.

But his hoodie was folded at the foot of your bed. Left behind like a signature.

You stared at it for longer than you should have.

You should’ve laughed. Sent him a text. Something stupid, sarcastic. Didn’t know you moonlighted as a sleep therapist.

But instead, you picked it up - soft, worn-in, warm and pulled it over your head. His scent clung to the fabric. Clean. Familiar. Too familiar.

You didn’t think about what it meant. You didn’t want to.

You just tucked your hands into the sleeves and went back to your notes.

The next day rolled in faster than you expected but, the Canadian Grand Prix always delivered. This year was no exception.

From pole, you held the lead through the first stint, managing the tires, fending off Lewis who was never more than a second behind. Every lap felt like a chess match at 300 km/h DRS threats, over-cut possibilities, traffic playing interference.

He never let up. Not for a second. But neither did you.

When the pit window opened, you stayed out an extra lap which was a gamble. One you thought might gain you time.

But when you rejoined, Lewis was ahead.

He’d undercut you by half a second.

“Shit,” you muttered into your radio.

The rest of the race was damage control. You pushed. You clawed. You closed the gap to within striking distance by the final ten laps, but the tires weren’t there. Lewis crossed the line three seconds ahead.

P2.

When you climbed out of the car, helmet tucked under your arm, you expected the usual smug grin. Expected a quip. A jab. Something sharp-edged.

But Lewis met you at the paddock gate, helmet still on, visor lifted just enough for you to see his smile.

Not arrogant. Not taunting.

Just proud.

“Now we’re even,” he said, voice low.

You rolled your eyes and tossed your gloves at his chest. “Enjoy it while it lasts.”

He caught them easily, grin still playing at the corner of his mouth.

“Oh, I will.”

After Montreal

Something had shifted.

Neither of you said anything about the hoodie. Or the hotel room. Or the way the air between you had started to hum with something more than competition.

But it was there.

The paddock noticed. The engineers noticed. Hell, even the Sky Sports commentators started speculating.

You still fought each other tooth and nail on track. But in the quiet moments, a look across the garage, a shared smirk during warm-up, a shoulder brush that neither of you stepped away from. The line between enemies and something else began to fade.

Whatever was growing between you and Lewis, it didn’t have a name yet.

However, it was coming fast.

One minute, you were stepping off the plane from Montreal, the champagne still sticky in your hair and Lewis’s half-smile still lingering in the back of your mind. The next, you were in the middle of the Styrian hills, Red Bull Ring laid out like a postcard, sky stretched above you in impossible shades of blue.

Austria was always beautiful. Always fast.

But this year? This year it felt like a storm waiting to break.

The paddock buzzed with something electric. Sharper than usual. Everyone moved with that mid-season intensity, chasing perfection in half-second intervals but underneath all of that, something else stirred.

You and Lewis.

It followed you like a shadow. Your names stacked beside each other on headlines, in interviews, across every trending hashtag. The questions came faster now from fans, press, even other drivers. The tension? Constant. Thick enough to feel on your skin. Like the moment before lights out.

Like standing too close to a flame you couldn’t stop reaching for.

Saturday – Qualifying Day

Q3 was hell.

Fast laps. Dirty air. Nerves wired too tight. Sector times bounced between green and purple like a heartbeat. You were quicker in the middle sector, Lewis in the third. Each lap built on the last, the timing screen an endless taunt.

Final run.

DRS open. Grip on the edge. You nailed your entry into Turn 7, carried perfect speed through the double left and still, it wasn’t enough.

Lewis crossed the line just before you. 0.036 seconds. You stared at the screen. P2. Your name flickering beneath his.

You muttered a curse into your helmet, just loud enough to fog the inside of your visor but not loud enough for Bono to ask questions. When you rolled into the garage, helmet off, race suit peeled halfway down, Lewis was already there leaning against the wall like he’d been born there.

He didn’t even look at you at first.

Just unzipped his race suit a little lower, sweat still drying across his collarbone, before shooting you a look over his shoulder.

“You’re getting slow.” His voice was low. Teasing. Dangerous.

You walked past him, deliberately close, brushing the edge of his elbow as you tugged off your gloves.

“You’re getting cocky.”

His smirk turned razor-sharp. “You like it.”

You paused, gaze flicking to his, something warm and wicked curling in your chest.

“Never said I didn’t.”

For just a second, he blinked. Smirk faltering like a driver who missed the apex by a breath. You saw it the shift behind his eyes and then he straightened, like the moment hadn’t just punched him in the ribs.

He stepped back. Just an inch.

But the space between you stayed hot. Buzzing. Unspoken.

Not quite rivals. Not quite anything else.

Saturday night was the team dinner.

The restaurant sat at the edge of a valley, glass walls framing a sunset that didn’t look real. The whole team had turned out - engineers, strategists, comms. Wine flowed. The food was good. Someone was halfway through a dramatic retelling of Canada 2011 when the chair beside you scraped back.

Lewis.

He didn’t ask. Just dropped into the seat beside you like gravity had pulled him there. Your shoulders brushed. You didn’t move.

He leaned over mid-story to steal a piece of bread from your plate, elbow bumping yours. His thigh pressed against yours not enough to be obvious, but enough that neither of you adjusted.

The jokes flowed faster. Every glance from him lasted a little too long. When you made a crack about his hair taking longer than his tire warm-up, he let out a bark of laughter and reached across to steal your fork in retaliation.

Toto, across the table, looked like he wanted to throw the wine bottle at both your heads.

He took a slow sip. Deadpan. “Did I wrong a god in a past life?”

You batted your lashes. “I’m delightful.”

Lewis raised his glass and clinked it against yours.

“Debatable,” he said, eyes glinting.

You didn’t look away.

And neither did anyone else. But no one said it. Not out loud. Because they all saw it too.

The next morning was race day.

Lights out. Chaos. Heat.

The race was all muscle and instinct.

You stuck to him like a second shadow. DRS flaps opened in perfect rhythm. You hunted him down, corner by corner, lap after lap. There was nothing gentle about it - this was a war fought in tenths of a second, elbows out, every move on the edge of legal.

He blocked you cleanly in Turn 3. You dove down the inside into Turn 7, forcing him wide. He retaliated the next lap, sweeping across the racing line so sharply you nearly clipped his rear.

It was beautiful. Exhausting.

By the final stint, your tires screamed, and your hands ached. The gap narrowed to under a second, but he held you off. Barely.

P2. Again.

You rolled into parc fermé, helmet still on, adrenaline laced with bitterness. Lewis was already climbing out of his car. He caught your eye. Didn't say a word not there. No smug comments in front of the cameras. No podium digs.

But later, when you passed him in the paddock still flushed from the heat, helmet tucked under your arm he was waiting.

That smirk was back.

“You’re starting to make this a habit.”

Voice low. A little too smooth.

You stepped up, so close your words dropped between you like sparks.

“Keep pushing me, Hamilton. I dare you.”

His eyes narrowed, half-amused, half-something else.

“Who said I ever stopped?”

And then, silence.

You held his stare for too long. Too knowing. And for a breathless second, it wasn’t about racing lines or qualifying splits.

It was about the way his gaze dropped to your mouth and back. The way your chest rose like a challenge. Whatever this was it was dangerous.

And you were already too far in to care.

After Spielberg

The internet exploded.

#HamY/N trended globally. Again.

Every clip dissected: the looks on the grid, the thigh-brushing at dinner, the tension in parc fermé. Some tabloid ran a side-by-side photo of the two of you from the national anthem, both staring straight ahead except your heads tilted just enough to catch the other out of the corner of your eyes.

“Rivals?”

“Lovers?”

“F1’s Slowest Burning Flame?”

Neither of you said a word. Didn’t need to.

Because the next time you stayed late in the sim room, Lewis showed up with two iced coffees and a smug grin. He dropped into the chair next to yours like it was routine. No questions. No excuses.

Later, in his hotel room, the silence settled differently.

The TV played some old onboard footage - Monaco, maybe 2008 with the volume low enough to be a lullaby. The light flickered faintly across the bed, the muted glow of past speed and younger versions of the man beside you. Your knees touched under the blanket. Neither of you moved.

He told you about a karting race he lost when he was twelve. You told him about the first time someone told you girls don’t win world championships and how, for a long time you almost believed them. He didn’t say anything at first. Just looked at you like it physically pained him. Like if he could go back in time, he’d put his hands around the words before they ever touched your ears.

Eventually, his eyes fluttered shut. Breath deepening. Shoulders relaxing.

Sleep, gradual and quiet, claimed him.

You didn’t mean to stay that long. But something about the weight of the day, the warmth of his side pressed to yours, the way his blanket smelled faintly like him of citrus, salt and something woodsy made you still. And when you shifted, curling ever so slightly in his direction, your head found its way to his chest.

His breathing hitched not quite awake, but not fully gone either. And then his arm moved. Slow. Sleepy.

He tucked you in closer, hand spreading wide across your lower back, anchoring you to him like his subconscious already knew what he wanted like this was muscle memory. You froze for a moment. Just breathed. He sighed in his sleep a soft, content sound and murmured your name so faintly it barely carried.

You didn’t answer. Because that was the moment you let go. Head rising and falling with the rhythm of his chest, you let your eyes fall shut. Let yourself be held.

And for all the chaos that waited outside that room the racing, the press, the questions - here, in this quiet space, Lewis was just a man asleep with his arm around you. And you? You were exactly where you wanted to be.

You didn’t dream of winning that night. You just dreamed of him. Though both of you were just too oblivious to see one another’s feelings.

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

Soon enough the oppressive weight of Silverstone loomed, not as a harbinger of rain, but as a chilling premonition of impact. Each breath caught in your throat, tight and constricted, a physical manifestation of the immense pressure. This was Lewis Hamilton's home race, the very heart of British motorsport, a crucible where legacies were forged or shattered. The pressure wasn't merely heavy; it was a suffocating shroud that clung to every inch of the paddock.

The air vibrated with an amplified hum, louder than any other race weekend. The British press, a relentless pack, circled with predatory intent, scenting vulnerability. And the fans - a roaring, impassioned sea of Union Jacks, homemade signs, and painted faces unleashed a deafening chorus of cheers. The Silver Arrows, your team, bore the crushing expectation to deliver.

The championship, though still technically within grasp, was a precarious dream, its fragile hold threatened by the encroaching might of Ferrari and Red Bull. Every single point became a battleground, every position a declaration of war. The team itself operated with the precision of a finely tuned machine, sharp-edged and tightly wound, yet disturbingly brittle.

Smiles were absent, relaxation a forgotten luxury. The only thing more fragile than the fluctuating standings was the pervasive sense that any distraction, however slight, could shatter their collective focus.

And you, were rapidly learning that distractions often wore the disarming, elusive and utterly impossible guise of Lewis Hamilton. He was dangerously close, both on the track and off. During media rounds, he consistently stood a little too near, always just beyond reach. You felt his presence before you saw him, the undeniable weight of his attention, a lingering static in the air.

The press, with their keen, predatory instincts, noticed. "Y/N, are you prepared to play support to Lewis this weekend?" one reporter purred, their voice thick with feigned sweetness, the microphone thrust so close you could feel its proximity, catching the barest flicker in your eyes. You didn't blink.

You steadfastly refused to glance at Lewis, even as you felt the searing intensity of his gaze, a palpable sensation akin to the electric calm before lightning strikes.

Instead, you offered a smile sweet, sharp and undeniably lethal. "Tell him to stay ahead of me," you retorted, your voice laced with a subtle challenge, "and we won't have a problem."

A low, warm chuckle escaped Lewis's lips beside you, the kind of sound that instantly became headline news. He attempted to mask it with a cough, but the charade fooled no one. Somewhere beyond the flashing cameras, you could almost hear Toto Wolff's enraged roar echoing into his water bottle.

The internet, predictably, erupted. The hashtag #Y/NvsLewis trended furiously, even before the first free practice session had begun.

Free practice began not long afterwards. The car beneath you felt like an extension of your own body, light and incredibly nimble, possessing the kind of perfect balance that drivers dreamt of. Each lap was a testament to precision, tighter and smoother than the last.

You felt an almost symbiotic connection, as if your very being and the machine spoke a shared, intuitive language. The screens in the garage glowed with your name at the top of the FP2 timings, fastest overall, fastest through the speed traps.

As you climbed out of the cockpit, the garage erupted in a wave of applause, though only one sound truly registered: the distinct clap of Lewis Hamilton. He leaned casually against the wall near your workstation, a water bottle arcing through the air towards you.

His eyes, crinkled at the corners, held a quiet admiration. "Nice lap," he murmured, his voice low and steady, carrying an undertone of something deeper than mere politeness.

You didn't offer a verbal reply, simply took a long sip of water, fighting to suppress the schoolgirl grin that threatened to break through your carefully maintained composure. It wasn't just a compliment; it was something else entirely.

Sunday — Race Day

Five red lights glowed, each one a stark, silent countdown. Your breath hitched, held captive in your lungs.

Then, they extinguished.

Go. A clean start. You and Lewis launched yourselves forward, a synchronised dance of pure power and precision. The world around you blurred into an indistinct canvas of speed. Nothing existed beyond the guttural roar of the engine and the rapid-fire pulse of strategy in your ear.

Lap after relentless lap, you hunted, your gaze locked onto the intricate dance of Lewis's gearbox. He defended flawlessly, with a clean, precise artistry, but you were gaining, clawing back tenths of a second with each corner, your car biting harder, hungrier.

On Lap 7, you closed the gap through the challenging Maggots and Becketts complex. DRS active, you weighed your options, considering a move. He covered, a seamless defensive manoeuvre. You held your line. It was still clean, still fair. But you saw it – the faintest flicker of vulnerability.

Lap 8. Copse. A flat-out, no-lifting, absolute commitment corner. You went for it.

And in that terrifying instant, the world shattered. Mid-corner, the rear of your car violently gave out. Snap oversteer. Zero grip. The tires screamed a desperate, futile protest, unable to save you. The car spun once, twice and then, abruptly, it wasn't spinning anymore. It was flying. There was no time for a scream.

There was only the sickening, visceral crunch of carbon fibre and steel tearing themselves apart against unforgiving concrete. Then: silence. Total. Absolute. Silence. The kind of silence that drowns. Your ears rang, a deafening hum. Or perhaps that was your own frantic heartbeat. Or perhaps, horrifyingly, you were already gone. You didn't know.

A red flag. The race halted. Marshals scrambled, a flurry of orange and white. Back in the garage, radios shrieked with panicked static. And then, Lewis's voice, raw and desperate, sliced through the chaos. "Is she okay?! What happened?! Tell me she's okay!" Nothing. Only static. No confirmation, just the chilling echo of chaos. He didn't care about the race, didn't care about restarts or championship points.

"Y/N?!" he shouted into the comms, his voice cracking, strained with anguish. "Someone answer me!"

Finally, a voice, calm and professional, from the medical team. "She's conscious. Awake. She's being taken to the medical centre." Lewis exhaled, a long, shuddering breath, as if he hadn't drawn one since the moment of impact. But it wasn't relief. It was merely the bare minimum of hope, a fragile thread in the face of overwhelming fear.

He got back into the car when they told him he had to. Lights out, again. He drove like a man possessed, a singular, unstoppable force. He seized the lead, held it with an iron grip, extended it relentlessly, dominating the restarted race. But he didn't celebrate. Not once. The race concluded. He won. Ten seconds clear of the field. Fastest lap. British Grand Prix champion.

The crowd erupted in a thunderous ovation. Fireworks painted vibrant streaks across the sky. And Lewis didn't even look up. He pulled into parc fermé, his helmet coming off to reveal a blank, unreadable face, his eyes dark and haunted.

He didn't pose with the trophy. He didn't take the flag. He walked straight past the throng of press, past the podium, past the waiting champagne.

He was already gone. Already heading for the medical centre, consumed by a singular, urgent purpose.

The world surged back, not with a sudden clarity, but in disorienting fragments. The oppressive hum of fluorescent lights, buzzing like an agitated hive, slowly coalesced from blurred streaks into harsh overhead fixtures.

Shapeless blurs sharpened into the outlines of unfamiliar medical equipment. A dull, persistent ache in your ribs, a grim souvenir of the impact, pulsed with every shallow, agonising breath, reminding you of the violent forces that had brought you to this sterile place.

The distant, rhythmic hum of machines, a symphony of life support and monitoring, permeated the air, punctuated by the insistent beeping of monitors that seemed to track every fragile beat of your heart. Faint, indistinct murmurs of voices drifted in and out of your consciousness, fragments of conversations you couldn’t quite decipher.

And then, cutting through the haze, came his voice. It was low, tense, a raw thread of anxiety woven into every syllable. Yet, it was undeniably familiar, a sound that resonated deep within you. “…you didn’t see her? Nobody saw the rear instability?” The words were sharp, accusatory, and edged with a desperation that sent a shiver down your spine.

You blinked, your eyelids impossibly heavy, feeling like they were weighted with lead. But his silhouette, even through the fuzzy veil, was unmistakable. Lewis.

He was a restless shadow, pacing agitatedly at the far side of the hospital room, his movements tight and jerky. He was still in his race suit, the top half unzipped and hanging loosely at his waist, revealing a sweat-dampened undershirt.

His brows were deeply furrowed, etched with worry lines that made him look as if he’d aged five years in the past five hours, each wrinkle a testament to the agony he’d endured.

A soft-spoken nurse, her expression a blend of professional calm and gentle authority, stepped forward, attempting to block his path as he tried to storm past the flimsy privacy curtain separating your bed from the rest of the room.

“I just need to see her,” Lewis pleaded, his voice a strained whisper, stripped of its usual confidence and bravado. “Just for a minute.” The nurse, understanding the raw emotion behind his words, replied gently, her voice soothing. “She’s awake,” she confirmed, a small, reassuring smile gracing her lips. “But sore. Don’t stress her.”

Your body, still protesting its recent ordeal, responded with a soft groan, a low, involuntary sound of discomfort as you shifted slightly in the bed. The movement sent fresh waves of pain through your battered body, reminding you that every inch of you was a battlefield. But that small sound, insignificant as it might have seemed, acted like a potent spell, freezing Lewis in his tracks.

His head whipped towards you, eyes wide with a mixture of disbelief and raw relief. And then in what felt like two impossibly swift strides he was there, suddenly beside the bed, dropping to his knees with a speed that belied his agitated state. He looked like a man on the verge of either proposing a lifetime commitment or shattering into a million pieces.

“Hey,” he breathed, the single word a fragile whisper, laced with an overwhelming tenderness. His voice cracked, betraying the immense emotional strain he was under. “

“Hey.” Your lips, dry and cracked, twitched into a faint, weak smile. Despite the pain, despite the confusion, a familiar spark of your competitive spirit flickered. “You win the race?” you managed to croak out, your voice hoarse and barely audible.

He let out a short, choked laugh, a sound devoid of its usual mirth, his eyes shimmering with unshed tears. “Yeah,” he said, his gaze fixed on you, as if trying to memorise every detail of your face. “But who cares.” The words, usually so important to him, were dismissed with a dismissive wave of his hand, their significance utterly dwarfed by the sight of you.

You swallowed hard, your mouth feeling like sandpaper. “You should be celebrating,” you insisted, a faint echo of your usual banter in your tone. “Not without you,” he countered instantly, his voice firm, unwavering.

Something profound, something fragile and yet immensely powerful, broke open between you in that moment.

He looked at you, as if he hadn’t taken a full, unburdened breath until this very second. His fingers, trembling slightly, hovered near your hand, not quite touching, as if afraid to break the delicate spell. “I thought I lost you,” he whispered, the words laced with an agonising vulnerability that sent a jolt through your heart.

“You didn’t,” you said, your voice still weak but imbued with a fierce conviction. “I’m here.” He closed his eyes for a moment, a wave of relief washing over his features.

When he opened them again, they were clouded with a torment you hadn't seen before. “I watched the crash back,” he confessed, his voice raw with self-reproach. “Over and over. Trying to see what I missed. What I should’ve done differently.” The weight of his unasked questions hung heavy in the air between you. “It wasn’t your fault—” you started, trying to reassure him, to alleviate the crushing guilt you saw in his eyes.

“I know that. I know.” His voice wavered, a tremor running through it that spoke volumes of his barely contained emotion. “But you don’t get it. I’ve never cared like this. Not with a teammate. Not with anyone in the paddock.” His gaze intensified, seeking to impress upon you the profound truth of his words.

You stared at him, your mind racing, trying to process the magnitude of his confession. He continued, his voice softening, becoming almost reverent. “You got under my skin so fast I didn’t even feel it. One minute you’re challenging me, mocking me, laughing at me and the next I’m in the hospital hallway thinking what if she doesn’t wake up. What if I never get to tell her.”

Your heart slammed against your ribs, a frantic drumbeat that had nothing to do with the lingering pain from the crash, and everything to do with this. The raw honesty of his words, the vulnerability he laid bare, stole your breath away.

“What would you have told me?” you asked, your voice barely a whisper, the question hanging delicately in the silence between you. He looked down, his gaze dropping to your intertwined hands, then slowly, deliberately, looked back up, his eyes locking with yours.

“That I love the way you race,” he began, his voice imbued with a newfound tenderness. “That I hate how much I want to win until I see you smile and suddenly second place feels okay. That every time I lose to you, I fall harder.” A profound silence settled over the room, broken only by the soft beeping of the monitors.

He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “That I’m falling for you, Y/N. And I don’t think I know how to stop.”

You didn’t reply immediately. The weight of his words, the sheer vulnerability of his confession, left you speechless. Instead, you reached out your fingers, still a little weak, gently brushing over his, a tentative, unspoken invitation. His breath hitched.

“You’re not the only one,” you said softly, your voice thick with emotion, a fragile admission mirroring his own. “You made it impossible not to.” Lewis blinked, his eyes wide, as if unsure he heard you right, as if the reality of your words was too good to be true.

Then, slowly, deliberately, your fingers laced together, a silent confirmation of the burgeoning connection between you. “I should’ve told you sooner,” you confessed, the words a soft sigh of regret. He shook his head, a small, barely perceptible smile gracing his lips.

“You’re telling me now,” he murmured, his thumb gently stroking the back of your hand. A beat of comfortable, understanding silence passed between you. “Come here,” you whispered, the invitation a soft plea.

He stood, his movements careful and gentle, leaning over you as if you were made of the most delicate glass. Your fingers remained locked, a constant, reassuring link between you. You lifted your face just enough, your eyes meeting his, a silent permission passing between you.

And then he kissed you. It wasn’t the hesitant, exploratory kiss of a first date, nor the grand, passionate declaration of a dramatic confession. This was a kiss born of relief, of profound gratitude, a silent vow-exchanged between two souls who had stared into the abyss of loss and found each other again.

His lips against yours were soft and reverent, a gentle pressure that grounded you. It was a promise whispered without words, a silent affirmation of your shared vulnerability and the deep affection that had blossomed between you.

When he finally pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours, his breath warm against your skin. “You scared the hell out of me,” he murmured, his voice still thick with emotion. “You made it worth it,” you breathed, your eyes fluttering closed, a profound sense of peace settling over you.

Current time Monday, June 10, 2024 at 12:47:04 AM AEST.

Two days after the terrifying embrace of the hospital room, a subtle shift had occurred. You were no longer just a teammate to Lewis, nor he merely a formidable rival. There was an unspoken current, a tender understanding that hummed beneath the surface of your every interaction. Lying in your stark white hospital bed, still mending, you picked up your phone, a fleeting thought sparking in your mind.

You recorded a quick voice note, the lingering pain in your ribs a dull throb, your voice a little scratchy from disuse. “I’ve watched the crash three times,” you admitted, a wry smile playing on your lips. “I think I’m more upset about your lap time than the wall.” It was a familiar jab, a return to the playful antagonism that defined your professional relationship, a subtle test of the new boundaries.

Lewis’s reply was almost instantaneous, a clear indication of how closely he’d been awaiting your communication. He sent a selfie, a rare glimpse into his off-track world. He was in the simulator, the familiar cockpit surrounding him, but his usual intense focus was replaced by a wide, unburdened grin.

“Heal up fast," his text read, the words accompanied by an emoji of a flexing bicep. "I need you back on track so I can finally beat you without feeling guilty about it." The playful bravado was back, but now, it was tempered with a warmth that hadn’t been there before, a subtle acknowledgment of the stakes that had been so dramatically raised.

Recovery, it turned out, did not suit you. You were a creature of perpetual motion, of high-octane adrenaline, and the forced stillness chafed at your very soul. You hated the relentless downtime, the endless hours of physio that promised slow, arduous progress, each session a frustrating reminder of your temporary incapacitation. What you hated even more was the agonising experience of watching the races from a screen instead of being out there on the grid, the roar of the engines a distant, tantalising echo.

But Lewis, in his own quiet, persistent way, kept you anchored, kept you close. His presence was a constant, comforting hum in the background of your recovery: constant texts filled with mundane updates and genuine concern, late-night calls that stretched into the early hours, dissolving the distance between you, and a steady stream of photos from the garage captioned with a poignant, almost wistful, “your seat misses you.”

You weren't accustomed to such softness in motorsport. The paddock was a cutthroat world, a place where vulnerability was a weakness, where emotional attachments were liabilities. But with him? With Lewis, it didn't feel like a weakness. It felt like fuel, igniting a different kind of strength, a warmth that seeped into your bones and accelerated your healing. And by the time the Hungarian Grand Prix loomed on the horizon, you were not just recovered; you were ready. You were ravenous for the track, for the fight, and for him. ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

Race weekend. Budapest. The very air vibrated with anticipation. Your return was, quite literally, all anyone could talk about. The paddock buzzed with a frenetic energy, and every journalist, every pundit, every fan had an opinion. "She’s back!" echoed through the media centre, a triumphant declaration. "What will this mean for the Hamilton dynamic?" they mused, recognising the intricate dance between you two. "Have the team lost control of their golden duo?" The question hung in the air, tinged with both apprehension and excitement.

You stepped out of the motorhome, the vibrant team colours a stark contrast to the flash of a hundred cameras that instantly swarmed you, their lenses like hungry eyes.

But you didn’t blink, didn't flinch.

You met their relentless gaze with a steely resolve, your focus already elsewhere. Just past the press barrier, amidst the controlled chaos, Lewis was waiting. His gaze, usually so guarded, was open, raw, searching only for you.

His arms opened slightly, just enough, a silent, almost imperceptible invitation. You didn’t hesitate. You walked right into them, the world blurring around the edges as his embrace enveloped you. It wasn’t romantic in the traditional sense of a passionate, sweeping gesture. Instead, he hugged you the way someone hugs the missing half of a whole. It was tight, desperate in its unspoken relief, an absolute connection that transcended words.

The cameras caught it all, every single click immortalising the unguarded moment, the undeniable truth of your bond.

Later that day, the press conference was packed, the air thick with expectation. The moderator, a seasoned professional, smiled warmly. “Y/N, how does it feel to be back?”

You leaned into the microphone, the familiar weight of it a comforting presence. “Like I’ve been holding my breath for three weeks,” you confessed, a wry smile playing on your lips, acknowledging the stifling frustration of forced inactivity.

Then, the moderator turned to Lewis, a mischievous glint in his eye. “And Lewis,” he began, “what’s it like having your teammate back on the grid?” Lewis didn’t miss a beat, his answer delivered with a smooth, almost theatrical flourish. “Safer, faster, and way more fun.”

Across the table, Toto, the stoic team principal, sat beside you both. At Lewis’s declaration, he visibly sagged, his shoulders slumping. He then closed his eyes, as if bracing himself for an inevitable onslaught. “Please,” he muttered, his voice barely audible, laced with a plea that bordered on desperation. “One race weekend without flirtation. I beg.”

You, emboldened by Lewis’s easy charm and the shared moment, leaned forward, a playful glint in your eye. “Define flirtation,” you challenged, a subtle dare in your tone. Lewis, never one to be outdone, added, “Define fun,” his grin widening.

The room, filled with jaded journalists and cynical analysts, burst into genuine laughter, the tension momentarily dissipating in a wave of shared amusement. Toto, however, merely massaged his temples, a man perpetually on the verge of an aneurysm.

The race itself was a masterclass in controlled aggression, a tight, thrilling ballet of speed and strategy. Lewis led, a familiar sight at the front of the pack. You followed, a relentless shadow, chasing hard, pushing the limits of your still-recovering body. But you didn't push stupid.

Your instincts, honed over years of high-stakes racing, held you back from unnecessary risks. Your body was still adjusting, finding its rhythm, reacquainting itself with the brutal demands of a Grand Prix.

You crossed the line in P2, a second-place finish. And for the first time, it didn’t sting. There was no bitter taste of defeat, no gnawing frustration. Because as the chequered flag waved, a blur of black and white, and the team erupted in cheers over the radio, Lewis’s voice, clear and resonant, cut through the celebration. “That’s my girl.”

Your breath caught in your throat, a sudden, unexpected gasp. You didn't answer not over comms, not where the entire team, the entire world, could potentially hear. The intimacy of his words was too precious to be broadcast.

But later, in the cool-down room, the sterile air a welcome relief after the oppressive heat of the cockpit, you sat on a low bench, sipping water, trying in vain to stop sweating through your race suit. Lewis sat beside you, his presence a comfortable weight, his gaze soft as he watched the replays on the wall monitors. “You know they’re gonna figure it out, right?” he said, his voice a low murmur, a subtle acknowledgment of the cameras that dotted the room, capturing every nuance.

You wiped your face with a towel, the cotton rough against your skin. “They already have,” you stated, a quiet certainty in your voice. He leaned back, stretching out his long legs, a soft smile playing on his lips.

“So, what do we do?” he asked, the question hanging in the air, laden with unspoken possibilities. You looked at him, your gaze unwavering, a confident grin spreading across your face. “You drive,” you said. “I drive. And we keep being us.” He turned his head, his smile deepening, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Even if it’s complicated?” he pressed, a hint of playful apprehension in his tone.

You laughed, a genuine, unburdened sound. “Lewis,” you said, shaking your head in mock exasperation. “What about this was ever going to be simple?”

Soon enough Monza race day arrived dawned under a sky heavy with the promise of chaos. Rain began to fall, turning the iconic Monza circuit into a treacherous, shimmering ribbon. It was a day for brave hearts and precise hands, a day for mayhem. You thrived in these conditions, your instincts razor-sharp.

You overtook him on Lap 4, a daring move that sent a ripple of excitement through the commentary boxes. He undercut you during the first pit stop, his team executing a flawless strategy that put him back ahead. But you weren't done. You dived past again in Turn 1, a breathtaking manoeuvre that brought the crowd to its feet, a collective gasp and roar echoing through the grandstands. By the final ten laps, you were neck and neck separated by a single second and sheer willpower, an epic duel unfolding before the eyes of the world.

“Let me race her,” Lewis demanded over the radio, his voice urgent, a primal desire to compete with you, unhindered.

Toto’s voice, a mixture of exasperation and grudging admiration, came back: “You two are going to drive me into therapy.” Inside your helmet, a wide, unbidden smile spread across your face. “Then book a double session,” you muttered to yourself, the words a silent challenge to the man who held your careers in his hands.

You won. Your second win of the season, a momentous victory on one of motorsport's most iconic tracks. Lewis crossed the line just behind you, a mere blink of an eye separating your cars but his face, visible on the big screens, was plastered with a wide, unburdened grin, as if he’d won too.

On the podium, the air crackled with a triumphant energy. Champagne rained down, a glorious, golden shower. You sprayed him, a playful, victorious torrent, soaking him thoroughly. He didn’t even fight back, he just stood there, letting the cold spray wash over him, his eyes fixed on you, a gaze so intense it felt like sunlight through smoke, seeing only you in that moment.

And then, as the cheers reached a crescendo, as the champagne continued to fall, he pulled you close, still soaking wet from the celebration. He didn't say a word, just wrapped his arms around you, pulling you against his drenched race suit. And then, in front of the entire world, on the hallowed ground of the podium, he kissed you.

It wasn’t a quick peck, or a tentative brush of lips. It was a kiss that spoke volumes, a powerful, raw, and undeniable declaration. His lips, still wet with champagne, met yours with a desperate urgency, a profound relief, and a fierce, burning passion. It was a kiss that tasted of victory, of fear conquered, of love unleashed.

His hand found the back of your head, tangling in your damp hair, pulling you even closer, his other arm wrapped tightly around your waist. Your hands instinctively found purchase on his shoulders, gripping him tightly, as if to anchor yourself against the sudden, overwhelming force of his confession. The world faded, the roar of the crowd, the flash of cameras, the presence of your team - it all dissolved into a singular, all-consuming moment.

It was a kiss that acknowledged every shared glance, every late-night call, every unspoken understanding. It was the public unveiling of a private love, an answer to every rumour, every whispered question. When he finally, reluctantly, pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his eyes still closed, breathing you in. The air around you thrummed with a tangible energy, a silent hum of connection.

That night, the headlines didn’t know what to do with you, or with him. They struggled to categorise the raw, undeniable force that had just been unleashed on the world stage.

Sky Sports, usually restrained, ran with a headline that captured the essence of the moment:

“Teammates, Rivals, Lovers — Whatever They Are, It’s Working.”

Motorsport.com, ever the pragmatist, focused on the immediate outcome, but couldn’t ignore the context:

“Y/N Y/L/N Becomes Title Contender. Hamilton Still Grinning.”

The world watched, captivated, as the lines between professional rivalry and profound personal connection blurred, creating a story far more compelling than any championship fight.

This was more than just racing; this was a love story, unfolding at 300 kilometres an hour, for all the world to see.

#lewis hamilton #lh44 #lewis hamilton x reader #f1 x reader #lewis hamilton imagine #lh44 x reader #x reader #f1 imagine #lewis hamilton x you #lh44 imagine #lewis hamilton one shot #team lh44 #f1 smau #f1 one shot #f1 fic #f1 fanfic #f1

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mikkies · 2 days ago

Text

「 I LOVE LOVE LOVE YOU SO MUCH THAT I COULD CRY. 」

Taph x GN! Reader

Warnings: none!

Note: I was just watching tiktok then saw this one video of Taph giving people he cares about his feather or something like that. I got so many ideas so I wanted to write it down.

THE SOFT GLOW of a lantern filled the room, its golden light flickering gently over the worn wood and stone walls. The bed creaked slightly as Taph shifted, his robed figure perched cross-legged near the edge. His smaller ear-wings fluttered now and then, catching faint drafts in the still air. His larger wings, usually hidden beneath his robes, peeked out slightly tonight, the golden-tipped feathers ruffled from a long day.

You sat behind him, hands delicately working through his feathers. Preening his wings had become a quiet ritual between you two—a moment of peace after whatever chaos the round had brought. Taph wasn’t great at keeping his feathers tidy; his pigeon-like tendency to hop into places he didn’t belong and his subspace trip mines often left them dusty, painted pink, bent, or even slightly frayed.

“You’re impossible sometimes, you know that?” you teased as you gently straightened a stubborn feather.

Taph turned his hooded head just enough to look at you—or at least you thought he was looking. His hood’s shadow concealed his face, but the tilt of his head was unmistakably playful. His smaller wings flitted briefly, like a bird puffing up in mock indignation.

"🫵🙄❓" (Me? Impossible?)

“Yes, you,” you said with a chuckle, smoothing the feather back into place. “You run around like you own the place, dive into things you shouldn’t, and somehow still expect me to clean this mess up afterward.”

Taph let out a low hum that sounded suspiciously like a coo, leaning forward just enough to make his point. "😇🕊️" (I’m innocent!)

You laughed, shaking your head. “Sure you are.”

Despite his antics, he was unusually still as you worked, the weight of his wings relaxing into your hands. You reached a cluster of feathers near the base of his wing that was particularly knotted. His shoulders tensed at the gentle tug, and his ear-wings gave a quick flutter of surprise.

“Sorry, sorry,” you murmured. “Almost got it.”

Taph hummed again, this time softer, like an apology wrapped in a sound. He leaned his head forward, giving you better access to the trouble spot. His trust made you smile, and you worked carefully, smoothing out each feather until they glowed faintly in the lantern light.

After a while, you felt him fidgeting. His hands disappeared into his robes, and you paused, curious about what he was doing. “Taph?”

He didn’t respond immediately, instead pulling something from the folds of his robes. When he finally turned toward you, he was holding a single feather—small, with a radiant golden tip.

Before you could ask, Taph leaned closer, the motion deliberate but shy. His hooded face tilted, and with careful fingers, he tucked the feather behind your ear.

You blinked, startled by the gesture. His gloved hand brushed your cheek as he adjusted it, making sure it wouldn’t fall. Then he pulled back, his ear-wings fluttering rapidly, almost nervously.

"🫵🪶✨" (For you.)

“Oh, Taph...” you whispered, reaching up to touch the feather. It was soft and warm, and it carried the faintest glow, like it held a piece of him. “You didn’t have to do that.”

He shook his head quickly, his wings flapping in little bursts as if to say, "Don’t argue with me."

"🙅🫵❤️" (I wanted to.)

You smiled, your heart swelling with warmth. “It’s beautiful. Thank you.”

Taph nodded, his movements slower now, more at ease. He turned back around, folding his hands in his lap as you resumed preening his wings. The room fell into a comfortable silence, broken only by the soft rustle of feathers and the occasional coo-like hum from him.

After a while, you couldn’t help but tease him. “You know, this feather is nice, but it doesn’t exactly make up for the trouble you got us into earlier.”

Taph’s ear-wings flapped indignantly, and he twisted slightly to face you again. "😠🕊️➡️😌" (Hey! I’m innocent.)

“Innocent, huh? Is that what you call sneaking into the kitchen and stealing pizza crusts?”

He froze, his whole body stiffening like a child caught red-handed. Then, slowly, he reached up and scratched the back of his hood. "😅➡️🙊" (Oops... Can we not talk about that?)

You laughed, shaking your head. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

At that, Taph puffed up his chest proudly, his smaller wings fluttering in triumph. He twisted his head in a full circle, mimicking the dramatic flair of a preening bird.

"🫵😊❤️➡️👑" (You’re the best. My favorite person.)

You smiled, leaning forward to rest your chin lightly on his shoulder. “And you’re my favorite birdbrain.”

Taph let out another cooing hum, and you swore you saw his hood dip slightly, as though he was hiding a smile.

The lantern’s light flickered softly, casting the room in a warm, golden glow. For a while, there was nothing but quiet companionship as you finished tending to his wings. Moments like this reminded you why you cared for him so deeply—beneath the silliness and the antics, Taph had a heart as golden as the feather he gave.

Might've been OOC, but it's okay I guess hope you enjoy though. 🤷‍♀️

#* ∙ ✰ ◞ 미키 ✗ posts.#forsaken #forsaken x reader #taph x reader #x reader #I love pigeon boy sm #I got level 79 Taph #I think that makes me a taph main #taph #forsaken taph #forsaken roblox

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andrealol7 · 1 day ago

Text

somewhere in the crowd theres you <3

James Potter x fem!reader

based on the song Super Trouper by ABBA

summary: When James Potter injures his arm just before a big Quidditch match, he convinces his secretly talented (but anxious) girlfriend to take his place.

tw: panic attack

a/n: not proofread

---

The problem starts with James being an idiot.

Or, well. Technically, it starts with a dive during practice — “for dramatic effect,” he claimed — and the next, he was on the ground clutching his arm and wincing with a dramatic flair that Sirius called “very on-brand.”

But you maintain it was his fault for trying to pull that ridiculous stunt he kept bragging about during breakfast.

“Madam Pomfrey says he’ll live,” Remus says gently beside you as you hover in the Hospital Wing, arms crossed tightly.

“Pity,” you mutter.

Sirius snorts. “She doesn’t mean that.”

You scowl. “No, I do.”

James is lounging dramatically on the infirmary bed, with a cast on his arm and an arm sling, acting like it’s he's on the verge of death.

“Don’t look so mournful, love,” he croaks at you. “Your hero lives on.”

“I don’t look mournful,” you snap. “I look furious. Because you decided to pull that ridiculous stunt earlier and now you’ve got the grace of a knocked-over bookshelf. And may I need to remind you, a day before the biggest Quidditch match of the season."

"And now how are you gonna find someone who's gonna fill out your spot just in time for tomorrow.” you continue with your eyebrows furrowed.

Its ironic how you're the one who's stressed out about this whole thing while the Quidditch captain doesn't seem to have a care in the world.

“Bookshelves are noble,” he says. “And stacked with knowledge.”

“Stacked with idiocy, apparently.”

Remus hides a smile.

James just blinks up at you like you’re the sun and he’s been staring too long. “You know what would make me feel better?”

“Let me guess,” you say dryly. “Snogging.”

“Well, that too.” He smirks. “But also — you flying for me.”

You blink. “What.”

“You. Tomorrow. Gryffindor vs. Slytherin. You fill in.”

You laugh. Like, actually laugh out loud.

James just keeps smiling. “C’mon, you’re brilliant.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No!”

“Y/N.” He sits up straighter, and his voice softens. “You’re the best flier I know. You just don’t like the pressure of people watching you.”

You look down. Your throat tightens.

Remus, ever the peacemaker “You’re the best flier we’ve got besides James.”

“You’ve never even seen me play,” you scoffed, heart rate already spiking.

“Please,” James groaned, “you made me eat dirt third year when we were messing around on the pitch. You flew circles around me.”

You crossed your arms. “That was a one-time thing and I was showing off because you wouldn’t shut up about your record.”

“Exactly,” James said, beaming despite the sling on his arm. “And now you get to show off again. Officially.”

A quiet moment goes by

“I…I can’t,” you murmur. “You know what happens. I freeze. My chest locks up. I feel like I’m going to faint or fall or—or die or worse, vomit in public.”

James reaches out, his fingers curling lightly around your wrist.

“Then don’t look at the crowd,” he says gently. “Just look for me.”

Your heart aches a little.

Because he says it like it’s easy.

Because part of you wants to believe he’s right.

“Look, I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t believe you could do it. We’re playing Slytherin. We need you.”

You swallow. Your heart is already trying to break out of your chest, and it’s only the day before.

“But what if I mess it up?” you whisper.

James leans forward. “You won’t.”

“How do you know?”

“I just do” with that signature grin of his.

“Really reassuring”

⸻

If someone had told you two weeks ago that you’d be starting as Seeker in the biggest Quidditch match of the year, you would’ve laughed, choked, cried, and then passed out.

In that order.

But here you are. Dressed in James’s oversized scarlet and gold jersey, broom clutched in white-knuckled hands, standing just outside the changing tent with your heart in your throat and what feels like a war inside your lungs.

Eight minutes to go.

The pitch roars outside. A blur of cheers and chants and stomping boots.

Your brain is short-circuiting.

You can’t breathe.

You’re too hot in your jersey. Your hands are shaking. There’s a stone lodged behind your ribs.

“I’m gonna die,” you mutter, sitting down hard on the bench by the tent flap.

“Bit dramatic, even for you.”

You flinch.

Sirius stands in the doorway, arms crossed, still in full gear and a crooked concern in his expression.

You try to smile.

He doesn’t smile back.

“Talk to me, Y/N.”

“I’m fine.”

“You look like you’re about to throw up and cry.”

“That’s just my face. You’ve seen it before.”

“You’re not funny.”

“No, you’re right. I’m hilarious.”

He strides over and crouches in front of you. His voice is quieter now.

“You don’t have to do this. I’ll talk to McGonagall. I’ll bloody fly two positions if I have to.”

You shake your head quickly. “No. I want to.”

Sirius studies you. His eyes soften.

“You’re terrified.”

You nod. “Yeah. Just—just give me a minute, okay? I need a second.”

A long pause.

Then, quietly “Okay.”

He squeezes your hand once. Then leaves.

Your body slumps with the effort of just existing.

You bury your face in your hands. Try to breathe like Madam Pomfrey taught you — in for four, hold for four, out for four — but your lungs still feel too small.

You’re going to mess it up.

You’re going to fall.

Everyone’s going to laugh.

“You alright?”

You jump so hard you nearly kick your broom.

James Potter.

Leaning against the post of the tent like he owns the world, hair wind-tousled, grinning at you like you’re the one who’s handsome and ridiculous.

He’s still in a sling from yesterday. Which is his fault, by the way.

You groan. “Don’t look at me.”

“Too late. Already doing it.”

“James.”

“Y/N.”

You glare. He sits beside you anyway.

“I’m fine,” you say preemptively.

“Brilliant,” he replies. “Then I won’t offer you this emergency chocolate I just so happen to have in my pocket.”

You pause.

“…What kind of chocolate?”

James grins, pulls a small Honeydukes bar from his robes, and holds it out like it’s a peace offering.

You snatch it. “Thanks.”

“So,” he says, swinging his legs under the bench. “You’re panicking, huh?”

You freeze mid-bite.

“I—no—I just—”

He raises an eyebrow.

You sigh. “Okay. Yes. Like, a lot.”

James nods. “Good. That’s normal.”

“Is it?”

“Sure.” He gestures grandly. “I panic all the time. Yesterday I forgot how to spell ‘February.’”

You snort. “That’s just because you’re stupid.”

“And you’re gorgeous and terrified. We all have our things.”

You blink at him.

He leans in, nudges your knee with his.

“Listen to me,” he says, quieter now. “You don’t have to be perfect. Just get out there. Do your thing. You don’t have to be me.”

You scoff. “Good, because I have more brain cells.”

“Debatable. But we’ll circle back.”

You laugh. It breaks the fog around your ribs a little.

James smiles.

“I’ll be in the stands. Front row. First person you’ll see when you look up.”

“What if I can’t look up?”

“Then I’ll scream so loud you’ll have to look up.”

You shake your head chuckling. “Why are you like this?”

He shrugs. “Born this way. Curse and a gift.”

You hesitate, then quietly: “Thanks. For… being here.”

He meets your eyes.

“Always,” he says simply. “Now go kick Slytherin’s arse.”

You stand, wobble slightly, then straighten your shoulders.

You’re still scared.

But he’s watching.

And somehow, that makes it easier to breathe.

Your vision swims.

The stands are packed — students crammed shoulder to shoulder, flags waving, chants rising like thunder.

“Breathe,” you whisper to yourself. In for four. Hold. Out for four. You repeat it. Again. Again.

“Y/N,” Sirius says behind you, voice low and protective as he tightens his gloves. “If you freeze up midair, you land. Got it? I don’t care if we’re down 200 points. You land.”

“I’ll be fine,” you mutter.

“You’re pale.”

“I’m always pale.”

He glares at you, jaw tight. He doesn’t say I’m worried out loud, but he doesn’t have to. You can see it in the twitch of his eye and the way he keeps glancing between you and the sky like he’s weighing the wind himself.

You offer a weak smile. “Try not to punch a Slytherin in midair again.”

“No promises,” he mutters.

⸻

The whistle shrieks.

You mount your broom and push off. Your stomach lurches.

The world spins around you for a second — air whipping past, people screaming, wind pressing at your ears — but you manage to stay steady.

You start flying slow circles above the match. Not diving, not chasing. Just… existing.

Barely.

The Slytherin Seeker zooms past you with a sneer. “Gryffindor couldn’t afford a real one, huh?”

You want to scream. Or vanish. Or both.

You pull your broom a little higher. Hide.

Then you hear it.

“Y/N! Y/N!“ “YOU CAN DO IT! GO! THAT’S MY GIRL!”

You blink.

The voice is obnoxiously loud — familiar and grinning.

You glance down instinctively and spot him immediately.

James Potter, front row of the Gryffindor stands, somehow out of his sling, hands cupped around his mouth as he screams.

Next to him, Remus is trying to calm him. And Peter who has somehow acquired a red-and-gold megaphone screaming encouragements.

James waves both arms in the air like a man possessed.

“SHE’S GORGEOUS AND SHE’S GOT A SNITCH TO CATCH! MOVE OUT THE WAY, SLYTHERIN!”

You laugh.

Actually laugh.

A short, stunned laugh that escapes you without permission. It rattles your chest and leaves your lungs a little lighter.

You look up.

The wind hits your face. The sun glints off something to your left, fast, bright, fluttering.

The Snitch.

You dive.

Nothing exists but the gold flicker ahead of you and the rush of air behind you.

The Slytherin Seeker spots it too and follows, but you’re faster. Lighter. Sharper.

Your heart pounds. Your eyes sting from the wind.

The cheers around you turn into a dull roar and somewhere in it, you hear him.

“YOU’VE GOT IT, LOVE! GO, GO, GO!”

And suddenly, you’re not scared.

Suddenly, you believe it.

You flew like you were born to do it.

Sharp turns. Clean dives. You didn’t even notice the eyes on you after the second lap — you were too busy focused on the wind in your hair, the sound of the air parting around your broom, the way your muscles remembered how to move.

It was like a song you’d known all along.

You chased the Snitch, heart in your throat, eyes locked, adrenaline buzzing.

Faster. Closer.

And with one final lunge—your fingers curled around it.

The whistle blows and the crowd explodes.

You can’t believe it. You actually did it.

You land shakily back on the ground, your teammates crushed you in a hug, screaming and laughing. People were chanting your name. Marlene gave you a headlock no one asked for. Even McGonagall looked impressed.

Sirius rips his helmet off midair, looking like he might cry and punch someone simultaneously. He swoops down, grabs you in a crushing hug mid-laugh.

“You absolute maniac,” he breathes. “That was insane. That was—Merlin. You did it.”

You can’t stop smiling. You’re breathless and shaking but so happy.

The team is lifting you up. Students are pouring down the stands.

But your eyes are searching for only one thing.

You’re still riding the high — the Snitch clutched in your hand, your chest tight with laughter and disbelief. Gryffindor is screaming. Red and gold confetti is falling from somewhere (you suspect Remus had a charm ready).

And then — from the crowd — comes the voice again “THAT’S MY GIRL! SHE’S A LEGEND! SHE’S—” James Potter.

Charging down from the stands like a golden retriever on fire.

You catch his eyes just as you’re lowering to the ground. He’s pushing through people like a man possessed — beaming, breathless, sprinting.

And—wait.

That’s when you finally realised.

He’s using both arms.

No sling. No careful cradle. Just full arm-swinging enthusiasm, waving at you like he’s landing a plane.

You freeze mid-step.

You glance at his shoulder. Then at your hand — still holding the Snitch. Then back at him.

He doesn’t notice. He’s too busy literally jumping up and down.

“Y/N! Did you SEE that catch? You were like—woosh! and then—bam! You’re a star, I mean—I’m amazing for choosing you, obviously, but you—”

You stare at him.

“James.”

“—and the way you dropped into the dive, Merlin, I was ready to pass out—”

“James.”

He blinks. “What?”

You just… point.

To his arm.

Now very much not broken.

The whole team starts going quiet around you. Sirius raises one eyebrow so high it practically vanishes into his hairline.

You fold your arms. “You’re not even hurt?”

James immediately backpedals. “I—I was! I mean, technically, there was a mild—”

“Mild?!”

“Okay, so I may have exaggerated the severity of the fracture—”

“It wasn’t even fractured, was it?”

“…No.”

The team loses it.

Sirius lets out an actual cackle. Remus just pinches the bridge of his nose like he’s questioning every life choice that led him here. Peter’s laughing so hard he nearly drops his wand.

“You lied,” you say, half-stunned, half-laughing. “You faked an injury.”

James holds up his hands. “I didn’t fake—okay, yes, but I had to! I wanted you to play!”

You gape at him.

“Y/N, you’re so good, and you’d never try out on your own, and I knew if I didn’t give you a reason—”

“You could’ve asked me!”

“I did! That one time in third year!”

“That doesn’t count, you offered me the Beater position as a joke!”

James grins sheepishly. “Okay, yeah, that was mostly for the flirting. But this time I was serious.”

Sirius chimes in, “You’re never serious. I’M Sirius.”

You and James both groan.

“You are—” you jab a finger into his chest, “—an absolute menace.”

“And yet…” he leans in, eyes twinkling, “…you still look good in my jersey.”

You shove him. “You’re the worst.”

He laughs. “Maybe. But you did it, didn’t you?”

You sigh, finally letting a grin creep in.

“…Yeah,” you admit. “I did.”

He beams.

“I knew you could do it,” he said, soft and proud.

And when he wraps both arms around you in a warm, full-bodied hug — with no sling, no excuse, no apology — you let him.

Because somewhere in the crowd, it was him.

Even if he was being a complete idiot.

#james potter x reader #james potter #marauders #marauders era #james potter x you #james potter x fem!reader #fluff #harry potter #hogwarts #quidditch #fanfiction #james potter fanfiction #james potter x y/n #james potter imagine #hp marauders #imagine

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atangledfate · 18 hours ago

Text

Lanolins eyes turned to one side as Surge spoke and she could hear that malice in her voice. She'd already consigned herself to what ever fate that lay ahead. But nobody knew the real surge, nobody knew the story of the girl who lost her life to a madman. People only knew her as the destroyer who wrecked the city, who fought sonic and lost. Some saw her on that track and got to see the real Surge under all that anger and bark. Lanolin believed under all of that was a good person clawing there way out of the hell they were forced into. She just wanted Surge to have her say in all of this... what ever small say it might be.

" It's true... many see you for the monster that tore through the city, or the enemy that tried to kill Sonic. Or the failure who couldn't do the deed... "

She said in a soft somber tone

" But nobody knows you... not really. Nobody knows the real story... the truth behind thunder in the sky. I've known you a short time ... and i barely know you... "

She motioned to the civilian with her hand and gazed into Surges eyes less like the soldier and more like a friend. Someone trying to beat past all that rage and help her... maybe it was the first time Lanolin dropped the tough girl act and was just that scared sheep who crawled into restoration that day.

" This is your chance Surge... To tell the world who you are... where you came from... to be remembered ... and not have your story tainted by GUN or anyone else... to tell the world... Who you REALLY are... people are starting to wonder about that. The mysterious green rider... she who fought off the phantom rider... they cheered for you despite EVERYTHING... but they don't know you... "

" This might be your last chance to tell them... so how do you want them to remember you? as the Villain ... or the Hero... he's your chance to convey that... what ever message you might have for the world... he'll be your voice...i dunno i guess... i guess i just feel like you deserve that..."

===============================================

Sonic rubbed the back of his neck as Kit was pretty adamant he would run beside him. Well he supposed if he was able to keep pace with Surge it would be fine right? He nodded his head and turned to make his way across the busted up city and toward the little town that Surge marked for him. He wasn't sure why that little podunk town exactly but he wasn't gonna argue he had made a promise and he'd keep it.

Yet Kit's words made him turn his head as he slowed down just enough so they were side by side. His eyes glancing over at Kit before facing forward. He still blamed himself for not checking that hole, maybe things would have been different if he had.

" That's fine... Trust is earned after all and i let you down. Worse i tried to hide it from you when i found out she was alive... you got every right to be angry with me... maybe in time you'll forgive me... maybe not... but i can still hope that things change for the better...."

================================================

Miles crossed his arms looking very lost in thought, as Blaze gave her stance on the situation. He didn't disagree either, recreating Starlines project wasn't simple. Especially since he had the original notes and they were locked up in his max security vault hidden away in a secret location. No one was getting in there without a small army and that implied they ever knew where to find it.

Still, if they had Surge? It was possible they could figure out all the parts and put it all back together again. It worried him and it was etched on his face how worried he was. Ever since Phantom War he'd been trying to devise ways to counter every possible bad scenario...

He wasn't sure he had an answer to an army of Surges...

" all we can do now is wait... and see what GUNs next move is... we also can't ignore Eggman... he's been to quiet lately to... its gonna be hard to watch GUN and him at the same time... guess we have our work cut out for us..."

" Heh yea... guess Belle's right... we are better looking into this when we are more secure. Speaking of i'll see if i can arrange for Belle bot to be moved to my lab's server room until we can save the data properly and move it back onto Restoration servers. It'll be more secure there then here anyway... "

" Well... at least we have a plan...I guess that leaves miss Blaze and i to handle this goon from GUN and his paper work. Ah Bureaucracy! at least i feel somewhat well equipped to deal with that! they should be arriving anytime--- Guess we should prepare for that. Why don't you and Miss Belle get Belle Bot ready for transfer while we handle the paperwork! "

The sheep seemed to glance to one side as if everything Surge said she mostly agreed with. Or maybe had already been discussed in private. It was very clear what GUN was up to and yet there was almost nothing they could do to stop this. Gun was powerful politically and, though they had come to a tenuous agreement she had a feeling it wouldn't last. How long before they targeted Kit? or maybe they didn't think he was a big enough threat to even bother with?

" That's already been talked about to some degree. But short of an all out war between GUN and Restoration... i'm not sure we could find a peaceful way to stop them. The best solution was handing you over... and none of us like that much either. The best we could do was protect Belle and Kitsunami... "

She clenched her fists and her body language spoke of just how much she hated this. no matter what Surge felt, she very much had grown to feel as if Surge were part of the team. More then that... she was just starting to break that ice and maybe become friends and now this.

" Which is why i think we need to have eyes on both of them... i know Belle is already thinking of running off. I think its best if both of them lay low for awhile till we figure this all out...its just... this still feels like we are losing this battle..."

She fidgeted but snapped her trap shut once she saw the reporter. How did he even get up here and she hoped he didn't hear anything she said. She sighed crossing her arms as he rambled on to probably the worst person on base. Yea if she were Surge she'd jack slap him to! She pinched the bridge of her nose as any good PR was going to help them in the long run.

" Well... he is a Reporter Surge, if you ever wanted to speak your peace to the world... now is the time. But try to keep it PG... and remember anything you say can and WILL be used against you... so choose your words very carefully..."

===============================================

Sonic placed his hands behind his head and watched the Fennec join them though, he seemed ready to split. He sure was pissed wasn't he? Not that he blamed him, truthfully Sonic was on his last nerve with GUN to. Still looked like the kid harbored alot of animosity toward him maybe just left over bits of Starlines fuckery or maybe he was just bitter about this whole situation.

Sonic checked his phone and flicked his thumber across the screen to the map location Surge had given him. He sighed a bit as he hated the idea of leaving Surge right now--- but she was right he made a promise it was time to keep it.

" Yep, she gave me a location and made me promise to take you there--- and i'm a hog of my word! just think of me as a taxi... i'll drop you off and the rest is on you bud... Alright Surge Kitsunami and i are gonzo... stay safe... ok? "

He held a hand out for Kitsunami to take so they could take off. He didn't think it was a good idea to grab the kid without his say so or he could lose an arm! or get bit! either way once Kit grabbed on he disappeared in a flash of motion and crack like thunder! He didn't think it would take him long to reach that location... then he needed to link up with tails and plan there next move.

===============================================

Miles had been sitting and mulling over the situation as it had so man angles to consider. But his eyes shifted to Blaze as she spoke and he seemed to sink further into his thoughts. He couldn't disagree more with her on many fronts. Sonic and His DNA especially was easy enough to come by due to all there extended battles within the city and beyond. Every injury they took and every drop of blood could easily have been collected by GUN over the years--- but far more importantly... they didn't need it as they had something far more potent to use.

" I know i say i'm the smartest mobian alive ... but let's be real here. Before Starline came along none of us would have imagined anyone on his intellectual level. Eggman might have expanded his horizons... but he was already a genius of exceptional levels before that. To imagine that GUN doesn't have someone of that level working for them is foolish--- why go and do any of this if you didn't have the ability to finish your goal. They might be brash but GUN has never been fools..."

He stated in a very calm manner as he swished his tails behind him in a very agitated way. He was clearly upset with this situation and wished like Sonic to pummel gun to dust! But unlike Sonic he understood how awful that would look... they were the good guys after all they had to follow the rules.

" As for Sonic's DNA or mine or any of those who fight Eggman on the regular. We all take our lumps... a drop of blood, a chunk of fur, a lost quill... its very common for that to happen to us. If Thawn is as devious as he appears... he might have enough stored DNA to last him a life time--- but he doesn't even need that. Do you know what he has butt loads of? Black Arms DNA... they gathered up all those bodies all those years ago and even before that they had shadow trapped for YEARS and took who knows how many samples... "

" If GUN's aim is to create some super solider... they have the resources ...question isn't if they can but when... and what there ultimate intent is... i won't sugar coat it Blaze, it's not great... and things could turn very quickly in GUNS favor. Only thing we have going for us is that i had the foresight to lock all of starlines notes in my personal vaults... so even if they wanted to, they would be starting from scratch. so we... have time... if nothing else "

Jewel buzzed her wings landing next to Belle and opted to focus on things she was more willing and able to handle. Fighting GUN felt like a battle for sonic and tails not restoration. Choose your battles Jewel! choose your battles!

" Yes... they helped us on several join ventures. I put all of them in a single file to keep things organized. But also because i never trusted the man... so at the very least we should be able to scour the files and see what he was actually up to. I'm more worried they will try to pin this all on restoration... or worse Eggman will use all of this distraction to strike while we are divided..."

She sighed softly as she stared at Belle

" But one battle at a time Belle... we can start scouring that data and assess the damage he did. I still feel foolish for not realizing what he was up to... in a way... this is all my fault..."

#Heroes of Mobius #Sonic and Tails #The Imposters #Surge and Kitsunami #Director of Restoration #Jewel #Restoration Commander #Lanolin #Gears and Starters #Belle

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lixies-favorite-cookie · 3 days ago

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congrats on 1k love, so deserved !! can i request han w the prompts 🧷, 🌕, 💋, 🌸, and 🧋 for the time capsule event pls ?? :3 tysmmm <33

📚 — paring・hannie x reader // genres・fluff, cookies time capsule event!! // words・1.6k // the event・wanna open your relationship time capsule? click here to request!

a/n・tee hee thank you sooo much, so crazy coming from you figuring i'm down bad for your nerd!ji series (was this lowkey based off that? yes. am i ashamed? absolutely not.) hanji being a hot nerd is so coded. to anyone reading this go check out her page her stuff is awesome!! (sorry this is kinda shit, i'm going through it right now lolol p.s there is an ungodly amount of ramen mentions in this)

🧷 — the first time you met ➵ ꒰ 0 days into your relationship ꒱

jisung is a certified loser, so naturally, he was head over heels in love with you before you two ever actually had a conversation. the first time you formally met—not him daydreaming about you in chemistry or stalking your social media—he had already been caught staring at you at least 20 times within the last hour. you've never seen a man pale and then blush so fast in your life; it was almost impressive. "do i have something on my face?" you muse, leaning forward on his desk. he's rehearsed his first real conversation with you for literal years, but alas, the moment you actually look at him, all those cool-calm-collected skills he religiously googled go poof in his brain. "w-what? n-no?? you d-don't have anything on y-your face?" his ears are so red that he can feel them, which means you can see them, and that only makes him more embarrassed. yeah, that is not a fun combo. you send him an amused smirk, running your finger along his desk. "you sure? you seem to really like my face." oh. my. god. he wants the earth to crack open and swallow him whole, shifting in his seat and clearing his throat as if this wasn't one of the most embarrassing moments in his life. "no! i-i haven't been, um..." you give him an unconvinced look. he sighs, sinking deeper into his seat, face practically on fire. "sorry..." at first, this was all a silly joke. but the way he seems so embarrassed before you, fiddling with his fingers underneath the desk and bouncing his leg as if he's going to run away, makes you think this isn't actually a joke to him. you smile, soft and disarming in its sweetness. "don't sweat it, just maybe... next time watch where you're looking." half of him expected you to laugh at him for having this silly crush, but the way you acted, how kind you were, made the delulu part of him flare up like no other. he couldn't stop thinking about you for the rest of the week, but he knew deep down, there was no possible way he could talk to you again. god had different plans because—of course this would happen to him—a week later, you get assigned to him for peer tutoring. yeah, he was so done.

💋 — the first kiss. ➵ ꒰ 1 month into your friendship ꒱

you were 'just friends' when you first kissed han jisung. he had just made a large bowl of spicy ramen, as one does, while you were finishing up some problem questions he wrote for you. you were almost finished with them when you looked over, a large splotch of sauce slathered over his bottom lip. you let out a little chuckle, motioning to his lips. "you've got something right there." he perks up, ears turning bright red. "r-right here?" he scrambles to wipe it off, but fails miserably. "no," you laugh, pointing back to where it is. "it's right there." perhaps it was because he was so flustered, but no matter how many times you showed him where it is, he just couldn't find it. he huffed in frustration, cheeks all cute and red. "i'm gonna go check the mirror." "don't worry about it," you say, pulling him back down by the sleeve, crawling to him and pressing your lips together. time stills, and when your tongue pokes out to lap against his bottom lip, he's truly convinced this was some sick, wet dream. when you finally pull away, jisung almost melts into a puddle on the floor. he should say something smooth, win you over with his totally-not-just-in-his-head flirtatious skills, but no. in classic jisung fashion, he stammers out—"d-did you, um, did you get it?" you can't help the laughter that spills from your now red and puffy lips. he can't stop thinking: shut up! shut up! shut up! you're making a total fool of yourself! "yes, jisung, i got it." "o-oh yeah, t-that's really good, w-we wouldn't want..." yeah, he doesn't say anything after that. don't worry, you didn't leave the poor boy to wallow in humiliation for long. the classic "what are we?" conversation happens the next day.

🌕 — the first night. ➵ ꒰ 1 month into your friendship ꒱

the first time you spent the night at his apartment, it was a mix of food, anime, and laughter. han has been plotting this night ever since you brought it up. he literally made an entire note on his notes app labeled super-awesome-first-night-with-my-gf. the first bullet on the list—woo my girlfriend into thinking i'm actually really cool and not just a simp. the second bullet—make tons and tons of ramen. only one of those bullets got checked off that night. anyways, the ramen was pretty smack. all jokes aside (guys tell me im so funny), you had a blast. you both huddled under the covers and didn't stop laughing until you were doubled over, stomachs cramping. he shared his favorite anime show and his super-secret-spicy-ramen recipe, which he swore up and down wasn't just ramen and cheese (it totally was). and maybe, secretly, he did woo you—just a little bit.

🌸 — the first time he got jealous. ➵ ꒰ 4 days into your relationship ꒱

it's pathetic really, how quickly han can get jealous. you weren't doing anything to evoke jealousy, you were just... talking. that's what bothered him so much — you were talking — to a tall, hot, white guy that looked nothing like him. he doesn't wanna admit it, but bagging the most beautiful girl in school came with a rap sheet of insecurities. you had only been dating for four days, but he was already worried about you also seeing how far out of his league you are. i mean, come on, you two weren't even in the same sport. (he just needs to be kissed bc what is this gorgeous baby talking about??). he'd be so pouty when you come back and sit down beside him. jisung isn't the "imma fight this hoe" kinda guy. he is the "imma cry in the corner and imagine fighting this hoe" kind guy, so when you see him avoiding your eye and pawing at his thighs, you know almost immediately. "hey ji, you good?" he scoffs, looking at you like you were crazy. "me? good? pshh, i'm so good. i'm cool, man. i'm so cool. cool like... ice..." you both cringe at that. it's silly, he knows that, and it isn't like he thought you were cheating or something — he was just... insecure. and you, being literally perfect in every way, noticed, cupping his cheeks and gingerly pointing his face toward you. "baby, talk to me, what's wrong?" he doesn't look at you when he mutters, shy and embarrassed, "who was that guy... you were talking to?" you really, really liked jisung, so you don't let out the laugh that threatened to leave your lips as you say, "who? my cousin?" han jisung has never been more horrified in his life. "your cousin?!" "yes, my love. he's my cousin." he takes another look at the fine-ass specimen of a man, then back to you. yeah, it checks out. though, meeting said cousin after that was really weird, but that's a different story for a different time.

🧋 — the first time he realized he wanted to marry you ➵ ꒰ 2 years into your relationship ꒱

han jisung realized he was going to marry you when you were looking like a total mess. work had made him feel like the entire world was sitting on his shoulders, back aching and heavy as he slipped off his shoes, stepping into the kitchen to find you—bent over the stove, stirring a heaping bowl of ramen. it was 3 in the morning, and he had taken extra shifts to help pay for bills, and quite frankly, he doesn't remember the last time he ate. you were in your hello kitty pjs, hair tangled and rustled from the power nap you took before making his meal, and the sight alone is enough to make tears spring into his eyes. "baby," he whimpers, strolling up behind you to wrap his arms tightly around your waist. you jump, but when you catch a whiff of his scent, your body relaxes into his touch, so familiar it feels like coming back home. you smile, giving the noodles one final stir before pouring them into a bowl and handing them to him, garnering it as if you were a 5-star michele."i hope you like it!" he was so tired, so tired he could collapse onto the kitchen table and never wake up again, but with you, around you—it didn't matter—he was going to eat your food gosh darn it. he took a bite and suddenly, he wasn't tired anymore, he was starved. your eyes sparkle like he just handed you the moon when his wobbly lips turn into a firm, convincing grin. "this is so good, baby. thank you." you give him this look, like you were staring straight into time, like you were imagining a life with him, and you liked it. that was where it started. it was the strangest phenomenon—it bloomed inside his chest, this feeling, and then, with disorienting intensity, it all—clicks. that's when he realized he was going to marry you, sitting there on kitchen stools, sipping on the best ramen he's ever tasted in his life.

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whiskey-tango-matcha · 3 days ago

Text

The Way You Care for Me (M, illness)

I'm shifting out of my comfort zone, aka writing the guys outside of the restaurant!!! A huge thank you and props to @ghostlychill who came up with this amazing prompt, on which this fic is based, and also gave me additional scene ideas. they're the real MVP of this fic.

In this, Greyson and Elijah are both sick and Elijah helps Greyson get to the doctor. It takes place before Greyson gets with Reed, but after Matt and Mark are together, just to place y'all in the timeline correctly. It's REAL whumpy for me, to the point where it's much more of a traditional sickfic or hurt/comfort fic than a snzfic. But I'll be honest, it's maybe my favorite fic I've written. I think I might try writing more outside the restaurant soon.

I'd love to hear any feedback, good, bad, or otherwise :) and if you have anything you'd like to see from these guys, as always feel free to send it. My inbox is always open.

CW: Male illness/snz, coughing, high fevers, contagion, passing out. 5.5K words under the cut

The Way You Care for Me

“Well, that escalated quickly.”

From across the prep table, Greyson shot his boss a dirty look before pulling a handful of tissues out of the box beside him. “I don’t wandt to talk about iiih – hhIGTZCH-ue!” He pitched forward into his hands, a soft groan escaping his throat. “’Least we’re closed the ndext two,” he muttered, tossing the tissues. Elijah pressed his lips together.

“Yeah, lucky you, sick as a dog for the only two days off in a row you’ve had since high school,” he said, prompting a stuffy laugh from the chef. “I thought you said it just felt like a cold yesterday?”

Greyson shrugged. “It did,” he said, shivering despite the kitchen heat and the sweatshirt – was that Elijah’s sweatshirt? – he had on over his chef’s coat. “I’mb sure it’s ndothing, Lij, just mby stupid body rebelling at the thought of time off.” He held his hands up as if to say, What can you do? “I’ll mbake it,” he finished, coughing.

“You’re sure you’ll be okay tonight?” Elijah asked, tapping his fingers nervously on the butcher block on the prep station. “I mean, there’s no Matt.”

No Matt or Mark, Elijah thought to himself, grim and foreboding. The two junior managers were celebrating their one-year anniversary this week, and as a surprise for the two of them, Greyson and Elijah had agreed to work double time for two days and close the restaurant for the other two to give Matt and Mark a full four-day-weekend together. Of course, as soon as Matt and Mark had waved their bosses goodbye from Elijah’s car – letting them borrow it to drive to the Jersey shore was the other half of the younger men’s gift – Greyson started coming down with whatever this shit was. Yesterday had been annoying, but fine; Greyson sneezed his way through his prep, hoarsely expoed throughout service, and promised he’d be fine for the next night. Now, though?

A sudden “HNGTSCHH-ue!” escaped Greyson’s lips before he could answer, a sneeze so harsh it made Elijah take two steps back.

“Dude,” he said, wincing while Greyson grabbed more tissues to clean himself up. As he watched Greyson blow his nose, he couldn’t help but press two fingers to the base of his own throat. The tiny pang he’d felt when he woke up this morning had not gone away with water, as he’d hoped, but had blossomed into a full sore throat. It burned brighter the longer Elijah watched Greyson cough, as though upon seeing how ill the chef was, his body had been given permission to start its own downward spiral. Finally, Greyson tossed the tissues, cleared his throat as well as he could.

“I’ll be finde,” Greyson growled. “Let’s just get through this fuckigg ndi- HRRTSHH-uhh!”

***

There was absolutely no way in hell Greyson was going to make it back to Brooklyn tonight.

The shift had gone about as well as Elijah expected; Greyson lost his voice halfway through the night, couldn’t stop sneezing long enough to garnish the plates, and eventually had to retire to the office to put his head between his knees to quell the dizzy spell he’d coughed himself into. Eventually, Elijah put Riley, his head server, in charge of watching the floor and went to the kitchen to expo while Greyson snored on the floor of the office.

Meanwhile, Elijah spent the evening well-and-truly coming down with Greyson’s disgusting illness. His head ached, his throat felt sticky and painful, and possibly most annoying, his breath kept hitching around a sneeze that – “Hh-! Hhh… hnnghh” – never quite came.

It had been, to put it mildly, a true fucking nightmare.

Now, at nearly one in the morning, Greyson was burning up with fever and high on cough medicine, glassy-eyed and chatty, spinning the office chair round and round like a kid. Beside him, Elijah was rapidly deteriorating.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Lij, of course I’mb goigg hombe,” Greyson rasped, rubbing his nose with the back of his hand. “I’mb fine, it’s a cold, it’s ndot a big deal.”

“Greyson,” Elijah said, rubbing an eye with the heel of his hand, “you are not fine. Did you somehow forget the last seven hours?” He grabbed Greyson’s chair then, stopping it in its tracks. “And stop fucking spinning you’re going to pahh – hh… pass… huh… passoutNGTSZH-oo! Huh-! HGTZCH-ue! Fuck, finally,” Elijah sighed into the sleeve of his shirt. From over his glasses, Elijah could see Greyson fold his arms.

“Bless you,” he said, accusatory. “You feeling okay?” Elijah rolled his eyes, painfully.

“Yes, Mama Greyson,” he said, sucking in through his nose and sitting up. “How do you plan on getting home, anyway? Isn’t an uber out there like a million dollars on a Saturday night?”

Greyson raised a confused eyebrow. “I’mb… what am I, Warren Buffett? Ndo I’mb ndot ubering, Elijah, I’mb taking the train.” Again, despite the worrying amount of cough syrup he’d ingested, Greyson dissolved into a painful-sounding coughing fit. Elijah bit his cheek to keep from snapping.

“Grey,” he said, massaging his throat. “You’re not taking the train an hour home when you have a fucking fever. Just – fuck – GTSCHH-uhh! NGTSZCH-ue! Snrf.” Elijah snatched a tissue from the box Greyson thunked next to him, wiping his nose before finishing. “Just stay with mbe,” he said, congestion finally seeping into his voice. At this, Greyson visibly perked up.

“Stay… you mbean stay at your apartment?” he asked. “Like sleep at your apartment?”

The look on Elijah’s face betrayed his every feeling. “I – yes, you fucking freak, like sleep at my apartment, why are you being weird?”

“You ndever let anyone stay over at your apartment,” Greyson said, pushing out of his chair and putting his winter coat over what was definitely Elijah’s sweatshirt. “Like, it’s a whole thigg Matt and Mark and I joke about, that ndo one is allowed at your place past seven p.m because you have sombe sort of weird bedtime ritual ndo one can see. Mby theory was you’re one of those people who sleeps in those who-goes-there-ass old-timey pajamas. The ones with a hat.”

Elijah blinked. “People stay at my apartment,” he said. Throwing the GM’s coat into his lap, Greyson scoffed.

“Yeah?” Greyson asked as Elijah slowly pushed up from his chair. “Whend?”

“I mean, it’s been awhile,” Elijah mused. Now that he thought about it – when was the last time he had someone stay at his place? Greyson had never asked or needed to stay with him; if he was gallivanting through the city after work, he was staying with whoever took him to bed. Mark lived practically next door to the restaurant, so he and Matt had never asked to stay even if all of them were out drinking. And the last time he’d had a date come to the house… well, if he was being honest, he couldn’t remember ever having a date stay the night at his apartment.

“That’s what I thought,” Greyson said, grabbing onto the back of Elijah’s chair to keep from falling over. “Oh – jesus, shit, hold on.” The chef closed his eyes, took as deep of a breath as his spasming lungs could handle. Slowly, he let the breath out, unfurled his fingers from the chair, and opened one eye. “Okay,” Greyson said, “mbaybe the train would be out of the question.”

Elijah bleated out a laugh. “You think?” he said, clapping Greyson on the shoulder. “C’mon, patient zero. Let’s get you to bed.”

***

As the winter night sky parted and made way for the blue-black light of morning, Elijah let out a breath he felt like he’d been holding for hours. Okay, he said to himself, time to get him to fucking urgent care.

Despite his goofing-off, his quipping, his inability to be serious for five fucking seconds, the moment Greyson’s body collapsed into Elijah’s bed, he crashed harder than Elijah had ever seen anyone crash. The shivers he’d had at the restaurant turned to shaking that rattled the headboard against the wall so loudly, Elijah assumed his neighbors would come and bang on the door. His teeth chattered in his head hard enough to crack the enamel, and his eyes, in the brief moments they were open, were bloodshot to hell. Greyson’s fever – however high it was, Elijah could only guess since he wasn’t exactly the type of guy who kept a thermometer lying around – just would not budge.

Elijah tried everything he knew to help get his friend’s fever down. At first, he tried to get Greyson to feel comfortable, to feel warm – piling blankets on top of him, forcing wool socks and a coat on him in bed, the whole nine. When that didn’t seem to do anything except make his skin burn hotter, Elijah tried moving on to old reliable: medicine.

The issue here was Greyson was barely conscious, and even getting water into him was proving difficult. “Greyson,” Elijah whispered after an hour of trying and failing to get the other man to swallow some ibuprofen. “Please, man, just take it, I promise you’ll feel better.”

Greyson’s eyes flitted open for a few moments, and Elijah pressed the pills into his hand. “Please,” he repeated. The chef attempted a nod, put the pills in his mouth, and immediately coughed them onto the bed; he shook his head, grabbing at his throat as the coughing continued. Unfortunately, Elijah related deeply to what his friend was implying: his throat was too swollen to swallow pills. Elijah swallowed around the knives in his own throat. Nodded.

“Okay,” he said, handing Greyson a cup filled with water instead. “Okay, fair enough.” God, why didn’t he keep any fucking Nyquil on hand?

After that episode, Elijah came to his senses and pulled out his phone to google how to get a fever down. One of the websites – one that looked to be for mothers of small children, but whatever, he’d try anything at this point – mentioned a lukewarm or cool bath, which didn’t sound like a terrible idea, but ultimately Greyson was seemingly unable to move and with the five inches and thirty pounds he had on Elijah, no shot was he getting carried to the bath.

Ultimately, Elijah ended up pressing a cool washcloth to Greyson’s forehead from three a.m. onward, the night spreading endlessly around him. The sleepless, worrying hours of trying to care for Greyson were only made worse by the fact that Elijah felt like absolute fucking dog shit; his lungs constricted with angry, bubbling coughs every few moments, and breathing out his nose was, as of about five in the morning, an absolute no-go. Worse still, as Greyson sweat through his sheets, Elijah could feel the stifling heat of his own fever spreading itself behind his eyes. Whatever it was that Greyson had managed to pick up, it certainly didn’t fuck around.

At seven a.m., when the alarm Elijah had set on his phone notified him that the closest urgent care would be open in thirty minutes, Greyson, who’d finally settled into a true sleep about an hour before, gasped himself awake.

“’S timbe for work?” he slurred, attempting to sit up. Elijah coughed out a hoarse laugh.

“Ndot exactly, bud,” he said, clearing his throat. “C’mond, let mbe help you uhh – uh… up-NGTSZCHH-ue!” Elijah wrenched to the side to avoid sneezing directly in Greyson’s face as he pulled the chef to a sitting position. Greyson pressed his eyebrows together, reached out to place a hand on Elijah’s forehead.

“You have a fever,” he mused, as Elijah pulled a few tissues from the near-depleted box on the end table. “I thought you said you weren’t sick?”

“I lied,” Elijah said plainly, shoving the tissues into the pocket of his hoodie. “Let’s go, up and at ’em, we’re getting you to urgent care.”

“Wh -? Urgent care, what do you mbean? I’mb fine.” Greyson said as Elijah slowly helped him to his feet. Elijah laughed again, this time doubling over into his elbow to cough.

“Please don’t mbake mbe laugh,” Elijah said, helping Greyson into one of the winter coats he had hanging in his closet – Greyson’s coat had been sweat through multiple times over, and Elijah wasn’t about to brave the doctor’s office with the smell of fever sweat coating the two of them. It seemed, frankly, a little too on the nose.

“Ndot trying to be funny,” Greyson mumbled as he shakily put on the coat. “’S just a cold, Lij.” As he said it, Elijah could see his eyes starting to roll back in his head, felt his fever-warm body go limp – fuck.

“Grey!” Elijah yelled, jerking the chef back to a standing position. Greyson came back to quickly, collapsing into a barking fit of coughing that wouldn’t subside until Elijah sat him back on the bed. This is going to be harder than I thought. “Are you okay?” Elijah asked, Greyson’s arm still gripped in his hand. Shakily, Greyson nodded; clearly the near-fall was enough to scare him.

“Fuck,” Greyson moaned, pulling a hand down his face. “I haven’t felt this shitty in…. I don’t even kndow how long. Hh-! HRRSHHT! Fuckigg ow.” Greyson pressed the heel of his hand into his eye, his headache palpable even to Elijah. The GM sighed, rubbed his friend’s back.

“That’s why we’re goigg to urgent care,” he said. “This is clearly beyond mby scope of ability. I almbost took you to the ER last ndight.”

Greyson looked at Elijah as if he were completely deranged. “I appreciate you ndot bankrupting mbe over a fuckigg fever,” he said, some levity breathed back into the room. Elijah croaked out a chuckle. “But… I mbean yeah, okay, I guess it couldn’t hurt to go.”

At this, Elijah pat Greyson once on the back. “Good mban,” he said, once again helping the chef to his feet. Greyson squeezed his eyes shut as he stood, an attempt to not lose consciousness again.

“Ndot sure I’mb gonna mbake it down the elevator, you mbay have to carry mbe to the car,” he joked, an attempt to keep Elijah calm. At the word car, Elijah’s heart sunk.

“Oh, fuck,” he said, pressing a palm to his face. “The boys have the fuckigg car.” Greyson pressed his lips together, remembering. Matt and Mark were hundreds of miles away at the Jersey shore. With Elijah’s only mode of transportation. With Greyson sick as a fucking dog, and Elijah well on his way to being down just a bad. The fucking boys have the fucking car.

“Where’s the clinic,” Greyson said, his voice thin. Elijah looked down at his phone.

“Three miles away,” he said. “It’s… oh, fuck mbe I forgot about the fuckigg mbarathon this weekend.” He pressed a few buttons on his phone, shaking his head in disbelief. “Ubers are like a hundred and fifty bucks,” he murmured. Greyson groaned.

“Don’t tell mbe we have to take the fuckigg subway,” he said, eyes still closed. Elijah bit his cheek; their options were more than limited. Without a car, and with the possibility of an uber even picking the two of them up looking the way they did near-zero, their choices were basically train… or walk. A glance in Greyson’s direction proved that walking was simply not an option.

“Let’s try to get sombe ibuprofen in you,” he said, guiding Greyson towards the kitchen. “It’s gonnda be a long train ride.”

***

The fact that they made it to this god-forsaken clinic was nothing short of a complete fucking miracle.

Getting to the train was bad enough; after pumping Greyson with enough ibuprofen to kill an elephant, topped off with four shots of espresso to keep him awake enough to get to the subway, the two of them set out on their jaunt. Still, it took nearly thirty minutes for the two of them to walk three blocks to the subway station.

“Greyson,” Elijah said for what felt like the thousandth time, “we gotta pick up the pace, kid, you’re killigg mbe here.”

“I – HGTSCHHH-uhh! Snrk. I’mb goigg as fast as I possibly cand,” Greyson mumbled, wiping his running nose on the coat Elijah had lent him. If this nursing-home shuffle was as fast as he could go, Elijah mused, they’d be lucky to get there next fucking year. Pursing his lips, Elijah looped his arm through Greyson’s and started dragging. “Stop pulling,” Greyson said, placing a hand on his own forehead. “’M gonnda pass out if we go any faster.”

“Then pass out,” Elijah said, continuing to pull. “It’d take the same ambount of timbe for me to drag your lifeless corpse through the street. We ndeed to get theehh – holdon-NGTZCHH-ue! Hh-! Hhh…” Elijah held an elbow up to his face, trying to use the very few exposed rays of sunlight to coax out the second sneeze. It was in vain; Elijah let out a shaky breath, annoyed.

Beside him, Greyson regarded Elijah with bloodshot, half-lidded eyes. “Bless you,” he said, sniffling. Elijah returned his watery gaze with a venomous scowl.

“I should, like, sue you for givigg mbe this,” he said, arm still locked in his friend’s. “This is a fucked-up illndess to give to someone.”

Elijah couldn’t tell if Greyson was nodding, or if he momentarily lost consciousness, causing his head to bob. Either way, when he lifted his gaze to look Elijah in the eyes again, he was finally smiling. “Yeah,” he said, coughing away from his friend. “Yeah, I mbean, when you’re right, you’re right.”

By the time they reached the train, Elijah was completely spent. Greyson had been so dizzy for the last half of the walk that he’d pulled the hood of his coat over his eyes and pressed his face into Elijah’s shoulder while they trudged forward, adding what felt like a billion pounds to Elijah’s already-weighed-down-by-fever body. They had made it, though, down the stairs and into the train and – blessedly – into two seats that faced the outside. Finally, when the tinny voice canned in from above asked them to stand clear of the closing doors, please, Elijah dropped his head between his legs and let out a brutal fit of coughs.

“Y’okay?” Greyson asked from behind the hood with both hands shielding his eyes like a visor. When he finally caught his breath, Elijah slowly turned slowly towards the chef and gave an exhausted nod.

“Great,” he rasped. “Ndever better.”

Urgent care was five stops away – five of the longest fucking stops Elijah had ever endured. Each time the train jerked forward or ground to a halt, Greyson made a tiny, terrible whimper in discomfort, a noise that broke Elijah’s heart each time it escaped his lips. “You’re okay, kid,” Elijah muttered, rubbing his friend’s arm while he silently cursed himself for not just paying the two hundred dollars for a stupid uber. “Almbost there.”

After what felt like an eon, the train finally pulled into their station, and Elijah summoned all the strength he had left to hoist Greyson to his feet and pull him out the door. By the grace of whatever-the-fuck entity was watching this scene unfold, the clinic was the first thing he saw when they made their way up the stairs. Small mercies, he thought, dragging Greyson across the street and in through the double doors. Small fucking mercies.

***

“I take it you’re Mr. Abbott?”

As the nurse practitioner breezed through the door she smiled at Elijah, who was sitting in the chair immediately to her right. The GM swung his head around to look her in the eye – fuck, she was pretty. Figures, he thought, wiping under his nose.

“Uh, ndo, I’mb Mr. Morrison – uh, I’m Elijah. That’s the patient,” Elijah said, pointing at Greyson swinging his feet loopily on the exam table. The NP hummed, taking her seat on the stool next to the computer.

“My apologies,” she said, adjusting her mask so it was more secure over her nose and mouth – can’t blame her there, Elijah thought. “Mr. Abbott, I’m Emily. I’ll be helping you out today.”

“Ohh, you cand call mbe Greyson, Doctor Embily,” Greyson said, smiling sloppily. From his chair, Elijah’s face burned red – only Greyson would be able to flirt with a hundred-and-three-degree fever. The NP smiled.

“Just Emily is fine,” she said, her voice kind and cheerful. “Can you tell me a little bit about what’s going on with you?”

Greyson, still with a half-drunk smile pasted on his face, just shrugged. “I’mb good,” he said, before turning suddenly to cough into the collar of his jacket, long enough for Emily to wince and bring him a cup of water from the machine right outside the door of the exam room they were in. “Thangks,” Greyson rasped, sipping the water with his eyes closed. “D’you mbind if I, uh, lay down for a mbinute?”

The NP nodded, then stood in time with Elijah to help him lay Greyson on the crumpled paper. While Greyson fought back the dizziness, Emily the NP turned towards Elijah. “Maybe you could help us with the details?” she asked, smiling.

Elijah nodded, cleared his throat. Fought back a shiver – why the fuck do they keep these offices so fucking cold? “Yeah,” he said, sitting back in his chair. “Sure thiihh – hh..scusembe-NGTXCH-uhh!” Elijah attempted to stifle the sneeze into the sleeve of his sweatshirt, to no avail. Before he could even look around for one, Emily placed a tissue box on the chair next to Elijah, giving him a sympathetic look.

“Bless,” she said, simply. Elijah nodded, taking a tissue and wiping his nose to keep from seeming any grosser that he already was.

“Thangks, sorry,” he said, swallowing painfully. “Uh, yeah, I mbean he’s had a fever since… Friday, I thingk? Thursday ndight, mbaybe? And a cough, which has definitely gotten, uh, worse…” Again, Elijah held up a finger as though to say give me a minute, before turning away in hopes of a sneeze. This time, he wasn’t so lucky – it evaded him, and left in its place a crunchy, painful cough. On the exam bed, Greyson coughed in time with his boss. The NP raised her eyebrows.

“And… is there a reason you aren’t up on that exam table with him?” she asked, her voice light. Greyson croaked out a laugh, not opening his eyes. Ignoring the chef, Elijah attempted a smile.

“I’mb okay,” he promised, clearing his throat. “Anyway, last ndight the fever just got really intense, he was shakigg and couldn’t get mbedicine down and uh… yeah.” Elijah blinked, trying to clear his head. “Is that… does that help?”

Emily nodded, standing. “It does,” she said. “Let’s take a look and see what we can do.” She approached Greyson then, placing a hand on the bed. “Mr. Abbott? Is it okay if your husband and I help you up?”

At this, Greyson’s eyes flew open. “Mby what?” he asked, coughing out another laugh. A look of panic passed over Emily’s eyes, and she looked back at Elijah as if for confirmation. Elijah just rubbed his face with one hand, a modicum of embarrassment on his face.

“We’re, uh… he’s ndot mby husband,” he said, standing to help the NP lift Greyson to a seated position. “We’re busindess partners. Friends, y’kndow, and… business partners.”

“I keep askigg and askigg, and he keeps sayigg ‘ndo’,” Greyson said, a hand kept over one eye to keep from falling down or passing out as he sat up. He smiled at Emily, a charmer to the end, even when he was half-dead. “You’d thingk I’d kndow how to deal with the heartbreak by ndow, but it just ndever gets easier,” he said, turning once again to cough away from the other two. Emily flashed Elijah a confused look.

“He’s kidding,” Elijah promised, sniffling. “I’d say it’s the fever, but really this is just… how he is.”

Emily nodded slowly. “My apologies, I shouldn’t have assumed anything,” she said, putting the earbuds of her stethoscope in her ears and placing the cold bell on Greyson’s chest. Coughing into his sleeve, Elijah lowered himself back into his seat.

“All good,” he said, voice mangled. “You wouldn’t be the first person to assumbe it.”

The NP worked quietly then, asking Greyson to breathe as she listened to his lungs, checking his throat and ears, swabbing his nose for a flu test and his tonsils for strep. By the time she was finished and the rapid tests were back, Greyson looked ready to pass out again.

“Alright, Mr. Abbott,” Emily said, breezing into the exam room with a clipboard in hand. “Good news and bad news; the good news is, you tested negative for strep. Bad news is you tested positive for Flu A, and based on how your lungs sound, I’d say you also have bronchitis. And most likely, a sinus infection.”

From his laid-out position on the bed, Greyson attempted a smile. “Yay?” he said, coughing into his hand. Emily laughed a little behind her mask.

“I’m going to prescribe you an antibiotic for the sinus infection; unfortunately, there’s not much I can do about the flu or the bronchitis, unless you’d like a steroid shot. Obviously get rest and lots of fluids, over the counter medicine is fine, too, you can take it with the antibiotic. Do you need a doctor’s note for work?”

Greyson smiled at Elijah from the bed. “Mmm, ndo pretty sure mby boss believes that I’mb sick,” he said. Elijah rolled his eyes, then pressed his hand deep into one of their sockets when pain spread behind them. Emily also turned to look at Elijah.

“Ah, yeah, I forgot. Business partners,” she said, swiveling the seat of her chair to face Elijah and scooting herself towards his seat. The GM’s heart thumped in time with his head as she approached. “As for you, Mr…?”

“Elijah is finde,” Elijah said, suppressing a cough by swallowing hard.

“Elijah,” Emily repeated. “Is it alright if I touch you?”

When was the last time a woman asked you that? Elijah thought to himself, nodding. Emily gently brought her hands to his face and pressed under his eyes and holy fucking shit, fucking ouch.

“Jesus,” Elijah said, reeling back before turning away from her to suddenly – “HRRTSH-ue! NGTSCHHH-uhh!” The NP’s eyes betrayed the smile behind her mask.

“Bless you,” she said, backing up to her computer. “That’s what I figured; listen, I don’t normally do two-for-one type stuff, but it’s pretty clear that you have what he has, so I’m going to go ahead and prescribe a round of antibiotics for you as well. Keep you from having to come back in a couple days.”

Elijah’s face flamed as he grabbed another tissue and quietly blew his nose. This woman was the first person he’d felt those adolescent butterflies for in – he didn’t even know how long, honestly – and of course he was laid out, barely able to talk and sneezing in her face. The universe has it out for me, I swear to god.

“Uh, okay,” Elijah said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Thangk you.”

“Don’t mention it,” she said, typing into her computer. When she finished and turned back to the two ill men, she smiled with her eyes. “Is there anything else I can do for the two of you?”

“You could hit mbe with a blow dart and wake mbe up when this shit is gone,” Greyson said, coughing again. Elijah bit the inside of his cheek while the NP laughed.

“Outside my jurisdiction,” she said, standing. “My apologies. Well, if that’s all then I’ll let you two get home. Take care of yourselves, if things get worse don’t be afraid to come back in.” Emily opened the door, pulled her mask down to smile at the two of them. Fuck, this woman is gorgeous. “Feel better,” she said, and closed the door behind her.

***

“So, do you thingk you’re goigg to go by Mr. Doctor Embily?” Greyson asked, propping himself up on an elbow. “Or is that, like, too on-the-ndose?”

From under the warm washcloth he’d placed over his aching sinuses, Elijah snorted and threw his friend a playful middle finger. “You’re an asshole,” he muttered, pulling the blanket Greyson had moved when he shifted positions back over his torso. “That womban wouldn’t touch mbe with a ten-foot pole after the fuckigg performance we put on in there.”

“Mmmb, I don’t kndow about that,” Greyson mused plucking the washcloth off of Elijah’s face and placing it over his own. “Seemed like she thought you were cute.”

This time, Elijah was the one who sat up. “Yeah,” he said grabbing both his and Greyson’s cups of TheraFlu off the side table and pressing the chef’s cup into his hand. “Ndothing cuter than sombe guy nearly sneezing into your open eyes. Dringk your damn mbedicine.”

Greyson did as he was told, sifting through the arsenal of Doordashed medications the two men had laid out on the bed as he sipped. After they’d stumbled out of the urgent care Elijah, who’d held it together as well as was humanly possible the past thirty hours, hit a wall so hard he nearly dropped to his knees. Without saying anything, Greyson had pulled out his phone and ordered an eye-wateringly expensive uber to cart them the few miles back to Elijah’s apartment; in return, Elijah had sent for an equally expensive courier to pick them up a pharmacy’s worth of medication and the best soup that the upper west side had to offer. While they waited for everything to be delivered, the two shivering, coughing men curled into Elijah’s sweat-soaked bed, listening to the labored sounds of one another’s breathing until they both passed out.

Now, an hour later and finally medicated, Greyson seemed wont to talk, while Elijah felt himself slipping into a deeper rung of illness. His whole body ached; he could think of nothing but sleep. Still, Greyson continued to prod.

“I’mb being serious,” Greyson said, unwrapping a cough drop and popping it in his mouth. “Mbaybe you should go back and ask for her ndumber.”

Elijah, eyes laden with bags from a sleepless night, flushed and sweating and breathing through his mouth, looked at Greyson, deadpan. “Look mbe in the eye and tell mbe that’s a goooo – hh… snrf. A good ideahh – hhGTSCHHH-oo! HRRTSCH-uh!” He wrenched to the side just in time, groaning at the pain. Out of the corner of his eye, Elijah saw Greyson wince.

“Well, obviously wait a few days,” he said, prompting Elijah to throw a pillow at him. The chef laughed, a soupy cough punctuating it.

“God, this is fuckigg mbiserable,” Elijah muttered, laying down again. “I can’t believe you worked yesterday feeling like this.”

Shrugging, Greyson placed his cup back on the side table and laid down as well. “I’mb mbade of different stuff, what can I say,” he joked. Elijah made a sound between a laugh and a snort before closing his eyes, the soft tendrils of sleep curling their fingers around his fevered mind. Moments before he dropped off, Elijah heard Greyson speak up again. “Hey, Lij?”

“Mmm?” Elijah muttered, sleep still right on the horizon. When Greyson didn’t immediately speak up, he opened one eye just a crack. Greyson, face pale and lips cracked, was looking right at him, clearly thinking of how to put whatever it was he wanted to say. Finally, he spoke up again.

“Thangk you,” Greyson said. “For takigg care of mbe.”

For a moment, Elijah just stared back, the sincerity of the sentiment setting him off-balance in a way he wasn’t expecting. Elijah rubbed his face to wake up enough to speak, nodded without letting his head leave the pillow. “’Course, Grey,” he said, attempting a weak smile. “That’s what friends are for.” He shrugged then, nonchalant, and closed his eyes once again. “I kndow you’d do the sambe for mbe.”

“Yeah,” Greyson said, voice soft. “I would.”

Right on the edge of sleep, Elijah allowed himself the last word. “Grey?”

“Yeah?”

“If you ever get mbe this sigck again, I will shoot you with a gun.”

For the first time in days, Greyson laughed in earnest. “I’ll hold you to that,” he said. “Ndight, Lij.”

“G’night,” Elijah mumbled before finally, blessedly, drifting into sleep.

#whiskeyswriting #snz #sickfic #snzfic #snzblr #illness #fever fic #flu fic #whump #hurt/comfort #we love a terrible title around here!! i'm so bad at titles i could end it all #i hope you guys like this one!! i know ive written a lot lately and ppl may be sick of these guys lol #but ultimately i do write for an audience of one: me #as should we all i think!!#anyway have a good weekend friends!

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planetarytransformation · 3 days ago

Text

the original on my nsfw blog is getting notes so i'm putting it below the cut in its entirety as well for anyone who wants to take a look. there aren't that many differences between versions but for cleanliness' sake i'll drop it here. enjoy!

The bandit captain had dropped her guard a little too readily.

The thought crossed your mind a moment too late; you had already lunged forward, silver-blue ribbons of magic dancing down your arm and out across the blade of your rapier. She sidestepped you with ease, a practiced maneuver that brought her lean, menacing frame inches from your unguarded flank. Out of the corner of your eye you saw her lips curl into a giddy grin.

Oh.

Her leathery hands found their way to either side of your neck before you could raise an arm to defend. You felt a cold shock: Had you been cut?

You staggered back; she stood there motionless, arms folded, watching you with hungry intent as you grasped at your throat.

A band of heavy iron was clamped there, resting just below your Adam's apple. It hummed at your touch, just faintly enough to hear through your pounding heartbeat.

The captain—

The woman—

You—

Something was wrong.

You opened your mouth to speak, but the words hitched in your mind, thoughts breaking like waves against stone.

Your duel had been a flurry of pounding, calculated maneuvers, a frantic chess match soaked in blood and adrenaline. It had taken you each mere seconds of fighting to learn one another's techniques, match one another's moves, exploit one another's weaknesses and cover up your own. Your body was a masterwork of discipline, your magic a testament to the roaring power of your intellect.

The fevered mental impulses that carried you through combat had been honed to perfection over years of training. You could only watch, slack and silent, as they faded into nothingness.

The borders of your vision grew foggy; your muscles relaxed. You heard a clattering from your right side as your rapier fell to the ground.

A quiet inner voice, the last vestige of your consciousness, screamed in fear as the captain strode towards you. It tried to protest, to fight, to flee, but it could not overpower the soft, deadening pulses that coursed out of the collar on your neck.

She brought a finger below your chin and raised your unfocused eyes to hers. The panic-voice grew quieter still as it struggled to wrest control of you.

Her hands found their way to your hair, tilting your head up as your limp, exhausted body staggered towards hers.

Not quick enough, darling. But such a good, docile thing, now, aren't you?

Warm tears welled at the corner of your eyes. A shaky breath escaped you as you tried in vain to offer any resistance, any at all.

This will be easier if you stop trying to fight it, precious.

You're not a soldier anymore, are you? Listen to the way you're whining. Look at how nice and empty I've made your pretty head.

You blinked your eyes, and when they opened again your memories were gone.

You're a toy now.

Why don't you come back to my camp and see what I do to my toys?

--- --- ---

It had been days by the time your compatriots rescued you.

Through the haze of half-perception in which she kept you, the unbearable aches of hunger and pain muted by the collar's steady spell, you heard the slick sweep of Keo's blade as it found your captor's throat.

Harper had gasped when she threw open the door of the bandit's tent to find you there, naked except for the iron ring around your neck. Days later, she told you your eyes had barely betrayed a hint of recognition.

She and Keo had shared piteous glances as they bathed you in the basement of the inn, surveying the clusters of yellowing bruises on your body and inferring with awful certainty what the bandit and her posse had done to you. Keo told you one night how long it had taken them to devise the countercharm that would release the collar from you. It would have been easier with you there to help, they said, eyes wet with grief and anger.

All they could think about was how much they missed you.

That first night without it on, you sat motionless by the cauldron-fire as Harper rubbed ointment into the ringed lesions on your neck. Your weapons hung lifeless on the wall of the rented basement room in which the three of you slept.

The room had been yours for years, and the three of you had been one another's for almost as long. On any other day, Harper's practiced touch would have felt as familiar and comforting as a warm blanket, as love, as home.

With a start, you realized the steady pressure of Harper's fingers down your shoulder and the heat of the fire on your bare breasts were the first sensations you'd recognized in almost a week. In an instant, your conscious mind reawoke with a strangled gasp.

Your dry, bruised throat let out a formless croak, and your hands flew to your mouth to stop the sound. Harper's soft, heavy arms wrapped around your waist as your eyes went wide with dawning horror. She and Keo held you wordlessly as memory returned.

You fell back onto the bed, body lanced with pain. No, no, no, you sobbed, your willpower exercising itself for the first time since you had been taken.

Keo grabbed you, planting their lips on your forehead as they pulled you into their embrace. It's okay, darling. You're safe.

Harper, still seated behind you, stroked your hair and cooed into your ear. You felt her other arm tighten around your shoulder as she shuddered with rage.

Hours passed. Harper and Keo held you desperately close, whispering words of comfort and promises of safety as if to slow the deluge that consumed you.

The world around you warped. Your skin grew warm with awful, excruciating life. The room – your room – felt damp, claustrophobic, like a bandit's tent. Keo's breath was hot on your neck, hot like hers had been, hot like the body-warm metal of—

You let out a faltering cry as the cloying comfort of your companions' embraces curdled into agony. You had only just remembered who these people were. You had only just been reminded of your life, your work, what you'd been put through. Harper's heavy frame was smothering you; Keo's sharp hands were like knives on your skin.

Stop, you cried. Let me go.

Perhaps, on another night, you could have made yourself surrender to them. You could have told yourself that they knew what was best, that they'd take care of you, that your body was wounded and broken and needed healing.

No, no, no.

Something to make it stop. To make it go away. Tears ran in rivulets down your flushed cheeks as your muscles tensed and shivered, wracked with pain and fear.

Something to make it stop. To make it go away. To make these unbearable sensations fade quietly into darkness. To shut up the screaming voice in your head.

The collar sat lifeless on the floor.

--- --- ---

A blue-white dart of force erupted from your fingertip and pierced the side of the horned marauder, knocking him backwards into his comrade. He snarled, lunging back towards you with redoubled ferocity. He could tell you were faltering.

Everyone could tell you were faltering.

It had been months since your rescue, months since Harper and Keo had pried the iron collar off your neck, and yet something in you had been broken seemingly beyond repair.

Your magic had no flourish anymore, no dancing ribbons or blinding lightshows. Bright, straight beams and discs lanced from your body, piercing vital organs with dispassionate, calculated ruthlessness. You leant harder and harder on your spellcasting, keeping distance between you and your foes and picking them apart with brutal, rhythmic precision. Gone were the days of the elegant dance, the happy confidence, the flicks of the wrist.

Your sword-arm, by contrast, was impotent and broken. Your guard was sloppy, your death-blows meek and yielding. You froze up, even during sparring, eyes glazing over at the slightest hint of enemy advantage.

Harper had screamed at you once, crouching over your supine form, the handle of her axe held tight against your neck. Please, she had said. You need to get better. You need to get well. Glistening tears had splashed onto the cold stone floor.

I won't watch you die because of this.

Even here, in pitched combat, your rapier hung lifeless at your side as luminescent rays burst from your trembling spell-arm. Before you could deliver a second strike, the marauder whirled into close quarters and dragged a smoking claw across the meat of your shoulder.

Blood sprayed from the fresh wound; brimstone filled your nose. You heard yourself scream, falling to the floor as your nerves began to burn.

This was the third and final change: Every sensation filled you now, like a cup that was too small.

The third night after the collar came off, Keo's familiar lips had met yours for the first time since your capture. You had reciprocated with frantic, pleading grasps, begging for them to purge your body of the choking sickness that still lingered.

Though the bruises on your ribs had all but healed, you had cried out in pain when their long, slender hand moved to cup your breast. Pure, cold terror had shot down your spine. And yet, still, your body melted with a need too powerful to ignore even a second longer.

Their touch had become violation, and so violation it would be.

Teeth clenched in contempt, you grabbed their wrist and wrenched it downwards between your legs. Your hips bucked into their flat, firm palm, your other hand digging its nails into the back of your companion's neck.

Keo's cries had awoken Harper. She arose instantly and stopped you both, hissing a withering reprimand to the wine-drunk Keo, and the pity and betrayal with which the two of them gazed at you was more blood-curdling than the hateful sneer of any devil-spawn.

Harper's battle-axe split the advancing fiend in two with a dull, sickening thud. A few feet away, Keo peeled a viscera-coated boot from the skull of the marauder captain.

Your eyes were glassy and your breathing was shallow. The floor of the temple felt cold against the back of your neck as your blood began to soak your clothes.

Harper and Keo moved to help you up. Once again, you recognized the looks on their faces.

---

Back at the inn, Keo had given you the last of your healing salves. Harper winced as she poured sharp-smelling whiskey over her wounds, staring at you across the floor as you laid on the ragged mattress.

There had always been a custom, after fights like this, if any one of you had ever come close to dying. You remember Harper's taste on the first night so many years ago, honey-sour, sweat and blood flowing in streams over her splinted leg and your smiling chin.

I'm so glad you're alive, Harper. Does that feel good, love?

Please, promise me you'll stay.

Or Keo, lean, furious Keo, rutting with desperate force into Harper's full frame as you gasped and twitched beneath the both of them.

You're not weak, Keo. Look at yourself. Look at yourself, Keo.

How strong you are.

It was your turn, now. You needed them with you, on you, coursing through you, and yet your recalcitrant body revolted at the thought. Tears of frustration and longing streaked down your face; you knew what their touch would be now.

It had been months, and you still could not bear it.

They must have heard you cry, must have known what you were thinking. They must have seen the flush on your skin, sensed the rustle of sheets as your hands gripped the bed.

The frame creaked as they moved to sit either side of you. Faintly, so faintly, Harper's hand rose to brush your hair. You winced, your body locking up between them.

Keo reached out towards you, and your vigilant eyes flew to their hands. They had something there, resting softly over their finger: a band of cold iron, held closed with a familiar clasp.

You doubled over in desperation, barely mustering the strength to compose yourself. You turned to look at Harper, then at them.

Please, said Keo. Let us do this for you.

Without a word, you raised the hair from the back of your neck, staring intently at Keo as they moved slowly, tenderly, to wrap the band back around the faded scar above your collarbone.

There.

The warm fog filled you like a mother's love. Harper's hand glided, knowing and gentle, across your scalp. Keo's mouth began to roam your body as your vision went soft and your tears began to dry.

The magic pulsed through you faster now that it had learned the contours of your psyche. In an instant, you could barely remember who these people were; you certainly couldn't have uttered their names. And yet they moved with such care, with such love, that no panicked voice spoke up from the depths of your subconscious.

Your mouth was in Keo's lap, now. Nothing in your tired body could have brought you to resist them as they pushed past your lips and into the back of your throat.

You heard a faint, familiar sigh of relief and pleasure from above you. Something told you you were doing such a good job, love, there. It's okay.

You're safe now, pretty bird.

Harper was working you, too, hands pressed up against your underside, soft fingers curled around you as her mouth moved close to whisper words of comfort in your ear.

There was nothing you had to fight to allow them to touch you.

There was no pain, no rejection, no yawning sense of terror to push you away from them.

You felt a warm, mounting pressure building in your abdomen. You didn't have to try and reach for it, even if you could have. It would come. Your friends were going to take you to it, and that was all you had to know.

Yes, love, that's it. That's it, love, keep going.

Come for us.

You thrashed with a ferocity you had only ever known in combat. Your friends cradled you as it took hold, breaching the magic of the collar and welling up within you, spilling out of you, surpassing and transcending you.

You heard a fevered voice, your voice, echoing off the dark walls of the basement room as Harper and Keo's warm, wet bodies moved to contain your writhing form.

There was nothing your mind could do as your friends withdrew and you collapsed onto the warm bed.

There was only love, elemental love, pure and comfortable, too indistinct and cloudy for your addled mind to sense the dark, warped perversions at its heart.

You'd never have been able to recognize the pangs of unease that flashed across your companions' faces. If either of them had given voice to the doubt they felt over what they'd just done to their best friend, you wouldn't have understood.

To you, they were perfect, had been perfect, had taken such good care of you.

There was no past or future you could see from the soft, safe present in which you lay.

Your eyes fluttered closed in Harper's lap, and the world was a happy dream.

wrote some sort of weird pornographic trauma-study thing a while back and finally put it up somewhere that isn't my, like, 10-follower NSFW sideblog.

it was an attempt to write some cute high-fantasy bad-end with a mind-control collar, and it wound up being quite a bit darker than anticipated. the finished piece is a little more about the aftermath of painful experiences, and what it means to be cared for when your injuries are too complex to describe.

but there is still sex in it, and mind control, and polyamory, and i figure that might be of interest to some of you.

it's on AO3 if you want to check it out. 😘💜🦚

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