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just-trying-to-fangirl-in-peace · 2 months ago

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The Two (Sauron x fem!Elf!reader)

-> in which Galadriel fights to withhold Nenya and the Nine, but in the end she fails to stop your husband placing yet another ring upon your finger

Warnings: evil!reader, killing (sorry Adar), allusions to smut, injuries suffered by reader (bad ones but not very graphically described), blood drinking for healing purposes

Note: another one in the evil!reader collection. Shout out to this lovely anon for the inspiration behind a certain bit of dialogue.

This is not exactly where you had imagined you would be on this day—shackles around your wrists and blood marring your brow, being escorted through the woods in a filthy and tattered dress by a band of Orcs. You admit it isn’t the best look on you, but circumstances change, and so you must adapt.

So far, you’d say you’re managing quite well.

Adar is not alone as you reach him in the clearing. Facing him is a blonde-haired Elf with whom you have been itching to meet again, now that she has found out the truth of your identity. Galadriel turns towards the approaching Orcs, her eyes widening slightly when she sees you. She may not have known you all that well, but neither could she have imagined that one of Celebrimbor’s unassuming aids was the one being held dearest of all by the very darkness Galadriel had sworn to destroy.

Adar, on the other hand, had never known you as anything else.

“What an unexpected honor,” he says when he sees you. “To what is it owed?”

You stare him down—the Uruk who had been your husband’s near destruction, leaving you to await his return for what had felt like an agonizing eternity. If looks could kill, he would be in bloody pieces.

It’s Glug, one of the Orcs at your side, that answers him. “We found Sauron. He tried to make us betray you, but we resisted. We lost many,” he shoves you into stumbling forward, “but we got our hands on this one. His Queen, he said,” Glug mocks, and the group of Orcs breaks into a cacophony of snorted laughter. Your face remains impassive as Adar approaches you.

“Indeed, Sauron’s bride herself.” Adar stands before you, meeting your gaze head on. “After all this time, you are still at his side.”

“I am at his side once again,” you correct him coldly, “after you took him from me. For centuries.”

“So long ago, yet your hatred of me has not waned,” Adar muses. “I always wondered how deeply this great love he claimed to feel for you truly ran. Whether you were another of his victims, or some unnatural exception. I can only hope he values you as much as you do him.” He turns to Galadriel. “With any luck, she will be enough to draw him out—”

His words are cut off abruptly, and Galadriel gasps—for the tip of a sword had emerged from Adar’s stomach, then withdrew as swiftly as it had cut through him. He falls to the ground, clutching at his wound, looking up only to see you as you truly are.

Without the illusion, there is not a speck of dirt on you, never mind blood or shackles. You stand clad in elegant battle armour, your bloodied sword held in your hand with the ease and practice of centuries.

Realization dawns on Adar’s face, as you had seen it on those of so many others before, a little too late. “My children!” he calls out, visibly astonished that he even has to. Yet not one of the Orcs move.

“For years, I’ve wondered,” you mock his musing tone from before, crouching to his level and slowly putting your blade to his neck, “would it please me more to kill you myself, or to watch my husband do it? But then, I realized—and he agreed—what end could be more terrible to you than to be killed by that which you love most?”

You stand back up to your full height. To Adar’s credit, he struggles to his feet as well. Even if what happens next is plain to see, before you even speak the words.

“Uruks,” you command, a sinister smile tugging at your lips. “Finish him.”

Your new servants surge from behind you, surrounding Adar and plunging their swords into their former master. It’s poetic, really—an inverted mirror of what your beloved suffered all those years ago, whilst your husband himself walks into the clearing, no longer hiding in the shadows, and recovers the crown that should have been his in the first place from the boulder on which it had been placed. Galadriel doesn’t see him, her eyes fixed on you in anger. It’s a delight to watch it be replaced with dread when she hears your husband’s voice call her name.

By now, Adar has fallen to the ground once more, yet the Orcs are slow to cease their blows. Galadriel is frozen in place as your husband joins you at your side, both of you looking down at the Uruk who has tasted your vengeance.

“My... children...” he croaks out, pitifully.

“They have found new parents,” your husband says, pitiless.

You exchange a look with Glug, and if there was any trace of hesitancy left in him, it vanishes under your demanding gaze. With a roar, he plunges his sword into Adar’s heart, putting an end to him and the killing frenzy of his brethren.

“What orders,” he asks then, his irritatingly pitched voice downright fanatical, “Lord Sauron? My Queen?”

“Raze Eregion,” your husband says evenly. “Leave no Elf alive. But bring me their leaders.”

“Be sure to destroy every single record of Celebrimbor’s works,” you add. “We would not want the secrets of the Rings’ craft revealed.”

The Orcs bow their heads, so wonderfully obedient as they begin to chant, “Hail Sauron, the Dark Lord! Hail our Dark Queen!” They repeat it as if in a craze, still muterring the words in their speech as they scurry away to carry out your orders. Glug, however, lingers by your side.

“Forgive me, my Queen!” He drops to his knees, all but touching his head to your boots. “For the offence I brought you. I only meant to convince Adar of our lie.”

You tilt your head, such an indulgent expression on your face, one might think it was genuine if they knew no better. You put a finger beneath Glug’s chin and lift his head, his bulbous eyes widening in awe as he meets your gaze.

“Earn my forgiveness,” you say sweetly, “by carrying out the task you have been given.”

“Yes, my Queen!” he exclaims, shooting to his feet the moment you release him. “My Lord!” he bows to your husband as well, then rushes after his companions as you watch, deeply satisfied. So this is what it feels like to be worshipped as a goddess. For now, by Orcs—later, by every being in Middle-Earth. The mere thought of it feels like a sip of the most exquisite and intoxicating wine, the elation second only to that sharing in this glory with your husband. You would love nothing more than to bask in the moment, mark it with a kiss, but there is still a pressing matter to attend to beforehand.

And, at once, she demands your attention.

“All this,” Galadriel says, voice thin with held-back terror, “was your design from the beginning!”

“Not all of it,” your husband tells her with eerie humility. “When my beloved came to find me,” he glances to you, letting his knuckles graze a gentle line down your shoulder, “having sensed my presence as I strived to regain my form, we believed we would never be parted again. It was hardly by our design that we were separated in that shipwreck. Once the sea brought you to me, however—”

“—an opportunity arose,” you continue seamlessly, smiling up at your husband, “too tantalizing to pass up.” You turn to Galadriel with a self-assured gaze. “You see, my love and I may be apart in body, but never in mind. And though not even we knew where our paths would lead, we trusted that we would be reunited at the end, and be all the better for it. So, I made my way back to Eregion, where my false life still awaited me—”

“—and I let you take Halbrand there yourself,” your husband finishes. “With a Númenórean army to fight against my enemy, and your trust to help me earn Celebrimbor’s. So, in the end...” A devious smirk tugs at his lips. “One could say it was your design.”

Galadriel purses her lips, keeping them firmly shut. She knows better than to take that bait of self-blame, you can tell. Instead, her eyes dart to her sword, discarded on the ground—betraying her intentions.

In an instant, you both bolt for her sword—and it’s only by a fraction of a second that you stomp your foot on the blade before she can lift it, leaving her to pull helplessly at the handle whilst you put your own sword to her throat. She glares up at you, her words spit out like venom, “You are a traitor to your people!”

A short, sweet laugh escapes you. “I am a traitor to all peoples.” You knit your brow, feigning bashfulness. “How kind of you to notice.”

Galadriel blinks at you, a trace of pity mingling with the disgust in her eyes. “Your mind has left you.”

You open your mouth, prepared to let her know you completely agree, and are rather pleased with yourself—when your attention lands on her hand, drawn there by a glimmer of light reflected off the gem on her finger. Nenya, the Ring of Water, shines before your eyes in all its devastating perfection.

You almost forget to keep your blade at Galadriel’s throat as you crouch down and grab her hand. She flinches, but your grip is relentless as you hold her hand still, admiring the Ring.

“Oh, this is simply...” you murmur, almost tearfully, “exquisite.”

In your long life, the only sight to grace your gaze which held similar beauty was your husband, in any form of his. And perhaps, only perhaps, from a purely aesthetic point of view, the Ring might just surpass him.

The thought, even just in passing, leaves you disoriented. And Galadriel takes full advantage of it.

She moves swiftly. Whilst you are distracted, she yanks her sword from underneath you and you lose your balance, finding yourself face up on the ground, barely parring the immediate blow she aims at your throat. Unsurprisingly, she is strong, making it a real challenge for you to keep her sword at bay with your own, but your mind is now fully present once more and you hold your own as fiercely as ever.

You don’t have to do it for long, however. Your husband’s sword intercedes between yours and Galadriel’s, breaking them apart and forcing her to fall backwards. She scrambles back to her feet, but now she is being attacked by a doubly armed foe, and it is her on the defence, struggling to match your husband’s skillful blows. You’ve stood back up, ready to fight again, but you can’t help taking a moment to behold the glorious sight of your husband fighting. It’s a rather short dance between them, brought to a halt as their blades clash and your husband swings Morgoth’s crown at the place where they meet, trapping both within its iron spikes.

Both of Galadriel’s hands hold the hilt of her sword in a white-knuckled grip, giving your husband a full view of the Ring as well. It tempts his gaze as quickly as it did yours.

“Even more beautiful than Celebrimbor led us to believe,” he says, bemused. “It would compliment your wedding band beautifully.” He glances at you. “Don’t you think, my love?”

As you meet his gaze, you are left breathless with how ardently you want to say yes. To have him place that wondrous Ring upon your finger, just as he did your wedding band all those years ago, and to admire the jewel on your hand as it touches every single inch of your husband’s skin whilst you make love for days and nights on end. You would begin right there, in the clearing, if not for the unwanted company.

Galadriel grunts, breaking away from your husband. Their withering stares remain locked as he circles her widely, coming to stand at your side. Can she not grasp that she is at a disadvantage?

“This is hardly fair. Two against one” you say, trying to sound reasonable. “It would be much wiser to simply give me that Ring, and him the Nine.”

“We do not wish to harm you,” your husband says, in that falsely reassuring tone that has worked wonders on so many others. Galadriel is having none of it.

“Do you wish to heal me?” she asks, defiantly. You would admire her determination, if it wasn’t so inconvenient to you personally.

Your husband proves more patient than you feel in his answer. “We would heal... all Middle-Earth.”

“As you have Eregion?” she growls, face twisting in rage as she readies her sword.

“Well, then,” you sigh shortly and do the same with yours, glancing at your husband, “ladies first, I suppose.”

And so you are the first to meet Galadriel in her attack. For a little while, you are evenly matched, but once your husband joins you shortly after, well—that is a different story.

You have to admit, Galadriel lives up to her reputation as Commander of the Northern Armies and then some. And yet, the fight would have been much shorter if it weren’t for a silent agreement between you and your husband, for the sadistic streak you share that makes you want to draw this out, let her believe she might prevail before you prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that she never stood a chance.

You had almost forgotten the utter pleasure that it was to fight at your husband’s side. It’s no less harmonious or fierce than when you are making love, how fluidly you complement each other’s movements, acting as though you are simply an extension of the other. In that way, you suppose, the fight is fair—Galadriel’s opponent is as one alone, in all but flesh.

The Ring, however, and the Nine whose presence your husband must feel as keenly as you do, prove a distraction. Your blades draw Galadriel’s blood, but the wounds are relatively minor, and she manages to nick your skin as well in moments where your eyes stray to the Ring on her finger, your mind clouded with thoughts of it becoming yours.

You can’t explain how else she manages to gain the upper hand as she eventually does, catching your husband sufficiently off-guard to kick him down from a small height. Your battle had taken you to the ruins of an old stone structure at the edge of a cliff, your husband landing gracelessly in the midst of it. You’re more concerned for his pride rather than his body, however. Panting from exertion, you and Galadriel lock gazes.

“You say you let him use me,” she challenges, taking her chances at riling you up now that you are alone. “Do you know what he offered me?”

“What he pretended to offer you was mine already,” you say, unwavering. “Had been for a long, long time.”

“He seemed rather convincing,” Galadriel taunts, “when he called me his Queen.”

You huff out a chuckle. “How could you not be convinced,” you retort, “when you so badly wanted to believe him?”

You charge at her again. Perhaps she has managed to make your blood boil after all, but it only works against her, because your attacks are all the more vicious as you force her backwards, down a set of stone steps leading to where your husband had fallen.

“I don’t blame you, you know,” you taunt her between strikes, “for desiring him.”

“I did not desire—!”

“Liar,” you hiss, narrowly parrying a particularly rageful swing of her sword. “I quite liked that form myself. Had a certain roguish... charm to it.” The word becomes a grunt as you kick her back into the stone wall, your swords and gazes locked together in a battle of unrelenting wills. “That stubble of his... felt especially pleasant on my skin.” You smile wickedly, voice laden with sinful implications. “Did you never imagine it on yours?”

She must have—otherwise, her eyes would not betray the sliver of shame that they do as she cries out and pushes you off her with renewed strength. You stumble to the bottom of the stairs with a deranged chuckle, putting your fingers to the stinging spot on your cheek and finding it wet with blood. She had managed to cut you.

And she seemed intent on trying to do worse to you, if not for your husband distracting her with something yet more disorienting than your words.

She freezes in place when she sees him standing before her—not as Annatar, but as Halbrand.

“Fighting at your side,” he says, as if from a distant dream, “I felt if I could just hold on to that feeling...”

Words that had once tugged at her heart, no doubt. They are not enough to deter her from attacking him now, but the internal conflict painted on her face is a delight to watch as they cross blades. Your husband changes the guise of Halbrand into that of Galadriel herself, then that of Celebrimbor. Each of them taunting her with the words he knows would cut the deepest, driving her into one attack after the other.

Until the old structure on which they are fighting crumbles, and they fall along with the boulders back to the ground. Your husband is the first to rise, back to the form he had taken as Annatar, and as you meet his gaze, alight with wrath, you both know—it’s time to put an end to this.

Galadriel gathers her sword from where it has fallen, staggers back to her feet, stubborn and determined as ever as the fighting resumes. But there are two of you, and she is more tired. Before long, you have her backed into a corner—or rather, with the very edge of the cliff at her back, with nowhere to go but into a deadly fall to the ground below. She fights valiantly, but in the end the inevitable happens. Half-distracted by you, she is not quick enough to stop your husband from plunging one of the crown’s iron spikes deep into her shoulder. He backs her into a pillar of the stone arch at the cliff’s edge, and in that position it’s too easy for you to knock the sword from her hand, once and for all.

It’s almost sad, seeing such a mighty warrior reduced to cries of pain, sagging helplessly against the stone. When your husband pulls the crown from her, she falls limp to the ground, the satchel containing the Nine slipping from an inner pocket at her chest. Leaning down, your husband finally reclaims his creations, then slips the Ring of Water off Galadriel’s trembling finger. She is too weak to do anything but groan, her eyes fluttering shut in defeat.

“The Rings are ours,” he says proudly. With his opponent utterly defeated, he lays down his sword and the crown on a nearby boulder, then tucks the satchel away within his own robes. The Elven Ring, however, he keeps in the palm of his hand as he leaves Galadriel lying there and turns to you. His steps are slow and measured as he comes to stand before you, close enough to take your hand in his if he so wishes to. But he withholds, his eyes boring into yours.

“My love,” he says, and it feels like a vow. “My Queen.” He holds out his hand, reverently. “Allow me.”

Your chest swells as you place your hand in his. You hold each other’s gaze a moment longer before you both look down and watch as he, with utmost delicacy, slips Nenya onto your finger, right next to the one that wears your wedding band. Your sword clatters to the ground, unwittingly loosed from your grip, but you don’t even hear it. The sight before you is almost too beautiful to behold, making you weep with joy.

“With this, I vow my life to be yours,” your husband says then, voice strained with emotion. “In life and in death—”

“—and for all eternity,” you finish breathlessly, raising your tearful gaze to meet his. The vows you had spoken to each other on the night you had bound your souls together, repeated with equal devotion after all this time.

His brow furrows in awe, and he beholds your face as though he cannot believe you are real. Your Ring-bearing hand trembles in his as he raises his other one to your cheek, thumb gently brushing the skin beneath the cut left there by Galadriel. He leans in and kisses the wound, his warm tongue soothing the pain and relishing the taste of you. You feel it too, sweetly coppery, as he then seals his mouth to yours with soul-wrenching tenderness. And you already know, but it still sweeps the floor from underneath your feet each time you are reminded of the full might of your adoration for him. You would crumble to the ground with the force of it, if not for your husband holding you close.

“Wed again,” you murmur as your lips part, lightheaded with bliss. His smile is soft, his knuckles grazing your temple reverently.

“I never imagined you could be even more beautiful than you already were,” he all but whispers, glancing down at the Ring of Power upon your finger. “Yet as my Queen, your radiance is nearly too great to look upon, even for my eyes. All of Middle-Earth shall bow to worship at my beloved’s feet. All shall love you and despair.”

And you shall love to be adored, yet his adoration would forever be the one you cherish most. You are leaning in to taste his lips once more, when the voice of your all-but-forgotten-about foe rudely interrupts.

“The free peoples of Middle-Earth,” Galadriel declares, “will always resist you.”

With a small sigh, you turn to her. She has managed enough strength to sit up sideways, her glare as defiant as ever even as the poisoned wound left by Morgoth’s—by your husband’s crown slowly consumes her. She’s resilient, fearsome and beautiful. Like you.

Now that she is no longer a real threat, you allow yourself a spark of admiration. Sensing your wish, your husband leaves to break away from him and go to her, lowering yourself to one knee so you meet her at her level.

“I could yet help you heal,” you offer mercifully, knuckles grazing her jawline as she flinches away. “You could yet pledge your allegiance to your King and Queen.”

“Not while I still breathe,” she spits the words obstinately. Predictably.

It seems you’ll still have need of your sword after all.

“This is a waste, truly,” you say, and mean it. “You would have made a great ally.”

Galadriel frowns, as if contemplating your words. “Perhaps,” she admits. “You, on the other hand...” She leans close to you, and hisses in your face, “...would have made a dreadful Queen.”

‘Would have’? You’re about to tell her you already are Queen, and always will be. A taunting smirk is already tugging at your lips—

—quickly snuffed out by a sharp pain, deep in your chest. Jaw slack, eyes wide, you look down to find Galadriel’s hand there, gripping the hilt of the dagger she has plunged into your heart. Nothing but a small blade, most likely conjured from some hidden pocket in her garments whilst you and your husband had been absorbed in each other, and which she had concealed within her sleeve since—it hardly matters. It all happens too quickly for your husband to reach you, and it’s distraction enough that all you can do is gasp as Galadriel grabs you by the shoulders and, with the last of her strength, pulls you over the edge of the cliff along with herself.

Your name, roared out by your beloved, is the last thing you hear as you fall.

*****

You’re alive.

Barely.

You exist somewhere between wakefulness and oblivion, the sounds around you distant and pain threatening to greet you once you have returned to your full senses—if you ever will. But a touch of your husband’s godly nature has resided within you ever since you bound yourself to one another in marriage, and so your form endures, your mind alert enough to serve you even as you lie broken on the ground.

“She should be healed,” a voice says, and you recognize it—king Gil-galad, no doubt come to recover Galadriel from where she must be lying close to you. “And made to face judgement for her treachery.”

There is another presence, yet closer to you. As a hand touches your neck, fingers pressing to your pulse point, you grasp at every last sliver of your power to conjure one small, but vital illusion.

The hand leaves you.

“I agree,” you hear Elrond say. “But she is dead already.”

Relieved and utterly spent, before long you are lost to the world once more.

*****

Your name, whispered softly by your beloved, is the first thing you hear as you wake up.

The next is your own weak moan, pain spreading through your body as feeling returns to you. The room to which you open your eyes is, thankfully, low-lit—you doubt they could handle anything else. But all that truly matters is that you are met with your husband’s gaze, relieved and endlessly caring as he sits at your side, leaning over you.

“Shh,” he cooes, caressing the crown of your head as a tear slides down your temple. “This too shall pass, for I will look after you as you did me in my time of need. I’m here, my love,” he murmurs, pressing his lips to your forehead. “I’m here.”

The pain mercifully dulls once again, most likely your husband’s doing. This time, you are at peace as you drift away.

*****

It isn’t pain, but warmth and comfort that greets you when you next wake. Your limbs are still weak, your body made heavy with a dull ache all over, but the familiar feeling of being cradled in your husband’s arms overshadows the lingering discomfort. Your head is resting on his chest, and, in natural reflex, you nuzzle into him, lips searching for his skin and pressing to his neck.

“My love,” he greets softly, his pulse a pleasant thrum beneath your mouth. “You are awake at last.”

You lift your head, wincing at the stiffness in your neck, and look into your husband’s eyes. “Did I keep you waiting terribly long?” you ask, finding the strength to work a trace of playfulness into your tired voice. Something in his gaze breaks in the face of it.

“Unbearably so,” he replies in earnest.

There’s no response you find within you other than to press a light kiss to his lips, reassuring yourself that this is real. After, you allow him to carefully maneuver you so that you are both sitting up against the headboard, with you still tucked into his side.

“You are nearly recovered, my love,” he says as you grimace and shift, looking for a comfortable position for your aching joints, “but your strength will return with time. Until then...”

He offers you his hand, his black blood already spilled from a cut in the palm of it. It’s fresh, different from the one he had used to provide the false mithril for the Nine. This sacrifice he has made for you alone, to mend his beloved piece by piece. You don’t need him to explain all of this—you simply offer him a grateful smile as you cradle his hand in yours and bring it to your lips, kissing it almost as you would his mouth as you gather his blood with your tongue.

“There,” he says hoarsely, eyes fluttering shut with the great pleasure of feeling you consume him, any part of him. “Take my strength,” he urges, cradling your head as you drink from him. “Make it yours, my love.”

The effect may be temporary, but the relief is instant. You pull away, sighing pleasantly as you wipe your thumb over any lingering droplets of blood on your lips, and lick those off your finger as well. You feel almost as new, as if you had never even taken a blade to the heart and a shattering fall.

The memory sends a jolt through your chest. Instinctively, you bring your hand to it, looking down at the place where Galadriel had managed to stab you. The wound has been healed, but the spark of rage is kindled within you once more. And it grows into a wildfire when you notice your horribly bare finger.

“Where’s Nenya?” You scramble from your husband’s arms and off the bed, gripped by a sudden, blind panic. “Where’s my Ring?” you demand, nearly a growl. His gaze becomes grim.

“The Elves took it back,” he says darkly, standing to face you. You huff out a furious breath. So, Galadriel succeeded, then. She recovered the Ring, even if it meant taking all of you along with it. Even if she was risking her own death.

You sincerely hope she survived the fall and the wound inflicted by your husband’s crown. Otherwise, you would have no revenge to look forward to.

“And Eregion?” you ask, scrambling for some victory to which to cling in your rage. “Our army? What of it?”

“We are in Eregion,” your husband tells you, adding proudly, “what is left of it. As for our armies... nearly all Middle-Earth is ours for the taking.”

“Nearly?” you frown.

“The Elves have used the Three to create a sanctuary beyond my reach.” His voice drips bitterness. But as he steps to you, taking your hand in his, he seems more disturbed than vengeful. “Had I found that they had taken you there... where I could not follow...”

You soften, then, your anger tamed by the torment in his gaze as he trails off. You wonder if, within this sanctuary of the Elves protected by the light of the Three, you could still feel your husband’s dark soul caressing yours even from afar. The thought that you might not, that you had been at risk of suffering such an appalling emptiness, is sickening.

“It is well, then,” you say, chasing away the dread of what might have been, “that I led Elrond to believe I was dead. That is why they took only Galadriel.”

“My love.” Your husband smiles, pride swelling in his eyes as he cups your cheek. “Clever and fierce, even as you lay broken.”

“I knew you would find me,” you say simply, as if nothing more had been needed. But then you sigh, and take hold of his wrist, lowering his hand from your face. “But our victory is not yet complete,” you say sullenly. “The Three are free of your influence and beyond our reach.”

“Do not despair, my love,” he is quick to reassure. “The Seven have known my touch. We have the Nine. And very soon...” Something sparks in his eyes, cunning and mysterious. “...we shall have more.”

You raise a brow, intrigued. “More?”

He nods, brow knitting slightly as he begins to explain. “You told me it did not sit well with you that I had used only my blood in the making of the Nine. You were right, my love,” he admits. His gaze drops to your hands, his thumb brushing over the empty spot where Nenya had been. “And so,” he says, locking his gaze with yours, “it shall be with your blood and mine combined that we will forge the Two.”

The words linger in the air, ominous and captivating even before you fully grasp their meaning.

“Two Rings,” your husband continues, wrapping your hands in his and bringing them to his chest, where you feel his heart beat as furiously as yours as he speaks. “Born of our flesh and love, inextricably intertwined with one another. Whose power shall be as fierce and eternal as the devotion between you and I, greater than that of all the other Rings. Great enough to bind them in the darkness we share, and to rule them all. One for their King...”

“One for their Queen,” you whisper, the words falling from your lips as if they had always been there. Always locked behind your tongue, written in your fate, meant to be spoken in this very moment. This feeling, the things of which he speaks—it is all so intoxicating, a design too perfect in its terrible splendour to imagine it being brought into existence.

“Is that possible?” you ask, cautiously.

“If it is not... then we shall make it.”

And when he says it like that, gazing so deeply and so fiercely into your eyes, you believe him.

“Will you join me in this act of creation, my love?” your husband beseeches, so desperately hopeful. “Will you stand at my side?”

There is only one answer that could ever leave your lips. But first, you lean in and capture his in a deep, ravenous kiss, the taste of him both remedy and fuel to the delirium surging within you.

Creation. Not meant for Elves, or Dwarves, or Men. Not crafted through the deception of Celebrimbor, or even so much as with another’s aid. The very embodiment of your entwined souls, brought into being and meant to be worn by you and your beloved only.

The fruit of your union.

You break apart, opening your eyes to find the same all-consuming desire reflected in your husband’s. And once again, you speak the vow that shall very soon become inscribed upon the gold of the Two.

“For all eternity.”

Previous fic with same reader -> Defied

#annatar x reader #sauron x reader #the rings of power

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selfship-confession-box · 2 months ago

Note

FOUR f/os now.

in order of when I gained them

🍿, 🦎,👁️ and then 🐟

fr so hopeless…/silly

-🩹 anon (i think that’s my tag..)

#self ship #self shipping community #selfshipping community #selfship #self shipper #self shipping #self ship community #selfship community #f/o #f/os #🩹 anon #band aid anon

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spdrwdw · 9 months ago

Note

hi! I saw ur post abt accidentally deleting reqs and was scared since mine wasn’t answered yet (im not complaining bc ur other work is so so delicious to read 😍) anyways here it is. Ok imagine Miguel ohara being the heir to the mafia ‘throne(?)’ ima be so fr idk what they call it 💀 anyways and he’s in an arranged marriage w/ a girl from a diff mafia family as a way to make peace between the two families, except neither he or the girl are happy abt it. Enemies to lovers would just be majestic for the plot in my opinion 🤭. Anywaysssss thank u sm and remember to drink water 🫶🏻

Art by: Kimmy_art0912 Pairing: Mob Boss Miguel x Wife reader Warnings: Mentions of blood, very mild violence, no use of y/n Summary: You and Miguel come from different mafia families, forced to be married in order to form an alliance as threat from an outside. However, you and Miguel can only tolerate each other, at best. A/N: I swear I scratched and rewrote this like five different times.I am sorry it took so long. I am slowly making my way back into writing. I do thank anon and everyone else for their patience as I slowly make my way back to life and I will be writing more Miguel fics soon. I may do a part two to this, depending on interest recieved. I have been getting into mafia books so I am going to be looking into those for inspo if I do make more parts to this. Also, very very light editing was done. Word Count: 4.6k

Your family and the O’Hara’s have been enemies since your ancestors set foot into this country. Both immigrating from nothing but the clothes on their backs and pennies to their name.

Your family started working in the food industry. Working in restaurants, bakeries, etc. Anything that had to do with food. Seven days a week. Working from twelve to fourteen hour shifts just to make ends meet. Your great great grandfather worked at the local deli as well as a restaurant. When he wasn’t cutting up meat, he was in the kitchen making food. Your great great grandmother worked at the neighborhood bakery as well as the tailors. Her dream was to make clothes- dresses. She wanted to be a fashion designer. She started taking classes at the local college once they saved up enough money to invest in her studies.

Eventually, with their hard work and sacrifices, their dreams came true. Your family soon owned several restaurants as well as luxury boutiques. Everyone did their part in keeping the family businesses growing and going.

At first, it was all simply honest work. Your family stayed humble and grateful for their dedication. Then, with your great grandfather, things took a slight turn. He wanted to expand and turn into construction. Nueva York continued to go and grow, with more people coming to try to make a living and a name for themselves. And in that mix, people with bad intentions also tagged along. The family businesses were in jeopardy of being taken over or shut down completely by these power-hungry thugs. He did not want that. So, he and the rest of the family banded together and began hiring people who would be willing to work for them and protect them, whether they were military vets, criminals, or even cops. Anyone who was willing to protect the family.

Allyship with other mafia families also aided in the growth and protection. However, there was one family that yours always butted heads with.

The O’Haras. They immigrated from Ireland around the same time your great great grandparents did. They built their own businesses, casinos, hotels, and clubs- and wanted their own power and a spot with the elites of the criminal world.

At first, things were neutral between the two families. At one point, the two families were almost allies. However, one night, there was commotion going on at one of the O’Hara nightclubs. Members of your family got into a tussle with the O’Hara group and ended up being a blood bath, with both sides losing men.

Ever since then, things were tense, and the bloodshed continued to grow as oppositions rose.

No one really knew what it was that started the feud that night. Some suspected it had been over a woman. Others thought it was simply because some members were drunk and careless words were exchanged.

Either way, the rivalry continued on. Until a new threat entered the city. And there was no choice but to come together.

—

It’s been six months since you moved into his house. Six months since you lost your freedom. Six months since you got married. To Miguel O’Hara.

It all happened in an instant. First, you were out abroad, having recently gotten your first major job as a fashion designer in a luxury clothing company, wanting to be as successful as your great great grandmother, and now you were out on a little vacation to celebrate, when you received a call from your father, ordering you to come back home.

You should’ve relished that Mediterranean breeze as long as you could, because once you got on that flight back home, your world was about to be flipped on its head.

“I’m sorry…WHAT?!” You screeched at your father, you only looked at you with his calm, cool, distant, expression as he inhaled into his cigar.

“You’re getting married to Miguel O’Hara,” he repeated.

“I heard what you said! But, why?!”

“The O’Haras had agreed to a truce. Kingpin is gaining on both of our families. We are losing men and traction left and right. We agreed by aligning our families together, we will gain strength in numbers and influence.”

“And you are shipping me off into an arranged marriage! This isn’t the medieval age or whatever!

Plus, with Miguel?! At least have me marry Gabriel. He’s not an asshole like his brother.”

“Miguel is to become head of the O’Hara family as he is the first born. Plus, his determination has been promising.”

You let out a groan. You could not believe this was happening. You never wanted to get sucked into this life. That’s why you went off to college. To try to get away and make a life of your own. Your efforts were proven to be futile as you felt the rug be pulled from under you and you were being dragged along with it to the same life you were trying to escape.

Your father’s eyes softened. A hint of sorrow filled them.

“I know, sweetheart. This isn’t what I was hoping for you, either. But, it is the only way. We are running out of options. I am sure Miguel will take care of you, and you will be able to fulfill your dream of following your great great grandmother’s footsteps. I am sure she would be proud to have someone actively expanding her fashion legacy..”

You still shook your head. It was just too much for you to take in. Plus, wasn’t Miguel in a relationship with someone? Xina? No..they broke up months ago. That’s right. But, wait..he was seeing someone else? Ugh. The guy has a new girlfriend every other day.

Besides, you two did have a thing going on in the past. It wasn’t serious. Mainly the occasional hookups. You two were of rivaling families, after all. You both did have your reasons for disliking each other. So, the sex was pretty much hate sex? If that made sense. It wasn’t out of passion. Unless you could call hatred a passion.

Never did you think you’d actually be getting married to him.

After the news broke out that you and Miguel were to be wedded, everything went by in such a blur. Preparations for the wedding. The actual wedding. The honeymoon- which was hardly a honeymoon because neither of you actually spent any time together. It was just too awkward, and you knew that he wasn’t happy with this arrangement as much as you were.

When you first moved into his house, you wanted to sleep in a separate room from him, and he agreed. However, when both of your parents found out about this, they were all livid.

“How will you two get to know each other more and become intimate with each other if you are sleeping in separate beds?” Your mom cried one day when she came to visit you. You assured her there would be other situations where you and your husband would bond. Public situations where you’d be surrounded by other people and talking to those people rather than each other.

You two simply avoided each other as much as possible. And during the times when you two were together, your company was either met with silence or bickering. And sometimes even being at each other’s throats.

He would call you names like ‘immature’ ‘wild’ ‘rowdy’ and so on, simply because you refused to listen to him whenever he demanded something from you.

You’d retaliate and tell him that he was controlling and a perfectionist. Because well, he was. He had to have things done a certain way or it would ensue chaos. And while he was right about you being a little more rowdy and wild, it was simply because you had the luxury of growing somewhat more normal. Your parents did not drill the life of the mafia into your head the same way it was drilled into Miguel’s. Which is why you both clashed when trying to communicate with each other.

Right now, you were at home in the library. You spend a lot of time there, and while Miguel’s taste in reading wasn’t usually to your taste, you’d sometimes find yourself reading some of the novels that he was currently reading, as well as reading some that you’ve been purchasing and adding to the collection.

Which reminded you, you had to head over to the mall and purchase the next book of a spicy romance series you’d been reading. As well as look for an outfit to wear at the next charity event you and Miguel would be attending.

One of the few things you liked about Miguel was that he was very generous and active in the community, helping those less fortunate.

Placing the book down, you rubbed your bag and keys and decided to head out for a bit. Saying goodbye to the house staff as you walked past them, you made your way to the garage, which housed Miguel’s collection of cars, ranging from vintage to sporty and modern to big black suvs that you’d use whenever a bodyguard was transporting you somewhere, like parties. You never understood why someone needed so many cars but, whatever, as long as it wasn’t your money being spent.

You made your way over to your car, glad that you were able to bring it with you when you got married. It was your baby. One of the few things you were able to bring with you.

Glancing over at the clock on the dashboard, you bit your bottom lip. You should have enough time to purchase some books before heading off to your parents for a bit. You did promise them you would show up. They were planning lunch for you. It was your birthday today, after all.

—

Miguel stood in front of the battered man that kneeled before him, hearing the groaning of pain coming from their mouth as blood pooled around the cement floor.

Miguel’s knuckles were bleeding. But, it wasn’t his own blood, but the blood of the poor bastard that withered before him. Miguel didn’t like to use violence. He thought it was a primitive way of negotiating with his enemies. However, there were times when a little violence was necessary to get his point across. And to send a message.

Why was this man being battered like a sack of potatoes?

The man spat blood, a tooth or two flying out with the glob of blood as he remained strapped to his chair. His face was covered in blood. Beat up and mangled by the hands of the tall, brooding man before him.

Miguel slowly knelt down before the man, taking a fistful of his hair, forcing him to look up into his almost amber eyes.

“ Eres un demonio! (You're a demon). Not even the devil himself will want you!” the man spat, a glob of blood landing on Miguel’s cheek.

Miguel let out a hum of disinterest. His eyes lacked any life in them. However, this was when he felt the most alive, seeing his enemies cowering and crumbling before him.

He took out a handkerchief from his breast pocket and cleaned the blood from his cheek before tossing the now soiled material at the man’s feet.

“I take that as a compliment, you know. Maybe I want the devil himself to fear me.”

Miguel took out a cigar from his coat pocket and lit it before giving it a deep inhale and exhaled a heavy cloud of smoke at the man’s face. He couldn't believe that one of Kingpin's goons had infiltrated his circle and posed himself as someone who could've been trusted. Miguel was definitely going to send that fat son of a bitch a message, by killing this guy and sending his corpse back to Kingpin's front door.

Not only that, but it also meant that they were going to have to redo background checks on everyone working for the O’Haras. That was going to be a pain in the ass.

"Gabriel! Hand me my gun," Miguel called out to his brother.

Gabriel, Peter, and Ben were all standing several feet behind Miguel, all watching as their boss beat and battered the man before them.

Gabriel was Miguel’s right hand now that their father had stepped down as head of the O’Hara family. Many thought Gabriel was going to take charge, however, Miguel was much more brutal and cut-throat than Gabriel. It made sense for Miguel to take up the mantle, despite him being an illegitimate son.

Plus, Gabriel preferred being on the sidelines instead of making the decisions.

Gabriel made his way over to his older brother, handing him the gun before stepping back to his original spot.

“Now. We can do this the easy way. Where I ask you a couple of questions and answer them. Or, we can do this the hard way, when I ask you said questions and if you refuse to answer them, I get to shoot you anywhere I want.”

”I would rather you just shoot me! I will never answer to you!” The man croaked.

“You never got shot before, have you?” Miguel hummed as he removed the safety from the gun and cocked it before pulling the trigger, shooting the man on the foot.

The man let out a screeching howl as he thrashed on the chair, letting out a series of curses.

Miguel simply nodded his head. “That’s what I thought. So..shall we begin?”

The whole ordeal took only a matter of minutes, as Miguel wasted no time in trying to get his questions answered. The man was not sitting lifeless on the chair as bullet holes decorated his body.

Kingpin had sent a lower ranked grunt to spy on them, trying to scope up any valuable information to report back to his true boss. Unfortunately for Kingpin, those in the lower ranks didn’t really get to be part of the action and behind-closed door discussions, so, this man’s life was unnecessarily wasted.

“Send his body back to Kingpin. Just leave him on his doorstep,” Miguel said as he examined his suit, letting out a grunt when he saw small splatters of blood. He was going to have to go home and change. “Will do. You should start heading back home. I am sure you wife is waiting for you,” Gabriel said as Peter and Ben began placing the body into a black body bag and carried him out to the waiting pick-up truck.

Miguel pinched the bridge of his nose. He didn’t hate you, but he knew that you hated him. And you had every right. You got married to him out of force, and while that wasn’t necessarily his fault, he didn’t blame you for holding a grudge on him.

“Keep me posted on any activity. I need updated background checks on everyone working for us. We can’t let anyone else slip through the cracks,” Miguel stated as he made his way over to his car, with his brother following behind him. Gabriel nodded his head as he watched his brother leave.

He had to make sure no on in his inner circle was actually working for Kingpin. Is someone indeed was, might as well just shut everything down then and there.

No. Miguel wouldn’t give up just like that. He would just have to work harder and steer Kingpin off track.

But, for the time being, his main goal was to get back home and get to his wife. It was your birthday, after all.

–

You spent the majority of the day with your parents. You had gone over to your former home- which you still miss deeply. It was such a stark contrast from where you lived now. There was just so much character, so much history in this house. It was the same house your great great grandfather had bought as a gift to his lovely wife, your great great grandmother, once their businesses were booming.

It had twelve bedrooms and sixteen bathrooms. A library where your mother would take you to read. When you were young, you’d pick out a book for your mother to read to you in bed. Mainly a fairy tale story.

You always thought your life would be a fairy tale. You always imagined yourself as the princess or heroine, going on adventures and falling in love. However, the universe was not like those in the stories. Maybe in an alternate universe. But, not in this one.

Instead, you were forced to marry the enemy in hopes of forming an alliance. Which, depending on how you looked at it, could’ve been seen as a fairytale. It didn’t feel like it. You weren’t in love with Miguel. You tolerated each other at best. Plus, you guys had shared history which made things pretty awkward at times.

—-

You were back home, waiting for your darling husband to come home and wish you a Happy Birthday. He also supposedly promised to take you out to dinner. It was really an attempt for you two to get somewhat closer together. But, you weren’t sure how well that would play out. You both liked to push each other’s buttons. You were sure it would occur tonight. And honestly, you wouldn’t want to have it any other way. You wanted to be a thorn on his side. He was always so full of himself. Always thought himself to be this bigshot. Untouchable. Unweavered. You loved proving him wrong.

You continued to wait and wait. The house staff had left for the night, including Miss Cheryl, your personally favorite housekeeper. She was an older woman, possibly in her mid-fifties. You never cared to ask her- mainly because you didn’t want to be rude and you actually liked her.

Looking up at the clock in Miguel’s office, you saw that it was already seven thirty in the evening. Reservations were supposedly made for eight. Miguel had thirty minutes to get there.

A part of you didn’t really care if he had forgotten or just waved it off. You didn’t want to force yourself to be nice with him, because who knew, you might just throw a glass of wine at him just as you did during your wedding reception.

You could hear a chime coming from the Alexa that rested on Miguel’s desk, signaling that someone had entered the house.

Finally. You honestly thought he wasn’t going to come.

Raising from his chair, you decided to go ahead and greet your husband.

He was making his way upstairs as you made your way down the hallway, both of you making eye contact.

“You’re late. I thought you weren’t going to come,” you said, crossing your arms over your chest.

As Miguel stepped closer, you could notice blood splattered on his white shirt.

“I know. Let me get changed real quick,” he replied as he walked past you.

You knew Miguel had a way of dealing with those who wronged him. You have seen his blood-stained knuckles, bloodied shirts and a dangerous look in his eyes. It’s pretty much like in the movies. Some poor unlucky soul gets tortured to death by the boss or someone higher up. You’d like to think that Miguel isn’t simply killing people just because of blood-lust. While it wasn’t your business to judge, you didn’t want to be married to someone who is a little too eager to get blood on his hands.

You made your way to his room, standing by the door as you watched Miguel slip on a fresh pair of pants and button-up shirt, something more suitable for dinner. Once he was finished, he took another look at you, furrowing his brows a bit.

“What?” You questioned.

“What are you wearing?”

“What do you mean ‘what are you wearing’?” You asked, looking down at your dress.

“Don’t you think that’s too revealing?” He asked.

“What? Revealing? Where? Don’t tell me showing a little leg and shoulder is prohibited. Come on! This is the height of fashion right now, as well as demonstrating body positivity.” Miguel simply gave you a look as if in disgust. Not for the body positivity part. But rather your fashion choices. He was aware of your family’s success in the fashion industry. He even applauded it. But, he was also a man with much simpler tastes. Tastes that you would sometimes groan over.

“Well, I’m not changing, so let’s just get going,” you said as you grabbed a shawl to compliment your dress, and to shut Miguel up.

The ride to the restaurant was quiet, save for the music that was playing on the radio. You two had very different music tastes. Not surprising. Sometimes you’d change the station or hook up your phone to Bluetooth. But, you tried to sit back and let him listen to his music this time.

When you two managed to get there, Miguel stopped in front of the valet and got out. The valet driver in-waiting opened the car door for you to help you get out as Miguel rounded the car, handing the keys over to the young man who then took the sleek black suv to the parking garage.

He gave you his arm to take. It had become routine. Show some sort of display of affection while in public. You never knew who could be watching. Sometimes cameras would pop out in front of you two.

The proposal was rushed. The engagement. The wedding. People grew suspicious, and rightfully so. Your families quickly came up with a story of how you and Miguel were seeing each other in secret despite the rivalry of the families. The alleged secrecy of romance and hurried marriage gave you two the the title of Romeo and Juliet. Two star-crossed lovers who went against all odds just to be together despite your families and their differences. But, unlike the story, your ending didn’t result in a double-suicide, but rather acceptance, wedding bells, and peace between the two families. Everyone bought it. Well..almost everyone.

As you two made your way inside and were greeted by the hostess, you were taken to a more secluded area of the restaurant. There, the table had been set up especially for you. A bottle of wine rested over a bed of ice, candles were lit on the table, as well as around the perimeter of your area. It would have been romantic, had you actually had romantic feelings for Miguel.

Still, he was a gentleman and he did go out of his way to reserve a nice place for you.

He pulled a chair out for you to sit and scooted you in before taking his seat across from you. The music from a live pianist in the main dining hall still reached your private area. Had it not been for them, the room would’ve been dead silent as you and Miguel silently looked through your menus.

“Can I pour you a glass of your wine?” A waitress asked onceshe approached your table. She was young. Tall and thin with big blue eyes and blonde hair tied up in a ponytail. And wearing way too much makeup. At least for your tastes.

You could see how she was looking at Miguel, batting her fake eyelashes. You thought they were either going to fall off or send her flying away. Either way, you simply rolled your eyes. You didn’t care if Miguel got hit on, but come on, at least not while you were right there to see.

“Yes, thank you,” Miguel said, giving her a charming smile. It made you roll our eyes again. Yes, he was being polite and all, but you could see right through him.

“Can I offer you both an appetizer to start?” She then asked, still looking over at Miguel.

Miguel then looked over to you, giving you a nod. “Would you like something to start with?”

”Yes, actually. Some bread for the table. they usually bring it out at the beginning,” you started. Which was true. You were just trying to be a little petty.

“And how about some crab cakes and a salad for the table?”

The waitress nodded her head, her smile now a straight line. So straight, you could swipe your card through it like a card reader.

“Yes, of course. I will put those in for you and bring you your bread,” she said before leaving the table.

You simply rolled your eyes once again as you settled back against your seat.

“How was lunch with your family?” Miguel then asked, trying to make conversation.

“It was fine,” you responded. Usually, your responses would be short, and Miguel wouldn’t entertain the topic further. You knew you should at least try to get along with him, giving that you are married and that you will be spending the rest of your life with him. You simply assumed that it just hadn’t kicked in yet. You were going to try, though.

One day.

“Ah, Mr. O’Hara! Mrs. O’Hara! A pleasure to see you two here tonight!” Someone behind you exclaimed. You could hear their heavy footsteps before turning around and seeing the owner and head chef of the restaurant. “Javier. A pleasure to see you,” Miguel said. “We were just celebrating my wife’s birthday.” “Ah! Of course! Happy birthday, Mrs. O’Hara. You look as stunning as ever,” Javier exclaimed. The man was five foot three, a mix of tan to sunburned skin, and all round. He kind of reminded you of the Pillsbury mascot. He looked so squishable and jolly.

“Actually, Javier. Would you mind me having a word with you, real quick?” Miguel then asked, scooted his chair back from the table and stood, easily towering over the man.

“O-oh! O-of cours! Of course! Come, come! Let’s step to the side,” Javier stated, now looking a little nervous as he led Miguel out of the room, leaving you alone.

All while Miguel was having his private conversation with Javier, the waitress came back with the bread and appetizers.

“We are going to need a couple of minutes,” you stated as she placed everything onto the tables.

“Of course! I’ll make my way back around in a few minutes,” the waitress said, giving you a tight-lipped smile.

You tried your best to not roll your eyes at her again as she left. Letting out a sigh, you decided to dig into the bread and appetizers. You sure weren’t going to wait for Miguel to come back to start eating. You never waited for him. Not because you didn’t want to, but because you knew you’d be waiting forever for him.

–

Soon enough, you were back home. You were still slightly curious about the conversation Miguel had with Chef Javier. But, you didn’t think you should press Miguel about it. Some things were meant to be kept in private. Besides, you wanted no part of this whole mafia stuff. It had stolen so much of your freedom already. You wanted to remain ignorant of what goes on behind closed doors as much as possible.

You both made your way upstairs, neither of you speaking as you made your way to your rooms for the night.

Tomorrow you were planning on heading over to the boutique. Your cousin was currently operating it and sometimes you’d go to help her out. It helped you get out of the house every once in a while. Plus, you were usually filled with inspiration when you were surrounded by your family’s clothing. You were still working on your portfolio to give out to various companies, in hopes they would hire you.

You were confident that they would. You were talented. Plus, you have your family’s name to back you up. Now, all you had to do was to make sure you get a good night’s rest so you could get up refreshed.

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wolken-himmel · 2 years ago

Text

In which (Y/n) ends up in the infirmary because a child wandering around campus bit her.

It turns out that the feral boy is Floyd's and her child from the future.

Request by anon.

"(Y/n), we came as quickly as we could!"

A jolt ran through your body when the door to the infirmary was pushed open with an incredible force. Before you could even begin to recover from the awful noise the hinges produced, you found three figures surrounding your bed.

"What happened to you?" Deuce asked and pointed to your finger in worry. "Someone said you got bitten?"

Ace poked the band-aid that covered the tip of your pointer finger. "Bitten by a feral animal? By Grim?" he asked and began laughing, especially when the cat in question grumbled a few curses of protests.

Much to your amusement, Deuce shot the cat a stern look and wagged his finger in front of his disgruntled eyes. "Grim, what did we tell you?" the blue-haired boy scolded, narrowing his eyes. "Don't bite the hand that feeds you..."

"It wasn't me, I swear!" Grim threw his hands into the air while Ace and you merely laughed your souls out. Your amusement seemed to confuse Deuce, so much that the cat had to explain, "I don't bite people. I have class, you know..."

"Yeah, I was bitten—" you began slowly.

"But you're not bleeding out, are you?" Ace interrupted you and took precautionary step backwards. "And please tell me you didn't get rabies..."

By then, your left eye had begun twitching in frustration — oh, and your ears had begun hurting with all the excessive noise. Before the three could begin arguing amongst each other again, you had already raised your hands to shut them up. "Let me finish my sentences, you idiots!" They quieted down at once, all due to the angry glare you shot them. "No, I got bitten by a child... It was a boy, turquoise blue hair and very very sharp teeth. He couldn't have been older than seven..."

"How... did a child get on campus?" Ace asked with scrunched up eyebrows.

"I don't know..." you grumbled and sank into the soft infirmary bed again — it was much softer than the one back at Ramshackle. After a deep exhale, you closed your eyes and waved the three off. "Just ask Crowley or something."

"And where is the boy now?" Deuce piped up, his eyes flashing with concern. "What if he bites other people? He could seriously hurt someone—"

The red-head rolled his eyes. "It's just a child, you idiot..."

"No, trust me, Ace," you interjected seriously. A series of shivers ran down your back, and something akin to trauma darkened your eyes. "That boy is a menace to society."

"So what do we do now?" Grim asked, panicked.

His blue eyes flashing with utter determination, a bulb seemed to light up above Deuce's head. "We could put up some traps," he suggested while pacing up and down the empty infirmary. "You know, attach some thread to a branch and then prop up a cage. And then use candy as bait."

You clicked your tongue. "That's how you catch a stray cat, not a child..."

"Ugh, why do our professors always give us so much homework? I barely even have time to fulfil my daily squeeze quota anymore! Jade, my whole life is falling apart! What is the purpose of living if I can't have fun?"

"Oh Floyd... please tell me you're finished with the alchemy assignment for tomorrow."

The twins were walking side by side, traversing another courtyard to get to the Mirror Chamber for their shifts at the lounge. Yet, dread already pooled in the depths of Jade's stomach when he looked upon the moody frown on his brother's face. Floyd's mood swings and work didn't mix well at all — it was like throwing oil and water together.

"Nope," Floyd chimed innocently, "haven't even started yet with that stupid assignment."

"The deadline is tomorrow..." Jade furrowed his eyebrows in worry.

His concerned tone merely drew an annoyed scoff from Floyd's pursed lips. "I wasn't in the mood." A whine escaped his lips when he raised his long arms to stretch lazily. His lips twisted downwards into a pout when he suddenly complained, "I haven't seen (Y/n) all day! My little shrimpy would usually bribe me with hugs and what not to do my homework..."

Jade shook his head in disbelief. "By the Great Seven, Floyd..."

Before he could properly begin scolding his brother, a high-pitched voice reached their ears — someone was calling out to them, and the voice was drawing closer. "Daddy!" they managed to discern once the voice was close enough. And almost simultaneously, a young child threw himself into Floyd's arms while continously muttering 'Daddy' over and over again.

Reluctantly moving his arms around the boy to support him, Floyd furrowed his eyebrows in confusion and a tad bit of annoyance. "Huh? What do you want, little guppy?" The sharpness of his eyes softened up though as soon as he found the child's cheeks covered in dried tears. The boy continued wailing and clinging to the Octavinelle student. "Oh my, why are you crying?"

"I-I hurt Mommy earlier!" the boy confessed guiltily. "I bit her! I didn't mean to... I was just so excited to see her again! And I was so happy that I chomped down a little bit too much... It was meant as a love nibble..."

"And where is your mommy?" Jade asked hesitantly.

The boy's mood seemed to increase once he laid eyes upon the other twin. "Uncle Jade! You're here, too!" he exclaimed with a toothy smile.

Floyd and Jade shot each other surprised looks, astonished by the young boy's ease at telling them apart. Yet, with the way he addressed them, they both began to worry.

"I don't remember having a son, Jade..."

"Neither do I."

Before they could ask the child for answers, three figures came running towards them — two Heartslabyul students and a familiar cat monster. All of them were out of breath when they came to a halt in front of the twins.

"Floyd! Step away from that child at once!" Deuce exclaimed and extended his flat hand warningly. "He's dangerous..."

"This little guppy? No, he ain't dangerous at all." A bout of laughter escaped Floyd's lips when he began tickling the boy affectionately. "What's your name, guppy?" he cooed and cradled him gently.

"Nemo!" the boy chimed.

"See?" Floyd drawled. "So cute."

Grim shook his head hastily. "That boy bit (Y/n)!"

The remark caused Jade to tense at once. His limbs suddenly frozen, he only managed to slowly crane his neck at his brother, who was still busy playing with the mysterious boy. Now, on closer look, Jade managed to see the resemblance between the wild boy and the Ramshackle prefect. His disbelief still didn't lessen, somehow, when he carefully asked, "Wait... so (Y/n) is your mother, Nemo?"

The boy immediately piped up happily when that name reached his ears. "Mommy! Where is she?" His toothy smile showed off his razer-sharp teeth. "Is she alright?"

"Great," Ace grumbled under his breath, "so we bought the cage and candy for nothing..."

The revelation had Floyd perking up in utter delight. His bad mood from earlier had disappeared entirely, based on the way he was grinning widely. "Woah, so Shrimpy and I are gonna have little shrimpies together in the future?" Giggles escaped his lips while he threw the child into the air. "I love it! You're making my day, little guppy~"

"If that's the future, you should work hard for it..." Jade muttered mischievously. "Maybe this is a sign by the Great Seven to work on your assignment for tomorrow."

"Nemo, what do you know of alchemy?" Floyd asked, his laughter mixing with his son's giggles. "I'm sure you'll help your daddy work on his assignment, no?"

The question made Jade's smile waver. "Oh, he's hopeless..."

#twisted wonderland #twst x reader #twst #disney twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland x reader #reader insert #y/n #disney twst #twst x you #floyd leech #twst floyd leech #twst floyd x reader #twisted wonderland floyd #twst floyd #floyd leech x reader #female reader

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viennakarma · 10 months ago

Text

Satisfaction [Part 2]

PART 2 OF SATISFACTION

Summary: Four times Lewis tried to apologize, and one time he didn't need to.

Word count: 4.3k

Tags: female!reader, apologetic!Lewis (finally), physiotherapist!reader, a little bit of romance, Lewis is trying, reader is more forgiving than the author would be, cursing, a bit angsty, happy ending, not beta read

Relationship: Lewis Hamilton x Reader

Note: I'm so sorry for taking so long with this! I had a writer's block specifically with this one. For everyone who sent me asks about it, I read everything, sorry if I didn't reply to all! Luckily, one dramatic anon sent me an ask saying they would graduate college with a doctorate before this came out, and it made me laugh out loud BUT it actually sparked something in my brain and I managed to write, lol. So, thanks, Dramatic Anon, I owe you one :D

I'm sorry if it's rushed or full of mistakes (haven't had the time to proofread).

Find me on Twitter!

“Hey, Lewis! How are you doing?” Angela said as soon as she picked up his call, and Lewis held his breath before answering.

“Yeah, uh, I’m alright-”, he scratched his face nervously.

“I hope you’re not giving Y/N a hard time anymore, yeah?” Angela joked a little, her voice light.

“Oh. You know about that?”

“Yeah, I called her a few days ago to check in how’s the work and she mentioned you were not very receptive,” Angela said and Lewis noticed that, even saying that, you didn’t call him what he was. A complete prick. “And since she didn’t call again, I assumed things got better between you two.”

“Well, about that-” Lewis sighed, not knowing.

“What?” Angela paused, her voice suddenly serious again.

“She resigned. And it was entirely my fault.” He ripped the band-aid off.

“Lewis, what the actual fuck?!”

“I was awful to her. Way worse than I assume she told you. And before you call me every name under the sun, I need to contact her and apologize. Unfortunately, she blocked my number now, so if you can kindly let me know her address, so I can apologize.”

“You better fix this mess, Lewis.” Angela said before ending the call, as less than a minute later, a text popped up on his screen, your address. Which was in London, not very far from his own neighborhood.

Lewis sent flowers to your place with a small note apologizing and asking you to unblock him. When you didn’t answer and didn’t unblock him, he called the florist he had ordered to double check if you had received the flowers. You did. So you just didn’t want to talk to him. He kept sending a bouquet every day for the next three days. On the fourth day, as he was back home, he decided to go to your place himself.

He brought another bouquet, ringing the bell in your house. He rose the bouquet to cover his face, and he heard your voice, opening.

“Hi there, buddy! If I give you a hundred pounds, would you not bother bringing these flowers here? Just- throw them on the bin or something-” You stopped abruptly as the flowers lowered revealing not the young delivery man who’s been bringing flowers to your place every single day, but Lewis Hamilton himself.

“So you’re not even receiving the flowers?” He asked, sounding hurt.

“I got the first one, and I have no interest in anything that comes from you,” you managed to say, looking him straight in the eyes.

You looked exhausted, your hair was messy and your face lacked any makeup. But worse of all, you looked hurt and angry.

“Wait, let me just- let me apologize, I can explain even if it’s not-” He dropped the bouquet, pleading.

“Just fuck off, ok? You have not a single reason to be here today.”

“I was an ass to you and-”

“And now we’re nothing. We are just strangers, nothing more, nothing less. Fuck off!” You said and didn’t even give him a second before slamming the door on his face.

II.

So the flowers were a no.

And he wasn’t sure where to go from that, since he couldn’t come up with any other way to make you at least give him a chance to talk.

He was still trying to think of something when he crossed paths with Oscar Piastri during media day. Lewis stopped dead in his tracks as he saw the rookie driver munching on a little protein bar, the package showing it was the same as you had offered him weeks earlier.

“Hey, there, Oscar!” Lewis greeted him, “if you don’t mind me asking. Where did you get this?” He pointed to the little package in his hand.

“Oh, Lando’s new PT! She’s covering for Jon as he’ll be a few weeks on paternity leave.”

“Oh, is she here?”

“At McLaren, yes.”

Lewis nodded, going straight there, not bothering with explaining why he was there just walking in. He found you in a small room with Lando. You were guiding him through a stretching session with a silicone stretching. Lando was telling you something and you were laughing, a hand on his shoulder as Lando pulled his arms in and out.

“-no way you said that! Poor thing, she must have been scared!” You said, then you two laughed.

You were looking healthier than the last few times he had seen you. You looked like you had been sleeping well, and your hair was pretty, and you were wearing make up.

As Lewis approached, and you noticed his presence, you stopped laughing, face getting serious and focused on Lando.

“Oh, hey man!” Lando greeted him, smiley and unaware of the thing between you two.

“Hi. Y/N, can I talk to you? I just need one minute then I’ll leave you alone.”

You scoffed but didn’t look at him, and Lando looked from your face to Lewis’ confused with the tension suddenly so thick he would be able to cut it with a knife.

“Y/N, can you just-”

“You’re all good, Lando. Tomorrow we do another session an hour before Free Practice, and then a stretching session between FP1 and FP2.”

Lando nodded, unsure of what to do so he just watched as you turned away and packed your bag, leaving with long strides through the door.

“Mate, I don’t know what the fuck you did, because I’ve never seen her be mean ever since I met her. Good luck, though, seems like you need it.” Lando said, leaving to the opposite side.

Lewis muttered “fuck” before going after you. He found you outside the motorhome, and ran up to block your path, but he miscalculated and you ended up running straight into him.

“What the fuck? Dude, just leave me alone!” You tried walking past him but he blocked you again.

“Please, I’m so sorry! Really, I am, I was such a dick to you and you didn’t deserve any of that.”

You didn’t look at his eyes, adjusting your bag as you sighed.

“I just- I don’t understand why you are doing this. I’m no one, I’m nothing. Just go on about your life.”

“No, no- You’re not nothing. I’m really sorry for the way I treated you when all you offered me was kindness.”

“Fine! Ok.” you muttered, seemingly exhausted, “Can I go now?”

He knew you didn’t actually forgive him, so he just let you go because he didn’t want to pressure you into something you were visibly not ready for. It didn’t mean he would give up, just that he needed a different approach.

III.

Lewis managed to find out that you’d stay a few more weeks working with Lando, so he arranged a well crafted plan to have you listen to him.

Desperate times asked for desperate measures.

So he managed to talk Lando into letting him drive you to the track that weekend, you two would have time to talk on the drive. He waited behind the wheel watching as you went to the backseat to leave your bags, then you opened the passenger door, smiling and chatting. But you stopped smiling as soon as you sat down and noticed him.

“What are you doing here?” You asked, sounding more annoyed than angry.

“I’m your ride to the track today.”

“I’d rather not,” you muttered, removing the seat belt you had just put on.

“There’s no one else to take you there, please, just let us go,” he asked softly. You sighed, putting on the seat belt again and he smiled reaching the cup holder and offering you a cup of coffee, “got you a coffee.”

“Thanks,” you took it begrudgingly, but as you took a sip, you noticed it was your favorite, “how do you know I like this coffee?”

“You told me, during one of our sessions.”

“I thought you weren’t listening to a single word I said,” you scoffed, almost disdainful. He took it, because taking your anger was little compared to what he did to you.

“I listened to you.”

“Weird way of showing, then.”

You stared at the road he was softly driving. You didn’t like his company, that much was clear, but he was on a mission, and he would be damned if he wasn’t going to properly apologize.

“I don’t even know why you treated me like trash,” you muttered suddenly, sniffling like you were trying to contain the tears, “just- I was so happy, you know? I’ve always been a fan of Formula 1, watched it growing up and everything. Then I get here all happy to achieve the greatest dream and I just get treated like shit from day one. I tried to be funny, I tried to be kind, I tried to be silent, and none of it worked. I don’t understand what you want from me now! I’m a person too, ok? I get sad and frustrated, and I have my own problems, but I don’t go around making everyone else’s lives shit just because I’m mad!”

“Yes, you are right. I treated you like shit when you never deserved it. I really regret it, for what it's worth,” He sighed, looking at you for a moment before focusing on the road, “my life was shit. I know it’s not an excuse, but it’s the truth. I was just coming out of a relationship that I thought meant a lot to me, and I just lost Angela, who is one of my closest friends, and I was on the verge of losing my seat. It felt like everything was going wrong for a few weeks.”

That made you pause, turning to stare at him.

“What do you mean, losing your seat?” You sounded genuinely curious, and even a little worried.

“The negotiations for a new contract weren’t going ahead, and I was really worried Mercedes was going to get rid of me.”

“But you’re like- one of the GOATs! Why would they lose you?” Now you sounded exasperated, like you couldn't believe that.

“Well, now everything is alright and signed, but it felt like I was really at risk back then.”

You stayed silent for a few minutes, mulling over his words, trying to wrap your head around his excuses. You were thoughtful the rest of the drive, until Lewis pulled up in a parking lot at the track. Finally, you nodded to yourself.

“I forgive you, Lewis. Just- Don’t do that to anyone ever again, it’s not cool,” you said, unlocking the seat belt, “thank you for the ride and for the effort in apologizing. Goodbye, Lewis.”

You took your bags from the backseat and left after waving at him again. It felt like a closed chapter to you, and you could bury whatever resentment you felt towards him. It was freeing in a way.

IV.

Lewis didn’t see you for a couple more race weeks, despite casually walking in front of McLaren’s garage and hospitality. He couldn’t catch a glimpse of you and he genuinely worried that your last goodbye was definitive.

Fortunately he saw you again late at night after a race. Almost everyone had left already, and Lewis had a long debriefing meeting with his team, so it was sheer luck to find you on the way to the parking lot, where you were standing against the wall, hugging yourself under a big coat and holding your bags. You seem worried and unwell.

“Hey,” he said, trying to sound like he wasn’t ecstatic to see you again, “are you ok?”

“Yeah, um- I missed my ride back to the hotel, so I’m trying for an uber or something,” you said, but Lewis unnoticed how you were pale and your lips looked dry.

“Are you sure you’re ok? You look like you’re about to pass out.” He pointed, and you breathed in, slowly. You felt very, very cold, with shivers up your body that you miserably trying to contain.

“I’ve got a little fever,” you mentioned, finally. Lewis raised his hand and touched your forehead, feeling it way more warm than a little fever.

“Little fever? You’re burning!” He exclaimed, putting his own Mercedes coat over you, then taking your bags and putting them over his shoulder, “Come on, I’ll give you a ride back.”

“You don’t have to, really-”

“I’m not leaving you here in the late hours of the night while having a fever! Now, come on!”

He held your forearm, worried you’d stumble and fall or something. With a big umbrella to face the rain, he guided you to his car, where a driver was waiting. The two of you sat on the backseat as Lewis instructed the driver to take you to the hotel.

“Should we take you to see a doctor or something?” Lewis asked.

“No, don’t worry, I already took an antipyretic. It should work soon.”

Back in the hotel, Lewis accompanied you up to your room even when you wanted to refuse, but he said he was worried, and it felt honest, so you let him take you up. He didn’t let you say anything as he pushed the door of your room and walked you inside.

“Are you still feeling cold?” He asked.

“Yes,” you put your bags away, but you watched as Lewis went into your luggage, “um- excuse me?” you crossed your arms, annoyed at him going through your things.

“Change into this, it will keep you warm,” he tossed you a sweater and matching pants, “I’ll ask room service for soup, so you can warm up.”

Huffing, you went into the bathroom and changed, glad because you were in fact a little bit warmer. You wore socks for the cold and got into bed, where Lewis helped tuck you in, pulling the duvet tight around you.

“Why are you doing all this? We’re just strangers, Lewis.” You shook your head, watching as he walked around the bed and sat beside you over the duvet.

“We’re not strangers, and I wanted to help,” he shrugged.

“We are strangers, we know nothing about each other,” you muttered.

“Well, I’m Lewis, my favorite color is purple and I have a dog named Roscoe,” he said which made you chuckle a little, “there, not strangers anymore.”

“Well, I’m Y/N, my favorite color is yellow and I don’t have a pet yet, but hopefully soon.”

Lewis eyed you carefully.

“I know you’re with McLaren on a temporary contract, so I was wondering if you’d be willing to come back to Mercedes after that,” he said, slowly. You sighed, shaking your head.

“I won’t go back, Lewis.” You said softly, for him to know you weren’t angry anymore, but the world had spun, life went on…

“But- Ellie said you were such a big fan! It’s ok if you don’t want to work with me anymore, I’ll understand. But I don’t think it’s fair that you lose your chance in such a big dream because of an asshole like me!”

“There are always other dreams to have, Lewis. When a door closes, others may open,” you untucked your arm so you could hold his arm in comfort. He held your hand, and when he felt your cold hand, he rubbed it softly, to warm you up.

“It’s not fair-”

“Lewis, I’m moving to Madrid in a few weeks.”

He stopped, visibly deflated hearing your words.

“I’m so sorry, I should’ve never-”

“Lewis, it’s not because of you,” you pushed the duvet, freeing yourself so you could sit up beside him, backs to the headboard, “I got an amazing offer from Real Madrid. I’m gonna join their PT team.”

“Oh.”

His stomach dropped once again, thinking that life would lead you two different paths, new future, new plans, and Lewis won’t even be able to make it up to you through time as he was hoping for. Lewis expected that, with you coming back to Mercedes, he would have time to apologize with actions, more than just words.

“They’re my favorite football team, and I’ve always dreamed of getting there,” when you noticed how down he was with the news of your departure, you pressed his hand a bit more, “I told you there are many dreams to achieve.”

“You wouldn’t have to worry about it if I hadn’t been so-”

“That’s enough, Lewis, it has nothing to do with you. This is my choice, something that I also dreamed of. It’s not the end of the world. If anything, there are lessons in what we went through.”

He wanted to ask you to stay, to give him and the Mercedes dream one more chance, but he knew it would be selfish of him to ask that. And he wasn’t willing to be selfish with you anymore. He would only have maybe a few more weeks with you, that he intended to nurture a friendship with you.

When your soup arrived, he stayed and watched you eat, and you thanked him profusely as the meds started working and you felt the fever dissipating.

Lewis ended up going back to McLaren to find you all the time. Sometimes he brought a coffee for you, some other times he just wanted to invite you to lunch, or he wanted a protein bar, and after almost two weeks of that, his excuses ran dry and he only said he wanted to check on you. and he had been checking on you for a couple more weeks now.

“So…” Lando muttered with a knowing smirk, “you and Lewis, uh?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you said, as you spotted Lando from behind, analyzing his squats.

“You went from hating him to becoming his friend pretty quickly,” Lando pointed.

“And…?”

“I don’t know but he’s here all the time to see you.”

“Nah, he’s just passing by.”

Lando let go of teasing you and switched topics to talk about something else for the remainder of your session. After you finished and Lando went for the post race debrief, you were getting ready to leave when Lewis found you again.

“What do you want?” You squinted your eyes at him. Lando’s teasing voice still in your head.

“Moody, are we?” Lewis joked, crossing his arms and leaning against the wall.

“Lewis.”

“Fine, fine! I’m taking you to dinner later today, ok?”

“Are you asking me out or demanding?” You frowned, pretending to be moody.

“I’m inviting you and implying I’m not taking no for an answer,” He winked.

“Lewis, I don’t think we-”

“Think of it as a farewell, celebratory dinner, yes? You’re leaving so soon to Madrid! Pretty please?” He joined both hands like he was begging.

“Fine. Stop pouting.” You rolled your eyes and he giggled, before leaving.

He texted you two hours later saying he was coming to pick you up. You dressed cozy and comfortable, since it was absolutely not a date. He texted you to let you know he was downstairs when you were finishing with your hair. As soon as you got in the car, you checked Lewis’ outfit.

“Is this ok?” You asked, pointing at yourself.

“It’s perfect.”

Lewis drove for forty minutes to the next town over. In the end, he took you to a cozy restaurant, small, a little cramped but so familial and cozy. You two sat in a corner booth, far from the windows. You went over the menu as Lewis explained that this place’s food tasted homemade and they also had vegan options, so he always went there whenever he was in that part of Italy.

You told Lewis everything about your move, how you had found a great apartment close to work, how you had enrolled in Spanish classes to start a month after your arrival, and everything.

After a hearty meal and chatting a lot, you two decided to go for a walk to eat some ice cream. The air was windy but not very cold, so you just walked side by side a little late at night.

“Are you sure nobody will see us?” You looked around to see if anyone had recognised him or had taken pictures.

“Yes, it’s very discreet in this part of town. Besides, it’s a little late, so not many people are around.”

“This is a very good gelato, Lewis! Thanks for taking me out today.” You muttered as the two of you walked around a big, dark park. You stood under a lamp post, finishing the last of your ice cream.

“How are you feeling about Madrid?” He asked you, looking interested.

“Nervous. Excited. I don’t know.” You whispered, smiling, you held the lamp post and let it take your weight as you flung around, all smiley because of the bit of wine you had at the restaurant, “It’s like a new adventure. You know when you’re about to do something that might be risky but gratifying? You’re scared but you have to-”

As you completed a full 360 around the lamp post, you were met with Lewis walking up to you and kissing you. He pressed his lips to yours, firm but tender, and it took you a while to assimilate what was happening. You held his coat and pushed him away only enough to break the kiss. The lime gelato kiss that had your stomach full of butterflies, and your heart beating almost out of its cage.

“Lewis-” you shook your head, still confused.

“Sorry, I- I just couldn’t pass on the opportunity,” he sighed and his breath fanned your cheek.

“We shouldn’t,”

“Why not?” He raised one hand to cradle your face, his thumb running your cheek.

“Because we started too messy. And- and I’m leaving soon. We don’t need to complicate things.”

You whispered, still not pulling away fully. You wanted it, so bad. But you knew you couldn’t get tangled in a messy situationship right before leaving. He was tempting, but you weren’t willing to risk whatever time was left of your silly little friendship.

So you took a step back. Still, you took his hand in yours, letting his warmth engulf you.

“Sorry,” he cleared his throat, but you just smiled at him, seeing how he was memorizing your face, and how your eyes were shining bright for him.

“It’s ok. Just, wrong place and wrong time, right?”

He gulped, nodding.

You didn’t kiss again, but Lewis held your hand the whole drive back to Monza.

Understandably, Lewis didn’t come back for your last week at McLaren. Despite being a little hurt about his absence, it didn’t really upset you, deep down you knew that it was better like this. The distance would make the goodbye easier for the man who wormed his way into your life. The whole team at McLaren gave you a farewell cake, which was sweet considering you were just a temporary hire.

You had tears in your eyes saying goodbye to the team and to the formula 1 track.

After that, you went back to London to finish packing, and shipping a few of your furniture and belongings. The dinner with your family and closest friends was filled with tears, and you finally caught up with Angela, explaining everything that had happened.

When the day came, your parents and siblings took you to the airport and you said goodbye with teary eyes and a heavy heart.

You were about to board when a sudden commotion caught your attention, and from between the crowd Lewis Hamilton emerged, running towards you as if he were in a marathon. Confused and shocked, you waited for him to get closer, and as soon as he stopped in front of you, he held your face with both hands and pulled you in a kiss. After two seconds, you returned the kiss, deepening it by opening your lips. He devoured you for a couple more seconds, before pulling away when you were both panting.

“Lewis? What the fuck?”

“This doesn’t have to be a goodbye, right? We can- I don’t know, we can figure it out,” He muttered, face close to you.

“Lewis,” you hesitated, “I’m moving away. We’ll spend most of out time in different time zones-”

“Wouldn’t you like to try? It’s better to try than spend our lives haunted by what ifs” His argument was convincing. And the fact that he was just centimeters from your face, and the fact that you had just kissed and his cologne was divine… Very tempting.

“Lewis, the next time you cause a scene in front of an entire airport, I’m killing you,” you whispered, pecking his lips once more as the crowd dissipated of people boarding the plane.

“I wanted it to be memorable, like a romcom.”

“You’re annoying, that’s what you are. You’re lucky you’re handsome” You rolled your eyes, but Lewis could still see the big smile on your face, eyes glinting.

“Is that a yes to my question?”

“One date, Hamilton. And we’ll see where it will go from that” You smiled, pushing his chest, taking a step back.

“I’m going to Madrid as soon as the triple header is over,” He promised, pulling you close again by the waist.

“You better! I don’t know, maybe I will meet a handsome Spaniard,” You joked, playing hard to get. You closed the distance so you could whisper in his ear, “You better work if you want any prize, pretty boy.”

He gasped at your seductive words, and you pushed him away. He smiled at you. Pulling one of his necklaces, he put it around your neck, a pearl one, very beautiful. The airport called all the passengers for the flight.

“A promise. Yeah?” He said, holding the necklace softly.

“Yeah. See you soon?” You nodded.

“See you soon.”

He watched as you walked away, and before boarding, you turned around and blew him a kiss. He laughed, pretending it hit him right over his heart.

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#f1 fanfic #f1 x reader #f1 imagine #f1 fic #fic talk #f1 #lewis hamilton x reader #lewis hamilton x you #formula one #formula 1

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