#lancing blisters

[soulvtude]

Hc that lance always brings bandaids with him 'just in case'

[practically-an-x-man]

ok so first of all. picking with the sixpence is AWESOME, I think I played every single Queen song I know (which is a lot) in a fit of excitement lol.

second. it IS actually different from picking with a quarter (which I tested out before i had the sixpence). the sixpence is smaller and just the slightest bit thinner, so it doesn't have the same bulkiness and issues with dexterity that the quarter does. it's actually quite easy to pick with, and results in a good strong sound on all the notes! I can see why it's Brian May's go-to rather than a traditional guitar pick

third. i haven't had time to practice guitar much these past few weeks bc life has been crazy. then tonight spent 30+ minutes continuously playing a lot of technically challenging solos. needless to say i now have a blister on my left middle fingertip. so that's fun

[cheriladycl01]

Qatar Heat - Grid x Driver! Reader

Plot: Everyone has a hard time at the Qatar GP, most needed medical attention once the race finished, some drivers retired and some continued even though they threw up in their helmets. What happens when the female of the grid, who already struggles with body temperature regulation finishes the race?

It was Thursday, which was media day in Qatar which meant that right now you were walking round the paddock in shorts and your Aston Martin Team top.

"Lance, hey are you okay?" You ask your team-mate. You'd known him since last year as the reserve driver for Aston Martin, Seb wanted you to take his place after retirement.

"Yeah, its just so hot. And Henry's still making me do training" he complains.

"I know but think we got the ice bath's later!" you grin excited to have the ice bath. After a hot day of training it was like a reward. So you did your ball exercises and you did a track run for the media team. Afterwards you were about to lay down on the track ground but it was blistering when you put your hand to it.

"Tires are gonna get shredded" you complain a little out of breath to Jessie your personal trainer.

"Can we go get water and smoothies now?" You ask and Sid one of the media guys who had followed you around today nods. You guys get out of the sun before running into the garage and collecting as many people's orders from the garage as you can.

You bring everyone back what they wanted on a tray. Sid filmed you the whole time, so he could upload it to the Tik-Tok saying that the new Aston Martin waitress is pretty cool. And another one joking that you can always fall back on waitressing if F1 falls through which you found hilarious.

"Okay, Lance Y/N. Ice bath time!" Mike Krack informs you both. You go into your driver room changing into your bikini that'd you'd brought with you. You pull the Aston Martin polo back over, feeling as though it would be odd to walk out the back of the motorhome in a bikini.

You see the cameras on you and immediately smile. You go up very close to the camera.

"Hi guys, i felt awkward coming out in just my bikini so Aston Martin Representation!" you whisper before stepping back and poking your thumbs at your top to show them what you were talking about, as if it wasn't obvious.

Looking to your left, Lando, Oscar, Alex and Logan were also all doing icebaths out the back of the motorhome too.

"Looking good boys" you shout after wolf whistling in their direction, they all laugh having finished their icebaths coming over to you and Lance.

"Come on" Alex gestures you towards the ice bath. You roll your eyes pulling the top over your head and passing it to Alex, he steps back looking at the other three boys who are shamelessly staring at you.

You were the current youngest on the grid. 21 years old, so Oscar, Logan and Lando all took a liking to you, not only because of the age similarities but because of your sense of humor.

"Ready Lance, you ask your team-mate whose shirt was just pulled off and handed to Mike who was helping the social media team.

"Lets make this interesting. First to fully submerge wins"

"That's not exactly fair your from Canada...okay your on" you shout and before anyone can blink your jumping into the ice bath. Your up to your thighs before you watch as Lance starts to sink down. Not even thinking about the cold you just force your whole body down. You can feel the cold all around your hair as it floats up and you can feel the cold water on your eyelids.

You come back up with a gasped breath before looking over at all of them.

"Who won, it was me right?" you say with your eyes blown wide as Lance emerges.

"Yes, but your fucking crazy" Lando laughs looking at the smile that comes across your face.

"Hahaha Suck that Stroll! I win" you say looking over at him.

"Ohhh you know what we should do" you say looking over at the camera that was still pointed at you.

"We should do a thirst trap of me, so people can edit me on TikTok!" you exclaim and Oscar chokes, while Logan and Land laugh as your started to lean back in the bath, running your hands through you hair.

"Y/N how many times have we talked about this" Your PR manager exclaims trying to stop the admins from filming.

"Oh come on its what they want!" You exclaim.

After that night, you went out for food, a healthy meal of course that Lance payed for as the looser of the bet.

Friday First Practice was good, you'd come in 4th just behind the two Ferrari's and Max.

Qualifying was just as good, you were starting in 4th next to Lewis, with George and Max ahead of you for Sunday's race and that was locked in. It was exhausting, you were boiling but you pushed. Lance was angry with the car performance and got angry at Henry, you were shocked to see and hear what happened when you were still driving and scolded Lance, before nearly fainting from being dizzy.

Again, you did the ice bath dinner and slept.

Now to focus on Saturdays sprint. You did well in the first two sprint shoot outs. But ended up retiring the car in Q3, starting in 9th position.

You were so faint for the whole race. Today, it was hotter than all the other days. Your fireproof felt more clingy to your skin than usual and the water in the car was heating up quicker than it normally did.

At one point during the sprint race the water was so disgusting to drink you actually spat it out in your helmet on reflex.

You finished in 8th gaining 1 point for the team who congratulated you. You stayed in the car as you pulled into the garage for a minute before you stripped of in the garage down to tank top and your underwear. You sat on the cold garage floor, head in your hands as you panted, looking for breath.

A team member brought an orange juice up to you, tapping you on the shoulder to which you shake there hand and thank them for the gesture.

You sip it slowly, not wanting to gag like you had before.

"How you doing sweetheart" Mike comes up to you, everyone in the garage had reported to him, how red and beat up you look coming out the car. You look at him and nod.

"It's always been harder for me" you laugh looking up at him wiping the sweat from your forehead before it falls down into your eye.

"What do you mean?" he asks crouching down so he's at a similar level to you.

"I mean, you've probably never checked my medical papers right. And women struggle with heat more than men anyway but my body doesn't regulate its temperate that well... so I've always struggled with being hot in the car but this is next level" you sigh to him.

"Are you going to be okay to race. We can get Drugovich to fill" Mike says concern filling his face as he can tell your struggling from the speech pattern and labored breathing.

"No i promise I'll be okay and I'll bring us home points" you smile.

I'm going to go congratulate Oscar on his Sprint win. You smile before holding you hand out for help. He helps you up and you trot over to Mclaren pulling the taller male into a hug the minute you see him.

"You did amazingly Ozzie" you grin, still holding onto him.

"Hey! I did well as well" Lando interrupts and you roll you eyes before turning to look at the man baby behind you.

"Yes yes, well done on P3 Lando Norris" you grin pulling him towards you and hugging him. He hugs you back before lifting you and squeezing you making you groan at the harshly shown affection that you were used too.

"How you feeling about tomorrow starting P4?"

"I'm hoping for a podium with my boys" you grin, pulling them both in, one arm round each of them.

"With us starting P6 and P10. I doubt that" Oscar groans, knowing he stuffed up Qualifying the other day, along with his team mate.

"Never say never. Tomorrow's going to be a hard race for everyone"

Sunday was the day that everyone struggled as you'd said.

Max actually ended up crashing out, and after coming back on the track, the car didn't have the pace it had from the start of the weekend.

"Come on Y/N, win in rookie season will look amazing. Keep holding. You've got Oscar behind 2.3 seconds gaining and Lando behind him. 3 laps left" you engineer inform.

"Guys the heat's really getting to me" you voice but its barley recognizable through the radio.

"Not long left, just push until the end" the engineer says but his voice waivers, he could tell you were struggling but unlike Logan who retired early on, lap 40 and with only three laps left there was no point especially when you were this close to a win.

"I - I know" you waiver, you control the car, speeding up trying to get this done as quickly as possible.

Martin Bundle - AND IN HER ROOKIE SEASON Y/N Y/L/N IS THE WINNER OF THE 2023 QATAR GRAND PRIX

"Guy's I need to get out this car now" you cry, tears forming in your eyes.

"Okay copy that"

"I cant move" you cry, the only thing that was able to move from your body was your hands which were shaking.

"We're sending pit crew to help" your engineer says. You see race marhsalls come up to your car, where Oscar and Land pull up alongside you. They both jump out hugging their team who were stood their waiting for them both. They turn to congratulate you thinking you'd be there next to them with the Aston Martin team but see you still sat in the car.

"Oh my god, she's shaking" Oscar says looking closer at you.

"She's in shock, from the heat" Lando says running over Oscar behind him.

"Y/N hey hey hey. Its okay its okay" Lando says flicking up your visor so he could see you. He honestly could have cried at the sight. He saw you looking so exhausted and out of it, the tears in you eyes and the sweat underneath them mixed.

"Come on baby lets get you out" Oscar voices, pulling Lando back by the shoulder and leaning down into the car, putting his arms under your knees and the other behind your back before lifting and pulling you out the car.

"Can we get a cold towel over here" Lando shouts which makes your head dizzy. Oscar sits you on the car wheel, pulling your helmet off, and then your balaclava. You were extremely red in the face but he still thought you were the prettiest girl he'd ever seen.

So did Lando, he had for a while, and he would always flirt with you when you were the reserve Aston Martin driver. But he cared for you, and seeing you like this pulled at his heart strings.

"You did so well today darling" he compliments. He pulls back your hair that was sticking to your face, doing it in a low bun so it wasn't tight but was out of your face and off your neck.

Lando unzips your race suit, pulling it down off your shoulders so your in your fireproof top before laying the cooling towel around you neck.

"Just breath" he smiles at you handing you and Oscar an icy bottle of water than was handed to him by his team. They got you to the cool down room where you sat on the floor with your back against the wall and your cheek resting on the cold marble.

"Great race guys. Said I'd have a podium with my... my boys" you smile, before you feel the urge to throw up. You get on your knees grabbing the bin before spilling the food you'd eaten before the race into the bin. Oscar sits next to you rubbing your back.

"Come on lets go get weighed" Lando sighs. Oscar goes first, the you and Lando watches the figure seeing you'd lost a whole 6 kilograms which meant that you'd lost 9 over the whole weekend. He, Oscar and Logan would all have to go out for a big meal to all put the weight back on.

The podium was amazing, first place and sharing a podium with Lando and Oscar had never felt better. It was a shorter podium as they wanted all of you to seek medical attention. You were eventually declared to have heatstroke and were forced on home rest in a nice a/c-ed room and lost of Peach Ice Tea's.

One thing for sure was you never wanted to race in Qatar as this time of the year again.

Taglist:

@littlesatanicassholebitch @hockey-racing-fubol @laura-naruto-fan1998 @22yuki @simxican @sinofwriting @lewisroscoelove @cmleitora @stupidandunnecessary @clayra-g @daemyratwst @honey-belden @moonypixel @lauralarsen @vader-is-hot @ironcowboycopnickel @itsjustkhaos @the-untamed-soul @beebo86 @happylittlereader @ziejustme @lou-larcher5 @thewulf @purplephantomwolf @chasing-liberosis @chillyleclerc @chanthereader @annoyingmoonballoon @summissss @evieepepi08 @havaneseoger08 @celesteblack08 @gulphulp @fandom1ruined2me @celebstories @starfusionsworld @jspitwall @sierruhh @georgeparisole @dakotatankbig @youcannotcancelquidditch @zzonsbeek @tallbrownhairsarcastic @mellowarcadefun @ourteenagetragedy @otako5811 @countingstacksandpanicattacks @peachiicherries @formulas-bitch @cherry-piee @hopexcroc @mirrorball-6 @spilled-coffee-cup @mehrmonga @bigsimperika @blueberry64857959 @eiraethh @lilypadlover @curseofhecate @alliwantisadonut @the-fem1n1ne-urge @21stcenturytaegi @dark-night-sky-99 @spideybv28 @i-wish-this-was-me @tallrock35 @butterfly-lover @barnestatic @landossainz @darleneslane @barcelonaloverf1life @r0nnsblog @ilove-tswizzle

[ninibeingdelulu]

Old ghost ✧

⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ ⠂⠄⠄⠂☆

Plot: Leon thought you were dead, that you were one of the person he failed to protect in Racoon city. But in another perilous mission where he need to rescue a woman he don’t know the identity, he find you.

⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ ⠂⠄⠄⠂☆

The rickety wooden beams groaned in protest under Leon's boots as he crept through the derelict farmhouse, rifle raised and eyes scanning the shadows.

The musty air was thick with the metallic tang of blood and a deeper, visceral reek he had encountered too many times before - the stench of the bioweapon outbreak festering through these lands.

He paused beside a low window, risking a quick peek outside. The overgrown courtyard was still and silent but for the gentle sway of the cornfields in the arid breeze.

Too quiet...which only set his nerves further on edge. Having the official mission briefing be so sparse on details never boded well in his line of work.

All he knew was that a woman had been abducted, presumably by the deranged cult the reports mentioned. The faceless government handler gave no name or description for the target - standard protocol to avoid emotional compromises in the field.

Just another civilian to extract from a hellish biohazard zone. It was his grim routine at this point after surviving the Raccoon City Incident.

Footsteps in the hall behind him made Leon whirl, thrusting the muzzle toward the cracked doorway. His calloused finger tensed on the trigger as a lithe figure slipped into view.

The rifle clattered to the rotting floor as white-hot shock lanced through him. Those vivid big eyes, the tumble of raven hair falling over her heart-shaped face...it couldn't be...

"You..." he rasped, the word little more than a strangled whisper.

You looked just as stunned, chest heaving as you instinctively shrank back against the wall. Haunted shadows clung to your sunken features, lingering remnants of torment etched into your skin.

But it was unmistakably you.

Alive.

"Leon?" Your voice trembled with equal disbelief, eyes searching his in naked hope and fear.

His mind spun, denials crashing against the truth standing so fragile before him. You were supposed to be dead, one of the countless victims he failed in Raccoon City all those years ago.

That loss had cleaved into him deeper than any wound until he felt hollowed out, hardened to protect what little still remained of himself.

But the woman he loved more than life itself lived. You were here, in the flesh.

An agonized noise tore from Leon's throat as he surged forward, crushing you against his solid frame in a desperate embrace.

He buried his face into the crook of your neck, clutching you so tightly it had to hurt, but he didn't care. Tactile reassurance that this wasn't some cruel delirium.

"You're alive," he choked out in a guttural rasp, the first blistering tears he'd shed in years scalding his cheeks. "Oh god, you're alive..."

Leon held you with trembling arms, his body wracked with waves of emotions he thought had calcified long ago in Raccoon City's ashes. Grief, joy, disbelief - they pummeled him in a dizzying cyclone around the central truth.

You, his whole world, were alive and real against him once more.

He pulled back just enough to drink in every detail of your face, to sear the memory behind his eyelids in case this miraculous reunion was torn away again.

His calloused fingers tenderly brushed the hair back from your brow as tears blurred his vision.

"How...?" The broken rasp was almost inaudible past the tightness in Leon's throat.

"I watched the city fall. I thought..." He couldn't finish, couldn't give voice to the years of torment believing you among the countless dead.

Your own eyes shimmered as you lifted a trembling hand to cup his whiskered jaw.

There were so many answers to unravel, so much time to reclaim between both of you. But in that fragile moment, words seemed hopelessly inadequate.

Instead you leaned up, fitting your lips to his in a searing kiss that branded down to your soul. It unlocked a floodgate inside, every worry and horror washing away in the wake of this reunion's tidal force.

This was real, you were alive - nothing else mattered.

Leon gasped softly against your mouth before surrendering completely. His arms crushed you impossibly closer as he drank you in with desperate, needful strokes of his tongue.

The taste, the feel, the pure essence of you overwhelmed his senses like a man finally shown the sun after an eternity of darkness.

When you finally broke apart, foreheads pressed together, his piercing gaze bored into yours with renewed determination. A steely promise alongside the tenderness.

"I won't let anything happen to you again," Leon vowed in a low rumble.

"Not this time. I'll keep you safe no matter what..." You felt the steel resolve thrumming through Leon's powerful frame as he cradled you protectively.

Even after believing you lost for so long in the Raccoon City nightmare, his instincts to shield and safeguard you were inviolable. An unbreakable vow sealed behind that piercing blue stare.

Calloused fingers brushed feather-light over your bruised cheek as his throat worked.

"Who did this to you?" The gruff demand held an unmistakable edge that could slice through bone.

"Tell me everything that happened."

Clutching his solid warmth, you gathered the frayed threads of your story in a shuddering breath. You confessed to the night the cult fanatics breached the safehouse, slaughtering your fellow survivors in a wave of blades and implanted bioweapons.

How you alone were taken as some perverse sacrifice, enduring unspeakable rites and torments at their village.

Leon's jaw hardened to granite with each harrowing detail laid bare, legendary restraint the only force keeping his fury banked. When you finally fell silent, throat raw, his arms contracted around you in a crushing embrace.

"I'm so sorry," he rasped against your hair, the first fissures creeping through his ironclad control.

"I should've been there, should've protected you. I failed you again..."

The self-recrimination lacing his tone lanced straight through your battered heart. You cupped Leon's etched cheek, stroking the faint stubble as you met his tortured stare.

"No, Leon. You came for me, like you always have." You pressed your forehead to his in a grounding kiss.

"You're my guardian angel."

His thick lashes swept down as he crushed you closer, shielding you with the bulk of his body.

"Not anymore guardian angels," he murmured in a low rumble that reverberated through you both. "This time I'll be the vengeful archangel raining catastrophe on these cultist scum."

You shivered at the dark timbre, the promise of unleashed devastation it carried. Leon's reputation for relentless, borderline-supernatural lethality was utterly deserved.

And you realized with visceral clarity that nothing would be left intact when he carved his path of recompense - not after believing you among the departed souls for so long.

A fierce protectiveness flared bright in your chest as you gazed up at this indomitable man, your hero reforged in crucible after crucible. He had already surrendered so much in the line of duty.

You refused to let him sacrifice even an ounce more of his precious humanity for your sake.

"Just promise me one thing," you entreated in a murmur, hands fisted in his tattered shirt.

"After we put these monsters down...let me be the one to save you this time, Leon."

His intense stare burned into you for a prolonged beat before giving a fractional nod, understanding the vow you sealed between your profoundly bonded souls.

A portrait of your determination painted across the facets of his own eyes.

Then his mouth crashed over yours once more in a searing, desperate kiss that tasted of shared desperation and newfound hope on the razor's edge.

An inferno stoked by your mere presence, reminding him to keep fighting against the ever-creeping darkness.

He was no longer your guardian angel , but the fallen angel who fell in love deeply.

His memories of you only brought him darkness, but now, you would be the light blazing away his shadows.

[lovelytsunoda]

slumber party // lance stroll

summary: when lances wife gets sick the morning of their daughters sixth birthday party, he offers to step in and play host. but of course, that’s before he finds out that it’s a slumber party, and he’s stuck with an army of six year olds until ten am the next morning.

the party was planned down to every painstaking detail so that it was perfect

right down to the princess decorations they started putting up a day early to the disney cake that chloe was making herself

it was going to be perfect

until y/n wakes up on the morning of with a blistering headache and nausea

she thinks they’re going to have to call off the party. she’s in no condition to handle a group of children

until lance steps in. he’ll call esteban and mick and between the three of them, they should be able to run a party without a hitch, right?

wrong.

they all arrive at the same time, and when the girls go running into the naive living room and start setting sleeping bags up under the skylight, the panic in his eyes is evident

“did your wife not tell you it was a slumber party?”

“no, she did not.” he bites his lip, running his fingers through his hair. “but how hard can it be, right?”

The other mother just laughs before she goes back to her car

horrible decision, really, but he leaves esteban and mick in charge while he runs upstairs to check on y/n (and get more details on the slumber part of the party)

and when he comes back downstairs, the girls are crying and one of them is hiding under the couch

“i left you alone with them for five minutes, esteban! what did you do?”

esteban looks at the floor, and mick rolls his eyes.

“somebody thought it was a good idea to open the afternoon with scary stories.”

“esteban, they’re six!”

“one of the girls told him he looked like the rat from flushed away and he decided the best course of action was to tell her that the house was haunted and micheal meyers would get her in her sleep.”

“this house was built in 2017 and I’m pretty sure nobody died here!”

he puts on an old barbie movie, and the girls calm down enough that they sit on the floor to eat party mix and gummy bears while the boys go over the game plan in the kitchen.

“what did you like doing when you were six?” lance asks desperately “there has to be something!”

“karting.” esteban shrugs.

“i cannot take ten six year olds to the karting track.”

but that gives him a different idea

which is how they end up in the simulator room trying to load Mario kart instead of the fia approved programming

which turns into an all out war between the girls

well

more like the army of six year olds against estie lance and mick

lance definitely lets his daughter win

chloe drops by dressed head to toe like a disney princess and brings the cake

scotty brings pizza

please please please imagine lance giving all these little girls princess manicures

his daughter defo makes him wear a plastic tiara

when the kids finally conk out and go to sleep around nine thirty (and esteban because he’s fucking tired), he goes upstairs to check on his wife while mick starts to clean up

she’s curled up in bed with the dog, buried under blankets

but she could hear the laughter coming up through the floor

“the girls are having a great time, honey.” she says sleepily, pulling him into bed with her “you guys are doing a great job.”

“i know. but please, for the love of god, never leave me in charge of a slumber party again. also, you might need to explain to mike and my dad why a ton of six year olds were using the sim to play mario kart.”

TAGS

@magnummagnussen @libraryofloveletters @oconso @scuderiamh @sidcrosbyspuck @thatsdemko @httpiastri @clemswrld @diorleclerc @lorarri @cartierre

[honeybeezgobzzzzz]

☠️ Maybe Later

Maybe Later: After fighting on Marineford with your captain, you wake up on the Polar Tang injured. When you try to wash the blood from marines and pirates alike, you can’t quite reach the areas you need to given your injuries. The doctor that patched you up decides to help.

Warnings: Gore, Talk of Death, Explicit Language, Explicit Material.

To Note: Trafalgar Law x Female!Reader, I named you Tulip.

Word Count: ~4.4k

You come to with a start, your eyes struggling to open. The room swims into focus—a metal ceiling, dim lights casting a sterile glow. You try to shift, but pain lances through your back, immobilizing you. You’re on your stomach, naked, and the sting of antiseptic fills your nostrils.

“Where... where am I?” Your voice croaks out, dry and weak. The last thing you remember is Luffy's screams, Ace's lifeless body, and charging for them. Then nothing. A memory of blistering pain erupting on your back flickers into your mind but doesn't linger.

A figure moves into view—dark curly hair under a yellow and orange hat. It’s Ikkaku. A concentrated look upon her face keeps her attention, hands gentle as they tend to the wound on your back.

“You’re on the Polar Tang,” she replies without glancing over to you. Her voice is calm but tinged with an underlying urgency. “You took a nasty hit from Akainu. Severe burn injury on your back and over your spine.”

The memory floods back—Akainu’s magma fist, the searing agony as it punched through your flesh. Bone. You grit your teeth against the residual pain and screaming nerves.

“You passed out from the pain,” Ikkaku continues. “You’re lucky your spine wasn’t completely ruined, otherwise you’d’ve lost your ability to operate your lower body.”

“Luffy... what about Luffy?” you rasp, knowing all too well the fate of Ace. All that work only for Ace to die.

Ikkaku’s hands pause for a moment before she resumes her work. “He’s still unconscious. We’re keeping an eye on him.”

The thought of Luffy lying somewhere in a similar state fills you with a mix of dread and relief. At least he’s alive.

“I need to get up,” you mutter, attempting to push yourself off the gurney.

Ikkaku’s hand presses firmly on your shoulder, stopping you cold. “Don’t even think about it,” she says sharply. “You are just out of surgery! You need at least three more hours for your spine to finish bonding before you can move safely. Otherwise, you might paralyze yourself! You are lucky that you still have vertebrae and nerves left!”

You whimper, a sharp sound of frustration mixed with agony. The pain surges, radiating from the burn wound and spreading through every corner of your back. Reluctantly, you stop moving, surrendering to her orders. With great reluctance.

Ikkaku's grip on your shoulder softens as she resumes her work. “I’ve debrided the wound post surgery,” she explains, voice clinical. “Removed all the dead tissue. Now I’m applying a synthetic material over it to protect the flesh that isn't too far gone. Most of the flesh that made direct contact with Akainu’s fist was incinerated. It’s going to feel strange for a while, but it'll speed up the healing process and you'll have 'skin' covering your spine again.”

Her fingers glide over your stinging back, placing a cool, gel-like substance over the raw skin. The contrast between the burn’s heat and the synthetic coolness is startling and you dig your fingers into the gurney beneath you to force yourself to stay still. You let out a shuddering breath, focusing on Ikkaku’s touch rather than the lingering pain.

“How bad is it Ikkaku?” you ask, trying to keep your voice steady.

“Bad,” she admits. “But not irreversible. Law has some new advanced medical techniques. We’re doing everything we can, it won't be the same, but you'll at least still have function.”

You nod slightly, though even that small movement sends ripples of discomfort through you. Silence stretches between you and Ikkaku, filled only by her quiet murmurs as she continues her treatment.

Minutes tick by like hours until Ikkaku finally steps back, wiping her hands on a cloth. “Alright,” she says softly. “The worst part is done for now.”

“How long?” you ask, eyes fluttering shut for a moment.

“Three hours,” she replies. “Three hours for the material to integrate and start the healing process. Then you can take a shower to wash off all this blood. Just avoid applying excessive pressure to the area. Until then, do not move.”

Your eyes snap open at that, taking in your surroundings once more—the metallic walls of the Polar Tang's infirmary now smeared with streaks of red where you had thrashed earlier. The scent of blood mixes with antiseptic, a reminder of how close things had been.

“Blood’s everywhere,” you mutter, almost to yourself.

Ikkaku nods grimly. “Yeah, it got pretty messy when we brought you in. You were thrashing and kept breaking open cauterized parts of your back… but don’t worry about that now. Focus on resting.”

You close your eyes again, this time willingly surrendering to the stillness that beckons you. Time stretches and blurs; seconds bleed into minutes into what feels like an eternity. Luffy's screams, the explosive sounds of gunfire, screeching metal. You find yourself slipping into memories. The chaos of Marineford floods back into your mind in a rush.

Gunfire, screams, and the acrid stench of blood mingled with smoke. You remember the searing heat of Akainu's magma fist before it had even touched your shirt, the blinding pain that followed, and the desperate struggle to stay conscious. Luffy's frantic cries for Ace echoed in your ears, a haunting reminder of your failure.

“Tulip!” Luffy had shouted amidst the chaos, his voice a lifeline as you stumbled through the battlefield. But you had been too slow. The sight of Ace's lifeless body is burned into your mind, a permanent scar.

You vaguely recall Law's voice cutting through the haze of pain and battle. “I’ve got her,” he had said, his tone clipped with urgency. He hoisted you over his shoulder with a gentleness that seemed out of place in the middle of such violence and chaos.

Jinbe’s presence loomed nearby. He had just landed on the deck of the Polar Tang, cradling Luffy in one arm while passing you off to Law with the other. “She’s too stubborn to die,” Jinbe had grumbled, a rare hint of emotion cracking his usually stoic demeanor.

Law laid you on your stomach on the operating table, his hands surprisingly steady as he assessed your injuries. “Hold on, Tulip,” he murmured, more to himself than to you. “I'll fix this,”

The sound of surgical instruments clinking together was oddly comforting amidst the backdrop of battle noise still ringing in your ears. Familiar. Law worked swiftly, his focus unwavering despite the urgency surrounding him. You always admire him for that.

“Ikkaku,” he had called out, never taking his eyes off your wound. “Prep for debridement, I'm going to have begin working on Luffy immediately.”

You barely remember her quick nod and rapid movements as she prepared the necessary tools. The pain was almost unbearable as they worked to clean and treat your burns, but their voices—calm and controlled—some how managed to keep your mind from breaking.

“We’re doing everything we can,” Ikkaku had reassured you as she began scraping at the edges of your wound. Sharp, burning. A chilly burn had entered your bloodstream and memories faded.

Now, back in the present, their words echo in your mind as you lay there on the gurney. The room around you fades into a blur once more as exhaustion pulls you under again.

The battle at Marineford may be over, but its echoes remain—etched into your skin and seared into your memory. Marring Luffy. You drift between wakefulness and sleep, caught in a limbo where past horrors intermingle with present pain. Is Luffy going to ever recover?

You push yourself up, muscles trembling, feeling every but of the synthetic material adhered to your back shift and move. Just like skin. Ikkaku hovers beside you, her eyes scanning you with a meticulous intensity. She’s making sure the material has bonded correctly, fingers grazing the edges of your wound with light touches.

"How does it feel?" she asks, eyes flicking up to meet yours.

You wince as you shift. "Like a thousand tiny needles are prickling my back," you admit, voice hoarse but steadier than it had been.

She nods, not unsympathetic, just clinical. "That's normal. It means the material is integrating well. You'll feel phantom pains occasionally. Your nerves are still adjusting and your body hasn't realized that you lost that skin yet. Well… it shouldn’t, it should just integrate the synth material like it is your own natural flesh healing.”

Her hand leaves your back, and she reaches for a lab coat draped over a nearby chair. She hands it to you without a word, her expression softening as she watches you struggle into it. The fabric feels rough against your still-bloodied skin but offers some semblance of modesty.

You take a deep breath and push yourself off the gurney and too your feet, legs shaky but functional. The room tilts slightly before steadying itself around you. Ikkaku moves to support you, but you wave her off with a weak smile.

"I got it," you murmur, taking tentative steps forward. Each movement sends twinges through your back, reminders of the damage inflicted by Akainu’s magma fist. Like you’ll every forget.

Ikkaku follows close behind, ready to catch you if you falter. "Take it slow," she advises. "No sudden movements."

Your feet shuffle against the cold metal floor of the infirmary, each step a fight you struggle to complete without a threatening wobble. The scent of antiseptic and detergent mingles with the lingering tang of blood—nauseating.

"How’s Luffy?" You ask again, needing to hear more than just reassurances.

Ikkaku hesitates before answering. "He's stable for now," she says quietly. "But he’s not out of the woods yet."

A wave of determination washes over you, lending strength to your wobbly legs. "I need to see him."

Ikkaku steps in front of you, blocking your path with a firm but gentle hand on your shoulder. “No, not yet, Tulip," she insists. "You need to rest and recover more before going anywhere. I'd suggest taking a shower first, it'll make you feel better and the gentle heat will help the synthetic material bond better to your bone and tissue."

“I’ll take a shower,” you murmur, your voice tinged with reluctant resignation. “But I’m seeing Luffy afterward.”

Ikkaku’s eyes narrow, a stern glint in her gaze. “If you refuse to rest, I’ll tell Law,” she warns, her tone a blend of concern and frustration. “You know how he gets when someone ignores medical advice, certainly you.”

A small smirk tugs at your lips. “Go ahead,” you retort, your voice steady despite the pain radiating through your back. “Law isn’t my captain.”

Ikkaku sighs, shaking her head slightly. “You’re impossible, you know that?” You hold the lab coat tighter around your body.

“Law knew what he was getting into when he decided to take me on as a patient,” you say, glancing at Ikkaku. Your voice carries a hint of defiance mixed with resignation. “It's not the first time we've been through this.”

Ikkaku’s expression softens slightly, though she still looks concerned. “You’re right,” she concedes, stepping aside to let you pass. “But don’t push yourself too hard, Tulip. Law—you know how Law is.”

You nod, appreciating her concern but knowing that nothing will keep you from seeing Luffy. You promised to take care of him. The narrow corridor stretches ahead, its metal walls reflecting the dim lighting. Creaking from water pressure and humming from technology.

You shuffle into the bathing room, a sterile, tiled space with several communal shower heads lining the walls. The lab coat slips from your shoulders, revealing the smattering of bruises and cuts that paint your body. You had been high on adrenaline at Marineford, only now do you feel the full extent of what you've endured. Every movement pulls at your skin, every shift of bone alters you to bruises you didn’t know you had.

You glance at a mirror set into the wall. The sight stops you cold. Your back, once mostly unblemished, is now marred by a large, fist-sized black patch crusted with blood and other fluids. Akainu would forever be imprinted on your body. The edges of the wound are inflamed, the skin around it angry and raw, a stark contrast to the rest of your flesh.

Swallowing thickly, you step closer to the mirror, eyes tracing every jagged line and swollen contour of the wound. "Dammit," you mutter under your breath, your fingers trembling as they hover over the injured area. The strange synthetic material replacing your skin. You don’t touch it—can't even reach it—but just seeing it up close is enough to bring the memory crashing back.

You force yourself to look away from the mirror and hobble over to one of the shower heads. Each step is a battle against gravity and the needle like pain prickling at your spine, but you make it. Reaching out, you turn the knob with a shaky hand. Water bursts forth in a cascade, steam filling the room almost instantly.

The water hits your skin like needles at first—sharp and unrelenting—but soon morphs into something more tolerable. You brace yourself against the wall, letting the stream wash away layers of grime and dried blood. Red-tinted water swirls around your feet, vanishing down the drain in ribbons.

You tilt your head back, closing your eyes as you let the warmth further seep into you. It’s not comfort—nothing can be that right now—but it’s something. The heat softens some of the tension knotted in your muscles and eases some of the ache radiating from your wounds. Ikkaku might have spoken about the heat helping the synthetic material bond to your spine, but it also lessens the sharp prickles.

Your hands move slowly, carefully scrubbing away the dried blood crusted on your chest and arms. The water turns a murky mix of black and red at your feet, swirling down the drain. Each stroke is mechanical, as you try to cleanse yourself of the battlefield's remnants. In an almost detached way, you are sure not all of the blood is yours alone. The metallic scent of blood mixes with the sterile smell of the soap. It only makes your stomach roll in your belly.

The heat from the water softens the grime but not the memory of Akainu’s searing attack. You grit your teeth as you attempt to turn your back against the shower spray, but the sensitivity is too intense. The water pressure feels like swords stabbing into your raw flesh.

You sigh in frustration and resort to using your hands, gently swiping around the edges of your back. Despite your best efforts, you can't reach all of your back—let alone the wound itself—without twisting painfully. Cleaning your back isn't going to happen.

The shower room door creaks open, and you hear footsteps approaching. You glance over your shoulder to see Law entering, a towel wrapped around his hips. His expression is a mix of concern and irritation. And exasperation because he is not the least bit surprised.

“You're supposed to be resting,” he says, voice firm but not unkind.

You bite your lip, glancing down at the murky water swirling around your feet. "I'm covered in blood, Law," you murmur, frustration edging your voice. "Not just mine—dead Marines, dead pirates. I need it off."

He doesn’t respond immediately, just steps closer, the towel slipping from his hips to pool around his feet. You quickly turn away, focusing on the cuts riddling your chest and arms instead of the sight of his naked body. Painfully as beautiful as you remember. Your fingers itch to trace the tattoos on his chest.

Law’s own fingers brush against your shoulder, wiping away some blood that clings stubbornly to your skin. You suck in a breath, feeling the warmth of his body so close behind you. The sensation sends prickles throughout your body, mingling with the residual pain.

"You’re never going to get all the blood off at this rate," he remarks, his fingers still ghosting across your shoulders.

You fire back almost instantly. "I was in the middle of washing it off when you came in."

A heavy silence falls between you two, filled only by the steady stream of water hitting the tiles and swirling down the drain. Your muscles tense as you feel Law’s forehead gently rest against your shoulder.

"I had to rebuild part of your spine, Tulip," he confesses quietly.

"I was trying to save my captain's family, Law," you whisper, your voice barely audible over the sound of the shower. The weight of your words hangs in the air, the enormity of Marineford pressing down on you both. But you don’t argue further. You know there’s no point. The damage is done.

Law remains silent, his forehead still resting against your shoulder. You feel his breath, warm and steady, as he takes a moment to compose himself.

"I know," he finally says, his voice a low murmur that reverberates through your body. "But now you need to let me take care of you."

You nod slightly, not trusting yourself to speak. Law’s fingers move again, this time more deliberately, as he begins to carefully wash the blood from your back. His touch is gentle but firm, each movement measured and precise. A reflection of his medical side.

His fingers graze the edges of your wound with an almost reverent care. You feel every stroke, every slight pressure as he works meticulously to clean the area without causing further pain. The sensation is both soothing and agonizing—a reminder of how carefully he can yet so close to what you silently wish for the darkest of nights.

“You’re too stubborn for your own good,” Law mutters under his breath, though there’s no real anger in his tone.

You let out a soft laugh that quickly turns into a wince as his fingers brush against a particularly sensitive spot. “Look who’s talking,” you retort weakly.

Law’s lips curve into a small smile that you can’t see but feel against your shoulder. “Fair point,” he concedes.

As the last of the blood is washed away, Law’s touch changes subtly. His fingers linger longer on your skin, tracing patterns that have nothing to do with medical necessity.

Law’s hands slide around your hips, one settling against your stomach while the other trails fingers down to your pelvis and against your inner thigh. His fingers are slow, as if savoring every moment. The warmth of his palm against your thigh sends a rush of heat through your body, and you lean back into his embrace, your breathing growing heavier.

“Don’t start anything you’re not willing to finish,” you whisper, your voice almost muted by the spray of the shower.

Law’s lips press against your neck, his breath warm and steady. He begins to kiss and nibble at your skin, each touch igniting sparks that radiate outward. You squirm against his chest, a soft groan escaping your lips as his fingers slide between your legs to glide through your folds. The sensation is electric, each stroke drawing out more and more gentle bursts of pleasure that fight to overtake lingering aches.

Your hand moves to cover Law's, pressing against your stomach. Your fingers clench around his, feeling the strength and warmth that are so intimately familiar. Each touch from him sends waves of sensation through you, both comforting and electrifying.

"Law," you breathe, your voice thick with emotion and something deeper, something only he could bring out.

Law's grip tightens slightly in response, a silent acknowledgment of your words. "You better tell me if it becomes too much," he warns, his voice low and husky, tinged with concern and desire.

A moan escapes your lips as his fingers continue their gentle exploration, drawing out sensations that make your body hum with pleasure. You twist your head to look up at him, your eyes meeting his with an intensity that speaks volumes. "Law," you breathe out again, this time more insistently.

For a brief moment, your shared and murky past is swept away to be forgotten. His dark eyes lock onto yours, filled with an unspoken promise. The connection between you feels almost tangible, charged with the weight of everything left unsaid. Always unsaid, but never forgotten.

Then he bends down, closing the distance between your lips and his. The kiss is fierce yet tender, filled with a hunger that matches your own. His lips move against yours with a rhythm that leaves you breathless, his tongue exploring your lips and mouth as if he intends to discover you all over again.

Your free hand reaches up to tangle in his hair, pulling him closer as you deepen the kiss. The taste of him is intoxicating, each movement of his lips sending jolts of pleasure through your body. His fingers continue their journey between your legs, the slow, deliberate strokes driving you to the edge.

"Tulip," he murmurs against your lips, his breath hot and ragged. "I need to know if—"

"Don't stop," you cut him off, your voice raw with need. "Please, you won't hurt me."

His response is immediate; he kisses you harder, his fingers quickening their pace. Swirling around your clit with precise strokes. You shudder in his embrace and whimper deliciously. The shower's spray mingles with the heat between you two, creating an atmosphere that's both steamy and electrifying.

Your body arches into his palm as waves of pleasure build within you, each touch from Law pushing you closer to release. You can feel the tension coiling tight in your lower belly, ready to snap at any moment. Gods, he knows how to play your body just right.

Your fingers tighten in Law's hair, your nails grazing his scalp. He groans against your mouth, the sound vibrating through you. His tongue laves against yours, each stroke igniting drunken sparks that race through your veins. The intensity of the kiss consumes you, leaving no room for anything else but the sensation of his lips on yours and the relentless rhythm of his fingers between your legs.

Your gasps and whimpers become more frequent, each one escaping into the space between your lips. Law devours every sound you make, his mouth never leaving yours. His fingers slide deeper into you, their movements confident and unerring. You can feel the slick heat building inside you, every nerve ending alight with pleasure.

“Law,” you moan against his lips, your voice trembling with desire. “Please…”

His fingers quicken their pace, each stroke sending you closer to the brink. His other hand slides up your stomach, caressing the sensitive skin until it cups your breast, his thumb brushing over your nipple. The dual sensations make your breath hitch, a soft cry escaping your lips.

Your body responds to his touch instinctively, hips moving in time with his fingers. You’re lost in the sensation, the steamy room narrowing down to just you and Law, the heat of the shower, and the intense pleasure coursing through you.

His breath is hot against your ear as he whispers, “I’ve got you.” His words are a promise and a command all at once.

Your fingers dig into his hair, holding on as waves of pleasure build inside you. The tension coiling tighter with each stroke until it’s almost unbearable. You can feel yourself teetering on the edge, every nerve in your body alight with anticipation.

“Law,” you gasp again, your voice breaking. “I’m so close…”

His response is a low growl of encouragement. “Let go,” he murmurs against your skin. “I want to feel you come around my fingers, flower.”

With that final push, the tension snaps, and your orgasm crashes over you like a tidal wave. Your body shakes against his chest as pleasure radiates out from your rippling cunt. Your muscles contract around his fingers, drawing them deeper as wave after wave of sensation floods through you.

You sob his name, the sound echoing off the tiled walls as he continues to work you through your release. Each tremor of pleasure is heightened by his relentless touch until you're left gasping for breath, completely spent.

Your legs feel weak beneath you, but Law’s strong arms hold you up, supporting your weight as you come down from your high. He’s there with you every step of the way, holding you firmly against his body to keep you steady.

As the last shudder runs through you, he slowly withdraws his fingers from your clenched thighs and wraps that arm around your waist. You lean back into him, breathing heavily as you regain your bearings.

When you finally feel steady enough to stand on your own again, you reach out to turn off the water. The sudden silence feels almost deafening after the rush of the shower and the sounds of your shared passion.

You slowly turn around to face Law, water dripping from both of you onto the tiled floor. His eyes meet yours with an intensity that makes your heart skip a beat. One of his hands comes up to cradle your bruised face gently.

“You look like you had the ever-loving shit beaten out of you,” he mutters, his voice a dry mixture of concern and amusement.

A strained laugh escapes your lips, raw and unrefined. “You should see the other guy,” you manage to joke, despite the pinpricks still stabbing away at your spine.

Law’s thumb traces the scabbed-over cuts on your face with a tenderness that contradicts his harsh words. Each touch is careful, as if he’s trying to memorize every line and curve marred by battle. The pads of his fingers glide over your skin, leaving a trail of warmth in their wake.

“Does it hurt?” he asks quietly, his eyes never leaving yours.

“Not as much as it did,” you reply, your voice softer now. You lean into his touch, savoring the brief moment of intimacy amid the chaos.

His fingers continue their exploration, tracing the contours of your face with an almost reverent care. How aggravating that you missed it this much because now all you wish for is more.

"Are you going to leave me hanging?" you ask, your voice carrying a playful edge despite the exhaustion weighing down on you. Law lets out an exasperated sigh, his breath warm against your cheek. You never change.

"Maybe later, flower, you've got a lot of healing up to do."

Date Published: 9/5/24

Last Edit: 9/5/24

Trafalgar D. Water Law Masterlist

[suddencolds]

The Worst Timing | [4/?]

happy friday, everyone! here is part 4 (5.3k words) as a little pre-valentines-day installment :) [part 1] is here! this chapter was a pain to edit; i think i deleted + rewrote about a fifth of it in the revision process

anyways, i promised this chapter would be the wedding, so... please enjoy the wedding

this is an OC fic - here is a list of everything I've written w these two!

Summary: Yves invites Vincent to a wedding, in France, where the rest of his family will be in attendance. It's a very important wedding, so he's definitely not going to let anything—much less the flu—ruin it. (ft. fake dating, an international trip, downplaying illness, sharing a hotel room)

—

It’s a hectic morning.

Yves wakes up with the sinking realization that the medicine he took yesterday has worn off entirely. That is to say, he wakes up with the kind of unshakeable exhaustion he only feels when he’s coming down with something bad. His head is throbbing—sharp, cutting pain lances through his skull as soon as he finds it in himself to get out of bed.

All of that is inconsequential. He takes two pills from the cold/flu medicine blister pack with a generous few sips of water, brushes his teeth, washes his face in the sink with water cold enough to jolt him awake, and heads out.

He finds Aimee early, to ask her if she needs any help with anything. Then he makes himself available to the relatives that need him. There’s a last minute printing issue with the seating cards, so he goes through all of them again, finds the ones that are misprinted, talks extensively with the hotel’s front desk to explain what selection he needs to get reprinted and why, gets redirected towards the hotel’s business center, and finally gets them reprinted properly in one of the storerooms in the back. He lines the cards up and cuts them manually with a paper cutter he finds in one of the conference rooms on the first floor.

Then he takes a shuttle to the wedding venue to help set out all the seating cards according to a seating plan Genevieve texts him, but it’s windy enough outside that he has to find a way to weigh them all down. The venue has card holder stands, thankfully, but he doesn’t figure that out until he spends a good fifteen minutes asking around for them.

Then he waits twenty minutes in the cold for the shuttle back—the shuttles are thankfully in operation, but they’re running infrequently enough at this hour to be a slight inconvenience. By the time he gets on the shuttle, he’s shivering hard, even in his jacket, and his hands are almost numb from the cold.

The temperature certainly doesn’t help with the pressure in his sinuses, or with the sore throat that he’s had for a few days now. Perhaps it’s a blessing that the shuttle is near-empty save for him, because no one is there to question it when he ducks into his elbow with every loud, wrenching sneeze, or the coughing fit that almost inevitably follows.

When he gets back, he finds a sewing kit for Roy’s sister, Solaine—they don’t sell them at the convenience store downstairs, but he finds some in one of the tourist shops on the opposite end of the first floor of the hotel—for some last minute fixes to the way it’s hemmed. He delivers some safety pins from Victoire to one of his aunts, picks up breakfast pastries from the café across the street for his parents.

He takes a quick, hot shower, hot enough that the entire bathroom steams up because of it, and hopes that no one can hear the way every sneeze sounds so terribly, unnecessarily loud, even in the presence of his rapidly depleting voice. He rehearses his speech from memory and then rehearses it again, thinking through his notes on the pauses and the reflections. He irons his suit out, for good measure.

If he stops and lingers too long, it becomes quickly evident just how exhausted he is, just how unwell he feels when there’s nothing strictly keeping him on his feet. So instead, he makes himself useful where he can, busies himself with whatever he finds, if only because it’s the best distraction he can think of—if only because it’s the one distraction he has the luxury to take.

—

Lunch is a quick affair—he’s not especially hungry, and there will be more than enough food at the reception, so he grabs two pastries from downstairs, a coffee with two shots of espresso, and heads back up. Sitting down and eating them in the hotel room is somehow worse than running errands—like this, he can’t chalk his exhaustion up to his hectic morning, can’t attribute the heavy, shivery feeling that’s been following him all day the cold weather outside. 

Three more hours until the wedding. Anticipation always feels the worst, like this, when it’s nearly inseparable from worry—just a tangle of emotions in his chest.

He exhales.

Vincent is off—somewhere. Getting lunch, maybe, or getting ready for the wedding somewhere else. Yves has exchanged maybe all of twenty words with him this morning—do you know if our room has a sewing kit? Or, I’m going to stop by the café downstairs. Do you want me to get you anything?

Truthfully, Yves isn’t feeling much better today. His nose is running a little less now, thanks to the cold medicine, but the headache that he’s had all morning hasn’t gotten any less persistent. Even with his suit jacket on, he still can’t quite manage to get warm. He’s sneezing a little less, but each sneeze catches him off guard, harsh and sudden and embarrassingly loud.

But Vincent—who is, on average, unusually perceptive—hasn’t said anything about any of it. Yves tries not to think too hard about it. The less Vincent is worried about him, the better. Maybe he’s just preoccupied with other things.

He finishes his pastries at the small coffee table in the living room, downs half of his coffee, and then leans back in his chair and shuts his eyes.

His head hurts. He feels dizzy, even though he’s sitting perfectly still—as if the ground beneath him isn’t quite as steady as it should be—a strange feeling of vertigo. Surely if he sits here for just awhile longer, that feeling will go away.

He doesn’t fall asleep, exactly, but it’s a close thing. The discomfort doesn’t let up, either—no amount of massaging his temples seems to make the headache any better, and no amount of shuteye seems to do anything to lessen the exhaustion he feels. Maybe if he takes a nap he’ll wake up feeling passably fine. But he thinks it’s just as likely that he’ll get woken up early—by a phone call, or a text, or a knock on the door—to be told that he’s needed somewhere, and that alone is enough of a deterrent to keep him from properly falling asleep.

From somewhere at the edge of consciousness, he hears footsteps out in the hallway.

Someone’s here, then. He should let them in. But before he can bring himself to stand up and head over to the door, he hears the sound of the room card being inserted into its slot, hears the click of the door as it unlocks.

Someone—Vincent—shuts the door quietly behind him. When he spots Yves, he looks a little surprised.

“I didn’t think I’d find you here,” he says.

Yves blinks. His face feels unusually hot. “I got lunch,” he says, clearing his throat. “Well, I fidished it, but if I’d known you’d be getting back, I would’ve gotten somethidg for you.”

“I’m surprised you made it back,” Vincent says, leaving his shoes in a neat line at the door. “Are you done putting out all the fires now?” Yves laughs, though it turns into a cough. “For the foreseeable future, yes. Sorry i— hhH!” He twists over his shoulder, away from Vincent, to cover the sneeze in a manner that does not come at the expense of his suit jacket. “hHh-! iiDDzschh-IEW! snf-! Sorry I’ve barely been around this mornidg.”

Vincent is his own person—Yves has no doubt that he’s entirely self-sufficient when it comes to travel—but still, Yves is the only person Vincent really knows here. He’s not sure he can claim he’d be good company in his current state, but he feels like maybe he ought to be around more often—to translate, or to serve as the conversational buffer, or something else.

“It’s no problem,” Vincent says, frowning. “You were busy.”

“Still. If we were actually datidg, I think this would make me a slightly terrible boyfriend.”

“If we were actually dating, I would understand that you have important things in your life to attend to,” Vincent says.

Yves laughs. “Like cutting sixty sheets of paper into even rectangles?”

“Is that what you were out doing all morning?”

“Among other things.”

“Then yes,” Vincent says. He stops just short of the coffee table where Yves is sitting. “Are you finally off of paper-cutting duty?”

“God, I hope so. Weddings are always so hectic, even if you’re only peripherally idvolved. It’s like everyone’s worried about things going wrong beforehand, but then when you finally get to them, they always go fine.”

“Have you been to a lot of weddings in your life?”

Yves considers this. “Cobpared to the average person? Probably.”

“Then you should listen to your own advice,” Vincent tells him. 

“What?”

“It’s going to be fine.”

Yves blinks. If Vincent can tell that he is nervous after a three minute conversation with him, then Yves must really not be doing a good job at hiding it.

“That’s what I’m hoping for,” he says. He really is tired. Maybe another cup of coffee, or two, will help—he can hardly think of anything more mortifying than nodding off halfway through the vows. “I don’t think I’ll forgive mbyself if it doesn’t.”

—

It’s a near-perfect wedding.

The weather is as temperate as it gets at this time of year. It’s sunny out, and brisk enough that no one feels stuffy in their suit jackets and their summer dresses.

The wedding venue is like something out of a storybook—the white stone paths, arcing around a circular fountain, the water a clear, searing blue; the rows and rows of flowers that crowd around it. Flowers—roses, peonies, tulips, gardenias—line the walkways, strung up over arches in crisscrossing rows of sprawling green leaves.

When Aimee and Genevieve walk down the aisle, Leon grins; Victoire turns away to wipe at her eyes. When they say their vows, Yves feels a tightness in his chest, a fierce sort of pride. He knew, of course, that this moment would make him emotional.

But nothing compares to seeing them here, right here, smiling. Aimee’s hair is half up, half down, held in place with a half moon clip that winks white under the sunshine. Genevieve is wearing a long white dress—her hair is braided into a crown, threaded with flowers, a translucent lace veil settling over her shoulders. The afternoon sunlight trickles over them, gleaming. And Yves—

Yves has always believed in love.

Perhaps it’s overly idealistic—he’s certainly been told as much before—but he believes in it still. He believed in it even before he started dating Erika, and he believed in it after they broke up, too. It’s not so much the idea that people can be soulmates, more the idea that people can spend thirty or fifty or seventy years together and not tire of each other, the idea that the little mundanities of life might be made special in the presence of someone whose existence sublimates them endlessly into interest. The idea that two people who may not ever fully understand each other might try, ceaselessly, to get close. 

He remembers: hearing about Genevieve, over text and over call; at first peripherally, but then frequently. He regrets, sometimes, that he wasn’t there more for the both of them, that he could only help from an ocean away with celebrations and holidays and special events, that he still doesn’t know Genevieve as well as he’d like to.

But a part of him thinks, now, that maybe it was a privilege, too, watching from afar. Hearing about the dates secondhand, from Aimee, all of it filtered through her own excitement—hearing Aimee talk about everything that left an impression on her. It would have been different, of course, if he had really been there. But in a way, it is a little fitting that his first impression of Genevieve—his first mental portrait of her—was by someone who was already already half in love with her.

And he remembers: Aimee, unusually quiet one night over Facetime, sitting cross legged in the living room of their new apartment. The world, dark outside through the living room windows, even though for him it was only mid afternoon. The way she’d smiled, wistful, staring off into the distance at some point he couldn’t see. I think I might marry her, she had said.

She had said it like she was certain. He finds himself going back to that moment, to her certainty. He’s always wondered—how had she known? How had she been so sure of it, even then? 

But the way Genevieve takes Aimee’s hands, during the vow—the way her hands tremble slightly with it, the particular carefulness with which she handles the ring—all of it makes him think that he’s been right to believe in this, in them, in love. After all, what more convincing proof is there than this?

—

All in all, it is nearly perfect.

Nearly, save for how unwell he feels, how self conscious he is about not making it expressly known. Yves shivers through the entire ceremony, occasionally lifting the collar of his suit jacket to muffle a harsh, wrenching sneeze into the fabric. He’ll get it dry cleaned later. Beside him, Vincent looks to him, his head tilted in question—and, after Yves smiles apologetically at him—says nothing.

He makes it through, as a combination of everything—the adrenaline, the cold medicine, the four espressos he’d had this morning and the energy drink he’d downed right before the ceremony to keep himself awake. 

He doesn’t have a thermometer, doesn’t know what kind of temperature he’s running, but he has a hunch that it’s higher than it should be. It’s freezing outside—cold enough that he can’t keep himself from shivering, even when he tries—but no one else seems to be as cold as he is. He can only hope, now, that no one else notices him ducking into his jacket, periodically, to catch another sneeze, or wiping his nose on the back of his hand to keep it from openly running.

The world looks fever-bright, fuzzy around some edges but unusually sharp around others. He’s awake, but in the sort of uncomfortable, all-consuming way where it feels like he’s too nervous to get any sleep at all.

He feels only half-present during the cocktail hour, while Aimee and Genevieve take their pictures. He thinks he should make himself useful somehow—help with positioning props for photos or with setting up the proper lighting or whatever else—or, at the very least, converse with the relatives that he hasn’t had much of a chance to catch up with yet.

Instead, he sits, half hunched over at one of the side tables, and tries not to shiver too visibly. His head hurts with the sort of sharp, incessant pain that makes it near-impossible to focus on anything else. 

“Are you okay?” Vincent asks him. 

Yves looks over to him. Vincent looks concerned—his eyebrows are furrowed, his mouth set into a frown—and Yves—

Yves considers it, for a moment: telling Vincent the truth. That it’s taking everything in him to appear even remotely presentable. That a part of him is nervous that he’ll crash before he gives his speech. That he might have overestimated his own ability to get through four more hours of this, outside in the cold.

“Of course,” he says instead, with the best smile he can muster, because what else is there to say?

He doesn’t end up having any drinks, even though he’s usually a fan of cocktails. Leon offers him one, and when Yves shakes his head, shrugs and heads off to find someone else, which Yves thinks is probably the best. He’s a little too out of it to keep tabs on where all the others are—there are enough people that it’d be hard to spot everyone in the first place, but like this, it feels impossible.

And Vincent is… surprisingly, absent, for much of it. Yves considers texting him a couple times, just to see where he might be, but then decides against it. If Vincent has found something fun to do, then Yves definitely isn’t going to keep him from doing it.

Except, a small part of him says, he’d explicitly told Vincent not to worry about him. It doesn’t have to be your problem, he’d said, and Vincent had stared back at him, blankly, except was his expression really blank, then? Hadn’t he seemed a little hurt? After all of this is over, Yves really ought to apologize to him for all of the trouble—for making this whole wedding a lot more stressful than it should’ve been.

Vincent had known, after all, that he was nervous just this morning, even though Yves hadn’t wanted for it to show. And perhaps Vincent has always been perceptive, but Yves likes to think he isn’t always so obvious. Vincent is here to enjoy his vacation in France, first and foremost. Yves doesn’t want anything—not the fever he feels brewing, not the nervousness he feels regarding the wedding—to get in the way of that.

But right now, Vincent is nowhere to be found, so he tables the apology for later. For now, he just has to get through the entirety of the wedding. He spends a good part of the hour in the same seat, blowing his nose into cocktail napkins, wishing he had packed something warmer that would fit the dress code.

He makes polite conversation with whoever stops by, and tries—and fails—to ignore the fact that it feels like his head is going to split. Maybe he should’ve picked up some aspirin at the convenience store, too, though it’s not like he has the time to go back and get it now. And, anyways, as painful as it is, it’s really just a headache. How bad could it be?

—

At six, he finds his seat for dinner. A couple minutes later, Vincent takes a seat next to him. Yves turns to speak to him, only, he has to turn away to muffle a throat-scraping fit of coughs into his elbow.

The coughing fit lasts longer than he anticipates. When he looks up at last, Vincent is already in conversation with the person next to him, who Yves recognizes to be one of Genevieve’s friends—perhaps one of the ones he ate dinner with the night before, though Yves can’t be sure. Yves hunts down another cocktail napkin to blow his nose into—it’s starting to run worse now that the sun is starting to set.

When it comes time to give his toast, he’s afraid, for a moment, that he might forget what to say. That he might trip up mid-speech, despite all of the practice. That his current affliction might make itself clearly, embarrassingly apparent right when everyone’s attention is focused on him.

But the speech goes well. He gives his speech in French. His voice is noticeably off, but he hasn’t lost it entirely, and if he has to resort to clearing his throat as quietly as he can in between sentences, it’s a small sacrifice. Aimee giggles at the anecdote he tells about her in grad school, texting him about meeting Genevieve for the first time at a networking event. He throws in a couple inside jokes—references to things he’s heard his extended family laugh about during their yearly summer reunions, things that he can tie back into the wedding that he hopes might land well with this audience—and then he tells everyone about a surprise party he worked with Genevieve to plan, last summer, for Aimee’s birthday: how she’d stayed up late to make sure everything was carefully accounted for. How he’d known, then, from how seriously she was taking it, by how well she seemed to know Aimee already, that she would be the one. 

The jokes seem to land, for the way everyone—buoyed from the adrenaline of the wedding and in part thanks to the cocktails, he’s sure—laughs, and by the end, Genevieve is beaming, and Aimee breaks tradition to run up to him and give him a tight hug. After that, he asks everyone to raise their glasses in a toast—“To Aimee and Genevieve,” he says, “what a joy it is to see the team you’ve been rooting for win,” and the room erupts into clamor—into applause and cheer and the resounding clinking of glasses.

Then someone he recognizes as one of Genevieve’s closest friends stands to give her toast, and for the first time today, Yves lets himself relax in his seat. Only, it isn’t really relaxing—after all of the caffeine, he feels simultaneously exhausted and strangely, artificially alert, in a way that feels a little wrong.

The rest of the wedding should be smooth sailing, he thinks. The ceremony is over. His speech was fine. He just needs to stay through dinner and the cake cutting, and then he can ride the shuttle back with everyone else, and then—

—And then he’ll be back at his hotel room, where he can apologize to Vincent for perhaps being the very reason why this vacation hasn’t been as stress-free as it should’ve been, considering that it’s likely one of the few reprieves he and Vincent are supposed to get until busy season winds down.

He blinks, rubs a hand over his face, sniffling. He really does feel dizzy.

It’s usually like this. Yves thinks he should probably be wiser by now. If there’s anything he’s learned from past experiences—attending that end-of-semester crew meeting with the flu, or getting through the second half of finals week his senior year of university with a high fever—it’s that half a week of ignoring all of his symptoms is going to catch up to him eventually. 

Usually he’s better at defining what constitutes eventually.

He feels a familiar prickle in his nose—the kind that he knows once he gives in to will plague him for the rest of the hour. The cold medicine must be wearing off. Better to do this elsewhere—anywhere instead of here, on the courtyard, where everyone is eating dinner.

“I’ll be right back,” he says to Vincent. Then, without waiting for a response, he rises from his seat and heads off in the direction of the nearest restroom. There’s one in the main building, past the catering stations, the ballroom, the indoor bar.

“Hey, Yves,” someone—his sister—says, when he’s halfway to the building.

He stops walking. “What’s up?”

“You nailed that speech,” she says.

“In no small part thadks to you,” Yves says, forcing himself to turn and face her with a smile. “I’m glad we cut it down. And by we I mean, mostly you.”

“You were a hit,” Victoire says. “And it was funny. I liked the anecdotes you picked. I don’t think people would’ve minded if it were longer.” 

“Three mbidutes was the perfect length. Ady longer and people would’ve started losidg idterest— hHh-!” Yves thinks, a little frustratedly, that he always has the most inconvenient timing. “Excuse mbe, I— HHehh!” He lifts his arm to his face, twisting away. “hHhEH’iiDZSSchh’iiEW!”

When he turns back around to face her, Victoire is staring at him with the sort of calculating look that Yves is sure is not a good thing.

“You’re still sick?” she asks.

He blinks at her. “A little,” he says. “I’ll get some sleep todight.” 

She nods. “Does Vincent know?”

The question startles him into laughing, which he immediately regrets, for the way it makes him cough. “That I’mb sick?” he asks. “Yeah, I’d assume so. We share a room.”

“Assume? So you haven’t talked to him about it?”

“Whether or ndot I have a cold is not the mbost enthralling conversation topic,” Yves says.

“But you’re dating,” she says, as if that explains everything.

It explains nothing. “Yes, glad you ndoticed.”

“I just mean that — I mean, he got breakfast with us the other day, which you weren’t there for, and then we had the rehearsal dinner, which he wasn’t invited to. And during the cocktail hour, you were sitting alone.”

“I’mb not sure where you’re goidg with this,” Yves says, if only because he doesn’t want to be having this conversation right now. “But if you’re wondering whether—” He veers away again, pressing his arm to his face. “hh… Hehh-! hhHH’GKTT-SHHiiew!Ugh, sorry… Hh… HEHh’IIDZZSCHh-yyEEew! snf-! If you’re wondering whether we got into a fight, or sobething, then the answer is no.”

“It’s not that.” Victoire hesitates, for a moment, as if she’s still thinking about what to say. She probably is. She’s always been deliberate with her words. “It kind of seems like—well, like you’re doing that thing you always do.”

“What thidg I always do?” 

“You know.” She looks at him, her expression carefully, deceptively neutral. “Avoiding the people who care about you when something’s wrong.”

“I have ndo idea what you’re talking about.” Yves glances wistfully over to the bathroom. “I do really ndeed to pee, you know.”

He half expects her to press, but she just sighs. “Okay,” she says. “Don’t let me keep you.”

It’s a convenient out, and he takes it. The walk over is thankfully not too long—the bathroom turns out to be located just a couple hallways down from the entrance, but it’s hidden enough that it’s a little hard to find. For now, that’s a good thing.

He imagines the wedding party might move inside shortly after dinner, but as it stands, the building is mercifully empty. The restroom on the first floor is nicer than expected—warm lighting, floor to ceiling mirrors, polished white sinks on a black granite countertop. He braces himself against the countertop, suppressing another shiver. 

His nose is running slightly. He reaches over and grabs a couple paper towels from the dispenser, just to be safe.

It’s not a moment too early. It’s only moments after that he’s pitching forwards into the paper towels with a harsh—

 “HhH’iiDZSSCHh-IIEW!” 

The sound echoes off the tiled walls. Yves finds himself coughing, afterwards. The medicine must really be wearing off, then, for the way his nose is starting to run incessantly—for the way the discomfort prickles at his skin, suggesting a fever. It’s a good thing there’s no one here to see him like this.

“hHEHh’iIZssCHH-iiEW! snf-! hHEh… HDDt’TSSCHH-iEEW!” The sneezes are harsher than usual, too, and forceful enough to snap him forward at the waist. He stays hunched over for a moment, steadying himself with the side of the countertop, and tries, somewhat unsuccessfully, to catch his breath. 

The bathroom feels frigidly cold. He shivers, reaches up with trembling hands to try to button up his suit. His nose is starting to tickle again. It feels like he might be here forever, like one wrong breath might be enough to—

“hhH…. hHEH…. hhHEH’DJJJSHH’iiEEW!” The paper towels in his hand must be drenched now, but before he can get a chance to replace them, his breath catches again. “hhEH’GKTT-SHhhEw!” It’s immediately clear, from the subsequent twinge in his nose, that he’s not done. For a moment, he wonders if the sneezes will ever let up—if he’ll be stuck in the bathroom all evening, trying to keep his illness under wraps.

Before he can entertain the thought properly, he finds himself jerking forward again, his eyes snapping shut—

“Hehh… hEHh’IIZSCHH-YYEEW! hHihhH’-iiTsSHHH-YYEW!”

He blows his nose, as gently as he can, but the paper towel is rougher against his skin. When he looks up afterwards, blinking tears out of his vision, his nose looks noticeably red. 

It takes all the resolve in him to not just slump against the wall.

His next breath comes in wrong, and he finds himself coughing—harsh, grating coughs which seem to go on and on, leaving him feeling distinctly lightheaded.

He can’t stay here. He needs to make it back to dinner, where the others are waiting for him. He has to get back before Vincent starts wondering where he’s gone.

Yves squeezes his eyes shut. If he’s being honest with himself, he feels awful. Nothing he does seems to do anything to assuage the chill that’s settled persistently over him, the uncomfortable, shivery feeling that makes him want to curl up somewhere warm, sleep the next day and a half away.

Would it be so bad for him to stay here for just a little longer? To send a text to Vincent to let him know he’ll be back in twenty? It’s not the most comfortable of places, but it would be the easiest to explain if someone ends up finding him here. Anywhere else might suggest that he has a big enough problem to deliberately hide away instead of properly enjoying the festivities, like he should be doing, which is not the impression he wants to give off at all.

He tries to think of a convincing enough excuse, but nothing he can think of takes precedence over a wedding dinner, of all things. It should be fine if he goes back now, but any longer might be pushing things.

And, anyways, he feels guilty for even considering it. The others are waiting for him. He has to show up, and at the very least, be courteous where he has to, make pleasant conversation when he can. He has to make sure Aimee and Genevieve are having fun, and that Leon and Victoire are doing fine, and that nothing needs to get done logistically, and that Vincent is not there alone, surrounded by strangers speaking a language he’s just started to learn.

His head is pounding. He tosses the paper towels into the bin, leans his weight against the countertop, squeezes his eyes shut. The exhaustion from the past few days of on-and-off sleep must be catching up with him. His head is pounding.

He can do this. More aptly put, it’s not a question of whether he can. He has to do this.

He splashes his face with cold water, washes his hands in the sink, dries his face with another generous handful of paper towels, and heads towards the door. He feels almost too tired to stand, but that’s only a temporary concern. It won’t be a problem once he gets back to his seat.

Everyone is waiting for him, he tells himself. Soon, they might be asking where he’s gone. He needs to show them that he’s there—present and attentive and engaged, just like he promised everyone he’d be. No one expects any less of him, after all.

It’s with that in mind that he presses forward. He makes it down a couple hallways before he finds himself having to lean against the wall to catch his balance, shutting his eyes against the sudden wave of disorientation. He inhales, slowly. Exhales.

Fuck. Perhaps he’s dizzier than he’d expected.

“Yves?” He freezes. Vincent is not supposed to be here. Vincent can’t see him right now, not in this state. He forces himself to smile. “What’s up?”

“You disappeared,” Vincent says. “I wanted to make sure…”

His voice shutters, sounding distant and close by all at once. “...that everything was okay.”

“It is,” Yves says. “I was just about to head back.” “We can head back together,” Vincent says. It’s not that long of a walk—just a couple minutes, at most, to the exit Vincent presumably came in from, and then back down the stone path that leads to the courtyard.

“You didn’t have to come find me. I’m really fine.” Yves shifts his weight off from the wall. Takes a couple steps halting towards the exit, which is a mistake.

It all registers simultaneously: the darkness encroaching upon the edges of his vision, the surge of panic in his chest. The world, suddenly angled wrongly, tilts towards him. He thinks he is definitely going to owe Vincent an apology.

[ Part 5 ]

[hesbuckcompton-baby]

I'm Your Man - Robert 'Rosie' Rosenthal x OFC - Chapter 2

Masterlist | Chapter 1 |-| Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11 | Chapter 12 | Chapter 13 | Chapter 14 | Chapter 15 | Chapter 16 | Chapter 17 | Chapter 18

AO3

Summary: Frankie's friendship with the men of the 100th continues to consolidate, even as her work takes its toll

Warnings: Alcohol consumption, language, me having no idea how B-17s work

Word Count: 4k

Tags: @mads-weasley @xxluckystrike @curaheehee @footprintsinthesxnd @dcyllom @storysimp

The pub was noisy as ever, a patchwork crowd of blue and green, British and American, filling the low-ceilinged room, the stench of cigarette smoke and stale beer thick in the air. It seemed to Frankie that she only ever managed to get that smell washed out of her uniform in time to come straight back here and acquire it again, but it was the only place they could manage to find some real fun - after all, there were no men and no booze allowed in their Nissen hut. Although both rules had been known to be flouted.

"Stop fiddling with that, you'll make it worse," George tutted, batting at Frankie's arm as she took a sip of her beer. When one of the forts had crashed in a ball of flames earlier that week, she had seared herself helping to clear the debris, a burn mark running across the palm of her right hand. In her moments of absent-mindedness, she often found herself toying with the bandage, which caused the nurses great dismay when the dressings inevitably frayed and needed replacing.

"I can't make it worse, it's already almost healed," She shrugged, plucking a cigarette from her breast pocket. The two women had long since learned that bringing a whole pack led to nothing but strangers begging for a smoke, so they each only ever brought one out with them - besides, a pleasant smile could always swindle a hapless soldier out of another, should the need arise. "Hurt like a bitch, but the nurse lanced all the blisters the other day."

George grimaced, wiping some foam from the corner of her lip. As she let her gaze wander to the next table over, the voices of the men behind them growing more audible by the minute, she sighed. "Oh, here we go."

Craning her neck to have a look, Frankie watched on for a moment, recognising the faces of Egan, Cleven and the others as they chatted with a few RAF airmen in less-than-friendly tones. A crooked grin made its way across her expression, and she wiggled her brow at George as she stood up, taking her pint with her.

"Frank, no," Her companion whispered, tugging at her sleeve.

"Come on," She giggled. The pair burrowed their way through the dense crowds that crammed the pub, breaking free beside the men's table, lingering momentarily behind the three RAF pilots.

"So, let me get this straight," One of them asked. "You're Buck, and he's Bucky?"

"Is there a shortage of nicknames in the 100th?" Another spoke, a smug smirk creasing his cheeks.

Frankie took another sip of her beer and spoke up, the sudden sound drawing the attention of all of the men at the table. "No, but there is a shortage of tossers, I'm sure you could fill the ranks," She said sweetly.

"Wa-hey!" Bucky cheered, a pink tinge on his cheeks indicating that he was already reasonably intoxicated. Wordlessly, he leapt to his feet, scrounging for a pair of extra chairs for the two women.

"Hiya, George," Biddick smiled dreamily, cradling in his in the palm of his hand. "How ya doin'? You look nice."

"I'm doing good, thanks Curt," George smiled, accepting a seat with a quick thanks to Bucky. Frankie let out a snort as she sat down beside her.

"Only thing we're short of is crews, gents," Egan sighed, taking his place between Frankie and Cleven and attempting to drape an arm across the back of her chair before she shoved him off.

"Hm. Pity," One of the RAF men said, condescension dripping in his tone.

"Pity what, exactly?" Frankie urged, getting the distinct feeling that there was a whole argument bubbling under the surface here that she had not been party to.

"Well, they'd have more if they flew their missions at night - as an RAF woman yourself, surely you must know that."

She raised a brow, talking over the rim of her glass as she took another sip of beer. She could feel Bucky tensing beside her. "Yunno, if the RAF paid me a bit more I might feel some loyalty to them, but I'm with the Yanks. You're the prick here, mate." George lifted her glass in a silent toast of agreement, a smirk curling the corner of her lips.

The Englishman's jaw clenched as he peeled his irritated gaze away from her to look at the men. "I think we ought to make some sport of this. Any one of you will do."

"Oh, don't say that, Frankie'll beat your ass," Bucky muttered under his breath, just quiet enough that only she and Cleven could hear, grins spreading across their expressions.

"Sounds like an excellent idea," Cleven rose to his feet to accept the challenge, but before he could, Biddick was up beside him, tugging at his sleeve. He spoke in a low voice, and Frankie couldn't quite make out what he was saying, but she pieced it together when Curt's gaze kept flickering from Cleven to George, who watched on with a frown. He wanted to take the fight - wanted to impress her.

Once it was settled that Curt would be the one to fight, the group moved swiftly outside, half-empty drinks long forgotten at the table as they hurried to watch the spectacle. The alley outside the pub was unlit, the glow from inside casting faint shadows against the cobbles as they formed a tight circle, watching on expectantly. Frankie's cigarette hung from her lips, a cloud of smoke rising in front of her as Curt and the RAF airman began to circle one another, fists raised.

George clung tight to her elbow, grinning in anticipation. The Englishman caught the edge of a wonky paving stone, stumbling slightly, and the two women let out unflattering snorts. Curt winked at them, and Frankie rolled her eyes, although even in the darkness she could tell George was blushing.

"What do I get when I win?" He called over, tearing his gaze from his opponent.

It was George's turn to roll her eyes now. "I'll let you buy me a drink."

His boyish face lit up, and it seemed he had been wholly distracted from the fight. The Englishman lunged forward to take advantage of this, but Biddick didn't miss a beat, knocking him down with a single blow. Frankie let out a raucous cheer of celebration, her friend clapping along as the men whooped and jeered at each other.

"Milady," Curt grinned, holding out his hand to George, who accepted gladly, allowing him to lead her back into the pub for another drink. Frankie let out a huff, smiling as she stomped out her cigarette and watched the other RAF airmen pick their fallen comrade up off the ground. Letting out another laugh, the sound of it erupting into the night air, she began to follow the men of the 100th, finally letting Bucky sling his arm around her shoulders as they wandered back towards the Nissen huts, singing and shouting in celebration of Curt's victory.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

It was not yet five in the morning as Frankie scrounged to tie her bootlaces in the dark, toothbrush dangling out of her mouth, unbrushed hair tugged back into a messy ponytail. The pilots were taking off shortly after daybreak, and as some of the most senior mechanics at Thorpe Abbotts, the job often fell to her and Lemmons to carry out the last-minute safety checks and refuelling to ensure they'd all make it back in one piece.

None of the other women in her hut were required for duty yet, so Frankie did her best to shuffle about in the darkness as quietly as possible, refusing to turn on her bedside lamp so as not to wake George or any of her other less forgiving bunkmates.

Standing up from the edge of the bed once she'd finished tying her laces, she groped around blindly for her key to the mechanics' hut, accidentally banging her elbow on the corner of her metal bedframe in the process, waves of pain shooting up her arm. Pursing her lips tightly together, her whole body tensed, Frankie managed to find the key, waiting until she'd left the hut so that the cool night air would drown out the sounds of her pain.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck!" She hissed as she scurried for her bike, waving her injured arm around wildly as if the movement could somehow dull the pain. She was so distracted that she'd almost completely forgotten about the burn on her hand - that is, until she clamped the handlebar with her injured palm and let out a yelp.

The sun was already rising as Frankie arrived on the airstrip, breaks squeaking as she wheeled to a stop outside the mechanics' hut, Lemmons already on site as he wrung his palms with one of the dirty rags they used to clean away excess lubricant. "You look like hell," He pointed out as she dismounted her bike, locking it up around the side of the building.

"Thanks, Ken," She replied sarcastically. "Rough wake-up call, beat myself up stumbling around in the dark."

Ken chuckled, handing over her toolkit. The pair had far few hours of sleep between them to chat as they worked, and it was all Frankie could do not to yawn as she checked the fuel tanks and oiled the landing gear. They'd been out for over an hour by the time the flight crews began to show up, the familiar sound of jeep engines pulling up behind her as she declared her job done.

"She ready to roll?" Bucky's voice rang out, and Frankie almost flinched as he clapped her over the shoulder, still reeling from the man's constant lack of volume regulation.

"All good," She confirmed. "Now get her outta my sight, and bring her back in one piece - can you handle that?"

He smirked. "Oh, you know I can."

"The number of wrecks you've given me would say otherwise, dear," Frankie teased, wiping engine grease off of her fingers with a rag as she turned on her heel, heading back towards the mechanics' hut.

"Hey!" Egan called, and she looked back at him. "You ain't gonna watch us take off?"

"The only thing I'm doing now is taking a goddamn nap," She laughed, feeling exhaustion tugging at her eyelids.

"Yeah, fair, you do look like shit," Bucky shrugged, recoiling as her filthy, oily rag smacked him in the shoulder as Frankie lobbed it across the airstrip. "Hey!"

"Respect women, you little bitch," She retorted, raising a middle finger as she wandered off, praying she could make the bike ride back to her bed without dozing off and crashing into a bush somewhere.

Frankie slept through the morning, right past lunch, and would've missed the cacophony of plane engines returning overhead had Lemmons not come to retrieve her, banging on the window above her bed. She peeled her eyes open slowly, waking with a start as she noticed the boyish face staring down at her through the glass.

"What the fuck?!" She asked groggily, voice raised so that he could hear her from outside.

"They're back, come on!"

Letting out a huff, Frankie dragged herself out from under the blankets, running her fingers through the knots in her hair for want of time to properly brush it. Stepping out through the front door as she finished fastening the top few buttons of her coveralls, Ken stood waiting for her, passing his weight impatiently between the balls of his feet.

"How's it lookin'?"

"Uh, all the ones we've got so far look alright. Although..." He trailed off, glancing awkwardly at her as they fetched their bikes.

"Although?"

"Biddick may have... crashed. In, uh... Scotland."

"He what?!"

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Once it had been established that Biddick was still, in fact, alive, Frankie had few kind words to say about the pilot's wreckless flying, mourning the loss of a plane and the strings they'd have to pull to find a new one. Fortunately, George had been in an especially persuasive mood that night, and had managed to rope her into attending the party that was being held for the airmen to celebrate the success of their mission.

"Watch what they're calling a success, I'm the one who's gotta figure out how to ship a wrecked plane back from fucking Scotland," Frankie muttered as they approached the building, muffled music coming from inside as she tugged at the shoulders of her jacket, trying to force it to sit comfortably.

"Oh, stop complaining," George scoffed, grabbing her arm and forcing her to stop as she reached up to fix a smudge in her lipstick. "Look on the bright side for once - he didn't die!"

"That's especially good for you with your lovey-dovey eyes, huh? 'Oh hiya George, how ya doin' George, you look real pretty today George'," Frankie teased, putting on an utterly terrible American accent as she attempted to mimick Curt. George punched her in the arm and went inside without a word, a natural pink flush visible through her rouge.

The band was in full swing as Frankie followed her inside, the mingling crowds a mix of uniformed airmen, plainclothed local women, and a few servicewomen she recognised from the neighbouring huts. She was struggling to pretend she had ever wanted to come, nose burrowed in a glass of whiskey as she managed to dodge the flirting of a few slightly intoxicated pilots. It wasn't that she didn't enjoy parties - she just preferred them when there was no mountain of work hanging over her head for the following day. It was just as well she'd slept through lunch, otherwise her mood would've been frightful.

Bucky wanted to sing. He could feel the music running through his body, his toe tapping involuntarily against the polished floor as he sat slumped in a seat beside Buck. His friend had never enjoyed Bucky's singing - and although he pretended not to, he understood why. He couldn't carry a tune to save his life, but dammit if it wasn't fun.

The consensus had been a resounding no. No, he could not sing. But that was no fun - that was no way to celebrate, not in Bucky's book. He had caught Cleven off guard as he bolted from his seat, just quick enough to break away before his friend could grab him by the shoulder and drag him back down again. Approaching the microphone, an excited grin creasing his cheeks, his gaze scanned over the crowd before stopping on an unfamiliar face.

If anything, his performance would only be enhanced by a partner.

Frankie was beginning her second whiskey, lingering by George's shoulder as she made small talk with one of the radar operators from the women's hut next door. Bucky had tried to call her over once, but over the music and the crowd, she hadn't heard. He paused for a moment, wracking his brain for a way to get her attention without giving up the microphone. If he stepped away, he wouldn't have put it past Buck not to have the thing removed so that he couldn't perform.

"Fran!"

She turned to him instantaneously, ears pricked like a hunting dog, expression contorted with the murderous promise to carry out the threat she had issued the last time he'd used the nickname.

"Sing with me," Bucky beamed, holding out his hand. A smirk began to spread across her face, and he could see George patting her shoulder, egging her on. With a grin, Frankie passed her drink to the blonde, crossing the gap between them and meeting him at the mic as he cheered. Cleven's head was in his hands.

"You know the words?" He whispered.

"Well enough," She affirmed.

Never saw the sun shinin' so bright,

Never saw things goin' so right,

His suspicion had been correct. Frankie couldn't carry a tune any better than he could, onlookers grimacing at the complete lack of musical talent the pair possessed. Occasionally the lyrics would collapse into laughter as Bucky noted the way she had to crane her neck to even reach the microphone, but there was not a hint of embarrassment between them.

Watchin' the days hurryin' by,

When you're in love, my how they fly,

She caught his eye for a moment, their grins audible in their voices as they fought to keep up with the quick pace set by the band behind them. Arms outstretched, the curls in her hair bounced with each tap of her foot as she leant into the mic, their cheeks practically pressed together. The whiskey had left her slightly flushed, the tip of her nose blooming pink the way it always did. Anyone looking on probably must have thought there was something deeper between the two - the way they stood so close, their cheeks flushed pink, unable to keep a straight face whenever their eyes met. Frankie loved Bucky, that much was true, but it was the kind of platonic love that veered more into brotherhood than it ever would romance. If he had ever tried to kiss her, she probably would have knocked him out.

Blue days, all of them gone,

Nothin' but blue skies from now on,

He seized her by her shoulders in a fierce bear hug, and she let out a guffaw, so loud and so close to the microphone that it sent a shrill squeak of feedback around the room, the crowd grimacing for a moment before Bucky tugged her away and the terrible sound ceased. George was unable to clap for the glasses she held in both hands, but she whooped and cheered from the side of the room, the only person in the place giving them the true encore they both believed they deserved.

"I think we have a future in the industry," Bucky muttered into her ear, making her laugh again as they swayed side to side, his vice grip refusing to let up until she began pinching the flesh on the backs of his hands.

"Major!" A man called, scurrying up to them. "Major Egan sir, you've got a call."

"Alright, comin'," He nodded, clapping her over the shoulder as he made his way to the bar, where Cleven was already standing with the telephone.

George stepped up once Frankie was alone, returning her half-finished whiskey. "That was really something," She chuckled, voice raised over the music.

"I didn't know I had it in me," Frankie shrugged. "Y'know, that much raw, untapped talent should never go to waste, it's a tragedy." Her friend laughed, but Frankie's gaze had wandered over to the bar again, where the two Majors chatted jovially to whoever was on the other end of the line.

"Is that-?" She muttered to herself, telling George to give her a minute as she marched up to the men, leaning casually against the bar. Flashing a calm smile, she nodded to Cleven as Bucky chatted away on the phone. "Hey, is that Biddick on the line?"

"Sure is, all the way from-"

Cleven never got time to finish his sentence before she had darted in between the two men, wrenching the phone from Egan's hand before he had time to even register her presence. "Wh- hey!"

"Did you crash my fucking plane, Curt?" She snapped, the man on the other end of the line letting out a tiny yelp of surprise.

"Frankie!" Curtis chuckled nervously. "How's Georgie doin', is she well?"

"Answer the question, Biddick, did you - oh, piss off, Bucky," Frankie spoke hurriedly, slapping at Egan's hands as he tried to pry the receiver away from her. "What were you thinking?"

"Y'know," Biddick continued, completely dodging the question yet again. "The Scottish - they don't like you English very much, Frank."

"Historically speaking, that's pretty fair," She sighed, running a hand across her face. "Just... ask whoever's with if they've got a truck that can bring your wreck back from... where is it again?"

"Mostly in the vegetable patch."

"Right. Good to know. Now get your ass back here or I'm gonna set George up on a date with one of the ground crew boys."

She pulled the receiver away from her ear, chuckling at the muffled sound of Curt's protests as she handed the phone back to Bucky, who snatched it from her with a look as if to say 'What the hell?'.

"Yeah," He nodded along to whatever Biddick was now saying. "Yeah, uh-huh, I promise I won't let her. Don't you worry, dear." Bucky shot her a sideways glance and she snorted with laughter, holding her hands up in surrender as she backed away from the bar.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The sky lit up a dozen shades of orange, red and blue, the faint thrum of explosions and gunfire rattling overhead as the anti-aircraft guns did their best to destroy the enemy's fight planes, high up through the clouds.

Frankie lingered outside the shelter, watching with her arms folded across her chest. Her pin curls never held for more than a couple of hours, and a halo of frizz encircled her head as a result of the night's commotion, eyes reflecting the stippling of lights above.

One of the airmen hurried past her towards the shelter, brow drawn inwards with anxiety, sweat visible on his brow even in the dark. He glanced at her, and almost went on his way, but back-tracked just as he was about the head down the steps.

"Uh, ma'am?" He urged. "We should really get inside."

"Yeah, in a minute," Frankie waved her hand, doing a double take as she realised the man looked familiar. "Hey, it's, uh - Crosby, right?"

He almost smiled. "Yes, ma'am. You're Ms Bevan, I believe - on the ground crew."

"Right you are. But call me Frankie, everyone else does."

Crosby didn't seem to know what to say to that, and settled for a simple, awkward nod. "We should really get in-"

"It gets a lot less scary when you're - what, three years in?" She paused a long moment before sucking in a breath, tearing her gaze from the sky above as she pointed at Crosby. "Hang on, aren't you the one whose vomit we keep having to clean out?"

Even in the dark, she could see his face turn beet red. "Oh, I am so sorry about it, ma'am, I swear I'm trying not to, it's just-"

Frankie chuckled, and he trailed off, clutching his uniform cap tightly with both hands. "Don't worry about it. I make the boys do it anyway, I don't touch the stuff," She grinned. "I'd probably do the same. I know more about planes than all of your pilots put together, but I've never flown in one before."

Crosby let out a huff at her confession, suddenly more at ease despite the chaos overhead. When he stared at it the way she did, the lights and sounds were almost beautiful. Almost.

"Why don't you head down below," She said. "Your COs will start wondering where you've got to."

He nodded, reaching the top of the steps that led down to the shelter and then holding out a hand, as if offering to help her down them. When Frankie just smiled, not moving an inch from her position, he took the hint, nodding as he began to descend.

"Oh, and Crosby!" She called. He doubled back, head peeking up over the wall. "Try chewing ginger root. Or a mint leaf. I've heard they help with the air sickness."

Crosby nodded again, firmly, as he took a mental note of her advice. "Thank you, ma'am - uh, Frankie."

She grinned. "Any time."

[scrollonso]

Campione — Strollini

Luca had been buzzing with excitement for weeks, barely able to contain himself at the thought of finally seeing Lance race in person at the Baku Grand Prix. It felt like forever since they’d had quality time together.

Between Luca’s own demanding Moto2 schedule and Lance’s whirlwind rookie season in F1, their moments together had been fleeting — just the odd late-night call or a stolen weekend here and there. The distance had weighed on Luca more than he liked to admit, so the opportunity to travel to Azerbaijan and spend a few uninterrupted days with Lance filled him with a nervous anticipation. His heart had been racing almost as fast as his bike since the moment he boarded the plane.

As soon as he arrived at the paddock, Luca was hit with a wave of pride and awe. Lance’s name was everywhere, emblazoned on banners, screens, and merchandise, and it gave Luca chills to see fans sporting his number, proudly wearing his colors. It was surreal in a way that made Luca's chest swell with pride. The Lance he knew — the one who sent him stupid selfies and shared quiet mornings over coffee — was now racing in F1, and here he was, at the center of it all. Luca took a deep breath and allowed himself to soak in the atmosphere, his eyes scanning the sea of people, the bustling garages, and the whirring activity of race weekend.

As he weaved through the crowd, navigating through clusters of engineers and fans, Luca eventually found his way to the back of the Williams garage. He slipped into a spot where he could get a clear view of the screens and, more importantly, watch Lance during qualifying. His eyes stayed glued to the monitors, tracking every move, every corner Lance took. Watching Lance navigate the city streets of Baku, threading his car through the narrow turns at blistering speeds, sent a thrill down Luca’s spine. It was one thing to hear about Lance's races or watch them on TV, but seeing him in action like this, up close and in person, was something entirely different.

His heart swelled with every lap Lance completed, his chest tightening with a mix of anxiety and excitement. Every near miss or scrape against the barriers had Luca holding his breath, and every clean turn or fast sector made his pulse race. He could barely keep himself from grinning like an idiot, feeling immensely proud of his boyfriend. It was surreal to witness the man he loved performing at such a high level, surrounded by the noise and chaos of the race weekend, yet somehow maintaining that calm, focused intensity that Luca admired so much. It was a side of Lance he didn’t always get to see, and it only made him fall harder.

Race day was a whirlwind of adrenaline from the moment Luca woke up. The paddock was already buzzing with energy by the time he arrived, the smell of fuel and the hum of engines filling the air. Luca kept his look casual, blending in with the crew in a simple hoodie emblazoned with the number '18,' Lance's number, of course. He pulled on a pair of sunglasses to shield his eyes from the bright Azerbaijani sun, though they also served as a subtle way to keep a low profile. Luca wasn’t one to draw attention to himself, especially when it came to their relationship. He knew how private Lance liked to be about their personal lives, and Luca respected that. Still, there was a quiet pride in him that he couldn’t hide, and every so often, a small smile crept onto his face when he saw Lance’s car fly by.

The tension in the air was palpable as the cars lined up on the grid, engines revving, waiting for the lights to go out. Luca’s pulse quickened in anticipation, his eyes glued to the starting line. When the race began, everything exploded into motion, the roar of engines nearly deafening as the cars shot off. Lance started strong, holding his position and staying focused despite the chaotic start that often characterized the Baku Grand Prix. The long straights and tricky corners of the city circuit were a challenge for even the most seasoned drivers, but Lance was in control, his driving sharp and composed.

Luca’s heart swelled with pride as he watched his boyfriend expertly navigate the track, avoiding the near-misses and scrapes that others couldn’t seem to dodge. Every lap was a nail-biting affair, the race filled with constant lead changes, close calls, and a few crashes that sent waves of gasps through the crowd. Luca’s stomach twisted with anxiety each time Lance narrowly avoided a collision or when another car got too close for comfort. Yet, through it all, Lance remained calm, keeping his car clean and steady, managing the race with the kind of focus that made Luca's chest tighten with admiration.

As the laps wound down and the race neared its climax, the intensity ramped up. The top drivers were locked in a fierce battle, but Lance held his ground, positioning himself perfectly for a podium finish. Luca could hardly sit still. His hands clenched into fists as he watched the final laps unfold, his heart pounding in sync with the roaring engines on the track. Sweat gathered at his palms, and he found himself unconsciously leaning forward, as if the closer he was to the action, the more he could will Lance across the finish line.

Then, in what felt like both a blur and slow motion all at once, it happened — Lance crossed the line in third place. For a moment, Luca was frozen, the enormity of it all crashing over him. But then the realization hit, and his entire body flooded with joy and excitement. He shot up from his seat, practically vibrating with energy as he turned to accept a congratulatory hug from Lance's father, Lawrence. The excitement bubbled up inside him, so powerful that it was hard to contain, but he managed, keeping the outpouring of emotion just shy of what he truly felt. Luca wasn’t one for public displays of affection, not in this kind of setting, but he couldn’t wipe the grin off his face as he clapped along with the team, his heart swelling with pride for Lance's incredible achievement.

Watching Lance on the podium, holding up his trophy with that triumphant smile, Luca’s heart fluttered. It wasn’t just about the win — it was about seeing the person he loved shine in the spotlight, doing what he was born to do. And though they couldn’t share this victory as openly as Luca sometimes wished they could, in that moment, it didn’t matter. Lance had done it, and that was all Luca needed.

After the podium celebrations, with champagne still lingering in the air and the crowd's cheers fading into the background, Luca made his way back to the Williams garage, slipping through the throngs of people who were still riding the high of the race. He stood off to the side, his heart still pounding with the afterglow of Lance's incredible performance. The garage was a flurry of activity — mechanics packing up, team members sharing congratulations, and the occasional burst of laughter as they reveled in their hard-earned success. But Luca was only focused on one thing: Lance.

He waited patiently, glancing around as he tried to spot his boyfriend amid the sea of blue and white. Time seemed to stretch as the moments ticked by, his anticipation growing with every second. And then, finally, Lance appeared — still wearing his racing suit, hair disheveled, and cheeks flushed from the heat of both the race and the celebration. His face was alight with the same buzz of adrenaline that Luca had felt all day, and when their eyes met across the garage, it was as if the entire world melted away.

For a heartbeat, neither of them moved, just grinning at each other like kids with a shared secret. Then, without a word, Lance made a beeline straight for Luca, weaving through the crowd with purposeful strides. When he reached him, there was no hesitation — Lance wrapped his arms around Luca in a tight, sweaty embrace, pulling him close as if he couldn’t bear to let go. The scent of rubber, fuel, and sweat clung to him, but Luca didn’t care. He hugged Lance back just as fiercely, holding him like they hadn’t seen each other in months, even though it had only been a few days. The connection between them was palpable, electric.

“You were amazing out there, caro!” Luca said, beaming as he pulled back just enough to look into Lance’s eyes. His voice was filled with so much pride that it threatened to spill over, and he could barely contain the emotion bubbling up inside him. "I knew you had it in you."

Lance, still catching his breath, grinned wide, his eyes gleaming with the thrill of it all. “Couldn’t have done it without knowing you were watching,” he teased, his tone light but filled with sincerity. He leaned in, pressing a quick but sweet kiss to Luca’s lips — nothing too showy, just a brief, intimate moment shared between them. It was their own little piece of the victory, something just for the two of them amidst all the noise and excitement.

Luca chuckled, shaking his head in disbelief. “You make it look so easy,” he said, his voice softening as he brushed a lock of Lance’s damp hair away from his forehead. He still couldn’t quite wrap his head around the fact that the man standing in front of him — the same guy who curled up beside him on quiet nights, who stole bites of his breakfast when he wasn’t looking — was also this strong force on the racetrack. It was like seeing two different versions of Lance, and yet both were equally his.

Lance shrugged modestly, though there was a playful twinkle in his eyes. “It helps when I’ve got the best support,” he replied, his voice dipping into that low, teasing tone that always made Luca’s heart skip a beat.

They stood there for a moment longer, the chaos of the paddock swirling around them, but neither seemed to notice. It was just them — Luca and Lance — sharing a victory in a way that was uniquely theirs. As the laughter and chatter of the team filled the garage, Lance rested his forehead against Luca’s, letting out a contented sigh. “This… today, it meant a lot to me,” Lance murmured. “Not just the podium, but having you here.”

Luca’s heart melted at those words, his chest tightening with affection. “I wouldn’t have missed it for the world,” he whispered back, his voice thick with emotion. He knew how hard Lance had worked to get to this point, how much pressure he’d been under. To be here for this moment, to share it with him — it was everything.

Later that night, back in the comfort of their shared hotel room, the adrenaline of the day finally began to ebb away, leaving behind a peaceful, contented stillness. The room was dimly lit, bathed in the soft glow of the city lights twinkling just outside their window. Beyond the glass, the streets of Baku were still alive with the distant hum of traffic and nightlife, but inside, it was as if the world had quieted just for them. It was their private bubble, where the noise and intensity of the race no longer mattered. All that mattered to Luca was the warmth of Lance beside him, and the soft, rhythmic sound of his breathing.

Lance had long since shed his race suit, opting for a worn-out tshirt — Luca's worn-our tshirt — and sweatpants, looking far more relaxed than he had in hours.

After a bit of playful resistance, Luca had managed to pull him down onto the bed, insisting they spend the evening cuddled up together. Lance had teased him, but he hadn't put up much of a fight — he never did when it came to moments like this.

As soon as they settled under the covers, their bodies naturally gravitated toward one another, falling into that familiar, comforting rhythm.

Lance lay stretched out across Luca’s chest, his arms wrapped snugly around Luca’s waist, as if anchoring himself to the one person who made him feel truly at home. His head rested in the crook of Luca’s shoulder, and Luca absentmindedly ran his fingers through Lance’s tousled hair, his touch gentle and soothing. They talked in hushed tones, replaying the day's events, laughing at the crazier moments, and marveling at some of the more heart-stopping overtakes.

“Remember that close call with the barrier on lap 22?” Lance said, his voice still carrying a hint of excitement. “I thought for sure I was going to lose the car for a second.”

Luca chuckled, shaking his head. “I was practically holding my breath the whole time. I couldn’t believe how calm you looked — like it was just another Sunday drive.”

Lance grinned, looking up at him with a playful sparkle in his eyes. “All part of the charm.”

They shared a quiet laugh, the kind that only comes when you’re completely at ease with someone, the tension of the day fading with each passing moment. Luca’s hand continued to stroke Lance’s hair, his fingers threading through the soft strands as he gazed down at him with a look of pure affection. He couldn’t stop the smile that tugged at his lips, his heart swelling with pride as he thought back to seeing Lance on that podium, standing tall in front of thousands of adoring fans.

“You looked so good up there,” Luca murmured after a beat, his voice soft and full of admiration. “I’m so proud of you, you know that?”

Lance chuckled, lifting his head just enough to meet Luca’s eyes, a playful smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah? Did I make my boyfriend proud?”

Luca rolled his eyes in mock exasperation but couldn’t help the grin that spread across his face. “More than proud,” he replied, his voice dropping to a whisper. “I think I might have fallen even more in love with you.”

That admission hung in the air between them for a moment, and Lance’s teasing expression softened into something more tender. His eyes shone with a quiet warmth as he leaned up, capturing Luca’s lips in a slow, lingering kiss. There was no rush, no need to move fast. It was the kind of kiss meant to savor the moment, to express all the things they didn’t need words for. When they finally parted, Lance’s breath brushed against Luca’s lips as he whispered, “I’m so lucky. Getting to come home to you after a day like today? There’s nothing better.”

Luca’s heart clenched at the sincerity in Lance’s voice. He tightened his hold around him, drawing him even closer, if that were possible. They stayed like that for what felt like hours, wrapped up in each other’s presence, the rest of the world outside their hotel room fading into insignificance. There were no more crowds, no more race cars, no more flashing lights or roaring engines. Just the two of them, lying together in the quiet comfort of their little sanctuary, content in the simplicity of being with each other.

As the night deepened, Lance’s breaths began to slow, his body relaxing further against Luca’s. His eyelids grew heavy, the exhaustion from the day finally catching up to him. Before long, he drifted off, curled up in Luca’s arms, the stress and adrenaline of the race melting away into peaceful slumber.

Luca gazed down at him, a soft smile playing on his lips as he watched the steady rise and fall of Lance’s chest. He leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss to Lance’s forehead, his heart full. “Goodnight, il mio campione,” he whispered, the words barely audible in the quiet room.

[wealmostaneckbeard]

Critical Role Plays Lancer (hypothetical)

What if the core cast of Critical Role played the table top Mecha role playing game Lancer? Here are the CR cast members paired with the most entertaining mechs for their style of play:

Travis Willingham in a HORUS Balor

In the major D&D campaigns Travis has shown a preference for melee combatants who engage with dark unsavory powers. The Balor is a huge mech that eats other mechs using nanite swarms. Those same nanites probably contain the consciousness of freedom fighters-turned-terrorists-turned-into-a-hive mind. It's a perfect match! If the Balor is equipped with an A.I. called a Non-Human Person then there is a possibility that Travis's pilot-character could get eaten by his own mech!

Laura Bailey in a Harrison Armory Barbarossa

Laura apparently likes long-range damage dealers and typically those are very delicate and agile characters. It would be intriguing to see how she'd handle the Barbarossa. The Barbarossa is a tanky behemoth armed with the APOCALYPSE RAIL, an anti-warship weapon that requires the user to stay still in order to charge. It would be very interesting to see if the pilot that Laura creates would fire into a melee scrum and potentially kill her allies to achieve victory. She could play around with the anxiety her pilot would experience while screaming "Get Clear of the Blast! Firing!" Or she could role play as someone totally ruthless who justifies friendly fire with the fact that dead pilots can be flash-cloned and mechs can be salvaged.

Marisha Ray in an IPS-N Tortuga

Marisha Ray is from Kentucky. The Tortuga has Shotguns. The synergy is naturally there, you guys. Joking aside, the Tortuga would give Marisha a lot of role flexibility, she'd be able to defend her friends from enemy advance or she could push into the fray headfirst. If her pilot is tech-savvy, she could even engage in some cyberwarfare which the Tortuga is kind-of good at. Plus the Tortuga comes with a really boring A.I. that could act as the straight man for whatever jokes Marisha's character would come up with.

Talesin Jaffey in an SSC Mourning Cloak

Mr. Jaffey would probably go with a homebrewed mech if given the choice. Since I cannot imagine the Eldritch Mechanism he would craft, I am forced to prescribe him a Mourning Cloak. It is one of the few mechs capable of teleporting, which it doesn't do very precisely. There is a slight chance that Talesin might roll poorly while determining teleport distance, causing his pilot and mech to go... someplace else... and only reappear after the scene is over. He and the game master could have a lot of fun with that.

Liam O'Brien in a HORUS Goblin (warning: robo-codpiece, or maybe you like that kind of thing, IDK)

In tactical table top action, Liam shows a propensity for complexity. And nothing is more complex than the little Goblin which contains more electronics within it than is physically possible. The Goblin can hack allies to make their systems better, hack enemy systems to make them much worse, and even hack reality to make Things happen. Liam could reprise some of his favorite shticks like "I'm just a little guy, give me uppies," and "This goblin is named Nott and is my best friend."

Ashley Johnson in a Harrison Armory Genghis

In the first two major D&D campaigns Ashley played melee damage dealers and then branched out into a wildfire druid in the third. So a striker type mech that plays with fire would be consistent with her previous choices. Enter the Genghis, the carefree pyromaniacs choice of mechanized chassis. The mech builds up heat from weapons like it's Krakatoa flamethrower or a GMS Thermal Lance and then releases it in a blistering-blinding heat cloud. Incendiary damage continues burning victims until they douse themselves so Ashley can just set and forget. Finally I'd love to see what kind of pilot Ashley would come up with who would use a mech that's just as terrifying as the Balor.

Sam Riegel in an SSC Swallowtail (oh gods... please excuse the terrible mspaint job... hopefully this looks funny in a good way)

In D&D, Sam seems to like playing as unconventional back-line characters. He's been a tricky bard, a sneaky goblin/halfling rogue, and most recently a literal healbot with rage issues. So I think the Swallowtail would be a good fit for him. It's less of a mech and more of a high quality holographic movie studio on legs. It can make simulated stunt doubles of allies, use it's cameras to focus in such excruciating detail that invisible subjects are revealed, and even turn itself and everyone nearby invisible so they don't mess up the film shoot. Sam's pilot character could be some kind of propagandist or movie set manager who is infuriated by how messy actual warfare is.

Finally, Last but not least:

Mathew Mercer in an IPS-N Lancaster

I would be automatically fascinated by Mr. Mercer's interpretation of galactic human society in the year 5016u and the journey he would take his players on. But if he was a player then it would be interesting to see him controlling a Lancaster, the apex of mobile field repair platforms. Anything bad that can happen to a mech (damage, burning, hacked, immobilized) can be undone by the reliable Lancaster and it's limited pool of resources. I'm confident Mercer would be able to manage those resources wisely although it would be funny if he didn't. Role playing as his pilot, we'd get to see Matt do his best futuristic tow truck operator impression, which I think would be a very gratifying experience.

[jewish-mccoy]

tw bugs and injury

so I lanced what I thought was a blister or something yesterday. and then tonight I take the bandaid off and the thing looks horrific. I finally get it cleaned up and I do some googling and I think it may have been a brown recluse bite. pics look basically identical

here’s what I’m bitter about. I let spiders live most of the time unless I see a black widow. I saw a spider the other day and let it live. I thought I knew enough to ID brown recluses. And like I’m pretty sure it was just a plain spider. But a little part of me is like did I let that fucker live only for it to bite me. Is that what my luck is.

[voxofthevoid]

Hi, Vox! I'm a bit of a lurker usually, but I do (quite religiously) keep up with you and your posts daily. Your mind is fascinating, and I keep coming back for more, albeit quietly. 🤭

That being said, I cannot pass up your generous offer at these sneak peeks. Thanks for all that you do-being a Vox fan is to be kept well fed!

(Also, I'm over the moon to hear that you've recovered from your stomach bug; here's to hoping you stay in great health going forward!)

I have four words for you; I'm sure the theme of them will tell you all what you need to know about me...

Whine -- Sensitive -- Caught -- Escape

Thank you 💗🥰

I'm very glad you're well fed, and it's a delight to know you're enjoying my fics and thoughts. I appreciate the well wishes too—please listen and behave, meatsuit.

And hey, those words just show you're in good company on my blog—pretty much all my fics, especially the longer ones, are guaranteed to have all of these 🤝

I've picked 100–200 words from four different fics.

Whine, ft. nanaita from taking the flesh is the only virtue

“Itadori-kun,” Kento says quietly, “will you look at me?”

Itadori makes a sound that’s some strange cross between a growl and a whine.

He looks up.

The hunger in his eyes almost takes Kento out at the knees. They’re all pupil, a depthless dark that threatens to suck in everything inside the room, and Kento doesn’t know what his own face does in response, but it does something, and Itadori’s expression shifts in answer, all animalistic intensity. A wave of pheromones follows, a veritable flood of concentrated need, and this time, Kento’s reaction is a lot more physical, points of heat flaring across his body—throat and belly, thighs and underarms.

Groin.

Itadori growls.

Then he slaps a hand over his mouth, and the hunger turns into horror.

“Nanamin,” he whimpers, muffled through his own fingers. “I’m sorry, I don’t—”

Sensitive, ft. itagofushi from i can offer you a black-lit paradise

Itadori reacts with a full-body shudder than Megumi sees and feels in the muscles under his legs, and then Itadori does it again, that maddening, blinding thing. Megumi’s vision blurs, and he blinks away tears in time for Itadori to wreck him all over again. Megumi realizes past the sound of his own voice climbing into a fever pitch that Itadori’s sucking on his hole, his mouth a blistering seal over it.

“So sensitive,” Gojou says, and he could be commenting on the weather, except no one sounds so dangerously gleeful when they’re talking about rain and snow and whatnot. “I was trying to behave, let Yuuji have his fill, but I really can’t help myself when you get like this, Megumi.”

It’s ample warning, but Megumi’s still somehow surprised when Gojou’s fingers tighten cruelly around his nipples.

Fiery sensation flares, lancing deeper than flesh. Megumi arches up again, and this time, it’s not just a mouth that’s waiting for him but hands too, Gojou pulling on the buds like he’s planning to pry them right off.

Something red-hot spills into his blood, filling him with filthy fire.

“Cut it out,” he says, and it comes out breathy and wet, like he’s begging.

Caught, ft. goyuu from the ghost in me was true (but you were haunted too)

Satoru leans down further, the weight on Yuuji’s hand increasing. It has his fingers digging into the thick muscle of Satoru’s throat, a grip that will bruise red. Yuuji’s fingers flex, but he can’t bring himself to ease his grip an iota. His cursed energy is still writhing in the air, and it’s been months since anything has caught him off guard like this.

It’s reassuring in a perverse kind of way to know that no matter how strong Yuuji becomes, Satoru will be the bigger, better monster.

“Leaving you?” Satoru asks, and it comes out low and hoarse, like every word is being squeezed out of the grip Yuuji has around his throat. Satoru’s own hands are on either side of Yuuji’s head, the veins in his forearms bulging. His face—

It’s fire and fury, scorching to look at.

“I—” Yuuji swallows, throat clicking dry. “I thought you—”

“You’re mine,” Satoru says, and his voice is still rough, but those words are so calm, brimming with a certainty that weakens Yuuji from fingers to bones, his arm falling limply down. Satoru leans down even further, till his breath is hot on Yuuji’s mouth. “I told you to sleep on it. I warned you I’m greedy. I gave you every chance not to regret it.”

Escape, ft. goyuu from (let me be clear) every version of the story ends with you being slaughtered

There’s a touch on his head, almost tentative before fingers wind into his hair. Yuuji opens his eyes, unsure when he managed that, and throws himself right back into the trap he unwittingly escaped, except Gojou’s eyes are barely open, slitted blue gleaming over prettily flushed cheeks. His lips are parted, his breaths ragged. Yuuji can hear them even over the rush of blood in his ears.

His burning lungs force him to pull off Gojou’s cock, and the hand in his hair grips him tighter but doesn’t stop or steer him. Instead, the touch turns gentler the next moment, awkwardly petting Yuuji as he coughs and swallows around the new soreness in his throat. Gojou still doesn’t say anything, and Yuuji can’t make himself look at his face again, making resolute eye contact with his bruised chest, but there’s clear concern in the fingers stroking his hair back from his forehead and thumbing the corner of his mouth.

There’s the unbidden thought that it’d be easier if Gojou did just force him.

[blaiddllodi]

[ 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝 ] : sender takes a hold of receiver's both hands.

The sparring session was called to a halt by the older man as he slowly approached Dimitri. “Show me those hands of yours. Both.” The boy wore gloves and gauntlets much like himself, but he could see blood seeping into the black fabric. With a sigh, Lambert put his lance away to fetch a first aid kid. “Sit down, we will take a look at that together. I refuse to allow any student to fight while injured.”

“You will genuinely hurt yourself if you continue to do it like that, kid. Look at your hands…” 

A tug here, another there, and he removed the house leader’s glove to better inspect the injury, frowning slightly at the sight of bloodied blisters. Gloved hands held into slightly smaller ones, carefully as if any wrong move would be enough to cause them to shatter. Lambert was no faith mage, so he couldn’t offer the near instantaneous comfort of a healing spell. It would have to be the old way. 

Lambert took his own gloves off, so he could have at least better sensitivity in handling the bandages. 

Somehow, it was as if he had done this before, with that very same hand- though the blurry image in his mind envisioned a much smaller one. Instead of blisters, was a scrape from a fall. 

“You should be more careful, Mitya. You are a strong boy, but it pains your father to see you hurt. Promise me to take care next time.” “You should be more careful, kid. You are a strong one, but no teacher enjoys seeing their students hurt. Promise me to take care next time.”

The bandages were wrapped just right. Not too tight, not too loose. Enough to do their job, but they wouldn’t restrict Dimitri’s movements or his hold on the lance. Lambert held the prince’s hands into his own for a moment, mouth open as he was going to continue his advice, until his mind bugged for a short second. He blinked, then shook his head. “Ahaha, sorry about that. You almost remind me of someone.” In reality, he felt uncomfortable for some reason. As if his mind were yelling at him for whatever reason but he couldn’t comprehend.

“So, prince. Rest those hands for today, am I clear? Do not go around trying to destroy it all.” Lambert then got up, slipping his gloves back on.

With his back turned to Dimitri, he hummed.

“Also, go to sleep earlier today. Chamomile tea does wonders for that.”

He had never seen this kid before, but he somehow knew he didn’t sleep well. Odd coincidence.

"Oh, I..."

Hadn't even noticed.

There was the bashful hesitation that always came after - after his displays of strength, unprompted and unwelcome, or after his body failed to behave in the ways that a body should, to temper that strength, to show him his limits. Dimitri was not unused to the attention, but it always settled too heavy on his chest, the one thing that his strength could not help him lift.

His hands had been smaller last time.

He jerked at the thought as the professor's fingers began to tug at his gauntlets, though blessed be the Goddess above he seemed to take it as a matter of delicacy, as though in the bowl of their hands combined they held the world. He had never seen this man before today, there would have been no last time, but still his hands fitted into the cradle easily, comfortably, relaxing as though the motion were practiced and expected.

"A-ah, I suppose...that I had not expected them to be so bad..." Not the splinters, nor the blisters nor the callouses borne of them, nor the strange crook of his fingers, the tremor in them that the fought to control at the best of times and ignored at the worst, nor the terrible thoughts in his mind that if he ever were to take the precious hands of someone else he loved that they would shatter-

It felt strange, to be handled in this same way, he realized, to be held in such a way that he were so fragile he might fracture into shards at the slightest breath wrong, or for someone to understand exactly what it meant to have strength beyond their body.

That hadn't happened since-

The scratch of gauze against tender flesh jerked him back into the present moment and Dimitri suddenly felt vulnerable, small and weak in a way that he had not for some time, and he lifted his gaze to meet the man's eyes, familiar in their way, like looking into a mirror at night, through heavy steam, and he attempted a smile.

"Yes, you are right. Of course. I...have a tendency to push myself too hard. Perhaps I will spend the rest of the evening in the library." He wasn't ignoring the chastisement, the direction to go to bed earlier, but it felt more pointed than if another had said it, if someone like Dedue or Ingrid held his ear.

A short, chuffed laugh. "I...yes. I favor chamomile, myself. I shall prepare some, then. Ah...thank you. Professor."

Who was it who had told him about chamomile's properties as a sleep aid? It felt like it had been so long ago now...

[raytm]

gepard landau felt the foreboding attendance of death for years. an acrid tang of iron in his mouth, the lances of agony across the faces of his comrades as their limbs were wrested from their bodies, bloodied streaks of red in the snow. it beset his nights with harrowing memories, screams heaving from gasping lungs, the gossamer film of white eyes that stared out into the fray, sightless. It had marked him for a fleeting life the moment he had marched out into those desolate plains, a legion of soldiers at his flank. he had thought of it many times, but a captain was not afforded the benignity of choosing his own death.

when it comes its advent is undulating roars of fire, withering skin that curls in on itself, brittle and black. it’s his comrades dying one after the other in quick succession. he has enough time to seize an opening, to give them the opportunity to rally their remaining forces, to gasp in respite and arm themselves for the onslaught. he had not left home that day knowing it was the final time, had not greeted familiar faces at the barracks and warmed his hands around a blazing flame knowing that would be his last day. when he braces for impact, serrated limbs ending in hooked talons, he spares a solitary, fleeting glance over his shoulder and commands his men to retreat. they look upon him, astonished, exhausted, covered in slick sweat and drying blood. there’s an understanding that passes between them, wordless and pervading with the knowledge that he would not be following them.

the blunt impact against his shield is so immense that it sends shudders to his bones, his teeth clacking, a lance of excruciating pain surging through his arms, burying itself in his shoulders. he sinks his boots deep into the snow, ice swelling upwards as he was plowed backwards, his entire body keens beneath the force. the monster opens its jaws, rows of serrated teeth incandescent with heat, its eyes buried deep into its carapace skull. It retracts its long, spinose pincer and brings it down again, the pressure fractures bone, he can feel the pain of it towing him backwards, forcing his senses to remain alert, to push back against the barrage of strikes. its frustrated wail carries on the wind and the next time it withdraws, inspecting him with its bulging, rotating eyes, he launches his counter attack.

the shield wedges itself under the creature’s limb, a strident crack of impact that has the monster reeling, ice burgeons from the wound, rushing up its flesh, solidifying around it. gepard heaves a searing breath in, all of his mustered strength going into holding it in place, suddenly, a sharp, blinding agony erupts from his shoulder. it had brought down its other claw, punctuating the juncture between his throat and shoulder. blood rushed to the surface, blistering against his cold skin, surging from the wound, filling the dip of his collarbone, sousing his proud, white clothes carmine. he is the last bastion between this monster and his men, so he endures with unfaltering resolve. the ice is like a starved beast, rapidly swallowing the creature, limb after limb, until it splintered the hard, outer shell of its skull and the pincer embedded in his shoulder went limp.

he sinks to his knees, it were as if all the vigour had been drained from him, his shield hitting the ground, burying into the snow. he presses his hand to the wound, staunch the blood, he remembered that, even in the amorphous haze of his wavering consciousness. but it keeps flowing, the gash is so deep it’s carved past bone, if he were to wrench it from his body it would tear open a gaping fissure in his skin.

it was cold, belobog was always cold. beside the gargantuan corpse the captain sits upright, his back flush to the jagged husk, sheltered from the wind. It was cold, it was always so cold. he had held his gloved hand against the wound until it was sodden, until his arm was heavy, until he could hold it up no longer. he yearns to keep his eyes open, the bleary winterscape feels so vast when it’s so very empty. his blinking is somnolent, the world an indistinct smear of ice and blood. if he waits here, someone will return, someone will find him. he tells himself that is why he waits, sits in silent vigil, that he will close his eyes for a moment - then awaken when someone arrives. however, when they arrived, desperately plunging through the snow, it was already far too late. the captain was cold to the touch,  delicate fractals of ice clinging to his lashes, to his hair, turning his skin to an icy pallor. he had not known it would be his last day when he joined his men on the battlefield, but there was pride in knowing he had saved them.

[water-mellie-seeds]

I thought the issue on my bottom of my foot was a huge blister so i tried to lance it and it turns out it is not full of anything that needs draining. It is just some kind of blistered bruise tender spot. I am so confused and also oh my god i am going yo hate every second of walking today.

[has-gilgamesh-doneanythingwrong]

Can I request something with Lance Cu and a master who is into being bitten. Like in an NSFW way sorry if this is awkward I haven't requested anything before.

Hi anon, thanks for the request! That's totally fine. Seeing as you haven't specified any gender, I'll be keeping the master gender neutral (ayyy) and sticking to a more foreplay-based nsfw headcanon featuring Lancer Cu this time, with a little touch of sex, too. Please enjoy, and thanks for the wait!

Warnings: 18+ NSFW content (tagged as 'lemon fic'). Includes foreplay, some vague depictions of sex, shower scene and a lot of biting/ teeth action.

Cu Chulainn (Lancer) x Gender-Neutral Master NSFW Headcanons (Foreplay/ Biting Kink/ a 'bit' of sex)

✲ It starts off as a mere bit of banter, the two of you playfully teasing one another as usual; until Lancer suddenly catches you off guard- by snaking those lithe arms of his around yours from behind, nipping you lightly on the cheek! As his teeth lightly graze against the round flesh of your cheek, his hot breath mingles with your skin, as he finally releases his hold to take a breath that sends shivers down your spine; mingling warmly against the cool surface of your flesh.

✲ Explosive heat bursts through your body at the unexpected action, embarrassedly placing your hands upon the part of your cheek that was now tingling with pleasure! What was initially purposed to be a mischievous- yet also affectionate- action accidentally unveils one of your deepest desires, resulting in you sheepishly recoiling away.

✲ Lancer's crimson eyes widen with surprise as you twist away, his keen instincts instantaneously tuning into to your rapidly shifting mood.

✲ "...Yo, master. You alright there?" As Lancer peeks his head around your shoulders, his piercing red eyes gaze into yours; slightly concerned. There was no getting past this keen warrior's heightened senses, after all. Silence takes the helm as you mull over what to say, anxiety prickling at your throat; however you overcome that by simply admitting how you feel.

✲ "When you nip and bite at me like that, I like it a lot. In fact, I'd like it if you could do it some more..." Throwing all fear to the wind, you courageously and directly confess the truth; pride swelling within Lancer's chest at the fact that you were willing to entrust him with your feelings. And it sure as hell feels great for you to release such a heavy burden from your shoulders as well.

✲ Not one to miss a beat, he skillfully plays along with your request; easing you in with gentle nips against your earlobe, as well as the nape of your neck; your breath quickening as his teeth and tongue mark you- fluctuating between nipping and licking at said sensitive spots. Now that he knew what you liked, Lancer was going to tease you as much as he possibly could about it- come hell or high water.

✲ As your knees buckle at the growing intensity of his ministrations against your neck, growing increasingly desperate for him to bite just a little bit harder, to suck just a little bit deeper; sparks of heat meld against your body as his hands slip underneath your clothing, Lancer's fiery hot touch setting your bare skin alight. Gasping from the unexpected heat now blistering against your once-cool skin, Lancer vehemently smirks.

✲ "Oho, master. Seems like you enjoyed that. If you want more...then tell me. I'll make you feel real damn good." The low hum of his whispering reverberates around your cranium, your heart's thudding beats echoing as loudly as the crashing beats of a heavy bass, as you regard the darkening of his eyes- Lancer's maroon hues now misting with lust.

✲ Barely managing to stammer out your request (who could blame you for that, with him being so intense?), within one slick movement, he slips the clothing off your shoulders; casually dipping his head into the crevice between your shoulder and neck as he presses his teeth lightly against the exposed flesh of your skin; his eagerness to drive you to the edge motivating him to an immense degree!

✲ His exhilarating bite evolves into an almost insatiable sense of pleasure, as he proceeds to then suck deeply against the now-throbbing zone-it sending tingles up your spine, as you moan at how good it feels. Now the whole area had been claimed with a hickey large enough for the entire world to see.

✲ "Fuck, I love it when you moan like that." Tell him how good it feels. Your response is what drives him on to please you even more. A smug aura laces his words, as he carries on, "So, tell me what you want next. Whatever you need...I'll make sure to fuck you real good-!!" His arousing words are brought to a startling halt, as you flip around, so that you're facing him- impishly grounding your hips against his own.

✲ Now Lancer is the one who's taken aback, a bashful expression briefly fluttering through his features. However, it's only a matter of seconds before he's matching your pace, fingers kneading into your hips as the two of you rub against one another, a delicious friction kicking up between you both.

✲ As he devilishly smirks, the sexual tension between the two of you becomes palpably tight, you pulling him into an intensely passionate kiss that quickly devolves into fervent grabbing and touching- as you fall into a twisted heap on top of one another, tongues encircling one other. Pulling briefly away from the kiss, he purposely bites your lower lip, relishing in the pure bliss that emanates from you; finding the dazed expression in your eyes to be rather endearing.

✲ By this time, all matters of clothing begin to lose their place- as you undress one another, your lips greedily claiming any spots of his exposed skin. Any pauses in your exploration of his form is responded to in kind by him nibbling at the weak spots all over your body- the fleshy parts of the thighs, the soft parts of the stomach, and especially any other spots that you particularly like- the twinging of his numerous bites numbed by the electricity sent skirting up your body by his velvety tongue.

✲ Mind exploding with desire, all thoughts concentrate onto him. You wanted him. Now. Craved him, even. However, Lancer is forever the tease; smirking at the increasing desperation of your trembling form as he gently tests the limits of your patience by sliding his slick cock extremely close to the parts of you that were hungering for him; yet refusing to give you the sweet sense of relief that you were so badly yearning for!!!

✲ However, such teasing doesn't last for long as the lust takes over, trapping you both beneath its heady mist. Sweating bodies melding against one another, as you both settle into a frenetic rhythm that gradually builds in intensity- slippery smacking noises echoing all around as you become deeply entwined with one another's insides; the world twists into a murky, dazed mist. The feel of his cock is incredibly good- turning you completely and utterly inside out. As you heave such words of praise through labored breaths, Lancer releases a breathy laugh- only then to double down in intensity.

✲ The pace becomes so tight, so deep; hitting all of the right places in a way that makes your body curl, hands gripping onto the bedsheets for dear life, as a burgeoning warmth kicks up a rush inside of you- filling your belly with heat. The pleasure is so insatiable that all you can do is whimper- however, Lancer is far from finished yet.

✲ Just as you can feel the ensuing waves of an orgasm reaching you- threatening to spill over the edge- he clamps his teeth into your neck, biting you exactly the way that you like it. This topples you over the edge as only white takes over your vision, your body pulsating with an entire legion of heavenly waves of pleasure. He too loses himself to the sensations, the two of you wholeheartedly indulging within one another; as you press your hands into his flaming hot back, nails digging into his skin.

✲ After such a glowing, white-hot night; the two of you wash the dew of the night away within a soothing shower, torridly kissing as he fervidly backs you up against the shower wall; searing heat drifting through the steamy air.

Things seemed to be far from over.

The night is still yet young, after all...