#mounting press machine

[hsmleindia]

Mounting Press Machine (metallographic specimen mounting press)

Our automatic metallographic specimen mounting press, equipped with in-out water cooling system. These products are expertly developed using top-quality materials & contemporary techniques in accordance with the set norms of the industry. It is suitable for heat mounting thermo hardening & thermoplastic materials. After the parameters such as heating temperature, heat preserving time and applied force etc. are set up, put the mounting material into the machine, close the cover and press the start button, then the machine will finish the job automatically. The operator can change 4 specification patterns according to the difficult specimens. It can make 2 specimens at one time.

[metallurgyandmetrology]

Innovations in Manufacturing: Exploring Multitek Lab's Cutting-Edge Moulding Hot Press Machine: https://multitekindia.blogspot.com/2024/02/innovations-in-manufacturing-exploring.html

moulding #mounting #pressmachine #hotpress #mouldingmachine #metallurgy #Metrology #Industrial #Mechanical #Engineering

[mo-ok]

no but i was so excited because look! someones finally in the sidecar again! but then they went around a corner and suddenly she's back in the car and i fucking lost it

[wanders-in-wonderland]

Countdown

I startle awake and I find myself strapped down, on my knees, with my legs straddling a sybian and my arms tied tightly behind me. There are more ropes wrapped around my knees, keeping my body pressed firmly against the machine. I’m naked and I can feel the ridges of the machine pressed harshly against my bare core, the pressure forcing my clit to bear full contact against the smooth material of the machine.

My eyes dart around the room as I struggle uselessly against my bindings. The room is so dimly lit that I can hardly see a few feet in front of me.

“Help! Please! Someone help me!” I scream into the empty space, my voice filled with desperation and fear as the gravity of the situation hits me. Suddenly, as if in response to my plead, lights pierce through the darkness, illuminating everything to full brightness.

I gasp and instinctively squeeze my eyes shut, the sudden light a harsh assault to my senses. When my vision finally adjusts enough for me to look around again, I feel a surge of terror when I see the set up around me.

There are several cameras and microphones laid out surrounding me, clearly set up to get 360 coverage of me. Directly in front of me is a massive screen that show the live camera feeds and I feel a shiver of fear creep down my spine when I see how helpless and vulnerable I look, naked and strapped down. On the bottom half of the screen there’s a blinking red light with the words Livestream Disabled flashing. My stomach clenches when I realize that the live footage of me, tied up and naked like this, could be livestreamed to who knows how many people across the world.

Tears well up in my eyes as panic starts to settle in. I let out a soft sob, wanting nothing more than to curl into myself, away from everything around me. “Please, don’t do this! Please let me go!” My voice is choked with tears and fear as my futile struggles against the bindings are coldly captured by the cameras and my begging is met with absolute silence.

All of a sudden, the machine I’m straddling roars to life. I scream as my back instinctively arches to try to reduce some of the sensation with no effect. The ropes around my legs force my entire weight to sink onto the machine, pressing my pussy mercilessly against the now-vibrating sybian. The vibrations are steady and I feel them wash over me as my clit takes the brunt of it all.

I gasp as the sensation starts to build and my mind wrestles with the juxtaposition of fear and pleasure. The rumbling vibration of the machine is drawing out soft moans and whines from me as I feel the sensations mounting. I writhe as much as I can but there’s nothing I can do to slow the onslaught of pleasure that is very quickly overwhelming me. There’s nothing else in the space around me to distract me from what’s happening to my body, though I’m not sure there’s anything that could distract me right now.

I try my best to shift my weight to take some pressure off my clit but there’s no leverage for me to move my body. I let out a desperate whine as I feel myself getting closer and closer to cumming. My mind is scrambling as I’m trying to rationalize everything that is happening, being strapped to a machine and forcibly brought to an unwanted orgasm. I can’t hold back any longer and I feel my orgasm wash over me, my eyes fluttering shut as I my clit pulses and my pussy clenches. A moan escapes me as I writhe atop the machine, my hips grinding into the vibrations as my release tapers off.

The machine mercifully slows underneath me, the vibrations coming to a halt as I pant, trying to catch my breath and regain my bearings. When I glance up again at the screen, I feel a new wash of terror grip me as I register a few changes.

There’s a new line of text under where Livestream Disabled is written. It says Countdown to Livestream: 1 of 5. It takes me a moment before I register the meaning of the words: if I cum 5 times, the livestream turns on, showcasing my naked, shaking, cumming body to the entire world. I realize that whoever set up this cruel situation has every intention of forcing me to bend to their will so that I helplessly and reluctantly cum my way into putting on a show, my own body betraying me. I don’t have time to process any further before the sybian turns on again, this time at a much higher frequency.

A cry escapes from my lips and my body lurches as I desperately try to escape the stimulation. It’s too soon since my first orgasm and my clit is tingling with sensitivity. The machine doesn’t care as it relentlessly batters my body.

I’m trying to take deep breaths, to distract myself from the vibrations wracking my body. My clit feels hypersensitive and I silently beg my body to please, please don’t cum again.

I can feel myself getting closer and closer to a second orgasm and I’m doing everything in my power to hold it back. I’m determined to hold out, to not let this demented situation bend me to break. The pleasure makes me gasp and whine, my clit turning into a focal point of unadulterated ecstasy. The sound of my own ragged breathing fills the air as I’m drawing in desperate deep breaths to try to calm myself. It’s no match against the machine beneath me as it increases in intensity and I lose the shred of command I held over my body. A scream is wretched out of my throat as I cum.

The text on the screen changes in response: Countdown to Livestream: 2 of 5.

I let out a choked whine and I’m grasping at straws as I beg into the empty space, hoping, praying for a miracle to make this all stop. “Please,” my voice is shaking, “Please, help me. Make this stop, I’m begging you, please!” There’s no miraculous rescue in response to my pleading. This time, there’s not even a break between orgasms. The vibrations only kick up a notch, pulling a gasp from my lips.

“No, no, no, please! Please stop! I don’t want this!” I cry out, unable to stop myself from begging even when I know it’s useless. There’s no sympathy for me. I feel the horrible pleasure start to build again. My hands clench into fists and I dig my nails into my palms, gritting my teeth as I will my body to ignore the pleasure. It didn’t work earlier and it doesn’t work this time. My sheer will is no match against the machine bending my body to its wants. I shatter into a third orgasm, the pleasure rushing through me so intensely that I feel my head spin.

Countdown to Livestream: 3 of 5.

I jerk and struggle uselessly against my bindings. I feel the vibrations start to slow and I gasp in relief as my body comes down from the high it was forced into. There’s a growing feeling of despair as I realize I’m only two orgasms away from the livestream starting. And it doesn’t look like I have any hope to withstanding the pleasure to hold out for much longer. As if on cue, the machine restarts its vibrations.

The previous orgasms have pushed my body into overstimulation and my clit feels raw with pleasure but there’s nothing to give me a break. My pussy is drooling over the sybian, clenching and pulsing as pleasure makes me a slave. I’m being pushed higher and higher as I focus every measure of my mind to holding this orgasm back.

My teeth dig into my lip as I try to ground myself in the pain and my eyes are screwed shut. I teeter over the edge but out of sheer will, I hold myself back, begging my body to comply. For a moment, I manage to force my body to obey, curbing the pleasure. Then, the vibrations increase again.

I let out an anguished cry as the pleasure rushes through me, shattering all of my efforts at containing myself. I feel my cunt spray my release all over myself, my body locked in the throes of my orgasm. The sounds exploding out of me are a combination of pure pleasure and sheer torment.

Countdown to Livestream: 4 of 5.

I’m one orgasm away from the point of no return and the terror of being broadcasted to the world makes me want to cry. The vibrations pick up speed and there’s a sense of resigned acceptance that washes over me as my body obeys the machine and begins to inch towards my final release. But this time, it’s so much worse than I could’ve anticipated.

The sybian batters my body as it has with the past four orgasms. It expertly and unrelentingly drives me higher and higher in my pleasure, pulling moans and gasps out of me as it works. My body is barreling towards another all-encompassing orgasm when suddenly, all of the stimulation cuts off just as I’m about to cum. I let out a loud gasp as my body jerks in response to the loss of pleasure. I don’t understand. I was so fucking close and it all stopped. My eyes dart to the screen but there’s nothing there to explain what happened. The words Countdown to Livestream: 4 of 5 seem to taunt me.

My body slowly creeps back from the edge, my breathing stabilizing as the haze of pleasure slowly fades away. And then, the machine restarts. The vibrations are harsh and intense against my clit and I cry out as the previous pleasure suddenly slams back into me. Before long, I’m letting out gasping cries as my body once again is at the very precipice of pleasure. Again, it all stops. I can’t control the whine that slips out. I should be happy. Whatever is making the machine cut off at the very last second is obviously saving me from the livestream starting but the deep, primal, needy part of me wants to cry at the pleasure that’s being withheld from me.

The cycle continues when the machine restarts. At the very last moment, when just one more second of stimulation would push me over the edge, the machine stops. This time, I cry, hot and desperate tears falling down my cheeks.

I can’t even bring myself to care about the livestream anymore. I’m so fucking close, so desperate for the pleasure that I would sell my soul to cum. The last four orgasms do nothing to curb this insatiable desire that’s built up since the edging began and I’m mindless with need. My cunt is clenching around nothing, my clit throbbing in time to my heart beat but there’s nothing I can do to push myself over the edge. I feel my orgasm fading away and I let out a needy whine.

A few moments later, the sybian starts up again and a lewd moan slips from my mouth. My back arches as the pleasure washes over me, the previous edging driving me so close to the brink that even a few seconds of vibrations are enough to push me to the edge again. But again, the machine stops.

“Please! Please, I’m begging you, I need to cum. Please let me cum! Please, I need to cum.” My pleas didn’t work earlier when I was begging for the pleasure to stop and they certainly don’t work when I’m now pleading for an orgasm. It’s a cruel joke to make me such a slave to pleasure that I’m begging for my own demise.

The unrelenting cycle continues as the vibrations resume. There are incoherent babbles of desperation spilling from my lips as the pleasure mounts. Again, I’m held at the torturous edge as the machine plays my body like a familiar instrument.

Again, the vibrations cut off just as I’m about to cum. I scream. “Please! Please let me cum, just start the livestream, please, I just need to cum!”

It seems that I’ve said the magic words because the machine beneath me restarts with a fervor. I barely have time to draw a breath in when my orgasm slams full force into me. I shatter into unrelenting, all-encompassing pleasure as my cunt squirts out my release. Every single cell of my body is flooded with ecstasy and my consciousness shatters under the force of it all.

When I regain my senses again, I glance up at the screen and see the fated words reflecting back towards me: Livestream On, Countdown to Livestream: 5 of 5. I can’t bring myself to care when the machine underneath me increases its power and my eyes roll up as my overstimulated body is forced to react.

[redflagshipwriter]

Mamabat Chapter 11: the trap snaps shut

masterpost

Five vans peeled into view, rocketing around the curved road fast enough that they visibly tilted through the turn. They all bristled with weaponry.

Cass felt her lips press into a faint line. She glanced at Dannybaby: scared. I knew it. Here they are.

They didn’t have to talk about it. The three adults stepped out and put their backs to ring Danny, facing outwards to the threat.

“Shoot the racks,” she commanded. The mounted weapons. She didn’t like that. She pulled out a batarang herself and squinted to find her aim. The construction? Sloppy. Exposed wires. Weakness.

A gun cocked. “Aye aye, captain.” Jason hefted a gun in each hand and started shooting as the vans screeched to a stop in a circle around them. Bang! Sparks flew where he hit. Cass and Dickiebird did the same with quieter precision, slicing wires and leaving projectiles sticking into the metal monstrosities. Electricity sparked. Just in time: machines whined as they were powered on. One gave out with a huge bang!  The van attached to it jolted as the machine punched a huge dent into the roof. White smoke floated away, clouding the nighttime scene with a chemical stink.

“Whoa,” Danny breathed.

She felt a twinge of satisfaction.

Jason hit the last set-up with a bang! Bang! Then his foot scuffed across the pavement to knock against Danny’s. Check, you’re here, you’re safe, you’re little.

“They’ll come out!” Danny warned.

He was right. Doors clicked unlocked all around them and men in white suits piled out, futuristic looking guns aimed at the little group. 

She felt a twinge of disbelief. “Can’t shoot,” Cass said. No way. So dumb. They were in a circle. Friendly fire, new concept to losers??

They shot. She hit the ground in a roll and trusted that everyone else would. They did. She turned her head to see that one agent was down from friendly fire. There was no blood as he was lifted off his feet and blasted backwards against the van he came out of.

“Ghost scum!” howled one of the suits.

“We knew it!” 

The victory in their voices set her blood boiling. Cass launched herself to the closest opponent and took him down with a nasty hit. She whirled on the next one, two mean hits. Go, go, clear the area! She heard feet scuffling and weapons whining as they fired, fired, fired on the boys.

She took number 4 down as the smoke was starting to clear. She heard a pained oof from the center, where Jason and Dickiebird were blocking Danny.

“Jason!” Danny said. He sounded very young. “Oh, shit.” Cass cast a frantic glance over at his posture and sucked in a breath even as she bulleted towards the next opponent. Determined. I have to do this. Here we go! 

No, no!

Jason was down. Dickiebird was darting between Jason and the man actively firing. Danny was pale. He opened his mouth. He put his palms out. He flashbanged. 

She blinked away stars and slammed a man’s head into a van before he could aim at her. Slam, slam, drop. She stole another glance. Danny was- Danny had white hair now and he was flashing green light at their enemies. Hm. She couldn’t afford to watch. Cass bared her teeth, angry. 

Air sizzled: GIW firing wildly. Guns fired: Jason was still conscious. Danny yelped: what? 

Cass didn’t dare look more. She moved faster than Batman could ever, brutally taking down these criminals with disdainful ease. They had nothing but numbers and lasers. 

Green shot past her vision. She traced it back: Danny! Her eyes went wide. Wow. He had some kind of organic blast, like Starfire. Very useful! 

 It wasn’t enough. Danny screamed. She heard him hit the ground. Sizzling.

She howled, wordless with fury. She tackled the next agent and cracked his head against the pavement. Only two more. She flung a batarang down the barrel aimed at her and then yanked the weapon away to brutally jab the air out of the agent’s diaphragm. Cass tossed it at him as he fell. Solid thunk. It hit his head.

The last man tried to say something, white teeth flashing in the gloom. Her ears were closed to it. The only language she spoke right now was violence. She used it to get him down and wrench him into zip ties. She could hear Dickiebird talking his soothing sounds at Danny baby. Cass wanted to go there. Cass wanted to soothe him. She wanted to see his hurts. 

But she had to secure the area. She rushed around to the groaning and crying men she had put down. She immobilized them. The foolish ones tried to get up as she approached. The smart one (and there was only one) held his hands out, eyes wide in the night. He talked at her. Beseeching, reasoning, she just doesn’t understand. You’re like me. Not like them.

Cass snarled. She understood just fine. She pressed his face into the ground harshly, fingers digging into his jaw. “Shut up,” she gritted out. She left him with effort, ignoring the mean impulse to smack him. 

All the boys were on the ground. There was no blood. Eyes open. Not dead.

Something in her gun unclenched.

Dickiebird looked up at her from where he was supporting Jason, sitting halfway with a grimace as he holstered his guns. Hands shaking. “He’ll be fine!” Danny pressed his body against Jason like he was trying to absorb his body heat. His hair was black again and his eyes looked tired. “He, uh, it’s shock,” Dannybaby babbled. She knelt to rub at his back, silently encouraging the explanation. “They basically zapped his ecto, stopped circulation. It should start up again in a few minutes and he’ll feel fine.”

“Get off,” Jason grunted. He shoved at Dickiebird. Weak. “I feel fine.”

Lie.

“I feel drained,” he admitted. “But fine. Just weak. I can stand.” He struggled to stand, biting his lip. He swayed only slightly. “Man,” he cursed under his breath. Jason cast an unhappy look at the 14 agents groaning on the ground, on their bellies like the worms they were with hands ziptied at their backs. “Not my best showing.”

“Next time, you could dodge,” Dickiebird suggested lightly. 

“You’re lucky it got him and not you,” Danny snapped. “Didn’t you see that guy go flying?”

Tense. Dickiebird paused. Smile. Soothe. “I’m only teasing,” he said. “It’s fine, Danny.”

“None of this is fine!” Cass swiveled her head to make sweltering eye contact with the scumbag who was cutting in. He was bold, for someone with his cheek digging into the rocks and cement. “By the authority of the US Government, you are required to submit these ecto-entities for testing and capture into our custody. Release us, or face dire consequences!”

Cass looked at him. She felt hate. Disdain. You’re nothing, you’re a worm to me. 

“They’re telling the truth,” Danny whispered. “It’s, uh, it’s legal.” He looked haunted. He rubbed at his chest: some memory of sharp pain.

Dickiebird snorted and slung an arm over Danny’s narrow shoulders. “Maybe by US laws, but Oa has jurisdiction that supersedes. This was a clear case of assault.” He gave an unpleasant smile. Big brother. Big angry. Guard dog at the door. “I’ll make a call.” 

The next minutes felt very long. Cass pressed Danny’s face into her shoulder so that he didn’t have to make eye contact with the fallen agents. She stroked his hair with her free hand, boiling inside with fury. 

Dickiebird called. A Green Lantern answered: coming.

They waited. Jason said he felt better. His body said: mostly better. But strange. They ignored the threats and complaints from the GIW men on the ground.

Hal Jordan came, with one more Green Lantern that Cass didn’t know. He gathered up prisoners in a green veil. He talked with Dickiebird. He nodded, and left.

“I wanna go home,” Danny said quietly. “But I think that we need to get Jason to my doctor. He’s really not right. It’s… It might be time sensitive.”

[capquinn]

hear me out - quinn and reader find out they’re having a girl during the ultrasound and he’s overwhelmed in the best way. all nervous beforehand, totally in awe during the scan and after that he calls his parents from the car to share the news

The waiting room hummed softly, a blend of muffled conversations, the occasional shuffle of papers, and the faint static of a television mounted in the corner. Quinn sat beside you, his knee bouncing in a restless rhythm that made the corner of your chair wiggle. His hand held yours firmly, his thumb moving in slow, repetitive circles over your knuckles — a grounding gesture, though you could tell it was as much for him as it was for you.

You glanced at him out of the corner of your eye, taking in the way his jaw was set, his lips pressed into a tight line. He looked calm to anyone else, but you knew better. The tiny crease between his brows and the faint tension in his shoulders told you everything.

“You okay?” you asked softly, leaning closer so your voice wouldn’t carry beyond him. Your foot nudged his lightly, breaking him out of whatever thought had a hold on him.

He blinked, pulled from his thoughts, and gave you a small, sheepish smile. “Yeah, just… ready to find out,” he admitted, his voice low, almost like he didn’t want to disturb the calm of the room.

“Still think it’s a girl?” you teased, your own nerves bubbling under the surface, though your tone came out light and easy.

Quinn’s smile deepened, just enough for the faintest hint of a dimple to appear in his cheek. “Yeah,” he said with quiet confidence, his voice steady. “Definitely a girl. We’ve been calling her ‘she’ for weeks now,’ he reminds you.

You raised an eyebrow, your lips curving into a teasing smile. “And what if we’re wrong? What if it’s a boy?”

His brows knitted together briefly, the corners of his mouth twitching in thought before he shrugged lightly. “Then we’ll have to start calling him ‘he,’” he replied, his tone simple but lacking any real weight. “But…” His voice softened as his eyes met yours again. “It’s not a boy.” 

It wasn’t that the idea of a boy threw him — it didn’t — but the way his gaze dropped instinctively to your belly told you exactly where his heart had landed.

You opened your mouth to reply, but before you could, the door opened, and a nurse called your name. Quinn was on his feet almost instantly, helping you up before you could so much as shift in your seat. His hand stayed on the small of your back as you walked into the dimly lit room, and you shot him a teasing glance over your shoulder.

“Relax,” you murmured. “It’s just an ultrasound.”

“Yeah,” he said, but the slight hitch in his voice gave him away. This wasn’t just another appointment. This was the appointment.

The ultrasound room was dim and quiet, the faint hum of the machine filling the space as the technician adjusted the wand on your belly. The monitor flickered to life, displaying a grainy black-and-white image that Quinn couldn’t stop staring at. He sat in the chair beside you, his knee bouncing ever so slightly, betraying the calm expression he tried to maintain. His hand found yours, squeezing gently, and you squeezed back, grounding him.

The technician smiled warmly as she shifted the wand again, her voice soft and professional. “Alright, let’s take a look.”

Quinn leaned forward instinctively, his elbows resting on his knees, his entire focus zeroed in on the screen. The blurry shapes slowly sharpened, and there it was — the curve of a tiny head, a faint flutter of movement that made his chest tighten. The technician pointed to the screen, her finger tracing the faint outline of what she was seeing.

“Here’s the head,” she said, and Quinn’s breath hitched slightly as his eyes followed her gesture. “You can see the curve of the spine here, and… oh, look at that — a little hand.”

His gaze locked onto the tiny, perfectly formed hand, visible on the monitor as it shifted with slow, delicate movements. A smile tugged at his lips, small at first but growing wider as the technician adjusted the wand, pointing out the rhythmic flutter of the baby’s heartbeat. The sound filled the room, fast and strong, and he could feel his own heart beating in tandem.

“They’re waving,” the technician joked lightly, and Quinn’s chest tightened, the weight of the moment settling in his bones.

Beside him, you laughed softly, the sound warm and full of wonder, your eyes bright as they stayed fixed on the screen. He glanced at you then, and the expression on your face — a mixture of awe and love — made his throat tighten even further.

In that moment, it wasn’t just the image on the screen or the steady rhythm of the heartbeat filling the room. It was the way the tiny movements on the monitor brought everything into sharper focus. This wasn’t just an idea or a dream anymore — this was your baby, real and alive, moving inside you. Already loved beyond measure, even without knowing who they were yet.

The technician continued, measuring the baby’s head, her legs, the curve of her abdomen, explaining each detail as she worked. Quinn didn’t catch all the words — his mind was too full, too overwhelmed by the sheer reality of what he was seeing. A baby. Their baby. Right there on the screen, impossibly small yet so completely whole.

“Would you like to know the sex today?” The technician asked suddenly, cutting through his reverie.

Her question lingered in the air for a heartbeat, and Quinn’s eyes instinctively darted to yours. The excitement flickering in your expression made his heart stumble, the warmth of your eager nod grounding him in a moment that felt surreal.

“Yes,” you said quickly, your voice trembling with a joy that sent a ripple of relief through his chest.

He nodded too, swallowing hard as words failed him. His hand tightened around yours, his thumb brushing over your knuckles in a rhythm that betrayed the nerves he hadn’t admitted to himself. It wasn’t fear — he knew. You both just knew. But knowing and hearing were two different things, and the certainty you were about to receive was enough to make his pulse quicken.

The technician shifted the wand slightly, her eyes focused intently on the screen, the glow casting faint shadows on the walls. The gentle whoosh of the baby’s heartbeat filled the room, steady and rhythmic, the kind of sound that felt like it had existed forever and yet was still so new.

“It looks like…” she began, her voice calm, teasing just a little, as if drawing the moment out on purpose. 

Quinn’s heart thudded in his chest, and his grip on your hand tightened further as his gaze darted from the screen to you, taking in your hopeful expression.

 “…you’re having a girl.”

Quinn blinked, the three words reverberating in his chest, through his veins, through every corner of him. He felt your grip on his hand tighten even more-so, your other hand flying to cover your mouth as a quiet, breathless laugh escaped you.

“It’s a girl,” you repeated, your voice cracking slightly, and the sheer relief in your tone made his throat tighten.

He let out a shaky exhale, the corners of his mouth lifting into a smile so wide it made his cheeks ache. His eyes glistened with the kind of overwhelming emotion that made your chest feel too tight and your throat catch — a joy so profound it left him teetering on the edge of tears.

He couldn’t tear his gaze away from you — from the way you turned to him with that look, the one that was equal parts amazement and love so deep it felt like it might spill over.

His arms slipped around your shoulders, pulling you close as you leaned into him, your hand fisting gently in his shirt like you needed to hold onto him to steady yourself.

“We knew it,” he murmured, his voice rough and low, like he was still trying to convince himself it wasn’t just a dream. He let out a quiet, breathy laugh, his free hand brushing a piece of hair behind your ear before his palm cradled your cheek, his thumb sweeping across the damp skin beneath your eye. “We knew it, but… knowing and knowing is so different.” He paused, his gaze steady on yours as his voice softened. “It’s real now. A girl.”

Your laugh came out trembling, your tears spilling freely as you nodded. “A girl,” you repeated, your voice breaking on the words, leaning further into the warmth of his hand.

He leaned in, pressing a firm, lingering kiss to your temple, his lips staying there as though he could somehow lock the moment into his memory forever. His hand slipped from yours to brush away another tear sliding down your cheek, his thumb impossibly gentle, his touch grounding.

He glanced at the screen, where your baby — his baby — was nestled in shades of black and white, her tiny heartbeat filling the room with its steady whoosh.

“She’s perfect,” he murmured, his voice rough, the weight of the words sinking deep. He turned back to you, his gaze softening as he took in the tears brimming in your eyes. “You’re perfect.”

You laughed softly, the sound light and warm as you leaned into his touch, tucking your head against his shoulder, finding comfort in the solid warmth of him, your breath mingling with the quiet hum of the room. Your gaze drifting back to the screen. 

The faint outline of her tiny form was right there, and yet she felt so much bigger than the sum of her parts. She wasn’t just a daughter — she was possibility, a future, a life you’d created together. The steady rhythm of her heartbeat filled the room, and you stayed like that, wrapped in the certainty of each other, in the love that now had a shape, a sound, and a presence you could hardly believe was yours.

The appointment wrapped up with the technician handing you the printed scans, the black-and-white images of your baby feeling almost surreal in your hands. The midwife had gone over the essentials — measurements, heartbeat, and everything looking healthy — before helping you schedule your next appointment. You’d tucked the photos carefully into your bag, double-checking that you had all the paperwork before stepping out into the cool air of the parking lot.

As the two of you settled into the car, the weight of the moment lingered, filling the space with a quiet kind of joy. You caught Quinn glancing at the photos as you pulled them back out, his lips curving into a small, awestruck smile. 

“Your parents are going to love this,” you said softly, your voice brimming with warmth as you held up the scan to show him again.

He let out a breathy laugh, his smile widening slightly. “Mom’s been counting down to this since we told her,” he said, his voice light but carrying a note of affection that made your chest tighten.

You grinned, shaking your head. “She’s going to cry the second we tell her they’re having a granddaughter.”

“Dad, too,” he added with a chuckle, leaning back in his seat. “You know what he’s like… He’ll act like he’s holding it together, but he won’t last long.”

You reached over, your hand brushing against Quinn’s on the console, and he turned his palm upward to link his fingers with yours.

After a beat, he glanced down at his phone, turning it over in his hand before looking at you. His expression softened, a glimmer of excitement flickering in his eyes as he asked, “should we tell them right now?”

You nodded, biting your lip to stifle the grin threatening to spread across your face. “I think they’ve waited long enough.”

Quinn’s thumb hovered over the screen, hesitating for just a moment before he tapped it, the familiar sound of the ringing tone filling the car. His hand tightened slightly around yours as the first ring passed, then the second, a quiet exhale slipping from his lips as though he were bracing himself.

The third ring was barely halfway through when Ellen’s voice burst through, bright and eager, as if she’d been sitting with the phone in her hand all day. 

“Finally!” she exclaimed, the excitement spilling into her words. “How did it go? Is everything okay?”

Her voice filled the car like sunlight cutting through clouds, her anticipation so palpable it tugged a smile from you both even before Quinn could respond. He let out a soft laugh, his shoulders relaxing just slightly as he glanced at you, a flicker of warmth lighting his expression.

“You’re on speaker,” Quinn said, his voice steady but quieter than usual.

“Hi, Ellen,” you said warmly, leaning a little closer to the phone.

“Oh, sweetheart, how are you feeling? How did everything go?” Ellen asked, her tone soft but brimming with energy, her emotions barely contained, excited.

You exchanged a glance with Quinn, his lips curving into a small, nervous smile as you answered. “Everything’s perfect. The baby’s healthy, measuring right on schedule, strong heartbeat. And I’m feeling good. Really good. No complaints at all.’

There was a pause, a soft exhale from Ellen, like she’d been holding her breath. “That’s wonderful,” she said, her voice thickening slightly. “I’ve been waiting to hear those words all day.”

Quinn shifted in his seat, the scans still balanced on your lap catching his eye. His hand tightened slightly around yours, and he swallowed hard before speaking.

 “We, uh… we found out the gender,” he said, his voice faltering just enough that it made you glance at him.

Ellen’s breath hitched audibly. “You did?"

Quinn nodded, though she couldn’t see it, his gaze fixed on the glossy photos. “We’re having a girl,” he said softly, almost like he was saying it to himself as much as to her.

For a moment, there was nothing but silence, a pause so deep it felt like the world had stopped. Then Ellen let out a quiet, shaky laugh that broke into a soft sob.

“A girl,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “Oh, Quinn… A girl.”

The words hit Quinn like a wave, like he was reliving the appointment all over again, and you felt it immediately — his hand trembling slightly in yours, his jaw tightening as he looked down at the scans again, his chest rising and falling in uneven breaths. When he blinked, you saw the telltale sheen in his eyes, and he turned his head slightly, as if the window would give him somewhere to hide.

“Mom,” he said, his voice cracking just slightly, “don’t cry.”

“I can’t help it,” Ellen said, laughing through her tears. “I’m just so happy for you both. I can’t even—” Her words faltered, and you could hear her trying to pull herself together.

He let out a quiet, breathy laugh, shaking his head as he quickly swiped at his eyes, trying to clear the hint of tears before they fully spilled over. The corners of his mouth twitched upward, caught somewhere between holding it together and letting go. 

“You’re gonna make me cry too,” he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper, rough with emotion.

You reached over, your hand slipping out of his to slide up his back in slow, soothing circles as you leaned closer. He tilted his head toward you, the smallest touch grounding him, even as his eyes stayed fixed on the photos in your lap. For a moment, you said nothing, letting the quiet stretch as Ellen’s soft laughter and sniffles filled the space.

“I can’t help it,” Ellen repeated, her voice trembling, thick with emotion. “It’s just…” She trailed off, unable to finish the thought as another soft sob escaped. “You’re building this beautiful life, and now… a baby girl. Oh, Quinn.” He could picture her waving a hand in front of her face, trying to brush away the tears, though it never did anything to stop them. “I’m just so proud of you. Of both of you,” she managed, her words cracking under the sheer weight of her joy.

There was a shuffle on the other end, the sound of Ellen sighing deeply, happily, as though she was still trying to gather herself. The faint rustle of movement was followed by the warm, steady tone of Jim’s voice breaking through.

“A girl,” he said, his words carrying a quiet kind of awe. “That’s incredible, Quinn. Congratulations to both of you.”

“Thanks, Dad,” he said, his voice quieter now. “It’s... it’s something, huh?”

Jim chuckled softly, the kind of warm, familiar sound that made Quinn feel grounded. “More than something,” he said, his tone light but there was a weight of pride that wasn’t lost on Quinn. There was a brief pause, and then, with a softness that made the words linger, he added, “your girls, huh? They’re lucky to have you.”

Quinn’s chest rose with a slow, deep breath, his fingers twitching briefly against yours as he tried to steady the emotion threatening to crest again. He glanced at you, his lips curving into a faint smile that didn’t quite mask the way his eyes still glistened. He didn’t speak, couldn’t, biting his bottom lip as though that alone might keep him composed.

Sensing the words stuck in his throat, you stepped in, your voice warm but steady. “He takes good care of us,” you told him softly, your tone heavy with conviction, offering something Jim could easily picture — his son, dependable and steady, already holding his family close.

Quinn turned to look at you, something tender in his expression, the gratitude clear even though he didn’t say a word.

Jim must have sensed it too, the way his son had fallen silent, his emotions skimming the surface. He didn’t push — he never did. Instead, his voice came again, wrapping the moment in reassurance. 

“You’ve always had a good heart, Quinn,” he said thoughtfully, his tone warm but grounded. “That little girl’s going to grow up with two incredible parents to show her the way. She’s got it made already.”

The words settled in the quiet of the car, and they hit you unexpectedly. You shifted slightly in the passenger seat, your fingers tightening just a fraction around Quinn’s, and that subtle movement was all it took for him to notice. His eyes flicked to you, catching the way your lips pressed together, your gaze cast downward as you blinked back the glimmer of tears welling in your eyes.

Without a word, Quinn’s hand squeezed yours again, his thumb brushing gently over your knuckles in a rhythm that felt grounding, the touch steady and reassuring, as though the small strength he was offering you was also something he needed himself.

“She’s going to have so much love,” Ellen chimed in, her voice lighter now, no longer trembling but still full of emotion. “So much love waiting for her.”

Quinn nodded, his voice stronger now as he murmured, “She already does.”

[its-avalon-08]

okay so fernando crashing (that one crash in 2016) and y/n almost dying because thats the scariest crash ever, and a little onto how she takes care of injured fernando at home afterwards

just died and already joking (fa14)

the roar of the engines was a familiar symphony to y/n, a comforting background hum during race weekends. but today, at the 2016 australian grand prix, the sound was a jarring dissonance. a tremor ran through the mclaren garage as the race director's voice crackled over the speakers, "red flag at turn 3. incident involving car number 14..."

y/n's blood turned to ice. fernando's car number. the television mounted on the wall flickered to life, showing a replay of the corner. fernando, attempting a daring overtake, misjudged the speed of the haas behind him. the cars made contact, a sickening crunch echoing even through the speakers. fernando's mclaren, a once sleek machine, became a crumpled orange projectile, launched into the air before slamming back down onto the tarmac.

a suffocating silence descended upon the garage. y/n's vision swam. her breaths came in shallow gasps, each one a struggle against the rising tide of panic. her heart hammered a frantic rhythm against her ribs, threatening to burst free. she grabbed the nearest technician's arm, her voice barely a whisper, "is he alright? is fernando alright?"

the technician, a young man with a perpetually worried expression, could only offer a helpless shake of his head, glued to the replay on the screen. every agonizing second stretched into an eternity. then, a miracle. the camera panned to the wreckage, and a figure, miraculously, emerged from the cockpit. it was fernando, limping slightly, but alive.

relief washed over y/n in a wave so powerful it nearly knocked her off her feet. tears streamed down her face, a mixture of terror and gratitude. the garage erupted in cheers, the tension finally broken. but for y/n, the ordeal was far from over.

the sterile white of the hospital room pressed in on y/n. the rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor was the only counterpoint to the crushing silence in her head. tears welled up again, blurring the figure of fernando lying motionless on the bed. she sniffled, wiping her nose with the back of her hand, desperately willing herself not to make a sound.

a groan escaped fernando's lips, his eyelids fluttering open. he squinted against the harsh light, his vision slowly focusing on the hunched figure by his bedside. "y/n?" he rasped, his voice dry.

y/n's head snapped up, her eyes wide with a mixture of relief and something else, something fierce. "fernando!" she choked out, scrambling to her feet and rushing to his side.

he tried for a weak smile. "so, that's how they greet their favorite formula one driver in this place, huh? with tears?"

the lightness in his voice did nothing to dispel the storm brewing in hers. "don't you joke about this, fernando alonso!" she erupted, her voice surprisingly strong despite the tremor that ran through it. "do you have any idea what i've been through these past hours? seeing you on that screen, mangled..." her voice broke, a sob escaping her lips.

he reached out a hand, wincing slightly at the movement, but she swatted it away. "don't touch me," she said fiercely, tears streaming down her face now. "don't you understand? i almost lost you! and you... you joke?"

fernando's smile faltered. he saw the raw fear reflected in her tear-filled eyes, a fear that mirrored his own. he squeezed his eyes shut, the memory of the crash flashing before him.

"y/n," he said, his voice softer now, "i'm okay. i'm here. look at me."

she hesitated, then slowly met his gaze. the anger in her eyes had softened, replaced by a deep well of worry.

"i know you are scared," he continued, his voice laced with sincerity. "believe me, i am too. but i'm here, and i'm not going anywhere. not as long as you need me."

y/n's breath hitched. she sank onto the chair beside the bed, burying her face in her hands. a choked sob escaped her lips. he wasn't wrong. the thought of losing him was unbearable.

fernando shifted slightly, wincing again. "hey," he said gently, "how about we ditch the tears and celebrate the fact that i'm alive? we can order your favorite greasy hospital food, how does that sound?"

a watery chuckle escaped y/n's lips. "you're unbelievable," she mumbled, wiping her face with the back of her hand.

"just the best kind of unbelievable," he said with a wink, a hint of his usual bravado returning.

y/n shook her head, a small smile playing on her lips. maybe, just maybe, they could find some normalcy amidst the wreckage. as long as they had each other.

days later, fernando lay sprawled on the couch in their apartment, a bandage adorning his forehead and a deep purple bruise blossoming across his left cheek. the crash, which y/n called an absolute shitshow, had left him with a cracked rib and a severe case of whiplash.

y/n hovered over him like a protective hawk. "don't even think about getting up," she said sternly, her voice laced with a tremor that betrayed her worry. "the doctor said complete rest."

fernando, normally a picture of restless energy, found himself subdued. the crash had shaken him more than he cared to admit. he reached for her hand, a weak smile gracing his lips. "alright, alright, mama bear. but don't you think you're being a little overprotective?"

y/n swatted his hand playfully, the concern still evident in her eyes. "a little? fernando, you could've..." her voice trailed off, the memory of that terrifying crash still raw.

he squeezed her hand gently. "i'm okay, y/n. thanks to you keeping me grounded, literally."

the following days fell into a quiet routine. y/n transformed into a florence nightingale, fetching him food, helping him shower, and reminding him to take his medication. the normally bustling apartment became a haven of forced stillness.

one evening, as they sat in comfortable silence, fernando broke the quiet. "you know," he began, "seeing your face in the garage... that scared me more than the crash itself."

y/n looked up at him, a flicker of vulnerability in her eyes. "me too." a beat of silence followed. "seeing you walk away from that... it was a miracle."

he pulled her close, his voice a murmur against her hair. "amore you're too good for me. you're my miracle, y/n. always."

the crash might have left physical scars on fernando, but for y/n, it was a deeper wound, a reminder of her greatest fear. yet, in the quiet moments of recovery, they found a deeper strength in their bond, a resilience forged in the crucible of fear.

🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️

well i hope you liked it! thank you for sending in your request and do send more <3 happy reading!

🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️

[do-androids-dream-ao3acc]

Starts With a Spark, Then It's a Wildfire

[Buck/Tommy post break-up, 2,064 words; Angst]

It’s a bad time for the call.

Tommy's thumb has been hovering over Buck's name in his phone for a few days, yearning to ask for forgiveness, for understanding, for… anything, really. He hasn’t hit the button, not for a text, not for a call. It’s been a strange way to end a relationship, but he’s had worse, and he guesses Ev… Buck’s had them, too. He’s probably hurt now, confused, but he’ll get over it.

Or maybe he won’t, because it’s been nearly two weeks and he chooses the worst time to call Tommy. He considers not even picking up, just let this one go to voicemail. For some reason, he doesn’t.

„Buck,“ he says, trying to sound casual and busy at the same time, even if he’s only one of these things. „Not a good time, I’m on shift and there’s…“

There’s a sigh on the other end, a peculiar sound; like he’s waited, maybe for days, to muster the strength to finally call. It’s just… Tommy can’t deal with that right now, and it’s not because he doesn’t want to. So many mixed feelings stir up the tight knot in his stomach that’s sitting there since 11 days. 11 days and 14 hours, to be precise.

„There’s been an accident, I believe,“ he continues, quickening his pace, „something for AirOps. I need to go.“

Is he babbling? It sure sounds like it. He doesn’t owe the man any explanation. Does he?

„It’s me.“

His voice is but a breath, and there’s something in it that makes Tommy turn a corner. It’s the worst time, but he presses himself against a wall as if he’d something to hide. Well, not rushing to an emergency, that’s what he’s hiding right now, isn’t it?

„What?“ he asks, a little sharper than intended.

„It’s me. I’m the accident.“

Is… is he laughing? Is he drunk? Tommy’s fingers are itching to press the button, to stop this ridiculous call. He should’ve never picked up in the first place. Worst part is that he now feels sorry for himself, he’s disappointed without really knowing why.

„Buck,“ he says in the coldest tone possible, „don’t call me at work. I’m gonna go now.“

„Wait. I’m sorry.“

Another sigh, a peculiar wet sound. Like he’s been crying. Or…

„I’m t-the accident, Tommy. I’m 32-year old male stuck in a car dangling on unfinished bridge. That’s w-why they called AirOps, I guess.“

He’s starting to stutter. Right now, Tommy hates that he knows this, but it means he’s scared. Of all the things in the world Tommy doesn’t want his ex-boyfriend to be, it’s scared. Then the words hit home, and the knot in his stomach turns to ice. Tommy doesn’t even notice that he starts moving again. He almost runs into Moore, he’s always the last to enter the engine. The man’s still holding a sandwich, some sort of sauce dripping from his chin as he frantically stuffs the rests of it in his mouth.

„Where’s the accident?“ Tommy urges.

„Uh, on the 110, near the exit of Adams Boulevard. Guy must have missed some warning signs,“ Moore replies.

Tommy runs past him, up the stairs to the helipad, thinking he has missed a couple of those, right. Is that thought fair? It doesn’t matter now. He tells Buck to stay on the phone; in the helicopter, he mounts the device on a holder beneath the window pane with slightly trembling fingers. This way, he can connect it to the helicopter’s communication system and still hear Buck with his headphones on.

„Talk to me,“ he says, hopefully sounding like someone who has it all under control, while he starts the machine. „How did this happen?“

„H-how?“

There’s this small chuckle in his voice again. It’s inappropriate, totally out of place. He’s in shock, and so afraid, yet he’s still trying to be brave about it. Tommy’s heart aches at the thought.

„Don’t you mean why? Why d-did it happen. Why did you leave just like that?“

Tommys right hand grips the cyclic a little too hard. If he doesn’t focus, he’ll make a mistake; he can’t do that because a life depends on him. Depends on him being faster than the ground crew, because he knows that at this hour, with the usual traffic, the necessary tools and gear will never reach the bridge in time. And maybe it doesn’t matter how it happened, actually. How, on a perfectly normal day, Evan Buckley has somehow missed some road signs, took a wrong turn, or maybe, just maybe, deliberately steered his car onto an unfinished bridge. Either way, it’s a painful thought, because Tommy is to blame for it, isn’t he. 11 days, 14 hours, 35 minutes; the longest they’ve neither texted nor called each other since that fateful hospital wedding. The night in which Buck decided he wanted to be with him, full stop. Tommy is to blame he let the man inside his heart, and he’s to blame for apparently breaking it.

The city lights far, far beneath him blur, and he blinks. It's his own fault that he allowed such a vulnerable, sensitive, wonderful guy to become infatuated with him. His fault he felt the same. Feels, actually. Because there’s not just fear for Buck’s life, a deep dread turning the knuckles of his fingers around the cyclic white. There’s so much more. He needs to focus, he needs him to stay awake until help arrives. Until he arrives.

„That’s not the question right now,“ he says, his eyes searching the streets for striking landmarks. „I need to know where you’re hurt. Tell me what’s wrong, let’s focus on that.“

„Why?“ The question comes in a matter-of-fact tone. „You’re not a paramedic. You’re called because the situation is dire, Tommy, beyond my injuries. A-and I… I’m not even sure where exactly I’m hurt. But I know i-it’s bad.“

He pauses to suck in a breath; a painful, shaky sound. Tommy listens to the radio with half an ear, but not a single fire station is within a 10 minute reach, and his own department – just like the 118, he suspects –may violate a couple of road rules yet they will still not reach the bridge in time.

„My c-car,“ Buck continues slowly, „the rear end… well, it might just topple any minute now. I hardly dare to breathe, Tommy, a-and it hurts anyway. Maybe I’ll just stop breathing until somebody arrives.“

This time, his laughter is chopped and not at all cheerful.

„You won’t stop breathing.“

It’s not a statement, it’s an order. Tommy is almost surprised of himself – that’s his military voice, there hasn't been the need or the want to use that voice, to recall that part of him for a long time.

„I don’t know what else to do,“ says Buck, suddenly sounding so young. „I… I just wanted to hear your voice. In case… you know. But n-now that I hear it, I’m just s-sad. Because you d-didn’t… you didn’t explain.“

„That’s not true,“ Tommy softly replies.

He still can’t see the half-finished bridge, though GPS and the map in his mind tell him he’s getting closer; way closer than any EMT on the ground, he can tell that from the radio. Not much time has passed. Blinking at the slowly darkening horizon, Tommy inwardly pleads the universe for more time. His mind is not ready to fathom the idea of this being their last call. He’s missed this voice so much, it’s haunted his dreams. 11 days, 14 hours, 38 minutes, 12 seconds.

„Y-you told me… you said you’re afraid I’d break your heart,“ Buck says. „I’ve been dumped before, but never for that r-reason.“

There’s a moment of silence, and Tommy glances at his phone. He can hear him breathe; strained, choppy sniffs that don’t bode well.

„Pretty sure that’s not the only thing I said.“

Maybe that was too harsh. It’s just… has that man ever considered that Tommy’s hurting, too? He clings to that thought, trying to stir up some anger inside. If there must be any feelings when he meets him, let it be resentment.

„No, it’s not, you said something else that… t-that hurt me, Tommy.“

Oh, great. As if he doesn’t know this break-up out of the blue was hurtful. It was just easy to pretend they would get over it soon. Six months, that’s not such a long time, right?

„I’m sorry,“ he softly replies, and he is. Maybe it was inevitable to hurt him, but that doesn’t mean he’s not regretting it. God, he’s regretting so much.

„You said you’re not my last. Ah man, that hurts.“

Another sharply sucked-in breath makes this remark pretty multi-layered.

„I’m sorry,“ Tommy repeats, staring down at the city. Only 1 or 2 more minutes, he implores the sky. He can almost see the bridge.

„You better be, b-because you can’t know that, Tommy. You can’t just assume I’m gonna grow tired of you because the world is full of other people I haven’t… I haven’t tried. That’s insulting, you know? I was no virgin before you, and it’s not sex that has me… has me orbiting you like a s-satellite.“

„Maybe I’ve drawn the wrong conclusions,“ Tommy says, just to keep him talking. There’s the part of the highway they never finished, the bridge that cost the city a fortune but was never completed because of financial cuts. Ironic, isn’t it? They’d rather stop, even if reaching the other side seems so close. Cut the cord, dismiss everything you’ve already reached. There’s a pattern Tommy knows all too well.

„And now I’ve realized that’s the problem. I’ve been orbiting you. As if you’d been my awakening experience, larger than life.“

„I’m only human.“

„Right. I know that now. We should’ve spend more time talking. I should’ve listened to what you’ve experienced. You’ve been hurt, Tommy, I’ve figured that, and I… I never asked you about it. You wanna know what I think?“

There’s a car on the unfinished end of the bridge, just as expected; but knowing what will come never helps ease the pain. It’s dangling over the concrete, looks like one false move might topple it. It’s a miracle that hasn’t already happened. Tommy carefully lowers the helicopter. There’s sirens in the distance, and he realizes he needs help. He can’t do this alone, what was he even thinking? AirOps is the eye in the sky, a means for faster transportation, yes; but he can’t lift a car with his helicopter. You’re an idiot, he scolds himself. It’s just about being fast. Being first. How ironic.

„I’m here,“ he says. „I’ll try to land on that bridge, but I’ll need to do that far enough so the wind of my rotors doesn’t…“

„I think,“ Buck continues as if he’s not heard him, „you left me because you love me. That’s stupid, T-Tommy.“

He coughs, and now he sounds as if he’s almost choking. There’s a sharp and cold pain gripping Tommy’s guts, because he might still be too late.

„Keep talking to me,“ he urges, his eyes searching the ground for a proper landing spot.

„But is it true?“

He sounds tired now, tired and worn out, yet that’s not why Tommy decides it’s time for the truth.

„It is,“ he quietly replies, focusing on the controls. „It’s true. Sometimes, you need to shut your heart because loving hurts more than leaving.“

„That much is true,“ Buck says. His words are merely a whiff now. „Because I love you, and it hurts.“

The helicopter’s skids touch the ground, and Tommy is already tearing at the door. The air is now filled with the wailing of sirens, the red light already flashing in his eyes. He runs, but it seems to take like forever. Forever can be 30 seconds. Half a year. 11 days, 14 hours, 40 minutes, 10 seconds, 50 milliseconds.

If necessary, he will use all his weight to prevent the car from tipping over, he thinks. Still, he’s not prepared for what he sees when he finally reaches the driver’s door. The sight burns itself deep inside his memory: there’s blood everywhere, shards of glass, something sharp protruding, but most of all,

„Evan,“ he says.

Again. Finally. Forever.

[AO3] | All my BuckTommy on AO3

[saintmuses]

❝𝙞𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙛𝙡𝙖𝙨𝙝 𝙗𝙪𝙡𝙗 𝙤𝙛 𝙖 𝙥𝙧𝙚𝙩𝙩𝙮 𝙘𝙖𝙢𝙚𝙧𝙖❞

Pairing:

Neil Lewis x Best Friend!Reader

Summary:

During one of their Friday sleepovers, Neil and his best friend decided to have a harmless photoshoot session where polaroids were involved which turned into something more.

Warning(s): SMUT. Nudity. Breast worship. Neil being down bad. Oral (m-receiving). This is filthy too. Minors, dni!

Word Count: 1.2k

A sound of a bright flash then a whirling sound of Polaroid emitting from the slot of the vintage camera that she had found in an antique store off the street where the Gumshoe Video store resided at.

Neil then snatched the print from the slot and moved it in a way that fanned itself to make the image appear on the sheet.

She giggled as he took a picture of her posing. “What are you going to do with them?”

“I’m going to save all the polaroids and put them in a book. You know, just for two of us.” His icy eyes twinkled as he shrugged, fiddling with the buttons.

There was a pause that caused her to realize he was thinking deeply of something that he may hesitate on requesting her.

“What is it, Neil?” She inquired softly, reaching for his forearm.

“Do…do you have anything revealing?” He swallowed mumbling the question.

“Like a lingerie?”

“Yeah,” he nodded, his cheeks flushed slightly. “Trying to do the femme fatale thing,” he explained, quickly adding, “you don’t have to do it if you don’t want to.”

She trusted him, and with that decision, she swallowed, “okay.” Crawling off the mattress to stride over to her walk-in closet.

After the closet door was closed behind her, he propped himself against the headboard, he was shirtless and in his pajama pants.

He turned his head, breathing hitched after a few minutes to see her stepping out of the walk-in closet in a silk robe with lacy bralette and panties in the shade of amethyst.

He shifted to hide his hardening cock in his pajamas. “Oh wow.” He said breathlessly, staring at her with wide eyes.

She gave him a bashful smile before climbing onto the bed, and he quickly got onto his knees so he would have more control on angling the camera.

A few photos were printed.

He reached out, curling his index and middle fingers into the thin strap of the lace and dragged it over her shoulder and down her arm to reveal her skin. He inhaled sharply as he gazed at the sight of her breast before raising the Polaroid camera up to his face and pressed down the button to capture her chest and the lingerie lingering on the edge of the frame.

He held the camera in one of his hands as he stared down at her into her eyes, and he could not hold back anymore. He kissed her, effectively crossing the line, but she was kissing him back too.

Then he started trailing his lips down her jaw, pressing short feverish kisses against her skin. He then parted his lips as he reached for the curve of her neck and started to suck her skin long enough to leave a discolored spot.

He then repeated the process of giving kisses down her collarbone, making his way towards the swell of her breast that was not in the bralette.

He gave her breast a gentle lick before lathered her nipple with his tongue; sucking into his mouth vigorously as his hunger began to mount.

She pushed him onto his back, and he went down without any protestation. He realized with eyes widening that she was on a mission to pull down his pants when her hands landed on the waistline.

He bit down on his bottom lip as she dragged out his hardened cock, and he parted his thighs to let her slide in between to have an access.

He whimpered slightly when she laid the head of his cock against her tongue. Forcing eye contact as she kept her eyes on his. His attention was entirely on her mouth.

She tightened a fist around the base and stroked up the length of his shaft while her lips closed around him and suckled.

He aimed the camera towards her and his cock, capturing the moment where she began to suckle him. Once the print slid out of the machine, he placed them on the bed beside him before finally being able to maintain his attention on her with a soft pathetic whine. 

His brow furrowed and his grip in her hair tightened but was otherwise immobilized. She licked the head, stroked him once more, and tasted the precum on her tongue as she sucked him in deeper.

She closed her eyes, appreciating the way he pulsed in her mouth and grew even harder. She wasn't able to fit all of him in her mouth, but what she could do seemed to be having a strong effect on him. 

She withdrew him from her mouth and appraised his cock while stroking her hand along the full length, drawing back her saliva and coating him entirely. 

He moaned. 

She paused just before taking him back into her mouth, peering up to see anticipation it spurred in him.

Her tongue flicked the tip, curled around the head, and then she sucked him in as far as she would go.

She closed her eyes and hollowed her cheeks as she pulled sharply back. His breathing picked up, and his hips jutted into her in little restrained thrusts. She let go to hold him by the hips instead while she had let him fuck her mouth.

He groaned and thrust up, “baby.” He felt his cock brushing the back of her throat and he held her there. When he pulled her head off his cock, the bridge of spit connecting them urged him back in.

His hand tightened painfully in her hair and jerked her back onto his shaft deeper. She grunted from the motion but recovered immediately, positioning her head at a new angle as he stared down at her as he began to thrust into her mouth, pulling her into each one, and only releasing when she truly needed. 

He whined a little louder and threw his head back. “Your mouth is meant for my cock,” he mumbled before planting his feet in a firmer stance on the mattress as he fucked her mouth with less restraint. She could feel him slipping into her throat and focused entirely on suppressing her gag reflex. 

When he looked back at her, he angled her head up a little more, forcing her to lock eyes with him as tears glistened in her eyes. 

His hands gripped her scalp a little harder. It would be too easy to come down her throat. And oh, how such a look provoked him. She was panting, struggling between breaths.

Acknowledging this had been a mistake, as it caused his cock to swell a bit more as a sign of upcoming orgasm that nearly destroyed him. He threw his head back onto the pillow and moaned. Just a few more thrusts—

“Fuck,” he let out a drawn-out whine as cum began to fill her mouth in spurts.

Letting her pull away, he grabbed the vintage technology next to him and aimed it at her face. He took a photo of his cum on her tongue as she stuck it out for him.

Grabbing her face, he was able to pull her forward towards him, and with a final flash of the vintage technology, he pressed his lips against hers.

[hsmleindia]

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[metallurgyandmetrology]

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[the-cauldron-witch]

Shit. Shit, shit, shit, c’mere. With Donnie pls? Maybe still crush state? 👁️👁️ (thank you in advance!)

Thank you so much for the ask!!! 🫂🫂🫂

I'm really sorry for taking so long, Donnie was being difficult and wouldn't let me write this out apparently! I hope you like it!

Taglist: @silverwatergalaxy @thelaundrybitch @sophiacloud28 @iridescentflamingo @thegirlwiththeninjaturtletattoos @yorshie @truffle-draws-turtles (message me if you want to be apart of my taglist! I just started keeping it, so if I forgot to tag you don't be upset)

Sparks scattered from the tip of the soldering iron in Donnie’s expert hand, putting the finer finishing touches to the circuit board inside the device resting on his work bench. Sweat beaded at the top of his brow, trickling down his face and neck behind the welding mask as he worked. Once he was satisfied with the work he lifted the shield from his face and smiled down at his creation, closing the panel and sealing away the wires and circuits from the rest of the world. With the final touches finally complete Donnie felt confident enough to test out his new invention; a shuriken wrist launcher. Although his brothers and himself had incredible accuracy with shurikens, they could only throw so many so fast, with this new device whomever used it should be able to send multiple shurikens at a target at top speed.

“Hey, Donnie!” Your voice broke the silence like a thin sheet of ice, snapping him out of his studying gaze and fumble with the invention for a split second. “Oh, jeez, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to startle you” You couldn’t help but giggle an apology while Donnie sighed in relief with the invention still in his hand.

“No worries, I just finished my shuriken launcher actually,” He said with a grin, peeling the welding mask from his sweat covered head and placing it on his bench. Donnie was grateful for the way his purple mask hid the slight color that came to his cheeks at the mere sight of you standing at the entrance to his lab, shifting from one foot to the other while watching him. This could be the millionth time he saw you, yet it still gave him butterflies like it was the first time.

“Shuriken launcher? Seems kind of redundant,” You questioned with a raised eyebrow, walking into the lab and to Donnie’s side so that you could eye the metal gauntlet in his hand.

“Well, because of our tridactyl hands we are only able to throw at maximum two shurikens with each hand, totaling to four shurikens for each of us. Leo is the only one who managed to throw three in each hand successfully, but they weren’t as accurate compared to throwing the typical two in each hand.”

Slipping the gauntlet over his muscular green forearm Donnie studied his invention, pressing a button on the side facing himself. The gauntlet hissed for a second as the inner cuff began inflating, securing itself to his arm. Donnie flexed his hand and wrist, making sure that the cuff wasn’t too constricting but also held firm enough to not budge easily. Curiosity now piqued you watched while Donnie flexed his muscular arm, admiring his physique more than the invention if you were being honest.

“I recycled a blood pressure cuff machine for the base so that it could be used by anyone who wears it, no matter the size of their forearm,” Donnie explained, pointing his arm to an invisible target ahead of him. “It keeps the device secure against the users arm for better aim,”

“Oh, like the ones you see at the pharmacy?” You questioned enthusiastically, drawing yourself closer to Donnie so you can inspect the shuriken launcher closer. Now that you were closer to it you could see he had taken the blood pressure cuff as he said, mounting what looked like a modified multi-disc CD player onto the top where the shurikens were stored and ejected through a slim opening at the wrist. There were a few other components you couldn’t identify, but they all seemed to work together by Donnie’s ingenuity.

“Yeah! I haven’t put the shurikens inside the launcher just yet, I was just about to test it out in the dojo for the first time, if you’d like to join?”

“I’d love to! Can I try it out next?” Bouncing on your toes with eagerness you followed him out of the lab like an excited puppy. Your enthusiasm and excitement to help and learn from Donnie always sent a small whirlwind of butterflies fluttering in his stomach, something about the way your eyes lit up and voice heightened made him feel weak in the knees.

“O-of course, sure! But I want to take the first test, just to make sure everything is programmed correctly” Donnie spoke a little louder than intended, mirroring your own excitement as he strode his way to the dojo. Once entering the dojo Donnie made his way over to the training dummy, many shuriken already scattered about and lodged into different surfaces. Plucking the ones from the floor and pulling the three out of the wooden dummy he pressed a button facing him, the top of the devices panel popping open. Placing the shuriken collected in his hand into the compartment and closing the hatch he turned to you.

“Alright, so here’s how it should work,” Slipping into his ‘Bill Nye voice’ as Mikey described once, Donnie began explaining the device on his arm to you with a small smile turning the ends of his lips, “I modified the blood pressure cuff with some sensors that read the way your muscles move and flex, so that when I clench my fist and move it in just the correct way it should launch one shuriken at a time when flexed or sending multiple when your hand is held in that position,”

Taking a stance in front of the target practice dummy Donnie locked onto the blue and yellow target painted on the torso, lining up his shot and flexing his hand downward as though he were throttling a motorcycle handle. There was a long, drawn out moment of silence where nothing happened. Another moment and Donnie flexed his hand in the same way again, clenching and unclenching his fist in the manner needed for the device to launch a shuriken. Still nothing.

“Did you turn it on?” You questioned, giggling nervously as you earned an incredulous deadpanned look from the tall terrapin. After another second of holding the gauntlet out, Donnie sighed and brought his arm towards himself once again and relaxed his hand.

“That’s strange, maybe I didn’t calibrate the sensors correctly?” Donnie murmured to himself, studying his invention with a furrowed brow and small annoyed huff. He had gone over the programming his usual four dozen times and tested the sensors inside the blood pressure cuffs with his computer the same amount, the device should at least attempt to launch a shuriken.

Approaching Donnie as he continued his intense gaze as though the problem would be written on the surface of the uncooperative device, he didn’t register your proximity as he continued scrutinizing and silently questioning what could not be working right. Grazing the tip of his finger over the area where the shurikens had been loaded into earlier Donnie noticed the small door had not latched shut properly. Pressing his finger on the hatch the smallest and softest ‘click’ registered in Donnie’s ears a millisecond before a glint of metal shot from his wrist.

You didn’t have time to so much as blink. The weapon was ejected in the flicker of an eye with incredible speed, the sharpened tip grazing the skin of your cheek and leaving a thin trail of crimson beads behind. Hissing as the fiery sting settling into your cheek you reached a hand to your face, fingertips meeting warm blood as you and Donnie stared at one another in shock. Blood trickled down your cheek for a second longer before Donnie snapped out of his daze, pressing the button to disengage the gauntlet from his arm and let it drop to the floor without a care.

“Shit. Shit, shit, shit, c’mere” Donnie breathed as he quickly leaned down to capture your face in his massive hands, the sudden closeness causing your breath to hitch in your throat and heart to stammer a beat. Not giving you a chance to find your voice again Donnie swept you off of your feet and into his massive arms, carrying you to the med-bay hastily in one fell swoop. How could he have let something like this happen? Something as stupid as the hatch not being closed correctly shouldn’t have gotten you hurt! You practically blinked and the two of you were in the medbay. Placing you on the exam table gently Donnie studied your face with concern and guilt wrinkling his brow and eyes.

“Donnie?” You questioned as he darted to the otherside of the room, opening a drawer or two before pulling out a plastic med kit.

“So fucking stupid...should have fucking known better, didn’t pay attention enough!” You could hear him muttering angrily to himself, berating himself for letting you get hurt in the most ridiculous way. Guilt clutched at your chest as you heard him curse under his breath. It wasn’t like he did it on purpose or knew something so small would go wrong, things like this just happened sometimes.

“Donnie?” You tried again when he sat himself in on a rolling chair and slid clear across the room to your side. The cut no longer burned as harshly now, but the sting still lingered and pulsated. Blinking himself out of the fog the panic settled in his mind Donnie’s eyes finally met yours.

“It’s okay, really,” A smile attempted to dimple your cheek, making you wince a tiny bit from the fresh pain, “I’m okay, honestly. It’s just a little scratch! Stop beating yourself up,”

“I...I know...I should have known better than to point it-” He began berating himself again as his fingers fiddled with the antiseptic wipe in his hands, fingers fumbling and making him more frustrated. Taking his jittering hands in your own you brought his attention back onto you, his heart hammering in his chest as he felt the warmth of your soft hands wrapping around his rather larger ones. The sudden urge took over you, leaning you forward and pressed so that you could press your lips to his forehead for a moment. Electricity ran from where your lips met his skin down his neck and through every nerve ending in his shell and skin, sparks crackling and sending shivers down his spine. Pulling your lips away from his forehead you registered what you had done, offering a shy smile.

“It’s just a little scratch. I’m okay, really” You giggled nervously.

Swallowing the thick lump suddenly lodged in his throat Donnie couldn’t bring himself to speak again, knowing his voice would crack and betray him now. Instead he focuses on the dried blood staining your cheeks, despite the fact they were already flushing red from your own doing. Not that Donnie’s own face wasn’t heated by the kiss placed on his forehead, but he wasn’t going to admit that out loud just yet.

[emilykaldwen]

The Maiden and the Drowning Boy | Aegon x OC | Chapter Twenty-Four

Rating: Explicit Ships: Aegon II Targaryen x Abrogail Strong (Lyonel Strong's Daughter), Jacaerys Velaryon x Helaena Targaryen

Summary: As the kingdom teeters on the edge of chaos, Alicent Hightower swaps the pieces on the board: Aegon will marry Abrogail Strong, Larys’ younger sister and heir to Harrenhal. Caught in the web of intrigue and political machinations, the pair must figure out where their loyalties lie, and what they mean to one another.

No tag list. please follow @emkald-fic and turn on post notifications for updates or subscribe on AO3

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Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four | Chapter Five | Chapter Six | Chapter Seven | Chapter Eight | Chapter Nine | Chapter Ten | Chapter Eleven | Chapter Twelve | Chapter Thirteen | Chapter Fourteen | Chapter Fifteen | Chapter Sixteen | Chapter Seventeen | Chapter Eighteen | Chapter Nineteen | Chapter Twenty | Chapter Twenty-One | Chapter Twenty-Two | Chapter Twenty-Three

AO3 LINK

Author's Note: My love to @foxinthegodswood for the last minute beta! And many thanks to everyone hanging in there with me <3 HAPPY SMUTMAS

Summary: A long awaited interlude between Aegon and Abby.

Chapter Twenty-Four - Came Into My Bed, Told Me That My Hair Was Red

Abby had checked on the security of the mounted braziers around her rooms three times. She had shifted the protective grate in front of the fireplace double that, ensuring the rug was out of reach, that no linens were hanging too close to any sources of fire. She lay in bed, alone in the quiet with the curtains closed, open, half closed, and still she could not find sleep.

Rising once again, she peered out through the diamond glass windows to the gardens, observing the flickering light from the torches that bordered the meandering trails. Abby had seen Lord Tyland and her cousin, Elayna, slipping away after supper, flushed with drink and their arms wrapped around one another into the gardens. Aegon’s company eluded her, despite her longing for escape. There was always someone lurking, watching. As if their play would result in her walking down the aisle in two days with a swollen belly.

It didn't matter. She’d asked to be alone that night, gently pushing Wylla from the bed. The elder girl had cocked her head, reaching down to stroke the stray curls from Abby’s face before pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead. “Are you sure?” Wylla had asked her softly as Abby curled in on herself in the bed. “I know I’m not who you need right now,none of us are, mo chara ghràdh, but I would not leave you alone in your head.” Abby had giggled softly amidst her strange aching. It had been interesting the past few days, learning the minor differences between the northern tongue and the riverlands. Both were so deeply similar, yet certain words were different. It helped ease some of the ache, but Wylla had been right. None of them were who she needed.

It was the peace she would have to make.

The scrape and clink of the lock drew her attention to the door and Abby shifted on the window seat to watch Aegon slip in. Abby did not run to him, curled up as she was, but she did give him a wan smile after he’d locked the door behind him.

“Were you waiting for the coast to be clear?” she asked him, pulling her legs further up against her chest and burrowing deeper into her nightgown. She should have retrieved her dressing gown for the extra warmth, but could not bring herself to do so.

“Your northern guard came and got me,” Aegon said as he approached, taking his own robe off and wrapping it around her snugly before he sat on the bench beside her. His blood ran hot, skin always warm, so she’d found it surprising he’d worn a robe to come see her. Modesty, perhaps? That also seemed strange for him. Regardless, Abby hummed and snuggled into the warm velvet, and Aegon reached out to lift her feet into his lap, wrapping his hands around them. It almost hurt at first to feel how hot his skin was against how cold her toes were and she wiggled them. “Pity I missed the pair of you in bed together.”

“That is our private time,” Abby said primly. “No boys allowed. And thank you for addressing her as my guard.” Aegon’s nicknames had been unkind, and she’d made sure to put a stop to it, just as she prodded at Wylla for her own contributions to the sniping. She would not have the two of them poking each other too harshly, and even when it made her feel uncertain and babied, she appreciated their getting along since coming to Harrenhal.

Aegon’s teeth flashed in the streak of moonlight coming through the window as he grinned at her, fingers working into the balls of her feet that made her toes spread out and a shiver course up her spine. “Do you like that?”

“Mmmm, yes, don’t stop.” She flexed and stretched her legs out further so he could more easily tend her. Abby leaned her head back, fingers playing with the end of the coil of hair over her shoulder, eyes looking up at the cloudless sky littered with stars. Tomorrow, the festivities began. Fireworks from Dorne and candlelit barges along the lake, dancing and music would be held in the gardens and in the yard surrounded by the melted towers of Harrenhal. Firefly-like lanterns would adorn the space. The Riverlands and the realm had all come together to celebrate their wedding.

To wait and see what upheaval the crown would announce.

Hands left her feet and grabbed her arms. Abby yelped as Aegon hauled her into his lap, maneuvering her around so her back was against his chest, and his feet propped up so she sat along his legs. She wriggled in protest, but Aegon’s arms tightened around her and his lips brushed along her ear, teeth nipping softly.

“You were going far away,” he told her, as if scolding her. “I had to catch you.” He pressed a kiss to her temple, and she sighed, knowing he was right.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, the ache pulsing in her chest constricting her words. “I did not mean to.” Tendrils of things she could not see had hooked around her limbs since she came back to the riverlands, tugging her like the song she swore she heard on the whistling wind through the cracks of the castle. Aegon always had the knack for pulling her back to the moment when her thoughts whirled so quickly she was a feather on the breeze. Now, it seemed, she needed to hold his hand lest she vanish into the forest like she nearly had the day of their arrival, the morning mist clinging to the edges of her skirts, the song and the whispers drawing her away and deep into something that tickled in the corners of her mind.

Aegon’s warm fingers cradled her jaw, and he tilted her face so their eyes could meet. The lilac of his gaze was a thin rim, pupils blown in the dim room, a pensive look on his face seeming more intense as the shadows highlighted the cut of his jaw and his cheekbones, deceptively soft in the light of day. His touch did not hurt, but it was firm. If she wanted to pull out of it, Abby knew that she could. Instead, she melted further into him, meeting his gaze.

“Do… do not go far from me, Abrogail,” he whispered, only barely audible in their proximity. He tightened the arm he had banded around her, and Abby wanted to break open his ribs and crawl inside to reassure him, greedily claiming the warmth and possession of the man who held her—the one who was still so lost, still such a boy in so many ways. Abby reached up a little awkwardly to cup his cheek in her cold hand, thumb stroking along his lightly freckled skin, drinking in the warmth of his touch, the love in his gaze.

“I will not go far from you,” she swore, a vow meant for blood. “I will not, I swear.”

The kiss was anything but chaste and innocent, as they’d been forced to satisfy themselves with beneath the many watchful eyes. Aegon licked his way deep inside, claiming her, reminding her of his taste and his touch. She trembled against him and her fingers dove deeper into his silver curls while she shifted in his lap to better take him. There was nothing in her head but the taste and feel of him, the way his hand moved from cradling her jaw to cupping her throat, his thumb pressing gently along her hammering pulse. Her free hand pressed against his shoulder to shove him back against the pillows so he would stay still, but there was no illusion who drove the kiss. She could feel the arousal tug deep in her belly with each stroke of his tongue, the pressure along her pulse from his hand. When they broke apart, she pressed her forehead against his, the pair of them gulping each other’s exhales and their lips brushing, unable to stop.

She tried to find words, say his name, but could not. Aegon let out a small whine beneath her. Abby gave him a gentle, suckling kiss to soothe him, and his hips rolled up into hers. He whimpered into her mouth as she ground down, taking in her own mewling reply before he broke them apart, pushing her away slightly.

They were both breathing hard, Aegon’s fair skin flushed, his mouth swollen red. His gaze raked over her face and his large, hot hands cupped her cheeks, thumbs stroking against her skin, against the corner of her mouth. She nipped at the pad of his thumb with a little growl, rolling her hips against him as a lazy smirk bloomed across his face and his eyes fluttered at the pressure of her against where he’d grown hard.

For her. Only for her.

He would be her husband and share her bed. It would be her that he swore vows in front of the realm and to the gods. Not Cassandra Baratheon or some exotic Essosi bride or a fair-haired Lannister or a Redwyne with a fleet to challenge the Sea Snake.

He was her Aegon, who whimpered beneath her mouth and hungered for her, who begged for her to not leave him, who she was certain would tie and bind them together just as desperately as she wanted to and the need only grew. She was not a dragon. Fire did not course in her blood. She was his rabbit, she liked being his rabbit, but she was a lion too and she had claws that she didn’t quite know how to use, but she would, just as fiercely as any dragon.

“You’re mine,” she snarled, the anger and hurt that Cassandra had burned inside her flaring. Was it a snarl that escaped her? She didn’t know. Her blood was a pounding drumbeat pulsing in her neck, in her ears. Abby watched the way his eyes widened, the slow smirk turning darker, delight and curiosity, and shades she couldn’t recognize but felt a tug deep and low in her belly. “This is my castle, and you will be my husband.”

Had she ever let herself do this? The hungry way he looked at her told her that she hadn’t. Of course she hadn’t. Abby kept it locked away, always giving and never taking. She wanted to take. She deserved to take after giving everything, didn’t she?

Aegon pulled at the rich robe he’d wrapped her in, harsh and impatient tugs while she turned and wriggled in his lap, turning her way out of the robe and the brocade falling to the floor. She straddled his lap and her knees pressed into the soft, red velvet cushions on either side of him, the soft fabric of her nightgown hiked up along her thighs with the angle. Abby pushed the hair from his brow, teeth caught on her lip as his gaze raked over her, his eyes dark with the heat that reflected her own. Aegon toyed with the coil of copper hair over her shoulder, pulling soft whimpers from her with each tug.

There was so much left. So much that had not been touched that she dared not crack open. She wanted to trust him, and part of her did, but it had been buried so deep for so long that Abby didn’t know if anyone could be trusted to unearth what she'd hidden away.

He nipped at her mouth, hard enough that it might have hurt had it not sent a flood of heat between her thighs, or drawn a whimper from her, his name dragged out on her broken voice. Aegon’s hands dropped to her knees and tucked beneath the embroidered hem of her linen nightgown, shoving it up to bare her thighs. His hands were burning on her cold skin and she relished in it.

“Come here,” she commanded in a trembling whisper with her mouth against his so not even the ghosts could hear her. Only Aegon. Only for him. “Fill me up.”

‘Break me open and come inside.’

Arousal was sticky and hot in her veins, coursing thick and making her languid, making her shiver. Refusing to be denied, Abby dove into the heat of his mouth as his fingers found the damp heat of her cunt and stroked her experimentally. Her knees buckled and Aegon swallowed her delighted gasp, the pair of them trembling, her with relief and anticipation both.

Give me this, please, oh please.

As if she spoke aloud, Aegon didn’t hesitate. He didn’t tease her before sinking two fingers inside. She cried out, loud and bright and without restraint, rising up on her knees and her hips rocking into his touch. The stretch was warm, only a slight discomfort at the initial intrusion. With the broken kiss, Aegon’s mouth found her cheek and jaw, teeth and lips nipping and grazing, suckling kisses along her skin and sending blooms of heat beneath each affection.

The neckline of her nightgown was untied at some point and fell down to gather around her waist and the tops of her thighs. His teeth caught on her breast, biting with more purpose than his suckling kisses that left blossoms of red in his wake. She cried out, fingers tangled in his hair and pulling, desperate for all of him. The sound of his fingers inside of her was nearly as loud as her cries and she rose on her knees to give his hand more space. Abby’s head fell back and her eyes looked out the window and the way she could see the moon just past the dripping wisteria that he’d brought from Rhaenys’ garden and the slight ripple of their own reflections between the colored glass rivers that decorated the paned glass.

His fingers twisted against that spot inside of her that he taught her how to find and Abby’s vision went hazy, knees buckling and nails clawing at his shoulder when she gripped him for purchase. Words were lost, Aegon’s mouth noisily suckling her breasts and the ridges of her collarbones and her cries joining the sounds of her soaking cunt its own song in the chamber.

A loud half squeal, half cry tore from her when Aegon leaned up to drag his teeth against her pulse and her hips lost their rhythm, stuttering and losing the easy roll that she’d developed as the pressure inside of her increased, a bow drawn taught. His thumb swiped against the bundle of nerves at the apex of her thighs and between the pressure inside and out, Abby came with a loud cry, heedless of who heard, a gush of wetness soaking his arm and both their laps, her hands clawing and pulling at him, his mouth sealed along the soft curve of her jaw, teeth holding her in place.

“There you go,” Aegon whispered into her skin where her pulse rushed, drawing her into him as her trembling thighs could no longer hold her up. There was the touch of teeth again, the sound of his mouth kissing against her skin. His other hand came up to push the tendrils of hair that clung to her sweaty temples, her cheeks and the corners of her mouth. She nosed into his hair and felt the pounding of his heart echoing into her chest where her breasts crushed against him, aching nipples scratching against the linen of his own shirt.

He lifted his slick hand, sucking a finger into his mouth before holding his hand up to her. Abby swallowed his middle and ring finger down, greedily tasting herself as he grinned at her before leaning down to lick some of her slick that had coursed down his arm. The obscenity of it should have shocked her to stillness, but instead, it only spurred her own, rubbing herself against him like a cat in heat. She needed more as she sucked on his fingers before he drew them away with a pop.

“You’re so beautiful when you fall.” Abby’s gaze caught his; fire and such a possessive want that had the arousal heating even as her body struggled to come down.

“Come with me,” she begged, or maybe she was ordering him, her shaking fingers pushing the hair from his face and tilting his head back a little more. Aegon laughed, low and vibrating through her. She smiled in return, the giddiness rushing through the arousal and began pulling at his shirt, chanting, “Off, off! Get this off!” as they both laughed, tangled and twisting from the clothing.

The pair of them tossed aside the flimsy material. Abby immediately leaned down to run her mouth and teeth along his shoulder, shifting awkwardly while Aegon worked her own gown over her legs to lay discarded along with his.

“I’m sick of waiting,” Aegon said, leaning her back just a bit and capturing her mouth, tongue stroking against hers, licking at the soft insides of her mouth. She whined, and he whimpered when she wrapped her hand around his cock, the flared head slick with moisture that she used to aid her movements.

She shifted on her knees to take him, but a loud slap! and the accompanying sting and startled cry gave her pause. “What was that for?” she hissed, pouting and confused. “You said-”

“Let me,” Aegon commanded, his voice low. Abby felt a deep pulse between her thighs as the tone of his words ignited sparks through her veins. She struggled against his manhandling, only enough to hear him growl and smack his hand across her bottom again.

Aegon shifted on the window seat, spreading his legs a little more and adjusting her before he lifted his damp hand to spit in his palm. He held it up to her. “Go on, help me,” he said, his lilac gaze nearly blown completely black. Abby nodded and spat in his hand, watching curiously as her spit mingled with his. She giggled when he nipped her mouth sharply, tugging at her lower lip hard enough for her to feel it when he let go. Abby gripped his shoulders to steady herself as she rose on her knees and looked down, their heads touching as they both watched him wrap a hand firmly around himself.

Abby stared and audibly whined while watching him stroke his cockhead through her slick folds, his other hand on her hip to keep her from moving too much. The tip of him nestled in, familiar and warm as he gently pressed inside. He’d pressed only the tip inside her, dragging against her, teasing the pair of them over the past months, and she was so tired of waiting.

If he put a babe in her belly now, it would be seen as a fortunate sign from the gods; a wedding night blessing of their union.

She wriggled in his hold and Aegon groaned, his fingers spasming on her hip. “Easy now,” he instructed, their gazes fixated on where he was slowly sliding into her. Abby lowered herself down, the stretch of him increasing, the pressure and discomfort something she was aware of beneath the desire and the all-consuming want of him.

She soon discovered it wasn’t easy. Abby could not drop down, nothing so simple as when she would drag her needy cunt over him to content herself with the shape of him pressing against her. She tried to sink down a few inches and found that her progress had stopped. Slowly, Aegon helped her rise back up and she lowered herself again, lip caught between her teeth in concentration. Gods help her. He felt so good, but the stretch was more than she expected. There was a sting, a burn as she tried to take him that she had not anticipated. It was sharp, like the feeling of slicing one’s finger on parchment, and she bit down on the inside of her cheek at the new discomfort. Once more she rose and once more she sunk down, taking him in bit by bit.

“I-I can’t… I want.. Why won’t it…” She gulped for air. The arousal was still sticky hot in the depths of her belly, in the crooks of her elbows and where the sweat gathered behind her knees, but her frustration was growing, the subtle pain growing with it as she felt her body tense with the newfound limits of her body. Abby looked at him helplessly. His flushed face was contorted in pleasure and heat, gaze fixed on where they were joined before he met her eyes.

Aegon leaned in to lick into her mouth, stroking against her tongue like how his fingers stroked inside her. “Breathe,” he told her between kisses and looking down at where he disappeared inside of her. Again she rose, and this time Aegon tugged her down further. Something in the way he pushed past her body’s resistance twisted the coil in her belly tighter and she cried out, mouth wet, eyes fluttering. It hurt, yes, like the feeling of thorns pricking along her skin, but more than that was the pleasure of finally having him.

Aegon’s breathing grew labored as they slowly worked her down, his fingers pressing hard enough into her waist to bruise, the other hand gripping her left thigh now that he no longer had to hold himself steady lest he slip out of her.

When he finally sunk fully into her, she could feel him in her throat, behind her ribs, nestling inside her like she’d always wanted. The need to crack open her ribs and cage him inside of her to keep her warm, to keep him safe, to keep him with her always and forever, never far from her, never gone, never alone finally, for this moment, felt fulfilled. Complete.

“Aegon,” she whined, hiccuping at the end of his name, and leaned down to kiss him, to taste him, her hands gripping his shoulders as his own gripped her waist, her thigh. Abby thought he might leave bruises come the morning.

‘Mark me, claim me. Stay inside me, don’t ever leave me. Never leave, not you.’

Aegon slowly helped her rise higher and higher until Abby thought he’d slip from her and she grew frantic, her fingers clawing at his shoulders until he hissed with pain and pleasure. “Don’t you dare take me off, don’t you dare, Aegon.” Her attempt at ordering him to keep his cock in her was a shaky, hiccuping mess that earned a throaty laugh. Aegon kissed her words away and helped her back down until he was fully seated in her.

Again and again, Aegon lifted her because her legs were useless things, a fawn unable to hold herself up. Up and down, over and over, until the pinch and discomfort of her body trying to accommodate him began to fade. Finally, she was able to fight his control, if only a little. Abby rocked her hips, pushing down on his shoulders for purchase while trying to lift herself, seeking the control, refusing to give it all to him.

Aegon needed to know he was hers. He was hers to seek pleasure from. Hers to claim. Just because he was a dragon didn’t give him the right to decide how quickly she could ride him.

She would not admit that there was a coil of heat that spread through her as he controlled, guided, commanded her. Abby simply would not share it for now.

The rhythm was soon found between suckling kisses and insistent twitches of her hips, Aegon’s own hips snapping up as Abby found her balance. A dance she was unfamiliar with, but her body seemed to understand what was expected, even if they weren’t in sync, much like how she would step on his feet or bump into him during dance practice. Between moans of pleasure and thready laughter, Abby gave into the feeling. One hand continued to grip his shoulder, leaving red, crescent moons from her nails and scratch marks when she scrambled and the other reached up to press against the cold glass window so she could get on her knees to better ride him. She squealed when Aegon leaned down to lick at the ticklish skin beneath her arm before snaring an aching nipple with tongue and teeth. Her skin was mottled red from his bites and kisses and she’d relish each one in the morning.

The cold glass against her palm centered her, kept her from fully giving over into the haze of pleasure, the shine of lightning through her veins, the roiling, syrupy heat that made her hips jerk. When she came down, Abby ground her hips against his in an attempt to find a new bit of pressure that pressed against that place inside of her. Aegon’s hand went between them and his calloused fingers rolled her clit idly, stroking absently like he would her temple when she rested her head upon his shoulder. The light and tender touch had her cry out, body taught and back arching.

“Come on,” he consoled her. “You’re so close. I know you are, hunītsos.” He kissed her cheeks, her mouth, and she sought his taste in return. Aegon’s fingers still danced over her, his other arm banding around her to hold her close. Abby clung to him as the pressure increased, his thumb moving faster, his hips rolling up until the kiss broke, a wordless cry echoing through the chamber as she clenched around him, sobbing as pleasure rolled through her. She could barely hear his own grunt and shout after her, but she could feel the warmth of him spilling inside of her, filling her in all the ways she’d been desperate for these months.

Coming down didn’t feel like crashing. It felt like she was floating, warm, hazy, and heavy-limbed, melting into Aegon’s arms until she was certain that she would simply slip beneath his skin. They slumped back against the window seat and her legs splayed awkwardly on either side of him, face buried into his neck and he nuzzled into her hair. Aegon’s breathing labored in her ear and her own rushed through her. Dimly, she was aware of an ache, but it didn’t deserve her attention right now.

“I love you,” she whispered, pressing a kiss to his salty skin and snuggling in more. “I love you so much.”

Aegon vibrated beneath her, humming into her hair. “I love you too. Are you alright? Did I hurt you?”

She shook her head and sighed, further relaxing into him. “Did I hurt you?” Aegon’s answer was a soft laugh and a whisper of the negative against her ear, arms wrapped tightly around her. Abby rubbed her cheek against his shoulder, a sleepy smile across her face. “Thank you for letting me ride you.”

Aegon’s answering laughter was just as loud and bright as her earlier cries of pleasure.

[joshslater]

Frat War

Similar stories and bonus material on my Patreon.

"Sweet dreams," he said and knocked on my helmet. Then he gave me the finger straight in my face. "See you tomorrow or whenever," turned off the lights, and closed the door.

I was alone in the darkness. The only sound I could hear was the vibrator, or perhaps I just felt it and imagined the sound. I tried to jiggle around a bit to see if I could get loose, but I was securely tied up. It wasn't uncomfortable, perhaps not surprising given all the padded sports gear they forced on me, but I would probably have burning muscle aches when they eventually cut me loose. Right now it was the pungent smell of locker room from the gear that bothered me more, or perhaps even more the sock gag they taped in place. It just kept leaking a foul, sour taste. They can't be this bad naturally so it must be because of the oil.

Fuck, I'm losing it. My mind keeps wandering and not focusing. I'll take it from the start.

So someone in the linear algebra class asked if I could walk by the KAX frat house on my way home and hand over some homework to Chase. I didn't recall seeing him before, but then the class lecture hall is large and some people are watching the classes remotely. I assumed we had spoken though, because how else would he know I passed the frat house on my route? "Sure," I said and grabbed the manilla folder from him.

After one lecture in mechanics, friction more specifically, I was on my way home. The KAX frat house was a weird-looking brick building that had been some sort of school before it was converted, with a decent-sized front garden. I walked up the gravel walk to the door and just as I was about to press the buzzer the door flung open and a half dozen dudes tackled me to the floor.

"Hey! Let me" was all I managed to shout out before someone stuck a rolled towel between my teeth. I was pressed down into the floor by several hands and knees. "You find it? Is it him?" someone asked. I could hear rummaging above me. "Yeah, it's here. Schematics, codes, everything. He even put it in a folder with KAX written on it. What a fucking stealth ninja."

I had been set up! For what I didn't know, but I started to struggle and shout pleadings to them, which probably came out as muffled nonsense. "Spritz him," someone else said, and soon after a pair of hands held my head still, while a third inserted something into one nostril, sprayed a mist into it, and I blacked out.

"He's awake," someone called out far in the distance, and I wondered who he meant. There was something in my mouth but as I tried to reach for it someone grabbed my arm. Slowly the frat house and the ambush came back to me and I opened my eyes. I saw myself in a large, wall-mounted mirror, sitting relaxed in an armchair that had been placed in a home gym. I was dressed almost completely as a football player. Cleats, socks, tight pants, undershirt, and two guys were about to tie the shoulder pads in place. I had two black streaks under my eyes and duct tape over my mouth keeping whatever in place. There was a funky smell of locker room as if the uniform hadn't been washed. "Almost done. Keep calm and don't struggle, and we won't knock you out again."

I wasn't sure what was happening, but I was pretty sure I wouldn't get far if I tried to fight them. The guys put on a football Jersey in the school team's colors, followed by elbow pads and gloves. Then they helped me up from the armchair and moved me over to their lat pulldown machine, I think it's called. It looked like it came from a professional gym that I imagine the frat had grabbed at some bankruptcy auction. In the few steps over I could feel something else was wrong. I had been so overwhelmed by the sensations of a full football outfit I hadn't noticed something was weird in the groin area.

Once seated on the machine the guys started to tie me in place with thick ropes. Another pair of guys carried the armchair out of the room so the only remaining furniture was gym equipment. I was still at a loss for what the purpose, as well as the reason, for all this was. In front of me one guy rolled up a white sock that was discolored as if it had been heavily used in black shoes. He then picked up a small bottle, unscrewed it, and used the dropper from the lid to squirt some liquid into the rolled-up sock. He then tore off a new strip of duct tape, ripped off the tape from my face, replaced the cloth in there with the sock roll, and taped it shut again. I figured if I resisted they would just use whatever that spritz was again.

"We have a private cannabis oil blend with some other shit mixed in that gives you these amazing sexual highs. Just rock hard for hours while you can space out to your favorite porn. Very dangerous to use too often or too long." He pressed a helmet on my head and locked it in place with the strap. "With the concentration you're getting, and released over such a long time, you'll end up forming completely new sexual attractions to whatever you're subjected to." He pressed something near my hip and I could feel what might have been a cockring starting to vibrate. "To what is however the question." He was about to leave when one of the other guys pointed at something on the floor.

He reached down and plugged in an air humidifier. "We put so much effort into this, and I almost forgot it. We've been pulling moisture out of gym clothes for months to create this experience for you. I'm really interested in what the outcome is. The original idea was to turn you gay for football jocks, but I think it's more likely you'll end up sexually attracted to locker rooms. Or bondage. Well, tell your bros at the frat we won the prank battle this year."

My mouth was filled with bitter, sour taste and my eyes started having trouble focusing on him.

"Fuck, it stinks. Let's leave boys before it sticks in the hair. I bet it takes weeks to get out. Sweet dreams," he said and knocked on my helmet.

[37sommz]

❁ : no love . . .

✼. masterlist — taglist — request. ✼. genre: angst. ✼. wc: 5.8k.

after a botched pit stop in azerbaijan and a withdrawal in canada, michaela's side of the garage is heading down a slippery slope. michaela's depleted spirit can't take much more. until silverstone.

✼. warnings: language, arguments, more mclaren papaya mess. ✼. notes: so sorry but yuki is the villain in this part.

000.⠀⠀JULY 02, 2022    ›    Silverstone, UK.

Michaela stood tall in her cramped garage, surrounded by the mechanical hum of the Silverstone Grand Prix. Her eyes scanned her McLaren car, the sleek machine adorned with the papaya orange and blue livery that had become her battle armor. The smell of the mechanical tools and racing fuel filled her nose, a familiar scent that had become almost comforting over the years. Despite the whispers that had followed her since the last race, she was in her element, she could feel it.

Her last conversation with Jenson replayed in her mind as she climbed into the cockpit. He had tried to ease her nerves, but his words of reassurance had only served to highlight the precariousness of her situation. She pushed the thoughts away, focusing on the task at hand.

The British Grand Prix was a chance for redemption, and she was not going to let anything or anyone stand in her way. The sound of the engines firing up around her sent a shiver down her spine, a reminder of the power and danger that lay just beyond her grip. Her first free practice session had gone as expected, Michaela lay in comfortable territory on the rankings. The car felt great and she was at the helm, masterminding every turn and hum through the twists of the Silverstone circuit. The second session had followed in similar fashion. She did just enough in the car to provide a glimpse of her potential for the weekend, but not nearly enough for any real predictions to be made.

Michaela knew the media was watching her closely, waiting for any sign of weakness. The whispers grew louder, the questions more pointed. Her rivalry with Lando was a hot topic, especially after the disasters in Saudi Arabia, Azerbaijan, and Canada. But she had faced adversity before and had come out on top. As she stepped out of the garage and into the press conference room following the conclusion of Friday's practice runs, she felt the beginning of vindication start to settle in.

The journalists kept coming back around to her, their faces a mix of curiosity and accusation. The air was thick with the anticipation of a scandal, a juicy headline waiting to be born. One journalist, in particular, had a glint in his eye as he asked, "Michaela, what's your response to the rumors that Lando has been receiving preferential treatment from the team?"

Michaela took a deep breath, her grip on the microphone in her hand tightening. "My focus is on my performance," she replied with a steely smile, her voice as smooth as the freshly paved circuit she'd soon be racing on. "I've seen the times, and I know what I'm capable of. The team is doing their best, and I have full confidence in McLaren." Her response was met with a smatter of applause, a few nods of approval. It was a dance she'd done before, dodging the media's jabs with the grace of a seasoned professional.

The weekend dragged on, the tension between her and Lando palpable. She could feel his eyes on her during the practice session early Saturday morning, the unspoken challenge in every rev of his engine. But she had her own demons to face. Her relationship with Jenson was a tightrope walk, and the fear of losing her grip on her career was a constant weight on her shoulders.

Qualifying day arrived with a mix of nerves and excitement. The Silverstone circuit buzzed with energy, the crowd eager to see who would claim pole position. As she geared up for Q3, the final showdown, she knew she had to put everything aside and just drive. The pressure mounted as she took off for her out lap, the thunderous roar of the engines around her a reminder of the blend of power and ambition at play.

Michaela's heart raced as she pushed her McLaren to the limit, each turn a testament to her skill and determination. Her qualifying lap was pure poetry, a dance of precision and speed that would secure her a spot on the third row in 5th, just behind the two Red Bulls and Ferraris. The crowd erupted into applause, and she couldn't help but feel a swell of pride. The first question out of her mouth as she crossed the lap as the clock ran down was, "Where'd Lando end up?" The response of '7th' was left hanging in the air as she selfishly allowed her heart to flutter with ego.

The evening before the race, she and Jenson talked over the phone, his voice a gentle reprieve from the storm of the day. He apologized for pushing the topic of their relationship into the public eye, saying, "You're right, love. We'll do it on your terms." She felt the knot in her stomach loosen slightly, appreciating his understanding but still feeling the pressure to make a decision. They ended the call with a promise to meet up after the race, regardless of the outcome.

000.⠀⠀JULY 03, 2022    ›    Silverstone, UK.

Sunday dawned bright and early, the air thick with the scent of hunger and anticipation. As she put on her helmet, she could almost taste the podium champagne, her resolve to win stronger than ever.

But fate had other plans.

Michaela's heart sank as she heard the words from Zak Brown, her boss and McLaren's CEO, just before the race. Something about a potential team order to go on the defensive that could favor Lando. She had added a justification for the choice, something about standings and sponsors. She tried to push the thoughts away, but the doubt had already planted its seed.

As the lights turned green, she stalled, the car jolting awkwardly off the line as she dropped to 9th place. The roar of the McLaren fans morphed into a collective groan of disappointment, the air around her thick with the smell of misfortune as the field sped away. Her mind raced, trying to make sense of the chaos. Her engineer's voice crackled over the radio, a mix of concern and urgency, but she couldn't respond, her focus solely on regaining her lost positions.

Her first pit stop was a disaster. The mechanics were not prepared, fumbling with the tires. The seconds ticked by as she sat stationary, the frustration burning in her chest. When she was finally released, she shot out of the pits with a simmering rage, only to be met by Yuki Tsunoda, his Alpha Tauri car snapping at her heels. As he engaged in a risky twist with her, Michaela's anger that had been simmering within her boiled over.

The overtake was clean, a testament to her skill and patience, but Yuki wasn't going to let it go without a fight. He lunged back at her, tires squealing in protest as they danced dangerously close to the edge of the track. The crowd held their collective breath, the tension in the air as visible as the exhaust fumes.

Michaela felt a rush of adrenaline as she saw her opportunity to put distance between them. She floored the pedal, the engine screaming in response. The sound of the tires on the asphalt was a symphony of speed and grip, her car an extension of her will. But Yuki was persistent, his aggression unyielding.

The battle continued, a blur of Orange and Blue as their cars filed through the historic track. The heat of the rare British summer sun bore down on her, the cockpit a sauna of concentration and anger. Every time she glimpsed in her mirrors to catch sight of Yuki, it was a painful reminder of her botched start and the game of 'what if' she had been playing in her mind for the past 15 laps.

Michaela's knuckles were white on the steering wheel, her eyes never leaving the track. The crowd's cheers grew louder as she approached the spot where she had made the overtake. She could feel the energy of the fans urging her on, willing her to push through the pain and frustration. But it was a fleeting victory, every corner a potential disaster waiting to happen.

As they approached the fast-approaching right-hand turn at Stowe, he took a risk, going wide, his tires grazing the grass. She saw her chance and took it, her car responding beautifully as she swung around him. The crowd roared as she reclaimed the position, but Yuki wasn't done yet. He came back at her, his car clipping her rear wing as he tried to muscle his way past. The contact sent her McLaren into a spin, the world around her a whirlwind of color and motion.

Her heart racing, she watched as the tire barrier grew closer, the world outside the cockpit becoming a blur of fear and frustration. Time slowed as she braced for impact, the thud of the car against the wall jolting her body. The sudden silence was deafening as the engine cut out, the only sound the hiss of escaping air and the faint crackle of the dead radio.

Her engineer, Rob, tried to get her attention over the radio, his voice strained with tension. "Michaela, are you okay?" He asked, the static crackling in her ears. She didn't respond, her thoughts a whirlwind of anger and frustration. She sat, dazed, as the safety car was deployed and the marshals rushed to her side.

Michaela's mind was a cloud of emotions as she climbed out of the wreckage. She could feel the eyes of the world on her, the cameras capturing every moment of her defeat. Yuki pulled up alongside, an annoyed look on his face, his words of apology barely audible over the engine noise. The frustration boiled over and she slammed her fist on the side of her car, the anger clear in her eyes.

The medical team checked her over, but she brushed them off, more concerned with the damage to her ego than any bruises she may have sustained. As she was escorted back to the pits, the weight of her failure pressed down on her shoulders. The crowd's cheers had turned to gasps, the excitement of the race now tinged with concern for her safety. She could barely bring herself to open her eyes fully, the pounding in her head echoing hisses of failure and upsetting shortcomings.

The moment she stepped out of the marshall car, the disappointments of the race weekend engulfed her. Mechanics swarmed around her, checking for any signs of injury while team members whispered about the potential repercussions of the crash. In the midst of this, Yuki's voice rang out clear over the huffing of the team.

"That was a bad move, Sommers," he spat, his eyes narrowed as he removed his helmet. "You had no right to take the inside like that."

Michaela's anger flared, igniting like a spark in dry grass. "Don't you dare blame me for your inability to drive in a straight fucking line," she shot back, her voice carrying over the rumblings of the pit lane. The tension between them was palpable, a live wire ready to snap.

Their words grew heated, accusations and recriminations flying as their teams looked on in shock. The cameras had caught every second, broadcasting their argument across the globe. It was a spectacle that no one could have anticipated, two of the sport's rising stars at each other's throats. The mechanics tried to pull them apart, their faces a mix of concern and embarrassment.

The argument was finally broken up by a burly figure in McLaren overalls, his voice a thunderous boom over the din. It was her team's chief mechanic, his face red with rage. "That's enough," he bellowed, his hands firmly planted on their shoulders. "We've got a race to manage."

Michaela took a step back, her chest heaving as she fought to regain her composure. Yuki glared at her before turning away, stalking off towards his own garage. The cameras continued to roll, the scene playing out in real-time on the screens lining the pit wall. Her heart was racing, the adrenaline from the crash mixing with the anger still coursing through her veins. She knew she had to get control of herself, to keep her emotions in check. But it was too late; the damage was done.

The race continued without her, a stark reminder of her failure. She watched from the pit wall, her eyes never leaving the track as Lando and the others fought for position. Each pass, each overtake, stung like a slap in the face. The voices in her head grew louder, questioning her place in the sport, her worth as a driver. Was she really as good as she had thought?

Her engineer, Rob, was by her side, trying to offer words of encouragement. But she couldn't hear him over the roar of the engines, the echo of the crowd's disappointment, and the thundering beat of her own heart. All she could think about was the look on Zak's face when he saw the replay and the inevitable questions from her manager, Guido, about her contract.

Michaela's eyes followed the cars as they disappeared around the final turn, heading towards the checkered flag. Lando would be finishing in a well-earned sixth place, something she couldn't even secure this weekend. The knot in her stomach tightened as the reality of her situation set in. Her thoughts were interrupted by the buzz of her headphones.

"Michaela, we need to get you to the medical center now," Rob’s voice was firm, yet filled with a hint of concern. She nodded, letting the team lead her away from the chaos, her head down to avoid the prying eyes of the media.

The medical center was a blur of white and blue as she was poked and prodded, questions about her well-being flying at her from every angle. Her thoughts remained on the race, on the podium that had slipped through her fingers like sand in an hourglass. The doctor's voice was a distant murmur as she replayed every moment in her head, searching for where she had gone wrong.

Finally, she was given the all-clear, but her mind was anything but. She stormed through the McLaren garage, the smell of burning rubber and hot metal a constant reminder of the battle she'd left unfinished. Guido found her, his expression a mix of disappointment and frustration. He knew better than to speak to her now, the fire in her eyes a warning to tread lightly.

In the post-race press conference, she couldn't escape the questions about her argument with Yuki. A journalist, eager for drama, asked, "Michaela, can you comment on the tension between you and Tsunoda?" She took a deep breath, her jaw clenched tight. "It's just racing," she said through gritted teeth, her voice a forced calm. "We're all out there fighting for the same thing."

The room was a sea of flashing cameras and probing eyes, each journalist hungry for a piece of her. Beata, her press officer, shot her a warning glance, but it was too late. The dam had broken, and now the sharks were circling.

Michaela took a deep breath and faced the horde, her heart pounding in her chest as she grew more agitated by the second. "Yes, there was an incident on track, but that's all it was. Just racing." Her voice was firm, but she could feel the tremble in her hands.

The questions kept coming, each one more pointed than the last. She tried to keep her cool, to stick to the script, but the anger was too much. "I don't know what else you want me to say," she spoke plainly. "We're all out there to win, and sometimes things get heated."

The room fell silent, the only sound the clack of cameras capturing the moment. The moderator stepped in, trying to steer the conversation back on track, but it was too late. The journalists had caught the scent of a scandal and weren't letting go. "Michaela, is there any truth to the rumors of tension within the team?"

Her eyes flashed with anger as she leaned into the microphone. "I've said all I'm going to say about that," she bit back, her voice cutting through the air like a knife. She could feel Beata's eyes boring into her, willing her to walk away, but she was beyond caring. The whispers of doubt and favoritism had been eating away at her for too long, and she wasn't going to let them win.

The press conference was a blur, a minefield of words she carefully stepped around. Each question was a trap, designed to catch her off guard, but she was ready for them. Every answer was a calculated move, a defense of her talent and her team's strategy. But as she stepped out of the press pen, the weight of the weekend's events finally hit her.

Her eyes searched the bustling garage for Beata, who was nowhere to be found. She needed to vent, to scream, to let it all out. The tension in her shoulders was a constant reminder of the crash, the argument, the unspoken accusations. It was then she saw Guido, her manager, his face etched with worry and concern.

Michaela stormed towards him, the sounds of the garage fading into the background. "What the hell was that about, Guido?" she spat out, her voice a mix of anger and defeat. "Why did they have to pit me with those tires?"

Guido held up his hands in a calming gesture. "Michaela, let's talk about this in private," he suggested, leading her to a quieter area behind the garage. She followed, her mind racing with the events of the race.

Once out of earshot, she unleashed her frustration. "I can't believe this. The stall on the line, the pit stop, and now this with Yuki!" she exclaimed, her voice cracking with emotion. Guido's expression grew sterner as he listened, his eyes never leaving hers.

"Michaela, I know this weekend hasn't been easy, but you've got to keep your head focused," he said firmly, his voice low as he tried to keep his driver in line. "We're all feeling the pressure, but lashing out like that isn't going to help."

Her eyes searched his, looking for any sign of understanding or sympathy, but she found none. The walls of the garage felt like they were closing in on her, the weight of the weekend's failure crushing her spirit. "What do you know about pressure?" she snapped, her voice filled with bitterness. "You sit up in your fancy office and tell me what to do, but you've never been out there, fighting for your life."

Guido's expression softened slightly. "You're right, I haven't," he admitted. "But I've seen drivers with half your talent crack under a quarter of the pressure you're under. You're better than this, Michaela."

Michaela's anger didn't abate. "Better than what? Crashing out because of a bad pit stop? Or maybe better than fighting with other drivers over a podium that was never meant for me?"

Guido sighed, his hand resting on her shoulder. "You know what I mean. You're one of the best drivers out there, and you can't let one bad race define you. We need to work on the contract situation, yes, but now is not the time for this."

Michaela's eyes searched his, looking for a glimmer of hope. "What if I don't want to stay?" she whispered, the words hanging in the air like a confession.

Guido's expression grew serious. "You have a contract, and we need to honor that," he said firmly. "But if you're unhappy, we'll talk after the weekend. For now, you need to keep your focus on the next race."

Michaela nodded, her eyes welling up with tears she refused to shed. The pressure of keeping her emotions in check was almost too much to bear. She knew he was right, but the feeling of being trapped was suffocating.

As they walked back to the garage, she spotted Jenson in the distance, talking to his fellow pundits, their expressions a mix of shock and concern as they watched the replay of her crash. She felt a pang of guilt for dragging him into this mess. Their relationship was supposed to be a sanctuary, not a source of additional strain.

The sight of him brought a fresh wave of tears that she hastily wiped away. She didn't want to face the cameras with red eyes and she didn't want to give the media more fuel for their fire.

Guido steered her towards the team's motorhome, the only sanctuary where she could retreat for a brief moment of solace. "Go in, take a breather, and we'll talk after," he said, his grip on her shoulder reassuring.

Michaela nodded, her legs feeling like lead as she climbed the stairs into the plush sanctum of the McLaren motorhome. She slammed the door behind her, the sound echoing through the narrow corridor. The silence was deafening, and she leaned against the cool metal, letting out a shaky sigh. Her eyes fell on her racing suit, still damp with sweat and stained with the grime of the track. The smell of burnt rubber clung to her, a painful reminder of her failure.

She stripped off the suit, the material peeling away from her sticky skin. In the small bathroom, she turned on the cold water, letting it cascade over her, the chill a stark contrast to the heat of the race still lingering in her veins. The water stung as it flowed over the scrapes forming from the crash, a physical representation of the pain she felt inside.

Michaela stood under the shower for what felt like an eternity, her thoughts racing. The pressure to perform, the fear of losing her seat, the strain on her relationship with Jenson, the constant scrutiny of the media—it all converged into a tumultuous storm in her mind. She wished she could wash away the weight of it all with the soap and water swirling around the drain.

Stepping out, she wrapped herself in a towel, the cool fabric offering a brief respite from the heat of her emotions. She took a moment to catch her breath, staring at her reflection in the foggy mirror. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her cheeks flushed with anger. She looked nothing like the poised driver who had stepped onto the grid just hours before.

Michaela dressed in clean clothes provided by the team, her movements mechanical as she tried to push aside the turmoil of her thoughts. The soft knock on the door brought her back to reality, and she took a deep breath before opening it to find Beata waiting outside.

"Michaela, we need to talk," Beata's voice was firm, yet filled with genuine concern.

Michaela nodded wearily, stepping aside to let her in. "I know," she murmured, collapsing onto the couch. The cushions enveloped her in a comfort she hadn't felt in what felt like an eternity.

Beata's eyes searched hers, reading the raw emotion on her face. "Your behavior today was unacceptable," she began, her voice gentle but firm. "We can't have you fighting with other racers, especially not on live television."

Michaela nodded, the fight draining out of her. "I know," she said softly. "It just got to me. The pit stop, the questions about Lando, the whispers about favoritism..."

Beata sat beside her, her expression softening. "You're under a lot of pressure, more than anyone should have to bear. But you're better than that. You're a professional, and you can't let it get to you like this," she said, placing a comforting hand on her arm.

Michaela looked down, the weight of the weekend's events crashing down on her. "I know," she whispered. "But it's just..." she trailed off, unable to put her feelings into words.

Beata nodded, her expression understanding. "It's a lot, I know," she said gently. "But you can't let it consume you. We need to figure out how to manage this, how to keep your focus on the track."

Michaela leaned back into the cushions, her eyes glazed over as she stared at the ceiling. "I just want to race," she murmured. "I don't care about the drama, the politics, the cameras."

Beata squeezed her arm gently. "I know you do, but you're in the public eye now, and people are going to look for a story. You've got to learn to rise above it, to keep your cool when things get tough."

Michaela nodded, her eyes closing briefly as she took in her words. It was a lesson she knew all too well but had clearly forgotten in the heat of the moment. "What do we do now?" she asked, her voice small and defeated.

"We'll issue a statement about the crash and the incident with Yuki," Beata said, her tone professional once more. "But we need to be careful with how we handle this. The last thing we want is for it to blow up into something it's not."

Michaela nodded, understanding the gravity of the situation. She knew the media would be hungry for more, eager to dissect every word she said and every gesture she made. The thought of facing the press again made her stomach churn, but she knew it was a necessary evil.

Beata stirred, reaching for Michaela's phone out of her handbag. "Jenson's been trying to call," she said gently.

Michaela's heart skipped a beat. She hadn't even thought about Jenson, about how he might have seen the crash, the argument, and the subsequent fallout. She took the phone, her hand trembling slightly as she answered the call.

"Hey," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

Jenson's voice was filled with concern. "Are you okay? I've been worried sick after watching that."

Michaela took a deep breath, trying to keep her voice steady. "I'm fine," she lied, the ache from the crash still present. "Just a bit shaken."

"You don't sound fine," Jenson said, his voice tight with worry. "What happened with Yuki? I've never seen you that angry before."

Michaela leaned her head back against the cool leather of the couch, feeling the weight of his question. "It was just a racing incident," she replied, her voice hollow. "We both wanted the same thing, and we didn't get it."

"Is that all it was?" Jenson's voice was probing, not quite convinced.

Michaela closed her eyes, the sound of his voice soothing the storm inside her. "It's just...it's been a tough weekend," she admitted, her voice cracking. "The pit stop, the questions about favoritism, and then this with Yuki..."

"I know, sweetheart," Jenson said, his voice filled with empathy. "But you've got to keep your head up. You can't let the media get to you like this."

Michaela felt a tear slip down her cheek. "I know," she said, her voice breaking. "It's just...I don't know if I can keep doing this."

"Keep doing what?" Jenson's voice was gentle, coaxing.

Michaela took a deep breath, the words spilling out in a rush. "This whole circus," she said, gesturing to the bustling paddock outside. "The racing, the drama, the expectations. It's just too much."

There was a pause on the other end of the line, and she could almost see Jenson's furrowed brow, his mind racing as he searched for the right words to say. "Michaela, you're one of the best drivers out there. You can't let a bad race, or some idiot journalist, or even a dickhead like Yuki, get you down."

A small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth despite her pain. "Thanks," she murmured, her voice thick with unshed tears. "I just wish it was that simple."

"It is simple," Jenson said firmly. "You're in this because you love to race, not because you love the drama. Remember that."

Michaela nodded, his words resonating with her. "Guess I've gotta start looking at other teams," she murmured. "Even if McLaren decided to stick with me for next season, I'm not sure I'd be okay with that. Not at this point."

Beata and Jenson sighed on either ends of the call, both knowing the gravity of her words. "We'll cross that bridge when we come to it," Beata said, trying to lighten the mood. "For now, let's get through this weekend."

Michaela nodded, her eyes still closed. "I'm sorry for putting you through this," she murmured into the phone, the weight of her emotions threatening to crush her.

"You don't have to apologize to me," Jenson said firmly. "But you do need to apologize to the team. They're all here supporting you, and you can't let them down."

Michaela nodded, wiping away the stray tear that had escaped. "I know," she said, her voice stronger now. "I'll go talk to them."

The conversation with Jenson had brought a small spark of resolve to her. She knew she couldn't let one bad race define her, especially not in front of her team who had put their faith in her. She took a deep breath and opened the door to the bustling garage, the sound of engines and chatter filling her ears once more.

The McLaren crew looked up as she approached, their expressions a mix of concern and curiosity. She could see the question in their eyes—what had happened? But she didn't want to rehash the drama of the day. Instead, she focused on what needed to be said.

"I'm sorry," she began, her voice loud enough to carry over the garage's din. "I know I screwed up out there, and let my emotions get the better of me." The team stared at her, some of the tension visibly draining from their faces. "I'm going to learn from this and move forward. I hope you all know how much I appreciate the work you all do for my benefit. This is just a bump in the road to better things. I'm so sorry, again. But, I'll see you all in Austria, cheers."

Her words were met with a round of nods and murmurs of understanding. The mechanics, engineers, and strategists were a tight-knit group, and she knew they had her back. But she also knew that she had let them down, and she wasn't about to let it happen again.

Michaela walked over to her car, the wreckage of her McLaren a stark contrast to the gleaming machines around her. The car looked defeated, a shell of its former glory, but she saw the potential beneath the bruises. She ran her hand along the carbon fiber body, feeling the coolness of the metal, the scent of failure still lingering in the air.

"We'll get it fixed," a voice said from behind her. She turned to see her chief mechanic, David, his eyes filled with determination. "We'll be back stronger in Spielberg."

Michaela managed a smile, appreciating the support. "Thanks, David." She knew the team would work tirelessly to rebuild the car, but it was the internal damage she wasn't sure could be repaired so easily. The doubt, the fear, the anger—it was all simmering just beneath the surface.

As the team began to disperse, Beata approached her with a gentle look. "You need to be more careful, Michaela," she warned. "The press is already having a field day with this. If you're not happy with McLaren, we can explore options, but you can't let it affect your performance on the track."

Michaela nodded, feeling the weight of her words. "You're right," she said, her voice a whisper. "I just want to get out of here."

Beata nodded sympathetically. "Let's get you out of here," she said, steering her away from the garage and handing her a pair of emergency sunglasses. They walked through the paddock, the buzz of the grandstands a stark contrast to the quiet of the team's area. The fans were already starting to file out, their excited chatter muffled by the distance.

Michaela's mind raced as she put on the sunglasses, trying to compose herself. She knew the moment she stepped out of the garage, the media would be waiting, eager for a glimpse of the troubled driver. The cool breeze outside did little to ease the heat of the day or the pressure in her chest.

"Michaela, are you okay?" a journalist called out as they passed by the media pen. She ignored the question, her eyes fixed straight ahead. Beata shot her a warning look, but she knew better than to engage.

The car ride to the airport was silent, both of them lost in their thoughts. The tension in the air was thick, and she could feel the unspoken words weighing down on her. As they pulled up to the rented jet, the reality of her situation hit her like a ton of bricks. She was living the dream, but at what cost?

Michaela took a deep breath before stepping out of the car, her eyes scanning the tarmac for any signs of paparazzi. The last thing she needed was another scene. She climbed the stairs to the jet, her legs feeling like jelly. Once inside, she collapsed into her seat, the plush leather a stark contrast to the hard plastic chair she had been in just minutes ago.

The flight to Austria was a blur of recaps and strategy sessions, the team trying to dissect where it had gone wrong. Each time someone talked about the pit stop or the crash, she felt a stab of pain in her chest. Her mind kept replaying the moment she lost control, the feeling of the car spinning out, the sickening crunch as it hit the barrier. It was a reminder that no matter how much she pushed herself, how much she wanted it, there were factors beyond her control.

Michaela sat in the back, her headphones on but the music muted. Instead, she listened to the hum of the engines, a constant reminder of the beast she would soon be taming again. She knew she had to channel her anger into something positive, to use it to fuel her drive in the upcoming race next weekend. But it was easier said than done.

The team's debrief was thorough, leaving no stone unturned. Each member took responsibility for their part in the weekend's disaster, but it was clear that the tension between her and the team was palpable. Guido, her manager, sat quietly in the corner, listening intently to every word. He knew that her heart was in the right place, but the public's perception was a different beast to tame.

[sufrimientilia]

Harvest

execution | fake execution | begging for mercy @augusnippets Day 10

cw: medical whump, lethal injection, see above

He awoke with all his limbs stretched out over hard cold metal. The air was so cold his breath fogged and melted against the harsh light suspended right above him, and he was entirely naked. Metal clicked and clinked when he started shaking, his wrists and ankles restrained. He tried to turn his head but a leather strap was pinned tight across his brow.

The smell of medical soap was so strong his nostrils might as well have been sterile. His eyes wildly shot around, trying to see everything or anything and only catching harsh fluorescent glares and smooth reflective metal in his periphery. This didn’t look like the usual operating theater, crawling with nurses and researchers and too many monitors tracking every part of him. He wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing.

He swallowed against the dryness in his mouth. Panic mounted in his chest. “Wh… where…”

“Subject MH-248.” He jerked at the voice, some whitecoat with a clear plastic face mask moving to loom at his side. He could hear latex squelching around glass. “You’ve been slated for repurposing. The procedure won’t take long; just relax.”

The whitecoat had gloves on, and they were preparing some sort of vial by giving it a gentle shake and wiping an alcohol pad over the top. Over and over again. Milky liquid sloshed around and around, and then the vial slipped easily into the reservoir of some sort of infusion machine hanging right overhead. It had three ports, and the middle one already held a big capsule of what must’ve been saline. The whitecoat moved to grab a third vial.

“Re… purposing?” he asked. Everything was behind a fine mist, even the cold biting at his skin. Numb despite the anxiety coiling deep within him. He weakly pulled at his restraints and felt the two IVs already inserted in each arm.

“It’s a transitionary procedure. Moving on to a new phase as a subject.” Another vial in the corner of his eye, this one filled with an oily blue liquid. The whitecoat carefully inserted a syringe and added a few milliliters of something else. “You have been scheduled for Harvest.”

His eyes widened. He knew what that was; all the subjects knew. The Harvest was the final, inevitable phase of their stay in the facility. “W-… wait…”

The whitecoat wiped the top of the vial with alcohol, again and again, and inserted it into the last reservoir. The infusion machine gave a mechanical click.

“Stop… stop. Please— just wait, wait.”

“Stay still now.” The infusion machine whirred to life at the press of a button. It was like something started spinning on the inside, churning and churning until the milky liquid traveled down the line.

Down the line, through two tubes, and into each arm.

“Please, please stop! I’m a good subject, I’m still useful, I'll behave—” He jerked at the crash of warmth, a sickly feeling through his veins. Like the liquid was molasses and just too thick to mix with his blood. Too thick and heavy, numbing and tingling under his skin, flooding through him all at once. “I’ll be… I’ll be better, ‘m… I’m still…”

“You’ll still be useful, yes,” the whitecoat assured him. “You're a good subject, and the Harvest fulfills many uses here at the Facility. But your last wishes are noted. Thank you for your willing contribution.”

“N-Nnno…” He lost control of his tongue, slipping uselessly behind dumb lips and a thick pool of saliva. Heavy, heavy, heavy, like everything else that sunk and throbbed under the same syrup haze. “Pl’sss.”

The infusion machine clicked and whirred again. The lines cleared with saline, cool and refreshing, but it just made the world blur and blur even more. The molasses pushed through his core.

“Mm… nnngghh…” He was so scared he must’ve pissed himself. Or maybe it was just the drug, paralyzing all of him piece by piece. It didn’t seem to matter, because there was a drain somewhere at his feet and he was lying naked on the perfect kind of table for all sorts of leaking fluids.

Fuck.

“The exit dose is quite relaxing, I’d like to imagine,” the whitecoat was saying, but even that became harder and harder to hear. “Most subjects don’t even seem to notice.”

The infusion machine gave another click, a gentle hum. Blue slowly overtook the line, traveled down and down, and slipped gently into each arm. And that gentle hum stretched out into one long, long string of sound. Indeterminable and hard to reach.

Fading, fading, fading.