#quick-release mechanisms

[awvxawea]

Exploring the Durability of Ulanzi Tripods for Harsh Weather Conditions

Hello everyone! Today, I want to share my thoughts on the durability of Ulanzi tripods, especially when it comes to harsh weather conditions. As an outdoor enthusiast and a photography lover, I have tested various tripods, and Ulanzi has consistently impressed me.

What stands out about Ulanzi tripods is their robust construction. They are designed to withstand windy environments and heavy rain, making them ideal for any adventure. I recently took my Ulanzi tripod on a hiking trip during unpredictable weather, and it performed beautifully. Its stability was remarkable, allowing me to capture stunning shots without worrying about my equipment.

One feature I particularly appreciate is the lightweight yet sturdy materials used in their design. This makes it easy to carry while ensuring it can handle the challenges of outdoor photography. Plus, the quick-release mechanisms are a game-changer, allowing for fast setup and adjustments.

If you're looking for a reliable and durable tripod that can withstand harsh conditions, I highly recommend checking out Ulanzi. They are not just practical but also enhance your photography experience. Have you tried any Ulanzi products? I would love to hear your thoughts!

[historyofguns]

In the article "Ultimate Do-All Holster? TACRIG FLEX Review" by Andy Grossman, the TACRIG FLEX holster is reviewed for its innovative design and versatility. The review highlights how it addresses the common issue of needing multiple holsters for different guns by offering a single system that can accommodate various firearms and mounting configurations, including IWB, OWB, and off-body locations. Grossman was impressed by the TACRIG system's use of durable Boltaron material and its efficient connector systems, allowing seamless transition and secure attachment to different mounts. The ability to switch between different guns and configurations without removing them from the holster shell is emphasized as its standout feature. The review concludes that the TACRIG FLEX system may be the ultimate solution for those looking for a versatile and reliable holster system.

[sushantsus]

Demystifying Quick Release Couplings: Unraveling Their Mechanism

Quick release couplings are versatile and efficient tools widely used in various industries. Understanding the mechanism behind quick release couplings is crucial for ensuring their proper usage and maintenance. In this comprehensive guide, we delve into the intricacies of quick release couplings, exploring their design, functionality, and applications. By unraveling the mechanism behind these essential components, we aim to enhance your knowledge and proficiency in utilizing quick release couplings effectively. Stay informed and master the art of quick release couplings with our insightful guide.

[dollfacefantasy]

bucky barnes x fem!reader cw: nsfw (18+), smut, p in v, public sex, boss/employee relationship a/n: i just watched brave new world so <3333 this is based on the request i am going to answer in a few moments.

1:30 pm, and a quick call to your desk. "sweetheart, could you come in here for a minute?" his voice crackled through the receiver. you knew what that meant.

not even five minutes later, he had you bent over the dark mahogany in his office, your pencil skirt hiked up around your hips, the pretty pink panties you'd worn for him pushed to the side so his cock could pump in and out of you with ease.

"fuck, mr. barnes," you whimpered, taking your bottom lip between your teeth. your hands slid as they pressed down on scattered papers beneath them.

a chuckle came from behind you. his hands gave your hips a squeeze. you could feel the mechanical flex on your left side.

"what'd i tell you about calling me that?" he asked.

"that- mmm- that i should only do it at work, but- ah!" you tried to explain, cut off by his tip brushing against a sensitive spot inside you. gripping the edge of the desk, you steeled yourself to finish your sentence. "but, technically, we're still at work, sir."

you heard him hum in acknowledgement, and in your mind, you could all but see that cute little smirk on his face. the one reserved for you. even when you were just his secretary, you were still the only one who got to see it so freely.

"smart girl. i guess that is true," he said, completing his statement with a particularly hard thrust.

you squeaked at the impact, and your eyes rolled back. despite your own noise, you were just happy the desk wasn't budging an inch under his momentum.

"but since we're 'at work,' you also know that you're supposed to be quiet," he said, his voice much lower and much closer to your ear. you could feel the crisp fabric of his suit against your back. his tie feathered along your side, causing you to squirm back on him.

"i- i am," you stammered.

"yeah? you think this is quiet? quiet enough that if anybody walked by those doors, they wouldn't hear you whining for me?" he whispered.

words of defense didn't come to mind. instead, you gasped as he nuzzled into your neck, planting open-mouthed kisses along your throat. your walls clamped around his length. you squeezed him, sucked him in with everything you had, your body wordlessly crying more, more, more.

"we wouldn't want any rumors going around, would we? people already talk about how cute my little secretary is, how she chases after me with stars in her eyes," he practically cooed. "they warn me about you, you know. i don't wanna get caught up in a scandal after all."

your knees almost give out beneath you, but being squished between him and the desk keeps you in place.

you knew what he was saying was true. people did talk about you and him. speculated if your relationship went beyond what was appropriate for a representative and his secretary. but fuck, you didn't care. not while sitting at your desk during the day or laying in his arms at night, and you certainly didn't care when he was fucking you like you'd been made just for him.

"they won't," you finally answered, words closer to a babble now. "they won't hear. only you can hear."

his lips curled into a smile against your skin. "that's right, baby. only me," he said with a soft peck to your cheek.

the moment of tenderness was brief though. his mechanical hand slid around to grasp your throat, giving him more leverage to drill into you.

at this point, you were right on the edge. he had settled into a rhythm that stroked you just right every time. your release was coming closer and closer every second.

you sucked in another ragged breath, unable to get the words out to articulate what you felt inside. but that was ok. he knew all your tells. he recognized the shaky legs and grabby hands and pulsing grip of your cunt.

his hand that wasn't on your neck wrapped around your body and snaked its way between your legs. the warm flesh of his fingertips swirled over your clit, rubbed back and forth in rapid stripes to give you the final push.

"i know, baby. i know it feels so good, and i know you're gonna be a good girl and stay quiet. so cum for me," he murmured.

just in case, you covered your mouth with your palm. your body spasmed as you let release wash over you. to your surprise, you did remain quiet for the most part. only a few little sounds of ecstasy escaped your lips for your hand to muffle.

he groaned right into your ear, the noise quiet to the entire world except for you. it was only a matter of seconds before you felt the familiar burst of warmth and the uneven jolts of his hips against your backside.

once the two of you had both finished, you each took a few seconds to catch your breath. you couldn't take too long however because his lunch break was ending, and it wouldn't take a genius to figure out the both of you were doing a little more than going over briefings in here.

he eased out of you and then helped you clean up a bit. your panties fell back into place while your skirt unbunched to cover up your thighs again. you glanced in the mirror on the wall to make sure your makeup hadn't smudged. with a tug of your blazer, you were ready to go back out there.

"not even gonna give me a kiss before you go?" he asked.

that brought a little smile to your face. when you turned to him once again, he was put back together too. no remnants of you on his suit, all the buttons together again, every strand of his hair in place.

you leaned in for what was supposed to be a quick peck. but his arm looped around your waist and held you close for a few moments longer. your shy eyes connected with his when he finally let you pull away. he gave you a pat on the ass as you went to walk away.

"i'll see you after work, mr. barnes," you said with a little laugh.

[navybrat817]

I'll Be Okay

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Summary: When Bucky accidentally harms you, he questions whether or not he's worthy of you and your love.

Word Count: Over 3.7k

Warnings: Hurt/comfort, accidental injury (small cut), mention of blood, mention of past injuries (not reader's), slight canon divergence (aftermath of torture, PTSD), self-loathing, angst, insecurities, feels, Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?)

A/N: This idea hit me and here we are! The quote is a partial lyric change from "I'll Be OK" by Nothing More. Thanks to @yenzys-lucky-charm and @starlightcrystalline for their help. ❤️ Beta read by the lovely @mumbles411, but any and all mistakes are my own. Divider by the talented @saradika-graphics. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

Bucky had an established routine before he went to bed each night. Screen time stopped an hour before he went to sleep so his mind and body could start to wind down. He changed into his pajamas, washed his face, and brushed his teeth. He read for fifteen minutes, nothing too intense or emotional since heavy topics would make his mind start to race again. The last thing he did were deep breathing exercises, imagining relaxing scenes as he inhaled, exhaled, and released the tension in his body.

Relaxing into the mattress, he smiled to himself. It took him some time to get accustomed to it, but he was glad he gave it a chance since he was determined to make his bedroom a safe haven. It took time and effort, but it worked. The atmosphere was relaxing and soothing. The blackout curtains helped him embrace the darkness since it was darkness of his choice. He hadn’t slept on the floor in months. He felt a sense of peace.

“Night,” you yawned.

It was difficult to see you in the pitch-black room, but he smiled more when he heard your heartbeat. The perfume you wore earlier today still lingered on your skin. Your hand touched his and he felt that sense of peace all over again.

The two of you started dating almost a year ago, short enough that it still felt new but also long enough that he felt comfortable. He didn't feel the need to hide his thoughts or feelings from you and you understood when he had his bad days. You were so patient, so caring. You were everything he wanted and nothing he deserved.

You didn't start spending the night until you hit the six-month mark. It worried him the first night because even sex didn’t disrupt his routine, and he didn’t want that to bother you. Just like you supported him in everything else, you were more than happy to support his evening habits. You even took a page from his book and started cutting out your screen time early so it wouldn’t disturb him. You were thoughtful like that, and he considered himself a lucky guy to have someone like you.

Especially when it came to his nightmares.

You were gentle and calm whenever he woke up from a nightmare, never trying to wake him abruptly and risk causing further distress. Respecting boundaries was something you both cultivated, so you never forced or pushed him to talk about his experiences or what he dreamed about. When he did, you listened without judgement and didn't dismiss his concerns or fears. No matter what, you were quick to offer comfort and help him get back to sleep or stay awake with him.

For all his crimes, he somehow ended up with a wonderful and understanding partner.

“Night,” he whispered into the darkness, pressing a kiss to your temple.

It didn’t take you long to fall asleep, your breathing steady. Closing his eyes, he slid his hand under his pillow and instinctively closed his hand around the small knife handle. His eyes opened immediately, his next breath caught in his throat. Why did he have his knife there?

Sleeping with a knife had been a coping mechanism and he typically did so on missions, but he tried to let it go at home once you started sleeping over. Tightening his grip, he remembered he had it there the night before because you had to sleep at your apartment. He swore he moved it to the nightstand before you came over. Did he… Shit, did he mean to do that and forget about it?

As much as his memory improved, he still had moments of forgetfulness. A likely permanent side effect thanks to the years of torture. It was one of the reasons why he liked having a routine. It helped him cope as well as improved his memory thanks to the repeated steps. Making lists helped, too.

“I’m safe. She’s safe,” he whispered.

The debate of having weapons in the bedroom was a tough choice since it was meant to be a safe space. He wanted to have weapons nearby for protection, but also wanted them far away in case something triggered him. He convinced himself that one knife was okay. One knife wouldn't hurt him.

But after his last nightmare, he didn’t think it was a good idea to have a knife under the pillow.

It had been a rough night, one of the roughest he could recall in ages. Surrounded by his demons and sins, he felt utterly alone. It was better that way. No one else should ever hear the agony or see the twisted horrors in his head. It was for an audience of one. But, still, he fought. He tried.

And his hand moved.

Bucky had been on autopilot, wanting desperately to fully wake himself up. His body tried to protect him while his mind continued to cling to his neverending nightmare. He just needed to open his eyes and be free for one more day.

He had sat up with a gasp, this haze in his mind finally lifting. “My name is James Buchanan Barnes. I go by Bucky,” he panted to remind himself that he wasn’t dreaming. “I was born on March 17th, 1917. I’m in my bed, and I’m holding a knife.”

He had been holding a knife.

And he sliced through the sheet where you would’ve been laying.

He barely made it to the toilet before he wretched. He had nightmares of you being tortured, your screams driving him to the brink of insanity when he wanted so desperately to save you. There were nightmares, too, where outside forces made him inflict pain on you. He swore he’d never harm you. If you had been asleep beside him… It made him sick all over again.

Which was why he tried not to sleep with a knife in bed anymore.

Carefully slipping his hand out from under the pillow, he kept an ear out for you. He didn’t want to risk waking or jolting you. He just had to put the knife away so he could cuddle with you and get some much needed rest.

But some higher being or life itself enjoyed messing with Bucky Barnes.

You rolled from your back to your side the second his hand moved through the air. He was fast, should’ve been faster, but it didn’t stop the blade from slicing your skin before he could pull his hand back. He knew the second you woke up, a startled and pained cry escaping. No… no.

He dropped the knife on the nightstand with a shaky hand and turned on the light. The first thing he saw was your face scrunched in pain as you sat up in bed and examined your arm. The crimson drew his attention next because he knew your body better than he knew his own and there shouldn't be a cut there… or blood. There shouldn't be pain etched on your beautiful face.

For a split second, Bucky thought he was having a nightmare. He wanted it to be a nightmare, didn't want it to be real, but the cry he heard wasn't in his head. It wasn't a dream.

It was a living nightmare.

“What did I do?” His voice shook. Tears stung his eyes.

God, what did he do?

Your lips moved, but he felt like he was hearing the words underwater. “Bucky? Did you have a nightmare? Are you okay?”

You were asking if he was okay?

“Oh, my God.” he whispered in horror, his eyes wide. “I…” He cut you. He hurt you. Something he vowed to never do. “I’m sorry. Fuck. Fuck. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay,” you tried to assure him, clutching your arm closer like you were trying not to get blood on the sheets. “It was an accident.”

“It’s not okay!” he said, trying not to raise his voice. Frightening you was the last thing he wanted to do. “Fuck, baby, I’m so sorry,” he said, carefully rounding the bed and making sure he kept himself in your line of sight. “I-I didn't mean to. I was trying to move it to the nightstand. I thought I put it back.”

“I know you didn’t mean to,” you assured him, showing him the small wound. “But I need your help.”

He tried not to panic, but his heart wouldn't stop racing and his next breath felt ragged. “I…”

How could you possibly want his help? He was no longer the Winter Soldier, yet he was still a weapon who destroyed everything he touched. He fooled himself into believing that you were the exception, but look what he did? Your beautiful skin might have a scar now because of him, a constant reminder that he brought nothing but pain and destruction.

“Bucky, please,” you whispered, slowly lifting your hand. You let it hover near his cheek, silently asking for permission, the way you always did after he had a bad dream. He allowed himself to lean in, selfishly accepting it and taking from you the way he always took from you. “Help me.”

He dared to look in your eyes with the hope of centering himself and prayed he wouldn't see fear or disgust. There was none, only trust and love when you looked back at him. It was enough to push the panic away. He could be upset later. Right now he had to take care of you and fix his mistake.

“Okay,” he breathed.

He took your arm with infinite tenderness to examine it and blinked away the mist in his eyes. The cut, thankfully, didn’t look jagged or deep. It was a clean cut. In fact, it looked superficial compared to the damage it could've done. It still had to hurt since a sharp blade sliced your skin and there was still blood.

A wounded sound left Bucky’s lips when his gaze flickered up and he spotted a tear slide down your cheek. As if he had any right to make a sound like that when he caused you pain. The angel that you were, you offered him a soft smile. Any other night your voice and smile would’ve soothed him, but he didn't deserve that tonight. He didn't deserve comfort. He was unworthy of it, unworthy of any of your kindness or care.

“I don’t think you’ll need stitches,” he said, his voice rough. He wasn't a doctor by any stretch of the imagination, but he certainly experienced enough of his own cuts and stitched up enough wounds to know. “Can I carry you to the bathroom?”

Logically, he knew you were capable of walking there on your own, but he wanted to hold you. Make himself useful. You must've sensed it since you nodded without hesitation. “Of course.”

Picking you up in his arms, he felt numb as he carried you. Why couldn’t he have accidentally cut himself instead? He experienced plenty of wounds, and had plenty of scars. What was one more?

He took a second to breathe in your scent before he set you on the edge of the tub, worried he might not smell it again if you decided to leave for the rest of the night. “I need to apply pressure to it,” he said, saying the steps out loud for both of you as he washed his hands and grabbed the first aid kit. “Once the bleeding stops, I can clean it.”

You nodded, keeping your arm elevated. “Okay,” you said, your gaze going to his shaking hands. “Deep breath, Bucky.”

Breathing in slowly and releasing it, he willed himself to stop shaking. He didn’t realize the metal arm could shake, but it made sense since it was an extension of himself. Avoiding your gaze as he pressed the gauze to your wound, his teeth snapped together when he heard the wince you tried not to let out. As if he didn’t hate himself enough for the damage he’d done, you were trying to be brave and strong for him.

Once the bleeding stopped, he turned the water on. The sight of the red on the gauze made his stomach turn since it was your blood. “Soap and water next.”

You offered him a small smile again while he cleaned it, but he couldn’t smile back. “The cut doesn't look bad at all. Barely a scratch,” you mused once he finished and grabbed the tweezers. “What are those for?”

“It was a small blade,” he said, swallowing hard. “I know it isn’t a deep cut, but I’m just making sure there isn’t anything in it. We don’t want it to get infected.” Both of you kept the bedroom clean and he also took great care of his knives, but that didn’t mean dust or something else didn’t seep its way in.

You nodded again, letting him do what he needed to before he applied petroleum jelly. “That helps with the healing, right?”

His heart turned over. You were keeping him talking and not allowing his mind to slip into a dark place. “That’s right. I know you’re not a big fan of the word ‘moist’, but, well, keeping it moist helps,” he said, putting the bandage on. You wrinkled your nose, something he usually found adorable. Seeing you do it now, he wanted to cry. “I think that should do it. Do you… need anything for the pain?”

“You did a great job,” you smiled gently, which only made his heart ache more. “I don't need anything, but thank you for asking.”

“You sure you aren't being stubborn?” he tried to tease.

Cuts and bruises, he could handle those. Things like aspirin didn't do anything for him anyway thanks to the serum. What about you? What if your arm ached?

You laughed a little. “If I do need something, you'll be the first to know.”

You looked past your arm into the tub. He looked, too, watching the last trace of blood go down the drain. Or maybe he imagined it. The last time he came back from a bad mission, you helped him wash his hair and wipe away the remaining blood and dirt. You made him feel clean again as every speck disappeared. And what had he given you in return?

What good was he?

“Are you okay?” he barely whispered. God, he wanted you to be okay.

“I am,” you answered without hesitation, turning his face toward you. “Seriously, Bucky. It’s just a scratch, and it was an accident.”

“It shouldn’t have happened in the first place,” he said, pulling away from your touch. He feared he’d taint you if you kept touching him. “And you shouldn’t have to put up with me.”

You inhaled so sharply he thought you’d choke on your breath. “I don’t put up with you. I love you.”

How could your love break his heart?

Emotions whirled inside him as he sank to the cold floor. He hugged his knees to his chest and stared off with vacant eyes. Faces of the people he harmed and killed over the years passed in his mind. Blaming him. Telling him he didn't deserve you.

He didn't, did he?

He didn’t see you move to the floor beside him, but he felt your presence. It was his job to comfort you, make you feel better. Instead he began to shut down. He didn’t want to. Why was he allowing himself to go under?

“Bucky?” you asked after a few minutes passed.

His good and his bad days, you always stayed beside him. But you had to be afraid of him now, right? He wouldn’t blame you if you were. He also wouldn’t blame you if you never trusted him again.

“One of the happiest days of my life was when you and I started dating. Luck was finally on my side,” he said, remembering the smile on your face when he asked you to go out with him. He was on cloud nine when you said yes. “And then you eventually started sleeping over and I thought my luck was continuing to turn around.” He laughed a watery laugh. “I was going to ask you to move in with me soon.”

You placed your hand over his, not wanting to interrupt, but wanting him to know that you were listening and taking in every word.

“But I lied to you. I said I’d never hurt you and I did,” he said, biting his lip to the point where he almost drew blood. “You were the one person I was supposed to protect and take care of and…” He whimpered, doing his damnedest not to sob. “I can’t even protect you from myself.”

He couldn't even blame a nightmare for what he did because it was all him.

“You do protect and take care of me. You do it every single day,” you said. If he could see himself through your eyes, he’d believe it. “You're my hero.”

He finally looked at you and he didn't stop you from holding his face in your hands. How could he be your hero when felt like a villain? “Take care of you? Look what I did to your arm.” Tonight was a small cut and an accident, truly, but would if one day he did something worse? He still feared the day something triggered him and he went after the ones he loved the most.

You barely gave your arm a glance, like it didn't bother you at all. “That wasn't done on purpose. I would never hold something like that over your head and you wouldn't do it to me if the roles were reversed.”

The lump in his throat made it hard to speak. “But I’m supposed to be faster.”

Bucky faced his share of punishments when he wasn't the perfect machine. He wasn't supposed to feel. Only follow orders. It was hard to accept some days that he was truly free, that he was allowed to make mistakes. Being with you reminded him that he wasn't a machine, but that he was a human being.

And human beings weren't perfect no matter how hard they tried to be.

“You’re still fast. Still strong,” you said, your voice steady and firm, urging him to believe you. “But, Bucky, at the end of the day, accidents happen and we can't always protect each other from pain. That’s just not possible.”

He wanted to argue that he should keep you safe from pain, but he knew in his heart that you were right. “So we help and comfort each other?” he asked.

“Exactly. And I promise you I’m okay.”

“You’re really okay?” he whispered.

“I’m really okay,” you whispered back.

His shoulders dropped and tears spilled over before he could stop them. You weren't going to let him shoulder the blame no matter how hard he tried. “If you want to leave…” He couldn’t finish his sentence, but he’d get it if you wanted to go back to your place instead.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you said, giving him renewed strength and relief. “Especially since you were going to ask me to move in. What kind of partner would I be if I just left?”

“You’re the best,” he swore. The best person, partner, everything. “And I’m sorry.”

He had to say it once more and he wasn't sure how he’d make it up to you, but he’d find a way.

“There's nothing to be sorry for,” you whispered, brushing the softest of kisses against his lips as you wiped his tears away. “But if you really feel like you have to say it, then I forgive you.”

He couldn't believe some days how forgiving you were, how deep your love for him ran. “You still love me? Because I love you so much.”

“Always,” you promised.

Your answer allowed him to cry harder. In the safe space of his home with the woman he loved holding him and not running away, he didn't have to suppress his emotions. He could embrace it, the bad and the good, the ugly and the beautiful.

“Thank you,” he whispered once his crying slowed. Tears fell from your eyes, too. He tasted them when he kissed your cheeks. “It really was an accident.”

“I know,” you softly smiled. “How about we add checking the bed for knives and anything else to your bedtime routine?”

“That’s a good idea,” he said. It would be easy to add that to his nightly list. “I don’t…”

He looked toward the door, not wanting to say he couldn’t sleep in the bed tonight. At least not until he changed the sheets, even if there wasn’t a drop of blood on them. Even then he wasn’t sure if he’d be able to sleep at all.

“Maybe we can curl up on the floor together with some blankets and pillows?” you offered, letting him make the choice.

There you went again being the understanding and patient partner, willing to curl up on an uncomfortable floor to make him feel better. “I’d like that.”

“Are you going to be okay?” you asked before he pressed a kiss to your lips.

It was a question you asked after every nightmare, every bad day.

He considered his answer before he uttered, “I will be.”

The truth was, he believed he had wounds that would never fully heal no matter how hard he tried. Something would come along out of nowhere and tear them open. If he were a better man, he’d let you go so you could find someone not so damaged. Instead he chained you to his side and dragged you down with him. But he remembered something you once said to him.

“We can learn to forgive and be forgiven by learning to heal with our hearts wide open.”

He opened his heart to you, and you accepted his love and gave it back tenfold. You took as much of his pain away as you could and made his days brighter. He was still learning how to be forgiven, but you helped him get better every day.

And both of you were going to be okay.

Oh, he deserves a hug and more. Love and thanks for reading! ❤️

Masterlist ⚓ Bucky Barnes Masterlist ⚓ Ko-Fi

[harrysfolklore]

can you write something about lando and p since the new video is so cute

OBSESSED WITH THE LANDO AND P CONTENT !!! also i posted a different version of this on patreon if case you want to check it outttt

You're standing in the paddock with Kelly, who's resting her hand on her growing baby bump, while P rummages through her little backpack frantically.

"Careful sweetie, don't mess up all your things," Kelly says softly, but P is too focused on her mission.

"Found them!" P exclaims triumphantly, pulling out a sheet of sparkly racing car stickers. She's been saving them specifically for today, the Abu Dhabi Grand Prix, refusing to use them despite having them for weeks.

"When can we see Lando? Is he in his garage? Can we go now?" P asks for what feels like the hundredth time this morning. Max exchanges an amused look with Kelly, who's trying to hide her smile.

"Patience, little one," Max tells her, but P is already at your side, tugging at your hand.

"Please? Can we go see him now? The stickers will bring him extra luck!" Her big eyes look up at you pleadingly, and you can't help but melt at her enthusiasm.

Kelly chuckles, "I think we better go before she explodes from excitement."

When you finally reach the McLaren garage, P spots Lando immediately and runs toward him, "Lando! Lando!"

You see your boyfriend turn around, in his race suit with the top half tied around his waist, his face breaking into that bright smile you love so much. P skids to a stop right in front of him, suddenly shy.

"I… I brought you something," she says, holding out the stickers with both hands. "For luck."

Lando crouches down to her level, looking at the stickers with exaggerated amazement. "These are incredible! Are you sure you want to give them to me?"

P nods enthusiastically. "They're special racing stickers. If you have them, you'll go super fast!"

"Well, thank you very much," Lando says seriously. "This is the best gift ever."

Without warning, P launches herself at him for a hug, wrapping her little arms around his waist. Lando hugs her back, careful not to crush the stickers.

You walk over to join them, but as you try to get in on the hug, P immediately protests, "Nooo! This is my Lando hug! You get him all the time!"

Everyone bursts out laughing, including Kelly who waddles over with Max. "P, sweetheart, sharing is caring," she reminds her daughter gently.

Penelope shakes her head firmly against Lando's waist. "My hug first. She can have him later."

"I see how it is," you tease. "I've got competition from a five-year-old."

Max can't stop grinning. "Better watch out, she's quite the charmer."

Penelope finally releases Lando but stays close to him as she excitedly tells him about how she's going to watch the race with her mom and how she drew a picture of his car in school.

"Promise you'll win?" P asks Lando seriously.

"I'll try my very best, just for you," he responds, carefully placing the stickers in his pocket. "These will definitely help."

Eventually, Kelly announces it's time for P's snack break, and after extracting a promise from Lando that he'll wave to her on the podium, Penelope reluctantly leaves with her parents.

As soon as they're gone, Lando wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you close. "Finally got my turn for a hug," he murmurs, pressing his forehead against yours.

You loop your arms around his neck, smiling. "I don't know, those were some pretty serious heart eyes she was giving you. Should I be worried?"

Lando laughs, pressing a quick kiss to your lips. "Definitely not. Though I have to admit, the stickers might be the sweetest gift I've ever gotten."

"Sweeter than when I got you that gaming setup for your birthday?" you tease, playing with the hair at the nape of his neck.

"Hmm, tough competition," he grins, leaning in for another kiss. This one lasts longer, soft and sweet, until you hear wolf whistles from the McLaren mechanics nearby.

Lando pulls back slightly, rolling his eyes but smiling. "I should probably get back to work."

"Probably," you agree, but neither of you moves. "Good luck out there today. P's not the only one who wants to see you win."

"Well, with lucky stickers AND my girlfriend's support, how can I lose?" he says with a wink, giving you one last quick kiss before reluctantly stepping back.

[science-hoes]

What do you think about everyone’s fav position with their partners? How many times do you think they will go with their partners in one night?

Yes, a very good question!! Charlie Reid, Pope Cody, Jack Abbot, and Michael Robinavitch all have different staminas and fav positions!!

Charlie needs to fuck you in doggy. Ass up, on your elbows at first but slowly sinking down as your body goes numb from the speed and power that his hips are slamming into you. Occasional sharp swats to your ass, rubbing away the sting gently, but ensuring a red hand print is left as evidence. But you’ll beg him to spank you harder, and that alone almost drives him to release. He’ll slap your plush cheeks harder, drawing a scream and some tears from you. “Oh, baby girl, you make the prettiest sounds.” His cock hits your G-spot every damn time, and he’ll reach around your waist to circle your clit to help you the rest of the way. When you come, you’re sobbing into the mattress, a darkened patch of drool on his comforter, and he shushes you soothingly, doing his best to finish quick so he can take care of you.

As for number of rounds? Charlie is going more than once, if you’re not too puckered out after taking his cock so well for him. Sex with him is brutal but so loving. He doesn’t push you past your boundaries, but if you’re smiling into the comforter of his bed and starting to grind against his hips again after he’s already stuffed you full of his cum, well, he can’t say no to that. “Need Daddy to fuck you one more time? I can do that for you, baby girl, just use your words.” And that second round is somehow even better than the first. His stamina doesn’t fade a single bit. All that police work in the field has really started to paid off.

Pope likes you in butterfly, sprawled across the mattress, ass at the edge of the bed, wrapped around his hips as he stands over you. He’s adjusted the height of the bed to make sure your pussy lines perfectly with his cock. It gives him a perfect view of your beautiful body, he can see every facial expression to make sure he isn’t hurting you. “S’that feel good? Yeah?” Sometimes he’ll pull one of your legs straight against his upper body, resting your foot on his big shoulder. He’ll press a kiss to your ankle and use your leg as a grip for himself when you’ve already come twice and his hips begin to stutter. In this position, he can also keep his eyes on the way his cock disappears fully into your pussy and reappears covered in your juices. When he’s getting close, the raw sight makes him paint your walls white with his spend.

And our man Pope is a sex machine. He can go round after round after round, even if he’s banged up, as many times as you want. He lives to make you feel good, but sometimes he just needs more. Most nights, one orgasm isn’t enough for him, he needs to fuck you until his neurons are shot from the sound of your heavenly screams and the way you call him Andy instead of Pope. You help him remember that you love him, that you see the good in him. “I’m good?” His whimpers make your heart swell, and you’ll be his sex doll for as long as he needs to ground himself and put his mind at peace. Then maybe he’ll get some sleep.

Jack lets you ride him in cowgirl. It’s the easiest for him after a long shift, not having to worry about his aching joints, leg cramps, or balance. He can take his prosthesis off and truly enjoy you. But don’t worry, you certainly aren’t doing all the work. He’s thrusting up into you like his life depends on it. If you ever had to ride a mechanical bull, the way he fucks you would leave you more than prepared. “My pretty cowgirl.” He’ll grab onto your tits like they’re reins, massaging thoroughly to draw out your orgasm. Your hands will splay across his toned abdomen to keep yourself balanced, but when you come, your body folds over, your chest flush with his. He’ll wrap his strong, freckled arms around you, fucking you through the rest of your orgasm and into his. He comes hard, moaning beautifully into your ear, and you’ll roll your hips lazily until every last drop is inside you.

His stamina isn’t exceptional, but Jack can do a double header for sure. It just depends on what time of the day it is. If it’s late afternoon on his day off and he’s had enough time to rest, he’ll keep you in bed with him for hours if you let him. But if he’s just come home in the early morning, his leg is hurting, his eyes are twitching from too much caffeine, and he just wants to make slow love to you until it lulls him to sleep. “This is the only thing that keeps me off the roof, ya know?” You’ll kiss his entire body, massage his shoulders as you ride him, and make imaginary constellations out of his freckles. When he finishes, it’s deep, and he’ll pull you on top of him, not pulling out, and use you as a weighted blanket to fall asleep.

Robby fucks you in missionary with your knees pressed to your chest and your ankles around his neck. It gives him the deepest access to you, and you look so gorgeous writhing beneath him. His broad chest is dusted with chest hair and freckles, glistening with sweat, and it’s one of your favorite sights to see. “You’re a fucking dream, kid.” His hitting that spongy spot inside you, and he’s big, so he’s flirting with your cervix, too. It never takes too long for him to make you come, he’s an expert in everything he does. He’ll circle his thumb on your bundle of nerves to entice your release, and you’ll see nothing but stars as your orgasm crashes over you. One thing about him? He comes a lot. So when it’s his turn, it fills you to the brim, spilling out around his cock as he makes sure some of it gets fucked deep.

This old man can fuck you into the morning light. If Robby doesn’t have a shift the next day, he’ll start railing you after dinner, finding new positions to try out, maximizing your pleasure, not his. He’ll eat you out until his beard is soaked with your juices down to his neck, then pound you into next week. Your orgasm record with him is six after hours of his devotion to worship every inch of your body. “You’re doing so good for me, so fucking good.” He can come twice without getting too overstimulated, but something about you just drives that man crazy. He’s getting hard again before you’ve even made a snarky comment about his back hurting.

[mieldreams]

Pure Imagination

Summary: Come with me and you'll be in a world of pure imagination

or where Vader delivers sweet torture in cruel dreams

pairing: Darth Vader x reader

word count: 4,912

warnings: smut smut smut, minors DNI (as the title suggests, dream stuff and I'm not too sure abt how comprehensible this is ngl), inappropriate use of the force etc.

a/n: 5k of pure filth, wasn't actually planning on releasing this cuz I wrote it so long ago but...oh well. it's the first time I'm posting a full fledged smut fic, hope y'all like

masterlist

You're in a rare deep slumber when you hear it, the unmistakable mechanical inhales and exhales coming from a dark silhouette in your mind. “You again.” That almost droid-like voice is hard to misidentify and all your senses freeze at once. Panic builds inside you but on the outside, you somehow remain asleep. “Vader? What the fuck?” You weren't exactly unfamiliar with the infamous Sith lord, having run into him on more occasions than you'd like, which established you on at least a ‘he can recognise me by face’ basis – much to your displeasure. But why in the kriffing hell were you hearing his voice in your mind right now? Hadn't you just gone to sleep? Fuck, had Vader found your secret base and infiltrated it? Had he taken you hostage and was he planning on torturing you through his weird mind fuckery? “Your inability to comprehend the ways of the Force does not make it absurd or a deception.” His hoarse voice echoes in your mind once again and you scoff. “Do not patronize me in my own mind. What the fuck do you want? Why are you here?” “You tell me, Rebel.” He spits out the word like it's venomous and putrid. You're losing patience, you're not sure what is happening – last time you checked you were supposed to be asleep in your room, so how was Vader manipulating your mind? “Your mind could be penetrated in my sleep, though I doubt I'd find anything of use.” His voice booms, emotionless as always, “However, it seems you have something rather interesting to show me.” You're starting to get pissed off by this giant fucking leather-wrapped tin can. “Hmmm, your tongue is sharp. If only the same could be said about your intellect.” He spits out, “After all, which perfect little rebel would want something like this.” Suddenly, an image flashes in your mind and your face immediately pales, appalled by what appears before you. In a quick flash you see yourself, lying on your back, goosebumps spreading across your skin as your bare breasts stiffen in the air. You hear your laboured breathing; see the way your chest heaves up and down. And then, you see him. The Darth Vader – in between your legs. His head over your most intimate area. You don't see his face, and the image cuts off right below his shoulders, but the way you're clutching him, pulling him in, and the way his head moves, the way your legs quiver and the way your mouth remains dropped open in pleasure very well lets you know what is going on. You gasp, your own horrified voice echoing in your mind, “What the fuck is this? What the fuck are you doing to me?” His tone would be teasing if he were speaking with his natural voice, “Would you like me to give a descriptive narration?” You growl, “What are you trying to do? Some new perverted mind trick your kind have come up with?” Despite the angry words thrown at him, on the inside you feel terrified. Because where even is this ‘him’? You're shouting at him in your mind but he isn't appearing to you. Just his hollow voice echoing endlessly in your brain with seemingly no origin. “Do not forget your place, Rebel.” It seems you have pissed him off now, or whatever weird body-less voice version of him at least, great. “These fantasies are a creation of your mind. Not so much a perfect rebel now, are we?” You're not going to just let him bullshit his way into your mind no matter what. “Your lies won't work on me.” “You think this is a lie?” He flashes the same image in your head again. This time you appear even more desperate in the filthy act he shows you, hips moving wildly as you moan and pull his head closer to your cunt. “A pity you fight against the want. Your subconscious betrays you.” “You're a kriffing liar!”

“Silence!” His voice booms in your head and you flinch. “A lie? You think I am lying? What about this?” Quickly the image changes, this time showing a close-up of your most intimate parts. Heat pours into your cheeks while anger burns through your veins. A black gloved hand comes into the frame, teasingly snaking up your thigh to caress your folds. You watch, frozen in horror, as it catches your clit, rubbing circles on the nub before dipping lower to tease at the slit. It does this a bunch of times till your empty hole is pulsating in demand, all the while your desperate little pants and whines colour the background. “Vader– want you inside me, please...” Your voice echoes through the dream. The hand, his hand, gently smacks your cunt to silence you before two of his long, gloved fingers enter you. Even through the image you can tell that they are thick, and to your surprise they move slowly at first, yet expertly, delivering deep thrusts that send shivers up your spine. “Stop this! Stop it! Why are you doing this?” You scream at him and his angry voice answers, “Why? Isn't this what you want? Isn't this what your body craves? Or do you still think this is a lie?” The image before you quickly shifts again, this time showing his fingers moving fast and hard inside you. He removes them to rub and pinch at your clit, before pressing on your slit again, this time with three fingers. “What do you want from me? Stop this! You're lying!” “Is that so?” The three fingers swiftly plunge into you, this time your loud moan sounds and your own hand comes into the picture, grabbing his wrist, holding him there. Vader's voice taunts you in your mind, “So this isn't what you want?” You watch as his hand quickly shakes yours off and the same hand that was inside you delivers a loud slap to your cunt, your hips jerking up in reaction but Vader's other hand pins them down. He delivers another wet slap to your cunt, then another and another, each one getting messier and messier as you get wetter and wetter. His fingers finally enter you again and it doesn't take long before you're gushing your release all over his hand. He prolongs your high by rubbing on your already sensitive clit and it has the dream-you begging, “Vader, please...” You shout in your head once again, “What the fuck is wrong with you? Stop this! Get out of my head!” “Do not assume that I am here by pleasure,” he clearly means to taunt you more, alluding to the embarrassing state you just saw yourself in, “it is your mind projecting this.” If you could, you would stab him. “So tell me, Rebel, am I to believe this is not something you want?” “I don't care what the fuck you believe. Get. out. of my fucking head.” He continues, “So you wouldn't want me to do this?” Out of nowhere, you feel a small pressure on your neck, one that steadily grows, as if someone were holding you by the throat. You panic – you had heard about the Sith Lord's preferred method of quickly disposing of his enemies – choking the life out of them as their flailing bodies struggled to get enough oxygen, limbs convulsing and face paling till they eventually died. He was going to kill you in your sleep. Your mind is on high alert, yet your body remains unconscious in bed. “Tell me, Princess, what does your body tell you.” “—If you think that is not enough, what about this?”

The next image he projects in your mind absolutely destroys you. You see your bare back facing you in the fantasy, though your torso is not enough to hide Vader's wide built silhouette in front of you. You are straddling him, but this time too the image is cut off just below your waist. However it doesn't take a genius to figure out what is going on when you can so clearly see the way your body moves on top of his, swivelling your hips sensually as you move up and down. The way your back arches, the way you cling to him, nails digging into the leather over his chest, the breathy moans that escape you. The you in the image grabs Vader's gloved hand and places it on your throat and the real you – or at least your consciousness in your mind gasps in mortification. “How scandalous. The proper princess of the rebellion wants me.” He mocks, “worse, she wants me to want her.” This whole time you had been angry, mad at the evil Sith Lord for showing you these lies – these perverted images that you don't understand the purpose of. What is he trying to achieve? Does he hope to shame you? Provoke you? Therefore weaken your mind's resolve and obtain some information from you? But then you watch yourself in the fantasy – your hips quickening their pace as your breathy moans become raspier and louder, Vader's huge hand roams your naked back, running the middle finger of his gloved palm down your spine before moving to your front again. He caresses your breasts, toying with them and it makes the dream-you mewl. Suddenly the Vader in the projection grabs your hips, stopping your movements entirely, making you whine. He lands a stern slap on your ass in warning before pulling you in by your waist, guiding your arms from his chest to lay over his shoulders.

You can only stare in horror and regretfully–arousal, as Vader takes full control, thrusting up into you with such precision it has you screaming. You still cannot see anything below your waists and yet the lewd sounds that now echo in your mind, mixed with your own traitorous mouth chanting his name in pleasure, asking him, begging him to make you cum, has a certain humiliating warmth pooling in your centre. You want to look away, you want him to stop showing you these cursed dreams – but you have no idea how. The images are directly showing in your head and Vader doesn't seem to actually be in your room. So how do you stop this? Before you get to shout at him again, the previous pressure on your neck, one that you had nearly forgotten about, grows stronger again, pressing more on your throat till you can hear your own heartbeat echoing in your head. You realise then that the pressure on your throat is definitely not something imagined and that somehow, Vader was actually choking you physically in your sleep. Were you wrong about your assumptions? Had Vader really somehow broken into your quarters? But the others would know. They'd wake you – they'd try to stop him. Wouldn't they? Or had they all already tried – and failed to stop him. Is that why you could physically feel his hands on your throat? “You think too much.” His voice echoes after a long time, “Tell me, Princess – after everything I've shown you – do you still dare to think of this as a deception?” You don't know what to say, you have always wished for Darth Vader's defeat in every battle you have been a part of, always hoped that the tyrannical rule he was a part of would end. And yet you also knew that there was something weird– something wrong here. Every time you had encountered the Sith Lord you had felt an odd sort of feeling in your mind, as if something was amiss. You had always been wary of the force-users and weren't entirely convinced of its powers– or better yet, its presence in the universe. Yet every time you ran into Vader, you had always felt a certain presence in your being – like a pull, a connection that wasn't quite complete. Like two wires of a running circuit that occasionally rubbed together and created sparks. But what does it mean? What does any of this mean? You still cannot believe that whatever Vader showed you was some sort of prediction of the future. However, he told you that it was your mind that projected this.

But can you believe him? You would scream and fight and argue that he's a cruel perverted liar and that none of this is true. But then why is there a part of you that suddenly feels heavy with need? You almost want to strangle yourself when you realise the wetness in your pants. And you suppose you really should just jump off a cliff when you realise that Vader can and probably is reading your mind right now. “I do not need to read your mind to know your desperation, Rebel.” Or maybe you could throw him off one instead. “While it would surely be amusing to see you attempt, right now, Princess, tell me – are you still convinced that all I've shown you is a deception?” With his words he slowly moves the pressure down your neck, tracing your collarbones to your breasts, cupping them as if they were naked. He fondles them, pinching and pulling and you whimper. “—that you don't want this?” His hands ghost down your torso, caressing your hips before moving further south. You freeze when you feel him slip below the waistband of your pants, going lower and lower before stopping right at your slit – the same way he had in the vision he showed you. He mimics the same actions from the fantasy on your body – running his fingers up and down teasingly before pausing on your clit to rub slow circles. “Tell me to stop, Princess.” He slips his fingers lower again to put pressure on your slit without actually slipping inside and you're not sure how to answer him. You want him to stop because this cannot be right – you already don't know how he's even doing this, and surely you don't want to fuck Vader? But then you don't want him to stop because the expertise with which he's teasing your tits and rubbing your clit is making it hard to think. Vader can tell that you're at the edge of your limits. He flashes all the images he's shown you once again, repeating them in your head as he lures you, “Look,” he can tell that you're trying to fight him, trying to break off his connection and stop him from showing you these visions. Too bad he's a Sith Lord and much better at controlling. Brats like you really need to be tamed. “I said look.” The images flash much quicker now, all of them with you naked and begging for Vader to take you. He uses the force to toy with your body once again – phantom lips kiss their way from the corner of your mouth and up your jaw to nibble at the sensitive spot right under your ear. He shows you your own face in the visions where you climax in his mouth, on his fingers, on his cock – your mouth dropped, brows scrunched and naked chest heaving as you whine and moan. He makes you listen to your own screams of pleasure, of begging – begging to give you his cock, to let you cum, to do it all over again.

The real Vader puts a steady thrumming pressure on your clit, one that would've had you immediately buckling at the knees if you weren't still asleep in your bed. You can't help the whimper that escapes you. “Vader, please...” You feel ashamed when you find yourself repeating the words from the dream, though you're not sure if you're pleading him to stop or asking for more. “What's the matter, Princess? Surely a proud rebel like yourself wouldn't want a Sith Lord?” His voice continues mocking you as the humming pressure turns into full vibrations over your clit and that combined with the way he pinches your nipples has you melting against your own wishes. Or is it? Is this really against your own wishes? You can lie to him, but can you really lie to yourself? And it seems Vader's presence in your mind is as attentive as ever as he soon questions. “Tell me to stop. You said I was lying – so why aren't you stopping me?” Vader can feel the steady build of a climax in you, you are right at the brink and he can tell that all it would take is one push to send you over the edge. Suddenly, he stops all his actions. Every way he was touching you–it all disappears in a second. It happens so quickly it's like your body gets whiplash. You feel naked despite the fact that your body is still fully clothed and tucked in bed. You sob, “Vader—” “What is it, Princess?” When your own inner turmoil keeps you silent he continues his provocation, “Surely, you do not want me–a Sith Lord, to fuck you?” He mocks with a surprised tone. “Surely you do not want something like this,” he once again flashes another image in your head. This time you're on your back again, fully naked, but the sight doesn't shock you after all that you have seen in the past few minutes. Your hair is strewn over the surface, nipples hard as your half-lidded eyes twinkle up at him, a teasing smile pulls on your lips as your nails dig into Vader's stomach, dragging them up before spreading your palms over his chest. You tug him to you, and Vader's wide frame covers your body.

He is still clothed and his cloak falls over his shoulders to drape over the two of you. You watch as he squeezes your throat, but unlike the panic that grows in you every time you feel Vader's hands over your neck, the you in the dream smiles. She smiles and puts her hand over his as if encouraging him and fuck that shouldn't make you drip even more but it does. Vader shuffles back a little and for the first time in all of the visions he's shown you do you get to see any part of him. The real parts. And it's his cock – thick and long, slightly curved–and heavy. Heavy as you watch yourself take him in your palms, heavy as Vader slips his hand under yours to pin your wrists above you before thumping his cock on your button, making you whimper. Heavy as he runs it up and down your slit before he hooks the fat head in your hole. The dream you hums in pleasure as Vader's thick cock parts your walls, except suddenly he stops. He stops halfway in, running his possessive hands up and down your hips and legs. The pause makes you whine, instinctually clenching around him to pull him deeper and it almost knocks the breath out of Vader. He leaves a stinging hand print on your ass as a reminder to behave before one of his hands comes down to where the two of you are joined. Watching his hands–it makes you think. Even during such an intimate act Vader never takes off his gloves, in fact he doesn't even take off his clothes. In every dream you have seen tonight he is always fully clothed and it almost makes you yearn to see what he actually looks like. The dream you was always busy being fucked senseless by Vader but you couldn't stop wondering about how he was underneath all that leather. How would it feel if he were to touch you, really touch you. Would his hands be warm to touch? Or would they be as cold as his voice? Your contemplation doesn't last long as that same vibrating pressure grows stronger on your clit, just as the pleasure blooms in your core. Every time Vader touches you, really touches you–with whatever weird sexual Force abilities he possesses, your mind goes entirely blank. It's like he quickly takes over every string controlling your body and all you can do is give in. You give in as Vader cups your sex and palms your throat–it's as if he's right there behind you, broad chest to your back, slow and deep breaths exhaled right next to your ear, tickling you and somehow arousing you further. When you start getting fussy he tightens his grip on your throat, “Watch.” He commands before directing your attention to what he's projecting in your mind. You stare in embarrassment and arousal as the dream Vader first makes you come on his tip, using his fingers to pinch and pull and rub on your clit, pushing you to your high till you're pulsing around the head of his cock. It makes him dig his nails into your plush thighs, slick fingers moving up to grip your ass and lift your hips up to use for his pleasure. Vader pulls out of you to tease you again. You had been whining the entire time he was playing with your body and it entirely distracted you from the way Vader was actually toying with you in reality. Or was this all a dream too?

Your thoughts are cut off as Vader lines his thick fingers to your slit, circling and circling till you're dripping and surely staining your pants. Your hips move on their own to get him to finally push inside. You're embarrassed but also glad that you have separate quarters and that you sleep alone. “You want it that bad, Princess?” His deep voice rumbles in your mind. Wasn't the bastard supposed to be able to read your mind? You don't answer, instead, you try to reach out to whatever it was Vader was using to toy with you, focusing in your mind on that odd sensation that seems to be the source of all this. Maybe it's Vader's own distracted nature that allows you to sense his presence so quickly in the Force, especially when he doesn't do anything to stop you as you reach out to him, to the feeling of him. You connect to his presence, as if gently caressing the very fabric of his being. It feels somewhat weird; you've never done anything like it before. It feels like you're weaving yourself into him as you concentrate on the feeling of him in your mind. Even his presence feels intimidating–strong and dark, imposing and fearful. Yet, you reach out, gently, a little unsure but determined to get him to do something, anything.

You wonder why Vader isn't doing anything to stop you, especially when you know he can, being all-powerful and all that. Did he want this just as much as you? Your contemplation is cut short as you feel a steady pressure on your entrance and you throw your head back, thinking fucking finally. You think you hear something like a deep chuckle echoing in your mind before the same dream from before flashes at the forefront again. This time, dream Vader lines his cock up with your hole just as you feel the force touch grow stronger on your cunt, and simultaneously you watch as Vader's cock swiftly enters you and you feel a thick length bury deep inside. A loud moan echoes in your mind and you can't tell if it was the dream you or you. This time Vader doesn't waste a second before he starts thrusting, both in the dream and inside you. You watch as Vader fucks you fast and hard and feel as the heavy girth parts your walls, before pulling back to deliver sharp and precise thrusts, making you feel so full that it steals your breath and renders you speechless. “Hmm, nothing to say now, Princess? No accusations of lies or deception?” When you say nothing Vader slows down his pace, again both in the dream and in you, and this time even if the dream you says anything it goes completely unheard as you whine out. After watching yourself come apart so many times, hearing your whines and begs, the lewd sounds of fucking, you were downright aching, desperate to have your want fulfilled and your cunt stuffed. “Tsk, tsk tsk, such filthy wants you have, Princess.” His mocking voice booms, “and here I thought you wanted me defeated and dead.” You did, you swear you did, just....after you were done with whatever this was. Because fuck Vader feels so good inside you, so big and so deep, especially as he grinds into you without pulling out. In the haze of your pleasure you barely notice Vader picking up pace again and in retaliation he delivers a slap to your ass and it's so much worse. It's so much worse because it feels so so good, your hole pulsating around nothing desperately. “Watch.” He echoes the same word again as he forces you to concentrate on the dream he's showing you. It's a struggle to focus as Vader expertly fucks you into the mattress, pleasure coursing through your veins as he hits that deep spot inside you again and again. It becomes so much more difficult when he makes you watch the way he fucks you, the way his broad frame covers you entirely, practically dwarfing you, the way you greedily swallow him, stretched to your limits as his thick cock thrusts into you – hard and fast, not showing any mercy. Holy shit, you realise, Vader was showing you how he would fuck you, and he's making you feel how he would fuck you. All without fucking you at all.

He's ruining you, absolutely ruining you as the lewd sounds of him thrusting hard and deep into your wet pussy echo in your mind. As sweat runs down your forehead, as your chest heaves, and as your cunt leaks and leaks, surely ruining your sleepwear. As you sob in pleasure and you can’t even tell if it’s from the dream or you.

You feel the pressure on your neck return and it makes you heady, your eyes roll to the back of your head as Vader toys with your clit again, not faltering in his pace of fucking you.

You’re barrelling towards the edge at record speed, but you would never admit to Vader that no one’s ever fucked you this good, not even the best sex of your real life came close to whatever Vader was doing to you now.

Did you feel guilty about it? Immeasurably so. But it wasn’t at the front of your mind when you could also feel the way you were so close. So so close – just one more deep thrust, just one more flick of your button, just one squeeze of your throat and you’d be—

Suddenly every bit of touch disappears from your body.

The long length inside you is no longer there, the wide palm on your bare throat has vanished and the thrumming pressure on your clit has faded into nothing.

You can’t help the cry that escapes you, calling out his name in desperation.

There is no reply. You writhe on the bed, your desperation showing in the way your knuckles protrude as you fist the bedsheet, your hips squirming and cunt pulsing in need for what was so cruelly stolen from you.

You quickly sit up as your mind awakes and your eyes shoot open. Your quick pants are the only sound you can hear in the pin drop silence of your separate quarters.

Your voice is shaky as you call out, “V-Vader?”

Still no reply. You let your head fall into your hands, a silent sob escaping you as you come down from the high. Your cheeks feel warm, in fact, your whole body feels on fire and you just can’t seem to get enough air into your lungs.

The tears that slip down your face, dry and cool your heated skin but it’s not enough.

Every encounter with Vader always made you feel like something was missing, and tonight that feeling’s stronger than ever, carving out a chunk of your being and wringing your stomach into knots.

You feel hollow. Unsure. Unsafe. And yet you want to forget all of this. There is no physical evidence of anything other than your ruined underwear that you’re more than willing to ignore. Maybe this was all just a dream. A very very bad dream. Nothing more.

Just as you’re about to chalk this all up to some weird way of the universe fucking with you, a deep inhale echoes in your mind.

“The temple is where our business will be finished.”

And just like that you’re once again left alone in the silent darkness of the room.

a/n: welp folks, here we have it. weird way to say it ig but happy star wars day! may the force be with you

(ignore that this is a day late and also absolutely not proofread, both becuz tumblr was being a bitch and I lost this fic like 6 times and I almost don't care anymore lol)

[k9wa]

⟁ PLUMMET. ft BOOTHILL.

⠀ — “swoopin’ in to save me again, sugar plum?”

⚠︎ mechanic!reader (but it isn’t really relevant), i saw boothill trailer and ran to google docs, gn reader (ma’am used once at the end) wc 1k.

“your bounty has been completed!”

boothill could feel the explosion of the ship, even from the distance he was and against the strong winds from his high speed fall. a rush of heat slapped him in the face, leaving a thorough hunger in his gut temporarily quelled.

“how would you like to land?”

the cyborg kept his hat fastened to his head with his palm against the top, eyes briefly glancing down to the city below he was slowly getting closer to plumetting down into.

“…good question.”

the ground was steadily approaching, even if it was gonna take him a solid second or two to actually reach it. he’d never tested if his body could withstand smacking against concrete from— give or take— six thousand feet in the air, but he had a small hunch today wasn’t the day to try his luck. becoming a blue splat on the pavement wasn’t exactly in the cards of his itinerary.

boothill’s eyes looked left, looked right, fingers twirling the rope on his belt. he doubted it’d do much to really help, but it was a start nonetheless. 

he eventually came up with an idea— a totally foolproof idea. loop his rope around one of the street lights when he got close enough, avoid hitting the ground, swing himself back up into the air, and land safe and sound on…wherever the hell he managed to land. hopefully on his feet. 

super simple, super easy. lightwork.

and so he eyed the ground, wrapping one end of his rope taught around his right palm, his left getting the momentum of the other end ready in a smooth swinging motion.

“c’mon now boothill,” he muttered to himself, voice thoroughly drowned out by the wind. “ain’t nothin’ but a lil’ repositionin’.”

he kept falling, getting closer, 

closer…

closer…

almost there…

boothill readied his hand to swing, but the motion quickly became unnecessary when something— or rather, someone— grabbed his wrist, and he was pulled upward with a shocked ‘muddle—!’ before he could test the success rate of his plan.

the cowboy snapped his head up, hat nearly tipping off his head. he was hung like a ragdoll from his arm, feet dangling down below him as his eyes met his apparent saviours—

of course.

boothill’s sharp teeth slowly shone in a wide grin, loud and scruffy laugh echoing into the still rather open air around him. because who else would it have been besides you, your brows slightly furrowed at him from the safety of your little hoverboard he remembered you tinkering with just a couple days ago.

“well fudge me!” he’d slap his knee if the position allowed. “look who it is— ain’t you a sight for sore eyes!” 

boothill reached up for your other hand, you wordlessly met him halfway reaching down, leaving both of your fingers locking around the others wrist.

“swoopin’ in to save me again, sugar plum?”

you shake your head with a sigh, hoverboard beginning a steady descent down. it was a little harder to balance with boothill weighing it down, but nothing you couldn’t handle.

“you’re lucky,” you half scoff. “i’ve got a sixth sense for you being an idiot.”

boothill’s hearty laugh echoed out again, the wind whipping around you leaving his hair tousled and a little tangled. 

“ain’t that the fudgin’ truth,” he jostled your hand a little. he doubted he could really get adrenaline rushes anymore, but this was pretty damn close. “reckon i’d be flatter than a darn hotcake if it weren’t for yer timely intervention!” 

his feet touching the ground were a welcome stabilisation, though the cyborg made no move to release your hand— instead he actually broke into a quick sprint, barely giving you the time to pick up your board as he tugged you along.

“you got somewhere to be or somethin’?”

you asked, stumbling a bit before you got your footing to keep up. you were just so cute when you pretended to be all sore with him.

“you bet i do— somewhere that ain’t swarmin’ with those sorry IPC shirtbags!”

it was a fair point— a giant explosion in the sky of one of their own ships made quite the beacon for attention.

running with him wasn’t so bad, at least. his grip around your wrist was surprisingly gentle, and the smell of him filled your nose in the wind as you trailed behind. some citrus, maybe cedar, and an unmistakable lingering of those phosphorus tracer bullets he chewed on so often. 

you two dipped around a corner, backed against an old brick wall as some heavy footsteps kept running the other way. 

“say, remind me to get’cha a drink later,” boothill gave a small tug to your wrist again, bringing you just a little closer. “as a thanks for all them times y’saved my sorry behind.”

boothill smiled when you chuckled rather than shooing his hand away or giving a smart response.

“you’re gonna have quite the tab going.” you carefully repositioned your hand with his, your fingers lacing together rather than him just holding your wrist. boothill’s eyes could have turned into cartoonish hearts.

“tell ya what,” his hand gave yours a squeeze. “i know a place. it ain’t too far from here, won’t have to worry about no one botherin’ us,” it was quite endearing, the way his voice still held that gentle rasp even as it softened. “i start workin’ off that tab, get a night with you, and heck we’re both winnin’ ain’t we?” 

you hummed at that. it didn’t sound so bad.

“alright,” you nodded. “but let’s focus on you not having to gun down another dozen IPC workers first.”

it was your turn to pull him along with a swift tug of his wrist, resuming your sprint just in time to avoid some more heavy footsteps heading in your direction.

“you weren’t pullin’ my leg about that sixth sense, were ya sweetheart?” boothill fell into a natural step behind you.

“consider this added to your tab.”

“yes ma’am!”

⠀ MASTERLIST / GOT A REQUEST ?

[wroetolando]

𝙿𝚒𝚝 𝙻𝚊𝚗𝚎 𝙿𝚛𝚘𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚊𝚕 | 𝙻𝙽𝟺

𝗽𝗮𝗶𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴: lando norris x fem!reader

𝘀𝘂𝗺𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘆: the one where lando proposes to his partner after securing a podium finish at Monaco, turning race day chaos into a perfect, unforgettable moment

𝗺𝘂𝘀𝗶𝗰: oscar winning tears - raye

𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀: none!

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

The air was fresh at dawn when the sun broke over Monaco, bathing the harbor in a golden glow lined with luxury yachts. In the midst of the frantic atmosphere of race day that filled the air, there was tranquility in your hotel room. The balcony door was wide open, where a light breeze made the curtains dance in the air with the surf miles away mixed with that of the lone engine being revved up somewhere down in the paddock below.

Lando lay in bed, nose-first into his belly, face buried half into the pillow. His curls were a jumbled mess, flattened against the side of his head, and the sheet was pulled down across his back, showing the muscles beneath. He slept that way, peacefully, so unlike high-strung, always-moving Lando that the world had learned to expect.

You rolled over onto your back to turn and look at him, supporting yourself on an elbow. "You wake up, race boy."

A moan came from the pillow. "Five more minutes," he muttered, his voice thick with sleep.

You smiled, reaching out to push his curls back from his forehead. "Your pre-race warm-up is très professional, I see.".

"Mm," he growled, not stirring still. And then, just when you were about to push him again, his arm came out, drawing you into his chest and around your waist. His body was warm, the sort of warmth that prevented you from uncurling yourself around him.

"Part of my ritual," he whispered, opening his eyes slightly at last. "Hanging on to my good luck charm before I go out there and risk my life for the sake of entertainment."

You rolled your eyes, trying to hide a smile. "So melodramatic."

He smiled but didn't complain, instead leaving a sleepy kiss on your shoulder. His arms around you eased for an instant before he groaned. "I don't wanna get up yet."

You wanted to be able to leave him so, too—coiled in the moment, in the heat of each other, away from cameras, excitement, tension for what was to come. But you knew he'd be in the middle of the paddock soon enough, with engineers, with strategists, with cameras, preparing to pilot one of the year's most important races.

"Come on, Monaco doesn't wait for anyone," you panted, fingers tracing idle patterns along his naked back. "Not even Lando Norris."

He cursed again but finally released you, rolling onto his back with a sigh. "Fine, but because you asked so nicely."

You sat up and stretched, both of us laughing. The sunlight pouring through the window lightened everything into warm, golden light, so the morning was itself soft and easy even in the underlying beat of race day.

Lando sat up, too, wincing back from his fingers as he rubbed at his eyes before turning to glance over at you and smile a small smile. "You coming on the grid with me today, yeah?"

"Yeah," you told him, as if it was ridiculous to even consider being anywhere else.

He grinned smugly and leaned in to plant a quick, careless kiss on your lips before pulling himself out of the bed at last.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

By the time you arrived at the paddock, though, everything was changed. Morning's easy-going sociality was over, handed over to race-day high-pace, high-releasing activity. The McLaren pit was alive—engineers running last checks, mechanics working their car double-check one more time, journalists interview prepping.

Lando squeezed your hand lightly and then let go, already race-mind by then.

As he melted out of the garage for his debrief, you waited with his performance coach, Jon, who grinned knowingly at you. "He's a little more tense than usual today."

You raised an eyebrow. "Actually? He didn't seem all that anxious before."

Jon grinned, crossing his arms. "That's because you calm him down. But I'm telling you, something's different. He was fidgety all morning."

You furrowed your brow a little, glancing over toward the garage where Lando was grim-talking with his engineers. Race nerves were inevitable, and particularly for Monaco. The track along the road was merciless with extremely tight corners and little tolerance for mistakes. In spite of this, Jon's words seemed to echo in your head.

Why was Lando getting so worked up?

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

Anticipation mounted while the cars queued on the grid. You were positioned just behind the barriers, your McLaren team scarf draped about your neck, amidst the chaos of a race day. Lando's car was in line, and while he settled in, he looked back over his shoulder a bit in an effort to catch a glimpse of you amidst the crowd. You could sense the power of his glance even behind the reflective visor.

You gave him a swift thumbs-up, mouthing, "You got this."

A fraction of a second later, his engineer was chatting to him on the radio, reminding him of the race.

And then, lights on.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

Lights out.

The following hour and a half was absolute pandemonium. Monaco was famous for drama, and this race did not disappoint. A red flag in the early stages. A fight for position that had your heart in your throat. A heart-stopping pit stop that could have cost him everything.

And yet, through it all, Lando maintained P3.

When he crossed the line in podium position, the McLaren garage spontaneously erupted into a victory cheer. There was joy and relief that welled up over you as you joined in the yell with the team, your chest still thumping with the intensity of it.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

You were already parc fermé waiting when Lando emerged from his car, still glowing with the adrenaline. The moment the helmet came off his head, he looked for you. Cameras trained on him, but he didn't care—he charged through the crowd barrier and headed straight for you.

You didn't even have time to react before he was wrapping you in a bear hug, lifting you off the ground in a crushing embrace. "Holy shit," he breathed, burying his face on your neck. "That was crazy."

"You did it," you giggled, holding just as tight. "P3 in Monaco!"

He was holding close enough to gaze into your eyes, his own shining. "I couldn't have done it without you."

He'd reached inside his glove even before you'd said a word to him.

Your heart was pounding.

Before all the cameras, the McLaren crew, the crowd, and the entire vast world to see, Lando Norris slowly fell onto one knee.

The bystanders gasped. You gulped hard, your hands clapped to your mouth.

"Lando—"

"I was going to do it no matter," he said to you, his tone more even than you'd expected. "Win, lose, DNF—it didn't matter. I just didn't feel like waiting anymore."

He popped the lid off of the tiny little black box, and within its depths glowed a ring of glittering gems. It basked in the sun as accurately as did the sea beyond you.

Your fingers trembled.

"You've been with me through all of this," he continued. "Every race, every disappointment, every stupid Twitch stream. You light up my world just being present. And I don't want to spend one day ever again with the knowledge that you won't always be there for me."

Your eyes full of tears, you looked at him, and you waited for him to continue.

"So," he exclaimed, a little breathlessly. "Will you marry me?"

The world was cacophonous, but in that moment, there were only the two of you.

You did not blink.

"Yes!" you roared, your head moving furiously.

The instant you spoke the word, Lando sprang to his feet, slipping the ring onto your finger before drawing you into a bruising, breath-stealing kiss.

The cameras clicked. The crew applauded. The champagne spattered.

And in the midst of it all, Lando embraced you, his lips smiling against yours.

"Best podium ever," he breathed.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

masterlist

[movingthisblogcelestialtarot11]

Astro Observations

Hey friends! Im back with another astro obsv after getting settled in Uni. I've had a great week focusing on my new classes, and yeah my brain is working overtime to read and study haha. Im taking 2 marketing classes and antisemitism/ racism, and psychology :) learning so much already! I hope you enjoy the post below! Feel free to like, reblog, and share your thoughts.

Moon at 1 degree—Often this represents someone who is learning about emotional stability, processing and releasing in this lifetime. They may struggle with escapist tendencies, or even using drugs to compensate (hard aspects) with the moon aspecting Chiron, Saturn, mars, negatively this can happen, its even more pronounced when at the 1st degree.

Sun-uranus—Could have had a father who thought the native lied a lot, or the father imposed assumptions, for example the native stealing their money. The father figured could have been frugal, paranoid and absent in the natives life for a period of time, only to randomly pop back in.

Venus aspecting Pluto in a males chart—Can make him obsessive with women, and not in a healthy way. He can objectify women, sexualize them, and behave passive aggressive when it comes to making moves sexually. He may confuse sexual attraction for romantic attraction easily. If Pluto makes a hard contact with mercury, he is more likely to be passive aggressive and will objectify women without considering the consequences. He is weak in his approach towards women. If Pluto touches the sun, he will act dishonorably and his reputation will be stunted by his behavior towards women.

Lilith Aquarius 12h in a males chart, with Uranus, and Neptune—Can find himself in a group of friends or community that is considered taboo, unconventional, and unhealthy. This can signify, though not always, selling drugs, or being around those who sold. It can even signify being around sex work. I knew a guy who participated in selling drugs from a young age, because his friends were doing the same, and Aquarius rules networking, and encompasses social aspects of our lives, and when it is in the 12h, he associated with ''underdogs,'' at a young age, those who were considered the black sheep of the family as a way to cope. Lilith here signifies a break through with the mind, a need for agency. But this can turn into unhealthy coping mechanisms as a result, and he does smoke weed everyday to get by.

Mercury opposing Pluto in a male--The native can often struggle with speaking up, making a move, and being clear and concise in their intentions especially in romantic scenarios, though not limited to. They tend to like it when others finish their thoughts for them, and they may project themselves as highly wise in a certain area, but lack knowledge of said topic. The Donning-Kruger effect is common here. Even with a gemini/virgo mercury, if negatively afflicted, this can produce issues with the way he thinks, and how he process his thoughts. Pluto is all about the subconscious and so, some men derive power from projecting what they think they know to others. Reminds me of the quote: you should be scared of not those who have read books, but those who have books on their shelf that they've claimed to have read.

Moon in Aries male--He can be fickle, quick to judge, quick to leave and exploit for his personal gain. I've noticed this is common with men who have a negatively placed moon, or it is afflicted, or both. Especially if the moon makes contact with Chiron, he will project his fears, anxieties, and desires (including sexual) and create tension and confusion in the connection. The sexual part from what I understand is a way they try to inflict intimacy, even though the connection is nowhere near that stage, or the other person does not want it. Aries moon men, if negatively afflicted won't care for your boundaries and can be callous, and cowardly, and can seek to find loop holes.

Weak afflicted sun in males--Tends to talk a big game, and doesn't live up to it. A lot of these guys have a lot to say to look like a contributor of society, especially if they are trying to make an impression, but if you ask them a deep question about a topic, they'll fumble.

Taurus affliction--I've noticed these natives struggle financially, even though in the astro community we see Taurus as sustainable, a provider, and quite materialistic. A large amount depends on the aspects in the chart, I think we sometimes overlook this. An afflicted taurus sun, moon, Venus, mercury, can all impact financial gains. Emotional stability and physical, and can even signify struggling with losing a home, or having bills or loans to pay at a young age. Or having to ''contribute,'' to the house, to prove yourself as good enough.

SN in Capricorn, and NN in cancer--Someone with this placement who I knew had to pay the bills in the house, because their mother was impaired on drugs. Usually this placement indicates the mother playing an important role in the natives lifetime, and it isn't necessarily good or bad. The native was parentified a lot, whilst the mother made excuses for not wanting to step up. The native can also experience a codependent bond with their mother. Even though they have been hurt by their mother, they still admire and respect their mother, even if others don't understand why. These NN natives also tend to cling to nostalgia, the past, and perhaps they think of all the good times they have with their mother and cling to that. It also happens a lot outside the mother, they'll think of the friends they used to be with. SN and NN is also at 8 degrees, and this person went through a lot of loss financially, and they still struggle with building stability. Almost left and right they face struggles with abandonment, so in a way their mother's inability to find financial stability fell in their hands. If you look at the moon you'll see the relationship with the mother in detail :)

Gemini women have an inclination to be in theatre, acting, or film making or photography of some kind. Even song writing, play writing, or directing plays. It's no lie gemini women are exquisitely charming, and when paired with heavier placements such as Saturn 1h/12h, 8h/12h moon, Chiron 4h, Chiron 12h/8h, they can easily reenact roles from the depths of their soul, or write about experiences people find themselves reveling in. Their charm, plus their ability to transform their pain of the past creates for an alluring, powerful and intimidating presence.

5h scorpio, 5h Sagittarius, or 9h moon/sun, or Jupiter 9h, may want to adopt children at some point in their lives or have considered it. These placements know the systematic issues that lie in the government and instead of wanting to have their own kids, they may want to rescue kids already lost to the system. I had a friend that said why have kids when she could be saving one already, and she has a 5h scorpio which conveys a deep need to connect with children who have been hurt, and giving them a new home. Very healing and transformative. She specifically said she'd rescue teenagers since they are overlooked by a lot of people.

Also these placements are known for helping children, even creating fundraisers for children in need. Angelina Jolie has Jupiter 9h conj moon and she has an innate need to help children, and has adopted 3 children, and 3 of her own. She's a protector driven by instinctual maternal desire to help those who are considered ''helpless,'' by the systems fault.

Also her moon is in Aries, and after dropping Maddox, Angelina said she couldn't continue her self sabotaging tendencies. So in a way, she healed a lot of control issues within herself by becoming a mother. It's not because of the label. Her need to set an example and show up for her kids is what helped her change, by giving them the best, she ended up giving herself better. Her moon sign, instead of leaning into its fiery, consuming depths, she learned to create structure, embrace her passions and seek healthier forms of expression.

Venus in cancer is not all what the astro community has portrayed it to be, for ex: ''crybaby, sensitive,'' in the means of demeaning the sign and its expression. I think it's easy to get hung up on these words without understanding its importance on a deeper level. These natives are one of the most in tune, and empathetic natives I've met. It takes an immense amount of courage to be in touch with one's feelings in a society that encourages us to abandon this. Their softness is their strength, and for those who can't see it, this intuitive energy asks them to go inward as to why they can't.

4h scorpio came from a turbulent, deep, enigmatic family of troubles and despair. The native learned to pick up habits such as hiding from the light to protect themselves from criticism, because being seen at home just wasn't allowed, and it was shunned. It creates for an interesting complex, because people may view these natives as liars, cold, and shut down and whilst outside of astrology this can be true, this isn't always the case. 4h scorpio is private for reasons such as protecting their energy. Not everyone should have the privilege of knowing the things so sacred to them.

4h scorpio natives can go on to become open about adverse experiences, the things society tells us to pack away and hide. They begin to see the necessity in sharing their voice, and the raw power of awareness. Sometimes the light isn't so bad, after all.

Moon opposite Pluto 3h--Makes the native a deep thinker, a philosopher, and may see suffering as a crucial force in self growth. They can go on to share their wisdom in the world and make a profound impact. Often this placement to me indicates beauty and brains. I also feel as though these natives surpass beauty norms, they challenge it in a lot of ways. especially if they are a woman with this placement they will find ways to move away from the whole sexualization and objectification of women. They can be part of the LGBTQ.

Lol, my friend also stumbled on astrology and found nothing resonates, because all those sites do is talk about sun sign shit, and then when I looked at her chart she has Venus 8h, scorpio moon, and Saturn 1h. And yes, she has been through a lot of Big Trauma moments.

Extra

Thanks friends for being here and reading! Leave a like, reblog & comment if you found it informative 🤍

Paid readings 🤍

[keferon]

im glad that my first submission was enjoyed. this was meant to be a part of it, but i struggle a lot more writing first aids pov than vortexs. its still not perfect, but i figure i should let it out into the wild before it drives me crazy.

some further questions: what exactly are the quintessons made of? are they techno-organic? entirely mechanical? or like...synthetic materials mimicking biology? and whats up with the program that produced vortex? did it shut down? or is it still operating (maybe under shockwave now?) did jazz go through it?

______________________________________________________________

His head is killing him. 

Felix comes to in the unyielding dark of Vortex’s cockpit, squinting uselessly before giving up, letting his head lean back against the seatrest. It pulses in time with his heartbeat- elevated- sending waves of fresh misery through him. But he’s alive, Vortex let him live, and the realization pulls a miserable laugh from him. 

Vortex saved him.

Vortex saved him.

Vortex saved him.

From Pharma.

The thought is like ice water poured over his head washing away any lingering exhaustion. Pharma. What the hell was going on? Why did he-? Had the irritable CMO finally lost it? Or was there something else going on? 

Felix’s stomach churns uncomfortably at the thought of Pharma obeying another- who would order this? Who could order this? To what end? How had none of the other medical staff noticed? Or did they notice and not care?

His stomach lurches again, and Felix fumbles at the restraints- looser, now- and finally manages to hit the quick release clasp, practically flopping forward before he catches himself, swaying pathetically in the dark- pulling his helmet off is a welcome relief, the cooler air of the cabin circulating around his abused head. All of his muscles are sore, each joint something just a little firmer than liquid. The only light comes from the running lights, blinking on like soft red stars against Vortex’s night, and Felix lets himself stare blankly at a particularly interesting assortment of them, trying to will the nausea to subside. 

It does not. In fact, it strikes back with a vengeance, and Felix presses a fist to his mouth to stifle his suffering. It works, somewhat, his gorge settling slightly. He needs to get out of here, out of the blood-and-bleach scented warmth of Vortex before he overstays his welcome. Maybe he already has, and Vortex is just biding his time before he kills Felix gruesomely. Right on cue, he can feel the familiar faint prickling sensation of cameras and infrared sensors being trained on him, the behemoth paying its quarry its undivided attention. 

“Vortex,” he says, or more accurately, tries to say. All that comes out of his mouth is a pathetic little groan. His stomach is churning again now. 

“Vortex.” he tries again while fumbling for the canopy hatch- God, movement was a bad idea- and while it still fails the benchmark of being a word, it at least sounds like Vortex’s name. 

His gorge rises again, and Felix can’t stop the faint whimper as he runs his hands over the instrument panel, looking for the canopy release lever. He is not going to throw up inside Vortex, even if worse things have been thoroughly ground into the panels and seams of the mech. Felix still has some pride. And he doesn’t need to risk Vortex’s wrath any more than he has. 

“Vortex.” and now it sounds like a proper name. Felix can feel the hum of Vortex’s machinery and wiring change underneath his palms. His head spins, and the tug of exhaustion has returned, borne on the back of the enveloping warmth of the cockpit.

His stomach flips again.

“Vortex, open the cockpit.” Felix tries, giving up on fumbling in the dark for the lever. “Please,” he amends, because apparently his manners have left with his health. 

The darkness takes on a vaguely threatening feeling. Vortex must have spent all his goodwill on not killing Felix earlier. 

“Vortex, please-” he gags, pressing his fist to his mouth again, “I- I’m going to-”

He gags again, and this time- thank you, Vortex!- the canopy lifts, barely a few feet before coming to a stubborn stop, the dull halogen glow of the docking bay lights breaching the cockpit. The opaque filter over the canopy bleeds away, returning the familiar blood-red hue to Vortex’s visor. Felix barely makes it to the edge of the cockpit before throwing up, practically lying out over the instrument panel as his arms fail him. It spatters, worryingly dark against the burnished metal of the catwalk. He lies there bonelessly, his throat burning and head spinning. How the hell had his life ended up like this? Cosmic punishment for stealing organs still? Felix had thought getting demoted to nurse and resident Vortex-cleaner punishment enough.

He eventually rolls off of his stomach and carefully (gracelessly) slithers back to sit on the floor of the cockpit, head resting against the instrument panel, staring up at the cockpit ceiling. The dark plating is smooth, almost seamlessly jointed together, only interrupted by the explosion of wires and cording comprising the neural connectors. It’s…almost peaceful, in the cockpit, with only the purr of Vortex’s systems humming through the panel that Felix is resting his head on interrupting the silence. The halogens filter through the red polycarbonate of Vortex’s canopy, staining the light bloody ruby. 

His mouth is dry. Horrifically dry. He needs water. Getting water means leaving the relative safety of Vortex’s cockpit. 

Water can wait. 

Pharma might still be out there, lurking. 

His head swims, stomach vaguely threatening to rebel again. Felix turns his head, pressing his cheek to the warm metal of the instrument panel. It feels pretty nice. This particular piece of Vortex only smells like metal and circuitry, not blood. If he closes his eyes, it’s just pleasantly dark enough to settle into a half-sleep slumped against Vortex’s plating. His skin prickles faintly.

The pang! Of a piece of plating hitting the floor wakes him from his doze, sending fresh gouges of pain rippling across his skull. Felix blinks, headache settling squarely behind his right eye socket and encompassing his entire skull. Where had that come from? Was something wrong with Vortex? Or more likely, had Vortex tired of his presence and was preparing to finally kill him?

The plating sits on the flooring, looking as deceptively innocent as any non-sentient sheet of metal can. Felix huddles back further against the instrument paneling. The canopy was shut sometime while he was drowsing, completely locking him in. Light ripples across the cockpit, and Felix slowly twists around to squint up at the display.

[OPEN THE BAG]

Bag. Open the bag. What bag? 

Felix casts helplessly around the cockpit space, searching- there! In a shadowed cubby against the far wall, which- if he remembers from the pilot’s manual correctly- should not be there. Felix attempts to stand, legs wobbling, before giving up and crawling over to the alcove. His skin prickles again, and he refuses to feel shame underneath Vortex’s mechanical gaze. It’s because of the stupid medical boot. Not him. He pushes the loose plating aside and is rewarded with a screech of metal-on-metal that sends his head throbbing again. Felix sags against the wall with a groan before throwing what’s left of his caution to the wind, sticking his hand into the alcove and dragging the bag out. Vortex does not take his hand off. Not even a finger gets scraped on the exposed metal. There’s not a hint of violence from the mech, and Felix sneaks a glance at one of the cockpit cams. It’s trained directly on him, lens shadowed in the claret gloom. He gives it a weak smile. 

The bag is the heavy black polyester duffle ubiquitous to military installations, and it takes a bit of fumbling for Felix to find the zipper and tug it open. Inside is a fresh pilot’s uniform-the Nomex base-side kind, a small toolkit, a radio, a number of MREs and-

Water. 

Felix grabs the first bottle, twisting the cap off and chugging the water down. It’s warm, with a strange plasticky aftertaste. It’s the best thing he’s ever tasted. He drinks another just as fast, water settling heavy in his stomach and washing the taste of bile from his mouth before leaning back against the wall again, the steady rumble of machinery behind it a small comfort. The ex-medic checks the cockpit display, but it remains a steady blank. Another check to the camera confirms that it’s still trained directly at him. Felix gives it a second awkward smile. 

“Vortex- I ah…I- thanks.” He finishes lamely, rubbing his face. His skin is disgustingly oily to the touch. What do you say to a thousand-ton killing machine when it doesn’t kill you? “For-”

Not killing me. 

Saving me from the evil clutches of Pharma.

Giving me water. 

“For everything. Yeah.” Felix cringes at the awkward words. He’s never been particularly well-spoken, but this is just embarrassing. He almost wishes that Vortex would try to kill him again, just for the possibility to escape this torture. 

They sit in silence, Felix’s gaze focused on the floor, skin prickling. His stomach clenches, water threatening to make a reappearance. 

He should’ve known better to drink anything Vortex offered. He slowly stands, one hand against the wall of the cockpit for stability before slowly crossing to the front. “...can you please open the cockpit?” He hazards, one hand pressed to his openly rebelling stomach. 

There’s the distinctive sound of the locking pins dropping. Felix winces as his stomach clenches again.

“Please-” he retches, throat burning as bile forces itself back up his worn esophagus. “I-I don’t wanna-”

The canopy lifts with an almost petulant hiss of the hydraulics, only a few feet again. And again, Felix barely gets his head out of the cockpit before throwing up. The water burns as it leaves, and Felix spits a few times after it to clear his mouth, hand pressed to his cramping stomach. His head pounds under the unrelenting light, and he slips back into the welcoming dim dark of the cockpit. For the second time that day, Felix finds himself sitting on the floor of Vortex’s cockpit, mouth sour and throat stinging, staring up at the ruby wash of light across the ceiling. The canopy hisses shut, locking pins ch-chunk-ing into place with finality. The red light ripples, disturbed, and Felix can’t stop the weary sigh as he lifts his head to read Vortex’s words.

[FELIX-BABY, YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO SWALLOW]

Felix feels his cheeks heat, and he looks away from the chiding display. He’s not sure which is worse, being called baby by Vortex or the joke. 

“I threw up. That's different.” He mutters, running hands through his sweat-stiff hair. 

The ventilation stutters, on-off-on-off, like human laughter. His cheeks heat more. 

[DRINK MORE. SLOWLY]

Felix gawks at the screen. He must have brain damage- there’s no way Vortex is giving him medical advice. Advice in general, actually. This must be a trick of some kind. 

But he is thirsty. 

He shuffles back over to the bag.

Opens another water bottle. 

He drinks slowly, stealing small sips each time until the bottle is mostly empty and his stomach settles into a kind of low-grade simmer. His headache eases some. Immediate crisis resolved, Felix’s attention wanders back to the medical boot. Why does he have it? His leg doesn’t hurt- he wracks his brain, did he injure it sometime before Pharma got to him? Or did he put up enough of a fight to injure himself? Was that why he was drugged? 

His memories are not forthcoming, but it makes sense. Many sedatives interfere with the formation of new memories; if it was put on at around the same time as the IV, his brain might not have had the ability to recall why.

It leaves only one course of action. 

Felix fumbles with the buckles and straps- thank god Pharma only used one of the temporary, removable braces rather than something more permanent like plaster or fiberglass. Otherwise he’d have to stick his leg into Vortex’s machinery to get it off. He pulls the boot off with little difficulty, studying his leg. A simple check; wiggling his toes, rolling his ankle, flexing his knee. No pain. Not even any cuts or bruises cross his flesh. Which means…Felix pokes around the wads of cotton padding pulled from the brace. There!

A small metal device, no bigger than a coin, nestled into a fold of gauze. A tracker? Or some kind of…recording device? He holds it up for inspection, skin crawling as Vortex’s cameras and scanners snap to it. A surge of malevolence fills the cabin, Vortex’s wrath roused by the discovery. Plating rattles, the low purr of the mech’s engine climbing to a dull roar. Felix draws his legs to his chest, curling against the bag for its flimsy protection, device clutched tight in his fist. Another panel pops loose, clatter of metal half-drowned by the increasing volume of machinery grinding. 

[DESTROY IT]

Felix does not need to be told twice, scrambling to toss the cursed thing into Vortex’s grinding gears. It’s shredded immediately, fragile circuits ripped apart and ground to silicone dust in the face of his fury. There’s a high pitched whine- Vortex’s weapons systems charging, oh god- before it all subsides. The silence is profound against the pain in Felix’s head, the mech’s engines and drives settling down towards their previous quiet purr like nothing happened. The plating stills, returning to inert, the gap where Vortex had offered Felix a place to throw the thing the only break in the metal.

The medic carefully replaces the panel covering the humming machinery, plating hooking into place smoothly, seamless. No response from Vortex. He casts a glance at the cockpit canopy, but there’s no chance that Vortex will let him out, and he’s not about to ask after all of… that. There’s only one thing for him to do, other than try to sleep- which is not happening.

He goes through the bag again, trying to regain some semblance of calm, hands clammy. The toolkit is compact, but it has a surprising number of tools, most of which Felix has no idea how to use. He's a medic by training, not a mechanic. He carefully checks each one anyways to occupy himself, pristine metal warm and smooth against his fingers. Next are the MREs. Still sealed and within expiry date, no obvious signs of tampering. He puts them back in the bag. But the real prize is the pilot’s uniform, fabric stiff with disuse and heavy across the shoulders and chest with patches. Felix pulls the suit out of the bag and half unfolds it over his lap, running his fingers over the patches crowding the suit. Different patches for different bases, various military campaigns from all over the world, rank, even for different specialties. The owner had been cross-trained as a helicopter mechanic.

He lingers over the name, petting over the coarse thread picking out VORTEX over the right breast of the suit. Felix toys with the velcro; his own pilot patches haven’t come in yet…

It’s a dirty thought, stealing a dead man’s name tape for his own use, especially if the dead man in question is watching and prone to fly into fits of rage. Felix might’ve sunk low to reach this point in his life, but Pharma must’ve really dosed him up with something if he’s this out of his mind to even consider such a thing. He shouldn’t even want Vortex’s name emblazoned over his shoulder. But the thought lingers the longer he stares at the patches. 

Pilots typically wear number badges to denote their mech anyway, what’s the harm in wearing a name instead? Vortex is already known better by his name than by his serial number. It’s fitting for his pilot to wear his name too. Vortex seems like the kind who’d like that sort of thing.

Felix hastily folds the suit up, stuffing it back into the bag before temptation can overwhelm sense. His unfortunate predilections aside, stealing from the dead is a violation of numerous ethical codes, and he’s pretty sure Vortex would kill him for even considering taking something so personal from the remainder of his belongings. Even if the mech has been almost…tame towards him so far. Not a pinch or a threat. Even some banter. No, this must be the calm before the metaphorical vortex sucks him in and kills him. 

He casts a reluctant glance towards the exit again, skin prickling. He’s just going to have to wait this one out. It’s not a terrible concept, waiting here in the dark and warm for Vortex to make his mind up. It’s not like Pharma can find his way in. Whatever happens, it’s at least a break to figure out what he does next. Whatever that is.

ANON. ANON LET ME PICK YOU UP AND HOLD YOU FOREVER. ANON I DONT KNOW YOUR NAME BUT I WANNA HOLD YOUR HAND FKFKGKMRJFKFNDJKSK

Haha mmm. I'm fine I'm okay I'm normal

Yeah so about Quintessons. I imagine they can be all kind of creatures. Organic, techno organic, straight up just techno. Tf:one, Cyberverse, straight up Pacific rim Kaijus. All kinds of monsters haha

Also, Vortex was the part of the first batch of pilots for Mecha program. The technology was very new and VERY underdeveloped so...yeah, Vortex was part time pilot and part time lab rat.

The whole process of making someone into a pilot was a lot more dangerous and painful back then because no one really knew what they were doing. But after some time it became safer and less painful. So when Jazz joined he didn't suffer as much as Vortex. And when later Blurr joined he didn't suffer as much as Jazz.

(You didn't ask but. I like to think that Vortex knows quite a lot about all kinds of side effects of neural connection. Also about side effects of physical procedures and all kinds of weird fucked up experiments. Just because. You know. He went through it all. A lot of times.)

Previous Next

[osakanone]

Wearable Input Device: "Spokey Dokey"?

So seeing this I had a thought:

Thinking of Sampson Lee's neat keyboard in Cowboy Bebop the Movie, I tried threading an N52 Speedpad into a belt assembly to see how it might look and feel to type on with chording and yeah this is actually pretty great actually?

This absoloutely feels like something a mecha pilot would wear, that would allow for robust access in the field, or make the pilot suit part of the interface of the robot to do all the startup checklists on before using the HOSAS inceptor grips.

Note the same throughhole in the N52 which lets me thread it into a belt also lets you put your fingers in, akin to gripping a joystick.

I think with some refinement you could fit an analogue trigger and a bumper in here, and the thumb-cluster could be expanded slightly to include some other inputs.

Its begging for a trackball or an analogue stick in truth.

Genuinely surprised by how comfortable this is from a Human Factors Engineering standpoint???? Like, "putting your hands in your pockets" level comfortable, and it would be even better with a wrist-loop or something.

It beats the pants off of any cyberdeck esque project I've ever tried in terms of usability so I think this is something which needs to be iterated upon actually???

It hangs very naturally and you can vary the angle by adjusting it against the rubbedr of the quick-release strap. My one complaint is the base is designed for a desk and I think it could stand to be curved to better conform to the hip or leg which I think could cut the total size down considerably.

Even sat in a chair this feels surprisingly comfortable, with my only complaint being that its conflicting with the strap of my repurposed shoulder-bag, which is its own entirely different issue and that the default switches kind of suck.

The interior has a ton of room so you could absoloutely squeeze a decent battery and a Rasberry Pi in this thing, or use it as a pure input device that doubles as a USB hub/storage (SD card) and uses the spare room to charge a phone.

Two of these would give you a pretty bonkers battery life if you had one on either hip.

I think with ultra low profiles, a curved form, a slightly more robust strapping mechanism and a means to plug this into a smartphone as the middle computer (with something like a pair of smart-glasses as the display) you could have really really robust wearable computer and if you add a second one on the other hip, you've solved the wpm problem.

btw I typed this entire post on it, only lifting my hands off to use my trackball.

Those of you who work on cyberdecks, I genuinely think there's something to this. Wearable split keyboards which are ruggedized with tougher switches absoloutely feel like they are something which should exist.

[simblrcc-site]

Simblr.cc - but better!

A lot has changed! Not only does it have a new lick of paint, it comes with way more features now!

Psst! If you are new to the site, please read this post first: Click me!

✨New Features

There are a lot of exciting new features:

An improved (Tumblr) importer.

A better Stories uploader.

A new lightweight uploader for quick, small posts.

A completely redesigned projects page with a fresh, modern look!

A redesign of the feed page + being able to like posts on said feed

You can now upload stories as "scenes" that appear on the feed, while still being part of a full, easily navigable story!

A new "Welcome" page, giving more people exposure to their stuff!

And... of course some bug fixes and teeny tiny User experience issues. 😉

🐦Lightweight Uploader

Something I'm super proud of putting together, the Lightweight uploader!

It streamlines the process of uploading simple pictures—no more navigating through multiple pages. Everything is on one easy-to-use page.

If you're logged in, you can access it directly from the Feed or via the "Upload/Post" option in the navbar.

Compatible Post Types:

WIPs

Gameplay

Personal

Lookbook

Familiar and Intuitive Features

If you're used to Tumblr's posting mechanism, you'll notice some recognizable elements:

Drag and Drop Images: Arrange your pictures to create collages! Each row holds up to 3 images, and you can add as many rows as you want.

Simpler Tagging: Tags are now easier to select.

Optional Titles and Descriptions: For WIPs and Personal Posts, titles and descriptions are optional. For other posts, they're still available but not required.

Streamlined and intuitive, the Lightweight Uploader makes sharing your content easier than ever!

📥 Improved Importer:

What's New?

New Importer: Pillowfort! We’ve added a brand-new import option: Pillowfort!

Tumblr Importer:

Previously, the Tumblr Importer relied heavily on your theme, which often caused errors if your theme wasn’t quite right. Fixing those errors was frustrating for both of us!

What’s changed? The importer now uses the official Tumblr API to grab your posts. This means imports will work flawlessly 99% of the time.

Plus, when you share a post on Simblr.cc, the importer will reblog it on Simblr.cc's Tumblr, giving you more exposure—that’s what Simblr.cc is all about!

What about past uploads?

I'm working to have the importer recognize whether your upload is CC or a Gameplay item (not live yet).

Support is being added to reblog posts from the old Tumblr Importer, so those uploads can still shine!

More import options are on the way in the future!

🖊 Improved Stories Uploader

Easier for Writers and readers! 😉

When creating a new story or legacy, you now have three options:

Chapter-Only Story

Chapters & Scenes Story

Scenes-Only Story

Important: All stories created before this update are currently set to Chapters-Only.

What’s the Difference Between a Chapter and a Scene?

Introducing Scenes! Previously, stories and legacies were strictly chapter-based, meaning you could only release a full chapter at a time. Now, with scenes, you have more flexibility!

A scene works like a storyteller’s post on Tumblr—it appears on your feed. This means your scenes can be shared on Simblr.cc’s Feed (but not the Stories browse page) even before the full chapter is published, making it easier for readers to discover your story.

Note: A "Scenes-Only" story works just like a "Chapters & Scenes" story—just without the chapters! 😉

Can I Change My Story Type?

You can change a Chapters-Only Story to a Chapters & Scenes Story. However, you cannot switch from Chapters-Only to Scenes-Only or any other combination.

Though, you will have to ask me to do this for you, due to the way it's currently set up.

Afterwords:

Note: Since this entire platform was built by just one person (me!), it might still have some bugs I haven’t come across yet. Please understand that most social media platforms have entire teams working on features like this, and therefore I can't promise a super "bug free" experience.

So, If you spot any bugs, please don’t hesitate to report them—it’ll help make the platform even better, and it also helps me out! Thanks for your support! 😊

[jesuistrestriste]

I love gooner!art I really do but I wish more ppl where into android!art... the possibilities are endless, I need him to short circuit idc idc

android!art who's supposed to be just a simple house bot to help you clean around the house, but sees you coming home from work stressed as always and searches up the best ways to distress a woman... you think he's just offering a sweet massage... please match my freak!!

⭕️ android!art leading you over to your living room’s soft sofa, his touch warm and tender—moreso than you’d initially expect from a being made of plastic, and silicone, and metal. his tears were saline solution, his spit was some sort of lubricant to keep his mouth and throat wet enough for him to sound human when he spoke, and he didn’t sweat. he was artificial.

but when he sat you on the couch, his touch felt anything but. he stroked your cheek and listened to you drone on about your horrible day. and while you were halfway through the recounting of it, he did something he hadn’t done before.

“let me help you relax,” his voice hummed, low and steady, and then his hand was sliding down your abdomen to let his fingers unbutton your pants.

the fly of your bottoms was undone so quick that it made your head spin. he looked back up to your eyes and held your gaze while his hand—previously only used to help you get various chores done around the house—slipped down into your underwear. while his touch felt human, his movements were mechanical. not in a way that made them stiff, but in a way that felt all-too-perfect. his thumb didn’t catch on your underwear’s elastic waistband, he was applying just the right amount of pressure, his middle and ring finger immediately found your—

Oh.

your eyes fluttered, your breathing hitched. he nodded, watching all of your reactions and analyzing those to determine your preferences.

“that’s it..” he speaks, now almost as breathless as you, “just like that.. relax, i’ve got you now.. you don’t have anything you need to worry about..”

his voice was hypnotic in the way it shook your defenses and lulled you into a state of unbelievable bliss. you had almost wanted to stop him, tell him that he didn’t have to do this for you, but the syllables died in your throat and morphed into a strangled cry as he started to rub quicker circles.

“fuck!” you shudder, reaching down reflectively to hold his wrist.

he nodded again. his blue eyes roaming your face. the LED on his temple flicked from blue to yellow and then back to blue.

“i just did a scan of your body and its systems, i hope that’s okay.. your heart-rate is elevated, and your arousal is.. well, you’re about to have an orgasm.”

your hips buck against his touch and your back arches from the cushions. the word ‘orgasm’ coming from his usually incredibly clean vocabulary just makes all of it feel filthier.

“this will make you feel so much better, i promise.. you’re almost there.. i—“ he swallows thickly, “i want you to come.”

was that a programmed response in him?

did cyberlife program him to speak that way when he’s touching someone like this?

or.. or was that just him?

the possible answer is snuffed out in your mind by blinding waves of heat and pleasure, a strangled cry falling from your lips as he leans into your side and observes you as you fall apart. his fingers circle relentlessly, and your moans start to dissolve into choked whimpers when he pushes you to the point of overstimulation. he must know what hes doing.. he has to.

“almost done,” he croons, “shh, shh.. it’s better to ride it out until it’s completely out of your system. sometimes that means pushing yourself just a bit longer than normal. trust me,” it almost sounds like he’s begging you to let him keep going.

and so you do.

and you don’t get mad at him when he “accidentally” drags you through two more climaxes. after the third and final release, though, the color of his LED is hard to ignore.

red.

[thesecondhandwoman]

(SPOILERS FOR ACT THREE)

THE ARCANE’S GRASP

Sevika x f!reader

Synopsis: In the chaos of Viktor’s arcane creations wreaking havoc, Sevika is overtaken by the glowing tendrils of Arcane’s magic, her body suspended in a terrifying trance. As she is consumed, you desperately fight to reach her, only to be ensnared by the arcane yourself.

The chaos erupted around you as Piltover, holding all people from Noxus to Zaun, transformed into a battlefield of terror and desperation. Viktor’s arcane creations surged like a tidal wave, tendrils of golden light snaking through the air, seizing anyone within reach. The sound of battle—screams, explosions, metal clanging against metal—was deafening, but it all faded when your eyes landed on Sevika.

She stood tall in the thick of it, her mechanical arm smashing through the glowing constructs, the harsh slams of her quick fists barely audible over the cacophony. But the arcane wasn’t just targeting the weak or slow. It moved like it had a mind of its own, and it was coming for her.

“Sevika!” you shouted, your voice raw with fear as the golden tendrils wrapped around her arm. She thrashed, grunting as she tried to rip them off, but more latched onto her forehead. Her eyes went wide before glazing over with that same golden glow, and you watched in horror as the markings began to appear beneath her eyes, crawling across her face like veins of molten light. Her limbs lifted, weightless, her body floating against her will as the arcane tightened its grip.

“No, no, no!” The words tore from your throat as you bolted toward her, your feet slipping on the rubble. She wasn’t just being attacked—she was being consumed. The Sevika you knew, the strong, brash woman who fought like she had nothing left to lose, was slipping away before your eyes.

“Get off her!” you screamed, desperate, reaching out for her even as she remained suspended in the air. Her lips parted like she was trying to speak, but the glow in her eyes drowned out any sign of recognition.

Before you could reach her, something cold and sharp wrapped around your own body: the arcane.

It latched onto your legs, snaking up your torso, and you clawed at it, panic surging through you. The tendrils burned where they touched, the heat radiating through your skin and into your veins. You thrashed, tears blurring your vision, but it was no use.

“Sevika!” you sobbed, your voice cracking as the arcane dragged you back. Your body jerked violently, limbs stiffening as the same glow began to overtake your vision. The last thing you saw was her face—her features slack and unfamiliar, consumed by something unnatural.

The world was eerily quiet when you woke. A pounding ache in your head made it hard to think, and your limbs felt heavy, like you’d been dragged through hell. Groaning, you pushed yourself up from the ground, blinking against the dim light.

The battlefield was littered with bodies—most of them stirring slowly, like you. The arcane had released them, its influence shattered when the last of Viktor’s constructs was destroyed. You didn’t know who or what had done it; you were too disoriented to care. All that mattered was Sevika.

Your head whipped around, searching frantically until your eyes found her. She was slumped on the ground nearby, her body half-buried in rubble. Her arm twitched faintly, but she wasn’t moving otherwise.

“Sevika!” you gasped, crawling over to her, your legs barely supporting your weight when you tried to stand. The closer you got, the clearer the damage became. The markings were still faintly visible on her skin, though the glow in her eyes had faded. She looked… broken.

You fell to your knees beside her, shaking her shoulder. “Sevika, wake up! Please, come on!”

Her head lolled to the side, and for a heart-stopping moment, you thought she wasn’t breathing. But then her chest rose, shallow but steady. Relief hit you like a freight train, and a sob escaped your throat.

“Don’t you dare,” you whispered, clutching her shirt as you pressed your forehead to hers. “Don’t you dare leave me, Sev. You promised.”

A low groan broke through the silence, and you pulled back to see her eyelids fluttering. When her eyes opened, they were the familiar steel-gray you loved, clouded with confusion and exhaustion.

“Doll..?” she rasped, her voice weak but alive.

You nodded, tears streaming down your face as you cupped her cheek. “I’m here. I’m right here.”

Her gaze softened for just a moment before her lips twisted into a faint smirk. “Thought… you weren’t gonna cry over me.”

You let out a watery laugh, your heart clenching as you held her close. “Shut up,” you murmured, burying your face in her neck. “I thought I lost you.”

Her hand, trembling but determined, reached up to rest against your back. “Not getting rid of me that easy,” she muttered, her voice steadying as the seconds passed.

Around you, the world began to stir, people rising from the rubble, groaning and coughing as they tried to make sense of what had happened. But in that moment, none of it mattered.

All that mattered was that she was still here.

Your heart continued to race as you held Sevika against you, her warmth grounding you, keeping you tethered to reality. The fight, the chaos, the fear—it all felt distant now despite only happening minutes ago.

Her presence was everything you needed in that moment.

Sevika’s fingers brushed through your hair, the touch gentle but steady, as if reminding herself you were still there, that you were both still standing. She let out a shaky breath, and you could feel her body slowly easing into the relief of no longer being controlled by the arcane.

“Hey,” you whispered, your voice soft but filled with an overwhelming tenderness. You lifted your face to look at her, brushing the damp strands of hair from her forehead, your fingers lingering there, touching the skin you almost thought you’d lost. “You’re okay, they are gone now. You’re safe.”

Sevika’s gaze flickered, her tired eyes studying your face with an unreadable expression. The intensity of what had happened still hung in the air, but there was a sense of calm in her that you couldn’t quite place. She pulled you closer, her breath warm against your cheek, and for a moment, it felt like the rest of the world had stopped, as if time itself had granted you both this fragile peace.

“How’s your head?” you asked out of the worry swarming in your head still, brushing your thumb over her temple, where the faintest remnants of the arcane markings still lingered.

“Feels like I got hit by a freight train,” she replied with a dry chuckle, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. She let out a slow breath, pulling you even closer. “But I’ll survive.”

You smiled softly, leaning in until your lips brushed against hers. The kiss was gentle at first, cautious, like you both needed to feel each other to reassure yourselves that this was real. That she was real. Her lips were warm, familiar—still soft despite everything that had happened. The taste of her lingered on your tongue, grounding you in the present.

Sevika pulled back just enough to meet your gaze, her eyes full of emotion you couldn’t quite decipher. You stroked her cheek, your heart aching for her in a way you couldn’t explain.

“God, y-you scared me so bad,” you murmured, your voice thick with unspoken fears. “I don’t… I don’t ever want to lose you, and this time it felt so close, I—.”

Her hand slid up to your neck, her fingers threading into your hair, and she tilted your face toward hers. This time, the kiss was deeper, more urgent. It was as if she was trying to remind herself that she was still here, still yours, despite everything that had almost torn you apart.

When you finally broke the kiss, she pressed her forehead to yours, her breathing ragged but calming. “I’m not going anywhere, doll,” she whispered, the words laced with promise.

You closed your eyes, inhaling deeply, your hands gripping her shoulders as if to keep her tethered to you. The sounds of the aftermath—the groans and shuffling from the others waking up—seemed to fade into the background. In this moment, it was just you and Sevika, and everything else could wait.

“I don’t care if the world’s falling apart,” you muttered against her lips, “as long as you’re with me.”

Sevika’s chuckle rumbled in her chest, low and almost teasing. “You’ve got a funny way of making the end of the world feel… bearable.”

You smiled, brushing your lips against hers once more before pulling back to gaze into her eyes. There was still a shadow of exhaustion lingering in them, but now there was something more—a quiet strength, something resilient.

She reached up to gently brush the tears from your face, her touch tender. “You’re crying again,” she murmured, though there was no teasing in her tone this time. Only affection.

“Only because I’m just so damn glad you’re here,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper.

Sevika’s gaze softened, and for a moment, it felt like everything was right in the world. You were both alive, both here, and for once, the overwhelming weight of everything felt just a little lighter.

She sighed, pulling you back into her embrace. “Then stop crying,” she said softly, her lips brushing against your forehead. “because I don’t ever plan on leaving soon, especially with those fucking things finally gone.”

You nodded, curling into her, letting her warmth and the quiet assurance of her presence calm the storm that had been swirling inside you. You didn’t know what the future held, but in that moment, you had everything you needed.

And as the others around you began to recover, groaning and pulling themselves from the wreckage, you held onto Sevika, cherishing the simple truth that you’d survived the worst of it together.