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chericos · 7 months ago

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SHUT UP AND DRIVE CHAPTER ONE: gear up

masterlist. || 2.2k

The scent of gasoline filled the garage. Sunlight streams through the oversized glass doors, pooling onto the polished concrete floor and glinting off the sleek frame of your car. Your pride and joy—a beast of a machine with a matte black finish and deep pink accents—sits waiting for your attention. Tools are scattered across the workbench nearby, a chaotic mix of wrenches, sockets, and screwdrivers, each coated in a fine sheen of oil.

Hunched over the open engine bay, you work with the kind of precision that comes from both necessity and obsession. Your hands move deftly, tightening a bolt here, testing the throttle there. The faint purr of the engine vibrates through your chest, grounding you in the present for the first time in weeks. For a fleeting moment, excitement stirs in you. It’s familiar. Comforting.

The peace doesn’t last.

“You know, hiding in the garage isn’t going to fix everything.”

The sharp voice startles you, and you glance toward the open doorway. Utahime stands there, clipboard in hand and exasperation etched across her face. Her sharp, professional outfit—a deep navy blazer and pinstripe slacks combo—looks wildly out of place against the gritty backdrop of the garage.

Without looking up from your work, you twist the wrench tighter and mutter, “I’m not hiding. I’m working.”

Utahime steps inside, her heels clicking softly against the concrete. “Hiding. Working. Same thing at this point,” she says, her tone dry. “You haven’t been to a single event since the... incident.”

The word makes you freeze, it barely lasts a second, but it was just long enough for her to notice. Gritting your teeth, you keep your focus on the engine. “Can we not call it that? It’s not Voldemort.”

“Fine,” she snaps, crossing her arms. “What do you want me to call it? The breakup heard ’round the racing world? The reason you’re trending on Twitter every other day? Because that’s what it is to everyone else.”

Setting your wrench down with a clang, you finally meet her gaze. “I’ll show up. I always do.”

“Oh, really?” she says, arching a brow. “Because last I checked, showing up means more than tinkering with your car like it’s a safety blanket.”

“It’s called preparation,” you counter, the bite in your voice sharper than you intended.

“Preparation for what?” Utahime throws her hands up in exasperation. “To stay in here forever?” Her tone softens as she lets out a sigh, but the frustration lingers. “You’ve been cooped up here for weeks. You can’t half-ass this season like last time. Le Mans isn’t just a race; it’s the race. No more late-night runs for thrills, no more headlines about your ‘personal life.’ Focus.” Racing isn’t just about the car. It’s about you. Your mindset, your presence. And right now, the scouts for Le Mans are seeing someone who’s gone completely radio silent.”

You groaned, reaching for the rag to wipe your hands, avoiding her piercing gaze. “I am focused. Just because I’m not making dramatic speeches about it doesn’t mean I’m slacking off. And just because I’m not broadcasting my every move doesn't mean I’m “radio silent,”

Utahime arched a skeptical brow, glancing over her clipboard. “First qualifiers are next weekend. Maki’s already clocked two practice runs, and Nobara’s been studying every corner of the Le Mans track like it’s her SAT. Meanwhile, you’ve been—what? Fixing your car?”

“Hey, Camie is more than a car. She’s a masterpiece, and now she’s offended. We’re focused, stop worrying.”

“Focused,” Utahime repeated, her skepticism dripping from her voice. “Focused would mean you’re out on the track, working on your times, not holed up in your fortress of solitude.

“Maybe I like my solitude,” you mutter, tossing the rag onto the workbench, a pout making its way onto your face.

“And maybe it’s not doing you any favors,” she fires back. “Look, I get it. The whole thing with Megumi—”

“Don’t.” Your tone is sharp, cutting her off mid-sentence. The room feels heavier now, the words hanging unspoken between you. “This isn’t about him.”

Utahime’s expression softens, but she doesn’t back down. “Whether you want it to be or not, everyone else has made it about him. About you and him. If you don’t remind them why you’re you, you’re going to lose control of the narrative. And worse? You’re going to lose that Le Mans spot to him.”

Now that… that hit. You clench your jaw, glaring down at the open hood of your car as if it might offer some magical solution.

“I’m not going to lose to him,” you finally say, your voice low but firm.

“Then prove it,” Utahime challenges, stepping closer. “Because Megumi’s out there training like his life depends on it. He’s not distracted by social media, drama, or whatever it is you’re doing in here. He’s racing. And you? You’re stalling.”

Her words sting more than you care to admit, and for a moment, silence blankets the garage. The hum of the engine seems distant now, overshadowed by the weight of her honesty.

Finally, you sigh and slam the hood of your car shut. “Fine. I’ll hit the simulators later. Happy?”

“Ecstatic,” she deadpans, though there’s the faintest hint of relief in her expression. “But don’t just hit the simulators. Go upstairs. Talk to your team. They’ve been trying to drag you out of this funk for weeks.”

You smirk faintly at her choice of words. “I don’t do funks.”

“Call it whatever you want.” She gives you one last pointed look before turning to leave. “Just show up. That’s all I’m asking.”

As her footsteps fade, the silence of the garage settles in once again. The car gleams under the sunlight, a testament to your meticulous care—but it isn’t enough. Utahime’s right. Racing isn’t just about the car.

Grabbing your (empty) water bottle, you take a deep breath and head toward the house. It’s time to face the world, whether you like it or not. And you were going to show them that you’re better than ever.

You push open the door to your house, stepping into the chaos you call home. The sharp scent of motor oil clings faintly to your jacket, but it’s quickly replaced by the clean, crisp scent of the indoors. The foyer opens up into a spacious living area with polished marble floors that gleam in the soft sunlight streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The stark white walls are adorned with framed posters of old racing events, rock concerts, and abstract art, all splashed with animal prints and neon pink. At the center of the room sits a large black leather couch, adorned with a fluffy pink throw blanket draped over one arm and mismatched pillows shaped like skulls and roses.

The coffee table is littered with evidence of your late-night antics—half-empty energy drinks, stray playing cards, and a small stack of glossy magazines featuring you and your teammates in various articles. In the corner, a tall, potted snake plant struggles to survive, its leaves curling as though begging for more attentive care.

The open-concept kitchen flows seamlessly into the living room, with gleaming black marble countertops and pendant lights hanging from above, their matte black and tarnished gold fixtures adding a touch of flair. A pink neon sign reading "Eat Fast, Drive Faster" hangs over the stove, casting a soft glow across the room. The place is clean—for now—but the faint smell of burnt toast lingers, evidence of Nobara’s recent cooking attempt.

The grunge charm extends to the little details: a shelf near the staircase crammed with trophies and medals, the pride of the team, and a mishmash of knick-knacks—a chipped pink skull figurine, a tiny replica of your car, and a Polaroid of the team from your first big win, framed in black.

As you step further into the house, the faint thrum of bass from Nobara’s room upstairs mixes with the sound of simulated engines roaring from the game room. Somewhere, Panda’s deep laugh echoes, followed by the unmistakable crash of something heavy hitting the floor.

“Who broke something this time?” you call out, kicking off your boots by the door and hanging your jacket on the hook labeled ‘Speed Demon’—a label you swear you didn’t put up.

In the kitchen, Maki is sitting at the counter, sharpening one of her knives with a whetstone. She glances up as you walk in, her expression as sharp as the blade in her hands. “Just your ego, probably,” she says with a smirk.

“Still babying that car of yours?” she teased as you walked in.

“Better than babying a weapon collection,” you shot back, grabbing a water bottle from the fridge. “What’s the deal with the knives anyway? Planning on taking out the competition?”

“Just prepared for anything,” Maki said with a smirk. “You could learn a thing or two about that.”

You smirk, walking away from the fridge. “You’re hilarious. Keep working on that. Maybe one day you’ll have fans like mine.”

“I don’t think I want any of those. I’ve got a blade and a flawless record.”

“Good for you, Miss Terminator,” you shoot back before making your way to the living room. It’s alive with energy, the heart of your chaotic little universe. You settle onto the black leather couch, its cold surface softened by the worn-in comfort of the pink throw blanket and a plush skull pillow you hug to your chest. Nobara is sprawled across the opposite end of the couch, her legs dangling lazily over the armrest as she scrolls through Twitter. Panda is cross-legged on the shaggy pink rug, fiddling with a miniature die-cast model of your car, occasionally making it "zoom" across the table to annoy Nobara.

Maki—finally leaving the kitchen—has claimed the pink velvet armchair in the corner, her posture rigid and imposing as she continues sharpening her knife.

“Did you see what people are saying about you and Megumi?” Nobara says, looking up from her phone with a grin. “Twitter’s on fire about you two. Apparently, someone spotted him at the circuit yesterday, and now everyone’s debating who fumbled who again.”

You groan, sinking deeper into the couch. “Can we not? I’m tired of hearing about him.”

“Oh, come on!” Nobara teases, tossing her phone onto the coffee table. “You have to care a little. The people want to know: did you dump him because he couldn’t handle your vibe, or did he dump you because he realized he peaked?”

Panda snorts his laugh so loud it startles Maki, who glares at him. “I’m Team Megumi fumbled,” Panda announces, raising his hand (paw) like it's a vote. “The guy’s too moody to handle someone like you. You’re all speed and chaos. He’s... whatever the opposite of fun is.”

“Broody?” Nobara suggests.

“Exactly.”

You roll your eyes but can’t help the small smile tugging at your lips. “Thanks for the support, Panda. Super helpful. It’s totally not like you know the whole situation firsthand.”

“But,” Panda adds with a mischievous grin, “you did ghost him at that after-party last year. So maybe it’s mutual fumbling?”

“That party doesn’t count,” you retort, throwing the skull pillow at him. “I had better things to do than listen to him complain in the corner all night.”

“Like what?” Nobara smirks, dodging the pillow Panda tossed her way.

“Win a race, maybe?” you reply. “Something he didn’t do that night, by the way.”

Maki lets out a sharp laugh from her chair, finally looking up from her knife. “You’re all idiots. Who cares about whatever high Twitter wants to get off on? Just get over it and focus on the qualifiers.”

“Thank you, Maki, the only voice of reason,” you say, raising your water bottle in a mock toast.

“Don’t thank me yet,” Maki responds. “You’ve barely touched the simulators, and from what I hear, Megumi’s been practically living at the circuit. If you don’t get serious, he’ll wipe the floor with you.”

The room goes quiet for a moment, the only sound is the faint bassline of Nobara’s playlist drifting from the speaker.

“I’m not worried about Megumi,” you say finally, your voice steady. “He can train all he wants. I’m still faster.”

Nobara raises an eyebrow but doesn’t push further. Instead, she leans back, stretching her arms over her head. “Alright, enough yapping. Let’s hit the simulators. If we’re serious about this season, we need to start acting like it. And Y/n, if you’re not on that track tomorrow, I’m dragging you there myself.”

You give her a halfhearted grin. “Yes, ma’am.”

“I’m calling dibs on the first run.”

“Dream on,” you say, standing up and tossing the skull pillow back onto the couch. “If anyone’s going first, it’s me.”

“Oh, so now you’re serious?” Nobara teases, following you toward the stairs.

“Always was,” you shoot back with a smirk.

The energy shifts as the team heads upstairs to the simulator room. The playful banter fades and it's replaced by the sharp focus that comes with a race. Even with the change in vibe, the camaraderie is there—an unspoken reminder that, no matter what happens on the track, you’ve got each other’s backs. There’s only one thing left to do.

It’s time to gear up.

break room!

I still suck at dialogue... but there is SLIGHT improvement (I think)

anyway! the break room is just gonna be the teams' hobbies!

maki has a knife collection, she guards them like they're hr birthed children. no one knows what she uses them for...

nobara runs a youtube channel, she mainly does blogs around the house but sometimes she streams game nights

panda has an insane amount of pokemon cards. he has pushed people on the streets while trying to find them on pokemon go (yes this is based on one of my friends)

megumi was definitely only at the circuit trying to get over it

get ready to turn on the ignition

taglist!

@brideads @sweettenderheart @sh0ot1ngst4r @bertqut1 @favbisexualh0e @Fushiguruzzzz @anonymity222 @harryzcherry @Janneeeexdxc @veevei @lightshowerrr @jasminasblog22 @gumims @samshine03 @yeehawnana @starrysho @1l-ynn @dovellici

if your tag isn't working please fix your settings or you will be removed!

also please comment if I can use you as a twt user!

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paucubarsisimp · 3 months ago

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Hello dear, when you can I would really like you to write about Pedri and a Formula 1 driver. I really like your writing, very cute and creative. Thanks:)

good luck charm

pairing: pedri x reader

summary: in which pedri comes to see your race for the first time

warnings: none

a/n: i hope you like this darling <3

taglist: @barcapix, @universefcb, @nngkay, @joaosnovia, @ilovebarcaaaa lmk if you’d like to be added!

the atmosphere in the circuit de barcelona-catalunya was electric. the air buzzed with the sounds of roaring engines and excited chatter from the crowd, all gathered for the spanish grand prix. it was the moment you had been working toward your entire life. this race was more than just another opportunity to race; it was your race. the home race.

you’d been dreaming of this day since you were a kid, racing go-karts on makeshift tracks in your neighborhood, watching the f1 on tv, and imagining one day standing on that podium. now, as the clock ticked down to race time, you were finally going to live that dream.

as you stood by your mclaren car, preparing for the start, you took a deep breath, the familiar scent of engine oil and tire rubber filling the air. you could see your teammates moving around, and lando norris flashed you a quick grin from across the garage, giving you a thumbs-up. but your eyes weren’t on lando. no, your focus was elsewhere, beyond the pit wall, toward the stands, where you knew he would be.

pedri.

you hadn’t seen him as much as you wanted over the past few weeks, both of you caught up in your intense schedules. but today was different. today, pedri would be there, watching you race in your hometown, cheering you on like he always did. his support had become your good luck charm, the one thing you always counted on when you stepped onto the track. even just knowing he’d be in the stands made you feel calmer, more confident.

you slipped into your race suit, taking one last look in the mirror. there was no going back now. you had to give it your all. you had to show the world what you could do. you had to show him.

the team was busy with final preparations, and the cars were lined up, ready to go. you could hear the starting grid being called out over the intercom, your name among the drivers who would take the challenge. you adjusted your helmet and tightened your gloves, feeling the adrenaline coursing through you as the anticipation built. it was go time.

as the formation lap began, your heart raced—not from nerves, but from the sheer excitement. barcelona. home. your family, your friends, and most importantly, pedri, all there to watch you. you could almost feel his presence, his quiet confidence that always seemed to make everything feel like it was going to be okay.

lando pulled ahead of you as the lights flickered, but you were locked in. you were going to give it everything you had.

the race was intense from the start. there was no time to think, just react. the tires gripped the track as you navigated the first few corners, feeling the g-forces press against you. you were already positioning yourself in the top ten, pushing harder than ever before. every turn felt precise, every shift in gears felt smooth, and the adrenaline flowing through you made everything feel like it was moving in slow motion.

as the laps passed, you kept climbing, your mclaren a perfect machine beneath you. lando had already made his way to the front, but you were right behind, battling it out with the top contenders. the competition was fierce, but you were determined. you could feel pedri’s support in every corner, in every move you made, reminding you that you could do this.

with ten laps to go, you were in third place, the leader barely within reach. the crowd was on their feet, their chants and cheers echoing across the track. you pushed harder, finding a rhythm that felt almost effortless.

and then, just as you came into the final corner, the red bull in front of you made a slight mistake, opening the door for you. it was your chance. you threw your car into the apex, coming out of the turn side by side with the red bull, neck and neck. your eyes were locked on the finish line, knowing this was your moment.

“come on,” you whispered to yourself, pushing the throttle down to full. the roar of your engine filled your ears, and for a second, you couldn’t hear anything else. just the engine. just the track. just the finish line.

and then, in the blink of an eye, you were there. you had done it. you crossed the line, taking first place.

the sound of the crowd was deafening. the emotion hit you all at once—elation, disbelief, and pride. you had won your first race in formula 1. in barcelona.

as you pulled into the pit lane, your team erupted in cheers, but you barely noticed them. you climbed out of the car, your legs shaky from the intensity of the race. the podium was waiting, and as you made your way to it, your eyes scanned the stands. there, standing at the front with a big smile, was pedri. his face lit up when he saw you, and in that moment, the entire world seemed to fade away.

you waved at him, your heart racing again—but this time, not from the race. you couldn’t wait to see him.

the post-race ceremony was a blur. you were in a daze as you stepped onto the podium, the spanish national anthem playing in the background. but your eyes were locked on pedri, who was waving at you, his gaze filled with pride. he had been there for every step of your journey, and now, you had made it. together.

the champagne sprayed, the crowd cheered, and as you stood there with the trophy in your hands, you realized something. this victory wasn’t just for you. it was for him too. for the support he gave you, the belief he had in you, and the way he always made you feel like you could do anything.

after the ceremony, as you made your way back to the pits, you saw pedri waiting for you at the entrance. his grin was infectious, and as you walked over to him, he wrapped you in a tight hug.

“you did it,” he said, his voice thick with pride. “i knew you would.”

you smiled, the weight of the moment still sinking in. “i couldn’t have done it without you.”

pedri chuckled, his arms still around you. “maybe you could’ve, but i’m glad i was here to see it.”

you laughed, feeling lighter than you had in years. “i think you’re my lucky charm.”

he raised an eyebrow, smirking. “oh really?”

you nodded. “absolutely. i think it’s official now.”

pedri’s smile widened, and he kissed your forehead lightly. “well, if i’m your good luck charm, then i’m sticking around.”

“deal,” you said, your voice quiet but filled with everything you couldn’t put into words. “thank you for being here.”

he squeezed your hand, his eyes softening. “always. you’ve earned this, princesa. and i’m so proud of you.”

#fc barcelona #football #footballer x reader #football imagine #pedri fluff #pedri x you #pedri gonzalez x reader #pedri x reader #pedri gonzalez #pedri imagine #pedri fanfic #f1

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pretzel-box · 10 months ago

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-2- THE WALLS WHICH WILL EAT US

word count: 5,2k

tags: GN!reader, graphic mentions of panic attacks, getting attacked

summary: You get shipped to the Hadal Blackside and start your new mission to get the crystal and Z-13, Sebastian Solace. But it seems like the visitors of the Blackside are getting you first.

The sharp scent of various chemicals invaded your senses the moment you arrived at the dock, where Urbanshade housed their high-tech submarines for underwater expeditions—expeditions much like the one you were about to embark on. The dock itself was a massive, bustling hub, with staff members moving swiftly through the vast hall, each absorbed in their own tasks. Cargo was being transported, machines were being meticulously maintained, and the air was filled with the constant hum of activity, all contributing to the strange, industrial rhythm of the place.

The dock was located within a closed hall, nestled just below water level in one of Urbanshade’s many sprawling facilities. From where you stood, you could see the vast array of technology they had developed, each piece funded by the considerable wealth of people like your father. It was impossible not to feel a sense of awe at the sheer scale of their operations. Urbanshade’s business was far more than you had imagined; mining oil from the ocean depths seemed like it was just a side hustle for them, a mere footnote in their grander, more mysterious endeavors.

As you took in your surroundings, the reality of Urbanshade’s reach began to sink in. The size of the submarines alone was staggering, each one a marvel of engineering, designed to withstand the crushing pressures of the deep sea. Workers in identical uniforms moved like clockwork, each performing their duties with practiced efficiency. The atmosphere was one of cold, calculated precision, a far cry from the chaotic hustle you had expected.

“Hey, over here.” A voice cut through your thoughts, snapping you back to reality. A tall man, dressed in the same standard-issue uniform as the others, stood before you. His demeanor was strict, his expression unreadable. He was clearly used to the environment, his posture rigid and commanding. This man was your guide, assigned to escort you through the facility, ensuring you didn’t stray from the carefully laid path Urbanshade had set for you.

“Follow me,” he instructed, his tone leaving no room for argument. He turned on his heel and began to walk, expecting you to follow without hesitation.

You fell into step behind him, your mind racing as you tried to absorb everything at once. The guide led you through a series of corridors, each more sterile and unwelcoming than the last. The walls were lined with thick metal plating, a stark reminder of the underwater pressures that lurked just beyond. Occasionally, you caught glimpses of other workers, their faces blank as they passed by, absorbed in their own duties.

As you walked, you couldn’t help but wonder what exactly Urbanshade was preparing you for. The deep levels of the ocean were a place of mystery, danger, and unimaginable pressure, both physically and mentally. And yet, here you were, about to be plunged into its depths with little more than a vague idea of what awaited you.

The guide finally stopped in front of a heavy, reinforced door. He glanced at you, his expression softening ever so slightly, before pressing a button on the wall. The door slid open with a quiet hiss, revealing the medical station beyond.

"Standard procedure," the guide said, his voice less harsh now, as if trying to offer some semblance of comfort. "They just need to make sure you’re fit for the journey ahead. Nothing to worry about."

You nodded, stepping through the doorway into the sterile, clinical environment of the medical station. The room was starkly lit, with white walls and gleaming medical equipment arranged neatly along the perimeter. A team of doctors and nurses, all dressed in pristine white uniforms, waited for you inside. Their faces were a mix of professionalism and mild curiosity, as though you were just another specimen to be examined before being sent on your way.

As the door closed behind you, sealing you in the room, the reality of your situation began to weigh heavily on you. You had to pass this final checkpoint, a thorough examination to ensure you were physically prepared for the journey ahead before getting the one-way ticket to hell.

The doctors gestured for you to sit on a cold metal chair in the center of the room. You did so, feeling the coolness seep through your clothes as they began their work, checking your vital signs, drawing blood, and performing a series of tests designed to assess your fitness for the perilous journey.

All the while, your mind kept drifting back to the massive submarines and the dark, unknown depths they were built to explore. You couldn’t shake the feeling that once you boarded one of those vessels, there would be no turning back. The only way out was through, and whatever lay ahead in the deep ocean was as vast and unknowable as the abyss itself.

As the medical team finished their assessment, the door slid open again, and your guide reappeared. His expression was as stern as before, but there was a slight nod of approval as he looked at you.

“You’re cleared,” he said simply, stepping aside to let you exit the room. “Now, let’s get you suited up. It’s time.”

With a deep breath, you followed him out of the medical station.

After the medical examination, the guide led you back through the labyrinth of hallways, deeper into the heart of the facility. Your mind raced as you walked, the sterile environment doing little to calm your nerves. You were heading toward something monumental, something that would change the course of your life, but the details were still murky, shrouded in the secrecy of Urbanshade’s operations.

Finally, you arrived at another reinforced door, larger and more imposing than the last. The guide swiped a keycard through a panel, and the door slid open with a deep, resonant hiss. Inside, a small team of technicians was bustling around a large metal chamber—your submarine. The sight of it sent a shiver down your spine. It looks like a giant dark prison that would suffocate you slowly once you step inside.

“Suit up,” the guide instructed, gesturing toward a nearby rack where a diving suit hung waiting for you.

You approached the suit, eyeing it with a mix of trepidation and curiosity. It was sleek, made from a dark, heavy material that felt both flexible and incredibly durable. The suit was designed to withstand the crushing pressures of the deep sea and most of the things that were swimming in the water such as tiny bacteria, and as you ran your fingers over it, you could feel the quality of the suit.

With some help from the technicians, you began the process of donning the suit. They worked with swift efficiency, guiding your arms and legs into the suit’s sleeves, adjusting the fit, and sealing it tight around your body. The suit clung to you like a second skin, the material warming slightly as it activated, responding to your body heat.

Next came the helmet, a heavy, reinforced piece with a full visor that provided a wide field of vision. The technicians lowered it carefully onto your head, locking it into place with a series of metallic clicks. The moment the helmet sealed, your world became slightly muffled, the sounds of the facility fading into a low hum as the suit’s internal systems took over. A heads-up display flickered to life on the visor, showing a stream of data—your vitals, oxygen levels and a myriad of other readings you couldn’t yet decipher.

The last piece of your equipment was a utility belt, which the technicians fastened securely around your waist. The belt was lined with pouches and compartments, each designed to hold the tools you’d need for the mission. You noticed a small pouch containing a syringe—likely the medication to knock out Sebastian. It had the same color as the syringe in Mr.Wiltshires office. Another compartment held the USB stick, its purpose still lingering in your mind and clearly important given its inclusion in your gear. There were other items as well—what looked like a flashlight and a single medkit.

As the final adjustments were made, the guide stepped forward, his expression as unreadable as ever. “This suit will keep you alive down there,” he said, his tone matter-of-fact. “But it’s not invincible. Be smart, and don’t push your luck.”

You nodded, trying to swallow the lump in your throat. The weight of the suit was beginning to settle in, both physically and mentally. You were about to be sealed inside a metal capsule and sent into the darkest reaches of the ocean, a place where few had ventured and even fewer had returned from. But there was no turning back now.

The guide led you toward the submarine’s entry hatch, which stood open like a gaping maw, waiting to swallow you whole. The technicians handed you a pair of thick gloves and a small pack containing a few rations and basic batteries for the flashlight—just in case.

With everything in place, you took a deep breath and stepped into the submarine. The interior was cramped, with barely enough room to stand upright. Every surface was lined with panels of blinking lights, screens displaying data, and rows of buttons and switches whose functions you could only guess at. It was a far cry from the spacious, sterile halls of the facility above.

The guide climbed in after you, maneuvering with practiced ease in the tight space. He gestured for you to sit in one of the reinforced seats bolted to the floor. You complied, feeling the seat’s harness click into place around your suit. The guide moved to the controls at the front of the vessel, flipping switches and pressing buttons with the confidence of someone who had done this many times before.

“This is it,” he said without looking back at you. “Once we close the hatch, we’ll begin the descent. The sub is fully automated, so you won’t need to do much. Just keep an eye on your vitals, and stay calm.”

The hatch began to close with a heavy clang, the last sliver of light from the outside world disappearing as the metal door sealed shut. A dull thud echoed through the chamber, followed by a series of mechanical whirs and clicks as the submarine’s systems came online.

You felt a slight shift as the vessel detached from its moorings, the faint sensation of movement signaling the start of your journey. The submarine began its slow, steady descent into the depths, the hum of the engines the only sound breaking the silence.

You glanced at the small viewport beside you, watching as the murky waters of the facility’s dock gave way to the inky blackness of the deep sea. The light from the sub’s exterior lamps cut through the darkness, revealing the occasional flicker of marine life darting past. But as you continued to descend, even those fleeting glimpses faded away, leaving you surrounded by a void so absolute it felt like you were sinking into nothingness.

The minutes stretched into what felt like hours as you descended deeper and deeper. The pressure increased with every meter, the submarine creaking and groaning in response. You kept your eyes on the HUD inside your helmet, watching the readings carefully, trying to stay calm.

Suddenly, a voice crackled through the comms, pulling you from your thoughts. “We’re reaching the operational depth,” the guide said, his voice sounding distant. “Everything’s looking good. We’ll be in position shortly.”

You nodded, even though he couldn’t see you, and took a deep breath to steady yourself. You were about to reach the point of no return, the depth where Urbanshade’s mysteries lay hidden.

As the submarine settled into position, the guide turned toward you, his face illuminated by the dim glow of the controls. “From here on out, you’re on your own,” he said, his tone serious. “Follow your mission, and you’ll be fine. And remember—whatever happens, stay focused. This isn’t just some walk in the park. What you find down here could change everything.”

With that, he pressed a final button, and the submarine’s systems hummed to life in full force. The hatch beside you opened with a loud hiss, revealing a narrow passage leading out into the deep.

It was time. You unbuckled your harness, your gloved hands moving with a new sense of purpose. The small pouch on your belt containing the syringe and USB stick felt heavier than before, a constant reminder of the stakes. You adjusted your gear one last time, ensuring everything was secure.

Then, with one final look back at the guide, you stepped out of the submarine and into the unknown.

The submarine’s departure was swift and final, leaving you standing alone in the small, dimly lit underwater dock. The hatch closed with a deep metallic thud, and the vessel immediately began its descent back into the depths, the sound of the engines fading into the surrounding water until there was nothing but silence. You were left to take in your new surroundings.

The dock itself was smaller and far more utilitarian than the one you had departed from. Heavy cargo boxes were stacked neatly along the walls, each labeled with codes and symbols you couldn’t decipher. Metal shelves held various tools and equipment, their contents slightly askew, as if someone had left in a hurry. A few tables were scattered around, covered with open crates, maps, and other items left behind by whoever had last used this space. Everything had a layer of dust on it, giving the place an eerie, abandoned feel.

As you took a cautious step forward, your boots echoed on the metal floor, breaking the stillness. The air was thick with the scent of saltwater and oil, mingled with a faint metallic tang that made your skin prickle. The lighting was low, casting long shadows that danced across the walls with each flicker of the overhead lamps.

You moved toward one of the tables, scanning its contents. A few scattered documents caught your eye, their pages yellowed and brittle. Most of the text was smudged or faded, but you could make out references to “Navi-Paths” and “Asset Collection,” terms you recognized from your briefing. Whatever had happened here, it was clear that this facility had been operational once—before it was abandoned to the deep.

Suddenly, a crackle of static filled the air, making you jump. After a moment, a voice from Urbanshade HQ cut through the noise, calm and authoritative.

“Welcome to the Hadal Blackside,” the voice began, echoing in the empty dock with an unsettling clarity. “You are now within one of the most classified zones in all of Urbanshade’s operations. Your objective is simple: collect all assets and follow the designated Navi-Path. The resources you gather here are invaluable to our continued efforts, and your success is imperative.”

The voice paused, letting the weight of the words sink in before continuing.

“The Navi-Path has been mapped out for you. Follow it closely. It's the door signs. Straying from the path may result in disorientation, loss of communication, and even death. You are on your own out there, but we expect nothing less than full compliance. Remember: your mission is the priority. All other considerations are secondary.”

The transmission ended abruptly, leaving you alone once again in the oppressive silence of the dock. The weight of their words hung heavy in the air, the enormity of your task settling in. You adjusted the belt strapped around your waist, securing the small pouches that held the few tools you’d been given—some basic equipment, the small syringe for “emergency” use, and the USB stick that would prove vital to your mission.

Steeling yourself, you moved toward the exit, your path uncertain but driven by necessity. The first room beyond the dock was a wide, cavernous space, lit only by a few dimly lights that barely cut through the darkness. The walls were lined with more shelves, some of which had toppled over, spilling their contents onto the floor. Papers, tools, and unidentifiable scraps of metal were strewn everywhere, evidence of some past chaos.

You stepped carefully around the debris, your eyes scanning the room for anything useful. You found a few more documents, some partially legible, others completely ruined by time and moisture. Most were mundane—logs of inventory, maintenance records—but you stuffed a few into your pouch, just in case.

As you moved deeper into the room, your flashlight beam landed on a closed file cabinet in the corner. You approached it cautiously, the handle cold and slightly rusted under your gloved hand. With a bit of effort, you managed to pry it open. Inside, you found a stack of neatly organized files, most of them still in decent condition. You quickly flipped through them, noting the keywords: “Expedition Logs,” “Resource Acquisition,” “Subject Analysis.” These were the assets you were here for. You stuffed as many as you could into your pouch, the weight pressing against your side as you continued your search.

The next room was larger, with a vaulted ceiling that made the space feel even more ominous. Large machines sat dormant along the walls, their purposes unknown but their sheer size intimidating. The sound of dripping water echoed through the chamber, each drop amplified in the silence.

As you moved cautiously through the room, you spotted another item of interest—a small metal case half-hidden under one of the machines. You pulled it out and carefully opened it, revealing a series of USB sticks neatly lined up inside. Each was labeled with codes similar to the ones on the files you’d found. You didn’t know what they contained, but they were clearly important. You took the entire case, securing it in one of your larger pouches.

Suddenly, the lights flickered, sending a jolt of fear through you. You blinked, trying to shake off the unease. The facility was old, after all, and flickering lights were just another sign of its decay—nothing to worry about. At least, that’s what you tried to convince yourself, brushing off the creeping dread that began to settle in.

But then, the sound hit you—an ear-piercing, bone-chilling scream that reverberated through the walls, freezing you in place. It wasn’t human, not by any stretch of the imagination. The sound clawed at your nerves, each second amplifying the terror gnawing at your gut.

Before you could even process what was happening, a massive black cloud of smoke burst into the room, swirling with unnatural speed and intensity. The sight of it sent your mind into a frenzy. This was no ordinary malfunction. Panic gripped you like a vice, your instincts screaming at you to run, to hide, to do anything to escape whatever horror was hurtling toward you.

Without thinking, you bolted toward the nearest hiding spot—an open locker tucked away in the corner of the room. You flung yourself inside, pulling the door shut just as the cloud surged closer, filling the room with darkness and a suffocating sense of dread. You held your breath, heart pounding in your chest as you tried to stay as still and quiet as possible.

Inside the cramped locker, you could hear the creature—or whatever it was—moving through the room, the sounds it made more akin to a swarm than a single entity. It hissed and crackled, its presence oppressive, as if the very air was being sucked out of the space. You could feel the vibrations of its movements through the metal walls of the locker, each shift causing you to tense up even more.

Time seemed to stretch out, every second an agonizing eternity as you waited, hoping that the creature would pass you by. Your mind raced with a thousand thoughts, none of them comforting. What was that thing? Why was it here? And, most terrifying of all—would it find you?

You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to quiet your breathing, hoping against hope that the locker would be enough to shield you from whatever nightmare had been unleashed in this forsaken place.

The giant monster rushed past as quickly as it had appeared, leaving you trembling in the confines of the locker. Your chest heaved, desperate for air, but it felt like no oxygen was reaching your lungs. Panic gripped you tightly, each breath coming out as a shallow gasp. Your thoughts spiraled, the terror of what you’d just witnessed crashing over you in waves.

Your hands shook uncontrollably as you fumbled with the helmet of your diving suit, the need to get it off suddenly overwhelming. The locker felt suffocatingly small, the walls pressing in on you from all sides. You could feel the cold metal against your back, your fingers finally finding the latch on the helmet. With a frantic jerk, you ripped it off your head, letting it fall with a clatter inside the cramped space.

Gasping, you sucked in the stale, metallic-tasting air of the locker, but it wasn’t enough. Your heart pounded furiously in your chest, the sound of your own pulse deafening in your ears. It felt like the walls were closing in, squeezing the breath out of your lungs. No matter how much air you took in, it wasn’t enough to calm the storm raging inside you.

Your vision blurred as tears welled up in your eyes, your mind replaying the sight of that monstrous cloud over and over again. The sheer horror of it, the way it had filled the room with darkness and dread, it was too much to handle. You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to force the images out of your head, but they wouldn’t go away. The locker felt like a cage, trapping you with your fear, and your thoughts spiraled further out of control.

Your breaths came faster and faster, each one shallower than the last. You tried to steady yourself, to get a grip, but your body wouldn’t listen. You felt like you were drowning in your own panic, every nerve in your body screaming for escape, but there was nowhere to go. The fear had taken over completely, locking you in a vice grip of terror.

For what felt like an eternity, you sat there, struggling to breathe, your body shaking with the intensity of the panic attack. Eventually, the sheer exhaustion began to slow your frantic breaths, but the fear still lingered, clawing at the edges of your mind. You knew you couldn’t stay in the locker forever, but the thought of stepping back out into the darkness, where that thing might still be lurking, was almost too much to bear.

But you also knew you couldn’t stay in this state, trapped in a locker, paralyzed by fear. You forced yourself to take deeper breaths, to focus on the sound of your breathing, the feel of the cold air filling your lungs.

In the end, you couldn’t stay in the locker any longer. The walls felt like they were closing in on you, suffocating you with your own fear. With shaky breaths, you finally gathered the courage to push open the door and step out into the dark, disorienting space. The room was eerily silent, the absence of light making it impossible to see where you were going. You hesitated, trying to get your bearings without crashing into any furniture or walls.

Then it hit you—you had a flashlight. Relief mingled with your lingering panic as you remembered. Quickly, you fumbled for it, plucking it from your belt and flipping it on. The beam cut through the darkness, revealing the room around you. The light danced over scattered documents, overturned furniture, and… a strange, human-shaped hole in the wall.

You blinked, trying to make sense of it. The edges of the hole were jagged, as if something had forced its way out of the wall. Unease prickled at the back of your neck as you stepped closer, the flashlight’s beam trembling in your hand. You leaned in to get a better look, your mind racing with possibilities, none of them good.

Suddenly, a soft, almost imperceptible sound echoed through the hall—a faint shuffling, like something dragging across the floor. You froze, the hairs on the back of your neck standing up. The sound was close, too close, and it sent a chill down your spine.

You swung the flashlight around, its beam sweeping over the room, desperately searching for the source of the noise. The light caught movement—just a flicker at the edge of the beam, but enough to send your heart racing.

Your breath hitched as you slowly turned toward the direction of the movement. Your flashlight illuminated a figure emerging from the wall itself, its form eerily human but distorted in unsettling ways. The Wall Dweller moved silently, its dark, gaunt shape blending seamlessly with the shadows. It was halfway out of the wall, its empty eyes locked on you with a chilling intensity.

For a moment, you were paralyzed by fear, your body refusing to respond as the Wall Dweller slithered free from the wall. But as the flashlight beam lingered on it, something unexpected happened—the creature froze. Its body stood still against the light, and for a brief second, it seemed almost uncertain.

Then, with a sudden, jerky motion, the Wall Dweller recoiled. It shifted back, retreating toward the open door you came from as if the light had unnerved it. You watched in shock as the creature sprinted back through the hallway, its gaunt figure slipping away into the darkness from which you came. The shuffling sound faded as quickly as it had begun, leaving you alone in the quiet room once more.

You stood there, heart pounding in your chest, flashlight still pointed at the now-empty wall. The encounter had left you rattled, but relief washed over you as you realized the Wall Dweller had fled, seemingly more afraid of you—or perhaps of the light—than you were of it.

Slowly, you lowered the flashlight, trying to steady your breath. The room was silent again, but the tension in the air had lessened. Whatever that thing was, it was gone now.

You took a moment to steady yourself, the flashlight still clutched tightly in your hand. The room was quiet, the Wall Dweller gone, but your nerves were frayed. You couldn’t afford to stay here any longer, not with the darkness pressing in and the uncertainty of what might be lurking nearby. You needed to keep moving.

Cautiously, you stepped out of the room and into the hallway, the beam of your flashlight leading the way. The hall stretched out before you, lined with doors that seemed to go on forever. You chose one at random, the door creaking open as you pushed it with trembling hands. The room beyond was an office, eerily quiet and dimly lit by the emergency lights flickering weakly overhead.

You scanned the room, your eyes falling on several desks cluttered with papers and office supplies. You knew what you were here for—files, documents, anything that might be of value or contain information. Your heart was still racing, but you forced yourself to move forward, sweeping the flashlight over the desks and shelves.

As you approached the nearest desk, you noticed a stack of files haphazardly piled on top. Quickly, you started rifling through them, your eyes scanning the labels and dates. Some of them seemed important, so you grabbed what you could, shoving the files into the small pouch at your waist. The rest of the room yielded more documents, USB sticks, and other bits of data that you added to your growing collection.

The more you found, the more you realized how vital this information might be. But as you continued to search, the lights above you flickered, sending a jolt of fear straight through your chest. You froze, staring at the ceiling as the light stuttered again, threatening to plunge you into darkness.

Panic gripped you. The memory of the Wall Dweller was still fresh in your mind, and the thought of being caught in the dark again was unbearable. Your breath quickened, the room suddenly feeling far too exposed, too open. You needed to get out, and fast.

There was no locker here, nowhere to hide. You glanced around frantically, searching for another exit, another room—anywhere that might offer safety. The lights flickered once more, this time staying off for a fraction too long. It was enough to make your decision.

Without thinking, you bolted from the office, your footsteps echoing loudly in the deserted hallway. You didn't care about the noise, didn't care about anything except getting to a place where you could hide. The hallway seemed endless, but you pushed yourself forward, heart hammering in your chest.

Finally, you spotted another door ahead, slightly ajar. You sprinted towards it, not slowing down until you reached it. Your hand shot out, wrenching the door open as you stumbled inside, slamming it shut behind you.

Panting heavily, you leaned against the door, trying to catch your breath. The room was dark, save for the faint glow of your flashlight, but it felt safer—more enclosed. You aimed the beam around, revealing another small office. This one was more cramped, with just enough space to move around.

Relief washed over you as you noticed a locker in the corner, its metal surface gleaming dully in the light. You wasted no time, crossing the room and throwing open the locker door. It was empty, just big enough for you to fit inside. You clambered in, pulling the door shut behind you as you crouched down, trying to quiet your breathing.

The darkness of the locker felt strangely comforting now, a shield against the unknown. You hugged your knees to your chest, listening intently for any sound outside. But there was nothing—just the pounding of your own heart and the faint hum of the building’s dying lights.

And then a heavy force rushed into the room before smashing itself against the metallic locker, the force pressing a dent into the double doors, making you scream as your space went smaller and smaller. You pushed your shaking legs against the doors with full force, keeping the dent and the monster from squishing you to death but whatever the creature was, wouldn't stop and rammed more against the poor locker that would soon give up.

Your heart pounded in your chest as the relentless force continued to crash against the locker, each impact louder and more violent than the last. The cold metal bent inward with every strike, the sound of creaking steel and the screech of the creature echoing in your ears. The small space grew unbearably tight, the walls closing in as you pushed back with all your might, your legs trembling under the strain. Fear clawed at your throat as you realized the locker wouldn't hold much longer. Desperation surged through you as you searched frantically for any possible escape, knowing that the next impact could be your last.

The relentless assault finally ceased, leaving an eerie silence in its wake. You gasped for breath, your body trembling from the strain and adrenaline. The creature had retreated, its monstrous presence fading into the distance. The metal locker, now warped and twisted, barely provided any protection, but it was over.

Your legs were numb, a dull ache spreading through your entire body. Bruises throbbed on your skin where the locker had pressed into you, and the terror of the encounter left you drained, every ounce of energy spent. As the adrenaline ebbed away, the pain intensified, overwhelming your senses.

With a final, weak breath, your vision blurred, and you slipped into unconsciousness, your body slumped behind the battered double doors.

#sebastian solace #sebastian solace x reader #sebastian solace x you #sebastian solace fanfic #roblox pressure #asabovesobelow #pressure #gn!reader #gender neutral #sebastian x gn!reader

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aspenmissing · 5 months ago

Text

ʙᴇʏᴏɴᴅ ᴇQᴜᴀᴛɪᴏɴꜱ

ᴠɪᴋᴛᴏʀ x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ || ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ || 2592 ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ꜱᴍᴀʟʟ ᴀᴄᴄɪᴅᴇɴᴛ (ᴇᴠᴇʀʏᴏɴᴇ ɪꜱ ᴏᴋᴀʏ)

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: ᴀ ᴛᴀʟᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴄᴏɴɴᴇᴄᴛɪᴏɴ ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʀᴀɴꜱꜰᴏʀᴍᴀᴛɪᴏɴ, ᴡʜᴇʀᴇ ɪɴᴛᴇʟʟᴇᴄᴛ ᴍᴇᴇᴛꜱ ꜱᴘᴏɴᴛᴀɴᴇɪᴛʏ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴄᴀʟᴄᴜʟᴀᴛᴇᴅ ᴘʀᴇᴄɪꜱɪᴏɴ ᴄᴏʟʟɪᴅᴇꜱ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴜɴʀᴇꜱᴛʀᴀɪɴᴇᴅ ꜰʀᴇᴇᴅᴏᴍ. ᴛʜʀᴏᴜɢʜ ꜱʜᴀʀᴇᴅ ʀɪꜱᴋꜱ ᴀɴᴅ Qᴜɪᴇᴛ ᴍᴏᴍᴇɴᴛꜱ, ᴠɪᴋᴛᴏʀ ᴅɪꜱᴄᴏᴠᴇʀꜱ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ʟɪꜰᴇ’ꜱ ɢʀᴇᴀᴛᴇꜱᴛ ɪɴɴᴏᴠᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ɪꜱɴ’ᴛ ɪɴᴠᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴ—ɪᴛ’ꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ᴜɴᴘʀᴇᴅɪᴄᴛᴀʙʟᴇ ꜱᴘᴀʀᴋ ᴏꜰ ʜᴜᴍᴀɴ ᴄᴏɴɴᴇᴄᴛɪᴏɴ.

ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ᴠɪᴋᴛᴏʀ

Viktor paced through the hallways of the Academy, his mind a whirlwind of ideas and theories. He had always been captivated by the pursuit of knowledge, but lately, there was something more alluring. Someone.

Y/N had only recently started teaching at the Academy, and her presence had already made an impact. Her brilliance in Advanced Theoretical and Applied Engineering Physics was undeniable, and she had a way of inspiring her students, making them feel as though they could conquer anything with enough persistence. But it wasn't just her intelligence that caught Viktor's attention. It was the fire in her eyes, the spark of determination that fueled her every action.

On his way to the lab, Viktor passed by the academy courtyard, where the familiar roar of a motobike engine filled the air. He glanced over, unable to help himself.

There she was—Y/N—sitting confidently on her custom-designed motobike. Her helmet was sleek, the reflective visor hiding her face, but the pose she held made it clear she was in complete control. The bike was a work of art in itself, a perfect blend of engineering and aesthetic beauty, clearly a product of Y/N's genius. She revved the engine once, the sound reverberating off the stone walls, before she sped off, leaving a trail of dust in her wake.

Viktor couldn't help but smile. She was everything he admired in a person—fearless, driven, and unafraid to push the boundaries of what was possible.

Later that evening, after the classes had ended and the corridors of the Academy grew quieter, Viktor found himself lingering by the lab, lost in thought. The door to his office creaked open, and he looked up to see Y/N standing there, her helmet tucked under her arm, her protective suit still on but slightly dishevelled from the ride.

"I didn't expect to see you here so late," Viktor said, his voice a little softer than usual, though his curiosity was clear.

"I could say the same about you," Y/N replied with a playful smile. "I know you tend to get lost in your work, but I have to admit, it's nice to see someone who shares the same passion for innovation. Even if it means burning the midnight oil."

Viktor chuckled, setting his tools down. "It's the price we pay for progress."

Y/N walked toward him, her steps confident, her gaze sharp. "Is that what you think you're doing? Progress?" she teased. "You know, for someone so focused on engineering, you could use a bit of… innovation yourself."

Viktor raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "And what exactly do you mean by that?"

Y/N's grin widened. "I think you could use a little more fun in your life. A little less time in the lab and a bit more time out in the world. Ever considered taking a ride on my bike? It might help clear your mind."

For a moment, Viktor hesitated. The idea of stepping away from his work was… foreign. But then he looked into her eyes, and he saw something different. She was offering him more than just a ride. She was offering him a chance to experience life beyond the confines of equations and machines.

"Perhaps you’re right," he said, nodding slowly. "But only if you promise not to leave me behind."

Y/N’s laughter was light and full of warmth, and it was then Viktor realized how much he enjoyed her company. She was a perfect complement to him, someone who could challenge him in ways that were both intellectual and personal.

Without a word, Y/N motioned for him to follow her. He hesitated only briefly, then complied, leaning lightly on his cane as he trailed behind her. Viktor couldn’t help but admire the way she moved—graceful, confident, and utterly unapologetic. She had a presence that demanded attention without asking for it.

Soon, they were standing by her bike once more. Y/N handed him a spare helmet, her fingers brushing his as he took it. Without missing a beat, she climbed onto the bike, her movements fluid and practiced.

Viktor adjusted the helmet carefully, taking his time to ensure it fit properly. His gaze flicked briefly to his cane. He exhaled, attaching it securely into to the side of the bike - as per Y/N's order. Then, with measured effort, he swung a leg over the bike, settling into the seat behind her.

The engine roared to life beneath them, vibrating through Viktor’s frame. He adjusted his grip on the seat awkwardly, unsure where to place his hands. His hesitation didn’t escape Y/N’s notice.

With a soft laugh, she glanced over her shoulder. “You’re not going to fall off, Viktor. Here.” She reached back, took his hands, and guided them around her waist. “Hold on tight.”

He stiffened slightly, unused to the proximity, but nodded. “If you insist,” he murmured, his tone tinged with unease.

“Trust me,” she replied with a playful smirk.

Before Viktor could second-guess himself, Y/N twisted the throttle, and the bike surged forward. The sudden acceleration pulled a surprised gasp from him, and his grip tightened instinctively. The wind tore past them, the city lights below blurring into streaks of gold and silver as they sped through Piltover’s streets and winding roads.

At first, Viktor’s focus was on maintaining his balance, his thoughts tangled with the unfamiliar sensations of the bike. But as the ride continued, something shifted. The steady hum of the engine, the rush of the wind, and Y/N’s smooth, confident movements began to weave a rhythm—steady, hypnotic, and liberating.

For the first time in years, Viktor felt untethered from the weight of his responsibilities and limitations. The freedom was exhilarating, and he found himself leaning into the experience, trusting Y/N’s expertise as she maneuvered through the city and up a steep hill outside its heart.

Finally, Y/N brought the bike to a stop atop the hill, overlooking Piltover. The city spread out below them, its glittering lights reflecting off the winding canals and casting a warm glow into the night. Viktor hesitated as he dismounted, steadying himself with his cane as Y/N turned to face him, her expression lit with quiet excitement.

She gestured toward the view. “I thought you’d like this better than the Academy,” she said, pulling off her helmet and running a hand through her hair. “The best ideas come when you can see the bigger picture.”

Viktor removed his helmet, setting it on the bike as he stepped toward the edge of the hill. The sight was breath-taking. Piltover, alive with industry and innovation, glimmered like a constellation brought to earth. He felt a sense of awe he hadn’t experienced in years, his mind unusually quiet.

“Well,” he said after a moment, his voice softer than usual, “this is… different.”

Y/N’s lips curved into a smile as she leaned against the bike. “Told you. Innovation isn’t just about machines and inventions. Sometimes, it’s the people we meet and the experiences we share.”

Viktor turned to her, studying her in the moonlight. She was right. Y/N was a kind of innovation herself—dynamic, unpredictable, and endlessly fascinating.

As the cool night air rustled the grass around them, Viktor realized something profound. For so long, his world had revolved around his work, his relentless pursuit of progress. But now, he’d found something—or someone—just as valuable.

A kindred spirit. A partner in intellect and adventure.

And for the first time in years, Viktor felt something deeper than ambition: hope.

As they raced through the winding streets of Piltover, the wind whipped around them, and the city blurred into streaks of light. Viktor found himself mesmerized—not just by the speed and freedom of the ride, but by Y/N herself. Her precision, her unshakable focus, and the seamless way she controlled every twist and turn—it all left him in awe.

But the night had one more surprise in store.

A figure darted suddenly into the street ahead of them—small and quick, likely a stray animal. Y/N’s eyes widened, and with lightning-fast reflexes, she yanked the handlebars, swerving hard to avoid the obstacle. The motion was swift and fluid, but the tires screeched in protest, losing traction on the slick pavement.

The world tilted violently, and Viktor’s stomach churned as the bike skidded. The pavement loomed closer, the chaos unfolding in slow motion. Y/N’s instincts kicked in immediately. With practiced ease, she threw herself to the side, grabbing Viktor by the waist and pulling him on top of her as they slid. Her protective suit, built for moments like these, absorbed most of the friction as she shielded him from the worst of the impact.

They came to a halt mere inches from a stone wall, the bike lying several feet away, its engine sputtering and smoking. For a moment, the world was eerily quiet, save for the distant hum of the city.

Viktor blinked, disoriented, finding himself sprawled atop Y/N. Her chest rose and fell rapidly with exertion, her helmet askew, revealing flushed cheeks and windswept hair. She was alive—unharmed, it seemed—and so was he, thanks to her quick thinking.

Their eyes met. A flicker of shared relief, laced with humor, passed between them. And then, as if on cue, they both burst into laughter.

But the night had one more surprise in store.

They came to a halt mere inches from a stone wall, the bike lying several feet away, its engine sputtering and smoking. For a moment, the world was eerily quiet, save for the distant hum of the city.

Their eyes met. A flicker of shared relief, laced with humor, passed between them. And then, as if on cue, they both burst into laughter.

The absurdity of it all—the exhilaration, the crash, and now lying in a tangled heap in the middle of the street—was too much to contain. Viktor couldn’t help but laugh at how he’d gone from marveling at Y/N’s brilliance to being literally saved by it.

“You know,” Viktor said, his voice unsteady from laughter, “I didn’t expect to end up on top of you tonight.”

Y/N smirked up at him, her voice playful despite her breathlessness. “Well, I’ve been told I make a great cushion. You look pretty comfortable.”

Viktor chuckled, shaking his head as warmth spread through his chest. Even in the aftermath of a crash, she found a way to disarm him completely.

With a light groan, Y/N pushed herself up, Viktor sliding off her and onto the ground beside her. She adjusted her helmet and brushed bits of gravel from her suit. “Well,” she said with a grin, “this wasn’t exactly part of the plan, but it’s definitely a memorable pit stop.”

Viktor straightened, running a hand through his hair as he brushed the dirt from his coat. “Memorable is one word for it,” he said wryly. He glanced at her, the gratitude evident in his gaze. “Thank you. You… you protected me.”

Y/N shrugged with a casual air, though her smile softened. “It’s what I do. You’re a terrible passenger, by the way,” she added with a teasing glint in her eye. “Next time, try not to freak out and grab me so tightly.”

Viktor raised an eyebrow. “I seem to recall you telling me to ‘hold on tight.’”

“Touché,” Y/N replied with a laugh, offering her hand to help him stand.

He took it, steadying himself as he rose, and his weight shifted slightly to his unsteady leg. The movement was subtle, but Y/N noticed, her gaze flicking to his stance. A flicker of realization crossed her face.

“Your cane,” she said suddenly, glancing back at the bike.

Viktor froze, a pang of worry flashing in his eyes. “The cane…”

Y/N was already moving. She crouched by the bike, her hands running over the scratched surface until she found it still secured to the side. It was intact—surprisingly unbroken, considering the crash. She let out a breath of relief and unhooked it, turning back to him with a triumphant smile.

“Good news,” she said, holding it up. “Your cane survived the adventure too.”

Viktor exhaled softly, a mixture of relief and gratitude washing over him. He took the cane from her, his fingers brushing against hers for a moment. “Thank you,” he murmured, his voice quieter now, but no less sincere.

Y/N straightened, her expression shifting to something more thoughtful as she watched him steady himself. “You know,” she said, her tone lighter again, “this is starting to feel like one of those inventions you’re always talking about—trial and error. We’ll refine the process next time.”

Viktor smirked, tapping the cane lightly against the ground. “Perhaps with fewer crashes.”

“Agreed,” she said with a chuckle. Her gaze softened as she added, “But for what it’s worth, you handled that better than most.”

Viktor met her eyes, his lips curving into a small smile. “Because I had you to handle the worst of it.”

They shared a moment of quiet understanding before Y/N turned her attention back to the bike, now lying on its side with a faint plume of smoke rising from the engine. She inspected it briefly, her hands brushing over the scratched paint.

“Well,” she said, stepping back and placing her hands on her hips, “looks like we’ll have to walk it back. Unless you have a better idea?”

Viktor glanced toward the distant city lights glittering below. A faint breeze ruffled his hair, and the night air felt cooler now after the rush of the ride. “A scenic walk might be just what I need,” he said, leaning slightly on his cane.

Y/N tilted her head, a smile curving her lips. “You’re full of surprises, Viktor.”

As they began their walk back, laughter and warmth lingered between them, the crash already transforming into a shared story they’d both remember. Viktor glanced at Y/N, a feeling of admiration settling in his chest.

She wasn’t just fearless and brilliant—she was endlessly unpredictable, the kind of adventure he never thought he’d find. And as they moved through the quiet streets, Viktor realized she wasn’t just a kindred spirit.

she was an adventure all her own.

#Arcane #arcane fandom #arcane fluff #viktor x reader #viktor x y/n #Fluff #Reader Insert #viktor x you

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wisteriaiswriting · 1 year ago

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Cuddling Heavy, Engineer and Spy because I'm normal about these guys.

Cuddling Headcanons

Words: 486

When you two are relaxing he would rather you to stay near him.

He doesn’t mind whether you're just in his sight or in arms reach.

Misha isn’t as warm as you would think he’d be.

He’s just slightly warmer than the average person. (It’s a noticeable difference, but just as welcome in the colder times.)

Makes up for it with his muscles.

They’re surrounded by a nice, soft layer of fat. (The perfect place to lay on. <3)

It’s a given here, no matter how long you two spend together, he’ll always be afraid of hurting you.

If you fall asleep during this time he won’t move a muscle until you wake.

Tries to keep the others either away or at least quiet enough so you don’t wake up.

If you are awake though, he’ll read from some nearby books.

He runs unnaturally warm. (Which leaves you wondering how he isn’t always sweating or at least complaining.)

You quickly notice how rare it is for him to fall asleep, especially during your cuddles.

It’s even rarer to find him still with you near the end of your session.

But once you're in his grasp, you aren’t being let go.

If you ask him nicely he won’t be able to resist, let you drag him anywhere you want.

Let him do his small routine beforehand though. (He doesn’t want to cover everything in oil and anything on his clothes.)

After a few minutes when you're comfortable he’ll just fall asleep though.

Personal headcanon here, he’s a sleep talker.

His brain won’t stop even in his (Very limited) sleep.

If you listen to his words, you’ll hear him talk about his future plans, blueprints and just machines in general.

But you falling asleep before him in your little cuddle session is another story.

There’s a high chance he’ll make sure you're still comfortable and asleep before leaving to work more.

But there are plenty of times where he just didn’t get up, feeling bad for leaving you so he stays.

It’s not that surprising to know, he is not a cuddler.

He can barely fathom why people would actually do it.

But if you really beg him to, he might just join you for a while.

It has to be on his terms though.

Cannot be anywhere except for in his room, and only you two.

He will have something playing in the background, likely a movie.

If you want to talk he’ll indulge, but if not he might be silent or fill it.

After bigger fights and he’s tired it’s a lot easier to get him to join you.

That’s when you have a bit more freedom.

This is when he actually starts cuddling properly. (Who knew spy could cuddle, pretty well at that.)When you leave everyone can tell where you were. (Turns out the cigarette smoke smell isn’t that easy to get rid of.)

#tf2 x reader #tf2 x male reader #tf2 heavy #tf2 heavy x reader #heavy x reader #tf2 engineer #tf2 engineer x reader #tf2 engie x reader #engineer x reader #tf2 spy #tf2 spy x reader #spy x reader #wisteria♥

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spheretechpackagingindia · 2 years ago

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Volufill Series Oil Filling Machine In India.

An Edible Oil Filling Machine Is A Type Of Liquid Packaging Machine That Is Designed For Filling Containers With Edible Oils, Which Can Have Varying viscosity depending On The Type Of Oil.

These Machines Are Used To Package Various Types Of Edible Oils, Such As Coconut And Peanut Oils, Among Others.

#edible oil filling machine #oil filling machine #mustard oil packing machine #automatic oil filling machine #coconut oil filling machine #engine oil filling machine #cooking oil filling machine

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anonymous-dentist · 7 months ago

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A Little (bit of) Love

My piece for @tryzine !!

It starts deceptively simple: Cellbit and Roier are taking a walk together through the Favela at sunset, fresh coffees in their hands from Starbobby. Cellbit can’t stop staring at Roier. Roier can’t stop staring at Cellbit. Bobby is watching from above, probably rolling his eyes at how goofy Roier looks when he’s in love.

There are two creatures walking a step behind Cellbit and Roier that Cellbit is purposefully ignoring.

Roier’s shoe comes untied next to a recently-added flowerbed. Cellbit offers to tie it, Roier laughs and teases Cellbit, Cellbit hands Roier his coffee to hold as he crouches and takes Roier’s shoelaces in his hands.

Just barely visible through the gap between Roier’s legs, Pulgoier looks blankly up at the flowers. They’re taller than it is, but just barely.

?, the disgusting little thing, follows Pulgoier’s gaze. And then, horrifyingly, and entirely of its own accord, it reaches up and snaps a flower off at the base of its stem. It holds the flower out to Pulgoier, head ducked just slightly, almost bashfully; Pulgoier doesn’t smile, because it can’t, because it isn’t real, but it does take the flower.

Frozen in abject horror, Cellbit doesn’t react as Roier annoyedly taps at his head and asks what’s taking so long. Why is he just sitting there, what’s wrong?

And then Roier turns around and sees his Mini-Me holding the flower close to its chest and pressing a plastic kiss to ?’s cheek, and Roier gasps.

“Aww, look!” he coos, fingers tangling in Cellbit’s hair excitedly. “They’re in love!”

And Cellbit feels nothing.

Cellbit’s son is gone. So is a significant part of Cellbit’s heart, and yet he knows that he is still capable of feeling love. He’s alive, after all: he isn’t a religious man, but he likes to think that everything with a heart can feel love. Dogs love their owners. Lions love their mates. Crocodiles love the hunt. Parrots love to show off.

The Mini-Mes? Notably not alive. They aren’t real. They’re plastic and felt and yarn and whatever-the-fuck electronics the Federation shoved into their fake little bodies. Their nerves are made out of copper. Their veins are filled with self-recycling machine oil. Their hearts are combustion engines that run off of the items that their islander counterparts provide them daily.

Cellbit knows this. He’s cut his Mini-Me apart so many times that ? knows not to squirm on the dissection table. Every time he’s sewn ? back together, he’s made ? hold the roll of string so it doesn't roll away. He’s made ? bleed oil to the point that he once caught ? drinking gasoline when Cellbit’s back was turned.

The Mini-Mes don’t feel emotions. They can’t. They aren’t real. They’re creatures, if one could call an inhuman amalgamation of wires and eco-friendly microplastics a creature. It’s more apt to call them robots.

Monsters.

Cellbit knows that the MIni-Mes were created for war. He watched the video at that conference, he knows exactly what the little assholes were made for. Now that they’re stolen, their purpose has probably been shifted by the Federation from fighting to spying.

They can’t feel love. This much, Cellbit knows. They were created for battle, and now they’re just biding their time. Waiting.

The fact that ? seems to be in love with Pulgoier is an outlier that should not be considered. They’re both just mimicking their owners, that’s all. Which begs the question of exactly how adaptive the Mini-Mes are; they can change appearance at the drop of a hat, but behavior? They’ve been robotic up to this point, what changed?

Cellbit asks this to ? as ? sits in its cage staring at the oil-stained wall.

?, of course, doesn’t respond. That’s good, Cellbit doesn’t know what he’d do if the little bastard learned how to talk.

But, at the lack of a response, Cellbit inexplicably feels a sense of… God, is this bravery he’s feeling coming off of ?? Is that it? An attitude?

Cellbit’s eyes narrow, and he leans in closer to the cage with a sneer.

“Whatever you’re doing, I’m onto it,” he growls.

? just adjusts its goggles in response. Its hand briefly dips into the Fear Room’s light, exposing a thin black line drawn around ?’s left hand ring finger. A ring.

Cellbit is so surprised that he doesn’t even feel angry for a good moment.

But then ? looks up at him as if asking, “And what about it?”, and Cellbit finds himself standing and kicking the cage so hard that it falls over, sending ? toppling.

A ring. A goddamn ring.

A goddamn mockery, more like. It’s mocking him. The Federation is mocking him, he knows it. He fucking knows it.

(But… why?)

Pulgoier starts holding ?’s hand. ? keeps picking things off of the side of the road to give to Pulgoier, and Cellbit hates it.

Roier makes a little shoebox bed for them that he puts under his and Cellbit’s own bed. Instead of powering off for the day in a corner of the room, ? and Pulgoier go there at night, and Cellbit hates it.

? and Pulgoier sit across from each other on the floor when their owners have their meals. Sometimes they pretend to eat, usually pretending to feed each other, and Cellbit hates it.

Richarlyson would have killed them by now. Cellbit wishes he was here to do so, but.

But.

But it’s well past midnight, and Cellbit can’t sleep. This isn’t anything too unusual; he learned how to live off minimal sleep back during the War, for better or for worse.

But Roier can’t sleep, which means that he’s somewhere in the castle, which means that Cellbit is somewhere in the castle because there’s no way in Hell he’s letting his depressed and sleep-deprived husband wander around mourning.

Tonight’s ‘somewhere’ is the garden, and Cellbit has Roier in his arms as they sway back and forth to the music playing softly on Roier’s communicator. (The Federation is shitty for so many reasons, but at least it’s providing the island with Spotify Premium free-of-charge.)

The song is unimportant. So are the two little freaks of nature watching from beneath a rosebush. So are the Federation’s hidden cameras, and Bad somewhere downstairs trying to carry Cellbit’s dining table out the door, and the itching bloodlust in the back of Cellbit’s brain.

What is important is Roier, and so Cellbit focuses all his attention on him.

He’s tired, clearly so: his hair is more of a mess than usual, his clothes are rumpled and wrinkled, his shoes are untied, his bandana is lost somewhere in the bedroom, his lips are chapped, and the circles under his eyes are dark enough to rival Cellbit’s.

Cellbit doesn’t think he’s ever seen a more beautiful man in his life.

He says as much, words ghosting across Roier’s pale lips.

Roier smiles weakly, and he murmurs a quiet, “No, you.”

The song changes to something a bit quicker. They both ignore the change in tempo and decide to follow each other’s, instead.

Cellbit’s arms tighten around Roier. He pulls him closer, nose burying itself in the side of Roier’s neck and breathing in his scent and internalizing it, filing it away in the little cabinet in his brain labeled ‘Roier’.

“You stink,” he grumbles.

“Yeah, because you’re all over me,” Roier responds. He lightly pinches Cellbit’s side. “I know what we’re doing when we get back inside.”

Cellbit whines, sagging in Roier’s arms. He loves his husband, but he does not love showering with him; Roier takes so long under the water that it’s running cold by the time it’s Cellbit’s turn, and his shampoo smells so strongly that it makes Cellbit have an asthma attack.

Cellbit doesn’t even have asthma!

What Cellbit does have is an unfortunately-acute sense of hearing. It’s a blessing at times, and it’s a curse.

His eyebrow twitches in annoyance as he hears the absolute faintest of sounds: the crunching of grass beneath clumsy feet, and the overworking of machinery as it tries to figure out how to laugh.

At the same time, Roier gasps, “Mira, mira!”

But Cellbit doesn’t look. Why should he? He’s having a good time. He doesn’t need some… some… some things ruining it.

“Ay,” Roier insists, poking Cellbit between his ribs once. “Gatinho, mira.”

Another poke. “Mira.”

Another poke. “Cellbit.”

(Poke.) “Cellbo.”

Cellbit’s eyes squeeze shut. He presses a kiss to the crook of Roier’s neck to try and appease him, but Roier just pokes him again. With determination.

“Stop ignoring me!” he huffs. “Unless… you hate me? You want a divorce?”

At that, Cellbit’s head snaps up in a panic.

“Não!” he shouts. Why would Roier ever…

Lips twitching into a semblance of a smile, Roier grabs Cellbit’s face with one hand- squeezing his cheeks together and making him feel a bit like a fish- and turns it to the side.

…right. If there’s one thing Roier is, it’s a fucking asshole. (And a handsome one at that.)

Cellbit’s shoulders sag in relief, but said relief quickly melts back into annoyance as he’s forced to look at the Mini-Mes and their… well. It isn’t dancing, that’s for certain.

Pulgoier has taken the lead, just like Roier has. It’s holding ?’s little hands and rocking from side-to-side: left, right. Left, right. Left, right. It doesn’t move from its spot other than a small amount of shuffling as it tries pulling at ?’s hands in an attempt to get it to actually move.

? is still. It’s staring directly into Pulgoier’s beady little eyes, absolutely frozen. If it could blush, Cellbit is sure that it would be doing so.

Cellbit inadvertently copies it, stiffening against Roier’s body and stopping any and all movements. He doesn’t mean to- he wants to keep dancing, to keep ignoring the Mini-Mes and their bastardized attempt at “romance”, but…

“Look,” Roier quietly says, sounding almost awed.

He lets go of Cellbit’s face so he can press his cheek against Cellbit’s.

Cellbit feels Roier’s jaw work against his as he concludes, “It’s us.”

Because… it is. It is, somehow, in such a fundamental way that Cellbit can’t really identify it as anything but Cellbit-And-Roier.

“Oh,” says Cellbit, voice hardly above a whisper.

He watches as Pulgoier tugs on ?’s arms, and as ?’s legs start to shake under it.

Cellbit doesn’t actually remember a lot of his wedding reception; between the explosions and the alcohol, it’s all just a lot of blurry faces and the feeling of Roier-Roier-Roier-Roier-Roier.

What he does remember is being ushered into the center of the dance floor along with Roier and freezing. The world faded from around him, and all he could think about was Roier’s smile as he took Cellbit into his arms; Roier’s warm hands on his body; Roier’s alcohol-laced breath across his face. His body was a stranger.

He remembers thinking, ‘Shit. I don’t know how to dance.’ Because he didn’t, and he still doesn’t, because he never had a chance to learn how. It just never came up in his life, and then, suddenly, he was supposed to dance. At his wedding. In front of the entire island. And everyone he knew.

And he remembers the way Roier’s face softened as he picked up on Cellbit’s anxiety. His hands slid from Cellbit’s back, up to his shoulders, down the lengths of his arms, and to his hands. He tangled their fingers together, took a step back, and winked.

Pulgoier physically can’t wink, but it otherwise does exactly what Roier did all those months ago: it takes a step back, and it just starts spinning.

? can’t shout like Cellbit did back then, but it otherwise does what he did all those months ago: it gets pulled along, forced to spin along with its partner, stumbling over its own feet and flailing about like a doll caught in the wind.

“I can’t fucking believe this,” Cellbit mutters.

“I can,” Roier replies. “He’s your Mini-Me, of course he can’t dance for shit.”

He yelps out a laugh as Cellbit indignantly steps on his foot.

Roier’s right, though; Cellbit can’t dance for shit. And neither can ?, being Cellbit’s shitty little clone.

The night of the wedding, it took Cellbit a good solid minute to get his feet back under him. He felt himself smiling, and, maybe it was the wine in his system, but he found himself tugging Roier in a spin in the opposite direction. He was dizzy as Hell, but it made Roier laugh when he did it, so he just… kept doing it. Eventually, the spin led into a proper attempt at a slow dance that failed so miserably that the two of them gave up and jumped onto the stage for another round of karaoke.

Tonight, ? picks up on things a bit quicker than Cellbit had. It stabilizes, nods to itself, and starts pulling Pulgoier into its own spin. Almost immediately, they’re attempting a proper waltz, and Cellbit…

Cellbit doesn’t get it.

At first, Cellbit wasn’t sure what the end goal of the Mini-Mes was. Then, he realized that they’re little soldiers. Robotic supersoldiers capable of self-multiplication and growth, literal war machines.

But then… why do they look like the islanders? Why does Pulgoier have the same dark circles as Roier? Why does ? have the same scar across its chest that Cellbit does? What’s the point? The Federation doesn’t do anything without a purpose, so why do the Mini-Mes have to look like their owners if they’re meant to grow up and kill them?

Why can they dance?

“What’s the point?” he murmurs. Roier hums in acknowledgement, and Cellbit takes that as a sign to continue: “Of copying us?”

“Because we’re sexy,” Roier responds.

Cellbit rolls his eyes. “True. But, think about it, what purpose does any of…” (He waves his hand in the MIni-Mes’ general direction.) “...this serve?”

“I don’t know, but… look at them.”

Cellbit looks. He doesn’t understand. Something uncomfortable rises in his throat.

? twirls Pulgoier, leading it into a dip. Pulgoier raises its head and presses its painted mouth against ?’s.

Chest clenching, Cellbit tries to tear his eyes away, but he just… can’t. He can’t. Not when they’re right there, not when they’re-

“You think they’re learning from us, right?” Roier asks. “So… maybe they aren’t learning how to kill us. Maybe they’re learning to be us.”

Cellbit gives him a flat look. “Isn’t that just as bad?”

Roier shrugs, still watching the little monsters.

“Maybe,” he replies. “I’m not a scientist. But… isn’t it kinda crazy that we taught robots how to love?”

But robots can’t love. They can’t. But.

Roier’s arms tighten around Cellbit’s body. His smile is just as forced as it has been since the eggs all vanished, but his eyes are surprisingly soft as he watches the Mini-Mes tumble into the grass from the force of their silent, impossible laughter.

“They’re just copying us,” Cellbit weakly says. “It isn’t actually real.”

“Maybe,” Roier hums. One hand travels up to cup the back of Cellbit’s head, gently pulling it against his chest. Cellbit listens to Roier’s heartbeat and wills his own heart to match its pace.

“Or,” he continues, “maybe it is. We found our reasons. Maybe they found theirs.”

They watch the Mini-Mes, and the Mini-Mes don’t notice.

The song changes, and Roier starts leading Cellbit into another dance.

Cellbit’s eyes slip shut, and he lets himself get swept away by Roier’s movements.

(Bagi would call Cellbit a monster, but Cellbit found love in the end. So maybe, just maybe, ? could have done the same.)

#spiderbit #guapoduo #qsmp #a.d.'s fics i suppose #a.d.'s fics i suppose.#i'm actually really proud of this one #i never write canon but. come on. it's them!#and the other them!

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dewdropdinosaur · 9 months ago

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Kinktober Day 7: Bruising or Biting

Summary: You get injured while working at the factory and low-and-behold your clothes get torn. Carmilla, ever the concerned and watchful boss, make it known how well she can take care of you. Warnings: Implied smut, bruises, biting, etc. PG-13 Kinktober Mention of the Day: @pixie-skull I know you didn't request this but it seemed like something you may like and I wanted to treat someone as amazing as you! Go check out his art edits, they're so good!!

Steam and smog emitted in large plumes from the weapons factory run by Carmilla Carmine, the air was thick with the scent of metal and oil; punctuated by the hum of machinery. You were deeply engrossed in your work, calibrating a series of prototype weapons that had come straight from the mind of the ruthless queen of industry herself. Each click and whir of the machines resonated with your commitment to quality, but today felt different. The atmosphere crackled with an unspoken tension, one that grew palpable every time Carmilla made one of her routine visits.

As you tightened a bolt on the latest prototype, the factory doors swung open, revealing Carmilla in her signature tailored suit, the sharp lines accentuating her every move. She was a vision of confidence, and the way her crimson eyes scanned the room sent a shiver down everyone’s spine.

“Y/N,” Carmilla called, her voice smooth as silk, drawing the engineer’s attention. “How’s progress on the new line?”

“Going well, I think,” you replied, forcing a calmness into your tone despite the fluttering in your chest. “We should be ready for the initial tests by next week.”

“Good,” Carmilla said, stepping closer, her eyes narrowing as she examined the weapon. “But I want it perfect. You know how the investors are.”

Nodding, a hint of determination glimmering in your gaze, you went back to work. Just then, a loud crash echoed through the factory as a nearby assembly line malfunctioned, causing a cascade of metal parts to tumble to the floor. Without thinking, you nstinctively bolted from your desk to stabilize a falling piece, but your timing was off. In a split second, a heavy metal arm swung dangerously close, catching you off guard. Attempting to dodge the shrapnel, you swerved but it just grazed your side, knocking you off balance. The world tilted as you stumbled, trying to catch yourself, but failing as you fell hard against the cold concrete; a sharp pain shooting through your side.

“Y/N!” Carmilla’s voice sliced through the chaos, laced with an urgency that was unusual for her. She rushed to your side, kneeling down to assess the damage. The factory around her flashed with red lights, white sparks flying everywhere as workers rushed around trying to bring order back. You winced, feeling the pressure of Carmilla’s hands as they examined your side. It wasn’t just the physical pain that caught you off guard; it was the intensity of Carmilla’s gaze, filled with a mix of concern and something deeper. Pulling you out of the room with ease, the older woman sat you down on a sofa outside the factory room.

Carmilla’s fingers brushed against your shirt, tearing the fabric slightly and revealing the mottled bruises that decorated your skin—remnants of previous accidents that you had tried to hide. Your breath caught in your throat, a rush of vulnerability flooding your system. You had never wanted Carmilla to see you like this, exposed and flawed. Carmilla's expression softened as she traced the bruises with her fingertips, an uncharacteristic gentleness gracing her features.

“You should be more careful,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. The proximity was intoxicating, and you felt a warmth spread through you, despite the pain. Well, maybe it was the pain, actually.

“I’m usually careful,” you replied, forcing a laugh, trying to lighten the mood. “Just... a little off time today.”

Carmilla’s eyes flickered, a mix of amusement and something else—something you had dared to hope for but never fully acknowledged. “You need to be more than just careful, Y/N. You need to take care of yourself.” There was a weight to her words.

“I will,” Y/N promised, feeling a blush rise to your cheeks. “I just—”

But before you could finish, Carmilla leaned in closer, her voice dropping to a low murmur. “I mean it. You can’t keep pushing yourself like this. I’d hate to see you hurt more seriously.” The sincerity in her tone sent a thrill through you, struggling to process the electric tension in the air. You could see the flicker of emotions in Carmilla's eyes—desire mingled with concern—and you felt a daring urge to bridge the gap that exisited.

“I’ll do my best,” you replied, her voice steady despite the whirlwind of feelings. “For you.”

Carmilla's gaze softened even further, a small smirk forming on her face as her gaze fell to the marks on your skin. You shirt half torn, revealing your toned and experienced body, her eyes fillting to take peaks at what she could gleam from the fabric of your bra that stuck out. Reaching out and tracing her fingertips lightly over the material, she leaned close and her hot breath fanned over the shell of your ear.

“I think there could be a way for you to make it up to me.”

Gulping, a hot blush spread across your feature. Were you dreaming, was the impact causing a concussion? Surely, this couldn’t be happening.

“I can think of many ways that I could bruise that pretty neck of yours myself. Mhmm, what do you say to that my little perfect employee?”

How could you say no? Especially when she pulled you into that broom closet and you could feel her teeth on your neck for weeks.

#hazbin hotel fandom #romance #answered #carmila carmine #carmilla x reader #carmilla carmine x reader #kinktober 2024 #kinktober #wlw post #wlw ns/fw #hazbin hotel smut #hazbin hotel x reader #lgbt pride

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tj-dragonblade · 9 months ago

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[FIC] Loyalty Rewards Program

Fandom: The Sandman Pairing: Dreamling Rated: E Word Count: 9204 Tags: Human AU, Mechanic Hob, Rich Guy Dream, top Hob, bottom Dream, Dream of the Endless is a Horny Little Weasel, class dynamics, as a kink perhaps, Dream of the Endless is intense and unhinged, Hob matches his freak, Bossy Dream, Agreeable Hob, Service Top Hob Gadling, Enthusiatic Bottom Dream, Dream is Not Quiet in bed, there is a hand over his mouth to keep him quiet at one point, blatant disregard for typical human refractory periods, rimming, anal sex, felching-adjacent, inconsequential ingestion of lube, effusive endearments, dirty talk, overstimulation, anal fingering, help my hookup is growing feelings

Notes: Third in the Turbo Lover series (Customer Service and Every Nerve Alive on Tumblr, if AO3 is down). This one happened because Dream was insistent on getting properly fucked in the garage and I refuse to be the author who uses engine grease or motor oil for lube. This fills the free space (B2) on my @dreamlingbingo card, and is also the longest Sandman fic I've written to date.

Summary: Dream comes back to Matthew's Motor Repairs the next day and Hob gives him everything he asks for

On AO3 Hob re-locks the door as soon as he's ducked inside the shop the next morning; he's not opening for people today.

He has other obligations, after all.

He first makes a thorough job of cleaning and sweeping the floor around the Porsche. Whatever the plan today entails, he doesn't want to wind up kneeling on a bit of gravel or taking a stray hex nut to the arse cheek while he's fucking his rich admirer. Granted he may need to do a quick spot-sweep when Dream shows up—if Dream shows up—since he'll be working on the car in the meantime, but doing it now will make that faster.

…Of course Dream's going to show up, Hob's not worried. Guy was thirsty as fuck yesterday, he'll be back. He's got a car to pick up, after all, and speaking of, Hob had best make sure it's ready.

He strips out of his clothes and dons his coveralls nude, leaves them unzipped to the waist, not even bothering to keep his underwear today. It's cooler than yesterday but still plenty warm, and this will make things faster once Dream shows up. He's pretty sure Dream will appreciate the aesthetic, also.

Hob whistles to himself working under Dream's Porsche, finishing up the clutch replacement that he hadn't quite been able to focus on after Dream left yesterday. It's quick work to wrap it up and he makes sure to let grease smears accumulate on his arms and maybe he deliberately puts a couple of artistically-placed smudges on his chest, for fun.

With the clutch done, he moves on to changing the oil, flushing and refilling the other fluids, and giving the car a general tuneup. The Porsche is a beautiful machine and Hob's thrilled to have the chance to work on her.

He's thrilled to have the chance to work on her owner, too.

When the shop bell rings, Hob's heart leaps. He's just got the car all closed up and down from the ramps and done another quick sweep so assuming that's Dream, and it should be, his timing is perfect. He winds his way to the front, zipping up his coveralls just in case and opening the door.

Dream is there on the other side, as breathtakingly gorgeous as Hob remembers. "Am I the 'special circumstances'?" he asks, coy and smouldering as he taps the handwritten sign Hob had pasted in the window—Closed for walk-ins due to special circumstances; ring if you have an appointment.

"The specialist of circumstances," Hob agrees, effervescent joy and lust bubbling up inside him, spilling into his smile. "Closed up so I'm all yours. Entirely at your service."

"Wonderful," Dream purrs, stepping through the door. "For I am desperately in need of the services of a good mechanic."

Hob pulls the door closed after him, ensures it's latched in and that it's still locked, then turns with a grin. "You've come to the right place then, love. I'm at your disposal, one hundred percent, and I will personally see to your complete satisfaction. Guaranteed." He winks.

Dream steps in closer, tilts his head just enough to gaze up heatedly from beneath his lashes, toys with the tab of the zipper at Hob's collarbone. "Do you offer such comprehensive personal service to all your customers?" He's slowly drawing the zip down as he speaks.

Hob's heartrate picks up and his breath goes a bit short. "Oh no, this comes special with our uh, our loyalty rewards program," he manages, with his best charm-the-customer smile. The dainty fingertips unzipping his coveralls are very distracting.

Dream stops once he's exposed Hob's chest hair, rakes his nails through it lightly, skirting the grease smeared above it. "But this is the first time I have brought my patronage to your shop," he counters, with the prettiest little pout.

Hob shakes his head. "See I count twice; you tried out my services yesterday and found them satisfactory enough to come back today. And I'm very sure, if I meet your exacting standards, I can earn your repeat business. So I'll opt you in, because I have that much confidence in the quality of my work."

He's mixing his references clumsily, the car repairs and the sex getting muddled together, but Dream is smiling all the same. "Let us hope your confidence is not misplaced, then," he says, voice dipping lower in that way that makes Hob's stomach tighten delightfully. "I should hate to be granted such privilege unduly."

With that, Dream draws the zipper down more, then turns and steps away, casting a come-hither glance over his shoulder as he sashays toward the door into the garage. Hob, unzipped to the waist and hard already, is hot to follow, but first—

He tears the sign from the window, hangs the normal 'Closed' sign in its place, double-checks the lock and throws the deadbolt for good measure. He rounds the reception desk and logs into the phone system, makes sure the auto-answer is set to the 'closed unexpectedly' option, and sets the ringer to after-hours so it'll go straight to messages instead of ringing through. Not that he'd be stopping in the middle of whatever they're about to be doing to answer the phone, but this way they're guaranteed no distractions, no interruptions. Then he hurries after Dream.

Dream is completely naked when he gets back to the garage, leaning pale and pretty and barefoot against the side of his Porsche with his arms loosely folded and his cock hanging ready, half-hard, beautiful.

"Well hello, gorgeous," Hob says, unabashedly enthusiastic as he approaches, wondering if he's meant to just dive in or wait for a cue, if he's allowed to pull Dream into his arms and start with a kiss. His gaze falls to the delicate arches of Dream's feet, the soft pale curves of his toes (with black-painted nails!), and he's really glad he swept up first.

"You occupy my thoughts incessantly, Hob Gadling," Dream says, pushing off the car and stepping close to Hob again, hands reaching to toy with the open edges of his coveralls.

"Do I, now?" Hob decides on a caution-to-the-wind approach and snakes an arm around Dream's waist, raises a dirt-stained thumb to brush over his cheek. Dream hadn't hesitated yesterday to say what he did and didn't want; Hob will trust him to do the same today. "They're good thoughts, I hope?"

"Very," Dream breathes, gripping the coveralls, tugging marginally; his eyes are dark, his pale cheeks faintly flushed with excitement, his pretty pink lips slightly parted, and Hob sees no reason to resist the temptation presented.

The noise Dream makes when Hob kisses him is soft, eager, encouraging, and Hob presses closer, lets both hands play over Dream's bare skin, up and down his spine. Dream is kissing back, heated and insistent; he slips both hands inside Hob's coveralls, around his waist and down to grasp his arse cheeks, squeeze appreciatively, pull him closer.

Hob breaks away with a gasp, delighted and impossibly turned on; Dream squeezes again, nips at the scruff on his chin. "You are not wearing any underwear today, Hob," he murmurs, in a tone of pleased discovery, and Hob can't help grinning.

"Thought you might appreciate it," he says, breathless, hands stroking up and down Dream's biceps, leaving faint smudges behind. "Makes things a bit faster, easier—"

"And are you easy, Hob Gadling?"

"Only for you," he answers, which is truer than it would have been two weeks ago. "God, you smell good today—" He really does, floral-herbal freshness wafting from his hair, faint notes of soap and a light cologne lingering on his skin; Hob lets instinct shape his words. "So clean and pretty, too; come down to the garage to get properly dirty, have we?"

The way Dream shivers against him tells him that was indeed the right thing to say.

"Perhaps," Dream replies, and squeezes Hob's arse again. "I very much appreciate your wardrobe choices, in that regard." He brings his hands around front, one dipping to cup Hob's dick while the other draws the zipper all the way down underneath.

"Thought you might," Hob manages, while Dream's slender fingertips touch his balls, stroke with gentle pressure, and then Dream is moving, grasping at the shoulders of Hob's coveralls and pushing them off.

"I would feel you, bare, against me," is what he says, which sounds like a fine idea to Hob. He struggles briefly with the rolled-up sleeves but as soon as his arms are free Dream is in them, pressing up against him, kissing him fiercely and completely derailing any attempt at getting the coveralls all the way off.

Fuck it, Hob decides, letting them just fall around his legs as he wraps Dream close and kisses him back, hungry and insistent to match Dream's fervor. He backs him up a step, two, until Dream's narrow arse hits the Porsche again and he squirms prettily, his cock nudging up against Hob's as they break the kiss, panting.

"Over the bonnet then, love?"

Dream shakes his head, an effortlessly imperious little gesture. "I wish to ride you, first." He gestures to the creeper. "Please."

Clearly, clearly Dream's got some very specific fantasies about cars and mechanics and Hob is delighted that he gets to help make them happen. "Absolutely," he grins, shuffling down into position on the board.

Dream grabs a condom and a bottle of lube from where he'd stashed them between the windscreen and the bonnet and drops next to Hob. Which is just as well since Hob's supplies are with his clothes in the locker on the other side of the garage; he leans back on his elbows as Dream tears open the condom and rolls it onto him.

"You've got such pretty hands," he breathes, shivering at the glide of Dream's touch along his shaft, and doesn't miss the breath Dream sucks in at the compliment. "Gonna show me how you use those fingers to open yourself up? Or do I get to do that for you, hm?"

"Neither," Dream answers, rising and turning to lean over the side of the bonnet, which confuses Hob for half a second until he speaks again.

"Spread me open," he directs, and Hob is only to happy to sit up and comply, to see the greasy smudge of his fingerprints smeared on Dream's lily-white arse—

Dream is wearing a plug.

Hob's libido, already cranked to eleven, ratchets up another notch. "Oh, fuck," he breathes reverently, wide-eyed. Dream had put that in at home, had come here sitting on it, walking with it inside him, just to be ready for Hob's cock?

Christ, but that's hot.

He watches raptly as Dream's slender fingers grip the wide base and start pulling; he takes his time and Hob gets to just hold him open and watch as Dream's hole slowly stretches around the flare of the thing, bigger and bigger until it finally passes the widest point and slides the rest of the way free, and the hungry little sound of relief Dream makes as it comes out makes Hob's dick ache.

He desperately wants to slip his tongue in there, wriggle it into the shrinking gape and let Dream's body close to grip snugly around him, but Dream is a man on a mission, and that mission is getting Hob's prick inside him. He straightens up, turns and straddles Hob, fingertips to Hob's chest pressing him down as Dream squats over his lap. He drops the plug aside, reaches behind to take Hob's slicked-up rubber-wrapped cock and guide it into his body as he comes down, and the sound he makes plus the tight warm sheath of his arse have Hob absolutely riveted.

Dream lifts himself, thighs straining and hand firmly on Hob's chest now, fucks himself up and down on Hob's prick while hovering over it, letting out the most decadent moans each time he sinks onto it. He'd said he wanted to ride Hob but he's only made it as far as squatting, like he's so desperate for Hob's cock he can't even wait to get all the way into proper position for it and Hob (and his dick) definitely feel some kind of way about it. Dream's own prick bobs stiff and eager in front of him, a little drop of fluid glistening at the tip already, and Hob almost wishes he was enough of a contortionist to get it in his mouth. Later, perhaps. Right now he's got this gorgeous creature pistoning eagerly on his cock and well on his way to losing his mind, from the sound of it.

Hob spreads both hands over the tops of Dream's thighs, feeling how they tremble with exertion, and finally draws them down, forward, coaxing Dream out of his squat and into a proper kneeling position. He shifts his grip to Dream's hips and pulls him onto his cock at the same time, all the way down until he's buried deep up inside and Dream is panting the breathiest little 'yes, yes, yes's as he bottoms out, eyes wide and glazed. His hand is still planted on Hob's chest and Hob takes it up carefully, draws it to his mouth and kisses Dream's fingertips; Dream whines, gaze sharpening and honing in on Hob's actions. Hob's lips brush the pads of those fingers as he speaks.

"Did you still want to ride me, darling? Or should I hold you still and start fucking up into that pretty little hole?"

Dream shivers, makes another needy little noise and draws himself up on Hob's cock, sinks back down, does it again, and again, faster, harder, until he's panting breathless moans on every pass. His hands are planted on Hob's chest, up near his shoulders next to the grease smeared beneath his collarbone, and Hob rests his hands at Dream's hips, ready to take up the slack if he's needed.

Dream rides like a pro, to be honest, finding his rhythm and moving steadily in pursuit of his pleasure. His arse is snug and hot and slick, his voice like a song as he glides so easily up and down on Hob's prick; he feels amazing, and Hob has to remind himself to breathe as it goes on and on, to keep a rein on his own pleasure until Dream's gotten everything he needs.

At last Dream's pace begins to falter, his panting moans stuttering into broken little whimpers as he flags in his feverish bouncing. "Hob," he whines, arse wriggling lower, his fingers clutching at Hob's chest hair. "You feel. So good, inside me—"

"Do I?" Hob breathes, fingertips brushing over Dream's flanks, and it's weak, so weak as far as dirty talk goes but he can't help it. He's enamoured, struck senseless by how into this Dream is, and words are failing him.

"Yes—" Dream squirms forward and back, circles his hips beneath Hob's attentive grease-stained hands, moans prettily. "Hob, please—"

He doesn't even have to specify, it's clear enough what he's after now, and Hob moves to grip him properly, to lift him just slightly. He clutches tight, fingertips digging in to what little meat there is on Dream's arse, plants his boots on the concrete floor and thrusts up into him.

Dream cries out, clenches his fists on Hob's shoulders and throws his head back, chest heaving. Hob draws out and thrusts again, full force, and again, and Dream shudders, gasping, delighted. "Hob—yes—yes—" He squeezes tight around Hob's prick and groans, drops his head to meet Hob's gaze with fever-bright eyes. "Fuck me—I want—"

"Tell me," Hob breathes, mesmerized, shifting his feet for better leverage and thrusting into him again, and Dream warbles beautifully.

"Faster. Deeper—as hard and as deep as you can, Hob—!"

"'Course, love," Hob gasps, hips moving to comply with barely a thought, and Dream's voice rises into a long keening wail as Hob gives him precisely what he's asked for.

"Yes—yes—yes—!" He tosses his head back again, the arch of his throat working beautifully as he chokes out 'yes' after 'yes', arms stiff and trembling, hands still braced tight on Hob's shoulders.

Hob grunts with exertion, pounding up into Dream with everything he's got, thighs damp and sticking slightly where they press against Dream's. He's transfixed by the rapture in Dream's face, the sheen of sweat on his neck and chest, the stream of noises coming out of his pretty mouth; he looks and sounds like having Hob's cock in him is the best thing ever, like it's everything he wanted, and Hob is fast falling in love with how expressive he is about sex.

Dangerous thoughts, those; he puts them far away, concentrates on pumping hard and fast and deep up into Dream's lovely arse to make him come. He's careful still not to come himself; Dream has clearly got plans and it's his job to stay hard as long as Dream needs his cock.

"Hob—Hob—ahh, don't stop, Hob—!"

Hob squeezes Dream's arse, spreading his cheeks just a tiny bit more, and shifts the tempo down slightly, fucks up into him long and smooth, deep, steady. Dream wails, lost in the pleasure of it, and droops suddenly to lay over Hob's chest, a graceful fall into an open kiss interspersed with Dream's panting and whimpering. Hob shifts his hips to accommodate the changed angle and Dream sobs into his mouth, needy, desperate. His prick is nestled against Hob's belly, wet at the tip, hot and hard and Dream is moving helplessly as Hob fucks him, rutting through the hair on Hob's stomach in little jerks. He's tense in Hob's arms, trembling, skin damp with sweat all over and Hob thinks he could do this forever if he had to, fucking this gorgeous creature curled atop him but he doesn't have to, he knows, he can tell, Dream is nearly there—

Dream goes rigid abruptly, breath choking in his throat as his mouth opens wider, still meshed to Hob's. A high thin sound trickles out of his throat and Hob laps it up, fucks into him once, twice, again, and then Dream convulses with a wail, wet warmth blooming on Hob's belly. He buries himself as deep into Dream as he can and holds it there, flexes against the rhythmic clutching of Dream's arse around him, kisses Dream through the tremors and pulses of orgasm until he goes limp.

He spends a moment petting up and down Dream's spine then while Dream lies boneless atop him, catching his breath. He's still warm and tight around Hob's dick, perfect and tempting and—

And heavier than he looks, honestly; Hob shifts to take him by the shoulders, lifts him off his chest just a bit. Dream takes the cue, raises himself somewhat, blinks the haze from his eyes as he meets Hob's. The smile on his lips quickly sharpens to something simmering with heat, but Hob saw. He saw that glimpse of softness, the glow of bliss on Dream's face and he feels the way his heart trips, knows he's losing his battle.

There's a faint smudge of grease on Dream's forehead that probably came from Hob's collarbone and his dick twitches to see it. Dream shivers and squeezes around him and Hob sighs, a full and happy sound.

"You're pretty when you come," he says, gathering his wits about him again. He smears his hand through the mess on his stomach, picks up a little grease from just beside it, reaches to cradle Dream's face. "So, so pretty." He strokes his fingers back through Dream's hair, leaving a faint black smudge and sticky colorless smears on his cheekbone and more than a trace of filth in his hair.

"Only when I come?" It's a tease, accompanied by a gentle squeeze around him, and Hob shivers.

"'Course not," he murmurs, flexing his dick in response, delighted by the shiver that runs through Dream in turn. "You're pretty when you're bouncing on my cock, too. And when you tell me what you want me to do to you. And yesterday." He flexes again, warming to the topic. "You looked so pretty yesterday, with grease smeared on your face and my prick in your mouth."

Dream makes a pleased sound, squeezes his arse around Hob again, and Hob is more than ready to carry on, if Dream is. He strokes his thumb over the tacky mess on Dream's cheek. "Can I dirty you up some more, beautiful? Make you come for me again?"

"I should be very disappointed if you did not, Hob Gadling," Dream purrs, and there's that imperious little smirk again, the one Hob is already too attached to.

He'll give this man whatever he wants, and love every second of it.

"What next, then, sweetheart?" He's slowly pulsing up into Dream now in unhurried rhythm, too leisurely to be called fucking but ready to pick up the pace in a heartbeat. "Keep going like this?" The creeper is getting a bit uncomfortable, truth be told, and he wouldn't mind getting up off the floor but if Dream's not done yet he'll tough it out.

"No." Thankfully Dream sits all the way up, wriggles deliciously on Hob's cock, bottomed out and heavy-eyed with the pleasure of having it so deep inside him. "Next, I would have you—ahh—" He squirms, back arching, mouth falling open as Hob gives in to the temptation of dragging the rough grease-stained pad of his thumb over one pristine petal pink nipple. "Bend—bend me over the bonnet. Fuck me until I scream—Hob—!" He's panting as Hob caresses the tender little bud of flesh, writhing as if he could take Hob any deeper.

Hob shivers. "Fuck. Alright. As you wish, you precious beautiful man—" He lifts Dream's hips, lifts Dream off his cock as he sits up, then wraps one arm under Dream's narrow arse and heaves them both up with a grunt of exertion, his other hand braced on the car for support. It's awkward as fuck with his coveralls still wadded about his ankles and he can tell already his back and thighs are going to hate him for it tomorrow, but it's entirely worth it for the arousal that flares in Dream's widened eyes, the way he clings and wraps his legs around Hob, the way he surges in to kiss Hob again.

Hob shuffles round the front of the car using his one hand for guidance while Dream devours his mouth, and carefully lowers Dream onto the bonnet. He knows it's not the position Dream was looking for but he can't help slipping his cock back into him like this, when Dream is still wrapped around him and ripe for the plowing.

Dream breaks the kiss with a reedy little whining noise as Hob nudges inside him and sinks deep; he claws at Hob's shoulders and draws his legs back, open and practically begging and alright, okay, Hob can give him a good minute like this first, fucks into him in soft smooth rhythm. Dream's pretty pink cock is stiffening up again already, laying thick and half-filled against his belly and jolting with every thrust; he's panting open-mouthed, the sweetest little sounds falling out of him each time Hob pushes in.

"You're gorgeous like this too," Hob gets out, needing the talk to divide his focus, to keep himself going without risk of finishing. "So eager, so open, so fuckable—" Dream shudders, biting off a deep whine at the word, leaned back and still hanging onto Hob's shoulders for support, feet braced on his hips, and Hob zeroes in on his advantage. "Has no one ever called you that before, sweetheart? Fuckable?"

"None I would care to hear it from," Dream moans, pulling himself up closer, disrupting Hob's rhythm. "But. From your lips. It sounds like a benediction—" He kisses Hob, tongue plunging into his mouth, arms wrapping tight behind Hob's neck. His legs shift also, wrapping back around Hob's waist and he pulls himself close, up off the car as Hob gets his arms quickly underneath to support him.

"Give a bloke an ego, talking like that," he gasps, when Dream lets him up for air.

"It's well-deserved," Dream counters, nipping at his lower lip and shifting his weight so that Hob steps back to keep them balanced. "You are exquisite, and talented with your dick, and I wish to be so deeply and thoroughly fucked over my car that I will still feel you inside me tomorrow." He plunges his tongue back into Hob's mouth and unlocks his legs from around him, lets Hob set him back on his feet.

"Do you need a refresh on your lube first?" Hob gasps, mindful of what they've already done and what Dream still wants from him and the serviceable life of water-based lube.

Dream pauses, considering. "Perhaps," he says, with the restlessness of someone eager to get back into action but recognizing the wisdom of the question regardless.

Hob leans around him and reaches, snags the lube off the bonnet. "Let me slick you up a bit more just to be safe." He glances at his hands, perpetually stained and still dirty enough to leave smudges on Dream's skin. "Or you can, since your hands are cleaner?"

"Yes," Dream agrees, taking the bottle and squirting some out. He reaches behind himself and Hob gets to watch his face flicker through half a dozen little expressions; he's clearly moving for function over pleasure but there's enjoyment to be had all the same, from the look of it.

"There." Dream straightens as he finishes, eyes Hob with new heat in his gaze. "Are you clean."

"What?"

Dream narrows his eyes, clearly conveying both horniness and impatience in equal measure. "I am clean; I test regularly. I want your come inside me. Are. You. Clean."

Hob's libido flares, wildly. "Yes. Fuck. Yes, okay." Caution to the wind, and all that.

Dream reaches down and removes Hob's condom, drops it aside and picks up the lube again. He slicks up Hob's cock, kisses him fiercely while doing so, then turns and drapes himself over the bonnet of his Porsche and lifts up on his toes, arse presented. "Fuck me," he demands over his shoulder, breathless and eager like he hadn't just come bouncing on Hob's cock not ten minutes ago. Insatiable. "Hold me down with your work-dirtied hands and fuck me—"

Hob doesn't need to be told twice. He lines up and pushes in, bare slick and easy, all the way to the hilt. Dream makes the most appreciative and desperate little moan, wriggling backwards; Hob grabs his hip with one grease-stained hand, plants his other in the middle of Dream's narrow back and fucks.

Dream cries out, high gasping breaths punched from his lungs with every thrust and Hob just revels in it, moving in sure and steady rhythm. It's easy, so easy, smooth and slick and so good, and Dream's enthusiastic response is—it's heady, to have someone react to him this way, to want him this much, and he'll do everything he can to give Dream what he wants, to make it worth it. It's no hardship, far from it.

"Your arse is so hot," Hob pants, "so tight, absolutely perfect. Can't believe you wore that glass plug here so you'd be ready to get plowed." He grinds his hips deep in emphasis, draws out a little and relishes the way Dream whimpers when he slams back in. "Sweet of you, though. Did it turn you on, sitting on it in the cab? Feeling it move inside you when you walked? Were you horny and eager the whole way here, darling, stuffed full with your toy and imagining my prick in its place?"

"Yes, yes, yes!" Dream cries, as much an answer as it is interjection. He's thrusting backward as best he can in Hob's hold, eager and desperate, and Hob keeps fucking, keeps talking.

"I loved watching you take it out. Your beautiful hole stretching bigger and bigger around it, how open you were after. Wanted to stick my tongue in there, sweetheart, wanted to eat you out, make you squirm."

Dream is gasping, wailing, trembling where Hob pins him to the car, head tossing, breath heaving under Hob's steady hand. His cock is surely leaking a mess all over the bonnet; Hob'll have to clean it for him again when they're done.

"You've got the prettiest little hole I've ever seen," Hob continues, steady and unflagging in his rhythm. He leans back, drags both hands to Dream's arse cheeks and squeezes, spreads them so he can easily see himself sinking in, his naked prick pushing and pulling at the puffy pink rim of Dream's hole again and again. He slows, savoring the sight, and Dream whines, clenches around him as he presses back in. "Absolutely beautiful," Hob breathes, thumb moving to stroke over the delicate skin stretched tight around the girth of his prick. "Exquisite. I'm so lucky I get to ravish it."

He knows on one hand he sounds ridiculous as he picks up the pace again, but on the other it's doing the trick on both counts—distracting him from his own pleasure to draw it out, and driving Dream higher at the same time.

And Dream is absolutely being driven to the heights of pleasured madness, that much is clear. He's writhing on the bonnet under Hob's steady pounding, fingers clutching futilely at the glossy surface, skin flushed and sweat-damp and sticking to the car, ribs heaving. And the sounds coming out of his mouth? Good god, he's noisy, so fucking loud and it's not like Hob doesn't love it, not like there's anyone around to hear or any other reason to hold back. It does great things for his ego, the way Dream's wailing like he's never been railed this good in his life, but Hob's got an idea and his instincts say it's spot-on, so he goes for it.

He claps his hand—still grimy from the tune-up, still a little tacky with Dream's come—he claps it gently over Dream's mouth, stifling his volume, and Dream jolts, then goes wild. His head goes all the way back, giving Hob easier coverage; his breath comes short and sharp through his nose, faster and faster in time with his cries that go higher and shriller, muffled by Hob's not-exactly-clean hand. His body has gone tense, trembling, hips thrusting back against Hob's with mounting desperation and god, but Hob is in love. "That's it, sweetheart, come for me again," he murmurs breathlessly, bending close to Dream's ear and the dried mess on his cheek and squeezing his hip, flexing the hand that covers his mouth. "Take your fill of my cock, shoot your load all over your car—I'll clean it again for you, don't worry—"

Dream stills abruptly, shaking, voice a strangled muffled shriek as he comes; Hob thrusts deep into his pulsing clenching arse and holds, intending to let Dream ride out his orgasm. But Dream wriggles, wrenches his head free of Hob's hand, gasping.

"Move—don't stop—"

So Hob moves.

He straightens up and sets both hands back on Dream's hips, fucks eagerly into him, quickly re-establishing his rhythm and speeding up. "Good?" he grunts, sweat dripping down his temple, and Dream warbles out an affirmative.

"Harder—Hob—use me, claim me, fill me—!" His voice shakes; his hands are spasming against the bonnet, his arms trembling, and his arse is so tight and slick and hot, clenches so beautifully around him, Hob isn't going to last but another moment.

"Use your pretty little hole for my own pleasure?" he gets out, pounding into it now with everything he's got, spiraling up to the horizon, and Dream sobs.

"Yes, Hob, yes—!"

"Claim it for myself?" Hob gasps, grinding deep, slamming into him again and again. "Fill you up with my come—ahh—here it is—Dream!"

Dream wails, and Hob comes, gasping, grunting, the euphoria sweeping through his veins in a warm rush. His hips jerk involuntarily, shoving deep, emptying himself thoroughly into Dream's clutching arse.

"Fuck," he pants, pulse pounding in his ears, "oh, fuck—"

It's good, so damn good, feels like it goes on forever, everything in his body alight with pleasure and pouring out through his dick, until at long last it subsides and he collapses, barely catching himself before he crushes Dream. He takes a minute, just panting above him, and then pulls out carefully—still wet and messy, regardless—with a groan. Dream whimpers, a sound of abject loss, but does not move from where he has gone limp on the car.

Hob turns carefully to perch beside him, resting his arse on the bonnet, catching his breath.

"Alright there, Dream?" he asks, after a moment.

"Mmh," is the only reply, and Hob takes a moment to just look at him, gaze sweeping over the lines of his body and the grey-black smudges he himself has left on that pristine pale skin. He lingers over the curves (such as they are) of Dream's arse, leans far enough to see where there's a mess of lube and semen dribbling down Dream's perineum to his balls, a glistening runnel of it trickling down his inner thigh—Hob shivers, arousal sparking despite the remains of orgasm still simmering in his blood.

"Christ, you look beautiful like this," he can't help saying. "Fucked out across the bonnet of your Porsche with your legs spread, and my come dripping out of your arse…"

"Silver tongue." Dream does not move from where he sprawls, languid and heavy-lidded, spread-eagled on the car, even as Hob levers himself up, moves to stand behind Dream again.

"Mmyes, that's right. Said something about having a use in mind for it, didn't you?"

"Perhaps."

"'Perhaps' he says," Hob drawls, grinning, but the idea's back in his head now and oh, he would like to get his tongue in Dream's arse, lube or no lube. He saw the bottle, it's water-based, it's not going to kill him to lick a bit of it up. "Why don't you tell me if this is what you had in mind, then."

He drops into a squat and flicks the tip of his tongue around the puffy rim of Dream's messy and very-pink hole, circling it with a light touch, and the sound that Dream makes is nothing but encouraging. His own come is no particular delicacy but just like the lube, he doesn't mind that he's getting a taste in the course of eating out this beautiful man. Dream's hole is swollen with use and sensitive and Hob kisses it softly, wets his tongue and wriggles it in, gently at first with slurping licks in between but with increasing enthusiasm until Dream is squirming against his face and he's as deep as he can get, grease-stained hands gripping those milk-white cheeks and spreading them wide.

The keening noise Dream makes urges him on and he delves back in again and again, breathless and eager, feasting until his face is sticky and his jaw aches. Finally he draws back, panting, senses filled with the smell and the taste of this man and still, Dream remains insatiable.

"More. Hob, I want more, do not send me on my way so unsated—"

He has come twice, surely he is not sincere when he says 'unsated', and yet. Here he is, pleading for more, as needy and eager as he's been the whole time. And god, but Hob wants to give him everything, is itching to finger him out but he's not doing that when his hands are still dirty, he's just not. Nor is he going to make Dream wait while he scrubs down with the Swarfega. He casts about, thinking, tongue lapping soothingly around Dream's sloppy hole all the while; there's the plug Dream was wearing but it's been sitting on the shop floor so no; it's shaped for stretching more than fucking anyway. His fingers really would be best—

"Did you bring more than just the one condom?"

"Mmh?" Dream sounds keyed up and hazy, blissed out on the attentions of Hob's tongue and Hob smiles, plants a kiss over his hole.

"Condoms, love. Have you got another?"

"Yes. Trouser pocket—"

"And where did your trousers escape to?" He kisses again, flicks his fatigued tongue inside in a teasing lick.

"Front seat." Dream wriggles, needy, restless and wanting.

"Brilliant. Hang on, got an idea—" He scrambles up and around and finds the clothes rumpled in the Porsche's driver seat, rifles through the pockets for the promised condom and tears it open, slips it over his first two fingers as he shuffles round the front of the car again, coveralls still tangled in his boots. Dream is a vision sprawled face down and spread-legged on the bonnet, eyes tracking Hob's return, and Hob won't leave him waiting another instant.

"Here we are," he murmurs, condom-clad fingers sliding down the cleft of Dream's grease-smudged arse and slipping deftly into his hole still slick with lube and Hob's jizz, Hob's spit. Hob pushes deep, curves his touch down and massages, and Dream cries out, going rigid.

Grinning, Hob leans over the bonnet beside him, fingers working deep and steady, and watches Dream's prettily-dirtied face as he comes apart. He's mewling, eyes wide, mouth open and gasping; he's come twice already and his insides are swollen and sensitive, his pleasure easy to stoke to trembling heights. Hob shifts briefly to drizzle more lube in for good measure and then gives him no quarter, fingers steady and relentless in their attentions until Dream is shaking, sobbing, tears leaking from his eyes and saliva drooling from the corner of his mouth. He pushes up on trembling arms, collapses back to his elbows, head hanging low between his shoulders. "Hob—aah—Hob, please!" It's unclear if he's begging for more or begging for mercy, but the way he flexes up on his toes and pushes back on Hob's hand is telling enough.

"Shh," Hob soothes, leaning close enough to brush his mouth across Dream's bicep in an open kiss, and then, because he can't help being just a touch evil: "Do you want to come again? Or did you need me to stop?"

"Do not stop," he manages, and it is very much an order despite his gasping breathless delivery. "Your hands are exquisite, Hob—!"

"You say the sweetest things," Hob murmurs, kissing his arm again and rubbing particularly hard with both fingers.

Dream wails, head tossing, trembling, helpless, and Hob draws his fingers partway out only to drive them back in, again and again and again, curving his touch to hit that spot on every thrust. He twists his hand as he goes, employing every expert technique he's honed in his time to bring Dream up to the edge again.

God, he loves this, having another person trust him with their pleasure and being able to give them everything they want and then some. It's heady, addictive to have this beautiful man sobbing in delight because of him, shaking apart, because of him; he desperately wants for this to not be the last time. Predictably, his mouth starts running again, pleading his case.

"You can have this anytime you like, love, I'd be delighted to take care of you again. Your pretty mouth, your pretty cock, this pretty perfect eager little hole—" He twists his fingers just so, curls and presses.

Dream warbles out a wet, broken sound that may or may not be Hob's name, bends trembling knees to widen his stance just a little, letting Hob that much deeper inside him.

Beautiful. Perfect.

"Come see me anytime you just need a good hard fuck, mmh? Whenever you want a fun and filthy seeing-too from your handsome bit of rough down at the garage?" He pauses with his fingers buried deep, strokes them fast and firm over exactly the right spot again and again and Dream wails, a high thin keening noise deep in his throat that rises into a proper scream as he comes at last. His body spasms, clenches hard on Hob's fingers in pulsing rhythm and Hob doesn't let up for a long moment, milks him relentlessly through it until he collapses onto the bonnet, boneless and panting.

Hob stills his fingers at that point but doesn't yet pull them out, savoring the snug warmth they're nestled in and the beautiful picture Dream makes like this.

He did that. He made Dream come three times, worked this posh pretty thing into a limp fucked-out mess sprawled across his expensive car.

God, but he wants to do it again.

"Do you think you've got one more in you?" He can't help it; he's always been greedy.

Dream groans, a low sound that stirs something deep in Hob's stomach. "Three times, Hob. I am spent." Yet he makes no move to rise from the car or pull off from Hob's hand, which he could easily do.

Greatly daring, tempted beyond reason by this ravenous marvelous creature, Hob twitches his fingers where they're still pressed against Dream's prostate.

Dream jerks, a shudder running through him, then squeaks when Hob does it again. "Hob—!" His eyes fly open, shining beneath his wet lashes.

"I'll stop if you say so," Hob hastens to assure him. "But you did chide me to not send you home unsated and I just want to make sure I've given you everything"—he presses again—"you need."

Dream whines through his teeth, sucks in a great gasping breath as Hob lets up and cries out when Hob's fingers curl mercilessly within him again, and again, and again. He scrabbles uselessly at the bonnet and lifts his head, mouth open, muscles straining, body trembling as Hob starts taking him apart again before he's even pulled himself back together from the last orgasm.

Hob's good with his hands, in this as well as his work, and he's quite certain he can make Dream come again in fairly short order given how sensitized and overstimulated he is. Hob is also quite certain he can draw this out just a bit longer, work him up even more before pushing him over the edge again and quite frankly, that sounds like more fun.

"Stay with me sweetheart," he murmurs in between Dream's cries, shifting his hand to stave off the cramp that wants to start. He strokes Dream's insides with both fingers, together at first and then one after the other; the condom and the grip of Dream's body restrict his range of movement somewhat but not so much that he can't do his job well.

"God, I'm so fucking lucky," he breathes, fingers still moving steadily, and kisses his way softly up Dream's arm. "You're beautiful, perfect, so pretty and so hungry and so eager—" He's planting kisses across Dream's shoulders and back between words, moving down his spine next. "And you let me touch you, worship your body, get you off again and again and again—" He bends over Dream's arse, draws his fingers partway free and spreads them as wide as the condom allows, stretching open Dream's swollen well-used hole. He dips close, slides his tongue into the gap he's created and Dream moans, gasping, trembling. Hob takes a good minute with his tongue before pulling back and sinking his fingers deep again. "This hole, this perfect hungry insatiable hole, you let me fill it as I please, with my cock and my come and my fingers—so lucky, I am. Would you let me fill you with toys, too, sweetheart? I'll bet you've got a drawerful at home; I'd love to try them with you one by one, learn the best ways to play with each, to make you scream and sob and shake—" He's massaging Dream's prostate again, thorough and unhurried and Dream is indeed sobbing, incoherent. He moves, suddenly, draws up one knee beneath him on the bonnet and then the other as Hob moves with him. He's up on all fours briefly and then sinks down, folded double on his knees with his arms stretched out to grip where the bonnet meets the windscreen and his arse opened wide, letting Hob's fingers sink as deep as possible.

"Finish me, Hob," he begs, gripping weakly around Hob's diligent fingers, voice hoarse and shaky, "make me—make me—fuck, I can't—I can't—" He sobs, trembling, and Hob. Well. He's neither a cruel man, nor strong in the face of temptation, and his hand is ready to give out as well. So he buries his fingers to the hilt, seeks out that spot and gives it his all, strokes it quick and steady and firm, both fingers together, then one after the other, together again and Dream's knees spread wide, his spent prick pressing soft against the bonnet. He's making one long sound now, low and thin and straining in his throat, interspersed with gasping gulps of breath. His body trembles, jolts every time Hob presses harder at his prostate, and Hob leans back over beside him, softly kisses the curve of his shoulder.

"I've got you, sweetheart, we're almost there," he breathes, fingering relentlessly. "Is it still good?"

"Yes—fuck—fuck—Hob!" Dream scrabbles one hand down in Hob's direction and Hob seizes it, laces their fingers together; Dream is sobbing, breathless, utterly wrecked and Hob's hand is giving out but he refuses to stop, to quit, not until—

Dream's body stiffens, convulses, bearing down on Hob's stuttering fingers in tremulous pulses and his voice has gone high, whistle-thin, and then he is gasping, tension falling out of him in a rush as he goes limp, breathing hard and heavy against the bonnet. Hob stills his aching hand at last, draws it out carefully and peels off the condom with his teeth, flings it aside. He'll clean up later. He stretches the cramping sensation from his hand and settles it lightly on Dream's still-heaving ribs, unable to keep from touching him even now that they're done.

"Alright, dove?" Hob asks, gently stroking up Dream's spine. "Can you move?" He gives a soft squeeze to their still-joined hands and is gratified to feel brief pressure in return. Dream turns his head, lifts it slightly; his eyes are wet, his hair sticking damply to his forehead and the grease smudge there; his mouth is open, a bit of drool still in the corner and Hob is helpless, gone, so fucking besotted and far too deeply attached for what this is. He dips in, kisses Dream with every soft emotion squirming captive in his chest and Dream just kisses him back, quiet, exhausted, willing.

"C'mere," Hob murmurs, straightening up, sitting back, leaning on the bonnet. He draws Dream after him, tucks him awkwardly up against his side and Dream allows it, nestles underneath his arm, still catching his breath.

This is the drawback to sex in the garage, Hob decides wryly; there is nowhere really suitable or comfortable for post-coital cuddles. He's seriously considering whether he can slide into the passenger seat of the Porsche with Dream in his lap when finally Dream stirs, lifts his head, shivers all over as he straightens and graces Hob with a small smile.

"I believe I will make use of your shop for all my future service needs," he says, primly, with a playful note underneath the exhaustion.

Hob laughs, hearty and full-bodied and joyous. "Glad to hear it," he says, when the laughter subsides. He's so utterly gone on this man, no matter how unlikely a pair they make, and he feels far too good right now to care about the future heartbreak he'll inevitably have to deal with.

He helps Dream down from the car then, steadies him on his feet and sees him around to the driver's seat where Dream first downs half the bottle of water he brought with him and then proceeds with re-dressing. Hob makes to get his coveralls pulled back up into place at that point but Dream stops him. "You promised to clean my spend off my car, I believe," he says, with that tone in his voice that makes Hob's insides go warm despite himself.

"Absolutely," he confirms, waiting, because there was clearly more forthcoming.

"I should like to see you with your trousers around your ankles and your arse on display while you do so." Dream blinks at him, all coquettish charm that is somehow enhanced by his disheveled and dirtied and half-dressed state. "If you are amenable, of course."

"I can do that for you," Hob agrees, delighted, even as he feels his face heat. It's not at all what he's used to but being ogled, being objectified—especially by his beautiful Dream—is no hardship, whatever his reason.

He finds a rag and the polish while Dream finishes putting himself back together and comes round the front of the Porsche again, and then Hob cleans up the bodily fluids on the bonnet, sweat and semen and lube and anything else, coveralls still around his ankles as requested. He wiggles his arse just a bit, since Dream is watching, and when that gets a pleased little sound out of Dream he does it a bit more, putting his whole body into the cleaning motions, bending at the waist and letting his hips swing in wide suggestive arcs.

"There," he says, finished, tossing the rag aside, and his arms are full of Dream as soon as he turns.

"Magnificent," Dream breathes against his mouth, and kisses him, warm and wet and thorough. Hob gives back as good as he gets, threads his hands into Dream's hair, and Dream's hands skate down his bare sides, around his hips and lower, seizing his arse cheeks and squeezing. His fingernails comb through the hair there and Hob squeaks, delighted, dick twitching with interest.

Dream breaks the kiss after only a few seconds. "There is so much more I want to do with you," he murmurs, kneading Hob's arse in slow sensual motions, "but I am spent. Well used. Sated, despite my lingering desires." He releases one cheek, moves to draw a fingertip along the slit of Hob's mostly-soft cock, where he surely encounters the tacky lube-laced remains of Hob's earlier orgasm. He brings that finger to his mouth, makes a show of licking it delicately before slipping it into his mouth to suck properly, and Hob whimpers.

"Dream, love, I meant what I said. Pop by anytime you need, I'll take care of you—"

"I believe you. After all, you have opted me into your loyalty program, yes? I must be sure to claim all of my associated benefits." He steps back, pulling out his phone and handing it to Hob with the contacts open. "Your number, please."

Hob types it in gladly, hits save, hands the phone back.

Dream cradles it close, a look on his face like he's savoring the addition of Hob's number, and glances up at Hob through his lashes. "I look forward to employing your services again, Hob Gadling. You are very much worth the trip."

"You just like me for my rugged filthiness," Hob says, a tease to keep his head in the right place—there's still no sense getting sentimental, after all, no matter the elated cartwheels his ego is doing at those words.

Dream regards him haughtily, one eyebrow lifting; the grease stains do nothing to diminish the expression. "I am quite certain I would enjoy you equally as much cleaned up and dressed up, that I might wine and dine you, take you home to my bed for an evening."

Hob almost, almost detects a hint of vulnerability threading the words and grins, a little pang of tenderness tugging helplessly behind his chest. "Think so, do you?"

"Would you like to test my theory?" There is something both hesitant and eager underneath his casual tone, and Hob's heart trips a little as that tug grows stronger.

"Why, Mr. Atelíotes, are you asking me out? On a proper date?"

"Perhaps." It's equal parts caginess and coy teasing, and Hob is forced to admit—again—that he's smitten despite himself.

"Well." He grins, dialing it up to his most charming. "Rumor has it I'm excellent company whether my dick's involved or not. And while a standard dinner date may not be as fantasy-worthy as getting plowed by the rough mechanic in his garage, I think we could still have a good time." He's showing his hand a bit, gently calling Dream on the fantasy fulfillment that has obviously been going on here, but what's life without a little risk? Especially when the potential reward is so very worth it?

"You are very confident of your own appeal," Dream replies, mouth turning up at one corner in a way that tips over from 'cautious' to 'amused'. And if Hob's not mistaken, there's a hint of pink blushing over his porcelain complexion under the filth clinging to his cheekbone.

He grins, spreads his arms, still stark naked with his coveralls around his ankles. "Am I wrong, though?"

"…No," Dream decides, after a long moment of deliberation, and Hob steps closer to him, dares to touch his face affectionately.

"Why don't you pick me up here at seven tomorrow night. Tell me exactly how posh I should dress, and we'll see where it goes?" He leans in, presses his lips softly to Dream's.

Dream hums into it, pleased, and palms his chest gently before pulling away. "Very well. Seven, tomorrow night. I will make us a reservation and text you the dress code."

Hob smiles, an effervescent sort of happiness bubbling up inside him. "Sounds perfect."

He finally puts his coveralls back in order after that, zipped just past the waist, and makes certain that the condoms are picked up and Dream gets his lube and his toy all collected before he shifts back into business mode. Dream is no more interested in cleaning his face before leaving today than he was yesterday so Hob moves on; he explains the repairs and runs Dream's credit card, then returns his keys and guides him in backing the Porsche out of the garage. Dream leans out the window once he's clear and Hob ducks down, delighted to get a final kiss.

"I'll be waiting to hear from you," he says, trying to temper the giddy anticipation he feels against the reality of their acquaintance, and Dream's soft smile turns sultry around the edges.

"I will be counting the hours until I see you again, Hob Gadling," he purrs, and drives off.

The way the Porsche jerks when he shifts after turning the corner makes Hob wince.

Maybe, if they do continue whatever this is beyond a single dinner date, maybe Hob can give him some tips on driving stick so he doesn't burn out the new clutch.

Then again, the more Dream abuses his poor car, the more excuse he'll have to invoke his 'loyalty rewards'.

And Hob doesn't think that's such a bad thing, in the end.

= Started: 5/4/24 Drafted: 9/17/24 Posted: 9/21/24

#TJs Fics #Sandman #Dreamling #wip: turbo lover

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honeydippedfiction · 9 months ago

Text

Episode 4: Crossroads of Speed

Main Menu

Summary: In Episode 4, Y/N experiences the exhilarating world of F1 as she attends a practice session at the McLaren garage, sparked by an unexpected invitation from Oscar Piastri. While she enjoys the thrill of the track and the camaraderie with Oscar and Lando, her street racing instincts remain strong, reminding her that her true home lies in the raw, unpredictable world of street racing.

WC: 1.9k

Warnings: Street Racing, Injury Risk, Lando Norris (He's a menace), Identity Conflict, Romantic Tension

• you DO NOT have my permission to copy my work, upload as your own, translate, or repost on any other website •

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The streets were alive again, the same familiar hum of engines and electric tension filled the air as I pulled up to the starting line in a borrowed car. Tonight, it wasn’t my usual setup, but my friend had lent me her custom ride—a sleek, black machine that was as fast as it was deadly on the streets. I ran a hand over the hood before slipping inside, the leather interior cool against my skin.

I had just won another race, adrenaline still thrumming through my veins when I slid back into the driver’s seat, letting the engine idle for a moment. The night wasn’t over yet, but as I relaxed in the seat, checking my phone for any updates about the next run, a text came through from an unknown number.

"Hey, it’s Oscar."

I stared at the message, blinking. Oscar? Piastri? I didn't know whether to laugh or be suspicious. Why would he be texting me at this hour, and more importantly, how did he even get my number? My street racing world was supposed to be completely separate from the polished, professional scene of F1, and yet, here he was, reaching out.

I typed back quickly, skeptical.

"Yeah, right. Prove it."

A few moments passed, and then, my phone buzzed again. I swiped to open the message, and there it was—a selfie of Oscar, holding up a peace sign with his other hand as he stood in what looked like his hotel room, still in casual clothes but unmistakably him.

I rolled my eyes, shaking my head. "Alright, alright. What do you want?" I typed back, a smirk pulling at my lips.

His reply came almost instantly.

"Just thought I’d invite you to watch practice tomorrow. You seemed into the garage tour earlier, and Lando said he saw you again today. Come hang out at McLaren. No pressure."

I leaned back in the seat, chewing my lip. The night was still young, and the streets were calling, but the idea of watching practice in the McLaren garage wasn’t entirely unappealing. Plus, if I was honest, I was curious. But I wasn’t going to let him know that too quickly.

"Maybe," I shot back.

"Great! See you there!"

I shook my head, laughing softly to myself. Bold of him to assume I'd show up. But maybe I would. After all, it couldn’t hurt to check it out—besides, there was always another race.

The next morning, I found myself standing in the McLaren garage, the scent of gasoline and engine oil blending with the high-tech hum of machinery around me. Despite the sleekness of the F1 cars, the precision, there was still something raw about it that I appreciated. The crew was already busy, working to prep the cars for practice. Oscar waved when he spotted me, looking a bit relieved that I had actually shown up.

"Didn’t think you’d make it," he said, a half-smile on his face as he approached.

"I didn’t either," I replied casually, glancing around the garage. "But I figured why not. You gonna show me around, or should I just make myself comfortable?"

Oscar laughed, scratching the back of his neck. "You can make yourself comfortable, but I’ll show you a few things first."

As we started walking, I noticed Lando across the way, leaning against one of the cars, watching us with a curious grin. Before I could react, he made his way over, and I raised an eyebrow, already anticipating some sort of comment.

"You didn’t tell me you were bringing your new friend, Oscar," Lando teased, giving Oscar a playful nudge. "I would’ve dressed up more."

I rolled my eyes. "Don’t flatter yourself, Norris. I’m just here for the cars."

Lando smirked, unfazed. "Well, speaking of cars—" he paused, his tone shifting slightly, "I’ve been thinking about that race you won last night."

My eyes narrowed. "You were there?"

Lando shrugged. "I may have snuck out again."

I scoffed, shaking my head in disbelief. "You’ve got a death wish, don’t you?"

"Maybe," Lando said with a grin. "But it was worth it. That race was insane. And I was wondering if you’d let me bring some of the boys to the next one. You know—Max, Charles, Carlos. We’ve all heard about it, but none of us have actually seen it up close."

I crossed my arms, studying him for a moment. "And you think this is some kind of F1 spectator sport?"

Lando raised his hands in mock surrender. "No, no, I get it. It’s your turf. But come on, Y/N, just one night. Let us see what real racing looks like."

Behind him, I noticed Oscar standing there, looking sheepish, like he wasn’t sure if he should be part of this conversation. I glanced between the two of them, weighing my options. The last thing I needed was a bunch of high-profile F1 drivers crashing one of our races, drawing unwanted attention. But at the same time, the idea of watching them squirm outside of their perfect, polished world was tempting.

"I don’t know," I said slowly, giving Lando a once-over. "This isn’t a game, Norris. If you show up, you’re not just a tourist."

"I know," he said earnestly. "But it’d be fun. Just one time. You can even make us sit on the sidelines if you want."

I sighed, my resistance weakening. I shot a glance at Oscar, who quickly chimed in. "We’ll stay out of the way. Promise."

"Fine," I said finally, unable to hide my smirk. "But if you screw this up, don’t think I won’t throw you all out."

Lando’s grin widened, and he clapped Oscar on the back. "You hear that? We’re in."

I rolled my eyes but couldn’t help the smile tugging at my lips. "We’ll see if you’re still excited after you see what real speed looks like."

As I turned back toward the track, Oscar lingered for a moment, giving me a thoughtful look. "Thanks for letting us in," he said quietly, and there was a sincerity in his voice that caught me off guard.

"Don’t thank me yet," I replied, giving him a playful shove. "You still have to survive the night."

I left Lando and Oscar to their scheming and made my way back to the paddock’s observation deck. The buzz of the F1 world had its allure, no doubt, but the roar of street races still called to me. The adrenaline, the risk, the raw challenge of it all—it was something F1 couldn't replicate.

After an hour or so, the practice session was set to begin. The sound of engines revving filled the air as cars zoomed out onto the track, the slick precision of each team’s movements almost mechanical. I found myself leaning on the railing, eyes tracing the blur of orange as Lando and Oscar took to the circuit in their McLarens. They were fast, no doubt about that, but the street in me couldn’t help but wonder how they’d fare in a real race with unpredictable variables.

I chuckled to myself, thinking about Lando’s bold request earlier. It’d be hilarious to see these pros try their luck on my streets, where the margin for error was razor-thin and stakes high. As the McLaren cars zipped by, I noticed one of the crew members standing nearby, talking to another engineer. Curious, I walked over and struck up a conversation.

"So, how different is this from working with street cars?" I asked.

The engineer, a grizzled older man with oil-stained hands, looked at me with a bemused smile. "It’s like comparing night and day. Street racing’s got its own charm, but this—this is science. Precision. No room for error."

I nodded, taking in the intricate details of the telemetry screens and setups in the garage. It was impressive, for sure, but something about the sterile environment lacked the edge I was used to. It was clean. Controlled. Almost too much so.

Just as we were talking, I noticed the garage's atmosphere shift slightly. A camera crew, likely from F1 TV, panned around the McLaren setup. I tried to avoid their gaze, stepping back into the shadows, but it was too late. The camera swung right toward me, and for a second, I was on screen—me, the street racer from the underworld, standing smack in the middle of McLaren’s fancy garage.

Oscar, spotting the camera and noticing my discomfort, threw me an apologetic look from where he was standing. I rolled my eyes. Great, just what I needed—unwanted attention.

As the practice session continued, I got more comfortable, casually chatting with the crew and soaking in the vibe of professional racing. It was nice to watch from the sidelines, and I couldn’t deny the thrill of seeing the McLarens speed through each corner, wheels gripping the track with perfect precision. But it wasn’t enough to make me want to switch lanes—not even close.

After a while, I pulled out my phone, idly scrolling through social media while the practice session wound down. My eyes widened when I saw a flurry of comments popping up, all under the same topic.

"Who’s that girl in the McLaren garage?"

"Lando’s new girlfriend???"

"Anyone know the name of the mystery girl with Oscar?"

I groaned. Of course. F1 fans were fast, no pun intended, and apparently my brief appearance on camera had already sent the internet into a frenzy. I wasn’t exactly a fan of being in the spotlight like this, especially considering the circles I ran in. Keeping a low profile was kind of my thing.

I turned my phone off, shaking my head. I didn’t need this kind of attention right now. Especially not when I was trying to navigate the two very different worlds of F1 and street racing without mixing them up.

As practice wrapped up, Lando and Oscar made their way back to the garage, sweaty but grinning from ear to ear. Lando spotted me immediately, giving me a cheeky wave.

"How’d we look?" he asked, pulling off his helmet and running a hand through his damp hair.

"Not bad," I replied, leaning back against one of the toolboxes. "For a couple of F1 boys, anyway."

Oscar laughed, coming over to join us. "You look like you had fun watching."

"Maybe a little," I admitted. "But don’t get cocky. You still couldn’t handle a real race in the streets."

Lando raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "We’ll see about that. You’ll let me prove you wrong one of these days."

I smirked, but before I could reply, my phone buzzed again. This time, it wasn’t social media notifications. It was a message from Nadia about another street race coming up. I tucked the phone back into my pocket, mentally calculating how much time I had before I needed to be back on the streets.

Lando and Oscar were still talking about practice, oblivious to the fact that I was already making plans for my next race. They could have their polished world of circuits and pit stops, but I belonged on the streets, where things were messy, raw, and unpredictable.

I crossed my arms, glancing between the two of them as they chatted. "Maybe one day," I said, a small smile tugging at the corner of my lips. "But for now, you boys stick to your world, and I’ll stick to mine."

They laughed, but I knew they were still thinking about what I’d said. They were curious—curious about the world I came from. And part of me wondered how long it’d take before they really tried to cross over. But that was a problem for another day.

For now, I had a race to win.

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