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oscpstri · 9 days ago

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the chase | antonelli

antonelli x fem rbr driver!reader, 8,9k

kimi antonelli was always behind you— in the standings, in the starting grid, in your mirrors. everywhere you looked, the curly-headed mop was always there. but while you had a scowl on your face, he enjoyed every moment.

INCLUDES: soft rivals to lovers, SOFT RIVALRY OKAY, reader is a RED BULL driver, use of y/n, set in 2025 but definitely not an accurate timeline, profanity, kimi being a cutie, imagine seb and lewis type rs, this one is not as slow as the max one swear, inaccurate depictions of media day and the press conferences

NOTE: inspired by ONE WAY OR ANOTHER. i think this is my favorite idea out of all of the oneshots in this series. i hope i was able to do it justice. kimi is a cutie (and is talented as hell) and i claim him as my second pick of the rookie litter. congrats to kimi for canada podium! not proof read

( moments series | more KA12 )

People are usually haunted by nightmares— scarring images that keep them up at night, their mind playing tricks on them. Some perceive these as spiders, drowning, losing a loved one. You, on the other hand, are haunted by a singular curly-headed, brown-eyed, Italian who so happened to go by the name of Kimi Antonelli.

You and Kimi weren't exactly Rosberg and Hamilton in terms of rivalry, more 'he pushed me, I pushed him back, he pushed me off the track'. The both of you would never go out of your way to deliberately throw each other off, but if it happened then you wouldn't exactly be apologetic about it either.

This rivalry had been going on ever since the both of you were teammates in Formula 2. While Kimi raced under the Mercedes Junior Programme, you raced under the Red Bull Junior Programme. This called for the development of two very talented, very fast, and very competitive drivers. You finished fifth in the standings and Kimi was right behind you in sixth. And that's how it always was— even until now.

The teams make their way out of the grid— signifying the countdown to your debut Formula 1 race. Your eyes flicker to your side mirror, spotting the annoyingly familiar Mercedes of your former teammate. You qualified P15— not the best start. Kimi, of course, qualified right behind you. He seemed to notice your gaze and stuck his hand out from the top of his halo, waving at you before locking his gaze back in front of him. You roll your eyes at this from under your helmet, only gripping your steering wheel tighter as the red lights start to bounce to life.

This was what you had always dreamed off. And before you knew it, it was lights out and away you did go.

As you cross your first corner, you spot a car coming from behind. You give space out of etiquette, then freeze when you notice car number 12 slip right in front of you. You weren't about to let him have this, not when you were always slightly better than Kimi in everything— qualifying, points, wins.

You were stuck behind Kimi for a few laps, but you were tailing him like your life depended on it. Kimi might have successfully overtaken you, but you weren't about to go down without a fight. You were practically taunting him through his mirrors, taking in every move he made as he bounced around the track defending you. And he enjoyed every moment of it.

Coming up to the chicane, you slightly take your foot off the throttle. Not enough to back off but enough to make Kimi think that you were. He takes the bait, defending the usual racing line. And that's when you put your skills to good use. You go late on the breaks, hugging that outer line as much as physics would allow it, and the car twitches. Kimi jolts in surprise, not expecting the risky move so early on in the game. But then he scoffs once— not in anger, but in recognition. He should've known you would do that— you always did.

You were already past— risky, bold, barely within track limits— but past. You glance at your mirror, noticing the Mercedes get smaller as you push your car to its fastest.

You were going to finish ahead of him again and you wouldn't have it any other way.

Your car comes to a halt in parc fermé. P4 for a debut race wasn't bad, especially when Kimi Antonelli consistently haunted you for the whole two hours. As you jump out, you notice your former teammate moving towards you, helmet in hand and a boyish smirk on his face.

"Good first race," he greets, a shimmer of mischief in his eyes. "You beat me."

You look at him and quirk your eyebrow, expression deadpan. "I always do."

He breaks out into a larger grin before leaving towards the media pen. You shake your head at his antics, sighing unsurprised. You and Kimi were always like this— playful, rivals, next to each other. You were both polar opposites in terms of personality: Kimi was boyish, bouncy, always had a smile on his face. You were relaxed, quiet, masking no emotions. When the both of you were teammates in Formula 2, the media dubbed you as the 'modern day Seb and Kimi'— where he was Seb and you were the iceman himself.

Of course the beauty of Kimi Räikkönen was the fact that he only ever broke down his walls for Sebastian Vettel himself. And this dynamic was perfectly mirrored with you and your former teammate.

As you made it into the media pen, you are quickly directed to the long line of journalists and news reporters ahead. People asked about your feelings towards your debut race, the strategy you used to get to P4 from P15, almost kissing the podium, being the only female driver in Formula 1. All of which were questions you already knew the answers to, prompting you to reply with simple answers that satisfied the question but left them wanting more.

"What can you say about that divebomb move you did on Kimi in Turn 1? That was pretty risky, especially for your debut race."

You blink slowly, pursing your lips as you ponder on the question. "It was risky but calculated. You do what you have to do to be ahead."

The journalist nods at your answer. "Speaking of, are we going to be seeing more of the rivalry you and Kimi have? Or is that something we left back in F2?"

As the mic is pointed back to you, you shrug your shoulders. "I don't know. If he's still as good as he was in Formula 2 then we will."

And before the reporter could ask any more questions, you nod your head curtly and walk away.

Another race week, another round of media obligations. If you weren't a rookie and scared to be sacked barely ten races in, you would probably have already called in sick today to avoid as much of it as possible.

You could appreciate the good questions— the ones about tire strategy, mentality going into the race weekend, initial feelings as you embark on your second ever F1 race. But you could not care less for the stupid ones— one time in F2, someone asked you what your teammate smelled like. You could assure them that you weren't going to be that close to Kimi for you to get a whiff of his perfume.

The Italian only giggled at the question, and when he was asked the same he simply shrugged and replied: "Like apples."

Your perfume was raspberry.

The sea of reporters were already sat down by the time you made it into the room. Your initial plan was to be as late as possible— less time, less questions asked. Of course, you didn't account for the fact that your manager would be banging on your door before your alarm even went off.

The only spot left was on the far-end of the couch next to Max— you weren't complaining. As you sat down, you place the microphone on your lap and the circus begins. You honestly zoned out for a while, the reporters going for Max and Lewis first until a question was brought to your attention.

"Kimi, we've seen since Formula 2 that you've always finished behind Y/N— does this frustrate or motivate you?"

You're brought back to the room at the mention of your name, eyes scanning for the reporter through the brim of your hat.

"Well..." You look to Kimi once he starts talking. The both of you share a look that causes you to smirk lightly and him to smile small. You lower your head at this, fidgeting with the wire that was connected to your microphone.

"It definitely motivates me," he starts, looking back towards the reporter. "I don't think I've ever been frustrated at this fact."

You look up once again, one eyebrow raised at your rival's answer. He looks back at you with a cheeky smile, the same one he always gives you after a question is thrown about the both of you.

Max and Lewis only looked back and forth between the opposite ends of the couch. They didn't really know what was happening, nor do they fully understand the dynamic, but they found it entertaining nonetheless. The reporters did the same, entranced in the child-like tension that comfortably fit in the middle of you and Kimi. They probably even forgot that two world champions were sitting right in the middle of the couch.

"We were in the same car in F2 but it was clear who handled it better," Kimi adds on, tone as if he was stating the obvious. "I mean... she finished ahead of me in the standings so who's surprised."

The sea of reporters chuckle at this, captivated by the rookie's charm. You swear you even heard Max mumble 'just like you and Seb' to Lewis as they both had grins on their face.

The same journalist picks up the microphone, stretching a hand towards you. "Y/N? Anything to add?"

You blink twice before bringing the microphone to your lips, a small smirk settling onto your face. The crowd seemed to hold their breath in anticipation of what you were going to say. Even Max and Lewis did the same.

"Kimi said it best," you start. "He's good, but I'm better."

Fifth race of the season and Kimi was still hot on your tail. The cheeky banter that the two of you had was still prevalent at every media day. Kimi saying you were good at defending, you saying Kimi was good at attacking. It was a back and forth of snarky comments yet respectful compliments on the other's driving— something the media found absolutely entertaining.

You and Kimi almost crashed in Qualifying and the paddock buzzed with eagerness to see what would happen. While you stormed off towards Kimi's car to confront him, the Italian only looked at you with a smirk on his face. His eyes shimmered at your anger, finding the insults you were throwing him amusing.

You had managed to snag P8 on the starting grid, Kimi still behind you in P7. Which is why the both of you were chasing each other for most of the race. It's like the rest of the drivers didn't even matter, because the only person you were fighting was each other. If you led, Kimi would overtake you. If Kimi led, you would fight back.

It's lap 55 and the both of you were still playing tag in your cars. This game starts to irritate you, especially when you were so close to the end of the race. Kimi was in front of you. You almost kissed his rear wing a few times which caused a few angry radio messages from the man himself. He was defending like crazy, not giving you the space or time to do anything about the position you were in.

Until he slows down. Which catches you off-guard, until your eyes narrow. You knew exactly what game this guy was playing.

"Brilliant," you mutter under your breath, trying your best not to just push him off the track due to sheer annoyance.

You were now side by side the Mercedes of driver number 12, heading into the part of the track that is crucial towards who could take the lead between the two of you.

The both of you were going insanely slow, trying your hardest not to be the leading car when the both of you reach the DRS zone. You're getting radio messages from the team telling you to stop what you are doing to avoid a penalty. Toto was probably aging 5 years due to this stunt his rookie was pulling.

"Y/N, there's a car behind the both of you. I suggest you get on with it."

You hear the radio message loud and clear, but you didn't budge. The both of you were going 120 in a 200 zone, posing a great risk to the other drivers who were coming up behind you two.

"Fuck it." You push your foot on the pedal, now in front of Kimi. He reacts to your throttle and goes quick as well, only barely skimming your rear wing.

He was going fast, and you knew that you could play this to your advantage to get DRS. And you did exactly that. Because as soon as you could tell that Kimi had faster pace than you, you take your foot off the throttle and watch as he leads once the both of you reach the DRS zone.

"DRS available, Y/N. That was risky. Never do that ever again."

You smirk victorious at the radio message, immediately opening up your DRS and passing the Italian with ease.

"All in a day's work."

You go on to finish the race in P5, Kimi staggering behind you in P6.

The garage buzzes with post-race exhaustion. You’re perched on a fold-out chair, helmet off, hair a mess, wrists wrapped in cooling packs. Your race suit is unzipped halfway, the navy blue fireproofs clinging to your skin uncomfortably. Someone left a fan on nearby, but it’s doing little to cool the heat radiating off your back.

You close your eyes for a second. Just a second. Until—

"Didn’t think I’d see the great Y/N Y/L/N icing her wrists like a rookie," a familiar voice teases.

Your eyes crack open to find Kimi Antonelli leaning against the doorframe, still in full race gear. He hasn’t even unzipped his suit yet, cheeks flushed from the heat and eyes practically glowing with mischief. The blue Mercedes hat sat atop his head, doing little to calm down the curls he hid underneath.

You scoff, too tired to play along— though the smile tugging at your lips betrays you. "You were in front of me for a long time today. Nice job."

He grins. "Yeah, until you decided to pull that DRS crap."

You chuck a balled-up cooling wrap at him. He dodges it easily, like he’s used to you trying to hit him with things. "You started it."

"Had to win over you somehow." He shrugs, finally stepping inside. He squats in front of you like you’re the car he’s inspecting.

You blink at his wording. You hate that your chest tightens a little, a swell of butterflies threatening to spill in your stomach. His tone softens, eyes flickering briefly to your hands. "Seriously though. You okay?"

You narrow your eyes at him. For a moment, he’s not teasing. Not pulling the rival crap you both have always stuck to since you were in Prema. You shrug. "Just sore. I've had worse."

He stays crouched a beat longer before standing, stretching his arms above his head with a dramatic groan. "Well, sore or not, we’ve got rookie PR in ten. Don’t forget to act like you hate me."

You roll your eyes. "I don’t have to act. You’re exhausting."

Kimi winks. “And yet, you keep chasing me.”

You scoff again but can’t help the grin that slips. "Need I remind you that you're always behind me?"

He shakes his head at your words, turning on his heel. You grab your hat and fall into step beside him as you both head toward the paddock media tent.

"Next time I slow down for DRS, you're going to have to thank me for the free position."

You roll your eyes at his words, adjusting the hat on your head. "I still despise you, Antonelli."

"I know. You've said that since last year."

It was media day yet again and the press conference that came with it was routine— one of those long, slightly tedious panels where all the drivers are lined up behind nameplates, small mic stands individually distributed while trying not to say anything too controversial.

But of course, you and Kimi couldn’t help yourselves.

The sweet interaction you both had behind closed doors last week was long forgotten as the new week rolls around. A fresh set of snarky comments and huffed comebacks rally between the both of you, not caring about the situation you were currently in.

You’re seated two spots apart, with Ollie between you. He looks increasingly alarmed with every back-and-forth exchange. Isack, seated on Kimi’s other side, is trying to hide his laugh behind his water bottle.

"Y/N, what did you think of Kimi’s defensive driving last weekend?" one reporter asks, already smiling like she knows exactly what answer she’s going to get.

You raise an eyebrow, your tone dry. "Defensive driving? More like dangerous driving. He almost brake-checked me into next week."

Kimi huffs dramatically, leaning over in front of Ollie. "Maybe if you weren’t so glued to my rear wing all the time, you wouldn’t have to worry about it."

You blink, then tilt your head. "That's why I'm normally in front of you. You're too slow"

There’s a beat of silence then several muffled laughs. Someone lets out an audible, “God.”

Ollie glances at the moderator helplessly. "Are we allowed to separate them?"

The moderator tries to push forward, but the tension on your side of the panel is unmistakable— sharp enough to cut through the usual PR fluff.

And then, finally, someone asks it.

"Y/N. Kimi. With all this... whatever this is— are you two actually rivals, or is there something more going on here?"

The question lands with a heavy pause. Everyone stares. Charles almost chokes on his water. Lando turns to Oscar like did they just say that?

Your hand tightens slightly around the mic. You glance at Kimi, who’s already grinning like the devil. He raises one eyebrow.

"Well?" he prompts, clearly enjoying the chaos. "Are we rivals?"

You stare at him for a beat. Then smirk, voice monotonous. "We’re not friends, if that’s what you’re asking."

Kimi nods, all mock-serious. "Yeah. She just likes yelling at me, and I like overtaking her."

You roll your eyes at his comments.

Someone in the room coughs out a laugh. The moderator tries, and fails, to move on.

Max mutters something to Charles, who’s very obviously trying not to burst into laughter. Lewis just leans back, watching the two of you like you’re the most entertaining part of his day.

And that’s how the moment ends— no answer, no clarification. Just you and Kimi sitting in your chairs, pretending nothing happened, as if you didn’t just throw the entire room into confused, romantic-tension-filled chaos.

The press conference rolls on, awkward laughter still lingering from the last question. The moderator tries to redirect— asks a question about tire strategy for the upcoming street circuit. Kimi answers smoothly, then it’s passed to you.

“Y/N, are you confident in your tire management heading into the race weekend?”

You nod, keeping your tone cool. "Confident enough to keep my car ahead of Kimi’s... again."

Kimi lets out the most dramatic sigh. "You say that like you don’t spend every lap checking your mirrors for me."

You don’t even look at him this time. "What can I say? You’re hard to ignore when you're that close and that annoying."

Ollie audibly groans. "Oh my god, will one of you just say it?"

Everyone turns to look at him. He throws his hands in the air. "You’re not rivals. You're flirting. This is so much worse than I thought."

Lewis nods from two seats down beside him, arms crossed. "I’ve raced against Seb and Mark. This is different. This is… soft."

Fernando deadpans, "Yeah. Seb never smiled like that when Mark shoved him off the track."

Lando leans forward, mic dangerously close to his mouth. "Just blink twice if you're in denial."

Kimi only shrugs, smile tugging at his lips. "I don’t deny anything. She’s the one who keeps pretending I’m not her favorite opponent."

You roll your eyes, but you’re biting back a smile. "Opponent is the key word there, Antonelli."

The room erupts in laughter. Teasing the youngest in the grid proved to be entertaining. Even the moderator gives up, leaning back with a sigh as the press completely loses control.

George speaks up from the far end, sounding thoroughly done.

"No, see, this is what we’re talking about. That? That tone? That’s not ‘opponent’ talk, that’s ‘I-know-his-star-sign-and-how-he-takes-his-coffee’ talk.”

One reporter manages to recover enough to ask: "So… any final clarification? Rivalry or—?"

You and Kimi answer at the exact same time.

"Rivals."

"Something more."

Everyone gasps like they’re in a high school cafeteria.

You blink, slowly turning your head toward him. Kimi just flashes you that boyish, smug smile.

"What?" he says innocently. "You said it yourself— I’m hard to ignore."

The press conference ends with the moderator’s desperate attempt to bring order and the sound of thirty cameras still clicking. You and Kimi stand from your spot behind the table, still pretending everything’s normal even though you basically declared war and something else entirely on live TV.

You're barely five steps into the hallway behind the media room when a hand tugs on your sleeve.

"Okay. Stop. You. You’re not going anywhere."

It’s Lando, planted dead center in the corridor like a traffic cone in papaya. "You two need to talk. Or confess. Or kiss. Or crash. Honestly, I don’t care anymore, but this 'are-they-or-aren’t-they' is draining. Entertaining! But come on, man."

Oscar appears right behind him, arms folded. "Yeah. I’d say 'get a room' but apparently you’ve got like… a whole media room watching instead."

George leans against the wall, ever the instigator. "This is honestly more tense than when Lewis threw that hat at Nico."

Kimi just blinks at them. "You’re all very dramatic."

You deadpan. "You literally fake-yawned during my answer so I’d look at you."

Max walks by eating something from catering. "You’re both unhinged. If I have to hear "I’m always ahead of him" and 'I'm better than her' one more time, I’m crashing you both out myself."

Lewis appears like a wise dad who’s so done. "Look. I love a good rivalry. Keeps things interesting. But this— this is a rom-com in race suits. Either admit you like each other or we’re making a group chat intervention."

Liam gives you a pointed look. "Don’t even try to act cool. I’ve seen you soft-launch him on your story."

Your eyes widen. "That was his helmet."

"Exactly."

The hallway fills with groans and mock outrage as Kimi chuckles beside you, fully basking in the chaos. You glance up at him, exasperated, but the grin on his face is all boyish charm and zero apology.

He leans just a little closer, voice low. "Told you we’re not subtle anymore."

You shake your head, muttering, "You’re insufferable."

He winks. "But you like it."

And yeah— maybe you do.

Race day and you're already on edge.

Maybe it's the press conference shenanigans. Maybe it's Kimi's stupid, smug, post-conference hallway wink. Or maybe it's the fact that everyone on the grid suddenly decided to become certified couples therapists.

Whatever it is, you helmet feels tighter, the air feels heavier, and you could hear your heart beating in your chest.

"Y/N, radio check. How are we feeling?"

You don't respond immediately, just adjusting your grip on your steering wheel. Kimi's car is beside you on the grid, just one position below you. He was waving at an engineer, bouncy as ever, and you don't know if you want to kiss him or crash him.

Before you knew it, the five red lights go out and you slam your foot on the pedal.

You get a clean launch but Kimi had a faster reaction. The two of you are alongside each other into Turn 1 and you already hated it. You squeeze tighter on the inside, taking a sharper line. He pulls back ahead by Turn 3 and you continue to chase.

Every time he turns, you follow. You're not racing the others anymore— you're locked into car number 12 like it's personal. Like the entire race is just you and him.

Eventually you get past him as he zooms into the pit lane. But that doesn't stop the knot to form in your chest.

Your grip on the steering wheel tightens with every turn. The car hums like it always does but your brain is somewhere else entirely. Somewhere behind you. Somewhere in a black and blue car.

"Antonelli is 0.4 behind you."

You could practically feel him through your mirrors, like a phantom chasing your tail. He had been right there for five laps— patiently waiting for the perfect moment to strike. And you hate that a part of you has started to drive more for him than for the points.

Something had shifted. It wasn't just racing anymore, wasn't just banter and cheeky smirks and toeing the line. He looked and talked to you in the press conference like you were the only one in the room— he always does. And now it's messing with you.

You're faster, better— you know this. But your head's too loud. Your heart even louder.

You brake too late into Turn 9. The rear of your Red Bull twitches and your instinct kicks in. You overcorrect, unsettled by the snap, but the grip vanishes from your rear tires.

You spin.

It's no catastrophic, but it's dramatic. Smoke kicks up as your car hurtles into the wall, sending bits of debris scattered all over the track. You weren't hurt, but you weren't moving either. The engine stalls.

You sit still, breathing hard. Helmet still on, grip like a death lock on the wheel.

"Are you okay?"

You don't bother to reply, just slumped in your seat. Stupid emotions buzzing around in your head like it would explode. You see the marshals wave the red flag and you see the Mercedes you were running from slow down as it passes you. Slow enough that you could tell he was looking. Slow enough that you knew he was debating on jumping out.

You swallow and flick the switches, trying your best to get the engine to fire back. It doesn't.

"Yeah," you finally reply. "Just— yeah."

Your engineer tells you to kill the car. Your brain tells you to scream.

You make your way out of your car, and the world feels a little too loud.

You quickly take your race suit off as you whiz past the pit lane, not even bothering to stay for the entire race. You throw your hat on, wanting to get away from the paddock. Away from the cameras and the pitying eyes.

But Red Bull is Red Bull. There's no hiding in the world champion's garage, not with the interns side-eyeing you and the engineers pretending not to notice the tension bleeding off you like smoke.

You slump down into one of the chairs. Your arms are crossed, foot bouncing, eyes locked onto nothing. Every time you blink you see the moment again— the oversteer, the snap, the runoff, his car.

You were not okay.

And apparently your teammate could tell.

You didn't even notice that you had been glued to the exact same spot for a long time until you catch Max slide into the chair in front of you. The race had ended.

"Want to tell me what that was?"

You blink at him, jaw tight. "Was a mistake. I messed up."

"Well, yeah," he deadpans, adjusting his hat. "But that's not what I meant."

You don't respond. Already not liking where this was heading.

"You and Kimi." He leans forward, lowering his voice. "What's going on?"

You scowl, slumping even more into your seat as if that would hide you from Max Verstappen's stormy-eyed gaze. "Nothing's going on."

"Right. That press conference on Thursday would say otherwise."

You scoff. "Whatever happened in that press conference was utter bullshit and you know that."

"Do I?" Max raises an eyebrow, leaning back into his seat. "Because the way he looked at your replay after the race..."

You snap to look at him, cursing yourself internally for being too eager to know. Max notices this and sighs, "He didn't leave until he saw you get out. George told me he would've gotten out if Toto didn't yell at him not to."

You look back to your spot on the floor, unable to reply.

"He almost swerved too. Dropped down to P11."

Silence hangs between you. A million thoughts raced through your mind and your heart felt like it was going to fall out of your chest.

"You think I threw away points for a boy?" You finally build the courage to look at him.

Max just shrugs, "I think you forgot you were racing everyone else."

You exhale shakily and thank the heavens that Max doesn't push. He just stands up and gives your shoulder a pat. "Sort your head out, Y/N. You're better than this."

As he walks away, you catch sight of the familiar sight of curls and blue lingering near the entrance of the hospitality.

And you decide right then and there that you were going to do this for yourself. No more distractions.

Kimi Antonelli has always been good at bouncing back. Always smiling, able to shake things off, easy to just be.

But lately? Not so much.

You've been quiet. Not cold— but distant. Professional, like he was just another driver on the grid now and not the one you used to glare at from across the room with a sly smirk. You still greet each other but only because you have to. You haven't looked at him longer than two seconds since your crash three weeks ago. And Kimi? He's losing his mind over it.

But it's not like he doesn't know why.

You spiraled after that crash, everyone could tell. He saw it in the way you avoided any form of media, in the way you hid from the paddock, in the way Max helped in pulling you aside, in the way you sat at the next press conference like you were building a brick wall between you and everything else— especially him.

And what did that get Kimi? Messing up.

He locks up into Turn 3 during Q2, tires screeching. He almost scraps the car, giving Toto the time of his life behind the monitors. He even misses the apex in Q3— not once, but twice.

"P15, Kimi," his engineer radios, voice tight. "You okay?"

Kimi stays silent for a beat before finally replying, "Yeah."

He jumps out of the car with a blank expression. He pulls off his gloves with more force than necessary and walks right past the media pen without saying a word. Their PR managers try to call him back, but he doesn't stop, doesn't even look back.

You were the complete opposite.

You pass by on your cool-down lap, securing P4. He watches your car cruise down the pit lane from the garage and the worst part? You don't even glance his way.

Kimi finally feels it. The horrible ache in his chest that maybe this rivalry doesn't feel like a rivalry anymore— just an ending he didn't ask for.

Kimi is finally forced into the media pen for some last-minute interviews. He answers bluntly, no emotion behind his voice as he stares into the void behind the camera. Some interviewers even started to get irritated with the lack of answers, but before they could probe any more, Kimi walks away from the crowd and heads back to the hospitality.

You saw it all. The way his eyes held no spark behind him, the way his voice continued to be flat whenever he talked. You saw the articles and the videos of people trying to piece things together. The timeline from your crash three weeks ago to Kimi's horrendous qualifying session.

You had just seen a clip of Kimi's interview and something in your chest aches— sharp and undeniable.

"Alright, what's going on?"

You flinch slightly at the voice. Max stands a few feet away, arms crossed, expression unreadable. He wasn't angry— but he wasn't casual either.

You quickly pull your headphones off, discreetly turning off your phone and facing the screen down. "Nothing. I'm fine."

Max quirks an eyebrow. "That's not what your face says."

You roll your eyes at his probing. "Seriously, Max. I'm just tired."

He doesn't move. Still watching. Still knowing.

"You've been off for weeks," he says finally. "You barely talk anymore and you look like you're fighting ghosts every time you're in the car."

You look down at your hands, twiddling your thumbs.

"It's not a big deal," you murmur. "Just... dumb stuff."

He scoffs slightly. "If it was dumb, it wouldn't be getting to you this bad."

You don't respond. You know he's got you

Max walks over and takes the seat across from you, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. "It's about Kimi, isn't it?"

You hesitate but your silence said enough.

"I saw the interview," he adds, voice quieter. "Kid's a wreck."

Your lips twitch into something bitter. "He should be."

Max frowns at that. "So what happened?"

You take a deep breath, leaning back into your seat. "I told myself that if I cut him out, I'd drive better. That he was a distraction."

He nods slowly. "And?"

"I almost crashed last weekend."

He sighs, confirming everything he's already pieced together.

"He's still distracting me. Even when I ignore him."

Max leans back in his seat, thinking. "Listen, I’m not gonna play therapist. But it doesn’t go away by pretending it’s not there. And it’s not weak to care about people. Even... annoying curly-haired Italians."

You huff out a quiet laugh despite yourself. "He’s so annoying."

Max smirks. "He likes you."

Your head snaps toward him. "What—"

"He likes you," he repeats. "Like... likes you. The whole paddock sees it."

You stay quiet for a second too long.

"And George told me."

Your eyebrows furrow at this information. "Since when do you talk casual to George?"

Max puts his hands up in mock surrender. "Hey, he's not great but I'll do anything for you. You're like my little sister."

You smile at this, grateful for the support your teammate had.

Max tilts his head. “So... do you like him?”

Your fingers twist in your hoodie sleeve. "I don’t know what I feel when he’s around. But when he’s not... everything feels worse."

Max nods once, like that’s enough.

"Then maybe don’t fight it so hard," he says, standing. "Racing’s hard enough. Don’t make it harder by pretending you don’t care."

You watch as he starts to walk away, and just before he disappears out the door, he calls over his shoulder:

"Oh— and if he hurts you, I’ll punt him into next week."

You grin. "Thanks, Max."

He just raises a hand in acknowledgment, walking out the door like he just saved your life.

Despite Max's advice, you couldn't find the courage to talk to Kimi about it. So for a month, you both ignored each other like the plague and your races just went south from there.

You both would barely qualify in Q3 anymore and you wouldn't be able to make it out of a race without clipping the wall. Kimi was just as bad, getting into bad crashes every other week.

It was horrible. But the two of you didn't do anything about it.

Now it was race day, lap 43, and despite the distance created between you two for the past weeks, that didn't mean he still wasn't behind you through every corner.

Your Red Bull is barely in front. Kimi's Mercedes eats at your slipstream like its oxygen— still constantly in your mirrors, constantly on your nerves.

You tried to focus, but he was always there. And unless you decided to push him off, there was nothing you could do.

He lunges into Turn 7 and you don't give way. Your cars go wheel-to-wheel, leaving no room for each other within the track. Kimi tries to edge ahead on the outside. You squeeze him in retaliation, not enough to send him off but enough to send a message.

But he doesn't back off. He jerks the car forward with one final push and all hell breaks loose. Your front wing clips his rear and you swear you can hear the groans of both Christian and Toto all the way from the pit wall.

The contact is light but enough to shatter your wing and blow his tire. Both cars spin in tandem like a devil's tango, red and blue tangled in smoke and weeks of unspoken words. The crowd screams, marshals scramble, radios go haywire.

Everything is chaos. Everything except the burning in your chest.

You slam your fists on your steering wheel as your car comes to a halt on the gravel.

"Y/N, you okay?"

You don't reply. Instead, your eyes drift to the rundown Mercedes beside you. You see Kimi unbuckle his belt and take his helmet and balaclava off. He stood next to his car, posture stiff, eyes locked on your car.

You rip your helmet off and glare at him through the smoke and dust. And for the first time ever, there's no playfulness in the way you look at each other.

Just fury and heartbreak.

You say nothing. He says nothing. The marshals move in, but it's too late— the silence between the two of you has said it all.

You walk into the hospitality suite still in your race suit, helmet under your arm, jaw clenched so tight it hurts.

The room goes silent. No one knows what to say.

Your crash replay is already looping on the TV— Red Bull and Mercedes in slow-mo carnage. And not the cars the media expected either. The wing clipping, the tire bursting, the spin— you staring at Kimi like you’ve never known him at all.

Max is already there. So is your race engineer, Christian, your performance coach. The air is thick.

Max looks up, stress just as prominent on his face. "What the hell was that?"

You freeze, one foot still halfway in the doorway.

"You want the PR-friendly version or the one where I say I finally lost it?" you bite.

"You're not helping your case either way," he says calmly, but not coldly. Max is firm— older, sharper, not your rival but someone who’s been through every form of paddock chaos. "Look, I get it. You two have history. But this? This was emotional. Not smart."

Your fists clench around your helmet.

"It wasn’t just emotional. He pushed, I pushed back."

"That’s not racing. That’s a vendetta."

Your jaw ticks.

Your engineer tries to pivot. "We’ll review telemetry, see where we can defend the move if the stewards come calling."

But the conversation feels background now. Your eyes flick up to the TV again— frame paused on Kimi staring at your car in the runoff. Helmet on, shoulders tight, and no approach. No apology— just space.

Too much of it.

Meanwhile, Kimi’s being led into a side room. He's still in his race suit, lips pressed in a thin, unreadable line. Toto’s already giving him a look that’s somewhere between concern and disappointment.

"You need to tell me that wasn’t personal."

"It wasn’t."

"Then explain the body language." Toto nods toward the replay. “She looks at you like she wants to kill you. And you just stand there.”

Kimi’s hands curl into fists.

"I didn’t go for a dive bomb. I stayed on the racing line."

"And she didn’t back out either."

He doesn’t answer.

Toto sighs. "You two want to destroy each other, fine. But don’t destroy the cars too. We can’t afford that kind of emotional chaos on track again."

Kimi just stares down at the floor, jaw tense. Because he knows— this isn't just about today’s race.

Media day rolls around once again. The room is packed— cameras, reporters, too many eyes.

You’re seated on the far end of the lineup. Kimi is three chairs away. That’s by design— someone in PR clearly didn’t want another headline.

A reporter clears their throat. "Y/N, let’s start with you. There’s been a lot of talk about the collision last weekend. Do you still stand by your actions on track?"

But even with two drivers between you, the tension is unmistakable.

Max is next to you. Lando’s between you and Kimi. George looks like he’s bracing for impact.

You blink once. Then twice. You lift the mic, voice perfectly neutral.

"I stand by the fact that I raced. The telemetry shows that much."

Kimi doesn’t look at you. You don’t look at him either.

The reporter nods, but presses, "Do you regret the result?"

You hesitate. A beat too long. Max subtly shifts in his seat like he’s ready to shut it down for you.

Finally, you say, "I regret that it ended the way it did. Not that it happened."

The next question is for Kimi. "Kimi, same topic. Anything to say about your part in the incident?"

Kimi grips the mic.

"I raced her the way she raced me," he says simply. "I didn’t intend for it to end in a crash."

"But it did," the reporter counters. "And some fans are saying this has gone from playful rivalry to something... dangerous."

Silence. Another reporter cuts in, sensing blood.

"Which brings up the bigger question— are you two actually rivals? Or is there something else going on here?"

You finally glance at Kimi. He glances back. It's not playful now, not teasing. It’s tired, frustrated, wounded.

You speak first.

"Do you think this way because I'm a female?" you start, voice monotonous. "Carlos and Oscar crashed last week but I don't see anyone else questioning if they fuck behind closed doors."

Kimi says nothing. Carlos raises his brows. Oscar shifts like he wants to disappear. Max? Max exhales through his nose like he’s had enough.

Then Kimi, after a moment, says, "We were teammates once. That’s all."

You nod. "And now we’re not."

Another mic is raised but Max leans forward into his own and calmly says, "Can we move on, please?"

Media day goes by faster than you had anticipated. All thanks to Max being the best older brother figure and flicking off the questions that didn't matter. The night was slowly coming, the sunset casting the sky orange and you were still in an empty hallway with your backpack slung over your shoulder.

You hear the footsteps before you see him. The sound of boots on the concrete echoing through the hallway. You don’t need to look up to know it’s him. You just close your eyes and sigh.

"Kimi, don’t—"

"I’m not here to fight,” he says, voice quiet. Almost uncertain.

You finally glance over. He’s not in his race suit anymore— just a plain black team hoodie, hair still damp from the post-race shower. He looks young. Tired. Like this whole thing’s been eating at him too.

You scoff, eyes looking away. "You’re always here. That’s the problem."

Silence.

"I thought that’s what you wanted."

You blink, caught off guard.

"I gave you space," Kimi says, stepping closer, hands in his pockets. "Because every time I got close, you flinched. Or ran. Or crashed into me." A weak laugh, but it dies quickly.

"So I stopped chasing."

That word. Chasing. He looks down, then back up. His eyes meet yours— tired but steady.

"But I never stopped wanting to."

Your breath catches.

"I’ve always been behind you, Y/N," he says, voice softer now. "On the track. Off the track. I chased because I liked being near you. I liked the way you drove, how you looked at me when you overtook me like you planned it since Thursday." He pauses.

"I like you. That didn’t change. I just... backed off because I thought it was better for you."

You blink rapidly, heart pounding. The silence between you stretches wide and raw. He doesn’t step closer, doesn’t touch you. Just lets it hang there in the air— waiting.

You finally whisper, "So what now?"

He shrugs, but his voice cracks just slightly. "I don’t know. But I’m still here."

You meet his gaze, and this time you don’t flinch. You look at him, eyes soft but unreadable. The words stick in your throat, burning like adrenaline at lights out.

He steps back slightly— not away, just enough to show he’s leaving the choice to you.

And you do something you don’t expect.

You take one step forward. Let your fingers graze the strap of your bag. And you say, just above a whisper—

"Then don’t stop."

You walk past him slowly, your shoulder brushing his. You don’t turn around. You don’t have to.

Because he’s already smiling.

You were slowly getting back to your regularly scheduled programming. You noticed it when Kimi stood closer to you during today's driver parade and when the both of you exchanged glances in parc fermé after qualifying P1 and P2 yesterday.

You were sure the others noticed it too. The tension was warmer, banter almost coming back full force.

Lap 68 of 70. The tension is high, your focus even higher. Your Red Bull dances through the corners, tires screaming, engine humming—you're in P1, with Kimi right on your rear wing.

It’s poetic, almost. The two of you again. No one else in sight, just the ghost of your shared past trailing behind you.

Your race engineer’s voice crackles through the radio. "Two laps to go. Kimi’s got DRS. Don’t do anything stupid."

You don’t reply. You don’t need to. This wasn’t about stupid moves anymore. It wasn’t about payback or proving anything.

Kimi moves up on your inside into the braking zone of Turn 6. You see him in your mirrors— calculated, clean. He isn’t divebombing, isn’t pushing you wide like the both of you used to. He’s asking. Testing.

You defend the corner— not aggressively, but fairly. A line drawn in respect, not in battle. He backs off, just a touch, but he’s still there. You both know he’ll try again. Maybe on the next straight.

Lap 69. You feel him edge closer, the Mercedes getting tow after tow. This time, he takes the outside. You could shove him wide, close the door, cut the apex like you always used to.

But you don’t. You give him space.

You brake early enough to let him choose the line. You even adjust your throttle just slightly— not enough to throw the race, but enough to say I trust you to take it from here.

He does. He slips past, clean as ever. For once, it doesn’t sting.

You chase him for the rest of the lap— not because you’re angry or trying to steal the lead again. But because that’s how it’s always been. You and Kimi. Push and pull. First and second. Side by side, even when you're not.

Final corner. You’re right on his gearbox, but you don’t make the move. Because he earned this one. And because you’ll get him back next time.

Across the finish line: Kimi P1, you P2.

The checkered flag waves in a blur of black and white as you cross the finish line, just seconds behind the silver Mercedes in front of you.

But it wasn’t just the result that had your heart pounding— no, it was him. It was Kimi.

You’d fought each other hard. Clean lines, aggressive braking, zero hesitation. But not a single corner was dirty. Not a single move crossed the line. It was the first time in a long while where it didn’t feel like war. It felt like racing.

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding as you pull into parc fermé, the crowd roaring in the background. The adrenaline hums in your veins as you unclip your belts, helmet still on as you jump out of the car.

And there he is. Standing beside his car, helmet already off, curly hair flattened against his head, cheeks flushed from the heat. Kimi turns when he hears your footsteps, and for a second, neither of you says anything.

Then he smiles. Not the smug one. Not the teasing one. Just… soft. Honest.

You walk up to him and hold your helmet against your hip. "Nice win," you say quietly.

He looks at you like he’s trying to memorize this moment. "Nice race," he replies. "You pushed me."

You smirk faintly. "I always do."

A beat of silence. The air shifts. He opens his mouth, maybe to say more, but the media start swarming. Max claps you on the back. Charles yells something from the pit wall. Someone hands you water.

But Kimi’s still looking at you.

Before he disappears into the chaos, he leans in just slightly—barely audible over the noise. "I missed that. You and me. Like this."

Your chest tightens, but your eyes soften. "Me too."

Max stays standing next to you, a brotherly smile on his face. "You did well, kid."

You smile back. "Thanks, Max."

"And I'm glad you're both good now."

Your eyes slightly go wide at the mention of the Italian, ears turning red. Max notices this and smirks, "No PDA in the garages. And you better not tell him our strategies."

The podium celebrations are over. Your race suit’s half unzipped, champagne still drying on your skin as you walk down the paddock lane toward the team hospitality. Your boots echo against the pavement, the crowd a dull buzz behind you.

Beside you, Kimi walks with his hands holding his helmet. There’s a comfortable silence between you now— no jabs, no standoff tension. Just the lingering heat of a good fight and the electric charge of something that still hasn’t quite been said.

You side-eye him, the corner of your mouth lifting.

"So?" you ask, bumping his shoulder lightly with yours. "You finally happy you finished in front of me?"

Kimi glances over, slow and smug in the way only he can pull off. "Nah."

You raise an eyebrow, turning slightly to face him. "No?"

He lets out a breath that’s halfway between a laugh and a sigh, eyes forward now as you both keep walking. "I’m only getting started."

Your step falters just slightly— just enough for him to notice. He grins, because of course he does.

You roll your eyes, but you can’t hide the way your lips tug upward. "Cocky."

"Confident," he corrects, flicking his gaze toward you. "You’d know something about that."

You hum under your breath, trying not to let the warmth spread to your cheeks. "Guess we’ll see what happens next race."

Kimi slows just a little so he’s behind you for a step or two. “I’ll be right there," he says. "Chasing you."

You don’t say anything, not yet— but your smirk grows just a little wider. You go up to him and plant a kiss on his cheek, running off with a giggle towards your hospitality, leaving him dumbfounded and red in the middle of the paddock.

You're happy. Because for the first time in a while, you want him to.

Lap 71 of 72. The desert track shimmers in the heat, and the Red Bull at the front of the train is holding her own. You.

And he’s behind you again. Kimi Antonelli. The same boy who used to haunt your mirrors, your dreams, your everything.

The same boy you once fought like hell. The same boy you gave space to. The same boy you once let win.

But not today.

Your tires are worn, your fuel light’s flashing, and your team is begging you to bring it home safely. But you can hear Kimi’s car closing in, hear his engine roar on the main straight like he’s trying to rewrite the ending again.

He sends it. Late on the brakes into Turn 9. You cover him off. He goes outside in Turn 10. You tighten the line.

Lap 72. Final lap. He’s still right there. The Mercedes dips and weaves behind your Red Bull, looking for a gap, looking for permission. But this time— you don't give it.

Not out of bitterness. Not out of pride. But because this one’s yours. You earned it.

You hit every apex. Every throttle input is perfect. You’re on the limit, dancing with the car, chasing glory.

And as you round the final corner, Kimi’s still behind. Close. Always close. But behind.

You cross the finish line. You took the gold this time, and god did it taste good.

Your breath’s still heavy when you climb out of the car. Mechanics swarm you, hugs and shouts and celebration— your first win. Champagne-worthy. History-making. Redemption, in its purest form.

You glance sideways— and there he is. Kimi. Helmet off, curlier than usual, grinning like the idiot he is.

He walks up and bumps your shoulder with his. "Happy now? You finally finished ahead of me again."

You scoff, shaking your head, a tired smile on your lips. "You say that like I ever stopped."

He smirks. "I know. I was just giving you time to catch up."

You roll your eyes but the flush on your cheeks betrays you. He leans in just enough so only you can hear—

"I’m proud of you."

He pecks you on the cheek then steps away, letting you take the middle step on the podium where you belong. The crowd cheers and the teams holler.

And even from P2, he never looks away.

650 notes · View notes

jawllines · 1 month ago

Text

“I think this is the best idea you’ve ever had in your life.” Niall answered, his voice lowered while they sat across from each other in a cafe booth. It was a relatively nice day, the weather was beautiful, so they were planning on doing something – what that would be, they weren’t sure, but they started it with lattes and croissants and discussing something that shouldn’t be discussed in public (but what’s new), “Seriously, like – and I just need to take a deep breath because you’re finally listening to me. I don’t know how to tell you this but I bought you a collar like a month ago because I knew you’d pussy out.”

Y/N’s mouth falls open, jaw loosened, “Ni, you did not!”

“I did,” he nodded, “I didn’t get the rest of all the things because I didn’t know how you’d feel about it,” he swallowed, then shook his head, “No, I’m lying, I wanted you to fully commit to the bit so I ordered everything. Leash, tail. . .I mean, fuck it, I got ears too.”

Y/N likes Harry, and that's convenient, because Harry likes her too

[warning: pet play!!]

part 1

part 2

part 3

part 4

part 5

(8.4k+ words)

vi.

Y/N has never been very good at science.

Life sciences, like biology, she could figure out easily enough if there were pictures, and chemistry, she could fumble her way through after spending at least an hour screaming into her pillow about how much she didn’t want to do it. Things like physics, though, always zipped right over her head. With a limited understanding of whatever the hell Newton and Einstein were talking about also came a limited understanding of anything that may have to do with space. It was interesting, but actually learning about the concepts that shape their whole universe? Terrifying. Y/N would rather not know how big the galaxies are, because then she needs to start considering the existence of extraterrestrial life, and she feels like as soon as you go down that rabbit hole, you’re asking to get abducted.

But she does know about supernovas. Only because of a song that she really liked mentioned them, and she had to see what it was. There was a long, intricate explanation as to why they happen, but what Y/N took away from it was that they were an explosion, and it was so bright, it could outshine galaxies. Beautiful colors emerge, blues, purples, pinks, greens, oranges, impressive and intense.

Whatever is happening in her chest right now, Y/N thinks is close to a supernova. It feels just as colorful and complex. As bewitching, and as dazzling. As captivating, and as terrifying. Her heart races with it, confused, excited, overjoyed, hopelessly giddy. She probably needed a moment to sort through all the thoughts spinning around in her head, but right now, she knew she wouldn’t get one. She didn’t mind that either – not right now. Not when this is a version of Harry that she’d never been privy to. One that she’d never believed she’d ever get to witness.

Harry, from the moment he’d stepped through her door, was more vulnerable than she’d ever seen him. And she’d seen him with his cock out and everything, consumed by lust, his bare bum walking to her bathroom – all pretty vulnerable positions, she’d say. Like, he definitely wouldn’t want to be caught by a bear in that state. But this emotional vulnerability was something else entirely for such a typically emotionally guarded, closed-off person. The impassive and at times apathetic man that she had come to know had been dipped in honey and set before her. Or, better yet, maybe dipped in an acid, to erode the outer shell and reveal the honeyed center beneath.

He’d taken her to the sofa immediately, sat down across from her, his hands held out with his palms facing upward, and Y/N wasn’t sure if it’d been a silent request or a silent offering. Maybe both – she took it, no matter what it was, and slid her fingers between his own. Their hands were tight around one another's, as Harry curled his over her knuckles, his thumb stroked her where it lay.

“I wanted to apologize to you,” Harry started, measured and sure, despite the way his cheeks flamed hot and fiery with what she could only imagine was immense embarrassment. Not that she thought his reaction was anything to be embarrassed about – had roles been reversed, she probably would have cried the moment she saw him then tried to crawl up under his shirt or something. But she knew that Harry wasn’t used to expressing himself or his feelings this intensely, so she understood the nerves behind it. “I should have warned you that Maren would be there, but I wasn’t sure how. . .how to explain why I was telling you? I guess that’s the easiest way to put it. And I really didn’t think she’d be a problem – she’s always been a thorn in my ass, but she usually isn’t so pointed with her advances.” He shook his head with a soft sigh, “But that’s beside the point. You mentioned me not messaging you as much?” Y/N nodded, and Harry nodded with her, “That had nothing to do with Maren,” he explained, “I was. . .if I’m honest, I was worried that I had been too overbearing while you were out for that week.”

Y/N tilted her head, “Overbearing? I didn’t think so.” She shook her head, “You really took care of me. If you want to see overbearing, you need to meet Ni’s aunt – she checks his forehead like 5 times in the span of 10 minutes to make sure he isn’t too warm.”

A small smile wormed onto his mouth, warmed and soothed the worry off of his face, “That’s good to know,” he replied, “I suppose I got into my head too, about it all. Especially when you didn’t want to talk to me.”

With a grimace, Y/N explained herself, “Yeah, that – I didn’t handle that well, I don’t think,” she swallowed hard, “I just – um. . .like I was – I kind of thought I walked in on you two kissing?” Then she hurriedly adds, “Which is within your right to do! You aren’t not allowed to do what you want, I just didn't –” she huffed a sigh, unsure of how to articulate it beyond the easiest way, which happened to be the most humiliating, “I know we aren’t technically together or anything, but it made me jealous. I was jealous, and petty, and wanted to ignore you until I could sort myself out. I get it if the whole jealousy thing makes you uncomfortable, and like...I mean, I want to promise that it won’t happen again, but I don’t know if I can.” She swallowed even harder, chin tipped down, staring at their hands. Even just two weeks ago, Y/N would have rather worked with notoriously difficult Chhurpi cheese than tell Harry that she was jealous. To even allude to the fact that her feelings for him might be beyond what they had started this with.

But tonight, it didn’t feel so hard. It took her a while to spit it out, sure, but she still was able to get there. Part of what encouraged her was the way his hands felt against hers, the expanse of their palms pressed together so warmly that it thaws out her usually cold fingers. Another part was the blatant, and unremitted display of affection he’d doled out to her as soon as he stepped through the threshold of her flat, as if he didn’t peck her face with a hundred kisses, she’d disappear in a puff of smoke. And another – the way he was looking at her. His eyes were softened in a way she only vaguely recalls after they had sex, when she’s only a couple of minutes from passing out, pressed tightly to his side.

“When I called you the other night and you were with Youngjae, I was so jealous that I could barely see straight,” he admitted suddenly, honestly, “Surely, you realized that? I threw a fit, practically – covered you in all of those marks. Even before then, when he’d only just complimented your meal, invited you to practice under him, and I was just so mad that he’d asked right in front of me. So I took you home and I fucked you that night. Don’t you remember?”

Y/N nodded, but still, she considered his words, “I kind of figured. Or, well, at least Niall kind of figured and then told me that you were jealous.”

“Niall is smarter than he looks.”

“But I guess I just wondered what it was you even had to be jealous of? I mean, you and YoungJae are kind of carbon copies of each other, only he’s Korean!”

Harry clicked his tongue, “No,” he disagreed, “That’s not the only difference. He’s more personable, more gentle, he seems sweeter, and more patient. Adam told me you had a dedicated crying corner to go to when I yelled at you. It’s different,” he seemed stressed, remembering it, “He’s different than me, and I figured that you’d go and realize that you could learn with someone nicer, who was attractive, and probably had a crush on you.”

“A crush on me?” Y/N gaped, then sat up straighter, “What the hell? What made you think that?”

His eyes go wide, “What, you don’t think he likes you? He looked at you like you’d given him a star or something. It was so irritating.” Y/N couldn’t help it when she snorted, a giggle bubbled from her throat, and she had to slip one of her hands from his to cover her mouth, “Don’t laugh at me.”

“I’m not!” She bit down on her lip to suppress it, but it still slipped free, “It’s just – Harry, he looks at everyone like that! He even looks at you like that – actually, he looks downright dreamy when he even thinks about you.”

Y/N has never seen Harry truly, genuinely pout until tonight. His bottom lip jutted out, and he still looked grumpy, but Y/N wanted so badly to slip her hands onto his face and pull him to her mouth. To dig her teeth into his lip and nibble and pull at it until he whines, too. She took his hand again, then chanced pulling his hand up to her face, running her cheek along his knuckles, “You’re just saying that.” He muttered.

“You’re so silly,” Y/N replied. This is such a refreshing development, she thinks. Never would she have expected this from Harry – this pouting, jealous, slightly insecure version of him that thinks she’d run off with Youngjae because he was nice to her. She doesn’t even have time to consider being mad at Niall for exposing her crying corner to Adam, because all she can think about is how upset Harry seemed that it even had to exist. There was a guilt clear on his features, but whispered between his words. Honestly, Y/N hadn’t even thought about how Harry used to yell at her for a long time. “I’m not just saying it! He didn’t give me any vibes like he might like me.”

Harry tipped his chin up and looked to the side, and wow, she wondered if she reached out and touched his ear, if it’d feel as hot as it looked, “Well, I don’t know how much I trust your detection skills, if I’m being honest.” He mumbled, “It seems like Niall has to do most of the ground work.” Still, despite a grumbled reply, he flipped his hand around so that he cradled her cheek instead, resting it against his palm.

This giddy feeling that overruns her is nice. It’s fun – she likes it, after so long of being so upset and confused and distraught. She thinks she’s finally starting to understand, though. . .that she’s finally getting it. What Niall had been seeing this entire time.

“Harry?” She inquired, and he hummed, eyes following Hazelnut as she sat across from them, and looped her tail around her bottom paws. When she doesn’t say anything to immediately follow it, Harry turned to look at her, his green eyes bright, “If I asked to see you and we didn’t have sex, and we didn’t cook something. . .would you be okay with that?”

Harry answered without hesitation, “Yes.”

“And if I. . .if I said that I only wanted you to do stuff like this with me? Sex, and…and seeing each other outside of it?” The nerves almost stop her from saying it, threatening to clog her throat.

“Then I’d tell you that it’s been like that from the start,” he replied again, immediately, “I’d tell you that you’re the only person I want to see. The only one I want to sleep with. The only person I’d like to be with.”

Y/N grinned. She scooted across the sofa to wrap her arms around his shoulders, and Harry slid his arms around her waist. It was warm — Y/N wondered when the last time they hugged like this was. If they’ve ever even hugged like this. There’s so much that they have done together, but still so much they hadn’t, and if this was them opening the door to all of that, she was more than enthusiastic.

With her chin hooked around his shoulder, Harry’s face is dipped into her throat. He takes a deep breath, then a slow exhale, “This is a lot, for me,” he told her, “I wish that you could just siphon information from my brain instead of me having to say it.”

“Ah, you might need to get used to saying it, though. I’m kind of dense – Niall says so at least.”

Somehow, they had ended up in her bed. Nothing crazy, nothing sexual, just the two of them tangled up in each other’s limbs, and for the first time, Harry falls asleep first. He had all but demanded that she let him spoon her, so she didn’t get to look at his face, but with the way his breathing had slowed and how heavy his arm felt around her waist, she knew he was resting. This is a sort of content that she seldom gets to feel and still be all in her head to truly enjoy it. Harry’s body is pressed warm against her back, he sounds sweet with little snores, and Y/N can’t help but melt into him entirely.

All the vulnerability must have tuckered him right out. Y/N smiled to herself, stretching her arm over his, her hand resting over his hand. Even in his dreams, he raises two fingers for her to curl around. Twists his fingers up in hers.

Her insides feel bright, wicked, an ebullition of colors that rival a supernova.

. . .

The thing is, Y/N feels bad.

Listen, she knows she shouldn’t! She and Harry have discussed their feelings, and they’ve communicated relatively decently about the entire situation and how to avoid it in the future. Harry only implores her that if she has an issue, she bring it to him directly, no matter how intimidating she might think he is. Whether it be work-related or not, Harry is not the type to let issues fester. He’d like to nip it in the bud immediately, as soon as possible, even if he’s the one who is upset.

So they’d discussed it, and they’d apologized for the misunderstandings, and it should be in the dust by now. Just something they had learned and grown from – something in the past.

But Y/N replays how Harry had walked into her flat, how he’d cradled her face, kissed her a thousand times, told her to never completely ice him out again. To never not speak to him, to leave him in the dark, and it’d only been a few days – barely.

She feels bad, though. He’s told her dozens of times that she shouldn’t feel bad, because it wasn’t her fault – the situation was just an incorrect interpretation of the other’s thoughts and feelings at the time. That he wasn’t upset, to stop apologizing, that if she said sorry to him one more time, he would get upset.

So she has an idea. And she takes her idea to Niall, because he hadn’t steered her wrong at this point, and he would let her know if it was stupid or not. If she would look ridiculous doing it. If she should just make him a meal or something to quell the ache in her chest.

Y/N’s mouth falls open, jaw loosened, “Ni, you did not!”

“Niall!” She exclaims, but he pulls his phone from his pocket and quickly drags up the link from an email, “How much was – why am I so shocked?”

Niall clicked his tongue. “I don’t know why you’re shocked at all, actually, I told you I was going to,” he spun the phone around, sliding it across the table, “S’crazy right? It wasn’t that pricey, consider it a birthday present. So, I’ll kind of guide you through this because I know you’ll get in your head and freak out. I was actually intensely into pet play like three years ago, so this is perfect.”

That’s how Y/N ended up here, after extensive teachings from Niall, examples, and demonstrations that make her face feel so hot it might melt off. It all led to her inviting Harry over to her flat on their day off, with a medium-sized collar around her throat that had his name stitched into it. A leash was clipped to the metal clasp at the back of it, which she looped around her wrist while she moved around so she didn’t get tangled in it. She had a set of ears clipped in neatly on her head, flopping, similar to her hair color, but stuck out enough that it was clear what they were. The most shocking of all, however, and the most time spent between her and Niall, was him teaching her how to open herself up for a plug.

He showed her how to on his Fleshlight, which looked like a bum, and he’d promised her he’d cleaned it out before he pulled it out for their “fingering-lesson” as he continued to call it. Y/N thinks that if she had said it was okay, Adam would have been on the phone guiding her as well, but she was feeling way too bashful for that. Hell, even talking about it with Niall was a lot, as he described how much lube, the depth she should start with, how many fingers, but even before that – her diet and how to clean herself out to prepare for it. Y/N doesn’t think she’d ever stared so hard at a fleshlight in her life, as she watched him spread it open, talk about the right and wrong way to do it.

So, spreading her open, a plug with a tail fixed to the end of it caressed the insides of her thighs every time she moved. It was insane, all of this, but they had talked about it before – briefly. Discussed what they wanted to do, how he wanted her to be a proper puppy, and Y/N wanted that too. She just wishes she could skip to the part where she was so cock dumb and empty-headed that she didn’t feel all the anxious, jittering nerves inside of her.

Because what if Harry was just saying that as pillow talk? What if he’d just been trying to work her and himself up, but the actual thought of it he didn’t want. Maybe they needed to sit and have a proper chat about it, before she just balls to the wall went all in and dressed like a fucking dog then invited him over to her flat. This is actually insane work, honestly, and yeah Niall is right about most things but he’s also a horny freak who typically has partners equally freaky and horny as him. She doesn’t think he’s ever not thoroughly discussed a scene before he did something new with someone either, so when Y/N had mentioned that they’d spoken about it, he probably thought she’d meant actually discussed it. Like sitting across from each other, going through hard nos, dos, and don’ts, and not when Harry was twisting a hand around his prick, and she was a hairpin trigger away from cumming untouched.

Y/N has nearly completely talked herself out of it by the time she hears her front door open and completely stills. She was sitting on her bed, feeling stupid, silly, and a ton of other negative adjectives that did not instill any confidence in her before something she probably needed a lot of confidence for. She was trembling, her stomach turning, her heart kind of felt like it might be thudding in her throat, and her blood roared through her ears when Harry called for her. First, just her name. Then, “Baby?” Which is a new development – a welcomed one, but one that gets her all fuzzy inside, no matter how many times he’d begun to casually refer to her as such.

Eventually, she hears his footsteps get further inside. The floorboards shift at the beginning of her hallway, then again right outside of her door, and his hand presses against the wood as he swings it open quietly. He probably thought she had fallen asleep waiting for him or something, which would explain why he was attempting to be so quiet. Instead, he is met with her, sitting on her knees, her hands were supposed to be in her lap per Niall’s instructions, but instead they were curled up in the blankets at her side.

Harry’s gaze falls upon hers. He blinks a couple of times, like he might be trying to adjust his eyesight to the lower lighting of the room. Or maybe he’s just trying to make sure that this wasn’t some elaborate hallucination that he’d suddenly uncovered. When he stops blinking, the image of her stops disappearing and reappearing before his eyes, and there she still stays. Did he think this was embarrassing? Maybe he was experiencing the world’s greatest second-hand embarrassment – so bad that they could put it in a world record book. Or maybe he was trying not to laugh at her. She probably looked ridiculous, didn’t she? She’d barely looked herself in the mirror once she put the ears in – just enough to make sure they were level with one another before she fucked off into the bedroom. There’s no bra, there’s no underwear – she’s stark naked, just sitting, waiting, like a dog would. Like a puppy.

“Ohhhh, I see,” his voice is careful, as he takes a step forward, “My baby isn’t here, hm? I just have a sweet little puppy instead.”

Y/N swallows hard, dipping her head down and lowering her front half against the mattress. When Harry outstretches his hand, she rubs her face into his open palm; her cheek, her nose, her mouth. It felt good, especially when he curled his fingers up in her hair and scratched gently at her hairline, caressing upward through it, to stop at the ears. There’s a soft tug, and her head jerks with it before she settles again, letting his hands explore and move around her new accessories.

It’s when his fingers dance from her head, along her human ears, down to her neck that the pads trace around the collar. He follows the border of it, the threading, slips two fingers between her throat and the leather. It’s tight–not so tight that it’ll choke her, but it’s definitely a weighty presence–one that’s hard to ignore. That must be when he sees it, though, as he strips around the material, because he pauses, he reads, his breathing hitches, and –

– he moans. Something loud, a little whiny, erupting from the back of his throat.

“Fuck,” he mumbles out, dragging his thumb along the embroidery, “Oh my fucking god.” YN lets him continue to pet her but shifts forward, nudging the back of her head against his hand. He slides his fingers to the front of the collar again, twists the thin leash around his knuckles, and gives a soft, gentle tug, “C’mon, you know better. No puppies on the bed.” He helps guide her down, on hands and knees, carefully dismounting from the mattress in the most awkward, limb-filled way she could have. Eventually, she is on the floor, the carpet digging into her nails and into her knees, her face flaming hot when she rubs her cheek against his calf, which may be more of a kitten thing than a dog thing. Niall told her that it could be interchangeable a bit, because typically, all the non-geared-up person in the dynamic cared about was that the other person was giving in to base desires and acting like an animal.

From this angle, he must be able to see the tail because another murmured curse slips from his mouth, before she feels the same gentle, prodding fingers that usually nudge at her lips, move around her bum. The rim is stretched and messy with lube, so when Harry carefully pushes into it, Y/N whines and lurches forward. Her skin is sensitive, where it’s soft and slick, and he goes from moving around the plug to letting his fingers drag through the tail, “Such a filthy fucking thing. Where did you even get toys like this?”

Y/N doesn’t answer, because she’s a dog and dogs don’t speak. She does shake her bum, though, move her hips from side to side so the tail swings and tickles the back of her thighs. It’s humiliating in a way that she can’t describe but the way Harry is looking at her, the heat that flurries through his gaze, the lump in his trousers where his cock is pressing up against the zipper. It’s worth it. It’s well worth the way part of her wants to crawl her way right under the bed and not let him pull her out until science can figure out a way to wipe her memory clean.

But it also feels. . .good. Kind of, she doesn’t know – she needs to stay like this for a little longer. To really get the feel for it. Really see how deep into puppy space she could get.

Y/N, let’s Harry guide her out of the bedroom. He leads her carefully, doesn’t tug or pull, and Y/N appreciates it. Since they weren’t able to sit down and discuss every avenue of this, she could tell that Harry was approaching it cautiously. He doesn’t just automatically start tugging her around because he doesn’t know that she’s okay with that yet. Doesn’t start spanking her and fucking her with her plug because he doesn’t know that she’d like that. Doesn’t shove her nose into his crotch and make her mouth at him wetly, because he has no clue that the thought makes her want to start drooling.

He guides her to the sofa, and when he sits down, Y/N sits pretty beside his feet. Harry pets her head like she really is a puppy, cooing at her sweetly, “Such a good girl,” he murmured, his hand sliding down to her jaw, his fingers caressing her skin, “Knows exactly how to be a good puppy already, don’t you? Might not even have to train you.” He hums, “But if my puppy wants to stop this at any time, all she has to say is Duck, okay? And if you can’t talk, then just squeeze my hand three times.”

Y/N nods and shudders, dips her face against his knee, and nudges against him. Harry chuckles, grabs a pillow off her couch, and sets it on the floor between his spread feet. Once again, he gives the leash a little pull and coaxes her with sweet words, “Knees on the pillow, Pup. Why don’t you rest your head on my thigh for a little bit?”

That’s easy enough, Y/N could do that. Niall had told her the brunt of this – what makes this all so sexy – is the complete control that Harry would have over her. If he told her to bark, then bark, if he wanted her to pant with her tongue hanging out and drool all over his cock, then she’d do it. Of course, she doesn’t think they’d get too intense tonight, because Harry is – above all else – a good, dominant partner in the dynamic. He knows when to lead and when to step back, how far to take it, and what to relax with.

So she trusts him implicitly. Even more so when his fingers press against her lips, Y/N opens them eagerly so that he can feed them into her mouth. She sucks on them, licks around his knuckles and sighs contently – it’d been a while since he’d had his fingers in her mouth like this. Y/N forgot how much she liked it; the weight of his fingers against her tongue, the scrape of her teeth along his nails, the salty taste of his skin. She likes how full she felt with only two of them in there. Even more than that, she likes that two of her holes were plugged, and wondered how it might feel to have all three of them. The thought alone makes her shiver.

They stay like this for a while. Harry turns the telly onto something, but she can’t tell if he’s really paying attention or not. Just feels him stroke the top of her head, fuck his fingers inside of her mouth every so often, stretch them against the inside of her cheeks. It’s mind-numbing in a good way, lulling her somewhere else–somewhere sweeter and softer, as the insides of her legs get sticky from how much she’s leaking down between them. Y/N had been good at first, perfectly still just sucking on his fingers, but she starts to wriggle more. Adjusting her hips, pawing at his calves as she slowly began to get restless.

Y/N doesn’t realize she’s whining until she feels her throat vibrate with it, and Harry clicks his tongue softly, “What is it, puppy?” He inquired, and Y/N’s brain is full of cotton and clouds when she looks up at him. There’s drool building up at the corner of her mouth, dribbling out of the sides that Harry drags away with his thumb, “Hm? Are you feeling needy?” He pressed down on her tongue before slipping his fingers out of her mouth entirely. Y/N whines, chasing after them, but he uses his grip on the leash to keep her in place, “You can talk, Honey. Can my dumb puppy speak?”

She opens her mouth, “Please,” her voice sounds wrecked already, “Please, I want – I need it, daddy.”

There’s a flash in his eyes that has her clench around the plug, only making her more painfully aware of how empty her pussy was. “Yeah, you need it?” Harry repeated, biting down hard enough on his lip that the flesh blanched around the indents of his teeth. She swears she saw his cock twitch in his bottoms, which were doing very little to hide how worked up he was. “Okay, baby, show daddy how much you need it, hm?” But when Y/N starts to lift her hands toward his thighs, Harry grabs for both of them, curling his fingers around each one, “Mm, no, no, Sweetheart. Remember, puppies don’t use their hands.”

Y/N nods, swallowing hard, not even worried about it. She could do it without her hands – she didn’t need them. All she needed to do was stretch forward and rub her face into his crotch, which should be more embarrassing than it feels right now. The way she buries her nose against him, breathing in deep, mewling when the pure scent of Harry slithers through her. Her mouth is wide open, tongue pressed out against the fabric of his thin linen trousers – the lavender ones that she was fond of – and soaking it around his cock. How he’d had it trapped against his body had made it hard at first, but the harder he got, the easier it was for her to find the head, to lull her tongue around it. She whimpers, brows curling, lips pursing at the tip and suckling through the fabric like it was all she knew how to do.

Her hands are slid beneath the sofa cushion, so she really wouldn’t use them, but her neck and jaw start getting a little tired from how she has to move without any support. Harry must be able to tell because he tucks his fingers around the back of the collar where it lay against her nape and pulls her away. He laughs when she whines at him, her tongue hanging from her mouth, drool spilling from her, “Wow,” he murmured, “I thought it might take a bit more to get you into a sweet little spot like this, but I forgot how easy you were for it, hm? You trust me, baby?” Y/N nodded – she trusted him more than anything, “Yeah? G’na let me make you feel good?”

Again, she nods, leaning forward when he slackens his grip and runs her tongue over his cock several times, in wet, long strokes. The fabric’s taste isn’t what she wants, though, and Harry lifts his hips and pushes the bottoms down so that his cock is out.

He’s hard. The tip is red, leaking already, and it sways a little with the motion of him pulling it free. Y/N barely waits for permission to get her mouth on him, and while she thinks on a different day, when Harry was more prepared for a scene like this – he might have scolded her. Instead, today, he just lets her do what she wants. Laughs through his nose and strokes the side of her head as she mouths out at his cock, which feels bigger right now for some reason, than it usually does. Especially when she can’t use her hands to help guide it, she just has to part her lips and chase after it. She thinks she probably looks dumb, but she doesn’t care. She wants him in her mouth – needs it, actually.

“Ah, maybe I will have to train a greedy puppy like you after all,” he hums thoughtfully as she slurps around his cock, taking him deep, deep, deep until it touches the back of her throat and it convulses around the intrusion. Y/N slips off, takes barely a breath to compose herself, then goes right back in, “But it’s your first time being my puppy for real, isn’t it? I’ll be more lenient now than I will in the future,” he murmurs and it sounds a little like a warning, when she drools over his cock, down to his balls, lapping at them. He groans, wanton and loud, needy as she was, “God – fuck, c’mon, g’na take care of you. Bet that pussy is so messy, isn’t it baby?”

There’s some maneuvering involved, but Harry ends up on the floor with her, slipping out of his trousers the rest of the way. When he pulls his top over his head and tosses it to the side, Y/N reaches out for it, grabs for it – she doesn’t know why, but she wants it near her, kind of. Lays it next to her head so she could smell him some more, and if she were more in her head, then she’d realize how very omega-like of her this was, and how prideful Niall would be if he realized she’d done this. But she’s nowhere near that level of conscious thought right now. She’s swimming somewhere so beautiful and brainless that she doesn’t even feel shy to press the fabric to her nose and breathe in deeply. Smell his cologne and his sweat from the day.

Harry’s cock twitches when he watches her, and he splits her thighs and looks between her legs. She probably is messy right now, lube and her arousal dripping all over the place. Y/N had been worked up after stretching herself open and sliding the plug in, imagining what Harry’s reaction would be to her, and how hard he might fuck her made her touch herself a little bit too. She’d only gotten to two fingers and only did enough to get herself a little more needy, so she feels deprived and restless right now.

He starts with one fingers, and when her hole sucks him in greedily, he gives her two, right down to the knuckle, “Always so ready for it. Slutty fucking pussy,” he is tentative as he preps her, and with the plug in her bum, it somehow feels more intense. There’s more pressure everywhere, so much so that three of his fingers feel like four, and four of his fingers feel like five. Still, Y/N moans, keens, whines, whimpers – does every sound but bark for him – as he splits her open. It’s so good, she feels so fucking good right now, but all she wants is his cock. Wants him to fill her up and fuck her dumb, even stupider than she is right now. Wants to drool, wants him to fuck her hard and deep, and split around him, and feel the head nudge against her g-spot. She wants to squirt on him and get him messy. She wants him to keep going even when she’s too sensitive and is wiggling away, she wants him to drag her right back to him.

Y/N starts fucking her hips down into him, her arms slung beneath her knees to keep them spread but her hips moving tirelessly. Harry places a hand on her thigh, fingers stretched wide, but he doesn’t stop her from moving. He almost seems amused by it, above anything else, his eyes watching closely, his lips curled into a smile, cooing little encouragement like, “Yeah, there we go, baby, that feels good, doesn’t it?” She nods helplessly, and he curls his fingers relentlessly as her legs tremble, getting tired, “Why don’t I give you something a little bigger, hm?”

This time, she nods as enthusiastically as she can. As soon as his fingers slip from her, she rolls onto her belly unprompted, lifts herself onto her knees, and presents herself for him. Years of omegaverse lore aid her subconsciously as she rests herself on her shoulders, reaching back and pulling herself apart to show him where she’s wet and needy for him. Nobody can ever resist that, and at the end of the day, Harry is only a man. He makes a sound kind of close to a growl behind her, cursing beneath his breath when his left hand covers hers to keep her steady, and his right hand guides his prick to her hole. Even though they both knew she was more than ready enough, Harry is still slow about sliding into her. Makes sure she feels every single inch that slides inside of her, stretches her out further. Y/N wonders if it feels tighter because of the plug inside of her. Harry does show an interest in the tail, smoothing it out of his way so that he could look at her again, where she’s stretched taut around the plug.

“Can’t stop thinking about you getting ready for me,” Harry grinds inside of her deep, and Y/N cries out, her fingers digging deeper into her flesh, “How did I find such a naughty, greedy puppy, hm? Fuck, you were made for this,” he prods at the skin around the plug, threatens to dip his thumb in too as his he slowly starts to build up a rhythm. Y/N wishes she could see him – even if she craned her neck, it would do the view no justice. She wants to watch him from the side, from the back, from between her legs – wants to see how big his cock is, how far it stretches her, how his balls slap against her with every stroke he bottoms out in.

She can feel herself drooling, and later on, she would cringe about it, and how it smears against her cheek while her face rubs against his shirt. Oh! His shirt, she’d forgotten – she slides her hands from holding herself open and curls her arms around his shirt. Presses her nose into it and breathes in so deeply, taking in every lick of Harry’s scent that she can from it. For some reason, it made Harry’s hips stutter behind her, his fingernails digging into her skin as he paused deep inside of her. Y/N whines, and he must be able to feel that she’s going to move her hips again because he tightens his grip, “No, just – fuck, just give me a minute. You almost made me cum.”

“Want it,” she whines, “Want it, want it, want it –”

Harry stretches himself across her back, slips his fingers into her mouth, and muffles her mid-beg, “Shh, dumb puppies like you don’t need to talk or think,” he groans as he slides out of her, slowly rolling his hips, wary to start where he left off right away, “God, you love being my little doggy, don’t you? You’re so fucking wet,” Y/N quivers, holding his fingers uselessly in her mouth, unable to suck or lick or bite, just pant and drool around them, “You wanna cum for, Daddy, Sweetheart? Get me all nice and sticky with it?”

His pace picks up again, the slide of it easier as he makes more space for himself inside of her. It’s much more intense with Harry pressed up against her like this, and it doubles when his fingers slip between her thighs and swirl around the swollen bud of her clit. It flicks beneath his touch, stiff and engorged, and just the press of his index and middle finger pads against it makes her cry out. The ears are flopping against her head with each thrust. Her legs want to close, but there’s no easy way to, and her back arches against him. But her mouth is full, her clit is being played with, the plug still sits inside of her and Harry rocks his hips into her like he’s trying to make sure the shape of him never leaves, hard and deep, an impression of himself in her insides.

“Ah, ah, ah,” she sounds around his fingers, and it’s muffled, a staccato sound with every collision of their hips together. Words escape her; she just feels, and she feels everything so intensely right now.

Her whole body shakes when she cums. It starts with her thighs, shaking hard, making the rest of her legs tremble, and the heat of her arousal swells into a tight balloon that expands rapidly, the latex filling out until it pops, and the warm wave of water that was inside of it flows through her. Washes over her whole body as she pulsates around him, milking him, and Harry fucks her through it, despite how difficult it gets when she squeezes so tightly around him, “Yeah, that’s it, that’s my girl,” he murmured, “I’m not g’na stop, baby, not unless you say your special word.”

Duck, Y/N remembers, or to squeeze his hand three times. Both are far away from her now though, even as she comes down from her first orgasm, she feels oversensitive as he fucks into her but not in the way where she’d need to shove him off. So she starts working her hips back against him again and Harry curses beneath his breath, then starts fucking her earnestly again.

She’s unsure for how long it goes on, or how many times she cums. She just knew that around her fourth orgasm, Harry had flipped her around so that she was facing him and had pulled her nipple into his mouth. And she knew that he had started fucking the plug in and out of her bum too, and Y/N felt a bubble in her belly that popped, forcing Harry out of her body when a swell of liquid followed his cock’s exit. He’s made her squirt before, and Y/N had wondered if it was just a one-and-done type of thing, but clearly not. It’s fully within his capability to do it, and leave her breathless, shaking, gasping.

This time, Harry isn’t able to slip back into her. He peels the condom off, slips his hand through the mess of her pussy and uses that as lube to fuck himself with. Y/N watches through lidded eyes as he strokes his cock, “Yes, yes, such a messy fucking puppy, so perfect for me,” he rambles, “So good, and fucking perfect, made for me, shit – only me,” before he starts to cum, all over her belly, in thick spurts that land heavy on the skin. Some of it even reaches her neck, and the knowledge of it makes her open her mouth, let her tongue hang out in hopes of catching more of it. None comes organically like that, but Harry does smear his fingers through the mess on her belly and feeds it into her mouth. Y/N licks it away, the taste heady and Harry, and so good because of it.

Y/N can barely move. Her muscles are kind of achy, and her head is so feather-filled she might as well be a pillow. Harry, above anything else, drops to her side and pulls her into his body, not caring about the sticky, drying cum on her skin when he pulls her into him. Rolls her over and maneuvers her limbs until she’s lying on top of him, running one of his hands up and down her back, “That was so beautiful, baby,” he says it so gently, Y/N almost wants to cry for some reason. She feels emotional and exhausted and like, maybe in love, a little bit, she doesn’t know – maybe it was just post-orgasm endorphins or maybe Harry was actually her soulmate, who could tell right then. “Did so well for me, for your first time. So perfect.”

As he is with all things, Harry is more than careful as he removes the floppy ear clips from her hair, unbuckles the collar, and slowly slips the plug out of her bum. For a moment, one of his fingers does slide around into the little gape that was left, and when she twitches and whines, he kisses the side of her head, “Sorry, Honey, couldn’t help myself,” before slipping it away, “We’ll have to play with that pretty hole too, it was getting jealous.” Y/N manages a laugh, though it’s just breathless and soundless enough to sound like a puff of air through her nose.

They stay there for a while, until Y/N feels like she can move, but even then, words haven’t come back to her yet. This was the deepest into subspace she thinks she’s ever been, but she isn’t scared of it. Y/N revels in it. With Harry there, she feels safe, and cared for, like she doesn’t need to worry about a thing at all. And she’s right, because he takes her to the shower with him and they get clean together. Harry wipes her down first, tenderly, slowly, and goes quickly for himself so that she isn’t standing there for too long. He coaxes water into her, too, at least half a bottle until she’s pulling her face away. Eventually, they find themselves in her bed, Y/N in a big shirt, her favorite band’s last album cover on the front, and Harry in one of her big shirts with a bunny on the front. He slid her underwear onto her, tucked them nicely around her hips, and then brought her up under the covers. Harry rubs her elbows and knees for a little bit, where they were rubbing against the carpet kind of hurt, and the skin was irritated. He pushes kisses to all the spots that seemed sore.

“I liked that,” she finally spoke, after what might have been 20 to 30 minutes of silence. Harry doesn’t seem startled, and she wonders if it usually took her a while to start talking anyway, “A lot.”

“Me too, Sweetheart. You play the role of a greedy puppy very well,” he rubs up and down her arm, where it’s stretched across his chest, “And you were very cute. I’ll probably touch myself to that for weeks.”

Y/N makes a noise in her throat and tips her face into his chest, “Shut up,” she grumbles, then continues, “I – um – like you a lot,” she sighed out, her lips rewarming, preparing for a ramble that she just knew was going to happen soon. Not that she had anything in particular to ramble about, except the fact that she’d seen a really pretty garden today, before she’d puppy-fied herself.

Harry, who had begun to play with her fingers, seemed delighted. “Is that so? That’s convenient, because I like you too.”

“Yeah, and we should probably plant a garden together,” she rumples her lips, “But neither of us has any yard to plant a garden, so we’d have to steal someone’s yard or something. Or buy like a little patch of dirt on someone’s property. Do you know anyone who has a yard?”

“I’m sure I could find someone,” he replies, amused, “You like gardening?”

“I’m so bad at it, actually, but you seem like you’d be good at it, so that’s why we should plant together. Are you good at planting?” Y/N feels him nuzzle his nose against her temple, “I feel like you’re good at everything.”

Harry hums, “No, m’not,” he murmured, “I’m actually not great at folding laundry.”

“Really?” She tilted her head to look at him, “Like – how?”

He shrugged, “Dunno, it always looks messy though. You haven’t seen my drawers?”

“No, was I supposed to see them? Should I be looking through your drawers?”

“If you wanted to, you could,” he offered, then immediately took it back, “Actually, no, I want you to pretend I’m good at everything still, I don’t need you to see my folding.”

Y/N laughed, then nestled close to him again, “You’re silly,” she murmurs, sighing again, letting sleep weigh heavy in her bones, “I’m glad I was delusional enough to think that you were obsessed with me.”

Harry squeezes her close.

“It’s not delusional if it’s true.”

#OMGGGGGGG #OKAAYYYYYYY #I HOPE YOU LIKE ITTTTT #REAL SMUTTY #MOSTLY SMUT HONESTLY #BUT I HOPE YOU LOVE #I LOVED WRITING THESE GUYS SO MUCH #WRITING #HARRY SMUT #WOOOOO #YAHTZEE #HARRY STYLES SMUT #OKAY YAY #LOVE YOUUUU

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obsessivevoidkitten · 8 months ago

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Pollen and Pheromones

Kinktober Day 13: Sex Pollen

Male Alpha Yandere x Gender Neutral Omega Reader CW: Noncon, sex pollen, aphrodisiac, pheromones, knotting, biting, claiming bite, stranded, spaceship crash, sci-fi, outer space, alien planet, a/b/o dynamics, bigotry/prejudice against omegas, rivalry, breeding, general yandere behavior, tsundere, betrayal Word Count: 1.6k (Enjoy this kinktober meal I have prepared <3)

"Star log: This is Pilot 2418 currently operating vessel Starlion: Orion. I am currently on route to pass the threshold of our galaxy in less than five minutes."

You were a shuttle pilot, one of the Exploration Guild's best. Ever since humanity had achieved interplanetary travel, they had sought to extend themselves ever further. With the new drift-space drives, that dream was now a reality.

They were only currently suited for small 1 to 2 man shuttlecraft, and only a couple such craft had been made. Two different ones had been commissioned through the guild, with both pilots competing to see who could exit the Milky Way first. The new drive could only be used in bursts to prevent overloading, so the journey had still taken a few months. But it seemed like you were about to succeed. Then you could make a U-turn and start drift-jumping back towards the nearest station.

Since you were an omega, this was a great achievement, a notice to the universe that your kind could do whatever betas and alphas could. You would be able to help stamp out the lingering bigotry and inspire others all with one action.

You were just about to cross the finish line!

Suddenly, your opponent, Tetsunori, came out of drift-space behind you. He had been your long-time rival, with both of you being about equally skilled.

But this was unacceptable to him as he was an alpha and held to the knothead mindset that an omega's place was bouncing on an alpha's prick or maybe in a teaching or nursing job.

You weren't worried, though. You had a solid lead. There was no way he could close the gap.

You rolled your eyes at the incoming transmission.

"Why don't you just give up now? If you surrender nicely, I'll let you celebrate my victory by letting you keep my knot warm!"

The temptation to reply was too great.

"Ha! You may be good at navigating the stars, but I doubt you have ever found your way into an omega."

Conversing with him hadn't distracted you or made you pause, so he growled as he switched to another plan. He fired on his tractor beam.

What the fuck, was he insane? Stooping so low to make sure you couldn't have a historic moment? You fired an equal and opposite tractor beam through his, which forced him to disengage. Something only possible because both ships were similar in size and energy output. Did he think you were some amateur?

In a desperate bid to prevent you from winning, Tetsunori rammed his shuttle into yours.

This type of bumping wasn't unheard of. It wasn't lethal if both ships were similar and had their shields up. But the bouncing was pretty strong for both parties, which is why it was a last-ditch effort. It could push you past the line, or it could bump him further. Neither of those things happened, though.

Instead, you careened right into the gravitational pull off a planet. You did everything you could to slow down and stabilize, but nothing seemed to be working.

Tetsunori sped after you in his spacecraft as he spoke into the comm link.

"I'm sorry, oh my god, I'm so sorry! I just had to be first! What omega would want to be mates with someone who they bested??"

You didn't have time for his weird ass confession and barely registered it. Your shields were still online and he had started pulsing his tractor beam to slow you down, full usage of it at such speeds could rip your ship apart, thankfully he wasn't an amateur either and knew that.

You put all available power and quickly put it into overloading the shields. You hit the emergency crash button, and two nozzles came out from the sides of the cockpit and sprayed you with a rapidly drying foam that would reduce damage to you if you got flung about the ship. Tetsunori's reckless and speedy entry into the atmosphere may have been enough to save you, but he had lost control of his vessel as well.

As you crashed, he careened away and crash-landed as well.

It was a good thing the high-tech impact reduction foam was so effective. Despite having shields, the ship was still shaken pretty badly, and the inertial dampeners weren't powerful enough to thwart damage from such a landing.

You took stock of the condition of your systems.

Almost everything was fried. You could at least scan the planet. It seemed like you had actually lucked out. In the entire galaxy planets that supported life were incredibly rare. But you had landed on one.

It seemed there were no known biological hazards present. No recognized toxins, dangerous bacteria, or viral agents. You were cleared to remove your suit. The temporary foam had started to dissolve, so it wasn't hard to remove.

The scanner also indicated there was a strong human life sign. It appeared that Tetsunori was okay.

You took the survival kit from underneath your seat as well as some beverages and rations you had procured at the last station and headed in the direction of dust and smoke in the distance.

You didn't even need the ship's scanner to tell you that the great imbecile, Tetsunori had landed there.

As you got closer, you stepped into a field of flowers that surrounded the entire crash site. You were probably still a mile away, but all around you were odd glittery silver and gold flowers.

The smell of them made you just slightly lightheaded and tingly. You realized the tiniest bit of slick was dribbling down your leg. They must be an aphrodisiac. The scanner hadn't warned you of anything in the air that was truly dangerous, so it probably wouldn't matter very much. And it really didn't. For you. As you trudged through the flowers and pollen, the effects did not get worse.

But for Tetsunori, the pollen was much stronger. When it hit his nostrils, it immediately put him into rut. Not a typical rut either, one of the ruts you see in pornos where the alpha is almost feral and unable to control their mating drive. When you came upon him, he was sitting on a piece of debris from his shit and rocking back and forth in clear distress. Through his outfit, his bulge was immediately visible.

"T-tetsunori? Uh... are you okay? D-did you get hurt in the crash?"

You took a step back when he looked up at you. His eyes were red, giving him a demonic appearance.

"The flowers, I think... they... UGH! My thoughts are all jumbled..."

He started to rub and massage his crotch desperately. He finally caught a whiff of your scent, ripe from the recent hike over to him and from being without a proper shower since your last space station stop. Not to mention the smell of the slick the aphrodisiac had coaxed out of you.

He started wildly sniffing at the air.

"Y-you smell so nice. You can help!"

You started backing away slowly.

"Uh... help with what?"

He got up and closed the difference between the two of you. Sweat had his dark hair clinging to his head. He was significantly taller and looked down at you intensely before sniffing and licking your neck with lazy broad strokes.

"S-smell so gooood. Always wanted to knot youuuu~"

You tried to push him off.

"Tetsunori! St-stop!"

You slapped, smacked, kicked, punched, and flailed, but nothing you did deterred him in the slightest.

"I'm sorry, but I fucking n-need this!"

He pinned you to the ground, clawing and biting off all your clothing until only your underwear was left, he removed it more delicately before inhaling its scent deeply and putting it in his pocket for later.

"Please don't do this, Tetsunori, PLEASE!"

He looked down at you, and it seemed like he was genuinely trying to resist before the pollen-charged rut won out.

Tetsunori unzipped his pants and let his drooling cock and full heavy balls out.

"G-gonna put all my babies in you! Have to! Have to!"

The lust-drunk alpha wasted no more time in ramming into you, an insertion that would have been more difficult had the pollen not slicked you up. Though it was still sudden and slightly painful.

"A-aaah!"

You tried to kick at him, but he growled viciously before pushing you into a mating press and slobbering all over your neck with his eager tongue.

The pollen must have increased the potency of his pheromones, or at least your susceptibility to them, because his musk was starting to cloud your thoughts.

Your grunts of pain became gasps of pleasure as your body quickly accommodated to his large size. You winced as he bit down hard on your neck to claim you. He kept right on fucking into you without skipping a beat.

He licked and kissed the lightly bleeding bite mark, some part of him remembering to comfort you despite his dominating need to fill you with cock. And by that point, the last of your resistance finally melted away.

"T-tetsunoriiiiii~" You moaned as your toes curled and body twitched in orgasm.

He growled your name in response and gave a few hard, deep thrusts before cumming as deeply as possible.

A comforting fullness filled your hole as his knot locked the two of you together. He pulled you close as he sat down so that you were in his lap facing him. The two of you caught your breath, then remained in an awkward silence until his knot deflated.

"G-got it out of your system?"

"Yeah... for the most part... sorry about that..."

You lifted yourself off of his lap, his half hard cock springing free with a lewd plopping sound.

"Well... it wasn't your fault. It was just the pollen..."

He grabbed your wrist and pulled you back into his lap, his cock ramming directly into you, then began humping.

"Well... it wasn't just the pollen..."

#yandere x reader #gender neutral reader #yandere boyfriend #male yandere #male yandere x gn reader #my ocs #yandere alpha #yandere a/b/o #omega reader #My OC Tetsunori #yandere kinktober #kinktober #kinktober 2024 #tsundere to yandere #tsundere x reader #tsundere #male tsundere

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keferon · 1 month ago

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I just want this fic to be here too👍 Part 1? Eh

_____________

“He's stalking his celebrity crush.”

“That's not stalking!” resents Swerve ”I'm just worried.”

Rewind makes a gesture that looks vaguely apologetic and looks at Tailgate again.

“Watching. He's watching his superhero celebrity crush who's a member of the Wreckers. And so far no one's survived long in the Wreckers, so he's shaking on every notification like a crazy mom.”

Tailgate tries to peer sideways into Swerve's phone

“That sounds stressful. Is that him? Is he dying?”

_____________

Blurr/Swerve, Superhero au, fic under the cut⤵️ Heavily inspired/based on this post

Blurr doesn't think life and death is something he can control.

He's about 99.99999% sure.

The remaining microscopic fraction of that idiotic statistic is held in place by one small but important factor that Blurr can't explain and isn't sure he even wants to explain. It's like the dream logic. The moment you realize exactly how things work is also the moment you wake up to realize it.

The very nuance understanding which destroys all magic or reveals the fact that magic never existed.

That nuance?

Blurr can't die.

And it's certainly not because he's not trying hard enough.

That last one sounds a little radical. But he has a history. His team has a history.

“Wreckers is a pretty peculiar collection of superheroes. It's easy to get into and even easier to get out of (usually feet first and in a bag). No other hero organization loses so many people so often. No other hero organization can also handle the level of threats that the Wreckers eliminate.

Their fans affectionately refer to them as the Suicide Squad. There is...a lot of black humor among the Wreckers fanbase and Blurr doesn't condemn it. Not after having to memorize new names and faces of teammates every six months.

The thing is.

He probably should have been dead a long time ago. A lot. A lot of “that was close” ago.

Just two days after joining the Wreckers, he found himself in the middle of an absolutely monstrous fire and miraculously escaped death by getting away just moments before the entire building collapsed on his head.

Only a week after that, he gets shot. Fifteen times.

And. Look.

Blurr is fast! Being fast is kind of his main thing as a speedster. He did the only logical thing and made an honest effort to dodge, but three of those fifteen bullets still ended up inside him and only miraculously didn't hit anything that couldn't be repaired.

Half a year later, a car falls on him.

Another month - some freaking supervillain decides to infect an entire country with a homemade super lethal virus and guess who becomes the only victim.

At least once a month, various psychopaths try to break his legs.

At least once every half a year he ends up being the one who “heroically saved all the hostages but didn't have time to save himself”.

It's like an endless stream of negative karma.

It's really amazing how such a small piece of civilization like Iacon can contain so many disasters. Even more amazing perhaps is how people manage to survive through all this neat smoothie of misery and violence.

Earthquakes, villains, villains, more villains, terrorists, natural disasters, monsters from outer space, and it all comes out of nowhere and it all takes a hundred percent effort to pack Blurr in a coffin.

Blurr... doesn't know why he's still alive.

He honestly has no idea how he's doing it. He may get into life-and-death situations more often than he does haircuts but every time things come within an inch of killing him. It's impossible luck. Statistically improbable chance. One-in-a-thousand odds. A fucking lightning caught in a bottle, but it happens so often it's like someone somewhere in heaven decided to open a bottled lightning factory and then reward Blurr with the title of their honorary loyal customer.

Blurr doesn't think he has power over life and death.

But here's the thing.

On some particularly violent nights, he wonders that maybe...

---------------

Sometimes Swerve thinks being a dedicated fan should be on the list of “unhealthy” high-paying jobs. One of those where they give you extra cash for the fact that you even bother to show up and then give you insurance and paid vacations.

Okay, that last one might be a bit of an overkill, but it would be nice if he at least had an endless supply of sedatives.

At least some chamomile. Preferably not from the sidewalk. He's not picky.

See, their world decided to change the rules of existence not too long ago and turned such a trivial thing as “trust” into a new in-game currency.

Simply put. If enough people believe something, it becomes true.

What has society chosen to do with that? Of course create an absolutely insane cult of celebrity worship, essentially giving a bunch of already rich and beautiful people superpowers as well.

As if they weren't already living luxuriously enough!

Swerve is not jealous. Certainly not. His first thought when he found out about the new “rules” was definitely not to tell everyone he knows that he won a million dollars and wait for the power of belief to make it true.

He surely wasn't trying to do that. Anyone who claims otherwise is either a liar or their name starts with a T and ends with Gate.

Speaking of.....

Tailgate scratches the back of his head puzzled.

“So you didn't actually win a million dollars?”

They are sitting in a small cafe, the name of which Swerve has honestly forgotten. Or rather he never memorized it, because the local owner of the place prefers to hang huge posters with superheroes right above the name. Swerve is a rather controllable customer.....

Rewind, sitting at the same cheap plastic table as them, hums.

“And here I was trying to figure out if your holey slippers were a cry for help or one of those crazy expensive 'fancy' designs.”

“Ha. ha.” says Swerve slowly and deliberately unhappily “If I get rich one day, I won't tell any of you.”

He slowly takes a sip of some obscure looking substance that Rewind ordered for them all as an experiment and turns to Tailgate.

“Look, it's a pretty fun system. Things that people believe in strongly enough - become real. So if uh, if uh, if we as a whole country believe that our government is honest - that will, in theory, make it honest. Or if a hundred thousand people genuinely believe you can fly, you will be able to fly. That's how it works now.”

Tailgate stares at him. With very large, puzzled eyes.

Swerve tries not to laugh too hard. Poor Tailgate had once gone off to explore the caves and somehow, by some incredible means, managed to get lost and stuck in them for two whole months. Then he crawled out and discovered that magic had appeared in the world while he was gone. Swerve thinks that if he were Tailgate, he'd look very stupid too, trying to realize the absurdity of the situation.

Tailgate is toying with his curled straw.

“So is the government honest now?”

Rewind makes a loud “snrk” noise into his cup.

Swerve chuckles. Not as “funny” haha but more like “we fucked it all up” haha.

It shouldn't be possible to fit all the sense of doom from the world's level of damnation into one expression, but he confidently goes for it.

“GOD NO, did you ever believe that government could be honest?”

“Well...now that's just sad...” decides Tailgate ‘Something good was supposed to come out of this, right?”

Rewind raises a finger victoriously.

“Oh! There are no more incurable diseases! The placebo effect is the new big thing now that a bunch of people have gotten the ability to cure any illness at the snap of their fingers.”

Swerve nods, dangling his drink in his hands.

“There was a guy who claimed he had magic hands that cured everything and gathered a crowd of fanatical admirers around him. So...now his hands are really magic because his followers believe it. Crazy stuff...”

Tailgate puts his elbows on the table, propping his head up with his hands.

“So if I tell everyone I won a million dollars.....”

“I recommend--” Rewind waves his cup “...first make sure you're not wearing holey slippers.”

“Аh”

“That, and you'll need at least about a million people loving and supporting you wholeheartedly if you want this to work.”

“That's...a lot of people,” Tailgate groans.

Swerve shrugs

“That's why all the really cool stuff only goes to celebrities.”

_____

Tailgate cranes his neck curiously.

“Hey Swerve, while you went to place your order your phone started buzzing.”

Swerve falls back into his seat as fast as if he'd just decided the entire floor was lava and starts scrolling through notifications, cursing at spam and useless newsletters.

“When??”

“Just a couple minutes ago” shrugs Tailgate ”Are you expecting someone?”

“I'M...OH NO NO I'M JUST. Shit, wait a minute.”

Rewind leans over to Tailgate and smiles deviously, not even trying to pretend to whisper.

“He's stalking his celebrity crush.”

“That's not stalking!” resents Swerve ”I'm just worried.”

Rewind makes a gesture that looks vaguely apologetic and looks at Tailgate again.

“' Watching. He's watching his superhero celebrity crush who's a member of the Wreckers. And so far no one's survived long in the Wreckers, so he's shaking on every notification like a crazy mom.”

Tailgate tries to peer sideways into Swerve's phone

“That sounds stressful. Is that him? Is he dying?”

Swerve slides down the back of his chair slightly and tilts the phone toward Tailgate

“No, it's not him. He's the one in the blue suit on the left. And no, he's not dying. That bastard is impossible to kill.”

Tailgate lets out an understanding “ooh.”

“Although,” Swerve admits, “ Following him was a lot easier when he was driving cars instead of saving the world.”

He's been a Blurr fan for so long that it can probably be put on his resume already. He remembers watching the Iacon 5000 race with friends with Rewind starting to joke about how they should all bet on someone brand new this year. To fuel the fun, they sat down to pick candidates to bet on based solely on the color of their cars.

Swerve then poked his finger at a random bright blue car and said he'd bet on it because “blue is a fast color.”

Later, his friends would joke more than once that Swerve had the gift of prophecy that day. Because blue wasn't just fast. Oh, God. No. Blue turned out to be the absolute leader, dominating the race track from start to finish.

Swerve remembers vividly the first time he looked at a racer getting out of that car and thought “who the hell is that” and then immediately “how do I find his socials”.

The answer to the second question came quickly. The answer to the first...well. The guy, Blurr, soon turned out to be a faceless celebrity. Shining at numerous races, but never showing his face. Swerve highly doubts it's due to shyness, given...some character traits. (Swerve has a running theory, which is that ...Blurr has no shame. Even as a concept.) Probably just to keep his life anonymous and quiet, he believes.

It's understandable.

He's not judging. But he has to admit that a billion fanarts on what a face under a racing helmet could look like in theory...really...fuels his fantasy.

He's a very normal and sane fan. He tries very hard to be a normal fan and he's doing a great job at it. Maybe except for those moments when Blurr gets into another car accident. Lots of them. Lots and lots of bloody accidents actually and Swerve at first catches a micro heart attack every time he sees the news, but eventually he gets used to it. Blurr is incredibly resilient. And just as rich as well.

Swerve is used to hearing updates about another incident and then seeing Blurr back in the race a couple months later. Just as energetic, carefree, and frankly . Really handsome. As if nothing had happened. As if any danger would just bounce off him without leaving a dent.

It was familiar. It was habitual.

Until, of course, the universe started handing out faith magic to people. Until Blurr walked up to this imaginary box of lottery numbers and pulled out a ball that said “congratulations you're lucky now go and fucking die.”

Blurr is a racer. A damn good racer. Incredibly popular too. Of course his many fans who adore him beyond measure gave him a superpower.

Of course that power was speed.

Of course.

Blue is the color of speed. What else.

As a racer, Blurr is undefeatable.

As a superhero, ..

Swerve still thinks this guy is impossible to kill, but that doesn't mean he doesn't get worried every time he sees the news headlines and live feeds.

“You're alive” Springer states ”Literally how are you still alive?”

Blurr tilts his head because it's the only part of his body he can still move while trapped under ten tons of mangled steel from a Decepticon flying base falling out of the sky.

“Hello to you, too.”

Springer tentatively pulls the nearest sheet of metal and hums in satisfaction when he feels the structure is stable enough.

“Bleeding? Fractures?”

“I think my hair's ruined.”

“No one can even see your hair.”

“Doesn't mean I shouldn't care about it,” snorts Blurr

Springer tosses aside another piece of metal and reaches for his earpiece

“Smoke...? Nah...no really.....REALLY. ....No, you're not going to believe this. ......Aha, digging him out.” he looks away from the earpiece and leans over Blurr ‘Smokescreen wanted me to tell you that he's impressed and,... I quote ’personally saw that damn wagon fall right on your head'. He also wants to know if he needs to shoo away the paparazzi.”

Blurr tries to shrug but remembers in time that it's best not to fidget too much.

“Tell him I'll need a new suit. Let him keep everyone, I'm fine.”

“Literally...like...” barely audibly mutters Springer. “Like.h ow..”

Blurr smiles “My guardian angel is working overtime.”

Swerve takes a deep, nervous exhale, unhooking his fingers from the phone on which he's watching the live feed. Ah shit. Okay. Okay. Alive. Fine.

Rewind looks over his shoulder.

“Looking out for your pookie?”

“HE'S NOT MY

__________

Smokescreen stops right in the middle of an inspired argument with the advertisement agent when his side vision registers a flash of blue to the right of the entirely destroyed street.

“Blurr??”

“Oh, hey!” waves Blurr, “'Sup Smoke?”

The crumbled asphalt beneath his feet crunches softly. Just a few minutes ago, this street was a complete mayhem....

Smokescreen waves the clipboard in his direction

“I thought you had your head ripped off, you suicidal son of a bitch! Do you know how hard it was to calm your hysterical fans down??”

Blurr knows no one can see his face but rolls his eyes anyway. Almost immediately his brain tells him that this was a bad idea, sending a whole bunch of black spots in front of his eyes.

“Hey, you're getting paid for th...ugh...this.”

Blurr doesn't elaborate on the fact that he was sure he was going to be left headless today as well. One of the Overlord's freaking monster minions grabbed him and for a split second Blurr could swear he heard his own neck crunch.

He tries not to think about it.

The more he thinks about it, the less sense it will make.

The more he analyzes, the louder becomes the voice in the far corner of his head saying he should have been dead a long time ago.

A week ago when an entire air base fell on him. Three weeks ago during the battle with Menasor that practically broke his spine. Even earlier, when he was so busy evacuating hospital staff that he ended up being the only one present when that hospital exploded.

He's afraid that if he starts looking into the causes, this magical effect..this life-saving placebo will disappear.

He's convinced it's a placebo. It's the way this world works.

Someone out there must be doing some complex mental magic, keeping him more or less alive and whole and...Blurr is probably going a little crazy. Probably.

Maybe one of those many blows got him harder than he thought. Maybe it's his own self-confidence manifesting miracles of salvation one after another.

(It actually...doesn't sound that unbelievable. Blurr has a lot of belief in himself. Many people would say even too much. The question is whether it counts.)

(He prefers to think it counts.)

__________

Swerve sees red. Lots of it. LOTS of red.

More than he ever wanted to see in his life.

Uh-oh. That's not good.

His vision is blurring. His head buzzes with a nasty sharp static and his left shoulder hurts like a BITCH.

Above him is the flickering, faltering light of the bulb and below him is a growing puddle of his blood. His hair is wet and sticking to his face, making it hard to focus his already shaky gaze.

He makes an attempt to shift, but all it brings him is an explosion of pain.

Ugh.

Sirens are blaring outside, warning the public to evacuate. He's not really sure he can make out exactly what the sound is announcing. He has memorized all kinds of emergency alerts, but the thought escapes him.

What was it

Oh, yeah.

He's been shot.

He's been shot and he's probably going to die because everyone he knows is either too far away or busy evacuating. He vaguely hopes they'll remember about him.

Maybe only after getting to a safe place, but he'll take even that.

The red around him is getting bigger.

He tries to reach for his phone to...where is his phone? Did he leave it in the kitchen? He probably did. Swerve seemed to have no time to grab it when the entire building shook and ugly semi-mechanical monsters fell from the sky.

One of these monsters noticed Swerve just moments later and activated something resembling a cannon mounted in his hands. Swerve then looked at the glowing muzzle and thought that firing this thing would probably send his atoms so far away that his dna would be found on the moon. He could stick his hand down that gun barrel. And his hands are far from the smallest and most delicate hands you can find.

Why did this have to happen on a Saturday? Why not a day later or earlier? If it were any other day, Swerve would be at work right now. In a different place, with other people and probably with a much better chance of not being killed like a loser.

Not sure he wouldn't have been shot, but at least someone would have seen this and picked him up off the floor, put him in their pocket and taken him to the rescue.

Ugh.

He realizes that he closed his eyes at some point and hurriedly opens them. His expertise is by no means professional, but he is almost certain that that weapon wasn't ordinary. He has no idea what it means for him. Maybe he needs stitches, painkillers and a kiss and he'll be good as new. Or maybe it's like one of those films where you get hurt by an unknown creature and then you grab the sink in front of the mirror at midnight and watch the veins under your skin move on their own.

He doesn't feel shot, as silly as that sounds. He feels numb. Falling. Farther and farther away.

He is falling and falling as deep as he's ever fallen in his life. Maybe not as far as "got lost in the woods" far. No, more like " a coin dropped behind the fridge" far. It's not really about the distance but more about the feeling that he's never going to get out of here because no one ever looks in here.

He’s falling until the state of falling starts to register as a resting point, because that's the only variable he still feels. This corner he falls into is very deep and dark and dusty.

He doesn't remember to open his eyes again.

___________

Smokescreen sounds frankly hysterical, yelling at Blurr through his earpiece.

“I understand you like to show off, but you can't outrun a freaking tsunami?!?!”

Blurr only speeds up, “Watch."

“You cocky IDIOT this is suicide!”

“Relax Smoke” laughs Blurr ”You say that every time.”

The half-destroyed bridge shakes and sways like a wounded animal as the water from the overrunning sea crashes into it, gouging into the concrete and bending the metal.

The whole scene is...depressing. Water and debris everywhere and damn. This isn't the first time Blurr is witnessing a large-scale attack by the "forces of evil" as the hero agency likes to call them, but looking at the wrecked cars and scattered debris doesn't get any easier with time. Maybe it just hasn't been long enough. Who knows.

Springer doesn't look like he is bothered by it. But Springer also has a lot more experience being a superhero. With his skill at giving out smiles and encouragement in absolutely any situation, not many can compete.

Blurr certainly can't. In fact. He's got a face with subtitles that turn on in almost any stressful situation. Wearing a mask is probably one of the best things he can do to calm down any random civilians waiting for him to save the day. If they can't see him making panicked grimacing eyes, they'll be feeling much better.

A few more seconds and he's on the collapsing bridge. The people stuck on it look hysterical and bruised, but no one seems injured, so it shouldn't be difficult.

Blurr's plan is simple. Get all the people out of the disaster's path. Then get yourself out. Easy.

Easy?

He can pinpoint the exact moment when something goes wrong.

It's the second that a crooked, hideous-looking monster grabs his leg and pulls him underwater. The second when Blurr fights it with all his might and realizes with sudden horror that his strength isn't enough. That he is. Not enough.

His lungs burn, begging him to take a breath and he doesn't even know which way is the surface because all there is around him is the dark, black, cold pressure of water. It's clinging to him, seeping through his suit, his hair, burning his eyes and making his fingers go numb. It's pulling him somewhere, and he's obeying whether he wants to or not.

His spine prickles with panic.

His personal miracle. His damn magic or guardian angel or cursed luck or whatever the hell it was called. That thing that was always there to catch him like in that game of trust fall. He'd gotten so used to it's presence, he began to take it for granted.

Like the air you trust to be there every time you need to take your next breath.

And right now?

It's not here.

His body takes a convulsive breath and finds nothing but water.

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littlelamy · 4 months ago

Note

can you make a series where rafe and reader broke up 3 years ago, but she comes back to Outer Banks only now she has a daughter(who looks just like Rafe) and a husband (Whom she doesn't really love) and rafe still loves her.

notes: part 1; once i have more time ill create a whole masterlist and moodboard 🤍

you should’ve known it wouldn’t be that easy.

leaving the beach that day, gripping your daughter’s tiny hand like a lifeline, you told yourself it was just a coincidence. a cruel twist of fate. but deep down, you knew better.

rafe cameron never let go of things that belonged to him.

and you? you were his biggest unfinished business.

so when you see him again, it’s not a surprise. but that doesn’t mean you’re ready for it.

it’s late, your daughter is asleep in her room, and the quiet hum of the television does little to calm the storm brewing in your chest. your husband is still at work, leaving you alone with your thoughts—until a knock at the door sends a jolt through your spine.

you freeze, heart hammering.

you don’t have to open it to know who it is.

but you do anyway.

rafe stands there, leaning against the doorframe like he has every right to be here. his hair’s messier than before, shirt slightly wrinkled, like he’s been running his hands through it all night. his eyes flicker past you, scanning the house before landing back on you.

"you weren’t gonna call me, were you?" his voice is low, rough.

"rafe—"

"don’t lie to me." he steps closer, and you instinctively grip the door, as if that’ll keep him out. as if you could ever keep him out. "we need to talk."

"there’s nothing to talk about," you whisper, even though you both know that’s not true.

he scoffs, shaking his head. "you really think you can just pretend I don’t exist? That she doesn’t—"

"don’t." your voice is sharp, cutting through the air between you. you swallow hard, glancing over your shoulder, but your daughter’s still asleep. "please, rafe. not here."

his jaw clenches, and takes a long exhale through his nose. "but we’re not done."

before you can stop him, he steps inside, pushing the door shut behind him. his presence fills the space instantly, suffocating, electrifying. he smells the same—cologne and salt and something distinctly rafe. something that used to make your head spin in the best way. now it just makes you dizzy with memories you’ve spent three years trying to bury.

"so this is your life now?" he murmurs, eyes sweeping over the modest living room, the framed photos of a life he wasn’t part of. "picket fences and a husband who works late?"

your fingers tighten around your arms, nails pressing into your skin. "it’s a good life."

"bullshit." he steps closer, gaze burning into you. "you’re a good liar, but not with me. never with me."

your breath shudders, your resolve cracking. "rafe, please—"

"please what? leave? forget? pretend that kid doesn’t have my eyes?" his voice is bitter, his anger barely restrained. "because i fucking can’t."

you shake your head, but the words won’t come. because what is there to say? he’s right. she does have his eyes. and he was never meant to see her.

he sighs, running a hand through his hair, frustration rolling off him in waves. "i’m not here to ruin your life," he says, quieter now. "but i’m not walking away either. not this time."

your stomach twists. you should fight him on this, tell him to leave, slam the door in his face. but you don’t. because a part of you—the part that still remembers how it felt to love him, to be loved by him—wants to hear what he has to say.

and that scares you more than anything.

taglist: @namelesslosers @maybanksangel @averyoceanblvd @iknowdatsrightbih @rafesheaven @anamiad00msday @ivysprophecy @wearemadeofstardust0 @rafesangelita @sstargirln @rafedaddy01 @soldesole @bakugouswaif @skywalker0809 @vanessa-rafesgirl @evermorx89 @outerhills @ditzyzombiesblog @slavicangelmuah @alivinggirl @rafesgreasycurtainbangs @rafesbabygirlx @drewsephrry

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harmoonix · 1 year ago

Text

HYPNOSIS

Astrology Observations

I'll be seaside

Sitting on the sand drinking a mai tai

Waking up and soaking up the sunlight

──────────────────────────────

💙 - Neptune in the 1H/9H/12H native is like the Universe's kid, very spiritual, very empathic, very emotional, understanding the space and the outer space nature

💙 - Sun in the 8th/9th/12th house natives literally are a balance between spirituality and empathy, you have to be there at the right moment to feel it

💙 - Libra in your big 3 (Sun, Rising, Moon) can make others charmed by you, also you give a big impression to people when they first meet you

💙 - Scorpio in your big 3 (Sun, Rising, Moon) are intense placements, they love playing with the fire and fire loves "playing" with them

💙 - Venus conjunct/sextile/trine Moon will make you so peaceful/calm. People around you love this energy and you give harmonious vibes

💙 - Ascendant aspecting Uranus (all aspects) are very aware of the things happening around them. Is like they always have the 3rd eye open

💙 - Neptune aspecting your Sun will make you shine so bright that you can get hate for being in this "light", you stand out, but haters gonna hate

💙 - Aries & Capricorn Moons are both so defensive of their loved ones and i admire that so much about them they wanna this energy of "Don't mess with me"

💙 - Neptune aspecting the ascendant has beautiful eyes, there is a saying like "The eyes are the mirror of the soul". people fall in love with your eyes before anything

──────────────────────────────

I'll be seaside

Watching all the seagulls flying so high

Looking at our future looking so bright, so bright

──────────────────────────────

💙 - Pluto aspecting Midheaven have so much power in their lives that other people have the feeling to control them for that. Take care of yourself and your energy

💙 - Uranus in your 3rd house will make your voice to stand out, your voice is very powerful in this placement and I also mean the way you communicate and tell words

💙 - Jupiter in your 6H/10H. Jupiter is blessing the native with a good personalty and good job/also a lot of influence and devotion to the world

💙 - Having a Water Moon is the 1# biggest sign that you should be a spiritual person, because Water Moons are psychic

💙 - Mars in Sagittarius/9H can be very revengeful, you did something bad to them, they'll return the same thing to you

💙 - Mars in Cancer/4H can act the same, but the thing with them is that, they will know your weakness/sensible point

💙 - Capricorn & Libra combo placements in a chart indicate a lot of diplomacy/politeness, very elegant and charismatic too

💙 - Jupiter in your 5H/11H can fullfil your desires on a long term, if you truly want or wish something (good) to happen, try to manifest it

💙 - Lilith in your 6H/8H/10H/12H can act mischievous, you never know what they'll be thinking about or their plans

💙 - Mars square/conjunct/opposite Uranus will act messy when they're annoyed, Mars here is uncontrollable or just wild free

💙 - Scorpio Venus/Mars can meet potential "partners" who can take advantage of them which is not totally okay, make sure people appreciate for everything you have to offer

──────────────────────────────

I be busy, busy, nah

Busy doing nothing all day

Y bailando con toda mi gente, y

Veo que no me dejas de ver

──────────────────────────────

💙 - Saturn/Lilith or Pluto in the 11H can indicate lots of betrayals, can be romantically or friendly or even from family members

💙 - Earth Moons/Earth Sun gives "old soul" and what I mean with that is, they're experienced in life and they seem like they went through a lot

💙 - Mercury aspecting Pluto or Neptune can have people hiding things from them, secrets, dark "plans" and others, even gossip

💙 - Can someone tell me why a fire Venus will always make me think of a hot song you hear during summer that you cannot forget?? Adore them.

💙 - A Chart with fire as predominantly element will act too impulsively/stubborn sometimes even too "wild" at times

💙 - Lilith in Aries/Cancer/Sagittarius/Aquarius wants to break the norms and the things that are always seen as "toxic", they want to break free from everything that pains them

💙 - Lilith (h58) is the most dangerous Lilith in a chart so here are some observations about it

Lilith h58 aspecting Chiron can indicate unsealed traumas/bad experienced from your life

Lilith h58 aspecting Midheaven gives no fuck about nobody, they don't care what the world thinks about them "You have just one life, live it how you want"

Lilith h58 aspecting Venus will act toxic in love if they feel threatened by their partners energy

Lilith h58 aspecting the ascendant is very rebellious, very rude or mean at times, few know this "rude" energy can be just for protecting themselves

Lilith h58 aspecting Mercury will not be afraid to call people out when is needed, they may use a very dirty way of talking

Lilith h58 sitting empty in a chart like a black whole, absorbing energy of all forms,

💙 - Mars in the 7th house/Mars in Libra despite the drama about how Mars is chaotic in Libra, they tend to have romantic relationship and energetic spouses, + they're being so assertive in their relationships

💙 - Neptune/Pluto or Saturn in your 6th house can drain your energy fast, that's why is good to take a break after you did some work so you don't end up exhausted

─────────────────────────────

Mientras la música suene

Aquí pegaditos al mar

No me pienso mover a otro lugar

──────────────────────────────

💙 - Venus aspecting Mars has a bold energy. What's attractive about them is that they can attract all types of people with this energy (from jealous people to really indifferent ones)

💙 - Mars aspecting Moon (in harsh aspects) get angry or frustrated fast, is not like they're about to explode instead they just feel like screaming out in a pillow

💙 - Midheaven aspecting Neptune or Jupiter can work in environments where spirituality can be used a lot, like a spiritual guide

💙 - Having Moon in your 9th house, beside having a good love life, this aspect can indicate a lot of creativity and knowledge. Also a love for exploring the *unknown*

💙 - Jupiter aspecting Lilith h12 (harsh aspects) since Jupiter will expand even in harsh aspects, their sexual energy can just grow and grow until it hits some the point of hypersexuality

💙 - Saturn in the 1st house natives have the chance to reflect on themselves after every fail, always overcome your fears and mistakes

💙 - Lilith in Capricorn/10th house is the native who seeks for recognition and success, these placements also indicate a stubborn person with a traditional ethic

💙 - Mars in Taurus/Mars in the 2nd house has an intense determinations to achieve anything they desire, this placement also indicates staying good with money or financially

💙 - Lilith in Leo/5TH or in Leo Degrees 5°, 17°, 29° have a big pride, this placement can also he know for their perseverance and sharp mind

💙 - Moon/Venus/Rising/Juno in Sagittarius gives "you're always be my ritual" thanks to Sagittarius's ties with the 9th house who can indicate rituals

💙 - Sun in the 7th/Leo in the 7th house/Sun at 5°, 17°, 29° degrees can put their partners on the 1st place in a relationship, but also your partner mirrors you with a strong vitality

💙 - Neptune in the 4H is actually a dark placement if we go in the depth of themes of Neptune because after all, Neptune represents addiction, natives with Neptune in the 4H can go into addictions from a young age or from childhood for example like smoking, alcohol, bad influences

💙 - Neptune aspecting Venus/Neptune in the 7H always day dream about their partners or future partners. Even crushes.

💙 - Sun in the 9th/Jupiter in the 1H natives are very spiritual/religious deep down in their hearts, it can be a very dear topic for them

💙 - Virgo in your big 3 (Sun, Moon or Rising) will make you to be devoted no matter what, your humanitarian nature makes you such a kind person!

💙 - Cancer/Pisces and Leo Mars can skip arguments, they don't like it and don't wanna fight, so most times they choose to just walk away

💙 - Mercury in the 1st/5th/11th houses will gift a person with good humour, if Mercury is in the 8H they can have a dark type of humour, dark jokes too

💙 - Neptune or Pisces rulling your 2H or 3H can give you a very addictive voice, Mercury - Neptune aspects too

💙 - When you have your Saturn Retrograde it feels like having a second parent/father. Like Saturn is tutoring you on your life path

──────────────────────────────

If you're looking for me

I'll be seaside

──────────────────────────────

💙 - Sun or Rising in Taurus Degrees 2°, 14°, 26° can make the native to be more "earthed" more down to earth, more calm

💙 - Lilith h12 in Pisces or in the 12th house can indicate ancestral wounds, which is a highly deep wound related to your ancestors idk why this placement reminds me about Mulan's ancestors fighting in the temple in the animated movie

💙 - Since no one mentions this, having your Jupiter in the 9H or in Sagittarius doesn't always mean you gonna meet your spouse in foreign lands but also in highschool or university, you can be highschool lovers for example or even highschool lovers in foreign lands as a combo of both, also either you or your partner will have a different ethnicity!! Jupiter at 9°. 21° degrees too

──────────────────────────────

I always give my 10/10 everytime there is an avatar thematic 💅🏼💅🏼💅🏼💅🏼, is the highest grossing movie for a reason after all 💅🏼

Hope you all have a good day for those to read my posts 🥰🥰

H a r m o o n i x

#astrology #astro observations #astrology observations #avatar #birth chart #astro notes #placements #astro community #astroseek #astroblog #astronotes #astro.com #astronote #ascendant #horoscope #venus #neytiri #seaside

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illyrianbitch · 10 months ago

Text

Of Our Own Devices

For @erisweekofficial Day 1: Bargains

Pairing: Reader x Eris

Summary: Desperate to reunite with Lucien since his exile to Spring, you find yourself paying an unexpected price to his older brother.

Warnings: some mentions of death & injury, swearing, spitfire reader and a cunty eris. <3

Word Count: 3.2k

Part Two

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹

The storm had rolled in with frightening speed.

It was one of the rarer, powerful storms of Autumn. The type that caused the sky to turn to charcoal, produced lightning that illuminated the canopy of fall leaves and made them seem like flickering, live fires.

You stumbled into the dimly lit cabin, drenched from the rain that had come pouring down in sheets. The cabin was one you had never seen before— a hidden refuge of Eris’s that you weren't aware existed. Despite its small size, it was surprisingly beautiful, furnished with deep, velvety fabrics. Eris had pulled you into the home without a word.

Crossing your arms across your chest, you turned to him, watching as he shed his outer layer and hung it on a hook near the door. He moved to the cold, empty fireplace next, and with a flick of his fingers, he summoned a flame from his hand. The flame danced briefly in his palm before he extended it toward the blackened wood in the hearth.

Seconds later, a crackling sound filled the room, bringing the fire to life and filling the space with a warm, golden glow. Eris watched the flames for a moment. Then he stood up, facing you once more.

"You promised me I'd be in Spring by tonight," you said.

Eris tsked, brushing past you as he sat himself on a velvet, red couch. His scent lingered in the air—a smoky, strong aroma. A shiver ran through your body. You attributed the reaction to the influence of the rain on your warm skin.

He didn't bother to meet your eye as he responded. "I promised no such thing. I said I'd take you to Spring tonight."

"Then take me."

He raised a brow and for a moment, you almost expected him to make a childlike comment, a brutish joke about the sentiment those words could hold outside of the context. But he didn't. His eyes, however, told you that he was thinking about it. It was unnerving, how you could read him so well, how years at Lucien's side had come with an unexpected consequence: becoming familiar with his brothers, too.

"It's a storm. Winnowing is risky in this weather," he said smoothly, voice as cool as ever. "I’m not risking both our lives just because you're impatient."

The wind howled outside the cabin, rattling the wooden shutters as you took a deep breath— in through your nose, out through your mouth. The eldest Vanserra noticed the frustration immediately, and your efforts to calm yourself dissipated as a small smirk tugged at the corners of his lips.

“I’m not staying here,” you snapped. “I’ll walk if I have to.”

At first glance, the couch appeared almost pristine, but as the firelight grew and you paid closer attention, you could make out traces of dark grey, black, and brown hairs—the hair of his hounds. The detail settled somewhere inside you. You weren't sure where.

“If you do that, you’ll either die of exposure or run into my father’s men. Either way, not a great plan.”

You froze, your hands tightening around the fabric of your cloak as you grasped your arms, fingernails digging into the material. “So my options are to stay here with you or die?”

He shrugged lazily, but the motion still held a sense of regality to it, an eerily elegant form. It made you even angrier.

“Seems so," he said, a smile forming on his lips. It was as warm and genuine as a snake’s kiss, much like the disarming charm you had come to expect from Eris.

You'd never spent this long with him alone, never needed to manage his calculated gaze or purposely chosen words without the buffer of Lucien. You would've gladly gone your entire immortal life without doing so. But you missed Lucien— your heart ached without him, longed to be near him, to have his laugh echo in your ears. And this was the only way to be with him again, even for a few days.

And Eris knew that. He knew it all. You assumed it was why he bothered to take you in the first place. It gave him the pleasure of knowing he had power– control.

Your blood boiled.

“Are you enjoying this?” You stormed toward him, standing over the couch as he stretched, clearly unbothered by the storm—or your anger. “Trapping me here, knowing I have no choice.”

“Trapping you?” He laughed softly, sitting up slightly to meet your gaze. “You came to me, Vixen. If you want to go, the door’s right there.”

The sound of the wind howling through the trees outside made his offer ring hollow. You struggled to rummage through your thoughts, through the anger, frustration, and disgust that he managed to stir in you.

The stupid, stupid nickname was all you could focus on, now. Memories of a younger you flooded your senses, memories of a younger Eris, one much less rigid, much more open, almost. An Eris you crushed on. You'd never admit the truth to anyone— that the reason you and Lucien had become so close, despite your natural connection, was because once upon a time, he was glued to his older brothers hip. And so you'd glued yourself to Lucien's.

Eventually, the years evened things out, and your feelings flowed from the eldest Vanserra to the kindest one. To Lucien.

Lucien. Your mind reminded you. This was for Lucien. Don't piss Eris off, don't ruin your chances at seeing him again. Don't engage—

"Stop calling me that, you arrogant prick."

Your hands dropped to your sides, instinctively curling into fists as Eris peered at you with a burning, amused stare. His amber eyes gleamed like a predator toying with its prey.

"I see Lucien's absence has impacted your ability to maintain that temper. Those breathing exercises not working well for you?"

Something twisted deep in your gut.

"Now that I think about it, I think I'll take my chances with the storm."

Before you could make a move to leave, Eris was standing, his chest now inches away from you as he peered down at you. You didn't move, then, only straightened your shoulders and met his gaze.

Eris wasn’t the beefy, broad-shouldered type that other males in the court might have been. He didn’t have large, bulging muscles meant to intimidate. Instead, he was a lean kind of strong, with a pointed nose and sharp features that cut through the dim light of the cabin. He exuded a different kind of intimidation, one that stemmed from his inherent authority and the staunchness of his posture. He carried himself like a prince—elegant and commanding, every inch of him a testament to his future role.

Beron was merely keeping the throne warm until Eris was ready to claim it for himself.

"We both know you're not going to do that."

You tightened your fists further. "And why not?"

"Because you aren't stupid, Y/n."

Eris cocked his head, his eyes narrowing as he studied your face with a cold, calculating gaze. His features were sharp and chiseled, the faintest freckles dotting his high cheekbones.

"You're not going to risk losing your chance to see Lucien."

He leaned down and his breath fanned your face, warm and mingling with the scent of cedar and smoke. His eyes danced across your face, moving from holding your gaze to traveling further down, lingering on your lips—on the scowl you wore on them—before he met your eyes again. The fire's flames grew larger, consuming the oxygen in the air that had already seemed to be thinning.

You said nothing as he continued, "Uncurl those fists, take that soaked cloak off, and wait. "

You stayed quiet, taking a deep breath before you stepped to the side, purposefully brushing your shoulder against his broad chest as you moved. Despite your urge to resist him out of spite, you reluctantly removed your cloak and tossed it on the clean floor of the cabin.

Eris scoffed. "Really? Must you act like a child?"

The floorboards cracked as he walked and, faintly, he mumbled something about how his hounds were better mannered. Eris picked up your cloak, dusting it off with a gentle hand before hanging it up next to his own.

"I'm curious," he began, glancing over his shoulder as he walked towards the couch. "Does Lucien know?"

You glared at him. You were growing tired now, the exhaustion of the trip slowly growing deep in your bones.

"What are you talking about?"

Eris smirked, his gaze lingering on you with a knowing glint as he settled back on the couch. "I'm talking about how you're in love with my sweet, sweet little brother."

You stiffened, a wave of emotion crashing over you—cold and awakening, a nauseating mix of embarrassment and fury.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

Eris's face remained insufferably composed, a cocky grin playing at his lips. His eyes gleamed with a self-satisfied spark.

"No need to lie. It's just us two here," he purred. "I've always enjoyed how honest we can be with one another. It's why I preferred you over Jesminda."

A sharp, uncontrollable heat seared through every nerve in your body, a wave of anger surging like a wildfire.

"Keep her name out of your mouth."

It felt like a disgrace to have him say it, to hear her name immortalized on the tongue of the brother that allowed her to die. The brother that had killed her, according to Lucien. His sobs still echoed in your mind, the image of a broken male etched into your memory. You'd had only five minutes with him before he fled, five minutes of frenzied packing, desperate promises, and anguished confessions of what his father—and his brothers—had done.

Eris's gaze lingered as he analyzed you.

A beat passed.

Then another.

You were beginning to feel naked, as if he had stripped you of every defense you'd managed to muster around him. You turned away, unable to bear the weight of his stare any longer.

"I didn't kill her. I didn’t help.”

Your face went slack, caught off guard and momentarily confused. You pulled yourself together quickly, straightening your back, hoping he hadn’t noticed your reaction. As you turned a little, your face almost sad now, you could’ve sworn you saw something in his eyes—something akin to regret, maybe even compassion.

Your voice was low, not bothering to hide the sadness, mourning, the raw anger, as you responded.

“I don’t believe you.”

The trace of care in his gaze vanished as he shrugged, the same indifferent gesture he’d made earlier. “Have I ever lied to you?”

You stared at him, taking him in with the same analyzing gaze he'd offered you.

It was strange how alike he and Lucien looked, how alike yet so different all the same. But the longer you stared, the more you began to feel stuck— hypnotized, tempted to walk closer to him, to ask him what it was that went on in his mind, what caused those flickers of emotions you couldn't name across his face.

But another moment passed, and all you could see was a male who Lucien hated, a male who was selfish, who reveled in the pain caused by chaos. Your mind drifted to other rumors and stories you’d heard about him. You settled on one in particular.

"You left an innocent female to die in the woods because she didn't want to mary you. Butchering your brother's lover doesn't seem outside of your past-times."

A cold shift washed over Eris’s face. His disinterested expression hardened into a mask of disappointment, then flared into a simmering anger. It was a contained fury, like a finely tuned flame.

"Don't tell me you believe the lies of Night Court trash. Surely you're smarter than that. I know you are."

"Fuck you," you snarled. "You know nothing about me. I'm not going to let you play some twisted mind games with me. I'm not a doll."

He shook his head. "You are not."

A beat. Then a smirk grew on his lips. "But you are just as pretty as one, if we're still being honest. You're wasted in your one-sided love, Y/n."

You said nothing, turning to walk to the other side of the cabin. The corner held a bookshelf with carefully arranged volumes, a finely crafted wooden table, and a collection of artifacts on the windowsill.

Eris just laughed behind you, a sound so smooth and soothing that it felt sinful against your skin.

You resisted the temptation to snoop, to explore the cabin and bask in the rare vulnerability of the brother who had always captivated you in the most wretched of ways. It felt strange seeing him like this—relaxed, almost at ease— as if simply crossing the threshold of this modest cabin had stripped away the invisible chains and burdens only a prince could bear.

You stayed still and stared out the window, focusing on the sounds of the storm. You hoped that the rain would drown out the sounds of his breathing— sounds that rang too loud in your mind. You didn't want to know why he seemed to do that, why he lingered so deeply in your head.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹

The storm raged on for a few more hours.

The time was spent in tense silence—at least for you. Eris remained on the couch, reading through a novel about the history of the continent. You would've never thought him to enjoy such a thing, to want to know about those outside of his court, of mortals, humans, no less.

And when the rain finally stopped, he rose wordlessly. With a brief gesture toward your cloak, he led you out, winnowing you the rest of the way in silence.

When you finally reached the border of Spring, a wave of relief washed over you.

The vibrant greens of the new season were almost blinding after the gloom of the storm. You took a step forward, eager to escape the tension that had gripped you for hours. You'd be with Lucien soon, be able to hug him, to tell him of all the things he'd missed in your life since his exile.

But before you could move any further, Eris's hand closed around your arm. You turned to him with a glare, meeting his glowing gaze and infuriatingly calm smile.

“Are we forgetting payment?”

You strengthened your glare, gritting your teeth before you pulled yourself out of his grasp, reaching for the small bag hidden within your layers.

Eris stopped you with a casual wave. “I don’t want your money.”

You stiffened, straightening your posture. The sounds of Spring echoed behind you, their vibrant melodies almost taunting as you lingered on the border. Eris’s smile shifted into a smirk, his eyes glinting with something dangerous, something that made you swallow instinctively.

“I’m surprised you didn’t ask sooner.”

You thought back to how he had offered to take you to Lucien, how this entire arrangement had been his idea. You should've held back, should've been more wary of his motives. But you'd been too excited, been too blinded by the joy of being with Lucien once more.

“What do you want, Eris?”

He took a moment to take you in fully, eyes scanning you from head to toe, and then he took a small step back.

“A bargain,” he finally said.

“A bargain?”

He nodded. “You will not tell Lucien it was me who brought you here.”

You frowned, a crease forming between your brows as you blinked at the male before you. Perhaps you'd heard him wrong. “What?”

“If he asks, you’ll say you bought off a hunter in Autumn, a mercenary. Whatever you’d like,” Eris continued.

You drew your brows tighter.

“I thought you'd want to revel in the fact that he might somehow owe you. Prove your power, even."

Eris shrugged nonchalantly. “Then maybe you don’t know me as well as you’d like to think.”

He extended his hand, his palm open and the gleam of his ring-clad fingers catching the light. You hesitated for a moment, body still stiff with unease, with confusion.

You scanned his face. Eris loved played games. This was no different. There was no point in reading into it. So you rolled your eyes and prepared to shake on it, reaching for his hand. He pulled it slightly out of reach.

“What now?” You groaned.

He hummed in amusement.

“And when I come to get you to return to Autumn, I want your help.”

You raised a brow. “My help?” you asked, incredulously. "How the hell would I ever be able to help you?"

Your family had no title, no powers beyond a tame ability to fight and heal. You survived in Autumn because you were ordinary—and ordinary meant no one looked for you. Noticed you.

“I want to call in a favor,” he clarified.

“What favor?"

"We'll see," Eris said with a smile and a tilt of his head. “I think you could help me out dearly."

You let his words settle for a moment. His eyes, glistening with a dangerous glow, seemed to hold something predatory, something that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. There must've been an underlying threat in his proposition, something sinister you had yet to notice. After all, he was a male known for his ruthlessness—

You stiffened.

He was a male. There was one easy way for males to assert their dominance, to gain pleasure, to accept payment.

You took a step back instinctively and Eris’s gaze tracked your movement before returning to meet your eyes. A shadow flickered in his eyes, reminiscent of the dark, unsettlingly soft gleam you’d seen in his cabin when he first glimpsed your saddened expression. Seconds later, his face shifted to one of mild amusement. He rolled his eyes with an empty chuckle.

“Settle yourself, Y/n. Not that kind of favor. I can bed females without resorting to bargaining for their affections,” he said, his tone dripping with condescension.

A flush of embarrassment crept up your cheeks. You looked to the ground for a moment, taking a deep breath as you regained your composure. When you finally met his gaze again, he was already extending his hand towards you once more.

“A favor in the future in exchange for this time with Lucien,” he purred smoothly. “And your silence. Consider it our little secret.”

The smirk that grew on his lips was maddening and you could feel the heat of his gaze, the flickering fire of his amber eyes urging you to comply. Every instinct told you that binding yourself to him was a terrible idea.

You glanced back over your shoulder, looking to the green, sunny expanse behind you. Lucien was there, somewhere amongst the greenery, and with a simple bargain you'd be with him again.

Without a second thought, you turned back to Eris and took his hand.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹

happy eris week yall!!! rising from the dead specifically to post this lol, i fear i love this pairing so lets see if i decide i wanna write anything else for them. thank you for reading!! (i miss writing so so so much)

i might make this into a miniseries, so lmk if you’d like

to be tagged <3

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