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oddlydescriptive · 22 hours ago

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Reset, Chapter Twelve

Sorry for the delay- I started editing this on Friday night when I teased a special weekend chapter and... well. It turned into 30 pages. (basically a 2-for-1, ya greedy fucks). Love you guys.

Series Masterlist

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You slam the door so hard it echoes- cracks- down the corridor, reverberating off concrete and tile like mortar blast. It punches through the silence in the lobby, makes your teeth ache.

Half of you expects your mom to hear it from across the goddamn ocean- call you up with that slow, Southern drawl and chew your ass out like you just kicked a church pew. “Now, baby, was that really necessary?”

Yeah. Yeah, it fucking was.

You’re going to kill him.

You’re going to snap his smug little neck with your bare fucking hands and thank God for the opportunity.

The world goes narrow- sharp-edged and colorless. You don’t register the turn, the hallway, the silver plate on the bathroom door. Just that it opens. That it locks behind you. That the sink hisses to life beneath your hand like it knows you need something, anything, to drown this out.

White noise. Cold tile. One square meter of space that doesn’t belong to him.

You slide down the wall like your bones have liquefied. Hit the ground hard. Stay there.

Your skin is burning. Your lungs hitch and shake with breath that won’t land right. Your hands are still fists- useless, twitching things at your sides.

But you don’t cry. You won’t cry.

Something tight coils at the base of your throat, molten and sharp and too dense to sob. It’s not sadness. Not exactly. It’s closer to rage- raw and acidic, animal-driven and pressing up against the inside of your chest like it wants out.

You squeeze your eyes shut. Press your palms to your temples.

God. Fuck. Fuck.

That was so unprofessional. So loud. So stupid. You threw a stack of documents across the goddamn boardroom. At the world champion. You shouted- shouted- like he’d keyed your car or slapped your mother. In front of Christian. In front of GP. In front of the team that’s been pulling you into this world piece by piece for months now.

You gave him everything he’s been clawing for.

You broke.

Your head thuds back against the wall. The tile is cool, but it doesn’t help. Your pulse still screams in your ears.

Goddamn you, Max Verstappen.

The air smells like corporate soap and sterilized metal. There’s a balled-up towel in the corner, just under the sink. Not something the cleaning ladies would catch unless they threw themselves on the floor of the bathroom like an overgrown child. Like you. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, washing everything in white. You stare up at them, eyelids flickering. Count backward from ten. Then again. It doesn’t help.

You pull your knees to your chest. Hands flat on the floor. Focus on the tile- cool, slick, clean. Everything you’re not.

Not anymore.

You’re probably fired.

The thought hits like a sucker punch. Of course you’re fired. You lost it. You walked out. You slammed the door hard enough to rattle the glass. You screamed.

They have to fire you.

Because you were supposed to be above this. Better. Smarter. More composed. More polished. You were doing it. Threading the needle. Navigating every petty, simple-minded, middle-school bullshit trap he laid- every stolen document, every 3AM call, every twisted smile- with grace.

And then you broke. For what? One smug look? One pointed “thank you”? One final shove over the edge?

Your stomach twists. Your jaw locks. You breathe through your nose- hold- exhale. Again. Again. But the pressure doesn’t leave. Because you know the truth. You know it like scripture. He’s been trying to break you for weeks. And you let him win. You gave him that moment. Gift-wrapped and on a platter.

And he loved it. You saw it. That smile, slow and curling, like he’d just tasted something decadent. Like your rage was a long-awaited dessert. Like the punchline to a long, private joke. Like your fury wasn’t a meltdown, but a performance he’d been dying to see- front row, popcorn in hand. The glint in his eyes when you snapped- really snapped- like he’d been waiting for it, savoring it, and now, finally, he could relax.

It was delight. Pure, revolting delight.

As if your fury was the first honest thing you’d ever done. As if everything else- your work, your precision, your poise- had been a lie. But this? This meltdown? This was real enough to be worth something to him.

It boils your fucking bones. That you handed him that moment. That you gave him joy. Real joy. The kind that lit up his whole face like you'd handed him a second championship trophy and kissed it with your own damn mouth.

God, he reveled in it. Like your anger validated something for him. Like he'd won a private, personal war that only he was playing. And worse- he looked proud. Like he’d broken something that wasn’t meant to break. Like he’d pushed you, and he’d undone you, and now the universe had returned to its rightful fucking order.

You dig your nails into your palms. You feel the bite of it. The sting. But it’s nothing compared to the shame rippling under your skin. Not because you were wrong- but because he liked it. Because he won.

And you hate that he knows it.

You curl tighter, not broken, not crying. Just vibrating. Just hating.

Him. And maybe- just a little- yourself.

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Silence.

The kind that hums. Heavy and humming, like something electrical is about to short. The kind that follows explosions- not shock, not awe, not the way it would for fireworks- but the skull-deep ring in your ears after a bomb goes off too close.

The papers are still settling. A few flutter to the floor in lazy spirals. One- an update on the dynamic braking for the upcoming RB19- skids in slow motion under the table, unread. Unacknowledged. The only sound is the soft shuffle of pages and the faint tick of the wall clock overhead.

Max leans back in his chair. Calm. Composed. Thrumming with something that feels suspiciously like triumph.

It’s not subtle. The way he stretches, arms loose over the back of the seat like a king at rest, watching the room from his perch. The slow, smug curl of his mouth. The faint glow in his eyes, like someone basking in the final, golden moments of a long-fought win.

Because that’s what this was. A win.

Weeks. Months, now, really. Pulling threads, pressing buttons, peeling back the armor one hairline crack at a time. And then finally- finally- you broke. Loud and bright and glorious. That rage, those words, the way your voice cracked at the end like something feral. Beautiful.

God, it was so fucking good.

"Bit of an overreaction, don’t you think?" he announces, voice light. Not mocking. Not cold. Just… amused. As if your meltdown had been a curiosity. As if it were just one of those things- weather, traffic, women. As if he’s already decided how this’ll be remembered.

No one moves.

No one answers.

No one even looks at him. Nothing. Not even a cough. Not even a shift of weight.

Max shifts in his chair and glances toward GP first, expecting- what? A smirk? A shake of the head? Something that says good show, mate, or even just well, that happened.

But GP doesn’t look up.

He’s watching his pen roll slowly between his fingers. Back and forth. Back and forth. Like it’s the most delicate thing in the world, and he’s not sure if letting it drop would be louder than speaking. His expression doesn’t change. Doesn’t lift. He just sits there, quiet and still, like maybe if he doesn’t move, he won’t have to say anything at all.

Max swallows. The thrill of the moment sours, just a little.

Across the table, Alessandro finally moves. Straightens. Collects his laptop with deliberate care- no rush, no flair, just control. Measured. His jaw flexes once as he slides his chair back, eyes flicking to Christian like he’s waiting for a green light he’s not sure will come. Ollie, his assistant developer, mirrors the movement a second later, snapping his tablet closed and stacking it neatly on top of his notes. Neither of them say a word. But the tension between their shoulders says plenty.

Max turns toward Christian now. Stone. Cold. Silent. His face gives away nothing. Not judgment. Not approval. Not strategy. Just... stillness.

Max holds his stare for a beat too long. Christian’s eyes don’t leave Max’s.

"Right," Christian says finally. Flat. Terse. “Let’s break here.”

No thank you for your time. No we’ll circle back with notes. Just those four words, and then- movement. Fast. Sudden. Urgent.

Max has never seen a boardroom clear that fast. Not for a fire drill. Not for a real fire, and Max has been here for more than one meeting interrupted by carbon tempering on the factory floor gone sideways. It’s like someone pulled the pin on a grenade and everyone’s racing to get out before it detonates.

And then- nothing.

Just him.

And Christian.

Still seated.

Still staring.

Max clocks it too late. That Christian didn’t stand when everyone else did. That he’s still sitting upright, still watching, still unmoved in that unblinking, strategic way that makes Max feel fifteen years old again.

Max shifts, just slightly, lowering his arms. The silence no longer feels like satisfaction. It feels like delay. Like coiling wire.

Christian doesn’t raise his voice. Doesn’t lean forward. Doesn’t even blink. Just looks at him for a long, unreadable moment. Then, slowly, he closes the folder in front of him and rests his palms on the table. Still no words. Just a long, flat stare.

Max’s smirk dulls by degrees.

“She’s liked,” Christian says finally. Quiet. Unemotional. “That’s all I’ll say.”

Max tilts his head, mouth tight. “Not my fault if she’s got a temper.”

Christian lifts a brow. “No, I suppose not.”

He says it like he’s agreeing. He’s not. Max doesn’t respond. The comment doesn't land the way Christian wants it to. He knows it won’t. Christian shifts slightly, his weight settling into one heel. “People like her. You know that.”

No reply.

“They see what she does. The hours. The work. How she treats people. They notice. I’ve noticed.”

Max drums his fingers once on the table before going still again. He still says nothing.

Christian exhales softly through his nose. It’s not a sigh- more like an effort to steady something before it slips. “You’re the lead driver.” he says carefully. “The car gets built around you. Everything runs through this team to elevate you.”

A pause. Not sharp. Just heavy. “But the way you treat people, Max… that runs through the team too.”

There’s a stillness in Max then- not just quiet. Not just silence. A kind of internal locking, like a mechanism freezing in place. He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t breathe. Something inside him goes... quiet. Not shame. Not guilt. Just a strange, suspended awareness.

“You don’t have to like her. No one’s asking you to.” His voice stays even. Not a warning. Not quite. Not an admonishment, either. Just… the truth. Quiet. Disappointed. He straightens his cuffs and adjusts the hem of his jacket. “I’ll see you at the dinner.”

He leaves without looking back.

And for a long time, Max doesn’t move.

The papers are still scattered on the floor. The silence still ringing.

And for all the satisfaction he thought he’d feel- does feel- there’s something else creeping in. Something heavier. Something he can’t name.

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You splash water on your face. Once. Twice. Then again, with even less grace- fingers clawing up beneath your eyes like you can drag the heat out of your skin, rinse the tension from your spine, make the last ten minutes un-happen.

God.

Goddamnit.

You grip the edge of the sink, lean your weight into it like the porcelain might anchor you to something solid. Your reflection is wild-eyed. Flushed. Not broken, but barely stitched together.

But the shame is blooming now, heavy and sour and impossible to scrub clean. You can feel it between your ribs, in the back of your throat. Guilt curling in like rot.

You yelled at him. You screamed in a room full of senior engineers, at Max fucking Verstappen. You threw something. For Christ’s sake. What were you trying to do- make a statement? Burn the building down?

And now?

You don’t even know if you still have a job.

They have to fire you. They have to. You can’t lose it like that- not in this world. Not in his world. You’re replaceable. A factory cog in a Red Bull machine, and you just slammed your wrench through the gears.

The sick part is, you’re not even sorry. Not for the words. Not for the volume. Not even for the paper. But your rage doesn’t matter nearly as much as the consequences do.

Your mouth is dry. Your stomach lurches. You press your forehead to the mirror.

God. Fuck. Fuck.

And then it starts to curdle.

That slow, sinking rot of understanding what this outburst might’ve cost you. Not just the job. Not just the data that you’ve poured your guts into for months. But the seat. The one that seemed so close you could taste it. All the quiet coffees. The after-hours sim sessions. The polite nods from Christian when you handed him something useful. The tiny, silent acknowledgements from people here who actually fucking matter. The games you’ve played, the press you’ve strategized, the sponsors you’ve charmed. The years.

The Dale Coyne years. The cardboard trailers. The junior days where you changed your own tires in a Target parking lot. The money you didn’t have and the races you ran anyway- the tense kitchen table conversations as your talent outgrew your funding. The hope you carried through circuits that weren’t built for you, that never invited you in.

The suffering you endured. The opportunities you chased. And the ones you ran from.

Texas.

You don’t even have to say the word. It’s just there. The shadow of it. The knowing. The series that built you, that made you- that taught you that you were made of something real, something worthy. Your memory of it, blood-stained and cracked and wrong now. A place that once held pride and now feels like a goddamn ghost town in your head. Not safe. Not sacred. Just another haunted headstone in the graveyard of your career.

And then there’s everything else. The pieces of you you’ve handed away just to make it work.

The milestones missed. The birthdays. The bachelorette parties you should’ve been planning. You skipped your own fucking graduation. The baby showers. The weddings. The ordinary little things you traded for late flights and earlier mornings, for jetlag and bleachers and unfamiliar beds. The every-other-Thursday extended family dinners you haven’t sat at in years.

All of it. All of it, for this.

And now it’s teetering. Held in the balance by a single moment of rage. Two minutes that might’ve undone a decade of persistence. Two minutes that might have been your final act.

You breathe. Then again. One more. Just to make sure you still can.

And you turn the handle.

The hallway is empty- mercifully.

You ease the door shut behind you like it might detonate, step out into the corridor with the slow, measured quiet of someone trying not to make a ripple. Head down. Shoulders rounded. If you can just get back to your room, your desk, the SIM bay- anywhere neutral- you’ll be fine. You’ll regroup. Pretend none of it happened. Get ahead of the apology, maybe. Grovel, if necessary. Resign with dignity, if that’s all there is left to do.

You cross the threshold into the lobby, and-

Shit.

It’s not empty.

Not loud, not bustling. Just… not empty.

A handful of people hover near the front desk. Lanyards, tailored jackets, polite chatter. Nicole stands with a clipboard, mid-sentence. You know the type. Early sponsor arrivals. Suits and polished shoes and sticks up asses that everyone pretends aren’t there. You don’t know any of them personally, but you’ve seen enough pictures and seat-sharing charts to clock who’s who, which brand signs which check, whose opinions matter.

And unfortunately, your movement draws the room. It’s just the way your sneakers hit the tile. Just the shift of motion across the open floor. Just the way their heads turn- curious, expectant. You feel it before you see it. That tightening of atmosphere. That subtle pause.

You don’t turn back. You can’t. That would only make it worse, more awkward, less professional. You just straighten your spine. Pull your shoulders back. Smooth your expression into something clean, presentable, safe.

You have no idea what you look like. Not really.

Your heart is still hammering against your ribs. Your ears are ringing- not loud, just a faint high whistle, like you left part of yourself in the bathroom and forgot to close the door behind you.

You feel composed, mostly. Maybe. Or maybe you’re deranged. You have no read on yourself.

And isn’t that terrifying?

Maybe your hair’s a mess. Maybe your pupils are blown wide, your face blotchy, your voice still ragged from yelling at a two-time world champion like you were trying to exorcise a demon from the building. Maybe your hands are still shaking. Are they? You sneak a glance down. No. Still. Steady. But your fingers feel foreign. Untrustworthy. Too long. Too visible.

Are they looking at your face or your hands? Are they smiling because they’re happy to see you or because they know? Can they tell? Can they see the imprint of it on your skin?

That ten minutes ago, you screamed until your throat burned, until your hands were fists and your words were a weapon and your whole body was a fire alarm no one knew how to turn off?

Do they feel it?

Do they know you just launched an all-out war in the boardroom down the hall and slammed the door like you wanted God to hear it?

You don’t know. You can’t tell. It’s like your internal monitor has gone dark- no feedback, no gauges. Just blank space and static. You’re flying blind.

You only know this: they’re looking. So you move. So you do what you’ve always done. So you reach for the mask. You smile- small, polite, just wide enough to read as welcoming. “Hi,” you say as you cross the floor. “Welcome to Milton Keynes.” Your voice is steady. Pleasant. Even warm.

It doesn’t matter that your lungs are still raw or that your pulse hasn’t steadied. It doesn’t matter that you’re not sure if you’re about to black out or burst into flames.

You wear the lie beautifully.

And God, you hope it holds.

You know most of them by sight before you even reach them- can clock who belongs to who just by cut and posture.

TAG Heuer. All men. Easy, professional. Tailoring so precise it feels effortless. The kind of fashion that whispers money instead of shouting it. Their watches glint under the fluorescents, wrists crossed over phones they don’t look at. They’re already calculating Q4 impressions, mentally tallying every pixel their logo earned in Japan.

You greet Jean-Claude and his associates with a flurry of crisp handshakes and the appropriate warmth- measured enough to say I’m a professional, yet friendly enough to convey your (genuine, truly) gratitude for funding your paycheck.

Viaplay. Three of them. Two men in sport coats and a woman holding a compact video rig like it’s an extension of her spine. Their outfits are sharp but not intimidating- marketing dressed up for dinner. You shake again, but one glance at their body language, the restless scan of the room, and it’s obvious who they’re here to see. Their eyes ping around like radar, hungry for Max.

You land on Oracle last, lingering toward the tail end of the little group. Two women, one man. Business formal, down to the half-step sync of their polished shoes. Authority wrapped in quiet, clinical elegance. They don’t fidget. They don’t preen. They absorb.

One of the women catches your eye.

Not because she’s warm. Not because she seems engaged.

Because she doesn’t.

Tall. Dark hair, lopped at the shoulders and styled softly, not a strand out of place. Late middle-aged, maybe older, even, but not tired by it- there’s something composed about her, sharply preserved in a way only money can be, like time only touches her when and how she permits it. Her posture is immaculate. Her suit, black and impeccably cut, looks like it cost more than your first kart.

She isn’t smiling.

Her expression is neutral, but you don’t mistake it for approachability or warmth. It reads like a closed door. Not cold, not unkind- just firmly locked. Eyes that take everything in and offer nothing back.

The other two Oracle reps hover slightly behind her. Their posture defers to hers in subtle ways. You catch it- the way they glance at her before speaking, before laughing. Deference, not camaraderie. You take that in.

And then you catch something else: she’s bored. Just a flicker- eyes drifting, a slow blink, that faint, glassy gleam of someone cataloging and dismissing everything around her. Not impatient. Just uninvested.

She wasn’t expecting to be here, you realize. Or maybe she was expecting more.

Your spine straightens. You don’t need to see any more- this woman doesn’t need to speak to be the most powerful person in the room. You don’t know her.

And that’s a problem.

The Oracle rep you expected- Ariel- isn’t here. You don’t know every sponsor inside and out; you haven’t had that kind of access. But you keep a list. You wrote down the important names, the faces that matter, the ones that come back again and again. You pay attention.

And Ariel? Ariel was easy to remember, if only even by sheer exposure.

He seemed invested. Not just in Oracle’s five-year, $500 million headline sponsorship, but in Formula 1 itself. In Red Bull. In Max. It was all over in the press- he had done leadership panels side by side with Christian, splashed all over the RedBull media- though you hadn’t ever met him in person, the idea that he would willingly miss a sponsorship celebration, no matter how impromptu, no matter how lowkey? Not adding up.

This woman isn’t Ariel. And she doesn’t look impressed. Not by the trophy case. Not by the building. Not by any of this.

You’re smiling before you realize you’ve moved. Shoulders squared. Chin lifted- not high, just enough to seem open. Present. Warm. You don’t extend your hand first; you wait, subtle and deliberate.

You’re careful.

“Hi,” you say, and your name rolls off your tongue as you make your introductions- voice smooth, friendly without being forced. “I don’t think we’ve had the pleasure.”

No title. No credentials. Let them draw their own conclusions- maybe that’s better.

The woman doesn’t smile. But she takes your hand. Her grip is firm. Palm dry. Nails short. Her eyes flick up to yours and stay there, assessing. Not unfriendly. Not warm. Just… watching.

“Safra Catz,” she says. “CEO.”

Your pulse skips, skips again.

Oh.

Shit.

You just shook hands with the Safra Catz. Not some VP. Not a department head. The CEO of Oracle. As in- the head of the company whose name sits in front of Red Bull Racing on every press release, every graphic, every broadcast. As in- the reason the lights are on and the sim bay functions at all. She’s the one. The name on the top line. The signature on the check. She’s not just the most powerful person in this room.

She’s probably the most powerful person in every room.

And she didn’t come here to be dazzled. She didn’t even come here, it seems, to be convinced. That look isn’t interest.

It’s audit.

This unplanned pit stop was supposed to be a small detour for you. A quick acknowledgement before you scurried off to your room to lick your wounds and type up a groveling apology. You were prepared for a couple handshakes, maybe a selfie. Nicole had said Ariel and his usual crew were easy- always happy to be here, always talking brand metrics and sim tech like it was their birthday party.

Not this.

Not her.

You scramble internally. Where the fuck is Ariel?

Why wasn’t Christian here to greet someone like her?

Why is no one else handling this?

You scan the lobby- no team principal, no PR handlers, no corporate affairs in sight. Just Nicole, now stuck balancing lanyards and sign-in tablets with a look on her face like this is above my pay grade, and a small group of the most influential people you’ve ever been accidentally left alone with.

You glance toward the Oracle entourage. The other woman is already watching you, not unkindly, but with the measured detachment of someone who’s used to watching people either rise or choke under pressure.

Like she’s watching a test in real time.

Fuck.

You didn’t ask for this. You weren’t prepped for this. Either way, none of that matters. Because if Safra walks away unimpressed, uncharmed, uninvested in any way- you’ll be guilty by proximity. Christian will be furious. Even if you duck out right now and leave them with Nicole, this will still be your failure.

And you know it.

So you smile. Like your lungs aren’t locking up. Like your pulse isn’t battering your ribs. “Well,” you say, voice smooth, with just the right edge of charm, “it’s an honor to have you with us.” Safra doesn’t blink. Doesn’t nod. Just continues to observe. She didn’t come here to be celebrated.

She came to evaluate the worth of the empire her company is underwriting.

You didn’t ask to be responsible for this. But you are now. And like it or not? You have to stick the landing. You fall into step beside the Oracle group, eyes skimming your surroundings like you’ve done this a thousand times- because you have. You’ve given at least a few dozen tours to families and schoolchildren and college kids and tourists over the last ten weeks. You can do this half-asleep. And part of you still is.

Safra walks like someone with somewhere better to be. Which, fair. Her eyes aren’t on the glass cases, the car renders, or the gearboxes disassembled for aesthetic effect. She’s watching people. Systems. Details. You feel it.

The way she glances sideways when someone opens a staff door without knocking. The flick of her eyes when the TAG Heuer group laughs too loudly. This woman is constantly auditing.

And she has no fucking clue who you are.

“Are you one of the drivers?” she asks, finally.

It doesn’t sting. Not like it might have. If anything, it sparks a flicker of strange pride. She assumed up, not down. Probably because she’s spent her life being assumed down, and clawed her way to the very top regardless.

You give her a small smile. “Not quite. I’ve done two races- Zandvoort and Spa- when they needed a seat filled. Otherwise, I’m Red Bull’s development driver.”

Safra’s brow lifts. Subtle. Barely more than a twitch. But you clock it immediately.

You stay even. Steady. Not selling- just telling.

“I was the first woman to race in the modern F1 era. It was... a lot of things. Very loud. Very quiet. Kind of overwhelming and underwhelming all at once.”

Still no nod. No encouragement. But she doesn’t walk away either. You add, lightly, “Turns out breaking a barrier doesn’t make the room any easier to sit in.”

You keep going. Not to prove yourself. Not to impress her. Just- because she asked. “I do about eighty hours a week of simulation testing, component development, mechanical feedback- basically, I spend a lot of time breaking things so the race drivers don’t have to.”

That earns you something new. Not warmth, not amusement exactly- but the ghost of a smile. Tight, brief, private. You don’t miss it.

“Sounds glamorous,” Safra says dryly.

You laugh, light and honest.

“It’s not. But it’s important. The sport doesn’t move without data.”

That lands. You see it. You’ve spent your whole life learning how to read people who don’t want to be read, and her gaze flicks back to you, sharper now. More focused. Not friendly- but interested. The kind of interest that comes from seeing numbers instead of faces, efficiency instead of fluff. You’ve seen it before- in team principals, in engineers, in people who like things that make sense.

It’s the first time she’s really looked at you. Listened to you.

You follow her line of sight to the rest of the group, still crowded around the display wall of carbon fiber steering wheels like they’re made of gold. You can see her losing interest by the second.

So you pivot. Instinctively.

Because maybe this woman doesn’t care about trophies or tour stops or any of the surface-level bullshit.

But you know she cares about systems. Performance. Proof. And that? That’s something you can show her. You lean in, just enough to drop your voice beneath the noise.

“If you’d rather skip the rest,” you say, “I can show you the operations floor. Or the telemetry deck. Something a little less PR-polished.” She eyes you carefully. Calculating. Then nods.

You give Nicole a gentle look across the group and tilt your head. She nods, already in motion, herding the others toward the garage floor.

You fall into step with Safra.

This wasn’t the plan.

But something tells you this- this- might matter more than the next ten meetings combined.

You punch your badge into the security panel and push open the door to the simulator bay. The hum of active machinery wraps around you immediately- low, rhythmic, alive.

The sim rig is idle, sleek in its half-asleep state, wall monitors still lit with telemetry screens cycling data from Austin and Japan. It has a presence- something that feels like effort. Like getting shit done. Like every night you’ve ever spent here, racing ghosts in the dark.

Safra steps in behind you, heels clicking on the polished floor. You catch the slight narrowing of her eyes as she takes in the space- not just curious, but appraising. Measuring return on investment, probably.

“I figured you might be tired of carbon fiber trophies and inspirational quotes on the walls,” you say lightly, motioning toward the rig. “This is where the actual magic happens.”

She says nothing, but steps closer.

You gesture to the array of monitors. “What you’re looking at isn’t just driving- it’s system load calculations, fuel burn curves, mechanical feedback modeling, downforce variation-.” You pause. “Sorry. Force of habit.”

Safra doesn’t wave you off. Doesn’t look confused, either.

You pivot.

“This is where I spend most of my time. Hundreds of laps per week. We simulate races, new parts, failures, changes in grip level due to weather, track resurfacing, you name it.” You reach for the nearest monitor, tapping through the overlays. “Every data point here? Is transmitted, stored, calculated, and modeled with software running on Oracle architecture. Fast enough to make real-time decisions. To adjust strategy on the fly. To win.”

Now you glance at her. Not selling. Just saying.

“You’re not just a logo on the side of the car. Your infrastructure is what makes all this possible.”

Safra folds her arms. Her expression is unreadable. But she’s looking at the screens now, not at you. And there’s a flicker behind her eyes that tells you she’s seeing it. The scale. The potential. The impact.

And maybe- just maybe- why it’s worth the money. Hopefully.

“Red Bull is one of the best in the paddock at data synthesis in real time, even across the world.” you add. “The cars generate over a gigabyte of data each, every single lap. Mexico City, Qatar, Japan- you name it- to Milton Keynes and back in fractions of seconds. Because of your stack.”

Silence.

Then, finally, Safra’s voice- measured, but interested. “And you run all of this?”

You blink. “Me and a handful of others man it most of the time- a very, very talented team of analysts and engineers. I drive it. We interpret it. We push it until it breaks. And then we help figure out how to make it stronger.”

She nods once. Slowly. Still thinking.

You don’t push her. Just let the silence do the work. And for the first time since this day detonated in your face like a warhead, you feel like you’ve done something right.

Something that might matter.

You glance at the clock above the telemetry rig. Time’s gotten away from you- not that you mind. But still.

“I should probably return you to your people,” you say lightly, straightening your posture, smoothing your hands down the front of your blazer. “Before someone accuses me of corporate kidnapping.”

Safra’s mouth twitches- half a smile, maybe- but she says nothing. Still watching you with that same quiet, deliberate focus. Then finally, a slight nod.

You press the door open and step back into the hallway, guiding her past a wall of carbon laying and suspension prototypes and under the massive archival photo of Seb’s 2013 title celebration. You walk slowly, not filling the space with idle commentary. You’ve done enough talking. It’s her turn, if she wants it.

She doesn’t. But she walks beside you, closer than before.

By the time you reach the lobby, the others are gathered again near the trophy case. Christian, present now, stands at the edge of the group- arms loose across his chest, expression polite but distracted. You can tell from the way he shifts on his feet that he’s been doing this for a while now. Schmoozing. Smiling. Managing.

Nicole catches sight of you and gives a small wave as you and Safra rejoin the others. “Apologies for the detour,” you murmur, gesturing subtly toward the Oracle group.

Christian’s eyes flick between you and the Oracle CEO, brow raising just slightly when he sees Safra’s demeanor- she’s less rigid now, more engaged, saying something low to one of her assistants with a look that’s at least a half degree warmer than when she stepped in the door.

You fade toward the periphery- just another shadow in the margins, planning your quiet exit- when Christian excuses himself from the sponsors. You brace yourself for the worst.

He approaches at a diagonal, shoes silent on the polished floor, and stops just beside you- far enough not to be conspicuous, close enough that you can feel the weight of his attention. His eyes flick briefly back to the small gathering of sponsors before settling on you.

“What was the deal with Safra?” he asks, voice low. Even. “Looked like you two went a little off-script.”

You don’t flinch. “She didn’t seem particularly thrilled,” you say honestly. “Wasn’t really engaging with the standard tour. I showed her the sim rig.”

Christian lifts a brow. Just one. “She’s Oracle’s CEO.”

“Yeah. I figured that out when she introduced herself,” you murmur. “I didn’t know she’d be here. I didn’t plan on getting involved with the sponsors at all, honestly. I would’ve prepped differently.”

He hums. Neutral. You go on, more out of duty than defense.

“I wasn’t trying to jump rank. But I wasn’t going to make her trail around the factory bored out of her mind while we showed off keychains and pit guns either. You weren’t in the lobby. Nicole was doing her best. I made a call.”

Christian gives a single, barely-there nod. “I was a little tied up,” he says, dry. Then, after a beat too long- long enough to make your stomach twist, long enough to know it’s coming- he adds, “You can’t yell at the team’s lead driver.”

The pause lingers like a second slap. Not loud, not cruel. Just matter-of-fact. Company policy wrapped in a paper cut. You nod before he can say anything else, because of course. Of course you can’t. Quiet. Accepting. “I know.”

Your eyes drift toward the front door. Somewhere between the glass and the asphalt outside, and your entire body deflates- just slightly. Like a breath you’ve been holding since the moment you slammed that boardroom door is finally, reluctantly, slipping out.

This is it. The moment.

You’ve known it was coming since the second you screamed in his face. Since the papers hit the wall. Since the silence hit harder than any shouted consequence.

You’re not naïve. You work in Formula 1. Reputations are everything, and yours just shattered in front of the most powerful people in the building. What else is there to say?

“If you’d be willing to let me resign,” you say softly, “instead of firing me… I’d appreciate that.”

Christian’s head lifts sharply. His brow twitches, jaw tightening- not in confusion, but something closer to disbelief. Like you’ve insulted him. He stares at you for a beat too long, like he’s waiting for you to take it back.

You don’t.

His sigh is sharp. Not annoyed- disappointed. Like you’ve just said something too ridiculous to warrant a response, but he knows he has to give one anyway. He scrubs a hand over his mouth, looks off toward the glass doors for a moment, then back. “Go get ready,” he says. “Dinner’s in an hour.”

Then he turns. Walks away. Doesn’t look back.

And for the first time in hours, you realize how heavy your shoes feel.

════════════════════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══════════════════

It’s a lot.

You know it’s a lot. The hat alone says as much- wide-brimmed, sharply creased, and unapologetically western, casting a deliberate shadow over your lashes as you linger just outside the reception room. It’s been a year, maybe more, since you wore it last, and it’s almost disorienting to have it on again. Like picking up an old weapon- familiar, but heavier than you remember.

You catch your reflection in the glass of the door and nearly laugh. God. You look like the world’s most glamorous gunslinger. And the thought hits- maybe it’s too much. Too bold. Too pointed. The choice to walk into this room full of European billionaires and motorsport royalty looking like you just stepped off a stagecoach instead of out of a simulator.

This is not subtle. Not even a little bit. Not the makeup, soft though it is. Not the way your strip lashes fan up beneath the hat brim. Not the way your cheekbones catch the light every time you tilt your head just so. Not the suit- jet black, structured within an inch of its life, tailored to fit like a challenge. Sharp at the shoulders. Cinched at the waist. The kind of thing that doesn’t just enter a room, but runs it.

And definitely not the crisp fold of paper in the inner pocket of your jacket.

You pause, letting the moment stretch, just enough to wonder.

But then you remember standing in front of the mirror earlier- holding the hat in both hands, like it was more sacred object than accessory. Thought of your mom. Of the way she’d straightened your first real hat with careful fingers and said, in that matter-of-fact drawl that didn’t leave her mouth even after two-and-a-half decades in Washington, “All good business happens under a 40X.”

And yeah. It’s a lot.

But it’s also perfect.

Because if you’re going down tonight- if this whole thing has already unraveled and you’re just here for the slow death of whatever’s left of your contract- then you’ll do it standing tall, dressed like the exact kind of woman who cannot be shaken. Not by a team. Not by a tantrum. Not by a boy-king with a god complex and a talent for workplace harassment.

You roll your shoulders once, adjusting the weight of the hat, the tension in your chest, the pulse in your throat, and let the air around you settle. The party’s already started- laughter and clinking glasses spilling through the narrow gap in the door. There are at least five dozen people inside. Sponsors, both the tour group and new arrivals. Executives. Team brass. The ones who write contracts and cut checks and carry influence in the way they cross a room.

You tip the brim of your hat up just slightly, so it’s just a little more out of the way of your eyes when you look up at the men in the room. Not for them.

For you.

And then you step in and- no, it doesn’t go silent. The music doesn’t cut. The champagne flutes don’t freeze mid-air. But it’s an arrival.

You feel it in the subtle shift of weight. A few eyes flick up. A couple of murmurs near the bar. Heads tilt. Not many people know who you are. That’s fine. That’s perfect. Let them wonder. Let them remember the girl in the cowboy hat and the suit sharp enough to cut diamonds. Attention isn’t the enemy.

Forgettable is.

You make it five steps inside before Alessandro materializes at your elbow like he’s been lying in wait. “Dio mio,” he says under his breath, eyes sweeping over you like he’s not entirely convinced you’re real. “You clean up well. I thought the hat was a myth.”

You huff a laugh. “Told you the accent’s not all show.”

He leans in like he’s about to make a joke, but instead just gives your arm a quick squeeze and steers you toward a tall cocktail table surrounded by a loose ring of engineers- some you know, some you’ve only ever nodded at in passing. A few you’ve seen presenting in meetings you weren’t important enough to speak in.

And then- oh.

You see him.

You blink. You must be wrong. But no. No, you’re not.

Adrian Newey.

Standing right there at the edge of the table like he’s just another guy at a company happy hour. Which, technically, he is. But to you? To anyone with even half a liter of race fuel in their bloodstream?

He’s not a man. He’s a blueprint. A myth. A god among Formula One designers, the spine of generations of world champions. You’ve seen him before, sure, usually just as a shape across the factory or a presence behind tinted glass in briefing rooms. The kind of sighting that makes you go quiet. Makes you shift to the wall and pretend you’re part of the architecture. You don’t talk to Adrian Newey.

Except he’s talking to you.

“Oh,” he says lightly, “so this is the one responsible for those lovely telemetry spreads I’ve been seeing.”

Your brain blanks. Fully. Absolutely. Utterly blanks. Your name is gone. Language is gone. Alessandro glances over at you, clearly waiting for you to say something.

“I- uh- ” You swallow. Smile. “I’m the one in the sim, yes. The engineering team is incredible, but- uh. Yes. That’s my data.”

“Very consistent,” Adrian says, almost offhand, like he’s reciting something obvious. “You know when to drive for data, not just pace. Makes setup work far easier when the driver’s not introducing variables. Not many get that right.” You blink. Twice. Three times.

Alessandro beams. “Careful,” he says to Adrian, teasing lightly. “You’re going to make her explode.”

You don’t say anything more. You can’t. Your vocal cords have packed a bag and left your body entirely. But you nod- humbly, you hope- and hold his gaze just long enough to make sure you’re not hallucinating.

You're going to have to journal about this later. Probably frame the quote.

Alessandro lets out a quiet snort, like he’s watching someone forget how to operate their own body, and leans in just enough to nudge your elbow. “Okay, superstar,” he murmurs, grinning, “before you pass out, come back over here and stand near the mortals.”

He tugs you a half-step back, just enough to pull you out of Adrian’s direct blast radius and back into a safer orbit- one where your heart rate might settle into something that doesn’t resemble cardiac arrest. You're still blinking. Still wordless. Still stunned stupid by an aging man with hair loss and a soft voice telling you that your pedal work makes his life easier.

Adrian Newey. Adrian fucking Newey liked your numbers.

You look at Alessandro like he’s just told you you’ve been accepted into NASA. Your eyes are wide, lips parted, like you’re trying not to squeal like a teenage girl at a concert. It’s ridiculous, it’s embarrassing, it’s fully out of character, and Alessandro is absolutely eating it up.

“Should I get you a chair?” he teases under his breath. “Some water? A paper bag to breathe into?”

He’s still talking, gently grounding you with small talk about sim setups and diff tuning and the godawful new telemetry dashboard you’ve both been battling for weeks- but you barely hear it.

Because you’re still glowing.

And that’s when a hand claps down on your shoulder- solid, unmistakable.

“Ah,” Jos says, chipper as anything, like he’s been combing the party for you all night, “there you are.”

You manage to blink up at him from under your hat, nodding like your brain’s still rebooting from some divine motorsport-induced trauma. Because it is. You’re still barely breathing, still hearing the words very consistent echo somewhere behind your eyes like a celestial bell toll.

Jos glances between you and Alessandro, eyebrows raised slightly at your expression- wide-eyed, mouth half-open, like someone just whispered the secrets of the universe into your ear. “You alright?” he asks, only half-joking.

Alessandro huffs a laugh. “Adrian just complimented her sim work.”

Jos’s face lights up instantly. “Ah!” he says, delighted. “Well, that explains it.” He gives you a conspiratorial little pat on the back, like you just won something and he was rooting for you all along. “Been doing well for yourself here, huh?”

You open your mouth to respond- thank him, downplay it, anything- but mostly just make a small, startled sound, still blinking in slow motion.

“Come,” he says, already turning. “Come with me.” There’s something mischievous in his voice- light and pleasant, sure, but layered with intention. Like he’s already five moves into a plan you haven’t even seen the board for yet.

You let him guide you- what else are you going to do? Say no to Jos Verstappen in a room like this? In your state? He’s already steering you with one hand on your back, talking like this was always the plan, like you’ve already agreed.

Alessandro chuckles behind you. “Get her out of here before Newey says anything else,” he calls. “She won’t survive it.”

You shoot him a helpless look over your shoulder, lips parted in half-protest, but Jos is already pulling you gently but firmly through the crowd, weaving between champagne flutes and tailored suits like a man on a mission.

You’re scrambling to catch up- not just physically, but mentally. What’s his angle? What’s the play? You try to read it in the curve of his shoulder, the bounce in his step, but Jos is spinning the game faster than you can track it.

His hand hovers just behind your back, light but directional, a shepherd’s nudge masked as polite guidance. He keeps you moving as he fires off questions, rapid and low, like you’re in a conversation and not, in fact, being subtly escorted across the reception floor like a prize calf.

“You clean up well,” he says, the edges of his grin smooth with mischief. “Hat’s a little much, but it’s good to know where you come from, no?” You smile- tight, polite. It’s not the time to tell him the hat feels like it might be the only thing holding you together. Not when your heels are already clicking you into danger.

“Haven’t seen you since Zandvoort,” he continues. “Helmut was spinning circles after that press stunt. How’s the fallout been?”

You barely get out a half-word before he’s pivoting again.

“The sim work’s still going? Hm. Doesn’t breathe like a real car, does it? All numbers, no noise.” It’s disorienting, the pace. He doesn’t wait for answers, doesn’t need answers. He’s laying breadcrumbs, building a rhythm, and it’s not until your hand grazes the back of a chair that you realize-

He’s brought you to a table.

You blink. “Oh- ”

“Here, sit,” Jos says, gesturing toward the empty seat beside him like it’s already got your name stitched into the upholstery. “We’ve much to talk about.”

You hesitate, just for a beat. Just long enough to make a plan: you’ll sit, humor him, play the part for a few minutes- then slip away and return to your assigned seat with the dev team. No harm, no foul.

So you sit.

The second you do, Jos’s intensity dials down like someone turned the volume knob on a stereo. The quickfire rhythm of his questions softens into something slower, more deliberate. He leans back- just slightly- but his eyes stay on you, bright with interest, steady in their focus. Like now that you’re exactly where he wants you, he can afford to give you space to speak.

The shift is almost flattering.

His tone changes too- curious, but gentler. Thoughtful. “Tell me,” he says, as a glass of champagne is passed to him from a hovering waiter. Without missing a beat, he offers it to you instead, like it was always meant for your hand. “How are you finding it here, really?”

You take the glass- because what else can you do?- and stall with a sip. The bubbles pop sharp against your tongue. He’s still watching you, patient now, genuinely invested in the answer.

“It’s…” You start, searching for the shape of a sentence that won’t betray too much. “It’s been a challenge. A good one. I’ve learned a lot.”

Jos hums, not pushing, but inviting. “You always seemed sharp,” he says. “Not just talented. You’ve got a hunger to you. People notice that.” You blink. It’s hard to tell if that’s meant to be praise or preparation for something else entirely. “And the late hours? All that dev work. Must be grueling.”

You nod. “It is.”

“But you love it.”

A beat.

“I do.”

His smile returns, smaller this time. More knowing than before. He lets the silence stretch, like he wants you to keep going, and you do- without even realizing.

You talk longer than you meant to. About the sim rig. About the engineers. About how much more goes into every test run than most people ever see. Jos asks the kind of questions that make you think he might’ve been listening to your press conferences for years- things about tire degradation data, balance correction, the margin of error when mapping chassis behaviors. You find yourself answering in full, head tilting, hands gesturing softly like they used to when you were passionate and not exhausted.

It’s not until your champagne glass is almost empty that the realization clicks into place like a snapping trap.

Everyone’s finding their seats.

The room shifts, a ripple of chairs being pulled out, napkins lifted, coats shrugged off and draped behind backs. There’s a general migration- light conversation rising around you as sponsors and staff start to drift toward their dinner seats. Time to go.

You make a move to rise- one hand on the table, the other halfway to your seatback- but Jos casually places his fingers over your wrist, feather-light, not forceful. Just enough pressure to stall you in place.

“Stay,” he says, like it’s obvious. “We have an extra seat. Max didn’t bring a guest.”

You freeze.

Wait. If Jos is in one chair- and there’s someone, maybe a power unit partner, it doesn’t matter, already taking the seat to his left- then that means…

Fuck.

You turn your head just as another figure drops into the chair on your right. Your breath catches in your chest.

Max.

Verstappen.

Of course it’s him. Of course. He looks just as displeased to see you as you are to see him. Your eyes meet. And for the briefest, most painful second, there’s a moment of unspoken horror between you. You’re certain you and Max are seeing perfectly eye to eye- sharing the exact same thought. Neither of you says it, but it hangs there in the air, heavy and obvious:

You have got to be fucking kidding me.

The first dig comes before the starter plates.

“Nice hat,” Max murmurs, just low enough that only you can hear it. You don’t react. Not visibly. It’s nothing. Technically. Nothing anyone else at the table could pick up on, let alone hear. The kind of commentary you’d need context to clock, familiarity to flinch from.

And you do flinch. Just once. Internally. But you don’t let it show.

The opening remarks begin. Christian takes the mic. A few lead engineers are named and thanked. Sergio stands at his table, Max stands at yours, waves, laughs, and they sit again- then the championship montage starts to play- thirty feet of screen lit up in Red Bull colors, with perfectly cut highlights of Max and Checo’s most dominant drives.

You take a sip of your drink. Max shifts next to you. “Think they got your sim footage in here somewhere?” he asks lightly. “Maybe in the bonus reel.”

You finally turn to him, one brow arched- dry as bone. “Doubt it,” you say. “But I think they used one of your radio tantrums from Singapore. The one where you threw your own setup under the bus? Flattering.”

Max huffs- just a little. You catch it, the twitch at the corner of his mouth, before he hides it behind his glass. You turn back to your drink. Sip. Let the warmth settle. Max doesn’t say anything else. Not right away.

And maybe that’s the strangest part.

No follow-up jab. No sideways comment. Just a little smirk and then silence, like your retort earned you a brief reprieve. You glance at him from the corner of your eye- just long enough to catch the shape of his profile in the soft event lighting. Still smug. Still infuriating. But… quieter now.

You don’t understand it.

Maybe he got what he wanted in that boardroom- maybe he’s finally bored of breaking you down. Or maybe he knows not to poke a live wire when it’s still humming.

Whatever it is, he lets you be. And you don’t know what to make of it. Not relief. Not really.

But the silence isn’t hostile. It doesn’t feel like the coil of something waiting to strike. It feels… lighter. Not good, not safe, but less. Like you’re not in active danger.

Maybe it’s the room. Maybe it’s the eyes. Maybe it’s the dinner that Max has started to tuck into with the gusto of a driver who’s been halfway to starving all season and has every right to indulge. Maybe it’s the fact that you threw a goddamn stack of papers at his head.

Or maybe it’s this.

The look he gave you when you snapped back- not wounded, not smug, but something more like surprise. Like he hadn’t expected you to hit back. Like maybe he liked it. Like maybe he didn’t.

But he hasn’t said another word since.

And for now- that’s enough.

Not a ceasefire. Not an apology. Just this. A moment where neither of you draws blood.

You let it be.

════════════════════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══════════════════

You excuse yourself the minute dessert is served. No speech. No pretense. Just a half-smile and something vague about needing air, a phone call, the bathroom- whatever lie will make people stop looking at you for five goddamn seconds.

You just need out.

Out of Max’s quiet smirks, the ones tossed like coins on a table- small, calculated, irritating in a way only you are tuned to hear. A muttered aside here, a passive little comment there. Nothing direct. Nothing anyone else would catch. But always right on time.

Out of the way he’s taken up more than his share of the air between you, sitting just wide enough that your elbow hovers awkwardly over your own lap. He hasn’t touched you. Not once. But he’s close enough that you know he could. Close enough that you keep retreating, angling your body subtly toward the opposite side of your chair.

Which would be fine. Except that side isn’t safe, either.

Because Jos is there. Warm. Charming. Utterly unescapable.

He’s been peppering you with gentle suggestions- that maybe you should ask Max to pass the wine, maybe you should tell Max about that sim update you’d mentioned earlier, maybe Max would enjoy hearing about your experience at Zandvoort.

You keep trying to give him your shoulder- to lean back, to get space- but every time you shift away, he shifts slightly closer. Not enough to be inappropriate. Not enough to call out. Just enough to make you feel it.

He asked you to scooch once. Smiling. “Just a bit,” he said, gesturing like he needed more room- his hand not quite touching the back of your chair. But moving left means moving closer to Max. And you do. Because it’s Jos. Because he’s been weirdly supportive. Because you don’t know what he wants.

And now you’re here. Trapped between both of them.

And then there are the sponsors. Still watching you.

Their attention polite, their interest performative- but you can feel it. The eyes. The weight. You’re the girl on the brochure. The surprise hire. The one with the headlines and the spotlight and the friendly smile that says, Yes, of course, I’ll entertain your half-informed question about aero development over canapés and fake laughter.

They keep looking at you like you’re a trained dog about to do a trick. Like you're a little animal that stood on its hind legs once and now everyone’s expecting a little spin. And you keep performing. Because it’s your job. Because it’s what you’ve trained for.

But god, you’re so tired of smiling.

It’s all too much.

You’ve got pressure on both sides- Max with his smugness, Jos with his relentless interest- and the whole goddamn room expecting you to shine on cue. So when the dessert plates hit the table- chocolate mousse, espresso cream, gold flakes glittering under the downlights- you stand.

Quietly. Deliberately. You don’t even touch your spoon. You smile at no one in particular. “Excuse me,” you say lightly, already halfway out of your seat. “I just need a breath of air.” And you go. Because if you sit there a second longer, you’re going to scream.

And you already did that once today.

You’re not sure you’ll come back from it a second time.

You take the first hallway that promises privacy, pushing through the fire door at the end. The air slaps your skin the second it opens- cool and wet, the kind of English autumn chill that isn’t cold enough to sting, just clingy enough to sink into your clothes.

It curls around your neck. Slips beneath your collar. Prickles against the places where your nerves are still misfiring. You step out fully, letting the door close behind you with a slow, weighted click.

Silence- almost.

Somewhere off to your left, across the street, a low rumble of passing traffic echoes between the buildings off campus. Tires hissing on damp asphalt. The distant, rhythmic buzz of a crosswalk signal.

Above you, one floodlight flickers once before settling back into its quiet glow, casting a pale cone of light over the narrow loading dock and catching the gentle swirl of mist that hangs just above the pavement.

You breathe in. Once. Twice. Fill your lungs with air that isn’t wine-soaked or perfume-sweetened or heavy with tension. It smells like rain and metal. Like the heat exhaust from a service vent and the faint mineral bite of concrete after dark.

A shiver rolls down your spine, but it’s not unpleasant. It’s grounding. Alive. Your pulse slows, just a little. Your jaw unlocks. Your shoulders ease away from your ears- muscles you hadn’t realized were clenched finally starting to let go.

You close your eyes for a second and lean against the smooth concrete wall. The texture scrapes gently against your suit jacket, catching on the stitching like a tether. You don’t mind.

The suit still holds. The hat still shadows your eyes. You are, technically, still composed.

But god, it’s a relief to be out here.

Out of the noise. Out of the spotlight. Out of the space between Max and Jos and the razor-sharp edges of polite corporate adoration.

No one’s watching now. No one’s asking. No one’s talking. Just the world as it is, as it should be- cool, quiet, and honest.

The quiet doesn’t last long.

The metal door swings open behind you with a low groan, then thuds shut again with the finality of a guillotine.

You don’t turn. You don’t need to.

You feel him before he speaks- the shift in air, the press of presence. Max. “Lovely,” he mutters, like it’s your fucking fault you were here first. You go rigid. Of course it’s him. Of course it is.

“Jesus Christ,” you mutter under your breath, just loud enough for the brick wall to hear.

The quiet stretches. He doesn’t say anything at first, just lingers a few steps behind like he might be reconsidering whatever idiotic idea brought him out here in the first place. The silence isn’t awkward, not exactly. It’s more like a wire stretched too tight- vibrating under the weight of a hundred unsaid things. Two dogs in a ring held back by the chains of diplomacy and wool suit-jackets.

You don't wait to find out what he wants. Your hand snaps out, grabbing the heavy door handle you just came through. You shove it- hard.

Locked. A mechanical thunk clatters through your bones. No movement.

You pull again, harder this time. Nothing. The reinforced security lock, active after hours. The same one that clicks into place at 8:00 p.m. sharp like the factory turns into a goddamn bank vault.

“Of course,” you breathe, letting the stiff brim of your hat tap lightly- once- against the cold, flaking paint of the door. “Of fucking course.”

Behind you, Max exhales, the kind of sharp, humorless breath that means he’s just realized it too. “You locked it?” he asks.

You round on him with a slow, exasperated turn of your head. You can’t be bothered to sugar your words. Not with him. Not right now. “Yeah, Max. I came out here just to lock us out on purpose.”

He doesn’t take the bait. Just glances at the door, then down at his own empty hands. “My badge is inside.” You look at him. Then past him. Then down the alley toward the street where the low hum of a passing car filters through the wet air.

“Well,” you say flatly, “I have mine. But it’s only going to work at the side entrance.”

“How far?” he asks, as if you’ve just announced you’re hiking to Brussels.

“Less far than the front. But you’re welcome to go that way.” You point into the darkness to the right, stretching open with the promise of a long walk around the building and muddy shoes.

You’re already walking in the opposite direction. The click of your heels sharp against the concrete, splashing slightly where water still clings in the dips and cracks. He falls into step beside you without being asked.

You don’t offer conversation. He doesn’t offer an apology.

The mist hangs low. Streetlights buzz faintly overhead, bathing everything in soft gold and flickering white. The metal of the railing along the path is cold beneath your fingertips when you trail your hand along it.

You’re exhausted. Not just physically- though every nerve ending in your body feels half-lit and fried- but emotionally. Every social performance, every inch of patience, every ounce of diplomacy has been wrung out and hung to dry.

You hear it before he says anything. Not words- just the quiet prelude. The shift of breath. The tightening of his jaw. The subtle, anticipatory silence like a thought winding itself up.

God.

You wish he wouldn’t. You hope he doesn’t. The sidewalk glistens beneath the amber glow of the streetlights. You focus on the scrape of your heels over the concrete. The rhythm of them. The anchor.

Don’t speak. Don’t speak. Don’t-

“It’s not because you’re a woman.”

You blink once. Twice. Keep walking. Your expression doesn’t move, but your heart stutters in confusion- like your brain missed a beat in the music.

What?

He clears his throat. “I’m not- ” He stops, tries again. “I’m not a misogynist. I wouldn’t treat you differently just because you’re a woman.”

You stop walking. Turn your head, just slightly. Look at him. Not up, not down. Just enough to check if he’s serious.

He is. Jesus Christ.

A laugh sputters out of you- just one, just a little breath of disbelief and exhaustion and stunned amusement all tangled together. You press your fingers to your temple.

Max shifts his weight, annoyed already, like you’re being difficult. “You said that- back in the meeting. That maybe it was because you were a woman.” He shrugs, sharp. “It’s not that. I just… I didn’t want you to think that.”

You blink. Still staring.

That’s it?

Not an apology. Not even an admission. Just a weird, fumbled clarification that he’s not a misogynist- just an asshole.

Your laugh slips out again before you can stop it. Harsh. Disbelieving. “Jesus Christ,” you say, mostly to the air. “Men are so fucking stupid.”

His mouth flattens. That unshakable frown you’ve seen a thousand times tightens across his face like a mask he doesn’t know how to take off.

“You’ve made my life hell for weeks,” you go on, gesturing vaguely toward the factory behind you, “and now, now, you want to make sure I don’t think you’re sexist? Like that’s the problem here? Like that’s the thing keeping me up at night?”

He doesn’t say anything.

“Just leave me alone,” you finish, flat. Exhausted. “Please.”

And you mean it. You’re done. With this building. With him. With whatever bizarre campaign he’s been running to drive you out of your mind. You’re getting out- out of the sim rig, the back hallways, the stifling boardrooms, the tiny locker room you’ve practically lived in.

You shove your hand in the lining of your suit. Fuck this. Fuck all of it, honestly. You’re getting a seat. You’re getting on the grid. Or you’re getting the hell out of this fucking factory.

You’re getting gone.

You shake your head. It’s not even angry now. Just... tired.

“You really are a piece of work.”

The metal stairwell up ahead glints under the glow of the side door light. You pull your badge from your pocket, still warm from the heat of your suit. Slide it across the panel. A soft beep. A click.

The door unlatches. You pull it open, step aside, holding it for him like a hotel doorman. “After you, Verstappen. Not a misogynist- just a colossal asshole.”

You don’t wait to see if he responds. Just follow him through the door and brush past him, back towards the party. Max doesn’t follow you. You don’t look back to check.

Your fingers slip into the pocket of your jacket as you walk, the heavy weight of folded paper meeting your palm like an answer. You’d printed it weeks ago- on a whim, on a dare, on a breathless phone call with your mom when she told you, in no uncertain terms, you have to ask for what you want, honey, or they’ll forget to give it to you.

You’ve waited.

You’ve played the good soldier. The grateful one. The patient one.

No more.

It’s not a hate letter. Not a demand. Not desperate. Not some manifesto scribbled in the heat of a meltdown. A contract proposal. Clean. Direct. Ballsy. You typed it. You tweaked it. You edited it with your mom. You tweaked it some more. You printed it. And then you did nothing. Because you were being patient. Grateful. Professional. Because you still believed in the power of waiting your turn.

But if you’re being honest- that ended hours ago. Maybe weeks ago.

If the screaming match in the boardroom was the nail in your coffin, if they’re just letting you bleed out in the sim bay until you take the hint and walk-

Then fuck it.

The air feels different as you re-enter the reception. Softer, warmer. The plates have been cleared, wine glasses thinned to half-fills, laughter replaced by quieter conversations. Most of the sponsors have left, the ones who remain softened by drinks and dessert. The laughter is low now, the hour late enough that only the important people remain. You feel it instantly- that subtle pivot in the air when the social becomes strategic.

There.

Corner of the room.

Christian.

Helmut.

Adrian.

Talking like nothing in the world matters except whatever’s in front of them. Like drivers don’t scream down hallways and throw papers at walls.

You cross the room anyway. Not quickly. Not slow. Measured. The paper, wrapped in the silk lining of your suit and held close to your heart burns like it’s alive. You don’t have a plan. Just a pulse in your throat and a fuse already lit.

You stop in front of them and say nothing.

No small talk.

No lead-in.

You reach into your pocket and pull out the paper. No flourish. No explanation. Just the weight of it, deliberate, as you hold it in front of Helmut.

He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t ask. He takes it and tucks it into the inside of his jacket like he knew it was coming.

He doesn’t open it. You don’t tell him what’s in it. There’s no point. If this is already over, then you might as well end it on your own terms. If it’s not- well. It’s not.

You nod once. Turn on your heel. And walk out like you don’t have a care in the world as to how it turns out.

════════════════════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══════════════════

Series Masterlist

Long long chapter- sorry it didn't get out over the weekend! I tried, but I had to do some serious backfilling and editing so it took a FAT minute, and I just wasn't going to divide it. Didn't feel right. As always- please please leave your comments- I read every single one- they mean the world to me. I have no idea the hours that I put into writing over the course of the ten months, but editing alone is 5-15 hours of labor per chapter. Your feedback makes it worth it.

#f1 #max verstappen #max verstappen x reader #f1 x reader #formula one #f1 fanfic #max verstappen x y/n #max verstappen x you #mv1 fic #mv1 x reader #mv33 fic #mv1 #mv33 #mv33 x reader

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mediocre-shark-tales · 5 months ago

Text

Azerbajian GP Weekend Part 2

Masterlist

The engine hummed beneath me, a steady rhythm that barely masked the tension coiling in my chest. Halfway through the Azerbaijan Grand Prix, I was still holding P10. A solid position, but I couldn’t help the restless fire burning in my veins. The car felt good—responsive, nimble—but it wasn’t enough. Not for me. Not when I had to prove so much more than the others ever expected.

Santino’s words echoed in my mind like an unbearable buzz. I’d barely had a chance to catch my breath from the barrage of rumors swirling around me when his latest attempt to undermine me dropped like a bomb. Santino Ferrucci, a man who had never seen the value in anyone else unless it served him, was now playing his cards to feed the gossip machine. The same ex-teammate who’d made it clear from the moment I stepped into the F2 paddock that he wanted nothing to do with me. The same guy who didn’t even give me the chance to prove myself before deciding I was nothing more than a distraction. Now, somehow, he had the media eating out of his hand, painting me as some kind of problem child, someone who didn’t belong.

I gripped the steering wheel, teeth clenched, my eyes narrowing as I weaved through the unforgiving turns of the Baku City Circuit. The whispers—those rumors—were becoming louder and louder in the background of my mind. The media. The drivers. My ex-teammate. They all thought they could write my story for me, that they could decide my worth before I ever had a chance to prove myself.

But they were wrong.

I could feel the heat rising in me. The pressure to be perfect. To show them all that I was more than just a headline. That I was more than Santino’s petty attempts to tear me down. He didn’t know half of it. Didn’t understand how hard I’d worked, how much I’d sacrificed, or what I had to overcome just to be here. Every inch of my success had been earned, fought for—not given. And I wasn’t about to let a jealous ex-teammate or a handful of shallow opinions take that away from me.

As I entered the DRS zone, I could see the cars ahead of me, their tail lights glowing like targets. I knew I had to stay focused. Keep my head clear. If I was going to finish this race the way I wanted—no, the way I needed to—I couldn’t let their words break me.

With a snap of my fingers on the steering wheel, I activated the DRS. The rush of speed surged through me, and I pulled in on the cars ahead, inching closer to the top six. I didn’t have to look back to know that the battle for the points was heating up behind me, but I could feel the fire inside me intensifying with each lap, fueled by the hatred Santino had tried to spread.

They thought I’d fall. They thought the rumors would hold me back. They thought I couldn’t handle it.

But I was going to prove them wrong.

I floored the throttle, my mind locked in on the finish line. With every corner, every straight, I could feel the anger, the frustration, and the hunger building inside me. I wasn’t just racing against these drivers—I was racing against the world that had already counted me out. By the time I crossed the finish line, they wouldn’t just remember my name. They’d remember how hard I fought to earn my place.

P6.

It wasn’t just a position on the board. It was my victory. My revenge against the whispers, the lies, and the people who underestimated me.

And as the checkered flag waved in the distance, I knew one thing for sure: I would never, ever let anyone define me again.

The celebrations following the end of the race were a blur of cheers, high-fives, and the kind of joy that made all the hard work worth it. A smile finally returned to my face as it sunk in—I had done it. P6. I had crossed that finish line ahead of so many doubters, my heart racing with a mixture of exhaustion and triumph.

It felt surreal. After all the rumors, all the noise, all the moments of doubt—I had pushed through. And not only had I made it to the top ten, but I had also outperformed my own teammate, who had finished just behind me in P7. The pride I felt wasn’t just for the result, but for what it represented. I wasn’t just a placeholder. I wasn’t just surviving in this paddock. I was racing. I was competing. I was proving that I belonged here, every bit as much as anyone else.

Franco caught my eye across the paddock, grinning from ear to ear as he raised his fist in my direction. We’d both pushed so hard, and now, we had something to celebrate. It felt good to finally have something that belonged to me—something I had earned, without anyone’s help or approval.

I glanced over at the screen showing the final race standings, and there it was: P6. The numbers didn’t lie, and neither did my efforts. This race wasn’t just a win on the board—it was a win for everything I had fought against, everything I had pushed through. I had done more than prove myself to my team; I had proven something to myself. And that was worth celebrating.

Yet, when I finally reached the end of media pen, my smile quickly faded. I had barely stepped into the area when I saw who was waiting for me. Of course, it was him—the same interviewer who had tried to tear me down from the very beginning. The one who had asked all the probing, personal questions, pushing me to crack in front of the cameras. It wasn’t just that he had a way of twisting words; it was that he seemed to take pleasure in it.

I could see his smug expression as he adjusted his microphone, ready to ask the same pointed questions he always did. He had even been the one to interview my ex-teammate, Santino Ferrucci—the guy who had never once given me a chance to prove myself in F2, and whose lies about me had been used to fuel the worst rumors that followed me.

The thought of it was enough to make my blood simmer. I had worked my ass off to make it here, to get to this moment, and yet here I was again—staring down someone who was more interested in sensationalism than the hard work behind it all. It felt like a constant uphill battle, one I was tired of fighting, but I knew I couldn’t back down. Not now. Not when I had just shown the world what I was capable of.

I squared my shoulders, trying to push down the frustration rising in my chest. This wasn’t the time to show weakness, not with all that I had fought for hanging in the balance.

I took a deep breath, trying to maintain my composure as the interviewer’s voice broke through the hum of the paddock.

“So, y/n,” he began, his tone already carrying the sharp edge I knew all too well, “there's still a lot of talk about your time away from racing. Many people are wondering why you left F2 so abruptly. Some say it was just a matter of timing, that you were simply ‘training’ for F1... but others think there’s more to the story.”

I could feel my jaw tighten as he carefully crafted his words. He wasn’t just asking for information—he was fishing, poking at a wound I wasn’t ready to reopen. I could hear the whispers in his voice, the way he implied I was hiding something.

I clenched my fists, but kept my face neutral. “I've already said this before,” I replied, my voice steady despite the rising anger bubbling beneath the surface. “I left to train. I needed to focus on becoming the best version of myself, and I made the choice to step away so I could be ready for the challenges ahead. And honestly, that’s all there is to it.”

His eyes narrowed, not buying it for a second. He pressed on, undeterred. “Right, right. But... you didn’t mention much about what happened during that time. Rumors have been circulating—specifically about your sudden departure and your reasons for being away. You see, many believe you had personal matters going on, things that weren’t exactly... racing-related. Some have even suggested your absence was tied to... other things.” He let the last part hang in the air like a threat.

I could feel the heat rising in my chest, my fists tightening into balls of anger. I could already tell where this was going, and I wasn’t going to let him drag it out. He wasn’t going to paint me as some secretive, unprofessional driver just because of his own assumptions and the garbage people like Santino had been spreading.

I stared him down, my voice cutting through the tense air. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said, my tone unwavering. “You can ask all the questions you want, but the truth is, you’re just speculating. And frankly, I’m tired of answering questions based on rumors. So if you’re looking for some juicy story about me, you’re not going to find it here. I’ve moved on, and so should you.”

The interviewer wasn’t backing down. He smirked, pushing further, almost daring me to break. “You know, some of these rumors have real consequences. People in the paddock have talked about you being too emotional, not cut out for this level of competition. And others... well, they wonder why you’ve clung so tightly to that turtle necklace. Surely that’s a little... odd, don’t you think?”

The words hit me like a slap in the face. He was baiting me, trying to get me to say something that would let him twist it into another story. But this time, I wasn’t going to let him get away with it. The anger that had been simmering in my gut finally boiled over.

I leaned forward, my eyes narrowing as I locked onto his smug expression. “You want to know why I wear this necklace?” I said, my voice low and dangerous. “You want to know what it means?” I didn’t wait for him to answer. “It’s because of my mother. She passed away while I was away. I had to leave everything behind because she was dying. And now she’s gone. So if you want to keep throwing insults and rumors at me, go ahead. But you don’t know what it’s like to lose someone like that. You don’t know what I went through.”

The words hung in the air like a punch to the gut. The interviewer fell silent, his expression faltering as my words sank in. The entire paddock seemed to freeze, the tension hanging thick. I didn’t care about the cameras, the microphones, or the rumors anymore. This was the truth. My truth.

I took a steadying breath, still seething with anger, and stood up. “And as for the turtles,” I continued, my voice still shaking with emotion, “they’re a reminder of her. Not because I think I’m slow, but because she loved them. Because they remind me of her strength. She was a fighter. And I’m going to keep fighting for her. So you can keep spinning your stories, but I’m done talking to you.”

With that, I turned on my heel and walked away, leaving the stunned silence in my wake. I could feel every pair of eyes on me, but I didn’t care. The interview had turned into something else entirely—a moment of truth I wasn’t about to take back.

I didn’t know if I had silenced the interviewer or just made everything worse, but I didn’t care. For the first time in a long time, I felt like I had taken control. And if that meant walking away from this media circus, so be it. I had nothing to prove to them anymore.

I marched into my driver’s room, desperate for some space to breathe and escape from the chaos swirling around me. The weight of everything—rumors, lies, the pain of the day—settled deep in my chest, threatening to choke me. Tears burned behind my eyes, but I refused to let them fall. Not now. Not here.

I paced the room, my fists clenched, trying to keep the floodgates closed. But then, just a minute or two later, I heard a knock at the door. My heart skipped a beat, and I forced myself to take a deep breath before walking over to answer it.

When I cracked the door open, I was met with the sight of Franco, flanked by Lewis and, for some reason, Charles. I hesitated, unsure if I wanted to deal with anyone right now.

Franco noticed my reluctance and offered me a softer, sad smile. It was enough to break through the anger clouding my mind.

“Please, Hermosa,” he said gently, his tone filled with concern. “Let us chat in private. Just a few minutes. Please.”

I glanced over at Lewis and Charles, who were standing behind Franco, their expressions unreadable but soft enough that I could tell they weren’t here to make things harder for me. With a sigh, I pushed the door open a little wider, stepping aside to let them in.

The moment they entered, the tension in the room seemed to lighten slightly, but it didn’t take away the knot that had formed in my stomach. I wanted nothing more than to curl up and be left alone, but I knew they were here to help—whether I liked it or not.

Charles’s voice cut through the silence in the room, surprising me. He wasn’t usually the first to speak up, but the sincerity in his words caught me off guard.

“First, I want to apologize,” he began, his expression softening. “For allowing myself to believe the rumors, even for a second. I should have known better, especially after all these years. And I’m sorry. I know I can’t fully understand what you’ve been going through, but I can relate to losing a parent before they truly got to see you succeed. It’s one of the worst feelings in the world. I may not know what it’s like to hide behind rumors to protect your pain, but I know the grief of losing someone close to you.”

His words hit harder than I expected, and I could feel the weight of his empathy in his tone. Charles smiled at me, a smile that held more vulnerability than I’d ever seen from him before.

“I want to offer you my help. I want to be someone you can turn to, someone who will listen without judgment,” he continued. “It’s definitely owed to you, after everything... after ignoring you just because of some baseless rumors.”

I didn’t know how to respond at first. My heart felt heavy with the realization that someone who had once been indifferent—if not cold—toward me, was now standing here, offering support when I needed it most. I blinked, trying to gather my thoughts before I spoke, but the sincerity of his apology left me momentarily speechless.

Franco stepped forward then, placing a reassuring hand on my shoulder. "Hermosa, you don't have to say anything right now. Just know that we're here for you, whenever you're ready."

For the first time in what felt like ages, I allowed myself to relax—if only for a moment. I was still angry. I was still hurt. But, perhaps, things were starting to change.

Lewis’s voice broke the moment of silence, his tone lighter than before. “You don’t have to worry about that interviewer anymore, by the way,” he said, his words catching me off guard.

I raised an eyebrow, confused. "What do you mean?"

Lewis smirked, leaning back slightly with a look of satisfaction in his eyes. “Well, as much as I would have loved to be the one to hand his ass back to him on a silver platter, Max beat me to it.” He chuckled, clearly amused by the turn of events. “At least we found something else to agree on.”

I couldn’t help but let out a small, surprised laugh at his casual tone. It was good to hear that Max had stood up for me again. Franco’s smile widened, clearly relieved by the lighter shift in the conversation. “Good. That man deserved it,” he muttered under his breath, more to himself than anyone else.

I nodded slowly, taking in what they had said. Despite the chaos of the day, it was comforting to know that not everyone believed the rumors or enjoyed feeding into the drama. I appreciated their support, even if it was difficult for me to fully let go of the anger still simmering inside.

"Thanks, Lewis," I said, finally finding my voice again. Lewis shrugged nonchalantly, his grin still there. "We’ve all been there at some point. It’s about time some of the nonsense gets put to bed, don’t you think?"

I nodded, feeling a small weight lift from my chest. Suddenly, Franco let out a soft laugh and, without warning, shoved his phone into my hands. "You’ve got to see this," he said, his voice full of amusement.

I looked at him, confused for a moment, before I glanced down at the phone. Franco had already queued up a video, and my eyes went wide as I saw Max’s familiar figure step into the frame right after I had stormed off.

Max stood at the media pen, his jaw clenched and eyes narrowed as he stared directly at the interviewer who had just tried to tear me down. His voice cut through the air, sharper than I had ever heard it.

“If you want to keep making up lies about someone who’s just here to race, you can keep doing that,” Max started, his tone filled with frustration. “But don’t you ever come at her like that again. It’s one thing to talk trash, but you’ve crossed a line.”

The interviewer shifted uncomfortably, but Max wasn’t done. He stepped closer, his voice growing louder with each word, making sure everyone in the vicinity could hear him.

“You’ve been digging so deep, trying to unearth some dirty little secret, but all you’ve managed to do is expose yourself for what you really are—a pathetic excuse for a journalist," Max continued, his eyes burning with anger. "You think you know the full story, but you don’t know anything about what’s going on behind the scenes. You want to judge her? Let’s talk about your pathetic need to pry into people’s lives for a cheap headline."

He paused, letting the words hang in the air for a moment, giving the interviewer no room to respond.

"She's been protecting her family, dealing with a loss that most people would never understand. Her mother’s been gone for weeks now, and she’s been putting all of her energy into racing. All you’ve managed to do is twist that into something ugly. So next time you want to attack someone, maybe you should take a good look in the mirror and figure out who the real asshole is here.”

Max’s words hung in the air, silencing the crowd around him. The interviewer had no comeback, his face going pale. Max’s fierce defense had not only shut him down but had made it clear: he wasn’t going to let anyone continue to harass me without facing the consequences.

I stood there, a little in awe, feeling an unexpected warmth in my chest. Max had always been a competitor, but seeing him stand up for me like this... it was something else.

Franco let out a chuckle as I stared at the screen. "Max doesn't usually get involved in stuff like that, but... you’ve got to admit, it's nice to see him standing up for you."

I was almost speechless. Seeing Max, of all people, not just defend me but make such a statement to the media made me feel something I hadn’t expected—gratitude. I looked up at Franco, who was still grinning like a proud big brother.

“I... wow,” I muttered, still processing the video. “That’s... that’s really something.”

Franco smiled, his eyes softening as he watched me. “Told you. People are starting to see the truth.”

It was a small victory, but it felt like a step in the right direction. It was a reminder that, even in the midst of all the chaos, not everyone believed the rumors or was content to let them fly.

I exhaled slowly, trying to shake off the mix of emotions swirling inside me. "I guess maybe there's still hope for some of them, huh?"

"Absolutely," Franco said, his grin widening. "And you’ve got us. Always."

#x reader #f1 angst #driver!reader #f1 #f1 x reader #f1 fanfic #f1 imagine #f1 fic #formula 1 #max verstappen #charles leclerc #oscar piastri #lando norris #franco colapinto #lewis hamilton #carlos sainz #george russell #grill the grid #f1 grid x reader

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bangchansdirty-slut · 5 months ago

Text

Psycho Killer

•───⋅⋆⁺‧₊☽⛦☾₊‧⁺⋆⋅───•

Paring: Top!GP!SerialKiller!Winter x Bttm!Therapist!Reader

Genre: Smut

Summary: Winter, a notorious serial killer, becomes obsessed with her therapist, Y/n, while attending sessions for childhood trauma. After killing Y/n’s untrustworthy girlfriend in a jealous rage, Winter, wearing her killer’s mask, breaks into Y/n’s home, ready to reveal her twisted devotion.

More: Masterlist

A/n: My mom grounded me, so I can only use my computer at school, so I wrote this at school.

•───⋅⋆⁺‧₊☽⛦☾₊‧⁺⋆⋅───•

"Is it always going to be like this?" Winter's voice was a cool breeze, devoid of emotion as she sat in the chair opposite Y/n, her therapist. She toyed with the ends of her ginger hair, her eyes a frosty blue that seemed to peer into the depths of Y/n's soul.

Y/n leaned forward, her eyes full of empathy. "Every session is a step forward, Winter. Sometimes it feels like two steps back, but trust the process." Her voice was a gentle coax, the room a cocoon of safety.

Winter's gaze sharpened. "You don't understand. The world outside is a minefield, and everyone's just waiting to blow me up." Her words were a stark contrast to the serene office, the walls lined with diplomas and the scent of lavender candles trying to soothe the air.

Y/n nodded, maintaining eye contact. "Your trust issues are valid, but let's explore them together. What happened in your past that makes you feel so… unsafe?"

Winter's eyes narrowed, a hint of anger flashing through them. "You're not special," she said, her voice a low growl. "You're just like everyone else."

Y/n remained unfazed, her expression calm and understanding. "I know you've been hurt, but I'm here to help you heal."

Winter's grip tightened on the armrests, her jaw clenching. "You can't fix me," she spat, a flicker of pain crossing her face.

Y/n's voice remained steady. "I'm not here to fix you, Winter. I'm here to listen and guide you through the healing process."

Winter's icy demeanor cracked slightly, revealing a glimpse of the vulnerability beneath. "Why do you even care?" she murmured, the question hanging in the air like a shard of broken ice.

Y/n leaned back in her chair, a small smile playing on her lips. "Because everyone deserves to live without fear, to find happiness. That's what therapy is about."

Winter studied her for a moment, then sighed, the tension in her shoulders easing slightly. "Fine," she said, her voice softer. "Let's talk."

Their sessions grew more intense as the weeks passed, a dance of words and emotions that saw Winter slowly peeling back the layers of her armor. Y/n was patient, a beacon of light in the cold, dark labyrinth of Winter's psyche. The therapist's office became a sanctuary where the frosty facade of the killer melted away, revealing a girl desperately yearning for connection.

Winter spoke of her childhood, her words a frostbitten whisper of pain and betrayal. Each session chipped away at the wall she had built, the ice queen slowly thawing before Y/n's warmth. Y/n's empathy was a balm to her tortured soul, and she found herself craving the gentle touch of understanding that only her therapist seemed to provide.

One evening, as the sun bled into the sky, painting the horizon with crimson hues, Winter lay in wait outside Y/n's apartment. She had followed her from the office, curiosity and something darker coiling in her stomach. Through the crack in the blinds, she watched as Y/n's girlfriend arrived, her laughter too bright, too false.

Winter's heart turned to ice. She knew the type—charming, manipulative, the kind that would leave scars. Her fists clenched around the handle of her signature knife, the cold steel a comforting weight. This couldn't stand. Y/n was hers to protect, to cherish. That night, as the shadows grew long, she made her decision.

The following session, Winter was unusually quiet, her eyes distant and haunted. Y/n sensed a shift, a storm brewing beneath the calm surface. She waited, letting the silence stretch taut between them, giving Winter the space to speak when she was ready.

"I had a… a disturbing dream," Winter finally said, her voice shaky. "It was about someone dying."

Y/n leaned in, her eyes searching Winter's face for clues. "Tell me about it," she urged, her voice a soothing lilt.

Winter took a deep, shuddering breath. "It was you," she said, her gaze dropping to her interlaced fingers. "Someone was hurting you, and I couldn't stop them."

Y/n's heart skipped a beat. "It's okay," she soothed, her voice a warm caress. "It's just a dream."

Winter looked up, her eyes a tempest of emotions. "But what if it's not?" she whispered, her voice trembling. "What if I can't control the monster inside me?"

Y/n reached out, her hand hovering over Winter's. "You're not a monster, you're just lost," she said firmly. "We'll find your way together."

Winter's eyes searched Y/n's, and she saw something she hadn't before—hope. It was a dangerous emotion, one she had long ago buried under layers of anger and fear. But here it was, pulsing through her veins like a trapped animal desperate to break free.

"I want to believe you," she murmured, her voice barely audible.

Y/n nodded, her hand now resting gently on Winter's. "You can, Winter. We'll do this together."

But Winter's thoughts were spiraling. Her obsession grew with every beat of her heart, and she knew she couldn't let anyone else hurt Y/n. She needed to be the one in control. She needed Y/n to be hers and only hers.

That night, she watched as Y/n's girlfriend left her house, her eyes following the taunting sway of her hips. Winter knew what she had to do. With the precision of a seasoned predator, she stalked the girlfriend through the quiet streets, her rage a silent symphony in her ears.

The girlfriend's screams pierced the night as Winter attacked, her movements swift and methodical. The knife sliced through the air, and with each cut, she felt a piece of her own pain dissipate. The girlfriend's eyes widened in horror, realizing too late the gravity of her actions. Winter's face was a mask of cold determination, her heart a block of ice as she watched the life drain from the woman's body.

When it was over, she returned to her own apartment, the echoes of the girlfriend's screams still ringing in her ears. She showered, scrubbing away the blood and the guilt, but the feeling of satisfaction lingered, a dark blossom in her chest. Winter knew she had crossed a line, but she couldn't bring herself to regret it. Y/n was safe now, free from the clutches of a woman who didn't deserve her.

The next session with Y/n was fraught with tension. Winter sat in the chair, the weight of her secret pressing down on her like a leaden blanket. She watched her therapist with a mix of longing and fear, her eyes hungry for the warmth she knew she didn't deserve.

Y/n noticed the change in her patient, the subtle shifts in body language and tone. "Winter," she said, her voice a gentle prod. "What's on your mind today?"

Winter's eyes flicked to the floor, then back up to meet Y/n's. "It's nothing," she said, her voice a brittle lie. "Just… stress."

Y/n nodded, her gaze unwavering. "Would you like to talk about it?"

Winter swallowed hard, the taste of bile rising in her throat. She had killed for Y/n, had become the monster she feared she was to protect the one person who had ever offered her kindness. Yet she found herself unable to speak the truth. "No," she said, her voice a hollow echo. "It's just… personal."

Y/n's gaze softened, her hand reaching out to cover Winter's. "You know you can tell me anything, right?"

Winter nodded, her throat tight. "I know," she croaked. But she couldn't. Not this. Not yet. The lie sat heavy on her tongue, a cold, dead weight.

The following week, Y/n noticed a newfound tension in Winter's demeanor. Her eyes darted around the room, and she was jumpy, her responses clipped and curt. Y/n's concern grew with every passing minute, her gut telling her that something was very wrong.

"Winter," she said softly, her eyes searching the other woman's face. "What happened?"

Winter's jaw tightened, her eyes flickering to the side. "It's nothing," she murmured, her voice a whisper of a storm. "I just… had a rough week."

Y/n leaned in, her eyes filled with genuine concern. "You can share anything with me," she said, her voice a warm embrace. "I'm here to help."

Winter took a deep breath, the walls of her heart threatening to crumble under the weight of her obsession. "It's just… I can't shake these thoughts," she admitted, her voice strained. "These… dark thoughts."

Y/n's eyes searched hers, a silent plea for her to continue. "Thoughts about what, Winter?"

Winter took a shaky breath, her eyes never leaving Y/n's. "Thoughts about… protecting you," she said, her voice a whisper. "Thoughts about what I would do to anyone who tries to hurt you."

Y/n's eyes widened, a chill running down her spine. "Winter, you don't have to do anything like that. I can handle my own problems."

Winter's gaze grew intense, her eyes burning with a fiery determination. "You don't understand," she said, her voice a low growl. "They don't get to hurt you. No one does."

Y/n felt a strange mix of fear and comfort at the possessive tone in Winter's voice. "Who are 'they'?" she asked, her voice a gentle coax.

Winter leaned forward, her eyes blazing. "The ones who don't deserve you," she said, her voice a deadly whisper. "The ones who hurt you, betray you."

Y/n's heart raced as she realized the depth of Winter's obsession. "What have you done?" she breathed, her voice barely audible.

Winter's eyes searched Y/n's, desperation clinging to every word. "I've taken care of it," she said, her tone final. "You don't have to worry about 'they' anymore."

Y/n's heart hammered in her chest. "What do you mean?" she asked, her voice trembling slightly.

"The session is over Y/n," Winter said abruptly, her eyes hardening. "Remember, It was all for you."

Y/n nodded, the weight of unspoken truths hanging heavy in the air. As Winter left, Y/n couldn't shake the feeling of unease that had settled into her bones. The girlfriend's sudden disappearance had made the local news, but the thought of her being involved never once crossed her mind.

Y/n went home that night with a sense of dread coiling in her stomach. She couldn’t shake the feeling that Winter had done something terrible, all in the twisted name of protecting her. The house was eerily quiet, the usual comfort of her sanctuary now feeling suffocating. She poured herself a glass of wine, trying to dull the edge of her anxiety.

As she sat at her desk in her bedroom, Y/n's thoughts raced. Her mind was a tornado of doubt and fear, swirling around the words Winter had left unsaid. The quiet hum of the city outside her window did little to soothe her racing heart. Her eyes fell upon the framed photo of her and her girlfriend, now a haunting reminder of a happiness that felt like a distant memory.

With trembling hands, she picked up the phone and dialed her girlfriend's number, the ringtone echoing through the empty apartment. It went straight to voicemail. Her heart plummeted. Something was wrong. A cold sweat broke out on her forehead, and she couldn't ignore the sinking feeling that her world was about to shatter.

That very same night, the masked Winter found herself standing outside Y/n's apartment, the cold steel of her knife pressing against her palm. The darkness whispered to her, egging her on. She couldn't ignore the siren call of her obsession. It was time to reveal her true self, to show Y/n that she was the one worthy of her love and trust.

With a silent prayer to the moon, she slipped inside, the shadows welcoming her like a long-lost friend. The apartment was a maze of shadows and memories, each step bringing her closer to the woman who had unwittingly captured her heart.

Winter moved with the grace of a ghost, the mask she wore a silent declaration of her intentions. Her eyes searched the darkness, seeking out the room where Y/n lay, oblivious to the danger lurking in the shadows. Her heart thundered in her chest, a drumbeat of anticipation and fear. The need to be close to Y/n had grown into an obsession, a hunger that gnawed at her soul. She had to show her that she was the only one who truly cared.

As she approached the bedroom door, she heard the faint sound of Y/n’s voice, a whisper in the dark. She paused, her hand hovering over the doorknob, her breaths shallow and quick. The sound grew louder, and she realized it was Y/n's voice on the phone, desperate and fearful.

"Hello? Hello? Where are you?" Y/n's voice was a raw, trembling plea. Winter's heart clenched at the sound, a mix of satisfaction and guilt. She knew she had to act. She couldn't let Y/n suffer any longer. With the grace of a panther, she entered the room, the moon casting a silver glow across the bed.

Y/n jumped at the sudden intrusion, Winter's hand flying to her mouth to stifle a scream. She looked up to see the masked figure standing over her, the cold moonlight glinting off the blade in her hand. Her eyes grew wide with terror, the phone slipping from her grip and clattering to the floor.

Winter took a step closer, her eyes peering into Y/n's terrified gaze. Slowly, she reached up and removed the mask, her own eyes brimming with a fervent mix of love and fear. "It's me," she murmured, her voice thick with emotion. "It's just me."

Y/n stared at her, recognition dawning in her eyes. She pushed herself back against the headboard, the fear slowly morphing into anger. "What the hell are you doing here?" she hissed, her voice shaking.

Winter's grip on the knife tightened, her eyes never leaving Y/n's. "I came for you," she said, her voice low and intense. "To show you that I'm the only one who truly cares for you, who will keep you safe." She caressed Y/n's cheek with the back of her hand, the cold steel of the knife a stark contrast to her warm touch.

Y/n's breath hitched, a mix of anger and confusion clouding her vision. "What are you talking about?" she spat out, pushing Winter's hand away. "You're just my patient. You don't know me like that."

Winter's expression grew pained. "You don't understand," she whispered, her voice filled with a desperation that chilled Y/n to the core. "I know everything about you. Your favorite shows, your favorite book, the way you take your coffee. I've studied you, Y/n. I know you better than anyone."

Y/n's heart hammered against her ribs as she took in the madness in Winter's eyes. "What have you done?" she choked out, her voice trembling with fear.

Winter raised the knife, the blood stained blade glinting in the moonlight. "I've removed the one who didn't deserve you," she said, her voice a soft growl. "Your girlfriend, the one who hurt you. She can't hurt you anymore."

Y/n's eyes went wide with horror as the pieces fell into place. "No," she whispered, her voice hoarse. "Winter, no."

Winter's eyes searched hers, a storm of emotions raging behind the icy facade. "You don't understand," she said, her voice a desperate plea. "I did it for us."

Y/n's eyes grew colder than the steel blade. "Get out," she snarled, her voice laced with venom.

Winter's hand wavered, the knife still poised dangerously close to Y/n's face. "But I did it for you," she repeated, the desperation in her tone growing stronger. "I couldn't let her hurt you."

Y/n's voice was like a whip cracking through the air. "Get out of my house, and get help," she ordered, her voice shaking with rage and fear. "You're not the person I thought you were."

Winter's hand lowered, the knife clattering to the floor. Her eyes searched Y/n's face, a silent plea for understanding. "But I love you," she murmured, the words a hoarse whisper.

Y/n's expression was a twisted mask of anger and fear. "Love doesn't mean controlling me or hurting others," she spat. "Get out." Y/n stood up.

Winter grabbed Y/n's waist and pushed her down onto the bed, her eyes wild with a fierce determination that was both terrifying and mesmerizing. "You don't understand," she hissed, her grip tightening. "You're mine now."

Y/n's heart raced as she stared up at the crazed woman she had once considered a patient. "Winter, you need help," she said, her voice trembling.

Winter leaned down, her ginger hair brushing against Y/n's cheek. "You're all the help I need," she murmured, her voice a seductive whisper. She claimed Y/n's lips in a kiss that was both fierce and tender, her hands moving to untie the therapist's wrists.

Y/n's mind raced as she felt the knots loosen, her thoughts a tumult of fear and disbelief. Yet, as Winter kissed her, a strange warmth began to unfurl within her. The line between terror and arousal blurred, the intensity of the moment overwhelming.

Breaking the kiss, Winter whispered, "Let me show you how much you mean to me." Her eyes searched Y/n's, desperate for a glimmer of acceptance.

Y/n's breath was ragged, her body a battleground of emotions. But as she stared into the depths of Winter's eyes, she saw something she hadn't before—pain. A desperate, all-consuming pain that mirrored her own. She didn't know if it was fear or pity, but she found herself nodding, her body going limp beneath the other woman's touch.

Winter's eyes lit up with a feral hunger as she began to undress Y/n, her movements deft and sure. Each piece of clothing that fell away revealed more of Y/n's soft, warm flesh, a stark contrast to the cold metal of the knife still lying on the floor.

Y/n's thoughts were a chaotic maelstrom, her body responding against her will to the surprising gentleness of Winter's touch. Her mind screamed for her to fight, to push the madness away, but something in those piercing eyes held her captive, a silent promise that she couldn't quite understand.

Winter's lips trailed down Y/n's neck, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. Her teeth grazed the sensitive skin, sending shivers down her spine. Y/n's body was betraying her, arching into the kisses, her breathing growing ragged. The warmth of Winter's mouth moved lower, her tongue tracing the curve of her collarbone, making her squirm with a mix of fear and desire.

Winter paused, her eyes meeting Y/n's, searching for any sign of rejection. But all she found was a strange mix of anger and need. Her own need was a living, breathing creature within her, demanding to be sated. She leaned back, her eyes never leaving Y/n's as she unbuckled her own pants, revealing the girl cock she had kept hidden beneath her clothes.

Y/n's eyes widened, a mix of shock and curiosity. Despite her fear, she felt a heat pooling in her stomach. She had never been with someone like Winter before, never felt such a primal, overwhelming desire from a woman.

Winter leaned over her, the tip of her cock brushing against Y/n's thigh. "Do you want this?" she murmured, her voice a sultry whisper. "Do you want me to make you feel good?"

Y/n's eyes narrowed, anger and lust warring within her. "I don't know what you think you're doing," she hissed, her voice thick with emotion. "But if you think this will fix anything, you're wrong."

Winter ignored the words, her gaze locked on Y/n's exposed neck. She leaned in, her teeth grazing the sensitive flesh, leaving a trail of red beads in her wake. "You're mine," she whispered, the words a dark benediction.

Y/n felt a strange thrill at the possessive bite, the sting of pain mingling with the warmth spreading through her body. "You can't just take what you want," she growled, trying to push Winter away. But her protests were weak, her body betraying her with every shiver of pleasure.

Winter's eyes flashed with something primal, a dark need that sent a shiver down Y/n's spine. "But I'm not taking," she murmured, her breath hot against Y/n's ear. "I'm giving." And with that, she slid into Y/n with a gentle, yet insistent pressure that made Y/n's eyes roll back in her head.

The pain was brief, replaced almost immediately by a white-hot pleasure that coursed through her veins like liquid fire. Y/n couldn't help but moan, her body responding to the intrusion with a wanton eagerness that shocked her to her core.

Winter took the sound as a sign of encouragement, her hips moving in a slow, deliberate rhythm that had Y/n's legs wrapping around her waist of their own accord. The room was a symphony of gasps and sighs, the only light coming from the moon outside, casting an eerie glow across their tangled forms.

Y/n's nails dug into Winter's back, her teeth clenched as the pleasure grew, a crescendo building with each stroke. The anger and fear were still there, but now they were mingled with a need so intense it was almost painful. Her body was a live wire, every touch from Winter sending electric jolts of sensation through her.

Winter's eyes were closed, lost in the feel of Y/n's warmth enveloping her. The tightness, the wetness, it was everything she had dreamt of and more. She whispered sweet nothings in Y/n's ear, her voice a soft caress that seemed to reach into the very core of her soul.

Y/n's eyes squeezed shut, trying to block out the reality of the situation. But the sensations were too intense, too overwhelming to ignore. Her body responded to Winter's touch in a way she had never experienced before, her mind a haze of anger, fear, and a disturbing thrill.

Winter's thrusts grew deeper, more urgent, her own moans mingling with Y/n's. She whispered sweet, dark promises of protection and belonging, her breath hot and heavy against Y/n's neck. "You're mine," she repeated, her voice a hoarse chant.

Y/n felt the climax building, the tension coiling tighter and tighter within her. She wanted to hate it, to push Winter away, but her body craved the release that was so close, the feeling of being claimed by this woman who had invaded her life so thoroughly.

Winter's hand moved to Y/n's throat, her grip firm but not painful, the pressure a silent declaration of her dominance. Y/n's eyes flew open, a mix of anger and arousal in her gaze as she stared up at the woman who had become her tormentor and, now, her lover.

Winter felt the tension in Y/n's body, the way she arched into her touch, and knew she was close. She leaned down, her teeth grazing Y/n's earlobe as she whispered, "Say it. Tell me you're mine."

Y/n's eyes narrowed, the anger and lust warring within her. But as Winter's thumb traced circles around her clit, she couldn't hold back any longer. "I'm yours," she gasped, the words torn from her in a mix of anger and pleasure.

Winter's eyes lit up with triumph, her strokes becoming more intense. "That's right," she murmured, her voice a dark purr. "You're mine to protect, to cherish."

The words sent a shiver down Y/n's spine, her body responding in ways she never thought possible. She felt the orgasm building, a wave of pleasure that threatened to consume her. Winter's eyes bore into hers, the intensity of her stare almost as overwhelming as the sensations that rocked her body.

"Winter~," she choked out, her voice a desperate plea.

Winter's eyes widened, the sound of her own name on Y/n's lips like a sweet symphony. She leaned closer, her cock driving deeper into the therapist's wet heat. "Say it again," she demanded, her voice a mix of lust and possessiveness.

"Winter," Y/n gasped, her body trembling. "I'm yours."

The admission seemed to push Winter over the edge, her hips moving faster, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room. Y/n's eyes rolled back in her head, the pleasure consuming her. She felt Winter's climax building, the other woman's body tightening around her, and she knew she was close.

With a final, desperate thrust, Winter came, her body shuddering with the force of it. Y/n's own orgasm followed, a wave that crashed over her, leaving her trembling and breathless. They stayed like that for a moment, their bodies tangled together in a mess of sweat and passion.

Winter leaned down, her forehead resting against Y/n's, their breath mingling in the heavy silence. "You feel so good," she murmured, her voice filled with awe. "I knew you would."

Y/n stared up at her, the anger and fear now tempered by the raw intimacy of the moment. "What now?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper.

Winter pulled out of her, a look of satisfaction and possessiveness etched on her face. "Now," she said, her voice thick with emotion, "you're mine."

#aespa x fem reader #aespa x reader #winter x reader #kim minjeong x reader #aespa winter #winter imagines #bangchansdirty-slut #kim minjeong imagines #minjeong x reader #winter scenarios #winter x y/n #winter x you

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ac1dmeow · 9 months ago

Text

'the dining table'

notes: gp!jinx (can be interpreted as intersex or trans), not rlly proofread, shity writing & shity title, nsfw, minors & men dni !!

jinx had been eyeing you all day. you could feel her hungry gaze roaming your body at any chance she could; while you cooked, cleaned, dusted, even while combing the cat.

and then she finally pounced. you should've expected this, being at home all weekend after not having sex for the past week. you were wiping down the dining table before dinner when her hands gripped your waist and spun you around, lifting you onto the table before her lips smashed onto yours. leaving you positively breathless.

and now, her hands roam every patch of skin they can find. usually she likes to savour you, take her time. but nope, not today. her hands grope your curves and her fingers dig into your flesh, all while her mouth devours your neck.

her tongue licks along your clavicle and she hums into your skin as your fingers bury themselves in her vibrant blue hair. she lifts her head up to meet eye to eye with you, and her hands grip your hips tightly, pulling you closer against her.

"you're so fuckin' sexy," she breaths heavily against your lips, planting sloppy kisses over your face. "i wanna fuck you right here right now. can i? please?" she looks like a sad puppy with the way she stares at you with big eyes as her fingers pull desperately at your waistband.

your stomach and pussy flutters with butterflies. you can't help the small giggle that escapes passed your lips. "mhm." you nod your head, beginning to help her unbuttoned your jeans. jinx's nimble fingers barely fumble and she's yanking your pants down in a flash. then she's unbuttoning her own.

you don't care that she doesn't get them down, you're immediately digging your hand into her boxers and pulling out her member. being sure to give her a few slow strokes to work her up. she nearly topples over on you, grinding her teeth to prevent from moaning out.

she catches her bearings and she slaps your hand away, grabbing her shaft and lining herself up with you. you both let out soft moans as she pushes in. your hand clutches the edge of the table at the sting of her thick girth stretching you out.

jinx buries her face in your neck again, placing wet open mouthed kisses on the already bruised skin. a small smile graces your lips as you play with her lose strands. then her nails are digging into the flesh of your upper thighs deep enough to leave crescents making you squirm. but finally, she starts moving. slowly pulling back and sheathing back inside.

you wrap your arms around jinx's neck, humming into her mouth when she attempts to kiss you. "fuck, you feel so good." she breathes, hands circling your waist and pulling you impossibly closer. it takes her little time to pick up the pace, making you moan and bite your lip.

the pleasure hits you in waves, sending tingles from your core and up your spine making your brain all hazy. you hold yourself up with your right hand splaying on the table behind you, your left clutching jinx's shoulder tightly as she pounds into you. "fuck, fuck, fuck..!"

you throw your head back as your eyes flutter closed, but suddenly your pushed down onto your back letting out an 'oof'.

you look up at jinx with slight momentary confusion. all of that washes away though when she wraps your legs around her waist, not letting up for even a second. her movements are now relentless, desperate to make you both cum. her cheeks are flushed and some wild strands stick to her sweaty skin as she grunts with every thrust. your pussy clenches at the sight.

"yea, you like this?" jinx manages to say between moans, hands tightening on your thighs as she smirks down at you. all you can do is whine pathetically in response.

it's not long before you feel the coil deep in your abdomen about to snap. while you were in your midst of trying to grasp onto anything in reach, you could've swore that something fell onto the floor. neither of you paid any mind. now your knuckles are white at the edge of the table above you, thighs tightening around jinx as you prepare for your impending orgasm.

jinx whines above you, her body leaning slightly closer when one of her hands slap down onto the table to brace herself. "shit! m'gonna cum." she looks down at where you two connect, the sound of skin-on-skin contact filling the room. just the sight of her drilling into your folds alone, all wet because of her, is able to send her over the edge.

jinx cums with a cry, nails burying into your skin deep enough to draw blood. your abdomen pools with warmth and not a second later you're cuming with her, nails dragging down her stomach. jinx slows, riding out both of your respective orgasms until she finally stops, and slumps over on top of you.

you hum happily and rub jinx's back as she nuzzles herself in your neck. "damn." she mumbles, making you laugh. "satisfied now?" you ask playfully as she pulls back. the twinkle in her eye answers you for her.

"nah, i think we can go for round two dontcha think?"

here is the gp oneshot u all were waiting for… and it’s bad😭 maybe i’ll write a second one to make up for it.

#૮₍´˶• . • ⑅ ₎ა #lesbian #arcane jinx #jinx x female reader #jinx x fem!reader #jinx arcane #jinx x reader #jinx x y/n #jinx smut #jinx x reader smut #jinx x fem!reader smut

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bitchiswild · 1 year ago

Text

No Harm's List

GP Karina × F! Reader

Warnings: Smut, kidnapping, guns, idk🤷‍♀️

Word Count: 7.9k

A/n: It was getting good but then I started spewing out words for the plot sorry if it's bad/ doesn't make sense.😬

〰・♡・〰

The door burst open with a deafening crash, the suddenness of it jolting everyone in the room. "EVERYBODY GET FUCKING DOWN NOW!" A voice boomed, the urgency unmistakable, as four figures rushed in brandishing weapons and firing shots into the ceiling. Panic rippled through the room like wildfire, screams piercing the air as people scrambled in terror, desperate to evade the chaos unfolding around them.

The thunderous sound of gunfire echoed, the rapid shots sending plaster and dust raining down. The room became a whirlwind of confusion and fear, with individuals dropping to the ground, seeking cover and safety, hearts pounding in their chests. The sheer terror of the moment immobilized many, their instincts urging them to shield themselves, hoping to avoid any harm in the frantic turmoil.

The assailants, their faces obscured behind masks, moved with a calculated menace, their commands sharp and threatening. The din of panic intertwined with the harsh orders, creating a disorienting symphony of terror. Every second felt like an eternity, the fear tangible in the air, thick and suffocating.

Amidst the chaos, cries for help and pleas for mercy mixed with the din, a desperate chorus of individuals caught in an unforeseen nightmare. The scene was a frenzy of uncertainty and dread, each person praying for a swift end to the terrifying ordeal that had befallen them.

"Tie them up and knock them out," commanded the leader's voice. The other three members swiftly organized the captives, binding them and using the rifles to render them unconscious. My heart pounded as I cowered in a corner, watching the chaos unfold. As the leader approached with a coil of rope, a glint of recognition flashed in their eyes.

"Y/n?" Their voice held a mix of shock and familiarity.

My breath caught at the sound of my name, and fear clenched my chest. "Still as beautiful as ever, darling," They continued in a softer tone, their eyes reflecting an unexpected tenderness. At that moment, I recognized Jimin, my first love, amidst the turmoil.

"Jimin," I uttered in disbelief, the rush of memories flooding back, colliding with the present chaos. His wink acknowledged the connection that bridged the years between us. Turning to the others securing the captives, Jimin raised his voice, announcing, "This girl's on the NHL!" Recognition flickered in their eyes as they looked upon my face. "Got it, boss!" they responded in unison.

The shock of encountering my first love amidst such a terrifying situation left me reeling. Questions churned in my mind, mingling with the fear and the bittersweet rush of memories long buried. Jimin's unexpected presence had added an unexpected twist to the intense and confusing scenario.

The chaos in the room intensified as I tried to make sense of the unfolding events. "NHL? What could that possibly mean?" I pondered silently, my mind racing as I observed the other members carrying out Jimin's orders, tying people up and rendering them unconscious.

Abruptly, the sound of a walkie-talkie pierced through the chaos. "Boss, you have 10 minutes till the cops and feds get here. Hurry up!" The urgency in the voice snapped me back to the tense reality of the situation. Karina, evidently in charge, sprang into action, urgently summoning one of her associates, Giselle. They swiftly moved towards the manager, coercing him to unlock the safe.

"Please, let me go," the manager pleaded desperately. But Karina's eyes remained void of emotion as she fired a shot, grazing his leg. "HURRY UP, OPEN THE SAFE!" Her demand cut through the air, her voice chillingly cold. The manager whimpered in pain and fear, complying as he opened the safe. As the safe door swung open, Giselle wasted no time, swiftly filling her duffle bag with cash.

Karina's gaze lingered on the injured manager, his eyes pleading for mercy. She looked down at him, before knocking him out with the butt of her gun. With a determined resolve, she joined Giselle in the safe, assisting in collecting the cash.

The scene unfolded with a terrifying efficiency, each action calculated and executed with precision.My mind reeled at the sudden brutality contrasted with the urgency of their actions. It was a stark reminder of the dangerous world I found myself caught up in, leaving me torn between fear and a disconcerting sense of witnessing a reality I never knew existed.

As they swiftly gathered the cash, stuffing it into a bulky duffle bag, the urgency of their actions was palpable. With the loot secured, the three members dashed towards the waiting getaway car, their hurried steps echoing in the tense atmosphere.

Meanwhile, Karina diverged from the hurried pace of her associates, taking a moment to approach me. With a tender touch, she caressed my face, her words carrying a mixture of reassurance and urgency. "I'll see you soon, darling," she murmured before hastening after the others, disappearing into the fray, her figure blending seamlessly into the night's chaos. Overwhelmed, I succumbed to unconsciousness.

As the chaos subsided and the adrenaline wore off, I found myself lying in a hospital bed, disoriented and groggy. The events of the robbery played on a loop in my mind, a surreal and terrifying experience that left me shaken to the core. My body ached from the stress, and as I tried to gather my bearings, the nurses rushed in upon my awakening.

"What happened?" I managed to croak out, my voice strained.

"You were at a bank during a robbery. The ordeal was extremely stressful, and your body reacted by causing you to pass out," explained the nurse, diligently checking my vitals.

A sudden knock on the door interrupted our conversation. Two uniformed officers entered the room. "Good day, Miss Y/Ln. I'm Officer Johnson, and this is my partner, Officer Park. We have some questions to ask you, if that's alright," they introduced themselves, their tone professional yet concerned.

"Um, I suppose so," I replied hesitantly. "But I must warn you, my memory is a bit fuzzy right now. I might have a hard time remembering everything that happened."

The officers nodded understandingly, pulling up chairs to sit nearby. They began asking me about the details of the robbery, trying to piece together the events based on my recollection. Despite my best efforts, the traumatic experience had left my memory fragmented, making it difficult to provide a clear account of the events that had transpired. The frustration of not being able to fully remember only added to the overwhelming sense of confusion and vulnerability.

I intentionally omitted that I knew Karina. Amidst the chaos, I wrestled with the decision to conceal our connection, unsure of the implications it might have. As the officers asked their questions, I struggled to navigate the fine line between protecting myself and revealing the truth.

"I'm sorry, officers," I began hesitantly, "I... I might have forgotten some details. It was all so overwhelming." Despite the inner turmoil, I held back the knowledge of recognizing Karina, uncertain of the consequences of revealing our prior acquaintance.

The officers nodded sympathetically, understanding the distress I was under. They continued to ask probing questions, trying to fill in the gaps in my memory. However, the deliberate omission weighed heavily on me, adding to the complex tangle of emotions swirling within.

With each passing moment, the guilt of withholding crucial information gnawed at me. But the fear of potential repercussions and the uncertainty of Karina's motives kept me silent. It was a conflicted state, grappling with the desire to protect myself while grappling with the moral dilemma of withholding information about someone involved in the crime.

As the interrogation continued, I struggled to balance my own safety with the ethical dilemma of concealing what I knew. The events of that fateful day lingered like a dark cloud, casting a shadow over my thoughts and leaving me torn between fear, guilt, and the moral responsibility to reveal the truth.

The officers concluded their questioning, leaving me alone in the room to grapple with the conflicting thoughts swirling within. Just as I contemplated speaking up about my knowledge of Karina, the door swung open once more.

"I'm sorry, officers, but I'm feeling unwell, and I can't handle any more questions," I started to explain, intending to divert their attention. However, my words trailed off as I caught sight of Karina entering the room, carrying a bouquet of flowers.

A wave of shock and apprehension washed over me at her unexpected appearance. I was torn between relief at seeing a familiar face amidst the chaos and the rising concern about the implications of her presence in this situation. My heart raced as I tried to make sense of the conflicting emotions.

Karina's calm demeanor contradicted the turmoil in my mind. She approached with a warm smile, the flowers held out in a gesture that seemed almost incongruous with the circumstances. My throat tightened, unsure of what to say or how to react to her sudden appearance in the hospital room. Her presence added another layer of complexity to the already perplexing situation, leaving me with more questions than answers.

The room felt charged with tension as Karina placed the bouquet of lilies on the nearby table, her soft voice breaking the silence. "Darling, how are you feeling?" she inquired, her concern genuine as she leaned closer.

My surprise at her presence mingled with a sense of caution. "Jimin, what are you doing here?" I murmured urgently, trying to keep our conversation discreet, aware of the potential consequences.

Karina's laughter held a touch of warmth. "Just checking up on you," she replied softly, her fingers delicately brushing my hair behind my ear, a gesture so familiar it stirred memories from our past.

Anxiety crept in as I spoke, the words tumbling out in a rush, "If you think I told the cops, I promise you, I didn't."

"I know you won't tell anyone, darling," she said, her gaze holding a depth of emotion, her hand gently clasping mine.

"How would you know that?" I raised an eyebrow, searching for answers in her eyes.

"Because of our past, because of the love we had," she said with a wistful smile, a subtle reference to our shared history that flooded my mind with a rush of conflicting emotions. The memories of our connection resurfaced, stirring a mix of longing and uncertainty, leaving me torn between the pull of the past and the weight of the present situation.

The weight of unanswered questions hung heavy in the air as I confronted Karina. "Why are you doing this?" I asked, desperate for an explanation, for any glimpse into the motives behind her involvement in these robberies.

"This isn't the place for me to explain, darling," she replied cryptically, her demeanor guarded yet strangely affectionate. With a swift motion, she handed me a card, a gesture laden with implications. I accepted it, staring at the card in my hand, a tangible link to a world I hadn't anticipated being a part of.

As Karina rose from her seat, a sense of helplessness washed over me. "I'll see you soon," she said, leaving me with a parting wink before vanishing through the door. The quiet room enveloped me once again, my mind swirling with more questions than answers, clutching onto the card as if it held the key to unraveling the mysteries surrounding Karina and her inexplicable actions.

Alone with my thoughts, I grappled with the complexity of emotions stirred by her unexpected visit. The weight of the past intertwined with the uncertainty of the present, leaving me torn between the desire to understand and the fear of delving deeper into a world that seemed both dangerous and familiar.

The anticipation built with each ringing tone, my heart racing as I held the card and dialed the number printed on it. The moment felt surreal, the phone pressed to my ear, amplifying the thrumming of my heartbeat. Finally, a voice on the other end broke the silence.

"Hello?" The familiar husky tone filtered through the line, sending a rush of emotions through me.

"Jimin, it's me, Y/n," I managed, my voice trembling with a mix of nervousness and urgency. "Where can we meet up?"

There was a brief pause, the weight of the situation palpable even through the phone line. Jimin's voice came through again, calm and measured, "I'll text you an address. Meet me there in an hour."

The call ended, leaving me with a whirlwind of emotions and a sense of apprehension. I awaited the text, my hands still shaking slightly from the conversation, bracing myself for what awaited me at the meeting point. The next steps were uncertain, but the need for answers and closure compelled me to follow through, despite the lingering sense of unease.

The grandeur of the mansion took my breath away as I stood before it, feeling a mix of awe and trepidation. With a deep breath, I approached the front door and rang the bell, unsure of what awaited me inside.

The door swung open, revealing a familiar face that filled me with both surprise and nostalgia. "Oh my god! Y/n! How are you doing, girl?" exclaimed the person, moving in for a hug. It was Ningning, an old friend from the past, and the shock of encountering her in this context jolted me.

"Oh my god, Ningning! You work with Karina??" I blurted out, my astonishment evident in my voice as I hugged her back, seeking answers.

"Yeah! You know how it is, BFFL," she laughed, a mix of familiarity and ease in her demeanor that momentarily calmed my nerves. We shared a chuckle, reminiscing about old times.

"Even Winter and Aeri are working with her, let me call them for you!" Ningning announced, her voice carrying through the halls. Within moments, Winter and Aeri appeared, their excitement palpable as they rushed toward me, enveloping me in a group hug.

"Y/n, how are you? You look amazing!" Winter exclaimed with a warm smile.

"Winter's right, you do look fantastic!" chimed in Aeri, her eyes reflecting genuine happiness at our unexpected reunion.

Surrounded by my old friends in this unexpected setting, a mixture of emotions swirled within me. The reunion brought back a flood of memories, yet the circumstances under which we had reunited left me with a tangled web of emotions, torn between the joy of seeing them and the unease of the situation they were involved in.

"She's here for me," a familiar voice boomed from the stairs, interrupting the reunion. The three girls, Winter, Aeri, and Ningning, promptly released me, understanding Karina's authority. My heart raced at her arrival, stirring unresolved feelings I harbored for her after all these years.

As Karina descended the stairs, her confident steps commanded attention and the girls continued to gush over me. "Girls, alright, that's enough," she directed firmly. The girls bid me farewell, respecting Karina's presence, and went back to their duties, leaving Karina and me facing each other in the mansion's opulent foyer.

"Come in, darling, make yourself at home," Karina beckoned, her gesture a blend of tenderness against the backdrop of her commanding presence. Following her inside, I couldn't help but voice my curiosity. "So, what's an NHL?" I inquired, intrigued by her terminology.

"It stands for No Harms List. I've established it to ensure that none of my gang members cause harm in any way, shape, or form," she explained, her tone carrying both authority and a sense of responsibility.

As I explored the interior, I marveled at the décor, a captivating reflection of my own aspirations for a future home. The ambiance exuded a sense of comfort and sophistication, hinting at a life I had long envisioned.

"You like it? I had you in mind while I was decorating," Karina confessed, her gaze holding mine with an intensity that took me by surprise. "What do you mean?" I questioned, a mix of astonishment and curiosity in my voice.

Karina hummed softly, her eyes filled with emotion. "I knew I was going to see you again one day, so I planned for our future. This is your home as much as it is mine," she revealed, her words tinged with a sincerity that stirred something deep within me.

The weight of her admission sank in, and I dared to ask, "You still love me?" My heart raced, the unspoken hope echoing in my mind.

"Oh, darling, I never stopped loving you," Karina confessed, turning to face me with eyes filled with unwavering affection. Her words left me reeling, a flood of emotions overwhelming my senses.

The weight of Karina's confession hung in the air, leaving me momentarily breathless. "Jimin, I don't know what to say," I sighed, the weight of emotions heavy in my chest, wrestling with the complexity of my feelings.

"Just say you still love me too. I can see it in your eyes; you still do. Our love was special, Y/n, and you know that too," Karina urged gently, her voice laced with a poignant mix of longing and hope.

Her words tugged at the strings of our shared history, memories of a love that had once felt unshakable. My mind raced as I grappled with the past, the emotions that her presence evoked, and the uncertainty of the present.

Caught in the whirlwind of conflicting emotions, I stood there, speechless, torn between the familiarity of what was and the uncertainty of what could be. The intensity of our past love lingered in the air, leaving me adrift in a sea of emotions, unable to find the words to articulate the complexity of my feelings.

"Jimin, I mean, I've always loved you, there's no doubt in my mind," I began, my words carrying a weight of uncertainty. "But this is all happening so fast, too soon. I feel like I barely know you anymore. Are you still the Jimin I fell in love with?" The exasperation in my voice echoed my inner turmoil.

"I am. I've always been the Jimin that you know and love," Karina responded earnestly, but her next words struck me with a mix of shock and confusion. "I started this crime ring even before we met. I kept it a secret to protect you, to shield you from this world," she confessed, her admission feeling like both a revelation and a betrayal.

Her words left me reeling. A sense of betrayal seeped in alongside a conflicting feeling of being safeguarded. The revelation that she couldn't trust me enough to share this part of her life stung, yet paradoxically, I felt oddly protected by her secrecy. It was a confusing tangle of emotions that left me grappling with conflicting thoughts.

"Can I have some time to think about this?" I asked, the uncertainty evident in my voice.

"Of course, Darling," Karina chuckled, masking the gravity of the situation with a calm demeanor. "Come, let me give you a tour, and then I'll delve into the details about my crime ring," she offered, guiding me through the opulent halls of the mansion.

As we wandered through the grandeur, the clash of emotions continued to churn within me. The sense of betrayal intertwined with a strange feeling of safety, leaving me torn between love, trust, and the unexpected revelations. The tour was a temporary distraction, but the disconcerting mix of emotions lingered, casting a shadow over the uncertain path ahead.

The tour of Karina's mansion was a mesmerizing journey through exquisite spaces that felt like they were plucked from my dreams. Every corner exuded a touch of familiarity, resonating deeply with my tastes and preferences. It was as though Karina had an intimate understanding of my desires, crafting a home that felt so inherently me.

Eventually, we found ourselves in her office, a space that echoed sophistication and authority. Amongst the opulent decor, my eyes landed on a painting prominently displayed right in front of her desk—it was a portrait of me. A gasp involuntarily escaped my lips as I laid eyes on it, stunned by the unexpected sight.

"You were my light, my motivation, everything that was pushing me forward in life," Karina's voice broke the silence, filled with a depth of emotion that left me speechless. "So, I had someone paint a picture of you for me and hung it in my office, to help me power through all the stress and hardships," she confessed, her gaze fixed on the painting as we both stood there, captivated by the moment.

The revelation took me by surprise, stirring a mixture of emotions within me. The painting stood as a testament to the depth of Karina's feelings, a tangible symbol of her unwavering affection and the significance I held in her life. It was an intimate gesture that both moved and perplexed me, leaving me grappling with the intricate web of emotions that this unexpected revelation had woven.

"Here, come sit. Let me tell you about the Jimin that you've never known, aka Karina," Karina invited, her voice a blend of warmth and vulnerability. She gestured for me to join her on the couch, creating a moment of intimacy amidst the grandeur of her office.

Taking a seat beside her, I felt a mix of anticipation and apprehension. Karina's demeanor hinted at a side of her that remained hidden, a part of her life she was now willing to share. The air brimmed with a sense of revelation, and I waited, curious to uncover the layers of her past that had been veiled from me.

As we sat together, the weight of the moment hung in the air, the space between us charged with the possibility of understanding a different facet of Karina—of Jimin. The vulnerability in her gesture hinted at the depths she was about to reveal, leaving me both intrigued and apprehensive about what was to come.

As I turned to face her, a sense of readiness washed over me, my gaze fixed on Karina, poised to listen and understand the side of her that had been concealed from me. The air between us crackled with anticipation, a silent invitation for her to unravel the layers of her hidden life, to share the untold stories that shaped the enigmatic persona of Karina.

My eyes met hers, filled with a mix of curiosity and eagerness, signaling my willingness to hear her narrative, to comprehend the complexities that defined her existence as Jimin. I sat there with open ears, ready to absorb the revelations she was about to unfold, prepared to delve into the depths of her past and the clandestine world she inhabited, a realm that had remained shrouded in secrecy until now.

"Y/N, I need to share something I've kept hidden," Karina began, her tone tinged with a mixture of vulnerability and determination. "My parents... they didn't die in a car accident as I previously told you. They were murdered."

Her confession startled me, unraveling a truth I never knew existed. "My father was a crime boss," she continued, her voice weighed down by the weight of her revelation. "He taught me the ways of this world, instilling in me the knowledge and skills required to lead a life entrenched in crime. But my mother, she was the nurturing force, ensuring I retained a kinder side—the person you fell in love with."

Karina's words painted a picture of a life far removed from the one I knew, one consumed by the shadows of crime and deceit. "Throughout our time together, I was involved in criminal activities on the side," she confessed, her gaze heavy with remorse. "That's why I'd disappear for stretches when we were together, ensuring your safety by keeping you away from that world."

"The girls, Winter, Aeri, and Ningning, were involved because of our shared past. Their parents worked alongside mine," Karina explained, attempting to shed light on the complexities of her world. "After my father's death, I had to assume his role as the boss. I kept it all hidden from you, shielding you from the dangers that lurked within my life. But now, we're older, and you have the right to make your own choices. To be involved or not, to love me or not. The choice is yours, and I'll respect whatever decision you make," she concluded, her eyes reflecting a genuine plea for understanding and acceptance.

"Karina, this is a lot," I said softly, trying to process the sudden flood of revelations. "I appreciate you being honest now, but why keep so much from me before?"

"I get that you wanted to protect me, but it's hard to understand why you'd keep such a huge part of your life hidden," I admitted, feeling a mix of hurt and confusion.

"I need time to think," I said, feeling the weight of the situation. "To process all of this and figure out where we stand. It's a lot to take in."

Karina nodded understandingly. "Take your time, darling. I'll respect whatever you decide. Just know that I've always cared for you, and I always will."

With a heavy heart, I left her office, needing space to sort through the whirlwind of emotions and make sense of the unexpected turn our relationship had taken.

Two weeks had passed since Karina's revelation, and in that time, a flurry of conflicting emotions had swirled within me. Despite the revelations and the complexity of Karina's hidden life, her constant presence lingered in my thoughts. Amidst the confusion and uncertainty, one truth became glaringly clear—I still harbored deep feelings for her.

Karina's persistence in reaching out to me was evident through the frequent flowers she sent, each bouquet accompanied by heartfelt notes. Her messages were simple yet filled with an undeniable sincerity, asking about my day and expressing her unwavering patience, claiming she'd wait forever. These gestures stirred a cascade of emotions within me, evoking a sense of warmth and longing that I struggled to push aside.

As I reflected on my feelings, I realized that what I felt wasn't just residual affection for Jimin or Karina. It was a genuine and profound love for the person she was, with all her complexities, strengths, and vulnerabilities. It wasn't just a remnant of a past romance; it was an all-encompassing love for Karina—Jimin, embracing her for who she was, regardless of her past or her concealed life.

Despite the uncertainty looming over us, one thing remained steadfast—I loved her for her, for the person she had always been, and for the person she was now revealing herself to be. The conflict within me was reconciling the history we shared with the uncertainties of the future, yet the undeniable truth remained—I loved her, wholly and unequivocally.

As I stood before the door, grappling with my emotions and thoughts about Karina, there came a sudden, unexpected knock. With a racing heart and a sense of anticipation, I opened the door, and there she stood—Karina, a vision that evoked memories and emotions from the past seven years.

"Jimin, what are you doing here?" I asked, my voice betraying a mix of surprise and curiosity. Her sudden appearance caught me off guard, leaving me slightly bewildered yet undeniably captivated by her presence.

Karina's unexpected visit was filled with an intensity that seemed to amplify the emotions already swirling within me. As she stood before me, her words carried a weight that reverberated through the room.

"I just needed to see you before you make a decision," Karina revealed, her voice laced with vulnerability. "Just in case this might be the last time I see you." Her admission pierced through my thoughts, stirring a whirlwind of emotions that mirrored her own.

Caught in her gaze, I found myself unable to look away. The depth of her emotions was palpable, and her sincerity resonated with something deep within me. Adoration mingled with uncertainty as I contemplated the impact of my own feelings.

"I have made a decision… I do want to be with you," I finally confessed, my voice steady but filled with affection. "I love you for who you are, Karina, Jimin, just you, I love you."

Karina, visibly taken aback by my words, seemed momentarily surprised before a rush of emotion overtook her. With a tenderness that echoed our shared history, she gently cradled my face in her hands, drawing me closer. The proximity of her breath on my lips sent a shiver down my spine, anticipation coursing through me.

"I love you so much, darling, and I've missed you so, so much," Karina murmured lovingly, her voice carrying the weight of years gone by. Her words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken longing, before she closed the distance between us in a surge of affection, sealing our reunion with a passionate kiss. In that moment, love surged between us, an undeniable force that had withstood the test of time.

Karina, after the passionate kiss, pulled back slightly, her eyes searching mine with a mix of hope and longing. "Does that mean I can call you mine again?" she asked tentatively, a glimmer of hope evident in her voice.

A soft chuckle escaped my lips as I looked into her eyes, feeling a surge of warmth and affection. "Yes, it does," I affirmed, unable to contain the smile that crept onto my face.

Without hesitation, I closed the gap between us once more, pulling her into another tender kiss. In that embrace, there was a sense of reassurance, a silent promise of rediscovered love and the rekindling of a connection that had weathered the test of time. Their hearts beat as one, enveloped in a moment that held the promise of a new beginning—a shared journey where their love would reignite, stronger and more resilient than ever before.

Months had passed since Karina and I rekindled our relationship, and it was flourishing. While Karina shielded me from her criminal activities, she welcomed my presence within her team. Everyone in the circle embraced me with open arms, offering acceptance and warmth, which made the transition smoother.

Despite Karina's protective stance, I found ways to contribute within our shared space. While I wasn’t directly involved in her dealings, I took charge of maintaining our home. Ensuring everything ran smoothly around the house became my silent contribution to our partnership.

The team's camaraderie and unity were palpable. There was an unspoken understanding between us, a sense of mutual respect that blossomed into a shared bond. Although I didn’t partake in Karina's professional affairs, being part of her life in any capacity brought a sense of fulfillment, a feeling of belonging that I hadn’t experienced before.

Our relationship thrived in this delicate balance, built on trust, understanding, and a shared commitment to support each other. As days turned into weeks and weeks into months, the comfort in our routine grew, paving the way for a future where love and acceptance flourished in the midst of our distinct worlds. During times when Karina was stressed, I also took care of her, adding an extra layer of support to our bond.

“Fuck,” I let out a strangled moan, your hand grabbed a fistfull of Karina’s hair while she continued her assault on my pussy. She sucked on my clit causing me to buck my hips into her face. “J-Jimin shit yes right there.” I groaned out, legs shaking in pleasure. Karina continued to latch her lips on my folds, her tongue thrusting in and out of me messily, as my arousal continued to drip down my cunt on to her desk.

She pulled her tongue out “So messy darling,” Karina said. Her finger continued rubbing your clit. You stared at Karina’s face wet with your juices dripping down her face. “Shit.” I groaned at the sight, grabbing her face and crashing your lips together, tasting yourself on her lips. She hurriedly unbuttons her pants palming her crotch, a low moan escaped her lips, before she tugged down her underpants, making her cock slap against her lower abdomen. She pumped her shaft, before thrusting her entire length inside. As she entered you, a wave of pleasure washed over you, causing your body to arch in response. The intense sensation made it hard to focus on anything else, as the room filled with the sounds of your combined moans and the rhythmic movement of your bodies.

She slams her hips into you, the slaps of your skins meeting, Karina couldn't stop groaning. She drilled her hips harder, gripping the sheets crumbling them in a death grip as your velvety walls grip her cock. “Fuck!” She cursed and moaned, as I scratched her back. “You feel so fucking good darling” She moaned out, still pounding your wet slik. My eyes rolled back in pleasure. “Jimin- fuck!” I moaned out loud as she rotates her hips fucking me into the table. The intensity of the moment heightened as Karina's movements became more relentless, driving both of you towards the edge of ecstasy. The table beneath me shook with each forceful thrust, both our juices dripping down my sopping wet pussy, falling on the table. I cried out in pleasure, as I felt her dick grinding in spots I never knew existed.

She turns you around so you are bent over her desk and pounds me with vigor, her hips stuttering as she rests her head on your back, her hot breath fanning your back. As she drags her cock against your tight walls.

“F-Fuck! I’m gonna cum!” Karina became more vocal as your pussy clenched around her cock in a vice grip.

Karina's thrust became sloppy “You’re such a good girl darling. Are you going to let me fill you up?” She whispered, her thrust not slowing down.

Your walls clenched around her again, making karina moan as her thrust became sloppy. “Y-Yess! Fuck! cum in me Jimin cum in m-me!” I moaned, eyes rolling back.

Karinas hips pounded into you, invoking tears of pleasure down your face, the veins on her cock pulsing inside of you, barely keeping her pace, she grunted into your ear. “ You want my cum?”

The speed of her thrust made you incoherent. “Say you want my cum darling. Say it” Karina repeated, slowing down her thrust.

“Yes! Give me your cum please!” I cried out. Her hand rubs your clit in vigor as she watches you come undone, Your body shook in pleasure. Karina buries her member deep inside of you before releasing her cum, filling you up. Your cunt convulsed around her member as she painted your walls white until she saw it drip out of your folds.

Both of you panting, Karina pulls out of you and turns you around, guiding you to sit on her lap while she sits on the chair. Smirking as she sees your mixed cum slowly drip out of you. Your body still shaking in pleasure, she caressed your hair, helping you calm down from your high."You did so well, darling," she praised, carrying you to the couch in her office, helping you lie down. "My good girl," she murmured, gently caressing your face before pulling you into a tender kiss."Thank you for the stress relief," she expressed, her eyes filled with affection. You reached out to her. "Of course," you replied, still catching your breath.

The abrupt bang at the door startled both of you. "Karina, we need you!" Aeri's voice, filled with urgency, pierced the room. Karina's gaze sharpened, a mix of concern and duty flashing in her eyes as she swiftly rose from where she was and began to dress.

Sensing the sudden shift, she gathered your clothes and handed them to you with a sense of urgency, yet tenderness in her touch. She leaned in, brushing a quick, affectionate kiss across your lips. "I'll be back, darling," she reassured you, her voice warm and filled with both determination and a hint of playful confidence, before darting off to address the urgent call for her expertise.

After Karina left, you took a moment to collect yourself and dressed before heading out of the office, making your way toward your shared room to take a refreshing shower. The warm water eased the tension of the day, and you emerged feeling rejuvenated, dressing in fresh clothes before heading to the kitchen for a snack.

As you moved toward the kitchen, lost in your thoughts, a sudden hand covered your mouth, yanking you forcefully toward the door. Panic surged through you, and instinctively, you struggled and attempted to scream, but another hand swiftly clamped a cloth soaked in chloroform over your nose and mouth. Desperation flooded in as you thrashed in the grip, but the fumes overwhelmed you, causing your struggles to weaken until consciousness slipped away, plunging you into darkness.

As consciousness returned, a gruff voice pierced the haze. "Wakey wakey," it grumbled. Your head groggily lifted, blinking away the blur of disorientation. Attempting to move, you discovered your arms were firmly bound. Panic surged as you struggled against the restraints, a futile effort met with a calm dismissal.

"That won't work, princess. You're tied up real good," the voice remarked, its tone laced with an unsettling assurance.

"Where am I?" you managed to ask, eyes darting around the dimly lit room in anxious confusion. As fear escalated and you began thrashing in the chair, the individual drew closer, forcefully gripping your chin, coercing you to face him with an intimidating hold.

"You're in my basement. Your girlfriend crossed me, took something valuable. So I took something valuable from her," the voice explained, a sinister smile creeping across their face. Tears welled up involuntarily in your eyes as the weight of the situation dawned upon you.

"We're going to have some fun, princess. Don't worry," the voice continued, its tone growing darker, shrouded in a foreboding threat.

"Please find me, Karina," echoed the silent plea in your mind amidst the unsettling situation, a desperate wish for her presence, safety, and aid.

After Karina left the room

"What's going on, Aeri? What's with the panic?" Karina questioned, concern etched in her expression.

"It's Vito, he's coming for the gem," Aeri replied, her voice quivering with urgency and alarm, a sense of impending danger evident in her tone.

Karina's eyes widened at the mention of Vito's name. She swiftly moved, her expression hardening with determination. "We need to act fast. Is the gem secure?" she asked, her voice steady despite the urgency in the air.

Aeri nodded, her breaths shallow with anxiety. "It's hidden, but he knows. He's been tracking its energy signature," she explained, her voice trembling.

Karina's mind raced. "We have to protect it. Gather everyone and fortify the defenses. I'll buy us time," she declared, her gaze fixed on Aeri.

With a determined nod, Karina dashed out, her thoughts racing as she planned how to stall Vito's approach. Aeri hurried to assemble the team, each member aware of the impending threat.

Meanwhile, in the dimly lit room where you were held captive, a muffled groan signaled your return to consciousness. Your mind foggy, you struggled against the restraints, your thoughts consumed with the urgency of Karina's safety and the looming danger of Vito's pursuit.

Unbeknownst to Karina, Vito's pursuit wasn't solely fixated on the gem. Instead, his sinister plan had diverted towards a more personal and vindictive motive. As Karina mobilized the team to safeguard the gem, Vito had orchestrated a calculated abduction, targeting you as a means to exact revenge.

Deep in his basement, Vito oversaw his malevolent scheme unfold, relishing the impending chaos. He had orchestrated the distraction, using the pursuit of the gem as a smokescreen to facilitate your capture, intent on leveraging your connection to Karina for his own malicious intentions.

Meanwhile, Karina strategized fervently, unaware that Vito's true target was not the gem's power but rather a twisted scheme revolving around you. Her focus on fortifying defenses and buying time only added to Vito's advantage, amplifying the looming threat of his vengeful plot.

The disconcerting revelation remained veiled from Karina's grasp as she rallied her allies, unknowingly racing against time not only to protect the gem but also to rescue you from Vito's clutches.

As Karina and her team diligently fortified their defenses, an urgent clamor disrupted the focused atmosphere. One of her trusted men rushed into the room, breathless and visibly distressed.

"Boss! Boss!" he gasped out, trying to catch his breath. "He took her!"

Karina's expression shifted from confusion to sheer alarm. "Took who?" she demanded, her voice edged with concern and rising dread.

"He took Y/n!" the man exclaimed, his words hanging heavy in the tense air.

A chilling silence enveloped the room as the weight of those words settled upon Karina. Her hand trembled with a mix of worry and smoldering anger, her gaze piercing through the space, the raw emotion palpable.

In that moment, the atmosphere transformed; an eerie tension permeated the air. The realization that Vito had not only targeted the gem but also seized the person most precious to her, her beloved Y/n, ignited a fierce fire within Karina.

Her team exchanged nervous glances, understanding the gravity of the situation. Karina's beloved had been snatched away, a move that not only threatened her heart but also stoked the flames of her determination for retribution.

"He took her,—the love of my life," Karina uttered, her voice quivering with a mix of emotions. "He will pay for what he's done."

With determination etched into every line of her face, Karina's resolve solidified. Vito had ignited a wrath that would soon come crashing down upon him, for he had not only targeted a mere possession but the beating heart of Karina's world.

Karina's anticipation of such a situation had prepared her for the worst, yet the immediacy of it caught her off guard. With swift determination, she hurried to her office, her steps purposeful and resolute.

Her fingers traced the spines of the books on the shelf until she found the one housing a discreet tracker, a safeguard you had once provided—a hidden beacon within a familiar object. Retrieving the book, she swiftly located the tracker, a small but invaluable tool that could lead her to you.

Summoning backup, Karina wasted no time. With steely resolve, she orchestrated a rapid mobilization, her team swiftly gathering and organizing themselves. They piled into their waiting vehicles, a convoy of determination set on the path to rescue you from the clutches of Vito's malevolent grasp.

The tension in the air was palpable as engines roared to life, the urgency of the mission propelling them forward. Karina led the charge, her mind focused, her heart fueled by a fierce determination to retrieve you from harm's way.

As the convoy sped towards the destination, Karina's thoughts were consumed by the urgency of the situation and the unyielding vow to bring you back unharmed.

Back to you

I finally pieced together the guy's name: Vito. The name felt bitter on my tongue. He had inflicted pain, leaving me battered and abandoned in an empty basement, surrounded by my own blood and tears. Desperately, I prayed that Karina knew my whereabouts, longing for her swift rescue.

The door creaked open again, and fear clenched my heart as Vito entered. Trembling with terror, I braced myself for what torment he'd inflict next. His chuckle cut through the silence, a cruel sound that echoed in the dim space.

"Look at you, trembling in fear. How pathetic," he jeered, contemptuously spitting at me.

"Please, let me go," I pleaded, tears streaming down my face.

"Oh, Princess, that was just a taste. I have more planned," he sneered, his tone laden with sinister intent.

In the stifling silence that followed Vito's ominous words, a glimmer of determination sparked within me. Despite the fear and pain, thoughts of Karina's unwavering strength and the unwavering love between us flooded my mind, fueling a resilience I hadn't realized I possessed.

Gathering every ounce of courage, I met Vito's chilling gaze with a steely resolve. "You won't break me," I whispered, defiance lacing my words.

His smirk faltered, replaced by a flicker of surprise at my sudden defiance. The room seemed to hold its breath in anticipation of his next move.

Before he could react, a commotion echoed from above, the sound of hurried footsteps approaching. Hope surged within me as the distant voices grew louder.

Karina's voice sliced through the tense air, a beacon of reassurance and determination. "We're here, darling! Hold on!" she called out, her words a lifeline in the darkness.

Vito's expression twisted into a snarl, realizing he was about to lose his leverage. With a final chilling glare in my direction, he bolted from the room, leaving me alone but filled with a newfound hope.

Before Vito could make his escape, he swiftly seized me, pulling me close with a knife pressed against my throat. My breath caught in my throat, a shiver racing down my spine as his cold eyes bore into mine with malicious intent.

The room fell into an eerie silence, the only sound the rapid thumping of my heart. Karina's voice echoed from above, a fervent plea layered with determination, slicing through the tense atmosphere.

"We're here, darling! Hold on!" Karina's words echoed down the hallway, her reassuring tone cutting through the darkness like a lifeline.

Vito's grip tightened, a chilling smirk curling on his lips. "You're not going anywhere," he hissed, his voice laced with menace, a grim determination in his actions.

Despite the fear coursing through me, a glimmer of hope blossomed. I met Karina's words with silent resolve, drawing strength from her unwavering support and the promise of imminent rescue.

"Karina!" I called out to her, my voice pleading. Vito pressed the knife against my neck, his threat evident in the sharp edge grazing my skin. "Shut up!" he growled, his grip tightening as Karina stormed into the room.

Karina's eyes turned cold at the distressing scene before her. "Let her go," she commanded, her voice filled with a chilling intensity.

Vito, reveling in his control, made a small cut on my neck. A cry of shock and pain escaped my lips, his sinister laughter piercing the air. "One step closer, and she pays," he threatened, his voice dripping with malice.

Karina, unwavering, aimed a gun at him. Her reputation was clear—Karina never missed her mark. "I said let. her. go," she declared, her tone final, leaving no room for negotiation.

Before Vito could argue, Karina's swift action spoke louder. A gunshot echoed through the room, Vito’s knife dropped to the ground as did his body. You cried out to Karina, and she hurried towards you, swiftly untying your restraints and enveloping you in her protective embrace as tears streamed down your cheeks. Before you could turn to see the aftermath of the confrontation, Karina gently guided your face to meet hers.

"Don't look, darling. He's gone," she reassured, cradling you close, shielding you from the grim reality. With tender care, she carried you out of the basement, away from the haunting scene.

"Clean up the mess," she instructed her team, her voice firm as she focused on ensuring your safety. Karina settled you into the car, driving you back to the sanctuary of your shared home, a place of refuge and security.

"You're safe now, darling. I won't let anything harm you anymore," she vowed, her voice a soothing balm in the aftermath of the ordeal.

"How did you find me?" I asked, tears still trailing down my face.

"That necklace I gave you—it has a tracker. I knew this might happen one day, so I had to be prepared," Karina explained softly, her gaze filled with unwavering determination and a deep love for you.

Upon arriving home, Karina carried you inside and tended to your needs, starting a comforting bath to wash away the physical and emotional residue of the harrowing experience.

After the soothing bath, Karina gently carried you to bed, cradling you in her arms. Nestled in her embrace, a profound sense of security enveloped you, the assurance that you were sheltered from any future harm after enduring the harrowing ordeal.

"I love you, Y/n. I will protect you forever," Karina declared, her voice a tender vow, her arms a haven of safety.

"I love you too," you whispered, surrendering to a deep and peaceful slumber within the comforting warmth of Karina's embrace, feeling an unwavering sense of security and love surrounding you.

〰・♡・〰

#bitchiswild #BIW.WRITES #aespa x reader #aespa #gp #aespa x fem reader #aespa smut #aespa fluff #aespa imagines #aespa karina #gp karina #karina x reader #karina #yoo jimin x reader #jimin x reader #yoo jimin #yu jimin #karina smut

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pipwritesoccasionally · 8 months ago

Text

"stay away from my husband!"

nanami x reader (of course)

in which nanami goes on a mission but doesn't come back for hours, leaving the reader to come to his aid.

gender neutral reader

wc: 1391

sorry if the special grade spirit/any of the cursed energy mechanics are wrong! i barely know how it works honestly.

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

you knew that he couldn’t handle the special grade curse with only one other grade one sorcerer around. hell, you’d told him as such this morning, and even offered to ask yaga to go on the mission with him, but of course kento’d refused.

“i can’t let you get hurt, (y/n),” he’d said, only causing you to cross your arms in anger.

“and you think i could let you? absolutely not,” but he’d continued getting ready anyways. kento left like always, kissing you sweetly before closing the door behind him. you knew he was cautious, but after hearing that three second grade sorcerers had gone to shoko in critical condition, you felt justified in feeling worried.

the afternoon crept past at an agonizing pace, leaving you unfocused and stressed. you’d tried to relax, but the silence only seemed to amplify the sound of your pounding heart.

he’d said that the mission should only last two hours, three if the curse put up a really good fight, but it had been six hours now, and there was no sign of your husband. you know that he can handle himself, but if he’s with another grade one sorcerer, especially someone younger than him, you know that he would do anything to protect them.

“fuck,” you mutter, jumping up and rushing to your weapons’ shelf to grab your cursed weapon of choice. the sword handle chills your hand, but you sheath it quickly and run out the door.

as you run, you scramble through your memories to find the address kento had told you earlier– “for safety”-- and throw it into your gps. the route hasn’t even loaded before you throw your car in reverse and make your way down the narrow street.

“if you’re dead when i get there kento…” you know that you’re talking to yourself, but due to the high stress situation, you can’t seem to care.

thankfully, the address where kento was sent to intercept the curse is only fifteen minutes from your house, though that does little to calm your worries. after all, if it’s so close to home, what’s taking him so long?

the car slides in to a spot along the street, and you throw the door open, barely locking it before running into the building. grunts echo from above, and you start taking the stairs two at a time. when you make it up the first two flights, the air gets heavy with cursed energy, and you feel both relief and worry compound. at least somone is still alive.

creaking floors and eroded stone decorate the inside of the stairwell, so you infer that the building has been abandoned for a while. that means you don’t have to hold back against whatever curse is there.

the sounds of fighting get louder as you go up, until you find yourself in an open floor plan, face to face with the special grade cursed spirit.

who was seconds away from killing your husband.

kento was against the wall, ragged breathing perturbing your already worried thoughts. seeing him in this state threw any hesitations you had out the already-broken-in window.

“stay away from my husband,” you threaten, tension grating your deepened voice. your trusty sword had already met your hand, and your cursed energy radiated into it in droves. the cursed spirit turned its head toward you, and it was then that you were able to really gauge the threat it posed.

the beast’s long body coiled around like a scorpion, extending into a craning horse’s head. what’s more, two sets of long, feathered wings lay dormant against its body, creating a monstrous medley of an organism. the different characteristics of the curse most likely were the reason that your husband had such a problem with it, but you had the advantage of seeing it in its entirety before even beginning the fight.

however, you felt the energy shift in the room, and your movements became slow, sluggish even.

‘this must be part of its technique,’ you think, but unfortunately for the curse, you’d been a sorcerer for too long.

it also helped that you had been adopted as a grade one sorcerer immediately after killing a grade one cursed spirit on your very first mission. as a freshman in high school.

you ran to the other side of the room, hoping to distract the curse from kento, and swung your sword towards its body. it made contact, but the wound closed almost immediately.

‘it has reversed cursed technique too? no wonder its special grade,’ this made the task of eliminating it much harder.

“darling, i told you not to come,” kento said, stabilizing himself against the wall.

“that stubborness could have gotten you killed,” you reply, striking the curse again to no avail. kento joins the fight, the two of you working together seamlessly.

“i’ve been trying to find its weakspot, and i don’t think it’s anywhere in the body,” he says, and you nod.

“then it has to be in the wings, i’d assume. cut them off and it should disintigrate on its own. hopefully,” you say, running towards the curse, sliding under it and slicing all the way down. kento follows, immediately making his way towards the wings, slicing at one. your sword lodges into the beast’s body, getting stuck part of the way through, and you push it up further up into the curse’s body. it screeches, and kento takes that time to slice the other wing. the two of you had always been such great partners, not even having to relay your plan before the two of you begin to work in sync. your movements begin to speed up, letting you know that your endeavor had worked. however, the beast was disintigrating too slowly, allowing it to still attack.

your sword had been dislodged from the curse and you found yourself behind it, watching everything happen in slow motion. it thrusted its head towards your husband, clearly meaning to get one last attack in, and while he would normally be able to evade quite easily, he’d been here for hours and his exhaustion was clear.

‘Fuck no,’ you thought, pulling yourself together and running straight towards the curse. all of the cursed energy you possessed was in your sword, and you made an arc, slashing it right through the curse’s neck. its head came clean off, and you positioned your body towards your husband, pushing him out of the way to take the weight of the head onto your own body.

a crack echoed in the room, probably from one of your ribs, but you couldn’t find it in you to care. the curse disintegrated, leaving you on the ground, eyes peering over at your husband.

he groaned weakly, slowly pushing to a stand, and he walks over to you.

“are you alright?” his eyebrows furrow in worry, and you shake your head, sitting up.

“i should be asking you that. you fought that curse for hours and are still standing upright. we need to go visit shoko,” you say, wincing at the pain in your abdomen. kento comes over, kneeling next to you and putting a hand on your shoulder. you grab his hand, and he helps you stand up, the two of you leaning into each other.

“what happened to the other sorcerer?” he’d been sent on this mission with another grade one sorcerer, who was no where to be found.

“he got injured really badly, and i had him leave so i didn’t have to worry about protecting him too,” your heart warms at his care for your fellow sorcerers, but you can’t help but sigh.

“this is why i came to get you. i love how protective you are, but you need another person here for fights like this,” a low hum fills the room as he agrees, and you lean your head on his shoulder.

“can we go home? i think we can hold off on seeing shoko for a bit, i just need some rest,” your husband’s voice is scratchy as a symptom of his shallow breathing, and you want nothing more than to help him. the exhaustion washing over your body tells you that rest will do the both of you some good, so you nod, and start walking towards the door.

“okay, let’s go home.”

#kento nanami x reader #kento nanami #nanami x reader #nanami x y/n #nanami x you #jjk nanami #jjk nanami kento #tense but no angst #kind of edited?

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moonhoures · 1 year ago

Text

Cowgirl

🕷️ kinktober — day 10: costumes 🕸️

pairing: wooyoung (ateez) + reader (afab)

genre: non-idol!au, smut

warnings: 18+, minors do not interact, explicit smut, established relationship, cowboy/cowgirl costumes, lots of lame cowboy-related jokes/comments bc i think i’m funny ig (sorry), protected sex 👍🏻, reverse cowgirl position, ass slapping, reader is half-clothed during sex

word count: ~2.2k

synopsis: you and your boyfriend can’t get enough of each other in your halloween costumes

a/n: the way my ateez bias list is in shambles after writing these kinktober posts….. 😔

posted: october 10, 2023

kinktober masterlist

“________! Are you ready yet?”

Wooyoung’s voice rung out through the house as he looked around the room, trying to recall where he had set down his cowboy hat. While his eyes trailed over the room, the sound of your boots thudding down the stairs caught his attention. He turned to watch your entrance to the living room, and his eyes widened at the sight of you in all your glory. Your body covered in a black, leather cowgirl outfit that matched his own. The matching costumes were his idea, but you were the one that had picked them out. This was the first time seeing you in yours, and it was taking his breath away.

Your breasts were practically spilling out of the top of your tight-fitted, sleeveless vest that showed off your midriff. He was thankful you were wearing a black bra underneath, because the buttons on the vest looked like they were minutes away from popping open—not that he would really complaint about that. Black leather shorts hugged your ass and the tops of your thighs snuggly. Leather boots, with fringe that matched the kind on your vest, reached up just past your knee. A faux lasso was coiled up and attached to the empty belt loop on your hip.

“Close your mouth, babe, you’re gonna catch flies,” you teased your boyfriend, holding out his missing cowboy hat to him while you set your own on top of your head, “And you forgot this upstairs.”

Wooyoung quickly shut his mouth, took the hat from your hand, and set it on his head. The two of you stood in front of the mirror displayed by your front door, making last minute adjustments of your clothes before you planned to leave. You smiled as you admired your good work at finding matching outfits; you had to admit you both looked really good. Wooyoung’s leather pants and matching vest just fit him so well. You couldn’t help but bite your lip at the sight of his ass in the tight pants you got him.

“My eyes are up here, ________.”

Now Wooyoung was the one teasing you, throwing you a wink as he caught your eyes in the mirror. You rolled your eyes playfully, and handed him his keys before nudging him towards the door.

Your mutual friend, Seonghwa, was throwing a costumer party for Halloween that started at 8pm. So naturally you two showed up fifteen minutes late because Wooyoung swore he knew how to get to his house without using the GPS—spoiler alert, he didn’t. But Seonghwa still greeted you both at the door with a big smile and a glass half-full of some kind of liquor nonetheless.

“Woohoo, first couple of the night just got in from the West? I love it,” he gestured to your outfits before embracing you in a quick hug.

“All _______’s idea,” Wooyoung gave you your credit, his hand never leaving your hip as you two walked in and your friend closed the door behind you.

“She does have good fashion sense,” Seonghwa winked in your direction before bringing you to the kitchen where everyone else was indulging in the snacks and drinks while music played from the living room.

For the next few hours, you and your boyfriend socialized with the growing number of party guests, most of whom you already knew. So you had no problem making your way through the house without your boyfriend unlike how you usually would in a party setting. But you two still danced and chatted with your friends for a while before you separated. At one point you got caught up in a card game with Yunho, San, and a handful of other partygoers. Wooyoung was off somewhere talking with Seonghwa and Hongjoong for almost half an hour before he realized how long you had been gone, presumably in the bathroom. After excusing himself, he set off to look for you.

When he found you in the dining room playing cards, he lingered by the doorway, watching you as he took sips of his drink. You looked hot beyond belief. Your sharp eyes watched everyone placing their cards on the tables, the gears in your head turning. Even in the shitty, dim lighting of the dining room, you still glowed. And when the game went your way, you hollered with excitement, leaping from your chair and moving your arm in a lasso movement to play off of your costume. Wooyoung couldn’t help the way he smiled.

You reached across the table, bringing all the chips to your corner with a wide smile on your lips. As the cards got reshuffled and you took another sip from your drink, you made eye contact with your boyfriend across the room. You grinned at him, noticing him taking a seat on the stool near him. While the next game started you could feel Wooyoung’s eyes on you, and it made your face feel hot. But you liked it. You liked the way he watched you play with a concupiscent expression on his face. The way his intense eyes were covered in darkness from the shade of his cowboy hat, which only added to how sexy he already looked. You really had to give yourself a pat on the back for these costumes.

“________,” Yunho nodded in your direction to get your attention back to the game, “Your turn.”

You snapped back to the task at hand, taking your hand of cards and fanning them out in a way only you could see them. The handful of partygoers that lingered around the table watched you and the other players inspect their cards. But Wooyoung’s eyes were on you—only you—and they were practically burning holes through you. You shifted under his gaze, suddenly feeling very antsy and, honestly, extremely horny.

While the next round started, you made the mistake of looking up over your cards at your boyfriend again. He was still sat on his stool, but he was leaning back with one elbow propped against the counter. His other hand was loosely holding the stereotypically big, flashy, silver belt buckle on his pants. The lack of effort he was putting in to look so fucking attractive was majorly doing it for you. In that moment you decided to focus on finishing the game and getting home as soon as possible.

Luckily for you, Wooyoung seemed to be on the same page. You didn’t win that round, but when you met him by the counter, he still praised you for how well you played.

“You know, you are so hot when you’re competitive,” he said, eyes glinting as he leaned his head up to look at you from under the brim of his hat.

“Really? I was gonna say the same about you,” your fingers trailed from his leather-covered knee up to the top of his thigh as you spoke, making his Adam’s apple shift, “I meant, you looked really hot watching me play.”

“Hm, I wonder what two hot people in costumes could do on a night like this,” he sighed dramatically, not missing the way you rolled your eyes at his comment.

“I was thinking we could go home. I could, uh, use a ride,” you arched a brow at him, further enunciating your words as a hint.

“Well duh, we came here together.”

You shook your head softly and tried not to laugh, “No, babe, I’m a cowgirl, remember? I could use a ride.”

This time your fingers reached up to his belt, gripping his buckle and tugging at it softly. Your boyfriend smirked, looking at the way your thighs brushed against his legs. He could already imagine how you would look riding him on the couch—he figured you two wouldn’t make it to the bedroom.

“I’ll go get my keys.”

You pecked a chaste kiss to his lips before zig-zagging through the people in the house to the front door. You did run into Seonghwa on your way out, and you made sure to thank him for inviting you two. He pouted, commenting that it was so early for you to be leaving, but when he saw the look Wooyoung was giving you as he rejoined you by the front door, he instantly understood the situation.

“Alright, go have a good night. Just don’t drive like a maniac!” he called after you before the door closed behind you both.

Wooyoung heeded his friend’s warning, driving safely despite being distracted by your lips on his cheek and neck at red lights. But as soon as he got home and threw the car into park, all bets were off. Seatbelts clicking filled the car as you both leaped out of your seats. Wooyoung was quick to unlock the front door, and he hooked his keys onto the key holder by the light switch. Once the door was closed, he pressed you up against it, giggles erupting between the two of you as you went in for a kiss and your hats bumped into each other.

He took his off, tossing it to the floor before diving back in for the kiss, his lips and tongue clashing with yours. You moaned when you felt his hips grinding up against yours and the chunky buckle of his belt rubbing against your lower stomach. The buttons on your vest popped open one-by-one at the expertise of his fingertips, causing you to gasp in surprise. He smirked at you as you pulled away from the kiss.

“How ‘bout that ride now?”

You nodded, taking his hand in yours to lead him to the bedroom. No couch tonight, I guess, he thought as you passed it up. You flipped on the light switch, illuminating the room while you kicked off your boots and pushed them aside. Your boyfriend followed your lead, took off the rest of his clothes, quickly put on a condom, and then climbed onto his side of the bed. He asked you to leave your top and hat on—“for fun”, he said. Then he licked his lips in anticipation, watching you get on from the opposite side of the bed after removing your leather shorts and panties.

“Hop on,” Wooyoung patted his thigh, eyes raking up and down your figure before you got yourself comfortable on his lap, back turned to him. Oh, reverse cowgirl, he thought. This is gonna be great.

Your knees dug into the mattress at the sides of your boyfriend’s thighs, and you let out a sigh of satisfaction when you felt his waiting cock against your wet folds. You learned forward, putting on a show for Wooyoung, swaying your hips just enough to put your pussy on full display for him. He let out a small groan, and the next thing you knew, his hands were on your ass.

“Like what you see?” you teased him, rocking your hips while he rubbed the plump of your cheeks.

“Love it,” he assured you.

With his hungry, expecting eyes on you, you reached between your thighs and took his erection in your hand. You lined up the head of his cock to your cunt. Blissful breaths fell off of both of your lips as your warmth engulfed him. He was buried deep; you could feel him in places that even your toys couldn’t reach. It was perfect.

You began rocking your hips, up and down and back and forth, building a rhythm. You smiled to yourself as you heard your boyfriend make little noises of pleasure. And if that wasn’t a clue that he was enjoying the view, then it was the way his fingers gripped your ass, pulling your cheeks further apart so he could watch himself disappear between them. He landed one good slap against your flesh, then another and another, encouraging you to go faster. Your hat was starting to slip off from how quickly you were moving, so you reached up to adjust it.

“That’s it, cowgirl, keep going,” you heard him say, and you obliged. You continued to bounce on him, the space between your thighs growing wetter by the minute.

“Fuck- Are you close?” you asked, your orgasm brewing deep in your belly.

“If you keep fucking me like this, I will be- Ah!” he hissed as you clenched on him and seated yourself down completely on him, grinding your hips harder than before. You braced your hands on his knees, leaning forward a little. You arched your back, letting him watch you fuck him in hopes of getting him to cum sooner. Seconds later he was moaning your name and his hands were holding your hips so tightly that you knew there would be marks there in the morning. Man, did you know your boyfriend well, or what?

Your vagina squeezed and clenched around his condom-coated cock while you breathed heavily between moans of his name. Your hips slowly came to a halt, and Wooyoung’s hands finally fell to his sides on the bed.

“Remind me why we haven’t done this before?” he asked, making you laugh.

“Because we haven’t had a reason to wear costumes since we started dating,” you reminded him, peeking at him over your shoulder before you dismounted from his lap. Your knees pressed into the mattress beside him, then you were plopping onto the space there, cuddling against his side.

“Well we should start considering other costumes, y’know, . . . for next year,” he shrugged, head tilting to look at you.

“Next year? Why wait? We can dress up anytime we want to, not just for Halloween,” you winked at him, earning raised eyebrows in response.

“Say less. I’m putting you in the next sexy costume I can get my hands on.”

— taglist #1

@jaylaxies @xiaoting999 @kookthief @zaddywilk @wonrangwoo @pedriswrld @ikykleeknowww @odisdad @abby-grace @jungwonloveer @pinklemonadeflav @celestialplatinum @luvkpopp @nlklstan @kisses4denji @jenos-eye-smiles @a-l-i-y-a @channiesprincess @bekah931215 @heerinnie @fairygirl18 @cinnikoi @im-ur-calico-cat @unlikelysublimekryptonite

#ateez smut #wooyoung smut #atz smut #jung wooyoung smut #ateez fanfic #ateez imagines #ateez scenarios #ateez x reader #ateez x y/n #wooyoung fanfic #wooyoung imagines #wooyoung scenarios #wooyoung x reader #wooyoung x y/n #jung wooyoung fanfic #jung wooyoung imagine #[🕷️] kinktober 23

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gayghostgrimoire · 4 months ago

Text

Scouser

Ethan wandered aimlessly through the misty streets of Liverpool, the thick fog clinging to his clothes like a cold, damp shroud. It was a far cry from the sunny California beaches he'd left behind, but the allure of the town had drawn him across the pond. The GPS on his phone had failed him, leaving him to navigate the maze of unfamiliar streets with only the faded glow of the occasional streetlight to guide his way.

As he turned into a narrow alley, the fog grew denser, wrapping around him like a living thing with malicious intent. The distant sounds of the city grew muffled, replaced by a foreboding silence that seemed to press in on him from all sides. That's when he heard it—a faint, yet distinctly mocking scouse accent echoing through the murk. "Lost, are ya?" it taunted. "Fancy a bit of company, then?"

Ethan's heart hammered in his chest as he scanned the alley, but the fog was too thick to make out any figures lurking in the shadows. His mind raced with the possibilities of who, or what, could be speaking to him. The accent was unmistakably local, yet the tone was eerily playful, almost flirtatious. He took a tentative step back, trying to blend with the brick wall behind him, hoping it would offer some protection.

"Oi, don't be shy," the voice called out again, closer this time. "We don't bite... unless you're into that sort of thing." The taunts grew louder, and he could now discern the laughter of two young men, their footsteps echoing off the wet cobblestones as they approached. Ethan's palms grew slick with sweat despite the cold, and his grip tightened around the strap of his backpack, ready to flee at any moment.

As if on cue, the fog behind him parted slightly to reveal the silhouettes of two figures. Suddenly, he felt a firm grip on his butt, and he spun around with a start. Two Scouse lads, no older than twenty-two, were grinning at him, their teeth flashing in the dim light. They were dressed in matching shiny tracksuits and Nike TN's that looked like they'd been stolen straight from a sports shop. One had spiky blond hair and piercing blue eyes, the other, a mop of curly chestnut hair and eyes so dark they seemed to swallow the light.

"Caught ya off guard, didn't we?" the blond one quipped, his voice thick with a Liverpool accent that was as smooth as it was menacing. "I'm Jamie, and this 'ere's me mate, Ollie. What's your name, handsome?"

Ethan, trying to play it cool, managed a shaky laugh. "I'm Ethan, just a tourist trying to find my way."

Jamie and Ollie exchanged glances, their mischievous eyes gleaming with something that was more than just playfulness. The grip on his butt grew firmer, and Ethan felt a knot of fear coil in his stomach. Despite their seemingly harmless banter, there was an underlying current of danger that he couldn't ignore. They were smaller in build than he'd anticipated, but there was something feral and unpredictable about them that made his instincts scream caution.

"Ah, a Yank!" Ollie exclaimed, his grin widening. "You're just what we need tonight, love." He stepped closer, his breath a mix of ciggies and cheap cider, and placed a hand on Ethan's shoulder. "How about we show you the sights, eh? Give you a proper tour of our lovely city."

Ethan's instincts told him to decline, but he found himself nodding, the fear momentarily overridden by his curiosity. The two lads began to walk alongside him, their arms brushing against his as they weaved through the foggy alley. The flirtatiousness grew more pronounced with each step, their touches lingering a little longer than necessary. The smell of their cheap aftershave made Ethan's nose wrinkle, but he kept his cool, playing along as if he was enjoying their company.

"So, you into footie, then?" Ethan nodded, his voice a tad shakier than he would have liked. "Good taste. Who's your team?"

"I'm more of a Man U fan," Ethan admitted, expecting a hostile reaction. Instead, the two lads just chuckled. "Ah, a bit of rivalry," Ollie said, nudging him with his elbow. "Don't worry, we won't hold it against you."

They strolled onward, the fog thinning as they ventured deeper into the city's underbelly. The buildings grew shabbier, graffiti more prevalent, and the smell of greasy food and stale beer filled the air. The conversation remained light, with Jamie and Ollie peppering him with questions about his favorite players and football matches he'd been to. They spoke with a passion that was contagious, and Ethan found himself relaxing slightly, his initial fear giving way to a morbid fascination with the pair.

Ollie fished a pack of ciggies from his pocket and offered one to Ethan. "Want a fag?"

Ethan hesitated, his eyes flicking between the cigarette and the smirk on Ollie's face. "No, thanks. I don't smoke."

Ollie's grin grew more playful, his dark eyes glinting with amusement. "Ah, such a good boy," he said, his voice a seductive purr. "But don't you think a bit of naughtiness could make you look even more appealing?" He held the cigarette up to Ethan's lips, the tip glowing a fiery red.

Ethan took a deep breath, trying to ignore the dry taste that coated his mouth, and took a tentative drag. The smoke burned his throat and lungs, and he couldn't help but cough, doubling over in a fit of hacking. The two lads erupted into laughter, slapping him on the back with rough, calloused hands.

"Bloody hell, you're a right lightweight," Jamie said, his eyes twinkling with mirth. "Here, let me help you with that." He took a step closer, placing a hand on Ethan's back to steady him, while Ollie held the cigarette back to his mouth.

Ethan took another drag, this one less tentative than the first, trying to keep up with their bravado. The smoke curled around his tongue, leaving a bitter taste, but he forced himself to hold it in longer before letting it out in a puff that was more impressive than he'd expected. "Better?" Ollie asked, his voice still coated with that flirty lilt.

"Much," Ethan said, his voice a bit raspy.

Jamie chuckled, a hint of something more than mirth in his tone. "Looks like you're getting the hang of it," he said, leaning in so close that Ethan could feel the warmth of his breath. "But you know, you're basically kissing Ollie every time you do that."

Ollie's smile grew wider, revealing a chipped tooth. "Yeah, that's right," he said, his hand lingering on Ethan's shoulder. "Swapping spit and all that."

Ethan felt his cheeks warm despite the cold, but the fear was slowly dissipating. He took another drag of the cigarette, feeling a strange kinship with the two young men. They weren't like anyone he'd met before—flirtatious and forward in a way that was both confusing and exhilarating. As they strolled through the alleyways, the fog began to lift, and the neon glow of a pub sign flickered into view. The sound of shattered glass and raucous laughter spilled into the street, accompanied by the distant cheer of a football match.

"Looks like the party's already started," Jamie said, nodding toward the pub. The sign above the door read "The Red Lion" in faded letters. The smell of stale beer and greasy food grew stronger as they approached, mingling with the sweet scent of tobacco smoke. The door was propped open, and a warm glow spilled onto the cobblestones.

"Come on, let's get you a pint," Ollie suggested, giving Ethan a playful shove. "You'll need it to keep up with us."

Ethan allowed himself to be guided through the open door, the warmth of the pub enveloping him like a bearhug. The place was crowded, with locals shouting over the din of a live band playing a rowdy cover of "You'll Never Walk Alone." The scent of spilled ale and fried fish washed over him as they found a table in the corner.

Jamie and Ollie propped their feet up on the table, wagging them back and forth with teasing eyes. Ethan couldn't help but stare at the intricate ankle tattoos peeking out from their rolled-up tracksuit pants. One had a dagger with the word "Love" etched on the blade, the other a pair of cherries that looked suspiciously like a pair of testicles. Their flirtatiousness was palpable, and he felt his heart flutter in his chest.

"You know, Ollie," Jamie said, nudging his friend with an elbow, "you really need to sort out your pongy feet."

Ollie shot him a glare, but Ethan noticed the glint of a smile. "Why don't you keep your nose out of it, Jamie? Besides, Ethan here might like it." He winked at Ethan, who felt his cheeks flush.

Jamie chuckled, "Yeah, right. Like anyone would want a whiff of those stinkers." He nudged Ollie's leg with his own, the leather of his shoe squeaking against the plastic chair. "But you know what, let's not bother our guest with our stench. Get us a round of pints, will ya?"

Ollie rolled his eyes, but the mischief remained on his face. He hopped off the chair with a grace that belied his rough exterior. "Alright, alright, keep your knickers on," he said, swaggering toward the bar. As he moved away, the smell of his feet did seem to linger, a pungent aroma that was indeed quite potent.

Jamie leaned in closer to Ethan, his eyes dancing with a playful glint. "Ollie's right, though," he whispered conspiratorially. "My feet are the real horror show." He wiggled his toes, and Ethan caught a faint whiff of something that could only be described as a mix of sweat and stale cheese.

Ollie returned with three pints of lager, sloshing slightly as he set them down on the sticky table. "Here you go, lads," he said, his eyes never leaving Ethan's. He took a seat and leaned back, his arms crossed over his chest. "So, you're a dead ringer for our mate Tommy," Jamie said, taking a long pull from his pint. "It's uncanny, really."

Ethan's heart skipped a beat. "Who's Tommy?"

Jamie leaned back, his eyes misting with nostalgia. "Ah, Tommy. He was one of us. The life of the party, that one. Could charm the birds out of the trees," he said, taking a swig of his pint. "And he had this knack for making the lads swoon. Just a wink, and they'd be putty in his hands."

Ollie nodded, his smile wistful. "Remember when he convinced that posh bloke from the university that he was a secret prince?" He snickered, the memory bringing a sparkle to his eyes. "We had him running around town, doing all sorts for us. Thought he'd hit the jackpot with a real-life fairy tale."

Jamie's laughter was deep and infectious, and even Ethan couldn't help but smile at the absurdity of the story. "Yeah, poor sod was half in love by the time we told him it was all a joke," he said, wiping a tear from his eye. "But that was Tommy. He had this way about him."

Ollie took a sip of his beer, his gaze lingering on Ethan. "He was a bit of a looker too, our Tommy. Could turn heads with just a smile." He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. "And when he put his mind to it, could get a guy to do anything he wanted."

Ethan swallowed hard, his curiosity piqued. "What happened to him?"

Jamie took another swig of his lager, his eyes never leaving Ethan's. "Tommy? Oh, he kicked the bucket a few weeks ago," he said nonchalantly, as if discussing the weather. "Went out on his uncle's fishing boat and never came back. They found him floating in the Mersey, stiff as a board." He chuckled, a dark note in his laugh.

Ethan's smile faltered, the laughter in his throat dying. "That's terrible," he murmured, unsure of how to respond to their casualness.

Jamie shrugged. "It's life, isn't it?" He took another swig of his pint, the foam clinging to his upper lip. "But don't you worry about it, love. Tommy's spirit's still with us, in a way." He winked, and Ollie nodded in agreement.

Ollie leaned closer, his eyes gleaming in the dim light. "You see, we've got a little ritual we do for our mates when they pass on," he whispered, his voice a seductive purr. "It's like we keep 'em close, ya know?"

Ethan nodded, his curiosity now tinged with unease. He took a sip of the lager, the cool liquid washing over his tongue. It was a strange flavor, almost metallic, but with an undertone of something sweet, like candy. The more he drank, the heavier his eyelids grew, his thoughts swirling like the fog outside. The room grew hazy, the sounds of the pub melding into a cacophony of laughter and shouts that echoed in his head.

Ollie slid into the booth next to him, his arm snaking around Ethan's shoulders with the ease of an old friend. The warmth of his body was surprisingly comforting, and Ethan found himself leaning into the embrace despite the stranger's musky scent. "You're just like him," Ollie murmured into his ear, his breath hot and wet. "You've got that same spark, that same... vibe."

Jamie took the opposite side, his leg brushing against Ethan's under the table. His sneaker was grimy, the white leather stained with a pattern of dirt and who-knows-what, but there was something undeniably alluring about the way he nudged Ethan's foot with his own, a silent invitation to play along with their game. Ethan's inhibitions began to unravel like a cheap sweater, the tension in his body giving way to a strange, thrilling sense of abandon.

The three of them knocked back their pints, the alcohol hitting Ethan's system like a freight train. He felt lightheaded, his thoughts swirling with the laughter and music of the pub. "C'mon," Jamie slurred, slapping the table with the palm of his hand. "Let's go back to our place. Show ya a proper scouser time."

Ollie nodded, his eyes half-lidded with drink. "Yeah, you'll love it," he said, his voice dropping into that seductive purr again. "You're one of us now, aren't ya?"

Ethan found himself grinning, the idea of fitting in with these two rough-around-the-edges lads surprisingly appealing. He'd always been the clean-cut tourist, following the beaten path and playing it safe. But there was something about the wildness of Jamie and Ollie that called to him, something he hadn't felt in a long time. He nodded, the room spinning slightly as he stood up, Ollie's arm still draped over his shoulders.

They stumbled out of the pub, the night air hitting him like a cold slap in the face. The fog had lifted, leaving the cobblestone streets slick with rain and the scent of the river hanging heavy in the air. They wove their way through the city, the neon lights of the clubs and pubs reflecting off the wet pavement. The laughter and music grew fainter as they left the center of town, heading into a more residential area where the buildings leaned together as if whispering secrets to one another.

Jamie and Ollie had an easy camaraderie, finishing each other's sentences and slapping each other's backs with a familiarity that spoke of a long history together. Ethan felt like the third wheel, but also like the most important person in the world as they both vied for his attention. They pointed out landmarks and told stories of their childhood, each one more outrageous than the last. The lager had loosened their tongues and their inhibitions, and Ethan found himself caught in their infectious energy.

"Here we are," Jamie announced, nudging Ethan as they reached a row of terraced houses, their red brick façades stained with time and pollution. "Home sweet home." The door to number 23 stood ajar, and the smell of stale incense and weed wafted out into the night.

Ethan followed them up a narrow staircase, the walls plastered with faded football posters and stickers from long-forgotten bands. The apartment was a chaotic mess—clothes and empty beer cans scattered across the floor, dirty dishes piled high in the kitchen sink, and a faint scent of something musky in the air. It was the kind of place that looked like a tornado had swept through it, but somehow, it felt oddly cozy.

The living room was dominated by an ancient sofa that looked like it had seen better days. The fabric was stained, the cushions lumpy, and the smell of male musk was as potent as the stale cigarette smoke that hung in the air. But it was the perfect perch for the trio, and they sank into it with a collective sigh, Ethan sandwiched between them.

Jamie tossed a pack of ciggies on the coffee table, the plastic sticking to the film of beer that had been spilled and forgotten. "Help yourself," he said, gesturing to the pack with a grin. Ethan picked one out, the paper feeling gritty between his fingers, and Ollie lit it with a zippo that had seen more action than a porn star. The first drag was harsh, but he managed to keep his cough to a minimum, earning an approving nod from his new companions.

Ollie leaned in closer, his arm draped over the back of the sofa, his fingers idly playing with the hair at the nape of Ethan's neck. "You're a right catch, you are," he murmured, his voice thick with sincerity and something else—desire. Ethan felt a shiver run down his spine, his body responding to the unspoken promise in the Scally's gaze.

"Yeah, you fit right in, like you were born for this," Jamie said, his hand resting casually on Ethan's knee. The touch grew bolder, his fingers tracing patterns through the fabric of Ethan's jeans that made him squirm with excitement. "You've got the looks, the swagger," he said, his eyes raking over Ethan's body. "We could use someone like you."

Ethan took another drag of his cigarette, feeling the warmth spread through him as he exhaled. The haze in his mind was thickening, the edges of his reality blurring. He didn't know what was happening, but he didn't want it to stop. "You guys are something else," he murmured, his voice low and thick with desire.

Ollie leaned in even closer, his hand sliding down to rest on Ethan's thigh. "You like that, do ya?" he asked, his voice a silky whisper that seemed to resonate deep within Ethan's core.

Jamie grinned, his teeth flashing in the dim light of the living room. "Yeah, you do, don't ya?" He took a long drag from his cigarette and blew the smoke in a ring that floated lazily up to the ceiling. "You know, love, you'd fit in so much better if you wore something a bit more... us."

Ethan's eyes widened slightly, the haze in his mind clearing just enough to process the suggestion. He'd never been one to dress like a local, but the idea of blending in with Jamie and Ollie was suddenly incredibly appealing. "What do you mean?"

Ollie's grin grew, his eyes glinting with excitement. "We've got Tommy's old gear," he said, nodding towards a pile of clothes in the corner. "You'd look right proper in them, like a real scouser." He leaned closer, his hand sliding up to Ethan's chest. "Right Jamie? All the lads in the pub, fighting over him like a pack of dogs."

Jamie chuckled, his hand sliding from Ethan's knee to his hip. "Oh, you'd have 'em eating out of the palm of your hand," he agreed. "And they'd be begging for more."

Ethan felt his cheeks redden, his heart racing at the thought. "Okay," he said, his voice a little unsteady. "Sure!"

Ollie clapped his hands together, a grin spreading across his face. "Perfect!" He hopped off the sofa and scurried over to the pile of clothes. "Here you go, love," he said, tossing a red Liverpool FC jersey at Ethan. It smelled faintly of sweat and something else, something that made Ethan's nose wrinkle.

Jamie took the lead, his eyes never leaving Ethan's as he began to unbutton the American's shirt. His hands were surprisingly gentle, his touch sending a thrill through Ethan's body. With each button undone, the jersey slid away, revealing the tourist's taut abs and the faint outline of a six-pack. "Nice," Jamie murmured, his voice low and full of appreciation. "You've been taking care of yourself."

Ollie whooped, his hand slapping Ethan's bare chest in a gesture that was half-celebratory, half-playful. "Look at the goods on him!"

Jamie's eyes never left Ethan's as he pulled the jersey over his head, his hands lingering on the American's skin longer than necessary. The fabric was rough against Ethan's skin, the scent of old sweat and cheap cologne mingling with the musk of the lads around him. It was a smell that would normally make him gag, but now, it just made him feel more alive. He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with it, and felt his cock stir in his jeans.

Ollie was next, unbuttoning Ethan's pants with a flourish. "Let's see what you're hiding under these fancy trousers," he said, his voice dripping with innuendo. Ethan's hands trembled slightly as he slid his pants down, revealing his boxers. They were designer, clean and pristine, a stark contrast to the stained white track pants Ollie held out to him.

The track pants were snug, hugging Ethan's thighs like a second skin. As he pulled them up, he couldn't help but notice the way the fabric clung to his growing erection, highlighting it like a beacon of desire. The smell of sweat and something else—something that was uniquely Ollie and Jamie—enveloped him, making him feel part of their world.

"Lookin' good, love," Jamie said, his eyes raking over Ethan's now scally-fied attire. The jersey was a size too small, the fabric stretching taut over his chest, and the track pants hung low on his hips, showcasing the waistband of his designer boxers.

Ollie whistled low, his eyes dark with lust. "You're a natural," he murmured, his hand reaching out to trace the outline of Ethan's cock, making him gasp. "Just like Tommy used to."

The words snapped something in Ethan, and suddenly, it was as if he could hear the echoes of his dead doppelgänger's laughter in his own voice. "Cheeky bugger," he said, the Scouse accent slipping into his words unbidden. It was a sound that was at once foreign and eerily familiar, as if he'd been speaking it all his life.

Jamie and Ollie erupted into laughter, slapping their knees and exchanging a look that spoke volumes. "Bloody hell," Jamie said, his eyes wide. "You've got the mouth on ya."

Ethan felt a thrill at their reaction, a newfound boldness surging through him. He leaned back on the sofa, crossing one ankle over the opposite knee, and took a long drag of his cigarette, blowing the smoke out in a slow, seductive stream. "Maybe I've got more in common with Tommy than you think," he said, his voice dropping an octave. The accent came more naturally now, rolling off his tongue like honey.

Jamie's eyes grew dark, his gaze lingering on Ethan's mouth. "Oh, you're a right cheeky one," he murmured, leaning in closer. "Just like him." His hand slid from Ethan's hip up to his waist, his thumb stroking the bare skin just above the waistband of the borrowed track pants. "Could be his twin, you know?"

Ollie nodded, his own hand joining the fray. "Yeah," he breathed, his eyes locked on Ethan's. "You're a musky fucker just like him. The way you're filling out those pants, you could pass for his ghost." His hand dipped lower, cupping the growing bulge in Ethan's crotch, making him moan.

Ethan's eyes sparkled with mischief as he took another drag from his cigarette, blowing the smoke into the air. "Maybe I've got his moves too," he said, his voice a smoky purr that was pure Tommy. He leaned back into the embrace of the sofa, the fabric of the jersey sticking to his sweaty skin. "You two ever wondered what it'd be like to have him back?"

Ollie's eyes grew dark, his pupils dilating. "You know what, love?" He said, his hand sliding down to cup Ethan's package. "I think we already do." And with that, he dropped to his knees, the floorboards groaning under his weight. He peered up at Ethan through a fringe of hair, a wicked grin playing on his lips.

Ethan felt a jolt of excitement at the look on Ollie's face, his cock swelling even more. Ollie reached out and gripped the waistband of the track pants, pulling them down just enough to expose Ethan's cock. It was already thick and hard, the scent of sweat and arousal mixing with the stale smoke from the pub. Ollie leaned in, his tongue flicking out to taste Ethan's skin. "Mm," he murmured, his eyes closing in pleasure. "You're just like him."

The first touch of Ollie's mouth was electric, the heat and wetness of it sending shivers down Ethan's spine. His hips bucked slightly, pushing himself deeper into the warm cavern of the Scally's mouth. He watched, entranced, as Ollie took him in, his cheeks hollowing out with each suck. It was as if he'd done this a hundred times before, as if he knew exactly what Ethan needed, what Tommy had liked.

Jamie's eyes never left the show, his hand moving to his own crotch, stroking himself through the fabric of his pants. "Looks like you're enjoying that," he murmured, his voice thick with lust. He leaned over the back of the sofa, his mouth grazing Ethan's ear. "You're just like him, aren't ya?"

Ethan threw his head back, the pleasure of Ollie's mouth on him overwhelming. He felt something change within him, a wildness that he hadn't felt before, a sense of abandon that was as intoxicating as the whiskey and lager swirling in his belly. He reached down, his hand tangling in Ollie's hair as he pushed him further down, his hips bucking in time with the Scally's eager sucks. He could feel himself losing control, the boundaries between him and Tommy blurring like the fog outside.

The room grew hazier, the smoke thickening around them as Jamie stood up, his eyes never leaving the erotic dance between Ethan and Ollie. He sauntered over to the pile of clothes, his eyes alighting on a pair of grimy, worn-out TNs. They were a stark contrast to the clean, polished loafers Ethan had been wearing, the kind of shoes that screamed 'tourist'. He picked them up, holding them to his nose with a grin, inhaling deep the musky scent of sweat and the Mersey mud that clung to them. "These were Tommy's pride and joy," Jamie said, strutting over to Ethan's feet propped up on the coffee table. "They're yours now."

With surprising dexterity, Jamie snatched Ethan's loafers and slipped them off, the sound of fabric sliding against skin sending a thrill through the American. He took a moment to appreciate the clean, fresh scent of Ethan's socks before peeling them away, revealing the pale, unblemished soles of his feet. "Perfect," he murmured, his eyes glinting with mischief. "Just like Tommy's used to be."

The worn-out TNs looked almost black in the dim light of the room, the laces frayed and the toes caked with the grime of a hundred adventures. Ethan watched as Jamie took the left one and held it to his nose, inhaling deep. The scent was overpowering, a mix of sweat, the river, and something else—a scent that was as much a part of the fabric of the city as the bricks that made up the buildings around them. It was a smell that was at once repulsive and incredibly arousing, and Ethan felt his cock throb at the sight.

Jamie slid the sneaker onto Ethan's right foot, the fabric sticking slightly to the bare skin. It was tight, the grimy insole had molded to the shape of Tommy's foot, but it fit like a glove. The left one followed, and as Jamie laced them up, Ethan felt a strange sensation—like a jolt of electricity that shot through his entire body, making his toes curl and his cock pulse. He gasped, his eyes snapping open to meet Jamie's intense gaze.

The room grew dimmer, the edges of his vision blurring as if he were looking through a foggy window. The air grew thick with the scent of stale sweat and something else, something that seemed to fill his lungs and make him feel more alive than he had in years. Ethan's chest felt tight, his heart racing as if it were trying to break free of the confines of his body. He looked down at Ollie, whose eyes had glazed over, his mouth moving on Ethan's cock with a mind of its own. It was as if he could feel Tommy's spirit, squeezing into him, taking over.

A voice, rough and mischievous, echoed through his mind, and he realized it was Tommy's. "Cheers, mate," the spirit said, a chuckle that was part memory, part possession. "It's been a while since I've had a bit of fun like this." The words were accompanied by a feeling of pure, unbridled lust that flooded through Ethan's veins, making him feel like he could conquer the world.

Ollie looked up, his eyes wide with shock and excitement. "Bloody hell, you're him, aren't ya?" he whispered, his cheeks flushed as Ethan's hand grabbed his hair, pushing him down onto the thick shaft that was now fully under Tommy's control.

Tommy's voice, gruff and cheeky, filled the room as he spoke through Ethan's lips. "Miss me, lads?" he asked, his tone playful as he watched the two Scallys exchange glances that were a mix of shock and lust.

Jamie's hand paused on the laces of the second TN, his eyes wide with awe. "Bloody hell, Tommy," he murmured, a hint of fear and excitement in his voice. "Is that really you?"

The room grew even denser with anticipation as Ethan's hand—now Tommy's—reached out and knuckle-bumped Jamie's, the gesture playful and full of life. "Course it's me," the spirit said, a cheeky grin playing on Ethan's lips. "Couldn't stay away from you two, could I?"

Ollie, still kneeling, looked up with a mix of awe and hunger. "Welcome back, ya cheeky bastard," he murmured before taking Ethan's cock back into his mouth, eager to serve.

Tommy, now in full control, leaned back against the sofa, his body tensing as Ollie's mouth worked him over. The pleasure was intense, a mix of the physical and the metaphysical. He could feel the energy of the room shift, the very air seeming to thicken with the potent scent of desire and nostalgia. His hand found its way to Ollie's neck, his grip firm but gentle, guiding the rhythm as he neared climax.

"That's it, Ollie," he groaned, his voice a deep, guttural rumble that was unmistakably Tommy's. "Take it all, lad." And with that, he exploded, filling Ollie's mouth with a hot, thick load of his cum. Ollie's eyes watered, but he took it eagerly, swallowing it down with a gulp that sent a shiver through Tommy's entire being.

As the last of his climax subsided, Ethan's body went slack, his eyes fluttering closed. But the spirit of Tommy was far from finished. He sat up with a grin that was both cocky and predatory, his hand still tangled in Ollie's hair. "Good boy," he murmured, his voice still thick with lust. "But that's just the warm-up."

Ollie looked up, his lips glistening with cum, and nodded eagerly. "Whatever you want, Tommy," he said, his voice full of deviant longing.

Jamie, his eyes hooded with desire, took the cue. He stepped closer, his hand working his own cock through the fabric of his jeans. "You've got the taste for it now, don't ya?" he murmured, his voice a dark whisper. Ethan—no, Tommy—grinned, his hand sliding up Jamie's leg, gripping his cock firmly through the denim. "Oh, I've got the taste for it, alright," he said, his voice a perfect mimicry of the dead lad's.

Jamie groaned, his eyes rolling back in his head as Tommy's hand worked him. The tension in the room was palpable, the air thick with the scent of sweat and desire. "So fucking good."

Tommy's grin grew wider, a hint of the mischief that had made him infamous in life. "Aye, but I've got a bit of a thirst on," he said, his hand never leaving Jamie's cock. "How about we grab a pint before we really get down to it?"

Ollie and Jamie shared a look, their eyes gleaming with excitement. "Whatever you say, Tommy," Ollie murmured, his own erection tenting his track pants. "But don't keep us waiting too long."

With a wink, Tommy stood, the worn sneakers feeling surprisingly right on his feet. The three of them strutted out of the apartment, their laughter echoing through the hallway and down the stairs. The cool night air hit them like a slap in the face, sobering them up just enough to realize that the world outside had gone on without them. The streets of Liverpool were alive with the sounds of the night—cars honking, drunken laughter, and distant sirens. But to them, it was as if they were the only ones who mattered. They walked in a tight pack, Ethan's body moving with a newfound swagger, his eyes glinting with the mischief that had been Tommy's trademark.

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