#Punctual Drivers | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

pucksandpower · 5 days ago

Text

Gridlock

Charles Leclerc x Red Bull driver!Reader

father!Fernando Alonso x daughter!Reader

platonic!Max Verstappen x teammate!Reader

Summary: when a crazed fan kidnaps you from the paddock, your boyfriend, father, and teammate are sent on a wild goose chase … but will they make it before it’s too late?

Warnings: kidnapping, poisoning, attempted murder, and actual murder

The drivers' briefing room is already buzzing when Charles slides into his seat near the back, careful to keep a neutral expression. It’s packed as usual — Max is lounging at his right, propped up on one elbow, scrolling through something on his phone. Lewis is arguing with Lando about the track limits from last week, and Fernando — seated a few rows ahead — turns in his chair every now and then, a faintly amused expression on his face.

“Where is she?” Charles mutters without looking up.

Max doesn’t answer. He doesn’t need to. Charles raises an eyebrow, his look pointed, before turning his phone off with an exaggerated sigh.

“She’s always late,” Max says under his breath, more to himself than anyone.

“She’s always here by now,” Charles says, crossing his arms.

Max tilts his head in reluctant agreement. You’re late, yes, but never this late — not to something this important. Usually, it’s you walking in at the last second, hair a little messy, still half-laughing at some joke you overheard outside. You’d throw out a quick apology, flash a grin at the unimpressed FIA official, and drop into your seat without missing a beat.

But five minutes have stretched into ten.

The laughter in the room starts to taper off.

“She was with you, wasn’t she?” Charles asks Max, keeping his voice low.

Max frowns. “No. Wasn’t she with you?”

“No,” Charles says sharply, suddenly sitting straighter. His leg starts bouncing under the table. Max notices but doesn’t comment.

“Relax,” Max mutters, glancing around the room like he’s hoping to spot you suddenly materializing out of thin air. “She probably stopped to talk to a fan again. You know how she is.”

“Ten minutes ago, maybe,” Charles says, glancing at the door for the fourth time. “This isn’t like her.”

“Nothing about her is like anyone else,” Max says, rolling his eyes. But Charles doesn’t even smirk.

The FIA official clears his throat, stepping up to the front of the room. “Alright, let’s get started. If your fellow driver decides to show up, kindly remind her that punctuality is part of the job.”

The comment earns a chuckle or two, mostly from Lando and Pierre, but Charles feels his stomach drop. The humor of the situation has curdled.

Fifteen minutes late.

Fernando twists in his chair again, a little deeper this time, as though he’s scanning the room. Charles catches the older driver’s eyes and shakes his head slightly. Fernando’s jaw tightens before he faces forward again.

“Where the hell is she?” Charles mutters, mostly to himself.

Max gives him a sidelong glance. “You sure you didn’t fight or something?”

Charles snaps his head around to glare at him. “Why do you assume it’s my fault?”

Max shrugs. “You’re dramatic.”

Charles looks ready to argue, but the official’s voice cuts through.

“If she’s not here by the time I finish explaining the changes to the pit exit procedure, she’ll be fined and possibly given a penalty. And yes, that’s a new regulation, so don’t act surprised.”

“She’s not going to get a penalty,” Charles hisses under his breath, ignoring the way Max raises his eyebrows again.

“You sure about that?” Max asks, leaning back lazily. “Because she’s not here. And neither of us knows why.”

Twenty minutes now.

The official starts rattling off a list of procedural updates, but it’s white noise in Charles’ ears. He keeps glancing at his phone, as if it’ll buzz with a message from you, explaining everything. Maybe your PR officer pulled you into an emergency meeting. Maybe you ran into trouble on the way here — traffic, a flat tire, something.

Maybe you’re-

The doors burst open.

Everyone’s heads snap around. Even the official stumbles over his words, startled.

Your PR officer stands in the doorway, panting, her face pale and her hair disheveled. She doesn’t look at the FIA official, or the other drivers. Her eyes zero in on Fernando, Max, and Charles, and she says three words that turn the room to ice.

“Y/N is gone.”

***

Charles is on his feet before the words even register fully, his chair screeching against the floor as it topples over.

“What do you mean, gone?” His voice is sharp, the edges fraying with panic.

Max looks frozen, his mouth opening and closing like he’s trying to form a sentence but can’t. Fernando’s reaction is more immediate. He strides toward the PR officer, his expression dark and unrelenting.

“Explain. Now.”

The room is in chaos. Drivers are standing, whispering, some shouting questions, but Charles barely hears any of it. His heart is in his throat, his pulse pounding so loudly it drowns out everything else.

The PR officer stumbles over her words, her breaths still uneven. “She … she was heading here. I saw her outside the paddock maybe — fifteen, twenty minutes ago? She stopped to talk to fans, like always, and then … then she never showed up.”

“You’re sure it was her?” Fernando asks, his tone biting.

“Yes,” the PR officer says, her voice cracking. “I called her, but it’s going straight to voicemail.”

Charles’ blood turns to ice. He pulls his phone out, fingers fumbling as he dials your number. It rings once. Then twice.

“The person you are trying to reach is unavailable at this time, please leave a message after the tone.”

“No, no, no,” Charles mutters under his breath, hanging up and trying again. The same result.

Max is already doing the same thing, his movements more frantic. “Straight to voicemail,” he mutters, looking up at Charles, his face pale. “This — this doesn’t make sense.”

Fernando is digging into his pocket, pulling out his phone. “She’s on my Life360,” he says, his voice clipped. He pulls up the app, but when he taps your name, his expression hardens.

“She turned off her location,” he says, his voice low and dangerous. “She never does that.”

“Maybe her phone’s dead,” Max says quickly, as if the words are a lifeline.

Fernando gives him a sharp look. “She’d still be here.”

“Enough!” The FIA official steps forward, his voice raised. “Everyone, calm down. We don’t have enough information-”

Charles whirls on him, his voice nearly a shout. “She’s missing! We’re not sitting here and waiting for her to just show up!”

Before anyone can stop him, he’s bolting for the door. Max and Fernando are right behind him, and the PR officer scrambles after them, her bag bumping against her side.

They’re halfway down the corridor before Fernando grabs Charles’ arm, pulling him to a stop.

“We need more information,” Fernando says firmly, though his voice is tight. “Panicking isn’t going to help.”

Charles shrugs him off. “We are getting information!” He waves his phone in the air. “We’re calling, we’re-”

“Her phone is off!” Fernando snaps, his composure breaking for a split second. “Think. Where would she go? Who saw her last?”

“She was coming here,” Max interjects, his voice rougher now. “Her PR officer said she was coming here.” He turns to her. “Did you see anyone with her? Did anything seem off?”

The PR officer shakes her head quickly. “No, no, nothing. She was smiling, signing things — like always. But then …I don’t know.”

Fernando exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. “We need cameras. CCTV. Someone at the track must have access.”

“Let’s go,” Max says immediately, and the four of them take off again, weaving through hallways, ignoring the bewildered looks from engineers and staff they pass along the way.

Finally, they find someone — a track operations employee lingering near the media center. Fernando doesn’t waste time on pleasantries.

“We need access to CCTV. Now.”

The employee blinks. “Sir, I-”

“Now!” Fernando barks, his voice so authoritative that the man flinches before nodding quickly. “Okay, okay, follow me.”

The group is led to a small security office, the lights dim and monitors lining the walls. Fernando explains the situation in clipped, impatient sentences while Charles paces behind him, one hand pressed against his mouth.

“Check the paddock entrance,” Max says, leaning over the shoulder of the security guard. “Around fifteen or twenty minutes ago.”

The guard types something into the system, fast-forwarding through various camera feeds until he pulls up the right one. The screen shows you walking down the paddock, your Red Bull jacket unzipped, your hands moving animatedly as you talk to a small group of fans.

“There!” Charles says, pointing.

The footage moves forward. You’re smiling, crouching down to take a picture with a young girl holding a Red Bull plushie. Then you stand, wave goodbye, and keep walking toward the briefing room.

“So where the hell did she go?” Max mutters, staring at the screen.

The footage follows you as you walk further, the paddock getting quieter as you near a shadowed section where fewer people are gathered. You stop once to sign someone’s hat. Then you keep walking.

And then-

“Stop. Go back,” Fernando says suddenly, his voice sharp.

The guard rewinds a few seconds.

There’s a figure. Blurry, just out of frame at first, but unmistakably there.

The figure steps into your path as you turn a corner. You hesitate — your posture stiffens slightly, but the camera can’t pick up your face. You’re saying something, gesturing slightly, but the figure doesn’t move.

And then, in a single quick motion, the figure grabs your arm and pulls you toward the shadows.

The four men in the room freeze.

“Keep playing it,” Max says, his voice low and urgent.

The footage continues. The figure drags you out of the camera’s view. You stumble but don’t fight back immediately — like you’re startled, caught off guard. And then you’re gone.

“Do you have cameras on that corner?” Charles asks, his voice shaking.

The guard clicks through several feeds but shakes his head. “No. That area doesn’t have coverage.”

“Who the hell doesn’t put cameras there?” Max snaps, slamming his fist against the table.

“Not the time,” Fernando says sharply, but even his calm is slipping. His hands are clenched into fists, his jaw tight.

Charles turns away, pressing his hands to his face, his breathing uneven. Max grips the back of a chair, staring at the monitor like he can will the footage to show something else.

Fernando finally speaks, his voice quiet but steely.

“We need to alert security. Lock down the paddock. Whoever took her can’t have gone far.”

“Assuming she’s still here,” Charles mutters, his voice breaking slightly.

Fernando grabs him by the shoulders, forcing him to look up. “Don’t. Don’t go there.”

Charles swallows hard, his jaw tightening.

The PR officer, who has been silent up to this point, finally speaks, her voice trembling.

“What if they’re already gone?”

The room falls silent again, the unspoken fear thick in the air.

Fernando is the first to move, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade.

“Call the stewards. Lock down every exit. And get that footage to security. Now.”

The guard nods frantically, scrambling to make calls, but Charles, Max, and Fernando are already moving — determined to find you before it’s too late.

***

Your head is pounding. The ache spreads through your skull like a dull hum, throbbing at your temples. You feel heavy, limbs refusing to cooperate, your body sagging against something rough and scratchy. The fog in your brain is thick — too thick to fight through completely — but you’re aware of three things.

One: You’re moving. The subtle, constant vibration beneath you tells you you’re in a car.

Two: Your hands are bound. You can feel the bite of plastic ties against your wrists, pinning them together behind your back.

Three: You can’t speak. There’s something gagging you — a rag or cloth shoved into your mouth and secured tight, choking any attempt to make noise.

Panic flares sharp and bright, a surge of adrenaline trying to push past the sedation still clouding your system. You crack your eyes open, but the world is a blur, hazy outlines of the car’s interior shifting in and out of focus.

From the driver’s seat, a voice cuts through the silence. Calm. Casual.

“You’re awake.”

Your stomach twists violently, and you force yourself to focus on the sound. It’s a man — his voice light and unnervingly conversational, like he’s commenting on the weather.

“I was starting to wonder if I gave you too much. Would’ve been a shame. You’re supposed to hear this part, after all.”

The fog is still thick, but your instincts are sharper now. You tug against the ties, testing for any give, but they hold firm. The seat beneath you is rough, the material cheap — some old, unassuming car.

The man keeps talking.

“Didn’t mean to be so rough back there. I’m not like one of those creeps on the news, you know? This isn’t like that. I’m doing this because I care. Because I’m a fan.”

Fan? Your sluggish mind stumbles over the word. What fan? What the hell is he talking about?

“I don’t expect you to understand,” he continues, glancing at you briefly in the rearview mirror. His face is mostly obscured by a baseball cap, the shadow hiding his eyes. “But Ferrari … Ferrari is everything to me. I’ve been watching them my whole life.”

Tifoso. The realization makes your chest tighten.

He keeps talking, his tone eerily steady.

“And Charles — he was supposed to be our champion, you know? Il Predestinato. But he hasn’t been the same since you showed up.” His voice dips slightly, edges hardening. “You’re a distraction. That’s all you are. You think you belong here? With the men who bleed for this sport? Who live for Ferrari?”

You try to make a noise through the gag, your breathing quickening, but it comes out muffled — weak.

He doesn’t notice. Or he doesn’t care.

“I’m doing what’s best for Charles. For Ferrari. He’s lost focus, but that’s not his fault. You — you’re the problem.” His hands tighten on the steering wheel, knuckles going white. “And I’m going to fix it.”

Cold washes over you like a wave.

Your pulse pounds against your ears, your heart hammering so hard it hurts. He’s serious. This isn’t a game. This isn’t a mistake.

You squirm again, trying to move, trying to do something, but your body still feels slow, heavy, like you’re wading through water. The sedative isn’t gone yet.

“Don’t bother,” the man says, his tone almost bored. “I’m not stupid. I knew you’d fight, so I came prepared. You’ll wear off the drugs eventually. Doesn’t matter, though. We’ll be where we need to be soon enough.”

The words settle over you like a weight, crushing the air from your lungs. Your breaths come faster now, quick and uneven through your nose as the panic starts to eat at you.

No one knows where you are. No one saw.

Your mind flashes to the paddock — the fans, the smiling faces. You were there one moment, walking toward the briefing room, and then —

You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to shove away the terror clawing at the edges of your mind. You need to focus. You need to think.

The man keeps driving, his voice low and almost soothing.

“It’s nothing personal, you know. I’m sure you’re a nice girl. But Charles … he’ll thank me eventually. Once he wins the championship, once Ferrari is back on top — he’ll see. I’m saving him. From you.”

Tears sting your eyes, hot and useless, and you force yourself to breathe — slow, even breaths. You have to stay calm. You have to stay awake.

Because the moment you stop fighting, the moment you give in to the fear, it’s over.

***

The paddock is unrecognizable now — sirens blaring, radios crackling, and the heavy presence of law enforcement swarming the space. Team personnel, engineers, and journalists are being questioned or ushered away, their faces a mix of concern and disbelief. Charles stands to the side, fists clenched at his sides, staring at nothing in particular as police officers bark orders into walkie-talkies.

Fernando is pacing. If his shoulders looked tense before, now they’re wound so tight it’s a miracle they haven’t snapped. His phone is in his hand, the knuckles white as he grips it, as though willing it to ring.

“What is taking so long?” He growls, directing the question at no one in particular.

Max stands a little further back, hands buried in his hair as he mutters to himself in Dutch, too fast and low for anyone to understand. He’s restless — his legs shifting constantly, gaze darting between Fernando and the officers trying to establish a timeline. He finally rounds on the nearest officer.

“You’ve seen the footage!” Max snaps, his voice rising with his panic. “She was dragged off — so what are you doing?”

“We’ve sent the footage to every available unit in the area,” the officer replies, his voice calm and professional. “We’re locking down roads and alerting border security. It’s only been an hour. We’ll find her.”

“An hour is too long,” Charles says suddenly, his voice sharp enough to cut. He steps forward, finally snapping out of his trance. “Do you understand? She’s been gone for-” He stops, swallows hard. “Anything could have happened by now.”

Fernando stops pacing and turns to face the officers, his face carved from stone. When he speaks, his voice is low but steady, the weight of every word impossible to ignore.

“If this is about money,” he says, “if that’s what they want, then tell them I will give it. I don’t care how much. I don’t care.” He pauses, his voice cracking slightly. “All I want is for my little girl back.”

The officer hesitates, clearly uncomfortable under Fernando’s gaze. “We have to consider all possibilities, Mr. Alonso. Right now, there’s been no ransom demand-”

“Then what do they want?” Fernando cuts him off, his voice rising. “Because they took her for something. And every second you stand here speculating is a second wasted!”

Max looks like he’s about to explode, his anger barely contained. He tugs at Charles’ arm, muttering furiously, “We can’t just stand here and do nothing.”

Charles doesn’t answer immediately. His jaw is tight, his face pale, but his eyes burn with the same helpless rage clawing at all of them. “What do you suggest?”

Max looks around, frantic. “We find out who saw her last. There were fans — people. Somebody must have seen something.”

“And then what?” Charles shoots back, his voice shaking. “You think we’ll figure out something faster than the police?”

“Yes!” Max shouts, his composure finally breaking. “Because we care more than they do! Because she’s my teammate. Because … because she’s your-” He stops himself, shoulders heaving as he swallows hard.

Charles stares at him, the same raw panic etched into every line of his face. “She’s everything,” he finishes quietly, and Max doesn’t argue.

Fernando clears his throat, regaining their attention. “They’re right.” His voice is calmer now, but the intensity hasn’t lessened. “We know the paddock better than anyone. If there’s something the police missed, we’ll find it.”

“And if they call with a ransom?” Charles asks, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Then I’ll pay,” Fernando says firmly, no hesitation in his tone. “Whatever it takes.”

A tense silence stretches between them, broken only by the sounds of the chaos surrounding them — police radios, footsteps echoing, far-off voices.

Finally, Fernando looks up, his gaze sharp as it lands on Max and Charles.

“We start now. Every minute counts.”

And with that, they move — unwilling to let helplessness win.

***

The showroom is a husk of its former self. Dust clings to the faded red walls, peeling in long, jagged strips that curl at the edges. Empty shelves line the room, their glass panels cracked or completely shattered. A single rusted Ferrari emblem hangs crookedly above what was once a display stand. The faint smell of mildew lingers, mixing with the metallic tang of rust and decay.

You’re on the floor, your body still sluggish from the sedative. The concrete beneath you is freezing, biting through your clothes. The gag in your mouth is damp and scratchy, and your throat aches from the effort of trying to cry out, trying to scream through it.

The kidnapper hasn’t stopped talking since you arrived.

“This used to be my favorite place,” he says, his tone almost wistful. He kneels beside you, gently adjusting your position like a priest arranging a relic. “When I was a boy, my father brought me here. Showed me the cars, the engines, the history. The soul of Ferrari.”

His hands move with eerie care, tugging your arms into place, straightening your legs. He almost looks reverent, his face slack with something that might be mistaken for peace.

“And then I grew up, and I realized what it all meant. Ferrari isn’t just a team. It’s a religion. You understand that, don’t you? You’re in the sport — you must.”

He leans back on his heels, looking down at you. His lips twist into a small, regretful smile. “But you — you’re an outsider. You don’t get it.”

You try to move — jerk your head, kick your legs, anything — but your body doesn’t cooperate. He sees the flicker of effort, and his smile widens.

“Still a fighter, even now,” he murmurs, almost admiringly. “That’s good. You should fight. It makes it easier to justify what I’m about to do.”

Your muffled cry comes out as a whimper, your breathing rapid and uneven. He sighs, reaching into his pocket.

“Shhh. It’ll all be over soon.”

The gag is yanked from your mouth, and the sudden relief of being able to move your jaw is immediately eclipsed by raw panic. You open your mouth to scream, but his hand flies out and slaps you hard across the face.

The force sends a sharp, stinging pain radiating across your cheek, and your head jerks to the side.

“None of that,” he snaps, his voice sharp but not angry — like a teacher reprimanding a disobedient student. “No one’s going to hear you, anyway. We’re miles away from the city.”

He grips your jaw with his hand, pinching your nose closed with his thumb and forefinger. Your airway clamps shut, and your chest burns with the instinctive need to breathe. You thrash weakly, but his grip is iron.

“Open your mouth,” he says softly, his tone almost coaxing. “You’ll feel better if you do.”

Your body betrays you. Desperation wins, and you part your lips, gasping for air.

That’s when he takes the vial from his pocket.

The glass catches the dim light filtering through the broken windows, the liquid inside a murky, yellowish-green. You have no time to process what’s happening before he tilts the vial to your mouth and pours.

The liquid tastes bitter — like acid and rot — and your instinct is to spit it out, but his free hand clamps over your lips, sealing them shut.

“Swallow,” he commands. His voice is calm, almost soothing. “Swallow, and it’ll all be over soon.”

You gag, your throat convulsing, but your body obeys the inevitable. The liquid slides down, burning a trail that settles like fire in your stomach.

He watches you closely, his eyes unblinking, until he feels the muscles in your jaw relax, signaling that you’ve swallowed. Only then does he release you, gently patting your cheek as if in reassurance.

“There,” he says softly. “That’s the worst part over.”

Your chest heaves, and you cough violently, trying to expel whatever it is he just forced into your body. But it’s too late. You feel it already — a strange, creeping warmth that spreads from your stomach outward, curling into your limbs like poison-tipped vines.

“What-” Your voice cracks, raw and broken. “What did you do to me?”

He stands, slipping the empty vial back into his pocket.

“It’s a slow-acting poison,” he says matter-of-factly. “Tetrodotoxin. Comes from pufferfish. Not easy to get my hands on, but I’ve been planning this for a while.”

Your stomach drops. Tetrodotoxin. It paralyzes the body, shuts down the respiratory system slowly over time, all while leaving the mind conscious until the very end.

“You’ll feel it soon,” he continues, his tone apologetic. “First, it’ll be hard to move. Then, hard to breathe. But don’t worry. I imagine it won’t take longer than an hour or two.”

Tears spill down your cheeks, hot and fast, as you try to scream again, but your voice is weak, strangled by both fear and the poison already taking hold.

“I know it’s cruel,” he says, lowering his head as though ashamed. “But I had to be careful. Something more obvious would’ve drawn too much attention — raised too many questions. This … this was the best I could do.”

He steps back, hands clasped together as if in prayer.

“Forgive me,” he whispers, closing his eyes. “I didn’t want it to come to this. But Ferrari is everything. And Charles … he needs to be saved. He needs to be focused. You’ve blinded him. Distracted him. Taken away his fire.”

His voice cracks, and for a moment, he looks almost human, almost like this is hurting him too.

“I’m sorry,” he says again. “But you’re the problem. And I’m doing what I have to.”

He drops to his knees beside you, his hands trembling slightly as he presses them together, praying softly under his breath for forgiveness. For Ferrari. For himself.

All you can do is lie there, your body heavy and your mind screaming, as the poison begins its slow, merciless work.

***

Charles crouches in the grass, his breathing shallow and uneven, his eyes darting frantically over the area where the CCTV footage had shown you last. His hands shake as he sifts through discarded wrappers and bits of gravel, frustration mounting with every second that passes.

There’s nothing here. Just debris, just noise, just-

A scrap of paper catches his eye. It’s half-buried in the dirt, bent and weathered.

Just litter, he tells himself, his jaw tightening. His fingers hover over it briefly, the urge to dismiss it tugging at him. There’s no time for distractions.

But something stops him.

A feeling — an inexplicable pull, like some deep part of his brain is whispering: check.

With a frustrated exhale, Charles grabs the paper, yanking it from the grass and brushing off the dirt. It’s thicker than he expected — more solid, less like a wrapper and more like …

A business card.

His brow furrows as he inspects it, flipping it over. The edges are worn and faded, but the text is still legible:

Scuderia Ferrari Showroom

Branch - Est. 1978

His heart stops.

The words burn into his mind, and his fingers tighten around the card until it bends. For a moment, all he can hear is the roar of his pulse in his ears.

“No,” he breathes. “No, no, no.”

The police hadn’t mentioned anything about Ferrari. None of their theories had hinted at it, but suddenly, Charles’ thoughts are racing, piecing together fragments. You were targeted. This wasn’t random. And if Ferrari is connected …

The card shakes in his hand as he bolts upright, spinning around and screaming with everything he has.

“MAX! FERNANDO!”

His voice cracks from the force, raw and panicked.

The two of them aren’t far, just down the stretch of paddock where they’d been questioning a security guard, and they come running the second they hear him.

“What? What is it?” Max demands, his chest heaving as he skids to a halt next to Charles.

Charles doesn’t answer right away. His throat feels too tight, and he holds out the card with trembling fingers instead.

Fernando snatches it before Max can, scanning the faded words. For a brief moment, his face remains impassive — just stone. Then his brows draw together, his lips pressing into a grim line.

“This address,” Fernando says, his voice low and strained. He looks up at Charles, eyes blazing. “This is from years ago. That showroom shut down almost a decade ago. It’s abandoned now.”

Max leans over, snatching the card from Fernando’s hand. His face hardens as he reads it. “Why the hell would someone have this?”

“That’s what we’re going to find out,” Charles says sharply, his panic morphing into resolve. He snatches the card back, stuffing it into his pocket. “She’s there. I know it.”

“Charles-” Fernando starts, his tone cautious.

“She’s there!” Charles snaps, his voice rising with desperation. “Why else would this be here? Someone left it for us to find!”

Fernando hesitates, his instincts warring with his logic. Max doesn’t wait. He’s already moving.

“Then let’s go,” Max says, his voice clipped as he starts toward the parking lot. “I’m not wasting another second.”

Charles follows immediately, his strides long and determined, the tremor in his hands betraying his urgency.

Fernando hesitates for only a second longer before caving. He mutters something in Spanish under his breath, low and furious, before chasing after them.

The three of them pile into a car, and Fernando takes the wheel, punching the address into his phone’s GPS. The abandoned showroom isn’t far — just fifteen minutes away.

Every second feels like an eternity.

Charles stares out the window, his fists clenched on his lap, the weight of his worst fears pressing heavily on his chest. Beside him, Max is eerily silent, his leg bouncing with restless energy.

Fernando’s knuckles are white against the steering wheel as he presses the gas harder, the engine roaring.

“Hang on, nena,” Fernando mutters under his breath, too quietly for anyone to hear. “We’re coming.”

***

The tires screech as Fernando slams the car to a halt in front of the crumbling remains of the old Ferrari showroom. The building looms dark and empty, its once-proud red paint faded and cracked. Vines creep along the walls, twisting around shattered windows like nature’s claim on a forgotten relic.

Charles doesn’t wait for the engine to fully stop. He throws the door open and sprints toward the building, Max and Fernando close on his heels.

The air inside is heavy, stale, and suffocating, but none of them notice. They’re moving too fast, adrenaline pumping as they take in the eerie emptiness — the broken shelves, the scattered debris, the shadows pooling in every corner.

And then they hear it.

A voice, muttering softly, the words indistinct but filled with fervor.

Fernando freezes, his head snapping toward the sound. His hand shoots out to stop Charles from rushing ahead.

“There,” he whispers, nodding toward the far end of the room.

The three of them move as one, their footsteps quiet but purposeful as they close the distance. The voice grows louder, rising and falling in rhythm.

When they round the corner, they see him.

The kidnapper is pacing in front of you, his hands clasped together in prayer. His head is bowed, his lips moving quickly as he mumbles under his breath. He’s so engrossed that he doesn’t even notice them.

But Charles notices you.

“Mon Dieu …” The words fall from him like a breath he’s been holding for hours.

You’re sprawled on the floor, your body twisted unnaturally. Your face is pale, your lips tinged blue, and your chest barely rises and falls. The sight is enough to freeze the blood in Charles’ veins.

Fernando doesn’t hesitate. He surges forward, shouting, “Y/N!”

The kidnapper spins around, startled, but he doesn’t have time to react. Max launches himself at the man with a guttural roar, tackling him to the ground with such force that the two of them crash into a rusted display stand.

“Stay down!” Max snarls, pinning the kidnapper with his full weight. The man struggles, but Max slams him back down with a ferocity that makes it clear he isn’t moving.

Fernando drops to his knees beside you, his hands hovering uncertainly before settling on your shoulders. “Dios mío, nena, no …” His voice cracks, and he turns to Charles, his panic fully unleashed. “What did they do to her?”

Charles collapses next to you, his hands trembling as he brushes your hair back from your face. “Y/N? Y/N!” His voice is high-pitched, frantic. He gently shakes you, but your head lolls to the side, your eyes half-open but unseeing.

“She’s not breathing right,” Fernando says, his voice tight with terror. He presses two fingers to your neck, finding your pulse weak and erratic. “She’s fading.”

“What’s wrong with her?” Charles’ voice rises, his eyes darting between you and Fernando. “What did they give her?”

“I don’t know!” Fernando snaps, his frustration born from fear. “We don’t even know what this bastard did to her!”

Charles fumbles for his phone, his hands shaking so badly he nearly drops it. He dials emergency services, his voice cracking as he shouts into the line. “We need an ambulance! Now! She’s dying!”

Fernando leans closer to you, his hands cupping your face. “Hang on, cariño. Hang on,” he murmurs, his voice trembling. “Stay with me. Just stay with me.”

Charles is still on the phone, pacing in short, frantic bursts. “I don’t know what it is — poison, maybe? Something slow-acting. She can’t breathe, she’s barely — what do you mean how long has it been? I don’t know! Too long!”

Meanwhile, Max tightens his grip on the kidnapper, his eyes blazing with fury. “What did you do to her?” He growls, his face inches from the man’s. “What did you give her?”

The kidnapper stares up at him, his expression dazed, as though he’s only just realizing the severity of his actions. “You … you weren’t supposed to-”

Max grabs the man’s shirt, slamming him into the floor. “What did you give her?”

“Tetrodotoxin!” The man finally yells, his voice cracking. “It’s poison! It — it’s slow, but — but I didn’t mean-”

Max pulls back just enough to glare at the man. “Didn’t mean what? Lead us straight here?” His voice drips with venom.

“She’s going to die!” Charles screams from across the room, his voice breaking.

Fernando’s hands shake as he pulls you closer, his lips brushing your temple as he whispers desperately, “Please, mija. Stay with me. Please.”

The sound of sirens wailing in the distance cuts through the chaos, but no one dares to hope. Not yet.

***

The sound of sirens pierces the air, growing louder as the ambulance speeds toward the abandoned showroom. Fernando cradles you in his arms, his lips moving in a silent prayer, his tears falling unchecked. Charles hovers beside him, pacing back and forth, his hands pulling at his hair as if trying to keep himself together.

The paramedics burst through the door moments later, carrying a stretcher and medical bags.

“She’s been poisoned!” Charles shouts, running to meet them. “We think — what did he say? Teratodoxin?” He spins toward Max, who still has the kidnapper pinned to the ground.

“Tetrodotoxin!” Max corrects, his face twisted in rage.

One of the paramedics pales. “That’s … that’s serious.”

“She’s fading,” Fernando growls, his voice low and urgent. “You have to do something.”

The paramedics spring into action, gently prying you from Fernando’s arms and laying you on the stretcher. One checks your pulse, his fingers pressing firmly to your neck.

“It’s weak,” he mutters to his partner. “Breathing is shallow. Cyanosis around the lips.”

“What does that mean?” Charles demands, his voice cracking.

“It means the poison is paralyzing her muscles, including the ones she needs to breathe,” the paramedic explains quickly. “We’ll do everything we can, but this toxin is-” He stops, hesitating.

“Is what?” Fernando snaps, his eyes flashing dangerously.

“It’s one of the deadliest known to man,” the paramedic says grimly. “There’s no antidote.”

The words hit like a sledgehammer. Charles staggers back, his face crumpling as he struggles to process what he’s just heard. Fernando freezes, his breath catching in his throat.

“What are you saying?” Fernando finally manages, his voice barely above a whisper. “That there’s … nothing you can do?”

“We can try to stabilize her,” the paramedic replies, his tone cautious but not without compassion. “We’ll get her on oxygen, monitor her vitals, and provide supportive care. But the mortality rate for tetrodotoxin poisoning is …” He hesitates again, his lips pressing into a thin line.

“How bad?” Charles demands, his voice raw and desperate.

“Sixty percent,” the paramedic says quietly, his eyes darting away.

“No,” Fernando breathes, his head shaking violently. “No. She’s strong. She’s an athlete. She can fight this.” He grabs the paramedic’s arm, his grip like iron. “You save her. Do you hear me? You save her.”

“We’ll do our best,” the paramedic assures him, gently but firmly removing Fernando’s hand. “But we need to move her now.”

As they begin wheeling the stretcher toward the ambulance, Charles stumbles after them. “I’m coming with her,” he says firmly.

“Only one can ride with her,” the paramedic warns.

“I’m her father,” Fernando growls, stepping forward.

Charles looks at Fernando, and for a moment, they’re both frozen, their pain reflected in each other’s eyes.

“Go,” Charles whispers, his voice breaking. “She’ll want you there.”

Fernando doesn’t respond with words. He simply nods, his face hardening as he climbs into the ambulance beside you.

Charles stands frozen as the doors slam shut, the sirens wailing as the ambulance speeds away.

Max comes to stand beside him, his face still dark with rage. “We’re not letting her die,” he says firmly. “We’re not.”

But Charles doesn’t answer. His eyes are locked on the fading ambulance, his chest rising and falling as if he’s trying to remember how to breathe.

***

The ambulance doors swing open with a sharp metallic clang, and Fernando stumbles out behind the paramedics, who rush you through the hospital’s emergency entrance. His mind feels detached, like it’s moving slower than his body. All he knows is that you’re there on that stretcher, motionless, your skin pale and your breathing almost nonexistent.

“Trauma bay three!” A nurse shouts, running alongside the stretcher as it barrels through the fluorescent-lit corridor.

Fernando struggles to keep up, his legs heavy and his chest tightening with every step. He’s used to controlling situations, navigating chaos with precision. But here? He’s useless.

A doctor intercepts the team and starts barking orders. “Tetrodotoxin poisoning? Start oxygen. Prep for intubation. Monitor for paralysis progression.”

Fernando can barely hear the words, his ears ringing as he watches them move like a well-oiled machine. They lift your limp body onto a hospital bed and immediately crowd around you, wires, tubes, and monitors connecting to you in seconds.

“BP’s dropping!” One of the nurses calls out.

“Her pulse is gone — prepare for CPR!”

“No.” Fernando’s voice is hoarse, raw. He takes a step toward you, only for a nurse to hold out a hand, blocking him.

“Sir, you can’t be here-”

“She’s my daughter!” He shouts, his voice cracking under the weight of his fear. “Mi hija!”

The nurse’s face softens but remains resolute. “Please, let us work. We’ll do everything we can.”

Fernando doesn’t move, his fists clenched so tightly at his sides that his nails dig into his palms. He forces himself back a step, then another, until his back hits the wall of the trauma bay. From there, he watches, paralyzed, as the team fights to save you.

Your body jolts violently as the doctor performs compressions. Fernando can see the force behind each movement, the way your fragile chest heaves with every push. His breath catches in his throat, the sight unlike anything he’s ever faced.

He’s been in crashes that should have killed him. He’s watched cars flip, felt the searing heat of flames licking at his helmet, and heard the terrifying silence of blacking out mid-impact. But nothing — nothing — compares to this.

“Charging defibrillator,” a nurse announces, the machine humming to life.

“Clear!” The doctor shouts, and the electric shock courses through your body, making it arch violently before collapsing back onto the bed.

Fernando flinches, his hands gripping the edge of the doorway so tightly he feels the strain in his forearms.

“Still no pulse,” someone says, their tone tense but controlled. “Resume compressions. Push another dose of atropine.”

The words blur together. The room feels too small, the walls pressing in on him as he watches your body being battered in their attempt to restart your heart.

“Dios mío,” he whispers, the words spilling out like a plea. He presses a hand to his mouth, his knees threatening to buckle. “Please. Please, mija. Don’t leave me.”

“BP’s stabilizing!” One of the nurses suddenly shouts.

Fernando’s head snaps up, his breath hitching.

“She’s still in critical condition, but we’ve got a pulse,” the doctor confirms, his voice calm but firm. “Intubate her now. We need to stabilize her airway.”

Fernando sags against the wall, his eyes stinging with tears that refuse to fall. His legs feel weak, but he doesn’t dare move. He watches as they thread a tube down your throat, as machines start taking over your breathing, as the chaos shifts into a more controlled rhythm.

“Sir?” A nurse approaches him, her expression gentle but serious. “She’s alive. But she’s not out of danger yet. We’re taking her to the ICU.”

Fernando nods mutely, his throat too tight to speak. He doesn’t even register his feet moving until he’s following the stretcher down the hall, his heart beating wildly in his chest.

“Stay with me, cariño,” he whispers under his breath, his fists clenched by his sides. “Stay with me. Por favor.”

***

Max and Charles burst through the hospital's front doors, their faces pale and their movements frantic. They’re met with a stern-looking receptionist who immediately raises her hands.

“Only immediate family are allowed beyond this point,” she says firmly, her tone leaving no room for argument.

Charles steps forward, his voice taut. “We’re her-” He falters, unsure how to explain, unsure of anything except the desperate need to see you. “Please, just let us in.”

“Sir, I’m sorry, but we-”

“You don’t understand,” Max interjects, his voice sharp with frustration. “We-”

“I said no exceptions.”

Charles slams his hand on the counter, the loud crack echoing through the sterile lobby. “She could be dying!” He yells, his voice raw. “Do you even care?”

The receptionist flinches but doesn’t budge. “I understand this is a difficult situation, but you need to-”

“Wait,” a voice cuts in. A nurse steps forward, her brow furrowed as she looks between Max and Charles. Her eyes widen slightly in recognition. “You’re the F1 drivers, aren’t you? Verstappen and Leclerc?”

“That’s not important,” Max snaps, though there’s a tinge of relief in his voice. “Please. We need to see her.”

The nurse hesitates for a fraction of a second before nodding. “Come with me.”

They don’t wait for her to finish speaking, following her down the hallway at a near run. The sound of their footsteps echoes loudly in the quiet corridors, and neither says a word. They don’t need to. The tension between them is thick, a shared panic they’re both barely keeping at bay.

When the nurse gestures toward a waiting area outside the ICU, they see him.

Fernando is sitting in one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs, his elbows on his knees and his face buried in his hands. His usually composed demeanor is nowhere to be seen — his shoulders are hunched, his body unmoving except for the slight tremor running through him.

“Fernando,” Charles calls out, his voice shaky. He steps closer, but the older man doesn’t look up. “Fernando.”

It’s not until Max steps forward, his tone uncharacteristically gentle, that Fernando finally raises his head.

And what they see shatters them.

Fernando’s eyes are bloodshot, his face lined with exhaustion and something deeper — fear, anguish, helplessness. He looks like a man who has lived through every nightmare imaginable and come out the other side broken.

“Is she …” Max doesn’t finish the question, the words catching in his throat.

Fernando shakes his head slowly. “She’s alive,” he says, his voice hoarse, as if it’s taken all his strength to get those two words out. “For now.”

Charles sags against the wall, his legs threatening to give out. “What happened?” He asks, though he’s not sure he wants to know the answer.

Fernando takes a shuddering breath, his hands curling into fists on his thighs. “Her heart stopped,” he says flatly. “They had to perform CPR. Defibrillation.” He closes his eyes, and his voice drops to a whisper. “I thought I lost her.”

The words hang in the air like a death sentence.

Max turns away, running a hand through his hair and pulling at the strands as if the physical pain might drown out the emotional. Charles stumbles to one of the chairs and collapses into it, his face buried in his hands as his shoulders shake.

“What now?” Max finally asks, his voice rough, his back still to them.

Fernando lets out a bitter, hollow laugh. “Now we wait. The toxin … there’s no cure. They’re trying to stabilize her, but it’s up to her body now.”

Charles looks up, his face streaked with tears he doesn’t remember shedding. “What are her chances?” He whispers, his voice barely audible.

Fernando meets his eyes, and the weight of his silence is crushing.

Max slams his fist against the wall, the sharp sound making them all flinch. “This can’t be it!” He shouts, his voice breaking. “She’s stronger than this. She’s-” He stops, his chest heaving as he struggles to keep himself together.

Fernando leans forward, his hands gripping his hair. “I’ve seen her fight through so much,” he murmurs, his voice tinged with desperation. “But this … I don’t know if she can fight this.”

The room falls silent, the weight of his words pressing down on all of them.

Charles leans back in the chair, staring blankly at the ceiling. “I should have been there,” he mutters, the guilt crashing over him in waves. “I should have protected her.”

Max turns to him, his expression fierce. “Don’t. Don’t do that to yourself.”

Charles doesn’t respond, his hands clenching into fists.

Fernando looks between the two of them, his eyes softening for a brief moment despite his own despair. “She wouldn’t want this,” he says quietly. “For either of you.”

But it doesn’t matter. The three of them sit in silence, the minutes stretching into hours as they wait for any scrap of news, their fear and guilt eating away at them with every passing second.

***

The hours drag on, the waiting room oppressive with its hum of fluorescent lights and antiseptic smell. Fernando hasn’t moved from his seat in what feels like forever, his hands pressed together in a silent, unending prayer. Max leans against the wall, his head tilted back, eyes closed, his knuckles raw from where they struck the plaster earlier. Charles is hunched forward in his chair, his elbows digging into his knees, his face buried in his hands. None of them speak.

The sound of footsteps jolts them all. A doctor, dressed in blue scrubs and holding a clipboard, approaches. The man’s face is unreadable, his expression carefully neutral, which makes Fernando’s stomach drop.

Fernando stands first, his movements stiff and mechanical. Charles and Max scramble to their feet behind him, their breath catching as they wait for the news.

The doctor stops in front of them, his voice calm but direct. “She’s stable for now.”

Fernando’s knees almost buckle in relief. Charles lets out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding, and Max grips the edge of a nearby chair to steady himself.

“But,” the doctor continues, his tone grave, “the next 24 hours are critical. The toxin is still in her system, and while we’ve done everything we can to support her vitals, her body needs to fight through this. The damage to her heart and lungs was significant.”

“Can we see her?” Fernando asks, his voice trembling despite his best effort to sound strong.

The doctor hesitates for a moment, then nods. “Yes. But keep it brief. She’s on a ventilator and heavily sedated to give her body the best chance to recover.”

Fernando doesn’t wait for more. He strides toward the doors the doctor came through, Max and Charles close on his heels.

The room they’re led to is quiet except for the rhythmic beeping of monitors and the soft hiss of the ventilator. The sight of you makes them all freeze.

You lie motionless in the hospital bed, your face pale and almost unrecognizable against the stark white of the sheets. A tangle of wires and tubes surrounds you, the ventilator tube taped to your mouth, rising and falling in a mechanical rhythm that seems unnervingly unnatural.

Fernando is the first to step forward. He approaches slowly, as if afraid that getting too close might break you further. He sinks into the chair beside the bed and reaches for your hand, his large, calloused fingers trembling as they wrap around your much smaller ones.

“Mija,” he whispers, his voice cracking. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

Charles stays back, his hand gripping the frame of the door. He can’t seem to look directly at you, his eyes darting everywhere but your face. “She looks so … small,” he murmurs, his voice almost inaudible.

Max steps past him, his jaw tight and his hands stuffed into his pockets. He takes a position on the other side of the bed, staring down at you with a fierce intensity. “She’s strong,” he says, more to himself than anyone else. “She’s gonna make it through this.”

Fernando doesn’t lift his eyes from your face, his thumb stroking your knuckles in a steady rhythm. “I’ve seen her fight through impossible things,” he says quietly. “She’ll fight this too.”

Charles finally steps into the room, his legs feeling like lead. He moves to stand behind Fernando, his hands braced on the back of the chair. His eyes lock on your face, and the dam breaks.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers, tears streaming down his face. “I should have been there. I should have-”

“Don’t,” Fernando cuts him off, his voice gentle but firm. “This isn’t your fault.”

“But I-”

“She wouldn’t want you blaming yourself,” Fernando says, his eyes still fixed on you. “She wouldn’t want any of us to.”

Max exhales sharply, leaning against the wall as if the weight of his worry is finally catching up to him. “We’re not leaving this room,” he says, his voice hard with determination. “Not until she’s okay.”

Charles nods silently, his grip tightening on the chair. Fernando doesn’t respond, just keeps holding your hand, as if willing his strength into you.

The three men settle in around you, the minutes bleeding into hours as they keep watch, waiting for any sign that you’re still fighting.

***

The world keeps moving, but for Fernando, Charles, and Max, time has frozen. The hospital becomes their whole existence, days and nights bleeding into each other as they sit vigil by your bedside.

Fernando rarely leaves the room, his chair permanently pulled up beside your bed. His unshaven face and hollow eyes make him unrecognizable to anyone who knew the fiery, unstoppable force of a man he used to be. He clings to every little improvement — the way your heart rate steadies, the slow return of color to your face — but every day that you don’t wake up feels like another fracture in his already breaking heart.

Max is the restless one. He paces the halls, his phone constantly in hand, though he never calls anyone. When he’s in the room, he’s quiet, but his energy buzzes under the surface. He tries not to look at you for too long, hating how still you are. But he’s there. Always there.

Charles is the opposite. He sits beside you in silence, watching you with an almost desperate intensity, as if willing his presence to pull you back. He rarely speaks, and when he does, it’s only to you. Quiet, broken words that he knows you can’t hear but hopes you’ll somehow understand.

They all gave up their races without a second thought. No explanations, no press releases — just silence that sent the paddock into chaos. Speculation swirled: Was this some protest? A contractual dispute? Theories ranged from dramatic to absurd, but none came close to the truth.

The first week passes. Then the second.

The doctors are cautiously optimistic. You’ve survived the critical period, but you’re still unresponsive, locked in a battle that only you can fight. Fernando listens to every update with grim determination, nodding silently before returning to his post by your side.

It’s the fifteenth day when everything changes.

The room is quiet, the afternoon sun streaming weakly through the blinds. Fernando is half-asleep in the chair, his head tilted back and his arms crossed over his chest. Max is leaned against the wall, scrolling through his phone without really seeing anything on the screen. Charles is beside your bed, as always, his hand wrapped around yours as he murmurs something in French under his breath.

Then it happens.

Your fingers twitch.

At first, it’s so faint that Charles thinks he imagined it. He freezes, his heart stopping as he stares at your hand. Slowly, hesitantly, he squeezes your fingers.

And you squeeze back.

“Mon Dieu,” Charles breathes, his voice barely audible. He bolts upright, leaning over you as his other hand gently brushes your cheek. “Y/N? Can you hear me?”

Your eyelids flutter, your brow furrowing slightly as if you’re trying to piece together where you are.

“Oh my God.” Max pushes off the wall so fast that his phone clatters to the floor. “Is she-”

“She’s waking up,” Charles says, his voice shaking.

Fernando stirs at the commotion, blinking blearily until he sees Charles leaning over you. It takes a moment for the realization to hit him.

“Mija!” Fernando is out of his chair in an instant, his hands trembling as he cups your face. “Can you hear me? It’s me, Papá.”

Your eyes finally open, squinting against the harsh light. You look around sluggishly, confusion clouding your gaze before it lands on Fernando’s face. Your lips part, and though no sound comes out at first, your expression softens.

“Papá …”

It’s barely a whisper, but it’s enough to shatter Fernando completely. He chokes out a sob, pressing his forehead to yours. “You’re okay. Gracias a Dios, you’re okay.”

Charles and Max stand frozen, relief flooding their faces as tears stream down their cheeks.

“You gave us a hell of a scare, you know that?” Max finally says, his voice thick as he scrubs a hand over his face.

You blink up at him, then at Charles, your brows furrowing. “What … what happened?”

Charles lets out a broken laugh, pressing your hand to his lips. “It doesn’t matter right now,” he says softly, his voice cracking. “You’re here. That’s all that matters.”

You close your eyes for a moment, exhaustion pulling at you even as you fight to stay awake. “I … I feel like I’ve been run over by a truck,” you mumble.

Fernando lets out a watery laugh, his hands never leaving yours. “You’re allowed to rest, nena. You’ve been through enough.”

Your lips curve into a faint smile, and for the first time in weeks, the room feels lighter. The storm has finally passed, and the three men who love you most in the world know one thing for certain: they’ll never let you face anything like this alone again.

***

The hospital room is quieter now, though the tension lingers in the air. Fernando stands by the window, staring out at nothing, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. Max and Charles have claimed chairs on either side of your bed, their exhaustion palpable but their determination to stay near you unwavering.

It’s late afternoon when the knock comes. Two officers step into the room, their uniforms crisp but their faces drawn, tired from days of dealing with the chaos surrounding your kidnapping. One of them — a tall man with a clipboard — speaks first.

“Miss Alonso, we need to ask you a few questions.”

Fernando turns sharply from the window, his expression hardening. “She’s barely awake. Can’t this wait?”

The officer shakes his head. “We’re sorry, Mr. Alonso, but we need to understand what happened while her memory is fresh.”

You swallow hard, your throat still raw from the ventilator. Charles reaches for your hand instinctively, squeezing it gently. “We’re right here,” he murmurs.

You nod, giving the officers a faint smile even though your heart pounds in your chest. “Okay,” you rasp.

The other officer, a woman with kind eyes, steps forward. “Do you remember anything your kidnapper said to you? Anything about why he did this?”

You hesitate. Your gaze flickers to Charles, who’s staring at the floor, his jaw tight. He hasn’t spoken much since you woke up, but you know him well enough to see the storm brewing beneath his silence.

“Not really,” you lie, shifting your attention back to the officers. “It was all kind of … jumbled. He wasn’t making much sense.”

The male officer frowns. “Miss Alonso, it’s important to be honest. He hasn’t spoken a word since he was taken into custody. If we’re going to build a case against him, we need to understand his motive.”

“I told you, I don’t-” you start, but the officer cuts you off.

“You’re the only one who can help us.”

You bite your lip, your eyes darting to Charles again. His fingers tighten around yours, and you know he’s listening to every word.

“I-” you falter, trying to find a way to deflect. “He … he said some stuff about racing. About being a Ferrari fan.”

Max leans forward, his brows knitting. “A Ferrari fan?”

You don’t meet his gaze. “Yeah, he — he was rambling about the team.”

The female officer’s voice softens, but there’s a firmness beneath it. “Did he say anything about why he targeted you specifically?”

You hesitate too long. The officers notice. So does Charles.

“Miss Alonso,” the male officer presses, “please. Did he give you a specific reason?”

Your chest tightens. You can feel Charles’ eyes on you now, his hand suddenly too still in yours. You know the truth will cut him like a knife, but the officers aren’t going to let this go.

Finally, you exhale shakily. “He … he said he thought Charles was distracted. That he wasn’t focused on Ferrari anymore because of me.”

The silence that follows is deafening.

Fernando’s head snaps toward you, his expression a mix of anger and disbelief. Max mutters something under his breath, his hands clenching into fists. But it’s Charles’ reaction that makes your stomach twist.

He lets go of your hand and stands abruptly, his chair scraping loudly against the floor. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even look at you. He just walks to the other side of the room, his back to everyone.

“Charles …” you start, your voice cracking.

He shakes his head, his hands gripping the windowsill so tightly his knuckles turn white. “So it’s my fault,” he says quietly.

“No!” You try to sit up, but Fernando is immediately at your side, gently pressing you back down. “Charles, that’s not what I meant. It’s not your fault.”

He turns, his eyes blazing. “But it is, isn’t it? If he thought-”

“He’s insane,” Max cuts in, his voice sharp. “That’s not on you, Charles.”

“He wouldn’t have done it if I hadn’t-”

“Stop,” Fernando says, his voice booming. He steps between Charles and the bed, his glare enough to silence everyone in the room. “The only one responsible is the man who did this.”

Charles’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t argue. He just nods stiffly and turns back toward the window, his shoulders slumping.

The officers exchange glances, sensing the tension but staying professional. The female officer speaks again, her tone careful. “Thank you for your honesty, Miss Alonso. We’ll let you rest now.”

They leave without another word, and the room falls into an uneasy silence.

“I didn’t want to tell them,” you say softly, your eyes pleading with Charles’s back. “I didn’t want you to know.”

Charles finally turns, his expression pained but softer. “You should have told me.”

“I didn’t want you to blame yourself,” you whisper.

He crosses the room slowly, sitting back down beside you. His hand trembles as he reaches for yours again. “I already blame myself,” he admits. “But that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t want to know. You shouldn’t have to carry this alone.”

You squeeze his hand weakly, tears blurring your vision. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m the one who’s sorry,” he says, his voice breaking.

Fernando and Max exchange a look, then quietly slip out of the room, giving you and Charles a moment alone.

Charles leans closer, resting his forehead against your hand. “I don’t care what anyone says,” he whispers. “You’re not a distraction. You’re everything.”

And for the first time since waking up, you let yourself cry.

***

The house in Oviedo feels like a sanctuary. Nestled in the hills, far removed from the madness of the paddock and the media frenzy that erupted after your kidnapping, it’s exactly what your father promised: peace. The smell of pine trees drifts through open windows, mingling with the aroma of home-cooked food.

You’ve spent the last week recovering, the color slowly returning to your face and the strength to your limbs. Fernando refuses to let you lift a finger, always muttering something about “not risking his hija.” Charles and Max have become equally protective shadows, hovering just enough to drive you crazy but not enough for you to complain.

It’s dinner time now, and Fernando is serving up plates of steaming paella, his movements confident and measured as he hums to himself. The dining table is small but feels full: Charles is to your left, Max to your right, and Fernando sits across from you, dishing generous portions like he’s feeding an army.

The TV hums distantly from the living room, some nightly news segment filling the silence.

“Fernando, you’ve seriously outdone yourself,” Max says, shoveling a forkful of rice into his mouth. “This is better than anything we’ve had since that steakhouse in Abu Dhabi.”

Fernando waves him off, clearly pleased with himself. “Of course it is. You think I’d let you leave here thinking otherwise?”

Charles chuckles, picking around the plate for the perfect bite. “If Red Bull knew you could cook like this, they’d hire you as the caterer.”

“Ha,” Fernando scoffs, though the glint in his eye says he’s enjoying the praise. “No one can afford me.”

You smile to yourself, leaning back in your chair, letting the banter wash over you. For the first time in weeks, things feel normal — almost like you’ve reclaimed something that was lost.

And then the newscaster’s voice cuts through the hum of conversation.

“In a shocking update,” she says, her tone grave, “the man accused of kidnapping Formula 1 driver Y/N Alonso was found dead in his cell earlier today. Authorities report that the death was accidental, citing severe anaphylaxis as the cause. It appears the suspect had a previously undisclosed peanut allergy, and somehow his food became contaminated.”

Your fork pauses mid-air. The entire table goes still.

You glance up, catching the unmistakable smirks forming on Fernando’s, Charles’, and Max’s faces. Max leans back in his chair, arms crossed, grinning like a cat who’s eaten the canary. Charles casually reaches for his glass of water, but his dimples betray him as he struggles to keep a straight face. Fernando? He doesn’t even try to hide it — he leans back with a look of pure satisfaction, a smug tilt to his chin.

They all exchange a look. A look that makes your eyebrow shoot up.

“Something funny?” You ask slowly, your tone dripping with suspicion.

Fernando shrugs, reaching for the serving spoon and adding more paella to his plate. “It’s just … a tragedy.”

“Is it?”

“Yes,” he says matter-of-factly, though his eyes are dancing with mischief. “The man was deathly allergic to peanuts. What a terrible, terrible accident.”

Charles clears his throat, failing to hide the ghost of a smile. “Terrible.”

“Very tragic,” Max chimes in, his voice dripping with mock sincerity.

You narrow your eyes at all three of them, folding your arms across your chest. “Okay, what did you guys do?”

Fernando looks downright offended. “Qué? Me? Nothing.”

You tilt your head, waiting.

“It’s a shame, really,” he continues, ignoring your glare. “Somehow, his meal must have gotten contaminated. Maybe there was a mix-up. A little peanut dust here, some peanut oil there …” He gestures vaguely with his fork, as if explaining an unfortunate cooking mishap. “These things happen.”

You stare at him, incredulous. Then you turn to Max and Charles. “And you two? You’re just going to sit there like-”

Max and Charles, as if on cue, exchange a triumphant fist bump under the table. Max grins proudly, while Charles looks away, attempting — and failing — to feign innocence.

“Unbelievable,” you mutter, shaking your head. “You guys couldn’t even pretend to be subtle?”

Fernando’s eyes gleam as he leans forward, leveling you with a look so serious it nearly catches you off guard. “Listen to me, mija. That man tried to take you from us. He hurt you. Whatever happened to him is nothing compared to what he deserved.”

There’s a weight to his words, an edge that makes you realize he means every single one of them.

“And if we happen to be a little smug about it,” Max adds with a smirk, “well, can you blame us?”

Charles finally speaks up, his voice soft but firm. “He’s gone. You’re safe. That’s all that matters.”

You exhale slowly, letting the words sink in. You know you should probably feel … something. Shock, maybe. Disapproval. But instead, you just feel relief. A strange, comforting relief that the man who tried to take everything from you is no longer out there.

“You’re all insane,” you say finally, though there’s no bite to your words.

Fernando grins. “You’ll thank us eventually.”

“Just eat your paella,” Max adds, grinning as he digs back into his plate.

Charles squeezes your hand under the table, his expression softening as he searches your face. “You’re okay, right?”

You meet his gaze, seeing nothing but concern and love in his eyes. You nod, your lips quirking into a small smile. “Yeah. I’m okay.”

Fernando raises his glass, a little smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. “To accidents,” he says, his voice deliberately casual.

Max and Charles snicker as they lift their glasses to toast, and you can’t help but roll your eyes, though there’s a small, amused smile tugging at your lips.

“To accidents,” you mutter, shaking your head as you clink your glass against theirs.

The TV drones on in the background, the story already shifting to something else, but in this little dining room in Oviedo, the four of you sit in quiet satisfaction. The world doesn’t need to know what really happened.

Some things are better left unsaid.

***

The house feels emptier without them. Fernando, Charles, and Max left yesterday morning to return to the paddock, each one reluctant to go but eventually swayed by your insistence.

“Racing is what you love,” you’d told them as you sat on the edge of the sofa, wrapped in one of Fernando’s old sweaters. “I’ll be fine here. I need to get better so I can come back too, and the sooner you get back out there, the sooner everything feels normal again.”

It had taken more convincing than you’d expected, but eventually, they relented. Still, each goodbye was harder than you anticipated — Max with a bear hug that squeezed the breath out of you, Fernando muttering something in Spanish about keeping your phone on, and Charles pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead before whispering, “Call me if you need anything.”

Now, you sit curled on the couch with a blanket and a mug of tea, watching the press conference from your laptop. The camera pans across the familiar faces of the drivers seated at the table, and your heart clenches seeing Fernando, Max, and Charles among them.

Fernando looks every bit the composed veteran, but you catch the slight tension in his jaw. Max leans back in his chair with his usual air of confidence, though his eyes dart to Fernando and Charles more often than usual. And Charles — Charles looks tired. There’s a weight in his expression that the cameras won’t pick up on, but you know it’s there.

The questions start out routine — thoughts on the upcoming race, opinions on the track layout, expectations for the weekend. They all give professional answers, though Fernando’s responses have just the right amount of dry wit to make you smile.

Then, a reporter raises their hand and is called upon.

“This question is for Charles.”

Your heart sinks. The tone of the reporter’s voice is already a red flag.

“There have been rumors circulating that the man who kidnapped Y/N Alonso did so because he believed you were distracted by her and not fully committed to Ferrari. Can you confirm whether there’s any truth to these claims?”

The room goes silent.

Charles sits up straighter, his grip tightening on the microphone in front of him. For a moment, he doesn’t say anything, his lips pressed into a thin line. You hold your breath, the tea in your hands forgotten.

Finally, he speaks. His voice is steady, but there’s an undercurrent of raw emotion that makes your chest ache.

“I will address this only once,” he begins, his accent thick, his eyes fixed on the reporter. “The idea that someone would use my relationship with Y/N as an excuse to justify their actions is … despicable.”

You can see the effort it takes for him to stay composed, his knuckles white as they grip the edge of the table.

“Y/N is the strongest, most incredible person I have ever known,” he continues, his voice trembling slightly. “She has supported me through everything, even when I didn’t deserve it. And to think that someone would hurt her — someone who calls themselves a Ferrari fan-” He breaks off, shaking his head.

“This is the only time in my life I have ever been disgusted to share the title of Tifoso with someone else.”

The room remains silent. Even the other drivers seem taken aback, their usual smirks and easygoing attitudes replaced with quiet understanding.

Charles takes a deep breath, glancing down at the table before looking back up. “I love Ferrari. I love the fans. But if you think for one second that I will let someone use that love to justify hurting someone I care about, you are mistaken.”

Your vision blurs with tears. You wipe them away quickly, though you’re alone in the room.

“And as for Y/N distracting me?” Charles adds, a bitter smile tugging at his lips. “She doesn’t distract me. She inspires me. She makes me want to be better — not just as a driver, but as a person. So if anyone thinks she’s the problem, maybe they should look in the mirror instead.”

There’s a murmur of agreement from the other drivers, and Fernando nods slightly, his expression unreadable but his approval clear.

Max, of course, can’t help himself. He leans into the microphone, his tone sharp. “Next question.”

The room chuckles awkwardly, the tension easing slightly, but you can’t take your eyes off Charles. He sits back in his chair, exhaling deeply, his hand trembling slightly as he sets the microphone down.

You close the laptop, unable to watch anymore. Your chest feels tight, a mix of pride, love, and guilt swirling inside you.

Charles had told the world exactly how he felt. And you’d never been more sure that you loved him.

***

The air is electric as you step out of the car in the paddock parking lot. You’ve missed this — the familiar hum of engines warming up in the distance, the rush of people weaving between motorhomes and garages, the faint scent of rubber and fuel in the air. But this time, it’s different.

You barely have time to close your car door before you’re practically ambushed.

“Careful with her!” Fernando snaps, brushing past Max and Charles as if they aren’t there. He cups your face with both hands, inspecting you like he hasn’t seen you in years. “Hija, are you sure about this? We can turn around right now. No one will blame you.”

You laugh softly, prying his hands off your cheeks. “I’m fine, Papá. I’m ready.”

“Are you sure?” Charles asks, stepping closer, his hand ghosting over your lower back. He doesn’t touch you, but he’s close enough that you feel his warmth. His green eyes search your face, his concern evident.

Max, on the other hand, leans casually against your car, arms crossed but his frown betraying his calm posture. “If you’re even slightly unsure, I’ll call Christian myself and say you’re taking another month off.”

“Guys,” you say, looking at each of them in turn, “I’m okay. I promise.”

Fernando mutters something under his breath in Spanish that you don’t quite catch, but the look he shoots Charles and Max makes it clear they’re all on the same page: hover over you until you give up and lets them.

You roll your eyes, but you can’t help smiling.

As you make your way toward the Red Bull garage, it becomes clear that you aren’t the only one who’s missed this sense of normalcy. People you’ve only exchanged passing nods with before stop in their tracks to greet you. Engineers, journalists, even the rival drivers you’ve barely spoken to — it seems like everyone has something to say.

“I’m so glad you’re back,” Lando says, pulling you into an unexpected but warm hug.

“Good to see you in one piece,” Lewis adds, his tone light but his smile genuine.

“Don’t scare us like that again,” George says, shaking his head.

Even Kimi Raikkonen, who’s a guest in the paddock for the weekend, gives you a gruff nod. For him, that’s basically a declaration of undying friendship.

And then Toto Wolff steps into your path.

“Toto,” you say, blinking in surprise.

“Y/N.”

Before you can say anything else, he pulls you into a hug — a full hug, his large arms wrapping around you like a protective barrier against the world.

You stiffen for a second, not because you don’t appreciate it but because … Toto Wolff? Hugging you?

You have to pinch your arm discreetly to make sure this isn’t some bizarre dream.

“Welcome back,” Toto says simply, his voice low and kind, before stepping back.

You manage to nod, your words caught in your throat.

“Alright, move along,” Fernando interrupts, stepping between you and Toto like a guard dog. He nods politely but firmly at the team principal before ushering you forward.

“Toto Wolff,” you murmur as you follow Fernando, Charles, and Max toward the garage. “I really must be dreaming.”

“You’re not,” Charles says, smiling softly. “People care about you, ma chérie. Even Toto, apparently.”

“Or maybe he’s just scouting you for Mercedes,” Max mutters, though there’s no real bite to his words.

You laugh, the sound lighter than it’s been in weeks. The paddock is alive, buzzing with energy, and for the first time in what feels like forever, you’re not just watching it from afar. You’re part of it again.

And it feels like coming home.

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orlandosuperiortransportations · 2 years ago

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Orlando Superior Transportations

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plotsignificanthaircut555 · 3 months ago

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Fever (Sex Pollen/Aphrodisiac Choso x f!Reader)

SMUT, MDNI, 18+ ONLY

8k words. A curse with a strange and intimate defense mechanism has done something to Choso, with Shoko busy with more pressing matters, his healing becomes your soul responsibility. And like any good, young doctor, you're willing to do anything to help your patient. ao3

not, not made while listening to Disease by Lady Gaga.

Warnings: (This is a SEX POLLEN fic, which always carries a degree of dubious consent, I feel I have clarified a lot of of the grey-er areas, but if that is not your thing, this is your heads up, see you in the next one <3.) Sex, premature ejaculation, kissing, oral (f receiving), probably a lot of really dumb sounding attempts at medical jargon, smoking, discussions of ovulations/menstruating, Virginity loss (choso), BLOOD, some scent stuff, feelings and some stuff about conception. Choso is pretty pathetic, but i feel like you probably knew that.

When you woke up this morning, you could feel it. That dull, barely there ache in your lower back, telling you that your cycle was nearing. You weren’t the best at manually tracking your cycle but you had enough lived experience menstruating that you knew the sign posts. Brushing your hair and washing your face, you found your skin was smooth, any dullness you would have usually fussed over seemed to have righted themselves and been replaced with a bouncy, full glow.

When dressing, you found your breasts felt fuller, filling out the cups of your bra, almost to the point of spilling. They felt heavy, the lace pressing against your nipples for a sweet sting. Your hands stayed holding your breasts, tracing your areolas softly, sucking in a sensitive breath. A glance at the clock tells you there's no time for you to rub one out before you have to leave for work. But you feel a tingle of excitement knowing you’ll come home to your vibrator and whatever naughty media you can get your hand on. There’s supposed to be a new sexy, vampire show your friends hushedly told you about. Maybe tonight? You have a bottle of red you've been waiting to open, why the hell not! Some wine, maybe a long bath….your eyes travel to a candle on your nightstand. You can light candles for your own masturbation, right? Wow, you’re quite the romantic.

The excitement of your evening of solo pleasure carries you through the rest of your morning routine. You pour yourself a coffee, you make sure to grab an umbrella, the forecast predicting rain for the next few days, and double back to plug in your favorite vibrator(s) before heading out. As expected, it's already drizzling, light grey clouds spilling their contents all over the city streets. The cool fall air wets your face, but you don't mind. You had gotten yourself a bit worked up inside, so it was nice to have something to bring you back down to reality. You still had a full work day ahead of you. Your walk to work was quick, a subway ride even quicker, the manager that met you with a car to carry you the rest of the way to Jujutsu Tech was punctual and polite. She was pretty new, a young woman, probably not even 25, but she was a great driver, and made a few jokes here and there that made the usually long drive feel clipped. Arriving at the school, you were quick to thank her and head inside. She was cute, you found yourself thinking as you turned away from the car.

Young and funny, a sweet face, a good body, how old did she say she was again?

Oh geez, whats going on with me?

You shake the inappropriate thoughts from your head, and mark the doorframe as your own compartmentalization threshold. Within these walls you must remain an absolutely iron clad professional.There can be no mistaking it, no distractions, and no anticipation. Students pass quickly to their classes or from the breakfast lines, some wave or bow in greeting at your pass. You're quick to return their gestures. You make your ways down to the hospital floors, making a quick stop by the lounge to refill your coffee. The school grounds took on many purposes, education, training, treatment, triage, conference, protection, archival, morgue…etc. Your business primarily took place on the lowest levels, being the medical wing, the labs, and the morgue. You never had the chops to go into the field after your graduation from Jujutsu High School. Opting instead to apprentice under Shoko Ieri, the reverse cursed technique wunderkind, just two grade levels higher than you. The absolute chance of a lifetime. She was a terrible teacher, truly awful. Too genius to make her lessons practical. But thankfully you weren’t some talentless schmuck, you could hold your own against genius. You learned fast, were excellent with your hands, and eventually Shoko brought you in full time as her second in command. If she was the head of surgery, you were the school nurse. Where she was tasked with reviving fallen sorcerers and performing bizarre autopsies, you mostly reset broken fingers and administered stitches.

This last year had not been kind to your practice. Far too many familiar faces meeting you in the chilly, sterile basement morgue. Shoko was taking on more and more…experimental (?) projects. Ones with more weight, more stakes. Especially now. Which meant you held things down more and more. But once you reached the stainless steel double doors leading to the main hall of the medical wing, you knew she was here. You could smell the cigarette smoke, and the lilac perfume she swears covers it. The first exam room light was on, the door cracked, white light seemingly unbroken between the hallway and door frame. The light never changed down here, it was as steady as the tile, and just as cold.

“Shoko?” You peeked around the cracked door.

She was prepping the room; someone was coming in. Her words spilled immediately as though they had never had a beginning, she had simply always been talking.

“Big one coming in. Associate Manager just called, they’re on their way back. Apparently it’s nothing broken or bleeding, but they couldn’t explain any more than that. Go figure.”

The possible orders of procedure began listing themselves in your brain. Shoko exited the room and you followed closely, her heels and yours clacking together in perfect time.

“Choso, the half curse from Shibuya. Apparently something hit him, or bit him?” Shoko wasn’t often without the right information so her irritation was growing at every reminder, “whatever, we have his blood samples and the remaining curse womb death paintings, if—god forbid— anything serious needs to happen.”

Viles clinked against one another as her gloved hand searched the refrigerated cabinet of samples taken from each sorcerer. You wondered whose blood was next to yours in there.

“Can’t you just…fwoo?” You tried to imitate her stupid circle gesture she always made when trying, unsuccessfully, to get you to master reverse cursed technique.

Shoko turned to face you, “well that’s just it, I won’t be here. I have to get back underground before anything changes. This is your pop quiz, okay?”

Finally, the intensity dawns on you. You truly had no way to know what would be coming through those doors. A half second later, it dawns on you that none of the supplies she has been gathering are even for you! Every second you spoke was another second you lost to prepare, valuable seconds.

“Oh shit.” You mumbled, quickly turning back to the labs, scanning your brain for relevant material to gather. Allergy lists, blood, most recent labs, gauze??

“I see you get it now, try and be a little faster if the guy’s dying, okay?” A cigarette has manifested between her lips as she heads down the hallway you had only just entered, “call me afterward and update. Bye!”

And just like that she was gone, the doors swinging shut behind her, but you don’t see them zip up their seam. You are already turned away and heading back into the lab. Pulling anything potentially useful: pain relievers, antibacterial salves and ointments, gauze, anything you could think of. You didn’t know Choso all that well, but knowing sorcerers was a mixed bag anyway. It often felt the ones you did know, were the ones you lost. But he had been in and out plenty of times in the last month, rounds and rounds of testing with Shoko, with assistance by you. He was quiet, kind of emotional, but a great help to your cause. Not to mention he had been quite the looker. Dark, gloomy eyes, excellent bone structure, a body that looked carved in marble. You quickly chastised your body for wasting valuable seconds even thinking about anything except preparing to help save his life.

His strange position as both a half curse and a turn coat made him even harder to anticipate. His blood wouldn’t likely be the problem, as it is nearly entirely regenerative. How would that work for infection? Before you can wonder too much, the subject of your mystery arrives with his smaller, too grizzled looking younger brother in toe.

“I don’t know what happened! I’m really sorry, he looks like he’s going to faint. But he walked all the way here. He won’t let me touch him.”

There was blood, but only streaming from the amorphous block shaped marking across his face. It was hard to tell what shape it had taken on, his face was so flushed. He was panting, the glowing blood spilling into the floor, seeping into this clothes, onto Yuji’s shoes.

“It’s okay, Itadori. Did he get hit with something or by someone?” You kind of sheep dogged Choso towards the exam table with Yuji’s help, finally getting him to lie down, which caused him to ground and sit back up.

“This big weird curse squirted some goo or some gas or something on him, but it looks like it sank in, I can’t see where it even hit him. Its was like POOF! And then like nothing! And then…” Yuji’s voice was high and shaking, he sounded every bit the child he was, it was easy to forget both how young he was, and how novice he was to the world of jujutsu.

Choso groaned again, shifting uncomfortably, rolling onto him back and then his side. You watched the concern wash over his younger brother’s face all over again, big brown eyes unable to look away from his ailing brother. You placed a hand on the top of Yuji’s back.

“Are you hurt at all?”

He shakes his head.

“You did a great job getting him here, Itadori. He’s in good hands, I promise you I’ll do my best to get him right as rain, okay?”

You weren’t completely sure, mystery curse-related ailments were more Shoko’s jurisdiction, but if she trusted you, then you must be more than capable!

“You should head back upstairs, get some rest. I’ll have someone bring you when he’s ready for visitors again, okay?” You have an easy, warm smile, hoping to soothe his anxieties.

Whether it worked or not, you couldn’t tell. But Itadori nodded, and giving one last look to Choso, turned to head back upstairs. Looking back down at the writhing man on your exam table you weren’t sure how to start, it seemed like every muscle in his body was tensed. He had to relax before you could begin any kind of testing. He was too flushed, his blood pressure, even for him, must be skyrocketing.

You bit the inside of your cheek, “Choso, do you know where you are, can you hear me?”

He nods wearily, not uncurling from his core.

“Choso, do you think you can sit up, for me?” You attempted, bringing your hands close to his back.

“Don’t touch me!” He barks, heavy pants follow. He rolls completely onto his side away from you, groaning. You can see the line of sweat drenching the back of his shirt, “I’m sorry, but-- please, please don’t touch me.”

“Okay, can you try and sit up? I have to assess you so we can figure out how to make it stop.”you urged.

He doesn’t respond, doesn’t start to move, he stays still, fully tensed, desperate pants through gritted teeth. You watch the sweat bead up at the back of his neck, those beads begin to fall and merge together, falling under the collar of his shirt. You moved away from him, getting an instant ice pack from the refrigerator, breaking it, and feeling the cold spread across your hands. Returning to his back, you wrap the cold pack in a thin towel, taking in a breath.

“Don’t.” He gasps out, “please, just hand it to me.”

You were shocked he was still so aware of his surroundings. Against your wishes you passed him the cold pack, his hand snatches it from you without making any contact with you. You can barely see his face, but you see the muscle in his jaw pop as he pressed the cold pack to his forehead.

“What are you feeling, Choso? I can't stop it if I don’t know.” You don’t mean to sound so irritated when you say it, you aren’t irritated, you’re worried.

“Hot. Really hot.” He sighs, moving the cold pack to the side of his neck.

“Okay, and did it start right after you made contact?”

“What?”

“Yuji said a curse attacked you, it had some kind of defensive response, and it put you into this state? Do you have any idea what kind of curse it may have been?” You were gaining your confidence back, steeling yourself against the immediate shock that had set in since his arrival. You were a doctor for fuck’s sake.

Choso nodded his head, “yes. Maybe? I don’t know, I blacked out. It was out of it for a few seconds and then Yuji was shaking me.” His breathing was starting to even out, maybe he was calming back down.

“Okay, and that’s when the fever started?” You couldn’t yet place what the cause of the fever would be. Some kind of poison? Or venom?

Choso nodded, another groan, pulling him further, prone on the table. He seemed to hate this position, choking out a gasp as he pushed himself up and sat up facing away from you.

“Choso if you’ll just let me take your vitals and a blood test I can probab—-“ you reached out and touched his shoulder.

His body shivered, he let out a long, low moan.

He didn’t have to tell you to not touch him, you pulled your hand back so fast you lamented your reflexes had never been so sharp and would never be again.

He was frozen, you were frozen. You came back to yourself first.

“I’m sorry, I know you sa—.” You started to panic ramble

“You should go. Please go.” Choso’s hands gripped the edge of the table so hard his knuckles went from tan to pink to white.

This was too much, he needed help now, the cold pack had melted completely, faster than you had ever seen, no longer offering its menial relief.

“Choso, I’m your doctor, I can’t leave you. It’s my duty to help you. Please just be honest with me about what you’re feeling, and I can help. I promise I’ll do everything I can to help.” You began to curve around the table to face him.

His neck was red and wet, muscles straining underneath like angry snakes. He can’t meet your eyes, his mouth is open, panting to pull as much breath as possible, lips wet and drooly. You're too busy scanning his face to see the way he covers his lap with his hands as you approach.

“Please, let me help.” You reach your hand out to touch him, even with your gloves on and inches away you can feel the heat radiating off his body.

Finally, finally, he looks at you, urging his body upward into a sitting position. His pupils are huge, brown irises having been consumed by two large, desperate black holes. There are tears in his eyes, dripping into the blood on the bottom half of his face.

“It hurts. It’s so hot, and everything is so tight and sensitive. I can feel…everything, so much, fuck, it hurts.” He pleads, finally crumbling under the agony.

You nod and start to mentally run through treatments for the symptoms as he lays them out. Your main concern is his heart, it’s used to overproducing and pumping at will, but this isn’t at his will, and this isn’t in his routine. This is entirely unpredictable. You’re in your head when Choso stops talking, he watches you closely, the drool along his bottom lip starting to build into a drip. He watches you, as you think a million miles away from him, but so close. He isn't sure if you have ever been this close, you have checked in on him hundreds of times, helped him through his training, you have always been so kind to him, even with his…less than glowing personal history, brief as it was. He can smell your perfume, he had smelled it before, soft and light, but this was something different. It smelled so much stronger, sweet and full, enticing, hypnotic.

“You smell different.” The words leave him before he can even think better of himself, and once he does the words can't stop, “Good. You smell good. Really good.”

He leans closer to you, pulled in by the smell coming from your neck. You don't stop when he comes closer, he doesn’t stop himself when he presses his nose against your neck and inhales. Your body goes completely taut, you can feel the tip of his nose on your neck, you aren’t sure what to do.

“C-choso?”

One of his big hands moves your hair off your shoulder, then settles on your waist, he pulls you closer, inhaling at your neck again. His other hand finds your hip and pulls you in.

“You smell so sweet.” he mumbles into your neck, you can feel his lips move against your skin, “You feel so good.”

The blood from his face was slowing, the mark shaping itself back into a smaller line, you could feel his pulse slowing. The back of your mind flickered alive, a sneaking thought, something you had never imagined to be true, or to be presenting itself now. A defensive countermeasure some high ranking curses employ in order to redirect the attackers focus. Preying upon the most carnal needs, most commonly manifesting itself as prolonged, continuous sensitivity and sexual arousal. You had only ever read about it in the abstract, you never imagined it was something that was still active, let alone could manifest this intensely. Choso’s hands tighten on your hips. Your throat starts to tighten, you are paralyzed as to what to do, the ethics of helping and not helping racing through your mind.

You press his shoulder, “Choso. Just a second, you don’t know what you’re doing.”

He pulls back, suddenly, eyes wide with surprise, unsure of how he had found himself buried in your shoulder, how he had let himself succumb to whims that plagued his mind. He felt his throat closing, his heart racing, the heat in his body rising again faster than before. He felt pathetic, like some animal, some curse, that can’t control himself. And to you, who had been nothing but kind and accommodating with him since he first joined. He stands suddenly, putting as much distance between your bodies as he can. From your smell, from the feeling of your skin, from your soft hair between his fingers.

“I-I’m, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. Please, go.” He heaves out, “I don’t know if I can control myself.”

“What you're experiencing is an apex aphrodisiac. It won’t end until it has been expelled from your body, which will probably happen over time. But I have no way of knowing how long the effects will last. It could be hours, Choso, days, even.”

Some deep ache in his abdomen causes him to double, gripping against the counter top so hard you hear the laminate begin to split.

“I can hook you up to an IV, keep you hydrated and locked in here until it passes, but there’s no guarantee you can last it. Your internal body temperature keeps rising, and without someone here to keep an eye on you, there’s no telling what that fever will do to your brain. Not to mention your heart.”

He fights your eyes, glaring instead at his hands in front of him, hands that had been attached to you so recently. Hands that burned against any sensation that wasn’t you. He’s swelling between his legs again, it aches, it's hurting, it's dripping onto his leg. He could hear his molars creaking against one another as he grinds them in a desperate attempt for restraint. You approach so carefully, he doesn't notice you until you're close enough for him to smell that intoxicating aura again. His eyes flutter closed, relief beginning to spread through his body, strained muscles loosening just barely.

“Or…” You stride forward so carefully, not wanting to scare the desperate, hurt animal caught in a trap in front of you, you see his shoulders slide down his back through the damp fabric of his shirt, “I can help you now.”

Choso’s head whips around so fast that the room spins. He worries that this fever may actually be cooking his brain. Surely there was no way you were actually proposing this, he had to be hallucinating. The arousal plaguing his body had finally taken over his mind and shifted his reality to fit its sick fantasy.

You nod at his shocked face, trying to stay as even and professional under the circumstances; God, as if there were any chance of that happening.

“Choso, listen to me, from what I’ve read, the quickest way, and the only guaranteed way to find any kind of repose, is to…” You blush at your words, the impending reality starting to illuminate far too realistically to be called fantasy, “oh god, I don’t know how to say this. By briefly…succumbing… to the urges, it could rid your body of whatever lingering material is causing you to feel this way, or at least offer some alleviation while your body fights the infection. Like scratching an itch? You shouldn't, cause you may open the wound, but it helps you deal with the pain and discomfort.”

A thousand thoughts pass between the two of you, nothing spoken. He studies you carefully, desperate for any sign of a practical joke, some ill timed faux solution at his expense. Part of him looked twice as desperately for any sign of attraction from you, something that would show him you have felt the same way as him. That you have wanted this, before it became…medically necessary.

“You think having sex with you will make it stop?” He says bluntly.

You blush furiously, feeling embarrassed for even saying it, “It may. But of course, it’s up to you. If you want the IV, we can wait it out, you don't have to decide now. If it’s…me I can-”

“No!” He shakes his head furiously, “no, it’s not you. I mean it is! Fuck, I mean…”

He can barely think, let alone try and string together the way he feels and has felt. The feelings that he never dared to explore.

“I didn’t want it like this.” He finally sighs out, resigning himself to a seated position on the floor.

“You…?” You didn't get it yet.

“I wanted this, you, but I never wanted it like this.” He presses his back hard against the wall, eyes pulled tight together, blood trickling onto the floor again.

You got it then. You hadn’t known, never even thought that he would look at you like that, that he would hold feelings for you so privately. He had been so quiet, so brief, so polite. Your heart ached for him, he was so sweet, you had always thought so. Even as brief as his time here had been, you thought it was sweet how dedicated he seemed to fixing his mistakes, to training Yuji, to helping the cause. It had crossed your mind, recently even, how handsome he was. Seeing him in this state, entertaining the idea of fucking him, you found you were heating up, yourself. Your legs squeezing together as he lay before you, so desperate for you.

“I know it's not what you imagined, but I’d really like to help you.” You join him on the floor, looking up at him from under your dark lashes.

You lean closer to him, he can smell you again, he can see your lips part, he clears his throat “I don’t just want to scratch the itch.”

You shake your head, “Then let me help you, let me get it out of you. Choso, please.”

You lean closer to him, you want to help him. The ache between his legs is getting too much to bear, he is too hot, his clothes are too tight, your smell is overwhelming him. Or maybe that's the fever, maybe he’s losing his mind. He scans your face, it's so beautiful. You are the only person he would want to help him. Maybe this was preordained, it was fate that brought him in here to you, so you could help him. So he could finally be with you, if only for a moment. If only once.

“Okay.” He nods, one of his hands gripping the back of your neck and pulling you in to meet his lips.

He can’t help himself, he kisses you with every ounce of himself. Every moment of his century in stasis, every ounce of remorse for the people he has killed, every sleepless night ruminating on his place in this world that barely half of him even belongs in. Your lips on his feel electric, sending the synapses in his brain into overdrive. His tongue wiggles past your parted lips, tasting his first of a mouth besides his own. He moans unabashedly at the taste of you.

It's only then that you even think of him being inexperienced, potentially even a virgin. But the time to discuss that has passed, you can barely get air, let alone a moment to talk. His hands are quick to find your bare skin under your shirt. You feel him trembling, his hands shaking as he kneads the flesh of your sides. The taste of him floods your mouth, copper twinged from the blood on his face, but making your lips and tongue tingle with excitement. His hand finds your bra, taking your right breast into his hand and squeezing hard. You cry out, remembering your hypersensitivity due to your own hormone filled body. He pulls off to look at you, heavy blush in his face, spit connecting your lips.

“I’m sorry,” you swallow, “I--”

“You’re ovulating.” He finished for you.

“How di--”

“You smell different.” He leans into your neck again, inhaling deeply from your pulse point, “I can smell how bad you need this. Just as bad as me. Your body is begging for me.”

It was like a switch had flipped, the gentle, polite, shy man who had stumbled in was gone. Choso’s teeth found your neck, just scratching before he licks a long stripe from the crook of your shoulder to behind your ear, he squeezes your breast again, just as hard, making you keen back, pressing further into his hand. He decides he has had enough on the floor. He scoops one hand around your back and pulls you up with him, laying you down on the exam table before him. In a flash his shirt is gone, and you are slower to follow. But you remove your coat and your top, leaving you in your bra. Choso attaches himself to your neck against, biting, kissing, sucking, licking, anything he can. One hand holds himself up above you, towering over you more like, the other tugs at the button of your pants.

“Have you done this before?” He asks you, just as he gets them open.

You nod, feeling his hair soft against your face.

He hums, “You’ll have to show me what you like. I promise to do my best. I’m a fast learner.”

Your heart nearly bursts at the thoughtfulness, “This is about you, Choso. Let me.”

You finally touch him back, moving your hands over his torso, feeling the muscles straining, the heat from him spreading to you. You sit up, slotting your mouths together again, desperate for his kiss and grab for the tie of his pants. He hisses as the fabric brushes past his throbbing, blisteringly hot erection. Finally you undo the knot and his pants are quick to fall to the floor, leaving him naked over you. His tongue moves across yours, massaging, tasting, combining flavors with you. Your hand blindly finds his cock, you take it into your hand and Choso howls, separating your lips. He presses his forehead against yours, his eyes screwed up tight. You look between your bodies, to where you're holding him between your still clothed legs, just in time to see the last spurts of cum spill from him, and onto the table. You can't help feeling a little disappointed, having gotten worked up yourself, only to have it end before he ever entered you. But you’re quick to push it away, this isn't personal, it was to help him. Choso catches his breath above you, before looking down to meet your eyes.

“Do you feel better?” You ask, but you aren't able to finish before he kisses you again, his previous passion now turned up to eleven, his mouth is hotter, he pushes his tongue deeper, his teeth clash against yours, his hand returns to your waistline as he moves to keep undressing you.

His cock in your hand hasnt retreated, if anything it seems completely unchanged, still raging and red tipped.

“Choso…?” You whimper against his hungry lips.

“Please, I need more. Please.”He sounds desperate, almost as if he is begging you

You nod and help him out of your pants, uncaring as they slide though the cum and onto the floor below you. Your heels clatter to the floor as Choso scoops you cup and lays you on your back, folding your legs up.

“Fuck you’re perfect. I've wanted this for so long. You have no idea.” His voice is low enough he could be talking to himself, were it not for him looking directly at your panties, wet and clinging to your swollen lips, “You’re so wet already. You’re so nice for helping me. Thank you.”

He slides one thick finger along the part of your lips, still shrink wrapped to the soaked cotton, you bite your lip. The mark on his nose has shifted again, back to the black bar you had grown familiar with, just barely beading up at the very edges. The blush on his face and neck has deepened, it seems his blood is redistributing properly again, aside from his cock, which has made no signs of softening. It still throbbed in your hand, which you kept in a steady, tentative rhythm as he explored you further. His finger slips inside the gusset of your panties, feeling the wetness first hand.

“You’re so warm inside,” He marvels, again, likely to himself.

He had come across pornography in the time since his awakening. In his journey to understand the urges of his body, and the innate knowledge that resided within the vessel he now inhabited, he had learned about sex, both for reproduction and for pleasure. He dabbled in masturbation, it was hard not to when discovering the body of oneself. He had watched plenty of movies in the brief instances of down time, many of which outlined the inner workings of sexual relationships on an emotional level. But nothing could have prepared him for the sight of you, writhing and wet beneath him. He explored your pussy further, the nub of your clitoris against the pad of his finger enough to rouse more cum from him, which lubricated your pumps along the shaft of his cock. It was brief, but the second orgasm made him crumple against your leg, pressed against this shoulder.

This time you smiled, feeling his warm cum slid down your wrist, “Are you always like this?”

You watched him pant his way through the climax as you brought your messy hand to your mouth, licking it clean, and tasting him. He was sweet, how fitting. He watched you feed yourself his cum and nearly gave you more, drool slips from his mouth and down your leg. You feel it slide down your skin, still too far from your begging pussy, you wanted to feel him there, his mouth, his spit, his cock. The taste of him filled your mouth now, you looked over him carefully as he came back to himself.

He shook his head, answering you, but looked down at you, meeting your eyes, “my blood goes where i want it, as long as i need it there. No waiting, but I don’t usually cum this much.”

He was so crass suddenly, you felt your pussy clench, aching to be filled by him. Your body had heated so much, the lace of your bra digging in far too tight, your panties now feeling restrictive. Your clit throbbing along with your racing hard, just barely having been brushed by him. You squirm, hoping that he sees how desperately you need him. And you need him, more than air, more than water, more than anything. The room becomes all there is in the universe, only for the two of you, complete privacy, a perfect oasis for him to fill you over and over and over until the end of time. And he was the perfect one for the job, to go endless rounds, no need for sleep or rest, no refractory periods. He could keep you full, used and full.

It appeared that the curse’s effects were contagious. You would later speculate that when you ingested his cum, some fraction of the aphrodisiac entered and took host in your body as well.

Surely that must be the case, what else could explain what you said next.

“Cho, please, I want you to cum inside, please fill me up. I want it inside, Choso please! I need it, I need you. Please.” you begged, you could barely hear your own voice, but you could see the effect your pathetic keening had on him.

He tore through your panties in a second, your bra was relieved of duty, likely permanently as he seemed to cut through it just by pulling. The exam table’s icy surface seemed to sizzle against your overheated skin, he moved both your thighs over his shoulders, hands under your buttcheeks, using his thumbs to hold you open for him as he licked a flat tongue over your vulva. You cry out, not caring if your screams travel through the basement floors and up to the populated floors. One lick from him has you cumming so hard your vision goes white. He doesn't stop. Kissing and slurping over and over, you're quivering and shaking, but he can’t stop. The taste of you is too much to give up, even for a second. So sweet, so uniquely you, so intimately for him to enjoy. At this point he holds you up by your hips, as though you are attached to his mouth, your legs wrap around his head, you can't do much else but try to breathe through the intense waves of pleasure that he continues to give you with every flick of his tongue.

“Choso, please!” You finally cry out, “Please, I need you inside. It's too much, please, baby, I need you.” you pull at his hair, hard enough that you’re sure a weaker, more inhibited man would have wailed.

But he flicks his eyes up at you pleadingly, not wanting to give you up yet. But seeing your desperate, tear stained face, he relents. He lays you back down, allowing you time to cum down as he wipes a hand over his wet face, using your cum to pump his still aching cock. He squeezes the base, trying not to look too closely, knowing he couldn't cum too soon…again. You gather yourself, pussy weeping onto the table below, but already aching for him again.

“Lay down,” You tell him, moving onto your knees ungracefully.

He obeys, laying where you just had been, helping you to move over his lap, settling you just above his standing cock. You keep one hand on his chest, the other grips him again and carefully aligns his tip with your gasping hole. You find his eyes again, as if now is the time to reconsider, but he meets them. He gives you a small nod through hazy eyes, his hair is sticking to his head and his neck, the top of his chest is blotchy and flushed, your wetness makes his chin and jaw shine under the light. He looks beautiful, how could you not have seen it sooner, how magnetic and enticing he was.

“Please, I want to cum in you,” He begs, breaking you out of your admiration, “Please let me give you my cum, please. Please.” He squeezes your thighs, urging you down.

You sink down slowly, the feeling of finally being connected, sending you both into fits of pleasure. You can’t stop your hips, as soon as they fall fully and meet his, you fuck yourself back down onto him, starting a pace riding him that would normally be laughably advantageous for you. You just cant stop yourself, the tip of his cock kisses your g spot perfectly, fucking even deeper into you than you thought possible, no vibrator or partner you’d had before had ever made you fee like this.The stretch hurt so good, as you moved over him again and again.

Choso was just as bad, an absolute mess underneath you. He had no idea what he was in for. Your pussy was so much hotter and tighter than he imagined, it felt like his cock would break off, but he never wanted it to end. He could feel every hitch of your breath though the snug walls flush with his dick, he could feel your heart beating, he thought he could hear your blood moving through your body. He couldn't keep his mouth shut, whimpering, whining, gasping, begging you for … more, … or slower, … or simply just please.

please. please baby please. more. fuck. yes more. just like that. fuck. please please please please pleasepleaseplease. too fast, it's too much. too much. fuck. please. don’t stop. please please, don't ever stop.

He watches you ride him, your breasts bouncing with every lift and drop of your hips. He pushes himself up with one hand, using his knees to move you with him. His shift into a seated position pushes him even deeper inside of you. You arch your back feeling him press against your cervix, whining and pulling him closer to you. He brings your breast to his mouth, biting, sucking, swirling his tongue around your nipple. You struggle to ride him like this, but you grind down on him regardless, the friction of his public hair against your clitrois combined with his work on your nipples, more than enough. You aren’t sure how you’ll ever be able to go without this feeling. You paw at his back and shoulder, wanting to keep him close forever. He coos in your ear something unintelligible about just relaxing and letting him take care of you.

“You’re so good to me, baby. Let me take care of you. You want to be full, right? Let me fill you up. Thank you.” He coos, moving your hair off your neck and letting him return to his new favorite place, your neck.

He carries on fucking into you, your clit grinding against his pelvis, his lips on your neck, his other hand holding your flush against his chest. You feel your eyes roll back, your kiss along his head, relishing the sound of him going back and forth between whining and praising you. Your skin is blooming, your thighs are shaking, you feel the swirl of building pressure in your abdomen.

“Cho….” you whine.

He carries on pumping his hips, grabbing at your ass, digging in his nails.

“Me too,” He chokes out, bringing your lips to his as he fucks you both to your peaks.

A vastly different type of orgasm descends upon you both. Profound and all encompassing. His mouth stays on your as long as he can stand it, leaving humid breaths on your lips before he pulls off moaning and tossing his head back. You feel fat tears roll down your cheeks, Choso buries himself as deep as he can into you, spilling shot after shot of cum into you, you feel him pulsing inside of you. He rakes his nails up your sides, sending you trembling. You whine out, Your body swirls and melts into his. He collapses the pair of you back onto the table, keeping himself sheathed inside of you, not allowing any of his cum to escape you.

You pant on his chest, pressing your ear to where you can hear his heart beating, it's fast, but not nearly the frenzy it was when he first arrived. His big arms encircle you, your bodies feel warm and hot pressed together, but you can feel the chill of the basement air on the sweat of your back, you feel your own heart slowing as you catch your breath. Your own heart rate is steadying as well, at some point the surrounding area had come back into your view, he had stopped bleeding, and both of you felt the effects of the aphrodisiac leave you.

Choso lies beneath you, feeling your weight against him, feeling your body tremble in his arms, his cock still feeling the quivering, fluttering walls around him, taking his cum, pulling it deeper inside. He was told early on that biological children weren't in the realm of possibility for him, but he already had his family; his brothers, and the ones they loved. But now, with you rested on top of him, he felt sad knowing despite the timing, and despite his efforts, he would never-- could never give you your own. He realized the curse’s effects had lifted, either from time or sweat or exertion they had been exorcised from his body, and with them went his sureness that this had been a good idea.

“Choso?” You spoke softly, conspiratorially.

He hummed in acknowledgment.

“Do you feel better?” You raised your head to meet his eyes.

He looked down at you, seeing your warm, kind eyes worrying about him. Surely this couldn’t have just been for today?

Choso nodded, his dark eyes crinkling at the outer edges in a soft smile, “I think it’s over. My heart is still racing, but I don't think that's the curse anymore.”

You leaned forward, feeling brave, and a bit anxious from how quiet it felt now that the screaming and moaning and panting had stopped. Connecting your lips again, now that the worst had passed you felt no need to hungirly attack his mouth, neither did he. You gave him the sort of kiss you would have given him if he came to you with his feelings and had taken you out. You weren’t the sort of people to be able to go out very often, but whatever date it may have been, wouldn’t have been as successful as this bizarrely unorthodox first encounter. When the kiss was over you tried to move off of him, but he held you down, pumping his softening dick into you once more. You let out a high shaky breath, almost giggling.

“I meant it when I said I didn't want to just scratch the itch with you.” Choso cups your face in his hand, making you look at him, “I know I’m not your best choice for…someone to be with…I can’t give you a family or guarantee you a future. But I will keep you safe and treat you well.”

You feel your heart swell at his admission, and more so at the look in his deep, sad eyes, a look that wants nothing more than to be understood, and cared for.

“Well, I don’t know about forever, but how about after we clean up here. You and I go to dinner and we figure out where to go from here. I like you a lot, Choso. Like, a looooot.”

You punctuate your sentence with a clench of your pussy around him, making him gasp and grip your hips again. You start to laugh and he swats at your butt.

“I’m serious. After this we have a lot to talk about, but I know that I’m glad we did this.” You suddenly feel shy, despite how bare you have already been.

Choso smiles again, a contemplative smile, but an honest one, he holds your hips again, “Ready?”

You nod and move with him as he guides you off his lap, moving to the side so you can lie next to him. He keeps one hand on your waist, not wanting to be parted from you yet. You push some of his hair back on his head, tracing your finger down the slope of his nose, then over his top lip. Choso soaks in everything you give him, sighing blissfully occasionally, so unafraid to make sounds and show you how he feels about you. You're inexperienced with men so open, and so willing to express it abstractly, or at all. You find that Choso makes you nervous, the enigma of his shy, stoic nature, and his desire to be known and understood, compounded with a half curse’s worth of shamelessness. You smile at him again sitting up on the table.

“I’m willing to bet Shoko has at least one cigarette in here. I know it's a bit cliche, but I can dig around for it if you’re interested.” You stretch a bit, already starting to feel the lactic acid building in your body.

“I’ve never smoked before.” He shrugs, leaning on his elbow.

You sit up, not worried about covering yourself and begin rummaging through drawers. You found a pack in the second one you opened, slipped one out and then had to search for a lighter, which proved harder to find. But a long forgotten box of matches sat in the bottom drawer of the desk. Choso watched as you searched, admiring seeing your body in so many shapes, at so many angles. It was so beautiful to see the human form so relaxed and unposed, he had to fight the lump in his throat back down, so as to not disrupt you with his emotion. YOu climbed back up to the table and lit the small, thin cigarette. You inhaled and blew out a plum of soft grey smoke before passing it to him. He followed your lead, feeling the smoke slide down his throat, burning on the way down. He quickly exhaled, not wanting the taste to overpower yours on his tongue.

“Not for you, huh?” You took another drag.

He shook his head, “Maybe another time.”

You hummed to yourself, taking in the room around you. Choso had no interest in the room, only to watch you leisurely inhaling and exhaling. He thought that all the movies he had seen had gotten it wrong, that while he didn’t know exactly what it was he was feeling, he knew that no one could have ever felt like this. You turned back to him, another beautiful smile coloring your face.

“There is a locker room down the hall, we can get cleaned up.”

“Together?” He reaches for you.

“Sure, Cho.” You leaned in and kissed him again, your fingers under his chin tilting his face up to you.

You got up from the table, haphazardly draping your coat around yourself, avoiding as much of the cum that had pooled as possible. You offered him his, mostly, unstained trousers. Which he shuffled in to. You discarded the cigarette and hung on the door, turning back to face him. He was still watching you, picking up left over clothes, brushing his sweaty hair back.

“Coming?”You flirt.

He feels his face heat up and nods, watching you leave down the hall. He grabs the last of your discarded clothes, replaying the events of the last few hours in his mind.

“Cho…” he whispers to himself, a little celebration, before following you down the hall.

Your evening with your vibrator was long forgotten as you made your way to the locker room, with something far more enticing catching up closely behind.

I hope y'all enjoyed!!! I really hope i can keep this moment going and get out some of the ideas i have had over the last two months! Cause i've been thinkin big thoughts!!! I cant believe there are almost 200 of us on here, I'm so flattered and grateful! Thanks for indulging me with this one. Love you, see you next time! -- Doodle. <3

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jlheon · 8 months ago

Text

𝓒𝐀𝐑 𝐑𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐒 ୨୧ 𝐒𝐉𝐘

(𝓹airing) — sjy x fmr ꣑୧ 𝓷eighbors to lovers ; fluff & hs au (𝔀ordcout) three-thousand one-hundred 𝓹eng's note. america core oops 🦅 𝓫ookshelf

𝓼ynopsis. a sequence of events from your and jake’s senior year

꣑୧ 𝓶𝐨𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬

01. new hair

it’s the first day of the new school year. you’re tired but less than what you’ve been in previous years.

this year, you can finally say goodbye to the early bus rides and even longer rides home.

your neighbor, sim jaeyun, has a car and parking and is willing to bring you to and from. you’ve never been so thankful for the blonde boy.

blonde? more like brunette boy now.

“you dyed your hair back?” you say as you walk up to the driver’s side of the car, he rolls down the window.

“yeah,” jake nodded. “what do you think?”

“it looks good…” you admire his new hair color and cut. “still a little dead though,” you reach through the window to touch his hair. his hair is still soft but there’s a hint of frailness from the rounds of bleach he’s been doing for nearly a year.

“maybe you could use that hair mask you always use on me?” he suggests.

“maybe.”

02. amusement park

this is the first and last time you will ever skip school. especially with sim jaeyun.

it’s his idea to ditch school and drive to the nearest amusement park, two hours away from your town.

“come on ____ie,” jake says as you buckle your seatbelt. “it’s SAT day for the juniors… we won’t be missing anything!”

“still! our parents are going to be called!” you argue.

“if they get mad at you, i’ll deal with them,” jake reassures you, putting a hand on your headrest while reversing out of your driveway. “the tickets are on me.”

“tickets?” you raise an eyebrow.

you and jake spend the whole day until sundown at the amusement park.

once you finally accept the fact you should be more laid back for senior year, you drag him from ride to ride. despite him being scared shitless of roller coasters he goes on them with you since he knows how badly you want to ride them.

the only condition is that he gets to hold your hand if he gets scared. which is inevitably the whole day, which he gets to use the excuse to hold your hand in queues.

he also holds your hand while walking around the park with the excuse of not wanting to lose you in the crowd.

as if there are a bunch of people on a random weekday. the only ‘crowd’ is just the families with children no older than five.

the only thing jake can confidently do is get you a giant plushie at one of the scam-like carnival game stands. which he carries around for the remainder of the day.

you hate to admit it but skipping was a good idea even though when you two return home both sets of your parents are waiting furiously on your front porch.

“it was my idea,” jake takes the blame as you peek out from behind him, holding his hand for comfort.

you both get grounded for a week and are forced to take the bus to and from school. that didn’t matter though because you both had fun that day.

03. sick day

one morning jake is surprised to see that when he pulls into your driveway that you aren’t waiting for him.

you’re so punctual and on time so it makes him worried. but he gives you the benefit of the doubt and sits in his car for ten minutes. maybe you're just running a little late.

when you don’t respond to his texts jake becomes more worried. he caves, gets out of his car, walks up your front steps, and rings the doorbell.

when you come to the door with messy hair and a pale face jake can already sense you’re sick and miserable.

“woah, are you okay?”

“sorry for not texting,” you sneeze. “i’m staying home today.”

“are your parents home?” jake asks, looking around your house behind you.

“no,” you yawn, rubbing your eyes.

“let me in.”

“but school starts in twenty, you’ll be late,” you try to push him out the door, though he’s stronger than you.

“let me take care of you,” he wraps his arms around your waist and carries you upstairs towards your room.

jake spends the day in your room giving you medicine, soup, and under the covers next to you. making sure he’s with you as you rest incase you need anything. not letting you get up at all unless you really must.

your parents come home to you and jake cuddled up on the couch.

to no one's surprise, your parents call jake’s parents and inform them about their son's whereabouts for the day.

jake does not get grounded for skipping that time.

꣑୧ 𝓪𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐬𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐥

01. after school nap

after a long day of test after test, each teacher trying to get one in before winter break, you’re exhausted.

walking up to jake’s car with dark circles and messy braids. ready to go home and crash on your bed to start your week-long break.

the frigid weather has you shivering as you approach the vehicle. your nose and cheeks flushed red from the cold.

“cold outside?” jake asks as you quickly shut the door and sink into the passenger’s seat. his car had been running for a couple of minutes now as he got let out early by his teacher.

“super,” you yawn, snuggling into your jacket.

the car is taken over by a comfortable silence. the only noises being the car engine and the wind outside. keeping his eyes on the road jake asks you a question.

“how were your tests?” he asks while turning the corner.

he gets no response, at the red light he glances over to see you sleeping soundly in the seat next to him.

when arriving at your house jake decides that you look too adorable and comfortable to wake you up just yet. he knows you’ve been studying hard the past week and barely sleeping. ten minutes is what he tells himself, he’ll wake you up in ten minutes.

ten minutes later jake has also fallen asleep.

you both nap in the heated car for god knows how long. then when a continuous taps on the window register in jake’s brain he opens his eyes to see it is already dark out. the digital clock reads three-quarters past five.

your mom is currently knocking on the driver’s side window.

“hi jaeyun,” she greets when he rolls down the window. “i think you two have been sleeping for too long.”

“yeah, i’m so sorry!” he apologizes. “i guess i fell asleep while i was waiting for her to wake up.”

“that’s alright,” your mother smiles at him. “just making sure you weren’t doing anything else in here!”

jake can’t help the heat creeping up his neck in embarrassment at the suggestion you two were doing something other than sleeping.

“how about you join us for dinner tonight!”

“i’d love to,” jake scratches the back of his neck. “i’ll bring her inside.” he looks over at your peaceful expression wondering how you didn’t wake up in the past couple of minutes.

02. passenger princess

“get out,” jake says when sunghoon climbs into the passenger’s seat of his car.

“what do you mean?” sunghoon replies, furrowing his bushy eyebrows. “you said you’re taking me home!”

“i am!” the australian boy retorts. “but you have to sit in the back.”

“why!” the younger boy whines, crossing his arms childishly.

“because the front seat is for ____,” jake explains, unlocking the door so sunghoon can exit.

“not fair,” sunghoon groans. “last time i checked she didn’t call shotgun.”

“well, she always sits next to me-” he’s cut off by the back door opening and you setting your backpack on the middle seat. “hey, don’t sit there. sunghoon was just about to move.”

“oh! okay!” you get up, looking at sunghoon innocently.

“fuck you,” the black-haired boy says under his breath. “i’m supposed to be your passenger princess.”

“hi hoon!” you sweetly greet him, he suddenly doesn’t feel too betrayed anymore.

“hey,” he says as he goes to the back seat, switching places with you.

you all buckle into the car and as jake backs out of the parking lot you reach over the console to plug your phone into the charger.

jake never lets me do that without asking! sunghoon thinks to himself.

you start fiddling with the car plane on his screen. selecting yourself as aux and playing your shared playlist with jake.

sunghoon notices that his phone is no longer an option for bluetooth on jake’s car and feels even more offended.

jake hums along to the songs you queue as you sing along while reapplying your lip tint in the pull-down mirror.

jake said he hates this song! sunghoon thinks again, cringing at how down bad his friend is for you.

when the trio arrives at sunghoon’s house he quickly gets out and bids goodbye to you only as you wave through the window as he walks up the steps to his front door.

jake soon receives a text from his best friend.

penghoon 🐧 : that was disgusting GET UPP i am your PASSENGER PRINCESS NOT HER ☹️☹️☹️💔💔💔

03. corsage

the friday before prom on the way home school school, jake can’t shake off the sad pout on your face. he feels as if there’s a small rain cloud thundering above your head that’s making your lips droop.

“what’s the matter?” jake asks gently as he sees your sad state.

“i don’t have a date to prom anymore,” your frown becomes stronger.

“what?” he asks with wide eyes. “did you just find out? prom is tomorrow night?”

“i know,” you slouch into your seat. “her boyfriend surprised her by flying in last night and now i don’t get to have a corsage like everyone else! neither do i have a ride…”

“i’ll pick you up,” jake offers. “i don’t have a date either.”

“thank you,” you say with a slight frown still on your face, though inside your relieved to know jake is going alone.

the next morning jake rushes to find a place that has a corsage just perfect for you and for him to match with.

unfortunately, he doesn’t know your dress color so he brings as many different colored ties with him when he picks you up. picking a white corsage so it can match with any color.

when you answer the door jake feels all the air being knocked from his lungs. you’re breathtaking. literally. he starts coughing and you pull him into your house and pat his back.

“where’s your tie?” you ask when he finally starts breathing normally again.

“i have multiple in my car,” he says bashfully. “i wanted to make sure we matched.”

jake quickly leaves to retrieve the ties and corsage.

when you spot the clear box with the pretty white flower that matches the one on his blazer you’re quick to nearly tackle him.

“oh my god! you got me a corsage!” you squeal hugging is neck tightly.

“anything for my prom date,” pats your head, careful to not mess up the hairstyle he knows you spent a good hour on.

04. third-wheel

“are we waiting for someone?” you ask as jake scrolls on his phone after you two have been sitting in the car for a couple of minutes now.

“yeah,” jake’s eyes drift from his phone to the back exit of the school, finally seeing the tall black-haired boy making his way towards the car. “we’re bringing riki home.”

“hey guys!!” the younger boy grins as he slides into the backseat.

“hi ki!” you smile at him in the rearview mirror. “do you want to come with me and jae to the café downtown? or are you busy?”

“i’m not busy!” riki has a shit-eating grin plastered on his face, knowing that jake had told him to not get in the way of your study date.

alas, you’re the one who invited him, so jake cannot protest.

“oh! haha great!” jake says as he grips the steering wheel hard enough that his knuckles turn white. luckily for him, that’s the least of your concerns as you stare at the way his veins have become more prominent. “the more the merrier!”

the three of you sit in a booth in the café. thankfully jake had kicked riki out of your side of the booth while you were in the bathroom. now jake was by your side doing his own homework as you both shared a slice of strawberry shortcake.

riki on the other hand sits at the opposite side of the table with his straw conveniently next to his mouth as he plays games on his phone.

“riki, don’t you have any homework?” you ask him as you look over at the gaming underclassmen.

“i did it in study hall,” he clarifies, eyes still glued to his screen like a giant ipad kid.

“i find that hard to believe,” jake whispers in your ear.

“be nice,” you nudge him, to which he shrugs.

you both go back to doing your work for a while until jake sees that you have one bite's worth of cake left. he knows you’ll argue with him and insist he eats it. so instead he silently picks it up with his fork and turns to you.

“____,” he says as he brings the utensil to your lips, waiting for you to get the whole piece before retracting his hand, “good?” he asks.

you nod your head as you finish chewing the cake. jake notices that some icing got stuck on the corner of your lips and wordlessly brings his thumb to your face to clean you.

you both stare at each other. the way your eyes sparkle when jake makes eye contact with you is mesmerizing. he dares to almost lean in until riki clears his throat.

“um, my mom says i have to be home for dinner soon.”

“oh yeah,” jake says as he awkwardly backs away. “let’s get you home.”

05. driver switch

you’ve been sitting around in jake’s car for about an hour now. you didn’t know he had practice today and he had only gotten to tell you after the buses left.

instead, he had you walk to the soccer field so he could give you his keys so you could wait in the car for him.

his teammates looked at him suspiciously when you approached.

“since when did you have a girlfriend?” heeseung, the soccer captain asks.

“that’s ____,” riki, an underclassman, interrupts, “jake’s neighbor he’s secretly in love with.”

“shut up,” jake shoves his shoulder as you were still walking close by.

“is that why you wouldn’t set me up on a date with her?” sunghoon pops up behind jake, startling him.

“maybe,” jake mumbles, taking the ball and kicking it along.

once practice is over jake walks to the parking lot with sunghoon and jay. he spots you from afar sitting in his car while reading a book.

he says goodbye to his friends who are quick to tease him and walks over to the car. knocking on the window so you let him open it.

“hi! how was practice?”

“tiring,” jake sighs, placing his bag in the back seat.

“seems like it,” you comment, “i’ll drive us home!”

“nah, it’s fine.”

“please! i never get to drive because i don’t have my own car,” you whine, “you’re clearly tired anyways.”

“it’s my car,” jake argues.

“but i have the keys!” you pout.

“just this once,” jake says while you both switch seats.

06. the date

after your almost kiss at the café, jake musters up the courage to bring you on a real date. the near kiss did everything to confirm that the pining he had been doing for you since the beginning of high school was mutual.

waiting for him to pick you up was seriously nerve-wracking. you kept telling yourself that this wasn’t new at all, which is true, and that it was just jake.

but that was exactly the problem.

you haven’t seen jake since he confessed to you and asked you out on a real date.

that was three days ago, the last day of school when he dropped you home after getting celebratory ice cream.

you’ve been in jake’s car with him more than a hundred times but today was different. you weren’t just driving to school or around town, you were going on a date with him.

at that fancy place, you both discussed going to back when you were just friends. scrolling through the menu on the website for a hypothetical meal turned into reality now.

“you look beautiful,” jake says when you walk downstairs.

of course, he went inside to talk to your parents beforehand. jake was nothing but a gentleman. he reaches for your hand and twirls you around once your feet touch the floor. he admires your dress with lovesick eyes and you think you might as well be dreaming right now.

you bid goodbye to your parents and walk hand in hand down to his car. jake reached to open the passenger door for you and made sure you were inside before closing it.

you fiddle with your necklace as jake starts the car, which he catches onto the awkward atmosphere quickly.

“are you nervous?” jake glances over at you.

“kinda- a lot actually,” you chuckle awkwardly. “it’s just kinda weird being in your car for the first time after we told each other we liked each other.”

“i get it,” jake nods his head before reaching over the console to take your shaking hand into his. “it’s just me.”

“that’s the thing,” you say. “of course i’m nervous jae, i like you, and now you know.”

“i like you too though and i’m also nervous,” he squeezes your hand. “this shouldn’t be any different from when we hang out! just don’t overthink it.”

“okay,” you feel yourself getting flustered, interlacing your fingers with his as he starts driving.

“at least we already know what we want to order!” jake laughs, recalling your late-night menu scrolling two weeks ago before either of you knew about the reciprocated feelings. “one less thing to be worried about.”

you finally let out a genuine laugh.

that night when jake walks you back to your door he does what riki interrupted you from doing. kissing you softly under the dim light provided by your porch light.

when you both finally pull away to see jake cutely pouting at the fact your night together is coming to a close.

“what’s wrong, yun?” you giggle, resting your hands on his chest.

“i don’t want to go home yet,” he says with a pout on his face. bringing you closer so your head rests on his chest as he holds you.

“maybe you can come inside?” you look up at him with hopeful eyes.

at the end of the night, you end up in your boyfriend’s arms.

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misspygmypie · 6 months ago

Text

Park Panic to Crawling Crisis

Part of the "Meet & Greet... and more?" Universe Pairing: Lando Norris x Noah, Lando Norris x reader, Lando Norris x Baby Maebry Words: 1617 Request: lando and noah series request - noah getting hurt and lando just panicking or baby girl getting hurt and lando panicking Masterlist

Please do not repost, thank you, and leave some feedback :)

They had planned a simple Tuesday afternoon outing to the park, a rare chance for Lando to take a break from the demanding world of Formula 1 and spend some quality time with Y/N and five-year-old Noah. Y/N had taken Noah to the park earlier in the day, excited to let him burn off some energy before Lando joined them. Lando, always punctual in his professional life, was running a bit behind but was eager to catch up.

When he approached the park the sounds of children's laughter filled the air. Lando scanned the area and spotted Y/N and Noah near the playground. Noah was climbing the jungle gym and Lando had to smile seeing him. He waved and called out to his girlfriend and her son.

Noah looked up, his face lighting up when he spotted the young man. “Lando!” he shouted, waving enthusiastically.

The Brit felt a surge of joy as he started walking over but then he heard a loud, piercing cry that made his blood run cold. It was Noah’s voice and it was followed by a heart-wrenching sob.

Lando’s face went pale and his instinct took over. He sprinted towards the boy, his usual grace and agility as a driver replaced by sheer panic. He dodged a toddler on a tricycle and practically flew over a bench, his eyes wide and frantic.

When he reached Noah the scene was enough to make his heart skip a beat. The boy was lying on the grass, clutching his ankle and crying loudly. Y/N was kneeling beside him, her face worried but her actions calm and practiced.

“What happened?” Lando’s voice came out in almost a high-pitched squeak as he dropped to his knees beside them. “Is he okay? Should we call an ambulance? Is he-”

Y/N quickly intervened, placing a hand on Lando’s arm. “Lando, it’s okay. Noah twisted his ankle when he fell and he has a tiny scrap on his knee. It’s not too serious, just sore and his knee is barely bleeding. We can handle this.”

Lando’s eyes were darting around as if searching for a sign or a guide on what to do next. “Are you sure he doesn’t need help? Maybe we should-”

“No, Lando,” Y/N said firmly, though her lips were twitching with a hint of amusement. “It’s just a twist. We have everything we need, we just need to calm down. Can you please grab some ice from the cooler and a bandaid from my purse?”

Lando’s hands were shaking as he fumbled with his girlfriend’s purse, rummaging through the items and pulling out several things. Y/N tried not to laugh as Lando frantically pulled out her wallet but his panic led him to accidentally slap himself in the face with it. “Ow! I’m hurting myself now,” he yelped.

“Lando, focus,” Y/N said, trying to keep her voice soothing despite the situation’s absurdity. “We need to get ice on Noah’s ankle.”

Lando nodded vigorously, though he was still visibly shaking. He wrapped some of the ice from the little cooler back they had brought with some sandwiches in a towel but struggled to hold it gently against Noah’s ankle without slipping. “I’m sorry, buddy. I’m just really, really sorry.”

Noah, still sniffling but looking more curious than pained now, reached up and patted Lando’s cheek. “Lando, you’re making funny faces.”

Lando’s eyes softened as he looked at the boy while Y/N was placing a bandaid on her son’s knee. “I was just really worried, Noah. I didn’t mean to freak out so much.”

“It’s okay, Lando,” Y/N rubbed Lando’s back reassuringly, “Noah is fine and you’re doing great.”

Lando took a deep breath, trying to calm his racing heart. He glanced at Y/N, who was expertly wrapping the ice pack in place. “Okay, okay. I’m finally calming down. No more panicking. Just focus on making sure Noah’s okay.”

The boy’s cries had turned into soft whimpers and he began to smile slightly. “Can we go get ice cream now?” he asked, his mood shifting as the pain began to ease.

Lando’s face brightened. “Absolutely, ice cream is the best medicine!”

Y/N chuckled and helped Lando carefully lift Noah onto his back. When they started walking toward the park exit Lando was slightly embarrassed. “I think I made a bit of a scene back there.”

“Just a bit,” Y/N grinned, “but it’s okay, it’s nice to see how much you care, even if it means panicking like that.”

Lando laughed, his cheeks reddening. “Well, if you ever need someone to handle a twisted ankle, I’m your man. Just don’t expect me to stay calm about it.”

They reached the ice cream stand and Noah’s face lit up as he chose his favorite flavor. Lando, now much more relaxed and even a little embarrassed by his earlier performance, watched with a smile as Y/N and Noah enjoyed their treats.

Once they sat together on a park bench Lando watched how Y/N and Noah enjoyed their treats. Happily licking her ice cream Y/N leaned over and gave Lando a playful nudge. “You can be quite dramatic.”

“I guess so,” he chuckled. “But I’d do it all over again if it means making sure Noah’s okay.”

______

Lando had finally found some downtime from his intense racing schedule and he, Y/N and their eight-month-old daughter were all enjoying a few peaceful moments in the living room together while Noah was playing with the Legos in his room. Y/N had been organizing some things while Lando sat on the floor, playing with Maebry, who had just started crawling.

Lando was trying to coax Maebry to crawl towards him with a bright, crinkly toy that jingled when shaken and the girl was slowly inching her way across the soft carpet, giggling as she reached for the toy.

“Come on, Maebry! Almost there,” Lando cheered, hoping to encourage his daughter.

Y/N watched from the sofa, a warm smile on her face as she admired Lando’s playful side. “She’s getting really good at crawling,” she said, gently folding a blanket.

Just as she was about to reach the toy she wobbled slightly and lost her balance. Her tiny hands flailed as she tumbled forward, landing face-first on the carpet. The fall wasn’t far but it was enough to make Maebry let out a startled cry. The sound cut through the room and Lando’s heart immediately stopped.

“Mae,” Lando’s voice was high-pitched as he scrambled over to her, nearly toppling over himself in his rush. He reached Maebry and gently lifted her into his arms, his face pale with concern. “Oh no, are you okay, sweetheart?”

Y/N was already by their side, her face also concerned but trying to stay calm. “Lando, it’s okay. It’s just a little fall. She’s probably just startled.”

Lando’s hands were shaking as he checked Maebry over, his eyes darting around as if searching for an instruction manual. “But what if she’s hurt? Maybe she’s got a concussion or-”

“Lando,” Y/N said, placing a calming hand on his arm. “She’s fine. It was just a small tumble. Let’s not overreact.”

He was still holding his daughter as if she were made of glass. He looked at Y/N with wide, panicked eyes. “But what if she’s in pain? What if she’s-”

Y/N took a deep breath, trying not to laugh at Lando’s over-the-top reaction. “She’s not in any serious danger. Just comfort her and calm her down, she’ll probably start smiling again in a minute.”

Maebry was indeed starting to calm down, her initial cries fading into soft whimpers. She reached out for her dad’s face, her little fingers brushing his cheeks.

Lando’s eyes softened as he looked at her. “I’m so sorry, Mae,” he said, his voice still slightly trembling. “I just got really scared. Daddy’s here, okay?”

“Here, let her hold this,” Y/N grabbed a soft toy and handed it to Lando, who gently placed it in Maebry’s tiny hands, “it might help her feel better.”

Lando held his daughter close, his heart still racing but his panic subsiding when he saw her starting to smile. “You’re so brave,” he said, giving her a gentle kiss on the forehead. “I promise I’ll try not to freak out next time.”

Y/N settled back onto the sofa, shaking her head with a loving smile. “You know, for someone who’s so calm on the racetrack you turn into a bit of a drama king when it comes to our kids.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Lando raised an eyebrow, a curious smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Y/N chuckled, shaking her head as she looked over at him. “Remember when Noah hurt his ankle at the park when he was five? You practically turned into a wreck. I thought you were going to call an ambulance.”

Lando groaned, rolling his eyes but unable to hide his grin. “Alright, alright, point taken. I guess I do get a little more dramatic when it comes to the kids. I guess I’m just better at handling high-speed chases than small injuries.”

As Maebry began to crawl again, this time more cautiously, Lando watched her closely, ready to catch her if she fell again but trying to hide his lingering anxiety behind a reassuring smile.

Y/N leaned over and rested her head on Lando’s shoulder. “She’s doing great. And so are you, even if you are a bit of a panicker.”

“I guess I’ll need to work on my ‘calm under pressure’ skills when it comes to parenting.”

________

AN: I couldn't decide so I wrote something with both kids lmao Anon, I hope you like it and if not let me know and I can rewrite 😊🫶

Taglist: @eloriis @pacifierbby @landossainz @littlegrapejuice @barcelonaloverf1life @poppyflower-22 @itsjustfranzi @vickykazuya @sltwins

#lando imagine #lando norris imagine #f1 fanfic #f1 fic #lando angst #lando x noah #lando norris x reader #ln4 x reader #lando x reader #lando x maebry

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arjudy224 · 4 months ago

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Chemical Valley

(The Intern x Red Hood)

After the unsettling reminder of her past, Y/N has been avoiding vigilantes for the last few months. However, Dr. Harris has requested backup in the form of Gotham's newest crime lord. What could go wrong?

The Intern Collection:

Prequel: Death of a family

The Intern: Day one

The Intern: The Laughing Fish

The Intern: Busy Work

The Intern: Outreach Gala

The Intern: Teachers Pet

The Intern: Visiting an old friend

The Intern: Chemical Valley

The Intern: Billionaire Boys Club

I'm getting real sick of risking my life for a minimum-wage job. Driving around with Dr. Harris is one thing, but since when did the job description list teaming up with crime lords? I mean it's the Red Hood for Christ's sake. Dr. Harris gives me a protective smile from the driver's seat.

"Don't worry about Red Hood. He knows what he's doing." He starts sensing my apprehension. "Besides, he owes me a favor."

I nod with a nervous smile. Red Hood is the only vigilante that I've never interacted with. He only recently appeared in Gotham. From what I've heard on the streets, he isn't on great terms with Batman.

"All due respect... hasn't he killed people? " I question glancing around the lonely alleyway.

Growing silent, Harris contemplates his response.

"Not recently." He says with what is supposed to be a comforting pat on the shoulder.

Trying to ignore the anxiety creating knots across my gut, I reply with more enthusiasm than I feel.

"Oh well... that's progress."

Harris laughs.

"It's Gotham dear. It's hard to find someone who hasn't committed murder. I wouldn't worry too much about the Hood though. If you can befriend Waylon, a little boy in a helmet is the least of your worries. "

I raise an eyebrow.

"You wanna elaborate?"

He smiles sweetly. I narrow my eyes.

"Don't ask questions that you don't want to know the answers to."

That shuts me up. We sit in silence for a few minutes while I contemplate what he just said. Dr. Harris isn't exactly wrong... Glancing at the time clock on the dashboard, I frown. I guess vigilantes aren't known for being punctual, but at least Nightwing was on time. Considering our history, maybe we were both eager to see each other again. I try to focus on the cool air dusting my face.

A swift knock causes me to jump. The infamous Red Hood almost cartoonishly waves at me from the outside the window. My nervous heart patters like a hummingbird. Eyeing his bike, I sigh. It was silent... Of course, it was silent. What kind of muffler does he have on that thing?

Harris rolls down the window.

"Good morning. Thank you for meeting us."

Leaning on the car door, Red Hood asks in a deep voice

"What do you have for me Dr.?"

"Routine inspection of Ace chemicals. Normally, I wouldn't worry about having a backup, but with an uptick in Joker sightings... I figured it would be better to be safe than sorry."

Hood nods, then glances in my direction.

"I'll keep an eye out."

"Y/N L/N," I say introducing myself, "But most people call me L/N."

"Weren't you the one who convinced the Riddler to let you go in exchange for inspecting his lair for asbestos?" Hood asks with a tone of pride.

I smile while shaking his hand. Word must get around quick.

"Yeah, that's me. He didn't even ask me any riddles. The poor man was terrified."

Dr. Harris whips his head around.

"Why haven't I heard about this?" He demands.

I flash him a shit-eating grin.

"Don't ask questions you don't want to know the answers to Dr. Maybe Metropolis hasn't made me so soft after all."

Before he can start lecturing me, I step out of the car to face my new bodyguard. Keeping my eyes trained on the ground, I sidestep the hulking mammoth of a man.

"Thank you for dropping me off Dr., but I'm sure "Little" Red and I can take it from here."

Harris watches me with a hint of pride.

"This is not the last time we will be discussing this."

"I look forward to the debrief," I remark as he pulls away.

The ACE chemicals manufacturing plant towers over the surrounding buildings. The smoke stacks excrete a dark sticky aerosol that trickles down from above. Its gothic structure makes it look like something out of a Tim Burton film. Taking a step near the external shutter, I drag my index finger across. My glove smears a damp power off revealing the old white paint. An uncomfortable sensation settles in my chest.

There is no way this amount of air pollution is legal.

After my second round of coughing, Red Hood offers me a disposable face mask. I gratefully take it. The neon green sign serves as a haunting reminder that somehow this has passed inspection. My eyebrows furrow. We passed several kids on the way here. What does that do to someone? No wonder Dr. Harris mentioned childhood asthma. I'm more concerned about the long-term exposure to industrial solvents.

Glancing at Red Hood, I state

"There is no way this is legal."

Hood stays quiet for a moment. Adjusting his helmet, he replies

"The law can be anything you want as long as you kill the inspectors who challenge you."

My mouth falls open. A thousand questions flood my mind.

"Somebody must have tried."

Hood tilts his head while glancing between us and the doors.

"Somebody did try."

Tossing me a key card over his shoulder, he continues, "You can visit them in Arkham if you want."

I flounder to catch the key card. It takes a few moments to register his words. Them as in more than one? Or is he concealing their identity? By the time my brain focuses, I stand in the alley alone staring up at a sign for a trading card company.

Isn't that where the Joker.... Oh hell no...

Stumbling through the stained doors, a bubbly man contrasts the bleak external welcome. As he rambles, I analyze the faded posters nailed to the wall. Dr. Harris briefly mentioned the factory's history of producing bioweapons during the Second World War. Hazardous feels like an understatement. I nodd along with the pleasant man, yet something in my gut tells me to keep my eyes and ears open.

Walking past a dust cloud, my lungs contract. Unable to steady myself, I sneak down a back hall to take my inhaler. The rambling man continues down the other hallway completely oblivious to my absence. I tear the disposable mask off my face. Searching my pockets for the familiar medication, my heart drops. Of course, I left it in the car.

I sink into a seated position once the dizziness sets in. Do. Not. Panic. We cannot do that again. No more emergency room trips. A pair of boots emerges from the shadows.

"Are you alright?"

I nodd while focusing on each labored breath.

"Sometimes, I really hate this city." I wheeze clutching my chest.

Red Hood lets out a dry laugh before taking a seat next to me.

"I have something that might help, but you have to trust me."

A small inhaler makes its way into my left hand. Squinting, a small Bat engraving stares up at me. I give him an incredulous glance. There is no fucking way that Batman has a pharmacy.

"It works. I promise."

Reluctantly, I take two puffs. We sit in silence for a few minutes. Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out. I relish the first full breath of air in days. My lungs expand completely taking in the dusty air around us. It is glorious.

"How did you manage to get Killer Croc to cooperate with you?"

The immense pain that weighs on my chest lessens slightly. I open my eyes to look at him. Spots litter my vision. The sticky residue has left grime all over his mask. I hesitate.

"Waylon has lost everything... Everyone really. All he really needed was a friend."

Hood stays silent weighing out my words. Slow in. Slow out.

"What factory did they make you in?" He questions.

I can almost hear a smile in his voice.

"The same one that kicked you out for defects." I retort gazing at the white paint peeling on the far left wall.

I really hope that's not lead paint.

"Touché, Ms. Friendship. Touché"

I give him a friendly shove.

"You know, you aren't as bad as your reputation suggests."

He laughs climbing to his feet.

"I wouldn't go that far. Usually, I'm a dick."

"Better a dick than a sociopath," I say dusting off the black power on my pants.

"Damn Metropolis. Who have you been talking to?"

I shrug.

"It's Gotham. "

After a few moments of comfortable silence, he asks

"You ready to find Mr. Optimistic?"

I nodd allowing him to pull me to my feet. Enjoying the comfortable silence, I open the door for him once we make it down the hall. To my surprise, Red Hood slams me against a wall before covering my mouth. Paralyzed in shock, I don't fight him. The Red Bat insignia stares at me. The soft aroma of his cologne catches me off guard. It's nice. Very musky. There's something so... familiar about it. I suddenly feel my face go red. There is no way I am evaluating how good a CRIMINAL smells. Get a grip girl.

Ignoring my mental crisis, Red Hood leads the two of us out the back door. Stumbling out the door behind him, I bend over holding my knees for stability. This is a lot of cardio for a regular inspection.

"What the hell was that about dude?" I hiss in between breaths.

Red Hood doesn't say anything.

"I know you are trying for the strong and silent type, but I think this partnership would benefit from open communication."

Standing up tall, a gunman aims a pistol directly at my temple.

Oh.. That's why.

Tag list: @nosyrobin, @jjsmeowthie, @epicy0n,@gaychaosgremlin, @rory-cakes, @luna-zendra-star

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justallihere · 1 month ago

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i've been talking about this for two months now, but we're past onyx storm and i'm finally far enough into this fic that i'm almost ready to start posting, which means. . .

dead on arrival chapter 1 will be coming your way on feb 3rd!

this is a bones-inspired modern au, and i'm in love with every moment of it so far. i can't wait to start sharing it with you, but in the meantime, here's the summary - and below the cut, a longer look into the first bit of chapter 1

Violet Sorrengail is a forensic anthropologist good with only one thing: dead people. Their bones speak a language only she can hear, but the living aren't quite so easy to understand - particularly one FBI Agent Xaden Riorson, who does everything possible to get under her skin. When an unexpected murder victim washes up in DC, the ensuing investigation brings them closer together despite her every effort to stay away, and she's forced to decide if the careful distance she keeps around her heart is really worth it.

There was a dead body.

That was what the text message said anyway, the one that interrupted Violet Sorrengail’s music with a cheerful little ding and made her flinch. It popped up on the screen of her car—from FBI Agent Xaden Riorson.

7:03 am There’s a dead body. I’ll pick you up in 10.

When she read it, she rolled her eyes. Of course there was a fucking dead body. That was the only reason he ever texted, called, emailed, or otherwise contacted her. There was a steady stream of texts from him dating back six months, from their first case together, all variations of: Got a body. On my way to pick you up. Any updates on the case? Why aren’t you in the lab? I have new evidence for you. Never so much as a hello or a how are you. If his neck was more easily reachable, she would have strangled him by now, but as it was, he stood about fifteen inches taller than her, and Violet hated both high heels and step stools, so he got to keep breathing. For now.

A bark came from the passenger seat. She spared a glance at Tairn and found the dog was already glaring at the car screen, as if he knew exactly who had texted. He held a special sort of contempt for Xaden Riorson that Violet didn't think he'd ever shown anyone she knew, and he'd been her service dog for almost three years.

She was stuck at a red light, so she took a fortifying drink of her coffee and then plucked her cell phone out of the second empty cup holder to respond.

7:04 am it’s 7 in the morning on a monday y tf do u think i’m in the lab already. i’m 20 min away

Riorson hated shorthand text. Violet normally didn’t do it, but once, in a hurry, she’d typed bc instead of because, and it was the first thing he’d commented on the next time he saw her. She’d made it a point ever since to shorten as many words as possible.

7:04 am Then I’ll pick you up in 20. Washed up from the Potomac at a park in Alexandria a couple hours ago.

Sounded lovely—and unstable for her, given it had rained the entire weekend before and she could break or dislocate just about anything with a single wrong look.

It took her twenty-two minutes instead of the promised twenty to get to the lab, and she felt confident Riorson was losing his mind. He had a thing for punctuality that bordered on compulsive. Sure enough, he was already there, his government-issued SUV parked next to her usual spot. He stood outside it, leaning against the closed driver’s door, wearing a sleek black suit and aviators, not a strand of dark hair out of place. He looked the perfect picture of professionalism, were it not for the tattoo on his left arm that wound from wrist to jawline. The early morning sun gilded his brown skin, and he looked almost ethereal. It was both infuriating and unfair how beautiful he was, but he made up for it by being a complete and utter dick most of the time.

Riorson was too composed to show any outward signs of impatience, but Violet was sure he was counting the seconds it took her to gather her coffee, her phone, and her bag and climb out of her own car to join him. Instead of waiting for her to round the car and open the passenger door, Tairn followed her out of the driver's side, his leash trailing. She didn't bother to pick it up; he stuck close to her side regardless, his nose nearly against her thigh.

“I need to go inside and get waders,” she informed Riorson instead of offering any polite greeting. She knew he certainly wasn’t going to offer her one. She skirted around the back of his car to the passenger side. She was wearing jeans and a white sweater and sneakers—not exactly appropriate attire for investigating a dead body on a riverbank. “I’ll be right back.”

“Your waders and boots are in the trunk, and Sloane has the rest of all your fancy tools and equipment. She rode ahead to the scene with Rhiannon.”

Well, that at least answered the question of which intern was on the schedule today. And hopefully Rhiannon was far enough ahead of them that she’d be done with her preliminary analysis by the time Violet got there. If this was the FBI’s problem, and Riorson wanted Violet there, then the remains were presumably in bad shape.

Violet opened the back door for Tairn and stood back as he jumped inside, settling on the nice leather seats without a care for his claws. There were scratches in the material already, but Violet was sure most of them came from Xaden's own dog, Sgaeyl. She wasn't a service dog like Tairn, but Riorson had brought her around a few times, usually when a case called them in on a weekend or late at night. Tairn used his teeth to tug his leash closer when it dangled, and then sat back on his haunches, looking at her expectantly. She shut the door.

Violet climbed into the passenger seat, dropping her bag at her feet and her coffee in one of the cup holders, then buckling her seat belt as Riorson climbed in next to her, starting the car without a word.

He was seemingly allergic to music, so they almost always rode in silence. Violet was never quite sure why he felt the need to drive her to crime scenes. She could just as easily get herself there, or hitch a ride in the forensics van with Rhiannon or Ridoc. But since the very first case, he’d insisted, and he was about as much fun to argue with as a brick wall, and some things simply weren’t worth the energy to complain about.

Every so often, Tairn would make a little chuffing noise in the back seat, but he didn't actually lean forward and alert, so she ignored him. He was always restless and grumbling around Xaden. Despite his relative youth, he acted remarkably like an old man.

"So why are we going to Alexandria?" Violet asked skeptically as Riorson weaved expertly through the early morning DC traffic, heading the opposite way Violet had just come from. She had a charming, spacious house in Georgetown she'd received as a gift from her father, with a secluded backyard and even a small heated pool. As one of the most renowned forensic anthropologists in the world, she made good money, enough to cover the utilities and the property taxes and insurance with ease, but it was still far too rich of a neighborhood for her; she never could've afforded it outright. There had been questions for a while about where the money came from for her father to afford to buy her such a place, if it had been earned through legal means, but after six months of investigating when she first got the deed, everyone had stopped looking into it, and she'd been able to finally move in with no problems.

She'd been there for three years now with no additional issues. She suspected that was her mother's doing, but Lilith Sorrengail had never admitted it outright.

"Because that's where the dead body is?" Riorson offered dryly without taking his eyes from the road.

Violet huffed, and Tairn echoed the noise behind her. "It's in Virginia," she said, like it should've been obvious, because it should have. "What makes this the FBI's problem? Shouldn't local police get first dibs?"

"They don't want it," he answered. "The remains are in bad enough shape that we need you, Sorrengail. Do you really think Alexandria PD has the resources to investigate this?"

"Do you really think I know anything about the resources Alexandria PD has?" she countered. She didn't, and she didn't want to. That fell into the pile of things that were very firmly not her problem. Her brain had a lot of room, but local police jurisdiction wasn't really something she bothered to make space for. Riorson gave her bodies, and she told him how they died. That was her job.

He did look at her then, a brief, cutting glance from the corner of his eye. "I thought you knew everything."

She rolled her eyes. "Obviously not, Riorson."

A little smirk curled up one corner of his mouth, but he didn't say anything else.

Violet spent the rest of the car ride braiding her hair. She kept it long, and she liked to wear it loose, but her work didn't often lend to it. When she was younger, her older sister, Mira, had braided it into a crown for her when she'd gone through a phase of reading only princess books, and had taught her to do it herself as a teenager. It had quickly become her signature style in college and while she completed her PhD; it was the easiest way to ensure it was all out of the way while she was in the lab or on the university's body farm, studying decomposing remains. Beyond its practicality, she just thought it was pretty, especially because the ends of her hair were leached of all pigment, so the silver strands looked interesting all weaved together.

It was a challenge in the car—she had to lean forward to flip her hair over and start the plait at the back of her head, which didn't do great things for her heart rate—but it wasn't the first time she'd done this and it wouldn't be the last. She had hair ties and pins in her bag that she held between her teeth until she needed them.

By the time she was done, they'd reached the crime scene. The park was right on the Potomac River, and already blocked off with yellow tape. Riorson eased the SUV around a group of civilians standing and tittering as they watched the FBI forensics team as they gathered evidence. Violet couldn't find her own people among the sea of navy jackets, so they must have been closer to the river.

She hopped out and paused when her head spun, bracing a hand on the open door. Tairn barked, scratching at the door she hadn't yet opened for him.

"You good, Violence?" Riorson paused, leaning back down to look at her through his own open door. His sunglasses slid down his nose, revealing dark eyes and long, thick lashes.

She lifted her head enough to glare at him. "Don't call me Violence."

#dead on arrival #fourth wing fanfic

149 notes · View notes

mymindisneverhere · 4 months ago

Text

FAVORS (3)

Part Three

warnings: 18+, MDNI!, no smut, sub!Terry, soft dom!black fem OC, explicit language, lots of dialogue, slow burn (forgive me if I missed any)

Masterlist

Terry stood in the large living room, looking at himself in the full body mirror as he tightened his tie. He stared at this version of himself for a long minute. He wasn’t the tuxedo wearing type but he had to admit it didn’t look bad on him.

Khloé had managed to hire the perfect tailor to be sure the tux would fit just right. Terry spent hours being measured, trying on different jackets and pants, and walking back and forth to ensure comfort while wearing the tux.

She was there for every moment of it, taking him in each time he removed a shirt and replaced it with a different one. She noticed the scar on his back near his right shoulder. She wanted so badly to ask him about being shot but she decided not to. She assumed that would be too much of a sensitive subject and she didn’t want to go that route.

Terry looked down at his watch, a simple black watch that had to be approved by Khloé of course. He was big on being punctual as well, so he made sure to keep up with time even when Khloé wasn’t.

“Your car is down stairs, everything is set and ready to go.” Olivia said, walking into the living room.

Terry turned to face her unsure of who she was talking to.

“I’m driving?”

“Yes sir, a luxury sedan has been rented for the evening. Ms. MacArthur prefers not to have drivers, she’s very strict on privacy.” Olivia spoke quickly. “The destination is already in the GPS for you. The directions will begin as soon as you pull off.”

“Thank you.” Terry nodded and proceeded to take a seat on the large sectional sofa. He looked down at his phone, reading the messages that were pouring in from Summer.

‘A $16,000 check just came in the mail, I know you had something to do with it!!’

‘I can’t accept this, how am I going to pay it back?’

‘This is too good to be true, call me as soon as you can!’

He was so focused on the text messages, he didn’t notice Khloé enter the room until the scent of soft florals hit his nostrils.

“How do I look?” She asked, staring at him, a bit of innocence in her voice.

He eyed her, starting from her feet and making his way up to the crown of her head. The long red dress she wore accentuated her hips and brought in her waist. The details were subtle but didn’t go unnoticed by Terry. The strapless dress lifted her breasts, bringing out the natural shape of them. Her hair was pinned in a beautiful updo with a few pieces framing her face, a soft curl in each. And to top it all off her signature red lip, which was clearly her favorite… and his.

The longer he stared, the more she felt herself wanting to shrink a bit but she did her best to remain unmoved. He hardly ever wore his emotions on his sleeve so reading him was becoming a bit of a challenge for her. The nervous feeling quickly began to fade as she saw his expression soften.

“You look beautiful.” He stood. “Red fits you perfectly.”

She smiled at him.

“Well let’s go, I really don’t wanna be late.” She said, grabbing her small clutch purse. “My mother won’t let me hear the last of it.”

They headed to the lobby of the condominium. As they passed through, they earned a few stares. People couldn’t help but to turn their attention to the two of them. Khloé strutting across the floor, Terry not too far behind her. They both had very demanding auras and together their energies swarmed the room without warning.

“I have a question.” Terry said.

“Ask.”

“Is this something I need to get used to?” Terry questioned, referring to the looks they received a while ago.

“Absolutely.” She smiled up at him.

Their car was parked in front, a young man wearing a valet jacket stood by to be sure the car went untouched. The glossy black sedan sat already running, headlights shining bright.

Without her needing to say anything, Terry walked ahead of her and opened the passenger door, waiting for her to climb in.

“Ooh,” She started. “Keep it up and you might earn yourself a treat.”

Terry smirked, trying his hardest to hide his amusement. He got into the driver's seat and adjusted the seat to his liking, scooting it back until he had the proper leg room.

“A few things I need to go over before we get there.” She began. “If anyone asks where we met, we met on vacation.”

“How long have we been together?” He asked, putting the gear in drive and pulling off.

“6 months. Tell them you’re in real estate. They’re gonna wanna know if you make enough money to be with me.”

He looked over at her as they approached a red light.

“My family only sees money, they believe that’s the only thing that’ll keep me happy. They don’t care about love or any emotions for that matter. As long as the money flows, they will mind their damn business.” She said looking over at him.

They stared at each other for a few seconds until the bright traffic light went green. Khloé went on to tell him how he should go about speaking to her parents, what to say and what to do. She filled him in on the latest drama with her siblings and her cousins and made sure to tell him who to look out for and who to avoid at all costs.

“Anything else I should know?”

“Lastly, my cousin Nia. She’s a bitch. I hate her, she hates me. She’s been in competition with me since we were teenagers. I get a car, she gets a car, I get a diamond bracelet, she gets a diamond bracelet, I go to Harvard, bitch breaks her neck to go to Yale.” She pointed a stern finger to him. “You can mingle with anyone at the banquet but stay away from that sneaky bitch.”

“Yes ma’am.”

The car ride the rest of the way was silent but the tension was impossible to ignore. Every now and then Khloé would sneak glances over at Terry while he drove, one hand on the wheel the other on his lap. She stared at his hands imagining what they’d feel like inside of her. Images of him playing in her pussy while he drove began flashing in her mind and she quickly tore her gaze from him.

He could feel her eyes on him but his expression never changed. If there was one thing he’d taken away from being a marine, it was keeping his poker face intact. There was no way she’d know what he was really thinking unless he decided to let it be known.

“You have reached your destination.”

They pulled up in front of the large banquet hall surrounded by guests and valet. Finally coming back into reality Khloé took a deep breath before exiting the car.

“I got it.” Terry said, before she could grab the door handle.

Khloé smiled to herself. ‘This one comes trained.’

He rounded the car and opened her door, placing his hand out for her to grab. She stepped out of the car and smiled at some of the guests who were entering the banquet the same time as her.

“Ready?” She asked.

“Ready.”

They reached for each other's hands simultaneously, intertwining their fingers as they made their way into the building. The sound of soft music playing in the background filled their ears, along with light chatter from guests.

They stopped at the double doors that were propped open, leading into the ballroom. Turning to him, she began fixing his tie, not that it needed fixing but to simply try and cover her nervousness. She tightened his tie, dusted his shoulders and tugged lightly on his collar.

“I make you that nervous?” Terry smirked, staring down at her.

“As pretty as your lips are, they're gonna keep you in trouble.” She smirked back. “Let’s enjoy the banquet.”

Khloe held onto his arm as they entered the large ballroom. Each table was draped in white cloth, expensive tableware and champagne flutes. A large banner with the words “MacArthur Banquet” hung from the ceiling just above the small stage in the room. Khloé looked around the room taking in her surroundings. Unlike Terry, Khloé didn’t do that good of a job at hiding her emotions.

She worried about what her parents' would think of her date. She’d hoped and prayed they wouldn’t go digging into his background to find out that not only is he a warehouse worker but that he’s also a bit of a rebel.

“Princess!” Mr. MacArthur announced, snapping her of her thoughts.

“Hi Daddy!” She ran to him, giving him a hug as he placed a soft kiss on her cheek.

She greeted the woman standing next to him, placing a kiss on her cheek as well. Terry stood, admiring how they embraced each other. It was clear to him that this was her mother, the woman was a spitting image of Khloé just a bit older.

“It’s so good to see you, you look so beautiful.” Mrs. MacArthur smiled, holding onto her daughter's hand.

Her father tore his eyes from her and they landed on Terry. “Who is this?”

“Mom, Dad, this is Terrance.” Khloé stepped back to stand next to Terry, placing a hand on his arm.

“Terrance this is my dad, John MacArthur and my mom Angela MacArthur.”

“You got a last name Terrance?” Mr. MacArthur asked, placing his hand out for Terry to shake.

“Terrance Richmond sir, it’s a pleasure to meet you both.” Terry responded, firmly shaking the man’s hand and then her mothers.

“The pleasure is ours. It’s good to see she has someone keeping her company. I just hope you’re a strong and patient man, my Khloé can be a handful at times.” Mrs. MacArthur smiled up at him. She turned her gaze to her daughter, bringing her into another embrace. “Don’t screw this one over, okay? You don’t want to be old and alone.”

Khloé clenched her jaw before replacing the menacing look with a fake grin. Mr. MacArthur and Mrs. MacArthur excused themselves from the two as they made their way around the room, greeting guests as they entered.

Terry noticed the sudden change in Khloés expression no matter how hard she tried to disguise it.

“You okay?” He asked.

“I’m fine.” She responded, running her hands down the length of her dress. “Let’s have a seat, they’re about to begin.”

The family banquet began with greetings from Mr. and Mrs. MacArthur. The couple stood on stage thanking guests for joining them for another banquet and proceeded with their usual program.

The banquet was yet another success as it had been for the past few years. There were small awards and acknowledgments being made all evening. From praises for large sales, increasing income and openings of new locations for the family business, the banquet had gone exactly as planned.

However Terry couldn’t help but sense Khloés tense energy. It didn’t help that she had become a bit fidgety. Fixing her hair every 10 minutes, wiping invisible lent from his jacket and plastering an artificial smile on her face each time she would interact with the other guests.

It wasn’t necessarily Terry's place to ask her about her relationship with her parents but he was very curious. He tried his hardest to remind himself of why he was even there to begin with.

‘I’m doing her a favor, she’s doing me a favor.’

“I’m gonna go catch up with a few people, you’ll be alright by yourself won’t you?” She asked.

“I’m a big boy, I’ll be fine.” He replied, taking a sip of water.

“Stop testing me Mr. Richmond.” She warned, referring to his smart comment.

He smiled, placing his glass back on the table.

Khloé got up and made her way around the room for a bit, grabbing glasses of champagne as they were being offered to her. She mingled with family and friends, sharing memories of the past and hopes of the future. After a few glasses, she was really feeling the effects of the alcohol. A sudden boost of confidence washed over her, bringing her right back to her normal self.

Remembering she had the finest gentleman in the room as her date, she wanted to make sure she was attending to him. She looked over to their table, hoping his eyes were already on her. Her excitement quickly faded once she noticed who he was talking to.

“Excuse me, I hope I’m not being too forward but you are so handsome.” A woman said, causing Terry to look her way.

She was tall, slim and snatched like a supermodel. She was a pretty woman but her style clashed with her looks. She wore a royal blue dress, bright gold accessories and red lipstick. Almost similar to Khloés but not quite.

“Thank you.” He smiled humbly.

“I’m Imani, I’m Khloés older cousin.” She held out her hand, palm facing down as if she was waiting for him to kiss it.

He stared at it for a few seconds and decided to shake it instead.

“Nice to meet you Imani, I’m Terrance.”

Imani laughed, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Respecting your girlfriend I see, but I understand. I’m sure if she found out I was talking to you she’d lose her shit. She’s been in a silent competition with me since we were kids but she’s my little cousin so I’m flattered.”

Terry nodded, allowing the woman to speak freely simply because he wasn’t interested in speaking to her at all. There was just something about her energy that wasn’t sitting right with him but he didn’t want to be entirely rude to her. After all, he was a guest at her family’s event.

“Oops, I should go, she’s staring. Don’t wanna get you in any trouble. Enjoy the night handsome.” She said flipping her ponytail off of her shoulder and twisting her hips as hard as she could hoping he was watching.

But his eyes met Khloés from across the room. She didn’t necessarily look pissed but she didn’t look too happy either. The look on her face was stern almost as if he had done something he wasn’t supposed to. He quickly recalled the name of the person he was told not to mingle with.

‘Nia.’ He thought to himself, shrugging because he was in the clear.

He relaxed in his chair, sitting back and parting his legs from one another but she still hadn’t broken their gaze. It was as if they were communicating with one another without needing to say anything at all.

After a few moments, she smiled and made her way across the room to him.

“Dance with me Mr. Richmond.” She stated, staring down at him through a tipsy gaze.

Terry stood as she grabbed his hand and led them to the small dance floor. They joined a few other guests on the floor as well. Some were relatives of Khloés, others just friends of the family.

Once they reached a secure spot, they embraced each other. Khloé wrapped her arms around his neck, silently thanking herself for wearing heels given his height. Terry’s hands snaked around her waist and they slowly swayed to the soft music. The longer they danced, the more Terry could feel Khloé slowly relaxing in his embrace.

They rested their heads against the others, her forehead comfortable against this jaw.

“Can I be honest with you?” Khloé asked.

“Of course.”

“I didn’t tell you the full reason as to why I offered you the money to be my boyfriend.” She started.

“Why am I not surprised?”

“I mean yes I need you for events and to keep my family quiet but…” Her voice faded.

“But?”

She took a deep breath and told him all that he needed to know.

“The truth is I want you in the worst way.”

She felt his jaw clench against her temple as she spoke.

“The moment I saw you, the things I began to see in my mind were so… vivid.”

“What did you see?” He questioned, keeping his voice as low as possible.

Khloés breath caught in her throat at his question. She thought her honesty would tear him from her. Her admitting that she was simply lusting after him should’ve bothered him but instead he leaned into it.

“I imagined the view I’d have of you, from down on my knees. I imagined how much fun I would have edging you until you begged me to let you cum. I saw myself tying you to the bed and riding you for as long as I wanted.”

Terry’s jaw clenched once more but he remained silent, still holding onto her waist.

“You’d cum again and again and again.” The longer she spoke, the easier it was becoming to speak freely.

She looked around the room to be sure no one was paying them any attention and she was right. They continued to sway back and forth to the soft music being played by the live band. She could feel his heartbeat increase as she held onto him. His breathing was steady but the rest of him was rising.

“I felt bad at first because you seemed like a sweet and innocent guy. But in all honesty, I enjoy dominating men.” She admitted. “Not just any men but the ones who reek of dominance, men like you. The ones who walk around so unbothered, so unfazed. Always wearing a straight face because nothing can sway you. But I know you want to feel my lips around your dick. That’s why you get so stuck in a daze staring at them while I’m talking to you.” She spoke, her lips gently brushing against his neck.

Terry let out a deep breath but still remained silent. There was no need in denying any of what she was saying because all of it was true.

“You know what I love the most about the male anatomy? It’s that no matter how much you try to hide it, no matter how still your expression is, I’ll always know how bad you want me.” She brought her hand to the back of his head and lowered it so her lips were level with his ear.

“I can feel you through my dress.” She whispered.

Terry tightened the hold he had on her waist, bringing her even closer to him. He was hoping that no one else would notice the “excitement” that she was feeling. Deep down, he wanted so desperately to drag her off the dance floor and find the nearest bathroom or utility closet, but he was at her command. He wouldn’t move until she gave the green light to do so.

“Why are you so quiet Mr. Richmond, cat got your tongue?” She teased.

“No ma’am, I just don’t have a lot to say right now. Only a couple of things I wanna do.”

She giggled at his response. She had him exactly where she wanted him, craving her but unable to do anything about it. They were in the middle of the dance floor surrounded by dozens of people, there was no way he’d do anything to draw attention to the two of them.

“I was looking forward to tasting you tonight but your behavior needs adjusting.”

Terry stood up straight, bringing his eyes to meet hers.

“What’s wrong with my behavior?” He asked, his eyes shifting back and forth between hers.

Before Khloé could respond, her mothers voice erupted through the speakers. Khloé turned to face the stage, pressing her back against his abdomen. She figured since she was the cause for his excitement the least she could do was help him conceal it.

“Thank you all so much for another successful MacArthur banquet! Congratulations to all of the recipients of tonight’s awards.” Mrs. MacArthur spoke into the mic. “We love to see our family and friends grow in business, in love and in prosperity as the years go by.”

Everyone applauded as she made her closing announcements.

“Don’t forget to grab a goodie bag on the way out and please drive home safely. We will see you all next year, goodnight and God bless!”

Khloé turned to grab her things from their table, she said her goodbyes to her family and made her way to the car. Terry was right behind her, replaying the night in his mind. He did just as he was told, interacting with little to no guests and speaking when spoken to. So what was she talking about?

“Do you have the ticket for valet?” Khloé asked him a bit nonchalantly.

Terry dug into his pocket and handed the ticket to the man dressed in a red jacket. Within a few minutes their car was pulled to the front of the hall. Terry opened the door for her and then made his way to the driver's side.

“What was wrong with my behavior tonight?” Terry asked, looking over at her.

“Just drive please.” She spoke softly, not even bothering to look over at him.

Terry took a deep breath before pulling away from the curb. They made their way back into the streets of downtown. The ride was silent once again. Terry was racking his brain trying to figure out what she was talking about but nothing was coming to the surface. Khloé sat quietly, not planning on telling him what he did wrong until they were back at her place.

“You have reached your destination.”

Terry unbuckled his seatbelt and exited the car. A few seconds later, he opened Khloés door and waited for her to step out. He handed the keys to the valet and they made their way into the building. Khloé walked a few feet ahead of him, enjoying the feeling of having this grown man following behind her everywhere she went.

Khloé pressed the button to call the elevator and stepped inside once the doors opened. Terry pressed the button marked ‘30’ and they sat silently for the majority of the ride up to her condo.

“When we get upstairs, take off your jacket and dress shirt and wait for me in the living room.” Khloé instructed, keeping her eyes forward.

“Yes ma’am.”

“30th floor”

The two made their way down the long hall and entered her home. Terry did as he was asked and placed his clothes on the arm of the couch. He took a seat, only dressed in his undershirt and pants. While Khloé was off in her room, he took this time to respond to Summers' messages letting her know that he’d be by to explain everything to her.

Khloé stepped into her bathroom to remove her dress. She wore a black panty and bra set underneath, already prepared for the night. She grabbed her black satin robe and slipped into it, not bothering to remove her heels. Taking one last look in the mirror to be sure she looked good, she made her way into the living room.

“Stand when I enter the room.” She spoke, causing Terry’s head to snap up.

He stood from the couch and eyed her from head to toe. Her body was heavent sent. Decorated in lace fabric, her skin slightly glistened from the mixture of body shimmer and the soft lighting in the room. His dick began growing in his pants again as she stood there staring at him.

“Come.” She said, pointing her finger to a spot directly in front of her.

Terry walked around the small coffee table, slowly approaching her until the top of their shoes were almost touching. She loved that he towered over her even in her heels. As intimidating as he could be at times, she enjoyed the fact that she was the one truly in charge.

“Before I start, you do get a say in this, I’m not a completely inconsiderate bitch.” She started. “If you don’t want to do this just say so and I’ll call it off.”

“Did you hear me say that?” He asked. There was that smart ass mouth again.

Khloé smirked at his question. “I need your consent Mr. Richmond.”

“You have my consent Ms. MacArthur.” He stared down at her with a sly grin on his face.

“You’re familiar with these right?” Khloé held up a pair of handcuffs, loosely dangling off of her fingers.

Terry let out a light chuckle, still keeping his eyes on hers.

“Turn around.” She instructed.

Terry did as he was told.

This was the first time she was seeing him nearly undressed, up close like this. Her eyes roamed from his freshly cut hair, down to the back of his neck and landed on his broad shoulders. She licked her lips as her eyes continued down the length of his toned arms, and finally landed on his ass. She held her breath as she tried to restrain herself from saying “fuck it” and pouncing on him.

“You gone spank me for being a bad boy?” He joked sarcastically, bringing her back to the present.

“You’re not funny. Besides I don’t like to cause pain, at least not in that way.” She answered, placing the cuffs around his wrists and clicking them closed. She grabbed his arm and walked him to the end of the sofa. She turned him round until he faced her and took a few steps back.

They stared at each other for a while. There was no need to speak because the amount of hunger in the room from both parties spoke volumes. Terry stood tall, hands behind his back, eyes low and rested on hers. The wifebeater he wore almost clung to him the way his toned body filled the thin fabric. Terry waited patiently for her next command, his expression remaining as calm as ever.

The only sound in the room was their breathing. Khloé stood there secretly hoping that this would be her last partner or simply one that could last her a very long time. She doubted that she’d ever come across someone else who was crafted as perfectly as he was. His body, his voice, his eyes, his whole damn face and especially those damn lips. She only hoped that his skills in bed matched his looks.

“On your knees.”

to be continued…

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