#There is likely a lot of corruption up top

[wiseabsol]

(Gets to the end of the most recent Worlds Beyond Number episode. Yells out loud.) FUCK!

[moeblob]

OC again gomen ... (her name is Yuma)

[fortune-maiden]

No no, don't spare me the 700 words of character rambling. I want to read it. Please?

IF YOU INSIST ANON =D

(admittedly it's closer to 600 words now after editing lol)

(this is partly cyrano au stuff, partly general character ramblings)

OK SO JING WEN.

In canon we don’t really know too much about his motives towards Ling Wen other than he wants to wear her down and destroy her reputation, and this stems from her showing him up in an essay contest. From the revision, we can also add plagiarism to his sins – he knows Ling Wen is more talented than him and despises her for it, especially because she’s a woman. (Although I think her lack of scholarly background also heavily plays into it. She isn't a woman from a family of scholarly officials. She's a shoeseller who writes letters on the side to make ends meet.)

For the Cyrano (but not really Cyrano) AU, I’ve added a layer of lust and entitlement towards his feelings for Ling Wen. He was the one who discovered her! He rescued her from a life in prison and made her a junior heavenly official! People remember her name and her story because of him! He’s her hero!

And he thinks that it’s about time she acts like it! Ling Wen wants to keep her head down and avoid him as much as possible. Do whatever job he wants from her and hope it keeps him in a good enough mood to leave her alone. Except Jing Wen wants to reduce her to the girl who was saved by him and devotes herself to him in return. It drives him crazy that she does not, and would even dare to get close to other men (PM & SWD) when she treats him (him!) with barely concealed contempt. He discovered her! She was no one before him and he is the only one who can have her! (and her talents!)

This is meant to contrast this AU’s Shi Wudu who also discovers her hidden talent when he exposes Jing Wen's plagiarism (mostly by accident) and immediately falls for her brain and wants to see what she can do with it when she isn’t tied down by Jing Wen and his ego. He finds her interesting, a match for himself (one of two people he’ll acknowledge as such), and rather than save her, he wants to give her the tools she needs to save herself because it’s much more fun for him that way. (This is also the real reason Bai Jing is not in this AU, because he treats Ling Wen with genuine kindness and doesn’t have any kind of pedestal or expectations in return and I think given everything she has been through at that point, that genuineness would be more attractive to Ling Wen over someone who wants to make a girlboss out of her. If there’s no BJ to compare against, I think LW would be a little more receptive to SWD’s feelings.) (Although both are interesting to think about.) (Also on a sidenote, even in AUs where he isn’t explicitly in love with her like this one, my SWD always ends up a bit of a dogged nice guy towards LW, ready to do anything she asks. This is partly because she helped him with the fate swap, and partly because he REALLY values her friendship. There’s a bit of a second-love aspect to their relationship from Ling Wen’s side because she knows SWD feelings towards her but it’s not the same love that BJ made her feel.)

And also because I just like talking about him, Jing Wen’s possessiveness and refusal to be shown up by a woman also kinda contrasts Pei Ming a bit, since he’s also a traditionalist and believes the guy should save the girl (and would be pushing SWD in that direction in his pseudo-cyrano role), but he’s also capable of acknowledging that if that doesn’t win her love, it doesn’t win her love (not that that’s ever been an issue for him personally) – and if a woman shows you up, the solution is to Do Better and show off properly to her later (this is him with the Rain Master. Anytime she gets the better of him, he sulks for a bit and then sets out to show her how cool he actually is. He wants her acknowledgment!)

[madamechrissy]

Baby You're a Star

Art in the banner by Kerravi on x!

Summary- You meet Satoru Gojo at a wild Hollywood party, insanely out of place, waiting for your friend to show up. The two of you hit it off, spending time together, and share a kiss, but you're a good girl, and you just don't do this, but he is the top pornstar there is, and the top .01 % on OnlyFans. Once you find out, you know there's probably no match, as Satoru doesn't date, and you don't sleep around, but after meeting, you keep in touch- and soon Satoru can't get hard without thinking of you, and you get over curious, and join a livestream of the boy you like. Just how will that go for you both!?

Warnings- emotional, lots of feelings, regrets, mentions of depression (reader) mentions of each other's past, MUCH fluffier than the last one, slow burn is still being a slow burn, character development (we love to see it) and some kissing/making out, sexual tension WC this chap- 10k

A/N- Taglist closed- please comment/rb if you enjoy <3

<<<Chapter Five - Masterlist- Playlist- Chapter Seven>>> (coming soon)

Chapter Six

“I need a change of career.” He says again, and his manager sighs, shaking their head, as one of the directors comes up.

“Modeling, I have an agency.” He hands Satoru a card, and Satoru’s manager covers his face for a moment.

“Like nude modeling?” Satoru asks.

“Sure, or any kind, look at your bone structure? You’d make good money.” Satoru holds the card, flipping it around.

He was always a pornstar, for his adult life.

Can he do more than that?

He has more than enough money to damn near retire.

But how the fuck could he get you to forgive him for what he did, how could he ever get you back? Now that he realizes there is no one in the world for him but the girl he’s wronged. The one who doesn’t even realize how much he cares, because he’s not even said it, never articulated it. The girl who now wants nothing to do with him, how does he just let that go?

“Some people get burnt out,” Satoru’s manager mumbles, putting a hand on Satoru’s shoulder then. “Modeling huh, I’ll get some contacts together, and we’ll see about some different shoots for you.”

Satoru exhales in relief, what once felt like a perfect career truly felt like a fucking prison now. “Thank you.”

“Yeah, yeah, put on some fucking clothes.” Satoru smiles a bit, heading to the dressing room, looking at your name, your picture.

The sweet one with your big glasses, with your little peace sign, a sweet innocent thing he fell for, that he selfishly let be corrupted by his own needs and desires. And now he can’t help but have his own regrets, remembering you that night, the anger on your face, the way you kissed him anyway, the way you bit his lip so angry, dressed so fucking slutty that night.

He’d changed you, possibly forever, and you changed him, in ways you didn’t even fucking know. How the fuck can he just let you go?

*****

Six months since you said goodbye to Satoru Gojo

Being without Satoru made you realize how empty you were before him, god how much you miss him - how horrible you feel for sending away the man you love. How stupid you feel, there are so many times you look at his number, you changed his name to just Satoru now. Once, you got drunk and texted him, panicking when you realized that you had.

I am sorry.

That was the text, not some nude or something madly embarrassing, it was a simple apology. He’d written back to you the next day.

Don’t apologize.

That alone broke you down further, there was so much beauty in Satoru Gojo, so much sweetness there that you miss so desperately. How can you not miss him, the images spilling through your mind of Satoru behind you in that mirror - both times he had been. One at that club under heady lights, pleasuring you and whispering desperate in your ear- the other him being tender, sweet, caring.

That was the duality of him - the moments he broke down, and you saw so much more you wanted to know. Peel the layers back of who he was- ultimately, you didn’t know him any more than he knew you. It’s a reason you’re beating yourself up internally, wondering if you put too much on him.

But the love confessions that spilled from your lips?

You meant every word.

It didn’t matter that you didn’t know him completely yet, it was everything you felt from the moment he caught your eyes at the party. It was everything about him, how your lips felt against his, how you felt when he looked at you with those eyes - so beautiful, special, loved by his actions. Did the words matter so much?

They did matter to you, or you wouldn’t have pulled back. The days go by, the weeks go on, the months pass - it’s fall in LA now, it’s lovely and in the seventies, you’re just stuck inside today. Many, many days you do this, wallow in front of your couch, watch the same movies on repeat, over and over, falling asleep and dreaming of him, only to wake up from it and realize it’s gone.

The fact that you did this to yourself hurts more, that you pushed him away to find yourself, but are you finding yourself? You changed in ways you can’t go back to, you changed for him but also because of him, you’re just not the same girl. As you watch Casablanca for the millionth time, and Humprhey Bogart tilts up Ingrid Bergman’s chin, you’re in a mess of tears like you’ve never seen it.

You’ll always love him, won’t you?

You ended up cutting back graphic design hours, and soon you were dabbling more in photography. Though you had done a couple shoots with Jenna, you wanted to dabble in much more. Through some pretty good connections with the company you ended up quickly making a name for yourself, the money was good and you were diving into something full on.

The distraction was so needed for everything in your life, you know that you need to focus on something and maybe the pain will lessen from losing Satoru. You always wonder if he’s okay, if he’s doing well, you can’t help but ask yourself at times. Jenna ended up telling you he called that night, and for a while you were upset she didn’t let you talk to him.

But you think you understand, she just cares a lot. But to see you like this, still after months - shit, half a year - she mentions it again.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” you said last night. “I just… can’t.”

“I did hear he left the industry, shut down his OF,” she murmurs, eyeing the mess you are on the couch and frowning, she’s asked to clean for you numerous times, but you always refuse.

Your house is spotless, but your couch is where it’s real, the pain, the hopelessness you feel.

“I wonder if I was too harsh.” She says, her words surprising you then.

“Maybe you were, but it’s for the best I suppose.” You cuddle a plushie, resting your chin on it and sighing. “Even without the profession, I don’t know if he returned my feelings.”

So that was where the two of you left it. Even if Jenna should have let you talk to him and didn’t hide it, nothing had changed from that fact. Nothing changed when you told him you loved him, and all he said in return was that he wanted you. The feelings couldn’t align themselves.

The past six months were a blur, parts where you’re enthusiastic and so energetic, and many parts where you’re devastated and lethargic. The pain of not having him rips your soul apart, everything feels wrong about not being in his arms, you second guess yourself constantly.

Should you have kept it all going, should you have just let it be physical and held back your feelings? You could have been some OF power couple, in his arms and earning his praise - being his star. Sometimes you wonder if you were more okay with filming than you thought, and it scared you - but another part knows that just isn’t who you are.

You don’t touch yourself and think of him, you just don’t touch yourself at all, there’s nothing to be turned on about anymore. It’s like it was before you met him, except even little books and smut stories do nothing for you. All you picture is him in everything you read, to the point you find no joy in it, another thing about you fading in the haze of depression.

You know you’ve taken it too seriously, the feelings, the moments, the nights in his arms. You’ve let it consume you, and though you maybe ‘know yourself’ better from this, it doesn’t make it any happier, any easier. Every night you think of calling him, of just talking to him, but there could never be ‘just friends’ with him. You’re too deep in your feelings.

You want him in your life, so badly and tangibly, and it can’t just be fleeting - if it were, why is it still here, half a year later? Why does he dance through your fucking mind on repeat, living in your brain rent free, his big grin and just how sweet he was when you two were together. The way his hand caressed your cheek, you can still feel it there when you touch it.

When you look at the mirror you just look tired, the sparkle isn’t in your eyes, the color isn’t there, you brush on a little blush and add some mascara before a really big shoot, to look human. You practice a smile, you are truly excited, it’s a big opportunity for a huge magazine, and the first truly big one for you. You just have to shove down the gnawing feeling that’s always there.

Did you really make the right decision letting him go? Couldn’t you have tried to hear him out, to give him the chance?

The thoughts race as you head to the shoot, but when don’t they? When don’t you second guess your actions, wishing you’d been more upfront to begin with. Maybe Satoru didn’t know you fell in love, or maybe he didn’t believe it, maybe that wasn’t something he was ready for. You shove the thoughts back as you meet everyone, and that’s when you see him.

A head taller than everyone, the pretty face of the man you fell for, he’s wearing some insanely expensive suit opened up at the chest, buttoned down enough to show his bare chest, chiseled and cut as you remember. He isn’t smiling brightly, but he has a little tight curve to those plump lips, as he runs a hand through locks that look just a little lavender under the lights.

Your heart stops in your chest as the director calls you over, and his eyes catch yours, just like that night. His lips part just so, hands tensing at his sides, blinking snowy lashes so quickly like you’re an illusion. Your pulse races in your ears, you expected to hurt when you saw him again, you imagined you’d pass him by in a street one day perhaps.

But you didn’t expect the tenderness, the way you just want to hold his hand in yours is so vivid you barely bite back your emotions. You plaster on that smile, as you introduce yourself, and the girl with him is so sweet as she shakes your hand. The director explains the vision to you, as the people help decorate the set, and you’re finally there with Satoru.

He just stands there, staring at you so intensely, you feel it like a touch, you look down nervously, fiddling with your hands in front of yourself, as he drinks in the sight in front of him. “Still biting that lip,” he murmurs softly, you gasp a bit at it, eyes locking then. “You’ll have permanent marks there.”

“I think I already do,” your voice feels too good to his ears, it makes him ache as you speak, smiling so nervous, very much the girl he met that night. The different girl who just made everything stop, and you still have that effect on him, you still after all this time make his heart race. “You look amazing.”

“Makeup is weird,” you laugh softly, the sound like a punch to the gut for him. Just that sound alone, he’s missed so vividly, he realizes it then, how much he missed every part of you. It wasn’t just that desire for your body, though that’s there, it was little things like how the lights are hitting your hair, how your smile breaks his heart. “I really wanted to…”

“Me too.” You manage, the both of you don’t say it, not when you’re being pulled in different directions for a moment, but you feel it, everything he doesn’t say.

He missed you too. You can feel it. You can feel him, so close, his scent in your nostrils, the familiar cologne that you miss. He’s talented already, the poses he makes are beyond someone in this for a few months, impressive as he works everything, every angle so well. You can’t help but be so happy for him, to see him like this.

You know he enjoyed porn surely, but you remember the calls and demands stressing him out, it seems he’s a little more natural at this, a little awkward here and there when you’d ask him to touch the model and interact. But he picked up on that as well, you hear that most of his shoots were alone so far, so this was a huge one for him too.

To get a cover of this magazine was something anyone would covet, you can’t help but feel proud of him, smiling as you snap photos. Not a fake smile, a real one, for the first time in so long, knowing he was okay, knowing how badly you needed the reassurance that he was. Your heart aches deeper, ever deeper while you watch him look at your camera, smiling just so.

He’s heartbreakingly beautiful behind your lens.

Satoru struggles to focus on what you say, on anything, when you’re in there with him, when all he can think of is how badly he wants to hold you in his arms again. Things just were different now, like a piece of him was missing constantly, for a moment the void is full by just seeing you. He always wondered if you were good, if you were doing better, not getting hurt by him anymore.

Then he thought other things, of wildly showing up to your house, of begging you on his knees to take him back. Of asking you out truly and not whatever foolish shit he said to you. ‘A friend’ you were never just that, not from the moment he blew that smoke into your mouth and you trusted him so implicitly. The moment you left him was still the hardest blow he’s had.

A couple weeks hurt him more than the years with his only other girlfriend, and you two weren’t even ‘together’. But it hurt more than anything he could even try to explain, the thoughts racing constantly. Could he have said more, given you more, the longing is so tangible it takes his breath, while you work on posing them again, and take some shots from different angles.

“Tilt her chin up just a bit,” you murmur softly, as Satoru’s bright, swirling blue eyes look right at you, rather than the pretty model in front of him, and it’s like you can feel his touch, as if it’s your chin he’s gripping. “Look at her lips.”

You give a gentle direction, clearly pointing out the obvious, that Satoru can’t get his eyes off the girl he hasn’t seen in months, the one he dreams of every night. How can he see anyone else in the room? With a giant, fancy black canon camera, you bend down, snapping a picture, he stares in his peripherals as you do, then you’re on your knees, getting another angle.

He has wondered how you were, god he didn’t want to ruin your life any further, but being this close to you makes him ache, in so many ways. How your hair falls over your shoulder, how you angle your head to study them, now walking up and smiling, turning the model so she faces away from him. You brush her hair forward over a shoulder, taking Satoru’s hand then.

That’s when he feels it, like a shock rushing through him as you pause for a moment, giving him a sweet, sad little smile. “Touch her waist,” you put his hand there, and take her hand now, turning her. “And you look at him like this… perfect.”

You walk back to take another few photos, and you thought maybe after so long it wouldn’t hurt, but it does, like a fresh wound opening. You’re so proud of him for being at this quality of a shoot, but you can’t help but wish you were the one in his arms, even now. There’s not one night in the past months that he hasn’t haunted one of your thoughts - all of the what-ifs.

The shoot wraps up and everyone chit chats for a bit, you’re packing your camera up in your bag when he steps up to you, that black dress shirt half tucked in and unbuttoned, showing too much of a perfectly sculpted body made for modeling. You feel your cheeks heat up as you trail your eyes up and catch his boring into you the way that only he can.

“You’re a photographer now?” He asks softly, his tone is just so different from last time, from the cocky and conceited man, the smirk on his face replaced with parted lips, eyes studying you so intensely. You nod a bit. “That’s so badass, look at you.”

“Look at me, you’re modeling now.” You say softly, smiling up at him as his hand goes to touch your cheek, but pauses, knowing it’s not his place to do so.

Were you with anyone? Did someone treat you like you deserved?

Even if you were, god he just missed you, the presence, the lingering sweet scent in the air - those cupcakes you always smelled like, intoxicating. To imagine caressing your cheek he sees tint with color, to hear your little laugh again, rather than the tears he left you in. He clears his throat, letting his hand fall, flexing his fingers open as he sighs.

“I am… I don’t do… I changed careers.” He manages to say softly, you blink a bit in surprise at that.

“You don’t do um,” you trail off, clearing your throat. “You don’t shoot at all?” You’d heard rumors from Jenna that he quit, but she wasn’t sure if it was true. You hate the relief you feel when you shouldn’t. He shakes his head now, bringing you back. “Do you miss it?”

“No, it wasn’t for me anymore.” His voice gets husky, stepping just a bit closer as the workers take apart the set, but everything fades but him.

It’s always like this, the never ending need for him.

You feel like half your heart is standing right in front of you.

“Do you enjoy modeling, Satoru?” To hear his name from your lips makes his heart race, he nods quickly. “Then I’m very happy for you. I wondered how you were,” you blink back tears, and he catches sight of them glimmering under the set lights. “I think of you often.”

The words are there, you are afraid of them, but also you’re so tired of holding it all in. He steps even closer, making you swallow nervously, leaning down a bit, a hand now brushing your hair back from your face. The contact alone of his fingers brushing through your strands makes your heart hammer in your chest, eyes locking with his.

“I think of you every damn day,” his hoarse voice is so genuine, you’re so afraid to trust it, to believe it, but you feel it, something has changed in him. “I would love to just know how your life is going. If you’d just please, have coffee with me? Or just anything in the world you want.”

“Satoru,” he caresses your cheek now, uncaring of the eyes around you both, the little murmurs, his eyes are locked all on you, as he brushes aside a tear you didn’t realize slipped. “You really just want to know me?”

“I do, I want to know you, even if we catch up and you never talk to me again, maybe it’s what I deserve.”

“You don’t-”

“I do not deserve any time. But please,” his own eyes shut, as he feels you trembling as his hand slips down your arm, over bare skin. “I want to know you’re good, that you’re okay, just anything you want to share with me.”

You turn away for a moment, and he curses under his breath, afraid of your answer, but you’re swiping tears, trying to compose yourself. You feel so much in that moment, in how deeply you still love him, that you just have to take a moment, before turning back around, eyes glimmering as you catch him, staring down at his feet, nervous like you.

“I’d love to catch up, I’d love to know how your life is,” you almost break down, blinking tears as his eyes meet yours again. “How about now?”

“Now!? Shit, yes. Now.” You giggle a bit, as he smiles, so boyish and charming, splitting your heart into a million pieces as he takes your hand, pausing. “Is that okay if I…”

“Yes,” you nod, and he tugs you along, you hear whispers of the models around, who surely all had crushes on him, but Satoru’s attention is undividedly on you. as your heart races in your chest. Your fingers intertwined as he brings you to his car now. “Satoru you drive?”

“I do.” He smiles a bit, brushing his fingers across the sleek Mercedes. “She’s my baby.”

“Is she now?” He grins and nods, opening the door. “I thought you had no license, honestly.”

“I’m wounded! No, I just don't usually drive, this car is special. Here,” he latches your seat belt in, your breath catches, he's so close you feel flustered by him. He comes to sit and smiles at you. “Where too, my lady?”

“Your lady hmm,” you're teasing but the words melt you. There's so much unsaid between you both that you don't think coffee is going to cover it, but you're willing to try it as a first step. “The one by my place? I stress baked cupcakes I can give you when you drop me off.”

“How many this time?” He chuckles as he turns, backing up. It's crazy to even see Satoru holding a steering wheel, it's far too attractive. 

“Like only three dozen. And I have brownies.”

“Pot brownies?”

“No!” You both laugh again, it's so fucking natural, it's so easy to be with him like this. Like the night you met him.

It gets a little quiet then, as you sit in the traffic, and he puts on his music from his phone. It's a quiet song, filling the new silence as the two of you sit there, scared to say the wrong thing.

You take a breath. Looking at him, the sun bright through the car window, illuminating his skin. He peers right back at you, hands gripping the wheel tightly, exhaling. You barely blink back more emotions, reaching a hand out then, resting it on one of his.

“Shit, I missed that.” He whispers softly, taking your hand gently and kissing it. Your heart breaks further, until the pain is so deep you can't breathe.

“I'm so sorry I pushed you away, I didn't give you a chance to explain things.” Your words are broken and hoarse, Satoru shakes his head, back focused on the road as he holds onto your hand tightly.

“I'm sorry that I pushed you into something that you never wanted.”

“You didn't push me…”

“I offered it, and I knew you weren't that girl. I knew it, but I was selfish,” he looks back at you, sadness in his blue depths. “I wanted to have it all, my career, you, keep everything in my life the same. Just better. It was selfish.”

“I was selfish, I did it to make sure you wouldn't be with anyone else.” Saying it out loud hurts, but you feel the weight come off your chest, as Satoru blinks tears, falling across his cheek and glimmering in the sun.

“You just wanted to please me, I don't think that's wrong. It was wrong of me to let you.”

“Don't bear all of the blame,” you lean close and kiss away his tears, the two of you stuck in more traffic now. His car parks, as he brushes his fingers across your face. “I should have told you how much it all meant, it was never just sex for me. I wasn't honest with you.”

He nods just a bit, but you see it, the regret on his face. “I wasn't honest with you about anything I felt either. I want to tell you so much, but it's too late.”

“It's not too late.” He sighs, the traffic moves as you sit back in your seat. Clutched tightly, your little hand in his huge one, protective and sweet, you've never missed something so badly.

“You're not with someone?”

“Satoru I work, come home and wallow on my couch. I'm not dating,” he visibly exhales. “And you're not…”

“No one.” His words are quiet, your heart pounds so loudly in your ears as he eyes you again, blue storms swirling with so much. “If this coffee goes okay, can I have a date? A real date?”

You can’t help but get flustered, visible to him the way you nibble on your thumb and shift in your seat, eyes lowering. “A date?”

“A real one. Flowers or some corny shit, fuck I'll get a corsage.”

“Satoru!” You're giggling, he sighs then at how good that sound hits his ears. “It’s not prom, silly.”

“God I love your laugh,” you pause, looking at him then. “Never told you that. The sound does something. It's contagious.”

“I love your smile,” his lip trembles at your teary declaration. “I missed it so badly, I hate that I made you lose it.”

“I hate that I made you cry, I hate that I said that shit.” You shake your head then, biting down on your lip once more, at a red light. It casts a soft glow on Satoru's face, as he tugs it from your teeth. “I didn't mean it.”

“I know you didn't, I should have accepted the apology. I felt so… lost though?” He manages a little nod, as he drives again, and you two just listen to the music in the car until he's right at that coffee shop.

“I went there because I just wanted to see you, it wasn't just sex for me.” He unseatbelts you with a quiet click, a hand pressing on your bare thigh as he looks into your eyes. His minty sweet breath caresses your face. “It was never just sex and that scared the fuck out of me. I wanted to explain it away as simply amazing sex.”

“It was more for you too?” He nods now, cupping your face in his hands, resting his forehead on yours as you two take each other in.

“So much more. I have a lot to tell you about me, it's not all gonna happen today. But I want you to know. And I want to know you, your life, things I didn't even care to find out then. If you will let me.”

“I will, Toru.” The nickname ends his control, he kisses you, just a sweet pop of his lips for a moment, and you melt in his embrace, he pulls back and his thumbs brush over your heated cheeks.

“Sorry, should I not do that? Can I not do that?” His concern is written all over his face then, while the blue eyes assess you gently.

“You can do that,” you press a kiss to his palm, thumb brushing along his inner wrist now. “Is this a date too?”

“Fuck, anything is a date if you want it.” You laugh a bit.

“A date with the Satoru Gojo?”

“Only with you,” you both step into the cozy ambiance of the Cafe, bustling as always. The aroma of coffee beans and sweets fills both of your noses. “Go grab a table, I'll get us two cups.”

You're so pretty sitting there, chin on your hand resting just so, smiling and watching him when he's walking back. And all he can think is how precious and right you feel, as he sits next to you in the booth, and you two sip on the sweet foam of the mocha hitting your lips. He has just a bit of foam on them you tentatively swipe off, the touch almost doing him in.

Just that motion is damn near too much for him, your fingers on his lips as you smile, so nervous, bringing back that night. Did he fall in love with you then? Was something like that even possible? He can’t explain it any other way, from the moment he saw you and how you filled his mind, changed him forever. Your hand falls as he contemplates you carefully, scared it’s some dream.

“You remember my favorite?” He nods, not realizing just that speaks volumes.

You love him.

You're always going to love him.

You ache to say it, but you want that to be the right moment. The hurt is so raw and new, and you two both feel that tension, the way that you both feel terrible for how it all went, the way you missed each other. You sit next to him, a hand comfortably resting on your thigh, it feels so right, the touch. You’re so starved from the lack of him, the lack of his nearness.

“I want to learn anything you want to share.” You tell him softly, as he massages your thigh with his thumb in little circles.

“So do I. Where's photography fit in? Do you still do design?”

“I still do that, I think I needed a distraction. How did you get into modeling?”

“Really connected agents and being stupidly attractive.” You’re laughing, shaking your head. “Gonna deny it?”

“You’re ridiculous.” He’s grinning so big then, you know how terribly you missed that, tugging at your own lips in return, making you smile with him. “I love how your eyes light up.”

He pauses, heart hammering at your soft words, words you’ve held back, and he feels his own tumble out, when his hand squeezes your thigh gently. “I love how sweet you are.”

You feel it, that barrier falling, the one that’s terrified to open up again, but he’s trying to, you just see it. You take a breath, smiling with trembling lips. “I love how caring you are, how you notice things no one else does.”

Drawn to you even closer, he swallows nervously, Adams apple bobbing while he brushes your hair back. “I miss your scent, I catch a hint of it and look for you.”

“You do?” Your voice is soft, as the moment feels so surreal, you couldn’t even have dreamt this, pictured this. He nods quickly, while your hand rests over his, feeling the veins under your fingertips while you two cozy up in the little coffee shop.

“I do miss it, I miss everything. Not just… you know… that.” He blushes a little, rubbing the back of his neck as you feel your own cheeks heat at the memories.

“Me too. Everything.” It takes everything in Satoru not to kiss you again, not a sweet little press of the lips like earlier - he wants to make sure your mouth is swollen from his kisses. He wants you so badly it’s hard to think, to inhale your scent in his nostrils as he tastes your sweet skin, to just fucking hold you.

A mix of everything at once so overwhelming he is trembling, you notice and look at him, lashes lowering as your hearts both race, and his head leans down, coming to rest on yours. You feel tears pricking your eyes at how badly you craved this, craved his presence, in any form at all. You didn’t know this would be a possibility, the way you two speak now, the way you don’t stop the contact.

That first night you met, you two couldn’t stop talking, and for a shy girl like you it was entirely new, it was so different and special, all to happen again for you both, to be so connected and the ease that your words flow. It’s natural, so right to speak to him, to listen to him, as you both recount what you’ve missed in the months alone, making the longing even deeper.

You’d missed so much.

He’d missed so much.

Eventually taking far, far too long to just drink coffee together, he’s taken you back home. You hesitate a bit before inviting him in, remembering the pain of that moment you asked him to leave, and realizing what he’ll see if he comes in. He feels your hesitation, clearing his throat then, and taking your hand in his.

“I don’t have to come in if you’re not ready,” you shake your head quickly. “It’s understandable.”

“It’s not that at all, it’s…” your couch is a mess, the living room table littered with wine bottles and pizza boxes. You have been in such deep depression that the area alone stays messy, while you stress clean the entire house. How do you show him that side of you, a side you don’t know how to explain?

“You can just go in and bring ‘em out, it’s okay.” He’s smiling again, you sigh then, shaking your head.

“If we’re going to start over, I think you should know parts of me that aren’t the best.” He frowns a bit in confusion as you unlock the door, he remembers every bit of your home of course, but when he looks over to your couch he sees it.

He’s quiet as you shut the door behind him, tense as you know this isn’t how a normal person acts, the devastation you’ve been in, the place you rot away and cry about him. The place you numb yourself, after acting happy all fucking day, you know it’s not normal to be this affected by a couple weeks with someone.

But it was you, and you didn’t want to hide anymore.

“Shit…” He murmurs, you slip your purse on the counter, while he slowly walks up to you, hands on your waist, you feel the emotions you’ve barely held together about to crumble when he tugs you against him, wrapping his arms around you.

“It’s embarrassing, that’s why I hesitated.” You admit softly, letting him hold you right in your kitchen, but it wasn’t like last time - it was not sexual, it’s caring, it’s a tight hold you never want to leave.

“You were hurting that badly, why didn’t you just…” He exhales, kissing your head then. “You could have told me, fuck I’d have been here.”

“I pushed you away, I hurt you too.” Your words are true, he’s been devastated without you, but the physical evidence is glaring in how you took it.

“We hurt each other,” he admits, you nod, looking up at him and sighing, he tilts your ching up now, the feel of him against you filling things that were empty before and in his absence. “There’s so much I want to say, but for now… let me just help clean this up.”

“No, please, I’ll clean it before you come over again.” He’s already shaking his head. “Satoru, that's embarrassing.”

“It’s not. Where’s the cleaning shit?” He’s already tall and lanky in your kitchen, bending over and opening cabinets now. He’s doing anything to avoid the knowledge you hurt like that for so fucking long, the sweet and bubbly girl he met living like that breaks him so deeply he can’t even tap into how much it hurts.

“It was just… a spot I left that way I guess.” You grimace and help him then, grabbing trash bags as you eye the mess you’ve made of the couch.

It’s abundantly clear the spot you sat in for six months every day after work, while he starts throwing out empty boxes and bottles of wine with you. You’re not as embarrassed with him as you thought you’d be, he doesn’t make you feel that way, he just helps you, methodically throwing things out. The wine bottles clink as they hit, he eyes a couple of them and smirks.

“These are so cheap and shitty.”

“Well excuse me!” You’re laughing then, even through your tears, he gives you a sad little smile, continuing to tidy up. You tackle the table you haven’t seen in months with a sponge, he starts folding your several plush blankets all tangled up, frowning a bit.

“You sleep here too?” He asks, you nod a bit. 

“I would just watch movies till I cried myself to sleep.” You take a shaky breath, wiping the table down with a towel as Satoru’s lips open, as if to speak, but he just smiles again.

“I’ll take these out.” He walks the trash out as you go to the kitchen, spotless in comparison to that area, that was the one place you let it all just be chaos, let the hurt sink in.

Now he’s here, and you don’t even know how to act, you hurt him and pushed him away, and he’s here to pick up your pieces. He steps back in, walking over to you as you both look at each other, his hands slipping down your arms gently, you take several breaths, biting your lower lip as he tugs you closer. It’s quiet, all the things you both want to say on the tip of your tongues.

“I’m so sorry you hurt like that,” he finally says, cupping your face, you touch his hand and sniffle a bit, nodding.

“I hurt you too, though, I felt so horrible for it, I think it made everything worse.”

“Don’t,” he shakes his head now. “I didn’t know how to not be sexual, you were right about me.”

“But you-”

“No,” he puts a finger to your lips, sighing now as he feels them under his finger, smoothing that indentation of your teeth and watching your lashes lower. “The club, I just proved you right.”

You flush as you remember that, the wanton way you’d arched for him, how you’d squirted, sucked his fingers. God you were a mess for him so easily, after saying you didn’t want that you fell back into it with ease. If he were to do it now you would, but he keeps his touches chaste, careful, leaning down and tilting your chin up, letting you look into his eyes.

“I originally made it sexual then demanded more-”

“No, you needed more. You told me, and I didn’t give it. I…” he trails off, sighing now. “I never knew how to be affectionate, sex to me was affection. It’s all I knew how to do in that moment, when you needed more.”

“But you didn’t have to give more. That was me.”

“I want more, I still want more.” You can hardly comprehend that those words are coming from his perfect lips, your heart racing now. “There’s a lot I want to say, but I don’t think we should unpack this all today. And I want to see you again.”

“I want to see you again.” Your hand slips up his chest, as he wraps an arm around your waist. “Thank you for today, for everything. You didn’t have to do that.”

“I helped cause that depression, so of course I should help clean it up.” He’s emotional, imagining the girl he fucking loves - yes he loves you - just sobbing on a messy couch. He swallows it down, along with the urge to kiss every part of your body, knowing he just can’t right now.

“I never thought I’d see you again,” the sobs break now, you can’t hold them back when you’re in his arms, face pressed against his chest, body shaking as he tries to stroke your back, your arms. “I felt so horrible making you go.”

“It was the best thing, you deserved more than I gave.”

“Satoru! No…”

“Yes.” He cups your face, swiping your tears as he holds back his own, shaking his head again. “You deserve everything, fuck I was so unsure I could ever give it you you I never thought you’d even fucking feel that way for me.”

“You underestimate how amazing you are,” he nuzzles your palm when you lean up and touch his cheek gently. “You deserve everything.”

“I want you to know, I haven’t… nothing since you.” You blink in surprise, lashes still dripping tears that he presses sweet kisses on, bending at the waist. “I couldn’t be with anyone.”

“Me either, Toru.” He kisses you again, sweet and salty from your tears, as his own eyes get glassy with emotion.

“You promised me brownies and cookies, I earned my keep now.” You laugh then, it’s so freeing, his pretty grin just a little crooked as you step back.

“You did! Of course, come on.” You go to grab them out of the fridge, he hates that even now he’s eyeing your ass like that, he knows he can’t yet, but it doesn’t mean he doesn’t desire your body too.

He’ll always desire you, every bit of you, the thoughts eating him at night, the amount of times he’s played with himself to your memory is ridiculous. But he is making sure that takes a back seat, what you need is comfort, clearly, the sadness just shows, like you’re keeping it together just a bit for him. You get a pretty flowery tupperware and start stacking them for him as he is enamored with your every movement.

“You’re so beautiful.” He says softly, you pause, snapping the lid on, all puffy cheeked from crying.

“I probably look like a mess,”

“You’re always beautiful.” He steps closer, kissing your forehead now. “Not just your pretty face or your sexy body,” now his voice drops an octave, fucking your mind, body and heart up as you look at the man you love. “Something about you, it’s in here, that shit sounds corny huh?”

“No, it doesn’t,” he’s touching your chest, feeling your heartbeat under his palm racing and fluttering. You put yours on his, feeling the slow athletic beat he’s always had kicked up just a bit. “You are too, Satoru, much more than your looks.”

Those words hit harder than he knew they would, it’s always been his looks, since he met his ex. Everything was his potential, and even if his personality was something that carried him, it always felt like people wanted him for his looks. His eyes, his body, his lips.

But you never just wanted that, he knows it now.

“Fuck,” he can’t even hold back this one kiss, the one where he’s pinning you against the counter, and you’re whining out, that cute breathy cry that ends him. “I missed you so fucking much.”

“Me too, me too…” your words are muffled with his lips, hungry and desperate on yours, the kiss he’s held for you for months, the one he played over and over in his head. If he ever got a chance, if he ever got to hold you again, he pours it all then, in that moment with you.

“Satoru…” You’re whispering his name as he bends over, taking over your senses, mouth devouring yours, so messy then, his tongue slipping in your mouth, possessing it. You cling to his dress shirt, nails pressing against his back over the fabric as his hands slip down your waist, gripping your hips and tugging you closer.

He whispers your name, a soft whine as he looks at you with those cerulean depths lit up, breaths faster, kissing you over and over, as if he’ll never get enough. You lose yourself, your entire body on fire - nipples pressed against your sweater, tummy clenched with the desire you haven’t felt once before or after him, your pulse racing in your ears.

“God I missed this,” he says then, breaking away to take a breath, you kiss him again, sweet, god you’re sweet. God he loves kissing you, holding you, looking into eyes behind fogged up glasses, so adorable it tugs at him with affection. “You’re so adorable.”

“I need windshield wipers.” He laughs then, a genuine laugh, as you giggle, he tugs your glasses off and kisses you again, hands gripping your face after he sets them on the counter next to the baked goods.

It wasn’t just an exaggeration, it wasn’t him making the thoughts more than they were, the kisses just were like this with you. Life altering movements of plush lips melding to each other, hands warming each other's skin, he can’t get enough - god he wants more, but he holds back, until he can’t anymore, tugging away just a bit and taking a breath, trailing his fingers down your curves slowly.

“I want more, I don’t want you to think it was just your body,” he says then, you nod quickly, understanding, even as your breasts heave up and down with your quick breaths. “God I wanna fucking tear this off you.”

“Mnh…” you bury your face against his chest, feeling his heart beat against your cheek quicker now, as you nod against him. “I want it too, Satoru I… I felt so sexual because I just already had feelings. It was always more for me.” He exhales, pressing another kiss to your heated cheek, blushing against his lips, hot to the touch.

“I knew that, and I still was selfish.” Admitting it sucked, it fucking hurt, but he knows he needs to do more, say more.

“So was I.”

“I don’t think you have a selfish bone in your pretty body.” You laugh softly.

“I do. For you.”

“Selfish for me?” His husky voice drives you insane, you nod when he moans, kissing you again, thigh pressing between yours, when he feels your heat it almost takes him out. “Fuck… maybe you’ll show me how selfish some day.”

“M-maybe I will…”

He chuckles again, pulling back. “You’re too cute.”

“Oh you always said that.” You’re smiling though, he sees it and it tears him up, how beautiful the sight is for his eyes again.

“You are cute, you’re adorable. I love that about you… I… deleted those, so you know, okay?” Your eyes widen in surprise then.

“You did?”

“The moment you said you regretted them, it wasn’t right to keep it up. I want you to know, no one knows it was you, I guess except your friend and me.”

“Of course, I knew you’d never share that information.”

“I shouldn’t have asked you, I shouldn’t have done it.”

“Satoru…”

“No,” he cuts you off softly, you’re back in his arms now, snuggled in his embrace. “I am furious I showed anyone that perfect pussy, y’know that?”

You pause at the declaration, looking up at him. “Really?”

“God yes,” he laughs without humor then. “I hate that others saw you, it was already making me angry, but I was so stuck up my own self.”

“Just know I forgive you, and I don’t blame it all on you.” He nods then, the relief from your words letting his broad shoulders rest just a bit. “Thank you for taking them down, but I shouldn’t have said that.”

“You did regret it.”

“I didn’t regret being with you on video, I um… regretted others seeing it. Me and you? It felt too intimate, too special,” your hands entwine as you speak, his long fingers against your much smaller ones, feeling so warm and good. You shut your eyes as you try to gather your thoughts. “I regretted anyone seeing us together.”

“It was special,” his words bring your gaze back. “It was intimate, and I wish we kept it to us now.”

“You do?”

“God yes, the fact that anyone jerked it to you? Makes me unreasonably fucking mad now,” you bury your face against his chest again, the warmth of his palm seeping into your skin. “All I could think was ‘pussy is mine’.”

You blink in surprise. “You thought that?”

“Did I think that, yes of course I did. I thought a lot I didn’t say,” he sighs now, kissing your forehead again so sweetly as his phone rings. He frowns, and you step back a bit as he checks it. “I’m suddenly free this Saturday, how about you?”

“I’m free!” You say it so quickly he laughs.

“Sweetheart,” the way he says it after so long makes you tremble with need, as he brushes back your hair. “I can’t begin to say how much I missed you.”

“Me too, god so much. Feel like you’re some dream.” He feels the same, god he does, like this isn’t real, when you two kiss again, this time it’s too much, he’s so close to losing his control.

Satoru’s hands are on your hips, while you feel like your home is here, right on his perfect lips. He’s delving his tongue in your mouth feverish and heated now, before he picks you up, thighs on either side of his hips, sitting you on the counter. You’re lost in him, like the sweetest drink or most addicting drug, arms wrapping his neck as his hardness presses.

“Fuck, sweetheart,” he murmurs again, you whine and roll your hips, when he litters kisses down the side of your neck. “I miss this so much.”

“I miss it, I miss you. Need you.” He exhales at that, his hands slipping up bare thighs over your knee socks, thumbs pressing the softness of your inner thighs, you’re whining out at it. “I only want you.”

“God me too,” he’s so close to slipping those soaked panties to the side, as he tugs you closer, and you take a breath, trying to get your composure, lips swollen from his kisses. “So beautiful.”

“I feel beautiful with you,” he moans and kisses you again, hands pressing deep, so deep he’ll bruise you as they wrap your thighs, and he groans. “I’m so sorry.”

“I’m sorry,” he sighs as he pulls back, looking at you spread for him, picturing sinking to his knees and worshipping you. “You look too good, I need to go.”

“I feel the same. I think I should… bake more.” He laughs again, the sound so bright it melts you, as he helps you down, sliding you across his hard body slowly. “Bake a lot and then take a cold shower.”

“A cold shower sounds good to me too.” He cups your face then, tilting your chin up and brushing his thumb on your lips. “Make no mistake, we need time, but when you’re ready if I ever get another chance at you? I’m gonna fuck you till you can’t walk.”

“Toru mnh…” He’s moaning and kissing you again, it takes everything not to let him, not to beg for it. But you both need to take a breath. It’s too raw, it’s too fresh, and there’s so much. “I want to know so much more about you.”

“I do too. Not just every inch of your body, though that thought is raging,” he’s pouting and you’re giggling again, brightening your pretty eyes. “I wish I’d just listened to you then. But my feelings were hurt.”

“I get it, I really do. So, Saturday huh?”

“Saturday.” He kisses you again, and soon he’s walking to the door, as the memories of the last time he was here hit.

“Fuck,” you hate how they rush in, stealing your breath. He looks at you, frowning as he holds the little tupperware you gave him. “I hated myself for doing it.”

“No, sweets, don’t. Don’t hate yourself, okay?” You’re swiping tears again.

“I’m a mess.”

“Beautiful mess,” his words make you lean up to kiss him again, his free hand wraps you, while the two of you stand in your quiet entry way, just the sounds of your breaths and kisses filling the room. “I want you to be my beautiful mess.”

“I want to be yours.” He sighs, kissing your palm and then your hand, things he never thought he’d do, but he wants to with you.

“I don’t want to fuck this up, I never thought I’d even see you again, not even sure I deserve to kiss you.”

“Let me figure out what you deserve, what I want. Okay?” He nods then, swallowing nervously and taking a breath. “Text me when you get home safe.”

“I will, good night sweets.” The little nicknames nearly do you in again, when you smile and lean on the doorway, he’s waving when he gets in his car, hesitating before he pulls off.

What if he doesn’t see you again?

The panic sets in his heart, he knew he missed you, but he didn’t know the depths of the fear until now, as he sees your hand wave back at him, sees your silhouette in the doorway. He steps out of his car, walking back up as you shut your door, stepping forward when he’s kissing you again.

“One more.” He murmurs, so sweet you’re done for, god it’s all back - it never left - but being in his arms? His presence? His desperate needy kiss?

You’re hugging him over his shoulders, kissing him right back, the sky is all pinks and golds as the sun sets, casting shadows on that silvery hair, bringing out the little streaks of lavender. You’re taking a slow breath, heart feeling like it’s whole for the first time since that day you sent him away, the day you did the thing that hurt you the most, but he’s here.

He’s here.

All of him.

“Sorry,” you shake your head, cupping his face. He’s a couple steps down as you stand on your deck, enough you’re almost face to face with him. “I can’t help it.”

“Don’t say sorry, I love your kisses. I missed them.” He moans and kisses you again, feeling your gravity tugging him so close that it feels wrong to back away. “You could just stay and cuddle? Or just stay. You don’t have to go home if you don’t want to, you know.”

“If I stay no way it’s just fucking cuddling, you’re expecting too much from a former pornstar you know,” You blush then at his insinuation, when he backs away again. “Good night baby.”

“Good night again, Toru.”

He laughs as he goes back to the car, your heart hurts when he drives off, but the weight feels so lifted, the sorrow and self loathing of pushing the man you love away. It was so hard to let that go, to let go his tears when he begged you to keep him around, but now you know it was the right decision, as you pass by a freshly cleaned couch later that evening, eyeing your phone.

You always sit there, but tonight instead, you go to your room, the bed you’ve not gone near in so long. You snuggle up, pulling up a book for the first time in months, and you can almost read it, but you’re so stuck in your thoughts of him, of his kisses and his pretty blue eyes, of the energy of him, his scent left behind. A scent you missed so fucking badly.

Instead of wine and pizza, it’s a water bottle next to your nightstand, when you get it - his text.

Satoru - I got a little busy. I'm sorry, I’m home now. Suguru was having a moment

You - that’s fine! I’m glad you’re home safe

Satoru sighs, looking at the phone as he lays in his bed, picturing you right here in his arms, he’d stroke your hair, he’d press kisses along your skin. He’d hold you here forever if you fucking let him. Even now, there’s so much more he has to say, but he wants to give you the perfect date, one you deserve. He wants to share more of who he is with you.

Today, seeing that side of you made it so much more raw, the pain you must have felt, how hard it was to push him away. He never resented you for it, even though it killed him, deep down he knew why you did it, but instead of trying to fix it, he made it all fucking worse that night.

Satoru - I can’t wait to see you again.

He’d never say that before, he’d have made some sexy joke or some silly comment, not just be vulnerable. And it was terrifying to do it, his heart hammering in his chest as he sits up in his bed. He looks next to him, remembering you right there, remembering fucking you all night, waking up and fucking you again, but he thinks of all the times he could have done more.

Just held you, just kissed you, of course he wanted you - god he’s never wanted anyone like you - but he wishes he did even more. Hold your hand, at that damn dinner said ‘no she’s my girlfriend’ fuck he wanted to. He wishes he could have held you so close to him, let everyone know you’re his. Friend, what a joke, he never was your friend.

He always wanted more and didn’t even know what it was.

You - me too, I’m so excited!

He’s torn between being so happy and smiling, but also feeling that sadness of seeing that couch with you. The pain he saw in your eyes that night at the club, but he was so consumed, he couldn’t realize what was glaringly apparent. Your confessions he was so fucking scared to return.

He can’t wait to say it, that he loves you.

He never thought he’d get a chance.

You- I hope you have sweet dreams Satoru.

He smiles at that sadly - It’s been nothing without you, darkness.

You bite your lip as he types - It’s been nightmares for you.

Satoru- you too, sweetheart.

The two of you can hardly stand it, feeling each other’s kisses lingering on your skin, inhaling the scent of each other in your nostrils. Hugging those pillows tight and picturing each other. But for once, instead of you sobbing and him tossing and turning, the two of you fall asleep, wishing Saturday would come quickly, so you two can start over again, and not fuck it up so badly.

we will get back to this being sexy next chap aha

Taglist 1 - @juicu @kalulakunundrum @gojoswaterbottle @aldebrana @simp-plague @wedojustbevibin @lucciferr0 @officialholyagua @privthemis @coffee-and-geto @homesickes @msniks @emi311 @mai-505 @ren-ren23 @yihona-san06 @emochosoluvr @sylvermoon @bunheadusa @karvokr @starmapz @queenexplosonmurderr @musiclover2119 @saitamaswifey @reagan707 @midorissi @ghostskilledmyaddiction21 @itsinherited @maisiefrancesca @gyarubunny @theonlyhonoredone @chosslut @simperisksksk @xlilycoco @howlsdarling @femaholicc @maymaymarch @miseryyouth-99 @swoozleee @zeunys @cryingdevil @leafynightmares @princess-bblgm @gojosconsort @insomnicshello @joonunivrs @myahfig4 @silviscosplay @iluvjjkmennn @nutellajade

[wilwheaton]

Musk hasn’t been confirmed by Congress. His “department” was never authorized by Congress. No one other than Trump has given Musk any authority. No one knows exactly who Musk’s goons are; they have not been vetted yet are handling some of the most sensitive personal information in the government. Not even Trump has the authority to stop your Social Security payments, let alone your Medicare or Medicaid or unemployment insurance or your food stamp benefits. Yet Musk and his goon squad assert they’re able to do so if they believe those payments are illegal. Musk boasted on his social media site X that he was “rapidly shutting down . . . illegal payments.” But who is Musk to decide that a payment is illegal?

Why the world's richest man is messing with your religion, your Social Security and everything else

I realize Democrats are out of power and can’t do much with legislation to stop this. 

I also realize this all happened in 3 days and appears to have caught them flatfooted (though I struggle to accept that nobody knew this was going to happen -- DC leaks like wet cheesecloth).

Okay. So what can they do?

Off the top of my head:

1. Members of Congress get the the bus and go to one of these agencies where Musk and his unvetted goons are installing rootkits, stealing our private information, and breaking the law. Tell the press they’re going to be there, and make a whole lot of noise. Force media to pay attention to this.

2. Stop everything in Congress. No unanimous consent, no approval of nominees, absolutely no help. Republicans uniformly opposed President Obama’s popular agenda, it shouldn’t be this difficult for Democrats to uniformly oppose Trump’s unpopular agenda.

3. File lawsuit after lawsuit after lawsuit. Force them into court to defend and justify their plainly illegal actions. Force them to defy judges. Force them to take this all the way to the corrupt SCOTUS.

4. Trump and Musk are weak little boys with fragile egos and this unholy alliance will eventually fracture. Speed that up by talking a whole lot about President Musk.

5. Tell Chuck Schumer to shut the fuck up forever for a minute because his communications team is maybe the worst I have ever seen in my adult life.

I don‘t know that any of these things will actually stop this attack on America from these fascist scumbags, but I am pretty confident it will force the national conversation to be about the coup that was accelerated this weekend, instead of the fucking Grammys.

[milkymiks]

Prev

Jason just finished up apprehending the foreign pricks that decided they should deal drugs to kids, telling Oracle to call the GCPD to deal with the clean up, when suddenly a glowing mass barreled on to him. He winced as he fell on his ass, his hands automatically wrapped on the handle of his gun. He lifted his face to look at what clung to him.

It’s a very handsome man with white hair, dressed like royalty with a floating crown, and the man also emits a faint green glow. Said man is also trembling and Jason realizes that fat globs of tears are running freely down his face.

“Jason!” The man gasped, arms clinging tight around his waist, He buried his face on Jason’s neck.

This is all very weird to Jason. He ignored the twinge on his chest as he brought the gun to the man’s head, who froze when he felt the cold muzzle pressed to his head.

“Who are you?”

The question seemed to dismay the man, as tears fell harder from his sculpted face. He sighed and pulled back from Jason’s neck, the gun following the movement. He sighed and pulled a small sad smile on his face.

“I expected this to happen” he murmured, He paid no mind to the gun digging on his skull to rest his forehead against Jason’s.

“Would you believe that we are lovers and that I've been trying to find you this whole time? and now that I found you, you’re full of nasty ectoplasm which might be the reason why you don’t remember me?”

Jason scoffed “as if i’ll believe that bullshit” seriously why was this nutjob clinging to him? The nutjob only sighed again “right” he murmured before plunging his hand inside Jason’s chest.

Jason yelled at the unexpected intrusion, finally pulling the trigger on the gun but aimed at the shoulder, only weirdly the bullet seemed to go through him. Fuck.

Weird sensation of sifting happened inside him. The man only looked Jason dead in the eye as he did what he did while Jason desperately tried to get away from him. pushing at his shoulders and chest with both hands, kicking his sides, only the man didn’t budge, like he was made of steel.

“What are you doing?! stop!”

“I’m filtering the corrupt ecto in you, it really did lock away a lot of your memories. Stop struggling, I don’t want you to injure yourself”

Jason did not, and as if the man expected it, took the hits with no problem. After a few more moments, he finally reluctantly took his arm out of his chest -It’s weird to see his chest still intact when it felt like his insides were being messed up- He looked up at Jason with hopeful eyes, then faltering when he was met with cold indifference.

“You still don’t…?”

Man the guy sounded wrecked, He found the wrong guy it seems and unfortunately Jason doesn’t feel bad, He was just violated by the man.

“Oh man, I know it’s you Jase, I can feel it! Why won’t you remember?” The man whimpered, and Jason could definitely hear the sound in his dreams if only this weren’t a bad time.

“I’m sure you got the wrong guy, now can you get off me-?” Jason was cut off by a growl, A fucking growl coming from the man before him who looked angered by the prospect that Jason isn’t the person he was looking for.

“I’m not wrong! You just don’t fucking remember!” He groaned -oh god are those fangs?- before taking Jason’s face in both hands and smooshing their lips together.

It hurt and it was awkward at first, The fangs nicked Jason’s bottom lip, before the man adjusted and suddenly Jason is experiencing the hottest makeout he ever had in his life. Oh and the man is still growling for some reason, but it’s oh so hot, and Jason might die because of the nutjob, and oh god he has a very long tongue, it’s actually reaching down his throat and isn’t that super hot?

Then flashes, memories that he does not remember having, flying by and seemingly returning to it’s spot in his brain. Memories of him and Dick in his fuckass Discowing uniform, sitting on top of a building sipping slushies together. A peaceful dinner with all of the family at that time without Dick storming off. Barbara attempting to teach him code. Saving a boy falling from a fire exit who’s holding a camera and looking at him like he hung the moon. Danny…

Memories of his time as a ghost still wearing the robin uniform came back, How through the years in the realms, and months in Danny’s home dimension, the two slowly fell in love.

“I’m supposed to take over and officially be King once I’m mostly done with my education, or so Clockwork says. Does that mean you’ll be my Queen?”

“Rude, you haven’t even proposed to me”

Danny threw his hands up in exasperation “We’re still minors!” Jason fake sniffed “You’re not even courting me properly…” Danny just stared at him, in fondness or irritation.

“I cannot kill this ‘Joker’ for you when I don’t even know how to go to your dimension, I already took Freakshow’s core as a placeholder for now” True, Jason has the clown's core in a mason jar in his room that he sometimes shakes when he’s bored. So he kisses Danny’s cheek and watches in satisfaction as his lover’s face turns red.

The last memory he had before he was revived and force filled with anger. So the Lazarus pits are just fucking waste ectoplasm.

Jason can feel when Danny pulls out -the tongue literally shoved down his throat retreating- and looks at him concerned while Jason absentmindedly stares at his face. The man in front of him is his long lost lover, who is now King judging by his attire, and who has been looking for him all this time while Jason lost the memories of their precious time together.

Jason let out an ugly sob, then another, and another, as tears bursted from his eyes he had to take off his mask. He threw himself in Danny’s embrace as he continued to cry, Now Danny is crying again, but of happiness as he pulled Jason to his lap.

“I knew I came back wrong, I just didn’t know what” Jason murmured, He felt a hand carding through his hair. “It’s okay, I found you and we’re together again” Danny said, Jason can feel a rumbling from his lover’s chest and smiled.

“Can we go home? I miss you and the castle”

“I think you only miss the castle, fucking favorite” Danny teased

“Not my fault she likes me better than you”

Danny stood up, carrying Jason with ease. Jason settled comfortably on Danny’s arms as the man started making a portal back to the realms. He really did get stronger and more handsome the years they were apart, Jason can’t wait to discover new things from his lover.

“Stop!”

Both of them turned their heads to see Batman and a few others from the justice league rushing to them.

“Fuck, Danny hurry!”

Danny shifted Jason in his arms so he was only holding him with one, and tore a glowing green portal through the space in front of them with the other.

Oh fuck that was hot, Jason needs both of them in Danny’s bed right about now.

“Red hood!” was the last thing they heard as they stepped through the portal before it vanished.

[fics-lovebot]

jungkook fic recs - pt. 3

main masterlist

· · ♡ · · tysm to the amazing creative minds of the writers for giving me sevaral moments of joy reading your creations

pls reblog if you like any of my recs and don´t forget to support authors!❤️

come sit on my lap - ( @euphoricfilter ) pwp, lots of praisingg, they way this is written is good yall, "use me" , “so polite” shUT UPPPP im literally blushing, AND he is also cute at the end?? i hate it heREEE :´)

he has a lot of cum - ( @euphoricfilter ) bf!jk, the title I- , he DOES have a lot of cum, lots of stamina, lots of everYTHING, and on toP of those small details, wdym he wants to see how many times he can cum in you before it´s too full and it starts to spill????? somebody stop this man

riding jungkook´s nose - ( @euphoricfilter ) we´ve ALLL thought about this, and if you haven´t you´re lying, periodt. pRAISINGGG, he´s in a pussy-drunk frenezy, he likes feeling used, he likes getting his hair pulled, he likes getting his face wET, it´s sickenINGGGG goreaditplease

fucking in the gym - ( @euphoricfilter ) this was inspired by that one pic of him and jimin with their back out, I SEE THE VISION, fucking with ceiling mirrors

wicked - ( @noteguk ) smut, incubus!jk, big big corruption kink, lots of dirty ploting and dirty talk, yupppp this is a good one, so detailed, love me a fic that lit makes me see what i´m reading

strings attached (to my heart) - ( @jungkoode ) smut, crack, fluff, IT HAS IT ALLL, spider man au, college au, spider-man!jk x journalist!reader. READ THE TAGS BC ITS GOOD AF, bc wdym you combined sub-loser-desperate jk who also has a noona kink wITH a superhero au??? it´s like you wrote it for me,, (also, this deserves many many more notes imo)

think i need someone older - ( @redcherrykook ) smut, whipped rich older bf!jk (PERIOD!!) x younger!reader. JESUS FUCKING CHRISTTTTTTT!!! no more words needed, this one´s pulled right out of my maladaptive daydreaming folder

fade into you - ( @nmjoo-n ) SMUT, fluff, fwb to lovers au. barista!jk, possessive obsessive toxic lovesick!jk (LETS FUCKING GOOOOOO). this is a whole 2022 masterpiece, they way this is written, and the way jungkook is borderline PSYCOTICH (or in love ig) for her is so hotttttttt. deff one of my favs

this is how you fal in love - ( @jeonqkooks ) fluff, smut, angst if you squint. rockstar!jk au, est relationship. this is beautiful, a 2022 gem. love love love how lengthy and detailed this is

frost impressions - ( @fortunexkookie ) soccer coach!jk, teacher!reader, gamer au, work au, idiots to lovers, one sided pining at first, it´s a longggg one. another 2020 masterpiece, one of my favorite fics out there, he´s so disgustingly smitten with his new coworker that he ends up making a terrible first impression. so so so entertaining and fun to read, jk is silly af lmao, can´t stop putting his foot in his mouth, theres a bunch of cute second hand embarrasment situations

Over The Odds | The Confession - ( @jungk0oksthighs ) ceo jk, sugardaddy jk, jealous bf jk, sugar baby reader, he gets mad and yells bc he is lowkey insecure of her ex but reader is equaly in love. this is a series

wrong time - ( @spideyjimin ) smut, angst, dilf!jk, ceo!jk, exes to lovers, workaholic as a scape mechanism, the one that got away type of stuff but she broke things up first for valid reasons, big big heartache but she´s still the love of his life

don´t blame me - ( @ctrlsht ) sugar daddy!jk, ceo!jk, soft yan!jk, obsessive!jk, student!reader, unhealthy behavior on his part, manipulative behavior on her part, jealousy on both parts, he goes a lil too far but reader is bitchy and annoying, he lit gives her everythinggg she asks for, the man is..creazy about her in a very unhealthy way and she takes advantage of that, toxicc

failed quickie - ( @vminizzle ) cowerker jk, suggestive, they´re about to fucc on an elevator but shit happens, he likes his hair pulled!!1!

someone older - ( @bonny-kookoo ) smut, ceo jk, divorced jk, 30 something yo jk, taehyung has a kid, younger oc, its a nice read, would do it again

[rqnarok]

summary: old man!logan finds himself having a breeding kink.

cws/tags: smut, mdni! old man!logan. fem!reader. heavy breeding kink. dom/sub dynamics. unprotected p in v. pet names. not proofread. 

Logan’s younger self would not approve of this idea. 

Hell, it would not even cross his youthful, unbound, and liberated version. Younger Logan would have brushed off the idea - dodging it like a bullet - revolting against it. 

Having a kid? A noisy five-year-old child running around the house, screaming and kicking everything in sight? Yeah, fuck no. 

He’d even hate just thinking about it. 

But now that years have gone by and he’s almost hitting 200 years of age–a lot has changed in how he sees things, alright. Suddenly he’s not that idealistic-insufferable-annoying fuck anymore.

The heavy feels of his own body, his poor visions, his utter tiredness and wounds are slowly tended by settling down with you. Living in a small countryside home just outside Texas is the life Logan needed all along.

So he just can’t fucking help it when he sees how you act with those children at the Barbeque party. How you treat them with such care as if they’re yours. 

The smile plastered on your face after you give each one of them a cookie is Heaven sent for Logan. He’s too focused on being mesmerized by your acts that he almost does not realize how his trousers feel tighter.

He quickly hides his bulge whilst embarrassed of himself, thinking ‘M fuckin’ old for this shit. But who gives a fuck anyway? 

Oh, he in the past would not approve of this at all. 

“Fuck. You’d look so fuckin’ good with y’r belly swollen with my child.” Logan grunts out, thrusting his girth into you as his mind fills up with visions of you carrying his child. 

The images themselves make Logan go feral—growling when he feels how your velvet walls manage to clench around him.

“A-ah! Please!” The high-pitched noise you let out is almost humiliating as you bounce yourself on top of your husband, making the head hit your gummy spot every time you fall down.

“Hm? Y’want that, Little Missy? Want me t’give you a baby?” His calloused fingers rub shapes on your sticky skin, guiding your hips as he tries to search for the answer in your eyes.

You reply with a frantic nod, your mind feels empty as his tip deliciously kisses your cervix. The thought of being full of his seed, pregnant and giving him a baby—makes your eyes roll back in pleasure.

With one movement, Logan manages to manhandle you to a new position, his cock never slips out from your heat, “Want this old man t’give you one? Make you a momma?” 

The sound of his full balls slapping against your ass makes you squeeze your eyes shut. 

Now clearly hearing the obscene moans emitting through the dim room, “Yeahyeahyea—W-wanna be a momma—”

While you wonder how he still has this much stamina at that age, Logan leans down to your ear and buries his face on your neck, “Pretty wife. Gonna make the cutest goddamn babies, y’know tha’?” 

His palms hold your thighs spread open to reach deeper inside you, “Let me fill ya’ up real good.”

Logan’s eyes flicker to watch your pussy swallow his cock in and out. The sight alone makes him throw his head and let guilt wash him over for a minute.

He feels perverted—corrupting you by plugging his cock to the hilt as if it is trying to mold your insides. A dilemma growing.

You could feel how his thrusts steadily became desperate, “L-Lo.” Whining out, your fingers crawl into his back to pull him tighter. 

He can’t fucking wait to have you round up. Shit. You’d be so dependent on him—need him at all times. And he’d fulfill everything you ask him to do. Logan would never even let you move an inch. 

Everything caught up to him as an acute wave, “F-Fuck. There ya’ go, baby.” Logan mutters - his hands shake slightly as they lose their grip on your thighs. 

His cock never pulling out, “D’ya think it takes, pretty?” You could feel him deep inside you—how your walls are painted by his thick ropes of cum. 

Logan gives lazy circles of his hips before pressing a sweet kiss on your lips, whispering several ‘I love you’s’ before lowering himself so his face could level with your pussy.  

“Fuck.” The older man has never seen a far more beautiful sight than this. Watching his cum begin to leak out of you makes his cock twitches again. 

The scruffy feel of his beard scratches your inner thighs as he leans closer—dragging the tips of his fingers along your folds before plugging his digits back inside. 

“Logan-n!” 

A deep rumble comes out of Logan, “Shh. Be a good girl for your husband, yeah? Need’a to make sure it takes.”

[dearmisshoney]

fool me once, fuck you twice

synopsis. you scam your dealer again by paying with fake bills. but theodore nott is not as stupid as you think, and not as harmless as you think. let’s just say... nott has connections and can teach you a lesson you will never forget.

pairing. dealer! theodore nott x reader x corrupt! cop! mattheo riddle

content/mdni. DUB-CON. mentions of NON-CON. fem!reader, dealer!theo, corrupt!cop!mattheo, cocky!mattheo, cocky!theo, aggressive!mattheo, condescending!theo, (kind of) slutty!reader, PUBLIC SEX. car sex (on the hood of the police car), THREESOME, doggy-style, deep throat/face-fucking, slight tit play, dry-humping, slight clit stimulation, spanking, rough play, power play, hair-pulling, handcuffs, slight sir kink (mattheo), teasing, praise, degradation, dirty talk, name-calling (good girl, baby, sweetheart, ma'am, but also whore, slut, fucktoy and fuckhole), objectification, very messy, (inaccurate aka idk about drugs) drug usage. raw sèx, FILTH

word count. 4.8k

a/n. OMG HONEY NO SUB/WHINY MEN? are you okay? yes, i am :)) this fic is for the third week of @acourtofchaos ’s event. let me know what you think about new approach and this new (?) au for matty! feedback and reblogs are deeply appreciated!

bright headlights flash in the rearview mirror of theodore’s car as another one slowly pull into the parking lot right behind him. his hand, latched around the mirror, slightly adjusts it to better see the plate number.

it is your car.

you, a somewhat recent customer he accepted after one of his best clients begged him to hook you up with the good stuff, have been biting more than you can chew.

not only were you dressing up like a slut every time you met with him — perky tits poking through the tight material of your tops, pussy peeking from underneath your micro-skirts — but you also half-assed your payment by sneaking in counterfeit bills.

theo always brushed to the side your skimpy outfits, not giving you any sort of discount for your promiscuous acts.

but he cannot excuse your usage of fake money.

no one cheats theodore nott.

“theo, hii!”

your exaggeratedly lively greeting hits his ears the moment he steps outside his car.

that sweet tonality of yours always made him roll his eyes back in annoyance, but right now it even angered him. your candy-like tone was definitely infused with venom and a dash of pride from the fact that you managed to trick the devilish dealer.

definitely, but not really. he would have reprimed you by now, but, alas, he had no evidence you did your almost-fake payment on purpose.

theodore is not an unreasonable man — he gives you the benefit of the doubt, hoping that maybe you didn’t know they were fake bills.

“the usual, right?” he muttered underneath his breath, more of a rhetorical question, clasping the edge of his trunk and lifting the lid to search for your order.

“awe, theo, why so gloomy tonight?”

you leaned against the opened trunk, arching your back into the created shape and pushing out your tits more. your tube top was barely sticking to your skin, gripping to your chest for dear life so as to not flash your dealer.

but if it happens, it happens — maybe that way theodore would finally give you a discount.

 “shit happened.”

it’s all he says as he closes back his trunk abruptly, without a warning. (un)fortunately, you reacted fast and your limbs were not trapped in the process. your expression did faltered for a second, your eyes popping out of your sockets and your mouth getting ready to spill curses, yet you composed yourself in time to receive the little transparent drug bag from theo.

“'m sorry, boo! can i help somehow?”

you were really adamant in seducing him, huh? leaning closer to theo, showing the peaks of your breasts to him, and seductively swaying your hips; you were serving your body on a silver platter as if it were nothing to you.

what a fucking slut.

“you having the cash to pay for this will do.”

he wasn’t going to feed into your depraved fantasies. so, shaking the bag with the greenish goods, he kindly demanded the payment from you. this evening you seem to be missing your purse, so theo’s reply was not out of line at all.

“of course, theo! you know i never disappoint.”

dipping your hand between your boobs and stretching out the tight material of your top, you pull out a fat stack of money, tied together by a red band. you shamelessly pushed the bills towards theo, flashing him a sultry grin as you intentionally let the top smack against your skin and make your chest jiggle.

what a fucking slut.

“i know.”

he groaned at the sight of your money, taken by surprise by your hiding spot. you've never had such a performance before, so to suddenly see bills emerging from between your tits… that made blood rush to his cock.

his unusual reaction was registered by you and your smile only grew bigger. theo was surely not discounting you this time, but now that you visibly made him falter… you will do your best to get that discount next time.

“pleasure doing business with you.”

you cheekily say to him as you slap the stack of money in his hand and impatiently snatch the bag from the other one. swinging the little packet in front of your hungry eyes, you admire the content for a bit before putting it away.

again, between your boobs.

what a fucking slut.

“see ya'.” it's all you say as you step away from theodore, spinning towards your car to leave the place.

“yeah, yeah.”

theodore only mumbled back at your, gripping the stash of money in his hand tightly. he carefully watches you as you start the engine, your headlights immediately hitting his standing figure as you slowly turn around and exit the parking lot.

he was planning on checking the money while you were still here, but your little stunt made him forget all about his plan, leaving him stranded alone with, most likely, suspicious bills.

“she better just be dumb.”

that was his wish: he really wanted you to just have unknowingly given fake bills to him. to just unknowingly cheat him and profit off of his business.

yet as he carefully checks each and every bill from the stack with a uv light, theodore discovered your true nature — you intentionally did it.

you dared fake your payment twice in a row, this time only using counterfeit money.

what a fucking devious slut.

“oh, she will pay for this! no one messes with me and leaves unharmed.”

he was chuckling under his breath as he gripped the money tightly, the discarded portable uv light bringing out the markings on every bill and the rage in theodore’s eyes.

they shimmer a treacherous blue, so stormy and so revengeful.

“that slut will regret it.”

with a mischievous grin on his lips, he drops the bills all over the car seat. then he reaches for his phone on the center console and, fastly typing a well-memorized phone number, he dials someone surely capable of bringing him justice.

“need your help with something.”

•••

“theodore the devil nott my ass, haha!”

stepping on the gas pedal hard as soon as you joined the main road, you upped the volume of your music in celebration. you used fake bills to fully pay for your drugs and that stupid dealer didn’t even realize.

you escape unscattered yet again.

“such a fucking loser, damn!”

and you continued your insulting monologue, replaying in your head how easy it was for you to take the package and dip. how his eyes were focused on your tits, then your money stack.

how he literally moaned when you dropped the drugs in your top at the very end.

“pussy boy for real.”

you've heard details from your friend about his sex life, but it all seems to be just a rumor. there was no way theodore nott, with his prudish reaction, fucks until daylight and makes his partners see stars.

he is an attractive bastard, yes, but he definitely hasn’t seen a pussy in his life.

“that makes it easier for me, damn.”

you were smiling like crazy when you realized your seduction game just became easier to implement. he’s been so unresponsive all this time because he was a prude. and maybe you were too bold.

“a sheer top will do for next time.”

you were already planning your future outfit, so excited to fuck up theo’s resolve to stay away from your enticing tendencies, but the red and blue lights of a police car glimmering in your rearview mirror brought you back to reality.

“no fucking way.”

all your enthusiasm dropped as you realized the police car was targeting you, signaling for you to stop on the side of the road.

“fuck, fuck, fuck.”

why were cops patrolling this route? and why were they out at this hour? you were indeed over the speed limit, so their reaction was understandable. but if they were to also body search you and find the drugs… you’re done for.

let’s hope the officer was a he. a young thirsty he who will give in to your dirty attics and let you go.

so, obeying his signals, the tires of your car halt with a loud screech. your hands fumbled to lower the volume of your music, and that’s when you registered the strong pounding of your heart.

you were anxious.

you dipped your hand in between your boobs, searching for your drug bag in hopes of removing it, yet you fastly return your hand back on the steering wheel when you saw the red and blue lights swirling so close to your car and a dark silhouette approaching the window. 

a sudden sharp knock on your window made your entire body twitch in your seat, legs shaking away from the pedals on the floor and rooting themselves as close to the edge of the seat as possible. without waiting for a second knock, you lowered the window with a gulp.

and there he was.

uniform pressed. badge gleaming under the red-blue lights. cop hat pulled over messy curls, yet barely hiding his brown eyes.

“license and registration, ma'am.” he drawls, voice gravel-like, a knowing smile plastered across his lips.

oh he was hot hot.

“o–of course, officer…?”

“officer riddle, ma'am.”

“give me one second, officer riddle.”

you could definitely try wiggle your way out of this one. officer riddle looked young and, judging by his constitution, he was definitely a desirable yet cocky man.

stroke his ego — and maybe his cock — and you’re definitely good.

so you scramble, leaning so far down towards the drawer in front of the passenger seat that your ass was on full display for officer riddle. opening up the drawer, you took longer than needed to find the necessary documents.

all that just to entice the cop.

you had no clue if your trick was working, but you knew for sure the officer got a good glimpse of your bubble butt and your naked cunt. your micro-skirt may not have come in handy with your dealer, but it will definitely affect riddle.

“was i– um– speeding, officer?”

returning to your initial position and handing him the documents, you bat your eyelashes cluelessly at him and purse your lips in confusion. you would have pushed your tits at him too, but the drugs tucked between them were burning into your skin, advising you to be cautious.

mattheo riddle takes your license and glosses over it slightly, before returning his gaze back to your face.

“twenty over. but that’s not the main issue.”

and that’s when your breath hitches, the drug bag feeling heavier against your chest.

“w–what do you mean?”

he doesn’t answer. just eyes you for a moment and, with a jerk of his chin, commands you to do exactly the thing you were most afraid of:

“step outside the vehicle, ma'am.”

your lips parted, ready to protest, but you swallowed your words and obeyed. if you make a commotion right now, it will make it worse.

so, complying to his order, you got out of the car. your heels clicked against the pavement, and you stepped into the cool air.

“bend over, hands on the hood.” he says firmly. “i will conduct a search. standard procedure.”

“search? may i know why–”

“standard procedure, ma'am.” he cuts you off in a harsh tone, one that allows no further questioning. “do not make me use force, ma’am.”

you complied.

he started his search from your wrist, skimming down your arms. it was deliberate yet professional, his fingers barely ghosting over your skin. then he hovered over your hips, pausing his hands at the swell of your ass.

“you nervous?” he murmurs against your ear, his breath hot and sticky. something darker was palpable in his voice, but you couldn’t quite figure out the reason.

“ah– a little.”

“you should be.”

and that’s when his hands unprofessionally gripped at your ass over the skirt, half of his palms hitting the material of your garment, half of it — his curious fingers — hitting bare skin.

“s-sir–?”

“public nudity? that’s a serious offense, sweetheart.”

his fingers dug deeper into your flesh, leaving indents into the plush of your ass, as he spread your legs slightly to make space for his own body.

“walking around like this?” he growls against the shell of your ear as his fingers raised the hem of your skirt higher and higher. “skirt so short and fuck me– no panties?”

your cunt was now on full display, shimmering underneath the moonlight because of the glossy arousal coating your lips and thighs. and to make it worse, the rugged material of mattheo’s pants were nicely pressing against it, making you buckle your hips back into him.

your stomach flips at his words, a mixture of desire and fear. you tried to beg for mercy, but only a small whine left your throat.

“not only you’re breaking the law…” he continued ruthlessly, raising one of his hands from your ass only to let it slap back against your skin. “you’re doing it like a desperate little whore.”

“p–please, officer, i–”

another slap.

“save it for the chief.”

before you can beg again, he roughly gripped your wrists and, binding them closer behind your back, he swiftly handcuffed you. now, with your hands tied behind you, the cold and hard metal of the cuffs digging into your skin, you had no chance of escaping.

you were fucked.

“c'mon, let’s go.”

he removed himself from behind you like nothing happened, pushing back down your skirt and even yanking your body from the hood.

“what are we–”

“we’re going to the police station. you’re under arrest, sweetheart.”

and with that brief explanation, he nudged you to move towards his car. his police car, with the red-blue lights still menacingly spinning.

it was bad.

if he takes you to the police station, they will surely find the drugs. shit, shit shit, you have to stop him right now. but how? what should you do to make him change his mind?

“wait– wait! officer riddle…” you breathed out courageously, heels skidding against the pavement as you dig them in.

resisting his pushing.

but he doesn’t stop at all, hand stiff against your lower back.

“don’t make this harder than it has to be.”

“i will do anything–” you blurt out. “j–just– don’t take me there, please.”

that stops him.

his hand on you falters just enough to give you hope. you could see from the corner of your eyes how his own chocolate orbs flicker down your body — unreadable themselves, yet the mere action speaks volume.

“anything?” he repeats, low and dangerous.

“y–yeah!” you nod, heart pounding right next to your drug pouch. “p–public indecency should be punished privately, d–don’t you agree?”

for a moment, there’s only the whirling of the police lights and the thudding in your chest. then, with a devilish smile, mattheo drags you closer, your body falling into his.

“you think i am that easy, sweetheart?”

fuck it, go big or go home.

“i think you want to see if i am that easy, officer.”

that was enough. you didn’t even need to push your hips back into his crotch like you were planning to.

your body was instantly guided to the hood of the police car, shoved chest first against the cold metal. your legs parted instinctively, giving officer mattheo riddle the chance to position himself between them and yank your skirt back up.

“what a fucking slut.” he mutters as he slowly thumbs at your pussy, fingers cruising against your folds and collecting your arousal. “showing me this dirty cunt to fuck.”

he continues to mutter profanities under his breath as he undoes his belt with one hand. the other tightly clutches the handcuffs on your wrists, keeping them in place at the base of your back.

“bending over like a common whore to dodge a charge.”

you moan when he grinds against you, this time sloshing the head of his hard cock between your sticky folds. his fat tip presses deliciously against your pulsing entrance, offering enough pressure to make your eyes roll back.

“gonna fuck you raw, sweetheart.” he groaned in your ear as he carefully pushed in, cock splitting your pussy open inch by inch. “you need justice deep inside you.”

“oh my god–”

mattheo's hips snap forward, shoving his cock deep inside you with a brutal thrust, knocking the wind out of your lungs. the cold of the metal hood mixes with the boiling heat between your thighs, your breath fogging up the base of the windshield in front of you.

“is this what you wanted, huh?” he sets a brutal pace from the start, disregarding your comfort for good. “is this why you’re walking with your bare pussy out?”

his belt clinks faintly with every movement, still hanging loose around his hips, evidence of how quickly he turned from arrest to sex. his free hand comes down against you ass again and again and again, spanking your buttcheeks with force.

until red imprints of his hand remained on your skin.

“fuckin' tight–” he hisses, one hand still gripping your cuffed wrists, the other planted on your ass, pressing harder against it and exposing your hungry cunt sucking him in.

“and this wet for a cop? you’re so disgusting, sweetheart.”

you only moan, body trembling from his aggressive thrusts, metal handcuffs biting into your skin as he keeps a constant pace — fast and heavy. perfect rhythm to make you feel every inch drag along your inner walls while also bullying your cervix.

“fucking your way out of jail time… you always do that, hm?” he growls, each word punctuated by the slap of his hips against yours.

he was so mean, his mouth constantly running on and degrading you with every word. but you couldn’t even retort back, you lips only able to allow drool to pool on the hood of the police car.

he was hitting the right spots with every jut of his hips, and his heavy balls were perfectly hitting your puffy clit.

“aaah– n–noo–” another sharp thrust shuts you up again.

he grabs a fistful of your hair, nails scrapping the scalp, and pulls your head back just enough to make your back arch harder. the shiny handcuffs were gleaming beautifully against your newly-found arch, and, no matter how much you tugged at them to release your hands to support your body, you could only cry loud from the harsh pressure at your roots.

“lying, stealing, flashing your fuckholes at anyone who looks twice. i think one fuck is not enough.”

his pace increased, cock driving into you with enough force to rock the entire vehicle. the lewd, wet slap of skin on skin fills the night air, and the windows fog more and more.

“what do you think, theo?”

“t– theo?”

and that’s when you see him: theodore nott, your dealer, smirking like a demon from behind the windshield of the police car. he seems to have been here from the start, as he was seated nicely in the passenger seat, carefully eyeing you and pumping something you couldn’t see yet.

“yes, whore, theo. theodore nott.”

mattheo doesn’t let up, his pace violent, hands loosening against your hair and making you drop back onto the hood. the impact made you gasp in pain and pleasure, all his restless abuse somehow making you needier for more.

“you see what happens…” theo drawls, voice thick with arousal, now booming from right next to your exhausted body. “when you try to fuck me over, baby?”

turning your face sideways, you finally see him clearly. you see the way his eyes were dark with amusement, one hand lazily stroking his hard cock as he takes in the sight of you bent over the hood of his friend’s car.

“you get fucked twice as hard.”

it was definitely a bad situation for you, yet all you could do is gush more around mattheo’s dick, sucking him in like a vice and milking him dry. all you could do was eye theo’s own cock, all hard and weeping with precum, wishing it was in your mouth.

“she’s learnin' her lesson realllll well,” he grunts, hand stricking your ass again. “ain’t that right, sweetheart?”

you whimper weakly, nodding as best you can against the hood. “y-yes, sir…”

theo only smirks, cockily examining how obedient and pliant mattheo made you. “good fucking girl,” he praises you mockingly, thumbing your bottom lip before slapping the head of his cock on it.

“now open that pretty mouth and apologize to me too.”

you part your lips willingly, tongue flicking out to taste the salty precum on his tip. then you took him deeper, eyes fluttering closed as theo inserted his cock inch by inch. his groans, low in his throat, were music to your ears, now joining together mattheo’s raspy moans and creating the finest tune.

“that’s it.” he hissed, his hand tangling in your hair as he guides your head up and down his shaft.

“apologize with your mouth full.” he taunts, hips twitching forward as your warm mouth almost engulfed his entire length. “gag on it. make it sloppy, baby.”

and you did, as his hands didn’t allow you another choice, pushing your head all the way down to his navel. your throat was forced open by his cock, constricting around it from the sheer size of him and making you choke strongly.

mattheo groaned at the sight, cock twitching inside you.

what a fucking slut.

“fuck, she’s so dirty.” he growls, slamming into you harder and harder. “mouth full of cock while i wreck her cunt.”

your nails scrape at the hood of the car, knees shaking, orgasm bubbling in your stomach as the two men use you without mercy — like you’re nothing more than a slutty little debt to be collected.

“you like that, baby? you like being passed around like a toy?”

your muffled moans are enough of an answer, spit and precum seeping from the corners of your mouth as theo fucks your face deeper. he too was as turned on by your depravity as mattheo, his head tipped backwards with satisfaction, hands strongly caging your head.

“i should’ve known you were this desperate.” theo mutters, his voice rougher now, eyes looking from underneath his lashes at the way your lips stretch deliciously around him.

“all that fake money, all that attitude — when all you wanted was to be used.”

suddenly pulling you off his cock, face all wet and sticky, he gripped both of your cheeks with one hand, pursing your lips close to one another in a painful lock.

“where are the drugs, slut?” theo growled into your face, remembering what started all this. “still between those naughty tits of yours?”

he might have emptied your mouth to be able to answer him, but the way he was pushing at your cheeks did not help at all. so you only nod, excessively so, hoping theo will get the message.

“good.”

it's all he says before his fingers catch the edge of your top, tugging it down until your tits spill free, bouncing slightly with the motion. the bag also drops on the hood, hitting it with a small thud.

you hoped he would grope your breasts, tweak your hard perky nipples and give you the much needed chest stimulation. sadly, he completely ignores your tits, his hand sneaking across the hood and snatching the drugs.

“you don’t deserve them, you slut!”

not only did he took them back, he also opened the package right in front of you.

your lips part in protest, but no sound comes out. theo doesn’t give you a chance to process what he was doing, pushing his hand against your head and forcing you to stay flat on the hood.

“you better stay still.”

with one final threat, he dumped the greens all over your back. then, reaching into his back pocket for papers, theodore rolls the joint right there on your skin.

like your body is just another table for him to use.

you watch his fingers work through the sheer reflection on the windshield — deft, practiced — as he forms the joint with precision in seconds. lastly, with no hesitation, he lights the joint and, placing it between his lips, takes a long drag of his own products.

“want some, mattheo?”

“you know it.”

it’s all mattheo says before taking the joint from theo, slowing down his thrust to take a long drag, only to return to his torturous pace right after.

“you’re so dumb, sweetheart.” mattheo chuckled darkly as he slapped your ass. “trying to fool theo, seriously?”

his hand rains down your skin again, his red markings stinging all over. then, gripping the meatiest parts of your ass, he spread you open again, showing off to theo how good you are taking him.

“at least you’re a phenomenal fuckhole.”  

and mattheo was right. theo could clearly see the tight grip your cunt had on mattheo’s cock, how drenched you were from the two of them punishing you for your wrongdoings.

he might need to have a go at your pussy too.

“her mouth is also amazing.” theo added, returning to his previous place, next to your wet face. the joint was hanging from between his lips, the fumes reaching even down to you.

your beautiful puppy eyes immediately latched onto the drugs, begging theodore to share a drag with you too.

“awe, baby wants a taste?”

he mockingly asked you, pouting his lips in an attempt to imitate your desperate facial expressions. his fingers gripped the joint and removed it from his lips, lowering it closer to yours.

“you want a hit?”

you nodded frantically at him, face dragging across the metallic hood closer to his hand. your tongue poked out, your lips puckered, somehow hoping such gestures would attract the drugs closer to you.

what a fucking slut.

“nah–ah. your mouth has another purpose.” and so, he drags the joint away, taking a drag himself and blowing all the smoke right in your face.

“cock. your mouth was made to suck cock, baby!”

his tip was already slapping back against your lips and, without further reasoning, theodore pushed back into your mouth, resuming his face-fucking from before.

“you’re just a cock-hungry whore.”

mattheo added, rutting his hips harsher into you, pushing you further down theo’s dick and making you bury your nose into his happy trail.

theo’s fingers tangled in your hair, pulling you closer as he fucked your mouth with cruelty. you gagged more around him, drool staining his pants and the police car. mattheo’s hips too slammed harder against your dripping cunt, the heat building impossibly fast.

“show us how good you are.” he growled, his voice rough against your ear. his wandering hands finally grabbed at your bare tits, kneading roughly, fingers pinching your nipple just like you wanted.

your body trembled under the assault of the two men. theo’s cock pulsed in your mouth, while mattheo’s dick twitched against your velvety walls. his grip on your hips tightened, keeping you still as his cock pounded faster, harder.

“cum on my dick. c'mon, whore.”

“be a good girl, baby! cream on his cock and i will give you a nice tasty load too.”

the joint, brought into the scene just to taunt you, fell forgotten somewhere on the pavement, their entire focus being now on you — their dirty, broken girl.

your body betrayed you, folding under the overwhelming pleasure. your pussy clenched so tight around mattheo it was almost painful, the slick heat of your walls burning hot and deep and pushing officer riddle over the edge.

“so tight and warm, shit.” mattheo cursed one last time, chasing his release with wild, sloppy thrusts.

theo too groaned low, his grip on your hair becoming increasingly painful. his own release was sudden, spilling hot and thick down your throat, making you choke one last time as he came hard.

mattheo roared above you at the same time as theo, his cock stilling deep inside as he fully painted your hungry cunt with his cum.

finally, after the restless pounding of both of your holes, you were allowed a break as the two men pulled out. you were a mess, full of cum inside and outside. the drugs on your back were mixed with sweat, but neither party seems to care about the waste.

“awe, baby, you’re tired?”

theo's venomous voice resonated in your ears like a distant echo. a small yeah was the only answer you could give, too exhausted to form full sentences.

“too bad, we’re not done.”

“i wanna feel your throat just break around me, sweetheart–”

“and i want to shoot my load deep in that dirty cunt of yours.”

“b–but–”

“do not pass out on us, baby.”

“not that that will stop us from fucking you, haha.”

©dearmisshoney 2025. do not copy, translate, or claim any of my writings or works as your own.

tags: @downbad4reid, @cafechichay, @lov3notts, @nottslove, @nottsangel

[rafesangelita]

[🍩] soft!dom!rafe x breeding kink x corruption kink😜😜 with hella dirty talk😫

warnings: innocent!reader, established relationship, making out, heavy petting, pussy slapping, oral (f. receiving), rafe is messyyyyy lol, unprotected sex, rough sex, crying, blood (very little, it’s from a bite lol), breeding, multiple orgasms, rafe slaps you just once, corruption kink, lots of dirty talk, first time, loss of virginity, fingering, finger sucking, hair pulling, slapping, soft aftercare, brief mentions of having kids

a/n: i think i got really carried away with this but breeding kink with bambi was something i wanted to write but was unsure of how to start it lol so thank you so much for this request!

wc: 2.1k

rafe was in heaven right now and he wasn’t even inside of you yet. he kissed you gently, the feeling of your fingers stroking his face while he caged you between his arms was everything he didn’t know he needed. “you show up in this pretty little dress of yours, did you have this planned?” you gasped when you felt his hand snake under the soft material of your dress, his touch skimming over the waistband of your underwear. “no. ‘just wanted to look pretty for you..” you whispered, those doe eyes of yours beaming up at the man on top of you. “you do. you look perfect.” rafe sighed.

slipping his tongue in your mouth, your eyebrows drew together as you couldn’t help but move your hips against the thigh he had between your legs. rafe looked down, pulling his bottom lip between his teeth as he watched you rut against him. “does that feel good?” he hiked your dress up, wanting a better view of your clothed cunt. you hummed, your skin flushing as rafe concentrated on the way you moved underneath him. hands roaming your body, there wasn’t an inch of you that went untouched. slipping your dress off, rafe marveled at the sight of your bare chest.

despite you two being together for a while, the furthest you two had ever gotten was making out and a little groping here and there, but that was it. rafe had no problem waiting until you were ready to go there. you shivered, the chilly air of rafe’s room making your nipples harden right before his eyes. “fuck, bambi..” he cupped one of your tits, a whimper leaving your lips when he leaned down and took the other in his mouth. “are you okay if i do this?” you glanced down at his hand moving your underwear to the side. meeting his eyes, you nodded. “please.”

rafe watched your face morph into one of full blown pleasure when he gathered the wetness at your entrance and glided the tips of his fingers to your clit. “you’re soaked.” he laughed, making you turn your head away from him out of shyness. grabbing your chin, rafe squeezed your cheeks together and forced you to look at him as his fingers started working your sensitive bundle of nerves. you were instantly trying to draw away from his digits, the motions being far too much for you at once. “shhh, don’t run from it,” he licked a stripe up the column of your throat, “let me watch you.” he smiled teasingly.

you smiled back, only for it to be wiped from your face when he slapped your folds, the sensation making you jolt. despite it stinging for a quick second, you started chasing his hand for more. “you want another one?” he slapped you again, this time making your thighs shake, “my little whore likes that, huh?” you were surprised at the name calling, but even more suprised when you found out you liked it. “talk to me, baby. tell me what you want..” his lips ghosted over yours. rafe had gotten you so wet, you could hear your slick with each stroke of his fingers. “wanna go all the way with you, ray..”

rafe swore he could hear the angels singing. he’s been waiting, anticipating for this day to come. “yeah?” he kissed you, slotting himself between your thighs before pulling away from your cunt. “yes. ‘want you so bad!” you whined, wrapping your legs around his waist. you watched him pop his fingers in his mouth, sucking the remnants of you off of his digits. oh, god. pulling him close, you kissed him deeply, tasting yourself on his tongue. taking your underwears off in one swift movement, you palmed rafe in his shorts, your eyes widening when you felt how large he was in your hand.

“you’ll be fine, baby. i’m gonna take such good care of you..” in rafe’s mind, you had already did this before, but the look on your face was starting to make him think otherwise. his suspicions were confirmed when you looked up at him with watery eyes. “is it going to hurt?” you whimpered, his erection resting heavily on your tummy. rafe studied you for a moment. “you’ve never had sex before?” you shook your head, biting your lip nervously. rafe felt so wrong for being so turned on at the revelation. “have you ever touched yourself?” rafe was on the brink of losing his mind. “no..”

that was it. this man was going to ruin you. “i’m sorry, it’s embarrassing.” you pouted, looking away from him. embarrassing? rafe felt like he could cum right then and there. “that’s not embarrassing at all, baby.” he reassured you, moving away any stray hairs you might’ve had in your face. “you know what that means? that means i get to turn you into my own personal little slut.” his words made butterflies flutter in your stomach. rafe unbuckled his belt, his shorts and boxers now long forgotten. despite being horny out of his mind, rafe still checked to make sure you were okay.

“are you sure about this, bambi?” you watched as he snaked down your body, hooking your thighs to his shoulders. a shaky breath left your lips, your hands intertwining with his as he pressed kisses to your flesh. “yes, i want you-” you were cut off by rafe’s tongue delving into your sweetness. your back arched off of his mattress, your thighs threatening to snap around his head. the only word you could use to describe the noises in rafe’s room was lewd. the slurping, grunting, moaning, it was all hitting you at once that this was actually happening.

rafe was so hard already, his own fist was wrapped around his cock as he sloppily lapped at your soaked pussy. he couldn’t get enough. instinctively, you couldn’t help your hips from grinding against his face, your boyfriend doing everything to make you tremble and shake in pure bliss. you freed one of your hands from his grip and trailed it up your chest, squeezing your tit while rafe groaned at the sight. “i haven’t even put any fingers in you, baby, you’re going to be a mess by the time i actually fuck you.” you cried out when he sucked your clit, his middle finger prodding at your entrance.

gasping at the intrusion, rafe shushed you as you whimpered at the unfamiliar stretch. “how are we doing, sweetheart?” he looked up at you, cursing under his breath. you were so fucking tight, he could only imagine how you’d feel wrapped around his cock. “..hurts a little.” you took a breath, moaning when he curled his digit. “it’ll feel good soon, i promise baby. ‘gonna make you cum so fucking much.” he continued working on your clit, the added stimulation making your eyes screw shut. rafe waited until you were gasping his name before entering a second finger.

you practically screamed, your hands shooting down to dig your nails into his skin. “rafe, i think i’m!-” you froze, your eyes rolling back as you felt a wave of euphoria wash over you. it was unlike anything you had ever felt before. suddenly you couldn’t breathe, your mouth falling open in a silent moan before your legs started to shake. rafe knew you were cumming and it only made him go rougher on you, wanting your first orgasm to be unforgettable. inserting a third finger, your eyes shot open as you thrashed against his sheets, your body trying to retract from him.

“r-rafe, s’too much! i can’t!” your words came out choppy with each breath you tried to take, your boyfriend eventually bringing you down from your high. you had tears rolling down your cheeks, your entire body feeling like jelly as rafe came up from between your thighs. the lower half of his face, and even the tip of his nose, was glistening with your slick. rafe had given you a taste of something you soon felt like you couldn’t get enough of. rafe grabbed a handful of your hair, forcing you to look down where he lined his cock up with your entrance.

you met each other’s eyes, releasing a breath you didn’t know you were holding, before he slammed into you, both of you having two different reactions. while rafe doubled over, absolutely enthralled by how tight you were, you were crying, your nails leaving crescents in rafe’s side. you were only able to take half of his length, but rafe was determined to give you the whole thing by the time he was done. while the feeling wasn’t exactly painful, you just felt so full. rafe took your lips in a searing kiss, pulling out before thrusting into you again. “you feel so fucking good, you know that?” he praised you.

rafe started thrusting into you until any sense of discomfort melted away. “oh my god, look at you taking me so fucking well..” rafe whispered against your skin, littering your neck and chest with kisses. wrapping your arms around his neck, you didn’t hold back from moaning underneath him. “rafe go faster, please!” your boyfriend smiled, pulling away momentarily to see that dark look in your eyes. “whatever you want, baby.” you cried out when his hips slammed into your own, the tip of his cock kissing your cervix. “oh, rafe..” you shuddered, now that you were filled to the brim.

“you’re so perfect, you want this dick everyday?” you nodded frantically, not seeing how you could go without it now. “yeah? i bet you do..” he laughed, “‘been wanting to corrupt you since i got you, baby. your sweet little innocent eyes looking up at me when i would rub you through your panties, you have no idea how bad i wanted to get you naked and fuck you until you were crying for me to stop.” he slapped your cheek, a gasp leaving your lips at the action. “look at you now, you’re gonna be begging for this all the time.. ‘might just fuck a baby into you, huh?” you whimpered at his words.

“i want that.” you panted, his pubic bone slamming down on your clit with each thrust. “yeah? you want me to fill you up? get you all pretty and pregnant?” god, what was happening to you? “yes, ray! i want it so bad, ‘want your babies!” now it was rafe’s turn to get hysterical, the idea of you growing round with his seed turned him on beyond belief. “fuck!” he grunted, “oh, i wanna see that so bad, ‘want you walking around tanneyhill with your tummy full. everyone will know what we did.. what you let me do to you.” rafe didn’t care if it was the heat of the moment making you two talk like this, he just knew that you were it for him.

“how about i breed you right now, bambi? you want that?” he hoped you’d say yes, considering he wasn’t going to last very long. when he felt you wrap your legs around his waist, locking him in, he nearly lost it by how turned on he was that you wanted the same thing. “please give it to me!” you cried, your boyfriend pulling you into his chest where he embraced you, making you unable to move away from him. you buried your face in his neck, biting down on his flesh as his hips stuttered, shooting hot, thick ropes of cum inside of you. you relished in the feeling, your walls milking him for all that he had.

“son of a- fuck! you’re squeezing me so fucking hard.” he shivered, the feeling of you gripping him from the base was undeniably the best thing he’s ever felt. reaching down, rafe rubbed hard circles on your clit until you came around him, only making you spasm even more. after you had raked your nails down his torso, and drew blood from biting him so hard, rafe had pulled out of you with a hiss, not a single drop of cum dribbling out. you had taken it all. “holy shit, are you okay, babe?” you looked spent. droopy eyes, swollen lips, tear stained cheeks, rafe thought you couldn’t get any more prettier than this.

you spotted the bite mark on his neck. “ray, you’re bleeding..” you attempted to sit up but failed pathetically when your arms gave out from under you. “s’okay.. stay right here, i’ll be right back.” you were dazed, your vision hazy as rafe went to grab a cold towel. when he came back, the blood from the curve of his neck was gone and he wrapped you in his sheets. dabbing the towel on your forhead, you suppressed a giggle at his ministrations. “i’m okay, rafe.” you pecked his cheek, grabbing his arm so he could spoon you. pressing a kiss to your temple, he massaged soothing circles into your side.

“you were so good for me, baby..” he whispered, his words making your heart flutter in your chest. “you promise i wasn’t some amateur?” rafe shushed you, a laugh tumbling from his mouth. “no way, you were great. i don’t know how we’re gonna get through a day without ravaging each other.” you hummed, already daydreaming about the next time. “did you mean what you said earlier? about wanting a baby?” rafe turned you around so you were face to face. you trailed a finger down his jaw. “well, i’ve always wanted kids..” you smiled. “with me though?” rafe’s eyes softened when you nodded.

“with only you..”

[nebularsung]

⭑ studying with donghyuck is so easy ﹙+18﹚

your hands trembled as you gripped the pen, legs barely holding steady under the weight of the pleasure still coursing through your body. your handwriting—usually clean, confident, practiced—was a mess. letters skewed, curves jagged, ink blotted with hesitation. everything past the fifth question looked like it was written by someone drunk on something far stronger than wine.

and in a way… you were. drunk on him.

donghyuck, your annoyingly brilliant boyfriend, was pressed up behind you, heat radiating from his chest into your back. he’d been helping you "study" for your quiz all night. that’s what he called it, anyway—study. though with how your nightgown was bunched around your waist and his cock was buried deep inside you, it felt a lot more like punishment than preparation.

“ten questions, baby. that’s all i asked,” he whispered, lips brushing the shell of your ear, his voice a low, silken drawl that made your stomach twist. “you’re smart, yeah? you’re my girl. you can do this.”

his lips trailed down your neck, warm and wet and maddeningly slow, leaving kisses like little bursts of heat. you barely registered your scribbled answer to question eight until he glanced down and hummed approvingly, grinning like you’d just won an award. “good girl,” he cooed.

and then came the choice. “another reward?” his voice dipped, words slow and intentional. “or are you too tired already?”

you could still feel the ghosts of the earlier ones—the first few gentle, teasing licks that left you breathless… the way he had tugged your top down, flicking your nipples as he whispered filthy things that somehow made your toes curl and your heart flutter. he knew just how to talk to you. knew how to praise and corrupt in the same breath.

by the time you reached question six, he had you seated on his lap, legs spread, your slick soaking his thighs while he teased your clit with patient cruelty. and now? now, you were cockwarming him—his cock buried in your heat, thick and pulsing, unmoving—but so incredibly there.

every now and then, he twitched inside you, reminding you that he was just as needy, just as worked up.

you whimpered softly and reached for his hand, guiding it to your breast with a trembling breath.

“that’s my girl…” he whispered, pressing his lips to your shoulder. one hand rolled your nipple between his fingers, gentle but insistent, while the other ghosted down your stomach until it cupped your clit. you gasped as his fingers dipped lower, brushing against your slick folds, feeling just how ready you were for him.

“fuck, you’re so wet,” he growled, more to himself than to you. “you really like studying with me, huh?” a hint of mocking in his tone.

you couldn’t even answer. your eyes fluttered shut when he shifted beneath you, rocking his hips just enough to make you feel the stretch all over again.

but just when you tried to grind down against him, desperate for friction, for movement—for anything—his hands gripped your hips tightly, holding you still.

“nuh uh.” he chuckled, deep and dark. “not yet, greedy girl.”

“please…” you whined, voice breathless, almost broken. “just a little—”

“no.” he pulled his hands away from your body, making you feel the loss instantly. “you want to cum? answer the last question.”

you turned your head, eyes narrowed, lips trembling from frustration. “you’re so mean.”

he tilted his head and smiled sweetly, devilishly. “you’re the one who said you needed help studying. i’m just making sure you pass, baby.”

you let out a shaky breath, eyes flicking down to the page. one question left. just one. your thighs trembled from the effort it took not to move on his lap. your core ached—pulsing, dripping, desperate—and he was right there. inside you. still. waiting.

“do you wanna fail?” he asked, voice suddenly stern, dark and commanding in the way that made your stomach tighten. you shook your head quickly. “then you better start thinking.”

your hand trembled again as you reached for the pen, every nerve alive and alert—driven now by need, by frustration, by want and pride. and love. because god, you loved how he did this to you. how he could be so smart, so smug, so in control, and still look at you like you were his whole world.

you’d finish the damn quiz.

and fucking guaranteeing what you deserve.

your heart pounded as you scribbled down the final answer, shaky and barely legible, but you were sure it was right. or maybe you just hoped it was right—because you couldn’t wait another second. you dropped the pen, your breath catching in your throat as you whispered, “done…”

donghyuck leaned forward, resting his chin on your shoulder again as he glanced at the notebook. his eyes scanned your answer, and when he saw the correct words scribbled there, a slow grin stretched across his face.

“well, look at that,” he murmured, voice dripping with pride and something far darker. “my girl really is a genius.”

his hands moved instantly—no more teasing, no more holding back. he grabbed your hips and lifted you just slightly before slamming you back down onto his cock. the force knocked the air from your lungs, and your head lolled back onto his shoulder with a moan that sounded like surrender.

“fuck, i’ve been waiting,” he groaned against your ear, thrusting up into you again. “you feel that? that’s your reward, baby. you earned it.”

your fingers gripped the edge of the desk for balance as he began to move—slow, deep thrusts that rocked through your body like waves. the friction was intense. the fullness, overwhelming. you could feel every inch of him, stretching you just right, filling you completely.

and he didn’t stop praising you. “so smart. so fucking pretty when you’re focused. bet you’d ace every quiz if i fucked you like this after each one, huh?”

his lips found your neck again, this time biting softly before soothing the skin with warm, wet kisses. you were shaking again, but this time it wasn’t from nervousness. it was from the way your body was unraveling beneath his.

“you were so patient,” he whispered, voice hoarse. “now let me take care of you.”

one hand left your hip and moved between your legs, fingers sliding to your swollen clit. he circled it expertly, already knowing the rhythm that made your thighs twitch and your moans get high and breathless.

“hyuck—” you whimpered his name like a prayer, and he moaned softly, gripping your waist tighter.

“i know, baby. i know. let it go.”

and when you came—hard, fast, clenching around him like your body was trying to pull him deeper—you did so with your head thrown back, lips parted in a silent scream, tears welling in your eyes from the overwhelming wave of heat crashing through you.

he followed not long after, with a deep groan and a few more hard thrusts, burying himself to the hilt as he spilled into you, his whole body trembling.

for a few moments, there was only the sound of your breaths mingling—fast, uneven, needy. he wrapped his arms around you from behind, his mouth pressing lazy kisses along your shoulder.

“see?” he whispered, voice soft again. “i told you you’d ace it.”

you laughed, weak and breathless, leaning into his hold. “next time,” you murmured, “just quiz me in bed.”

he chuckled, pulling you tighter against him. “deal.”

｜ 𝗇𝗈𝗍𝖾𝗌 𖹭 the smut part looks so rushed 😫😫 but i still like it sjdkkfk hope you enjoy anon!

[clanwarrior-tumbly]

Hi 👋, can I request a self aware Smilk & reader, where he’s the only one who knows of their existence, and the reader can sometimes take control of him which causes some confusion to other cookies.

(You can choose whether it’s a one-shot or headcanons)

Yess self awareness time

.......

After trying and trying again, you finally pulled Shadow Milk Cookie from the gacha, thrilled that he finally came home!

Now that you've understood all the hype surrounding him and how crazy powerful he can be after clearing his Beast Yeast episodes, you had all your star jellies, toppings, and a legendary beascuit saved just for him.

But ever since obtaining him, you've noticed some...oddities with him that made you assume it was part of his programming/AI.

When you see him walking around the kingdom or working at a station that's not the toy store, he's looking at you a lot.

Of course, some cookies may glance at you occasionally, with even fewer breaking the fourth wall (like Black Sapphire and Devil Cookie), but that's just what the devs added as a funny joke.

Shadow Milk...is different. He doesn't follow their script to a T.

The way he talks and waves at you, shows off during battles and making himself the last cookie standing in difficult arena fights, and doing his juggling trick when he knows you're looking at him.

Then he actually responded to you after you made a remark about where to put his statue...and at first you're startled, bc no way could that have been a coincidence...

In reality, he had an "awakening" of his own--in that his knowledge suddenly extended beyond CRK's borders.

Somehow, he can see and hear you, becoming 100% aware that he's in a video game.

But you assume his new antics are part of his programming...until one day the charade falls apart and he straight up tells you that he knows the truth. He even says your username, the device you're playing on, and the day you started CRK as proof in case you think he's lying.

You're stunned at first, but then you think it's actually pretty awesome....until he claims that he's the only one who knows and felt like it would've been better if he didn't.

Of course, the master of deceit would rather ignore the truth and live out a lie, like all the other cookies are....but he's stuck with this earthbread-shattering truth that's only his to bear.

In a way, being "trapped" in this game reminds him of the witches and the time he spent in the silver tree, believing he escaped one prison only to end up in another.

After you leave the game to tend to some real life matters, he tries sowing chaos in the kingdom by revealing this to other cookies, thinking they'd "wake up".

Yet none of them know wtf he's talking about. Not even the Beasts or Pure Vanilla, who thinks he's just trying to trick everybody again..although he admits that what Shadow Milk is saying sounds most outlandish.

Typically, he'd be able to conjure up some kind of "evidence" and manipulate wide masses into believing any word he says.

But you're untouchable, and he has no way of obtaining tangible proof of your existence to show the other cookies...and once he realizes this, he gets frustrated.

"Who do you think fulfills our wishes at the tree???? Who do you think indulges us with star jellies????? Keeps this kingdom from crumbling to pieces?!! We are ALL the puppets to an even bigger puppet master!"

Anyone who hears this yap from him just thinks 'is he alright? like genuinely?'

The next time you log in, Shadow Milk is gravely upset that he has to carry this burden and decides to take it out on you.

Suddenly there's lag spikes when his ability is on cooldown (so you can hardly use them in battle and lose your ranking in arena), he avoids you trying to pick him up in the kingdom (much to other cookies' confusion, as from their pov, he's fleeing something that's invisible)...and he even corrupted his own stats to make it seem like any promotions were gone and his level dropped back to 1.

You ask him why he's causing you all this trouble, and his next rant was more or less....a reasonable crashout.

"I was a god...or at least that's what I thought. But no. I've been lied to. A master of deceit...has been lied to again!! What cruel irony! This world...this life of mine....it's all been one big game from the start! And nobody knows but I!! HAHAHA!! Tell me, [username]..what's it like being the true god of this world? Do you enjoy toying with our lives? What makes you think you deserve my power?! Damn you....and damn this prison!! YOU'RE NO BETTER THAN THOSE WITCHES!!!"

Other cookies just see him screaming at nobody in particular, although his rage forms rifts in the ground, from which the other-realm creeps out to attack anyone close to him.

You end up closing the game out of fear, leaving it alone for the next several hours.

While initially scared to reopen it, you did understand why Shadow Milk lashed out like that--he thought he was in control, and couldn't comprehend the idea of it being somebody else.

You don't know why he, of all cookies, had to be cursed with this forbidden knowledge, but what could be done about it now?

Nothing.

So you returned to the game and found a plushie of him somewhere after looking around for a few minutes, and after clicking him, he turns back to normal and scowls.

"What? You've come back to toy with me more, stupid god? Or were you just worried that I did something to your precious kingdom?"

"No, and no." You say, explaining to him that while you'd never fully understand what he was feeling--and couldn't help him explain your existence to other cookies--you wanted him to see you as a friend, not a puppet master or a witch or some untouchable god like he accuses you of being.

To show him you're serious, you bought all of his decor and gave him his own little castle/spire-like area, where he can indulge in his hobbies or just retreat there whenever he wanted to.

For some time, Shadow Milk is silent as he inspects everything and for a moment...you thought he reverted back to his NPC programming...

Then he looks at you and grins a little. "Jeez, if only you put this much effort into the rest of the kingdom."

"Yeah, well...I'm working on it." You chuckled. "Black Sapphire and Candy Apple Cookie think it's "dull" and doesn't compare to your spire, but-"

"I'll deal with them later. This...is acceptable."

It's fair to say...he's content.

He seems to finally accept his new reality, as he doesn't corrupt his stats or sabotage your gameplay anymore, allowing you to use him as your strongest magic cookie again.

Now if you start shifting your focus towards pulling Awakened Pure Vanilla, however, he might stir up some trouble to make the process take even longer

[xxsinisterbunniexx]

✮⋆˙ ☠︎︎ ★☠︎ ✮⋆˙ Creepypasta general NSFW headcanons ✮⋆˙ ☠︎︎ ★☠︎ ✮⋆˙

Characters: Jeff the Killer, Ticci Toby, Eyeless Jack, BEN drowned, X Virus

Thought I’d kick off with some NSFW headcanons for the most popular characters (plus X virus simply because I adore him)

Jeff

☠︎︎ need to be on permanent birth control with him, does not pull out and does not care

☠︎︎ he would just be oh so mean

☠︎︎ lots of degradation

☠︎︎"come all over my cock like the fucking slut you are”

☠︎︎ spits in your mouth

☠︎︎ knifeplay!

☠︎︎ generally very rough: choking, slapping, general manhandling

☠︎︎ BUT

☠︎︎ every once in a while he has a bad day and he becomes just so soft

☠︎︎ takes his time with you, touches you gently

☠︎︎ “you know I love you so much”

☠︎︎ fav position is doggy in front of a mirror because he can watch your face while he fucks the shit out of you

Toby

✘ also need permanent birth control with him, but unlike Jeff he would try to pull out if you asked him to but he’s only like 50% consistent about it

✘ but if you didn’t ask him to…

✘ lowkey has a breeding kink so he’d come inside every time

✘ his family is broken so he lowkey wants to have one but do it right

✘ bites you, bites you!!!

✘ cannot feel pain so this man is a SADIST!!!

✘ he would be so intrigued with watching how you react to pain

✘ slips into German if he’s really getting into it

✘“Du fühlst dich so gut an, mein Mädchen. Du wirst so schwach für mich.”

✘ big on marking you (both with bites and hickeys)

✘ talks you through it

✘ “gonna come for me, pretty girl?”

✘ loves eating you out and gets really sloppy with it

✘ and when he’s receiving he’s a head pusher, hair puller, face fucker

✘ loud as fuck, this bro will moan and growl in your ear without shame

✘ his fav position is mating press cause he gets to watch your face while he bruises your cervix <3

Eyeless Jack

⛥ major breeding kink

⛥ would come in you, tell you to keep it in, and when it inevitably starts to seep out he’d breed you again

⛥ also fingers his cum back into you

⛥ “look at how wasteful you are. Guess I’ll have to fill you up again”

⛥ this man is a demon so he’s so feral oml

⛥ can smell when you are ovulating and it drives him WILD

⛥ makes a shit ton of demonic ass noises

⛥ I’m talking growling, groaning, may even purr a bit (in like a demonic scary way LOL)

⛥ ummm SpongeBob why is it in a cage

⛥ because it growled at me

⛥ jk you could not cage this man

⛥ he has multiple tongues and he’s gonna put them to use

⛥ like eating your pussy until you are BEGGING for him to stop

⛥ knows a lot about human anatomy so….

⛥ fav position is mating press (for obvious reasons)

BEN drowned

⚠︎ he’s a little shit and this would translate to the bedroom

⚠︎ teasing you 24/7 it’s like torture

⚠︎ won’t just eat you out, he’s gotta bite your thighs and then get real close and let his breath fan over your clit just to make you tremble

⚠︎ would love to tie you up so he can torture you even more

⚠︎ likes to hear you beg

⚠︎ edging to the max like bro loves orgasm control

⚠︎ “aw, you wanna come? Better ask real nicely”

⚠︎ plays ur titties like a video game controller LMAO

⚠︎ corruption kink

⚠︎ loves to use toys with you because he can use his influence~

⚠︎ fav position is anything where you’re on top

X Virus

☣︎ so meticulous about it

☣︎ like has precise control over your body and commands it so well

☣︎ also loves orgasm control but less in an edging way and more in a you come when I want you to come kind of way

☣︎ “don’t you dare come without permission. I control when you come”

☣︎ experimentalist, for obvious reasons

☣︎ like bro will genuinely try anything once

☣︎ so when he comes to you with that special look in his eye you know you’re in for it

☣︎ especially if he’s been holed up in the lab for a few days before

☣︎ because you just know that means he’s made you an extra special drug he wants you to try

☣︎ loves giving head but lord when he is receiving…

☣︎ like jaw goes slack, soul leaves his body, he can only run his fingers into your hair and squeeze a little when you tease him too much otherwise he is OUT

☣︎ keeps in control for 95% of the act while he fucks you until the very end when he’s close to coming and then he’s erratically thrusting into you and his voice is cracking

☣︎ his fav position is anything where he can see your face because he needs to observe your reactions

These are my general thoughts on the characters :3 I’m gonna start writing more headcanons and also cross posting my other fics little by little but until then hope you enjoyed <3

[leejenowrld]

overdrive

word count — 33k 

genre — smut, fluff, angst 

synopsis — jeno is a legend written in midnight asphalt, too fast to catch, too reckless to forget, the kind of driver who disappears into smoke and sirens with your pulse still racing. you were never meant to touch that world—underground races, rigged bets, bloodstained payoffs but you’ve always known how to gut it from the inside. your job? dig up the dirt, rip through the rot, and run the exposé that takes down the syndicate from the top down. he was supposed to be your double-cross, your decoy and your downfall wrapped into one. you were supposed to stab him twice, once for the story, once for survival but instead, you let him fuck the truth out of you. now you’re in too deep, hips grinding in the front seat of his getaway car while your recorder’s still running, chasing headlines with your back arched and your mouth gasping his name. and the closer you get to the finish line, the more you realise—some stories don’t break, they burn.

fic warnings/contents — explicit language, explicit content, dark themes & moral ambiguity, violence, corruption, and crime, includes sabotage, mechanical tampering, crashes, assault, threats, illegal racing, blackmail, hacking, emotional dissociation, trauma aftermath from car crashes and near-death experiences, lots of fucking in this phew, explicit sex, semi-public settings (garage, racing tracks, in cars), mid-race blowjob scene, public/risky sex, oral sex while driving, power dynamic, dominance, sensory overload, rough, emotionally charged sex, oral sex (m and f receiving), praise, begging, name-calling (good girl/baby/slut/reporter girl), dirty talk & possessiveness, jeno is quite vulgar, dominant and unwelcoming at first and very hot, just wait, appearances from nct dream ‘00 line and mark, lots of racing (duh), badass hot y/n who races too, lots of technical talk, size kink, overstimulation, creampie, choking, spit, mild breathplay, light bondage, physical restraint. plot moves quite fast, did as much world building as i could. i hope you enjoy 🖤 been working on this a few weeks actually, this won the poll but i knew it would win any poll 😭 that’s why i’ve managed to upload it a week before jeno’s birthday <3 

likes, reblogs and asks always appreciated 🖤 banner made by my lovely @umwaitwhatwhy

You tell yourself you won’t feel anything walking into this building. You practised it all morning, the tight jaw, the steady breath, the look of quiet indifference that could carry you through a firing squad without blinking but he moment you step into the thick glass lobby of Han & Associates, so blandly named it makes your teeth ache, sterile and sharp in its simplicity, it all feels like a weight sinking against your ribs. Cold marble floors gleam beneath your shoes, harsh with the echo of each step, and the walls rise tall and unfeeling, lined with a history of racing prints yellowed by smoke and dust. A history Taeyong once belonged to, long before he sold out his soul for ink and scandal. Long before he fastened his claws into your neck and called it mentorship.

The receptionist doesn’t even look up. She just tips her head toward the far office door, like she’s seen a thousand broken people walk this hallway before you. Maybe she has. Inside, the air is stale with old whisky and the scratch of metal blinds rattling in the breeze from the half-cracked window. His office isn’t flashy. No, Taeyong never believes in flash. He believes in power that sits quiet beneath the surface, like oil slick under water, waiting to catch fire. Framed covers of his greatest hits hang crooked on the walls, headlines that have dismantled careers in six-inch fonts. They watch you now like ghosts of every mistake you’ve ever made.

He doesn’t look up as you step in. He just flips a page in the file spread across his desk, fingers stained faintly with nicotine. "You know why you’re here," Taeyong says, voice flat like the ash at the bottom of his glass. His tone is sharp, old Seoul roughness beneath the polished newsman accent. "Sit."

You sit, spine stiff against the chair, hands knotted in your lap because you know better than to let them tremble.

He slides the folder across the desk. A slick of photographs spills out: Soul Line Motors, chaos captured in still frames. One of the racers, lean and sweat-drenched, jaw set in grim fury as he stands beside a car swallowed in smoke. Another, caught mid-brawl, fists raised and eyes wild beneath a mess of dark hair. A third, covered in grease from cheek to collarbone, mouth pressed tight like he’s swallowed a curse. There’s a scan of betting slips too, edges worn, one name circled in red ink like a target. The file reeks of desperation, theirs, yours, his.

“Officially,” Taeyong says, pausing to swirl his glass, watching the amber liquid catch the light like it’s molten gold, “you’re their compliance monitor. League assigned. Eyes and ears inside the garage.” His gaze flicks to you, sharp as a blade unsheathed, but he doesn’t rush the moment. He lets it stretch, like he wants you to sit with it, feel the weight pressing into your chest. “They need you because they’re drowning,” he adds, voice dropping lower, rough like gravel beneath tyres. “That whole team’s hanging by threads and they know it. Race-fixing charges. Illegal betting syndicates. Dodgy sponsorship money bleeding into their books. They risk clawing at the bottom of the league’s and now they’re crawling to you, begging for a way out.”

You say nothing, but your pulse tightens beneath your skin. He sees it. Of course he does.

“They’ve agreed to it publicly,” he continues, swirling the whisky in his glass until it laps against the sides. “They think you’re their saviour. League compliance, external oversight, someone to parade in front of the cameras so the sponsors start breathing easy again. They’ll give you access to everything. Garage, transport, race strategy. They’ll feed you what they think you want to see. Give you a pretty little show of redemption.”

His lips twist, sharp and knowing. “But unofficially,” he says, and this time he leans forward, placing the glass down with a quiet, final clink against the desk. He lets the word hang there between you like a blade suspended over your throat. “You’re my goddamn guillotine.”

The words land hard, heavier than they should. You hold his stare, forcing your expression flat, emotionless. You will not give him the satisfaction of seeing the old panic ripple beneath your skin. “You burn them properly,” he goes on, steady and merciless, “you give me something with blood on it, and maybe” — he tips his head, smirking like the outcome is already sealed — “maybe we’ll scrub your name clean.”

You say nothing. Not yet. But the fire builds in your chest, slow and choking. “Fail me, sweetheart,” Taeyong finishes, voice soft as a blade at your throat, “and I’ll bury you deeper than the racers.”

But it’s not enough for him to leave it there, and you know it. He’s the kind of man who likes to carve the knife in slow, twist it until it scrapes bone. He draws the folder closer, flipping it open again, letting the photographs spill across the desk like crime scene evidence. His fingers tap the image of the team’s car mid-spin, smoke curling from the tyres like breath from dying lungs. “They trust you,” he murmurs. “They think you’ll save them. But you’re not there to write them a fairytale, are you? You’re there to build me a fucking obituary.”

Your eyes flick over the faces in the photos — strangers, for now. Faces that will soon become names, names that will become weapons in your hands if you play this right. Or chains around your neck if you don’t. You inhale slow through your nose, sharp enough to cut through the staleness of whisky and dust. “I don’t need a maybe,” you say, voice low but clear, each word carved from the stone of your ribs. “I need my career back.”

Taeyong’s grin sharpens, cruel and thin. “Then make me bleed for it.”

He pushes the folder across the desk until the edges brush your fingertips, like a final transaction sealed not with a handshake, but a dare. You let your fingers close around it slowly, deliberately, as though by holding it you’ve already begun the execution. And as you rise from the chair, his gaze doesn’t follow the file. It follows you. Tracks you like a predator watching prey too confident to run.

“Bring me their ashes,” Taeyong says, the final word curling like smoke from his tongue, “and we’ll talk.” Your pulse beats hard at your wrist as you turn away, the weight of the dossier under your arm a cold reminder of the fire he’s asked you to set. You can feel him watching you as you leave, heavy and certain, like he already sees the blood on your hands.

The garage breathes like something alive. Heat coils in the ribs of the building, simmering beneath the fluorescent lights that flicker as if they, too, are choking on the weight of oil and sweat and smoke. You taste it at the back of your tongue, thick and acrid, sharp as the cut of gasoline in the air. The walls feel too tight for the number of bodies inside, men scattered around a makeshift briefing table, chairs scraped out at angles like they’ve already abandoned any notion of formality. It isn’t a room built for you, and you feel it instantly, the moment your shadow crosses the threshold.

Outside, above the main bay door, a crooked neon sign hums faintly through the haze, tubes buzzing a sickly red. ‘THE PIT’ it reads, jagged letters flickering behind a cracked plastic shell, an arrow beneath it scrawled like graffiti, pointing you straight into the belly of the place. No need to ask what they call it. The name hangs in the air like everything else here — burnt, broken, and permanent.

Eyes slice across your skin before you even take your seat. Heavy, unwelcoming. They don’t bother to mask their distrust, their disdain curling like exhaust smoke between their teeth. You keep your spine straight, folder pressed beneath your palm, your compliance badge clipped clean to your lapel, though it feels less like authority and more like a target painted over your chest.

You settle into the corner without a word, let their tension simmer unchecked as they shift in their seats, restless energy bouncing off the scuffed concrete floor. You watch them the way you’ve been taught to watch: quietly, precisely, as if they might confess something in the way their knuckles flex or their shoulders stiffen against the press of your presence.

There are seven men carved from collisions and chaos, every one of them carrying the wreckage of races gone wrong in the set of their jaws and the shadows beneath their eyes. Their faces you do not yet know, not in the way that matters. You know the leaked reports, the back-page headlines, the photographs that Taeyong had spread before you like playing cards in a rigged game. But here, in the raw heat of their den, they are something else entirely.

The principal, Lee Doyoung, stands at the head of the table like he’s bracing against a storm he already knows is coming. A former racer turned league-forced team manager, he carries the look of a man who’s seen too many podiums crumble and too many egos catch fire. He doesn’t smile when he sees you, but he offers a nod — clipped, formal, like it costs him something to say. “Welcome to Soul Line,” he says, voice rough, thick with the gravel of old track injuries and older disappointments. “You’ll find we run things tight here. Fast. Loud. Occasionally off the rails.”

His gaze sweeps over the group, then lands on you like the weight of a steel girder. “But we know why you’re here. League oversight. Full compliance.” A beat. His eyes don’t blink. “If we want to see the season out, we give you what you need.”

A scoff breaks from one of the drivers before the sentence is cold. He sits with his chair tilted back on two legs, arms folded loose across his chest, mouth curled into something between amusement and threat. His eyes track you slowly, too slowly, a mockery of interest as he drags them down the line of your body and back up again like you are not worth the respect of subtlety. “Guess we’re really fucked if they’re sending babysitters now,” he drawls, earning a few low snickers from the others.

You keep your expression blank, though your pulse sharpens in your throat. You have known men like him your entire career. Men who mistake cynicism for cleverness, who wield bravado like a shield against their own creeping fear. You will make him eat those words soon enough.

Your gaze slides past him, past the sneering technician polishing a wrench like it might become a weapon, past the mechanic whose arms are folded tight across his chest as if he’s physically holding in his disdain. But it’s the last man who catches you hardest. The one who entered late, who carries the weight of the room like it is stitched into his spine. He doesn’t look at you right away. He drops into his seat with the fluid ease of someone who has spent his life in the cockpit, on the razor’s edge between glory and ruin, and when he does finally glance your way, it isn’t a look. It’s a strike.

Dark eyes pin you where you sit, sharp and dissecting, as though he’s already found the weakest seam in your composure and is toying with the idea of pulling it loose. He says nothing, but his mouth curls, the smallest twist of disdain, and then he looks away, like you’re beneath even his scorn. You inhale slowly, steadying yourself against the heat blooming beneath your ribs. He doesn’t know you yet. Not properly. He doesn’t know what you’re capable of, or the ruin you’ve been sent to deliver.

The principal barrels on, dragging the meeting into its grim necessities. Racing schedules. Sponsor obligations. League deadlines. Fines stacking like storm clouds on the horizon. You listen, tuning the words against the rhythm of your own thoughts, already fitting pieces into place. You can feel it in your bones — the edges of something bigger, something rotted beneath the surface of their bravado. They are bleeding, and they know it. The league has forced you into their camp as a measure of survival, but Taeyong made it clear before you ever stepped foot in their garage: you’re not here to save them. You’re here to light the match.

You wait for your moment. Then you take it. “Your last race transport logs are incomplete,” you say, your voice clean, sharp, leaving no room for misinterpretation. “Several discrepancies in reported fuel usage and unaccounted travel hours. I’ll need immediate access to your internal records. Financials. Telemetry. Pit strategy.”

The silence that falls is not empty. It is electric.

His gaze snaps back to you, and this time it isn’t passive. It’s fire. His chair scrapes against the floor as he shifts forward, forearms braced heavy on the table, like he might devour you whole. “Maybe try watching a race before you question our pit stops,” he bites, his voice low and rough, edged with venom meant to sink beneath your skin.

It burns, but you welcome the heat. You meet his glare without flinching, without yielding an inch of ground. You’ve weathered worse storms. You’ve stood in boardrooms with men far more dangerous than him and watched them collapse under the weight of your evidence. You will watch him fall, too.

Before the tension can snap fully, the principal slams a hand down on the table, the crack of it loud enough to startle a few of the younger crew. “Enough,” he growls. His eyes are locked on the star driver, sharp with warning. “Cooperate. Our image is all we have left.”

The driver’s mouth tightens into a grim line, but he leans back in his seat, exhaling a slow, disdainful breath through his nose. His compliance is a farce, but it is compliance all the same. You press your advantage. “Full access,” you repeat, flipping the page in your folder, letting the rustle of paper cut the silence. “No exceptions.”

They bristle, but no one argues. The meeting fractures slowly, the tension bleeding out in all directions, footsteps retreating into engine bays and shadows, muttered curses tossed between teammates like tired rituals but he doesn’t move. He stays right where he is, anchored to the far end of the garage like the heat itself comes from his body — and maybe it does, because you feel it before you see him.

That awareness creeps up your spine like a lit fuse, slow and warm and unforgiving. You turn, too slow to play it off, and he’s already watching you. Not staring. Watching. Like you’re the track and he’s waiting for the moment you crack open. He’s stripped the fireproof suit halfway down his body, sleeves bunched around his waist, bare skin sheened with sweat under the flickering fluorescents. There’s oil smeared just under his collarbone, and something about that detail makes your throat go tight. The way he moves is thoughtless, practiced — wiping his jaw with a grease-stained rag, tossing it to the floor like it offended him — and then his gaze drags across your face, down the line of your throat, slow enough to sear.

He doesn’t smirk, not right away. It takes a moment. A shift in weight, a flicker of something darker in his eyes, and then his mouth curves — not amused, not mocking, but like he’s already three steps into a game you haven’t agreed to play. Like he knows what you taste like when you lie. Like he’s betting you’ll do it again.

Your eyes drop. Not because you want to, but because something pulls you there, to the sharp angles of his chest, the flush of his skin, and then lower. The suit at his hips is half-unzipped, loose where he’s shoved his hands into the waistband, and just above his belt line, the stitching catches your eye. A name. White thread on black fabric, the kind that isn’t meant to be read up close, only seen in motion, on a screen, under floodlights.

Lee Jeno.

The name tastes electric in your mouth, even unspoken. Of course it’s him. The face of Soul Line. The firebrand. The golden boy you once dragged in an article so brutal it got syndicated across three continents. You’d called him borrowed brilliance, fame wrapped around arrogance, a wreck waiting for the right turn. And here he is. Real. Sweat-slicked and simmering. Looking at you like the headline still bruises.

His voice comes low, too low, like it’s meant to hit somewhere private. “Thought you’d be older.”

You blink.

“More polished,” he adds, stepping forward a little. Not enough to touch, but enough to shift the air. “More bitter. Guess I expected someone who writes like that to look less…” His eyes drag over you again, slower this time, and the words coil hot between your ribs. “Soft.”

Your fingers tighten around the folder in your hands.

And then, finally, with a quiet breath that sounds too close to laughter — “You watching me, reporter girl?”

The words drip with something more than mockery, something darker, more deliberate, like he’s testing to see whether you’ll flinch or lean closer, whether you’ll break the standoff or let it stretch. He doesn’t know you’re not here to write a story, and you don’t offer him the truth. You meet his stare with a calm that costs you nothing on the outside but everything beneath your skin, letting the silence rise and settle like ash in the space between you. His jaw tenses, subtle, but sharp, like he’s not used to being left without the last word, like your stillness disrupts a rhythm he’s always been able to control. You don’t move. You let him sit in it. Let the tension braid itself through the heat of the garage, through the pulse low in your stomach, through the wire pulled tight between your spine and his. It’s not a line anymore. It’s a fuse. Not a story, you think, gaze still locked on his. A reckoning.

The pit doesn't sleep. Not really. Even now, hours after the meeting, the place hums like something alive beneath your skin. Doyoung’s words still sting, but they echo even louder once he’s gone, once it’s just you and the low thrum of the garage and the weight of what comes next. He gestures for you to follow with a jerk of his chin, and you do—past towers of stripped tires, the wet slap of coolant against concrete, the clatter of tools tossed onto workbenches like punctuation marks to arguments you haven’t earned the right to hear.

He doesn’t speak. Just leads you through the cluttered belly of the team’s world, deeper into the haze of oil and engine heat, until you find it: a narrow staircase, half hidden behind thick cables and hanging fire blankets. Upstairs, a converted office no bigger than a janitor’s closet. A mattress shoved in the corner, still wrapped in plastic. A flickering lamp. Two cracked windows with grime crusted into the corners. A desk that looks like it’s lost more battles than it’s won. It smells like oil, aftershave, and sleep deprivation. There’s a mug ring on the windowsill, long gone dry.

Too close to the noise. Too close to him. You’re in their lungs now. Daylight burns through the haze the next morning, and you’re dropped into their rhythm like a stone in the mouth of a river. No one slows down to make room for you. The introductions aren’t warm. They’re tests. You can feel it in every glance.

Renjun doesn’t look at you. Just turns a bolt harder when Doyoung says your name. Jaemin grins too wide and doesn’t blink long enough. His eyes skim your badge like he’s already calculated what it would take to strip it from you. Mark’s nod is brief, his eyes flicking from your clipboard to your boots to your mouth, then away. Donghyuck says, “Hey, compliance queen,” like he’s tasted the words before and decided they weren’t sweet enough. Eric mutters something under his breath. You catch “babysitter.” Sunwoo doesn’t say anything at all, but his eyes follow you with the patience of someone waiting to see where you’ll crack. And Jeno—Jeno doesn’t speak. Doesn’t even look. You try not to flinch. Try not to look like the heat in the room is coming from more than the furnaces humming behind the walls.

You watch them prep for Daegu. That’s what they call it, like it’s a war and not a race. The Daegu Circuit. One of the tightest, most closely surveilled tracks on the internal league run. Only the top four teams are allowed to qualify, and Soul Line’s barely clinging to their spot. One more DNF— Did Not Finish, the league’s clean term for crashes, mechanical failures, disqualifications or some other issue that prevents them from crossing the finish line— and they’re out. No second chances. You know the pressure it puts on them. You feel it in the sharpness of their movements, the way even the laughter is clipped now, short-lived.

Jeno’s scheduled to run solo for the first lap trials tomorrow. Sunwoo and Jaemin will alternate team sets after that, and you’re expected to be there for all of it—every checkpoint, pit stop, and debrief. League orders, official oversight. You’re embedded under the guise of compliance monitoring, positioned as the league’s neutral eye, a silent safeguard to ensure they play by the book. That’s what they think you’re here for. What they don’t know is that your real assignment started the second you stepped inside. Last night, while the rest of the garage ran on fumes and noise, you stayed in the loft with the lights off, watching from the window and writing notes no one asked for. Notes meant to kill careers.

The garage operates nonstop, no digital logs, no formal security system. A direct violation—the league requires time-stamped movement for every staff member on the floor, and Soul Line tracks nothing. The main car still bears a sponsor logo flagged last season for money laundering—tied directly to illegal betting rings. It’s currently under investigation, not cleared, not safe, and definitely not allowed to be plastered across a vehicle that’s meant to represent professional sport. You clocked Renjun and Mark mid-argument near the toolshed, whispering about a part being “too hot to use again,” something that sounded like it could cost a race or a life. Renjun slammed the drawer shut hard enough to rattle the wall.

Later, after lights out, Sunwoo and Jaemin sat hunched over a tablet replaying what looked like race footage but you know the league archive doesn’t release raw data without clearance. It was off-grid, off-record, and all the more valuable because of it. Everything you’re gathering is being dressed up as routine monitoring. It’s not. You’re here to help them dig their own grave, and they don’t even know they’ve handed you the shovel.

When you asked for the transport and fuel logs, Donghyuck smiled too easily. “We clean them up before inspection,” he said, then laughed—too sharp, too knowing, the kind of laugh that doesn’t ask to be questioned. Not long after, you caught Eric hauling crates labeled SCRAP, only to spot the corner of a box split open, revealing modded engine parts you’ve never seen on any licensed schematic. And Jeno—when you approached him about accessing his telemetry files, he didn’t flinch, didn’t even look up. “They’re encrypted,” he said flatly. “Ask again and we’ll all pretend this meeting never happened.”

You logged every word.

But it’s more than just infractions. It’s how they move. How they function. Like a body. Flawed, bruised, stitched together by necessity and something more raw. You watch Jeno check Sunwoo’s wrist mid-conversation, eyes darting to a bruise like it offends him. You catch Mark slipping electrolyte tablets into Eric’s water bottle. No fanfare. Just instinct.

They aren’t clean. Not even close. But they’re not monsters either. And that’s what makes it worse. Because if they were easy to hate, this would be easy to do. If they were just reckless boys with oil on their hands and arrogance in their veins, you wouldn’t hesitate to pull the trigger. But they’re more than that. They fight. They bleed. They care, even if they pretend not to. And somehow, in the thick of all that noise and grime, they’ve started to feel more real than anything you’ve had in months.

Your notes are ready. Your evidence stacks high. But you still feel it—the ache under your ribs when Jeno walks by without a glance, the itch in your spine when the music dies just as you step into the room. You’re the knife. You know it. The one thing they didn’t see coming. The quiet cut that could end all of this. You keep telling yourself your career is on the line. You keep pretending you don’t like how the pit smells like sweat and steel and something real, that it doesn’t settle under your skin in a way your last newsroom never did, that it doesn’t feel like the first place in years where the silence is honest.

The floorboards creak as night settles into the pit, the kind of quiet that doesn’t mean peace—just pause. You can still hear the click of cooling metal, the soft thrum of a charger left humming too long, the faint static of the radio someone forgot to turn off. But it’s him that makes the air shift. Jeno walks back from the showers, shirtless, a towel slung low over his shoulders, jaw set in brutal silence. Water clings to his skin in thin rivulets, tracing over bruises like old maps, burns like ghosts. His body is carved in motion, every step too fluid, too confident, like he doesn’t know how to exist unless he’s in control of the room. He doesn’t look up—doesn’t need to. But the moment the lamp in your window flickers against the glass and casts your silhouette into the open air, he slows. Not much. Just a fraction. A stutter in his stride like muscle memory reacting to something it doesn’t know yet but already wants to learn. Then he keeps walking.

Your chest aches. Not soft or sweet, it burns. Like friction. Like pressure. Like heat trapped beneath skin. It’s not affection. It’s not even desire. It’s something more dangerous. Hot and reckless and wrong. You think that’s the end of it. You think you can breathe again. You’re wrong. The garage has emptied—mostly. The lights are low, the shadows long. You’re bent over a stack of reports by the storage wall, trying to focus on the ink, on the facts, not the way your blood is still pulsing too loud in your ears. You don’t hear him approach but you feel him. That heavy, quiet presence that always moves like a storm forming behind your spine.

“Looking for cracks in the concrete?” he asks, voice rough and too close, low enough that it vibrates behind your ribs. You turn. He’s cornered you, not physically—not yet—but the space between you feels paper-thin.

You don’t blink. “No, looking for the truth.”

His eyes darken. “You think you’re gonna catch us slipping, compliance girl?”

“You don’t know me.” The words slice out before you can stop them, low and sharp, but not enough to cover the crack in your voice. He hears it. You can tell by the way his eyes narrow—not surprised, not amused, but focused, like he’s finally found something worth pressing into. The air between you stretches tight, thick with heat and history neither of you want to name.

“No?” he murmurs, stepping in closer. His voice drops, gravel-edged and deliberate, like he’s chewing on something filthy he intends to spit at your feet. “I know exactly what you are.”

Your back tenses. “Then say it.”

He leans in, not enough to touch, but enough to make the space between your mouths feel criminal. “You’re not here to fix anything. You’re not here to save us. You came to prove what you already think is true. That we’re cheats. That we’re dirty. That we’re broken boys who never deserved a shot at the circuit. You came with a shovel, and you’ve been digging since the minute you walked through that door.”

His breath grazes your cheek, hot and damp and way too close. Your fingers twitch against the folder at your side, but you don’t move. You hold your ground. He’s trying to get under your skin, and the worst part is—it’s working. “You’ve been here less than a night,” he continues, and now there’s a darker undercurrent curling beneath the heat of his voice, “but you already know where to look. You already know which bolts to count, which questions to ask, where the smoke’s thickest. You don’t talk much, but your eyes don’t stop moving.”

He takes a step closer, and you swear the air gets hotter, heavier, like he’s dragging all the oxygen into his orbit just to see how long you can go without it. Your back hits the metal siding behind you, a cold kiss against the heat burning beneath your skin. He doesn’t touch you, but his presence presses in, devastatingly close. “You think you’re subtle? You think we haven’t seen your type before?” he says, voice quiet now. “You’re not. You think we haven’t seen people like you before? Girls with pens and clean nails and that little moral high ground look in their eyes? You came here with a target and a deadline. You came here to catch us in the act, I don’t think you understand how obvious it is.” 

Your stomach drops. Because that’s the truth. And he’s not supposed to know it.

He leans in, just enough that your shoulders brush when you inhale. “And I bet you already have, haven’t you?” he murmurs. “Already scribbled something down about Renjun’s parts, or Jaemin’s footage, or the decal on the front wing. I bet you can’t wait to file it, can you?”

You don’t answer. You can’t. There’s a roaring in your ears, and it isn’t from the garage anymore. You came here with leverage. You came with power but suddenly, he has all of it.

“I asked you a question.” His breath is on your neck now, burning at the base of your throat. “Are you gonna pretend you’re still neutral? That you’re not already writing our autopsy in that pretty little head of yours?”

Your mouth parts, but nothing comes out. Because you thought you were playing a long game. You thought you had time. You thought they’d be easy to fool but he’s already seen through you and somehow, that terrifies you more than the exposure. Part of you wonders what else he sees and worse—how much of you he’s seen.

You expect to be gone by morning.

It’s the first thought that surfaces when the light cracks through the warped blinds above your head, thin and bleached and too sharp for how little sleep you got. You sit up slow, spine aching from the floor mattress, mouth dry, stomach tight. Last night, the way he cornered you, the way he looked at you like you’d already bled the truth all over the floor, you were sure it meant the end. You were sure Doyoung would be waiting outside the door, clipboard in hand, ready to escort you off the premises with a warning not to come back but when you step down into the pit, no one says anything.

Doyoung doesn’t even glance your way. The rest of the crew moves around you like smoke — clipped greetings, loud tools, sharp energy that crackles beneath the concrete. And Jeno? Jeno walks past you like you’re air. No nod. No look. Not even a flicker of recognition. Just the firm, deliberate press of his shoulder brushing yours, like he’s reminding you that you’re still in his way.

And yet — you’re still here.

You follow them to Daegu in the back of the team transport. No one talks to you. Jaemin scrolls through footage with Sunwoo, muttering under his breath. Donghyuck hums something tuneless, tapping out a beat on his knee. Renjun’s buried in his notebook. Mark sleeps with one earbud in. Eric keeps glancing at you like you’re the threat no one’s acknowledging but still, no one tells you to leave.

The Daegu Circuit rises like a concrete beast against the sky — industrial grey carved into sunlit asphalt, flanked by swarming paddocks and glass-walled control towers that glint like they’re watching. Heat shimmers off the ground in waves, thick with burnt rubber and sweat and the static buzz of engines throttling into warm-up. The scent hits first — scorched tires, petrol, synthetic lubricant — and then the noise swallows you whole. Every few seconds a car screeches down the trial lane, tires screaming against the edge of control. Officials are shouting orders from booths and radios, pit crews hauling gear across the compound in a chaos that only makes sense to those who’ve lived inside it too long to question. You follow the Soul Line crew at a measured pace, clipboard in hand, badge clipped neat to your jacket, your eyes sharp behind your sunglasses even as your chest coils tighter with every step. You’re not supposed to be here. Not really. Not after last night. Not after what he said. But your name hasn’t been stripped from the roster. Your badge still opens the gates. And no one’s told you to leave.

Not even him.

The Daegu Circuit isn’t kind. It stretches wide beneath a noon-struck sky, every surface gleaming with heat and speed and warning. The concrete hums under your boots as you walk behind the Soul Line crew, the pit lanes lined with cables and sun-bleached crates, radios crackling in sharp bursts, tyre stacks sweating under plastic sheeting. The official sectors shimmer in the distance, white and silver, pristine in a way that only makes Soul Line look more like a threat. Their garage bay is one of the smallest, pressed against the wall like an afterthought, tools half-unpacked, engines still being tuned like they’ve only just made it in time. Inside, the tension breathes. Renjun’s crouched low beneath a console, swearing into his headset, one hand braced against the floor while he tries to salvage something from the tangle of wires. Mark hovers behind him, flicking between telemetry maps on a smudged tablet. Jaemin’s pacing, muttering about torque splits, while Eric hauls tyres across the back wall with his jaw clenched so tight it looks painful. Sunwoo’s in the corner, quiet as always, arms crossed but eyes sharp. They don’t acknowledge you when you step inside, but you didn’t expect them to.

You find Jeno almost instantly — not because he says anything, but because the gravity around him shifts the moment you’re near. He’s standing near the centre console, suit rolled to his waist, shoulders drawn back like he’s already locked into race mode. He doesn’t speak to anyone. Just nods once at Doyoung, low and clipped, before slipping his gloves on without looking away from the track layout glowing in front of them. You catch yourself staring. You always do. His focus is a weapon in itself, hard and quiet and absolute. 

But just as Mark adjusts the last split screen, the telemetry panel behind him flickers — once, then again — and dies. Not all at once. It stutters first, a blink too long to be a delay, then freezes mid-read. Data spikes flatline. The right side of the monitor collapses into black, a red alert flashing in the corner like a wound torn open. You hear the sound more than see it, a high whine of static cutting through conversation, pulling all eyes to the screen.

And then everything stops moving.

“Fuck,” Sunwoo says, already moving. “Internal feed’s down.”

Renjun curses louder, diving back under the system rig. Mark blanches, tapping the screen again, again. It doesn’t blink back. The air in the garage thickens, seconds dragging in real time. This trial run is Jeno’s solo, a compliance-mandated lap that needs to be broadcast live, internally tracked, and logged in the system for Daegu to count as cleared. The league officer walking toward them clearly knows that too. Clipboard already open, expression unreadable. You feel the current change, flicking sharp as a blade through the air.

Doyoung hesitates. “We’re resolving it,” he says, already one breath behind.

“You’ve got two minutes,” the official replies, watching the garage like a hawk. “No recorded data, no compliance confirmation then the run will be void. You’ll have no other choice but to forfeit.”

You don’t wait. You already saw the clause in the league documents. You made sure of it. You take a step forward, voice level, loud enough to cut through the noise. “Fallback protocol. Clause Twelve, subsection three. In the event of a system crash during a compliance run, the assigned league officer may ride passenger to record manual telemetry.”

Doyoung’s head jerks up. “That’s not—”

“You signed it,” you say. “Three weeks ago. When the league granted your provisional license. Page seven.”

The official nods. “She rides. Log everything manually. If she doesn’t get in now, you lose the lap. Final call.”

Jeno turns, and the air inside the garage locks around your throat like a vice, like every breath between now and the next word could be your last. He doesn’t speak, not at first — just looks at you, slow and measured, gaze slicing clean down your body before dragging back up to meet your eyes, and what you see there isn’t anger, not exactly — it’s colder than that, more precise, the kind of quiet that only comes before something breaks. His jaw ticks once. His fingers tighten around the edge of his helmet, the leather glove groaning faintly beneath the strain, and when he finally opens his mouth, it’s not a voice that comes out, it’s a verdict. “No one gets in my car.”

“She’s cleared,” Doyoung says, the words low, reluctant. “You knew this might happen.”

“No one’s ever ridden with me,” Jeno says, sharper this time, a little louder, like the rest of the garage might’ve forgotten. He looks at Doyoung, not at you. “No one.”

“And if you refuse,” you say evenly, not moving, “the league will log a compliance rejection. Which means a penalty. Which means disqualification. Which means you don’t race again today. Or tomorrow. Or maybe ever.”

Jeno’s jaw ticks. You can almost feel the tension coming off of him in waves now, tightening the space around you until it’s hard to breathe. For a second, you think he might really say no. Just walk off the track, consequences be damned but he looks at Doyoung again, then the league officer, then at you.

And then he turns away.

You don’t wait for permission. You hand off your clipboard to Mark, strip off your jacket, and climb into the passenger side of the car. The cockpit is already sweltering, every inch of metal radiating heat, the air thick with engine fumes and burnt rubber and something deeply, unmistakably him. You pull the harness across your chest, snap it tight, adjust the mic at your collar. He doesn’t look at you. Just pulls the helmet over his head, flips the switch on the ignition, and settles into the driver’s seat like he’s preparing for war.

The cockpit is brutal. Not just the heat, though that clings to your skin like a second suit but the size of it, the pressure, the closeness. Every surface smells like metal and flame retardant, burnt rubber and sweat. You pull the harness across your lap and shoulders, click it into place, but your hands aren’t steady. The helmet’s bulkier than the ones you trained on. You miss the chin strap the first time. Then fumble the latch. Your fingers scrape against the buckle, trembling just slightly, just enough to piss you off. And then you feel it — that shift beside you, the weight of someone watching, the silence tensing.

Jeno doesn’t speak. He doesn’t even look but he reaches over, short and sharp, and his fingers slide under your jaw to catch the edge of the strap. He tightens it with one quick pull, firm enough that your breath hitches, not from the pressure but from him. His arm brushes your chest as he pulls back. The side of his hand grazes your collar. Still, he doesn’t look at you. Just settles into his seat like the interruption didn’t happen, like he didn’t just touch you like that.

Your knees graze again when he shifts, suit creasing against your thigh. You try to breathe. Try not to notice how loud the engine sounds, how much hotter the air is inside the cockpit. Your fingers go for the mic clip at your collar, but before you can adjust it, his hand is already there — securing the wire, fixing the placement. His breath ghosts your temple when he leans in. The scent of him is clean sweat and smoke, and something electric underneath. The car hums beneath you, but it’s his voice that rips through your nerves.

“Don’t speak unless I ask a question,” he says, quiet, controlled, like each word is measured against the beat of your pulse. “Don’t touch anything unless I tell you to. And if you so much as breathe out of rhythm…” His jaw flexes. “I’ll eject you mid-lap.”

You don’t answer. Can’t. The words knot somewhere behind your ribs, too tight to untangle. But then he speaks again, low, like the cockpit was meant to carry his voice straight to your spine.

“I can feel everything in this seat,” he murmurs. “Every twitch. Every shift. So sit still. Unless you want me to know exactly what you’re thinking.”

You go still. Not because he told you to but because you don’t trust what’ll happen if you don’t. The heat rises. The harness digs into your hips. His thigh presses back into yours, and when the engine roars to life, it doesn’t drown him out — it amplifies him. He still hasn’t looked at you.

The engine roars and every other sound is swallowed whole, like breath caught in the chest and held too long, like the track outside has cracked open its jaw just to take you. The world becomes motion, breath and pressure. The engine screams, your spine slams back, and the air between you and Jeno becomes blistering. His voice is in your ear — low, rough, pure focus. Every sharp inhale echoes through your headset. His grip on the wheel is brutal. Controlled. Every turn pulls you with him, the G-force snapping through your ribs like a wire strung tight.

You don’t speak at first. You’re just observing. Watching. But not neutrally. Never neutrally. The cockpit hums with vibration, every shift of his body dragging your attention deeper into the tension between movement and control. His thighs tense when he shifts gears — a sharp flex and release, muscle tightening against the harness straps. There’s sweat on his neck, a glint of it catching the light where it gathers just beneath the helmet. His knuckles are pale against the wheel, movements exact, like he’s not driving but commanding the track to yield.

Then Seoul unspools around you.

Through the side panel, the city blurs — silver and glass and colour. Neon flickers on the edge of your vision, signs in hangul flashing past like constellations blinking out mid-sentence. For a heartbeat, you catch the Han River in full view, stretched like a ribbon of mercury beneath the sun, cutting the skyline open — and in that same breath, Jeno takes a turn so sharp your shoulder slams into the cockpit wall and he doesn’t so much as flinch. You swear the car lifts, even for just a second. He brings it back down like gravity answers only to him.

It’s electric. Blinding. Your pulse doesn’t match the engine anymore — it’s faster. Hotter. You can’t tell where your breath ends and his begins. You call the data aloud, sharp and steady, even when your hands tremble across the board, even when your legs are shaking, even when you’re sure this — this right here — isn’t compliance anymore. It’s something else. Something living. Something hungry.

The fourth lap coils around you like a whip, tighter than the last. Speed builds with a different weight now — not just velocity, but violence. The track narrows in sector three, the turn pinched between two cement barriers, and the pressure doesn’t let up. You feel it in your chest. In your teeth. In the low, steady growl of Jeno’s breath through the comms. His hands are surgical on the wheel, knuckles bloodless, every movement calculated — until the blur in the left mirror shifts.

Onyx Line. You catch it first — that flicker of silver, too fast, too close. They aren’t just overtaking. They’re closing in. The rear of your car jolts, the slightest kiss of impact, subtle enough to slip under compliance review but hard enough that you feel your harness snap tight across your ribs. The car pulls slightly left. Jeno curses under his breath, sharp and low, already correcting but the pit doesn’t flag it. No one calls it out. Not a sound comes through the headset but static.

You lean forward before you can think better of it, your voice breaking the seal of silence like a blade slicing clean through water. “They’re trying to box you in.”

He doesn’t respond. Not right away. But you see the way his shoulder tenses, just barely, and that’s answer enough. “Sector five’s downhill,” you continue, voice tight, fast. “They’ll try to push you into the brake zone. Cut your line.”

His voice hits like a strike. “Stay out of it.”

You snap your head toward him. “I’m not trying to win,” you bite. “I’m trying to keep your fucking car on the track.”

He doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t even twitch but the way he exhales, harsh, through his teeth, feels like a warning. Still, you see it. The hesitation. The gear shift that’s half a second late. The doubt crawling under his skin. “They’re baiting you inside,” you say, lower now, steadier. “But the outside gives you more line. You’ll see it on the curve. Take the edge early. If you time it right, you can box them in.”

Another beat passes. Long. Stretching over the scream of the engine, the blur of the city flashing by in streaks of steel and sun. You think he’s going to ignore you again but he moves. He takes the curve just before the downhill, earlier than regulation, tighter than safety and for a split second, you’re convinced you both might die. The tires scream. The car skids by inches and then Onyx Line is behind you, choking on your tailwind, and the pit erupts in your headset, all voices shouting over each other, asking how the fuck he pulled it off.

Jeno doesn’t answer them. He doesn’t even breathe for a second. Then his hand slams the gear forward. The car launches into the next sector like it belongs to the sky. His shoulder knocks into yours on the turn, hard and deliberate. His voice cuts in through the headset — lower now, rougher, something carved out of disbelief and heat and something you can’t name. “You’re in this now, compliance girl.”

The pit explodes in static, voices tripping over each other as the comms erupt, but you keep going, eyes locked on the telemetry feed as it scrambles to catch up. “Brake late at the next split,” you murmur, voice steady despite the rush burning through your limbs. “Sector five runs hot. It’ll mess with the tire balance.” You don’t expect him to listen, not really, but he does. He obeys without thinking, not out of trust but instinct, and the car veers tighter into the split than it should, clinging to the curve like it’s magnetic.

“There’s a blind curve in six,” you add, just before the track swallows it whole. “Ride the left edge. You’ll see it before they do.” His hands adjust again, every muscle in his arm taut beneath the suit, the twitch in his wrist perfectly timed. The car cuts clean through the turn, a whisper’s width from the wall, and Onyx disappears from the rear feed like smoke blown out a window. The tension in the cockpit doesn’t ease, but it changes, shifts into something harder to name. It’s just the two of you now — and for the first time since the engine kicked, you know he’s not ignoring you anymore.

“You trained for this?” he mutters, the words rasping low beneath his breath, unreadable but laced with something that might be curiosity, might be wariness.

“I watched you,” you say, your voice quiet but certain, your pulse a war drum beneath your skin. “You telegraph more than you think.” You don’t hear a reply at first, only the sound of his breathing, the precise tension of his fingers tightening on the wheel, the cabin pulsing with every heartbeat.

Then something shifts. He leans in slightly, like he wants to feel your words closer, and adjusts the mic at his collar. His voice crackles through your headset again — low, direct, enough to drive a current down your spine like exposed wire. “Keep talking.”

So you do. You trace every turn as if you were born in his blind spots. You anticipate the angles before the corners show, you call out variances in downforce before the system even flags them, your voice slicing through the cockpit in rhythm with his hands. You read the patterns, warn him about the tire rotations from other teams, the lift coming off the left apex that’ll cause drag if he doesn’t compensate. He doesn’t thank you. Doesn’t acknowledge it. But he listens. You feel it in every adjustment, in every calculated risk he lets you steer him into, in the way his body keeps echoing your commands before the pit can even breathe.

When the final sector looms — fast, brutal, and risky — you barely have to think. It’s already mapped in your head. But his voice returns before you can speak, deeper this time, more grounded, like he’s testing something. “Your move, compliance girl,” he says, and it’s not mocking anymore. It’s an invitation. “What’s the play?”

And you give it to him without pause, without flinching, because you’re not observing anymore, not monitoring, not logging. You’re in it. Like you’ve been racing beside him your entire life.

You barely make it off the track before he grabs you.

Not rough but fast enough that it startles the breath from your throat. One second, you’re caught in the afterglow of chaos, the echo of the crowd still humming in your chest, the thrum of victory laced tight around your ribs. Then his hand is on your arm, all heat and command, dragging you off-course, away from the crew, away from the laughter and the noise. No warning. No words. Just Jeno, moving like something’s clawing at the inside of his lungs. You think, for a moment, he might take you upstairs, toward the office loft or the van where your things are. Somewhere private, but neutral. But he doesn’t. He leads you past the edge of the paddock, past the backup tires and crates of gear, and then down — a stairwell tucked behind the west bay, steep and shadowed, concrete cracked like it’s holding old confessions in its bones.

He doesn’t speak as he pushes you against the wall. It’s not violent, but it’s firm — his hand braced beside your head, his body close enough to feel the heat radiating from his chest. He smells like smoke and sweat and burned rubber, like victory bleeding into adrenaline. His suit is peeled halfway down, clinging low to his hips, and his breathing hasn’t evened out. His jaw is locked. His eyes, when they finally lift to yours, are full of something you can’t name. It isn’t fury. It isn’t triumph. It’s raw.

"You’re done," he says, voice frayed and low.

You blink once. "What?"

"You don’t ride again. You’re finished."

You almost laugh, because it’s ridiculous. "Because I helped you win?"

His eyes cut into yours. "Because you could’ve fucking died."

And there it is. Not anger. Not pride. Fear. Laid bare in the rasp of his voice, in the way he looks everywhere but at your mouth, your throat, the line of your collarbone — like he wants to forget the sight of you pressed into his cockpit seat, your breath uneven in his headset. “You didn’t care when I got in the car,” you say quietly.

He exhales sharply. "I cared the second they clipped us."

The air between you crackles. That hit — Onyx slicing in like a blade — you’d both felt it. But where you’d felt the lurch in your chest and anchored yourself with facts, data, instinct, he had felt something else. Something he doesn’t know how to name.

You step closer before you can think better of it, and his shoulder stiffens like your nearness brands him. “So that’s what this is? Fear?”

He shakes his head once, slow. “No. This is me not making the same mistake twice.”

You frown. “What mistake?”

“Trusting you.” And now it sinks in. You should’ve seen it coming — the shift in his tone, the sharpness of his silence in the car, the way his hand tightened on the wheel every time your voice cracked through his headset. This was never just about the race. It was about you. About what you did. What you wrote.

“Picture this,” he says, and his voice isn’t angry yet — just low, heavy, like he’s dragging the memory up from the wreckage. “I’d just graduated. Fresh out, brand new to the circuit. Doyoung tells me there’s a profile being done — says your company’s covering my debut, and that you would be writing it. I was fucking proud. More than that. I was excited. It felt like everything was falling into place.”

He steps closer, and this time his eyes don’t leave yours. “I looked you up. Read every article. Not one hit piece. Not one cheap headline. You wrote with bite, yeah, but it was honest. It gave people a chance. I thought maybe I’d get that too. Something that said I was worth watching. Something that said I belonged.”

His breath catches, sharp. “I waited for that article like it meant something. Like it’d be the start of a career that wasn’t just noise and sponsorships and pressure. I thought maybe you’d see me.” His jaw tenses. “And then it dropped.” His words hit like rubber burning on pavement. “The article you fucking wrote.” He doesn’t shout. He doesn’t need to.

“You called me a ‘golden boy burning on borrowed fuel.’ Front page. Bold font. Byline gleaming like a fucking trophy. You made me a headline, a punchline, a warning to every sponsor with a checkbook. You didn’t just report on me — you defined me before I even got a chance to drive.”

He shakes his head once, slow. Bitter. “And then I see your name again. This time on the roster. Walking in like some league-appointed savior, like you’ve got our best interests at heart. Flashing that badge like it means something, talking like your clipboard’s gonna fix what you broke.”

His gaze turns hard.

“You don’t get to ride with me ever again. Not after that.”

Your breath catches before you can steady it. You weren’t ready for that—him. Not like this. Not with every word sharpened to a blade and dragged across your name like it deserved to bleed. You knew there’d be fallout. You braced for resentment, for jabs and silence and looks that cut like wire but you didn’t expect this. Didn’t expect him to speak like the memory of your words still echoes in his bones, like you didn’t just write a headline—you carved a scar.

You open your mouth to respond and nothing comes out. Just air. Shaky and shallow. Your fingers tighten around the edge of your clipboard like it can anchor you, like it can excuse you. “That article,” you start, voice thinner than you want it to be, “it wasn’t supposed to—”

He doesn’t say anything, but you see it. The way his jaw flexes. The way he looks away like he might lose it if he doesn’t.

“I was given a brief,” you continue, forcing the words out now, faster than you can clean them up. “I had a deadline. I didn’t—I didn’t know who you were yet. I only had what they fed me. I didn’t have access to the real—”

He laughs. It’s hollow. Like a backfire. “You mean the story they wanted you to write?”

You flinch. Your throat burns. “I wasn’t trying to ruin you. I swear to God, I didn’t know it would get that kind of traction. I thought—I genuinely thought I was doing my job. That if there was pressure around your name, maybe it would spark a second look. Maybe someone would pay more attention, take a deeper interest, give you the shot you—”

“Don’t,” he cuts in. Not loud. Just final.

You fall quiet. Shame clawing up your spine, curling beneath your ribs. Because it sounds stupid now. So fucking naive. Like anything about this world was ever that simple. “I didn’t think it would follow you,” you say eventually, quieter. “I didn’t think it would haunt you.”

He looks at you then. Really looks. And you wish he hadn’t. Because there’s something in his eyes that makes your stomach turn—anger, yes, but beneath it, hurt. Deep. Unshakable. “Well, it did.”

You nod slowly, swallowing back the sting in your throat. “I don’t expect you to forgive me. I just… I need you to know I carry it.”

His stare is merciless. “So what? You come back to rewrite it? Give the golden boy a redemption arc so you can fix your reputation?”

His voice bites like asphalt in a crash, but it’s the next words that land deeper, lower. “You're a fucking liar.” He steps closer, jaw tight, the fury in his eyes steady, unwavering. “You walk in with your badge and clipboard, talking about compliance and reform like you’re here to save us, but you reek of motive. You want to document a downfall. You want to be the one who caught us mid-sink, wrote the article that buried the last illegal thread of racing alive. You think I can't see it? You think I don't know exactly what you're doing?” His breath shudders, close enough now that you feel it trace your collarbone. “I won’t let that happen. I won't let you turn us into your fucking headline.”

You freeze. Because he’s not wrong and that terrifies you. Not because you slipped up. You haven’t. Not once. You’ve kept every expression measured, every line rehearsed, every observation veiled under the perfect sheen of professionalism. But somehow, he knows. He sees straight through the armor. Reads the red under the ink. You should hate it. You should push back but your heart is thudding too loud to think straight, and for a moment, all you can feel is the echo of his words inside your chest.

You lie. To him. To yourself. To whatever compass used to point toward your version of right. “No,” you say, swallowing down the tremor in your voice. “I came back to tell the truth this time. All of it. Even if it buries me.”

He doesn’t believe you. You can see it in the way his lip twitches. But you keep going anyway. “Soul Line matters,” you say. “You all do. Mark. Renjun. Jaemin. Sunwoo. Eric. Donghyuck.” You meet his eyes. “You.”

Your voice softens, not with guilt but with something closer to conviction. “People need to see what this team is. Not just the grit, not just the mess. The heart. The way Mark checks the tire heat twice when no one’s looking. How Renjun runs his hands over the frame like it’s skin, not steel. Jaemin never stops running his mouth but he always knows where everyone is. Sunwoo barely speaks, but he watches everything. Eric’s bruised to shit and still carries half this team on his back. Donghyuck acts like this is a joke, but he’s the one who checked on me after the lap.” You swallow, hard. “You think I don’t see it? You think I don’t know what this place is?” Your eyes don’t leave his. “And you— You didn’t say a word to me. Not once but you reached for the wheel differently when you thought I was scared.” You breathe in, shaky. “So don’t tell me that you don’t care.”

You hesitate, because the words don’t come easy, not when they feel like confessions. “The way you raced today,” you murmur. “I’ve never seen anything like it.” Your voice is low, measured, like saying too much too fast might break the moment. “The control, the instinct—after they clipped us, you didn’t flinch. You didn’t panic. You adjusted mid-corner like you’d already accounted for it. Like your body knew before your brain did. That’s not luck. That’s not just talent. That’s precision. That’s discipline.”

His face doesn’t move, but you catch it — the flicker behind his eyes, the twitch in his jaw. You keep going. “And you shielded me,” you say. “No hesitation. Just one arm across the cabin. One second, and you were already moving. You didn’t look at the track, you looked at me. You made sure I was still breathing before you even thought about finishing that lap.”

Your voice slips softer, but firmer too. “That’s why I respect you. As a racer, yeah. But also—” your breath catches for a second, and you force yourself to hold his gaze “—as a man. You don’t just drive like you want to win. You drive like you’re protecting something. Even if you don’t admit it.”

He blinks. The silence between you deepens, too thick to step through. So you stop thinking. You step back, your fingers fumbling at the hem of your shirt before you even realise what you’re doing. It peels over your head and falls to the floor in a single, soundless breath. You don’t know why you do it. Maybe it’s the adrenaline, the charge still running hot beneath your skin. Maybe it’s the way his eyes have been stripping you bare since the second lap. Maybe you just want to see if anything can crack that iron control.

“Fuck, Y/N.” It’s the first time he’s said your name. And it breaks something open.

His gaze doesn’t drop. “So teach me,” you whisper. Your voice is softer now, trembled but sure. “Teach me what the truth is.”

His jaw locks. His head shakes once. “Don’t do that.”

You step into him like you’re crossing a threshold, not a room. His breath hitches when your hand curls around his wrist, dragging it slow across the line of your waist, then higher—up, over the swell of your ribs, until his palm rests against your bare skin. He doesn’t stop you. Doesn’t breathe. You guide him like you want him to feel every shiver, every beat pulsing under your skin. When you reach behind you, fingers finding the clasp, you don’t break eye contact. The snap is quiet. The fall of the straps even quieter. Your bra slips off your arms and hits the floor, and his hand is still there—hot, motionless, like the heat’s bleeding straight through his skin into yours.

“Come on,” you whisper, breath skipping, mouth parted just enough to taste the tension between you. “Am I really so bad?”

His stare drags like a touch, slow and hungry, not blinking, not breathing, just devouring every inch of skin you’ve exposed. His gaze catches on your tits first, bare and flushed, then your mouth, still wet from biting back sound, then your eyes—dark, blown wide, waiting. There’s nothing soft in the way he looks at you. It’s possession, plain and fucking filthy, like he’s already imagining what you’d feel like with your legs spread and your voice wrecked. His jaw clenches, hard, sharp, and you watch the muscle jump as he swallows it down. His voice, when it comes, is ruined—low, gritty, like it scrapes out from the back of his throat with too much want behind it. “No,” he says. “I am.”

And then he’s on you. His hands crash into your waist like they’ve been starving for the shape of it, fingers spreading wide and squeezing hard enough to bruise. You don’t get a chance to brace for it—your back slams into the wall with a dull, shuddering thud, and then his mouth is on yours, open and wet and biting. His teeth clamp down on your lower lip like he’s trying to punish you, dragging it between his before sucking the sting away with a tongue that doesn’t ask for permission. Your moan slips out before you can stop it, high and trembling, thick with want, and he swallows it like it feeds something in him. He kisses like he’s coming undone, like breathing doesn’t matter, like the only thing that exists is your mouth and how filthy he can make it. There’s no rhythm, no pause for air, just spit and teeth and tongues clashing, everything loud and hot and desperate. One thigh wedges up between your legs and pushes until it slots perfectly under your cunt, grinding up with bruising pressure. Your hips jerk, rolling down hard without thought, chasing that friction like a drug, grinding against the dense, flexing muscle of his leg until your clit starts to throb.

You claw at him, frantic, hands bunching the fabric of his fireproof suit as your fingers scramble for something—his shoulders, his neck, the back of his head—anything you can cling to while your body rocks shamelessly down on his thigh. The friction is sharp and constant, your thin layers doing nothing to soften the ache, and every shift of his body presses him harder into the soaked heat between your legs. You can feel how wet you are, can hear it when he shifts, the drag of your cunt sticky and slick against his thigh. You moan again, louder this time, and his breath catches like he’s unraveling just from the sound.

“Jeno—” you gasp, broken and shaky, but he doesn’t let you speak. His growl vibrates against your lips, rough and low and filthy, and he drags his mouth down your throat, licking a slow, hot stripe over the pulse hammering at your neck. He sinks his teeth into the skin just beneath your jaw, not hard enough to break it but enough to make you whimper, then trails lower, mouth latching over your collarbone and sucking until it stings. You shiver as he shifts his attention to your chest, mouth pressing over your shirt, tongue tracing where your nipple sits beneath the fabric before his teeth catch and tug. Even through the layers, you feel it. It burns straight through your chest and down between your legs, making your thighs twitch around his. You arch off the wall, grinding harder, desperate for more, your head falling back with a curse when the pressure gets too good to handle.

Your legs wrap around his waist without hesitation, the movement automatic and hungry. His hands slide under your thighs and lift you in one swift pull, gripping tight until you’re pinned between him and the wall, his hips rocking up into yours with a force that makes you gasp into his neck. The grind is brutal. He fucks up into you through the layers of your clothes like he means to leave a memory of it in your bones, his cock thick and hard and straining against his suit, dragging against the soaked seam of your underwear every time his hips jerk forward. You clutch at him, nails scraping down his back, mouth open and panting against his skin as the pressure builds and builds and builds. You roll your hips with him, chasing every harsh thrust, every obscene press of cock against clit, each one knocking the air out of your lungs. You can feel how close you’re getting—how the wet heat between your legs starts to pulse, how your thighs start to shake, how your voice starts to break with every breathless moan.

He’s cursing now, jaw clenched, breathing ragged, and he mouths it against your skin like a prayer turned blasphemy. “You hear that?” he grits out, voice low and wrecked, hips snapping up again so hard your moan turns into a cry. “That’s you. That’s how fucking bad you need it.” His hand curls into your hair and yanks your head back so he can look at you, so close his nose brushes yours, his forehead pressed against yours, and you can feel the heat radiating off him in waves. “Say it,” he growls, grinding into you again, his cock rubbing right where you’re soaked through and throbbing. “Say it’s mine.”

Your voice catches, slips out soft and slurred, “It’s yours,” but it’s not enough. He slams into you again, harder, until your body jolts against the wall. “Jeno, it’s yours, I swear—fuck—”

“Then take it,” he growls, his mouth crashing into yours again. “Take everything.”

He doesn’t give you a second to react. One hand wraps around your wrist, tight and unrelenting, dragging you across the dim space until your knees knock against the sleek side of a car you haven’t seen before. It’s tucked behind the main garage bay, half-assembled, stripped for parts, wires hanging loose from the open console. The floor is stained with oil, and the air is thick with the scent of burnt rubber, engine coolant, and old heat. Fluorescent lights above flicker, throwing your shadows across the walls in broken stutters. Before you can steady yourself, he spins you, forces your chest down onto the hood. The metal is still warm from testing, hot against your ribs. Your palms slide over the surface, searching for grip, but he’s already there. One hand plants flat between your shoulder blades, holding you down, the other bunches your skirt, yanking your underwear aside with a rough tug that makes your breath catch.

His mouth brushes the shell of your ear, breath hot, voice so raw it barely holds shape. “You wanted the truth?” he murmurs, the words thick with hunger and need, it pressed into you like a brand. His hand flexes at the base of your spine, anchoring you there, and then his hips drive forward in one brutal thrust. The sound you make is a strangled cry, punched out of your chest as your body jolts forward against the hood, metal squealing beneath you. The burn is instant. Sharp. Hot. Stretching you full in a single stroke that knocks the air from your lungs and leaves you trembling. He doesn’t give you a second to adjust, just breathes heavy against your neck as his cock pulses inside you, thick and unforgiving, dragging heat through every nerve. You clutch at the edge of the car, gasping, because nothing in you feels untouched anymore—not your body, not your pride, not the part of you that wanted to win this. He thrusts again, and it feels like truth. Violent. Inescapable. Yours.

The first thrust knocks the wind out of you, the second drags a moan from somewhere low and guttural, and then he stops pretending there’s rhythm. It’s just force now, just the slap of skin against skin and the raw scrape of breath in your lungs. He fucks into you like he’s hunting something he lost in you. Your thighs are slick and trembling, knees starting to buckle under the pressure. The hood rattles beneath your stomach as you clutch at it for balance, palms sliding over the gloss. He slaps your ass—hard, fast—then grabs it, fingers bruising deep as he mutters against your shoulder, voice all gravel and heat. “Look at you,” he breathes, low and dark, “making a mess all over my cock, crying for it like you didn’t come in here thinking you were above all this.” Then he thrusts again, hard enough to knock the thought from your brain, deep enough that your mouth drops open around a gasp that never gets the chance to land. The metal screams under you. Your hips jolt. Your back arches. His hand slides up the curve of your body, wraps around your throat like he owns it, and then he leans in, chest hot against your spine.

“You wanna act like you’re here to help?” he snarls, teeth dragging along your ear. “Then fucking take it. Prove it.” You barely register it—just the shift of his weight, the grind of his pelvis—and then his spit hits your tongue, thick and warm. Your lips part for it like they know better than you. You swallow, loud and deliberate, and the growl he lets out rips straight through you. He fucks you like he’s trying to brand it into memory, every sound you make echoing off the walls, every curse from his mouth driving you closer to the edge. You don’t even notice your moans getting louder until his hand clamps over your mouth, muffling the cries that come with the next thrust.

“Quiet,” he mutters, hot against your ear. “You don’t want them hearing how wet you are for the man you tried to destroy.” It hits too close. Shame and arousal twist inside you, something dark and desperate, and you grind back against him harder. 

The heat off the car hood is blistering, licking up your stomach, sweat sliding down the dip of your spine in a slow, stinging crawl. Your thighs ache from how wide he’s forced them, every thrust a punishing slam that jars your ribs against metal. His grip on your waist is bruising, teeth gritted behind every ragged breath as he watches your body fold and tremble for him. He’s deep—so deep—cock splitting you open raw, dragging against every nerve ending like he’s trying to ruin you from the inside out. But it’s not enough. Not when you start pushing back harder, grinding on him like you need to feel every vein, every ridge, every hateful inch. That’s when he shifts.

His hand slides up from your hip slow, the drag of his fingers steady and possessive as they coast over the sweat-slick plane of your stomach, trailing up past the swell of your ribs until he’s curling them under your chin. He tilts your head up, not gently—just enough to force you open, to bare your throat to the hot, smoky air, mouth slack as your breath stutters out. He doesn’t squeeze. Not yet. Just holds you there like you’re something to own, something to break open and rearrange. His mouth is right at your ear now, the shape of his words scraping across your skin like gravel. “This what you wanted?” he rasps, voice all venom and heat, hips still pounding into you with an unrelenting pace. “To fuck the man you tried to bury? Say it.”

You hesitate. It’s instinct. A flicker of resistance, a breath too long—but that’s all it takes. He punishes you for it instantly, hips snapping forward with a brutal thrust that knocks the air out of you, slamming your stomach against the car. You cry out, hands scrambling to brace against the hood, body jolting with the force of it. His grip tightens, not choking, but controlling—commanding the angle of your head, forcing you to feel everything. “Say it, reporter girl,” he snarls, mouth at your cheek, tongue hot behind clenched teeth. “Or I’ll stop. And you’ll beg for me next time.”

You manage something—a broken whimper, a plea that barely makes it past your lips—and it’s enough. But he’s not done. Not even close. His fingers slide between your lips next, two thick digits forcing their way into your mouth until you’re gagging around them, drool spilling out past your chin. “That’s it,” he grits, pace vicious, cock driving into you so hard the whole damn car shudders. “Take it. Choke on it if you have to.” You suck around them desperately, spit pooling at the corners of your mouth, and he watches with something dark and starved gleaming in his eyes. Then he leans in and spits into your mouth again—slow, messy, deliberate—watching the way your throat works as you swallow it down like you’ve been starved for it.

And then his hand comes down. Fast. Sharp. The slap cracks across your ass, lower this time, angled to sting—and it does. Fire lashes up your spine and your knees nearly buckle. Another lands before you can recover. Then another. Until your thighs shake and your breath starts to hitch, your body trembling under the weight of every mark he leaves behind. “Gonna mark you up,” he growls, breath ragged against your ear, “so every step back to the team hurts. Let them see who you belong to.” You whimper again, half-lost already, and he doesn’t waste another second—rips your panties the rest of the way off, shoves the soaked fabric into your mouth without hesitation. “Quiet now,” he mutters, slapping your thigh one more time, rougher than before. “Earn it.”

He moves again. Shifts his stance—one knee braced on the bumper, hands planted on your hips like he’s anchoring you to the car—so he can fuck up into you with more force, more depth, the angle cruel and perfect all at once. Your cries are muffled, swallowed by lace and cotton, but your body can’t lie. You’re shaking. Tightening around him. One of his hands slides down, rough fingers finding your clit with terrifying precision, rubbing fast, merciless, until your vision whites out and your legs give. You’re close. Too close. You feel it crash up your spine, that blinding wave about to drag you under—

“Don’t cum,” he growls. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

Your cunt clenches, high-pitched whine muffled behind the panties, and his pace only gets rougher. “Not until I say,” he snarls, fucking you harder. “Not until you beg me to fill you.”

You sob around the fabric, shaking your head, then nodding frantically, fingers clawing at the edge of the hood as you choke out, "Please—please, Jeno—need it, need you to fuck me full, need to feel you drip out of me when I walk—please—I’ll do anything, I’ll say anything, just don’t stop."

He hisses a curse, pulls out too fast, too rough, and before you can protest, he grabs your chin and forces you to look at him. "Up." He hauls you with him, dragging you behind a stack of tires near the far end of the garage. You trip over something—rubber, crates, you don’t care—but he catches you, spins you, and sits down hard against the slicks, dragging you onto his lap in one violent motion. "Ride me," he says, voice cracked open. "Fucking ride it out."

The space back here is secluded, shadowed, almost intimate in the way the light cuts low across the floor, catching on chrome rims and glinting off metal. The rubber smell isn’t harsh; it’s heady, grounding, mixing with sweat and sex and the sharp bite of gasoline in a way that makes your head spin. The walls are close enough to press against, heat rising from the stacks behind you, from the slick surface of his fireproofs, from the furnace of his body beneath yours. It’s filthy, but it’s beautiful—hot and heavy and yours.

Your thighs tremble but you obey, dropping onto him like you’re starving for it, the stretch instant and obscene. His cock drives into you thick, soaked, and you swear you feel him everywhere at once—under your ribs, punching up into your lungs, deep enough to make your whole body jolt. You gasp, clawing at his chest as he groans, head tilted back against the wall, sweat beading down his throat.

You wrap your arms around his neck, press your chest against his, and move—grinding, lifting, fucking down on him with a pace that’s feral, greedy, loud. He holds your hips tight, knuckles white against your skin, eyes locked on the bounce of your tits against his chest, the way your mouth drops open when you take him deep. You whine, high and shameless, your moans echoing through the cavernous space.

He thrusts up to meet you, fucking into your heat with brutal rhythm, each stroke a wet slap, each drag of his cock filthier than the last. "That’s it," he pants, voice wrecked. "Make a mess. Drench me. Let it pour." One hand slips between your bodies, rubbing your clit in tight, vicious circles, the other wrapped around your throat again, holding you just at the edge of too much.

"Gonna cum on my cock like a good little whore?" he murmurs, lips at your jaw, breath hot. "Do it. Paint my dick, make it fucking messy."

You sob out a gasp, cunt pulsing, bouncing faster, chasing that brutal edge. The way he fucks you from below—rough, precise, desperate—makes your whole body seize, and you’re so wet you hear it, the slick suck of every thrust. He slaps your ass once, then grabs it, bouncing you harder, fucking up as you fall down, and the rhythm is animal, unhinged, ruined.

"You hear that?" he growls. "That’s your pussy, baby. Fucking greedy. You love this shit, don’t you?"

You nod frantically, tears caught in your lashes, babbling nonsense against his mouth—"Yes, yes, need you, so full, can’t stop, don’t stop, please"—and he snaps, slamming into you harder, chasing his own high now, sweat slicking your bodies, his mouth dragging over your throat, your tits, your shoulder.

"Keep going," he grits out, voice raw. "Let the whole fucking circuit hear you."

And you do. You fall apart with his name on your tongue, his cock splitting you open, the taste of him still thick in your mouth, the sound of skin and breath and heat echoing around you like thunder.

But he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even pause. He growls your name through clenched teeth like it’s the only thing tethering him to this plane, like he’s driving blind and you’re the last red flag waving before the finish line. His grip bruises into your hips as he fucks up into you like he’s still chasing time, like the race never ended, like the adrenaline hasn’t left his bloodstream and he needs this—needs you—to come down. But he can’t. He won’t. You’re the sharpest corner he’s ever taken, tight like a hairpin turn, and every thrust is a gamble between glory and total wreckage.

Your body jolts with each impact, spine pressed to the wall, hips crashing down against his with unrelenting pace. It’s not rhythm—it’s instinct, pure reaction. Your hands twist in his hair, your teeth catch on the side of his throat, and you can’t even feel your thighs anymore. You ride him like you’re trying to outrun something—maybe the shame, maybe the fear, maybe the way your chest cracks wide open every time he moans like that for you.

“Fuck—fuck—Jeno, someone could walk in—someone could see—” You whisper it, voice shredded, barely there between gasps. But you don’t slow down. You can’t. Your cunt clenches around him every time your body bounces, muscles fluttering with aftershocks and overstimulation. The thrill of being seen sharpens everything—your moans louder, your movements filthier, like you're taunting the risk of exposure.

“Let them,” he snarls, voice guttural, mouth dragging over your jaw, your neck, your collarbone. His eyes are glassy, wild, his entire body wound tight as a snapped throttle cable. “Let them see what it looks like when you get fucked open by me. Let them hear how wet you are when you take me this deep.”

And you are—wet, noisy, shaking. The sounds your bodies make are obscene, echoing between tire stacks like muffled gunshots. Your back hits the wall again, and you arch into it, your nails dragging down his back so hard they tear through the thick fabric of his fireproofs, scraping welts over burning muscle. You want to leave marks. You want to ruin him like he’s ruining you.

“You’re wrecking me—” you cry, voice high and broken, “worse than any crash.”

He grunts, slamming into you harder, more erratic, his control unraveling with every breath. “Good. I want you fucking totaled. Want you so ruined you can’t walk back out of here without my cum dripping down your thighs.”

You sob into his shoulder, body locking, heat spiraling fast and brutal. Your clit drags against his pelvis, your cunt so swollen and sensitive you’re already teetering again. The tension inside you coils sharp and thin like tire rubber screaming over asphalt.

“Cum again,” he demands, voice ragged, breath hot against your cheek. “Right fucking now.”

You do. It rips out of you with a scream, your whole body seizing up, mouth slack, eyes wide, and you swear you see white. It doesn’t crest—it detonates, a chain reaction through every nerve ending. Your vision blurs. Your legs tremble. You cum so hard your body goes limp against him.

And still—still—he’s not done. He wraps his arms around your back, locks you in place, fucking up into your oversensitive cunt like he needs to leave a permanent imprint. Like he can’t stop until he’s emptied himself inside you so completely that nothing else exists. You can feel it building, the way his thrusts stutter, the way his jaw locks, the way he gasps your name like he’s about to crash into something massive and final. You drag your nails down his spine one last time and beg, “Inside. Please, finish inside.”

He slams into you once—twice—then again with a guttural growl, hips jerking, cock twitching deep in your cunt. Heat floods you, thick and hot, and his whole body shudders with it, chest pressed to yours, breath caught between a moan and a curse. You stay wrapped around him, shaking, dripping, ruined. And for a long, breathless moment, all that’s left is the smell of sweat and rubber, the echo of moans, and the heat of his body buried deep inside you like he never plans to leave.

After that night in the garage, everything shifts. You fall into a pattern—not routine, not schedule, just moments stolen between obligations and lies. A blur of weeks, shadows of time lost to bodies instead of words. You haven’t touched your bed since the race. Every night ends in Jeno’s room or doesn’t end at all. You lie to everyone, skip out early, fake texts about being home when you’re already naked on his sheets. It becomes the only place you sleep, wrapped in warmth and sweat, in his chain brushing your collarbone, in the slick drag of his fingers pushing back into you before you can drift off. Every orgasm tastes like betrayal. Every moan feels like a secret wedged deeper into your chest.

The first time after the race, it’s in his car—on the track, engine ticking beneath you, heat rising from the hood. You crawl into his lap, knees scraping leather, the smell of burnt rubber clinging to the air. His gloves are still on. His racing jacket is unzipped just enough for your hand to slide inside. He mutters something about visibility—how anyone could see—but he’s already hard, already guiding your hips down onto him. You ride him with your forehead pressed to his, moaning into his mouth as the last of the floodlights dim behind the fogged glass. Your thighs slap into his, slick and fast, and when you come, it’s soundless, breathless, your spine curling like you’re trying to hold it in.

The next time it’s the underground garage storage. You trip over a loose axle and he catches you, laugh breaking into a grunt as he spins you around and throws you into a crate stack. Oil drums knock together. A motion sensor light blinks overhead, buzzing faintly. He kisses you like he’s daring the shadows to look—sloppy, open-mouthed, teeth scraping your jaw as he yanks your shorts halfway down and shoves inside you with one sharp thrust. You gasp into the collar of his hoodie, nails clawing for purchase against slick rubber and metal. He fucks you like the world’s ending—like the only thing that matters is the sound of your cunt swallowing him whole.

Some nights, you find him already under the car in the maintenance pit, oil-slick and shirtless, flashlight swinging from above. He sees you crouch down, doesn’t say a word—just grabs your hand and pulls you under with him. The air’s warm, still, heavy with grease. Your shirt rides up the second he lays you back. He mouths at your chest while his fingers hook into your waistband, dragging your underwear aside with one curl of his wrist. When his cock slides in, you both freeze—because someone’s walking overhead, boots clanging against the grates. You taste metal in your mouth from how hard you’re biting your lip. His hand covers it anyway, palm hot, thumb pressing into your cheek. He fucks you in slow, aching thrusts, each one dragging moans that barely make it out. When the footsteps vanish, he grabs your thighs tighter, slams deeper, makes the wrenches rattle.

Then the tow truck. He drives it out to the backlot under the excuse of testing hydraulics. You’re half-asleep in the passenger seat until he reclines it back and pulls you on top of him, his mouth already on your throat. You straddle him in the flashing pulse of red emergency lights, each blink casting sharp shadows across your ribs. You grind down hard, thighs burning, his grip brutal on your waist. The windows fog fast. Your moans echo inside the cabin, breathless and high, and he doesn’t stop even when your body shakes from release. You fall asleep on his chest after, heart hammering against his, the lights still blinking over you like warnings you ignore.

Another time, it’s the tarp-covered car shoved into a corner of the lot. It’s old, useless, rusted around the edges. He peels the tarp back halfway and tosses you onto the hood like he’s done it before in dreams. The metal’s freezing, biting into your back, but his mouth is fire on your skin. He fucks you like he wants to erase every second you spent away from him—fast, messy, teeth on your shoulder, hips rutting so hard the car rocks. You’re crying out nonsense, body seizing around him, legs locked tight behind his back. He doesn’t say anything after. Just watches you breathe, watches the way your chest rises and falls. Wipes sweat from your lip with the pad of his thumb.

The sex doesn’t stop. It never stops. You miss meals. Miss calls. Your inbox floods with messages you leave unread. You sneak out of meetings early. Sometimes you forget where you’re supposed to be—because you’re pressed against his door, begging for his fingers, his mouth, his cock. Your skin smells like him, tastes like spit and motor oil and need. His touch lingers in bruises: purple kisses blooming on your hips, teeth marks under your jaw, fading welts down your thighs. No one’s caught you yet—but people are watching.

Sunwoo lingers too long in doorways. Mark keeps looking up at the wrong moments, brow tight, mouth tighter. Jaemin asks about a missing route log one day in a meeting, and Jeno cuts him off so fast you flinch. Someone else jokes that you always look exhausted lately. Someone replies, “Jeno looks more relaxed.” He won’t look at you in those meetings. Won’t speak. But afterward—after—he corners you in the stairwell, lifts you like he’s done it a hundred times, thighs around his waist, your back against the concrete wall, his hand pressed over your mouth like silence is safer than truth. His hips snap up and he growls against your throat—he can’t stop, he won’t, if anyone finds out he’ll lose it but he’s long past caring. He pulls you into his room and locks the door after. 

You haven’t spent a night in your own bed since the race. Every night ends here—in his room, in his sheets, in a silence that tastes like sweat and unraveling. You wake up in different positions but always touching. His arm over your waist. Your leg between his. Your hand pressed flat to his chest like you’re anchoring something there. Jeno talks more when he’s tired. When your body is tangled with his, when your cheek is warm against the slick skin of his chest, when both of you are too sore to move and the air tastes like sex and silence. He tells you things no one else knows. how his dad measures love in achievements. How silence was louder than screaming in his house. How he learned to be useful before he learned to be loved. you hold your breath when he speaks, like you’re afraid the truth will slip through the seams if you exhale too hard.

You’ve learned that Jeno remembers everything he shouldn’t. Birthdays of people who don’t talk to him anymore. License plate numbers of teammates that quit years ago. The names of every street he’s ever raced on. He recites them to you at night, half-asleep, hand on your hip like you’re a part of the archive too. He tells you he never had a baby book, never had keepsakes, so he stores it all in his head—every win, every loss, every person that left. You find out he doesn’t keep photos on his walls because he hates proof that people grow distant. His memory’s obsessive, and somehow, he makes you feel like he’s memorizing you too.

He tells you he used to be angry all the time. That he still is, sometimes, but it doesn’t come out in fists anymore—not since he got kicked off his first circuit for breaking a guy’s jaw. That every scar on his hands meant something. That every win still feels like punishment. He hates the way people look at him. Hates the idea of being reduced to a pull-quote, a punchline, a headline he can’t rewrite. He tells you that if you ever wrote something about him—if you turned this into content, into evidence—he wouldn’t survive it. “Not ‘cause I’d be pissed,” he mumbles against your shoulder, arms wrapped around your waist like a vice. “Because it’d mean none of this was real.” You don’t respond. You just hold him tighter.

You learn he’s good with his hands beyond racing. The kind of boy who takes things apart just to know how they work, then puts them back together better. He builds things without instructions. Knows how to fix a leaking pipe, change his own tires, gut a dashboard and solder it new. He tells you he likes when his hands are busy because it stops his mind from going places he hates. That’s why he fucks with his rings so much. Why he always asks to fix things for people but never asks them to stay. He’s never said it aloud, but you realize: he’d rather be useful than loved.

You learn that he once got stranded in a thunderstorm and walked three hours home rather than call his father. That he’s afraid of deep water because he almost drowned once but won’t admit it out loud. That he hates cucumbers, doesn’t trust people who wear sunglasses indoors, and always triple-checks that his windows are locked before he sleeps. He tells you he never used to sleep through the night—until you. He says it so casually, you almost miss it. His trust is quiet, handed over in fragments, never begged for and you carry every one of those pieces like a secret map back to him.

Hope is the thing he fears the most. He doesn’t say it like that—but you hear it in the way his voice falters when he talks about the future. About the car he’s been building since he was sixteen. About the idea of leaving everything behind one day, driving until the roads run out. “I used to think I’d go alone,” he says one night, fingertips brushing lazy circles on your hip. “But now I think… fuck. I think I’d want someone there.” You’re quiet. He’s not asking. But the way he looks at you after—raw, hesitant, like he’s already bracing for the disappointment—makes your chest tighten until it hurts. He trusts you. And it terrifies him.

That night, he touches you differently. Slower. Like he’s scared he won’t get to again. His mouth moves across your skin in a blur of reverence and need, every kiss a silent plea to stay. He slides into you like a prayer, slow and deep, groaning against your throat when you wrap your legs around him. There’s no rush, no anger, just pressure building in waves, rolling through your body like heat caught beneath your skin. He keeps murmuring things against your lips, “I don’t want this to end… I can���t lose this… I need you to be real with me.” You kiss him like you’re answering, like the words are trapped in your chest and only your body can speak them.

His hand wraps around your throat, thumb brushing your jaw, voice low, not a question. “Tell me you’re not gonna write about me.”

You hesitate. Your thighs tremble around his hips. He sees it. Feels it. You still haven’t said anything, and the moment stretches thin and hot between you. He thrusts in again, slow and heavy, and again—a rhythm that builds without mercy. “Don’t lie to me. Don’t make me feel this and then turn it into something cheap.” His tone isn’t angry. It’s something far worse—broken.

“Jeno…” You breathe his name like it means something. Like you mean something. But it’s not enough.

“Promise me. Promise me you won’t fuck me over.” His voice catches like he already knows you will. “If you do this… if you turn this into an article, if you sell me out—it won’t just hurt. It’ll kill something in me. You understand? I won’t come back from that.”

You blink up at him, dazed, flushed, heart in your throat. “I… I promise. I won’t. I couldn’t. I swear, Jeno. I swear on everything.”

He groans, loud and guttural, like it splits him in two. He fucks into you deeper, harder, his forehead pressed to yours, sweat beading along his spine. “Say it again. Say it like you mean it.”

“I won’t hurt you,” you whisper, eyes wide, voice shaking, hands fisting the sheets beneath you like they’re the only thing keeping you grounded. “I won’t. You’re safe with me.” He doesn’t answer—not with words—but the kiss he gives you is slow, reverent, mouth brushing yours like he’s breathing you in, like the taste of that promise might be the only thing keeping him sane. His lips trail down your throat, along the slope of your collarbone, across your chest, every inch kissed like it’s sacred, like he’s trying to commit it to memory before it’s ripped away. His thrusts never falter, just slow to a rhythm that feels almost too intimate—hips rolling deep, dragging the pleasure out of you inch by inch, groaning softly every time you clench around him. He’s so close you can feel his breath on your cheek, his fingers trembling where they brush the underside of your knee, and when he finally comes, it’s with his mouth on your skin, soft curses breathed against your neck like prayer. This isn’t just sex anymore. It’s survival. It’s surrender. It’s everything that might ruin you if you let it—but you can’t stop now. You wouldn’t even know how.

It’s the penultimate race in the league season, and tension clings to the night like smoke. Jeno’s team is neck-and-neck with their biggest rival—a flashy, overly sponsored crew known for bending rules and pushing boundaries under the guise of innovation. The circuit tonight is brutal. Carved through an abandoned industrial sector downtown, the track is lined with rusted scaffolding, sharp corners, and overhead floodlights that flicker like they’re watching. Underground and invitation-only, it’s one of the most dangerous courses in the league—high-speed, high-stakes, and reserved only for the elite. The air tastes like oil and ozone. Thunder rolls overhead, low and distant, as if the city itself is holding its breath.

Paranoia has gripped the circuit for weeks. There’ve been engine failures that don’t add up, drivers pulled from wrecks they swore weren’t accidents, and rumours of tampering passed between pit crews like cigarettes. Whispers say someone is rigging results, crashing contenders, tilting the balance in favor of a shadow player no one can name. The league board is on edge. Every pre-race inspection is stricter than the last. Every car is scanned, stripped, tested. No one trusts anyone.

Hours before the race, Jeno’s car throws a red flag during inspection. A supposed glitch in the turbo system—something about throttle torque maps and inconsistent boost ratios. He shrugs it off, says he’ll need a second in the car for calibration checks. The board’s backup tech is MIA. Chaos spirals. The committee wants the race to run on time. A lead official says, “Just send her in. She’s cleared the seat before.” The calibration error is bullshit. Everyone knows it—except the board, except the cameras, except the ones so desperate for order they’d believe anything wrapped in technical jargon. 

Jeno plays his part too well: straight-faced, tight-lipped, pointing to the interface and muttering about turbo sensors, drive lag, cornering offsets. The rival team is already in position, tension thick enough to feel in your teeth. This race matters and if the standings shift tonight, everything burns or everything ascends. And of course, there’s only one person they trust to monitor from the inside. One person who’s already survived the passenger seat. You. The board insists. The crew nods. Someone claps your shoulder. You see the smirk on Jeno’s mouth before you even slide into the car. This was always the plan. His hand brushes your thigh when you buckle in. You let him.

The tarp over the car is standard: a cooling technique for elite vehicles with borderline-illegal mods. But tonight it’s a veil. Steam clings to the edges, the outside world reduced to shadows and noise. Inside, you’re already fucking him. His gloves are off. His jacket’s unzipped to the sternum. You’re grinding in his lap, head tilted back, thighs shaking as his hands dig into your hips. The seat’s pushed as far as it can go. The scent of sweat and leather and exhaust coils around you. He fucks up into you slow, dragging the rhythm out like he wants to memorize it, like he’s burning your body into the shape of survival.

Your voice breaks on a moan, soft and mocking. “You faked the error, didn’t you?” His mouth finds your neck, biting down like a confession. “You lied—just to get me in this seat again.” He doesn’t deny it. Doesn’t need to. The way he’s breathing says everything. His cock twitches deep inside you. His hand wraps around your throat, not to squeeze—just to feel the sound of you coming apart against him. “Tell me I was wrong,” you whisper, cunt clenching again. “Tell me this wasn’t the plan.”

“Fuck,” he mutters, breath broken. “I wanted you here. I always want you here.” He’s shaking beneath you, muscles locked as he slams up harder, your soaked thighs slapping against him. “I don’t want to race without you anymore.”

“You have five minutes,” he growls, voice jagged now, mouth dragging along your collarbone. “Three to come. Two to remember who you belong to.” You clench around him, shuddering, nails clawing into his shoulders. He slaps your ass, mutters something guttural—Mine. Outside, the countdown begins. Inside, your world narrows to the stretch of your cunt and the way his cock owns every inch of it.

He tells you to get off but you don’t. Not like he means. You slip from his lap, knees hitting the floorboard, breath hot against the zipper of his racing suit. Rain drums faintly against the tarp above, muffled only by the thunder of engines in the distance. Jeno grabs your wrist, panic flickering through his eyes. “What the fuck are you doing?” he rasps, but you’re already palming his cock, dragging it out with a slow, deliberate stroke that makes him hiss through his teeth.

“Focus on the road,” you whisper, lips brushing the head. “Let me handle the rest.” You take him into your mouth, wet and warm, sucking slow as the tarp flaps open. The lights burst through the mist. The flag drops. And Jeno’s foot slams the gas so hard the tires scream.

The car tears forward, jolting your body, but you steady yourself with one hand gripping his thigh and the other wrapped around the base of his cock. His hand flies to the wheel, the other buried in your hair, not pushing—just holding. Like he needs the weight of your mouth to ground him. You suck deeper, tongue circling the swollen head, spit slicking down your chin as he moans, low and brutal. The track blurs past the windows. His body tenses, hips twitching every time your lips drag down his shaft.

“Jesus, baby… you’re gonna make me crash,” he mutters, voice strangled, one eye on the curve ahead, one hand yanking the gearshift while his knuckles go white around the wheel but he doesn’t stop you. He couldn’t if he tried. Your head bobs faster, sucking him down until your throat flexes around him, warm and tight and relentless. The sound of your mouth, the hum of your moan, the obscene slap of your spit and skin—it fills the cockpit like smoke.

He comes with a choked groan, thighs clenching, cock pulsing between your lips. Cum spills hot across your tongue, and he nearly veers off course from how hard he jerks the wheel. You swallow it down, kiss the tip with a smirk, and wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. He glances down, dazed, blown open from the high, then back to the road like nothing happened.

You strap in, settle beside him, still panting. He says nothing at first, only breathes. Then he mutters, voice raw: “You’re fucking insane.”

You grin, eyes on the track. “And you’re still hard.”

The race embodies a scream. Smoke off the line, headlights carving through the dark, engines snarling so loud your bones vibrate. The track is narrow, brutal, a looped-out stretch of urban circuit walled in by concrete and shadows. Jeno’s hand finds yours just before the first corner, fingers tight, jaw clenched, the city reflected in his visor. You’re both strapped in, breath synced, heart rates out of control. He looks insane—sweat along his temples, hair damp under the edge of his helmet, one glove peeled halfway down his wrist as he shifts with surgical force. You watch the veins flex in his forearm every time he takes a turn. He looks like control itself. Like speed and danger and sex all wrapped in smoke. His voice cuts through your headset, low and cocky. “Next turn—cut left before the barrier. I’ll slide under them. Trust me.” But it’s you who leans forward, watching their tail, catching the hesitation—“Don’t. Brake now, feint wide, then drift in. They’re bluffing on the inside.” He does. You shave two seconds off the lap time. You don’t speak for a full minute after that, too breathless, too aware of the way your fingers are still laced tight. You’ve never felt more alive. Or more fucked.

Somewhere between the fourth lap and the chaos that follows, it hits you. He’s yours. Not in words. Not in soft post-sex whispers. But here, in this — the wheel under his grip, the blur of his jaw as he glances at you like you’re his compass, the way he speeds up just to hear you gasp. There’s something lethal in how you crave him. Something doomed in how easily you lean closer every time he glances back. There’s a moment—late, fast, brutal—where another racer jerks into your lane too early, trying to squeeze through a gap that doesn’t exist. Jeno doesn’t see it. But you do. “Right! Now!” you scream, grabbing the wheel. The car fishtails. The tires scream. You both slam sideways into the drift, metal sparking against the wall. But you pull through. His head whips toward you. There’s no sound in your earpiece, just the way his chest heaves, the wild throb of his pulse in his neck. You saved him. You don’t say it. You just squeeze his hand. He squeezes back.

But that’s when the quiet changes. Something in the car flickers—a stutter in the dashboard feed. You catch it in the corner of your eye, a line of numbers that shouldn’t be moving. It’s not telemetry. Not yours. Not his. Something foreign. Embedded in the system like rot. You track it with your eyes while Jeno shifts into fifth, one hand still on your thigh. The feed updates again. A line of override commands, blinking too clean. You tap into the comms panel. There’s a secondary frequency active. B32-NT. It’s not familiar. Not part of the team. What bleeds through makes your stomach drop: engine values, route adjustments, foreign mod control codes. Someone is piggybacking Jeno’s system. You don’t know who. But it’s real. You stare at the display, reading it again and again—external override logged, failsafe pressure spike pending. Your throat closes. You realise what it means. Someone is trying to crash this car.

Jeno feels your stillness before you say anything. His voice flickers into your headset, hoarse. “What did you just see?” You don’t speak. Not yet. His knuckles whiten on the gearstick. The car rockets into the final lap. “You weren’t supposed to see that,” he mutters, jaw tight, eyes locked forward. “Shit.” He knows, he knows but it’s not over. You wait. Let the race end, let the asphalt burn and the smoke rise and the flag drop. 

Only after—only after—do you pull him away from the others, into the dead space behind the pits, where the shadows bleed deeper and his breath hits the air like mist. “What the fuck was that?” you demand, voice shaking. 

He doesn’t answer at first. Just stares at you like he’s drowning. “I’ve been seeing traces for months,” he finally says. “Not our crew. Not my mods but someone’s in the system. Ghost signals. Live feeds but there’s no names or trace. Nothing solid.” You blink. Your blood roars. “You knew?” He nods. “I didn’t know who. I’ve been trying to figure it out but I come to a dead end every single time I try.” You don’t respond. You remember the override code. You remember the kill-switch. You remember the moment the data blinked red but none of it’s concrete. There’s no fingerprint. No face. Just shadows. Just ghosts. You think of your exposé. You think of Jeno. And for the first time, you don’t know which truth will hurt more.

You’ve spent months convinced you were chasing the right story. That if you followed the mods, the maps, the margins, it would all point back to him—to the crew, to the boys who let you in without knowing what you carried. But it doesn’t. This doesn’t smell like Jeno. It reeks of strategy. Of bureaucracy. Of someone older, higher, smarter. Someone with reach and reason. Your fingers shake when they curl into his jacket.

“If I hadn’t caught it…” you start, then stop, the thought unfinished. Jeno nods once, sharply. “I know.”

There’s a silence. Heavy. Final. The kind that feels like the edge of something. He stares past you toward the track, then back to your face. “They’re going to keep trying,” he says quietly. “Whoever they are, they’re not done. Not until someone crashes. Not until someone gets hurt.” And for the first time, it clicks. The engine failures. The stray crashes. The random spikes in pressure gauges across other teams. None of them were random. They were tests.

The next one was meant for him.

And now it’s war.

Your phone buzzes once. Twice. Three times. You don’t even have to check the screen to know who it is.

taeyong — why haven’t you given me any update?

taeyong — i told you to watch how the team responds to pressure and this won’t cut it.

taeyong — i told you didn’t i? if you don’t make this report good enough then it’s your job on the line.

To Taeyong,

I understand the expectations placed on me in observing the Soul Line team. While the environment has been intense and often volatile, I have witnessed a culture built around high-risk strategy and deeply embedded loyalty. There is a pattern of behavior that raises concern — particularly the team’s obsessive relationship with performance pressure, their willingness to override safety protocols, and their instinct to close ranks when challenged.

My observations suggest a structure driven by emotion over reason. The lead driver, in particular, displays erratic decision-making and a deep mistrust of external oversight. While I cannot definitively name breaches at this stage, I would strongly advise close review of their telemetry and performance mods pre-race. This team operates with intensity, but also secrecy — which makes it difficult to assess intent versus instinct.

This is not a final report. More information to come.

Sincerely, Y/N. 

You close the thread before it finishes loading. Your fingers tremble as you paste in the draft you’ve barely looked at since you wrote it. It’s nothing. A paragraph stitched together from half-truths and safe language, dressed up in professionalism but stripped of anything real. No names. No details. No conviction. It’s a lie written to hold off the blade. A submission designed to survive. You hit send. Jeno doesn’t know and that’s the worst part.

You find him in the garage two hours later, crouched beside the front wheel of his car, palms greasy, face shadowed beneath the low fluorescents. He looks up, just once, and it’s enough. The guilt finds your spine and crawls up your throat like poison. You kneel beside him. “We need to talk.”

He doesn’t move at first. Doesn’t even blink. “I’ve seen pieces of it before,” he murmurs, voice flat, quiet like he’s trying not to scare it away. “Data drops that didn’t make sense. Logs changed when I wasn’t looking. I thought it was glitching. I didn’t know it was gonna get someone killed.”

You look at him and it hits you all over again—he’s been carrying this. Alone. He rises slowly, wipes his hands on a rag, leans back against the worktable like the weight of everything has finally caught up to him. “I’ve been trying to trace whatever this is. For months. It’s not coming from our systems. It’s not a mechanic’s fault. It’s deeper. Admin-level. Someone’s been piggybacking my drives. Someone powerful. Someone who wants this team erased.”

Your heart skips once. Then again. “Why didn’t you tell anyone?”

His eyes flick to yours. And for a second, you see it—the fear beneath the fury, the exhaustion hiding behind his arrogance. “Because I didn’t know who I could trust,” he says. Then after a breath, quieter, breaking: “But I trust you.”

It cracks something open inside you. A sound escapes your mouth like apology. You reach for him, fingers slipping under his jaw, tilting his head toward you until your foreheads brush. His breath is ragged against your cheek. Your voice stumbles out between whispers. “You can trust me. I swear. You can.” He kisses you like he’s sealing a pact. Slow. Rough. Desperate. Your hands wind into his shirt, pulling him closer until you can’t tell where the lie ends and the truth begins.

That night, you hatch a trap.

You write a new report. Not for submission. Not for truth. For exposure. For whoever’s been listening in, trailing wires through Jeno’s system, shadowing every frequency like a ghost behind the wheel. The document is clean. Clinical. Just enough detail to sound legitimate—technical weaknesses, isolation tactics, a lone vehicle running test laps with no team support. You embed it deep, tuck it into a shared circuit file with just enough metadata noise to get picked up by the wrong person. The language is quiet, coded, nonchalant. But the subtext is loud: this car will be alone. this car will be vulnerable. this car is yours to take.

You don’t tell the others. Not yet. Just Jeno. You find him hunched over the console in the garage, sweat curling down the back of his neck, knuckles white where they grip the edge of the dashboard. He doesn’t turn when you enter. Doesn’t speak. You stand beside him in the hum of silence, until you finally say, “It’s sent.” His jaw tightens. 

“And they’ll believe it?” 

You nod once. “If they’re watching, they already have.” That’s the moment the tension shifts. From fear to strategy. From prey to predator.

But you need help. Someone who knows the systems deeper than you do. You meet them in a subterranean parking structure before sunrise. Jeno calls them a friend. You’re not sure what to call someone with knife scars and navy-black eyes who speaks in server terms and war metaphors. “Whoever’s behind this has admin keys,” they say, tapping their comm device hard against the dashboard. “That’s not sabotage. That’s infiltration.”

Jeno stiffens. His voice drops an octave. “Then we pull them out.”

It starts slow. Not with confrontation, not with grand declarations but with the quiet shifts only people who’ve bled for the same cause can feel. Jaemin’s the first to notice. He watches Jeno after a silent test lap, leaning against the side of the car with his arms crossed and something unreadable in his eyes. When Jeno climbs out, doesn’t meet his gaze, Jaemin says, “You’ve been hiding something.” It doesn’t sound like anger. It sounds like heartbreak. And when he says, “Whatever it is, I’m not letting you carry it alone,” no one argues. He’s the one who stays up all night with the code—hands steady, eyes burning—until he writes the patch that helps intercept the next signal. When you find him hours later, blinking against the harsh light of the garage monitor, he just asks, “You’re really with us?” And you nod. Because it’s the only answer that matters.

Sunwoo takes longer. His trust was never easy but one night, as you head out after a late strategy meeting, you find him leaning against the hood of his car, arms folded, expression sharp. “Something’s wrong,” he says. “You’re not saying it but I can feel it.” He doesn’t ask for proof. He doesn’t even ask for the truth. Just watches you like he’s weighing every word you don’t say. And when the board tries to shut everything down on the eve of the final race, claiming rule violations and internal instability, it’s Sunwoo who steps forward. “She’s with us now,” he says in front of the entire committee. And he doesn’t flinch when they look at him like he’s signed a death warrant.

Renjun uncovers the siphon like it’s a wound he should’ve noticed sooner. He’s reviewing fuel data for the last ten races, his fingers jittering over graphs and overlays, until he goes still. The numbers don’t lie. “They weren’t trying to crash you,” he says, voice tight. “They were trying to drain you.” The fuel bleed is too small to flag, but over time, it chips away at power, speed, endurance. It’s sabotage disguised as sloppiness. He steps back from the console like it burns, shaking his head. “They made us think we were the problem.” And you don’t say it, but you think it, too. They still do.

Haechan’s the one no one expects. He laughs too loud, talks too much, flirts with danger and drinks like it’s sport. But in one meeting—mid-story, mid-smirk—he stops cold. “Wait,” he says, blinking. “Didn’t those two managers last month mention something about a new supplier?” He says it like a joke. But no one laughs. The room goes dead silent. You realise then that every piece was scattered across mouths and memory, too fractured to matter until now. Until Haechan put the last line on the page. His voice drops. “Fuck. I didn’t know I was saying it until I heard myself.”

None of them knew. That’s what hits the hardest. They thought they were slipping. Misjudging turns. Fumbling starts. Missing cues. They blamed themselves. Worked harder. Slept less. Pushed further into exhaustion trying to make up for mistakes that were never theirs to begin with. The kind of sabotage designed not to destroy in one clean blow—but to wear you down. Quietly. Slowly. Until you forget what it felt like to win without guilt.

This isn’t just about the team anymore. It’s about everyone who’s ever been chewed up by the machine and told it was their own fault for bleeding. Every mechanic who got blamed for a fault line they didn’t draw. Every rookie driver who was thrown onto the track like bait and then discarded the second the numbers dropped. Every sponsor deal that vanished without reason. Every whispered threat behind closed doors. Every statistic twisted into a weapon to justify silence. It’s about how power rewrites failure to look like yours. How they make you believe the crash was always coming because you weren’t fast enough, sharp enough, worth enough. It’s about the way guilt is planted like a virus, how doubt infects belief, how easy it is to punish passion when it stops being profitable. And now, you see it. You feel it. This was never just a race. Never just about winning. It was about survival. About memory. About saying: We were here. We mattered. And we won’t let you erase us.

And this time, no one’s backing down.

The car gets rewired that night. Jeno tears the system down to its bones, exposing every wire like a threat. Jaemin shadows him, rerouting frequencies, faking damage patterns, embedding a signal loop with just enough heat to draw attention. Renjun adjusts the fuel map, codes in a deceleration script that mimics failure. Haechan throws a tantrum in the middle of the garage, screaming about “another shit-tuned engine,” loud enough to echo through the lot. Sunwoo leaks it to the wrong board member. Lets them think the team’s imploding. That they’ve already lost. And you? You pull it all together. Stitch the lie into shape. Fold the tension into every look, every breath, every step you take beside them. You never say what you’re doing. Just that it’s time.

And beneath it all, that signal—the one you planted, the bait laced in weakness and noise—pulses steady in the circuit. Waiting. Watching. Daring someone to bite. The bait pulses like a heartbeat in the circuit. Waiting to be bitten.

Later that night, Jeno takes you to the edge of the city, where the asphalt is cracked and the streetlights flicker like bad memories. The car hums under your thighs, parked in a quiet stretch of road carved out from the ruins of an old industrial district. It's too late for traffic. Too early for dawn. The world feels suspended, caught between one breath and the next. You're wearing one of his jackets, oversized and half-zipped, thighs bare against the leather seat. When you look at him, he's already watching you.

"If you ever have to get out," Jeno says softly, tapping the wheel, "I want you to know how." You don't ask what he means by get out. You already know. And you don't ask why he sounds like he's preparing for goodbye. You just nod.

He shifts, pulling you across the center console until you're sitting on him. His hands settle at your hips, warm and grounding. The engine is off, but everything else hums—his breath, your pulse, the tension tangled between you. "I need you to feel it," he murmurs, guiding your hands to the wheel, then lower, to the gearstick. "Know where to shift. Know when to let go."

You nod again, but it doesn't feel like enough. You're trembling slightly, the nerves creeping in, but then he leans up, lips brushing yours, a kiss that’s almost reverent. "You're okay," he whispers. "I'm right here."

You adjust your thighs over him, the heat between your legs almost unbearable with the layers barely separating you. You feel him hard beneath you but there's no rush. No desperation. Just this. Proximity. Breath. Touch. His fingers graze up your thighs, slow and coaxing, sliding beneath the edge of the jacket as his lips press to your jaw. You start to move your hips, instinctive, grinding back against him in a slow rhythm that makes both of you groan.

Your palms are slick against the wheel, pulse jittering beneath your skin, and your thighs are still stretched across his lap when he reaches forward—slow, steady—one hand curling over your wrist to guide you. His voice is soft, nothing like the chaos that lives outside the car—just him and you, the silence between gear shifts, the scent of sweat and fuel hanging thick in the air. “Don’t oversteer,” he says, chin brushing your shoulder, breath warm at your jaw. “Feel the curve before you take it.” Your foot hovers too light over the gas, and he nudges it down with his own, body flush behind you, his hands covering yours on the wheel like a second skin. The car hums beneath you both, eager, alive. “There,” he murmurs. “That’s it. You’ve got it.”

The engine purrs when you accelerate, and his arm tightens across your waist, anchoring you back into him, your ass dragging against the hard line of his cock still barely tucked back into his jeans. You feel everything—every twitch of muscle, every exhale when your fingers catch the turn just right. “Good girl,” he says under his breath, and you shiver. He teaches with tension, with touch, with the controlled burn of letting you drive while still having the power to take over. “Brake before the turn. Ease off just before the apex. You control the car—don’t let it control you.” His thigh shifts under yours, coaxing you into the perfect seat alignment. “And remember,” he whispers, dragging his lips along your neck, slow like sin, “you’re not just riding this thing. You’re fucking taming it.”

Your breath stumbles as the car surges forward, tires kissing pavement in the smooth glide of power managed, not forced. His hands roam—over your stomach, your hips, your thighs—as you take the wheel again, this time more confident, every instruction melted into the rhythm of your bones. His voice drops lower, his mouth brushing the shell of your ear. “You know what the real thrill is?” he asks, hand slipping between your thighs to grip the inside of your knee. “Knowing exactly when to let go. And exactly when not to.” You squeeze the wheel harder. You don’t want to let go of any of it. Not the speed. Not the heat. Not him.

The curve winds in before you can think, but your body knows the rhythm now. You let go—really let go—hands light on the wheel, breath in your throat, smile spreading slow across your face as the speed pours into your bloodstream like electricity. The road unfolds like it’s yours to take, every shift smoother than the last, every press of the pedal syncing with the thrum of your pulse. You laugh, breathless, winded, heart flying, and Jeno’s grip tightens at your waist. “There she is,” he whispers against your skin, lips brushing the curve of your ear. “Knew you were made for this.”

His hands move over you constantly—along your thighs, between your legs, curling under the hem of your skirt like he needs to feel you grounded in this moment. His voice drips into you between instructions, between praise. “Tighten your angle—fuck, good girl—just like that, you feel it?” And you do. Every word, every inch of his body behind yours, heat sliding down your spine in slow waves. You drive like you’re weightless, like the car is an extension of your body, like the world outside the windows no longer matters.

You ease the car into park with your hands still shaking. The engine idles beneath you, cooling slow, ticking in rhythm with the breath in your chest. Jeno doesn’t say a word. Just reaches behind him, clicks the seat all the way back, and reclines. His eyes lock onto yours in the rearview mirror. There’s no command, no invitation. Just him, waiting. And you—already turning, already climbing back into his lap like instinct, like muscle memory, like gravity.

You don’t pause. Don’t tease. You pull your panties to the side, reach between you, and slide down onto his cock in one smooth, breathless motion. His hands catch your hips like they always do—tight, reverent, greedy—and your knees dig into the leather seat as you start to bounce, fucking him hard and deep, the way he needs it, the way you need it more. His mouth finds your throat. Your moans fill the car. And everything else—the engine, the silence, the stars behind fogged glass—just disappears.

The car isn’t moving—not in the way it was meant to—but your body is. His seat’s all the way down, legs spread, and you’re perched above him like gravity gave up on rules. His hands frame your hips, fingers digging into the muscle like he can feel every inch of tension you’ve carried, every sharp breath you’ve been too afraid to exhale. The engine ticks quietly beneath you, warm like a secret. “You’re gonna need to know this someday,” he tells you again, softer this time, but not any less serious. “If it all falls apart, if I can’t drive… I need to know you’ll keep it alive. I need to know you can.”

You nod, even though you don’t understand all of it, even though the weight of what he’s saying lands in your gut like something hot and heavy and terrifying. You nod, because the way he’s looking at you makes your chest pull tight. Because this doesn’t feel like a lesson—it feels like a handover. Like trust being transferred with every breath, every stroke, every sound that slips out between you. He doesn’t ask if you’re scared. He doesn’t have to. He just touches you like he’s answering the question before you ask it. “Don’t think,” he murmurs again, low and careful, fingers sliding up the back of your neck. “Just feel me. Feel this. That’s what racing is.”

You do. You feel him hard against your thighs, cock resting right at the seam of your panties, your skirt bunched up around your waist. His voice is right in your ear, his chest under your hands, and when you roll your hips down slowly, it sends a shock through you both. “That’s it,” he whispers, breath catching. “Right there. That tension—that edge—that’s what you ride.” The metaphor’s thin now. Barely there. Because the pressure between your legs isn’t symbolic, it’s slick and real and throbbing, and you’re so wet you can feel the way your panties stick when you shift again. He growls low in his throat. “Fuck, you feel that? You feel what you do to me?”

You gasp, whisper his name, and this time he doesn’t stop you. He helps you pull his jeans down just far enough, his cock already leaking against his abs. You guide him in slow, your hand wrapped around the base until the stretch hits, and your mouth falls open like it’s holy. “Jeno—” It’s barely a sound. Just breath and need. He grabs your hips again, holding you steady as you sink the rest of the way, clenching around him so tightly he curses through his teeth. “That’s it,” he groans. “Fuck, baby. You feel so fucking good—so perfect.”

You start to move, hips rolling in shallow, trembling circles, your hands gripping his shoulders like they’re the only thing holding you together. He lets you take your time. Lets you find the rhythm. “You’re doing it,” he breathes, kissing under your jaw, sliding one hand down to guide the pace of your hips. “You’re riding it—fuck, that’s perfect—just like the curve, just like I taught you.” You moan, loud and desperate, because it’s so much—his cock filling you deep, the praise in his voice, the way he never stops touching you like he’s trying to memorize your skin. “Jeno,” you gasp again, hips stuttering. “I’m gonna—fuck—I’m gonna—”

He doesn’t stop. He fucks up into you hard, once, twice, catching your rhythm, slamming deeper with every bounce. The car seat groans beneath you, the sound of wet friction loud and obscene, your moans catching on the rise of your breath. “Ride me like you own it,” he pants, voice fraying at the edges. “Like it’s yours.” His hands slam you down harder and you cry out, head falling back. "You feel that? Every inch of you takes me so fucking well.”

“I love this,” you whisper. “Fuck—I love this.” He kisses you like the confession cracked him open, mouth devouring yours, tongue pushing deep, like the only way to breathe is through you. His hands are everywhere—your ass, your waist, up your shirt, gripping your tits through your bra and squeezing hard. “This is how I want you before every race,” he mutters against your lips. “Full of me. Fucked out. Focused.”

You ride him like it’s instinct, like every shift of your hips is mapped into muscle. You lean forward and lick up his throat, whisper, “Then win it for me.” He growls. Thrusts harder. “I will. You survive the track, you can survive this.”

You clench around him again, tighter this time, and he falters. “You’re gonna make me come,” he gasps, eyes fluttering. “Fuck—baby, keep going. You’re so good to me. So fucking good.” You press your forehead to his, eyes locked, and whisper, “Don’t pull out. I want it. Want it all.”

That’s what does it. That’s what undoes him.

He comes with a guttural sound, cock pulsing deep inside you, his hands shaking against your skin. And you—eyes fluttering, breath stuttering—come with him, thighs quaking, mouth open against his throat, everything in you breaking loose.

When it’s over, you don’t move. He holds you there. One hand tangled in your hair. The other still on the wheel. Like he’ll never let go. Like you're his now. Like this was never about racing. It was always about you. You stay curled over him, skin damp, chest heaving, his cum still warm and dripping down your thighs. He hasn’t let go of you, arms locked tight around your waist like if he loosens his grip you’ll vanish with the air. You press your lips to the edge of his jaw, breath still broken, fingers dragging lazy, reverent lines over his collarbone like you’re drawing a map only you can follow. “I’ll race the world for you,” you whisper, soft, certain, like it’s already been decided. He exhales like it breaks him. Doesn’t say anything back. Just kisses you—slow, deep, grateful—and lets his heart beat out the truth against yours.

The final league race doesn’t feel like an event. It feels like a reckoning. Night drapes over the circuit like oil, thick and untouchable, swallowing the edges of the stadium until all that’s left is light—too much of it, everywhere. Giant flood beams cut the air like surveillance drones, tracing arcs of brilliance across the gleaming hood of the Soul Line car. The stadium is full to the edges with noise, bodies stacked in metal seats, live feeds blinking across jumbotron screens but you don’t hear any of it. Not really. You only hear the low hum of the engine cooling beside you. The steady inhale-exhale of Jeno’s breath as he straps his gloves on. 

Then he reaches across you, slow and deliberate, one hand slipping under the curve of your ribs as the other pulls the seatbelt across your body, locking it into place with a sharp, metallic click. His fingers linger at the buckle, brushing the inside of your thigh, and when he leans in again, mouth brushing your ear, it’s softer—more dangerous. “Make sure you stay strapped in, baby,” he murmurs, breath hot against your neck. “You’re not going anywhere tonight.”

You smile—tight, breathless, too aware of the way his hand hasn’t moved from your leg. The belt presses across your chest, snug and final, but it’s his voice that really pins you there, low and possessive, crawling under your skin like voltage. He’s already leaning closer, his weight shifted toward your side, sex dark in his eyes like it’s the last thing he’ll ever say with his mouth. “I’m not,” you whisper back, turning just enough that your mouth grazes the corner of his jaw. “Not unless you tell me to.” It’s not a flirt. It’s a vow. Because you know what’s coming—you know the track won’t forgive a single mistake, that the walls are closer than they look, and the enemy is watching from the sidelines. They’re inside the system. Inside the car and the only thing holding it all together is him. And you. And this.

Everything was already rigged to burn. A corrupted file wiped his telemetry logs four days ago—Jaemin caught it, barely, running backups at 3AM with trembling fingers and a whiteboard full of loops no one should’ve had access to. Renjun found brake inconsistencies again, this time not random. Targeted. Precision siphoning of his system only. Sunwoo nearly broke a monitor when he realised the race order had been tampered with—they were always supposed to run last. Now they’re first. No time to adapt, no time to pivot. The garage was chaos. Accusations, calculations, pacing but when the yelling stopped, the decision was unanimous. This isn’t about placing anymore. It’s about making it out alive.

So you laid the trap. Every member of Soul Line laced the circuit with blood. Jaemin coded a fake vulnerability into the car’s telemetry—just enough to look like an opening, a mistake. Renjun reconfigured the fuel intake readings to simulate a leak. Haechan played his part loud and reckless, laughing too hard, spilling the line you’d planned—“If Jeno hits 220, the whole thing might blow.” And you, sat in the shadows of the comms tower, uploaded a ghost report seeded with doubt. Analysis that said the team was cracking, that they wouldn’t survive the night. The bait was placed. All that was left was to wait.

Jeno starts strong. The engine growls under his touch, tyres hugging the corners like they were born for them. The route is brutal—tight bends, blind drops, no rails, a custom course knotted through the dead zone east of the city. A stadium-circuit hybrid, carved like a scar through concrete and gravel. You sit beside him under the guise of safety telemetry. The board doesn’t know you’ve simmed this race a hundred times. Jeno does. He’s the one who made you run it. He said, “If anything goes wrong, I want you next to me.” You said yes before your heart could catch up.

The first two laps are clinical. Calculated. You can feel the math of it in every turn he takes—precise, deliberate, clean. He’s all reflex and rage in perfect sync, slicing through corners like they’re nothing but slits in fabric, every movement mapped and burned into his bones. The engine purrs beneath you like it knows him, the track bends as if it wants him to win. It’s beautiful to watch but you feel it before he does—something small, off-tempo. The cadence of his breathing stutters. His right arm tenses longer than it should and his eyes, usually calm and locked forward, flicker just a little too often toward the apexes.

By lap three, it’s not subtle anymore. The steering wheel jerks in his grip. Not much, but enough. Enough to make him snarl and wrench it back like he’s fighting something beneath his skin. “Shit,” he bites out, jaw locked tight. “Something’s—” He doesn’t finish. He can’t. His knuckles are white, his chest rising faster now, the calm unraveling thread by thread. You glance over. His pupils are blown wide, trying to recalibrate, but the lights on the visor dance wrong—too quick, too loud, blinding instead of guiding. “It’s blurring,” he says finally, voice cracked with disbelief. “Fuck. I can’t—they tampered with my neuro visor.”

Then it hits again. This time, lower—his right glove spasms, not violently, but wrong. It twitches against the shift handle, gripping like it’s trying to pull control back from him, not support it. You watch his body stiffen, like he’s fighting his own limbs, not just the track. “They rigged the actuator,” he growls, the words jagged between clenched teeth. “It’s not syncing to my neural pattern.” That’s when the car bucks slightly under you, not enough to crash. But enough to warn. Enough to say this isn’t a race anymore—it’s a hijacking and if you don’t move now, one of you won’t make it past the next turn.

The car lurches violently as the front wheel clips the edge of the track, the left fender skimming the barrier with a screech of metal that cuts through your spine like a live wire. You jerk forward in your seat, only held back by the belt he buckled for you minutes ago, and beside you, Jeno curses under his breath—short, raw, guttural. His gloved fingers fumble at the wheel, desperate to correct the turn, but it’s already too late. The steering isn’t responding. It’s not syncing with him anymore. You glance over and see the panic bleeding through his control—jaw locked, brow furrowed, sweat shining on his temple even under the floodlights. His arm jerks once, then again, not from the G-force, but from something worse. Artificial tension. Programmed resistance.

The glove—designed to sync with his neural output, to amplify his reflexes—is hijacked, every movement overcorrected, jerky, wrong. His hand twitches when he tries to shift gears, and the whole car jolts as the actuator fights back. “Shit,” he growls, mouth barely moving. “They did it. They fucking did it.”

You reach out without thinking, one hand gripping the wheel, the other bracing on the console. “Let go,” you say, low but steady, voice cutting through the static buzz in the cockpit.

He doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t. He keeps trying, keeps pushing, glove spasming, head shaking as his vision struggles to sync. “No. No—don’t. This is my race. You don’t—this isn’t—”

“You can’t drive like this,” you snap, tightening your grip on the wheel as the next curve barrels toward you like a dare. He hesitates. Too long.

The tires shriek as you scrape another edge, rubber burning hot under the strain. Jeno swears again, chest heaving, both hands locked on a wheel that no longer listens to him. You turn to him fully, eyes locked on his, and say it with no room for negotiation. “Move.”

“Don’t fucking tell me to—”

“You’ll kill us.”

That’s what cracks him. Not the heat, not the pain, not the way the car’s barely clinging to the track anymore. It’s the way your voice breaks on the word kill. Like you’re scared. Like this isn’t a race anymore—it’s a goddamn trap.

His throat bobs. His fingers flex once. “Then who the fuck—”

“Me.” Your voice is steel, even as your heart pounds so loud it fills the cabin. “I’ve trained for this. You taught me. You said if anything ever happened—”

“That was theory,” he bites out, furious. “It wasn’t meant to be real.”

“It is real.”

He still won’t move. Not yet. His eyes flicker to you, then to the road. He doesn’t want this. Not because he doesn’t trust you but because he does, giving up control means risking you. Means putting you in the same danger he’s spent the whole fucking season trying to shield you from.

The car jerks again. The glove spasms. And finally, finally, he says it—hoarse and barely audible: “Don’t crash.”

You don’t answer. You crawl over him while the car flies forward at 210, knees knocking against his thighs, chest pressed to his as you shift across the console, hands never leaving the wheel. His hand catches your hip instinctively, holding you steady as you straddle the seat, and for a second it feels obscene, intimate, terrifying. Your faces are inches apart. His voice is shaking. “Please. Just—come back to me.”

“I will,” you whisper, breath against his mouth. “But only if you let me save you first.” And just like that, the seat shifts. The balance tips. You slide into position. The car keeps going. But now—you’re the one driving.

The world opens beneath you, a map of lines and breath and velocity, and you take the next curve with your entire body—lean into it like a lover, like the wheel itself is an extension of your spine. It responds instantly, shivering under your grip, humming with every calculated twitch of your hands, every demand you make of it. The engine doesn’t roar—it purrs. Like it knows it’s yours now. Like it always was. Jeno’s voice stays low in your ear, even as his chest heaves beside you, even as his hand—still trembling from the override—clutches the edge of the console like he’s holding onto the edge of a dream. “Brake before the ridge. Downshift out of turn six,” he breathes, but it’s different now. Less instruction. More awe. “That’s it, baby—just like that. Fuck, you feel that? That’s you.”

You follow it. Feel it. Own it. The track stretches wide and brutal ahead of you, but you don’t blink. Don’t flinch. Your nerves burn clean. Your thighs shake from the G-force but you never loosen your grip, not once. You taste sweat. You smell scorched asphalt. You are inside the rhythm now, part of the car, welded to every scream of the tires. And he knows it. “You’re doing better than I did,” Jeno mutters, almost stunned, and there’s reverence in the words, thick and raw and his. “You were made for this. Made to drive me fucking crazy. Made to win. My girl—fuck, baby—my girl’s got it.”

You take the next corner smoother than silk, the car humming obediently beneath you like it knows who’s driving now. You brake just enough to eat the turn and burst out of it cleaner than before. The curve releases you like a breath, and Jeno groans something low and ragged beside you—pride, arousal, disbelief, maybe all three tangled.

It happens subtly, almost like a whisper against the throttle. There’s a flicker in the dash—quick, irregular, a spike that doesn’t belong. It doesn’t come from your car. Your eyes narrow, trained now not just for speed but for sabotage. You shift your grip, steadying the wheel with one hand as your other moves to the console beneath. Jeno had wired in a private panel weeks ago, veiled beneath the false skin of a basic diagnostic feed. You access it without hesitation, fingers flying across the touchpad. The interface lights up in pale green, jittering with static, revealing a pulse signal threaded deep within the network. It loops, unnatural. You trace it.

The override isn’t yours. It doesn’t mimic your engine’s behaviour or Jeno’s previous telemetry. It’s foreign. Behind you, the crowd screams, the pitch shifting into something shrill. A rival car veers on the external feed, a sudden break in formation. You watch it spin, metal shrieking as it hits the side barrier. The violence is too precise to be clumsy. No driver reacts that late unless they’re fighting something stronger than themselves. You feel it all around you now—the wrongness crawling under your skin, sinking into your bones. Jeno’s jaw tightens beside you. His voice comes hoarse, barely audible over the roar. He tells you they’ve widened the net. This was never just about him. It never was.

The wheel vibrates beneath your hands. Not from the road. From the interference. The override is spreading like contagion, not targeting a single unit but siphoning through every admin-allowed frequency. It’s a lattice of control, invisible and lethal. You slam the brakes during a straight, heart hammering as the car jolts. You only need a few seconds—long enough to freeze the signal. Long enough to crack it. Jeno reaches down, retrieving the final card you both agreed on: the burner drive from the tech informant. He plugs it in. The interface floods with code. Terminal access granted. Live keys blinking red.

The track breaks apart in screams and smoke. Ahead of you, Vulcan’s lead car stutters mid-turn—then jerks violently sideways like something yanked the steering column out of his hands. He spins, crashes into the barrier so hard the right wheel flies off in a blur of shrapnel. Another vehicle—Strix blackline, number 08—loses throttle input entirely, the engine coughing once before the back half lifts clean off the road and scrapes into a wall. Sparks bloom across the asphalt. The crowd doesn’t know whether to cheer or panic. One by one, the remaining competitors jolt off pattern, their telemetry collapsing like dominoes. It’s not random. The sabotage is systematic, precision-led, triggered by control bursts hidden inside the league’s own admin shell. No warning, no way out. They weren’t just watching Soul Line. They were studying everyone. And now they’re erasing the field.

“What the fuck,” Jeno breathes. His hand clamps your thigh, grounding himself as the dashboard explodes with an influx of encrypted signals. You reach forward again, fingers flicking over data lines, your breath caught behind your teeth. 

“It’s not a virus,” you say. “It’s remote access. Someone’s inside the race feed right now.” You peel back the firewall layer, revealing a user ID pinging off internal relay towers with near-zero latency. “They’re not spoofing. They’re using board credentials.”

Sunwoo’s voice crackles through the comms. “Is this linked to the Vulcan crash?”

“Confirmed,” you answer instantly. “The override was triggered three seconds before Riku lost control. They injected a counter-steer command into his stabiliser.” You glance at Jeno. “This isn’t random. They’re targeting specific cars. This is a cleanup.”

Jaemin chimes in from the garage, breathless. “I’ve got a mirror trace running. It’s bouncing back from Admin Sector B.” There’s a pause. A tension shift. “Wait—there’s a burn key active. Top-level. It’s logging telemetry edits live from inside the circuit’s main control shell. It’s—” His voice drops out.

“Say it,” Jeno grits, eyes still locked on the feed.

“It’s someone in the oversight box,” Jaemin finishes, quiet now. “Someone who’s not supposed to be coding during the race. Someone high up.”

Another pause. This time, it’s Renjun who cuts through the silence. “The signal’s tag is TYX-019.”

The breath catches in your throat as the signal source surfaces. It's not masked. Not anymore. The encryption falls away, layer by layer, until what’s left is an IP address that doesn’t belong to any racer. It’s rooted inside the circuit’s oversight tower. It isn’t just plugged into the system. It is the system. Your head snaps up. Across the track, above the noise, you see the glass flash once. Behind it, someone rises from their chair. They rip their headset off. Turn without urgency. Like they never needed to watch the race to control it.

Your blood runs cold. Jeno is staring, frozen, a thousand unsaid thoughts carved into the furrow of his brow. You recognise that posture. The shoulders, squared and sure. The tilt of the head, casual, confident, careless. You see the control in it, the certainty. The familiarity.

It had always been him. The man who spoke in strategies and punishments. The man who told you what this team could never be. The one who warned Jeno not to rely on anyone who wasn’t willing to bleed for the machine. You never needed to say his name. Jeno never needs to say it either. The fury in his silence says enough. So does the betrayal laced into your breath.

The trap didn’t fail. It led him right into the open. The second the terminal lit up, the signal twisted back on itself—mapped, mirrored, exposed. It spread like voltage across every comm channel, a live hemorrhage of data, every byte blinking red. He tried to jam it, tried to bury it in backup layers, but Jaemin had already rerouted the failsafe. Sunwoo stalled the system alert. Renjun mirrored the trace. Haechan flooded the admin server with junk code, forcing the saboteur’s controls into full manual override. One by one, every defense he built was stripped bare—until the only thing left was the truth, screaming out from every feed like fire through oil. You and Jeno blocked each strike before it could land, swerving hard when the traction sensors spiked, gripping through wind shear when the brakes tried to lock. There’s no hesitation anymore. No fear. Just two of you, wired into the machine like bone and blood, carving a path straight through his empire of ruin.

You don’t look back. Not when you know he’s watching. Not when the trap is already tightening around his neck. Your focus is blistered into the track now—the ridges of rubber burned into the corners, the flash of red lights in the haze of smoke, the way the heat shimmers off the asphalt like warpaint. The track curves like a scar beneath the stadium lights, hard and brutal, a dead-zone circuit spliced together by black-market engineers and forgotten league veterans. The barriers are unforgiving. The crowds press in like gods waiting for blood. This is where everything ends. Or begins.

Jeno groans beside you, fingers digging into your leg like he’s trying to anchor himself to something that won’t collapse. His voice comes in bursts, broken from strain but steady in command—“Downshift now. Pull left. Clip the turn, don’t fight it.” He’s half-folded against the passenger seat, chest rising like thunder, sweat gleaming against his temple. And you—you’ve never felt more alive. The wheel pulses under your palms. The engine snarls with every push. The car doesn’t obey you, it belongs to you. Like it knows the stakes. Like it remembers every loss.

The sky above is black, endless, starless, but the finish line glows ahead in raw electric white. It isn’t hope. It isn’t mercy. It’s the reckoning they tried to erase. You take the curve clean, back wheels skimming the outer line like the track’s been carved into your muscle memory since the beginning. The engine doesn’t stutter. It listens. Breathes. Obeys. The final straight opens like a corridor built from velocity itself, the crowd screaming in a blur on either side, and you don’t hesitate—you fucking floor it. Jeno’s breath is ragged beside you, one hand braced over your thigh, voice cracking through the comms as he guides the last line. Your pulse pounds louder than the engine, louder than the cheers, louder than the sound of history reconfiguring beneath your tires and somewhere in the back of your mind, it hits you—this is why you’re racing. Because the trap didn’t fail. It worked. It lured him into the open, and now that the signal’s exposed—now that the grid runs red with proof—there’s no rewriting it. No mercy. Not when the boys gave you their faith. Not when Jeno trusted you enough to give up control. Not when every crash, every failure, every fucking death was orchestrated beneath the hands of a man who never planned to let them win. And now? You take everything back. Wheel first. Fire second. The finish line ignites in your reflection—close, closer—and you don’t blink. You burn through it.

The roar that greets you as the car skims the final straight could’ve shattered glass. The crowd is a blur, a heaving wall of noise and motion and light, but you barely register any of it. The world narrows to the strip of tarmac ahead, the tremble of the wheel in your hands, the heat of Jeno’s palm pressed over your thigh as he braces beside you, half-bent over from strain, voice breaking with every breath as he tells you where to go. The interface lights surge around the dashboard, warning signals flickering and dying, but the engine purrs like it was born under your command. It doesn’t fight you. It flies.

The car dips into the final curve, tyres screaming against the track’s brutal incline, and Jeno’s voice rasps through the static: "Ride it out, baby. This is it." The finish line pulses ahead like a horizon set on fire. A wind tunnel of adrenaline and steel rushes past your skull, but your grip doesn’t falter. You remember every simulation. Every late-night drive with his hand wrapped around yours on the stick. Every time he made you take control when you were too scared to. You drop gear, shoot forward like a bullet, and the final lap opens for you like a mouth to devour.

The line blurs. The car screams. You pass it.

And then—silence. Not in the arena, not really, but inside the car. Inside your chest. A stunned, ringing, breathless pause. You let go of the wheel. Just for a second. Just long enough to feel the weight of what you did crash into you.

The Soul Line pit erupts. You see bodies flood forward from the sidelines, arms raised, mouths open in shock and triumph. Jaemin is the first out, sprinting before the gate’s even lifted, tablet still clutched in his hand, screaming into his comms. Haechan throws something in the air—his gloves maybe—yelling at no one and everyone. Renjun shoves him, shouts back, then runs for the barrier. Sunwoo stands frozen for a beat before he turns and punches the wall behind him with a sob you can’t hear. You did it. They did it. You won.

The car skids to a halt just past the barricade, engine whimpering as it cools. Jeno exhales like he hasn’t breathed in minutes. You lean forward, forehead pressed to the wheel, tears burning behind your eyes. It’s over. It’s done. The rule was clear—if the lead driver is compromised mid-race, the assigned onboard co-monitor is allowed to assume control. Legal. Binding. Iron-clad.

Jeno unstraps first, shoulders heaving as he yanks off his glove, arm trembling from the aftershocks still tearing through his system. He leans across you, lips parted, breathing hard, and the second he unclips your belt, his fingers brush your chest—slow, steady, deliberate. It’s not a rush. It’s reverence. Like he’s making sure you’re real. Like he needs to feel your heartbeat with his own hands before he can believe you’re still here. Then both hands cradle your face, thumbs pressing along your jaw, and his eyes lock to yours, wild and glazed and wrecked. “You fucking did it,” he says, voice raw like smoke. Then he kisses you—hard, filthy, all teeth and breath and tongue, like it’s the only thing anchoring him to this moment. Your legs shake. Your mouth opens to him. Your hand curls into his shirt like you’re scared he’ll disappear. And when you whisper it back against his ear, hot and breathless—“I’d race the world for you”—he groans like it guts him, like you just said something sacred. “I’ll never let you drive alone again.”

It doesn’t end with the kiss. It spills over. He kisses your throat next, his hands gripping your waist, then pulls away only to press your forehead to his. You’re both panting, drenched in sweat, shaking from speed and adrenaline and survival. When the door opens and the air hits, it’s chaos—blinding lights, roaring screams, footsteps pounding toward you like thunder. But all you feel is his hand in yours as you climb out, legs barely holding steady. Jaemin gets to you first—pulls you into him like he’s been holding that breath the whole race. His hug is rough, arms locked around your shoulders, face buried in your neck. Haechan grabs your hand and kisses it, his grin so bright it hurts, then spins you like a trophy, shouting something incoherent. Renjun’s eyes are wet. Sunwoo won’t stop staring at Jeno like he’s still not sure if he’s alive. Everyone is touching you. Pulling you in. Wrapping you in something thicker than celebration. It’s family. It’s relief. It’s reverence.

And then it happens—someone screams your name. The crowd erupts behind it, all at once. Your name. His. Soul Line. Again. Again. Louder each time, until it drowns the rest of the world out. You don’t know where the sound begins or ends, only that it surges through your bones like a second heartbeat. You’re turning, eyes wide, and Jeno’s already there—grinning like a fucking maniac, face flushed, eyes lit up like he never stopped burning. He bends, grabs your thighs, and lifts you clear off the ground, spinning in a full circle like it’s muscle memory. You shriek, laugh, your arms flying around his shoulders, the whole world tilting with you. You’re still full of him. Still dizzy. Still slick between your legs. But none of it matters. You won. You lived. You burned through every trap and brought the entire empire down at your feet. The sky above is fire. The ground beneath you doesn’t exist. You’re in his arms, and the world is screaming your name.

Your voice breaks first—calm but serrated—as you speak into the open comms: “We caught him.” You don’t say his name. Not yet. The air inside the circuit seems to freeze, every signal cutting to static, every head turning, like the entire league leans forward at once, breath held. Behind the control booth’s tinted glass, a figure jolts. and in that instant—everyone sees it. Jaemin’s rerouted trace flashes across every display. A single admin key, red and blinking, logged into the override terminal. L.T. SEO / ADMIN OVERSIGHT / LEVEL 7 ACCESS.

The crowd erupts with gasps, shocklike a body blow. Someone screams from the back row. The feed cuts to a security camera view: the oversight box, backlit and exposed and there, in a suit that no longer fits the shadows, Taeyong stands. Still. Caught. Burned by every frame of proof lighting up the jumbotrons like a fucking execution.

Sirens split the air. Stadium security floods the stands, pouring into the VIP box. Jeno sees it first, on the in-car monitor. “He tried to kill us,” he mutters, voice low, deadly, shaking with rage he’s swallowed too long. “He tried to erase us.” You don’t flinch when the guards tackle Taeyong. You don’t blink as he’s dragged into the aisle. But you do feel Jeno’s hand slide over yours, tight, grounding, fierce. His other arm stretches out in front of you instinctively, shielding without a thought, the others closing in behind.

Taeyong thrashes once, face contorted, blood at the corner of his mouth from where he bit his cheek screaming. But when he catches your eyes through the chaos, he stops fighting. Just for a second. Something in him twists. He leans forward, teeth bared, throat raw. And then he spits the last thing he’ll ever get to say: “You think this ends with me?” His voice claws out, desperate, wild. “You haven’t won. You’ve only lit the match.”

Security hauls him back. The doors slam. The stadium shakes but you don’t look away. You can’t. Because this isn’t just victory. This is justice with blood under its fingernails. This is what it means to survive. This is Soul Line, standing where they were never supposed to. Jeno’s mouth brushes your temple. Jaemin’s hand curls at the nape of your neck. Sunwoo and Renjun step in tight, front and back, a wall around you, all of them watching, all of them ready for the next war.

The system is on fire and it’s your name they’ll remember.

You sink down onto him like it’s instinct. Like your body was made to take him. The backseat groans under your knees, the slick warmth of his cock stretching you inch by inch until your head falls forward and your lips part with a gasp. He’s already breathless beneath you, chest rising hard, hands splayed wide over your thighs like he’s scared to move. “Fuck, baby,” he mutters, voice wrecked. “Slow. Let me feel it.” You do. You go slow—not because you have to, but because you want to, because this isn’t about chasing a high or proving something. This is about him. About the way his eyes hold yours, the way his fingers curl tighter every time you rock your hips, the way his breath catches when you clench around him. “You feel so fucking good,” he whispers. “So warm. So perfect.”

He sits up and buries his mouth against your throat, lips parting over skin that still tastes like adrenaline and gasoline. “I don’t care what happens to this league,” he says, words hot against your jaw. “They can burn it to the fucking ground. I’ve got you now. That’s all I give a shit about.” His hand moves to your back, sliding under your shirt, fingertips tracing the curve of your spine, like he needs to memorise you. You roll your hips again and he groans, forehead pressed against yours, his cock throbbing deep inside you. “I knew you’d save us,” he says again, almost to himself. “Knew it the second I let you in that car.” You press your lips to his collarbone and whisper, “You’re mine.” His answer is immediate. “Always fucking mine.” He thrusts up into you, slow and deep, and your whole body shudders from the contact.

The car rocks gently with your rhythm. Your thighs ache from how wide you’re spread over him, knees jammed against worn leather, but it’s nothing compared to the ache between your legs, the way his cock fills you like it’s claiming every inch you’ve ever called your own. “Jeno,” you whisper, dizzy from the heat in your belly. “I’m—fuck—I’m not scared anymore.” 

He nods, hands coming up to cradle your face, eyes locked on yours. “Me neither,” he says, voice breaking. “Not if I’ve got you.” And he means it. You feel it, in the way he touches you like you’re sacred. Like you’re not just the girl who took the wheel but the one who became the road, the one he trusts with his life, with his name, with every bruise he’s ever been too proud to show.

He fucks you gently but thoroughly. Like there’s no rush now. Like he’s waited his whole life to make you feel safe enough to fall apart on top of him. His hands trail under your shirt again, palms wide and firm against your ribs, and you shift your hips just right until you both groan, helpless, already too close again. “You’re everything,” he breathes. “You’re everything, baby.” Your fingers thread through his hair, tugging gently as you kiss him again, tongues brushing, noses bumping. 

“Say it again,” you murmur. “Tell me I’m yours.” He doesn’t even hesitate. 

“Mine,” he whispers, again and again, like it’s the only word he remembers. “Mine, mine, mine.” His thrusts grow uneven and your body clenches, slick and hot, your orgasm curling like smoke in your belly.

You cry out softly when you come, back arching, cunt spasming tight around him, and he follows with a grunt, hips jerking up as he spills deep inside you, pulsing with it. His arms lock around your waist, holding you flush to him, breathing hard into the crook of your neck. You collapse together, his cock still buried inside you, both of you trembling. For a long moment, there’s no sound except the distant buzz of overhead lights and the ragged drag of breath. He doesn’t move, he just keeps you close. Keeps you his. His hands slide slowly up your spine, fingers tracing shapes you’ll never see but will feel for hours after. You rest your forehead against his and let your eyes close. The world doesn’t matter right now. Just this. Just him.

Because that’s the thing. He is beautiful, but not in the way people talk about. Not in the way magazines photograph or fans obsess over. He’s beautiful like a war-scarred city. Beautiful like danger dressed in silk—sharp where it shouldn’t be, and begging to be bitten. He’s beautiful like overdrive—too fast, too hot, made to ruin. Beautiful like the stretch of track you take without braking, knowing it’ll hurt, knowing you’ll do it anyway. His mouth tastes like sin with no exit plan, and he looks at you like he’s already bitten down, like you’re bleeding and he’s still hungry. He’s beautiful like a coffin carved for royalty, all cold elegance and finality, like something buried in silk but meant to haunt. Beautiful like the bruise you press again and again just to make sure it’s real. Like a hunger that’s learned your name, like the sound of metal scraping asphalt at 220, like the ache you begged for even when you swore you’d never need. He’s beautiful like the moment the engine blows out and the world still spins. Like blood on glass. Like the wreckage after the win.

His eyes dark and bottomless, mouth set in a line that knows disappointment intimately, jaw sharp like he’s always one second from grinding through it. You didn’t know his name when it started, but you knew his type. The kind built to break records and people in the same breath. The kind Taeyong sent you here to kill. He held your gaze too long that first night, saw you in a way that made your skin crawl, made your chest ache. Not curiosity. Not attraction. Recognition. Like he already knew the ending and was daring you to change it.

That was the night you learned what kind of danger he was. Not the explosive kind. Not even the cruel kind. The kind that watches. The kind that waits. The kind that strips you down without ever touching you. And back then, when he tilted his mouth and looked away, it felt like rejection. Now, it feels like memory. Now, it feels like fate. Because somehow, some way, the man you were sent to bury is the man who saved you. He’s the one who handed you the keys. The one who let you drive. Not just the car. Not just the race but everything. The whole fucking future. And now he sleeps under your fingertips, tangled with you in oil-stained leather, his heart beating like it belongs to your hands.

His cock is still inside you when you press your palms flat to his chest and shift, slow, dragging yourself up over his body while your thighs tremble and your skin clings to sweat-slick leather. Jeno’s still catching his breath, mouth parted, chest rising in ragged bursts beneath you—but the moment your cunt leaves him, soaked and pulsing, he groans like it hurts. His hands find your hips again, still possessive, still grounding you like you might disappear if he lets go. “Where you going, baby?” he breathes, eyes dark, voice hoarse. You don’t answer. You just keep crawling up, knees on either side of his ribs now, fingers threading through his hair, slow and deliberate. His tongue flicks out when you reach his collarbone, and you feel the change in him before he even opens his mouth. “Fuck. You gonna sit on my face?” It’s reverent. It’s ruined. It’s like he’s begging without saying please. 

You tilt your head, smirk down at him, and whisper, “Thought you’d never ask.”

He adjusts under you, eager now, both hands sliding down to cup your thighs, spreading them, dragging you higher with a low growl that vibrates through your skin. You brace against the roof of the car, knees wide, your slick already dripping down the inside of his neck, and when you lower yourself onto his mouth, it’s like dropping into fire. His tongue is hot, fast, greedy from the first second. He licks into you like he’s been starving for it, like your cunt is the only thing that’s ever made him feel alive. You moan—loud, unfiltered, so fucking gone—and grind down harder, your thighs squeezing around his head. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t flinch. He pulls you closer, buries his face deeper, tongue working in tight, relentless strokes, lips sealing over your clit with a groan that sounds more like mine than anything else. His eyes flutter closed, but he keeps his grip bruising, keeps his rhythm perfect. It’s not just hunger—it’s worship.

You rock against him, hands scrambling at the car roof for balance, body jerking every time he sucks harder. The heat is unbearable. Your skin’s flushed, hips twitching, moans turning breathless. “Jeno—fuck, baby—don’t stop,” you pant, your voice barely holding together. He hums under you, the vibration shooting straight through your spine, and that’s when it hits you—how good he is at this. How much he knows your body now. Every flick of his tongue is intentional. Every moan from your mouth makes him devour you deeper. He wants to ruin you like this. He wants to be the reason you fall apart again, even after everything. Especially after everything. You grip his hair tighter, thighs trembling. “You love this, don’t you?” you gasp. “You love me like this.” His eyes open, blown wide and black, and he nods against your cunt, never breaking rhythm, never once letting you up for air.

Your orgasm builds hard, brutal, all at once. Your thighs shake uncontrollably, body locked in place as his mouth works you to the edge and shoves you right over it. You scream when you come, a high, broken sound, hips jerking, hands flying back to your own chest like you can hold it in somehow—but it’s too much. You grind against his mouth, riding it out, soaking his face, and he just takes it. Moaning like he’s the one coming, like this is what he’s made for. When you finally lift off him, everything’s soaked—his lips, his jaw, his hair, your thighs. He’s panting, looking up at you like you’re divine, like you own him. You lean down and kiss him, taste yourself on his tongue, and he grabs the back of your neck, pulling you in tighter. “Let me keep you,” he whispers. “Let me keep doing this forever.”

You nod, body still trembling, cunt still dripping, and slide back into his lap—right over his hard cock, still soaked from before. “Then show me,” you murmur. “Show me what forever feels like.”

He doesn’t stop kissing you, even as you come down, even as you breathe out his name like it’s the only thing that’s ever fit right in your mouth. His lips trail along your cheek, your jaw, your collarbone, reverent and soft like prayer, but the way he shifts his weight tells you he’s not close to done. His hands move with purpose, calloused palms sliding over your hips, guiding you back with him until the cool glass of the Soul Line car presses against your spine. He crowds in, chest against yours, heartbeat wild beneath all that black and gold, and when he kisses you again, it’s messier, needier, tongue sliding against yours with a hunger that’s barely held back. “Turn around,” he murmurs, already spinning you by the waist, already gathering your hair in his fist. “Hands on the glass. Let them see what I get to keep.”

The breath punches out of you when he yanks your hips back, the curve of your ass meeting the sharp line of his pelvis. The engine’s long gone cold, but the metal burns against your chest as he presses you flat to the window, one hand braced beside your head, the other dragging your panties down and off with one clean pull. You gasp as his fingers return between your legs, two thick knuckles sinking deep into your soaked cunt, curling up until your forehead thuds against the glass. “Still so wet for me,” he growls, kissing the shell of your ear. “You never stop wanting it, do you?” Your thighs tremble as he scissors you open, as his voice goes darker. “Bet you were wet during the race too. Bet you loved knowing everyone was watching you take control with my cum still dripping down your thighs.”

He pulls his fingers out and replaces them with his cock in one harsh thrust, knocking the breath from your lungs. You moan—raw, full-bodied—and the sound fogs the glass in front of you. His grip is punishing, one hand wrapped around your throat now, the other gripping your hip so tightly you know you’ll feel the bruises tomorrow. “Say it,” he pants into your ear. “Say you’re mine.” You gasp his name, whimper it, choke on it, and he fucks you harder. “Louder.” You scream it this time, legs shaking, nails dragging streaks into the paint of the car. “I’m yours, Jeno. I’m yours—I’ve always been.” He groans at that, lets go of your throat to grab both hips and slams into you with bruising rhythm, each thrust sending you forward against the glass.

You come hard, again, cunt squeezing him so tightly he has to pause, cursing, forehead pressed to the back of your neck. “Fuck—baby—fuck, you feel too good—” He thrusts again, again, until he’s spilling inside you, jaw slack, voice low and broken, hips grinding deep like he’s trying to leave a part of himself behind. He doesn’t pull out. He never does. He stays buried, arms wrapped around your waist, chest to your back, breath ghosting over your skin like he’s never going to let you go.

And you don’t want him to. You’d let him fuck you into every wall of this goddamn garage. You’d let him fill you up before every race just to remind you where you belong. With him. Always him.

"Overdrive: How Corruption Nearly Killed the Circuit and the Racer Who Survived It" — By Y/N.

They said speed was a measure of control. That the one who steered best survived longest. That the track didn’t care about legacy or blood, only how tightly you could hold a corner without breaking. They were wrong. The truth is, speed doesn’t save you when the system wants you dead.

For years, we’ve watched the League operate beneath the illusion of merit. Wins attributed to grit. Losses to lack of talent. The bodies left behind in the wreckage? Written off as unfortunate. A risk of the sport. But what if the danger wasn’t in the curve? What if it was in the hands behind the system?

I came to this team—Soul Line Racing—believing what I was told. That they were chaos in chrome. Unruly. Dangerous. A liability to the League’s reputation. I was sent to observe, to report, to deconstruct the myth of their underdog status. I came with suspicion in my chest and a deadline on my back.

And then I saw what happened when the lights went green.

Override signals triggered mid-race. Glove actuators seizing against their users’ neural maps. Visors blurring at the most dangerous moments of the track. Brake systems delayed by milliseconds—just long enough to kill. I watched a machine betray its driver, and I watched that driver—Lee Jeno—keep going.

I tracked the telemetry. Compared it. Cross-referenced accidents dating back three years. I found patterns. Rewrites. Dead code. I found an embedded signal hiding in the admin relay, quietly issuing commands that had nothing to do with safety and everything to do with control. I followed the money. I followed the silence.

And I found Lee Taeyong.

Director of Oversight. Champion of “reform.” My boss. The one who stood at every podium claiming to love the sport while quietly orchestrating its downfall from within. His signature appears on system update logs that correlate to crashes. His admin credentials were used to access override commands during races that ended in injuries. His network of offshore sponsors kept drivers silent. When Soul Line gained traction, Taeyong clipped their wings. When other teams refused to play along, they crashed too.

Racing was never about the engine. It was about the illusion. That you could beat the odds with enough grip and guts. That if you were good enough—fast enough—you could outrun whatever was chasing you. But that’s the first lie the league teaches you: that merit gets you further than obedience. That surviving the track means you’re worthy. The truth is harder to swallow because what really determines who crosses that line isn’t reflex or training. It’s who the system decided would win long before the race began.

They told us Soul Line was reckless. Disobedient. Unfit for the spotlight. But I’ve never seen a team more precise in chaos. More united in disaster. They didn’t crack under pressure. They cracked through it because they had to. Because they were the only ones racing with a target on their backs and knives in their hands, trying to drive through a warzone masked as a sport. The league called them volatile. What they meant was: uncontrollable. What they feared was: unbought.

Jeno was never meant to live through that final race. That’s what haunts me. Not just that they tried to end him, but that they expected the world to clap for it. That they disguised the sabotage with press releases and data anomalies and thought we’d be too dazzled by the speed to notice the blood. He didn’t win because they let him. He won because we caught them first because his hands never stopped gripping the wheel, even when it was wired to betray him.

Taeyong didn’t build a racing empire. He built a weapon. One he used to silence, distort, erase. He turned racers into pawns. Data into death sentences and every time someone came close to exposing the pattern, he made sure their season ended early. What he underestimated was what happens when one of those pawns writes it down. Records the glitches. Maps the override spikes. Names him.

This isn’t just corruption. It’s psychological warfare. It’s grooming a generation of drivers to believe that failure is their fault, that crash means weakness, that burnout is proof they weren’t strong enough. It’s hiding the kill-switch inside the glove and calling it a feature. It’s rewriting telemetry mid-lap and blaming the body for not adapting. It’s trauma dressed in sponsorship.

We don’t need reform. We need demolition. Burn the tracks. Rewrite the oversight architecture. Install external forensic audits after every circuit. We need new language—terms that account for technological interference, for override injury, for sabotage trauma. Because this was never just about Soul Line. They were just the loudest ones screaming. Now the rest of the world needs to start listening.

THREE MONTHS LATER

The pit smells like torque and heat and victory now. Not desperation. Not danger. There’s a difference in the air that only those who lived through the fall can feel. It’s in the way the tools are stacked sharper, the way the boys walk like nothing can knock them down anymore. It’s quieter, somehow, even with the press screaming outside the gates. Seoul hasn’t seen peace since the article dropped. Since the expose tore through the league’s skin like shrapnel and bled everything open. Reporters started camping in the alleys around the pitt. Drones buzz low over the garages. Black vans idle outside at all hours. One news anchor called it “the Great Recalibration.” Another said you’d sparked “a new militant journalism.” You didn’t ask for any of that. All you did was write the truth but now the truth has teeth, and the world can’t look away.

Inside Soul Line’s garage, it’s not silence. It’s something stronger. Unspoken rhythm. Renjun wiping oil from his cheek with the back of his hand. Sunwoo muttering to himself as he calibrates a new telemetry mod that he swears can’t be hacked. Jaemin bent over the console, fingers flickering like they’re tracing god. None of them talk about the fallout. They don’t need to. They’re too busy building something no one can touch. And you’re in it. Fully. Woven into every thread. They don’t talk about Taeyong either. Not out loud. His name is sealed in court files and blacklisted from every league hall but they still flinch when telemetry glitches. Still watch the monitors like ghosts might crawl out of the data feed. You see it in Jeno’s shoulders, in the way he holds the wheel tighter now but he’s healing. They all are. Slowly, collectively, like bones re-setting.

They handed you the jacket this morning without warning. Matte black, sleeves heavy with gold circuitry. It looked like it belonged to you before it even touched your shoulders. The emblem glinted in the light like it knew. Like it always knew. Soul Line. Underneath it, stitched in clean, neat thread: your initials. Renjun didn’t say a word when he gave it to you. Just nodded, once. Jaemin met your eyes across the garage and didn’t look away. Sunwoo smacked your back and laughed, too hard, like he didn’t know what to do with the emotion in his chest. “Told you you were crew,” he grinned, eyes glinting. “Passenger-seat ace. Journalism prodigy. Resident saboteur hunter. You’re one of us now.”

You wore the jacket all day. You still haven’t taken it off.

Jeno watched it all from the far side of the room, leaned against the frame of the garage door like he was guarding it. Or maybe just you. He didn’t say anything at first. Just tracked every movement, arms crossed, mouth unreadable. But later, when the boys cleared out and the light from the pit dimmed to a golden haze, he pulled you into the shadow of the garage and kissed you like it was a promise. Like it had always been you. “My girlfriend looks hot,” he said, voice hoarse. You touched the emblem on his chest and felt your own beat beneath his. Matching. Aligned.

You grinned, fingers toying with the edge of his jacket, voice light but laced with heat. “Leader now, huh?” you teased, tracing the gold threading with slow, deliberate circles. “Guess I’ll have to start calling you sir. Or would you prefer ‘daddy?’”

Jeno’s eyes darkened instantly, hands sliding down your ass to squeeze, rough and possessive. “Don’t play with me,” he muttered, nose brushing yours, breath warm against your lips. “You’ve been calling me that since the day we met.” 

You tilted your head, smiled like sin. “Yeah, but now you run this place,” you whispered, lips barely ghosting his jaw. “Which means if I ride you right here, the whole league has to listen when you moan.” His breath hitched. His grip tightened. And just before he kissed you again, he growled low, “Get in the fucking car.”

The leadership changed with the speed of a whipcrack. Doyoung retired the same week the system crashed. Not in shame, but in solidarity. He stepped down from the circuit, stripped his badge, and walked straight into the fire. He joined the oversight board as its loudest reformer, made it his mission to burn every corrupted clause down from the inside. They tried to muzzle him with politics—he cut through them with statements and statistics, with field testimonies and footage only someone who’d been trackside for a decade could name by timecode. And Jeno? Jeno was never just the team’s driver. He was its spine. Its compass. Its command. The moment Doyoung stepped off the track, Jeno stepped up to the tower. Not as a poster boy. As a leader. As the one they now called captain. The racers followed him. The crew listened to him. The new rulebooks printed with his footnotes still scribbled in the margins. It wasn’t official but everyone knew. The face of the league wasn’t a boardroom name anymore. It was a racer with oil on his collarbone and your name whispered against his ribs.

The article detonated globally. Seoul moved first—broke their entire telemetry contract and formed a cleanboard task force within twenty-four hours. You sat in front of their oversight committee and explained how gloves could be re-rigged to force overdrive. How visors could scramble neural input without alert. You described how Jeno’s pupils blew wide and his hands twitched out of sync with his own mind. You showed them the data. You made them listen.

Then Japan paused its regional league entirely. “Under investigation,” they said. California followed—drivers unionizing, walking out mid-season until neural protections were guaranteed. Sweden leaked its own review. Four seasons compromised. Four years erased. Protest signs started appearing in circuits across Europe. “This track kills racers.” “No more ghosts behind the wheel.” “Override is not a malfunction.” It wasn’t just exposé anymore. It was revolution. It was all your words and Jeno’s voice and Jaemin’s code turned into a weapon.

They called your article the fuse. They called you the match.

And still, every time you come back to the pit, it feels like home. Like rebirth. Like the kind of place you weren’t born into but fought to earn. Jeno still tunes the cars like they’re alive. Renjun still calls you trouble. Jaemin still tracks your heart rate without asking. Sunwoo still tells you the only way to win is to never stop moving. You believe him now. More than ever. Inside the garage, the world is burning but it smells like fuel. Like the future. Like something no one can take from you now. Lastly, sitting just outside the frame—head tilted back, grease smudged across his jaw, eyes half-lidded from laughter—is the boy you didn’t mean to love, the one who handed you the keys anyway. Jeno. All yours.

The door shuts behind you with a muted click, and suddenly it’s like the world forgets how to be loud. The lights of the pit still cast a golden haze across the car’s shell, but inside it’s dim, thick with the kind of silence that feels earned, like the end of a war you both survived. You don’t speak. You don’t need to. You just look at him—at the boy who taught you how to survive fire by becoming it—and reach for his wrist as he drops into the passenger seat. He doesn’t stop you when you climb across the console and straddle him, your thighs spread, your breath caught somewhere between grief and victory. His fingers find your hips and squeeze like he’s checking if you’re still real. You are. Every inch of you aches with it.

Your mouth grazes his first—barely, softly, like a warning—and then he’s kissing you like he needs to know how you taste after all this. How you feel now that everything’s different. Your lips part and you take him deeper, tongue brushing his, pace unhurried and sensual, like you’ve got all night to relearn each other. He moans softly into your mouth when you grind down into his lap, his hands sliding under your shirt with a reverence that makes your pulse spike. You undo his belt one loop at a time, slow and teasing, until the leather falls open and he’s twitching against you, already hard, already waiting. There’s something frantic under his breath when he speaks, something that doesn’t match the calm in his touch. “I love you,” he says, hoarse, his mouth trailing kisses across your jaw. “Reporter girl.” 

You huff out a laugh, half breathless, half scandalized, and jab your fingers into his ribs, just enough to make him flinch. “Did you really just call me reporter girl while I’m literally on top of your dick?” you murmur, squinting down at him like you might disqualify him on the spot. 

He grins, shameless and crooked, even as his cheeks flush. “Sorry, sorry—baby,” he amends quickly, voice dropping as his hands roam lower, possessive now. “Sweet girl. The love of my life. The only person I’d let hijack my racecar and my heart in the same month.” 

You pretend to consider it for a second, then lean down again, kiss him long and deep and slow until he’s groaning into your mouth, fingers bruising around your hips. “That’s better,” you whisper against his lips, and when you roll your body down again, just to feel him jerk under you, you smile. “Now say it again but beg this time.”

His breath stutters, head tilting back against the seat as his hands tighten around your waist, dragging you down harder. “Fuck—please,” he groans, voice wrecked, all cock and desperation now. “I love you. I fucking love you. Say it back. Say it while you’re riding me, baby, come on—” His mouth finds your neck, biting down, kissing over it like it’s sacred, like you’re something holy and forbidden all at once. “Need to hear it,” he mutters, words caught somewhere between a moan and a command. “Say you love me.”

You exhale like you’ve been holding it in for years, spine arching into his hands, lips ghosting over the shell of his ear. “I love you too,” you whisper, and then louder, filthier, “I love you so fucking much, Jeno— with my entire heart.” He groans like it undoes him, like that’s what he’s been racing toward this whole time.

You sink deeper into him with a sharp inhale, your head tilting back as your body takes all of him in one deep pull. He curses under his breath, hands scrambling to hold your waist steady as your walls flutter around him. You start to move—slow, deliberate rolls of your hips, grinding down until he’s buried so deep you feel the tremor in his thighs. His head drops to your shoulder, teeth grazing the skin there like he wants to mark it, but he doesn’t. He presses a kiss to the spot instead. Gentle. Lingering. “This,” he murmurs, breath ghosting against your skin. “This is everything I didn’t know how to ask for.”

You rock against him with slow, aching purpose, your fingers tangled in his hair, your chest pressed to his like you’re trying to fuse together. Each thrust feels like a vow unspoken—like you’re rewriting the way your bodies understand each other. The seat creaks beneath you, windows fogging with heat, your moans low and broken as you chase the edge. He holds your gaze through it, eyes dark, lashes wet. “Don’t stop,” he breathes. “Please, don’t stop.” You don’t. You ride him until he’s shaking, until your thighs burn, until the only thing left in the universe is the way he fucks up into you, whispering things that sound like prayers but hit like promises.

When you come, it’s with his mouth on your chest, your name falling apart on his tongue. His orgasm follows seconds later, hips jerking up as he spills inside you, breath caught on a groan that curls straight into your spine. Afterwards, he doesn’t speak. He just keeps holding you, face buried in your shoulder, arms wrapped tight around your waist like you’re the anchor and he’s been lost at sea. You press a kiss to his temple, then another to his collarbone, and feel the thud of his heart matching yours.

The windows are fogged. The world outside hums with what comes next—media, interviews, the shift of an industry—but none of that matters right now. Not when you’re still straddling him, still pressed chest to chest, still filled with everything you both needed to say and didn’t. You stroke his hair until he falls asleep against your skin, your palm steady over the back of his neck. Outside, the car glows beneath the pit lights like a secret. Inside, you close your eyes and breathe him in. This is where the story ends. Not with headlines. Not with a trophy. With a breath. A body. A boy. A promise.

And as you leaned your forehead to his, eyes fluttering shut, you whispered the last line of the story neither of you thought would be yours—

“We won.”

tag list — @clownnationrey @ohmysion @euphormiia @jaemjeno

asks, likes, reblogs and comments always welcome <3

[fairene]

gravity / ln

lando norris x fem!reader

reader uses she/her pronouns, no use of y/n.

where your life with him is just beginning.

yes! yes! i have insane brainrot for lando norris! yes! this is meant as a single 'oneshot' of sorts, but i am open to taking requests of this so called 'universe.' reader here is a stem major, particularly physics (shoutout to the stem students!) which helps perfect the progression. also was inspired by interstellar.

wc: 15.2k woops!

warnings: smut! -- MINORS DNI!!, porn with a lot of plot! angst, drinking, language, friends to lovers, corruption kink (minor), choking, soft!top lando.

it was all consuming; he was, at least, with his curly hair, upturned eyes, smile that brightened the entire room. utterly irresistible, any woman could agree. they’d jump his bones the second he gave them a lingering glance, a playful wink.   but that’s all it ever was with those girls— glances, observations. but you, on the contrary, were a fixation. an obsession, one might call it— actually, someone has before. but you ignored it and let it fly over your whimsical head. how could a man like lando norris ever glance in your direction like he did those models, influencers? 

you were always just his friend. his best one, yours too you’d admit only in the solace of your lonesome in the hours of the evening. you met him when you were studying abroad in london at the ripe age of nineteen. you were there on a research term for a professor at your university, though it was much far north of london's borders. still, the girlfriends you managed to make would insist on your attendance to the night club scene on the town. 

who were you to deny any pleasantries? a hardworking student. a student with a vision, a dream to be more than what society compressed women to be. you’d rather be out to the stake like a medieval witch than become a loftily homemaker. while it was some of your friends desires, yours stretched far beyond the horizon of which any life was palpable. 

a nerd in short terms. 

you studied physics. with as much fun as your girlfriends had in the club, you found it in the quiet evenings if your research. you’ve devoted a great deal of time for your studies, but hey— every girl lets go here and there. 

the one time you did, you met him. in the late evening hours of the bustling club, drink in your hand, short dress sticking to your sweaty skin, he scared your close friend, laurel.

“boo,” he had said with a low tone, grabbing the girl with a blonde bob by the shoulders. she shrieked despite the loud atmosphere and spun around, slapping him on the chest. 

“lando!” she exclaimed, which had your attention drawn upward from the half bitten olive in your martini. he was taller than her, than you, muscularity built with a low taper cut of chestnut hair. he was freckled, and the first thing you noticed about him was the way that his eyes smiled. 

they curved up at the edges and you could feel the warmth of the sun drip in from the rooftop. even though it was past midnight at this point. 

“i didn’t know you were coming,” laurel breathed at an awkward pace then turned to face you. she outreached her hand for you to take with your free one. you did, feeling warm from the alcohol that you had downed from the night. 

“lando, this is my bestie from school,” she introduced you by name, to which you gave a small, dramatic courtesy towards the brit. his eyes caught on your act, gleaming with something you could even see in the yellow hued lights of the club. “this is lando norris, rookie of…what team again?”

you glanced from laurel to lando, brows raised. he hesitated for a moment, gracing you with a lopsided smile that, in time, you’d come to adore. 

“mclaren. formula one racing.” he answered, taking a hand to brace the back of his neck. he felt the need to clarify for you, which you took in earnest. he earned a light ahh in your reaction. 

you were impressed, to say the least. you hadn’t ever met a formula one driver in the flesh, nor you could say you were a devoting fan. of course you knew what it was, watched it on sundays when your uni friends would turn it on, but that was it. as smart as you were, it seemed that someone knew more about something than you did. you reeled. 

“and you like it?” you said after a beat, swirling the toothpick inside the olive around your finger. lando seemed to contemplate your words, taken back by such a question. without a doubt he liked racing, otherwise he wouldn’t do it. but that’s not what she was asking, was she? it weighed on him more as his mind unraveled the layers to such a question, but he ended on a simple answer:

“i don’t know if i could love anything more.” a jest, playful and lightheaded when it came from him. 

but how the whims would be tested over the years. 

────────────

a year later

“a whole season, lando?” you asked him, hands drawn out before you to iterate the sincerity of what he was asking. 

a season of going to races with him.

you were graduating within the next two semesters. twenty two now, whereas he was twenty three. but you had qualified to graduate early, as your intent was to do as such, but the tempting leave of absence form that sat in your lap tempted you even further. 

you sat in his monaco flat, a frequent place you visited or stayed until you recently gained residency in monte carlo. it was efficient enough for what you needed to do for work— france around the corner, italy to the west. the best physicians rallied in europe, and staying in the isolated united kingdom was not the best option for you. you caved at his months of pleading to move to monaco. 

your legs crossed as you glanced from his pacing, anxious position. your fingers tapped incessantly at the piece of paper before you, pre-addressed envelope sitting on the coffee table. 

“why not?” he questioned, putting his hands up in defense, stopping before you. he looked down at you, his heart thundering in his chest. say yes he wanted to plead. his knees felt weak. wobbly as your eyes looked back at him, determined. he loved that look. it drove him wild, enchanted by how the cogs of your brain turned. 

you sighed, looking off to the side out the floor to ceiling window. “how would i even pay for all—“

“you wouldn’t drop a pound.” 

you were taken back. you could never expect him to pay for that. you knew he was well off, given his hefty contract, but you are friends. friends don’t use each other for money. 

“lando—“ you began to shake your head. 

“no, no, don’t do that.” he stopped you, earning a glare from you. he shivered, relishing in how vindictive you could be. he hasn’t seen it many times untamed, but the fantasy had his blood roaring. “if money wasn’t a problem, would you come?”

“well—“ you attempted to come up with a defense, but nothing formed. you were at a loss of words. “what would i even wear?”

it was february when you touched down in jeddah. lando has instructed you to fly on the jet with him, side by side for the entire eight hour journey. 

you were taken back by the sudden personal touches and longing looks from him. something has changed. over the past year he’s had a few girlfriends, none of them serious so he’s told you, and you believed him. your blind affliction to nod your head and whisper okay was the only way you found that you could truly protect yourself. ignorance is bliss, or whatever the poets say. 

with your legs crossed the entire flight and eyes peering from the window, you never once felt lando’s eyes drilling into your face. though he was entirely enamored by your bravery, your understanding how important this was to him. 

you may be the only one to truly understand his passion. as he began to understand yours. 

on your lap was a research journal translated from german. your professor had sent it over to you for your leave of absence, along with ideas for your masters thesis. she was a kind woman and you appreciated all the work she has done to support you. especially translate it from german. 

you tended when you felt lando spread his legs, knee bumping into your calf. but you didn’t shy away. 

“what’re you reading?” 

“do you really want to know?”

he didn’t hesitate. “why wouldn’t i?”

your chest tightened at his soft tone. you’d never get used to that, would you? when you were in such close proximity with him, he would become so gentle, caring. not that he wasn’t in public spaces but… what was the word you were looking for?

intimate

“after your season i fly to germany to finalize my thesis. i’m still struggling on a topic, but…” you flip back a few pages in the book which was messily annotated and sticky-noted. you stopped on the event horizon section. “this one caught my eye. always fascinated me.”

lando scanned the page. it wasn’t the words he was reading, but the marks you left behind. messily written notes in the margins, smeared ink, bright orange notes with rather… rushed drawings of a black hole, surrounded by streams of… “what is it?”

your eyes glimmered. lando wanted to take a picture of you then, turning from your corner of the window and towards him. your palms smacked the page as you excitedly explained the phenomenon in far too great detail for lando to really pay attention, but he was so engrossed in your intellect and pure passion that slipped past your lips. your sweet, honeyed lips—

“lando?”

“hmm?”

“what will it be like?”

“what?”

“all of it.” your fingers tended around the journal creasing the pages unbeknownst to you. 

lando reached over, not thinking rationally, and grabbed your hands. they were colder than his. he was always warm. so warm. a light gasp left your lips when you looked up at him. 

“i’ll give you some pointers. ready?”

you nodded. 

────────────

he kept a hand on you at all times. unhindered by any sudden movement, feigning to latch at the small divot of your back. you’d grow used to its presence as you scaled the tarmac, hopped into the passenger seat of the mclaren— opened by him— and glanced down at how his hand made claim to the skin of  your thigh the entire drive. 

he’s stressed. you’d tell yourself, not thinking anything more of it. because what else could it be?

────────────

the entire time you kept modesty in mind. you had pestered lando about your choice of attire, thinking specifically about the nature of your outfits. 

“i don’t want to be disrespectful.” you said sternly, looking between the stylist lando paid to dress you, and him. it was your debut at lando’s side and you were determined to make the right choice. you were never usually like this— cold and bullheaded, but he was growing to…enjoy it more than he should. 

you stood there tapping your foot with your arms crossed. you shrugged towards the outfits she provided you. you shook your head at a few and decided to ask. 

“what about orange?”

orange.

lando thought about falling to his knees for you right then and there. to see you sporting his team colors for him was a dream that he would never want to wake from. 

the stylist nodded, raking through the options. there was one that was made of silk, a dress that covered you to the ankles, to the forearms. an abaya it was called. if you were going to be representing lando, which he mentioned on the plane, then you were going to do it right. 

and you’ll be damned before you’re ever wrong. 

────────────

you certainly underestimated the crowds. 

with the season opening, you and lando had been swarmed upon your arrival. he warned you of this, but to which the gravity of it you greatly underestimated. 

your fists bawled at the material of the dress, clenching with unspoken anxiety. you were never much of a public person, but you’d be willing to find out if that were true or not today. 

“hey,” lando nudged your shoulder. you glanced at him with a light smile. “you got this.”

that comfort was enough alone to let you be pulled from the car. lando opened the door for you. immediately swarmed by flashing cameras and the devilish heat of the middle eastern sun. 

questions were thrown at him about you, who you were, and you’d let him do all the talking. 

you straightened your posture, gripped the handbag tightly, and kept a soft smile to your features. 

lando would stop on occasion to sign some memorabilia, which was a perfect time for you to observe. he was kind with the people who were such loyal fans to him. dressed in the mclaren jerseys, hats, he’d sign anything that was thrown his way. even some arms were thrown in his direction. 

it was endearing for you. watching him thrive in his element. your heart warmed at the sight. a new found affection blossoming in the pit of your stomach. 

a thump was heard on the ground before you. you turned, glancing back at lando who kept moving forward. it was a mclaren hat dropped by a teenage girl wrapped in a similar garment to yourself. you traipsed over, crouching down to pick it up, and hand it back to her. 

“here,” you offered in a sweet tone. your smile was brighter. the girl was clearly elated, bouncing on the balls of her feet. 

“are you and lando dating?” came a question from the girl beside her. she was earned a slap to the shoulder, being called rude.

you laughed lightly, shaking your head. “no, no, friends from home is all.”

you saw a phone held up, recording the interaction. but it didn’t scare you. why would it?

“do you want to wrap your hijab? it’ll fly loose in the wind…” the girl asked nervously, placing the mclaren hat on her covered head. you were taken back for a moment, glancing down at the rather lazy job of the stylist, and took intent note that it was rather windy today. it would be hard for you to maintain it by yourself. 

“you would do that for me?” you took a step closer to the barricade, which had lando snapping his head over his shoulder to wonder where you went. 

he ogled, watching as a young girl began tying the ends of the scarf in an intricate, skilled manner around your collarbones, your neck. his eyes were caught on the smile you graced, the laugh that left your lips. it was such a delicious sound, intoxicating, one that he wished to drown in. if that were his fate, he’d gladly accept it. 

his staring was noticed, fans beginning to call his name louder. he swallowed, hands flexing at his side before he signed a few more hats and posters. 

────────────

what you didn’t expect was the way that lando looked in his fire guard suit. the black emblems that contrasted his tan skin, bolstered the tone of his muscles. there was barely anything left up for the imagination as you brought the tip of your finger to your mouth, crossing your legs on the orange couch. you couldn’t seem to sit still. 

“you alright?” he asked out of concern, but you didn’t miss the slight curve of his mouth. he knew what you were thinking.  you were always so responsive to him, so good, even when there were no words transpired. 

“peachy!” you confirmed, sitting back against the couch, your leg bouncing as you tried not to let your eyes meddle on the muscles of his neck, the veins in his hands, the bracelets that dangled from his wrists. 

he gave you a look of doubt before his teammate walked in with a girl at his side. oscar, you remembered. you had met before briefly at a press conference you attended in monaco. the girl beside him was his girlfriend— she was entirely too sweet and studied a similar focus as you did. 

the two mclaren drivers patted each other on the back, while the woman approached you. she sat beside you with a tick of picking at her fingernails.

your hand found its way on top of hers. “first time, too?” 

she nodded and introduced herself formally. you did the same. you laced your fingers with hers, stopping the habit from ruining her lovely nailbeds. 

lando watched the interaction from over oscar’s shoulder, a cheeky smile etching onto his face. oscar caught wind of his inattention, and glanced over his own shoulder briefly. 

he turned back to lando with a toothy grin. “i’ve been trying to get her to stop that habit.”

because within the matter of minutes you were both talking, not once did his girlfriend raise her fingers to her mouth. 

────────────

you pulled and fixed at the collar of his race suit. lando sucked in a low, tight breath. you missed the sound, focused on making sure he looks presentable for the national anthem. it would be any minute he’d climb into the car to do a practice lap. 

when you were satisfied with the result, you dusted off the top of his head and was going to let your hand fall to your side. but there was a stain of soot on his chin. 

without thinking twice, you grabbed his chin between your fingers. his eyes went wide at the action. his fists clenched at his side, body rigid with the feeling of your unexpected touch. 

you licked your thumb before wiping it away, his stubble rough against your fingers. his head crooned visibly into the shape of your hand. the warmth from his cheek getting slightly hotter. heat rushed to your own face, flushing you in your orange dress. 

whatever moment was transpiring between the two of you, you didn’t want it to end. neither did he. his breathing softened, but his heart was pounding. your thumb swirled over his cheek once before you gripped him tighter. 

“you got this, lan.”

there was the first time you graced him with that nickname. the rest was history for him, knowing that he was a dead man walking at your side. if you weren’t going to be his, he would ruin you. such sickening thoughts had him mulling over what you meant to him. you made time out of your busy schedule for him, and so did he. you were there to answer his calls. he was there to be at your beckon and call. he would wreck his entire career if it meant your undivided attention. 

he would pivot, skid, take more reckless actions on the track if it meant having your hands on him. your eyes. your love. he wanted it all with you, he learned, from that first weekend in jeddah. with your communally wrapped headscarf, caring nature, your determination… he wanted it to be his. he wanted you to flourish with him. he wanted to be the reason you blossom. 

with your unwavering strength at his side, he could conquer the world. fuck the championship, he wanted it all to be with you. maddening thoughts would consume him day and night after that first weekend, knowing there was only more to come throughout the season. he could only imagine how these months would fare, but he didn’t bide into fantasies. he would expect the unexpected and let you consume him entirely. 

────────────

miami was everything you thought it to be. bustling with life, parties, music. it was a stark contrast to what your life at university looked like— though you didn’t mind the occasional outing, of course, especially when lando was at your side. 

he was a beam of light crafted by the gods of the sun, brightening every room he stepped in. he was utterly magnetic, drawing others around him, letting them have a joyous laugh. it made you giddy, proud, that he could hold himself so well in the mediocrity of the crowds. while you etched yourself at his side, clamoring for his shadow, he held you tightly at every opportunity. 

his hand at your back, clutching for dear life. warm and soothing, you’d lean into him, clutching the hem of his black mclaren shirt. 

it had been a friday night. his free practices had been stellar as you watched eagerly from the mclaren paddock. you’d earned a status of earning a headset, your consistent attendance rivaling tidal waves in the media. you always told yourself not to look, not to peek, but you couldn’t help it. 

accounts were created in your honor. in your fan name. the mclaren fans loved you, and you loved them. the video of your first appearance at the paddock had gone viral within the community. your sensibility for adhering to culture norms gained you rapport. though you didn’t know why— why wouldn’t you dress appropriately? it grudged you how low the media could stoop, but you were honored nonetheless to gain such positive attention. 

of course there were the negatives. some were born to hate and you could live with that. many thought you were using lando for his money, just another stupid girl who didn’t deserve to be at these races. you kept yourself modest from the media with a private account, similar to charles girlfriend, and found that it was better to remain a mystery to those who weren’t a part of your life. you owed them nothing. 

though you never breathed these negatives to lando. he would be furious and absolutely say something in public. the last thing you wanted was for him to fight your own battles, yet you thought this nothing to be more of a playground spat. you could handle it; lando doesn’t call you sting for no reason. 

on the bright side, you had a steady, growing relationship with oscar’s girlfriend, and even considered each other to be best friends. 

though lando would disagree ardently, reminding you that he was always first, no matter the circumstance. he’d whine like a child and pout. how could you resist that face? even when you would playfully hold up four fingers and raise your brows, his number four, contrary to one, he’d scoff and laugh, your ability to see through him was astonishing. 

at the club tonight there were bottles and bottles of champagne being opened and passed around in the driver's honor. in your time there you had grown close to all drivers, except a few give or take. but while you carved relationships with the boys, it was the women you sought refuge in. 

charles' girlfriend, a tanned brunette sweetheart, would bake for you. in return you would host wine nights with the other women. you’d become accompanied with her new furry companion, little leo leclerc, and you fell in love with him instantly. his little licks of appreciation, his tiny wagging tail. gosh, you loved the pup. 

carlos’ partner, rebecca, had intimidated you at the beginning. she was tall, fierce, blue eyes unwavering with confidence as she spoke of deep experience throughout her years in the paddock. it took her longer to adjust to your presence, feeling doubtful of your friendship with the british driver, but changed her mind when she saw you dehumidifying lando’s race suit that hung in the tents in japan’s humid weather. 

no one stood around you whilst you did that. no one asked you to. you did it because it was ruthlessly hot and you didn’t want lando to contract a heatstroke. 

lily held a place in your heart that none of these girls could truly replace. she was your rock from the first race. you both learned together, wrought each other of the nail biting habits, and laughed amongst the radio calls between the pair of drivers. 

the rap music thundered the floor you stood on. heels tall and encompassing, you’d admit plainly you got used to the treatment lando awarded you. nothing but the best, he told you one evening under the moonlight. the words were imprinted in your mind. 

alexandra, charles’ sweetheart, called your name. 

lando’s grip tensed at your back. you could feel it. you glanced at him, then to alexandra. 

“come dance~!” she swayed, floreale spritz in her hand. she egged you forward with her hand, and you loosened yourself from lando’s side. 

you had no obligation to stay by him. it’s not like you were dating.

though many would disagree with that. 

you mumbled something incomprehensible to lando. he bent his head down towards your mouth, angling his ear to hear your voice. 

“will i see you on the dance floor tonight, mr. norris?” you teased, body warm from the cocktail you downed. his head turned, a signature smirk daunting his face. 

“want me to?” he said, bringing his lips dangerously close to your ear. you shivered, his breath hot and wet as it graced the curves of your cheeks. 

“only if his highness can make time,” you looked up at him through your weary, drunken eyes. something shifted, then, as you stared up at his green eyes. it was dark in the club, but not as dark as his stare. it intimidated you, but not nearly as much as it intrigued you. 

“always make time for you baby,” he said, tone playful and airy but it was more than that for you. baby. he was just drunk, wasn’t he? he didn’t know what he was talking about. didn’t know he was talking to you. don’t let it get to your head. “just tell me when. think charles is dying to dance.”

you looked over your shoulder to see charles being teased by sweet alexandra as she shook her head, pointing at you. this was a girls dance, that told you. 

before you turned, your hand cupped lando’s neck. he grumbled; you felt it through your palm. it was a nonverbal okay. you spun, threading yourself out of lando’s grasp. he let his hand linger for as long as he could before you slipped away, the imprint of his hand leaving you bare and cold. 

it was quickly replaced by the rambunctious action on the dance floor. lit up with multicolored tiles, alexandra grabbed your hand and raised them above your heads, swaying to the heat of the music. 

she was a natural beauty. no wonder charles fell in love with her. 

you mimicked her dance moves to the best of your ability, hands sliding down your waist, through your scalp and over your head. 

alexandra laughed and sashayed, giddy with fun and life. you did the same, unable to withstand her pulsing vibrato. you twirled her around you, she did the same. heads turned at your giggles, a few grunts of laughs had you looking over your shoulder. 

the men of the club began to swarm. but in the moment, you didn’t care. let them gawk if they so wish. you felt untouchable. 

your body slid parallel to alexandra, hips gyrating with an orbit of its own cosmic makeup. she grabbed onto your waist pulling you close when you rocked from side to side. your hands slid up your neck, down your chest— exposed from the evening gown you chose for the evening festivities. 

the swarm intensified. one man attempted to twirl in front of you and alexandra, reaching to touch your forearm, but that’s where the line was drawn. 

a body pushed itself between you and the man, alexandra standing up straight behind you. you recognized him instantly— signature smell bringing you an insatiable comfort that soothed your soul. 

lando stood before you, face close to yours. he didn’t look pissed off…just…cocky?

before alexandra peeled away, you tilted your head back to her shoulder. she whispered, “needy, needy, needy…”

charles whisked her away for a dance. you didn’t get to respond. there wasn’t much for you to say though, watching how happy alexandra became when charles wrapped his arms around her. you felt sour. what was this feeling? 

“you didn’t ask me,” he said into your ear, bringing your attention back to him. little to your knowledge he watched as you glanced between the happy ferrari couple, your face scrunching and hand coming to cover your lips. 

you gave him a quizzical look. 

“to dance!” he laughed, big and goofy. but there was an edge to his tone. was he peeved? did he think that you forgot about him?

“wanted you to come get me.” you slurred, lifting your arms to throw them over his muscled shoulders. when you were met with a hard surface. your eyes bulged at just how big he’s gotten this year alone. it made you want to touch him more, explore his body behind the polo mclaren shirt. 

he raised his brows at you. “yeah?”

you pursed your lips together, letting your eyes flutter. “wanted you to hunt me down, little lando.”

his hands fell to your hips, fingertips functioning your skin. his demeanor shifted. your words igniting such a vicious flame inside his heart that burned for you and you alone. you were practically fucking edging him with your words. he wished it was the other way around. how insatiable your screams could be, the little noises you’d make. 

you warmed even more when his head dove into your neck, lips parting so you could feel his tongue. “‘ve already got you.”

“do you?” you challenge. lando loves a good challenge. 

he tucked you against his body, saying nothing more. 

“dance with me.” it wasn’t a question. but a statement. 

rolling your eyes, annoyed that he didn’t answer you, you pivoted on your heel. your back against his abdomen. you’d surely regret this on the morrow, but that was a problem for then. now, you only felt sturdy as you leaned your weight into lando. he supported you with ease. 

dancing with him was always the easy part. he knew how to move his body, sway his hips, and lure any girl into the trap of his toned and tanned arms. but it was never you up until now. you’d always dance with the other drivers, girls, friends, but never him. it was something far too intimate for you, but you weren’t sure how lando thought about it. 

but your friends noticed. 

rebecca snuck up behind alexandra, carlos at her arm. 

“look at him,” she gestured to lando who was entirely smitten with your let-loose expression. his hands were tight around your hips, legs spread to cage you against him. a fortress came with the name lando norris, and you were his queen. 

“entirely in love.” rebecca concluded, and alexandra agreed with a nod. 

“you should talk to her.” charles suggested, clearly feeling the pain his friend was going through, yearning at a distance. 

“and say what, char?” alexandra asked her partner. “do you love him like he loves you?”

“is that a bad idea?” charles retorted and was met with silence between the two girls. 

“we’ll figure something out.”

against your bodice, you felt the hard imprint of his dick blistering against his jeans. but it didn’t frighten you, not like his touches used to. your tour of the grand prix’s continued your closeness amongst one another, so…

your hips continued to sway, egged on by how lando ran his arms up your waist. it felt good–his hands, the tension woven into them. he felt good. 

you turned around to face him, letting your hands wrap around his neck. he looked euphoric beneath the dim lighting, rbg hues collectively making him look like he was glowing. he was, in truth, because of you. always because of you. 

the two of you were making eye contact now. not just any, but you thought it was the most intense of your life. his eyes rimmed with red, exhaustion you thought, and you suddenly felt guilty for keeping him out for so long. it’s not like you weren’t tired yourself. 

you raised your head to his ears. “we should go.”

he narrowed his eyes, looking disappointed that the festivities were ending so soon. “you want to?”

your head nodded. one hand came down to brush against his hand, taking it between yours. “tired.” 

the alcohol had taken its course through you. head pounding with a soft thump, you clasped your hand with lando’s. he returned the same force, swiping his thumb over your knuckles. he didn’t hesitate when you said you were tired. that was that for him. he had no other reason to stay.

“just wanna say bye to them,” you said, making your way over to rebecca and alexandra. they turned to you when you had lando in tow, entirely at your whims. 

“we’re meeting tomorrow?” you confirmed. both girls nodded, a shared glance between them making you feel uneasy. alexandra told you to come to ferrari’s paddock. you’d nod your head before they both raised their brows at each other again, sheepish smiles flashing in your direction. 

“what?” you prodded. they smiled at you again. 

“nothing. we just can’t wait for tomorrow.” rebecca soothed your concerns, though it didn’t prevail as much as you hoped. 

“that was weird.” lando said into your ear when you were close to the exit. 

“right?” you were glad he noticed. he always noticed these things. too observant for his own good. 

before you stepped foot out of the club, you turned back when you felt a thump. like a body had fallen to the ground. you stopped in your tracks. 

the man that grabbed your arm laid face flat on the ground. lando looked down at you, looking smug. though he didn’t hit him.

“must’ve tripped.” he shrugged. 

“should watch where he’s going.” you said, knowing that he didn’t just trip.

“guess so.”

────────────

saturday afternoon you were standing beside rebecca and alexandra when qualifying started. you wore a casually chic outfit. pants, a shirt, matching accessories. the stylist lando hired was getting to know you better. she understood what patterns you liked, your sense of aesthetic. it felt like a homecoming. 

“so,” alexandra crossed her legs as all three of you sat on the couch. “what happened with lando last night?”

you were taken back. “what do you mean?”

they exchanged a look. 

“you left together!” rebecca held up her hands as if pointing out the obvious. she was, really. 

“so…?” 

“so…! he went back to your room?” alexandra pleaded in wanting to know details. details of an extravagant night that didn’t happen. 

“we share a hotel room,” they gasped. your hands thrown up in defense. “not like that! he gets two bedrooms for us.” 

the girls settled, not looking entirely pleased. 

“besides,” you sighed. “we’re friends. he doesn’t see me like that.”

so confident

alexandra and rebecca burst out in a laugh. “are you serious?” alexandra wondered. 

you bristled, brow raised, wondering what she meant. “yes…?”

rebecca sighed your name, “have you seen the way he looks at you–?”

“or how he follows you around like a puppy.”

“how he pays for everything for you.”

“oh! how he scares any man off who tries to talk to you.”

your mind went numb. is this true? you thought lando was like that with everyone– kind, considerate, conscious. but as you sat there considering their words, just wondering how much truth was attached to them. 

“are…are you sure?” you hesitated about finding the answer. what would that mean for you? 

“absolutely.”

“one hundred percent.” they said at the same time. so this is what they wanted to talk about.

shit. maybe you were blind. it had gotten tempestuous over the course of these last few months. his growing attentiveness, his softness, his eager eyes whenever you’d make him coffee in the morning. no one makes it as good as you, he’d say. 

would it be so bad that you…weren’t upset with it? you loved being friends with lando. he was always there to listen to you, support you. he cherished your time together. but what if there was a slim chance that you were wrong? that you were in over your head? 

the last thing you wanted was to be embarrassed. 

“what do i do?”

the ferrari girlfriends exchanged looks. 

────────────

lando qualified in fifth for the miami grand prix. you thought he did absolutely wonderful. it was a close quali, he was pushing his car to its limits, but it wasn’t enough in the final stretch. a sigh left you as you were watching the tv, lily at your side. 

oscar placed just below lando at sixth. “i don’t get it,” you said.

lily looked at you, confused. 

“they should be faster. mathematically, i mean.”

lily was an engineering graduate. the question you brought forth had her perking up. you could see the cogs turning in her head. 

“the physical body of the car offsets it.” she tapped her thumb against her elbow, arms crossed. she raised a hand to bite at her thumb, but you stopped her. 

“you’re right. i don’t know–” you just had a weird feeling about this race. about lando. what rebecca and alexandra said…”lily.”

“yeah?”

“do…” you took a light breath in, suddenly intimidated by the answer you could receive. “do you think lando is in love with me?

a beat of silence.

“without a doubt.”

the mclaren plated with number four rolled into the garage. lando jumped out, taking off the neck guard, then his helmet. his hair had gotten longer this month. curls were starting to frame over his forehead. his stubble was more prominent. he was tanner. had his jawline always been that sharp?

he patted his engineer on the back but was looking for something. his eyes were darting all around the room, concern beginning to encompass his face. until he found you and lily, you, in the corner with her. you looked absolutely beautiful today. you had been worried about your outfit, wondering if the colors were too contrasting, or if they washed you out. 

lando didn’t think there was any color that could wash out the beauty of your skin. you were too bright for that, always glowing.

when you saw him, you beamed. but it was different this time. the way he looks at you. how is he looking at me?

he took a few steps forward before you met him half way. your fingers found the zipper to his jumper, the action was new for you and lando. he welcomed it, looking down at you with a smile. 

“you did amazing.” you breathed, undoing the zipper. though you couldn’t reach his eyes with your own. your hand shook against the zipper. he noticed, face falling with a slight frown. 

“are you alright?” 

“perfect,” you answered a bit too quickly. you still haven’t looked at him. you went to turn away, but he grabbed your elbow with a light grip. 

“hey, look at me.” he pleaded, voice entirely too soft and gentle for your state right now. the way he follows you around like a puppy. but why did you blush? why did you fiddle with your fingers, bite your lip? 

you looked up into those lovely pools of green. they shimmered so elegantly. your breath caught in your throat. 

“what happened? did–”

“do you want dinner tonight?” you blurted, suddenly feeling stupid and small. you kept shrinking with each passing second that he didn’t answer. little did you know, he felt like the earth was flipped on his head. was he dreaming? did you ask to have dinner with him? surely you just meant with all of your friends…

“we always have dinner,” he said with a light laugh. you felt shivers creep up your arms. Goosebumps.

“me. just you and me.”

“oh.” oh? that’s all that lando could say? yes. that was it. his brain was short circuiting, unsure of what you were inferring. was there a deeper meaning to this? was he thinking too hard? you’ve gotten dinner just the two of you before. but not in a long time. 

he was absolutely speechless as he looked at you, heart racing in his chest. It was just about to pop out when you opened your mouth to retract your statement and apologize. 

“what’s the dress code?” he bit his lip to hold back his childlike grin. 

“fancy.” you snipped back, feeling entirely too giddy that he seemed to come alive once again. you thought he would reject the idea, a part of you hoped that he did– silly, right? but you were terrified of confrontation. confrontation that rebecca and alexandra could be right. 

“fancy?” he said, taking a step closer to you.

“did i stutter?” your tone was playful as you raised your brows. his tongue got caught on his teeth as he pursed his lips. 

“wanted to make sure i get to see you in a dress.” the comment slipped from his lips easily, suavely. you blushed again. he noticed, surely. it was a rare occurrence that you blushed, even rarer for him to be the reason. what was this feeling in his chest? pride? pride that he could be the one to make you bashful. he felt like a king, wanting to conquer the skirts of your heart. 

“maybe i’ll let you pick it out.” 

lando’s face couldn’t light up any further. what did he do to award such treatment? such…such…god, he was entirely enamored with you. there was not a moment that went by that he didn’t wish you were his. he wanted this to be the norm. whatever it was. was it a date? was he supposed to hold your hand, kiss you? god, god, god, if he got to kiss you…

“deal.”

you were back in the hotel in an instant. the clock read 6pm, and you told lando no later than 7:30. both of you were in the kitchen filling up your bottles of water, cracking jokes between each other. when you were refreshed and relaxed, you spoke. 

“still picking my dress?” you lead him to the door to your room, opening it for him. he followed behind you without a second thought. his eyes weary, glossy. like he was about to cry or something. 

you stood at the doorway to the room. it was a chaotic mess of clothes, ruined sheets, open bottles of water. if lando noticed the state, he didn’t say anything. thank god. 

but he did

lando was keen on noticing every detail of how you lived. your habits. it was the only way he could figure out how your mind worked– the spectacular thing that it was. he turned his head over his shoulder to you, gesturing towards the closet. you nodded. 

he opened the door to the closet, dresses hanging by the dozens. damn, the stylist really put her money’s worth, didn’t she? rather his money, but if it meant for you to look jaw-droppingly stunning, who was he to complain? 

the british driver ran his fingers through the numerous dresses before him. different combinations of cotton, silk, satin. they all felt different at his fingertips, yet you would always be sweet to him. but something else caught his attention–

a lace bodice piece, lingerie, that hung low from a hanger. he waited a beat. another. he pulled it with both his hands, showing you the hanger with a curious, raised brow. 

you flushed.

never in your life did you run as fast as you just had. you tried to snatch the hanger from him, but he held it high above your head. he was laughing. 

“lando!” you screeched, trying to climb up his body to reach it. it only incited a more intense laugh from him. he hummed.

“what’s this for, then? hmm?” 

“i–” you stuttered, not really being able to know what to say. “she gave it to me!” the stylist.

his laugh quieted. “did she?”

“yes! if, you know, i dunno–” you rubbed your arms together anxiously. “if i ever met a guy. or something. it was stupid!”

you tried to get it back from him. he didn’t relent. you stomped your foot. 

“lan, please…” you whispered, looking up at him with his unreadable stare. lando was always the type to know how he felt through his eyes, but now…you didn’t know what you were looking at. 

“did you?”

“did i what?” you huffed, crossing your arms.

“meet a guy?” 

you looked away, embarrassed. “no. not like i was trying, though.”

he relaxed, noticeably. 

keeping all these guys away from you…

“it was just a fun idea. now will you pick something? else i’ll change my mind.” you threaten him. he hung the lingerie piece back up, surrendering instantly. 

you headed to the on-suite bathroom, starting to get ready for your night out. though his tone echoed in your mind– “did you?” – he sounded…deflated. bested, by some indomitable force. you had a growing epiphany that the ferrari girls were right, and you were just too damn scared to admit that such a beautiful man could be interested in you of all people. 

lando knocked on the door frame, watching as you finished up your look. you glanced at him through the mirror, then turning to see the dress he held. it was a long, black dress with lace flowers embroidered into it. it even had sleeves, lace ones, that could keep you warm with the miami breeze. it got rather chilly when the sun went down. 

his choice was rather impressive. dare you say that you liked it. you grabbed the fabric piece from him, taking it off the hanger and leaving it on the counter. it was beautiful– must’ve cost a fucking fortune– breathtaking, though. 

did you even deserve to wear something so elegant? 

“gimme a sec,”  you said, shooing him out of the bathroom before you changed. the dress slipped on with ease, much to your shock. but its downside–the zipper. you tried for about three seconds to get it up in the back, but you gave up.

you opened the door. 

“lan?” you called for him, voice whimpering for his attention. he shifted from your bed, scrolling on his phone. he looked up immediately, eyes widening at the site before him. you were absolutely breathtaking. his hands twitched, desperate to touch you. 

and you weren’t opposed, you thought, given your insolence towards any patience you had for the zipper. ‘test the waters,’ is what alexandra had said to you when you asked her for advice. ‘see how he reacts.’ rebecca followed up. 

testing the waters

that’s what you were doing

you turned your back to him, shimmying out of the bathroom. “zip me?”

“yeah. yeah of course.” he launched to his feet. the dress was so low down the curve of your back. he wanted to trace your spine with his fingers. he was gentle with his touch, warm to the skin. you absentmindedly leaned into him, back arching. 

he zipped the piece with ease, letting his fingers trace the back of your neck. you shivered, goosebumps crawling up your shoulders. he felt them, quickly glancing at the side of your face to gauge your reaction. was he going crazy? your body was so receptive to him. it was addictive. 

you pulled away. his hands felt empty, your back felt cold. 

“thanks,” you smiled bashfully, unable to look him in the eyes. so fucking cute, he thought. “go get dressed, will you? i’m getting hungry.” 

lando bolted from the room, and you managed a short laugh to yourself. while you were alone, you glanced at yourself in the mirror. you still felt entirely undeserving of such a gown. 

you slipped on your shining black heels and had to adjust to their feeling. you were never good at walking in them, but this tour was a playground for you to learn how. you wanted to learn. you felt badass walking around like you had pointy claws. 

in your hands was a matching leather clutch, simple and handheld. you waited patiently for lando, though it took him barely no time at all to look so put together. 

you heard the clink of his loafers before he made himself known. turning around, you got a good look at the man you’ve gotten to know over these past few months. 

it was chilling the way your body electrified. heat pooled in your lower belly, tingling with lust. he was dressed in a black dress shirt, few buttons undone revealing his chains, with a black jacket and taupe pants. his loafers were black with a silver buckle at the center of each shoe. 

he was fiddling with the cufflinks at his jacket when he noticed you gawking at the shape of his abdomen, to his exposed neck. he didn’t want to say a word, afraid that it’d break your moment of admiration. that you would never look at him in such a…virtuous manner. 

but he could never control his tongue. 

“my eyes are up here, darling.” you snapped your head up, blushing. you crossed your legs over each other, leaning against the kitchen isle. 

darling

you were caught red handed. there’s no point in pretending. your blood burned hot in your veins, the petname coming as second nature from his lips. you wanted to hear it again. 

“didn’t know you cleaned up so well.” you pushed off of the isle with ease, waiting for him to join your side. “used to all the sweat and pajamas.” 

he tsked at you, sheepish at your witty remarks. he hoped that no matter what it would always be like this; you and him, full of banter and fun. 

“and you look…agreeable.” his smile was bright, mischievous. you pushed his arm away as he came to rest his hand on your lower back. “kidding!” 

he lowered his voice and connected your eyes with his. “you’re breathtaking.”

and for the first time, you believed him.

────────────

the restaurant he chose was more than you could imagine. with high ceilings, a valet, lights in the shape of mystical orbs strung together on the walls. the floors were made of marble, the tiling on the sidings were matte black. 

but lando didn’t give a fuck about the decorations. he was staring at you. you in your beautiful dress, carrying yourself so elegantly. you were born to fit into this life, whether or not you believe you deserve it. he would do anything to prove that you did. that you were worthy of every dime he spent. 

“right this way, madam.” the waiter ushered you, but you didn’t move until you held out your hand for lando to grab. you’ve never asked him to sober. 

he didn’t hesitate, never did, and latched onto your hand with a warming grip. you tugged him along through the restaurant while he kept getting distracted from you and how you walked so well in those high heeled shoes. he remembers a time when you couldn’t. and look at you now.

the waiter seated you at your two person table. lando pulled out the chair for you. you smiled appreciatively. 

“aren’t you the gentleman.” you acknowledged his kindness, his face brightening as he seated himself with ease. he pulled into the table, leaning over it. you did the same, eager to meet his face with a bashful smile and your hands rubbing together. 

lando looked nervous, but most of all happy. he is happy. to be sitting here with you, in your presence, and most of all, you wanted to be here with him. he didn’t miss how you leaned towards him, your legs crossing over one another as the point of one of your heels grazed his knee. 

“so tell me,” he picked up his water glass, taking a sip. you watched the way his adam’s apple bobbed, the water running through him. you gulped. “why dinner?”

your hand touched the back of your neck. “‘m not allowed to want to spend time with you?”

“didn’t say that, did i?” he placed the glass down. “all this, i mean–” he gestured to your dress, his shirt, the restaurant. “you tryin’ to tell me something, darling?”

one of your fingers ran over your lip. darling. god, it sounded so good coming from him. it put you in such a state of heaven, feeling entirely weightless in his presence. you were staring at him speechless, before you heard a clatter of glass behind you. you were ripped from the safety of your trance. 

“maybe,” you muttered, looking away for him briefly before attempting to switch the topic. “anyways-”

“what was that?” he said languidly, the softness of his tone unrecognizable. his eyes were blown wide, taking in every subtle movement that you made. you felt like you were under a microscope being analyzed by his prerogative. you felt stripped bare– but that wasn’t such a bad thing, was it? no. no it wasn’t. the thought had you blushing. what weren’t you blushing about today?

“the race,” you continued on, disregarding his questioning. “are you nervous?”

he leaned back in his chair in defeat. fine, if she wanted to play it that way. he knew exactly what you said. but he wanted to hear it again. he will hear it again if it is the last thing he ever hears. you said “maybe” and didn’t brush him off with a scoff. his advances towards you had always been playful and light, but you never indulged him so…earnestly. he was caught off guard. in fact, he’s been caught off guard…a lot these past few days. something has shifted–

but what?

“am i supposed to be?” he wondered. you never really asked him those kinds of things. he always had your full reassurance. 

“no. it’ll be just like any other, won’t it?” you felt like you were talking out of your fucking ass. you, all of a sudden, didn’t know how to talk to your best friend. it was gibberish, dry, god, how the fuck did he put up with you beforehand? 

you began fidgeting with your fingers. his eyes latched on the movement. 

“are you nervous?”

you swallowed the lump in your throat, unable to look at him. you didn’t know he leaned in again until you felt his knees bump with yours. you jumped, but sunk into his light touch. 

“i dunno– no? no, why would i be nervous?” you continued fidgeting. “it’s just…it’s all so dangerous, isn’t it? i’ve done the math before. at your speed if–”

“hey.” he cut you off, grabbing both your hands. “hey.” he breathed, looking at you with his widened, sparkling green eyes. your hands were sweaty against his, a byproduct of your anxiety, but he didn’t seem to care when he brought them to his lips, gracing you with a sweet kiss on the top of your palms. 

your breath hitched in your throat. 

“didn’t know that you worried about me so much.” he gave you a light laugh, his eyes crinkling with a smile. he bit his lip. 

“what? of course i do,” you looked at him in disbelief, your hands still held in his. “i mean– why wouldn’t i? we’re friends, aren’t we?”

‘aren’t we?’ was branded into lando’s heart. he swallowed, pulling back and letting your hands fall to the table. “‘course we are.”

“you are both such a beautiful couple.” your waiter approached. you bristled, glanced quickly to lando, and an idea bloomed in your head. test the waters, the girls said. “what can i get for you lovebirds?”

lando sat up straight to correct him, but you stopped him. “you are too kind,” polite smile was gracing as you ran your fingers over the menu. “what are the specials?”

lando’s jaw dropped. he shut it before the flies flew in, but he wouldn’t forget this. no amount of alcohol or fantasies could recreate that feeling. this feeling. you glanced at him while you were ordering, puckering your lips. 

god, he wanted to kiss you. Ruin you. make you his.

dinner went smoothly despite a perpetuous tension lingering over the pair of you. you’ve never fiddled so much before with anything; your dress, napkin, glass. but you were still there with him, and he always knew the perfect way to make you laugh. you wanted to kiss him that night, beneath the glimmer of the moon, but you couldn’t do it. you couldn’t muster the courage to break the barrier. 

but you would, in time.

on your way out of the restaurant you were keen on grabbing his hand first. you felt him tense and he covered his mouth with his free hand, surely hiding a cheeky smile. 

the cameras were flashing when you came down the steps. you’d be trending on every social media platform, especially with how bright your smile was, and how tightly you gripped his hand. 

────────────

race mornings were always chaotic. but you somehow managed to make it to the track at the end of the f2 race with lando at your side. In the mclaren hospitality room, you straightened his collar of the fireguard, taking a deep inhale of his subtle cologne and natural scent. you felt dizzy, struck by the desire to run your hands over his chest. 

your touch lingered longer than it normally did. he noticed. what didn’t he notice?

especially after your stunt last night. he didn’t get a wink of sleep. he was up all night staring at his phone, watching the pictures light up his feed. he wasn’t embarrassed, shocked, nor ashamed. the british driver was entirely elated. with your graceful composure, assuredness in holding him at your side. 

he scrolled through the comments, too, but there was not one negative thing he could find. spare a few comments that he had to bite his tongue on responding to, you were gaining an overwhelming amount of support from his fans.

your fans.

there were accounts made in your honor. outfit accounts, update accounts, people with your face as their profile picture. he scrolled through every one of them. he was maddeningly obsessed. 

but what changed? why were you acting this way? not that he was upset by this change…but your inability to tell him…tell him what was going on frightened him. he felt anxious. 

“what’s going on with you?” he brought his face closer to yours, lowering his voice so no one else could hear the both of you. 

“nothing. it’s nothing.” your tone was hastened, weary. 

“it doesn’t sound like–” 

“we’re ready for you, lando.” his engineer interrupted the two of you with a polite smile. 

the british driver sighed. 

you placed your hands on his chest. “i’m fine.” though it did little to soothe his woes. 

he looked at you weary eyed, brows turnt upward with concern. he didn’t believe you. 

“i just…” your hand trailed up his neck, thumb caressing his bottom lip. he stayed perfectly still beneath your fingertips. “really want you to win.” 

you placed a soft kiss on his opposite cheek. 

“you got this, lan.” 

he kissed your thumb that was on his lips and said nothing else before he jumped into the mclaren.

────────────

you were on absolute edge the entire race. it was an uphill battle. you’ve never been seen so anxious with your headset on, tapping your feet anxiously against the concrete. arms crossed over your chest, it was down to the last few laps. lando had been hard running in first.

first. lando was in first. 

you could feel this in your blood. he was born for this.  

and when he crossed that fucking finish line, you’ve never felt so much joy in your entire life. 

he yipped and punched his fist in the air, his screams were pure music to your ears. 

his engineers came to pat you on the back, gauging your all too excited reaction. lily was at your side, too, jumping and giving you a hug. 

lando jumped from his parked car, ripping off his helmet and neck guard. he was on top of the fucking world when he jumped atop the crowd of mclaren workers, them holding him up with ease and chanting his name. 

you stood beside lily, hand covering your mouth to stifle your sobs. you couldn’t be more proud of him than in this moment. 

he caught your eye from above the crowd, watching the tears fall down your face. when he jumped off his celebratory pile, he ran over to you. 

you threw your arms around his neck, launching yourself against him. he caught you, he always would, and held you tight. he would never let you go. never. your tears wet the base of his neck.

“lando…” you said into his race suit that smelled of burnt rubber and sweat. you didn’t care. this was your lando. 

he pulled back, looking at you with concern. it was a characteristic look for him these past few days. 

but you wanted that to go away. 

you wanted nothing but his happiness. his joy. his passions. to see him on top of the world. but you wanted to be right there with him, side by side. 

your lips were on his before he blinked. he was taken back, surprised, and face dripping in sweat. your hands gripped around his muscular neck, tugging him to you. you wanted more. you wanted this. this over anything. him over anything. 

he returned your kiss when he was done pinching himself. your lips were entirely too sweet. luckily he had a sweet tooth. 

his hand cupped the back of your head, tilting you towards him for a better, deeper angle. you moaned into him as he sucked on your bottom lip, teeth grazing the sensitive skin. you were floating, floating in the world of lando norris. you never wished to return to the ground. 

but you did. the cheers around you got louder. you realized you would too if this kept up.

the new grand prix winner wasn’t finished, though, when his free hand gripped your hip. you stifled a giggle by smiling into his mouth, catching your breath. “lan,” you chuckled. 

“don’t tell me this is a dream.” he had tears swelling in his eyes, lips plump from your kiss. “i might just have to–”

you cupped his cheek. 

“real.” you assured him. “i’m real. this–” you brought his gloved hand to your heart. “is real.”

he bit his lip, though it did little to conceal his smile. 

“drink some champagne for me.”

he kissed you once more. a telltale we aren’t done. 

and you sure as hell weren’t. 

────────────

“don’t understand why we’re celebrating out there,” lando gestured to the door as you were putting your heels on in a hurry. “when we could be here.” he pulled you to him, your back flushed against his chest. you leaned into him, sighing. 

“because your friends want to celebrate,” you finished putting on your shoes. “me included.”

lando’s hand tightened around your waist. “you’re not my friend.”

your brows upturned when you spun around to face him. your expression was sickeningly innocent. “‘m not?” your hands landed on his chest, turning your head to the side with fluttering lashes. 

“absolute minx,” lando seethed with a hearty laugh, leaning in to kiss you. your noses brushed together, his lips coming to graze yours. but you smiled and pulled away from him before he could taste your lipstick. 

he made a move to pull you back to him by your elbow, but you gave him a look. “we’re going to your celebrations, lan. don’t care what you have t’say.”

he groaned, his head falling forward to your shoulder. your hands raked through his hair, down the back of his neck. he practically purred like a fucking kitten under your fingertips. 

“and as far as i know,” you kissed his temple. “we’re still friends. haven’t asked me to be your girlfriend, did you?” your hands curled in his hair, pulling him to meet your eye. he bit his lip, blushing!

“you’re blushing, baby!” you cooed, reaching to squeeze one of his cheeks. 

“can’t blame me,” he muttered, head darting back into the crook of your neck and leaving soft kisses down to your collarbones. “the most beautiful woman has her hands all over me…what am i supposed to do with m’self?” he chuckled and you felt his teeth against your sensitive skin. you sucked in a breath with a smile. 

“ask her,” you lowered your voice, whispering into him. “i’m sure she’ll say yes.”

“would she?” his head perked up, flushed and warm from your neck.

“in every universe, lan.”  your humorous tone turned serious. he gulped, adam’s apple bobbing when he felt the weight of your words. “you know that gravity is the only force that can travel through any dimension? any time, any place, it will be found.”

he was listening to you intensely, voice cracking as he spoke. “i would find you.” 

your eyes widened at him. 

“through any black hole, space phenomena, wormhole,” his breath fanned your cheeks. “i’ll always find you.”

you leaned in to kiss him. he met you halfway, swallowing your mouth with his. you let him push you up against the counter, your hand gripping the ledge so you didn’t tumble over. you opened your mouth and his tongue slipped in without hesitating. he explored the corners of your mouth, the shapes of your teeth, your own tongue. 

your moan was deep from your chest when you felt his hand start to slip up your thigh. his pinky scathing the fabric of your thin underwear. you gasped when he ran trailed over your cunt, already wet and swollen under his touch.

"all for me, baby?" he chuckled into your neck, soothing your cunt of its tumultuous ache.

you nodded, but that wasn't enough.

"words. need words."

"fuck. yes, lan, all for you." you moaned when he flexed a finger inside of you, the sweet burn was tender to your growing coil in your belly. but things just can't go smoothly, can they?

you were brought back to earth when your phone began to ring. fuck. 

you tried pushing lando off of you, but he grumbled against your lips. you smiled, but detached from him. “lan,” he shook his head, refusing to let you go. “lan, it’s probably everyone wondering where you are.”

“don’t care.”

“you should.” 

“don’t.” his mind didn’t change, finger still exploring you before you shook him off.

you kissed the tip of his nose. “we won’t stay for long, okay? besides…”

there was a sheepish look on your face. “i have a boyfriend to show off.” 

lando didn’t need to be told twice to get you swept off your feet and into his car. 

────────────

the entire drive there his hand was on your thigh, so high that he traced the lining of your black laced underwear with his pinky. you gripped his wrist tightly, but said nothing the entire ride there. 

when you pulled up, a valet man opened the door for you. you stepped out and were met with ten times the amount of flashing cameras that you were used to. you got this. with a straight posture and elegant– as elegant as you could muster– composure, you waited for lando to meet at your side. 

you weren’t disappointed when you felt his hand on your lower back, guiding you through the crowds. shouts were sent your way, his way; “lando! lando! is this your girlfriend? are you dating? what’s her name?”

he made sure to answer only one question with your nod of approval before he climbed the steps to the nightclub. 

“lando! is this your girlfriend?”

“yes,” he said with his charming nature, turning back to look at you, starstruck by your beauty. you smiled back at him, hand caressing his chest. the cameras went wild at your natural pose with each other. 

inside the club was much better. with a restricted guest list of close friends and family, you were at ease. when you entered you were met with all three of your closest girlfriends. lily, rebecca, and alexandra. they squealed when they saw you, sprinting in your direction leaving their boyfriends in distress by their absence. 

“congratulations, lando!” lily said upon her arrival first, then glancing to you. “and an even more congratulations is in order? are you fucking kidding me!” she said with utter glee. you leaned further into lando’s side if that was possible. he relaxed at your touch, hand loose at your hip. 

“i knew it.” rebecca said with certainty. 

“she really did,” alexandra confirmed. 

you rolled your eyes at the pair of them. 

“i’ll get us drinks, baby.” lando whispered into your ear, his nose jutting against your hair. he gave you a kiss to your head and departed from your side, meeting up with the guys, too. 

“tell us everything!” alexandra jumped up and down. 

“there’s not much to tell.” you shrugged, hands thrown up in defense. “i just thought about what you said. you were right. i was so, so blind.” wasted time was a fear of yours.

“we’re proud of you anyways. have you seen all the paparazzi for you?” rebecca opened her phone, scrolling endlessly through her timeline. “i fucking hate you. you look perfect in every one of them.” 

“oh please,” you brushed her off. “have you looked in a mirror, becca?” 

it was a stellar night. you found yourself on the dance floor shortly after with your favorite drink in your hand, per lando’s stellar memory of your order. 

without another moment longer, your hips were moving over lando’s on the dance floor, his hands loose on your hips as he ran them up and down your body. you decided you weren’t going to have more than one drink tonight, preferring to remember every moment of this celebration.

the song was a bumping rap tune, easy to follow along with your suave moves. “suave,” you were just letting loose against your now boyfriend. the word was still foreign to you, but you felt increasingly giddy at the mention. 

lando, though? he was a changed man. not only did your kiss bring him ultimate luck before his race, he now has you at his side. he’ll do anything to keep you there. fuck, how did he get so lucky? he had a feeling something was going on, but never would he think it would be your lips on his after his race. he can still taste your tears.

you cried for him the entire time he was up on that podium, absolutely relishing in the national anthem played in his honor. and he could only keep his eyes on you. your glittering, magnificent eyes that sparkled beneath the miami sun. they sparkled for him, only him, on this marvelous day. 

and he would let everyone know that you shined for him. that you were his. while he may have won his first race, you were better than any trophy he could ever get. 

eventually, everyone raised their glasses for lando and cheer’s to his victory. you held your glass high, downing the entire thing. he did the same, only keeping to a few so he could see you as clear as day. he felt the same way…he never wanted to forget a moment with you. 

you faced him now, body still swaying to the music. with your chest brushing against his, you felt a growing heat over your neck. as the night went on, the sweatier lando became. the more his tanned skin glowed beneath the hue of the lights. the more his cologne pumped through your nose. it was impossible to not be intoxicated by him, drunk on his affection. 

with your hands gripping his neck, you looked up to him through your hooded eyes, a look that he wished he could take a fucking picture of. 

“what?” he said into your ear. 

you only shifted closer into him if that was possible. 

“need me, baby?” he chuckled low and wicked. you shifted on your feet, tightening your legs together. you almost did before lando stuck his leg out, having you tightened around him.

you nodded rapidly into his neck, clutching the fabric of his shirt. it was an appropriate time to leave, too, given that many have already bid their goodbyes. lando was only sticking around for you, after all. “please,” you whimpered into his ear, mouth wetting the skin beneath his chin. 

“fuck.” he cursed, maneuvering your body towards the exit with ease. his hands felt so good around you. you wanted them everywhere all the time. 

you bid your farewells to your friends with haste, feeling a slight guilt for leaving so…suddenly.

but lando didn’t. 

the drive back to the hotel took no time at all, lando blowing through every fucking stop sign and light that came in his direction. his hand was firm on your thigh this time, white knuckling the steering wheel. you stared at him, his side profile. he was too irresistible like this–needy, urgent– so you leaned over to kiss the side of his face, down his neck with sensual, puckering kisses.

he leaned his head back, giving you access to his thick neck. you had no idea how he kept focus on the road, but you had full faith in him to get back unscathed. 

“i know, baby,” he sighed, low and deep. “almost there.”

pulling into the valet, you opened the door yourself. lando threw the keys up in the air to the doorman and proceeded to rush you through the lobby. you couldn’t contain your giggles when he kept pressing the elevator button over and over. 

“that doesn’t make it any faster, you know.” you commented, your own foot tapping against the cool marble of the ground. 

“i’ll show you fast, baby, watch your mouth.” chills ran up your spine. your legs clenched together again and you couldn’t meet his eye. 

bastard. 

when the elevator opened, you shuffled inside and he had you against the wall before you could catch your breath. his lips attacked yours, moving down to your jawline, peppering your neck with slower, intense kisses. you moaned, biting your lip to conceal the sound the best you could. 

he moved to your chest, your collarbones being the first to be victim of his biting kiss. he would bruise the skin atop your breasts, marks for only him to gawk at. it looks like you won’t be getting any miami sun any time soon. or ever if his swirling tuck keeps suckling against your skin. 

“fuck, lan.” you whimpered, looking down at him below you, hands cupping his neck in place. he would happily be imprisoned by you like this. he would never go hungry. 

he groaned at your breathless response, adhering heavily to his actions as he didn’t miss an inch of your skin with his sloppy kisses. you pulled at the curly hair of his scalp that had his eyes rolling back into his head. you watched the delectable sight, your panties becoming increasingly damp as the seconds rolled by. 

the doors to your floor opened. lando didn’t move for a moment. you pulled his head back from his devouring of your skin. “you’re fucking me in your bed or not at all.” 

“you’re the death of me, darling.”

you were swept across the floors of your hotel, lando fumbling with the key to the room anxiously. you kissed up his neck in anticipation until the door clicked open and you were practically tossed inside. he slammed the door shut, throwing the “do not disturb” sign on the handle. not a soul would bust in on the two of you. 

you were ripping off your heels and throwing them across the floor before you were latched onto him again. but it didn’t last long until you wanted more. you weren’t going to fuck him in this kitchen, either. you were going to do it right, despite your hazy mind and actions. 

lando chased after you like a mad man. you squealed running through the hotel room on your tip toes until you burst open the door to his place. the bed sheets were ruffled, clothes on the floor, and it smelled like him. you bit back a moan at the sight, lando’s chest meet your back.

his lips were back on your neck, your shoulders. he tore through the fabric of your dress, undoing the zipper with methodical fingers. the gown fell to the floor, leaving your chest bare and your panties thin and otherworldly. 

you were ethereal. 

there wasn’t an ounce of shame inside of you when you spun around to face him. his hands were running up and down your bare skin, feeling how soft you were. a cuss fell verbosely from his lips, like honey. 

you backed away from him with an enticing look, swaying your hips before you fell backward on his bed, hands threading over your head. a palm came down to trace down your sternum, your lower belly, the hem of your dampened panties. 

lando watched you through his darkened eyes, almost black with desire. black holes. they sucked up the light around them, absorbing it without second thought. you wanted nothing more than to be absorbed by him. wholly. 

he stalked towards you like a hunter, back straight with his lip caught between his teeth. he wanted to ravage you right here– tear the underwear from your hips, fuck you into another dimension, but he would resist. all he wanted was to savor this moment, this vision, of you laying out before him, bare and vulnerable. all for him. you trusted him with your intimacy, your touches. he’d do nothing more to keep you like this. 

the british driver stood over you, your legs coming to squeeze together until his knee shoved its way through. your thighs dangled over the edge of the bed, burning with the scorching heat of your core. 

one of his fingers came down to run over your chest, your nipples, your abdomen. you squirmed at his teasing touch, feeling everything and absolutely nothing at once. you mewled deep within your throat, begging for more. 

he stopped at the band of your underwear, latching the same finger beneath it and drawing his hand back. the fabric peeled away with ease, your cunt glistening at his will. he noticed, of course, nostrils flaring with a tense angst of lust. no woman had looked as beautifully sinful as you have. you were a blessing and a curse– the most angelic devil he’s ever met. 

“beautiful,” he cooed, trailing two fingers over the crease of your thighs, over the lips of your pussy. you whined again, shifting your hips to get him to touch you where you needed him. badly. he tsked, at your impatience. 

it took him all of a second to launch atop of you, his turn to cage you in with his toned arms. you watched as his veins pulsed, blood running viciously hot through his body. it had you glancing down at the outline of his cock through his pants, the indent firm and mesmerizing. 

you salivated, a string of drool leaking from your mouth. he wiped it away with his thumb and a chuckle, looking at you from his elevated position above you. “soon, sweet girl.”

that was enough for you right now. his lips attached to your chest once more, spots already swollen and bruising with his previous attack. he moved to your breasts, cupping them in his palms, kneading the flesh. it felt heavenly to be beneath him like this– you never thought you could be so vulnerable with a man like this before. 

the british driver’s mouth moved to your opposing nipple, latching onto it with his tongue swirling over the sensitive bud. you whined, mouth opening for a loud gasp at the curdling sensation. you felt that feeling in your lower belly, a white hot coil that was desperate to snap. 

you were so soft beneath his touch. he could mold you, bruise you for his own gawking at a later date. and you wanted him to. you were his and he was yours. nothing could change that now. 

he moved to the other breast, not daring to neglect any part of you. it was euphoric how delectable this was. you’ve never been touched so intimately. no one has cared this much about your pleasure. but to lando, it was everything. 

his gospel was on your pleasures. 

“lan, lan please,” you whimpered, squirming beneath him when he wasn’t between your thighs yet. “need you so bad.” 

“i know baby,” he said into the skin of your belly. you felt his smirk. he kept trailing down and down. “so pretty,” he sighed, coming face to face with your folds, swollen and beating for his touch. 

 you clenched around nothing, and the desperation has never been so poignant. 

and then his tongue was on you, spreading you wide. you gasped, so responsive to his touch, and grappled onto the curly strands of his hair. he was deliberate with his touches, fingers digging into the plush skin of your thighs. his tongue drilled into you, curling upward that had you biting back your moans. despite your efforts, it was a failure. you were slack jawed and squirming beneath him. his grip tightened around your thighs in response, surely bruising the skin. 

he tongued every corner of your pussy, swiping over your clit once that had you jolting upward. he memorized the spot, stimulating you to the point where the coil began to itch to snap. 

there was no hope for you when he was getting impatient and added a finger to rub circles on your clit, his tongue continuing to thrust in and out of you. pleasure would build and build, rising to an ultimate bliss when he found that sparkler inside of you. 

at the angle he caressed with his tongue, you bucked your hips into him further. you felt him chuckle into you, his throat vibrating with such a cocky sound. he found a spot that made you fucking tick and you were entirely at his disposal. 

he abused the motion of his fingers, the assault of his tongue. you felt entirely undone by him, progressively getting tighter and tighter at his motions. “come on, baby…” he spoke into you. you couldn’t help the uncontrollable arch of your back. “you’ll be a good girl and come for me, won’t you?”

yes, yes! your mind shouted, fingers hanging onto his hair for dear life. you moaned, soaking further with his words of encouragement, eyes rolling back into your head. ‘course you needed him to talk you through it. how silly of lando with such an oversight. “so good, lan…”

“i’ve got you,” he uttered. “fuck baby, so pretty f’me. come on now,” and you needed nothing more than his sweet praise brushing past your ears to have the coil inside of you snap. 

you saw stars as you came on his tongue, sweet nectar filling his mouth with a gulp. he kissed every part of you, cleaning you with his tongue. you watched, weary eyed, amazed by how hot the action was. your pussy clenched. he felt it. glancing up at you from his position on his knees. 

“taste so good, sweet girl.” he cleaned up the excess from your plump folds with two fingers, bringing them towards your mouth. 

you opened your mouth on cue, his eyes widening with awe. you were fucking perfect. lips latching onto his plush fingers, you sucked them clean amply. you’ve never done such an act before, but it felt…natural. his dick was painfully hard in his pants, almost cumming at the sight of your lust filled eyes.

“my perfect girl…” 

you whined, sitting up on your elbows and clenching your hand to etch him closer. he listened on command, climbing to you. it was his shirt, pants, socks, shoes, everything that was on him that bothered you. 

fingers coming to yank at the hem of his shirt, he swiftly understood your nonverbal wishes. he tore his shirt over his head, throwing it to the corner of the room, and you fiddled with the belt of his jeans. your fingers worked fast and anxiously, throwing the damn belt across the room with a slap. he gripped your chin with a laugh as he loomed above you. 

“want you,” you demanded of him in your sweet, cracked voice. he wouldn’t make you beg this time, pulling his garments down with a swift motion. his cock sprung free and up towards the skin of his lower stomach. you flushed. precum was seeping from his tip, dripping onto your thighs. fuck, you whimpered under your breath. 

he didn’t settle for a grace period to settle from your orgasm. he wasn’t nearly finished with you. his hand came to cup the side of your face, your lips finding the skin of his palm. wet kisses covered the surface. he groaned. “you got me baby. relax for me, yeah?” 

you nodded eagerly, unable to speak as you wiggled your hips from side to side. he bent over and continued to kiss gingerly down your neck, his tip teasing your swollen cunt. you gasped into him, pulling him close to you. he grumbled, finding this angle inadequate. soon enough your legs were over his shoulders with one swift movement. 

lando dipped down for a kiss, his lips hot and feral against your own. soon enough, you felt him clamor inside of you. the stretch was invigorating, your entire body springing to life with his beating cock. “oh my god,” your head flew back into the sheets sinking inward as he felt too heavenly to be real.

“that’s it baby,” your cunt tightened around him with those sweet words. as he progressed further, you felt yourself fall further and further into pure bliss. you’d find no such place elsewhere, only in the comfort of his arms. you knew that to be certain. “taking me so well…”

you sucked in a breath, letting out a hoarse moan when he bottomed out inside of you, walls clenching entirely too tight and he thought he’d cum right then and there. but he withheld the best he could, promising to never cum before you did. he needed to see your face when you’d finish on his cock. 

“fuck…move, move lan, need you.” you whined, adjusting extremely well to his size. he didn’t even need to prod you to beg for him, you were already a willing candidate. he always knew you would. your sweet eyes, droopy and dolled up for him at the races. he’d imagined these scene over and over in his head, and never once did it disappoint when he’d fist his cock. now you were here, and your cunt was even more heavenly than he imagined. 

“anything, baby.” his pace was even and controlled, but you could see that he was tense. through your bedroom eyes, you could feel the tension through his cock. you appreciate the sentiment of taking it slow, but you knew how he was. 

he liked to be fast. 

“more,” you moaned, his head shooting up to look at you with surprise. you cupped his cheeks, flushed face begging him. “fuck me, lan. need you so fucking bad, please, please–”

he would burn the fucking world for you. you didn’t know it at that moment, but he had never been so in love with you than he has been before. he adhered to your wishes, losing the tension in his shoulders as he began a rough pace against your cunt. 

it was his only goal to make sure you felt him in every part of your body. he stretched every corner of your walls, squeezing him at every increasing thrust. he explored you fully and promised to know every inch of you. 

“taking me so well,” he grunted out, hips flexing in and out of you with an egregious pace. it was to your ultimate liking to get fucked so well by him. 

“lan…” you drawed out in a moan, lost in the stars of his throttling pace. “you’re so good. so fucking–” your own pleasure cut you off, squealing when he shifted only slightly and had your core clenching him tight. 

he let out a greedy snicker, knowing he found a spot that made you unbelievably tick. it was his to find, and his to use. you would know no better pleasure than what he awarded you. 

“oh fuck–!” you yelped as your release continued to build, the tip of the iceberg in reach. lando felt it, too, with his own stomach tightening and desperate to cum inside of you. you were a trigger for all his desires, and it would be sent off with a singular please that could leave your lips. the power you held over him and didn’t even know it…

“always gonna make you feel good, baby.” he promised you, dipping his abdomen over yours for a deeper, tighter angle. you whimpered, unable to speak. he would do it for you as he kissed over your cheeks, your jawline. 

his hand came to the column of your throat. your eyes flared with an undeniable attention and intrigue. you clenched around him, and he hadn’t even applied pressure. “always.” and you fucking believed him when his fingers swiped at the sides, applying the slightest pressure of his fingers to your airway. you fell lax against the sheets, trusting him with every part of your body. no one else would feel this way for him. no one except you. 

your eyes swelled with hot tears, breaking when he was firmer with his grasp, even with his hard cock beaming in and out of you. 

he lavished at the sight. he never knew he was so hungry up until now, starving for your affection, your pleasures. how perfect you were could never be summarized in words alone. 

“i love you,” you sputtered out, breathless and flushed hot. lando’s pace didn’t falter, but his grip around your neck loosened. 

“say it again,” he demanded, face pushing up into the crevice of your neck.

“love you so much, lando,” it was a promise you made to him. to yourself. he swore against your neck, his breath hot and humid against your skin. 

“come for me. come on, my love.” his words were only encouraging you towards and ultimate release, your tears hot against your cheeks. “i’ve got you, i’ve got you baby. so good for me, aren’t you?”

“yes, yes!” you whimpered, coil of lust for the british driver snapping a second time, harder, bringing an entire galaxy into your vision. you traveled through time and with lando, you found yourself grounded together in every universe. this was home. 

your cunt tightened, causing his pace to get sloppy, his own release parallel to yours. you milked him dry, panting and chests heaving together. 

he fell on top of you, his full weight comforting against your wet skin. he didn’t pull out yet, too exhausted to find the effort. 

“did you mean it?” i love you.

“yes.”

lando became shy as he found himself brushing your nose with his. “i love you, too. have for a long time.” 

a long time

“i will love you in every life time,” you said, earning you the brightest smile that the driver could muster. a lifetime. 

“a lifetime…” he repeated, in a daze. “love you so much…” he said your name into your cheek, giving you a plump kiss. “infinite lifetimes would never be enough.” 

you peppered his face with kisses. this was your gravity. the force that kept you grounded throughout time. if you ever got lost in the cosmic reaches, you would be able to find him. find home. find the beacon of light that he provided. 

you were safe here, and so was he. and does gravity know no bounds between objects. you would be attached to one another for the rest of your living days, and even further throughout the cosmos. and that was enough for you, for now. 

────────────

weeps;;

i am also open for requests <3

[yanderedrabbles]

Yandere boys and their favourite positions

Yandere! Soldier likes to be intimate with you, intertwining his fingers with yours and whispering in your ear just how much he loves you. He doesn't like looking in your eyes - your tears remind him that you don't want this and yet he's helpless to stop himself. He's always on top, cosying up between your thighs and burying his face in your neck. He keeps you gagged. It's easier to block out your crying that way.

Yandere! Boyfriend likes to be as close to you as possible. He likes to take you from behind, his arm wrapped around your throat and his chest pressing you into the mattress. Skin against skin from your neck to the tips of your toes. He gets drunk on you so easily, moaning in your ear about how much he loves you, how he'll never let you leave him, how you're the best fuck he's ever had. And despite his hulking size, he whines like a puppy when you come around him. He loves you loves you loves you and he loves being inside you.

Yandere! Cowboy can never get rid of his rough side, it's been built into him after years of rough labour and bad days and bosses with tight fists and tighter purse strings. He'll always be wild with you, pulling your hair, digging his nails into your thighs, biting down on your neck. He cares for his pleasure first and foremost and it doesn't matter if he hurts you to get it. He'll take you any way he can but he loves it when you ride him. He'll put his hat on your head and call you his pretty lil' cowgirl even as he ruts his cock into you until your tits are bouncing.

Yandere! Desert Bandit has to fight his urge to fuck you raw and rotten everytime he takes you. It's a conscious effort to be gentle, to be mindful of his strength. He fails a lot at first. He has years of pent up lust to get through afterall. But someday, he'll manage to make love to you without leaving bruises. He likes to have you under him, with your legs around his waist and his clenched fists on either side of your head.

Yandere! State Trooper is a rotten, corrupt bastard and he knows it. He gets off on the power he has over you - he'll make you crawl to him on your hands and knees, spank your ass red raw and force you to thank him through your tears. He loves taking you bent over - on the furniture, on the hood of his cruiser, with your hands and tits pressed against the shower door... It's not all bad though. You haven't gotten a traffic ticket in ages.

Yandere! Incubus always comes at night. He can't let you see his face, even if you have your suspicions. He's limited by the paralysis he puts you under and usually takes you as he finds you, hands roaming and scratching wherever they can. He dreams of fucking you on the holy altar, your arms around his neck and your tits squished against his chest. He wants to pull the rosary you wear until it chokes you, your piety turned into a goddamn leash. He loves watching you at mass, kneeling under the crucifix and praying to be cleansed. He especially loves you at confession, your voice soft in the half dark and the smell of you all around him.

Yandere! Gangster is not going to fuck you anytime soon. He only has his fists and his fantasies, the poor bastard.

Yandere! Survivor likes you on your belly, your ass angled up to face him. He'll grab your hands and push them into the mattress, his mouth nipping at your shoulders, the nape of your neck, anywhere he can reach. It feels like a declaration of trust when you let him put you in such a vulnerable position. The only drawback is he can't see your face when you come but getting to grab and knead your ass cheeks is a fine consolation.

Yandere! Academic Rival is too focused on school to think about much else. If he was forced to pick, he'll say he wants you up against the wall, your legs wrapped around his waist. He loves that you need to rely on him to stay balanced, that you bury your head into his neck and whine at his thrusts. Besides that, he desperately wants you on your knees but your pride ensures that never happens unless he gets down and begs first.